Danganronpa v1 [Talentswap] [Female reader: You are Mukuro]

Chapter 1.2: Hey, Can We Go Gift Shopping?

"So tell me about yourself!" Junko prompted me over breakfast.

We were sitting together in the cafeteria with our would-be classmates. The 16 of us occupied the one long table, and we all were trying our best to make awkward idle chatter.

It was all Makoto's idea. The boy had woken up early just to go to each individual's dorm, wake them, greet them good morning, and invite them to breakfast. Personally, Makoto Naegi—or, well, anyone—seeing me in my early morning state was not exactly my idea of a good morning; however, he was insistent that I come down to breakfast with everyone else.

("Surely you must, Mukuro!").

Despite my futile attempts at refusal, I could hardly say no to the kid. Just that smile was enough to win me over.

Junko's voice woke me from my reverie and drowsiness. I wasn't particularly a morning person. Upon finally registering her question, I shrugged nonchalantly. "What's to tell? I'm sure compared to you, my life isn't nearly as exciting."

I was feeling a little strange this morning, even from the beginning. Examining myself in the mirror after waking up, I was sure that something was different, even in my state of grogginess.

(Or maybe I was just getting uglier).

"Don't be ridiculous! You're a detective, how is that not exciting? Besides..." She waved her hand carelessly. "My life is already splashed across the tabloids."

I said nothing, keeping my eyes down, fixed on my plate.

"Come on!" she whined, hopping up and down in her chair excitedly. The chair rattled, and I feared any moment it would topple.

"What've you been up to for the past who-knows-how-many years? Dad almost never talks about you. Or Mom." Her voice was suddenly much quieter, "When she ran off to solve mysteries, taking my only sister with her, I thought I'd never see you again, ya know?"

Maybe she had lost track, but I knew that "who-knows-how-many-years" was equivalent to almost 12 years. Not that I had kept track for any particular reason. Mom never liked to talk about Dad. Or about my sister, who I vaguely knew existed but knew next to nothing about, save for the fainter than faint memories.

They were like phantoms; their only proof of existence were a couple of old crappy photos.

So I stopped asking. It was like that elephant in the room. That thing that you pretend isn't there even though you know that obviously it is.

"To be fair," I said to her, "I didn't think my baby sister would grow up to be so famous."

Junko was so different from the child in the photos, the ever present companion at my side who I knew nothing about.

She had this whole exciting, glamorous life, separate from mine.

12 years is a long time.

I smiled, deciding at last to oblige her with answers. Despite the fact that they were hardly answers at all. "If you really want to know, my last case was in Europe. Actually," I said, the memories—for some reason much cloudier than they probably should be—flooding back to me. "Mom wasn't with me that time. I was in... oh, what was it? It was one of those small countries... Novoselic?"

Despite my non-answers, she hung onto every word.

"And Mom? What's she like?" she asked eagerly, eyes wide with interest.

I thought about it for a moment.

"Quiet," I finally decided. "Really quiet."

She laughed, despite the lack of joke. I joined in as well, her laughter infectious. It was a strange feeling.