Danganronpa: Locked Doors of Despair

Prologue Part 2: Of Fake Races, Real Races, and Snails' Paces

[A/N] Okay so I'm posting this one as well today... but don't expect anything tomorrow, please.

Edited as of 12/2/22

Wakumi

"That there sign's tellin' us to get ready ta run. I betcha this is gonna be a race! Ye better not hornswaggle! No runnin' any rigs on me, savvy?!"

'E stares at me blankly. I guess 'e ain't savvy. "I'm telling ye that ye better not pull any tricks on me! This is gonna be a fair and square race! Why're ye hangin' the jib like that?!" 'E raises an eyebrow, 'n I groan. "I said, why're ye scowling like that?"

"What if it isn't even a race?" 'e asks quietly.

"Course it be a race! There's no other option, laddie! What be yer name again?"

"Monterio Mukai. Ultimate Ballroom Dancer," 'e answers flatly. Sink me, this lad is dull!

"Aright, I'll remember this time. Name's Wakumi Furutani! Ultimate Pirate!"

Pokerfaced. "I know."

"I dunno what these landlubbers could possibly teach me 'bout the sea, but an ol' salt I gotta lot o' respect fer told me ta come."

"I share my position. We agreed to it," he shares bluntly.

"What's she like?"

"Bold. Funnier than me." For the first time since I met 'im, 'e smiles a bit.

"Well then, ye gotta get back ta yer wench! Let's not waste anymore time 'ere!"

'E gives the slightest nod of approval, still seeming a wee bit skittish. We ready ourselves and count off from three, then book it 'cross a series o' pressure plates. I know, I know, it reeks o' traps. But we couldn't rightly jump o'er or around 'em; there're too many. Various blockades start slammin' together like all those spy movies n' whatnot. I turn me head to check on 'im. 'E's farin' surprisingly well. Something between grim determination or maybe annoyance is on 'is face. That's more like it!

'E keeps bobbin' 'is head ta some inaudible rhythm 'n flow as we jump, or slide, or run through the blockades. 'E's a bulky lad, so I guess I'm not surprised he's got stamina, and a dancer'd be particularly keen on the timin' o' stuff like this. 'E runs slow, but 'e doesn't hesitate, so 'e catches up ta me each time I stop ta readjust. It's lively competition, n' I'm rarin' ta go! If this is what the rest o' the program is like, sign me up! Though I am a wee bit curious why I passed out like that. Me sea legs, mayhap?

'E gets a leg up on me when 'e takes a risky shot I wasn't keen on tryin'. I expect him to keep on runnin', cause it's a damn race! But he friggin stops for me! "Stop holdin' back or I'll blow a damn gasket!" He shakes 'is head. "Why're ye so sure this ain't a race, then, if ye're so smart?"

"Gut instinct. It feels like we're supposed to cooperate."

"Ye're throwin' away yer victory for a gut instinct?! I dunno whether I respect that or not, ye scallywag!" I yell, jumping through. Before I can do anythin' about anythin', he friggin swoops me right up and starts runnin'! "Ay!!! Put me down or I'll flog ye!!! Yer next dance'll be with Jack Ketch, ye bilge-sucking galley slave!!!" I shout, flailin' about. 'E looks too dog-tired to be confused. "Ye don't get the privilege of a translation fer that one!"

"Would you rather I wait or carry you?"

"Stop patronizin' me, ye absolute buffoon! I'm swifter than ye anyway!" He sets me down gently and catches his breath for a few seconds, even adjustin' his tie. I find meself annoyed that I'm hangin' back waitin' fer 'im. 'E gives me an expressionless thumbs-up, and then we start runnin' again. After some calls that're so close I can feel e'ery hair on me body stand up, we reach a circular room.