Chapter Text
When Kokichi was nothing more than a toddler, he was found by a pair of sisters. A soldier, and a fashionista.
It was raining, a rare occurrence during the Great Tragedy, a near apocalyptic event that had taken over Japan. Children wearing bear helmets roamed the streets, brutally killing any adults they came across. Perhaps that was how his birth parents died. He would never know.
Perhaps, because it was raining, that was what made the sisters stop and inspect the baby boy.
"It's just a kid," the soldier said. "An orphan. There are thousands like him."
Rain pelted down on the child, but not the two sisters. The fashionista was holding a large, black and white umbrella over both of their heads, shadowing the features on their faces. Behind them, the sky was red.
"But maybe...it was fate that brought him here, to the doorstep of our school," the fashionista mused, raising a long, sharp fingernail to her lips. "Don'tcha think?"
"I don't know..." the soldier mumbled, still sounding quite hesitant.
"Who knows. Maybe the little bastard can do some good, for us," the fashionista said with an air of finality. "Lucky little thing, the Enoshima sisters will take great care of you! For such a lucky fate, you will now be known as Kokichi Enoshima."
Little Luck.
From then on, Kokichi was raised byJ̸̣̗̇ų̷̲̹̋n̶̳̺̖̈́̄̂̕k̷̟͔͂͊ọ̴̹̈́ ̴̬̊͑̚a̶̳̱̫̐̚͜ṅ̷̯̠̙̀́̇d̸̰̠̙̜̈́̒͐͠ ̷̩̎̑M̵̯̯̜̀̈́͑u̸͉͆ͅk̵̖̏u̵̥͍͚̿r̶̢͚̟͚̀̉̒̈́ǒ̸̜͎̌̚͝ ̷̙̈̒Ě̷͔͈̞͑n̵͉̦̂͝ö̴̗́͐̍s̶͓̍͜ḩ̷͈̲̝̾̀i̵̧̖͛̀m̸̢̩͒̓̌̈́a̶̦͔͎̍͛̇̕-
Ǝ˙Ͻ˙I˙ᗡ ɥʇıʍ dn ʍǝɹƃ ǝH
D.I.C.E. does not exist
L̸̢̖͍̜̄̉͊̒̕̚ȋ̵̛̯͕̭̖̗̋̈́̂̎̇̏́͊̐̏͘͝t̴̨̛̘̓̉̾̍͛̀̎̀̍̒͒̇̋̚ţ̵̞͓͖̱̳̩̘͉̖̤̱̣͕̣̌͋̎̀̄̃̈́̂̔̕͘͝l̶̼̞̞̰̪̰̝͉̲̠̈́͂̑̈́͊̌̋̕͜͠e̷̡͙͙͎̙̬̺͛͋̈͋̿͑̅̌͋̀̅̚ ̵̞̘͖͎͎̬͉̒̋͋͛̊̈́̇̎́̔͊̒̇̀͜Ļ̸̢̭̰̰̑̍̀͆͐͑̔͘͜ų̴͉̣̫̭̥͕̟̹͚̰̈͒̂̊́̾̔̎̓͂̐̚͘͘͜͜͝c̸͎̹̻̝̔̀͑̈́ķ̷̧̼̤̲͇͇̈́̌̈́̀̑̋͒̽̔́̃̾͝͠
"Our smart
little
b̶̡̢̩̳̱̜͍̓̿̅͊̊̈́̽̾͜ͅr̶̛̜̘̘̜̗̙̣̂̓̑̆͂̈́͝o̴͖̜̙̖͛̈́̑ͅt̸̻̻͇̥̿̔̽̀̀̚h̶̞̀̒̎͝ę̴̡͓̯̝̙͙͘̚r̸̪̺̮̤̯̱̆̇͜͜...!"
Junko Enoshima cooed over a five-year-old Kokichi, who had completed a milk puzzle at the rate that not even a teenager could produce. "How
could he pull off something like that?" Mukuro asked, leaning over the table, furrowing her eyebrows with shock.
"I told you, it was fate," Junko lovingly tussled the hair of her
little
b̶̡̢̩̳̱̜͍̓̿̅͊̊̈́̽̾͜ͅr̶̛̜̘̘̜̗̙̣̂̓̑̆͂̈́͝o̴͖̜̙̖͛̈́̑ͅt̸̻̻͇̥̿̔̽̀̀̚h̶̞̀̒̎͝ę̴̡͓̯̝̙͙͘̚r̸̪̺̮̤̯̱̆̇͜͜
cheerfully. "Destiny brought us a genius, who will help carry on the Ultimate Despair when we are gone!"
Kokichi giggled gleefully at that, clapping his hands together. "I did good?" he asked, his voice high-pitched and innocent, with only the slightest hint of a lisp.
"You did great, 'Kichi," Junko said, genuineness dripping from her tongue like honey.
"'Kichi...how far are you trying to go?"
"Perhaps, he shares a similar Talent to yours, sister?" Mukuro said. "Maybe this kid is an Ultimate in the making. Ultimate Analyst, like you? I don't know how else such a young child could pull off such a feat."
"Ama-list?" Kokichi tried the word out with his clumsy tongue, looking confused, but interested.
"Ana-lyst," Junko corrected, adopting a haughty, almost British tone. "That's my Talent. It is what an Ultimate is born with, something that makes them special, that makes them rise above the common man. My Talent is especially unique, because it lead to me becoming the Ultimate Fashionista, and even better, the Ultimate Despair! I was born with a gift, Kokichi. My beautiful, sharp, detail-enhanced brain was something that I was born with, that I nurtured into something even greater. If you have a Talent like that, then someday, you could even become as great as me."
"Big Sis Junko!" Kokichi cheered, waving his chubby hands above his head. Junko's face split into a giant smile, toothy, like a shark's.
"That's right. You can be just like me. Born special, and raised to become something amazing."
Kokichi's eyes sparkled. Something amazing. Junko had told him how she found him on the streets, drenched in the rain as only a baby. A boy of unknown origins, found in the mud. An orphan, unwanted, left to die among the concrete of the city and the blood of the victims of the Great Tragedy. If he could rise to something that high, from starting at a place so low...
He wanted that. He wanted to be amazing.
"How?" he breathed, reverently, staring up at his big s̸͇̙̆͝i̵̭̭̜͑̇͐̕s̸͈͇̤̲̓̀́̓t̶̞͌̓͌e̸̝̬̐ŕ̸̯̫͝ in awe.
Junko looked down at him, clearly thinking for a moment. Then, seemingly making a decision, she suddenly rose from her seat, sweeping her
little
b̴͕̃̄́͝r̴̠͗͊͛ó̷͓͈̲t̵̩̩̖͂̊h̴̩̑̊́͗͜e̸̗̽́͌r̸̦̜͙̀̓̚
into her arms. He squealed with joy as he suddenly found himself perched on Junko's hips, her arms strong around his waist. He clung to her tightly, like a koala.
"Kokichi," she said. "Little Luck. Would you like to see something fun?"
"Fun!"
"Yes. Reallyyyyy fun. It's called a Killing Game."
Junko orchestrated the deaths of hundreds when she was fifteen years old.
It had started with the student council of a school called Hopes Peak Academy. An elaborate ruse that lead them to kill each other, while Junko could sit back and watch. There were no survivors.
Then, the reserve course of that same school. They had all committed suicide, simultaneously. There were no survivors.
Then, there was the Killing Game that Junko was letting Kokichi watch now. The televised one. The one of the 78th class of Hopes Peak Academy, held captive in the school, and hosted by the robot bear of Junko's design (along with a mechanic with whom she didn't bother to share the name). Kokichi watched as children were provided with motives, and one by one, started to kill each other off. He was unsure of how to react, so he turned to Junko for guidance. When he saw her react with pure joy and elation, squealing and cheering at each death, he realized that it was a good thing. A great thing.
Amazing.
This was the amazing that she had been talking about.
"I used my Talent to devise all of this," Junko sighed wistfully, nostalgically. "Six years have passed since that first Killing Game. It had only been one year when I had found you, my Little Luck," Junko poked Kokichi's nose endearingly, making the young boy giggle and wriggle in her lap. "Now, every year, I host a Killing Game with a whole new group of teenagers."
"What about the first game?" Kokichi asked, his minor lisp slightly contorting the word 'f̴̙͈̤͂̾̈́ͅi̸̗̱̝͆͗̑̒r̷̡̨̗̍̽̚ș̵̟̱̫̆͋̆t̵̥͓͓͖̓̾̾'. "Did anyone survive?"
Yes, it had turned out, though Junko did not seem upset about it. Their names were Kyoko, ██████, Byakuya, Toko, Aoi, and Hiro. "They are dear to me, Kokichi," Junko said, holding a hand to her heart and watching the screen with a look of adoration. "They were my school friends, my classmates. I loved them, more than anything."
"More than Big Sis Mukuro?" Kokichi asked.
"Yes."
"More than...me?" he asked, his voice growing quieter with caution. Junko's face went blank for a moment, before she glanced down at him with a bright smile.
"There is no one I love more than you, Kokichi."
Ever since then, Kokichi had done training with Junko, to put his Talent to good use. Two Ultimate Analysts in the same family was nothing short of a miracle. Junko didn't seem to think this miracle was a coincidence, though.
"It's fate!" she would exclaim.
"Destiny!"
"You were born for me to find you!"
"Little Luck, you are going to be
amazing."
Kokichi found his purpose. Watching his siͥstͭeͤrͬ smile every time he did something right was enough reward to continue pushing further, harder. Junko would give him progressively harder math quizzes, with no calculator to rely on. She would have him read an entire letter's section of the English dictionary, and then recite the words back in order. And then again, in Russian. She had intended to get through several more languages, someday. He at least made it halfway through French, all the way to the letter M.
𝔐𝔞𝔠𝔞𝔟𝔢: 𝔴𝔢𝔦𝔯𝔡, 𝔲𝔫𝔢𝔞𝔯𝔱𝔥𝔩𝔶, 𝔬𝔯 𝔥𝔬𝔯𝔯𝔦𝔟𝔩𝔢
She would train him on how to be observant of others. How to tell by their clothes, their hair, their stance, their stride: who they were, what their job was, how much they deserved to live.
"You can tell everything just by looking at someone, Kokichi," Junko had said. "Why do you think I became the Ultimate Fashionista in the first place?"
𝔪𝔞𝔠𝔥𝔦𝔞𝔳𝔢́𝔩𝔦𝔮𝔲𝔢: 𝔐𝔞𝔠𝔥𝔦𝔞𝔳𝔢𝔩𝔩𝔦𝔞𝔫, 𝔠𝔲𝔫𝔫𝔦𝔫𝔤
While Junko trained his brain, Mukuro taught him...other such things.
"You mustn't hold it too close to your face, Kokichi," she had said, putting a hand on the rifle and pulling it slightly away from his face. Ten year old Kokichi glanced up at her, awaiting for approval. "And you have to grip it tighter. Here," she put a hand over his, tightening his grip around the rifle. "And you are too tense in your back. That's why you keep falling from the kickback."
𝚔𝚒𝚌𝚔𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔: (𝚊𝚕𝚜𝚘 𝚜𝚎𝚎: 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚒𝚕) 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚍𝚜 𝚖𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚊 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚘𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚏𝚎𝚎𝚕𝚜 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚞𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚝 𝚒𝚜 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚐𝚎𝚍
Five times in a row, Panta bottles that had been stacked on a fence exploded into raining shards of glass. Five, rapid-fire gunshots rang through the air before each bottle broke, glass tumbling to the ground like sparkling snow. Ten year old Kokichi lowered the rifle away from his face, gaze serious.
"Well done," Mukuro's voice came from behind him. His back turned to her, he let his face split into a giant smile. "Now, for some more exciting targets."
Even though they were causing Despair, Junko never seemed too attached to the children in bear masks that wandered the streets. Kokichi shot them down like deer, leaving their bodies on the ground, as they were of no use to him once they were hit. The streets were already stained with blood, so Kokichi's actions didn't do much to change that.
𝔪𝔞𝔠𝔲𝔩𝔢𝔯: 𝔱𝔬 𝔰𝔱𝔞𝔦𝔫
˙ɹǝʌƎ ˙ʎpoqʎuɐ ןןıʞ ʇou op :ǝןnɹ ʇuɐʇɹodɯı ʇsoɯ s,˙Ǝ˙Ͻ˙I˙ᗡ
Mukuro also taught him hand-to-hand, an art form and exercise that Kokichi found much more invigorating than shooting a gun. As he grew older, he found his stride with speed and agility, more than brute strength. He used his small, lean form to his advantage, leaping and bounding around Mukuro during their sparring sessions. He was better at dodging than blocking, to the point where he was admittedly getting a little showy with it, throwing in gymnast-level cartwheels, handsprings, and flips.
"He's a bouncy little asshole!" Junko cheered from the sidelines, nothing but pride in her voice. Kokichi grinned.
"You can't dodge forever," Mukuro instructed seriously, brushing her nose with her thumb and holding her fists out in front of her. "You need to hit me."
Kokichi tried for a swing at her, but quickly found himself bounding backwards and dodging Mukuro's attacks once more.
"Hit me!" Mukuro snapped, swinging her leg through the air. Kokichi ducked, rolling underneath her and popping up on her other side. Mukuro was ready for him, though, wheeling around and snapping her leg outwards in a
𝚑𝚎𝚎𝚕 𝚔𝚒𝚌𝚔: 𝚊 𝚜𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚖𝚘𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚒𝚗 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚌𝚑 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚎𝚎𝚕,𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚘𝚝. 𝚂𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚔𝚎
𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚊 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚕𝚎𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚍𝚘𝚎𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚋𝚎𝚗𝚍 𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚕 𝚒𝚝 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍.
that Kokichi had to dodge once again. He stumbled backwards, playing off his stumble by falling backwards into a back walk over. Mukuro was relentless, however, lunging forward at him with rapid-fire punches. Kokichi leaned side to side, narrowly avoiding each blow.
"Hit me!" Mukuro growled again, unrelenting in her advances. Kokichi tried not to let his irritation show, but he could feel the grimace on his face growing the more and more he had to dodge.
"Hit me!"
"Hit her!" Junko shouted encouragingly.
"Hit me!"
"Hit her!"
"I said hit me!" Mukuro's body spun around, her leg lashing out as quick as a whip. For as agile as he was, Kokichi wasn't quick enough. The side of her foot connected directly with his chest with a rough thud, causing Kokichi to completely fall backwards onto the grass below. He grunted as he caught himself with the palms of his hands, grass skidding and staining his skin and surely going to leave a couple scrapes. Mukuro stopped moving, standing above him like a tower. Kokichi glared up at her, chest heaving with heavy breaths, but he did not get up again.
"My poor, cute little b̷̖̥͋̚̕̕r̴̡͇̩̞̈́͑̽͌́ǫ̷̯̋̆̑͑͐̇͘t̶̨̳̙̙̹͎͖̒͑͊h̵̘̏̾̏̽̓̈́̅e̸̟̬̳͗̕r̸̤͚̺̫̩͖̟̀̅̏," Junko sighed sympathetically as she cleaned him off. She sat in front of him in the grass, delicately tapping an alcohol-soaked cotton ball against the open scrapes in his hands. Kokichi winced at the stinging touch, but didn't pull away, allowing his s̶̜̤͖͚͔͔͎̏i̸͇͚͎̯̯̿͗͗̇͆̓ś̸̬̮̥͖͋̀̇̂̎t̶͓̮̺͖̪̙͐̏̔͜e̶̠͋̏͂͛́̚͝r̸̡̛͎̩̺͆̅̒ to gently cup his hands in her own. He tried to focus not on the firey sting of the alcohol, but rather the comforting warmth from Junko's hands. "Mukuro may not be that smart, or pretty, but she is hard to beat," she said, giving her sister some credit with a shrug. "Someday, you will surpass her."
"Will I surpass you?" Kokichi asked, innocently. Junko's hands tightened around his, and he hissed in pain as her long nails accidentally dug into his fresh cuts.
"Who knows?" Junko said simply, releasing her hold on his hands. "Maybe if you keep working, Little Luck."
𝔪𝔞𝔦̂𝔱𝔯𝔦𝔰𝔢𝔯: 𝔱𝔬 𝔪𝔞𝔰𝔱𝔢𝔯, 𝔟𝔢𝔠𝔬𝔪𝔢 𝔰𝔨𝔦𝔩𝔩𝔣𝔲𝔩 𝔦𝔫, 𝔬𝔯 𝔬𝔳𝔢𝔯𝔠𝔬𝔪𝔢
"Whatcha drawing, Little Luck?" Junko asked.
Twelve year old Kokichi looked up from his spot on the floor, his journal open in front of him. He had been furiously scribbling something on its pages in charcoal. However, he quickly leaned forward, slapping his hands on the floor over it.
"It's a surprise!" he exclaimed.
"A surprise?" Junko's head cocked in curiosity. "A surprise for who?"
"For you, Big Sis!" Kokichi rolled his eyes, the preteen sass now ingrained in his every move, even with the sister he adored. "Who else would it be for?"
"My little b̷̖̥͋̚̕̕r̴̡͇̩̞̈́͑̽͌́ǫ̷̯̋̆̑͑͐̇͘t̶̨̳̙̙̹͎͖̒͑͊h̵̘̏̾̏̽̓̈́̅e̸̟̬̳͗̕r̸̤͚̺̫̩͖̟̀̅̏ is just too sweet!" Junko cooed, ruffling Kokichi's head of long, purple hair. Her b̷̖̥͋̚̕̕r̴̡͇̩̞̈́͑̽͌́ǫ̷̯̋̆̑͑͐̇͘t̶̨̳̙̙̹͎͖̒͑͊h̵̘̏̾̏̽̓̈́̅e̸̟̬̳͗̕r̸̤͚̺̫̩͖̟̀̅̏ shrunk under her touch, looking passively irritated, but couldn't hide a certain level of fondness in his expression.
"You can't see until it's done, 'kay?"
"Okay, my hard working b̷̖̥͋̚̕̕r̴̡͇̩̞̈́͑̽͌́ǫ̷̯̋̆̑͑͐̇͘t̶̨̳̙̙̹͎͖̒͑͊h̵̘̏̾̏̽̓̈́̅e̸̟̬̳͗̕r̸̤͚̺̫̩͖̟̀̅̏," Junko lovingly tapped her finger on Kokichi's nose. "I look forward to see what you're creating!"
As Junko walked away, Kokichi peeled his arms away from his notebook. He had been doodling and writing drafts for his own killing game. Something as big- no, bigger and better than Big Sis's. Big Sis Junko had taken over every inch of the country, however. So he needed to be creative. He had an interesting theory about hosting a game on a boat. Maybe a cruise ship. Something was appealing about it being extra inescapable. He just needed to find some players.
Big Sis Junko's school was no longer running, so Kokichi needed to get creative. He still wanted to use people with Ultimate Talents, like him and his sisters. But how to find them? Kokichi had been working on a theory, a way to code the Monokuma heads on some of the brainwashed Despairs out there. He can turn them into an army of Talent-hunting soldiers. Something like...an Ultimate Hunt. A scavenge to track down every hidden Ultimate in the country and bring them aboard his boat.
Of course, if he were to join these Ultimates in the game, he would need to craft a persona for himself. If they knew him as the Ultimate Analyst, little b̷̖̥͋̚̕̕r̴̡͇̩̞̈́͑̽͌́ǫ̷̯̋̆̑͑͐̇͘t̶̨̳̙̙̹͎͖̒͑͊h̵̘̏̾̏̽̓̈́̅e̸̟̬̳͗̕r̸̤͚̺̫̩͖̟̀̅̏ to the Ultimate Despair, he will never get people to cooperate. No, he needed a fake Talent, like what his Big Sis did in her first game. Kokichi was pretty good at drawing, and picking up on trends, analyzing what will be in and out of style. Maybe something similar to Big Sis.
Kokichi wrote down the words 'Ultimate Fashion Designer'.
It was all coming together. He needed some time to program the Monokuma heads. Luckily, he knew a thing or two about coding. It will take a while, but he can use the Monokuma Kids to his whim. They will help him secure a ship for his game, design cameras, and hunt down Ultimates. No matter how long it took, Kokichi will make sure that he had an army to control.
˙uoıʇɐʇısǝɥ ou ɥʇıʍ uı ƃuıʇʇıs ǝɹǝʍ ʎǝɥʇ ʇods ǝɥʇ ɹǝʌo ƃuıʇsɐןq 'sʞɔɐɹʇ ǝɥʇ uʍop ƃuıɯɐǝɹɔs ǝɯɐɔ uıɐɹʇ ƃuıuɹoɯ ǝɥʇ ǝɯıʇ ǝɥʇ ʎq pɹɐʎ ǝɥʇ ʇɟǝן ʎןǝʇǝןdɯoɔ pɐɥ spıʞ ǝɥ⊥ ˙sʞɔɐɹʇ uıɐɹʇ ǝɥʇ ɯoɹɟ ʎɐʍɐ nnʎ pɐǝן ǝɥ sɐ ʇı ʎq pǝʇןnsuı ɯǝǝs ʇ,upıp ǝH „¡ǝɹoɟǝq ʇɐɥʇ pןoʇ uǝǝq ǝʌ,I„ ˙ʞɔɐq s,nnʎ uo puɐɥ ɐ ƃuıʇuɐןd 'pǝɥƃnɐן puɐ ʞɔɐq pɐǝɥ sıɥ pǝssoʇ ıɥɔıʞoʞ
„˙pɹıǝʍ ƃuıǝq ǝɹ,noʎ 'ǝɯ oʇ ʇɐɥʇ ǝʞıן ʎsǝʇnɔ ʞןɐʇ ʇ,uoᗡ„ ˙ʇǝǝɟ sıɥ oʇ ɯıɥ pǝʞuɐʎ puɐ ɯɹɐ sıɥ pǝqqɐɹƃ ıɥɔıʞoʞ sɐ pǝsnɯɐun ƃuıʞooן 'pǝɟɟoɔs nnʎ
„¡uɐɥɔ-nnʎ 'ʇɐɥʇ ɥʇıʍ ǝɯ ƃuıʇsnɹʇ ɹoɟ noʎ ʞuɐɥ⊥ ¡ǝɔɐɟ ǝןqɐɹopɐ ʇou ɐ ɥɔns ɹoɟ ǝɯɐu ǝןqɐɹopɐ uɐ ʇɐɥM„ ˙pǝɹǝǝɥɔ ıɥɔıʞoʞ „¡uɐɥɔ-nnʎ„
„˙nnʎ s,ǝɯɐu ʎW„ ˙ʎןʇɥƃıןs 'pǝuǝʇɟos uʍoɹɟ sıɥ 'uǝɥ⊥ ˙pǝןʍoɹƃ uɐɥɔ-uʍoɹℲ „'ʇɐɥʇ ǝɯ ןןɐɔ ʇ,uoᗡ„
„¿ʎɐs noʎ op ʇɐɥʍ 'uɐɥɔ-uʍoɹℲ 'uoɯ,Ͻ ¡ǝɔɐɟ ʎǝuıɥsuns ɐ ɥɔns ɹoɟ uoıʇdǝɔxǝ uɐ ǝʞɐɯ uɐɔ I ʇnq 'ʇǝɹɔǝs 'ןןǝʍ 'uoıʇɐzıuɐƃɹo ʇǝɹɔǝs ʎɯ dǝǝʞ oʇ ǝןdoǝd ןןıʞ oʇ ǝʌɐɥ op I 'ʎןןɐns∩ ¡ƃuıppıʞ ʇou ɯ,I„
˙ʎןǝʌısuǝɟǝp spuɐɥ sıɥ pǝsıɐɹ ıɥɔıʞoʞ puɐ 'ʞooן snoıɔıdsns ɐ ıɥɔıʞoʞ ʇoɥs ǝH
„˙pǝʞsɐ suoıʇsǝnb ou 'ʎɐʍɐ ʞןɐʍ uɐɔ noʎ 'ʇı ǝʇɐɥ ʎןǝʇnןosqɐ noʎ ɟı pu∀ ˙sɹoʌɐǝpuǝ ןıʌǝ ǝɹnʇnɟ ʇnoqɐ ʞןɐʇ uɐɔ ǝʍ 'sʎnƃ ǝsǝɥʇ oʇ noʎ ǝɔnpoɹʇuı uɐɔ I„ ˙pıɐs ıɥɔıʞoʞ „'sɹǝʇɹɐnbpɐǝɥ ʇɐ ʞɔɐq sn ɥʇıʍ ǝʇıq ɐ ʇǝƃ ǝɯoɔ 'uo ǝɯoϽ„
˙ǝןʞɔnɥɔ ɐ ɥʇıʍ pǝʇʇıɯpɐ uɐɥɔ-ıɯƎ „'ƃuoɹʍ ʇou s,ǝɥ 'ɥƃnouǝ ʎןpɹıǝM„
„˙punoɹɐ ǝɯ ƃuıʍoןןoɟ doʇs ɹǝʌǝu sʎnƃ ǝsǝɥʇ ʇɐɥʇ 'ǝןqɐʞıן uɹɐp os ʇsnɾ ɯ,I„ ˙pǝuıɐןdxǝ ıɥɔıʞoʞ „'uɐɥɔ-uʍoɹℲ 'ʇuǝɯʇınɹɔǝɹ op ʎןןɐǝɹ ʇ,uop I„
„¿ƃuıɥʇǝɯos ɹo ǝɯ ʇınɹɔǝɹ oʇ ƃuıʎɹʇ noʎ„
˙pǝssǝɹdɯıun pǝʞooן uǝǝʇ ǝɥ⊥ ˙ʎןƃuıʇuǝsǝɹd ǝɔɐɟ s,uɐɥɔ-uʍoɹℲ ɟo ʇuoɹɟ uı ʇno spuɐɥ sıɥ pǝssǝɹd ǝɥ „',uoıʇɐzıuɐƃɹo ןıʌǝ, ǝʞıן ǝɹoɯ ʞuıɥ⊥ ˙xoq ǝɥʇ ǝpısuı ƃuıʞuıɥʇ ǝɹ,noʎ„ ˙ɐǝpı ǝɥʇ ɟɟo pǝʌɐʍ ıɥɔıʞoʞ „'op oʇ ʇuɐʍ I ʇɐɥʍ oʇ pǝɹɐdɯoɔ ןןɐɯs os ǝɹɐ sƃuɐƃ ʇnq ˙sʇɹos ɟO„
„¿ǝɹǝɥ punoɹɐ ƃuɐƃ ɟo puıʞ ǝɯos ƃuıuunɹ noʎ ¿ɥnɥ 'ssoq„ ˙pǝsıɹdɹns pǝʞooן ƃnɥʇ uǝǝʇ ǝɥ⊥
„˙pıɐs noʎ ʇɐɥʍ s,ʇɐɥʇ ǝɹns ʎʇʇǝɹd 'ssoq ǝɹnS„ ˙pǝpuodsǝɹ 'ɐıןnſ 'ןɹıƃ uɐɔıɹǝɯ∀ u∀
„¿uɐɥɔ-nſ 'ʇɥƃıɹ ʇɐɥʇ ʇ,usI ,¡ʍoןןǝɟ ƃuıʇsǝɹǝʇuı uɐ ǝʞıן sʞooן ǝɥ 'ǝǝƃ, ʇɥƃnoɥʇ puɐ ǝɹǝɥ ɹǝʌo ƃuıʇʇıs noʎ ʍɐs ʇsnɾ I ˙ǝɹoɟǝq noʎ ɟo pɹɐǝɥ ɹǝʌǝu ǝʌɐɥ ʎןןɐǝɹ I„ ˙ʎןqɐɔıɯɐ ɹǝpןnoɥs s,ʎoq ɹǝƃɹɐן ǝɥʇ pǝʇʇɐd ıɥɔıʞoʞ „'uɐɥɔ-uʍoɹℲ 'ɹǝʌǝu pןnoʍ I„
„¡¿ǝɯ ʞɔıɹʇ oʇ ƃuıʎɹʇ noʎ ǝɹɐ 'ןןǝɥ ǝɥʇ ʇɐɥM„ ˙uʍop ɯıɥ pǝɹɐןƃ uǝǝʇ ǝɥ⊥
„˙ןɐuıɯıɹɔ ɐ ǝɹɐ noʎ ˙pǝpǝǝu I ɹǝʍsuɐ ǝɥʇ ןןɐ sɐʍ ǝsuodsǝɹ ɹnoʎ ʇnq ˙ǝןʇʇıן ɐ uǝʌǝ ʇoN„ ˙pǝuuıɹƃ ıɥɔıʞoʞ „¡ǝdoN„
˙pǝɹǝdsıɥʍ uɐɥɔ-uʍoɹℲ „¿ɯɐ I oɥʍ ʍouʞ noʎ„
„˙oʇ ǝʇɐןǝɹ uɐɔ noʎ ןǝǝɟ I ʇɐɥʇ ǝɟıן ∀„ ˙ʇsıɟ sıɥ uo uıɥɔ sıɥ ƃuıɥɔɹǝd ʎןıɯɐǝɹp pɐǝʇsuı 'ǝɔıʇou oʇ ɯǝǝs ʇ,upıp ıɥɔıʞoʞ ʇnq 'ǝɔuɐʇsıp sıɥ dǝǝʞ oʇ ƃuıʎɹʇ 'ʎɐʍɐ pǝןǝǝd uɐɥɔ-uʍoɹℲ ˙ɯıɥ oʇ ʇxǝu ʇıs oʇ uʍop ƃuıʞuıs ʎןןɐɔıʇɐɯɐɹp puɐ ƃuıuɹnʇ 'pǝssǝɟuoɔ ıɥɔıʞoʞ „'pıɐɹɟɐ ɯ,I 'ןɐuıɯıɹɔ puɐ ɟǝıɥʇ pooƃ ou ∀„
„¿noʎ ǝɹɐ ןןǝɥ ǝɥʇ oɥM ¿ןןǝɥ ǝɥʇ ʇɐɥM„ ˙uoıssǝɹdxǝ pǝsnɟuoɔ ʎןʇɥƃıןs ɐ oʇuı ƃuıɹǝʌɐʍ ןɹɐus 'ʎןʇɥƃıןs ʞɔɐq ƃuıuɐǝן 'ʇɐɥʇ ʎq ɟɟo ʇnd pǝʞooן ʎןןɐnʇɔɐ uǝǝʇ ǝɥ⊥
„˙ooʇ 'ɥsıʍ ɥʇɐǝp ɹǝɥƃıɥ ɐ sɐɥ ǝuo ou pu∀ ¡ǝɯ uɐɥʇ ɹǝʇʇǝq spooɹq ǝuo oN ˙ɹǝʌo ǝʞɐʇ oʇ ǝʌɐɥ oʇ ƃuıoƃ ɯ,I pıɐɹɟɐ ɯ,I 'os ɟı ǝsnɐɔǝq„ ˙ʎןƃuısɐǝʇ pǝʞsɐ ıɥɔıʞoʞ „¿ǝıp oʇ ƃuıʞooן ǝɹɐ oɥʍ suǝǝʇ ʎpooɹq ɹoɟ ʎןuo ʇods sıɥʇ sI ¿ʎɥM„
„¡ǝɹǝɥ ɟo ʇno ןןǝɥ ǝɥʇ ʇǝƃ uǝɥʇ 'ǝıp oʇ ƃuıʞooן ʇou ǝɹ,noʎ ɟI„
˙ǝɹoɯ pǝuʍoɹɟ ǝɥ sɐ 'ɟɟo uǝǝʇ ǝɥʇ pǝssıd ʎןɹɐǝןɔ ʇɐɥ⊥ ˙ƃuoןɐ pǝɥƃnɐן ɯıɥ puıɥǝq spıʞ ǝɥʇ puɐ 'pǝןʞɔnɥɔ ıɥɔıʞoʞ „¡ǝuo ʎןpuǝıɹɟ ɐ s,ǝɥ 'ɥO„
„˙ʇɹnɥ ƃuıʇʇǝƃ oʇuı spıʞ ɟo ɥɔunq ɐ ʇıɐq oʇ ƃuıʎɹʇ ɯ,I ǝqʎɐɯ ɹO„ ˙pǝɹǝǝus uǝǝʇ ǝɥʇ „'ʇɹnɥ ʇǝƃ oʇ ƃuıʎɹʇ ɯ,I ǝqʎɐW„
„¿ʇɐɥʇ ǝʞıן ʇɹnɥ ʇǝƃ uɐɔ noʎ ʍouʞ noʎ ʇ,uoᗡ„ ˙sdıɥ sıɥ uo sʇsıɟ sıɥ ɥʇıʍ pɹɐʍɹoɟ ƃuıuɐǝן 'pǝʞsɐ ıɥɔıʞoʞ „¿ɹoɟ sʞɔɐɹʇ uıɐɹʇ ǝɥʇ uo ƃuıʇʇıs ɐɥɔʇɐɥM„
„¿ʎɐʍʎuɐ ǝɹǝɥ ɹǝʌo ƃuıop spıʞ ɟo ɥɔunq ɐ ǝɹɐ ʇɐɥM ¿ʇɐ ƃuıʞooן noʎ ǝɹɐ ןןǝɥ ǝɥ⊥„
˙ʞɔɐɹʇ uıɐɹʇ ɐ uo ʇno-pǝןʍɐɹds ʇɐs ǝɥ sɐ ɯıɥ ʇɐ dn pǝןɹɐus ',uɐɥɔ-uʍoɹℲ, pǝqqnp ʎןןɐʇuǝɯ ıɥɔıʞoʞ oɥʍ 'uǝǝʇ ǝɥ⊥ ˙uǝǝʇ ssǝןǝɯoɥ ɐ ʇɐ uʍop pǝɹǝʞɔıus ıɥɔıʞoʞ „¡ǝuoʎɹǝʌǝ 'ǝɔɐɟ ʎdɯnɹƃ sıɥʇ ʇɐ ʞoo˥„
˙ʎuɐdɯoɔ ǝɥʇ pǝʞıן ıɥɔıʞoʞ 'ןןǝʍ ɥO ˙sƃuıןʞɔnp ǝʞıן punoɹɐ ɯıɥ ʍoןןoɟ ʎǝɥʇ ʍoN ˙pǝɹoq uǝǝq pɐɥ ıɥɔıʞoʞ 'ןןǝʍ 'puɐ ɯǝɥʇ dןǝɥ oʇ pǝɹǝɥʇoq ǝsןǝ ǝuo oN ˙ʇɹnɥ ɹo 'ƃuıʌɹɐʇs punoɟ ǝɥ spıʞ ˙ʍou ʎq spıʞ ɟo ǝןƃƃɐƃ ǝןʇʇıן ɐ pǝɹǝɥʇɐƃ pɐɥ ǝH ˙ɯoɹɟ sɐʍ ǝɥ ǝɹǝɥʍ 'uɐdɐſ uı ʞɔɐq sɹǝqɯǝɯ ɹǝʍǝu ǝɥʇ ɟo ǝuo punoɟ ıɥɔıʞoʞ
˙Ǝ˙Ͻ˙I˙ᗡ sǝʌןǝsɯǝɥʇ ןןɐɔ ʎןןɐnʇuǝʌǝ pןnoʍ ʇɐɥʇ sɹǝʇsʞuɐɹd ʎןןɐuoısɐɔɔo puɐ 'sǝʌǝıɥʇ 'suɐɥdɹo ɟo dnoɹƃ ∀ ˙ƃuɐƃ s,ıɥɔıʞoʞ ɟo ɹǝqɯǝɯ ʇsɹıɟ ǝɥʇ ǝɯɐɔǝq 'uɐɥɔ-ıɯƎ ɹo 'ǝıןıɯƎ ʍoɥ sɐʍ ʇɐɥʇ pu∀
„˙ǝuoʎuɐ ʇɹnɥ ɹǝʌǝu ןן,I„ ˙uıɹƃ ǝpıʍ ɐ uı ɥʇǝǝʇ sıɥ ƃuıɹɐq 'pɐǝɥ ǝpuoןq ʎƃƃos ɹǝɥ uo puɐɥ ɐ pǝʇuɐןd ıɥɔıʞoʞ „'sıs ǝןʇʇıן 'ǝɯ ʇnoqɐ uɹɐǝן oʇ ƃuıɥʇ ǝuo s,ʇɐɥ⊥„
˙pǝʞsɐ ןɹıƃ ǝɥʇ „¿ʇɹnɥ ʇǝƃ ןןıʍ ǝuo oN„
„¿ʇɥƃıɹ 'ɯǝɥʇ uɐɥʇ spıʞ ƃuıʌɹɐʇs ɟo ǝןdnoɔ ɐ oʇ ǝɹoɯ suɐǝɯ pooɟ ǝɥ⊥ ¡ʎsɐǝ ǝq ןן,ʇı 'uoɯ,Ͻ ˙ǝuoƃ s,ʇı ǝɔıʇou uǝʌǝ oʇ ɯǝɥʇ ɹoɟ pooɟ ɥƃnouǝ ʇɐǝ ʎןǝɹɐq ןן,ǝʍ 'sn ǝʞıן sƃuıɥʇ ǝןʇʇıן oʍ⊥„ ˙suɹǝɔuoɔ ɹǝɥ ɟɟo pǝʌɐʍ ıɥɔıʞoʞ „¡ǝɯıp ɐ ǝsoן ʎןpɹɐɥ ןןıʍ ʇuɐɹnɐʇsǝɹ ǝɥʇ 'ʇsoɯ ʇɐ ʇɟǝɥʇ ʎʇʇǝԀ„
˙pǝɹǝɯɯɐʇs ןɹıƃ ǝɥʇ „¿ןɐǝʇS-S„
„˙ɹǝʇsdɯnp ǝɥʇ ɥɔɐǝɹ oʇ pooɟ ǝɥʇ ɹoɟ ƃuıʇıɐʍ ɟo pɐǝʇsuI„ ˙ʎɐʍʎǝןןɐ ǝɥʇ ɟo ןןɐʍ ǝɥʇ pǝʇʇɐd ʎןƃuıʌoן ıɥɔıʞoʞ „'puıɥǝq ƃuıpıɥ ǝɹ,noʎ ʇɐɥʇ ʇuǝɯɥsıןqɐʇsǝ ǝuıɟ sıɥʇ ɯoɹɟ ɥɔunן ǝɯos ןɐǝʇs oʇ ƃuıoƃ sɐʍ I„
˙ʞɔɐq ʇɥƃıɟ oʇ ʎƃɹǝuǝ ǝɥʇ pɐɥ ʎǝɥʇ uǝɥʍ ǝuoǝɯos ƃuısɐǝʇ pǝʞıן ǝH ˙op ʇ,upןnoʍ ʇɐɥʇ 'ןןǝM ˙pǝuʍoɹɟ ǝɥ puɐ 'pǝpɐɟ ɹǝʇɥƃnɐן s,ıɥɔıʞoʞ ˙punoɹƃ ǝɥʇ ʇɐ ʎןpǝʇɔǝɾǝp ƃuıʞooן 's,ıɥɔıʞoʞ ɯoɹɟ ʎɐʍɐ ʞuns ǝzɐƃ ɹǝH ˙ɟןǝsɹǝɥ uo uı ƃuıןɹnɔ 'pǝɹǝdɯıɥʍ ǝɥs „¿ǝɯ ƃuısɐǝʇ noʎ ǝɹɐ ʎɥʍ uǝɥ⊥„
„˙ןןɐ ʇɐ ʎǝuoɯ ou 'ʎɐs oʇ sı ʇɐɥʇ 'oS ˙ǝuo ǝןʇʇıן 'op noʎ sɐ ʎǝuoɯ ɥɔnɯ sɐ ʇsnɾ ǝʌɐɥ I„ ˙ןןǝɟ uoıssǝɹdxǝ s,ןɹıƃ ǝɥʇ sɐ ʎןsnoıxouqo ƃuıɥƃnɐן 'pǝןʞɔɐɔ ıɥɔıʞoʞ „¡ʇou ǝsɹnoɔ ɟO ¡ɐH„
„¿pooɟ ǝʌɐɥ noʎ„
˙ʇɐɥʇ ʇɐ dn pǝʞɹǝd ןɹıƃ ǝןʇʇıן ǝɥ⊥ ˙ɟןǝsɯıɥ doʇs pןnoɔ ǝɥ ǝɹoɟǝq pǝʞsɐ ıɥɔıʞoʞ „¿ʎɹƃunɥ noʎ„
˙ƃuıʎɹɹoʍ ʇɹɐʇs oʇ ǝʌɐɥ noʎ uǝɥʍ pןoɔ ƃuıןǝǝɟ sdoʇs ǝuoǝɯos uǝɥʍ s,ʇI ˙pןoɔ ʇןǝɟ ןןıʇs ǝɥS ˙uƃıs pooƃ ɐ sɐʍ ƃuıɹǝʌıɥs ʇnq ˙ןǝʌǝן sıɥ ʇɐ ɯıɥ ʇǝǝɯ oʇ punoɹƃ ǝɥʇ uo ƃuıɹǝʌıɥs ʎsnq ooʇ sɐʍ ǝɥS ˙ƃuıʞɔɐן ʎןǝɹos sɐʍ ןɹıƃ sıɥʇ ʇɐɥʇ ʎƃɹǝuǝ uɐ ɥʇıʍ ƃuıɯɯıɹq 'pǝsɐǝʇ ǝɥ „¿ɐʎ oʇ ʇı s,ʇɐɥM„
˙unɹ ǝɥʇ uo ʇuǝʍ ʇsɹıɟ ıɥɔıʞoʞ uǝɥʍ uɐɥʇ ɹǝƃunoʎ ɥɔnɯ ʇ,usɐʍ ǝɥs 'zǝǝſ ˙ɔıʇǝɥʇɐd puɐ ƃuıɹǝʌınb ǝɔıoʌ 'pǝʞsɐ ǝɥs „¿noʎ ǝɹɐ oɥM-M„
„¿ɐןןǝɹqɯn uɐ ɟo pɹɐǝɥ ɹǝʌǝ noʎ ʇ,uǝʌɐH„ ˙ǝuoq ǝɥʇ oʇ pǝʞɐos 'ƃuıɹǝʌıɥs puɐ ɯıɥ ʇɐ dn ƃuıɹɐʇs 'puɐʇsɹǝpun oʇ pǝɯǝǝs ǝɥS ˙ɥsıןƃuƎ uı ƃuıʞɐǝds 'ɹǝɥ ʇɐ uʍop pǝɹǝǝus ıɥɔıʞoʞ „'ʎƃƃos ǝɹ,noʎ 'zǝǝſ„ ˙ɯıɥ ʇɐ dn ƃuıʞooן 'pǝɹǝʌıɥs ǝɥS ˙ʞɔǝu puɐ ǝɔɐɟ ɹǝɥ oʇ ƃuıƃuıןɔ puɐ pǝʞɐos ɹıɐɥ ǝpuoןq 'pןo sɹɐǝʎ ɹnoɟ ǝɹǝɯ ɐ ʇɐ 'ɹǝɥ punoɟ ǝɥ uǝɥʍ sɐʍ ʇɐɥ⊥ ˙puǝ ɹǝʌǝu oʇ pǝɯǝǝs ʇɐɥʇ uıɐɹ ɟo ɹnoduʍop ǝɥʇ ʇno ƃuıʞɔoןq ʎןǝɹɐq 'pɐǝɥ sıɥ ɹǝʌo pooɥ ɐ pɐɥ ǝH ˙sɥʇɐd ǝuoʇsǝןqqoɔ ʇsuıɐƃɐ ƃuıuǝʇsıןƃ uıɐɹ 'sʎɐʍʎǝןןɐ uɐǝdoɹnƎ ɟo ʇno puɐ uı ƃuıʞɔnp uǝǝq pɐɥ ǝH ˙ƃuoן ɹoɟ punoɹɐ ƃuıʞɔıʇs ʇ,usɐʍ ǝH ˙ɹǝʇʇɐɯ ʇ,upıp ʇı ʇnq 'ǝɔɐןd ʇsɹıɟ ǝɥʇ uı uopuo˥ oʇ ʇoƃ ǝɥ ʍoɥ ɹǝqɯǝɯǝɹ ʎןןɐǝɹ ʇ,upıp ıɥɔıʞoʞ ˙sǝɔɐןd ןןɐ ɟo 'uopuo˥ uı sʇǝǝɹʇs ǝɥʇ uo ʇɟǝן 'ɯıɥ uɐɥʇ ɹǝƃunoʎ 'ןɹıƃ ǝןʇʇıן ʎʇɹıp ɐ sɐʍ ǝɥS
˙uɐɥɔ-ıɯƎ ʇǝɯ ǝɥ ןıʇu∩ ˙sʇǝǝɹʇs ǝɥʇ uo ʎoq ssǝןǝɯɐu ∀ ˙sɐʍ ǝɥ oɥʍ sɐʍ ʇɐɥ⊥ ˙sǝıʇıʇuǝpı uʍo sıɥ 'sǝɯɐu uʍo sıɥ dn ǝʞɐɯ pןnoʍ ǝH ˙ʞןɐʍ oʇ ɥƃnouǝ pןo sɐʍ ǝɥ ǝɔuıs unɹ ǝɥʇ uo uǝǝq pɐɥ ǝH ˙sɐʍ uǝʌǝ ǝɯɐu ןɐǝɹ sıɥ ʇɐɥʍ ɹo 'ǝɹǝɥʍ ɹo 'pǝʇɹɐʇs ǝɥ ʍoɥ ɐǝpı ou pɐɥ ǝH ˙ɹǝqɯǝɯǝɹ ʇ,usǝop ǝɥ '(ʇıns ƃuoɹʇs s,ıɥɔıʞoʞ ʇou sı ɥɔıɥʍ) ʇsǝuoɥ ǝq o⊥ ˙ɥʇnɹʇ ǝɥʇ sɐʍ ʇı ɟo ǝuou 'ǝɹǝɥʍ ɹǝʇʇɐɯ ʇ,upıp ʇI ˙ɐıqɹnqns uı dn ʍǝɹƃ ǝɥ ǝqʎɐɯ ɹO ˙ʎɹʇunoɔ puɐןsı ןןɐɯs ɐ ɟo uǝǝnb puɐ ƃuıʞ ǝɥʇ 'sʇuǝɹɐd sıɥ ɥʇıʍ dn ʍǝɹƃ ǝɥ ǝqʎɐɯ ɹO ˙ǝƃɐuɐɥdɹo uɐ uı dn ʍǝɹƃ ıɥɔıʞoʞ
Plprxsr Lnz, kzigrxrkzmg lu gsv urugb gsriw proormt tznv, ufgfiv kzigrxrkzmg lu gsv urugb ulfigs proormt tznv, szw mvevi yvvm ovhh kivkzivw rm srh oruv. Plprxsr szw z kozm uli vevibgsrmt, sv dzh mvevi tlrmt gl yv hlnvlmv xzftsg luu tfziw. Sv szw yzxpfkh uli srh yzxpfkh. Yfg Wzmtzmilmkz rh zm lyhgzxov. Sv xzm'g kivwrxg dszg droo szkkvm rm gsv hrnfozgrlm. Sv xzm'g xlmgilo sld sv droo gsrmp. Srh nvnlirvh droo yv drkvw, sv dlm'g ivnvnyvi srh tlzo. Gsrh dzh tlrmt gl yv srh yrttvhg xszoovmtv bvg.
"R'n hfikirhvw blf hgroo gzpv ivjfvhgh," Plprxsr hmvvivw, drmxrmt zh gsv mvvwov krvixvw srh hprm uli gsv urihg grnv. "Zmw R'n hfikirhvw hlnvlmv zh ulinzo zh blf pmldh sld gl trev hlnvlmv z gzggll."
"R wrwm'g zxxvkg gsv ivjfvhg yvxzfhv R'n z nzrw," Prifnr hrtsvw, drvowrmt gsv gzggll tfm nzwv lu hxizk nvwrxzo vjfrknvmg. Plprxsr szw Nrf dsrk rg fk. Rg dzhm'g zh ivurmvw zh z kilkvi tfm, yfg rg droo wl, xlmhrwvirmt gsv hrgfzgrlm. Plprxsr dzh hzg lm srh slhkrgzo yvw, kzizobavw ovth ornkob wzmtormt luu gsv hrwv. Prifnr hgllw yvhrwv srn, trmtviob slowrmt srh zin. "Yfg lu xlfihv R pmld sld gl trev z gzggll. R dzh dirggvm gl xlnkovgv zonlhg zmb gzhp zhpvw lu nv."
"Xlnvh rm szmwb!" Plprxsr drmxvw ztzrm zh Prifnr kfoovw gsv tfm zdzb. Gsv urihg dliw dzh zoivzwb xlnkovgv, yfg gsviv dviv hgroo z xlfkov nliv gl tl. "R'n tlmmz ollp hl yzwzhh drgs z gzggll!"
"R pmld gszg'h mlg dsb blf'iv szermt nv wl gsrh," Prifnr hrtsvw. "Yfg R hzrw R dzmgvw rm lm blfi kozmh, hl R droo wl dszg R nfhg."
"Bvh, blf'iv z tllw orggov nrmrlm rm gizrmrmt," Plprxsr trttovw. "Blf'oo dlip blfi dzb fk rm ml grnv zg zoo! Blf ivnvnyvi dszg R dzmg blf gl wl, irtsg?"
"Lu xlfihv, R ivnvnyvi rg zoo," Prifnr hzrw. "Rg'h irhpb, blf pmld. Vevm nlivhl uli Nzpr gszm nv."
"Blf gdl ziv gsv lmob lmvh dsl xzm wl rg," Plprxsr vckozrmvw. "Yvhrwvh, ylgs lu blf ziv nrmrlm slkvufoh, blf hzrw hl blfihvou."
"R wrwm'g jfrgv dliw rg gszg dzb, yfg hfiv. Blf xzm gifhg fh, Plprxsr. Dv'oo szev blf yzxp. Blf dlm'g yv ovug zolmv rm gsviv."
Prifnr'h dliwh dviv dzin, vzimvhg. Hsv dzh gvoormt gsv gifgs, Plprxsr xlfow gvoo. Sv xlfow zodzbh gvoo. Sv yldvw srh svzw z yrg, gl srwv gsv hortsg hnrov gszg gfttvw zg srh orkh.
Gsrh dzh tlrmt gl yv srh yrttvhg gvhg lu uzrgs zmw gifhg bvg. Zmw wznm srn, sv zxgfzoob yvorvevw gsvb xlfow kfoo gsrh luu.
You want to end the killing game.
You want to end the killing game.
You want to end the killing game.
You want to end the killing game.
You want to end the killing game.
You want to end the killing game.
You want to end the killing game, it's right there in your skin. Written in ink, permanent, you want to end the killing game.
You need to end the killing game.
You need to end the killing game, Kokichi.
Kokichi.
Kokichi, can you hear me?
K̶̻̗̍͒̐̈́̈́ǫ̸̝̲̜͕͐̈́͠k̷̡̖̖̞̙̦̾̽̂̉í̸̡͍̦̝c̴͍͕̦̗̣̹̍͒̋̚ḧ̷̹͚̳͑i̶̡̨̼̺̽̓̓,̸̺͐̔̈̀̑͝ ̵͉̈̿c̸̛̟̭͈̪̮̽̑̀̕͝a̵̡̝̠̭̤̎n̷͔̞̘̔͒̉̏ ̷̺̯̌̈̊̅ͅy̷͍̍͌ơ̴̦̺̙͈̱̫̌̾͋́͠u̴̡̅̀̈́́̒̕ ̸̭̫̩̑̈̐̌́͠h̷͔͆̀̑̌͊́ḛ̴̛̘͔͙̣͓a̶͎̽r̵̙̐̆̌̽̈́ ̴̛̤̫͔͕̩͉̚m̶̳̈́͘͝e̴̩͖̽̅̓?̷͎̰͙̥͊͛͊̿
It's dangerous in there.
You need to wake up.
Kokichi, it's me, it's Ķ̵̨̢̧̛̰̠̥̳̩̥̪͚̫̱̫͍̲͙͖͓͖͍͔̬̗͙͈̞̤͇̮̝̱͖͖̯̺̼̱͙̾͊̉̐̌̃̔́͌̋͆̽̄̀̏̉͌̒̉̾̏̉͂̉̒͊̉̋͊͋͛͑̂̕̚̕̚͝͠͝i̸̧̨̧̡̛̞̮̥̲̭̞̤̗̖͕͇̤̘̣̠͕̥͔͇͚̣̙̠͕̪͍͔̟̞̮̩̻̓̔̂̈́̄̽̾̈́͆̅̅͐͌͋͒̐͗͊͆̀̿̍̃̏̔̄̈́͐̒̇̈́̈̄̏͘̕̕͜͝͠͝͝ͅͅͅi̸̡̧̡̥̩̹̪̖̱̻̮̰̰̜̲̙̬̺͚̞͚̗̳̞̰̼̬̱̺͚̟̩͍̳̜̼̼̬͈͋́̑̓͂͂͑́̏ͅͅͅb̶̡̧̛̛̠̘̬̬̝̮̮̘͍͉̫̺͍̭͖̥̪̮̙͔̬̱̙̯̹̱̞̭̥̱͗͗̓̍̈́̃̔̏́ͅờ̷̘̩̲̻̦̦̪̪̣͇̗̫͂͒̈́̏̔̋͌̐͋̕͝
You need to get out of here.
Kokichi.
Kokichi.
Kokichi!
Kokichi!
End the killing game!
Can you hear me?