This was written for bealuma04 on tumblr for the Danganronpa Secret Santa 2018. I've never really thought about what the Future Foundation days would be like for the DR1 survivors, so writing this was a chance for some fun worldbuilding. Thanks for the request, and happy holidays!

Title is from the end theme from the Danganronpa anime, because I'm lazy.

Joining the Future Foundation had been an easy decision. In the world after the tragedy, the Foundation had practically become synonymous with hope. Naegi would do everything he could to support that.

When he'd first signed on, he didn't know what they'd expect of him. It had been a long time since he'd had the luxury to think about life after graduation. Even before the Tragedy, he'd never really worried about it. He figured he'd probably become a businessman of some kind, find some perfectly average job and have a perfectly average career.

On a surface level, the Future Foundation fit that image. Their buildings were full of the grey offices and bustling people in suits that he'd imagined. It was easy to think that he'd be working with spreadsheets and memos and other business words.

Then he got his first major assignment, and realized he was in way over his head. He'd known the 14th division dealt with PR. He wasn't expecting to have to address a crowd on his own on such short notice.

"You're the Ultimate Hope," they'd said, "the one who stood up to Junko Enoshima herself. The people want to hear from you. They want to know that you're with us, that you'll keep fighting for hope for their sake as well as your own."

So no pressure or anything. The worst part was that Naegi could see where they were coming from. If he didn't know better, he probably would have thought he was pretty amazing too. It was much easier to believe the best of someone when you only saw their accomplishments and not the time they spent freaking out because they'd accidentally glanced at their bathroom.

He couldn't turn the assignment down, though. He didn't want to let anyone down like that, even if he thought his presence might be just as much of a letdown.

Instead, he decided to deal with this problem the way he'd dealt with many others in both his normal and killing school lives: he went to ask Kirigiri for advice. She had an ability to put things into perspective and help him find solutions that no one else did.

It also helped that their desks were right next to each other. For all that they were famous and symbols of hope and whatever, they still weren't important enough to have their own offices yet.

He waited for the people around them to be occupied with other things, then tried to get Kirigiri's attention discreetly. This mostly meant staring at her intently while making low whispering noises.

It probably wasn't the best method, but it worked. Kirigiri was looking at him a moment later, amused. "Hey," she said. "Is something wrong?"

Naegi gave a noncommittal shrug. "Nothing serious. Are you busy?"

"Not particularly," she said.

Naegi took that as the invitation it probably was and rolled his chair over beside hers. "I got my first big Future Foundation assignment today."

"Congratulations," Kirigiri said.

"Well…" Naegi scratched the back of his head. "The thing is, they want me to give a speech. In front of a pretty big crowd, it sounds like." Kirigiri didn't respond, so he continued, "I was kind of wondering if you had any advice?"

Kirigiri hid a smile with her hand. "Naegi, my family has worked very hard to stay out of the public eye. I doubt I know more about public speaking than you do."

Yeah right, Naegi thought. Kirigiri was good at pretty much anything she put her mind to. If anything, she downplayed her skills so she didn't have to do things she had no interest in. This didn't seem like the time to call her on that, though. Instead, he said, "You always seem so collected, though. When I try to give speeches, I just get nervous and start rambling. Not exactly the inspiring message people are looking for."

Kirigiri seemed unimpressed. "I don't remember any rambling during that last class trial."

Naegi was never going to live that down, was he. He suddenly understood Kirigiri's desire to hide her own competency. Having people expect things of you was terrifying. "That was different," he pointed out. "You guys are my friends. I knew you, and I knew I could count on you, so the specifics of what I said didn't really matter. I don't know anything about these people."

Kirigiri hummed thoughtfully. "I don't know," she said. "You're always talking about how normal you are. If that's the case, just tell them what you'd want to hear in their position."

"You think that would work?" She had a point, though. It would be much easier to think of what to say if he was addressing one person in particular. He just hoped it wouldn't be too egotistical. He didn't want to turn into Togami, dropping personal references every five minutes. "All right, I'll try it. Thanks!"

Kirigiri nodded, turning back to her desk. "No problem."

Naegi took the hint and rolled back over to his own. He had things from here. All he had to do was write a letter to his past self, essentially. How hard could it be?

Six failed attempts later, he had to admit that it was harder than it sounded. His desk was littered with crumpled pieces of paper, each representing a failed attempt that he'd only gotten a few lines into. It was strange. He didn't feel like he'd changed at all, but when he tried to address a version of himself who hadn't been though everything, it was like addressing a stranger. He had no idea what to say.

He wasn't going to bother Kirigiri again, though. She'd already given him the major clue to this situation. All he needed to do was put together the evidence. If he couldn't write to his past self, he needed to think of who he could address instead.

Ten people immediately came to mind. People he had so much he wanted to say to, people who deserved to know what had happened after they died.

He grabbed the next sheet of paper without really thinking about it. For the first time that day, the words seemed to flow. He didn't have time to second guess himself, to wonder if it was too personal or too self-centered. He just had to write.

This was never going to reach the ears of the people it was meant for. But maybe it could reach someone else, whether they'd been in the same situation or not. All he could do was hope.

When, two days later, Naegi took the stage, he could feel thousands of eyes on him. Thousands of people Naegi would never know, all united by a common desire, a hope for something they could cling to in the face of despair.

He had no epiphany to offer them. He couldn't toss his script away and tell them the things they most needed to hear. All he could do was be himself, say the things he needed to say.

He took a deep breath and began to speak.