A/N: First time writing for Dangan Ronpa. I had a recent burst of inspiration to write something about Junko, so here I am, haha. This may not be entirely canonical, however.
amazon warrior
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She's like a supernova – an exploding star that lights up the universe for a moment before dimming out and dies.
For the one moment, she is everything everyone's eyes follow, whether it's on the streets or on the catwalk, and Junko enjoys it all. It's a thrill like no other – after living on the streets, raised by the homeless and the harsh environment of the slums at the edge of her city, it really is quite a change.
It's different; it's like she has emerged from the shadows into the blinding light of the sun, and she shines bright like a diamond in the sky.
She is thin and small from all the right places – oh, but she has curves too! And how the men love to look at her, love to devour her with those sinning eyes and tainted minds.
Junko drinks it all in and sways her hips. She's the star, she's the sun the Earth orbits, and this is her story where she's the beautiful protagonist with heart as fragile and fickle as the world itself.
…
Black and purple bruises dance across your skin, and it is the most beautiful painting this world has ever seen.
…
She's a fighter. She survives like a leech while she lives on the streets, her pearly skin painted with purple and yellow and black, and she's too skinny, too bony to be called beautiful: ribs sticking out, her cheeks hollow and cheekbones nearly jutting out of her skin.
It's a life that makes your heart harden and tears dry; it's the lesson on how to make the most of what you have.
(And what she has is not much – a piece of mold-freckled bread and stolen apples from a store, and the clothes she's wearing, the worn-out pants, torn shirt, and patched shoes.)
She knows nothing more but her name – Junko, Junk-O – and she knows, thinks, that she's distinct from the other street rats that linger about.
And when she's picked up – thin, pale, sick – by her to-be agent, it's the beginning of something for the girl that has just hit her puberty and has a developing chest and legs that make men drool.
Her skin's not pale, not entirely, but rather a canvas where a mixture of purple, ugly yellow, and white has been thrown on; bruises litter the painting that is her, and the agent that takes her in is astonished – entranced, enchanted – by her and her body and her glistening, mischievous eyes that hold fire hotter than the solar flares of the sun they all orbit.
She's homeless and looked down upon, but she's still as fiery and feisty with a touch of exotic danger that entices and beckons.
Oh, she's a vixen, and she knows it; she may be young, but she has the wisdom of someone that has to do anything to survive in the world where there are no second chances and where lives flicker away with the snap of one's fingers.
She has nothing – but she has the means to get anything.
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(Doesn't that say a lot about how utterly laughable some of those men are?)
(Junko is their despair.)