Toshihiro walked departed from the school premises, holstering the pistol he had drawn as he did so. He hoped no-one else had been there to witness that, but knowing his luck, he'd probably get tattled on by some pre-pubescent kid about holding a student who was threatening him at gunpoint. He didn't care though. If that girl really was telling the truth, then he didn't have all that much time left to care anyway. He shoved his hands in his pockets, slouched his shoulders, and headed home. It began to rain as he wandered, and the city started to fog. He wondered if the assassin was following him in the mist?

He kept walking. This glum city air would do little to dampen his willful spirit, it never did: he wasn't that kind of man. It did little to dissuade him from wandering toward his grave, in his mind life was just a way of slowing the descent to the grave anyway. Perhaps a part of him had a death wish, or perhaps he simply didn't believe that girl and her words. Either way, he walked back to the city apartment he called home, through that gloomy mist that foretold the occurrence of unavoidable tragedy, with complete apathy and cluelessness. Absent-minded passersby wandered the streets about him, all oblivious to the fact that he would likely be dead within the day. Amidst them, a girl with a lavender t-shirt and a black skirt passed. Looking into his eyes, he seemed troubled yet relieved at the same time. It was an odd expression, akin to the face of a man who had seen both the depravity wrought in the wake of despair and the purifying light of hope, and had chosen to walk the path of both sides. It was a face that realised: in the end, the human condition is just simple juxtaposition. She wandered on, oblivious to the effect that man might wreak upon her future.

After a fifteen minute walk, the man entered his apartment. It was a studio apartment, the kind you'd expect to be owned by a university student or some upper-class businessman with a taste for the art deco. It was in a state of disarray. Books piled atop each other stretched across the living room, a pile of plates in the sink was now beginning to grow tall enough that shifting it ever so slightly might cause the whole thing to collapse, and a trashcan sat at the epicentre of a field of tissues: none of them quite reaching the bin, but some closer than others. It was a shambolic mess and a sight to behold. He sighed, and headed over to the refrigerator, desperate for a drink. He opened the door, grabbed a bottle of milk that had expired the day prior, and chugged the whole thing.

"You know, at the rate you're going, I mightn't even need to kill you," a figure said from behind him.

"Can it, you're not my doctor," Toshihiro said as he turned around and eyed down the individual opposite him. He was a tall boy, who wore disposable latex boots and rubber gloves, in addition to a hairnet and a jumpsuit. It was a strange outfit, which seemed incredibly mismatched. However, he was supposed to be an assassin capable of fixing a crime-scene, perhaps the outfit served a strategic function?

"I know I'm not, Nishimura," the boy said. "I'd be real worried if I was, I think I'd ask for a raise. Lucky me, I took the liberty of poisoning that milk: that was a bit of a gamble on my part. Then again, you aren't the sort of guy who really reads the use-by date, are you?"

"What do you want?" Toshihiro said.

"You know that already," the boy said. "What could I possibly want from you? I want you dead of course, that's my job."

"So, why taunt me?" Toshihiro asked. "Something tells me death ain't all you're after, kid."

"Maybe you're right?" The boy said. "Maybe I just want to please the Gods above, or maybe I just want to please my client. Maybe, I might even want to please my client's God. Outside of this work of fiction that our reality is, I wonder if there's any point to all this?"

"What the fuck are you on about?" Toshihiro said.

"Oh, sorry," the boy said. "Shouldn't be going about ruining the immersion, should I? Don't worry, Nishimura. We each have our roles to play in this gambit that's been made for us: such a shame yours was to die though, you'd probably have an interesting character arc."

"I'm not dead yet," Toshihiro said, and drew his Glock 26 on the child assailant. He aimed the pistol, his steadied hand and years of police training all culminating in that moment. He couldn't live, but he'd die with that little shit's corpse at his feet before he died like a dog at the very least. He fired, the bullet travelling through the air and making its way to the space where the boy had been, his acrobatic finesse allowing him to leap out of the bullet's trajectory with minimal effort. He had no need to attack, simply to make the bullets appear roughly in the same spot. He knew now how he'd execute the murder. The bullet sailed past him, landing within the wooden wall. He fired another, missing once more.

"Give it up," the boy said. "You think you could hit me when I know what you're planning? I've got plot armour on my side, after all!"

"Plot armour?" Toshihiro retorted. "What do you think you are, some sort of movie protagonist?"

He shot again, the bullet missing the boy once more as the boy skillfully evaded. It landed approximately 4 inches away from his other bullet, and as it did so the boy ran at Toshihiro. He kicked his legs out from under him, before palm-striking his falling hands still clutching the pistol, and grabbing the Glock 26 from the air. He then aimed the pistol at Toshihiro's head.

"It's over," the boy said. "Give it up."

"As if," Toshihiro replied. "We both know you can't do jack all with that pistol. You can aim it at my head, but this won't be a perfect murder if you don't do it right, will it? While I'm still capable of rebelling, you aren't capable of rigging this all up, are you?"

"Could you not just complicate things?" The boy said. "This is just supposed to be an in-and-out job, like Mitarai. I guess the pair of you have a bit in common. In the end, you aren't as gutless as you look: but why can't you just go down quick like he did?"

The poison was beginning to reach Toshihiro. He felt his motor-control failing, and as he began to lose his grip on life, he began to grip tighter on the boy's leg. It was his final resolve: if he couldn't kill him, he'd at least try leaving his prints on his pants.

"What are you doing?" The boy said. "Let go of me!"

The boy went to kick Toshihiro in the head, but he stopped slightly beforehand. It was then Toshihiro realised: he couldn't directly attack, not until Toshihiro himself had no life remaining to rebel with. It was a realisation that came too late. Maybe a few seconds earlier, it might've done something, but it was at that moment when Toshihiro began to surrender into the beckoning slumber of unconsciousness.

"Who... are you?" Toshihiro murmured, as he began to fall asleep.

"If I told you that, it'd ruin the surprise, you know?" The boy said. "I can't spoil the audience now, can I? They'd get mad if I did that." He smirked as he shook Toshihiro's hand from his leg, and with no more conviction left to face his foe, Toshihiro lethargically released his grip. It was done. The boy sighed, as he heaved the body over to the reclining chair, and turned the chair to face the bullet holes he'd made only a second earlier. First, he lifted Toshihiro's corpse into the chair. The boy had done his homework. He knew that Toshihiro had a far from amicable relationship with his ex-wife, and this explained why he grabbed the framed photo of his wife from over near the kitchen bench. He then moved one of the side tables next to the wall. Its heigt was just shy of the bullet impact marks, which was perfect. He put the photo between the two bullet holes, and then wandered back to the chair with the Glock 26. He then shot the photo frame with the pistol, a clean hit through the photo frame. When the police come to investigate, they would simply assume that the man had bungled the first two shots, then landed the third into his ex-wife's photo: and if they didn't, he had ways to convince them of that story.

Now however, it was time for the moment of truth. Toshihiro lay unconscious in the chair, his arms hanging downwards and his legs perfectly straight: that was no position for a suicide. The boy rearranged Toshihiro's limbs, which were now splayed out to either side, in a more relaxed fashion. Toshihiro had initially brandished this pistol with his right hand, and so the killer locked Toshihiro's grip around the pistol as he raised it to the man's temple.

Three shots to the wall, one to the head.

"C'est la vie," the boy said. "Adieu, Toshihiro."

The bullet ricocheted through Toshihiro's head, as blood spatter emanated from the hole recently carved into his skull. His head tilted, and fell onto his shoulder - scarlet liquid seeping from the wound as if it were water from a kettle, slowly draining as it was tilted to its side. The boy let both his arm and the gun fall naturally. His work here was done, no further hindrance would be posed from Toshihiro: the investigation into the abductees would end here, the mastermind would carry out their plan as promised, and he would earn a pretty penny from being the protagonist of this quest. He grabbed the file Toshihiro had brought in with him. 25 profiles, each of them participants in this game of life and death, willing or otherwise. It was odd though now that he thought about it: the list wasn't complete.

Now, the boy was left in the eerily still room, standing beside the dead man. He left quickly, expertly stepping across the room. He would await the moment when another incompetent sleuth presented themselves in anticipation, but for now there was still one remaining duty he had yet to execute: one task he still had left to perform. He opened the file, and grabbed a marker. In the back, he scrawled a note, and then once he had finished he headed down to the street outside.

"Finish what I couldn't," the note read. "Toshihiro Nishimura."

He also signed it with the strange cross symbol, despite his own desire not to. However, a job was a job, and they wanted it done that way. With that, he headed into a public toilet cubicle to change, then grabbed a mobile phone he had left behind the cistern. While he occupied the toilet, he called his employer's representative. After all, his real employer was a little preoccupied for the time being, so reaching them might be slightly difficult. It dialled out for a while, before the call got through.

"How's it going!" The boy said into the phone. "Sorry for disturbing you while you're in the middle of something, but what am I doing with this file again?"

"Sheesh, this isn't difficult, you know?" A squeaky voice said back through the phone. "You've got the address, so drop it off and leave the note!"

"Stop speaking with that grating voice," the boy replied. "You know it gets on my nerves, right?"

"No can do," the squeaky voice answered. "I've got to stay in character, even while I've got my week off. I've got to work on being more loveable, I can't be the mascot of Team Danganronpa if I don't put in the hours!"

"Whatever," the boy said. "Why don't we just burn this thing though?"

"Boss says a game's no fun without resistance," the squeaky voice said. "Good guys, bad guys, they've all got to be on the same footing. They've got to have the hope to succeed, so we can bring them even greater despair when they fail!"

"Alright, whatever you say," the boy said sarcastically. "For the record though, I still think this is a terrible idea. However, kudos to you for staying in character, I suppose."

"In character?" The squeaky voice said. "Why, I'm just my beary old self... I don't know what you're talking about."

"Well, fine," the boy replied. "See you then."

"Adios muchachos," the voice signed off. "Monokuma out!"

The phone call terminated. The boy was left behind with just his own thoughts in that bathroom stall, and sighed. Sure, he was all for being a little ostentatious, but this was for all intents and purposes giving the enemy an unnecessary advantage. What's the point in that? Truth be told, he saw none: he likely never would. For the moment though, he was under orders. He changed into some more acceptable clothing from a duffel bag he'd left under the sink, and then wandered out with the bag slung over his shoulder. Without any cameras lining the streets nor the interior of the apartment building, his departure from the location of the murder virtually absolved him of all offences. As far as an investigation would be concerned: he would be as clean as an operating theatre pre-surgery.

He enveloped the file, wrote the recipient's name on the front, and headed to the listed address. It was another apartment, in a complex three blocks down. Their security seemed a little tighter here: but he wasn't here for anything conspicuous, merely to drop in a letter. He put a hood over his head to obscure his face from the overhead cameras, and approached the attendant at the desk.

"Uhh..." The boy said, in an awkward manner. "I... I wanted to send a letter... to my friend?"

"To your friend?" The attendant asked. "Which apartment do they live in?"

"I think it's... 131," the boy said. "Can I ask that it makes it to him, specifically, and no one else?"

"That's an odd request," the attendant said. "Can I ask what this is about?"

"Oh, don't worry, it's not dangerous or anything," the boy piped up. "It's just... it contains some sensitive stuff of mine, and I'd be really embarrassed if it got out..."

"That's fine, I'll make sure it reaches him then," the attendant said. "May I ask who I should be handing this to?"

"His name's... Haru," the boy said. "Also, one last thing?"

"What is it?" The attendant asked.

"Don't tell him... I brought it," the boy added. "I want it to be... a surprise, for him. I... I worked really hard on it."

"Alright, I'll hand it to him in confidence," the attendant said.

"Thank you," the boy said. With that he left, departing from the building, and headed out. "Well, that should do the trick," the boy mumbled to himself. "Geez, I'm pooped. Such a long day, and here I am running errands at the end of it; I should be getting overtime for this. I mean, I am known for being near perfect at my job in every way, and now my employer has the audacity to ask me to slip up? That imbecile sure is one hell of a deuteragonist, eh?"

Satisfied, he wandered into the sunset. His crimes might never reach the light of day, but one crucial piece of evidence remained - the truth amid a web of lies. That folder, which he himself had allowed to exist, remained for the sake of hope: a misguided and demented hope created from obsession and adherence to some bizarre and trite set of formulaic instructions, as they wandered in the footsteps of the man they had murdered. Ryota Mitarai; he wondered if he'd heard that name before, he sounded like... some character from an old show he never watched. It felt familiar to him, but it was just a name after all. There's a lot of names out there.

It was probably all just some serendipitous happenstance, but if he had learnt anything from life, he had learnt that there was a scripted pattern lurking beneath the surface of everything. A skilled reasoner knows that: Chekov's law never allows for coincidence, does it?

AUTHOR'S NOTES: And here he is, the Ultimate Assassin in all his glory! Honestly though, I guess this means either that the mystery's deeper than it ever was before, or this is one truly delusional assassin. Anyway, the Trussassin aside, the next update that comes in about a week's time will not be directly to this story. However, I've got good news for you: I'm now in the process of finalising Daigo and Hisoka's free time events! Included in that update will also be a smaller update with a few profiles which should clear up some basic information that wasn't explicitly addressed in canon, since I'm aware that I rushed a little through a few characters' descriptions (especially Yona, sorry about that one). After that happens, you can expect the first installment of Chapter 2. Sorry about the lengthy hiatus, but I suppose these Monoloser Theatres are still content, and your reactions indicate that they've got nearly as much appeal as the Killing Game itself.

Got to say though, the assassin is one of the hardest characters to write: not so much due to his personality, but rather the fact that he's supposed to be able to fabricate a crime scene flawlessly. I'm still convinced I probably missed some minor detail that might completely blow his entire identity to the cops, but I guess I'm not really privy to understand professional investigative techniques since I'm not even close to being an investigator in any capacity. Oh well, let me know if I missed anything on that front: it's a lot easier to look back later and find a mistake than to do it fresh off the press, occasionally there's a few that slip through after all.

Since this is actually the final installment of Chapter 1, I guess this is the actual end of Chapter 1, but I think I'm going to leave the wrap-up where it is for now.

Anyway, 'til next time.