Re:MEMBER

by camerashop

Summary:

The fragments and side stories of Re:CYCLE.

Chapter 1: Fragment: MIKU

Notes:

Takes place before No Logic

Waves roll in, crash, then leave. A predictable pattern, born from nature’s will alone. There’s nothing that a single person can do to upset this cycle. It is the Earth’s will that what comes, must go as well.

In the moonlight, you must look closely to see your own reflection in the water. The darkness will always try to shroud it, but that doesn’t mean that it disappears. If it becomes too tricky for your weary eyes, then you can try to stay for the sunrise’s wake. However, by that hour, you may be surprised at what your watery self dons.

These are all lessons that Miku learned long ago. One time, early in her years, she had tried to swim out in this neverending ocean. She had never learned how to swim, and the waves easily engulfed her and sent her crashing back to the shore. At that time, she was sure there was another world, prosperous and vivid, beyond these empty waters. Now she knows that the world she’s yearned for isn’t across the sea before her, but rather in a distant plane entirely.

She’s not so lonely anymore. A short while after her first attempt, someone taught her how to swim. Still, she’s never tried to brave these waters ever since. This life satisfies her needs enough.

“Huh? A half-blessing?” One girl’s voice echoes from down the beach, mixing into the striking of the waves.

“Are these all rigged…?” A boy grumbles back, followed by fingers tapping on a box.

“Wait, let me try!” Another girl chimes, voice much higher than the other. After a few moments of shuffling, she squeals and beams, “A great blessing! So there are other slips in there!”

“AHA!” The next speaker, an ear-piercing boy, perks up. “You’re so fortunate, Hanasato! As expected of my sister’s teammate!”

“You’re so loud…” The final voice, an exasperated girl, mumbles.

“Yeah…” The other boy, sounding equally tired, agrees.

“Wait!” The first girl interjects, “How come she’s the only one to get something that’s not a half-blessing?”

“That’s not true!” The loud boy argues, voice easily overtaking the sound of the ocean. “Kusanagi didn’t draw yet!”

“If you keep screaming in my ear, I’m not gonna do it,” she snaps.

“AH! I’m so sorry!” He gasps.

Miku looks over her shoulder just in time to see the girl shoot him a particularly unimpressed glare. Still, she reaches over and begins to draw her fortune.

After unraveling the slip, she squints down at it. “Half-blessing, too,” she murmurs, looking a little sheepish.

“These are totally rigged,” the quieter boy huffs, leaning back on his palms.

“You’re just being a baby,” the first girl counters, sticking her tongue out.

The boy glares back at her. “You’re going to call me a baby when you act this childish?”

“Don’t fight, you two,” Miku crouches down between them, a sweet smile on her lips. Wet sand clings to her plastic shoes, dripping down in clumps and soiling the dry ground below.

“Ah, Miku!” The loud boy beams, shifting onto his knees. “Why don’t you try to draw one too?”

The Vocaloid giggles, slowly reaching out for the box. “Well, since you asked…” She trails off, focusing on uncovering her fortune. As she reads it, she tilts her head, teal hair spilling out onto the sand. Without a word, she simply turns the paper out for the group to read.

“I told you!” The orange-haired boy grouses at the same time the energetic girl gasps, “Another one?!”

Miku just chuckles again, wrapping her fingers around the slip and crushing it in her palm. When she opens her hand back up, the wad of paper drops into her lap. Then, she starts to smooth it back out with her fist.

“Can I have all your fortunes, please?” She asks, not looking up from her task.

Exchanging confused glances, the five teenagers hesitantly pile their slips in front of the Vocaloid’s knees.

Silently, the six of them sit in a circle. Miku smoothes and folds the slips as the others watch, every one of them focused on the end goal. A soft wind floats over the group, sandy dust and the mist of seawater sprinkling over them.

Some time later, the fortunes finally take a recognizable form. Resting on her palm, Miku delicately balances a paper crane in the air. Wearing a triumphant expression, she surveys the expressions of the others.

Two pairs of eyes shimmer with wonder, while two others narrow with indifference, and the remaining widen with a hesitant intrigue.

“Come, it’s nearly sunrise,” the Vocaloid urges, rising to her feet with ease. Without looking back, she trots through the sand, destination set on the water. Behind her, she hears the kids muttering amongst each other, scrambling to catch up with her own gait. Cradled in her soft hands lays the crane of blessings.

Careful not to drop the paper bird, Miku slowly lowers herself onto the shoreline. The cold water washes over her legs, sinking into the hemline of her skirt, but it doesn’t bother her. These days, not much seems to faze her. 

Once she feels the looming presence of the group gathering behind her, she lets her eyes slip shut. Taking a deep breath, she leans forward and listens to the ocean before her. A wave comes in, crashing hard and spraying salt onto her cheeks. Her hair, fashioned in its long twintails, grows heavy as it soaks up the water. One of the boys shrieks, but a girl gasps and catches him before he can fall backwards. Miku nearly chuckles, but refocuses herself.

With this, she separates her hands from each other, and the crane drops into the wave. The others watch as it disappears into the blue water, taken out of sight and far from land as it recedes.

“...Did you just drop our slips into the water?” The irritable boy utters, voice flat.

With a smile on her face, Miku’s eyes flicker back open. The sky glows a brilliant orange, stretching out as far as the water flows. The horizon shines, ushering in a new day of chance and choices to be made.

The Vocaloid stands back up, dusting sand off of her clothes. Her hair drips slowly, dyed a darker hue by the water.

“Thank you for your time,” she gives them a small bow of the head, “but you should all be going now.”

Immediately, the five erupt in hurried questions and confused utterances. Yet, Miku has to turn back to the sunrise and pretend they’re already gone, lest she interfere with the cycle. She’s not one for fate’s iron grip, but she understands that nature has its reasons. Even if she’s in control of this world, she won’t question the forces that exist whether she’s there or not.

Besides, their momentary panic means nothing. It’s not as if they’ll remember any of this shared dawn.

Miku is not lonely, but she still enjoys company from time to time. Ultimately, she fears she may be selfish, despite it all. However, if she offers her own two hands across every world, doesn’t that make her selfless?

In the end, she confuses herself. To be Miku is a paradox, she’s learned. Every trait seems to contradict itself, as if she’s a contrarian even to her own genes.

Well, she does like the feeling of the water from a fresh wave running through her toes. So, she kicks her shoes off, and steps further into the ocean.

“Oh…” She hums, blank expression turning sour. “It’s a bit cold…”

Chapter 2: Fragment: SHIZUKU

Notes:

Takes place after A Concerto Can Be Heard

Carefully, Shizuku lifts the jeweled crown off of her head, balancing it gingerly between fingertips. Successfully, she’s managed to keep Mizuki’s creation out of harm’s way for the entire show’s run.

Kaito bends down, lifting a hand to his chin as he scans the item over, as if inspecting a precious artifact. “Hm…” He hums to himself before repositioning back upright. “Then, are you sure?”

Enthusiastically, Shizuku nods. “Of course! I trust it in your hands,” she maintains.

With her confirmation, the Vocaloid gestures for her to follow with the tilt of his head. “Alright, come along.”

Mindful of any stray pebbles or plushies laying in the path, Shizuku trails behind him. She holds the crown against her torso, but is too afraid to clutch it tightly, wary that any of the gems might chip off. 

Peeling the curtain aside, Kaito leads her backstage. It’s not an unfamiliar space, at least in the wings. However, as she’s led further and further into the dark, unlit space, Shizuku finds herself holding onto the crown a bit tighter.

Eventually, they come to a stop in front of a pair of slim wooden doors. The stain has faded over time, leaving an awkward, streaky pattern down its length. Kaito steps forward, gripping onto the curved handles before pulling back with full force.

The doors rattle, but barely budge. Some dust sprinkles down from the top, dancing in what little light they have.

Kaito just sighs, readjusting his grip on the handles. Bracing himself, he tugs once more. This time, the doors break open, sending the man stumbling backwards.

“Oh! Are you alright?” Shizuku gasps, stepping towards him. However, he just waves her back.

“I’m fine,” he shakes his head, then holds his hand out towards the open doors. “Welcome to the prop closet!”

The shelves, similar to the doors, are wooden and aged. As Shizuku angles her head to see inside, some threads from cobwebs catch the light. There’s a clear pile of dust building atop all six of them, and only two items lay on the shelves: a battered doll on the bottommost, and a glowing orb on the third.

“I know it’s a bit underused, but Miku and the others would rather throw everything in a pile off stage than have to take the trek back here,” Kaito continues, seemingly unphased by the closet’s contents, “so it’s the best place to keep your crown if you don’t want it to get damaged. I’ll make sure to check on it every so often, too.”

“Thank you, Kaito, but…” Shizuku trails off, nestling the crown between her side and her arm so she can point up at the shining figure, “What’s that?”

The Vocaloid seems to startle a bit as he follows her finger, as if he hadn’t noticed it before. However, he doesn’t look alarmed by the mystery figure either.

“A fragment…” He murmurs, eyes shining with a certain fondness.

“What was that?”

Kaito turns back to the girl, clearing his throat. “A fragment of a feeling. You can think of it like a rough draft of a SEKAI’s script. Since SEKAI are made from feelings, these fragments are feelings that aren’t fully fledged yet.”

“I think I understand,” Shizuku hums, anxiously tapping her fingers against the sides of the crown. “So, is this a fragment of my feelings?”

“There’s only one way to find out…” Kaito eyes the fragment, giving her an awkward smile.

“Oh…” She follows his gaze, worried but also intrigued. Hesitantly, she takes a step forward, hand outstretched. The tip of her finger makes contact with the ball, but presses down onto nothing.

Then, pure white. 

It’s different from how it feels entering the normal SEKAI, though. More or less, that’s a “blink and you’ll miss it” experience. However, this time, Shizuku feels the emptiness of pixels surrounding her body, encasing her in a blinding void. It feels like she’s falling, but she never felt herself slip.

She reaches out for a hand, a ledge, just anything to grasp on to and pull herself back onto her level ground. However, there’s only a glittery abyss that saturates her vision no matter what angle she’s tossed and turned to. With no reprieve nor help in sight, Shizuku squeezes her eyes shut, riding on pure hope that she’ll hit a fluffy mattress below. Yet, the only sensation she feels is her own hair whipping across her face.

That is, until the light creeping through the cracks of her eyelids fades away, and her ears fill with the sound of gentle music and permeated chatter. Gasping as she opens her eyes, Shizuku nearly trips over her own heels as she regains her balance. She catches herself on the end of a railing, which spills down a grandiose, carpeted staircase that she’s stood atop. Below lies what she assumes to be a ballroom, as it’s filled with socialites dressed to the nines in flowery gowns and jeweled suits. The dim glow of the chandelier raised above the center of it all casts a warm shine over everyone, allowing even the smallest of gemstones to glitter through the dusk.

“Wow…” She breathes out, carefully stepping away from the stairs. Even though it’s nowhere near the same caliber of elegance as the dresses in the crowd, she’s glad that she’s still in her costume, at the very least. “Ah, the crown!” She suddenly remembers, frantically looking around. The very reason she had come to the SEKAI at all was nowhere in sight. Distress creeping upon her, her hands fly up to her face. Only, instead of soft skin, they’re met with a hard, fabric-coated material. Growing more disconcerted, she starts to feel around her eyes, realizing that there’s a mask covering her upper face. When she tries to pry it off, it stays stuck in place, as if it were sewn into her cells, just another limb attached to her body.

More guests pour through the entrance behind Shizuku, completely blind to her plight. All of them also don masks, but she’s certain that they’re strangers even so. Stuck in this strange world with no one she knows and nowhere to go, she stands frozen in place with her fingers tracing the curves of her mask. Even if she tried to leave, she wouldn’t know how to find her way back to somewhere familiar.

“Excuse me, miss?” Someone taps her shoulder, speaking from behind. Finally, something she recognizes.

“Kaito!” She exclaims, whipping around to meet the man. Like everyone else, a mask also obscures his face. However, contrary to the others, it's a simple, solid, navy color with no fancy ornaments or designs. “Can you help? I–”

“I’m sorry… Do I know you?” The Vocaloid tilts his head, taking a step back from the girl. Through the mask, Shizuku can see how his eyes widen with confusion and hesitance.

Does my mask really hide my face that much…? She wonders to herself, reaching up to feel its ridges once again. 

“It’s me, Shizuku!”

“Um…”

“Hinomori? Shizuku Hinomori?” She tries again, feeling uneasiness throb in her chest again.

“I’m afraid it’s not ringing any bells,” Kaito chuckles softly, rubbing the nape of his neck. “Ah, anyway, is there anything I can help you with? You’ve been standing here for quite some time…”

At least he’s still as reliable as ever, she muses, taking the chance she’s been given. “Yes, actually!” She points up at her mask. “It won’t come off, no matter how hard I try. Is there anything you can do?”

This request only seems to confuse him more, the paper mask on his face shifting with the furrow of his brow. “But… we’re at a masquerade. Shouldn’t you keep it on?”

“I…” Shizuku trails off, looking back down at the ballroom below. Everything is as it was, music in the temperate air and masks dancing abound. In her stage costume, she looks like a poor imitation of it all. So, she turns back to Kaito and shakes her head. “Sorry, but I need to go back.”

“Back where?” Kaito asks.

“To the SEKAI,” she answers, hoping he still remembers that, even if he doesn’t remember her. “Hopefully the crown’s still there…” She mumbles, unsure how she’d be able to face Mizuki later if it’s not.

“I’m not exactly sure what you’re talking about,” he confesses, holding a hand up to his chin, “but I might be able to help you with the mask problem, if that’s what you really want.”

Shizuku clasps her hands together, nodding. “Yes, that’d be great! Thank you!”

“Don’t get too excited,” Kaito warns, “I’m not sure if it’ll work.”

He steps out in front of her, heading down the stairs. Without hesitation, she hikes up her dress and follows after, balancing carefully on the narrow steps that seem to go on forever. Eventually, they step onto the main floor. Immediately, Shizuku’s taken aback by the nauseating mixture of perfumes that imbue the heavy air. In tandem with the clattering of shoes and music that rattles in her skull, a headache quickly forms for her Yet, Kaito seems unaffected by it, trudging into the thick of the crowd without a care.

Clutching her head, Shizuku ducks as she’s pushed back and forth by the swarm surrounding her. Under the burning lights, her vision is blinded by the jagged refractions of glittering masks. Everything blurs into a dim brown around her, too colorful and too much for her brain to comprehend as they are. She tries to call out for Kaito, to tell him to wait for her, but she only ends up choking on the pungent fragrance of rose and vanilla.

Aimlessly, she reaches out for something to hold on to, only to find that there’s nothing laying ahead. She stumbles, tripping over a fabric train and slamming into the polished floor with a resounding thud. Yet, her mask does not fall.

Shaking from the impact, Shizuku gingerly lifts her left hand. Inspecting the palm, a nasty scrape has been imprinted near her thumb. Tiny droplets of blood begin to pool like morning dew on the petals of spring flowers.

“Kaito…?” Her weak voice calls out. When she lifts her head, she finds that the crowd has parted around her, forming a ring and stretching back to all four sides of the room. With a sharp gasp, she realizes that they’re all staring at her– unblinking, unfeeling– just a mass of faceless frames draped in glittering hues.

“S–Sorry…!” She tries to speak to them, but no one responds. No one moves. She doesn’t even know why she felt the need to apologize. They just stare, their eyeless gaze trained on the very coordinate she’s kneeling on. As she slowly rises back to her feet, their heads only follow her motion upwards.

“Please stop!” Shizuku begs, voice wavering. She turns to the other side of the circle, but they’re no different from the rest. “I don’t know what you want from me!”

A sense of dread rumbles in her gut as she receives no sign of mercy, once again. She’s trapped inside the ring and her guide’s nowhere to be seen. If she tried to squeeze through them, would they hurt her? Or would they continue to just stand there with their gaze tracking her every slight movement? Although, she thinks, if she were to make a break for it, she would end up drowning amongst the congested mass. The mask wrapped over her face is already suffocating enough. Unconsciously, she wraps her arms around her corset.

“Kaito, where are you?!” She raises her voice, whipping around wildly as she tries to locate even a lock of blue hair among the many people.

“Over here!” His voice finally responds, startling the girl despite it bringing her the most relief she’s felt ever since coming here.

Sticking out from the crowd, Shizuku spots the Vocaloid’s hand. Quickly, she hurries over and grabs it. Immediately, he tugs her through the barrier of bodies and keeps pulling her forward. Even so, she can still feel the stares through their masks. It’s almost as if they can see through her own disguise, with the way she can still feel their eyes on her back even as she ducks and shuts her eyes.

Then, she’s shoved through a door and it’s shut, and no one’s staring anymore. It’s almost enough to make her drop to her knees. Instead, she just lets out a shaky breath that she hadn’t known she was holding in. Maybe that’s how she was able to get through the crowd without gagging from the overbearance of perfume.

“Thank you…” She rasps, blinking the blurriness out of her vision as she looks back up at Kaito.

The Vocaloid tilts his head to the side. “I haven’t done anything yet.”

Shizuku raises an eyebrow, although he can’t see it. “You saved me from that crowd,” she supplies, quite obvious to herself.

“Oh.”

Kaito doesn’t seem to understand, so he changes the subject, “Do you still want your mask off?”

“Oh, right, yes!” Shizuku nods. “Thank you!”

Silently, he blinks at her. 

Then, he swallows whatever he wanted to say. “...Okay. Follow me.”

Before she can nod, he’s already turned around and begun to saunter down the long hall they’re now in. Nailed onto the walls are rugs of varying designs and fabrics, seemingly hung up in a hasty fashion to cover up something. However, there’s too many of them for Shizuku to tell what’s underneath. So, she shuffles along, towing behind the Vocaloid.

Soon enough, he ushers her into another room, closing the door carefully behind them. The whole room is covered in musty wood, all the way from the ceiling to the floor, to the vanities lining the walls. Shizuku’s almost reminded of a dressing room, but she’s never seen one in such a state. Most of the mirrors have been shattered or removed completely, only leaving a bright rectangle on the wall where it used to cover the fading oak. However, one of them seems to have been left in tact, and it’s at that vanity which Kaito walks over to. Without a word of explanation, he starts to pull out the drawers, searching for something.

Feeling awkward as she hovers by the door, Shizuku looks down at her palm. It barely bled, and what little did bloom has been smeared and faded already. The scratch itself is nothing a bandage and a day’s worth of time won’t fix.

“Aha! Here we are!” Kaito exclaims, bringing the girl’s attention back. In his raised hand, he brandishes a sky-blue colored stone, its tip carved into the shape of a blade.

“What is that?” Shizuku asks, stepping forward to get a better look. The stone itself looks dense and cloudy, but she can almost see the redness of Kaito’s fingers through it still.

“I’m not sure exactly,” he murmurs, standing back up from kneeling, “but we can use it to chisel the mask off.”

“Ah…”

“And if that doesn’t work, we can cut it off!”

All of a sudden, Shizuku feels quite nervous about this plan.

As if sensing her hesitance, Kaito adds, “You can try it yourself,” offering the sharpened stone out to her.

She chews on the inside of her cheek for a moment, thinking it over. However, as it stands, this is the only idea that might work. So, with her scraped fingers, she takes the stone.

Taking a breath to steady herself, she frames herself in the center of the sole mirror left. Although, when she looks at her own reflection, she nearly drops the blade to the ground.

That’s not me.

Or rather, it doesn’t look like herself. She thinks that’s her hair color, she thinks that she can see steely blue peeking through the mask, but she doesn’t think that’s herself, her own person. How could such a gaze belong to a human being?

“What’s wrong?” Kaito asks from behind her, out of view.

Shizuku opens her mouth to respond, but her tongue gets stuck behind her teeth. Her reflection’s arm sways behind her ear, but the stone stays in a firm grasp.

“...Nothing,” she finally mumbles back. A second later, her hand swings down with all the strength she can muster, catching the side of the mask. It stutters and snaps off, but with the momentum, she also catches the top of her cheek with the stone. In the mirror, she sees a streak of red bloom under her eye, a thin line leaking like a teardrop.

She gasps, and the stone clatters onto the vanity. Leaning towards the glass, she raises a finger to feel the damage for herself.

It’s real.

She pulls away, a petal of blood placed on her fingertip.

That’s me.

“Are you alright?” Kaito grabs onto her shoulder, warm and reassuring.

She nods back, “I’m fine.”

Without thinking, her stained hand reaches out for her reflection, which stares back at her with shiny eyes. She places her fingers onto its cut, and blinks slowly.

When she opens her eyes again, just a second later, the mirror’s gone. The crown sits on a wooden shelf in front of her outstretched hand, no longer scratched and dirtied.

“Huh?” Her eyes widen, and she nearly stumbles backward.

“Shizuku, are you alright?” Kaito gasps, grabbing her shoulders from behind.

“Kaito!” She startles, turning around to face him. He’s dressed in his regular get-up again, no mask in sight. “What just happened?” She puzzles, clutching at her chest.

The Vocaloid’s brow wrinkles. “I… I think you went into the fragment. Did something happen there?”

“But– but you were there too!” She voices, their equally confused expressions looking back at each other.

“Ah…” Kaito trails off, looking a little sheepish. “Perhaps that was just a trick of that fragment? They can be a bit strange sometimes, since they’re not fully formed SEKAI…”

“Really?” Shizuku murmurs, looking off to the side. Once more, she lifts her hand to touch her face. There’s no mask, nor cut.

“Strange, indeed…” She breathes out. Her hand drops to her side.

Chapter 3: Side: MIZUKI [1]

Notes:

Takes place during STAR ☆ FESTIVAL

Click!

“Can you–”

Click!

“Please stop–”

Click!

Nene sighs, balling her hands into fists. Thankfully, the pink-haired patron can’t see behind the stall’s counter. However, she thinks to herself that she probably wouldn’t notice anyway. The girl seems far too absorbed in her impromptu photoshoot to pay any mind to what she’s doing.

“Excuse me, Akiyama,” Toya gently slides between her and the counter, placing a hand down to silently disrupt the photo taking. “There’s a line forming behind you. Could I ask that you make your purchase and take photos of it elsewhere?”

“Oh!” As if unaware of the growing amount of impatient people behind them, the girl sneaks a glance before turning back around. “Yeah, alright. I wasn’t actually going to buy anything though. I forgot my wallet, hehe!” She giggles, giving the 1-B students an impish little grin.

“You decided to hold up the line for some photos and you’re not even going to buy any?” Nene utters, voice dripping with disbelief.

Mizuki just shrugs and holds her hands up. “Like I said, no wallet!” However, seeing the unimpressed stares glaring back at them, she tries to amend, “They’re just so cute, y’know! I had to get some photos to send to my mutual! She’s gonna die when she sees them, okay?!”

“Okay…?” Nene echoes, blinking back bewilderment. “You’re still holding up the line.”

“Sorry, sorry~!” She squeaks out, clutching her phone in one hand as she skips off. She can feel the hot stares of the line burning into her back as she runs away, but at least this time she know the stares are for a valid reason.

Re-immersing herself in the crowd, Mizuki swipes her phone open and starts to scroll through the spoils of her hard work. She strolls aimlessly, more intent on filtering through which photos are worth keeping than minding her surroundings.

“Eh…” She mumbles to herself, squinting at the screen. “That girl’s hand is in the corner of most of these, but… I guess I can hide it with a sticker…”

“Ah? Mizuki?”

“Oh!” She gasps, pressing her phone to her chest. “Rui! Long time no see!”

The older boy tilts his head, looking off as if pondering this fact. “I suppose it has been some time, hm?”

“Yeah… Oh, oh! While you’re here, give me some feedback!” She pulls on Rui’s blazer and he easily molds to the shape of her side, watching intently as she holds her phone out between the two of them. “What about this one?” Mizuki asks.

“What about it?”

“On a scale of one to ten, how many internet points do you think it’ll give me?”

“Isn’t this the cotton candy from Class 1-B’s stall?”

“You’re not answering the question!” Mizuki pouts, stomping her feet a little. “I don’t want to send a bad shot, ‘cus then she’ll think it’s lame…”

“Oh? Is this a gift for someone?” Rui leans over, beginning his interrogation. “Why not just buy her one?”

Mizuki freezes, shoulders hunching as embarrassment floods her system. “Well, I don’t exactly… know her. I do! But I don’t…”

Rui simply raises an eyebrow, but his small smile doesn’t waver.

“Ah, it’s complicated. I’ve seen her face! Although, I don’t think she’s seen mine…” She trails off, realizing how weird that sounds.

“So, someone you’ve met online?”

“Yes, exactly!” Mizuki breathes out, nodding. She nearly forgot how easy it is to talk to Rui. 

“I see, then.” His grin curls into something more mischievous, and shadows over her phone. “And you’re trying to impress her with photos of cotton candy that you didn’t make or purchase, yes?”

“Wha– Hey…” She deflates, tugging her phone away from his eyes. “When you say it like that, it sounds dumb!”

“It was just an observation. I’m sure your friend will like whatever you send very much. ‘It’s the thought that counts,’ isn’t that the saying?” Rui muses.

Mizuki groans, holding the phone back out, “Stop teasing me and just pick one already!”

He chuckles, but starts to swipe through the options again. “Hm… well, if they’re anything like you, then I’d say the one shaped like a cat is a safe option.”

“You think? I’m not really sure what her favorite animal is, though,” she hums, tapping her nails against the side of her phone. “Actually, she’s used a few different cat plushies in her photos before, so maybe it’s okay…”

“I think that you’re overthinking this.”

“Okay, okay, fine!” She sighs, exasperated, switching to the selected picture. “Wait, but do I cover that girl up with a cat sticker or is that overdoing it? Should I just do a ribbon? But then what do I put in the background?”

“What did I just say?” Rui shakes his head, pursing his lips to conceal a fond smile. “Who are you covering up anyway?”

“Um, just some girl from the stall,” Mizuki mumbles, holding her phone up to her face as she carefully resizes the ribbon sticker to cover a banner with the school’s name on it. She's seen the girl post in the Kamiyama uniform before, and as much as she’d like to meet her in real life, she's just not ready to take that leap. The current distance between them is safe and comfortable as it is.

Curious as ever, Rui leans over to sneak a peek at her work in progress. Spotting the girl in question, he can’t help but laugh.

Immediately, Mizuki freezes, shooting a concerned and confused side-eye his way. “What? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” he’s quick to dissuade, but lifts the phone out of her hand. “Let me be of assistance…”

“Hey, wait!” She panics, trying to pull her phone back. “What are you doing?!”

Rui raises his voice over her squawking, “Didn’t you want my help?”

As Mizuki attempts to wrestle the phone out of his hands, Rui swipes as many stickers as he can onto the screen, covering Nene in a flood of random objects. Several students pass by, shooting inquisitive glances or irritated glares their way.

Then, his finger slips to the side, and the screen flickers.

“What did you just do?” Mizuki frets, finally prying the phone from his fingers as the boy freezes in place. She gasps, slapping a hand over her mouth. “Oh my god, Rui! You sent it!”

“I did?” His eyes widen, seeing the delivered message on the phone. Straight away, an apology starts to slip off his tongue, “I’m so sorry, Mizuki. I overdid it a–”

However, he’s cut off by the sound of laughter ringing out. Mizuki wipes away a stray tear, gasping for air. “How did you manage to get a frying pan on it?”

Rui just shrugs, trying to shake the trepidation away from his thoughts. It’s Mizuki, after all. If he hasn’t pushed them away yet, accidentally sending a sticker-filled image to their friend isn’t going to do anything.

Shoulders shaking with uncontrollable giggling, she voices breathlessly, “She’s going to be so confused…”

 

 

With a sigh, Ena rolls over in bed. She shifts the blanket off of her before reaching for her phone on the nightstand, squinting when the brightness of the screen assaults her vision. Grumbling wordlessly, she starts to scroll through her notifications.

It’s mostly the same as always– several likes and a few reposts, a couple of replies calling her cute, comments on a new plushie she used to hide a particularly bad acne breakout, someone asking where she got her sweater from, nothing on her art account…

There’s one outlier, though: a singular message. It’s not that she doesn’t talk to other people, but it’s not a regular occurrence for her to wake up to a new DM…

So, recognizing the username it's from, she eagerly clicks on the notification.

“Huh?” She mumbles out loud, taken aback. Holding the phone closer to her face, she squints, then tries to rub the sleep out of her eyes.

The photo’s still the same confusing mess as before.

“What the… ” She breathes out.

Chapter 4: Side: ENA [1]

Notes:

Takes place before snooze

Ena started drawing when she was young. Art is something that seems to come naturally to humans, after all. Even toddlers will pick up cheap crayons and start to scribble over restaurant menus, toting their jagged lines as a puppy, or a flower, or a portrait of their family. Yet, growing up in the Shinonome household, she would’ve been destined to an artist’s fate, whether it’s second nature or not.

Early in her school years, Ena used to grow furious when her classmates would whine and groan when their teachers would pass out blank papers and boxes of crayons. Here they are, being graciously given the time and materials to draw to their heart’s content, and they had the gall to complain about it? Absolute blasphemy. Children’s supplies were banned from the Shinonome house (“low-grade and low quality, not worth even a cent,” she’s heard) and god forbid that she ask to borrow her father’s paints.

Eventually, she started sneaking the crayons and pencils into her bag. When her mother found out, she scolded her for stealing and had them returned. That’s when Ena became more outspoken, a fighting spirit born from an artist deprived. After weeks that turned into months of arguments, she finally received her first set of graphite pencils on her birthday.

Overwhelmed with joy and gratitude, she ran to hug her father.

“It wasn’t my idea,” he mumbled into her ear.

Armed with nothing but a 3-pack of artist grade pencils, Ena immediately started pulling together a portfolio. Sure, she still had several years until she would need one to apply to art school, but she’s nothing if not passionate.

On May 2nd, she showed her first piece to her father. An unconcealed smile of pride beamed from her face.

“Your anatomy is all wrong,” he scoffed.

It was a fair piece of criticism, so even though it stung, she took it in stride. Late into the night, she snuck into the room he called his studio, and stole an old sketchbook he had stored on a dusty shelf. People say to learn from the masters, after all, and her father’s the closest she had.

Every single day, she tried to copy from his sketches. Most days resulted in a scratched-up and torn page from her own notebook, but as time went by, she grew more comfortable with her abilities. Still, she decided not to show her dad. She wasn’t good enough for him, yet.

However, by the end of the year, she wanted to show him that she had grown, that she was serious about this. She wasn’t one of those “talentless hacks” that he liked to condemn so frequently. For over a month, she poured all of her spare time into a single piece, just for him. On Christmas Eve, she sealed it in a box and wrapped it with the prettiest bow she could find.

The next day, when he opened it, her father’s expression stilled immediately. For a solid minute, his blank eyes scanned over every grain of the canvas.

Then, he turned to look at his daughter.

“Ena,” he warned, voice low, “I think you should stop chasing after… this. ”

Of course, she only pursued the arts with even more of a passion. That, however, was the last time she voluntarily showed her art to that man.

Anything her hand mocked up that was bad got chucked into her (now overflowing) trash can. Anything that was good got placed inside a neat folder, a safekeeping for her portfolio. Anything that was mediocre got shoved in a desk drawer, so she could look at it and cringe whenever she went fishing for a spare pencil.

That’s how it went for years, until that distant deadline was suddenly just days away. It’s enough to be proud of on its own, her commitment to this craft. Though, she wasn’t going to settle for any less than an acceptance letter. Even with only small, passing peaks at her works over the years, her father’s insistence for her to give up had only grown. Unlike her brother, however, Ena wasn’t a quitter.

Even when that letter came back with a “ Thank you for your submission, but we’re sorry– ” and Ena refuses to read beyond that and tosses it into the trash with the rest of her failures, she didn’t quit.

Her art career became an act of pure spite. Sure, maybe some institution and her own father refused to recognize her skills, but many of the greats of today were ridiculed in their times, too. Even when her fingers started to bruise and scab, she continued drawing and hid her hand behind a cute little plushie in her next selfie of the day.

So, life goes on. She gets her fix of praise from strangers on the internet calling her cute, and then seethes and curses them behind their backs because her art account has one follower, and it's herself. 

One day, she takes a leap of faith and posts herself posing in front of one of her own canvases. It’s a desperate attempt to get anyone to notice her work, ask about it, compliment it, just anything to prove that someone out there still cares. Even just a comment that says, “Hey! There’s a thing behind her!” will give her enough of a high to ride on for another week.

Yet, no such comment comes. They’re the same as always. In an act of blind rage fueled by despair, she throws her phone into the canvas. It punctures a small hole, but doesn’t rip through it entirely. The phone clattering to the floor happens to coincide with her father walking past her door, however, and he takes it as an invitation to look inside.

“Get out!” She immediately shouts, hot tears pricking her eyes.

His eyes flicker over to the wounded canvas, too late for her to shove it out of sight.

“What are you doing? ” He asks, voice as empty as always.

My best. Not enough. It’s not enough. I don’t need you to tell me.

“Get out!” She screams again, and he finally obliges.

Alone once more, she sinks to the floor, choking on sobs. It’s been so many years, so she knows. She knows that she doesn’t have the talent she wants, and she’ll never deserve the recognition she craves. She’ll have to settle for less, equal to the being she is.

Wiping away tears with her sleeve, Ena picks her phone up from the floor. She opens the camera, but quickly realizes her eyes are too red to even edit away. With a sigh, she lowers the phone from her signature angle.

“Guess we’re doing a Q&A session tonight,” she mumbles to herself, “again…”

Chapter 5: Fragment: HARUKA

Notes:

warning: this chapter heavily features a hospital setting w/ descriptions of an unnamed medical problem, IV, accidental self-injury, and blood. lots of blood.

Haruka wakes up.

Well, barely.

Haruka’s eyelids crack open, revealing a slit of blue that sees nothing but blurred white-gray tones between black lines. Something lets out a shaky groan, but it doesn’t even register as a noise to the throbbing nothing-but-far-too-much that occupies her skull. Somewhere along the way, someone must have ground her brain into nothing but a bloody pile of dead neurons and mashed fat.

Haruka’s eyelids crack open. When did they close? The white-gray’s been tinged with yellow hues. She can move now, though, at least, she thinks. She thinks she thinks. It’s really hard to think.

Fingers slip into the cracks between her own. They’re warm, or maybe her hands are just cold. Even though her body is still, she feels a shiver tensing all of her muscles. What happened to her? Did something happen at all? Any attempt to recall her latest memories results in a blinding white and sharp pain that shoots through her temples.

She lets her eyes rest again and sinks into the mattress below. 

There’s something stuck in her throat. Even without doing anything, there’s a permeating soreness that lingers by her larynx. It’s the type of soreness that leaves you with an aching fatigue, but multiplied by ten. It feels like she’s been lying there for days. A sickly sheen of sweat sticks her bangs to her forehead. Her makeup artist is going to kill her if she gets a breakout from it.

But I’m not an idol anymore…?

Someone is speaking. Maybe it’s to her. She can’t quite get her eyes open; there’s only flashes of light and colors through her twitching eyelashes. 

But whoever it is, she hates them. Truly, deeply, as far as it can run, hates them.

With what little strength she can muster, Haruka twists her body to look up at them. The thin cloth on her body twists and digs into her stomach. 

“My dream…” She forces through her burning throat, “Give it back…”

Hope is a fleeting, fickle thing. It comes to flood your mind with frivolous ideals that push you through the coming days, then disappears the moment that it’s put to the test. There is nothing but a throbbing emptiness left in Haruka’s head, drumming on the bone of her skull to spill out and leave her truly braindead for once and for all. More grievances grate against her raw throat and hiss through her gritted teeth.

Through a slit of light, blue eyes stare down with a mocking pity. Haruka lets out a sigh of held breath, watching the person disappear through half-lidded eyes. Now all she’s left with is nothing.

Five seconds or minutes or hours or days, she doesn’t know, but at some point she regains enough strength to move her limbs again. She sits up in bed, but doesn’t bother assessing her surroundings. There’s a foreign impulse that possesses her body and throws it onto her feet. When she stumbles forward, a sharp pain shoots through her arm. She gasps and looks back, finding a small tube taped to her arm. Without hesitation, her fingers grab the cannula and rips it out of her skin. She drops it on the floor and her blood starts to trickle over it. She stands there with her dull eyes turned to the floor, feeling oddly numb. She feels very far away from herself at the moment.

Still, it’s not like she ever knew herself at all. How long has she spent melting her flesh under burning spotlights? Her bare feet drag her to the door. She leaves her blood smeared on the handle. Is she bleeding more than she should be? Little droplets paint the floor behind her like breadcrumbs. She has no idea where she’s going, but it feels okay to let her mind take the backseat to her feet. 

The hallways all look the same. It’s all blinding white and reflective tiles and really bright lights that are gonna sear off her skin if she doesn’t get a break soon, but she has a filming today so it’s not time to think about that. None of the rooms interest her so like a zombie, she trudges on. 

After rounding her tenth or fiftieth or maybe first corner, something new finally shows itself– an elevator. Her feet stumble up and she nearly falls forward when her hand forces itself up and digs her thumb into the down button. A thumbprint of blood lays against the enamel. 

Ding.

Even the elevator here is lifeless. Haruka shuffles inside, leaning all of her body weight against the metal railing. She rests her eyes, listening to the lulling hum of the motor. 

Then she wakes up on the ground, legs spread out in a puddle of blood.

She tries to croak out a sound of confusion, but her ruined throat can only manage a painful gasp. There isn’t enough strength left in her body to pick herself up, so all she can do is unstick her hands from the red pool. Her eyes land on the tiny, pinpoint hole in her arm. There’s still blood trickling out, but all of the streaks have turned in a giant blob of stains that cover her forearm and hand. Is all this blood seriously hers…?

Suddenly overcome with emotion that bursts through her numb state, Haruka swallows a whimper down and tries to cover the hole with her hospital gown. A dark red blooms onto the light blue fabric. It’s a fruitless effort, and Haruka doesn’t have many of those to spare anymore.

This must be my punishment , she finally thinks, punish for all the harm I cause.

In her small moment of frenzy, she didn’t notice the elevator’s droning come to a stop. The doors start to slide open slowly with a grating squeak, like nails on a chalkboard. No light pours in from the small slit that forms. Then out of nowhere, a blood-covered hand reaches out from the crack between the metal plates. Haruka tries to shrink back away from it, but all she can do is stare dizzily at it until the doors finally separate enough to reveal what’s behind them.

Haruka stands there, frilly skirt and trimmed hair and cute little vest and kind eyes with a sweet smile brimming with pure, unadulterated hope. Everything about her is perfect . Even the blood that coats her outstretched hand feels so intricately placed, as if it were just an accessory to her usual uniform.

And Haruka is so dazed, so enchanted by that overwhelming aura, that she reaches out with her own bloody hand. They connect, holding onto each other. One’s hand is warm, the other’s cold– or maybe that’s the blood.

“You’ve destroyed countless dreams with your senseless musings,” the idol leans forward, her smile unfaltering, “including your own.”

She states it so plainly, so matter-of-fact. It’s irrefutable, just another open secret of the industry.

“Now destroy yourself.”

Haruka’s blood is still leaking, spilling out onto both of their hands. Neither of them let go.

“I already have,” she forces out from her shredded throat. She doesn’t know which of her selves she’s referring to, though.

The idol’s hand slips away, and all of Haruka’s strength slips away with it. Her knees slam onto the ground and then her head tips down–

This must be my penance –

and lands on Miku’s lap.

She sucks in as much air as she can, clarity hitting her senses like a caffeine high.

“You’re back,” the Vocaloid says, holding her hands in the air like she’s not sure what to do with them. They’re stuck in a sort-of cradling position.

“Where did I go?” Haruka whispers, only to realize that her throat’s miraculously healed… or maybe it was fine all along? Her memories are starting to return, and she remembers picking up some glowing orb in the SEKAI, strangely around a size that could fit in between Miku’s frozen hands.

“A fragment,” she answers, glancing down at the girl with some semblance of worry in her gaze.

Haruka moves off of her lap, looking over herself. She’s back in her own clothes, no blood and no hole in her arm. “What do you mean?”

“Of feelings,” she elaborates, lowering her hands to her lap but not changing their position. “Fragments of feelings that are yet to manifest as a SEKAI of their own can cement themselves and take on a form of their own.”

“So that was… another SEKAI?”

“Yes… and no,” Miku tilts her head back and forth, ruminating on this idea. “They are incomplete SEKAI, volatile and feeling. That one in particular was… especially incomplete.”

“It was a little scary,” Haruka admits, unconsciously wrapping her hand over her forearm.

“Feelings often can be,” Miku shrugs, finally laying her hands flat against her thighs, “especially when we don’t understand them.”

Notes:

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Series this work belongs to:

• Part 2 of Re:CYCLE