Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

THE BEGINNING:

LOVE REACHES FORWARD.

^{I know how this is going to end. So do you.
Let’s linger on the precipice of this happiness.
Let’s enjoy this fleeting sunset.
We’ll worry about the dusk when it arrives, okay?}

Hiiragi Shinoa first meets Sanguu Mitsuba on her ninth birthday, also known as the first anniversary of the apocalypse, so clearly everyone has better things to focus on.

The Japanese Imperial Demon Army is hosting a vigil to commemorate at the old high school, one of the few structures that gets to keep its original function after the army finished its necessary restructuring of the city.

Well. Necessary, according to her father.

The syllables have always felt strange on Shinoa’s mouth. Father.

A soft beginning, followed by a vowel, then a strong ending. Symbolic; mirroring the role fathers are meant to represent. A strong figure to lead the family, with a soft side to remind his children the doors of home would always be open to them, should they ever want to return to their parents’ loving arms.

There is nothing soft about Tenri Hiiragi, though. There’s just… Strength. Power. The ther in father.  

Anyways. That’s that.

She didn’t even plan on attending. But then she looked out of her apartment window and saw crowds of people gathering towards the high school’s main soccer field, and some strange part of her compelled her feet to swing forward.

So here she is, standing behind a tree while everyone else is gathered in the middle of the field. Her family’s occupying the podium at front; she sees Kureto, her oldest brother, giving a speech about the progress they’ve made in restoring parts of Japan, and there’s Tenri, towering behind him like a statue. On the side of the small podium stands Seishiro, sulking and neglected as always.

If anyone in the crowd notices that both the daughters of the Hiiragi bloodline are missing, they say nothing. They probably think they’d get executed if they did.

Shinoa almost giggles at the thought.

“Psst,” comes a voice from the bushes behind her.

She turns. There, squatting amidst the foliage, is a blonde girl with twintails who looks to be about her age.

She raises an eyebrow. “What are you doing over there? You look dumb.”

The girl frowns. Her frown is cute, but Shinoa’s already called the girl stupid, and there’s no taking back her words. “I’m hiding,” the girl answers, affronted. “And it’s pretty bold of you to call me stupid when you’re obviously hiding, too.”

“Who told you I’m hiding?”

“Why else would you be standing behind a tree instead of in the field with everyone else?”

Shinoa tosses her hair like Mahiru taught her all those years ago. “Well, I’m very small and adorable, as you can see. If I stand with everyone else, I’ll get squished.”

“I could squish you right now.” To demonstrate, the girl stretches out her hand and squints her eyes—a deep, rich purple—then presses two fingers together. From her perspective, Shinoa must look minuscule, a bug the other girl is crushing between her fingers.

“I’m sooo scared, I’m trembling right now. Look,” she wobbles her knees on cue, the motion cartoonish and exaggerated as she swoons against the tree like a damsel. “Imagine how angry my father would get if he finds out I died because I got squished by some dumb-looking blondie.”

The girl blinks. “Who’s your father?”

Shinoa points to the podium.

“You’re a Hiiragi?” Blondie gasps. She says the name like a curse and a blessing, which, fair. “But I thought—” she pauses, her eyes beady, assessing the situation in front of her like a soldier considering a threat. “You’re Shinoa.”

“Mm-hm,” Shinoa simpers, nodding. “What’s with that stupid look on your face?” She steps forward, twirling around the girl, landing a sudden poke to her nose. “Am I a lot cuter than you expected?”

“No,” Blondie says bluntly. “You’re a lot uglier, actually. Your sister was very pretty.”

The mention of Mahiru stings, but she’s more than used to it. She’s lived under her older sister’s shadow from the moment she drew her first breath, and it’s not like she expected things to change just because Mahiru died. It’s fine. She’s fine.

“Well,” Shinoa says, “She’s dead now, which means the title of ‘cutest Hiiragi girl’ has been formally passed on to me. That’s how inheritance works, you see.”

Guilt flashes across the girl’s features. She’s clearly embarrassed. Shinoa searches for a sign of fear, an anxiety at having upset a member of the Hiiragi family, but she finds nothing; the girl purely feels terrible on account of having hurt her as a person. “I forgot about that,” she mumbles, catching Shinoa’s wrist and scooting closer. “I’m sorry.”

Shinoa waves a dismissive hand. “You can apologise by telling me your name.”

The girl blinks again. Her lashes are dark and heavy, like the models in Mahiru’s fashion magazines. “You don’t know me? Our families are close.”

“You didn’t know me, at first,” she reminds. “It’s only fair if I don’t know you.”

The girl gestures to her blonde hair, as if that’s supposed to mean anything. “Blonde hair, purple eyes,” she enunciates, irritated. “Doesn’t ring a bell?”

Shinoa shrugs. “I don’t talk to my family. If you’re friends with my father, I wouldn’t know.”

“What kind of person doesn’t talk to their family?”

“The kind who hides behind a tree instead of standing with them,” she stares.

The girl’s cheeks flush bright pink, finally understanding. “I’m Sanguu Mitsuba,” she says gruffly, extending a hand in greeting.

Shinoa takes it. A curious observation; her fingers fit perfectly around Mitsuba’s. 

“Sanguu Mitsuba,” Shinoa tests the syllables on her mouth. When she was younger, Mahiru informed her the easiest way to remember people’s names was to associate it with something. Mitsuba’s name sounds pleasant, almost cozy, like chocolate. Or the kotatsu Mahiru used to pull out when the weather in Japan transitioned to winter. Or Christmas lights, but no one celebrates Christmas anymore, just like how no one celebrates her birthday. “You’re very dumb.”

“Shinoa,” Mitsuba responds, her face bright; brighter than the surrounding snow, than the moon haunting the skyline. Shinoa notes that she’s not using the addition of Shinoa’s surname. “You’re very annoying.”

*

Shinoa doesn’t bump into Mitsuba again for three months.

They can’t see each other at school, since elementary schools have crumbled after the apocalypse. One such unfortunate side effect of the virus decimating the adult population was that there was no one left to look after the children who were trapped in the immediate aftermath. And so, the number of kids kidnapped by the vampires or killed by the Horsemen were… Difficult to process. In response to the devastating loss of humanity’s most vulnerable, the JIDA decided to close all grade schools and allocate most of their resources to the military. 

For Shinoa, though, it’s not a completely terrible thing. She’s never gotten along with her classmates at school anyway, and while she’s certainly not happy most of them have died, she can’t recall ever sustaining an actual conversation with someone her age. 

Until her ninth birthday, that is. Until a blonde girl with twintails squabbled with her under the shade of an oak tree.

She meets her again on Kureto’s twentieth birthday. A party’s thrown in his honour, and as is the norm for the eldest son’s coming of age, her father’s invited all the noble families with ties to the Hiiragi bloodline. Guests start arriving at six, but she has been hovering near the entrance of the lobby of the JIDA headquarters since five thirty, craning her head and looking for…

What? What is she looking for, precisely? 

Guren, she suggests, then snorts. They’ve barely spoken since… Well. Since everything. Still, she wonders how he’s doing, if his name is on the guest list.

You sick bastard, she remembers Guren shouting when Kureto had threatened to have her raped.

Shinya, she distracts herself. Mahiru’s ex-fiance has always been sweet to her. After the annulment of their engagement, he’s carved an apartment for himself miles from the headquarters, and Shinoa can’t blame him.

Shinoa finds the answer to her question when a small group of blondes filter into her periphery view. She knows immediately they’re the Sanguus, and when she looks for the shortest head, sure enough, there she is; Mitsuba, clinging to the arm of an older girl who bears a striking resemblance to her. 

She has a sister like me, Shinoa thinks. 

Mitsuba seems to have felt her stare; she turns around and meets Shinoa’s eyes with an expression that looks like half surprise, half indignation.

Shinoa wonders if this is going to become a running theme between them; birthdays and chance encounters.

The best thing about being nine years old in a party meant for adults is that most of the time, people don’t notice you until you give them a reason to. At most, you’re a charity case; a chance for someone older than you to show their goodwill by gifting you a snack. When Shinoa factors in her position as the family’s ghost, it makes it all the more easier for her to slip away anytime she pleases. She crosses the crowd of people and tiptoes all the way to Mitsuba. The other girl does the same; she slips out of her sister’s grasp to reunite with Shinoa in the middle.

Mitsuba asks, “What—”

“—Are you doing here?” Shinoa completes. Together, they huddle in the corner of the lobby, hidden behind a table of finger foods. 

Mitsuba looks back at her family. Once again, Shinoa’s theory about the invisibility of nine-year-olds is proven; they haven’t noticed her absence. 

“My family made me tag along,” she scowls. “I don’t even know whose birthday it is.”

“It’s my brother’s,” Shinoa snickers.

“Oh,” Mitsuba scratches the back of her neck. “Sorry.” 

“What are you sorry for?” Shinoa chides. “Other than your dress, that is.”

Just like their last encounter, Mitsuba’s face flushes, but this time, it’s an angry red instead of the soft pinks of embarrassment. “What’s wrong with my dress?” She screeches, her voice shrill. Some guests look her way, but their attentions become quickly distracted once they assume—correctly—that it’s nothing more than a little girl throwing a temper tantrum.

“It’s not your color,” Shinoa sneers, and she’s telling the truth. Mahiru’s stressed the importance of dressing well for girls of their social status, and from the moment she’s been able to crawl, her older sister’s drilled in the extensive knowledge of styling and color-coordination. 

“Who cares if it’s not my color?” Mitsuba huffs, stomping her feet. “I look good in it, and that’s all that matters.” 

“If you want to be stubborn about your horrible fashion sense, I guess that’s not my problem,” Shinoa giggles. “I just think it’s embarrassing to come to an event for such an important person dressed like that. Don’t get me wrong,” she makes a dramatic show of turning the other way, showing off the smooth silk fabric of her midnight blue dress, “Everyone’s fine with it now, since we’re just little girls, but even someone as immature as you is bound to grow up eventually. And when you do…” She gives the other girl an overall look, then mimes a scandalised expression.

“I knew I was right about you being annoying,” Mitsuba says bitterly. 

“You wouldn’t be the first person to say that about me,” Shinoa waves her fingers.

“Your gown’s not all that, too, y’know.”

“I know,” she nods solemnly, almost sympathetic. “I had a feeling some eggheaded girl was going to show up underdressed today. I picked my most boring outfit so she wouldn’t feel too embarrassed.”

“You’re such a—” in a grand show of elegance, Mitsuba reaches forward and pulls her hair.

“Owww,” Shinoa laments, faking tears in the corner of her eyes. She pouts, “That hurts.”

Mitsuba’s look of guilt appears for the second time since they’ve met, and it’s all so predictable. Mahiru used to say there’s something about a crying Hiiragi girl that brings the people to their knees, and it’s nice to know her older sister’s right, even in death. “I didn’t mean it,” she splutters, crossing the gap between them and placing her hand on Shinoa’s shoulder. “Are you—are you okay—”

Shinoa chooses that moment to retaliate, sneaking her hand under the cover of their bodies and pulling Mitsuba’s twintails. She screams, and that attracts the attention of the whole lobby.

Across the room, Mitsuba’s sister frowns, eyes downcast in embarrassment.

“Wimp,” Shinoa mouths, inaudible. 

Just like before, everyone’s focus is quick to disperse, probably distracted by the anticipation of waiting for her father and oldest brother to make their entrance. The fact does little to ease Mitsuba’s humiliation, though; the girl’s practically morphed into a tomato, her cheeks fuming brilliant red, her fists clenched in unchecked rage. Tears pool around her eyes, and Shinoa almost feels bad for a second, until—

The back of Mahiru’s hand connects with her cheek. Shinoa topples over, knees forward, a fresh bruise forming on the side of her face.

“What were you doing?” Despite her actions, Mahiru’s always possessed a way of speaking that makes her seem soft, composed. Professional, she once overheard their father describe. A perfect princess sculpted from ice, prim and proper.

“I was feeding a stray,” six-year-old Shinoa answers, keeping her face blank.

Mahiru lurches forward again; this time, she smacks Shinoa’s head. It’s not the worst beating she’s faced. Shinoa suspects the reason why her sister’s restraining herself from breaking any bones is because she’s not crying, and Mahiru sees it fit to reward her progress. 

“Why?” 

“Because it looked like it was starving, and I felt bad,” she mumbles.

Mahiru sits down across from her on the floor. Shinoa holds back her sigh of relief, but she knows her lashings are over for the day. She feels her sister’s fingers—her touch gentle where it was violent only seconds ago—cradle her jaw, a comforting gesture. Mahiru’s always had such dainty fingers, and it’s moments like this when Shinoa remembers her sister’s only fourteen. 

“I’ve told you,” she sighs, “We can’t afford to be emotional.” She jabs her finger to Shinoa’s chest, “Even the slightest feeling of sympathy can be manipulated by the demon living inside you.”

“You do nice things, sometimes,” Shinoa argues. It’s true; among the noble circles of Japan, her sister’s regarded as a goddess. She greets everyone, helps the elderly cross the street, and never brags about her superior grades or prowess. There’s ads of her rescuing kittens and rallying to help the homeless, where she’s plastered on the prettiest smile Tokyo’s magazines have ever seen.

Mahiru pinches Shinoa’s cheek; gentle, affectionate. A big sister teasing their silly, stupid little sister. “You’re only six, so you probably won’t understand this right now, but I have to do it. Kureto and I… We’re the oldest. When there’s cameras, people expect us to act a certain way. It’s different for you, though,” her eyes darken, “You don’t have cameras on you. So when I see you act like that, I worry you’re being weak.”

“I’m not weak,” Shinoa reassures. The left side of her face still burns. 

“No, you’re not,” Mahiru agrees. “I’ll make sure of that.”

“You’re such a brat,” Mitsuba seethes, keeping her voice low. Shinoa thinks she’d think of a more offensive word if her vocabulary’s expanded. 

“I’m not the one who screamed just now,” Shinoa mocks.

“You’re—you—” she fumbles, arms flailing. “Are you always this annoying?”

Shinoa twirls her hair, “Only to people who are fun to annoy.”

“What the heck is that supposed to mean?” 

“It means you’re fun to annoy,” Shinoa says matter-of-factly, reaching for the finger foods arranged on the table—two sausages with toothpicks of grape—and handing one to Mitsuba. “Gosh, you’re so slow. It’s no wonder I’m the only person willing to talk to you here.”

“Hmph.” Mitsuba looks like she’s about to say something else, but the offering of a snack placates her, and she munches silently as she keeps her glare pinned on Shinoa. “Since you know so much about how to dress nice, why don’t you show me your other dresses? The ones you wanted to wear before you had a feeling you’d have to cover for me.”

Shinoa raises an eyebrow, amused. “You’re just looking for an excuse to get out of this party, aren’t you?”

Mitsuba hisses, “No, I’m not—”

“Relax,” Shinoa snickers. “I don’t want to stay either. Follow me.”

Without waiting for an answer, she leaves the corner of the room and slips through the crowd again. She hears the pattering of Mitsuba’s footsteps trailing behind her; soon, the other girl falls into step at her side.

“Are you sure we’re allowed to leave?” Mitsuba mutters, fingers grasping Shinoa’s arm.

“You’re the one who suggested it.”

“I wasn’t thinking.”

“Makes sense,” Shinoa concedes. “You look like someone who doesn’t do much of that.”

Mitsuba whacks the back of her neck, but it doesn’t hurt at all; Shinoa can tell she held back her momentum before her hand actually touched skin. Shinoa doesn’t have much experience with people restraining their blows against her, so it strikes an odd feeling in her chest. 

“You’re just mean for no reason,” Mitsuba scowls.

Shinoa sighs dramatically, as if she’s extending a great favor towards Mitsuba just by letting her tag along with Shinoa’s escapade. “If your family asks questions, you can just tell them you were feeling ill, and the Hiiragi girl escorted you someplace to rest.”

Mitsuba lets out a noise of frustration, but doesn’t whack Shinoa again. 

They’re making so much progress. 

They can’t walk out the front hall; one of Tenri’s soldiers ordered to guard the doors might stop them and ask them to remain inside for formality’s sake, even though no one genuinely cares about two little girls who have no business being in a formal party like this. Shinoa’s had a lifetime of snooping around, though, so she knows the best exits; she leads Mitsuba to the hall’s back entrance, away from the guests, and pushes the rickety old door behind the lobby’s staircase.

“What is this place?” Mitsuba scrunches her nose at the pungent smells of various foods being cooked in the headquarters’ kitchen. Resources have been dwindling ever since the vampires seized most of the country, but the army has no qualms on splurging exotic spices for the eldest Hiiragi son’s birthday.

Funny thing is, Shinoa’s not bitter about it. There’s nothing unfair about how no one remembers her birthday while everyone’s expected to remember Kureto’s, not when she knows the weight of the legacy Kureto has to shoulder. 

See? It’s not so bad, being the family ghost.

“You’ve never been to a kitchen before?” Shinoa tuts. “You must be such a princess at home.” 

“Stop assuming stuff about me,” Mitsuba retorts. 

The kitchen staff don’t notice—or rather, deliberately ignore—the two girls sneaking past the sinks and stoves, likely because they’re too busy yelling at each other to prep this dish and that. She grabs Mitsuba’s hand and drags her to the opposite end of the room, entering a pantry that leads to the back door of the headquarters. She opens the door; they inhale deep breaths of fresh air as the cold spring night greets them.

“I’ve never seen that area before,” Mitsuba remarks. “I’ve been to the headquarters thousands of times with my sister, but that’s the first I’ve ever been there.” 

“Some privileges are only for Hiiragis,” Shinoa says smugly.

“Yeah, right,” Mitsuba scoffs. “You said you barely talk to your family.”

“Doesn’t mean I’m not still part of them.” It’s a lighthearted, factual statement, but it feels like bile coming out of her throat. “Your sister wouldn’t have a reason to go to the kitchen, anyway, unless she’s changed her mind about being a JIDA soldier and wants to be a cook all of a sudden.”

They’ve started walking away from the headquarters, down a darkened road with a singular street lamp illuminating the cracked pavement. Shinoa knows better than to be scared of the shadows, though; the army’s invested no small amount in fortifying Shibuya’s walls, which means there’s no threat of vampires here. If danger lurks, it’s probably the old-fashioned kind; creepy men waiting for unsuspecting girls, but she isn’t particularly terrified of that, either.

“You know, if you hadn’t told me, I never would’ve guessed you’re a Hiiragi,” Mitsuba says suddenly.

“Again, you’re not the first to say that about me,” Shinoa grins. “Jeez, come up with something original, will you?”

Mitsuba shoves her shoulder. “I’m serious,” she goes on. “You’re not how I expected a Hiiragi to look like.” 

A part of her wants to cackle at that statement. It’s almost impossible for the Hiiragis to have a signature trait when most of them come from different mothers. After all, the only reason Guren recognised her was because of Mahiru’s silver-purple hair, a phenotype neither Kureto nor Seishiro inherited. 

She knows what Mitsuba means, though. She’d be stupid if she’s clueless.

Her family name has a kind of gravity to it. Unfortunately, that gravity tends to come with a sense of entitlement; Kureto feels entitled to power, Seishiro feels entitled to women’s bodies. It’s… Difficult to determine what her sister felt entitled to when she was alive, but others viewed her that way all the same.

Shinoa, on the other hand…

“I like defying people’s expectations,” she settles.

Mitsuba tilts her head. “How old are you?” She asks as they cross the street.

“Are you trying to get to know me, Mi-chan?” She tests the nickname, smirking.

Mitsuba’s reaction is instantaneous, her features twisting in both annoyance and embarrassment. “Don’t call me that,” she barks, “And as if. I’m just trying to figure out if you have an excuse to act so—so—childish.”

“I’m nine.”

“So am I,” Mitsuba pouts, like she’s not pleased they’re the same age. “I turn ten in July.”

“I turn ten in December.”

Something flickers in her eyes. “What date?”

Ah. Here it is.

“25th,” she says.

Shinoa braces herself for the inevitable. She’s observed people interact enough that she can predict what comes next; pity, certainly, at the world collapsing on her eighth birthday, at her most special day forever commemorated as a mournful event. Then awkwardness comes after, stretching into a heavy silence that’s almost impossible to break.

Yet Mitsuba catches her off-guard. “That means we met on your birthday?” She gasps, and she looks mildly horrified.

Shinoa blinks. “I guess.”

“And I didn’t wish you a happy birthday,” she whispers.

She’s… Confused, admittedly. “We just met that day,” Shinoa offers. 

“Yeah, but…” She looks down, lips pursed. Is she ashamed? “My sister told me it’s basic manners to wish someone happy birthday no matter how much you hate them, and manners gets you pretty far up the ranks.”

“You shouldn’t worry about that,” Shinoa dismisses, laughing. “You’re a Sanguu. You’ll move up the ranks anyway, even if you’re an egghead.”

Mitsuba puffs her cheeks. “I don’t want to move up the ranks just because of my last name. I want to be a decorated soldier because I’m actually good at what I do. I just want—I want to make my family proud, yeah, but I want people to see me for… Me.”

Shinoa considers. No one’s ever confided in her before. She had Mahiru’s trust, of course, but Mahiru never actually sat down and talked about what troubled her. Most of her problems revolved around Guren, and Mahiru always viewed her baby sister as someone who was too dumb to understand the intricacies of romance. 

But.

Shinoa does recognise the word want: to crave something you don’t have. And she knows that’s a very, very destructive thing.

“From my experience,” she says softly, “It’s not a good idea to want too many things.”

They’ve arrived at her apartment building.

The lady manning the receptionist desk waves as Shinoa as they walk past the door, and Shinoa waves back. There’s an initiative to cut down electricity until the army’s logistics team can figure out how to power more generators, so Shinoa and Mitsuba take the stairs, and it’s three flights up to her unit.

Her apartment’s never been particularly cozy. She doesn’t have a reason to make it so; in her eyes, it’s nothing more than a place to rest in-between training sessions. Ever since Guren visited her all those years ago, though, she’s made sure to keep a collection of necessary foodstuffs in her fridge.

If Mitsuba notices how sparse her place is, she doesn’t comment. Perhaps the foul-tempered egghead has her limits, too. 

She makes a beeline to her closet, and Mitsuba follows her wordlessly. When she opens her wardrobe, she bows with a dramatic flourish and says, “See? I have no shortage of things to wear. I was telling you the truth when I said I picked the most drab outfit so I could spare you from any further embarrassment.” 

As expected, Mitsuba doesn’t look too happy about it. “No one likes a girl who brags all the time,” she says, like the sore loser that she is.

Sadly, Shinoa’s triumph is short-lived, because then she thinks: now what?

She’s shown Mitsuba her extensive wardrobe collection. She’s rubbed her victory in the blonde’s face. There’s nothing left to do now that she’s proved herself right, and she doesn’t understand why the sudden realisation stirs an unpleasant feeling in her stomach. 

It would be a shame, she decides, to send Mitsuba home after she’s come here. Or worse, to send her back to the party; God, Mitsuba would probably smack her if she suggests it. You embarrassed me in front of everyone, and now you want me to go back? She can practically hear the other girl screech in her ear. 

Shinoa selects a dress—salmon pink, with modestly frilly sleeves—and hands it to her. “Try this one,” she suggests. “I don’t know if we’re the same size, since I’m so small and cute, but anything’s better than the mess you’re wearing right now.”

Mitsuba harrumphs, but clutches the dress anyway. “If you’re forcing me to wear this, I should get to force you to wear something, too.”

“I’m not forcing you, dummy,” Shinoa chides. “I’m saving you from a fashion disaster. Shouldn’t you at least thank me?”

“Whatever,” Mitsuba speaks loudly as if to drown Shinoa’s voice, rummaging through her closet. She picks a white dress, and—it’s an acceptable choice, actually.

Most of Shinoa’s clothes are handpicked by Mahiru. Before the vampires dismantled the global trade, her older sister developed a hobby of shopping. From the brightly-colored tank tops American girls wore to the luxury of French haute couture, Mahiru had no limits when it came to her preferences. She proclaimed she loved shopping because she liked looking pretty, but Shinoa’s always suspected the real reason she clung so fiercely to that hobby was because it made her feel like a normal girl.

When Mitsuba finishes wrangling into the dress, she gives an experimental twirl, the pink fabric flaring around her waist as she spins. Just as Shinoa predicted, the colour matches her perfectly, contrasting her blonde hair while complementing the purple of her eyes. It’s as she watches Mitsuba admire herself that she forgets she’s supposed to be putting on a gown, too, and a two-syllable word crosses her mind upon seeing a smile bloom on Mitsuba’s lips.

Pretty.

“Better,” Shinoa says. “Now you’re not so bad to look at.”

“Can’t you compliment me normally?” Mitsuba stomps her feet.

Shinoa discards her current dress and puts on the white one, then imitates Mitsuba’s twirl. She flips her hair, “How do I look?”

“Like a pastry,” Mitsuba says dryly.

“You expect me to compliment you, but you can’t even spare me a compliment,” Shinoa hums, fishing for another dress. 

She can’t see Mitsuba’s expression, but after several seconds, a murmur comes, “You look like a Korean idol my sister used to like.”

“Your sister from the party?” Shinoa pulls out a coral dress this time. It’s still in the realm of pink, so it should suit Mitsuba just fine. “She doesn’t strike me as a fan of idols. She doesn’t strike me as a fan of anything, honestly.”

“It was before the apocalypse,” Mitsuba surveys the new dress. “Before she joined the army and started taking things super seriously. She had posters in her room and everything. Anyway, I don’t think anyone can be a fan of anything anymore, since we’ve lost contact with other countries.” 

“My sister liked Japanese idols more than the Korean ones,” Shinoa replies. While she doesn’t enjoy socialising all that much, it was one of the skills Mahiru insisted on teaching her. She can still recall her sister’s words of wisdom; stay on topic, follow the other person’s lead, and exchange the same kind of information. “She likes those American movies, too. She’d drag me to the cinema just to watch them.”

“What kind of movies?”

“The ones about falling in love in high school.” She hops onto her bed, swinging her legs as Mitsuba tries on the next dress. “Usually there’s a girl who’s supposed to be a nerd, and she’s bullied by a lot of people, but I never understood it. The nerd girl’s never looked that different from the popular girl—that’s the villain in most of these movies.”

“Maybe it’s an American thing,” Mitsuba theorises. 

The coral dress looks even better on her than the salmon one. 

“You look like Marilyn Monroe,” Shinoa blurts before she can think. But Mitsuba compared her to a Korean idol before, so it seems fair to return her praise with a similar compliment. There’s nothing strange about that.

“Who’s that?”

“A movie star,” she answers. “I watched one of her movies with my sister once. She’s blonde, and she wears a lot of pink.” 

Mitsuba places her hands on her hips, pleased. “Is she pretty?”

The prettiest girl in all of Hollywood, says the back of the DVD slot Mahiru owned.

Shinoa scrunches her nose. “So and so,” she says, teasing. “My sister’s prettier.”

“Everyone knows that,” Mitsuba rolls her eyes. She dives into the closet and tosses a bright blue dress into Shinoa’s arms. “My sister told me every girl in school wanted to be like Mahiru. She’s—she was the dream girl,” Mitsuba corrects herself, looking sheepish, and Shinoa ignores the squeeze in her heart.

“Sounds like her.” Shinoa throws the dress over her head. It’s a nice blue, pastel, like the morning sky on a summer day. “She was our family’s pride and joy. Course, lot of good that did her in the end.”

Silence.

Shinoa mentally curses at herself. She hasn’t quite gotten the hang of jokes. She’s seen Mahiru crack them often, and sometimes they’re dark jokes, but people always laugh. She’s completely mastered the art of charming a crowd with just her words, no matter what she’s saying, and she’s had to learn that all by herself when she was younger than Shinoa. All Shinoa has to do is just observe and mimic, observe and mimic, but she still gets it wrong. 

“Sorry,” she manages.

“Don’t be,” Mitsuba quickly says, her voice an octave higher. “She was your sister. You could—you get to say whatever you want about her.”

Something about Mitsuba’s fumbling warms her skin, and it’s a peculiar sensation. She’ll have to look further into it; there’s a couple of books on bodily responses discarded in the old labs, and she doesn’t think the scientists would notice if she takes one.

They spend the rest of the night picking out dresses for each other, trying them on, and commenting on each other’s appearance. Neither of them ever say anything proper, of course, and compliments always come disguised under a heavy layer of insults, but Mitsuba doesn’t storm out until the party’s designated end schedule, so Shinoa braves herself to take a guess and assume she doesn’t hate it too much.

The experience is… Nice. They’re playing dress-up. It’s a very quintessentially girlish thing to do, the kind of activity that would appear on magazines about the hobbies of teenage girls. And that’s the thing; Shinoa is engaging in something that’s obscenely, disgustingly mundane, yet she finds herself enjoying every second of it.

She’s a Hiiragi child, born for grandeur and chaos, wielders of demonic energy—

But she’s here, standing in her bedroom with a girl her age, changing from dress to dress as if they have all the time in the world. 

When the clock on her bedside drawer nears 10 p.m.—Kureto’s party should be coming to a close soon—the two of them are sitting on the bed, their legs stretched, the fabrics of their gowns tangled and inexplicably intertwined.

“Shinoa?” There’s a certain way in which Mitsuba says her name. Shinoa’s not sure if she likes it, but there’s an air of uniqueness. The Shi sound always comes bold, as if she’s announcing it, and the Noa sound is dragged out, as if she’s savouring each syllable. 

“Hm?”

“Not that it matters anymore,” she says gruffly, “But, uh—happy birthday. Happy late birthday.”

Hidden under folds of satin, Shinoa scrunches her bedsheets. The last time anyone’s ever spoken those words to her had been—

“Happy birthday, Shinoa,” Mahiru bends down to kiss her seven-year-old sister’s forehead.

“Thanks,” Shinoa mumbles. 

The end of the world, she thinks, feels a little less lonely now. 

*

Whenever Shinoa enters the land of dreams, there’s a man standing in the corner of her vision.

There are days when she can barely see his outline, and there are days where he shows himself more clearly, but it doesn’t matter. Shinoa would recognise him blind, drunk, dead. 

The breadth of his ancient power unfurls around her very existence. He’s distinct; six wings protrude from his back, grand and luxurious, glorifying his already behemoth height of seven feet. A smaller pair of wings circles his head. Sometimes, he crosses them over his face, covering his eyes. 

This is not one of those times.

Tonight, as Shinoa steps into a realm she recognises as her own mind, Shikama Doji’s golden eyes stare at her, crinkling with a perverse imitation of human warmth.

Mi-chan has golden hair, she thinks absent-mindedly. But Mitsuba’s golden tresses are so different from Shikama’s eyes in every conceivable way; dynamic where he is static, brimming with life while he hovers over death. Shinoa’s death, specifically. It’s just a matter of time before the first of demons takes her life for his own.

The reminder is persistent, nagging, worsened by the feeling of Shikama’s energy crawling out of his body and creeping towards her. Every second she spends in his presence only adds to the nausea and disgust growing from the pit of her stomach, flooding her veins with rot and blooming inside the patch of flesh she recognises as her womb.

“The demon isn’t responding,” the scientist behind the glass pane shouts, frantically gesturing to his colleagues. A few more scientists—five of them, her four-year-old mind counts with pride—gather together, and she can see their silhouettes engaged in a heated debate over what to do next. “This is a failure. I told you, it won’t work.”

A different scientist shoves him aside and takes the lead. He grabs the intercom and speaks directly into the microphone, “Inject seven milligrams into her womb.”

The engineers manning the machines nod, and with a whir, the metallic limbs over her gurney begin moving again. They’ve got her strapped down as always, but even if she isn’t, she knows there’s no point in resisting. She simply closes her eyes and braces for the sensation, wondering where she’s going to be injected next; her arms, her legs, her abdomen.

The needle embeds itself in her stomach, only—it goes deeper. It cuts through layers of flesh, viscera, veins, as if it’s looking for something. The medical weapon digs into her like a drill, and that’s when she feels it; a burning sensation seizing the lower half of her body. She’s never screamed in past lab sessions, but this time, just this time, Shinoa tilts her head back and lets out a whimper.

This is the day she first discovers female bodies are different from male bodies. 

She supposes it’s only natural that her encounters with Shikama take her back to those days in the laboratory, the particularly awful ones where the scientists dissect a new organ of hers. He is the reason she’s a guinea pig, after all. 

“Shinoa,” Shikama calls. Like Mitsuba, he has a certain way of saying her name, and it sounds like chalkboard against nails. “Do you remember me?”

Shinoa hides her fear with a shrug. “You’re the fly lodged in my ear,” she jokes.

Shikama gives a good-natured laugh, as if he genuinely finds her funny. “You always did have the best sense of humour in your family,” he says. “Everyone praises your sister for being witty, but if only they’d pressed on and discovered the second Hiiragi girl hiding just behind the curtain.” 

“I’d rather stay hidden behind the curtain, actually.” 

“You won’t have that option for long.”

“I know. I’m making the best out of it while I still can.” He’s keeping a distance from her, and she hopes it stays that way. “And I do know who you are, by the way. It’d be weird if I didn’t—you were there when I was born.”

“You were so small back then,” he croons, playful. “You’re still small, even now. But you’ll grow bigger, soon. Wouldn’t you like to have a friend with you when you do?” He tilts his head, “It’s only a matter of time before those Hiiragi responsibilities catch up to you. I’ve heard they have a way of making people crack.”

The jab is as low as it is obvious, but Shinoa doesn’t rise to the provocation. 

“I’ve never been interested in friends,” she says. “Sorry.”

“No matter,” Shikama dismisses, unperturbed. “Another time, then.” 

*

Mitsuba knocks on her door three days after Kureto’s birthday.

When Shinoa opens the door, she sees the other girl holding a box of magazines, so she says the first thing that comes to mind: “Is this your secret dirty stash?”

She’s not even ten years old, but she’s aware of the things boys like to keep under their beds to entertain their growing urges. She reckons she knows more about sex than the average teenager does, actually; Mahiru gave her a lecture about arousal and desire, once, so Shinoa would know this was the kind of thing she should never allow to take over her mind. There are days when she wonders if she’s too young to know about this, but it’s not like it matters. The sooner she prepares, the better.

Mitsuba’s face turns red at her remark. “What’s that supposed to mean?” She asks the question like she seriously doesn’t understand what Shinoa’s talking about, but knows it’s nothing good.

“Never mind,” Shinoa grins. “You look stupid, waiting around with a box. Get in before someone mistakes you as a mailman.” 

Mitsuba sets the box on Shinoa’s poor excuse of a coffee table. The table sways under the pressure, rickety legs wobbling, but miraculously doesn’t crumble.

“The Korean idols I mentioned my sister likes,” Mitsuba declares, looking at Shinoa as if that’s supposed to mean something to her.

“Congratulations?”

Mitsuba’s scowl is worthy of a war painting. “You said your sister likes American movies,” she recounts. “Do you still keep them?”

Oh.

It occurs to Shinoa, then, that Mitsuba’s trying to strike a conversation. She’s trying to strike a conversation, because she’s trying to hang out with her. And she’s trying to hang out with her, because… 

Because, what?

Because they’re the only two kids who are of similar age in the circles they frequent, probably. Shinoa has long since memorised the families that are affiliated with the Hiiragi bloodline; the Jujos, the Sanguus, the Goshins, and long ago, the Ichinoses. She’s memorised the young daughters of each clan, and most of them are at least several years older than her. Mitsuba’s sudden visit is nothing more than a mark of loneliness, and since she’s made it clear she finds Shinoa irritating, she’d probably jump on opportunities to befriend other people if she had any. Unfortunately for her, her options are limited, so Shinoa will have to do.

“I have a few,” Shinoa answers. She runs to her room; Mitsuba follows. 

She’s just come home from a training session, so some of her clothes are still strewn all over her bedroom floor, and she sees Mitsuba grimace at her tardiness. Giggling, she pulls out a drawer full of DVDs from under her bed. She takes out titles her sister insisted were classics; Sixteen Candles, Legally Blonde, She’s All That, even though she doesn’t see the appeal in any of them. 

“Let’s watch that one,” Mitsuba points randomly. Shinoa stares at her selection; the cover of Clueless stares back, a pretty blonde girl making faces at the audience. 

Shinoa tosses the movie back. “Did you pick that one because she has the same hair as you?”

“No,” Mitsuba huffs, catching the DVD. “It just looks fun. And I like her outfit.”

“Too bad the vampires ransacked all our boutiques,” Shinoa laments. “What do you think they’re doing with all the human stuff they stole, anyway? Can’t imagine they’d have much interest in blazers and scarves.”

“Maybe they don’t have nice clothes of their own.” They’re in front of the TV now, wrangling the DVD into Shinoa’s outdated system. “How many hours do we have today?”

The JIDA’s only recently succeeded in bringing back satellite signals, and the usage is only being limited to several hours a day. “Three hours,” she says, remembering the most recent announcement, “Then everything goes static. But the movie you’ve picked is only an hour and a half.”

They sit down and watch the movie, and it’s the most awkward thing she’s ever done her entire life. At least with their impromptu dress-up session, she used the excuse of wanting to rescue Mitsuba from a fashion disaster, and everything that came after happened so fast. But right here, right now, it’s all deliberate; their eyes are fixated on the screen, watching the blonde girl from the DVD cover go down a flight of stairs in a luxurious house, and Shinoa has no clue how she’s supposed to act when she’s watching a movie with a friend. 

Friends.

Is that what they are?

Shinoa doesn’t think she has any friends. Mahiru didn’t like making friends—actual friends, instead of people who blindly worshipped her—and it seems unwise to try something her sister never did. Come to think of it, she doubts Kureto and Seishiro have real friends, either. 

“I bet she’s going to end up betraying Cher,” Mitsuba points at the transfer student on the screen. The subtitles are kind of blurry, what with the TV piecing together bits of satellite, but Shinoa’s pretty sure both of them have been drilled in English by private tutors since they were little, so they have a grasp of what’s going on. 

“It’s a high school movie,” Shinoa chides. “I doubt there’s any actual betraying. They’re not going to sell each other’s location to the vampires or anything.”

“My sister told me before the apocalypse, for teenagers, high school was like their whole world,” Mitsuba brags, clearly proud of her rare insight on the rich inner lives of teenage students. “So something small, even if it’s not costing lives, like—like—like, uh, dating a friend’s ex-boyfriend, was a big deal.”

“You must be living a pretty sad life if you’re willing to throw away your friend for an ex-boyfriend,” Shinoa points out, because that seems obvious to her.

“Well, no,” Mitsuba argues firmly, “Because that’s part of girl code. You can’t date your friend’s exes, you can’t—wait, what else, I swear my sister told me a bunch of stuff, let me remember…” 

It turns out, the transfer student does end up betraying Cher, albeit in such a shallow and ridiculous way that Shinoa doesn’t even consider it betrayal in the first place. It’s just so stupid that she can’t understand why Mahiru even liked these kind of movies. You’d think someone who dedicates—dedicated, Shinoa corrects herself—her life to changing the world would have more refined tastes in entertainment, but apparently her sister’s just as much of a lady as every other teenage girl is. 

They can take my body, but they can’t take my soul. That’s why, when I’m reborn, I can just be a normal girl.

They finish the movie, and afterwards, Mitsuba takes out the K-pop magazines she brought. They shift through the pages together, commenting on the various tacky outfits they come across and taking tabloid quizzes to determine which idol is most similar to them. The questions range from, What’s your blood type? to How do you prefer to spend a rainy day? Shinoa doesn’t believe she’s actually anything like her assigned idol—some crazy-haired singer from a girlgroup called Twenty-One—but she and Mitsuba fill out the questions with the seriousness of a seasoned politician, debating over each other’s answers as they uncap colourful markers and draw hearts and circles over the papers. 

She doesn’t know how this happened, but at some point, Shinoa says something annoying, and Mitsuba’s response is just… Begging for further provocation. That argument ends with the two girls using the markers to scratch each other’s faces, and by the time they’re sitting back up to observe the damage, their cheeks, jaws, and chins are covered in lines and doodles.

Shinoa can’t help it; she bursts out laughing. She’s drawn a rather unflattering shape on Mitsuba’s forehead, and since her markers are expensive, it probably won’t wash off for sometime.

Mitsuba, oblivious to her fate, laughs too. Or maybe she’s also drawn an unflattering shape on Shinoa’s forehead, and they’re both laughing because they think they’ve got the upper hand. Either way, they’re laughing until their ribs hurt, and then they’re doodling on each other again—on purpose, this time. Shinoa draws vines of flowers entwined around Mitsuba’s veins; Mitsuba draws a row of blue cygnets running down the length of Shinoa’s arm.

“So you think I’m going to grow up to be a beautiful swan?” Shinoa smirks. 

“No,” Mitsuba draws a frowning face. She digs the tip of the marker into Shinoa’s skin, probably to irk her, “You’re annoying and loud like baby swans.” 

Later, when Mitsuba leaves at night, Shinoa goes to her room. She sits on her bed and stares at the picture of her sister she keeps on her bedside table. It has always been there, ever since that December night when Shinoa lost everything. Mitsuba didn’t comment on it when she visited her apartment the first time, so it’s either she didn’t notice it, or she simply kept her mouth shut like she had about the other sad parts of Shinoa’s living space. 

“Nee-san,” she speaks into the air, “I’ve made a friend today. I don’t know if I’m making a good decision, because I don’t know if it’s something you would have called me weak for. But she’s not a starving puppy, so you don’t have to worry about that.”

She’s more like a rabid dog, if anything, Shinoa thinks, amused. 

Naturally, the photograph doesn’t respond. Through the wooden frame, the frozen image of her sister—fourteen years old, then—smiles at her, holding up a flower.

Shinoa waits. She doesn’t know what she is waiting for. Something, probably—or nothing. Her whole life has felt like a constant waiting for nothing.

After some consideration, she picks up the framed photograph and puts it in her drawer.

*

Since she befriended Mitsuba, months pass much faster than Shinoa’s used to.

Before, her days were filled with training, private tutoring sessions, and making the meager walk back to her unit where she’ll doze off the rest of her hours staring at the wall and occasionally rising from her bed to tend to her bathroom needs.

After that prissy blonde inserted herself into Shinoa’s life, however, her schedule has become much more packed. Where she used to eat only once a day, her mornings and noons are now spent getting dragged by Mitsuba to wait in-line for rations at the communal kitchen set up in the center of the city. Where she picked at dead skin in boredom as the sun set after training, her afternoons are now dedicated to watching movies and rummaging through even dumber tabloids. On days where she has no lessons scheduled, she even arranges sleepovers with Mitsuba, sometimes, the two of them huddling under the blanket as they share scary stories about ghosts in train stations and school bathrooms. 

They’ve started collecting every piece of fun they could get their hands on, too, just so they always have something new to try with each other; old board games and toys gathering dust in closed shops, contraband confiscated from expeditions outside the walls. They even make a game out of it; whoever brings something more interesting wins bragging rights. 

Now, Mitsuba’s turning eleven in three days, and Shinoa can’t wait to make fun of her for being old. She’s already taken a run at it several times, feigning alarm at the sight of silver strings in Mitsuba’s hair.

They’re waiting for breakfast again in the communal kitchen’s mess hall, and she’s got her arms looped around Mitsuba’s elbow, her chin resting on Mitsuba’s shoulder. She heard rumors from the cooks that this week’s breakfast would have more meat than last week’s, courtesy of a raid mission gone right, but it seems others received the same tip; the hall’s already crowded with bodies at six in the morning.

“There,” Shinoa points to the entrance, where a meek, brown-haired boy hesitantly surveys his surroundings. “That’s the boy I was telling you about. They rescued him in the last search mission.”

Mitsuba scowls, disapproving. “He looks like a coward.”

“The soldiers from the rescue squad said he watched his sister die in front of him,” Shinoa supplies. “He’s probably traumatised.”

“So what?” Mitsuba scoffs, unsympathetic. They’ve been keeping tabs on everyone their age including the children brought in by rescue teams, but so far, none of them have matched Mitsuba’s standards. “Your sister’s dead, too, but you’re not shaking for no reason and peeking around before you walk into a room.” She scrunches her nose, then, “Actually, you’d probably be way less annoying if you were. Never mind; that boy’s my new best friend now.” 

“You were calling him a coward just seconds ago,” Shinoa tuts. “If you can’t stick to your decisions, how are you ever going to be a squad leader one day, Mi-chan? At this rate, you’ll get your team members killed.”

Mitsuba shoves Shinoa off her shoulders, swatting her cheek. “I’m going to be the best squad leader there ever was,” she declares, puffing her chest with pride. “And I won’t have to worry about that kind of thing. I’m not going to have cowards like that guy on my team, anyway.” 

“With the way you act, I doubt anyone wants to be on your team,” Shinoa sneers. The line moves; they take a step forward.

“Just you wait. I’m going to climb the ranks, and I’ll have the most Horsemen kills out of anyone my age. Then everyone’s going to scramble to be part of my team.” She gives Shinoa a knowing look, “You know, I might consider letting you join, if you wise up and stop acting like a bitch.”

Ah, yes. In the past year, Mitsuba’s switched from calling Shinoa a brat to calling her a bitch. The joys of adolescence. 

“Let’s see,” Shinoa makes a show of considering, rubbing her chin. “Do I sacrifice my winning personality for a chance to join the most boring team in the army? Gosh, that is a tough decision. I might have to take this up with my superiors.” 

“You won’t be talking like this when I get my Cursed Gear,” Mitsuba grumbles, aiming a kick to Shinoa’s shin. “I’ll bash you in the head with it, then you’ll learn to shut up.”

Shinoa retaliates Mitsuba’s pathetic kick with a nudge to her ankle, and then they’re fumbling around for an embarrassing few seconds, trying to land a kick at the other’s feet. The line around them’s resorted to giving them dirty looks by the time both girls concede, and Shinoa laughs, leaning close, “You know who’s definitely never getting Cursed Gear, though?”

Upon Mitsuba’s questioning stare, Shinoa nods to the brown-haired boy still hovering at the entrance. The two of them burst into giggles. 

“Speaking of Cursed Gear,” Mitsuba takes the two cans of breakfast from the kitchen staff and hands one to Shinoa, “How come I’ve never seen you use yours, Shinoa? I know you have one—it’d be impossible if you didn’t.”

The rest of the sentence remains unspoken, but Shinoa hears it regardless: You’re a Hiiragi, after all.

So that’s the part she answers. “I told you,” she says, “I’m not close with my family.” 

“Yeah, but…” They make their way out of the mess hall to find a place to eat. That’s another habit of theirs; since there’s typically a good few hours between breakfast and Shinoa’s first training session, they like to explore the quieter parts of the city in search of places lost to time. “You’re still a Hiiragi no matter what. My sister told me noble families all arm their kids with Gear if they have access to it, and you definitely have access.”

That she does.

She remembers the day she first met Shikama. Remembers Guren jumping into her apartment and giving her the Cursed Gear in the form of a small key, remembers him forcing the key between her fingers. Remembers her own consciousness falling into the ether seconds after. 

In the perfect darkness, a shred of light forms.

Shinoa squints. In front of her stands the most beautiful man she’s ever seen. 

“Shinoa,” Shikama Doji greets, angelic glory unfolding before her. He curls his lips into a smile; coy, almost seductive. “I’ve missed you.” 

She hasn’t touched the Gear ever since. She carries it with her everywhere like any other soldier would, but she keeps it wrapped in a napkin. As they turn a corner and approach the staircase to an abandoned building that used to be a storage, the key sits in her pocket, untouched.

“I have Cursed Gear,” Shinoa finally says, feeling Mitsuba’s stare. “I just don’t want to use it yet, that’s all.”

They sit down on the steps. The city landscape stretches before them, a haphazard contrast of broken structures and shiny new skyscrapers. Everything’s organised in layers, with the JIDA headquarters standing at the very top, which means the closer you get to the walls bordering the capital, the more you’ll see unkempt buildings the army never bothered to repurpose.

“Is it because you think you can’t handle it?” Mitsuba asks quietly, a rare moment of sensitivity coming from someone so brash. They open the cans, and sure enough, there’s a good chunk of meat in it. “‘Cause you’re probably one of the few people our age who can.”

Shinoa smirks, digging into her morning meal. “Is that a compliment I hear from you, Mi-chan?”

Mitsuba’s cheeks pink. It’s so easy to make her blush, it’s almost laughable. “I’m just telling the truth,” she mutters, furiously jamming her plastic spoon down the gunk of food. “You and your siblings have been training every day since you were born, so it isn’t crazy to think you’d be better equipped for Cursed Gear than other people.” As she wolfs down the can, she pokes Shinoa’s forehead, “Whatever confidence issues you’ve got right now, you better cut it out. The army needs more people than ever if we’re going to take down the vampires.”

Shinoa can count on one hand the amount of times anyone has ever reassured her, and almost all those incidents involve her sister. Even if Mitsuba missed the mark on what’s actually troubling her, the effort itself is… Strangely heartwarming.

“It’s not confidence issues,” is the only thing Shinoa can think of saying. She bumps her side against Mitsuba’s, “Are you self-projecting?”

“I’m not self-projecting,” Mitsuba shoves her cheek. “You’re always assuming the worst of me.” 

“I haven’t seen anything that’s pushed me to assume otherwise.” 

A light enters Mitsuba’s eyes; a flicker of an idea. “Spar with me, then.”

Shinoa blinks. “What?”

“Spar with me,” Mitsuba repeats, determined. “This—it’s perfect. This is perfect. I’ve never seen you fight, you’ve never seen me fight, and this’ll be the perfect chance for us to test each other’s skills so we can decide if we’d work as a team.” 

Others would have found Mitsuba’s military fever irritating, but Shinoa just finds it confusing. She’s completely dedicated herself to the JIDA, and if they’re not talking about the movies they’ve watched or the outdated celebrity gossip in the tabloids they’ve collected, then Mitsuba’s usually delivering a passionate speech about how she wants to be the perfect soldier. 

“You’re insane, I think,” Shinoa deadpans.

“I’m not—listen,” Mitsuba grabs Shinoa’s arms and starts shaking her. “Come on. It’ll be fun.”

“We have very different ideas of fun.”

“We can teach each other new techniques,” Mitsuba offers.

Shinoa snorts. “Trust me, you have nothing to teach me.”

“You’re so—” Mitsuba inhales, taking a deep breath. “What’s so bad about sparring with me? You have no self-respect, so I know you don’t care about losing.” 

“Ouch,” Shinoa places a hand on her chest, feigning offense.

“So?” Mitsuba demands, shaking her again. “Are you going to spar with me?”

“You’re just looking for an excuse to beat me up, aren’t you?”

“Maybe.” She doesn’t even try to deny it, and that’s why Shinoa’s stuck with her for this long. “But that doesn’t matter. We should still spar with each other. If you—if you weigh the pros and cons, there’s so many pros we would get out from sparring with each other. I don’t understand why you’re so against it.”

Shinoa sighs, “I don’t understand why you’re so determined about it.”

The look on Mitsuba’s face reminds Shinoa of the most desperate street beggars, and it’s so difficult to restrain herself from making fun of Mitsuba when she’s acting this pathetic. What she says next catches Shinoa off-guard, though, “Do it for my birthday.”

Shinoa blinks. “You want me to spar with you as a birthday gift?”

Last year’s birthday, Shinoa made Mitsuba a birthday card, and it was more so out of courtesy than anything else. The whole time she was mixing and matching origami papers, she was constantly questioning herself why she was even doing this, if there was a point to gifting anything to anyone who wasn’t her sister. Then Mitsuba’s eyes brightened when Shinoa gave her the simple—and, honestly, kind of ugly—card, and that made her stomach feel warm, and she decided she liked that feeling. 

After that, when her own birthday came along, Mitsuba gave her a dress. Apparently, it was a prom gown stolen from the JIDA’s contraband stock, and Mitsuba had gone through the painstaking effort of stitching it down to Shinoa’s size and adding ribbons here and there. Having never received birthday gifts—or, indeed, having never even celebrated her birthday with anyone besides Mahiru, Shinoa wasn’t sure what to say except a quiet, star-struck, “Thank you.”

Now, Mitsuba’s asking her to consent to beating each other up for her birthday.

She’s the weirdest girl Shinoa’s ever met. Granted, Shinoa hasn’t met many girls, but she’s fairly certain Mitsuba would out-weird them all. 

“Please,” Mitsuba pleads, giving Shinoa another vigorous shake. At this rate, she’s going to become catatonic.

“You’re insane,” Shinoa says again. “You’re like, so weird, Mi-chan. I bet when we go to high school, no one’s going to want to befriend you because you’re so weird.”

“Good thing we have each other, since no one’s going to befriend you, either,” Mitsuba retorts. “You’re sparring with me. We’re sparring, and that’s final.”

“Okay.”

“We—huh?” It’s Mitsuba’s turn to blink. She obviously isn’t expecting Shinoa to agree so quickly after the initial resistance she put up. “You’re serious?”

Shinoa almost retracts her agreement. The last time she’s raised a weapon against someone, it was that December night—the night she lost everything. The memories come rushing in, vivid as the scenery surrounding her; Christmas eve, the red sky, Shinya covered in blood and aiming his gun. Shinoa swung her scythe against the men who were trying to shoot Guren and Goshi, and they flanked her blows as she cleared a path for them; a path towards the end of the world. 

“I’m serious,” Shinoa says casually. “You have to be the one to set up the time and place, though, and you’ll be the one bringing dummy weapons.” 

Mitsuba pulls Shinoa into a suffocating bear hug, and the rise of temperature in her cheeks is an… Interesting thing, certainly. In any case, she’s never experienced it, so she’s sure to mark the phenomenon for her own personal study later. Right now, all she can focus on is the girl burying her face into Shinoa’s shoulder, babbling a rather annoying stream of, “Thank you, thank you, thank you. You’re the greatest friend in the world, I swear.”

“I’m your only friend,” Shinoa points out. She reciprocates the hug awkwardly, patting Mitsuba’s back. “You don’t have much comparison.” 

“You’re the greatest only friend in the world,” Mitsuba corrects her sentence, her joy unflinching.

*

Mitsuba scheduled their sparring session the afternoon of her birthday on the rooftop of Shinoa’s apartment. It’s a Tuesday, which means Shinoa only has three hours of mandated training and one hour of private tutoring at the JIDA headquarters, so she has more than enough time to prepare for their childish duel by the time she makes it back. Not that there’s anything to prepare for, anyway; she’s going against Mitsuba, and she’s fairly certain any trained JIDA soldier would find this spar between children to be the most hilarious thing in the world.

Regardless, she showers, stretches her legs, then rushes to meet Mitsuba as the clock strikes five in the afternoon.

Mitsuba’s there already, holding two sheathed swords. Shinoa doesn’t ask where she got them when she hands one over. She’s never been a fan of swords, but all Hiiragi children are expected to train with every weapon at their disposal. Even if her Cursed Gear came in the form of a scythe, she is confident she can manage.

Shinoa brandishes her sword, the blade glinting under the daylight. “Ready?”

“You’ll wish you’d never underestimated me,” Mitsuba sings.

She rushes in, blade slashing downward in a diagonal cross aimed at Shinoa’s torso.

Shinoa slides at the right edge of the weapon’s reach, deflecting Mitsuba’s cut, and spins low to the ground, her sword a blur of steel. She launches herself forward and aims a strike from below, but Mitsuba braces the blunt of her elbow against her left palm, the impact weakening her grip just enough for the other girl to create distance between them. The distance is brief, however; Mitsuba charges again, and Shinoa hears the deafening clang of metal clashing against metal. From there, it’s a pattern; deflecting, striking, deflecting, striking. 

Ever since the apocalypse, JIDA soldiers have been trained to fight dirty. Vampires have no honour, and the only thing they care about is their next fix of blood, so they have no qualms about using underhanded tricks. Conversely, that means soldiers need to adapt to their fighting style, leaving Shinoa and Mitsuba where they are now; occasionally forgoing their blades to land quick jabs at each other, kicks and blows and punches wherever there’s an opening. When Mitsuba’s thigh rises in the sign of an oncoming kick, Shinoa twirls out of the way, bringing her sword to Mitsuba’s head.

She’s quick to counter Shinoa’s blow, but Shinoa was expecting that, so she swirls fast and dismantles Mitsuba’s balance with a kick to the side. Mitsuba stumbles, and the snarl on her lips is the only thing that captures Shinoa’s attention before her arm twists down, sword crashing with her. The two send their weapons dancing with each other, searching for open angles, and Shinoa realises this is the most fun she’s ever had in a very long time. 

She can’t deny Mitsuba is a skilled fighter—far better than their peers, and definitely leagues above that sniffling boy in the mess hall. Leagues above any boy, actually; with the adrenaline of their battle and the momentum of their movements, Shinoa is suddenly overcome with the feeling that together, they could take on the world. 

That line of thinking is silly and groundless, she knows. They’re two little girls who don’t have Cursed Gear (or, in her case, don’t have a good handle of their Gear), and the enemies beyond the walls are monsters ascended from Hell. But still, it’s a thought that makes her laugh with unexpected delight.

“What are you laughing about?” Mitsuba grumbles, furious. Her bangs cling to her forehead from sweat, and her chest is heaving. Up and down, up and down, up and down; the rhythm is almost hypnotic.

I’m sparring with my best friend, Shinoa thinks. What else is there to laugh about?

“Nothing,” Shinoa smiles, secretive. “Are you getting tired yet, Mi-chan?”

“You wish.” 

Mitsuba throws her weight into a forward slash, and Shinoa meets the attack head-on. The battle continues with an edge of desperation, both girls exhausted from their earlier moves, but with exhaustion comes a tone of ferocity. They skirt, cleave, and run all across the rooftop, parrying and side-stepping and trying to disarm the other’s hold. Shinoa familiarises herself with Mitsuba’s attack patterns and formulates fast counter-attacks on the spot. Left, right, down and then retract, up, up, surging for the hilt of the blade—

A spot of black clouds her vision, and for the first time, Shinoa skitters backward.

She blinks. She blinks again. The black spot is there, covering the barbed fences of the rooftop, covering the soft concern in Mitsuba’s eyes as she stares at Shinoa—

Shinoa wipes at her eyes harshly, digging her palms down her eyelids hard enough for her head to hurt. When she lowers her hands, the black spot is gone, as quickly as it had appeared.

“Are you okay?” Mitsuba asks, brows furrowed.

“I’m fine,” Shinoa answers, hesitant. “I was just—I don’t know. Let’s keep fighting.”

“Are you sure?”

Shinoa grins, hoping to convince Mitsuba of her usual airheaded temperament. “This whole thing is your idea, dummy.” 

Spurred by the insult, they spar again. They spar until the sun begins to hang lower in the sky, blue hues turning into a deep orange as everywhere in the city, people begin to turn their porch lights on. They spar until Shinoa’s limbs hurt, until her head starts becoming dizzy and she makes a mental note to do some training to improve her stamina. When she twists her thigh around Mitsuba’s waist to jam her elbow, her friend declares, “I give up. I’m tired, Shinoa. I want to lie down.”

So they lie down, giggling at the seriousness of it all. 

Mitsuba’s twintails spreads out against the concrete. Under the glow of the setting sun, her blonde hair shines brilliant gold. Shinoa’s tempted to reach out and tangle her fingers between her locks, but Mitsuba would probably smack her hand. Even so, Shinoa watches the dying light cradle Mitsuba’s cheekbone, and she wonders if the rumors about the Sanguu bloodline coming from beautiful foreigners is true.

Feeling her stare, Mitsuba turns to meet her eyes. She scoots closer, pressing her body against Shinoa’s, and an inexplicable flare of panic lights up Shinoa’s chest. She thinks of wriggling away, but it’s too late; Mitsuba’s curling into her, strands of their hair mixing together.

Why did I panic? She wonders. Mitsuba’s beautiful. There’s no reason to be afraid. 

“You fight good,” she says. 

“Better than you,” Shinoa adds.

Mitsuba frowns. “For now. I’m going to train harder so I can beat you in seconds, someday.”

“You wish,” Shinoa echoes Mitsuba’s earlier words.

They recline like that for a while, regulating their breaths, resting their bodies. 

The sun has set completely. It’s nighttime now; Shinoa can make out the glimmer of stars peeking from behind heavy clouds.

“Happy birthday, you idiot,” she says. “I hope this was worth it.”

Mitsuba nods, “It was.” 

*

The last thing Shinoa remembers is diving beneath the covers. When she opens her eyes, she’s in that pocket dimension of her mind again.

There is one glaring difference, though.

Instead of hovering on the green scythe several paces away from her, Shikama Doji stands right next to her, tilting his head downwards as he flashes her a closed smile.

She senses his crackling power, as she always does. She can feel it crawling under her nails and making its way up her bloodstream like a chemical infestation, and it is only a matter of time before his sickness reaches her vital organs. It’s overwhelming, and it’s certainly too much for a ten-year-old girl to handle. Nevertheless, she holds her ground. She’s a Hiiragi, after all, and Hiiragis don’t cower. Or so her father says.

“Shinoa,” Shikama greets, pleasant. He’s never not pleasant, honestly. “I notice you’ve been… Different, lately.”

Shinoa returns his smile. “Is it the new hair?”

“Funny girl,” he praises. 

She notices, then, another difference—something far subtler than the fact that he’s currently standing beside her.

He’s unhappy.

Shinoa doesn’t imagine there is much to be happy about when one is trapped in the subconscious of an adolescent girl, but for as long as she’s known Shikama, he has never shown even a hint of emotion that breaks his ethereal composure; not when she rebuffs his outstretched hand, not when she makes an insensitive joke. And yet, tonight, she sees it; a silk-thin fold under his left eye, the smallest wrinkle of ire.

Shinoa winks at him. “Something the matter, Shi-chan?”

The nickname, somehow, accentuates the fold even more.

“Nothing,” he says softly. “Only that I was… Surprised, you could diverge from my plan. I didn’t think that was possible.”

“You’ve got something planned for me?” She’s bluffing. She knows he has plans for her—of course he does. “Care to share them? Since I’m the star in your movie, after all.”

“Ah, but if I share them, it wouldn’t be a surprise, would it?” Shikama’s eyes glint with mischief. He truly is the most beautiful creature Shinoa has ever seen, but his beauty is a lethal, corrosive thing. It’s the beauty of a knife carving through flesh, or a wave capsizing vessels. Shinoa’s certain men and women have died for that face, and she has no intention of being added to the roster. 

“You should know,” he says again, “I don’t mind you wandering from my path. I just didn’t think it would be with a girl.”

Every atom in her body freezes.

Shikama laughs. Of course he’s aware of her reaction. He’s made it clear ages ago that everything she feels, he feels. Everything she thinks, he thinks. There is nothing in her body and soul capable of escaping his omnipotent supervision.

Except for the fact that she has no idea what the fuck he’s talking about.

He steps in front of her, filling her line of sight instead of standing by her shoulder, and he—

He wavers.

She doesn’t know how else to describe him. The vision of him, the smooth lines that make up the shape of his lithe body, they blur at the edges for one single, breathless second. In that second, he changes; his platinum blonde hair turns a shade warmer, his yellow eyes flash purple, and his smile becomes giddy, ragged, real.

In that moment of confusion, Shinoa almost makes the deadly mistake of calling her name.

And then that moment is over, and it’s Shikama again, in the flesh. He’s offering his palm.

“Come with me. I want to show you something.”

Shinoa doesn’t take it. “Lead the way.”

He drops his hand and does just that. They walk together in her unconscious space, and it’s blank, empty. There’s nothing remotely interesting about it, just like there’s nothing remotely interesting about her. She’s not sure how long they walk until they begin to see a distant shape in the horizon, beating and pulsating as if it’s alive. 

With a start, Shinoa realises the shape is a human heart.

Her heart.

She hasn’t been here since that night; December 24th, 2012. Mere hours before her eighth birthday, before the end of everything. 

Silver chains encase her heart, the metal pressing against the bleeding red flesh. At first glance, others may think her heart is being restrained, but Shinoa knows better; the chains are there to protect her. The chains were installed there by her sister, who wasted years of her youth to make sure Shinoa would one day be strong enough to face the entity standing in front of her. 

“Your existence has no value,” Mahiru drones on, her voice monotone as she bashes Shinoa’s head against the wall. The pressure cracks her skin, blood trickling down the side of her face. A burning pain blooms at the base of her skull; she wonders if a part of it is broken, wonders if she’ll have to subject herself to more experiments just to treat it. “You are incompetent. You are powerless. You have no will. You have no emotions.”

This is all for her, Shinoa thinks. Her sister is going through the painstaking effort of hardening her heart so she has a fighting chance against the demon who’s haunted her from the start. But she’s not there yet; she’s not even close. If Shinoa wants to protect herself from the demon, she has to swallow Mahiru’s words and internalise them as best as she can. 

When Mahiru releases her grip on Shinoa’s head, she sways backwards and almost falls. Her forehead isn’t the only open wound; there’s cuts all over her arms and legs from when her skin grazed against the walls and the floor as Mahiru was throwing her around and beating her up. She feels lightheaded both from the blood loss and the excruciating pain of her bruises, but she forces herself to stay conscious.

“I understand what you’re saying, Nee-san,” she croaks. Her nose and mouth are stained with blood, and it’s becoming increasingly hard to speak the longer she lets them dry on her skin. “But you’re in love, right? You’re just a normal girl. What will happen to you, when you’re left all alone?”

“I’m fine,” Mahiru says. “I’m a genius, after all.”

A genius. Her sister’s a genius, unlike her. But no amount of genius can hide the flicker of fear beneath Mahiru’s pretty lashes.

“Really?” Shinoa looks up. God, even her neck hurts. There’s another bruise on the back of her shoulder, spanning down the length of her spine, and she broke her wrist after her elbow’s valiant effort to cushion the impact of being catapulted across the room. “But aren’t you scared, Nee-san?” She crawls closer, her bones screaming for rest, but she ignores the ache in favor of reaching for her sister. “L-let me help. Let me—I want to help. I—”

Mahiru strikes her chest hard enough to send her toppling from the bed.

“You’re nothing but dead weight,” she smiles, sympathetic.

“When I first brought you here, I asked what you desired most,” Shikama reminisces. “You told me you wanted your chest to be as big as your sister’s, and then you called me a foreigner.”

“Don’t take it personally,” Shinoa says lightly. “Japan and the West have had their ups and downs.”

“Indeed,” Shikama nods. “I suspect the Second World War had something to do with that.”

“Maybe. I don’t keep up with politics.” She inclines her head, “I’m guessing you didn’t bring me here to talk about politics, though.” 

Shikama beckons Shinoa to come closer to the heart. Once she stands directly in front of it, he points down.

The chain constricting her right atrium has a minuscule—but visible—crack on one of its steel links. 

It clicks to her, then. The black spot that appeared when she and Mitsuba sparred. The sudden dizziness, the loss of balance.

“Sometimes the protection around your heart looks like a wall,” Shikama hums. “Other times, like today, it looks like chains. But at the end of the day, the crack remains.”

Shinoa doesn’t say anything. She focuses on the wall, the chain, the cage; the ring of protection around her heart. She focuses on solidifying it, on raising it, on keeping it sturdy so that her sister’s efforts aren’t wasted.

“Oh, there’s no need for that,” Shikama laughs. “You can still control your cage, as you know. You can still raise and lower it however you like. But the crack itself won’t disappear—not unless the source of it disappears.” He clasps his hands, “In some ways, I almost prefer this.”

Shinoa clenches her fists.

“Shikama Doji,” she says, “I think we’ve spoken enough for today.”

*

One of the strangest things about the apocalypse—according to the scientists, at least—is how the sudden decline of humanity and infrastructure has seemingly no effects whatsoever on the climate. Seasons pass as they normally do, and every time winter rolls in, Shinoa and Mitsuba debate on which fabric makes up the best scarves.

In any case, they’re five months away from the day they would have graduated as elementary school students when they sneak through the outskirts of the capital, a backpack full of supplies strapped to each of their bodies as they marvel over their own mischief. 

Shinoa doesn’t know what excitement feels like, but if she were to take a guess, the buzzing in her stomach seems to qualify as that. The closer they reach the walls, the more the abandoned parts of the city becomes a maze, but the design is intentional; sandbags and wire traps in strategic locations, false concrete floors that drop to rows of sharp spikes. The JIDA have ensured that in the off chance a vampire manages to climb over the walls, they’ll have a difficult time navigating Shibuya’s outskirts, and scouters will catch them before they harm any civilians. Luckily, Shinoa and Mitsuba are armed with a map detailing every obstacle, and the walk to the border is nothing more than a very elaborate game to them. 

The walls surrounding Shibuya are guarded almost every second of every hour, but Mitsuba received a tip from one of the soldiers who patrol with her sister that the far section of the eastern corner is going to be left empty during rotations. The spot is well-defended even without a soldier manning the area, so there is no vampire risk, but it does leave an opening for two adolescent girls to climb the rickety ladder and get a glimpse of the country beyond.

“There,” Mitsuba points past the rows of empty buildings. This part of the wall has no towers; the ladder is the only way up, and it’s a steep climb. The nearest towers are several meters away—visible, but there’s no way they can get up without the guards telling them to run back home. “Come on.”

They rush to the edge of the ladder. Mitsuba grabs the ends of her scarf and ties it firmly around her neck, then fastens every button of her winter coat; Shinoa does the same. Once they’re done preparing for the climb, they give each other an expectant look.

“You go first,” Mitsuba implores.

“No, you go first,” Shinoa says.

“You’re the one who encouraged me,” she huffs.

“This was your idea,” Shinoa reminds, “And you’re the one who got the tip.” 

“Yeah, but—” she frowns, gloved hands tugging her own twintails in agitation— “if you get caught, you’re less likely to get in trouble.”

“Because I’m a Hiiragi?” Shinoa scoffs, tossing her hair. “Mi-chan, I’m disappointed. I knew you were stupid, but I didn’t know you were deaf, too. How many times have I told you I’m not close with my family?”

Every once in a while, Shinoa finds herself saying something so aggravating that the only reaction Mitsuba gives is a hilariously adorable growl of frustration before she either a) swats Shinoa’s cheek, or b) shoves Shinoa’s shoulder. This time, she does both, somehow, and Shinoa tumbles backwards as she says, “Fine. If you’re going to be a coward, I’ll go first.” 

Mitsuba doesn’t reward Shinoa’s generosity by going on her knees, or by giving any form of gratitude at all, honestly. Instead, she just throws her face the other direction and harrumphs. How rude.

Even so, Shinoa’s a girl of her word, so she climbs. She puts one hand and foot after the other; up, up, up, the winter breeze cooling her face. She hears Mitsuba trailing behind her, grumbling the whole time, because neither of them have ever been good at keeping quiet. They climb until their limbs ache, until their knees become wobbly, until Shinoa decides to remove her gloves so she can get a better grip of the ladder.

“Are you doing okay back there?” She calls.

“Worry about yourself,” Mitsuba retorts. 

Shinoa rolls her eyes. “I could kick you off right now.”

“I’ll drag you down with me,” her best friend threatens. “I’m serious, Shinoa. I’ll grab your ankle so we’ll both fall to our deaths together.”

“How romantic.” 

Mitsuba sucks in a sudden breath as if shaken by her response, even though it’s no different than Shinoa’s usual cheek. “Just keep climbing,” she mutters. 

She does. She grabs the next rod of metal and hoists herself up, ignoring the biting cold sinking into her palms. She makes it up four, five more steps when—

When she senses an imperceptible shift in the air. 

Maybe it’s instinct. Or maybe it’s some deeper, unknowable force, stitched to the very fabric of the universe itself. Either way, something compels Shinoa to twist her body back just in time for Mitsuba to lose her grip and careen downwards. Luckily, she catches the other girl’s wrist before she can meet her untimely death, and they hang there for several seconds, intertwined, processing the scene between them.

The wind is stronger now. It whips her hair this way and that, her bangs covering her eyes, but she can still see the shock written all over Mitsuba’s face. It’s—it is shock, certainly, but there seems to be another emotion underpinning her intense stare, and Shinoa doesn’t know what to call it. 

“You—” Mitsuba’s at a loss for words. She tries again, “You—you saved m-my li—Shinoa—”

“Dummy,” Shinoa mocks, smirking. The tension is broken immediately. “Watch where you’re holding. I hope no one has to hold your hand when you make the ranks, too.”

Mitsuba yanks her hand away to wrap her fingers around the ladder rail. “Whatever,” she grunts, cheekbones red. 

The sight of her looking like that makes Shinoa feel… Something. Like the emotion in Mitsuba’s eyes earlier, Shinoa’s not sure what to name it, and she doesn’t think a creaking ladder is the best place to contemplate that sort of thing, so she continues making her way up. 

After an eternity of climbing, they reach the top, and Shinoa heaves her body over the last step to the safety of a wider structure. Mitsuba pushes herself up seconds later, and when she rolls over to Shinoa’s side, they fit together perfectly. 

“We made it,” Mitsuba gasps. 

Here, on the edge of the prefecture, the rest of the country spans all the way to the distant horizon.

Tokyo is a dead city, and Japan is a dead nation. Crumbling skyscrapers are slowly being overtaken by nature, debris scattered on roads as leaves and vines weave their way through the holes left behind by the destruction of the apocalypse. Snowy patches fill potholes and cracks in the pavement, splinters of white amidst a barren gray landscape. When seen individually, everything seems messy, but together, the ruined infrastructure forms a painting of a world after God’s wrath; barren, chaotic, but strangely peaceful, too.

No amount of physical training can give someone superpowered eyesight, however, which is why Shinoa and Mitsuba have brought supplies in their backpacks. They put their winter gloves back on and take out their binoculars—stolen from JIDA supplies—then peep into the glass.

Even with the binocular’s magnification, at first, Shinoa doesn’t see anything of note beyond the smaller details of the city’s desolated rubble—cracked windowsills, glass panes, and the occasional stray animal scavenging through humanity’s leftovers. It’s not until Mitsuba lets out another gasp and points at the distance that Shinoa thinks to redirect her vision. 

“A Horseman,” Mitsuba shouts angrily just as Shinoa catches sight of it. This one is smaller than the many that first popped up after the twelfth hour; a scaly being with black-and-red stripes rummaging through the remains of a convenience store. Since it doesn’t seem to be finding any humans, it gives up its search eventually, treading back to the streets. “It’s so close to the wall. Should we warn some guards when we head back?”

“Mm,” Shinoa agrees absent-mindedly. She’s not too concerned about it; one that small could easily be killed by a team of three lower-ranked guards working in sync. And no Horseman has ever been sighted scaling the walls, anyway. “I haven’t seen one since the apocalypse. I forgot how weird they looked.”

“They kind of remind me of dinosaurs,” Mitsuba says.

Shinoa makes a face. “What kind of dinosaur looks like that?”

“I said kind of,” Mitsuba adds defensively. “I’m not completely off, am I? The scales, the weird shapes—there’s no way they resemble mammals.” She curls up, placing a hand on her chin, “I wish the army would put more effort into figuring out where they came from.”

“I think people are more focused on killing it than studying its origins.”

“But if you studied its origins, wouldn’t you have a bigger chance at figuring out what its weakness is?” Mitsuba wonders, an unexpected moment of brilliance coming from the girl who whacks Shinoa’s head in quick anger so often. “Then you could find an easier way to kill it, instead of sending soldiers to the battlefield.”

“What do you have in mind?” Shinoa tilts her head, genuinely curious.

Mitsuba shrugs. “I don’t know. I’m not a scientist. But…” She purses her lips, “There are frequencies that only some animals can hear, right? And if—if the Horseman are anything like that, you could just set off a bomb that has the frequency or something, and only one soldier would have to go out there and hack away at them one by one while they’re weak. Or—or maybe, let’s say they have a soft spot. We could just fire arrows at that spot instead of risking close-range combat.”

“For someone so stubborn, you sure are insightful sometimes, Mi-chan,” Shinoa muses. “Pity your efforts are too focused on beating me up most of the time.”

“If you weren’t so dedicated to annoying me, I bet I could be more useful for the army,” she retorts. Then a glimmer of hope crosses her eyes, “But you don’t think my ideas are stupid?”

Shinoa shakes her head. “I think anything that can get us more ground outside the walls is worth considering. If only our enemies were the Horsemen, though.” She makes another sweep with her binoculars, but there’s no moving creature beyond the singular Horseman. “I wish vampires had some kind of animalistic weakness. Other than their thirst for blood, that is.”

The popular sentiment amongst the people living under JIDA’s protection is that the vampires are blighted curses sent from Hell, and they should be exterminated at all costs. The knowledge of how they’re formed isn’t common knowledge.

Shinoa wonders how civilians would react if they knew the Horsemen are the ones who are actually curses from Hell, and that the vampires have been around for much longer than many of them. If they knew they have a pretty big chance of turning into a vampire if they come across a Progenitor; if they knew the JIDA’s own commander is currently sanctioning the capture of live vampires. 

That last part’s top secret, even for the noble families. She doubts Mitsuba is familiar with the parched, starving vampires groveling at Kureto’s feet as they speak.

“I wish we could just burn them all,” Mitsuba murmurs, distant.

Shinoa is… Almost shocked. She’s always known Mitsuba is quick to anger, but this is something else.

This is hate.

Unsure of what to do, Shinoa scoots closer. “They’re just trying to survive like us,” she says slowly. “It just so happens they’ve had the upper hand for the past couple of years. But, you know—we’ve had the upper hand for the past few centuries.”

“So—so what are you saying?” Mitsuba looks at her, indignant. “That we’re taking turns? They get the top of the world, we get the bottom of it, and it switches every once in a while? Shinoa, that’s fucking absurd, even for you.”

The tip of Shinoa’s lips quirk. “You said a bad wooord,” she tattles childishly.

Mitsuba scoffs, giving Shinoa a harsh shove. 

After a moment of silence, Mitsuba says again, “It’s not the same, you know—them being at the top of the world, versus us being at the top of the world. I’ve heard of the stuff they do—to each other, and to the humans they kidnap for livestock.” Her gaze hardens, “I heard—sometimes, it’s not just about blood. Sometimes they—they take the humans for other stuff. Experiments. Torture. Or—or fun.” Her expression goes a bit queasy, then; she looks like she’s about to be sick. “Entertainment, you know. It—it’s all terrible. You can’t tell me we’re as bad as them.”

For a moment, Shinoa marvels at how someone could be so naive.

It doesn’t even take the skeletons in the closet for people to know the Hiiragis are a bloodthirsty lot. There’s the rape of the Ichinose daughter; there’s Tenri slaughtering all his siblings so he gets to sit at the sole ruler. There’s the trail of blood left behind by Japanese imperialists as they razed hell through Asia; Nanjing, Seoul, and all the jugun ianfu defiled in the process. Then there’s the wars that Japan wasn’t involved in; the Gold, Gospel, Glory of the Christian crusaders, the rows of massacres started by other Abrahamic religions. Mahiru never hid the darker parts of history when she quizzed Shinoa, so Shinoa has memorised a list of mankind’s sins like a knife to the throat.

Experiments. Torture. Fun.

Oh, Mitsuba has no fucking idea.

There are no machines today. There is only a man hovering over Shinoa’s naked form with a robotic coldness to his eyes. He’s wearing plastic gloves.

“Yesterday, you reacted when we inserted a needle into your womb,” the man says. “Could you tell us why?”

Even at the age of four years old, Shinoa already knows that’s a stupid question.

“Because it hurts,” she answers.

“But it always hurts, doesn’t it?”

Yes, it does. She supposes he’s right. She tells him that.

“It’s a different kind of hurt, I think, is what you mean,” the man goes on. There’s a tray of surgical tools beside him. Shinoa sees the glint of a scalpel under the painful laboratory lighting. “Of course—there’s an element of humiliation there. Even a girl as young as yourself would feel it. I discussed this with the others—Freud’s stages, psychosexual development, and all that. They understood.” 

Shinoa doesn’t know what he means, or who Freud is. She hopes he’s a nice person. If this Freud is experimenting on her, they’re likely experimenting on her sister, too.

The man checks to see if her restraints are sturdy. When he’s decided they meet his satisfaction, he dips his hand into a bowl of sterilised water, then puts on a fresh pair of plastic gloves. 

“You always were the most expressionless out of your siblings,” the man comments. There is no cruelty to the way he speaks. He’s just a researcher acting on orders. He doesn’t take pleasure out of this. Mahiru would appreciate that; Shinoa doesn’t see the difference to it. “But that’s okay. This is how we’re going to get the demon inside you to show himself. It worked for your siblings; it should work for you, too.” 

He doesn’t reach for the syringe on the tray. Or the scalpel. Or the knife.

Instead, he slides his hand between her legs.

Months later, she remembers something Mahiru said, that night she first started beating Shinoa:

“I can’t give this defiled body of mine to Guren.”

No, Mitsuba has no idea. 

The natural response to this revelation is, of course, to tell her. To shed light on her blissful ignorance, to let her see that humanity is not as pure as she likes to think. It’s the sensible thing to do, and Shinoa has always enjoyed lecturing Mitsuba on things she knows better—if only to see the other girl fume with shameful anger. 

Something stops her, though. It’s like her brain is fighting with itself; one part keeps telling her to follow her instinct, to abide by army training and tell your fellow soldier of additional information that could help them recalibrate and assess the scene. But the other part…

The other part thinks, There’s no way she’s that clueless.

They were raised in the same circles. They had the same tutors, learned from the same textbooks.

If Mitsuba truly believes humans are better than vampires, it is because she wants to. It is because she has seen the horrors mankind has committed, and chooses to focus on the good. Chooses to imagine a better version of everyone, for everyone.

This isn’t naivete. This is compartmentalisation. She can’t be the perfect soldier if she’s constantly wondering whether her side is as bad as the other side. She has to be steadfast, unbreaking in her loyalty. The gears of war can only keep moving as long as someone turns the lever. 

So Shinoa remains quiet. Keeps her secrets to herself, keeps her mouth silent as her friend with purple eyes and soft hands stares at her expectantly, awaiting an answer.

“I guess so,” Shinoa finally says.

Mitsuba’s features soften. “You’re always saying the weirdest stuff,” she mumbles. “You’re lucky we’re friends.”

Shinoa laughs, “Yeah, because neither of us have other options.” 

“That’s not true,” Mitsuba furrows her brows. “You—Shinoa, we’ve been friends for almost two years now. You still think the only reason I hang out with you is because I don’t know anyone else?”

The panic that flared in her stomach the day she and Mitsuba sparred shows itself again. Shinoa’s confused, unprepared; for a brief moment, she feels like her armor has been forcibly stripped of her. 

“Of course,” Shinoa laughs again, but it doesn’t come out as easy. “Why else would you knock on my door every day, dummy?”

Mitsuba stares at her, incredulous. There is even a hint of hurt in her expression, but what, exactly, is the source of that hurt, Shinoa has no idea.

“Because I choose to,” she says softly.

That is the final push Shinoa needs to throw herself off-beat. The world flips itself under her feet; the sky is the ground and the ground is the sky. Everything begins moving in reverse directions, and something in her chest hums with rhythm.

Mitsuba chooses to see her every day, the same way she chooses to believe humanity can be better.

“Are you… Okay?” Mitsuba asks hesitantly, leaning closer. Shinoa can make out the dark lashes fluttering against pale skin, the downturn of her lips. Her face has gone through some changes from the nine-year-old Shinoa remembers years ago, and it’s been strange to witness. “You’re just—I feel like you’re kind of distant, sometimes.”

“I’m fine,” Shinoa brushes off. 

“You’ll tell me, though, if you’re not?” Mitsuba’s gloved hand touches the shoulder of her jacket. She adds, “That’s what best friends do. They… Tell each other things.” 

“I will,” Shinoa reassures.

She won’t. She never will. There is no one in the world who can understand Shinoa better than her dead sister. 

A pause rifts the two girls apart. One. Two. Three. Four.

Five.

“You’re my best friend,” Mitsuba affirms. “And—and we’re friends because I want us to be. Not because I’m—I’m—I’m too much of a priss to befriend the girls outside the noble families. That’s—you know that’s not how I am. You should remember that the next time you think we only hang out because I don’t have options.” 

She doesn’t understand why Mitsuba is saying any of this. She’s normally sharp with her words, always looking for any flaws in Shinoa that she can exaggerate and tear down. It’s the same vice versa; this is how they are. Is it the altitude? Is it the view in front of them? Or is it the isolation from the rest of society? Shinoa remains baffled. 

“I care about you, you know,” Mitsuba goes on gruffly. 

Stop, Shinoa wants to say. Stop talking. I’m not Mahiru. I’m not Kureto. You’ll gain nothing from making me like you.

Mitsuba doesn’t stop. She scoots closer until their sides are touching, until Shinoa is practically resting her head on Mitsuba’s shoulder. 

“I care about you, too,” Shinoa admits, and she is surprised to actually mean it. 

“You can still control your cage, as you know. You can still raise and lower it however you like. But the crack itself won’t disappear—not unless the source of it disappears.”

Mitsuba snorts, and leans sideways—resting her own head on the top of Shinoa’s head. They’re like layers in building blocks; take one down, and the whole structure will crumble. 

They don’t speak for a while. It’s… Relaxing, sitting up there, watching the rest of the city in complete solitude without any noise to disturb them. Shinoa feels what she felt when she dressed Mitsuba on Kureto’s birthday, when she first watched movies with Mitsuba three days after; the feeling of a new leaf turning in her life. 

There is a sense of familiarity in what they’re doing right now, and it takes Shinoa a while to place it. Eventually, she realises that she and Mitsuba are following a kind of template: two people, together with no others in sight, spending time in a high place secluded from everything. The template shows up in books, movies, poems, stories; Romeo and Juliet on the balcony, the couples in American movies retreating to their rooftops, the Tanabata lovers reuniting on a bridge between Heaven and Earth every once in a year. It’s a tale as old as time. 

Her cheeks tingle; Shinoa’s face burns soft pink.

It’s the cold, she tells herself.

It is the cold, and that template is meant for a boy and a girl. Not two girls. Not Hiiragi Shinoa and Sanguu Mitsuba. 

*

Several months later, Shinoa and Mitsuba wake up early for their first day of middle school. Their first day of school since they were eight years old; since the end of the world cleaved their population to bits.

Well. Technically, Mitsuba’s the one who wakes up early. They had a sleepover the night before so they could arrive together, and they’ve set an alarm. Mitsuba is the only one who responds to the alarm, which leaves her tossing Shinoa off the bed in an attempt to get her to wake, too.

The next thirty minutes are a blur of screeching and footsteps; Mitsuba running to and from the bathroom, checking her seifuku, checking her hair, checking what little bit of make-up twelve-year-olds know how to apply. She keeps insisting this is one of the most important day of their lives, their re-entry to society, their chance to see people their age and scout which one of their classmates has the potential to be in future squadrons with them.

“You’re making a big deal out of nothing,” Shinoa fastens her uniform’s tie. It had taken her all of five minutes to look presentable after her shower, while Mitsuba’s somehow still busying herself deciding on which Mary Jane shoes to wear. 

“Shut up,” Mitsuba hisses. After choosing the right pair, she looks at Shinoa, then balks. “You’re not thinking of doing anything new?”

Shinoa raises an eyebrow. “What do you mean? We’re going to school, Mi-chan—not Fashion Week. Though I think the vampires have taken over that, too.” 

“Haven’t you learned anything from the movies we’ve watched?” Mitsuba clucks in disapproval. “First days of school are a chance to reinvent yourself. If you want to try something different, now’s your chance to do it. It just won’t hit the same any other day.” 

“Now you’re definitely exaggerating.” 

“Just…” Mitsuba rubs her nose, exasperated. “Nothing? Nothing new at all?” 

Shinoa almost shakes her head at the irony. Years ago, she was the one making fun of Mitsuba for wearing a drab gown. Now Mitsuba’s scrutinising her look.

“What would you suggest?”

Mitsuba jumps at the chance immediately. 

She pulls Shinoa to her dresser and makes her sit down. On the mirror’s reflection, Shinoa can see her own bed, messy and unmade from all the blanket-fighting and squabbling they did last night. Mitsuba grabs a hairbrush from her school backpack and takes out Shinoa’s ribbon; the top part of her hair falls, side-bangs blocking her field of vision. Quickly, Mitsuba brushes Shinoa’s hair and cuts away at tangles. 

“You should really take better care of your hair,” Mitsuba mutters. “Your hair might even be prettier than mine if you weren’t so lazy about it.” 

The compliment is half-assed, like all of Mitsuba’s compliments. Regardless, a flutter lights up Shinoa’s stomach.

Mitsuba runs her fingers through Shinoa’s hair and gathers them up. She twists and parts and braids, working meticulously. Even one stray strand is unacceptable to her. She’s so embroiled in her work that she hovers closer to get a better grip of Shinoa’s intricate braid, and her chest collides with Shinoa’s back.

The flutter in her stomach grows.

Mitsuba’s face isn’t the only part of her that’s been changing; her body has been, too. Puberty comes to her much faster than it does to Shinoa, and her chest has grown significantly large for someone their age. The softness now rubs her shoulderblades, squishing, and she feels it acutely. It’s just observation, of course, and Shinoa even teases her about it sometimes. But—

“There,” Mitsuba pulls back, satisfied. Shinoa’s so engrossed in… Whatever, that she didn’t even notice Mitsuba clip the ribbon back on. 

Mitsuba has given Shinoa a rather stylish updo, with front partings that frame her face and a thick French braid that connects to a very neat bun. Her magenta ribbon sits at the top of that bun, and Mitsuba’s arranged them to have longer ends trailing behind Shinoa’s head as she walks.

“Not bad,” Shinoa says.

“Not bad?” Mitsuba shrieks, scowling. “I make you look like a princess, and that’s all you have to say? Not bad?”

Shinoa cackles, diving past Mitsuba and grabbing both their bags. She slings her backpack and Mitsuba’s over her shoulder; a silent offering to carry it all the way to school. “Thank you, Sanguu Mitsuba,” Shinoa bows dramatically, “Japan’s biggest loser, for making me outshine you in every possible way.”

“Asshole,” Mitsuba spits, opening the door. 

On their way to school, they pass the high school building’s field. They pass the oak tree where they first met, and Mitsuba seems to be thinking the same thing, too.

“I never told you why I was in the bushes that night,” Mitsuba muses, stepping over the pavement.

“I just assumed you were trying to avoid your family like me,” Shinoa says. 

“I wasn’t, actually,” she murmurs, looking at the middle school building looming tall in front of them.

Shinoa stops walking, waiting for her to continue.

“I was standing with my sister when I saw you behind the tree,” Mitsuba’s still not meeting her stare. “And I sort of… Snuck away, I guess. I thought—I thought you looked like you could use a friend.” 

“Well,” Shinoa offers her hand, smiling. “You were right.”

Mitsuba takes it. They head inside together.

When they step over the threshold, Shikama’s words ring clear in Shinoa’s mind: 

You should know, I don’t mind you wandering from my path. I just didn’t think it would be with a girl.

Chapter Text

THE MIDDLE:

LOVE TAKES HOSTAGES.

^{I can’t break the cycle, am I just a fool?
Falling down like dominoes, hit by family jewels.}

During the first year of Shinoa and Mitsuba’s middle school journey, spring comes earlier than usual.

Winters have never been favoured after the apocalypse—there is too much concern about whether JIDA has enough resources to spare civilians; heaters, clothes, and the like. So when the cherry blossoms bloom a week earlier than predicted, there are superstitious rumors of whether the tides of luck have finally turned humanity’s way.

Personally, Shinoa thinks that’s all bullshit. The whole thing reeks of government conspiracy, too; the Imperial Army planting whispers that things are finally looking up to encourage people to start reproducing again. 

But, again, she’s never been one to comment on politics.

So when Mitsuba informs that Ichinose Guren is climbing his way back up the ranks by adopting a prodigy, Shinoa… Isn’t particularly interested. She’s barely spoken to Guren since that December night. But Mitsuba wouldn’t be who she is if she doesn’t insist on the importance of her words, and so, this is where Shinoa currently stands; squatting behind the iron bars of the JIDA building’s AC unit, watching Guren train a furious young boy of about her age. 

The boy’s performance is sloppy. It’s clear he knows nothing about swordsmanship from the way he holds his blade at an awkward angle, from the loose grip of his hand on the hilt. And yet, even as Guren beats him senseless and throws him across the courtyard, he perseveres. There’s a fire in his eyes that keeps him going, the kind of fire one might have if they’ve sworn revenge.

That’s in-line with what Shinoa’s heard—again, from Mitsuba.

His name is Yuichiro, she says, and he was found in the outskirts of Sanguinem, having escaped his captors as the sole survivor of his orphanage.

“He’s going to need a lot of work,” Mitsuba mumbles, crouching next to her. Their knees are touching; there’s not plenty of room in the makeshift balcony, and the air still feels kind of chilly, so Shinoa welcomes the extra warmth. “There’s potential, though. He’s brave, and he obviously won’t give up no matter what happens. I can see him being useful in a future squad.” 

“You’re not even a soldier yet, and you’re already talking about recruitment,” Shinoa chides.

“I’m just making an assessment.” She scoots over, puffing her chest. Below, the spar rages on. Yuu sprints forward with the grace of an infant, and Guren deflects easily. “When I’m Sergeant, I’ll put him on my team. We need more hardheaded people like him if we’re going to take down the vampires.”

Something unpleasant stirs in Shinoa’s chest. She ignores it, opting to tease Mitsuba with a sly, “Is that so?” 

Mitsuba looks at her. “What does that mean?” 

Shinoa shrugs, grinning. “I’m just wondering if you have a different, hidden reason for wanting to recruit him so bad.”

“Like what?”

“Like…” Shinoa hums. “Like how you think he’s cute, for example.” 

“Wha—Shinoa,” Mitsuba hisses, redness flooding her cheeks. “You seriously think I would recruit someone just because I have a crush on him?”

“You’re the one who said that, not me,” Shinoa cackles. “All I said was that you think he’s cute.” 

“I don’t have a crush on him.” Mitsuba yanks her sleeve and jerks her back and forth, but the persistent blush on her cheeks only further confirms Shinoa’s theory. “I don’t even know him—this is literally the first time I’ve seen him, right here, right now, with you. Why would I—Shinoa, why would I have a crush on someone I don’t know?” 

Shinoa shrugs. “Love at first sight is pretty common in all the movies we’ve watched.”

Mitsuba huffs, indignant. She grabs Shinoa’s chin and angles her face forward, then points to the courtyard, where Yuu is currently getting pummeled. “Do you honestly believe I’d fall in love at first sight with that?” She’s absolutely seething, so her blush could be both anger and embarrassment, though that does little to ease the twist in her heart.

But… Shinoa doesn’t even know why she thinks figuring out the reason behind her idiot friend’s blush would quell her strange emotions. She shakes it off, focusing on the sight before her. While it’s true that Yuu isn’t particularly impressive to look at, he’s a lot like Guren; dark hair, sharp eyes. And Shinoa’s very much experienced in the kind of attraction Guren fosters in women—particularly her sister, now a ghost.

“I miss him,” Mahiru says, caressing the framed photograph. On the piece of paper, she and Guren—six years old—stand together, her arms wrapped around his as she clings to him. She looks happy, in that picture—the happiest Shinoa’s ever seen her. “I wonder what he’s doing right now. Do you think he misses me, too, Shi-Shi?” 

“I don’t know,” Shinoa answers honestly. The first time Mahiru ever spoke of Guren to her was also the first time she started beating her. Sometimes, Shinoa wonders if there’s a correlation.

Cheerful as ever, Mahiru rises from her bed and hops onto Shinoa’s, flopping down next to her. She giggles, rolling around with the photograph in hand, “I don’t even know why I asked you. You obviously know nothing about love.” Then she reaches for Shinoa’s hand and gives it a reassuring squeeze, “And I’m going to keep it that way. You’ll be safer.”

“I know, Nee-san,” Shinoa nods.

“Though, you’re missing out on a lot.” Mahiru jumps to a sitting position and gathers Shinoa in her arms. When she starts rolling around on the bed again, Shinoa’s rolling with her, occasionally suffocated by her sister’s generous figure. They’re cuddling, she understands—she’s heard of that term from comic books. “There’s really nothing like falling in love, Shi-Shi. The way your heart races when he’s near, the butterflies fluttering in your stomach when he holds your hand…” Mahiru bursts into another set of giggles, squeezing Shinoa like she’s a chew toy. “I wish you could experience it. I really do. I think you would, if our lives were a little different.” 

Shinoa doesn’t know what to make of that. Then again, she’s only four.

Something catches her attention, though.

“He?”

“Mm-hm,” Mahiru nods. “We’re girls.” 

Shinoa nods too, even if she hasn’t completely caught on yet. “Yes. We’re girls.”

Mahiru giggles again. She giggles frequently when she thinks of Guren, no matter what the conversation topic is. If love makes someone that stupid, then Shinoa isn’t particularly interested in it. 

“We’re girls, so we fall in love with boys, dummy,” her sister clarifies, ever the voice of wisdom. “The tutors will teach you this when you get older. It doesn’t matter if you believe in the religious version or the scientific one—a man’s body and a woman’s body fit together perfectly, so it’s obvious we’re made to be a paired set.” She takes one of Shinoa’s hands, “Boy.” She takes another hand, “Girl.” She brings the hands closer, “Together. See? Makes perfect sense.”

It doesn’t make sense at all, actually. Shinoa doesn’t see the logic behind it. But she supposes her sister has a point; everything she sees—the comic books, the movies, the romance novels that the nurses in charge of her siblings sometimes read during breaks—all have a boy and a girl in them. 

Romeo and Juliet. The Tanabata lovers. Guren and Mahiru.

Boy and girl.

“He looks decent enough,” Shinoa says.

Mitsuba lets go of her face, eyes squinting. “Don’t tell me you’re the one with a crush on him,” she accuses.

“Why?” Shinoa smirks, nudging Mitsuba’s side. “Scared you can’t compete? Don’t worry, Mi-chan—I won’t outshine you that much. Rivalries are only fun when they’re between equals.”

“What are you talking about?” Mitsuba punches Shinoa’s arm. It’s harmless, meant to distract rather than to hurt. “Just when I think I’ve heard enough weird stuff come out of your mouth, you always say something weirder. How do you do it, Shinoa?”

“With active effort,” Shinoa flips her hair dramatically like she’s receiving a badge of honor.

Mitsuba rolls her eyes, turning her attention back to Guren and the boy. She softens visibly, and the uncomfortable tangle in Shinoa’s chest worsens at the sight of it, as if her ribs are displeased that Mitsuba is looking at someone else.

“The soldiers said he had to leave behind all the other kids in the orphanage,” she murmurs. “They all died—killed by the vampires. They even said his best friend was one of the kids who died.” Her brows furrow upwards; a mark of heartache instead of her usual irritation. “He watched his best friend die in front of him. I can’t imagine what that’s like.”

I watched my sister die in front of me, too. I watched her eat the demon who lives inside me. I watched two demons chip away at her sanity bit by bit, every day. I watched the red corruption spread across her skin, the whites of her eyes turning black when the namanari took over.

Have you ever seen a demonic possession in-person, Mi-chan? Has that Yuu boy seen it? I doubt it. But I have. 

“That’s probably why he wants to kill the vampires,” Shinoa supplies.

“Mm.” Another emotion seems to fill Mitsuba’s stare, then; something deeper than plain sympathy. She looks at Shinoa with wide, glassy eyes, and that—that’s when the knot in her chest dissipates. “If we were trapped somewhere dangerous, and I was… Let’s say, I couldn’t fight… Would you leave me there?”

“No,” Shinoa answers simply. “I’d drag you out.”

Her eyes grow even wider. They’re like little pockets of space—a deep purple, with the reflection of the flickering building lights acting as stars. “Even if I was dead?”

“I’d haul your corpse over my back and drag you still,” she shrugs. “Even if you were dead, even if you started rotting and spilling maggots all over my shoulder.”

Mitsuba purses her lip. “I’m not going to rot that fast.” 

“With your personality, Mi-chan, you might,” Shinoa simpers. “Not like it matters—I could still carry you, even if other people can’t. I’m strong like that.”

“Thank you,” Mitsuba says quietly, and she sounds almost sentimental. “I’d—I’d drag you out, too.” 

A heartbeat of a moment stretches between them.

Then she squints, and the moment breaks. “What do you mean, even if other people can’t?”

“You’ve been gaining weight, Mi-chan,” Shinoa doesn’t mince her words. “Your chest is getting huge, and I doubt other soldiers would want to carry you in a battlefield. Be grateful you have the coolest best friend in the world.”

The lines of Mitsuba’s face twists in anger. “Shinoa, you—”

Her undignified screech is so loud that from the corner of her vision, Shinoa can see Guren and Yuu looking up to find the source of that grating voice. Instinctively, she wraps her arms around Mitsuba and twists their bodies to the side, hiding behind the large air conditioning unit. Mitsuba’s body falls on top of her with a thumb, that large chest of hers squashing Shinoa’s ribcage. 

“Be quiet, you dummy,” Shinoa sneers, ignoring the enflamed sensation flaring in her torso. Mitsuba’s face is so very, very close, and her blond hair falls around Shinoa’s hair, tangled locks tickling her cheek and nose. Their closed distance lets Shinoa see the lines of Mitsuba’s irises, the contortions of her previous rage molding into a look of surprise. “Do you want to get caught stalking Guren-chusa’s protege?”

“N-no,” Mitsuba stammers, flustered. Her palms are planted firmly on the concrete floor, right next to both sides of Shinoa’s head. “No, I just—I wouldn’t have shouted like that if you’d—” her sentence fades into a frustrated groan. “Stop provoking me when we’re sneaking around.”

Maybe I’d stop provoking you if you weren’t so easy to provoke, is the response that Shinoa would typically give. In fact, it’s on the tip of her tongue. She need only speak the words into existence.

But she doesn’t. Because she can’t. Because she’s close to thirteen years old, and she’s currently being pinned down by the most beautiful person she knows. Because their bodies are changing, and so are their minds, making them want things they’ve never wanted before—things that have been forbidden to her, things that Mahiru said she’ll feel for a boy someday.

There is a key factor, however:

Mitsuba is not a boy. 

Eve and the apple. Juliet and the man from an enemy bloodline. Orihime and Hikoboshi. 

She’s not supposed to be thinking any of these things. 

She doesn’t know it, but years, years later, when everything’s fallen apart—she can pinpoint this moment as the beginning of the end. 

*

Compared to the tumultuous storm that is her family, Shinoa’s middle school life is relatively boring. Near the closing of her first year, she gets good grades in all of her classes, she answers correctly to every question that lands on her seat, and she’s even made a decent number of friends. Granted, most of them are Mitsuba’s friends who only befriended her because they’re constantly around each other, but still, it’s the thought that counts.

Mitsuba once said the two of them don’t need to be popular, but they do have to be well-liked enough to inspire loyalty and hopefully persuade a fresh wave of youth to enlist in the army. As such, she’s polished her rocky temper at the start of the year with the purpose of herding enough friends for the both of them.

She’s done a good job. Their friend group—or at least, the people they usually sit with at lunch—is a collection of six to seven boys and girls who are clever enough, friendly enough, and polite enough to warrant a conversation. The problem is that they’re all kind of boring compared to the explosive blonde Shinoa’s come to know all these years, but she manages a regular sense of humor and a practised smile anyway—as expected of a Hiiragi girl.

Their names are Akemi, Nobuko, Minoru, Kyoko, Hideo, Fumi, and Ayane. They have all experienced loss; parents for most, siblings for some. Shinoa empathises with them, even if she doubts any of them have ever lost their loved one in such a dramatic way like she did.

Today, Ayane is having lunch with a different group, so only six of them sit in a circle at the back of the classroom opening their bento.

Shinoa huddles next to Mitsuba as she often does, and notices the shy glances Hideo keeps throwing Mitsuba’s way. She wonders why a feeling of complete and utter revulsion crawls up her throat, then, and surmises it must be because she’s hungry.

“Your lunch looks yummy today, Mitsuba,” Hideo compliments.

“It’s matching with Shinoa’s,” Fumi points out.

“Hm?” Mitsuba looks down on her lunchbox as if to confirm that her food is, indeed, edible. “Oh, yeah. Shinoa and I went shopping for frozen foods together. That’s why her bento looks coherent,” she gestures to Shinoa’s box, “I’m the one who made it.”

The past few years have seen significant progress in restoring the agriculture and livestock productions. As such, the communal kitchen Shinoa and Mitsuba used to visit has been shut down, and a small part of the economy is slowly returning with people being able to buy foodstuffs in grocery stores again. If it weren’t for the fact that Shinoa and Mitsuba are awful at cooking, they’d be more happy about it, and that’s exactly what prepared foods are for. 

“Do you always have to go shopping for groceries, Mitsuba-san?” Akemi asks. “I thought, you know… With you being a Sanguu, the JIDA would regularly send you food, and you’d have chefs to cook for you or something.”

Mitsuba shakes her head vigorously, a beam of pride filling her eyes as she seems to find another opportunity to preach JIDA military propaganda. “The JIDA insists on treating me—and all the noble families—like every other person,” she affirms. “We don’t get any special perks. We have to climb the ranks like everyone else who joins the military, and our family names mean nothing. For the JIDA, everyone is equally as valuable if we’re going to take down the vampires.”

Shinoa has to bite the inside of her cheek to keep herself from laughing. There’s so many things wrong with Mitsuba’s lecture, she doesn’t even know where to begin. The other students believe it, though; they stare at her with wide, bright eyes, eating up her words like she’s the second coming of Christ. 

“Maybe I have a shot at making Sergeant, then,” Minoru jokes, taking a bite out of his lunch—fat, steamed sausages. “Do you guys think I could get Cursed Gear?”

Fumi snorts. “The sword would probably slip from your hand the second you pick it up.”

“Hey,” Minoru nudges her shoulder, indignant. “I’ve still got time to train before then. And who says I’m gonna choose a sword, anyway?” 

“It is the most common weapon,” Shinoa comes to Fumi’s defense. “Most new recruits assume they’re going to be given a sword.”

“Really?” The probing question comes from Nobuko.

Ah, right. The doubt comes as no surprise; in fact, Shinoa’s counting on it. Though their lunch circle knows Mitsuba is a Sanguu, they’re blissfully unaware that Shinoa is a Hiiragi. She made that decision at the start of the school year, and she asked Mitsuba to keep it a secret, too. Mitsuba, thankfully, agreed—even if she didn’t fully understand. Nevertheless, Shinoa’s seen how students treat Mitsuba knowing her family name; she’d hate to see how they’d treat her, knowing she outranks Mitsuba by a mile.

Shinoa shrugs. “I heard it from the soldiers patrolling the streets. They said they wanted swords, and they were surprised when they got assigned a spear type.”

“What weapon are you hoping to get when you join the ranks, Mitsuba?” Kyoko asks. They all know Mitsuba’s enlistment is inevitable. 

“Something big,” Mitsuba answers. She’s started digging in, too; she tosses a piece of minced nugget into her mouth. “I don’t want a sword—the momentum’s just not enough for me, so I need something with more weight to it.” Suddenly, she seems a bit shy, eyes flickering downwards as her lips curve into a bashful smile. “Speaking of… I have something to tell you guys.”

Shinoa perks up. It sounds like Mitsuba’s making an announcement, but she hasn’t informed Shinoa of anything big going on in her life lately. No, whatever she’s about to say right now is being spoken for the first time in front of this small crowd.

That’s… Strange. Mitsuba normally tells Shinoa everything. 

Everyone huddles closer, eager.

“I’ve signed up for the newest batch of soldiers,” she declares proudly. “If all goes well and I’m accepted, I should be sent on my first mission in a couple of months.”

The group erupts with gasps and a flurry of supportive questions.

“You’re so young,” Minoru exclaims, but the look on his face shows he’s thoroughly impressed. “Are they gonna let you in?”

“What kind of missions do you reckon they’re going to give you, Mitsuba-san?” Akemi looks just about ready to start a shrine dedicated to Mitsuba’s honor. 

“If they send you out of the walls, you have to take pictures,” Fumi grabs Mitsuba’s hands and starts shaking them, pleading. “Please, please. I haven’t seen the outside world in so long—I think I’ve forgotten what the rest of Tokyo even looks like.”

“If you see vampires, take pictures, too,” Nobuko adds excitedly. “I’ve never actually seen one up close—I’ve only ever seen Horsemen before.”

“The world outside the walls is dangerous,” Hideo mumbles, flinching at the mention of vampires. “You should be careful if they send you out there.”

“Calm down, everyone,” Shinoa finally speaks, a little louder than everyone else. She throws her arm around Mitsuba’s shoulder and heaves her down playfully, “I’m sure our Mi-chan here has lots of training to do before she can even hope to land her first mission, so there’s no need to worry about her getting captured by vampires.” She rubs her fist against Mitsuba’s cheek; Mitsuba lets out a garbled yelp. “And I’ve seen her fight before. If the JIDA know what’s good for them, they won’t let her age get in the way.”

Any trace of annoyance left on Mitsuba’s face vanishes at Shinoa’s words of encouragement, replaced instead with a look of awe. With how rarely the two genuinely compliment each other, moments like this are few.

“That’s right,” Mitsuba stumbles, righting herself. She wriggles out of Shinoa’s grip, “I’m probably going to be rotated to different stations, have me get to know all my superiors, see which one works best for me. Then… Well, let’s hope I get assigned a beginner squad,” she finishes with a big, toothy grin. “I’ve wanted this since I was a kid—it feels kind of crazy seeing it all happen so fast.” 

“When are you getting the results?” Kyoko asks giddily, lunchbox forgotten. “You’ll tell us when you do, right?”

“Of course I will,” Mitsuba reassures, and Shinoa’s reminded once more that Mitsuba didn’t tell her about this before telling their friends—none of whom are as close to the girls as they are with each other. Honestly, they’re more like figureheads to fill in the blanks most of the time. “The results are going to be posted at the JIDA lobby in two weeks. I’m literally buzzing over how excited I am—here, feel my arm.” 

She puts her hand forward, and everyone rushes to feel the tremors on her skin, the conversation falling into a chatter of congratulatory remarks and naive fantasies of how many monsters they would kill. As the others ramble about the great feats they want to accomplish as future soldiers for the army, Mitsuba’s eyes meet Shinoa’s to ask an unspoken question. 

You’re coming with me to see the results, right? 

Shinoa isn’t exactly bothered that Mitsuba told everyone the news before sharing it with her, but whatever odd feeling that’s bubbled up from that particular decision of hers seems to dissolve at the promise that they would get to do something together again, just the two of them, without any of their classmates. She returns Mitsuba’s gaze with one of her own:

Duh, you idiot. As if I’d miss out on something like this. 

Mitsuba’s smile returns, and Shinoa knows she got her message across. 

As promised, two weeks later, the two girls wait at the front lobby of JIDA’s tower. They’ve been waiting for the past half an hour, and they don’t seem to be the only ones; Shinoa can spot other anxious cadets pacing the lobby. A board has been arranged in the middle of the large chamber; she assumes that’s where the results will be posted. 

From behind the door, two men in military uniform pop up, one of them carrying a folder full of papers. The man with the folder begins taping the papers to the board, his assistant quickly helping him and getting the job done faster. Right next to her, Shinoa can feel Mitsuba bouncing her leg in anticipation.

“You’re going to be accepted,” Shinoa whispers. “Relax. This announcement’s just going to be telling you what you already know.” 

Mitsuba doesn’t say anything. Apparently, becoming a soldier is so nerve-wracking that it manages to silence even her potty mouth.

When the men finally finish posting the results, all the waiting cadets immediately flock to the board, Mitsuba included—dragging a stumbling Shinoa behind her. They force their way through the crowd, using their adolescent bodies to their advantage as they sneak past teenagers and adults much bigger than them. They still show up breathless on the other side of the packed gathering, though, and it takes all of their remaining energy to scan the papers for Mitsuba’s name.

Shinoa is barely half-way through one of the papers on the left end of the board when she hears Mitsuba’s shriek.

“I got accepted!” She shouts, and that’s the only warning Shinoa receives before she barrels towards Shinoa and crushes her in an airlocked hug. The hug is so fierce that Shinoa finds herself toppling over under the momentum of Mitsuba’s excitable form, dragging both of them down, but she doesn’t seem to care. The joy of her enlistment overwhelms her so much that she’s making a scene, here in the lobby of the army’s headquarters, arms wrapped around Shinoa’s smaller frame as the rest of the cadets stare. “I got accepted, I got accepted, they actually accepted me—”

“I told you they would, you idiot,” Shinoa tries to say, but she hears the strain of her own voice, the way her syllables break. A passerby might think she sounds flustered, which is absurd, because there is nothing to be flustered about. Mitsuba is the one who’s embarrassing herself. “You didn’t listen to me.”

Mitsuba finally frees Shinoa from the bear hug to sit on the floor, helping Shinoa up. The smile on her face is so brilliant that, coupled with her golden blonde hair, Shinoa almost wonders if she’s looking at the sun. Everything about Mitsuba is just warmth; pure, unabashed warmth—even when she’s angry, even when they’re arguing.

“I’m going to work hard, Shinoa,” she swears. They’re standing up; Mitsuba loops an arm around Shinoa’s elbow, pressing her cheek to Shinoa’s own on their way out of the building. “I’m going to work hard, and they’ll have to make me squad leader. You know what that means?”

Shinoa shakes her head. 

Mitsuba brightens even more, somehow. “It means I get to choose who I want to work with,” she says happily. “I was always—you’ve always known I would choose you to be with me. But I promise, Shinoa—I’ll make you my second in command, too.”

“Fancy,” Shinoa giggles.

You’ve always known I would choose you to be with me.

An ambiguous sentence, with a Colosseum’s worth of room for interpretation when spoken without context. Words are funny that way. Shinoa thinks about how speech and language are heavily dependent on context, and then she thinks about it some more, because she truly can’t afford to let her mind wander right now.

“You and I are going to take back Japan,” Mitsuba vows.

They celebrate by getting ice cream—chocolate chip for Mitsuba, strawberry lemon for Shinoa. The rest of the day is spent sitting underneath the shade of a chipped patio, sharing their treats, Mitsuba chattering fanatically about her army dreams as Shinoa listens with the quiet dread of a girl who knows her world is going to end.

This must be how my sister felt, Shinoa muses, watching the sparkle in Mitsuba’s eyes glimmer with renewed enthusiasm the more she talks about her battlefield plans. That night, when the final beats of her plan were in motion. When everyone thought she’d betrayed the family, and the apocalypse was only a trumpet away.

She doesn’t even know why she feels the way she does. If it’s the ambiguous sentence, or if something far more sinister is at play. But she stays quiet; this is Mitsuba’s big day, and she’s always called Shinoa a bitch, but Shinoa’s not big enough of a bitch to actually hurt her like that.

When the night falls and she’s in the safety of her apartment, Shinoa does something she’s never done before:

She prays.

She doesn’t know which religion she should pray to. Before the end of everything, the biggest religion in Japan was Shinto, but even then, this country’s always been rather secular.

The religion that the Hiiragis uphold—or at least, the one her father uses to enforce his doctrine—seems like a bastardisation of Christianity. Violent verses taken in the most literal manner, verses preaching peace smothered and twisted beyond visible recognition. 

She decides to pray to every religion she knows of. Different languages stumble like gravel between her teeth, her Tokyo dialect struggling around the grammar rules, but she persists; Arabic, Hebrew, Latin, Sanskrit, even old Chinese. Anything to placate the unease bubbling inside her. 

She’s probably just being paranoid. But that’s the thing.

She’s never been paranoid.

Shinoa has lived the better part of her entire life blissfully uncaring of everything besides her sister. She’s never been the perfect daughter, but she is the ideal lab rat.

Now…

Do not urge me to leave you or to return from following you. For where you go I will go, and where you lodge I will lodge. Your people shall be my people, and your God my God.

Now, she’s praying. She’s praying, and she hopes the life of a soldier is as daring and adventurous as Mitsuba wants it to be. 

*

That night, she stands in front of her caged heart again. The crack on her chains has evolved from a small line to a gash that runs along the shape of the chainlink.

Shikama’s there, because, of course. 

“I never thought you were the kind of person who prays,” he says. There’s no small talk, no unnecessary flattery—he’s getting straight to the point, which means Shinoa has done something serious. “You continue to surprise me.”

“I aim to please,” Shinoa curtsies mockingly.

Shikama tilts her head. Analysing. Dissecting. He’s a hunter breaking down her weak points, trying to choose which limb to dismantle first.

“He won’t listen, you know,” Shikama says quietly. There is a heaviness to his eyes that indicates he’s speaking from personal experience.

The Father hunches over the marble floor, cradling the dead body of his Son.

“Mika,” the Father whimpers, squeezing his Son’s shoulders. “Mika. Mika, please.” Once he realises begging the Son for his own return is futile, the Father turns his attention towards the sky. There is Someone on the other end of the vast cosmos, and the Father demands Him to listen.

“Please,” he says. “Please. Give him back to me.”

“Who?”

“God.” 

Others may find it a startling revelation that Shikama seems to be familiar with God. Shinoa decides to focus on irrelevant things instead.

“So God is a He?” She asks. “The Christians were right, then.”

“Not quite.” Shikama stares at Shinoa’s beating heart, at the centerpoint of her body where all her blood vessels connect to form one living, breathing soul. “I’m only using the pronoun because it’s the one that most accurately describes Him. His true self is far too abstract for human language to capture.” 

“Most accurate how?” 

He rubs his chin contemplatively, as if considering her question. Then, “Throughout human history, what gender is responsible for the most wars? The most violence, the most anguish?”

Shinoa nods, understanding. “So God is cruel.”

“Very.” 

“More cruel than you?”

He smiles. He looks haunted. “Shinoa,” he hums. “Compared to Him, I am nothing.” 

Shinoa offers no response.

She knows the facts: he has ruined every single facet of her life. He is the reason her sister is dead, he is the reason her family structure is a skeletal imitation of what an actual family should be. He is the reason she cannot be a normal girl. If she so much as entertains the thought of falling in love, he will sink his teeth on her skin and infect her with his own consciousness, then use her body to destroy humanity’s remains.

And yet.

And yet, if his words are to be believed, there is Something worse than him.

Shikama crosses the distance. He cradles Shinoa’s cheek, and despite the disgust that rolls inside her, she doesn’t flinch. She meets his eyes; ancient, omnipresent.

“I know you don’t trust me,” he says. “And yes, I’ll admit I’m not always transparent with you. But please know I’m telling the truth when I say this: if you’re ever made to choose between me and God, choose me. I am the better alternative.”

*

The first few weeks are rather blissful.

Mitsuba still attends classes even as she rotates through her army duties, but it’s rather often that a JIDA messenger will be sent to interrupt lessons and call for her. Shinoa suspects the only reason she hasn’t completely pulled out of school yet is because this brings her pride; she’ll sit at the very back of class, and whenever the messenger pops his head through the door and calls her name, she’ll rise with the biggest grin on her face, strut to the front, and apologise to their teacher that she’ll have to leave. Then, she’ll walk out the classroom with a sashay to her hips.

Shinoa thinks it’s the most obnoxious thing in the world. She grins every time it happens.

Like every other grunt soldier, Mitsuba’s early assignments are mostly wall duty. She does several hours of patrol on the east section each day, and even if Shinoa’s not there to witness it directly, she knows Mitsuba’s probably the most pretentious soldier around. She can picture it in her head; Mitsuba, insisting on walking back and forth down the wall’s perimeter even though there’s the option of sitting on the watchtower, constantly checking her binoculars for any ‘suspicious activity’. She’s bought herself a little notepad, too, Shinoa knows; she’s certain Mitsuba writes down everything she sees in that notepad and reports it to her supervisor at the end of each day.

When Mitsuba’s patrol extends past school hours, Shinoa usually runs to the wall and comes to greet Mitsuba with carton milk and some snacks. She’ll finish up her assignment, climb down, and walk back to Shinoa’s apartment. She tends to rest there for as long as possible; for some reason, being a cadet and coming home to her colonel sister brings her shame, even though she literally just started.

And yet, things don’t change even when Mitsuba gets her own apartment. She’s the best of her batch, performing her duties with sleek rigidness, and the JIDA decides to reward her with a small unit closer to headquarters—closer, too, to Shinoa’s building. She still lazes around in Shinoa’s unit until the hour is dark, skittering back to her unit only when—or if—Shinoa shoves her off the bed and says she doesn’t want to share her space tonight.

Things are going good. Mitsuba comes back with nothing but starry-eyed tales of everything she saw that day, and Shinoa allows herself to believe her prayers have worked.

Then, one day, she gets assigned to a reconnaissance squad.

Shinoa is the first person she tells this time. One moment they’re walking back to her building, and the next, she’s tackled on the floor of an apartment with an overjoyed Mitsuba on top of her, screaming about how she’s going to explore Tokyo beyond the walls with a team of ‘qualified, brave soldiers’.

“They trust me,” she exclaims. “Shinoa, they trust me! Even though I’m only thirteen!”

“That’s great,” Shinoa coughs, a little overwhelmed. “Proud of you, or whatever. Don’t get killed out there—Kumiko’s going to get the title of ‘Girl With the Biggest Chest in Class’ if you’re gone, and I don’t like her that much.” 

“I told you my hardwork was going to get me up the ranks,” Mitsuba flaps her hands giddily, her grin nothing short of triumphant. Then, suddenly, hesitation flickers in her eyes, “Unless… Unless you think they’re only letting me progress this fast because of my family name. You don’t—” she looks at Shinoa— “you don’t think that might be the case, do you?”

“Of course not,” Shinoa laughs. “Mi-chan, come on. Every time something good happens to you—even if it’s just a group of soldiers saying hi to you—you always wonder if it’s because of your family name. Honestly, I don’t think your family’s as important as you think it is.”

“You—” Mitsuba grabs Shinoa’s face and starts squishing her— “you asshole—”

“Listen!” Shinoa grabs Mitsuba’s wrist. “Your family’s not as important as you think it is, so every achievement you get is your own. Stop assuming the worst of people.”

Mitsuba retreats, contemplating. “Maybe you’re right,” she concedes, pulling her knees to her chest. “I just want to be the best soldier I can be, you know.”

“It only took you a few weeks to be the most pretentious soldier you can be,” she snickers. “You can do anything if you put your mind to it, egghead.”

Mitsuba perks up. Shinoa hasn’t used that nickname in years. 

“You’re right,” she says again, more firmly this time. “I can do anything. This mission’s gonna be the smoothest mission my teammates have ever seen.”

Their conversation has the both of them feeling a little more hopeful than usual for the next few days, which is why on the day of Mitsuba’s mission, Shinoa goes to see her before she leaves.

The whole squad is gathered on the exit gate of the northern wall, and other soldiers are there for peacekeeping sake. Shinoa pats Mitsuba’s cheek and wishes her good luck; Mitsuba responds with an uncomfortably long hug that has some of the soldiers staring. If all goes well, Mitsuba’s going to be back just in time the school’s final bell rings, so by the time Shinoa makes it back to the exit gate, Mitsuba will already be in the middle of getting dirt and grime wiped off as she gets ready to change. 

(You know how this story goes. You’ve seen it before.)

(The ending won’t change just because you were there to watch the beginning.)

*

The decision over which snack to get Mitsuba is a complicated one. This is the most important decision Mitsuba’s ever been on; by some mysterious power, Shinoa feels compelled to buy something special. 

She settles on three bags of chips, a packet of bucket-shaped chocolate brownies, two gummy bears, and Mitsuba’s favourite soft drink brand. Only Japanese products are sold in convenience stores these days, since exporting and importing with other countries is next to impossible, so she’s thankful Mitsuba prefers local.

Her bag weighs a little heavier than usual on the walk to the wall. She hears they’re working on reestablishing Japan’s underground subways, and she hopes they get a hand on that soon. Regardless, she makes the trail, and the soldiers allow her into the exit gate watchtower to wait for Mitsuba. Even if they don’t know she’s a Hiiragi, they’re already familiar with her at this point.

She sits on the furthest end of the watchtower. The actual gate is crowded with soldiers, and she’s not particularly interested in huddling with bodies. 

Mitsuba’s not here yet. Shinoa doesn’t panic, though; there’s a lot of reasons she could be a little later than planned. She just keeps waiting.

She stares at the wall. She counts the cracks spreading through the concrete. She counts the uniforms of the soldiers, observing which cadet has their shirt tucked, which cadet is wearing the wrong kind of boots. She checks the snack supply and makes sure they’re all to Mitsuba’s taste. 

When you’ve been alone for as long as Shinoa has, you’ll find that there is no end to what you can do to pass the time.

She’s in the middle of tugging her socks when she hears shouts. 

Like a rolling wave of black fabric, the crowd at the entrance gate suddenly comes to life, breaking out of static formation. There are gasps, screams, gestures that walk the line between panicked and furious. One lone soldier breaks free from the crowd and rushes to the staircase; a messenger, most likely. He’ll be the one reporting the results of the expedition to their direct supervisors, because—

Because the actual team is too incapacitated to do so.

Shinoa can feel her entire body turn cold.

She jumps and runs to the gate, forcing past the others. 

Do not urge me to leave you, or to return from following you.

She elbows past a tall, lanky soldier. 

For where you go I will go, and where you lodge I will lodge.

She squeezes between two wall guards.

Your people shall be my people, and your God my God.

There, standing near the metal railing of the exit gate, is Mitsuba.

She’s completely covered in blood. Her eyes are glazed over, empty.

Shellshocked.

What the hell happened out there? 

All around her, soldiers are grabbing her shoulders, shaking her, demanding answers from her. Some of them are asking where the rest of her squad is; others are asking if she’s wounded, where the blood on her uniform came from. Mitsuba remains quiet, because she can’t speak. The answers have already been written on the splatters of red that stain her cheeks.

Finally, she meets Shinoa’s gaze.

“Shinoa,” Mitsuba whimpers, her voice breaking. “They’re all dead. They’re all dead, because of me.”

When she falls forward and bursts into sobs, Shinoa is there to catch her.

*

After checking to ensure Mitsuba wasn’t suffering from any serious wounds, the soldiers sent her home to nurse her grief.

That was an hour ago. Shinoa was separated from Mitsuba when they ushered her to the nearest army check-point, effectively kicking her out from any discussion of what the loss of an entire squadron meant for the JIDA. Of course, things like that wouldn’t happen if people know of her family status, but she doesn’t care. The only thing she cares about is the one squad member who survived.

I care about her, Shinoa muses. It sounds obvious now that she’s verbalised it in her head, but she’s known by now that feelings come rather slow to her. She’s never put much thought into why she keeps hanging out with Mitsuba, or why she makes an effort to see Mitsuba every day. Why follows Mitsuba’s whims, even when she finds them shallow, simply because Mitsuba’s smile makes her stomach flutter.

The realisation should terrify her. Her sister’s warnings ring heavy in her head, but underneath the urgency of Mahiru’s ghostly, screaming voice, there’s another:

You should know, I don’t mind you wandering from my path. I just didn’t think it would be with a girl.

Not a day goes by where Shikama’s cryptic message doesn’t haunt her. Sometimes, it feels like he’s right next to her, whispering the words in her earlobe, each syllable embedding itself in her mind just as they had the day he first spoke the words. She’s turned his sentences backwards and over in her head, but no matter how hard she tries, she hasn’t been able to dissect the meaning.

She can’t do that now, though. Now, she’s walking through the cosmopolitan side of Tokyo—the parts that survived the apocalypse, at least. Somewhere in the city, her best friend is probably crying herself to sleep in her apartment, and Shinoa wants to give her something that can help ease the ache.

But… What? What can she give? What meager offering could she possibly procure that would make up for the trauma of witnessing your team getting slaughtered in front of you? Shinoa’s seen the blood on Mitsuba’s shirt, and her rigorous education of bodies and battle provides her mind with a reimagining of the angles the splatters could have come from. Everyone on that squad died a brutal death—that’s for sure.

So nothing’s going to cut it. Nothing’s going to ease the ache. There’s not a single item in the city Shinoa can buy that will make Mitsuba feel better, but she can’t just knock on the poor girl’s unit carrying a bag of schoolchildren snacks. 

So, she buys flowers. She feels stupid even doing it, feels stupid as she slides the yen across the counter. She walks to Mitsuba’s building clutching a bouquet of lilies and violets, dreading the very second she has to knock on the door.

She doesn’t even know what to say. 

I’m sorry for your loss.

That’s even dumber than the flowers.

They’re in a better place now.

Their mangled corpses are still lying on the streets, though. 

There was nothing you could have done.

Mitsuba would hate that. Mitsuba would hate her.

I don’t want Mitsuba to hate me, she thinks, and Shikama’s whispers grow louder. 

She raps her knuckles on Mitsuba’s door. 

Nothing.

She knocks louder.

Nothing again.

Of course. Of course. Mitsuba is the prideful sort. She wouldn’t want anyone to see her in whatever state she’s in right now, even if that person is Shinoa, her own best friend.

Shinoa sighs, leaning against the door.

“Mi-chan,” she calls. “Let me in.”

No answer.

“You’re only going to feel worse if you go through this alone,” Shinoa continues, but well, she doesn’t fucking know that. Maybe Mitsuba does need to be alone right now. Maybe the only reason Shinoa’s moping outside her apartment door like a spurned lover is some selfish desire to see, with her own eyes, that her best friend is partially okay. Sane, at the very least. Coherent. Conscious.

A sudden, ice-cold feeling washes over Shinoa’s mind. 

“Mitsuba,” she says, knocking rapidly. “Mitsuba—Mitsuba. Are you in there?”

She doesn’t hear anything. 

That’s the problem: she doesn’t hear anything. There’s no sobs, no muffled sniffles that indicate the existence of a girl suppressing her sorrow with a damp pillow.

Shinoa presses her ear flat against the door, hoping, hoping—

There.

She can make out the faint sound of trickling water. 

The pit of dread in her chest widens, a chasm of terror ready to swallow her alive.

Shinoa bangs on the door, screaming Mitsuba’s name once more.

When that doesn’t work, she gathers her strength in the pinpoint of her elbow and heaves forward with all her strength. The door cracks, hinges breaking, and Shinoa stumbles inside with a heart racing fast enough for the demon inside her to devour everything she has. Shikama is close to the surface—she can feel him trying to tear through her skin—but in that moment, there is something more important than the death and destruction he’ll bring if she lets him break free.

She runs to the source of the trickling water, finding herself in front of Mitsuba’s bathroom.

No. No, no, no—

She repeats the same steps as before: elbow, forward, inside. This time, the door almost splinters under the weight of her panic.

There, on the overflowing bathtub, lies her best friend of three years. 

She’s stripped down to her undershirt, the fabric soaked completely. Her hair is wet and stringy, and her eyes are closed, as if she’s asleep. As if she’s simply enjoying a much needed warm bath.

Except the water spreading across the floor is mixed with red.

Mitsuba’s wrists hang limply over the threshold of the tub, and on her skin, Shinoa sees razor-thin lines oozing blood. 

No, no, no, no, please—

Shinoa should have seen this coming. She should have—she should—she never should have let Mitsuba sign up for the army. Mitsuba’s always been too emotional for her own good, her morals too straight, her fragile heart too open to keep itself from cracking under the loss she’s inevitably going to face as a soldier—

But Shinoa didn’t expect it to happen so soon. 

You’re too late, comes Shikama’s crooning lilt. 

Without thinking, she jumps into the tub, uncaring of the water that drenches her clothes. Her ears are ringing, her fingers are shaking; even her palms tremble as she gathers Mitsuba close, cradling her foolish, foolish best friend. 

“Come on,” Shinoa whispers, grappling for Mitsuba’s pulse. “Come on, you idiot, come on—”

She finds it. It’s faint, but it’s there, the weak thumping of a body on the verge of death. 

Everything’s happening too fast, and Shinoa’s still disoriented. Her vision begins to blur. Shadows creep at the corners of her eyes—the same shadows she saw that day when she sparred with Mitsuba on the rooftop. Her chest begins to rise and fall at a rapid pace, the sound of water pouring out of the tap pierces her eardrums, the only person in the world that she cares about is dying in her arms; all this, all this, and she feels Shikama’s fucking hands closing around her—

Shinoa clears her head and lets instinct take over. 

There we go. This time, the voice sounds like Mahiru.

There is no first-aid kit in Mitsuba’s apartment.

Hospital, then.

Shinoa hauls Mitsuba’s unconscious form over her back, wrapping Mitsuba’s arms around her shoulders so she can grip the girl’s wrists as she starts to move. Water drips down her face, her back, her spine. Blood stains her cheek.

When she makes it past the door, she runs.

She runs like she has never ran before. She runs like she did that December night, the night she lost her sister, the night Shikama festered himself back into her mind.

She runs past the streets, past the buildings, past the wide-eyed people staring at a little girl carrying her best friend on her back. Time becomes a blur, and the running dominates all that Shinoa is. Moving demands so much attention that she can barely focus on where she’s going; she only knows the vague direction of the hospital, the pull of salvation guiding her forward. She puts one foot ahead of the other, her steps remaining strong—but Mitsuba’s weight drags her down, slowing her when she can’t afford to be. 

“If we were trapped somewhere dangerous, and I was… Let’s say, I couldn’t fight… Would you leave me there?”

“No. I’d drag you out.”

“Even if I was dead?”

“I’d haul your corpse over my back and drag you still. Even if you were dead, even if you started rotting and spilling maggots all over my shoulder.”

Mitsuba remains unmoving throughout her sprint. Shinoa doesn’t know how much blood she’s lost, how long she’s been unconscious before Shinoa showed up at her place, and she can’t afford to check. She runs until she sees the silhouette of the gray building she’s been looking for, and only then, does she force her legs to halt.

Two soldiers man the front entrance. She walks to the door.

“Where do you think you’re going?” One of them steps sideways, blocking her.

“Please,” Shinoa manages, but that one, single word comes out barely audible past the sound of her own panting. “M-my friend—she—”

“The hospital’s full,” the other soldier says. “Three squads were sent out today. Only two made it back, and they’re all pretty fucked up.”

That’s—yes. She knows that. Mitsuba’s squad was only one part of a large plan, a three-prong operation meant to hunt down a nomadic group of vampires who carried a significant number of hostages with them. She vaguely remembers Mitsuba telling her about this.

But—

But all three squads did make it back. One of them just happens to have only one survivor. 

“She’s part of the operation,” Shinoa gestures to the girl on her back. “She—she was in Squad #645. Sergeant Matsumoto is—was the leader.” 

One soldier raises an eyebrow. “But they didn’t send her to the hospital straight away?”

“No, she was—she was mostly unharmed, but—”

“So what’s the problem?”

This can’t be happening.

“She—she—” Shinoa fumbles for the words. Can’t they see? There’s a half-dead girl with bleeding wrists and a soaked undershirt on Shinoa’s back, and they’re not doing anything to help, they’re just standing in her way—

She catches their eyes.

They’re looking at Mitsuba’s arms.

Of course they see. Of course they see. That’s exactly why they’re not letting Shinoa past the door.

The JIDA wants soldiers who are willing to give everything they have. They demand loyalty that borders on worship, devotion that skirts close to fanaticism. They have no room to spare for softhearted girls who choose to take their own lives because they can’t handle the guilt of being the sole survivor. That’s a clear sign of weakness, and in the mission to restore humanity, weakness must be culled.

An emotion bubbles inside Shinoa, then. It takes her a while to name it, having never felt it before.

Anger.

She’s only thirteen! Shinoa wants to scream, feeling Mitsuba’s damp cheek press on the back of her head. She’s only thirteen. She’s the most loyal, most devoted person I know, and she’s only thirteen. This can’t be how it ends.

“Please,” Shinoa says again. She’s pleading, begging. Mahiru taught her never to beg, because Hiiragis don’t beg. But Mahiru’s never had to carry the body of her suicidal best friend to a hospital. “Please, she’s—I don’t know when she—I-I’m not sure when she did it, but she’s st-still bleeding, I can feel the—”

“Sorry, kid,” the shorter soldier says. He looks genuinely sympathetic. “It’s hectic in there. I doubt they have any doctors to spare for your friend, anyway.” 

They’re rejecting her. She’s come to them with a soldier in critical condition, and they’re rejecting her. 

For the second time that day, she thinks, This wouldn’t be happening if they know who I am.

“I’m—I-I’m Hiiragi Shinoa,” she croaks. Her back hurts from carrying Mitsuba this long, and that’s nothing to say of the burning pain flaring throughout her legs. She’s going to collapse at any moment, and she needs to get Mitsuba inside. “My name is—I’m Hiiragi Shinoa. Please let me inside.”

The soldier’s sympathy disappears, replaced with amusement. The taller soldier laughs, “Yeah, right, kid. And I’m Hiiragi Suiren. You’re not the only one who can come up with names.” 

They don’t believe her. She’s not surprised. Decades of propaganda have built up the Hiiragis as the closest thing mankind has to gods, with her towering father and her genius older sister at the very top of that coordinated media effort. Shinoa has always been grateful for the larger-than-life caricatures, as it made it easier for her to disappear behind the limelight and distance herself from the grandeur that Tenri has fabricated. No one would ever suspect Shinoa—small, unassuming, shuffling near the corner of every room—is a Hiiragi.

But she needs the influence of her family name now. More than ever, she needs it.

We don’t beg, Mahiru once said. We give orders.

In the pocket of her seifuku, the weight of Shikama’s condensed shape tempts her. 

Shinoa wields the most powerful Cursed Gear in existence. There is not a single demonic weapon in the army that won’t cower under Shikama’s presence. This is her proof, her claim to her own bloodline. 

She reaches for her pocket, hesitating.

She’s never going to come back from this.

“Go home, kid,” the soldier says. “Maybe it’s not as bad as it looks. Your friend might wake up in a few hours.” 

Shinoa reaches for the small rod, hoisting Mitsuba with one arm. Her heartbeat is growing weaker by the second. Her blood drips to the concrete.

Shinoa is familiar with the steps. She spins the rod, and flames burst forth, spilling over her fingers and flooding the hospital courtyard with blackened smoke. She can hear people screaming, can see the soldiers’ faces twisting into a look of mortified horror. The smoke billows outwards, and the rod grows, grows, grows.

When the smoke clears, a large scythe stands beside her. The scythe emanates a low hum, a kind of pulse; the unmistakeable energy of Cursed Gear. 

I knew you’d need me eventually, Shikama murmurs.

“You…” The taller soldier splutters, eyes wide. “Y-you’re… You—”

“My name is Hiiragi Shinoa,” she repeats, summoning her sister’s strength, her brother’s rage. “Get out of my way. That’s an order from my father.”

The soldiers look at each other.

They step aside. 

*

Shinoa is half-way through vomiting the contents of her breakfast into the bowels of a toilet when a nurse knocks on her cubicle.

“Your friend is awake,” comes the nurse’s voice, gentle and sympathetic. “She’s asking for you.”

Shinoa scrambles for the roll of tissue fastened to the wall, then hastily wipes her mouth. She unlocks the cubicle door.

“Is she okay?”

“She’s fine,” the nurse answers. “A little shaken up, but she’s fine. She can go home right after.”

Shinoa nods. “Thank you.”

Hours have passed since she ran through the streets of Shibuya carrying Mitsuba on her back. She’s spent those hours emptying her stomach in the hospital’s bathroom, desperately trying to forget the feeling of Shikama’s grip closing around her face. Her head still spins, and her breath is still coming in short puffs of air, as if her lungs think every intake of oxygen is going to be her last. 

It seemed so real. It was real. Shinoa felt the smooth skin of his palms grazing her cheek just as surely as she felt the damp fabric of her seifuku, as if Shikama himself was crouching in the tub right behind her. But it shouldn’t be possible, since he’s still trapped in her head. The only way he can exist in the physical realm is if he finds a way to take over her mind, and even then, he’d be possessing her body. He wouldn’t manifest a concrete form of his own. Either way, Shinoa’s too well-trained to let that happen. 

Unless—

You can still control your cage, as you know. You can still raise and lower it however you like. But the crack itself won’t disappear—not unless the source of it disappears.

In some ways, I almost prefer this. 

Shinoa prefers not to think about Shikama’s words. This was one of the first lessons Mahiru taught her about him, and about demons in general; never trust the things that come out of their mouth. They’ll say anything to manipulate you, to get a rise out of you and gauge your reaction so they can get under your skin. In theory, it’s better to just ignore whatever he says. 

But there’s something different about that particular conversation, something that sets it apart from his typical manipulation. There’s the strange occurrences, too; the dark shadows that appear in the corner of her vision, the sudden hum of his voice even when she’s fully conscious. 

Before, Shikama could only talk to her if she was asleep. He was never capable of speaking to her when she was out and about in the world. The shadows are new as well; there’s a before and after to this, and Shinoa feels like she should be able to pinpoint the specific threshold. Before and after, before and after—before and after what, exactly?

Before Mitsuba, her own mind supplies. 

She smothers that thought just as quickly as it appears, and opens the doors to the hospital’s main quarters. 

There are ten beds in this wing, five on each side. Nine are occupied. Mitsuba’s bed is on the farthest corner of the room, and even before Shinoa treads close, she can see the haunted look in her best friend’s eyes as she stares at a wall. She makes no move as Shinoa approaches, her bandaged arms positioned limp to her sides.

“Mi-chan,” Shinoa calls gently, sitting on the stool next to her bed.

Mitsuba doesn’t respond. She continues staring at the wall.

“Mi-chan,” Shinoa tries again. This time, she reaches forward and touches Mitsuba’s hand. She doesn’t entwine her fingers the way both of them often do when they hold each other; she’s just brushing their knuckles together. A hesitant touch—the kind of touch you give when you’re asking for permission to get closer. 

Finally, Mitsuba speaks.

“Why didn’t you just let me die?” 

Shinoa knows pain. She knows it like the back of her hand. She knows the burn of a needle embedding itself deep inside her womb, knows the ache of her sister’s palms colliding with her skin. And yet, none of that compares to the sting of Mitsuba’s reply, a blade driven and twisted through Shinoa’s heart. 

“I couldn’t,” Shinoa answers simply. She doesn’t have much else to say.

Mitsuba remains quiet for several seconds. She’s wearing a plain hospital gown, her blonde hair loose from the usual twintails. Golden blonde, honey blonde—the kind of blonde that reminds Shinoa of sunlight. Not… The other kind.

“It’s my fault,” Mitsuba speaks again. She sounds empty, like someone’s carved out the insides of her body. “I was… We were in the third stage of the plan. We’d passed the first checkpoint, then the district square, and then…” She falters, still refusing to lock eyes. “A Horseman showed up. It’s one of the bigger ones; I could tell. It’s much bigger than the one we saw that day we climbed the wall.” 

Shinoa lets Mitsuba talk, lets her linger on insignificant details. Anything to dispel the ghosts burrowing themselves in Mitsuba’s mind.

“And then I…” She wavers. Her bottom lip wobbles, and her fingers twitch. She shifts her eyes from the wall to her lap. “I broke formation. I broke—I broke f-formation. I wanted to… I thought we could… I thought we could kill it. There were five of us, and it was just one Horseman, so I—and then—and then I—”

The tears begin to stream. They trickle down her cheeks like crystal droplets, falling onto the scratchy blanket that covers her knees. “I t-tried—I aimed f-for the neck with T-Tenjiryu,” she sniffles, her fingers instinctively clenching around the phantom feel of her axe’s handle. “And it—it—everything happened so f-fast, I was—I-I got thrown off, and then…” She’s fully crying, now, “The next m-moment, I was—there was—I’m on the floor, and Sergeant M-Matsumoto is right there, he’s—he’s right there, he’s in front of me, and—and—”

Mitsuba dissolves into shattered sobs, her pained whimpers breaking the rhythm of the hospital wing’s mechanical beeping noises. Shinoa, unsure of what else there is to do, crawls onto the bed and gathers Mitsuba into her arms. This seems to be the correct option; Mitsuba melts in her embrace, coiling around Shinoa’s abdomen and gripping the fabric of Shinoa’s freshly-changed uniform hard enough to rip through.

“The Horseman g-got him,” Mitsuba sobs, equal parts shame and grief clouding her words. “The—it—and it—it got the others, too, and they’re all d-dead or—or—or they can’t even get up, can’t get up to run, and I’m the only one left, and the Sergeant—he knew that, so he t-told me—he told me t-to run—and I ran because I’m a fucking coward—”

Mitsuba’s drowned herself in the kind of crying that hurts, the kind that causes actual physical pains. Shinoa knows this because her chest heaves rapidly, and there’s a wrinkle forming in the temples of her head that indicates a mind-numbing headache. If the scars of her suicide attempt aren’t enough to burn, surely the pain of her sobs should complete that task. She cries like she’s never cried before in her life, like she intends to regurtitate all her sins with each teardrop, and Shinoa feels like a little girl on Christmas Eve again. 

She’s never been taught to comfort anyone before. She’s been taught to compliment, to simper, to smile and wave politely, but genuine comfort is a foreign entity to her. Since they were old enough to comprehend words, the Hiiragis have been forbidden from regarding each other as family, from finding warmth and love in each other. Her sister went against that rule in secret, but even then, there was only so much Mahiru could do with the weight of the world on her shoulders. 

So she says nothing. Everything she came up with earlier when she planned to visit Mitsuba with flowers disappears, irrelevant in the face of such overwhelming sorrow. The curtains have been drawn around the bed’s perimeter, at least; they’re afforded some privacy. 

“Why didn’t you just let me die?” Mitsuba asks again. “I-I saw—I saw the Horseman kill him, I saw it sink its t-teeth down h-his shoulders, and the f-fucking—the sound of his bones crunching,” the last syllable dissolves into a muffled shriek, “I wanted t-to be—I should have been—it was my fault, Shinoa, and I should have been the one in his place, so why couldn’t you just let me die—”

Because I can’t, her mind repeats. I can’t let you die. You’re the one person who’s not allowed to die. I let Him take everything; I let Him take my mother, I let Him take my sister. Not you. Not you, Mitsuba.

You’re stuck here with me until the fucking end. 

“I should have died out there,” Mitsuba screams this time, rattling Shinoa’s shoulder. “I should have died in that fucking bathtub—”

“Do you think you have a choice?” The words spill past her lips before Shinoa can even process them in her mind. She doesn’t know what to say, but now that she has forced herself to speak, she finds that she can’t stop talking. “Mitsuba, you’re—you are thirteen years old. They sent you on a mission to capture vampires when you’re not even in high school yet. Do you seriously think your squad had a shot of making it out, all of you?”

Mitsuba’s stunned to silence, glassy eyes wide. There’s hurt written in the crease of her brows, but Shinoa’s not done. 

“Sergeant Matsumoto gave his life for you,” Shinoa says firmly, gripping Mitsuba by the shoulders. She knows this is only going to spur Mitsuba’s guilt; knows that in the long run, she’s only haunting Mitsuba even further. But this is what works now—this is the only thing that can get her to realise she has to keep living, right now. “Are you going to throw away his sacrifice because you can’t bear that everyone else died but you? Don’t you think maybe there’s a reason for that?”

“I—I—” Mitsuba stutters, hoarse. 

“What happened wasn’t your fault,” Shinoa inches closer, pressing her forehead to Mitsuba’s. She’s warm, even now, even like this. “You couldn’t control it. But you can control what you do next. So either your whole squad died for nothing, or you give their death meaning.” She cups Mitsuba’s cheek, “Come on, Mitsuba. You’re the one who told me the army needs more people than ever if we’re going to take down the vampires.”

“I’m just one soldier,” Mitsuba weeps. “I’m just one f-failure of a soldier, I—I’m no use to the army—”

“Everyone’s of use to the army,” Shinoa cuts off, fierce. “And I’m not going to let you die just because you haven’t realised it.”

Mitsuba burrows her head in Shinoa’s shoulder again, dissolving into tears for a second time. Her bandages have come loose in the midst of her own frantic moves, and underneath the gauze, Shinoa can see the remains of her scars. She tries to imagine how Mitsuba must have felt in that moment; the loss pulling her underneath a wave of everlasting trauma, the vision of her comrades’ slaughter replaying over and over in her head. She’s seen grown men become insane from it, and Mitsuba’s barely a teenager. 

The Japanese Imperial Demon Army are enlisting teenagers. 

This isn’t news. This has been a well-known fact for years, and that’s not even the worst thing they’ve done. For that secret, Shinoa’s the one bearing the scars.

But it feels so much closer now, the reality of it. It feels so much more concrete.

Shinoa hugs Mitsuba closer, protective. 

Possessive. 

It has taken Mitsuba slitting her wrists in an empty bathroom for Shinoa to realise she would sooner burn down the army than watch her best friend lose her mind. 

I don’t care about the JIDA, she thinks. I don’t care about my family’s politics. I don’t care about the rest of the world dying. I’m doing everything my sister’s asked of me, and I’m doing it well.

But I care about this. I should be allowed to care about this. This is just one person, after all.

There’s no harm in just one friend.

“Shinoa?”

“Hm?” Shinoa tangles her fingers in Mitsuba’s hair.

“I think I prefer you calling me ‘Mi-chan’.”

Shinoa laughs. Mitsuba laughs, too, even if it’s a choked laugh.

“Duly noted,” Shinoa says.

Mitsuba wipes her tears, then smiles. Her hair’s a fucking mess, and her face is all blotchy and red. Even her smile is crooked; her lips are puffy, and there’s streaks of snot running down her nose. 

She’s the most beautiful girl Shinoa’s ever seen.

“Shinoa,” Mitsuba calls her name again, in that distinct way of hers. “Tha—”

The doors to the hospital wing open. From the gap in the curtains, Shinoa sees two soldiers entering the large chamber. The atmosphere turns colder with each step they take, somehow, and Shinoa watches them ignore the other soldiers’ beds as they cross the room.

They stop in front of Mitsuba’s section. One of them draws the curtains. Thinking they’ve come to punish her for her desertion, Mitsuba cowers behind Shinoa, and Shinoa shields her instinctively. They won’t lay a hand on her—not while Shinoa remains.

To her surprise, however, one of the soldiers say, “Miss Hiiragi Shinoa?”

“That’s me,” Shinoa admits. Soldiers don’t typically speak to her. Most of the time, they don’t even know she exists. Her performance at the hospital square must have made its rounds already.

The soldier beckons for her to come with them, the gesture polite but urgent. “You’ve been summoned by Lieutenant General Hiiragi.”

*

Despite attending his birthday party every year, Shinoa hasn’t actually seen her brother since Mahiru deserted her family. 

She doesn’t have particularly fond feelings about him, since he did threaten to have her raped, but she knows it’s nothing personal. Kureto would say anything to get the information he needs, and Shinoa doesn’t have fond feelings for most of everyone, anyway.

Except for Mitsuba. 

The soldiers ushered her to an armored car, then drove half-way across the city to the JIDA headquarters. There, they led her to one of the top floors, stopping in front of a lounge room situated at the very end of a narrow corridor. This is where she’s currently standing; hand hovering over the door’s handle, debating on whether she should face her brother head-on, or run and never look back. 

She chooses the first option.

Having been raised to regard each other as brutal competition, the Hiiragi children are solitary by nature. Imagine Shinoa’s surprise, then, when she finds not only Lieutenant General Hiiragi Kureto sitting on a lavish sofa, but Seishiro next to him, as well, sulking as if he would rather be someplace else. Truthfully, Shinoa would rather him be someplace else, too.

“Shinoa,” Kureto greets, his tone clipped and formal. He sits with a calm, straight posture, looking more like a polished statue than a human being. Who would have known that underneath that calm facade lay a monster of a man? “Sit.”

She sits on the sofa across his own. There’s a coffee table with a porcelain tea set between them. Kureto doesn’t pour her a cup.

“Nii-san,” Shinoa returns the greeting.

“I heard what you did earlier,” Kureto doesn’t waste time with pleasantries. “You saved the Sanguu girl’s life.”

Shinoa nods. Soldiers sure talk fast. “I did.”

“I’d like to know why.” 

Ah. Even someone as detached as Shinoa can sense the beginning winds of trouble.

“She’s my friend,” she answers honestly.

“You’re friends with cowards, are you?” Seishiro sneers, leaning back. 

Shinoa doesn’t dignify him with a response. 

Kureto, while obviously disapproving, takes a classier approach. “What she did was selfish,” he says. “Humanity’s population is already small as it is. We’re a shadow of our former glory. The last thing we need is people who think they can just take their own lives at a whim.” 

Shinoa nods. With her brother, it’s best to just preen and agree. “I understand, Nii-san.”

“I’m not certain you do.”

“I do, Nii-san. I’ll tell Mi-chan what she did was wrong, and I’ll help her be a loyal soldier from now on.” 

It is only when she catches the twitch of her brother’s eye that she realises her mistake. 

She used a nickname. 

“Mi-chan,” he repeats.

“Mitsuba,” Shinoa corrects herself, keeping her voice steady. “That’s her name.” 

Seishiro’s features wrinkle with mockery, but Kureto remains static as usual. He’s always wearing that triumphant smile on his face, regardless of whether he’s truly winning—or if he’s even in a position to win. He’s so accustomed to control that it comes naturally to him, and if Shinoa wants to survive this meeting, she’ll need to tread within the lines. 

“You’re close to her,” he notes.

Shinoa doesn’t hesitate. Hesitating only makes things worse. “We’re friends,” she says casually. 

“Friends,” he goes on, “Who use nicknames.” 

“Don’t friends usually do that?” She offers an airy smile. “Guren-chusa does that with his squad members.” 

“Ichinose Guren,” Kureto drawls, “Is not a Hiiragi.” 

His life would probably be easier if he was, Shinoa thinks. She’s pretty sure Tenri would tolerate incest more than he would tolerate his prized daughter slumming it down with an Ichinose. 

“That he’s not,” Shinoa says simply.

“I’m sure you understand there are certain things us Hiiragis should refrain from,” he speaks. “Nothing’s forbidden from us, of course, but still, there are lines we shouldn’t cross. This kind of closeness is one such line.” He fixes her a serious look, “In the future, you might find yourself in a situation where you’ll have to abandon your team members. I plan on putting you and your friend in the same squad, now that I know you two are familiar—a previous bond helps to make your teamwork smoother. But I need to know if you’re capable of doing what you need to do when the time comes.”

“You won’t have to worry about that. Nee-san trained me for this.”

If the mention of Mahiru affects him, Kureto doesn’t show it. 

“Good.” Kureto clasps his hands, looking at Seishiro. “Do you have anything to add?”

This is a test. Shinoa can see that clearly; if Mahiru was here, she’d be able to see it too. But Seishiro’s always been the slowest out of all of them.

Seishiro merely laughs, flashing his typical sleazy grin. “You should seriously start paying attention to the optics, Shinoa,” he snickers.

Coming from a man who regularly forces himself onto girls…

“How do you mean, Nii-san?”

“I mean,” Seishiro massages his nose in a distinctly condescending fashion, as if advising his little sister is such a burden to him, “After all the shit we went through with Mahiru five years ago, the last thing we need is people thinking the youngest Hiiragi kid’s a queer.”

Kureto reacts before Shinoa even registers what he says.

He grabs a fistful of Seishiro’s hair and throws him across the room, the momentum of his stride so great that Seishiro crashes onto a series of drawers hard enough to splinter the wood. He barely has time to let out a pained whine before Kureto comes to him, gathering the scruff of his uniform and sending gloved knuckles flying across Seishiro’s cheek.

Shinoa forces her expression to remain placid. It doesn’t matter how she feels on the inside; if the sickening crack of Seishiro getting pummeled reminds her of her own nights with Mahiru, if she’s baffled senseless as to why Kureto is giving such a strong reaction to something that seems like just another one of Seishiro’s crude remarks. Being able to keep a stoic exterior in the face of danger is the most basic Hiiragi trait; if Shinoa can’t even do that, she might as well ditch her last name.

And she wants to. She wants to ditch her last name so very much. But that has never been possible to her; not then, on that December night, and not now, when there’s a girl in the hospital who relies on Shinoa’s reputation. 

“Aniki,” Seishiro croaks. His attempt at speaking is rewarded with another fist to his cheek. This goes on again and again and again; the eldest Hiiragi son, raining blows and punches on his little brother—his only full-blooded sibling. Seishiro is bleeding down his forehead now, his left eye bruised and engorged, his lip deformed and split open. He looks just like Shinoa did that night Mahiru started beating her, when she vowed to make Shinoa strong enough to face Shikama someday. “A-Aniki, please—”

“Your loose mouth is going to get us all in trouble someday,” Kureto’s cadence is heartbreakingly neutral. He flattens his palm and strikes again; a backhanded slap this time, far more degrading than an actual punch. Punching is a ragged, violent thing, but slapping denotes superiority. It’s the kind of thing you do to let someone know they’re beneath you. 

“I—I don’t—” he’s silenced with another slap, palm forward. He doesn’t even think of fighting back; even though his arms and legs probably ache from the throw, they’re still free, and he can still wriggle his way out of this. But he won’t, because that’s just the kind of effect Kureto has on him. On everyone.

Kureto walks to the end of the room, dragging a sniveling Seishiro with him. Shinoa remains silent as his crumpled body passes in front of her, refusing to meet his eyes. Then, Kureto starts banging his head against the wall, over and over again, almost rhythmic. 

Your existence has no value. You are incompetent. You are powerless. You have no will. You have no emotions.

But that’s not what Kureto says. Instead, he lowers himself to Seishiro’s level.

“Our little sister is an impressionable young girl,” he says. “The last thing she needs is strange ideas filling her mind.” 

“I get it,” Seishiro pleads. Truly, this is all that he is. He corners women behind dark alleyways and surrounds himself with softer men who never say no to his whims, because this is all that he is. The weakest Hiiragi, the slowest Hiiragi; stronger than most, certainly, but that is not enough when you have a surname of such gravity. “I get it, Aniki, I—I won’t—I’ll—”

Finally, Kureto releases him.

“Be grateful that you’re a Hiiragi,” he states. Not, Be grateful that you’re my brother. “If it weren’t for our family name, I would have plucked your teeth out one by one. But Father can’t afford to have one of his Major Generals showing up with missing teeth.”

“Father is—we can’t d-disappoint Father,” Seishiro hiccups. For all that the Hiiragi children have been trained to withstand torture, there is something different about the pain coming from your own sibling. Shinoa supposes no amount of repression can erase that.

I love you, Shinoa. 

“Go. Clean yourself up.”

Seishiro shuffles out of the room. 

Kureto discards his bloodied gloves and tosses them onto the coffee table. Then, he stands in front of Shinoa. 

“Your hair is different,” he remarks, as if he’s noticing for the first time.

Shinoa meets his eyes. “Yes.”

“The Sanguu girl has something to do with it.” He doesn’t phrase it like a question, but a statement. 

“Yes.” 

They stare at each other for a while. Shinoa doesn’t know what sign of weakness Kureto is looking for. Regardless, she tries her very best to make sure her brother sees nothing different about her. 

I’m your youngest sister, her mind projects. I’m your robotic, shallow half-sister. I could never stand in your way.

He returns to his couch. 

“Do you remember that night?”

He doesn’t have to explain. They both know what he means.

“Of course,” Shinoa replies.

“I had a conversation with Father, before everything went down,” Kureto reminisces. “Do you want to know what he said to me?”

Shinoa nods.

“He told me that Mahiru was a genius,” he recalls. “You might think that’s nothing we don’t already know, but there’s more to it than that. He told me she was the most perfect child he could ever have. I’d never live up to her, no matter how hard I tried. Which made me wonder; if Mahiru was such a genius, what was keeping her from actually betraying our family? What was keeping her from escaping the expectations our father placed on her, and carving a life for herself somewhere out there?”

They can take my body, but they can’t take my soul. That’s why, when I’m reborn, I can just be a normal girl.

That’s… True. In those early days when Mahiru and Shinoa shared a room, Mahiru’s never been shy about her wishes to be a normal girl. She’s certainly smart enough to escape their father’s purview, maybe even make it half-way across the ocean by the time Tenri’s just realised she ran off. 

Shinoa has never thought of that before, but now she wonders the same thing Kureto wonders, and looks to him for an answer.

“The answer’s simple,” Kureto goads, clearly expecting Shinoa to figure it out herself. “What do you need to break the wings of a genius so that she can’t fly away from her cage?”

A chain, Shinoa thinks, imagining a songbird trapped in a gilded cage. Imagining a delicate silver ring clasped around the bird’s ankle, keeping it tethered to the cage’s ornate floor even when the door is open. An anchor.

“A hostage,” her brother reveals the answer. 

Shinoa stills, frozen in place. 

“You’re the reason our sister never left the family, Shinoa,” Kureto’s smile returns. “You’re what kept her from betraying us, from leaving us to rot without her brilliance. She struck a deal with Father, you see; your life would never be under threat, and the experiments on you would stop. In exchange, she would perform her part in his plan, and… Well, you know how the rest of this story goes.” 

For the first time in years, the emotions she felt that December night comes rushing back to her. It’s intense, all-consuming; she almost struggles to breathe from the tide that overwhelms her mind, her lungs, her heart.

I love you, Shinoa.

I’ll protect you. Nothing can hurt you as long as I’m here.

I’m going to make you strong. Strong enough to repel that demon. 

Do you believe in reincarnation, Shinoa?

I hope we’re sisters again in our next life. That way, we can be normal girls together.

Happy birthday, Shinoa.

I love you, Shinoa.

Her sister could have left at any time. But she didn’t. Because Shinoa was there to hold her down. 

How many times had Mahiru looked out the window of their shared bedroom and dreamt of jumping outside, only to stop herself at the feel of Shinoa’s head lying on her lap? How many times had Mahiru wanted to take Guren’s hand and run for her life, only to remember that Shinoa was waiting for her back home? 

“After that, everything started making sense,” Kureto observes, breaking Shinoa’s stream of thoughts. “Then he asked me if he needed a hostage for me.”

A hostage for her brother? Her merciless, monster of a brother? Shinoa doesn’t believe it.

But Kureto’s no longer smiling. A flicker of emotion creases his immaculate facade, and his eyes are empty, as if the overhead lamp’s lighting doesn’t even reach them. “Aoi was with me, at the time,” he says. “Father had snipers shoot her. Told me to finish her off if I wanted to get rid of my weaknesses.”

Aoi. In that moment, Shinoa’s brain runs a mile a minute. Sanguu Aoi. Mitsuba’s older sister. That’s Kureto’s hostage.

Shinoa almost laughs at the irony. 

“Our father’s a cruel man. There’s no denying that. But he taught me an important lesson that day: if I want to keep the people I love safe, I should be careful of when, if ever, I show that love. So,” Kureto crosses his leg, “Shinoa.”

“Yes, Nii-san.”

“Do I need a hostage for you, too?” 

Shinoa steels her resolve. 

“No, Nii-san,” she answers, giving her best performance of the girl she used to be before meeting Mitsuba. 

Kureto studies her for a moment. The moment stretches on until it feels like forever, his hawk eyes dissecting every inch of her body, hands resting languidly on his lap when they came so close to strangling his own little brother merely seconds before. After an eternity’s worth of silence, he says, “Good.”

Shinoa gets ready to leave. She knows this conversation’s nearing its end. Just like she knows she hasn’t convinced her brother at all.

“Remember, Shinoa. We were never meant to be normal children.” He relaxes, the smile appearing once more. “We are Father’s best weapons. So act like it.” 

*

“Shinoa,” a voice calls just as she heads out of the JIDA’s main tower, still reeling from the meeting with her brother.

Shinoa stops in her tracks. It seems this day is determined to reunite her with the old ghosts of that December night.

She turns to find Shinya standing at the opposite end of the corridor, an unreadable expression on his face. She wants to call it sympathy, what with the furrowed brows and the sad eyes, but there’s a layer underneath it all that has her hesitating.

“Shinya-san,” Shinoa greets, steadying her trembling hands. 

Shinya stands before her. “I heard what you did for your friend,” he says softly, his tone far different than the tone her brother used when he confronted her seconds ago about the exact same thing. “And I heard about Kureto calling you to meet him afterwards. I wanted to—” his words halt, jaw clenching, “I wanted to check up on you. Make sure you’re okay.”

Shinoa smiles, twirling to show off her seifuku. “As you can see, I’m in one piece.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Shinya laughs gingerly, fond. “You’ve always had a way of taking things in the most literal sense. When someone says they want to make sure you’re okay, they’re usually talking about your feelings, not your body,” he gives her a gentle flick on the forehead as he speaks, as if he wants her to understand he’s not patronising her. 

Shinoa nods. “Well, I’m okay in that sense, too. Sorry you came all this way for nothing.” 

The Shinya that stands before her isn’t that different from the Shinya of five years ago. He’s always been soft-spoken, often smiling, distinctly different from the rest of the Hiiragi family that’s adopted him, and she supposes she can relate to that. She notices he’s recently taken to wearing a part of his hair pinned back, and she thinks of her own new hairstyle.

He steps closer to her, looking around as if to check whether there’s anyone in the empty hallway with them. Thankfully, they’re alone, so he asks, “What did Kureto say to you?”

“You’re being rather nosy, aren’t you, Shinya-san?” Shinoa tilts her head.

“I’m serious, Shinoa. I know he can be… Difficult, sometimes.”

“Difficult,” Shinoa echoes, passive. “Yes. It must have been difficult to deal with my brother when he threatened to have me raped five years ago.”

He tenses. “Shinoa,” he says, and he sounds so very, very tired, “I never told you I’m sorry that he said that to you. It doesn’t matter if he was bluffing—that’s not the kind of thing you say in front of a child, ever. He never should have made you a part of his plan.”

Shinoa nudges Shinya playfully, returning to her grin. “Come on, Shinya-san. I’m just messing with you. I knew he was just messing with me back then, too.” 

The corner of Shinya’s mouth quirks like he’s trying to offer a half-hearted smile, but it quickly drops again. “What did he say to you?” He repeats.

Shinoa shrugs. “Just… Stuff, you know. About how Mi-chan was selfish to try to kill herself, and I was stupid to try to save her. But, well, it’s already been done, and I know Mi-chan’s definitely never going to do it again, so I don’t see why we even had to have this talk in the first place. If you ask me, my brothers wasted thirty minutes.”

“Brothers?”

“Mm. Seishiro was there, too.”

“And did Seishiro say anything?” Shinya looks grave.

After all the shit we went through with Mahiru five years ago, the last thing we need is people thinking the youngest Hiiragi kid’s a queer.

“Nothing of note. But that’s Seishiro. He never says anything important.”

“Are you sure?”

Shinoa nods again. “I was the one in the room, Shinya-san. Would be strange if I wasn’t sure of what I was saying.” 

Shinya purses his lips into a flat line. “You’re not being honest with me, are you?” He asks kindly. Shinoa doesn’t know how someone can phrase an accusatory question like that kindly, but Shinya manages it. He’s an expert at holding back—that’s how he is.

“No,” Shinoa answers honestly. “If it’s alright with you, Shinya-san, I’d like to keep what happened in that room to myself.” 

Shinya smiles, genuine, unlike Shinoa’s empty grin—but it’s the same kind of smile her sister gave her the day before the end of the world; the smile that preludes the beginning of something horrible. “I’d never force you to tell me,” he says, “But if you ever want to talk, just reach out to me. You know where to find me.”

“Talk about what?”

Shinya rests a hand on her shoulder, his grip soft. Everything about him is soft. He shouldn’t be part of her brutal family. 

“What we’ve been taught isn’t always right, Shinoa,” he murmurs. “I don’t know what they said, and I don’t know what you’re feeling right now, but I want you to know that, at least. There’s no crime in loving someone, no matter who they are. No matter—” here, he falters again, biting his lip— “no matter what gender they are.”

Shinoa politely removes Shinya’s hand from her shoulder. “I have no idea why you’re telling me this, Shinya-san.”

That’s another lie. She remembers what Guren and Shinya were like that night; the blind loyalty Shinya had towards Guren, the devotion of following him to the end of everything, even if it meant death. She’s certain the years spent together have only made that devotion worse, and she sees the proof of her theory right in front of her, in the form of Shinya threatening to reveal his secret just to seek out someone who might understand what it’s like to feel the same things he does. 

But Shinoa does not understand. She does not—she does not.

Shinya can see that he’s lost, that he can’t get through to her. “Shinoa,” he says, sounding like a whining dog, “You can talk to me.”

“No. I don’t think I can. And I don’t think I should.”

“Shinoa,” Shinya repeats urgently. The sound of her name carries everything too dangerous for him to speak out loud, here, in the army headquarters where Hiiragi Tenri sits only several floors away.

Tell me you know how it feels. Tell me we’re alike. Talk to me, talk to me—reach out to me. We don’t have to go through this alone.

“I have to go,” Shinoa settles, already crushing every detail of this conversation to the back of her head. “Bye, Shinya-san.”

She turns without another word, rushing to the door. She doesn’t bother to look at the way Shinya’s entire body crumples with lost hope. 

Because, it’s simple, really.

If she and Shinya are plagued by the same filth, they must work to be rid of it, instead of finding companionship in this disease. 

*

For someone who doesn’t see the point in lying, Shinoa has been doing it more and more often lately.

She lied to Kureto when he confronted her about Mitsuba. She lied to Shinya when he talked to her about Mitsuba. She would be a fool to not notice that a significant portion of her lies seem to involve Mitsuba, as though she feels the need to hide their relationship. Which is absurd, since they’re just friends. There’s nothing wrong with being friends; nothing wrong with being close friends, even—the kind of friends who drag each other to the hospital after suicide attempts.

No. There’s nothing wrong with that at all.

There is one major lie she harbors that has nothing to do with Mitsuba, though.

There exists a serum in the sterile laboratories of the Japanese Imperial Demon Army’s headquarters. It is a powerful serum, and a rather old one, too; developed years ago by some of Tenri’s best scientists.

Shinoa first felt the serum’s effects when she was four years old. It was administered to her not by the scientists, but by her own sister.

I love you, Shinoa.

The nature of the serum is… Difficult to describe. She wants to call it an anesthetic, but that’s not true. When injected, it causes an excruciating pain to spread all across the victim’s body, before eventually dragging the victim to unconsciousness. But the most interesting thing about it is that when the victim wakes up, they will have blurry memories of what happened to them several hours before the injection of the serum. It is as if the memories are encased underneath layers of temperglass; you can see the rough outline of them, yes, but you can’t make out the details.

Her meeting with Kureto was enlightening for several reasons, but one of them is this.

You’re the reason our sister never left the family.

It all makes sense now. Mahiru would inject the serum into her elbow after every major beating, and the major beatings always come after a session in the lab. A session with needles and scalpels; a session with plastic hands crawling between her toddler thighs. Shinoa would wake up the next morning with hazy memories, both of the beating and the experiments she was subjected to.

This is the truth: what Shinoa recalls of her childhood is only a sliver of what actually happened.

Yet even though her mind has forgotten, her body still remembers. Remembers the burn of her skull being split open by a forced collision against the sharp edge of a bedside drawer. Remembers being fed psychedelics that made her see stars, then made her see Hell. Remembers more than hands pushing their way inside her; the needles, the rods, the machines that were almost large enough to tear through her underdeveloped genitals. 

The haunted look in Kureto’s eyes when she bumped into him on her way to the lab. The sound of Seishiro’s screams resounding throughout the pristine white hallways, before the screams softened into broken, humiliated sobs. The sight of Mahiru in the bathroom, retching into the toilet after she was forced to take pills—what kind of pills, she herself didn’t even know.

“The struggles of the eldest,” she joked, flashing Shinoa a wide, toothy grin through the gap of the bathroom’s door. There’s spittle and vomit dripping down her chin. It’s disgustingly yellow.

Shinoa has it far better than her siblings. They didn’t have the privilege of forgetting. They didn’t have a big sister who loved them so much she worked hard to be the perfect child so she could gain the scientists’ trust and steal the serum behind their backs. But she did.

So Shinoa doesn’t care, really. It’s all in the past now, and there’s nothing she can do in the present that would change the things that happened to her. It’s not like she has nightmares of it, anyway—her nights are usually spent with Shikama instead. 

She just… Wonders. 

She wonders if it affected her, somehow. If it changed her, perhaps; twisted her into something that goes against the very fabric of nature. She wonders if her perversion was caused by the experiments, the beatings, or if she was always meant to end up like this regardless of what happened to her.

“I met my fiance yesterday.” 

Shinoa perks up. “Guren?”

“No, silly,” Mahiru laughs. “The fiance Father’s choosing for me. I told you about it, remember? Father’s rounded up a bunch of boys my age, and he’s making them fight for my hand in marriage.” She giggles again, “I’d find the whole thing romantic, but Guren already has my heart.”

“Sucks for the boy Father’s chosen.”

“Mm. His name’s Shinya.”

“What’d you tell him?”

“I told him I’m just a normal, lovestruck girl, born into a family where normal love is not allowed,” Mahiru sighs, combing Shinoa’s hair. “We agreed to pretend like we’re engaged until I can be with Guren—if that can even happen. I mostly just came up with that for his safety.”

“That’s smart.”

“You know I always am.” 

Normal love, her sister said. Does that imply, then, that there is such a thing as abnormal love?

And if their violent family prohibits even normal love—

What is the punishment for abnormal love? 

Shinoa makes the mistake of letting these questions linger in her mind as she enters Shikama’s domain when she falls asleep that night.

She’s standing in front of her chained heart again. For the past few years, whenever Shikama comes to meet her, he always places her in front of the chained heart.

He’s standing only several paces away from her, and Shinoa realises with a horrified start that the smile on his face isn’t just pleasant—it’s gleeful. He’s overjoyed about something, and since the last time she’s ever seen him that happy was when he first entered that mind, Shinoa considers this a terrible, terrible omen. 

“You,” Shikama says, “Are changing.”

Shinoa shrugs. “I don’t feel like it.” 

He moves faster than the time it takes to blink. One moment he’s there, and the next, he’s standing inches away from her, hands gently cupping her cheeks as he tilts her face upwards to lock eyes with him. It’s then that she sees he’s not simply happy; he is manic with joy, his eyes wide and glimmering with the vision of a plan on the edge of fruition.

“Oh, but I think you do,” Shikama murmurs, thumb caressing her cheekbone. “You humans. Sometimes I forget how close-minded you are, how long it takes for you to reach realisations that I would have captured in seconds. To think I busied myself coming up with such an elaborate plan when all I had to do was wait.”

“I,” Shinoa grabs his wrists, pulling them off, “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Shikama doesn’t budge. His grip remains ironclad; strong without being forceful, somehow, yet Shinoa knows he’s anything but gentle. 

“There is no need to keep lying to me, Shinoa,” Shikama coos. “We’re safe here, in your mind. Oh, people out there might not understand you—might even think you’re some kind of abomination, an abnormality sent to teach humanity precious lessons. What was it, the story you humans keep repeating when you talk about this?”

“Shikama, let me go.”

“Sodom and Gomorrah, is it?”

“Let me go—”

“The unnatural cities filled with unnatural people; the men who liked to bed other men and the women who liked to touch other women—”

Unbridled panic bubbles in Shinoa’s stomach, and she finds herself clawing at Shikama’s marble wrists. “Let me—let me go—”

In a fit of confusion, Shinoa’s body bursts with strange, unchecked power, that very power willing her arms to move and plant her palms against Shikama’s chest. She can feel herself pushing him; not just his corporeal form, but the essence of his own existence, a spiraling cloud of energy surging forth and knocking him backwards.

He stumbles across the cognitive plane, shock temporarily marring his features as both he and Shinoa take a few seconds to process what she’s done. Just as that power subsedes and crawls back to wherever it came from, Shinoa hears a sudden clang coming from her left, the sound of metal scraping against metal.

She runs to her heart before she can think about the power she just felt. She searches for the crack, and when she finds it, her stomach churns upon seeing what’s become of it.

The previously small crack has grown; the metal linking the chains together have split apart to the point the chainlinks are completely divorced, leaving the chains to hang limp on either side of her exposed right atrium. 

Fatal. This is fatal. Even a small opening could leave plenty of room for Shikama to usurp her consciousness and desolate what remains of humanity. This is the very thing her sister worked so hard to prevent; the very thing that her father, too, for all his monstrosity, is currently fighting against.

We are Father’s best weapons. So act like it.

“I’ve always known you were stronger than your siblings,” Shikama’s voice comes from behind her. “I just wasn’t expecting how strong. But that’s alright; once you see the benefit of opening up to me, we can combine our strength. Can’t we, Shinoa?”

“Stop.” Shinoa doesn’t turn to look at him. “Whatever you’re doing to my head, stop it.”

“What I’m doing?” He’s dropped the pretense. He’s taunting her now, mocking her. “Oh, this is all you. I couldn’t hope to take credit for your performance.”

She shakes her head as if that’s going to help, as if that’ll somehow expel him from the depths of her mind. “No. No, this is you, you’re part of this, somehow—”

“You think I’m the one making you feel these things? You think I’m the one who made you save her life, made you drag her to the hospital even though you knew your family would never let that kind of thing slide?”

Shinoa forces her mouth to remain silent. Shikama’s resorted to using her own words against her. The less ammunition she gives him, the better. 

But he doesn’t cease.

“Tell me, Shinoa,” he goes on, and this time, his voice sounds like it’s coming from every direction, “Am I the reason your hands shake under the covers of your blanket when she sleeps in your bed? Am I the reason your heart races when she hugs you from the back, and you can feel her soft chest pressing against your spine?”

Shinoa shuts her eyes. This isn’t real. It’s all in her head.

“Am I the reason you can’t stop sneaking glances at her when you think she won’t notice?” She hears him stepping closer, his footsteps echoing through the empty realm. “Am I the reason you think of her mouth when you’re all alone in your room, the reason your stomach twists whenever she changes her clothes in front of you?”

Disgusting. Disgusting, disgusting, disgusting. She’s never thought about any of those things, he’s just making it up, he’s taking her own private musings and shaping them to fit his repulsive plan—

You should know, I don’t mind you wandering from my path. I just didn’t think it would be with a girl.

“You’re a clever girl,” Shikama laughs. “A clever, clever girl on the cusp of adulthood. You’re entering your teenage years, and you’re thinking things that you never would have imagined before, things that your beloved sister tried so hard to beat out of you. But this isn’t something you can just get rid of, Shinoa. Shinoa, Shinoa, Shi-no-a.”

That’s not Shikama’s voice. That’s—

Her eyes snap open as she whirls around. 

Mitsuba greets her, standing where Shikama’s supposed to, arms open and lips curved into a brilliant smile. She’s here, in Shinoa’s mindscape, and the remaining chains guarding her heart begin to rattle under the weight of Shinoa’s own want. 

From my experience, it’s not a good idea to want too many things.

Except she’s… Wrong. She looks older, her golden hair longer, her figure bearing more curves than Shinoa knows her to have in real life. She’s clothed in the army’s standard uniform, the size of her breasts practically threatening to rip through the stitches, and Shinoa doesn’t recall her skirt being that short on her thighs—

No, no, no. Disgusting. It’s disgusting.

She looks beautiful.

But she’s not real.

Does that make her any less beautiful?

I’m not supposed to find her beautiful.

Can’t she admire her own friend’s beauty?

Not like that. Not like that. 

Unnatural. Heretic. Abnormal love, where normal love is already forbidden.

It becomes much easier to remind herself this Mitsuba is just an illusion when she finds the key difference; her eyes. Instead of Mitsuba’s stardust purple, Shikama’s own blinding yellow meets her gaze.

“Shinoa,” Shikama says again, still wearing Mitsuba’s body, still speaking in the soft cadence Mitsuba only reserves for Shinoa when it’s just the two of them.

Shinoa laughs sardonically. “Did you seriously think you could fool me with that?”

“Of course not,” Shikama giggles, and it’s Mitsuba’s giggle, the very same giggle she gives when they’re watching stupid American movies together. “I just wanted to see how you’d react. There’s no need to temper yourself now; the few seconds you gave me to catch a glimpse of your true self were more than enough.” 

“Whatever it is you want from me, you won’t get it,” Shinoa says flatly.

“How can you say that, when your darling friend here has made it that much easier for me?” Shikama bats his—Mitsuba’s—eyelashes, curious. 

“You said it yourself. I’m stronger than your siblings. Your little trick won’t faze me.” 

“Maybe not now,” Shikama hums, the body of Mitsuba twirling and hovering around Shinoa like a malevolent spirit. “But I know the kind of person you are. You’d rather burn down the whole world than let misery fall onto the one girl you care about. All I have to do is wait for that to happen.”

*

Mitsuba is discharged from the hospital three days after her suicide attempt. Instead of coming back to her place, she’s insisted on staying at Shinoa’s apartment for her first night out of the hospital, and Shinoa obliges. It would be strange if she suddenly rejected that request after hosting sleepovers with Mitsuba hundreds of times now.

So they’re there in her room as the sun sets, Shinoa untangling her braids, Mitsuba unpacking her things. She claims she’ll only stay for one night, but Shinoa can see from the size of the suitcase she’s brought that she has issues with returning to her unit for now.

“Your pyjamas are so ugly,” Shinoa sneers from her place on the bed, eyeing the Garfield print two-piece Mitsuba’s brought with her.—

“Fuck you,” Mitsuba mumbles, taking out her toothbrush. “Pyjamas aren’t meant to be pretty. They’re for sleeping—you’re supposed to be comfortable.” 

“You won’t be thinking that when you get a boyfriend in the future, and you spend the first night with him wearing those,” Shinoa points out, ignoring the twist in her chest at the mention of Mitsuba having a boyfriend, at the mention of boyfriends in general.

Just as Mitsuba’s spent the past three days recovering from her wounds and trying to convince the hospital staff that she won’t attempt suicide again, Shinoa’s spent her past three days suffocating the details of her conversation with Kureto and Shikama under layers of distractions. She doesn’t have the serum that would allow her to bury those memories more efficiently, and she’s a bit on the fence about even looking for it, anyway; she worries she won’t be able to choose which memories are chucked to the back of her subconscious, and which—if any—remain with her. 

And that, in and of itself, is a problem. She doesn’t want to forget about the time she’s spent with Mitsuba. 

Mitsuba must have finished rummaging through her clothes, because then Shinoa feels the bed dip, and her best friend’s right next to her. She looks wistful, somber; there’s a hint of sadness, but it’s faint, almost like she refuses to let herself mourn.

“My sister didn’t visit me at all,” she muses.

“Really?”

Shinoa is just making conversation. She knows Aoi didn’t visit even once, since she’s the one who came to see Mitsuba every day. She often caught the sight of Mitsuba glancing at the door, as if waiting for someone who would never show.

“Mm.” Mitsuba hugs her knees, “Yesterday, I sent her a message. I used, um, I used the fax machine at the hospital—apparently, they have a phone line connected to JIDA tower. I asked her if—” she bites her lip, her eyes growing watery— “if she had time to see me, and she said anyone who did what I did is no sister of hers.”

“Fuck her,” Shinoa says bluntly. “Like she has any choice in the matter. I don’t know what she hopes to achieve by keeping her distance from you. If she’s too stupid to think being there for you might have prevented this in the first place, she’s not worth your time.” She grimaces, “Maybe she’s not even worth my brother’s time.” 

“Hey,” Mitsuba chastises softly, but the tease of a smile on her face is a sign she’s not as glum as before. “She’s an amazing lieutenant.”

“But a horrible sister.”

Mitsuba sighs and cuddles closer to Shinoa. If she notices Shinoa’s shoulders tensing at the touch, she doesn’t show it.

“I never got to thank you for what you did for me that day,” she speaks again, and she sounds so, so fragile. Vulnerable. Like she’s made of glass, and she’d break into a thousand pieces if Shinoa were to give her even the slightest shove. She looks at Shinoa now, “You saved my life. I… To be honest, I’m still not completely sure if what I did was wrong. I didn’t say this to the nurses, but I’m saying this to you: I still think the world would be better off without me.”

Before Shinoa can say anything, Mitsuba silences her with the warmth of her fingers entwining with Shinoa’s. “But you want me to stay,” she settles. “And I believe you. If you want me to stay, if—if you think there’s a reason I survived, I’ll stick around a bit longer. The world feels a little less clear to me now,” she looks down shamefully, “But I believe you. I’m always going to believe you.” 

“Dummy,” is the only response Shinoa can think to give, because she’s the one who’s going to break into a thousand pieces if she tries to say more than that. 

Mitsuba laughs and sniffles at the same time. Then she says the worst thing anyone could have possibly said to one Hiiragi Shinoa, ever.

“I love you, Shinoa.”

I love you, Shinoa.

Shinoa feels the entire world’s surface waver beneath her feet, tossing her into an endless sea of cosmic imbalance. 

The words of an older sister beating her to near death. The words of an older sister jamming a needle into her arm, dragging her to unconsciousness. The words of an older sister who loved her so much she was willing to throw away her opportunities of an escape for her, an older sister who remained by her side and ended up dying for it. An older sister whose death Shinoa caused; an older sister she might as well have killed with her own scythe. 

Shinoa doesn’t even realise her breath is starting to get shallow until she sees the look of heartbreak mixed with concern in Mitsuba’s eyes, and she’s crawling away, off the bed, when Mitsuba catches her at the very last minute and prevents her fall with a steady grip of her shoulders.

“Shinoa,” Mitsuba calls, and Shinoa can clearly tell she’s been hurt by Shinoa’s reaction, “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Shinoa chokes, still hyperventilating. She’s going to—she’s going to calm down, she’s going to calm down, because Hiiragis don’t panic. Her sister taught her this trick, how to force herself to stabilise her own breath. “I just—I’m sorry. You’re—the only person who’s ever said that to me was my sister. You just gave me a scare, that’s all.” 

The hurt disappears upon listening to Shinoa’s reason, and she wishes it didn’t. Wishes Mitsuba would stay offended by her and realise what a terrible idea it is to befriend one trainwreck of a girl. 

“Oh, Shinoa,” Mitsuba softens. “I didn’t know. I can’t imagine… If it makes you feel better, no one’s told me they loved me in a while, too. Not since my—my parents. I was really young, too, when they last said it.” 

“Yeah. Yeah, I mean—we all lost a lot of people.” 

She should spin this, somehow. There’s ample opportunity for some kind of crude joke, something that would kill the moment and make Mitsuba irritated with her. The silence stretches on between them, and all Shinoa has to do is fill it, but for some reason, her muddled brain chooses this moment to struggle to come up with a joke.

“Do you want to…” Mitsuba bumps her knee against Shinoa’s, “Do you want to talk about your sister?” 

No. No, I don’t. I shouldn’t. 

She’s buried everything she felt after Mahiru’s death in the depths of her mind. No one can understand her; not Guren, who lost a lover, not Tenri, who lost a daughter. There is no one in the entire world who’s made her life revolve around her sister as much as Shinoa. Losing Mahiru felt like someone had cut down her skin and carved her organs out one by one, leaving her to bleed on the side of the road. 

She can’t just share this with people. Not when the chains in her heart are so close to breaking, not when the fate of the world rests on her ability to shut down her emotions. Opening up would be a death sentence—for herself, for humankind. 

But. 

All I have to do is wait for that to happen.

Shikama said he needs to wait.

Wait. That means whatever ruination he has planned, it won’t happen now. It won’t take Shinoa by storm the moment she lets her guard down around someone else. She has time—days, weeks, only mere slivers of peace, yes, but time nonetheless. 

Talk to her.

Shinoa blinks. That almost sounded like—

Talk to her, Mahiru repeats in her head. I taught you better than this. I made you strong. You’re not going to fall apart just because of one conversation.

And that’s the final push Shinoa needs.

“I miss my sister,” she admits. “Out of everyone who knew her, I miss her the most. I th—no. I know I miss her the most.” 

“I get it,” Mitsuba nods. “You knew her better than everyone else.” 

“Do you remember when you told me I’m kind of distant, sometimes?”

Mitsuba nods again, curious.

“I think—” she falters, hesitating. She thinks of the serum. Of the beatings, the lab, the man with cold eyes and plastic gloves. “I think something happened to me, when I was little. I don’t want to… I can’t talk about it, but I want you to know that if I ever shut you out, it’s never your fault.” 

Mitsuba pulls her into a fierce, protective hug. Against everything that’s ever been taught to her, Shinoa finds herself melting into Mitsuba’s warmth, nuzzling her cheek against the smooth slope of Mitsuba’s shoulder.

When Mitsuba draws back, she presses her forehead against Shinoa’s the same way Shinoa did with Mitsuba when they first saw each other after Mitsuba’s suicide attempt. 

“Whoever hurt you can’t get to you now,” Mitsuba vows, a hint of ferocity in her tone. “Not while I’m here. Not while I’m with you. They’ll have to get through me, and I’m not going to let them. Everyone who wants to hurt my best friend has to kill me first.”

Shinoa laughs, fighting back tears. “My knight in shining armor.” 

“You haven’t seen nothing yet.” Mitsuba’s eyes shine with renewed motivation. “I’m going to make good on this chance I’ve been given. Sergeant Matsumoto and the squad—” she wavers, but perseveres— “they won’t die for nothing. I’m going to get stronger, smarter. I’m going to be the one who protects people; you most of all.” 

Shinoa knows it’s just wishful thinking. Mitsuba doesn’t have the power to protect her, and Shinoa would never ask her of that, anyway. The last person who tried to protect Hiiragi Shinoa ended up dying, and her death triggered the apocalypse. It seems like a strong enough omen.

But perhaps Shinoa doesn’t know everything.

Perhaps it’s still possible to prove her wrong, somehow. Perhaps the universe still has more tricks up its sleeve.

Because that night, when she sleeps with her body curled around Mitsuba’s, is the first night in five years that Shikama doesn’t visit her dreams.