Memory Shards & Chocolate Bars

Miyuu floated in a weightless void, a place without walls, edges, or time. It was neither cold nor warm, but somewhere in between, like being submerged beneath oceans. The pressure was immense yet soft, disorienting in its quiet insistence. She drifted, the darkness endlessly curling around her.

And then, faintly, a whisper. A woman’s voice, soft and clear, rippling through the void. The sound wrapped around her, sinking into her skin. Gaia.

“Miyuu.” the voice murmured, both familiar and unknowable. It was threaded through with warmth, with a promise she couldn’t understand but felt anyway. It wasn’t alone. Another voice joined it, deeper and steadier, her father’s. Except, it was younger than she remembered. A version of him untouched by the weight of raising her. Apparently, being the parent of a teenage girl was a fast track to existential fatigue. Who knew?

The darkness began to shift, unfurling in fractals of light. Petals of code. Threads of thought spiralling outward, like roots digging into unseen soil. Wires bloomed, each one glowing softly, weaving a garden of light in the void. Its flowers made of data and memory.

And then came the jolt. A spark, sudden and sharp, surged through her. The void shattered, cracking open like a seed, spilling light into the spaces where shadows had lived. Energy coursed through her—not pain, not heat, but something vast and alive. It travelled through her veins like rivers of electricity.

She opened her eyes.

She was a baby, cradled in trembling hands. The world was a haze of shifting light and sound, blinding and overwhelming. The man holding her—her father, younger, nervous, and human in a way she wasn’t used to seeing—stared down at her.

“She’s beautiful.” He whispered, his voice thick with emotion that Miyuu, even now, found hard to process.

She felt his words settle into her, even though she didn’t have the language yet to comprehend them. The memory shifted, rewiring itself into something stranger. The garden of light from the void bled into the memory, petals of code falling down. Wires coiled and bloomed, a blend of the organic and the mechanical, fragments of identity tangling into the foundation of who she was.

“My sweet daughter,” Gaia’s voice hummed, threading through the dream like a melody. “The world wasn’t ready for you. It still isn’t. They fear what they cannot understand.” Her tone deepened. “But you must choose how to live, Miyuu. Hold onto your humanity. Don’t let them take it from you.”  

The image of the garden began to dissolve, the glowing petals folding into themselves. The voices grew softer, more distant, until all that was left was silence. And Miyuu drifted again, weightless in the void. She was waiting. Waiting to wake.

.

When Miyuu finally clawed her way out of unconsciousness, a red and white owl hovered over her. Staring as though she’d risen from the dead. Which, to be fair, wasn’t entirely inaccurate.

The room was offensively bright, reeked of antiseptics, and everything hurt.

The owl’s large red eyes blinked. “Hoo! Oh good, you’re awake.” It said in a gentle, musical voice. “I was starting to think I’d have to shock you again.”

Miyuu groaned, her body sluggish and uncooperative. “Please tell me you’re joking.”

“I am not.” The owl replied cheerfully. “My name is Florabelle. I’m the school nurse. And might I say, you’ve given everyone quite a fright these past two days.”

Two days? That explained the fuzzy, disconnected sensation sloshing around in her brain. She made an attempt to sit up, every muscle in her body registering a loud and collective protest. So she gave up and flopped back onto the pillow. “Wait. Two days?”

“Yes.” Florabelle said, her head tilting in a very owl-like fashion. “You’ve been unconscious since the Circuit Pit incident. The student council has been worried sick, bless their overachieving hearts. I’ve already alerted them that you’re awake.”

“Of course you have.” Miyuu muttered, pressing her face into the pillow. It was either that or scream into it.

Her body ached as if she’d been hit by a truck. Twice. She closed her eyes, trying to make sense of the chaos swirling in her head. Fragments of memory bubbled up—disconnected and broken, like someone had taken a hammer to her sense of self and handed her the pieces. Nothing made sense. Nothing fit.

Before she could even attempt to wrangle the shards into something coherent, her wrist node flickered, projecting K.A.T.O.’s holographic form beside her. He stretched lazily, giving off the vibe of a fox who had just woken up from a relaxing nap while she’d been fighting for her life.

“Good morning, princess.” K.A.T.O. drawled. “Glad to see you’re not dead. I mean, I figured you wouldn’t be, but it was touch-and-go there for a minute.”

Miyuu squinted at him. “Thanks. Your concern is overwhelming.” She muttered, her voice dripping with the exact opposite of gratitude.

“Don’t mention it.” He said, making himself comfortable on the edge of the bed.

Florabelle shot K.A.T.O a suspicious look before clicking her beak and adjusting the blanket draped over Miyuu. “You must be sore, dear. The strain on your body was… considerable.”

“No kidding.” Miyuu’s raspy voice was enough to make her wince.

The owl tilted her head, her eyes far too perceptive for comfort. “You’ll be fine, but you mustn’t overdo it. Your body is very unique, after all.”

That word—unique—felt loaded. The way Florabelle was staring at Miyuu didn’t help; it was the kind of look that made her briefly worry the owl was considering dissecting her.

She was too tired to unpack it, so she let her head loll to the side. “How unique are we talking? Scale of one to flaming wreckage?”

Florabelle blinked, her tone turning brisk and annoyingly evasive. “That’s not a question I am permitted to answer, my dear.”

Of course not. Typical.

Florabelle fluttered to a nearby tray, her talons delicately retrieving a cup of water. She extended it toward Miyuu. “Drink.” Florabelle instructed. “You’re dehydrated. And try not to argue too much with the council when they arrive. You’ve already done enough damage to yourself.”

Miyuu groaned but forced herself to sit up, she took the cup reluctantly, her hands trembling slightly as she brought it to her lips. The cool water was a relief, clearing the fog in her head, but the ache in her chest—the weight of everything she didn’t understand—remained.

“Thanks.” She muttered.

“You’re welcome.” Florabelle replied. She hopped beside the bed, her talons tapping against the bed controls as she adjusted the settings. The headrest tilted upward, supporting Miyuu more comfortably before Florabelle perched back on the bed frame.

The door creaked open before Miyuu could protest, and the student council filed in.

She blinked, stunned. They looked awful—relieved, sure, but also awful. Pale, stressed, and… was that an unironed blazer? Miyuu squinted. No, it wasn’t just one blazer. None of their blazers were ironed. If there was ever a sign of the world ending, this was it.

Shion looked like he hadn’t slept in days. Then again, he always looked like he hadn’t slept in days.

For a second, Miyuu wasn’t sure what to say. Then she decided to go with the obvious. “You guys look like crap.”

Riku’s mouth twitched into a tired smile. “Good to see your personality’s intact, kitty.”

“Not sure that’s a compliment.” She muttered.

Jun flopped into the chair nearest her, his usual energy noticeably dimmed. Even his hair seemed less… bouncy, somehow. “We thought you weren’t gonna wake up.”

“Well, here I am.” She said, weakly gesturing to herself. “Awake. Alive. Somehow still not allowed to nap in peace.”

Kaito frowned, crossing his arms. “Do you have any idea what you put us through?”

Oh, here it came. She braced herself for the onslaught, but before Kaito could launch into a full-blown lecture, Florabelle fluttered closer with a soft coo. She hopped onto the bed and shooed him back with her wings. “Now, now, let’s not overwhelm her. She’s still recovering.”

Miyuu shot the owl a grateful look before turning back to the council. “So, what happened?”

Haruki exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. “What do you remember?”

She closed her eyes again, partly because she was tired and partly because it was easier than looking at their worried faces. “Not much. A lot of pain, some glowing, and then everything going black. Fill in the blanks for me?”

The room fell into an awkward silence.

“We’ll explain…” Haruki said finally. “But not now. Rest first.”

Miyuu cracked one eye open. “That bad, huh?”

“Just rest.” He repeated, with that particular tone of his that translated directly to: You will listen to me, or else.

She sighed dramatically, sinking back into the bed, hoping it would let everyone know just how inconvenienced she was by her brush with death.

“Fine.” She grumbled, crossing her arms weakly. “You guys can feel free to leave now.”

There was a beat of silence. Then, out of nowhere, Kaito reached into his blazer pockets and dropped two handfuls of chocolate bars into her lap.

Her eyes lit up. “I take it back.” She declared, already unwrapping one. “You guys can stay.”

Kaito smirked. “Try not to choke on them.”

“Try not to ruin the moment.” She shot back, already unwrapping one.

The student council collectively rolled their eyes, but she didn’t care. For the first time since waking up, the knot of anxiety in her chest loosened just a little.

Chocolate could do that.