Intermission
People had scattered into their own groups, each with their own form of coping—some talked in hushed voices, others wandered aimlessly. There was a strange kind of hollowness that hung over them all, a fragility in the air, like broken glass ready to cut open the quiet.
Ruiko had survived, though Mikoto hadn’t spoken to her since they’d walked back in together, carrying Misaki. The brief glance they exchanged had been all that passed between them. As Mikoto looked around at unfamiliar faces in the room, she realized she didn’t know who else had survived or who had been lost in the chaos. If someone died that she knew, she wouldn’t have been able to tell. The flood of emotions from the game had washed it all away, leaving her only with the image of Misaki’s face, pale and battered, and the odd, persistent sensation that clung to her.
Index and Kazari, ever the pragmatic duo, had formed a loose alliance with Mikoto. Together, they’d tended to Misaki in the interim, an off patchwork of care. Kazari had offered her dental floss from the bathroom and clumsily stitched up Misaki’s scalp with a hair pin she had, an effort that Mikoto appreciated after having cauterized the wound. As if on cue, Index had undone it all with a single healing spell, rendering Kazari’s work entirely pointless. The spell had done wonders, of course, leaving only the faintest reminder of the injury behind as the floss fell to the floor. Misaki’s fever had spiked for a time, but it had broken with the passing hours, and Kazari, after a moment of dramatic self-recrimination, had redirected her focus to something as simple as heating up a blanket.
Mikoto sat on the edge of the bed, her fingers trembling slightly as she brushed the damp strands of Misaki’s hair away from her forehead. The simple, tender gesture felt foreign to her, yet necessary, as though something inside her was craving this quiet connection. She wiped away the sheen of sweat that clung to her face, her breath catching in her throat when she saw the delicate curve of Misaki’s jaw, pale against the starkness of the white sheets. It had been hours since they’d returned from the game, but Misaki was still out cold.
Mikoto leaned back, her eyes drifting over the room and its ever-moving figures, her thoughts momentarily distracted by the sounds of people stirring. They were forming lines, the clattering of prepackaged dinners breaking through the silence like a soft chorus. There was also a small line for razor blades and disposable packets of shaving cream, which Index clearly could not live without, having already grabbed several, unbeknownst to the guards. The dull hum of the mundane filling the air felt so out of place against the backdrop of violence and death they had just witnessed.
And then, like a soft wave breaking against a still shore, Misaki moaned.
It was faint at first, a barely audible sound like the low, contented hum of a kitten, and Mikoto’s heart skipped a beat. Her eyes flitted back to Misaki, whose small, quiet squeaks resonated softly in their little area as she stirred beneath the covers. The sight of her shifting, rubbing her eyes, her body stretching as though she’d been awakened from a coma, felt comforting.
“Nghh…” Misaki’s voice was soft, still clouded by the remnants of sleep, as she sat up, continuing to stretch her arms while rubbing at her eyes. The movement, so effortlessly graceful, made Mikoto’s stomach flutter.
Before she could stop herself, a flush spread across Mikoto’s cheeks, and she quickly turned her face away, as if to hide the betrayal of her own emotions. Get a grip, Mikoto. It’s just Shokuhou. It’s just Misaki.But the tightness in her chest, the thudding of her pulse beneath her skin, suggested otherwise.
Unlike Mikoto, however, Index didn’t skip a beat. Mikoto felt the brief tap on her knee, followed by a snicker that rang with her usual mischief. “Heh, looks like someone’s got a soft spot,” she teased, her voice light and laced with suppressed giggles.Little shit.
Kazari, not one to be left out, had her own sly, knowing smile stretching across her face, her hand resting casually on her cheek as she observed the scene with a glint of amusement in her eyes.
Mikoto shot them both a glare, though it lacked any real heat.
“Shut up,” she muttered, half-laughing, half-embarrassed, as she looked back at Misaki, still struggling to wake fully, unaware of the effect she had on Mikoto while even unconscious. How was it that she could make her feel like she was standing on the edge of something she couldn’t understand? The pernicious flailing of a mind in denial. Woe is her.
And then, as Misaki slowly sat up, she couldn’t help but watch, her blonde locks disheveled and falling across her in face in a way that only served to make her even more captivating. The soft vulnerability of her expression—her eyes unfocused as she took in the room—was enough to make Mikoto melt right then and there. You’re still here, Mikoto thought, the words unspoken but present in the space between them. You’re still here.
Misaki blinked, her heavy eyelids fluttering open as she groggily scanned the room, her eyes still clouded. She rubbed at her eyes, the motion slow and almost too delicate for someone who had just been through what they’d survived. A soft yawn escaped her lips, a little too quiet, almost like the whisper of a breeze through the trees, but to Mikoto it might as well have been a scream in the silence that stretched between them.
“What’s… going on?” Misaki asked, her voice still tinged with drowsiness as her gaze lazily fell to the three girls to her left.
Mikoto’s entire body stiffened, her skin prickling with the intensity of the moment. The air around her was suddenly charged, the way a cat’s fur stands on end when it’s startled by something unseen. She coughed, the sound barely escaping her throat, and swiftly turned her head away, as if the simple act of Misaki looking at her would unravel some invisible thread that had been holding her together. Get a grip, she mentally scolded herself, her heart pounding in her ears, as if Misaki’s gaze had pierced straight through her carefully constructed facade.
Index, who had been attempting to keep her composure, was utterly failing at it. She stifled a laugh, her shoulders trembling with barely contained amusement as she buried her face in Kazari’s side, who looked as she too were struggling not to break out into her own quiet giggles. Mikoto shot both of them an unamused glare, though the heat of her own cheeks betrayed her more than any words could.
Misaki’s eyes, still heavy with sleep, narrowed slightly as she took in the scene. Her voice now with a touch of clarity, asked with mild confusion, “Excuse me, but…”
Mikoto forced herself to meet her gaze, and in that moment, the weight of her emotions came crashing down, as if the walls she’d spent too long building up were finally crumbling. Shokuhou… You’re okay. You’re here. It was all she could think, and somehow it felt like an impossible relief, like a storm had passed after days of suffocating humidity.
Misaki looked exhausted, as expected, but she was breathing steadily. Thank goodness, Mikoto thought with an overwhelming rush of energy. She couldn’t help the wave of tenderness that washed over her like a cool breeze on a stifling summer day—something so simple, yet so utterly essential.
A smile tugged at Mikoto’s lips, soft and genuine. It was almost impossible to contain the warmth that spread through her chest, as if someone had drugged her. She could barely keep her voice steady when she spoke. “Hey, welcome back,” she said, her tone lighter than she intended, betraying more of her relief than she cared to admit.
Misaki’s gaze shifted toward Mikoto with a quiet kind of disbelief, as if she couldn’t quite place the reality before her. “Mi…saka-san…?” she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper, as if she was trying to piece together the puzzle of a dream she couldn’t quite remember. She blinked again, her mind racing to catch up with the present.
Mikoto couldn’t help but grin at the familiar, hesitant way Misaki spoke her name—Misaka-san. The soft weight of it hung in the air between them, and despite the distance that had grown between them in the past, it felt like nothing had changed at all.
“Guilty,” Mikoto replied, raising both hands in mock surrender, her tone light but with the faintest edge of something deeper, something warmer. Stop it, stop overthinking it, she told herself, but the way Misaki was looking at her—like she mattered—was enough to give her butterflies.
Misaki’s lips parted slightly, but no words came, and Mikoto could see the delicate haze of confusion riddled all over her face. Was she remembering something? About us? Mikoto wondered, a small bittersweet pang curling in her chest. They’d been so close once, before everything had twisted, before the silence had grown so thick between them.
Before Mikoto could linger too much in her own thoughts, Index leaned in from the side, her voice cutting through the moment like a playful ember from a fire. “Mikoto hasn’t left your bedside, not for one second,” she teased, the triumphant grin on her face impossible to miss. There was something so devilishly satisfying in the way she enjoyed this.
Mikoto’s face flushed a deeper shade of red, beginning to feel her shirt stick to her skin from the spontaneous sweat, and before she could protest, Kazari’s voice chimed in, her hands on her hips, her expression too knowing for Mikoto’s comfort. Kazari’s sly smile stretched across her face as she leaned back, crossing her arms. “Careful, Mikoto,” she teased, her tone light, “You’re looking awfully protective.”
Mikoto could feel her heart beat faster and faster, the sudden warmth flooding her entire body a stark contrast to the coolness of the room. Stop it, stop it, stop fucking it, she told herself fiercely, her breathing pausing in her throat as Misaki slowly turned her head back to her. The way Misaki looked at her, still half-dazed but awake enough to catch the fleeting smile Mikoto had made in response.
Things suddenly felt more real than they’d been before.
“That’s very noble,” Misaki said suddenly in a polite, almost teasing tone. “My knight in a bloody tracksuit~,” she added with a playful tilt of her head, placing a delicate finger under her lips, her starry eyes shining brightly.
Mikoto’s face reddened in an instant. She rubbed a hand behind her head, a nervous gesture that betrayed more than she wanted admit. “It was the right thing to do is all…” she half-lied, her voice faltering just slightly. Her own thoughts tangled as she tried to keep her composure. It wasn’t just the right thing, Mikoto thought, her pulse quickening again. I didn’t just do it because it was right… Her mind raced to the split-second decisions, to the way her body moved without thinking, carrying Misaki through the chaos of the arena. What was it really?
“Oh~? Was there not more to it?” Misaki’svoice lilted, the playful teasing still lingering under saccharine notes, and she leaned forward with a slow grace that made Mikoto’s stomach flip. “After all, a lot of people were in a similar position to moi~.”
By the end of her sentence, her breath was so close to Mikoto’s ear that it sent an electric shiver down her spine. Why does she have to be like this? Mikoto’s mouth felt dry, and her chest heavy under the weight of Misaki’s proximity. Without thinking, her legs tangled beneath her, and in her panic, she collapsed backward, hitting the ground in a graceless heap.
The group began to giggle—including Misaki, who with her knowing smirk and effortless elegance, could make Mikoto feel like she was out of her depth no matter how confident she felt.
She scrambled to get back to her feet, brushing her thighs as she exhaled, trying to regain her composure. Stop overthinking it, be normal, Mikoto told herself firmly, but her thoughts kept sliding away from her like sandthrough her fingers. I hate sand. It’s coarse and it gets everywhere. She was sure she heard that in movie once upon a time, but it didn’t matter. “I think I’ll get in line for dinner,” she said, the words tumbling out with the grace of a jackhammer on a sidewalk. We should probably— she stumbled over the rest of her sentence, hoping to change the sentence as quickly as possible. She turned away, practically trotting in the direction of the food line before anyone could comment further. The way Misaki’s eyes lingered on her made Mikoto’s skin burn in a way that was entirely inconvenient.
“My, how ridiculous,” Misaki said, her voice tinged with an affectionate amusement. “It’s been over a decade, and she still acts exactly the same. So dishonest~.”
Mikoto could still hear them and began to unzip her jacket to cool herself off. Exactly?She huffed as she walked out of earshot.
“It’s endearing, don’t’cha think, Misaki-san?” Index chirped, invading Misaki’s personal space as she leaned in, her smile wide.
Misaki turned to Index, a sly smile spreading across her lips as she placed a finger thoughtfully under Index’s chin. “Perhaps~,” she said with a languid pause, her voicing dripping with honey. “Might you, lend me your memories in the meantime, pretty please~?” she asked, her tone sugary sweet, and yet there was an edge to it, like hidden just underneath the surface of the frosting were razor blades.
Index blinked in confusion for a moment, her thoughts briefly scattered as she processed what Misaki was implying. “Mmm! Be quick though, I’m hungry…” she replied, her stomach growling as if to punctuate her words.
In an instant, Misaki’s ability surged. The moment her mind touched Index’s, the world around her seemed to ripple, her own consciousness slipping into the flow of Index’s memories. She saw everything. Mikoto’s frantic determination, the way she had rushed to rescue her, pulling her from the chaos and risking her life without a second thought. The same Mikoto she’d known, and yet… not quite the same. Why did she do it? Misaki’s mind whispered, but she pushed the thought aside.
Misaki winced internally as she relived the moments of weakness in juxtaposition to Index’s mind, the debris that had felled her, her helplessness in that instant. God, I looked pathetic, she thought, though she quickly tamped down the sting of vulnerability. The fleeting image of Mikoto, charging through the mess, her face determined and yet… almost tender, sent an unexpected sting of guilt through her chest.
Then, the darkness that followed, the moments of fading consciousness, and the overwhelming sensation of Mikoto’s arms around her, holding her close. Something seemed wrong as Index clung to Mikoto. She really risked her life, Misaki realized, and the bittersweet truth settled in her heart. Despite the years, despite everything, Mikoto had been there. But why? What does she want from me?
As the memories continued to unfold, Misaki felt the tension between them surge. The vote to leave the game, the sense of solidarity and hesitation. Mikoto’s quick refusal to play further, the moment she slapped an X patch on her jacket, as if her own life was worth less than the integrity of the group. Misaki couldn’t help but admire her for it, even as she was struck by the complexity of Mikoto’s actions over time. Ever the heroic, Mikoto. But was it really just heroism?
Her emotions twisted in a confusing swirl of anger, disappointment, and something she could only name as longing. She didn’t understand it, didn’t know if she wanted to, but the pull was undeniable. What doI appear to her? Misaki thought as she slipped further into Index’s memories, seeing the careful balance and subtle emotions Mikoto showed to people she was comfortable with versus what she showed the world. In some sense, she had entirely forgotten Mikoto’s idiosyncrasies, so she couldn’t be completely certain what exactly was new.
Misaki’s eyes closed. You can’t trust anyone here. Not really. She felt that flicker of distrust gnaw at a fragile piece of her. Could Mikoto though? Could she be trusted? You never really know. But maybe the issue wasn’t Mikoto—could Misaki trust herself?
Her thoughts stretched into an infinite pause, the minutes suspended in time as Misaki wondered about the woman who she had such an odd relationship with in the past.
“Thank you very much~,” Misaki said, her voice lightly teasing as she booped Index on the nose. The action was playful, but there was something quietly reflective behind her eyes.
Index swatted at the air with an exaggerated sigh, though a smile pressed at her lips despite herself. “Did you see how cool Miko-chan looked standing up to Mugino during the vote?” Her voice carried more than a touch of admiration.
Misaki’s grin deepened, though it had a bittersweet quality now. “Ah, I certainly did, little nun,” she replied, though her gaze drifted toward a point beyond the room, almost as if the words were not entirely for Index, but some fleeting, unwelcome memory.
“I’m not a nun anymore,” Index grumbled, flopping dramatically onto the bed beside her, arms crossed. Her tone was final, but there was something of a sadness in her words, a mass Misaki didn’t try to push.
“Oh? Then John’s Pen…?” Misaki raised an eyebrow as she stared down at the shorter girl.
“Mmm. It’s something complicated. Touma… liberated me in a way,” Index said, falling back on the bed.
A soft silence settled over them, and Misaki’s mind grew distant, contemplative. She studied the lines of Index’s face for a long moment before her lips parted again, voice barely above a whisper. “How is he?” she asked, the words edged with an aching vulnerability that spoke of old wounds. The playful tone was gone now, replaced by something quieter, more fragile.
Index’s expression wavered. She turned her gaze downward, almost avoiding the question. “Eh. Not great,” she replied. “That’s why I’m here, huh? What about you, honey blonde?”
Misaki inhaled, the hint of sadness returning to her eyes. Before she could answer, Mikoto entered the group with a prepackaged tin of food, the contests barely recognizable as nourishment.Rice, mystery meat, a mockery of sustenance. A meal that felt like a load of bullshit. What the fuck.
For a long moment, no one spoke. There was a quiet stillness to the room, and Misaki’s eyes subtly traced Mikoto’s form, hovering onthe tension in her shoulders—like a coiled spring that about to release its pressure.
Misaki’s voice broke the silence again, this time with a tone more serious than the last. “Misaka-san,” she said, her words as smooth as silk.
Mikoto blinked, startled, nearly dropping the fork in her hand. “W-what is it?” she asked, glancing up with confusion.
Misaki didn’t answer immediately. Instead, she took a deliberate step closer, the slight curve of her lips suggesting an understanding Mikoto had yet to grasp. “Might you accompany me to the lady’s room?” she asked, her inflection shifting in the most subtle way.
Mikoto quirked her head to the side, her brow furrowing slightly. “Accompany you? For what?” She couldn’t quite place it.
Misaki’s eyes gleamed, her lips curling into a grin that was something between playful and insistent. “Well, you know, anything could happen with all these… rapscallions about,” she said, as if the notion were simply a natural extension of their odd relationship, doing a mock survey of the room.
Mikoto paused, her instinct to protect Misaki flaring up. She nodded before she could second-guess herself. “I’ll escort you,” she declared, her voice firm, though it was as much an automatic reaction as a conscious decision. In truth, something within her seemed to settle with that resolve. It felt right—like a role she had somehow slipped into, though she wasn’t fully sure why.
The walk to the bathroom was a short path through more garish neon walls along with a guard to accompany them. It was a smaller, more confined world than everything else around them. It looked remarkably ordinary, the type of bathroom one might expect at a restaurant. Mikoto was mildly disappointed as she stared in the mirror and analyzed the reflections of the doors and tiles.
But before she could bore herself, Misaki’s fingers found their way around her neck and around her jaw, the pads delicately touching her, light and almost ethereal, but enough to make Mikoto stop breathing. The touch was so intimate, so knowing, that it stole any words she might speak. Her knees wavered beneath her.
“Why…?” Mikoto asked breathlessly, unable to move.
Misaki’s lips parted in a low murmur. “I really used to hate you, Mikoto,” she said, the words heavy with something more than mere animosity. “You were always… a reminder of everything I lost. Everything I didn’t know how to fight for.”
Mikoto froze. The words hit her like trying to punch Accelerator in the gut, but they were too soft to be a true blow, the way she said her first name out of the blue. Instead, they settled into her chest, a strange mixture of sorrow and understanding. And with that Mikoto slowly turned around and gulped, looking directly into Misaki’s sparking eyes, the stars big and centerfold.
“But,” Misaki continued, her fingers brushing Mikoto’s jaw, lifting her chin gently before caressing her cheek. “I learned to repress that feeling when Dolly ended up being okay. When we became genuine friends in high school.”
Mikoto’s throat tightened as Misaki’s knee wedged itself between her legs. She didn’t know how to respond. Misaki’s gaze softened, her eyes searching Mikoto’s face, as if looking for an answer to a question she hadn’t fully formed herself. “You were the person I hated, Mikoto. But also… the one I never wanted to let go of.”
The silence between them thickened. Mikoto’s walls were carefully constructed over years of struggle and loss, but they began to crumble slowly—like ancient stones disintegrating under an endless river. She let out a stutter of breaths, unsure whether it was the heat in the room or the emotions swarming in her heart.
“Then, as time went on, we both became a rival for the same boy, didn’t we?” Misaki’s voice was a whisper, warm and intimate, as her lips drew dangerously close to Mikoto’s ear. “Misaka-san?”
Mikoto could feel her resolve melting, as if she were shooting up on the street, when the worst things happening seemed to shimmer with a twisted, distorted beauty. Every word, every touch, felt both excruciating and intoxicating.
“I was so blinded by love, love that I didn’t even understand…” Misaki murmured, her voice trembling and cutting deeper into Mikoto more than any knife could ever dare try. “I nearly killed you,” she confessed. “I would have sacrificed you for my own happiness.”
Mikoto’s heart clenched, a sharp pain lodging itself in her throat. The memories surged like a torrent—the chaos of the castle party, Touma’s doppelganger, everything swirling in a haze of confusion. She couldn’t tell if the heat flooding her cheeks was the burn of shame or tears threatening to boil over.
“But it would have made him sad, so I abstained.” Misaki whispered, her breath ghosting past Mikoto’s neck, sending shivers down her spine. “I accepted him without his memories and all.”
Mikoto swallowed, a thick lump forming in her throat. She tensed as Misaki’s other hand trailed along her abdomen, gentle and possessive.
“You were my replacement,” Misaki’s voice was bitter, the warmth nullified by her words. “You reminded me so much of a me I could never be, when I was younger and foolish. And I hated it. I hated you.” Her words dripped with raw pain. “I hated how I couldn’t control you. How he didn’t love me the way I loved him. I wanted you to die, but…” Misaki trailed off, her voice crackling with regret she never truly expressed.
She paused, pulling away slightly to look at Mikoto, her eyes hollow, a vacancy in them that spoke of years in the shadows. “I wanted to die,” she whispered, the words so fragile, so laced with sorrow that Mikoto’s chest ached to hear them. “There were so many times I wanted someone to—”
The sound of a slap brutally echoed and hung in the air. Mikoto had slapped Misaki across the face—her hand trembling as she withdrew from the contact, the sting of her own touch reverberating on her skin.
Misaki was stunned, showing the first signs of emotions that might actually match what she was feeling.
“I don’t believe that,” Mikoto said, her voice unwavering despite the tears that threatened to fall, her chin raised defiantly.
“It’s true.” Misaki’sface remained turned, eyes lost in the floor beneath her, the weight of the confession heavy in the air. “I felt like my whole world came crashing down.”
Mikoto stepped forward, her hand lifting Misaki’s chin, her gaze unflinching. “Shokuhou,” Mikoto began, “it’s not the self-hatred I doubt,” she said softly, her voice steady and firm. “It’s your hatred of me.” She searched her eyes, seeing the true Misaki she had burred deep.
Misaki’s glittery eyes fell, the shame flickering within them, but Mikoto’s fingers gently cupped her chin, coaxing her to meet her gaze once more.
“I don’t think for a second you would have let me die,” Mikoto said, her voice clear, her own tears refusing to fall. “Not after everything we’d been through—even if Touma hated my guts.”
Misaki’s breath caught, and for a moment, her walls faltered all the same—just like Mikoto’s had. Her hands shook, and her tears, at last, began to flow freely. She reached up, rubbing her eyes as she fought the pressure bubbling inside her.
“Shokuhou,” Mikoto whispered, her voice softened with tenderness, as her hand rested gently on Misaki’s shoulder. “You were my best friend. In the chaos, when everything around me felt like a storm, you were the only anchor I had left. I know you cared for me, even if you couldn’t admit it then. Our friendship years later proved that.”
A stifled laugh escaped Misaki, bitter but oddly warm. “That’s just like you,” she sniffled. “Always so noble, even when I’m at my worst.”
“And you moved on,” Mikoto continued, her eyes never leaving Misaki’s, the raw honesty in her voice impossible to ignore. “You gave up. I remember that day in tenth grade when you said, ‘Misaka-san, I didn’t know what love was. What 13 year old does? If I ever act so embarrassingly again, please, by all means, enact your brutish ways on me so that I might regain some sense of reality.’” Mikoto’s voice cracked with emotion as she imitated Misaki’s voice and tone, causing the blonde to tremble.
Misaki closed her eyes, tears spilling freely now, the laughter never quite making it out like she wanted it to. “You left me…” she whispered, her voice breaking. “How can I trust you after that?”
Mikoto’s heart sank, but she didn’t look away. “I’m sorry,” was all she could manage, the words insufficient but all she had.
Without warning, Misaki stepped into Mikoto, and they both fell to the ground, lost in the embrace of a grief they had both carried for far too long. Misaki burred her face into Mikoto’s jacket, sobbing uncontrollably, oblivious to the snot that soaked the fabric. For a long moment, they sat in silence, only the sound of Misaki’s quiet sobs filling the space between them.
Time passed before Misaki spoke, her voice hoarse. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, her lips brushing against Mikoto’s chest as she exhaled, warm breath ricocheting off her jacket back onto her face, mingling with the silence.
“I know,” Mikoto replied, a soft smile pressing at the corners of her lips.
For a while, they simply lay there, basking in the warmth they had so long denied themselves. Mikoto didn’t mind all the snot Misaki blew into her jacket. No, she sat there against the wall and stroked her soft blonde hair, still repressing her tears as if she were too cool. Finally, Misaki stood, offering her hand to Mikoto. Mikoto took it, and the softness of Misaki’s ungloved hand felt like the gentle comfort of a blanket during a long, bitter winter.
“Please, let me clean the mess I’ve made,” Misaki said, her voice low and strained. She began to remove Mikoto’s jacket, her fingers shaking as she pulled it off, but when one sleeve slipped away, Mikoto recoiled, her body language tense with panic. She hit the wall behind her and clutched her exposed arm.
“Misaka-san?” Misaki asked softly, her heart sinking as she saw Mikoto flinch, on the edge of tears again.
Mikoto turned away, her arm instinctively clutching her chest as she avoided Misaki’s gaze.
Misaki’s heart twisted, but she gently pried Mikoto’s hand away, her touch tender. Her eyes softened as she saw Mikoto’s arm—worn, scarred, a crisscross of needle marks. They were like an old map, etched deep with the lines of painful memories.
“Hey,” Misaki said, her voice quiet but steady. “It’s okay.”
Mikoto nodded, a single tear escaping, and Misaki’s hands gently cupped Mikoto’s face, forcing her to meet her eyes. “You don’t have to be tough right now,” she whispered, her words like a balm to Mikoto’s fractured spirit. “Just let it all out.”
And Mikoto did. She let the floodgates open, every horrible thing, every awful memory that had kept her down, came pouring out in a torrent of tears. The ugly cry that no one was ever meant to see. Misaki held her through it all, her touch a constant, unwavering presence.
When the tempest of emotion finally passed, Mikoto clung to the wall, exhausted, her swollen eyes meeting Misaki’s.
“Shokuhou,” Mikoto whispered, her voice rough from the release.
Misaki sat down beside her, her hand finding Mikoto’s once more. “Why did you leave?” Mikoto sniffled, wiping her nose as she looked away. “After the red pony incident, I felt… hopeless.”
Mikoto’s voice softened, a quiet chuckle escaping her lips. “The truth is…” she trailed off, looking at Misaki. “It was all about you.”
Misaki blinked, taken aback. Mikoto continued, “The gasoline, the bank exploding… it wasn’t on purpose. “The civilian deaths were because of ITEM I think, or some other criminal gang. I don’t really remember,” Mikoto paused. “Everything that went wrong, went fucking wrong.”
Misaki nodded gently.
“But when I saw you with Junko…” Her voice faltered as another tear slipped free. “I realized I was too late. I had always been too insecure to face the truth. And I still run from it, even now.”
Misaki’s eyes widened, a flicker of something stirring within them—recognition, understanding. “I’m not so different, you know,” she whispered. “I ran from it too.”
“I just. When the horse ran through the balcony and into the swimming pool and drowned, and everything fell back on me, and I, and I ruined your party, and the look you gave me, and the way everyone reacted, and the fireworks burning that house down and members of your clique dying…” Mikoto spoke fast as she clenched her eyes shut.
Mikoto closed her eyes, leaning into Misaki’s touch. “I was afraid of the unknown,” she admitted. “Afraid of everything getting worse. Of magic, of gods and angels, of power. Of nuns… Of things beyond my control. Academy City, everything—it never stopped, never gave me a break.”
“Shhhh,” Misaki soothed her, wrapping her hands around her head, whispering into her ear, “it’s okay, Mikoto.”
“So many horrible things happened,” Mikoto said under her breath, but Misaki heard it clear as day. “So many people hated me.”
Misaki cooed her, softly stroking her hair.
“At that point, and maybe until today, I was sure you never wanted to see me again, so I buried the pain and anything that could remind me of you… but as an actual adult now, I can recognize it all. I can understand what I was irrational about.” Mikoto leaned her head into Misaki.
Misaki leaned in, brushing a strand of hair from Mikoto’s face. “I can relate to that more than you think.”
“Academy City was a never ending fucking hydra. Even when Aleister died for keeps and his projects were shut down, the power vacuum continued to bring in new lunatics,” Mikoto rubbed her eye. “I had to go. I lived enough battles to fight several lifetimes just between the age of 13 and 15. At 20 the red pony isolated me. By the time I turned 21, I felt so burnt out…”
A silence fell between them, and for the first time in years, Mikoto allowed herself to truly rest in Misaki’s presence. “So, you’re not angry with me?” Mikoto asked, looking up, her brows arched with a desperate sadness that longed for forgiveness.
Misaki’s gaze softened further, a bittersweet smile curling on her lips. “How could I be? Seeing you again, after all this time, brought everything rushing back. All the guilt, all the mistakes.”
The two sat in silence for a few minutes.
“Misaki?” Mikoto asked, breaking the silence with the unusual use the honey bee’s first name. Even Mikoto felt a bit of unease, but it was a calculated risk.
Misaki was taken aback by it and her eyes lit up. “Yes?”
“Why did all of that old stuff come up like it was something new though?” Mikoto asked, her eyes closed as she rested on her shoulder.
“Mm. Well, I suppose…” Misaki thought for a moment. “Things, even when seemingly resolved, were always left unsaid between us.” Misaki explained with a tiny sigh.
“You wanted to get it out.” Mikoto said, licking her lips as the feeling of Misaki’s pets placated her to the point of wanting to fall asleep.
“Yeah. I feel guilt, I’ll admit that. And I never expressed that properly. I felt my little gestures, my teasing and jokes, my casual dismissals of my own behavior were enough,” Misaki ran a hand through Mikoto’s hair. “But as an adult, I know that was just my own insecurities manifesting.”
As difficult as things had become, Mikoto relished in Misaki’s touch. The feel of her fingers on her scalp, the warmth of her breathing rustling through her hair as it danced around her ear.
“I had to let it out. My first love was childish because I was a child,” Misaki scoffed at herself. “But it didn’t hurt any less remembering even if he means nothing now.”
“I’m sorry,” Mikoto said.
“No, don’t be,” Misaki exhaled with a hint of self-abasement. “Seeing you brought up a torrent of emotions, and the way you were so tender with me, I… wasn’t sure how to react, and those memories came bubbling up to the surface. All the guilt, all the teenage angst, it was there front and center.”
Mikoto reached up, fingers gliding against Misaki’s cheek. “I forgive you.”
Misaki chuckled softly, a little bitterly. “Of course, the gallant prince forgives the queen.”
Misaki’s eyed one of the white tiles, idly staring as she basked in Mikoto’s warmth—the rhythmic beating of her heart, the soft rise and fall of her chest. “In the heat of the moment the guilt felt overwhelming, and I hoped you might have reassured me otherwise.” Misaki cooed, feeling a weight lift off her shoulders as she could finally be honest with herself.
Mikoto smiled through the tears. “With my brutish tendencies.”
Misaki leaned forward, her lips brushing her hair as she nuzzled on top of her head.
“I never forgot what I said that day in class, I just prayed you hadn’t either… however bad your impression of me was,” she said, giggling.
“Mikoto,” Misaki moved her head and turned to her.
“Mmm?” She looked confused.
“Do you remember, Mikoto?” Misaki whispered, her voice beginning to waver. “Back when the most enjoyable part of chasing after him was spending time with you?”
Mikoto closed her eyes, feeling the memories of those days wrap around her. “I remember,” she replied.“I enjoyed how you would say something mean-spirited, and I would try to one up you, and then one of us would do something sweet for the other.”
“Mmm.” Was all Misaki could manage as she felt flustered at the memories she secretly cherished until now.
“When you woke up on the bed back there, it reminded me of when you woke up in the hospital. I was so relieved you were okay. I couldn’t have imagined something so…” Mikoto trailed off.
Misaki felt her chest grow heavy. “I liked… how when we got a little older those sort of moments became more frequent.”
“Like that year of peace when we stayed at that hotel with your clique,” Mikoto began to let out small giggles.
“You crawled right under the blankets and we talked all night, just the two of us,” Misaki reminisced.
“About everything we could think of. It was a busy time, graduating and deciding if college was on the table or…” Mikoto said, feeling acid in her throat.
“It was when we started to drift apart,” Misaki said with a slightly grimmer tone.
“I didn’t like that. That’s why the red pony shit happened a couple years later. I felt like it was then or never,” Mikoto reasoned, staring at her.
Misaki turned to her. “Never never seems to come, now does it, Misaka-san~?” Misaki stood up and offered her a hand.
“I’m glad it doesn’t,” Mikoto said with a smile. “Shokuhou.”
“And now, here we are,” Misaki said softly, pulling Mikoto into her arms once more. “In this strange dream where nothing feels quite real, but everything is so painfully true.”
Mikoto smiled warmly, not that Misaki could see it, but the feeling was there. “Maybe it’s fate.”
Misaki couldn’t help but smile in the same regard, and Mikoto could feel that as well. “Where might it lead us~?”
Before Mikoto could respond, the door to the room slammed open with a force that shattered the fragile moment between them.
“C’mon ladies! We’ve work to do!” The voice boomed, jarring and loud.
“Eh?” Misaki flinched.
The room filled with a trio of girls, one of them tall, and… weighed too much for her frame, Mikoto thought. She blinked, confused by the intrusion, but the oddity of the situation only made the surreal feeling linger.
The honey-blonde and chocolate-brown haired duo stood frozen, their expressions thick with irritation as the woman before them erupted in a smug, almost mocking laugh. The laugh was grating, yet all too well-known, pulling from the depths of her mind memories laced with scorn and absurdity. “Ohohoho!” she bellowed, utterly unbothered by the tension in the air.
Mikoto’s mind, ever the sharp and volatile machine, short-circuited for a split second as the sound rang in her ears. No way. Seriously? What the hell? Her stomach twisted as realization sliced through her thoughts, her eyes widening, disbelief clinging to every second. “You…” The word fell from her lips, saturated with shock as much as confusion. Kongou. Here. Of all places, of all times.
Misaki, equally taken back, stared in stunned silence. Her posture faltered, and she hunched slightly forward, trying to make sense of the situation unfolding. The familiarity seemed to almost slip through her grasp, her face contorting in the same puzzled recognition. “Hah?”
And then, in a voice full of false pretense, the woman laughed loudly, pointing at Mikoto. “My! If it isn’t the haughty princess herself! The too good for you asshole that never seems to change!” She grinned, turning to Misaki. “And who’s this? Misaka Mikoto, the… junkie?” She had noticed the marks on Mikoto’s arms almost immediately. “You weren’t… shooting up in the bathroom, here of all places, were you…?” she asked in mock concern.
Misaki stepped forward, her eyes narrowing. “Kongou…” Mikoto said under her breath, the name barely leaving her lips.
The fat woman smirked, staring in mock disbelief. “Oh? You know me?” she said with a hearty laugh. “Such a small world!”
“Get bent,” Misaki snapped, sounding an awful lot like Mikoto, her finger pointed at Kongou like the barrel of a gun, her gaze cold and murderous.
Kongou Mitsuko blinked in surprise, then scoffed, narrowing her eyes. “And what are you going to do, you bimbo—“
Before she could finish, Misaki flicked her thumb with a decisive motion, as is she were firing her own railgun—a mental railgun… out. In an instant, the three girls before them froze, their minds momentarily scrambled, eyes glazing over with vacant stars. Clearly, Kongou had forgotten all about Misaki’s abilities. Or maybe she was too stupid to care.
Mikoto straightened up slowly, wiping the sweat from her forehead, feeling the weight of the moment shift. “Thanks,” she said quietly, her voice a bit hoarse, the words tinged with an exhaustion that hadn’t yet found its release.
Misaki didn’t acknowledge her gratitude, instead closing her eyes and passing her jacket to the mind-controlled girls as if it were the most ordinary thing. She handed it over without a hint of emotion, her practiced, effortless movements belying the gravity of the situation.
One of the girls, moving without question, gently removed the other sleeve of Mikoto’s jacket, and began scrubbing it clean in the sink like a maid.
“That’s so like you,” Mikoto let out a soft laugh, her voice warm but with a tinge of melancholy. She placed her hand on her hip, her eyes lingering on Misaki, still adjusting to the presence of the girl she had once known. “You always did know how to make things look easy.”
Misaki’s lips quirked into a playful grin as she leaned back, eyes closed in exaggerated relaxation. “I try my best~,” she replied, sticking out her tongue and making a cheeky peace sign over her forehead. The gesture was so familiar, so effortlessly Misaki that it couldn’t help but make Mikoto feel at ease. It was so nostalgic. God where had Misaki been all this time?
Mikoto sighed as she turned toward one of the open sinks, splashing cold water on her face. She pulled her hair back into a ponytail with only the static charge of her fingers, the electricity dancing like a quicksilver current. As she moved, a single lock of hair fell loose, cascading over her forehead like a veil of fleeting memories.
Mikoto turned to one of the open sinks and splashed water in her face, pulling her hair back and tying it into a ponytail using only static charge. A single bang swept from the top to the side of her face, gracefully dangling as she took a deep breath.
“Misaki,” Mikoto said, the blonde still not quite used to hearing her first name leave the brunette’s lips like that. She splashed water on her face one more time, her eyes avoiding the mirror, looking over to Misaki, who turned to her, momentarily stunned by how different Mikoto looked. Gone was the brash, fiery girl from the past; before her stood someone worn, yet strangely luminous, the frailty of youth replaced with an adult’s quiet resilience.
Misaki’s breath caught for a moment, a silent awareness aflicker in her gaze as she took in Mikoto’s appearance—the ponytail, the white tee-shirt tucked into her sweats with a baggy overlap, the slender frame it all accented. A red blush sweapt across her face, causing her to avert her eyes.
“I don’t like what’s happening here one bit,” Mikoto said quietly, her eyes shifting downward, disappointment and frustration simmering beneath her calm facade.
Misaki exhaled deeply, a shared weariness sinking into her shoulders. “I know. I don’t either.”
Mikoto’s voice trailed off, hesitant as her eyes returned to the girl who was still washing her jacket. “Can’t you… do something?” she asked, the words feeling too small.
“No,” Misaki said, rubbing the back of her neck. “There’s a strange field blocking me. Maybe around their masks? Also,haven’t you noticed how dry the air is here? It’s like they’ve taken every precaution.”
Mikoto nodded slowly, folding her arms across her chest, her eyes casting upwards as she processed the thought. “That makes sense. It’s their way of controlling everything.”
Misaki watched her, her head tilting slightly as she studied Mikoto. “Shouldn’t you still be able to manipulate the fields around us? Even with everything that’s been… restricted?”
Mikoto flinched slightly, her gaze dropping; she couldn’t bring herself to meet Misaki’s eyes. “Ah…” Her words faltered. “About that…” She bit her lip and hesitated, a nervousness creeping in. “I lost most of my power after I left Academy City. Almost all of it just... slipped away. And with these limiters? I’m... probably a Level 1 here at best.”
Misaki’s brow furrowed in confusion, then softened, as if piecing something together. “But you still have something left. I can feel it.” She stepped closer, voice lowering, as though trying to coax the truth from Mikoto.
Mikoto sighed, brushing her pulled back hair as her fingertips crackled with sparks. “Yeah,” she murmured, watching the electricity dance in the air between her hair and hand. “But it’s nothing like what it was.” Her shoulders slumped, disappointment thick in the air around her. “I don’t have the power to break through this. Not anymore.”
Misaki’s lips curved into a small, almost imperceptible grin. “It’s strange, you know? I never thought I’d see you like this,” she mused, her voice light but holding something sentimental. “I think the only real limiter here, Misaka Mikoto, is you.”
The words struck Mikoto harder than she expected. She blinked, a waver of something sharp flashing through her chest at the touch of Misaki’s fingers on her forehead, light as a feather but somehow grounding her in that moment. It was as though Misaki knew exactly where to push, where to prod, to make her realize that maybe she hadn’t lost everything—maybe the biggest barrier was just her own self-doubt.
Mikoto closed her eyes, the weight of Misaki’s words sinking in, unspoken truths floating between them like a ghost they hadn’t dared confront before. She reached up, her hand brushing her forehead where Misaki had touched her, her fingers trailing over the spot as if searching for something.
“I guess you’re right,” Mikoto said quietly, her voice barely a whisper. “I’ve been holding myself back for so long.”
Misaki stepped closer, her golden eyes softening as she took in Mikoto’s vulnerability. She didn’t say anything more—didn’t need to. The unspoken bond between them stretched, thick with history, regrets, and perhaps something else, something that neither of them was quite ready to name.
In the silence, Mikoto found herself drawn to Misaki’s presence, as if the distance between them, both physical and emotional, could finally be bridged.
The pair walked back toward the gymnasium area, their footsteps light and casual, exchanging idle chatter as the two women behind them trailed. Kongou Mitsuko, meanwhile, had been left to stew a little longer in the bathroom, the lingering darkness a small price to pay for the trouble she'd stirred up. The girls tossed the damp jackets over the beds to dry before walking away, Misaki's hand lowering, relinquishing the control she had held over them.
“You two were sure gone for a while,” Index teased, elbowing Kazari, who smirked knowingly at the pair.
Mikoto's cheeks flushed slightly. “Oh, there was... trouble,” she half-lied, avoiding their gazes.
“I bet there was,” Index said with a sly grin, her eyes sparkling with curiosity.
“Kongou Mitsuko, of all people,” Misaki said, pinching the bridge of her nose in exaggerated exhaustion, plopping down on her bed and crossing her legs in the air. “The nerve to pick a fight in the restroom, of all places.”
“Oh? Really now?” Kazari chimed from her spot across their little aisle, her voice light and airy. “I haven’t seen her in ages.”
“You won't want to,” Mikoto responded with a scoff, secretly relieved that Misaki’s acting had saved her from more in-depth questions.
The group settled down into their own space, tired from the day’s events. The beds were loosely assigned, some vacant, others occupied. They hovered near the northeast end of the room, Mikoto trying to decide where to lay her head when suddenly, a voice cut through her thoughts.
Index and Misaki locked eyes, both their gazes narrowing with synchronized incredulity. Mikoto froze mid-step, her body tense.
“Miko-chan, sleep in my bed!” Index pouted, clasping her hands together with exaggerated pleading eyes.
Misaki’s expression alternated with a mix of confusion and something darker—perhaps irritation—as she looked from Mikoto to Index.
“Haaah?” Mikoto raised an eyebrow, her mouth twisting slightly in disbelief. “Why would I do that?”
“It’s dangerous to sleep alone!” Index insisted, her voice taking on an almost childlike quality. “Besides, it’ll be fun, like a sleepover!”
Mikoto’s head fell into her palm with a soft slap. “Ugh...” she groaned, exhaling a frustrated breath.
Misaki, ever the provocateur, placed a hand lightly on Mikoto’s shoulder, sending a chill down her spine. “Misaka-san~,” she purred, her voice dropping low and teasing as it brushed against Mikoto’s ear. Index’s expression soured in an instant, her lips dipping into a small frown, clearly displeased with the change in Mikoto’s attention.
Mikoto froze at the sensation, her body rigid, caught between the two women. She couldn’t stop herself from flinching at the unexpected contact. “Miko-chan!” Index shouted, snapping Mikoto out of her stupor, causing her knees to buckle and fall to the ground.
Mikoto blinked, shaking her head. “Huuh?” She looked around, her brain still sluggish from the rush of confusion.
Kazari, ever the voice of reason—or perhaps mischief—offered a suggestion with a smirk. “If I might offer a suggestion...” she began, her voice casual but woven with a sly undertone. The honey-blonde girl and the silver-haired woman both turned to her. “Perhaps it would be within reason to pool your beds in the center, right where Mikoto is—like a true sleepover!” She clasped her hands together, her smile wide and playful.
“Mmm!” Index nodded enthusiastically, immediately grabbing her slim mattress and tossing it to the side with a flourish.
Misaki sighed, though she followed suit, clearly not pleased with the situation, but going along with it nonetheless. The area soon transformed into a chaotic, haphazard collection of mismatched mattresses, piled next of each other in a way that ensured Mikoto would be the center of it all.
By the time the lights dimmed and the others finally went to sleep, the trio found themselves snugly nestled between the bed frames, with the extra mattresses creating makeshift walls around them for privacy. Mikoto, exhausted from the day, sprawled out in the middle, her body tired from the constant tension. Index and Misaki lay on either side of her, their heads naturally drifting toward her, seeking warmth and comfort.
Kazari, from her position farther away, simpered as she surveyed the scene. From her vantage point against the wall, one could only wonder how much sleep she’d actually obtain that night. The room was quiet now, save for the soft, rhythmic sounds of breathing.