MikoMisa Games

Less than half of the players who had started that morning remained. Kazari estimated about 125 were left, with three groups making it through. All the expected survivors were there: Kongou's group, Mugino's group, and, surprisingly, Saten's.

Mikoto exhaled in relief, collapsing face-first onto one of the beds. Index followed suit, flopping down beside her without hesitation. Misaki stood nearby, arms crossed, her eyes distant, while Shinobu had vanished altogether. No one spoke as the final group of five players entered the room.

A brief silence hung in the air before the numbers were announced.

Each player's life was now worth 11,000,000 yen, bringing the total pot to a staggering 4,125,000,000 yen. If the remaining players voted to leave, each would take home 33,000,000 yen—a life-changing amount, though some were here because of debts that would swallow it whole.

Another vote loomed, and Mikoto clung to hope. Surely the deaths, the bloodshed, and the sheer horror of the games would be enough to make people quit. Not everyone was in that much more debt. Not everyone was Mugino. It had to be. She was confident. Or at least, she tried to be.

“We're going to lose the vote,” Misaki muttered, tracing her fingers idly along the bedpost.

“What?” Mikoto turned her head quickly, feeling her veins form a cold knot of dread in her chest.

“I did a quick mental survey,” Misaki replied with a sigh. Her gaze shifted lazily to Mikoto. “We're outnumbered by about twenty people.”

“No way...” Mikoto's voice wavered, her mouth slightly agape. Her fists clenched as her mind raced. “Why?”

Misaki tilted her head toward the floor. “What else?”

“Goddammit!” Mikoto growled, stomping forward as frustration boiled over.

When the vote began, it only took two crosses and four circles for Mikoto to snap.

“What the hell is wrong with all of you!?” she yelled, her voice echoing through the room. She raised her fist, her frustration tangible. “Did you not just see how many people died? How is this worth it?”

Kakine chuckled, stepping into the fray with a smug grin. “Some people aren’t worth the organs in their bodies,” he said coolly.

“You f—” Mikoto seethed, her fiery gaze locking onto Dark Matter.

“Am I wrong, Railgun?” Kakine stepped closer, spreading his arms as if inviting a challenge. “Power is everything, isn’t it? Isn’t that what you’ve always believed?”

“You can’t compare the mind of a child to an adult,” Mikoto shot back, the faint smell of ozone swirling around her.

Kakine smirked, unbothered. “Might makes right, now and always. It’s why we haven’t just JFK’d these pink-suited clowns and walked out of here. Isn’t that right?”

Mikoto’s eye twitched. Her scowl deepened.

“The real world works the same,” Mugino interjected, her voice carrying a venomous bite to it. She stepped forward, arms crossed. “The strongest and richest rule everything. You’re either on top, or you’re nothing.”

Misaki tilted her head, her lips curving into a syrupy smile. “Big words from a washed-up financial sycophant~,” she cooed, taking a step toward Mugino. “Last I checked, your name doesn’t carry the weight it used to, Shizuri~✩.”

Mugino scoffed, her expression darkening. “What’s wrong, brat-bitch? Can’t fight without your little whore holding your leash?”

“Awww,” Misaki replied, feigning sympathy as she draped an arm around Mikoto, who immediately turned red. “At least I have someone to take care of me~. Is that why they call you Meltdowner? All that rage from loneliness?” She pouted mockingly, batting her eyelashes.

“Brat?” Mikoto grumbled under her breath. “I’m like 30...”

Mugino gritted her teeth, but before she could retort, Kakine cut in.

“You know,” he said with a smirk, his tone casual but loaded with menace, “if it weren’t for her,” he gestured to Misaki, “I’d have killed everyone in this room by now.”

Misaki’s confident facade slipped for just a moment as her brow twitched. “Is the great Dark Matter afraid of little old me?” she asked, though she felt sweat prickling her neck.

“Afraid?” Kakine scoffed, crossing his arms. “Don’t flatter yourself. Why else would I waste my time playing children’s games with you fucking retards? If I had full power, this whole place would be rubble, and you'd all be corpses.”

“Bastard!” Mikoto snapped, turning her ire to the room at large. “This is who you’re siding with? A man who doesn’t care whether you live or die? How much is your life really worth?”

The crowd murmured uneasily, a few heads turning away, but no one stepped forward. Kakine stood unmoved, his smirk growing.

“And you do?” Kakine laughed, his voice dripping with mockery. “Cooome on, why are you lying to yourself, Biribiri?” His face twisted into a devious smirk, upper lip curled in smug satisfaction.

Mikoto’s eye twitched at the nickname, the sound of it sending a jolt through her nerves. Biribiri? It had been years since someone called her that. Since when the hell did he think he had the right? Who the fuck did he think he was?

“I—”

Before Mikoto could speak, Index stepped in. “Why do you look like a bootleg Misaki now?” she said with a smile.

Finally, someone touched a nerve. Kakine wiped the tip of his nose with his thumb and frowned.

“Skinwalker!” she said, sticking her tongue out.

His face twisted into a mask of rage. “Listen here, you little punk-ass cunt,” Kakine growled, his voice low and virulent. “You’ll be breathing glass before you even realize what happened. And when you try to cough up the blood from your shredded lungs, it won’t come up—and not for lack of trying, but because they’ll have popped like the little balloons you call tits.” His words oozed malice, every syllable a needle, threading through her thoughts.

The room went still, the air thick with tension.

“Teitoku.” Misaki's voice sliced through the silence, calm and calculated. The familiarity in her tone made Kakine flinch ever so slightly. She wrapped her arms around herself, tilting her head with mock curiosity. “What must it be like to live in a house of sand? Always crumbling, always trying so desperately to patch any semblance of it back together, just to have something—anything at all.” Her words carried no malice, only cold dismissal. “It must be hard when all you have is a brittle little ego~.”

Mikoto winced inwardly. Damn. That had to sting.

For a moment, Kakine said nothing. His jaw tightened, and the whispers in the room thickened.

“We will resume the vote now,” one of the masked enforcers interrupted, breaking the moment. “There will be no more interruptions.”

The players resumed voting, and Mikoto’s unease grew with every circle that lit up on the screen. Her stomach churned as dread knotted her insides.

“Hey,” she whispered to Misaki, leaning closer. “Can’t you just take over most of them? Force them to vote no?”

Misaki sighed, tapping her shoe against the floor. “I could... but somehow, I don’t think it’ll end well.”

“Worth a shot?” Mikoto pleaded, her eyes brimming with desperation.

Misaki hesitated before exhaling. She glanced around the room, then closed her eyes. Moments later, a faint shimmer passed through the air. The players’ eyes began to glint with a starry light, one by one. Slowly, the votes shifted, and the tension in Mikoto’s shoulders began to ease.

“Player 333,” the masked figure with a square called.

Misaki stepped forward, her expression neutral, though Mikoto could sense the apprehension beneath the surface. As she passed Kakine and Mugino, their gazes bore into her, but she ignored them, keeping her head high.

Kazari watched from the edge of the room, her eyes narrowing. Whether her glare was directed at Misaki or the other Level 5s was unclear. She looked away the moment Misaki passed.

“Player 333,” the square-masked figure repeated. “There will be no more interference.”

Misaki paused, her breath catching as two triangle enforcers approached from either side. Mikoto felt her heart race as the air around her grew electric.

One enforcer grabbed Misaki’s arm, gripping it tightly. Before she could react, the other swung the butt of a rifle into the back of her skull.

“Misaki!” Mikoto yelled, bolting forward without a second thought. The world blurred around her as she moved, faster than the pink freaks could react. Before Misaki’s pretty little head could hit the floor, Mikoto slid in, catching her limp body.

Guns immediately trained on her.

“Further interruptions will result in a player’s elimination,” the square-masked figure announced, raising a hand to halt the guards.

Mikoto sat frozen, cradling Misaki in her arms. Her breaths came quick and shallow, guilt and fury swirling within her. Of course, they knew. Of course, they’d figure it out. The stars in their eyes—they knew exactly what she’d done. What was I thinking? Goddammit.

Tears pricked her eyes, but she refused to let them fall. She wouldn’t cry here, not in front of everyone. Instead, she held Misaki closer, her jaw tightening as the weight of her choices settled over her like a crushing tide.

Mikoto balled her fists, her eyes darting toward the pink-suits. She had half a mind to rip the zipper off her jacket send it flying straight through their piece of shit, psychotic faces. She could probably generate enough power to blast through all of them at once if she got the angle right. Hell, she might even take down a wall or two for good measure.

But then what? She’d be swarmed by soldiers within seconds, their reinforcements flooding in like a tsunami. And worse, everyone else in the room would be caught in the crossfire. The cowards would probably use the others as hostages or human shields. Then she noticed her zipper wasn’t even metal. Perfect.

Her mind raced, desperation clawing at her thoughts. Maybe… maybe if all the higher-level ability users worked together…

She immediately dismissed the idea. Kakine and Mugino would never. She chewed her lip, her gaze flicking to Misaki. Could Misaki take over either of them? What was Kakine afraid of exactly?

A stab of guilt stabbed at her chest. She couldn’t ask that of her. Not again. Misaki had already taken enough risks today. They’d just have to find a way to convince the others again tomorrow.

Mikoto had carried Misaki to one of the beds when the vote restarted. Her usual spark of defiance was dulled, replaced by a quiet resolve. Kazari had checked Misaki’s head, noting the possibility of a concussion. Index, now the group’s unofficial medic, placed a glowing hand over Misaki’s scalp, her expression surprisingly serene as a faint blue light washed away any signs of bruising.

As the final vote was cast—a circle—the tally lit up on the screen: 83 to 40.

Mikoto let out a deep sigh, her shoulders slumping as she sat down beside Misaki’s bed. The blonde hadn’t stirred, her face pale but peaceful. Nearby, Index had already sprawled out on one of the middle beds, her tiny frame somehow managing to claim multiple mattresses. Soft, squeaky snores punctuated the otherwise quiet area.

Mikoto rested her elbows on her knees, burying her face in her hands. “I guess I should’ve known better,” she mumbled to herself, her voice barely above a whisper.” Messing with their minds just made more people turn against us.” She let out a hollow laugh, a crestfallen smile tugging at her lips. “Why did I even think it would work…?”

“I’ve been taking a lot of hits lately,” came Misaki’s voice, soft but clear.

Mikoto was brooding, and Misaki’s soft voice was like a temporal whisper on a light breeze. It circumnavigated her brain a bit before she decided to turn to her, the same expression on her face.

Misaki’s eyes were still closed, her breathing steady, but there was a faint smirk on her lips.

“Misaki,” Mikoto breathed, leaning closer. “You’re awake.”

“Of course I am,” Misaki murmured, her voice laced with her usual sarcasm. “You think I’d leave you alone to make another one of your impulsive decisions?”

Mikoto managed a weak chuckle, her tension easing just a bit. “You scared the hell out of me, you know.”

Misaki’s smirk widened, though her eyes remained shut. “Good. Keeps you on your toes.”

Mikoto hesitated, then reached out, brushing a stray strand of hair from Misaki’s face. “I’m sorry,” she said quietly.

“For what?” Misaki opened one eye, rounded stars amidst an auburn pool with a hint of amusement.

“For dragging you into this mess,” Mikoto admitted. “For putting you in danger… for asking too much of you.”

Misaki’s expression softened, her voice losing some of its teasing edge. “You didn’t drag me anywhere, Misaka-san. I chose to be here.” She sighed, shifting slightly.

“Well, this one’s on me,” Mikoto said quietly, her lips arching into a smile so faint it was more shadow than light.

Misaki stirred, her voice slipping out with a soft giggle that lingered like the fading notes of a melody. “You’re a real menace, you,” she said, sitting up, her hair spilling like gold in the dim glow.

“Yeah, I—” Mikoto started, but the lights extinguished without warning, plunging the room into the faint, blue-tinted haze of night. The announcement of curfew echoed overhead, a perfunctory reminder of their borrowed time.

“You’re up past your bedtime,” Misaki teased, tilting her head with a smirk, her tone light but her eyes thoughtful.

“That’s one way to put it,” Mikoto replied, her voice flat as her eyes wandered to the dimly lit floor. The darkness seemed to swell in the silence, curling in the corners, pressing on the edges of her thoughts.

Misaki’s expression shifted, her teasing fading into quiet concern. Without a word, she moved closer, leaning in to press her chest gently to Mikoto’s back. Her arm slipped around her shoulder, hand hovering just above her skin, as if unsure whether to close the distance.

Mikoto tensed, her body instinctively recoiling before she let out a slow, measured exhale. It wasn’t fear—not entirely. It was the unfamiliarity of touch, of warmth offered without demand or expectation.

“I’m fine, alright?” Misaki whispered, though her voice lacked conviction. Her head came to rest atop Mikoto’s shoulder, her hair brushing against her cheek in soft, tickling threads.

Mikoto’s breath caught. She wasn’t sure what unsettled her more: the intimacy of the moment, or how much she didn’t mind it. Misaki was too close, too warm, too much, and yet Mikoto found herself rooted in place, her body betraying her better judgment. The soft, yielding press of Misaki’s chest against her back sent a ripple of heat coursing through her, pooling in her chest and radiating outward.

“Mm…” It was the only sound Mikoto could summon, her throat constricted by the whorl of so many, many unspoken things.

“Come here,” Misaki said gently, her fingers brushing over Mikoto’s shoulder as she coaxed her back onto the bed.

Mikoto blinked, her movements sluggish as if wading through a dream. She sank into the mattress, and Misaki hovered above her, her amber eyes searching Mikoto’s with an intensity that made her breaths stagger. Was she going to…? Mikoto gulped.

For a moment, Misaki lingered, as if she could draw out Mikoto’s pain by proximity alone. Then, with a faint smile, she laid down beside her, snuggling into her side with a practiced ease.

Mikoto lay still, paralyzed by the strange, bittersweet ache that filled her chest. The tension knotted in her muscles began to ebb, replaced by a quiet hum of nervous energy, like the prelude to a storm. Her thoughts scattered, slipping from her grasp like grains of sand, leaving only the raw, unfiltered sensation of warmth and closeness. The melting sensation, that slush of warm, reminded her so much of being high. Things would be so much easier right now if she was.

She couldn’t be sure if she liked that sort of anxiety, the anticipation, that came with the territory. Was it pleasure she felt? When her body melted and acted only on impulse? What was she expecting of it? In a way, it really did feel a lot like being high—that sort of echo as your mind appears further away from your body.

“You have to stop blaming yourself after a while,” Misaki murmured, her breath a whisper against Mikoto’s ear.

Mikoto turned her head, her gaze meeting Misaki’s. There was no playfulness now, only a steady resolve tempered by softness.

She let out a shaky breath, her hand rising to pinch the bridge of her nose. “I know,” she said, though the words felt hollow, weightless.

“What’s wrong?” Misaki asked, her voice low and soothing as she brushed a strand of Mikoto’s hair away from her face.

Mikoto’s throat tightened. For a moment, she said nothing, her chest heaving as emotions surged to the surface. When she finally turned to face Misaki, her expression was unguarded, raw.

“I—” Her voice broke, the words dissolving into a quiet sob. Her cheeks burned as tears spilled freely, streaking her face. “I keep trying to better myself, but nothing’s working,” she confessed, her voice trembling, her hands clutching at the sheets as if they might anchor her to something solid.

Misaki’s gaze softened, and she reached out, her hand resting gently against Mikoto’s cheek. “Oh, Mikoto,” she said, her voice breaking slightly, as if she too carried the weight of those words.

The silence that followed was heavy, but not empty. It was the kind of silence that allowed grief to breathe, to exist without judgment, shared and softened by the presence of another.

A faint, mirthless smile touched Misaki’s lips, but it didn’t reach her eyes. She let out a fleecy sigh, pulling Mikoto closer, wrapping her arms around her as though she could shield her from her own despair. “Better,” Misaki echoed, her voice heavy with a kind of sad irony. “As if perfection ever saved anyone.”

Mikoto froze, her breath hitching as she found herself enveloped in warmth she hadn’t known she needed. Misaki’s hold was firm yet unyielding, as though she could hold the pieces of Mikoto together by sheer will alone.

“You’re tearing yourself apart for ghosts,” Misaki whispered, her breath warm against Mikoto’s ear. “Things that have already happened. Things that no one can undo. You think punishing yourself will make it right, but it won’t. You’ll just bleed and bleed until there’s nothing left.”

She buried her face in Misaki’s jacket, unable to control her tears.

“I’m trying,” Mikoto choked out, her voice muffled, raw with anguish. “I keep trying to fix it, to make up for it, but… I just make it worse. Look where I’m at.”

Misaki’s hand moved to Mikoto’s hair, her fingers threading through it with a delicate care that belied her usual sharp tongue. She stroked in slow, soothing motions, her voice a gentle hum in the shadows.

“I know,” she said softly, her words a balm against Mikoto’s fraying edges. “But now’s the time to make a difference.”

Mikoto pulled back just enough to look at her, her tear-streaked face painted with sorrow. Misaki met her gaze with an unwavering steadiness, her eyes alight with an emotion that felt too vast to name.

“You think you have to be a storm,” Misaki said, her voice no more than a whisper, “but even storms pass. Even lightning needs rest.”

Mikoto’s breath hitched again, and she shook her head weakly. “I don’t know how,” she confessed, her voice fragile, her vulnerability laid bare.

Misaki smiled faintly, a fleeting thing tinged with sadness. She reached up, brushing a strand of chestnut hair from Mikoto’s damp face. “Then let me help you,” she said simply. “Lean on me. Just for a while.”

Mikoto stared at her, searching her face as if expecting her to stumble, to break the illusion with some cutting remark. But Misaki held steady, her gaze unwavering, her presence grounding.

And finally, Mikoto gave in. She let herself be pulled into the warmth of Misaki’s embrace, her head resting against her shoulder. The tension in her body ebbed, if only a little, as exhaustion and relief blurred the edges of her thoughts.

“You’re not alone,” Misaki murmured, her voice like a promise whispered into the dark.

Mikoto closed her eyes, letting the words settle into every ache and pain. For now, she let the storm quiet, if only to let herself feel the solace of another’s warmth.