Based on my gigantic web of a Corpse Party headcanon. (see "Let us Go" or "Corpse Party: Broken Bones: Bloody Bonds" for more detail). You don't need to read them to get my idea though, haha.
Takes place among the plotline of Corpse Party: Blood Drive. Yes, there's major spoilers.
I own nothing but perhaps bits and pieces of headcanon.
Blood Drive
Breath sung from her lips when her shaking legs found the earth again. It flopped, wriggled, tossed and giggled beneath her, and she could hardly believe it clutched her weight without fail.
But no, breath did not "sung" from her lungs any longer: for it sings, it sings and sings and fills this world of hers with the joy that she is still alive today. That somehow she blatantly managed to fumble her way across a death-breathing border, one that stinks, curdled within her nose even now.
And yet besides the facts of the others: she lives, she lives, she lives... she lives. And so do four others; as their sad little story goes...
Everyone knows, don't they? She feels like she sees it between the walls. Everyone knows that four complete and complex lives have gone missing, right? They can't not see it: they can't not smell the reek of death crawling betwixt the corridors, crisscrossing from desk to desk in these filthy chambers called classrooms. Desks have been overtaken by completely confusing creatures that aren't the other four.
That's not right, right? Everyone knows, don't they?
That it's not real. None of this could possibly be real if they smile when they talk with people who hadn't existed until what feels like this very moment today when their chairs are filled and the four that should be empty simply shouldn't, because they aren't. But that's not how it goes, it seems. That is not how... how...
Who's that?
Words. Whispers.
Shinohara? Shinohara Seiko?
Su-zu-me? Shi-ge-nii?
What do you mean, 'Kuon-sensei isn't our real teacher?'
Lies.
His name is Misuto. Miih-suu-toh. A clap of a sound chopping off at the end; Seiko's head slowly slipping off of her body from the sheer pressure of string all over again, every time she hears it. At home her mother cries because she thinks her daughter has lost all light in her eyes magically: pixies in the night have stolen it, strange and nonexistent pixies because there simply is no other explanation. In a way, it was a pixie, a pixie in red, who took everything from this life.
Misuto pretends to understand.
He nods at the right times; he smiles at the right times; his smiles are daggers waiting for the child's eyes to fall to fatigue, so that he may strike soon.
In reality, he is nobody.
That is simply all he is.
This boy holds power in his hands, or at least he thinks he does. None of them knew of a boy like him prior to their return. There were no love letters in a sister's bedchambers from a strange, turquoise-haired boy until today. His lungs draw hungry breaths for the power, so he commanded Ayumi to go back, and then she did because she thought, she thought, she thought—
snp.
SEIIIIKOOOOOO!
They might come back.
But they can't.
Magari didn't act like it, but she was nicer. Even he agrees about that, even though he was the one to force her into the ugliest of positions all just to save that damned bluenette of his. Magari helped them in the end. She is kinder than she thinks so. At least, that it what he believes, even though he was the one who wrapped his arms around her just so he could come back too. Because he had to save Ayumi
Misuto was mean and he convinced Yuka to come back too. Back, back, back, seemed to whisper the old spirits: come back to your graves, why don't you? That made him angry, when he learned, because she was his sister and he'd already had enough shit with another tall monster who once used her.
As far as anyone could tell, they were both dead now.
Just as dead as Morishige, now weren't they?
Knowing that doesn't make him feel any better. It only sends shudders down his cowardly spine; he thinks about it too much sometimes.
Magari's friends, who were Naho's friends, stuck themselves into that hole too. They all were in it, then, weren't they? Stupid, stupid Kuon, and her little sister, Aiko; nobody was sure, but they could remember Aiko being from the past better than they could Kuon. And Kuon replaced Yui: but she can't replace Yui, because everyone knows, don't they? Everyone knows Kuon isn't their real teacher, that their real teacher is dead now. Don't they?
Ayumi! Go on! You and Kishinuma save yourselves!
Yui—
Save yourselves!
No, Yui—
SAVE YOURSELVES!
NO, YUI, YOU CAN'T DIE—
CRRRRRHURRUUHGHGHH.
And once the rubble fell, the rubble fell, and she was nowhere to be seen again.
Everyone knows, don't they?
And even though they don't, the five come back to the school. They come back for the others can't...
Why did this begin again? What started this? What made this flesh-and-bone, what gave birth to it, what told this monstrosity that it was meant to be born? And why did they craft such a thing in the first place?
The worst part is Sachiko. Saaaachiko—Saa-chii-koh. Sachiko is the worst part. Because she buried her soul to save her, and she buried her soul to save all of them, and because she buried her soul, and because she learned and forgave and forgot, she was supposed to cross over, then, she was supposed to be good. An angel? Would they have made her an angel? Fluttery wings and soft fingers, touching and tracing goodwill into the chiseled face of evil.
Will she ever be an angel now?
Dark magics were tampered with when they tossed their fates back inside it. School. Nirvana. Monster. Some of them preferred the last. It was fitting, right?
Dark magics were tampered with as the souls of the damned were risen. There was a Magari; there was a Kuon; there was a Kizami; and it went on. People and names, faces blurred together at times. Misuto thought he had power but he did not, and whatever he did have fell with his head when he died.
What do we become in death—what do we become?
Misuto was a fragment of star just off in the horizon: too far, too far.
They all felt this way about him.
There were dark magics to be tampered with when the book of shadows strung its way, living and breathing, stringing and needing that bowl of life force as it fell and fell, cusp to cusp, down the line of people who dared touch it. Dark magics indeed.
Witches from long ago as well as their boxes of creatures straddled along the hazy lines of their beloved nirvana. They once did.
The world was in ruin when they each first discovered such a thing. There was one they called Queen: whispers, whispers... rulers of a horizon once plagued in the past, when people spoke with a dead language.
It seemed like the further they squandered through their hopeless mess of their future, the further form of a mess it became: the world had become their dissection lab, the book of dark magics their cutting utensil. Blood spurted with each move: monsters whose bodies consisted of a mere face, witches whose hair shimmered a sickening old white, little girls whose ghosts scoured the world only to be tagged by talismans and split off into the abyss of hell. Like all things were...
If Mayu was with them, she would cry in sight of these horrors... Sweet, petite little Mayu...
AUUGH! SUZUMOTO!
STOP! GODDAMMIT, YOU GHOSTS—
THAT DAMNED NAHO—
She'd shoved him as the words choked in her throat. A hot, reeking mass neither could comprehend.
Suzumoto... Suzumoto... Come back... Come back...
Well, we're back now, aren't we? You couldn't come to us; and thus we came to you. Fun, isn't it?
Until finally, the discord shod just a bit of a tear and the world split open. It could not hold them any longer.
Ayumi sat with the book cradled upon her lap.
Yoshiki gently knocking, coaxing at her door.
Naomi walked quietly and ran when people asked her if she was doing better.
Satoshi held his sister in his arms.
Yuka only wished that she could stop crying, but the memories would not leave be...
Until finally, the discord shod just a bit of a tear and the world split open. The past and the present and the future could not be held, the curse of Heavenly Host thought to be broken so long ago could not be held, the nexus of children could not be held. Everything slowly, slowly began to fall into the lulling stream of reverse... and perhaps memories fell, and the rifts were healed, but then time began again the night before a fated course would begin again.
Sachiko is the worst part.
For she is special, and she could remember everything, for she is, and she always will be, the ruler of the fate of the world. Their monstrous little world of theirs. She can remember when Kizami first revealed his nature even though Yuka has trusted him a second time; she recalls Seiko's death of hanging even as Naomi ties the noose; she winces when she sees Ayumi's resistance to the poor blonde who loves her, again and again and again even after he has already proven himself.
And she remembers her freedom.
And she remembers her entire existence being freed of chains that shackled her to her monstrous little home.
And now she sees that this is not the case any longer.
She could be kind this time around but she does not want to: tiny seven-year-old eyes, forever to be seven and only seven years old, can only see the beauty she will never be. And she realizes this now. Because the curse will never be broken, will it?
Or will it?
Curses of schools and filthy nexuses of existential confusion... loss and hate, suffering and pain, pain, pain.
A slump of a tiny girl as she lifts her fingers and gently pulls Seiko's now beheaded skull from her body and cradles it. And quietly she cries, because it will never be over, will it? Will it? Will it? The question again and again, blinding, blinding, blinding: will it? WILL IT? WILL IT?
The quiet voice in the back of her head does not understand but does not think so.
Breath sung from her lips when her shaking legs found the earth again. It flopped, wriggled, tossed and giggled beneath her, and she could hardly believe it clutched her weight without fail.
But no, breath did not "sung" from her lungs any longer: for it sings, it sings and sings and fills this world of hers with the joy that she is still alive today. That somehow she blatantly managed to fumble her way across a death-breathing border, one that stinks, curdled within her nose even now.
And yet besides the facts of the others: she lives, she lives, she lives... she lives. And so do four others; as their sad little story goes...
That loop of theirs took five turns before she began to see the pattern.
She took Yoshiki's hands in hers, merely, blindly, and she began to shudder as earthquakes of fluid eked from her squinted eyes. Relentless tears when she asked him, quietly, if she had to see Misuto again. Because she was sick of the stupid boy who'd apparently fallen in love with her sister. She was sick of desolation and loss and the letting go of the hands, and the horrible thought in her mind that would not go away: that this would never end. How could it... how would it?
It was the first time he found himself holding her of her own free will. His face suggested he was sick by the pure capacity of the redness inside. Because he had never held her before and he could hardly believe that he did now.
Naomi didn't want to go to school any longer. She didn't like seeing the classroom with Seiko missing; she didn't want another stale memory.
She only further proved that as much as they wished to hide they could not from their ensnarement.
It took more loops before the world finally began to spin again, loosening its hold on the nexus in such a way that it would not wait for these people to escape yet again. Because they couldn't. Only from a phase that shod a tear in the world.
Sachiko is quick to realize what is wrong, when eventually it is not Seiko who dies but Naomi instead.
She will lose these chains if they all live.
The curse bound all nine of them together. They are interlocked in their fates now... forever. Just as that damn curse said it would be.
So therefore they all must live in order to save everyone.
Or they all must die to end this rolling...
As powerful as Sachiko is, all her mind can understand is that these people are stupid and she wants them all to die because it's all she knows now, the further and further she grows from the cusp of that freedom the darker and crueler form it takes.
She flexes her scissors when the silvery point dives into Mayu's soft green iris.
And she laughs, hysterical, as the blood sucks along her hand.