A/N: Finally, back with another Sailor Moon fic. And why is that whenever Sailor Moon plot bunnies strike, they wind up giving me stuff I wouldn't normally write? Well…we'll see how this goes.

For those of you who don't recognise the name, Bidoh Yui (or Julie Bidoh in the English dub) is the alias that Viluy of the Witches 5 adopts. She's only an accessory character in this, but she can do what I need just as well as an OC so there's no cause for one, especially since this is an AU.

Drowned Fireflies
Chapter 1

The shadows clung to Hotaru and she shifted a little into the embrace. It wasn't enough to hide her – never enough – but the cool caresses and the flickering lampshade were far better company than the living. Even if her full weight was not draped upon it, the tree-bark was taut and gnarled, leafless and scratching whatever surface it touched. Soon the claws of decay would tear apart its foundation of crumbling stone, and the hard protrusions would become coarse flakes shaved by the wind – or her uniform, specifically the cotton top whose small threads tangled each time she adjusted her seat.

If only it could hide her – comfort her – completely…but it couldn't. Winter's chill snuck through the top, pale streaks cutting through the dark red cloth and tingling the bare skin beneath. Harsher breezes whipped her face, neck, hands and short violet hair on its own whims, carrying with them stabbing whispers from all corners of the yard. The fence rose a gleaming grey behind her, the last drops of morning frost still clinging to twisted wires. Flimsy, useless things they were save for some twisted aesthetic appeal; they were set like a chess board on its tip, easily – and often – climbed. Each diamond was wide enough to pass one's hands too; she often did so herself, not to accept something from the other side but simply to feel the cold wire threatening to throttle her wrists.

That was when the grounds were empty. When the grass was strewn about with galleons of water and mud upheaved from running feet and the sky threw more sheets of rain upon them. When most students could be found indoors: in the classrooms left open during breaks during rainy days, or in the undercover cafeteria. Few – the sport-obsessed mostly – braved the downpour while chasing after balls painted monochrome by the mud, or finding a quiet corner where the rest of the world was drowned by the steady pattering of rain.

But when it was dry, the grounds were flooded with groups of students, all clumped into their claimed niches and chattering amidst the rustling and tearing of paper wrappers and gurgling of water bottles tossed around. And even while her presence made the tree she curled under even less desirable than its barren appearance, snippets of their conversation were greedily snatched by the wind and shredded in her direction: little things that held no meaning for her save a stab of envy in her chest, like how Bidoh Yui was preening about the latest fashion she had wheedled her mother into acquiring, or the more hurtful things tossed without regard for the ears that may pick it up. Like how she had pushed a classmate down the stairs – which she hadn't – and how he was now in the hospital with a concussion because of her – which he wasn't, because she hadn't done anything – and how she had the audacity to deny it all – which she wasn't, because she hadn't done anything –

A frustrated growl escaped her thin lips and she clutched at the material of her skirt, resisting the urge to tear something through from limb to limb and casting the pole for a more comforting thought instead. Like the plethora of stuffed animals that awaited her in the darkness of her room, cool and clouded under the thin dark curtains. Like the hot water bottle she could clutch to her chest to ward the chills, instead of her stocking-clothed bony knees. Like the drum-less disks she could put on the old gramophone and listen to while lying on her elbows in bed or on the soft rug, or staring vacantly at a happy family portrait on her desk.

She blinked rapidly, wrenching herself from those trains of thought and the tree knots dug painfully into her back as her body moved without conscious direction. Nothing had changed in the meantime; the chalk-blue haired senior was still enthralling herself in attention and that was the least of Hotaru's concerns. Her eyes washed over the straight and confident form before abandoning her, watching a group of students play basketball on the courts.

Her view was mostly blocked, but standing would only draw attention to herself and she had no desire to whittle away her lunch break – and she hadn't even opened her lunch yet – on watching after an activity she could not partake in herself. When the crowd parted she glimpsed flushed cheeks and pinched skin, prints of pink in the pale white winter world, broken – always broken – by the whispers talking about her, judging her, blaming her for things she hadn't even done…or rather, didn't recall.

She didn't want to – wouldn't; couldn't – admit that they might be right. Couldn't accept that there was something deeper than the scratches that left excisions in her memories, deeper than the terrifying moments where her mind was no longer in control of her body, where she witnessed her hand creeping forward of its own will, clawing – reaching for something intangible, unseeable. It seemed her nails extended in those few flickering moments, sharp ruthless knives about to tear through some fragile canvas and reduce it to fraying threads. But then the image would fade into a moment of uncertainty, leaving her to reawaken from the darkness as though the lights of the world had flickered off and on, with something passing by in between.

One hand left her skirt and rested loosely on the clumps of dirt. Still cold and moist from the morning fog they clung to her palm, worming their way into the blind folds of her skin. When she tensed her hand a little, they snuck under her fingernails as well, small and round and a pinkish-white outlined in brown, slowly lengthening and taking on a purple sheen instead –

She tensed, the other hand coming up to clutch the fabric over her chest, listening over the whispers carried by the breeze to her own hard breathing. The image of her hand wavered before her, and she bent her head unconsciously to defy it. It was ridiculous, she told herself. Fingers did not suddenly grow purple nail polish. Her heart refused to listen however, palpitating beneath her other hand, faster and faster and then suddenly skipping a few beats altogether before finding its rhythm again.

A scratchy tree root pressed against her cheek as she slowly breathed that new rhythm; she had fallen over, and as she slowly picked herself off the ground she found the thin sunlight snaking through her weak sanctuary and washing over her, dragging eyes towards the spotlight of her ragged form. Slowly, a little shakily as the specks of brown on her hands transitioned with like specks of black, she blinked back the tears of humiliation that formed at the giggles tossed her way.

Nothing had happened. She had overexcited herself and fallen over. It happened.

The hand clutching her uniform top slowly unclenched.

The gloomy D-sharp minor scale fell naturally from Michiru's lips, its notes soft despite its name in a slow ascent before hitting the peak and rolling slowly down. Her free left hand came up to brush a loose lock of sea-green hair, her other balancing an ordinary lead pencil between her fingers as she added in shades on a whim. The object of her sketch was lounging on the metallic fence, seemingly unbothered by the cold drops of water slowly soaking into her white shirt or by the gaze constantly sweeping over her form. A black shoe-clad foot tapped somewhat impatiently on the dirt-ground, hazel eyes staring vacantly at the sky.

The teen – who in her position showed off the curves of womanhood despite the length of hair and her attire – listened to the notes repeat before speaking up.

'Am I that boring an object, Michiru?'

'Hmm?' the other asked vacantly, before looking up. Green eyes met with hazel, the swirling emotional skies attempting to flitter through deep sea water. 'Ah, no of course not, Haruka.' She laughed lightly, breaking the resonance of the key she had hummed. 'I was just thinking.'

'Oh?' Haruka shifted, bringing one knee up and balancing an elbow upon it. 'You looked rather deep in thought.' A stretch of silence passed between them, within which neither artist nor model made a sound. 'What key was that?'

'D-sharp minor,' Michiru replied, shifting her lead along the page again, darkening the back of the neck.

'A depressing choice,' the dirty blonde remarked, tone careless to the outside observer.

'The sound of a soul in distress,' came the reply, 'their fear, their hesitation, the ghosts they harbour within oneself…' Her tone drifted off, contemplating the wind that ruffled her hair. Her free hand, once again, came down to nurse it back to its position. 'Yes, a depressing key indeed.'

She repeated the scale, a series of ascending notes and then descending ones.

'I don't hear a ghost making that sort of noise,' Haruka remarked. 'It certainly doesn't sound as gloomy as its connotations.'

'Music is another language of its own,' Michiru replied distractedly, eyeing her sketch with a critical eye. It was hardly the first she had drawn of Haruka, nor was it the first the other had modelled for. Her apartment housed many a similar sketch, some as real as life while others took on a more creative edge. In each, there was something subtly different, something that had changed between one moment and the next, and she captured each of those subtleties in a chronicle of rough pencil marks.

But it seemed she had missed something in the process, something that came with the sweet taste of a new artwork, the sort of sketch that inspired her to bring out her paint brushes and oil paints and create a true masterpiece in subtle colour.

Something more subtle… Haruka was invigorating; even in pastel she looked splashed with colour and movement and speed, and it was no wonder. Her impatience showed: the tapping of her foot, the constant movement of her eyes. Even in her company, there was something left to be desired when sitting still.

'Why don't you join them?' Michiru offered, gesturing as the basketball game in progress on the courts. 'I can finish up here.'

'Trying to get rid of me?' was the light-hearted jest given in response, but hazel eyes flickered in that direction, watching blurs of white, green and red between the crowds who stood watching them. 'It was you who chose this spot.'

'You know you want to be moving,' Michiru said quietly. 'I'll be watching you.' She placed the pencil within the spiral bindings of her sketch book and turned so she was leaning against the fence as opposed to facing it. Some loose strands of hair caught in the metal twists and she left her sketch book on her lap, lifting both hands to gently free the locks.

'Let me,' Haruka said, standing and leaning over the other. Her shadow fell across the other's lap, stretching like a knife jutting out from the shade of the trees clustering to her right. From the left, the energetic laughter, shouts and pants carried to her ears on the wind; from the direction of the trees came meaningless prattle and the scrunching of lunch refuse. She turned her head neither way; instead her eyes were absorbed with the locks of sea-green hair despite the wandering of her ears, and she slowly teased the strands away from the wire that had ensnared here. 'There, all done.'

'Thank you.' And Michiru gave a smile that would have made the coldest heart melt, though Haruka was somewhat more accustomed to it.

'That's quite the weapon you've got there,' she teased, before straightening. 'I think I'll go join that game after all.'

Michiru waved her off, watching a moment as Haruka vanished into the crowd and then snapping her sketchbook shut. In truth, the sketch was as good as she could make it; if she had her colours she could add a little more, but it lacked the will to indulge her. She watched the game for a moment, seeing Haruka easily claim possession of the goal and fly it to the hoops with a speed none of her competitors could hope to match, but she found herself somewhat bored with the idea of another sketch sharpened yet blurred by the ripping winds. The D-sharp key rose to her lips once more and she indulged herself, listening to the notes rise and fall in their harmony while her eyes wandered from huddle to huddle on the grounds. Shallow laughing girls spread on the moist lawn. Snide-faced students gossiping conspiringly. A lone girl under the shade of a barren tree, cloaked in its scarred and fragile shadow.

Collective laughter broke out, drawing Michiru's gaze once again to the lone girl, this time raising a tear and dirt stained face from the soil. The light from the cold sun bathed her in cutting prints, imprinted by the shadows that still curled around her form. Her eyes, far and unable to meet her own green orbs, were vague and indefinite, an array of colours she could only simplify as a violet tinge, and even the way she held herself: slumped, somewhat curled, lacked the self-confidence characteristic of one clothed in the uniform of Mugen Adademy.

She – the girl – was Tomoe Hotaru no doubt, the daughter of the man who had single-handedly funded the building of their school seven years before the current day. She, under the gnarled branches that reminded her almost of another tree – of fiction: white and polished in the centre of a city of white marble stone – was also an inspiring object, and Michiru flicked open her sketchbook to a new page, removing the pencil from its binds.