Author's Note: Okay, just as a warning: this is a re-write of one kidfic of mine, which now will involve Minako way more among an entire new cast of characters. Think batman and robin, except with sailor venus and a new sailor v.

also, I kinda maybe recycled the first few opening paragraphs from this novel I'm trying to write. so if you see similar writing somewhere and someday, don't be alarmed bc it's probably just produced by yours truly.

There will also some amounts of racism within the writing, so if ya'll are sensitive to that sort of stuff, I implore that you beware.

*I do not own Sailor Moon btw.

anywho, thank you for reading and i sincerely hope you enjoy!

IT WAS THEN THAT, in a truth of finality, Shiori died. Her heart halted at once with a hammer, her blood burning to ice. No longer could she breathe, for that was a luxury cursed alone to the living, and neither could she writhe nor think; nor hear, nor see. Gone were those functions now. For Shiori had begun expiring many moments ago, and many moments later had a phantom sprung in her place.

She didn't recognize the animation that stole away her body, violating it with demands to which she would not have otherwise agreed. The Shiori here was not truly Shiori. That weak girl had fallen once robbed of wellness, fleeing suddenly into herself, with horror as a visor and the outfit of all-thoughts shed. She was not insane. This unfamiliar doppelgänger was.

As she ran, clouds freckled along the sky, spilling into a comforter smudged with gray. Buildings, devoid of life and constructed from brick, swiveled to a blur. Shiori didn't seek the scowls of whom she jostled past, or the whispers of the crowds she so corrupted. There was no time. In her soul sneered a need she could not ignore; one that was rendering her mad, if she was not already. It haunted her, forcing her forth to a destination of which she'd be forever aware, like a possession.

The schoolroom. She was needed at the schoolroom.

Desperately, knobby knees stretched more far into a sprint, theirs strides wide, powerful—and they slammed onto worn sidewalk, striking as might a wood spoon against a pot (pitter-pat-pat, then a tumultuous slap). For this attempt propelled urge, awkward and slight. Shiori could not turn up late. If she were, her aunt would see to her head on pike, and even more enthusiastic would be the homeroom teacher, Johnson—he despised everyone, but especially she for her ethnicity. Besides, today was an important day. She would not be late.

And so, at the corner between Main Street and Hamilton, Shiori skidded to a halt, feeling her sweater rustle amidst the breeze. Goosebumps cackled onto the pale of her flesh. A chill rattled throughout her bones. Adrenaline thrummed. This must be it, she thought. This was where she was meant to be.

Before her towered a pharmacy, and before that lain a motorbike. It was a pathetic vehicle, rusting thoroughly at the pipes, and of a chipping sleek black paint. Shiori frowned. School was to occur in twenty minutes, and she was a good forty minute walk away. She couldn't make it there, even in a sprint. She required help, of the fast type.

Shiori thought for a moment. Then she made her move.

"Billy!" she called, from the pharmacy's doorway, into cupped hands. "Billy Harris!"

Silence.

Shiori stepped into the pharmacy fully, biting her lip. It was a tiny store, home to low shelves and an even lower size—and too were there hardly any customers, who were most likely heading to work. She would not have to roam far.

"Look, Billy, I know you're here!" called Shiori again. This time, she forced her voice to a squawk, hoping it to be irritating enough. "Come out, Billy Harris! I crave a boon!"

Again, naught but silence greeted her.

This was wasting her time. Billy would have to entertain her sooner or later, and she didn't know how much longer she could withstand his negligence. There was little time left to spare. Should she not hurry soon, she'd become victim of a slaughter worse than death. Shiori had to up her game, lest the consequences of her actions be truly severe.

"Gosh, do you even remember our deal?—" She twisted her foot down into a mighty stomp, weary sneakers flopping pathetically. A realization dawned unto her, and after it stalked a wicked smile. He owed her for that one time, when he had accidentally hit her once. Surely if Billy was reminded, he'd have to reveal himself and bend to her. "Come out right this instant, Billy Harris!" she said. "Or I'm calling Auntie!"

The voice that followed was masculine, and of a faithless scandalization: "You wouldn't dare call that freak on me!"

It was that insult which returned Shiori to herself.

"I would, too," said she, with some venom. Her brows knit together in hateful confusion. "And Auntie's not a freak! Well, I mean, she can be so very strange sometimes, and mumble funny things in her sleep, but who doesn't? She's not insane." Her voice softened, as if a disbelief upon itself. "Oh, she really isn't. She can't, and never will be—"

"You know, people would hate you less if you stopped talking like that," said Billy. He emerged from behind the cashier, erupting without much a will. He must've sought hiding upon sight of her nearing silhouette, as others often would many times before. "Defending your old lady like that, who's probably been committed more times than insanity itself? Jesus, and here I was thinking your sort always had half a brain."

Shiori shifted, feeling her cheeks flush something unpleasant. "Auntie has a name, if you must know."

"And what's that, kid?"

She tensed, fingering the hips of her jeans. The rattiness crazed her, yet anxiety cemented there her fingertips, as though something great. If she told Billy, he would laugh, for there was no laughing stock in town with her aunt alike—and then he would stab into her heart an already gaping wound, with a thin blade of cruel names and stereotypes. Still, she could show no fear. Shiori needed him. Surrender was not an option, only resiliency.

Billy leaned against the counter. Nimble fingers drummed atop nimble hips, long and slender from the knuckle forth. "Well?" he said pointedly. "You going to cough up the name or what?"

Shiori shuddered, and opened her mouth to speak:

"Minako Aino."

The name bounced off linoleum walls like a taboo.

Billy hissed a deep intake of breath, as though protesting the approach of laughter. Still, he wheezed giggles, and his eyes ignited as would they a firecracker in his mind; teeth seemed tightened with thin lips, agape, tensing among the minutes passing that agreed on just the same; acne seemed crinkled alongside the corners of his mouth, wrenching sharp cheekbones high and tired eyes to brightness. His laughter was boisterous and pitchy, but Shiori couldn't blame him. Everyone laughed like that. Billy must have learned it from his family, or from the kids at school, if he had not already from conception.

"Oh, why did I even bother coming to you?" said Shiori, turning to leave. She hugged herself, choking on the start of tears. Of his reaction should she have been long accustomed, yet it hurt awfully, like she had been slapped. Breath once more abandoned her. "I don't have time for this. I have to get to class, even if I ought to walk. I have to—"

"Hey, you all right?" Billy was to her behind, now. He reached out to seize her shoulders. "Look, I'm sorry for being a total ass about it, all right? It's just, uh, whenever anyone hears that name around these parts—well, you know what they think. They remember that one Jap shrieking in the middle of the night like a loon, pleading or whatever to some Moon Gods and Sailor Guardians for forgiveness—"

"I remember," said Shiori.

"So, what did you want from me, anyway?" Billy said, quickly so. He rocked on his heels, but she did not turn. "Need some advice, or something? A joyride around town?"

"Sort of," said Shiori. Her voice sounded foreign to her, of a thick softness. "I need a ride to class, and you're my only free ticket. Auntie's busy at work—you know, sewing together rotten clothes, and whatnot—and I was hoping you could—"

"Consider me your personal chauffeur, then," said Billy, releasing her from his grasp. He walked to the exit, opening the door and sinking to a half-bow—and his voice grew goofy, trotting into absurd chivalry. "Will you so graciously accept my humble service, m'lady?"

Shiori nodded mutely.

Billy, face fallen into twilight despair, engulfed her hand in an gangly grasp. He lead her from the pharmacy and onto the sidewalk, where he spared her a kind glance before preparing his bike. And Shiori, not meeting his eyes, slumped against the small of a neighboring building, sliding to the ground. She pulled her knees close. Her eyes fell downcast onto a crack in the sidewalk. Lifeless hair hung woodenly into a hard gaze, as though a sorrow unto one another. Her frown collapsed to a scowl. She winced.

Her Aunt Minako was not crazy, Shiori told herself. She was all Shiori had—her home, her love, her family. Insanity was not an option for Aunt Minako. It never was, and never could be, nor would it ever be, and ever have been.

When Billy unchained his motorbike, propped it, and swung a leg over its rugged seat, he called to her. His voice fell gruff, and unnecessarily insistent:

"Come on, Shiori!" he said. "Don't you have somewhere to be?"

Shiori shrugged from her reverie, struggling woodenly to her feet. Billy was right. She was needed swiftly, and soon would she be late. Shiori had spent enough time here. Right now, she and Billy had somewhere to be. Right now, they harbored a mission to pursue. Right now, they had to move.

"Right!" Shiori cried, brushing herself off. "Coming!"

Something caught the corner of her eye.

Shiori jerked to where which it had come. Her body stilled. It was a something white, of the color snow. No. Not snow. Snow was clean. This thing—if one could condemn it as such—was not. It was filthy, and furry, and limping as would an old beggar to his ten fine heirs. Shiori wondered whether the thing was average only during intimacy, or whether it was just a normally strange thing—

(—a terribly funny something, as peculiar as she.)

It was Billy's voice which thieved her from her musings.

"Hurry up, Shiori!" he shouted, revving the motor of his bike. "Or I'm heading off without you!"

Shiori glared, walking forth to him. "You wouldn't dare, Billy Harris!"

"Just like you wouldn't call your whacked aunt on me," said Billy cheekily. He patted the snug of seat behind him once she grew close, yawning. "Hop on. It should only take us seven minutes to get there from here if we take off now—just graduated from that dump of a school two years ago, so my memory's still on point. According to my watch, we should make it on time, so don't worry much. If not, I can always trick folks into thinking we'd gotten into vehicular difficulties—or some crap like that. It worked a million times before, so it should work a million times more."

Shiori allowed a small beam of hope, joining him on the motorbike. "Really?"

"Really," Billy promised. He offered her a helmet—one of the two which had been hanging from the motorbike. "What had you in such a rush, anyway? You looked like a zombie hyped on a caffeine rush—except zombies were a little hotter and more better-dressed."

"Today's special," Shiori admitted. She strapped on the helmet and wound her arms around Billy's waist, sighing. "We're doing mini-presentations first period in History—for the heck of it, since it's really only September and my teacher, Johnson's, no good at his job. I'm supposed to go first, you know—the Bolshevik Revolution—so can we just get going? I can't be late." She sought a deep breath, and under it she added: "Just—just please. Not this time."

"If you insist," Billy said dryly, and then then they were off.