A/N: If you have not noticed — I deleted most of my multi-chapter fanfictions. I'm sorry, but I don't have the motivation/inspiration to continue writing for them anymore. I'm a person who runs on passion, and when that fizzes off, I just can't do that something anymore. I could force myself to write, but I'm sure no one wants to read a forced work. They come out bad.

I'm only keeping the one I actually really like (Pandora's Box). From now on, I am only going to have two multi-chapters running at any one time. Don't expect more, because then I'll get lazy and run out of inspiration again. I might, however, re-upload them if, AND ONLY IF, I get inspiration again.

But don't worry :) I won't abandon this story. I've drawn out the plot, so I can finish this Japanese Mythology idea. :3

Disclaimer: I don't own Vocaloid, nor any Japanese gods/goddesses.

It was a sunny autumn morning when he first saw her.

It was those kind of mornings, where the sun would cast its light gently (unlike summer, which he hated) and the slightly cold wind picked up red and yellow leaves to blow them away to who-knows-where, those kind of mornings he liked, those kind of mornings he knew that something special was going to happen.

And something special did happen. Or, in this case, that something special came shipped in ribbon-tied pigtails and layered dresses.

Class, his (thirty, single, living on cigarettes and sushi) teacher had introduced, this is Hatsune Miku. She'll be in our class from today onwards, so I do expect you to treat her nicely. Make sure she settles in. It was then followed with a threatening smile that spoke volumes of how this woman — teacher — did not trust a single rowdy child in this elementary class.

So of course the children chorused an unwilling Yes and he followed half-heartedly, chin cupped in his left hand. His teacher nudged the small transfer student in front, urging in hushed whispers for the little girl to introduce herself.

(Frankly, he thought it was stupid for introductions, since all you needed to say was your name and the teachers always said it for the students.)

"I'm Hatsune Miku and I like leeks," she had acquiesced, with a bright little smile that would, in adults' terms, warm the hearts of those who saw it. Such a bright and innocent smile would bring any cold-hearted man on his knees.

Once he saw that he was convinced.

His new seatmate was nothing special.

Over the few weeks she spent in the dreary thirty square-feet classroom, Hatsune Miku had slowly but surely integrated herself into the class' social circles. Slipped in like a crafty snake, like all new students do, he sometimes thought when he let his mind wander. Really, the girl was so ordinary, so boring, he wondered how he even managed to acknowledge her existence the few times she talked to him.

She didn't interact with him a lot. No one did. He was a kind of loner in class, because no one dared to approach him. Nice on the eyes but hard to strike up a conversation with; that was the kind of people Kagamines were. The whole family gave off a natural vibe of I-Am-Too-Good-To-Talk-To-You-Go-Away, and he had accepted it over time. Sure, when he was younger he tried to make friends, but it all slipped away like sand in an hourglass as he grew up, realized that every single thing that came out his mouth passed off as "awkward, non-understandable and arrogant".

His sister tried too, but she came out with better, far better results than he did: she came off as "elegant, mature and high-class", so at least she had some worshippers. He wondered what the difference was; what did his sister have that he didn't? Perhaps the fact that she landed in a better class than him.

He had to admit that maybe, his intelligence was lacking (not that he would ever tell his sister; she'll just rub it in his face). He was always the top of his class, but his sister was always the top of the school. They were so different it hurt when he heard people comparing them.

But he was used to them: the comparisons, the sneers, the smugness of his father and the disappointment of his mother, the always-there whispers. Then again he grew used to things quickly, like how the girl beside him kept kicking her table when she couldn't solve a problem, which caused his table to shake, and how the normally occupied seat beside him grew cold and empty as the season changed into warm spring.

Spring was supposed to bring forth new beginnings and new lives, so it was rather ironic that he was standing here beside her pitch-black coffin in his pitch-black clothes. She looked rather peaceful (nothing like the bloody mess she was when they brought her in, apparently), eyes slid shut and hands clasped on her chest, almost as if she was asleep — that she was, in an eternal sleep no one could possibly wake her up from. Her skin was pale translucent beige, so that it showed the blue-green crossroads of veins on her hands that had long stopped pumping blood.

There were so many flowers around her it looked as if she was lying in a meadow, sleeping; only that her cheeks were no longer rosy and her chest was no longer rising. She looked so calm, so unlike her usual cheerful self, that his cheeks flushed slightly (because of the warmth, because of the warmth) as he took in her features.

After lying down his flower for her, he spent minutes debating what that thump-thump-thumping in his chest and the butterflies in his stomach were. After consulting his sister, who scrunched her face up in disgust, he realized that he had a crush on her. No, not technically her.

He was crushing on a lifeless corpse.

That was rather stupid for a first crush, because dead people couldn't be revived, so he tried to squash down that feeling. If that was who — no, what his first crush was, it was very disappointing and mentally retarded. A seven-year-old child with the mentality of a hundred-year-old was crushing on a corpse. The world would stop spinning on its axis if that were to happen, and since he told his sister, who would definitely tell his mother, she would a) freak out, b) pass out, c) send him to a doctor, or d) all of the above.

But that still didn't exactly deter him from visiting the shrine of a god whose name he couldn't be bothered to remember. "I wish there was some way I could make my crush come true," he mumbled and clapped his hands together, bowing in front of the altar. Nothing happened. Not that he was waiting for something to happen, so he turned his back and was walking out when something stopped him.

In the shrine, incense always burned, the sweet suffocating smell assaulting his nose when he stepped in. But here, the smell was stronger, the waft of jasmines thrown in occasionally. Just as he turned back to the altar to see what happened, some invisible power bound him to the ground, such that he could not even move a single muscle.

"So you wish to revive the girl?" A soft female voice sounded, and he could only stare, barely making out the shape of a woman in the dying light of the evening. The sound of a wooden geta scraping against the cement ground had him wincing inside, and the mysterious woman stepped out from the shadows. Her light pink hair was long and wound up on the ground, yet not a speck of dirt was visible on her long tresses. Her kimono was exquisitely beautiful, flowers entwined with fire, some burning in the fire, and some flying out of reach. A black haori draped over her shoulders, draping on the ground smoothly as she walked towards him.

"You wish to revive the girl?" Her voice was louder this time as she was nearer, and he could hear the deep echoing quality of her voice that made her seem reachable yet unreachable. She raised a hand and gestured, "Speak."

"I simply do not want my first crush to be a corpse," he managed out, his eyes holding the woman's blue ones bravely. The mysterious woman chuckled, and raised a hand to cover her mouth. "You're an interesting child," she told him, and inclined her head towards him. "As long as she is not a corpse, it is fine? Therefore it is fine even if I do not revive her? There is a price to pay for bringing a soul back, however."

He nodded, unsure of what the woman meant and acknowledging that there will be a price. What else could a corpse be? And of course, to have something, you need to pay up something else. Everyone knew that. That was the way of life.

Another echoing laugh sounded, this time darker. The smell of jasmines assaulted his senses again, and the woman melted back into the shadows, laughing all the while. "Such an interesting child. I have not met a human this interesting since I stayed in the underworld," he heard her laugh out, and saw her wave her hand. Black spots began dancing in front of his eyes, but he still managed to stutter out his question, "Who are you?"

"I, child, am the goddess you call Izanami."

Izanami is the goddess of creation and death (from Wikipedia lol). Pretty obvious who she is, BTW.

This is pretty much the longest prologue I've ever written =w=

Reviews make me happy. :D