Author's Note: Hello, Beautiful People!
Unfortunately, this one-shot is more of an idea than an actual story. I have spent months playing with this dystopian world, and even after so much time since originally conceiving it, I'm still highly fascinated with the stories this universe has to tell. However, I'm afraid I have far more premise to work with than actual plot. Despite the many ideas I possess, I have yet to think of a way to intertwine these fates in an engaging way. Nonetheless, I'm still publishing this in hopes of giving those who read it something to think about. Or maybe just a good few minutes of entertainment. Either one's cool.
- Fantastical
Disclaimer: I in no way, shape, or form own Vocaloid. Each character used belongs to the respective company that produced him/her; I merely borrowed them for non-profit entertainment purposes. However, I do claim ownership to the cover art and words below. Please enjoy.
The Sublime and the Beautiful
What is art? What purpose does putting images on canvases hold? To have the face of oneself immortalized in inks and paints is a sin against God. To draw out imaginative faces is the same as cursing God's name. To capture landscapes with tools held in hand is challenging God as Creator. Let no man who values his life filth his soul in this way. If the use of charcoal and colors is the only means a man has to support himself, let him live out his life as a slave for those who won't be tempted by this fruit of evil.
As if a thief in the night, a small figure emerged from behind the attic door and scaled down the boarded stairs that creaked under the girl's lightweight. Her long, flowing skirt flew behind her similar to a flag in the wind even though her fast steps were soft and careful. Upon reaching ground level, the small girl peeped over the door frame, door itself absent, and observed who was currently in the kitchen. With no soul in sight, the girl quietly rushed to the fridge and checked its contents. There, made specifically for her, was a platter of cheese and crackers. Normally her master didn't allow the cooks to leave her such delicacies, but every once in a while the mistress of the home ordered fine appetizers to be left for her paint slave in order to keep the girl from passing out from hunger while under one of her muses.
Balancing the platter on one hand and shutting the fridge door with the other, Rin, as the girl was once known, made her way out of the kitchen and back to the attic where she lived, painted, and slept. Returning to the room - boxed in by old wood walls and assaulted by the smell of dust that never went away no matter how much she cleaned, Rin set the platter on a broken, marble table, turned off the beat-up radio as it played the Psalms, and chained the door shut so as not to be disturbed. Tonight she did not want to be interrupted from her work.
Graphite in hand, Rin sat before her easel and used a light touch to outline the shape she wanted to bring about. She followed a simple process: check the sketch she was trying to recreate, look at the mirror, evaluate what changes could have been made, and incorporate them to her draft. Stopping every now and again to pop a cracker with a slice of cheese on top into her mouth, Rin worked at the paper and put shape on the previous blank sheet. She had to be quick so that no one would discover this art, art she intended only for her eyes. To draw and paint for her own pleasure resulted in punishment, but this had to be done.
When the draft was completed, Rin set the graphite down and took a number of deep, slow breaths. Almost subconsciously she ran her fingers over her bare neck, feeling the scar she always hid behind the chin-high collared dresses she wore. Some anniversaries are meant to be celebrated, and others are meant to serve as reminders.
Rin sighed, rose to her feet, and picked up the glass pitcher she was allowed to keep in the attic with her so that she wouldn't have to make a trip downstairs every time she thirst. Dry of liquid, an errand to the kitchen was required to refill it. She decided to make double use of the trip and return the empty platter as well.
Checking the clock on the mantle, Rin noted that her drafting took almost two hours of time. The hard part had yet to be done. Quicker than the previous trip, Rin scurried to the kitchen. Maids now resided in the room and chattered happily as they prepared a meal for their masters' guests. Not wanting to get in anyone's way, Rin refilled her pitcher with water as she left the platter by the sink. It was as she stood two steps up the stairs did an exclamation stop her.
"What a talent your painter slave is!" A woman.
"Truly remarkable how the shifting of light is captured in the paints," another voice, this one masculine, said.
Rin frowned, unable to place the speakers. The guests must be new acquaintances, she decided.
"Thank you." This person Rin did recognize. It was the mistress of the house speaking now. "Mr. Kamui was hesitant of my decision to purchase a fourteen-year-old painter slave, but the little darling has spent these past two years proving herself over and over again. Not to mention her paintings sell for such a high price if I choose not to hang them on my walls. My Painter Girl has paid for herself three times over now!"
Not that I see any of the money, Rin thought, knowing it didn't matter. She understood what she was getting herself into when she sold herself as a painting slave. If anything, she got lucky. Most masters abused their painter slaves; Mrs. Kamui treated Rin almost too well.
"Fourteen years old?" The female guest sounded astonished. "Luka, how did such a young girl, practically a child, fall to such a low caste?"
Rin leaned closer to the wall, almost pressing her ear against the wood, to hear which version of the story her mistress would give. Of course neither her master nor mistress knew the real reason behind Rin's condition, but they tended to be pretty close with their theories.
"My Painter Girl is an orphan," Mrs. Kamui began. At least that much was true. "Dumb as a rock, poor thing. Can't speak. Can't write. Has no name to call her own."
That much was false. Rin had three names, four if counted her nickname - Erin "Rin" Linelle Kagamine - and she was very much literate. However, she knew she was being unfair by discrediting her mistress for the false information. It wasn't as if Rin displayed any form of an ability to communicate. This was her own doing.
"Being so young and so stupid," Mrs. Kamui continued, "the poor girl scarcely has any options. She was too young to work in the factories without the company risking charges of unlawful child labor, and most occupations these days require at least a grade four education, which she doesn't possess. Painter Girl actually tried to kill herself." Rin heard the female guest gasp in horror. Mrs. Kamui continued as if her friend didn't act out. "Fortunately the cut on her throat wasn't too deep, and she was able to be saved. Painter Girl spent her recovery playing with the pens and papers the nurses ignorantly left in her recovery room, and it was that way it was discovered she could draw. The authorities then gave her two options: flogging for her sin, or selling her mortality into a life of sin with the hope that God will one day forgive her. Painter Girl, well, I don't think you need me to continue to know which path she chose."
Silence was the only response when Mrs. Kamui finished. There was so much truth in the web of lies. Again Rin ran her fingers along the scar, feeling the jagged flesh that never healed quite right.
"May I ask, Mrs. Kamui," the male guest began, breaking the silence, "if this girl's past lead you to pity, and thus purchase, her?"
"Not entirely, Mr. Shion," the mistress replied. "As with every man selling his soul to the paints, she had to paint a work of her own choice for potential buyers to evaluate. For one so young, her strokes were delicate yet distinct. Her tragic past in no way shaped my opinion of her value."
That Rin knew was a lie. When she first purchased Rin, Mrs. Kamui tried to buy Rin gifts and give the girl nice clothes to dress in. It took multiple refusals on Rin's part to finally get Mrs. Kamui to understand that Rin was happy in her old clothes, attic bedroom, and no luxuries save for an old radio. At first Rin didn't understand the favor held towards her, but then she overheard the maids talking about Mrs. Kamui's missing daughter. After that Rin knew why a woman who previously had no interest in art would purchase and kindly treat such a young, innocent girl.
Having heard enough, Rin climbed back to the attic, locked herself inside, and, picking up a piece of charcoal now, returned to her draft. As close as Mrs. Kamui was to Rin's past, she wasn't close enough. It took everything Rin had to keep her tears pushed back: she couldn't let them fall lest they land on her work and damage her art. Why, she wondered, did her tragedy have to be brought up tonight of all nights.
At the ripe age of thirteen, Rin's parents died of an unknown illness that she fortunately avoided catching. For almost a year after that, it was just her and her brother. They may have struggled, but they struggled together. The two children worked for their daily bread, and despite how illegal it was, they sang together every night. Rin loved his voice best of any choir member even if he claimed hers was more beautiful. Life was hard, but they always had each other.
Then he died in a fire shortly after their fourteenth birthday.
Grief stricken by the loss, Rin slit her throat. Death was not her goal, but it was indeed one she wouldn't have minded accomplishing. Her true desire, the one she did achieve, was damaging her vocal cords and losing the ability to speak. She did not find it right for her to be able to sing while her brother's song was forever lost, so she made it so that her own voice would never flutter across the nighttime skies again.
Finishing her portrait, Rin set down the charcoal and inspected the work. While in the hospital, Rin used the pens and papers the nurses left with her to sketch everything about her brother's appearance before she could forget even the tiniest, most insignificant detail. Though her later doodles were destroyed upon discovery, her brother's face was always hidden in her garment, close to her heart.
Last year and the year before starting with his death, Rin would take out the old picture and, checking her own appearance to see how the months changed her, try to recreate the portrait while weaving in the possible ways he could have aged if he was still alive today. This was the anniversary since she lost him, and this was how she remembered her other half.
Rin feathered her fingers across the charcoal image. So desperately she wanted it to be real, for him to be real. She wanted to run her fingers through his hair one more time. She wanted to sing with him again despite neither of them having voices anymore. More than that, she wanted him to cradle her in his arms as he sang her to sleep, something he did often after their parents died even though she was older and should have been the one comforting him. Now he was nothing more than a memory, a memory Rin held nearest and dearest to her heart.
Before she could be found out, Rin hid the portrait, as well as last year's and the original, under the floorboard below her bed. Since she was the Kamui's painter slave, everything Rin drew belonged to them. Rin was not allowed to keep anything she drew or painted for herself, and she could be flogged if she was discovered to have art for her eyes only hidden away. Her work was not truly hers, but she had something she could not help but think of as her own.
Under the same floorboard Rin hid her portraits was a collection of notebooks, all filled with stories Rin had read multiple times. Fiction was illegal, but whoever wrote them didn't seem to care. The works of fantasy were hidden away, and as far as Rin was aware, she was the only one who knew they existed. Tales of dragons, elves, and heroes accompanied Rin on lonely nights. They brought her comfort when she needed it, and she kept them alongside her own valuables. The author may have left them behind, but Rin treasured them.
The task of hiding her pictures and the notebooks complete, Rin moved on to arranging a canvas for her next piece. If anyone took note of Rin's isolated behavior these past twenty-four hours, she risked questioning if she didn't produce any new art soon. It wasn't that she feared her master and mistress - as a replacement for their own daughter, they treated Rin kindly, didn't hit her, and even offered to give her gifts in exchange for her work, which she refused - but they would be punished as well if someone outside of the home discovered Rin's hiding art for herself and the notebooks she chose to keep instead of burning. If her owners learned of these secret portraits and works of fiction and didn't punish Rin for the items, they would be punished for letting her get away with it. Worse yet, Rin would be stripped away from them and forced to sell herself to another family, and she didn't want to take her risks with any master or mistress who may be nowhere near as kind.
Through the blinding tears, Rin sketched a scenery she would later cover with colors. The blank canvas would within hours turn into a field of pink, yellow, and baby blue flowers. The warm colors would make any viewer feel the fuzzy sensation inside their chest. The way Rin would balance the light and shade would awe any who laid their eyes on the painting, and nobody would ever know how depressed she felt creating it.
When her eyelids grew too heavy, Rin rested her hand on her lap and finally allowed the tears to fall. She left the easel in favor of crawling into her bed without ever so much as changing into a nightgown or brushing her chin length blonde hair. With her brother's face vivid in her mind, Rin mouthed the words she wanted most for him to hear.
I miss you. I miss you so much, but more than that I love you. I love you with all my heart, Len. More than anything.
The Wicked and the Divine
Music is a means to worship our great God. Let the congregation praise Him with Psalms and the choir honor Him with the Mass. If God blesses a man with the ability to play, then he shall for the Church. If God gifts a man with the ability to string together notes in a soothing harmony, then that man should use his gift to put the Psalms and Masses to a wider variety of music. Songs should be sacred; anything and everything secular is punishable by death.
Pianist fingers. Musical talent. Clear singing.
A brilliant mind. A humble attitude. A strong soul.
Church Boy, as he was known to the congregation. Allen Renard Kagamine, to the Church and the bishop who employed him. Len, to nobody but his lost sister.
As he did every weekday at five in the evening, Len played whatever piece he wrote for the Psalms that he felt like practicing. In his two years as the local Church Boy, nameless to all save for those who knew him personally or professionally, Len had put all one hundred and fifty Psalms to music at least thrice. He did the same for the Masses at least once. A prodigy, they called him. Bored with nothing better to do, he preferred to think of it.
Even now he experimented with the piece he spent all week writing. It was the sixth time he put the twenty-third Psalm to music, and as usual, he wanted this one to be better than the last. After all, it was Rin's favorite Psalm.
The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.
He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: He leadeth me beside the still waters.
He restoreth my soul: He leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for His name's sake.
Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for Thou art with me; Thy rod and Thy staff they comfort me.
Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies: Thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over.
Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the house of the Lord for ever.
Where Rin was, Len didn't know. He wasn't even certain if his twin was still alive. Shortly after their fourteenth birthday, Len snuck into a bakery in attempts to steal a small orange cake for him and Rin to share for the New Years - it was a nationwide tradition to eat orange cake and write your wishes, put them in a bottle, and toss the bottle into the harbor before the clock struck midnight and the year came to its finality. The wishes were already written and put in a glass bottle the twins dug out of somebody's trash, but the cake they still lacked. Since it would be wrong to break tradition, Len snuck into the bakery to take a small, possibly stale and unwanted orange cake, but neither of the twins could have anticipated that a fuse would finally blow and the bakery would explode in a fire with Len still inside.
Len should have died, but he didn't. He wasn't so much as severely burned, ending up with nothing with the exception of marks that have since faded. It was as if an angel had come to protect him and lead him out of the flames. He was outside for only half a minute before the building collapsed in on itself: it was an old shop that shouldn't have lasted as long as it did.
By the time he regained his breath, expelled all the smoke from his lungs, and could look for his sister, she was gone. To this day, Len still didn't know if Rin went inside to save him and died when the building collapsed or if she ran away, thinking him dead, and has since been out of his reach. It has been two years that day, and Len discovered no clue as to whether or not she still breathed.
He didn't give up, however. With his musical abilities, Len didn't have to try very hard to become the new Church Boy in one of the nearby cities. If his works became famous, Rin would have to hear them eventually, and there was a technique he always used that, if one didn't know to listen for it like Rin did, nobody would ever catch on. It was all a matter of ifs, Len knew. If Rin was still alive, if she heard one of his Psalms to music, if she recognized his secret code written in only for her, then she would know he was alive. If she could find him, if she had any way to get word to him, then he would know she was still here. From then on, it would all depend if they could one day reunite. Len bit the inside of his cheek, the music he played never faulting. The scenario possessed one ifs too many, but it was the only hope he had to hold onto.
Instead of dwelling on the improbable, he used his peripheral vision to see out into the crowd. The building was made of stone painted white as translucent silk curtains covered the stained glass windows. Bows with purple flowers knitted in the ribbons were tied at the end of the pews in decoration for the New Year season. Yet despite all the grand decor, Len searched for a simple, pale face. Sometimes he wondered why he always looked; she was always there. Never once had she failed to show, yet he still felt the need to know if she was again in his presence.
A young woman - she couldn't have been much older than he - sat in the very back. Just as Len played the piano every weekday at five, the same woman came in every weekday at five. She wasn't a regular attendee: Len couldn't recall a single time she was at a Sunday or Wednesday service. Yet she came every Monday through Friday evening and sat in the back as if she didn't belong but had nowhere else to go. It had been this way for nearly a year now. Len couldn't remember if she started coming every evening he played in order to hear him or if he started playing every evening she came just to see her.
There was something about the woman that drew him to her, except he didn't know what. She was beautiful, he would admit that much, but Len felt no attraction towards her. Perhaps he wanted to know why she only came when he played and never to an actual service. Or maybe he wanted to know if she had some connections that could help him find Rin. Yet what he really believed the reason to be was how so much of her reminded him of himself. The woman was an outsider, going someplace she didn't belong and being exposed to people she wasn't like in order to escape the reality that was her life. Without ever speaking to her, Len knew that much. It's amazing what you can learn about a person after months spent observing them and trying to understand what makes them tick.
Sometimes, more than anything, Len wanted to speak with her, know her name, and maybe become friends. Yet it was strictly forbidden for him to talk with anyone unless they spoke to him first. With starting the conversation himself out, Len planned many situations in which he had a reasonable excuse to get close to her; but before any of these plans could come into practice, she would be gone and he would be left alone with his mind. Would she, he wondered, say something about his playing and, intentionally or not, give him the ability to finally talk to her? Maybe she would ignore him, and words between them would never be exchanged. Perhaps it was best if he didn't know, Len would occasionally decide, since he didn't want his image of her to be tainted if she was not what she appeared to be. Nevertheless, he couldn't deny how badly he wanted to find out the kind of person she was.
When he had played the last note, he looked out into the congregation. He made eye contact with the woman, as always, and broke it when he turned his attention to his music sheets. By the time the piece was gathered into his arms and he looked out again for her, she was gone as if she had never been.
Len, choosing not to dwell on where she always went afterwards, left the piano behind and went through the door to the back of the building. The stairs he climbed lead to a series of rooms for those who, like he, lived in the church. Unlike the grand front the church presented, the back of the building was plain and dull with wooden boards as floors and unpainted stones as walls. The sun shone through the empty windows, causing the area to be uncomfortably hot in the summer and exceedingly moldy in the rainy season. Nonetheless, it was home to others like himself.
Orphan Oliver swept the dusty floorboards and greeted Len as he walked past. Bell ringer Dell sat in the corner, head bowed, arms crossed, and bottle of drink by his side. Mouse catcher Nero set out to collect the Friday hymnals from the pews and then replace them with the ones written specially for the new year.
"Did your pretty friend visit tonight, Allen?" Nero teased, grin on his face, as he and Len passed each other.
"I regret ever mentioning her to you," Len stated, never looking Nero's way.
"And now you have to live with it!" Nero practically sang as he bounced down the stairs. Len grit his teeth but said nothing more.
Entering his room, Len closed the door behind him and walked to his small, wooden desk. He sat on the rickety stool and put the music sheets down before him. With the pen kept with others of its kind inside a mug with a broken handle, Len began to make adjustments to the music according to what he heard as he played. Some notes needed to be higher, and others would sound better sharp where they had been flat. Tomorrow was the New Years celebration in which he was expected to play, and the day after a Sunday in which he would be thoroughly occupied, meaning Len would have to wait until Monday before he could hear how well the new changes made the music sound.
With nothing else to do, Len put away his work and, digging to the bottom of the cardboard box which held his personal belongings, pulled out the music sheets he wasn't allowed to have. He usually resisted the temptation to look at the music, but on the anniversary of his sister's disappearance, he couldn't hold back any longer. After they were separated, Len wrote down all the songs they made up together. He couldn't sing them, not without Rin by his side to join in the music, but he found comfort in reading them and remembering Rin's sweet voice as she sang along, her harmonic words mixing with his.
It was risky possessing such music. The Church strictly forbid secular music, claiming that songs should only be sung to praise God, and had one and only one punishment for anyone who failed to obey: death. Len broke the law when he and Rin made up the songs. He broke the law when he and Rin sang those same songs every night. He broke the law writing them down. He broke the law now just holding the evil music in his hands and reading them.
"I read the Bible through more times than I can count, and I don't recall a single commandment saying 'Thou shalt not write and sing secular music,'" Len said under his breath. Eyes cast upward, Len asked, "Is remembering Rin in this way truly a sin? Or is the Church really trying to control us all?"
Before they died, Rin and his parents used to teach the twins, in secret, that the laws of the Church were man's laws, not God's. He grew up believing that when the Church rose to power little over a century ago, it decreed all types of laws, most of which forbidding any form of creativity, as a way to control the people. The Church claimed that creativity was a challenge to God as Creator and a curse to His Name, but Len was convinced that this was the Church's way of limiting imagination and, as a result, restricting one's ability to think. Only great thinkers could pose a threat to the Church, but great thinking comes from a wide imagination. The laws were quick to take care of that, Len thought. Besides, he often wondered, why would a loving, merciful God give some humans a creative mind if such a thing was a sin? That would be nothing more than setting people like him up for failure.
Sighing, Len read through the music one last time before putting it away. He had to be careful to not be caught with it, not again. Four months into his new position as Church Boy, Len was careless and had been discovered with the secular music by his employer, Bishop Tonio. Because he was rather fond of the blond boy, Bishop Tonio promised to keep Len's secret. If Len was again not careful and discovered by an authoritative, Tonio would deny all knowledge of the music and leave Len to suffer punishment alone. It was a fair deal, Len knew. There was no need for Bishop Tonio to be put to death simply for knowing that Len slept with such evil under his bed.
With the box back where it belonged, Len left his room and made his way to the dining hall for supper. He wiped his eyes, hiding all evidence of his tears. No one knew what he was missing, and Len wanted to keep it that way. Rin was his and his alone. If she was still alive, he would find her one day.
Until then, he would keep playing, Rin's face always in his mind and her singing voice never ceasing to be in his heart.
The Unnatural and the Perfect
Tales of fiction are a waste of the precious time God has given us. A hero is an unattainable character for the breathing man. The fantasy universe ignites thought that a sinful man's fake world is better than the one our perfect God Himself made. The typical "everyone is happy" ending produces pointless hope that all will end well when there is no solid belief in such. Fiction is destructive to humanity. Allowing such a thing to circulate will lead to our extinction. Any man who writes such vile works desires nothing more than the end of mankind. Let no such man live free.
The chatter of the crowd and the smell of many others' food cooking did little to distract her. As she had done so many times before, Miku fried her three pieces of bacon, placed them on her plate to cool, and washed the pan for the next person's use. She then took her dinner and moved to sit in the back of the dining hall, away from everyone else.
Picking apart the greasy meat, Miku chewed slowly on the only food she had to eat. At one point in her life, she gorged herself on pot roast, sweet potato casserole, and boiled green beans with chunks of ham dropped in for flavor. Now she survived on a weekly grocery list of three eggs, a tiny pack of bacon, a head of lettuce, two sweet onions, a bag of beans and rice, half a loaf of bread, and a small, roasted chicken. It wasn't much, but as Miku looked around the room and watched every person who was not feeding a family of one, she knew she was better off than most.
A blonde woman with a swollen belly, a brunet man who was no doubt her husband, and a little girl with dark hair who was obviously their daughter shared a can of soup. Across from the family, two sisters, the older with purple hair and the younger with blue, struggled to not watch as their parents began splitting up nothing more than two thin slices of fried ham and a baked potato. The last family Miku took notice of consisted of a man and woman staring at each other, how tired they are apparent in their eyes, as their three kids - all with light purple hair and all the same age - picked as much meat as they could off the small bird bones. Miku wondered if the parents were fortunate or not to have three kids at once: The family struggled to keep the mouths fed for now, but all three of those children would be expected to fend for themselves at the same time, giving the parents a sudden release from the burden they now carried.
Seeing all of the families struggle gave Miku reasons to hate the law even more.
Nearly one hundred and twenty years ago, a worldwide disease - known in history as The Second Black Death - killed half of the world's population in less than a year. Then came a five-year war that reduced the people to one-third of what they were before the disease took place. Worse yet was the cause of this war; it wasn't over food - with so few people left, there was more than enough of that, but over technology, nuclear weapons, and power. The survivors all over the world demanded control they didn't have the responsibility to hold, and they killed each other for it. This, history taught and Miku didn't question, was the reason their society was so regressed. Technologists have spent the past century trying to restore the advancement of their ancestors, but so far they have barely managed to recreate the technology of the late twentieth century, and even then what they had was nothing compared to what that timeline was actually capable of.
Technology advancement aside, the population still was not what it once was. When the Church rose to power, it's first decree was that every man and woman had to be married by the age twenty-one and have at least three kids in their lifetime. If a person was not married by their twenty-first birthday, he or she would be involved in an arranged marriage. Divorce was strictly forbidden, but a couple brought together by the law were allowed to end it, yet only after producing the required three kids. The population may have since significantly increased, but it was still too small for this law to reach its end. This gave asexuals like Miku a difficult life as she and others like her were forced to live in a world that didn't allow the luxury of a sexuality of the person's own choosing. She was eighteen now, and sooner or later she would be expected to marry whether or not she wanted to.
Shifting her train of thought to something else as she slowly chewed on her light, greasy dinner, Miku thought about her recent trip to the church. She always spent an hour there after work, but she never attended Sunday or Wednesday services. Though she had nothing against religion, Miku wanted nothing to do with the Church. It kept the Bible away from the public, allowing only those who work for the Church the ability to read the Word of God. To keep the common man from being confused, the Church claimed, and to allow those who know better to tell everyone else what God says. Miku bought none of it. How could she count religion as valuable if she was only allowed to believe what was fed to her instead of studying it herself?
Nonetheless, she still went to the local church nearly every day. It was the only way she could see him, the Church Boy. The music he played touched Miku on emotional levels; perhaps anyone else hearing the songs he played wouldn't pick up on it, but Miku was not unaware of the bittersweet tone Church Boy's songs contained. He lost something, she didn't doubt. Church Boy lost something very important to him, and he was unable to find it. Perhaps what he was missing was in no way similar to what Miku left behind, but he was capable of relating to her no matter how little. She knew they could only talk if Miku spoke to him first, yet she never did. Even if he was the only person she would ever come across who would ever begin to understand her pains, Miku's time in the city was limited. She had every reason to not make any friends.
When she finished eating and washing her plate, Miku walked to her room on the fourth floor. The rooms were small and murky and smelled of mildew, there were no private kitchens and dining rooms, and the running water was always cold; but the apartment complex had excellent Internet connection, and that's all Miku needed. She turned on the computer the moment she walked into her room and closed the door behind her, and as it woke up, Miku spent the ten minutes putting her plate away and changing into her pajamas. Once awakened, the monitor lit up the otherwise dark room and awaited its master to begin her work.
Seated at the desk, Miku opened the chat room she helped create. Everything on the Internet - search engines, Emails, online libraries, article postings, and chat rooms - was heavily monitored by the government, though those in charge claimed otherwise. With how often people broke the laws, the authorities had to be certain nobody was abusing the web by covering it with filth such as secular music, art, and fiction stories. It's why computer hackers like Miku had to create their own chat rooms and Email sites, but even then getting caught was a big risk. Nobody could know who anyone was. Not even Miku's employers, who knew her under the pseudonym Ring Suzune, were aware of her true identity.
Typing rapid fast, Miku attempted to contact her coworker, alley, and best Internet friend.
2Q4U: HotShot, u there?
Miku spent the fifteen minutes waiting for a reply writing on one of the online docs. The documents weren't connected to the Internet itself, but still Miku was certain to keep them under a password that went deep into the servers. Not only did she risk her life working for an organization she knew little about, but she also risked trouble with the law if she was ever discovered to enjoy creative writing. It was something she loved, but if she wasn't careful she could face imprisonment, and Miku was certain that she wouldn't like jail the slightest bit.
HotShot8: am now, Too Cute For You
2Q4U: the Q is supposed to be cool, not cute. How may times do I have to tell you this?
2Q4U: nvm. I finally cracked through the wall & downloaded those files u wanted
HotShot8: rly?
2Q4U: no, im just teasing u. Im still at square 1
HotShot8: -_-
2Q4U: yes, I have it. Got the floppy disk right here. Will download 2nite & send 2 u when finished
HotShot8: thanks, Ring. Your the best
2Q4U: *You're
HotShot8: cmon, like YOU'RE using proper grammar. YOU'RE typing horribly just like the rest of us
Miku smiled.
2Q4U: I can write really well if I so desire, Luki. I am a writer, you know, so proper English is a way of life of mine.
HotShot8: creative writing doesnt count. Nobody reads ur (cant go wrong here, with your and you're, can I?) Work but u
2Q4U: not that it matters. They only want writers for writing news in the paper & online articles. Srsly, why is it ok to write about the tragic death of a 5 year old in the news but horrible to write the same thing in a work of fiction? At least the fictional death wasnt real!
HotShot8: people r weird, Ring. People r weird
Biting her lip, Miku debated whether or not to end the conversation there. The chat line was set up for work, not for casual conversation. Yet at the same time, Miku wanted somebody to talk to. Luki was her only real friend, yet they didn't know each other's true name or an idea of their respective age range. Even Luki's real gender was a mystery, as he - and everyone else who worked for the company, including Miku herself - was given the option to choose what gender to be referred to. Luki could have been anything between a teenage girl to an old man, but he was Miku's best friend all the same. With that thought in mind, Miku dove into the topic that spent the past month eating her.
2Q4U: so I checked my parents receipts recently, & they made an interesting purchase 2 years ago
HotShot8: u can do that?
2Q4U: im an accountant irl, thats how I manage to get all those files boss needs. Part of being an accountant is searching through credit records, if im sneaky enough to not get caught
HotShot8: so what they buy?
2Q4U: a painter slave
HotShot8: ok, I know u come from a rich family so why is this a big deal?
2Q4U: my parents dont care for art, like, at all
HotShot8: so why are you bringing it up?
2Q4U: because the paint slave is an incredibly young girl. Mom bought her some months after I left, & this paint slave isn't that much younger than me. She's probably 16 now
HotShot8: tbh, I dont think I can blame ur mom. Her only daughter disappears w/o a word. Why not buy the closest thing to a replacement ur gon get?
2Q4U: so you agree that this girl is my replacement?
HotShot8: why do u care? U chose to leave, so why fret over a 16 y/o girl ur never gonna met?
2Q4U: just kuz I chose to leave doesn't mean I dont have some regrets...
HotShot8: I know, Ring. I have regrets 2, but whats done is done
Instead of answering, Miku took a deep breath and let it out slowly. The thought of her mother loving another girl only two years younger than Miku and treating that same girl as her own daughter hurt more than Miku was willing to admit. Part of her wanted to wish horrible things on this girl because of it. Not that this was fair, Miku knew: if the girl was selling herself as a paint slave at fourteen years of age, she was bound to have no future elsewhere.
HotShot8: look, just download the file & send it 2 me when u can. Im sure ur mom still loves u, but u cant deny her a daughter 2 love when her real daughter is God knows where
2Q4U: I know. Thanks 4 listening, Luki. You're a real pal
HotShot8: u know it, babe ;)
Miku smiled as she logged out of the chat room. As the file downloaded from the floppy disk, Miku continued to write on her document. Stories were something she loved to tell, even as a little girl who didn't know that storytelling was considered a sin. She had written many adventures, adventures with magic and mythical creatures in notebooks that were currently hidden in the floorboards of an attic where no soul would ever be able to discover them.
Now she typed her words, which she loved even more because of how quick it was to get the words down and easy to fix mistakes. When she was done, she would send them to her secret Email account to keep them hidden from the authorities before deleting the docs off the computers she used. Miku knew she could never leave the works behind, but she couldn't bear the thought of deleting them for good.
With the information still downloading, Miku let her imagination run wild as she documented the fictional tale of a young girl hiding from the beast that destroyed her village and trying to bring down the faerie who took her place and lives the heroine's life. The protagonist is smart and cunning, but also impulsive and indecisive. Flawed characters are the most realistic, of course. Yet as she wrote, the tears built up in Miku's eyes. She blinked them back, forcing them to stay down. Not that it was easy, since this fairytale was truly a creative retelling of the life Miku lived. Writing was Miku's form of escape, but unfortunately the truth managed to show itself in the spiral of lies.
Staring upwards helped stop the tears, so Miku looked up as if she was searching for the God she didn't know if she believed in. When she left all she ever knew, Miku vowed to never cry. Until the day she returned home, she would not shed a single tear. She would not cry at the sorrows written into Church Boys songs. She would not cry at the thought of being replaced as her mother's daughter by a painter girl. She was Miku Hatsune Kamui, and weeping and sobbing was not an option.