A/N: So I was pretty nervous about posting this, since while Miaya has cerebral palsy in Extra Life, she's not in focus like she is here. I did a bunch of research, but as usual if I've written anything wrong, please let me know.
Spastic diplegia.
Miaya knew what those words meant long before she knew what words were. They were passed around between the doctors and her mother, between her physical therapist and her mother, and between her mother and other people, for as long as she could remember. 'Spastic' was the type of cerebral palsy—another set of words she grew up with—she had, and 'diplegia' meant she couldn't use her legs.
Well, not quite. Despite what you might think being in a wheelchair implied, she could walk—but it hurt so much that she just didn't. Things like cleaning her room were hard without help. But her arms were fine, so she could at least feed herself, and write, and push her own chair around. It meant that Ikeda-san, her personal care assistant, only had to help with housework and didn't have to follow her everywhere.
Or at least, she wasn't supposed to. Even though Miaya was in elementary school and all the other kids could walk to and from school by themselves, Mom insisted Ikeda-san go with her. "I just want you to be safe," she'd fret in the mornings, stooping to kiss Miaya goodbye before running off to work.
It hurt, a little, that Mom didn't think she could handle something as simple as going to school. She knew it wasn't because Mom thought she was incompetent—Mom was always the first to get angry if she ever heard anyone comment about how Miaya'd never succeed because she was in a wheelchair. And she was always encouraging her daughter to chase her dreams. She was just overprotective.
But, when Miaya wasn't feeling embarrassed about all the stares at the poor cripple girl who couldn't even go outside on her own, she could understand why. She worried about Mom too—Mom, who was accident-prone and flighty. Mom, who looked so scared at the thought of something happening to her that Miaya took extra care of herself so she wouldn't worry. Mom, who had to work because there was no Dad around to do that or to look after Miaya. He'd been in the Japan Ground Self-Defense Force and died while doing his duty, when she was just a baby.
Miaya sometimes asked about him, but it was more out of respect than any sense of loss. She…well, she missed the concept of a dad, rather than her actual dad, if that made sense. Sometimes she'd visit the little shrine they had to him in their house, study his portrait and try to see her face in his. Other times she'd try to imagine having a dad, but she could never quite envision what it'd be like. It was like trying to make a puzzle piece fit in the wrong spot.
Still, even though they were on their own…things weren't ashard as they could have been. Mom being a widow meant she got quite a bit of benefits and tax deductions. Even though she had to work a lot, they were well off. And they had a great relationship—Mom apologized frequently for not being able to spend more time with Miaya. She always handmade her bento boxes and included little love notes inside. Whenever she did have the time, mother and daughter would spend the entire day together, watching Sailor Moon (their mutual favorite anime) or going to the local park or just being silly.
In fact, being silly was the only personality trait they had in common. They were opposite as night and day. Miaya was thoughtful, scholarly, reserved; she only showed that side of her when she was relaxed. Mom was very much a social butterfly; she loved to talk and she always overshared. It wasn't uncommon for Miaya to hear her complimenting a passerby on something and then striking up a conversation like they were old friends. A complete stranger! Miaya couldn't even talk without her stuffed rabbit, Usami-chan!
Well, she could talk to her mom, Ikeda-san, and her physical therapist, but to everyone else? No. And even with Usami-chan, she didn't talk much. Most of the time, she just didn't have anything to say.
But the other children talked to her. It was pity, she knew, because she was in a wheelchair and couldn't play the same games as them, and that irritated her. Sometimes they talked to her like she was dumb, crouching and talking in exaggerated slow tones, and that irritated her even more.
I'm not dumb! She wanted to yell. Just because something's wrong with my body doesn't mean something's wrong with my mind!
But she wasn't like Mom, who never failed to give strangers a piece of her mind when she saw their sad, pitying glances. She didn't have that kind of courage. All Miaya did was suck in a breath and endure it, because the alternative—the alternative meant showing who she was. Showing that the quiet, honor-roll student also daydreamed about being a magical girl. And what if they didn't like that girl? Pity was better than that.
It was safer, being the quiet, disabled kid in her class.
Still, for all Miaya's annoyance at the exaggerated special treatment, she was naturally sensitive. And because she was quiet, she was observant. She saw Mai-chan scowling at her mother, or how red Isamu-kun's eyes were after random trips to the bathroom, or Etsuko-chan flinching at every raised voice. She saw, and it tugged her heartstrings—and one day, she decided she just had to do something about it.
She spoke to her physical therapist, a big but gentle man with a melodic voice, because she was a child and she knew "therapy" meant "help people". Her therapist told her he didn't help people the way she wanted to, but offered to speak with a friend who did. And that friend gave him the names of books, which he gave to Miaya—books for beginners, introductions to therapy. And thus, while Mom was at work, Ikeda-san escorted Miaya to the bookstore to purchase them.
No one thought anything strange of it—well, the clerk gave her a skeptical look, but she knew it was because of her disability, not her age. This was, after all, a world where children could excel, could become teenage Ultimates. Encouraging the interests of the young was common.
And when she opened that first book and started reading…she was just hooked. Miaya had always been smart, and studious too; books were good companions. In these, there were a lot of things made sense, and there were some that didn't, and instead of discouraging her it made her want to know more. Therapy was interesting. The more she read, the more her eagerness built.
She didn't have to be the shy, pathetic girl. With this, she could really help people. She could be like a superhero, or a magical girl—her true identity unknown, hidden beneath the guise of Usami-chan! And everybody knew magical girls needs special outfits.
So when Miaya rolled into class the next day, Usami-chan was with her like usual, but dressed in a pink magical girl uniform, a plastic magical girl wand taped to her paw. She was one of the first, as usual, and the few other classmates scattered around looked sleepy and bored. Miaya took a deep breath, straightened Usami-chan's wand, and rolled forward.
That day, she learned Mai-chan hadn't done her homework because she was deliberately disobeying her dad. When she asked why, Mai-chan had shut down, but an apology and promise to listen if she ever needed to talk again in the future seemed to make up for it. Then Miaya, feeling tentatively good, rolled away to speak with Isamu-kun. From him she didn't get much, but he did say her idea was 'kinda cool, I guess'. Delight and confidence built; she went to the next, and the next, and then the teacher showed up to start homeroom. But Miaya was satisfied. More than satisfied, delighted. The persona of Magical Miracle Girl Usami-chan was like a new glove; an awkward fit at first, but the more she wiggled her fingers, the more comfortable it had become.
And through time, more talks, and support, Miaya was eventually able to learn that Mai-chan's mom wasn't really her mom, but her stepmom, and she hated her for replacing her real mother; that Isamu-kun's big brother was dying of something called 'cancer' and it terrified him; that Etsuko-chan's parents fought all the time and sometimes yelled at her too. She listened to all her classmates' problems, and did the best she could to help.
Sometimes she could help them enough that it helped their home problems—like Mai-chan taking the first step to reconciling with her stepmom. Sometimes she couldn't—like, she couldn't make Isamu-kun's brother stop dying—but she could be an outlet for them to cry to. And because she was there, they felt better. They became…happier? Healthier? Something like that; they just seemed to be a bit brighter in class.
Suddenly, more children wanted to ask for her advice or vent to her. Kids from other classes would rush up to her in the hallways, or during clubs or school activities, and beg for her help. Kids who couldn't afford a real therapist, or whose parents refused to take them to one, or who didn't want their parents to know about their problems…those were the kids she spoke to, the kids she helped.
Mom was a fantastic supporter; her initial reaction, when she learned about what Miaya wanted to do, had been to tease, "Now it makes sense why you're so quiet! Your heart and ears are so big, to always listen to others and want to ease their pains, that you decided talking would get in the way of that!" But after that, she wouldn't stop telling people how wonderful and considerate her daughter was, posting and advertising on social media that if you needed a therapist, Gekkogahara Miaya was the girl to go to.
As weeks turned to months turned to years, Miaya bought more books about therapy—techniques, terminology, famous therapists, anything she could. She worked up the courage to shadow a professional therapist and study from experts. What she learned there, she carried back to her impromptu clients. Her performance as this 'kid therapist' became even better, word spread even more, and the cycle continued. Eventually, (although more in her teenage years) there were even adults who would seek her out.
Ironically, she never once thought to purchase a self-help book for overcoming her shyness. Social interaction was…well, she was fine as long as she was talking through Usami. Especially when she was with patients. Put on that bubbly persona of a silly "magical girl", who would guide patients to a better future, and she could talk to anyone!
But. It was an act, and it did get tiring after a while. She was a natural introvert, and she hated staring. She'd even run away to escape it. …She still hadn't overcome the urge to run when strangers talked to her, despite so many of her patients approaching her out of the blue.
Still, as far as she was concerned, she'd found a way that worked for her. So why did anything have to change?
But, as Miaya got older, talking through Usami stopped being cute. People started side-eying her. Some pointed remarks were made about how it was about time she stopped playing with dolls, much less talking through them. It wasn't everyone—her clients, people she was closer to, they understood—but it was enough. Their judgment pierced her skin like thousands of tiny needles, flaring her anxiety and fear, and she would clutch Usami to her chest even tighter.
It wasn't as easy as they said it should be…! It wasn't even because of her shyness anymore, not entirely! Usami had become part of her image as a therapist. She even had little business cards, which of course made Mom joke about her surprisingly adult teenager, that featured the rabbit. People…they expected to see Usami when they visited her.
A successful teenage therapist was interesting. A successful teenage therapist who talked through a rabbit was so strange, so absurd, so bizarre, it stuck in your mind. She wouldn't be able to help anyone if they didn't even know she existed.
But she didn't have the courage to shout that.
And…Usami wasgetting worn down. She'd had that rabbit for as long as she could remember, and signs of wear had already popped up. One beady black eye had gotten lost somewhere, the polish on her nose and remaining eye were scuffed, and the once-plush fur was becoming patchy. The threads on the magical girl uniform were becoming undone, little stray threads poking out; only the magical girl stick was in good condition. If Miaya kept carrying her around…it probably wouldn't be long before Usami fell apart completely, or was damaged beyond repair.
It was a conundrum, and it worried at her all throughout her last semester of middle school. High school was right around the corner, and yet she couldn't enjoy the feeling of newfound maturity. Couldn't even be happy that Mom had finally admitted she was being silly by having her teenager be walked to school like a baby and was now letting her go on her own.
It was Ikeda-san who gave her the idea of computer programming. Miaya had been going around, asking a few trusted people what they thought she should do—Mom, her physical therapist—to little avail. Today she'd asked Ikeda-san her opinion while her assistant cleaned her room, dusting off shelves and plugging in the vacuum. The older woman had listened, nodded thoughtfully, and finally asked, "Have ya thought about an avatar?"
Miaya blinked. "An avatar?"
Ikeda-san nodded again, once, precise. Everything about her was precise; the neat way she folded the covers of Miaya's bed, the sharp, smooth movements of her arm as she vacuumed the floor, the deft way she stepped around Miaya's wheelchair. No wasted movements. "My nephews love MMOs. In those games, an avatar is something that represents ya. It doesn't have to look like ya, or be the same species. They have a lot of fun with character creation, I hear."
A slight smile was curving her mouth as she spoke of her nephews. Ikeda-san was unmarried, had no children; the only family she ever mentioned were her brother and his sons, who lived over in Nara. She'd moved away years ago, but still retained a slight Kansai drawl. Despite her poise, her salt-and-pepper hair was often loose, and she preferred casual, flower-print skirts and pastel blouses over formal business suits. A country woman in the city, defying the city's expectations.
"So…an avatar could look like a rabbit?"
"I don't know how programming works, but yes, I'm sure."
So Miaya took some programming lessons, and before long, Usami was bouncing around on her laptop's screen, a little avatar she could speak through. When she took Usami out for the public first test drive, she still got strange looks, but no more than usual. No one said anything about her age, or about being childish. Apparently, a girl talking through a computer was weird, but within acceptable social boundaries for most.
Her clients were all surprised by the change, but happy enough with it. It certainly helped that, because of the avatar, Usami was able to use expressions and body language, which only improved her ability to connect with people. As for the original Usami, she was retired to a proud shelf in Miaya's bedroom.
"I'm so glad Ikeda-san is going with you," Mom said, adjusting Miaya's scarf as they waited for the subway. The station in Tachikawa was busy, as it always ways at the morning rush hour, people hurrying to get to work. Even though none of them were looking at her, Miaya still felt vaguely nauseous at the thought of all the eyes that could be on her. She didn't like crowds, not at all. "It'll be good for you to have a familiar face."
Miaya's fingers danced across her keyboard. "Mom," said Usami, "I'm not a little kid anymore."
"And I won't exactly be right with her, Emi-san," Ikeda-san said politely. Because of Miaya's disability, the headmaster had made special arrangements for her to stay on campus, but an adult living in the dorms with the students was strictly unethical.
Mom huffed. "Oh, you know what I meant!" Despite her fretting, Mom's eyes glowed with happy pride. "Hope's Peak Academy! I always knew you were going to be great, Miaya! I'm so proud!"
Miaya hid her face in her scarf so Mom wouldn't see her grinning. "Hehe, thank you…I'll do my best."
Hope's Peak Academy…
It seemed that was all anyone could talk about, ever since the scout and letter came. Her clients all congratulated her and told her how she'd earned it, Mom gushed over social media, even people who pitied her looked at her with new respect. To them, going to Hope's Peak was the best thing that could happen to a person.
To Miaya, that wasn't quite true.
In the academic journals, there were often articles about one of the Ultimate Therapists before her. Yamasaki Maro. He enjoyed working with the darker side of the mind; criminals, the mentally ill. Miaya didn't agree with his views on them—he seemed to believe these people were to be studied, not helped—but she had to respect his brilliance. He only took on the difficult cases, and more often than not succeeded. He was well-respected and gave many interviews.
There was one in particular that had stuck out to her, though. The interviewer had asked Yamasaki-san about his recent divorce, the rumors that his ex-wife had thrown a huge fit about his focus on his work. Yamasaki-san had laughed and condescendingly referred to his ex as a woman who simply didn't understand that, for people like him, work and talent were the most important things in life.
That had struck Miaya as very sad. If work had been more important to Mom than family…so much of Miaya's life would be so hollow. All those memories they'd made, silly, bad, good, wouldn't exist. She couldn't say talent wasn't important without being a hypocrite; she was, after all, going to Hope's Peak to hone hers.
But focusing too much on talent meant missing out on life. That was what she believed.
"…Mom, are you really gonna be alright on your own?" They'd always lived together…the thought of Mom in a house, all by herself, with no one to greet her when she came home, made a vice tighten around Miaya's chest.
"Oh, I'll be fine. But, ah, to think I'd have such a wonderful, mature daughter who worries about her mother…! That's my job, you know!"
"It's mine, too."
Mom's smile lost the teasing edge, turning into something gentle and soft. She patted Miaya's head, but didn't crouch. She'd never crouched. "Well, now your job is to do the best you can at Hope's Peak. Don't worry about me, Miaya. Focus on becoming an even more amazing therapist. I know you have it in you."
Usami puffed her chest out, stubby little hands on hips. "Hmph! Don't you worry, Magical Miracle Girl Usami is going to be the best there is! She'll save people all over!"
Mom laughed. "Hehe, I'm sure you will, Usami."
All too soon, it was time to board. Mom's eyes misted again, and then Miaya was drawn into the final hugs, "take care" "you too"s, and promises to keep in touch. Then Ikeda-san was hustling her onto the subway, past a blur of faces, and suddenly they were in their compartment. Miaya was by the window, and Mom was right outside, waving enthusiastically. The blue-haired girl raised her hand in return, fluttering the fingers, and her mother smiled.
Even more suddenly, the subway lurched forward, and they were off. Miaya swallowed the lump in her throat as her mother's figure rapidly grew smaller, receding into the distance until it was gone from sight completely. Her eyes stung. She closed them and pressed her hand gently against the window pane.
She dreamed up an island, a sunny place where past and future converged. A hopeful place where bonds were not something to be sacrificed by the talented, but treasured and nourished. And as she was whisked off she pretended, just for a moment, that was her destination.
A/N: I really wanted to include Miaya's backstory in Extra Life (like, more than what she mentioned), and I was so sad when I had to cut it. It just didn't fit. So it's now here.
