hello my friends!

welcome to my newest story! it's momakase's backstory...it's one of the coolest ideas I've ever had so I hope y'all enjoy it!

a few notes:

I've played with the timeline a little bit in this. I don't know how old Momakase actually is, but I've aged her down a little bit. She's fourteen at the beginning of the story (then after chapter one we do a time skip and she's seventeen in the next chapter). I've also aged Obake down. To make the story flow a little better, Professor Granville is still at SFIT even though Obake's energy amplifier incident has already occurred. Probably she was worried about Momo messing something up.

don't worry...I'm gonna post on The Edge Of Night and Legacies the Last (my collab with KeeperOfTheBigHeroQuintessence) soon! I'm partway to a chapter on LtL and have yet to get started on the end of TEON but don't worry! They'll all get finished! I don't discontinue stories!

Please you guys review! I wanna see how I've been doing!

Thanks everyone!

Peace out!

—MOMAKASE—

Shuto aims an uppercut at my jaw, which I deflect easily. My baby brother, ten years old and small and skinny, has been training in karate for the past several months, but I don't believe he'll ever be as good as I am.

I grab Shuto's arm and judo-flip him, pulling him up and over my shoulder. Before Shuto knows it, he is flat on his back on the floor, gasping for breath.

"No fair!" Shuto gasps, his jet-black hair falling into his eyes. "That's the fourth time!"

I let go of my brother's arm, flashing a triumphant smile down at him. "Perhaps you should have been faster. You are a good student, Shuto, but you need to think ahead more."

Shuto gets to his feet, wincing and rubbing the back of his head. "You're gonna kill me, Momo."

"If you're faster, then there will be much less chance of you being killed," I tell him. "Try to strike with more control—you're attempting to block any possible move I could make without really trying to hit me first. If you can incapacitate me, you will not have to anticipate my next move at all."

My baby brother sighs, flopping backwards onto the couch. "I'll never get it."

"Patience is just as much an art as karate," I remind him. "You would do well to practice it."

"Dinner!" Dad calls from the kitchen. "Come on, kids!"

Shuto leaps up off the couch and races for the table, throwing himself into his chair, which topples over and sends him to the ground. Undeterred, he jumps back up, rights the chair, and then sits expectantly, waiting for the food. I follow Shuto much more slowly—and with much more dignity, I think. I like to keep my composure.

Dad says the prayer on the food—sushi, again—and I pick up my chopsticks, carefully selecting a piece of sashimi and delicately inserting it into my mouth. Shuto grabs one with his fingers and crams it into his mouth, gleefully shoveling his dinner down his throat.

"How was school, kids?" Dad asks, and I notice that the dark circles under his eyes are more pronounced than usual. I wonder what he's been up to.

"Worst day of my life, what do you think?" Shuto says dramatically, draping a hand over his eyes. I allow myself a smile and then respond to Dad's question. "Alright, I suppose. Granville is still mad at me."

"For the chemistry thing? That was weeks ago! It was, what, only three beakers?"

I stifle a small laugh, remembering the day in the lab where I became so frustrated with my chemistry homework that I whipped out my graphene blade and sliced several beakers in half. Professor Granville was extremely angry about that, raging about how she should never have accepted me to SFIT and how I wasn't "mature" enough to attend. I may be fourteen, but she knows I can cope with the coursework. Granville just doesn't understand my passion for slicing things in half.

"When can I have a big knife?" Shuto asks, looking at Dad with huge, pleading eyes. "I wanna be like Momo."

"Shuto, I told you—not until you're thirteen. That was your mother's rule."

Dad's eyes glaze over, as if he's staring into another realm, and I know he's thinking about Mom. My mother was the ninja in our family, the karate master. She passed away from complications during Shuto's birth—yes, that is how she died, not in an epic, covered-up way—and Dad has raised us ever since, teaching us her art. I should probably miss her more than I do, but I was only four—I don't remember much about Mom. All I know is that she looked remarkably like Shuto and that she was very passionate about her family, guarding our ancestral blades with her life.

"How was your day, Dad?" I ask, selecting another piece of sashimi.

Dad sighs. "I called the police on a gang today. Saw them in Good Luck Alley beating up a kid—poor little guy was maybe ten. Apparently he beat the leader in a bot fight or something. Anyway, I couldn't stand for that, so I broke up the fight and called the police. Got the whole gang arrested, and the kid's okay, I think, so everything turned out fine. But I don't like to think what'll happen when they get released from prison—they might go after that kid again, he was winning a heck of a lot."

"You're so cool, Daddy," Shuto says with admiration. "You're, like, literally a superhero."

Dad smiles and ruffles Shuto's hair. "Not quite, kiddo. But I'm glad you think so."

"Were you injured?" I ask Dad, knowing his propensity for biting off more than he can chew in defense of the weak.

"They did punch me a couple times," he admits, pulling his sleeve up to reveal a bruise on his shoulder. "But I'm alright—no broken bones, Momo, I promise."

"You should call me in when you wish to break up a fight," I admonish Dad. "I could probably accomplish it with less casualties—on our side, at least."

Dad shrugs. "I'm fine, Momo. Don't worry about it—everything turned out fine."

"It could be different in the future," I argue. "I wish you would stop picking fights that you cannot win, Dad. You may have been lucky this time, but I fear that it will not always be so."

"I'm not afraid of retribution," Dad says with a smile. "As long as I did the right thing, it's worth it."

I have enough sense not to persist in my argument. When Dad wants to do something, especially in the name of justice, you'd better have an entire SWAT team ready to stop him, or else a restraining order.

"Sometime can we not have sushi for dinner?" Shuto asks, abruptly changing the subject, and I can't tell if he's being tactful or genuinely annoyed with the fact that we keep having sushi.

"I'm bored of fish," Shuto continues. "We should have, like, pizza."

"Oh, really?" Dad replies. "Then you can make it."

"I will!" Shuto exclaims. "Then you'll see we should have pizza every night!"

Dad laughs, a happy, mirthful sound that I don't hear often enough. His work must be really stressful lately—Dad's a nurse by day, but by night, he's practically a vigilante. Or maybe a police officer. He's like a combination of the two, mostly calling the police rather than stopping crime, but he has had a few cases where he actively stopped criminals before the police even got there. My dad's a pretty cool guy.

When dinner is over, Shuto and I continue sparring, with Dad yelling out helpful comments like "To your left, Shuto! No, the other left!" and "Aim for the jugular! THE JUGULAR!"

Shuto manages to get in one hit to my shoulder, but I quickly sweep him off his feet and pin him to the ground, planting a foot on his chest. Looking down into his long-lashed blue eyes, I ask, "Ready to call it quits?"

My little brother sighs. "Fine. I'mma go draw or something."

Another thing about Shuto—he's a brilliant artist. You wouldn't expect such a young, spontaneous kid to be so good at drawing, but Shuto is incredible. I may be good at meal presentation, but he's good at every other form of art that has ever existed—drawing, pastels, charcoal, watercolor, acrylic. The only thing that Shuto isn't good at is sports—unless fencing counts, and he's not even very good at that. My little brother is hopelessly uncoordinated.

Shuto disappears up the stairs, and I follow him, saying good night to Dad early so I can get my chemistry homework done. Professor Granville's practically got me on probation—it was just my luck that she doesn't even teach chem and walked past the classroom right when I sliced those beakers apart. If I turn in anything late, in any class, I'm afraid the dean is going to kick me out of college.

The homework isn't difficult, and I manage to finish it in about half an hour. After that, though, I have to move on to thermodynamics, which is considerably less fun. Even worse is math—I'm pretty good at it, but it just happens to be terrifically boring.

By the time I've finished all my homework, I'm exhausted and it's nearly midnight. I change into my pajamas—which are not that different from my regular clothes, I like to be prepared for anything—and climb into bed, curling up under the covers and falling asleep almost immediately.

Looking back on it, I'm glad I didn't know it was my last night with my family.

I insert the carbon fiber filament into the 3D printer and watch as it begins to craft the small, iridescent green diamond. It's a pendant for Shuto—our assignment for composite engineering is to create a piece of jewelry. I don't wear jewelry, but I think I'll thread this pendant onto a leather string and give it to Shuto. He likes fantasy-style accessories (he's rather obsessed with Lord of the Rings at the moment).

As soon as the printer is done, I carefully lift out the pendant and inspect it, studying the light playing on its iridescent surface. Once I determine that the printer has done its job correctly, I thread the leather cord through a small hole at the top of the diamond and tie a knot at the end.

After passing the pendant off with the professor, I slide it into my backpack and wait for the bell to ring. School is almost over, and I'm still exhausted. I can't wait to go home and take a nap.

Finally, the bell rings, and I leave SFIT as fast as possible, leaping onto a passing trolley car and allowing it to drive me back to our housing district. When we pull up to my house, I am fully aware of how unimpressive my house looks—peeling paint, rusted railings, faded curtains hanging in the windows. Yes, we are poor. But we don't care.

"Momo!" Shuto exclaims as I open the door, and I feel my baby brother's skinny arms around my waist as he hugs me. "Was your school fun?"

"No more than usual," I sigh, ruffling Shuto's hair. "But I made you something."

I set down my backpack, then unzip it and fish the pendant out. Dangling it from my finger, I hold it in front of Shuto's wide eyes, and my brother reaches up to brush his fingers across the gleaming carbon fiber.

"That is so cool," he whispers, then hugs me again. "Thanks, Momo."

"Of course, Shu."

I untie the cord and hang the pendant around my brother's neck, then tie it back together, letting the diamond rest on Shuto's sternum. My baby brother fingers the pendant tenderly, a small smile spreading across his face.

"You wanna fence?" he asks, grabbing our practice swords from their hooks on the wall. Shuto is no good at fencing, and I've been trying to teach him that as well as karate, but he's not making much progress. In either of them.

"If you wish to be beaten yet again," I reply, "then by all means, yes, I would like to fence."

We bow to each other, and then Shuto drops into the beginning stance, standing with his feet a little ways apart, knees slightly bent, holding his sword out toward me. I mirror him, my grip tightening on the smooth hilt of my sword.

"Begin," I declare, and I clash my sword against Shuto's, once, twice, then slash the blunted blade at his head. To his credit, Shuto dodges well, though his wince tells me he overextended his neck—a weakness I'll have to exploit.

Next is Shuto's turn—clash, clash, swipe. His blade nearly nicks my cheek, but I manage to dodge and get in a swipe to his chest. It causes Shuto to stumble backwards a little, at which point I propel my blade toward his neck.

Just as I expected, Shuto dodges badly, evidently not wanting to strain his neck any more than he already has. As soon as he's off-balance, I sweep his legs out from under him with my foot and then plant it on Shuto's chest, raising my blade in the air.

"I believe I have killed you," I say rather smugly. That may have been a new record.

Shuto sighs, rubbing his neck. "Yeah, you win."

But he's smiling as I take his hand and pull him up, saying, "You did well, Shu. You nearly got me that time."

"I'll get there one day," Shuto says determinedly. "When's Dad gonna be home?"

"At seven, I think. We've got time—do you wish to watch something? Unless you have homework?"

"Let's watch The Princess Bride," Shuto says immediately. I know he must have homework, but I oblige him. The Princess Bride is my brother's favorite movie of all time.

We sit together on the couch and put the movie on, and I microwave popcorn at Shuto's request. The snack disappears quickly, and as soon as the movie is over, Shuto passes out on the couch, as he is prone to do when sitting on it for long periods of time.

I throw a blanket over my brother's shoulders and get to work on the ever-increasing load of homework that plagues me every single day. Through the window, I can see the sun sinking down the sky, eventually dipping below the horizon.

Just as the last of the light fades, the front door opens, and Dad comes in. I stand up to greet him, but then I realize that my dad has a bloody gash across his cheek, and his hair is disheveled, as if the wind has been blowing through it.

"Dad!" I gasp. "What has happened?"

"Wake Shuto up!" Dad pants, locking the door behind him and shoving his shoulder against it. "Hurry, Momo—you two have to get out of here—they're coming!"

"Who's coming?" I ask, shaking Shuto's shoulder.

"The gangsters I called the cops on last night—I don't know how they got out of prison—but they're really mad—please, Momo, take Shuto and—"

The front door is thrown off its hinges, and Shuto lets out a yelp of surprise as splinters of broken wood fly into the room. One catches me on the forehead, and I hiss in pain as Shuto yells, "Daddy!"

Dad, having been thrown to the floor by the door, gets to his feet and stands protectively in front of Shuto and I. My eyes widen as a mountain of a man steps through the door—and when I say mountain, I mean mountain. This guy is at least six and a half feet tall, with a broad expanse of chest clad in some kind of purple jumpsuit. His massive face is contorted into an expression of utmost fury.

"This is your fault, Shimamoto!" the man hisses at Dad, stepping into the house. Several other gangsters follow him, much smaller than he is, but equally menacing.

"You have no right to attack a child, Yama," Dad snaps, drawing himself up to his full height of five foot eight. His glasses are broken, I realize—there's almost no way he can see. My dad is practically blind without them.

"He dared to challenge me," Yama growls. "So did you—and for that, there will be consequences. No one hustles Yama."

"Perhaps we can reach an agreement," Dad starts, but Yama grabs him by the neck and hoists him into the air. I'm completely aware of the fact that my dad is far too small to fight this guy—especially when Yama has backup. There's only one clear course of action here.

I edge toward the wall and carefully lift our practice fencing swords off their hooks, silently handing Shuto's to him. My baby brother's bright blue eyes widen as I whisper, "On three. One."

Shuto drops into his stance.

"Two."

Yama looks up, his widening eyes meeting mine.

"Three!"

Both Shuto and I launch ourselves at Yama, stabbing and punching and clubbing him over the head with our swords. Yama gives a shout as Shuto punches him in the eye, and several gangsters dart inside. One of them grabs my brother by the ankle and yanks him off Yama, smacking Shuto into the wall. My little brother yelps in pain but fights to throw off the man holding him, and as Yama finally drops Dad—due to a blow to his nose I managed to get in—I attack Shuto's captor, screeching insults that I would normally keep in my head.

But then a massive hand closes around my wrist, and I realize that Yama has me. With his other hand, he grabs Shuto by the neck, lifting both of us into the air. I snap my teeth at Yama's hand, but he doesn't even seem to feel it. What is this guy, the Hulk?

"Now we can get somewhere," Yama hisses. "Shimamoto, you will bring me your most valuable possession this instant, or I will snap the boy's neck, followed by the girl's."

I gasp as I realize what our most valuable possession is—the blades. The ancestral blades, passed down through Mom's Japanese lineage. They're our only connection to her, and once a year, on her birthday, we burn incense on the altar the blades rest on, to commemorate her life. There's no way Dad can just give those away.

But if he doesn't, Shuto and I both die. I mean, I'm willing to be killed if it means Shuto, Dad, and the blades are safe, but I'm not willing to let Shuto die.

Dad darts into the hall, and I hear his quickly stifled sob as he returns, carrying the blades. He kneels down, laying them at Yama's feet, and the gang leader releases me, as well as Shuto.

I scramble back up, pulling Shuto with me and holding my baby brother against my chest. To Shuto's credit, he doesn't cry, but he's gasping for air and clutching his throat.

"These are our only valuables," Dad whispers, standing up and looking Yama directly in the eyes. "Take them and leave, and I will never bother you again, I swear. Just leave our home, allow me and my children to live in peace, and I will let you go. I won't even call the police on you. You have my word if you will spare my children."

Yama whispers something to a gangster, then picks up the blades, running his finger over the leather hilts. He pulls a blade out of its sheath and examines it. "It's an impressive piece, I'll give you that."

He unsheathes the other blade and takes a step towards Dad. "A shame it's not enough to get you out of this."

A silver flash, a red spurt, and suddenly, I smell smoke.

Then several things happen at once.

Dad collapses to the ground, blood pouring from his chest. I know he's dead before he hits the floor, and my heart tears in half, but my eyes stay remarkably dry. At the same time, Shuto screams, Yama yanks him from my grasp, and flames leap up outside the window.

My brain races into overdrive mode, trying to make sense of what just happened. Dad is dead on the floor. Yama has Shuto in his grasp. My baby brother is struggling, but he's not getting anywhere. And my house is on fire. I'm frozen, unable to do anything about the situation, which is just getting progressively worse.

"Momo!" Shuto screams, and I unfreeze. I must save Shuto.

"Let go of him!" I shout, jumping on Yama and clawing at the huge man's fist. "Let go, you—"

I'm not going to put this in writing. I would not want to be called names such as the ones I am screaming at Yama right now. They really are not very kind.

"Fiery one, huh?" Yama drawls, grabbing my wrist again. I fight, of course, punching and biting at Yama's massive fist, but his grip doesn't relent.

"Take the boy," Yama growls to one of his henchmen, and the man takes Shuto from Yama's grasp. Shuto struggles, but the gangster is too strong.

"Shuto!" I scream. "Let him go or I will—"

Yama releases me abruptly, throwing me several feet across the room. I slam into the wall and then slump down onto the floor, stars sparkling in my vision as Shuto wails my name, begging for help.

"We've gotta take him out, boss!" the man holding Shuto gasps, trying to maintain a grip on my brother as I struggle to stand up, my vision spinning. Outside, I can see tendrils of fire snaking up the wall of the house.

Yama gives a curt nod and raises one of the blades above Shuto's head, and my baby brother and I both scream as he brings it down.

But Yama doesn't use the blade end—at the last second, the blade twists, and the hilt comes down on Shuto's forehead with a sickening crack. My brother's eyes widen and then flutter closed, and he goes completely limp in his captor's arms, out cold.

"We have everything we came for," Yama snarls at his henchman as I make it to a standing position, the dizziness gradually dissipating. "Let's get out of here."

"You cannot take him," I hiss, jerking my head at Shuto's limp form. The sight of him breaks my heart all over again—my little brother is far too young to be dealing with this kind of situation. "Leave him with me if you want to live."

Yama smiles evilly as the fire creeps through the front window and starts to engulf the carpet. "I don't think you're in a position to be making threats right now, girl, because you're about to meet a painful end. For your brother's sake, I'll tell him what happened to you—but rest assured that he will never see you alive again."

And with that, Yama and his henchman slam the door.

I immediately take a running start and slam my shoulder into the wood, but it refuses to budge—something is holding it shut. I don't know what it could possibly be, but it is evidently too large for me to move. Fine—I'll just get my blade and cut my way out. Besides, I must get Dad's body—there is no way I'm dragging him through a window.

The smoke begins to sting my eyes as it spreads through the living room, and I cough on the acrid fumes. Dashing into my room, I retrieve my graphene blade from my desk and practically dive down the stairs, skidding to a halt next to Dad.

All I can do as the emotions overwhelm me is fall to my knees, looking down at Dad's pale, still face. I believe I must be in shock, because though I feel the ultimate suffering and agony and sorrow coursing through my veins, I cannot cry.

"Goodbye, Dad," I whisper, closing his eyes and then standing up, hacking at the door with my blades. If I can just make a hole big enough for me to pull him through, I can catch up with the gangsters, rescue Shuto, call the police, and kill Yama. Because he deserves to die after what he did to Dad.

But I never get that far. I do not even make it out the door.

A massive rush of light and sound tears the house apart—literally. The walls are crumbling, pieces of the roof are falling in, and I'm flying backward.

The last thing I know is excruciating pain in every part of my being, and then the world plunges abruptly into blackness.

beep

beep

beep

What is that infernal noise?

"Her vital signs are getting stronger—"

Whose vital signs? Mine?

"I think she might be waking up!"

Yes, I'm awake. It's not like I want to be, though.

"Momo?"

I force my eyes open and almost immediately shut them again—the light on the ceiling is so bright it's like staring into the sun. I hear footsteps, hushed whispers, and then the light dims considerably. Reluctantly, I open my eyes again.

"Hey, Momo," says a familiar voice, and I turn my head to see Dr. Armstrong, Shuto's and my pediatrician. The doctor's blue eyes are wide and apprehensive.

"You're in the hospital," Dr. Armstrong says gently. "But don't be scared—we're taking care of you, don't worry. Do you—do you remember what happened?"

"Rather vividly," I groan, trying to sit up. "You do not have to break any news to me. I know my father is dead, and that Shuto has been kidnapped. What I do not know is what has happened to me."

"That's where I'm afraid I'll have to break some news to you," Dr. Armstrong whispers, putting a hand on my knee. "Momo, please try to be calm, but…I need you to look at your hand."

I know by his tone that it must be bad. Very bad.

Because my hand feels very different—like it's connected to my body, yes, but it's not seamless. Slowly, very slowly, I raise my right hand—the one that doesn't seem to be all the way there anymore—and realize with a jolt of shock that I am absolutely correct. My hand up to the wrist is gone, replaced with a black titanium replica of the appendage. But there are no bandages, no remaining wounds that I can see.

"How long have I been unconscious?" I ask quietly, clenching my new hand into a fist.

Dr. Armstrong swallows. "Three weeks, Momo. I'm—I'm afraid we had to put you into a medically induced coma. As you can probably tell, we had to give you a prosthetic for your hand—but it's the most advanced we have, I promise. It should work nearly as well as your natural hand did. Four of your ribs were replaced with carbon fiber, and parts of your amygdala are now synthetic, as well as your optic nerves. But you're healing well, Momo, and I'm very pleased with your prognosis. I'd like to discharge you in about a week—you should be fully healed by then."

I can feel the lump in my throat, but no tears come. That's strange, but it's okay with me. I do not like to cry if I can avoid it—it makes me seem weak, and I do not want to be weak.

"How are you feeling?" Dr. Armstrong asks gently. "I know this must be a lot to take in."

"I am alright," I say coolly. "Have the police been searching for Shuto?"

"Of course they have," the doctor tells me. "But…I'm afraid the gang has gone off the grid. Everyone has searched, but no one can find Shuto. I'm sure they'll find him soon, Momo," he adds hastily as my eyes widen. "That's what the police are trained to do."

Dr. Armstrong stands up. "You should get some rest, Momo. You've been through a lot—I probably shouldn't have told you everything right off the bat. Take a nap and remember—I'm always here to talk if you need me."

With that, the doctor leaves the room, quietly shutting the door and turning the lights off.

I lay there in bed, motionless, trying to process what's happened. Dad is gone. Shuto is gone. My house is gone. I'm a cyborg. I've been unconscious for three weeks.

Sitting up, I catch sight of a mirror above the sink in the corner of my hospital room. I have to see what I look like—see if I look any different.

I manage to drag my IV far enough across the room to look in the mirror, and I turn on the lights a little so I can see properly (but not so bright that they blind me). Taking a deep breath, I steel my nerves and look into the glass.

A gasp is torn from my throat as I see the reddish-purple scars splashed across my forehead and around my eyes, reaching all the way down to the tops of my cheeks. They are clearly third-degree burn scars—Dr. Armstrong didn't mention those. But I'm grateful, because I wouldn't have wanted to know. My face is monstrous, hideous, destroyed.

My chest heaving, I stumble back to my bed and curl into a ball, clenching my robotic hand into a fist. The lump comes back into my throat, but I still don't cry. Maybe I can't anymore. I would not be entirely opposed to that—I do not want to seem weak.

I wish Shuto was here. My baby brother would wrap his arms around my waist and hug me, whispering, "It's okay, Momo. I still think you're pretty."

But Shuto is gone. And knowing those gangsters, he's probably dead. I just have to accept it—my baby brother is gone for good, never to return. I cannot get my hopes up, or I will be disappointed when Shuto doesn't come back. At least if he does come back, it will be a pleasant surprise—and if he doesn't, I will be resigned to his fate.

But I am not certain I can be resigned to mine.

Scarred.

Deformed.

Cyborg.

I am a shell of the girl I used to be. The girl who let herself get pushed around, and because of that, her family was taken from her.

I'm never going to let anyone push me around again. From now on, I will carve my own path and never let anyone else get in my way.

As far as I'm concerned, the girl I used to be is also the girl I will never be again.