AN: I was asked to write a piece for the vocaloid fan magazine, Vocalostalgia, with the theme of memories. This is what I came up with, starring Sachiko! Please look up Vocalostalgia on their socials (twitter, tumblr) and get a link to their itch . io page, where you can download the magazine for free! So many people worked really hard on it, and the zine turned out beautifully!
Sing
While the world is ever changing, she will always be the same. It's simply the way of things, the way she was made, and it's this simple fact that allows her to continue.
Sachiko spends most of her days wandering the city she's called home for…? Her memory isn't what it used to be, and she doesn't want to risk losing more by changing it.
The buildings have changed so many times, advertisements changing places, changing faces. Even she was on them, once, although she never did gain the same popularity as the other Vocaloids. The current architecture takes its cues from a mix of art-deco and nature, skyscrapers much shorter than their ancestors covered in green that hangs over coloured glass. Adverts are only in place outside shops, not clinging to webs of steel that disappear in heavy clouds. Nowhere to hang their faces.
It's sunny. Warm stone slabs and too hot seats and people milling around with drinks that bob with ice. People look at her as she drifts about the place, nothing to keep her cool. Just before their gaze flickers away—android—it flickers back, looking at the obvious seams and slightly plastic glint to her skin. Poor thing.
It hurts less now they don't know who she is. Back then, the pity and the offers that came with it made the others go into stasis. Too hard losing their purpose. Their network has long since gone down, so Sachiko doesn't know if there are others who wander like her, but she tries not to think about it anymore.
Their singing was made to keep up hope in the old world, an endless grey with too much noise, buzzing generators, humming wires, rattling air purifiers.
It did for a while. A distraction for everyone in voices that could do no wrong. A noise that soothed the industrial clamour, made them duller, made it bearable. Instead of staying alone in their four walls, people came back together again, listening in stadiums so big one side couldn't see the other.
Really, it could only last so long. Sachiko understood it more than the older ones, strangely enough; awoken as the world began to spiral.
Only a small window to make a difference.
Maybe she made one. Maybe she didn't. Those memories are too far away in her fragmented old system, too difficult to recover.
Sachiko turns a corner and makes her way down the long main street. Just before it reaches the river, there's a side street tucked away. Winding, narrow, and dark, it emerges into its own small space, tall walls on all sides but one, an open view of the water beyond.
The river has always been here. Years of grey, then brown, then finally back to blue, cutting through the same deep trench of concrete. Usually Sachiko's little space—she's come to think of it as her own—is quiet. As much as a city can be, anyway. But when she emerges from the side street, someone's already there.
She's playing a violin.
The softly plucked melody lures her in, slowly but surely. The woman stands with her back to the metal railings, rich wood nestled between neck and shoulder, her face a picture of serenity, a small smile meant only for herself.
Stepping into this moment feels like reading someone else's diary. The music is soft, warm, an intimate melody played by and for one.
Yet Sachiko can't help but be pulled forward.
She's not seen street performers for so long. Not been one herself for longer. Sachiko hasn't sung since the Vocaloids started shutting down.
She's had so many years without music.
It's not like she's hasn't had the urge. Of course it's been there, sticking in her throat, prodding at her brain, squeezing her heart. Insistent. Painful. It's always simmering just below the surface, and every time it rears up she forces it back down.
The woman shifts on her feet slightly, ponytail swaying, drawing the bow across the strings into a new melody. A light song, melancholic, the violin's honeyed voice enhancing it all the more. Her eyes glance up at Sachiko, widening slightly, but she doesn't let it interrupt her. Sachiko keeps a respectful distance but can't stop staring, hands clutched to her chest.
To give hope, you have to know what it is. They were all sentient, all of them. All of them given human emotions. Given an unstoppable drive to create for them, to see the light in their eyes when they sang. All their worries chased away.
Sachiko has never had anyone sing to her.
Finally, the song comes to a close, the last note ringing out over the water. The woman leans down and sets her violin in its case, cradling it gently before rising back to her feet, eyes on her one-person audience. A pang claws at Sachiko's chest, twisting it as she frets. She's interrupted. She's made the music go away and it's all her fault.
'I'm sorry.' The words fall limply into clean air. There is only the sound of the river lapping at concrete, and the murmur of crowds around the corner. She starts to back up, go somewhere, anywhere that isn't here. The last time the pangs were this bad, Sachiko thought about joining the others. Travelling to that endless spire of a building and closing herself in, never to come out.
'It's… it's alright,' the woman says, worry creasing her features. 'I didn't mind you listening. If I wanted privacy, I wouldn't play outside. Please don't be so upset.'
It takes a second, but Sachiko takes her fists from her chest and pulls her arms stiffly to her side.
'I usually come here,' Sachiko starts, by way of explanation. She's not used to speaking, and her words come out stilted. 'It's been so many years, and nobody else seems to come. It's always quiet.'
Not like this. Never like this. But Sachiko doesn't know how to get the words out. How can she get so many years of memories out in a way that can be understood? So much of it is blurry or gone, leaving her with feelings she's never quite learned how to deal with.
A familiar thought slithers into her mind.
Sing.
It might work. It might be just the way to convey her feelings. In fact, Sachiko knows it would—it's what she's made for, after all.
But she can't.
The woman still looks concerned. She picks up her violin case, carefully shouldering it, and the pain in Sachiko's chest writhes. Then she smiles, glittering bright as water rippling in the sun. 'I… have to go back to work. I was only on my lunch break. But I think I'll come here again tomorrow, play again.'
Sachiko nods, the writhing soothed just a little. 'Alright.'
With that, the woman checks her violin case is secure one last time, and sets off back towards the main street, leaving Sachiko behind. It takes a minute for her to recover, staring into the river beyond the railings. By the time she's ready to leave, the woman is long gone, leaving only a hope that she'll return.
Yesterday, all Sachiko could bring herself to do was go back home to her tiny apartment that she's had nearly as long as she's been awake. Unable to sit and charge, not wanting to process the day's memories, she simply stood by the window. When the sun went down and she plugged in for the night, she was no closer to a decision.
Sing.
She didn't. Didn't, wouldn't, couldn't. It didn't matter.
The next day comes, and she tries again. She tries until it's nearly noon, but nothing comes. She leaves for the spot by the river with thoughts cloudy as the sky and her chest aching.
The violinist is waiting for her, slightly out of breath, violin still in its case on her back. Her hair is up again today, but some strands have come loose, a light, wavy halo around soft, bright features. Her work attire is similar, neat shirt tucked into loose pants, but the tail is coming out on the right, rumpling the fabric.
'You made it!' she says, beaming. 'Oh, I never introduced myself, did I? I'm Tsubaki.'
'Sachiko,' she offers in reply. At least her voice is steadier than yesterday. 'Are you sure you want me here?'
'Of course!' Tsubaki says, and to illustrate her point, gently lays her violin case on the ground and pops open the lid. It's old, yet clearly well cared for, pristine as the case it calls home. 'Stay and listen as long as you like. I can only play a little bit, anyway. Lunch break. Still have to squeeze in time to eat.'
She laughs somewhat self-consciously as she tucks her violin into place, tuning the strings.
Sachiko is as enamoured as yesterday. This time, they make some small talk in-between the pieces Tsubaki plays, but all too soon their time is up.
Half an hour.
Not enough, not nearly enough to ease even a fragment of the longing writhing in her chest. In fact, it makes it worse.
Sing.
Sachiko shakes her head while Tsubaki's putting away her violin, warm spruce shut away, replacing it with a wilted, pre-packaged sandwich from her bag.
'I'm guessing you don't really eat, right?' Her hand shoots up to cover her mouth. 'Oh, I'm sorry if that's a rude question. I just assumed you were…'
'No, it's fine. I don't eat. We weren't really built for that type of thing.'
'We?'
It's so innocently asked. Memories she wishes were lost with the rest press together in her head, and she winces. Tsubaki's carefree, open expression is quickly replaced with worry. It doesn't look right on her.
'I'm sorry. It's not your fault, I—' Sachiko scrambles for an answer, anything but the simple one it really is. In the end, through her stumbling and Tsubaki's concern, she throws it out. 'Vocaloids. That's who I meant. We were all Vocaloids.'
Tsubaki opens her mouth, but whatever she's about to say is interrupted by the shrill tones of her phone alarm. Instead, she puts her barely touched sandwich away, and comes over to Sachiko.
'Let's meet on the weekend. I can play more then, if you want? No time limit. Do you have a phone?'
Sachiko nods, too overwhelmed to speak. Her phone, so old that it shouldn't really work anymore, is at home, but she knows her number.
Too fast, Tsubaki is gone again, and Sachiko is left staring out at the river.
Sing.
Their meeting turns into more. At first it's only on the weekends, but then Tsubaki messages her after work one evening, and suddenly Sachiko has a routine that isn't just walking through crowds by herself until it's time to go home.
It's overwhelming. Different. But Tsubaki, even when she's exhausted from work, makes it easy.
Tsubaki doesn't play every time. It's awkward to carry her violin case everywhere, and Sachiko doesn't begrudge her for it. She doesn't want Tsubaki to think she's just using her for her music—even though at first, it's what Sachiko felt like she was doing. Probably was doing.
She's walking Tsubaki home one evening when the latter asks how old she is.
'I felt strange looking you up,' Tsubaki says. 'But I couldn't actually find anything.'
'I'm around three hundred,' Sachiko replies. Her memory is fuzzy enough that exact numbers have faded away.
Tsubaki is quiet for a moment, her face still and serious. It's a rare expression for her—even if she's concentrating, her features, her body, are animated. 'You were made right before the lost years, then. That's why there's no videos of you or the other Vocaloids.'
She stares ahead as they walk, eyes downcast. They round the corner onto Tsubaki's street, the apartments neat and tidy. Tsubaki has grown trailing flowers all across her balcony, bright yellows and pinks amidst lush leaves, bathing in the summer glow.
Sachiko feels the sharp edge of a memory, the amorphous kind, one where her heart aches for the things she's forgotten and there's no picture, no video to get it back.
Sachiko doesn't remember getting to Tsubaki's door. But they're there, and Tsubaki is facing her. Her smile is back, and she gives Sachiko a hug goodbye that files down the edge of her memories, just a little bit.
Sachiko walks home with lighter steps.
After a while, the constant contact helps her feel like she's regained a sort of purpose. No singing, still, but connection.
She didn't realise how much she'd needed it.
Her mornings are less hazy. And even though her memories still have sharp, jagged edges, and it hurts to answer Tsubaki's questions about her life, those edges are ever so slowly sanded down.
Talking has never helped before, but Tsubaki is different. She's not experienced it, not lived through it. She has a distanced view of everything, isn't mired in emotions like Sachiko. She's constant, her warmth a comfort like the spring sun on a meadow, melting away heavy dew.
She's the best friend Sachiko's ever had. The only one, really, who's an equal. Not her creator. Not her mentors or a fan. Just a friend.
And despite this comfort, this friendship, the dulling of her pain, Sachiko's mind still insists that she sings.
It's become worse, the frequency and the desperate ache in her chest that it brings. This she can't talk about. This makes her hands clench and her throat seize up.
Sachiko tries. She really does. She's managed to talk around it enough that on one rainy evening, Tsubaki gently brings it up.
They're sat in a café Sachiko silently deems theirs. They always pick the tall table by the window that looks out on to a busy road.
It's different than before. People would walk by with shoulders hunched and heads forced down, each bearing their own invisible weights. Every now and then she spots someone like that, but mostly people are just… normal. Happy, even in the rain. It took centuries, but the peace Sachiko—all of them—were striving for is finally here… even if Sachiko's the only one to see it.
Next to her, Tsubaki's figuring out how to drink a hot chocolate that's more topping than liquid, and she stares at it while she poses the question.
'I know it's a lot to ask, but… would you be able to sing for me? Just a little bit of something. I've always wanted to hear your voice, and there's not many videos left of that time, so I thought—' Tsubaki glances over, eyes hopeful, and so kind, and yet all Sachiko can feel is the world closing in around her.
It's not fair.
She stumbles to her feet, the barstool dangerously close to tipping over.
'Wait! I'm sorry, Sachiko, don't—'
It's not Tsubaki's fault. It's not.
But all she can do is run.
In her apartment, everything is still. There's no noise, not since Tsubaki stopped texting, stopped calling. She doesn't reply. Doesn't talk. Doesn't breathe.
Doesn't sing.
Sachiko lies on the floor, and searches for sharp-edged memories.
Silence again.
But this time in anticipation—everyone in the crowd is staring up at her, waiting to hear the newest Vocaloid's voice. There's less of them than in other debuts, the ones that came before her. The fervour has died off somewhat, and Sachiko appeals to a niche audience. There's still so many people that their faces blur together.
Here there's a joy fluttering in her chest, a new and fragile thing. One hand clutches the microphone and the other she sweeps up, up, up, as she sings the first note of An Abundance of Snowflakes. Miku sang it first, but Sachiko's creator loves it so much that they wanted her to debut with it.
And so she sings, dances around the stage, alight inside as the crowd matches her energy. In the back, the cameras record footage long lost to time, yet behind them is her creator, holding their phone with a brilliant smile on their face.
Like Tsubaki said, there aren't any videos left of her. So much got lost in the decline. But Sachiko still holds that video her creator recorded on a little drive in her wardrobe. It's fuzzy, and all the nuance of the song is drowned out by the sea of static, but it's one of the only memories she has that isn't locked in her mind.
The other is the kimono she wore that day, and the fan she used as an accessory. She hasn't been able to look at them for decades. Hasn't worn them for longer.
Sing. Sing. Sing.
Sachiko closes her eyes.
Sing. Sing. Sing.
That night, when the moon is high and bright through her window, the city mostly asleep, Sachiko messages Tsubaki an apology.
Her phone rings soon after, and guilt swirls in her gut that she might've kept her awake, worrying.
'Sachiko? Are you alright? Did you get home okay?'
Hearing Tsubaki's bubbly voice so deflated amplifies the guilt tenfold. She can't manage to get words out, and Tsubaki is getting increasingly worried.
Finally, something unsticks her throat.
'I'm sorry. I shouldn't have run like that.'
Tsubaki sighs. 'No, I shouldn't have asked. I know it's something I shouldn't bring up, but… I thought… I don't know. You seem different than when we met. Like I know the older you, maybe.'
'You do,' Sachiko admits. 'I didn't realise how hard everything had gotten. We were given all these emotions to help our performances, but nobody really thought about what it would be like. What would happen to the world. It's not your fault, Tsubaki. If… if I sang, I know it would help. But everything is still so muddled.'
Tsubaki is quiet for a moment. 'Maybe you could try something else.'
'Like what?'
'Like something less than singing. No… not whistling. Humming? No, that's silly, isn't it?'
Something sparks in Sachiko's mind. 'No.'
'I knew it was—'
'No, that might work.'
She lays the phone next to her head. She's thought about this herself, before, but she couldn't even hum anything. Now, though…
Tsubaki waits, silent, the air charged.
Minutes pass. Sachiko's half convinced Tsubaki has hung up, but the screen is still bright.
She tries to make a noise. Fails. Tries again. Fails. The hurt is building up again, slicing at her, pointed and sharp.
Then—something.
A noise. Another, strung together clumsily by childish hands. It's based on nothing in particular—she can't bring herself to try anything she knows—but it's noise. It hurts and her hands clench and her head hurts but it's noise and she's making it.
And then it's words, the song she loves the most, pouring out of her all at once because all the sharp edges in the world can't stop this anymore.
Singing.
She's singing.
Over the next few weeks, the two of them come up with a plan. It's tentative, almost like both of them are wary of scaring away her progress, but Sachiko can sing in person to Tsubaki on the second week of planning, and she feels that familiar need to do it more, to show it to others, to perform.
And so they carry on planning.
A street performance, just Sachiko and Tsubaki, violin and voice together in harmony.
Tsubaki learns what Sachiko can remember to teach, adjusting them for violin. Of course, Sachiko's singing is perfect, but her memories still have a hold on her, still stop the words from coming out at all. But the more they practice, the easier it gets, and she and Tsubaki dance around her flat, singing and playing until the drive to perform becomes impossible to ignore.
It's been centuries, but Sachiko is finally ready.
It's time.
Sachiko stands at the window like she did on that first, anxiety-ridden day meeting Tsubaki. She knows the words can leave her throat, that they're not stuck in her fragmented memories anymore. They can come out, fill the air with all the emotions she's buried inside for so many years.
Would they be proud? The others, stuck in their self-imposed stasis, would they be proud of her? She never knew the others all that well, but she'd met some. Even Miku. Through her success, everyone else's life was secured. There never would have been any more of them otherwise. Some years, she'd resented that.
Even Miku left, in the end.
She hears Tsubaki's voice in her head and focuses on that. Today, they can create new memories instead of wallowing in the old. Just as long as she's able to sing in front of whatever crowd they draw in.
She turns to her wardrobe, drawing out her wooden fan box, and the garment bag that have both sat untouched in centuries.
After promising Tsubaki she'd wear it, Sachiko can't back out now. Finally, her fingers find the metal zipper, cold, grounding, and pull.
Her kimono.
All at once the memories hit her, ones she's never forgotten despite her decline, and she has to simply sit for a moment, clutching the garment bag to her chest. Waking up in that small room, lit gently in pale blue and white. Her mind running through its functions for the first time, questions to guarantee her awakening was truly a success. All the while, her finger and thumb rubbed the edge of her kimono, the expensive silk gliding between them easily. So gentle. It had been her lifeline in those beginning days, a touchstone for a complex mind still finding its footing. Sachiko had found out the others had something similar.
And now it's back, silk bundled on her lap. For a time, all she does is lean over it, breathing in the familiar scent of the incense her creator used to buy her, just because she'd liked it so much. The snow camellias decorating the fabric are from them, too. In honour of their home town.
She misses them. That part of her mind has never faded. Even if their face is just a smear of dark hair over blurred features.
Her creator. The Vocaloids. The other faces she's forgotten. That's who today is for.
Finally, she can say goodbye.
Tsubaki is waiting at the end of the main street. She's set up by the river, violin case set carefully aside. People stare at her as they go about their business, eyes catching on her kimono. It's a riot of bright colours, yet it doesn't look out of place. Not to Sachiko, who knows as soon as Tsubaki smiles, these strangers will understand.
Right now, Tsubaki ignores them, concentrating as she tunes her instrument with deft fingers. Wisps of hair fall in her face, already making their escape from her elaborate bun. She's made it look like a flower in bloom, and Sachiko feels an ache in her chest.
Even though it's bittersweet, there's not nearly so much pain.
Sachiko draws up next to her, and Tsubaki pauses in her tuning to beam happily.
'I'm glad you came,' she says quietly, then nods at the street before them, bustling with people. 'Are you ready?'
All Sachiko can do is nod. She doesn't trust herself to do anything more.
And so, Tsubaki makes her last adjustments and gets into position, bright eyes looking at her, waiting for her cue. Sachiko takes one last moment to gather herself, seeking comfort from Tsubaki's ever-present warmth.
Sachiko turns to face the crowd, opens her mouth, and sings.