I'm rewatching Dr. Stone, and it's gotten to the point where we learn what happened to Byakuya. I already knew how much he sacrificed for Senku, and now that I see it for the second time, it hurts me even more.
Seriously. Byakuya's death hurts me so damn much that I can't move on
It hurts me that he couldn't have a proper goodbye with Senku. Flying into space, he thought he'd see him again. Senku, counting seconds in stone, then waking up and surviving day to day, still didn't know his father was dead. Senku was very happy when he found Taiju, and he was certainly thinking about Byakuya, his only family. He helped the villagers, unaware that they were descendants of his now-dead father
Plus, Senku doesn't want to show his pain to others. But the moment he shed that single tear truly broke my heart. And this is my rewatch. I knew what was coming. But my face is still wet with tears
I want so badly to see others comfort Senku. I want them to see that he has moments of weakness. I want Senku to allow himself to be vulnerable. He deserves it 😭
Does anyone have any fanfics to recommend about something like this? Ships are allowed. Any kind. I'm a multishipper (but please no Byakuya x Senku or Xeno x Senku or anything like that...)
Rest in peace Byakuya [*]
AND THAT MOMENT WHEN SHAMIL WAS DEVASTATED AFTER CONNIE'S DEATH
I didn't pay attention to it last time I watched it💔
Darya underwent the most drasitc changes I think. I can't help it there's just something about how she looks in the anime that pisses me off so MUCH. Especially the lips, though Boichi always has problem when it comes to drawing something other than tiny anime mouth 😭😭. I was going for a more older look since I hc her to be roughly the same as Yakov (aka pushing fifties)
Anyway, the big-ass eyebrows? Yeah, Kokuyo (and his daughters COUGH coUGH) got them from her. Otherwise Lillian carried Kohaku's gene pool.
I haven't thought much about what to change about Connie (she's already perfect), so I opted for a more formal and official look. The purple shirt was too iconic to get rid of, so I just muted the color, and also gave her glasses! Kinro and Suika need to get their shit eyesight from someone LMAO okay I'm sorry.
While her aunt and uncle orbit Earth aboard the International Space Station, Mira insists she’s fine—because she always is.
But with Ishigami Byakuya newly launched into space and old memories clawing their way back to the surface, deflection stops working. What begins as banter unravels into something rawer: family, exploitation, and the quiet fear of being loved only for what you can produce.
Notes:
Author’s Note: I hope I didn’t freak anyone out too badly with the last chapter’s ending lol. Also, sorry my update schedule is absolute garbage, when I started this, I genuinely thought I’d be posting more than once a month. I will work on that, truly, because the next cour is approaching, and I refuse to be defeated by time itself.
Chapter Note: I was planning to write the petrification this chapter, but honestly, it felt weirder not to cover the events leading up to it—especially since so many people she knows are involved. Ten billion points and an early preview to whoever guesses the next chapter’s character/s. Also, to anyone who read this before April 22nd—I’ve added a few details. They don’t change the premise, but they do give a bit more depth to Mira’s relationships.
Now playing: “This Is Me Trying” - Taylor Swift
“Yes Tyotya, I achieved a sufficient and uninterrupted seven hours of sleep last night.” [1]
I did nothing of the sort. I got exactly three hours of sleep, and it was in the morning.
It was the following day, the first of June, and Mira had already told her first lie.
In her deceased mother’s tongue no less.
…
I probably need to go to confession for longer this time. [2]
Not that confession ever fixed anything. It just made you admit what you already knew—and then live with it anyway.
Well, she only went to Church for the sake of establishing a good repertoire.
That, and talking to the Father was free therapy.
Was she going there more often to pray for Senku’s downfall?
…Possibly.
Not in a murder way.
In a minor inconvenience, character development arc way.
Mira was sprawled on her couch, wearing a halter-neck crop top and cargo shorts in her signature plum purple, as always, tearing through the latest issue of Star Wars (1977) [3], Naturally, she had shipped it from America via express air the moment it was released—just so she could read it today.
Did she pay twenty times more for shipping than for the comic itself?
Yes, I did, dearest reader.
Did she regret it?
Not in the slightest.
Her only regret was starting it on a Saturday morning—just before her weekly call with her aunt and uncle—and being interrupted on page twenty-three, exactly one page before the halfway mark.
To make matters worse, she had to put on a full face of makeup. Not just to hide her under-eye bags, but because—according to Russian customs—makeup was apparently part of basic hygiene, not a luxury.
Soap, toothpaste, eyeliner. Same category.
Not that she entirely minded. She quite enjoyed her plum eyeshadow and glossy purple lipstick, especially since the latter was a trait she shared with someone else she was close to.
The shade was also something she definitely wasn’t allowed to wear at school, and therefore loved even more. [4]
It was a small rebellion, but Mira collected small rebellions like other girls collected lip gloss—compulsively, and with purpose.
That was because she wasn’t like the other—
Author, I swear to God, if you turn me into Y/N, I will commit literary homicide.
Also, I am not like anyone, and I fail to see why we are limiting this comparison to gender. That is statistically inefficient and intellectually insulting.
“Do not lie to me, Hoshikawa Mira,” her aunt snapped, her own lavender eyes locking onto Mira’s with a glare sharp enough to slice through ice. She was already intimidating with her short, blond hair—cut almost like a bowl but ending in sharp downward spikes—and now, with her eyebrows furrowed, she was downright terrifying.
Mira straightened instinctively, posture snapping into something halfway between obedient niece and disciplined lab subject. She always thought her aunt spoke harshly in any language, but Russian only amplified it. Perhaps it was the harsher consonants—
“Just because I’m in space right now, does not mean I was born yesterday!”
Nikitina Darya—doctor and cosmonaut—had been aboard the International Space Station for the past six months. As a pediatrician, caring for children came as naturally to her as breathing, including her own.
She was also her maternal aunt, and her only living blood relative since her parents’ death nearly eleven years prior.
“Of course not, Tyotya. I only meant to imply—”
“I don’t care what you meant! If I hear another word about you not taking care of yourself from that friend of yours—”
Mira suppressed a groan—Goddammit, Tsukasa.
“—I will come down and make sure you’re sleeping for days after I’m done with you. Is that understood?”
“Yes, ma’am,” she replied quickly.
Trust him to narc on my sleep schedule like it was a matter of national security.
Darya had met Tsukasa once during a surprise visit to Japan. One might expect some concern over her niece’s only friend being a male MMA fighter, but Darya simply approved and even gave him her number in case Mira ever needed a scolding.
Judging by her marital choices, she clearly has a bias towards buff men.
“Now, now, Darya, don’t be so harsh on our niece,” came a calm, familiar voice.
Speak of the devil, and thank God.
“But Yakov, she hasn’t been getting enough sleep. I have to be harsh on her.”
A tall, buff man appeared on the screen beside Darya, his blond hair spiked at the crown of his head, a thick mustache and beard practically cutting into the frame.
“That’s normal teenage behavior, honey. She was probably staying up reading those American and Japanese comics of hers. How are you doing, Mirochka.” [5]
Nikitin Yakov, her uncle by marriage, was also a doctor and a two-time cosmonaut, pursuing medical research meant for the extreme conditions of space—a valiant endeavor that had inspired Darya to follow him beyond Earth as well.
More importantly, he was significantly nicer.
He also had a massive soft spot for Mira—one she exploited with remarkable efficiency.
Mira pressed her palms together in a traditional gasshō posture, closing her eyes in prayer. [6]
Thank you Lord, for bringing in Dyadya to save my ass from Tyotya.
“Dyadya Yakov! Please save me!” Mira gasped, clutching her chest as though struck by tragedy itself, her voice trembling with theatrical despair.
“Oh, my sweet girl! Don’t listen to the cruel words of my wife!” Yakov, who usually kept his eyes pinched closed, suddenly opened them, revealing emerald-green irises filled with worry.
Docile men are so easy to manipulate.
Actually… men in general are a community service project.
“If I perish today Dyadya, know that it was not by natural causes. It was familial betrayal.”
“No, you can’t die! I was going to get you an autograph from Lillian Weinberg herself for your graduation!”
Lillian Weinberg—American singer, international icon, and owner of one of the most statistically impressive vocal ranges on record.
Yakov had gotten her a CD of the artist for her sixteenth birthday, having heard that was what teenage girls liked these days.
He was the one who ended up addicted and bought the rest of her albums.
Addiction is the silent killer, after all, Mira thought, as she took another sip from her seventh triple-shot espresso of the morning.
She had to admit, Lillian’s vocals were objectively superior, which was precisely why she had conducted a full spectrographic analysis of her vocal range—mapping her fundamental frequency, harmonic overtones, formant placement, vibrato rate, and dynamic stability across various registers.
Now, Lillian was heading up to the ISS herself as the world’s first space tourist.
Artists, Mira concluded, had entirely too much free time and money.
“Lillian? Did she already land?”
I bet Connie will be over the moon, well, over the Earth technically speaking.
Connie Lee, the third astronaut currently aboard the ISS alongside her aunt and uncle, was representing America in space, the kind of child many Chinese parents would call a dream. A mechanical engineer who graduated from California Institute of Technology at the top of her class, she went on to work for NASA, developing machinery for extravehicular activities.
Furthermore, because she and Mira shared nearly identical academic and career trajectories, their relationship had naturally settled into that of mentor and mentee.
Despite Connie being ten years older than Mira, the two shared more of a collegial bond than anything else. In truth, Connie had been so focused on school that she’d never really had friends, and the only thing that got her through her engineering degree—as she’d told Mira in more than one unsolicited aside—was the life-changing music of Lillian Weinberg.
“No,” Darya cut in as landed a series of punches on her husband’s head as Mira winced in sympathy. “She’s coming in tomorrow, along with Volkov Shamil and Ishigami Byakuya.
The very second she heard those words—or rather, that one word: tomorrow—a sinister thought coiled through her mind, serpent-slick and insistent, one every instinct warned her not to give voice to.
The fact that there was currently only one capsule on the International Space Station, and that there always had to be at least one. [7]
Don't say it, Mira, don't say it.
“Oh? Then how were you planning on coming down to Earth today, Auntie?”
She said it.
“Don’t talk back to me, young lady!”
“Honeyyy.”
“Stay out of this, Yakov!”
“You can’t kill me before I get to meet my favourite artist!”
Right… I do remember zoning out to the launch yesterday at lunch…
Instead of watching a space launch like a normal teenager, Mira was busy optimizing a non-linear thermal control loop to improve heat dissipation in closed-loop life-support systems under microgravity—because apparently relaxing is not one of her core competencies.
Essentially, she was trying to stop space equipment (or people) from becoming either popsicles or microwaves using very complicated math.
Well, Shamil’s there too, right? He’s the third-best pilot I know—and that’s only because the first two are that damn good, so he is excellent as well.
Mira sighed, nostalgia settling in.
She hadn’t seen him since she went over to Roscosmos to study extravehicular activity systems, spacecraft operations, and orbital engineering during spring vacation. They were similar in personality, which meant she didn’t actually mind his company. Chess with him had been especially fun—he was the first person to ever give her a real challenge.
We Russians are built differently in that regard, aren’t we? He said he completely obliterated Byakuya too…
Wait.
Yesterday. The launch. Byakuya—
Mira froze, eyes widening with slow, dawning horror.
Her stomach dropped. Not physically—emotionally. The worse kind.
Fuck my life.
Of all the cosmic jokes the universe could have played, this one felt personal.
She groaned internally, her soul filing a formal complaint.
Is that why Ishigami was even more of a brat than usual yesterday?
Senku… was Byakuya’s son.
The same Byakuya who had just strapped himself into a Soyuz capsule and was currently hurtling through space.
Which meant there was, quite literally, no one left on Earth to keep Senku in check.
Or there hadn’t been.
Five Years Prior
Damn, the security here is shit.
A twelve year old Mira slipped through a side entrance of Hirosue University, backpack stuffed with tools, caffeine, and spite, convinced she could survive a night in the robotics lab on pure brilliance alone.
Seriously, I was hoping for at least a little challenge.
She donned an oversized hoodie and sweatpants, plum, because yes, she’d had the same favorite color her entire life, and wanted to try out the engineer style ahead of time.
I must admit, I see the appeal.
Mira walked through the halls with a casual strut, her backpack slung over her right shoulder. It completely displaced her center of gravity and equilibrium, but even she had to admit the junior high aesthetic was worth the mild risk of spinal misalignment.
The sacrifices I endure in the name of engineering.
Darya, along with her husband of six months, Yakov Nikitin, had had her credit card privileges revoked… again.
Apparently, attempting to max out their Roscosmos-issued science-purposed cards in one go to build a particle accelerator in her name had consequences.
It hadn’t even been two full years since her last major punishment, and yet—there they were, revoking things.
She had drained her allowance on Mirai’s initial life support payments, which—although Tsukasa swore he’d pay her back—meant she ended up being stuck using her closely monitored funds.
Therefore, she was sneaking into a university robotics lab.
She had one in her penthouse, of course, but apparently there were “legal limitations,” and she couldn’t keep a Class IV industrial laser cutter in there. [8]
The building managers just didn’t understand that her lab was reinforced with multi-layer composite shielding, EMI-resistant Faraday cage lining, and blast-rated framing—to the point that even the future Class V industrial laser cutter wouldn’t be able to get through—and that she simply needed it to microfabricate her her reaction wheel assemblies for her autonomous orbital maneuvering drone. [9]
Except, because even Mira was not immune to the disease that was teenage stupidity, she may have rambled about needing the space to accommodate a nuclear power plant beside her particle accelerator.
Yeah, that did absolutely nothing to help her case.
Mira finally reached Hirosue’s lab, strolling in after closing time without a care in the world—because, in her usual preemptive brilliance, she had already disabled the surrounding security cameras.
All she had to do now was pick the lock.
She slid out her tools, knelt, and leaned in with professional focus—only for the door to swing open under the lightest touch.
… It wasn’t locked.
Okay, shit is not sufficient enough to describe their security measures… or their professor screening.
Mira successfully infiltrated the robotics lab, shutting the door behind her and flicking on the lights like she owned the place. She set up the fabrication rig for her soon-to-be-made reaction wheels, scanned the equipment around her with approval, and made herself comfortable.
She was just about to start the laser cutter when the door slammed open.
“Damn, did I forget to close the lab too…?”
A figure hurried in, hair and clothes disheveled, sweat-soaked and frantic—a middle-aged man with white hair darkening at the tips just above the nape of his neck, a buzz-cut beard and mustache, and warm brown eyes.
Mira could judge appearances when she wasn’t in the middle of getting caught.
“Huh?” he blurted, skidding to a stop a few feet from her. “Kid—wait, you aren’t a young-looking adult, are you?” He squinted, then waved helpfully. “Doesn’t matter. You can’t be here without professional supervision.”
Mira crossed her arms.
“Can someone who forgot to lock the door on his way out really be considered a professional?”
He recoiled like she’d physically slapped him.
“Hey! You don’t have to shoot me down like that! I’ll have you know that I have a doctorate, so whether you like it or not, I am a professional.”
“So I’ve noticed,” she replied. “You keep mentioning it, like you’re trying to compensate for something else.”
“Are you even old enough to make a joke like that?! And I have a PhD in space engineering,” he added, before pausing as he tried to remember the original point of their conversation. “I was in a rush—I even forgot my car keys!”
Mira stared at him in pure, soul-crushing disappointment.
Seriously.
“Look,” he sputtered, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s my son’s birthday today, and I haven’t seen him much lately because I’ve been busy grading papers.”
“A parent falling for the pyramid scheme that is birthdays is just sad.”
To be fair, Mira didn’t hate being on the receiving end—free stuff was free stuff—but benefiting from something didn’t mean she couldn’t criticize it.
“You sound like him too…” he muttered, shoulders slumping. “He’s all about efficiency and pragmatism. He won’t even hug me back.”
“Well,” Mira said calmly, “according to the social contract, one is not obligated to return something of equal value when it was gifted without being asked.”
“Seriously, it’s like he shape-shifted into you…”
“I pity your son for having an idiot for a father.”
“No, it’s worse when a girl says it.” He looked her up and down far too thoughtfully. “You are a girl, right? Girls develop fast, but you’ve gotta be around my son’s age—maybe a few years older. He’s a scrawny little thing compared to you. Hasn’t hit puberty like you have yet.”
Oh God.
“I thought professors only sexually harassed their younger female students, not literal children.”
He choked on his own words, the rest of the sentence collapsing somewhere between panic and outrage.
“Hey! I am not a—I would never go for anyone under eighteen!”
Mira tilted her head slightly, expression unreadable, as if she were reviewing a flawed equation.
“So you do sleep with your students,” she said flatly. “That’s still a crime, you know.”
She casually reached into her pocket and pulled out her phone.
“Hey! Hey! I never said that!” he flailed. “Besides, you’re trespassing—you’d get in trouble too!”
Her finger hovered over the nine on her dial pad as she looked up at him, something akin to respect flickering in her eyes.
“Well played, loser-sensei,” she said, slipping her phone back into her hoodie pocket.
“Is that my name now?” he sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Seriously, who are you? I thought I lived with the only kid who’d break into a university lab… and the only one who’d call me a loser.”
He muttered the last part under his breath. She heard it.
“There was little breaking in to do,” Mira replied dryly. “Courtesy of yourself.”
“Okay,” he said, rubbing his temples, “it was funny the first time. Now it’s just mean.”
She squinted at him, head tilting slightly, eyes narrowing with surgical precision, the look she usually reserved for faulty equations and people who disappointed her on a molecular level.
“You really have only been called a loser by one other person before? Wow. Humanity’s standards really have hit an all-time low.”
“Did you not hear what I just said?!” he snapped in annoyance.
“I did.” She shrugged. “I just refuse to waste my cognitive processing power on someone with your emotional and intellectual bandwidth.”
“Hey!”
She waved a dismissive hand.
“However, this conversation has been amusing, so I will do you the honor of knowing my name.” She straightened slightly, mock-serious. “Hoshikawa Mira. Try not to forget it—you already struggle with doors. And keys.”
He froze.
Blinked.
Blinked again.
Then his eyes widened, and his mouth fell open.
“…Oh. Oh.”
He leaned back, stared at her properly this time, and then burst out laughing—full-bodied, wheezing, hand-on-knees laughter that echoed off the lab walls.
“You’re kidding,” he gasped. “You’re that Hoshikawa Mira? The Apex Prodigy?”
The Apex Prodigy.
That was the title Mira was given when she was eight—the recently orphaned child of the world-renowned Hoshikawas—after she solved the Age-Related Degenerative Disease Reversal problem her biomedical engineer father had dedicated his entire life to. She had created a universal method to reverse cellular aging in damaged tissues—that was the public problem, at least.
Experiment 777 was his private triumph and her personal nightmare.
She had been the control group, the variable, and the result—all before she was old enough to consent to any of it.
But of course, the world framed it as her inheriting the remains of his research after his passing, not something she had done of her own volition.
In reality, no one wanted to admit that a little girl had solved one of the greatest problems of the century. Unfortunately for them, they couldn’t award a Nobel Prize posthumously either, so they simply called her a prodigy for “piecing together” her father’s research to heal the world.
She absolutely despised that title.
However, the only things she hated more were being mocked, and being treated like a child.
Biologically and legally, she was a child.
Professionally, she was only one when it was useful to ignore her, and never when it was useful to exploit her.
“Yes,” she scoffed, chin lifting, “what, exactly, is so amusing about that?”
“I just, I never expected to see you here,” he said, wiping his eyes. “Breaking into a university lab. At night. Like a caffeinated raccoon with a PhD.”
She frowned, the expression tight with annoyance and faint offense, as if recalibrating how seriously to take him. Not that she had taken him seriously at any point so far, mind you.
He did not just comment on her eye bags.
“That comparison was unnecessary.”
“No, no, it was necessary,” he insisted. “I’ve read your papers, hell, the whole world has. You’re supposed to be at a private institute, or a government facility, or locked in a lab being supervised by three ethics committees—not committing educational crimes in my building.”
“I resent the implication,” she snapped. “This is not a crime. This is resource acquisition.”
“Resource acquisition of what?”
“If you must know, I require this laser cutter to fabricate reaction wheels for my drone, which I need for land surveying for my nuclear power plant.”
He stared at her in silence, jaw slack, like his brain had blue-screened.
“You… you just said nuclear power plant,” he managed. “Like that’s a normal sentence a teenager says.”
“I am not a normal teenager, after all…” She paused, folding her arms and studying him like a failed experiment. Then she tilted her head, eyes narrowing. “Okay, seriously—are you really going to let a teenage girl call you Loser-sensei? That’s kind of sad, even for you.”
He blinked, visibly recalibrating, the kind of pause that suggested a man reordering his entire self-presentation mid-conversation.
“The name’s Ishigami. Byakuya Ishigami.”
Mira’s mouth twitched at the obvious reference, recognition flickering across her expression like a private joke she hadn’t consented to sharing.
“That was a really tragic James Bond reference.”
Byakuya frowned slightly, scratching the back of his neck sheepishly.
“Damn, I didn’t think anyone your age watched such an old movie.”
“You seriously need a better movie selection for practicing your English.”
“How did you even know that?!” he asked, squinting at her like she’d just hacked his soul.
“Because no one watches James Bond these days.”
“You just said you did!”
“That was to psychologically devastate a fan who annoyed me.”
He stared at her for a long second, then let out a slow breath.
“Damn. You’re petty.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.” Mira brushed invisible dust off her sleeve, already bored. “Anyway, you should stick to science fiction. It’s the superior genre.”
“What, like Star Wars?”
She stopped, turned back to him, and regarded him like he’d just said something almost impressive.
“Yes. Exactly like Star Wars. Perhaps I underestimated your intellect, Ishigami-sensei.”
He puffed up slightly, hands on his hips.
“Well, I am going to space, after all.”
“Oh…”
“What kind of reaction is that?!” he protested, throwing his hands up.
Mira shrugged, utterly unimpressed.
“My uncle’s already been to space, so…”
He stared at her, offended.
“Is nothing impressive to you anymore?”
“Not really,” she said calmly. “When you have a superior intellect like mine, life gets boring fast.”
Byakuya sighed like a man burdened by the weight of the universe and ran a hand through his already-disaster-zone hair.
“Well then! Why don’t you help me with a little project of mine?”
Mira gave him a slow, deeply judgmental once-over, the kind that didn’t feel like looking so much as measuring—as if she were deciding whether he qualified as a serious problem or just an annoying one.
“And why, exactly, would I help you? My time is extremely valuable.”
He visibly wilted, shoulders dropping like the air had been let out of him.
“So mean… Fine, I’ll just tell your uncle you snuck in here! Us astronauts all stick together.”
She stopped mid-step, slowly turning her head.
The expression that settled on her face could generously be described as a glare, and less generously as a threat assessment.
“He’s a cosmonaut.”
He blinked.
“…And fine,” she sighed, waving a dismissive hand like she was swatting a fly. “You have a deal. Don’t make me regret being merciful.”
Present
From that day onward, Ishigami Byakuya became her number one opp.
He blackmailed her into building a robot for him in exchange for not snitching to her guardians—an act of pure villainy.
Now, Mira loved making robots more than life itself, but the lack of research funding at Hirosue was straight-up criminal. She was forced to use smartphone motherboards, for crying out loud.
This was science, not a DIY YouTube channel.
Sure, she eventually got her precious Rei to function in zero gravity, and Byakuya did promise to take it up to the ISS—but that still didn’t excuse him.
Nothing could compensate for Byakuya’s constant teasing—or his relentless, and more importantly, unsolicited matchmaking attempts to marry her off to his son and turn her into his daughter-in-law like this was some kind of cosmic family sitcom.
Like that would ever happen. She even made a 10 million yen bet on it never happening.
Mira had zero intentions of that life path—unless Pierre Curie got reincarnated—and upon actually meeting Senku, she promptly found a new contender for the spot of her number one opp.
She even doubled the stakes after the first explosion, and tripled them the moment Byakuya suggested it would make a great “how you met” story for their children.
Mira genuinely had no idea why Byakuya thought she would immediately fall for the first science-adjacent, non-misogynistic asshole within her age range who wasn’t aesthetically displeasing.
Just because there was a limited sample size of tolerable, literate men did not mean she was desperate.
It meant the data set was tragic.
Even if they were the last two people on Earth, she would still go extinct on purpose rather than participate in whatever “repopulating the Earth” situation people would inevitably expect.
Despite their polar-opposite personalities—Byakuya being a golden retriever of a man and Senku being, frankly, an asshole—they shared an uncanny, deeply irritating talent for getting under her skin.
God, I am absolutely going to kill him. Now that he is no longer supervised by his space-bound father, the depths of Helheim personally await me.
“Mirushka?” Darya’s voice cut in, concern sharpening her tone. “Are you alright? You seem zoned out?”
At some point, Yakov had quietly vanished from the call—either out of politeness or self-preservation.
Shit. Having a full-blown flashback in the middle of a phone call is crazy, Author.
She didn’t know why this memory resurfaced now.
Maybe because Byakuya was in space.
Maybe because family always seemed to orbit the same wounds.
“I am alright, Auntie. I promise,” Mira said with the confidence of someone lying through her teeth.
“What, like you promised you would sleep more?”
“Exactly like that!” she chirped, which somehow made it worse.
“And look how well that’s been going,” Darya deadpanned on the other end.
She stared at the ceiling, suddenly very interested in a mysterious crack she’d never noticed before.
“Hey, look at that. Structural integrity. Very important. Anyway—”
“Don’t ‘anyway’ me,” Darya said. “Have you eaten today?”
“…Define eaten.”
“Mira.”
“I had coffee. That’s basically soup.”
“Mira,” Darya repeated, in the tone of a woman who had raised her and was this close to booking a flight.
“I had ice cream,” Mira added quickly. “It was… emotionally fulfilling.”
That part, at least, wasn’t a lie. She had been emotionally drained yesterday, and that affogato genuinely saved her mental state. [10]
“Emotionally fulfilling does not count as a meal,” Darya sighed. “When was the last time you had a real one?”
Mira squinted at the wall, mentally scrolling through her memories like a corrupted file.
“Uhh… yesterday?”
Silence.
“…Yesterday yesterday,” she clarified. “Not… today-yesterday. Fun fact: the term ‘yesterday’ originated from the—”
“Mira.”
“I’m alive, aren’t I?”
“Barely.”
“Still counts,” she said, proud.
Her aunt pinched the bridge of her nose on the other end.
“You cannot run on caffeine, ice cream, and spite alone.”
Mira paused, briefly reassessing the data.
“Counterpoint: so far, it is working.”
“It is not.”
“I haven’t collapsed yet.”
“That is the bare minimum requirement for being okay.”
“Wow. The bar is in hell and I brought a shovel.”
Darya sighed so deeply Mira could practically feel it through the phone.
“That is not the comforting statement you think it is.”
“Wow,” Mira said. “Judged, attacked, and disowned, all during what was supposed to be a simple phone call.”
Darya was quiet for a moment, the silence thoughtful rather than annoyed.
“Mira,” she said softly, “I joke with you because you joke with me. But I worry. You carry too much, and you pretend it’s light.”
Mira scoffed lightly, the sound brief and precise, as if she’d already dismissed the idea as not worth further consideration.
“I prefer the term efficient emotional storage.”
“That’s not a real thing.”
“It is in my heart.”
“Mira.”
She exhaled through her nose, long and controlled, her eyes drifting to the ceiling like she needed something to anchor her.
“…I would …rather not be a problem.”
“You’re not.”
“That is what you tell someone who is a problem.”
“That’s what people who’ve been hurt say,” Darya corrected gently.
Mira opened her mouth to argue. Closed it. Tried again. Failed.
“…I simply… do not want to disappoint anyone.”
“You won’t, you never have!” Darya said immediately. “But even if you did, we’d still be here.”
Mira swallowed, jaw tightening slightly.
“That seems… statistically unlikely.”
“I’m not a statistic. I’m your aunt. Your family.”
“Family?” Mira scoffed. “That’s what people say right before they use you.”
Her chest felt tight in a way that had nothing to do with caffeine and everything to do with memory.
The kind that doesn’t ask permission before resurfacing.
“Mira—”
“What exactly is stopping you from doing the same thing as—?”
My parents.
She didn’t have to finish the sentence for either of them to know what she meant.
Because love had never stopped them from cutting her open—figuratively or otherwise.
Because her body learned to heal faster than her mind learned to feel safe.
Because she stopped asking when the pain would end and started asking when the next round would begin.
She could still smell antiseptic when she closed her eyes.
Still hear the quiet click of gloves snapping into place.
Even now, all she saw was that unbearable red, spilling out of her memory like it had soaked into her eyes and refused to wash out.
Her voice faltered, the words collapsing under the weight of everything that had ever been justified as necessary, of everything that had been done to her in the name of scientific progress.
Mira forced herself to stop. The sentence snapped shut like a trap.
Too late.
It was already out. Already bleeding.
Before Darya could respond, she ended the call—before she could see what her words had done to the one person who had never failed her.
Her phone slipped from her fingers and landed face-down on the couch cushion, soft impact swallowed instantly by fabric and silence.
The screen stayed intact. Nothing cracked, nothing fractured, nothing betrayed the force behind the drop.
Somehow, that made it worse.
She almost wished it had shattered—splintered into something honest, something visible.
At least then the outside would have finally agreed with what she had just done to the inside.
But there was no symmetry to it. No release. Just containment.
Darya hadn’t earned that.
And Mira—Mira had simply run out of people safe enough to aim at.
She stayed very still, staring at nothing that would hold its shape under scrutiny. Her pulse hammered loud enough to feel like it didn’t belong inside her body at all, as if it had slipped loose and was trying to escape through her ribs.
Everything in her was screaming.
She just refused to answer it.
Fuck.
Why did I say that?
Ending the call was the most efficient option. Continuing it would only introduce unnecessary emotional variables. Emotional variables were unpredictable. Messy. Unnecessary.
Her pulse, however, did not care about efficiency.
Mira swallowed the feeling down, like always, packing it away where it couldn’t hurt anyone but her.
This was bad. This was—
No.
She cut the thought off mid-syllable, like slamming a door on a room already filled with smoke and flame, refusing to let it breathe long enough to become real.
Her chest felt too tight, her thoughts too loud, her hands too still. She catalogued the sensations instead of naming them—increased heart rate, shallow breathing, pressure behind the sternum—because those were easier than admitting panic.
So she did what she always did.
She translated herself into data.
Increased heart rate. Shallow respiration. Pressure behind the sternum.
A checklist. A system. Something contained.
Because those were easier than naming what it actually was.
This was fine.
This was manageable.
This was still better than hurting others just by existing.
Last Phone Call with Aunt… Acquired…
Notes:
[1] Tyotya (Russian: тётя) is the standard Russian term for an aunt, referring to a parent’s sister or the wife of an uncle. The term is inherently informal and affectionate, commonly used by children and within families. Dyadya (Russian: дядя) is the standard Russian term for an uncle, referring to a parent’s brother or the husband of an aunt.
[2] In Christianity (especially in Orthodox and Catholic traditions), confession is a sacred practice where a person admits their sins to God in the presence of a priest.
[3] Marvel Comics’ Star Wars was the first ever comic series created for the Star Wars saga, spanning 107 issues, from 1977 to 1986. Now, Star Wars 108: Forever Crimson is a special one-hundred eighth issue, published in celebration of Marvel Comics' eightieth anniversary, published on May 29, 2019. The issue is set after the formation of the New Republic, and it serves as a sequel to Archie Goodwin's Star Wars (1977) 50.
[4] Japanese schools generally prohibit makeup under 校則 (kōsoku), emphasizing uniformity, discipline, and minimizing distractions. Students are expected to maintain a natural appearance, with no visible makeup, dyed hair, or flashy accessories. Enforcement can be strict—some schools require immediate removal—though minor variations exist depending on the school.
[5] Mirochka (Russian: Мирочка) and Mirushka (Russian: Мирушка) are affectionate Russian diminutives of Mira. Mirochka conveys a softer, more nurturing tone, often used in moments of care, concern, or emotional closeness, while Mirushka carries a warmer, more playful and lightly teasing tone, typically used in relaxed or affectionate interactions.
[6] Gasshō (合掌) is a traditional Japanese gesture where you press your palms together in front of your chest, fingers pointing upward—like a prayer pose. It is commonly used to show respect, say thank you, apologize, make a polite request, or pray (especially in Buddhist contexts).
[7] Since November 2000, the International Space Station has been continuously inhabited, with crews rotating but never fully vacating the station. In the Dr. Stone timeline, however, only two return capsules remain docked post-petrification, meaning there was only one before the most recent crew arrived.
[8] A Class IV industrial laser cutter is the highest-power class of laser system used in manufacturing and industry, designed for cutting, engraving, welding, or material processing.
[9] Multi-layer composite shielding refers to layered materials engineered to combine structural strength with resistance to heat, impact, and environmental damage. EMI-resistant Faraday cage lining is a conductive enclosure layer that blocks external electromagnetic interference to protect sensitive onboard electronics. Blast-rated framing describes structural reinforcement designed to withstand explosive forces or extreme pressure shocks without structural failure.
[10] Affogato, or more fully affogato al caffè, is an Italian dessert consisting of a scoop of gelato, traditionally fior di latte (plain milk) or vanilla, drowned in a shot of hot espresso. It is a popular, two-ingredient, after-dinner treat that combines the contrasting flavors and temperatures of bitter, hot coffee and sweet, cold ice cream. Some variations add a shot of amaretto, bicerin, Kahlúa, or other liqueur.
just me comparing the anime and the manga togethor poiting out the changes and the things that they added and things that they cut and etc
anime: 16-17 manga: 42-43
the changes they made
this was not added in the anime
they added alot of things in the anime that was not in the manga but im not complaining tho. this changes make the characters more human and it feels like their actually people then just backstory characters that are just semi-important. they explained lillian backstory more and the fact that there were two doctors actually make sence on how they manage to have childrens without any major issues or deaths. ALSO LOOK its cannon that taiju and tsukasa cross paths in the modern world thats so cool.
official art
like father like son (they did not add their sillyness)
