Could you make a Mizi X reader where the reader is part of the rebellion and often talked to Mizi and comforted her but later after karma she goes looking for Mizi because she cares for her?
The Cruelty of Passing By
Summary: You were once Mizi’s quiet refuge, the one she trusted with her grief when the stage lights went dark. After FINAL ROUND shattered the rebellion and tore her away, rumors of the “witch” surviving push you to search the ruins and back alleys for her. What you don’t know is that you already walked past her—scarred, burned, and hidden behind a wig—while she silently watched you leave, unable to let you see what she’s become.
Tags: Mizi x Reader, Angst, Hurt/Comfort (not much comfort tho), ALIEN STAGE Aftermath, Unrequited/Suppressed Feelings, Searching for Lost Loved One, Disguise, Near-Reunion, Emotional Gut Punch, Toxic Positivity Themes, Found Family.
Warnings: Violence references (burns, scars, aftermath of war), Grief, Trauma, PTSD themes, Emotional instability/Self-worth issues, Unhealthy coping (masking, self-isolation), Heavy angst, Unresolved ending (no reunion), Mentions of death (Sua, Till, Rebellion members).
The ruins of ALIEN STAGE smelled like ash and rot. Every step crunched glass and scorched stone beneath your boots, but the silence was louder than any battlefield. War had a way of hollowing places out. You should’ve been numb to it by now. You weren’t.
Not when you were still searching for her.
Mizi.
The rebellion had collapsed like a house of cards. Some defected. Some were captured. Most were dead. You weren’t sure how you survived, let alone how you crawled back to the surface world where whispers of “witch” followed her like a curse.
They said Mizi was dead. Others claimed she’d fled. A few swore they’d seen her—burned, broken, but alive. Every rumor cut deeper than the last because you remembered the way her eyes softened when she sang under her breath, or the way she’d laugh too brightly when she wanted to hide the cracks. You remembered her curling into herself when grief bled through her carefully painted smile, and how you were often the one she let it slip around.
She mattered to you. Enough that you couldn’t leave it at rumors.
So you walked the ruins and the alleys, the border towns, anywhere a fugitive might linger in shadow. Every face you saw that wasn’t hers made the world heavier. Still, you clung to the memory of her warmth—her hands brushing yours in secret, the hush of her voice when she whispered things she wanted no one else to hear.
You weren’t chasing a ghost. You were chasing the girl who’d once trusted you enough to break.
It started in ANAKT’s shadow.
Back when she still wore her pink hair long, still smiled like the world couldn’t touch her. You knew better. You saw her after rehearsals, when her facade slipped and exhaustion took her whole. That was when you started talking—quietly, in corners no one else bothered with.
“You don’t have to smile when it hurts,” you’d told her once.
She’d laughed, brittle. “If I stop smiling, they’ll notice. And if they notice, I’ll break.”
So you became the one she broke around. Late nights, whispered fears. Sometimes she’d cry into your shoulder, muttering apologies you never needed. Other times, she’d sing softly just for you, letting the walls drop.
Then Sua died.
You remembered holding Mizi after, when her whole body shook as though her grief might tear her apart. You whispered comfort you weren’t sure you believed, but she clung to your voice anyway, as though it was the only thread keeping her in place.
Even in rebellion, when she cut her hair and hardened her smile, she still found you. Still sat close, as though your presence steadied her. You believed you could help carry her grief. That belief carried you through fire.
Until FINAL ROUND.
She turned her back on the plan. Chose Till. Chose against everyone else. Against you.
And yet—you understood. That was the worst part. You’d seen the way she loved, the way loss hollowed her out. You couldn’t hate her for clinging to what remained.
But you lost her anyway.
Now, months later, you searched broken markets where refugees gathered, the kind of places someone desperate could vanish. Word was the “witch” still wandered, face scarred, hair hidden, hunted by everyone—rebels, Segyein, even the people she once sang for.
Your gut twisted. You wanted to find her, not to drag her back, not to punish her, but simply to tell her—
That you still cared.
That she wasn’t alone.
That even if she hated herself, you didn’t.
You turned a corner into a crowded alley where traders shouted half-heartedly over piles of ragged goods. Smoke drifted from cracked chimneys. A winter wind cut through thin cloth.
And you stopped.
Someone was sitting by the wall, legs folded, hands wrapped around a chipped cup. Their hair was tangled black, falling in greasy strands around their face. Skin scarred, raw patches visible where fire had kissed too cruelly. Clothes ragged, threadbare. Just another beggar, it seemed, invisible in a place like this.
Your eyes lingered only a moment before you forced yourself onward. Because she wasn’t Mizi. She couldn’t be.
Mizi was warmth and song, brightness fighting against grief. She was the girl who once sang with a voice that split heavens, who danced under stage lights, who smiled at you with trembling lips and still tried to be the sun. She wasn’t this—
This shadow of a woman hiding beneath wigs and ruin.
The beggar didn’t look up as you passed.
Didn’t speak.
Didn’t dare.
But if you had, you would’ve seen chartreuse eyes, wide and wet, watching your back as you disappeared into the crowd.
Her fingers trembled against the chipped cup, knuckles white. She bit her lip until blood welled, willing herself not to call out.
Because what could she say?
You shouldn’t see her like this. Not burned, not broken, not less than the girl you once knew. She couldn’t bear to let you hold this version of her—the witch, the fugitive, the wreckage of love.
So she sat still, silent, watching you leave.
And when you turned the corner, she finally let her shoulders shake, burying her face in her hands.
You kept walking, heart heavy, searching for someone you had already found and lost in the same breath.
You told yourself you’d keep looking tomorrow, and the next day, until you saw her again.
But she was already behind you, and neither of you could reach through the wall of grief and shame that kept you apart.
i love all my little fictional characters but they would be absolutely insufferable as a real person , i have endless and unconditional love for them but yes i will break a chair over their head if they were real<3
[Image ID under the cut] (it's probably not a very good image id but i tried)
[Image ID: A photo of an index card with various doodles, made with a black pen, on it.
Doodle 1 is a droplet of some kind, with attempted hatching shading.
Doodle 2 is a kitchen knife with blood along the sharp edge, dripping off of the tip.
Doodle 3 is what appears to be a stitched and cleaned slash, with gentle indication of raw skin around the slash and a few stitches stitching the slash together.
Doodle 4 is part of an armor outfit. There's a zip-up hoodie with arm, shoulder, and ab guards, with a vest that could be assumed to be kevlar layered on top. There's also some sort of shaded-in covering over where the top half of Piper's face would be.
Doodle 5 is a partially unravelled bandage roll, stood straight up with some of it unravelled and laying out from the roll of bandages.
Doodle 6 is a spider logo, more akin to the MCU Spider-Man logos than the other variations of the spider-man/woman logos.
Doodle 7 is a single bullet, a cylinder with a slightly pointed top.
Doodle 8 is a combat boot in profile view. The laces and sole/heel of the boot is shaded in, and there's various scuffs and (blood) stains on the body of the boot.
Doodle 9 is a simple chibi-style head of Piper. She has short curly hair with buzzed sides, large and simplistic eyes, an open smile, eyebrows, and a small scar across her nose.
Doodle 10 is the foot of a Spider-Man or Spider-Woman costume. It has thin soles, and a webbed design climbing up the foot and leg.
Doodle 11 is one of the eyes on a Spider-Man or Spider-Woman costume. It is vaguely teardrop-shaped, with thick black borders and a pale interior.
Doodle 12 is a simple handgun, with a grip, trigger, and loading bar (if that's what it's called). There's also a crosshatched rectangle next to it, which could appear to be a container of bullets.
