Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The sky above the Federation looks like a sheet of paper without ink.

There’s no sun, no shadows—just a flat, pale brightness that refuses to change, as if the world got stuck halfway through morning.

The air smells like disinfectant, but beneath it lingers something else: a tense stillness, the kind that doesn’t belong in places where people live, but where people wait.

Missa stands before the automatic doors, gripping his suitcase tightly. The fabric feels rough under his damp fingers. He’s been holding it so long that the handle’s turned warm with sweat.

Beside him, Spreen stares at the building like he’d rather be anywhere else.

“You don’t have to do this if you don’t want to, okay?”

His voice sounds steadier than his face looks.

“But… I think it’ll help you.”

Missa doesn’t answer.

He looks at their reflection in the glass—two quiet shadows about to disappear inside a bigger one.

“Help?” he murmurs. “I don’t know if I want help, Spreen.”

Spreen sighs, placing a hand on his shoulder. The warmth in his touch trembles slightly.

“It’s just for a while, yeah? Until you feel better.”

Missa tries to smile, but it dies halfway.

Just for a while.

The words sound like a promise already broken.

A nurse walks through the doors, letting out a stronger wave of that sterile, chemical smell. Spreen gives him a soft push forward.

“Go on. I’ll come visit every weekend.”

That sentence hurts more than it should—not because it sounds fake, but because Missa doesn’t know if he can stand waiting for it.

He steps inside.

The echo of his shoes mixes with the low hum of the lights. Everything looks both new and worn down at once.

Behind the front desk, a woman greets them with a smile that doesn’t touch her eyes. Her white coat has a tiny cartoon polar bear stitched on the chest—so absurdly cheerful it feels like mockery.

“Welcome to the Federation,” she says in a tone too soft, too rehearsed. She glances at Spreen, but continues as if she didn’t.

“Please, sign here.”

Missa picks up the pen and writes Missa Sinfonía, his hand trembling.

The ink blurs slightly, and for a moment, he wonders if his name still means anything.

They hand him a plastic wristband—0145—and the chill of it clings to his skin.

A nurse scribbles something in a notebook without looking at him.

A nurse scribbles something in a notebook without looking at him.

“Take him to his room.”

Spreen steps forward.

“Can I go in? I just want to make sure—”

“I’m sorry, sir,” the nurse cuts in, tone flat. “Staff only.”

Silence. Heavy. Uncomfortable.

Missa looks up at his brother, desperate to say something—anything—to stall the moment.

But nothing comes out.

Spreen gives him a small, shaky nod.

“I’ll see you soon, okay?”

Soon. Another shapeless word.

As Missa watches him leave, it feels like the hallway stretches with every step Spreen takes.

The sound of his footsteps fades away, and the world seems to lose a bit of color with it.

Room 32B is smaller than he imagined.

A metal bed, a desk, a flickering lamp, and a barred window.

The blue uniform folded neatly on the bed smells faintly of old detergent.

On the wall, a clock ticks irregularly, as if unsure of what time it’s supposed to be.

Missa drops his suitcase by the desk and sits on the edge of the bed.

The mattress creaks.

His own breathing feels too loud in the still air.

He rubs his face with both hands.

Hard to believe that just hours ago, he’d been outside—under a real sky, even if it was cloudy.

Here, even the air feels trapped.

Somewhere down the corridor, a sound breaks the silence.

A dull thud. Then a scream.

Muffled, distant, full of something raw.

He tells himself it’s a machine, an accident, anything mechanical.

But the noise lingers just long enough to make him doubt it.

When he finally peers out into the hallway, there’s no one there.

Breakfast arrives on a metal tray.

Bread, a dull apple, watery coffee.

The nurse who brings it—a tall blond man with tired eyes—sets it down without a word.

The same smiling polar bear is stitched over his heart.

Missa stares at it for a few seconds before trying the coffee.

Cold.

Everything here seems to have the wrong temperature.

A little later, they guide him to the main cafeteria.

Rows of metal tables. The smell of bleach and reheated bread.

Muted voices floating like ghosts in the air.

He takes a seat at the far end of an empty table.

People move slowly here, like every gesture takes conscious effort.

Some talk to themselves. Others stare into nothing, as if that emptiness were all that mattered.

Missa lets his eyes wander carefully, avoiding direct stares.

A few faces catch his attention:

—A young man with dark hair who keeps counting and rearranging his utensils with obsessive precision.

—Another, with bright pink hair, watching him over the rim of a glass, his smile too sweet to trust.

—A girl with bandaged wings, whispering something that sounds like a song.

—And farther away, a man with dark hair and maybe a blond streak—Missa can’t tell—shredding a napkin into dust.

Then—

“New here, huh?”

The voice snaps him out of it.

In front of him stands a boy with small yellow wings, bright and messy like a duckling’s. His grin is wide, a little unhinged.

“I’m Doctor Quackity,” he declares, scribbling something in the air with a blue crayon clutched in one hand.

Missa blinks.

“Doctor?”

“Yup,” Quackity says with full conviction. “Top of my class in… well, that’s not important.”

Before Missa can answer, a laugh bursts nearby.

“Don’t listen to him, greñudo!” shouts another patient—a man with wild dark hair and a spark of mischief in his eyes. “The duck’s been calling himself a doctor since they locked him in.”

“Greñudo?” (messy-haired) Missa echoes.

“Yeah, you look like one.” The man shrugs. “Everyone’s got a nickname here. Easier than remembering the names the whitecoats gave us.”

The “doctor” keeps pretending to write on invisible charts.

“Nicknames are for weak minds, Roier.”

Roier—apparently his name—rolls his eyes.

“Sure, sure. Go prescribe more fresh air, Doctor Duck.”

Missa chuckles quietly, unsure if it’s nerves or relief.

But it feels real.

For the first time since arriving, something inside him loosens.

Quackity grins, satisfied.

“I like your smile, patient 0145. Has potential.”

“Don’t scare the newbie, man,” Roier says, nudging him. “Come on, greñudo, sit with us. If you stay alone, the echo eats you alive.”

Missa hesitates, but follows.

As he walks, he starts to notice small things—the flicker of the ceiling lights, the electric hum that never stops, the synchronized footsteps echoing down the hall.

He doesn’t look at the clocks.

Time doesn’t mean much here anyway.

Breakfast fades into the kind of silence that hums between heartbeats.

Metal trays clatter, chairs scrape against the floor, and somewhere, someone laughs too loudly at something that isn’t funny.

Missa barely eats.

It’s not the taste—though it’s terrible—but the heaviness in the air, that quiet pressure sitting on everyone’s shoulders.

After Spreen left, the emptiness around him turned almost physical.

Quackity tries to fill it with words, Roier with jokes, but there are holes noise just can’t patch.

Later, they send everyone to the yard.

There’s not much to see—just concrete, a few benches, and a sky caged by metal mesh.

The sunlight hits like it’s trying too hard to prove it’s real.

Missa sits on a bench, hands folded between his knees.

The others walk slow loops around the space, guards pretending not to watch.

Then he hears it.

A song.

Soft, fragile, almost too low to notice.

It comes from the far side of the yard, where a girl stands alone.

Dark hair, wings wrapped in thick bandages, staring at nothing.

Her lips move with the rhythm of something sad.

Missa hesitates before walking closer.

“You… sing really well,” he says, barely above a whisper.

Jaiden turns her head slightly.

Her smile doesn’t reach her eyes.

“It’s not for you,” she says calmly.

That stings more than he expects.

“Sorry, I just—”

“I don’t sing for people,” she cuts him off, voice flat. “I sing so I don’t hear everything else.”

Her tone isn’t mean—just tired. Mechanical.

Like someone repeating something they’ve said too many times.

Missa shifts on his feet.

He should probably walk away, but curiosity wins.

“Why that song, though?”

Jaiden shrugs lightly. The bandages around her wings rustle, and they twitch, restrained by the fabric.

“Because it’s from Miku. She taught it to me when I’m alone.”

“Miku?” he echoes, confused.

“Yeah.” She says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “She visits me. Sometimes she sings, sometimes she just listens.”

The silence between them stretches thin.

Missa nods slowly, unsure whether to play along or not.

“Is she… here now?”

Jaiden’s lips curve in a faint, almost peaceful smile.

“She’s everywhere. If you listen carefully, you can hear her too.”

Then she goes back to singing, quietly, as if he were never there.

Her voice folds back into the wind and the electric hum of the yard.

Missa stands frozen for a moment before retreating to his bench, pretending to look at the sky again.

But the melody stays lodged in his mind long after—

soft, haunting, and too human to be just a hallucination.

Lunch comes with mechanical precision.

The food tastes like nothing, but that’s fine—thinking too much is worse.

The cafeteria buzzes with low conversation, like a machine that refuses to stop running.

Roier is talking again, hands moving fast, his voice filling every gap in the room.

Quackity sits beside him, pretending to diagnose everyone with his blue crayon.

“You, the guy with the gray hair—chronic boredom. Prescription: mild chaos, twice a day.”

Someone laughs from another table.

Missa just watches, not really following the conversations but finding comfort in the rhythm of them.

Across the room, he spots the dark-haired man from breakfast—the one aligning his cutlery like it’s a ritual.

Each movement is perfect, mirrored, deliberate.

Roier notices Missa’s gaze and grins.

“Ah, that’s Vegetta. Don’t stare too long or he’ll try to straighten your eyebrows with a ruler.”

“Is he dangerous?” Missa murmurs.

“Only if you mess up his symmetry.”

Further away, two other patients sit together—a black-haired man and one with pastel-pink hair. They’re laughing at something only they seem to understand.

Every motion mirrors the other, like a strange, synchronized dance.

“That’s Pac and Mike,” says Quackity, scribbling notes with his crayon. “If one sneezes, the other hands him tissues.”

Missa almost smiles again.

An overly polite nurse moves down the aisles, handing out pills and small cups of water. Her smile looks rehearsed, too clean to be real.

The same stupid polar bear sits embroidered on her chest, mocking everything.

Beside her, a man in a white coat flips through a notebook, jotting things down with a frown.

Roier waves at him with mock enthusiasm.

“Hey, Fit! Coffee didn’t taste like rust today. Are we finally getting a budget upgrade?”

Fit looks up, expression unreadable.

“Progress would be you not throwing trays at Foolish.”

“That was self-defense!” Roier protests. “He tried to shove my meds up my nose!”

Quackity raises his hand solemnly.

“True story. Attempted pharmaceutical murder.”

Fit exhales through his nose.

“Foolish is new,” he says quietly. “Cut him some slack. He’s still learning.”

Missa catches the faintest twitch of a smile at the corner of Fit’s mouth.

The conversation shouldn’t be funny, but somehow, it is.

The place is strange—terrifying in its routine—but it’s not entirely cold.

There’s something oddly warm about the chaos, the forced normalcy.

When the day winds down, Fit walks Missa back to his room.

The hallway is dim; the lights buzz like they’re tired too.

The white walls reflect everything, even the silence.

“Sleeping here’s easier if you don’t think too much,” Fit says, opening the door.

Missa steps inside.

The bed’s still unmade, the desk untouched, the same off-beat clock ticking like it’s keeping time for someone else.

The silence feels heavy, but not entirely hostile.

“Tomorrow’s another day,” Fit adds, leaning on the doorframe. “You’ll meet more people. Everyone does eventually.”

Missa glances over his shoulder.

“What if I don’t want to meet anyone?”

Fit smiles faintly.

“Then they’ll meet you. That’s how this place works.”

He leaves with a soft click of the door.

Missa sits on the bed, still in his uniform.

For a moment, the quiet almost feels safe.

Until it doesn’t.

A sound cuts through the silence.

Not just noise—

a scream.

Deep, raw, the kind of sound that scrapes through bone.

It echoes through the hallways, followed by the crash of something falling, metal hitting tile.

Missa freezes, pulse pounding in his throat.

Then, beneath the chaos, another sound.

A voice.

Singing.

The same tune Jaiden had been humming earlier—soft and broken, threading through the screams like a fragile thread of calm.

“I want to believe… I want to believe…”

The words float through the air, half lullaby, half haunting.

The cries fade. The voice doesn’t.

Missa closes his eyes, trembling, trying to convince himself it’s just a dream.

But even after silence returns, the echo of that song stays.

Unshakable.

Alive.

Chapter Text

Missa’s room woke up to a pale light, filtered through the beige curtains that smelled faintly of damp. He’d learned that in this place, morning didn’t come with sunlight—it came with the sound of the hallway: measured footsteps and the jingle of keys when a nurse opened a door to make sure everyone was still there.

Four days. Four identical mornings.

The clock on his wall still showed a different hour from the rest of the building, but no one seemed to notice. Maybe that was for the best. “If everything’s already timed, nothing can go wrong,” he thought. The routine comforted him. Wake up. Get dressed. Sit. Wait. Eat. It was so simple he could almost pretend he didn’t think at all.

Fit had stopped by early to leave a greeting, with his usual calm voice.

—“Awake and breathing, huh, Symphony? We’re doing good.”

The kind tone sounded more like a habit than actual interest, but Missa nodded anyway, almost out of reflex.

There wasn’t much to do in the mornings. Some patients wandered down the hallway; others talked to themselves or scribbled unreadable things on napkins. Missa just watched. He felt that urge again—to write something before it slipped away—but his hands trembled every time he tried to remember what. Why did he want to write so badly? Why did it feel like he was forgetting something so… important?

When he went down to the dining room, the smell of instant coffee mixed with warm toast. Jaiden was sitting by a window, humming softly—the same tune she’d been humming every night.

Missa watched her for a moment, uncertain. Finally, he walked over.

—“You’re singing again…” he murmured.

She looked up, eyes a little distant.

—“Ah, yeah… Miku says it helps.” —She said it with a small smile, like it was the most normal thing in the world.

—“And who’s Miku, exactly?”

—“A friend,” she said, as if he were the one not understanding something obvious. “She sings with me.”

A quiet pause stretched between them. Missa wasn’t sure if he should keep talking or just leave.

—“And… is she still here?” —he asked at last, trying to sound polite.

Jaiden nodded slowly, staring into the air.

—“Always.”

Missa looked down at his tray. He didn’t speak again. But while he ate, he noticed she kept humming very softly, just a thread of sound. And each note made something twist in his chest—a strange longing, like she was reminding him of a song that once belonged to him.

By midmorning, Fit was walking down the hallway announcing the day’s group therapy. It was something they did every two days, as far as Missa could tell. You couldn’t really refuse to go, even though they always said, “No one’s forced to talk.”

—“Come on, Symphony,” Fit said, leaning into the doorway. “Time to socialize a bit.”

Missa got up slowly, slipping his small notebook into the inner pocket of his robe.

The therapy room was in the east wing. It was a round space, with a barred window and a circle of chairs. The floor smelled faintly of disinfectant, and a ceiling light flickered weakly, as if unsure whether it wanted to stay on.

As he entered, Missa looked around at the faces. Some he’d seen in the dining room, though he’d never spoken to them. Roier sat in a corner, slouched back, wearing an expression of aggressive boredom. Beside him, Mike and Pac whispered something that Fit ignored with near saintly patience. A bit farther away, a man with light brown hair was playing with a blue cloth puppet—the voices coming from his mouth and the puppet’s blended together.

—“That’s Bad and Skeppy,” Fit said when he noticed Missa looking. “Better not ask which one’s talking.”

Missa just nodded and sat down. Across from him, a dark-haired guy with glasses and intense eyes—Etoiles, maybe? he vaguely remembered—was inspecting his nails like they were more interesting than anything else in the room. His posture carried a natural kind of arrogance, like it wasn’t just part of his personality—it was part of his illness.

Fit closed the door and took a seat too.

—“Alright,” he began calmly. “You don’t have to talk if you don’t want to. But if you can, I’d like everyone to introduce themselves. Maybe someone new doesn’t know the rest yet.”

Silence stretched for a few seconds, thick and uncomfortable, until Roier let out a dry laugh.

—“Oh, sure, the big welcome to the crazy club. What an honor.” —He looked at Missa with a tilted smile.— “And you are… what, mop-head?”

Missa hesitated.

—“Missa… Symphony.”

—“Pretty name for a madhouse,” Roier laughed. “Let’s hope you don’t go out of tune in here.”

Fit pretended not to hear him.

—“Thank you, Roier. Who’s next?”

The puppet guy spoke.

—“I’m Badboyhalo, and this is Skeppy,” he said, lifting the puppet. His voice was calm, but the puppet moved as if it had a mind of its own. “Skeppy says he doesn’t trust the new guy. Thinks he’s gonna break something.”

—“I’m not—” Missa tried to say, but Fit stopped him with a small gesture.

—“It’s fine. Thank you, Bad.” —He jotted something down in his notebook.— “Anyone else?”

A restless-looking young man with messy hair and an odd glint in his eyes leaned forward.

—“Rubius.” —His voice was low, almost a whisper.— “They say there’s something inside me, but I don’t know if that’s true or just one of their jokes.”

—“Who are ‘they’?” Fit asked.

—“The voices.” —He smiled faintly.— “They’re not bad… sometimes.”

The air grew heavier for a moment.

Finally, Etoiles lifted his hand lazily.

—“Etoiles. French. Smart. Better than anyone here,” he said in a flat tone that made Roier bark out a laugh.

—“Look at that, the genius of the ward. And I thought egos stayed at the door.”

—“At least I have one,” Etoiles shot back, not even glancing his way.

—“Guess it’s my turn,” a man with a white streak in his hair murmured. He licked his dry lips. “Name’s Cellbit.”

He paused so long that Fit almost thought he’d finished.

—“They say I’m here because I ate things I shouldn’t have,” he said finally, with a low laugh that didn’t sound human. “But I don’t get it. We all eat to survive, don’t we? It’s just that… some flavors last longer than others.”

Silence thickened. No one dared look directly at him.

Cellbit tilted his head, staring at Missa with an unsettling intensity.

—“I don’t like lies,” he said slowly. “And everyone here lies. Even when they breathe.”

He sat back down as if nothing had happened, folding his hands neatly over his knees.

—“That’s all,” he whispered. “For now.”

Fit exhaled quietly before continuing.

—“Alright. Now that we know each other a bit more… I just want to ask something simple. What do you feel when you think about the outside?”

Roier was the first to answer—or rather, to laugh.

—“The outside? That still exists? I thought it was just a story the nurses tell so we don’t jump out the windows.”

—“Please, Roier,” Fit said.

—“No, seriously,” he went on with a sarcastic grin. “And what about the crow? Don’t tell me the king finally beat him.”

A cold silence fell over the group. Fit lowered his gaze, tense. Foolish, the new nurse taking notes in the corner, looked up in confusion. He walked over quietly and whispered near Fit’s ear:

—“Sorry, I… I heard something about a guy named Wilbur,” he murmured, but his voice carried farther than he meant. Everyone heard.

The name hung in the air, uncomfortable.

—“Wilbur,” Rubius repeated, frowning. “Who’s that?”

Etoiles shrugged.

—“Maybe he never existed.”

Roier chuckled.

—“Oh, he existed. Until he didn’t. Maybe the beast ate him.”

Fit stood up with a controlled sigh.

—“That’s enough for today,” he said calmly. “We’ll continue after lunch.”

The group broke apart to the sound of chairs scraping and tired footsteps on the polished floor. Nobody looked anyone else in the eye. It was as if the air itself had been tainted by that name: Wilbur.

Fit quietly gathered his notes, muttering something to Foolish about “being more careful” while the others left the room.

Missa stayed seated for a while, staring at the empty circle of chairs. There was something off about the way they all reacted. It wasn’t exactly fear—it was more like habit. Like that name just wasn’t supposed to be spoken out loud.

Fit walked over, still writing.

—“Good job today,” he said gently. “I know you didn’t talk much, but that’s fine.”

—“Who was Wilbur?” Missa asked, almost whispering.

Fit froze. His pen stopped moving.

—“Just… an old patient. Don’t worry about it.”

—“And ‘the beast’?” —Missa pressed.

Fit looked up; his expression was hard to read.

—“Rumors. Stories to pass the time. Don’t pay them any mind.”

But there was something too careful in his voice. Too measured. Like he was afraid of waking something up just by saying the wrong word.

Lunch came without appetite. Missa barely ate, pushing food around his tray. Every sound felt too sharp: the clatter of cutlery, the trays, the scattered voices. Everything scraped against his nerves. He realized his fists were clenched tight on the table.

Why couldn’t he stop thinking about it?

The beast. The king. The crow.

Words that made no sense—and yet, they sent a shiver down his spine.

There was something there. Something he almost remembered…

After lunch, the hallway returned to its usual fake calm. The routine went on: some went to appointments, others to the common area, others just disappeared for a while. Fit had told him to rest, that there’d be another short meeting later, but Missa couldn’t sit still.

He went back to his room and pulled out his notebook. The pages were filled with scribbles, sentences he barely remembered writing.

Don’t forget. Don’t forget. Don’t forget.

The phrase repeated over and over, like he’d written it in a trance.

His hands started shaking. He tried to remember what he wasn’t supposed to forget—a face, a melody, something. But all that came was noise. A hollow buzz pressing against his skull, too heavy to think through.

—“Come on, think,” he whispered to himself. “Something… something I have to remember…”

He grabbed the pencil and began to write without thinking, as if his body were moving on its own:

“Words slip away. They don’t want to stay. Notes run from my fingers.”

He stared at the sentence. He didn’t understand it, but reading it made his chest ache—sharp, like nostalgia.

Why did something he didn’t even remember hurt so much?

A knock on the door startled him. Fit peeked in.

—“You okay, Symphony?” —he asked, with that same gentle, practiced tone.

Missa nodded, though his breathing was uneven.

—“Just… writing.”

—“Can I see?”

—“No.” —It came out harsher than he meant. Fit didn’t push.

—“Alright. Four o’clock’s break time, but if you want to go out earlier, the garden’s open.” —He paused a moment before leaving.— “Oh, and… don’t listen to everything Roier says. He likes messing with the new ones.”

Missa tried to smile, but it barely reached his lips. When Fit left, he looked down at the notebook again. “The voices that don’t stop.” He’d written that too, in the bottom corner of the page, with no memory of when.

He decided to go out. The air smelled of wet earth; it was barely raining. In the garden, Jaiden sat under a tree, singing softly.

—“You again?” —he said, trying to sound casual.

—“Miku told me to come,” she answered without looking up.

—“And she sings too?”

—“Of course. She always sings when there’s noise in my head. That way the others shut up.”

That line froze him. , Did she hear them too? Or was she talking about something else?

Jaiden turned toward him, her smile faint and sad.

—“Sometimes I think Miku is just my own voice, you know? But if she were, then why does she sing better than me?”

Missa didn’t know what to say. That same hollow longing stirred in his chest again, aching to take shape—but it couldn’t.

By nightfall, the rain had grown stronger. The halls smelled of bleach and metal. Everyone had gone back to their rooms earlier than usual—maybe because of the storm, maybe because no one could stand the sound of the wind hitting the windows.

Missa lay down but couldn’t sleep. He closed his eyes, but his mind wouldn’t quiet down.

The voices that don’t stop.

They were his own thoughts, repeating and twisting until they blended with others he didn’t recognize. A melody slipped between them—one he didn’t remember hearing, yet somehow knew was his.

Sleep hit him all at once.

He was standing on an empty stage, surrounded by dead lights. A microphone stood in front of him, but no sound came out of his mouth. He tried to sing, scream, anything, but air refused to come. The shadows of the audience were faceless figures watching in silence.

Among them, something moved.

Not a person—not exactly. A dark silhouette, barely outlined by the trembling stage light. Something fell from its shoulders—feathers, maybe—black and soft, floating slowly until they disappeared into nothing.

Missa tried to focus, but every time he did, the shape changed: first a man, then a bird, then a shadow larger than the stage itself.

The lights flickered.

The faceless audience began to shift, whispering among themselves—a murmur growing louder and louder until it became unbearable.

And then, someone—or something—looked back at him.

It had no eyes, yet Missa felt it could see everything.

The floor cracked open.

He woke with a strangled gasp, drenched in sweat. Outside, the storm was still roaring.

His notebook was open on his chest.

On the page, written in his shaky handwriting, there was only one line:

“Some songs aren’t meant to be remembered.”