Chapter Text
You’re not supposed to look at your own face like this.
… At least, that’s what Kaname Date thinks.
It’s not just the weird empty eye socket, though that doesn’t help. There’s something unsettling about his reflection. Like he’s trying to catch himself in the act of being someone else. Or like he’s worried someone else will — he can’t decide which point of view worries him more.
Feels like it was only last week he stumbled into Golden Yokocho for the first time — half-awake, half-born, and somehow still expected to walk like a man. Boss picked him up not long after. Then ABIS, then Pewter... and the rest fell into place like a file auto-filled for him.
But something small reminds him it’s been over a year now. A very specific little something.
Perched on his head, all squish and cybernetics, is a tiny jelly-like creature with one big golden eye. His partner for five months now. Sometimes she twitches when she rests. He’s seen her doing that once or twice, now, and he wonders if she dreams when she charges or goes into power-save. Being an AI must be crazy — hell, just having an AI is crazy. It's not like he totally knows how the whole arrangement is just yet, but it doesn't feel wrong. She fits there. Neatly. Like she was always meant to.
She’s filled a void in him. Literally. What that void was , though… he still doesn’t know. He just knows he’s been feeling a lot better with her around. His first year of being ‘awake’ was full of depressive slumps and mood swings, things he just doesn’t get the reason for. Was a friend really all he needed…? No way.
He’s been staring at the bathroom mirror too long. Still and unblinking, until —
Date. Her voice comes, concerned but even. Is everything alright?
He blinks — once, then again, instinctively trying to use both eyes before remembering. Socket. Right. Still not used to that. The phantom blink always comes first. Her calling him that — “Date” — still catches him off guard. Not because he dislikes it. It’s just… it doesn’t sit right , somehow. Like slipping into someone else’s shoes. Comfortable enough, but a half-size off. Boss didn’t name him like a stray dog, he knows that. But still, it feels like a placeholder. A tag pinned to a mannequin’s lapel. Does that make sense? He doesn’t dwell on it long.
“Yeah,” he mutters, nodding slowly. Careful, so he doesn’t jostle her off-balance. “I’m good.”
Your cortisol levels are slightly elevated, she replies, tilting her head with the usual rodent-like twitch. Are you certain all is well?
His lips press into a flat line.
The mirror’s pristine — he just cleaned it last week. Bleach, microfiber, everything good. But there’s still a thin, branching crack running from the center, spreading out like ice. He doesn’t look directly at it, but it’s all he sees. He remembers the night it happened. Before Aiba. Restless. Couldn't sleep. Tried walking it off, tried some tea, tried cooking, reading — nothing worked. And then, without warning, he lashed out. Fist, mirror, silence. He didn’t even feel it until the blood hit the sink.
It hadn’t happened again after. He hadn’t wanted it to happen in the first place. Not really. And yet…
Maybe he did. Or maybe someone else inside him did. Before everything. Before a year and five months ago.
“…Actually,” he says finally, still watching his fractured reflection. “Something’s been bothering me.”
There’s a beat. What might that be? Her tone doesn’t shift. No judgment, just a listening ear — even if she doesn’t have any. Well, she does, but…
He meets her eye in the glass, hesitant. “I think I used to… hurt… myself.” The words land soft, but heavy. Thicker than he meant. Like saying them aloud made them more real than he wanted. Aiba doesn’t respond right away. Her form, reflected in the bathroom mirror, moves — a hand [a paw?] rises to her face, contemplative.
I see… she says at last. What makes you think so? If I may ask…
And she means it. He knows she does. She’s never pried. Never pushed. But now that he’s cracked the mirror a second time — this time, with words — she’s inviting him to walk through it. Does she already know he cracked it? She probably does. He exhales slowly. Almost shaky. One hand grazes the sink edge. The other stays loose by his side.
“I don’t know. It’s like I keep finding… pieces. Feelings I can’t place. Weird times when I feel like I should be in pain, or that I miss it, even. Dreams like that, too. But I don’t remember why. I just think something used to be wrong. Or maybe it still is…?”
Aiba’s expression doesn’t change, Date’s not even sure that it can — either way, she doesn’t say anything right away.
Is this suspicion solely based on mental factors? Aiba asks, tilting her head slightly. She’s still perched on his head, still light, still steady — but her question isn’t so sure. Date feels the weight of it. No going back now. If she decides to flag this, to petition Boss, to send him somewhere padded and quiet… then so be it. Might do him some good.
He exhales through his nose. “No. There’s something else, too.” His eye drops, shoulders sagging just slightly. He doesn’t want to look at himself anymore — cracked mirror or not. Instead, his gaze lowers toward the bathroom tile as one hand gestures vaguely near his hip.
“I noticed it after a while. I’ve got these… little scars. Right on my hip. They’re faint — so faint I didn’t even clock ’em the first couple times I was… y’know, getting dressed. Naked. Whatever.”
He waits for Aiba’s reaction — and gets a small, serious nod. [As serious as a thing like her can look, anyways.] Some encouragement to continue with his confession.
“They’re small. White. Kinda… shiny in the light. Clustered, too. The biggest one’s maybe three inches — a little raised, like it healed weird, or just took longer, I think. They’re just… odd. I don’t remember doing that to myself, but there’s no way they’re from some dumb accident. You’d remember something like that. Sounds like bullshit coming from Mr. I Can’t Remember Anything, yeah , but—”
His voice catches on the edge of something. Doubt? Or memory that almost comes, then slips back under. It’s a sensation he experiences far too often.
Hm. What you are describing does sound consistent with self-inflicted injury, the AI says carefully, but without specific data, I cannot be sure when they occurred. You could have had them since as early as twelve.
“… Twelve? ” Date blinks. “ That young?”
Perhaps. There is no way to be certain without a proper medical examination and corroborative memory, I am only offering an example. The scars could be two years old… six… even ten. Their precise origin is difficult for me to determine. They could be the result of emotional distress, psychological trauma, or—
“That… sounds bad,” Date interjects, face tightening. His eye narrows, mouth pulling into a tight, slanted frown. The words fall out quicker than he meant, a little sharper, too. “You really think so?”
Aiba doesn’t flinch at his change in tone. She stays calm, that clinical sort of calm, but softened, like she knows how fragile this moment is. Even being an AI.
Do not take it as a personal judgment. I am only working with the information available to me. Such matters require time, and more context, before they can be unraveled beyond surface-level analysis.
“Yeah, well,” Date mutters, brow creasing. “That still sounds bad.”
He shifts his weight. The crack in the mirror suddenly feels deeper, like it might stretch across the whole wall if he looks too long. “ ‘Unraveled.’ That makes it sound like there’s some crazy, dark reason I just haven’t figured out yet…”
It may not be ‘crazy,’ nor ‘dark,’ Aiba replies after a short pause. But there is a reason. Somewhere. That much, we can be confident in.
Date doesn’t speak right away. Just stands there, the mirror’s crack cutting his face into fractions. The soft rattle of the janky AC unit fills the silence.
“… If I used to be that kind of person,” he murmurs, “I don’t know what that makes me now. What if I’m still that kind of person? Or what if I fuck up, and it happens again?”
Aiba’s eye — just Aiba? — glows a little more brightly. Something she does to get Date’s attention. It works, and he focuses his gaze on her little body, still perched on those blonde locks.
You are only someone trying to understand, Date. That is all. Though I hope it does not happen in the future… I am certain a relapse would only be human nature. Do not work yourself up over it.
Date doesn’t respond. His eye returns to the mirror as a whole, landing on the crack — that spiderweb of damage, just off-center... For a second, he wonders if maybe that fracture was always there. That maybe he hadn’t caused it — only uncovered it.
Nah. No way. That doesn't make sense. Where'd the thought come from...?
“…I guess I just thought,” he starts, then stops. Reconsiders. He shifts his weight, the bathroom tile cold under his shoes. The reflection of his face doesn’t move much.
“…Never mind.”
Date… Aiba starts, her voice quieter now. But he lifts a hand and runs it through his hair, brushing the thought away. Picks her up on the back of his hand in the process. She squeaks a little, and for a moment, he feels guilty about scooping her up so roughly on such short notice.
“Forget it. It’s late. I promised Renju I’d go get some drinks with him at Marble- you know how he gets about getting stood up. Guy’s great, but he’s got a real stick up his ass sometimes…”
Aiba nods, staring at Date as he brings the hand carrying her to his face. Very well. Let us leave before it gets any later, then. I will drive.
Date lets her crawl back into his socket. He straightens his coat a little, fixes some stray pieces of hair, and gives himself one last look in the mirror. Off you go, Kaname Date.
He turns, shuts off the light, and walks out of the bathroom. Drinks will cheer him up for sure. If Renju doesn’t have something to distract him with, he knows Mama will.
That’s all Date needs right now, anyways.