Mizue had been trying for over an hour.
She’d tried asking the girl simple questions. She’d tried elaborate gestures and pictures, drawn midair with mana. She even attempted an interpretive dance and snack offerings. Nothing.
The girl just sat there in the chair with her hands in her lap, blinking occasionally, breathing very slowly, like someone cosplaying as a person.
Orby, still trapped in a barrier at the side of the room, flopped dramatically against the walls every few seconds. Mizue stood beside it now, chin in hand, eyes narrowed.
With a flick of her fingers, the barrier began to shrink.
The orb let out a depressed wobble as the walls compressed inward. Slowly. Deliberately. Squish.
Orby was squeezed into a perfect sphere, surface trembling in offense. Then the barrier expanded again. And shrank. Again. And again.
Squish. Stretch. Squish. Stretch.
Mizue yawned, tapping her chin. “This is getting us nowhere.”
She turned and pointed her wand out the window.
“Time for Plan B.”
The sound came before the source.
Somewhere down the stone halls of Ebonvale, a distant scream pierced the quiet. It grew louder, more panicked—then more squeaky.
Seconds later, the heavy oak doors of Mizue’s office burst open as a young girl slid violently across the floor, her hands clawing at the smooth stone as a hand made of mana dragged her by her uniform.
“PLEASE STOP DOING THAT!”
Yura came to a stop at Mizue’s feet, sniffling, hair in disarray.
Mizue stretched her arms overhead and yawned. “I need you to teach her how to talk.”
Yura blinked through her disheveled bangs. “Teach her… how to talk?”
“Mhm. You’re going to use your thread magic to sync your vocal cords with hers. When you speak, she speaks. We’ll start with sounds, then simple words.”
Yura blinked. “That’s so gross. Ew. Ew. No. Not doing it.”
Mizue gave her a pointed look. “Yura.”
“Nope.”
“Yura~.”
“NO!”
“Yuuuura~.”
“FINE!”
Mizue dragged a board into the center of the room and scrawled glowing letters across it:
| AH |
| EE |
| MM |
| NO |
| YES |
Yura groaned, crouching beside Kyuu like she was defusing a bomb. She pulled fine, silver threads from her fingertips, guiding each one to her own throat, then hesitantly hovering the other ends near Kyuu’s.
“Sorrysorrysorrysorrysorrysorry,” Yura whispered as the threads snapped into place.
Kyuu didn’t react.
Yura took a breath.
“…Ah.”
Kyuu’s mouth opened. Her lips moved. Her voice came out—perfectly mimicking Yura’s tone.
“…Ah.”
Yura cringed.
She tried again.
“Ee.” “Ee.”
“Mm.” “Mm.”
Each sound made her shiver more.
Then:
“No.” “No.”
“Yes.” “Yes.”
Yura cut the threads abruptly and scrambled backward, pressing herself into the corner.
“I CAN’T DO THIS,” she cried. “I quit!”
Mizue sighed and conjured a construct—a semi-transparent floating textbook—which promptly bonked Yura on the head.
“Stop crying. You’re doing fine.”
“I AM NOT FINE.”
Eventually, Mizue pried her out of the corner. With gritted teeth and tears still threatening to fall, Yura reconnected the threads.
They continued.
“Brick.” “Brick.”
“Dumb.” “Dumb.”
“Cat.” “Cat.”
“Four.” “Four.”
“Head.” “Head.”
“Boy.” “Boy.”
Yura was still trembling.
After a long pause, she wiped at her face and mumbled, “What’s her name, anyway?”
Mizue, halfway through flipping the board around, paused.
“I have no idea,” she said casually. “We should name her.”
Yura glanced at the silent girl, then at the still-deflated orb.
“…That thing’s kinda cute,” she said softly. “Like a squishy stress ball.”
Mizue raised an eyebrow. “You’re naming the orb?”
“Yeah. Orby.”
Pause.
Orby wobbled in surprised approval.
“And her…” Yura hesitated. “Sphere… orb… Japanese for sphere is ‘kyuu’, right?”
Mizue smiled. “Kyuu it is.”
There was a moment of stillness.
Then—
WHAM!!
Orby launched itself full-speed into the barrier, creating a thunderous slap that echoed through the room.
Yura screamed and collapsed to the floor in a sobbing heap.
Mizue clapped her hands together. “Progress!”
.
