Peter Pan - 11
With a loud thud, the petite blonde girl tumbled to the floor. She hadn't hit the ground directly, but the shock of the fall slammed into her through the chair. She writhed a few more times, but with her hands and feet bound tightly to the chair, there was nothing she could do. In the end, she lay there on the floor, staring blankly at the unfamiliar ceiling.
If only she hadn't struggled from the start to free her skirt caught in the chair, she wouldn't have ended up hurting herself. It might have felt a bit sticky and annoying, but it would have been better than lying in this awkward position, still tied to the damn thing. She should have just savored the brief moment of rest that had been granted to her—instead, her pointless flailing had only added more bruises to her body. Once again, she hadn't been able to simply accept what was given to her.
From a very young age, she had decided to become a voice actress. The trigger was nothing special. It started when, as a kid watching children's anime, her voice happened to match a character's, and her friends praised her for mimicking the lines. As silly as that origin story sounded, acting was pure ecstasy for Mikoto. She never got tired of repeating the same lines dozens or hundreds of times. Even drilling boring, tedious sentences to perfect her pronunciation was fun for her.
Mikoto pushed herself to the limits of her stamina, over and over. Her cute looks and huge breasts helped shape her characters, sure—but the real root of it went deeper. No one invested as much time and passion as she did. She worked harder than anyone. Her mouth never had a chance to dry out, and the scripts she received wore out so fast she had to photocopy multiples. Her efforts rewarded her honestly. She earned good money and gained popularity, but what truly made Mikoto happy wasn't that—it was the act of performing itself.
To her, the world was simple and kind. Give your all to what you love, and you'd get rewards proportional to your effort. That obvious truth shattered in an instant with the war.
Mikoto knew nothing about the war's causes, who started it, or who won. Endless war news flooded TV and the internet, but whenever she saw real guns or soldiers, fear made her change the channel. Without warning or reason, her life crumbled.
In a time when the nation needed unity, "frivolous" anime like hers vanished from the airwaves. Voice actors and production staff— all the men—were drafted piecemeal. She never saw them again. The fans who cheered her at meet-and-greets, the directors who called her a genius, her male colleagues—they all disappeared in a flash. The life she had built with effort and passion, her entire world, vanished just like that.
The creaky door swung open with a nauseating screech. Mikoto strained to turn her eyes and see who had come. In shabby clothes like that, she'd have walked right past the woman on the street without a second thought. But here, in this rundown abandoned warehouse, with a rifle slung over her shoulder, the woman demanded attention.
"Lying down your style? Want me to throw in a mattress too?"
"I'd be grateful if you did, but I still couldn't talk. Can't spill what I don't know, right?"
"Cut the bullshit!"
The armed woman kicked Mikoto hard in the stomach. The impact crushed her gut, choking off her breath. She couldn't even scream—her survival instincts just screamed at her lungs to keep going.
"Guh... hngh..."
"Hurts, huh? It hurts, doesn't it? Beg for help! Beg your master to save you!"
"Ngh... idiot... isn't that right? I... I ran away from my master, remember? Even cursed him to drop dead before I left. You think he'd pay ransom for me now?"
"I'll decide that—you just give me his fucking phone number!"
"Kyaa! It hurts! Stop!"
The woman stomped roughly on Mikoto's chest. The pain felt like her flesh was ripping apart, forcing her to plead for mercy.
"Don't give me that crap. Your master trusted you enough to let you come to Japan alone, but you're saying he didn't even give you his number?"
"The number... it's in the phone he gave me, and I tossed that when I made up my mind to leave. We lived together all the time, so there was no need to call..."
"Ha, what a piece of trash. Not that I can talk... but you still betrayed him, didn't you?"
Mikoto bit her lip. She had no comeback for the armed woman's accusations. The beating continued. The woman stomped on her head, punched her face. Fresh blood smeared over the dried crusts around her mouth and nose. Maybe it was her voice actress lungs holding out, but Mikoto screamed with every hit, enduring the pummeling for what felt like ages. The attacker started off thrilled by the reactions, but after a few dozen minutes, she was exhausted and pissed, just like yesterday.
"I'll be back! Remember it by then, somehow! What, on bad terms with your master? Then bring him your head—that should cover whatever anger he's got!"
The armed woman slammed the rickety door shut and stormed out of the barren room. Mikoto still lay there, collapsed and bound to the chair. No one came to help her up. Once more, she realized she had no chances left.
The war cost Mikoto her job, but when it ended, she got her voice acting gigs back. The equipment was cruder than before, the workflow a mess of shortcuts, but she was grateful just to hold a mic and record again.
Starting over like that, one person caught her eye: the president of an animation studio, in his mid-thirties. Young for a boss, but his obsession with anime was genuine. He nitpicked every frame for perfection, refused to tolerate soulless lines no matter how minor. Mikoto once spent four hours debating a single line with him—recording, playback, re-performing, over and over. Afterward, they recognized each other. President Nemu and Mikoto clicked instantly; her roles were secured. She joined project after project, earning acclaim each time. She couldn't match her pre-war wealth, but she lived comfortably.
Then society changed, cracking their bond like a lie. Popular voice actresses often got picked as slaves by men with those tastes. Nemu's studio made the highest-quality, most popular anime, boosting voice actors' fame—but also making them quit. Those girls weren't as devoted to anime as Nemu or Mikoto; they were struggling financially too. Better to be directly chosen by a master as a regular slave than sold off after grueling work. They abandoned their roles for a man's embrace.
Nemu couldn't stand it. Voices changing between episode two and three drove her mad. Redubbing with new talent couldn't erase what fans remembered. So she chose an extreme measure: a massive dildo from an adult shop to personally tear every voice actress's hymen. Resistance was fierce, but Nemu's authority was absolute. No one agreed at first, but those facing starvation caved. Excluding a tiny few with lovers, Nemu ruptured dozens herself. No erotic vibe—just pain and loss. Some joked it was a "circumcision."
One held out to the end. Nemu figured she was just scared of the pain or forgot her turn. After all, only Mikoto truly shared her insane "anime above all" values. So when Mikoto refused, Nemu flew into a rage like no other. She coaxed that it wouldn't hurt, threatened that she couldn't be the exception. Desperate, Nemu demanded her reason—and lost it.
"I want to give my first time to someone I love." Mikoto's modest wish felt like colossal betrayal to Nemu. Even Mikoto, who she'd thought purely devoted to anime, secretly craved an easy life with a good man. Consumed by that, Nemu expelled her. Using every connection, she blocked Mikoto from other roles. Whenever guilt crept in, Nemu doubled down: "She'll ditch this industry for a man anyway." In the end, Mikoto faced life without voice acting for the first time.