Disclaimer: I own nothing, this is purely a fanfic for enjoyment.
Cross-over from various games, books, anime, manga, and movies.
The familiar characters you see here belong to their respected authors and owners.
"Speech"
Time*
Arc 1: Mental Illness - Chapter 1
Touhou Fuhai.
That is the name I gave myself after discovering what it meant in a manga/anime. It was better than being called a sick freak no one wanted. Better than having no name at all.
I was abandoned at an orphanage and didn't receive a name until I was ten. That was also when I discovered anime, manga, novels, and video games—entire worlds that felt more real than my own. So I chose a name for myself. One that belonged to me.
Whoever finds this journal, understand this: I am mentally fine.
There is nothing wrong with me. I am completely normal in appearance, in every way that matters.
I just happen to have the ability to grant myself superpowers based on mental illnesses. And yes, it also happens that I deal with mental illness myself. That's all. Nothing strange about that.
I am normal. I swear. I only gave myself 3 mental illnesses as a trial run.
That's it.
I finish writing, close the small notebook, and slide it back into my briefcase.
I pull a small mirror from my briefcase and look at my face.
Messy, short dark hair still falls unevenly around my head, refusing to stay in place no matter how often I fix it. My eyes—vivid, icy blue—stand out far too much, sticking out like a sore thumb against everything else. They don't look natural. They never have.
My skin is pale, almost washed out, the result of not getting enough sunlight. Not that I try very hard to change that.
I stare for a moment longer than necessary, then lower the mirror.
Nothing has changed, which is good. Very good.
I put the small mirror away and reach back into my briefcase, pulling out a handgun. I eject the magazine and check the bullets inside, counting them by habit before sliding the magazine back into place.
Satisfied, I return the handgun to the briefcase and close it.
I tug my black leather jacket up slightly over the loose white shirt beneath it. A thin necklace rests against my chest, a small black skull hanging from it, swaying faintly with the movement.
I lift the briefcase from the ground. I pat down my dark pants out of habit, then tap my sturdy black boots once against the floor.
Turning around, I walk out from beneath the bridge and head up the hill, ignoring the people rushing past me in panic. Their footsteps are hurried, voices sharp and frantic, but none of it concerns me.
Soon, more shouting carries in from the distance. I pause, considering something far more important than whatever is happening out there.
I need food.
So, I enter a bakery on my left to grab something to snack on.
Only to find the place already ransacked.
Products are destroyed and scattered everywhere—on the floor, smeared across the counter, crushed beneath careless footsteps. Even the register has been emptied, the drawer left open and useless, bills gone.
There's nothing left worth eating.
Suddenly, I hear a deep growl behind me.
I step to my left, pivot on my heel, and strike with a high spinning kick.
My boot connects with the head of a badly wounded person. There's a dull, final impact as it gives way, and blood splashes across the front entrance of the bakery, painting the glass and floor in red.
The growling stops.
I raise an eyebrow and look out through the door.
More badly wounded people are slowly making their way toward me. More than half of them are missing large amounts of flesh, their movements stiff and uneven. Some are missing parts of their necks entirely, torn open as if someone bit straight through them.
They keep coming anyway.
Zombies…
I calmly set my briefcase down on the table beside me and open it, retrieving my handgun. I attach a suppressor, unhurried, then begin firing.
Each shot lands cleanly. Headshots only. They drop instantly, not a single bullet wasted.
When the magazine runs dry, I eject it and place the empty magazine back into the briefcase. I take out a fresh one and slide it into the handgun with a solid click.
I pause for a moment, then pull out two fully loaded magazines and slip them into my pockets for easy access.
I shut the briefcase and pick it up with my free hand before walking out of the bakery. There's no point in staying any longer.
"Help! Someone help me!"
A woman screams at the top of her lungs as she runs past, fleeing from a small group of 3 zombies slowly shuffling after her. She clutches her left arm tightly, blood pouring through her fingers and dripping onto the ground with every step.
She's losing strength fast.
The woman's eyes light up with relief when she sees me, and she rushes toward me. But the closer she gets, the more I notice what's already happening to her. Her movements stiffen, her expression slackens, and something empties behind her eyes.
By the time she's ten feet away, she's already fully turned.
So I shot her in the head.
Then I put down the other 3 behind her just as cleanly.
I let out a sigh, then turn back and walk into the bakery. I open my briefcase, eject the magazine, and reload it with fresh rounds one by one before sliding it back into the handgun.
Once that's done, I close the briefcase again and head back outside.
I wander aimlessly, searching for anywhere I might still be able to get something to eat. Most food places are already emptied out, and the rest are crawling with zombies—not worth the effort.
So instead, I head toward a nearby neighborhood. If I can't eat, I can at least find a decent house to sleep in for the night.
Anything is better than under a bridge again.
An hour later*
It takes a few tries, testing doorknobs at both the front and back, before I finally find an empty house. The place is a bit of a mess, like the people who lived here left in a hurry, abandoning most of their belongings where they stood.
Lucky for me, the fridge is still stocked with food.
At least I won't have to worry about that for now.
Once I've scouted the entire building, I lock the front door, the back door, and every window I can find—including the ones on the second floor—before doing anything else.
With that handled, I make myself a BLT. Simple, familiar, and easy to eat after going a full day without food. The first bite is divine, at least by my standards.
I eat slowly, savoring it. There's still plenty of food left in the house, enough to last me a while while I deal with today's sudden zombie outbreak.
I wipe my mouth, then clean the plate and put it back where I found it. After that, I head into the living room and set my briefcase down on the coffee table.
I open it, take out my journal, and begin writing down the new information I have gathered after leaving the bridge.
2. Anxiety Disorder — Power: Hypervigilant Foresight
Ability:
My mind constantly simulates threats. I gain short-term precognition of danger—ambushes, lies, sudden attacks, structural failures. In combat or tense situations, I react before things happen, as if I've already lived the moment once.
Passive Cost (Always On):
I can never fully relax.
Loud noises, crowds, or uncertainty cause constant mental strain.
Sleep is shallow; my mind never fully turns off.
Active Cost (When Using the Power):
Foresight floods my thoughts with branching worst-case scenarios.
My heart rate spikes, and my breathing turns erratic.
Overuse can cause panic paralysis—seeing too many futures and being unable to choose a single action.
Theme:
You survive because you're afraid.
But fear is never quiet.
I shut my journal and place it back into my briefcase. Standing up, I pick it up and head for the second floor, moving toward the balcony.
I stop there and wait, listening carefully.
The sounds of panicked screams and rage aren't too far away, but they're faint, barely audible at this distance.
Down below, I watch families hurrying home with arms full of grocery bags. Most of the men keep glancing at every corner, eyes tense, fear written plainly on their faces.
I step back inside and head downstairs, returning to the living room to resume writing in my journal.
3. Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder (OCD) — Power: Absolute Order
Ability:
I can impose perfect rules on reality within a limited space. Objects align. Patterns enforce themselves. Probabilities stabilize. Weapons strike only along precise paths. Lies become inconsistent, easier to spot. Chaos weakens in my presence.
Passive Cost (Always On):
I feel intense discomfort when things are asymmetrical, unfinished, or out of place.
Intrusive thoughts demand correction, even when it's unnecessary or harmful.
Ignoring compulsions causes mounting mental distress.
Active Cost (When Using the Power):
I must define strict rules to activate the ability.
If those rules are broken—even slightly—the power collapses violently.
Repeated use tightens my mental rigidity, making improvisation increasingly difficult.
Theme:
I hold reality together by force.
But it only works if everything is just right.
I flip through a few pages, skipping over the blank ones, until I reach the entry I wrote yesterday. I start a new section on the page and begin writing.
So far, I've found a way to somewhat manage the problem caused by my Anxiety Disorder. By setting a rule, I don't require my mind to fully shut down—as long as my body remains at rest for 8 uninterrupted hours, it's enough to approximate a normal, full night's sleep without any major negative effects.
It's not perfect. But it works well enough.
In addition, I've limited the use of foresight to only a couple of seconds. It's enough to expand my window of choices without letting my mind spiral too far ahead. Pushing beyond that risks exposing me to worst-case scenarios stretching too far into the future, leaving me defenseless from overuse.
That's how panic paralysis happens.
I still haven't found a fitting rule to work around this particular weakness.
I pause my writing, thinking for a moment. Then I flip back to the very first page and finally write down something I've been putting off for a while.
1. Depression — Power: Gravity of Stillness
Ability:
I can impose emotional and physical gravity on an area or a target. Movements slow. Attacks lose momentum. Emotions dull. Enemies feel heavy, like the world itself is pressing down on them. At its strongest, I can pin someone in place by overwhelming them with apathy and exhaustion.
Passive Cost (Always On):
My own emotions are muted.
Joy, excitement, and motivation are harder to feel and fade quickly.
I recover stamina and morale more slowly than others.
Active Cost (When Using the Power):
Each use deepens my lethargy.
After heavy use, I may be unable to move or act for minutes or hours.
Prolonged overuse can cause me to emotionally shut down entirely for a day or more.
Theme:
I weaponize the weight I already carry.
But it gets heavier every time.
"That took way longer than it needed to." I mutter it in the dullest voice I can manage as I close my journal and put it back into the briefcase. At least it's done. I've finished documenting how the three mental illnesses have influenced me—both the powers they grant and the costs they demand in return, the passive cost and the active cost.