A red heart that tastes like strawberry jam brings a bright flash of memory - warm sand underneath your toes, the glint of sunlight reflecting off the water a short distance away, the firm grip of another, larger hand around yours. You look up at the smiling woman at your side and find yourself smiling back at her.
She speaks to you in Japanese, asking what you want to do first, search for shells or wade into the water or construct a castle made of sand. Your reply also comes in Japanese, and you say it doesn't matter to you; you like all of those offered activities equally well, as long as she's there with you. She nods, and suggests finding shells first, so you can decorate the castle with them, and you say that's fine, that makes perfect logical sense, and she laughs, high and tinkly, because it's such an oddly wise answer for a child so young.
You like when she laughs, though; it's a beautiful sound. You smile up at her again, and you think, as you see her name written in kanji and a string of numbers hanging over her head, that you're glad she still has a long life ahead of her, with you.
Another boy of about thirteen stands next to you, plucking nervously at the hem of his sleeve as he asks the question of the older man sat across the large wooden desk from the both of you. You've both been summoned to this office (an uncommon room with large windows and an impressive library of leather-bound volumes along the walls) without explanation, and that simply isn't done unless it's about something important. You feel the uptick of your heart rate but keep your expression fixed in an unreadable mask - it won't do any good to let on how nervous you are, like A clearly is. You watch him out of the corner of your eye and you see that he wears the same blank expression that you know rests on your own face, but - he's given it away in that fidgeting habit, pulling on the end of his shirt. You're doing better than him at this, at least.
The grey-haired man on the other side of the desk - Roger Ruvie is his name, you know this, even if his face is mostly hidden behind folded hands at the moment - takes another moment of silence before answering the question the other boy has posed. "Alternate," he says, finally, "and Backup - you've performed well on your last exams." The thumping of your heart slows a small increment as you wait to hear the rest of what Roger has to say. "We've decided that it's time for you both to take on additional projects."
You know exactly who he means when he says we - he means L - and even though relief balloons up in your chest, you don't smile. You don't react at all, except to open your mouth and ask, calmly, "What sort of additional projects?" Roger unfolds his hands and drops them to the surface of the desk, sliding a plain manila file folder toward you and the other boy.
"We'd like you to investigate this case," he replies, as if it's the most natural thing in the world, as if you haven't just been given a tremendous gift for which you feel overwhelmingly compelled to blurt out thank you - but you don't. This is an honor - proof positive that the two of you are at the top of the rankings, are better than all the other children, are winning.
"Please have a preliminary report in forty-eight hours," Roger says, then turns his attention to straightening a few of the nearby objects on his desk, a silent dismissal. You start toward the desk, but the other boy beats you there by a shaky lurch, snatching up the file just before you reach it. That's how things usually go; A performs better than you by just a hair, but you feel like you're still winning the long race, because it's clear for anyone to see that he's unstable, and it's only a matter of time before he makes a mistake so great it will be impossible for him to recover.
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recinerate) wrote2016-02-13 05:29 pm
sayonara, beyond birthday.
mother stands for comfort.
She speaks to you in Japanese, asking what you want to do first, search for shells or wade into the water or construct a castle made of sand. Your reply also comes in Japanese, and you say it doesn't matter to you; you like all of those offered activities equally well, as long as she's there with you. She nods, and suggests finding shells first, so you can decorate the castle with them, and you say that's fine, that makes perfect logical sense, and she laughs, high and tinkly, because it's such an oddly wise answer for a child so young.
You like when she laughs, though; it's a beautiful sound. You smile up at her again, and you think, as you see her name written in kanji and a string of numbers hanging over her head, that you're glad she still has a long life ahead of her, with you.
if it looks like winning, you haven't been.
Another boy of about thirteen stands next to you, plucking nervously at the hem of his sleeve as he asks the question of the older man sat across the large wooden desk from the both of you. You've both been summoned to this office (an uncommon room with large windows and an impressive library of leather-bound volumes along the walls) without explanation, and that simply isn't done unless it's about something important. You feel the uptick of your heart rate but keep your expression fixed in an unreadable mask - it won't do any good to let on how nervous you are, like A clearly is. You watch him out of the corner of your eye and you see that he wears the same blank expression that you know rests on your own face, but - he's given it away in that fidgeting habit, pulling on the end of his shirt. You're doing better than him at this, at least.
The grey-haired man on the other side of the desk - Roger Ruvie is his name, you know this, even if his face is mostly hidden behind folded hands at the moment - takes another moment of silence before answering the question the other boy has posed. "Alternate," he says, finally, "and Backup - you've performed well on your last exams." The thumping of your heart slows a small increment as you wait to hear the rest of what Roger has to say. "We've decided that it's time for you both to take on additional projects."
You know exactly who he means when he says we - he means L - and even though relief balloons up in your chest, you don't smile. You don't react at all, except to open your mouth and ask, calmly, "What sort of additional projects?" Roger unfolds his hands and drops them to the surface of the desk, sliding a plain manila file folder toward you and the other boy.
"We'd like you to investigate this case," he replies, as if it's the most natural thing in the world, as if you haven't just been given a tremendous gift for which you feel overwhelmingly compelled to blurt out thank you - but you don't. This is an honor - proof positive that the two of you are at the top of the rankings, are better than all the other children, are winning.
"Please have a preliminary report in forty-eight hours," Roger says, then turns his attention to straightening a few of the nearby objects on his desk, a silent dismissal. You start toward the desk, but the other boy beats you there by a shaky lurch, snatching up the file just before you reach it. That's how things usually go; A performs better than you by just a hair, but you feel like you're still winning the long race, because it's clear for anyone to see that he's unstable, and it's only a matter of time before he makes a mistake so great it will be impossible for him to recover.
You can wait.