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austennerdita2533 · 4 years

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A/N: Just a Literati trifle in celebration of GG’s 20th Anniversary Week. I still have another chapter or two to write but I wanted to get this out before the event officially ended. (Canon compliant + OS + divergences)

Also here: (AO3)

Enjoy!

xx Ashlee Bree

An Archive of Words Between Us

One day, many weeks into it but still no closer to clarity about what it is between them, Rory does what she does best: she makes a list.

Marked at the beginning, from when she and Jess first met, she soon starts to add to it with frightening regularity. A new entry comes any time there’s news, insight, questions, or growing confusion to report. She writes it all down. Out. She compiles everything in a beat-up old notebook she’s taken to carrying around.

Over the years that follow it becomes a confessional of sorts for her, a still developing story. She reaches for a pen whenever the mood strikes, and writes…then writes some more…

Committing to paper all the things they’ve said to each other over the course of their history, as well as many of the things they didn’t.

- i. things we said when we were strangers -

“Hey, Dodger, wait a minute,” she calls out before he disappears behind the gazebo. “Is this a gimmick of yours? Do you always write margin notes in the books you steal from strangers?”

Jess stops. Casts a cursory glance over his shoulder before turning back around with hands in his hoodie pocket.

“Depends, I guess.”

“On?”

“Does it matter?”

Rory shrugs.“You could be a literature-defacing miscreant on the lam for all I know. Your face might be tacked to Wanted posters all over New York City. I’ve got to edge my bets, protect my assets.”

“What,” he says, “you aiming to sentence me without a trial or something?”

“Thinking about it.”

“Wow. I can’t believe you’re going to bust out the cuffs already, Judge Judy,” he chuckles, raising his hands in supplication before rocking backwards on his heels like he’s been shot. “That’s not very neighborly.”

“Sounds like there’s evidence to be had if I dig a bit.” A pause. A teasing quirk of an eyebrow. “Is there?” she asks.

Though he stays silent at this, a spark of something catches deep in his dark eyes as their gazes meet, and Rory's stomach flips.

“Well?”

“You tell me,” he says, all smooth and inscrutable and James Dean cool as hell.

“I’m no Agent Scully at the FBI, but the truth is out there. Don’t think I won’t uncover it,” Rory replies, her wit flowing strong and sure. “If I think it’s warranted I could hire Kirk to lay chase for a while…he likes detecting. Takes payment in Skittles, too. Boxes of which I will have no trouble acquiring, I assure you.”

“Who the hell’s Kirk?”

“Let me worry about that,” she beams back at him coyly, bouncing the book he’d pilfered earlier against her hip.

“Save your Skittles, concerned citizen. I’m clean.”

“Oh, yeah? And why should I believe you when I hold proof to the contrary?”

“Because—” Ambling backwards in the middle of the street, a crooked smirk forms along the corner of Jess’s mouth as he gives her one last idle loll of his shoulder. “I only leave notes for people who might appreciate them. Start with the one on page three, by the way,” he adds with a farewell salute. “It’s a doozy.”

Curiosity piqued, Rory ignores the warmth in her chest as she watches him turn to leave a second time. Instead, she buries her nose in the margins of Howl and peruses. Losing herself in his tiny blocked script the whole walk home.

- ii. things we said because we were lying to ourselves -

Pacifying the town's fears about their friendship isn’t easy.

Especially not after Jess outbids her boyfriend at the basket-bidding festival to win an afternoon of her company. Or the night he shows up on her doorstep unannounced, bearing food and intellectual discussion after she swears to everybody else she wanted to spend the evening alone. Or when he wrecks her car on their way back from a spontaneous hunt for ice cream cones.

Then there’s the time she misses Lorelai’s graduation because she’s stuck on a bus next to some scruffy-looking creep who spits chew into a soda can while he mumbles the names of state capitals under his breath in an Appalachian-sounding litany, Rory having skipped town impulsively to visit Jess in the Big Apple after Luke had sent him packing because of an accident that had no real bearing or blame. At least not unless it was half hers to share in, too, in any case.

She expends a lot of energy defending what they are to people. Clarifying what they’re not.

Pretty soon a truncated version of the truth skips from her mouth like a message she’s spent months concocting, memorizing, and then recording, with her smart enough not to speak it aloud until it sounds convincing. And it does. She makes sure of it.

Tensions abate after that, for a time. Mostly because of the distance.

Mom and Dean, in particular, seem to breathe easier with so much of it stretched between them. They’re much happier once Jess is no longer there to lurk around Luke’s, or clog the aisles of Doose’s, or stake out chalkperson outlines on the sidewalks of town where he can draw her closer to him. Too close for comfort, as far as anyone else is concerned. Even if his only aim in doing so had been to imbibe her in intellectual conversation.

Rory finds it funny how his absence from Stars Hollow makes it both easier and harder for her to placate everyone’s misgivings. The words may be simple to say, but the meaning behind them feels deflated. Half-bodied at best.

Like calculus, it causes her headaches. Forces her to work twice as hard to make everyone believe she doesn’t care that he’s gone and likely never coming back again. That the vacant space he’s left behind doesn’t sting whenever her gaze passes over it, remembering.

Exhausting though it is, however, she does her best. She makes the effort.

She starts by dolling out extra attention and assurances to Dean about her commitment to him. To their relationship. Then she pivots around mention of Jess’s existence to her mom because she knows she doesn’t approve of him let alone agree about any of his good qualities. With Lane, she focuses on school and Mrs. Kim and music they can add to her floorboard collection. And in front of Luke, so as not to burden him with more disappointment, she acts as if nothing is different. Pretends that nothing much has changed.

Omission quickly becomes a habit for Rory. A way of life.

Only once does exposure threaten to spoil everything when her mom confronts her openly one afternoon about a placeholder that’s slipped out of her copy of For Whom The Bell Tolls.

“It’s nothing,” Rory says as she makes a quick grab for it in the kitchen and blushes.

“Really? Because nothing to me looks a hell of lot like a paper plate fragment. One that’s smudged in pizza grease and blue scribbles.” Laughing, completely unaware of her daughter’s wide-eyed discomfort and humiliation, Lorelai hands it back to her without inspecting it closely. “I’m surprised by your choice is all. Messy and makeshift isn’t your typical bookmark M.O., hun.”

“Yeah, well, that’s what happens when Paris accosts you at the break bell. You drop things. People jump, drinks spill. Beloved bookmarks go soaring…”

“Ah. I take it she was yelling in dog decibels again?”

“More like she put out an APB on all aliens living a few hundred million lightyears away and then gave them exact shouting coordinates for where to find her. So same difference, really.”

Her mom snorts. Passes over the ranch dressing.

“She’s a pill, that one. I’m telling you Pink wrote that song with her in mind.” Shaking her head, Lorelai closes the fridge behind her as she bites into another French fry. “So how’d you come by the plate?” she asks, her mouth full.

“It was spontaneous. I was running late so I nicked it from the cafeteria on my way out,” Rory lies, knowing full well Chilton never dispenses paper or plastic dishes for dining.

“Oh.” Her mom considers this. “Well, I suppose there were times even Madeleine Albright couldn’t find anything better to use in a pinch. That was very…replateful of you.”

“What can I say,” she exhales with relief, feigning amusement as her fib is accepted with alacrity, “the Forks was with me.”

“Only the Forks? Don’t tell me you’re leaving out the spoons and the knives. How could you?” says Lorelai, aghast, as she scoops stray kitchen utensils to press them against her chest in a bodily cuddle. “It’s cutlery discrimination!”

“No, it’s punning.”

“Says who?”

“Me.” A pause. A nibble of pizza. “Also, Shakespeare would agree.”

“Psssh, Shakespeare! That old killjoy,” her mom says dismissively, rolling her eyes in good humor as she tucks a box of strawberry Pop Tarts under her armpit and motions toward the living room. “What’s that you have written on the inside there, anyway? French? Calculus? Rolling Stone lyrics? A blueprint for the evil plan you’ve hatched to shoot Grandma to the moon? I’m dying to know.”

Waving her off, Rory tucks the shard back into the spine of her book where it belongs. Hiding it from view. “It’s for school,” she assures her as they settle onto the sofa.

“So tell me about it. I don’t care if it’s boring.”

“Pass.”

“Come on! I could use a good Chilton-instigated snooze.”

“Too bad. No beauty naps for you.”

Lorelai pouts, fake affronted. “Rude!”

(Turns out that ‘shard,’ that ‘thing for school’ which is stuck between the pages of Rory’s Hemingway, isn’t boring at all. In fact, it has a history. A story. The truth is it’s a souvenir she’s saved ever since she and Jess talked books over pizza at Antonioli’s on basket-bidding day.

Toward the end of the meal he’d ripped off a piece of plate so he could jot down his phone number and a quote. Only sliding it into her hand, folded in half, crinkled up like a note passed between desks at school, in the moments before they parted ways and headed home.

It’s stupid she’s kept it. She realizes that now. Stupider still to slip it between the pages of each new book she reads or unfurl it in the privacy of her bedroom to puzzle out if the line he’d included from A Moveable Feast is meant to have double meaning:

“We ate well and cheaply and drank well and cheaply and slept well and warm together and [liked] each other,” it reads.

Stupidest of all, she can’t seem to bring herself to stop looking at it. To throw the darn thing away. A note…a number…a greasy sliver of paper plate!)

“Like I said, Mom,” Rory swallows before smiling over at her convincingly, “it’s nothing. Really.”

- iii. things we said on the verge (of something) -

In early June, Sookie’s wedding day arrives.

Things are static again. Serene. Normal.

Granted, slight changes do sprinkle into the mix here and there because of her dad’s presence, because Dean holds her a little tighter around the waist now than he once did, but mostly it’s the same here as it’s always been. Pleasant people fade into gossip and nonsense while fun blurs into peculiarity.

Life feels simple once more. A tad plain and colorless, maybe, but simple.

Then Jess returns to town on a whim or a fluke or a who the devil knows what he’s thinking and everything goes sideways, pear-shaped, belly-up-and-down in seconds because this is the last thing she’d been been expecting and suddenly the only thing that registers is the length of the grass plus the number of steps it will take to close the distance between them. All that matters is he’s here, he’s back, he’s near enough to touch, and she’s smiling so hard she can hardly breathe as she drinks him in from head to foot like a glutton: her pulse leaping, her heart lurching free from the cage of her chest.

The whole world tilts. Collapses. The pale yellow of the sun shines down like a spotlight so it’s only a rippling alcove she sees. Just him, just her. Just them canopied beneath these flittering fronds of green.

Any rational thought Rory possesses scatters across the wind with the pollen. And then before she knows it, the ground tilts out like a ramp underfoot.

It pushes her forward. Outward. Sliding her toward him until she’s thrust and tangled in his arms with no memory at all of how she got there, or why their mouths feel so hot and wanton like this, so damn unsatisfied. It all seems impossible considering they’re still pressed together in a kiss that can only be described in one way: illicit.

“Not a word,” Rory pants when they stop and Jess pulls back, his jaw taut, his expression shuttered, to nod once understanding.

“Okay,” he says.

“Promise me.” The huskiness of her voice feels at odds with this demand, with the trembling fist she still has curled in the lapel of his jacket, but she cannot think about her stinging mouth or his tongue right now so she clings to desperation instead. “Can you do that?”

“Okay,” he repeats, all eyes, eyes, eyes. And with that single look, she forgets to breathe let alone digest anything he’s promised.

In the end, it’s an impulse that overtakes them not a decision. It’s a moment of clandestine passion they share, not a confession that will alter the circumstances any.

And yet it’s guilt, not regret, that begins to pull like an anchor in her belly until she’s running in shoes that chafe the back of her heels. It’s terror and confusion, not apology, that ripples along her nerve endings until she’s dashing through the trees like a coward or a swindler because she needs to believe behind her there’s still a haven of black and white she can cross with both feet.

Only when Rory stops does she feel the change. Does she discern the difference. It takes one sting, one breathless stitch in her side, for her to know she’s tumbled forward into color without noticing.

Looking down, and there it is. His name already singed across her chest in scarlet letters.

- iv. things we whispered on the hood of your car -

“Tell me something no else knows.”

“About what?” he asks around midnight the following April, the two of them sprawled on the hood of his car at a deserted rest stop off the I-95 on their way back from a concert in the city.

“You, silly.”

“Funny you’re thinking about penning my biography already, Churchill. I’m honored, truly, but aren’t I too young for that sort of enumeration?”

With a roll of her eyes plus a protracted har-har, Rory lifts their intertwined hands, watching, mesmerized, as their fingers thread then unthread as they lay side-by-side parked beneath the Big Dipper in this forsaken parking lot. Though they’ve been together about six months now, prying Jess open has been slow work. It’s like taking a crowbar to cement: one chip, one crack, one crumble at a time.

“Stop deflecting, Mariano,” she warns. “Evasion’s for chumps.”

“Fine,” he sighs. She presses a kiss of reward against his knuckles before curling tighter into his side. “How about this: every year roughly sixteen hundred people in New York City are bitten by other humans.”

“Bitten?”

“Yep.”

“Why?”

“That’s just it,” he says in his best horror story voice, “could be vampires, could be cranky commuters, could be urban mania or road rage…nobody knows.”

“Oh, please. As if I’d let you off the hook with that obvious dodge. You’re killin’ me here, Smalls!” Rory says with an elbow rib and tsk. “Second of all, you so made that biting thing up.”

When she edges her head back onto his shoulder to look at him, Jess drags his pointer finger down her forehead before bopping her affectionately on the nose, his expression neutral.

“Didn’t you?” He shrugs in that cute off-the-cuff way of his then smirks into her hairline. “That’s unbelievable!”

“It is what it is.”

“So, what,” she says as she throws her leg over his hip to lug him closer, her arm already stretched out across his middle, “is there a case of zombiepox going around that the CDC has neglected to inform us about? Because I’ve got to tell you if that’s so then I’ll need an inoculation ASAP, mister! Frazzled, bloodshot, and half-rotted is not a good look for me. It just isn’t.”

“Oh, I know.”

“Hey!” she exclaims.

“No offense, critter of Frankenstein,” he chuckles, absorbing her retaliatory swat with a grunt and rolling her further on top of him, “but I’ve seen you pre-coffee. It isn’t pretty. We’re talkin’ bolts out your neck, monster glares, frothing purple mouth and everything.”

“Yeah, yeah. Keep up your running tally and you might find I bite you next. Rory the Ripper does have a nice alliterative ring to it—you best remember that,” she warns all narrowed eyes and silky breath and arms folded under her chin.

Jess cocks his left eyebrow, brushes his thumb over her bottom lip. “Idle threats don’t scare me, Gilmore.”

“They should.”

“Maybe.” A lazy grin forms at the edges of his mouth. “But yours don’t.”

“Fine,” she blows out a breath. With her head resting in the center of his chest, Rory fixes him with one long steady look, her voice dropping an octave lower as it drains free of sarcasm to assume a more serious edge. “Name one thing that does then. That scares you, I mean,” she says.

He doesn’t answer right away. In fact, he fidgets so long beneath her that by the time he settles with his hands clasped behind his head, lost in thought and translation, peering up at the sky, she’s half convinced that silence or deflection is the best she can hope to expect from him in reply.

Reticence is a quality she’s come to recognize in Jess. It’s one she can reflect back at him in part because they’re both cut from the same quiet, introspective cloth. However, it’s also one that restricts her access to his thoughts and feelings when she most wants it, and that can take a toll. Makes her wonder if they’re parked at different weigh stations in this relationship or not.

It’s bizarre to reconcile how she can understand him so well in some contexts, to the point where she can predict his next reaction or sense a good joke hanging in the periphery that's about to descend; while in others, he’s a total head-scratcher. Like a Sudoku puzzle with numbers that don’t add up to anything.

The silence between them continues to stretch. It becomes an awkward, formless wall.

The stillness, too, which is illuminated only by the light of the moon and the faint din of the car radio, hangs between them until he draws her up his body and folds her over him with a green plaid blanket. His fingers tracing languid strokes up and down her spine.

“Swans,” he says at last, his tone subdued. Scratchy. “Swans scare me.”

“What else?”

“Tennis balls. They’re too small and fast as they zip past. I hate how they can leave imprints on your face like ugly yellow snitches.”

“Okay then. Weird but fair. What else?” Rory asks all warmth and eagerness, her eyes searching his for something he wouldn’t want to slip free.

“Pennywise.” Though she snickers at that, it’s a valid fear. Clowns unsettle her, too. Evil ones especially. She’d had nightmares for eight months after she’d read Stephen King’s It for the first time, and had taken to sleeping with the bedside lamp on for years.

“Anything more?” she asks.

“Cricket bats.”

“Ooh-ho!” Poking him, “So Mrs. Kim got to you, did she?”

“Listen, I tried to be cool and unaffected but who knows what would’ve become of my head if she’d taken a swing with that thing?” Jess shudders at the same time she imagines Humpty Dumpty and laughs. “Jeez.”

“Things would’ve gotten messy,” she adds honestly.

He stalls a moment, then blinks back at her all wariness to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. “How messy are we talking here?”

Rory cocks her head and bites the corner of her mouth, musing. “Think pumpkins.”

“Smashed ones?”

“Yep.”

“Figures,” he mutters miserably.

With an encouraging pat, “Don’t worry, I would’ve stepped in before Mrs. Kim buried your handsome yet indignant face beneath the floorboards or behind a brick wall in the catacombs with Fortunato. It’s the least I could do since I sort of like you and all.”

“Sort of?” Jess asks.

“Yeah. I’m no unreliable narrator girlfriend who'd escort you to your doom, you see. I’d much prefer to keep you,” she says with an adoring grasp and swivel of his chin, which he deflects by tickling her breathless as she bends down over him.

“Gee thanks, Casper. Nice to know you care about me.”

“Not about you exactly,” she teases, her flip-floppy giggles still piercing the air. “Just your head.”

That stops him. “My head, huh?”

“Sure.” Still a little breathless, she reaches toward him to fist her fingers through thick black tendrils along his nape. “It’s pretty.” She gives the strands a little tug. “Full of thoughts I’m hoping to pilfer for further study.”

“You know, I always thought there was some hoodlum in your DNA. Now I’m convinced,” he says as he leans over to commence the tickling again. “And you will pay."

The two of them continue to roll then thump against his windshield all elbows and knees until the levity starts to leaden and transform. As Jess reaches over to cup her cheek, their gazes meet in the silvery darkness and hold, kindling like flint.

Quiet washes over them again for a moment. Only this time, it’s bloated; it’s heavy. It’s a mess of a hundred thousand decipherable something’s teetering on the precipice of expression.

A flicker of alarm passes over his features as he frames her face with his hands, palms flat against the car. He hovers aloft, unsure. Indecision mixes with fear to tangle with retreat even as gravity beckons him nearer, his head dropping low enough for their foreheads to touch.

“I sort of like you, too, you know,” Jess breathes softly, his lips lowering to press against her mouth in a quick but lingering kiss. “A lot.” His jaw clenches. “Maybe too much.”

Suddenly there’s a tightrope pulled taut and vibrating in every direction because there’s no shrinking back from the dense electricity pulsating between them. There’s no more room to dance around unnamed emotion whenever it identifies itself in blown pupils, in a bobbing Adam’s apple, in hands that slip and slide until they fit together like aligning planets.

In that instant Rory knows. She knows right then and there she’s falling in love with him, that she’s half fallen already. And it’s both a revelation and a fact so natural she can feel the truth of it whistling from deep in her bones.

Looking nervous, vulnerable, more fragile than she’s ever seen him, he swallows hard then shifts to squint out at the shadowy tree line while scratching at his nape. “It’s just…so many people have treated me like garbage that all I know how to do is spoil things. I destroy, Rory—ruin what’s good. It’s what I do best. It’s all I know. I’m trying here and all, but I…don’t know how to do this,” he says, gesturing lamely between them. “How to do us right.”

“Hey now,” she thumbs his cheek, tries to turn his head back toward her but it won’t budge, and neither will he. “That’s my boyfriend you’re talking about. Go easy on him, will you?” He nods into her palm, softening a little. The tension leaves his body as he gathers her in his arms again, her head conforming to the crook of his neck, but she’s not convinced all is well yet.

“There’s no rulebook or anything,” Rory says placatingly. “We’ll figure it out together, okay? You and me.”

“Yeah.”

“We will,” she says with an emphatic, assuring squeeze. “I know we will.”

With a caustic laugh, a heavy sigh, he runs his teeth over his lip, “I’m a screw up, Rory.”

“Hey. Not true.”

“I am.” Jess sounds so resigned, so convinced, it ties her into knots thinking he sees himself that way.

“Not to me, you’re not.”

“No,” he says with a deadened inflection, with a sad downturn of his mouth. “Not to you.”

Frowning, she feels his cynicism, his self-deprecation, descend like a slash across the gut. Helpless to do anything but try to be a soft place for him and his insecurities to land, she pulls him toward her, embracing him, quieting him, caring for him more with each passing second even though a warning gong goes off in her heart when she leans in to steal another kiss.

“Maybe I’m not a screw up to you yet,” he whispers, “but I could be at another time. On another day.”

“Stop,” Rory declares forcefully, holding her finger against his lips so he knows she means it.

Jess relents. “Okay,” he sighs. “Just know I’ll get it if you change your mind.”

- v. things we cried out at a crossroads -

Strained.

Silent.

Distant.

Those are the best adjectives to describe the status of her and Jess’s relationship as the bus pulls away from the curb a couple weeks later. After the party from hell. From her place on the sidewalk, her chest full of a heaviness she can’t name, Rory stares after it - after him - with little to no regard for the hour’s lateness or for the morning bell which signals the start of homeroom.

It’s the middle of May. That means finals, graduation, and summer loom on the periphery but she doesn’t care. None of it resonates. In the background she can hear Paris barking orders at a few trembling freshman and minted sophomores, but she does nothing to intervene. She makes no move to prevent her frenemy’s yellow journalistic splatter from crushing the innocents to smithereens.

Instead, she watches the hum and bump of the vehicle’s dusty rubber wheels as they roll down the street. She tracks the plume of smoke swirling from the exhaust pipe into the sky, which clouds over with blacks and grays instead of with clearing blues and radiant yellows. She waits until the bus turns left, its engine loud, roaring, to putt around the corner. Disappearing from view.

I hope he calls later, she thinks with a pang, with an iota of hope. We need to talk soon.

Rory’s eyes want to keep traveling with him long after he’s gone. So do her feet. They seek to follow along wherever Jess has gone, to ride beside him until they’re able to make sense of this mess between them and fix it. Fix them again.

Unfortunately for them both, they don’t. And it’ll be some time before they can, let alone before they do.

#gilmore girls #gilmore girls fanfiction #literati #literati fanfiction #ggturns20 #gganniversaryweek #ashlee bree's writing endeavors #it needs editing #but hopefully it's not as awful as i'm imagining it to be #*bites knuckles and hides*

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mgares · 3 years

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HOW TO BUY A HOUSE - IN 3 EASY STEPS

There is a lot of confusion out there about how to become a Homeowner so I thought I would take a moment and put it into Average Joe speak. That, and in my experience, some people go about it totally backwards which is counter productive to the end goal.

STEP 1. - ASSESS YOUR FINANCES

This is fairly simple. Eliminate non-essentials from your spending budget and stick it in the piggy bank. Modify spending habits to generate savings. Make short-term lifestyle changes.

It's just temporary and if canceling monthly memberships (Netflix, Gyms, Any Subscriptions), adjusting your shopping habits [I got some great tips for this], or eliminating other non-essential spending allows you to keep more money in your pocket to get a home versus flushing rent dollars down the proverbial toilet? Bit of a no-brainer if you ask me.

Bottom line is you have to have money ready-to-hand for the transaction. Even with the "zero down" options like VA and some USDA loans; just to name a couple.

There are inspections, appraisals, escrow funds, repairs, home warranty policies, property taxes, closing costs, and other such considerations that must be paid in order to get a home of your own.

"Do Not Save What Is Left After Spending; Instead Spend What is Left After Saving" - Warren Buffett

Figure out what kind of a down payment your financial situation will allow for. The more, the better, but very few people I know got 20% of the purchase price [a.k.a. - conventional/bank loan] sitting around collecting dust. Good news is you don't necessarily have to have that much.

One of the most common loans is a FHA that only asks for 3-5% down AND there are down payment assistance programs out there if you are really Stuck Like Chuck when it comes to finances. NOTE: This does NOT mean they are going to give you ALL of your down payment; you gotta have some chips in that poker game too.

I like to recommend that people shoot for at least 6-8% of the purchase price of the "kind of home they want" just to make sure all the bases are covered - down payment AND cost(s) of the transaction. Folks, that's a lesser down payment than Owner Finance options for the same "kind of home" as Owners generally ask for 10-15% down.

This total can be a combination of self-savings, down payment assistance, assets that can be used as collateral against the loan, monetary or tangible gifts from friends/family members in some few cases, and more.

Each person is unique and different in how that 6-8% manifests and lenders can vary in what form(s) of down payment they will accept.

EXAMPLE:

Purchase Price: $150k

FHA Down Pymt (3-5%): $4,500 - $7,500

Other Cost(s): (3% +/-): $4,500

Total Savings Needed: $9,000 - $12,000

Kill some bills, sell your "junk" - we all got crap laying around the house we don't use worth money in various amounts - and modify spending habits in a positive manner.

If you are a two car family... can you get by with just one vehicle on a temporary basis [turn that car, and its bills, "into" a house]? Perhaps you have a skill set or piece of equipment that can earn you extra cash here and there on your terms? What changes to your lifestyle can you make that will put another dime or dollar into that kitty bucket?

Finally, do whatever it is you need to do to put those greenbacks into a savings method you can stick with. Whether that is a traditional banking institution or an old shoe box under the bed; you do you. If this means you have to ask someone in a position of trust to hold it so you don't spend it? Guess what you should consider doing?

STEP 2. - TALK TO LENDERS

Let's talk about the "When" of contacting a lender. The only true answer to "When" is... When You Are Ready and only you know how Ready you feel.

I've had clients express the sheer dread they felt about reaching out to a lender and it's an understandable fear. One of my people even said that they felt applying to lenders and having them see their credit condition was akin to stripping naked in front of a total stranger.

But, and as I told my client... think of it like going to the doctor for a full physical exam. Hospital gown over your birthday suit and all. Lenders are professionals there to do a job. They do NOT judge or speculate just because they have intimate knowledge of or about you.

If you suspect you may have some homework to do, credit wise, then it's better to contact a lender sooner rather than later. This allows you to get a game plan together and knock out credit related targets while you are saving funds for your down payment goal. Once completed, you are able to resume your application with confidence moving forward.

"Everything You Want Is On The Other Side of Fear" - Jack Canefield

However, if you are one of the few who feel their credit profile will be a "non-issue" then my suggestion becomes waiting to speak to lenders until you have most, if not all, of your down payment goal met.

When applying to a lender always ask if they perform a Soft or Hard inquiry against your credit report. Most of the lenders I know [and I will list two of my favorites for you here in a second] will execute a Soft Credit Inquiry to determine credit worthiness. This Soft Inquiry does not impact or affect your credit score - should such be a matter of concern to you.

Something else I've noticed is that people don't seem to understand shopping for lender is very much like shopping for an automobile. The overall requirements of any one particular lender (or dealership) can be totally different from a fellow lender's (or dealership's).

Just because one says "No" does not mean they will all will say "No". And even if the first lender tells you "Yes"... I would still encourage you to apply to more than one who does Soft Inquiries. Compare apples to oranges to find the best fit for your home purchasing needs by reviewing interest rates, terms of repayment, mutual rights and remedies, and so on and so forth.

Only after you have secured lender approval (which may be conditional based on various factors) and they have given you the green light to shop up to the amount of $X.00 do you move on to Step 3.

STEP 3 - FIND YOUR REALTOR

The vast majority of the population feels the path to homeownership is "finding the home and then buying it" - through a Real Estate agent. This is NOT the case.

Selecting an agent to help navigate you through the complexities of The Offer and Purchase process is the absolute LAST step to be taken.

What Happens When You Do It Backwards:

You shop for, and find, that PERFECT place and then reach out to an an agent or contact the website that is listing that property. The agent involved determines you haven't spoken with a lender and may now recommend one to get the process started.

Just to let you know... most of us agents are unable to do much of anything at this point without your having secured a lender first. There are some agents out there who are also qualified mortgage consultants but I, personally, haven't met one yet so I don't know how they work.

At this point the agent may also put you on an e-mailer list that scouts the MLS's and regularly sends you properties "matching" the ideal home that you originally asked about.

Why?

Because "that home may not still be there when you are in a position to buy". That's agent speak for... this is gonna take a bit of second and that property will most likely have sold by the time we get you lender approved.

I can't emphasize enough the fact that we agents don't "GET" you that house - the lender does that by providing the loan to pay for it. Us agents help you shop for a home and protect your best interests when buying it.

We deal with the butt-ton of technical paperwork coming/going from every which-a-way at all hours of the day, manage the contract negotiations, handle scheduling and execution of services by professional providers involved in the transaction, are your personal defacto counselor/moral support during the stress mess of buying, and more. None of which can be done until a lender gives us the green light to begin.

Well, most folks aren't mentally or emotionally prepared to reach out to said lender on the fly like this. Fears of "what that lender will see" or personal misgivings about "not qualifying" due to credit condition can halt the whole process at this point. Perhaps leaving you with negative emotions about the whole experience thus far.

But, for the sake of argument let's say you muster up the courage to reach out to a lender anyway. You'll discover that they are people too - most with a generous heart and helpful personality.

You might even discover that your credit was nowhere near as bad as you had built it up in your mind to be. Or, the lender may come back with a little homework for you. Take care of This and That and we'll be able to get you into a home.

The "whammy" of doing it in reverse order like this is that the lender will also share that you will need X thousands of dollars as a down payment to make that happen. Talk about a case of sticker shock!

Obviously, this can be discouraging and disheartening. To overcome one obstacle only run smack dab into another you weren't prepared to tackle? It may start to feel like you are looking up the side of a mountain, the goal of owning a home clearly in your line of sight, but you lack the climbing equipment (not to mention the funds to acquire such) to reach the summit.

It may feel like "that's it, game over" at this point. I know because I, too, approached home ownership azz-backwards like this before I became a Realtor. Felt like someone had ripped a bit of my soul away and left me frustrated and crying inside my heart and mind.

DON'T give up on yourself or your dream of home ownership. Back up, regroup, and attack that goal again. This time, in the correct sequence of events.

"You May Have To Fight A Battle More Than Once To Win It" - Margaret Thatcher

Do this and I promise you that there will be no better feeling in the world than those you experience at the closing table when you are finally handed the keys to your very own home.

Disclaimer: Opinion Editorial for educational and/or informational purposes. Content presented is deemed accurate and/or reliable at the time of authorship. Any errors or omissions present in material(s) are unintentional. You are encouraged to execute your own research.

#MGARES #VirtualPropertyRealty.com #homegoals #househunting #homebuying #realestate #realestateagent

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theliberaltony · 4 years

Link

via Politics – FiveThirtyEight

Democrats have a couple of weeks and a handful of public hearings to present their case for President Trump’s impeachment to the American people. And in the lead-up to this phase of the impeachment process, they’ve interviewed more than a dozen witnesses who have all shed light on various aspects of the Trump administration’s attempts to pressure Ukraine to investigate his potential political opponent, former Vice President Joe Biden, and Biden’s son Hunter. Some of those witnesses will appear in televised hearings this week.

Understanding each witness’ role in the story can be tricky, though, so one way to think about it is in three rough layers, with each set of witnesses addressing a different part of the narrative. In the first — let’s call it outer — layer, there is a chorus of diplomats and other officials who don’t necessarily have direct insight into the ins and outs of the Trump administration’s communications with Ukraine. They have recounted how Rudy Giuliani, the president’s personal lawyer, led an effort to circumvent official diplomatic channels and even undermine a career diplomat in an apparent effort to convince Ukrainian officials to investigate Trump’s political enemies. In the second layer, a smaller group of officials tried to raise the alarm about Giuliani’s pressure campaign by reporting misconduct and pushing back against Trump’s allies, only to be met with silence or resistance. And finally, a handful of witnesses — including the top diplomat in Ukraine, William Taylor, who is publicly testifying on Wednesday — have said they actually saw evidence of a quid pro quo where almost $400 million in military aid and a White House meeting between Trump and Ukrainian President Volodymyr Zelensky were contingent on the Ukrainians’ willingness to announce an investigation into Trump’s political rivals.

To be clear, only one witness at this point — European Union ambassador Gordon Sondland — has linked Trump directly to a quid pro quo. He’s scheduled to appear next week in what will likely be a very high-profile hearing. But as the public hearings kick off, we’ll start to see how Democrats are planning to take the mountain of evidence they’ve gathered so far and build it into a larger case against Trump. Taken together, the different layers of witness testimony reinforce and build on each other, to tell a story of how Trump and his allies worked to subvert and manipulate U.S. policy on Ukraine in service of the president’s political goals, over the protestations of career diplomats and senior White House officials. To say this could be very damaging to Trump is probably an understatement — but it will also be up to Democrats to connect these dots in a way that clearly implicates Trump.

Officials on the periphery saw Giuliani’s behavior as dangerous and “unprecedented”

Underlying much of the testimony made publicly available so far is a running theme: Career diplomats were worried about Trump’s attitude toward Ukraine, and Giuliani’s influence was widely seen as a threat to diplomatic efforts. An important thread in this story is the firing of former U.S. ambassador to Ukraine Marie Yovanovitch last spring, which multiple witnesses have portrayed as a disturbing example of the extent to which Trumpian politics had infected U.S. foreign policy toward Ukraine.

In transcripts released last week by House investigators, Yovanovitch, who is testifying publicly on Friday, spoke about how she was warned by a senior Ukrainian official that she was being targeted by Giuliani and his associates because of her anti-corruption work, which appeared to threaten Giuliani and his associates’ financial interests. She said that over time, it became clear to her that Giuliani was interested in investigations “with a view to finding things that could be possibly damaging to a presidential run,” adding that she saw Giuliani’s push for investigations into the Bidens as “unprecedented.” Meanwhile, former high-level State Department aide Michael McKinley, who resigned from the State Department last month, said in testimony also released last week that his decision to leave was prompted by his belief that Yovanovitch had been removed for political reasons and that the country’s foreign policy apparatus was being used to dig up political dirt on Trump’s rivals.

It might seem odd that one of the Democrats’ first witnesses is a person who was ousted from her position in Ukraine months before the now-infamous call in which Trump asked Zelensky to “do us a favor” and investigate the Bidens. But many other witnesses have confirmed that there was widespread concern about the circumstances of Yovanovitch’s removal, including some who are more peripheral to the action, such as a former Ukraine advisor on the National Security Council who said she received “multiple calls” from a Trump-aligned lobbyist pressing for Yovanovitch’s firing. This episode seems to have become a crucial part of Democrats’ broader case that Trump wasn’t acting with the country’s best interests in mind. Republicans may try to portray Yovanovitch as an ancillary character with a grudge against Trump, but Yovanovitch’s firing is still important stage-setting as Democrats try to paint Trump and Giuliani as eager to bend U.S. foreign policy for their own personal and political gain.

People who tried to raise the alarm were ignored or silenced

Other witnesses, including George Kent, a senior State Department official who will testify publicly on Wednesday, have told Democrats that they tried to raise the alarm about the pressure campaign they saw unfolding but their concerns were ignored, dismissed or even suppressed. This could turn into another important prong of attack for Democrats because it underscores how the push for investigations was opposed by the Trump administration’s own experts — but Trump’s allies kept moving forward anyway.

Kent, for instance, told investigators that acting White House chief of staff Mick Mulvaney had sidelined career diplomats and instead tasked Energy Secretary Rick Perry, E.U. Ambassador Sondland and special envoy for Ukraine Kurt Volker — who allegedly called themselves the “three amigos” — with overseeing Ukraine policy. At another point, after expressing worries about Giuliani’s contact with Ukraine, Kent said he was told to “lay low.”

Several other aides have told similar stories about their attempts to raise concerns. Testimony from Fiona Hill, Trump’s former top Russia advisor on the NSC, emphasized that misgivings about the “shadow foreign policy” led by Giuliani were widespread, even extending to former national security advisor John Bolton, who — according to Hill — called Giuliani a “hand grenade” and referred to Sondland’s efforts to pressure Ukrainian officials to investigate the Bidens as a “drug deal” in a July 10 meeting. Hill told House investigators that Bolton told her to report details of the meeting to NSC lawyer John Eisenberg, but it’s not clear what Eisenberg did after that.

Alexander Vindman, the NSC’s Ukraine expert, who along with Hill will also be testifying publicly next week, said he also reported the July 10 incident to Eisenberg and even confronted Sondland after the meeting, telling him that his behavior was “inappropriate.” After listening to the Trump-Zelensky call, Vindman took his concerns to Eisenberg once again — and was told not to tell anyone about the call. He also said he tried to fix omissions in the summary of the call, which was released by the Trump administration back in September, but not all of his corrections appeared in the public version.

Some of these details have been disputed by other witnesses. Sondland, for example, has said he doesn’t remember bringing up investigations at the July 10 meeting, adding, “I thought it was a great meeting and we all left happy.” Republicans could try to exploit that conflicting testimony if Vindman ends up testifying publicly. But overall, all of these accounts emphasize that when several senior officials tried to communicate their alarm about the investigations, their concerns were ignored by more powerful figures in the Trump administration.

Trump’s pressure on Ukraine was more than a “request”

Central to the impeachment inquiry is whether Trump withheld military aid and a much-discussed White House meeting in an effort to pressure the Ukrainians into publicly announcing a probe into the Bidens. The most direct evidence that there was an explicit connection between the aid, the meeting and the investigations comes from Sondland. But Sondland won’t be appearing until next week, so in this week’s hearings Democrats will be leaning on two other figures — Taylor and Kent — to lay out the evidence.

In his deposition, Taylor said that, based on his communications with Sondland and other White House officials, it was clear to him that the aid wouldn’t be released until Zelensky had publicly agreed to an investigation. In Taylor’s testimony, he also told investigators that he wasn’t alarmed by Giuliani’s involvement in Ukraine diplomacy until it became apparent that Giuliani had opened an “irregular channel” focused on advancing the president’s political and personal interests.

Kent, for his part, has also said he was briefed by Taylor on the conversation between Sondland and Trump. In his deposition last month, he told House investigators that Trump “wanted nothing less than President Zelensky to go to microphone and say investigations, Biden and Clinton.” NSC aide Tim Morrison, who’s on next week’s roster of witnesses as well, has testified that he also understood from Sondland that the funds would be released if Ukraine publicly committed to a probe of the Bidens. And another witness — Vindman — has said that after hearing the call with Zelensky “there was no doubt” in his mind that Trump was demanding the investigation of U.S. citizens.

What Democrats don’t appear to have at this point is a witness who can testify directly about why the White House withheld the aid. Sondland has only said that he “presumed” the funds were tied to an investigation. And the other witnesses didn’t speak with Trump himself about communications with Ukraine. But the testimony Democrats already gathered contains plenty of circumstantial evidence. What we have yet to see is how they’ll stitch those threads together, and how compelling their story will be for people tuning into the hearings.

One big question, too, will be how much the Democrats lose by not slowing down the investigation and trying to force other key players — like Perry, Bolton or Mulvaney — to testify. As I’ve written before, Democrats’ ambitious timetable makes it practically impossible for them to fight a battle over their subpoenas in court. They’re betting that the testimony they’ve obtained from willing witnesses will be enough to make the case for Trump’s impeachment. Soon enough, we’ll see whether that gamble pays off.

#IFTTT #Politics – FiveThirtyEight #politics #538 #Amelia Thomson-DeVeaux

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camdensedimenta · 5 years

Text

Culture Decanted?

By Karla Le Pond Antoinette

Hampstead Village Voice - SEPTEMBER 2019

At The Pond. Swimming at the Hampstead Ladies Pond. Contributors: Esther Freud. Deborah Moggach. Margaret Drabble. Jessica J.Lee et al Published in June 2019 by Daunt Books £9.99.

Daunt's anthology is mercifully free of the puff and pretension often poured upon our swimming ponds - usually known as The Highgate Ponds. (Phrases like “nihilistic velocity” by Hannah Jane Parkinson in The Guardian 2019, and “existential singularity” in 'The Ponds' film by Laser Guided Prods. 2019, are cases in point)

This is a delightfully easy and engrossing read judiciously peppered with poetry and erudition. The array of authors encompasses both century classic and nouveau vintages. Perhaps too much youth, say some regular swimmers who also questioned why Daunt Books only offered a £100 bookshop voucher instead of actual prize money for their competition to include an unpublished author. Other misgivings noted that none of the published writers amongst the pond’s swimming fanatics except Esther Freud and Jessica Lee were involved.

The solidarity forged and alliances expressed at the Ladies' are referenced only obliquely and with cool detachment. Yet so much politik-ing has been harnessed to keep the pond open and free these past forty years. But maybe that's another book.

For all women who visit, as well documented here, the Ladies' Pond is a rite of passage no matter what age one starts, even eighty! (Sadly, not for my Hampstead mother - she couldn't bear the cold.) But passage to what? The word 'magical' appears predictably frequently yet only rarely is an attendant cosmology or mythology even alluded to as in Sharlene Teo's piece 'Echolocation' with her observation of 'matrilineal kinship' amongst the swimmers or in So Mayer's 'swimming is a dip in ritual time' and with Nina Mingya Powles' declaration, 'I have reached a place that is a sacred part of many women's lives'.

Though there are telling tales of courtship and bisexual lust, abortion and pregnant lifeguards, body consciousness and its' discontents, addiction and of course gossip, any anthology is notable not only for what it includes but excludes. One such omission, an obscure short story called 'The Pond' by Jill Cheung in Quim magazine (Issue 4, 1992, London, published by Belliveau & Moorcock) with its' jaw-droppingly explicit lesbian sex would, in truth, somewhat jar with the other material which mainly luxuriates in English loveliness.

Thanks to Google Maps and the infuriatingly incessant, non-permitted Instagramming, our pond is no longer the hidden bucolic idyll it once was. Women's space is necessarily sacred and as such should remain secluded. Let's hope this book, albeit an absorbing and beautiful addition to the swimming prose oeuvre, is the last of any such publicity for a generation.

Anyway, the best stories are told quietly by mischievous lifeguards on a cold wintry day when hardly anyone's about.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

The Kenwood Ladies’ Pond Association's forty year archive will be deposited with The Bishopsgate Institute in London later in 2019. Includes letters from Glenda Jackson, Roger Deakin, Jeremy Corbyn, & Diane Abbot. Open to all.

#hampstead heath #hampstead #highgate ladies pond #hampstead womens pond #jeremy corbyn #diane abbot #glenda jackson #camden #london #daunt books #at the ponds #daunt bookshop

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deborahdeshoftim5779 · 5 years

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Refuting Haaretz’s Publisher: Part I

The following is my response to Haaretz’s publisher, Amos Schocken, who sent an email celebrating 100 years of circulation.

Whilst I am pleased to hear another Israeli success story, I personally have many misgivings and fundamental disagreements with Haaretz’s editorial line and politics. Nonetheless, it’s crucial to read from several perspectives and the vibrancy of Israel’s free press should never be taken for granted.

However, the allegations that Amos makes against his home country have annoyed me, a Briton, to the point that I must respond.

One hundred years ago, on June 18th, 1919, the first issue of Haaretz was published in Jerusalem.

Where else?

Schocken might well have noted also, that in 1919, there was no “East Jerusalem”, nor any demand to make “East Jerusalem” the capital of a Palestinian State. Jerusalem was, back then, a whole and undivided city with Jewish residents firmly in the majority once again since the 1860′s.

It was the first Hebrew newspaper in British Mandate Palestine.

For non-Hebrew speakers, “Haaretz” means “The land”. This is important, given what Schocken will claim next.

Again, it’s worth noting that this statement disproves Palestinian claims about having a nation stretching back to Roman times or beforehand. For it was the Jews who had increased their historic presence here at the turn of the 20th century, eager to revitalise the Hebrew language and its preeminence and thus grow the nascent Jewish nation.

In its 71 years Israel became a great success, but it is also under a serious threat, not only of (from) Iran but also, and maybe more so, because of its inability to develop a strategy to deal with the occupation in the West Bank and the resulting apartheid situation vis-à-vis the Palestinian population.

And in one fell swoop, Schocken refutes himself.

Schocken is not anti-Israel. Far from it. He is proud of Haaretz’s history in the Jewish State, and the newspaper urges readers to celebrate Israel’s vibrant democracy. Evidently also, he celebrates Israel’s success as a nation, which counteracts the Palestinian narrative that Israel is a disaster, unsustainable, and a human rights crime.

Unfortunately, for a combination of reasons, Schocken regurgitates lies against Israel. The source for accusations of “occupation”, the “West Bank”, and “apartheid” do not spring from human rights activists. They come instead from those who hate Israel (and Jews) and wish to replace the world’s only Jewish State with an Arabic State, where Jews are either second-class or nonexistent.

First of all, what pro-Palestinians call the “West Bank” is not a country. It has no defined borders, just roughly cut sections (Areas A, B, and C). The “West Bank” has no national population, history, or legitimacy. This is because the Jordanians introduced this name for the territory they conquered in 1949. After 18 years of Jordanian brutality, murder, and iconoclasm, Israel finally liberated the eastern half of Jerusalem and with it, the land originally known for millennia as “Judaea and Samaria”.

As part of the agreement, Israel allowed Jordan control of the Temple Mount, which is registered under the Waqf (guardian of Islamic religious sites).

1967 mean that Jews were now free to live all throughout the land as was originally the case. Jews have lived in Judaea and Samaria for over 3000 consecutive years. No other extant national group can claim the same lineage. It meant that Jews could freely worship at the Kotel (Western Wall), as was originally the case. For the Jordanians expelled Jews from this region, keeping them at bay with snipers and destroying priceless Jewish artifacts.

In spite of this, the Israeli government has not declared formal sovereignty over Judaea and Samaria, largely because of the international reaction. The UN will not accept Jerusalem as Israel’s capital and considers Israel’s presence in Judaea and Samaria as illegal. This is a laughable accusation, given that countries are permitted to claim territory during war, particularly that which was stolen by an aggressive enemy, and particularly where the enemy refuses to surrender.

It’s astonishing that Schocken will mention the Iranian threat (again refuting those who claim that Israel’s fears concerning Iran are an exaggeration or propaganda), but not see the obvious conclusion: Israel is constantly under threat and so is perfectly justified, even without historical precedent, in holding onto Judaea, Samaria, and the Golan Heights.

In light of this lack of surrender, Israel maintains a military presence in this region and seeks to fortify these claims by close Jewish settlement. This is, contrary to popular condemnation, perfectly legal. Jewish settlement was ratified repeatedly, not least by the Balfour Declaration of 1917, which allowed Jews the right to settle throughout the British Mandate and create a state there. Despite repeated pontification, the UN has never abrogated, let alone revoked these Declarations and Resolutions. They would have no basis on which to do so.

Jewish settlement does not cover the entirety of this region. Rather, the Oslo negotiations produced mutual agreement that this land be divided into Areas A & B (Palestinian) and Areas C (Israeli). Even so, the majority of this region lies empty, and the majority of Palestinians live under PA control. This segmentation stands in contrast to free Jewish settlement throughout the region before 1949. In the interests of diplomacy and peace, the Israeli government has reduced its claims and proposed plans that would give some or even most (Sharon and Barak) of this land to Palestinian control.

The Palestinians, under Arafat chiefly, have refused these plans. Schocken’s omission of this crucial fact undermines his message. Even the Saudi Arabian government condemned Yasser Arafat for refusing Israel’s proposed offers, calling it a crime against the Palestinian people.

Israeli’s continue to face terror attacks from the Palestinians. To help prevent these, Israel has erected fences, checkpoints, and a security wall. International critics decry these measures as apartheid, as they restrict Palestinian movement, and limit Palestinian contact with the Jewish residents of this region. The historical and legal context explained above refutes this accusation. Quite simply, protecting your citizens from terror attacks is a moral imperative. To call these measures apartheid shows gross intellectual dishonesty.

Even more credulously, Schocken fails to note that Palestinians work alongside Jews in farms, factories, and homes on a regular basis. Pro-Palestinians will attack the checkpoints (there to literally check for terror weapons), but ignore why the Palestinians walk through them in the first place. Economic opportunity under PA control, despite Israeli funding, is scant. Government corruption and embezzlement are rife, and Palestinian dissidents face intimidation, imprisonment, or worse. This makes Palestinian refusals of potential land all the more staggering and hypocritical.

Schocken should know, or be taught, that there is simply no comparison between Jordanians expelling Jews from Judaea, Samaria, and the eastern half of Jerusalem, and Israel protecting Jewish residents from terror attacks. He has not even mentioned the first case, which constituted apartheid. The Jordanians defaced and destroyed synagogues, and archaeological finds, set up snipers to shoot at Jews on a regular basis, and declared this land to be theirs.

On the other hand, the Israeli’s reclaimed the eastern half of Jerusalem, which allowed Jews, Christians, and Muslims freedom of movement throughout this area. Furthermore, Israel agreed that Jordan control the Al Aqsa mosque and that Jews may not ascend the Temple Mount. Muslims, however, can pray in those areas. Israel has funded bus services to the Al Aqsa mosque during Ramadan. However, any Jewish presence near the Temple Mount is treated both by Israel and by Jordan as a provocation. Israeli soldiers prevent Jews from praying there. Ariel Sharon’s attempted access caused Palestinian Muslims to riot.

Both Jews and Arabs live in the eastern half of Jerusalem, and in Judaea and Samaria, along with other ethnic groups. In fact, MK Miri Regev asked last year why the Israeli government was building settlements... for Arab citizens in that region.

The allegation of apartheid is false. Period. And in repeating this claim, Schocken does violence to the same country that houses his newspaper and over 100 years of history.

TO BE CONTINUED.

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badgersprite · 6 years

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Fic: Desiderata (2/?)

Chapter Title: Aftermath

Fandom: Mass Effect

Characters: Miranda, Samara, Oriana, Jacob

Pairing: Miranda/Samara slow burn, strangers to friends to lovers

Story Rating: R

Warnings: Some graphic imagery people may find disturbing, allusions to past child abuse, references to character death.

Chapter Summary: In 2185, Samara joins the crew of the Normandy, and Miranda doesn’t waste time in evaluating her new squadmate. However, Samara soon picks up on the fact that Miranda is distracted by more personal concerns. In 2186, Miranda wakes up to confront the stark reality that awaits her after the war, including the extent of the injuries she suffered in the shuttle crash, and the question of whether anyone else from the Normandy survived.

Author’s Note: From this point on, the story is essentially going to alternate between the present (post-ME3) and ME2, with a few other flashbacks to various relevant points in Miranda’s life interspersed for good measure. Just to clear up any possible confusion, every single Miranda/Samara flashback is taking place in chronological order. All good? No worries!

* * *

A day never went by that Miranda didn’t update The Illusive Man on their status. It was essential that he was kept informed of all material facts at all times. That included any weaknesses Miranda observed in Shepard’s team.

Stopping the Collectors was paramount. Preventing more humans from disappearing was too important to be compromised by anyone. They had to remain on track no matter the cost. Hence, it fell to Miranda to identify whether the very individuals they were recruiting could potentially imperil that.

Fortunately, it seemed their latest acquisition’s integration with the crew was progressing smoothly so far. But that didn’t make her exempt from scrutiny.

Miranda distractedly typed on her datapad as she entered the Starboard Observation Deck, scarcely taking notice of Samara, who sat in the centre of the room with her legs folded beneath her, bathed in a blue biotic glow.

“Jacob told me you’d requested a room with a view,” Miranda said as the doors closed behind her, without raising her head. No thought was spared for whether she might be interrupting Samara’s meditation. That didn’t matter, and it wasn’t her job to care. “I assume this will suffice.”

“Yes,” Samara answered, content. “It is peaceful here.”

“Soundproof walls, for the library,” Miranda offhandedly explained, wishing her room shared the same insulation. Being right next to the mess hall meant she was frequently disturbed by chatter and ambient noise. Genetically enhanced hearing had its drawbacks. “But that’s not pertinent to why I’m here; I’ve nearly finished my mission report to The Illusive Man.”

“You work quickly,” Samara noted, her radiant aura flickering under the light. A shade over three hours had passed since they brought her aboard.

“I work to my ability,” Miranda brushed her comment aside.

In truth, she was running later than she would have liked. Her ordinary routine had been disrupted when she was ordered to sickbay to ensure she wasn’t suffering side-effects from Minagen X3 exposure at the Eclipse hideout.

“I just have a few questions to ask you,” Miranda continued, intent on making up lost time. “Have you seen Kelly Chambers and Doctor Chakwas?”

“Yes, both of them, separately,” said Samara.

“Good.” Miranda checked that off. She would chase them up for their preliminary assessments shortly. By now, they both knew the tight schedule Miranda preferred to operate under, so she didn’t expect they would keep her waiting long. “Do you have any issues working with Cerberus?”

“No,” Samara replied, as still as a statue

“You’re sure?” Miranda pressed, her tone conveying her mild scepticism. Cerberus had been branded a terrorist organisation. She wasn’t familiar with the Justicars and their beliefs but she doubted they looked fondly upon such things.

“I am aware that Cerberus is reputed to have engaged in criminal activity. However, rumours are not evidence. I intend to judge your organisation for myself, not based upon the word of others,” was Samara’s serene response.

“That makes you more reasonable than most,” Miranda remarked. Finally, someone who talked sense.

“Even if I do observe such accounts to be true, it will not interfere. Defending humanity from the Collectors is a noble cause. I could not have allowed myself to join you if my presence could place your mission in jeopardy,” Samara assured her, electing to address Miranda’s justifiable misgivings in their entirety. “I have sworn an oath to Commander Shepard. I am bound to her decisions, and must carry out her orders until I am released from her service.”

“Even if her orders violate your Code?” Miranda queried with an astute quirk of her brow, suspecting that risk factor couldn’t be dismissed out of hand.

“…Yes,” Samara answered without inflection, though her hesitation did not evade Miranda’s shrewd perception. She left that item unmarked, not convinced that she could rely on Samara to remain loyal if such circumstances arose.

“You’re aware that the team we’ve assembled consists of several criminals – assassins, mercenaries, thieves, whatever Jack is,” Miranda commented with casual disregard. She’d long since grown accustomed to the fact that criminal background was one area in which Cerberus didn’t discriminate, though she certainly wouldn’t have complained if they chose to be a little more discerning in future. “If you’re going to work with us, we can’t have any problems.”

“You are asking whether I might pose a danger to those persons, or if I would be tempted to kill them if provoked,” Samara inferred, having anticipated that inquiry. Miranda’s silence confirmed her intent. “I will not.”

“That makes one of us,” Miranda muttered under her breath. They tested her patience sometimes. Samara did not react, maintaining her perfect posture. “Unless you have anything to disclose, that’s all I had to cover.”

“Not at this time. If I become aware of any matter that may affect the mission, you have my word that I will inform you at once,” Samara vowed.

“Glad to hear it,” Miranda approved, holding her to that.

For a woman who had been willing to massacre her way out of a police station a few hours ago, Miranda had to admit Samara was surprisingly easy to deal with. She’d displaced Thane as the quickest, most painless interview to date.

“Do not hesitate to come to me if there is anything else you require,” Samara cordially continued, never changing her tranquil tone of voice. “You will not be imposing. It has been many years since I have worked in concert with others. I would be pleased to lend my assistance wherever I can.”

“I...appreciate that,” Miranda thanked her, an act that did not come naturally to her. She was not in the habit of expressing gratitude; it was a rarity aboard this ship that anyone warranted it. “But I’ve taken up enough of your time. I’ll leave you to it,” said Miranda, her focus already shifting to the dozen other tasks she had on her plate that she planned on finishing by the end of the day.

“I beg your pardon,” Samara spoke up when Miranda turned to exit, prompting her to pause and glance over her shoulder. “I do not believe you ever told me your name,” Samara pointed out, unoffended by the oversight.

Miranda blinked, quickly scouring her memory before realising that Samara wasn’t lying; she couldn’t remember introducing herself at any point. “Miranda Lawson. Operator of the Lazarus Cell,” she remedied her omission.

“Miranda,” Samara gave a respectful nod of her head, bidding her farewell.

Sensing the conversation was at an end, Miranda returned to her office, paying no attention to anyone else as she passed through the crew deck. She sat down at her desk, transferring her draft report from her datapad to her laptop.

Only one section remained to be finished: Miranda’s personal evaluation of Samara. That involved recording her overall opinion of Samara as a prospective teammate, and disclosing to The Illusive Man whether she perceived any risk factors that might make her a liability in certain circumstances.

Miranda revisited their short conversation, replaying it in her mind as she pondered her analysis. Her fingers rapped rhythmically on the desk, contemplating the sole unresolved question on her checklist.

Could she count on Samara not to stab them all in the back if they failed to adhere to her Code, even if violating it was necessary to save human lives? Nobody else on the ship knew what her Code entailed. It was entirely possible they could break it unwittingly, and that Samara might be compelled to take action against them for even the most innocuous of breaches.

However, Miranda wasn’t about to waste The Illusive Man’s time with baseless speculation. It didn’t assist him to be told of a hypothetical scenario which he had surely already foreseen. That wasn’t why he sought Miranda’s judgement.

Anyone could threaten the mission in theory. What he needed to know was whether that danger existed in reality. And did it? For the first time, Miranda wasn’t sure one way or the other. All she had to go on was Samara’s word, given her own observations of the woman were limited up to that point.

Samara had said that Shepard’s orders took priority over her Code when it came to stopping the Collectors. Normally, Miranda was predisposed towards caution, since it was better to be safe than wind up dead, but, in this case, she didn’t detect any deceit in Samara’s assurances of fealty. She didn’t strike her as a liar, nor as someone who lacked the insight to predict her own behaviour.

After a brief pause, Miranda reached her conclusion: ‘There is no indication that Samara’s subservience to the Justicar Code places our operations in jeopardy or compromises her in the field. I have no concerns about working with her.’

Comfortable with that answer, Miranda allowed her mind to wander as she jotted down a concise closing paragraph. It wasn’t often that she gave her companions aboard the Normandy a second thought, beyond their contributions to the mission. Not even Shepard. But Miranda had to admit, having someone like Samara aboard the ship was a refreshing change of pace.

Frankly Miranda wasn’t used to people being so cooperative with her. It was rare that her instructions weren’t met with some form of antagonism. And, unlike Thane, who was equally polite, Samara didn’t ask irrelevant questions or provide ambiguous answers when a simple yes or no would have sufficed.

Needless to say, Miranda was an excellent judge of character. She trusted her instincts. And, when it came to Samara, her first impressions were largely positive. And why wouldn’t they have been?

Samara was intelligent, composed and rational. Focused. Disciplined. Humble. Courteous. Restrained. Temperate. Dedicated, self-sufficient and competent, with nearly a millennia from which to draw wisdom and insight. And, unlike some asari, she didn’t come off as smug or condescending when interacting with other species. Nothing about her demeanour struck Miranda as false or insincere.

Miranda could respect a woman like that. Those were the sorts of qualities she would have liked to have seen in more of her teammates, given the option.

As if to drive home the point, her reflections were immediately shattered by raucous laughter outside her door. Miranda’s jaw tensed at the nuisance, the latest in a long line of repeated incidents. Her tolerance wore thin. She got up and stepped out into the mess hall to see what the fuss was about.

Several crew were hanging around the table, including Garrus, Donnelly and Joker. Judging from one of the gestures she saw, they seemed to be trading raunchy anecdotes. Miranda folded her arms across her chest, annoyed.

“Am I the only one who does any work around here?” she asked, cutting through the conversation like a knife, attracting several stares. “What are you doing? Why are you all sitting around making arses of yourselves like human colonists aren’t being abducted as we speak?”

“It’s called dinner, Miranda. Have you heard of it?” Garrus wryly remarked. It was hard to tell with turians, but he seemed to be smirking. “Some of us even require it to live. Maybe you don’t.”

“You can’t eat while you work?” said Miranda, ignoring his jibes. That was what she did, and she didn’t make a commotion doing it.

“Actually, no, I can’t,” Joker replied, gingerly adjusting himself in his chair to sit more casually. “EDI would lock me out of flight controls if I worked through a mandatory break. She says it ‘affects my performance.’”

“I just worked my third eighteen hour shift this week,” Donnelly pointed out, mildly intimidated though he was by Miranda. “Err, not that I’m complaining.”

Miranda rolled her eyes, recognising that she couldn’t kick them out, even if they were being disruptive. “Fine. Take your break. But if any of you are still here at one minute past the hour, I’m writing you up,” she warned them, making certain they knew she was serious before returning to her office.

“You know, she’s been on so many field missions lately, I almost forgot what a massive bitch she is,” Joker muttered in an aside.

“Did you also forget water is wet?” was Garrus’s reply, eliciting chuckles.

Miranda didn’t care, sighing in irritation and running a hand through her hair when the door closed. Why couldn’t everyone on this ship do her a favour and collectively agree to never talk again? It wasn’t like it would be any great loss.

Come to think of it, maybe Miranda did have good cause to go back to the Starboard Observation Deck sooner rather than later. If nothing else, at least it was quiet there, and she could probably rely on Samara to keep it that way.

Besides, anything Samara had to say would surely be vastly more interesting than the drivel that most people on this ship had to offer, even if that wasn’t a particularly high threshold to exceed.

* * *

“There's no time! We have to get her to the OR!”

Movement.

Miranda's head spun. Groggy. Flat on her back. Racing. Surrounded. People.

She couldn't open her eyes. Couldn’t breathe. Could barely hear. She tried to tell them, but her lips didn't move. Couldn’t speak. Couldn't ask for help.

Or, maybe she did, but the ringing blocked it out.

“We need intravenous antibiotics, stat. And someone get the ultrasound. We've got to get this medi-gel off.”

Where was she? What was happening?

Confusion clouded her thoughts, faint echoes of memory stirring to the surface. Desperation. Desolation. A crash. A crater. A glow. A glimmer of hope.

Samara. Where was Samara?

“Shit. Her pulse is dropping. We're losing her again.”

The world was creeping further and further into darkness. Slipping away. Diminishing. Fading. Waxing and waning like the phases of the moon, or the ebb and flow of the tide. Threatening to surrender her to eternal silence.

Kuh-hhhhh.

What was that noise?

Kuh-hhhhh.

Her ear was still ringing. Loud. So loud that what little else she could hear sounded like it had been crushed beneath the deepest trenches of the ocean.

But she detected speech. Muffled. Scarcely intelligible.

Kuh-hhhhh.

“We may have been too late. Her system is on the verge of shutting down. Even with a full course of antibiotics, I can't promise her body can fight it off.”

Kuh-hhhhh.

“You don't know her. She’s no ordinary person.”

Kuh-hhhhh.

That voice. Who was he?

Kuh-hhhhh.

“You’ve seen the state we’re in. We don’t have enough resources to spare. We have to make the hard choices. Even if we do keep treating her, her chances of survival are...maybe ten percent, at best. Think of how many other lives—”

“Don’t you dare talk about other lives like they’re already worth more than hers! She’s alive right now, and you’re willing to write her off like she’s as good as dead over a one in ten? No way. You can’t give up on her like that!”

Kuh-hhhhh.

Recognition seemed to dance past the edges of her fingertips. Miranda tried to reach for it, but it eluded her grasp. She fell under the waves, swallowed beneath the surface, adrift, stranded on the sea of shadow.

Kuh-hhhhh.

She couldn’t tell if she was awake or asleep. Everything faded in and out like half-remembered dreams. A million faint drops would coalesce into one constant stream of noise, rushing by so fast that she couldn’t keep up, and yet it seemed to be frozen in place, making it appear as though no time was passing at all.

Kuh-hhhhh.

Her mind filled with fragmented visions that just as swiftly scattered into dust and vanished into thin air. Collectors. Cerberus. The Normandy. The Citadel. Shepard. Her father. Oriana. Niket. Jacob. Samara. The war.

Her entire life. Her past. Her future. Everything she ever could have been.

Memories. Fantasies. Reality. She couldn't distinguish one from the other.

Kuh-hhhhh.

Faces leered at her in the mists. Her team. The ghosts of their demise.

She relived it all in gruesome detail, watching the people she’d led to Earth perish under her command. Unable to intervene. Cursed to lament everything she could have done differently. Powerless to put right her mistakes.

Bright eyes turned to ash, incinerated in flames. Skulls exploded under sniper fire. Flesh and bone burst like grapes beneath rampaging brutes. Viscera poured from gaping holes where banshees impaled their victims, lifting them off the ground, ripping their jaws clean off their skulls while they screamed.

Kuh-hhhhh.

“Ms Lawson! Stop! Don’t leave me!”

She turned and looked back, realising a member of her crew had fallen behind, tripped up by the debris, but it was too late. Husks descended on her like a pack of wild dogs, clawing her limb from limb. They literally tore her apart.

Her harrowing howls marred Miranda’s very soul, emblazoned on her conscience like a branding iron. The ringing in her ear grew louder.

Kuh-hhhhh.

“Help me...” the wounded soldier begged her, clutching at her with the last of his strength, strapped into his seat. “Please. Please help me. Please.”

“I can’t. I’m sorry,” she told him, knowing it was futile.

“You could have saved me,” he mumbled, his throat gurgling as his hand clamped down on her wrist. His skin began to rot, every inch of his tissue withering and decomposing. Maggots crawled from his eye sockets, wriggling down to his thin, desiccated lips. “You just left me there. Why didn’t you help?”

Miranda had no answer for him.

Kuh-hhhhh.

“Goddess, heed my prayer.” Miranda emerged from her daze, roused by a familiar presence. “Do not call her to your embrace. Not yet. Not now.”

Miranda felt a tender touch on her left arm, below her shoulder. She tried to stir by flexing the tips of her fingers but to no avail. She couldn't move her hand.

Was this real?

Why couldn't she feel her fingers?

Kuh-hhhhh.

“I came to Earth expecting that you had chosen this to be where I met my end, as the rest of my order met theirs on Thessia. Yet here I stand, unscathed, while Miranda...” Samara’s breath faltered, unable to say it. “I do not understand.”

Kuh-hhhhh.

Miranda heard her speak, yet she could barely comprehend the words that left Samara’s lips. It was as if language held no meaning, or she had forgotten how to make sense of it. Her mind felt so heavy inside her head.

Kuh-hhhhh.

“I beseech you: if you must take a life, take mine. I offer it freely, if it would spare hers. My life for her life. My years for her years. Please. For my many sins, I deserve none of your mercy. But...Goddess, if you would grant me any wish, I beg of you, do not take her. She is young, and has so much...”

Samara's voice faltered. Her words failed her. Her hand was trembling.

Kuh-hhhhh.

Miranda tried to take a breath to tell her it was okay, but couldn’t. She couldn’t even swallow. Her throat hurt. Her limbs felt as heavy as lead.

Kuh-hhhhh.

“Why do you do this? For centuries, I have asked you, and yet you never answer my prayers. Why am I spared? Why do you punish those who least deserve it when I am right here? Why do I survive while all around me perish?”

Kuh-hhhhh.

“My daughters. My bondmate. My Order. My friends. So many innocents. They all suffered for my failure. Yet I linger on. Weak. Weary. And for what purpose?”

Kuh-hhhhh.

“It should have been me...It always should have been me...”

Miranda didn’t hear Samara utter anything more.

Her awareness dissipated into the aether, until it was altogether gone. And yet, when it returned, it felt like only the merest blip of a moment had passed.

Kuh-hhhhh.

That strange sound stirred at the fringes of her consciousness.

Kuh-hhhhh.

What on Earth was that? And why wouldn’t it go away?

Kuh-hhhhh.

No. No, this wasn’t right. She couldn’t sleep. She couldn’t lie there like this.

Kuh-hhhhh.

It all came back to her at once. The shuttle crash. The pilot. The wasteland that stretched on forever, toying with her like a predator toyed with its prey.

Kuh-hhhhh.

Hopelessness. Despair. Death loomed over her, an ever-present spectre, taunting her with the imminence of her own impending doom.

Kuh-hhhhh.

There was no escape. No food. No water. No rest. No relief from the pain.

She wouldn’t last another day. Not like this.

Kuh-hhhhh.

Adrenaline coursed through her veins, compelling her not to submit. Not yet. Not now. Not after she had come so far in her desperate fight for survival.

Kuh-hhhhh.

She had to find help. Fast. She would die if she didn’t keep moving. Enough bodies littered the streets to emblazon that harsh fact on her nightmares.

Kuh-hhhhh.

She tried to raise her arm, to no avail. Her cheek twitched, contorting in discomfort. “Nnngh.” Her throat tightened on an obstruction. Was she choking?

Kuh-hhhhh. Kuh-hhhhh.

Instinctively, she resisted, aching to remove the blockage from her windpipe, but her body wouldn’t respond. When her head shifted, it felt like the whole planet collided with the moon, sending her equilibrium spiralling into orbit, unable to gain a sense of balance, of which way was up and which was down.

Kuh-hhhhh. Kuh-hhhhh. Kuh-hhhhh.

Panic mounted in her chest, her heart rate spiking, immobilised, paralysed, unable to break free from what felt like a ten tonne weight on top of her.

Why couldn’t she move? Why couldn’t she breathe?

Kuh-hhhhh. Kuh-hhhhh. Kuh-hhhhh.

“Easy, Miranda,” a voice came to her. A man’s voice. Familiar. Comforting. Someone gently gripped her right hand, as if in a promise that she wasn’t alone. “Take your time. You don’t have to wake up yet.”

“Mmnh....” Her fingers tensed. She couldn’t open her eyelids.

Kuh-hhhhh. Kuh-hhhhh.

“It’s alright,” her nameless vigilant assured her, sensing her distress. “Don’t worry about anything. You’re safe now. And you’re going to be okay.”

Strangely, when he said it with such softness, she believed him.

Kuh-hhhhh.

“I’m right here,” he whispered to her, almost too quiet to hear beneath the ringing that lingered unrelenting in her ear. His thumb stroked the back of her hand. “And I’ll be by your side when you wake up later. I promise.”

Tentative though she was, she allowed her body to relax and sink into the clouds, trusting that someone was watching over her, and wouldn’t let her go.

Kuh-hhhhh.

A sense of peace emanated from her core, chasing away the restlessness.

And then all was still.

Until...

Kuh-hhhhh.

Light.

White light.

Kuh-hhhhh.

Why was it so bright?

Kuh-hhhhh.

That noise was back, but it was fainter now.

Kuh-hhhhh.

Her right eye fluttered open. An indistinguishable haze filled her sight.

Kuh-hhhhh.

She blinked, and blinked again, the blur above her gradually coming into focus.

Kuh-hhhhh.

A ceiling. White walls chipped and degraded, but intact. Beams of sunlight filtered in though a window, maybe ten feet away. It was dim and dull, but it hurt to be met with the rays. Miranda groaned and avoided looking that way until her vision adjusted, keeping her head squarely tilted to the right.

After being on the run from Cerberus, assessing her surroundings was an instinct. It didn't matter that Miranda's skull was pounding; her addled mind figured out exactly where she was almost as soon as she took it in.

She was in a hospital. That didn't take a genius to deduce. A quick glance confirmed that other patients shared this makeshift medical ward. There were eight, including her, crammed into the one room.

There was a drip hooked into her arm, and something was covering her left eye.

Kuh-hhhhh.

Ah. That explained the sound. Three patients had ventilators beside their beds.

Not everyone was comatose, though. She made eye-contact with the patient directly across from her, but he rolled onto his side and went back to sleep, ignoring her. Apparently he wasn’t in the mood to answer her queries.

Miranda wasn't intubated, but there was something attached to her nose. A nasal cannula? A quick touch confirmed her suspicion as correct. Why did she need one of those? She wasn't having any trouble breathing.

She winced, cobwebs and a pulsing headache preventing her mind from operating at full speed as she tried to piece together what had happened. She couldn't remember, or differentiate the memories from the dreams.

Ugh. What time was it? And what day? She couldn't see a clock anywhere.

Miranda attempted to get up, but the only response from her nervous system was pain, which forced her to abandon that idea before she had moved more than a few muscles. Every bone in her body hurt. Some worse than others.

Then it dawned on her.

Visions returned to her in a flood. Her last waking moments emerged from the fog. She remembered Samara gathering her in her arms, rescuing her, like something out of a fantasy.

Miranda inhaled sharply. There was no way that could have been real. The odds of Samara finding her were a million to one. Smaller, actually. But there Miranda lay, in a hospital bed. How could she explain that, if not by Samara’s intervention? By all rights, she should have been dead.

Come to think of it, how was she alive?

Miranda glanced down, keen to evaluate her condition. She hadn't been able to properly examine any of her injuries after the crash, much less tend to them. Still, she was under no illusions about how serious her wounds had been. She didn't imagine the damage to her limbs had miraculously healed overnight.

Her right arm was fine, hooked into a drip and a heart monitor. She couldn't see either of her legs well enough for her liking, what with both of them covered by the blanket, which was a little frustrating. But they seemed okay.

Her left arm was...

Miranda’s eye widened, and her mouth went dry.

She didn't have a left arm. Not anymore. It was cut off above the elbow.

...Oh.

Shaking off her shock, Miranda tried to inspect the amputation site, but her shoulder ached too much to raise even that reduced weight off the bed. The stump at the end of her bicep was wrapped up in a dressing. There were some slight blood stains on the bandages. Leakage. Seepage, from the stitches.

Huh. Well...this was new.

Once she got over her initial stunned reaction, Miranda had to confess that this outcome wasn’t unexpected, given the mangled state her arm had been in before she lost consciousness. It had gone too many days without treatment. For the rest of her injures, it was much harder to predict how bad they might be.

She couldn't hear out of her left ear, or see out of her left eye. A definitive diagnosis as to why would have been preferable. In light of her missing limb, Miranda was braced for the worst. God, her face stung on that side, though.

She reached up to touch her brow, wincing when her fingers met gauze. It covered her eye, her ear, her cheek down to her mouth. That was discouraging.

If there was one thing Miranda detested, it was feeling powerless – like she wasn't in control, and couldn’t do anything to seize it. Being in the dark about the status of her own body? Yeah, that amounted to being out of her comfort zone.

She didn't know a damn thing about where she was or how she'd gotten there or how many days had passed. All she could remember was Samara's voice, and the shape of her silhouette above her as she lifted Miranda up out of the crater.

Was it true? Had Samara really discovered Miranda's broken body? Or was that encounter nothing more than a figment of her imagination as she lay exhausted, on the verge of death? They’d spent a lot of time together on the Normandy, more than any of the others knew. If Miranda was going to conjure up false visions of a saviour, Samara would have been a leading candidate.

Either way, the only thing Miranda was sure of was that she had to get out of that bed as fast as possible. Other mysteries could wait. She had to get back out there. She had to know what kind of world she'd awoken to, and find out if anyone else from the Normandy had escaped the battle with their lives.

Shepard. Jacob. Samara. Everyone. Anyone.

Miranda tensed, her throat tightening on mounting bile and dread.

When they stood together for that photo in Shepard’s apartment, Miranda knew chances were slim that she would live to take another. At most, only a scant few of those faces would remain after the dust settled. It was simple maths.

Miranda had come to Earth certain that she wouldn’t be counted among the lucky ones. It was too much to expect that they’d win, let alone survive. She’d accepted her death long before she ever set foot on the battlefield.

Yet there she was, on the other side of the vanishing point. So many things that should have killed her...somehow hadn’t. She was still here.

But what about the others?

If Miranda was alive, despite the odds, did that mean...?

No. She couldn’t be the only one left. She’d already lost her whole team. She couldn’t go through that again. Not with them. She just...She just couldn’t.

Suddenly, a shadow at the foot of her bed caught her attention.

Miranda turned her head, causing the figure to jump, startled by her movement. A medic stood there, a hand to her heart. Miranda hadn’t heard her enter, thanks to the constant piercing tinnitus that resonated in her right ear.

“Oh, I’m so sorry. I didn’t realise you were awake,” said the woman, calming her nerves after that surprise. Miranda scanned the stranger, gauging her. She didn't look like a doctor or nurse, nor a member of the military. A volunteer? “Can you hear me?” the medic asked. A fair question, if she’d been out for a while.

“Yes,” Miranda answered, trailing into a cough. Her voice sounded different, unfamiliar to her. Raspy. Scratchy. Her throat was sore, which indicated a tube must have been inserted recently. It wasn't pleasant. She cleared away the discomfort before continuing. “But you’ll have to speak up. My ear’s ringing.”

It was good to hear herself say that, even if her left side did seem deaf as a post. At least her mental faculties were more intact than her body.

“Wonderful. I'll go and fetch the—“

“Before you say anything else, I need information. Don't interrupt me. Just tell me what I want to know. And keep it concise,” Miranda commanded brusquely, despite her fatigue slowing her speech, determined to gain insight into her current circumstances. That was where Miranda was in her element.

“Uh...okay?” the medic stammered, evidently compelled to comply. Even confined to a hospital bed, Miranda possessed that air of authority that prompted obedience. Good to know she hadn't lost that trait.

“We're still in London, correct?” Miranda ventured, believing it safe to assume they wouldn’t have flown her elsewhere.

“Yes. You're in St. Mary's,” the medic confirmed.

“St...What...?” Miranda wondered if she’d misheard. Bloody hell. Just how short of a distance had she covered in her efforts to crawl away from the crash site?

The medic nodded. “Given the high number of casualties, our first step was to occupy the centre of London and reopen as many medical facilities as we could. For the most part our efforts have paid off.”

“The most part?” Miranda sharply echoed. That was a faint endorsement.

The woman sighed. “In truth, most hospitals are in ruins. The majority of people who need help are out on the street in field hospitals because we're short of beds. But you were a high priority patient. So it’s...lucky you were so unlucky.”

Miranda chose not to respond to that. “How long have I been here?”

“A week, I believe,” the young woman replied. “You've made a remarkable recovery. Given how poorly you were when you arrived...well, the average person who came to us in your condition would have been out far longer,” she said, oblivious to the guarded expression her words elicited.

The average person would have been dead. But Miranda wasn’t average.

Her genetic code gave her the edge. It always did. There was no mistaking that it was the sole reason she had withstood her wounds. Her father’s perpetual legacy. It made it hard to process the appropriate reaction. She couldn’t feel proud, since she couldn’t take credit for it. So was she supposed to feel guilty that other people didn’t have the same undeserved advantages? She didn’t.

Perhaps that ambivalence was why Miranda couldn’t find it in her to form any particular emotional response to her survival at all. Not happy. Not sad.

She didn’t feel anything. It just...

It was what it was.

“Yes, that’s right, your chart says you've been here for eight nights, Ms Lawson,” the medic continued. “I remember when they brought you in. Even a few minutes later and you would have...” She trailed off, evidently reconsidering whether it was wise to disclose that to a patient who might find that news distressing. “All I can say is thank God Justicar Samara found you when she did.”

At her name, Miranda froze.

“What?” she spoke breathlessly, not daring to believe it.

“Justicar Samara,” the woman eagerly repeated. “She's incredible. Her efforts to look for survivors out beyond where anyone else dares to tread have been tireless. Dozens of people owe their lives to her. Hundreds, even.”

“...Including me,” Miranda quietly acknowledged. The medic didn’t address that, but it was etched on her face that that was beyond dispute. "Where is she?”

“Out there, as always,” the medic told her, gesturing to the window, and the destruction beyond. “She said her Code demands that she must not rest while she is capable of averting the suffering of innocents. Or words to that effect.”

A relieved smile slowly unfurled across Miranda’s lips, all lingering incredulity evaporating. Yep. That was definitely Samara.

Miranda was a woman of facts, not emotions, but words couldn’t describe how she felt then, rendered speechless to realise that it hadn’t been a dream. It was confirmed. Samara was alive. Miranda wasn't alone.

Honestly, that meant far more to her than her own survival ever would. It wasn’t even close. Miranda couldn’t be happy for own sake. But for Samara? For her friend? Bloody oath, she could. And she was. No confusion. No ambivalence.

“Don't feel too bad that she’s not here,” a warm voice followed from the doorway. She recognised it instantly. Miranda would have sworn her heart stopped when she heard him, only to start again when she spied him standing in the corridor, watching her contentedly. “She stayed as long as she could."

The sheer gratitude that coursed through her veins at the sight of him was beyond compare, almost beyond comprehension. “Jacob...”

He flicked his fingers at her, halfway between a wave and a salute. “Hey.”

In that moment, she was glad that she had never been the most expressive individual. Were she any different, Miranda didn't imagine her response to seeing Jacob there unharmed would have been in any way dignified.

“It's okay. You don't have to say anything,” Jacob assured her.

“Right,” Miranda murmured through the gravel in her throat. He didn't need to hear it because Jacob already knew. Everything she felt now was no doubt exactly what he’d experienced when the doctors told him Miranda was going to make it.

Words weren't essential. They couldn't tell each other anything they didn't already understand. And Jacob knew Miranda better than to permit redundancy.

“Ugh. My face hurts,” Miranda half-groaned, recovering the wherewithal to speak, briefly touching her bandage between her cheekbone and her eye.

Jacob snorted as he stepped inside. “Yeah, you think?”

Miranda sent him a feigned glare as he approached. In retrospect, it was probably best to try not to smile until her burns healed a bit. “Could you leave us?” she addressed the medic. She and Jacob had a lot to discuss. Privately.

“Um, now that you're awake, I should call the doctor in to see you.” Aside from getting a full update on her health, waking up likely meant they would be keen to shuttle Miranda out of there as soon as they could manage it. After all, the medic had made it plain that they needed every available bed they could get.

“Don't worry about that,” Jacob said, casually folding his arms across his chest. “I won't be in your way for very long, I promise. Just give us thirty minutes to catch up. That's all we need.” Miranda nodded, silently vouching for that. Perhaps some people would have wanted longer, but half an hour would suffice.

Jacob and Miranda had been friends for...was it coming up on four years now? Perhaps that wasn’t significant to an ordinary person, but that was the longest continuous bond Miranda had formed with anyone, by quite a large margin.

He wouldn't sugarcoat the truth or tiptoe around the facts. Not for Miranda. He understood her like few others did, if any. No matter what she asked him and no matter how hard the reality was to confront, she knew she would get an answer she could trust. For that reason, Jacob was exactly the right person to field her myriad questions, and there was no one she'd rather hear it from.

“Well, alright,” the medic acquiesced, not cruel enough to deprive them of their reunion. Friendly faces were a rare thing following the devastation the Reapers had left in their wake. It was only humane to grant them this small solace.

The medic stepped out into the hallway, leaving the two of them alone. Well, aside from the other patients. But Miranda didn't care if they eavesdropped.

“So what happened to you?” Jacob ventured first, taking up a seat on the right side of Miranda's bed, which was closest to the door. It must have plagued his mind ever since Samara found her out in the wasteland.

“I got caught in a shuttle crash. The Reaper guarding the Conduit shot us out of the sky,” Miranda calmly filled in the blanks, piecing together the seconds before the explosion. “If it had hit us straight on, I doubt I'd be here. Luckily, it just grazed the pilot's side. Her body must have shielded me from the blast.” Miranda paused, glancing down at her left arm. “Well, not all of it, obviously.”

Jacob chose not to indulge that remark. “I'm going to take a wild guess and say your landing didn't go too smoothly either.”

“Can't say. Wasn't conscious,” Miranda spoke frankly, forcing herself to sit partially upright, resting her back against the headboard. Sore as she was, even that minor adjustment hurt. Jacob knew her too well to bother offering assistance, correctly anticipating that she would have refused. “Given how the shuttle looked when I woke up, I'd say that's an understatement.”

“I can imagine,” Jacob mumbled, plainly drawing his own conclusions about the severity of the crash. The proof was permanently scarred into Miranda’s flesh. “How in the hell did you survive out there for days in the state you were in?”

“With great difficulty,” Miranda muttered, gingerly clutching her shoulder.

Jacob shook his head at her in amazement, not quite ready to laugh but managing to summon a small smile. “Somebody should have warned the Reapers it takes more than that to keep Miranda Lawson down.”

“Not much more,” Miranda conceded. This had nearly been enough.

“Yeah, but you made it. Who cares about anything else?” he said, resting his hand on her uninjured shoulder. And he was right, she supposed.

There was nothing to gain from fixating on how close she’d come to death, or on why so many others had been slain while she hadn’t. What mattered was that she'd pulled through. Now, she had to focus on more pressing concerns.

For starters... “...What happened?” Miranda asked him, keen to unravel the many facets of the recent past that remained totally shrouded to her. “How did it end? I was knocked out; I didn't see anything but the aftermath.”

“I don't know for sure. Nobody does. I'll tell you everything I've heard, though.” Jacob leaned forward in his seat, tenting his fingers together. “The Reapers were destroyed, right down to the last husk. I bet you figured that out days ago. But it wasn't without a cost.” He took a deep breath before reluctantly expanding on that ominous statement. “Something went wrong; the Crucible backfired.”

“Backfired?” Miranda repeated, arching the eyebrow that wasn't covered in gauze at his ambiguity. Jacob’s gaze was evasive. “Tell me,” she urged.

He shook his head, his expression grim. He looked tired. Resigned, even.

“There was this...explosion of energy from the Citadel. Pretty much any ships that couldn't get out of Earth's orbit in time got annihilated. And on the ground? I saw entire buildings obliterated, like that.” He snapped his fingers to illustrate what he’d witnessed. “Hell, people too. When the wave hit, they just...disintegrated. All we find are their shadows. Sometimes not even that.”

“I don't understand,” Miranda interjected, struggling to wrap her head around this. “I wasn’t that far from the Conduit. We were all right below the Crucible. If it caused that level of destruction, how is it that any of us survived?”

“Don't ask me; you're the smart one.” Jacob shrugged.

“I was being rhetorical, but you seriously can’t even volunteer a theory?” Miranda retorted, not particularly impressed by his blase response.

“I don’t know. It only seemed to get people who were out in the open. Maybe it's because you were sheltered by the shuttle, maybe not. But we didn’t...” Jacob hesitated, his posture drooping, staring at his feet. “Nobody thought anyone was left after that. Not where you were. Not when we saw whole buildings fry.”

Miranda regarded him strangely, not sure what he was getting at.

“Samara was the only one who looked for people that close to ground zero. For a while, anyway,” Jacob elaborated, audibly regretting his role in that. “It wasn’t until she started bringing back survivors that our rescue teams joined her.”

A shiver ran down Miranda’s spine. “You mean me?”

“Nah, you weren’t the first she found.” Jacob lifted his head, grateful for Samara’s persistence in the face of scepticism. “But it makes me wonder how many people died because nobody listened to her. Because you could have been one of them,” he finished, remorse glinting in his eyes, blaming himself for having written Miranda off when she was out there on her own that entire time.

Miranda swallowed pensively. So that was why she had crawled for so long without any sign of another living soul. No shuttles. No tanks. No voices.

If not for Samara, nobody would have come for her.

Miranda already knew she owed Samara her life, but it made her wonder. Maybe it wasn’t coincidence that she had stumbled upon her. Samara would never have searched for her to the detriment of anyone else, of course, but maybe she had deliberately concentrated on scouring the areas near where Miranda was last seen, committed to either finding her, or else confirming her demise.

That was the sort of thing friends did for one another, wasn’t it?

“That doesn’t answer my question, though,” Miranda pointed out, staying focused. “A shockwave that powerful should have killed everyone in London. Surely somebody can explain why we aren’t all a pile of ash right now?”

“No, they can’t, and I don’t care,” he countered, his tone taking Miranda aback. “We're stretching ourselves thin enough as it is. We can’t even begin to count the dead, much less figure out why some died and others didn't. Scientists can debate it and get their PhDs off the back of it later, I guess. But I don't give a rat's ass. Not when I'm still pulling the corpses out of the mud.”

“Fair point,” Miranda acknowledged. They were in crisis. Their cycle had nearly ended, and they were all who were left to pick up the pieces. There were crucial priorities to contend with before they could ponder more abstract issues.

“Sorry. You had every right to ask. I'm just...” Jacob trailed off, shaken by the horrific events he'd been exposed to over the past fortnight. He soon elected to get back to business rather than ruminate on it. “Most of our galactic forces were wiped out, but we have a lot of folks stranded here from every species. Well, every species except the geth,” he corrected himself. “There are no geth.”

Miranda’s brow creased. “No geth?” He didn't say, 'All the geth are dead,' or 'We haven't found any geth.' Jacob's exact words were, 'There are no geth.'

No ships. No platforms. No programs. Nothing.

“How does an entire species cease to exist?” Miranda asked, baffled by the sweeping implication. “You're telling me they've been...what, erased?”

“Yeah, that about covers it,” Jacob matter-of-factly confirmed. “Whatever the Crucible did to the Reapers must have taken them out as well,” he reasoned, though it was clearly speculation on his part. “Shame, too. You know I was never the biggest fan of the geth, given my experiences, but we could have used them. I mean, they can work non-stop and they don't tire or get sick or need to eat.”

“But the Reapers are gone,” Miranda pressed.

“All of them. For sure,” he gave his word.

At that, Miranda dared to release some of her tension, relaxing against the wall behind her. Perhaps it was harsh to deem the loss of the geth insignificant but, when it came to stopping the Reapers, no sacrifice was too extreme.

If one species had to die in order to preserve the fate of every other species that would ever come to exist in this galaxy, then that was a price that had to be paid. Even if that meant wiping out humanity, Miranda would have said the same thing. They all knew that peace would come at a grave cost, if it would come at all. What mattered now was protecting those who had prevailed.

“Good,” Miranda said, bolstered by the knowledge that they were safe from any further cosmic threat. “With the Reapers exterminated, we should see an influx of aid from the other homeworlds. Yes, they have their own problems, but they can afford to send it. There are survivors from every Council race here; they have an obligation to provide disaster relief, if not for us then for them.”

“Miranda...” Jacob sombrely cut her off, looking her square in the eye, bearing a heavy burden. “The Crucible didn't just destroy the Reapers and the geth. It also destroyed the mass relays. They have no way of getting to us.”

His answer made Miranda's blood run cold. The mass relays? No. That couldn’t be right. Oriana was on Horizon, thousands of light years from Earth. Without the mass relays, how would Miranda ever get there? How could they...?

Oh, God. If the mass relays had been destroyed, then...

“Jacob. The Alpha relay...” Miranda felt her heart pounding, the most horrible thought imaginable stirring chaos in her mind. “When the asteroid hit it, it took out an entire system. If the Crucible did that to every other relay—“

“No. That didn't happen,” he assured her, firmly quashing her fears.

“How do you know?” she challenged through gritted teeth.

“Because we’ve received messages from other systems through the comm buoys, though the network is shot to shit so bandwidth is extremely limited. By all accounts, only ships that were very close to the mass relays when they blew apart were destroyed. Your sister should be fine,” he told her.

Miranda ran her hand through her hair amid a heavy sigh, willing an unshed tear not to trickle from her eye. If all but a few ships were intact then that meant Oriana shouldn't have been in any danger. For that, she was infinitely thankful.

Nothing was more terrifying to her than the prospect of life without Oriana.

“Hey, it's okay.” Jacob clutched her right arm in reassurance. “I know. Believe me, I do,” he murmured, fully grasping what she was going through.

Of course, Miranda thought. Jacob had a child on the way. A child who, without the mass relays to bridge those colossal distances, Jacob might never get to see, or speak to, or hold in his arms. This must have been killing him.

If only they'd spent more time perfecting the Crucible, gathering more intel—

Miranda stopped, regaining her wits before grief got the better of her composure. Facts first. Feelings could wait. Now was not the time to let paralysis set in.

“What about the others?” Miranda spoke up, her tone professional, endeavouring to leave her fear of being separated from her sister temporarily to one side. “Samara's alive. I know that much.” Miranda counted her blessings on that, thinking back on their conversations on the Normandy, and the rapport that had evolved between them. “How is she? Does she seem alright to you?”

“If I was half as strong as she was, I’d be doing good. Nothing bends her. Nothing breaks her,” Jacob said, admiring her for that. Miranda gave a short nod. It meant a lot to know Samara was okay, not just physically but emotionally, to the extent that anyone could be given what they’d endured.

“Did she say when she’ll be back?” Miranda wondered, eager to see her. Not only was Samara her closest friend from the Normandy apart from Jacob, but she owed Samara her life. That was a debt that could never be repaid.

“No, she never mentioned. Both of us are always coming and going without notice. I haven't bumped into her in a few days, though,” Jacob nonchalantly answered, unable to give specifics. Miranda's features twinged beneath her bandages. “Don't take that as a bad sign. It just means she's busy rescuing people.”

That response wasn't sufficient to dismiss Miranda's apprehension, but she chose not to dwell on it. Maybe Jacob was right; maybe Samara had been visiting her bedside every day, just at times when Jacob wasn’t around.

“Have you found anyone else?” Miranda asked.

“From our crew? No.” He shook his head. “I mean, there's Wrex from the original Normandy. He's keeping the krogan in line. And, uh, you know...I can't confirm anything, because I haven't heard from her, but I have to figure Kasumi's fine. She never got anywhere near the fight. She just worked on the Crucible. Other than that, everyone else we know is MIA for the time being.”

“But no confirmed deaths?” Miranda noted, inferring as much.

“We haven't found any bodies. Or, if we have, we haven't identified them.” Jacob's voice didn't betray it, but Miranda could tell he was keeping the faith that the others would turn up alive. Maybe he hadn't believed it before, but Miranda's survival appeared to have rekindled his hope for the best.

“...Alright, then.” Miranda nodded, not so heartless as to deny him that small mercy, even if she knew it wasn’t realistic. With anyone else, she would have been brutally honest, but she cared about Jacob too much.

Besides, Earth was a big planet, and there were thousands of ships strewn throughout the solar system. Other members of their old crew could be out there, living on stored food and water, too far away to have made contact. Not all of them, of course. But one or two, maybe. That was better than zero.

...Great, now Miranda was starting to fool herself into becoming a bloody blind optimist too. False hope didn't suit her.

“Yeah, well, that's half the story, anyway.” Jacob muttered humourlessly, earning a curious glance from Miranda. “When I say everyone is MIA, that’s...You should know, Admiral Hackett confirmed that Commander Shepard was in the Crucible when it fired. Right at the centre of the blast. Admiral Anderson too.”

“Makes sense,” said Miranda. "I always thought that, if anyone was going to stop the Reapers, Shepard would be the one to do it. That’s what she does.”

“I know. That’s not why I’m telling you.” The sobriety on his face spoke volumes. She hadn't been awake when the wave of destruction devastated the city. She hadn't seen what he had. “Believe me, I don't say this lightly: there is no way anybody could have survived being on the Citadel when it went off.”

“Isn’t that what you thought about me too?” Miranda pointed out. “Shepard has accomplished things nobody thought she could before. She can’t...”

Jacob didn’t argue with her. He didn’t have to. His stark silence said it all.

The gravity of the situation rapidly sank in. Jacob wasn’t lying.

Miranda’s stomach churned, triggering a sharp pain in her chest. So, Shepard was gone. That was...difficult to comprehend, despite the fact that Miranda knew firsthand that Shepard's life could be snuffed out as easily as anyone else's.

Shepard had died once before. So why didn't the possibility of that happening again seem real? It wasn't a surprise. It wasn't unexpected. But it felt wrong.

Shepard was dead. Miranda couldn't help but feel like the universe had been fundamentally and irrevocably diminished. Yet the Earth was spinning normally. Life went on. The sun rose and fell as if nothing had been lost. But it had.

People like Shepard were...

No. There were no other people like Shepard.

“I'm afraid that's not all.” Jacob clasped his hands together, prepared to deliver more bad news. Miranda signalled for him to go on. Things could hardly get any worse than what he’d already told her, could they? “The Normandy is lost.”

Miranda paled. “Lost?” she said, struck to the core by his admission.

Miranda was as far from sentimental as could be, but it didn't seem possible. Miranda had gone into the fight expecting to die, and she had absolutely believed that every last member of the crew would willingly make the same sacrifice if it came to that. But to lose the ship hurt more than she'd anticipated.

And then there was EDI.

People often talked about ships as if they had a mind of their own. The Normandy actually did. Miranda had never previously believed that an AI should be considered a person, but EDI was the counterargument that had altered that view. Irrespective of any abstract concepts of what constituted ‘life’, EDI was unique – an individual unlike anyone else, before or since.

After everything the Normandy had steered them through during the suicide mission, this was how it ended? It wasn’t fair. And what about Joker? What about Garrus? Liara? Tali? Chakwas? Daniels? Donnelly? Adams? Traynor? Vega? Cortez? Losing EDI was bad enough, but everyone stationed aboard—

“Lost as in lost,” Jacob intervened, sensing she had assumed the worst. “We have no idea where it is, and we haven't heard a peep. They've just...vanished,” he said, not sure what to make of that. “No wreckage, no bodies that we know of. But we lost all communication with it after the Crucible fired.”

“What?” Miranda's one-eyed stare narrowed in abject confusion. “They're linked to Hackett’s ship by quantum entanglement. If the Normandy exists at any point in the universe and has power, they should be capable of sending messages.”

“Yeah, but they aren't, though.” Jacob reiterated, stumped for an explanation. “I don't know what else to tell you. Until we hear otherwise, that's the situation.”

That didn’t exactly lend itself to a positive interpretation. Either the Normandy had been destroyed, or it was too damaged to function, which was as good as a death sentence unless they’d landed on Earth. There was nothing to say where they might have ended up, or if anyone would ever discover the wreckage.

“What about me?” Miranda asked at last, unafraid to broach that grisly subject. Gingerly, she pushed herself forward into a proper sitting position, wincing as she did so, adjusting to only having one arm with which to balance her weight.

“Take it easy; you just woke up,” Jacob noted, respecting her space, but keeping watch in case she was expecting too much from herself too fast.

“I can manage,” Miranda assured him somewhat stonily, resenting her frailty. She hated being sidelined, which made being injured an inconvenient state of affairs. The sooner she bounced back and could go contribute something useful, the better. Jacob was glad to see she hadn't changed. “How am I?”

“You weren't doing so hot when Samara brought you in,” Jacob admitted, a shadow momentarily flickering across his features. “Nothing the docs couldn't handle, though. They patched you up nicely.”

Miranda fixed him with a stern look. “Jacob, you do realise that I have, in fact, noticed my arm is missing?” she deadpanned, unimpressed by his efforts to soften the blow. “I have tinnitus in one ear, I'm deaf in the other, and half my face hurts like hell. Don’t coddle me; save your understatement for someone else.”

Jacob chuckled at her scolding. Of course Miranda didn't need to be comforted. She wanted to hear the full extent of the damage she'd sustained in the crash, and her prognosis for how quickly she would recuperate.

“Well, your face hurts because you suffered some nasty burns there, plus minor ones to other parts of your body. But you knew that,” Jacob straightforwardly began, aware that Miranda would rather be slapped hard by reality than patronised. “Could have been a lot worse, but your eye wasn't so lucky.”

“I probably should have mentioned, I think I got shot there at one stage,” Miranda casually chimed in, as if they were discussing the weather.

“That must be why it couldn't be saved. They had to remove it.” Miranda nodded, perfectly fine with that. “You haven't got much of an ear on that side either. A lot of the outer cartilage was burned off, and your eardrum was perforated. I'm guessing that's the ear you meant when you said you're deaf on one side.”

“Sorry, can you repeat that?” Miranda facetiously cupped her intact ear.

Jacob snorted, lightly punching her in the arm. “Fuck off. I’m just going to assume I always need to talk to you from the right from now on.”

“At least I finally know what my good side is. It was always a curse being so symmetrical,” Miranda dryly quipped, unfazed. Jacob smirked, glad to see she was taking it in stride. He probably hadn't expected anything different.

“You tore your rotator cuff in your left shoulder. That'll take some healing,” Jacob continued, listing off everything he could remember. “As for the rest of the arm, well...the problem was, by the time they got to it, infection had already set in. Your arm was basically dead below the elbow. Amputation was the only course.”

“I anticipated that,” Miranda acknowledged. "I could have lost a lot more.”

"Yeah, you could. But your forearm got twisted around so much that it had virtually detached from your body. That might have been what saved you,” Jacob postulated. “Anyway, it's not going to hinder you in the long run. You know how far cybernetic limbs have come in the last couple of years.”

“Not by choice, but Kai Leng was quite eager to acquaint me with his enhancements. But prosthetics can wait,” Miranda filled in on his behalf. With Earth in disarray and countless casualties, that wasn't a priority. “Keep going,” Miranda encouraged, not forgetting that there was more. She wanted a full report, from head to toe. “How are my legs?”

“Better than the rest of you,” Jacob summarised. “Your right one is fine, but your left knee is busted – torn ligaments, stuff like that. Problem is, that falls under the 'elective' category. Hopefully, the worst of it will heal up by itself. But, put it this way, I wouldn't make plans to start wearing heels again any time soon.”

“Slap a pair of crutches on me and I'll be right as rain,” Miranda practically scoffed as she spoke. A busted knee barely warranted mentioning after all of that. “Well, one crutch,” Miranda belatedly added.

Jacob’s expression shifted, like he couldn’t decide whether to be amused or bemused. “This isn’t a criticism, but...you’re processing all of this way too well.”

“Why shouldn’t I? It’s not like I can change what happened to me,” Miranda noted with a nonchalant shrug, perplexed by the implication that her reaction ought to be otherwise. “Besides, disability and disfigurement are hardly the end of the world. They’re a fact of life that have formed part of the human experience for as long as there have been humans. There’s no need to be melodramatic.”

“Maybe not, but I think you owe me an apology for snapping at me before. You're the one brushing off these injuries like they're nothing,” Jacob commented, crossing his arms, not that he was shocked by her hypocrisy.

“They are nothing. I’m fine,” Miranda insisted.

“Whatever you say, Two-Face,” Jacob countered.

Miranda dismissively rolled her eye. “Okay, so my left side isn't what it used to be. So what? I'll cope. Other than what you've already told me, what else is there to keep me here? Superficial cuts and burns?”

All levity fell from Jacob's face, his complexion turning pale grey.

“What?” Miranda prompted at his stark silence, beginning to grow annoyed.

“...Miranda, you had sepsis,” Jacob solemnly revealed, his features deadly serious. He swallowed, finding it hard to confront those stomach-churning memories. “You’re recovering, but you...You nearly went into organ failure.”

His words were strikingly bleak, and his directness left Miranda appropriately chastened. She hadn't realised it was that dire. For the first time, Miranda grasped just how terrified Jacob had been that he was going to watch her die.

“Samara told me you’d stopped breathing when she got you to the paramedics,” Jacob went on, dodging her gaze, no longer able to deny how close he’d come to burying his best friend. “Any slower, and it might have been too late to resuscitate you. Hell, even after you got out of surgery, you were so far gone that the doctors were going to take you off life support, until Samara stepped in.”

Miranda creased her brow. “Stepped in how?” she asked in a hoarse whisper, suddenly remembering the bitter taste of ash and dust in her throat.

“She said, if they stopped your treatment, they would be sentencing you to certain death. Her Code would consider that attempted murder, and she would be compelled to prevent it, by any means,” he recounted, oblivious to the bewildered look that befell Miranda. “I made sure they knew she wasn’t joking.”

Miranda glanced aside, troubled. Her insight into Samara’s Code was limited, but...threatening doctors didn’t sound like something she would do. Then again, Samara would never act other than in strict accordance with the Code, much less misrepresent it. Maybe Miranda had misjudged its tenets.

“That’s three,” Miranda softly muttered, prompting Jacob to utter a confused hum, not following her. “Three things Samara did to save my life.”

“Yeah, well, you ever scare me like that again and you’re gonna answer to my left hook,” he warned, with the kind of tone that only came from a genuine bond. “Seriously, the way you stress me out can't be good for my heart.”

“Really? Mine's fine,” Miranda remarked, tilting her head at the monitor as proof.

“One of these days you're going to be the one worrying about me. And when that day comes, you're going to be – what would you call it? – a blubbering wreck,” he playfully teased her, imitating her accent, poorly.

“First off, that was cockney; that’s not even close to how I sound. And, secondly, I don't think 'blubbering' is in my genetic sequence,” she replied.

“Liar.” Jacob wore a knowing smirk, wagging a finger at her. “I was there on Illium, when Shepard talked you into meeting your little sister.”

“Clearly you're an unreliable witness,” Miranda persisted with a mock huff. “I recall being perfectly composed that entire time.”

“Your concussion must have been worse than I thought. Looks like your memory isn't quite as sharp as it used to be,” he joked, tapping her lightly on the head. “Excuse me, nurse, the patient is exhibiting signs of delusional thinking—“

“Get out of it.” Miranda swiftly swatted his hand away. “On second thought, Jacob, I can guarantee that I won't be a blubbering wreck if you end up on an operating table because, at this rate, I'm going to be the one who put you there.”

Jacob snickered. “I’d deserve it, too, but it’d be worth it.”

Miranda tried to feign vexation, but she couldn’t. Having Jacob’s company made a world of difference in these dark times. Their relationship had never been simple, especially after they broke up, but after all they'd been through together they were practically family, with all the ups and downs that entailed.

As a consequence of her upbringing, companionship was exceptionally rare for Miranda. In thirty-six years, there were no more than five people with whom Miranda could say she had formed any kind of intimate personal connection: Niket, Jacob, Shepard, Oriana, and Samara. That two of them were alive and on Earth with her meant far more than she would have thought up until a year ago.

And yet, there was one absence that could not be so easily overcome. The most important person of all. Even the other four combined could never fill that aching hole. Not through any fault of their own, but because they weren't her.

Her sister – her genetic twin.

She couldn't banish the thought of Oriana, stranded out there on Horizon. With the mass relays gone and the comms down, the colony must have descended into total panic. It set her teeth on edge to imagine what she was going through.

Fear. Confusion. Grief. Mourning.

“Jacob...” Miranda sat forward, a horrible heartache swelling inside her, making her nauseous. But she couldn’t let herself faint. “Does Oriana know I’m alive?”

“I sent a message to her as soon as Samara found you, but public email service isn't a priority. Military and diplomatic channels take precedence when it comes to bandwidth. We're trying as hard as we can, but...” He trailed off.

There had been no progress. They were no closer to contacting the people they loved. And he couldn't tell her when that was likely to change.

Suddenly, the vast distances of the galaxy had become so much greater.

It had barely been a month since Miranda had wrapped her arms around Oriana outside the spaceport on Horizon, letting her thumb gently graze across her forehead, brushing stray strands of hair out of her sister’s eyes as she told her that this wasn’t goodbye. Was that the last time she would ever hold her?

With the Extranet crippled, there was no guarantee Miranda could get through to her. Even if she could, who knew how long it would take to reach Oriana?

Until they knew the answer to that question, time would be her prison. Through all her crushing isolation, Oriana could only sit there, held captive by the clock, waiting day after day for a call that may never come. And it was Miranda's fault.

Even if they lived another two hundred years, they might never set foot on the same ground again. If the mass relays couldn't be fixed, then they would never get to start that new life together that Miranda had dreamed of for so long.

“I lied to her, Jacob,” Miranda murmured. Vacant. Distant. “I promised I’d come back to her. But I was lying.” She shook her head, tumultuous emotions stirring inside her. “Our father killed her adoptive family. I'm all she has. I knew that. And I left her. I only just found her, and now it's possible I’ll never see her again.”

Jacob put his arms around her, letting her head fall on his shoulder. Miranda didn't cry. She almost never did, and this was no exception. But she felt a tightening in her chest that wouldn't go away. The guilt was suffocating.

“You aren't the only one breaking promises,” he said, perching on the edge of the bed beside her. “It's fitting. My father was gone for ten years. Longer, actually. He was never the most present guy, even when he was around. After I saw what he'd become, I swore...Well, no, I didn't swear not to be like him; I knew I wasn't. How could anybody be like that? Except here I am.”

“Jacob, don't say that,” Miranda protested, pulling away. How could he even think that? “You're nothing like your father. Not what he became.”

“Why not? I might be away from Brynn and our child a damn sight more than ten years,” he pointed out, gesturing at his surroundings indicatively. “I'm abandoning them, just like he abandoned me.”

“Your circumstances are somewhat different from his,” Miranda noted. Sympathy wasn't a trait she possessed in any great abundance, but she did demonstrate it occasionally. This was one of those moments. “You’re not your father and I’m not mine. He was a manipulative criminal. You’re not. He could have activated that beacon at any time if he wanted to come home. You can't.”

“Doesn't change the fact that I chose to leave. I knew I was risking a lot coming here to fight the Reapers, but I chose to be here instead of with them. Maybe I shouldn't have,” Jacob confessed his doubts, getting up and moving away from her bedside, his hands perched on his hips as he chastised himself.

“You don't mean that.” Miranda sat forward to try and catch him by the sleeve, but he stepped out of her reach, refusing to be consoled.

“I'm not sure what I mean,” he shot back, unable to distinguish between fleeting manifestations of grief and what he really believed. “You made the same choice. Are you telling me that you're certain it was the right one? If you could rewind time, would you still say that coming here to fight the Reapers was worth leaving Oriana behind? Is that how really you feel?”

“...I can't ask myself that. Not yet,” Miranda quietly conceded, a rare glimmer of vulnerability. “I’ve lost a lot to this battle, Jacob. Not just what you can see.” She glanced aside, not ready to talk about watching her team die. “Call it cowardice, but I'm not keen to examine the issue only to decide it was a mistake.”

“No, you're right.” Jacob sighed, regretting the tone he’d taken with Miranda then. “We are where we are. We're stuck here, and we can't change that. Beating ourselves up won't get us any closer to our families.”

“Would that it could,” said Miranda, her fingers combing through her hair. She and Jacob, they really were in the same boat, weren't they?

She wouldn't wish these regrets upon her worst enemy, much less her best friend, but that was out of their control. Jacob couldn't stem his pain, nor Miranda hers. They had both been separated from their only family, possibly for good.

If their grief was going to consume each of them, at least they could endure it together, sharing the load. Perhaps the despair wouldn't hurt so much if they faced it side by side. Or maybe carrying each other’s burdens on top of their own would make it hurt twice as much. But hey, misery loved company.

* * *

There was a rumour on the Normandy that Miranda never stopped working, but to perform basic necessities like sleeping and showering. Anyone who claimed to have witnessed her out of her office for anything other than a strictly functional purpose was assumed to be lying, or delusional.

While Miranda did nothing to dissuade the myth, there was one person who could have attested to the contrary: Samara.

Apparently nobody else noticed that, over the past several days, it was becoming increasingly common for Miranda to find herself wandering over to the Normandy's Starboard Observation Deck when she was finished for the day, or in the rare moments when she forced herself to take a break, or when she knew intellectually that she needed to sleep but couldn't convince her body to do it.

Why not? Miranda could hardly relax in her office, with her desk right there, judging her for not working while the bustle from the kitchen and mess hall filtered through her walls. She had to do something with her spare time, what little she had of it, and she wasn’t exactly inundated with myriad options.

The ability to be social was one trait her father had not instilled her with. In fact, he’d actively discouraged it. As a consequence, Miranda had grown accustomed to solitude and she never saw the purpose of rectifying that. Most people weren't worth her time, and giving them the benefit of the doubt usually proved that, if flotation devices ran on intelligent thoughts, theirs would sink like lead.

She doubted the Normandy’s crew would be surprised to learn that ‘mingling’ with them was something Miranda would typically only have done if forced at gunpoint – even then giving some weight to the merits of the bullet. She loathed idle chit chat, and almost everyone on this ship got on her nerves. Even the ones who didn’t began to grate if they lingered too long.

But Samara? She was the exception.

Unlike the others, Samara never forced her into a conversation. She was content to meditate undisturbed by Miranda's presence. She never felt obligated to fill the tranquil silence with superfluous small talk. They had spoken when the mood struck, of course, but it was never an essential requirement.

She could drift in and out when she wished. Samara wouldn't question her, or demand a reason. There were no expectations. Miranda could just exist, even more comfortably than in her own quarters, which was a welcome change.

Not to mention that Miranda quickly grew to appreciate why Samara had chosen this room as her sanctuary. She was right; it was peaceful. The view across the vast expanses of the cosmos compelled one to a contemplative mood. It was quite relaxing to sit back on the lounge with a cocktail in her hand and slip into introspection, gazing out at passing stars, planets and nebulae.

On that particular night, sleep eluded Miranda for another reason, and she sought harbour there again. It was late. Much later than any prior visit. Only a skeleton crew was awake to operate the Normandy's basic systems.

Miranda had opted to bring her work with her, burying herself in tasks she ordinarily would have finished hours ago, since she thought the pristine silence might help her concentrate and...distract from other things. Her typing didn’t seem to bother Samara, taking the absence of any objection as tacit consent.

In truth, Miranda was barely paying attention to her screen. Alas, taking refuge there wasn’t calming her nerves. Then again, what would?

She'd heard word that Oriana’s location had been compromised. Her father knew where she was, and he would stop at nothing to recover his lost investment. Luckily, Cerberus caught wind of the breach and had arranged to move Oriana out of harm’s way. But Miranda was tense nevertheless.

How the hell had he managed to track her down? On Illium, of all places? This didn't add up. She'd been so careful. But she supposed it was too late to worry about what she’d done wrong. All that mattered now was keeping him at bay.

That was why she had to be there. She had to ensure the transfer went without incident. She had to oversee it in person to make absolutely sure any risk to Oriana was quashed. She wouldn’t be able to stop fretting about her until she knew her sister was out of her father’s reach.

If her father got his hands on Oriana...No. Miranda would sooner die than let that happen. She would never fail Oriana like that. She would never forgive herself.

That was why nothing could be left to chance.

“Ah, fuck me dead,” Miranda cursed under her breath in frustration, realising she'd made a critical mistake in her work. An uncharacteristic lapse. Again.

Samara blinked. “What?” She turned her head in confusion once her words registered, the first time Miranda had seen her trance involuntarily disrupted.

“It's a...saying where I'm from. Don't worry about it.” Miranda waved her off. She hadn’t thought Samara was listening but evidently that harsh whisper directed at herself had not been so quiet as to escape detection.

Samara's mildly bewildered expression did not fade immediately, but she chose not to question that, regaining her poise and returning to her meditation.

Miranda hastened to proofread her analysis for more errors. It was no mystery why she'd faltered, preoccupied by her fears for Oriana’s safety that dominated her mind. And her mounting stream of mistakes only added to her stress.

This didn't bode well for the mission. Miranda couldn’t afford to be inattentive when Oriana was in imminent danger. If she was missing things now, what chance did she have of being in a better frame of mind tomorrow, operating on no sleep?

It was stupid. She shouldn't have been anxious. It was a simple relocation. Cerberus were already one step ahead of Henry Lawson. They knew he was planning to abduct her, and they would have made the necessary preparations to avoid him and his agents. Everything was going to be fine.

But what if it wasn't?

“Miranda...” At the sound of her name, she glanced up to find that Samara’s glow had faded, her energy dispersed. “Would you care to join me?”

“Join you?” Miranda echoed, unsure what she meant.

“In meditation,” Samara clarified, indicating a spot on the floor next to her. She seemed to have picked up on Miranda's unusually troubled countenance, despite how closely she guarded her thoughts.

“Why?” Miranda arched an eyebrow. “What purpose would that serve?”

“There are several benefits,” Samara calmly replied, unoffended by Miranda's curt response. “It may help you focus, providing you with a means to channel extraneous energy, which will aid in sharpening your mind.”

“Is that why you do it?” Miranda asked. When she wasn’t in the field with Shepard, Samara's entire life aboard the Normandy seemed to revolve around her meditation. It was only sensible to wonder what she gained from it.

“Not primarily, no,” Samara admitted, “But I did not expect you would find spiritual enlightenment to be a compelling motivation.”

“You thought correctly,” Miranda acknowledged. But, despite her misgivings, Samara did have a point; there were practical reasons for attempting it.

Miranda couldn't afford to not be thinking straight tomorrow. Snowing herself in with work was failing horribly, and at this rate she certainly wouldn’t be getting any sleep that night. Perhaps Samara’s meditation exercises would settle her down enough to alter her anxious mental state, like a form of self-hypnosis.

“...Sure, why not?” Miranda unenthusiastically acquiesced, moving to sit beside Samara, who seemed pleasantly surprised by that her suggestion had been heeded. Miranda didn’t think it was polite to announce that she was only giving in because she had no better ideas. “I have to warn you, this probably isn't going to work. The ability to switch off my thoughts was not programmed into me.”

“Thought is distinct from mindfulness,” Samara advised. “The goal of meditation is not to cease the former, but to obtain the clarity that allows the latter to flourish. And, if this does not come naturally to you, perhaps that is an indication that you would benefit more than most from learning the technique.”

Miranda didn't lose her scepticism, but she couldn't argue with that.

“If you're willing to teach me, I'm willing to try.” Miranda straightened her back, emulating Samara's cross-legged position.

Samara re-adopted her perfect posture, enveloped by a luminescent shroud. “Clear your mind and let your biotics flow through you. Sustaining them will assist in ridding you of distractions. I choose to do so by forming a ball of biotic energy, but perhaps you would prefer to levitate a small object to begin.”

“No. I can do it,” Miranda assured her. Her biotics weren't as powerful as Samara's but, in theory, she was capable of all the same feats.

Miranda surrounded herself with a comparatively faint biotic field, enhancing her senses, forming a tight sphere of energy between her palms, confident in her ability to hold it together. She soon understood what Samara meant; it took a great deal of willpower to sit stone still while keeping her biotics simultaneously charged and reined in. She couldn't afford to let her thoughts wander too far.

“Wait until your mind has quietened,” Samara continued when Miranda had stabilised her energies. “Then, you can shift your consciousness away from the physical, and reflect on that which has true meaning to you.”

Miranda's brow subtly twitched. She knew what had meaning to her, because there was only one thing that ever had: protecting Oriana.

She had sacrificed so much to get Oriana far away from her father, and she would do it a million times over in a heartbeat. She pictured Oriana confined to that gilded cage, forced to endure echoes of the same abuse Miranda had suffered at their father’s hands. Emotional. Psychological. Sometimes physical.

Miranda was never allowed to be a child. Not allowed to cry. Not allowed be frightened or angry. Some of her earliest memories involved her father’s endless dissatisfaction that his ideal creation hadn’t been born free of those innate emotional responses. Over the years, he’d set about drilling them out of her with ruthless efficiency, until they almost completely ceased to exist within her.

It wasn't like it was any better if she smiled or laughed. Whenever Miranda found something that brought her a shred of joy, her father would sneer at her, accuse it of being frivolous and take it away, denying her anything that he hadn't granted her or given her his express permission to partake in.

She’d never been held. Never been hugged. Any emotion Miranda expressed, she was punished for and taught to suppress, because it displeased him.

Her father never wanted her to develop her own feelings. She was simply meant to be an obedient machine, with no likes or dislikes that he had not instilled in her. In his twisted view, she was his property, right down to her very thoughts.

Miranda existed solely to be an instrument of his will. His restrictive rules and rigorous training were all designed to mould her into fulfilling his vision of a perfect clone who would parrot his beliefs and perpetuate his legacy. Vanity had compelled him to create her, because it was the closest he could come to influencing the future by ensuring his ambition continued after his death.

That Miranda was not a mindless vessel primed to be filled with her father's beliefs was surely his greatest disappointment. For the longest time, Miranda had thought that must have been why he'd decided Miranda had outlived her usefulness and elected to grow another. But, of course, discovering her infertility made it obvious that discarding her had always been his intention.

A replacement for a failed prototype. That was what Oriana was created to be. That was her purpose in his grand designs. Nothing more, nothing less.

Miranda imagined Oriana following the path their father had planned, being tormented by him until she became what he wanted her to be – exactly what Oriana could have been had Miranda not seen through his deception in time to escape with her. Barely less of a puppet than the Collectors.

Even if he didn't manage to brainwash her to bring her to heel, Miranda knew precisely what living under her father's relentless control could do to a person. He would take everything that was beautiful about Oriana and crush it because, to him, those qualities would be flaws. He would savagely punish failure and never reward success, because perfection was the minimum he expected.

Nothing Oriana did would ever be good enough for him. He would criticise every single thing she did, forcing her to adhere to his strict, often arbitrary demands until he finally erased every shred of her identity.

If she had grown up like that, there was no guarantee Oriana would have survived. Maybe she would have failed even earlier than Miranda. Not that the outcome would have been much better if she managed to achieve her father’s goals.

Instead of the happy, vibrant young woman that Miranda had seen in the limited glimpses she allowed herself from afar, her father would have raised Oriana to be cold, aloof, detached. He would have kept her isolated, friendless, deprived of social bonds, permanently hindering her ability to communicate with others, relate to them, or form normal emotional responses to interpersonal situations.

Just like he’d already done to Miranda.

All of a sudden, Miranda's bubble of energy burst, throwing her off-balance, though she instinctively stuck her arms out behind her and caught herself before she fell. The small blast didn't rouse Samara from her trance. It was almost like she'd expected the premature detonation.

Miranda cleared her throat, trying to regain some dignity. “I did warn you,” she uttered, disgruntled with her ongoing propensity towards failure as of late.

“It is alright. You saw something you do not wish to confront; something you cannot accept,” Samara stated, understanding why Miranda lost focus. “I will not ask you to discuss it. Your thoughts are your own. But learning to meditate on that with which you are not currently at peace rather than resisting it may aid you in attaining harmony. That is, if you choose to pursue it, as I have.”

Miranda sighed. She wasn't so sure she wanted to stare in the proverbial mirror any longer than she had. That part of her life was years ago, and it didn't accomplish anything to dig up the past. She couldn't afford to when such critical tasks were at hand. It would only disrupt the mission

Letting such things run rampant through her psyche when she had long since moved on with her life was irrational and, given her position as second-in-command aboard the ship, irresponsible. There was no sense dwelling on it.

“This isn't the best time,” Miranda declined. She was never going to be able to clear her head while her concern for Oriana dominated her subconscious. “After tomorrow, maybe. I might be in a better place. We'll see.”

Samara considered her response, but took Miranda at her word, believing it wasn't a mere excuse. She gave Miranda too much credit, because it was.

“If it would interest you, perhaps I could instruct you in the use of some of my biotic abilities,” Samara offered, maintaining her field with no strain whatsoever. She made it look effortless. If Miranda were pettier, she might have envied her composure. Instead, she admired it. “I do not know if we will have time to develop them to a combat-effective state. However—”

“I’m not averse to that idea,” said Miranda, “Though I can’t make any solid time commitments.” The jury may have been out on meditation, but taking the opportunity to improve her biotics was an objectively sensible decision.

The Collectors had nearly killed Miranda on Horizon. Shepard and Mordin too. Given what they were up against, she would have been foolish not to accept. And, considering that Samara was, so far, the only person on this ship whose company never vexed her, spending more time with her to gain the benefit of her biotic expertise wasn’t an unpleasant prospect.

“Very well. I look forward to it,” Samara sincerely replied, leaving it at that.

Miranda didn't realise it at the time, but that was when their friendship truly began.

* * *

“Jacob…” Miranda said warningly, her one-eyed stare unwavering.

“Miranda, no,” he steadfastly refused.

“Hand me the box, Jacob,” she commanded, holding out her arm expectantly.

“Look, I brought you a change of clothes and a crutch like you asked me to because I thought it would make you more comfortable here. But I am not going to help you escape, Miranda,” he told her, keeping a tight grip on the box. “You’re leaving this hospital when you’re good and ready. Not a moment sooner.”

“Good thing I heal fast, then,” Miranda remarked, smirking. “Besides, escape makes it sound like they have the authority to keep me here. I prefer to think of it as discharging myself.” Jacob was unamused. “Come on. This bed is uncomfortable, anyway. And the combination of boredom and tinnitus might actually drive me to strangle someone if I have to stay here another night.”

“Miranda, you can’t even handle food in your stomach yet. The only thing they’ve been able to give you to eat these past two days is…” Jacob trailed off, pointing at the untouched bowl beside her bed. “I mean, I can’t even call that soup. It’s water with flavouring. And you’ve still thrown up every single time you’ve eaten.”

“I’ve been lying here staring at the ceiling for over a week while they pump me full of morphine, sedatives and antibiotics. Lo and behold, they all cause nausea,” Miranda dismissively explained, brushing that off.

“Why do you hate being here so much?” Jacob asked, at a loss.

“Because I have nothing to do except lie here listening to my ear ring!” Miranda snapped, on the verge of losing her mind. “They won’t even let me walk to the bathroom under my own power. It's six metres away! But instead I have to press a button and call a nurse to take me there in a wheelchair like I’m a bloody dementia patient,” she grumbled, detesting that lack of autonomy.

“You don’t understand the concept of being sick, do you?” Jacob commented, unable to fathom that someone so intelligent was so staunchly committed to wilful ignorance when it came to her own limitations. “You’re not over your sepsis yet. If you were well enough to be outside, you wouldn’t be in hospital.”

“I’m more qualified than any of these doctors to declare myself fit,” Miranda retorted with an irritated huff, not at all entertained by his opposition.

“Not from any accredited university,” Jacob pointed out, earning a glare.

“Everyone who brought someone back from the dead raise your hand,” said Miranda, doing exactly that, confidently cocking her head. “How many people with a legitimate medical degree can say that?”

“Alright. Fine. Jesus.” Jacob sighed, reluctantly surrendering the box.

“He didn’t raise the dead; he rose from the dead. But I appreciate the comparison,” said Miranda, incredibly satisfied with herself, examining her fresh clothes. It wasn’t anything fancy, just some black pants, a grey t-shirt and some boots, but she supposed she couldn’t be choosy. Casual would suffice.

“This isn’t funny, and neither are you,” Jacob protested as Miranda carefully shifted her legs over the edge of the bed, removing the cannula from her nose and the sensors from her chest, which wasn’t easy with the drip still hooked into her arm. “You are nowhere near ready to get involved in post-war operations.”

“I’m injured, I’m not bloody useless,” Miranda insisted with an irritable scoff. “You need my help. You know you do. I’m not going to spend all my time confined to a bed like a vegetable just because I have one arm, one eye, one ear and a limp. That’s ridiculous,” she said, shaking her head at the absurdity.

Miranda possessed enough self-awareness to concede her cold-hearted reputation was not wholly undeserved, but she didn't require a great deal of empathy to recognise that there were countless others out there worse off than she was – people whose survival hung by a thread while vital resources, life-saving drugs and medical personnel were far too scarce to cope with demand.

The reality was that Miranda was not at death's door, and that meant she should no longer be a priority patient. Frankly, she wouldn't have had it any other way. Even one-eyed and one-armed, she could make a difference. She didn’t plan on hanging around waiting for non-urgent care before taking action.

Jacob paused, moving over to crouch beside Miranda, his fingers tented together. She peered at him, briefly halting her sensor-removal, annoyed.

“What?” she asked.

“Miranda, you need to admit you have a problem,” Jacob counselled her, putting his hand atop hers. “You are a workaholic; you are addicted to work,” he informed her, staging an intervention. “Seek treatment.”

“Have you ever noticed that it’s only humans who talk about people doing their jobs too well like it’s a problem?” Miranda observed, intrigued by that nonsensical mindset. “That’s what’s holding us back as a species,” she astutely declared, returning to the business of peeling off the last of the nodes.

She couldn’t stand this hospital. Every time Jacob left her alone, she grew restless. She couldn’t relax because there was nothing to distract her from the constant ringing in her ear. It was driving her insane. She needed something to do – something to take her mind off it. Anything. Or at least anything other than the memories of her dead team, or her misery at being separated from Oriana.

If Samara had come and visited her, that might have helped. But she hadn’t. Nobody had seen Samara in nearly two weeks, which was...well, Miranda was sure she’d have a good explanation for that when she ran into her.

Jacob stared at her, evidently realising that he didn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell of stopping her. Once Miranda’s mind was set on a particular goal, she was virtually impossible to deter, even when said goal was contrary to reason.

“…You are literally the worst person I’ve ever met. And the only reason I’m still helping you is because I know you’re just going to climb out that window if I don’t, and I refuse to be responsible for you plummeting to your death,” he acquiesced at long last, gently taking hold of her wrist and extracting the drip and cannula from her arm, which she obviously couldn’t do on her own.

“You’re a good friend, Jacob,” said Miranda, her lips curling into a slight smile, glad he’d been persuaded to offer his assistance.

“If by ‘friend’ you mean 'accomplice’,” he remarked disapprovingly.

“Stop whinging and help me get changed,” she instructed.

He handed her some underwear, which she slid on, followed by pants, cautious not to aggravate her knee in the process. After that, she took off her hospital gown and gingerly pulled the t-shirt over her head, cautious of her amputated arm. The last thing she needed was to show Jacob she was in any pain.

“If you get stuck, I’m leaving you that way,” Jacob stated.

“I won’t get stuck,” Miranda insisted, wishing he would stop complaining so much. And, sure enough, she didn’t, guiding her stump through the sleeve while putting as little pressure on her torn rotator cuff as possible. That done, she slipped her right arm through and rolled down the hem of the shirt to cover her torso. A thought occurred to her. “Jacob, hand me your jacket."

“What for?” he asked, suspicious.

“Look, I know I’m not the only amputee walking around at the moment, but I’d rather not attract attention,” Miranda pointed out. On top of the limp and the facial bandage, she didn’t want to make it too obvious she hadn’t been cleared to check out yet. The more she could disguise it, the better.

Jacob cooperated, draping his jacket over her shoulders, concealing her missing arm, and buttoning the collar around her neck to stop it from falling off. Once she zipped up her boots, she was all dressed and good to go. She flexed her fingers on the handle of her crutch, tucking it beneath her shoulder.

“You ready?” Jacob asked, standing back, letting her do this by herself.

“Won’t know until I try,” Miranda said, hiding her hesitancy.

Despite what Jacob may have thought, Miranda wasn’t being rash or foolish. This would be her first attempt to walk in over a fortnight. Neither leg had been able to properly support her weight by the time Samara found her. She could only hope that she had recovered enough to manage this.

She got up, leaning on both her right leg and her crutch for balance. It felt odd, finally standing upright again. But that had been the easy part. Tentatively, she moved her left foot, readying her crutch for the act of taking a step.

Her left knee flared with pain, threatening to buckle. The shock of it prompted her to shift her weight back to her right foot as quickly as possible, overbalancing in the process. Fortunately, Jacob reached out to catch her by the shoulder, allowing her to lean on him as she regained her footing.

“Agh. I think I did that wrong,” Miranda hissed through clenched teeth, willing the ache in her knee to subside before her second attempt.

“This your first time using one of these?” Jacob asked out of curiosity.

“No. I just haven’t walked in over two weeks,” Miranda spoke sharply, frustrated with herself, and running low on patience. “Give me a minute.”

“I don’t suppose this will convince you to change your mind about staying here?” said Jacob, doubtfully. Jacob had seen her get beaten and tortured before. She hadn’t looked vulnerable then. She didn’t look it now.

“Not a chance,” she replied, refusing to be defeated by a god damn sore knee. “My grand escape might just be…slower than I’d planned.”

“I thought you said this wasn’t an escape,” he said, detecting the contradiction.

“Plans change,” Miranda quipped.

Jacob snorted. “Just so we’re clear, you owe me big time on this,” he told her, putting an arm around Miranda’s waist to steady her, although she didn’t require his assistance for more than a few shaky steps before she got the hang of it, after which point he let her carry on unaided. “No, seriously. I’m talking, 'indebted to me for the rest of your life’ kind of big.”

“Yes, extort the disabled woman,” Miranda remarked, rolling her eye as they came to the doorway. “You really want to do that, Jacob?”

“When it’s you, definitely,” he happily confirmed.

Miranda frowned. But, alas, she lacked alternatives. “Alright, fine. I accept your terms,” she surrendered, grimacing slightly as she shuffled forward. “Now show me the quickest way out of here, and fill me in on what I should know.”

“About London?” Jacob asked.

“That’d be a start.”

* * *

The doors to the Observation Deck slid open with a soft hiss. “Miranda,” Samara greeted her arrival, not needing to turn to confirm her identity.

“Good evening, Samara,” Miranda responded, her tone abnormally upbeat.

Evidently, it didn’t go unnoticed. “It would appear that what I have heard is true,” Samara deduced. Miranda tilted her head. “You spoke to your sister.”

Miranda snorted as she stepped inside. “Nothing can stay private on this ship, can it? Let me guess: Kasumi told you?” Samara's silence served as tacit confirmation. Miranda exhaled, unable to be mad about it. “It wasn’t planned. I always thought it would be selfish to interfere in her life. But then Shepard took me aside and said maybe it isn’t so wrong for Oriana to know she has a sister who loves her."

“And was Shepard correct?” Samara asked.

Miranda couldn’t fight off a smirk. “She can be.” The hint of a smile on Samara’s lips betrayed that she was pleased with that news. “Oddly enough, I don't think Oriana was even surprised when I walked up and told her who I was.”

“She shares your intelligence,” Samara noted, not shocked to hear that. “You have watched over her all her life. With such an astute mind, I do not expect she would have failed to perceive the evidence that she was not alone.”

“Nor do I. I don't think much gets past her.” Miranda chuckled under her breath, amused to discover that her sister's cheery demeanour belied a cunning wit no less incisive than her own. “We're alike in many ways. Identical twins often are, I suppose. But, at the same time, she's absolutely nothing like me.”

Miranda approached the window, gazing out at the stars as she replayed her conversation with Oriana in her head. Her skin still tingled, mesmerised by how it had felt to hold Oriana in her embrace for the first time in nineteen years. She could scarcely believe that this wasn’t a dream – that nothing was going to pop her bubble and prove her stolen shard of joy to be ephemeral.

“Oriana's just...she’s an amazing person,” Miranda all but gushed. “She's kind-hearted and funny, and I'm neither of those things. Which is good, because it means everything I did for her was right, despite what Niket said.”

“You mean keeping her away from your father?” Samara surmised.

At the mention of him, Miranda tensed imperceptibly. It was then that she remembered her place, coming to her senses and realising how much she was divulging to a colleague she'd known for less than a month.

“What am I doing?” Miranda shook her head at herself, conscious of how foolish she must have appeared in that moment. “I apologise. I shouldn’t be commandeering your time blathering on about my personal life.”

“You commandeered nothing,” Samara assured her, letting her biotic field fade. “It was freely given.”

Miranda didn't know if that was sincerity or courtesy. Nevertheless, she couldn't help but feel that to behave so casually with a work colleague bordered on inappropriate. Miranda was there to do a job. The Illusive Man expected her to be professional, and, more importantly, she expected it of herself.

“Look, I appreciate you helping me clear my head yesterday, but I'm not here to gain anyone's sympathy with some big sob story about my childhood,” Miranda spoke frankly. “Everyone has problems. I deal with mine on my own.”

“As you should, and as we all must,” Samara affirmed, respecting her independent streak for the admirable quality it was. “However, it is not folly to speak truthfully about oneself, nor is it selfish to accept advice when it is offered voluntarily, though I will refrain from doing so if you do not wish to hear it.”

“I didn't say that.” Miranda frowned, not wishing to create that impression. She enjoyed Samara’s company, and she didn't intend to carelessly toss it aside. “I’m just aware you have better things to do than listen to me talk your ear off. It's not why you're here. I'll go to Kelly Chambers if I want a therapy session.”

“Have you spoken with her about this?” Samara asked, curious.

“No, not yet,” Miranda answered. Frankly, she didn't like going to see Kelly, even though it was compulsory to do so when events warranted it. Events such as reuniting with a long lost sister and watching an old friend die in front of her.

It was hard to trust that a grown adult could be that bubbly and optimistic without hiding some kind of ulterior motive. Her relentless cheerfulness rubbed Miranda the wrong way. But as long as Kelly gave the tick of approval that Miranda was competent to perform her duties then it was fine, she supposed.

“Will you write to The Illusive Man about today’s events?” Samara inquired.

“I always do. I report everything to him,” Miranda confirmed. Up to and including the contents of everyone’s mail. But that wasn’t to be publicised.

“I am aware,” Samara acknowledged, accustomed to Miranda’s routine, given how often she brought her work over. “For reasons that may soon become apparent, I will be speaking with Ms Chambers shortly. Will you be including my subsequent psychological evaluation in your correspondence to The Illusive Man?”

“Yes, and I sent him your first one after you came aboard,” Miranda stated the obvious, seeing no reason to deny that fact. There was no boundary she wouldn’t cross when it came to keeping The Illusive Man informed as to the strengths and weaknesses of his team. “Is that an issue?”

“It is not,” Samara replied, unperturbed. “You are obliged to carry out your duties, and you would fulfil them even were I to object, as I would mine. As you should.”

“Good,” said Miranda, glad to hear Samara appreciated what it meant to have responsibilities, unlike most of the other people Shepard had recruited. Every time Miranda did her job, they seemed to interpret it as an act of malice.

“I do not believe I ever properly thanked you for your assistance, on the day we met,” Samara continued, arising from the floor and moving to stand beside Miranda, her posture tall and upright, hands clasped behind her back.

“For helping you find the name of that ship? I can't claim much credit,” Miranda admitted. It wasn't humility, just reality. “Shepard makes those choices. My role is to ensure her decisions are carried out successfully, and to give counsel that perhaps isn't heeded as often as it ought to be. But I can't complain. Commander Shepard has proven to be an effective leader, by any measure.”

“Indeed. And the information she uncovered with your aid has been invaluable.” Miranda looked at Samara then, but there was no joy or righteous determination in her expression. “I have tracked the Demeter’s course. The criminal I have been hunting for the past four hundred years disembarked on Omega. I intend to inform Ms Chambers of this shortly, and Commander Shepard.”

“But you’re telling me first?” Miranda noted, somewhat surprised by that. Nobody ever told her anything first. Even Jacob didn’t always seem to fully trust what she’d do with the information.

“I gave you my word that I would bring it to your attention immediately if I became aware of any matter that may affect the mission, or my role in it,” Samara reminded her. Needless to say, Miranda remembered that conversation clearly. “I do not give my word without intending to keep it.”

“Huh. I didn’t think you meant that so literally but...thank you. I appreciate it,” said Miranda, impressed. Samara was nothing if not principled. She’d long since proven that Miranda’s initial instinct to show faith in her was well-placed. “I could pass this on, if you wanted,” she offered, since it would save Samara the trouble.

“No,” Samara politely refused, her speech devoid of inflection. Almost...hollow. “This is something I must discuss in person.”

“If you insist,” Miranda accepted that, even if she did find Samara's solemnity incongruous. That being said, Samara’s reasons for taking her pursuit so seriously were none of Miranda's business. She didn't need to interfere.

She was a Justicar, after all. Maybe they were always like this.

“Since we’re on the subject, there’s something I still haven’t managed to figure out about that day: would you really have killed Detective Anaya if we hadn’t secured your release?” Miranda asked, finding it eerie to ponder that the serene woman before her was capable of resorting to such extremes without remorse.

“Yes,” Samara answered plainly, as if that should have been self-evident, making eye-contact with Miranda. “Would you not be compelled to do the same if you were detained, thereby preventing you from obtaining crucial information concerning the Collectors, or from saving your sister from your father?”

Miranda arched an eyebrow. Was that a rhetorical question? “If there was no efficient alternative, yes. I would do whatever was necessary to escape. Of course I would.” Except, unlike Samara, she wouldn't have given them a day.

“Then you understand why I could not have done otherwise, though I would deeply regret each life I was forced to end. In those circumstances, to be merciful would be misguided. To deviate from The Code would tacitly permit a grave injustice,” Samara explained. Rational, not emotional. Much like Miranda.

“I guess that's my next question; what constitutes grave injustice according to your Code?” Miranda inquired, folding her arms across her chest, gauging Samara. Even though they'd spoken several times, she ultimately knew very little about her and the strict way of life she adhered to. “You remember that Eclipse mercenary Shepard let go – against my judgement, I might add. Would you have killed Detective Anaya if you were hunting her?”

“No. In most situations where pursuing a criminal would cause an innocent to come to harm, I would be required to break pursuit to save the innocent,” Samara told her, much to Miranda’s approval. It was a relief to hear that The Code was amenable to reason on that account. “Do not mistake my candour for ease; if ever I must resort to taking an innocent life, know that it is because the consequences of failing to do so would cause many more to be slain.”

“Is one, lone criminal that dangerous?” Miranda wondered aloud, inclined to be sceptical. After all, if she was some sort of terrorist or mass murderer, her reputation would have preceded her.

“Yes. This one is.” A faint shadow of sadness crept into Samara’s tone. Her gaze dipped, her eyes avoiding Miranda's once more. “Had I cowed in the face of my duty, the innumerable deaths that may have followed would be my responsibility, to an even greater extent than they already are.”

“What do you mean?” said Miranda, intrigued by her strange choice of words. What cause did Samara have to blame herself for the actions of another?

Samara remained silent for a long, heavy moment, visibly struggling with her thoughts, and whether or not to speak them. Eventually, she did.

“There is a rare condition, affecting only pure-blooded asari like myself, known as Ardat-Yakshi Syndrome,” Samara began, without facing her. “It manifests at maturity, rendering its sufferers unable to meld without fatally attacking the nervous systems of their partners. This experience is intoxicating – more addictive than any narcotic. Once an Ardat-Yakshi has tasted that euphoria, she inevitably craves it above all else, and will stop at nothing to attain it. She seeks out more victims to mate with, ensnaring their minds, feeding on them like prey.”

“How come I've never heard of this?” Miranda asked, perplexed. Surely this phenomenon would have been well-documented.

“That is no accident. Asari rarely speak of it, even among our own kind. Because of the danger they pose, Ardat-Yakshi are isolated from society. As such, the chances of encountering a rogue are negligible,” Samara replied, her tone unchanging. “Nevertheless, if other species were to become aware that there are even a minute number of asari who will murder any and all who meld with them, one could only begin to imagine the fear and hostility that would engender.”

“That's hardly a consolation for the people who get drained dry. I mean, these asari are sexual predators, in every possible sense. Their potential victims can't protect themselves from something like that without knowing the risk exists. Yet you make it sound like you condone this secrecy,” Miranda inferred, taken aback by that. She would have expected better from Samara.

“What I do or do not condone is irrelevant,” Samara responded, continuing to stare ahead, avoiding Miranda’s direct line of sight. “What I described is merely the prevailing view.”

“I see.” Miranda withdrew her objection, dropping the issue. It wasn't fair to blame Samara for the attitudes of other asari. After all, Samara seemed determined to ensure this wasn't swept under the rug, and that innocent people were protected, regardless of their species or what corner of the galaxy they were in. “So, the criminal you're hunting is an Ardat-Yakshi?”

“Yes,” Samara removed any doubt.

“You said you’ve pursued her for four hundred years. How many people has she killed?” Miranda asked, intrigued to learn more about Samara’s quarry.

“I cannot answer that question. However, if I provided you with a conservative estimate, the number would be so high that you would swear I was deceiving you,” Samara stated, her melancholy eyes remaining firm as she spoke.

Miranda knew better than to suspect Samara of exaggerating. It had already become abundantly clear that speaking falsely was counter to her nature.

“Only pure-blooded asari can have this disease,” Miranda recalled, glancing aside as rather a grim prospect occurred to her, one that might have explained why Samara took this hunt so personally. “Are you an Ardat-Yakshi?”

“No, I am not.” Samara shook her head. Miranda unconsciously relaxed a tiny bit. Not because she would have thought any differently of Samara if she did have such a condition, given that she obviously wasn't a danger to anyone who didn't deserve it, but— “However, I am a carrier of the syndrome.”

“A carrier?” Miranda echoed, blinking as the puzzle pieces swiftly fell into place. “She's your daughter,” Miranda voiced her abrupt realisation aloud.

“That is correct,” Samara regretfully confessed, letting her head dip slightly, her features reflected in the window against the vast, cold void beyond.

“...Oh,” was all Miranda could utter in reply. Not that she was particularly shocked, she was just...blank. She didn't know what to say. How did people normally react to being confronted with a private revelation of that nature?

“You are the first person I have shared this with aboard this ship,” Samara continued, saving Miranda from having to stitch together an appropriate choice of words at that news. “I would prefer that this remain between us, until such time as I can explain my circumstances to Commander Shepard. It is crucial to me that she appreciates why I can not afford to delay.”

“Of course. You don't even need to ask,” Miranda assured her. It went without saying that this story wasn't hers to divulge. “Nobody will hear about this from me without your consent.” Not even The Illusive Man, Miranda added internally.

“I thank you for that, most sincerely,” said Samara, genuinely grateful that Miranda took her confidence seriously. “Take heart in the fact that you will not have to keep your silence for very long. This matter is of the utmost urgency.”

“Yes, I gathered that,” Miranda responded, certain Samara would not abide any needless delay. Every moment she waited was giving her daughter another opportunity to snatch an unsuspecting life away. “I still have to finish my report about what happened on Illium today. If you'd rather speak to Yeoman Chambers right away, I can put off my appointment until after you’ve seen her.”

“Very well.” Samara bowed her head, an indication that she would take advantage of that offer. With that, Miranda turned to head towards the door, prepared to leave Samara in peace.

“Miranda?” Samara stopped her, prompting her to glance back over her shoulder. Samara’s upright stance remained unchanged from the first moment she had adopted it. “Do you feel as though I have wasted your time by telling you this?”

“No,” Miranda replied without hesitation, her crinkled brow betraying her confusion that Samara even felt the need to ask that. Of course she didn’t.

“Then I ask you: why would you presume my feelings would be any different when our roles are reversed?” said Samara, a perceptive spark twinkling in the reflection of her sage stare. Maybe that was just a glimmer of starlight.

Miranda blinked, Samara's meaning swiftly sinking in. “...Apparently they're not.”

“Indeed.” Samara elegantly drew back from the window and folded her legs beneath her, resuming her meditation. “Farewell, Miranda. May we speak again.”

Miranda didn't really know what to make of that, departing the room in silence. Suffice it to say, she was still rather stunned to think about how much that conversation challenged her preconceived notions about Samara – notions Miranda hadn’t even known she had, consciously or otherwise.

In truth, she’d never really asked herself those questions about Samara’s past – what her background was, what motivated her to become a Justicar, whether she had a family or children. Miranda hadn’t pondered it because she hadn’t thought the answers were pertinent to the mission. But maybe they were. And, more so, maybe it no longer mattered if they weren’t.

Clearly, there was a hell of a lot more going on beneath Samara's cool exterior than Miranda had previously contemplated. And perhaps Miranda was doing her a disservice by not endeavouring to get to know that side of her better.

* * *

#fic #miranda lawson #samara #mass effect #femslash

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pretentiousbrownie · 5 years

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Four Years with the HR-V: A Comprehensive Owner's Review

Consider Me Mistaken:

Roughly four years ago, our family took delivery of the (then new) 2016 Honda HR-V EX-L w/Navi. It was our first Honda, and first CUV. We purchased the vehicle in hopes of downsizing from the mid-size SUVs and sedans that had long dominated our driveway, and it just made sense to find something that was simple, reliable, and practical. The Honda fit the bill quite nicely; at the time, its only real competitors were the Chevrolet Trax/Buick Encore, both of which weren't quite to our taste. You could argue the Mini Cooper Countryman, Fiat 500L, Nissan Juke, and KIA Soul were also competitors, but all either lacked features or were classed differently from the HR-V.

We'd had experiences with the HR-V and Vezel prior to purchasing it in 2015, when it because available in the United States. The vehicle had debuted in 2014 to many global markets, and was an instant success in most. And why wouldn't it be? It came in a well-mannered package with good fuel economy and excellent versatility. I figured the same could be said for the North American models, once they became available. Our buying experience was average, the test drive was brief, but there weren't any glaring issues at the time. I did lament the loss of the rear-center arm rest, a feature that other markets did have, and the lack of Hybrid and Turbo power trains was a little unfortunate, but this was ultimately meant to be a fuel-sipping family vehicle. The frugal R18 and smooth CVT would do a good job of keeping the AWD in check.

Things changed soon after purchase, however. After days, weeks, and eventually, months spent driving the vehicle, we became acutely aware of its flaws, misgivings, and omissions. For the longest time, I felt infuriated - how could Honda remove such critical features and amenities, make such questionable decisions, and sell it to us for nearly the same price as a CR-V? There was no rear-center arm rest, the rear bench did not recline, the rear doors were far too wide, and the exterior belt line meant the rear windows were long and narrow. The front center console had no physical controls for the HVAC and Infotainment, the touchscreen angle was always catching the glare of the sun, the front-center arm rest was too far back and too narrow, the cup holders were too deep and improperly sized, the shifter was too high, and the I/O was too low - I could go on! And I did go on. For a long time, I felt duped - it was not the same HR-V we'd experienced in other countries. But we've had time to mellow, time to reflect on how the vehicle has treated us, and how we've benefited from owning it, and so far, it has been an easy ride.

Ownership & Maintenance:

This is the easiest part to get through; the North American HR-V comes exclusively with the R18 SOHC 1.8L i-VTEC i4. It is a tried-and-true engine, making serviceable power and good fuel economy. Buyers had a choice of a 6-speed manual transmission (available only on base LX FWD models), or a CVT automatic transmission (available on all trims with FWD or AWD). The EX-L w/Navi paired our model with the R18, CVT, AWD and a leather-appointed interior with Honda's own Satellite Navigation system (no Apple CarPlay or Android Auto here). Fueling the car is inexpensive as the car easily returns high twenties and low thirties in MPGs. The tank, while small, suffices for two weeks on our mixed highway and city driving, and usually costs about $20-$25 per refuel. Note that it takes regular unleaded gasoline, which is the lowest cost 87 octane.

It takes 0W-20 oil, which is plentiful and affordable, and with Honda's OEM filter never costing any more than $10, a Mobile 1 Full Synthetic oil and filter change will never exceed $40, and will likely cost about the same at any service center or dealership too! Other filters (air, cabin, etc.) are all very affordable, wipers are standard sizes and mounts, headlights and fog lights are standard size halogen bulbs, interior lights are all standard, tires are small eco-friendly variants from Michelin, and have a long wear period (and are not directional, so rotations can be done frequently and easily), brakes are strong and powerful, but also very inexpensive and fairly straightforward to service, all fluids are non-specialty, and everything is easily accessible under the hood and under the vehicle. No complaints here!

The greatest concern comes with CVT maintenance intervals; at approximately every 30,000 miles CVT-equipped models require a regular service. As we do frequent city driving in stop-and-go traffic, we're considering lowering that to 25,000 miles instead, just to ensure longevity. For the most part, CVTs have returned fairly long lifetimes, but again, the do require more frequent attention. Still, if you're a DIY mechanic, you'll find that they're even easier to service than a traditional torque-converted automatic, so as long as you're keeping up, there isn't a whole lot to go wrong.

Drive & Performance:

This is a compact family-oriented SUV, so it drives about how you'd expect; the ride is solid and composed, but can sometimes be harsh with its stiff springs and low resistance tires. It can handle sand, dirt, gravel, and light soft-roading well, but go too far off the beaten path and the path will beat you back. Given a nicer set of tires with more aggressive tread and better composition and properties, I can imagine this being quite a compact beast off the road and in inclement weather, but that comes at the expense of fuel economy and tire longevity. Still, on smooth, even pavement, this will ride no different from the best in its class. Be warned, despite having stiffer spring rates, the HR-V does still exhibit strong body roll on steep corners. It will handle the corner, but I wouldn't push it too far without stickier tires and a more robust suspension setup.

Handling is quite strong otherwise - inputs are direct and immediate with no play and no dead zones. That can be good and bad as the steering does require minor corrections on the highway, and it can be somewhat oversensitive at times, but it is light, composed, and eager nonetheless. Brakes are, like I said, strong. Very strong. I have no doubt this vehicle will stop when you demand it. The pedal is light, so you may find yourself applying a little too much pressure at first, but at least it stops! The OEM-grade pads, rotors, lines, and fluids are a little on the inexpensive side though, so you may find fade comes sooner than expected. I would strongly recommend going for high quality aftermarket components whenever you need to service your brakes, as they may perform equally as well and last longer too.

Acceleration is honestly quite meager. The pairing of a SOHC inline-4 with continuous AWD and a CVT transmission can sap a lot of the power, but that comes at the benefit of fuel economy. Most owners will not be bothered by the 0-60 times, but highway passing can require some slight planning and merging onto freeways with limited on-ramps may be tricky. Otherwise, it can dart in and out of urban traffic without flaw and has respectable top-end due to the inclusion of Honda's i-VTEC technology. Low-end grunt is lacking though, so play it safe on mergers and passes.

I think where the HR-V really shines is as a lightweight adventurer; if you frequent beaches and hiking stops, the HR-V will handle the sand, dirt, and gravel very well. If you live in snowier climes, the high clearance will keep you above the worst of it, and the AWD will help you get going from a dead stop. ABS can be a bit touchy in inclement weather, so it's best to lightly pump yourself if you don't want the system overreacting and picking up a skid, and the stability program can be turned off with a single button if you need to get out of a tricky situation without the unpredictable nature of computers.

Ergonomics & Quality:

This is where the Honda has to take some hits; the HR-V is Honda's lowest cost SUV and it represents the entry-level of vehicles in their lineup, alongside the Fit, which it (roughly) shares a platform with. Honda does a good job of keeping style unobtrusive and minimal. The HR-V is quite handsome and isn't as overbearing as the Juke or C-HR it competes with. They did cut some corners on the lighting though - you won't find LED DRLs on pre-2019 models, nor will you find HIDs or LEDs for the headlights. Inside is much the same, there are only incandescent bulbs to illuminate the cabin, and don't even bother looking for ambient lighting features as Honda offers none whatsoever. Still, this makes bulb maintenance inexpensive, at the cost of longevity. Door handles and doors are fairly solid, though hinges are intentionally tight to feign the sense of weightiness and heft. The rear door has a concealed handle located around the C-Pillar itself, so children and shorter individuals may have difficulty reaching it. You'll also find that the rear doors are really quite long, and the exterior belt line makes the rear windows quite high and narrow, so be wary of passengers exiting the back door and banging against things nearby and poorer visibility than average.

The tailgate matches the belt line, so the back window is also quite narrow, but is perfectly rectangle and offers a decent wide view of everything behind you. Honda does include a reverse camera as standard (all cars do now), but it's quite grainy and the resolution is unimpressive. Nighttime viewing can be a struggle, especially with the minor tint on the rear windows, but the vehicle's mirrors are, thankfully, very large.

Inside, the ergonomics are quite good too, seats are comfortable, mostly supportive, a little on the wider side to accommodate our American backsides, but you won't find any adjustable lumbar to thigh extensions. There are no power seat options available, even on new 2019 Touring models, which is a disappointment at the near-$30,000 mark. The rear bench does technically recline, but that's only if you consider 1.5-2" of travel a "recline." The rear seat also lacks a center arm rest and features very limited storage despite the size of the doors. Honda does make up for this with their excellent Magic Seat system, so I suppose those omissions can be forgiven.

Back to the front, buttons are high quality and easily readable and reachable, but you won't find many. Honda completely omitted physical, tactile controls on their HVAC and Infotainment displays, making radio and temperature adjustments a practice in futility if you intend on keeping your eyes on the road. They look very nice, very clean, and very minimal, but you do have to drop your eyes very low down on the center console to see any of the A/C controls, which may prove dangerous on the road.

You'll also find that the touchscreen is located at a nice, reachable angle, but isn't shielded with a hood, so will often catch the glare of passing street lights or sunlight. Honda does have a very good anti-glare coating on the display glass though, so the light is diffused nicely and doesn't blind you, you just tend to lose sight of the display under harsh light. Owners will note the lack of Apple CarPlay and Android Auto on these older HR-V models, though more modern vehicles are integrating them very nicely. There is also no Spotify, Apple Music, Google Play Music, Tidal, SoundCloud, or Bandcamp integration, but I really did not expect that at this price range. Pandora integration works, but has sometimes crashed when paired with my iPhone 8 Plus. It seems to be exclusive to my 8 Plus as my previous SE works seamlessly.

The center console has some nice amenities, like a traditional shifter, two large cup holders with adjustable sizes, an adjustable center arm rest, and center storage, but none are done particularly well; the top of the console narrows far too much, so the cup holders are placed longitudinally rather than transversely, meaning that the arm rest will cover one holder when fully extended. The arm rest also does not ratchet into a higher or lower position, so your elbow tends to rest somewhat low on it. The center storage under the arm rest is equally disappointing with almost no usable space beyond a tire pressure gauge, a pen or two, and maybe a charging cable for your phone. Access to the car's I/O, including two USB ports, one HDMI, and one 12V are all located below the center console are a difficult to reach. They are covered nicely and are lit by a soothing white light at night, but you cannot reach them while driving (not that you should be, it's just very far down). Don't expect wireless Qi charging here.

You will notice quality tends to cheapen the farther you travel down - plastics tend to harden near the bottom of the doors, the upper dashboard is hard and hollow, the door cards have a fair bit of give to them, and there is a general sense of hollowness in the vehicle. The vehicle is "carpeted" with a fibrous plastic material (I hope they used recycled materials) and the headliner is a compressed, semi-fibrous material that I cannot imagine will last when damp. The floor mats are the same plastic fiber material (albeit far thicker), and both the carpet and the mats are extremely difficult to vacuum. Edges of the "carpet" pulls up when vacuuming and fine dirt and debris gets trapped in the fibers, but once they clean up, they do clean up nicely, and it doesn't take much to remove stains from the carpets and leather.

A Few Last Words:

So sure, there are many things I believe the HR-V can improve on. Honda has slowly trickled in more features and amenities from their foreign Vezel/HR-V models, so I would strongly advise going for the 2019+ models, even if the cost savings of going 2016-2018 are tempting. Regardless of what you do, you will find an excellent daily driver vehicle here, great for small families and urban/semi-urban environments. The fuel economy is a good trade-off for performance, but the HR-V's competent manners will get you going (almost) no matter what. If you frequent beaches and hiking spots, the HR-V will tackle the sand, dirt, gravel, inclines, and declines without complaints, and will generally take a beating on soft roads pretty well. With a nicer set of tires, a beefier suspension, and a skilled driver behind the wheel, I can see these going quite far, but just understand the limitations of this car-based platform. For those that intend on this being their on-road companion, there won't be many complaints. Kids may lament the lack of rear USB ports, but buying a 12V car adapter with two or three ports will solve that quickly. The Magic Seats are an absolute must, in my opinion, and really sets the HR-V apart from the competition.

The drive and quality aren't anything to write home about, but this will be one of the easiest and least expensive vehicles to own (in the class) long-term. They are dependable, they are plentiful, and they are completely straightforward. Budding DIY mechanics can revel in the simplicity and ease of access, and owners that want to save on service will find an under-hood experience that is as far from daunting as you can get.

At times I do wish there were more to the car (I'll keep going back to the rear arm rest and rear bench recline), but it's a good package for nearly all drivers.

Even more enthusiastic drivers won't be disappointed - these will serve you well during the week and allow you to appreciate your weekend and summer cars even more!

#honda #hr-v #ownerreview

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immedtech · 5 years

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Readers tell us why the OnePlus 6T has earned so many fans

When Senior Editor Richard Lai reviewed the OnePlus 6T, new features like its distinct dewdrop notch and in-display fingerprint reader stood out to him. As the company's first offering through a US carrier and the successor to the popular OnePlus 6, the device had a lot to live up to. But it came with some trade-offs. While the 6T maintained a premium build and powerful Snapdragon 845 chipset, it ditched the headphone jack and offered some weak haptic feedback. Richard awarded the 6T an overall score of 89 (two points less than he gave the OnePlus 6). User reviewers, who tend to score more harshly, gave the 6T an average score of 84.

Camera

One of Richard's favorite things about the 6T was its camera, which inherits most of its predecessor's specs and delivers similarly impressive results. Richard said his daytime shots were sharp and that he was amazed by the clarity in his nighttime photos. Users were split on the camera, though. On the positive end of the spectrum, Yitz said that "in terms of reliability, the 6T stock camera always works and hasn't lagged," and that the iPhone, Pixel and Samsung cameras "do not have a significantly objective advantage."

However, Samuel had a different experience. After he switched from a Pixel 2XL, the "drop in camera quality was noticeable," but picture quality improved dramatically after he installed the XDA Google Camera port. Noah was more forgiving, noting that while the camera did not hold up to the best available devices, "this camera is still better than any phone camera you had two or three years ago."

Charging

Though multiple users mentioned the lack of wireless charging, none of them really seemed bothered by the omission. Yitz said they don't own a wireless charger and besides, the "amazing battery life" eliminated their desire for this feature. Andrew and Al also praised the battery life, though Al wishes he had the option of wireless charging. Yitz chalks up the great battery life to the 3,700mAh cell onboard, optimized software, lower screen resolution and reduced background processing.

Headphone jack and fingerprint scanner

Richard had two complaints about the 6T's hardware: the lack of a headphone jack and the sluggish fingerprint scanner (particularly in very bright or dark situations). Readers were far less bothered by the lack of the 3.5mm port, with Kealan saying "the headphone jack is gone, so what? Just about everything's Bluetooth now." Likewise, Yitz didn't take issue with it, saying they "leave the adapter that came with the phone on my headphones" to quickly connect.

Samuel agrees with Richard that the fingerprint reader is "hit or miss depending on whether your fingers are dry or the screen is clean." He uses face authentication in tandem with the fingerprint sensor to unlock faster. However, Yitz found the 6T's in-display scanner "significantly faster than the Samsung S10," and felt it unlocked faster than some iPhones.

Software

The 6T's Android Pie-based OxygenOS ran smoothly for Richard, and for pretty much most readers who submitted reviews. The users who mentioned software reported positive things, with Andrew saying the gesture system is easy to use. Yitz praised the "clean and smooth UI with customizable and useful features and (its lack of) bloatware or 3rd party apps." Both Yitz and Samuel applauded the update schedule for the phone, with Samuel highlighting "the speed of the OnePlus's OS updates."

Cellular service

On T-Mobile, the 6T showed solid and consistent service. Yitz said that both coverage and data speeds were great, but considered the handset's incompatibility with Sprint a con. Samuel agreed that call quality was excellent, though he acknowledged that this might be more dependent on T-Mobile than on OnePlus.

Comparisons

Though this was OnePlus' first foray into the US market, it earned several fans among our readers, like Kealan, who "deferred from the Galaxy to the OnePlus and honestly I don't see myself going back." Despite his misgivings about the camera, Samuel said the OnePlus 6T "certainly rivals the performance of a Google Pixel 2XL, with more processing power, more RAM, and a smoother, snappier user experience." Noah also felt the 6T was a "definite upgrade" from their Droid Turbo 2 and advocated others switch "because of all the features, customization options and speed."

Only a few users had anything negative to say about the 6T. Samuel's "only gripes are the fingerprint reader and the camera," while Al missed both SD storage and wireless charging. Tyson was disappointed that the smartphone "feels obsolete and out of the loop" already, with the recent release of the 7T Pro. But Samuel also appreciated the 6T's near-stock Android experience, powerful speed and low price. And Tyson said he was "constantly finding new things that I like about the phone and discovering things I didn't know I could do." Noah feels that "for the price you pay, you get phenomenal quality all around" and Kealan declared the 6T to be "honestly the best phone I've had. What's not to love?"

- Repost from: engadget Post

#ITlive #engadget #Readers tell us why the OnePlus 6T has earned so many fans

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severnlight · 7 years

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Next Chapter: A Great Disturbance in the Order of Things, by D.V.

I re-wrote the events from chapter 3, but from Vader’s P.O.V. It was a lot of fun to write, and hopefully it clarifies a few important bits about the deal struck between Luke and Vader.

The dialog between Luke and Vader here occurs entirely on their bond, and it's marked in italic.

Five minutes had elapsed since the boarding party had entered the so-called “Millennium Falcon”. There was nothing remotely elegant, predatory, or otherwise falcon-like about this ship, Vader’s stray thoughts supplied in the form of a useless observation, and he welcomed the diversion. The minutes dragged like hours, and other than sensing that Luke was conscious and in pain, he was blind to what exactly was transpiring up there. He loathed the feeling.

Finally, shadows crept down the ramp, and the first captive exited the ship. Calrissian. The wookie followed, and for a few seconds, Vader couldn’t see around his large frame. Organa, he noted with dark satisfaction, came next. At last, he caught a glimpse of Luke - apparently still on his feet. Vader suppressed a sigh of relief before he even had a chance to process the feeling. His shields were firmly in place - this time, there would be no careless overspill of emotion on his end of the bond.

The escorting troopers lined up the captives in front of the ramp. His attention was on Skywalker alone.

“ Luke… ” he beckoned on their bond. Organa suddenly stepped in front of the boy, as if trying to shield him. Luke managed to persuade her to step aside, and then made his approach. The injured youth stopped in front of him, chin up, looking directly into his eyes - his entire posture screamed defiance. This should prove interesting. The Sith decided to make the overture.

“I am pleased to have you onboard, my son .” Vader paused, and took in Luke’s appearance fully. “You need medical attention.” Luke stared at him. His face was scraped and bruised, damp hair clinging to his forehead, yet Vader sensed no fear - only turmoil and reckless determination. “My friends. What of their fate?” “I understand that you care a great deal about them… However, your friends are traitors and criminals, and they will face the consequences of their short-sighted actions.” Luke shook his head. “No. I will not surrender unless you let them go.” The boy’s impertinence rang through the bond. Vader’s response was laced with dark amusement: “Need I remind you that I already have you, Luke?” Luke was unperturbed. “Yes, for the moment. You have me alive. But you can either keep me, or my friends.” Vader bristled. There was implied danger lurking in Luke’s thoughts that he did not like, not one single bit. Was the boy really threatening suicide? Of course, he had chosen to jump into oblivion instead of joining him only an hour ago… “What are you insinuating?” he boomed, pressing on Luke’s shields. He did not want to appear to give in so easily, yet the plan was already taking form in his head. As a show of goodwill, he would let Chewbacca and Calrissian go. He would ship off Luke and Organa to his stronghold on Mustafar. He would find reasons to stall the inevitable meeting with the Emperor. Luke’s identity would be kept well hidden until his training was complete. And, he would make it abundantly clear to the boy that Organa would be the one to get punished tenfold for any of his own transgressions, including loss of life. With Organa’s well being on the line, he was confident that Luke would quickly shift into a “Yes, Sir” routine.

Luke’s mask of stoicism was visibly cracking now. He grimaced in pain, and there was a desperate plea in his eyes as he addressed him next. "Father, please … “ The Sith Lord stilled. “I will stay of my free will if you let them go.”

”Of his own free will…”, the promise echoed in Vader’s head, and his thoughts reeled. Suddenly, this was a very tempting prospect, something he had not considered. He probed the boy, and sensed the sincerity of his words. A sincerity which flowed from the idealistic, stubborn, unquestionable integrity at the core of his character - a combination of traits that was all too doomed, all too rare, all too familiar... and all too painful to recall. Just like the small birthmark on the boy’s right cheek, it all pointed to… Vader instantly shut down that line of thought, and re-focused. So… Luke had promised to remain, and call him “Father”, of his own free will.

“You will join me, let me train you, and stay by my side?” “I will stay by your side.” Vader carefully noted the two omissions, but he would address them later. “No sabotage, espionage, nor any escape attempts?” Luke nodded his agreement, and Vader felt precious truth extended on the bond once again. The Sith Lord made a decision.

He walked over to the captives. Calrissian was a nuisance whose fate was beneath his concern. Chewbacca, Solo’s mate, had several bounties on his head for smuggling and treason. In the grand scheme of things, his freedom would not present a great loss to the Empire. Finally, Vader’s gaze settled on the terrorist Princess - Leia Organa.

Troublesome as always, she had the gall to make a show of insolence with both her posture and expression. It was quite difficult for him to simply let her go. Organa’s actions of high treason aside, there was something about the girl that greatly confounded him, as if the Force chose to move around her in peculiar ways, and purposefully muddle his senses. On the Death Star, her resistance to the mind probe alone had given rise to his suspicion that she might be Force sensitive, but he had not gotten a chance to investigate further. Vader kept staring the Princess down, and as she was about to speak, he pre-empted her:

“In exchange for his… albeit limited… cooperation, my son has pleaded for your release.” Her completely stunned expression filled him with pure satisfaction - it almost drowned out the shockwaves of surprise rolling over him from the other beings nearby. So, Luke had not had a chance to tell her yet... “...and given this recent turn of events… “, he continued, his voice carefully controlled, “I am inclined to indulge him.” The Princess’ expression shifted from shock, to disbelief, to anger, then back to shock… She swerved to look around him, perhaps trying to catch Luke’s attention. He was not certain whether she succeeded - her voice came out as a squeak next: “Yourwhonow??...”

Vader placed hands behind his back, and loomed over her. “Do not test my patience, your terrorist Highness. You heard me perfectly well. After your ship leaves the Executor, the codes to re-enable its hyperdrive and weapon systems will be transmitted to you. This is a one-time grant of leave offered to you by the Empire. I suggest that you take full advantage of it, and reevaluate your life choices. The next time I find you anywhere near an operation involving the Rebellion, I will not be so forgiving.”

Organa was clearly not swayed by his offer. “Now you back off!” She actually raised a finger at him. “Did you just use the words “son” and “cooperation” in the same sentence, referring to Luke? How dare you… How dare you presume !... She shifted her address towards Luke: “Luke, this can’t be true! It is simply not possible!!”

And somehow, she stumbled across the exact same words of denial and rejection he had endured from his son only an hour ago. His patience was brought to an end. “I advise you to consider your tone very carefully from now on, Princess,“ Vader bit out with a clear threat in his voice, “And unless you are pining for an invitation to enjoy my personal brand of hospitality for a third time, I suggest you gather your companions and leave. Quickly.”

“Stop it, both of you!” He turned to find Luke standing beside him, hunched over, holding the maimed arm close to his body. Whatever strength the child had left was fading quickly. “Leia,” his son intoned with urgency, “you need to go. Please.” “No, Luke… This is insane... How can you trust him?... How can I leave you here?”

He sensed Organa’s sharp alarm about her friend. Apparently, she greatly cared about Luke. Perhaps he needed to clarify a few things for her, and the rest of the party. “He will not be harmed.” Vader raised his voice. “I want to clear up any misgivings. My son, whom until very recently I believed dead, was kidnapped from me at birth. By the Jedi. They planned to train him, and use him as a weapon against me and the Empire. Luke Skywalker was just made aware of our relationship on Bespin. He has not betrayed you, princess, nor your cause. He will not be interrogated for any information pertaining to the Rebellion. Any further contact between you will be severed. That is all.”

Finally, the truth - it was painful, beautiful, and in the strangest way, it set him free… Let the universe deal with the implications. Vader felt only triumph.

“Please, Leia… Save yourself, go…” Luke hugged the princess with one hand, whispering something. But Organa’s expression remained unchanged. She shook her head, and balled her bound hands into fists. This was not going to end well…

Then Luke turned to Chewbacca, and quietly spoke a few words. The Sith caught onto his son’s expression, and understood. With a small wave, he released the wookie’s binders. Solo’s companion seemed to understand too. He gave Luke a hug, then suddenly grabbed Organa, and carried her back towards the pile of garbage Solo called a ship. Her protests rang loud, but the wookie did not waiver, and she could not free herself from his grasp. Calrissian did not waste time, and briskly followed the duo.

Suddenly, Vader noticed an astromech rolling down the ship’s ramp, his shrill binary echoing through the hangar bay. Vader recognized him instantly, and motioned the stormtroopers off R2, who then tried to attack him. The Sith shut him off with another wave of his hand. Today was indeed developing into one of the best days Vader could remember.

Finally, the medics brought a hover bed for Luke. The boy looked as if he was awaiting to be led to his execution. But the Sith Lord could glimpse the future - the Force had willed for father and son to be reunited, and together, they would be unstoppable… Luke would come to terms with his destiny, he would make sure of that. The Sith Lord placed a hand on his son’s shoulder to steady him. Dramatic bravado aside, his son could use the support.

“Do not despair, young one. All will be set right.” The Force swirled protectively around Luke, who lost his tenuous grip on consciousness as the medics lowered him on the hover bed. Vader instructed admiral Piett to ensure the Falcon’s swift passage out of the Executor, ordered R2 delivered to his quarters, dismissed the rest of the imperials without a word, and followed the medics out of the hangar bay.

No doubt, news would travel fast, and there would be a reckoning for his bold actions today. He slowly clenched his hands into fists. He would be eager to welcome it.

#my fanfiction #Darth Vader #luke skywalker #1D1V #tall dark and snarksome #prince luke #terrorist princess

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absurdvampmuse · 7 years

Text

Dazed

Please go to http://archiveofourown.org/works/10828755 and leave behind your feedback and/or kudos? It would make my day. :)

Dazed

I love you like I've never, ever loved somebody so don't tell me that it's not enough when the taste of your lips is still fresh.

Betty found herself physically unable to stay within the confines of her room with merely her patience to keep her company. She didn't have enough self-control for that, not when she could only steer her actions at this particular moment. And even those were slipping through her hands like grains of sand through an hourglass. There were only so many places she could go. Her need for control was partnered with her fear of Jughead being incapable of reaching out to her first, especially considering that they had never been this close before. Simultaneously, they couldn't be further apart. They were at opposite ends of the same room, within touching distance but still beyond her reach.

She wanted to show him that she wasn't letting him push her away and that she would be there for him. It was her turn to prove to him that she needed him. It was the only thing she could do to placate the guilt. She should've just been forthright and informed him of her mother's proposal to her, Archie and Veronica's intent as well as the suspicions she had of her own. It would have been okay. They would have been okay. Now the waters were murkier and the fear of possibly losing him over something like this was threatening to pull her under, her breaths coming more painfully at the sheer thought of it.

The police tape was already ripped through when she got to the trailer and the key precisely where Archie had mentioned it to be. Betty entered with a soft knock on the door, not wanting to startle him. The place she walked into was in complete disarray, papers wiped carelessly onto the floor, the table flipped onto its side and pillows strewn everywhere but where they were supposed to be. It was a mess and amongst the rubble sat Jughead, back against the wall and facing the door just in case his father would abruptly storm in and tell him that it had all been a mistake, a case of poor judgment.

She looked out of place in her sparkling dress and formal heels standing amid the wreckage, like Dorothy in the middle of the tornado. She closed the door quickly as if she could hide all of this from the world, pretend it didn't happen if she only shut out reality fast enough. One hand was clasped over her mouth as she scanned the home. Her eyes finally landed on Jughead as she took inventory of him, the suit jacket that was missing, the undone buttons at the top of his shirt, the eschew beanie and most notably the redness and puffiness that marked his eyes.

"You would think he was a wanted terrorist," was the first heavily barbed comment he directed at her, not acknowledging her presence any further than that.

Betty shook her head in disbelief, a faint look of disgust present once she dropped her hand. "I can't believe Sheriff Keller ripped this place apart. It seems so unnecessary."

Jughead scoffed at her remark. "Not when it comes to F.P. apparently. He is, after all, a frequent offender." His observation was meant to be a callous one, but she caught the sudden sheen that came to his eyes.

He blinked them away almost angrily as Betty took the final few strides over to him, gingerly and somewhat unsurely lowering herself down onto her knees in front of him. If he hadn't been so upset he would have been able to appreciate the imagery it provided, the sight of her clad in nothing but shimmer before the twilight that circumscribed him.

"Juggy," Betty said his name as if was something fragile that was close to breaking, teetering on the edge.

"Don't you dare ask me how I'm doing," he lashed out acutely, his gaze cutting as it swept upwards. "Not after my best friend went behind my back to look for evidence against my dad who was then arrested without anyone so much as giving him the benefit of the fucking doubt." He inwardly cringed at the profanity that he always thought of as being indicative of the bad parts throughout his life, black and white snapshots with grainy images that would ultimately be considered not quite right to be put on display in the family photo album. "And not after it was brought to light that my girlfriend, the person I am closest to, had at least an inkling of all of this and decided not to share any of it with me."

He practically pushed the words through his teeth at her, each accusation a blow that made Betty feel even worse than she already did. She didn't vocalize any of her emotions because she recognized that this wasn't about her, even though her eyes were truly the windows into her inner workings. He saw clearly what his words were doing to her, felt it as her pain resonated within himself. It was hurting him to hurt her.

"I'm so sorry," Betty tried again. "I can't—"

"Stop, Betty." He didn't want to hear her apologize again. It would cause for most of his anger at her to evaporate because the rational part of him knew that she had never intended for one omission to spiral so out of control. It had been out of her hands and instead put in the relentless ones of Veronica and the good-willed ones of Archie.

A nod of her head was her only reply as she pressed her lips together and her eyes focused on a spot on the floor. He saw her hands curl into themselves, a reaction that had somehow gotten ingrained. Before her nails could dig in Jughead threw her a lifeline. "Tell me what's happening?"

Her hands uncurled and instead her fingers found the hemline of her skirt, which was now dramatically sprawled out around her. "They took your dad down to the station for questioning. Mr. and Mrs. Andrews followed him there," she quickly reassured him. "Evidently, Mrs. Andrews has a lawyer on speed dial in case F.P. needs it."

Betty rattled off all the facts she had managed to gather and Jughead found some relief in the fact that his father hadn't gone down there alone. He dragged a hand over his tired features. "It's this town. Inherently suspicious of everything and everyone that doesn't fit in between its gilded frame." He tugged roughly at his beanie in an attempt to straighten it. "Little does everyone know that it's just a veneer." He spoke almost melodically, spinning an image with his words that she could easily picture. She liked hearing him speak; it was then undeniably clear that his knack for writing was a natural one.

"I know what Archie and Veronica did is inexcusable and maybe even unforgivable," she started, clutching the fabric of her dress so tightly that it made a rustling sound. "But when they searched the place, they didn't find anything, Jug. There was no gun," she clarified for him. "So, isn't it odd that when the sheriff's department ransacks the place that they do find one?"

Betty saw his face scrunch up in concentration as he let the full weight of her words sink in. "It depends on how thorough they were, really," he answered her rhetorical question after a beat or two. He said the words calmly, detaching himself from the situation momentarily as he took on the role of investigator.

"Comprehensively," she answered confidently and hopefully. "Veronica might have initially gone there for herself, but Archie was there so he could make sure that if there was something to find he could prepare and soften the blow for—"

"Such a pal that Archie, isn't he," Jughead stopped her. "All done out of the purity and benevolence of his heart and loyalty to his supposed best friend."

"I ran into them when I was looking for you, at Pop's," Betty added. "They were going down to the station as well to come clean about what they did and subsequently didn't find. They can't keep your father there if Archie and Veronica's story contradicts their assumption, I don't think."

"It's the least they can do."

"I told them the same thing." Betty cautiously rested her gaze on him. "I know you're hurt. By all of us, by me. But I was genuine when I told you that I didn't know what Archie and Veronica were planning. They didn't include me, not after my mom not so subtly urged me and Veronica to help her and I told the both of them that I had already asked you whether you believed your dad was innocent and that I trusted you. I said no. The dinner was just a suspicion I had."

"You should've still told me," Jughead responded, even though the conviction was lackluster.

Betty shrugged up her shoulder. "You were so excited. You saw the dinner as something good. Your dad perceived the invitation as something genuine. I thought that maybe I was just being jaded by my mom's past actions. I wanted to be hopeful as well." An unladylike snort followed her last sentence, eyes flicking up towards the ceiling as she rolled them. "But I should have known better."

"We are better than our parents, Betty," he was quick to remind her, most of his animosity no longer aimed at her.

"Am I?"

"Yes," he decided for her. "I might be mad at you for not articulating your skepticism, but you were on my side, despite your mother's poor request and our friends' misgivings."

Betty finally let go of her skirt and instead placed her hands on the knees of the boy before her. "I am profoundly sorry, Juggy."

He nodded, watching as she sunk her teeth into her bottom lip and averted her eyes. "Just spit it out, Betts."

"At school, in the hall, you mentioned something about giving up the opportunity to move to Toledo… " she trailed off so he could fill in the blanks.

"My dad brought it up when he dropped us off. He's been trying and I offered to move back home. He came with the idea of getting everyone back together and moving to Toledo to reunite with my mom and Jellybean."

Betty put on a smile of encouragement, choosing to efface any personal feelings she had on the matter. "That's what you've wanted for a long time, isn't it?"

Jughead nodded, keeping his eyes on her hands as they applied light pressure to his knees. "It would mean though that I wouldn't see Archie anymore, not on a daily basis at least. I mean, don't get me wrong, being roommates with him leaves much to be desired…" He didn't finish his thought, focusing instead on the most important one as he leveled his eyes with hers. "It would also mean that I wouldn't see you anymore, every day."

Thinking that he was saying it for her benefit, Betty jumped in swiftly. "But we could call, text, visit."

Jughead shook his head with a slight huff of frustration at her self-effacement. "I would miss you too much. It would be insufferable, unbearable, just the thought," he expressed while placing his hands over hers.

"I don't want you to give up on a chance like that for me," Betty instructed him in the sternest voice she could muster because just the thought of not having him here was earthshattering as well as heart-shattering. "Because as much as I love you, Jughead, I'm not worth it." She realized her slip-up too late, the words already out. All she could do was recover with any leftover grace she managed to pull together. She freed her hands from underneath his, not looking at him as she was planning her escape. "Promise me you'll really think about it, taking into an account that I'm a non-factor, alright"

She scrambled upwards, her flaming cheeks the only remaining testimony of her profession. Jughead had registered the words she had said, the strong emotion she had confessed to, but he was currently paralyzed, unable to speak or move. The remainder of his anger dissipated and the feeling of warmth and affection intensified as they were brought to the forefront. They coursed through him, spreading through his body until it almost crushed him. There was nowhere left to expand to. Not from his spot on the floor.

"Here's the plan," Betty seized the opportunity, taking advantage of Jughead's atypical passiveness. "I told Archie to keep me updated." She placed her phone demonstratively on the countertop. "Until then, let's get this place cleaned up for when your dad gets back."

It was her zeal that made him stir from his daze. A faint smile appeared on his face as he remembered something that his mother always used to tell him. Something about how when you're in a relationship with someone, friendly or otherwise it's because you've accepted that the good parts of that person mean more to you than the bad parts. Everyone has both anyway.

He took her in as she kicked off her shoes and twirled her hair up into a messy bun of sorts. The moves were forcibly controlled and she only turned to look back at him when his silence had gone on for too long. "Unless you want to sleep or don't want me here right now?"

Before the doubt could eclipse the blue of her eyes like clouds appearing in a stark blue sky, he was on his feet. Spurred on by all that he was feeling and needed to express in one of the two ways he knew how to, he was in front of her within seconds. His hands landed on the countertop on either side of her, bracketing her in. It was a daring move, perhaps a bit too carnal and sudden than he had intended so he relented a little by wrapping one arm around her waist and pulling her closer to him.

"I think I love you too," he admitted impulsively. "I don't have much to compare it to, of course, but it feels like what I picture love to be. This weightlessness and lightheadedness th—"

Betty swept up by him and the sentiment and tenderness of it all blindly swung her arms around his neck and kissed him. He deepened the kiss instantly, pushing her back gently against the counter although she barely noticed.

"All's well that ends well," he quipped, a little more smug than was necessary, while she gasped for breath. She could only nod, now the one who was left in a frozen state. "And I'm not leaving," he committed openly to her. "Not to Toledo or anywhere."

She struggled to find the right words, debating whether she should try to dissuade him from the decision once more. "I'll tell you everything from now on," were the words she settled on instead, making him a promise of her own. "Perhaps even to the point of over-sharing."

"That's a risk I'll gladly take," he responded in a serious tone. His hands were still on her, one cupping her face as he placed an affectionate kiss on her forehead. "And when at last you find someone to whom you feel you can pour out your soul, you stop in shock at the words you utter— they are so rusty, so ugly, so meaningless and feeble from being kept in the small cramped dark inside you so long," he murmured against her skin.

"Sylvia Plath," Betty guessed, an automatic response as it was one of the games they sometimes played while in The Blue and Gold office, just the two of them.

It was a somewhat morbid and dark choice, wholly characteristic of him. Still, in the moment it was one of the most romantic things she had ever heard. The emotion was deeply embedded in the words and the effect was immediate as she felt herself swoon.

Jughead felt her knees buckle ever so slightly and he made sure he let her go little by little, not wanting to admit that he was feeling a little unsteady himself.

To blame were the weightlessness and lightheadedness that he had been aptly referring to.

#Bughead #riverdale #betty/jughead #betty x jughead #betty cooper #jughead jones #fanfiction

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shou7 · 7 years

Text

Translation: I Want to Eat Your Pancreas by Yoru Sumino (Chapter 4)

Synopsis

One day, I - a high schooler - found a paperback in the hospital. The “Disease Coexistence Journal” was its title. It was a diary that my classmate, Sakura Yamauchi, had written in secret. Inside, it was written that due to her pancreatic disease, her days were numbered. And thus, I coincidentally went from Just-a-Classmate to a Secret-Knowing-Classmate. It was as if I were being drawn to her, who was my polar opposite. However, the world presented the girl that was already suffering from an illness with an equally cruel reality…

The best-selling, award-winning debut work by Yoru Sumino: “Bestsellers 2016 (Overall) by NIPPAN” - 4th Place “Bestsellers 2016 (Paperback Fiction) by NIPPAN” - 1st Place “Bestsellers 2016 (Overall) by TOHAN” - 5th Place “Bestsellers 2016 (Literary Books) by TOHAN” - 1st Place “Bookstore Grand Prix 2016” - 2nd Place “DA VINCI BOOK OF THE YEAR 2015” - 2nd Place “Bestsellers 2015 (Literary Books) by TOHAN” - 6th Place As of January 2017, this book has sold over 720,000 copies.

Please buy the book to support the author. (amazon.com)

Download the complete volume in PDF format here, or in ePUB format here.

(Chapter Index)

The ‘Disease Coexistence Journal’ is, in essence, her will - that is what I believe. In that unused paperback, she writes about the everyday things she sees and feels, leaving them behind. Evidently, it seemed that this method of recording had rules unique to her.

I couldn’t say I knew any for certain, but was fairly sure of a few that I had observed. Firstly, she wasn’t simply recording her day-to-day experiences. Days where she saw something special, days where she felt something special - within the ‘Disease Coexistence Journal’, she compiled only things that were of value in leaving behind after her own death.

Secondly, she chose not to leave behind non-textual information in the ‘Disease Coexistence Journal’. It seemed she thought that things like drawings or graphs didn’t fit in a paperback, choosing to only write with a black ball pen on the ‘Disease Coexistence Journal’.

Lastly, she decided that she wouldn’t show anyone the ‘Disease Coexistence Journal’ until she died. With the exception of me, having seen the very first page due even more so to a force majeure than a blunder on her part, no one else had seen her life’s records. It seems that she had told her parents to release it to all her loved ones after her death. Whatever its present purpose, those around her would receive her message after she died, thus making it something akin to her will.

But even though nobody should have been able to influence those records or be affected by them until she died, just once, I had given her my opinion on the ‘Disease Coexistence Journal’.

It was regarding my name - I didn’t want it to appear in the ‘Disease Coexistence Journal’. It was simply because I didn’t want to receive any unnecessary scrutiny or criticism from her parents and friends after her death. In the midst of our library committee work, she had made a remark regarding the ‘Disease Coexistence Journal’ that “various people appear inside”. It was then that I formally requested the omission of my name. Her answer - “I’m the one writing it so that’s up to me.” I swallowed whatever more words I had. “If you say you don’t like it, it makes me want to do it even more,” she added. I resigned myself to the trouble that would ensue after my classmate’s death.

With that said, my name had probably already been written down together with the episodes involving yakinku and dessert, but for the two days after we had gone to Dessert Paradise, my name shouldn’t have appeared in the ‘Disease Coexistence Journal’.

The reason was that in those two days, I hadn’t exchanged a single word with her at school. It wasn’t unusual or anything, since we had always done our own thing in class. Instead, it could be said that those days adorned by yakiniku and desserts were the irregular ones.

I had attended school, taken tests, and returned home quietly. Though I often felt the stares of her best friend and those from that group, I determined that there was no need for me to go out of my way to be affected by them.

Nothing truly special had happened in those two days. If I were forced to pick something, there were only two minor incidents, the first of which - while I was silently sweeping the corridor, a boy that normally didn’t even so much as look at me had come to talk to me.

“Yo, Plain-Classmate, are ya dating Yamauchi?”

His rather inelegant manner of speaking had a sort of freshness to it. I suspected that it may have been the case that he carried some affection for her, and in turn was illogically angry at me, but his appearance suggested otherwise. Judging by the look on his face, he wasn’t the slightest bit upset, in fact, there was some air of misplaced glee about him. He must have been one of those frivolous people that were like bundles of curiosity.

“No, absolutely not.”

“That so? But the both of ya had dessert, right?”

“We just happened to have a meal together.”

“What’s with that?”

“Why are you interested?”

“Hm? Ah, don’t tell me ya think I like Yamauchi? No way! Look, I like girls that are more refined.”

Even though I didn’t ask, he continued to blabber on nonchalantly. It seemed that the only thing we could agree on was that she wasn’t refined.

“I see, so we had the wrong idea, but everyone in class is buzzing ‘bout it ya know.”

“It’s all a misunderstanding, so I don’t mind it.”

“How mature, ya want some gum?”

“Not really. Could you hold the dustpan for me?”

“Leave it to me.”

He was flaky and always skipped out on cleaning duty, so I thought he’d turn me down. But contrary to expectations, he helpfully held onto the dustpan for me. Perhaps he didn’t understand the concept of clean-up time, and had someone taught him, he’d have been willing to do it properly.

He didn’t pursue the matter any further than that. This was the first incident that happened within those two days that I found to be irregular.

Having a conversation with a classmate wasn’t that unpleasant, but while the next irregularity was trivial, it had put me into somewhat of a melancholic mood. The bookmark that should have been sandwiched within my paperback had gone missing. Though I fortunately remembered the scene I had read up to, it wasn’t something that was distributed for free at bookshops and the like; it was something made of thin plastic that I had bought when I went to the museum previously. I didn’t know when it had gone missing, but in any case, even though I wasn’t the least bit bitter that my own carelessness was the root cause, I felt down for the first time in a while.

However, despite feeling down about something that was ultimately superficial, those two days were normal for me. And since the norm for me was tranquillity - that meant I hadn’t been haunted by the girl who was close to death.

The beginning of regularity’s end began on Wednesday night. I was enjoying the last of “normalcy” when I received a single message.

No matter how much I hoped and wished, nothing could change the fact that at that time, I hadn’t noticed the signs of abnormality beginning - it was probably because I was a character. Even in novels, the only ones that knew the setting of the first chapter were the readers. The characters themselves don’t know a single thing.

The message’s contents were as such:

“Good job with the tests! We’re getting a day off from the tests tomorrow, aren’t we? [smiley face] To get right to the point, will you be free? You’ll be free anyway right? I’m thinking of going on a trip on the train! [peace sign] Anywhere you want to go?”

Her making assumptions about people’s circumstances sort of ruined my mood, but she had hit the bull’s-eye when she said I was free, and I didn’t have any reason to turn her down, so I replied, “I’m fine with going anywhere you want to go to before you die.”

Of course, this would later come back to bite me in the neck. I simply should have known better than to leave the decision-making to her.

And so, the message specifying the place and time soon followed. The rendezvous point was a large and prominent train station within the prefecture, and the time was peculiarly early, but I wrote it off as just another one of her many whims.

I replied with a message containing just two characters, and she responded with the last message I received that day.

“You absolutely can’t break this promise okay?”

No matter how much we opposed each other, I fundamentally never broke promises, so I replied with a final “alright” and left my cellphone on my desk.

As a spoiler, the word “promise” was the crux of the girl’s trick. Actually, perhaps it was only I who had interpreted it as a trick. I’d thought that the “promise” she mentioned referred to our outing tomorrow. I was wrong. Her “promise” referred to my slip of the tongue - “I’m fine with going anywhere you want to go to before you die.”

The next day, I headed to our meeting place early in the morning and found her already waiting there. She was carrying a sky blue backpack that she usually didn’t bring along, and wearing a straw hat that she usually didn’t put on - she looked as though she were leaving on a journey.

Before we even exchanged greetings, she expressed her shock at my appearance.

“You’re dressed too lightly! Is that all you’re carrying? What about your change of clothes?”

“…………Change of clothes?”

“Hmm, well, I guess you can just buy some over there. Seems like there’ll be a Uniqlo.”

“Over there? Uniqlo?”

That was the first time I felt signs of unease in my heart.

Treating my misgivings and questions like wind to her ears, she looked at her watch and responded with the question - “have you eaten breakfast?”

“It wasn’t very filling, but I had bread.”

“I haven’t eaten. Is it fine if we get something?”

I thought that there wasn’t any particular issue with that, so I assented. She grinned and started to head towards her destination in large strides. I had assumed that we were headed to a convenience store, but we arrived at a bento store instead.

“Huh, you’re getting a railway bento?”

“Yeah, it’s for eating on the Shinkansen. Are you getting one too?”

“Wait wait wait wait wait.”

I grabbed the upper arm of the girl that was happily admiring the bentos lined up on the display, and pulled her away from the cashier. The granny at the register had been smiling pleasantly as she glanced at the girl, but when their eyes met a second time, the girl wore a shocked expression, giving the granny a shock too.

“That should be my expression.”

“What’s wrong?

"Shinkansen? Railway bento? Explain properly - what exactly are we doing today?”

“Like I said, we’re going on a trip on the train.”

“So by 'train’, you meant the Shinkansen? And when you say 'trip’, just how far do you mean for us to go?”

After making a face that said she finally remembered something, she plunged her hand into her pocket and took out two rectangular pieces of paper. I immediately recognised that they were tickets.

She passed me one, and after taking a look at it, my eyes spread wide open.

“Um, is this a joke?”

She chortled. It seemed like she was serious.

“It says we’re not going somewhere for a day trip, so it seems like we can still rethink this.”

“…………No, no, Get-Along-kun, you got it wrong.”

“What a relief, so it really was a joke.”

“That’s not it, we’re not going for just a day trip.”

“…………Huh?”

The futility of the entire exercise aside, our conversation from this point on flowed in such a way that I ended up overpowered. For the sake of convenience, a large part of it has hence been omitted.

She asserted herself, and while I tried to persuade her otherwise, she played her trump card - yesterday’s messages. Thus exploited was my intention to never break a promise.

Before I realised it, I was already riding on the Shinkansen.

“Haaah.”

While staring at the flowing scenery from the window seat, I was lost on whether I should accept being thrust into the present situation. Beside me, the girl was enjoying her mixed rice.

“This is my first time going on a trip like this! Get-Along-kun, have you done anything like this before?”

“Nope.”

“You can relax y’know, since I’ve properly prepared travel magazines for today.”

“Ah, is that so.”

Even reed boats should have a limit somewhere; I frowned at myself.

Incidentally, just like the yakiniku, the money for the Shinkansen tickets came from her purse. She told me not to mind, but it wouldn’t do not to repay her, even if it was at the cost of the dignity of a human like me.

While wondering whether it was time to get a part-time job, an orange was shoved right before my eyes.

“Want some?”

“……Thanks.”

I received the orange and quietly began peeling its skin.

“You’ve got no energy at all, huh. Don’t tell me you feel like getting off?”

“No, I’m staying on board. For your plans, and the Shinkansen too. And I’m reflecting on my decision to do so.”

“What a downer, you’ve got to be more cheery when travelling!”

“Though it seems more like an abduction than a trip to me.”

“If you’re going to keep looking back on yourself, you should just look at me instead.”

“And exactly what do you mean by saying that?”

Once again treating my words like the wind, she closed the lid on the railway bento she was done with, and tied a rubber band around it. Her nimble hand movements gave off the impression that she was a perfectly alive human being.

I discouraged myself from putting into words the contrast between the sense of reality she emanated and the actual reality, and proceeded to silently eat the orange one wedge at a time. She had bought the oranges from a kiosk, but they were unexpectedly sweet and succulent. I took a look outside and saw the rural landscape spread out into the distance - a scene which I normally wouldn’t have seen. I spotted a scarecrow in the field, and for some reason, that made me resign myself to the fact that there was no longer any point in resisting.

“By the way, Get-Along-kun, what’s your first name?”

It was a sudden question from the girl comparing local specialties in her travel magazine next to me. Looking at the greenery of the mountains had calmed me down, so I responded to her query straightforwardly. Even though my name wasn’t even that unusual, she was nodding her head with great interest. Following which, she whispered my full name to herself.

“Wasn’t there a novelist with a name like yours?”

“That’s right, though I don’t know which one you thought of.”

Using my own first and last names as a base, two authors came to mind.

“Could this be the reason you like novels?”

“That’s not far off the truth. I did start reading because of that, but I like books because I think they’re interesting.”

“Hmmm, so you have the same name as your favourite author?”

“Nope. My favourite is Osamu Dazai.”

Seemingly somewhat surprised at hearing the name of a literary master, her eyes spread wide open.

“By Osamu Dazai, you mean the one that wrote 'No Longer Human’?”

“That’s right.”

“So you like gloomy books like that, huh.”

“It’s true that Osamu Dazai’s brooding nature comes through the atmosphere of his books, but words can’t be dismissed just because they’re gloomy you know.”

It was rare of me to be speaking so enthusiastically, but she responded with a pout, seemingly disinterested.

“Hmm, well, guess it just doesn’t engage me.”

“Looks like you aren’t really interested in literature, huh.”

“Yeah, not really. I read manga though.”

Just like I had expected. It wasn’t a matter of good or bad, I just couldn’t imagine her patiently reading a novel. Even for manga, if she was at home, she’d probably be reading it while loafing around her room and making noises at every little thing.

It couldn’t be helped that my conversation partner wasn’t interested in what I had to say, so I asked her something that I was curious about.

“Seems like your parents are pretty okay with you travelling. What did you do?”

“I told them that I was travelling with Kyouko. If I told my parents that I had one last thing I wanted to do, they’d most likely agree to it in tears, but as expected of travelling with a boy - I can’t tell how they’d react.”

“You’re really horrible huh - trampling on your parents’ feelings.”

“Speaking of which, what about you? What sort of excuse did you give your parents?”

“Since I didn’t want to worry my parents, I’ve been lying to them about having friends. So I told them that I was staying at a friend’s house.”

“That’s horrible, but how lonesome.”

“But couldn’t you say that no one got hurt?”

She shook her head in dismay and proceeded to retrieve another magazine from the backpack placed next to her feet. What an attitude for the culprit who had forced me to lie to the parents I loved. Seeing that she had engrossed herself with her magazine, I seized the opportunity to conjure a paperback from my sling bag, and began to focus on that instead. Worn out by the extraordinary amount of noise she had been making since morning, I wanted nothing but to surrender myself to the story and let my heart be healed.

While thinking about things like that, it suddenly dawned upon me that I was practically tempting fate to let her disrupt my peace; it was a certain someone’s fault that I had become completely paranoid. Thankfully, my precious time passed without any disturbances. I concentrated on my novel for close to an hour before I reached a good place to stop. It was then that I suddenly became aware of the peace I had managed - but never expected - to grasp. I looked to my side to see the girl soundly asleep, magazine resting on her stomach.

She didn’t wake for the rest of the trip. Not even after the Shinkansen had arrived at our station.

If I had to say it, it looked as though her short life had ended on the Shinkansen, but the truth was that she was simply impossibly hard to awaken - it wasn’t an omen, and it wasn’t really a misunderstanding either. I gently poked her cheeks and pinched her nose, but she just groggily moved away and made no signs of waking up. As a last resort, I shot a rubber band in my possession at the back of her defenceless hand - she jumped out of her seat in an overreaction.

“You could’ve just called me awake or something!” She said as she punched me in the shoulder. Even though I had went through all the trouble to wake her up - unbelievable.

“Our first landing! Waaah! I can smell ramen!”

“Isn’t that just as expected of your imagination?”

“I definitely smell it! Isn’t it your nose that’s rotten?”

“I’m just grateful that my brain isn’t rotten like yours.”

“It’s my pancreas that’s rotten though.”

“I’m a coward, so let’s ban that deathblow from now on. It’s not fair.”

While laughing, she said, “What if we made Get-Along-kun a deathblow too?” But I didn’t have any plans to contract a serious illness in the near future, so I politely turned her down.

We took a long escalator down from the platform to a floor where the souvenir shop and the rest area were located. The space seemed to have been newly renovated - it got full marks for cleanliness and left me with a favourable impression.

We took another escalator to get to the ground floor, and we finally reached the ticket gates. An unexpected sensation assaulted me the moment I stepped out, so much so that I doubted my own senses. Like she had said earlier, I could smell ramen. Amazing - perhaps it really was true then, that he in the urban prefectures could smell sauce, while he in the rural prefectures could smell udon. I’d never been to either, so I couldn’t deny the possibility, but who would have thought that a single dish could permeate the everyday lives of humans to this extent?

Even without looking at the face of the girl standing beside me, I knew that she was definitely snickering at me, so I absolutely refused to look.

“So, where are we going?”

“Hehehehehehehehe, huh?”

How annoying.

“Ah, where are we going? We’re going to meet the God of Studies. But before that, we’re getting lunch.”

Speaking of which, my stomach did feel empty.

“As I thought, it’s gotta be ramen, how about it?”

“No objections.”

Amidst the bustle of the station, I traced her large strides at my own comfortable pace. We were apparently headed for some shop she had read about in the magazine while on the Shinkansen. Her gait showed neither sign of pause nor hesitation. We descended underground, exiting the station into an underground street, and found ourselves standing in front of the ramen store far sooner than expected. As we neared the store, its distinctive scent of broth thickened, and though I wasn’t really put off, there were copies of a page from a famous gourmet manga promoting this shop plastered onto its outer wall. However, it didn’t seem to be a weird shop, so I was relieved.

The ramen was delicious. The food arrived quickly upon our orders, and we quickly began to stuff ourselves. The both of us had chosen to get an extra set of noodles, and when we were asked how hard we wanted our noodles to be, I heard her say “steel beam”; I politely followed suit. To think there was such a classification for the level of hardness - it would be best if no one ever found out about this matter, for it made me red with shame. Incidentally, “harigane” was probably created by boiling the noodles for a shorter duration of time.

Reinvigorated by the hearty meal, we quickly got on our next train. There was no need to rush, since the shrine of the God of Studies she had wanted to meet was about thirty minutes away by train, but as the leader of our expedition had demanded we hurry, I simply followed suit.

While sitting on the train, I remembered a report that I had read somewhere, and I parted my sealed lips.

“It seems like this prefecture is rather unsafe, so it’s best to be careful. Shooting incidents and the like are apparently quite common.”

“Is that so? But isn’t it the same with any prefecture? Haven’t you heard about that murder case in the neighbouring prefecture that happened the other day?”

“I haven’t been watching the news lately though.”

“Someone from the police said it on TV, but it seems like perpetrators of random attacks are the hardest to catch. Like they say, the devil’s children have the devil’s luck!”

“Though that shouldn’t be the main takeaway from this story.”

“That must be why you’re going to continue living and I’m going to die.”

“I’ve only just learnt this now, but proverbs can’t be trusted. I’ll remember that.”

It really did take the train thirty minutes to ferry us to our destination. The sky was so sunny it was getting on my nerves; just by standing around, I was starting to get soaked in sweat. I wondered if I would really be alright without a change of clothes, but it seemed that our next stop would be close to a Uniqlo.

“What great weather!”

With a smile that rivalled the sun, she climbed the slope up to the shrine with light steps. The slope to the precinct was crowded despite it being a weekday afternoon. On both sides of the street, there were stores selling all manners of souvenirs, sundries, food, and even the odd suspicious-looking T-shirt - it truly was a sight to behold. A store selling specialty mochi especially caught my eye, and the sweet fragrance it emanated tickled my nasal cavity.

From time to time, the teetering girl would get pulled into a store, but in the end, we didn’t buy a single thing. Fortunately for us, the store attendants were understanding, and I was able to enjoy just looking at the items in peace.

Having finally reached the end of the slope - now drenched in sweat - we headed straight for the first vending machine in sight. It was frustrating to lose to a vending machine, especially one deliberately installed in such an exquisite location to take advantage of thirsty passers-by, but there was no resisting a life-preserving instinct.

Whipping her sweat-soaked hair from side to side, she was smiling as always.

“Feels like we’re really in the springtime of life!”

“The grass may still be green, but it’s not spring…… It’s hot.”

“Have you ever been in any sports clubs?”

“Nope. You see, I’m of noble birth, so it’s fine even if I don’t move my body.”

“Don’t insult those of noble birth. You should exercise more, you’re sweating as much as I am, and I’m sick.”

“But that doesn’t have anything to do with my lack of exercise.”

Even the people around us had reached the limit of their stamina - many sat shamelessly in the umbrage of nearby trees. It seemed like today was another especially hot day.

Somehow overcoming our dehydration, we slipped away from the other youth, and resumed our journey. We washed our hands, placed them upon the burning hot statue of a cow, crossed a bridge as we watched the turtles float on the water, and at long last, we arrived before the god. As for why we came across a cow on the way, I remembered reading an explanation for it, but the tepid heat had caused me to forget. She, on the other hand, never seemed intent on reading it.

We stood in front of the box that acted as the god’s wallet, and tossed in a small amount of money as an offering. Then we properly made our prayers - bowing twice, clapping twice, and bowing once more.

I had learnt from somewhere that shrine visits weren’t actually the time to make wishes of gods. They were originally meant as an expression of one’s determination before the gods. But right now, I couldn’t muster any sort of determination. Since nothing could be done about it, I thought I’d give the girl beside me some help. Feigning ignorance, I made a wish to the god.

May her pancreas be healed.

Only when I was done did I realise I had prayed for even longer than her. Surely, wishes that we know won’t come true were easier to pray for. Perhaps she had actually wished for something different from me. I didn’t feel the need to ask her. Prayers were something that should be offered in silence, alone.

“I wished to be lively until I died. Get-Along-kun, what about you?”

“……You’re always trampling on my intentions huh.”

“Huh, don’t tell me you wished for me to slowly get weaker? You’re the worst! I was wrong about you!”

“And why would I wish for someone else’s misfortune?”

The truth was that I had wished for the complete opposite of what she had speculated, but I didn’t tell her. Speaking of which, wasn’t this the God of Studies? Well, it was a god, so it probably didn’t bother about the details.

“Hey, let’s go draw our fortunes!”

I furrowed my brow at her suggestion. I had considered fortune slips to have no connection to her fate. Predictions about the future were written on them, but that girl didn’t have a future.

She rushed to the spot where the fortune slips were being sold, confidently deposited a hundred yen into the box, and drew a fortune. It couldn’t be helped, so I followed along.

“The one with the better fortune wins!”

“Just what do you think fortune slips are?”

“Ah, I got a Great Blessing.”

She was grinning from ear to ear. Inside my heart, I was dumbfounded. Just what did the gods think of this girl? With this, it was proven that fortune slips didn’t carry any sort of power at all. Or perhaps, it was actually an act of kindness from the gods to the girl who had already drawn an extraordinarily great curse.

She raised her voice.

"Ahahahahahahahahahahaha! Look, look! It says 'your disease will be healed soon’! There’s no way it’ll be healed!”

“…Just what about this are you enjoying?”

“What’d you get?”

“Blessing.”

“So it’s lesser than a Small Blessing?”

“Though there are also those that say it’s just lesser than a Great Blessing.”

“Whichever way it is, it’s my win, hehe.”

“Just what about this are you enjoying?”

“Wow, yours says that you’ll meet a good match in love, how nice.”

“If you really think it’s great, don’t say it so contemptuously.”

She slanted her slim neck, and brought her face into point-blank range of mine, a smirk plastered across her face. “Even though I would say she was cute if I had to,” I ended up thinking - my greatest blunder yet.

I looked the other way, and I heard her cackling. She didn’t say a word once her laughter stopped.

We left the inner shrine and headed back the way we came from. But instead of crossing the bridge from earlier, we turned left, coming across the treasure house as well as a pool named the Iris Pond. There were plenty of turtles floating about on the water, for which we went to buy food pellets to scatter into the water. Looking at the laid-back movements of the turtles, I got a little distracted from the heat. I broke out of my daze with the quiet realisation that she had begun talking with a little girl. I looked at her smiling face and thought, “As expected of a human who is the opposite of me.” The girl asked, “Big sis, is he your boyfriend?” And she replied, “Nope, we just get along!” Her response confused the young girl.

Once we were done feeding the turtles, we walked the path along the pool and came across an eatery. At her suggestion, we popped in. The store was outfitted with an air-conditioner and we sighed on reflex at the respite it provided. The spacious store had three other groups of customers apart from us. There was a family, a classy elderly couple, and a group of four aunties who were heartily engaged in raucous chatter. We sat down at the table by the window.

Soon, a gentle-looking granny arrived with two cups of water, and took our orders.

“Two umegae-mochi, and I guess I’ll get tea. Are you fine with tea too?”

I nodded, and the granny smiled as she left for the back of the shop.

I drank the cold water, and felt my body temperature steadily decrease. It was a relief to feel the chill spread to my fingertips.

“That confection - you called it umegae-mochi, right?”

“It’s a specialty. It was listed on the magazine.”

“Sorry for the wait!” And before I could assert that we hadn’t waited at all, two red plates of umegae-mochi and two cups of green tea had been placed on our table. Since we had to make payment upfront, the two of us split the bill in half and handed our coins to the store attendant.

I picked up the round white mochi that seemed to be in constant production within the store, and its crispy baked exterior made itself evident. As I bit into it, plenty of sweetness, together with the faintly salty red bean paste, filled my mouth. It tasted delicious, and the green tea paired rather well with it.

“Doesn’t it taste great? Following me was the right decision after all.”

“Just a little.”

“You aren’t honest, huh. At this rate won’t you just go back to being alone once I’m gone?”

It’s not like that would bother me. That was what I thought. To me, the situation now was the true anomaly.

Once she was gone, I would return to my original lifestyle. Without interacting with anyone, I’d shroud myself in the world of novels. I’d return to that kind of everyday. It wasn’t something that was decidedly bad. But, I didn’t think I could make her understand.

Once we were done with our meal, she spread her magazine open on the table.

"What are we going to do next?”

“Oh, you’re really getting into this huh.”

“I decided that I may as well lick the plate clean after seeing a scarecrow on the Shinkansen.”

“Ah, okay, I don’t understand what you just said. But I’ve come up with a list of things I wanted to do before I die.”

That was a good thing. She had probably realised how pointless it was to spend time with me.

“Like going on a journey with a boy, eating tonkotsu ramen at its place of conception, and though we just plunged into this journey, for now, the last goal for the me of today is to have offal hotpot for dinner. If I can fulfil that much for today, I’ll be super happy. Get-Along-kun, do you have anywhere else you want to go?”

“Not really, I’m basically indifferent to tourist attractions, so I don’t really know any places for us to go. I’ve already said it in yesterday’s message, but I’m fine with going anywhere you want to go.”

“Hmm, I see, so what shall we do………… Wah!”

She had let out a dumb sound. The cause was the sound of something breaking coupled with someone’s crude scream that had filled the room. I turned towards the direction of the ruckus and I realised that within that ever-noisy group of aunties, one of them had raised her voice hysterically. Next to them, the granny was bowing her head. It seemed that she had somehow stumbled and toppled over a teacup. The crash of the ceramic teacup shattering against the floor had surprised the girl who was troubled thinking about our next course of action.

I kept a watch on the situation and observed. Even though the granny continued to apologise profusely, the auntie who seemed to have gotten tea spilt on her own clothes got increasingly possessed by hysteria, and appeared no different from a lunatic. Glancing in front of me, I saw that she was also watching as she sipped on her tea.

I had thought that the situation would somehow be resolved peacefully, but my expectations were quickly dashed - the auntie absolutely blew her lid and roughly shoved the granny away. Having been pushed over, the granny staggered and collided with a table, causing it to flip and collapse onto the floor. The soy sauce dispenser and a bunch of disposable chopsticks were also scattered about.

The only one that still remained in the side-lines after witnessing the present state of affairs was me.

“Wait a moment!”

Raising her voice to a level that I had not heard until now, the girl that should have been sharing a table with me stood up, and rushed over to the granny down the aisle.

“I knew it,” I thought. I, who wished to remain a bystander, and she, who wanted to be involved - it was that kind of thing. I could say with conviction that if I reversed myself as a person, that if I were her, I would have stood up too.

The girl helped the granny up, yelling at the ladies she considered her enemies. Of course, her opponents fought back, but this was probably her true worth. Having seen her in action, the other customers in the shop - the father of the family, and the elderly couple - kicked into gear, and supported the girl.

After receiving criticisms from all sides, even the other aunties turned red. The group hastily left the store, muttering complaints all the way out. With the troublemakers gone, the girl checked on the granny, and was praised in return. I was still drinking my tea.

After putting back the table in its original position, the girl returned with an “I’m back”. She still appeared to be mad. I thought that she may have been upset with my lack of action, but that wasn’t it.

“Even though the granny tripped and fell over because that auntie suddenly stretched her foot out. How utterly horrible!”

“Yeah.”

In this world, there exists a notion that the sins of perpetrators and bystanders carried the same weight. In which case, I was no different from those aunties, and so refrained from strongly condemning them.

While looking at the girl who got angry for the sake of justice, and whose days were numbered, I thought that the devil’s children really had the devil’s luck.

“There are plenty of humans that should die before you, huh.”

“I know, right!”

I smiled bitterly at her agreement. Just like I had thought, I’d probably be alone again once she was gone.

When we left the store, she received six umegae-mochi from the granny as a thank-you gift and souvenir. She turned it down at first, but at the granny’s insistence, graciously accepted it. I too got to eat some of that umegae-mochi which had been baked as part of an earlier batch, and I enjoyed the moist and different texture – even this too, was delicious.

“For now, let’s head towards the city, since we need to look for a Uniqlo too.”

“That’s true, I sweated more than I thought I would. I’m really sorry but, I’ll definitely repay you before you die, so could you lend me some money?”

“Huh, I don’t want to.”

“…………You’re a spawn of the devil, huh. Let’s get along in hell.”

“Wahaha, it was a lie, I was just joking, just joking. It’s fine even if you don’t repay me.”

“No way, I’ll repay you everything you’ve paid for up till now too.”

“How stubborn.”

We took the train, and headed back to the station we came from. The inside of the train was quiet. The elderly were dozing off, and the little children were gathered together, holding their war council in whispers. Since the girl was reading her magazine beside me, I gazed blankly outside. The time indicated that evening was approaching, but the summer sky was still bright. It would be great if it just stayed bright forever. Having reached this moment in time, I started thinking about that kind of thing on a whim.

“If only I had made that my wish to the god instead,” I muttered to myself, as she folded her magazine and closed her eyes. She stayed like that, fast asleep until we arrived at our station.

The number of people at the station had increased from the afternoon. In the midst of students and salarymen making their daily commute, we walked leisurely. I thought that the residents of this prefecture walked faster than those living elsewhere. Maybe it was to avoid trouble in an unsafe prefecture.

After consulting with her, we decided to proceed to the single downtown district within the prefecture. We had looked it up on our cellphones, and it seemed that there was also a Uniqlo over there. We searched it up some more, and apparently, in order to get to the first station within the city from the location of the shrine, we should have continued on without exiting the ticket gates. But at any rate, having been abducted, it was impossible for me to have done my research, and she was never a human meticulous enough to care about such things.

We got on the subway, and headed downtown.

The night had fallen completely, and it was now 8 PM. We were seated at a hori-gotatsu, picking at a steaming hotpot. The taste of the specialty hotpot with no other ingredients but offal, cabbage, and garlic chives had left me - who had declared meat superior to innards - speechless. Of course, the girl was as noisy as ever.

“It’s great to be alive!”

“No lies in that statement huh.”

I drank the soup from my own bowl. Thoroughly delicious.

After we had arrived at the city, we visited Uniqlo, and following which, we simply wandered around aimlessly. We entered a glasses shop because she wanted to buy sunglasses, and later visited a bookshop I had spotted. It was fairly enjoyable just looking at the townscape of a land I didn’t know. Later still, we chased pigeons in a park we chanced upon, and sampled the signature confections of the prefecture in a local confectionery. Time passed right by.

As the darkness of night crept in, the prefecture’s residents began lining up at the unusual food stalls along the street. While I was still fixated on the scene before me, we started making our way towards a hotpot establishment that had caught her eye. Since it was a weekday - or perhaps we were just lucky - we were ushered to a table in the crowded restaurant straight away. “It’s all thanks to me,” so she bragged, but she hadn’t even made a reservation or anything like that, so it absolutely wasn’t thanks to her.

For the most part, we didn’t talk about anything of substance during our meal. She heaped praises onto the hotpot from start to finish as I quietly relished the food. I managed to enjoy the hotpot without saying anything pointless. When faced with delicious food, it wouldn’t do to act otherwise.

The next time she opened that pointless mouth of hers was when the store attendant added Chinese noodles to the soup brimming with umami.

“With this, the two of us are hotpot buddies too.”

“Are you trying to make it seem like we’ve been living under the same roof and eating from the same pot?”

“Even more than that. Since I’ve never even eaten hotpot with any of my boyfriends.”

She tittered. The reason her way of laughing was different from usual was because alcohol had entered her system. She had brazenly ordered wine despite her status as a high school girl. The waiter made no second guesses as to the excessively unabashed order, and promptly conferred a glass of white wine. Even though I would’ve been happier had he just contacted the police.

The girl who was in an even better mood than normal wanted to talk about herself even more than usual. It was convenient for me since I preferred to listen to what other humans had to say, as compared to speaking myself.

As for how our conversation went, she started with her last boyfriend who was apparently also my classmate.

“He’s a super great guy. Yeah, really, I received a confession from him, and I thought that since he was a good person and a friend, it’d be fine to go out with him, so it was hard to understand that it wasn’t like that. I mean, I’ve already said it quite frankly, haven’t I? After we started going out, he’d get moody easily, and once we started fighting, he’d stay angry for a super long time. It’d have been fine if we were friends, but I didn’t want to be with him any longer.”

She brought the wine to her mouth. I kept quiet, unable to empathise, and listened to what she had to say.

“Even Kyouko had good things to say about my ex-boyfriend. Since he seemed like a refreshing boy on the surface.”

“Doesn’t seem to have anything to do with me.”

“That’s true, after all, Kyouko does avoid you.”

“Didn’t you think you’d hurt me by saying something like that?”

“Are you hurt?”

“I’m not hurt. I avoid her too, so we’re even.”

“Even though I want you to get along with Kyouko after I die huh.”

With an expression different from how it was up till now, she looked at me straight in the eye. Evidently, it seemed like she was serious about those words. With no way out, I answered, “I’ll think about it.” “Please do,” came her curt reply. Those words were spoken with an earnest conviction. My heart that had already decided that we weren’t going to get along anyway wavered, if just a little.

We left the restaurant once we had satisfied ourselves with the hotpot, and our faces were caressed by the pleasant night wind. Even though there were coolers installed within the restaurant, they were made largely defunct by the many hotpots simmering away inside. She had left after me, since she had been footing the bill. Under the condition that I would definitely repay her for everything she spent on me on this trip, I agreed to leave the bills to her.

“Waaah! Feels great!”

“It’s still cooling at night huh.”

“Right? Okay then, guess it’s about time we head to the hotel.”

I had heard about our place of residence from her earlier in the afternoon. It was a fairly high-grade hotel that was connected to the Shinkansen station we had arrived at, and it seemed to be well-known even within the prefecture. She had actually intended on staying at a simple business hotel, but when she informed her parents about her plans, they proposed that she may as well stay at a better place, and so provided her with a subsidy. Since she had already gone that far, there was no reason not to take advantage of their kindness - it was that kind of thing. Of course, half the money her parents had forked out was meant for Best-Friend-san, but the responsibility for that lay with her, so it wasn’t my business.

Having reached the station, it really wasn’t long till we arrived at the hotel. No, it’s not like I was casting doubt on the official information, what I had meant was that the hotel was even closer than I’d expected.

I had already confirmed it beforehand in the magazine she had brought along, so I wasn’t overwhelmed by the luxury and elegance of the hotel’s interior. If I hadn’t prepared my heart, my jaw would’ve probably hit the ground. And so, I should have been bowing my head down to her. But since even I had a grain of self-respect that wouldn’t allow that, I was really glad to just act surprised on the surface.

Even though I’d avoided getting blown away, I was still becoming predictably restless in this atmosphere that didn’t match my own social standing. I thus let her handle the checking in, while I sat down on the refined lobby’s sofa, and quietly waited for her. The comfort I got from sitting on the sofa felt deep and gentle.

With a look that indicated she was used to this, she boldly headed for the counter, and the hotel staff all bowed their heads down as she approached. I thought without a doubt that she wouldn’t become a decent adult, but then remembered that she simply wouldn’t become an adult.

While drinking tea from a clearly out-of-place PET bottle, I watched from the side as she dealt with the receptionist.

The person handling her check-in was slender, and had his hair combed straight back - a young man that very much gave off the air of a hotel receptionist.

Just as I thought about the trouble the receptionist would have to go through, she started to fill in some form she was presented with. I didn’t listen to the contents of their conversation from this point onwards, but she returned the piece of paper, and with a refined demeanour, the beaming receptionist began keying in the information into his computer. Probably having confirmed the reservation, he turned back to her and began courteously speaking.

She made a surprised expression, and shook her head. The receptionist’s face stiffened in response, as he began to operate the computer once again, all the while still speaking to her. She shook her head again, took her backpack off her shoulders, and handed over a piece of paper that she had retrieved from within.

The receptionist compared the piece of paper to the computer screen, and frowned before momentarily withdrawing further behind the counter. Like her, I waited around doing nothing in particular, until he returned with an older man; the two of them bowed their heads to her profusely and countlessly.

After which, it wasn’t the younger man, but his senior that made a deep, full-bodied bow of apology, and began speaking to her. She made a troubled smile.

I watched the situation unfold from the side, wondering if something had happened. Thinking about it normally, it would have been logical to be under the impression that there had been a mistake on the hotel’s side, and the reservation had been recorded erroneously, but I felt that that alone would not have explained her troubled smile. Whatever the case, I expected the hotel to properly deal with the situation, and so thought little of it. At worst, we could simply wait out the night at some net cafe.

Still smiling in a troubled manner, she kept stealing glances at me, and so for no particular reason at all, I nodded back at her. There wasn’t really any meaning behind that action, but after spotting my response, she said something to the two apologetic men at the counter.

Right away, the faces of the two receptionists brightened up, and though they kept their heads down as always, it seemed like this time, they offered her words of gratitude. The me a few minutes later was going to want to beat up the me that thought it was best their conversation had concluded. Just like I’ve said many times before, I was lacking in my crisis-management skills.

After accepting the key and the like, she returned with her head held low once again. I looked up at her face, and told her, “Seems like you had some trouble huh.” She returned my efforts with her facial expressions. First, she pursed her lips, showing her embarrassment and apprehension, then she peeked at my expression, and finally - as if she was casting them all away - she broke into a broad grin.

“Hey, so it seems like they made a little blunder.”

“Yeah.”

“They’ve filled up all the rooms of the type we originally made reservations for.”

“I see.”

“Yup, so, since it’s their responsibility, it seems like they’ll prepare a much better room for us than the one we had reserved.”

“That’s pretty great huh.”

“Hey…………”

She dangled the single key she carried in her hand beside her face.

“We’ll have to share the room, but it’s fine right?”

“…………Huh?”

There’s wasn’t a single sensible thing I could say in response to her smile.

I was getting sick of explaining things like this, and I think if anyone could read the inside of my heart, this situation’s development would be fairly obvious, but I was overpowered by her, and ended up staying over in the same room.

I’d like if no one thought that I was a weak-willed flirt that easily agreed to stay in the same room as someone of the opposite gender. To put it in one way, there were some financial issues between me and her. Just by exploiting that alone, my insistence that it would be better for me to stay over at a separate location was denied.

That said, who was I even making excuses for?

Yes, excuses. Taking on a firm stance and going in a separate direction from her - that was what I should have done. Even for her, it would probably have been impossible to stop me. However, I willingly didn’t do so. The reason? Well, I’m not sure.

In any case, I ended up sharing the same room with her. Having said that, there wasn’t anything for me to feel guilty about. I could guarantee that for the rest of my life. We were pure.

“Isn’t sleeping together in the same bed exciting?”

Okay, I was the only one who was pure.

“Are you dumb?”

I frowned at the girl who had said something strange after spinning around as though she were dancing under the chandelier that emanated a soft light from the middle of the spacious room. I sat down on a good sofa within the Western-style space, and told her something of the utmost common sense.

“I’ll be over here.”

“Come on, since we’ve gotten a good room, you should at least have a proper taste of the bed!”

“In that case, I’ll lie down on the bed for a little while afterwards.”

“Shouldn’t you be happy to sleep with a girl?”

“Stop with those unwarranted attempts at character assassination. Look, I’m just a gentleman wherever I go. Just save those kinds of things for a boyfriend.”

“Since we’re not in a relationship, wouldn’t it be fun to do things we shouldn’t do?”

After saying that, seemingly having thought of something, she took out the ‘Disease Coexistence Journal’ from her backpack and made a memo. I often saw this behaviour when observing her.

“Wo~w! There’s a jacuzzi!”

While listening to her frolicking about in the bathroom, I opened the glass door, and stepped out onto the veranda. The room we had been shown to was located on the 15th floor of the high-rise, and even though it wasn’t a suite, it was way too luxurious for high school students. The toilet and the bath were even separated, and the night view was spectacular.

“Waaah, it’s wonderful.”

Before I knew it, she was out on the veranda, enjoying the night view. Her long hair swayed in the whispering wind.

“It’s just the two of us gazing into the night - don’t you think it’s romantic?”

I returned into the room without answering. Sitting on the sofa, I picked up the remote on the round table before me, switched on the television that was as big as the room was large, and browsed through the channels. There were many local programmes on air that I usually didn’t get to see, and the entertainers showcasing dialects caught my interest more than the girl’s nonsense.

Abandoning the veranda, she closed the glass door and cut in front of me to sit on the bed. I could imagine from the look on her face when she made a “woah” just how springy the bed was. Alright then, guess it wouldn’t hurt to have just a little taste of its springs.

Just like me, she was watching the large television.

“Dialects are interesting huh. Have ye eaten? It sounds just like some warrior from way back. Even though the town is cutting-edge, its dialect sounds old - how strange.”

For someone like her, she said something rather meaningful.

“Seems like it’d be pretty fun to study dialects as a job.”

“Guess we agree once in a while huh. Even I’m thinking that it’d be fine if I studied that kind of stuff once I enter university.”

“How nice, I wanted to go to university too.”

“……What do you want me to say to that?”

I’d like if she stopped with the non-humorous, sentimentality-cladded stuff. I didn’t even know how I was supposed to feel.

“Don’t you have any trivia about dialects or something?”

“Let’s see, well, when we hear them, they all sound like the same Kansai dialect to us, but there are actually quite a number of variants. How many variants do you think there are?”

“Ten thousand!”

“……That’s just plain impossible. I’m going to get angry if you keep pulling answers out of thin air, you know? There are various views, but some say the actual number may even be close to thirty.”

“Huh, is that so.”

“……I wonder just how many people you’ve hurt up till now.”

Since she was a girl with a wide network of acquaintances, that number was probably immeasurable. Honestly, what a sinful human. On that point, I, who didn’t acquaint myself with anybody, would never hurt anyone. As for which of us is righteous as a person, I think that judgement will be divided.

She silently watched the television for a while, but before long - probably finding it unbearable to remain still - she began rolling around on the wide bed, and after completely messing it up, she loudly exclaimed, “I’m having a bath!” Following which, she entered the bathroom and started filling the tub with hot water. With the sound of gushing water acting as BGM from beyond the bathroom wall, she retrieved various small items from her backpack, and started the water in the washroom that was separate from the bathroom. She was probably removing her make up. Though it’s not like I was interested.

Once the bath was filled with hot water, she disappeared into the bath with delightful glee. “Peeping is a no-no.” Such was the foolish piece of advice I had received, but I didn’t even look at her walking into the bathroom. See, it’s because I was a gentleman.

I could hear her humming a song in the bathroom, something I’d heard before from what was probably a commercial. Wondering just how in the world had I arrived at the present situation in which I was sitting so close to a classmate as she took a hot bath, I thought back and reflected on my own plans and actions. Looking up at the ceiling, the chandelier flickered from the corner of my eye.

When I had reached the part of my memory where I was getting assaulted by her on the Shinkansen, I was called out to.

“Get-along-ku~n, could you get me the facial cleansing cream from my backpack?”

Submitting to her voice that echoed from the bathroom, without feeling anything in particular, I grabbed the sky blue backpack that had been left on the bed and peeked inside.

I hadn’t felt anything.

That was why it was as if my heart had been hit with an earthquake from somewhere when I laid my eyes on its contents.

I looked inside the backpack - coloured just as brightly as her.

And though there should have been no need or reason to be shaken up, my heart was pounding.

Even though I should have known, even though I should have understood. Even though I should have already grasped the premise of her existence, having seen that, I choked.

Calm down……

I told myself so.

Inside her backpack were several syringes, an unprecedented amount of pills, and what seemed to be a measuring apparatus that I didn’t know how to operate.

I somehow managed to hold my ground and stop my thoughts from racing away.

I had known, that this was reality. The truth that she was maintaining her existence with the power of medical science. When I looked at what lay before my eyes, I felt an unspeakable horror befall me. And right at that moment, the face of the fear that entrapped me showed itself.

“Anything wro~ng?”

I turned towards the bathroom, and saw her wet arm flapping about; she, who lacked even the slightest clue about the state of my heart. In order to prevent her from realising the feelings that had been born within me, I hurriedly searched for the tube of facial cleansing cream and handed it over to her.

“Thaaanks! Ah, this is because I’m naked right now!”

Before I could even muster a response, she cracked, “At least say something! This is embarrassing!” Having fulfilled the role of a straight man in her own little routine, she closed the bathroom door.

I approached the bed she had occupied and threw my body onto it. It engulfed me in a springiness that I had come to expect. And the white ceiling seemed to engulf even my consciousness.

I was confused.

But why?

I should have been aware, I should have known, and I should have understood.

But even so, I was still averting my eyes.

Averting my eyes from her reality.

In actuality, just by having seen those items, I was becoming ruled by mistaken feelings. It was as though a monster was gnawing at my heart.

Why?

My unsettled thoughts went spinning round and round, and I fell asleep on the bed, the spinning probably having reached my eyes.

When I had come to, the girl who had washed her hair was shaking my shoulder. The monster had retreated for now.

“So you did want to sleep on the bed.”

“……Like I said, I just wanted to have one taste. This is plenty.”

I stood up and seated myself on the sofa. So as to ensure she wouldn’t notice the wounds the monster left, I stared at the television as expressionlessly as I could. I’d regained my composure, and the fact that I could do that much was reassuring.

The girl was drying her long hair with the dryer provided.

“Get-Along-kun, you should take a bath too, the jacuzzi was great!”

“Guess I should. No peeping alright, since I’m going to peel off my human skin when I enter the bath.”

“You got sunburnt?”

“Yeah, guess that works too.”

With the Uniqlo carrier that contained the clothes I’d bought with money borrowed from her, I headed into the bathroom. Where humidity was heaviest, a sweet scent swirled about, but knowing better, I simply dismissed it as a concoction of my imagination.

Just in case, I properly locked the door before I removed my clothes and rinsed myself under the shower. After I was done washing my head and body, I immersed myself in the bathtub. Just like she said, once I activated the jacuzzi function, I was enveloped by a sense of bliss that couldn’t be put into words. The tracks left by the monster trampling over my heart were slowly washed away. Baths were great. I fully enjoyed the bath of a high-class hotel that I supposed I wouldn’t get a taste of for at least another ten years.

I left the bath and found the chandelier lights switched off, making the room considerably dimmer. The girl was seated on the sofa that should have been my bed, and lying on the round table was a convenience store carrier that hadn’t been there before.

“I bought some snacks and stuff from the convenience store downstairs! Could you get two cups from the shelf over there?”

Just as she had requested, I grabbed hold of the two cups and brought them over to the table. Since the sofa was occupied, I sat on the elegantly designed chair across the table. Just like the sofa, this too had a springiness that could calm a person’s heart.

While I sat comfortably, she lowered the convenience store carrier onto the floor, retrieved from it a bottle, and poured its contents into the two cups. She filled them both to half their capacity with the amber-coloured liquid, and then continued filling them with a colourless carbonated drink from another bottle until they were about to overflow. The two liquids mixed together, creating a mysterious cocktail.

“And this is?”

“Plum liqueur mixed with soda - I wonder if this ratio is alright.”

“I’ve been thinking since the offal hotpot, but you’re only a high school student.”

“I’m not acting cool or anything, I just like alcoholic drinks. You’re not going to drink?”

“…… It can’t be helped, I’ll join you.”

I brought the completely filled cup to my mouth, making sure not to spill any of the plum liqueur. The first sip of alcohol I had drunk in some time had a refreshing aroma, and was unexpectedly sweet.

She enjoyed sipping at her own share of plum liqueur - just like she had proclaimed - while spreading her snacks out on the table one by one.

“Which faction of potato chip flavours are you in? I’m in consommé.”

“Anything other than salt is just anti-establishment.”

“We really do go in different directions huh! I didn’t buy anything but consommé though - serves you right.”

I watched the girl that seemed to be having quite some fun, and sure enough, the liqueur was becoming too sweet. I was pretty much stuffed after the offal hotpot, but the junk food oddly got my appetite working again. While munching on the treacherous consommé potato chips, I sipped on the liqueur.

Once we were both done with our first glass, she poured us a second glass each, and made a proposal.

“Let’s play a game.”

“A game? We’re even going to play shogi?”

“I’m at the level where I can at least understand the rules of shogi, but you look like a strong player to me.”

“Well I do like tsume-shogi, since I can play it alone.”

“How lonesome. I brought poker cards though.”

She walked over to the bed, and brought back a box containing a set of poker cards from inside her backpack.

“I think it’s more lonesome to play with poker cards with just the two of us. For example, what do you even want us to play?”

“Grand Millionaire?”

“It’ll just be revolution after revolution and there won’t be any commoners though.”

She giggled, seemingly in a good mood.

“Hmmm.”

Taking out the poker cards from the plastic box, she looked like she was thinking as her body shook from the shuffling. Without being particularly intrusive, I took the Pocky she had bought and nibbled on one.

Once she shuffled the cards about five times, she stopped. After seemingly nodding to herself in approval countless times for coming up with some idea, her sparkling eyes turned to me.

“Since we’re already drinking, let’s go with the momentum and play Truth or Dare too.”

I knitted my eyebrows, having heard the name of a game I wasn’t used to hearing.

“What kind of game has a name as heavy as that?”

“You don’t know? Then I’ll explain the rules as we play. But first, the most important rule. You absolutely can’t quit the game. Got it?

"In other words, I just can’t push over the shogi board, right? That’s fine, I won’t do that sort of unrefined thing.”

“You really said it huh?”

Her mischievous laughter had an odious tinge. She moved all the snacks on the table to the floor, and skilfully spread the faced down poker cards onto the tabletop to form a circle. I could tell from her expression that she was going to exploit the gap in our experience to beat me, and this in turn fired me up - I was determined to take her down a peg or two. There was no problem, since most games involving poker cards were battles of wit and luck. Experience wouldn’t help much once I understood the rules.

“Incidentally, we’re using poker cards because we just happened to have them, but using rock-papers-scissors would be fine too.”

“……Give me back my fire.”

“I’ve already eaten it. Alright, so the one that flips over the largest card from within this circle will be the winner. And the winner will get the right.”

“The right?”

“The right to ask ‘truth or dare?’ Speaking of which, I guess ten rounds will do. For now, just pick a card.”

As instructed, I flipped a card over. It was the 8 of Spades.

“What if we both pick cards of the same number?”

“It’d be troublesome otherwise, so we’ll just pick another card. I mentioned it earlier too, but since I only made up the rule because it was fitting, this game isn’t really related to poker itself.”

This time she drank her plum liqueur as she turned over a card. It was the 11 of Hearts. I didn’t really understand, but I could tell I was definitely in a disadvantageous situation, so I readied myself.

“Ya~y, so now I have the right. Now I’m going to ask ‘truth or dare?’ And first, you’re going to say ‘truth’. Okay, so, truth or dare?”

“Truth…… Then what?”

“Then for starters, who do you think is the cutest in our class?”

“…………Just what are you asking all of a sudden?”

“This is Truth or Dare, you know? If you can’t answer, then you’ll have to choose dare. And if you choose to have a dare, then I’ll decide what you have to do as the dare. Whether it’s truth or dare, you absolutely can’t avoid choosing one of them.”

“What a devil’s game.”

“I’ve already said it before, but you can’t back out now. Didn’t you agree to it too? You wouldn’t do anything unrefined, right?”

Thinking that making me show my resentment was all part of her plan, I remained expressionless in front of her, who was laughing unpleasantly as she drank her liqueur.

No, it was too early to give up. There should still be a way out somewhere.

“Does such a game really exist? Are you sure you didn’t just make it up on the spot? If that’s the case, then I insist that it invalidates my agreement to not drop out of the game.”

“Too bad, huh. Do you really think I’m the sort of human that doesn’t think their plans through?”

“I do.”

“Muahaha, it’s a fully-fledged game that has even appeared in many movies. I can assure you it’s real since I’ve properly looked it up after seeing it in a movie once. So thanks for going out of your way to reiterate that you wouldn’t quit the game.”

Cackling in a manner that I imagined only the denizens of hell could, there was clearly malice lurking within her eyes.

Somehow, it seemed that I’d once again been caught in a trap. Just how many times did this make it?

“Let’s not violate public order and morals in our truths and dares though - ah, but you’ve never experienced anything erotic before huh, good grief, you’ve got to remember to control yourself alright.”

“Keep quiet, dummy.”

“How mean!”

She finished the liqueur in her cup, and poured herself a third one. Her perpetual half-smile indicated that some of the alcohol had probably already begun circulating in her system. Incidentally, my face had been hot since a while ago.

“So, first of all, my question - who do you think is the cutest in our class?”

“I don’t judge people by their appearances you know.”

“Personality doesn’t really matter, it’s about who you think has the cutest face.”

“…………”

“Incidentally, I’m not going to show any mercy if you chose to do a dare instead.”

I felt nothing but bad vibes from that.

I thought of the best way to avoid damage in this situation. It couldn’t be helped - I chose truth.

“I think that girl is pretty. That girl who’s good at math.”

“Ah!! You mean Hina! She’s one eighth German you know. Hmm, so you like that kind of girl. Even though Hina’s pretty, I don’t think she has a boyfriend or anything, and if I were a boy I’d probably choose Hina too. You’ve got a good eye, huh!”

“Saying I have a good eye only if it matches your opinion, you really have an enormous ego huh.”

I drank more liqueur. I had become a lot more numb to the taste than before.

At her command, I once again chose another card. Nine rounds to go. It looked unlikely that I’d be able to escape halfway, so I hoped for all of the remaining questions to be mine to ask. Alas, it seemed that I wasn’t really lucky in times such as this.

I got the 2 of Hearts, and she got the 6 of Diamonds.

“Woohoo, I guess heaven favours children with kind hearts.”

“I’ve suddenly become unable to believe in any god.”

“Truth or dare?”

“……Truth.”

“If Hina is number one in the class, just by appearance, where do I place?”

“…………Amongst the faces of the humans I can force myself to remember - number three.”

Thinking of infusing myself with the alcohol’s power, I drank more of my liqueur. At the same time, she too brought her cup to her mouth, and drank even more vigorously than me.

“Wo~w, I did ask the question myself, but I’m super embarrassed! I mean who’d have expected Get-Along-kun to answer so honestly - it’s too much.”

“I just want this to end faster. So I’ve resigned myself.”

Probably because of the liqueur, her face had turned red.

“Get-Along-kun, just take it slow, the night is long after all.”

“That’s true. They do say time feels longer if you’re not enjoying yourself.”

“I’m having a lot of fun though.”

So she said, pouring another two cups of plum liqueur. Since there wasn’t any soda left, she filled the cups to the brim with the strong plum liqueur. Even without a taste, I could tell just how sweet it was from the fragrance it emanated.

“I see, so I’m the third cutest huh. Ehehehehe.”

“Never mind that, I’m drawing my card. Alright, the 12 of Diamonds.”

“Do you really not intend on getting fired up for this game? Here I come - waaah, the 2 of Hearts.”

I took a glance at her disappointed-looking face, and I was relieved from the bottom of my heart. The greatest resistance I could muster within the ten rounds of this game was to trump her hand, even just once more. I swore that once these ten rounds were over, I’d never again join her in these incomprehensible activities that she called games.

“Come on, Get-Along-kun, say it.”

“Aaah, truth or dare?”

“Truth!”

“Ermmm, that’s right, hmm.”

I wondered about what I wanted to know about her, and thought of it right away.

Something that I wanted to know about her – there was nothing else but this.

“Okay, I’ve decided.”

“This is starting to get my heart pounding!”

“What kind of child were you?

“…………Erm, is that really okay? I was even prepared to at least reveal my three sizes.”

"Be quiet, dummy.”

“How horrible!”

She leant back and looked upwards, seemingly enjoying herself. Of course, the intention behind my question wasn’t to hear about her fond memories. What I wanted to know was how a human like her came to be. I wanted to know how she - my opposite - grew up, how the surrounding humans impacted her, and how she impacted them.

The reason was simply because I found it mysterious. I wondered just how large the gap between our lives must have been for the establishment of our differing natures. I was interested in whether I could have turned out to be like her with a single misstep.

“How I was as a child huuuh - at any rate, I’ve been told that I was restless.”

“Makes sense huh, I can easily imagine.”

“Right? Since girls were taller in elementary school, I would even get into fights with the largest boy in class. I even wrecked some things, so I was a problematic child.”

Indeed, there may be a link between the size of a person’s body and their character. My body had always been small and weak. Perhaps that was why I became an introverted human.

“Is this much enough?”

“I guess so, then let’s move on.”

Thereafter, it seemed that the gods really did favour good children, and somehow or other I won five straight victories. The proud girl from when the game began had disappeared, leaving the girl that the gods had abandoned together with her pancreas, who drank more liqueur with each loss and had gotten into a bad mood. No, to be accurate, she got displeased every time she heard my questions. With only two sets remaining, her face was bright red and her lips were pursed, and it looked like she was going to slide down the sofa. It was as if she were a child sulking.

Incidentally, below are the five rounds of questions and answers that made her say, “Is this an interview?”

“What’s the interest you’ve had for the longest time?”

“If I had to pick something, I gue~ss I’ve always loved movies.”

“Which famous person do you respect the most and why?”

“Chiune Sugihara! The one that gave the Jews visas. It think it was super cool of him to go through with what he himself thought was right.”

“What do you think are your own strengths and weaknesses?”

“My strength is that I can get along with everyone, and I’m not totally sure about my weakness, but I guess it’s how I’m easily distracted.”

"What’s the happiest moment of your life?”

“Hehe, I guess it’s meeting you. Teehee.”

“Not counting the stuff about your pancreas, what’s the most painful moment of your life?”

“I guess it was when the dog I was always with died when I was in middle school………… Hey, is this an interview?”

I made a splendid face of ignorance if I said so myself, and responded, “Nope, it’s a game.” And with teary eyes, she cried out, “Then ask questions that are more fun!” After which, she proceeded to drink another cup of liqueur.

“Drink up.”

So as to not offend the drunkard that was facing me with a vulgar look, I drank some liqueur too. With that, I had become rather tipsy as well, but I was still better at maintaining a poker face than her.

“Two rounds remaining; I’m going to draw now - the 11 of Spades.”

“Whaaat! Why’s it so stro~ng, gah!

While wholeheartedly moaning in sorrow, frustration and exasperation, she flipped open a card too. I looked at the number she had drawn, and I - who had been convinced that I’d won - had sweat dripping down my back.

The 13 of Spades - it was a king.

"I, I, I, I did it! ……Hmm?”

It seemed that the alcohol had reached the legs of the girl that cheered and stood up at the same time, and so she staggered and toppled back onto the sofa. With an appearance completely different from before, she snickered at the abnormal state of her own body.

“Hey, Get-Along-kun, I apologise, but this time, could you choose after I’ve revealed both the question and the order?”

“So you’ve finally revealed your true colours huh, to say nothing of the questions, you really just want to give orders.”

“Aaah, yeah, yeah, it’s Truth or Dare after all.”

“Well I guess it doesn’t break the rules.”

“A~lright, truth or dare? For truth, tell me three things that you think are cute about me. For dare, carry me to the bed.”

My body started to move on its own, perhaps even before she stopped talking. In this case, if I chose truth, I’d eventually have to move her anyway, so there wasn’t any room for hesitation in choosing the option that let me kill two birds with one stone. Not to mention, the question she asked for truth was much too foul.

Standing up, I was struck by the false impression that my body was lighter than usual. I headed towards the sofa she was sitting on. She cackled, seemingly enjoying herself. It seemed that the alcohol had gone to her head. Thinking of lending her a hand, I stretched my palm out right before her eyes. As I did so, her loud laughter stopped.

“What’s with the hand?”

“I’m lending you a hand, so come on, stand up.”

“Nope, not gonna stand. Since I can’t put any strength into my legs.”

She slowly raised the corners of her lips.

“Haven’t I said it? To CA~RR~Y ME.”

“…………”

“Come on, come on, a piggyback might be good, or maybe even a princ- waaah!”

Before she could finish saying that embarrassing name, I dug my arms beneath her back and knees, and lifted her up. Even the feeble me had enough strength to carry her for a few meters. Hesitating was a no-go - that was what I thought. There was no problem - we were drunk right now, so some shame could be slept off.

Before she could even show any reaction, I threw the girl in my arms onto the bed. The heat slipped away from my arms. She remained frozen, shock still apparent on her face. Out of breath, no thanks to the alcohol and physical exertion, I stared at her as her face slowly and quietly broke into a smile before she started to laugh in a manner reminiscent of the clicking noises that bats made.

“I was surprised! Tha~nks!”

As she said as such, with slow and sluggish actions, she moved to the left side of the large bed, lay on her back, and closed her eyes. I thought that it would’ve been good if she just fell asleep like that, but she giggled as she hit the surface of the bed with both her arms. Unfortunately, it didn’t seem like she would forfeit the last game.

I hardened my resolve.

“Well, it’s the last round huh. I’ll specially flip yours open for you. Just say which one it is you want.”

“Okay, guess I’ll go with the one right next to my cup.”

She went quiet, and she casually threw her restless arms onto the bed.

I, still standing, flipped open the card whose corner had been caught under the cup holding a little plum liqueur.

The 7 of Clubs.

“7.”

“Waaah, ambi.”

“Is it alright if I take that to mean that you’re ambivalent?”

“Yup, ambi.”

I ignored the girl that continued to say “ambi~” after probably having taken a fancy to the word, and stared at the circle of cards to choose my last one. In times like this, there may be people that would deliberate over and take great care in their choice, but they were mistaken. Since we were pretty much choosing under the same conditions, there were basically no other factors involved apart from luck. In such cases, one should quickly make their decision without looking back.

Casually, I picked a card from within the circle, and to the best of my ability, I cleared my mind of unnecessary thoughts before flipping it open.

What I needed was luck.

No matter if I decided that this counted as being manly or not, the number wouldn’t change.

The card that I drew was-

“What number is it?”

“…………6.”

In times like this, I - who was honest to the extent that I couldn’t lie - was at a disadvantage. It would probably be easier for me if I was able to become a human that could push over the shogi board, but I didn’t want to become one, and I couldn’t.

“Woohoo, wonder what I should get you to do~.”

After saying so, she became silent. Feeling like a prisoner on death row, I stood still as I awaited her question.

For the first time in a while, silence befell the dim interior. Perhaps as part of the hotel fee, almost no noises from outside could be heard - not even the noise from the neighbouring rooms leaked through. Unpleasantly, due to the fact that I was drunk, I could clearly hear the sounds of my own breathing and heartbeat. I could also hear her regular and deep breaths. I thought that she may have even fallen asleep, but when I looked at her, her eyes were wide open, stare fixated on the dark ceiling.

Having too much time on my hands, I looked outside through the opening between the curtains. The busy streets still shone with man-made lights, exposing no eagerness for sleep.

“Truth or dare?”

The sudden words came from behind me - it seemed like she had finally arrived at a conclusion, and while praying my hardest that it wouldn’t be something that would threaten my heart, I answered with my back still facing her.

“Truth.”

A single breath - I heard the large flow of air, and she uttered the last question of the night.

“If I-”

“……”

“If I said I was really, really afraid of dying, what would you do?”

Without voicing a single world, I turned around.

Her voice was too soft, and it made me think that my heart was about to stop frozen. In order to escape the chills, I had to make sure if she was still alive, and so I turned around.

She might have felt my gaze on her, but even so, the girl continued to stare motionlessly at the ceiling with her lips sealed, disinterested in saying any more.

Perhaps, she was being serious. I couldn’t grasp her true intentions. It wouldn’t be strange even if she was being serious. It wouldn’t be strange even if she was joking. If I took it seriously, I wouldn’t know how to answer. If I took it as a joke, I wouldn’t know how to answer.

I didn’t know.

As if laughing at how feeble my imagination was, once again, the monster in the depths of my heart began to breathe.

The terrified me disregarded my own intentions, and opened his mouth.

“Dare……”

She didn’t say whether my choice was good or bad. She simply remained staring at the ceiling, and gave the following order:

“Sleep on the bed too, no objections or opposition allowed.”

“Ambi~,” she went once again, this time singing it with a melody.

I was frustrated over the course of action I had to take, but as expected, I was unable to push over the shogi board.

I switched off the electricity, and lay down with my back to her, simply waiting for the sandman to whisk me away to sleep. From time to time, the bed that wasn’t mine alone would rock as she tossed and turned in her sleep. It seemed she didn’t have the heart for sharing.

The large-sized bed had enough space even if the two of us were to sleep with our backs flat.

We were innocent.

Innocent, and pure.

I didn’t have to seek forgiveness from anyone.

Both she and I woke up at the same time because of the same reason. A cellphone was beeping noisily. I took out my phone from my bag, but there wasn’t even a single notification - since that meant it had to be hers, I retrieved the phone that was left on the sofa and handed it over to the girl that was sitting on the bed. The sleepy-eyed girl opened the flip phone, and held it next to her ear.

Right away, I, who wasn’t exactly next to her, could hear a roar from the phone’s speaker.

“Sakuraaaaa! Tell me where you are right now!” With a frown, she held the phone away from her ear. Once the caller had calmed down, she pressed it against her ear once again.

“Good morni~ng, what’s up?”

“Don’t ask me what’s up! I’m asking you where you are!”

Looking a little unsure, she informed the caller of the name of the prefecture we had set foot into. I could tell that the caller was appalled.

“Wha- why would you go all the way there, and you even lied to your parents that you were travelling with me!”

With that, I knew that the other person on the line was Best-Friend-san. In response to her friend that was kicking up a fuss, she let out a carefree yawn.

“How did you know?”

“There was stuff about the PTA circulating through the telephone chain this morning! After yours, it’s mine y'know! There was a call from your mom, and I was the one who picked it up - I had such a hard time fooling her.”

“So you fooled her for me, as expected of Kyouko. Thanks so much. How did you do it?”

“I pretended to be my sister, but none of that matters! Why did you go as far as deceiving your parents to go to that sort of place?”

“……Mmm.”

“Besides, if you really wanted to go, you didn’t have to lie or anything, just properly go on the trip. I’d even follow along.”

“Aah, that sounds good, let’s go somewhere over summer vacation. When does Kyouko get a break from club activities?”

“I’ll check the calendar and contact you later ‘kay - as if!”

The brilliant flatter-and-retort reached my ears with volume to spare. Even if someone was speaking at a normal volume over the phone, inside a quiet room, it’s possible to overhear a certain amount of content. I washed my face, and brushed my teeth as I watched her talking over the phone. The toothpaste was even mintier than the one I usually used.

“Basically quietly going somewhere far away by yourself - you aren’t some cat that’s about to die y'know.”

A joke that couldn’t be laughed at - I thought as I listened, and she gave a response that was even harder to laugh at, but was in fact the truth.

“I’m not alone though.”

With bloodshot eyes because of last night’s alcohol, and looking like she was enjoying herself, she directed her line of sight at me. I wanted to bury my face in my hands, but unfortunately, they were both busy holding a toothbrush and a cup.

“You’re, not alone? Huh, with who… Your boyfriend?”

“No way, you already know that I’ve broken up with him!”

“Then who is it?”

“Get-Along-kun.”

I could hear the speechlessness from the other side of the phone speaker. With no more concern as to how this would turn out, I continued to brush my teeth.

“Y'know, you-”

“Just listen to what I have to say, Kyouko.”

“…………”

“You may think it’s strange, and you may not understand why, but I’ll definitely explain all of it to you someday. That’s why even if you aren’t quite convinced, please just let this go. And so, I hope you’ll keep this matter to yourself for now.”

“…………”

It seemed like her tone had become serious, and before I knew it, she had put Best-Friend-san at a loss for words. I thought that that was only natural. After all, the girl did leave her best friend behind to go on a trip with some unfamiliar classmate.

Best-Friend-san kept mum for a while on the other side of the phone. The girl patiently pressed the phone against her ear. Finally, a voice could be heard from the electronic device.

“…………Got it.”

“Thanks, Kyouko.”

“I have a few conditions.”

“Anything you wish.”

“Come back safely, and buy me a souvenir. Also, go on a trip with me during summer vacation. Lastly, tell this to Classmate-That-Has-An-Incomprehensible-Relationship-With-My-Best-Friend - if he does anything to Sakura, I’ll kill him.”

“Wahaha, I got it.”

After exchanging a few pleasantries, the girl hung up. I rinsed my mouth and sat on the sofa that had been stolen by her yesterday. While clearing up the poker cards that were scattered all over the table, I took a look at her and saw that she was stroking her long hair that was still messy from waking up.

“It’s nice to have a best friend that thinks of their friends, huh.”

“I know ri~ght, ah, you might have heard already, but it seems like Kyouko’s going to kill you.”

“Only if I do anything strange, right? So besides saying I was innocent, please explain things properly.”

“What about the princess carry?”

“Ooh, so it had that kind of name - with everything done and over with, I felt like I was part of some moving company.”

“Guess you’re getting killed by Kyouko no matter what she hears.”

Once she was done showering to fix her bed hair, we headed down to the first floor of the hotel to get breakfast.

Breakfast was provided in the form of a grand buffet, and as expected, it really brought to mind the class of the hotel. I mainly chose to put food like fish and tofu on my plate, and made a Japanese-style set meal breakfast. Having taken a seat by the window, I was waiting for her when she arrived with a ridiculous amount of food on her tray. “I need to eat lots in the morning,” so she said, but in the end, she left a third of the food untouched, and I had to eat that. While we were eating, I earnestly preached to her about the joys of planning.

After returning to our room, I boiled some water and brewed some coffee; she fixed herself some black tea. We took a breather and watched the morning programmes, taking up the same positions as last night. Within the serene space that dazzling sunrays streamed into, it was as if the both of us had forgotten the last question from yesterday.

“What’s the plan for today?”

When I asked, she energetically stood up, walked over to her sky blue bag, and took out a notebook. It seemed she had sandwiched the Shinkansen tickets inside it.

“We’re taking the Shinkansen at two-thirty, so we’ll have time to eat lunch and buy souvenirs. Shall we go somewhere before that?”

“I don’t know this area so I’ll just leave it to you.”

After we leisurely checked ourselves out and bowed our heads to the employees, in compliance with her decision, we took a bus and headed for a shopping mall that was apparently famous. A commercial complex that was built to have a river run through it, it had everything from shops selling daily necessities to a theatre, and it seemed there were many foreign tourists that were visiting it as a sightseeing spot. Taking a look for myself when we arrived, the gigantic red facility had unrivalled impact, exuding the atmosphere of a true landmark.

We were lost as to where to go in the building that was made to be complicatedly magnificent, but when we wandered around, there just so happened to be a clown having a street performance at the wide space next to the water’s edge, and we mixed in with the other spectators.

The approximately twenty minute long performance was entertaining, and at the humorous beckoning of the clown after the show, I put a hundred yen into his hat, as typical of a high schooler. Seemingly having enjoyed herself, she put in five hundred yen.

“Wasn’t that fun? Get-Along-kun should go become a street performer too.”

“Please check who it is you’re talking to. Doing a job where I have to engage others is impossible for me. That’s why I think that person is amazing.”

“I see, that’s too bad. Maybe I should give it a go. Ah, I forgot, I’m going to die soon.”

“Did you bring up this topic just so you could say that? You do have a year after all, even if reaching their level is impossible, you’d still get pretty good if you practiced.”

At my suggestion, she smiled resplendently. It was a smile that looked contagious.

“Yeah! That’s true! Maybe I should try it out!”

Thrilled at her prospects for the future, she bought a few items to practice with from a magic goods specialty store within the facility. Throughout her purchase, I didn’t get to enter the store. Since she would be performing for me too someday, there’d have been no meaning were I to help her choose - that was the reason why. It couldn’t be helped, so I watched the commercial for magic goods playing at the storefront together with some elementary schoolers.

“Aah, maybe with this, I’ll emerge like a comet, and have my name passed down to future generations as the legendary magician that suddenly disappeared.”

“If you were unbelievably talented, then perhaps.”

“One year of my life is worth five years of other people, so it’ll definitely work out. Look forward to it.”

“Wasn’t the value of a person’s single day unchanging?”

Looking like she was really serious about this, her expression was brimming with greater verve than usual. What made humans shine was the ability to achieve their goals despite their lack of time. Standing next to me, she probably shone much more prominently.

As I walked around the facility with the shining girl, time passed right by. She bought a few articles of clothing. She kept coming to me with cute-looking T-shirts and skirts in hand, and asking me to appraise each and every one of them, but since I didn’t really understand what counted as good or bad in girls’ fashion, I chose to say they suited her - words that contained neither praise nor criticism. Unexpectedly, those words had put her in a good mood, so I was glad. And since I didn’t lie about the clothes suiting her, my heart didn’t feel a twinge of guilt.

We dropped by a shop selling Ultraman goods on the way, and she bought me a soft vinyl figure of a monster that looked like a skeletal dinosaur as a present, but I didn’t understand the meaning behind her choice. When I asked her, she said that it suited me. It didn’t put me in a good mood. In return, I bought her a soft vinyl figure of Ultraman. When I said it suited her, she was put in a good mood like always.

We put the hundred yen soft vinyl figures on our fingers, and after eating some soft serve ice cream, we started to head back to the station. It was just about noon when we reached the station, and we - who had only eaten soft serve ice cream - went to look at souvenirs before getting lunch. Within the compound of the station, there was a large space that sold only souvenirs, and it caught her eye.

While tasting various food items, she bought snacks and specialty fish roe for her family, as well as some snacks for her best friend. I also bought some snacks for myself that had been awarded the gold award by Monde Selection consecutively for years. Since I had only told my family that I was staying over at a friend’s house, I couldn’t bring any souvenirs home. It was a real shame, but this time it couldn’t be helped.

We ate ramen at a different ramen shop from yesterday, and since we had time to spare, we had tea at a cafe before boarding the Shinkansen. I started to get sentimental over the end of the trip.

Even more so than the me of the past who had been taken along by her, I had become somewhat forward-looking.

“Let’s go on another trip - I guess next would be winter.”

The girl that was gazing at the scenery from her window seat said as such. I was a little lost as to how to respond, but in the end, I answered truthfully.

“Yeah, that may be nice too.”

“Ooh, awfully honest of you. So, did you have fun?”

“Yeah, I had fun.”

I had fun. That was how I really felt. I grew up in a laissez-faire household where both my parents were busy, and of course I didn’t have any friends to go on trips with, so I enjoyed myself much more than I’d thought I would.

She made a surprised face for some reason, and after looking at me, she quickly returned to her usual smile and forcefully grabbed onto my arm. Not knowing what to do, I was frightened. Perhaps realising how I felt, she gave a look of embarrassment, then retracted her hand and whispered, “Sorry.”

“What, were you trying to take my pancreas by force?”

“No, it’s just that it’s rare of you to be so honest, so I got carried away. Yeah, I had loads of fun too. Thanks so much, for coming along. I wonder where we should go next. I guess heading north would be nice. I wanna completely relish the cold.”

“Why do you have to treat your body badly? I hate the cold, so I want to escape even further south than this.”

“Waaah, we really do go in different directions!”

Still looking at the girl who had puffed her cheeks out in mock annoyance, I broke the seal of the souvenir I had bought for myself. Having given her a share of the snacks, I bit into the steam bun-type snack myself. The taste of the butter was almost too sweet.

By the time we arrived at the town we lived in, the summer sky had slowly begun to adopt an ultramarine hue. We took a train to our usual station, and rode our bicycles to somewhere near our school before parting ways at the usual place. Since we would meet on Monday anyway, both the girl and I quickly made our farewells and headed down our respective roads home.

When I got home, neither my mother nor my father had returned yet. After properly washing my hands and rinsing my mouth, I stayed in my room. When I lay down on my bed, I was overcome with a sudden wave of sleepiness. While wondering if I was physically tired, sleep-deprived, or perhaps even both, I fell asleep.

I was woken up by my mother when it was time for dinner, and I ate fried noodles while watching television. While most would say that everything up till reaching home could be called a journey, I learnt that in a way, the journey really only ends when I have my usual home-cooked food. I had returned to my everyday life.

For the remainder of the weekend, there was no contact from her at all. Just like always, I stayed in my room reading books, only leaving for a supermarket alone in the afternoon to buy some ice cream. Having spent whatever was left of the two days unremarkably, it was already Sunday night when I had a realisation.

I had been waiting for her to contact me.

When I went to school on Monday, the fact that I had went travelling together with her had spread throughout the class.

I wasn’t sure whether it was related to that, but I discovered my indoor shoes inside a trash can.

Whatever the case, it didn’t seem like I had accidentally dropped the ball.

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#translations #i want to eat your pancreas #novel #kimi no suizou wo tabetai

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