[ It is, in fact, much later when Kururu's stocking feet press their own silent trail to the basement.
She doesn't even see the bowl at first, or the note. Her mind is full of other things—of Kazu's homework, safely tucked in her satchel, and soon to be hidden under his mattress. Of the voices upstairs, the laughter, the angry rat-tat-tat of a video game machine gun. Of the imminent future where machine gun fire may be all too real, where the silences in this house might fully eclipse the joy, and she scrolls through the network again in her mind's eye, looking for . . . something.
. . . she's still amazed, still fascinated by how smoothy the neural uplink functions. How effortless it is to move from Agito's brief words (stay in Nonah, keep the crow safe) to Dr. Gottlieb's plea for information. . . from Qubit's silent endeavour to keep his (their? her?) community working together, to all the voices, so many disparate voices putting words to the cracks pulling them apart.
Fury. Fear. Hate. Rage. Concern . . .
Her heart aches and her hands itch, and she'd promised herself she wouldn't be like this, she wouldn't drift from day to day. And she wasn't, not completely; she was learning what she could about this world (even if she mostly went to school for the sparse workshop tucked away on the ground floor), she was learning about its people (and she hadn't thought she'd really enjoy working at the bingo hall, but the regulars were seniors and lonely, most of them, lonely enough to overlook any distrust of imPorts to talk about their lives, their families, their loves).
But it was hard. There were no signs here, no guideposts, no goals, and not everything could be like this box, so helpfully labelled with her name and all but pointing her directly where to go.
. . .
Wait. What?
She blinks at it, once, taking a moment to parse everything in the here and now, and there's . . . there's a bowl of udon. With her name on it. A bowl that has, by some miracle or twist of good luck, managed to escape being detected by other squatting scavengers.
It has no meat. That's probably why. It's plain and simple and when was the last time she ate . . .
She sits on the floor, comfortable there, and picks up the bowl.
When was the last time someone left her warm food. It's not warm anymore; it's been chilled through by the basement's colder air, and the noodles have bloated a bit from sitting in the broth so long. Like Konomi's oden and hot cans of coffee, long since traded for rice balls and iced tea . . .
The chopsticks split with a soft snap, the sound and the feel of wood grain under her fingers tugging her back from thoughts of her team, her friends. They . . . they'd be happy to know someone was looking after her, even if the note left no clues as to who. Ms. Maya? Komasan? Her shadow friend upstairs, with his broken wings . . . ?
Someone else all together?
No matter who, though . . . it's good. Real dashi, not instant (not that she was picky), and fresh noodles . . . it's really good.
It tastes like home.
She lays the chopsticks respectfully on the edge of the bowl when she's done, briefly pressing her palms together and bowing her head. Standing, she takes the folded red blanket (well-used, now) from the corner of Kazu's bed, looks back at the bowl and the note—
And that's an idea. A simple one.
Blanket draped over her arm, she takes the bowl back upstairs, washing it out, wiping it down, and turning it carefully upside-down on a tea towel to let the last bits of moisture evaporate.
She flips the note over, pen in hand, and leaves her own message. ]
Thank you for the meal. I'm sure it would be even better warm. Next time, could we eat together?
[ There. She runs a finger over the bowl's edge, committing this moment to a memory in time . . . and turns to leave the kitchen, ready to curl up by Ikki for the night. ]
no subject
She doesn't even see the bowl at first, or the note. Her mind is full of other things—of Kazu's homework, safely tucked in her satchel, and soon to be hidden under his mattress. Of the voices upstairs, the laughter, the angry rat-tat-tat of a video game machine gun. Of the imminent future where machine gun fire may be all too real, where the silences in this house might fully eclipse the joy, and she scrolls through the network again in her mind's eye, looking for . . . something.
. . . she's still amazed, still fascinated by how smoothy the neural uplink functions. How effortless it is to move from Agito's brief words (stay in Nonah, keep the crow safe) to Dr. Gottlieb's plea for information. . . from Qubit's silent endeavour to keep his (their? her?) community working together, to all the voices, so many disparate voices putting words to the cracks pulling them apart.
Fury. Fear. Hate. Rage. Concern . . .
Her heart aches and her hands itch, and she'd promised herself she wouldn't be like this, she wouldn't drift from day to day. And she wasn't, not completely; she was learning what she could about this world (even if she mostly went to school for the sparse workshop tucked away on the ground floor), she was learning about its people (and she hadn't thought she'd really enjoy working at the bingo hall, but the regulars were seniors and lonely, most of them, lonely enough to overlook any distrust of imPorts to talk about their lives, their families, their loves).
But it was hard. There were no signs here, no guideposts, no goals, and not everything could be like this box, so helpfully labelled with her name and all but pointing her directly where to go.
. . .
Wait. What?
She blinks at it, once, taking a moment to parse everything in the here and now, and there's . . . there's a bowl of udon. With her name on it. A bowl that has, by some miracle or twist of good luck, managed to escape being detected by other squatting scavengers.
It has no meat. That's probably why. It's plain and simple and when was the last time she ate . . .
She sits on the floor, comfortable there, and picks up the bowl.
When was the last time someone left her warm food. It's not warm anymore; it's been chilled through by the basement's colder air, and the noodles have bloated a bit from sitting in the broth so long. Like Konomi's oden and hot cans of coffee, long since traded for rice balls and iced tea . . .
The chopsticks split with a soft snap, the sound and the feel of wood grain under her fingers tugging her back from thoughts of her team, her friends. They . . . they'd be happy to know someone was looking after her, even if the note left no clues as to who. Ms. Maya? Komasan? Her shadow friend upstairs, with his broken wings . . . ?
Someone else all together?
No matter who, though . . . it's good. Real dashi, not instant (not that she was picky), and fresh noodles . . . it's really good.
It tastes like home.
She lays the chopsticks respectfully on the edge of the bowl when she's done, briefly pressing her palms together and bowing her head. Standing, she takes the folded red blanket (well-used, now) from the corner of Kazu's bed, looks back at the bowl and the note—
And that's an idea. A simple one.
Blanket draped over her arm, she takes the bowl back upstairs, washing it out, wiping it down, and turning it carefully upside-down on a tea towel to let the last bits of moisture evaporate.
She flips the note over, pen in hand, and leaves her own message. ]
Thank you for the meal.
I'm sure it would be even better warm.
Next time, could we eat together?
[ There. She runs a finger over the bowl's edge, committing this moment to a memory in time . . . and turns to leave the kitchen, ready to curl up by Ikki for the night. ]