2022-01-19: Passing in the Night
- Log: Passing in the Night
- Cast: Nanai Miguel, Sayla Mass
- Where: Sweetwater Colony, Lagrange Point 1
- Date: 2022-01-19
- Summary: Sayla Mass visits Sweetwater Colony for a fundraiser. Despite her misgivings about visiting the home of Char's fatal rebellion, she can't help investigating his last known residence. There, she finds that not everything about her late brother has become a memory.
<Pose Tracker> Nanai Miguel has posed.
In its history, Sweetwater Colony has rarely had reason to hope for better times.
This is a familiar story across Lagrange Point 1. In some places, before children know better, they assume that occupying a place between the moon and Earth -- and coming first in the numbering! -- offers some kind of prestige to L1, which must naturally extend to Side 4. This is hardly so. Decades have passed since the One Year War and Side 4's disorganized decrepitude increasingly cannot be explained by devastation by Zeon's hands.
Or, so it was. Sweetwater is unique among those familiar stories for two reasons. The first is that after the war it received the dubious honor of undergoing a refurbishing project that messily bolted an older closed-type colony to a damaged open-type colony. This allowed it to receive more refugees. The second is that it served as the powerbase for Char Aznable's rebellion. In the wake of conflict, Zeon has again become the reason for all decay and neglect.
Sweetwater survived the rebellion without seeing direct fighting. Char's Neo Zeon ran a small, sleek force that was wielded like a scalpel. The violence came from the following occupation and anti-insurgent activities. It's inevitable that soldiers blow off steam following conflict, even if they didn't see direct fighting. That sort of damage is invisible to many eyes. Broken store windows can be borded up and mended. Assaulted citizens can hide their bruises and wait for their bones to mend. The slow, grand punishments of deferred maintenance and economic strangulation creep in so gently that they seem like a fault of reality rather than a decision made by human hands.
But there is some pride grown anew here, three years after Axis Shock. Ceaseless waves of government-mandated settlement have overflowed the closed-type colony addition section and led to crowding in the open-type section. Yet, more hands sometimes means an easier lift for everyone.
The open-type section has seen many of its green spaces reduced for construction projects. Residential areas that were once intended for single family homes seem fair game for conversion to multi-family lots. The projects seem erratic and independent, and that's because they are. Too many people, too many idle hands, too much crackdown against 'those who tried to destroy the Earth' -- and still, miraculously, the answer here seems to be rebuilding rather than crumbling.
Strange times. For everyone.
The way to Char's last home (arguably enough) is not difficult to divine. One need not even ask the locals, recalcitrant to speak of such things as many might be. The general public is always interested in the torrid life details of charismatic madmen. There's pictures of it online.
The easiest way to reach it from the heavily populated areas near the open-type's ship docks is by rail. An electric rail service runs the length of the open-type section, offering mostly standing space as it glides through the bustling industrial and commercial districts and into the residential zones. While Sweetwater may not have as much of an upper-class neighborhood as it once did, some of the old 'wealth' still remains. There's more trees here, and the architectural style flirts with French-inspired detailings -- the kind of kitsch used to cheaply dress up a neighborhood. It feels old, and not in the respectable way.
There's cafes to pass on the walk from the station, just beginning to glow as the lighting mirrors twist to simulate dusk. But, the sounds of gathering people fall away closer to the heart of the block. A quiet settles in, as much as a colony is ever quiet. There is always the groan of machinery, of course, but also in the distance sometimes: a shouting child, an eruption of laughter, an elecar braking too hard.
The house is sometimes called a mansion. For Sweetwater, it is one. Trim, angular lines. Two stories. Most of the living space on the second. The windows still knocked out. Bricks, likely. The lights dead. Graffiti on the walls -- 'FUCK ZEKES', 'STAY DEAD', etc. The gates barred and locked. The richest thing about it is rich for a colony, where a faux-stone fence and a lot with enough tree coverage for privacy shows that you can afford space and gardening.
In a place where everything is being reclaimed to suit the swelling refugee population, this remains unused. It isn't a shrine. A place of shame, maybe.
Something in between.
<Pose Tracker> Sayla Mass has posed.
In truth, Sayla never wanted to go to Sweetwater. That wound was too raw, too bloody, even three years later. If going to where the battle took place would be driving in a scalpel and cutting wildly, Sweetwater always felt like it would be digging around for shrapnel in the dark with a pair of rusty tweezers. Neither appealed.
But despite sending funding based on the reports sent to her, her local contact insisted that she see for herself. Any 'Advanced Logistics' cases on this scale meant Sayla had to come and sign off personally. So that's what she was doing. She'd been wrong.
Sweetwater was like digging for shrapnel with a dessert spoon.
She never quite got inured to the suffering of the Earth Sphere. She tried, for a while, but it was too important that she cared. But looking around Sweetwater, it felt worse somehow, because it was personal.
'Is this the legacy you wanted to leave, Casval?' The thought rises to her head as she stands in the railcar, her hand clinging to a metal loop. 'A trail of death and suffering for the people you were trying to help?' She shook her head. 'What even was your plan after this? How were you going to rebuild?'
She hears her stop, and steps out, her long brown coat fluttering in the artificial breeze. That, still, was comforting. Even for all her long years on Earth, there was something familiar about about the weather systems of the colony. It reminded her of home, for good and ill.
She walked around the rich neighbourhood, and it struck her how differently the colonies and Earth considered wealthy. Side 4 was never well off, but still. A Britannian of any stature wouldn't even be able to tell this apart from a slum. If it were in good repair, it would maybe fit in in Free Japan, or a low end area of the OAC.
The Graffiti catches her eye, and she feels a pang of... not sadness, but not quite sympathy. She had no love for the cause, but not all the people were in that position of their own will. But those who used the name and writings of Zeon Zum Deikun for war, Sayla harboured a special disdain in her heart. It wasn't a good feeling, but it was nonetheless part of her.
The Mansion, though, even if she weren't looking she would have found it. There's a subtle pull, long faded and weak but still there. "...This is where you lived? Where you plotted everything?" It's under her breath, but still spoken out loud. This where everything began, where the events that caused the loss of her brother for the third and final time commenced.
It's an unpleasant place to stand, and Sayla's own despair is papable. Anger and frustration are there too. Bittersweet sadness and loss, even confusion. They're all loud and clear to someone on a certain wavelength.
<Pose Tracker> Nanai Miguel has posed.
With the lights dead, it's difficult to see into the lot. There is only the ambient luminosity of colony life casting a silvery hue over the weed-grown lawn and untrimmed trees, the shards of glass and discarded trash.
There is no one on this cross street. Certainly, there are those walking home or from home to some evening's entertainment taking the paths that intersect, but this street... who would want to be here? Who would look? The rare few who pass by the ends of the lane do not approach to ask.
It's cold. Colonies often are. The air is thin and still.
And there is distant sound of water. A crashing wave. A tidal pull. No. That's not really happening. It can't be here.
Click. Click. Shoes on stone. Someone stopped walking.
"I have the key."
A woman, standing near the end of the cross street. She had been just another spacenoid-wealthy passerby -- until she stopped and took a step in. Then she became an anomaly worth noticing.
"To the gate," she continues, her voice raised just enough to carry the short and silent distance. "If you want to look."
It may take a moment. Her tawny blonde-brown hair is put up, and she's wearing glasses. The gentle lines of her wool coat and scarf are the opposite of the sharp uniform she wore at his speeches. But, for those who know what they're looking for, she hasn't put much effort into her disguise.
There is no significant emotion on her face. It's as if she were commenting on today's climate control.
<Pose Tracker> Sayla Mass has posed.
She hears those out of place sounds before she hears someone walking. The presence is vivid, and a touch intense, but Sayla turns to face her when she speaks. Sayla hasn't bothered to hide who she is- officials knew she was coming, and the foundation has been trying to work.
She watches the other woman, for just a moment. Trying to get a read, or recognition. And she does, after a moment, and nods.
"...Are you in the habit of letting just anyone get a closer look?" Sayla asks, calmly. A part of her thinks that this is close enough. That she shouldn't walk any further. Let those ghosts lie.
And yet...
"If you're willing to let me in, I would."
She has to know, after all. If anything is left of that time here. Or perhaps, of the people using hit. Cautiously, her mind tracks to where her sidearm is secured. Accessible, but not obvious, holstered so it can be drawn hastily and in an emergency. Old Jimba Ral would be proud.
She turns to look at the gate- If this woman is who the reports say she is, she has questions. But they aren't questions for the street.
<Pose Tracker> Nanai Miguel has posed.
Nanai Miguel doesn't respond immediately. It's only after Sayla voices her half of the consent that she walks closer. Green eyes. That was the unusual thing about her. She had green eyes.
The low heels of her boots, mostly hidden underneath her long skirt, mark each of her steps on the stone.
"Not just anyone," she says, but nothing more than that. The discretion seems mutual.
Nanai walks past Sayla to the gate, where a heavy hybrid padlock is linked to an entwinement of chains. She withdraws a card from an internal coat pocket -- one that she reaches into slowly, likely in a show of harmlessness -- and taps it on the lock's backside. A mechanism opens, and with her forefinger she swipes the code into the entry pad underneath. The bolt on the lock is heavier than the chains and, once she removes it, she hangs it off a crossbar on the wrought-iron fence rather than take it with her. It takes her a moment to unravel the chains from between the two gate sections.
The rattling of metal on metal is her only attempt at conversation. Soon enough that's done, leaving the way open to the yard and the crushed gravel path leading up to the house. Nanai finally turns her gaze back to Sayla, and then she wordlessly walks in.
<Pose Tracker> Sayla Mass has posed.
Well, that... It doesn't answer the question but it does at least... give an indicator of who she's talking to. Something she was mostly certain of, but it doesn't hurt.
For the moment, she waits for Nanai to finish with the gate. Still, once they're in, Sayla can feel the weight of the place she's in. Even this far from it. She lets a small shiver cross her shoulders.
For the moment, she follows Nanai- She has the keys, and presumable ownership of the place. She's not going to run off here when she's been invited in. Still, now they're off the mostly empty street, she feels a bit more confident asking her first question.
"You're... Mesta Mesua, right?" That could set off alarm bells, so she moves to the next step quickly. "My name's Sayla Mass. We have a mutual acquaintance who works in journalism." She hopes that's enough to give her.... if not trust, a little less caution. Still, it's... Given who she is, or at least Sayla thinks she is, this meeting could be tense enough already.
She continues to look around, but what she's looking for may not be obvious- signs of the Casval she knew in amongst the trappings of Char Aznable.
<Pose Tracker> Nanai Miguel has posed.
The pathway to the house was likely pleasant once. As yards go for colony residentials, it would have ranked modestly well. Room for dogs to trot about. Maybe a hobby garden. The kind of place that would have graced an old colonial brochure aimed at tempting away a few skilled workers from planetside.
The grass is dead and if there were ever any flowers, they're dead too. The trees have survived and underneath them rules a riot of nuisance plants -- truthfully, organisms hardy enough to survive without care.
"Yes," says Nanai. She keeps a steady pace, leading the way with her back to Sayla. "People call me Mesta. I remember your friend well."
The gravel crunches underneath their feet. The trash in the yard is more suggestive now: broken bottles, food wrappers, a few stray articles of clothing. Maybe there was a party during the post-rebellion years. Maybe a few.
Nanai reaches the door. Someone has carved a V-fin and a crude Gundam face into the polished black wood, likely with a rock. Nanai looks down as she touches the doorknob. It sags in a frame fractured by some forced entry. When she pushes, the door opens without contest.
"And I know who you are, Dr. Mass." A pause. "You're famous."
The entry area is tight for a mansion. There's a hallway leading back to other rooms, and another busted door leading to the garage. Immediately after the step up from where one removes their shoes is a staircase leading to the second floor. The interior decoration follows the faux-nobility of the rest of the neighborhood, favoring warm wooden colors that echo the word 'estate.'
Nanai glances up the steps. She proceeds without removing her shoes. With the glass on the ground, perhaps that's wise -- though maybe it says something about what she considers this building to be.
"Are you here to judge him?"
<Pose Tracker> Sayla Mass has posed.
It's not lost on Sayla what this place was once. Could have been. What it is now, though...
Did everything left behind like this... by him, go to ruin? The damaged door, the V-Fin carved with a rock, broken glass and garbage. There was no love lost between the people of Sweetwater and the rebels, then. Or was this the soldiers? Were they G-Hound, Londo Bell, or Federation regulars?
She's not sure what the point of the questions are. She simply nods when 'Mesta' claims to know who she is. There's no real good way to respond to 'you're famous' in a moment like this. Sayla looks around the tight, closed entry area. The place to remove one's shoes is. Odd. Had Casval built the mansion, or simply bought it. It had never been a tradition for them growing up. Perhaps for guests? "When was the last time anyone lived here? Or entered here?"
Still, if Nanai is leading, Sayla would follow. No one else would know better what this place was.
And then Nanai's question gives her pause. Is she here to judge him? Certainly a part of her feels that way, but... that's not all there is to it. "...I don't know, entirely. I hadn't intended to come to this part of town at all." Sadness is clear in her reply, even as she tries to stifle it. Normally she can. "...I think I wanted to know." Sayla looks down, not meeting Nanai's eyes. Did Casval ever tell this woman the truth? Better to treat it as unknown. "To understand, or at least know if it was worth it. Or if there was ever another way."
She suppresses a sound in her throat, and hardens herself. She can hide this for now, it's not the time. She can wait until she's in her hotel
After all, she's had more than twenty years hiding the tears her brother caused her. What's a few hours?
<Pose Tracker> Nanai Miguel has posed.
Nanai continues gazing up the stairs. It's during Sayla's pause that the tawny-haired woman turns to look back at her. Her gaze remains steady despite the lack of reciprocation of attention. Her eyes -- they see far. There is that distant quality to them that sometimes manifests in the very distracted or the very attentive.
Silence, after Sayla's answer. Nanai's look lingers for moments longer and then she disengages to move up the stairs.
"This was once the colonial governor's house. In the months leading up to the rebellion, the governor offered it to Char as a place of honor, since he was to be the head of a new government. Before that, Char lived in hiding in the closed-type section. Federation police rarely went there. And, there were more supporters among the recently displaced."
Nanai pauses halfway up, glancing down and to the side.
"He dyed his hair black then... ridiculous. He was as obvious as they were oblivious."
She climbs. There's another hallway up there, with wood paneling and a once-luxurious carpet that's been shoved to the side. More refuse piles in the corners. She passes it all by as she moves past door after door, many broken open to reveal rooms beyond -- a study, a guest bedroom. Nanai makes for the end, and the closed door that waits for her there.
"There's always another way. But what would have made it worth it?"
<Pose Tracker> Sayla Mass has posed.
It's hard not to find Nanai's eyes striking and intimidating both. Could she be looking past you, into you, or through you? She's been hard to get a read on, her emotions restrained and doled out carefully. It's something Sayla's not used to- is this what it's like to speak with her? Or was she like that in the One Year War?
Sayla starts after Nanai again, catching up with her as she stops. Char would be the new head of state, then. Ruling from Sweetwater? Or would he have marched into the palace in Zum City and taken that?
And then, in that moment, Sayla *just* manages to suppress a snort on the word 'ridiculous'. Just. She talks quickly, to move on in the moment. "The federation are hardly known for their due diligence." Or measured approaches.
Still, for a few sweet moments, there's a memory of a young boy and a little girl in the bath, as an older woman furiously tries to wash boot polish out of their hair.
And then there's a bedroom, and that gives Sayla pause. Was this Nanai's, or Casval's? She pauses at the threshold, to make sure she isn't transgressing, before stepping after Nanai.
"...You're right. If it were me, I don't know what could have made a plan like that... worth the planned results." She sighs. "I suppose plenty of people have tried to understand him since. Or create their own reasons." The Sleeves front of her mind, the Federation close after. "And even if I knew it was worth it to him, would that change anything?"
She moves to lean against a wall, and stops herself. "...There's a time and a place for fighting, and even drastic measures. But... Zeon Zum Deikun's beliefs were about making a path for people to go to space and thrive, not forcing their hands. You can't make a future only by destroying. You have to make places for them to go where they can grow." It feels almost like this is a conversation she wanted to have with someone who once could have been in this room, as though the room is an outlet for something important.
And then she remembers where she is. "I'm sorry, Mesta. I shouldn't have rambled at you like that." She stands upright, and looks to the door Nanai is standing in front of. Is this where the 'tour' ends?
<Pose Tracker> Nanai Miguel has posed.
Nanai seems in no hurry. It's a leisurely walk down the hall while Sayla muses, and Nanai waits in contemplation before the final door while the other woman almost but not quite leans against a wall. Her head is slightly bowed and her face unseen.
An apology. No response. Nanai opens the door.
Beyond is a large room. A living area. Here is a vast window looking out, past a space in the trees, offering a view of the length of the colony. The mirrors have tilted more for darkness now, and the glow of buildings runs like veins down the tunnel of this floating world.
Slowly, with care, Nanai steps in. She glances about, perhaps at the trash across the torn and soiled carpet. More bottles. There's a bar in one corner of the room. Perhaps this was meant for the governor to entertain people. It did so, with finality.
There isn't much furniture. Two plush chairs dominate the center of the room. One still faces the broken windows, the other has toppled over. Nanai comes to its side and crouches slightly to push it back over upright. A twist, maybe to angle it properly. She steps back and stares down at it.
"We changed this place. We made it better for the people living here. He said he didn't plan to die. I believed him. I believe him. But he acted like he did."
Nanai pulls her gaze away from the chair, fixing her green eyes on Sayla anew. They search the other woman's face. For what?
"Isn't it sad? How much someone can resent their life."
A moment passes, maybe another silence, maybe a prelude-- Nanai's expression fractures, twisting up-- she raises a hand to her face, looking away as her voice tightens painfully--
"...I didn't know how I would feel seeing you standing here in my memories. I didn't know if he would come back for you. He went somewhere I wouldn't follow. But he thought of you. More than me. Do you understand?"
<Pose Tracker> Sayla Mass has posed.
It's hard to tell, from the damage, that this was once a place that was lived in. Whatever happened after the Axis Shock- party, riot, both?- had left a trail of ruin. And yet Nanai tries to restore it to what it was, if just a little.
Still, what it was and what it should be... Those are often different things.
She listens, as she talks about changing Sweetwater for the better. The words that follow make her tense. There is that momentary feeling of... unease. Even the composed, often stern Sayla can feel something rising in her throat, as she sits in those words. Crushing and heavy.
And then Nanai speaks more emotionally. "If he would come back for me?" She repeats, confused. How could he?
'But he thought of you. More than me. Do you understand?'
Nanai's words cut through Sayla's strong walls and falsely hardened heart, and reveal the truth. Scars only protect you if they're treated, and given enough time to heal. This might as well be exposed nerve.
The emotion she'd been trying to contain doesn't come out all at once. It's not a simple, cathartic release. It starts with tears. Tears and anger. She'd like to say that she feels the hurt Nanai must feel, having to say that, having to admit she was lower on the list than the man she may have loved. But she doesn't. In this moment, her pain is all selfishly hers. "He... thought of me?"
When Sayla looks up to meet Nanai's eyes, the tears are streaking down her face, as she tries to control it. She wants to scream, but through the shattered glass of the balcony door, she would be heard. She turns away from Nanai, sweeping away broken glass with the arm of her jacket so she can use the bar to support herself. "Casval..." She's not... loud, but the despair and fury in her voice are clear to anyone who can hear. "Casval, you idiot! If you cared... If you even thought about me... Why am I only finding out once you're gone!?"
<Pose Tracker> Nanai Miguel has posed.
Nanai's body moves under her coat and scarf and sweater -- her breath comes heavier and slower, a focused effort to contain the tides dancing through her. With a raised arm she hides her face, buries her eyes, and smothers her mouth. Efficiency is a skill.
Sayla turns away to mourn and Nanai apparently finishes hers. With a final breath out, she lowers her arm and straightens her posture. Her empty gaze shifts to the once-toppled chair and, with the leisure of someone who has no place to be, she sinks down into it.
Nanai looks out across the lights of the colony as Sayla grapples with the moment behind her.
"It is sad," she says, soft enough to be difficult to hear, maybe only in answer to herself.
Time goes by, in the quiet. Sometimes it passes easier that way.
"I came here to protect the people who trusted me, and to decide what to do with myself," says Nanai, eventually. That calm is back, but it is now unmistakeably weary.
"Even if people would rather I did... I can't disappear yet. I don't know what is safe for me to offer your Alliance. But we will help you."
<Pose Tracker> Sayla Mass has posed.
It takes Sayla a few minutes of just standing there, crying, cursing her brother's foolishness under her breath. Thinking of her, but never of what she wanted was just Casval all over, wasn't it? It wasn't fair to him, entirely, but...
When Nanai finally speaks, it's the excuse she needs to put a bandage on it for now. Here's not the place. She pulls a handkerchief from her pocket and uses it to dry her eyes, before folding it up and placing it away.
She turns, and looks over at her. The resolved Sayla is back, even if it is a front right now. She nods. "...Thank you." She walks to the chair, and pulls out from her breast pocket a playing card, that she places on the arm of the chair closest to Nanai, not wanting to invade her space. "I don't know if my friend gave you one of these, but communication protocols and contacts. Secure terminals only." Not that this needed to be said.
She starts to move away, then she pauses. "I'll be putting together aid packages for Sweetwater- food, clothing, basics to start. It looks like I'll have to be careful about Federation customs, but I'm used to that." She pauses. "But is there anything that you or your people need urgently? Medical care? I'm mostly a paediatrician these days, but..."
Sayla trails off. Is leaping right into acting, being able to have an effect on things something she's doing to stave it all off? Perhaps. But sometimes good motivations are good motivations. This was one of those times.
<Pose Tracker> Nanai Miguel has posed.
When Sayla comes around the chair, Nanai is still staring off into the darkness creeping along the length of the colony. There, somewhere at the end, is the ugly metal fortress where the closed-type was bolted on. There is a lag in her looking down at the card, as if only just now noticing it.
"Food is most important," she says. The tawny-haired woman takes the playing card into her hands and turns it over in exploration.
"We have more people than we can support. We're making changes, but we only work with what we have. I don't suppose you're able to alter Federation policy to prioritize creating and balancing refugee resettlement areas."
Nanai transfers the card to both hands, holding it to look down as if she was sitting at a table with a single card to play. A humorless smile crosses her lips.
"It's not so bad here. I thought they would maintain martial law for years. Their eyes are elsewhere now."
Nanai looks up to where Sayla stands. The soft glow of the colony interior casts her features less harshly.
When people speak conspiracies of Char Aznable's newtype coordinator shock troopers and the science criminal he kept at his elbow in his final years, they paint a picture of malicious experience to match the genocidal maniac himself. Here, in the flesh, there is only a woman in her mid twenties with tired eyes. But-- even that exhaustion cannot hide the acuity in her.
"I'm sorry for what will come. People like us can't help but live in many places, can't we? I think we'll go to the past before we can go to the future."
Her fingers press slightly into the card, deforming its shape almost imperceptibly. Then, with a sense of finality, she stands, pockets the card, and turns to walk around the other side of the chair. One of her hands reaches up to brush some errant strands of her hair behind her ear.
"I should go. I was on my way somewhere when I..." a pause comes next, one that she uses to shift thoughts. "If you want to stay, I'll come by to lock the gate later. No one comes here anyway. I'm glad I could finally meet you in person, Dr. Mass."
<Pose Tracker> Sayla Mass has posed.
Sayla nods, taking mental note. Food, then. If she had time, she'd look for nutritional gaps, but she doesn't. But then she lets out a small, bitter laugh. "I spend two years trying from the supposed strongest position to do so. I'd have better odds taking the Britannian Emperor hostage with a tooth pick and a rubber band." It's the sort of joke that lands with a thud, but was never intended any other way.
"If only they'd actually help people here." More bitterness, but it's been part of her life for so long. Seeing this casual disdain for the people who aren't important enough.
Nanai's phrasing seems to catch Sayla off guard. "What do you mean? Like going backwards before we go forwards?" Her own concern about Nanai is growing. Whatever happened at Axis must have had an impact. Hardly a surprise.
"No, it's fine, I should be leaving too. The sooner I can get to work, the sooner I can have relief coming in to Sweetwater." She grimaces. That fundraiser is going to be more than necessary after all. "Perhaps another day but..." She can't really bear to be in this place much longer. In Nanai's memories, where Casval was. She gives a short nod- while this meeting was important, glad is too clean, too clear, too nice an emotion. And she doesn't want to lie to her. "If you need anything, my contact details are in that card too. And please, Sayla is fine. Have a good day, Mesta."
When Sayla starts off, it's a little brisk. But some emotions are too potent to risk staying in.
<Pose Tracker> Nanai Miguel has posed.
Sayla's question about time draws a ghost of a smile from Nanai, but no answer. At least no answer that comes in words.
Nanai waits as Sayla goes, standing by those two chairs and watching the other woman until she disappears down the hall. Her gaze remains on that darkness until she hears the gravel crunch on the walk.
She turns to the windows. Her hands find the elastic in her hair, and with a practiced gesture she removes it. A sigh -- a cleansing sigh, long and wistful.
The currents come. Nanai closes her eyes and feels herself drift.
"I wonder... will her feelings reach you?"
Only the gentle thrum of the colony answers her.