2022-12-24: A Ghost No More
- Cutscene: A Ghost No More
- Cast: Eight York, Dimara Kadun (Senior), Miss Tansen (Briefly)
- Where: Side 3, Zeon
- Date: December 24, 2022
- Summary: Finally meeting her grandmother, Eight York learns a lot very quickly about her namesake. The matriarch of the Kadun family, Dimara in turn takes the measure of her granddaughter.
"Madam," says the maid. She is a dignified woman herself, and her mistress looks her directly in the eye when she approaches. "Your guest has arrived. Do you require anything else?"
"That will be all, Miss Tansen. Thank you." Their relationship is clearly formal, but not un-cordial; with a nod, the severe maid turns to open the door, and nods to Eight, who stands there and nods to her as well. "Thank you," she says, and steps into the room, her boots silent on the carpet.
She is dressed in civilian attire; a long, ruffled dress in a light red. It's not casual, but it's not high formal, either; it's 'professional'. She gave her coat to the man at the door. And now, her red eyes focus on the woman in the chair.
The elder Kadun is serious-faced, with grayed hair and red eyes rather like Eight's own. She's seated, and dressed about as one would expect a serious older woman to dress when meeting someone important. Her features are familiar to Eight, though the two have never met.
Eight's grandmother gestures towards the table. "Welcome, Miss York. Please, come and sit with me."
"...Yes," Eight answers after a moment, "Thank you. I appreciate that you were willing to meet with me," she starts, as she swiftly steps over and smooths her skirt to sit down. She puts on a friendly smile. "I've… wanted to meet you. Though…"
"Though you're surprised I call you Miss York, if what those tests say were true?" the woman says wryly. "Yes, well. You are my granddaughter, but part of why we're meeting here today is to see if you're interested in taking my name and I'm interested in extending it to you. Yes?"
Eight blinks–and quickly, feels a lot more relaxed by the directness of the woman before her. "I mean it, though. Ever since I learned about you, I've wanted to meet you. That hasn't been exactly very long, but all the same, it's nice."
"Yes, it is 'nice'," the older woman agrees. "We'll see if it's anything more than 'nice'. …But I am glad that my granddaughter seems to be a healthy young woman, regardless. You have a glow about you, dear, even nervous. And oh, I can tell you're nervous. So am I!"
"Ahah," Eight laughs a little. "That's… true. Where should we start, then?"
"How about you tell me about what you do for a living? Tell me about yourself, and then I'll tell you about our family. I'm older, you can indulge my questions first!" She takes the cane by her hair into her hand and shakes it, as if to emphasize her age. The truth is that Eight doesn't mark her as past her sixties, though. Not so old as /that/.
"Sure." Pause. She remembers Leina mentioned 'etiquette'. "That is, yes," she decides instead. "...So, it may surprise you, but I'm with the Londo Bell task force. I'm a Captain on a battleship, the Ra Mari." She prepares to get defensive about that–she's been asked by more than one fellow spacenoid–but Dimara the elder nods.
"Yes, you have a military bearing about you. Your father was a military man, as well. He fought for Zeon, in the One Year War. Is it a problem that you come from such stock?"
"No," Eight says, shaking her head. "Not… as such." She hesitates.
"Something wrong?" Dimara asks. "You say you don't mind, but your expression says differently. I don't disapprove of fighting for the Federation we're supposedly a part of. For the record, I /do/ support Zeon's independence. But not in the ways that these Neo-Zeon movements have gone about it."
"...That's fair, ma'am," Eight starts. "It's…"
"Ma'am. Polite, but not quite right. We'll work on your manners. For now, spit it out, girl. What's the problem?"
Eight considers again, before letting out a tense breath and then lifting her eyes to face her grandmother's again. "I also fought for Zeon," she says. "My feelings on Zeon are kind of complicated as a result. But I don't hold that against the people at all. Or against the idea of independence."
"...Aha." Dimara's eyes sharpen. "I begin to see. You didn't disappear by chance, did you, girl? Your mother assuming I wouldn't support her… that's a failure on my part. But you should've passed to me when she died, and yet you didn't. In fact, I never heard that you even lived. And then you ended up living far off. You mentioned, during the genetic test… Winter Wonderland."
"...That's right."
"I see. So what happened, then?" Her expression gets a little more gentle, although her eyes are still intent. "What caused my granddaughter to be swept up by the Zeon war machine and me never to hear about it, that led to her fighting for the Federation instead?" She pauses, relenting. "Forgive me," the old woman says. "I am accustomed to fishing for answers out of people. I suspect I know part of the answer, and it is not an easy answer, is it?"
Eight shakes her head. "It isn't," she confirms, and balls up her hands in her lap, debating. Maintain boundaries… But at the same time, it's very relevant. And Eight makes no secret of it. So, "My name's Eight because I was test subject number eight. I kept the name, because when I was rescued, it was all I had. I didn't know about you, or my mother, or anything. A nice couple rescued me and someone else, and brought us to Winter Wonderland. They're my parents. I was trained as a child soldier."
The atmosphere is heavy.
Eight looks down, and Dimara watches her eyes for a moment… before her own eyes soften. "I'm sorry, MIss York. That was an ungentle approach. But I needed to know. You see, the Zeon war machine also took your father from me. He volunteered, but they took him all the same. And then your uncle died protesting the Titans… and your aunt, opposing Axis Zeon. I have lost much in this world already. I needed to know why I had also lost you. I believe in forthrightness. I wanted this all to be understood, so that we could in turn understand one another."
"...A little rough," Eight admits, bringing a hand up to the back of her neck, threading in under her hair. She rubs at her neck, before lowering it again, her earring wobbling from the motion. "But it kinda rips off the bandage, huh? Now you know my past. …If it helps," Eight says, "And even if it doesn't, I had a good childhood after that. The Yorks rescued me, and got me therapy, and helped me become 'normal'. I went to high school, I had friends… I played hockey."
"Hockey?" Dimara answers, with a lift of her eyebrow. Then she laughs, too. "How surprising. …It does help. I wish I had been able to do more for you in the past. But now you are an adult, I cannot raise you. So let's talk some more. In fact…"
"Would you like a drink?" the old woman asks, and gestures towards the crystal bottle on the table, with two glasses.
"I can't drink alcohol," Eight explains apologetically.
"Then I won't either," she says. "Pity, that. You're missing a lot. But I'll have something sparkling and nonalcoholic brought up next time."
"...Next time?" Eight asks, hesitating.
"Well, a girl strong enough to build herself a life after an experience like that is worth knowing, don't you think?"
Finally, Eight smiles a little. "...Thanks."
"Now," Dimara says, "I've told you a little about your family. Let me tell you a bit more." She is already sitting up straight; she folds her hands. "I'll spare you the long family history for the moment; suffice to say that we were here before Zeon was named Zeon. Your family is not blameless in the conflicts between space and the Federation; we have long believed in spacenoid independence. …But I lost my taste for war, as my children died. The deaths of Earthnoids do nothing to improve our lot; they only continue the war. My belief is that the future of Zeon is in economic independence, not in men like Char Aznable."
"...I see," Eight answers. "But I'm fighting for the Federation, right now."
"Yes, you are. And someone has to, as long as we're a part of it. Perhaps they'll succeed in integrating us back into it. Perhaps they won't. Regardless, I'm not going to let my only granddaughter slip out of my life because we /might/ not agree politically. Maybe we can discuss it some other time." A beat, "But that's the history you'll have to accept, whether you change the future or not. And I admit… Seeing you, alive, knowing you exist–it gives me more hope for that future."
"I'll…" The Captain says, "Thank you. I'll endeavor to be worthy of that hope."
"Oh, don't be so formal, girl." Dimara smiles, and the wrinkle lines in her face suggest that she used to do that a lot. Once. A long time ago.
"I'm not usually this stiff!" Eight protests, "I'm just a little overwhelmed, is all. …But thanks. …Hm. Well, I do have questions, but…"
"But it's your turn to talk," Dimara decides. "Tell me a little about your adopted family. I want to know about the kind of people who raised you. That'll tell me a great deal more about you than a questionnaire. Then I'll be happy to answer your questions."
Brightening, the young Captain looks up. "...If you're interested," she says, "I can do that."