Seannie's Sanctum [New: "Godot [Pilot]" 21/6/24]

[seannie4]

Welcome.

I'm the sort of writer who pumps out 3000 words in one evening and then crashes for the remainder of the week. Because of this, shorter stories and oneshots are a much more natural form for me.

I can only look upon those who put out longfics and entire routes over the span of years with awe and reverence.

So, here you'll find a compendium of all my little narratives, musings and other literary odds and ends.

I hope you enjoy.

Index:
Bleachers | Hisao catches a flight (this post)
Godot [Pilot] | All the world's a stage...

---

Bleachers

Hisao is beginning to regret his choices.

University students aren’t supposed to buy intercontinental plane tickets on a whim, even if they are on a postgraduate physics scholarship to the Tokyo Institute of Technology.

Reclining back in his seat, mentally tallying up the costs, Hisao sighs as he fully comprehends how much this heat-of-the-moment jaunt will cut into his already tight finances. Looks like it’s back to another month at least of instant ramen and overtime shifts at the lab.

The rays of the sunlight slowly rising above the stratospheric clouds stab at his eyes, forcing Hisao to close the window shades with a dull shunk.

In any case, it’s far too late to change course now. It’s not like he’s going to get his money back by hopping out of the airplane at 37,000 feet over Siberia.

At least, up here, high above the ground, his worries seem so distant, so very far away. As though, for a few hours, he can escape from his earthly reality.

He can face it when he returns to the surface.

Hisao squints at the dim, pixelated moving map on his tiny seatback IFE screen and closes his eyes.

It’s another eleven hours until he lands in London.

…

Everything goes by in a blur.

It’s as though Hisao has been teleported into an alien landscape. He can hardly recall getting off the plane, nor collecting his luggage, nor the frantic deciphering of byzantine signage, trying to figure out where on earth he needs to go.

He finds himself on the Tube, the carriage gently rocking from side to side as it speeds through the darkness. He clutches his backpack and wheeled travel case as the train lurches and the lights flicker.

A croaky voice laughs at some unheard joke, while a group of high schoolers behind him speak in rapid, hushed tones about something he can’t make out.

Hisao has never been to London before. Hell, he’s never been outside Japan. Surrounded by unfamiliar people speaking unfamiliar words, he’s never felt more alone in his life, like a castaway adrift in a metropolitan ocean.

“The next station is: King’s Cross St. Pancras…”

The train jolts as the brakes engage, their metallic screeching like the howls of banshees reverberating through the tunnel and into the carriage.

Clutching his few possessions even tighter, Hisao really begins to question why he decided to come here in the first place.

…

Somehow finding his hotel. Stumbling through the door and collapsing onto the small single bed.

The flight took more out of him than he thought.

It’s only when the morning sun warms the back of his neck that he’s fully aware of his surroundings. Of the tiny, one bed room with a bathroom the size of a locker. Of the bags laying sprawled, unpacked on carpet near the door.

Of the thing he came all this way to do.

Wash, shave, dry. Rubbing his face with the hand towel, Hisao becomes aware of the lost look in his eyes, as though he’s searching for something that can never be found.

He wonders how long he’s had it.

Outside the hotel, Hisao hails a cab. He’s not making the mistake of trying to navigate a Tube station twice.

The shiny black car with the oddest bonnet Hisao has ever seen pulls up, a wrinkly old man with greying hair but a kind face behind the wheel. In halting English, Hisao manages to convey his destination, to which the driver responds with something cheery but totally incomprehensible.

Winding through the narrow alleys and crammed arterial roads, Hisao can only look on, dully, at the streets lined with shops with unpronounceable names, the crowds surging like water down sidewalks and across streets. At once, familiar and totally alien, like his home of Tokyo viewed through stained glass.

The car accelerates onto an overpass, giving Hisao his first glimpse of his destination: the gleaming white trusses of a stadium, its wide, circular structure looming over a sea of tents, flags and parked cars. The white, triangular metal finishings hang like gigantic icicles from the roof’s sheer edge.

His kindly driver speaks again, the old man’s accent mangling any hope of understanding his words on the first pass. Hisao has to ask him to repeat himself three times before he has a chance of untangling his driver’s speech.

“Got a ticket to the Paralympics, my boy? Must be lookin’ forward to it, eh?”

Hisao can only nod noncommittally. The truth is far too complicated to tell.

…

The atmosphere is raucous, and Hisao can’t feel a bit of it.

The inside of the stadium is positively rumbling, the air filled with music, loudspeaker announcements and the general rolling hubbub of the crowd.

Yet, even as he is jostled to and fro by the many bodies moving up and down the stairs to the bleachers, the excitement never makes its way into Hisao’s heart. None of the fanfare, the pageantry, not even the other events, interest him. He is in the stadium for one of world’s most prestigious sporting competitions, and he may as well be in the waiting room for a doctor’s appointment.

Hisao is only here to see one thing. Nothing else matters.

Pushing his way through the mass, he finally finds his seat, one amongst thousands filled with spectators.

Hisao fiddles with the ticket in his hand, his fingers curling the paper, over and over in an endless loop. A blonde- and black-haired couple beside him talk animatedly, their excitement for what is to come clearly overflowing.

He is silent. His brown eyes scan over the empty track, irises flitting between the various cameramen and support staff standing about on the grass and by the sidelines.

It reminds him of his third year of high school. Sitting on the bleachers in the early morning air, watching the academy athletics track, far away from home and everything he knew. Waiting for a new life. Waiting for someone.

Waiting.

Waiting.

…

The loudspeaker announcements reverberate throughout the stadium, their echoes melding into one continuous wall of noise assaulting Hisao’s ears from all directions.

Cheers go up as the latest set of athletes return to the sidelines, heads and hands raised high in triumph, the end of yet another race.

Hisao watches, impassive, vigilant, waiting for them to finish and the next event to begin. The spotlights hitting the field from across the stadium hurt his eyes, forcing him to squint, yet he remains steadfast, his index finger tapping impatiently on the laminate paper programme he holds in his hand.

The loudspeakers start up again, roaring, deafening, but this time Hisao perks up. The athletes for this particular race are being called up.

It’s what he’s been waiting for.

They file out of entrances embedded into the stands and onto the track, dressed in running jerseys labeled with their nations and numbers. Their long hair is tied back into neat ponytails, eyes glimmering with excitement and determination.

They are all different heights, different ages. A bespectacled girl, who could not be older than 16, waves to the crowd with both hands, smiling all the while. An older lady with short, red hair, marches determinedly to her position on the start line.

But there’s one thing they all have in common.

One leg is missing, their lower appendage replaced by a smooth, curved running blade, shining in the spotlights like drawn swords.

Then, Hisao sees her.

His heart jolts.

She immediately stands out. Her short stature, her bright green eyes. Her trademark light brown hair, glowing almost pink in the stadium’s light, is no longer in the twintails he once knew, but in the same regulation ponytail, the tips swinging side to side as she walks, a bounce in her step.

It’s because she’s the only double amputee on the track. Whereas everyone else at least possesses one good leg, she springs into her position on double blades.

But the thing that gets Hisao the most is her expression.

She’s smiling, widely, wildly, grinning at the crowd as though she’s on top of the world, that there’s no place she’d rather be.

Even in his memories, Hisao cannot recall her face so luminescent, so clearly brimming with joy and trepidation. Like so many things, it’s a face she never let him see. Pure, unadulterated excitement, even for a girl as excitable as her.

It pains him. It really does. All the memories he’s kept securely locked in the deep recesses of his being bubble back to the surface, fighting for space in his consciousness.

She’s smiling so much, and she had left him behind.

The announcements are rolling again, announcing each of the competitors in turn, accompanied by the roars of supporters and well-wishers with each name called.

Her name is suddenly on the tannoy, echoing around the stadium like the voice of God. A great ruckus immediately erupts from all sides, deafening him, as people stand, clap, cheer for the little young lady on twin blades, who raises both arms to the crowd as though attempting to embrace them all. He can see, in one of the stands opposite, a giant Japanese flag being waved, the crowd matching her exuberance.

A part of Hisao feels that he should join in the revelry, to show his support, his enthusiasm.

But he can’t. He doesn’t feel anything, save for a sinking, longing sadness the longer the cheers go on. He feels like she’s a million miles away, that he’s watching her through a glass box, disconnected from everything around him.

He’d cheered for her, once upon a time. He’d rooted for her success, her happiness.

That time has long passed.

She’s never appeared happier in her life than now.

So, he sits, frozen, impassive, as though he’s back in his university apartment, watching on the TV like every other sensible person. He sits as the last few names are called, the ruckus dying away and the crowd resuming their seats as the air turns heavy, nervous.

He sits as the athletes are called to their positions, jumping, bouncing, the last few warmups before the final race.

He sits as the officials give the thumbs up and the cameramen train their equipment on the eight women lined up across the maroon running track.

Hisao has eyes for no one else but the girl with the glowing pink hair. It’s a scene he can recall countless times in his high school memory, now playing out for an audience the world over.

Her wide, open smile is now gone, replaced with a powerful grin, determined, unyielding. She bounces on her blades, then bends, her back arching as her hands find their positions on the white line, like a cheetah ready to pounce.

Hisao’s heartbeat steadily rises, even as his emotions remain as placid as a lake. It’s the memory of it all, the adrenaline he once experienced, sitting on the bleachers, watching as The Fastest Thing On No Legs made herself the darling of the academy.

Now he’s in the same position, again. She’s still there. Better than ever. She’s broken through the walls and is poised to claim the world for her own.

He had no part in it. He’s just the detritus of another person’s life, another person’s fame, another person’s glory.

A man on a podium raises his starting pistol. The stadium holds its collective breath.

The pink-haired girl jostles, adjusting, then raises her head to lock her eyes straight down the track. Nothing else.

The pistol fires.

At first, it’s disaster. The other runners shoot off ahead, barrelling down the track, while she fights to gain speed on her twin blades. As only single amputees, her competitors have a good start.

For a few heart-stopping seconds, she’s last. Hisao’s heart seems to be beating out of its chest.

Then, something miraculous happens.

She accelerates, at first slowly, then rapidly, gaining speed as though some mythical wind is pushing her from behind.

Eighth place. Seventh. Sixth. The frontrunners begin to lose their lead as she breaks through the formation, her blades swiping through their air like knives.

Faster, faster, faster. Hisao can only watch as she approaches, and he can get his first good look at her face.

His breath catches. It’s an expression he knows all too well.

That fierce joy that comes alive in her poplar green eyes. As though there’s nothing else in the world except for her and the track.

His shining star, his comet.

It’s no longer his. It probably never was. That girl belongs to the world now, to the thousands cheering her on and the cameras trained on her face.

Fifth, fourth. Faster still, shooting past where Hisao is sitting, gradually pulling ahead of everyone else, nearing the apex of the formation, her ponytail bouncing lightly with each measured pace, every swing of her arms.

She’s close to the end of the track now, the wind ripping through her hair, her eyes becoming ever steelier on the big screen, focused on the white line that is her prize.

One last effort, the last few meters. She seems to burst with energy as she careens forward, ever so slightly passing third place, her body tilted as though reaching for the goal with every fiber of her being.

Almost there. Almost there.

Then she’s across the finish line, arms wide like a bird as she slows, regaining her balance on her blades as she comes down from the sprint of a lifetime.

The other athletes scatter as they cross the threshold, relieved, exhausted, breathing heavily from the enormous effort of the past few seconds.

The loudspeakers crackle, declaring the gold medallist. It’s not her name on the announcer’s lips- that goes to her French colleague- but she’s second. Silver. A silver medallist in the Paralympics, with the eyes of the world upon her.

She jumps, quite literally several feet into the air, arms raised in victory, screaming, laughing, overflowing with exultation. Her mouth is stretched into a wide grin, hollering at the crowd, which is roaring at the excitement of it all.

She looks as though she won gold. She may as well have won thirty golds. She, with no legs, has made a name for herself. She’s beat the best of the best, those with all the advantages stacked against her, to claim her prize.

She’s shown the world her prowess, her skill. That’s what drives her smile.

Hisao can tell there’s no place she’d rather be.

Her overwhelming joy breaks his heart.

He’s failed. He’s failed. He never got to see what he came here to see.

That disgusting little part of him that drove his decision to buy a plane ticket, to come all this way, to watch this in person. The tiny, niggling, horrid hope that, even in her finest hour, she would still show a sign, however small, that she is as lost as he is, as empty as he feels.

That what they shared together still means something. That the pain of how they tore everything down still lingers.

There’s no evidence of that. None. She is as radiant as the sun.

The silver medallist sprints to the sidelines into the arms of her waiting staff, the crew that must have stuck by her side and travelled with her all this way to aid her in victory.

They are crying, hugging, a picture of a group of people at the peak of their careers, like climbers at the summit of a mountain.

Hisao can’t participate in her happiness. He doesn’t have a right to.

She hurt him, and he, in turn, hurt her. He was merely a speedbump, an unpleasant episode in an otherwise grand journey.

This girl, wrapped in the flag of her country, feted by the crowd here and almost certainly at home, is far beyond him now. He is an observer on the ground, watching a spaceship climb higher and higher into the sky.

“See you around.”

That’s the last thing she said to him. It’s her last lie, too.

She didn’t see him. Couldn’t have. He is but one face among a distant sea of thousands, sandwiched between the adrenaline of the race and the roar of the crowd.

She only ever looks ahead to the next curve of the track. Never to her side. Never to the back. Forward, forward, forward, until the only thing that’s left of her is her wake.

She’s mere meters from his fingertips, yet the gulf between them couldn’t possibly be wider.

She was always faster than him. That was the nature of their relationship. He could close the distance ever so slightly, but it would never be enough.

Even now, years on, it could never be enough. He’s still in her wake, left to flounder while she soars higher into the sky, untethered by their shared mistakes, their shared failures.

It’s as though Hisao has been left carrying the emotional baggage while she runs ahead, over the horizon, to her destiny.

Coming halfway around the world wasn’t enough. All the technology, all the science, even the airplane that carried him here on silver wings at a thousand kilometers an hour, it’s still not fast enough.

She will always be faster than his heart.

The athletes begin to exit the track, singly or in twos, coated with sweat and victory.

Hisao gets up from his seat. He can’t bear to watch the scene any longer. Staying for the medal ceremony would only hurt him more.

As he leaves the bleachers and turns for the stairs, he catches one last glimpse of the girl he once called his love.

She stares at the sky, smiling, her eyes glittering emeralds, as though she stands at the entrance to a whole new universe.

A universe he can never reach.

…

Hisao is beginning to regret his choices.

The flight is already a done deal. He may as well enjoy the return journey as best he can.

Reclining in his seat, Hisao gazes out the window, at the sun slowly setting beneath the stratospheric clouds, casting a purplish-orange hue over the clear sky.

At least, up here, high above the ground, his worries seem so distant, so very far away. As though, for a few hours, he can escape from his earthly reality.

The reality of the choices he can’t take back. Of the mistakes he can’t unmake. Of a past he cannot return to.

Here, cocooned in the quiet hum of the engines and the cool, rarefied air, he can forget, at least for a little while.

He can face reality when he returns to the surface.

Hisao squints at the dim, pixelated moving map on his tiny seatback IFE screen and closes his eyes.

It’s another eleven hours until he lands in Tokyo.

(Back to Index)

---

This was mostly written over the course of a single feverish evening. I just couldn't get the idea out of my head and had to write everything down.

The real-life silver medallist in the Women's T44 100m Final of the 2012 London Paralympics was Marlou van Rhijn of The Netherlands. She is also a double amputee, the only one in that particular race. I more or less inserted Emi into van Rhijn's performance verbatim.

The Japanese competitor in the T44 100m was Saki Takakuwa, a single amputee, who came seventh.

I'm looking forwards to the 2024 Paris Olympics, and I hope y'all are too.

We return to our regularly scheduled Intentions programming very shortly.

Stay safe, everyone.

[Feurox]

As a fella who likes his sad stories, and who makes them his bread and butter, I have to say I loved this piece. It's a great combination of high and low drama, and though I typically enjoy a slightly more grounded version of Emi (where good just isn't good enough) I think that having her be so successful and Hisao recognising his own failing, and the brutal uncomfortable reality that they were running in different races their whole life, is just so heartbreakingly sad. I utterly adore the bitterness here, it's a resignation from Hisao. It's angry, and it's sad, and it's lonely, as heart breaks usually are. I think having Emi come second is a fantastic narrative choice as well, and it signifies that being among the best is her goal, not necessarily the best, it lends the story a sense of legitimacy. She'll always have another target.

Also, the attentiveness to research is really great! I like that I learned something here.

So yeah, very much adore this. Well done. A good heart-wrencher.

[hdkv]

This is very beautiful sad story, and I think Feurox already described what I felt while reading it, the best. Thank you!

---

Some possible fixes:

the carriage rocking gently rocking from

I think "rocking" before "gently" is redundant.

[guthrum06]

I really enjoyed this. Packing so many emotions and so much character development into a story this short is no mean feat.

[Sharp-O]

Can't really add to what others have said, Seannie, but you did a great job!

[seannie4]

Godot [Pilot]

Her back hurts.

That’s the first thing that crosses her mind.

The second thing is that her bed has become unusually hard and disjointed, as though she’s sleeping on piled wood.

She tries to open her eyes, and all she can see is darkness.

Are her eyes even working?

She blinks, several times- she can feel her eyelids opening and closing so… so why can’t she see anything?

Blearily, she flops her left hand over to where she thinks her nightstand is, fumbling for the switch to the ladybird-shaped nightlight that usually hangs on the wall by the side of her bed.

Yeah, a ladybird nightlight. Childish, she knows. It’s part of the reason she doesn’t allow friends into her bedroom. And not just because she lacks any real ones.

Instead of the flat surface of her nightstand however, her left hand contacts something and sends it tipping in her direction.

There’s a sudden sploosh and the shock of something wet and very cold spilling onto her torso, soaking her clothes and freezing her skin.

She yelps, her high-pitched voice screeching into the dark, as she tries to leap out of bed.

Tries.

There’s no carpet beneath her feet like she was expecting. Instead, her shoes contact something hard, metallic, and extremely unstable.

Shoes?

Everything happens at once.

There’s a great crash, wood on metal, tearing, rumbling. She’s knocked right off her feet, spinning, falling, totally disorientated.

Her body impacts something… a wall?... and breaks through it, pain lancing through her right shoulder, the sound of wood splintering filling her ears.

Light floods her vision in the millisecond before she hits the ground.

The impact knocks the wind right out of her, cutting her voice off mid-scream of surprise, sending her sprawling over the linoleum floor.

The thunder of falling metal and other debris continues like some heinous car crash, slowly petering out as objects stop falling and come to rest beside her.

Her hands and eyes are clenched shut, trying to regain control of her heart beating wildly out of her chest.

What in the living heck is going on?

Slowly, she creaks open her eyelids, taking in her surroundings.

Above her, a plain, white ceiling checkered with tiling, like the kind they use at school. A single rectangular fluorescent light. One of those fire sprinklers with a jagged metal head poking out towards her.

Is this some kind of dream?

She begins to turn her head.

“I-Is someone there?”

A voice. Loud, high-pitched, almost squeaky. Cutesy. She doesn’t recognize it at all.

Despite the pain in her right arm, she desperately scrambles to her feet, knocking something over with a metallic clang, trying to get a bead on her surroundings and the source of the voice.

Staggering a little, she looks around.

It’s… it’s…

A classroom?

Well, sort of. It looks much more like a classroom converted into a storage room, or less charitably, a dumping ground.

The tables and chairs are stacked in wild, haphazard piles all along the walls, along with a few old-style blackboards on wheels gathering dust.
At least two dozen mops in their buckets are propped up against the piles, surrounded by various cleaning items- sprays, wipes, paper towels- scattered randomly everywhere. A few brooms with caked-on dust lodged in their bristles stand to attention by the wooden sliding door like soldiers.

To her left, there’s no wall, but the slatted windows every high school in Japan must be furnished with. Outside, however, is a different story. The entire room seems to be shrouded in fog, a wall of white just beyond the panes, through which only some gloomy light filters inside.

Isn’t she supposed to be in bed?

This must be a dream.

She turns her head to the right.

And there stands a girl.

Pink hair. In drills. Both sides of her head. Chubby. A little short. Probably around the same age as her. Dressed in a school uniform of some description- white blouse, green skirt, black ribbon.

Golden eyes and mouth wide open in shock.

For a moment, there’s absolute silence as both simply stare at one another.

Utterly confused, and with nothing else to go on, she slowly raises her right hand in greeting.

“Uh… h-”

“AAAAAAAAAAAHHHH!!!”

The pink-haired girl lets out a piercing, blood curdling scream, before diving back behind a pile of piled chairs and knocking over several mops, her face contorted in utter terror.

Jolted by the sound, she too takes a few steps back.

Nothing makes sense. Who is this girl? What is this place?

The clattering of cleaning items falling to the floor echoes through the room as the pink-haired girl crawls away to safety, her voice warbling and shaky, overwhelmed with fear.

“D-Don’t come any c-closer… p-please…”

What’s with this girl?

“Hey, hey, sorry… I didn’t mean to scare you but… who are you? What’s going on?”

She takes another look around the room. If this is a dream, it’s by far the weirdest and most realistic she’s ever had.

The pink-haired girl answers her question with another, totally insane question of her own.

“A-Are you… h-human?”

“W-W-What?!”

Is she human?!

What kind of question is that?!

Her heart rate increases dramatically.

“What… what do you mean ‘am I human?’”

The other girl’s voice loses its stutter and gains some force.

“Well… you don’t look human so… what are you?”

Every answer only generates more questions, like she’s been spoken to in riddles.

“I’m sorry, I… I really have absolutely no idea what on earth you’re talking about. I’m very certain I was human when I last checked…”

She looks down and is immediately taken aback.

She’s not in the light blue pyjamas she swore she wore into bed that night. Instead, she’s dressed in the dark blazer and maroon skirt of her school’s winter uniform, complete with brown loafers.

Regardless, she’s still got all her appendages. Nothing seems off.

“Uh…”

What an odd dream indeed.

“Apart from the fact that I’m somehow in school uniform, I’m as human as they come.”

She catches a flash of pink as the other girl spies her through the gaps in the chairs, like she’s a bomb about to go off.

“So… you don’t realize what’s wrong with you?”

The girl’s bubbly tone starts to come back slightly, juxtaposing strangely with the vaguely insulting phraseology of her question.

“No…? What is wrong with me? Look, can you tell me what’s going on, please?”

A note of desperation creeps into her voice, but she’s rapidly running out of mental tether.

Finally, the pink-haired girl relinquishes her temporary fortress of chairs and stands in front of her, golden eyes looking everywhere but her direction.

“Okay… how do I put this…?”

The other girl interlocks her fingers and gazes at her feet as she thinks it over.

“… your face.”

That was not the response she was expecting.

“Huh? My… face?”

God, this pink menace is horrific at answering questions.

“Yeah… your face… why… don’t you have one?”

What?!

Her right hand immediately goes to her head to dispel this ridiculous notion, covering her right eye and nose.

Except.

Nothing.

Her fingers touch smooth, flat skin.

Where there’s supposed to be the ridge of her nose, the sunken pits of her eyes, there’s nothing.

It’s all flat, like every detail of her face has been erased.

“Oh… my god.”

Both hands reach for her face, scrambling, feeling for what she knows should be there. Her nose, her eyes, her mouth. Her eyelashes, her brows, anything.

Smooth. Totally flat. Cool, unblemished skin, like that of her belly.

She screams in surprise.

This is not a dream.

This is some sort of fucked-up nightmare.

“Oh my god. Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god.”

She’s reeling, hyperventilating, utterly confounded. Nothing makes sense. Her head is spinning.

How in the living hell does she have no face?!

“Hey! Hey! Breathe… breathe… it’s ok. You’re human, I believe you. You don’t have to freak out…”

She becomes aware of two hands gripping her wrists, and two golden eyes framed by pink hair meeting hers… if she even has eyes, that is.

“You’re still breathing, and talking, and you can see and hear me, so… it might not be as bad as you think, okay?”

Her opposite is clearly also struggling to hold it together, but the thought is nice. Her heart rate begins to slow.

“Okay… okay… sorry, I’m… god, what a crazy nightmare…”

The hands release their hold on their wrists and, slightly calmer now, the pink-haired schoolgirl raises her hand in an awkward introduction.

“Well… I’m Misha. My full name is Shiina Mikado, but nobody really uses that…”

A cutesy name for a cutesy girl. At least she’s no longer screaming in terror.

“Uhh… well…”

Do you pay courtesies to dream apparitions? At this point, she wouldn’t even begin to know, but doing something normal for a change would be better than simply collapsing from the sheer insanity of it all.

“I’m Iwanako…”

At the mention of the name, Misha’s eyes go even wider.

“Wait… you’re Iwanako?”

Recognition sparks in Misha’s irises. How does the pink-haired schoolgirl know who she is?

“Yeah, I’m Iwanako…”

Uh.

Something’s missing.

“I mean, I’m Iwanako…”

Her last name?

What… is it again?

“Agh! Why… why can’t I remember…?”

She knows logically that she should have a last name. Yet, her mind is drawing a total blank, as though she’d never been given one her whole life.

Is this dream messing with her memory too?

With rising fear, Iwanako desperately rifles through the mental filing cabinets in her brain, desperately searching for something so simple as her own goddamn name.

Nothing.

“I… I… can’t remember my last name…”

It’s something simultaneously embarrassing and ludicrous.

Despite this, Misha’s previous surprise is now totally gone, replaced by a sad resignation. Iwanako’s name must have triggered something in her.

“Iwanako… that’s because… hold on, could I call you… Icchan? Iwacchan? Uh… Nacchan! Yeah, that sounds better… can I call you Nacchan?”

Iwanako is slightly bemused. Considering the situation, it’s an odd request.

“Why?”

“It’s… a little thing I do with people. You can tell me not to if you don’t like it.”

It might just be best to humour Misha, or whatever Misha is. Iwanako’s got bigger things to worry about anyway.

“Uh… yeah sure, but… how do you know who I am?”

Misha twiddles her fingers, clearly uncomfortable with the situation.

“I’ve heard about you, Nacchan.”

“From who? I’m pretty certain we’ve never met before, have we?”

Misha shakes her head.

“Nacchan… you do know about Hisao, right?”

Her breath catches.

That’s not a name she wants to hear. Her nerves around what happened to the boy are as raw as can be.

Sputtering, Iwanako struggles to form words.

“Wha… I… I… how do you know him?!”

She thought she’d never see him again. That she was done. She’d cried herself to sleep the night before, after she visited for the last time.

Maybe this nightmare is the universe rewarding her for her disloyalty.

But she can’t take it anymore. Her heart can’t take it anymore.

“Nacchan… what you know about Hisao, what you think happened to him… it’s not the real world. Or at least not what you think it is.”

“Yeah, of course. This… room, you, everything you’re telling me, it’s just a dream.”

Misha’s eyes turn downcast, sadness crossing her features.

“I thought the same thing at first, Nacchan. I thought it was just a dream.”

She takes a deep breath.

“The ‘real world,’ Nacchan, has a script. From what I can tell, everything about that script revolves around Hisao. When you go into the ‘real world,’ you stop being yourself, kind of. You lose control. You start saying things without meaning to, you start doing things like you’re a little puppet on strings. You don’t even notice.”

Iwanako is totally lost. She’s heard debates about simulation theory and the nature of free will, but this is patently ridiculous.

“That… doesn’t explain how you know Hisao.”

The pink-haired girl’s voice grows quiet.

“I’m Hisao’s friend. Or was. After what happened between you and him, he came to my school, Yamaku Academy. He’s in my class, and we have a mutual friend, so I know quite a bit about him.”

“You… know what happened to Hisao?”

“He told me bits and pieces, or I picked them up from people I talked to. That’s how I found out about you, Nacchan. You’re the girl that confessed to him, and he had a heart attack. Is that true?”

Every word Misha says hits Iwanako like a ton of bricks. It’s like her darkest secrets are being dug up and paraded in the light of day.

This pink haired girl is clearly not all frivolity. She knows far too much.

“How… do you know what school he goes to after his attack? I mean, wait, how do you even know about the confession?! How do you know about the heart attack at all?!”

Despite Iwanako’s rising panic, Misha remains calm in her gloominess.

“Like I said, there’s a script, Nacchan. I just happen to be further along in the script than you, so yeah, in a way, I do know about the future, and the past, and a lot of other things.”

This is totally insane.

“Even if what you’re saying makes sense, what is this place?”

“We’re in the dumping ground, Nacchan. Whatever it is out there- the world, the universe, the story- it’s done with us. We served our purpose. We made out exit from the script. Whoever- or whatever- made this world decided that we needed to be put out of sight. So, they’ve put us in the Yamaku cleaning room where no one can find us. We’re trapped.”

For the first time, Iwanako becomes aware of the smell of chemical disinfectant rising from her clothing, stinging her nostrils. That must’ve been what she spilt all over her uniform when she woke up.

“There doesn’t really exist a world beyond Hisao, Yamaku, you and me, and a few other people. It’s just when you’re out there, you don’t notice the gaps because you’re stuck playing out the script. When you’re out there, the script is all there is.”

What is this, some knockoff version of The Matrix? Even for a dream, this is stretching credibility.

“That makes less than no sense, Misha.”

“I-I know it’s hard to understand… I’m not the best at explaining things. You have to experience it for yourself, then you’ll know. You’ll know what I know.”

Everything in Iwanako’s logical side cries out to reject this, to simply accept that this is some depression-induced nightmare cooked up by an overactive imagination she didn’t realise she had.

Despite the lack of facial features, Misha seems to sense the doubt coursing through Iwanako’s veins.

“Think, Nacchan. What’s the name of your school? The name of your hometown? The name of your parents, your teachers, your friends?”

“What kind of question is…?”

Iwanako’s frustration with such a dumb question rapidly spirals into confusion as she actually tries to answer it.

It’s…

It’s the same as her last name.

Nothing.

Nothing at all.

Everything’s coming up blank. Blank, blank, blank. The files are there, it’s just that there’s nothing inside them.

The only thing she truly remembers of her own life is the ladybird nightlight hanging by the side of her bed.

So many things are missing. How did she not notice earlier?

“Oh… my god.”

Misha nods sadly.

“I know it feels like a dream, Nacchan, because it doesn’t make any sense otherwise. But you have to trust me. This ‘script,’ or whatever it is, it’s all centered on Hisao’s… story, in some way. I don’t know how, or why. If you don’t serve that story anymore, it dumps you. It looks like the script is done with you, so it dumped you here with me.”

Misha shifts her glance to behind Iwanako.

“Probably would’ve been better if it didn’t put you on top of the pile of tables and chairs in the closet over there.”

Iwanako turns around to see an avalanche of total chaos. The cupboard door she broke through lies splintered on the floor; behind it, a veritable slope of tangled chairs and tables lies disgorging from the adjoining compartment.

So that was what she woke up on. And what caused the gigantic ruckus when she tried to get down.

She turns back to Misha, still thoroughly confounded.

“How on earth did you figure all this out?”

Misha shakes her head.

“I haven’t. I don’t know a lot about what’s going on out there, Nacchan.”

Her eyes cloud over, like she’s remembering ancient history.

“I always ended up here after… well, it doesn’t matter. I would play my part, live out what I thought was the real world, and then end up here. I’d head out again and again, to escape what I thought was a bad dream and back into reality. And I’d go right back to where I started, saying the same words, doing the same things… well, some things were different here and there, but the end was always the same.”

A small smile creeps onto her face.

“One time, I managed to ‘wake up,’ if you get what I mean. I went off-script. I didn’t say the things I was meant to say or do the things I was meant to do. For a little while, I was free.”

The smile disappears.

“But no matter what I did, the world would always make me end up in the same place. I could never fully control my feelings, or my words, or my actions. Even if I knew what was about to happen, I would always end up returning to the script, saying my last few lines. It always finds a way to force the ending it’s written out for me. And then it sends me back here.”

She sighs.

“I’ve never been able to break the cycle. I’ve tried, Nacchan, I’ve tried so many times. No matter what I do, it always stays the same.”

Misha looks so defeated, so downtrodden, it hurts Iwanako’s heart.

Yet, there’s a loud part of her brain that still refuses to accept such a totally illogical explanation.

“This… this has got to be bullshit. This has got to be a dream.”

Misha suddenly raises her voice, forceful, desperate. Iwanako jolts at the sudden increase in volume as the pink-haired girl pummels her with questions.

“Then why do you not have a face?! Why can’t you remember your last name?! Why can’t you remember anything of your own life?!”

Her voice, on the verge of anger, is suddenly choked with sobs.

“Why… why, at the end, do I always have to-”

A cry escapes Misha’s lips, as tears overwhelm her eyes. Whatever she’s trying to say, it must be deeply painful for her.

Barely able to process the rapid changing of events, Iwanako can only stand mute, as Misha’s sobs slowly die away, wiping her tears and refocusing her gaze on Iwanako’s face, or lack thereof.

“It’s because the world, or whatever it is, never filled in the details. It needed you to just be Iwanako, to just be the schoolgirl that confesses to Hisao. He has to have the heart attack. All the other things in your life don’t help with that, so they were never made. The story never views you from the front, so it has no reason to give you a face.”

Frustration- or is it anger?- re-enters Misha’s expression, as she stamps her feet to emphasise her point.

“It’s the same reason I can’t leave anymore. There’s no place for me in that world now! They’ve replaced me, Nacchan!”

Replaced?

All this new information keeps making Iwanako’s head spin. It’s as though she can never find her grounding in this dizzying, confusing classroom hellscape.

“What do you mean, replaced?”

“Out there, they’ve made a new Misha, exactly like me, just with a different script. I can’t go out there as myself anymore, I can only watch from afar. There’s no place for me in that world anymore, Nacchan, so it rejects me. I’m stuck here forever.”

The tears begin to return, this time slipping down Misha’s face like crystal beads.

“They’ve written me, my words, my ending, out of the world. I don’t exist anymore, Nacchan.”

This is too much, all too much. Everything in this… nightmare has been total insanity, like the seams of Iwanako’s world are being pulled apart by this schoolgirl sitting in a classroom at the edge of the universe.

She’s done. She can’t stay here anymore.

“I… I want to leave. I want to wake up.”

Iwanako turns to the only obvious exit in the room.

The unassuming wooden sliding doors.

Brushing past Misha, driven by desperation, her fingers find the latch and throw open the door with a slam.

And she stops.

Where there should be a hallway, there’s only a black void in every direction, like the classroom is suspended in deep space.

Reaching her hand forward into the inky darkness, there’s a cool sensation, like autumn air, but nothing else.

“What the…”

Misha sighs, like she was expecting Iwanako to do this from the beginning.

“You see, Nacchan? Nothing makes sense in this world. You can see, speak and breathe, but you have no face. You’re missing so many memories, even your last name. The door outside leads to that black pit. Is what I’m saying so hard to believe?”

This is not real. This is not real.

“Are you saying… I’m stuck here, Misha? That I can’t wake up?”

Again, Misha shakes her head.

“You aren't trapped. I am. That door… is to the ‘real world.’ If you go out there, you’ll go right back to where you enter the script.”

“Huh?”

Again, the riddles. Misha is unperturbed.

“What is your first big memory of Hisao? Not when you first met him or anything, but when you think about him, what’s the first memory that pops into your head?”

Iwanako doesn’t even need to think. It’s the one event she’s been trying to escape from for weeks.

Her biggest regret.

“… the confession.”

Misha nods like she’s known the answer the entire time.

“Right. So, if you go through that door, you’ll end up right back where you started, and you’ll be forced to act out everything as it occurred. You won’t have control anymore. You’ll be stuck in the script, and then you’ll come back here.”

“I…”

Iwanako shakes her head.

“I don’t care what you say anymore, Misha. This… this is all too much for me to handle. I’m getting out of here. I’m going home.”

She stands on the edge of the threshold, the tips of her loafers peeking into the darkness. Her hands grip each side of the open door like an astronaut about to embark on a spacewalk.

Iwanako’s heart is beating in her ears. She’s never been great with heights, even if there’s absolutely no indication of where she even is in this black void.

Misha stands behind her but doesn’t interfere.

“You can go back to the world you know, Nacchan, but you’ll remember what happened here, too.”

Every single thing Iwanako has experienced, from Misha’s nonsensical explanations to her terrifying lack of a face or memories, is utterly incompatible with reality.

There’s no way this is real.

It has to be a dream.

Right?

“I don’t believe you.”

Misha only gives her a sad smile.

“I know, Nacchan. When you go out there… don’t hurt yourself too much, okay?”

Taking one last look at her pink-haired companion, Iwanako nods…

…and leaps into the long dark.

(Back to Index)

---

Will I suffer from burnout? Probably. I should drink some water.

This is a developmental pilot chapter for a multi-part fic I intend to work on. I want to test out the idea and see if it holds up. Sorry if it doesn't make the most sense as it stands.

Iwanako as a character has always fascinated me, because she's simultaneously extremely important and almost totally irrelevant to the narrative. Her actions at the beginning of the VN serve as the inciting incident for Hisao's entire journey, yet her only other contribution from there is her letter, which mostly serves as a litmus test for Hisao's current state of mind in any give route.

In other words, her own story, her own character, is virtually erased by the VN's limited perspective. We don't even see her face- only from the back, and then she disappears.

I want to explore what existing as that character might be like, to be used and abused by the narrative for emotional effect and then discarded in favour of the grander story. What happens to discarded characters? What happens to their stories?

Watching the leaked beta version of KS was also a big inspiration. The early version of Shizune's route was totally insane compared to the final version. That, I want to explore too.

It's a little bit of DDLC, a little bit of The Truman Show and a little bit of Project Blue Curtain. I'd like to pursue it once I'm done with my other projects.

We'll see.

The title is taken from the eponymous "character" in Samuel Beckett's 1953 absurdist play Waiting for Godot. Godot's existence is absolutely central to the narrative as it forms the entire basis for why the events in the play occur, yet he never once appears onstage, nor do we ever get any idea of who he is, what sort of person is he, what his story might be.

A bit like Iwanako, I think.

Stay safe, everyone.