21-May-2004
revised: 26-May-2004
Title: The Worst Thing
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: none
Notes: I know, this is so NOT my usual style, but I was attacked by a plot
bunny on the way home. Perhaps it's the fact that both my current FmA
story and my ongoing GWing story are both pretty heavy on the emotional
aspect, and kinda intense in the fight scenes and bad guys. This story
may have fight scenes, but not involving guns, explosives, or large
cannons, despite Duo's persuasive arguments to the contrary. *stuffs
Duo back in a box*
Heh. So, uh, enjoy, or something.
I was nineteen when I realized death wasn't the worst thing out there.
Oh, it seems quite naοve, looking back, but I recall distinctly the moment it dawned on me: the smell of new-mown grass, and the hot trickle of humidity pressing between my shoulder blades. My legs were sticky with sweat, tanned and scratched from the days I'd spent hiking from the house down to the river.
And I sat there, staring at the textbooks piled on the garden table and thought: one day, I am going to be old.
This didn't particularly scare me. It entranced me, perhaps. I've traveled the world, met fascinating people, and killed more than my share of them. Hell, I've killed more than a country's share of people. And I've been shot, stabbed, and thrown about like a snowflake in a plastic globe. I've also been one of five who saved the world. Twice.
But the worst thing, I realized, was that no one would ever know it was me.
Strange.
It started me thinking. We five were anonymous now, among the majority of the world. Oh, not like that people knew our Gundams, dead and gone for three years. But they didn't know us; even I, the most prominent socially, still kept a low profile. I was just one more Winner kid, after all. We're pretty much everywhere, so it's not like another one is going to make much of a splash.
So if no one knew who I was, why did I always feel like there was a neon sign over my head, pointing downwards? Here stands Gundam Pilot Oh-Four. A neon sign only I could see or feel, casting long shadows behind me in sparkling artificial colors, Sandrock's paint job slathered across my psyche.
I remember leaning forward, my elbows digging into my knees, as I rested my chin on my clasped hands. Duo called that my thinking position, once. I guess it was; it still is.
Point is, no one knows me. And the four who did have gone on, though we keep in touch here and there. But the people in my life either know too much, or... well, there wasn't anyone who didn't know - at least, no one that I knew. It was just the rest of the world, out there, in some nebulous fashion, hovering on the edges of my existence.
That's when I shoved the textbooks off the table, stood up, and headed into the house.
I was nineteen, and I wanted to be known.
Rashid nearly had a fit, but in the end, he stopped talking, as if waiting long enough would make me change my mind. He stared me down, and I stared right back at him. We'd done this plenty of times before and I'd always won. I would this time, too, but that didn't stop my stomach from flipping over several times when he finally nodded.
I picked up the backpack, and slung it over my shoulder. He started to move towards the rolling suitcase, but I waved him away.
"No, I can get it," I told him, and suddenly felt like I wanted to tell him I changed my mind. I know my hands were shaking, and he stepped back, his expression stern. "I might as well get used to it," I reminded him, trying to smile.
"If you ever need us, Master Quatre," he said, that deep voice rumbling like Sandrock's verniers.
"I know, Rashid, but... " I glanced out the front window. The taxi had pulled up in the circular driveway. "I should go."
"Of course," Rashid replied, gravely.
I didn't promise to write, and I don't think he expected the offer, either.
"No, it's not that big," I said, for the fourth time, sighing at Duo's enthusiasm. I shifted the phone to the other ear, and rubbed the ear that had been against the phone. I was used to vidphones, where I could laze back and talk at it, rather than carry it around. But this one had been cheap, and I figured it would suffice. Even if it had seemed to leave Duo completely flabbergasted for several seconds, that I wasn't calling on a vidphone. Well, then again, maybe that experience alone made the junk phone more than worth it.
"No, really," he replied.
"Yes, really," I shot back. "It's... y'know, just right."
"Just right for a Winner means six bedrooms and two staircases," Duo teased. "On average, thirty-six cubit feet just between the bed and dresser. Not the same scale, man. My digs are just right, and my entire apartment could fit in your kitchen."
So could mine, now, I thought. I rolled my eyes, grateful he couldn't see the reaction.
He was in his third year in an engineering program on L3. It was nearly four in the morning his time, but he insisted he was up all night studying for the final in a summer jam-course. I leaned against the window in the little apartment, looking out across a tumbled gray skyline of old warehouses and skyscrapers. The campus was six blocks away, but not in the best neighborhood. I'd already scouted it out, trying to appear nonchalant as I studied the building entrances and exits against the map in my head.
"Aw, come on, Quatre," Duo coaxed. "Not even one Maganac? How are you going to do laundry?"
"I'll figure it out," I told him. "I'm sure there's directions on the bottle, right?"
Duo broke out in peals of laughter. "Yeah, yeah, only you would read 'em."
"What would you know? You wear black twenty-four-seven."
"Covers the dirt, man, less trekking to the Laundromat!"
I shifted the phone to the other ear and got back to unpacking. The previous tenant had left a number of crates, and I'd bought my bed from someone down the hall who was moving out. Shirts in one crate; jeans in another, stacked up like cheap shelves. I set the bed sheets out on the mattress resting on the floor, and wandered into the four-foot area that served as a kitchen.
A miniscule sink, a two-eye stove I'd not yet figured out how to turn on, and a fridge under the cabinets. My favorite mug sat on the shelf, and I ran a finger along its edge before leaning a hip against the countertop, listening to Duo carry on about the advanced spatial engineering professor driving him mad.
"Bastard seems to think reversing the jets at atmosphere edge would cause a ship to implode. Hell, I bounced off plenty of satellites," Duo grumbled. "Best way to rev up, y'know?"
"Yeah," I said, laughing. "Well, when you're a world famous engineer... "
"World-famous," Duo repeated, then laughed. "I like the sound of that, but I'll settle for colony-famous. Not sure I want a bunch of dirtsiders worshipping my ass."
"There have been worse religions than Duo-worship, I'm sure," I teased.
"Anything involving celibacy is right out," Duo insisted. "Speaking of which... " I braced myself, and he chuckled, as though he could tell, but that didn't stop him. "Met anyone?"
"Like who? My landlady?" It took six steps and I was at the window again. My electricity would be on the next day, and I could plug in my laptop and set up my small workspace. I figured by the window would be nice. Which was really rather ridiculous, given how small the place was. The entire room was pretty much 'by the window.' "I met a guy down the hallway. He was cool."
"Really," Duo prompted.
"He sold me his bed," I replied, deadpan. "And then he packed up the rest of his stuff and left."
Duo snorted. "Well, you can do the social thing better than the rest of us. Shouldn't be a problem for you."
"Yeah," I agreed, though I didn't feel like it. I felt like... I felt like... I wanted to say something, to see if Duo could help explain it, but something held me back. It was as if he was already there. He could wave to me from his side, but I had to get there on my own. I sighed, and just barely managed to keep from sighing into the phone mike. I spoke quickly to cover the sound. "Talked to anyone else?"
"Tro, last week," Duo said, switching topics easily, and apparently not too suspicious about it, to my relief. "Cathy's managing the circus, now. They were here for a few days." He dropped his voice to a conspiratorial tone. "I'm going to be eighty and doddering and that woman is still going to be giving me the evil eye."
"She's just protective," I protested. "She's not a bad---"
"I know that, I know!" Duo's grin was audible. "Just don't see how Trowa puts up with it, but he seems to even like it. She's a head shorter than him and orders him around and---"
"Naw, that's just sisters," I told him. "They do that."
"Do they." Duo was quiet for a minute. His voice turned serious, but I could tell he had to have that impish look in his eyes that indicated he was teasing. "That would explain a great deal about Hilde."
"She giving you trouble again?" I fiddled with the edge of the top crate.
"Came to visit last week. Duo, eat more! You're too skinny! Duo, sleep more, you stay up all night and it's not healthy!" He pretended to whine, but it resolved into laughter. "Nag, nag, nag. Her heart's in the right place, but... women, y'know?"
"Yeah." It went unsaid that Hilde probably still felt a bit left-behind, even though it had been two years since Duo started school. Thinking of Hilde reminded me. "Oh, Rel told me to tell you hey."
"How's Gorgeous?"
"Busy." I shrugged. "Saw her last month. She keeps taking on more stuff, but she's doing all right. Dorothy keeps her on the straight and narrow."
He made a disgusted sound. "It's a little creepy, those two, joined at the hip."
"Uh... " I knew I was blushing, and I rolled my eyes at myself. "They're not like that, Duo. Get your mind out of the gutter."
"If they were, I'd be inviting myself to Sanq more often!" Duo cracked up, and I couldn't help but join in. He always was infectious. "Aw, come'on, Quatre, I know you're not like that, but hell, I'd make nice with an English major if it'd get me some action. Even a philosophy major!"
"Still no math majors?"
Duo snorted. "I haven't sunk that low."
"What happened to Jake?" I studied the window, and wondered if I should put up a curtain. I pressed my forehead to the glass and looked out at the fire escape. Maybe that would be a good place on hot days. I wasn't sure; I'd never been on a fire escape before. I prodded the lock on the window, idly.
"Doing a year's internship on L1 with some bigshot company. Figured we'd make a clean break." Duo sounded utterly nonchalant, but with that extra note that let me know he wasn't faking. He really didn't care, but I guessed if it was fine with him, there was no reason for me to worry and pull a Hilde on him.
"Yeah," I said, not sure what else to say. "Well, I guess I should let you go---"
"Why? We haven't even gotten to the layout of your bathroom! I want to hear all about the digs!"
"But this is way late for you," I protested, a little feebly. "And it's really expensive---"
"I saved up all my scholarship pennies for this call," Duo chided. "Another fifteen minutes. Or is your bathroom too big for you to describe it accurately in fifteen minutes?"
I knew he was teasing, but still. Part of me wanted to shout, yes, my bathroom makes Sandrock's cockpit look roomy! It's a toilet and a shower stall, stuck in a closet. I'll be using the kitchen sink to brush my teeth and shave!
Another part of me wanted to pretend, to just lie and tell Duo what he wanted to hear: that I was fine, doing the rich boy thing. That... I don't know. I couldn't figure it out. He always seemed leery, distant, at the signs of my family's wealth, like he thought it might bite. But the idea of me being... just... normal... I guess the day he found out I inherited, any chances of me being normal were pretty much blown out of the water. I won't be. I'll always be... I sighed, and stared down at my student ID application form, resting on the backpack along with the carefully marked map and class schedule.
"Hey, Duo," I said, realizing a minute of silence had passed.
"Hey, Quatre," he whispered back, puzzled. Maybe even a little hurt, from the silence.
"What... " I recalled what he'd said about names not being important. I tried to remember that laugh, that casual shrug he'd given. "What do you think would be a good nickname for me?"
"A... " For once, Duo seemed caught completely off-guard. "You mean... like a moniker, or something? I'd say Quatre the Blond, but you'd probably kick my ass next time we meet."
"Twice," I retorted, dryly. There was another thing he didn't know; even Rashid didn't know. I toed the backpack, and heard the thump of the box at the bottom, and smiled to myself. Liquid courage, and liquid lies. "But... just something... y'know, a name."
"Oh."
I knew Duo was nodding, in that pensive way he gets when he's contemplating something he considers serious. Usually that category is limited to significant engineering equations, the insanity of Yuy and Chang being Preventers, and his next move in poker.
"Hunh," he said. "I'd go with... Cat, maybe."
I nearly choked. "Like Trowa's sister?"
"What?" Duo sounded indignant. "She's Cathy! Not the same, man. Besides, you're perky but you're hardly a harrigan. Or a drill sergeant. Though that last one's debatable," he added thoughtfully.
"Thanks." I shook my head. "You're no help."
"Pay for the best, you get it," he retorted cheerfully. "Send me pictures of the place, then."
"I don't have a camera."
"No camera," Duo repeated, surprised. "Not even on your phone?"
"No vid phone."
"Whoa, man, you're roughing it."
I looked around at my meager pile of belongings, and decided absently that the benefit to having few possessions would be having less to straighten up. I still wasn't sure how to use the stove, but maybe I could ask a neighbor. I didn't think I wanted to ask Duo. That risked him announcing he'd jack with Sweepers down to dirtside just to introduce me to How To Do Life Like Other People. He'd figured it out on his own, I was certain. I could do it, too.
"Yeah, maybe," I said, trying to sound relaxed.
"Roughing it with only a three-bedroom place, I'm---" Duo broke off, and I heard muffled voices in the background. "Shit, Mike and Tyll are back, and we've gotta quiz, see if their drunken rampage improved their memory."
"Let me know if it did, I might test the theory," I answered, chuckling, relieved Duo had moved away from the other topic. "I'll let you go, then."
"All right." Duo hesitated I could hear the hitch in his voice. "You sure you're okay, Quatre? I mean, this isn't---"
"Maybe it is like me," I answered, cutting off his words, knowing what he'd say before he said it. One benefit of friendship, I suppose. "But I've never tried... "
"That's true, Cat, that's true," and he laughed.
I made a face. "Cat! Stop that. I want a cooler nickname than that."
"Cat fits you," Duo said, and made a purring sound. It ended in laughter, and he promised to see me soon and hung up without waiting for my answer. But that was what he always did; he hated to hear people tell him goodbye.
I put the phone in its cradle on the floor by the bed, and crouched down by the backpack, studying the student ID form carefully. My legal name was printed at the top, and underneath was a single, empty line. Preferred form of address... I ran my finger across the thin line, and considered it carefully. Digging a pen from the backpack, I put the pen's end in my mouth, bit down, and uncapped the pen. Lettering as neatly as I could manage, I superstitiously blew on the paper before recapping the pen, reviewing the simple curves of my new name.
Cat.
So it's not the coolest name, but I was nineteen and hadn't ever had a nickname before. I figured the important part was satisfied: someone else gave it to me, even if I did have to ask.
After all, I assured myself, a new name couldn't be the worst thing.
The bottle said a half-hour. I was spread-legged on the floor, my back against the cabinets, perusing the instructions for the eighth time. The dye was in my hair, and the vodka bottle at my side, and the alarm clock was set, but it just seemed like there had to be more to it than that. Whenever someone came to the house to cut my hair, it always seemed to take an hour or two. How could I possibly have a whole new look in only thirty minutes?
When I washed it all out two shots and several desperate second-thinking moments later I scrubbed at my hair, ditched the conditioner, and studied the results. My summer-white hair was a medium brown, with coppery streaks. Frowning thoughtfully, I turned this way and that, then leaned forward to stare at the hairs, close up. It didn't look real, but wasn't that the point?
Or maybe if it didn't look real, it'd scream that I wasn't Cat, but Quatre. I chewed on my lower lip, caught sight of the nervous movement, and tried to stop. Another look at my hair, and I was chewing again. I sighed, and had another shot of vodka. Tomorrow was the first day of classes, and I'd lucked out with my Monday classes not starting until ten. That should give me enough time to make sure I was ready for any eventuality.
And I was, but not in the way I expected, or for quite what I had assumed.
I was woken five hours later by gunshots.
There was no hesitation. The Ruger under my pillow was in my hand instantly. I trained it on the door, then the window. One foot was out, pressed against the wooden floor, the other under me, holding my weight as I pivoted between the two entrances. I listened for the sound of sirens, vaguely comforted when they didn't come.
It took me a minute to realize my instincts had me certain the sirens would be indication someone was coming for me. My hands started shaking at that, and I racked the slide, ejecting the round before settling the gun down on the pillow. It was within easy reach, its weight and heft comfortable and too familiar in my hand.
My hand stole out, clasping the gun loosely, and I leaned my back against the wall, bringing my knees up. I wondered if it had been a bad idea to bring the gun. I simply hadn't been able to fathom not bringing it, though. It wasn't because of the neighborhood. It was because of me. I needed it.
Ironic. Is that the word? That of all the things I left behind, I couldn't leave my gun.
Resting my head against the wall, I let my legs slide down into a cross-legged position, the gun across my lap. I slept that way the rest of the night.
I look back now, and wonder if anyone had been able to see into my fourth-story, one-room, overheated apartment that Monday morning. They would have seen a young adult if I could give myself that much credit putting on a shirt, taking it off, putting it on, taking it off. I'm sure none of my sisters ever spent half as much time planning for their dates as I did trying on the three pairs of jeans.
The khakis were pulled out and studied, then tossed aside. I wanted to wear jeans. I'd bought three pair, but now I was waffling. I wasn't sure whether to laugh at myself or beat my head against something. Me, the mighty Gundam pilot, brought low by fashion ignorance.
Eventually I settled on the dark blue t-shirt, and the last pair of blue jeans. I'd found some used boots that fit, that reminded me of what Duo had worn the last time I'd seen him, six months before. The boots seemed comfortable enough, broken in, but still I paced the floor several times, around in a twelve-foot circumference, second-guessing myself.
Finally, frustrated enough with my indecision, I grabbed my bag, squared my shoulders, and headed to campus.
" ...and the first and second chapters in Carter, plus the essay, which is available online on the class home site. Be sure you have your school login and PIN. If you haven't gotten it, get it soon." The professor checked her watch. "One last thing. Group projects."
Several people around me groaned loudly, and I shifted in my seat nervously. Don't fidget, I could hear my tutor's voice saying, and I grumbled mentally. I had no problem joining four other lethal boys on a ship outside the earth's atmosphere, so that was sort of like a really big group project, right? Wrong. I knew where they were coming from, and the objective was clear. Here, I was dealing with something far worse: normal people.
I sighed, and looked around me, wondering what the etiquette was. The girl next to me caught my eye and gave me a sympathetic smile, which I returned automatically.
"Pick five people, and your first project is to build a bridge," the professor was saying. She pulled out a box, and the girl next to me buried her head in her hands.
The guy on my other side whispered loudly enough for the entire class to hear, probably on purpose. "Not the bridge, Dr. Riley... "
"I see you've heard of it," Dr. Riley said, and grinned wolfishly. She brought out six smaller boxes from the large box, and I craned my neck to see what they were. "Drinking straws," she announced. Bringing out something else, she held it up. "And twine. Pick five people, and you have two weeks before your bridges are due. For those of you not familiar with the infamous bridge, it needs to carry the weight of three full soda cans... provided by me, not your team." She stared pointedly at the guy who'd whispered, and he grinned, unabashed. Dr. Riley waved to the class, and leaned against the whiteboard. "You have until the end of class to meet each other."
"Hey," the girl next to me whispered, and I gave her a curious look. She smiled, her grin taking up nearly as much room on her face as her big brown eyes. "Wanna be in our group? We've got four people, so we need one more... "
"Already?" I twisted around to see another girl, sitting behind me. She was smirking, her red hair slicked back in a cosmopolitan bob. Her skin was as pale as a colony brat's, and I was willing to bet her natural hair color was probably a great deal lighter.
"Yeah, we had classes together our sophomore year with Riley," the guy said. "I'm Chip."
"Q---Cat," I said, but didn't offer to shake hands. I figured I'd wait to see if he did. He didn't, and I turned to the first girl who'd spoken.
"Lisa," she said, then pointed to the redhead. "Lola. And Felicia," she concluded, jerking her head at a black girl lazing back in her chair and doodling on her notebook. Felicia winked at me, her expression otherwise deadpan.
"Cat," Lola said, rolling the word around in her mouth. "You give tongue baths?"
I blinked. I know I did, because Chip laughed, then leaned over and smacked Lola on the back of her head.
"Stop flirting with the new boy," he admonished. "Don't mind her. She'd flirt with a hole in the wall."
"Now I'm really complimented," I murmured. Lisa cracked up, and I knew I'd scored. I let my smile turn a little smug, and Lola gave me a small salute and a smile.
The conversation turned to the issue of building a bridge from straws and twine, and we agreed to meet at the library at five to start planning. Just clearing our schedules against each other took most of the rest of the time, and before I knew it, the clock said eleven-thirty. I gathered up my bag, and stood, feeling awkward amongst the press of so many bodies trying to get out. I hung back, reluctant to push through, and was startled when someone slipped an arm through mine.
"Whoa, boy," Lola said. "Didn't mean to scare you."
"Sorry," I told her, chuckling, mildly annoyed that she'd managed to sneak into my personal space so easily. "Just... " I shrugged, not sure how to finish the sentence.
"Yeah," Lola replied, in that way people have when they're not really listening. She waved to Felicia, who fell in step beside us as we left the classroom. "So, lunch? Hungry?"
"A little," I admitted. "I have a dining pass," I began, and then stopped again.
"You don't have to eat at the cafeteria," Felicia said, giving me an odd look. "We eat in the food court, in Wilson."
"The big building, right?" I ran down the mental list of buildings, and recollected Wilson was the library, food court, and administration offices, rolled into one.
"Follow me... Cat," Lola drawled, casting a me sideways look from under her eyelashes.
"Lay on, MacDuff," I said, and let the two young women drag me towards the main hub of the campus.
I got home at eight, and dropped my bag on the floor, sliding down the door until I was in a heap. I felt like I'd walked fifteen miles, and from the size of the campus, it probably had been that much. Advanced Structural Engineering at ten, and Macroeconomics at two, naturally on the other end of the campus from Wilson.
At five, the meeting with the team which had been relatively free of banter and heavy on the actual project and then run to my five-thirty class, which was Sanskrit. I had to take a language anyway, and it was one I'd never studied. Hopefully it would be easier, given that I was fluent in Arabic, French, and Italian already, but the professor seemed to be quite impressed with himself. I'd had a tutor like that, and from that experience, figured the wisest course of action was to keep my mouth shut and not let on that I wasn't some moron who barely knew my own native language.
Tuesdays and Thursdays would be Advanced Calculus, which I hadn't bothered to try and test out of, and Amplified Physics, which seemed a strange name for a class that purported to deal with lasers. Exhausted, I shoved my bag over, and stood up, wandering to the small fridge and pulling out a cup of yogurt. I hadn't gone food shopping, but Felicia had drawn me a map of where to find the nearest grocery stores. She noted on the map that she was only two blocks from me, in case I ever needed a study partner.
A study partner.
The very idea was alien. I studied under one tutor at a time, by myself. I trained alone. I built Wing Zero on my own. The idea of studying with someone else was... strangely attractive. I'm not sure I'd learn more and I wasn't sure I wanted to be around people that much, not until I found my footing. Lola had pestered me over lunch as to why I didn't take any notes. I just shrugged, then, unwilling to say out loud that I was waiting for the professor to say something I didn't already know or couldn't grasp intuitively, right off the bat. I decided I would take notes from then on, even if I didn't need them. I'd stand out less.
Everyone else takes notes, I reminded myself. Finishing the yogurt, I realized I didn't have a trashcan, and ending up rinsing out the plastic cup and setting it on the shelf next to my mug. Perhaps it would be useful. I wasn't sure, and I was too tired to care.
Toeing off my boots, I threw myself down on the mattress, rolled over on my back, and stared at the ceiling. The last thing I did was check for my gun under the pillow. Assured, my fingers just touching the cool metal of the grip, I fell asleep.
There were no gunshots that night.
"What does a green slip mean?"
I studied the small scrap of paper, flipping it over. It was stamped with the school post office's address, and nothing else. I'd decided to make a habit of checking my mailbox after my Calculus class. Chip had his Theoretical Mathematics class down the hall, and he'd seen me the second day of classes and insisted I come to lunch with he and some friends. Now it was Thursday but I didn't think it was soon enough for any campus mail. Besides, I had a home address, and that's where the monthly business updates would be sent.
Chip leaned over, snapped his finger at the edge of the paper, and grinned.
"Means care package," he said. "If it's food, you sharing?"
"Who'd send me food?"
Still staring at the green slip, I followed Chip to the post office window. I gave them the slip and my box number, and was presented with a long box, about the size that roses come in.
"I don't know," Chip said, eyeing the box dubiously. "Strange shape for cookies."
"I doubt they're cookies," I told him, and slid the box quickly under my arm before he could see the address. "Thanks for showing me the deal... with the green slip."
"Yeah, and now I get to see what's in the box." Chip raised his eyebrows until they nearly disappeared in his jet-black hair, his dark eyes wide. "Come on, man. I brought brownies to our last meeting."
"One for each of us," I reminded him. "Hardly a meal."
"Hmm, next time bring beer," Chip said, and grinned. He nudged the end of the box with a finger. "Jeez, you're no fun." He halted, and the abrupt stop made me turn and look. He was staring at the box, his eyes wide, and I tensed, ready to watch him back up and stare at me differently. "Damn, you got family in the force?"
"In the what?" I frowned, and looked down at the box. It was addressed to Cat Winner, and I rolled my eyes, immediately figuring I'd have Chip open it for me if it was from Duo. I'm not stupid. Who knows what'd jump out of a box packed by a demolitions expert.
"Shit, headquarters, too," Chip said, impressed. I looked where he pointed, and my jaw dropped.
W. Chang, Preventers Headquarters, 10579 Imperial Avenue, Sanq...
"Okay, it's too short to be a blade," I muttered, ignoring Chip's puzzled look as I turned and headed back to the counter. I set the box down on the far end and ripped into the brown paper, tearing away the evidence of my name and the return address. A plain white box was revealed under my fingertips, and I lifted the lid gingerly, leaning away, just in case it really was another one of Duo's jokes. Instead, it was something long and round, packed in soft cotton batting. I pushed the batting away, lifting out the object.
"A scroll," I whispered, almost forgetting Chip at my shoulder, watching eagerly. I unrolled a little of it, enough to see the Chinese characters, painted in gold on red paper, backed by a fine yellowish silk paper.
"What's it say?" Chip blew his dark hair out of his eyes and peered at it.
"No idea." I rolled it back up and put it in the box. "I don't know Chinese."
"Go by the Chinese department," he suggested, then checked his watch. "Fuck, I'm late for English comp. Stupid requirements. Gotta run, man."
"Sure," I said, a little absently, waving as he split at top speed, weaving skillfully through a crowd of giggling freshman girls. I smiled at them, surprised when four smiled back and seemed to maneuver directly into my path. Stepping around them, I headed for the Language Building.
"Good fortune," the man said, nodding. He stared at the top half of the scroll, opened across his desk. "You just started school?"
"Ah... " I tried not to squirm under his intense gaze. "Yes, sir. Transferred."
"You have thoughtful friends," he told me, and unrolled the scroll a bit farther. "This means fortune, in the modern script. And these... " He pointed to the rows of oddly-shaped, elaborate characters under the main, large one, at the top. "..are the traditional, original ways of writing it. These parts on either side of the modern character basically say 'a hundred good fortunes in all your endeavors', so it's both a charm, and wishes for good luck."
"Oh." I looked down at the scroll, the graceful arcs and swoops of the gold ink frozen on the crimson background, and knew a smile was sneaking onto my face: a pleased, flattered smile. "Wow."
"Yes," the professor said, and carefully rolled it back up for me, presenting it with a small bow. "Your friends hope you succeed."
I took the scroll, packing it away in its box, and thanked the professor again. Leaving the office, I tucked the box more securely under my arm, and headed to the library for my mid-day studying. I already had several chapters to read, sixteen problems to solve, and my assigned research for my share of our group project.
But now I also had something to hang on the walls in my apartment.
It was a good feeling, although the fact that Wufei sent it seemed unusual. I only spoke with him every few months, and intermittent emails. I hadn't seen him in a half-year, but that was par for the course. None of the five of us were really big on keeping in touch past random updates, other than Duo, who called at odd times, insistent he'd decided we needed to bond. But then, Duo did that to all of us. Wufei, though, didn't, and he certainly didn't make a habit of sending out gorgeous painted scrolls on a whim.
Or maybe it wasn't a whim, I thought, but pushed that idea away. It was a gift, and I would take it in the manner it was intended. I was somewhat disappointed there hadn't been a letter, or even a short note let alone an explanation or translation for the scroll but I figured perhaps that was Wufei's style. He certainly had never given me anything before; then again, I'd never given him anything, either.
I pondered that as I set the box down on the library table and pulled out my Calculus textbook. I had the sudden urge to call Rashid and tell him to deliver... what? I paused, my hand in my bag, searching for a pencil, frozen in the act. What would I deliver? I didn't know Wufei well enough to know how to thank him... and perhaps the lack of a note was indication that he didn't want such a response.
That was a relief, a little, to assume I didn't need to respond, although every fiber of my upbringing was vibrating in annoyance that I wasn't going to observe proper etiquette and send my gratitude along with a return gift. But what could I possibly get a former comrade I hadn't seen in seven, eight months?
No idea, I told myself. Setting it aside to consider later, I hunched over my Calculus text and got to work. I could worry later about how to repay my debt for Wufei's kindness.
End Part 1
(:./sol/worst1)
