Chapter Text
Saturday; 9 a.m., January 14, 1995.
It wasn't rush hour, and yet the bus station was excessively busy. They were returning to Ostania-Berlint after 5 long years.
— Mommy. This environment is deliberately cacophotous. This is annoying.
Eleanor Frost. Now five and a half years old, she had always been a rather... peculiar child, to say the least. Fiona, her mother, didn't know why the girl spoke this way. How ironic. She was exactly the same.
— Cacophonous, Eleanor. And they're called people.
— Thank you for your help with my grammatical difficulty, Mom. Changing the subject, do you think it will take long for our transport to arrive?
— The bus? I don't think so, I bought the first reasonable ticket, that is, early enough so that we can enjoy the day somehow, but late enough so that we don't fall asleep in the process. And please, stop talking like a distraught old grammar teacher.
Even though she carried bad memories of this city with her, she would never let her storm splash onto her daughter. She was so grateful to still have Els with her. As a child, Els was diagnosed with cystic fibrosis. Her initial life expectancy was five decades, and at three months old, that expectation had to decrease to five months. She couldn't let things end like that. She sought out every doctor, clinic, hospital, and treatment that was or wasn't within her reach. She took care of everything, giving her daughter the best treatment she could. She did all of this completely alone, as it had always been meant to be. But... She hated how much Els reminded her of him. Obviously, she didn't hate her own daughter; she hated the vivid memory of him when she looked at the one she loved most. It was solely thanks to her that Els breathed outside of some hospital bed in Westalis to this day. Eleanor, on the other hand, never got to know her father. She had always been very observant, and the fact that her beloved mother seemed depressed every time she mentioned the subject did not go unnoticed. Already on the bus, Els slept peacefully in her lap; she trusted her mother so much. Fiona felt she didn't deserve that. She was wearing headphones. It wasn't her intention initially. She had an earache. However, that song started playing. That damned song from the day they met. And there was nothing she hated more than remembering that damned day.
✦
— Mommy, I want the bed on the top bunk.
— As you prefer.
— Fascinating.
— ?
— This object — she pointed to the toy car, one of her favorite cars from her Hot Wheels collection — has a fascinating mechanism. Look. — She said as her hand reached for the shelf where she had left the car, picked it up, and used her little fingers to spin the car's wheels. —Look, Mom. The wheels spin in sync with this little rod. It might seem simple. And it is, in fact. But even so, it’s fascinating. Do real cars work like that too?— she asked, taking a small red notebook from her bag, which had been hanging on her shoulder, with a sticker of Yuni or Cure Cosmo on the front, her all-time favorite character from the anime Star Twinkle Precure.
—Uh… Something like that. Maybe a little more technological.—
Eleanor, in turn, began frantically writing in her notebook. Every detail, no matter how minute. Els was diagnosed with autism at four years and three months, learned to read and write at three, had high sensitivity to noises, an absurd hyperfocus on PreCure, a major magical girl franchise, and finally, this habit of analyzing everything. Be it humans, animals, objects, anything that seemed intriguing to her at the moment. These were probably the results of being the daughter of WISE's best female agent and an SSS agent.
As a result, Fiona occasionally found herself in situations where she wondered if this child was really 5 years old or 35.
—Mommy, I'd like to know why you're so apprehensive about returning to Ostania. If it's not too much trouble, of course.—
She sighed. How could a child be so perceptive? She never let her own feelings become clear enough for anyone, regardless of their level of intellect, to decipher or even identify them. How had a 5-year-old noticed?
—I admire your boldness in asking me this so explicitly. But you just need to know that it's...—
—Adult stuff, I know. My father lives there, doesn't he?— She spoke before her mother could even finish her own sentence. She had heard that excuse so many times. God.
— Why do you think that?
— Naturally, it's the same excuse you use when I question you about him.
"Damn the day I taught this child to be observant."
— Who taught her to be so nosy?
— Uncle Franky.
— Of course.
Peoples who had any kind of contact with WISE were the only ones Fiona still had contact with. Consequently, Twilight and Handler were the only ones from her old social circle who knew of Eleanor's existence. Above all, they both kept it a secret. Sylvia was like a mother to her. Even though this was never said openly, since if she heard it, she would say they were implying she was old. Still, Eleanor is a cheeky child and doesn't understand the concept of filters and common sense, so she continues to call her Grandma Sylvie. Considering this child's history, they would never know if she said it out of genuine affection or pure sarcasm. Once Fiona Frost's daughter, always Fiona Frost's daughter. On the other hand, she wasn't sure why Twilight had actually kept her secret. She never thought that Forger truly harbored any kind of compassion for her, even in the most superficial sense. Still without knowing the exact reason, she thought it correct to assume it was just a kindness from the man. She couldn't conclude anything other than that she was infinitely grateful for it. After all, if anyone knew, it would cause a scandal. And she just wanted to take care of herself and her daughter in peace. Far from Ostania, if she had the opportunity. However, Eleanor insisted a lot that they go to Berlint. She was determined to take the entrance exams for the prestigious Eden College. It had been about two months since this idea came up, and since then, the little girl hadn't changed the subject for more than five minutes. Or maybe she had. But for Fiona, it felt like listening to a broken record, one of those that repeat, repeat, repeat, and repeat again.
And speaking of that…
— Mommy.
— Yes.
— My anxiety is killing me. Could you help me study for the exam…
—…
— Mommy. You're not listening to me.
— Eleanor, you should promise me that every time you say "Mom," you'll give me a dollar. Maybe that way we'll finally become millionaires and be able to leave this unhealthy city.
—Fascinating. My sarcasm was indeed inherited from you.
— Congratulations on the great discovery. Keep it up and you'll be in first place when you take the exams.
— Thank you. I don't mean to be too rude, however, I already know that. My concern isn't and never has been about passing or not, but about social groups, relationships… called friends. Do you understand? What guarantee do I have that I won't feel out of place among so many other individuals?
There are many people who would undoubtedly envy this child's self-esteem. On the other hand, Eleanor had always had difficulty making friends, which is characteristic of people with ASD, of course. But this was intensified because the little girl wasn't exactly the most extroverted person in the world. Naturally. Just look at her parents. Damn genetics.
— There's no guarantee. Life is cruel. Let's deal with it.
— When in doubt, I'll blame capitalism.
—I'd like to emphasize that you are my pride.
—Thank you.
In fact, the dialogues between the two sounded more like they had been taken from some textbook used in ninth-grade Portuguese classes. Part of this was a consequence of Els having grown up surrounded by spies, reports, bureaucracy, and formality. But the other part was simply because she found the adults' reaction hilarious when she spoke this way.
✦
Saturday passed in a flash. It was night, finally her favorite time of the whole day had arrived. She had already eaten dinner, taken a shower, annoyed Sylvia, and discussed advanced geopolitics with Fiona. Perfect. At the moment, they were debating whether or not to adopt a cat. A cat, necessarily white.
— And why white?
— Since it's impossible for me to get a purple cat to name Yukari, or a red dog so I can call it Akira, obviously the only option left is a white cat so I can name her Yuki, just like Mayu and Yuki from Wonderful PreCure. Don't make me explain what's already as clear as a supernova, Mommy.
— Eleanor. For the last time. I'm allergic to cats.
— Deal with it.
She took a deep breath and counted; one, two, three.
Damn stoic child.
—You are aware that the cat will not take a human form, much less talk to you, and even less become a magical girl alongside you, and that franchise is nothing more than fantasy and fiction… Right…?
—Never underestimate the superunusualness and irony of fate, Mom.
—That word doesn't exist.
—Naturally, someone had to create it.
Fiona blinked. —…Right. I'm going to bed.
—Fascinating. My skills at exhausting your patience seem to improve every day. It's gratifying to be closer to my ultimate goal each day.
—I'm sure it was hereditary.
—Did my father also possess this ability? Fascinating. I'd like to know more.
—And I'd like to remember even less. Good night.
Having said that, Eleanor continued to nag her for a while longer, but after about twenty, twenty-five, thirty minutes, she doesn't remember exactly, and countless attempts to buy her new Pretty Cure toys or Cosmo/Mao/Yuni/Blue Cat figures, the little girl finally fell asleep. How could a child hyper-focused on a cosmic alien cat with a quadruple identity consume so much energy and sanity from a spy trained by WISE? And as a consequence of one of the thoughtless blackmail schemes she'd pulled, all in the name of sleep, she ended up having to commit to taking the youngest to the park the following afternoon. All in the name of sleep. What a curse.
✦
— Mom.
— What?
— Damn your shrewdness and manipulation skills.
Eleanor was indignant. Her mother had promised her that the two of them would go to the park together in the afternoon, and then have a strawberry sundae together. Since she was a fanatic for strawberry milkshakes, however, she refused to pay double the price for an extra 100ml, so she always bought two sundaes, let them melt a little, and then drank them. Always pulling off little scams. Fascinating. However, this would no longer be possible since her mother had received an emergency mission that only she could carry out; at least she would be partially safe with Twilight. I admire your brainpower that allows you to distort the whole situation so that I look like the guilty one. You really are my daughter.
— This is very serious, Mommy. My forgiveness requires at least two Happiness Charge toys.
— You will stay with Sylvia, try not to destabilize her more than she already is. Please, I trust you.
— Anything destabilizes Grandma Sylvie.
— No, you destabilize her. You are a very difficult child, Eleanor. You know she doesn't like being called that.
— I know, that's why I do it. Your problem with me is that I'm a compact version of you, Mommy.
— …I should never have taught you to argue.
— Bingo.
Before they could realize it, Sylvia had already arrived. And three minutes beside Eleanor were enough for her to start reflecting on all her beliefs and life choices.
— Frost, you created a small analytical disaster.
She murmured, more as a way of venting to herself than to others.
—Mommy isn't in this room anymore, Grandma Sylvie.
—I know. Maybe the angels will whisper my words to her.
—Fascinating.
—I don't know what your mother did. I swear I was involved in your entire upbringing and yet I still don't understand where she went wrong, or right if her goal from the beginning was adults with existential crises whenever they get within ten meters of you.
—When are we going to the playground?
—If that means I can smoke in peace without you inhaling the smoke, right now.
✦
The environment she was in was bland. She had been stuck for at least 10 minutes in a series of consecutive failed attempts to reach the swing seat in the playground.
—...This is humiliating.
She stared at the swing with a ridiculously serious expression, considering what had caused it.
— This funny thing wasn't designed for children...? And then, she spots someone.
— You.
No answer.
— Hey.
Again.
— Angry-faced guy.
And then, slowly, he turned around.
— Are you talking to me...?
— Consider that only you and I are here now. I presume obviously.
“What a disruptive child is this? And why does she talk like that?”, he thought.
— I'll ignore the last part. Shall we?
— What was your birth nickname?
— ...?
— Your name. What's your name?
Even though she was undeniably very intelligent, even Eleanor ended up forgetting simple words occasionally. And this happened more often than it should. Her mother was already a professional at guessing the word from the very specific descriptions her daughter gave.
— Oh, of course. My name. Yuri. Yuri Briar.
— ...It suits you. Anyway, could you perform the humble act of helping me get on this... toy?
— ...I could.
— Very well.
Although it took about 15 minutes in total to get to enjoy the swing, it still felt like a victory.
— You're a police officer.
That wasn't a question.
— Yes, I am.
— And you're waiting for someone, most likely statistically speaking that this 'someone' is an informant.
Indeed. He was waiting for an informant who, incidentally, never arrived. On the other hand, how did she know that? Was he some kind of WISE agent disguised as a child? Or, worst, they're using chlilds? That was too much.
— ... What?!
— Between you and me, your skills in maintaining discretion are... depressing.
Great, getting a lecture from the psychotic child.
— They're not!
— You just proved my point.
— I'm not going to argue with a brat! Listen, are you alone? Where are your parents?
— No, Mommy is working, she works a lot. I'm with the lady sitting on the side bench to your left. — she pointed to Handler, who was pretending to be distracted while puffing on a cigarette.
— And your father?
The question landed tenderly like a grenade.
— ...I don't have one.
A silence broken only by the lazy swaying of the cherry trees hung ignorantly in the air.
— He... disappeared...?
— I believe he's not even aware of my existence.
— You know something about him?
— Mommy doesn't talk much about him. And I don't insist on questioning him.
— Why?
— Because she shows depressive symptoms when it comes to this subject.
— I understand...
— Fascinating.
— What now?
— Your facial structure is considerably similar to mine.
— ...Huh?
— You're a man of few words, aren't you?
He, an agent of the state's secret security service, took some time to realize he was being sarcastic.
A child.
Five years and six months old.
Being sarcastic.
She was, without a doubt, Fiona Frost's legitimate daughter.
Sweet enough to sound empathetic, he murmured:
—It must have been difficult.
—What do you mean?
—Her motherhood. I presume you admire her.
She nodded; —Indeed, Mommy is a fascinating being. I aspire to be like her when I reach that age. However, I wonder why I’m talking about this with a random police officer of deplorable professionalism, whom I met in an equally deplorable park in Ostania, Berlint’s city.
—... Wait. Are you calling me deplorable?
—Great discovery, Agent Briar.
He sighed, he didn’t know children could be so difficult, him nieces, Anya and Elena, who him sister had given birth to about five years ago, are so… There are no words to describe Eleanor.
—I’m intrigued to know what kind of woman raised you, little devil. My youngest niece is your age, but you two are complete opposites. She's more like baby Buddha, while you… are something closer to Lucifer's successor.
— …Why would I fit the description of a demon?
— I think it's cool that you're playing dumb.
She smiled.
— It's satisfying to see that someone finally grasped my behavioral pattern, Yuki-san. — My name is Yuri.
— I apologize, I'm not very good with words.
— You speak like an encyclopedia, girl.
— Don't get hung up on small details, or big ones actually. I can be very unpredictable sometimes.
— You know, little demon, you remind me of someon…
— Eleanor.
The harsh voice cut through the atmosphere like a blade.
— Yes, Grandma Sylvie?
— Let's go home. Your mother has already arrived.
— Of course. — The little girl jumped up — Bye, Yuni!
— My name is Yuri.
— I know. — That was the last thing she said before smiling and disappearing from his sight, accompanied by a strangely familiar woman of average height, red hair, and a naturally serious expression.
He was going crazy, possibly. But…
the little girl looked so much like her.
✦
The lavender purple clock hanging on the wall showed seven o'clock, or perhaps it was already eight o'clock. That clock was always malfunctioning.
— Mommy.
— Yes.
— Today, when I was at the playground with Grandma Sylvie, I accidentally met a very fascinating young man there. When we go again, can I bring my notebook and use it as a research subject?
— You know, Eleanor, I've seen many completely crazy ideas, but sometimes you genuinely manage to surprise me. And consider that this is, well, a challenge. I'm a spy with years of experience. I've seen a lot in this life.
— Mommy, I didn't ask for a personal history regarding your career in espionage. But speaking of that, the Angry-faced guy was a policeman.
— “Angry-faced guy”?
— Yes, yes. The fascinating guy.
— Oh, sure.
— His skills at keeping a low profile were declining, but he was very… exotic. But it struck me that his appearance was relatively similar to mine, the eyes, the hair, even the facial structure.
If she didn't know her mother, and if she didn't notice every tiny detail about her, she wouldn't have noticed her body stiffen for a single fraction of a second. She considered whether she should proceed by revealing his name.
—The individual said his given nickname at birth was Yuri. Yuri Briar.
—Beautiful name.
She concluded that it would be better to remain neutral when she heard her. Ordering her to change the subject or cutting her off abruptly would be too suspicious, and she knew her own daughter. The more she tried to pull Eleanor away from something, the more she was drawn to the subject. Damn genetics.
—You should stop analyzing strangers on the street. Did Handler see that?
—Yes, that's why we left, and with that said, I'll try to meet with the Angry-faced guy whenever I have the opportunity. Goodnight, Mommy.
She said before disappearing down the hallway, walking in short steps towards her room.
She sighed.
This, without a doubt, would give her a huge headache.