Sometimes I get an idea only to realize that all I've got are fleeting images, a snappy quote, and no plot. When this happens I write down what I have, stick it in a Notepad file, and forget it. This "Thirty Days" dealio is making me dig through my Notepad file.
The plot involved some Time Group figuring how to ignore causality, resulting in a time war, with reality getting retconned and retcoffed. One timeline out of it seemed interesting, so here it is. There was supposed to be a character when the world got shifted into a noir parody, either a time traveler from Asahina's agency or a freelance time detective, a grizzled mouth of exposition—he never got his monologue, so I figured this would be my apology to him. Stupid, right?
Obligatory disclaimer: Haruhi franchise. Nagaru Tanigawa, or whichever order it's in. It's 8:00 AM and I haven't slept. I can be as sloppy as I want.
Want to hear a story? Okay.
Here's how it goes. Here's how it went:
At some point they break through the three-year wall. It's inelegant, a bit like trying open heart surgery with a jackhammer instead of a scalpel—but it works, and suddenly all those pissed off factions who mutter all the time nuts, nuts to predetermination, nuts to following the whims of a high school girl who hasn't outgrown hair ribbons—
Suddenly they're very excited.
Yuki Nagato makes a request. It takes instantly and a moment before permission's granted, which is basically eternity where the IDSE's concerned, but she doesn't waste any time once she's received the okay. She sits at her kotatsu, folds her hands, closes her eyes, and feels herself extend—
There are eddies in time and space. We human beings have to cobble together gears and gum and blinkenlights before we have a clue where to look, but for humanoid interfaces it's a cakewalk. Still, the problem with ripples is that they never stay where they start.
Young Yuki plays it safe.
Adults can be cruel, but children are worse. It doesn't take long for the elementary schooler with the glasses and the penchant for book-reading to get herself classified as "weird". This isn't the Nagato that's managed to acquire the bittiest degree of subtlety, see, not yet. This is the Nagato that identifies colors in hex.
So maybe it's a good thing that this Nagato hasn't got herself curious about emotions, doesn't mind becoming the class pariah. No, all that matters to this Nagato is the mission, and the mission involves the kid sitting two seats to the left and one seat back.
She watches the kid. Watches him openly, obviously—subtlety again. By the time elementary's out she's not just the weird girl, she's the weird stalker.
As for the object of her attentions?
Well, the girl's not actually doing anything, so the guy who isn't called "Kyon" yet is uncomfortable, but mostly uninterested. It's nice to know some things don't change no matter how far back you go.
Two things happen in middle school. The first grabs fate by the shoulder, which gives the second the opening it needs to knee the bastard in the guts.
First: Kyon's sister displays surprising observational skills.
Alright, maybe her observational skills are nothing special. Nagato's not exactly dressed in camouflage, and Kyon's just tuned her out by then, the same way most people tune out their own heartbeat. But it's Kyon sister who notices the quiet girl standing in the grass—and seeing as Kyon's not getting into the spirit of this whole "tag" business, she takes it upon herself to inject fresh blood into the experience.
Nagato's actually pretty good at tag, having internalized the "shortest path between two points" bit. It creates such an impression on Kyon's sister that before anyone can protest she's already dragged Yuki into her ingroup. All the better for Nagato and her mission.
The second thing is: the guys from the future finally make their move. Which is to say: the move which they were to be going to have made is made by them. Which is to say: they show up in a van and try to drag the kid away.
Nagato cracks the first man's wrist before telling Kyon to run. He does. It's probably for the best, too. You can't simply throw time travelers into jail, not when anybody can pick them up and drop them off when the jail doesn't exist anymore. The only option is total disposal.
Kyon doesn't see that part. He understands well enough that Nagato saved him, though. And suddenly, seeing him and the taciturn, bespectacled, speed-reading weirdo actually interact in the hall isn't such an uncommon occurrence.
Kyon believes in aliens and espers and time travelers. Sasaki smiles, and listens, and deconstructs wouldn't-it-be-neat with pinpoint precision. Yeah, sure, life isn't a movie, or a TV show, or even a series of light novels, but it's a blunt sort of well-meaningness. Another jackhammer to the heart.
And then Sasaki asks Yuki what she thinks.
Nagato lifts her head from a dog-eared anthology, but says nothing.
Sasaki asks her again—specifies, because she knows Nagato's like that sometimes, that she has to tell her exactly what she means, asks her if she thinks it'd be neat if there were aliens walking unknown amongst the populace.
"Yes," says Nagato.
Sasaki's eyes dance. Who knows why she likes Nagato's response better than Kyon's? Maybe it's because Nagato doesn't argue, at least not the same way normal people do. Maybe it's because the girl's got her nose buried in a science fiction paperback so often that Sasaki never expected any other answer. In any case, she proclaims it "interesting".
"It's a common belief that people with widely differing attitudes have a high degree of compatibility. In reality, the opposite is true. The best predictor of compatibility is a similarity in backgrounds and interests. Looking at the two of you, it's not surprising that you should spend so much time in each other's company."
Kyon says he has no idea what Sasaki is talking about. Nagato says nothing.
Nagato doesn't talk a lot. She barely spoke at all past the teachers' prompting when Kyon first met her, but eventually he led her past syllables and into sentences, and past sentences and into actual conversation. Still, the explanation he gets at her apartment breaks records, both for length and content.
His first reaction is spitting anger, because he knows Nagato, knew her since he was a child, and now it feels like this bedrock of stability between him and her is getting torn out to make room for the Suzumiya Expressway. He asks her if she put her up to this. If she's forcing her to put on a mask and dance for her amusement. Like she couldn't find any aliens, so she's decided to make one.
"No," says Nagato.
He doesn't believe her. Continues to not believe her, up to the point Asakura cuts her open.
"Isn't this a bit hypocritical of you?" Asakura asks. She's smiling. Kyon barely notices. "I simply wish to provoke an observable reaction from Haruhi Suzumiya. The removal of a single element will be sufficient."
Nagato says nothing. She's bleeding, and Kyon's world is crashing around his ears.
"Or do you even remember what our purpose is anymore? When did you last run a self-diagnostic? You're rife with errors, Nagato. And I believe I know the source."
The fight doesn't last long after that. Asakura disappears from the feet up, which gives Nagato a long time to look at her. There's a small part of anybody that sticks close to sense even when the worldview to accompany it's been kicked off its axis, and that part of Kyon can probably take in the drawing of the eyebrows and the minute twitch at the corner of Nagato's face and comes up with two plus two equals mad.
And then Nagato's on the ground instead and Kyon gathers her in his arms and doesn't say anything. He just holds her there. He doesn't talk. He doesn't breathe. He doesn't even think.
And he doesn't even realize he ought to be mad till he's halfway home, and by then he's got no choice but to sleep on it.
"You went to the same elementary school as me. You were always there, watching me, and everybody thought you had a crush on me."
Nagato's sitting on one side of the kotatsu, Kyon at the other. Normally they'd sit closer together—
But today's not really a friendly visit.
"You were always playing with my sister. You were her friend—you were my friend. And now—"
Nagato says nothing. She hasn't said anything since this one-sided "discussion" started. Her eyes don't meet his, and this time she hasn't got Hyperion to excuse it.
Finally, Kyon plain wears himself out. He slumps forwards across the table, like he's the one who got stabbed here. When he opens his mouth again, he nearly sounds weary.
"Just tell me this much," he says. "Was any of it real? The friendship. You—and me?"
"Yes," says Nagato, and years ago that and teeth might've been the most anyone could have pried from her mouth, but all this time standing shoulder to arm with an actual human might have done her some good.
"Ryouko Asakura's statements regarding my affection by errors were not meritless. There is a statistically significant correlation between the proximity of this humanoid interface to you and an increase in the instances of a specific type of error."
Kyon looks like he's been smacked in the head with algebra textbook. "What—" he starts.
"I have determined from observation that this specific error is referred to as 'happiness'."
Nagato closes her eyes—
Nagato opens her eyes. And because she's the product of some data bunch in the sky, she sees things.
She sees that her tablecloth's the wrong color, for example. She sees that there's a bowl of fresh satsumas on a countertop that's supposed to be empty. She sees she's got a bookshelf stocked full to bursting with novels. She sees she's got pictures.
She doesn't move from that spot, even as the sun inches across the sky out her window. She sits there. She knows what all of it means, but she just sits there.
If there's one thing human beings have got a monopoly on, it's disbelief—pessimism. Cooped up in that little room of hers, Nagato's treated to a taste.
Then a key turns, and the door opens, and Kyon's voice comes drifting through.
"Yo, Nagato—you didn't show up to club, so Haruhi made me to come over and check on you." Even as he grumbles he moves closer, peering at her with open concern. "You aren't sick, are you?"
"No," Nagato says, and if the edges of her mouth make an odd lifting motion—well, she probably holds off on analyzing that for now.