It is the voice of the long-dead woman that stands out in Nanao's memory, more than anything else.
Oh, she remembers the face vaguely, the dark hair, the grey eyes behind square glasses. Enough so that she can identify her in the background of the old photos she runs across occasionally in the database, at least. Lisa had a smooth face, a sharp chin and nose. She stands in sepia next to her captain, a clipboard in hand, her face dark and serious.
But it's the voice that sticks in her mind, that strong but gentle voice that read to her from fragile old books, held by young, confident hands. (Nanao still reads, but silently and by herself now, all grown up.) Sometimes when she is about to fall asleep, or when she forgets where she is and gets lost in thought, a snatch of poetry, or a line from some old forgotten volume, will sneak across her mind. It is spoken always in that familiar voice, and Lisa's face and personality are detached from it, a separate entity.
Sometimes Nanao curses that voice. It's the voice of a woman she looked up to; a woman she can never live up to. The voice of a strong, intelligent woman who was always admired by her peers, and who will always be remembered fondly at parties and gatherings. Older captains will speak wistfully of her, of her skill and her power and her lovely face, forgetting that her replacement is within earshot.
And it's the voice of a woman who foolishly got herself killed in some gruesome, horrific way that nobody wants to talk about, and that fact makes Nanao's life all the harder. Because her captain won't let her go out alone at night, won't send her into battle with confidence, will never let her stand on her own two feet. He won't train with her as the other captains train with their seconds. She will be looked down on by the rest of the lieutenants because she never faces danger such as they do; she isn't allowed.
But Nanao can't bring herself to hate that voice. It's the voice of the woman who called Nanao her "little shadow" because of that poem by Robert Louis Stevenson. (Nanao can still recite the poem line for line.) It's the voice of the woman who taught her the first Kidou spells she knew, who gave her the names of all the flowers in the gardens behind the 8th Division's barracks. It's the voice of the woman who taught her to write and to braid her own hair.
Every so often, in the course of paperwork, Nanao runs across an old folder full of papers with Lisa's handwriting on them, and her signature and seal at the bottom. Nanao reads them carefully, and she can hear the voice speaking the words in her head. Every so often, when Nanao asks herself a question, she can hear the voice responding. Over time, she suspects, perhaps the dead woman's voice will become her own inner voice.
Nanao wouldn't be surprised if it did. After all, she works in Lisa's old office and sleeps in Lisa's old room. She has Lisa's old furniture in her quarters. She is surrounded always by everything Lisa had, and everything she was. She hears so many stories about Lisa from the other captains and lieutenants—all the stories except the one about how she died. Perhaps one day Lisa's own voice will tell Nanao about it herself, right there in her own head.
Well, perhaps when it does, her captain will allow her to lead the troops into battle herself. Nanao doesn't mind paperwork, but it is tedious and time consuming, especially when her captain doesn't do his fair share. Perhaps, with Lisa's voice as her conscience, Nanao might one day tell herself with certainty that she is just as qualified for her position as her late predecessor ever was.
In the meantime, Nanao starts some tea, and sits down at Lisa's old desk to finish the week's reports.
A/N: The poem Nanao remembers is "My Shadow" by Robert Louis Stevenson, from A Child's Garden of Verses.
