A little girl arrives home after a long day at school, frustrated. It's the same as always. The boys wouldn't let her play cops and robbers. The girls just stared at her blankly before turning away when she suggested their tea party involve a murder mystery. The end of recess found her sitting by herself inside, reading a detective novel. Her teacher asked why she wasn't playing with the other kids, and she lied and said she didn't want to. Are you sure, yes, well I'll leave you be then. Same as always.
So she walks in alone, ready to give up. No - she doesn't like the term 'giving up,' which implies she's failed somehow. It's the world that's failed her, after all, being one in which a girl like her can't be accepted.
The other kids wouldn't even notice, and she learns more from the cases she helps out on than she ever could sitting in a classroom. The grown-ups might express concern at first, but from past experience, she knew it was superficial. She decides to discuss the possibility of leaving school with her grandfather later.
The girl traverses long, silent hallways to her favorite room in the house - the library. Among the shelves, and the generations of case files, is the spot her parents used to read to her. She pulls her novel from her backpack, flipping to the dog-eared spot, and settles in on the comfy loveseat. When she last left off, the hero was infiltrating the enemy's headquarters. He had disguised himself, changing his appearance and assuming a false name, in order to -
That was it. The girl drops the novel in her excitement, running across the room to the more technical books. She stands on her tiptoes and grabs a kanji dictionary, unusual reading material for a child her age, but well-worn from curiosity.
She only needs to change one character, really. No self-respecting detective would have such a girly name. While her family name itself commanded respect, if that was enough, she wouldn't need to change. With a little bit of practice, the rest of her transformation will be easy.
She loses herself in the task. With time on her hands and no particular kanji in mind, she scribbles down any character that tickles her fancy. Some sound powerful, some look cool. On another page, she lists off all the detectives and spies she admires from her books, examining the characters in their names. It's like a puzzle, comparing her own name to others and seeing which will fit best. She smiles, humming a tune from Featherman as she goes about her work.
The sun is setting, bathing the library in golden light, by the time she's narrowed it down. At some point, she ended up sprawled across the floor, which is now littered in discarded ideas. None of the kanji left seem quite right, and she rolls over onto her back and stares at the ceiling.
She thinks of her parents, and wonders what they would say now. Her parents, two of only three adults who had ever taken her seriously. Her mother had never gotten the respect she deserved because of her sex; surely she would understand her choice. Her father, who, despite having never saved the world from an evil genius, was her hero, her role model. She scrambles into a sitting position and writes his name next to hers. Looking at the characters in her father's name, she points to one, substituting it for "ko" in her own name.
Perfect. Now she sounds like a real man. Someday, she swears, she will be a cool, hard-boiled detective, just like her father.
"Naoko-chan?" An old man calls out for a girl who has begun erasing herself. He peers around a bookshelf, finding someone else in her usual spot.
"Grandfather." A little boy stands up straight, adjusting the blue cap on his head so he can look up at the man. He pauses for a moment to consider the pitch of his voice. "From now on, I wish to be called Naoto."
A/N: Quick Japanese lesson: The kanji "ko" - the same one as in Yukiko - is a common suffix in girl's names, and therefore, doesn't fit Naoto's ideal image.
