Welcome to version 2 of the first chapter of Falling Star! All I did was combine chapters one and two into a single chapter, but still. ;;O.o
This isn't really an Angelic Layer fic as much as it is a fic for my Online RP based on Angelic Layer called Angel Fall (groups. So if you stop reading right now, I wouldn't blame you!
This fic is in both first and third person. First-person sections are in italics; Third-person sections are in normal font. And yes I know this can sound like a mary sue, since the main character uses my internet alias, kind of, but it's really not. I swear. XD This chapter's mostly setup; the next chapter's where I start doing interesting things, like Layer battles. XD
And now onto the other boring drivel, Angelic Layer isn't mine; it's CLAMP's. Anything not found in Angelic Layer is mine; most especially, the idea of the AAMS Chip and all new characters are mine. If I find you using anything that's mine anywhere without my express permission (in writing, no less!), I will take your head off, y'hear me? Thank you.
Reference points:
"-sama" is a suffix added to names to show respect. It's the equivalent of "Lord" or "Lady."
A sailor fuku is what a stereotypical female Japanese school uniform is called. It gets its name from the collar, which is the same as the ones found on sailor uniforms.
"Hokuto" means "North Star," and "Gakuen" means academy, so literally translated, it means Polaris Academy.
Enjoy!
Falling Star
By Windsong
Chapter One: lonely
I'm always humming, or singing. Always. Filling the air with random white noise, sometimes songs I've heard somewhere and sometimes things I spin from my imagination, sometimes not even a melody, just a single note held under my breath until I forget that I'm humming, why I'm humming, what the humming's for.
I've gotten good at lying to myself. And that's what my singing really represents, I guess.
She hummed quietly to herself, a bright, sunny tune she had heard in school as she passed through the hallways, as she forced her way into her apartment. Like everything else in the building, the door was old and rusted, stuck more often than not, squealing in protest every inch of the way when it did decide to work. She paused her humming a moment as she sighed silently in teasing exasperation, mouth turned upwards in a gentle, fond smile, before she stepped over the threshold into her house.
Her smile faded as the silence engulfed her.
Me? I'm just your normal average fourteen-year-old. Well, okay, I do have an "exotic" look, as people like to say, with my brown color scheme—brown eyes, dark tan skin, brown streaks in my black hair. But really, I'm just a normal girl. I live in Fukuoka, and my life is a lot like most other families in the area. We're not poor, but we're not rich, either. Somewhere in the middle, lower middle class. Yes, we live from paycheck to paycheck, and yes, we always have one eye turned towards poverty, but I've never gone hungry, never had to do without something I've really needed.
Well, materially, anyway.
Her expression now tinged with sadness, she moved automatically through the house, ignoring the chaotic clutter of papers and oddments that littered every available space. She paused a moment to drop her messenger bag into her corner of the living room that was considered "hers"—it was only slightly cleaner than the rest of the apartment, made up of a bedroll, a drawer, and a small desk—before heading to the kitchen to make dinner. The sounds that she made echoed eerily in the too-quiet stillness. Her eyes were wide, blank as she moved through the kitchen, her mouth closed, her voice silent, her mind on auto-pilot as she battled the sadness, forcing it away—a battle she won daily, a battle old and worn—a battle fought wearily, out of habit more than actual will.
You could say she lost it daily, too. Depends on your perception. What's more important: thinking you're happy or actually being happy?
My parents and I don't see each other much; haven't for years. They work unholy hours, leaving at six-thirty in the morning and usually coming home well after midnight. I hear them, when I'm on the verge of sleep; coming home, groaning slightly, eating the food I've prepared beforehand, collapsing into the bed I've made. That's really all we have of each other—second-hand experience. We see each other's stuff lying around, they hear my soft breathing as I sleep and I take care of the chores so they don't have to. They hear about me through my grades, I hear about them through their weary voices talking about their day—their two-in-the-morning conversations always get integrated into my dreams.
I don't remember the last time I saw their faces in real life, and not just the picture I have of us in my room, next to my computer.
Once dinner was simmering on the stove, she moved back to her room, leaving the door wide open—there was no danger here, and no one to keep secrets from. She picked her messenger bag up from the floor, sweeping her hair back with an easy, practiced flick before sitting on her bedroll with a soft thump. She was relieved that her workload wasn't half as bad as usual; it would mean she would get a chance to try something new tonight.
It's not a bad life, really. I have nothing to complain about. Just...sometimes, I wish I could see them more. I wish I had more to hold on to. Store up on memories for the long trip home—that's a phrase I often say, don't know where it's from. It helps me remember a scene better, since we don't have a camera. But how can I store up on memories when there's nothing to remember? Nothing but half-snippets, wisps of dreams?
As she finished the last of her written homework, her eyes turned, as if of their own volition, to rest upon the computer, half-hidden in the corner—and the small faded picture she saw there.
She picked herself up from her bed and walked slowly to the photograph, cradling it tenderly in her left hand, as if it were a fragile bird about to fly away. That was her, in the middle, back when she was seven, caught in the middle of a shrieking laugh. And those two people next to her—
Her father was where she got her height and lithe, athletic build; her mother gave her the color of her skin and the face she wore. Anyone could tell that she was their child. She reached out her right hand to gently touch her father's face, feeling the sadness sweep through her.
Lonely. She could her voice whispering it to her.
She closed her eyes. I'm not.
Lonely, the voice insisted, rising in a hiss.
I'm not!
She could see herself, staring with narrowed eyes, glaring at her blind stupidity. Stop lying to yourself!
Her breath exploded out of her in a forced sigh as she dropped the picture, stumbling blindly to her bedroll, half-collapsing onto the hard floor before burying her face in the rolled up blanket.
All right, all right! So I'm lonely. It's gotten to the point where, day after day, hearing nothing but my voice, talking to no one but myself, seeing no one but my hard reflection staring shadows at me, not feeling the warmth of human contact, only inanimate objects, sheets and clocks, and silverware—It's hard, and it's cold, and I don't like it. Oh, fine—more than that; I hate it. When I was younger, we used to go out for walks, talk, see each other. But now? Since they've started working, trying to provide a better life for me, save up for my high school education, I've been traveling through life alone, a single traveler on a winding, murky path.
Her breaths were deep, shaky as she kept them under control, forcing herself to calm down. To forget. To pretend that nothing was wrong, she was just normal, right? Her eyes were squeezed shut, her face set in an expression of pain. After a few minutes, her breathing slowed and evened, and when her eyes opened, she managed to force a smile. It was a slightly twisted smile, wrought of lies—but hey, a smile's a smile, right?
Friends from school? I don't have any. We're a single, close-knit group, at school, the same hundred or so kids that have been together since the beginning. None of us are rich enough to go to private school, so all of us go to the same public ones. And when I was younger, I didn't make any friends; how can friends ever replace the warmth and acceptance of a close-knit, loving family? But then my family left, and now it's too late; people have already made their cliques, and rivalry is fierce. No one would want to be friends with me now. I'm an outcast. And it's okay, I guess, as long as I don't think about it.
She got up, rubbing at her eyes out of habit. She caught a glimpse of herself in her mirror and paused to wink at herself, her eyes glimmering with some internal joke; everything will turn out just fine.
I'll get through this. I've done it for so long, I can hold on a while longer, I know it. Focus, girl, focus. What would your parents think of you if you cried?
The internet—it was a new idea that someone had mentioned to her. You could talk to people all over the world! How could she ever be lonely again with that at her disposal?
You can be, that sarcastic voice whispered in her mind again. Perhaps more so. With all those people so close, and yet so far—nothing like the touch of another—
Shut up! She yelled in her head as forcefully as she could, her hands balling into fists.
...Back to what she was doing. She walked over to her computer, already typing on it before she had fully sat down. She had always been rather good with computers—her computer now was a rickety old thing that she kept alive through sheer willpower—and fairly soon she had figured out the programs that controlled the modem, gotten the modem hooked up to her phone line, and flicked through the programs to install the browser. Soon she was actually online, her eyes lighting up as her first page greeted her. She quickly downloaded the Instant Messaging programs she wanted—she had done her research beforehand—and opened up her first email account.
While looking at the screen, which politely asked her to pick her user name, she paused. Turning away from her computer, she looked around for inspiration. The name popped into her head, unbidden: Windsong?
Shrugging, she muttered, "sure, why not," and typed it in.
Once that was done, she left the internet. She still had work to do, and she couldn't play on it forever. Humming again, she got up and began to clean around her house.
Lonely? Yes. But like I said before—my life really isn't so bad. I just have to hold on until tomorrow, right? The future is always brighter than the present.
Oh, right. My name? It's Chakori. Chakori Catir.
- - - - -
Eyes a light shade of green-grey calmly assessed the ceiling. Feathery wisps got in the way of his vision; with a look of amused impatience on his face, he reached up with a hand and brushed away the long dirty-blond bangs that obscured his sight. The bed underneath him was soft and sunk comfortably under his weight. Despite its comfort, he really didn't like it all that much. Fact of the matter was, it was far too rich for his tastes. Covered in a rich red silken counterpane, it was elegantly adorned with head- and footboards, made of handsomely stained rosewood. The floor was covered with a rug as white as snow, and the ceiling and floors were covered with gilded moldings and frescoed ceilings.
It wasn't like it wasn't beautiful or anything, it was just that he really didn't like living in the lap of luxury all the time. He didn't like being singled out.
Not like I can help it. Oh, what am I thinking; I haven't introduced myself. My name is Kumitatsu Yoru, but I'd appreciate it if you just called me Yoru...
The Kumitatsu family is famous here. Once in the papers I saw us described as "The Rockefellers of Kyushu;" I guess that's a fairly accurate description. To use another American term, we're "old money"—we own the largest chunk of industrial factories here in Kyushu, and have for generations. We're by far the wealthiest family in the area. I've always lived like this, but as a result, well, I've never really had any real friends. It's not anyone's fault, of course; I understand that a lot is expected of me, as a Kumitatsu. It's just that such responsibility truly separates me from everyone else, even among other wealthy families. Then again, I'm not always
Yoru sat there for a moment, contemplating the swirling fresco patterns on his ceiling, before a distant voice drifted through his door. "Kumitatsu-sama, if you don't wake up you'll be late for school!"
"Yes, I'm coming!" He called back to the maid, quickly rising from bed. I wonder what will happen today?
- - - - -
Nothing's going to happen today, Chakori thought with weary firmness. Absolutely nothing. Mom and Dad are going to come home and everything will be just like always. Nothing out of the ordinary today, you hear me God? Just business as usual, if you please. With that thought, she finished tugging on her sailor fuku—worn in some places, and cleverly darned in others, since she was too poor to buy a new one—grabbed her briefcase, and headed out the door.
Sorry I'm in a bad mood, but Mom and Dad never came home last night. Whenever this happens—and trust me, it's really, really rare—I worry half to death. What if something happened to them on the job? What if they got into an accident coming home? What if...
But life goes on, and I still have to go to school. Stupid school. I never learn anything there. This school isn't a challenge, and it bores me half to death. Not like my family can afford anything better, of course...
God must have listened to Chakori that day, since everything was just like every other day—until the end. She was heading out the doors, glad to be able to leave and see if her parents were home yet, when she heard "Catir-san!" yelled down the hallway. She turned, a questioning look on her face as she watched her Literature teacher run up to her with a piece of paper in his hand, huffing and puffing. "Catir-san, I'm glad I managed to catch you—I just got this." He grabbed her hand and pressed the paper he held into it; she grasped it instinctively, and the teacher stepped back a few steps. "You might be able to make it. Just look it over. I have a meeting now, sorry—" and, turning, he ran back down the hall.
Tanaka-sensei has always looked out for me, ever since I came to this school. He's always had faith in me; he's the one that showed me that I can write pretty well. I really owe a lot to him. He's been the closest thing to a friend I've had here.
Curiosity overcoming her puzzlement, she carefully looked over the paper.
"Attention all middle and high schoolers!
Hokuto Gakuen is a school specifically designed to recognize and nurture brilliance and creativity in gifted children entering or attending middle or high school. This year, three scholarships are being awarded to underprivileged children. To apply, you must be between the ages 14-16, and provide the program with a piece of skillful writing that presents in a sensitive, thought-provoking manner an issue important to the world today..."
Chakori nearly dropped the paper from her unnerved fingers. Here was the chance she had been looking for...to finally get out of the hole life had thrown her in.
Here was my chance to start over. Here was my chance to go to a school where I'd actually learn; where the people couldn't judge me on my past; where, maybe, if I was lucky...
Here was a place where I could find a friend.
Chapters for this fic will come out really slowly. I don't have much time and I only work on this haphazardly, so...yeah. Don't hold your breath, but I do work on this fic more than almost any of my other fics, so yay? ;;O.o
-Windsong - windsong 137 at gmail dot com
"My brother bites me on the head sometimes. You know, it hurts." -Val