A/N: Okay, so those of you who review: one, thanks so very much. I love Saena's POV so I would probably continue even if no one liked it but reviews brighten my day in a way nothing else can, so thanks thanks thanks again! Second, I don't think my ideas were very connected in this chapter, and it still seems choppy in my head, but I can't edit it much more without seeing this in my dreams, so here it is. So please tell me what you think of my continuity. Thank you goodnight!

Though I have sworn I would not tell you the details of that train ride to Fukuoka, I will say this: I had no idea I was so attractive.

I had seen the man in question before, and I believe he was one of my 'lovers' during my fling with physical romance, but I had no notion of what kind of man he was. He was the son of the CEO, and had been discreetly omitted from my earlier conversations with his father. I was not aware he had accompanied his father to Kyoto, or indeed if he was still with the company. He is the type of man I am least interested in, I have found: the ones who were born into luxury, raised in opulence, and one day succeed their predecessors in that decadence and are buried in pearl-encrusted coffins with silk lining. And yet they have not the slightest notion of what running a business requires. Their entire repertoire consists of merely a good education and a few parlor-tricks. Without their parent's backing and inferior's subtle guidance, they would never succeed. And yet, in this closed-off and cloistered environment, they thrive. Breed like rats, in fact. After having slept with so many of his type, I was nearly interested in running a laboratory study to ascertain if bluebloods carry a gene borne from centuries of inbreeding that makes them so very presumptuous. Purely for academic reasons, I assure you. I am the least bit interested in social criticism. The desire to see these louses routed by the very institutions they created is entirely lost within me. I have no yearning to see these perfumed and deified beings made unforgivably human with a few statistics blown in their face.

My dear, you will need to be able to recognize sarcasm if we are to continue on for so long.

But, to return to the main story, I had no idea I was so attractive. In my mind my features were actually rather sharp, and my body less pleasing after childbirth. And yet this imbecile could not keep his eyes off me. To his credit, however, his gaze never strayed lower than my face.

As we were stopped in Yamaguchi, the CEO left to relieve himself, and I was left alone with his son. Knowing from previous encounters that intelligence skipped this particular man's generation, I reached into my bag for one several files I had to memorize upon appointment to my new office. If I was deprived of enlightening discussions, I was at least in no need of reading material.

"You never told me you had a daughter."

Was he actually trying to start up a conversation?

"Admittedly, we never really talked after that one night," to my great annoyance, he was still attempting to converse with me, "I mean, I know when a woman wants her space, and I gave you yours. But you should have at least called when you found out you were pregnant. I would have sent you money, you know."

"How did you come to find out?" I asked, my irritation grating against my temple. Why was he so interested in this? What was so impressive in bearing a child? The vast majority of women after menarche and before menopause are perfectly capable of conception. He was certainly aware that I was capable as well.

"I met her."

Excuse me? Where on this green earth could you meet my daughter? She's hardly likely to be found loitering around a pool table, drinking whiskey with your associates.

"We--that is, my father and I--were staying at the Fuwa Ryokan while in Kyoto. Excellent service, by the way. Truly commendable amenities. The gardens were a work of art, nothing short of it. But I digress. Your daughter--Kyouko, right?--was quite adorable in a yukata. The most dazzling smile, like a light shining too bright. The okami-san seemed proud of her, but it was obvious they weren't related. And then I saw her eyes…"

Oh, God in Heaven, spare me from idiots. In the little time I had spent with this man, I had no idea he was a romantic. If he had been, I would have never have slept with him. Yes, my daughter's eyes are quite something. Pure gold, truer than any piece of polished jewelry. A topic of conversation. But nothing more. It's not as if her eye color is worth discussing in any great length, just as mine or yours isn't. And so, though Deities seem to be neglecting their duty to spare me, I will spare you from the majority of his trifle.

"…and I knew. She doesn't really look like you, but those eyes…well, I suppose someone's lineage is to blame for that."

Oh.

What I should have comprehended immediately I had neglected.

It should have been obvious.

He had clear eyes that reflected nothing save a shallow heart.

Yet if you chanced closer, you would notice they were actually not brown.

Instead, they were a lighter shade, a muddy tan color.

Or, if you want to label it as such, dull gold.

But he was, truly, an idiot amongst idiots.

And he was wholly convinced that he was the father of my daughter.

What horrified me was that I had no way of knowing if he was or not.

To explain the human psyche, one must push.

Strive to be all one can be. Endure all that is thrown into one's life. Achieve a victory that is entirely one's own. Do not worry oneself with other's complaints or comments. Those may shine a guiding light on the path, but they do not determine the way. And the way I have chosen is neither easy nor enjoyable. This same way I chose for my daughter, as well, by blinding her to all other paths but the one before her. I realize my methods were harsh, and that I have spent many more hours quite away from her then what the parenting magazines wish me to. But I do not make apologies. The severest of my manners have often had her quailing underneath my stare, but I have not retreated. She will win whatever prize she sets her heart on.

Faint heart never won fair lady, and this lady is the most beauteous of them all.

She is Lady Truth, a close cousin to Lady Justice, but she is not chained to ethics as her relative is.

And though I have no alliance with either of the two women, I confess that I will sway into the grasp of the one who does not inconvenience herself with human affairs. Justice is well and good for those who are called to it, but I suppose I should have chosen one of the sciences as my major, instead of accounting. For I am so very close to becoming Truth's disciple.

But, as I have stated, I am neutral, and hold no allegiance.

And yet that does not hinder me in my movements. I do as I wish, or as my responsibilities dictate. I am not sworn to Truth. Little, insignificant facts like paternity are best suited for fireside chats and ballroom titters. Our Lady of Truth need not eject every lie and fabrication in this wide, wicked world. Let sleeping dogs lie. The small, nearly spotless falsehoods can remain strong in the minds of its believers, and the world will spin just as merrily as it always has. This is why I do not call myself a disciple, apprentice, follower, or even an admirer of Truth. Truth destroys Falsity. But some of that self-same falsity is needed in this world. How else are we to advertise?

And so it has never particularly bothered me that my daughter's father was some faceless man from so long ago. What did it truly matter? For all intents and purposes, she did not have a father. Her father was Man, in all His shapeless and countless embodiments, and altogether absent from her life. Her only parental figure was myself, as a Mother--no, a mere mother. And though I have often failed in that capacity, Truth can move apart from our shadowy corner and illuminate some other wretch's existence with her cold lantern.

But, if Mogami Kyouko's father is, in fact, this idiot amongst all idiots, then I shall go mad merely for want of an excuse.

For being the catalyst to his potential fatherhood is surely a crime, sitting snug between theft and arson.

Yet the hands of Time move onward, and that train ride's importance fades now that you know what I do. What is important now is that you know that I became settled in Fukuoka, after finding a small yet somewhat expensive apartment. After fulfilling the role as assistant to the quality control manager, I succeeded the woman after she retired, all in less than a year. And, over time, the novelty of my power wore, and the years passed. The hair around my ears became prematurely grey, and yet that hardly mattered. If a little visible maturity was enough to gain me a modicum more respect in this office, then I would gladly watch my entire scalp turn the color of ash.

I performed my duties well, and was rightly rewarded. And with every pay raise and promotion I received, a tithe flowed back to Kyoto. I may have abandoned the girl, but she was surely not found wanting. Not even of motherly affection, as I am sure Fuwa-san gave her plenty of that particular nuisance. I was far too busy for even a solitary phone call, as my responsibliites increased and my patience dwindled.

A strange relationship occurs when one is handed more responsibility. In Kyoto, I had a reputation for sternness, yes, but I was also fair. In Fukuoka, however, I grew a temper and used it frequently. I found that assistants flowed through my hands like grains of sand. They quit, they were fired, they went on maternity leave and never came back, and one even committed suicide. (It is unclear whether his workload was the cause, as his long-time partner had just broken things off two days prior. A court of law found me innocent of all such matters, so I would ask you to please consider refraining from glaring at me like you would a hardened criminal.) And yet the one constant employee was Taniguchi-san. I hadn't even expected she would join me in Fukuoka when I offered her the chance to come with me, yet she surprised me. The secretary I thought was absolutely brainless turned out to be just the remedy to the maddening task of my profession. I expected very little from her, merely to traffic all incoming messages and outgoing reports, and to provide my morning coffee. For more than a decade she was there, and she never once showed any signs of wanting to move up in the world. From Kyoto to Fukuoka, she seemed perfectly content.

And so, despite the busyness and chaos of my life, I was still haunted by the thought of that man's possible involvement with my daughter. Could he be the father? Was that one night enough to plant his seed, amongst all the others that were implanted within me, and that seed grew into fruition? To be honest, I grew obsessed with the very thought, and the disproving of said thought. If I could do no good for the girl as a mother, at least I could prove she did not have any mental disease risk factors in her genes. This is what I thought when I dismissed the errant reminder when it surfaced amidst the black sewage that is my subconscious. I was nearly certain that knowing beyond a shadow of a doubt that this man was most definitely not the father would give me some leverage in the Celestial Court of Malefactors.

I took to the habit of observing him when he was in the office, the regularity of which shifted in accordance to strange tides I was unaware of. At times he could be predictably found in the same leather chair that his father was so stubborn he would be found in. And yet there were other times when weeks would come and go and my only glimpse of him would be of the portrait he hung in his office. I learnt that he preferred his coffee with three sugars and two creams, but preferred his tea and all alcoholic beverages straight. He defied convention and good sense by wearing sweater vests in July and lighter shirts in January, and never wore any seasonal ties. He wore all manner of colorful suits, from pink and yellow to the staple black and gray. I quickly knew everything there was to know of the man's habits and mannerisims. I could even single out the women he had dated and the mistresses he had known while in said relationships, much to the embarassment of his ex-lovers. Yet I was still in utter ignorance of his relationship to my daughter. My stalking, if you wish to call it that, never escalated to any obvious outward signs, I'm sure, but it was years before I had a chance to act on these Freudian desires.

The package my chance arrived in was actually quite innocuous.

All he wanted was another night of passion.

My natural inclination was to deny him. That phase of my life was over, the choice to end it as decisive as the words "The End" typed on a manuscript. I held no attraction to becoming sweaty and vulnerable in his arms for a second time. There were plenty of prostitutes he could engage their services for. Why did it have to be me, the one with graying hair and lines on her forehead?

But if he were to fall asleep…

What? What could I do if he fell asleep? Pluck out his hair and send it in for DNA testing?

Yes.

Yes, you have surely realized that it is what indeed transpired.

As he lay, spent, next to me, I removed a single hair from his head, smuggled it into the pocket of my crumpled skirt, made my appearance presentable, and shut the door behind me as I left. When I arrived back to my apartment, I deposited it in a clear plastic bag, clearly labeled it, and did the same for one of my own hairs. But this was all worthless, I knew. I could spent a thousand nights in his bed, (though I shudder to think the thought, as he was quite the terrible lover, though I am equally sure I was less than satisfactory as well) and it wouldn't prove a thing.

Yes, I could have both her father's and mother's hair.

Yes, I could send them off to a laboratory for DNA testing.

No, I did not have hers.

She was in Kyoto, a hundred miles away. Not only did my work prohibit me from seeing her and stealing one of her hairs as well, but custom surely dictated that several stilted conversations had to be made beforehand, of which I wanted to avoid. Would it be possible to have Fuwa-san mail a hair? If I came clean and told her I was looking for my daughter's father, would she agree to help me? I did not know, and, frankly, I did not possess the humility to try. And so my pride and obsession waged passionate war inside my skull as my stoic exterior moved throughout the world. Without any indicator as to the struggle within, my accuracy at work didn't suffer in the slightest. In fact, the opposite occurred; I was excelling at faster and faster speeds. And yet the twin plastics gathered dust in an unused kitchen drawer as I waited for my next move to be made.

What I did not know, however, was that that was several years ahead of me.

In the summer of 2001, I received a letter from Kyoto. I found it odd, considering that Fuwa-san's normal correspondence came precisely two weeks apart, telling me of my daughter's accomplishments while thinly veiling the potentially budding romance between our children. (What these children were not aware was that their marriage contract was already drawn and awaiting their signatures.) Since it had only been ten days since her last letter, I had wondered what she had felt was so urgent to write about it couldn't wait four days.

Dear Mogami-san, the letter began,

I feel terribly ashamed in telling you this, but you should be made aware of the situation. As I have often neglected to tell you in our regular letters, (Purely fiction, that pronoun. These were most certainly not our letters, but only hers. I merely sent checks.) our son, Shotaro, is actually quite rebellious. He has often told us that he would rather make his way as a musician in the entertainment industry than settle down in Kyoto with a good wife, namely Kyouko-chan. My husband and I dismissed these as a teenager's dreams, and had faith that he would come around. But both he and Kyouko-chan have disappeared immediately after their graduation from middle school, presumably to Tokyo to follow Shotaro's dream. I am sincerely regretful for our lack of discipline, but neither my husband nor do I have the heart to hire a private investigator to bring the two back home. If you wish to do so, then that is completely your decision and we will not fault you that. But you have the full right to know what has occurred here, and take any actions you deem necessary.

Yours,

Fuwa Airi

Level-headed decisions are quite manageable, despite the majority of decisions that are not made level-headedly. What does not occur to the hot-headed, willful sort is that emotions are entirely perishable. As predictable as butter and canned goods, their shelf-life can be neatly plotted on a coordinate plane. And so, when reflecting and analyzing one's life and goals, one should never take into account one's feelings. Everything changes, yet feelings degenerate as rapidly as a diseased animal's rotting cadaver.

Having realized early on that what I felt about a matter did little to help my cause, I have made it a point to discount emotion in every decision I make. Whether it was the move to Fukuoka or to not abort a fetus, every choice I have made is the product of the purest logic and reason.

And this decision was no different.

My first letter to Fuwa-san in nearly a decade is copied below:

Fuwa-san:

Regrettably, I must remain in Fukuoka until the end of the summer, as business does not allow me to leave until aforesaid time. In August, however, I will return to Kyoto to discuss the matter in greater depth with you. I ask your patience with my timing, as I know it is most likely not the most convenient for you or your husband. If that time is absolutely unfeasible for you, then please contact me and I will reschedule my trip.

Sincerely,

Mogami Saena

On the fourth of August, at 8:55 AM, I boarded a bullet train to Kyoto. That same day, I disembarked on the same platform I had left so long ago when I left with the CEO and his son to Fukuoka. My superiors and coworkers were astounded I was taking personal time off work, as it was an unprecedented occurence, yet never commented on the matter within my hearing. I am sure, however, that they did comment on it, but I am unaware of the exact wording.

But though I am surrounded by gossiping fishwives within office walls and without, I ignored them all to settle the matter of my daughter's disappearance. My emotions of disappointment and loathing for her negligence to her academics were already past their expiration date, surely. After all, I have no right to lecture her on the matter, as I am her mother in name and name only.

And so, I did not go to Kyoto to bring my daughter back.

I went to see if she had left any DNA behind when she left.

For a mother, wouldn't you say that's inexcusable?