A/N: I bet you guys thought I forgot about this one, eh? So yes, it has been two and a half years. I'm sure most of you did not read the first chapter when it came out, but I would like to shout-out dav15 for waiting this long.

But the entire thing is written now, and edited, and has been written for a long time … I figured I'd publish it now, for femmeslash February. It's seven chapters long, though, so even with Leap Day it's going to spill into March … but better late than never, I guess.

2036

Chapter 2: Negligence

Beneath Haruko was a narrow-boarded dark wooden floor. On either side of her were large, imposing white walls, completely blank. They looked like they belonged in a courthouse or some other stately building, but Haruko was in her childhood home. She knew this instinctively.

Haruko took a deep breath and started running. Her feet were clad in socks, and, because of this, she kept slipping. Behind her, a woman, who she knew to be her mother, called out, "Haruuuukooooo! Stop!"

A smile forced its way across Haruko's face. She kept running. Then, she turned a corner and stopped. In the middle of the hallway the body of an older woman was lying, her hands spread out into the hallway as if reaching for something, and her eyes glassed over and staring directly at Haruko.

Haruko screamed. Her mother knelt down behind her and wrapped her hands around Haruko's waist. "It's OK," she repeated over and over again, along with Haruko's real name.

That was the point in the dream when, without fail, Haruko woke up. She stretched out on her bed and glanced at the Kira posters that were hanging above her.

There didn't seem to be too much to that, however. It made sense that finding a body would be a traumatic experience, although it probably wasn't that uncommon for Haruko's childhood. Oba-chan explained to her that her parents were servants that worked in Kira's grand palace in Tokyo. Her mother had changed Kira's sheets; her father had tended to his flower beds.

Haruko sighed and sat up. Her alarm wouldn't go off for another thirty minutes, but she could never go back to sleep after one of those dreams anyway.

She walked over to the wall and flicked the light switch on. The only lights in her apartment were harsh fluorescents that cast her crappy furniture and posters in a harsh, cold light. From the door, she could see a majority of her propaganda collection, the posters on the walls and ceiling.

The entire world was spread out in front of her, in a way. In the beginning, she had saved the entirety of every poster she came across. All of those eyes, staring down at her, eyes of people she had never met, in locations she'd never been, had faced in her in her apartment. They had representation, of course. All races, genders, etc.

Overshadowing all of that, though, was a pair of coffee-brown ones. Kira was in every poster, always a younger Japanese man, usually in his twenties or thirties, with light brown hair and eyes the color of coffee with too much milk in it.

Haruko had been collecting posters for long enough that she knew it couldn't have been the same person in all of them; she held no delusions about that. Instead, she made a game out of guessing when they would switch models.

The shortest-lived one had only lasted three months, and all five of his posters were hanging at the end of the cabinets in the corner that dictated Haruko's kitchen. His gaze was sharper than the rest of them, his cheekbones higher. More handsome, but, somehow, un-Kira.

In the olden times, Christians had assumed their God was an old white man with a beard and no hair; nowadays, people knew he was young and Japanese. Funny how that worked out.

Haruko made a pot of coffee and changed her clothes into the uniform of the hotel where she worked. Over her dresser was one of her favorite posters of Kira. They had tried to invoke the old style of state portraits, picturing Kira standing by an old wooden desk, awkwardly resting one hand on it. It looked so ridiculous, so out of place in time and mood that Haruko couldn't help but laugh whenever she saw it. Though, she shouldn't criticize. Haruko wanted nothing more than to have her own portrait taken like that, some day.

The coffee was done. So, Haruko grabbed a bite to eat, then left the house all together.

Walking to her job took the opposite route of the walk to the SLA's office. It was three left turns, one by that statue of Kira that used to have the little girl in it. The surface had been reduced to rough marble after they'd removed her figure, probably because an actual little girl died in front of the statue. Or so rumor had it. Those were the kind of rumors Haruko picked up from the SLA's office, which were generally the most and least reliable place to get them.

From there, there were a couple more buildings covered in small posters. The hotel was on a small rise, and Haruko liked to stop on her way walking up it. If she looked to the slight southeast, she could see the perpetually-lit water tower with Kira's face on it.

The hotel was an older-looking building, with a complicated, beige stone façade. Today, several shiny, new black cars with tinted windows were parked outside. The SLA.

Haruko took in a deep breath. She was one of their informants; she wouldn't get in too much trouble. The manager of the hotel was small fish to them. They wouldn't send a red-eyes to deal with it.

Walking into through the hotel lobby, Haruko was reminded of why she'd chosen to work at this hotel in the first place. Every part of it, from the crystal chandelier above to the dizzying carpet patterns bellow reaped opulence and power. Wealth was power, and in order to get closer to power it was necessary to get closer to wealth.

The kitchen seemed a world away, especially now that all operations had stopped and all the staff was gathered in the lobby.

Four SLA officers had been sent to deal with the situation. At the front was a middle-aged man, mildly overweight, with greying hair. A streak of light caught one of his eyes, and the reflection showed back in Haruko's face. Red.

Haruko's stomach dropped. This was a mistake. Coming here was a mistake. Killing her manager—it would be the end of her.

"My name is Michika Itou," he said. "I'm here to ensure that the hotel continues to run well after the rightful punishment of your manager." He looked directly at Haruko, his red-tinted eyes meeting hers. "Haruko, I presume?"

Odd he was referring to her by her first name and not even her real one at that. "Y—yes," Haruko said.

"You'll be managing the hotel from now on." He looked at the rest of the staff. "Any questions?"

Obviously, there were none.

"Good," he said, stepping off the table. "I'll be wanting to speak with you in private." Once again, he was looking directly at Haruko.

Haruko took him to a conference room that hadn't been reserved for that day.

"Is it bugged?" he asked her.

Haruko shook her head. "We prioritize the privacy of our clients," she said. It was true; they had to, in order to get people who were close to Kira. And getting people who were close to Kira was the only way to run a business these days.

"Good," he said. He pulled one of the chairs back from the table and sat on it with a fluid ease.

Haruko stayed where she was, standing awkwardly, stiffly. What was she doing here, in this room, with this man?

"Mind telling me why your real name isn't on any records?" he asked.

That was one thing Haruko could never figure out. Her mother had taken care of her, obviously, and wanted her to be safe. It was probably the safest thing she could have done; to give her a real name, one whispered into her ear every night, that no one else ever heard. "I don't know," she said. "It wasn't my choice."

"Hmmm," he said. He took a piece of paper out of his pocket and unfolded it. "You're an informant."

Haruko nodded. "I want to do my part, to eliminate crime," she said, trying to embody the spirit she saw in the posters.

"I'm sure," he said. "And it helps, to stay beneath suspicion."

Haruko smiled, trying to cover her inner thoughts as much as possible.

"So, I could report you to the SLA. Or—" he said. "Were you lying about the bugs?"

"No," Haruko said.

"Hmm," he said. "I would report you to the SLA. If—" he paused for a long moment, took out another piece of paper and scribbled an address on it. "If I didn't know something about living beneath suspicion myself." He slid the paper across the table, where it caught a draft and drifted off to the left.

Haruko took a step forward and right and slammed her hand down on the paper. "What do you want me to do?" she asked. It was probably sexual. It always was, with this kind of man.

"Go there tonight, past curfew, and you'll find out," he said. "If you don't show—remember, I know your real name."

Those words sent a chill down Haruko's spine. It had been a long time since anyone had known that about her.

He smiled. "I'll see you then." And left.

Haruko tucked the note into her breast pocket and took the stairs down to the kitchen.

"Alright," she said, standing on the same table as the SLA officers had beforehand. "You heard what they said. It's time to get to work." She dismissed everyone but the kitchen staff. "You usually start cooking breakfast by now, right?"

Several of them nodded.

"OK," Haruko said. "What's on the menu for today."

"Soufflé," one of the older chiefs, a red-faced white woman said. "But I don't think we have time to make it."

"Why not?" she said. "It's best served hot, isn't it?"

"People are already—"

"Then, you should hurry," she said.

The rest of the day, Haruko found herself running around the hotel more than usual. All operations had been affected by the late start, and she couldn't allow the hotel to fall behind. Especially on her first day as manager.

Now, it was also pretty likely this would be her last day as manager. That thought haunted her all day, rubbing up against her thoughts like the piece of paper was rubbing up against her breast.

Even then, no one would be able to say that she hadn't worked hard, that she hadn't been a good person, that she hadn't put in every once of effort into what she wanted.