The woman -who he calls 'woman' in his head, in some spiteful attempt to be rude, because she's changed the whole dynamic of this damn prison- returns. She does not look well. She's as put together as she was before, but her uniform hasn't been ironed, and her footsteps are faster and more pounding than they were before.

She takes a seat, as she did before, and folds her arms in front of her, as she did before. What is different this time, is that before, she looked like she was repelling him with the action, this time; it looks more like she's holding herself. He doesn't think she realizes these subtle differences. He probably wouldn't either, if he had a life anymore. He dares to take a good look at her face, as she stares off into nothing, and he notices the crease of her brow, how her eyes are clouded and impartial. He suddenly realizes who this woman is.

She isn't only Kaizuka's stand in, she's related. It's in her eyebrows and her eyes. He couldn't see it before because she shows what she's feeling, and she says what she means, but now that he can see it, it is the most obvious thing in the world. He made this same mistake with Princess Lemrina; for the longest time, he just couldn't see any resemblance to Princess Asseylum, until suddenly, it was as obvious as day. Their lips and chin were the same, their fingers the same elongated, delicate digits. From then on, he could never ignore it. This woman is Kaizuka's blood relative. She probably cried when Slaine shot Kaizuka in the head. She probably stayed by Kaizuka's bed side while he was recovering. They probably played together as kids, ate meals together, watched dumb television together, did normal, family things.

He is going to be ill. Not now, not right that very moment, but he will be. He'll wait till its dark; because that's the only facade of privacy he gets in this place.

He wants Kaizuka to come back. Now that he knows, he can't face this woman. Can't look at her and think about how much pain he's caused her. And she brought him books, and made sure he got a television. He wants to hide. Instead, he straightens up, and looks down at the ground.

He can feel that she is scowling at him. "I guess you weren't lying when you said you didn't want to watch TV."

He nods his head without looking at her.

"You like the books though." She doesn't sound happy, but she is less irritated. He wonders if he deserves the sense of betrayal that goes through him at the statement. He's known from the beginning that he had no privacy in this place, but it still stings. It was as close to a harmless secret as he can have now, and even that is denied him.

He reminds himself who he's talking to, and tells himself, no, he does not deserve to have that sense of betrayal. He shoves the feeling aside. "Yes Ma'am."

She makes a sound in her throat, that is something like an hmm, with more authority, and less whimsy. "I'll get you more then." She clears her throat, and he spares enough of a glance at her to see that she is still holding her arms. He quickly angles his gaze back down to the floor. "You didn't want the television, would you prefer a radio?"

He shakes his head. "I don't need it, Ma'am."

He can almost feel her glare making the hair on the back of his neck stand up. "That isn't what I asked." He doesn't answer her, because he doesn't want to lie to this woman. She doesn't deserve that, so he stays quiet. The sigh that escapes her is full of pent up aggression. "Do you prefer anything?"

A bullet to the forehead would do, but he isn't going to tell her that. He is positive that if she could, she would. She wears that uniform like a second skin. He's noticed the calluses on her fingers, and how her commanding voice sounds like a squad leader. He has no doubt that she'd put a bullet in his head at the first chance she got. She can't, for whatever reason. Taunting her is all that he would accomplish. She doesn't deserve that. "No, Ma'am." That isn't a lie either, so it will do.

She is frustrated with him, but she only lets it stop her for a few minutes, before she picks up the conversation again. "Can you play an instrument?"

Possibilities run through his head at rapid speed. "Yes, Ma'am."

"What instrument can you play?" Her question is not one of interest, and it is easy to tell. He wonders if she's playing with him, or if they're thinking the same thing. Maybe she just needs to fill time.

He pauses for just a beat. "Cello, Ma'am. I played the cello when I was young." It isn't entirely a lie.

She hums, as if she's trying to be interested, and failing. "That would give you something to do during the day, and having something to do seems to make you more agreeable."

The rest of their conversation is rather dry. He is polite, and answers her questions, or doesn't. Nothing of note happens, and she leaves after her allotted thirty minutes. He is happy to see her go, but the earlier conversation keeps stirring in his head.

He remembers the cello; his father's was a big, willful instrument. Too big for when he was trying to play it. He remembers the long, thick strings, how hard they were to press down, and how his fingers ached after only one try. The violin was so much more agreeable, its trill chirping like the fluttering of wings and bird songs. He loved that violin, but he remembers father's cello. Remembers it's thick, beautiful, vibrating strings, leaving bruises on his finger tips.

He wonders if it will really be that easy.

He gets out of bed, and goes to where the books are. He picks one up, and goes back to his bed. He's never dared to touch the books during the day, except for that horrid Rayleigh book, which was a mistake to begin with. Now, he doesn't feel like there's any need to stay away from them.