Dépêchez-vous!"
"wir brauchen Leute an Station 3!"
"¡El avión está cayendo! ¡Repito!"
"Cineva se grabeste!"
(Minutes before Mimic's private plane lost control.)
A sleek obsidian ship was following behind a crashing jet, the hull was well-maintained, and polished to a shine. It cruises against the brilliant blue sea, wind whipping in all directions.
As calm as it looked outside, it was chaotic inside. The agents swarmed like an unsynchronized school of fish, un-composed of their habitual state.
"Someone get one of the higher-ups!"
"Oui! I'll be on it!" An agent replied.
He pranced like a deer, running past the others, his eyes darting all over the control rooms of the ship in search of one of the higher-ups.
Murmuring chatter came from one of the control rooms, followed by a harsh smack.
"What do you mean you could not find any traces of the people who hijacked the jet? You had one job to locate the damn thing!"
"But Monsieur Proust.. when we checked for our agents to arrive their single was cut off-"
"Ferme-la! I do not need more of your nonsense, looking at you makes me sick already." Turned away, the man spoke with a French accent. Unlike any other man aboard he was handsome a blend of beauty to his prominent features. The young tall man had fair and smooth skin with a small beauty mark under his left eye. He wore a dark blue double-breasted suit jacket, complemented by matching pants and low dark heels. Around his collar was a black satin bow, and perched on his head was a smooth black hat. His light brown short wavy hair framed his periwinkle eyes. A pocket watch with a thin silver chain hung from his pocket.
Marcel Proust ⎯⎯ Ability: In search of lost time
"Qu'est ce que tu regardes!? I'll shove one of these pipes down your throat!" Marcel exclaimed loudly.
The metal door of control room 38 opened wide, alarming the agents, including Marcel himself.
"Monsieur Proust! I'm so glad I found you! The situation is urgent-"
"Who asked for you to speak?" Marcel stepped in, the look in his eyes was disdain, the mock appearance in his tone. "I hate it when you think you can just come here and have all the authority to speak without permission."
If you were not in Marcel's "parvenu" then he did not respect you, he had his social ladder being a higher-up, and those below him were worms, he'd say.
"Unfortunately I don't have time for all this nonsense dealing with these idiots, speak now or I'll have you fed to the deep bleu," Marcel stated with his hands on both sides.
"Monsieur Proust, there was an alert for one of our planes crashing and we are not sure if the agents we sent in are still alive if it won't be a bother for you-"
"I am AWARE! You do not need to tell me what I already know, you are just useless standing there! Now move aside, I have to finish a task all of you so-called agents did not bother to clean." Marcel abruptly pushed aside the agent in his way, making space for himself. He looked disdained at him with a given side glance. "Never appear in my sight. Ever, again."
The door slammed shut behind Marcel as he walked through the hallway, he felt proud knowing the spotlight was on him but that feeling didn't always feel right. What? Why should he feel down? He's Marcel Proust, there's nothing more to hurt his pride. Who could hurt his pride other than himself?
"Such idiots," Marcel muttered under his breath, his manicured hand reaching into his pocket and pulling out a pocket watch. The watch was a stunning masterpiece he kept close, the clock's dial was in Roman numerals, and the delicate grey hands ticked each passing moment, its movement quartz—a case in sterling silver with a crystal made of mineral glass.
Marcel's reflection gazed back at him, mirroring his cold gaze. His fingers went through the watch's crystal, turning the hands backward. The hallway of the ship inside was soon dyed in a warm yellow glow, his steps were slow but he moved faster than those in the hallway, the agents were frozen in their actions like a vintage picture.
Time is a very dangerous ability.
There had been countless time ability users, it could only bring them so little in the future and so far in the past. Time is fragile like glass, a single change can easily affect its tie with the present and future. There is the ability to stop time, rewind, and go forward.
All of that in a small watch.
Time is terrifying.
It'd be a shame if it got lost, so it's best to leave it in its place.
He reached the ship's deck, and above him was the jet mid-falling, it had frozen in place. Everything was stuck indeed, except for one besides Marcel.
"How do you plan on surprising me this time, Em?" His eyes soften, asking the question.
"Isn't that for you to find out?" Replied a sweet voice, a matching French accent as well. The young woman standing not so close but not so far, she was around the same height as Marcel, an inch shorter. Her skin was fair, with ash blonde hair kept in a loose side ponytail on her left shoulder, her bangs parted to the side, kind misty rose eyes and she dressed in fine attire- A crisp white collared shirt accompanied by a brown vest, a light brown blazer, and dark brown slacks. Tied around her collar was a black ribbon and dons flats. Dark red pince-nez glasses rested on the bridge of her nose, followed by a light brown beret on the left side of her head.
A camera that seemed to be pulled out of a late century was in her hands. The camera has an accordion-like, collapsible bellow, which indicates it is a folding camera, on top there's a simple optical viewfinder on top. The lens is housed in a metal casing, so as the body, there's a neck strap to be held hands free.
Émile Zola ⎯⎯ Ability: The masterpiece
"I'd like to take a photo of the plane, I'm sure it will be helpful later on but..." Émile turned to Marcel with a sweatdrop "Don't you think we should have the plane fall completely to check if anyone is alive first?"
"I would do that but..." Marcel used his index finger to gesture to his clothes. "It'd be a shame if my clothes got wet! You know with the big splash of the plane and all the water getting on the deck." Marcel was exaggerating, Émile saw it as clear as day, and she knew not to say anything, that might annoy him.
"Classique Marcel." Émile shook her head, her eyes flickering down the camera rested in her hands. "Do not fret! Car j'ai la clé de ton problème." Through the photos she picked, there came an image. It was a cloudy day, an abandoned park with empty swings that once had the joie de vivre stripped away. An umbrella lay in the center cast off. The photographer reached into the camera screen, her hand fading in a beige light to pull the umbrella from the scene. "Voila!" Émile exclaimed, stepping in front of Marcel, and opening the umbrella to shield them from the water.
Marcel on the other hand looked skeptical, he raised an eyebrow. "Are you sure this is going to work because if I see the smallest drop of water-"
"Non! I promise you won't! Now continue time."
"Whatever you say, Em." Marcel snapped his fingers, and hurriedly hid behind Émile, watching as the world recommenced and the jet soon began to drop. (Continuing.)
"Everyone take cover! It's going to fall!"
"Don't stand close!"
"Madame Zola! Monsieur Proust! Please allow us to cover you from the splash of the"
The jet soon fell into the ocean, making a grand splash! Unfortunately, the splash caused water from the marine into the ship. The agents did not have time to protect themselves and were drenched in seawater. For the sake of protecting their higher-ups, it was an honor.
Émile raised the umbrella above her and Marcel's heads, dropping droplets. "Is everyone okay?" She asked, a bright smile on her face. The agents around them seemed they were going to cry tears of joy.
"Yes, Madame Zola! We are okay!" They shouted in unison, standing tall and straight like puppets waiting for their next command.
"fantastique!" Émile closed the umbrella and faced all the agents with her head held high, she formed a fist, a determined look on her face. "I need you all to look inside the plane in case of any survivors, if there are then alert me and Marcel immediately. If we work together then Monsieur Kafka will be surely proud of us all!"
Marcel on the other hand perked up at the mention of him. His heart raced with excitement, impressing the man that he so admired, he did not realize the grip he had on Émile's shoulder. He pulled away hesitantly, clearing his throat, his hands on the lapels of his coat. "You all heard what she said! Don't just stand there! Se déplacer!"
Those who were near the crashed jet, gathered tools necessary such as a long plank to access the floating aircraft. Émile was about to walk but Marcel hastily stopped her, gripping her shoulder with a hand. "Em! What do you think you're doing?! Don't you know what can be in there?" He did care deeply for his friend, but at the same time, he couldn't bear looking inside a jet that may have been painted in the blood of the agents in it. The slightest filth he would find on his clothing may be the end for him.
"I'll be fine, Marcie." She reassured, squeezing his hand, making Marcel's skin crawl. He pulled away and let out an annoyed sigh. "Bien. Just don't get caught in whatever fluid you find, I'll report to Monsieur Kafka the moment you come back."
He felt his fingers linger on her shoulder, he had to let go.
Émile gave him a nod, walking off into the once lively jet.
'The scent of blood is strong here.' She pitched her nose, cautioning her surroundings, others on the scene were finding their missing files. Her shoes patted against the floor, she kept her gaze looking straightforward. She lifted her camera to her face, looking through the viewfinder, the shutter took a clear picture of the interior. Émile considered taking photos of things that may provide use later on in the future nevertheless, the images she takes serve as another memory.
The uncanny sight of death lingered, she closed her eyes and clasped her hands together, silently praying.
Émile's eyes fluttered open when she felt something touch her foot, it felt cold. It was just a dead body's hand that brushed against her foot.
A dead body?
Her gaze dropped down to the floor, a hand shakily covering her mouth. She immediately dropped to the floor to check for any signs of life, her hand coming to the pulse while the other one held the head, her fingers trailing down to see there was a sweeping blue-grey painting the agent's skin. "He's not breathing yet his body is still warm, and his skin is changing rapidly too." She let a small frown come to her lips, Émile took a deep breath and no longer frowned, she couldn't be sad. She can't be unhappy.
Émile lets go of the person, letting them lie carefully on the ground. She stood up to see an agent approaching her.
"Madame Zola, we tried checking both the bar room and cockpit of the jet in search for our files, they all seemed to be missing or covered in this substance." The agent handed her a folder that was covered in...
Ink?
"Ink?" She questioned, getting the folder into her own hands but it soon dissolved to the ground, and they both stepped back. 'Ca c'était quoi? It dissolved so quickly as if it didn't want me to reach for it.' She furrowed her brows, there had to be at least one file that wasn't like this. "They ruined most of these, I assume?"
"Yes, I even found some that looked like they had been torn to shreds or bit off."
"Bit off? Did someone take a bite out of the files?" Émile's expression was labeled as bewilderment, she never thought someone would take a bite unless it were something else completely. "Ahaha..." She let out a small confused chuckle, her disappointment had already reached a high point.
"If you find anything more, let me know. I think I'll inform Marcel and see what he will decide for us."
"Monsieur Kafka," Marcel knocked on the door of his office. "May I come in?" His heart was racing for an answer, Kafka was someone who often stayed in his office, he preferred to work in silence like a dead man, keeping a watchful eye on everyone else.
...
There was no response from the other side, he knew he shouldn't bother Kafka, who knows what he does other than blocking all sorts of noise? So he knocked on the door once more, a little stronger this time. "Monsieur? Are you-"
The door creaked open.
It was odd for Kafka's door to be opened, although Marcel wasn't sure if he should step inside, he was starting to get annoyed at the late response. So he opened it without thinking twice. "There you are! I thought you were ignoring me but you were busy looking at,
a bug."
In Kafka's office, the lights were dim. The walls were decorated with an old yellow wallpaper, a pattern contrasting the engravings' dark wood. Placed on them, are specimens of insects- each one is placed in a specific order from greatest to smallest. A large diamond-shaped pattern rug, on top, is an oak desk. The items on the desk were all so originated that even if someone came in, it was as if the objects belonged in the right place.
"My apologies, I may have spaced off. This white moth's wings are wrapped in pure white like a pearl yet opaque. It's fragile just like many of it's familiar."
Standing behind the desk was a very tall man with an austere look, long dark brown hair tied into a braid over his back reaching his waist, the delicate bangs framing his forehead and sides. Kafka had beautiful eyes, dark brown with amber highlights, as for his pupils they are slits. He was handsomely dressed, clad in a long black coat with a golden color aristocrat vest paired with a black long-sleeved shirt. A frilly jabot at his collar perched an amber brooch. Kafka kept his hands in black gloves, he wore pants over thigh-high brown spats with golden details.
He was soft-spoken, his German accent making him much more sophisticated. "I couldn't help but admire it, do forgive me."
Franz Kafka ⎯⎯ Ability: The Metamorphosis
"Er...Okay. I came to report what our agents found on the jet. It seems that the data we collected from the poem have completely been ruined. Some are covered in ink, taken a bite out of, and nowhere to be found." Marcel looked displeased, not by only the information but the moth at Kafka's fingertip.
"Oh Herr Proust, I already know about that. I appreciate you telling me about the report. Rather, It's not important now." The moth left Kafka's finger, following his movements as he reached for a shiny, red apple. "One thing about apples is how sweet they taste when ripe, it can make anyone fall into a trance by their allure. Something else about them is how they can last." He held the apple, purposely keeping it out of reach of the moth.
'Il parle de... pommes?' Marcel felt like a stick figure watching the man speak, he felt his eyes getting tired with each word said.
Then there was a hand on his shoulder.
"It's incredible how an apple like this came from a mere seed. Unfortunately, nothing lasts forever."
"Dear Proust, do you see how the sky stretched above, an expanse of cold, distant blue, devoid of warmth or comfort? It's an unsettling shade, neither inviting nor threatening, merely there—endless and indifferent. it mocks the insignificance of the world below, look how small the island looks ahead of us." Kafka cups Marcel's chin, making him look forward, out towards the window in the office. His other hand was outstretched as if holding the island. "Soon enough the poem will be in our grasp." His outstretched hand formed then a fist.
"We will have everything we desire, you will have what you desire."
Marcel gazed forward, he knew what Kafka was stating. He tried speaking yet no words came out from his lips. His hands clenched and unclenched.
What was he doing? Focus Marcel.
It was almost as if Kafka spoke to his mind, his nerves calming down.
"Rest easy my child, we have only arrived," Kafka whispered into his ear, letting go of Marcel and stepping out of his office, standing on the balcony. It gives an overview of the lower deck but a better view was the Togetsukyo Bridge.
"Marcie! Monsieur Kafka! Isn't it wonderful here?!" Émile shouted, waving her arms. She was in astonishment she felt like she was in a living painting. There was no way this was a real place, the world never seems to get dull in beauty.
"I see you like it here as well Madame Zola!" Answered Kafka, the wind whipping all over the place, Marcel stood next to him, his hand on top of his hat. "We better head on down."
"Oh, mon Dieu! It's windy! How do you not feel you are getting whipped in the face?!"
"We've never been so far from home before, this is a change," Émile murmured, a giddy feeling in her chest. She began taking photos for her enjoyment, wanting to savor every moment like how she does in every one of their travels.
"This bridge is a long walk from the dock, I don't think I'll make it," Marcel commented, he let out a huff of annoyance picking up his foot to see pristine shoe for any imperfections, his eyes narrowed. Sure, it was a beautiful bridge but no one would go to lengths to clean it.
"You'll do just fine, Marcie!"
"How supportive of you, Em..."
"Monsieur Kafka, why is it called the Togetsukyo Bridge?" Émile questioned.
"Its name, "Togetsu" means moon crossing, when during a boat party underneath a full moon Emperor Kameyama sought the moon was crossing a bridge. It has been around for four hundred years." Kafka answered, seeing his reflection in the water of the river, clear as crystal.
"For a bridge and river, it's rather clean. Unlike a certain river back home." Marcel sneered, he gazed into the river, admiring the reflection of himself.
"Now then, let's move on. The village that the bridge leads us to is connected, once we are there we shall take a train to Mount Atago." Kafka's dress cane made a sound each time it clicked against the bridge, the three walked while hearing whispers and murmurs from those who passed by.
"It's as if these people are in awe of my beauty," Marcel remarked, a smug smirk on his lips. Who wouldn't stare at him? He was beautiful, it couldn't hurt him since he's always had a high confidence in his looks. "Isn't it true that people from here don't speak in utter honesty? Using backhanded complements is intriguing, I do prefer if they could say it to my face just for me to be honest as well."
"That's just a stereotype. I'm sure there are very nice people here, those said about people can turn out to be true or not, that's why it's never good to assume."
"Whatever you say, enough talking let's see what shops they have here! Maybe we can find matching kimonos for the two of us." Marcel pulled Émile by her wrist, dragging her along with him. He had gotten a burst of energy out of thin air, the two scurried off while leaving Kafka walking by himself, he let a small smile form before returning to a stoic expression.
While Marcel and Émile were busy exploring the area, Kafka decided to look around for himself.
The tall man looked intimidating to the villagers from afar, he was only observing them, and the look in his eyes could not be read. He stopped by a stall that sold traditional toys, run by an elderly man. Kafka walked right over while the old man was staring off into the distance, humming in a joyful tone. Kafka reached for a Kendama, holding it far from him as inspecting, giving it a few turns and spins. "Bemerkenswert." He held the handle and undid the string, bouncing the purple ball into the cup. On his first try, he got it in the cup.
Kafka didn't express his victory instead he let out a hum of delight, placing the toy back into its box with care, leaving the stall. The elderly man stood in shock.
"This one is too bright for me, I never knew vert could look so unpleasing, it's more of a summer tone than an autumn one. The pattern of fireworks in silver trim doesn't speak to me if the kimono was orange or some shade of yellow with gold instead then maybe, besides green is not a favorite color of mine." Marcel crossed his arms, his eyes had an unsatisfied look and his lips formed a straight line. He wasn't going to argue with the shopkeeper over fabric, he was too good for that.
He was curious about what Émile was doing, looking at postcards. "Both of these cards are lovely, I can't decide on which one I want, the bridge is stunning here. It looks like it was taken during spring which has beautiful cherry blossoms, all pink and warm tones. Although the one in autumn seems more fitting, the main tree in the photo is dyed with red hues in the leaves, and the other trees in the background are different shades of brown, yellow, and red." Émile ruminates out loud, they were excellent photos but she needed the perfect one eventually she opted for the autumn one, as it fit the current time.
"Is the postcard for your papa?" Marcel had a small smile, genuinely curious.
"They are in fact for him, it became a habit of sending these every time we go on travels. He rarely gets out of the house, always busy working on a project when he should be retired by his age." Émile looked Solemn as she placed the previous postcard back, her fingertips lingering.
"At least you have a papa who loves you and replies to your letters each time you send them." Marcel placed his hands on her shoulders, a friendly gesture. "Anyway, the medicine you send him does wonders if he can manage to keep up."
"The medicine does...work. I just get a little worried that he doesn't take them or takes too much of them." Émile paused. "What about your papa, Marcel? Does he write to you often?"
Marcel removed his hands on her shoulders, his hands behind his sides. "That old man doesn't care much about me! I couldn't care less about what he thinks, he only cares about the money he makes from creating medicine, all the love from my sweet mother is all I need, and besides..." He trailed off, his tone becoming quiet before returning to his usual flamboyant personality. "Let's go to a different shop, this one isn't worth it, just hurry up and buy your postcard."
Émile went up to the counter, paying the rightful amount. She clasped the hand of the cashier with a grateful smile. "Thank you very much! Please keep the change I gave you."
The cashier froze up when their hands met, she looked back down and then back at Émile, she gave a nod of her head and stood dumbfounded while Émile and Marcel left.
They were both walking down the village street, getting a few stares here and there, people wearing such fancy clothes. Marcel keeps an eye on the shops ahead, any clothing article that calls to him. So far, nothing.
What caught Marcel's attention was the two children behind him and Émile. Where were their parents? And most importantly, why are they talking so loudly?! He snapped his head to glare at them but they weren't going away.
"You dress so odd, sir." One said.
"You look like you live in the eighteen century." The second one chimed in.
"What makes you two know about fashion?! You both haven't been exposed to the glamour of designs! Look at what you're wearing, it feels like I'm looking at a painting made of a piece of rag!"
"Are you arguing with two children, sir?" The first boy asked Marcel, he pointed his finger at him as well.
"You're the one who started it first!"
"It's embarrassing, a grown man arguing with two children." The second one jeered, giggling along with his friend.
Marcel's eyes widen, his mouth left agape. The children were irking him, they knew what they were doing. They had smug expressions on their face and spoke loudly so everyone else could hear, just to embarrass him more. "Do you both even have manners?! In what sense would a child take so disrespectfully to an adult?!" He raised his voice, a temper getting to him. His face was getting more flustered at the three bickered, he looked like a kettle ready to blow steam. "I'll have ought to tell you are both little... des morceaux de merde qui méritent d'être punis de la manière la plus sévère-" Émile placed her hands on his back and urged Marcel to move, cutting his sentence. She moved hastily through the people who have they gotten attention from, a nervous smile playing on her lips, her eyes darting around to look for Kafka. "I am sorry for my friend! He's just in a bad mood today!"
"The lady was much nicer than that man."
"It was weird when he started speaking a different language though, it was like he was chanting a spell."
"Waah! You should have seen how they treated me, Monsieur Kafka! Those children were utterly cruel, cruel I tell you!" Marcel complained to Kafka, letting out a dramatic act with fake tears at the corners of his eyes. He clung onto Kafka in hopes he'd say something to lighten up his mood but his face froze when Kafka simply patted Marcel's shoulder. He did not know the feeling of comforting others. "It was rather amusing seeing how it all played out, mankind never fails to make me wonder more about them."
"It was you Marcel who started the petty argument over something, those children were only curious. It's like you said to them, they haven't been exposed to the clothes that you are wearing, so it can come off as bizarre to them." Émile piped in, she couldn't let Marcel's mood get ruined today, correcting his mistakes was one thing she wanted.
"Hmph," He let out a small huff, kicking a small pebble with his shoe. "I suppose you're correct." Marcel gazed off into the sky and then back at Émile. "You sometimes act as you were..." Ah, there he trailed off again, for the first time he was quiet.
Émile raised an eyebrow, she wondered what could he mean.
"We should move on to the hotel near Arashiyama Station, It's not a long walk from there. It will only take us twenty minutes to walk then we shall be dropped off in one of the lines that will lead us to the hiking trail. I hope you both enjoyed your fun but now we must rest easy to carry out our mission for tomorrow." Kafka suggested, turning on his heel to walk, his braid moving ever so at his movements. Émile and Marcel followed him without a question asked. They trusted Kafka with all their soul, their fates rested within his palms. He promised them a better future for their own lives only in return did they help him carry on toward his desire.
The outside of the hotel window was a grand point of the many trees that adorned the forest in their autumn colors, Seeing a pulchritudinous view can throb at the heart of a person, making it feel like it was a reverie that they weren't aware of. There are indeed many things that humans are not aware of, only those who learn what beauty is then they can see the world. The blindness of a fool cannot, there are those with lust-filled desires to watch the world crumble down to bits, greed that takes what is not theirs. All of that can be fixed if the world were rewritten by a god that listened to its people, not a false one. People who believe in god latch on to hope, to know that it will all be okay soon. Can you believe all will be well if you put your faith in something that turns out to be nothing untruth?
Émile had a firm hold on her pen, reading her postcard over before making sure it was good enough to be sent. Briefly, Émile explained her time traveling by sea finally reaching the bridge and the village that was nested. In each word, she provided details on the emotion she felt in each scene. In her efforts, she hoped that one day she could travel along with her father- The ever hard-working man who raised her, she only wished she could help him more. The medicine that Kafka provides for her father keeps Émile positive, she knows he will be okay, and caring about others was the strongest trait she had, neglecting her joy. She then thought back to what Marcel said earlier, she tapped the pen against her chin, a thoughtful expression. She'd had to ask him herself.
Émile knocked on his door, hoping he wasn't asleep yet. Her face lit up when the door opened.
"Em! I thought you were already sleeping, come in we can have chat over the deserts room I got. They are a bit dry in some areas, this hotel isn't the fanciest."
Émile and Marcel took a seat across from each other. They both have gotten an individual room. One bed, a bathroom, wide window, and decorated the bare minimum. Marcel swirls his wine in a glass cup, the crimson liquid is a mirror right back at him. "For a beautiful village, this place lacks a lot of color. They could have painted the walls but it looks like they got lazy with it. Unless it's supposed to look monotonous. What do you think about it?"
"I have to admit it's dull but we can admire how the grey can have its meaning. Some designs can look boring, but be that as it may, they can have a hidden message. We just have to look beyond the image, I'd like to talk about that a bit more but I came to ask you something." Émile stared into Marcel's periwinkle eyes, her hands forming fists as they rested on her knees. "You said that I acted like someone, if I can ask, who do I remind you of?"
Marcel stopped fidgeting with his wine glass, he was in between telling Émile the truth or a lie. If he were to place his hand inside Bocca della Verità, his hand would get bitten off by the single lie he utters from his lips. He can't lie, not in front of a person who accepts him as he is.
"You remind me of my brother."
Émile looked surprised. "ton frère?"
"oui, mon frère," Marcel replied in a quiet tone, his gaze drifting back to the cup in his hand. "We were twins, identical twins. No one could tell us apart and we played games and pranks on our parents and other family. Aubert was kind, rational, and accepting. He wanted to help others by following the footsteps of my father, he was everything my father wished for me to be. Except I want to follow my desire. To work with fabrics and silk, to be dressed in them. I wanted to dress and be me. I envied my brother for being normal while I turned abnormal." His voice cracked, he wasn't going to let any of his emotions out, he was fine. "During the summer a few years ago, we were sent to live with my uncle. My parents went traveling."
"I despise him down to my very core. He tried forcing me to change my view of my likes, always so demanding and so very harsh. The home always smelled like alcohol and cigarettes, he reeked I'm those scents as well. We'd argue on many things, from small to grand. One day, my brother ended up getting hurt just by protecting me. Monsieur Kafka appeared in my deary state. He offered to help me, he promised to help in return I helped him."
"I..." Émile had her words stuck in her throat, what can she say? Marcel needed someone to talk to, she needed to be there for him. With a ghost of a smile, she said: "It seems we both have to thank Monsieur Kafka for help. Not only that, he helped us from our dwellings. I am happy you see me as Aubert, I try my best to care for those around me. Since my mother passed away at an early age, I wanted to help my papa, he worked endlessly, tiring himself out till he collapsed. I joined Mimic, but being a photographer turned out to not be enough for the medicine he needed. I know what this work requires us to do, I never thought I would have the blood of others in my hands. It's all for my papa's sake."
Marcel's eyes closed in thought, a glint held in them as soon as they opened.
"Once we have the poem then everyone can be free from the judgment of the chains holding us down, we will be loved for who we are." He raised his glass, and for once a candid smile appeared on his lips.
Émile nodded, raising her cup of wine to clink it against Marcel's, a smile on her face. "And everyone will be able to live with their loved ones without the fear of losing them."
And everyone will live in peace, a perfect world.