Chapter Text
Suga awoke in the early morning hours, as the sky was just beginning to grey. He watched, from his bed lodged in the corner, across rows of sleeping boys, as the white star rose outside, flooding the somber room with a light that reminded him of loneliness. He pushed the sheets down from over him and sat up. The sky was anything but blue. All things seemed to be a duller shade of every color. Biting his lip, he sighed dejectedly. It was June 13th, and he was fairly certain that it was his birthday.
Later, when the matron came in, shaking a bell and some sagging body parts, Suga was still sitting and watching the sun. He pulled his clothes from the end of the bed and began to work them on, slowly, as the other boys clambered out of bed with tired moans. Suga was dressed and ready before any of them but he waited awhile, until another bell rang from downstairs and the boys began to rush out through the single wooden door in the center of the room. Falling into the back of the crowd, Suga followed the chatting voices downstairs, to a row of mistreated wooden tables. There he sat and ate something that tasted like wet gravel.
He felt a hand grab at his jacket sleeve as he dropped his half-full mush bowl into the disposal cart. He nearly lost his balance; the force of the grip was so strong. It dragged him mercilessly towards the foyer, to the front door, and out into the gloomy summer. Suga straightened up as the hand gave him a rough shove that sent him out onto the front walk.
“All right, moocher, get out,” said a voice as comely as its owner. The matron glared Suga down from the threshold of the building, a ladle in one hand. “You’re a grown man now, so you know where to go. Get gone.”
“But matron! We love Suga!” A voice cried from behind her, and she whirled around, spoon splashing grey matter in Suga’s direction. A drop hit his cheek and he shuddered.
“What, you want to go instead?!” She yelled at the small boy who had protested. He shrank back from her, whimpering, then ran off. Suga could still hear him wailing when the matron faced him once again. “You. You’re a man now.” Suga wished he could have heard those words from his father, or his mother, or any family member. Anyone other than Matron. From her they were cold and unfeeling; from his family, he was sure they would have sounded proud. “Off to the factory with you.”
“I don’t want to go to the factory,” replied Suga, quietly but firmly. “I’m going to find my family.”
“Oh, really?” The matron’s left eyebrow inched up mockingly. Then, suddenly, she glared. “After all I’ve done for you, feeding you, clothing you, for ten years! Tch!” She spat towards him and Suga leapt back. Still, his reflexes failed him, and her wad of spit landed neatly on his pants. “Go on, get out. Make some use of yourself.” She paused, a cruel smile dancing on her lips. “No one’s waiting for you in Paris, stupid boy. The only people waiting are your new bosses at the factory. So get gone, before you lose that too.” With that, the matron turned and slammed the door.
Suga sighed. He hadn’t expected any more or less of Matron; she was ruthless, no matter the situation. His fingers reached instinctively for the gold chain around his neck; at the very end glistened a pendant reading “Together In Paris.” He shook his head. “Someone must be waiting for me,” he whispered, tracing the letters with the brittle nail of his index finger. “Someone has to love me, to have given me this.”
As Suga made his way down the road, heading for the factory only because he had no idea where else to go, he kicked the dust in the road up aimlessly. Clouds of it wafted around his knees; he could hardly see his feet. He sighed again. “I wish someone would give me a sign.” As he began once again to trace across the letters on the pendant with his fingernail, he heard a sharp sound, like a bark, that startled him. He stopped suddenly, glancing around, and through the clouds of dirt he saw a small dog, brown with grey spots, panting expectantly at his toes.
“Hey!” said Suga, smiling down at the creature. The dog looked up, equally as happy, his tongue dangling from his open mouth. “Are you lost?” The dog barked again and he chuckled. “Sorry, I don’t speak dog.” The puppy — he couldn’t have been older than a year, Suga surmised — jumped at his legs, resting his paws on Suga’s thighs. “What?”
In a flash, the dog had turned and started off down the street, towards a crossroads only several meters off in the distance. He stopped at the two signs and barked again. Suga glanced up at the sign dividing the fork: one way indicated that it led to factories and farms in the countryside, where he was supposed to go; the other…
Tokyo.
“I’ve never been to Tokyo,” Suga mused, and the dog let out an oddly encouraging woof. “At least I don’t think I have.” With a sad hum, he turned towards the road leading to the factory. “It was nice meeting—” he began to say, when canine teeth sank into his pants and his leg. He yowled, trying to pull free of the hound, who seemed to have surprising strength for his miniscule size. “Hey!” Letting go, the dog bounded down the opposite road, the one marked with the sign reading Tokyo.
“I’m not going there,” insisted Suga, hardly thinking of whether the dog understood him. “I’m going to a factory. To do work.” The dog barked almost angrily, as if to say: no you’re not.
After staring down the stalwart dog for several silent seconds, Suga finally understood. A sign. He followed the animal down the road to marked Tokyo. “I guess you’re right, huh. If I want to find my family, I should find out how to get to Paris. Not how to make fabrics.” A yap of assent. “Do you have a name?” He could have sworn the dog shook its head. “Well, how about… Pooka?” Pooka yelped once more, excitedly, and ran off ahead of Suga, who found himself running worriedly after a pet he had only just adopted.
It was Sunday when the sound of a city finally filled Suga’s ears. He had been straining to listen since Wednesday, convinced every day that today was the day. Four days had failed him, but Sunday did not disappoint. From the back of a wooden cart, belonging to a gentle man who had looked pityingly at the holes in Suga’s shoes, he gasped at buildings much taller than he had ever seen. He gaped in awe at the sight of sheets not marred with filth fluttering in and out of open windows. Looming far beyond the bustle was an extravagantly large structure, adorned with colors he was convinced he had never seen. That must be the palace, thought Suga. He had heard about the fall of the empire, that ten years ago the emperor and his family had been overthrown and killed. But from the outskirts, Tokyo appeared peaceful. No warring families, no men in armor fighting down oppressors. Suga could hardly imagine a war happening here.
The kind man let Suga off near the train station, with a heartwarmingly worried “take care.” Pooka, bounding behind Suga, weaved between the careless feet of the civilians. Pushing his way to the other side of the crowd, Suga leaned wearily on the counter of the ticket booth.
“I need a ticket to Kanazawa, please,” he asked breathily. The man behind the glass shook his head, and Suga started. “What? Why?”
“No trains are going out this time of day, boy,” he replied, nodding to the sky behind Suga, where the sun was glowing orange with the day’s end. “Try tomorrow.”
“B-but…”
“Hey, kid, sorry, I can’t help you.”
“I don’t have anywhere to stay!”
“Find a place. And then come back tomorrow.”
Suga slumped, but nodded, and with a small bow backed away from the window. He began to stroll mournfully towards the street, where the traffic was beginning to thin as the sun dipped behind the roofs of Tokyo. As he reached an alley, he ducked in, Pooka behind him, and buried his face in his hands.
“Pooka, what are we going to do?” The dog, to Suga’s misery, had no reply. “We don’t have enough money for a room tonight.” He dropped his hands, his lips quivering anxiously. “We probably don’t even have enough money for a ticket… What do we do?”
“First, you get papers,” said a raspy voice from down the alley. Suga jumped, backing away towards the street. With a whimper, Pooka leapt into his arms; he then began to growl lowly, prompting Suga to hush him. Drifting towards them was a short woman, old and wrapped in a thin shawl. “Then you can get a ticket.”
“Papers?”
“Yes, identification papers.”
“Where do I get those? I… I’m not from here.”
“Go see Daichi-san. He’ll make them for you. Cheaper than the government, and less difficult to get, too.”
“Dai- who?”
“Daichi. He works in the old palace.” The woman gave Suga a half-toothed smile and passed him by with surprising speed, disappearing into the small crowd still moving down the street. He could have sworn he heard a faint “good luck” as her last strand of white-grey hair flicked around the corner. Still cradling Pooka, he gave the alley a cursory scan that cumulated in nauseated disgust; the ground shone with a mysterious sticky liquid and the walls crumbled in a menacing fashion. Suga promptly stumbled out into the street, unexpectedly revolted. Quickly, he began walking towards the palace, while the sun colored the bored city buildings orange as it sank into the earth.
When he last reached the palace gates, the sun had been replaced by his sister, who cast a cold white glow across the length of everything in sight. Suga had expected the moon to be dimmer, at least in contrast to the yellowy lamplight emanating from the buildings now below him. But as he grazed the constellations with a glance, the moon seemed brighter than he had ever seen her. Something swelled inside him and he smiled, suddenly warm in his threadbare coat.
The ostentatious doors were unhinged; they lay recklessly on the ground outside of the gates. Suga and Pooka, who was now trotting quietly behind his human companion, crossed the lawn slowly, dodging scraps of wood and metal, tall grass brushing past the dog’s head. As they reached the palace, Suga could see the windows and doors boarded up with rotting wood. Checking around the perimeter, Suga found an entrance to one side where the last remaining slab of wood looked in danger of falling apart. He grasped it firmly in his hands and peered into the darkened building. “Daichi?” he called. “Daichi-san? Hello?”
He leaned in further, to peer into the blackness, and Pooka shot between his legs and up through a space in the boards. “Pooka, no!” Instinctively, Suga reached for him, the wood pressing on his chest until it cracked with a dissatisfying rip, wet splinters flying haphazardly around him. With a gasp he lost his balance, tumbling forward through the now-wide-open entryway. He fell to his hands and knees, panting, as Pooka’s barks and tapping claws began to echo further and further away from him. “Pooka!” he called, still breathing heavily, looking up at the room.
The air was visible in front of him with particles of dust lacing it; in fact, they covered everything in sight. Still, the darkness was more potent, and Suga could hear the sound of his voice traveling, could feel the great emptiness of a huge hall, but could not see beyond several feet in front of him. As his eyes began to adjust, the vastness before him became clearer, even in total blackness. It seemed to continue endlessly. Tables lined with abandoned unidentifiable treasures stretched on and on, as the sound of Pooka’s paws kept growing fainter.
Scrambling to his feet, Suga began to follow the dog’s receding pawsteps, half-stumbling, half-running, cutting the air with cautious hands in front of him. He gasped when, after what seemed like minutes of searching, he collided with a wall. He felt his way left, then right, finally finding a door and slipping his fingers around the knob to open it.
This room was nothing like the last. It was bright, though somehow illuminated by nothing but moonlight. The natural white light glistened off of silver platters with white gold handles. A series of high-up windows, taller than any human, lined what was clearly a giant party room. Hints of once-vibrant décor glimpsed through the drabness of the dark. But everything here was now defunct, left to gather and house insects. Pooka, who Suga noticed was hunched off in a corner by a table, looked to be desperately in search of them. He felt a stab of guilt for not having been able to feed the dog—a pang he felt in his own empty stomach, as well.
As eerie and sad as Suga found the scene, something about it struck him as uncomfortably familiar, as if he had seen this place once, when it had been as lively as its ornamentations suggested. The tiles felt in place under his feet and even the air, now stuffy with age and dust, smelled of… a forgotten memory. He folded his arms, now standing in the middle of the expansive room, glancing around ponderously. Just as he began to sink into a memory—or perhaps it was a dream—of a party years ago, a voice cut through his reverie.
“Hey! Hey! Who are you? What are you doing here?”