Archive of Our Own

“…reports that while anti-corruption bodies across various states have had some good wins, they have also had problems with mistakes, unfairness, and a lack of accountability. The inquiry into former premier Lujack Bosjeman has a deadline to report by morning, but the commission wants to issue a statement saying it has been extended due...”

“Forger?”

With a little jolt, Anya snaps her focus back to the dining table where her eyes immediately land on Damian. The foreign voice in her ears disappears in an instant and she begins to hear the soft murmur of her surroundings once again – muffled conversation, silver cutleries against porcelain plates, soft piano notes, clink of wine glasses – she’s back in the present.

Damian tips his head towards a tux-dressed waiter standing at the tableside. “Don’t keep him waiting.”

Anya looks down at the menu and realizes she hasn’t moved a page from the appetizer section. She flashes a courteous smile at the waiter before coming up with a cautious “I’ll just have the same as him” as she slams the book shut without taking a second glance.

The waiter keeks at Damian for confirmation and as though he has predicted it, Damian revises her order to a hamburg steak without the steamed carrot – her go-to meal wherever they go. The waiter replies with an acknowledging nod and jots their order down on a notepad. Anya wonders if such elite fine dining will have such comfort food, but they never answer Damian with a no.

While the waiter is restating their order, Anya covertly browses through the room, hunting for the owner of the mind she was just reading. Doesn’t take a minute to spot a familiar face. Four o’clock from her seat. A lanky middle-aged with a wizard-like nose whose photograph was pinned on a board coded “Confidential Informant” back at the homebase. As per memo under his photo reads, he lacks of presence despite his discernible physique which helps his operation to go undetectable. What an unfortunate coincidence for him to be espied by a mindreader tonight.

Sitting across the informant is another man dressed in an all-black suit. Can’t be the State Security Service since they’re smart enough not to dress in all-black – at least that’s how her father would say – or think; doesn’t matter since she can hear both. Whereas Anya can’t identify him from his back, her father on the other hand would be able to – precisely and with no sweat – put a name to a stranger from his slouching posture or from the way he taps his toe.

If only inheriting half of his ability wasn’t a preposterous wish.

When Anya turns back to the table, Damian has his gaze fixed on her for God knows how long; both elbows on the table, fingers interlaced with his chin rested on top – unwavering, watching.

Uh-oh.

She quickly adjusts herself on the seat. “Sorry, I thought I saw–”

“–Someone I know,” Damian finishes with exactly what she’s about to say – word for word, a spontaneous phrase, her go-to.

See? A preposterous wish.

Anya forces her smile to stay and Damian lets out a chuckle that sounds more like a sigh, finally shifting his eyes away from her “Take your time. Not being able to sit still is your natural trait after all. I’m already used to it,” he says before taking a sip from his goblet glass.

Damian seems exhausted – in fact, he never seems to have enough rest especially after starting his own company at the beginning of the year, all the while still taking charge of his family’s political affairs. His secretary once told her that Damian often starts working before sunrise and doesn’t stop long after sundown with no discrimination between weekdays and weekends. Tonight too, it’s just a random Wednesday night in-between Damian’s packed schedule.

Always needs to be somewhere, always needs to meet someone – he has fully grown out of Eden’s Imperial Scholar Damian and becomes the Damian Desmond.

“Please excuse my interruption.”

A waiter arrives at the tableside with the appetizer; two bowls of soup of the day. The creamy smell of mushroom soup makes Anya’s stomach growl loud enough for Damian to curl up one corner of his lips. It’s a bit too late for dinner and Anya has vacuumed a jar of peanut butter cookies while waiting for Damian to pick her up. Nevertheless, now that a delightful meal is presented before her, only fools would suppress the urge to indulge in every bite.

“I’m sorry I had to cancel last weekend,” Anya says before devouring her first spoonful of soup.

“Can’t be helped.” Damian shrugs. “Is everything okay at the research center?”

“Yeah, totally, totally. It was just–like–um,” Anya twirls her spoon trying to find the right word. “An urgent report, or something. But totally fine.”

Those are one lie and one truth.

Anya has told Damian that she works at a research center – that’s the truth. She gets paid a handsome amount for doing research. What he doesn’t know though, rather than being the one who does the study, she’s the one being studied. To put it simply, a test subject. Nothing suspicious or illegal whatsoever, her father and mother even verified the agreement to be beneficial and co-signed the contract.

But Damian doesn’t need to know that. Not ever.

Now, regarding the statement that she’s at the research center last weekend – that’s a lie. Research center is closed during weekends and public holidays. There’s rarely an urgent report especially being the test subject itself – the report should be written about her.

Last weekend, she was in the north of the city. Alongside her mother, with a three-inches self-defense blade and a blood-stained dress, she was pursuing for the mastermind of human traffickers that specialized in abducting the children of politicians. Damian would be in danger if he was ten years younger – in fact, he would be their principal target.

But Damian doesn’t need to know that. Not ever.

“You know, Becky was in town earlier this month,” Anya redirects the subject before Damian can probe any further into her lies.

Damian lifts an eyebrow. “Blackbell?” he asks as if there’s another ‘Becky’. “That’s surprising. After her marriage with that foreigner, I was certain she would never land her feet in Ostania ever again. Not to mention her clothing line kicked off overseas. You should be glad she remembers you.”

“Of course she remembers me!” Anya snaps, throwing a small piece of her garlic bread at him who laughs soundlessly at her outburst. He quickly draws a finger to his lips, trying to shush her since her fit attracts couple pairs of squinting eyes. Anya waits for them to withdraw before leaning over the table with one hand cupping her mouth. “She doesn’t have a lot of friends to remember,” she whispers to which Damian replies with a knowing look. They both giggle as quietly as possible.

“Too bad you were the one who was out town. She missed you,” Anya continues as she stirs her probably last spoonful of soup. It never makes sense to her how luxurious restaurant always serves the least amount of portion.

Damian rolls his eyes. “I’ll be fine even if she didn’t.”

“She did.” Because she really did. “She didn’t say it out loud but I know.” Because Anya could hear her.

For a second Anya notices how Damian’s smile weakens. “Of course, you know,” he mutters, so soft Anya barely catches it. Then, before Anya can spit out whatever word to save herself, his smile returns softly. With louder voice, he adds, “You didn’t stay by her side almost every day during your twelve years in Eden for nothing.”

Oh. “I sure did, didn’t I?”

The same waiter reappears just in time before the air grows awkward, now carrying a tray of main dishes: a high-class tenderloin steak for Damian and a carrot-less hamburg steak for Anya.

“Just so you know, I only got rid of your carrot to–,”

“–reduce food waste. Ya, I know.” He’s been saying that ever since they were two kids eating lunch at school cafeteria. “Do you ever wonder how many carrots you have saved after all these years?”

“You should be wondering why you still can’t eat carrots after all these years.”

I can only eat them if you don’t keep taking away my carrots, scion boy.

Truthfully, Anya has gotten over her hatred towards carrots long time ago – her father used to prevent her from leaving the dining table without emptying her plate. Damian doesn’t know this and Anya doesn’t bother to correct him – something hinders her from telling, a certain feeling in her chest that arises whenever she watches Damian getting rid of carrots for her, not because that she doesn’t have to eat carrots, but because of Damian cares enough to do so. He cares. He has always been ever since forever.

“Anyway, you’re coming for Christmas, right?”

Anya tilts her head. “Christmas?”

“Christmas. To the family gathering since you couldn’t make it last summer.”

Oh. The Desmonds.

“Yeah, yeah, sure. I’ll come.” She wonders if she will.

“Mmhm ‘kay. Good.” Damian nods, sipping from his glass again to suppress his widening smile. “My grandparents have been constantly demanding me to bring you, and so have the extended family. They give me headache and I’m running out excuses. It’s time for you to meet them”

Demanding.

Anya doubts that’s a good sign.

The streets are talking and they don’t talk well about her family. Regardless of the sayings such as ‘no family is perfect’, there’s always something wrong with the Forgers: how Anya doesn’t inherit any of her parents’ features (which is obvious), how her parents often work on weekend (on mission), how Anya is often seen wandering around with adults (on mission), on how the family rarely interacts with neighbors (too busy with missions).

The upper-class loves to listen to the streets and the Desmonds are no exception. They’ve most likely learned so much about Anya that she won’t know what to say in her introduction speech. Media and public interest is scary enough but nothing will top the curiosity of the Desmond’s family.

“…running away to the south east island…”

Anya’s ears perk up. She turns to the informant’s table only to spot half-eaten plates and empty wine glasses.

“’s wrong?” Damian asks through mouthful of meat. “Restroom?”

“Oh, it’s nothing. I was just–”

“…the ship will depart at midnight. The ex-premier is heading to the north harbor with black Merchedes-Benz 770. The license number is…”

Not until she looks out the window that she marks the man in an all-black suit on the sidewalk, just in time before he hops into a suspicious minivan. If it requires him an informant to gather information regarding the corruption case of the ex-premier, the chances are he’s from an opposing political party, which might be bad news now that he’s after the ex-premier.

And when you can read people’s mind, you can’t anymore enjoy the bliss of ignorance.

“Restroom?”

This time, Anya nods, holding her stomach as she arises from her seat.

With his serrated knife, Damian points at one corner of the room. “Take your time. I’m used to it.”

Immediately, Anya dashes in the direction Damian has pointed before making a sneaky turn to the entrance door. November breeze greets her bare skin as soon as she exits the premises. With thumping heart and quick short steps, she sprints through the pavement, occasionally hissing a ‘sorry’ to pedestrians her shoulder accidentally bumps onto. The clacks of her heels grow louder as she enters a less-busier avenue until it finally stops before an empty telephone box.

“Miss Forger?” says a man on the other side of the call. “You’re not scheduled for any mission tonight, are you?”

“I’m not, but this is urgent. Can you connect me to the boss lad– I mean, Handler?”

“Say what you need, you are on loudspeaker.” She hears Sylvia’s voice at the back.

 “Okay.” She blows out her nervousness through her mouth. “About the Horseman–”

“Horseman?”

“Bojack Horseman. The ex-premier.”

“Oh, Lujack.”

“So, I coincidentally overheard the informant with wizard nose talking to a man dressed in all black that the investigation about the Horseman’s corruption has been prolonged. And I think the Horseman is about to flee to the south-east island, which I know is not really our problem until I witness the man in black getting picked up by this iffy minivan – the kind that bad men use to abduct children – and it seems that he’s going after the horse.”

Wizard, horse, a minivan to abduct children. She knows describing things and remembering names is not her best forte. It’s understandable why the first reaction she received is solid silence. Anya waits for them to digest her words, if it’s even digestible at all.

“That’s surely not good news.” She hears Sylvia’s voice again, slightly louder than before, she probably has moved closer to the microphone. “The ex-premier has become a pro-war activist after stepping down from the office. I can’t tell exactly what this man-in-black’s objective is but harming the ex-premier would alert a false signal to the pro-war parties.” 

“Would you like to send off our agents to investigate?”

“The Horse is going to the north harbor. Black Benz. Ship leaves midnight.”

“You heard her.”

With that, the man starts making orders to the people in the room, and Anya’s heartbeat gradually slows down as she listens to the chatter on the other side of the call.

“Good work, little miss Forger.” It seems that Sylvia holds the phone now. Anya’s face lightens with a proud beam.

“Thank y–“

“Not a very wise move, though,” Sylvia cuts her sentence. “We only agree to allow you on mission as long as you’re safeguarded. That’s a promise we make with your father – no to endanger you. That’s why please refrain from endangering yourself. You shouldn’t meddle in mission that’s not assigned to you.”

She words it like a reminder, but Anya knows it’s a warning. Something in her chest sinks.

“I know,” she mutters. “It won’t happen again.”

*

Anya returns to Damian with no appetite and it only takes Damian thirty-seconds to notice it. He then orders the waiter to clear the table and fetch their coats. To Anya, he asks no questions. He never asks questions.

In front of the 128 Park Avenue building – the apartment complex where the Forgers reside – just when the couple is about to part, Damian gestures to Anya to hold out her hand. She obeys absentmindedly, almost like a puppy handing out a paw. Damian pulls something out of his pocket and places it on her palm.

Chocolate candy with a peanut drawn on the pack.

“It’s the company’s new product. Your favorite, but better. There’s a twist inside,” he says, sounding proud of his invention – as he should. After all, he invents and develops all of the products his company markets.

The packaging reads dark chocolate and peanut butter – nothing too special except for the unusual soft pink wrapping. Damian watches intently as Anya unwraps the candy and pops it into her mouth. The couple stares silently at each other as the chocolate melts, as if waiting for something to happen, until it does.

She shoots him a wide-eyed look which lights sparks on Damian’s face.

“Eh, what’s this? Strawberry jelly?” Anya guesses through closed mouth. Damian doesn’t answer but from the way he stands there with arms folded and smug-filled chuckle, it’s obvious her answer is spot on.

Having a taste of something sweet, something crops up in her mind and she snaps her fingers at the memory. She rummages through her handbag, fishing out something that seems to be enveloped in tissue paper. She hands over the item to Damian.

“And why are you giving me your trash?”

“It’s not a trash! Open it first!” she snaps and Damian does so hesitantly. Inside the tissue are peanut-butter cookies – the one she’s snacked on while waiting for Damian. With a proudful grin, she tells him, “Papa made that and best believe he’s the best baker in town. Specifically for peanut sweets – he still tops you in that area.”

Damian lets out a long relieved sigh, flicking her forehead. “At least use something more hygienic for food.”

“That is a clean tissue!”

“Good, at least she’s smiling again.”

Her breathing halts, every inch of her body stiffens in place.

Uh-oh. She didn’t mean to do that.

This kind of eavesdropping – she doesn’t do that anymore – peeking into someone’s heart, listening to their inner voice. She has promised herself to use her power only for missions, for the world’s peace as claimed in her vow. Regardless, even after all those training, people's voices leak into her ears every so often.

“Isn’t her nose flushed? Is she cold? Damn, I should’ve let her wear my coat. It’s pointless to give it to her now.”

Anya fakes a cough and buries her face under her scarf, darting her gaze somewhere between oak trees lining the avenue, concealing whatever expression she’s showing at the moment.

“Ugh, work is like hell before holiday season. We probably won’t be meeting each other until Christmas. But at least, I finally get to introduce her to the family.”  

Showing up at Desmonds’ family gathering is the bare minimum she can do for Damian. She should make it this time. If anything, it’s for Damian.

“Well, Christmas is a perfect time. It’s the only time when everyone gathers.”

Everyone. Every single one of Desmonds?

“It’s a perfect time for proposal.”

Anya slaps her mouth with her own two hands, eyes round in shock, her gasp was loud enough to snatch attention from few passersby and witch Damian into a standing stone. Time stops. Heavy silence.

“Uh? Forger?” Damian reaches out his hand towards Anya and just like a stray cat, she startles before the touch.

“Sorry, my–my curfew,” Anya blurts out whatever. Damian knows she doesn’t have one.

Yet without waiting for any response, she spins her heels and disappears into the building.

*

Bond is the first one to bid her welcome, launching his huge body into Anya right after she’s opened the front door, pushing her few steps backward until she collapses on her bottom. He must have pictured the future because now that he’s older, his sense of smell and hearing are no longer as sharp as it used to be.

Her mother is the second to show up, hair down with shoulders covered in throw blanket, drowsy smile welcoming her daughter home. Garden hasn’t entrusted her with any mission since the trafficker case last week, but it seems that the work at City Hall leaps up as the end of the year approaches. Still, she doesn’t go to sleep before her daughter. Neither does the father.

“Loid is waiting for you in his study,” Yor says as she helps Anya with her coat.

“Can I just–“ Anya pauses unsurely, grabbing Yor by her sleeves. “talk to him in the morning?”

Yor bends slightly to level their height. She takes Anya’s hand into her own and gives an encouraging squeeze. “Just tell him you’re home and say good night?”

There’s no point in running away. Anya answers her mother with a weak nod before trudging down the corridor toward her father’s room alongside Bond.

“What do you think you were doing?” is Loid’s opening sentence when he sees his daughter. It’s obvious what he’s referring to. There’s no point in acting dumb. Anya locks her eyes downward as her fingers run through Bond’s white fur over and over.

“Do you know what could have happened?”

“All I did was make a call!” Anya finally musters enough courage to face her father. “I heard their inner voice by accident. All I did was make a call! It’s not a big deal, no one got hurt!”

“I’m talking about what could have happened!” Loid raises his voice. “It might be easy for Yor and I and the organizations to rescue you, but you were with Damian. You were putting him in danger, Anya!”

“Papa, can we not talk about this right now?”

“If anything happened to him – if he suddenly became a target and he’s neither on WISE nor Garden’s radar then whose fault would it be? Who would’ve saved him? Are you going to save him?”

Rather than anger, the way Loid speaks sounds crestfallen, and it stabs her chest deeper. Tears start to bead Anya’s eyes, blurring her vision before it streams down her cheeks and drop into the floor.

A knock on the door stops Loid from continuing. Yor pokes her head into the room, face crumpled in worry. When she catches the sight of Anya tearing up, she immediately lets herself in and wraps an arm around her daughter, whispering ‘It’s okay’ next to her ear.

“Loid, Sylvia said she’s already reflecting on it. Let’s not be so harsh.”

“It’s because she doesn’t understand if we don’t tell her over and over, Yor.”

Anya is sobbing louder in Yor’s embrace and somehow both of her parents seem to understand that Anya is not upset because of Loid’s scolding. They know their own daughter. After years of living and growing older together, they know how getting in trouble has been Anya’s routine, and being disciplined and grounded won’t break her. Not like this. And they both know better than to ask.                                                                                        

The clock marks 2 A.M. when Anya eventually calms down. She has her duvet cloaking her body as she watches the empty street and hushed night alone from her bedroom window. Her cheeks tingle from the amount of crying for whatever reason she herself can’t clearly comprehend – even after hours of dwelling on the same question: why am I crying?

When she overheard Damian mentioning that word – proposal – is when she felt like losing grasp on everything, like losing grasp on balloons’ strings and everything flies out of her reach. Why exactly? Why does she feel that way?

Proposal.

Through her academic years in Eden, Becky has been proposed to six times, at least to Anya’s knowledge, all by older men. The first came when they were in eight-grade. Becky was as young as thirteen and her pivotal worry was whether the date of midterm exam would clash with the concert date of her favorite musician. She flat out rejected the marriage offer because that time she believed that she and that certain musician were connected by ‘red string of fate’ or whatever. Yet, even after she’s moved on from that musician, she still rejected all marriage offers.

“Saying ‘yes’ to a proposal will cost your forever,” Becky once told Anya. They were in tenth grade and the girls of their age liked to chatter about boys and matchmaking parties.

“What if you said yes to the wrong person?” Anya asked.

“Well, divorce is possible but it’s frowned upon in this country, you know? The Register Office rarely approves. Believe me, my second-cousin-once-removed went through the administration and it was not a pleasurable experience. Not to mention how the society treats you once you are a divorcee. On top of that, a woman divorcee.”

“Then, how will you know if the person is the right one?”

Becky chuckled at Anya’s untypical question, pinching her closest friend’s cheek. “You’ll know when you experience it yourself, Anya. Anyone’s you want to marry – or at least, date right now?”

“No one comes into the picture.”

“That’s what I thought. Don’t worry about it. You have your whole youth to figure it out.”

Anya huffed at the unsatisfying answer but Becky’s right. It’s nothing important to be worrying about. “Anyway, why was your second cousin removed from the family?”

Until this moment, Anya has witnessed three proposals: Becky’s, her parents’ (the real one, not that time with grenade’s safety pin), and Bondman actor’s (live on television). All the women answer with a ‘yes’ – crystal clear and beyond doubt, as if they have known it their whole life. Even Becky answered ‘yes’ to that foreign entrepreneur everyone was awfully skeptical about.

Still, Becky is happy. Her marriage was blessed, lavish, and blissful. She has sent tons of picture-perfect postcards and long handwritten letters about the new adventures she’s experienced with the loving husband. Becky chose to settle on the right choice. So did her mom. So did Bondman’s actor.

Then what about her? What about Damian?

Saying ‘yes’ to a proposal will cost your forever

*

It might be the clearest sky that spring ever had, as if it’s been reserved only for Eden’s graduation day. The ceremony had just concluded, leaving carefree cheers and parting cries mixed in the crowd. Anya walked hand-in-hand with Becky to the front gate, both without their parents: Becky’s were out on business trip and Anya’s out for missions.

Becky halted midway and cast her gaze towards their school building, standing posh and tall under the sun. “Now that we have graduated. This school sure is a mad house,” she said, squinting her eyes either at the bright light or the building.

Anya furrowed her brow at her remark. “That means we are insane.”

“That’s why we were meant to be here.” Becky’s reply dissolved them into laughter.

“Graduating and still as noisy as ever. Maybe you should retake the exam to make sure your diploma is not a mistake.” Emile appeared from behind them, Ewen beside him. The duo didn’t have their parents accompanying as well. Damian was walking after them. His parents of course were out of the question.

“Oh, shut it, Elman. Graduating and still Damian’s minion, I see. Talk to me when you have stolen the moon.”

“Don’t you mention Damian-sama with such disrespect, Blackbell!”

Graduating and still no peace, Anya thought to herself. Despite that, the noise of their bickering always sounded peaceful to her. Maybe because she was used to it. Or maybe because she knew her peers actually didn’t hate each other – not even in their minds. She knew Becky, Emile, and Ewen were genuinely nice people.

“Why are you smiling stupidly like that?” Damian knocked the top of Anya’s head with his diploma tube. Anya hissed at the impact and glared at him. That’s when Damian spotted the faint red specks on her green eyes. He drew his face closer to hers. “Were you crying? Did tear up while listening to my graduation speech?”

“Oh, Anya slept through that boring ted talk. She was snoring loud by my side,” Becky chimed in, making sure to remark the snoring part to tease him.

“Don’t you dare call Damian-sama’ s speech boring!” Ewen barked with index finger pointing sharply at Becky. “He worked hard to get the highest exam score to deliver such a touching speech – fools like you will never get it!”

“Yeah? Like you surely did not doze off, did you Egeburg?”

Anya pushed Damian slightly by his chest to put more space between them. “It’s lack of sleep. I was watching License to Kill on midnight broadcast. The one’s about taking down a drug lord,” she lied – she was helping her mother take down a drug lord herself. The mission came up urgent and was still ongoing. It’s what her parents were working on at the moment, but Anya had a ceremony to attend.

Damian studied her face, almost as if he could see through her deceit. As he straightened up, he grabbed one of Anya’s hands, took a small item out of his cloak, and placed it on her open palm.

A stick of lollipop in pink wrapping.

“The dorm mother gave that to me after my speech and just so you know I gave that to you because I don’t eat sweet–“

“Hold out your hand, I’ll give you something in return.” Anya dug into her skirt pocket before pulling something out and passing it to him.

Damian’s brow wrinkled in confusion. “Do you have a habit of gifting people with trash?”

“It’s not a trash! Count the leaf first!” Anya snapped and Damian did so. Four leaves. It’s a four-leaf clover. “I found it at the bus stop this morning. I thought it was only a summer thing. I read that it brings good luck and I’m sure you’ll need one.”

His face turned deadpan. “It’s a leaf, Forger.”

“It’s a plant, scion boy! You received a lot of flowers today, right? Those are plants. This is a plant. There is literally no difference!”

Damian blew a long breath through his mouth, holding back arguing because he knew better. Instead, he stretched out his hand and flicked her forehead.

“Anyway guys!” Becky clapped her hand together cheerfully. It never made sense how her mood could swing like a light switch. “Now that we, the busy-parents squad, have gathered. Why don’t we go celebrate our graduation together? Preferably, something out of the box. Like, going to the ocean? Or karaoke?”

“Blackbells!” Emile gasped. “I can’t believe you suggested that. Of course we can’t go karaoke, the teachers are going to–“ he pause open-mouthed, tilting his head before quietly carrying on with, “What will the teacher do if we go karaoke, like, right now?” He lifted the diploma in his hand.

“I don’t know, Emile, maybe they will put you in detention tomorrow. Helping the dorm mother with laundry?” Ewen winked at Damian who groaned and rolled his eyes at the banter.

“Then karaoke it is. Let’s go!” Becky raised both of her hands, beckoning the group to follow her out of the premises. Her driver must had been waiting for her at the sideroad.

Anya looked up at the school building once again. Mad house. Not exactly wrong she’d say. It had been an insane twelve years and she wondered how she managed to stay alive and breathing. Her father indeed had lost several years of his life making sure the institution didn’t kick her out.

Post Operation Strix, she wasn’t sure about the point of staying at this extortionate school. Her parents had left her to decide whether to leave or stay because they apparently believed she knew the best for herself. She was younger and dumber and she chose to stay. She’s glad that she did. After screaming, crying, and occasionally throwing up before exam, she’s glad that she stayed.

“Anya! Let’s go!” Becky called from the front gate.

Anya was about to run after Becky when Damian stopped her with a tug on her cloak. She stumbled backward but Damian caught her with his arm, at the same time drawing his face to her again, and this time, he planted a kiss on her cheek.

“I’ll take that instead,” Damian said as he helped Anya regain her balance.

She could feel her whole body heating up. Anya rubbed the spot Damian’s lips touched and felt hot blood under the skin. “Gosh, scion boy! Becky’s going to kick you for that! She said if you ever do something weird, she’s going to kick your bottom for me.” Her mother would do worse, but Damian didn’t need to know that.

“My wha–I didn’t mean to–come on! I–It’s not something weird, I mean, I just–“ Damian fumbled for words, ears as crimson as the rose bouquet he’d been receiving, body moving as stiff as the school’s rules. Anya tittered at his reaction.

“Come on now,” She held out her hand. “I won’t tell Becky if you sing Spy Wars theme song with me. No excuses. I know you have memorized the lyrics.”

Damian took her hand in his. “Just so you know, I only remember the lyrics because you made me do it.”

*

The Clock Tower dings for the twelfth time. Midnight. As per agreement, a gangling man pops up from one alleyway. He slithers across the vacant square park with both arms protectively clamping a metal briefcase. The shade from his cowboy hat covers the upper-half of his face, causing more hassle in verifying his identity – except for a telepath.

“Twilight Papa, I’ve confirmed the person,” Anya reports through a handheld transceiver. She is surveilling from the balcony of a local confectionery shop facing the park.

Disguised Loid steps out from the shadow of the overgrown trees and pads under the golden streetlights, dragging his feet to make his plastic protruding belly appears more real. The scraping noise of this pantoffle against the asphalt announces his arrival to the gangling man.

“Mr. Vogt,” Loid greets with a fake gruff voice. “Fancy seeing you on this beautiful winter night.”

“Q–Quit the chitchat and hand over the money, Deputy Leader Kutschaty.” Vogt snarls, squeezing the briefcase tighter onto his chest. He was trembling and sweating in defiance of the cold. When Loid tries to bring himself closer, Vogt trusts his right hand into his coat which alerts the agent for the possibility of a firearm.

Anya immediately reads Vogt’s mind and confirms the presence of a revolver. With Sylvia’s approval to proceed, Loid carefully passes a thick paperbag to him and Vogt snatches the bag hungrily like a cat towards a dried fish. He peeps inside to ensure it’s packed up with money he’s been promised. He must be in hurry because without checking the amount, he drops the briefcase to the ground and bolts back to the alleyway.

“Stupid official! Good luck with starting a conspiracy with forged document! Now, Jason is waiting at Ballfield Street with the real thing – we can get rich by selling this to the West instead!”

“As always, Papa’s hypothesis is right. That’s a fake.” Anya informs the group as she leans over the balustrade to keep ‘catching the signal’ of Vogt’s mind. “His accomplice is at Ballfield with the real thing – what was his name again, Jan–Jansen? Jeffrey? Jeremy? Aah, he’s too far now I can’t hear him anymore!”

“Oh, is this where I enter? I’m twenty seconds away from Ballfield Street.” Yor’s silvery voice chimes in. By twenty-seconds she means twenty-seconds in her Olympian speed. “Asking permission to kill, I guess? I’ll retrieve the original document and the money while I’m at it.”

“Permission granted. The traitors are yours, Thorn Princess. Leave the documents and money to Twilight, he’ll come to the scene after you,” Sylvia commands to which Yor and Loid respond simultaneously. To Anya, she simply says, “Back to base.”

Strong wind blusters past her diminutive figure, rattling the window frames and the loose roof. Anya puffs warm breath over her numbing palms as she gazes at the smokey clouds overlaying the sky above, steadily engulfing the moon, dulling its aureate lights. She vaguely recalls the weather forecast apprising something about heavy rainfall at midnight and a thunderstorm is indeed about to dawn at any second now.

“Lil’ Miss? We’re going back to base.” An older WISE agent sticks his head out from behind the glass door. Humming her ‘okay’, Anya stretches out her limbs until she hears few clacks from her joints. With one last glance at the drowning moon, she followed the agent into the building.

“I wish I had cool code name like yours, Mister Eventide. I don’t like being called Little Miss,” Anya tells him as they descend down the dark stairwell.

Since she’s not an official agent of WISE nor is she an official member of Garden – not yet for now according to her belief – Anya hasn’t been granted any code name whatsoever. Both organizations often refer to her as “Miss Forger” or “Miss Anya”, but for safety reasons, it’s prohibited to use legal name on missions. Therefore, she’s left with the title “Little Miss”.

Eventide’s guffaw echoes against the wall. “What word ya want as yer code name?”

“I like the name ‘Eve’ but it’s already taken. ‘Crepuscle’ sounds funky but it’s too mouthful,” Anya can answer straightaway because it is what she muses on during her daydreams. “In this case, you guys will use up all the synonyms of morning and night before Boss Lady can bestow one upon me.”

There’s a moment of silence before Eventide breaks it with his gruff voice, “For me, I wish they’d grant me a legal name instead – like yer Papa.”

Anya hops two steps at once and lands on the floor with a dull thump. “Can’t you do the same?”

Head shakes. “Adopting a fake identity as a real one – calling it a mere special case ain’t do the justice, kiddo. Guess yer Papa ain’t telling nothin’ ‘bout how difficult the process was for him to keep his name both as ‘Loid Forger’ and ‘Twilight’ – to keep ya as his daughter, to keep y’all everyday life.”

As they walk through the pitch-black store, Eventide remarks a rack of potato chips among the sweets. He blatantly nabs a pack and passes it to Anya.

“At the end of the day, spies are cursed folks,” he says. “Parentless childhood, witness of bloodbath, victims of war – we are all cursed men here, y’know. I can understand why yer Papa be hesitating to enlist ya as an official agent.”

“Papa’s worried for nothing. I’ve been helping his spy stuff since he adopted me for Strix.”

“Ooh, that reminds me. Ain’tcha in relationship with that Desmond-boy from Strix?”

This time, Anya flinches at the question but Eventide doesn’t seem to pay attention.

“Good for ya, innit? Boy’s sure gorgeous and stinking rich. He’ll walk ya through a bright beautiful life. ‘Am not yer best man to give advice but there’s no sin in being comfortable.”

Anya doesn’t respond anymore – either not knowing how or not wanting to. Good thing it isn’t a large shop. Eventide opens door for her and they are outside once again. The rumbles of incoming storm are getting rowdier. Tiny patches of raindrops begin to stain the sidewalk. With his overcoat, Eventide shelters Anya from the shower and escorts her into the backseat of their agency’s car.

The car speeds through the deserted city and Anya spends every second of the drive counting every droplet of rain splattered on the window, refusing to give any of her mindspace for Eventide’s words.

Dawn cracks, yet the midnight rain remains.

Based on Loid and Yor’s discovery on the crime scene, Benjamin Vogt and Jason Nelsson aren’t the only offenders the two organizations must pursue. Both Sylvia and the Shopkeeper have authorized the couple to chase after the criminals – for Loid to repossess the conspired documents and for Yor to assassinate. For Anya, she’s been allowed to use the TV at the WISE base while waiting for her parents to wrap up the case.

So, there she is, lounging alone on a worn-out sofa for three with Bond sleeping on the floor underneath. Loid has brought him to the base because no one would come home all night and Franky wasn’t available for dog-sitting.

Nothing is more humdrum than the early morning news. Immoral politicians, feud between pageant queens, novel pretenders in the market; a paradise for some, but a wasteland for the others – that is Ostania, and Westalis is no different as if both countries were born from the same womb.

Anya barely catches a wink of sleep, dry eyes glued to the screen, hearing noises but listening to nothing. Her cup of tea on the table has gone cold and the pack of chips Eventide stole for her goes untouched. She probably has memorized the whole advertisement song for the newly-launch housing complex that shows up in every commercial break.

“The next news comes from the entertainment segment.”

The broadcaster’s announcement catches Anya’s attention. If it’s about Becky’s favorite actor, she might want to listen and keeps Becky posted through their perpetual correspondence since Becky’s most likely to miss all the updates while living overseas.

However, instead of that particular actor Becky’s so crazy about even after her marriage, the screen changes to a snapshot of an unfamiliar woman– unblemished fair skin with hair blond, long, and wavy; an exact copy of the princesses in fairytale books her mother used to borrow from the Town Library when she was younger.

And next to her photograph is a very, very familiar man.

“Ostania’s supermodel and aspiring actress Céline Crawford is reported having a ‘private meeting’ with the second son of the National Unity Party’s ex-chairman, Damian Desmond. While it is still unclear whether Miss Crawford is the secret girlfriend whom Damian Desmond has kept hidden from the public eye for years, an insider claims a high probability that the most desired men and woman of the nation are engaging in a ‘very friendly’ relationship–“

Anya finally peels her eyes off the screen and turns to see Bond stepping on the remote control. Bond probably realizes he’s made a wrong move because his body turns stiff as he slowly lifts his paw up from the device. To his surprise, rather than an earful, Anya merely lets out a weary sigh. She sits herself up and rubs the sleep out of her eyes.

“Nothing’s good on the TV, huh?” Sylvia appears from the control room. She briefly pats Bond’s head as she walks past him and towards Anya, taking a seat on the sofa next to the young girl. That’s when she spots the intact snacks on the coffee table. “You should ask your parents to buy a special breakfast for you after this,” she says. “I know a café that sells the tastiest blueberry pancakes. It’s a bit on the pricey side, but that’s why it’s special and you deserve it. You’ve done good work.”

“I didn’t do a lot.” It feels like she could’ve done more.

Sylvia places a hand atop Anya and pats her the same way she patted Bond. “You acted according to the plan and that’s an important trait of an agent,” Sylvia tells her. “The plan worked because you acted wisely. Quoting Eventide’s signature sayings: to be a WISE agent is to be wise – I personally despise the rhymes but it seems that you need to hear that. Never say that back to me. Ever.”

Hearing Sylvia’s validation lessens the weight in her chest a little. Anya’s face brightens with a smile. She murmurs a hushed thank you and Sylvia circles an arm around her shoulders for a tight side-hug.

“Handler, you might want to read this.”

A staff proceeds towards them and hands over a piece of paper to Sylvia whose face becomes sour the moment she reads the first line.

“…Prime Minister of Foreign Affairs showing sign of having hidden agenda? The summit is on Christmas’s Eve?  What’s with this lunatic politician being shady on religious season – geez, go to church or something—“

“Ah!” Anya flinches, promptly covering her ears with both of her hands, and yet her loud gasp has already snatched Sylvia’s attention. “Uh-oh, sorry. I didn’t mean that.” She shakes her head in panic. “I didn’t mean to overhear your inner voice.”

Sylvia draws her eyebrows together. “I don’t really mind but aren’t you usually able to do something like switching off your power?”

“I know, right? I do hear inner voices by accident once in a while, but I catch it often lately without wanting to.” Anya whines, pulling on her own hair out of frustration.

Catching wizard informant’s thoughts at the restaurant, Damian’s thoughts in front of her residence, and now Sylvia’s – none of it that Anya intended to spy on. Her shoulders droop in disappointment towards herself.

“It’s just like in my childhood when I haven’t learned to control this power,” she quietly adds. “I don’t think I’ve been slacking on my training – do you think I’m becoming weaker?”

After a silent moment of exchanging stares with her staff, Sylvia opens her mouth again. “Rather than becoming weaker, have you ever considered that maybe–“ she seems unsure of her words, but looking at Anya’s anticipation, she has no choice but to carefully proceed. “Maybe – just maybe – maybe your power is growing stronger?”

At that moment, there’s a ding inside her head.

“That’s why it goes out of my control,” Anya says in one breath, mostly to herself.

“Only because you haven’t learned to control the excess power, but that’s just a possibility, okay? You better get yourself checked by the research center.” Sylvia reminds her as she stands up from the sofa and stretches her back. “Anyway, if you’ve heard my thoughts then you’ve heard how we have a new situation here. How much did you hear?”

“Lunatic politician planning on something shady on Christmas instead of going to church?”

Sylvia snaps her fingers at the accurate answer. “Now, I was thinking about assigning this case to Nightfall and Eventide. What do you think about going with them, rather than as a support, I want you to join them as their partner.”

Anya blinks twice at Sylvia, afraid of mishearing. “Partner,“ she repeats. The word sounds too fancy for her own good. “Are you–Are you sure? Do you think I can do it?”

“Well, from your past assignments, I can see you are brave and clever. You’re just lacking in experience which is something you can only gain from your involvement in missions themselves, am I right? If you think you can do more, then I think you should.” Sylvia winks, ruffling Anya’s hair once again. Having her mind read like an open book, Anya squirms, turning red despite being a telepath herself.

“With that being decided, get yourself ready, will you Little Miss Forger? You sure will have a very exhilarating Christmas this year.”

*

The horizon seems to vanish at night, leaving no boundary between the sky and the ocean. Early December gale blasts across the ship harbor without mercy. Damian runs his fingers through his hair for the tenth time, combing it away from his face for a good minute before the wind tousles it over. With deft footwork, he strides past the crowd of passengers towards a less-busy area of the port with a wooden dock facing the water, where Anya is standing all alone gazing at the sea.

“I asked your secretary for your cruise’s departure time. Sorry for coming suddenly,” Anya says once Damian has arrived by her side.

“Well, I never bother to tell you my schedule because you never bother to see me off,” Damian chuckles, folding his arms in front of his chest either from the cold or for the teasing. “So, what brought the young miss of Forger here, huh? I’m sure you are not here just to wish me a safe trip.”

“In my defense.” Anya turns to face him and mirrors his cocky posture. “You go on business trips so often that this harbor is practically your second townhouse now. And it’s an hour tram ride from Park Avenue. That’s two hours round-trip just for what – waving tissues as your ship sails?”

“I wouldn’t suggest tissue because it’s not environmentally friendly.”

“If you care so much about the environment, you should swim to your next destination instead of taking a cruise ship.”

Instead of countering, Damian clears his throat. His fake cough trembles, he must be suppressing his laugh. That’s when Anya knows she has won the argument with her previous remark.

Casting his gaze on the gloomy water, Damian rests his weight on one foot and blows out a long sigh, emitting a white mist with the warmth of his breath. Anya keeps her eyes on him – on each of his little features; the long lashes, the speck near his ear, the strand of hair that grows towards the wrong direction – she can mention them one by one.

People say one’s life is a living book and Anya can say hers has Damian appearing in hundreds of chapters. Years of working on Strix, years of surviving in Eden, years of chaffing and sharing belly laughs and misunderstanding and screaming at each other – she almost doesn’t know a life without him alongside her. She knows him.

And Damian knows her.

Damian knows she hates carrots. Damian knows she likes peanuts. Damian knows she orders hamburg steak at whatever restaurant they go. Damian knows she can’t stay still on her seat. Damian knows she doesn’t have curfew. Damian knows she gifts people with random stuff that seems like trash. Damian knows she sometimes disappears mysteriously into the restroom for hours.

“This won’t be a long trip. I’ll pick you up on Christmas morning?”

At the same time, Damian doesn’t know her at all.

“I don’t think I can come to the gathering this Christmas, scion boy,” she says and she watches the sparks leave his eyes.

There are a few seconds of loud silence that seems like forever.

“Oh–um, that’s–“ Damian scratches the back of his neck. “That’s fine. Must be the research center, huh? That’s totally fine. Let’s just–let’s push the date a bit to new year, shall we? I’m sure the family won’t mind. So, new year it is?”

A long, blaring honk from the cruise’s foghorn breaches the salty night air, overcoming every other noise at the harbor, but it isn’t the reason why Damian doesn’t hear a word coming out of her mouth.

He doesn’t hear a thing because she never answers.

The seawater below them whispers. The seagull above squawks. The crowd behind them chatter.

“Forger?”

The girl in front of him never answers.

This school is sure a madhouse. That means we’re insane. That’s why we were meant to be here. Then, how will you know if the person is the right one? You will know when you experience it yourself, Anya. We’re all cursed men here. He’ll walk ya through a bright beautiful life. If you think you can do more, then I think you should. It will cost your forever.

“You never plan to come, don’t you?”

*

I never was ready so I watch you go

Sometimes you just don’t know the answer ‘til someone’s on their knees and ask you

“She would’ve made such a lovely bride, what a shame she’s fucked in the head,” they said

But you’ll find a real thing instead

She’ll patch up your tapestry that I shred.

*

A heap of dead bodies is the first thing Loid lays his eyes on when he enters a sequestered grand ballroom that no ordinary civilian will never set foot in. Fresh blood swamps the marble flooring, thick and lustrous, streaming down from bedizened figures spreading on the ground breathless. Loid cringes at the little splashes his shoes cause in every step he takes. The scent of rusty iron thickens as he goes further in.

Standing at the center circle of the dance floor is his wife, dressed in jet-black with golden blades glimmering under the yellow lights. Twirling in a blood-stained gown beside her is his daughter. Her torn-apart lacy skirt sways along the clack of her heels and the wave of giggles, as if in exchange for the soundless instrumentalist at the lifeless music stage.

“Merciless as always,” Loid says as he proceeds towards his family with cautious strides, preventing himself from falling into the gory sea. Yor beams at his remark. For her, being called ‘merciless’ is the highest compliment.

“The client only specified who to kill, not how to kill. So, we help ourselves,” Yor whirls her weapons playfully, a tone of contentment in her voice, huffing proudly at her accomplished mission. “And by we, I mean I did majority of the killing while Anya was the one to infiltrate the party and obtained the information as per client’s request,” she clarifies because Loid raises his brow at her previous reply.

“Only because you didn’t let me kill people,” Anya adds with a nonchalant shrug.

“Well, most parents won’t want their children to kill people,” Loid backs his wife up as he disrobes his jacket and coats her bare shoulders with it. Yor places a hand on his cheek and pecks his jaw as a thank-you. The couple shares smiles to each other.

However, when Loid shifts back to Anya and runs his gaze down the ballgown, his loving smile transforms into a questioning scowl. “If you’re here for not killing people, what’s with that look?”

Anya presses her lips into a thin line and averts her eyes from her father’s as she mutters something with her mouth barely open.

Loid folds his arms together, tipping his head to the side. “Anya?”

“You said not to kill. You did not say not to try.”

“Don’t worry, Loid! I got rid of the enemies before she managed to kill any!”

Anya snaps her fingers and stick her thumbs out. “The witness has witnessed!”

With a weary sigh escaping his lungs, Loid lifts his fist and gently knocks Anya’s forehead. “Sly kid.”

“Your daughter.”

“I hope Shopkeeper won’t charge me for the damage. That dress sure looks pricey and it has reached the level of irreparable even I can’t fix.”

“Don’t worry, Loid!” Yor chimes in again. “The dress was indeed pricey but I’ve checked that it’s under Garden’s budget.”

“I’m glad you’re dependable, Yor.”

Not until she catches sight of her own reflection in the mirrored pillar that Anya realizes how ungodly her appearance is. On top of the red stain, the skirt of her gown somehow has gained a significant slit long enough to peek one leg out. Loose threads are hanging from the hem and she has lost a significant number of rose ornaments.

“I kind of like how it looks now though,” she says, swinging her body side-to-side, twirling a strand of hair with her index finger.

“You look beautiful in everything, Anya!” Yor chirps, both palms on her cheeks as she jiggles her feet. “You look like a villain from a blockbuster movie!”

Loid almost snorts. “More like a cursed child.”

“Well, that’s something that runs in the family,” Anya replies under her breath.

Before her parents can say anything more, she lifts her skirt and skitters across the room and out to the balcony. The moon is high. The stars above glint brighter without all the building lights. The cries of cricket come and go along with the rustling of the trees below. The tips of several Berlint’s towers poke out far ahead from behind the forest.  

Anya leans against the balustrade as she breathes in the warm air of summer that has arrived too early. She wonders if it’s okay to feel peaceful despite walking out of a bloodbath. But that’s what it feels like – her heartbeat is calm, her steps feel light, her head feels clear; everything feels liberating.

Peaceful. Or maybe it’s the feeling of contentment.

It’s probably not normal, except if you are a sly kid or a villain or a cursed child.

Then again, no sin in being comfortable.

She steps on the railing and brings herself closer to the sky. That’s when she notices a bump inside the pocket she’s almost forgotten her gown has. Her mind finally recalls the handful of candies Eventide gave her when she dropped by WISE base before leaving for this mission. She remembers saving one inside her pocket in case she got hungry. Anya takes the small item out of her gown.

It’s chocolate candy. Dark chocolate and peanut butter. Pink wrapping.

“Anya! The cleaning squad is here, we need to leave now!” Loid calls out from inside the ballroom.

Missions rather than matchmaking parties, splattering blood rather than confetti – Anya has never lived a normal life and she never will. Even if being a mindreader wasn’t a choice she has made; being adopted by a spy, having an assassin as a mother, surviving through the twelve years in Eden, using her power for the world peace, following her parents’ steps into road hidden from the sunlight, continue to exist alongside her curse – right here, right now, it’s all her own choices.

It’s where she wants to be.

“Looks like you’re in good mood, Anya? Do you like the gown so much?” Yor asks as Anya makes her way back to her parents.

Anya shakes her head. She jumped in between her parents, clutching their arms on her own. Loid and Yor exchange glances.

“What’s with this kid?”

“Anything you want to share with us?”

“Nothing, really.” Anya shakes her head again. “I’m just happy that I am your daughter.”

An almost-love story that ended as the ship set off; may it become a montage he never revisits, a midnight rain he misses when he’s asleep, and a dream he forgets when the dawn breaks.

And he always calls her gift trash, so may this become the last worthless gift he’ll ever receive:

Prayers of the cursed.

*

I guess, sometimes we all get just what we wanted

And I’ll never think of him

Except on midnights like this.

*