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It was hard to really explain why Bobby sat there in the orientation, especially when about half of the words were still outside of his vocabulary. He had tried to read as much as he could to prepare, but that didn’t mean he knew words like “obstruction” or “orientation” or “prosecutor” or “attorney.” Most of it was still a mystery jumble of sounds that he could only put together from tiny snippets, and it didn’t make much sense, but at least it was… Something. It’d probably help to hear more people talking, so listening to that was at least an attempt to get used to the sound of English being spoken.
…Sure. Yeah. The words would probably make sense at some point. For now, he just followed what those around him were doing until everyone began to file out, mingling with each other and talking all around him. A few spoke about classes, or going to find a spot to work out, but he couldn’t make out everything. All he could do was take the paper he’d been given and look at the map, trying his best to make out something familiar.
Dorms. That word made sense-- it was one of the few he’d learned, and having numbers for where he was supposed to go was so much easier than trying to piece together names for buildings. (Most seemed to be easy enough, like “Bradbury” or “Orwell,” but when it came to things like “Faulkner” and “cafeteria,” he was completely lost.) The dorms were at least labeled as simple things like “A202,” so he could at least find his way there and see what he’d want to add to the place. All he had was already in the backpack he wore, so there wasn’t much for him to do but go there.
Bobby pulled his backpack up and followed the map nearly exactly, avoiding getting lost solely by comparing signs at any given juncture. Though it took him a while, and he'd probably gone a less-than-optimal route, he still found himself standing in front of the dorm he'd been assigned, holding a key in his hand.
Room J144. First floor of the tenth dorm building, which actually meant it was the closest to the campus and the farthest from the field with the strange giant forks at either end. Really, he wasn't sure he wanted to know what that was for, so he was better off where he was. Bobby took a deep breath, and he unlocked the door, pushing it open and stepping inside.
Someone else was already there.
He was tall, maybe too tall, but he was thin as a stick with more nerves than muscles, based on how he jumped when the door entered. The guy quickly tried to look like he hadn't just panicked at the sound of the door opening, awkwardly offering a smile and an overdone salute. Bobby mimicked him with one of his own.
“Hi! I'm your Meekins and roommate-- No, no, that's not the words!! I'm Mike Meekins. And I think we're roommates. You live here too, right?”
Though the other man spoke quickly, his voice was easy enough to make out, and he wasn't using words outside of Bobby's vocabulary for a change. He nodded. “...Mike,” he repeated, before continuing, “My name is Bobby Fulbright.”
His accent felt too thick, like he'd stand out immediately, but Mike didn't seem to notice. In fact, he was already turning around to the room as a whole. It wasn't too big-- Two beds, two desks, two dressers-- but Mike had already made half the room his own with some posters taped to the walls, sheets on one of the beds, and mini-fridge directly under the window. “I hope it's okay how I set up-- I can't really do bunk beds without hitting my head, and I really just wanted it to feel like home. And you can share the fridge too! I don't mind, it-- it's not like I'll have too many leftovers or anything.”
Bobby nodded again, unsure what else he could do. He walked past Mike to set his backpack on the other bed, and began unpacking the few things he'd kept.
A few extra outfits. A warm blanket. A book on common garden plants and pests. The English learning book he'd been studying. A cheap phone he'd bought at the airport, and a charger to match. Finally, the last thing: a photo, framed, of his family from only a week before they'd passed. With his things unpacked, he could feel Mike watching once more.
“Do you need help getting the rest?”
Bobby shook his head. “That is everything.”
“...You don't even have any sheets.”
“I did not have money.” He sat down, unfolding the blanket. “Or… other things.”
Mike watched him for a moment before awkwardly turning on his heel, going a bit farther than he meant to, and stumbling his way to his bed. He sat down, and quickly looked out the window-- possibly avoiding staring, possibly just looking. Bobby didn’t know if he wanted to ask which. Without a clue what else to say or do, Bobby eventually stood, laying the blanket across his bed.
“I will go get food. Do you want anything?”
“Huh? No, nah, it’s okay! I, um-- I have some stuff I should take care of here still!” Mike waved his hands, offering a smile that was clearly a bit too wide. Maybe that was just how people smiled in Japanifornia.
Bobby didn’t ask any questions. Instead, he just left, keeping his key and new ID card close.
Japanifornian food was… strange. It didn't have any of the staples Bobby had grown used to, offering him no familiar options to fall back on. It felt strange to see no yams in the entire building (the cafeteria, he learned, was basically a food place, with different options and everyone using trays instead of plates. Different, but still understandable upon seeing it in action.) It was almost like a completely different world.
Then again, he thought to himself, it was probably for the best if he just tried what he could. Maybe he'd find something good if he tried whatever a “lasagna” was. Honestly, what was he supposed to do other than that? Complain about not having his usual? Yeah, no, he wasn’t going to do that. He’d already seen how some people treated employees, and they didn’t deserve any of that from him on top of it all. No, it was best to just get in line, point at things with a “this, please” and a “thank you” once he got it. That worked much better, and it ended up with a tray of food and him sitting off to the side, people-watching as most of the other officers-to-be chatted or messed around with phones. Not one of them bothered to talk to him, and honestly, that was for the best. Bobby hardly knew what any of the stuff on his tray was, so trying to hold a conversation would just make things harder.
After a while of eating and eavesdropping, he dumped the trash, and headed back to the dorm. Most likely, Mike would be gone, and he could use the time to put his things in drawers and altogether be out of the way. That would be nice. He still had to figure out where the classes were, and probably work on a few more words while he was at it. It was hard enough trying to figure out everything without needing to translate on top of it. The sooner he learned English, the better.
Bobby entered the dorm again to find it empty, as he had expected, but with something new: A basket had been set on his bed, with a messy stash of items inside. It didn't look like there was much reason to the items there at all-- a thick shirt with a hood was draped over a duo of notebooks and a set of pencils; a pillow had been haphazardly shoved at the bottom with a set of sheets hogging the rest of the space there; a first aid kit lay beside a set of earbuds and a toothbrush/toothpaste set that was still in the packaging. On top of it all, held down by nothing but gravity and good luck, was a small note, reading “Care Package for Bobby Fullbrite” in careful black letters.
He cast a glance at Mike's side of the room, but found nothing of the sort. Maybe he'd already put his away? Most likely, they'd been delivered while he was out to get dinner, so Mike had probably had time to deal with his. That would explain the other set of earbuds in their package on his bed, labeled with a 2-for-1 sticker. The idea made sense enough, so he set the basket aside to take care of his own care package.
Sheets on the bed. Hooded shirt folded in the drawer. Pillow at the head of the bed. Toothbrush on the desk. Sure, it wasn't all that much, but… it looked a lot nicer with just that. The school was much better than he'd imagined if they did something like that for their students-- it made sure even the poorest recruits were on the same footing as everyone else.
Without meaning to, Bobby yawned, and he sat down, looking at the room overall. Sure, there wasn’t much on his side of the room, but… It was his place now, and it was all he had.
That was when it finally sank in. Bobby had nowhere else to go. If he failed training, if he couldn't make it through the bit of school he was supposed to do to get a position as an officer of the law, then he wouldn't even have anywhere to run to. He'd chosen a last resort out of hopes for that one word he'd seen carved into the statue outside the courthouse even before he could understand or read it.
Justice. Or, as he'd pronounced it for the first few months, “yoostice.” It had taken plenty of corrections and attempts for him to get it even at eight, but it had been the only English word he'd known for years. Everyone seemed to have their own definition when he asked them-- Doing what was right, being fair and honest, obeying proper laws-- so it made sense to him to form his own: Justice was doing the right thing not just for himself, but for everyone around him, and in doing so, he would help people as much as he can. Even if it hadn't saved anyone back home, even if it was a desperate attempt to cling to anything he had left, he didn't care-- he had to try to figure things out, so that someday, he could fix it, even if that couldn't bring anyone back.
Bobby looked at his photo, finding his vision blurry. A quick hand across his eyes came away with tears staining the back, even if they were easy to wipe off on his shirt. That photo was all he had of his family, now.
As much as he knew it wasn’t going to return to how it was, he still felt like it could. A bit of him still wanted to run back home and bury his face in the same plants he’d worked with all his life, but he couldn’t do that, either. He’d already come this far. He’d already run.
A knock at the door pulled him out of his thoughts, and he quickly rubbed his eyes on his hand again before clearing his throat. “Y-yes!”
“Coming in--” Mike said, before he opened the door again, carrying something else. He set it down on top of the fridge before collapsing on his bed. It took Bobby a full minute to recognize it as a radio, thanks to how different it looked from ones in Borginia. Where the one he'd had back home had been black and gray, this one was blue and white. It no longer looked like a box with dials and a handle, but a device of its own, with two speakers and even a CD player.
“I know, it's a little old-school,” Mike said, completely missing why Bobby was staring at it. “B-but it works really well! I don't know any stations around here, but I'm sure we can look it up and find something!”
Bobby nodded. He didn't know too much about music from other countries yet-- genres in English were an afterthought compared to learning how to say his name and where he was going-- but he had, at least, heard of a few that couldn't be translated. “...Yazz?” he asked. There was a long pause.
“I don't know many bands, sorry--”
“No, the type-- the music. It…” Bobby snapped his fingers, looking for words, before instead just going for a rhythm that might make a bit more sense, tapping out a beat that didn't quite sync up right with his hands.
“...Oh!!! Oh oh oh, JAZZ!!!” Mike exclaimed. Bobby nodded. “That makes so much more sense!” Mike messed with the dial to put on some music, then sat down on his bed again. “Uh, are you… No, uh, where are you from?”
Bobby fell silent. Sure, he could answer, but… Was that really a good move? Instead, he just looked away.
“...I, um. I get it.” Mike twiddled his fingers, before he switched to fidgeting with a lock of black hair that fell in his face once again as soon as he let go. His hair had that sort of bounce to it-- It wouldn’t stop sticking out wherever it felt like, the sort of thing that Bobby hadn’t really dealt with since… Well, he couldn’t remember when. He walked across the room, and reached into his bag, pulling out one more thing. After a moment, he tossed the plastic jar across the room. “Huh? What-- what’s this?
“Use it.” He gestured to it. “For… For hair.”
Mike opened the container, giving it a sniff before he put a few fingers into the gel inside. Bobby pointed to his, where he’d smoothed it out earlier that day.
“...Most for me is weight, now. You can keep it.”
“A-are you sure?”
Bobby nodded, and he shut his bag, slinging it over the farthest bedpost from the corner of the room. “Sure.”
“That’s really nice of you!” Mike said with a big grin, and he put some into his hair, finally getting it to lie down like he wanted. “Thanks, Bobby!”
Bobby couldn’t help but smile slightly. “...We help each other, yes?”
“That’s what friends do.”
“Then… Friends it is.” Bobby stuck out his hand, and Mike put a slightly-gelled hand into his, giving it a shake.
“Great! First day here, and I’ve already got a friend!” he cheered, a bit too loud. Maybe that was more of a him thing, Bobby figured. Then again, it did leave an impact. Maybe he should try it. Even if his words hadn't been worth much back home, maybe here…
“Let us make the year great!” Bobby cheered, and Mike whooped with joy.
It was sheer luck that they were the only ones currently in that area of the dorms, honestly, but neither cared. It was enough to know there was someone there they could rely on, especially in the same room.