Chapter Text
Nicole doesn't notice the man at her elbow until he slides her a bottle of water.
"Drink," he says, and she does. The heaviness in her stomach starts clearing up almost immediately. She looks up, blinking blearily, head throbbing. It's late. What is it, two in the morning? Never mind; it's not that late. Her nose is filled with the stink of tobacco ash. There's people all around, talking and laughing, spilling out onto the street. A slow dribble of private-hire cars turning in and out, in and out. Her friends are nowhere to be seen. Probably still inside the club.
"Thanks," she says, garbled, and passes him her vape, as if compensation for his largesse. He takes a drag. Coughs. Shakes his head.
"They're going to ban that," he says. "You should toss it before they do."
"Oh, fuck off," Nicole says, and goes back in.
Jun Jie doesn't recognize the boy standing beside him in his class picture.
Which is weird, right, because he knows everyone in his class. Except for the boy who was beside him when they took that photo, apparently. He leans forward, nose almost touching the paper, and squints. Mystery Boy is tall for his age, which is why he's beside Jun Jie (1.71m and still growing). Frowning, Jun Jie drops his gaze and drags his finger over the text at the bottom of the photograph. His index finger lands on himself; there's a smudge beside his name. Jun Jie scratches at the discolouration, frowning. A defect with the printer? He returns his gaze to the photo proper, hunting.
The boy is gone.
A car honks behind his bus. The uncle in front of him mutters something under his breath. There's a flash out of the corner of his eye. Jun Jie turns to look out the window, shutting his yearbook as he does. His train of thought derails, spooling away into infinity.
"Hey."
It's almost eleven. If she can't make it to Buona Vista in forty-five minutes, she's going to have to Grab.
"Hey." A finger pokes her bicep. "Hey."
Priya sighs and locks her phone. Mandy's starting to slur her words - a sure sign that she's had a little too much to drink tonight. Priya's already dreading the ride home. "What?"
Mandy jerks her chin at the man sitting on her left. "Have you ever seen him before? Because I haven't."
"Be quiet," Priya hisses. She turns to the man on her left. "Sorry. She's drunk."
The man smiles politely, bemused. He's actually fairly young. He's got dark hair - brown or black, depending on the lighting - and a handsome if unremarkable face. Something about him seems familiar. Priya isn't sure where she's seen him before.
"Sorry," she begins. Mandy's already drifted off. "I'm still new to the team. Which desk do you sit with?"
"Oh, I don't belong to any one desk. I report directly to the managing director."
She can feel her eyebrows climb. "The managing director?"
The man opens his mouth, and Edwin picks that moment to tap her on the shoulder. "Mandy just threw up."
Fuck, Priya thinks, and stands. She turns back to smile apologetically at the man on her left, but he's already gone. Mandy's on the verge of passing out, so she, as the only other member of the team who lives around Boon Lay, is automatically responsible for her well-being. She doesn't think of him until she's in bed, trying to sleep, and even then only snatches, before oblivion pulls her under.
Mari kita rakyat Singapura
Richard lives in a two-bedroom Flexi HDB flat - one of the first to come on the market, actually. The balloting process isn't as transparent as it looks.
His cat's name is Singa. He puts up his flag in June and takes it down in October. Sometimes, he goes to work at Novena, where he chases recalcitrant taxpayers for the IRAS. Other times, he's at Gombak, commenting on conscription policy. When Parliament is in session, he eats lunch at Funan and goes to Clarke Quay for drinks after.
Sama-sama menuju bahagia
Officially, he doesn't exist. He's never voted. He's never used Singpass (not for himself, at least). He doesn't even have a CPF account number. During the lockdown, he left his house as and when he liked; the disease had no hold on him, and people's eyes glazed over when he walked past. (Though he did wear a mask when delivering food. And when not delivering food. And whenever he left the house. Basic human decency.)
Cita-cita kita yang mulia
He's young by the standards of his race, which is to say that his physical age is somewhere between fifteen and forty. (China's been visibly middle-aged for seven hundred years.) He's been mistaken for a teenager before, but has never gotten carded. (Which is good, since he doesn't have an NRIC.) He's studied in every school in Singapore, and every university too. He likes to immerse himself in the rhythms of life, even though he knows he'll never truly be one of them.
Berjaya Singapura
The notion of nationality is a slippery thing. When does a mere resident become a citizen? The answer changes frequently. For Richard, it's when they appear inside his head. Because he knows them, his people; he knows them. The financial advisor going door-to-door hawking ILPs; the overworked cubicle slave chasing down the last train; the pampered Sixth Avenue scion with his seventeen bathrooms; the elderly dementia patient wasting away in Changi General. He knows all of them, and in a way, he is them. And, at the same time, he isn't. It's a strange situation to be in. But it's all he knows.
Marilah kita bersatu
He's passed through the military more times than he can count. He keeps his rifle in his closet; here, as elsewhere, he is the only exception to the rule. Sometimes, the dead things on Tekong stir, and a hapless recruit finds himself ensnared in their machinations; then, Richard is dispatched. Camo on; roll out. The things on Tekong are older than Nations, older than humanity, older, some say, than life itself; and they are hungry. They are always hungry. But Richard is strong, and they are weak. If he were larger, more populous - well, perhaps they would be easier to put down. But he always wins, anyway. And if a few people on the mainland catch a chill, or come down with dengue, or spontaneously develop the urge to go for a colonoscopy; well, who's counting?
Dengan semangat yang baru
Every morning he takes a different bus to a different station. At seven in the morning, struggling through the human tsunami at Serangoon, he boards the train; thirty seconds later, he gets off at Pasir Panjang. He's expected at Sentosa today.
Semua kita berseru
His heartbeat ticks in time to the market. He can quote the exchange rate in real time. He knows the exact value of the reserves, too, but he isn't telling. Matter of national security, don't you know.
Majulah Singapura
Sometimes, he goes over the border. It's not a big deal, and anyways, millions of his people cross over at least once or twice a year. Some go over every week. Despite not having a passport, he makes it through without issue, every time. Occasionally, he'll meet Siti. She has a huge, stately pavilion somewhere on the grounds of the Istana Bukit Serene, although it is very hard to find. Her nasi briyani is to die for.
One day, when Johor has been fully integrated, Siti will be gone, and all that is left will be Iskandar. Iskandar and his thirteen states and his three federal territories, rubber and corruption and oil and entitlement. Richard has always been surrounded. So what? Camo on; roll out. Bring it on. His rifle is in his closet. In the early morning march...
There are fireworks over Marina Bay. Richard stands by the window, staring out into the darkness. He can't see the fireworks, not with his own two eyes, fleshy as they are, but they are there all the same. The lightshow echoes inside his skull. His flag flaps in the wind.
August 9th. Happy birthday to me.