Chapter Text
Maruzensky killed the engine and sat very still.
Hibiki had noticed immediately though decided to say nothing of it. Three months of training her and he'd never once seen the girl hold still for longer than it took to blink. If Maruzensky was conscious, something on her was moving, whether she wanted it to or not. And right now nothing was.
In the driver's seat of a car she should not legally be able to operate.
He let the silence build. He'd gotten good at that recently and as a bonus, it was entertaining.
"So." He leaned back in his seat. "Run that by me one more time?"
Her ears, those ridiculous chestnut-colored ears that he still hadn't gotten used to, pinned flat against her head.
"I'm seventeen, Trainer."
"Maruzensky."
"I am."
"You drove us here."
She was staring at him now looking almost frantic, probably running through excuses deciding which one to pick.
He’d give her a second to choose.
Afterall, it was more fun when she picked the wrong one on her own.
"That's... that's not..."
"The legal driving age in Japan is eighteen."
She opened her mouth, then closed it, then opened it again. Whatever she'd been about to say, she thought better of it twice before landing on the worst possible option.
"I... I have a license!"
"Which you obtained how, as a seventeen-year-old."
"Early testing! Gifted program! There's a... there's a whole..." She waved at the windshield like the answer might be out there somewhere. "...process for this thing."
Hibiki said nothing. He'd found that if he just didn't respond, she'd keep talking and make it worse. It was a strategy that had yet to fail so far.
"It's... it's a special program. For gifted students. Athletes specifically. There's paperwork. Lots of paperwork. I have the paperwork."
"Do you."
"Somewhere."
"Uh huh."
"It's at home!"
He let that one sit for a second. Let her feel good about it. She looked like she thought she'd won something.
"From your house," he said.
Her palms hit the steering wheel with a thwap and he surprised the urge to chuckly.
"My parents' house!” She corrected, “I still live with them! Sometimes! Occasionally!"
"The house with your name on the deed?"
"THAT'S..."
"Under article 4 of the Civil Code. You need to be eighteen to independently enter a real estate contract. Or was it 20? I forgot sorry." He couldn’t help but smirk saying such a statement, he'd looked it up that morning specifically for this conversation. He'd been looking forward to this conversation all week, if he was being honest. "Were you aware?"
Her left ear twitched violently. A sharp breath in, and then when she spoke again her voice had gone flat and rehearsed. She'd prepared a script. He could tell because she was doing that thing where she stared slightly above his head instead of at him, the way students do when they're reciting from memory during an oral exam.
"Trainer, you've got to believe me. I'm seventeen. I go to school. I wear the uniform." She tugged at her collar. "I take classes! I have homework! Look..." She dove for the backseat, rummaging through a bag, and produced a crumpled worksheet. "Mathematics! See? Quadratic equations! What adult does quadratic equations?"
Hibiki took the paper. Stared at it. The answers were all correct, filled out in handwriting that was a little too clean, a little too practiced. The kind of penmanship they don't teach anymore.
The date at the top was from 1978.
He considered mentioning that. He decided not to. Not yet. Better to save it.
"Alright," he said, handing it back.
Her ears perked. Her whole body perked, actually, like a dog that just heard the treat bag. "Really?"
"Quadratic equations. Very student-like."
"SEE? See, Trainer? I told you. I am seventeen."
"Mm." He nodded slowly. She was practically vibrating with vindication. Good. "By the way, when we listened to your cassette mixtape on the drive over," he said.
The vibrating stopped.
"Cassettes are vintage," she said, ears going rigid. He'd catalogued about fourteen distinct ear positions over the past three months and this one meant she was clearly about to lie.
"There were songs on there from before I was born."
"Those are classics!"
"Sure." He replied letting that one go.
He watched her relax a fraction. Then: "So if that’s the case, how did you record personal commentary BETWEEN tracks."
The tail stopped dead. A strangled noise escaping his trainees throat.
"'This one goes out to my trainer,'" Hibiki continued, keeping his voice perfectly level, "'who'll probably be born in a few years, but music transcends time...'"
"THAT WAS A JOKE."
"'...and if you're listening to this in the future, hi, future person, the seventies are wild and I've just won my fourth consecutive race...'"
"TRAINER."
Her hands shot out and clamped over his mouth. She pulled back almost immediately, face redder than red 40 itself.
Neither of them said anything for a second. Hibiki used the pause to glance at the rearview mirror. He could see the backseat from here. There was a framed photograph sticking out of her bag that looked like it was taken at Tracen Academy's 1991 graduation ceremony but he decided to keep that one in his back pocket for another day.
"I... I've got my whole life ahead of me," Maruzensky tried.
"You do. Lots of life. Several decades of it already, from what I can tell."
"TRAINER."
"I'm agreeing with you. You have a lot of life. More than most people. Statistically, more than almost anyone currently alive."
Her mouth opened and closed without sound. He watched her try to figure out whether he'd just complimented her or buried her and it was, genuinely, one of the more entertaining things he'd seen this month.
"I'm... I go to school," she managed, regrouping. "I run races. I argue with you about training regimens and whether interval training is really more effective than hill sprints. That's what seventeen-year-olds do."
"Sure."
"So I'm seventeen."
"Get your vintage ass out of the car, we're going to be late for your physical examination."
"TRAINER!"
He was already out the passenger door. Behind him, the driver's side slammed with considerably more force than necessary, followed by Maruzensky scuffing fast against pavement as she scrambled to catch up.
"That's age discrimination!" Her voice pitched upward behind him. "I'm going to file a complaint! I know people! I've been in this industry for... for..."
"For how long?"
He heard her trip though in all honesty thought it best to simply keep walking for the sake of his survival.
"Come on, seventeen-year-old.” He called. “We've got a future to build."
She fell into step beside him, slightly out of breath. "You're the worst trainer I've ever had."
"I'm the only trainer you've ever had."
"That's... technically true, but..."
"And you've only been saying that since 1976."
"I WAS NOT ALIVE IN 1976."
"The newspapers would disagree."
"TRAINER!"
"Your car insurance premiums would also disagree. Forty-seven years of no-claims bonus is impressive for a teenager, I'll admit."
She made a sound like a kettle about to blow, ears doing something he'd never seen before, one pinned back and the other standing straight up, and he committed it to memory because no one at the trainers' office was ever going to believe him if he described it.
"I hate you," she managed. "I hate you so much."
"Noted. I'll add it to the file. Right next to your birth certificate from 1974."
"NINETEEN SEVENTY... I DON'T HAVE A... THAT DOCUMENT IS FORGED."
"Which document."
"The... whatever document you're..." She caught herself and froze mid-step. Her eyes narrowed. "You don't actually have my birth certificate."
"I didn't say I did."
"You just said..."
"I said I'd file it next to it. I didn't say I had it."
He was acutely aware of his trainees gaze stuck on his back, most likely holding the expression of someone who had just walked into a glass door and was trying to decide whether to be furious or impressed.
"I'll get you a copy," she said finally. "You'll see. Born 2007. Clear as day."
"Wonderful. I look forward to reviewing it."
"Good."
"And Maruzensky, make sure it's not printed on parchment this time."
"IT WAS SPECIALTY PAPER."
"And maybe don't use a wax seal."
"THAT'S A PERSONAL AESTHETIC CHOICE."
"With a family crest that predates the Meiji Restoration."
"LOTS OF FAMILIES HAVE CRESTS."
"Not ones that say 'established 1834' on them, Maruzensky."
"THAT'S THE PAPER COMPANY'S FOUNDING DATE."
He let her have that one. She needed a win. She'd earned it, if only through sheer volume.
Hibiki held the front door open and Maruzensky stormed through with all the dignity of someone who was definitely, absolutely, beyond any shadow of a doubt, seventeen years old.
He followed, hands in his pockets. The commemorative Tracen Academy pin on her bag read CLASS OF 1991. He didn't mention it. He was saving that one for the car ride home.