Story Reader / Floating Record / ER02 Cinder Burns / Story
With the color of the night grown heavy, the base sees its inhabitants finishing work and readying themselves for bedtime one after another.
Taking advantage of the quiet hours, the young man tiptoes his way to a table and sits down. He sees a piece of paper left by the girl that carries her soft-written words.
...
Did I use to do this, too?
He folds the paper in half and wants to start writing something—only to realize that his mind is as blank as the paper that's staring right back at him.
The commandant said to write down whatever pops up in my mind... What can I even remember, though?
Closing his eyes, the young man delves into his memory.
And that's when he begins to feel it—the warmth from the pen he misses so much that throbs in sync with his heartbeats, invigorating every last dark corner in his consciousness.
If I try hard enough... maybe I can just recall a few things.
Holding the pen in his hand, the young man repeats this line again and again, as though trying to prime himself.
I can do this.
Still repeating the line, he follows his instinct and puts down a few random lines on the paper.
Eventually, the lines—seemingly a great mess—turn into a circle.
Then, coupled with the other drawings of irregular shapes, the circle transforms into a teenage young man sitting on a low chair.
After which a simple bonfire appears before the young man, followed by an expanding grassland that grows from beneath his feet.
The young man seems used to drawing all these, as though he's drawn them countless times before.
...Wait, so I knew how to draw?
But...
Where did all my drawings go?
Did someone keep a collection of them for me?
Or did they all just pile up into a mountain of used sketchbooks?
Or...
I remember what happened to them now.
Mom, those are my drawings...
Ever since the young man was still a kid, only one thing had ever happened to his works of art.
Right...
They would be torn into pieces, and would be used to keep fires burning or just discarded.
You have three seconds to give me the rest of your drawings—before I break your pencils, too.
No! You can't do that!
One...
I already have all the vocabulary words memorized from yesterday, and I've finished all the chores!
Two...
I had the hole in my T-shirt fixed, too! Why are you doing this?!
Three.
Please, Mom! It's just something I do for a bit before I go to bed!
And with it, the begging turns into the sounds of snapped pencils, slaps, and screams—to which a neighbor lashes with ear-splitting shouts.
For God's sake, goddamn witch! Can't you just save all that for tomorrow?!
...
[—], let go and stand straight.
The woman says his name, yet he just can't hear it past the blur.
...
I've told you so many times already—drawing isn't going to help put food on your table, and that it's only going to ruin your eyes.
And look at what it's done to your eyes already.
It cost me one year's worth of my savings to buy you this pair of glasses. Do you know what that means exactly?
I'm sorry, Mom, but...
I don't need your apologies or "buts". I just wanted you to know that you've been strangling your own future.
With all the schools gone, you're responsible for your own learning now. You need to arm yourself with a skill that can get you into the reservation area or the medical area, where you'll be safe.
And even if you just want to live on the lower level of Asslam for the rest of your life, you'll still need to work to keep yourself alive.
...
Clean up the mess here. Aunt Rachel will be here tomorrow, and you'd do well to go out there with her and get a real taste of the world.
See for yourself all those people that are dying from the Punishing Virus, and you'll see why I want you to live close to a CPF.
I don't want to work at Cargo, though!
What do you want to do, then? Are you just going to keep drawing? Or are you going to keep fighting the dudes from Carriage H or the security guards from above?
...How did you find out about all that?
The boy lowers his head, his face heavy with emotions.
Oh, I know everything. You would have been a goner if it weren't for Rachel...
But I roughed them up only because...
Because they bad-mouthed you.
These words are stuck at the tip of his tongue.
[—]...
Calling the young boy's name, she lets out a few coughs.
You're nine already, and I can't be around you forever.
We're living through a very chaotic time, and you'll need to learn to live on your own. Bravery is good, but you'd be stupid to throw your life away over some petty conflict.
You need to go with Rachel to have a real taste of the world out there. That's when you'll learn your place in this world!
...
The boy looks at his mother with those pleading eyes of his, hoping she'd spare him the suffering of work.
Their eyes are locked for what seems like an eternity. Seeing that nothing is going to change his mother's mind, the boy finally gives in.
Fine, then.
As far as he can remember of his mother, he has never seen her without the mask.
She never ate or washed her face in front of her son, and she barely ever slept with the boy around.
Every time he got curious and snuck into his mother's workspace, he'd always get a piece of his mother's mind.
From what he heard from the workers, a riot is what caused his mother to start wearing the mask—and his father's death.
The well-planned riot is the very reason their family is now stuck on the lower level of Asslam.
His mother had to pull strings to get herself a job, the one that's barely keeping them both alive now.
He has no idea what his mother does for work exactly, only that everyone dislikes her work as much as her mask.
Wait, is this all I'm getting? You do know I'm friends with 'em boys up there, right? What? You don't give a damn? Get lost forever with that stupid mask of yours, then!
Look, damn witch! I told you about this application! How's that possible? I did have a few drinks on the 14th, but I swear I totes remember this!
Did you really have to kick Joe out? He might have broken some rules, but he's a brother! Damn it, I should really ask one of the guards to shoot you and that little monster of yours dead!
Hey, speaking of the devil! Mommy was away for a night shift last night, and I saw her coming out with so many guys this morning. Do you even know which one of them is Daddy? Hahahaha!
—!
STOP!
...
His mother never loses her cool in the face of all the threats and jibes coming her way...
The same way she never gives in to her son's pleading, so long as she thinks his requests fail to align with her plan.
She's like a tree—one that provides nothing beyond the shade and fruit that keep him alive.
There is, however, one single person who manages to stay on friendly terms with his mother. The person is none other than Rachel, the head of the lower level's Cargo Crew.
Rachel is friends with everyone, and there is not a single person living on the lower level that doesn't respect her.
So, Julie sent you down here because of what happened yesterday, I gather?
...
I see you don't like that I told your mom about what happened.
...No, not exactly.
Or did none of that make any sense to her and she just decided to go hard on you?
...Aunt Rachel.
Do you really have any idea how crazy the whole situation was yesterday? You can fight the kids from Carriage H all you want because I know they got nothing on you when it comes to running.
But you just can't afford to mess with those guards from up there. They've got guns—and we all know that those guns are meant for anything but to keep us safe.
So long as Asslam is theirs, they own all of us here and can kill you whenever they want to—at the cost of some cheap compensation to your mom.
...I'm sorry.
It's fine. I'm sure you've learned your lesson, and I didn't come to blame you. See, I was just worried.
Okay.
And I've given those kids from Carriage H a piece of my mind for you.
Really?
Why would I lie? I know very well what they've been saying behind your back, and I really should have dealt with it sooner. It's not your fault.
...Okay!
He nods earnestly.
But hey, I understand those kids have been messing with you, but you really want to drop that long face of yours sometime. Hill told me she said hi to you the other night, and apparently you just walked away all pissed without greeting her. The poor woman was shocked.
There aren't many in Carriage N on friendly terms with your mom and you, and Hill is definitely one of the handful.
I'm sorry...
Save that for when you see her next time.
...
You refuse to say that to her yourself?
She was just standing around watching when the kids from Carriage H picked on me.
Look, [—], you need to understand that not everyone has what it takes to stand up to the bad guys. She might have stayed away, but that doesn't mean she approved of what they did.
...
...Okay.
I'll go and apologize to her tonight.
Atta boy.
Should I go to Cargo with you, then?
No, because I've got you a much better position.
A much better position?
See that ventilation duct up there? I need you to go up there and see if there's anything in it that needs fixing.
But I don't even know what needs to be fixed.
That's fine. You just need to go all the way to the end and stay there until I call for you at night.
That's it?
Of course. What? You think I'd put a nine-year-old in Cargo?
Rachel winks at the boy.
Gotcha. Thanks.
Haha, I'd save that for later if I were you.
...?
Not fully understanding Rachel's intention, the boy climbs down the ventilation duct she pointed at.
When he finally reaches the end, he sees that there isn't some secluded tunnel waiting for him—rather, it's a place he's never even dared dream of.
The book storage?
The boy is now at Storage 08 in Carriage P's cargo—where they store piles and piles of paper books waiting to be sold and a terminal storing e-books and data.
There are novels and books on poems, history, and myths—but other than these, there are also picture books and mangas, which any nine-year-old would find much easier to read.
Like a fish who's finally found water, he dives right into a book he seems to be able to read and begins reading away.
The boy was ready to grind through the day, but it ended up being so much fun that he forgot to eat the food he brought.
Time creeps by with every turned page—and before the boy knows it, his time is up.
Hearing knocks coming from the ventilation duct, the boy reluctantly puts down the book in his hands and goes back the way he came through the ventilation duct.
So? How did you like hanging out alone in there?
It wasn't bad, but...
The boy thinks this is all too good to be true.
If Mom finds out about it, will she tear down the whole storage?
And what if those people that hate my mom find out that I was there? Are there going to be consequences?
You're going to be fine, as long as you don't find it scary. I'll just tell your mom that I've put you on the Maintenance Crew to help them fix the tunnel because you're too young to come to Cargo.
But I didn't...
Alrighty, [—].
Keep it down and be careful with the books. And remember to keep an eye out for people when you go in and out.
Let me handle talking to your mom.
Right. Thank you.
No worries. The world might be a mess now, but knowledge will still pay off in the long run.
Make sure you read and learn a whole bunch of things in there.
And try to be nicer to your mom. You see, she's just trying to help because...
Hesitating for a few moments, Rachel decides to drop what she was about to say.
The boy never dares to ask what Rachel was going to say.
After Rachel's talk with the young boy's mother, he now has four hours' worth of "work" to do for the Maintenance Crew outside of chores and studying.
At home, he pays close attention to his mother's tone, and he works and studies harder than ever—to keep his mother in the dark.
Once he's back at the storage with all the books, he becomes a fish swimming freely across a sea of books, all the while absorbing all the nutrients it provides.
This place shelters him from everything—be it his mother, or the venom that spews out of people's mouths when they mouth off his mother.
Many find books like these too impractical for the kid's good.
But to someone like him—someone born on and confined to a train—these books are his only chance to learn about the world out there.
He might not own these books, but he's confident that he knows what's in these books better than the one who owns them.
Be it the Golden Age, the ever-expanding universe, or the romance and tears—he remembers every single story he's read.
A story he remembers particularly well is one where the protagonist vows to fight for justice and an ideal world, and how the world is actually fixed in the end.
In the countless stories he's read, people stop hurting one another to survive—rather, they work as one to rebuild their home.
Repenting or not, the bad guys pay for what they've done.
Through these stories, he gradually comes to grasp with his place on the train—and why it's important to fight oppression back.
If someone could really make it happen, then this place would probably change like the world does in the stories…
With the book in his hands, the boy makes a wish to himself—he wants to become someone like the hero from the stories, someone who fights for "justice"...
In fact, he thinks he would probably be happy to just fight alongside the hero.
Again and again, the boy would dream of being the hero that comes to the world's rescue—yet it soon wears away when his mother comes down hard on him.
She has criticized him in more ways than one, putting all sorts of labels on his dream—eventually, the boy loses ground.
...It's probably high time that I faced the music.
Mom is probably going to be mad again if I pick fights with the kids.
Deciding to compromise with reality, the boy comes up with an action plan—in which he secretly stores away his dream.
I'm sure Mom is going to be okay with me drawing when the train is once again peaceful and I've learned how to keep my head above water.
But for now, I guess I'll just do as Mom and Rachel say and help around the house.
And life goes on, as the boy holds on to his flimsy little dream and goes through all the emotional ups and downs that come with it.
Life hasn't been exactly easy growing up, what with all the pressures and his futile resistance against them—yet here he is, ready to turn 11.
