Chapter 5:

Chapter 5: Preparing

The Person I Desired to Be

At 11.47, my phone buzzes once.

Clever Cuddle Club Group.

Vivi: REMINDER!! CCC meeting today after class!! 10A classroom ok!! everyone come!!

I stare at the notification.

A meeting. In 10A. Which is my classroom.

Unknown agenda.

I put my phone face-down. Post-test problem.

I finish Mathematics in twenty-two minutes. I check my answers twice. I put the paper face-down and wait for the remaining thirty-eight minutes to conclude.

This is not a problem.

I finish Science in nineteen minutes.

Also, not a problem.

English.

I finish in forty-one minutes. Several questions ask me to identify what a character feels based on context clues.

I select the most statistically probable answer each time.

I am approximately sixty percent confident in these selections.

This is a minor problem.

World History.

The paper lands on my desk at 15.03.

I pick up my pen.

I read question one.

Which location served as the main seat of the Sivrathist religion where Mother Luxury established her primary base?

a) Zurich b) Cyprus c) Washington D.C. d) Shanwei e) Oslo

I read it again.

Mother Luxury.

I search the empty room in my head. Nothing.

I search the part of my head that is not empty, the part that has spent six days reading books, running physics calculations, and memorizing Tokyo transit routes.

Also nothing.

I have fifty minutes.

Question two.

What was the primary ideological conflict between the Krovenian Directorate and the Anthemia Regulative Collegium (ARC)?

I stop.

ARC.

I look at question two for a long time.

The Anthemia Regulative Collegium. ARC. The organization whose envelope is currently sitting in the front pocket of my bag. The organization Vivi described as like government but bigger. The organization Lui said people don't just work for.

It is apparently also a historical entity significant enough to appear on a preparatory assessment for fifteen-year-olds.

C. The Directorate's rejection of ARC as the global arbiter of objective fact.

I do not know if this is correct. I select it because it is the only answer that sounds like something worth fighting a war over.

I move to question three.

How did the 1919 ARC Bulletin 44-G fundamentally change the course of the war?

The war.

Which war.

I look around the room.

Everyone else is writing. Donovan is writing. The silver-eyed girl in front of me is writing. A boy two rows over is writing so fast his paper is moving.

I look back at my paper.

1919 ARC Bulletin 44-G.

I do not know what this is. I do not know what war this refers to. I do not know what a Bulletin 44-G is or why it would have a number or why the number is 44 specifically.

I select D. It verified Krovenian atrocities as state policy, removing their plausible deniability.

Specific answers are usually correct. This is a principle I have developed in the last fifty-three minutes.

I am not confident.

I move to question four.

Then question five.

By question seven I have developed a secondary strategy: eliminate the answers that sound too convenient, select the answer that sounds like it had consequences.

By question twelve I have a tertiary strategy: if ARC appears in the answer, it is probably correct. ARC appears to have been involved in everything.

I find this unsettling for reasons I cannot yet fully articulate.

I finish the 30th question with forty seconds to spare.

I put my pen down.

World History: I have made my peace with uncertainty.

The bell rings.

Ms. Quilla rises from her desk.

She is unhurried. She collects papers row by row, starting from the front. When she reaches my desk, she pauses.

“Neptune,” she says. Her voice is warm. “It's good to have you back. Call me Ms. Sharma, or Ms. Quilla. Whichever feels right.”

I nod once.

She takes my paper and continues to the next desk.

When every paper is collected, she sets them on her desk and turns to face the class.

“Before you ask,” she says, “this test goes nowhere. No grade. It exists so you understand what is coming.”

She writes a date on the board.

4 May 2020.

“One month from now. The real assessment runs for one week.” She pauses. “It will cover three components. IQ evaluation. Personality assessment. And interest and skill testing. The current preparatory test results will be sent to each of your emails next week.”

The room makes a sound.

Ms. Quilla looks unbothered.

“Get ready,” she says simply. “That's all.”

One month.

ARC appeared eleven times in that history paper. I counted.

I have significant gaps to fill.

I am still looking at the date on the board when Vivi makes contact.

She hits me from the left side at considerable speed for someone her size, both arms wrapping around my torso, face pressing into my shoulder.

“Nepipi,” she says, muffled. “I don't understand ANYTHING.”

I stand there. I do not move.

“The AC is so cold,” she adds, and begins rubbing her cheek against my shoulder like a small animal generating heat through friction.

I look at Elowen over the top of Vivi's head.

“How did you find it?” I ask.

“Not bad,” Elowen says, “I think I did alright.”

This is consistent with what I have observed about Elowen. She does not say fine when she means well. She says alright.

“I was kinda lost in the physics section,” Lui says, dropping into the chair beside my desk backwards as usual. “Rest was fine, I suppose.”

I nod. “I underestimated history,” I say.

Vivi makes a sound of profound solidarity without releasing me.

“Same.”

“You didn't understand history?” I ask.

“Everything! Every subject,” Vivi says.

“Surely you understand something.”

“I understood the title,” Vivi says. “It said Math, Science, English, World History. After that.” She makes a small explosion gesture with one hand without letting go with the other. “Elowen is good tho! You can ask her about history!”

I look at Elowen. “Were you always strong in history?”

Elowen smiles. “Vivi and I have been friends since 7th grade. She's known me a while. And yes, my history score is usually 100.”

“She's ranked first,” Vivi says, with immense fondness and zero jealousy. “When we were still in UK! 7th grade, 8th grade, 9th grade. Whole school. Every time.”

“Second now,” Elowen corrects gently.

“STILL,” Vivi says.

“Someone dethroned you?” I ask.

“Yes,” Elowen says. She smiles at me differently this time.

I file it.

“Who is first?” I ask.

Lui makes a sound that is not quite a laugh.

Elowen's smile stays exactly where it is. “You are,” she says.

“That is incorrect,” I say. “I have been absent for three weeks. I have amnesia. I could not answer seventeen questions in the history section with any reasonable confidence.”

“And yet,” Lui says.

“Nepipi is a GODDESS, you always score higher.” Vivi announces into my shoulder.

“That conclusion is not supported by the history paper I just submitted,” I say.

“You’re still a goddess!!”

“A separate variable. What about Ootake Mirei,” I say. “She sits beside me. The girl in front of me says she is absent frequently. But her academic standing—”

“Mirei's never shown up,” Lui says, leaning back. “Not once since term started. But she's never last either.” She pauses. “Vivi is always last.”

“Hmph,” Vivi says.

“We think she submits everything online,” Lui continues. “No one actually knows. She's like a myth. I don’t even know if she exists to be honest.”

I nod. “I see.”

“I'm so STUPID,” Vivi says, with sudden feeling, squeezing me tighter. “Mnnaaaa. Everyone understands things. I understand nothing. I am a decorative object.”

“You are not stupid,” Elowen says immediately.

“I'm RANKED THIRTY,” Vivi says. “Thirty! There are thirty people in this class!”

“And yet you are warm,” I say. “You are solving a thermal regulation problem the rest of us are not addressing.”

Vivi goes quiet.

She looks up at me.

“...What does that mean?”

“It was an observation,” I say.

She beams anyway.

Lui, who is watching this, says flatly: “You- Uh… Pre-amnesia Neptune was cheating somehow. Has to be, You can’t just get all 100—”

“MNNAAAA,” Vivi says loudly, lifting her head. “Said the one in fifth. Nepipi is not cheating!”

Lui opens her mouth.

Closes it.

“...I'm in fifth because physics was weird,” she says.

“Well, I’m last cause everything was weird!”

“That’s just a you problem,” Lui says.

Vivi is still attached to my arm. Her expression is genuinely unbothered by this information, which I find interesting. She does not look ashamed. She looks like someone who has made peace with a difficult neighbour.

“Your grades,” I say carefully. “How do you pass 7th to 9th grade?”

Elowen answers before Vivi can. “She tries,” she says simply. “Every single time. She never stops trying.”

Vivi nods very seriously. “I get points for trying.”

“That is not how grading works,” I say.

-ooo-

16.00.

The bell rings.

Most of 10A files out.

I remain in my seat.

Vivi does not leave. She drops back into her own seat, two rows forward, and immediately sends another message to the group chat. I hear her typing it. I already received it.

Vivi: ok everyone!! come to 10A!! we are starting!!

I put my phone face-down.

Elowen stays. Lui stays, tilting her chair back at its usual structurally questionable angle.

The first associate member arrives at 16.03.

He fills the doorframe.

This is the first data point. He is approximately 188 centimetres. Brown hair. A face that is, structurally, pleasant. Open. The kind of face that defaults to readable.

He scans the room. He finds me.

Something happens in his expression. It moves through several things quickly. I catch relief, and then something more complicated underneath it, and then a careful, deliberate settling.

He crosses the room toward me. He stops at a reasonable distance. His hands, I notice, are occupied — he is carrying a convenience store bag in one and a bottle of tea in the other.

“Neptune,” he says. His voice is warm and slightly unsteady. “You're— you actually came.”

“Yes,” I say. “This is my classroom.”

“Right.” He exhales. “Right, yeah.” He pauses. He looks at me the way people look at things they have been worried about for a long time. His eyes move briefly to my left arm, then to my face, then away. “I heard— I mean, they said you fell from the roof. And your face, and your neck, and your—” He stops himself. “You're okay? Like, actually okay? You can tell me if you're not.”

“I am functional,” I say.

“Your hand,” he says. “They said your hand was—”

“Recalibrating,” I say. “It is approximately ninety-four percent functional. The remaining six percent is a nerve signal issue that is resolving.”

He looks at my hand.

He nods slowly. Like he is filing this away carefully.

“Okay,” he says. “Okay, good.” He holds out the convenience store bag. “I didn't know if you'd eaten. After the test and everything. There's onigiri and— I got two kinds because I didn't know which you'd want. And tea.” He sets the bottle on my desk. “It's not caffeinated. In case.”

I consider it.

“You brought food,” I say.

“Yeah.” He looks slightly uncertain now, like he is recalculating whether this was appropriate. “Is that— is that okay? You don't have to take it if—”

“It is efficient,” I say. “Thank you.”

His face does something. The uncertain part smooths out. He smiles, and it is the kind of smile that takes up a lot of room. “I'm Valter,” he says. “Valter Blankenhorn. We've met before. Before the accident.”

“I have no record of you,” I say. “I apologise.”

“Don't,” he says immediately. “Don't apologise for that.”

A sound from the back right corner.

I look.

Medea has arrived without my noticing. She is already seated, back right corner, mirror position to mine, a book open in her lap. She is looking at it with complete indifference.

She makes the sound again. Small. Compressed. It is directed, I think, at the convenience store bag on my desk.

Valter's jaw tightens slightly. He moves to a desk near the window without further comment.

The third arrival I hear before the door fully opens.

She is tall. Peach hair, short, slightly disordered in a way that reads as permanent rather than careless. She moves with an economy that suggests every step is deliberately proportioned.

She stops in front of my desk.

“Glad you're fine,” she says.

Her voice is low and contains no performance.

My beep does something.

75.

72.

“Thank you,” I say.

She nods. She takes the desk beside mine.

I observe her.

The hair is peach. This is not a natural colour. The roots, where the hair meets the scalp, are dark — black, I think, or very close to it. The peach is deliberate. Chosen.

I also observe: androgynous face. Structured jaw. The angle of it reads differently depending on whether she is facing forward or in profile. Tall. I revise my estimate to 176 centimetres. Blue eyes, slightly tired.

My beep is at 73.

“Your hair,” I say. “The peach is dyed. The roots are dark.”

She looks at me.

“Yes,” she says.

She does not explain further. I do not ask further. This appears to be a satisfactory exchange for both parties.

“I'm Neptune,” I say. “I have amnesia. I don't remember you.”

“Yuel,” she says.

“Do we know each other well?”

A pause. Slight.

“Somewhat,” she says.

She looks back at the window.

The fourth arrival stops in the doorway.

Blue hair. She is wearing her uniform with precision, every button correct, collar straight. She has glasses, pale yellow-green eyes behind them, and those eyes are currently performing a rapid and thorough assessment of the room that I recognise immediately as threat-mapping.

She does not move when she realizes I’m looking at her.

“IVY!!” Vivi launches out of her seat. “Come in, come in, it's okay!!”

The girl takes one step inside. She stops again. Her gaze has landed on me.

“Neptune,” she says. It is not quite a question.

“Yes,” I say.

“Carena Bjornhelm Ahlquist,” she says. “Ranked first in 10A. Science track. You've had amnesia since the accident on March 12th, 2020. Today is your first day back.”

“That is correct,” I say.

“What is your favourite thing?”

“Probably space and ocean.”

She nods. Once, firmly. Like she has verified a data point.

She moves to a desk, two from the end of the middle row, which puts her equidistant from the door and the window. She sits. She places her bag on the desk, unzips it exactly halfway, and takes out a notebook and two pens. She lines them up parallel to the desk edge.

“Your hair,” I say.

Her expression is flat in a way that is not unfriendly, but is very direct. “I like it this way,” she says.

“I see,” I say.

She holds my gaze for a moment, then looks back at her notebook and uncaps the first pen.

“Retrograde amnesia.” Ivy says flatly. “Episodic and semantic memory loss. Procedural memory largely intact.”

I look at her.

“That is a precise description,” I say.

Her pen stills for two seconds before moving again.

“I learn about it,” she says. “I was a Praestantia student before coming to Silveria.”

“Praestantia?” I ask.

Ivy looks up. This appears to be a question she was not expecting. She recalibrates.

“You don't know?”

“I don't know many things.”

“Praestantia. Global boarding network. 193 campuses, one per UN member state. Established 1950. Uses the Modern Anthemian Codex for standardized curriculum—”

“Ivy,” Lui says.

“—The WAAE administers it. But as I said, the curriculum comes entirely from—”

“IVY!” Lui snaps from the front. She has not moved from her backwards-tilted chair, but her voice carries a clear note of redirection. “She just got back today.”

Ivy stops. She looks at Lui.

“She asked.”

“Yes. But not now…”

She writes something in her notebook. Underlines it. Caps her pen. Uncaps it again to add something. Caps it.

“Ok. To put it simply, I entered medical studies in first grade.”

Global accreditation monopoly.

But currently not my problem.

“OKAY,” Vivi says. She is standing now, hands clasped.

“Everyone is here! So—” she takes a breath “—I said it in the message already, but Neptune has amnesia. She doesn't remember any of us. Which is really sad but also she is HERE and she is okay and that is what matters most.”

She says this with a conviction that tolerates no alternative interpretation.

“So I thought everyone should introduce themselves. To Neptune. So she has something to work with.”

Brief introductions move around the room. Valter waves from his desk by the window, already done, he says.

The tall girl beside me says “Yuel” in a single syllable, and when Vivi prompts her for more, adds “Civil Engineering” without elaborating.

Ivy gives her full name which is Reivi Himetsuki, field of study, and student ID number in one breath, then pauses and asks if the ID number was necessary, and then writews a note to herself when no one answers definitively.

Medea does not look up from her book.

“Medea,” Vivi says.

“She knows who I am,” Medea says.

“I know your name,” I say. “I have texts. I do not know who you are.”

She turns a page.

“Alouette Meredith Esclarmonde,” she says. “Medea. Do not call me Aloy.”

“Noted,” I say.

“That one is Hiro,” Valter says. He points.

I follow his finger.

There is someone sitting in front of Medea.

That seat was empty seconds ago.

Yet now, there’s someone.

He has dark hair and yellow eyes and his chin is resting in his hand in the posture of someone who has been there for some time. 186 centimetres. Quiet in a way that erased attention.

“When,” I say, “did you arrive.”

“15.58,” he says. “I was early.”

I was in this room since 12.00, I noted the window latch. I noted Vivi's snack supply. I noted the quality of the afternoon light on the left side of the room.

I did not note him.

“You are very quiet,” I say.

“Generally,” he says.

Hiro does not fit into any category I currently have.

“How did I not realize you were here?”

Hiro’s mouth tilts slightly. “Guess, princess.”

“Hieronym Vladislav Milenko,” Ivy says, without looking up from her notebook. “He goes by Hiro. He has a habit of getting suspended.” She says this to me.

“Hiro,” I repeat. “Noted.”

Hiro looks at Ivy. “You don’t have to say that last line.”

“You weren't going to introduce yourself.”

He considers this. “True,” he says.

“OKAY,” Vivi says again, with the cheerful finality of someone turning a page. “So. The test is May 4th. That is one month. And I think we should study together. Every day. After school. Here.”

“Every day,” Ivy says immediately.

“Every day!!” Vivi confirms.

Ivy's pen is already uncapped. “Until the test? Or past it?”

“Until the test.”

“What time does the session start?”

“Right after school. So like, 16.00.”

“And end time?”

“Um—”

“Is it fixed? Or variable?”

“We can decide together!” Vivi says. “Maybe like 18.00? Or when we feel done?”

“Variable end time,” Ivy says. She writes this down. “If there's an emergency and someone can't come — what's the protocol?”

“Just message the group!”

“What if 10A is being used for something else?”

Vivi opens her mouth. Closes it. “I'll find a backup room and post it in the group.”

“Okay.” Ivy underlines something. “Is there a fixed subject order or do we decide each day?”

“We decide! Based on what everyone needs!”

“Who decides? Majority vote? Or one person?”

“We all decide together!”

Ivy nods. She writes for a moment. “Okay,” she says. “I'll need the details in writing.”

“I'll put everything in the group tonight!!” Vivi says. “All the details!! A proper list!!” She seems genuinely delighted by the thoroughness of this interrogation rather than tired by it.

Ivy nods once, firmly, and caps her pen.

Lui, who has been watching this exchange with an expression of mild stupefaction, tilts her chair back to its maximum angle. “Are we done? Can we actually start?”

“Yes!!” Vivi says. “Neptune — you said ARC appeared eleven times in the history paper?”

“Yes,” I say. “I counted.”

“Then we start with history,” Elowen says. She has her notebook open already. She has been writing since approximately 16.07. “I'll make an outline.”

She turns to a fresh page.

I take an onigiri from the bag Valter brought. Karaage chicken.

I unwrap the onigiri.

Steam rises from the rice.

I stop.

Convenience store onigiri are not usually warm.

This one is.

The heat distribution is uneven near the centre.

I rotate it once in my hand.