Fate's Witness

“Ah, Issah–you really don’t have to–!” But there’s something very persistent here, between the cinnamon roll in her hands and the look on her face. When it comes down to it, Kite just can’t say no, and takes the roll from her hands with a gracious smile, “thank you.” He’ll sneak a large tip into the jar on the counter. Just you wait.

“Oh, I know–I know!” Kite says with a slight sheepish laugh, “I’ve been busy…” It’s true, but it feels like a weak excuse. “I do need to get better about stopping by,” he says with a slight sigh, though his smile never fades. It turns into a grin when he’s given a chance to talk about his favorite hobby, “it’s going as well as it can! It’s dormant, so I’m planning out how it should be set up this year now… and when summer hits it should really be impressive! You’ll have to come see it.” He falls quiet for a moment, looking down at the cinnamon roll in his hands, before asking, “how are things going here, with the bakery?”

Clearly more than just a little pleased he takes the cinnamon roll without a fight, the baker bounces back behind her counter to start individually wrapping the cinnamon rolls and placing them neatly into boxes as their conversation continues.

“I know you usually have perennials growing this time of year, but I’m excited to see what annuals you have in come spring! I could learn a thing or two about gardening from you, after all. I can never manage much more than a few potted plants in the windowsills.” 

Humming in thought at his final question, she bounces her weight around a bit on her heels to the faint music coming through the radio, and the rhythm she has going.

Wrap, place, wrap, place, wrap, place, close the box, grab a new one, wrap, place-

Issahbella works like a machine. 

It was a way to understand people more, too — to carve out time to head straight into one of their driving forces. He thought he knew her much better now.

“Good timing?” he answered, a tease that passed into a warm smile as the door closed behind him. He took the coat off his shoulders. “It’s good to see you too, and in high spirits,” he continued, hanging it up by the door. She wasn’t a gloomy person, but running a business could be more eventful than necessary at times.

“I’ve seen them. I haven’t tried eating or making them, so that could cross off two for me.”It wasn’t something he’d gone out of his way to avoid, but convenience was much higher under these circumstances. It would add one more appeal to the younger visitors if featured, which he was sure played some part in her choice.

Rolling up his long sleeves, he asked of the flour, “Have you gotten a head start?”

"Well..." Trailing off a little Issah looks at a bowl of what appears to be a failed experiment, batter mixed, but not quite the right consistency. 

“I tried to, but trying to adjust other’s recipes to suit my tastes is always quite the back and forth of trial and error. You know how I am. It always has to be JUST so...” After all, it was no secret to him her business only succeeded BECAUSE she was so nitpicky about how things were done. If she didn’t have things the way she liked it, it would never be good enough for her. 

Sighing, and planting her hands on her hips, she moves the bowl of failed batter to another counter, and retrieves a different, clean one, setting it down.

“Perhaps it would be in my best interest to make the frosting first and let it chill, before I instead decide to make a thousand failed batter products, yes? Actually, are you familiar with the creation process of these? I’ve only recently come across it myself, and wanted to see if I could do it by hand, than instead with a machine.”

A pause.

“Homemade goodness, and whatnot!”

Karen was tempted to decline, but her stomach decided to answer for her. She was a bit hungry and she hasn’t eaten yet. Work was starting to get to her, but she still has to stay ever vigilant. She had heard about this bakery from her classmates, but she never thought that it would be like that this.

She quietly took the pastry and immediately the scent wafts into her nose which makes her mouth water. She takes a small bite from it and the warm pastry fills her mouth with a sweet tartness that she found hard to describe.

“…This is really good.”

The baker watches with what almost seems like bated breathe, hands clasped tight under her chin as the girl carefully consumes the tart like it's the last thing she'll ever eat. Her soft-spoken comment about it’s flavor sends the baker positively reeling, in a good way.

“Oh, do you think so? I tried a different recipe with them and I was afraid it wouldn’t be as well-received...but I’m glad you like it! My strawberry tarts are my most popular pastry so I thought changing it might not be for the best but...” Here she trails off, and makes a ‘come in, come in!’ sort of gesture.

The jingle of bells on the door of her bakery has her head snapping up, and almost immediately, there’s a smile on her face. She’d know that cloud of silver hair anywhere, and though she doesn’t see him nearly as much as she sees Mika, his presence is equally welcome. 

Snagging a fresh cinnamon roll from the tray she’d just pulled, and hurriedly wrapping it in a piece of wax paper, she practically bounces straight up to Kite, presenting the free cinnamon roll on her palms. 

Sunday is the one day she keeps the bakery closed, explicitly to spend time with friends. However, the door to the shop remains open, so the children that frequented it could come and go as they pleased, using the seating both in and outside. 

This is the day she spends restocking her shelves, trying new recipes and making time for things in life other than her darling bakery. 

Like friends. 

It’s when the chime on the back door of the bakery rings that she hurried wipes flour on her apron and turns her attention, a massive smile on her face. Hajime, in her mind, is her best friend, and her business partner. Though she’s unsure if he feels the same, she’s always happy to see him all the same.

“Hajime!” His name is punctuated with a small clap, flour going everywhere. 

“MIKA!” She practically takes him off his feet the moment she sees him at the door, catching stares of the few customers lingering in the outdoor seating area. Her hug is tight, but not suffocating, allowing him freedom if he so wishes.

It’s only been about a week since she’s seen him last, and yet here she is, practically radiating joy at the sight of the young man.

“I’ve missed you, have you come for a pastry? How’s Kite? Are the two of you managing well?”

Smushing his face in her hands, she squints a little voice rising an octave in one final question.

It’s just another day of people, mostly children, coming and going through her bakery, keeping her mind and her hands busy behind the counter as she bustles about. Another day of the same, steady thing, and yet every smile she puts on the face of someone coming to pick up her confectioneries makes it seem worthwhile.

It’s during a lull in the ebb and flow of rushes that she catches sight of the girl, lingering outside, eyes tired and wary as she looks over the window’s display case, showing off the delicacies for the day. Slipping out from behind the counter, brushing loose flour from her hands onto the white, frilly apron she wore, Issahbella snags a strawberry tart and pops it on a napkin, appearing in the doorway.

A really nice lady who lives in the Archimedes ward!

Runs a small corner bakery and makes really traditional style pastries

Basically the ‘town mom’ of the block, kids and teenagers hang out at her shop after classes and during her lunch a lot.

Is just everyone’s mom.

Her bakery is a family owned business that’s been around for ages.

She’s got a pet snake in a terrarium in the back!

Comes from money but keeps her business small and private.

“I can… relate,” Hajime started, though he didn’t look at her. “But my experience of human history is almost nonexistent.” He’d never known of Chalice’s promise, only of Chalice’s prowess. In the same vein, he didn’t know what this body had seen; only what he learned.

“Nature spirits. Tsukumogami. Oni are more demons than spirits,” he corrected himself eventually. “I don’t recall meeting someone more like a ghost, but I was in contact with someone like a vampire.” The spectral people and foes before the city recovered didn’t count, not being pleasant experiences.

The station was in sight, and he would have spoken more quietly if the next level down wasn’t softly spoken. He wasn’t the type to project his conversations without a need for it. While he’d tried to think of something meaningful to say without prying, he wound up saying something in amusement: “Your novels must get positive reviews for authenticity.”

His words bring a smile and a laugh to Issahbella, throwing her head back perhaps a little more than is necessary in her glee.

“I’ve a bit of a small cult following I suppose you could say. I don’t think my works are particularly popular, but there’s a series of people who seem to think I’m over two-hundred years old, or there’s some kind of tradition of handing my penname down throughout my family.”

Fingers come up to hover near her mouth, an almost-overly feminine gesture, masking small giggles. It’s all rather girlish, and rather strange, like she’s trying to distract from the fact she might’ve let some sort of secret or...something slip. Or perhaps it’s just her being impish. 

In fact, she herself doesn’t even really know what she’s getting at, at this point. Maybe being an enigma just had an allure. 

“Then I’m glad to hear of such things. I can’t say I’ve ever seen a nature spirit, but vampires, ghosts? I may or may not have written about one or two in my time.” And as the station comes into view, a little bit of the tension seeps out of her shoulders. This place wasn’t exactly safe, no, it bent laws she didn’t know you could bend.

 But at least, things made just a little more sense.

“Was it the past you experienced, or the… spirits? Monsters?” he asked, calm in tone and serious in expression. He was willing to let her find him gullible in thinking either one could be true. The Battle Royale brought in both immortality and inhuman forces. This island did the same. It seemed more likely the “embellishments” were the true one, to him, from his warped experience.

He inhaled, tilting his head up toward the sky. “You’ll have your supernatural details handed to you here, but I’m sure you could make them suit your taste on the page. I’ve met a few kind spirits.”

Oh?

Now that wasn’t the reaction she’d expected from him, but perhaps he’d gleaned more information from her carefully spoken words than she expected. Yet, he wasn’t reacting with sarcasm or skepticism. Perhaps it would be alright to let the enigmatic aura down just a little.

“I’m older than I look, cara mia. The past is something I know well, but to be honest, there are things I’ve experienced I can’t quite explain through logic or sound reasoning. They simply...happened. I rather not be labeled as insane, though, so I keep that to myself.”

He’d given her some interesting food for thought though. If the strange and supernatural were far more common place here, perhaps admittance to others about the existence of her cloud wouldn’t be so odd. However...it didn’t explain why the spirits within were so incredibly quiet. 

“That’s fine! Kite’s my boyfriend,” he replied with such eagerness in his voice. “He’s great, soft, pretty, has all kinds of neat stories and he’s taught me so much I didn’t know before.” He rubbed his scruffy chin, thinking about it his better half. “We live next to the lake, he likes to befriend the fishes there. It’s a good view, I really suggest it.” Whether or not he was talking about Kite or the lake was unsure, but given how Mika’s mind worked, he meant the lake. As for everything else…

“Oh and uh… I work at Pandora Cafe in uh…” Mika tilted his head, trying to remember the details. Weird… He just came from there… “At Archimedes. That’s the ward with all the good food by the way. I recommend that place.” He grinned back at Issah, hands shoved into his pockets.

“But also what’s a Japan?”

"How sweet. Japan is a country that I'm certain is far from this place, but it's quite like this ward. The cherry blossoms in particular invoke a similar feeling. I’m glad to see you and your beau have found a place to find peace.”

Running one hand idly through silver curls, a soft hum vibrates around the pipe in her teeth as Issah considers what to do and where to go next. Even with Mika guiding her, it was difficult to decide what would be the most sensible course of action. But for the time being...

Walking to Archimedes from upper Fibonacci wasn’t at all impossible, but he wasn’t sure how long she’d been walking already. The trip to the station wouldn’t take as long. “Here, it’s just been months. Back then there was only rubble where all of this was. Things change quickly here, too.” How far had she been travelling to consider that her life outside this captivity? Or, she was older than she looked; not impossible, given his own appearance. It wasn’t something he felt like he should press yet.

“If you count another city like this, around two years altogether. I’m used to the circumstances more than the surroundings.” He was still working on understanding the connection between the two cities, but its existence was undeniable. Periodic chaos and the same faces he’d known before confirmed it.

“Are you much of a recorder of what you’ve seen?” The wording felt too literal for what he meant, but it would have to do. “Photos, or paintings, or something similar.”

Change and chaos was something Issahbella had come to expect from this place, and her teeth click down on the empty pipe again, sucking in air and nothing else, which a tiny piece of her laments internally. As they walk, and she listens, her head turns this way and that, almost owlishly, committing the sights, the feel of this place under her feet to memory. 

However, there’s an almost-noticeable twitch in her hands at his words.

Another city. Same circumstances. Two years.

She does not bother feigning calm, and turns her violet gaze on him, expression morphed ever so slightly into one of surprise. 

“So this is not the first place like this...? How strange.”

Falling back into silence to ponder this, his question does not come as much of a surprise. All the years must show on her face, at least a little, and Hajime has made it clear he’s not fool. Perhaps he was more like her than she had initially thought. Only time would tell.

GENERAL.

NAME: Issahbella Annalisa de Zeverani  NICKNAME(S): Issah, Bella, Bells. AGE: 404 SPECIES: Human...?

PERSONAL.

MORALITY: lawful / neutral / chaotic / good / neutral / evil RELIGIOUS BELIEF: Agnostic VICES: envy / greed / lust / gluttony / sloth / pride / wrath / despair VIRTUES: chastity / humility / charity / diligence / kindness / patience / temperance PRIMARY GOALS IN LIFE: To help spirits of the dead still trapped in the plane of the living pass on into whatever the afterlife may be, to help them find whatever closure they need.  LANGUAGES KNOWN: English, Spanish, Italian, Portuguese, Japanese, French. SECRETS: Issahbella is over 400 years old, but only appears 24. SAVVIES: A skilled storyteller, can weave a story from nothing but thin air in a matter of minutes. Good at diplomacy, fair and just people-sense. Lots of other arbitrary skills picked up over the years. An excellent baker and decent cook, very good at coordinating fashionable outfits. 

PHYSICAL.

BUILD: scrawny / bony / slender / fit / athletic / curvy / herculean / pudgy / average / muscled HEIGHT: 5′ 1″ SCARS/BIRTHMARKS: No scars. A beauty mark under her left eye. ABILITIES/POWERS: Can phase in and out of objects and surfaces for short periods of time. Possesses a cloud of restless spirits that cling to her person and constantly feed off her energy. Can occasionally command them to do small supernatural things, like flickering lights or tossing small objects. Speaking to the ghost’s of people who died suddenly. (Murder, accidents, without any sort of closure.) RESTRICTIONS: A complete disregard for her own safety, extreme apathy leading to her often lacking the desire to get involved, easily tired by use of her powers, drinks and smokes frequently so her physical health is likely questionable.

FAVOURITES.

FOOD: Will try just about anything, but has a preference for the cuisine of her homeland. Pound cake. is her favorite thing. DRINK: Raspberry vodka. PIZZA TOPPING: The classic toppings of a margarita pizza are fine. COLOR(S): Dark purple MUSIC GENRE: Likes most everything, really likes classics. BOOK GENRE: Autobiographies and research novels. MOVIE GENRE: Horror! Otherwise, she enjoys documentaries on things she’s not experienced. SEASONS: Fall SCENT(S): Clove smoke, fresh bread, cold air.

FUN STUFF.

SINGS IN THE SHOWER: Yep! LIKES BAD PUNS: Easiest way to make her laugh. CURSE WORD: Doesn’t curse often, probably damn?

The winter time is usually a bittersweet time for a being so impossibly long-lived as Issahbella. The numbness of the cold seeps down into her bones, and so she chases it away with drink, but the warmth never lasts. She chases it away with conversation and half-hearted smiles, but it never lasts.

                                                    Nothing ever lasts.

To rise from the cold of her bed long after any of her housemates and finding a curious box seated at the foot of her bed, her curiosity peaks. She’s not been in this city long-- who could possibly have thought of her? She was just a ghost, drifting through throngs of people.

Tired hands open the box, and for a moment, she is stunned. Nothing. It’s empty. Just a little silver and purple box, tied up in red strings. A part of her is not surprised, not disappointed.

There is a shuffle on the bed behind her, and her head whips around. For a moment, she wonders if she is still dreaming.

A boy, all mocha skin and chocolate wavy hair, with wide, honey-brown eyes sits where she lay just moments before on the bed. Frozen in shock, what little color remains to her face, draining away, she cannot stop the sudden onslaught of tears down her face. 

She knows exactly who this child is.

Nearly three-hundred and eighty years ago, this darling boy was her son. Her son that was named after her deceased brother, her most beloved, most cherished memory. When he died, her happiness and heart went with him.

“Madre?”

She nearly chokes on her own air, diving onto the bed and scooping the small, wiry child into her arms, his ancient, out of style, musty clothing and all, burying her face into his hair. He radiates warmth, warmth she hasn’t felt in so many years, part of her perhaps even forgot that it existed. Part of her forgot what it meant to be real.

To be alive.

To be human.

“Si, amore, la mamma è qui.”