janch ໒꒱

The man knows this — he does, he swears he does, even when there is no one to give him a doubting eye. He knows that the robot is not the boy, and the soldier is not his child — Arte was never quite his, to begin with, but even still, when he can't help but search in the eyes that should've been blue, for the boy he failed to save.

But the boy soldier's hair is spun from gold and his eyes are filled with sulfur. The man instinctively brushes a lock from the child's face, only to falter once skin meets steel.

He is cold, the boy soldier. No need for warmth in an automaton, not when its intended battlefield only has enemies for humans. But it is not the cold that stills the man — he should've expected it, one way or another. It is the lack of reaction, the blank eyes that are round with false innocence, ignorance dressed as naivete.

The child's soul is there, somewhere. He mutters this in his mind as if to ground himself — the affirmation both an anchor and a foolish hope.

Because it has to be. Any other possibility would break him.

Because when Arpa calls him "Professor", it reminds him of everything that he is not. When Arpa speaks in Arte's voice, all he can hear is the boy who entrusted his sister to him, the sister that he too could not protect. When Arpa smiles up at him, he can almost pretend that Arte still lives, that only half a sibling's blood stains his hands, that that sweet sky-child still stands by his side, a head still too short.

But the smile is as plastic as the rest of the boy soldier. Arpa smiles not because he is happy — he doesn't know what happiness means (not yet, whispers the man. But he'll learn soon — the man promises he will, he'll create a future where the child knows nothing but joy) — but because that is what'll make his master, his father, happy.

Like father, like son, grates a mocking voice in the back of his skull. How touching.

Except he is no father, and Arpa is no son. The chill is evidence enough of this.

And even if Arpa was someone's child, he deserved someone better than him.

"Father?"

He bites back the urge to correct him — to say that he is anything but a parent. It is better than Professor, he supposes, and a simple "Mr. Ludger" feels wrong — especially when the name "Ludger Cherish" (along with all of its complications) was thrust upon him so suddenly. "Owner" is worse, Leader is barely tolerable. But the boy has taken to "Father", and the man has long lost the heart to fight back.

"What is it?" he asks, turning to the living ghost.

"You seemed lost in thought. Are you feeling well?"

He speaks too formally for a sky-child, thinks the man. Arte never spoke like this.

"I'm fine," he assures, half-heartedly ruffling the boy's hair. Arpa closes his eyes at the touch, keening not unlike a cat. Arte would've spluttered and protested. "Just thinking of the operation."

If the boy believed him, he didn't show it. "I see. You'll do as well as always, Father."

The man chuckles with a shake in his head. Even without a mirror, he knows the smile doesn't reach his eyes.

"I know." He straightens at a soft beep of his Akashic Record — a call from Hans, no doubt. "Looks like the others are ready. We shouldn't keep them waiting. Come," he beckons, for he cannot bring himself to order.

And yet Arpa smiles, because Ludger had told him to all those years ago, and follows suit — like the good boy soldier he is, nothing like the sky-child Ludger wishes he was.

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