He’s supposed to have spent his day laughing, as he nearly always does (even here, with no familiar-pitched voices to turn a thread of joy to a warbling tightrope), but the many supposed to’s of the day have unraveled behind him - an Argonaut with an afternoon’s labor as his only thread, in a maze no less haunted than the Minotaur’s of old. Yamamoto’s heels are scuffed and his gait less fluid than he’d like to admit, some discarded flashlight the only thing he’s been blessed with in at least an hour. Yamamoto remembers clearly his own wrong turn taken, and he remembers too how the walls had bent with some muted glee at the way he’d tensed at the sudden, feminine whisper: “I don’t think I’ll be able to make that game of yours after all.”
Followed by: “You weren’t there. You let us down,” this lent terrible if distorted vibrance by a shock of auburn hair, empty eyes - or angry ones, these green-flecked with grief - in the shadows.
The maze’s voices mimic even his father’s lilted rasp - “Son,” heaved like a betrayed sigh.
Peko hasn’t been the only soul going in circles towards the exit. Yamamoto, however, can’t recall a single other person he’d passed that had: called out, made contact, touched rough base, albeit with words brimming with tension. The rare few who’d veered his way had done so with trembling limbs. Flitted away at the last moment, unfamiliar lungs churning ragged, as though their skin crawled too much to bear the solidity of his.
So when a stranger’s lithe frame comes up against his own, ribs blindsided by her wiry muscle, Yamamoto’s hand presses against the nearest wall for support. His exhale a visible puff in the otherwise musty dimness, the noise the boy lets slip exclaims surprise only a sliver more than fear.
“Sorry,” he starts when he catches his breath. “I didn’t mean to hit you - are you okay?” (Almost says didn’t mean to hurt you, instead. Maybe the voices are more insistent than he’d thought.)
Her questions demanding answers, he adds: “What?” Raises the wrist his salvaged flashlight’s strapped to, tries a swift calming gesture, hands up and clearly empty. “I’m Yamamoto Takeshi.
“Wow,” he says, completely dodging Peko’s second question, looking very unabashed about it. His gaze flits the length of her sword hilt, gripped expertly, interest blooming boyishly along tan features. “You’re fast.”
