#mercenaryrocket

That Elvira claimed witness of unbecoming behaviors while Stefan, in writing so hasty it bordered upon unintelligible, laid claim to his errors in a hope that salvation and forgiveness would come knocking upon his ajar door – as long as he confessed, after all, then the punishment would not be so harsh.

… Hannah went out with a crowd of three last weekend, where one select soul drank much more than their body could hold while the other sought romance from a boy whose age was far less than that of an adult… Robin and Miriam never confessed to these accusations, however, and held fast that between the three – it was Hannah who lied.

Veronika, Fanny, Linnea and Morgan believe that they have seen treason from Ylva, while Tove and Tristan have been exposed as secret lovers.

Malin was pregnant, and Cyrus had reason to believe a certain Commander may have fathered it.

Two fingers settled against the bridge of his beaked nose. His arms, folded across his chest as he sunk into his seat as though a child within one that was far too big. A sigh expelled from his breast as aloud, in his lonesomeness, Cyrus simply confessed;

That he did not care for these quarrels, and that they were not his business to sort.

That he did not care to know what sins others held within their breasts.

… That he did not, in fact, have an obligation to care for the spawn of a commander who wouldn’t ever confess to his involvement in the very first place.

No, if Cyrus were to truly be honest; today, as snow lapped upon the streets of Veilstone and children’s choirs sang within sanctuary halls – he did not care for much of anything at all. --He would turn twenty-two in but an odd number of days – and time, it seemed, was running by fast.

The next mountain of letters were accompanied by that of supposed ‘evidence’.

Filip had managed a photograph of Jakob’s money meddling – sending earnings to foreign relatives without giving a notion that this was something that would be occurring. An act of treason in the form of trust, if nothing more, and though Cyrus felt the act was harmless in and of itself… it was a matter that ought not to be fostered. Trouble would begin to brew if it were.

Cyrus fingered at paper bags and sealed off packages. At boxes within boxes, notes within notes; all provided for the sake of letting him know whom it was he should trust, and whom he shouldn’t.

Anya claimed angels whispered into her ear at night, of wicked desires towards their one and true Messiah. The crude drawings were something he perhaps would’ve wished to have been spared, but their sorting system has yet to be properly defined, as well as refined.

It was a hiccup that could be dealt with by re-schooling… Perhaps psychiatric contacts would be a resource worth investing in…

“… Cyrus?”

Tired eyes redirected from the task at hand; to that of Jupiter. Stood against the frame of his office door, her hip jutted while her fingers daintily drummed upon finely carved wood. A prototypical uniform adorned her slender form, that of a pencil style skirt and blouse; something that he, in the now, saw as unfit and undesirable.

“One usually waits outside before entering a superior’s office, Jupiter,” Cyrus quietly remarked. No true authority, however, lingered within his tone; and so perhaps that was why she didn’t feel her actions were all that wrong. Noon, after all, had come to pass hours ago and in the presence of but the two… Well, exceptions had been made in the past…

He fiddled with the handle of one of his bureau desk drawers, fishing out a paper and pen to scribble down a note for their uniforms to be looked over and reconsidered once more. A hand, waving her way. “At least feign formalities if you can’t wait another minute or two.”

Her heels rhythmically clicked as she traversed the space between them.

“… I was heading out,” she began, raspberry eyes darting from side to side – anywhere that wasn’t him. Despite appearances, she seemed to hold some sense of shame within herself for her actions after all. “However, there was a package left at the front desk. Elinore left an hour early and so no one got the notice and, well, it seems the giver didn’t fancy themselves finding anyone to bring it to our attention which is just, really fucking inconvenient and-”

“Josefina.”

Her cheeks flushed.

“Right, sorry.”

However embarrassed she may have felt over his impatient promptness seemingly weren’t enough to stump her invasive ways; for rather than simply handing him the package, kneel and leave – Josefina rounded his desk and took a seat upon the armrest of his seat. A place that he, within himself, assumed to be a rather uncomfortable place to sit – though he wouldn’t be voicing this observation of his.

Least she asks if he had somewhere else in mind for her to sit.

“… I don’t know what it is,” she eventually said, after seconds had passed in simple and pure silence. The package was handed to him and now, Cyrus decided, it seemed ‘present’ perhaps was a better term used to describe the given item. The wrapping was plain, unassuming and lacking in any decorations that may have suggested it as such; but a neatly scribbled sticker was placed upon the brown wrapping. Upon which, his name was written neatly. “… But, I don’t think it’s a late report.”

“I think you’re right about that.”

Cyrus sat himself up once more – properly again, with his shoulders flush against the back of his seat. Room was lacking now, with candy seated against his left arm (his father came to mind once more…) --He grasped the supposed present from his commanders hands and begun unraveling its contents one section at a time.

---

“This, dear boy, is an abacus.”

Father Orlov had presented him with the wooden object one late afternoon, when Sunday schooling had long since passed and the boy – himself, in this case – hadn’t wished to leave for home. A question of why had been posed, and as often was the case with children whom fear punishment or ridicule; an answer had not been given. --Orlov had deemed it inappropriate, but understandable, and suggested they go to the sanctuary until Cyrus felt ready to return to his parents once more.

Something that Cyrus had appreciated very much, but hadn’t voiced.

“Did you know that man weren’t created with the idea of numbers in their thoughts? Counting, of course, occurred; but a visual means of presenting ones work hadn’t been presented in any academic sense.”

In an effort to find him something to spend his time with, however, father Orlov had taken to scouring the shelving for textbooks and scriptures to engage within and use. What he had found instead, however, had been said abacus.

It had sat awkward within Cyrus’s hands, though not unfamiliar. His elementary school had used these frames to present math as a less intimidating matter than one may first assume.

Cyrus, however, never had seen the utility of them – he could count, and knew how to do so well even before the children of his age range could count to one hundred and two.

“Miss Ulrika gave us one of these at the start of grade one,” he had expressed, gently placing the abacus down onto his desk. Ignore it, he wouldn’t – but play with it was another thing entirely. “I never needed to use one.”

Orlov’s large hands had placed before him upon the desk, then, and not for the first time in his life had Cyrus thought that his pastor was a man of significant stature. Not in the way his father was, certainly not; but he was towering, no matter whom it was he stood before. --And Cyrus was quite small, still.

Orlov’s smile had been warm. “Hm. Perhaps you didn’t… Or at the very least, not for mathematical calculations.”

“… What else would you use it for?”

---

The chair creaked as Josefina shifted where she sat and over his shoulder, her locks cascaded like imperial curtains. “A counting frame?” She said, reaching for the item as though it was hers, and not his.

He didn’t stop her. --It was held over their heads – the beads, sliding every which way it was tilted.

“Abacus.” He mindlessly corrected, settling his elbow upon the armrest of which was not currently occupied. “It’s an abacus.”

“Abacus, schoty, soroban…” He gave her a look. She waved her hand his way, returning the frame. “What? I like learning new words. Besides, it’s still a counting frame no matter what its ‘fancy’ name is.”

It felt heavier now, with one side holding most of the lingering beads. The fact that it was broken and old, was perhaps its only fault; counting upon it wouldn’t exactly be useful. “I didn’t know you were so knowledgeable about… arbitrary things such as these.”

His pastor had known a lot, too.

“I have hobbies outside of being your little helper too, you know…” Her shoulder nudged his. “Though, I will say being with you is by far my favorite of the… (one finger, two…) three.”

---

“The one’s your teacher offered you undoubtedly were one created within a factory somewhere. Carved by machinery and workers alike, with little care for the quality and style of the frame outside of the state requirements.” Father Orlov had spoken with certainty and poise, as though he was holding a lecture within the church halls rather than speaking about a simple wooden toy. Perhaps it was why Cyrus had cared to listen. “… This one however, my dearest boy, is nothing like what you have ever held before.”

His eyes had diverted, then, from that of his pastor – to the abacus within his hands. Its thick frame was carved out of oak, with its rungs created from metal surely found within one out of Sinnoh’s rich mines. --It was… Unremarkable.

Ugly, even.

“… It’s just an abacus, father.” He had expressed and the laugh that echoed afterwards caused his cheeks to flush with heat.

(Was he so wrong?)

Orlov’s voice was covered with mirth as he spoke. “It is indeed but an abacus, Cyrus. But even the most simple of things have history.” The item was taken out of his hands, as gently as though an infant was dealt with – and here, as the frame was held up against the backdrop of the setting evening sun, the beads glimmered as though honey gold.

It had felt almost magical.

“… We may not always see the value of the past when we first encounter it,” Orlov had stated, lines forming at the ends of his lips of which aged him beyond his given years. “However, if we allow ourselves to study it from a different angle… Perhaps we will be richer still.”

---

The pad of his thumb brushed over the beads, gently attempting to see – just tell – if there was something hidden within. --It seemed these were simply wood, and nothing more.

“Y’know,” Josefina eventually voiced – thumb set upon her plump bottom lip in thought. “… I don’t think this is a Sinnohan model, despite it being a… children’s toy.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah.” Instead of stealing the toy, this time the woman simply pointed. At the piece of wood of which separated a vertical row from the rest. “Sinnohan ones don’t have this separation, and the drops are usually oval shaped and round at their edges.”

He fingered at a red-chipped bead. “These are carved to a point.”

“Exactly.” Her hands clapped together in excitement as she stood from her seat. The chair rattled from its loss. “Sinnohan ones also have two differently colored beads in each row. Save for two, where there’s three, while this one only has two over all.”

His cheek settled upon the knuckles of his hand, the toy balanced upon his thigh by but a single digit. “… Is this one of your, what was it… three interests, commander?”

She stuck her tongue out at him like a child. “I write, boss… Sometimes it leads you down weird rabbit holes of information. This happened to be one of them.”

“I see.”

Her heels clicked as she rounded the bureau, met at their points once she stood before it and after that – she gently kneeled. Like the proper employee that she pretended to be. “Well, Merry Christmas, sir. I hope you enjoy your toy.”

With that, she left; a giggle surely bubbling within her throat.

Cyrus turned in his seat, so that he faced the broad windows to his left. The sun was long since gone, hidden by winters cold and even though he tried to – attempted, to mimic an act from so long ago – the streetlights outside did not give away any hidden truth within the abacuses broken frame.