#risutoru

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Criasu’s record-keeping in the 21st century left much to be desired, but such was the impact of the loss of ever-present cameras and ubiquitous android assistants on employee work ethic.  That, at least, was the only conclusion Listor could draw from months of vaguely drafted incident reports and fragments of video captured from Doctor Traum’s creations.  

He’d been through most of the information already, a research binge that had lead him to Wakamiya Henri.  Annoyingly, Listor couldn’t truly blame the Precure for that failure—the boy had barely turned an ear to them at all before he turned Listor down.  Approaching Daigan had been a stray thought that came maddeningly close to working, if only the fool could have dodged the purification attack that ended the battle—and, perhaps, if Papple’s eye had been less sharp.

And where was that sharpness when she worked here? Listor thought, swiping forcefully through another responsibility-dodging report from Criasu’s erstwhile section chief.  

Criasu had too many “erstwhiles” now, with Doctor Traum the latest and by far the worst loss, not least because he’d taken with him any explanations for the half-constructed devices that filled his poorly-organized lab as well as access to all of RUR-9500’s memory banks.  Listor had specifically saved that data externally before wiping the android’s programming to avoid exactly this sort of knowledge gap, and then Traum had gone in and encrypted the lot of it.  

At least the reports she wrote were thorough, if difficult to sift through for the sort of information Listor needed.  RUR-9500’s ability to parse interpersonal connections back then had been stunted at best, and that was what he was looking for, evidence of connection.

Don’t pretend you know how I’m feeling, Listor! Bishin yelled in his memory, accompanied by a fresh jab from a headache brought on by too much time spent staring at a screen.  Listor winced despite himself and splayed his fingers over his temples, sitting back in his chair—  

—back into the warmth of someone else’s presence, as President Kurai rested his hand on Listor’s shoulder and leaned in to examine the computer screen.  Listor locked his jaw closed around the undignified breath that threatened to burst out of his throat and, when he was certain he had his face firmly under control, looked up to assess George’s mood.  

The anemic blue of the display discolored the man’s white coat and accentuated his pallor, but the current day’s smile sat calmly on his face, for the time being serene and relaxed. His eyes flicked neatly down to Listor, who straightened incrementally under the regard.  

“Working late again?” George asked him, light-toned.  

It had once been the case that Listor rarely saw the man outside of the corporation’s central observation room, but access to the past-world seemed to have awoken a streak of curiosity in him.  He’d ceased his forays into the city, thankfully, and for a while after the restructure, Listor had thought things would go back to normal.  Lately, though, he’d taken to wandering again—though at least he wasn’t leaving the building anymore.

“Yes, President.” Listor nodded briefly.  With slow care, mindful of the history between George and Doctor Traum that no one else in the company knew, he went on, “With—recent events, Criasu Corp’s need for new employees has only risen.”  

“Do you think so?” George asked.  When Listor remained silent, waiting for a follow-up, he lifted his eyebrows into a questioning curve.

Listor absorbed the question and George gave him an encouraging smile, crossing his arms over the back of the chair and remaining silent.  

“Gelos’s methods are growing more extreme, and Bishin’s work has been erratic ever since his return,” Listor reasoned.  “I can’t be away from the company for as long as one of our field agents, and as it now stands, we—have no others.”  He faltered as George continued to stare at him, stare as if trying to commit his face to memory for some later recounting.  Unease raised the hair on the back of Listor’s neck; he fought the urge to run his hand back over his nape.  

“Yes.”  George finally looked away, his smile fading into a distant melancholy.  “You’re right, I suppose.  As usual.”

“…I’m sorry for the doctor’s loss,” Listor hazarded.  “I know the two of you were close.”  

George shook his head. “I can only blame myself,” he said with a soft sigh.  “This has all taken so much longer than anticipated.”  

Another stab of pain, another memory—his and Harry’s first few months at the main branch as field agents, united, ignited, by the promise of eternal happiness.  If only they had managed to freeze time back then, before the illness, before Harry’s resolve failed.

“Yes, President,” Listor said aloud, unable to keep the hardness out of his voice.  His neck was beginning to feel the strain of sitting half-turned to face a man standing over his shoulder.  

George looked down at him again, briefly assessing, and then a wistful smile washed over his face.  

“I’m only keeping you longer, aren’t I?  I apologize, Listor.  It has been somewhat lonely in my office of late.”  He reached down to give Listor’s shoulder another squeeze.  “I appreciate how hard you’re working.  I’ll follow your example and get back to it myself.”

And then, at last, he turned away and walked out the door, his even footsteps retreating down the hall.

Listor wrapped his hand over the place where the President’s had lain, pressing his other arm against his midsection, where the unease had slid down his spine to coil cold as coin in his belly.