PULLDRONE

Fumiko raises an eyebrow at Elena’s casual tone. “A Mill native, no less.” She can’t help herself—her voice grows serious, quieter. “We have no records of him or any of his activities at the station. Peculiar, don’t you think?”

“Consequential?” she echoes softly, tilting her head as if tasting the word. “I suppose that depends on who’s writing the history, doesn’t it? My body may have betrayed me early, but the stage -- it remembers me still.” Her gaze sharpens, a flicker of defiance behind the veil. “Besides, I’d hardly call grace ephemeral. It lingers longer than most things people in Coronado think themselves ‘worthy’ of.”

“I’m sure you’ll be remembered here as one of the greatest dancers of all time.” There’s real admiration in Fumiko’s voice, but also something condescending—the implication that here is as far as Grace’s fame will reach, while Fumiko operates on a broader scale entirely. “However, I wonder if distancing yourself from the del Bosque name is strategically sound. Blood is blood, isn’t it?”

Fumiko dismisses Giulia’s reasoning entirely, albeit silently. She’s entitled to her place in the inner circle, entitled to the whole truth. However, she also knows better than to press for information she’s clearly not meant to have, so she shelves her resentment and lets Giulia redirect the conversation. “Of course,” Fumiko nods. “And this is outside the Coronado Cultural Preservation Act, yes?”

Luciana’s words skillfully pour out from her painted lips like a well-trodden fairytale ending. It signals Fumiko to straighten her ramrod spine as they speak. “In our nation’s history,” she says, “never has such an incident occurred. Something so intentional, so violent.” To think that this would never happen again would be to ignore the significance of a dissenter evading the kagehito’s detection. “Further precautions must be taken, no?”

Grace tilted her head slightly, fingers brushing against the chain of her bag as though steadying herself. “I’ve been here all along,” she said evenly, her gaze not wavering, “though it seems my presence only becomes apparent when it unsettles someone. I hadn’t thought my staying would be so troublesome... unless you were hoping the past had packed itself neatly away and gone with me.” A pause lingered as she adjusted the sleeve of her coat, almost casually, before her eyes returned with quiet intent. “Tell me, does it surprise you more that I stayed… or that fate saw fit to place us here, together, of all places?”

“Fate,” Fumiko repeats with a mirthless chuckle. The word cleaves through the space between them, as if discarding everything Grace had said before. “Fate is reserved for the more… consequential people in Coronado, don’t you think?” Worthy, is what she wants to say. “Though, I do sympathize—ballerinas have short lifespans.” A beat. “Careers, I mean.”

Fumiko’s fingertips float over the tastefully arranged bouquets. “By all means, take your time.” Her tone indicates otherwise; however, she doesn’t look at the face of the voice that greets her until she takes off her tinted specs. “I’m sure what you’re doing is… time sensitive.”

Rina Sawayama in John Wick: Chapter 4 (2023)

Coronado’s identity, Coronado’s very soul, revolves around the del Bosques. Even so much as a flick of the wrist from one of their ilk—it’s part of the island’s canon as something sacred. This is merely housekeeping. A buffing of the stains that had accumulated due to negligence. “I wasn’t informed,” Fumiko says simply. “I’m not too certain of my family’s involvement.” And whether that meant something or not.

There's something he's observed with Fumiko—the way that her shoulders coil and her body moves; it's not uncommon for him to see people well-exercised in the gym, but it's another thing for him to witness halted movement. He can never be sure, but it's not his place to judge. He saw it all the time back then, when players would try to take a dive during a match to let their bookies win. It was the stumbling, halted steps when they try to run and realize they shouldn't, the kicks that spun the ball the wrong way, instead of scoring it in the goals. It's not his place to question, but it is certainly something to take note of. Interesting to think about, but well above his pay grade. He's just contracted to teach her boxing and train her. "The Del Bosque atelier? Fancy. Even back during the Premier League days we could never get a booking." It's small talk, but he can't help hide the stab of envy that he feels about her getting to go. Invited too—the big families always are. Though, he thinks, a plan comes to mind. Whether it be a well-executed plan is something else, but he still thinks about it for a long time. He doesn't like owing her. It's the hooks, he thinks, it's how they get you, but he'll bow and scrape just like the rest of them for now. Just to touch the stars for one night. "How... is the Coronado Eterna thing going, ma'am? A state dinner after the elections have to be..." Fucking tense. "Volatile."

“Everything’s moving along according to schedule,” Fumiko says. He shouldn’t be privy to this information. Coronado Eterna, as an event, is of great import—as opposed to the celebrity bashes that Barry has undoubtedly received many invitations to time and again. However, he’s a far better sparring partner than she’d expected. Up to this point, he has been worthwhile—surprisingly worth every sello she has stuck into his pocket for what she views as glorified play fighting. “I’ve no objections about the new premier and vice premier. I’m not inclined to complain about bureaucracy; regardless of my family, I wouldn’t be the sort to voice grievances.” Unlike the average citizens who don’t know better.

This is the part Fumiko doesn’t understand, and perhaps never will. To love someone so completely. Of course, there is no doubt in her mind that she feels a strong sense of duty toward her family, a somber sort of protectiveness, even. But to take on a lover? It all reads as white noise to her. Uncomfortable nonsense that disrupts her quiet. Her understanding of love is entirely academic—clinical theories absorbed at Kēio, where passion was reduced to textbook principles. “I don’t believe anyone should be in love, if history is any guide. Emotions tend to… destabilize things for everyone involved—by ‘everyone,’ I mean it could be two lovers or whole kingdoms.”

embarrassed, katashi sat hunched in his seat. "fumiko... please don't ask me that." or anything else, for that matter. wasn't it enough that he clearly didn't want to talk about it? it wasn't her fault she was concerned. "distract me with something, please."

She has no choice but to listen to her brother. “Fine,” Fumiko says, her voice so sharp it pings against the gravy boat in front of her. There are more important things in life than her brother’s secrets—at least, that’s what she tells herself. “Never mind, dinner will start soon.” — And as it turns out, it’s true. Fumiko hadn’t batted an eyelid toward the new premier and vice premier—she had a hand in their winning, after all—but this ‘cultural preservation’ act was more than a bit too blatant for her taste. “This feels like a test,” she whispers to Katashi, “though for whom, I’ve no clue.”