Chapter Text
Westalis
Loid Forger
By the third day, Loid Forger was convinced something was deeply, profoundly wrong.
Not with the world.
Not with WISE.
Not with his mission load.
With his daughter.
Anya sat on the living room floor in complete silence, surrounded by her toys. Normally this would be the calm before a storm. The kind of quiet that meant she was either plotting something or already in the middle of it. But today she was not plotting. She was organizing.
Organizing.
Her stuffed animals were arranged in a perfect semicircle. Her crayons were sorted by shade. Her toy soldiers were lined up by tactical priority, which Loid was fairly certain he had never taught her. She had even placed her favorite penguin plush in a position that looked suspiciously like a sniper overwatch point.
Loid stood in the doorway, arms crossed, watching her with the same expression he used when defusing bombs.
For three days she had not called his name every five minutes.
For three days she had not asked him questions she already knew the answer to.
For three days she had not attempted to break into the cabinet where he hid the emergency peanut stash.
He had checked the cabinet twice. It was untouched. That alone was enough to make him consider calling a doctor.
But the strangest part was the way she kept looking at him. Not with her usual mischievous sparkle. Not with her dramatic, exaggerated puppy eyes. This was different. Her gaze lingered on him like she was searching for something. Like she was trying to memorize him. Like she was waiting for him to say something important that he did not know he was supposed to say.
Loid shifted uncomfortably. He had faced interrogation rooms with more confidence.
Is this what growing up looks like?
Is she maturing?
Already?
Why does that make me feel… weird?
He watched her stack her toys with careful precision. No clumsy fumbles. No accidental elbow knocks. No sudden bursts of chaotic energy. The clumsiness that always reminded him of her had vanished overnight.
He did not know how to feel about that.
****
Loid woke before his alarm.
That alone was unusual. He was a man trained to wake at the exact second he intended to, no more and no less. But today he opened his eyes early, a faint sense of unease tugging at him. It took him a moment to remember why.
Then he heard it.
Silence.
Not the peaceful kind.
The suspicious kind.
He sat up quickly and listened. No clattering. No humming. No tiny footsteps running down the hall. No small voice shouting his name with dramatic urgency.
He got out of bed and walked toward the living room.
Anya was already awake.
She sat at the kitchen table with her hands flipping through one of her coloring books. Her hair was down without her buns, but she didn’t seem to care. Her clothes were straight. Her expression was calm and focused.
Loid paused.
“Good morning,” he said.
She looked up at him with soft, shy eyes.
“Good morning, Papa.”
Her voice was quiet. Not unusual for her, but the tone was different. Softer. More careful.
“You are up early,” he said.
“I woke up and did not feel sleepy anymore.”
That was normal enough. But the way she said it, so calmly, made Loid feel strangely off balance.
“Are you hungry,” he asked.
She nodded.
“Yes.”
Loid opened the fridge, hoping this feeling was a result of his lack of sleep.
"How about scrambled eggs?"
"That sounds nice."
Nice.
Not "yay" or "eggs again" or "can we have pancakes instead."
Just nice.
He started breakfast. Usually she would wander around the kitchen, peek at the stove, or ask what he was making. Today she stayed in her seat, swinging her legs gently, humming under her breath. The humming surprised him. She did not usually hum.
He placed her plate in front of her.
She smiled, small and sweet.
“Thank you, Papa.”
She ate quietly. She dropped her fork once, muttered a tiny “oops,” and picked it back up. That was normal. That was five-year-old behavior. But she was still quieter than usual. Still watching him more than she watched her food.
Loid sat across from her, trying not to stare.
Something was different.
He just could not name it.
****
Loid decided to do what he did best, test her.
He placed a jar of peanuts on the counter.
Not hidden.
Not locked away.
Just sitting there.
He pretended to read a newspaper while watching her from the corner of his eye.
Anya glanced at the jar.
Her eyes lingered for a second.
Then she looked back at her drawing.
Loid blinked nearly dropping the newspaper.
She did not even try.
He cleared his throat.
"Anya, if you want a snack, you can have one."
She shook her head.
“I am not hungry right now.”
Not hungry.
Not curious.
Not tempted.
Loid pressed a hand to his forehead.
He was losing his mind.
****
He decided fresh air might help.
“How about the park,” he suggested.
Anya nodded.
“Okay.”
She slipped her hand into his as they walked outside. Her grip was small and warm. She stayed close to him, not running ahead like she usually did. She looked around quietly, taking in the trees, the birds, the people passing by.
She stopped to watch a dog for a moment, then looked up at Loid.
“Papa,” she said softly. “Are you happy today”
Loid froze.
The question was simple, but it hit him harder than he expected.
“I am happy to spend time with you,” he said.
She smiled. A tiny, shy smile.
She squeezed his hand.
Loid felt something warm settle in his chest.
Whatever was happening, she was still his daughter.
Still gentle.
Still sweet.
Still trying her best.
They walked a little longer. She tripped once on a crack in the sidewalk, caught herself, and laughed quietly. Loid steadied her with a hand as she grabbed on to it.
“You alright,” he asked.
She nodded.
“Yes. I just did not see it.”
That was normal. That was five-year-old clumsiness.
His five-year-old’s clumsiness, but the quietness still lingered.
****
Loid made dinner while Anya sat at the table drawing. She hummed again, a soft little tune. She paused sometimes to think, tapping her crayon on the paper, then continued.
When he placed her plate in front of her, she smiled again.
“Thank you, Papa.”
They ate together. She talked a little, telling him about a bird she saw in the park. She asked if they could read a story later. She asked if he liked the drawing she made.
It was normal.
It was sweet.
It was still quieter than usual.
But he would take that over her sadness any day.
****
Loid tucked her into bed.
She lay on her back, staring up at him with those same searching eyes. The room was dim and quiet. The kind of quiet that made Loid feel like he was missing something important.
"Papa," she whispered.
"Yes?"
"Can you stay for a little while?"
Loid hesitated.
Anya usually begged for bedtime stories or asked for extra hugs.
This was different.
This was soft.
This was vulnerable.
He sat on the edge of the bed.
"Of course."
She reached out and took his hand.
Her fingers were small and warm.
"Thank you," she murmured.
Loid felt his chest tighten.
He brushed her hair gently away from her face.
"Sleep well," he said.
She nodded and closed her eyes.
Loid stayed until her breathing evened out.
He watched her for a long moment, trying to understand the strange ache in his chest.
She looked peaceful.
Too peaceful.
Too quiet.
Too unlike herself.
He stood slowly and turned off the light.
As he closed the door, with one thought echoing in his mind.
****
Ostania
Yor Briar
Across the border, Yor Briar was having the opposite crisis.
Her daughter Aria, usually quiet and thoughtful, had spent the last three days behaving like a completely different child. The kind of child who giggled at everything. The kind of child who tripped over her own feet. The kind of child who hugged Yor out of nowhere and then burst into laughter for no reason at all.
Yor stood in the kitchen, holding a cup of tea she had forgotten to drink, watching Aria spin in a slow circle in the living room. Aria was humming AND DANCING. Aria never danced, she always said her stubby legs kept tripping over eachother.
But now she was smiling.
And laughing.
And clumsy.
She had knocked over a vase yesterday. She had tripped on the rug this morning. She had hugged Yor so suddenly that Yor nearly dropped the frying pan she was holding.
Yor blinked as Aria skipped past her, nearly slipping again.
Is this a growth spurt?
Is she happy?
Did something happen at school?
Did I do something wrong?
Did I do something right?
Yor wrung her hands, baffled. She loved seeing Aria smile. She really did. But this sudden shift felt like waking up to find the sun rising in the west. It was wonderful and terrifying at the same time.
Aria giggled again. Yor nearly dropped her tea.
****
Yor woke to the sound of soft humming.
For a moment she thought she was dreaming. Aria never hummed. Aria usually woke quietly, slipped out of bed, and sat at the kitchen table with a picture book until Yor finished getting ready for work.
But today the humming continued. Light. Cheerful. Almost musical.
Yor sat up quickly, her heart already racing.
Something was wrong.
Or something was right.
She could not tell.
She hurried into the hallway and peeked into the living room.
Aria was awake.
Not just awake.
Dancing.
She spun in a slow circle, her nightgown swishing around her ankles, her hair bouncing with each step. She giggled at nothing in particular, then twirled again.
Yor froze in the doorway.
“Good morning, Mama,” Aria said brightly.
Brightly.
Aria never spoke brightly in the morning.
She usually nodded and mumbled a quiet greeting.
“Good morning,” Yor replied, her voice a little too high. “You are up early.”
“I wanted to start the day happy.” She said running over to hug her mother’s legs.
Happy.
Yor’s heart squeezed.
“That is wonderful,” she said, though she sounded like she was trying to convince herself.
****
Yor made breakfast while Aria sat at the table swinging her legs. She hummed again. Yor nearly dropped the spatula.
“Are you feeling alright,” Yor asked carefully.
“Yes,” Aria said. “I feel warm.”
Warm.
Yor blinked.
“What do you mean by warm,” she asked.
Aria shrugged.
“Just warm. Like everything is soft.”
Soft.
Warm.
Happy.
Yor felt her chest tighten.
She wanted Aria to feel all those things.
She just did not understand why it was happening all at once.
Aria reached for her cup and almost knocked it over. Yor lunged forward and caught it just in time.
Aria giggled.
“Oops.”
Oops.
Aria never said oops.
Aria rarely made mistakes.
Yor stared at her daughter, baffled.
Something was definitely happening.
****
Yor decided to observe her quietly.
Aria sat on the floor drawing. She usually drew neat diagrams or little maps of places she had been. Today she drew a smiling sun with little hearts around it.
Yor blinked.
“That is very cute,” she said.
Aria beamed.
“Thank you, Mama.”
She crawled over and leaned against Yor’s side. Yor stiffened in surprise. Aria rarely initiated physical affection. Yor slowly wrapped an arm around her, unsure if she was doing it right.
Aria snuggled closer.
Yor felt her face heat up.
She loved this.
She feared this.
She did not understand this.
She brushed Aria’s hair gently.
“Are you sure nothing happened at school,” she asked softly.
Aria shook her head.
“No. I just feel like smiling.”
Yor swallowed hard.
She wished she understood.
Afternoon
Yor took Aria to the market. Usually Aria walked beside her quietly, analyzing everything around her. Today she skipped. She hummed. She pointed at flowers and said they were pretty. She tripped twice and Yor caught her both times.
Each time Aria laughed.
Each time Yor’s heart jumped into her throat.
At one point Aria reached up and took Yor’s hand.
Yor nearly dropped the basket she was holding.
“Mama,” Aria said softly. “Are you happy today?”
Yor stopped walking.
The question hit her like a physical force.
“I am happy when you are happy,” she said honestly.
Aria squeezed her hand.
“I am very happy.”
Yor felt her eyes sting.
She squeezed back.
Evening
Yor made dinner while Aria sat at the table swinging her legs and humming again. Yor kept glancing over her shoulder, half expecting Aria to suddenly revert to her usual quiet self.
But she stayed cheerful.
She stayed clumsy.
She stayed expressive.
When Yor placed the plate in front of her, Aria smiled brightly.
“Thank you, Mama.”
Yor felt her heart melt.
They ate together.
Aria talked more than usual.
She told Yor about a bird she saw outside.
She told her about a dream she had.
She told her she liked when Yor braided her hair.
Yor listened, overwhelmed and touched.
She had never heard her daughter talk so freely.
Bedtime
Yor tucked Aria into bed.
Aria looked up at her with wide, warm eyes.
“Mama. Can you read to me?”
Yor froze.
Aria never asked that.
Aria usually preferred to fall asleep in silence with Yor’s presence beside her.
“Of course,” Yor whispered.
She sat on the edge of the bed. Aria reached out and took her hand. Yor felt her breath catch.
“Thank you,” Aria murmured.
Yor brushed her hair gently.
“Sleep well, sweetheart.”
Aria closed her eyes, still holding her hand.
Yor stayed until her breathing softened.
She watched her daughter, her heart full and confused.
She looked peaceful.
Too peaceful.
Too expressive.
Too unlike herself.
Yor stood slowly and turned off the light.
As she closed the door, one thought echoed in her mind.
****
In two different countries, at the exact same moment, Loid and Yor stared at their daughters with identical expressions of parental panic.
And both thought:
“What the hell is going on with my daughter?”