Chapter Text
The silence stretched.
Bocchi stood motionless in the middle of the room, dark hair nearly engulfing her face, the unfamiliar uniform looking neat on a frame that the band had grown accustomed to seeing swallowed by practically Brobdingnagian clothing. The garb made her appear attenuated, but not in a waifish manner or other such extremes, as those who regarded her lineaments would surely notice the resemblance. Notwithstanding the earlier situation—and its impossibility, the remainder of the band found it unthinkable that the girl could look so unlike their friend despite the presumptive congruence of the two.
Kita was the first to move. She advanced cautiously, followed by Nijika, Ryo, and Seika, until the four of them loosely compassed the outlander.
Kita extended a hopeful smile and spoke in clear, bright Japanese.
“What’s your name?”
Bocchi’s eyes narrowed. Her visage bore irritation—accompanied by vestiges of disarray, a stark departure from her usual trepidation. When she answered, her voice took on a lower, flatter register often associated with Russian.
«О чём ты говоришь?»
(What are you talking about?)
Her tone was acrimonious. The band exchanged disquieted glances, clearly appalled at the sudden tension. Bocchi scanned their faces, then her own clothes, then the armband and the name tag still pinned to her chest. Registering the distinction in cadence, her eyes brightened with sudden apprehension—the irritation yielding to wary calculation.
The girl had imbibed a considerable amount of Japanese ere she removed to Kanagawa. The skill she acquired was acceptable for rudimentary conversation, though markedly inferior to the expertise of her brighter-haired counterpart.
She straightened a fraction and spoke again, her response less instinctive.
«Хиторий Наокиевич Готовский.»
She spoke her name cleanly and formally, with a rather stilted demeanor. She then gestured toward them with an open palm, clearly awaiting a response.
Nijika answered first, stammering. “Ijichi Nijika.”
Ryo followed with her usual flat tone, yet faltering slightly near the end. “Yamada Ryo.”
Kita motioned a small wave. “Kita Ikuyo.”
Seika simply said, “Ijichi Seika.”
They all heard it—the manner in which the girl had introduced herself. Her rendering— resembling a Russian version of the name they knew, reshaped into something foreign that certainly contrasted with the image they’d had of their friend.
Bocchi studied them for another moment, then assayed to speak Japanese. The accent that came out was thick, its consonants sharp and vowels sonorous—or reduced, depending on their postion—the rhythm manifestly foreign, irrespective of the linguistic similarities. It was the heaviest accent any of them had ever heard in real life.
“Where… is this?”