The day dawned brightly. Jun woke, refreshed, with the surprising feeling of being hungry. Clearly, she was using much more energy now that she had an arm again than she had during all those days of near-immobility. After the Fall, she thought, then corrected herself - it was too easy to get caught up in media buzzwords - after she had defeated Asuka, after her wounds healed, after the sun once again rose on her city without screams of pain echoing through the streets, she had walked around a little. She had watched as the children played, blessedly unaffected by the fear that had nearly destroyed the world. And she had smiled as she saw tails, horns and wings add a fetching new component to the raw beauty of youth. But then the reality of it all had set in. The death toll figures had mounted, and mourning had begun for real. And the darkness that had lifted from Tokyo had settled firmly over Jun, when she realized that her arms would not come back, and neither would any of the multitudes she had killed. Kazumi would never come back. Jun had lain down in her bed and simply ceased moving. While the city rebuilt and humanity continued, Jun had stopped. Samuelson Laboratories had sent a nurse to care for her – Jun supposed they felt partially responsible, and she had been content to let them feel that way. It was not her job to give them absolution for their role in the spread of the Devil Beast Progress. They had flown her to America once a month for tests, for more tests, then for training and treatment. Then for surgery - and therapy, both physical and psychological. Jun had gratefully accepted the physical training, but had declined to speak at all to the counselor they had provided. It wasn't out of reticence...she had declined to speak out of pity. She had believed that no one should have to hear about the things she went through - no one should have to share that kind of pain. She pulled the blinds aside and let the morning sun into the apartment. Dust became immediately apparent in the air, caught mid-motion in the sunbeams. Jun watched in fascination for a short while, then turned and surveyed the room. With a kind of trepidation, she took in the grungy surfaces of her desk, the table, sideboard and the undusted photos and books. She sighed heavily and turned to look out at the sparkling morning. *If I'm going to be alive then I had better begin right here,* she thought. It was time to clean the apartment. Many slow hours later, after kitchen and bathroom, after three loads of laundry carefully and laboriously folded, after many windows, Jun was ready to crawl into her bed and sleep for three days. The shadows were long and the sun on the other side of the building. Her apartment was cool and dark...and clean. She sank onto a chair with a loud, self-satisfied groan. The phone rang. Jun stared at it in mingled amusement and annoyance. It was a wrong number. The phone rang again, then a third time: Jun watched it, half hoping that whoever it was would give up, or realize they had the wrong number. No one knew this number - no one local. And there was no reason to be receiving phone calls from America at this time of day. The phone rang again and Jun stood, slowly, unsure of why she was even bothering to answer it. One the fifth ring she lifted the receiver and spoke into it quietly. "Fudou-san?" The voice was male, energetic, pleasant. "This *is* the phone number of Fudou Jun? Hello? Hello?" Jun jumped. She had been so shocked to hear her name, she hadn't responded. "Yes, I'm Fudou." "Fudou-san! I'm so glad this number worked. I don't know if you remember me, my name is Kandagawa, I work with Ommi, the sister publication of Kiki..." The words blurred in Jun's ear. She wasn't able to handle the noise. Her head hurt all of a sudden and she began to shake. "I'm sorry," she interrupted the voice, "I don't think I can help you." "But Fudou-san - just an interview and maybe a picture or two..." "No," she said, her voice quiet, but firm. "I don't think that would be a good idea. I don't model anymore." This last sentence seemed to have gotten through. Kandagawa hemmed a little, then said, "Okay, no photos...maybe just one, for the article...or maybe the cover...and an interview." Jun shook her head in irritation. "I don't think, Kandagawa-san," she said coldly, "that your readers would want a picture of me these days." There was a prolonged silence, then Kandagawa said, "Fudou-san. I think you're wrong." His voice was intense. "And I think I can convince you of that. Will you agree to meet me at least? For tea or coffee somewhere - your choice?" Jun considered for a moment, then surprised herself by saying yes. She had nothing to lose - nothing to gain, perhaps, but a reason to go outside. "Great!" The energy was back in his voice. "Tell me where and when and I'll be there - no camera this time, but with a tape recorder if it's okay, and we'll talk a little." He paused for a moment. "I don't think you realize how popular you are, Fudou-san. More than you ever were in the old days." Jun laughed a little at that. "Yes, I can tell. My agent has to beat the interview offers off." But the smile slid from her face at the thought of her late agent. Kandagawa's voice lowered conspiratorially. "That's because they didn't know where to find you. Mark my words, Fudou-san, your phone will soon be ringing off the hook." Jun shook her head at the misplaced optimism, but chose a place and time for the assignation. It couldn't hurt, could it? She had done so many before - and after all, wasn't she the aging star? Magazine interviews were the inevitable result of a past career. She finished with the usual formalities and put the phone down in its cradle. The phone rang. Jun's gaped at it. Kandagawa's prediction coming true? The phone rang several times before Jun picked it up. "Jun-san?" Akami's voice flowed over Jun like warm water. She found herself smiling into the receiver as the girl talked. "I'm sorry to call so soon, I'm sorry to call at all, but I had an idea about dinner and wanted to know if you thought...well, if you'd like to come over." Akami's voice sounded breathy, rushed, as if she was afraid she might be cut off before she was done. Or as if she were scared she might not be able to get it out at all, Jun supposed. "I thought you might prefer to come to my place, because then you won't have to clean up and I have all the right tools and you don't have a big kitchen and I don't want to impose on you." Jun could hear the girl take a deep breath and tried not to laugh audibly. "That sounds nice." Jun hoped she kept the smile out of her voice. "Really? Well, good. Then, could you come over tomorrow, maybe like six o'clock or so?" "Akami," Jun said suddenly. "Thank you." "What? Sure! I mean, I said I'd make you dinner..." "No," Jun interrupted, "not for that. For...bringing me back to life." There was silence on the other end of the phone. Jun worried that she had scared the girl, but then Akami's voice came again, and this time there was something new in the tone, something deep and full of longing and sadness and maturity. "Did I? I'm glad, Jun." And suddenly there was nothing more to be said, so they rang off. Jun sat back down in her chair, and looked with pride around her apartment, then thought of tomorrow, for the first time in months - or was it years - without dread. That night, when she slept, she did not dream at all and when she awoke, the pillow with burnt edges was on the floor.
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