Déjà Vu
By Rey

Chapter Summary: It's the calm before the storm, seems like it at least; but even "the calm before the storm" has its own little storms.

Chapter Notes: The words underlined and bracketted by quotation marks are spoken in Basic. The words without underline and still bracketted by quotation marks are, as per usual, spoken in Indonesian.

Chapter 2. Bridge

Warmth lands on my face, as I shift in search for a comfier position beneath the soft, heavy blanket. I blink, groan, and dive under. Can't I get some more moments, please? I've just fallen asleep!

But come to think of it again, who opened the drapes on my window? Mami's already busy with her food catering business for several hours, Papi's away at his restaurant for the breakfast rush…

Nessa's rarely at home, too, busy island-hopping with her team of event organisers. And I rarely bother touching the drapes myself, since the window just overlooks a dingy alley.

Puzzled and much more awake than before, I creep out of the blanket, and sit blinking on the bed, rubbing my eyes. Sunlight quickly warms my left side, though it somehow feels weaker than usual.

When my sight has recovered from the cobwebs of sleep, however, I just get more baffled instead of reassured. Where am I?

My bedroom is small, yes, and packed with things, but it's never this disorganised, or Mami will rail at me till it's neat again. I never own a blanket this heavy, soft and… bland… too.

Come to think of it again, my window isn't on the same wall as the headboard, and my bed does have a headboard, unlike this one, though it doesn't boast comfy mattress and pillows and blankets.

Where are the boulsters, anyway? Did I drop them during the night? Why am I feeling so lethargic and exhausted physically and mentally? Where is this? I don't recognise it somehow!

The wall opposite the bed, just as brown and "woody" as the floor, boasts only a closed door with a row of clothe-pegs on it to the far right, by the junction with the right wall.

What looks like a trashbin is nestled on the opposite corner on the same wall, at the junction with the left wall, while the left wall itself is occupied entirely by a long, shoulder-high chest of drawers.

How did a baby buggy come to be here, too? It's parked with its canopy fully closed between the bed and the dresser. Then again, a baby bag lies before it on the floor. Huh…

Even stranger, to my right, there's another door – a sliding one, it seems – half-way on the right wall, before the wall ends on a bedside writing desk full of scattered baby paraphernalia.

Uh… Am I still dreaming? There's been a talk about adopting the babies of Mami's neighbour friend, yes, but the mum has delivered them just this pre-dawn, right?

So why is this room looking like a mum's room? What's going on? Where am I? Is Nessa pranking me? Or did I do something yesterday that I've forgotten, being too exhausted on all counts?

I scratch my head, and look down at myself. Huh, not even my pyjamas, soft blue with wavy silvery patterns, look and feel like mine. Too soft, to boot, with the crispness of brand-new clothing.

I look down at the floor to my right, next, searching for my slippers. But what meet my eye are only four shopping bags piled two and two against the right wall by the writing desk. Huh…?

Before I can put my bare feet on the floor, though, there's a series of three soft knocks on the door on the opposite wall, before it opens and admits in… an unfamiliar man, in pyjamas, holding a tray.

Reflexively, I cover my front with the blanket. I'm not wearing my bra yet! Where is it? Why's he here? What's he doing with the tray? It looks and smells like food…

I tract his movements with wide eyes, even more disoriented than before. He puts the tray on the bed right before me, like in stories, but he's not garbed like a servant.

A servant wouldn't dare perch so casually on the foot of the bed. A servant wouldn't dare stare at me dead-on, too. My family isn't employing any servant anyhow. So who is he?

I scrutinise him in turn, sparing no thought to the meal laid before me. He looks tired, and I've just realised that his eyes are blue-green; puffy and red, but still. A foreigner? In my home? Since when?

"Who are you?" I croak out, uncaring of if I'm being rude to him and his nice gesture. There's something missing from my memory and I need to know.

His gaze turns more intense, if possible, and his face seems to have blanched, whiter than his fair complexion. "Llobee," he says, wonderingly, then leans forward and grasps my hand.

Something tickles my mind on that name, on that sound, but I shy away from it. There's something unpleasant attached to it; or rather, a few somethings. How can I know that it's a name, anyway?

He grasps my other hand, almost with desperate strength, as if knowing what I'm thinking. From the distance of only a few centimetres away from my face, he whispers a word in a foreign tongue.

A word whose meaning I somehow recognise as "No." But how can I know? Why is the image of three identical baby faces popping up in my mind's eye, in answer to my inner wondering?

I lean back, look away. But my eye lands on the completely-hooded baby buggy next, and something else, something to do with the all-round exhaustion that I'm still feeling on waking up, stirs.

The three identical baby faces pop up again, now screwed up and pinkish and tear-stained, their owners flailing and bawling. On that memory alone, a heavy weight seems to laden my muscles.

I shudder. Now I also notice the violin and guitar cases stacked on the floor in front of the baby buggy, half hidden by what looks like three cocooning blankets strewn haphazardly on top of them.

And what's my largest backpack to do with it all? The man – Llobee? – has just plunked it on the bed from… somewhere… after relegating the tray to the free bit on the writing desk. And it's full!

He motions me to the pack. I shake my head. I remember I wanted to pack the rest of my musical instruments that I couldn't fit into the cases into my largest pack…

They're all in preparation for the general audition, alongside a few other just-in-cases like my tablet computer. But I don't remember really packing them all up into this bulging mass! I just planned it.

But then, why can I remember having to carry this monstrocity in addition to the cases, while steering the baby buggy, on the curb outside a maternity hospital?

Why can I remember finding neither a change of clothes nor toiletries for the night in there, then ending up going in an all-round exhausting shopping spree with this consternated man?

Why can I remember trying to soothe and take care of three babies, alone and with this man? Why can I remember being kept awake nearly the whole night to the point of tears by those babies?

And why are there baby noises issuing forth from the baby buggy? Why's it fully hooded like that anyway? And come to think of it again, why is the air feeling like sunny mornings in the mountains?

I tremble harder. These memories feel so odd, so foreign, yet so familiar, as if I've experienced them myself, quite recently. I can even feel the weight of a full baby basket in my arms from memmory.

And why am I now reflexively preventing the man – Llobee? – from pulling up the hood of the baby buggy, with the all-too-familiar basket in his other hand?

A pair of wiry arms press me close against a broad, muscled chest, as all the memories band together and rush into my mind, pounding it mercilessly. My tears fall on a pyjama-clad shoulder.

I remember, now. I remember it all: the triplets, the inexplicable shift of place and time, the déjà vu moments, the ordeals of baby-care and shopping in an alien place and situation, and the man.

I squeeze the strong torso tight in gratitude, and bury my face deeper into the crook of his neck in embarrassment. Llobee. He took care of me yesterday, and he still takes care of me today.

And the babies… I shudder again, prompting Llobee to hug me even tighter. They did keep me and Llobee awake most of last night with one thing or the other. All five of us got little sleep, I think.

I squeeze him one last time, then let go, prompting him to do the same. Rubbing the tears off my face, I look away, even more embarrassed, ashamed of the troubles caused by me and my charges.

But he just slips the baby basket onto my blanket-covered lap, as if nothing had happened just now, as if it were just an ordinary moment. I'm even more grateful to him for that.

Lita, Sena and Dika: time to take care of them now. No time to ponder about things, especially uncomfortable things. No time for breakfast, too, unfortunately, though Llobee brought me one.

Leaving the basket on the bed, I crawl the short distance to its edge, balance myself on my knees, and pull the canopy back all the way, with Llobee watching on from nearby.

Three uncomfortable baby faces look at me in unison, blinking perhaps from the sudden brightness. "Hello," I sigh morosely, though with a touch of fondness. "Good morning, Vino. Awake already?"

Almost as the answer, Dika lets out a short sobbing cry, to which Lita kicks his legs and coos. Sena just looks at me silently while nudging Lita with his fist, though his eyes are suspiciously glittering.

I pick him up first, hoping to prevent him from releasing that glitter into a torrent of tears. "Now, what's gotten into you?" I murmur at him, while pinching his nose softly in jest.

He thwacks my fingers with his fist, and begins to gasp out pitiful whimpers. I snort, even while rocking him gently. "Little sulker," I tease him with a small smile, while checking his nappy.

I lay him on the bed once he's subsided, then divest him off his warmer attire. This morning seems to be warm, warm enough for me to bring the triplets out for a short sun-bathing maybe,even.

Once he's only wearing his nappy and thinner one-piece, which does include sewn socks and mittens and hood, I reach back into the baby buggy for his brother.

This one's been loudly whimpering since before the canopy's been pulled back. Oddly, though, he's not wet either. He just… nuzzles at my breast…

Oh. He's hungry. Good interpretation of baby language, Nina. I've been dragged out of bed at least four times last night by their various needs, but still don't begin to recognise these things.

Sighing, I put him beside his brother, divest him off his warmer attire as well, tell him sternly to wait, then reach back into the buggy for the last time for Lita.

She's strangely placid. It unnerves me. "Hey," I greet her, then goad her by tweaking her nose. She just utters a short protesting cry to that, though. Maybe she's just more silent than her brothers?

I check her nappy anyway, then lay her beside Dika for the same procedure. I don't know what Llobee's been doing, puttering on the bedside desk since a short while ago. I can't glance at him yet.

I've been dealing with the newborns directly for more than ten times already since I firstly took charge of them, yes, but their fragile forms and state always make me overly cautious.

No, not newborns anymore, I've just realised. Day-old infants. Their mother birthed them at four-twelve pre-dawn yesterday, and now it must be at least seven in the morning. They're a day old…

I shiver. Llobee's hand, large and warm and gentle, lands lightly on my shoulder. I shrug it off and shake my head. No, I'm good. I'm just… astonished, and a bit awed. I managed to keep them alive!

There are years and years to go, of course, and everything's still more than uncertain about the four of us even in the near future because of these new circumstances, but I'm glad all the same.

That thought puts a smile on my face, even as I spy a pile of soiled baby things in the hamper behind the trashbin, as I'm piling all the bags and cases to the side to free up some path.

The smile just gets wider and grateful, if astonished, when my eye lands on the desk from across the room and sees three tiny, full nursing bottles of milk being capped by Llobee.

"Thank you!" I chirp in his language, relieved and a little embarrassed, while rushing to prepare the baby basket, and also a small baby bag, so I won't have to rush back here later for things.

A moment after, I sit nursing the triplets one by one at the dining table in the kitchen, while Llobee's heating up water for their thermos after putting our soiled things into the washing machine.

I try not to contemplate how like a married couple we are. Llobee looks so young, relaxed and in pyjamas like this; but then again I look quite young too, and am indeed still twenty-five years old.

Huh, again, a thought in a situation like this… But how will I avoid it, if he continues to shelter and take care of me and the little ones? Not that I'm not grateful for all his help thus far, though.

Well, a thought for later, maybe. For now I'll just concentrate on keeping the four of us alive and fed, and learning this place's language, culture and habits. Those are already an overwhelming task.

We relocate to the sun-drenched part of the sideyard, then, and thoughts fly out of my mind. The large, unevenly-sloping spread of lush green grass is marvellous to behold under the morning sun!

My sight works best from morning till somewhat late in the afternoon, barring an overcast sky. So, since we arrived here late in the afternoon, I wasn't aware how large Llobee's land actually is.

Well, truth be told, I still don't know how far it stretches, since there's no discernable boundary that I can see. I don't care about it, anyway.

I am – was – no, am – the odd-one-out, among my family and most of my friends, for loving outdoor activities among nature. This spread of nature in a civilised area, therefore, feels like heaven.

Llobee spreads what looks like a picnic blanket – though made up of a plastic-like material – on the most-level patch under a tree. But the soft ground and living grass under my bare feet feel heavenly.

I don't move away from my spot for that, for some time. I choose to stand in the sun, rocking the triplets in their basket, enjoying everything. Well, the little ones do need their morning sunbathing.

Mami often said, to me and Nessa or to other mothers, that it's good for baby bones and overall health… She's got many baby-rearing tips, though she didn't raise me personally after babyhood.

No, no, don't think about her, not yet maybe, don't think about any of them, those people that I might never… No. Look, Llobee's puttering about with the blanket like an attentive dad. Amusing.

But he goes away then, only to go back with a familiar tray, looking fuller and heavier than before. A bulging small bag's slung over his shoulder, in addition to a big water bottle. I stare at him, baffled.

I begin to catch his purpose, though, when he sets the tray, bag and bottle down on the edge of the picnic blanket, before joining me. I can't help the blush creeping up my face, reciprocated on his.

He wants us to have a picnic here? With both in pyjamas and barely covered otherwise? With three contentedly-cooing babies to boot? We look and feel like a family now.

But still, driven by the desire for warmth and uncondescending kindness, not to mention companionship, and maybe also something else, I don't mind the picnic.

Our lesson continues during breakfast, when Llobee teaches me the names of the three dishes spread between us. Now I can even say that the food is from Naboo in this language.

I'd prefer to learn why those people accosted us and gave gifts to the triplets last evening, but I don't know yet how to convey that to him, and won't understand his explanation even if I do.

At least, I can enjoy the meal in addition to that. The pink bread slices, slathered with blue butter, taste soft and delicious. The white mush inside the potato-like purple shells is equally so.

The leftover stew is still great, too. I even give the triplets a tiny taste of that, and they seem to like it, given how they coo at me in delight in between sips.

Llobee and I help them drink some water after that, before I coax each of them to offload their bladders on the kitchen sink, reaching it via the back door, with hope there won't be accidents later.

Afterwards, however, the atmosphere at the picnic blanket turns graver, even tenser. Llobee doesn't look up, as I return Dika, the last triplet to be taken care of, to the basket, then sit down beside him.

He's looking down at the tablet computer on his lap, gripping it with both hands, as if he wants to break it. I can't see what's on the screen; but even if I can, and although I'm mightily curious, I won't.

He respects me; the least I can do is to respect him back. He's been helping me and my babies very much, as well, on the other hand, so I feel I can't just stay silent and let him wallow in misery.

I touch his shoulder, gingerly. It feels… awkward, and odd. Usually he's the one who reaches out to me. I don't know how he'll react.

Thankfully, he doesn't react negatively. Still, it's sort of disappointing that he just glances up at me, unspeakingly, before returning his gaze to the tablet computer.

He motions at the mostly-empty tray, still without looking up, before I can prompt him to share his burden again. Huh? Does he want me to bring the tray inside and wash the dishes?

Or does he want me to finish the single slice of bread left on the plate, and also the last puddle of butter in the bowl? I'm not a little child, to be fed to keep silent!

Well, he's been sweet enough even to bring me breakfast on bed. I can repay him by washing the dishes, at least, and he's taught me how anyway yesterday. I'll definitely ask him, though, after that.

Language won't be too much of a barrier, when we can already communicate somewhat decently with gestures and actions. He persisted to help me; I'll persist to help him, too.

I dump the bread into the butter bowl, dump the empty water bottle onto the tray for easier handling, put the bowl beside him, then shift the baby basket to the same position.

Before I can carry the tray away, however, he looks up and utters what may be the equivalence of "Hey!" in his language. Still standing with the tray in hand, I freeze and look down at him.

He seems startled and angry, or maybe exasperated. But why? What's wrong with me bringing the tray away for washing? Just into the kitchen less than a hundred steps from here at that?

I may be visually impaired, but it's not a reason not to do anything. Besides, I doubt he's realised that I'm half blind. Or is there something else that prompted that sharp cry?

He says something in his language, in a clipped tone that he used on me only once, when he was clearly exasperated about my reluctance to spend his money. I frown at him; irked and confused.

Then I turn away and walk on, all the same. He's not my father, he's not my elder, he's not my leader; I obey just myself. I'm not harming any of us in doing this, anyway.

It's my turn to squawk when, before I can step out of the picnic blanket, there's the sound of something hard hitting the ground just as hard, then Llobee's suddenly beside me.

He yanks the tray out of my hands, nearly causing the water bottle, perched precariously atop the dirty dishes, to topple out of it. Then, without looking at me, he stomps away to the kitchen.

If I could roll my eyes, I would. Still, I glare at his quickly-receeding back. What's gotten into him? He helps me with the babies and myself; so, doing the decent thing, I must help him in return, right?

I sit back down, huffing in irritation and worry. Are we having a miscommunication right now, despite my confidence that we can communicate just well? Or is this yet another culture clash?

So why doesn't he take these possibilities into account? He knows I'm not from round here. I can't speak his language, after all, and I was baffled by the reaction of those people last evening.

Is he that mad at whatever's in his tablet computer, to treat me like this without ample reason? What's making him this upset, then? Can I find out? Will he tell me?

It's a bit unnerving, to see the culprit lying haphazardly, screen down, right on the edge of the picnic blanket, to the point of disturbing the blanket and createing an indantation on the soft ground.

He's… violent, then? I wouldn't know, judging from how he'd been treating me up to this point. Even last evening, he wasn't this… physical… with his anger.

I shouldn't bother him in whatever way, maybe, judging from this? But it doesn't sit well with me. There must be a way to help him, without inciting this new-found anger of his.

When he returns to his spot, though, throwing himself down on the blanket with more vigor than I've ever seen him do, I find myself tongue-tied.

Am I cowed by his unexpected show of temper? No. Not really… Not so much… Well, not too much, anyway. I must show that I'm not afraid of him, though, or he'll trample all over me.

So I look at him, with a pointed stare I hope, then motion at the forsaken tablet computer on the edge of the blanket, before gesturing at him. I really wish to help him.

Afterwards, raising my eyebrows, I mimic holding the tray, then point at the cabin. I need to know this too, to prevent future temper tantrums. I never like witnessing anger in someone close to me.

For all that, he glares at me, or I think he does. I refused to be cowed, though, thus why he capitulates, I guess. I get some more language lesson as the bonus, for all the unpleasantness.

He points at me and says something, points at the babies and says "Triplets," then links the four of us together with a sweeping gesture, as if saying "You are responsible for the triplets."

Next he points at himself and says something else, points at the surrounding land with what sounds like a combination of words, then links it all with himself, as if saying "I'm responsible of the rest."

This time, though, even if I could roll my eyes at him, I wouldn't. This problem seems to stem from a personal or cultural beleif about a man's and a woman's responsibilities. It's too sensitive for that.

Instead, with a questioning tilt to my head and a frown, I point first at myself, at him, then at the babies, accompanying each gesture with the words that I take to mean "I," "you" and "triplets."

He nods at that. My frown deepens. I can't tell if he shrugs or not, to that, since the colours aren't contrastive enough. But I'm sure he's not nodding or shaking his head.

Still, his lack of discernable, definitive gestures tells. My frown turns into a scowl. I repeat the gestures and words, with the scowl still firmly fixed.

He turns away, on that, and picks up his tablet computer again. Huh, so it's how things work for him: Women just take care of children, men do the rest? It rubs me the wrong way.

I'm a feminist, in the purest sense. I uphold gender equality. Then again, I'm a strong believer on racial equality and other non-segregations, given how I'm often discriminated, myself.

I must be careful, though, here. I and my babies are staying at his home right now, and depend very much on him and his generosity. I don't know enough of the culture and language here yet.

If I must pick my battles… I tap at the corner of the tablet computer gently with my pointer finger. It bobs a little in his hand. Huh, he's no longer so mad at it, then? He's not clutching it anymore.

He looks up at me, all the same. I point at him, then the tablet computer, then him again, then me. I do want to help him, despite and because of his show of temper earlier.

The cause of that burst of anger, for such a calm and composed man, must be worrying or even dangerous enough to be a good threat, that's why. I wish to be prepared; mentally, if not physically.

But, well, he doesn't even attempt to answer my non-verbal inquiry. Instead, I'm half-willingly entered into an axcellerated course on his language, using the priorly-abused tablet computer.

He uses tiny memory-chip-like things he pulls out of a pouch from his small bag, inserting one of them each time into the slot on the side of the tablet computer, to instruct me on many things.

I truly feel like a kindergartener now, learning basic things from simple images and simpler words on big lettering. Each memory chip holds a certain topic, too, just like subjects at nursery school.

But I can't help enjoying the returning companionship, the fresh grassy air round us, three sets of giggling as I tickle the babies when I get frustrated, and the startling language course itself.

I begin to forgo worrying about the incident, in a while. My heart is lightened. My mind is also fully distracted now, crammed so quickly with new concepts and the words that go with them.

And yes, most of those images, though of menial things, are new to me. How not? Aside from the strange dishes and space-worthy vehicles, I'm also exposed to strange occupations, items, aliens…

I've got to admit, though, despite everything, I feel… reminiscent, as if the tablet computer and the memory chips were once like books to me. These mixed signals are… confusing, and alarming.

I'm grateful, that there are many distractions to be had, and that the unexpected language course is taxing enough to melt my brain. It helps me not to think about these feelings deeply.

The triplets are on their second bottle of milk and first bottle of water, by now, and I've got to carry each of them to the kitchen sink twice more. They even manage a longish nap.

And even during the interruptions, the lesson never lets up. Llobee uses the time to teach me nouns and verbs related to babies, baby-care and genders as I work, tagging along like a demented teacher.

It's as if he suddenly must go away soon, and he fears he's running out of time to prepare me to live alone… Is he truly a soldier, then? Is he on leave?

That thought makes me worried, for him and for myself, and unexpectedly it also shoots a pang of loneliness into my heart. But it also drives me to learn even more seriously and diligently.

I must be able to speak the language and understand the culture, not to mention this new reality, as soon as possible. I've been lackadaisical, these twenty-four hours, depending so much on Llobee.

I'm not surprised, when he gives me the pouch of memory chips on the apparent conclusion of our cramming session. I'm not surprised either, when he teaches me how to lock the cabin.

I'm pleasantly surprised, in fact, when he communicates that he wishes to bring me and the babies for an outing, though a little wary of well-meaning ambushes. I dress us appropriately.

I'm definitely shocked, though, when he brings me and the still-napping babies to what looks like a computer kiosk on the sidelines of what seems like a marketplace, with that odd car of his.

He buys me my own tablet computer! Not only that, he also buys me what looks like the blend of a mobile phone and a walky-talky, my own wristwatch though I've still got mine, plus a few others.

Are these things everyday items, to be sold in a market-place kiosk? And what's he doing? I don't need these! How can we still shop for these anyway, in the time constraint that he must be under?

Worse, the kiosk keeper dumps an amount of Credits that seems to be more than what Llobee pays him for the items, into the baby basket, though he seems to take care not to disturb the triplets.

I try to return them, but Llobee halts me mid-motion with a quick grab at my hand and a look. I've got no other option but to thank the seller as graciously as I can.

We're away to the fruit stall next, and this time I take care to hide myself and my charges behind his back, as he talks rather animatedly with the seller.

It doesn't work. The seller seems gleeful to have the chance to marvel at the waking-up babies. Meanwhile Llobee, perhaps seeking to distract me, tries to teach me about fruit names.

In the end, we got free fruits and free Credits, again. Llobee seems to be cheered up by this particular visit, though, so my thanks to the seller is only half forced.

Thankfully, we go home after that. Passers-by still halt to admire the triplets and give them Credits, but the prospect of returning to my new sanctuary makes my thanks to them even more sincere.

Unfortunately, even so, unlike yesterday evening, Llobee confronts me about my attitude towards the Credit-givers, once we cool down in the kitchen, in quite a serious air.

"Nubians," he says, waving all round him. "Triplets;" he waves at the baby basket on the table between us next, giving them a military salute. "You;" he points at me and gives the same salute.

Then he scowls. I sigh, slump backwards, and nod tiredly. He confirms my suspicion, but it's not a comfortable truth. I hate charity. But it seems these people don't view it that way.

He wants me to respect the donations – or rather, tributes – given by those people to the triplets. He wants me to unbend my pride for grace and sincerity to what still looks and feels like charity to me.

I shrug. I'll think about it later. It's still too raw, at present. Much time to do that later. Something to occupy myself, too, when he's gone. Better distract him with other – more important – things now.

I learn the words "datapad," "datachip," "glowrod," "chronometer," and a few other technological terms, in this way. He still seems bothered, but capitulates to the diversion anyhow.

He takes me in an in-depth exploration about the cabin, once I've deposited the Credits haphazardly on the still-cluttered writing desk. This time, the tour focuses on the operation essentials of a home.

I'm most grateful on the practical lesson about light fixtures, locking mechanisms, the pantry with its cooling and warming units plus spare foodstuff, and this place's equivalence of cleaning appliances.

He insists on teaching me about what seems like this place's equivalence of e-mail and phone, next. I have to run back to my room to fetch my notebook and marker for some heavy note-taking.

I'm relieved, though, that we practise using them afterwards. He sends me a note by mail: "You learn this. - B," with a video attached. I reply him with "Thank you. - N," with a random photo.

Only when he snorts and lets out a short chuckle do I realise that I've attached the photo of a woman's underware to my note. Groaning, I bury my face in my hands. But I can't help laughing, too.

His chuckles turn freer, more childlike somehow, and before long we burst into uncontrollable spurts of giggling together. The atmosphere turns lighter, less rushed, less harried, less stressful, just so.

We exchange nicknames, previously just initialed on our notes, under the same condition. I can't help laughing out loud when he confesses that he's nicknamed "Beebee," or "Bibi" on writing.

He's cute, too, when he blushes and grumbles sulkily in protest. It's better than his sullenness or panic, and far better than his anger. Sad, that I experience this only in our parting.

My embarrassment and his seem to be worth the sacrifice, all the same, when we're practising first-aid with his large box of first-aid kit. The lighter atmosphere holds me back from outright panicking.

The contents look more like a field hospital's kit than a home set, especially with the thermal blanket and the stimulant shot tubes. My heart squeezes. Their presence alone reminds me of hard facts.

He was right to panic. I can barely take care of my charges; I barely know anything else. The lack of comprehension about this language and reality on my part only exacerbates it.

We forge on, regardless. He teaches me about the times of day, and how to read time on the new wristwatch. It just reminds me… Where are my wristwatch and waistbag? I didn't wear them today!

Whoa. I usually never went out, even for a short while, without my waistbag of essentials and my trusty wristwatch. Now that I realise the lack of them, I feel naked, even though we're inside.

He teaches me about the washing machine, last. Just in time, because I forgot – and frankly, didn't have time – to potty-train my little menaces. Six soiled, smelly baby clothes await to be tackled.

I try to familiarise myself with the kitchen and pantry, when he's away with his car, telling me just "Food" before taking off. The triplets, freshly bathed and changed, are taking a nap in their buggy.

I must be able to cook for myself, if I don't want to starve. Llobee bought lots of fruits, lots of bread and lots of butter, but they won't last long, not even a week, if I depend on them.

I must introduce the new formula to the babies too. We got lots of it from the gifters yesterday. The stock dwarfed the current formula by far, when I set them side-by-side on the dresser in my room.

Before I can panic too much from the overwhelming plans, though, Llobee returns, softly calling out my nickname and something that may be the equivalence of "I'm home," judging from the tone.

I peek my head out of the kitchen door. My eyes widen a second after, as my sight registers the many big shopping bags at his feet. "What are those?" I blurt in Indonesian, pointing at the bags.

But instead of answering the questioning tone, Llobee teaches me how to say it in his language, and ropes me into helping him bring the heavy sturdy plastic bags to the kitchen.

I can tell that many of them contain cold things, judging from the moisture beading the outside of the bags, but little else. Some of the bags are even soft to the touch, or… tinkling.

I don't have the chance to ask. The triplets rise up in wails from my room just as I'm opening my mouth. Oddly, before I can flee the kitchen, Llobee presses the soft and tinkling bags at my hands.

I don't open the bags. I simply check the babies for hunger or wetness, then carry them in their basket back to the kitchen. There's no time for exploration, at present, however curious I am.

Those little menaces, they fall silent as soon as I touch and look at them. They even coo, when their basket rock inadvertently in my arms. There's no place to put them on the table, though.

"What are those?" I practise the newly-learnt sentence, motioning at the perspirating topless boxes stacked on the table. They look oddly like cases of frozen food, except more elaborate and generous.

Llobee says something. I only recognise the word "food" there. I nod, nonetheless, with a great deal of relief. I'm safe! Except… if these aren't for me…?

"Food, you?" I ask, motioning to the cases of frozen food, then to him. He shakes his head, so I venture out again, "Us?" But to this, too, he shakes his head.

"You," he says, nodding at me. I gape, staring at the stacks of boxes populating the entirety of the dining table. If I judge correctly, those boxes may suffice me for at least two months of good eating!

How much is it per box, for such a stock? There are more plastic bags under the table and at his side of it, too, I see, as he put the first stack of boxes in the pantry. I bite my lip. This is beyond charity.

I can't deny that this will help me survive, though. This conundrum is so… argh! How can I repay him? How can I be self-sufficient as soon as possible, more importantly?

Given today's theme, especially this afternoon's, I'm not so surprised when, as Llobee retakes his seat again, he shows me boxes of… instant soups and stews, I think, alongside tinned food.

I can only stare at him, though, when, after showing tins of powdered milk meant for me, he shows me a large box of… Well, the sample on his palm looks like a pale-green chocolate-caramel-biscuit.

But if they're only sweets, why's he comparing it to the single box of frozen food he's having on his lap? Are these somehow this place's form of food rations? Like hardtacks or protein bars?

I'm ashamed, to be so dependent as to require this desperate measure. But I can't deny the need and possibility for it. I can't function as a civilised human being till I master the language.

I store this last hoard in my room, under the bed, instead of in the pantry. It should be a last measure for sustenance, but it's also too important to leave lying about, even in a private home.

But thoughts of meals, home-keeping, learning and even the babies fly out of my mind when, on my return, Llobee solemnly, gently presses a "code cylinder," this place's version of a key, into my hand.

The cabin's key, to be exact; I recognise the metallic moss-green colouring, different from the yellow car-key. This is it, then? He's going now? But he's shaking his head…

He beckons me out of the kitchen. We part in the vestibule, as he enters his room and I slip into mine to store the house-key. My hand is occupied again, though, not quite willingly, on exiting it.

The thing that he presses into it just as solemnly… I turn it all about shakily. Sensations invade me, as my fingers close on what I know to be the handle, in a familiar ready position, on their own accord.

I'm drowning in the smells of ozon and sweat and burns, the cacophony of yells and screams and zinging sounds, the feelings of desperation and determination and all-round exhaustion…

A large, warm hand wraps gently round my own, pushing my pointer finger away from the trigger of the pistol, even as the other squeezes my trembling shoulder.

I look up at him. He murmurs something to me, but doesn't bother to clarify it with gestures. He looks… sad, and knowing, just like in other occasions when these sensations surfaced.

I gulp back the bile that rises up my throat. My breath hitches. I thought the episodes were a side-effect of whatever brought me here yesterday, and it would dissipate by today at least.

I was free of them, until now. I… I hate these episodes. I'm not a freak! How can I remember these things? I don't even like watching battle action films! And bullets don't burn people and things.

Llobee takes me into his arms and hugs me tight, but he still doesn't let me return the pistol back to him. Instead, he shows me how to exchange its "power cells" and recharge its power unit, as if…

I swallow again, halting the escaping bile midway. He wants me to use this. I never even held such an obvious tool of destruction, despite those freaky sensations, and he wants me to use it.

But, if uninvited guests came a-calling… A lone house separate from the others, occupied only by a young woman and three day-old babies, with at least two hundred Credits lying about…

I retract the pistol, which I previously proffered to him, back to my side. He sighs, slumps, and gives me a sadder look, as if he also wishes this weren't necessary. I look away, and return to the kitchen.

Only as I retake my seat do I realise that the pistol is still gripped in my hand, and that I actually feel safer with it on my person. Principles can't always intervene when primal instincts nudge, it seems.

I force myself to let go of the pistol, to put it on the table and not look at it. I play with Lita's fingers instead, as she's the only triplet awake at present. She coos at me, as I tickle her palm with a finger.

I was holding a pistol. I am holding a day-old baby's hand. Extreme opposites. Strange, and ironic, if these opposites can ever be linked with each other, especially in such a peaceful, isolated spot.

But my mind can somehow do it, in various ways. Gruesome ideas taunt me. I curse my imaginativeness now, which usually just spins stories to amuse myself, to help me escape reality.

Very, very painfully ironic, that now I'm in a different reality, in the flesh, undeniably, undoubtably. Maybe what the adage says is true: "Be careful what you wish for; you might just get it."

Soon, though, Lita's eyes droop, and I don't have the heart to prevent her from a good nap for my selfish reason. I caress the soft top of her head, covered by downy strands of black wavy hair.

I begin to understand now, the tales in which mothers sacrifice themselves or even kill to save their children. I doubt I can do either, now, but the urge is definitely there, and I'm beginning to see.

There are principles, and there are also primal instincts. One can overcome the other, both can go in tandem, but only the moment will tell to which direction the action will lead.

The edges of my lips lift up a little, as three tiny forms continue to slumber before me; perhaps sad, perhaps bitter, I don't even know, myself. All I know is that I shan't abandon them.

I don't look up, when I hear the tapping of shod footsteps on the floor of the vestibule, approaching sedately. I don't look up, either, when a familiar large gentle hand lands on my shoulder.

Llobee says something that involves the word "me," but it's not hard to decipher what he's communicating. He was never this… timid, this unsure. I tear away my gaze from the triplets at last.

I look him up and down. Shiny black boots, neat black trousers, decorated grey shirt with shoulder patches, and now I even notice the phone and pistol on his belt. It's true, then? He's going away?

Hell, whom am I kidding? The truth has never hit me in the face so hard. He's a soldier, priorly on leave, now suddenly recalled back to duty. And from his tone, he's requesting a personal farewell.

I stand up, skirt my stool, and give a last glance to the triplets before exiting the kitchen. As long as he doesn't mean it intimately, I don't mind. It's the least I can do. He's become a dear friend.

Maybe, I occupy a similar position, in his heart? I daren't speculate. But still, who'd expect more than a short impersonal good-bye from a total stranger you'd met only about a day ago?

We end up just standing beside his car for a while, however, both tongue-tied and frozen. There is something… odd… in his eye that I can see. But I prefer to memorise its lovely aquamarine colour.

And then, abruptly, he goes down to one knee and hugs me tight, pressing his forehead against my lips with a feverish murmur. And just as suddenly, he flees into the car and speeds away.

I'm left staring at the pristine grass of the front lawn, frozen in a stupour for a different reason than shared awkwardness. And perhaps strangely, I'm trying not to cry.