Her hair smelled like smoke.

It had taken them hours to find her in the wreckage, hours of her trying to rip the edge of her skirt from beneath the collapsed wall. Hours of her crying, until finally someone noticed her crumpled in the ashes.

"Hey, I think someone's alive," the rescuers had shouted to each other, astonished, because everyone else was dead. They were only still looking because they were missing a body, a girl who had lived here. Not Tsubomi, of course; no one had mentioned her in the report. But they still hadn't found her sister.

The rest of the night was a numb blur of blankets and hot drinks they brought her, as if she ever wanted to touch anything hot again. They kept forgetting about her, losing her, discovering her anew and being surprised all over again. For Tsubomi, it was a nightmare that made no sense, and eventually she slept, slumped against the tire of the ambulance.

In her sleep, the newborn red glow in her eyes dimmed and died, and they found her easily this time, lifting her small form in their arms. She stirred, but didn't wake, her mouth pursed tightly in a tiny frown.

When she awoke, it was to a lumpy bed and the sound of girls whispering and tittering to each other. A spring dug into her ribs, so she sat up, pulling the scratchy blanket tighter around her. She was used to gilding and fine paintings and large rooms. This new room was large enough, but it was lined by crooked iron-frame beds, some occupied and some not. Chunks had been knocked from the plaster walls, and the only lighting was a fluorescent strip that ran overhead, buzzing and sputtering and leaving greyish repeating shadows that made her head hurt to look at.

A woman she didn't know sat on the nearest bed, a clipboard in her hands, and at the sound of the bed creaking she glanced up, making a small note on the paper.

"Kido Tsubomi," she said, not really a question, but Tsubomi nodded anyway. The woman seemed to be having no trouble seeing her, but she wondered if that would change if her attention wandered just a little.

"Here," the woman told her, handing her a pile of folded clothes, and she checked something else off as Tsubomi took them numbly. Her throat felt dry, but she had learned not to ask for anything, not even a drink of water. Unfolding the clothes revealed an oversize dark jacket and baggy shorts, both too big for her. They were boys clothes, but Tsubomi didn't care. She just wanted her skirt and blouse gone, and the smell of smoke to vanish too.

The woman didn't seem likely to move, so Tsubomi stood, struggling to unbutton her blouse and ripping off a few buttons in the process that pattered to the ground and rolled away. There were giggles at the other side of the room that grew louder, and she realized with a sort of dull horror that this was obviously a girls' dorm, there were obviously other kids in here. They were obviously watching her.

She struggled to get the jacket on, the cold zipper pressing against her thin chest and chasing a shiver down her spine as she zipped it up. It hung down far past her waist, and she struggled to replace her skirt with the ratty pants. She should be grateful for the clothes she was being given, but all she could see were the strange stains and frayed edges, the signs of it obviously having been worn before her. Her clothing before had always been starched corners and black ribbons, not elaborate but neat and dignified. Her father wouldn't let her be seen in anything else, but of course he'd rather her not be seen at all.

"That's it, then," the woman said, gathering up Tsubomi's old clothes and not bothering to fold them. They'd be thrown away, of course. They were useless now. Tsubomi had almost forgotten she'd been waiting there, and she watched the woman go, her jaw tightening against words so hard her teeth ached. The giggles started up again, and she hunched her shoulders against them, pulling the collar of the jacket up as she perched on the edge of the bed.

The smell of smoke lingered. She tried to ignore it. The tiles below her dangling feet were uneven, and she tried to count them, tried to keep track of how many black and how many grey ones there were, comparatively. Her eyes burned, unshed tears or more smoke, or maybe she'd just forgotten to blink again. She scrubbed her fists against her eyelids.

The buzzing of the overhead lighting was making her head throb, and the smell seemed almost to be getting stronger. The cold of the tile bit into her feet, and she realized she was standing, blindly escaping down the row between the beds to the door.

The hallway was deserted, and it was in no better condition than the bedroom. There was another door to the boys dorm a little further down, and the sound of shaky tears floated down the hallway towards her, but she ignored it and the office-looking room as well, tearing open the door to the bathroom. She didn't slam it behind her, remembering at the last second to ease it shut, silent and unobtrusive out of habit.

The flickering light was even worse in here, but at least she was alone. She went to the sink, climbing onto a battered stool to turn the faucet on. A tub of oily pink soap sat on the edge and she filled her cupped palms with it, scrubbing and digging her fingernails into the creases of her knuckles. The soap suds climbed higher up her wrists and her hands grew red with scrubbing, but the soapy smell couldn't overcome the smoke itself.

She looked at herself in the mirror, and almost fell off the stool. No wonder they stared and giggled; her eyes were red, not around the edges, but in the colored bit around her pupil. They almost glowed like a cats', an unnatural shade she'd never seen on anyone before, and definitely not on herself. What was she?

The shabby jacket looked even worse when she saw herself, the shoulders too wide for her thin frame. With her clothes and surroundings and perfect-cut hair, she looked like a runaway princess in disguise. A runaway bastard princess, she reminded herself bitterly, grasping her green locks in her soapy fists. If she could tear it out by the roots she would, her hair of that color that identified her from birth as tainted by her father. It cursed her to forever be just two steps shy of 'not good enough', but too far above the other children to even learn their names.

The smoky scent rose around her as she ruffled her hair and she realized where it was coming from. With a muffled sob she would have been able to swallow on any other day she wrenched open the medicine cabinet, finding somehow a pair of child's scissors. It still seemed unsafe to leave them out here, even if they were dull and the plastic handles were a bright and cheerful red.

With a rough determination she began to hack at her hair. The scissors were so dull it was slow going, but still severed strands fell around her like dying leaves. Her hands ached with effort, trembling as she chopped clumsily at her bangs.

After a few minutes her hair was uneven but not short enough to lessen the smell. Her hands and wrists shook with exertion. As she closed her eyes, forcing herself to keep going, the metal blades pinched her cheek. They weren't sharp enough to cut it, but the sharp pain was enough to make her jump and fall off the stool, and she hit her head on the wall, crumpling in the corner next to the door. With her luck, they'd come check on the noise she'd made, and she shook her head at the thought.

"No..."

Her voice was hoarse and raspy, the first word she'd spoken since the fire, and it was as alien to her as her burning red eyes. Kido trembled and curled up tighter in the mess that she'd made of her sloppily cut hair, her cheek throbbing and burning as hot tears filled her eyes.

"...no..." she repeated again, a real sob rising in her chest, and she couldn't do anything but hug her scissors tight and tell herself she'd try again and again and again, until she was unrecognizable from the person she had been.