The girl’s eyes fluttered open, and she rolled over sleepily, clutching lush, soft blankets lit in a single corner with a lonely light from the tip of her soul.

The boy’s eyes remained closed, but he woke to the sound of music, and knew the mute child was waiting for him at the door.

The girl padded softly down a deep spiraling staircase, to the basement where the old man awaited her to eat breakfast and begin training.

The boy was assaulted by a bright cacophony of sounds mixed in with cheery greetings from the children of the island, workers, military men, and other children living in the west wing.

The girl surfaced, gasping for air, hair and clothes drenched in an icy cold film of her own making.

“Girl!” said the old man. “How many times do I have to tell you? If you cannot first protect yourself from harm, don’t even dream about others!”

The girl clambered to her feet, elbows and knees scratched up by the fall.

The boy sat down at a sunlit windowsill, amidst the squabbling of those sharing their ideas, inventions for the future, hushed but excited murmurings that the war would soon be over. One person thought it would be wonderful to take but one step and be upstairs. Another suggested that the combination of two manifestations could result in lovely background music playing at all times, and everyone laughed.

“They don’t know what they’re doing,” whispered a brown-haired girl, motioning beneath the table to her aide. “When I was called Unit-7305,” she said, “my scientist knew exactly how I worked, and what to look for. I think the people here are just guessing.” She looked wistful.

“What happened to your scientist?” said the girl.

“He was killed in the war.”

“Ah,” said the girl.

There were researchers and laboratory specialists and always so, so much to do. The boy had discovered an odd combination of liquid essence that, when mixed, produced to his ears an absolute silence. He wanted to understand its effects, but when he showed it to a specialist it was passed on to an analyst, who then shuttled it to an advisor, who came back and ask the boy if he could mix exactly .38 mL of the solution.

The boy did so, but then the fellow researcher he asked to help him with measurements informed him that it ought to be .56 mL, so he went back to the advisor, who assured him that he would speak to the analyst who would speak to researcher, and the boy was assured until he returned and was informed staunchly that it still needed to be .56 mL.

The numbers made the boy’s head hurt, and he remembered the old man’s words.

“Maybe you could suggest to them not to kill the scientists, and bring them here,” said the girl.

“Oh no, no,” said the girl with brown hair. “No suggestions.” She leaned over, and in a hushed voice, said, “I know someone who suggested more safety precautions, after his uncle was killed in the F-01 Annihilation Incident. They said they would listen, but took away his assistant and moved him to a different room, and guess how soon it took him to leave?”

“Soon,” said the young leader. “By the eve of the next battle, we will be able to distill all essences, and investigate the effects of all possible combinations.”

“May I investigate the effects of this one now, without going through analysts and advisors?” asked the boy.

“Certainly not,” said the young leader. “That is the process.”

“Do you ever wish the war had never happened?” said the girl with brown hair, and sighed.

Do you ever wish we had never left the island? whispered the music of the mute child.

“No,” said the girl.

“No,” said the boy.

“Because if it had never happened, I would never have met him.”

“Because if we had never left, I would never have met her.”