Porcelain white, from the walls to the silverware to every inch of the floor.

​

Nothing but porcelain white.

​

Except for black mirror.

​

Black mirror was all black and no whites.

​

The room was large — far too large for a child, alone. As the common household would have it, a single bed sat complacently on one corner of this peculiar room, complete with stuffed animals and puffy pillows and bolsters of all sizes. Beside, a night stand, and atop this night stand, nothing but an ordinary lamp which flicked to life at exactly 15-past-9, and remained so until 15-past-7.

​

No exceptions.

​

Not even on Saturdays and Sundays.

​

A chest of children's playthings sat near one side of the room, and in it, everything a 13-year old could ever dream of and more: toy soldiers for perhaps the bold and adventurous, handpicked books for the clever and curious, board games for everyone else in between, and all other assortments of forgotten relics tossed in as added bonus. Oddly enough, in the absence of grabby hands and drooling lips and energetic little ones, not so much as a grain of dust managed its way onto these.

​

Exactly 10 steps from the toy chest was a carpet of mildew, and exactly 10 more steps, a plastic desk. Atop this plastic desk sat a single sheet of paper scribbled black on both sides — a child's sketch.

Towards the black mirror that seemed to occupy an entire stretch of wall sat a fort of cushions and blankets, constructed ages ago, and apparently never having been dismantled. It was here that the child of 13 years would spend much of her days, glossing over the pictures of an astronomy textbook and the words of a novel.

​

The people on the other side don't mind, so long as she behaves.

​

And The Man Who Visits, he surely couldn't care less.

​

A buzz erupted from beyond the room, then, a click.

Always on time.

Never late.

The gears of a metal door grinded against one another, forcing 5-inches of reinforced steel to pry itself open. Black leather soles stepped off grey tiles, and unto porcelain whites. "Angela?"

​

The child poked her head from the fort of cushions, muttering not so much as a word. She saw the black leather soles, each lace tied identical. She saw the coat of grey, both sleeves rolled. She saw The Man who stood before her, smiling.

​

The Man Who Visits.

​

Every 30-past-3.

​

Sometimes with a present.

​

Other times with only a hug.

​

And ever so often with a treat or two.

​

"There you are," his voice was comforting, especially to the child. "Come, come."

​

The 13-year old did as she was told, crawling from behind the curtain of blankets. At once, the girl rose to both feet, straightened her skirt, and came to The Man. As usual, the slight odor of chemicals clung to every inch of him, and as usual, she did her best to ignore it.

​

"How was your day, sweetie?"

​

"Fine."

​

As usual.

***

They sat upon opposite ends of the plastic desk, one preoccupied with his ham and cheese sandwich, the other with her astronomy books and fantasy novels. In the moments to come, there was but utter silence.

​

Silence, and maybe the fluttering of dated pages.

​

The rustling of paper wrappers.

​

The occasional cough or two, perhaps.

​

And the clearing of throats.

​

"I want my mommy," the girl said, her eyes glossing over a wall of words. "I want her."

​

The Man parted his lips, shut them mere moments later, then parted both a second time. This was the fourth in two weeks. "Angela, we went over this, did we not?"

​

"I want my mommy."

​

"Angela, darling, I'm afraid that's not quite possible. It's a complicated matter, you see, one I can certainly go on and on and on abo—"

​

"I want her."

​

The Man regarded her quietly, oftentimes staring blankly off into the room. The bed, the night stand, the toy chess — everything was as it was yesterday. And the day before that. And the day before.

​

For a full year.

​

He shrugged the coat off both shoulders, letting it dangle from one armrest; the words 'Lieutenant Colonel' glinted in the glow of bright fluorescent bulbs. "How're you getting by with your studies? Good, I sincerely hope."

​

The girl shut one book, and started another, never once glancing The Man's way. She flipped through the pages of Biomedics and Cellular Mutations by a certain Guzmán Schneider, reading not so much as a single word — for good reason too. Truth be told, the title was an absolute mess, riddled with assumed speculations and mere theories and unjustified conclusions.

Still, she could only but smile at the Kind People who came every Monday at exactly 10-past-10, and who presented her with all kinds of treats. They brought books mostly, but other niceties as well — sometimes even juicy sweets, and only on the best of days, a handful of candies. "Good."

​

The Man leaned forward, examining her copy of Biomedics and Cellular Mutations. "Is that. . . One of mine?"

​

She nodded.

​

"Aren't you a bit young? Perhaps by a few years, dear?"

​

"Aren't you a bit old to be talking to me?"

​

The Man let a snicker slip past his lips.

Clever girl.

​

He checked the wrist watch: 15-past-4. By 30-past-4, he was expected to leave, and by 15-past-5, he was expected to have written up a detailed report outlining everything. Absolutely everything, from the conversation, to slight variations in the room, to even what the girl was doing every second of every minute.

​

Absolutely everything.

​

As per usual.

As per the protocols.

​

It was redundant — of course it was. For the past 30 days, she had done nothing even the least bit peculiar. She read. She slept. She drew pictures of dragons and unicorns and all that. Certainly very ordinary behavior of an exceptionally extraordinary child individual.

​

Or so the details suggested.

​

The Man stared long and hard, contemplating. This was it? This was the fruits of his labor? This was what would bring an end to the Millennium War?

​

This girl?

​

"I'm not going to see her again, am I? I'm not ever going to see mommy?"

​

The words cut deep. "No, Angela. No you won't, I’m afraid."

***

Lieutenant Colonel Guzmán Schneider trudged through empty hallways cold and bleak, his expression a mix of apathy and indifference. Those strangers to him would perhaps think of The Man as nothing more than a heartless monster; others, however, saw a conscientious objector between the lifeless gazes and the resting scowl. They saw a good man, once an inspiration to those alike, cleansed of all humanly emotions and indoctrinated to fit the golden Heimer Republic narrative.

​

The Man turned at one corner and stood before yet another metal door, though this one was not of 6-inch ballistic reinforced steel and around-the-clock watch. A gloved hand to a steel knob, another to the crimson tie hanging loosely from his neck, Guzmán Schneider stepped from the halls, and into the observatory.

​

"Doctor?" he called out.

​

A woman in her mid-twenties swiveled to meet his voice, a devilish grin spreading from ear to ear. "Oh! Lieutenant Colonel, what a pleasant surprise! I was not told you would be. . . Joining us this fine afternoon."

​

"I don't suppose you're pre-occupied as of late."

​

"No, no, not at all!"

​

"Then I see no reason to ring ahead, doctor."

​

"Well now, I can't have you around while I'm looking like this, now can I?"

​

"There's nothing wrong with the way you l — is that blood?"

​

"What? No, where?"

​

"Shoulder. No, the other one — yes, right there."

​

Together, they moved to one side of the Black Mirror — the side that sees. They watched as the 13-year old girl sat upon her plastic desk, drawing whatever came to the mind of a child. They watched as she scribbled all kinds of colors onto the white of paper. They watched as she flipped the sketch, brought it close to the other side of the Black Mirror, and presented it.

​

Lieutenant Colonel Guzmán Schneider stared at the words, each letter a distinct shade of red unique to the next. "Hello. Everyone."

​

A simper clawed its way from the woman; she folded her arms and tapped the glass. "Adorable."

​

"Who is she, Alison?" The Man said, his voice hoarse and raspy from far too much talking. "Who is this girl to you?"

​

"Oh, just about everything."