A/N: backstory time! It's Jing's. :) I've been planning this for a very long time, and I decided to finish it a couple of days ago instead of a new chapter because it's always nice to have a break before we get into serious shit going down in the school :x Enjoy!
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There once lived a girl who had a family.
"妈、早," she greeted her mother with a yawn, pulling up a plastic chair—slightly chipped at the edge of the seat—at the breakfast table.
"现在都几点了," the lady shook her head with a sigh, a rag in her hands as she wiped the surface of the table for the second time. Soon, she would have to wash the corn and prepare the soup for lunch. The girl laughed with little heed, spooning porridge into her mouth before noticing that the bowl was almost empty.
She asked for seconds, and was pleased to hear that there was more in the kitchen. There, she wondered if there was time to write a letter to her father in the mines. The mines were far, far away. She almost had no idea where they were, and when she asked her father before he went—he, too, had declined to answer. Perhaps there was no mine after all.
For all she knew, it did not exist but to her father, it very well did.
"井！"
There once lived a girl who had a friend.
She turned at the call of her name and her friend laughed at the remains of her breakfast adorning the side of her lips. He stood outside, by the window he had peered into, complaining about the cold. The girl was made aware of her habit; the habit of sleeping in. It wasn't all that bad, really. Not when the rules here mattered less, and being late had little consequences, and phrases like 'time is money' had little to no meaning in the snowy village.
The boy declared that he had been waiting for a long time, out in the cold, to which his friend laughed.
"It's your fault!"
He admitted that it was partly due to his own stubbornness, smiling regardless as he helped her with her coat and they set off—barefoot—to play in the snow with cheeks flushed from the cold.
Perhaps twelve was not yet the age for minding the chill. Her mother made her come back, tying her old scarf around her neck before searching for her shoes when—again, they had run off.
*
It wasn't the first time he had tried to convince her to say.
They were sitting beneath a barren tree on top of a hill covered in snow. There was no purpose for shade; the tree was cold and void of leaves, doing little to shield the pair from the sun that cast its rays upon the snow, blinding eyes that blinked in its light, dark spots appearing.
Each possessed a stick, in which they would wield like a wand, drawing and writing characters in the snow. The purpose of the game was to connect one's word with another, forming a story that was—to them—never-ending and eternal.
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Flight School: Predator
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