Description: Two weeks since Shurui started at Gen's restaurant. She's worked hard. She's been good at her job. Perhaps a little /too/ good, for a girl that's supposed to be blind. Unfortunately, the management notices such things...
The staff of the Genhanten are used to this.
"/Black/ vinegar, not the red," Gen states, flatly, rapping the head of a wooden spoon on the...head of the unfortunate chef, who doesn't duck quite quick enough. The man winces, rubbing his skull, but looks appropriately sheepish - or at the very least, like some sufficiently docile breed of livestock. Gen makes a show of rolling his eyes, waving the mixing spoon under his employee's nose, before moving further down the kitchen.
The interior of the food preparation area is a busy place, loud with the constant instructions and orders being repeated, combined with the sound of cooking itself - the impact of cleaver against chopping board, the rolling boil of pots, the sizzle of hot oil on pans, the hiss of a running steamer.
Through it all, Gen stalks, the master of his domain.
Amid the clinking plates and the sound of chatty patrons, there's Shurui, dressed in plain clothes, glasses tucked away in a pocket, and an apron, collecting the dirty dishes, like a bee gathering increasingly smelly honey in her cart.
You'd think a girl with bad eyesight would have trouble, but, aside from a few mishaps that often occur after hours when people are gone, she seems to benefit most from a busy resturant. Things like clear glasses (you usually don't collect ones filled with liquid, of course) seem to be the most vexing of enemies, disappearing against the texture of the table cloth until it absorbs the radiant energy from the nearest patron. And therein lies the 'secret' to Shurui's sidestepping her disability.
Well, she sidesteps it to a degree, anyway. But there's no doubt the girl seems to be used to old Chinese men yelling at her to work faster, or rushing from place to place. Mistakes were made, especially in the beginning, but she's taken well to it once she discovered a system.
But that was before she admitted indirectly that she had to miss a few days, due to some close friends- roommates, in fact- being in the hospital. One of which was in intense surgery. The times where her presence wasn't neccessary at the hospital, she was back, tirelessly working, never bothering to speak or complain about what could be a depressing situation. If asked, she avoided the question, always finding something that needed to be tended to at that exact second, and, indeed, in a busy place like the Genhanten, there is always *something*.
She's back to her regular schedule now, hurriedly but no less carefully washing dishes in a sink of steaming hot water, hands moving faster than her eyes. Indeed, it's almost as if her hands were the eyes in this task, though there's been many times when she definitely didn't seem *blind*.
No, definitely not. Which is something Gen's noticed. She doesn't move with any hesitation or awkwardness, certainly...
...but there /is/ something about her movements.
The old man pauses in his own trek through the kitchen, standing by one of the counters. He moves just enough to allow an apologetic assistant chef to go past, but otherwise...he stands, looking across at the small figure bent over the sink, scrubbing furiously.
The old man purses his lips, his own eyes narrowing, brows knitting together.
The girl is a puzzle. That she had some kind of visual impairment was obvious in her first day at the restaurant, but by the end of the shift she was just as confident in her duties as any of the other part-time staff.
Better, even, though that's hardly something Gen would admit. No. Quite the opposite, really.
And yet.
And so.
He makes a sound, exhaling. Coming to a decision, the old man steps forward, moving over to where Shurui is cleaning dishes. Gen extends an arm, rapping his knuckles on the metal edge of the sink, to get her attention.
"Girl," he barks.
She sees, and yet, she doesn't see. She sees people, and yet, white plates against a white tablecloth make her feel for it as if it had gone invisible, where others would simply pick it up. The tinted glasses help, and yet, they don't help. They're on when no people are around, yet off when it's at its busiest. It's almost as if people improve her eyesight, though, glasses or no, she always seems to be somewhat aware of where everyone is, though this does not seem to be due to any superior training or the hyperactive sense an assassin gains once they become used to the job. She is a fighter, yes, but no more, no less.
She could be a definite puzzle, indeed, all until the one important piece is placed and it all comes together.
"Mr. Gen." She doesn't seem surprised- she seems to more or less know he was there, but simply did not awknowledge him until he gave her a sign that he was not simply surveying this particular part of the kitchen, as an emperor would over his finely tuned domain. She turns to face him. "Is everything okay?"
The old man arches an eyebrow. He extends one finger, pointing a faintly yellowed nail at Shurui. His own eyes are narrowed, meeting her own shrouded gaze with razor intensity.
"Of course, everything is okay. Everything, in fact, girl, is close to perfect."
Around the two, the kitchen staff bustle, going about with their business. There is, after all, work to be done, and the sight of the old man haranguing the new girl is hardly unusual to the workers here. They've seen it before, after all.
But this time, there's quite a different tone to Gen's voice. The sound of someone who's had quite enough of a particular mystery - or come to his own conclusions.
"Too perfect," Gen says, "given your condition. And the fact..."
He indicates the sink filled with grubby dishes.
"...I've given you -twice- the workload of the other part-time helpers. Or hadn't you noticed? But after that first day, no missteps."
His voice lowers, then, dropping an octave.
"So," Gen murmurs, "tell me. Who trained you, girl?"
A girl, who when given the question if she'd rather be mundane or not, said 'no'. She's not perfect, not by any means; she's broken one dish, one glass; she's groggy in the mornings until her morning coffee kicks in. But, she's never late. Whenever she is? There's a good reason for it.
When placed in its proper context, however, it is a little too perfect. There are part-timers older than her, with no disabilities to speak of, that accomplish less through laziness or not having experienced first-hand the threat of being fired. And yet, she outperforms them, keeping any complaint well out of range of any possible earshot.
He noticed. Shurui's face twitches slightly, but otherwise, it seems to flow off her like water off a duck's back. He's given her twice the workload. She shrugs. "... I figured that was because I left for a couple of days. 'Figured it was only fair because of the people who had to cover for me."
Then that next question comes. She stammers, that cool, calm persona temporarily winded. "...." Trained? "My d- er. My father did. It was mostly in fighting, though." She rubs the back of her head. "I worked in his shop. It sold antiques and imports from China. Didn't allow me to use my sight as an excuse." She lowers her head. "I apologize for not telling you, Mr. Gen."
Gen blinks, just once, his eyelids opening and closing in a movement too slow and too precise to be anything other than a deliberate movement, not reflex.
He reaches to the side, picking up one of the rags beside the sink. He pushes this towards Shurui.
"Dry your hands," he orders.
Without waiting for her to reply, he turns his back, calling across the room for one of the other helpers to take over at the dishwashing point. Despite the noise level in the busy kitchen, Gen manages to convey his message without straining his voice. His tone is enough to carry the message.
That done, he sets off walking towards one of the preparation counters, motioning with a flick of the fingers for Shurui to follow him.
He's thinking. That's never good. Muda and Gen were completely different people- Muda's thinking was more a sign of him assessing something as not quite up to par, though he didn't seem to hold the mischevious streak Gen seems to have at times. .... Plus, Muda never had a beard, but he was a former fighter for a short period, *then* a former professor. Not an assassin.
The vague knowledge of Gen's prowess combined with the fact that he's, well, a scary old Chinese man makes Shurui quick to turn away when Gen places that towel down, in order to avoid him seeing her face going pale as a sheet. There's also the fact that, if Gen probed too deeply, he'd probably figure out that Shurui Chiang had more to her than a strange nearly blind girl whose accented Chinese was passable, but rather flawed, and avoided questions about her background, if any at all.
Not that Gen would definitely be the sort to make a big deal of these things, but it's better to never play with the possibilities of what he *would* do. Drying her hands and composing herself, Shurui sets the rag down and follows, drawing the eyes of a few fellow part-timers who, having overheard, aren't exactly envying her position.
godwhatishegoingtodo
The old man remains silent - perhaps ominously so - as he walks to one of the kitchen counters. He doesn't look back as he moves, quite confident that the girl will be behind him. He seems oblivious to the attention that the other kitchen staff are paying this turn of events...or perhaps he's quite aware, and quite aware of the pressure Shurui's under.
He simply doesn't acknowledge it.
Which perhaps adds to it, all the more.
The worker Gen asked to replace Shurui in the dishwashing...was chopping root vegetables. Abandoned on the wooden panel, beside the cleaver, is a half-sliced mass of white radish, the fatter Chinese variety of the daikon. Gen picks up one chunk of vegetable, holding it up between his thumb and forefinger.
"'See' this," he asks, "girl?"
Shurui follows behind Gen, not exactly knowing what to expect, if anything at all. When his aura is seen reaching for a piece of vegetable, Shurui seems almost relieved. Maybe she's taking over another job, simply. Something that doesn't involve washing dishes.
-Wait, that may mean.... cutting. Fuck. She did have a finger guard, but *that* was left at the apartment.
Then Gen asks that question. Can you 'see'. The emphasis seems to note a deeper meaning than a simple question, but she'll play dumb for now, as annoying as the question's phasing is. She knows better; she bites her tongue. Finally, she says, "Yes. It's..." She pauses, as if quickly checking something in her memory. The edges of the white turnip bleed into the pink hue of the man's fingers, but she knows enough to make a guess. Something pale, white, perhaps; something that doesn't smell or is being held like a sliced onion. Something hard enough to make a cube. Not squishy like tofu; his hands would have conpensated for the slippery texture. ".... It's a daikon."
If she makes a mistake, it could be simple error of not being able familiar enough with the vegetable.
"Mmn," Gen murmurs, "that -would- be more or less right. But how did you know that, I wonder? It wasn't a wild guess, was it, hm? Smell? I wouldn't presume that you're -totally- without sight, girl, but enough that fine detail would be...a problem. And Wong over there has been through half today's stock of roots today. How did you know this was not a carrot, "
Over at the sink, the young man now washing dishes makes a face and a small grumbled sound of protest, but Gen ignores him. His attention is focused on Shurui.
"So..."
Gen rolls his fingers round the small chunk of vegetable, in his hands. Then he tosses it into the pile of sliced radish resting on the chopping board, mixing them up with a sweep of the hand.
"...which piece was I holding just now?"
"It could've been, yeah." Carrots can be white. Shurui slips her hands into the pockets of her jeans. "... I just went with the answer that seemed more likely." Thankfully for Gen, Shurui doesn't pretend that she has perfect sight. Or that she's an expert.
Then again, it would have been fun to tear that bit of ego down, if Gen was in that sort of mood. But there's other ways! Instead of being satisfied with it, Gen ups the ante, placing the held piece of vegetable down.... and scattering the rest. Shurui's face noticably falls. It's impossible, even for some *with* sight. Is he trying to prove something?
She looks at the vegetables, nearing them. Bite your tongue. Bite your tongue. Bite your fucking tongue. Just *try*. There's what, twenty-five or something pieces? Her chances of picking it randomly aren't *impossible*.
.... She picks one up. Then another. Feeling them in her hands. Rolling them between thumb and forefinger, much as Gen had.
Maybe he'll get annoyed, stop her, and she can quit this crazy procedure.
"You're doing -something-, girl," Gen says, in a low tone. The sound is too soft for any of the others in the kitchen to hear.
By now, the little scene is quite obvious, and the pace of work is beginning to quite obviously slow, as everyone keeps an eye on the old man and new girl. Normally, Gen would snap at them for malingering. But he doesn't. Instead, he simply drops his voice, speaking quietly enough that even Shurui, standing right beside him, would have to strain to hear it.
"I don't know if it's something your father taught you," Gen continues, "or something of your own. And I don't particularly care. I don't even care /how/ you're doing it. But..."
He lifts one finger.
"...I want to know what you /can do/."
Gen smiles. It isn't a particularly nice smile.
"After all," he says, as Shurui slowly fingers each of the pieces, one by one, "when I agreed to hire you, girl, I did ask...what you thought you could be, hm?"
Shurui can feel all those eyes on her. The pressure. Usually, he'd yell at people by now to keep moving. Maybe it's a test. Or, he's focusing so keenly on her that the rest of the world seems temporarily unworthy of catching his attention.
Or maybe, it's a trick. Her hand slows. No, it's not about proving herself as competent, perhaps.
Those dark eyes settling on a thought, as if it was a solid entity hanging in the air before her. "If I chose one, how would you know it was the correct one? Even for someone who's got excellent sight, this'd be hard. I could trick you, grab one, and swear up and down it's the right one. Or, I could select one, and you could trick *me* and say it's not the right one." She grabs one, yet keeps it hidden in the palm of her in her hands. She thinks. "And what if you palmed it in your hand when you were spreading them around?"
"Or," Gen murmurs, looking not at Shurui's face, but at her fingers, "I could, young lady, be /seeing/..."
The choice of word is not coincidental.
"...how you would respond."
He looks up at her now, lifting his head to stare her straight in the face. It's clear his own eyesight cannot be good - it can't be, with the telltale milky whiteness of cataracts present on his face.
Gen brings his own hands together, flexing his fingers, cracking his knuckles, then interlocks them in a thoughtful posture as he leans back just a little.
He keeps mixing it up. Shurui's not sure what to think now.
What is for sure, however, is his aura, which Shurui takes pains to look away from as he nears her. She pauses. "Oh." She opens up her hand, and looks at the piece of daikon as he leans back. She rolls it between thumb and forefinger. It *feels* right. But many of the others, should she look. Perhaps, it would be okay to fail? That, and she could test to see if her earlier hypothesis is true. "... This isn't it, by chance, is it?"
.... That, or some extending hand of that weird ability could be exerting itself right now. Shurui is unable to tell.
"Hmph," Gen snorts, exhaling loudly.
His arm snakes out, fingers striking - to pluck the small chunk of root vegetable out of Shurui's hand. He grabs it, lifts it up to his face, where he appears to eye it critically, closing one lid and looking at the little piece of chopped foodstuff like a jeweller appraising a particularly troublesome piece.
Then he lowers it. He opens both eyes, regarding Shurui.
"Was it chance? Or did you do what /I/ did so I could tell?"
He runs his fingertips over the moist slice of radish, before replacing it on the chopping board. The whole lot of it will have to be quite thoroughly washed before cooking, given all the handling it's just been through. But it's for soup anyway, so Gen hardly cares.
What he -does- care about is the girl in front of him.
"No...I handled it before throwing it back. Felt the shape. Made an indentation with my fingernail. But you wouldn't have, would you, girl? So. Were you lucky, or are you just that special, hm?"
Shurui allows it to be snatched from her hand, not flinching. She says nothing as Gen examines it, simply looking down as he examines it.
No, it was the right one. Indeed, what was it? Not even Shurui is sure; she looks up.
There's only one answer- the same one Gen gave, albiet without any sign of a mocking or haughty tone. She simply says it, with no addition mannerisms.
She is not special. But that doesn't mean she needs to reveal it immediately and remove no doubt of it. "..... That would be telling."
Log created on 19:26:31 10/29/2008 by Gen, and last modified on 19:29:24 11/01/2008.