It was quiet. To use a cliche, too quiet.

Tate liked quiet; she liked ambient noise. The quiet tinkling of wind chimes, the howl of wind outside her window, tapping pipes, the sounds of Paul and Grayson upstairs rattling around: these were incredibly relaxing to her, reminiscent of safety and security. It was hard not to feel secure when most of the people around her were men, and beyond that, huge men--Paul was six feet, five inches tall. He'd also helped her carry her groceries upstairs at least four times since he'd moved in a few weeks ago. He was, pretty much, a nice guy. Grayson she didn't know as well, but she knew he was related to Paul and pretty laid-back, so.

Today, there wasn't much ambient at all. The pipes were quiet, the snow had frozen the chain of her chimes, it was actually pretty still outside. Parker was out on a date, Grayson was… somewhere? At the fire academy, or something, she didn't know where he'd go. Wasn't he dating the little blonde girl she'd spotted in the stairway? What was it with men and younger women, anyway?

She huffed, tossing the snowglobe in her hands back and forth. Tate didn't quite understand why she was so drawn to the little thing--Wolfram had told her, and Zinkenite confirmed, that the senshi were evil invaders who wanted to take over the world. And she'd seen the female figure's likeness on the side of the senshi at the Halloween ball, hadn't she? So technically, wasn't this female figure… her enemy? As a resident of Earth who kind of liked the world not ruled by mass-murdering psychopaths?

Still, she wouldn't let anything happen to the stupid little snowglobe. Twice she'd almost knocked it off her desk while assembling books for a work order; three times she actually had, but the white carpet had absorbed its fall. Each time it'd felt like her heart jumped into her stomach, and she'd gathered it up and put it back among its brethren, releasing a breath she hadn't known she'd been holding.

Tate sighed, and she leaned back on her bed. The tune the little orb played was stuck in her head; she found herself humming it at the strangest times, coming home to wind it up and listen to its melancholy tune. Production at the shop was at an all-time low, too. It was only her, two boys, and the boss at a good day, and with the bulk of orders everyone ought to have been working nonstop. More often than not, though, she ended up staring out the high-set windows. Even now, at home, her gaze was drifting from a movie poster she'd been given to the window, to the rising moon.

Her thoughts weren't anything in particular; snatches of things she thought about while particularly bored setting and checking type, while mixing ink colors and fussing in the chilly basement where they kept the platen press, but without the dignity of being about her waking life. Stupid, stupid things--princesses and warm summer days and it just seemed so damn sad. Her mahou shojo manga seemed to be becoming more and more relevant to her life. Titanic wars between good and evil, monsters prowling the streets, people trying to steal her soul…

It hardly seemed to matter. The tune gave her a sort of peace, a feeling that things could not only get better, but that they entirely would get better.

*

On another quiet day, a rare day where Tate was not working at the bakery or working at the print shop, she heard a voice. It echoed over the sound of running water from where she stood washing dishes. It cut through the noise of the refrigerator, seemed to be carried on the notes of Paul's piano from upstairs. The voice was faint, but one that felt familiar; it called to mind a girl she'd seen in a half-remembered dream, a girl with the deepest blue eyes. She'd call them midnight, but they tended more towards sapphire. It was just the expression of endless sadness that made them seem so dark.

The world…

She set down the plate--realized with a moment of embarrassment that she'd been washing the same plate for the last fifteen minutes--and drifted into her room. Her hands were dripping wet, the water was still running. She picked up each of the snowglobes in turn to twist their keys, listened to them plunk away the wistful tune, and then she heard the voice again: Soon…

Soon? Soon what? Tate leaned forward onto her elbows, locks of auburn hair falling into her face. Keep safe…

She didn't dare look away, but it seemed as the tune wound down that it was going nowhere, that there would never be another word. As she stood up--the dishes had been left far too long, Parker was getting irritated--and turned away, she heard the voice again.

I'll be here soon…