Search History
dark heroNezu had expected to feel worse.
Considering that he had collapsed with a fever high enough to make several people considerably more worried than he thought was reasonable, waking up feeling almost normal should probably have been reassuring. Instead, it bothered him.
Kuro was still unconscious.
The doctors had assured him that the cat appeared stable and had specifically instructed Nezu to remain where he was and rest while they continued observing both of them.
Nezu had listened carefully.
Then, as soon as he was left alone, he got out of bed, walked to the room where Kuro had been placed, picked him up and carried him back to his own room.
This was apparently not what the doctor had meant by resting.
Nezu knew this because the doctor explained it to him at considerable length after discovering what he had done. Diana had provided additional commentary from behind him, although hers contained substantially fewer medical terms.
Kuro remained with him.
Nezu considered that the important part.
He placed the still-sleeping cat beside him and returned to bed as instructed, although he found himself paying considerably more attention to Kuro than to his own condition. His breathing was steady, his body was warm, and nothing appeared obviously wrong with him, but Nezu checked anyway. Then checked again some time later.
Kuro woke not long after.
One black ear twitched first.
Then another.
His eyes slowly opened, and for several seconds he simply stared at Nezu before stretching his front paws, arching his back and behaving as though he had merely enjoyed an unusually long nap.
The relief that followed was immediate.
Nezu noticed it.
He didn’t understand it yet.
There were already too many things he didn’t understand.
His body had never been particularly cooperative. He had spent most of his life knowing exactly how far he could push it before it complained, how quickly exhaustion would arrive, and how much effort seemingly ordinary things would cost him. Steve’s training had improved that considerably over the years, but improvement had never changed the basic reality that Nezu was physically weak.
That reality appeared to have changed without consulting him.
He noticed it properly the morning after waking up.
His room was quiet except for Kuro moving somewhere behind him while Nezu sat on the edge of the bed, testing whether standing would result in dizziness. It didn’t. He waited another few seconds anyway, then stood and remained still, paying attention to the familiar signals he expected from his body.
Nothing.
Nezu frowned.
He walked to his desk, then back to the bed. After considering the result, he repeated the journey twice more.
Still nothing.
It was hardly a scientifically useful test, but the absence of fatigue was noticeable enough to justify further investigation. Nezu left the room and went downstairs, taking the stairs at his normal pace before turning around and climbing them again.
Then again.
By the fourth time, his mother found him halfway down.
She stopped at the bottom of the stairs and stared at him.
“What are you doing?”
“Checking something.”
“On the stairs?”
“Yes.”
Diana waited, apparently expecting additional information. When none arrived, she looked from him to the top of the stairs and back again.
“Should you even be doing that?”
Nezu considered the question. “Probably.”
“That wasn’t reassuring.”
He descended the remaining steps and stopped in front of her. Something about the expression on her face caught his attention. He knew the expression, of course. He had seen variations of it countless times over the years, particularly whenever he was sick, injured, missing, kidnapped, held hostage, or involved in one of the other situations that seemed to occur around him with statistically unreasonable frequency.
Concern.
There was nothing unusual about recognizing it.
What was unusual was the sensation that accompanied it.
Nezu stared at her.
Diana’s concern immediately increased.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Nezu.”
“I’m fine.”
She continued staring.
Nezu became aware of an uncomfortable pressure somewhere beneath his ribs. It wasn’t pain. His breathing was normal, there was no dizziness, and his heart did not appear to be doing anything sufficiently abnormal to explain it. Nevertheless, looking at his mother made the sensation worse.
More specifically, looking at his mother looking worried made it worse.
That seemed important.
“I’ll stop.”
Diana blinked. “Stop what?”
“The stairs.”
“Oh.”
Her shoulders relaxed.
The pressure eased with them.
Nezu watched this happen with growing suspicion.
Then Diana smiled.
Something else happened.
It wasn’t the same sensation. This one was warmer and considerably less unpleasant, spreading through his chest in a way that had no obvious physical cause. Before he could determine what it was, he noticed that the corners of his mouth had moved slightly upward.
Diana’s smile became much larger.
Nezu immediately touched his face.
That only made her smile more.
He stared at her for another moment before deciding that whatever was happening required investigation somewhere with fewer observers.
“I’m going back to my room.”
“All right.”
He turned.
“Nezu?”
He looked back.
Diana hesitated for just a second.
“Don’t do the stairs again.”
“I won’t.”
She smiled again.
There it was.
Nezu went upstairs considerably more confused than when he had come down.
Kuro was sitting on his desk when he returned.
That, by itself, was not unusual. Kuro considered most horizontal surfaces in the house his property and had never shown much interest in whether the humans agreed. What was unusual was that Nezu was reasonably certain the cat had been downstairs when he left.
He looked at the open door.
Then at Kuro.
Kuro licked one paw.
Nezu decided there were currently more important problems.
He sat at his computer and opened a search engine.
For several seconds, he stared at the empty box.
He knew what emotions were. He understood their definitions, their psychological functions and the physical responses commonly associated with them. He could recognize them in other people with reasonable accuracy. The problem was that none of this information had ever required him to identify one from the perspective of the person experiencing it.
Nezu began typing.
Uncomfortable pressure in chest when someone is worried about you.
The results were not particularly useful. Several suggested anxiety. One suggested heart problems. Another appeared convinced he was dying.
Nezu refined the search.
Uncomfortable feeling when mother is worried because of something you did.
The results changed.
He read for a while.
“Guilt?”
Kuro looked at him.
Nezu frowned at the screen.
That did fit.
He knew guilt. Guilt was an emotional response associated with the belief that one’s actions had caused harm or violated a personal standard. He had understood the concept for years.
Apparently, guilt felt like that.
Nezu opened a text document.
Guilt: unpleasant. Pressure in chest. Triggered by making Mom worry.
He paused.
Then added:
Possibly variable.
That seemed more accurate.
The second sensation was easier to search for.
Warm feeling in chest when someone smiles.
The internet once again attempted to diagnose several medical conditions before producing something useful. Nezu read through descriptions of affection, happiness, emotional warmth and empathetic responses before narrowing the search.
Feeling good because mother is happy.
This time the answer was considerably more consistent.
Nezu leaned back in his chair.
“Happiness.”
Kuro continued cleaning himself.
Nezu already knew what happiness was.
That was becoming an irritating pattern.
He added another entry to the document.
Happiness: warm. Causes involuntary smiling.
He looked at the sentence.
Sometimes.
Better.
For the next hour, Nezu conducted what he considered a perfectly reasonable investigation and what anyone else seeing his search history would probably have considered evidence of a deeply confused teenager discovering basic human existence.
Some questions produced obvious answers. Others led him through contradictory articles, questionable discussion boards and several websites that seemed determined to convince him that every emotional response was either trauma or a vitamin deficiency.
His phone vibrated beside the keyboard.
Nezu picked it up.
Segu.
There was no message at first, only a photograph.
She was sitting at a table somewhere, surrounded by several people from school. Food covered most of the space between them, and someone at the edge of the photograph appeared to have noticed the camera too late and was attempting to hide behind a drink. Segu was smiling directly at it.
A second message arrived.
Look. I have friends.
Then another.
Try not to be too shocked.
Nezu looked at the photograph again.
He knew some of the faces. Not particularly well, but enough to recognize them from school. Segu had always been better at this than him. She could sit down with people and somehow become part of whatever was happening without needing to understand exactly how she had done it.
Nezu had watched her do it countless times.
The warmth returned.
He recognized it this time.
Happiness.
That was easier.
Segu looked happy, and knowing that made him happy.
Nezu considered this a successful identification.
Then something else appeared beneath it.
He frowned.
It wasn’t the same as before. There was no guilt because he had done nothing wrong, and there was no reason to worry. Segu was safe. She was surrounded by people she knew, apparently eating far too much food and enjoying herself.
Everything about the photograph was good.
Nezu didn’t like it.
He stared at the screen.
That made no sense.
He wanted Segu to have friends.
He wanted her to enjoy herself.
He wanted her to be happy.
The photograph demonstrated all three.
Nezu still didn’t like it.
He enlarged the picture.
That did not help.
He looked at Segu.
Then at the people beside her.
Then back at Segu.
His phone vibrated again.
Are you alive?
Nezu typed:
Yes.
The answer came immediately.
Mom said you’re supposed to be resting.
Nezu looked toward the door.
I am sitting down.
There was a pause.
That is not what resting means.
Nezu considered correcting her, then decided against it.
Another message appeared.
Get better soon. It’s boring without you.
The unpleasant sensation weakened.
Nezu stared at the message.
Then at the photograph.
Then at the message again.
Interesting.
He placed the phone beside the keyboard and turned toward the search engine.
Feeling bad when someone you want to be happy is happy with other people.
The results were considerably less medical this time.
Jealousy.
Envy.
Insecurity.
Possessiveness.
Nezu frowned.
He refined the search.
Happy someone has friends but don’t like seeing them with those friends.
That was worse.
The internet had opinions.
Nezu spent several minutes reading them before leaning back in his chair.
“Envy.”
Kuro’s ears moved.
Nezu looked at the photograph again.
“I don’t want what they have.”
Kuro did not respond.
Nezu thought about it.
Then looked at the search results again.
Apparently, that wasn’t entirely true.
He didn’t want their food.
He didn’t particularly want to be friends with any of them.
He didn’t want Segu to stop spending time with them either.
What he wanted was the part of the photograph they had that he didn’t.
Her company.
Nezu stared at the screen for several seconds.
“That’s stupid.”
Kuro appeared to agree by continuing to ignore him.
Nezu added another entry to the document.
Envy: unpleasant. Can concern circumstances rather than possessions.
He hesitated.
Then added:
Can occur simultaneously with happiness.
That seemed unnecessarily complicated.
His phone vibrated again.
Seriously. Rest.
Nezu looked at the message.
The corners of his mouth moved.
At least that one he understood now.
Something shifted beside the monitor.
Nezu reached out without looking and caught the pen Kuro had just knocked from the desk.
His fingers closed around it before the pen had fallen more than a few centimeters.
Nezu stopped.
Kuro looked down at his hand.
Nezu looked down at his hand.
For several seconds, they remained that way before Kuro slowly extended one paw toward another pen.
“No.”
Kuro pushed it anyway.
Nezu caught that one too.
This time he had been expecting it, which made the result less useful, but the speed still seemed wrong. He placed both pens farther from the edge and looked at his hand, opening and closing his fingers.
Steve’s training had improved his reactions.
Not that much.
Kuro suddenly jumped from the desk to the top of the wardrobe.
Nezu looked up.
The distance was considerable.
Kuro looked down.
Nezu’s attention shifted between the desk and the wardrobe as he mentally estimated both the horizontal distance and the height gained.
“Kuro.”
The cat sat.
“Do that again.”
Kuro began licking his shoulder.
Nezu waited.
Kuro continued.
After approximately thirty seconds, Nezu accepted that cooperation was unlikely.
He returned to his computer and opened a new search.
Maximum vertical jump domestic cat.
Several minutes later, he looked back at Kuro.
Kuro was now asleep.
Nezu narrowed his eyes.
There were two separate anomalies in his room, and one of them was refusing to participate in testing.
The other was Nezu.
He spent the remainder of the afternoon testing what he could without doing anything sufficiently strenuous to make his mother come upstairs and stop him. His reactions appeared faster. His balance had improved. His body felt lighter, although his weight had not meaningfully changed, and movements that should have required conscious correction seemed to happen naturally.
None of it was dramatic.
That made it more concerning.
If he had suddenly been able to lift his bed with one hand, the conclusion would at least have been obvious: something impossible had happened.
Instead, everything sat just close enough to plausible that each individual change could be dismissed.
Together, they couldn’t.
Then there were the emotions.
Those were considerably harder to measure.
By evening, the document had grown.
Guilt.
Happiness.
Envy.
Worry.
The last one had appeared when his mother left the house and took longer than expected to return.
Nezu had checked the time six times, then the window, then his phone, before checking the time again. He knew where she had gone. He knew how long the journey usually took. He also knew that being seventeen minutes later than expected was not evidence that something had happened.
None of that had stopped him from checking.
When Diana finally walked through the front door carrying shopping bags, the uncomfortable restlessness vanished so quickly that identifying it became embarrassingly easy.
He had still searched it.
Just to confirm.
Nezu sat in front of the computer that night, reading through the list.
They were ordinary words.
He had known every one of them for years. Nothing about their definitions had changed. Nothing about their causes or functions was new information. If someone had asked him yesterday to explain any of them, he could have done so.
Yet the words looked different now.
There was knowing what something meant.
And apparently there was knowing what it was.
Behind him, Kuro woke from his nap, stretched, and jumped down from the wardrobe. He landed silently before immediately launching himself onto the bed, rebounding from it to the windowsill and disappearing through the partially open window with a speed that made Nezu stare at the empty space he had left behind.
A few seconds passed.
Nezu opened the search engine again.
How fast can a domestic cat run?
He looked at his search history.
Then at the window.
Then back at the search history.
Nezu had the distinct impression that tomorrow was going to require considerably more research.
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