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Blood pulses through the veins in her ears loudly enough for her to hear it. Her breathing is heavy, pulling in as much oxygen as possible for fuel. The sound of quick footsteps echoes around the track, but she is not the only source. A man runs up ahead: her father, a man of determination, independence, and hard effort.

He spins around, easily matching her pace, even while propelling himself in reverse. His voice rings through the still morning air, calling out to her. “Push it, Emi! Push it harder! Faster! You can do this!”

Her short legs are already moving as fast as she can muster. She is only eleven, after all. To match her father's speed, a man three times as old and almost twice as tall as her, would be nothing short of incredible. The sweat drips from her forehead in a futile effort to keep her skin cool. “I can't!” she yells between pants. “I can't do it, Dad...”

His expression turns from a hopeful smile to a disappointed scowl. That answer was simply unacceptable. “Nonsense, Emi. Look at yourself. You're already doing it.”

She tilts her head down. Her legs are still moving, pushing her frame forward one step at a time. A smile carves into her face, and she understands. A new wave of inspiration surges through her; she picks up more speed. The sapphires in her father's face glimmer with pride. “That's my girl,” he whispers as she catches up to him in a full-on sprint.

Of course, he is capable of much more than she is. He accelerates back into his normal running pace, almost presenting another challenge for his daughter. He doesn't expect her to meet it. He's been running longer than she's been alive. /Always put it out of reach/, he thinks. /Make her strive for something, so she'll always keep improving./

Emi's footsteps slow as the last of her energy begins to subside. The difference is audible, and the man comes to a stop. He walks over to her, the only sign of exertion a thin layer of sweat on his jaw line. She, on the other hand, is sitting on the ground, gasping for air.

He gives her a gentle pat on the head, smiling and ruffling the light brown hair held back in twintails. “Good effort, Emi.” She looks up into his eyes. “I'm very proud of you.” The happiness in her wells into a toothy grin of her own.

“Thanks, Dad,” she responds, which he answers with a laugh. He shrugs the small runner's backpack off his shoulders and pulls out a sports bottle filled with water. He takes a quick swig of his own, then hands the remainder to her. “Drink up. You need to stay hydrated.” She does what he says, practically drowning herself in it. “Not /that/ much!” he exclaims. “We don't need you getting sick!”

She just giggles in absolute bliss, and he laughs in return. His hand extends in front of her face. She takes his offer and rises to her feet, dusting off her chest, legs, and rear. The light touch of her father hits her shoulder. “C'mon, kiddo,” he says. “Let's start heading home.”

Their trek back to the car is rather ordinary. They banter back and forth, making jokes and telling stories. She talks to him about school, her friends, and her grades. One classmate in particular is a favorite subject of hers.

“So...,” she starts, rather timidly. “There's this... boy.” Her face turns red as she thinks about him. She covers her face in her hands to try and hide the blushing.

“A boy, huh?” her father asks, speculative. /She *is* getting to that age, isn't she?/ he asks himself. “Tell me about this boy.”

“Well... he's a little taller than me, kinda cute, and really~ smart.” The joy drips from her voice, and she bounces up and down in excitement. “He always gets the highest grades on our tests. And he likes to draw. He drew me a picture once! I'll have to show you when we get home, it's still in my backpack.”

He smiles. It's good to see her care so deeply about someone. She's always been the popular type, but never one to make many real friends. “I'd like that,” he responds. “What's his name, if I might ask?”

She giggles, bringing her hands tight to her chest. “Ryota~.”

The name takes him a bit by surprise. “Same as your old man, huh?” She nods, grinning from ear to ear. It's sickeningly adorable. /Why can't she stay this way forever?/ he wonders. /She's already growing up, quicker than I had hoped. How time flies./ “Well, maybe we can have him over for dinner one night. If you like him that much, I'd like to meet him.”

“He... he wants to meet you, too,” she says, rather embarassed. “I've told him all about you and Mom. He already loves you guys.”

A hearty laugh escapes his throat. “Already close enough that you can talk about us? Aren't you the little flirt?” Her face fills with crimson, eliciting another chuckle. His hand meets the top of her head again, and she joins his mirth as he twists his fingers through her hair.

/I really do have the best dad,/ she thinks. /I'm such a lucky girl./

They reach the parking garage and find the family car: a short, silver sedan. It's just big enough for their entourage of three to get from place to place, but small enough to be practical on the crowded Japanese streets. 

Ryota throws their bags into the back seat and climbs in front of the wheel, making sure that they both buckle their seatbelts. With a twist of the key, the car ignites. The driver shifts it into gear, and they exit the parking garage.

Their drive is mostly silent, save for the musical sounds of contemporary American alternative. It's a taste her father picked up from a co-worker recently. He became particularly fond of the grunge movement and all the music they inspired.

But he has this biting feeling in his gut that he should talk to his daughter more. They're already so close, what more could they talk about? They come rolling to a red stoplight, first in line for the green. A thought hits him. “Did I ever tell you how I met your mother?” He looks over his left shoulder, and she shakes her head at him.

The memory starts to come back, as if it were yesterday. It's such an important day in his life, it's practically etched into his mind. “I was running one afternoon during my high school years. Our track team was very tough. Coach made sure we ran thirty-minute sprints twice a day, bare minimum.” He bares his teeth at the thought of his wife all those years ago.

“I spotted her. And she spotted me. She was so graceful as she walked... an angel, really. I raced over, across the street, dodging car after car, just to talk to her. And we hit it off. Or, she thought I was charming, at the very least. So, I asked her out to dinner.” Emi notices his eyes glimmering again; they always do that when he's happy. “She accepted. And... the rest is history.”

The traffic ahead of them moves onward, vehicles rushing through the intersection almost mindlessly. Ryota opens his mouth again. “You remind me so much of her, kiddo. I hope you grow up to be as strong as she is.”

Their light turns green. He puts his foot on the gas pedal, and the car accelerates in turn. “You should never give up, Emi,” he mutters. “You can always try harder.”

He looks over at her quickly, only to see her eyes widening.

His own pupils follow her gaze to their right, and he catches the same sight: another car racing toward them, too fast to stop.

Ryota stares like a deer in the headlights. He knows what's coming. Over the course of the next few seconds, his last ones, memories flash in front of him. Each of them is as vivid as the last, and he can make out each and every detail. Meeting the love of his life. Their marriage and honeymoon. The birth of their daughter. All of their shared family experiences.

They will soon be gone.

He holds his arms toward the car door instinctively, as if he can brace himself for the collision. Emi only cowers in fear, trying to bury herself in the seat. The last sound that he hears is her blood-curdling screams.

Impact.

----------

The emergency team is quick to respond. The scattered pile of broken glass and twisted metal lies to the side of the intersection, rammed into a nearby lightpost. Fire trucks were quick to douse the flames, and an ambulance started recovering those involved. The driver of the offending vehicle is relatively unarmed; he suffered a few cuts and bruises from his airbag. The other driver is not so lucky.

One of the paramedics discovers Ryota's broken frame. His arms are limp, his face cut into pieces from the window fragments raking across his skin. The paramedic immediately assumes the worst for this man. Reaching for a pulse, he looks up at his superior. “Dead, sir.” His superior sighs, rubbing his temple with the ungloved hand.

“Fetch his identification and bring the body to that far ambulance. We'll take him off to be cleaned up and autopsied.” The nurse responds with a yessir and does as commanded.

The screams of a small girl can be heard from the other side of the car. She is easier to pull from the wreckage. Her cries are filled with absolute terror as she is carried away from the scene and onto a stretcher in the ambulance hatch. “My legs!” she yells. “I can't feel my legs!” A laceration in her forehead covers her face in blood. It mixes with her tears into a watery mess.

“Get her stable, quick!” one of the paramedics commands. Her head is wrapped in disinfectant-laden gauze in hopes of stopping the bleeding. Luckily for her, the lightpost that they hit connected with her legs. Both lower halves are shattered, one bone fragment jutting through the skin. They are damaged beyond repair, but she feels no pain. Her brain has flooded her nerves with enough adrenaline and endorphins to fend off all sensation.

Her eyes start to fade from the shock, and she slips into the black of unconsciousness. The emergency team fills her bloodstream with an anesthetic to keep her asleep and dull any pain she might be feeling. “Poor girl,” the administrator mutters. “Those legs are long gone.”

“Do we have a name on her?” another of the men asks.

One of the paramedics holds Ryota's bloodied wallet in his hands, staring at his information. “The man's license says 'Ibarazaki Ryota.' I'm doing a check for him now...” He types furiously, scanning the database for a match living nearby. “Got him. Wife's name is Meiko.” He spins in his chair to look at the girl lying on the stretcher. “I assume this is their daughter, Emi.”

The leader of the team jumps into the conversation to bark orders. “Get his wife on thse phone, ASAP. We're taking the girl /straight/ to emergency operation.” The computer operater starts up the ambulance's phone line, dialing the home number provided in the database.

A click comes form the other end, followed by a woman's voice. “Hello?” she asks.

“Mrs. Ibarazaki?” the caller requests. She affirms her identity. “We need you to come to the emergency room of Sendai Kousei. There's... been an accident.”

The line falls silent for a moment as she tries to process his words. “Y... yes, sir. I'll be right there.” The dial tone takes over as she hangs up.

With Emi laid back in artificial sleep and secured in one of the ambulances, the medical team climbs in and latches the doors shut. Ryota's lifeless corpse is put in a separate vehicle, to be whisked away, autopsied, and cleaned up for his eventual funeral. The driver of Emi's ambulance, the leader of this response team, hops into his seat.

Life as an emergency paramedic is rough. He's been on enough accident sites and seen people die enough times to become almost numb to it. Existence always comes to an end, and no one really knows when it will happen. He does not mourn the fallen anymore.

What kills him are the family members. The loved ones who have to bear the loss, who are left behind to pick up the pieces and find a way to fill the void in their lives. Some reactions are, inevitably, worse than others.

None of them quite compare to watching a little girl be broken in half and have her father snatched away in an instant. He weeps for the one who has to be her angel of death.