Year Two arrived wearing a paper crown and sticky fingers. I could walk, point, and pronounce tea with the authority of a colonial governor. The townhouse adjusted by moving all its breakable opinions two feet higher. Whitby installed baby gates with the energy of a woman founding a nation; Maud invented a game called We Don't Put Small Things In Sockets, which I won by not dying.
The System clocked in like a bored accountant.
> FP: 31.4 → 33.0
sources: "first steps" item; rumor that I bowed to the milkman (I did—he deserved it)
The Recruitment Eye felt smoother when I used it—same rule, no fireworks: focus to use; the world softens, and anything safe worth engaging holds that quiet green. Still green-only. The rest I had to earn.
---
The Landmine with a Tie
Spring brought a reception that smelled like old treaties and new desserts: a three-room waltz at the embassy for a trade delegation that believed tariffs were a kind of romance. Hiroshi (I could use his name now without worrying it would break) wore navy and the expression of a man who has already read the boring parts and will make them feel dramatic.
"Short remarks," he said to his aide, Mr. Sato, whose hairline had a strong work ethic. "Then the press line. Then dumplings."
"Order of operations," I chimed in from Maud's hip, and everyone pretended not to hear because it unbalanced the universe when babies helped with logistics.
On a side table sat two speech drafts: A and B. Identical in length, different in soul. Draft A's opening phrase could be politely described as "robust"; Draft B's sounded like a handshake that washed its hands first. I focused; the room thinned to soft, the people blurred to later. The folder tab on B wouldn't fade. Green: go.
I wriggled free, toddled with the swagger of a man taking a corner office, and slapped both palms on B.
"Choice made," I announced.
Hiroshi paused, glanced at me, then at the drafts, then at the delegation drifting toward us in a polite cloud. He trusted me the way you trust a weather vane on a hill that has never lied.
"Draft B," he told Sato.
"Sir, Draft A is… firmer."
"Draft B," Hiroshi repeated, the tone he uses when the party line has been rerouted.
Ten minutes later, the visiting minister delivered a smile that said we remember things you shouldn't have said, only he didn't have to remember them because we hadn't said them. Draft B's phrasing neatly stepped over a historical rake lying in the grass. The room exhaled; wine began to flirt with canapés; an ambassador stopped grinding his molars.
Maud kissed my hair like I'd solved fire. Whitby permitted herself a noise that in less refined households is called a chortle.
The System made a notation without blinking:
> Life-Impact: +0.1
deviation: avoided minor diplomatic rupture (phrase selection)
FP: 33.0 → 34.6
sources: press line "gracious" coverage; Embassy toddler chooses stationery, saves afternoon
If asked, I would have said I was simply advocating for dumplings.
Later that night, Hiroshi lifted me like a small suitcase full of secrets and said, in Japanese, "Thank you." He didn't ask how I knew. He is the kind of man who files gratitude and leaves curiosity on the table until it ripens.
---
Cameo, But Make It Hatless
Summer swung a velvet rope across a film studio. My mother had accepted a cameo in a very British comedy—clever people saying clever things in tweed, plus a heist of something that probably came with a plaque. We arrived to the smell of hot lights and cables that had been trained by saints. The assistant director greeted my mother like a pilgrim greeting a shrine. He greeted me like a threat and quickly learned his mistake.
"Just a stroll through frame," the director pleaded, scarf tied in a knot that had gone to boarding school. "A wink at the audience."
"No hats," I said, pointing at the offending pile like a union rep.
"No hats," he agreed.
The set was a museum gallery built out of stubborn plywood and optimism. My mother's cameo was a glide past a statue with a look that said I know where the real valuables are. I would cross behind at toddler speed, wave gravely, steal a nation. Easy.
I focused as the red light blinked on. The world obligingly softened; safe anchors stayed bright: my mother, the gap between two extras, and a piece of gaffer tape on the floor that had ambitions to trip me. I stepped over its ambitions.
"Action!"
She floated; I conducted my solemn parade; the camera purred. On take two, the boom mic attempted to flirt with my hair. I side-eyed it like a veteran and kept moving. The director pressed both hands to his cheeks. "He has timing."
"Genetics," my mother said.
Between takes we loitered by a craft table that had once been a religion. I was communing with a biscuit when the side door opened and a phenomenon strolled in, late and right on time.
Bombshell blonde. Red cardigan like a secret. Sunglasses that understood their assignment. She removed them and the room did that thing where it made a circle without being told.
"Hello," she said to my mother in a voice that had learned how to be soft and how to win trials. "I'm stealing your tea."
"You can borrow it," my mother replied, "if you pay me back in gossip."
They kissed cheeks like dueling queens calling a truce. A hundred histories flickered in the air and decided to be friends for the afternoon.
I focused—habit, not hunger. No trumpets; no omens. Just that clear, simple green around both of them that meant I could stand close and the world would not break.
"Who's the gentleman?" she asked, looking at me like I was a mystery she intended to keep. Up close she was Marilyn, which is different from Marilyn Monroe—quieter, smarter, funnier in the angles. Her smile tilted like she feared gravity would be offended if she showed off.
"Alexander," my mother said. "He insists on 'Alex' in the trades."
Marilyn crouched to my level with no fear for the knees of her slacks. "Hello, Alex."
"Tea," I said, offering a crumb like tribute.
She accepted it like a treaty. "You're my favorite man I've met today."
"Difficult competition," my mother said. "A gaffer and two producers."
"Still," Marilyn said, "top three."
The System played it perfectly dry:
> FP: 34.6 → 38.9
sources: set gossip; Two Bombshells, One Baby headline run internally and then everywhere
Note: instructing hats to leave was revenue-positive
The cameo wrapped in three takes because perfection is cheaper when you arrive with it. The director hugged my mother with a respect that could pass a background check and shook my hand like I had a guild.
"Will he sign an exclusivity?" he joked to Hiroshi.
"He has nap obligations," Hiroshi said gravely.
Marilyn passed us again on the way out, sunglasses back on as if the world needed a filter. She touched my cheek with a knuckle, a magician palming a coin. "See you around, Alex," she said, promise disguised as casual, and was gone to her own set like a rumor carried by a train.
---
Upgrade, With Restraint
By autumn of Year Two, the Eye picked up a patch:
> Recruitment Eye Lv.1 → Lv.2
Patch Notes:
— smoother focus
— edges a fraction clearer
— remembers last target briefly
— colors still: green only (patience)
Which is to say: the violin was tuned; the strings remained the same. Good. I didn't want warning sirens yet; I wanted to be good at go before I learned don't.
I celebrated by saving Hiroshi from a banquet seating chart. A dowager with opinions had been placed next to a man who had offended her in 1938 by existing. I focused on the diagram; every arrangement blurred except one column shift that refused to fade. Hiroshi made the change like it had been his idea. The dowager spent the evening rewarding him by not writing letters.
> Life-Impact: +0.2 (cumulative 0.3)
deviation: prevented small diplomatic thunderstorm (seating)
FP: 38.9 → 40.4
Maud called me her little civil servant. I demanded a pension.
---
Year Three: Tiny Blazers, Large Opinions
I turned three and immediately started wearing sweaters like a minor academic. The System continued filing everything that moved.
> FP: 40.4 → 46.2
sources: birthday photo (tasteful); radio segment "Three Cheers for Three Years"; Whitby's lemon drizzle scandalized Kensington (in a good way)
A Speech, Rehearsed Together
Hiroshi had a lecture at a society that collected speeches like stamps—pacific trade and the art of not lighting matches in rooms full of paper. He practiced at home in perfect paragraphs. I sat on the rug, sorted my blocks by color like a tiny customs officer, and listened.
On page three he reached a sentence that made the air heavier. I focused; the page blurred aside from the clause that wanted to be replaced. A small green alternative sat two lines down, unnoticed until focus pulled it forward—same meaning, less flint.
I pointed. "That one."
He paused, compared, and struck the tinder. "That one," he agreed.
The society applauded at the end because they are polite. The press applauded because no one had to write a think piece. Dumplings, again, were served somewhere because fate adores a chorus.
> Life-Impact: +0.2 (cumulative 0.5)
deviation: softened public phrasing; avoided op-ed migraine
FP: 46.2 → 48.5
"Why do you listen to him?" one dignitary asked Hiroshi at the reception, watching me explain to a fern that it was doing a brave job.
"Because he is often right," Hiroshi said, "and because he is three."
"Ah," said the dignitary, relieved. "Unimpeachable."
Studio, Second Date
My mother recorded again—this time a duet for a charity album. The studio remembered me and pretended it hadn't been waiting. She sang, I tapped a foot with the precision of a metronome with small shoes. The engineer asked if I could keep time for the bridge.
"Scale?" I asked.
"Minor," he said.
I approved the choice. The bridge behaved.
Between takes, she leaned against the piano and sighed that sigh that means I love this endlessly and it is still work. I focused on her, just to honor it, and the room gentled; green held her like a backstage pass.
"Tea?" I offered.
"Yes," she said, "and tell London to be kind today."
"I can do one of those," I said.
The System tried a joke, failed adorably:
> FP: 48.5 → 52.0
sources: studio rumor; photograph of Val & Alex: Timekeepers
Attempted quip redacted by Whitby
The Landmine With a Flag
The near-disaster found us in winter Year Three, wearing coats that could survive a narrative. A visiting dignitary from a country with a long memory and clean shoes stopped by the embassy. The draft gift on the credenza: a ceremonial book whose dedication had been copied from a previous event without noticing a very specific political term that translated to remember when you hurt us.
I was there because Maud believed my presence improved indoor weather. I focused instinctively; the room softened; the book's inscription blurred; the replacement card—a blank ready for a new line—refused to fade. Green on rewrite, now.
I walked over, patted the bad copy, and shook my head like an ancient aunt. Then I handed Hiroshi a pen.
He didn't ask why. He struck the word and wrote something simple and human about future shared work. When the dignitary read it, his face did something private and then very public: it opened.
He stayed thirty minutes longer than scheduled. He told a story about a river. The meeting ended with laughter that did not sound like an invoice.
> Life-Impact: +0.5 (cumulative 1.0)
deviation: replaced triggering dedication; relationship vector improved
FP: 52.0 → 56.8
Hiroshi lifted me later like a trophy you are not supposed to wave. "I owe you," he said.
"Dumplings," I said.
"Two kinds," he said gravely.
Marilyn, Second Encounter (And a Lesson in Hats)
We saw Marilyn again on a backlot street with fake rain and real coffee. She had a scarf this time and a laugh like a secret. She squinted at my head. "Still no hats?"
"Hats are feudalism," I informed her.
"Smart boy," she said. "Keep the curls. They do half the work."
My mother and Marilyn traded three headlines and a recipe. I traded a raisin bun for a wink. The Eye gave me the same steady green: safe, welcome, interesting—like a door that would still be there in a decade if I needed it.
> FP: 56.8 → 60.1
sources: Two Queens and a Prince, Again; bun diplomacy noted
The director (different scarf, same ambition) tried to place a jaunty cap on me for a laugh. I removed it with two fingers and an expression I learned from Whitby.
"Right," he said. "The hat stays off."
"Always does," I said.
---
The Shop Window, Again
With FP past sixty but still a mile from buying anything dangerous, I opened [SHOP] for a ritual browse. The cathedral hummed with expensive hums.
Affordable?
— Aspirational Stare Lv.2 — 20 FP (now with tiny dimple)
— Micro-Endorsements: Shoes — 15 FP (5% chance a cobbler names a loafer after me)
— Cry On Cue (Dramatic) — 10 FP (no; we have standards)
Recommended (Algorithm):
— Singing 101 — 500 FP
— Soccer 101 — 500 FP
We were saving for both. I tried not to look at Batman Detective Knowledge (still 400,000) and Pelé Template (still a cathedral and a half), the way you try not to look at a pastry you've already named.
The System underlined my restraint with its favorite pen:
> Advisory: hoard. first buys should compound.
"Noted," I said. "Also, no hats."
Acknowledged.
---
The Year Closes With Cake and a Clause
My third birthday was smaller than my second because we learned from the press; also larger, because Whitby's cake broke the concept of portion sizes. The guest list: family by blood, family by job, one vicar, one violinist, a diplomat who tells better jokes than many comedians, and a dog from next door who had applied and been approved.
I blew out three candles with a focus the Eye would have admired. My wish was practical: 500 FP and the patience to use it well.
My mother kissed my head and whispered, "Football or music first?"
"Both," I said.
Hiroshi lifted his glass. "To both," he echoed, and the room agreed in several languages.
The System slid the year across my vision like a ledger, smug and proud and trying not to be either:
[Years 2–3 Summary]
FP: 31.4 → 60.8
Life-Impact: 1.0 (minor deviations, major avoidance)
Eye: Lv.2 (green-only; focus smoother; edges clearer)
Stats:
STR 0.41 → 0.63 (stairs negotiated, rugs subdued)
DEX 0.29 → 0.48 (fork now a friend)
CON 0.52 → 0.70 (winter: defeated)
INT 1.00 (still skull-limited; outrage continues)
WIS 0.55 → 0.61 (knows where not to run)
CHA: "regulated weapon system" → "export-controlled"
> Titles:
— The Little Prince (working)
— Baby With Opinions (now Toddler With Minutes)
— Tea First (cosmetic; clergy love it)
> Notable entries:
— saved a paragraph, a seating chart, and a dedication
— cameo (hatless), met Marilyn (twice), invented bun diplomacy
— no hats were harmed
I focused one last time before the chapter decided to end without asking—habit and gratitude. The room gentled; my mother and Hiroshi stayed lit as if someone had decided they were the part of the painting that mattered. Green said go: to cake, to dumplings, to saving our points like a miser with ambition.
"Tomorrow," my mother said, sighing into my hair, "we rest."
"Tomorrow," Hiroshi said, already re-sorting the week in his head, "we quietly conquer something small."
"Tomorrow," I said, "no hats."
The dog barked agreement. The Eye stayed politely off until I needed it.
And outside, in the hedges that had learned to be respectful, the birds edited their headlines down to one simple line:
HE KEEPS GETTING AWAY WITH IT.