[I'm still his mother. This woman who shrieks and hides atop a cart at the presence of a small harmless thing is a mother, with a kid she needs to take care of, and she's here. Here on this station, part of a team that risks their lives every mission. An obvious noncombatant. Some kid's mom.

Shinjiro's stomach hurts. He stares at her, forgetting to answer too long, eyes somewhere else. Another Japanese mother and her crushed house, and her son left to watch in horror. She shouldn't be here, is the thought that rolls around and around his thoughts. It's not worth the risk. His breath shakes on the way out.]

I-I...don't know if he's...here to find. But uh. If I see 'im, I'll let 'im know his mom's lookin'.

[Breathe, Aragaki. Calm down. You're going to freak her out again.]

A-anyway. I'm Japanese, an' I figured you were too, since you're wearin' a kimono and all, and your kid's name sounds Japanese too. But I dunno, maybe you're from somewhere else that just dresses similar. Apparently there's all kinds of universes out there.

[He looks away, scuffing a shoe against the floor. It's embarrassing, how strongly he feels the urge to answer all her questions, help her with all that settle-in shit he'd usually rather leave to others on this ship more suited to it. He, of all people, shouldn't dare to try to be anyone to her, lest history threaten to repeat. But it's as though he's locked within a trance; he cannot bring himself to walk away.]

I'm....Aragaki. Shinjiro.