#and teru agrees to documentation after the world domination arc??

[b4kuch1n]

Question Form RQ03 [special use]*

*Question form edited by MIB Secretariat, used under particular conditions, use authorized by Personnel[redacted] 

R Lounge, MIB HQ, [date/time redacted] 

Teruki HANAZAWA | Minor | Starchild

(There’s no alien prison on Earth. Earth is like a big neighborhood, and the US a particularly noisy block. Convicted criminals leave the neighborhood and go to prison. Which Earth is not. 

So, of course, the place Hanazawa was about to be kept at (really, O.? Really? Kept at?) does not qualify as a prison. 

Technically that is true: it’s as big as a normal lounge and there’s a good-size screen in there and probably Wi-Fi too, even though the filter’s probably tighter than his hair-clogged drain at home. It’s also rumored that you can ask for any magazines in existence, as long as you say “please”. Might also be alcohol in the mini-fridge, which he wouldn’t know was the good stuff or not, since he can get trashed on three shots of anything barely alcoholic ever. 

But if there’s anything his years (has it been years already? Christ, you really don’t feel it while it’s burning bright, do you?) serving the MIB can teach him, it’s that isolation freaks people out. He has yet to come across a race that doesn’t value connection under any form. Someone raised with human values would even be more attached to it. And if there’s something that lounge-for-folks-in-questioning doesn’t provide, it’s a humane connection. 

A week in there for a teenager would make them implode. 

So he presses O. on that issue. “Tell me in less than thirty words what my lounge has less than that one in term of security,” he says, tapping the pen on the glass surface under his hand. 

O. lets out a long sigh. “You.” 

“Excuse you!” he throws his hands up, the pen falling from his grasp perfectly into its slot on the stand, “I’m your recruit, madam! You don’t trust your own employee - is this whole agency already starting to collapse onto itself?” 

Another sigh. “No, Agent R. We’re going steady and strong, with a strict and efficient hierarchy and division. Which dictates that you’re a field agent and not a security officer.” 

“When did I say that I’m replacing security? Lounge R has security like any other place in this whole building. What I’m saying is that I should be added into this scheme.” 

“You know,” O. says, sipping on her chocolate milk, “you’re unofficially still not off the hook on that microwave accident yet. But — ” she cuts him off before he can reciprocate, “ — I see where you’re coming from. And I acknowledge that as a field agent, you know more about this than us pen pushers do. So I’ll see how that goes with the higher up.” 

The other thing being in on the whole alien stuff teaches him, after that many years, is that there’s a rhythm to negotiation. There are good moments in the conversation to push a point, and there are times you can only go that far with the set system. And O. is not a bad boss - she is sensible and smart, and the amount of shit she has to deal with daily is honestly baffling - so even though he does not like to be called out, he knows to back out in front of an incoming misstep. 

That’s how Agent R. finds himself in the people-in-questioning lounge half a day into Hanazawa’s stay at the MIB headquarter, a pint of ice cream in one and a tablet in another, asking the security guy passing by to put on a nature document to fill the silence. 

“Uh,” Hanazawa greets him, “hi. Nice to meet you.” 

“Same to you, kiddo,” he replies, putting down the pint of ice cream. “I just got moved here. Would you mind if I watch my soaps at nine in the evening?” 

Hanazawa stares at him for a very long time. Finally he says, “So you’re the soaps kind of person,” and pulls the ice cream towards himself.)

1. Are you completely aware of your alien heritage?

(”So, Hanazawa Teruki,” he says while Hanazawa’s flipping to the next page on his book, “how much do you know about you being a Starchild?” 

The beat of silence is casually tense, until Hanazawa starts speaking. “Well, I am a Starchild, I know that much.” 

He dutifully types that down on his tablet.) 

2. Are you born on Earth? 

(”You know, it’s really weird,” Hanazawa says, “I don’t know. But memories only go back as far as to when you’re four years old, right? And I do remember being here then. So maybe I was born on Earth.” 

“Just gonna put a ‘maybe’ in here,” he says, typing down a comment on the tablet. “Let the office deal with it.”)

3. Of which heritages are your guardians? 

(The quiet is a bit worrying. 

After the first pint of ice cream has been consumed with a speed that only makes sense in context, he has set up a Code Ice with security so he can wordlessly order ice cream to the lounge at any time. Partly because he feels like he should prepare thoroughly for more urgent situations, but he also just want to alert security when they enter unknown ground. No matter how many times he has dealt with Mob’s more extreme emotions before, he’s still talking to a different, separate individual, who is not Mob, and should not fall under generalisation. 

Hanazawa’s control seems strained, very unlike Mob’s. Mob’s control over his emotions is... motivated. Hanazawa’s, not that much. It’s like a prosthetic at this point - something the kid wears to help him function - but it’s stressing its own wielder out.

“They’re human,” Hanazawa says, finally, but the tension doesn’t leave. “Through and through.” 

He tables any other inquiries on the subject - the main question’s already answered - and holds up the clicker. “I’m gonna call for more ice cream.” 

The big screen flickers a bit, before Hanazawa blinks and grabs at the remote. “Can you call two pints at once?”) 

4. Specify the conditions in which you recognized your alien heritage.

(”...so the accordion fell down from the portable chandelier, and I swallowed it whole, and when I looked back the chicken was pointing a gun at me. I don’t really know what he thought that would even do to me, but I think he was too far gone to care. He fired the gun. Then the van crashed, and he got squished under the shotgun seat, and people were coming over to see what was going on, so I pulled myself together and fell out of the side door to avoid suspicion. I got out of the hospital that evening and came home to think the whole story through, and the chicken might have been tossed into the dump when they inspected the van afterwards. I don’t know where he is now.” Hanazawa stops to change position on the couch. “That was back when I was eight.” 

He taps the tablet screen lightly. “Yeah, I’ve heard about that guy. Got deported, I think-- wait. That accident was on TV, wasn’t it? So you’re that kid?” 

Hanazawa shrugs. “Probably. The news loved me.” He sounds a bit put off by that. 

“The real story’s more interesting anyway,” he says, puts down the tablet and looks at the digital clock in the corner of the big screen. “Jesus Christ, it’s six already?”)

5. Are your guardians aware of your alien heritage? 

(This time Hanazawa replies almost too fast. “I don’t know.” 

He looks up from the tablet, “Huh?” 

“Never tried to ask,” Hanazawa says, just barely faster than his normal speech. “I think my mom does have a vague idea though. I mean telekinesis and such isn’t really normal human traits, right? She should know at least a bit, since I was. Well.” He gestures vaguely with his hands. “Yeah.”

There’s a beat of silence before he can reply. “Doesn’t mean they can let you live alone for three years at the age of fourteen,” he says, calmly. 

Hanazawa looks down. “They really shouldn’t have,” he says with a small laugh. “At least they haven’t cut my card yet.”

The tablet is set down on the table. “No, okay. I’m saying that their decision wasn’t justified, and it still isn’t.” He says, crouching forward a little bit. Hanazawa looks up at him with wary curiosity. “Doesn’t matter the consequence. That is not something guardians do.” 

Hanazawa keeps looking at him for a moment longer, then he shrugs and says dismissively, “That wouldn’t matter now anyway, right?” 

There is too much to that statement for him to address in one single conversation, so he notes down the answer first, just to get his duty out of the way.)

6. Are any groups/individuals with residency on Earth (other than your guardians) aware of your alien heritage? Specify their nature if the answer is yes.

(Hanazawa’s answer is at first morphed beyond recognition, through the mouthful of ice cream he’s currently trying to get down. “You gotta learn some table manners, kiddo,” he says, pushing the button on the remote absentmindedly, checking through the free channels on the network, while the kid frees some more space in his mouth to continue on the current pint. 

“I learn my lessons,” Hanazawa says. 

“Good, good, great. Go over that one again?” 

“Oh, right. The Thursday market.”

“The one on Spice Intersection?” 

“Yep.”

“Who there knows about you?”

Hanazawa scraps the ice cream idly with the spoon. It’s melting a bit. “Well, the market.” 

“Okay.” He notes that down. “Anyone else?”)

(The form is submitted a bit late, but otherwise the Office can’t find any reason to bother them more on that one. He fills out another form not long after that, and by the end of the same day they’re released from the HQ. 

Hanazawa is quiet on the ride back to his apartment, but it’s a serene calm, if a bit thin. They arrive at the block a bit late; the night guard stares at them as Hanazawa climbs out of the car. 

“Good evening, Ben,” Hanazawa waves at him. So that’s where Ben’s gone to after he closed the store on the old street. 

“So,” he says when Ben has looked away. 

Hanazawa takes a deep breath. “So,” he repeats the word. 

Time to fish the keys out of the candy pocket. “Here,” he tosses them to Hanazawa, “this is for my place. Number ten, seventh floor, Fifth street.” 

Hanazawa catches the keys, but for a moment doesn’t seem to know what to do with them. His hand balls up around them, and when he finally finds his voice again, he says, “You don’t need to.” 

“Mob has a set too,” he waves his hand dismissively. “I treat it like a cottage all the time, so why not. Doesn’t hurt to have a second place to crash sometimes.” 

Hesitation shows in the way Hanazawa pockets the keys, but his tone is sincere when he says, “Good. That’s great. Thank you, Sir.” 

Agent R. - Reigen - smiles. “It’s Arataka Reigen. Nice to be in this together.” He holds out a hand for Hanazawa.)

By signing this form, you’ve acknowledged that you’ve read and completely understood the questions asked, and that all of your answers are truthful. Once this form is verified, you will be registered in MIB’s databank as an alien citizen. 

Are you ready to sign and submit this form? 

(Hanazawa shakes his hand.

”Same to you, Mr Reigen,” he says. “That doesn’t rest well on the tongue. I’m just gonna call you Boss.” 

“That’s fair,” says Reigen.) 

Signed, Teruki HANAZAWA

Signed, Personnel[redacted]