A staff person asks me to write my name in Cyrillic on a pen that already has my name in English on it on two different sides. I’m supposed to have my name in Cyrillic on my birth record too, and it’s implied that everyone is supposed to write their names that way from now on. The pen is a translucent, frosted-white ballpoint pen, and for some reason, she takes it back after I’ve written my faux Cyrillic on it.
The “Cyrillic” I was writing was seemingly being used as a synonym for “Russian”, but it was always called Cyrillic.
Amusingly, the staff person didn’t even tell me the right letters when I had to ask her how to write the “J” sound, and then the letter “N” (though I suspect this was just due to my own sparse knowledge of Cyrillic). She suggested “TZ” for the “J”, and I don’t really remember the “N” (I was thinking it was “V” or something, but I already knew that was wrong; I think she suggested “N”)—the real letters should have been “ДЖ” and “Н” respectively. Not only that, but other than one real Cyrillic letter I remembered, I seem to have filled in capital English letters for all the other letters of my name. (The two letters I’d taken guesses on (“tz” and “v”) had actually come from Greek, which in real life I learned how to write the sounds of my name in for a world history class.)
When writing my Anglo-Cyrillic name, I realised that a (real) friend of mine would probably find it perfectly natural and even fun.
Oddly, I can easily erase the supposedly permanent marker I’m writing my name with.
For whatever reason another former friend of mine is here, reading something in Japanese (it seems to have a book cover but be printed in newsprint very much like a newspaper; she may just have a regular newspaper inside a regular book). This friend never thought about Japanese stuff in the least in real life. She explains that she taught herself Japanese since the time she’d last seen me.
Startled, I say “Nandayo?!“, and then, “Nandakanda no koe wo kiki?!“. Somehow she recognises it and says, “Oh, is that the Team Rocket thing?”. I’m extremely shocked that she recognises it.
I’m in some kind of library sort of thing with a few different floor levels, each abruptly cutting off before the next one like a step on a staircase. They’re all carpeted, and the carpet extends over the dropoff (there are very likely some real rooms set up like this). There’s one table toward the far end of the room (maybe more) and some bookshelves along the wall, maybe a window or two, but it’s dark. There are several bookshelves that divide sections of the room (I very much got the impression that that’s what they were for) and a bunch of young people my age as if it’s my school or something. A lot of them are seated between the bookshelf-rooms, and there are one or two staff-people here (including the one who made me write my name on the pen in Cyrillic). For some reason it’s dimly-lit.
I get the odd impression I’m living here and moved here from somewhere else, as well as the impression that I’ll be living here for the rest of my education, though there’s no explanation why.