[ Watashi ]

[ Tomodachi ]

[ Saint Seiya ]

[ Clamp ]

[ Fanfiction ]

This thing is another story in the series of chronicles of the Sumeragi clan I started quite a few years ago. While it's in no way mandatory to have read the other fics that are parts of those chronicles, there will be some stuff in the fic that's tied to the other stories (I try for a minimum of coherence, I do, I swear).

For your information, here are the other fanfics belonging to those chronicles of the Sumeragi family, in chronological order (which is not necessarily the order in which they were written):

• Erin's Gift
• The Other Side of Twilight
• When Evil Smiles
• Night-Painted Hearts
• Bad Blood

This one is set some years after X, in the near future. I'd say around the year 2010. This is purely a TB fic, meaning that X doesn't exist where it's concerned, except in its role as the 8th volume of TB. I have no idea how Clamp intends to end X, or if there'll ever be a single human being alive in the X universe at the end (to tell the truth I've stopped looking at what's happening in X for a while), so nothing of those aspects of X have been taken into account when I wrote the story. Don't expect seals, angels, Kamui(s) or whatnot, you won't find them there.

As with other fics in my chronicles of the Sumeragi clan, most of the characters belong to me, and you'll find very few, if any, of Clamp's characters in there.

You may also find elements which will remind you of well known series from other authors. I plead guilty. Nevertheless, this fic is purely a TB fic, and not a crossover.

Enjoy the reading! ^^

Fuu-chan.

Tiny beads of rainbow were shining in the distance. In another place, they'd have been called city lights, painting bright spots of color on the canvas named night as they did. Not here. Not now. Standing atop the dark, I watched them, I watched the seemingly endless gathering of wild will o' the wisps, and smiled at the blackness surrounding me.

Smiled at my reflections in the high walls of glass on my sides.

Castle walls.

If I took a step back, their nature would change. Their name would waver and be rewritten into something else. But I didn't move. I was standing on the edge of the world, and the world itself withdrew, removed itself altogether when a light breeze reached up from the bowels of the night--and grew.

In the folds of reality, dots of lights would flash red on extensive boards, and the echo of rapid footsteps would disturb ghosts in empty corridors. Intrusive techno music would send shadows writhing in disgust with their dissonant chimes, and hands would grasp cellular phones. Voices would bark orders. Angry.

But the world had retreated before the strengthening breeze, and all those things were nothing but mirages dancing in the glass walls. Letting go of the faint whiffs of reality, I held out a hand, and--

I.

    Watch.

        The wind.

            Glove my fingers.

It's purring. Nobody knows this, because it's a well-guarded secret, but the wind purrs whenever it enfolds the chaotic mixture of matter and spirit that makes a human being. For the time of a heartbeat, I close my eyes and focus on the music within, on the song that rises in harmony with the wind's gentle hum. Then I open my eyes, and I--

Step forward.

Time pauses, frozen between then and now.

A thousand of universes away, my right hand reaches up; its fingers clutch at my backpack's straps, as if to check they're secured and that the backpack will stay on my back no matter what. It's a thoughtless gesture. A reflex.

The song within and that of the wind touch. As if freed by the music, Time starts ticking again, and gravity--pulls at me. Laughter spills from my lips, joyful and wild. Perhaps even a little bit insane. It doesn't matter. Swinging forward, I yield, and at once the wind rushes to engulf the whole of me.

Tiny beads of light grow into filaments, into threads of rainbow.

They brush past me as I fall.

Wind and rainbow splash over my limbs, they embrace my leaves and branches--no.

Feathers.

Wings.

I'm not falling.

I can't fall. Ever.

I'm flying.

The day was dawning when I stopped in front of my room and fumbled for the keys I knew I must have put somewhere in my backpack. Stifling a yawn, I blinked and made myself focus on the damn keys instead of on the riotous patches of the city's bright lights. Thanks to some kind god, goddess or kami, I managed to find them before any of my neighbors decided that now was a perfect time to take out the garbage, and noticed the gaijin next door again coming home after a sleepless night spent the heavens knew where or doing what. Getting one of the too few international lodges available had been unhoped for, and I didn't want to push my luck. There were so many people who needed lodging--that, and I could never remember the endless list of house rules that had been most kindly and politely dumped in my hands on the day I had moved in. The only I thing I was certain of, was that being expelled and losing my rights for housing privileges were the most current sanctions in that particular holy book.

Fidgeting outside, desperately looking for one's keys might in itself constitute an offense--or be considered a disruption of the residents' quiet, well-ordered everyday life.

A muffled snort merged with the slight creaking of the door while I pushed it open and went in. The room well deserved its label: it was a room, no more and no less. A small room, where I could hardly move and store my stuff. As to the existence of a bathroom and a washing machine in it...a sigh escaped me when my eyes stopped on the pile of laundry I'd have to take care of today.

Hell, I was tired.

Perhaps I should be more cautious, perhaps I should have paid more attention when I had decided to enter the competition for a position of researcher at the United Nations University in Tokyo. It was too late to regret the mistakes made during my decision process. Japan had a housing problem; Tokyo had an even nastier housing problem, but you learnt and adapted. You could make do with cramped space and unending trips to the Laundromats, with instant noodles bought at the closest convenience store on your way back from the labs well after nightfall. It took some getting used to and it wasn't easy, but it was possible. The only thing I longed for were holidays, but those came in terribly short number in the Japanese life.

A blue dot was flashing on the phone set next to the diminutive TV set. Insisting. Out of habit, I stepped toward it, and punched the button that would let me listen to the messages stored in the answering machine. "You have one message," the dull, toneless artificial voice droned.

"Na-kun, it's Sho. Great news: the Immigration Office agrees to wait another week for the UNU papers. If they get them in time, you may skip two of the steps in the process for the extension of your stay." Well, well, I whistled softly between my teeth. Sho's news were great news indeed: I wouldn't have to get myself to the local Immigration Office and wait in line for hours today. That meant I had just regained a few precious-- "So, of course I went and confirmed your presence at the internal kyudo competition today," Sho's cheerful voice went on, and shattered my short-lived hope of a few hours of respite.

"Fuck you, Sho!" I spat to the phone and the room's walls. "Ah, shit. Shit!"

"I'll be waiting for you by the Akamon gate at ten. Don't be late! Bye!" With that, the hellish machine clicked, indicating it had reached the end of the unread messages. I shot it a baleful glance, half of a mind to throw the phone to the floor and squash it into many tiny pieces. It'd have disturbed the neighbors, but it'd also have been a very satisfying thing to do.

For a while I didn't move, my eyes set on the answering machine as if watching it for signs of life--or demonic activity. Then at last I stepped back, until my right heel hit the edge of the only significant piece of furniture I had brought into the room. There was a slight poof when I dropped into the convertible sofa. Releasing air from my lungs in a low hiss, I closed my eyes ad rested the back of my head against the sofa's top.

Sho had been pestering me about the internal kyudo competition for weeks, complaining about my lack of regularity for practice. I should come every other day at least at the archery club. I should mingle more. I should go out with the other club members more. There were many things I should do more, if one was to go by the standards of Tokyo life, but the truth was that I didn't give a damn. I could hardly tell Sho this, however. Inoguchi Shousuke had been the first person to see me other than yet one more gaijin haunting the halls of Todai, the prestigious Tokyo University. Sho had been the first person to give me a genuine smile, one that had had more than empty politeness in it.

So, Sho had become something between an acquaintance and a friend, hovering in that gray, blurred line between the two, even if he was certainly much closer to the second than the first. And of course, in some things Sho had to have his way. This stupid competition was one of them, and if I cared to be fair for a moment, I'd have to acknowledge that it wasn't surprising--and that it was a small price to pay for Sho's invaluable help in matters of Japanese bureaucracy. Sho was the second son of Professor Inoguchi, head of the political science department.

Sho could use his name to pull strings--had used it.

Leaning my head to the left until the sofa's soft fabric rubbed against my cheek, I opened my eyes and admitted to myself that I could hardly begrudge him for playing that harmless trick on me and claiming such a small victory. But gods, how I'd have loved to get a few hours of sleep!

Resting against the wall in front of me was the pile of laundry. Almost, I could imagine it watching me with big, sulking eyes. Unbidden, a smile crept up my lips. "Oh no," I chuckled. No, there definitely was no way I'd gather enough courage to stand up and get myself to the Laundromat before meeting with Sho.

Nope.

All right, there was still one thing I needed to do before I could collapse for real and indulge in a forty-five minutes nap. Leaning farther to the left, I reached out and grabbed the cellular phone I had abandoned on the sofa the previous evening. There was a single vocal message waiting. A reflexive frown creased my brow, then it grew into a full blown scowl when the calling number registered inside my weary mind.

"Fuck!" I hissed, grasping the mobile so hard my knuckles went white. "Fuck it!" I repeated the curse, grating my teeth. On impulse, I called up the mobile's directory and placed a call. I had no idea what time it was in Bordeaux right now, and I didn't care. It took only three rings for the other side to answer. No night on the other side of the world, then.

"Bureau d'avocats Ayné et Martin. Olivier Ayné. Que puis-je--"

"Dad," I cut him off.

"Ra--son," he blabbered, the tone of his bass voice suddenly unsteady. "God, what's going on? What time is it in Japan?"

In spite of myself, I snorted. "It's way too early, is what time it is." With a loud sigh, I rested my elbows on my thighs and leaned my chin against the palm of my right hand. Staring at my knees and the floor beyond them, I told my father in a quiet, quiet voice, "She tried calling me on the mobile."

Silence on the other side.

"Shit, dad!" I exclaimed before I could get a hold of myself. "Who in hell," I went on, my voice toneless once more, "gave her my new number? I'm spending extra to be kept on a maximum level privacy list, dad. So who in hell gave her the information?" Again, there was silence on the other side, and I let it stretch on. The words and questions were barbered blades, I was very much aware of that, but they had to be uttered. I had to have an answer. The man on the other end of the Earth owed me an answer.

"Not me," was the reply that reached me at last, riding on the faintest of sighs. "Not me," Olivier Ayné repeated, his voice a bit more steady this time, but not much so, "but your mother had her own contacts in circles hovering around the Japanese Embassy in Paris--and god knows where else," he finished with more than a slice of strain in his tone--with the whole cake labeled pain and sorrow and fear in his mouth.

"I hear you," I whispered back at him, raking the fingers of my right hand through my hair and wincing when I pulled upon unexpected knots. "Is there anything you can do to make her stop--or anything I can do, for that matter?" There was no real conviction in my question. I already knew what his answer must be.

"You can always switch companies and change your number again." Was there wry humor in my father's reply? Before I could tell him I had no need for stupid jokes, a dissonant burst of laughter reached my ears--mercifully short. Half a world away, I heard him draw in a shaking breath, then: "She phoned me as well, you know." He paused, as if expecting me to say something, but I had nothing to tell him that would help him dwell upon the subject of his beautiful, brilliant, depressive and more than slightly insane ex-wife. "Somehow, she's learnt you went to Japan."

"Oh, fuck," I softly told the cellular phone in my left hand. "Oh, fuck." I closed my eyes.

"I know, son." This time, he didn't make the mistake of trying to call me by name. "I know. When I got her on the phone, she was..." again, a trembling in his voice that he couldn't completely mask, "bad. She said it would be the end of you, she said--god, she said that Japan would unmake you and devour your soul."

The words glided past me, and I turned away from them, unwilling to acknowledge the ludicrous, lopsided combination of sounds. "Dad, she's mad, remember?" I told him as gently as I could.

"I know." For a moment, it felt like he might say more, but nothing came. Unsaid, the question hovered on a telephone line that went beneath earth and mountains, and oceans.

Why are you in Japan?

Why did you choose Japan?

Why the land and family that smashed the balance of her spirit?

Why the land of her beginning?

We had been over this before, and what answers I had given him hadn't been enough to satisfy him or to set his mind at rest. When I contemplated them, I found I couldn't blame him. I didn't know why I had come to Japan, not really.

Opportunity.

Forking path.

A mistake, or a waste of time.

A futile quest for meaning.

Seeds of madness inherited from my mother, maybe.

"The court's order of remoteness stands for France and the European Union," my father said all of a sudden in his strong, business voice. A famous lawyer once again. "You could have it extended to Japan, but the judicial procedures--"

"Endless," I laughed, an empty, joyless burst of laughter that filled my room. "Endless and tedious, I know. I've grown used to Japanese bureaucracy in two years. Okay," I nodded, sobering, "I'll think about having my number changed. I'll keep you posted. Sorry to have interrupted the normal course of business. Thanks, and take care, dad." With that, I ended the conversation and switched off the rotten mobile, before throwing it to the other end of the sofa.

I hadn't given Olivier Ayné the chance to tell me it was only natural for a child to turn to his parents when he felt he was in trouble, no matter what time of the day it might be. I hadn't allowed him to play his fatherly role. Truth to tell, he had never been given a fair chance to even be my father, no matter what DNA and blood said. It took more than biology to turn two people into father and son. "Oh, stop it!" The angry, frustrated exclamation won past me even as I stood up. It had been ten years since I had cut all ties with my family--with all the sides of my family. It was no longer time to go back on that. I had reshuffled my deck of cards, and cut it before handing it over to whimsical fate. Now I just had to make do with the hand I was dealt.

Before my eyes, the pile of laundry was still waiting.

"All right," I stepped toward it and bent down to retrieve the clothes, "you win."

So much for my dearly needed nap.

A faint groan rose in the air around me as I pulled at the black pullover in order to free my head from its tight collar, coming from me. True to his words, Sho had been waiting for me by the Akamon gate at the appointed hour, the smaller man's dark eyes glinting with mischief. In a rare access of wisdom, I had refrained from making any kind of comment, content with a simple greeting. Then we had both stepped into one of Tokyo University's numerous domains proper. As luck would have it, this part of Todai next to the famous Ueno Park was small enough in dimensions. We had made our way toward the archery gymnasium quickly, and we had reached it well in time for the competition.

The reflection facing me in the mirror when I straightened, fully clad for kyudo practice, felt weird and out of place. The black hakama and white, kimono-like jacket didn't belong with that face's slate grey eyes, or with the shoulder-length brown hair. No, it didn't belong with those westerner, non-slanted eyes or with that nose--more than small enough by western standards, but still too big to be able to claim the Japanese nationality. As to the rest: size, height, bulk were okay, but that face--my face--felt as if it didn't belong with the rest of me.

"Wow, daydreaming before the sight of your beautiful self again?" Even as Sho stepped to my side, a frown barring his brow, his gaze focused as if he too was studying the image in the mirror. "My," he proclaimed with a dramatic gesture of the right hand, "look at the fancy coloring work in these locks of hair!" None of the other competitors busy getting dressed so much as spared him a fleeting glance, used to Sho's antics and jokes around me as they were. Fortunately.

"My mismatched self, Sho," I heaved out a sigh. "What's a westerner head doing on a Japanese body?" Before he could advise me to ask my parents about the wonders of mixed heritages, I went on in a petulant voice, "and there's no fancy coloring work in my hair, as you know full well. They're grey hair. Grey. Plain and stupid freaking grey hair, the kind that comes with old age."

Sho's jokes were silly and harmless, and I was a fool for letting them get to me, but having one's hair streaked with grey at twenty-eight rankled, no matter that it ran in the family. My hair would likely be pure white by the time I turned forty. There was nothing I could do about it, but I didn't have to like it.

"Poor, unlucky gaijin half-blood. Wait, I think I might have some spared pity somewhere I can throw at you." Gentle mockery was dripping from Sho's every word.

"Keep it, moron!" I growled even as I elbowed him. It was one of the good things about Sho: he wouldn't tolerate bouts of self-pity, and he wasn't shy about slamming me back into place.

"Ouch!" While the rather well-feigned yelp of pain resounded in the changing room, people around us started gathering bows and arrows. The time for fun had come.

The designated shooting area was outside, for which I was grateful. There was an indoor shooting area as well, used during the typhoon season and in the heart of Winter, when the rain was so cold it reached through clothes, skin and muscle to freeze the bones. Even though Spring was still in infancy, the archery club's captain had decided we'd use the outdoor arena. If I hadn't known better, I might have kissed him thank you.

Seconds rolled past me, minutes slid upon the impeccably clean white sand of the arena, while one by one the club members took their place behind the line drawn into the sand and released their arrows on the distant target. When the body on my left stood up, I blinked and realized that Sho's turn had come. I didn't wish him good luck: he had no need for that. Inoguchi Shousuke might be hopeless when it came to political science and following into his father's steps, but he was *good* at kyudo.

Before I had time to wonder how he would go about it, Sho's left arm lifted thrice, in willowy motions of such perfect balance and fluidity that it was like water flowing over great stones. Then his bow sang. A low hum of appreciation rose from the other club members even before the echoes of the three impacts of Sho's arrows had time to fade.

Three perfect hits, of course.

"Ayné Nanashi-san," the captain called, and I stood up. None of the others so much as blinked upon hearing the weird, ludicrous firstname. Not anymore. They had done so the first time; they had started murmuring among themselves, until I had explained in my most pleasant voice that the name belonged to my father, and that the joke of a firstname had been a gift from my mother, who happened to be a woman with a peculiar sense of humor--among other things. It had been something to watch them all stare at their shoes in sudden fascination.

My eyes set on the much too far away target, I came to a stop right before the line in the sand. Now that I couldn't see my reflection in a mirror, the hakama and kimono-like jacket felt good.

They felt right.

Smiling to myself, I summoned the memory of Sho's first piece of advice, given on the day I had finally yielded to his ceaseless badgering and joined the archery club. It was all about the focus of one's mind, according to him. Well, I knew about focus: focus was music and songs giving rhythm to the flow of blood in your veins, as well as to the rising and falling of your chest while you breathed in and out. It was about center and poise, and about acceptance of the chaos both within and without--about coexistence. On instinct, I started humming.

"Puisque la fée ne s'est pas penchée," I sang, swinging a bit more weight on my left leg, "sur mon berceau," There. Reaching down at my right side, I allowed my fingers to close around the shaft of an arrow. "Je fais son boulot."

Drums.

Pulses of blood flowing.

In a slow motion, I strung my bow, keeping my right hand against my cheek. "Je dis doolididum!"

Let.

"Tous les chats sont gris."

Go.

Whiffs of a northern wind brushed against my face as the arrow flew true. I didn't hear the twang of my bow. "Je dis doolidum!" No thought. No pause. Yielding to the song, I dived into the rhythm, "Tous les coups sont permis," and shot the two remaining arrows, in rapid succession.

When I rejoined his side and sat down, Sho let out a low whistle of appreciation. "Not bad," he grinned at me, "not bad at all for a no-good rascal who spent the whole night indulging himself in the less savory spots of Kabukicho."

"What?" My movement when I had pivoted to face him had been a bit too sharp--just a bit.

On my left, Sho rolled his eyes heavenward. "Oh, come on! I phoned you past midnight to tell you about the Immigration bureau's decision. I know you: if you weren't home, it was because you had better things to do. And you can't afford Roppongi Hills, not with that researcher's income!"

"Hey," I shrugged, wondering if there was a hint of relief in my voice, "you got me there." Paranoia was the worst of advisors, I was very much aware of that.

And is that a guilty conscience unbalancing you, sir?

"No," I murmured in an inaudible whisper. "No, but thanks all the same."

"Now," Sho's voice cut through the nonsense filling my head. "Tell me what it was you sang back there--or were you chanting?"

It was my turn to roll my eyes in mock despair. Of course, Sho had noticed, and of course Sho had jumped upon the song like a famished dog upon a bone. Was it magic? he meant to ask. Was it some kind of spell? "It was a song. Just a song, Sho, by a French singer I like a lot. Her name is Zazie. As to the lyrics--" he wouldn't let it rest until I translated the words, so I went on in a low voice so as not to disturb the other competitors: "Since the fairy didn't deign leaning over my cradle, I'm doing her job. I say doolididum: all the cats are grey. I say doolididum: any trick is allowed." The words felt silly, translated from the French, as if they had lost something in the translation, some essential quality. "There," I smiled at Sho, "are you happy now?"

"Hmmm," he tapped the tip of his left forefinger against the edge of his nose, "it still felt like the chanting of a spell to me. It had the scent of magic," he nodded, refusing to be convinced.

It was my luck that his other passion, his craft, was the study of all things pertaining to Asian and Japanese occult sciences. He was like some crazy UFO chaser whenever he stumbled upon anything even more than remotely tied to the subject of his research. "It's nothing but a trick to focus my mind, as you told me to do when practicing kyudo," I reminded him. "Besides," I added in a soft, quiet voice, "I refused to bear my mother's name."

Ichinomiya.

Shrine priests, shrine maidens for countless generations--a bunch of lunatics I wanted nothing to do with. Sho was the only one who knew, being Sho, the one expert in Japanese occultism within my grasp, and having found himself in the same karaoke bar as I on a night when I had drunk far too much sake and beers.

In a brisk motion, Sho bowed his head, likely in apology. I had no need for that. This whole business of shrines, priests, maidens and magic--it was all myths and tales.

Ashes.

Remains of things I wanted no part in.

Poison in my blood.

I hated the thought of it, I hated the mere idea of it--and yet I had befriended Sho. I had been drawn to Sho. I had started following him through the alleys of the great Todai library, and listening to him whenever he was of a mind to teach me the basics of what Japanese occultism might be.

"If I ever hear 'sorry' coming out of your mouth, I swear I'll bust all your front teeth here and now," I told him conversationally.

Muffled laughter shook his shoulders at that, and he looked up at me. "Now, that would be something to see. I'm almost tempted." The smile he flashed my way was a guileless one, radiating perfect innocence. Ignoring him, I turned my attention toward the captain, who had just declared the competition closed. He'd announce the results next, but I didn't need to wait for a confirmation: I knew that Sho had won it by far.

An awful grimace twisted my lips even as I set my cup of steaming tea down on the desk with something akin to precipitation. "Shit!" I murmured to nobody in particular.

Burning hot.

None of my coworkers seemed to notice, used to my temper as they had become within the two years of my presence here, at the Ocean Research Institute. Ayné-san was a gaijin, a westerner for all his resemblance to Japanese people, hence kin to the towering and utterly alien German scientist who was the other foreigner in the team: impatient and easily frustrated, loud-mouthed even. How right they were on that account! Still, they had learnt to live with me, and I with them. The German had told me more than once how he too had felt like a wreckage survivor, washed out on an alien shore and stranded there, cut out from everything he had ever known, everything familiar.

It had all been part of the normal adaptation process, as we'd been made aware through the kind and repeated advice of the UNU's international exchange division people.

Past, and done, and dealt with.

Reporting my attention on the monitor in front of me, I lightly tapped the edge of my fingernails against the desk's wooden surface. Still nothing. I had been sitting here for the better part of two hours, my work shift officially finished, waiting for the weekly update of the data on oceanic waves activity around the globe. The satellites which made the observations all sent their results to one of the great computers somewhere below MIT ground in Boston. There, it was processed, and the databases distributed among the various international research centers could then be refreshed. During the update sequence, all accesses were cut off, and the giant server went off-line, severed from all network activity.

And it was late.

Late, late, late.

Out of boredom, I typed in a short command, and didn't bother stifling the smirk that curled up my lips when I saw the oh-so-helpful no such host response flash in my command window. Damnit, what was taking them so long? I needed my access back so I could start testing my newly corrected algorithm on the data, and then I needed to leave the Institute to rejoin Sho at the library.

Incoming mail transmission - Strong likelihood of spam detected.

As the message popped up to life on the screen, above all the other windows, I blinked. Already? With a click, I selected the option of viewing the junk mail's contents without downloading it from the server.

All the transaction details have been uploaded with respect to previously given instructions. A preview is available through your premium customer account on our secure FTP server. Any request for correction received later than 30 minutes before the transaction goes online will be ignored.

Thank you for doing business with us.

Then followed a sequence of images and graphics taken out of the most popular financial web sites, along with standard advertisement garbage.

So, it was one thing that had been taken care of, at least. Checking the box that would cause the mail to bounce and be deleted from the server altogether, I reached for my cup of tea and drank a cautious sip from it. Drinkable now, good. Previewing could wait until later tonight, once I'd be back in my room. As the whims of fate and database backup processes went, my connection to the server set on the other side of the world chose this exact moment to come alive again.

"Not a moment too soon," I muttered while starting the data extraction process that would likely last until the next dawn. I gave it another minute, time to check that there would be no early abort. Then I locked my station, wished my coworkers a pleasant evening, and left the Institute in long, quick strides.

It was only when I reached the welcoming desk that I realized that I was still holding my half-finished tea cup in the left hand. Freezing in my steps, I gave it a blank stare, then heaved out a sigh. Mine wasn't a mind, it was a sieve. Definitely. Walking toward the counter and the clerk standing behind it, I drank what was left in a long swallow, and set the now empty cup on the desk with a bow. "I'm really, really sorry, Sato-san, but could I impose on you to give this to the cleaning personnel once they come on duty? I completely forgot, I was--"

"Of course, Ayné-sensei. Please, don't worry about this," Sato Minami-san bobbed her head in ascent, the proverbial professional smile set on her lips.

Of course it was an inconvenience and a bother, but. Stifling a sigh, I gave her another, deeper bow. "Many thanks for your help, I'm really sorry to have disturbed you about such a trivial matter." With that, I turned away from the counter and left the building. Never in my life would I understand the arcane workings of the Japanese mind--or of the Asian mind, for that matter.

It was a ten minutes walk to the Nakano Shinbashi station, on the Marunouchi line. There, I got on the subway and stood next to the coach doors. The rush hour was past and I could have sat down, but Shinjuku station was only three stops away, and I preferred standing after having spent the whole day with my butt on a chair--no matter how expensive and designed for comfort and support of the back that chair happened to be. Getting down at Shinjuku and hurrying on my way through the huge station to get to the Yamanote line took me more than the expected three minutes and a half, and I missed the exquisitely timed connection. It was one of my personal curses to always manage to take a wrong turn in this maze of concrete and steel corridors every time. So I stepped back from the track's edge before anyone could remind me not to go beyond the yellow line for security reasons, and drew in a breath. Resting my back against one of the pillars supporting the station's roof, I looked in the direction opposite to the one my train had taken.

Sore loser.

Yeah. You bet.

There weren't many commuters at thirteen past nine PM, but there were still enough people for the place to feel safe. The gloom that enshrouded some stations in the dead of night wasn't something I enjoyed experiencing. At last, the low rumble of an arriving train interrupted my empty musings, and all of a sudden my brain registered the signal that my eyes must have been sending it for a few seconds already: two round lights were disturbing the darkness, stark and white, like eyes peering at me from the well of darkness beyond the station's limits.

They grew rapidly, as if they belonged to some monster hatching from the lower levels of hell. Perhaps I'd ask Sho about this phenomenon, but that'd just get me scolded by the cheerful but strong-willed young man. His sense of humor only stretched so far--that, and I had to admit to having played a good number of jokes on him in two years. Discarding the vagaries of my mind, I stepped up to the train, and went in once the few passengers whose journey ended here were off the coach. Then, spotting a free seat nearby, I claimed ownership of it and sat down. The trip to Okachimachi station was a long one, too long to be spent standing and jostled around by the train's every motion and change in speed if one could avoid it.

While the train made its way around the center of Tokyo, a shower of colored lights imprinted itself in my mind. Twinkling little stars and dwarfing shadows, the city might have been some chaotic mix between heaven and hell incarnate. It was such a nexus of conflicting, clashing principles that it had made me dizzy at first, until I had given up on attempting to reconcile what simply couldn't be. Tacky modernism existed beside customs and ages-old traditions in an ever-changing, wary balance. Someday it would rupture. Someday an aspect would take the upper hand and utterly devour the other. There was no doubt about that in my mind, no "if" in this particular study, only a "when", and I dearly hoped I would no longer be in Japan when it happened.

Eventually the train stopped in Okachimachi and I jumped out of it, happy to have reached the end of my journey. From there, it was a relatively short walk to Todai's Hongo campus. On a whim, I didn't enter it through the Akamon gate, but went all the way to the main gate. Lengthening my walk though it did, it allowed me to stroll between the protective lines of the gingko trees which made the alley leading from the main gate to the Yatsuya auditorium a popular spot among students and visitors alike. In daylight and when the trees were in full bloom, the place's beauty took the breath away. In the night, when a slight breeze rose from the distant Yokohama bay, the gentle rustle of the gingkos' leaves soothed one's raw nerves and exhausted mind.

Here, I had once told Sho, this--this is magic.

For some reason, he hadn't laughed at me. A smile haunting his lips, he had proceeded to enlist my help in his unending studies of Japanese occultism.

Just as I entered the great library, a female voice kindly advised visitors that the library would close in fifteen minutes, and would they please proceed to the counter with the books they meant to borrow, please and thank you for your attention--we regret any inconvenience this might impose on our valued customers.

The security guard on duty gave me an almost imperceptible bow when I stepped past him, which I duplicated: this one had seen me spending time here late at night often enough to remember I was part of the privileged few who owned an unrestricted access badge, reserved for academic staff and researchers only.

In the exact same time I reached the far end of the huge treasure vault of books and spotted two people bent over a pile of papers, magazines and books scattered over a table, Sho lifted up his head and gestured for me to join them.

"Ah, Na-kun, come!" The dark eyes were glinting with a mixture of childish delight and good humor. "Don't tell me," he raised his right forefinger, pointing toward the ceiling, "some system administrator had to babysit some incredibly big and powerful supercomputer thousands of miles away through its pre-digesting burp, and that delayed you and caused you to be late." He didn't let me do more than nod before adding, "And how goes the quest for freak waves these days?"

Small talk and earnest question all at once. "Badly," I replied with a smile and a shrug. "Theoretical models no longer apply. Forecast has become impossible, and hindcast only yields mistakes and nonsense. There's a pattern there, though. I'm sure of it, but it's a fucked-up one. We're doing all we can, but--"

"Rome wasn't built in one day, isn't that the French saying?" he cut me off gently.

"Indeed!" I let out a rueful laugh. And in the meantime ships would sink, cargo would be lost.

And lives.

"Come," Sho's right hand tugged at my left sleeve, "sit with us. There's nothing more you can do about it tonight. I shouldn't bug you with that constantly, I'm sorry. Rubbing salt on bitter wounds is an unsavory habit of mine I should work on getting rid of," he nodded to himself. "Anyway, your delay was well-timed, since miss YJA junkie over here," he flicked a thumb toward his companion, whose cheeks went beet red at once, "once again demonstrated her total lack of respect for her thesis director by arriving almost an hour late. Not a smart move for a would-be PHD, wouldn't you say, Na-kun?"

Now the center of attention, Hirase Shinju bowed her head and stared at the table's surface, as if fascinated by it. If the poor girl had been able to, she'd have dug herself a nice little hole into the ground and hidden there for the rest of all eternity. Oh, both of us knew about Sho's humor and had been on the wrong end of it numerous times. The young woman knew how Sho valued her--she was a team-mate rather than a subordinate to look down upon, genius that Sho claimed she was, team-mate, and likely more--but still Sho had a knack for embarrassing people.

"I already apologized twice, *sensei*," I could help chuckling when I heard the emphasis she had put on Sho's title, "and besides," Hirase Shinju rummaged through the bag on her right all of a sudden, and fished out something she held out for us to take, "I brought manju for everyone!" she said in her stubborn little voice.

"Bribery will get you nowhere." Sho gave this sententious pronouncement while greedily reaching for the sweets.

Rather small in size and medium in build, Shinju was an average-looking, almost too cliche to be true Japanese girl, complete with lustrous long black hair braided in her back, and glasses to help her short-sighted eyes. Unlike the fictional heroines of manga, she had never thrown away her glasses for contacts that would only burn and scratch at her eyes in dry and warm environments such as university offices were--and she had never started wearing ultra-short, fashionable clothes and make-up that'd turn her into a beauty worthy of the cover of magazines, as those stories went.

However, reality rarely went out of its way to accommodate adolescent fantasies. On the other hand, reality gifted women like Shinju with bright minds and strong wills, which they dearly needed if they wanted to live their way in Japan's ultra-conservative society. Strong wills, and tempers to match, but then you could hardly get only the good part of the package.

"Thanks, Shinju," I nodded at her while taking one of the offered manju.

"Please," Sho snorted, still busy swallowing the last mouthful of his, "go on and ignore me while I bravely attempt to teach this absentminded student the basics of polite behavior: be on time to your appointments, is that so hard to achieve?" There wasn't a single drop of anger in his words, which Shinju knew full well--not that the ring of Sho's voice, half-covered by his swallowing the last of the sweets, helped him to sound credible in any way.

"No, sensei," she replied in a chastened, demurred tone, "except when last minute news intrude into one's carefully established priorities and one's overburdened agenda." She didn't quite manage to refrain from smiling as she said that last bit.

"And what, pray tell, was more important than an appointment with two handsome young men such as Na-kun and I?" Sho had rested his elbows on the table and joined his hands, leaning both forefingers against his lips in the mock imitation of an investigator interrogating a suspect.

"Havenco's auctions' division has announced a date for their next exceptional session!" she clapped her hands. "Less than a week after someone broke into the exhibition hall on the second floor of the Tokyo Tower, and stole several works of art that belonged to Fuji Heavy Industries--and disappeared without a trace!"

"Never heard about that one," Sho mumbled.

"That's because it wasn't exactly advertised in the media," Shinju's smile was a very wide one, and her eyes were sparkling with delight. "I suppose that like all previous victims of the Phantom Thief, Fuji Heavy Industries will try to enter the auction and regain their property. The less people know about the coming auction, the more chance they have of winning it."

"Tell me again," Sho countered, "how you can't ever afford to place even the opening bid on such auctions, will you?"

The smallest of sighs escaped from Shinju's lips, and she shook her head as if to say, "Don't try to make yourself any sillier than you already are, please."

"There's going to be at least a hundred thousands guests watching that auction, but I don't expect you to understand," she stuck her tongue out at him.

"Indeed, you'd better not," he wrinkled his nose. "Fawning over stolen objects going on auction and over thieves--be they of the Phantom variety...." Sho let his voice trail off into silence.

"Amen," I whispered while starting to gather the papers scattered on the table. If I didn't somehow manage to make them snap out of it, these two idiots would keep arguing until dawn. Still, it was one way to flirt I guessed, albeit an annoying one for the spectator who knew this game verbatim for having witnessed it far too often to his taste. As to Shinju and her Phantom Thief--it was logical. This was Japan, and thieves who seemed to accomplish miracles and managed to steal from places known as inviolable strongholds couldn't be anything other than Phantom Thieves.

Manga characters.

Heroes with superhuman abilities.

Oh, yeah.

Laughter bubbled up inside me, but I quickly reined it in. Despite the comical, absurd name, it was no laughing matter. Havenco was no laughing matter. A young corporation driven by people both smart and ruthless, free from the dictates of obsolete concepts like ethics or morals, it had allied itself to what had to be one of the strangest among the world's many oddities: Sealand.

An armed platform set in the North Sea, seven miles from the land, Sealand had been declared independent by the people living on it. It answered to no international codes or laws. Even though its independence wasn't officially acknowledged, it was tolerated by its closest neighbor, the United Kingdom. It used its space for data storage and it entertained a few, utter privacy-loving customers. It guaranteed anonymity and impunity to anyone who could afford it; any kind of business was fair game to them, any kind at all except for children pornography. It hosted quiet financial sites, discreet chat rooms, online casinos, but its most popular feature was the auctions' division. You could find just about anything there, no matter where it came from. Havenco didn't request any proof of ownership before putting an item up for auction. They just didn't care. As their name implied, they were a safe haven for thieves, smugglers, defrauders and rich, very rich people.

They were famous.

Collectors from all over the world gathered to follow the auctions with devout attention, which of course was exactly what the owners and their paying customers wanted.

Havenco was one perfect, happy little company.

Perfect for all concerned.

Next to me, Sho was clearing his throat. For once, he had the good grace to be embarrassed at Shinju's and his constant flirting. "Okay," he said, "let's get to work. We have some indexing to do, and then we'll have to be on our best behavior to welcome a rare and important guest."

A guest? So late in the evening?

"Who might that be?" I asked him, puzzled.

"You-shall-see," he singsang in answer, and started gathering the books lying on the table.

As usual, what had been supposed to be a simple enough task had slipped into the realm of way more complicated business, with little if anything to do with the initial evening plans. After forty-five minutes of sorting out books and magazine articles, Shinju had frozen in mid-movement and demanded our immediate attention, holding out an ancient-looking, very much crumpled book. A heated debate had then ensued: something about holes in the chronicles recounting the Heian era, and the significance behind those lapses in historical records.

It was still going on between my two companions, and it was all flying way over my head. Rubbing at my eyes, I tried to focus on the books left to sort out, rather than on the low rumble of my stomach or on the almost irrepressible urge to yawn until my jaws snapped.

Footsteps.

Straightening, I blinked and listened with more attention. Yes, there were light footsteps in a nearby alley--and a barely perceptible breeze. Just as I was reaching out to Sho to tell him someone else had come to the library, his guest most likely, a woman came through the books-guarded alley, and stopped at the edge of the small reading corner we had claimed as working space for ourselves.

Hiss.

A screech overwhelming my mind.

Cold.

The woman's shape abruptly became blurred as my eyes watered, and I gave a brisk shake of the head to clear it from the teeth-grinding sound that had invaded it. The creak of chairs being pushed back cut through the silence that had rushed back to hush the library.

"Sumeragi-sama." Sho had stood up, and he was busy bowing deeper than I had ever seen him do. On the other side of the table, Shinju drew a sharp intake of breath, and bowed even deeper. I should follow their lead, I supposed. "Welcome to our humble treasure vault." Just as I was bending down, I distinctly saw the wide smile on Sho's lips and the light in his eyes.

The visitor was an old acquaintance.

"Oh please," the woman sighed, "Inoguchi-san." The tart tone of her voice confirmed my hunch--and sent Sho cackling like some wizened old man.

Fortunately he got a hold of himself a few seconds later, and remembered enough manners to introduce us. "Sumeragi-sama, the two gaping fishes at my side," it was all I could do to swallow back a groan, "are Hirase Shinju, one of my very best students I'm afraid, and Ayné Nanashi, a UNU researcher I've rescued before Tokyo could devour him, chew him up and spit him out insane--not necessarily in that order," he finished, a very satisfied and smug expression on his face.

Shinju's cheeks were now flushed for the second time in the evening. With another, even deeper bow, she stammered, "It's an honor to meet you, Sumeragi-sama." Said Sumeragi-sama wasn't looking at her, however.

Said Sumeragi-sama was watching me; the woman's deep black eyes were set on me, unreadable. Most likely she was wondering what a gaijin was doing past midnight inside Hongo University's great library--wondering at my joke of a firstname. Shifting my weight on the right leg, I pivoted slightly and looked away from her, unwilling to whistand the mix of curiosity and repulsion I triggered in a majority of Japanese people.

"No." In spite of myself, I paused. "No," the woman repeated, her voice thoughtful, "it's not funny at all. No matter for a jest, and those who do so are fools."

Gust of wind.

Angry.

Cold.

Whirling around to face her again in a much too brusque motion, I hit my chair with the left heel. That sent a nasty jolt of pain up my leg, but I barely felt it. "Na-kun, Shinju," Sho was saying beside me, uncertainty plain in the tone of his voice, "this is Sumeragi Ran, current head of the Sumeragi clan." Sho was trying very hard not to glance at me, covering for my bout of absurd behavior as he was busy doing, but--clan? Why that ancient-sounding word rather than the normal family term?

"Not to mention former student of this university and one of your accomplices in mischief," Sumeragi Ran snorted, crossing her arms over her chest and focusing on Sho. She looked indeed to be roughly the same age as Sho: early thirties. Although she was rather small, she didn't feel so. She was slim bordering on skinny, which was a pity because she'd have been a really striking figure if she hadn't had the looks of the bags of bones always displayed on the covers of fashion magazines. Still, that wasn't what drew the eye to her, no more than the quiet assurance that bespoke a more than passing acquaintance with authority--no. There was something intangible about her, some kind of aura, Sho would have told me with an air of all-knowing wisdom.

Something different.

A faint perfume of cinnamon.

Transparent, and then not.

A kind of shadow.

Watching her spar words with Sho, I couldn't help wondering what she was, ludicrous thought such a question might be.

"Is something wrong?" Sumeragi Ran was once more staring at me. Shit, could she read my fucking mind, or what? All of a sudden, I realized that I was busy rubbing my left arm with a hand. The reflexive gesture hadn't even registered in my brain, but I knew what had triggered it: cold. The cold gust of wind was still there, if somewhat weaker now. There was a shiver in my shoulders, imperceptible, and the beginning of gooseflesh on my arms.

"Just a draught," I told her with a small shrug. "Someone must have left a door open. It's nothing, but thank you, Sumeragi-sama."

She gave me a nod, then said, her dark gaze still locked on me, "We're the only ones left in the library, Ayné-san, and I didn't forget to close the door on my way in." There was no question in her voice, just the quiet statement of a fact. For an awkward moment, I stared back at her, my mind a blank, then at last she bowed. "I'm sorry." An apologetic smile was hovering on her lips. "Sometimes I blurt out the readings that come to me, forgetting how dealing with an onmyouji can be upsetting for anyone who's a stranger to my world."

An onmyouji?

So, Sho's guest was an onmyoujutsu practitioner--a freaking magician? Gods, I was used to tacky fortune-tellers, to wishes-making at temples and even to weird Shinto rituals, to dances and concerts of huge drums, but this beat all the soothsayers, shrines maidens and priests I had ever encountered by far. And Sumeragi Ran didn't look the part, no matter how fey she might feel, not with that pair of very much used jeans from which all color had faded in quite a few spots, and that high-collared pullover that was meant to protect her from the cold that lingered outside at night this early in the year. Not with her short-cropped hair which gave her a boyish look.

With a wordless gesture, I waved her apology aside and released air from my lungs in a muted sigh, refusing to dwell upon Japanese weirdness. "Well," the woman had turned to face Sho, "in any case, I'm sorry about barging into a late-night work session like this."

"Ours are all very busy schedules." Sho shrugged one shoulder, unconcerned. "I got that data you requested," he added while fishing a sizeable bag of books from under the table.

"Good." The smile was gone from Sumeragi Ran's face, and her eyes had narrowed. The woman was all seriousness and focus now--all business.

"I fear even our library doesn't have a complete record of the history of the piece of land under the Sunshine 60 building, but that's all we have," Sho told her as he handed her the bag.

The Sunshine 60 building.

Just what could the famous skyscraper in Ikebukuro have to do with an Eastern magic wielder? Did they need an onmyouji to bespell more tourists to visit the aquarium? "Ouch!" I muttered under my breath when Shinju punched me below the ribs. Looking at her, I noted the scowl on her brow and the reproachful light in her eyes. Again, I was "misbehaving gaijin" to Hirase-san, even though I had truly done my best not to let my skepticism show.

Serves you right, she mouthed without making a sound.

"Alas," Sho threw me a quick glance, "Na-kun stubbornly clings to western logic and rationality, despite all my attempts to educate him during these last two years."

"I can see that, yes." There were traces of laughter in Sumeragi Ran's voice. In the time of a heartbeat, the little flames of mirth dancing in her eyes vanished, as if blown away by a sudden wind.

Quietly she told me, "The skyscraper you know wasn't always there, Ayné-san. Before it was built, the site was home to the Sugamo prison, which was used to try war criminals during the occupation following the war's end." With a slow shake of her head, she went on, "It was a place of darkness, of dark people, dark deeds and even darker emotions. A place of despair and anger, of rage, fury and hatred. A trap for departing souls. It may have been destroyed, but the walls that imprison spirits aren't made of concrete. The Sunshine 60 building is a place of sorrow, haunted and in much need of healing--even though I doubt there's much I can do. Even my predecessor never envisioned doing this, and he was greater than I can ever hope to be," she concluded in a low, subdued voice tainted with a bitterness and sorrow that made no sense to me.

The woman standing before me intended to exorcise one of Japan's most famous buildings of stray spirits and souls. She had meant every single word she had said, and now wasn't the appropriate time for deadpan humor or incredulous laughter. Who was I to judge? This wasn't France, but Japan, the land of spirits, where ghosts weren't the object of scary tales told around a campfire but a part of the world--a part of Japanese reality.

"Then I wish you good luck and strength, Sumeragi-sama, and I hope you can forgive this ignorant gaijin's mistake." I gave her another bow.

She blinked at that, then her eyes widened. Again I wondered whether I had blundered and insulted her in some way. I might not believe a word she said, I might think her and all those like her charlatans who made a living out of Japan's traditions and myths, but she was a friend of Sho's--not to mention his guest. "If your luck can help me soothe the pain of bleeding souls, then it'll be most welcome, Ayné-san," she said softly. "As to forgiving, I'm afraid it's not my department, but then neither is curse-casting, so you're quite safe from me." Then, turning toward Sho, she asked, "When do you want these returned? We should set a date so I don't disturb another work session."

"Pfeh," Sho wiped her words aside, "you're not disturbing anything and you know it, but..." he paused for a moment, then the beginnings of a smile tugged at his lips as he threw a shrewd glance my way and added, "this is what we'll do: once you're done, contact me and we'll set a day and time of your choosing. Na-kun will drop by your house to retrieve them--if you'll allow him past your wards, that is." Now there was laughter in Sho's voice. "That might enlighten his hopeless western mind."

"So be it," Sumeragi Ran bobbed her head to him, then to Shinju and I before leaving. "We'll meet again soon," she told me from above her shoulder.

Beside me, I could feel more than hear Sho laughing up his sleeve. Damn the frigging fool.

Exorcising the Sunshine 60 building.

Yeah, why not?

And why not exorcising Shinju's Phantom Thief while she was at it?

I'd have loved to see her try.

End of Chapter 1.

Notes

Just so nobody wonders about this: all the abrupt changes in tenses you'll find in the story are deliberate, and have a meaning.

Nanashi: who has no name.

Todai: Tokyo Daigaku, meaning Tokyo University.

UNU: United Nations University.

Kabukicho: a portion of Shinjuku, famous for being known as a red lights district.

YJA: Yahoo Japan Auction.

Manju: pastry: bun filled with sweetened puree of cooked red beans.

To anyone knowing the lyrics of Zazie's songs: any weirdness or difference from the original is no accident. I also apologize for the poor translation from the French. Believe me, Zazie is a fantastic artist. The song quoted in this chapter is "Doolididum", from her album "Rodeo".

On to Next Part

Back to my Fanfic page.