[ Watashi ]

[ Tomodachi ]

[ Saint Seiya ]

[ Clamp ]

[ Fanfiction ]

With a grimace of disgust, I shoved the papers aside.

"Another failure?" Clamping my jaws shut, I refused to look at the owner of that falsely compassionate voice. Instead, I pushed back my chair, stood up and then bent down to retrieve the printed results I had just littered my share of the vast lab room with.

Temper, temper.

Once I was done picking up every single damn piece of paper from the floor, I trashed the whole lot, and heaved out a sigh. "Seems like it. Sorry." In a reluctant movement, I pivoted to face my neighbor, half-expecting to catch the bastard offering me one of his ugly toothy grins.

Benedict Schwarzenschloss was merely peering at me from behind his bushy, dark red eyebrows, and the look in his eyes was one of genuine curiosity, not of secret triumph. Stepping back to my chair, I dropped down on it, and shrugged. "The dynamic distribution model again couldn't account for more than twenty-five percent of the freak waves observed off the South-African coast--and that's nothing when compared to the model's application to Norway or the Pacific. I'm beginning to wonder whether the occurrence of extreme singular waves can still be modeled."

A snort came from Benedict, then: "Of course there's a model there, a pattern somewhere, but you won't find it using Al Osborne's old modified Shrodinger equation. The foundation is false. Simply false."

Titling my head backward, I stared at the ceiling, and managed not to burst out laughing. Ours was an old argument, one that had started at the end of Benedict's and my first week together in this lab at the Ocean Research Institute. The towering German scientist stubbornly refused to let the matter rest, even though the general project managers of the UNU had made their final decision and put me in charge of designing a reliable forecasting model, while Benedict was put in charge of studying the modifications to ships and sea platform designs so they could have at least a fighting chance to whistand an encounter with the dreadful phenomenon called freak waves.

A single occurrence every ten thousands years, had been the estimation out of early twentieth century statistics.

More than that, if truth be told. Much, much more.

The lethal walls of water, higher than a ten stories building, crushed ships and crews, squashed even the greatest, strongest supertankers like mere child's toys. Sometimes they went in groups of three, malevolent demons prowling the oceans, looking out for lives to devour.

Demons, or manifestations of nature going mad.

Signs of a growing environmental unbalance.

The number of freak waves observed over the last five years had grown dramatically. It was no linear, constant progression, oh no.

Unstable.

Hiccups in the oceans or homicidal whims of the waters, they kept growing in numbers and in power.

"That's not true," I whispered at last, my eyes still set on the ceiling. "The basics of the Maxwave project the European Union set up in 2002 are still valid, I'm sure of it. The Shrodinger model needs adjusting, to that I'll agree, but it's only a question of variation. The heart of the pattern is sound. I know it. I can feel it," I told Benedict fiercely. Biting my lower lip, I dragged air inside my lungs. I had to be correct, I had to--there weren't enough credits, resources or time to start again from scratch.

"Since when is scientific work based on hunches?" came the German's sullen question.

This time, I had to laugh. "Since the beginnings of humanity, Benedict," I retorted with a bemused shake of the head. "Or do they no longer teach the importance of intuition in Munich?"

A loud humph was his only answer. Fighting back the smile that wanted to come to my lips, I swung forward on my chair, and focused on the worthless results displayed in the many-colored graphics clogging my screen. "Here," they seemed to want to say, "we're the flamboyant tokens of your repeated failures. Aren't we nice and clear, and undeniable?" With thumb and middle-finger, I banished the blighted things, then I brought my right hand to my mouth, elbow set on the desk, and nipped at my forefinger. No matter what I could claim about intuition being essential to science, I was out of it right now, and that rankled.

"You need to renew your Greenpeace subscription," came Benedict's voice from my left, disturbing the uneasy silence that had come back over the lab. Blinking, I tore my mind from the gloomy contemplation of Shrodinger's equation and how it was likely I had to retrace Al Osborne's steps and start all over again.

"Yeah, I know. There are still two weeks until the end of the month, so why the hurry?" I asked him. Greenpeace had to be the only thing in the universe Benedict and I could agree upon. The activist ecologist organization was a tiny ant fighting dragons, but no matter how hopelessly outmatched they were, theirs was a more than worthy battle. Small, insignificant even when compared to the overwhelming political, economical and financial might of worldwide corporations--absurd. Ludicrous even, too crazy to bow down to the order of things and cower before the dictates of almighty economy, they kept rising their voice whenever humanity's greed and folly threatened yet another part of the beautiful world it didn't deserve.

In economic circles, they were branded as terrorists.

In a small but growing fringe of the rich countries' populations, they were seen as brave men and women, as warriors and, when things got ugly and some of their operatives lost their lives, heroes.

They were a part of humanity's shrinking conscience.

"The US senate is examining a project that would fully open the Alaska natural preserve to the oil companies," Benedict said, his mouth drawn in a taut line, "courtesy of the bastards who own the White House and dictate the policies of the puppet they call president."

"They want more?" I spat, anger seeping into my tone. "Fuck, didn't they learn anything the first time?"

A hollow chuckle resounded on my left. "Those voracious, greedy madmen can't see beyond immediate profit, and they don't give a damn about future generations--either that, or they somehow delude themselves into believing that vaults of money will allow them to escape the fate the rest of us will share. Hell, maybe they even think that the laws of physics don't apply to them. Who knows?"

I sure didn't, and I didn't feel like knowing, or even understanding. To me, oil companies, worldwide corporations and all the vultures plundering the Earth were enemies. There was no dealing with them, no reasoning with them. No negotiating with them. No compromising with them.

They were weeds.

Parasites.

"Okay then," I nodded at Benedict, "I'll take care of it today. I guess that a bit of an extra contribution could be useful as well, right?"

A rare smile, coming from one of Greenpeace's operatives within the UNU.

It wouldn't be enough. As I smiled back at him, I denied the urge to close my eyes. No matter how dedicated, how mobilized and willing to move it was, Greenpeace wasn't enough. Theirs were symbolic actions, designed to attract the public's attention toward the horrors humanity visited upon the world that nurtured it.

The harrying of a nuclear-powered warship as it came to dock.

Forming human chains around plants where Mox was produced.

Littering the marble entrance of an oil company's central offices with the poor little corpses of birds caught by a black tide.

Chasing after the ships that hunted down the last few blue whales in the oceans for so-called scientific purposes.

They did all they could, they poured all their hearts and wills in their cause, but everyone knew they could never prevail--everyone: they, the fickle, brainless public that wept for seals and seabirds choked to death by oil one day, and which then went and bought hyper-polluting four wheel drive cars the next, and the big corporations as well. Had there been time to educate, to make people understand over the span of generations, they might have stood a chance.

But humanity had run out of time, even if some of its major political leaders liked to entertain the fiction that everything was well with the world--that global warming was a myth.

There was only one thing to do: to work within the system, to use its own rotten mechanisms to gather the single token of power still recognized in the modern world, and see to it that it flowed into the few organizations whose goals were to build and to heal, for whom lasting development wasn't a utopia reserved for the pitiful fools who couldn't hear the sweet song of immediate profit, but a reality of everyday life--and an absolute necessity.

It had been almost a month since the last exceptional auction of Havenco. Perhaps it was time to collect another contribution by the high and mighty for the survival of a world that was also theirs. The central office of Kawasaki Heavy Industries in Tokyo was currently home to the brand new designs for two prototypes of motorcycles and a possible next generation of bullet trains. The blueprints were the huge corporation's most closely guarded treasure; they'd be presented during a coming administration council session. In the meantime, companies competing with Kawasaki Heavy Industries would watch, and wish they could get their greedy paws on them.

Perhaps it was a Phantom Thief's secret duty to support totally unfettered free market competition.

After all, was there any use for rules in a globalized economy?

Was there any use for people in that system, beyond their role as obedient little consumers?

All of a sudden, the chat window I had forgotten behind all the others I had opened since the end of lunch break popped to the front of my screen. Someone had talked in #occult, the private internal channel Sho, Shinju and I used mostly to complain about work and life in general, and sometimes to actually exchange ideas about Shinju's thesis or Sho's current research.

Thursday next week, 10:45 AM. Make time, Na-kun. It was Sho, and it seemed he truly meant to go through with his stupid notion of sending me to retrieve the books he had loaned to Sumeragi Ran.

What's in it for me? I sent back, fingers flying over the keyboard. Benedict wouldn't be long in realizing I was chatting instead of agonizing over the cryptic signs that formed Shrodinger's equation. Even though he spent a significant amount of time chatting as well, he wouldn't miss this opportunity to berate me for slacking at the job.

Enlightenment. A ridiculous smiley accompanied Sho's one-word reply. That didn't even deserve a comment, so I simply sat back and waited. A smile twisted the corners of my reflection's mouth in the monitor when a few words appeared in the irc window. All right, you western pain in the ass. Maybe dinner. Maybe.

How I'd have loved to get a glimpse of Sho's expression right now! No ramen, I typed back. Sashimi. Salmon and tuna. Nothing else.

I could almost feel his long-suffering sigh gliding over the fiber optic cables that were the physical level of Todai's ultra-high bandwidth internal network as the answer came: Swindling gaijins and their exaggerated taste for luxury. I'll think about it. I'll give you directions later tonight.

That was well and good, but-- Dinner, I sent back once again. Sashimi. Don't forget. I'm keeping a log of this discussion.

Whatever. Going AFK now. See you later, blackmailing bastard. Sho was pissed, or he was in a hurry maybe. Ah well, let him be pissed if he wanted to be, he'd get over it. Besides, he wouldn't be the one having to request a day-off to go heaven knew where in the gigantic maze that was Tokyo, just to get stupid books back from a woman who claimed to be a magician--and to satisfy one of Inoguchi Shousuke's silly whims. If he was feeling aggravated, well it was nothing more than he deserved.

Thursday, he had written. Thursday of next week.

It was as good a time as any.

"Excuse me."

Leaning back against the coach's wall and focusing on the faint sensation of cold spreading from my right cheek set against the window, I kept staring at the blurred lines of Tokyo's streets and buildings without seeing them. There was no point in turning toward the source of the voice. Moments before, I had heard a muffled squeal that could only have come from a girl, and I could more than easily imagine the scene in vivid, sick details: an aging salaryman helpfully catching a highschool girl unbalanced by one of the train's sudden lurches, and incidentally losing control of a hand that had wandered its way to the girl's butt or breasts.

Nobody's fault, right?

Sometimes, Tokyo life was perfectly disgusting, particularly when "sometimes" happened to involve overcrowded trains during rush hour. And it was all Sho's fault, sending me off all the way to the Saitama prefecture beyond Tokyo's borders as he had. The trip to Sumeragi Ran's house was a nice two hours forty-five minutes ride one way, if I managed to catch all of my connections and not to make a mistake or two while deciphering Sho's lousy handwriting--Sho's unreadable, fucking kanji. For a brief moment, I closed my eyes tightly shut, exhausted.

Tokyo's Work Trade Center had turned out to be a very unwelcoming place, full of unbreakable glass bay-windows, marble walls, access-coded lifts and frigging security gear. Fucking state of the art material. Last night's little foray there had almost turned into a full-blown fiasco. I was lucky to have made it out of there in one piece, luckier than I had a right to be. Intuition and hunches were well and good, but depending on them too heavily could only lead to disaster. There wouldn't always be unexpected ledges conveniently set just within the range of my jumping ability to allow me to find an unhoped for alternate escape route.

Right before dawn I had stopped by the Petit Paradis Perdu in Kabukicho, which meant that Havenco would soon announce a new extraordinary auction session. It was what mattered, I supposed. With a little sigh, I watched the swiftly moving city outside--water city, its liquid lines flowing past me--eyes unfocused.

It's late.

It's been a long day, a thirty-six hours day since I stepped into the TGV in Bordeaux and started on the crazy journey that brought me to this side of the world.

Tokyo.

Wiping at my eyes, I fight down the eerie sensation of the ground swinging beneath my feet. It's the jetlag taking hold, anchoring itself within and dragging my body down. I know. The truth is I should be having a good hot bath and then be on my way back to the room I've been assigned to.

I just can't let myself relax.

I can't let myself rest, not yet. I need to see it, to feel it for myself, the place that my mother called home when she was a carefree little girl.

Paranoid.

Schizophrenic.

Insane.

She's always refused to tell me about her family, about the Ichinomiya who pushed her down the path of madness--or perhaps it's the unbridgeable gap between Japanese and French society which pushed her over the edge. I guess I'll never know. Ichinomiya Masami has gone so far as to forbid me to ever learn Japanese, which of course got the opposite result during the course of my adolescence. What little I know, it's my father who told me when I turned eighteen, thus freeing himself from a part of the lead weighing on his shoulders. I think he loved her once. Yes. There was a time when Olivier Ayné and Ichinomiya Masami were truly in love.

Or maybe I'm a hopeless romantic.

The Ichinomiya are an old family, one with roots plunging deep into Japan's past. They're Shinto priests, intermediaries between people and spirits, between the mundane and the spiritual worlds--charlatans who claim to be able to read signs in the wind or in the shape of clouds and feel the futures, to help wishes to be granted--if the petitioner will just buy one of these cheap good luck charms, please and thank you so very much. Charlatans, just like all the other priests of all the other religions in the world. I'm not exactly fond of official belief systems.

The Ichinomiya have a small shrine at the outskirts of Tokyo--or had one, anyway, because my father never heard from them after his wife and he moved to France. From what he told me, they might be dead, my Japanese grand-parents, and my mother was their only child.

Stark neon lights.

Blinking, I rub at my eyes once more, and recognize yet another convenience store. Its lights have been switched on because the light of day is waning. There aren't many people in the streets. It's close to the end of February, and it's cold outside. For a moment, I stop, and stare at my crudely drawn map. It should be close now. If need be, I guess I can ask someone once more, but I must remember not to use my full command of the Japanese language. Somehow, it frightens people to see a foreigner almost fluent in their mother tongue. Perhaps a Japanese-able gaijin is something to be spooked about, who knows?

Another left turn.

Walk through five more blocks of the quiet residential area.

Take a right.

There.

Before me are stairs leading up to a small, gentle-sloped hill. On impulse, I climb them up. I seem to remember that shrine entries are often like this from the manga I've read, although manga may not really be the best source of information concerning the Japanese culture.

A wooden arch.

Two vertical pillars that support two other, horizontal ones.

Old.

Uncared for.

Painting is coming off, as if it had slowly been scraped off by years of rain, snow and sunlight.

Beyond it, lost among a vegetation gone wild, a building that might be a temple, half in ruins. There's no need for me to go all the way to get a closer look.

It's dead.

Dead, but for a magnificent tree on the other side of the torii.

There's nothing for me here, nothing at all. Almost, I laugh at the absurd impulse that made me come to this place. I'm a fool. What was I thinking? That I'd find explanations? Reasons? Understanding? A secret that would somehow bring peace to the poor, shattered mind of Ichinomiya Masami--bring peace to the woman who hit me so hard I fell down the stairs when I was eight and naively asked her about Japan, the woman who started screaming and raving about how they'd never get me, even as warm blood was flowing from a nasty cut in my scalp and my right arm was hanging limp at my side, broken in three different places?

I should go now, and forget all about this place. There's nothing left here, but fading memories and ghosts--and I don't believe in those. I should go back to my room and get a good night's sleep.

Rough.

My heart skips a beat as I realize I've stepped beyond the shrine's gate and come to a halt under the great tree I had noticed earlier, unwittingly--daydreaming, most likely. It's not the first time it's happened. I am indeed exhausted. Staring at the hand I've leant against the tree's thick trunk, I smile in spite of myself.

The tree is a cedar.

Ancient.

Strong.

The texture of its bark under the palm of my hand is surprisingly pleasing to touch. On a whim, I look up at its majestic canopy. It seems to reach so high it touches the sky. How old can it be? Centuries, certainly. It must have watched over many generations of the Ichinomiya family. "What kind of secrets could you tell me?" I muse aloud. Around us, the sun has set, and the shadows are lengthening. Night is falling, and the wind rises with the coming of darkness. The wind, and a feeling without name.

Deep.

Roots.

Above me, the great cedar's branches swing gently with the wind, and a hum comes to my ears, like music.

"Ra," the wind sings.

Breathe in.

"Pha,"

Breathe out.

"El."

Close your eyes, it's all right.

Close your eyes.

Pain made me snap out of the hypnotic trance induced by the train's motion when my left shoulderblade crashed against one of the metallic poles standing passengers used for balance. For a moment, I wondered what the hell was happening, then I realized the train was braking, none too gently, and entering the station which was its final stop.

There was no rush to exit the coach, no trampling of smaller or weaker people, fortunately: almost all the passengers had left the train before it won out of Tokyo's overwhelming grip. As I stepped into the small station's building, I stole a quick glance toward the clock set above the ticket booths--no automatic tickets-spewing machines, but honest-to-god booths with genuine human beings behind them. A little bit more than ten minutes before ten. Well, I'd likely be a bit early, but not even Sho could fault me for being unable to predict the exact duration of a trip from Ueno to the Saitama prefecture. From here on, it would be a bus adventure. With a faint, resigned sigh, I stepped out of the station, and started looking around.

Now, where was the bus stop?

Sumeragi Ran's place was neither a studio, nor even a three rooms apartment. It was a whole mansion set at the foot of a high hill, complete with traditional Japanese gardens and ponds filled with their share of over-fed, lazy koi. While waiting for someone to come to the gate and let me in, I silently wondered whether I shouldn't start a career in onmyoujutsu myself. It seemed prestidigitators could earn quite a bit of money if they chose the right domain of activity. Yes, perhaps I should really consider it. After all, how hard could soothsaying be?

"Yes?" The man who had opened the door was old, and tight-lipped. There was no friendliness in the eyes he turned upon me.

"My name is Ayné Nanashi," I bowed at him, pretending not to notice the tension in his stance--hostility or uneasiness, I couldn't tell. "I have an appointment with Sumeragi-sama."

"Oh." The man's eyes widened for a fraction of a second, then he bobbed his head and rubbed at his left temple with the back of his hand. "Inoguchi-san's friend. Yes, of course." He opened the door fully, and held it for me. "Please, come in."

Neatly stored next to the entry porch were pairs of slippers reserved for the guests. Before the old servant could tell me I needed to take off my shoes, I did so, then waited for him to lead me inside.

From within, the mansion was even bigger than I had first thought: it housed several pavilions, some small and some not, all linked together by wooden bridges or stone paths. There were trees everywhere, plants and grass and sand gardens. There were no constant engine roars to hammer at the mind, no stinking fumes or gas residues here. Lost in the wonders of this place, I followed the household servant along corridors and terraces.

"Will you please wait here, Ayné-san?" The old man had stopped next to a middle-sized room, and he was busy sliding its door open. The fingers of his hands were shaking as he did so, ever so slightly. Behind me, there was a short, resounding clap: one of the koi had sprung out of its pond, putting on a show for the visitor, or more likely demanding more food for the poor starving fish that it was. On impulse, I pivoted to get a look at it.

White.

Swirling.

Abruptly I froze, catching sight of a white ghost gliding over the floor at the other end of a corridor leading to the terrace we were standing upon. As if it had sensed my presence, the ghost paused as well, and then turned before stepping toward us.

Slow.

Heavy, even though it made its way with no other sound than a faint rustle of fabric. All of a sudden, I realized it was no ghost but Sumeragi Ran herself, wearing long, flowing white robes. As she reached my side, I noticed purple embroidery in what could only be a ceremonial dress. The designs were beautiful and intricate, symbols and sigils that I couldn't all identify. The jet black of her short hair made a stark contrast with the rest of her. Even her face looked pale--pallid even.

Weary.

There were deep circles under Sumeragi Ran's eyes and lines, both at the corners of her mouth and in her brow--lines which didn't belong there. "Ayné-san," she said in a sigh even as she bowed in a slow, slow motion, as if it hurt her to do so, "I'm sorry. I need to ask you to wait for a little while. A matter of urgency has come up, that I may not ignore. I'll be with you as soon as fate allows. Takashi will bring you tea, and food if you're hungry."

"Tea will be very nice, thank you," I bowed back at her. "Don't worry about me. I've taken the day off, so I'm in no hurry. Besides, this place is so beautiful I don't mind having to stay in it a while longer. Who knows, I might even have enough time to wander in your amazing gardens."

The young woman's shoulders tensed and she drew a sharp intake of breath, even as her dark gaze met mine. "Please," she said, detaching each word, "wait here in the guest room. I'll be with you shortly. Wait here," she repeated, and then she turned her back on me and went back the way she had come. Allowing the servant to lead me inside the room, I wondered if I had heard her correctly. There had been something in the way she had said "here", a kind of emphasis and insistence that seemed to indicate anxiety--as if she had been afraid I'd somehow take offense at the unexpected delay and decide to go back to Tokyo on the spot, without Sho's precious books.

Absurd.

Seconds grew into minutes, while I sipped at the cup of green tea whose subtle perfume told me it had been brewed with respect to tradition, and meant I was an honored guest of the house. Minutes grew into what felt like almost an hour, when I stood up in order to relieve a growing cramp on my right calf. Sunlight was stealing inside the room through a chink in the door the old man Takashi had left on his way out. Stretching and mentally shooing the stubborn ache away, I went to the door, and slid it fully open.

The army of angry low clouds spawned by the mountains northwest of Tokyo had ceased their occupation of the sky, content with ruining the morning of millions of commuters. It must have marched its heavenly way to take on the Pacific Ocean, hoping to conquer it when it should know better: the watery infinity would soon dissolve it, absorb it and be done. But then, the fate of the dark grey clouds didn't matter to me. What did was the azure blue of the sky and the urge to go out, and explore the mansion's gardens.

Stepping out of the room, I started toward the terrace's far end and the closest koi pond, half-expecting the old servant to kindly request that I wait for Sumeragi-sama in the guest room as she had bidden me do. No word of reproach reached me in the time it took me to get to the terrace's edge, however.

Good.

Making my way from stone to stone, I went past the pond, stopping just for a moment to squat down and dip my left forefinger in the cold waters, and sending a huge, red-patched fish scampering away in alarm in the process. There was a slight breeze coming from the high hill, and with it it brought the soothing scent of pine trees and grass and fresh earth, of moss recently watered by a shower of nightly rain--and a distant hint of flowers. Eyes closed, I breathed in, a deep, deep breath to fill my whole being with the wonderful feeling of green forests and the lives they nurtured.

It would be nice to have the Ocean Research Institute's labs move close to the train station fifteen miles away from here. It would allow me to go for long solitary walks under the protective roof of trees, free from humanity's infernal rhythm and noises. Selfish and ludicrous, of course, but one could daydream once in a while. If wishes were horses--

A house. In the middle of the garden.

Pausing, I focused on what was indeed another pavilion, standing alone at the garden's very heart. Even though it wasn't the biggest I had walked by during my exploration of the grounds, it was in no way small, and I had no idea why I hadn't noticed it earlier. Intrigued, I changed directions and made my way toward it. As I came closer, its lines started to blur, almost imperceptibly at first, and then the blur grew more and more pronounced.

Mist.

With a bemused smile, I reached out. It looked like an ethereal curtain of mist--of morning dew, even though dawn was now firmly past in this part of the world. Almost, it seemed to glow and shimmer with barely glimpsed, unreal pastel colors. Whatever it was, natural phenomenon, condensation of air over water or a figment of my imagination, it was beautiful.

Cool.

Refreshing, and stinging like the starkly clear blue and green waters of a torrent in the heart of Summer. A stream of life that coiled up to the limbs and drew in the wanderer who stepped into it. So I went in, fingertips first, then hand and arm and shoulder, and then my whole body last.

Tiny bell chimes, at the edge of my hearing range.

I blinked as the unreal veil rippled past me, no more than a sigh of the wind. The air was clean on the other side, cleaner somehow, and the colors were crisp, almost solid. More real. Striding toward the terrace of the lonely pavilion--and careful not to leave the path of flat stones--I climbed upon it and then pivoted, taking in the sight of the garden around me.

Peaceful.

Alive.

Unable to help myself, I sat down on the wooden floor and allowed my feet to dangle from the terrace's edge. Another clap echoed nearby as a koi jumped up in the air, perhaps the same one as before, frustrated at its caretaker's lack of sympathy for its plight. The sound lingered for a while, clearer. Purer. The garden spreading before me was the same, and yet different. The feeling of the world was different--truer, maybe.

Or filtered through elvish glasses.

Chuckling to myself, I thought that had to be it, for everything I was experiencing right now might have come straight out of the depictions of a Faerie realm or other in a fantasy novel. Whatever it was, it was an absolutely wondrous sensation.

Steps.

Light.

Unhurried.

Leaning the palm of my left hand on the wooden floor, I twisted to the right to see who was coming--one of the pavilion's inhabitants, to be sure. Deep inside me, a little voice was wondering whether the newcomer would be angry at my unannounced intrusion, and that possibility spread a blanket of cold over my stomach. "Stupid Nanashi," my mother would have said. "Curiosity killed the cat, Nanashi, and it'll kill you as well one day if you don't mend your ways."

A man had come out of the pavilion, young--in his early thirties at most, roughly as old as Sumeragi Ran, but here the similarities between the two ended. His hair was light brown, shockingly so for that color didn't belong with his Japanese face, and it didn't look like dye. He was wearing a very much used pair of blue hakama, and a bleached jacket whose washed out color might have been green once. He was close to me. Much, much closer than I'd have guessed at the sound of his steps on the wood.

Gliding over the floor, like her.

With a reflexive shiver, I sent the stray, insane thought aside, even as he squatted down beside me and rested his elbows on his thighs. Leaning his chin upon both palms of his hands, he considered me through half-lidded eyes and mused, "So, this is what you allowed through your guard."

He was smiling.

Ignoring the gooseflesh that wanted to crawl under the skin of my forearms, I made myself bow and then look at him. "I'm sorry," I told him in a not altogether steady voice, "I should have waited in the guest room like I was supposed to. I didn't mean to trouble your garden." As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I knew I had spoken the truth: this was the man's garden, his domain, no matter that Sumeragi Ran was the mansion's owner.

An apparition, that was what he felt like, and also a fish with far too many bones to swallow for a western agnostic like me. "I shouldn't be here." I gave him another bow, hoping my presence wasn't too much of an offense.

Laughter spilled from him, crystalline and gentle. "On the contrary, you should be." Sobering, he added, "If that wasn't so, you'd be running back to Tokyo right now, and screaming at the top of your lungs." His smile had widened to reveal his teeth.

Was that supposed to mean anything? Scare me, perhaps? If that was his intent, he was well on his way to reaching his goal. Nevertheless, I couldn't yield to the abrupt lurch in my heartbeats and flee this strange, entrancing place--or him. "My name is Ayné Nanashi, nice to meet you." The standard greeting phrase sounded hollow, but it was the best I could manage right this moment.

"That's a lie." He had opened his eyes, and he was staring at me steadily. His hazel irises seemed to be gazing into my soul, their brown so light it had almost lost all color.

Almond-shaped.

A cat's eyes.

It would have been hard to look away, to wrench free of that eerie gaze, but I could have done it--would have done it, if not for the garden around us, the garden that was his. "A lie," he repeated in a voice so soft it was barely above a whisper, "and a sham, but you know that...or you'll understand it eventually."

From very far away, I felt myself shudder. It was my firstname he was referring to, the poisoned gift of my mother, and how he could know such a thing-- Tensing, I made to stand up.

Touch.

Absentmindedly I stared at the hand he had laid upon my right shoulder, light and unrestrictive, and I listened to the snarl crawling up my throat. "Witchcraft and parlor tricks!" I heard myself spitting out. Thank to some kind god or goddess, the snarl remained locked inside my throat. It would have been a bad mistake to make enemies of the Sumeragi, friends of Sho that they were--rich and influential as they appeared to be.

The man squatting on my right didn't answer. The same smile was still hovering on his lips. "I'm Sumeragi Shuusuke," he said with the smallest of nods, and all of a sudden I realized I hadn't acted on the wild, irrepressible urge to rise and challenge the one who had calmly stated that Nanashi was a lie. That my being without a name, as the Japanese word indicated, was a lie.

Not nameless, no. Never so.

A secret to keep inside my heart.

A secret to put to rest beneath the earth and then forget.

I hadn't stood up, and the mad impulse had whooshed out of me as fast as it had rushed in to claim me, which was most likely what he had wanted. Willed. "And you're welcome under my roof, Ayné-san." My eyes widened while the words echoed inside my mind. It was good. I drew in a deep breath. It was more than good.

It was right.

His hand left my shoulder, and I bowed my head to dissemble the slightly trembling smile that had come to my lips. "Thank you," I murmured. Then, denying the ludicrous lump in my throat, I made myself look up at him. "I suppose I should go back to the guest room. They'll be waiting for me."

He shrugged at that. "No need. My dear onee-sama tells her guests not to leave it so they won't wander off and end up on the wrong side of my wards. She doesn't want them spooked out of their wits by her half-brother's whimsical temper." His voice had grown distant, and the light in those strange catlike eyes had something cold to it, something almost frightening beyond the flames of laughter dancing at the fore. "Obviously you won't be spooked, or fall victim to my games," he grinned at me.

Frightening, yes.

Not quite human, as if he didn't wholly belong to the world of cities and cars and planes, of pollution and death and rotting oceans going mad.

Fascinating, or alluring perhaps.

A cat was what fitted him most, a feline lazing out in the sun at high noon, who could spring upon his prey and tear it apart within ten beatings of a human heart.

"Obviously," I nodded, unable to keep from smiling back at him. It was crazy, but there was no help for this, and a part of me was glad it was so--relieved.

"That's settled then." In a lithe motion, he stood up. "I don't think she'll be able to see you for a while yet. Some fools from the Parliament came knocking at our door late at night," he wrinkled his nose, his gaze set on a point beyond the curtain of mist setting his gardens away from the rest of the mansion, "claiming to have come on urgent business. And my foolish onee-sama agreed to their request and performed the kakai divination ceremony this morning, with little if no preparation at all. It's bound to be a few hours until she has recovered somewhat." With a shake of his head, he looked away from the garden, and faced me once more. "I felt the sakanagi strike shortly after dawn, and it wasn't pleasant." The expression on Sumeragi Shuusuke's face was no longer cheerful, and the light in the hazel eyes was a flat one.

Angry.

His words glided past me, only half-grasped, but for the first time it felt real. Absurd, but real, the occult science named onmyoujutsu.

Beside me, Sumeragi Shuusuke released his breath in a hiss, then he nodded at me. "I must have some tea left somewhere. Do you want a cup? I'd offer you sake, but it's a bit too early in the day for that." A smile had crept back to his lips.

Sake would have been nice, it would have helped in putting a lulling blanket over this unsettling encounter, but it was indeed too early in the day for alcohol. Just as I was about to tell him tea would be fine, a hazy shadow appeared in the garden.

Blurred.

Just beyond the border of morning dew.

"Shuusuke!" It was the voice of Sumeragi Ran, and beyond the weariness eating at it, it had a barely audible shrill quality. "Shuusuke!" she repeated. It could have been worry or fear, or distress.

In a slow movement, as lazy as it was fluid, Sumeragi Shuusuke turned toward his sister. "I have him here, onee-sama," he replied, "and he's safe...and sane," he added in an afterthought, his tone tainted with more than a bit of slyness. Then he heaved out a sigh. "I didn't think she had it in her to be back on her feet so quickly. Ah well." Refocusing on me, he gestured for me to stand up and I found myself obeying.

"It looks like I must release you to the world," he said softly.

I stared into the clear, clear brown eyes, and wondered if this pavilion and the beautiful garden surrounding it weren't what Faerie Hills were all about. I would have thanked him for his hospitality, but the words simply refused to come. It was too much, too unreal, too real, too crazy and too true, all of it. All of him. The fear and attraction of him. So I gave him a bow instead. Something flickered in his gaze, and then was gone. "Fare well," he said, and he turned his back on me--and he went away, as if I'd never been here, as if we'd never met and I had never trespassed into his domain.

Beyond the ethereal veil of irised currents, the blurred shape of Sumeragi Ran hadn't moved. In silence, she waited.

At no moment had she so much as tried to cross the insubstantial wall.

The darkness is full of misleading echoes.

Reflections of moonrays and emergency exit signs cast shadows of light in the night.

Invisible beams traverse a hall, that only smoke can reveal, that only an acrobat can avoid--or a funambulist. It's a good thing I am both. It's a good thing I needed to be put out of my mother's way when I was a kid, and that my father found nothing better than one of the great gymnastics clubs in Bordeaux. Come to think of it, it's also a good thing I was talented, but not enough to start a career in professional competitions. A muffled chuckle escapes me, and joins the ghostly sounds that haunt buildings at night.

Access code.

Smiling, I pat the small pad set in the wall beside the door. Access codes are everywhere these days: maybe people believe they are the ultimate protection against thieves. Maybe they really do believe that, but--don't they ever watch movies or TV series? Don't they read novels? Don't they know that access codes have a way of being deduced or guessed--or stolen out of a security company's encrypted files? There's always a means to get them, even when one is neither a decrypting genius, nor a criminal versed in psychology with an uncanny knowledge of the personality of whoever set the code. One only needs to cheat a little, and to remember there's always a master code, one that the company can use in the event that its customers have either lost or forgotten theirs.

Tonight, it's no different as I key in an intricate sequence of numbers, and then enter the room where the most precious items of a jewelry exhibition in Nihombashi are displayed. Stepping to the pendant and bracelets carved out of sparkling gold and engraved with diamonds, sapphires and emeralds, I give a friendly wave at the cameras watching the place. Poor, blind things which can see but not record the smallest bit of it, cut out from their storage units as they are--the whole video surveillance unit being busy replaying a night of the previous week for the security guards' benefit. This is also in so many movies and novels, in so many stories that I've lost count of them.

Setting my backpack on the floor, I kneel down beside it and take out a small head of diamond, sharp enough to carve a door into the cases of unbreakable glass that protect the jewels. In the moment I start, the alarm will most likely sound, there's no help for it: I could hardly shut down the power in the whole building without triggering an instantaneous reaction.

Silence reigns while I carve a door into the glass in swift, yet careful motions. I wouldn't want to scrap my gloves with the diamond head's edges.

Silence, and then the faintest of draughts.

A creak.

Whirling around, I tense as I watch the door lock itself shut before me. There's no access pad on this side. No lock to pick.

Trapped like a rat.

"Shit!" The harsh whisper resounds in the room while I turn back to my work, finish my small door into the casing, and then start gathering the ancient, priceless jewels designed by extraordinary artists more than a thousand years ago. Focusing on the task at hand instead of on peripheral matters is a hard-learned habit, and my movements remain quick, fluid and precise throughout the retrieval of the jewels.

Faint echoes like distant footsteps reach my ears, even as I straighten and shoulder my backpack. Traitorous ghosts reaching out to trick me is what they are: there's no way I can hear what's happening in the corridor on the other side. This I know, nonetheless: I must hurry. Ten heartbeats to step over to the bay window opening on the city lights and the Nihombashi bridge far below. Another four to slide it open. It's not locked, of course, unless you count the manual holding system that's never been designed to prevent anyone from opening from the inside.

A savage gust of wind snatches at me, intent on pulling me over the edge to my death. Taking a single step back to keep my balance, I stare at the howling wind, my jaw set. It's blowing too strongly, I cannot be sure that my secondary escape route is safe.

Steps.

A shiver runs up my spine. This time it's no ghost, and it's too late to try and bar the door from the inside.

Low beeps that mean numbers being keyed in.

There's no more time.

    ...in my way.

No more.

        ...rid...

With difficulty, I suck air inside my lungs. It's so hard to breathe, all of a sudden, so--

            ...get rid of them!

Shadow.

A shadow so great and powerful it smothers my thoughts. My heartbeats are speeding up, I can feel them hammering in my chest. Adrenaline is poisoning my blood, filling it as if it meant for my veins to burst. I can't see or hear anything; the shadow and the wind have invaded my mind.

Whirling.

Blindfolding me.

Rejecting me, tearing control away from me.

Blackness.

Fury.

Strength so awful I'd flee as far as I could, if it wasn't woven with the essence of my being.

Dreadful.

The impulse that blossoms inside me is black, black, black! With an inward scream, I pit all my insignificant, pitiful will against it, and I stumble forward, catching myself on the edge of the bay window door in a desperate reflex.

It's gone.

Gone, as abruptly and brutally as it dived out of the night to devour me. The only trace of it is an absurd hint of dismay and incomprehension lingering within. Through the deafening drums of my heart and the haze of adrenaline still flowing in my bloodstream, I hear the creaks of safety catches being removed. Weapons. Guns, most likely. It's hard for my mind to focus, so hard a part of me wants to yield here and there.

No.

Hell--no!

Steps behind me. There's no choice left, so I push on the remote that will activate one of the great cranes in the worksite one block away. "Hands up!" comes the harsh command. I can't think, can't hear, can't feel fear replacing adrenaline or the trembling of my limbs. I can't think about Time, about how the black shadow stole it from me, about how there's a gap between then and now--a hole with nothing in it, as if I had been held between tick and tock. I can only count to seven, and then step forward.

"Stop!" yells a voice in which there's something like fear. "You'll only kill yourself!"

Eight.

Another step, and brace.

Nine.

I jump into the void with all the strength I have.

I jump into the night strewn with colorful city lights.

I jump into holes of pure blackness set between the tiny flames that human beings spark at night to forget they've been afraid of the dark since their beginning--terrified, and with good reason.

I jump into a domain of shadows, where a great one awaits, and swallows me whole.

Are those wings it spreads to infinity--or branches?

It was almost half past four in the morning when I came out the back door of the Petit Paradis Perdu--when I staggered back and fell more than I leant against its cold metallic surface, which sent a faint clang echoing in the dark, deserted alleyway. The edge of my backpack's zipper, it had to be.

Empty backpack, now.

Head bowed, I closed my eyes in an attempt to win free of the dizzying flashes of stark blue and red lights of the Petit Paradis Perdu's main room, but it didn't do any good. "Fuck!" I hissed between clenched teeth, even as I lifted the right hand to my mouth and pressed its palm against my lips as hard as I could. Shuddering from head to toe, I twisted around so that my brow would rest against the backdoor, and that the only thing between my mouth and the ground was the palm of my hand. Pain was spearing my skull, and the churning of my insides--during a long, awful moment, I thought I wouldn't be able to control the wave of nausea raking my body, then it let go of me. Slowly. Reluctantly.

The rasp sound of my breathing as I dragged air inside my lungs was soon joined by the telltale noise of chattering teeth. On instinct, I clutched my arms, only half-aware that I was shaking like a fevered man. At last, the bout of sickness released me enough to allow me to start thinking clearly again. Shit, but that had been a real bad one!

It had had little to do with Mr. No-nonsense-if-you-get-distracted-even-one-moment-I'll-do-you-in Kurogawa--an obvious nickname if there had ever been one. No. Bargaining with the lieutenant of the clan owning the Petit Paradis Perdu in the less reputable part of Kabukicho had had little, if nothing, to do with what was ailing me, frustrating and hard as those negotiations were each and every time. At least, this particular yakuza clan was reliable and kept their end of the bargains they struck, be it with gaijin fools. That, and they had the surest transport route to all European countries, including the oddity named Sealand.

I had been sick before reaching the Petit Paradis Perdu, since the horrible moment when I had felt a great shadow rise from within-- A muffled groan echoed in the night when I squatted down and closed my eyes tightly shut, refusing the overwhelming urge to retch. There was nothing for my stomach to heave up anyway, my last meal had been eaten more than nine hours ago. It was the memory of it, the lingering feeling of it. Black.

Black, and wild, and brutal.

A Time-devouring thing, soul-snatching and savage.

With a desperate effort of will, I sent the memories back and locked them in a backroom of my mind where cobwebs and dust ruled. I had no need for them, no need for the frightening understanding that the shadow had been with me for a long time, and that it was gaining in strength each time it came forward. I had no need for the knowledge that the gaps in my memory were growing bigger and the holes in Time became longer. What I needed was rest, sleep, and maybe a true, one-month long holiday.

Eventually I gathered enough strength to stand up. Then I wiped the palm of my right hand against the fabric of my jeans, and swallowed the bile that filled the inside of my mouth. The delivery had been made, and that was the important thing. Now I had to get back to my room.

Back to walls and shadows, and confinement--no way or at least, not yet.

An image of ponds and red-patched koi fishes, of trees and plants and wooden pavilions, of an ethereal barrier of morning dew abruptly filled my mind with impossible clarity. Pushing myself away from the door, I started walking toward Shinjuku station, aware that I could hardly phone Sumeragi Ran to ask her if she'd be so kind as to magick her mansion to this hellhole in Kabukicho, all the way from the Saitama prefecture this late at night--well, no matter what the time might be.

It took me a good twenty-five minutes to reach the subway station. As luck would have it, a train was coming just as I reached the track's platform. Once I was inside the coach, it was only a thirty-eight minutes ride to Okachimachi station--two minutes less to Ueno station, where I got off the train on a whim. Okachimachi was my stop, but Ueno, while being farther from my room, would afford me with a walk through the park that bore the same name.

Famous, always crowded Ueno Park, a magnet for tourists and students alike with its museums and shrines.

Crossing over the wide avenue running along the station, I entered the park proper and blindly made for the thickest grove of trees, discarding the path leading to Shinobazu pond that I'd have used if I had wanted to go home straight. There was nothing in my mind, but the raw need to find a respite from the city, from its buildings so high they blotted out the sky, so modern there was no soul left in them--from walls and riotous lights, from people and sounds.

From shadows, ludicrous though it was to seek shelter from them in complete darkness--or was it? Without light to shape them, to draw them in the night, shadows could only withdraw and watch from afar. Powerless.

Hush.

Almost silence.

Of their own volition, my feet stopped, and I realized I was standing in the middle of a grove of great trees. Looking up, I found that I couldn't see the stars: their canopy of leaves was like a roof above my head, masking even the moon. The sound of the traffic had receded to a distant, insignificant buzz easily covered by the rustle of a myriad leaves caressed by a breath of wind. The sensation that I had somehow stepped aside from the world was so strong that it sent my heart racing. The place felt like a wonder--a dark one, that should make me uneasy and prompt me to leave it on the spot.

But it was peaceful.

"The peace of a graveyard," I murmured to myself, reaching out to the nearest tree. Faint as it was, the ring of my voice felt like an unwelcome intrusion in this realm of a peace so deep I would have recognized it as frightening, hadn't my mind still been trapped in the quagmire of recent events.

"Indeed."

Snatching my hand away just before it could touch the tree's bark, I took a step back and tensed. A man had appeared between the trees on my left, and the clear, amused voice belonged to him. There hadn't been any sound, not even that of footsteps in the night or the faintest of crack as a foot inadvertently crushed a twig lying on the ground. There hadn't been any noise to betray the stranger's approach. He was tall, lean bordering on skinny from what I could discern despite the ankle-length black raincoat he was wearing.

"You shouldn't be here," he said in a quiet whisper when he turned toward me.

Mismatched eyes.

Green and amber.

Unbalanced--that was the thought that came to my mind while I fought to master the imperious voice yelling at me to run away from this place, to run to the ends of the world before this ghost could catch me and drain the life out of me. No. No ghost. Oh no, but--unstable. Terribly real, and there was no running, no fleeing, only bearing with the roving emotions within and confronting the apparition.

"It's far too late to be chasing skirts," the man added with a hint of puzzlement in his voice, apparently oblivious to the effect his presence was having but betrayed by the frightening intensity of the gaze he had set upon me, "too late for zokus. And even if it weren't, it's Golden Week. Students are gone, as well as salarymen and office ladies. Tourists--" a faint smile touched his lips, "tourists keep to their international hotels at night, or to luxury compounds like Roppongi Hills. This," he started coming toward me in relaxed, unhurried strides, "brings us full-circle."

Unmoving, I watched him step closer, aware that the hypnotic quality of his finely pitched voice was probably no random chance. This predator was much more dangerous than the street gangs he had just referred to. "You shouldn't be here," he repeated, coming to a halt right before me.

Watching me.

Weighing me.

"I didn't summon you," he told me as if I was supposed to understand what he meant by that. "Are you seeking your own death?" he asked, unconcerned, and he reached out to me. Lightning quick, my left hand shot up--and froze just before I could grasp his wrist and yank it away from me, held back by an instinct I hadn't known I possessed, animal and raw drive to survive. "You're wiser than you look." Wonder and laughter were warring in his voice.

Hollow.

False.

There was no life in his tone, no life in his mismatched gaze, just a cold, dull light. "I shouldn't be here," I nodded at him, my voice carefully devoid of emotion. "But I needed a refuge from the outside for a while, from the pressure of the world." I didn't know why I was telling him that. There was no reason revealing as much of the truth as I could would make this elegant bringer of death go away and leave me alone, but the words escaped me before I could hold them back. "I'm sorry I intruded in your domain."

He laughed at that, a joyless sound quickly swallowed by the night. "These are sakura," he gestured toward the trees surrounding us, "so I suppose it's indeed my domain. But what's more important is that you wandered in my favorite hunting ground," he smiled at me.

In the back of my neck, the hair was standing on end. Unblinking, I refused to avert my gaze when he reached out to me once more. Within an inch of my left temple, he paused and his eyes widened all of a sudden. Then, in a reluctant movement, he brought his hand back to his side. "So," he murmured, "I wasn't mistaken." Something that might have been a faint trace of sorrow or pain had twisted his smile. "Their wards touched you, and the scent of them lingers." Had there been a sigh in his voice just now? "Go, you're safe enough from me." A touch of nostalgia? Of homesickness maybe?

"What are you?" I asked him in a breath.

"A shadow." Mocking laughter spilled from him even as I shuddered, unable to master the reflex. "The reverse of a coin." That didn't make any sense, or perhaps it was his own convoluted way of telling me he was some kind of hitman.

An assassin.

"And you're a fool," he went on in a quiet, quiet whisper, barely audible beyond the rustle of the myriad leaves above our heads. "A fool, to walk in the night when you know better. Stick to the moments of light between dawn and sunset. There's a shadow stalking you, and it's thickening."

The muscles in my body were so taut it hurt. My field of vision had thinned into a tunnel he was standing at the center of. Everything had disappeared but him. "How--" I hissed, "how do you--"

"Leave this place," he cut me off, the tone of his voice flat, "leave now. And never come back." With that, he walked past me and faded into the night.

Cold.

Touch.

For a moment, I stared at the fragile sakura blossom petal that had drifted down to the palm of my hand, then I stepped away from this place of silence, my mind empty. When I reached the edge of the grove of trees, I broke into a run. Above me, the sky was slowly turning grey, but I didn't see it. I ran.

And ran.

And ran.

End of Chapter 2.

On to Next Part

Back to Previous Part

Back to my Fanfic page.