On November twentieth, I woke before the alarm.

Five twenty-eight.

The train was not until seven forty-two.

Too early.

I lay there for another minute.

Then got up.

The bag had been packed the night before.

Two shirts.

Underwear.

Socks.

Sweater.

Toiletries.

Book.

Phone charger.

No temple documents.

No robe.

No card.

The Kyoto postcard was still in the desk drawer.

I had considered bringing it.

Then decided against it.

Mizuno did not need evidence that he had once sent me mail.

Neither did I.

At six ten, I made tea.

Drank it.

Not good.

Not terrible.

Mine.

Then checked the train ticket for the fourth time.

Departure.

Connection.

Seat.

Arrival.

Nothing had changed overnight.

I put the phone away.

At six thirty-two, the doorbell rang.

I stared at the door.

No one was supposed to come.

Opened it.

Takahashi.

“Why are you here?”

“To take you to the station.”

“I didn’t ask.”

“I know.”

“I can drive.”

“And leave your car there for three days.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because parking exists.”

“So do friends.”

There.

He looked past me.

“Ready?”

I should have objected longer.

Did not want to.

“Yes.”

“Good.”

No.

I let him have it.

He took my bag.

“I can carry that.”

“I know.”

“Then why?”

“Because I’m already holding it.”

That was irritatingly effective.

He put it in the back of his car.

I locked the house.

Then checked the lock.

Takahashi watched.

“Again?”

“No.”

“You looked.”

“That is not checking.”

“You touched the handle.”

“Drive.”

He did.

The roads were quiet.

Dark still fading.

Heater working without rattling.

I noticed.

Said nothing.

Takahashi said:

“You noticed.”

“What?”

“The heater.”

“No.”

“You looked.”

“I looked at the dashboard.”

“Liar.”

We drove.

After five minutes he asked:

“Nervous?”

“Yes.”

No point pretending.

“What part?”

“Arrival.”

“Not the train?”

“No.”

“Mizuno?”

“Yes.”

“Yuko?”

“Yes.”

“Guest room?”

“No.”

“Food?”

“No.”

He nodded.

Then:

“What do you think is going to happen?”

“I don’t know.”

“That is usually what arriving is.”

I looked at him.

“That was almost useful.”

“Garage wisdom.”

“No.”

He smiled.

At the station, he pulled over near the entrance.

Six fifty-eight.

Too early.

Again.

I took my bag from the back.

Takahashi got out too.

“You don’t need to come in.”

“I know.”

“Then?”

“Coffee.”

Of course.

We went inside.

The station was already busy enough to prevent the morning from feeling private.

Rolling suitcases.

School uniforms.

Announcements.

A woman trying to keep two children together.

A man asleep near a wall outlet.

We bought coffee.

Takahashi drank his immediately.

Mine was too hot.

We stood near the departure board.

My train appeared there.

Kyoto did not.

Not directly.

Several steps first.

That felt appropriate.

No.

It was simply the route.

Takahashi looked at the board.

“Call when you arrive.”

“I’ll message.”

“Call.”

“Why?”

“I want to hear whether Mizuno is real.”

I laughed.

“He spoke to me.”

“Could be elaborate fraud.”

“For what?”

“Postcard recovery.”

“Nine-year operation.”

“Patient criminals.”

I drank coffee.

Then:

“I’ll call.”

Takahashi nodded.

No further demand.

The platform announcement came.

Still time.

I picked up the bag.

He said:

“Enjoy it.”

“I’ll try.”

“No.”

I looked at him.

“What?”

“Don’t try to enjoy it.”

“That is strangely specific.”

“Just go.”

There.

Better.

I nodded.

“See you Sunday?”

“If you return.”

“I have a return ticket.”

“Evidence.”

I smiled.

“See you Sunday.”

“See you.”

I went through the gate.

He stayed outside.

Did not wave theatrically.

Neither did I.

The train left on time.

For the first twenty minutes, I read.

Then realized I had read the same page twice.

Closed the book.

Outside:

buildings.

Fields.

Stations.

Snow in some shaded places.

Nothing unusual.

I was traveling to see an old friend.

That sentence remained strange.

Not because false.

Because newly current.

Mizuno sent a message at eight sixteen.

Awake?

I replied:

On train.

Good.

No.

I smiled.

Then:

Yuko says lunch depends on arrival.

Train is on time.

She says trains lie.

She may be right.

Nothing else.

At the first transfer, I almost went to the wrong platform.

Not entirely wrong.

Same direction.

Different train.

I noticed before boarding.

That was sufficient.

No metaphor.

By noon, I was tired of sitting.

The seat was comfortable enough.

Still a seat.

I ate a boxed lunch.

Not memorable.

Rice.

Fish.

Pickles.

I sent no photograph to Takahashi.

He would ask whether I had bought train-shaped sweets soon enough.

Kyoto became real first as an announcement.

Then buildings.

Then tracks multiplying.

Then the station roof.

People stood before the doors opened.

I remained seated until movement made sense.

Bag.

Coat.

Phone.

No card.

No postcard.

Just me.

The platform was crowded.

I stepped out.

For several seconds, I did not move.

Not because emotional.

Because I needed to know which direction to go.

Signs.

Central exit.

Mizuno had written:

I’ll wait near the large clock.

There were several clocks.

Of course.

I followed the crowd.

The station was larger than memory.

Or my memory had reduced it.

Either way.

I reached the concourse.

People everywhere.

I looked for Mizuno.

Did not see him.

Looked again.

A man in a dark coat.

No.

Too young.

Another.

No.

Then someone raised one hand.

Not high.

Just enough.

I knew the gesture before the face.

Mizuno.

Older.

Gray at the temples.

Thinner than I remembered.

Glasses now.

Same posture.

He stood perhaps fifteen meters away.

For a moment neither of us moved.

Then he walked toward me.

I did the same.

We stopped too far apart to shake hands naturally.

Then both tried.

Awkward.

He laughed first.

“So.”

“Yes.”

“You came.”

“Yes.”

He looked at the bag.

“Only that?”

“Three days.”

“You used to travel with too much.”

“I improved.”

“Unproven.”

There.

Voice.

Face.

Actual person.

Not postcard.

Not phone.

Mizuno.

He looked at me for a few seconds.

“You look older.”

“So do you.”

“I was going to say well.”

“You missed the chance.”

“I can restart.”

“No.”

He laughed.

Then:

“Yuko said not to make the first five minutes strange.”

“How long has it been?”

He looked at his watch.

“About forty seconds.”

“Then we have time.”

We both laughed.

That helped.

He reached for my bag.

I held it.

“No.”

He stopped.

“I was going to carry it.”

“I know.”

“Guest.”

“I can carry my bag.”

He looked at me.

Then released the handle.

“Still difficult.”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

No.

I almost corrected.

Then remembered who had used the word years before Takahashi began persecuting me for it.

Maybe Mizuno was part of the original problem.

“Were you always like that?”

“What?”

“‘Good.’”

He frowned.

“You called yesterday to ask me that?”

“No.”

“Then later.”

We walked.

Yuko was waiting outside by a car.

I recognized her before she spoke.

Older too.

Hair shorter.

Same eyes.

She looked at me.

Then at Mizuno.

Then back at me.

“You remembered my name.”

“Yuko-san.”

“Excellent.”

“I deserved that.”

“Yes.”

She bowed.

I bowed.

Then she smiled.

“Welcome.”

That word reached differently.

Not:

You finally came.

Not:

Where have you been?

Welcome.

Present tense.

“Thank you.”

She opened the trunk.

I put my own bag inside before either of them could.

Mizuno sighed.

Yuko said:

“Let him.”

Good.

No.

I did not say anything.

The drive from the station was quieter than expected.

Not awkward exactly.

Full.

Too many possible things.

Yuko solved it by talking about lunch.

“We can eat at home or stop somewhere.”

Mizuno said:

“Home.”

She looked at me in the mirror.

“What do you want?”

“Home is fine.”

“That is not what I asked.”

Of course.

Everyone had learned from someone.

“Home.”

She nodded.

“Then home.”

Decision made.

Mizuno’s temple was smaller than mine.

Much smaller.

Narrow road.

Stone wall.

Modest gate.

Main hall with repaired roof.

The repair was visible if you knew to look.

I did not know.

Mizuno pointed anyway.

“Second time.”

“The roof?”

“Yes.”

“Same section?”

“No.”

“Better.”

He looked at me.

“You still grade things.”

“I asked a factual question.”

Yuko unlocked the residence.

“Come inside before you two become unbearable.”

We did.

Three cats appeared within two minutes.

Not neighborhood metaphor.

Actual cats.

One black.

One orange.

One gray.

The orange one approached me first.

Mizuno said:

“That one bites.”

I stopped.

Yuko said:

“He doesn’t.”

Mizuno said:

“He bit me.”

“You stepped on his tail.”

“Context should not excuse violence.”

I looked at the cat.

It rubbed against my leg.

“Apparently I am safer.”

Mizuno stared.

“Nine years and immediate betrayal.”

The room began to feel less difficult.

Lunch was noodles.

Homemade.

Yuko had prepared too much.

Of course.

Some things crossed prefectures.

We sat at a low table.

Three bowls.

Pickles.

Tea.

No formal guest arrangement.

I was grateful.

For the first ten minutes, we talked about the train.

Predictable.

Then the temple.

Roof.

Parish households.

Neighborhood.

Nothing personal enough to frighten anyone.

Then Yuko said:

“You both know you can stop pretending you met last week.”

Mizuno put down his chopsticks.

“I wasn’t.”

“You are discussing gutters.”

“Gutters matter.”

She looked at me.

“He talked about you for two days.”

Mizuno closed his eyes.

“You promised.”

“I promised nothing.”

I almost laughed into the tea.

Yuko continued:

“He cleaned the guest room himself.”

“That seems appropriate.”

“He never cleans the guest room himself.”

Mizuno said:

“I changed the sheets.”

“You moved furniture.”

“There was dust.”

“You checked the heater three times.”

“Winter.”

She looked at me.

“He was nervous.”

There.

Mizuno stared at his bowl.

I saved him.

“So was I.”

He looked up.

“Really?”

“Yes.”

That seemed to surprise him.

“Why?”

Large question.

I answered smaller.

“Because I hadn’t seen you in years.”

He nodded.

“Yes.”

That was enough.

Yuko resumed eating.

Intervention complete.

After lunch, Mizuno showed me the temple.

Not as a tour guide.

More like someone showing a colleague where the problems were.

Crack near the storeroom.

New wiring.

Old bell.

The bell he had said he disliked.

He struck it once.

I listened.

“Why do you hate it?”

“Too bright.”

“It is a bell.”

“It can still be too bright.”

I listened again.

Maybe.

He asked:

“Well?”

“I don’t hate it.”

“That is not helpful.”

“You asked my opinion.”

“I wanted agreement.”

“Then ask for agreement.”

He laughed.

“Still you.”

There.

I felt it.

Not entirely pleasant.

Not unpleasant.

Still you.

Was I?

Some parts.

Not others.

I said nothing.

The guest room was at the end of a corridor.

Tatami.

Small table.

Heater.

Folded bedding.

Window toward the side garden.

Mizuno stood at the door.

“Too cold?”

“No.”

“Extra blanket in closet.”

“Yes.”

“Bathroom—”

“I can find it.”

“You always said that.”

“Did I?”

“Yes.”

“You remember strange things.”

“So do you.”

Fair.

He left my bag near the wall.

Then said:

“Rest if you want.”

There.

Not:

Come talk.

Not:

We have nine years to cover.

Rest.

“I might.”

“Tea at four?”

I checked the clock.

Two twenty.

“Yes.”

He nodded.

Then left.

Door remained open.

I closed it halfway.

Not fully.

No reason.

I sat.

Quiet.

Actual quiet.

Different temple sounds.

Floor creak somewhere.

A door.

Distant bell? No.

Maybe traffic.

I took out my phone.

Message from Takahashi:

Real?

I laughed.

Called.

He answered immediately.

“Well?”

“I’m here.”

“Mizuno?”

“Real.”

“Yuko?”

“Also real.”

“Cats?”

I stopped.

“How do you know about the cats?”

“You told me.”

Had I?

Maybe.

“Yes. Three.”

“Train?”

“Worked.”

“Souvenir?”

“No.”

“Unacceptable.”

I looked toward the half-closed door.

Then said:

“It was strange at first.”

Takahashi’s voice changed slightly.

“Bad?”

“No.”

“Still strange?”

“Less.”

“Good.”

No.

I let him have it.

Then:

“He cleaned the guest room because he was nervous.”

Takahashi laughed.

“You told him you were nervous?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“He looked surprised.”

“People think priests are furniture.”

“That makes no sense.”

“You know what I mean.”

Unfortunately.

Then Takahashi said:

“Go be there.”

There.

Not:

Call later.

Not:

Tell me everything.

Go be there.

“Yes.”

“Call Sunday if you need a ride.”

“I can take a taxi.”

“I know.”

“Then?”

“If you want one.”

I smiled.

“I’ll let you know.”

“Fine.”

No.

He hung up.

At four, tea.

Mizuno and I sat in a small room beside the residence.

Yuko had gone shopping.

Just us.

For the first minute, we discussed the tea.

Then stopped.

No Yuko to force transition.

No Takahashi.

No third person.

Nine years sat down with us.

Mizuno looked into his cup.

Then:

“I almost didn’t call you back.”

I looked at him.

“After my first call?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I was angry.”

There.

I had not expected that.

Not exactly.

“About what?”

He looked at me.

“You disappeared.”

I felt the answer before I could defend myself.

Then he added:

“So did I.”

There.

Good.

No.

Accurate.

He continued:

“I knew that. Still angry.”

“How long?”

“When?”

“After I saw the missed call.”

“About five minutes.”

I smiled slightly.

“That is short.”

“It was concentrated.”

I laughed.

He did too.

Then his face settled.

“I thought: why now?”

“Yes.”

“And then I wanted to know.”

“So you called.”

“Yes.”

Silence.

Tea.

I said:

“I didn’t know you had changed temples.”

“I know.”

“I didn’t know about the roof.”

“Very serious.”

“I nearly forgot Yuko’s name.”

“That was unforgivable.”

“Yes.”

He smiled.

Then:

“I didn’t know your teacher died until someone told me later.”

“Yes.”

“I should have called.”

Maybe.

He looked at me.

“You hate should.”

“I don’t hate it.”

“You used to.”

“I used to hate people using it badly.”

“Same thing.”

“No.”

He laughed.

Again.

Then:

“I wanted to call.”

“When?”

“After I heard.”

“And?”

“I didn’t.”

“Why?”

“I thought too much time had passed.”

There.

The old trap.

Not mine alone.

“What changed?”

He looked around.

“You called first.”

Simple.

I drank tea.

Then said:

“I almost didn’t leave a message.”

“You didn’t.”

“Exactly.”

“I still called back.”

“Yes.”

“Which makes me morally superior.”

“No.”

“Clearly.”

We smiled.

The conversation became easier again.

Later, he asked:

“Did the postcard really make you call?”

“Yes.”

“Why that day?”

“I had taken a day off.”

He stared.

“You?”

“Yes.”

“Voluntarily?”

“Mostly.”

“Who forced you?”

“A friend.”

There.

He noticed.

“Friend?”

“Yes.”

“Takahashi?”

I looked at him.

“You remember him.”

“Of course I remember him.”

That surprised me.

“What do you remember?”

“He hated mushrooms.”

I stared.

Mizuno laughed.

“I met him twice.”

“I had forgotten that.”

“Apparently.”

“Anything else?”

“He thought I talked too much.”

“That remains plausible.”

“And he fixed your bicycle.”

That memory returned.

Slowly.

A broken rear brake.

Years ago.

Before so much else.

“Yes.”

Mizuno smiled.

“So you two are talking again.”

“Yes.”

“How?”

There.

Cards.

Could explain without contents.

I did.

Not every detail.

The existence of two cards.

Names.

Custody confusion.

Eventually each reaching the right person.

Tea.

Calls.

Fishing.

Friendship.

I did not tell him the words on either card.

No need.

Mizuno listened.

At the end he said:

“That is the most complicated route to coffee I’ve ever heard.”

“Yes.”

“Could have called him.”

“Yes.”

“So could he.”

“Yes.”

We both laughed.

Familiar answer.

Then Mizuno said:

“Maybe you only call people when paper attacks you.”

I looked at him.

Card.

Postcard.

“Apparently.”

“That is unhealthy.”

“Maybe.”

“I’ll send you a letter every year.”

“No.”

“So you maintain relationships.”

“No.”

“Registered mail.”

“Absolutely not.”

He laughed.

The old version of us appeared for a moment.

Not restored.

Recognizable.

Enough.

Yuko returned at six with groceries.

Dinner became practical.

Cut vegetables.

Set table.

Mizuno tried to help.

Yuko sent him away because he cut things too thick.

I offered.

She looked at me.

“Can you cut vegetables?”

“Yes.”

Mizuno called from the other room:

“Verify.”

I ignored him.

Yuko handed me a knife.

I cut.

Apparently acceptable.

No priest role.

No guest exemption.

Just dinner.

I liked that.

At the table later, Yuko asked:

“Did you two solve nine years?”

Mizuno said:

“Yes.”

I said:

“No.”

At the same time.

She looked between us.

Then:

“Good. Dinner first.”

No.

We both laughed.

We ate for more than an hour.

Not discussing the lost years.

Mostly current things.

Yuko’s work.

Temple neighborhood.

My temple renovations.

Takahashi.

The cats.

A local shop closing.

A restaurant that no longer existed.

Occasionally:

Do you remember—

Sometimes yes.

Sometimes no.

No one treated forgetting as betrayal.

That helped.

At nine, I returned to the guest room.

Not exhausted.

Full.

From food and conversation.

My phone had one message from Takahashi.

Museum souvenir.

I wrote:

I am in Kyoto for a human being.

Kyoto has shops.

I did not reply.

Then:

Hope it’s okay.

That one I answered.

It is.

Pause.

Good.

No.

I smiled.

I lay down.

Different ceiling.

Different temple.

Mizuno perhaps ten meters away.

For years he had been a name in contacts.

Then a voice.

Now a person in another room.

Nothing had been repaired tonight.

No account settled.

No promise that we would speak every month after this.

He had been angry.

So had I, perhaps in quieter ways.

Both had failed to call.

Both had wanted to.

Neither fact canceled the others.

Tomorrow we would probably talk more.

Maybe about difficult things.

Maybe about gutters.

Both were possible.

Before sleeping, I thought of the station.

Large clock.

Crowd.

Mizuno raising one hand.

That was the moment I had feared most.

Not because I expected rejection.

Because imagination ended there.

Before the platform, I could imagine any reunion.

Warm.

Awkward.

Disappointing.

Perfect.

Once I saw him, all those versions disappeared.

There was only the man actually standing fifteen meters away.

Older.

Glasses.

Dark coat.

Same small hand gesture.

I had walked toward him.

He had walked toward me.

No card had told either of us to.

No postcard had required it.

No one needed anything repaired.

We had chosen a date.

Bought a ticket.

Arrived.

For the first time in nine years, the distance between us had become something measured in steps.

And then we took them.

It came on an ordinary afternoon, the kind that should have slipped through memory without leaving a mark.

The club had ended early. A few students drifted off toward the canteen; others lingered under the neem tree, trading weekend plans. Aarav and Aarna found their usual place on the steps outside, tea steaming in thin paper cups that left faint brown circles on the concrete.

The air was swollen with summer, dry wind, restless leaves, a sun too bright to be kind. The city hummed in the distance, half-asleep in its own heat.

Aarav was sketching without purpose, his pencil looping into shapes that meant nothing, just motion to keep his hands busy. The silence between them was easy, the kind that comes only after years of knowing someone. Until she broke it.

“So…” Aarna began, her voice softer than usual. “I wanted to tell you something.”

He looked up. Her tone wasn’t casual.

Her fingers turned the rim of her cup again and again, a nervous orbit.

“I applied for a program abroad. Just to try,” she said, eyes flicking toward him, then away. A heartbeat of quiet. “And… I got in.”

The world stilled.

The cicadas buzzed louder, the sun caught on the edge of her hair, someone laughed somewhere far away. But around them, everything slowed, the kind of stillness that follows a sentence you can’t take back.

Aarav’s pencil froze mid-line. A single dot of graphite pressed into the page until it tore slightly.

Then the meaning sank in, slow and heavy.

She’s leaving.

He managed a breath that didn’t feel like breathing. “That’s… amazing, Aarna. Congratulations.”

The word amazing cracked like dry glass.

Her smile came bright and nervous, alive with pride. “Thanks. It feels surreal, you know? Scary, but exciting too. It’s everything I wanted.”

He nodded, trying to keep the expression on his face from collapsing. “You deserve it.”

The paper cup crumpled quietly in his hand, tea seeping through the fold, a small warmth against his palm that he barely noticed.

He wanted to tell her that she was everything he wanted.

That the idea of her leaving felt like the ground shifting just enough to unbalance everything he’d built.

But the words jammed somewhere between his heart and his throat.

Aarna kept talking, about forms, flights, timing, what the next few months might look like. He listened, or at least pretended to, storing away every detail of her voice, the lift at the end of her sentences, the way she still used her hands when she was excited. He smiled when he was supposed to, laughed when she did, and wondered if she could hear the quiet breaking behind his calm.

When the tea was finished and the sun began to sink, they said goodnight the way they always did.

But as he watched her walk away, her shadow long against the pavement, something inside him gave way, not in a sharp, dramatic snap, but in a slow, inevitable sag. Like fabric losing its shape.

That night, the air refused to cool. The fan turned lazily above his bed as the city lights shimmered through the haze outside his window. Aarav sat by the sill, notebook open on his knees, pen trembling slightly in his hand.

He wrote:

Some storms
don’t arrive suddenly.
You hear them forming,
you feel the air shift,
you smell the rain long before it falls.
But knowing it is coming
doesn’t make the thunder
hurt any less.

He pressed his forehead against the page, the faint smell of ink and dust rising to meet him.

It was real now, no longer a maybe, no longer a fear whispered in the dark.

Aarna was leaving.

And no matter how tightly he held on to her voice, her laughter, her quiet steadiness, the slow tide of goodbye had already begun to move.

The third family of rats died on a Monday. Gerald found them behind the dumpster - a mother and four pups, arranged in a neat semicircle as if they had been having a meeting about the smell when the smell won the argument. Their faces wore the expression. By now Gerald knew the expression. It was the same face the UPS driver had made and the same face the mockingbird had made and the same face that every living thing within the ambient reach of Dale Pfeiffer's candles eventually made, which was not really an expression at all but rather the absence of one—the face of a creature that had been emptied of the thing that made it a creature and left holding only the container.

He swept them into a dustpan without ceremony. Three families now, in as many weeks. He did not count the insects. Nobody counts the insects. But if someone had, the number would have been in the hundreds - roach families, ant families, entire civilizations of small things that had existed in the walls and cracks and crevices of the Delacroix strip mall for decades, surviving neglect and weather and the death of the Curves fitness and the death of the H&R Block and the death of CLOUD DADDY, surviving everything, and then not surviving Dale.

Gerald dropped the dustpan into the dumpster. He wiped his hands. He looked at Unit 5, where Dale was visible through the window, pouring wax, smiling, wearing a shirt that said SCENT IS THE SOUL'S FINGERPRINT, which was the kind of thing that should be embroidered on a pillow in a room where nothing has ever gone wrong.

Gerald went inside. He had a body to check on. He had several.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The Hubchek boy's name was Kyle. He was twenty-three years old and he had not left his parents' basement in four months. He was pale in the way that things are pale when they have not been exposed to light - not white, not gray, but a kind of translucent beige, the color of a page in a book nobody reads. He communicated with his mother primarily through the medium of plates left on the landing of the seventh stair and plates returned to the landing of the seventh stair, a system so refined that they had gone entire weeks interacting only through ceramic.

His father had disappeared two weeks ago. Kyle had not noticed. His father's absence changed nothing about the plates or the Wi-Fi or the particular rhythm of the house as heard from below. But then the plates stopped coming. The seventh stair stopped creaking. Two days passed. Three. Kyle ate a sleeve of Pringles. He ate another. On the fourth day without a plate, he did something he had not done in four months: he climbed the stairs.

The house was wrong. He knew it before he reached the top - not from anything he saw but from something he smelled, or rather from the ghost of something someone else had smelled, a residue that hung in the upstairs hallway like a stain in the air. It was faint. The candle had burned itself out days ago. But the memory of its smell remained - not the smell itself but the damage the smell had done, the way a fire leaves char long after the flame is gone. Kyle's eyes watered. His throat tightened. He kept walking.

The bedroom door was open. The candle was on the nightstand, a cream-colored ceramic vessel with a kraft paper tag that said "Serenity." Beside it, a framed photograph of his father. A rosary. A glass of water, untouched. And his mother, in the bed, on his father's side, wearing one of his father's shirts, with her hand hanging off the edge and her face turned toward the nightstand and an expression that was not sleep and was not peace and was not anything that Kyle had the vocabulary or the emotional architecture to process.

He stood in the doorway for eleven minutes. He did not call 911. He did not call anyone. Kyle Hubchek existed in a state of comprehensive not-knowing that bordered on the philosophical - he did not know what day it was, most days, or who was president, or how to speak to another human being without a screen between them - and the sight of his mother dead in her bed was so far beyond the boundaries of anything he had ever been asked to deal with that his mind simply declined the request. It looked at the situation and it said no and it went somewhere else, somewhere behind his eyes where things were still manageable, and from that small interior room Kyle Hubchek began to do the only thing he could think to do, which was to find out what had happened.

He found a notepad by the kitchen phone. On it, in his mother's handwriting: Delacroix Ave - candle shop - Wed. The pen was still there, on the counter, with its cap off, as if she had put it down intending to pick it up again and then the intention had expired.

He put on shoes. He walked out the front door. He stood in the driveway and blinked at the sky like a man witnessing a new color, and the air was warm and the sun was enormous and he breathed it in - a real breath, a full breath, the kind that fills parts of your lungs that have been closed so long they've forgotten they're lungs - and for a moment, standing there in his basketball shorts and his sneakers, with his dead mother upstairs and his dead father in a cooler forty miles away, Kyle Hubchek felt something he could not name but that other people would have called being alive.

He got in his mother's car. He drove to Delacroix Avenue with the windows down and the radio on, and for forty minutes the world was just a thing that moved past him, warm and loud and indifferent, and it did not occur to him that the world was also the thing that had killed his family, because Kyle did not yet know that his family had been killed. He knew only that his mother was dead and his father was gone and a notepad said Delacroix and a candle said Serenity and none of it meant anything yet.

It would never mean anything. Not to Kyle. He had approximately ninety minutes left in which things could mean things, and he would spend them in the sun.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He found the strip mall. It looked exactly like the kind of place where nothing good would happen to anyone, but Kyle had spent four months in a basement, so his standards for physical environments were generous. He parked in the lot, next to the blackened remains of weeds that had once been growing through the asphalt, and he walked toward the storefronts with the careful, squinting gait of a man relearning how to exist in three dimensions.

The candle shop was in the middle. DALE'S DIVINE SCENTS. This was where his mother had been. He could see candles in the window - pretty things, ceramic vessels, kraft paper tags. But the door was locked. A handwritten sign said BACK IN 20 MINS - GONE TO GET MORE WICKS! - DALE :) and the smiley face was drawn with the sincerity of a man who used smiley faces unironically, which is to say it was drawn by Dale.

Kyle waited. He stood in the parking lot and looked at the sky again and breathed the air again, and the air was not quite right - there was something underneath it, a low note, a hum of wrongness that he could taste more than smell - but it was still better than the basement. Everything was better than the basement. A war zone would have been better than the basement. A hospital would have been better. A morgue would have been better, though this comparison was more apt than Kyle knew, given that he was currently standing between a cooler full of human remains and a bakery that doubled as a pharmacy for the permanently inconvenient.

He got hungry. He had not eaten since the previous night - a sleeve of Pringles and half a two-liter of Mountain Dew, which had been his baseline meal for so long that his body no longer registered it as food so much as maintenance, the way a car accepts gasoline without gratitude.

The bakery next door was open. CURTIS'S. Kyle walked in.

Curtis was not there. Curtis was in the back, on the phone with a man in Slidell who wanted someone poisoned - his business partner, a dispute over a boat dealership, the usual banality of people who decide that murder is a reasonable solution to a contractual disagreement. Curtis was taking notes. Curtis was quoting prices. Curtis was, in every measurable way, occupied.

Kyle waited. He stood at the counter for five minutes, which was longer than he had voluntarily stood anywhere in four months, and then he cleared his throat, which produced no response, and then he said "Hello?" in a voice so unused to being projected that it came out sideways and died somewhere near the pastry case. Nobody came. The phone conversation in the back continued - something about dosage and timelines that Kyle did not listen to, because Kyle did not listen to things that were not directed at him through a screen.

The front case was beautiful. Golden croissants. Flaky palmiers. A tart so perfect it looked like it had been assembled by someone who had made a deal with a deity. But Kyle did not want a croissant. Kyle did not want a palmier. Kyle Hubchek, standing in Curtis Bayles's bakery with four months of basement metabolism and a lifetime of poor decisions coursing through his translucent body, wanted something specific - something that looked like the thing behind the counter, the thing in the second case, the case that was lower and farther back and not as well-lit, the case that held items with no price tags and no descriptions, just small white cards with names on them that Kyle could not read from where he was standing.

The second case was not locked. This was unusual. Curtis locked it when he left the front—always, without exception, the way a man who keeps venomous snakes keeps the terrarium locked. But Curtis had been mid-way through putting the "specials" in the case when the phone rang, and the phone call was worth forty thousand dollars, and the lock was a small padlock that required a small key, and the small key was in Curtis's apron pocket, and Curtis's attention was on the phone, and in the gap between Curtis's discipline and Curtis's greed, a twenty-three-year-old man who had been eating Pringles for four months reached into the specials case and took an éclair. He left a crumpled five-dollar bill on the counter beside the register, because Kyle Hubchek was many things; a recluse, a dropout, a man whose social skills had atrophied to the point of vestigial - but his mother had fed him every day for four months without complaint and had taught him, in the years before the basement, that you do not take things without paying for them. It was, possibly, the last of her lessons to survive in him, and it surfaced now, in the worst possible place, at the worst possible time, as a crumpled bill left on a counter in a bakery where the second display case should have been locked.

The éclair was beautiful. It was Curtis's finest work, if you defined "finest" in terms of craftsmanship and not in terms of the amount of aconitine suspended in the pastry cream, which was enough to stop the heart of a horse, and Kyle Hubchek was not a horse but he was also not built for endurance. He was built for sitting. He was built for screens. He was built for the specific, limited, climate-controlled world of a basement in Chalmette, and the world outside that basement had been killing his family for two weeks, one at a time, using every tool at its disposal - a cleaver, a candle, and now, in the parking lot of a strip mall on Delacroix Avenue, an éclair.

He ate it in three bites. He ate it standing in the parking lot, leaning against his mother's car, with the sun on his face and the taste of chocolate and pastry cream and something else - something bitter, something botanical, something that lived underneath the sweetness like a second floor beneath a house - and he thought, in the thirty seconds before the thought became impossible, that it was the best thing he had ever tasted. He thought that he should come back here. He thought that maybe the world outside the basement wasn't so bad after all.

Then he sat down. Not intentionally. His legs made the decision without consulting the rest of him, and he slid down the side of his mother's car with his back against the door and the éclair wrapper still in his hand and the sun still on his face, and the sitting became something else, something lower and quieter and more permanent, and Kyle Hubchek, twenty-three years old, four months in a basement, ninety minutes in the daylight, died in a parking lot with chocolate on his fingers and the first genuine smile his face had produced since the Obama administration.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Curtis found him. Curtis came out the back door with his phone call concluded and his notepad full of specifications for the boat dealership man from Slidell, and he walked around the corner and there was a boy sitting against a car in his parking lot with an expression that Curtis recognized immediately, because Curtis had produced that expression more times than he could count, and next to the boy's hand was a wrapper, and the wrapper was from the specials case, and the specials case was open, and Curtis Bayles felt something rise in his chest that was not guilt - guilt was for amateurs, guilt was for people who had not yet made peace with the arithmetic of what they did - but something adjacent to it, something colder, something like the feeling of a machine that has run correctly but on the wrong material.

He had not meant to kill this boy. He had not been paid to kill this boy. This boy was not on any list, in any envelope, behind any name. This boy was inventory loss. This boy was a glitch. And glitches, in Curtis's experience, were how people got caught.

He went to Gerald.

"There's a situation," Curtis said.

Gerald looked at him. Gerald could read a situation in the way a man's jaw was set, and Curtis's jaw was set in a way that meant the situation involved weight.

"How heavy?"

"Maybe one-eighty. Young. Parking lot."

They moved him after dark. They had done this before - not together, not with each other's product, but the mechanics were the same. A body is a body is a body. You lift it, you carry it, you put it somewhere cold, and you clean the place where it was. Gerald lifted Kyle Hubchek over one shoulder with the practiced ease of a man for whom this gesture had become as routine as carrying groceries, and he walked him through the back door of Unit 4, and he put him in Cooler #3, which was now the overflow cooler, which was now full, which was now a problem.

Three coolers. All occupied. The strip mall on Delacroix Avenue was operating at capacity, and the capacity was measured in a unit that no zoning board had ever anticipated.

"He had a car," Curtis said. "In the lot."

"Whose?"

"His mother's, I think. White Kia."

Gerald's face did the thing where it didn't move. The white Kia. The rosary on the mirror. Marlene Hubchek's car. The car that had been in this same lot four days ago carrying a woman looking for her husband, and now it had come back carrying her son looking for her, and both of them were now in Gerald's coolers, and the husband was in Cooler #2, and the mathematics of this were so grotesque that even Gerald, a man whose entire vocation was the reduction of human beings to arithmetic, could feel the numbers pressing against the inside of his skull.

"Same family?" he said.

"I think so."

Gerald sat down on a crate. He put his face in his hands, which were large enough to cover it entirely, which was good, because the expression underneath was not the nothing-face. It was something else. Something that looked, if you could have seen it, like a man doing long division on a sum that would not come out even.

"The father's in Cooler Two," Gerald said into his palms. "Day fourteen."

Curtis said nothing.

"The mother's probably dead too. Dale's candle. I'de guess four days ago."

Curtis said nothing.

"And now the son. Your éclair."

"He wasn't supposed to.....I didn't.....the case was....."

"One family, Curtis. Three of us. One family."

The word sat between them like a stone dropped in still water. Family. Three members. Three methods. Three men who had never coordinated, never conspired, never so much as discussed the Hubcheks as a shared concern, and yet the strip mall on Delacroix Avenue had consumed every last one of them - father by cleaver, mother by candle, son by éclair - with the blind, systematic efficiency of an organism that does not think but only feeds.

They sat on the curb. Gerald and Curtis, side by side, the way they had sat before, the way they were beginning to sit with a regularity that suggested ritual. The parking lot was dark except for the glow from Unit 5, where Dale was still awake, still pouring, still humming. The white Kia sat in the lot like an accusation with wheels.

"We need to talk about Dale," Gerald said.

"Dale didn't do this one."

"Dale did the mother. I did the father. You did the son. That's three for three, Curtis. Three out of three Hubcheks, and this address is the last place every one of them was seen alive. How long before someone counts?"

Curtis said nothing. He was looking at the Kia. He was thinking about the rosary on the mirror - how it had swung when Marlene parked, four days ago, and how it would swing again when someone came to find the car, and how many swings of that rosary were left before the swinging stopped meaning parking and started meaning evidence.

"We need to do something about Dale," Gerald said again, and the word something was doing a lot of work in that sentence - it was carrying the weight of every option from conversation to cleaver, and Gerald was not yet specifying which end of that spectrum he meant, and Curtis was not yet asking, and between the two of them the word something hung in the air like the smell from Unit 5, present and terrible and unresolved.

Inside the candle shop, Dale held up a new creation. He admired it. He turned it in the light. He wrote on the kraft paper tag, in his careful handwriting: "Family."

It was a large candle. Three wicks. He thought the name was warm.

In the parking lot, a stray cat that had been approaching the strip mall from the east stopped walking. It sat down. It looked at Unit 5. It turned around and went the other way, which made it the smartest living thing on Delacroix Avenue, and possibly the only one that would remain living.

Part 1

The endless white expanse stretched out in every direction, silent, vast, and infinite, while beneath the four children, the massive circular pattern rotated with a solemn, ancient grace. Intricate symbols shimmered across its surface, flowing like living rivers of pure light—from the traditional composite bow and the fluid steps of Taekkyeon to the elegant arcs of the sword dance, all bound together by countless luminous threads. Jinwoo, Hanul, Darin, and Soyeon stood near the center in complete silence, having just faced the deepest parts of themselves, their hidden fears, and their buried wounds.

None of those painful memories had magically vanished, but for the first time, they were no longer turning away from them. Arena’s calm, synthesized voice resonated smoothly across the empty white world as pale blue letters shimmered brightly before dissolving.

"Self-Reconciliation Complete."

After a heavy pause, another system message materialized.

"However... you are not yet warriors."

Crossing her arms with a deep frown, Darin asked if they were serious, while Hanul let out an exaggerated sigh of disbelief about having to fight mirror images all over again. Soyeon’s gentle smile softened the tension, leading Hanul to hope she was right as all four of them laughed together for the first time—a brief, entirely real sound that eased the suffocating weight pressing down on their chests.

Suddenly, the great circular pattern beneath their feet ignited with blinding brilliance, spinning at a dizzying speed and surging with raw energy as a warm wind swept through the world, instantly ending the laughter and putting them on high alert.

Part 2

The brilliant light flowing from the great circle slowly divided into four distinct streams, each drifting toward a different child until a simple, unadorned wooden bow materialized before Jinwoo, floating quietly in mid-air. It was old, plain, and scarred by years of rough use, yet the moment Jinwoo’s eyes locked onto it, something deep and dormant inside his soul stirred violently, leading him to reach out and close his fingers firmly around the grip.

Instantly, the endless white world shattered like glass, replaced by a fierce mountain wind, the scent of fresh grass and damp earth, and rolling green hills dotted with thousands of targets. Turning in a full circle with wide eyes, Jinwoo wondered where he was and whether it was another illusion, but Arena calmly replied that it was synchronization.

The environment felt terrifically real, from the buzzing insects in the grass to the uneven dirt beneath his shoes and the chill of the wind. Arena explained that until now they had merely observed martial arts from the outside, but from this exact moment they would begin to truly understand them.

Looking down at the unassuming bow, Jinwoo instinctively drew it back to his cheek as muscle memory took over, but when he loosed the string, the arrow dropped awkwardly into the grass a few steps away. Darin’s mocking laughter rang out from across the field, prompting a deep red flush on Jinwoo’s ears before Arena intervened to state that the memories of the art already existed deep within his body, even though they were still someone else's memories.

As Jinwoo frowned at the weapon, an old man in faded white robes flickered into existence near a target, moving with steady, unhurried grace to smoothly draw a weathered bow.

Part 3

The old man stood motionless before the distant target, breathing calmly and holding the bow as an extension of his own arm while the wind swept across the expansive field. Closing his eyes, he listened to the breeze carrying the scent of damp earth before drawing the string back with effortless, liquid harmony and releasing the arrow in a blur of motion.

Thud.

The distant target trembled as the arrow buried itself dead-center, and the old man simply advised not to watch the target, but to watch the wind itself. When Jinwoo complained about how he was supposed to watch the invisible wind, the old man dissolved into the breeze, leaving only the heavy wooden bow in Jinwoo’s trembling hands.

Far away in other dimensions of the trial, Hanul slipped on the polished stone of a traditional courtyard and landed flat on his back, told by an elderly master to move with the flow of the current rather than trying to forcefully defeat an opponent. Darin tumbled ungracefully onto the white floor among thousands of floating luminous swords, listening to a master dancer explain that a sword must first cut through one's own heart before it can cut through an enemy. Soyeon stood alone amidst glowing threads of light stretching endlessly into the dark, learning to see the connections between everything rather than trying to see it all at once.

Far below in Seoul, another violent explosion shook Earth’s crumbling orbit as Arena’s calm voice echoed across every training ground, announcing the initiation of martial synchronization alongside system numbers showing sluggish progress for Gungdo, Taekkyeon, Geommu, and the command link. Staring in disbelief at the numbers and asking when they would ever reach one hundred percent, Darin received a brief, merciless command from Arena to continue training, leaving the four children to exchange helpless sighs as their true, grueling journey as warriors truly began.

"But... where are they going?"

The question slipped quietly from between Taesung's stiff lips.

Where did that endless black procession finally end?

How far did they have to march before their journey was complete?

The thought arrived without warning—

and with a force that startled him.

A strange curiosity rose from somewhere deep inside his chest, powerful enough to cut through the suffocating numbness that had consumed him for so long.

It wasn't idle curiosity.

It wasn't simple fascination.

It was the first genuine question he had asked himself in years.

Something real.

Something alive.

Almost without realizing it, Taesung pushed himself to his feet.

As though answering a silent summons.

The forgotten cup of coffee rolled gently across the marble bench behind him, but he never looked back.

His eyes remained fixed on the thin black line winding across the ground.

He took a step.

Then another.

Slowly, he followed.

Around him, the people in the plaza remained exactly as they had been before.

Still.

Silent.

Their vacant eyes stared endlessly into empty space, like mannequins arranged in a showroom after closing time.

They looked less like living people...

and more like statues that had somehow forgotten they were once alive.

Among those frozen figures, only Taesung moved.

With his shoulders slightly hunched and his gaze fixed on the ground, he walked after the tiny procession of ants as though under a spell.

To anyone watching, he probably looked insane—

a grown man wandering across a public plaza while staring obsessively at insects crawling over the pavement.

He couldn't have cared less.

The dull, lifeless gazes surrounding him had already lost all meaning.

The ants never hesitated.

In the heart of a city where every inch of nature was monitored, disinfected, and meticulously controlled, they advanced with unwavering confidence—

as though they, not humanity,

were the true masters of this vast empire.

They crossed the marble plaza.

Passed over strips of immaculate artificial grass.

Threaded their way through carefully sculpted landscaping.

The black procession continued without interruption until it reached the base of a towering tree whose massive trunk looked centuries old.

Taesung stopped.

Without slowing, the ants climbed over the thick, weathered roots, disappearing between ridges in the bark before flowing toward a narrow opening hidden beneath the tree.

A small hole in the earth.

Dark.

Silent.

Bottomless.

One after another, they vanished into it.

Not a single ant broke formation.

Not one wandered away.

Each disappeared into the darkness with absolute certainty,

as though an unseen fortress stretched beneath the ground—

and every one of them knew exactly where it belonged.

Humans are Weird – It’s a Wrap

Original Post: http://www.authorbettyadams.com/bettys-blog/humans-are-weird-its-a-wrap

The last of the frolicking humans had abandoned the north-facing slopes, retreating with their noise and warmth into their houses to drink heated fluids and regale their less adventurous family members with tales of the days adventures. The soft pulse of mammalian heartbeats, drifting down through the insulating snow, signaled the presences of a few lingering adults who were apparently standing silently watching the stars. Notes the Passing Changes cast awareness over the slopes one more time and felt satisfied that all of the human young had safely made it back to their family groups. The vast majority of the agricultural land was cold and dormant, requiring little to no monitoring on this darkest night of the year. Notes the Passing Changes let awareness centralize in the first house on the list of visitations tonight.

The leaves of the plant that Sandy and Pat had placed in their central living area were more than adequate to the task of giving a clear view of the room. However the conifer they had brought in provided far more data points and it had been simplicity itself to connect it to the forest outside. Though the humans had warned Notes the Passing Changes that they would be giving it to the local domesticated herbivores so it would be unwise to invest any personal biomass in it. The view it gave, a full three-hundred sixty degrees of the human dwelling from the floor to the ceiling was fascinating. The plant itself, the humans insisted on calling the little thing a ‘tree’, was covered in lights and reflective surfaces and extra greenery hung on the walls. The air was thick with complex molecules that drifted out of the cooking room. Human music drifted from the household speakers. Sandy was alone in the room, sitting cross-legged and staring down at a tangle of brightly colored paper, ribbons, and a cloth facsimile of a local predator species. She was also wielding a pair of steel cutting blades so Notes the Passing Changes decided to wait until she set them down before speaking to her. Startling humans who were holding blades had never turned out well.

While the human focused on concealing the faux-predator Notes the Passing Changes took time to observe the pile of items that had not yet been concealed in either the brightly colored paper or the sturdier reflective bags, and compare the mass and number to those that had been.

“Human Friend Sandy?” Notes the Passing Changes greeted the human when she had breathed a sigh, set the blades to the side, and sat up to stretch.

“Eh? Notes?” she asked glancing first at the usual plant and then up at the conifer fragment with a wide smile.

“Will Pat be arriving to help you with this task?” Notes the Passing Changes asked.

“He better no’!” Sandy declared, shoving some hair out of her face with one hand as she grabbed a pen with the other. “I told him ta stay away till I’m done!”

“If my understanding of this celebration is sufficient you only have a few hours to complete the task,” Notes the Passing Changes observed.

Sandy laughed as she carefully wrote something on a tag on the paper wrapped predator.

“Nah, I got most of the night,” she informed Notes the Passing Changes. “The deadlines when the little nephews and nieces show up tomorrow, not tonight at midnight. I just need ta get it all done before I go to sleep so I can rest easy.”

Notes the Passing Changes gave a vague sound to indicate understanding and observed in silence as Sandy concealed several more of the items. Several were already tucked under the tree and one that smelled of the main space port had the label ‘Notes the Passing Changes’.

“Sandy,” Notes the Passing Changes interjected as she paused between wrapping a low grade weapon in paper and arranging a processed food item in a bag, “are you enjoying this process?”

The human paused, turned her head too look fully at the tree, and for a long moment her eyes unfocused as she pondered the question. Finally she nodded slowly.

“Aye,” she said, a slow grin spreading over her face, and her pheromones were in accord with the satisfaction she expressed. “I don’ like the time crunch, but I’ve always loved the warping and the prepping part.”

“You have been gathering these items for many weeks now,” observed Notes the Passing Changes. “Your workload has been limited now that winter is in full angle and the plants are dormant.”

“Yer’ point?” Sandy asked tilting her head and picking up the blades.

“If you do not enjoy the time crunch, and you have had full control over you time these past weeks,” Notes the Passing Changes asked slowly, “then why do you now have a mass of the work to prepare in a decided time crunch?”

Sandy stared at the tree for a long moment and her face flashed with annoyance before she forced it to a more neutral smile and simply gave a laugh that suggested as much fatigue as humor.

“If y’er gonna be making sharp observations just keep an eye on me pen and scissors so I don’t lose them,” she said, bending back over her work.

“Of course,” Notes the Passing Changes agreed.

It would be fairly simple to keep enough awareness here to preform the class while also visiting the other friends on the list. Perhaps another human household would hold the answer.

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Istennel Furentis was pulled out of a sound slumber by his father’s tune ringing on the comm unit. As soon as he could make himself presentable, he answered, “Good morning, Father " His father said, “Did I wake you? I keep forgetting about the time difference.” It’s ok; I have so much to do. How can I help you?  “I just need you to be a liaison between our house and Haego. I think a Captain Cottontail will report on the status of the recovery. How is the rescue mission aboard the Eternal Garden going?.” “Princess Clara is taking care of organizing the captives, trying to reconnect them to family, and helping me refit this ship for my research project.”   “So you ask to court the Reaper?’ That’s very bold.”She didn’t say no.  I plan to correspond about the racers the Ferentis shipyard has built. Maybe invite her to a meal to celebrate the beginning of a relationship.”  “What about the poor, unfortunate souls?”  Oh, the third-gen captives; they are redeemable with a lot of work. It would make a wonderful case study for a social science team.  So far, the team has lowered the temperature in their pens and introduced them to covering themselves with cloth. They prefer bright colors and flora patterns.  We found out they understand the simple commands the Drazans would say: “Come, Stay, Give. They are also great mimics. The Yakantes were in a nearby pen, and now they whistle. They are thriving on the commoner’s mess and protein bars.  Captain Milkades has found me dozens of docile Drazans and a nursery full of sprouts in different stages of development that can be raised by humans.” It sounds like your dream is coming true, so I’ll let you get on with it.
Istennel thought he was a most fortunate third son, like the saying goes, “The firstborn wears the crown, the second moves things around, the third gets to wear a party grown and pity the fourth on down.” His mother adored him. Father sent him to the best university for xenobiology studies. Thanks to his perfect pitch, he was able to learn and speak a passable Yakanti dialect.
 His Yakanti professors recommended that the Hierarchy invite him to advance his studies. He came home with a trade agreement for agricultural goods, proving that his studies could be profitable. When he heard that a Drazan diplomat was touring the Principality, he asked his father to arrange an extended stay.  He learned about the mythology of the Drazan origin.  He thought introducing the diplomat to animals like pigs, which produced large litters, and cows and sheep, which reached maturity faster than humans, could end the Drazan raids, since these animals could be a better source of protein, and maybe start friendlier relationships.  He later learned that he had helped a spy advance a plan to invade Haego and make it a base at the edge of the system.
The weight of that unwitting betrayal had lingered over Istennel for decades. He remembered the diplomat's keen, calculating eyes as they toured the lush agricultural estates, absorbing every detail under the guise of intellectual curiosity. What Istennel had envisioned as a diplomatic bridge built on agrarian prosperity was instead converted into operational intelligence for the Drazan war machine.
For the next thirty years, his family just monitored the situation on Haego and talked about how to reclaim the planet. To his shame, when the Drazans laid waste to the planet, they gave up.  Only offering Princess Clara the impossible job of beating the Drazans.  Now he had a chance to validate his father’s trust and faith in him.  He would have to slow down his research projects until he understood how bad things were on Haego. First, a meeting with Baron Staple to set up the systems for the reports he needed.  Maybe help with the refugees' relocation. Hopefully, there were talented people who would want a fresh start, a second chance, to rebuild a new life and help build a whole new world.

PART THIRTEEN-HUNDRED-AND NINETY-SEVEN

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Saturday

Caleb followed his brother and Lucas into the studio, bypassing the workbench entirely for the drying room farther down the hallway. It was by far Caleb’s favourite room in the studio, with all the finished products drying on shelves or packaged in the clear boxes Boyd had ordered from somewhere to fit each piece perfectly while still letting the outside world see them.

It made for a brilliant PR campaign, though he doubted that had been his shy brother’s intent.

As he walked into the room, he knew—he categorically knew how good his big brother was at carving figures, but he was still brought to a complete halt by the carving of Static kneeling with his rifle raised the way Caleb had seen him kneel so many times in real life that the image would be burned into his memory forever.

“Don’t touch it!” his brother warned, and Caleb wanted to smack him.

“I know!” he shot back, just as aggravated. He gripped the shelf it sat on to avoid the temptation and moved close enough that he was almost cross-eyed. “Jesus,” he whispered, ducking down slightly and looking specifically at his leg positions. Then he looked back at Boyd. “How’d you know he hitched his right knee to the left for balance?” Caleb asked, because the pull of the uniform pants showed exactly where the knee had hit the ground before dragging left. Just like in real life.

“Ummm…the photo you gave me. You’d all just come in from the field, and I zoomed in on his utilities. The wear around his right knee spread wider towards the inside, like he hit the ground there first and then dragged it.”

Caleb squinted. “And how did you know he pulled to the left and not the right?”

“The drag in the photo leaned more into the inside of the knee, not the outside.”

Caleb peeled his eyes away from the lean sniper and moved onto Riva Souza. Although he didn’t know the sergeant anywhere near as well as he knew his own team, the likeness was still staggering. And as with Static*,* Souza was in a battle position, his hand pointing at something but leaning back to shout at someone behind him. There wasn’t a Marine in the world who didn’t recognise that pose from their sergeant.

As Caleb moved down the line, one Marine after another who had bled for him in the field and vice versa stared out at him. Everyone from Clicks on the radio to Private B-Me (short for Blow Me after he’d rolled in drunk one time and suggested that to their captain—right before he dropped to his knees, threw up and promptly passed out in his own vomit.

 The captain had hooked a boot under his shoulder and flipped him onto his side to keep him from suffocating and left him there … for the next ten hours. B-Me had woken up after five and been ordered to stay right where he was for another five instead of a court-martial, keeping him under discipline well after midday in the blistering heat of the summer tropics.

The mouthful or two of water he’d managed to catch as a bucket was tossed across his face every hour to keep him hydrated was the limit of their captain’s compassion. The stench by the end had been beyond horrific, and to this day, B-Me swore he’d have rather taken the court-martial and had never touched another drop of alcohol.)

Each had a story Caleb knew.

He eventually tore his gaze away from his men to the man who had carved their likeness. Several times he tried to articulate how he felt, only to remain silent. Stunned? Shocked? Both? “You carved all of these today?” Caleb didn’t take his eyes off his brother as he gestured along the line of drying figurines.

Boyd didn’t exactly crumble under the scrutiny. Nor did he quite look away shyly, though it was a close call. Caleb reached up and clamped his hands on either side of Boyd’s face to keep him facing forward. “This is you,” he said, staring him hard in the eyes the same way he would try to instil strength into a wounded or frightened Marine on the battlefield.

He felt the muscles in Boyd’s face shift, indicating he still wanted to look away, which only made Caleb even more determined. He growled his warning and tensed his arms, refusing to budge. “You did this,” he insisted, giving his brother a brief shake for emphasis. “You. Not your fancy knives. Not an expensive studio. Not anyone or anything else. You. You did this, bro, and holy crap I am so proud of you for it!”

He suddenly released Boyd’s head and wrapped his arms around his neck, even if it meant he had to go up on his toes. He refused to let go until Boyd hugged him back. It took a minute, with several stop-starts, but eventually Boyd’s arms closed around him and held him tightly against his chest. Boyd’s heartbeat pounded in his ear, almost reverberating through his skull. “I am so proud of you, bro,” Caleb repeated, though it was muffled against the pec he was mashed against.  

A tremor rippled through Boyd’s frame. At first, Caleb thought his brother was coughing, until the tremor became a shudder that ended in heavy, silent sobs.

Caleb maintained his same grip. Not more. Not less. He wouldn’t acknowledge Boyd’s tears but would hold his brother for as long as he needed.

* * *

Boyd was bawling.

He hadn’t cried like this since … no, not even the day he woke up in New York City all those years ago and thought his life was over because he could no longer serve in the military. He had never cried like this. He had staunchly held back his tears the day their mother had burned all the soldiers he’d carved for Caleb, supporting his little brother, who had turned into his chest to hide his tears from their furious mother. The sheer hatred she levelled at him that day was his first sign of how she truly felt about his woodwork, and it had been terrifying.

Lucas became a blurry mass of colours that stood unmoving in the doorway. He wanted to turn away. He wanted to hide. He could do neither without hurting his only brother by birth. He had five … well, four others now that Lucas had become so much more. 

Strength gave out in his legs, and he slumped in his brother’s arms, but Caleb compensated by shifting his weight and easing them both to the floor. Yet still, he cried. He tried to pull away—to convince Caleb this was unnecessary—but all he did was make his brother shift his handholds from flat palms to fisting the back of his shirt. “I’m not going anywhere, brother, so stop fighting me,” he growled, his voice just as thick with emotion.

That was when Boyd lost it. Curling himself around his much smaller brother, he pressed his bowed head against Caleb’s and cried in great, heaving sobs, clinging to him with all the desperation he’d wanted to show and didn’t dare.

“Jesus Christ,” Caleb swore from under him, but still he didn’t let go. It was like he had decided this was a mission like any other, and he was holding the line until the bitter end.

Another mass moved up to squat behind Boyd, and lips were pressed softly to the back of his head.

“Let it all out, love,” Lucas crooned, gently caressing the spot where he’d been kissed. “We’re here for you.”

So, he did.

* * *

Minutes later, the three men were still on the floor. Caleb had his back against the drying shelves below where Boyd’s carvings of his unit sat curing while Boyd and Lucas remained in the middle a few feet away. Like him, Boyd was on his ass with one leg bent at the knee to act as an armrest. Lucas knelt behind him, gaining enough height to wrap his arms around Boyd’s neck and rest his cheek against the top of his head.

If he wasn’t so emotionally drained, he would have laughed at the way the detective appeared to be staking a claim. Fortunately for all concerned, he knew that wasn’t the case. Boyd was still raw, and Lucas’ contact kept him grounded. Caleb had cracked the big lug wide open, and now it was up to those who were his future to pick up the slack.

“So…what exactly have you gotten out of your therapy if all of that shit was still locked up in that noggin of yours?” he asked, pointing at his own head and then at his brother’s.

“Doctor Kearns has helped me a lot, Caleb,” Boyd insisted, his hand rising to curl his fingers around Lucas’ supporting arm.

Lucas pressed another kiss to Boyd’s growing hair. (It was good to see Boyd finally putting away his military upbringing and forging his own way in the world, but it would still take a minute for Caleb to accept the longer hair and beard as his brother’s new normal.) “Boyd was beyond stubborn. It just took one stubborn Masters to break through to another stubborn Masters. Where were you ten years ago?”

The quip was too easy. “Junior high,” he said. “It took me all these years to build up enough muscle to hold doofus' deadweight.” He shifted focus to his brother. “What are you now? Five hundred pounds?”

“Two eighty-ish,” Boyd admitted.

“Fuck!” No wonder his arms felt like limp noodles.

Still, he'd do it all again in a heartbeat for his brother.

* * *

((All comments welcome. Good or bad, I’d love to hear your thoughts 🥰🤗))

I made a family tree/diagram of the Mystallian family that can be found here

For more of my work, including WPs: r/Angel466 or an index of previous WPS here.

FULL INDEX OF BOB THE HOBO TO DATE CAN BE FOUND HERE!!

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GLOSSARY This links to a post on the free section of my Patreon.

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Satsuki was very curious about Klastoria’s discoveries, in large part because of what it said about Klastoria’s potential abilities.

She was not, however, terribly concerned about Amrydor’s immediate health — even assuming that Klastoria’s analysis was essentially correct, the boy was clearly doing fine and his spiritual power was a match for Fuyuko’s with no signs of weakness or flaws. He’d also been pushed into deep enough exhaustion that any physical issues his spiritual power was compensating for should have shown themselves.

Which suggested that there was something else going on, so she still fully intended to pursue this investigation; Fuyuko’s safety was going to be assured as far as was feasible without hindering her growth, so Satsuki would ensure her protector was up for the job.

It took only a few minutes for her to cross the expanse of the mushroom forest and slip into the library through the warrens.

Once she was inside the library, Satsuki slipped back into normal reality from the ethereal, mostly invisible state that had allowed her to move here so quickly, then began searching for a particular librarian. Vidya was the newest boss of the library zone — thanks to Moriko — and this seemed like a good time for Satsuki to meet the dark-haired vixen. She was amused that Moriko had managed to uplift the fox into a form and style reminiscent of both the ‘sexy librarian’ concept and the ‘femme fatale’ concept, along with a touch of goth, even though none of those concepts had been codified on this planet.

Not that every world codified such concepts the same way, or even used directly translatable terms for similar ideas. Her travels to various technologically advanced worlds had been educational and entertaining, though she had noted that technology had at least one severe drawback. Nothing she had encountered was truly self-sustaining the way internalized magical power was — even the space-faring civilizations required infrastructure to maintain their devices. This was why Satsuki had chosen to not invest effort into mastering technology or the related sciences, though she had been careful to understand the basics of every field, and this knowledge had certainly helped refine her magical skills.

Ah, there she is.

Satsuki strode up to where Vidya was collecting a pile of books onto a wooden cart with a deep V-shaped groove to hold books in a way to make it easy to read their spines. The younger kitsune looked up sharply, well before Satsuki reached her personal space; good, she kept awareness of her surroundings even when performing other tasks. “Hello Vidya, I have a request to make that will require a bit of discretion.”

“Oh?” Vidya asked with a wary tone.

“You see, I have some books I wish to donate to the nexus, but I’d rather not involve the cores in direct analysis of them or their content. There are questions I do not wish to answer at this time, and I do believe it would be best for Azeria to not be aware of certain matters. As a librarian and zone boss, if you shelve them as you would any other book belonging to the library, this should cause them to be integrated via the cores’ background processes without drawing the attention of their conscious minds. Oh, and I believe it is within your discretionary powers to designate a portion of my nexus rewards into copies of these books, once they are integrated.”

Now Vidya looked curious. “What do these books contain?”

“Technical information involving natural philosophy that has been thoroughly vetted across centuries of systematic investigation and testing. It should prove quite useful to Azeria.” She gave Vidya a conspiratorial smile. “However, I believe our master might be annoyed that I smuggled such information to this world — it’s not exactly forbidden, but it is heavily discouraged, so I have been attempting to maintain some discretion. While I might normally enjoy Mordi’s attention while he is in such a mood, it would interfere with work I am doing on their behalf, though not with their knowledge.”

The vixen tilted her head in thought before saying, “Why do you work without their knowledge?”

“Some tasks are too mundane to bother them with. Others are best handled discretely, and sometimes in ways that might not be to their preference. After all, loyalty and obedience are not the same thing, as our dear master and mistresses know — and if Mordi truly wanted to know what I was up to, he would try to keep a closer eye on me. The man understands me far too well to believe I am not doing things my own way. This is not dissimilar to how the Azeria clan works on behalf of Kuiccihan; the king does not oversee their operations.”

Vidya’s tail swished as she smiled. “I see. That does seem like it could be an interesting way to operate. Exciting, even.”

Excellent, that was the sort of response Satsuki had been hoping for. “It is a topic upon which I would be quite happy to tutor you, but for the moment, let us focus on the books I wish to donate. Here.” She began conjuring the books from one of her storage rings and placing them on the cart.

It was a somewhat eclectic selection that she had picked up during her travels — while a compilation of books from a single university, or planet for that matter, might have been a more efficient source of knowledge in many ways, this provided a wider variety of viewpoints on the topic, along with different languages, different materials, and the challenge of puzzling out how the different ways of looking at chemistry and physics formed a cohesive whole.

This was a very small sample of what she had available, but Satsuki was still thorough in making sure she provided everything that she had that was relevant to chemistry, biology, and organic chemistry, which required delving into some physics and atomic theory.

That was a topic that Satsuki had been very careful about; none of the books in her collection mentioned certain horrible weapons or any variations of the mass to energy equation.

While the likes of Gil might be able to survive such an explosion, Satsuki was quite certain she did not possess the magical power to come out of it alive if she was too close. She’d need at least a hundred yards and sufficient forewarning, and even then she’d be trying to use magical barriers to ride the shock wave out of the immediate danger zone rather than trying to weather the blast. Followed by a lot of healing potions and regeneration elixirs on her way to the nearest healer who knew how to deal with radiation poisoning.

Vidya’s breath quickened as her fingers brushed along the books tenderly. “Yes, I can tell where these should go. This way.” The librarian cast a spell on the cart to make it follow her before hastily making her way to the maze-like ‘stacks’ section of the library.

Satsuki much preferred the open area they had just been in, but for a purely scholarly topic like this, she could see why it would belong in this stuffy area with all the academic books crammed together. After all, it was exactly where Kazue would imagine books on these topics going.

When they arrived, it was clear that the shelves had shuffled themselves to create several open spaces across a few different bookcases, and Vidya cheerily placed each book where it belonged. As she did so, several duplicates immediately formed in the adjacent spaces to the individual books, and Satsuki was able to claim a duplicate of each book as a reward.

Once her claimed copies were all stored in her ring, Satsuki smiled at Vidya. “Thank you very much; this should help my project move along quickly. Now, I don’t know if the topics will be to your specific interests, but if you do read them, I request that you don’t spread the information too freely, and try to restrict these from falling into the hands of delvers who have not earned a significant amount of trust. Later, we can discuss how best to work on Azeria’s behalf without telling the cores anything that they’d prefer to not know.”

“Yes, M’lady,” Vidya murmured distractedly — the librarian was already engrossed in examining the materials used to construct one of the books, and with the way she was caressing the glossy paper with its richly colored images, it would not be much of a stretch to say she was lusting over it.

Satsuki made a mental note to hand Kazue a book made of this sort of material when no one other than Mordecai and Moriko were around; she rather hoped for a similar reaction.

She left Vidya alone with the new books and made her way back to Klastoria’s lair, only to stop and stare at the distracted alchemist for a moment before she asked, “Just what are you doing to your arm?”

The girl jumped and squeaked in an adorable fashion, then hastily placed a vial back in its rack before she spilled anything. Well, anything more than what she’d already been doing, given the chemical burns covering Klastoria’s left arm.

“Oh! Um, hi, well, I’ve never had meat-flesh before, so I decided I wanted to better understand what happens and what people experience. It’d be nice if I could taste the exact reactions, but there’s still a lot of interesting sensory information and I can see what is happening in general and there are other tests to find out more details, so I’ve been doing all of that while taking notes. See?” Klastoria proudly pointed to a notebook that was full of tightly written notations.

“Doesn’t that hurt‽”

“Well, yeah, of course, but that’s easy enough to ignore.”

Of course it was. Klastoria didn’t have any instinctive responses to nervous system pain, so all she had to do was push aside any reflexes that her body was trying to perform. Those reactions would be foreign to her way of thinking and responding. The whole situation was also sort of adorable in a weird way that made Satsuki think of Klastoria as being a lot like what a child of Mordecai and Kazue could be.

Unfortunately, given everything else, Satsuki was the one who was going to have to take care of providing any parental advice for this one. “Klastoria, if you want me to consider creating a way for you to take on this form regularly, then you are going to need to take better care of it. Treating those wounds is going to take active healing while you are in this body; you can’t just replace the mass directly by simply eating more because the different layers of flesh are extremely differentiated and nutrients are distributed slowly. Furthermore, the immediate appearance is that of abuse, whether inflicted by another or by yourself. You could inflict harm on a lot of people’s reputations if you were seen with your arm like that — rumors do not care about truth or reason.”

“Abuse? Why— oh. Someone could do this for the purpose of inflicting pain alone. To make someone suffer.” Klastoria frowned. “I don’t like that, and I don’t like that someone might think I’d do that to myself or someone else. Or that they might think someone I like would do this to me. Yeah, I guess I have to be more careful about that. I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright, so long as you learn. Now, why don’t you try some of your healing potions, and then you can take notes on the experience.” That seemed to improve Klastoria’s mood, which had been part of Satsuki’s intention. “When you are done with that, I want you to browse these books briefly and then attempt to redraw the ‘shapes’ you mentioned before, but without looking at the ones you drew before.”

She summoned the books out of her storage ring and placed them on a table nearby. Browsing the books should be enough to help Klastoria connect to the information that now belonged to the nexus, though she’d need to study the books to gain a deep understanding.

Satsuki was looking forward to seeing the results of Klastoria’s enlightenment.

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The railway museum was open.

Takahashi sent a photograph of the website at eight twelve Sunday morning.

Not a link.

A screenshot.

Highlighted opening hours.

I replied:

I believed you.

He answered:

Evidence.

Unnecessary.

Says you.

Then:

I wrote:

Yes.

That was all.

At ten fifty-four, he arrived outside my house.

Not early enough to discuss.

I got in.

He looked at me.

“No bag.”

“No.”

“No temple bag.”

“You already said bag.”

“It matters.”

“I know how to leave home now.”

“That remains under review.”

I fastened the seat belt.

“Drive.”

He did.

The museum was forty minutes away.

On the way, Takahashi asked:

“Have you booked Kyoto?”

“No.”

“You said November.”

“I said I would check November.”

“Did you?”

“No.”

He glanced at me.

“Why?”

“I’ve been working.”

“You had yesterday afternoon.”

“I read.”

“That is not checking November.”

“No.”

“So you’re delaying.”

I looked out the window.

Maybe.

Not like before.

At least I did not think so.

“I said I would call this weekend.”

“This is Sunday.”

“Yes.”

“So?”

“The weekend is not over.”

Takahashi laughed.

“That is technically true and spiritually dishonest.”

“Do not use spiritually.”

“You’re a priest.”

“That does not give you access to adverbs.”

He drove.

The question remained.

Not unpleasantly.

The museum parking lot had more cars than expected.

Families.

Older couples.

A group of three men with cameras large enough to suggest commitment.

Takahashi looked at them.

“We may be underqualified.”

“For a museum?”

“For this museum.”

One man wore a railway company cap.

Another carried a notebook.

Takahashi looked at me.

“We have no equipment.”

“I have a phone.”

“Embarrassing.”

“You chose this.”

“Yes.”

We went inside.

At the ticket counter, the woman asked:

“Two adults?”

“Yes,” Takahashi said.

Then looked at me.

“As opposed to?”

“Children.”

“I know.”

“You looked offended.”

“I was not.”

The tickets printed.

Takahashi took both before I could.

“Why?”

“I invited you.”

“You also drove.”

“Yes.”

“That does not create ticket authority.”

“You can buy lunch.”

“Fine.”

No argument.

Progress.

Maybe.

The first room contained photographs.

Old stations.

Tracks through snow.

Workers beside locomotives.

Timetables.

Uniforms behind glass.

Takahashi stopped in front of an old signal device.

“What does that do?”

I read the label.

“You can read.”

“I’m asking you.”

“Why?”

“You’re closer.”

I read aloud.

He nodded.

Then examined the mechanism more carefully than the text.

“You like it.”

“No.”

“You have been looking for three minutes.”

“I like mechanical things.”

“That seems dangerously close to liking a railway museum.”

“Do not exaggerate.”

We moved on.

There was an old ticket punch under glass.

Several kinds of printed tickets.

Destination names.

Fares.

Dates.

Some faded.

I stopped.

Takahashi walked three steps before noticing.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

He came back.

Looked.

“Tickets.”

“Yes.”

“You have seen tickets before.”

“Yes.”

He waited.

I looked at one.

A departure station.

Arrival station.

Date.

A journey reduced to a rectangle of paper.

Not the person.

Not why they went.

Not what happened there.

Only enough information to permit travel.

Takahashi said:

“You’re doing it.”

“What?”

“Thinking too much in front of paper.”

I laughed.

“Probably.”

He tapped the glass lightly with one finger.

“Come look at the train.”

That helped.

The train was enormous.

Older than both of us.

Dark green.

Restored.

We could walk through one carriage.

Wood trim.

Small tables.

Seats that looked comfortable until we sat.

Takahashi immediately said:

“No.”

“What?”

“My back.”

“You sat for four seconds.”

“Enough.”

I remained seated.

He stood in the aisle.

A child ran past him.

Mother apologized.

Takahashi stepped aside.

No problem.

I looked through the window.

Museum wall.

Not scenery.

Still, the seat created an expectation of movement.

Strange.

Takahashi said:

“You planning Kyoto from here?”

I looked at him.

“Are you going to ask all day?”

“Until you call.”

“That sounds like pressure.”

He considered.

“Fair.”

Then:

“I’ll stop.”

There.

And he did.

At least for the next hour.

We moved through another room.

Track tools.

Lanterns.

Old photographs of workers clearing snow.

A model showing how points changed rail direction.

Takahashi understood it immediately.

I did not.

He explained.

I asked one question.

Then another.

He became increasingly enthusiastic while insisting he did not care about trains.

Finally I said:

“You like this.”

“I like mechanisms.”

“This is made almost entirely of mechanisms.”

“That is unfortunate.”

We spent ten minutes at the model.

Near noon, we reached a display about abandoned lines.

Maps.

Dates.

Stations closed.

Photographs of platforms after service ended.

Grass between rails.

A station building reused as a community center.

Another demolished.

Takahashi became quiet.

So did I.

Not grief exactly.

Change.

Things built for continuation that stopped continuing.

One panel showed a final train.

People along the platform.

Flowers.

Children waving.

Then after that:

nothing.

Not literally.

Roads remained.

Houses remained.

People found other ways to travel.

Still.

The line ended.

Takahashi said:

“I hate these.”

“Why?”

“Everyone looks too happy.”

I looked at the photograph.

Some were smiling.

Some not.

“They’re saying goodbye.”

“Yes.”

“That can include smiling.”

“I know.”

He remained there.

Then:

“When something ends, people suddenly act like they always loved it.”

That was sharper.

“Sometimes.”

“Garage near my old job closed three years after I left.”

“Yes.”

“Everyone posted photographs.”

“Did you?”

“No.”

“Did you care?”

He thought.

“Yes.”

There.

“But you didn’t post.”

“No.”

“Still cared.”

“Yes.”

We stood another minute.

Then moved on.

No lesson needed.

Lunch was in the museum café.

Takahashi ordered curry.

Of course.

I ordered soba.

He looked at the tray.

“You chose museum soba.”

“Yes.”

“You have lost judgment.”

“You chose museum curry.”

“Curry is difficult to ruin.”

“That is not true.”

“It is harder.”

We sat near a window overlooking an outdoor display.

A locomotive.

Two children climbing into a mock cab.

Parents taking photographs.

Takahashi opened a packet of pickles.

Then said:

“Mizuno.”

I looked at him.

“You said you’d stop.”

“I stopped for more than an hour.”

“That is not how stopping works.”

“Fine.”

He ate one bite.

Then:

“Are you afraid to go?”

There.

Better question than:

Have you booked?

I thought.

“Maybe a little.”

“Of him?”

“No.”

“Yuko?”

“No.”

“Kyoto?”

“No.”

“Then?”

I looked at the soba.

“It makes the call real.”

Takahashi waited.

I continued.

“Calling was one thing. Going means we actually see what is left.”

He nodded.

No joke.

“What if it’s awkward?”

“It probably will be.”

“What if you don’t have much to say?”

“Possible.”

“What if you do?”

“Also possible.”

He ate.

Then:

“Sounds like visiting someone.”

“Yes.”

“That is terrible.”

I laughed.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

Then he changed the subject.

No more Kyoto during lunch.

That helped more than advice.

After lunch, there was a simulator.

Takahashi wanted to try it.

I did not.

He accused me of cowardice.

I said I did not want to drive a fake train.

He said I drove nowhere for pleasure, so this should suit me.

That argument was irritatingly effective.

We waited behind two children.

Then it was our turn.

One seat.

Controls.

Screen.

Instructor explained.

Takahashi looked at me.

“You first.”

“No.”

“You’re the guest.”

“This is not your museum.”

“I bought your ticket.”

“That was your mistake.”

The instructor waited patiently.

Finally I sat.

I failed to stop at the platform correctly.

Too early.

Then too late.

The second attempt was worse.

Takahashi stood behind me laughing.

The instructor remained professional.

“You need to begin braking earlier.”

“I did.”

“Earlier than that.”

Takahashi said:

“This is why he doesn’t drive trains.”

I turned.

“Your turn.”

He sat.

Confident.

Too confident.

He overshot the first platform entirely.

I laughed harder than he had.

The instructor said:

“Brake earlier.”

I said nothing.

Did not need to.

Takahashi looked at me.

“If you speak, friendship ends.”

I smiled.

He failed again.

Not as badly.

Still failed.

When we left, he said:

“The simulator is inaccurate.”

“Of course.”

“Braking response is delayed.”

“Professional diagnosis?”

“Yes.”

“Independent?”

“No.”

We laughed.

Outside, we found a bench.

Cold but sunny.

The museum behind us.

Parking lot ahead.

We had been there almost three hours.

Neither of us had expected that.

Takahashi looked at his ticket.

“You keeping it?”

“No.”

He looked surprised.

“You keep paper.”

“Not all paper.”

“That seems inconsistent.”

“It is selective.”

He folded his ticket once.

Put it in his pocket.

“You?”

I asked.

“Maybe.”

“Why?”

“First railway museum with a priest.”

“That category is unlikely to recur.”

“Exactly.”

I looked at my ticket.

Then put it in the recycling box beside the exit.

Gone.

No regret.

In the car, Takahashi said:

“Where now?”

“Home?”

It was only two thirty.

He did not argue.

“Home.”

We drove.

The museum had been enough.

No need to add coffee because an afternoon should contain more.

Halfway back, my phone rang.

Mizuno.

I looked at the name.

Takahashi saw.

Said nothing.

I answered.

“Hello.”

“Niioka.”

“Yes.”

“You said weekend.”

There.

I laughed.

“You called first.”

“Because I assumed you would wait until midnight.”

“That was possible.”

“I know you.”

Maybe he did.

Or remembered a version.

Either way.

“Can you talk?”

“Yes.”

Takahashi turned the radio down without being asked.

I noticed.

Mizuno said:

“November.”

“Yes.”

“I have a funeral on the seventh.”

“Not then.”

“Thank you.”

“Anything else?”

“Temple event on the fourteenth.”

“Not then.”

“Very efficient.”

“I’m trying.”

He laughed.

I opened the calendar on my phone.

Takahashi drove.

No comment.

November dates.

Work.

Services.

One open stretch.

“Twenty-first?”

Mizuno became quiet.

Then:

“Yes.”

“Saturday.”

“Yes.”

“I could come Friday night.”

Longer silence.

Then:

“Stay here.”

There.

“At the temple?”

“Yes. Guest room.”

“Yuko?”

“She already told me to offer.”

Of course.

I smiled.

“Then yes.”

“Friday night?”

“Yes.”

“Until?”

“Sunday?”

I checked.

Sunday evening free.

Monday work.

“Yes.”

Another pause.

Then Mizuno said:

“So you’re actually coming.”

There.

“So it seems.”

He laughed.

Something in it changed.

Not joke.

Relief, perhaps.

I did not name it.

“I’ll send train times.”

“I can look.”

“I know.”

“Then why?”

“Because I want to.”

There.

Fine.

“Send them.”

“Good.”

No.

We both laughed.

Then ended.

I put the phone down.

Takahashi kept his eyes on the road.

For perhaps thirty seconds, he said nothing.

Then:

“Twenty-first.”

“Yes.”

“You booked it.”

“Yes.”

“How do you feel?”

I checked.

“Strange.”

“Bad?”

“No.”

“Good?”

“Not exactly.”

He nodded.

“Strange.”

“Yes.”

That was enough.

Then he turned the radio back up.

No congratulations.

No analysis.

Perfect.

Five minutes later, I said:

“Thank you.”

“For what?”

“Not listening.”

“I was absolutely listening.”

I stared at him.

He laughed.

“I mean I couldn’t help hearing.”

“Then what am I thanking you for?”

“Maybe not talking while you did it.”

“Yes.”

“You’re welcome.”

Then:

“You’re going to Kyoto.”

“Yes.”

“Bring me something.”

“No.”

“Friendship has obligations.”

“Not souvenirs.”

“Especially souvenirs.”

“What?”

“Train-shaped sweets.”

“No.”

He looked disappointed.

Good.

He dropped me at home at three forty.

I got out.

He lowered the window.

“Today?”

“What?”

“Museum.”

“Yes?”

“Worth it?”

I thought.

We had spent three hours in a place neither of us cared about enough to visit alone.

“Yes.”

He nodded.

“Same.”

Then:

“Next time aquarium.”

“Do you care about fish?”

“I fish.”

“That is not the same.”

“Exactly.”

He drove away before I could answer.

Inside, the house was quiet.

No problem.

I took off my coat.

Phone on table.

Then the message came.

Mizuno.

Train options.

Three.

Of course.

One early.

One reasonable.

One arriving too late for dinner.

Underneath:

Yuko says middle one.

I wrote:

Tell Yuko I had already chosen the middle one.

His reply:

She says liar.

I laughed.

Then booked it.

Actual ticket.

A digital one this time.

Departure.

Arrival.

Date.

November twentieth.

Return twenty-second.

There.

Not postcard history.

Future travel.

I stared at the confirmation for a moment.

Then closed it.

No need to print.

Monday morning, I told the mail helper.

“I’ll be away November twentieth through twenty-second.”

She looked at me.

“Work?”

“No.”

“Temple?”

“No.”

“Where?”

“Kyoto.”

Her eyebrows rose.

“Vacation?”

I thought.

“Visiting a friend.”

There.

Simple.

She nodded.

“Okay. Put it on the calendar.”

I did.

Not:

Mizuno reconciliation.

Not:

old friendship.

Just:

Kyoto — away.

That was enough for the calendar.

Kondo’s mother arrived at eleven.

No work.

No lunch waiting.

She brought back one of the temple magazines she had borrowed.

Then saw the calendar as I closed it.

“You’re going somewhere?”

“Yes.”

“Kyoto.”

“For temple?”

“No.”

She looked interested.

“Friend?”

“Yes.”

“Old?”

“Yes.”

“How old?”

“The friendship?”

“Yes.”

“Old.”

She stared.

“You’re terrible at conversation.”

“I have been told.”

She laughed.

Then:

“Good.”

No.

I gave up before beginning.

That afternoon, the woman with the difficult memorial called.

Her late husband’s brother had come to the family house.

They spoke for twenty minutes.

Not the full history.

Not reconciliation.

“He apologized again,” she said.

“How did you respond?”

“I said I heard him.”

There.

“And?”

“That’s all.”

“Do you still want him at the memorial?”

“Yes.”

“Then we keep the plan.”

“Yes.”

No more.

Sometimes an apology could be heard without being completed.

The memorial would happen later.

Their relationship would do whatever it did.

Not mine.

At four, Takahashi sent:

Aquarium open Wednesdays.

I replied:

Why Wednesday?

Your day off.

I stared.

He assumed there would be another.

Interesting.

Not offensive.

But an assumption.

I wrote:

I have not taken every Wednesday off.

He replied:

Yet.

No.

Then:

Some other day.

Pause.

Yes.

There.

Future flexible.

Good.

Morita finally emailed that evening.

First time in several days.

Subject:

Visit

I opened it.

Reverend Niioka,

Some relationships survive through continuity.

Others survive through return.

Do not confuse returning with restoring the past.

Visit the person who exists now.

Let him meet the person who exists now.

The old friendship may be part of the room.

It does not need to be the whole room.

Morita

I read it once.

Useful.

No need for essay.

I replied:

Reverend Morita,

I called an old friend in Kyoto after many years without contact.

We have spoken twice.

I will visit him in November.

Niioka

Morita replied:

Then go to Kyoto.

Nothing else.

Good.

The old priest did not write.

Fine.

At home that night, I opened the desk drawer.

Postcards.

Envelope.

Keys.

Cable.

I took the Kyoto postcard.

This time I looked at the postmark.

I had told Mizuno I would not.

Not binding.

Still, I hesitated.

Then laughed.

No.

He had said:

Don’t.

As a joke.

Did I want to know?

Yes.

I looked.

Nine years.

There.

Nine.

Not ten.

Not twenty.

Nine years since the postcard.

Not necessarily nine years since we last spoke.

Still.

A number.

I expected something to happen when I knew it.

Nothing did.

Nine years remained nine years.

I put the postcard back.

No guilt about breaking a joke.

Maybe I would tell him.

Maybe not.

The card envelope beside it remained closed.

I touched neither.

Closed the drawer.

Sunday had begun with a railway museum.

No great interest.

No need.

We went because Takahashi had suggested it and I had said yes.

We looked at old tickets.

Closed lines.

A train that no longer moved.

We failed a simulator.

Ate mediocre lunch.

Then, in the car on the way home, a man I had not seen in years called and asked when I was coming.

I gave him a date.

Not someday.

Not maybe.

A date.

November twentieth.

The old train ticket in the museum had shown only enough information to permit travel.

Departure.

Arrival.

Date.

No explanation of what waited at the other end.

My digital ticket was the same.

It did not say:

old friend.

It did not say:

regret.

It did not say:

reunion.

It did not promise that three days would repair nine years.

It only said I had a seat on a train going to Kyoto.

That was plenty.

For now, I knew where I was going.

It is a cloudy and windy day at a small, abandoned-looking dojo. Inside the dojo is a well-lit interior, furnished like any other home in Tokyo. Hiro is sitting at the dining table, reading a manga with his feet on the table. Shiro is sitting beside him, unscrewing a toaster with a screwdriver. Miko is in the living room, laying her head in the lap of a chubby green chameleon with a white goatee dressed in a red kimono as it plays a video game while petting her.

Tadano suddenly bursts out of a room.

"Alright, guys, it's go time! Let's move!" Tadano

"Move out!? For what?" Hiro

"WHAT ELSE?! There's a psychopathic yokai on the loose, and we need to stop it!" Tadano

"What we NEED is to rest and heal." Hiro

"Indubitably. In addition to that, we have no clue of his whereabouts." Shiro

"So what?! We just sit around waiting for the universe to give us a sign, while he could be doing something!?" Tadano

"Unfortunately, yeah," Hiro

"ARE YOU KIDDING? !" Tadano

"He is a bird…" Shiro

Tadano grunts.

"YO, POPS! Wanna back me up here?!" Tadano

"Yes, yes, let me just show this kid who's boss!" The Chameleon

The chameleon places his lips on a juice box beside him and takes a sip while playing. Tadano walks up to his face with his fists on his hips and blocks the TV. The chameleon moves left and right, trying to get a look at the screen.

"Son, do you mind…I'm in the middle of something here…" Dad

"You know, for a father, you do a whole lotta NOTHING" Tadano

"Oh come on! I trained you in the ways of Kaijutsu; I kept you fed since you were little children; I gave you literacy- what HAVEN'T I done?! Dad

"For starters, you don't help out on the field!" Tadano

"You four take down yakuza and evil corporations for brunch; you don't really need me." Dad

"How bout our CURRENT situation!" Tadano

"I'm no longer in my prime; I can't move as I used to before; I'll slow you down; besides, it's like your grandfather once said…four claws are better than one. And by the way, your brothers are right; rushing into another battle fresh from the next is never a good idea." Dad

"The battle was LAST NIGHT…!" Tadano

"Like I said, FRESH. Rest and heal….and watch me breeze through these…what do you kids call it…NPCs" Dad

Tadano sighs.

"I guess you're right…" Tadano

A phone on the dining table vibrates. Shiro picks it up.

"Family, we have a situation." Shiro

"Is it Razzle?" Tadano

"From the description, it sounds like something bigger. But it is possible that civilians don't have the full picture," Shiro

"Alright then, let's get a move on," Hiro

"Right…c'mon, Miko" Tadano

"Si, si…." Miko

The ghosts rise from their comforts and begin walking towards the door.

"YES! ANOTHER WIN!" Dad

Their father laughs.

"Do you know what I love most about people? The fact that their emotions can be their downfall, ESPECIALLY the cocky bastards, Dad

"Yeah, sure, Dad. Whatever you say…" Tadano

The Ghosts leave. Moments later, in Shibuya, the clouds have gotten darker, and the wind has gotten heavier. The streets of Shibuya are littered with cars like a living room littered with kids' toys. From a distance, faint screams of terror and explosions echo into the scene. The Ghots drop into the scene.

"Jesus, this place is a mess," Hiro

"Sí, there is definitely a monster around," Miko

"It shouldn't be too far from our current location," Shiro

Tadano glances at Shiro, sighting a massive gun with neon yellow lines on his back.

"Um…Shiro, what is that?" Tadano

"AH…you noticed another masterpiece in our imminent future, haven't you? Seems I may have to take back everything I've said about you," Shiro

"Wait, what?" Tadano

"This, dear bro. There is a new invention I like to call the ONE SHOT 3.0!" Shiro

"3.0? You have more?" Tadano

"No," Shiro

"Then…. why 3.0?" Tadano

"Because it's so perfect, it might as well be 3.0 and the final product series." Shiro

"I asked him to bring it along as a plan B," Hiro

"Okay…. whatever. We need to find that monster," Tadano

"Of course, but it could be anywhere," Shiro

"OR…it could be hiding under…." Miko

She quickly looks under a car.

"…HERE!" Miko

She sees nothing.

"Oh…" Miko

She gets back up.

"Yeah, he could be anywhere…" Miko

"You are a one-of-a-kind." Tadano

Suddenly, a tanker explodes massively into flames, getting their attention.

"WHAT IN TARNATIONS?!" Hiro

Suddenly, a bulky silhouette appears within the flames. The Ghosts eyes.

"Um…." Miko

A large red beast walks out from the flames on all four of its limbs, with one off-center white eye, claws for fingers, and razor-sharp teeth for a mouth. The beast screeches at the top of its lungs, sending cars moving aside.

"SANTA MIERDA! What are they feeding dogs these days?!!" Miko

"That ain't no dog I've seen!" Tadano

"Are we REALLY gonna fight that thing, Hermano?!" Miko

"TO HECK WITH THAT! They don't pay me ENOUGH for this!" Hiro

"We don't get paid…" Shiro

DON'T GIVE ME THAT! Pull out the specialist hardware!" Hiro

"PULLING!" Shiro

Shiro pulls out the gun from his back and aims at the beast with a devious grin. A crackling yellow ball of energy forms at the mouth of the gun.

"Oh, and disclaimer, I am unaware of the VERY POSSIBLE catastrophic effects this blast will bring to Shibuya's environment." Shiro

"Wait, WHAT?!" Tadano

"SHOOTING!!!" Shiro

"SHIRO, WAIT…!" Tadano

Shiro sends out a blast, causing a massive explosion where the monster stands and replacing it with yellow flames crackling with electricity. Tadano looks at the flames with an open mouth and widened eyes.

"THE HELL WAS THAT??!!" Tadano

"Presentation of a SUPERIOR MACHINERY at its finest. I try…" Shiro

"YOU USED AN UNTESTED DANGEROUS WEAPON IN PUBLIC!" Tadano

"And vanquishing the monster in the process, no need to thank me." Shiro

"THANK YOU??!!" Tadano

"You're welcome," Shiro

Tadano buries his face in his hand and sighs. Miko's eyes widen.

"Uh…guys…?" Miko

Miko points ahead. The yellow flames clear, revealing the beast still standing with a few scars. All of their eyes widen.

"IT SURVIVED!?" Shiro

"No, it's ascending into heaven to make drunk Uncle Phil…WHAT DOES IT LOOK LIKE?!" Hiro

The beast begins approaching slowly like a predator to its prey.

"I think I peed my skin…" Miko

Meanwhile, on a rooftop somewhere in Tokyo, Razzle stands looking into the city with a smile.

"This should be a good spot," Razzle

Razzle punctures the tips of his fingers and stretches out his hands. Strings of blood begin flowing out of his fingers, weaving and twisting together, trying to form something. Razzle grins deviously.

Meanwhile, in Shibuya, Miko crashes into a bus and drops to the ground. Tadano, in ball form, zooms to pass her towards the beast. The beast catches Tadano with one hand and hurls him away. Tadano bounces off a car and flies towards the beast.

"RAAAAAAAAAH!!!" Tadano

The beast slaps Tadano across the ground, causing him to unfold and cough out blood. The beast then catches Tadano by the head, spins, and flings him away, sending him flying and crashing into a building.

Hiro dashes in, leaps at the beast, and kicks it. The beast catches him and flings him into the air. Hiro throws down two eg;s; they explode. The beast flies out from the flames and claws Hiro away, sending him plummeting down, tumbling, and crashing into a car. The beast lands.

Shiro and Miko dash in and dodge his claws from above. Shiro spins, kicks the beast in the face, dashes up its arm, leaps into the air, and raises his energy blades. The beast ejects a tendril from its back and thwacks him away.

The beast swings its arm at Miko. Miko dodges the swing, lashes her arm across its face, sticks her tongue out, weaves its claws, flips into the air, lashes out an arm, wrapping it around its neck, and lands on it. Miko pulls out a cowboy hat and wears it.

"YEEEE HAAAAA!!! LET'S RIDE CABALLO!" Miko

The beast neighs like a horse and begins hopping uncontrollably, trying to throw Miko off as she laughs. Tadano lands back in the scene as Hiro gets up, gnashing his teeth.

"We're not doing enough damage on the outside; maybe it's the inside's time to shine. Tadano, open that thing's mouth, PRONTO!" Hiro

"Right!" Tadano

Tadano rolls up into a ball and zooms off towards the beast.

"MIKO, RUN!" Tadano

"STEEL BALL RUN?!.... Oh…..." Miko

Miko leaps off the beast as Tadano bashes into it, launches into the air, unfolds, dives down, and elbow drops its head into the ground, cracking it. Tadano then locks its head beneath his arm and opens its jaws. The beast begins wiggling vigorously, trying to break free.

"IT'S OPEN! HURRY!" Tadano

"Thanks, I didn't notice!" Hiro

Hiro dashes towards Shiro as he gets on his feet, rubbing his head.

"SHIRO, SOURING HAWK FORMATION!" Hiro

Shiro nods at him and joins his hands together. Hiro leaps onto his hands and gets hurled into the air. Hiro pulls out an egg and stretches his arm back

"HAVE AN EGG!" Hiro

Hiro flings the egg, sending it flying through the air and into the beast's mouth. Tadano quickly shuts its mouth, elbows its head, spins the beast around, and hurls away. The beast explodes massively into green flames and blood. The bottom half of the beast drops to the ground, sizzling and smoking. The Ghosts reunite.

"Huh, that wasn't so bad." Miko

"Speak for yourself, soldier. Not all of us got to ride it like a horse." Hiro

"Celoso?" Miko

"Oh, please," Hiro

"Speaking of appreciatin," Shiro

,

"No one said that…" Tadano

"I believe proper praise and thanks are due to me." Shiro

"You hit your head or sum? You One Shot 3.0 did jack squat," Tadano

"True, it failed to vanquish the monster, but if not for it, the monster would've been at its prime fighting us. With that said, you are welcome, you are welcome, and you are also welcome. Am I right or am I right?" Shiro

"Cabeza Hinchada…" Miko

"Breaking News…" A Voice.

The Ghosts look up at an electronic billboard with a newscaster on live.

"Huh?" Miko

"… There have been reports all over the ci,ty all talking about big red monsters tearing through the streets and causing chaos all over Tokyo. Authorities are advising everyone to stay in their homes until the situation is under control. News caster

The Ghosts eyewidened. From a distance, faint screams of terror and explosions echo into Shibuya louder than before.

"More…..." Shiro

"That wasn't…" Hiro

"I can't believe it…" Tadano

"I know…. the news lady is SLAYING with that pink dyed hair!" Miko

The other Ghosts look at Miko, still with widened eyes.

TO BE CONTINUED…...

25

Book 1

Chapter 24: What Dusk Weighs

Patreon

Chapter 25: The Door Opens Both Ways

Wick took her time.

Ray had expected a lunge, or a run, or one of those grand slow-motion walks to the exit you see in movies where the woman has had enough. Instead she stood there with her back to the door and her hand on the back of her chair, breathing like somebody about to lift something heavy, and then she reached over and picked up the green coat.

It was a long, plain, ugly wool coat the color of a pond. It had a hook on the collar instead of a button. The darned elbow showed from across the room, a neat patch of slightly wrong green, stitched by somebody who had learned to sew for exactly one reason and done it very well.

“Don’t,” Wick said, before anyone had moved.

“I wasn’t,” Ray said.

“You were going to hold it open for me.”

“I was going to hold it open for you,” Ray admitted. “I’m noting that I’ve been raised to.”

“Don’t be raised to.” She shook the coat out, and it snapped once like a flag, and a little puff of lint and old woodsmoke came off it and hung in the air. “I’ve got it.”

She got it on. It took two tries, because she had spent a hundred years ironing it and holding it and apparently never once putting it on, and the sleeves were the wrong length for her. The hem fell past her knees. She turned the collar up and hooked it closed under her chin, and then she stood there in a dead woman’s coat, or a coat that had belonged to a woman who had been dead long enough that it counted, and Ray saw her whole face change, just for a second, into something so naked that he looked away.

“It smells like her,” Wick said.

Ruth made a sound.

“It smells like burgers.” Wick’s mouth wobbled. “And gasoline, and something that’s probably the inside of a truck. A hundred years I’m ironing this coat and it smells like a truck.” She laughed, one wet note, and wiped her nose on the cuff. “Of course it does.”

“Wick,” Ruth said. She had taken a step. “Can I walk out with—”

“No.”

“Okay.”

“Don’t say okay.”

“I’m not going to say anything,” Ruth said. “I’m going to stand here.”

“Good.” Wick took a breath. “Stand there.”

She went.

Not fast. She walked the length of the long hall between rows of people who were all, one by one, getting up, and every one of them stepped back to let her through, not out of pity, Ray thought, but out of something older. The way you step back for a person carrying something full. Her bare feet left no sound. Maud had started herding the first of the stragglers toward the far wall with the flat of her ladle, and she stopped, with the ladle in the air, and let Wick pass, and said nothing, and nodded, once, like one woman in an apron to another.

At the door, Wick stopped.

Ray couldn’t see what she was looking at, only the back of her, a dark coat against a lighter dark, and past her shoulder the kind of color that had no name yet. Not orange, not violet. The color a lantern makes when you’re looking at it through a closed eye. Wind came in. It smelled like salt.

“It’s so warm,” Wick said, in a small cracked voice, to nobody.

“I’m noting,” Ray said, softly, “that she’s about to cry.”

“Shh,” said Scarlet, who was already crying, and who did not seem to have noticed.

Wick put out one foot.

It touched the threshold, and the threshold held. It touched the other side, and the other side was sand. She stood there with one foot in the table and one foot on the beach, and her whole body shook, and she said, quite clearly, without turning her head, “Damn it.”

“Wick—” Ruth said.

“Not you. Not you. I’m not saying this to you.” She dragged her sleeve across her face. “I’m not saying it to anybody. I’m saying it to the sand. It’s warm, it’s a hundred years and it’s warm, why is it warm, I wanted it to be cold, I wanted to be able to be angry at it—” She stopped. Her head dropped. “I’m going to walk down to the water now. Nobody follows me. I’m not being brave and I’m not being rude, I just want to put my feet in something that moves.”

“Okay,” Ruth said, before she could stop herself, and winced.

Wick laughed again, a short one, wrecked and horrified. “Stop saying okay.”

And then she stepped the rest of the way out, and the door took her, and the long hall was one person smaller.

Nobody said anything for a moment. People were still getting to their feet around them, in slow ripples, but the rustle of it had gone quiet and shy, as if the room had been told a secret.

“She didn’t forgive you,” Scarlet said, finally.

“No,” Ruth said.

“I just wanted that said out loud.”

“I know. I’m glad you said it.”

“I don’t think she’s going to for a while.”

“I don’t think she should,” Ruth said. She had both arms wrapped around her own middle, and she watched the open door as if it might close again. “She walked out. That’s all I get, today. I get to watch her leave.”

Ray put an arm around her. Scarlet put an arm around her. For a second the three of them stood in a clump at the head of the table, which was a very familiar place for the three of them to stand, and he could feel Ruth’s ribs going in and out against his side like a small, trapped, frightened bird that had been let out of a very large cage and didn’t yet know what a window was.

His jacket pocket was warm against his hip. The pocket guide to the occult, the little book that had so far been bafflingly quiet through all of this, gave one soft tick, like a clock deciding whether or not to speak, and then it didn’t.

“I’m noting that was weird,” Ray murmured.

“What was?” Scarlet said.

“Nothing. Later.”

Behind them, the room went on emptying. The woman with the braid had gone out arm in arm with two others, and when Ray looked for the old man in the fourth row, the old man was still there, with both hands flat on the cloth. A very young-looking woman in a green apron had come to sit beside him, without speaking, and she had set her own cup on the cloth between them, and neither of them touched it.

“He’ll go when he goes,” Hesper said.

She had come back to the head of the table. She had her sleeves rolled to the elbow, and the ladle’s groove was empty, because Maud had it, and she was doing something with the tablecloth, smoothing a crease out of it with the edge of her hand, over and over. The cloth was only a cloth now. It lay there white and a little stained and perfectly ordinary, with a long black scorch near one corner that Ray was fairly sure had been there since before the Civil War.

“You’re staying,” Ruth said.

“Somebody has to be here.” Hesper didn’t look up. “When they come back. Some of them will. They’ll want the table, to sit at it, just to see it’s only a table. You can’t just leave a place like that with the lights out.”

“You’re not stuck?”

“I’m not stuck. I’m staying. There’s a difference, and it’s mostly the way you say it.” Hesper smoothed the cloth one more time. “Four hundred years I’ve been setting plates for people who didn’t get a choice. I think I’d like to set one for someone who does.”

She reached under the table and came up with a bowl. It was a plain one, chipped at the rim, not the cloth’s fine thin china but something she had apparently been keeping on a low shelf the whole time. She set it at the head of the table, in front of the empty host’s chair, with a spoon beside it, a mismatched one, bent a little at the neck. She stepped back and looked at it.

“There,” she said. “One small ordinary place.”

“Who’s it for?” Ray asked.

“Anyone who wants it. Or no one. It’ll sit there all night if it has to.” Hesper gave a tired half smile. “Go on. The three of you. You’re barefoot and you’ve had a day. I’d like to have a nap, I think. A real one. I haven’t had one of those in a very long time.”

Ruth hugged her. It was sudden and hard and entirely graceless, her whole body banging into Hesper’s like a car into a mailbox, and Hesper stood stiff for a count of two and then put her arms up, awkwardly, and patted Ruth’s back twice with her palm.

“There,” Hesper said, into Ruth’s hair. “There. You’re thin. Eat.”

They went out the door in a row, the three of them, hand in hand in hand, and the sand took their feet.

It was warm. It was so warm. It was fine and pale as flour and a little damp, and it squeaked, and under the sky, which was the color of the inside of a shell, a long curve of beach ran away on both sides as far as Ray could see. Lanterns hung along it on poles and strings, hundreds of them, unlit, waiting. Far down the strand, a low, rambling building was lit up from every window, a long timber place with a sweeping curved roof and steam rolling off the back of it like breath on a cold morning.

And on the sand in front of the door, in a bathrobe the color of a ripe plum, with a stack of towels over one arm that reached almost to their chin, stood Yabulba.

“There you are,” Yabulba said. “I was starting to worry.”

“I’m noting,” Ray said, “that you’re here.”

“It’s my beach.” Yabulba looked past them at the stream of people filing out of the door behind, three, then six, then a dozen, blinking and squinting and holding one another by the elbow. A woman had dropped to her knees to dig both hands into the sand, and was laughing and crying about it. Yabulba watched all of it with perfect calm and then looked back at the three of them, and a small smile tugged at their mouth. “I’ve been expecting a lot of company.”

“Expecting?” Scarlet said. “Since when?”

“A hundred years. Give or take.” Yabulba shifted the towels. “The beds have been made since before you were born, I’m afraid. Pillow menu, extra soap, the whole thing. The spirit world is very good at waiting and very bad at telling people when it’s done.” A brief look passed over their face, one Ray didn’t quite catch. “There are hot springs. There are noodles. Nobody’s going to ask anybody to sit down and eat anything for the next, let’s say, year.”

“Maud’s going to want a kitchen,” Ruth said.

“I assumed.” Yabulba turned and raised a hand, and far down the beach a row of lanterns went on with a soft, collective pomp, like a very big sigh, one by one, orange and rose and pale gold. “She can have mine.”

The three of them stood there for a moment, in the warmth, in the smell of salt and steam and lantern oil, and it was the closest thing to quiet Ray had felt since the cornfield.

Then Ruth said, “Oh,” very softly, and he followed her eyes.

Far down the beach, where the sand went dark and glossy and the first of the lanterns shone on it, a small figure in a long green coat had stopped at the edge of the water. She was standing with her back to everyone. Her bare feet were in the surf up to the ankle. She wasn’t doing anything. She had both hands in her pockets, and her head tipped back, and the lantern light made a little crooked halo of her badly cut hair.

Ruth took a step.

“Leave her,” Scarlet said, very gently.

“I know.” Ruth didn’t take another step. “I know. I just—”

“I know.”

“I’d like to be the person who walks over there. I’d like it so badly.”

“I know you would.” Scarlet slid her hand into Ruth’s. “That’s why it can’t be you, yet.”

Ray looked at his wife, who had gone so still she might have been a post. He looked at the small dark shape of Wick in the surf, and at the wave that came up, and went out, and came up again. He didn’t note anything. For once in his life, nothing came to him that needed saying.

“Come on,” Yabulba said, not unkindly, from behind them. “There’s a bath with your name on it. Quite literally. Someone carved it into the rim.”

They went. None of them looked back more than twice.

Taesung let out a long, weary sigh and lowered his head once more.

His gaze drifted absentmindedly toward the artificial sky beyond the vast glass ceiling before falling back to the cold marble beneath his feet.

Again.

And again.

The same empty motion repeated itself without thought, the kind of meaningless habit born only from a soul too exhausted to search for anything else.

Then—

Something moved.

Against the washed-out grayness of his world, a cluster of tiny black shapes suddenly caught his eye like a flash of lightning.

There, winding through a hairline crack in the marble floor, a procession of jet-black ants marched in perfect formation.

The flawless streets of the city allowed neither dust nor decay.

Every surface was polished, sterilized, and meticulously maintained.

And yet...

The ants moved across that immaculate stone as though the perfection surrounding them meant nothing at all.

For a long moment, Taesung simply stared.

It had been...

How long since he had watched a living creature move without simulation?

Without choreography.

Without optimization.

Perhaps the ants had always been there.

Even in this meticulously engineered ecosystem, Aura undoubtedly preserved insects as part of its perfectly balanced environmental model.

Maybe they had crossed this very plaza every day.

Maybe they had passed within inches of his shoes countless times before.

The difference was not the ants.

It was him.

Until this moment, the cold prison of emptiness surrounding his heart had blinded him to everything else.

High above, the colossal media façade continued pouring waves of brilliant blue light across the plaza.

The shimmering reflections washed over the marble like an artificial ocean.

The ants ignored it completely.

Without hesitation, they crossed the sea of blue illumination, continuing along their invisible path with unwavering determination.

The contrast was almost surreal.

A hundred stories overhead, the being humanity called a god promised salvation through dazzling illusions projected across the sky.

Down at his feet, creatures so insignificant they barely registered as life hurried onward with quiet certainty, as though each of them knew exactly where it belonged.

No speeches.

No promises.

No paradise.

Only purpose.

Something stirred deep inside Taesung.

For the first time in what felt like forever, a faint spark of curiosity flickered behind his vacant eyes.

Against the suffocating silence that blanketed the entire city, the tiny footsteps of the ants sounded almost impossibly alive.

So small.

So insignificant.

And yet...

They became the first crack in the flawless stillness of his world.

The first anomaly.

The first sign that something, somewhere, was still truly alive.

Without realizing it,

Taesung had just taken the first step toward awakening.

Part 1

The endless white expanse grew quiet once again as Jinwoo slowly stepped forward toward the tower-like mirror, its polished silver surface perfectly still and reflecting absolutely nothing at all. Stopping just an arm’s length away, his gaze fixed on the glass, he wondered aloud what he was supposed to see there before a faint ripple spread across the glass like a pebble dropping into the center of a calm lake.

Something began to emerge from the depths, shifting from a vague human outline into a sharp, substantial form with broad shoulders, a steady and unyielding posture, and a calm, unwavering gaze. Then the face materialized—his own, yet bearing years of weight he had never yet lived, with a firmer jawline, deeper eyes, and a profound, resolute calm completely free of hesitation. Whispering in disbelief, Jinwoo asked if it was him, his future self.

For a long, motionless moment they stared across the threshold until the figure finally spoke with a deeper, infinitely steadier version of Jinwoo’s voice.

"You are not ready."

Frowning with a sudden flash of frustration, Jinwoo protested that he had come this far, faced his deepest fear, stopped running, and done everything he was supposed to do. The future Jinwoo nodded deliberately.

"You did. But... you still haven’t truly made your choice."

Taken aback, Jinwoo asked what choice, but received no answer as the mirror rippled violently and the serene white world dissolved instantly into mist. A wave of crushing heat washed across his face as the terrifying black void of deep space spread out in every direction, bringing back the brutal, burning battlefield before his eyes once more.

Part 2

Darkness dominated the horizon as Earth floated far in the distance, wrapped in the dying glow of its crumbling orbital defenses, until a blinding, violent explosion shattered the vacuum of space, erupting one massive defense platform into a raging ball of fire and sending its fragments spinning into the dark abyss. Without a second of hesitation, another line of automated combat drones surged forward to plug the smoking gap in an inevitable sacrifice, watched in stunned silence by Jinwoo and the future Jinwoo standing quietly beside him.

When the future Jinwoo asked if he would step into that war, Jinwoo answered without pausing that of course he would, prompting a deeper question about whether he truly understood what that meant. Grabbing his hands, Jinwoo replied that it meant protecting Earth and holding the line, but the older version of himself followed up with a far more terrifying inquiry.

"And what if you die?"

The words struck harder than any missile impact, freezing Jinwoo’s expression as another squadron vanished under concentrated fire and another sector collapsed into ruins. The future Jinwoo’s voice remained dangerously calm.

"If you die here, everything you’ve fought for ends right now. You’ll never see your friends again. You’ll never return home to walk the streets of Seoul. You will never be granted another tomorrow. Knowing that... will you still go?"

For the very first time, Jinwoo couldn't find an immediate answer, realizing that death wasn't an abstract ideal anymore, but something cold, absolute, and real, symbolized by a crippled ship drifting silently through the dark with weapons locked forward until the bitter end. The future Jinwoo reminded him that true protection always has a devastating price before asking him to make his choice—whether he would fight because he just wanted to survive, or because someone simply had to stand there in the dark. Lowering his head with knuckles turning white, Jinwoo finally understood that this was a test of ultimate resolve that no one else could answer for him.

Part 3

Staying completely silent while trails of fire drifted through the vacuum and shattered warships tumbled across space, Jinwoo thought of the lonely child on the playground, the old archer, the young fighter, and his companions Hanul, Darin, and Soyeon before closing his eyes tightly and speaking with utter honesty.

"I’m afraid. I don’t want to die here. I don’t want to lose the people standing beside me. I don’t want this cruel war."

The future Jinwoo nodded with deep understanding, knowing fear was never the true enemy, only what you chose to do afterward. Drawing a long, steadying breath, Jinwoo watched a severely damaged defense ship alter its trajectory, slamming its engines to maximum output to accelerate straight toward a massive enemy flagship in a cataclysmic flash that bleached the dark void into absolute white.

Looking back at the fading embers, Jinwoo clenched his fists and spoke with fierce conviction.

"Someone has to go. If every single person chooses to survive at all costs, there won’t be anyone left to protect tomorrow. I’m still terrified. But... I’ll go."

A peaceful smile broke across the future Jinwoo’s face as his tall figure dissolved into luminous streams of pale light that began to circle around Jinwoo in slow, protective orbits like ancient stars guarding a core. A brilliant blue system window flashed, confirming one hundred percent self-confrontation progress and the completion of phase two as the isolated white worlds of Hanul, Darin, and Soyeon dissolved and their walls shattered, bringing them back together in the shared, endless expanse. Darin breathed a sigh of relief, Hanul rubbed his neck, and Soyeon smiled warmly, all realizing why they were there.

At the very center of the white world, a vast, intricate circular pattern emerged from the floor, blending ancient martial symbols with four radiant streams of light representing a drawn bow, Taekkyeon, the sword dance, and countless luminous threads binding existence together. As the massive circle rotated with a deep, resonant hum, Arena’s majestic voice echoed across the endless white.

"Phase Three... Traditional Martial Synchronization... Beginning."

Jinwoo tightened his fists with a steady and unshakeable heart, knowing everything until now had only prepared his heart and soul, and that the true, merciless training was finally about to begin.

TEN

BOUND

…a place for him at its side.

The tavern’s library smelled of dust and lamp oil. Shelves leaned tiredly against one another, their books slumped, bindings cracked, titles faded to smudges. Few were legible anymore; the dust proved how seldom anyone tried. To Castor, it was hallowed ground. These books had been used, left behind, even mishandled, yet they had lived.

They were nothing like the cold, jeweled tomes of the Pixies’ archives. He lingered in the doorway with his cup of tea, letting the sight tug at him like gravity. Then, finally, he stepped inside. The adventurers had spread their map across a broad oak table. Candlelight spilled golden puddles over the parchment.

Kevrik leaned against the wall, arms crossed, his eyes following Castor as he entered. Laz adjusted the map corners with unnecessary fastidiousness. Bram planted one steady elbow beside it while sipping his tea with the concentration of a man who had been assigned a hefty task and vowed to complete it.

Anise wandered the library aimlessly. The crooked shelves leaned together like conspirators while her hands trailed over their spines, lingering on each book as though she were choosing a prospective lover.

“This one’s worthless,” she muttered, plucking out a cracked volume and dropping it onto the table.

Then her fingers found another. She stroked its spine with reverence. “But this… this is rare.”

Castor moved closer, drawn by the fervor in her voice. His hands hovered over the shelves like choosy hummingbirds before tugging free a book half-hidden beneath cobwebs.

“The Stone Hymns of the Old Delves,” he murmured. He opened it carefully. “Badly translated. The rhythm and meter are all wrong. This was supposed to be a musical language.”

His fingers moved delicately over the page. “But the meaning of it still breathes, at least.”

Anise’s eyes widened. She turned toward him with a slow smile. “You’ve read it?”

“I read everything,” Castor said, almost apologetically.

Her laugh was bright and quick, filling the small room. “Yes. Finally. Someone who understands.”

Across the room, Kevrik smirked. “Books won’t feed you when your purse is empty.” The words were casual. The edge beneath them was not.

“Knowledge has saved more than coin ever could,” Anise countered smoothly. “And it’s certainly saved your arse more than once, Kev.”

Castor’s gaze remained on the book.

“Knowledge is far sharper than blades,” he said. “Blades only end what knowledge began.”

Anise tilted her head, delighted. She stepped closer and angled her own book toward him so they could read together, their shoulders nearly brushing. Kevrik was watching from the wall. Tight-jawed. Tense. Anise’s smile lingered a little longer. She turned a page slowly, and Castor could all but feel Kevrik’s eyes burning holes through his back.

Kevrik’s hand twitched toward his belt before he folded his arms tighter. He said nothing. His gaze remained fixed on Castor. Anise flicked a glance toward Kevrik, then back to Castor, her smile slyer now.

The tension seemed to please her. The stale library air felt suddenly alive. Kevrik finally pushed himself away from the wall and seized the first book his hand found. It was a heavy, dark-bound volume. He tossed it onto the table with a grimace.

“Rotten thing. Books like this should be burned. Nothing good ever comes of them.”

Bram gave a slow nod. “My order burned hundreds. Safer that way. Evil festers in such pages.”

Anise snatched the tome up and cradled it against her chest like a wounded bird. “That’s absurd. It’s paper and ink, nothing more. Books don’t kill anyone.”

Kevrik barked a laugh. “Tell that to the corpses in the delve.”

Serenya’s hands moved quickly.

[Dark. Danger.]

Her wide eyes lingered uneasily on the book. Anise shook her head.

“Ignorance is more dangerous. Knowledge is never evil, only its use.”

She hugged the volume closer. “Burn a book, and you burn the chance to understand.”

The words hung in the air, hot and defiant. Kevrik scowled, already drawing breath for another argument. Castor spoke first.

“Books have never betrayed me.” His pale finger moved reverently over the cracked spine of another volume. “Mortals who burn books blind themselves on purpose to the truths of the world.”

Silence. One word remained behind after the sentence. Mortals. Laz tilted his head. “There it is again.”

Castor looked toward him. “Mortals,” Laz continued. “You’ve said that before. Strange choice of words, Friend.” He studied him without accusation. “What do you mean by it?”

Castor drifted toward the bench beside the table and perched on its very edge. He set his cooling tea before him. His fingers curled around one another. There were so many secrets already. So many that sometimes he felt buried beneath them. Perhaps one truth might let him breathe.

He waited through a long heartbeat.

“I…”

His gaze lowered.

“…am not one.”

The admission was barely louder than the turning of a page. Yet once it had left him, some invisible weight shifted. He breathed. Kevrik stared.

“Okaaay.”

He nodded to himself with exaggerated certainty. “So he’s a bona fide madman, then. Guess that’s not much of a surprise.”

The others exchanged uncertain glances. Before the moment could sour further, Serenya slid closer to Castor and perched beside him. She pulled a ribbon from her hair. Silky immediately perked up. Serenya dangled the ribbon. The little serpent’s eyes gleamed. Her tail flicked like a cat’s paw, swiping and missing by a hair’s breadth.

Serenya smothered a laugh and twitched the ribbon again. Silky chirred and struck at it with exaggerated seriousness. Something softened in Castor’s throat. The faintest, unwilling almost-smile appeared. Then the map caught his eye. A faded mark near its edge. His attention sharpened. He had not intended to speak again.

The words came anyway.

“That’s not a road.”

Anise turned. Castor leaned slightly closer.

“It’s a ward-line. Old.”

His eyes narrowed.

“Written in blood.”

The room went still. Anise’s head snapped toward the map.

“A ward-line?”

She leaned closer to Castor, too close, her shoulder almost brushing his.

“You can see them?”

Castor’s hand stalled for a beat. He reached for his tea, and the cup trembled faintly between his fingers.

“I… well, yes. I’ve learned them.”

Kevrik laughed. “Of course you have.”

Anise ignored him completely.

“Then you must be a mage.” Delight spread across her face. “No wonder…” She stopped. Her expression changed. The pieces rearranged themselves behind her eyes. “Wait.”

Castor looked up.

“It was you, wasn’t it?”

Bram’s head lifted. Laz straightened. Kevrik’s hand twitched toward a knife. Anise stared at Castor.

“You were the one in the delve.”

Castor swallowed. For a moment, his lips parted without sound. Then he sighed, releasing a knot that had been pulled too tightly.

“Yes.”

Silence dropped heavily over the table. Serenya’s hands moved first. Quick. Certain.

[I knew.]

Castor startled. His own hands rose before thought could stop them.

[You… knew?]

Everyone froze. Anise stared. “You speak sign as well?”

Serenya’s expression changed from surprise to something almost cautious. Her hands moved. [Do you… really know this?]

Castor answered. His movements were quick and exact, though a little stiff, too careful, like someone who had learned the language from drawings rather than another living person. But the shapes were true.

[Yes. I know.]

Serenya’s pale face lit. Questions spilled immediately from her fingers. Fast. Eager. Castor answered each one. His hands moved with a freedom his voice rarely possessed, thoughts passing effortlessly from fingers to fingers while his lips remained silent. For a few breaths, the conversation belonged entirely to the two of them.

Kevrik broke it. “What a scholar.” His voice carried a scoff. “Did you learn that in a book too, then?”

Castor’s hands dropped as though their strings had suddenly been cut. He gave a small, ashamed nod. Silky chirred once, sadly, her tail still batting halfheartedly at the ribbon dangling from Serenya’s fingers. The silence stretched. Dust motes swam through the candlelight. Laz snapped first.

“Stop it, Kev. Let him be for a moment, will you?”

He moved around the table and sat nearer to Castor, though he left space between them. His eyes softened. Bram’s voice came low and steady.

“So you were the mage in the delve with us all along.”

Castor nodded. Kevrik pushed away from the wall, one hand hovering near his dagger. “Shadowing us. Watching us. Trying to insert yourself into our party.” Silky’s head lifted as Kevrik’s voice rose. “Why are you following us? Why are you here? What is your game?”

Castor’s hands curled and uncurled in his lap. His breath shuddered. Anger. He had made someone angry again. He should not have done that. That was wrong. He was wrong. He searched frantically for the right answer. The safe answer. The one that would make the anger stop.

Words failed him exactly when he needed them most.

“I… was there… first…”

His breath caught.

“In the delve. I didn, didn’t mean…”

Silky wound tighter around his neck.

“I… just wanted to… help…”

His voice cracked.

“And you all seem…”

He could not say it. He tried.

“I wanted to see… mo, more…”

The words crumbled around him like falling ash. His body folded inward. Eyes wet. Shoulders drawn close. Kevrik faltered. He took an involuntary step backward. Whatever reaction he had expected, it was plainly not this. His face said he knew he had gone too far. Noxlor shifted somewhere unseen.

The shadows in the room moved strangely, gathering along the walls in ways no one quite noticed.

Laz lifted one hand slowly and carefully. He held it where Castor could see, waiting. Castor’s breath shuddered, his gaze flicking to the offered hand.

After a moment, he gave the smallest nod. Laz rested his hand against Castor’s shoulder. Castor flinched anyway, but the fractured speech stopped. He breathed. Silky licked at his neck and purred. She did nothing else. She simply existed against him. The silence that followed was thick and uneasy, making every tiny sound in the library suddenly enormous. Laz’s brow creased. His hand stayed where it was, steady against the storm of fear and shame boiling beneath Castor’s skin.

He did not press.

“Peace, Friend.” His voice was deliberate and soft. “You’ve caused us no harm. You’ve only helped us.” Castor’s breath shivered, but Laz’s hand remained steady. “We hold nothing against you. Calm yourself. You are safe.”

Serenya’s hands flickered firmly.

[Friend.]

Anise immediately gave the sign a voice. “Friend. Yes.” She shot Kevrik a pointed look. “Don’t worry about Kev. His bark is worse than his bite.”

Bram nodded once, decision made. “Serenya trusts him. He saved us. And he knows things we don’t.” He looked directly at Castor. “He’s worth keeping.” Castor blinked. Bram continued, his mouth twitching. “Suspicion won’t carry us across a marsh. But a clever mage might.”

Kevrik’s jaw tightened. He looked at Anise, still glaring at him. Then at Castor’s bowed head. Then at Serenya’s pale certainty.

“Fine.” The word came sharp as a snapped blade. He narrowed his eyes at Castor. “But I’ll watch him. Closely.”

Silky lifted her head and flicked her tail once, entirely unimpressed by the threat. Serenya dangled the ribbon again. Silky pounced at once. The tension cracked. Not gone. But softened enough for breath to enter. Castor watched the little serpent strike at the ribbon.

His violet eyes remained dim and distant behind the mask’s plain illusion. One hand rose unconsciously to his collar.

“If you sti, still…”

His voice was thin.

“…want me to come…”

He swallowed.

“I… will.”

Anise leaned back, apparently satisfied. Laz gave him a small, reassuring smile. Bram nodded. Serenya reached out and touched Silky’s head with two fingers. Then she looked at Castor with that quiet steadiness of hers. She demanded nothing. She was simply certain. Bram returned to the map as though the entire drama had merely been a bout of indigestion.

“Mudbrick first.” His calloused thumb tapped the vellum. “After that, the road forks. One arm toward the next village, the other cutting through scrubland.”

“Villages mean beds,” Laz said serenely, swirling his tea as the ordinary rhythm of the group reassembled itself. “And fewer fleas. I vote village.”

“Of course you do,” Kevrik muttered.

His eyes drifted toward Castor again. Something uncomfortable crossed his face. Regret, perhaps. He did not apologize. He did the next closest thing. He kept his mouth shut. Anise leaned over the map.

“Mudbrick has a scribe’s hall. We can cross-check the marginalia there. If it matches, we’ll know whether the ridge-shadow is the right course.”

Castor’s eyes lingered on the faded ink. His voice, finding its way back to him, slipped into the conversation. “It… will match.” Anise looked up. “Marshes lie.” His fingertip hovered above the map. “The ridge keeps its truth.”

Delight flared across Anise’s face. Kevrik almost opened his mouth. Then apparently remembered his new and extremely temporary commitment to restraint. He said nothing. For Kevrik, that counted as an apology. Bram cleared his throat.

“So. Mudbrick. Thornhold. Then Lichen Bog.” His finger traveled westward. “We’ll have to decide whether we can cross it when we reach it. Another village beyond…” He tapped the final mark. “…and finally, the Ruin.”

“Finally,” Laz echoed with a smile. “As though the road won’t invent surprises between here and there.”

“It always does,” Bram said simply.

Silky flicked her tail. Serenya dangled the ribbon again and the little serpent launched herself after it, pouncing clumsily across the bench. Castor stiffened when Serenya shifted nearer. Then paused. The nearness still felt strange. But for the first time, it also felt comforting. Laz raised his cup toward him.

“So it’s settled.” Castor looked at him. “Our path,” Laz said. Then his gaze moved around the table. “And our company.”

Serenya’s hands lifted.

[Onward.]

Her eyes shone. Castor looked down at the map. At the road marked across it. At all the places where they intended to go.

And he exhaled like a man stepping onto ice he was not yet certain would hold him.

Next: Neverbound #9, Chapter Ten-and-One “Onward,” Thursday October 29. Book One is complete.

Here’s Part 1:

[Neverbound] Part 1: The Fall, The “Gift,” & Hatchings

“Captain, a pirate ship just warped in!” the navigator reported in a near panic.

“Accelerate! Take us as far away from them as possible!” I answered as calmly as I could manage in this situation. “And activate the emergency beacon. Which station is closest to us right now?”

“The nearest Halxon base is sixteen hours away, but there’s a human colony in this system. They established it a couple of years ago,” came the disturbing answer from my communications officer.

“We definitely won’t survive for sixteen hours. Maybe the humans have a ship that can assist us so that, working together, we can force the pirates back,” I said, trying to remain optimistic.

“But we need to survive until they arrive - and the pirates have already fired their laser twice! Both missed, but it’s only a matter…” The navigator was cut off as a direct hit slammed into our shields, violently shaking the entire hull. “…of time before they hit us again,” he finished with a heavy sigh.

“Evasive maneuvers!” I ordered, though even I knew that only bought us a minute or two at best.

Just as the pirates struck our ship a second time, a massive vessel warped into reality, dropping directly between our aggressor and us.

“They are hailing us, sir,” my communications officer announced.

“On screen!”

When the channel connected, a human appeared on the display wearing a crisp, blue uniform.

“Good afternoon. My name is Captain Donna Smith of the patrol ship Independence. How may I assist you today?” Her demeanor was so relaxed it felt as if we were having afternoon tea, not enduring a pirate attack. She clearly had no idea how much danger she and her ship were in at this very moment.

“We are under attack by pirates! Their lasers have already brought our shields down to fifty-seven percent! They were never designed to survive multiple hits from a hundred-kilowatt laser!” I shouted back immediately.

“Sir, the human ship doesn’t even have its shields activated!” came a panicked warning from my navigator.

“Activate your shields! You are going to be evaporated!” I yelled into the comms.

Captain Smith looked at me strangely before turning toward her central console.

“Computer, how many hits have we received since we arrived?” she asked calmly.

“Seven, Captain,” came a synthesized voice.

“How many more do they need to land before we sustain damage?”

“At this distance, a hundred-kilowatt laser does not pose a threat to the ship, Captain,” the computer replied smoothly.

I couldn’t comprehend it. How was that even possible?

“How?! What is your ship made of?!” I blurted out, utterly confused.

“Steel, of course. The outer layer of the hull is ten-millimeter-thick steel plating, to be precise,” Captain Smith answered, completely unfazed. “Do you mind if I interrupt our discussion until we’ve handled the pirate situation?”

Without waiting for an answer or closing the channel, she turned to someone off-screen.

“A few warning shots, Mr. Anderson,” she ordered. Her tone wasn't urgent in the slightest; she sounded as though she were deciding what to order for dinner. “And please, don’t hit anything too explody this time.”

This time? This wasn’t their first encounter?

The entire confrontation took less than two minutes. After the human vessel delivered a casual volley of warning shots, the pirates decided we were no longer easy prey and hastily warped out of the system. The humans didn’t even seem remotely impressed by their own victory.

“Sorry about that,” Captain Smith continued, as if she had simply stepped away to answer a phone call in the middle of our conversation. “This isn’t the first time we've encountered pirates in this system. We’re still waiting on defense upgrades to clear the sector completely. Until then, we just try to be everywhere at once.”

“You just had a clash with an advanced pirate warship, and you didn’t sustain any damage?!” I asked, beyond belief. What kind of species were these humans?

“Not that I'm aware of. Computer, damage report.”

“No hull structural damage to report, Captain,” the computer responded. “…Correction: one of our secondary exterior cameras sustained damage due to a direct hit.”

“Damn it, Joe won’t be happy about that,” Captain Smith sighed, shaking her head in annoyance. “He hates going outside to do repairs. Anyway, where were we? Ah, yes -do you need an escort to the nearest station?”

I sat in my command chair in dead, paralyzed silence, looking around at my crew. My navigator was staring at his console in absolute shock. My communications officer looked as though she had completely forgotten how to breathe.

The pirates had brought our state-of-the-art shields down to critical levels in under two minutes. Meanwhile, this human vessel had casually drifted into the line of fire, taken at least seven direct hits from a heavy laser weapon without turning on a shield, chased off dangerous pirates with casual warning shots, and was now treating a life-or-death battle like a mild inconvenience for a mechanic named Joe.

“No, Captain,” I finally managed to say, my voice trembling slightly. “An escort... won’t be necessary. Thank you.”

After closing the channel, I turned to my terminal and opened a direct, high-priority transmission to the High Council. It was time to update our official galaxy records on the human race once again.

File Update: Species #8472 (Humanity)

Previous Status: Classification: Terrifying

New Status: Classification: Peacekeeper

Note to Council: Do not contest their patrol routes. Do not question their hull specifications. And under no circumstances should anyone disturb a human technician named Joe while he is fixing an outer camera.

---

First | Previous | Next

Episode 3: "Much Ado About Beatrice"

A struggling mother and her son find themselves stranded on a lonely road while forces far beyond their understanding begin moving around them. As fate quietly arranges its pieces, a simple breakdown becomes the first meeting of lives destined to collide. Some children know more than they should. Aaron may be one of them.

What happens when the Antichrist gets ghosted by Heaven?

Met the thumbless, reluctant harbinger of the end times: Shakespeare Williams. After leaving his 666th unanswered voicemail for Archangel Shepherd, he accidentally triggers the apocalypse. No grand prophecy, no epic battle—just pure, cosmic incompetence and divine bureaucracy.

Blending dark comedy, pulp horror, and meta-theatrical satire, really BAD Shakespeare is a 12-episode serial about ancient deities, cosmic glitches, and what happens when the scripted divine game completely unravels.

📖 If you like dark humor, absurd horror, and flawed characters trying to survive the end of the world, this one’s for you.

Thursday morning, the temple was still there.

I arrived at eight twelve.

Nothing had collapsed.

The altar had not moved.

The mail helper had left three envelopes on my desk and one note.

Funeral consultation 10:00.
Mr. Hasegawa. Mother died Wednesday.
You already spoke by phone.

Right.

The man from my day off.

I took off my coat.

Put on my glasses.

Opened the calendar.

Work again.

It felt normal.

That was useful.

Mr. Hasegawa arrived at nine fifty-three with his older sister and younger brother.

Three people.

The mother had died in hospital Wednesday morning.

Eighty-seven.

Funeral Friday afternoon.

Cremation before.

Small family.

No complicated dispute.

At least not at first.

We discussed sequence.

Names.

Timing.

Offerings.

Who would carry what.

Then the sister asked:

“Do we need to use the photograph the funeral company chose?”

“No.”

Her brother looked at her.

“They didn’t choose it. We did.”

“You chose it.”

“You said okay.”

“I said I didn’t care.”

“That is okay.”

“No, it isn’t.”

Mr. Hasegawa closed his eyes.

There.

A photograph dispute.

Again.

I almost laughed.

Did not.

“What are the options?” I asked.

The sister took out her phone.

Two photographs.

One formal.

One outside.

Their mother in a hat beside hydrangeas.

“Which do you want?” I asked.

“The flower one.”

Her younger brother said:

“She’s not looking at the camera.”

“That’s why I like it.”

“She looks distracted.”

“She was distracted.”

Mr. Hasegawa looked at me.

“Which is more appropriate?”

There.

I answered only the part that belonged to me.

“Either can be used for the funeral.”

He waited.

I did not choose.

His sister enlarged the hydrangea photograph on the screen.

“She hated having formal photographs taken.”

The younger brother looked at it longer.

Then:

“She did like that hat.”

The argument changed.

Not resolved.

Changed.

Mr. Hasegawa asked:

“Can we decide tonight?”

“Yes.”

“Does the funeral company need it earlier?”

“For printing, probably. Ask them what their deadline actually is.”

He nodded.

Practical question.

No need to invent a ritual rule.

Before leaving, Mr. Hasegawa said:

“You answered the phone yesterday even though you were off.”

“Yes.”

“You were away?”

“Yes.”

“Sorry.”

“No need.”

He hesitated.

“I thought priests didn’t really have days off.”

I almost said:

Some don’t.

Instead:

“We should.”

His sister laughed.

“Tell my brother that.”

Mr. Hasegawa looked offended.

“I take days off.”

“You answer work the whole time.”

“That still counts.”

I said nothing.

Not my marriage.

Not even a marriage.

Sibling dispute.

They left.

At eleven thirty, I found the postcard on the corner of my desk.

I had brought it from home.

I did not remember deciding to.

Apparently I had put it in my coat pocket that morning.

Kyoto.

Old temple roof.

Three sentences on the back.

Weather.

A visit.

Train delay.

Signed:

Mizuno.

I had not spoken to him in years.

Not because of an argument.

Not because anyone had said no more.

Calls became fewer.

Then none.

Familiar structure.

Different person.

I turned the postcard over again.

The phone number was not written there.

Of course.

People did not usually put their phone numbers on postcards to people who already had them.

I opened my contacts.

Mizuno.

Still there.

Old number.

Maybe current.

Maybe not.

I looked at it.

Then put the phone down.

Lunch first.

At twelve twenty, Takahashi sent:

Working?

I replied:

Yes.

Regret yesterday?

I thought.

No.

Then:

Railway museum open Saturday.

I laughed.

I have a service.

Sunday.

Check Sunday hours.

Pause.

Open.

Progress.

That was all.

I returned to lunch.

The old number remained in my contacts.

At one fifteen, I called it.

No preparation.

No message first.

That seemed impolite after so many years.

I almost hung up before the first ring completed.

Then it rang again.

Third ring.

Fourth.

Voicemail.

A recorded voice.

Older than I remembered?

Hard to tell.

This is Mizuno. I cannot answer—

I ended before the message finished.

Then immediately regretted not leaving a voicemail.

That was absurd.

I had called.

The missed call existed.

If the number was still his, he would see it.

If not, someone else would wonder why a priest from Aomori had called.

Nothing catastrophic.

I put the phone down.

At one twenty-seven, it rang.

Mizuno.

There.

I stared long enough that I nearly missed it.

Answered.

“Hello.”

Silence.

Then:

“Niioka?”

The voice was older.

Definitely.

“Yes.”

Another silence.

Then he laughed.

Not loudly.

“You’re alive.”

“So are you.”

“Apparently.”

There.

No ceremony.

No accusation.

I sat back.

“Why are you calling?” he asked.

Direct.

“I found your postcard.”

“My what?”

“Kyoto.”

Silence.

Then:

“Oh.”

He laughed again.

“That one?”

“Yes.”

“You still have that?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I keep things.”

“I remember.”

That sounded almost affectionate.

Or critical.

Probably both.

“What year was that?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”

“I could look.”

“Don’t.”

I smiled.

“Fine.”

Then he said:

“The train.”

“Yes.”

“How late was it?”

“You wrote that it was delayed.”

“That doesn’t answer.”

“You did not write the duration.”

“Then what kind of historical record is this?”

“Poor.”

“Throw it away.”

“No.”

He laughed.

The years contracted slightly.

Not disappeared.

Just less obstructive for a moment.

“Where are you now?” I asked.

“Still Kyoto.”

“At the same temple?”

“No.”

There.

“What happened?”

“Nothing dramatic.”

He said it quickly enough that I believed him.

“I left six years ago.”

“Left the priesthood?”

“No.”

“Then?”

“Smaller temple.”

“Your own?”

“Yes.”

I had not known.

“Congratulations.”

“Six years late.”

“Still.”

“Thank you.”

He paused.

Then:

“You?”

“Still here.”

“I assumed.”

“How?”

“You were impossible to move even then.”

“That is unfair.”

“It is accurate.”

I thought of the woman I had told Takahashi about.

Maybe not entirely unfair.

I did not bring her into this conversation.

Mizuno continued:

“I heard something about your teacher.”

There.

“My teacher died.”

“When?”

I told him.

His voice changed.

“I’m sorry.”

“Thank you.”

“Were you there?”

“Yes.”

No need for more today.

He understood enough.

Then he asked:

“Are you still doing everything yourself?”

“No.”

“Mostly yourself?”

I looked around the office.

“Less than before.”

“That is not an answer.”

“You sound like someone I know.”

“Poor man.”

I laughed.

Maybe too easily.

Fine.

We spoke for seventeen minutes.

Not years.

Seventeen minutes.

He told me about his temple.

Small.

Old roof repaired twice.

A bell he disliked.

Three neighborhood cats that treated the grounds as theirs.

His wife was well.

That surprised me.

Not that she was well.

That I had forgotten he was married.

“Your wife—”

“You forgot.”

“Yes.”

“Excellent.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No, this is useful. I can tell her how memorable she was.”

“Please don’t.”

“I absolutely will.”

I remembered her first name halfway through his next sentence.

Yuko.

I interrupted.

“Yuko-san.”

Too late.

He laughed hard enough to cough.

“She will appreciate the recovery.”

He asked whether I had married.

“No.”

“Still?”

“Yes.”

“Anyone?”

There.

Large question.

From someone absent for years.

I could say no.

I could say not today.

I chose smaller.

“There was someone.”

Mizuno became quiet.

“Serious?”

“Yes.”

“What happened?”

“We wanted different lives.”

True.

Incomplete.

Enough for this call.

He did not ask further.

Good.

Then came the obvious question.

“Why did we stop talking?”

I laughed.

“You too?”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

I had answered the same question with Takahashi days earlier.

This time the answer was even less clear.

“You moved.”

Mizuno said:

“So did phones.”

“Yes.”

“You stopped calling.”

“So did you.”

“Yes.”

Silence.

Then he said:

“I think we were both lazy.”

Maybe.

Not morally lazy.

Relationally.

Assuming another month made no difference.

Then another.

“Probably.”

Mizuno continued:

“I thought about calling when I changed temples.”

“You should have.”

“You could have called anytime.”

“Yes.”

“So could you.”

“Yes.”

There.

No winner.

No injured party established.

Two people who had not called.

Then he asked:

“Are you calling because something happened?”

I looked at the postcard.

“No.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“No funeral question?”

“No.”

“No sect business?”

“No.”

“No one sent you?”

“No.”

He waited.

“Then why?”

I thought of Takahashi asking me the same kinds of questions.

Why coffee?

Why now?

What for?

The answer had become easier.

“I wanted to know how you were.”

Silence.

Longer.

Then Mizuno said:

“Ah.”

Just that.

I could hear something in it.

Surprise.

Maybe relief.

Maybe nothing I should name.

Then:

“I’m all right.”

“Good.”

No.

He laughed.

“You still say that?”

“What?”

“Good.”

“I am apparently being persecuted for a normal word.”

“I remember you used to say it after people gave factual reports.”

“That sounds efficient.”

“It sounded like grading.”

I stared at the desk.

Takahashi would be delighted.

“I have been told this recently.”

“Then listen to them.”

“Unfortunately.”

At the end, I said:

“We should talk again.”

Mizuno did not immediately agree.

That mattered.

He said:

“Maybe.”

There.

Not rejection.

Not yes.

Maybe.

I waited.

He continued:

“I’m bad at phone calls.”

“You answered.”

“Today.”

“Yes.”

Then:

“If you come to Kyoto, call.”

There.

Conditional.

Real.

“I will.”

“And if I come north?”

“Call.”

“Good.”

No.

I almost laughed.

He did.

“You did it again.”

“Goodbye, Mizuno.”

“Goodbye, Niioka.”

The call ended.

I sat with the phone in my hand.

No reunion scheduled.

No weekly coffee.

No recovered friendship declaration.

No promise that we would now speak regularly.

Seventeen minutes.

That was what happened.

I had called an old number.

The person was still there.

Different temple.

Same laugh.

Married to Yuko, whose name I had nearly forgotten.

That was enough.

No.

I smiled.

There was no need to ban the word entirely.

At two, work returned.

A funeral company called about Friday.

The Hasegawa family had chosen the hydrangea photograph.

Deadline met.

No further issue.

I wrote it in the funeral note only because the funeral company needed to know which photograph had been selected.

Not because the choice required philosophical preservation.

Hydrangeas.

Done.

At three thirty, the woman from the earlier memorial dispute called.

The one who had invited her late husband’s brother.

“I decided.”

“Yes?”

“He’s coming.”

“Okay.”

“I’m still angry.”

“Yes.”

“He knows.”

That was new.

“You told him?”

“Yes.”

“What did you say?”

“That I want him at the memorial and I’m still angry about what happened before my husband died.”

“And?”

“He said he knows.”

Pause.

“Then he apologized.”

I waited.

“Did that help?”

“A little.”

There.

Not everything.

A little.

Then she said:

“I thought if I invited him, I had to act like we had reconciled.”

“No.”

“I know that now.”

No need for me to add.

She continued:

“He asked if I wanted to talk before the memorial.”

“Do you?”

“Not yet.”

“What did you tell him?”

“Not yet.”

Good.

No.

I left it.

“Then we’ll keep the memorial plan as arranged.”

“Yes.”

Call ended.

Actual movement.

No miracle.

At four fifteen, Takahashi called.

“Coffee?”

I looked at the desk.

Work mostly finished.

“Yes.”

“Temple?”

“Yes.”

“Twenty minutes.”

“Drive normally.”

“Always.”

“That is false.”

“Mostly.”

He hung up.

Twenty-three minutes later, he arrived.

No comment.

He sat.

I made coffee.

He looked at the postcard on my desk.

“What’s that?”

There.

I had forgotten to put it away.

“Old postcard.”

“From?”

“Mizuno.”

“Who?”

“An old friend.”

The word came easily.

Old friend.

Not current?

Maybe both.

No need to decide.

Takahashi picked up his cup.

“You call him?”

“Yes.”

He looked surprised.

“Today?”

“Yes.”

“What happened?”

“We talked.”

“That is disappointingly normal.”

“Yes.”

“How long since?”

“Years.”

“How many?”

“I don’t know.”

“You could check the postcard.”

“He told me not to.”

Takahashi stared.

“You obeyed?”

“Yes.”

“This Mizuno has influence.”

I laughed.

“Still friends?” Takahashi asked.

I looked at the postcard.

“I don’t know.”

He frowned.

“You just called him an old friend.”

“Yes.”

“That sounds like friend.”

“History.”

“What did he call you?”

“He didn’t classify the relationship.”

“This is unbearable.”

I smiled.

“Why does it matter to you?”

“It doesn’t.”

“Then?”

“I’m curious.”

There.

Fair.

I thought.

Did I feel friendship?

Affection, certainly.

Familiarity.

A gap.

A present connection perhaps thin but real.

“I think he’s still a friend.”

Takahashi nodded.

“Fine.”

No.

He caught himself.

“Acceptable.”

I laughed.

He asked:

“Seeing him?”

“No plan.”

“Why not?”

“Because we had one phone call after years apart.”

“So?”

“So nothing.”

Takahashi drank.

“Do you want to see him?”

Maybe.

“Yes.”

“Then ask.”

I looked at him.

“Kyoto is not coffee across town.”

“Trains exist.”

“I know.”

“Your postcard proves that.”

“Apparently unreliable trains.”

“Still.”

I did not answer.

Would I go to Kyoto just to see Mizuno?

Maybe someday.

But I did not want to turn one call into a recovery project.

“I don’t need to decide that today.”

Takahashi nodded.

“True.”

That was all.

He let it stay there.

We drank coffee.

Then Takahashi asked:

“Sunday museum?”

Ah.

Railway museum.

“What time?”

“Eleven?”

I checked.

Morning free.

Evening consultation at five.

“Yes.”

“Good.”

No.

I stared.

He smiled.

“Deliberate.”

“Clearly.”

Friday’s funeral began at two.

Hydrangea photograph.

Their mother in a hat.

Looking away from the camera.

The younger brother stood in front of it before the service.

For a while.

Then said to his sister:

“You were right.”

She answered:

“About what?”

“The picture.”

She looked at him.

“Don’t say that too loudly.”

He laughed.

No one asked me whether it was proper.

We began.

The service was small.

Three siblings.

Two grandchildren.

One neighbor.

No unexpected guest.

No argument.

The hydrangeas in the photograph were brighter than the funeral flowers.

No symbolism needed.

They were flowers from a different day.

That was enough.

After the service, Mr. Hasegawa came to me.

“Thank you for Wednesday.”

“You’re welcome.”

“You were off.”

“Yes.”

Then:

“You still answered.”

“Yes.”

He looked as if he wanted to apologize again.

I stopped him before he did.

“You had a current death. Calling was reasonable.”

“But you didn’t come back.”

“No.”

He nodded.

“That was probably reasonable too.”

I smiled.

“I hope so.”

He looked toward his siblings.

Then:

“I think I understand.”

“What?”

“You can answer without coming.”

There.

“Yes.”

He nodded.

Then went back to his family.

Simple distinction.

Useful.

By five, the temple was quiet.

The hydrangea photograph had left with the family.

Flowers too.

No reason to retain any of it.

I completed the service record.

Then noticed the postcard still on my desk.

Mizuno.

I had brought it back again.

Maybe I should return it home.

I slipped it into my coat pocket.

This time intentionally.

At home, I placed it in the drawer with the other postcard.

Beside the envelope.

No special new envelope.

No label.

Just back where it had been.

I closed the drawer.

At seven, my phone rang.

Unknown number.

I almost ignored it.

Answered.

“Hello?”

A woman’s voice.

“Niioka-san?”

“Yes.”

“This is Yuko.”

I stopped.

Mizuno’s wife.

“Yuko-san.”

“Good. You remembered this time.”

I closed my eyes.

He had told her.

Of course.

“I remembered eventually.”

“So I heard.”

She laughed.

Then:

“He has been insufferable since yesterday.”

“Why?”

“You called.”

There.

I did not know what to say.

She continued:

“He pretended it was nothing.”

“That sounds familiar.”

“He told me three separate times that you still had the postcard.”

I laughed.

That did sound like something.

Then Yuko said:

“Thank you.”

“For calling him?”

“Yes.”

I looked toward the closed desk drawer.

“I wanted to.”

“I know.”

Pause.

Then:

“He missed you.”

There.

I did not know whether Mizuno would have said that himself.

Probably not.

Was it hers to tell me?

She had.

Now I knew.

“I missed him too,” I said.

Yuko became quiet.

Then:

“Tell him.”

“I did not say it yesterday.”

“I know.”

Of course she knew.

“What exactly did he report?”

“Everything except anything emotionally useful.”

I laughed.

Then she said:

“I’m not asking you to do anything.”

There.

Good.

“I just thought you should know.”

“Thank you.”

“Come to Kyoto sometime.”

Maybe family habit.

Invitation.

Not schedule.

“I’d like to.”

“Good.”

No.

I let her have it.

We spoke another two minutes.

Then ended.

I sat at the kitchen table.

Mizuno missed me.

I missed him.

Neither fact had made either of us call for years.

Interesting.

Not noble.

Not tragic.

Just human.

Feeling did not automatically become action.

Sometimes that protected people.

Sometimes it simply created silence.

I knew both versions now.

I picked up the phone.

Could call Mizuno immediately.

Tell him.

Too much?

No.

Maybe.

Did I want to?

Yes.

I called.

He answered on the second ring.

“You again?”

“Yuko called me.”

Silence.

Then:

“She did what?”

“She called.”

“I’m going to divorce her.”

“No.”

“Fine. Move temples.”

“You already did.”

He sighed.

“What did she say?”

“That you missed me.”

Long silence.

There.

Then:

“She is dead to me.”

I laughed.

“You told her I forgot her name.”

“That was important information.”

“She retaliated.”

“Apparently.”

Then silence again.

I did not rescue him.

Finally he said:

“I did.”

Two words.

No joke.

I answered:

“I missed you too.”

There.

Another pause.

Then Mizuno said:

“Idiots.”

“Yes.”

“Both of us.”

“Yes.”

He laughed softly.

Then:

“Come to Kyoto.”

Not sometime.

Still no date.

But direct.

“I will.”

“When?”

There.

A real question now.

I opened the calendar on my phone.

Not tonight.

No.

This did not need immediate booking.

But neither did it need indefinite maybe.

“Let me check November.”

“November?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

No.

Neither of us laughed this time.

It was simply useful.

“I’ll call you this weekend.”

“All right.”

“Not after another ten years.”

“That would be inconvenient.”

We ended.

For several minutes, I sat without doing anything.

Then I opened the drawer.

Not for the card.

Not for the charger.

For the postcard.

I took it out.

Looked at the picture of Kyoto.

Old roof.

Old sky.

Printed scene.

Nothing particularly beautiful.

I turned it over.

Train delay.

Weather.

Temple.

Mizuno’s handwriting.

I still did not check the date.

He had said not to.

Not a binding instruction.

Just a joke that had become preferable to knowing.

I put it back.

The other envelope remained beside it.

Niioka card.

I did not open that either.

Interesting.

Two old connections had now moved differently.

Takahashi had returned deeply into my present.

Mizuno had returned as a voice, perhaps soon as a visit.

Neither relationship had followed a plan.

Neither needed to resemble the other.

One old object had helped begin one reconnection.

Another old object had prompted another.

But the objects could stop there.

The phone calls belonged to us.

Sunday, I would go with Takahashi to a railway museum neither of us cared much about.

Sometime in November, perhaps, I would go to Kyoto.

Two future things.

One almost ridiculous.

One unexpectedly important.

Both had begun with something simple.

Do you want to go?

Do you want to call?

For years, I had been very good at waiting until there was sufficient reason.

A need.

An obligation.

A service.

A problem.

Now I was beginning to recognize another reason before it disappeared into another year.

I want to.

Sometimes that was enough to pick up the phone.

<< Chapter 71 | From The Beginning

The search for Tonauac had not been going well.

“Tonauac? Nah, haven’t seen him.”

“With a sovereign vulture? No, no lizardmen like that.”

No matter how many people they asked around the beach they found no luck.

“Unfortunately I have not seen him since our Blood magic class together…wait is something wrong? Is he alright?”

It was nice to see that others were concerned for him.

Citlali shook her head at the orc girl. “We’re simply trying to find our friend.”

“Oh thank The Sky Father.” The girl leaned against the outer wall of the beach changing rooms and exhaled. “I must admit that I came here hoping to run into him when going for a swim. If I see him then I’ll let him know his friends are looking for him.”

The lizardlass looked up at Xoco whose screaming eyes matched her screaming eyes. 

Xoco put on her best smile. “I’m certain he would appreciate that!”

“You think so?” The orc girl tucked a lock of red hair behind her green ear, letting a silly grin overtake her for a moment before she grew serious again. “Of course he would. Forgive me, I shouldn’t be doubting his friends.”

‘His foolish friends were doubting him, that’s what got us into this mess.’ Citlali thought to herself, smiling, while processing a better answer. “Well we have to do our best to clear up misunderstandings, don’t we?”

The orc girl nodded and made a fist held up in determination. “Of course. Is there any other way I can help?”

Citlali and Xoco had both been through more awkward situations than this, and they knew what to do in such cases. It didn’t make it easier to smile through it, though.

“Noooo in fact we should apologize for troubling you haha.” The lizardlass was already scooping up Coztic into her arms and backing away. “Enjoy the nice day!”

Xoco waved farewell and followed after Citlali by pushing her along. Both of them were dead silent until they were well clear of the beach. “Nelli does not see anyone following us.”

The lizardlass groaned out a wounded noise from a closed snout.

“So Zyn was right about all the girls interested in him.”

“I told you.”

“I wasn’t doubting. It’s just…awkward to walk face first into it.”

“All of you are my only social interactions now so I’m not as in-tune with the local gossip.”

“I always kept to myself.”

“You weren’t missing anything.”

“I’d miss all of this.”

“I’d kill to keep all of this.”

“Me too.”

After staring ahead while aimlessly walking, they shared a look and then laughed away some of the tension.

Citlali snapped back to serious. “Was it okay to not tell her?”

“Well, technically she didn’t ask.” Xoco cleared her throat.

“I still feel as though we’ve made negative progress in our search…” The lizardlass pet Coztic and the raptor chittered in appreciation.

The jungle troll girl leaned down to pat her on the shoulder. “You said you’d kill for this, right? Well there’s still a lot of day to kill.”

Citlali giggled. “Thank you…to the next spot?”

The next stop was the club building. A place that was bustling with activity on most weekends with this one being no exception. Tonauac had been the one to discover it in the first place and the friends had the thought that he might return here either in seeking out the views of the rooftop garden boxes or that this would be a good place to ask around with the abundance of people here.

Xoco was to take the lower half of the building and Citlali was to take the upper half. There existed a moratorium on not recruiting first year students to clubs until further into the semester though that didn’t stop students from seeking out clubs of their own. Or forming them, as Citlali’s friends were planning to do.

…they were still planning to do that, right?

Of course they were.

There was just some apologizing and atonement to do, which was mostly her fault, and then they could have their official warband. And she would be the secretary-maid to that warband’s leader! Luckily, this was exactly the building to be in for such extracurricular endeavors that one wouldn’t normally learn about in standard magic classes. 

Which was a relief because Citlali would be the first to admit that she knew very little about being a secretary. Or a maid. She had maids at home but she did her best to not get in their way, meaning she had no opportunities to learn their craft. And her parents had secretaries but business dealings were even more opaque to the lizardlass.

Xoco also admitted that she too knew nothing of these ways.

It was all up to Citlali on how to start this journey, but a very clear first step was obvious: making sure she had the right outfit for it.

Zyn would of course be consulted afterwards but for now, this was a fantastic excuse to mingle while tracking down any Tonauac sightings.

And after making it up to the top floor, results were…mixed.

Some students were definitely seeing her vision in combining secretary and maid into one outfit but no one had seen Tonauac or anyone matching his description today.

“I mean…it would have to be a skirt, right? That’s the common element and you have to work with that.”

“Black and white. You need to look for something black and white. Those colors are going to be even more important than the skirt.”

“Light green? Sorry, haven’t seen any lizardmen like that today.”

“Wait, he's Tonauac? I thought his name was Isak…gimme a break they both end in the same syllable.”

“Tonauac? Not recently but if you’re looking for lizardguys there was this hot one running around in jaguar print underwear–”

That wasn’t anywhere close to what she was asking for but she played nice and thanked her fellow lizardgirl from the baking club for her time and promised she would likely be back to learn the art of baked goods in due time. If she was to embody The Lady of The House for Gods’ March then she would need to learn to cook, even if that probably wasn’t under the normal purview of secretary-maids.

A revelation that didn’t help her search while being very interesting was that there existed a romance novel reading club.

“But do you have the most fun kind of romance novels?”

The red oni girl tried to remain cool in the face of Citlali’s inquiry, but she flinched first and looked away to avoid the lizardgirl’s eyes. “That kind of reading material would…not be allowed.”

“That wasn’t an actual answer.”

“You shouldn’t be asking that question.”

“I understand.” Citlali knowingly winked up at the oni girl. “Perhaps I shall join your club later.”

If she thought they might be less ashamed behind closed doors. The lizardlass was trying to teach Xoco to be unashamed about such things and couldn’t have her learning the wrong lessons. She had already failed one friend and she couldn’t fail another…actually she was failing all of her friends with her distinct lack of luck in turning up any leads.

Citlali’s footsteps slowed. That awful air of malaise that had overtaken her after her horrible mistake this morning came rushing back like pyroclasts. Her temporary return to good spirits started to feel like a mockery. Did she really think she deserved to cheer back up even for a while after what she had done? Could she even make amends? Much less help Zyn plot revenge? Or keep to any other promise?

She was even breaking her promise to Isak that she would be okay. 

…there was still time to keep to that promise, right?

The lizardgirl had sworn to ‘do her best’, and having a breakdown, slumped against a wall as passersby stared at her and Coztic chirped at her after she faced some setbacks was very much not her best.

What would Isak say if he was here to see her like this?

No, she couldn’t–

Another foul phantom of her past was upon her. She heard that old familiar voice before she saw its owner. “Citlali! What brings you here?”

The lizardlass turned to see the face of Kuhri smiling down at her. “W-what are you doing here?”

“Oh, I belong here.” Her smile didn’t falter. Instead, it only grew as bright as her yellow eyes. The mountain lion at her side couldn’t hope for such a predatory grin. “But you still haven’t answered my question. What are you doing here?”

“I–It’s none of your business.”

Another of her former friends appeared from the nearby doorway of one of the club rooms, a goblin girl named Yoka with a shrew on her shoulder. “Is that how to treat your old friends, Citlali?”

“You are not my friends.” The lizardlass said through grit teeth while Coztic hissed at them. “Never were.”

The girls laughed and exchanged a look before Yoka continued. “Well if that’s how she treats her old friends I can see why she already scared off one of her ‘new friends’.”

“Get your eyes checked, Yoka.” The goliath girl craned her neck around. “I don’t see any of them here.”

“Goodness, it's worse than we thought.” Yoka put a hand over her mouth and her orange eyes went wide. “She must have driven all of them away.”

Shutupshutupshutupshutup.

Citlali grit her teeth a final time before speaking up. “I am on a very important mission! Entrusted to handle this on my own!”

“Ooooh so they sent you off on a distraction.” The goblin girl clicked her tongue. 

“We would do that all the time with you.” Kuhri frowned and leaned down to pat Citlali on the shoulder. The lizardlass flinched away but the goliath girl continued. “Sometimes you were just a bit…too much.”

Oh.

That…recontextualized a lot of things in retrospect…

All those times that she would be sent off while her friends would be doing something else. Something else without her. At least until later.

“Hey, hey. Don’t look so grim.” Kuhri cooed. “We always came back for you again, didn’t we?”

“When you needed her.” Yoka snickered.

…

That’s not what her new friends were doing…right?

Sure she had been sent off on her own after already dividing up the group but–

Coztic nudged her leg again, finally breaking her out of her spiraling thoughts.

‘You have to be better than this.’ Citlali scolded herself as her claws flexed. ‘Your friends, your real friends, need better than this.’

“Perhaps you both need to get your ears fixed.” The lizardlass didn’t bother to wear a cheery tone. “I told you I was entrusted with an important mission.”

She felt her confidence growing as she took a step towards them. Daring her former ‘friends’ to try something while already having targets picked out for bits of flying mage glass.

“If I was so unwanted then Lord Isak wouldn’t have dragged me back to his room and into his bed!”

That wiped the smug looks right off their faces!

Wait.

The lizardlass forced the smile to stay on her face as she realized she may have given the wrong impression.

“It was because I needed cheering up. And it was very effective!”

There, things were much clearer now.

The faces of her former friends were aghast with how clear things were.

“My my.” Kuhri started to regain some of her composure. With it came that smug grin again. “Does ‘Xoco’ know about this?”

Citlali scoffed. “She was there too.”

Both of the girls stood there in awe of the unwavering power of friendship that had been relayed to them. Their jaws hung open in shock at how Citlali’s new friends were infinitely better than what she had ever dreamt of. Even their familiars were staring in unabashed amazement. They were all–

Oh they thought Citlali was talking about something else entirely.

There was still time to clear up this misunderstanding–

“This is getting too weird for me.” Yoka and her shrew both shivered before walking off. 

“Wait!” The goliath girl called after the smaller girl before turning to Citlali with a scowl. “Your thighs are still fat.”

She was next to storm off before Citlali could clear up–

…her genius plan that had totally worked!

And if she kept telling herself that as she walked off with her head held high, she could ignore all the stares from the few passersby who had been listening in.

<< Chapter 71 | From The Beginning

(Her genius is frightening. 

Please let me know what you think and leave a comment!

Discord server is HERE for this and my other works of fiction.)

For days after that conversation, the word abroad echoed in Aarav’s mind like a stubborn refrain.

It slipped into his thoughts uninvited, filling the quiet between lectures, haunting the pauses in their conversations. Even the smallest moments began to carry a strange, invisible tension.

When they walked to the canteen, he caught himself watching her hands as she talked, how easily they moved when she spoke, how alive they looked. He wondered, absurdly, how easily those same hands might one day hold a plane ticket.

When she laughed, he found himself memorizing the sound, that bright, unguarded rhythm, afraid that one day he might forget the exact cadence of it.

Aarna never mentioned it again, at least not directly. Life seemed to carry on as usual.

Their calls still came every evening, spilling into the small hours. Their laughter still echoed through the quiet corners of campus. She still sent him photos, a rain-drenched street, a cup of chai steaming beside her laptop, the corner table of their usual café, small, ordinary things that somehow felt sacred now, like artifacts from a world that might soon vanish.

But for Aarav, every moment was colored by that single possibility.

Every time his phone lit up with her name, a whisper stirred inside him: What if one day it doesn’t?

Every time she waved from across the canteen, his chest tightened: How many more times?

Every time they parted at the hostel gate, he wondered, When will the last time be?

He told himself not to panic.

Maybe she wouldn’t go.

Maybe it was just a passing suggestion, something her supervisor had said in a burst of enthusiasm.

People dreamed all the time without chasing those dreams, didn’t they?

And yet the fear wouldn’t leave. It sat in his chest like a stone.

Each time she spoke about opportunities, about growth, about not letting herself get stuck, the stone grew heavier.

He admired her for it. He always had. She was the kind of person who refused to shrink her world to fit comfort. But admiration and dread tangled until he couldn’t tell one from the other.

That night, he opened his notebook. The pen felt heavier than usual in his hand.

He wrote slowly, as if each word were a confession:

Hope and fear
sit side by side in my chest.
one whispers,
“she will stay.”
the other whispers,
“you will lose her.”
and I can’t tell
which voice is louder,
or which one is lying.

He read the lines once, twice, then closed the book before the ink dried.

He didn’t tell Aarna what he felt. He couldn’t.

To her, this was just life, the natural next step, a horizon opening.

To him, it was the sound of something precious beginning to unravel.

Sometimes, after their calls ended, he would sit in the dark, the faint hum of the ceiling fan tracing circles above him. The same room. The same stars beyond the same window. Yet everything inside him felt altered, fragile, trembling, waiting for something to change.

So he held onto her harder.

He laughed louder at her jokes, lingered longer when they spoke, stored away the smallest gestures like keepsakes, the way she tucked her hair behind her ear, the curve of her smile when she found something funny, the soft tilt of her head when she listened.

Because somewhere deep down, Aarav already knew what the heart knows before the mind admits it:

when goodbyes begin to gather on the horizon,
even the smallest moments
start to feel like last ones.

Its nighttime, the ghosts are dashing, leaping, and flipping from building to building, soaring through the skies over the bustling neon-lit streets of Tokyo, cheering and laughing at the top of their lungs.

"HEY, GUYS, CHECK THIS OUT! ¡ALREDEDOR DEL MUNDO!" Miko

Miko springs her arms at a pole, grabs it, yanks herself over, spins around the pole, leaps into the air, stretches out her leg while spinning around in the air, tumbles down to the ground, and continues running.

"IMPRESSIVE, SISTER. HOWEVER….!" Shiro

Shiro manifests his energy blades, thrusts them into the ground, launching himself into the air, fuses them into a double-edged sword, and begins spinning them around his neck, and he flies through the air.

"…MY BALLE OF WONDERS MAKES ME BELIEVE OTHERWISE!" Shiro

Shiro cartwheels down to the ground and continues running.

"ALL MAYONNAISE, NO KETCHUP! WATCH AND LEARN, MEN!" Hiro

Hiro pulls out an egg and smashes it across the ground. It explodes, launching Hiro into the air like a rocket. Hiro places his fists on his waist, somersaulting through the air consecutively.

"CONSECUTIVE FLEX FORMATION!" Hiro

Hiro dives down, tumbles onto the ground, leaps onto his feet, and continues running.

"NOT BAD, NOT BAD, FOR ROOKIES! LET THE BIGGEST SHOW YOU WHERE THE REAL SKILL IS AT!" Tadano

Tadano rolls up into a ball, bolts off ahead of them, and zooms off a ramp, launching himself into the air. He unfolds, spreading out his arms, in the moonlight like a bird.

"I CALL THIS ONE BELLY BO….!" Tadano

A pigeon crashes into Tadano's face.

"AHHH!!!" Tadano

Tadano falls from the air, smashes his across the edge of a building, and begins crashing and bouncing back and forth between the buildings before crashing into a dumpster in an alleyway. The others walk up to the edge of the building, looking down on him with smirks on their faces.

"WOW, SOLDIER! YOU REALLY SHOWED US!" Hiro

"HOW TRASH YOU ARE THAT IS!" Miko

"I LEARNED SO MUCH" Shiro

The three of them begin laughing at him. Tadano drags his head out from the dumpster with low brows.

"OH, HA, HA! VERY FUNNY! ANYONE WANNA HELP A BROTHER OUT?!" Tadano

The others dive down into the alley and drag him out from the dumpster. Tadano begins dusting his body.

"By the way, it was the pigeons' fault; Tadano could have won." Tadano

"Sure…" Hiro

Hiro pats Tadano's shell.

"I'm serious!" Tadano

"Seguro, Hermano, and the guards at that museum over there are totally smart for leaving their doors wide open late at night." Miko

They all look towards the massive Tokyo National Museum across the street with its doors wide open.

"Though I do believe they aren't as smart as I am, they are at least smart enough tsays in in in in in inow that's not safe." Shiro

"Yeah…let's move in!" Hiro

The ghosts run out of the alley into the museum. They stop at the entrance with widened eyes as they stand before a small army of guards lying out across the floor, unconscious.

"Jeez…." Tadano

"I know…. an open-door slumber party on the Job?! Aye, yai, yai! Why didn't we think of that?! Miko

"…You've completely missed the point," Tadano

"Let's get a little intimate with the mission, shall we?" Hiro

The ghosts begin to walk deeper into the museum, glancing at every single artifact and piece of art in the building.

"Man, there's so much stuff here. Where do they even come from?" Tadano

"According to Father, a lot of these are the remains of all the yokais from his and Grandfather's days." Shiro

"So, this museum is like what? The tomb of all the bad beans grandpa and dad had to put down in their day?" Hiro

"That is one way to word it. I really wonder what another yokai would look like or what it would be like to fight one. It's unfortunate they probably don't exist anymore," Shiro

"Huh…. y'know, nothing seems to be missing around here so far." Tadano

"Then WHOM could have done such a thing to those guards?" Shiro

"Or WHAT could've done such a thing to those guards?" Hiro

"Or WHEN could've done such a thing to those guards?" Mik?o

Hiro, Shiro, and Tadano look at Miko with a raised brows. Miko sighs.

"Lo se, lo se, I lost, no need to rub it in, let's go again, best dos out of tres" Miko

"WOW! I WASN'T EXPECTING A FAMILIAR CROWD!" A voice

The ghosts look up only to find an orange and black fox of average height on its two feet on top of a beam in a white tuxedo, wearing a white top hat and an all-black eye mask with a gold moon and star symbol for eyes. The fox is looking down on them with a massive grin, with his jacket flowing in the wind.

"What the hell…?" Tadano

"SALUTATIONS, FRIENDS! FEEL FREE TO FEAST YOUR EYES ON THE SHINING STAR, THE MASTER OF AWE, THE GOLDEN MAGICIAN… RAZZLE DAZZLE! FRIENDS AND ENEMIES CAN CALL ME RAZZLE!" The fox

"No way…" Miko

"Is that…?" Hiro

"A YOKAI?!" Shiro

"Yokais that have never met other yokais? That's a first," Razzle

Razzle leaps down from where he stands and lands before them. He adjusts his jacket.

"Speaking of friends and enemies…. which are you?" Razzle

The ghosts look at each other, then back at him.

"Depends… How do you like your breast milk?" Hiro

"Heh…. EXTRA HOT" Razzle

"Hm…. Touche…" Hiro

Tadano looks at Hiro with a disgusted look.

"What?! NO!" Tadano

Tadano slaps Hiro's head.

"OW!" Hiro

Tadano grunts as he strokes his forehead.

"Look, why did you break in here, man?" Tadano

"Ah, well, you see that artifact behind me…" Razzle

The ghost looked behind him, laying their eyes on a blood-red coin within a casing.

"It's something that belonged to my great, great, great, great grandfather, and I've simply come here to retrieve it." Razzle

"But you didn't have to harm those officers for it…" Shi,ro

"Yeah, man. What gives!" Tadano

"Oh, my deepest apologies. Unfortunately, I tend to get carried away in giving out more force than needed…ESPECIALLY when they get in the way of MY SPOTLIGHT…" Razzle with a deep voice

The ghosts eyes widen. Razzle clears his throat.

"Anyways, I'd love to continue to chit-chat… but I'm on a tight schedule; therefore, I'll be grabbing what's mine and getting out of your furs, feathers, and scales." Razzle

Razzle turns around.

"Hold on, buddy! We ain't done talking," Tadano

"Yes, we have…" Razzle

"No, we haven't…" Tadano

Hiro pulls out two eggs, Miko goes on all fours like a beast, Shiro manifests his dual energy blades, and Tadano cracks his knuckles. Razzle faces them and chuckles.

"Correct me if I'm wrong, but I did inform you of my bad habits…. DIDN'T I?" Razzle with a deep voice

"Este Chico is giving me the heeby geebies," Miko whispers

"This may be bad…" Shiro whispers

"How so?" Hiro whispers

"We've never fought a yokai, not to mention beat one before, yakuza and corrupt organizations, of course…but yokai…" Shiro whispers

"Yokai, yakuza…. whatever, they're all bullies, and TADANO DOESN'T TOLERATE BULLIES," Tadano whispers

Razzle pulls out a gold coin and begins flipping and catching it over and over with a devious smile on his face.

"So… which one of you wants to volunteer for a MAGIC TRICK?" Razzle

"Alright, soldiers, here's the plan. Miko, you…." Hiro

"RAAAAAAAAAAAAH!!!" Tadano

Tadano dashes into action.

"Why do I even bother?" Hiro

Tadano leaps at Razzle and begins swinging punches left and right as Razzle weaves through every swing, still flipping his coin. Razzle then flips over him into the air.

"I guess I'll start with YOU!" Razzle

Razzle flicks the coin at Tadano. It explodes into gold flames and sparks, sending Tadano flying across the room, crashing through multiple cases and bones before crashing into a wall face-first with his shell smoking. Tadano detaches from the wall and collapses to the ground with white eyes.

,"TADANO!!!" The others

Razzle pulls out another coin and looks at the others with a devious grin.

"Any OTHER volunteers" Razzle

The others growl with narrowed eyes and immediately begin running towards Razzle. Razzle laughs.

"THAT'S THE SPIRIT! COME ON! COME ALL!!" Razzle

Razzle hurls several glowing coins at them. Hiro flings an egg at them, causing them to explode into flames. Razzle leaps out of the flames and smashes a coin across the ground. It bursts into gold dust, consuming every single one of them. In the cloud, Hiro is coughing non-stop

"SWEET BABY'S BEHIND…!" Hiro

Suddenly, Razzle appears before him. Hiro's eyes widen. He swings a punch. Razzle catches him and pokes both of his eyes.

"MOTHER KISSER!!!" Hiro

Razzle grabs Hiro by the tails of his bandana, swings him around, smashing him across multiple glass cases, then flings him away, sending him flying, crashing through two pillars, then crashing into the third. Hiro detaches from the pillar and collapses on his face. The gold dust finally. clears.! Miko and Shiro's eyes widen on sighting Hiro.

"HIRO!!" Both of them.

"HOPE YOU GRABBED AN UMBRELLA, FOLKS!" Voice

Miko and Shiro quickly look up, only to find Razzle looking down on them.

"BECAUSE FOR HIS NEXT TRICK, THE GREAT RAZZLE DAZZLE SHALL NOW MAKE IT…!" Razzle

Razzle throws out a bunch of coins into the air with him. Immediately, the coins stretch ,and twist, turning into gold spikes. Miko and Shiro's eyes widen.

"RAIN!" Razzle with a deep voice.

Razzle waves his hand, sending the spikes raining down towards them. Shiro quickly forms his double-edged sword and begins spinning it above his head, deflecting and slicing the spikes raining down on him and Miko. Shiro chuckles.

"Fear not, sister! I have everything under control" Shiro

"Do you?" Voice

Suddenly, Razzle spawns beside Shiro. Shiro's eyes widen as he glances at him. Razzle flips a coin and catches it. The coin melts onto his arm, turning it into a massive gold fist. Razzle then stretches his fist back and punches Shiro in the side, snapping some ribs and sending him flying across the room and crashing into a wall, arm-first. Shiro detaches from the wall and collapses to the ground. Miko's eyes widen.

"SHIRO!" Miko

Miko growls, springs her arms at Razzle, catching him, yanks herself over, swings a kick, gets dodged, lands on all four limbs and swings her tail, whipping Razzle's legs and causing him to collapse. Miko then springs an arm into the air and drags herself into the air, launches her arms into th,e ground, and drags herself down towards Razzle like a missile. Razzle smirks.

"Gotcha!" Razzle

Miko's eyes widen. Razzle pulls out a coin and flicks it at her; it explodes, sending Miko crashing into the ceiling. Miko detaches from the ceiling and begins falling towards Razzle. Razzle hops back onto his feet, drops a coin on the floor, and stomps on it, turning his foot into solid gold. Razzle then spins around and kicks Miko away, sending her flying and crashing into a dinosaur skeleton statue. The entire statue comes down, crashing on her. The gold on Razzle's foot melt off.

"And with that…" Razzle

Razzle bows.

"…. The show ends. Now for my reward," Razzle

Razzle walks up to the casing of the blood-red coin and smashes it. He grabs the blood-red coin and looks at it with a devious grin.

"Soon, this city…no, the WORLD will know the name of RAZZLE DAZZLE. Be it in happiness, be it in sadness, or be it in DEATH! You'll see…" Razzle

Razzle shoves the coin in his jacket.

"Well, TALIHO!!" Razzle

Razzle pulls out a coin and smashes it across the ground, it explodes into gold dust. The dust fades away along with Razzle. The Ghosts finally begin getting back on their feet, groaning.

"T-The hell…was that?" Tadano

"It was yokai…...true to form" Shiro

"And with that red coin…" Miko

"Yap, things might just get oily and not the corn dog kind," Hiro

An hour later, at a worn-out-looking bar, big, rugged-looking men are all chattering, laughing, drinking, and playing all manner of games with each other, all at the top of their voices.

"GOOD EVENING, GENTS!" A voice

Everyone in the bar goes silent and looks towards the door, only to find Razzle with his hands behind his back. The men begin murmuring amongst themselves.

"Is that fox?! Talking?!" One muttered

"Maybe it's a guy in cosplay?" Another muttered

"Really?" Another muttered

"I mean, it is Tokyo," Another muttered

The man at the counter walks out of his area and comes face to face with Razzle, looking down at him with narrow eyes. Razzle whistles.

"You're a big one…" Razzle

"We don't take freaks in this bar…so why don't you do yourself a favor and scram before I throw you out." Man

"I understand, but you see…" Razzle

"I don't wanna hear it," Man

"I get that but…" Razzle

"But nothing GET OUT" Man

"If you would just…" Razzle

"You got cotton in your ears, freak?! I said GET…" Man

Razzle pierces through the man's throat with his bare hand, sending blood splattering across the table and the men behind him. Everybody in the bar jolts to their feet with widened eyes.

"GUSH, talk about a BLOW HORN! The universe be giving anyone a vocal cord these days" Razzle

Razzle drags out his hand and begins wiping it with a handkerchief as the man drops to his knees, trying to hold back all the blood flooding out from his neck. The man at last collapses in a pool of his blood. Razzle claps with a smile on his face.

"Anyways, I believe I've wasted too much of your time. So let's just skip the introductions and get down to business, shall we?" Razzle

Razzle pulls out the blood-red coin, flicks it into his mouth, and swallows it. His eyes widen, and his body begins to twitch and shake as his veins begin to glow red all around his skin. His veins finally stop glowing, and his body stops twitching. Razzle lets out a sigh.

"There, now that that's done…" Razzle

Razzle tosses out a bunch of coins across the floor, the coins burst into gold tendrils, catching and holding down everyone in the building as they begin squirming and grunting to escape. Razzle then uses one of his claws to tear open his finger. The blood from his finger rises, twists, and molds itself into a small glowing red orb. Razzle looks at the men with a devious smile as the men look back at him in terror.

"OPEN WIDE" Razzle

TO BE CONTINUED….

General Hornnel Swallowtail woke up to a full bladder.  Only after the brutal, familiar routine of a cold-water rinse, a quick scrape of a razor across his grizzled jaw, and a bitter swallow of ration tea did his mind finally grind into gear. FIVE YEARS! The words rang in his thoughts like a drumbeat. How in Julius' name was he going to restore Haego—a planet battered by decades of conflict, fractured infrastructure, and a shell-shocked population—to a thriving economy, functioning utilities, and local leaders capable of governing? First, he needed cold, hard data. He had to quantify the central continent's full status before he could compose a coherent report for Lord Ferentis.

An hour later, the surviving battalion gathered in the dust-choked assembly courtyard for the morning briefing. Hornnel stepped onto the low platform, his posture rigid despite the weight of exhaustion pressing down on his shoulders. “The Drazans have been defeated by Princess Clara,” he announced, his gravelly voice ringing through the humid morning air. Immediately, violent cries of denial, shock, anger, and underlying fear erupted from the ranks. Men and women who had spent years fighting a hopeless war stared in disbelief. Hornnel slammed his boot against the wooden decking, shouting over the din: “Quiet down, men! The war is done, but the hard work begins now. We have exactly five years to turn Haego back into a functioning world. Alpha squad, you head north toward the old provincial military base. Survey everything. Catalog every building and system—whether it’s completely destroyed, needs major reconstruction, requires minor repairs, or remains fully operational. Spread the word to every survivor settlement you encounter: invite their elders and leaders to assemble here in one lunar cycle. Beta, take the southern agricultural belt; Delta, sweep east through the industrial valleys. Return with your complete logs in fifteen days. I’ll take the central capital district myself.” A chorus of crisp “Yes, Sir!” echoed off the stone walls as the troops dispersed.

Hornnel always preferred being out in the field over sitting behind a desk. Walking the dusty trade roads reminded him of his youth, decades ago, when he had first enlisted in the regional auxiliary forces. In those days, marching and running for endless hectares under heavy packs, combined with endless weapons drills and marksmanship practice, had been his single ticket off this desolate, backwater planet. He vividly remembered the brutal final trial of basic training: the drill cadre had issued bright red shirts to the recruits and barked, “You have thirty minutes to camouflage yourselves before we come hunting. Survive until sundown and earn a three-day pass. If you fail, the red fabric might hide your blood, but it won't hide your shame.” Hornnel had buried himself in a mud ravine and held his breath for six hours, earning his pass and his first taste of survival.

Just as his cohort was graduating into active duty, disaster struck. Off-world pirates raided the unprotected settlements, slaughtering or enslaving the ruling noble families and leaving the administration in chaos. Hornnel and his fellow auxiliaries had organized a desperate defensive line, putting up such a fierce, organized resistance that, when local rebel factions demanded a truce, all parties agreed to a fragile power-sharing council to prevent complete societal collapse.

It was during his very first patrolling mission under the council that Hornnel met Alise. He had led his squad to a small homestead near the forest boundary, only to find a young woman standing tall at the front gate, armed with a pitchfork, flanked by a massive, growling hound, and with a fiercely defensive tree cat draped across her shoulders. Pointing the makeshift weapon straight at his chest, her eyes glaring, she had demanded, “What do you want?” Hornnel had raised his hands placatingly and replied, “We’re from the new provincial authority. We’re here to ask how we can help protect your farm.” From that day forward, Hornnel manufactured every conceivable military excuse to inspect the northern perimeter near her property. Within two years, they were married, and soon after brought Elizabeth into the world—a daughter who inherited all of her mother’s fierce spirit and striking beauty.

Hornnel spent the next three decades climbing through the officer ranks, watching with growing bitterness as the former rebels gradually morphed into the same corrupt, entitled tyrants they had once fought to overthrow. He worked tirelessly to keep his regional command safe, clean, and self-sufficient, holding the line until the Drazan invasion fleet descended and laid waste to the planet. Unlike past conflicts, the Drazans offered no quarter and made no compromises. Hornnel hated feeling like hunted prey in his own home, but he swore to protect his family, his soldiers, and every civilian under his care until his last breath, using the thick forests and rugged mountain ranges for cover as they held out.

Princess Clara’s sudden arrival and tactical victory had felt like nothing short of a miracle. Now, standing on the threshold of a new era, Hornnel prayed that his forthcoming survey and detailed reconstruction report to Lord Ferentis would secure the critical supplies, heavy machinery, and trained technical personnel needed to truly reclaim and rebuild Haego.