It occurred to me that I was, actually, supposed to publish a meta post to do with my Hamatora Rarepair Valentines 2015 Suite from, well, 2015, but clearly I never did. Which is okay. So I'll do it now.
What was Rarepair Valentines 2015? Me writing five fics for (crack) Moral/Nice, Nice/Ratio, Art/Koneko, Hajime/Skill (Nice/Hajime counts as rare, I guess, since fandom jumped ship) and Art/Gasuke.
—
Recurring imagery:
(i.e., the reason why it's a suite, other than "recommended reading order")
1. Water
Water symbolises a ton of things - life, moving water = change, dead water = death and dying...
This is fairly straight-forward and the way the water symbolism changes from one fic to the next is like a current of its own. It's pretty fun at first, water slides and a bizarre toilet joke, gets totally sappy-cavity romantic, evolves to a sort of self-conduit before becoming responsible for some pretty interesting choices (interesting in the car crash tragedy sense) and then become more meta on the actual choices themselves.
2. Ships
Yes. Ships. Shipping? Sailboats? This is a joke. But it's a completely serious one. (I think I'm hilarious, go figure.) Moral's piloting a speedboat (stolen from Murasaki who stole the money off Nice), Nice's landing on an inflatable ship led to Nice/Ratio (instant pairing, 0 basis in canon), Art's steering and trying to work out what's going on with his life after Koneko shows up, Hajime dreams of a ship to lead her to the stars, while Art and Gasuke... are interesting as far as boats are concerned. That fic's intent prevents me from summarising it in one line.
—
Progression:
The fics get considerably more complex the further in it gets and the closer it gets to Valentine's. Why? Why not? Maybe it has to do with the fact that I'm partially post-modern as a writer and partially because I like to subvert and play around with things. So... yes, this exists only because I noticed Friday the 13th was before Valentine's. Good show. I love Hamatora.
(Incidentally, the story titles are 5 words long on the first day, 4 words the second, etc, all down to 1 word on the fifth. Hey, "Through Star-Glass" is two words. Drabble battle. Do the hyphen dance!)
—
Notes I made specifically per-fic:
(I've tried to keep my personal interpretation to a minimum, pun half-intended)
Day 1, Moral/Nice:
Crackfic, Moral-the-self-insert, also a parody of everything else in the suite, also a bad joke regarding Draco in Leather Pants and meta about fanfic meta. Which is the reason I sometimes suggest the reading order of 2-3-4-5-1, actually.
Day 2, Nice/Ratio:
Honestly, everything is explained in this fic and I have nothing left to say that the characters haven't said themselves, other than the fact that I still can't believe I let it get so long. Oh, well. It's really straight-forward.
There's a bit about stars and people being made from star-stuff that could be compared to the stars and Skill and star-stuff in the Hajime/Skill fic if that's your thing, however.
“Well, we aren't here to search for stars. I mean, how can you even catch one anyway? They're so far.”
“They aren't far because everything in the world is made from stars,” Ratio remarked. “Any element greater than hydrogen and helium could only be created in one.”
“And we're carbon-based lifeforms so star-stuff is basically everywhere,” agreed Nice. “That's a cute definition, if you say what comes out of a star is still the star itself. I didn't think you were interested in astronomy.”
There's a point brought up somewhere about timing in relationships - Ratio used to like Birthday but Birthday rejected him on the basis that he didn't want Ratio to suffer more, but then Ratio got over it when Birthday was finally cured. So Ratio ended up with Nice (who is basically Birthday) and Birthday ended up with Misty (who is basically Ratio). Life is full of these weird timing coincidences all the time.
Day 3, Art/Koneko:
Art supports Koneko, given that he's older and her troubles are mostly in growing up, and Koneko supports him by having him believe in himself. They grow more and more open with one another as the story progresses.
Koneko's confession "killed" Art's former self - seeing as he needs to be killed in order to revive again. Peach tells me they headcanon Art had a mini heart attack, so...
It doesn't go crazy with anything. I think it's interesting how the ship imagery in this one compares and contrasts with the imagery in the Art/Gasuke.
Day 4, Hajime/Skill:
It's reference time!
All the images in the dual story lines are trying to unravel Hajime's thought processes. I'm not going to go into the obvious symbolism (e.g. the water) because this will get even longer. There are also a couple of other readings people could have had but I won't go into them either. This is mostly to explain the 897234927 references.
Hajime and the red queen (Momoka): Callback to Re:10, where Momoka gets into Hajime's head and insists that everything bad that's happened is all Hajime's own fault.
Hajime and Hikaru: Hikaru is somebody who was once in the same situation that Hajime found herself in, and Hajime opinionated enough in Re:01 that he most likely had an impact on her. The scene in the town of Memory is her remembering Murasaki telling Hikaru to choose. Hajime, needing outside voices for an opinion, listens to the imaginary Murasaki in her memory.
Important line from canon, from Hajime about Hikaru [Re:01, Anime-Koi subs]:
Hajime: I kind of get him. He's scared that if he changes, everyone will change.
The little girl sees her eyes become red; scared, she pushes the red queen away, destroys her, turns her back to everything and becomes afraid of change. Momoka reminds her it's her fault. Hajime breaks all the mirrors. Hajime's afraid of reflections because she sees unfaithfulness looking back at her - the little girl and the star boy's hearts have resonated with each other, and Hajime is trying to find her answers. She wants more but she also wants to keep what she already has.
Hajime and the glass: The title (and some of the fic) references Lewis Caroll's Through the Looking Glass. In that story, if you subscribe to the reading that Alice's journey to capturing the Red Queen symbolises her journey to womanhood, Hajime's pushing away of the red queen is a rejection of growing up and persisting with childish thoughts and childish dreams. Hajime's pursuit of the stars can be seen as childish dreaming.
Kudos to Art for stealing the show near the end. He totally wrote himself in like that and I love it. Give me my Art & Momoka, please. Please. I'm going to have to write this myself aren't i
Sidenote: Skill ruining everything here can be a deconstruction of god!Skill in previous fics. God!Skill is so good. (I call it... godskilling: God!Skill-ing / Gods killing)
Day 5, Art/Gasuke (aka. Kiteline):
You know, I actually spent a while wondering what I was going to talk about regarding Kiteline because I refuse to explain it, but I suppose I could talk about why.
Kiteline's concept is inspired by the Rorschach. It's designed to elicit emotion and written as a pattern of inkblots. There are lots of moments where you, as the reader, have to make logical leaps based on scarce amounts of information. As the story progresses, this becomes a series of assumptions, and the magic of assumptions is that they're coloured by an individual state of mind at the exact moment you're forced to make one. The fic is ambiguous in intent, playing on how a person self-inserts as they read, yet it shouldn't feel ambiguous while it's being read. What should happen is that the reading you walk off with is based on yourself. Your context, your culture. Art isn't the only one working out whether or not he likes Gasuke - so are you.
(That's the goal, anyway. I don't know if I succeeded in it because I still don't have enough feedback. There are a couple of people I'd specifically like readings from that I don't have, but I'll take what I can get. It's just fanfiction~)
((I'm too aware of my Word of God powers, so I'm avoiding the topic hard But message me if you want to hear my thoughts. Chat is a completely different medium.))
The fic itself is very fickle. Things happen that aren't always romantic. Bumps emerge. Inner conflict with more at stake than just fuzzy miscommunication. The imagery tends to contradict itself. Or, they can be read as developments. It's an unusual fic and an unusual pairing on a day where many fandoms find themselves swamped in fluffy ships and feel-good writing.
Incidentally, this was published Feb 14th, which also happened to be the first day of NiceArt Week (of which I had no idea of, because I'd locked myself in my room and written furiously for the past one and a half months so I could get all the fics out in time). The coincidence amuses me a lot. I wish I could tell you why.
Then again, I wish I could tell you why I go to all this effort anyway. But I love you guys <3
—
Bonus!
For taking the time to read this, here's a secret: http://syviki.tumblr.com/hamartia-teaser-trailer-2k16
Thanks for supporting my writing and being really awesome~! c:
Sometimes things in anime won't work as well at eliciting the same sort of response as it does in a manga, transposed 1-to-1. Lifting something up cross-language is similar to lifting it cross-medium.
Then that, by extension involves transposing cross-culturally.
Liberties need to be taken for something to make sense, or have more impact. Translators have this problem all the time, and they all have their personal preferences on how literal or liberal something should be. Of course, the more liberal you go, the more interpretation a translator needs to perform, and the more they insert their skills and experiences into the work itself.
How far is too far of a change? Up to you.
But me? I like liberality. I like seeing how things are chosen and find the differences absolutely fascinating. I used to have issues with it, but Hamatora encourages this. Moral’s very existence says don’t assume, because that’s what he did with Nice, and then Art proceeded to assume while being portrayed painfully wrong in s2. It’s not a show that spends time spelling out its characterisation, and spends barely enough time on each character before deciding to move on. There’s just enough characterisation for them to exist, yet not enough to secure their autonomy away from plot device chains.
It inspires me to write, to explore. I like it that way.
Part of the dub appeal is watching Chris Ayres’s directing decisions, because interpretations are interesting. It’s new. New approaches are what keeps transformative works from blending together.
(This is a roundabout way of saying I find straight adaptions bland on an extremely subjective level. You can chalk that up to my dislike for redundancy and how they feel too blatantly cash-grab in this cash-grab industry. Bam! Framing’s uninspired. Why would I read/play/watch xyz if it’s the same? Immersion broken.)
2) It's like watching Hamatora all over again, when you didn't know what was going to be around the corner.
It takes a certain amount of love for suffering to love the way Hamatora aired.
Call it hype, or suffering, or bad taste, or anything. I do all the above.
I'm going to look forward to alternating between the dub and the sub for when I feel like one is growing dull.
3) I love Hamatora.
Look, I don't pretend I'm not Hamatora trash. I don't pretend my bias doesn't affect my perception, because it does, and Hamatora isn't an amazing show.
I love everything about Hamatora.
This account passed its one year anniversary about a month ago. I’ve made mistakes, been too much of an apologist, but that’s now in the past. Next year, I’ll probably still be here making my Hamatora things, and maybe even the year after.
In another story, Murasaki’s the best graduate of Facultas, Ratio is a doctor in search of a cure, and Art receives help on a case from a man with brown hair and three bandages – a man said to work with Mao.
Different meetings lead to different relationships. And what these all lead to? AU.
Chapter 11 × ~4k words × Hamatora fanfiction
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—
Last time:
“Art,” Hajime’d said before leaving. There is no friend in how she pronounced his name. “There is a lot that Nice doesn’t know... if you take advantage of that I will kill you. Skill’s death is not by – not by— I—” she gasped and raised a hand to her throat, “I can’t say. You are searching wrong. Hopefully... we never need to meet again.”
—
“Good morning,” says Moral, shielded by the umbrella.
He fires. Gunpowder and blood splatter combine on the clear plastic. Moral wonders if he should remove his shoes, and changes his mind. He drops what he’s holding and claps his hands.
“Happy New Year!”
Too bad hide and seek isn’t fun with a trail of blood to lead him.
—
It’s 5:51 AM when Art receives the call.
The apartment building he’s to visit is less than ten minutes from his place at a walk. Art throws on his suit, grabs some toast and runs, dodging doors and walls and people and cars. He makes it in five.
There’s a cordon fenced by police tape already set up – and in front, Inspector Rune is waiting.
His small figure appears wider and shorter than usual, the base of his dark jacket lying in line with the black stripe of a police van. Reading glasses sit perched on his nose and a book is open in his hands. It’s a police handbook, standard-issue.
Art takes one look at how Rune’s gaze is fixed beyond the handbook’s pages, and knows he’s looking ahead with the Telescopic Minimum.
Art glances past Rune and up to the balcony. Uniformed forensics are already loitering at the entrance to each residence, examining the area around each of the tiny front doors. Behind them further still, the sun sets the world alight as it begins its journey across the sky.
Rune notices Art’s approach. He closes the book, tucks his glasses into one pocket, and salutes. Art’s attention is drawn back down.
“Superintendent,” greets Rune. Every inch of him is the obedient officer; back straight, clothes neatly pressed. Only tousled hair and a backwards tie reveal the hour.
Art quickly checks his mouth for traces of crumbs, then rubs his hands to ward off a sudden chill. His own tie is crumpled and likely fares no better.
“How is it?” says Art.
“Everything matches the usual M.O., so far,” Rune replies. “I looked ahead. The victim’s brain is removed and there’s an exceptional amount of blood. There’s no doubt it’s him again.”
The Minimum Holder Serial Killer.
“Except...” adds Rune.
“Except?”
“I looked into the room with the body. It’s been more than seventy-two hours since the time of death.”
He saw at least three days of decomposition. All the other bodies were in locations that ensured their discovery in no later than two.
“Could it be caution?” Art wonders aloud.
Rune’s mouth is a grim slash. “Perhaps he’s changed his objective.”
Art doesn’t realise he’s sighed until he hears it himself. It’s tainted with frustration, ripping away the part of his heart he’d dedicated to his job; a part of himself stolen before his eyes. Powerlessness. It’s been over a year since the serial killer moved for the first time.
It’s been exactly four years since Skill’s death.
He’s been called off leave on the one day he promised to visit him.
Never more aware of how much he’s tugged around by the serial killer’s whims, Art forces himself to swallow back the loss of life. He tries not to dwell on how depraved a person would have to be, and lodges his heart back into place.
There’s a job to do.
“Gasquet isn’t here?” asks Art, because he would have expected Gasquet to be the one meeting him.
“He was in Tokyo,” says Rune. “It will be half an hour until he arrives.”
Art nods. “Thank you for coordinating.”
Rune bows slightly. “It was no trouble.”
“Has the Agency sent any instructions?”
“The transfer plans have been finalised – you will be moved to Saitama once your term ends. I’m to increase my activity before I’m due for promotion. Handover should run smoothly. You will have a new handler assigned to you then.”
“Do you know who it is?”
“Hopefully it will be the Viscous Minimum Holder, Clear.” Rune pauses. “My older sister.”
Art barely spares a blink. Given the rarity of the Minimum, siblings with Minimums weren’t common, but neither were they rare. Even with all the years of Minimum research, no genetic links have been identified.
It’s one area Art tries to remain informed in.
“That’s good to know,” says Art without missing a beat. “If that’s the case, I’m sure I’ll enjoy working with her.”
Rune nods and looks toward an approaching officer. They talk about moving people to an area for questioning. Art pays attention with only half a mind. Rune is the shortest of the group, barely reaching Art’s eye-level, and Art wonders how old he is. Old enough to graduate, given his place in the elite course and his promotion to Inspector.
Skill would be seventeen. He wouldn’t have graduated even if he were still alive.
"—Superintendent?”
Art blinks and finds Rune looking up at him. At some point, the officer had left, and Art had slipped too far into his own thoughts to notice. One of Art’s hands hover in mid-air, reaching toward Rune.
Art blinks again. He drops his arm. The images of snowy hair and purple eyes vanish to be replaced by dirty blond and green.
“S-Sorry,” says Art. “Could you repeat that again?”
If Rune is irritated at the request, no trace of it appears in his expression.
“The current status of this investigation is that it is still preliminary. Forensics have yet to report. Our detectives have just met with the residents and the local officers have been dismissed back to their posting.”
The passing of command is acknowledged with another nod. “They’re witnesses?”
“Still unknown.”
“Thank you.” Inhale; collect his thoughts. Exhale; there’s no time to be thinking about Skill. “We’ll have to split duties. I’ll take over questioning. Can I have you looking into the victim?”
Salute. “Understood, sir.”
Art deliberates with himself for a moment. He makes up his mind as soon as the Inspector turns away.
"...Rune?” he says.
Rune stops. He swivels around. “Sir?”
“Want to go for a drink before I’m transferred?”
For a long moment, Rune doesn’t reply. He stiffens. His fingers tap against the spine of the handbook tucked beneath his arm. Art suppresses the crawling doubt suggesting that the silence is why he never thinks of initiating meetings outside of work. The doubt squirms under his grip. It rears back. Rune mightn’t be old enough for drinking at all.
It’s managed to convince Art into searching for words by the time Rune’s mouth stretches into a slow smile.
“Sounds interesting,” is Rune’s reply. “I hope you know somewhere with some hard vodka.”
Art doesn’t. He hardly drinks.
The doubt fizzles away and a chill descends with something like uncertainty.
—
11: Tea Party Tango
—
There’s a bridge at one end of town, an old thing hewn at the edges and etched with tired lines. To get below it, one has to circle around the back of a building, pass through a parking lot where a row of cars slept without passengers to escort, and walk a flight of steps which ducked around once, into itself. Only then would the shadows proceed to hide and swallow you whole.
There must be something wet up high, thinks Theo, when yet another droplet of water lands splat into his hair. It trickles downward, down the back of his head and down his neck and then all the way beneath his shirt, leaving a trail of unpleasant wetness behind on its journey to the centre of the Earth.
The bridge is Theo’s place. A special place. It’s wet and cold sometimes, and completely miserable, but that just means that nobody really goes so often. Rei doesn’t know about it either.
That’s the most important thing.
Another drop plops down; another stream down his back; Theo wonders if he should move, but thinks the better of it since he’d just gotten comfortable.
Besides. Moving meant...
Moving meant he’ll start wondering why he’s skipping school again.
“It’s not my fault,” he almost says aloud, but well, it is. It’s Theo’s choice to ditch, even though Rei’ll keep it hush-hush for a while. She’ll be concerned, but she also knows how much Theo hates any blemishes getting to his parents. Plus, there’s a general, unspoken student code where Our Things are Our Things, and in a public school where only 5% ever made it after graduation, Nobody Gets Adults Involved.
It fuelled the need for the Reverse Site. It intensified multifold after.
[ You make me sick. ]
Nobody Gets Adults Involved.
[ Just die. ]
Except Theo.
“You’re pathetic.”
“I know,” says Theo.
It’s been at least two weeks since he heard the Voice for the first time. He’d lose track of everything in the world except himself. Rei’d tell him that he’d space out, sometimes for several minutes. All he knows is that everyone around him disappears, like they’d all been teleported away from the scene, leaving only himself and the demons that haunted him.
Theo’s only found one way to escape the trance. It’d hit once when he was in the middle of the road, and Rei’d grabbed his arm because he’d stopped.
“Are you okay?” she asked, once they were safely on the sidewalk.
Theo realised she was holding his hand and tugged it free.
“I’m fine,” he’d replied. “I’ll—I’ll be fine. I will.”
(Rei’s worried frown said that she didn’t believe him.)
Theo hears the Voice laugh. The humour wraps itself around him and the snide edge cuts into his sense of security. “Looks like she’s abandoned you.”
Theo buries his head deeper into his arms and doesn’t reply.
“You won’t find Kitazawa-sensei like this,” adds the Voice. “What can you tell him? ‘Sensei, please help me’" A false falsetto. Nails clawing at Theo’s chalkboard support. "‘Sensei, sensei! I’m being bullied, wahhh, and it’s by myself!’ What a joke.”
Above him, the sounds of people on the streets registers again. All Theo can do is wish his world will be back to normal as well.
—
Thirty minutes pass, and Gasquet isn’t there. One hour, and Art is still doing his job for him. By the time Gasquet arrives, it’s well past nine, and Art’s been on scene for more than three hours and closing up his last round of questioning.
Gasquet waits for Art to finish, listening silently, then says, “Sorry I’m late.”
Art’s annoyance had long transformed into worry. When Art turns around and sees Gasquet’s charismatic smile, worry washes away under a wave of relief – and with it comes a sudden clarity in the world around him. Art welcomes the focus and can almost form a smile in return.
He doesn’t.
He’d received the crime scene photos earlier.
Art decides to forego the chatter and gets down to business immediately. He inclines his head towards the police van, indicating they should talk and walk, then sets ahead. Gasquet follows.
“It’s another missing brain incident,” says Art.
Gasquet’s lips twitch. He purses them, preventing the emotion from materialising completely. “A while this time, isn’t it? Our killer’s getting sneaky.”
“Unusually,” says Art. “The likely time of death was on the first of January. The residents reported hearing loud sounds early in the morning. A few investigated – upon finding firecracker remains, they assumed the victim was celebrating. It’s another level of subterfuge we haven’t seen before.”
“And the vic?”
“A teacher at Yokohamabane High School known as Kitazawa Yasuo.” Art nods absently at a passing officer. “Most of his information is obscured that way in the residents’ register.”
“Ex-Facultas,” says Gasquet.
“Ex-Facultas,” confirms Art. “One who won’t be in the directory because he managed to change his name. Rune is in contact with the Agency and sorting out the paperwork.”
“With any luck, we’ll be able to get his personal information in a month,” says Gasquet, and snickers.
Art doesn’t think too deeply into the strange laughter. He knows that Gasquet is trying to lighten a dreadful situation.
A small smile finds its way to Art’s face. “Perhaps it will arrive promptly this time.”
“How’d they discover the body?” says Gasquet.
“One of the residents noticed an odd, persisting smell.”
“Blood.”
“Directly behind the door,” says Art. “That blood trail led to the victim’s bedroom, where his computer was, before crossing to the bathroom. An entirely separate trail is centralised around the kitchen. That may be where the brain was removed. Forensics has made a map – I would brief you on the rest of the situation, but—”
“Superintendent!”
Someone almost crashes into Art as they leap out of the van. Art automatically takes a step back to create distance, then he drops the hand that had reached for his pistol when he identifies Rune. By then, Rune has already composed himself, and is saluting.
Before either Art or Gasquet could give any response, he’s started talking.
“The hard drive’s been decoded,” says Rune, tripping over the words.
Art stops. “What?”
“They found the key,” says Rune. “Kitazawa wrote it in his diary.”
“That’s fortunate,” says Art.
Rune’s eyes pinch as if he wants to choose another, less gracious word, but he says nothing.
“Hate to interrupt,” says Gasquet, “but mind explaining to an old man?”
It’s because Art is looking at Rune that he’s able to catch the brief frown that Rune sends in Gasquet’s direction.
“Kitazawa’s files were encrypted, and he left a failsafe to ensure he could decrypt them.” Rune tells him. “You attended the class, did you not?”
“Eh? ...’Course. Just got confused for a sec, my bad.”
“How long will it take to document the contents?” asks Art.
Rune turns back to Art. “Several days,” he replies.
“And a search?”
“Seconds – less than a minute. If they are not indexed we can begin indexing them now. You are thinking of...?”
Art nods in affirmation. “Gasquet and I will visit Yokohamabane High School. I’ll leave supervision of this half to you.”
“Understood.”
“Please inform me if the Agency contacts you again.”
Rune bows.
“If anything happens, sir, I’ll let you know.”
—
“He’s a good kid,” comments Gasquet.
They’re making their way to Art’s car, which Gasquet’d brought on arrival. There isn’t a long walk; it’s parked directly next to the van. Gasquet’s watching Rune, who is still saluting at them outside the mobile unit. Art had looked up to see who it is that Gasquet is referring to.
Gasquet misses the opportunity to tell Art about the large box in the front seat until Art’s already circled around to the passenger side and opened the door.
“Mr. Gasquet...” says Art.
“Ah,” says Gasquet, glancing at Art. “That’s stuff from my cousin’s. If you give me a sec, I can move them—”
Even though Gasquet’d volunteered, Art can’t help but think about having to move it himself. Art realises why Gasquet’d needed his car; it’s quite a large box, almost a metre long in each dimension, held back by a seatbelt, and sinks into the leather chair even with a mat beneath it.
The moment Art wonders how heavy it is, he’s doused by a wave of fatigue. He checks the time to see how long he’s been awake. Only the date registers in his brain.
Art tries not to think about how he’s missing Skill’s death day.
“It’s—it’s fine,” says Art. “I’ll take the back. Can you drive? I need – I need to rest my eyes.”
"’Course I can,” says Gasquet.
It’s strange opening the back door, and even stranger foraying into the part of his car he normally doesn’t see; Art pauses, because the angle of the seat doesn’t feel quite right against his back, but he still closes the door behind him and tries to make himself comfortable. By the time the echo from Gasquet closing the driver side door dissipates within the interior, Art’s eyes have already slipped closed and his head hangs lifelessly.
A comfortable lull settles in once Gasquet begins driving. They reverse and turn. The tyres send vibrations up Art’s side, and Art’s head shifts into a more comfortable position.
They’re well into their journey when a thought occurs.
“Mr. Gasquet?” says Art.
“Hmm?”
“Do you know any places selling good vodka in Yokohama?”
“Vodka?” Curiosity enters Gasquet’s tone. “What’s that about?”
“Inspector Rune is a fan.”
To Art’s surprise, Gasquet releases a barking laugh. “Rune? That’s funny, who’d’ve thought. Did you ask him out?”
“I... did,” says Art.
“What a wonderful development! Rune is excellent at following instructions, a very good choice for you. But I’d watch out for his sister, mhmm...”
Art’s eyes snap open. He doesn’t know if he expects to see her, this sister who was to replace Rune as his handler in slightly over six months’ time, but he’s greeted with the sight of the door on one side and the unreadable back of Gasquet’s head on the other.
“Clear?” asks Art.
“Yep.”
“You’ve met her? What is she like?”
“Very protective. Very silly.”
“Silly?”
“She tried to hide him, you know? Rune. Clear was scared he’d show potential because she didn’t want him attending Facultas too.”
“But they discovered him.”
“Yep,” the easy reply. “So that’s why he was able to attend while four years too old.”
The car slows for a red light. Art pauses, grabs the pieces he feels hovering beyond his grasp, inspects them closely and forces them together. By the time the car stops, he’s already reached his conclusion.
“...They make concessions for siblings?” Art says.
“Of course.” Gasquet is nodding to himself. “Minimum siblings are invaluable study subjects, after all.”
“...Ah.”
Art tries not to think what it means in regards to his graduation and makes a note to leave it for later.
“How did Clear take it?” asks Art.
Gasquet is examining something one of his hands. “She broke.”
He doesn’t say more once the light changes to green. With a jolt, the vehicle starts moving again. There’s something strange about it – now that he’s sitting behind Gasquet and doesn’t have a view to distract him, Art finally notices how roughly Gasquet is driving. His acceleration isn’t as smooth, and when he turns the steering wheel, it’s with stiffer movements of his arms.
Is something wrong?
“Mr. Gasquet...” begins Art, before he’s aware he’s formed the name himself.
“Hmm?” says Gasquet.
Art hesitates. He isn’t sure why he’d called out for his partner.
He’s silent for too long. Gasquet tilts his head and gives Art a quick glance, even though he’s driving.
“What’s up, Art?”
“I...” A lead drifts past his conscious. Art snatches it. “I didn’t know you knew so much.”
There’s a pause.
Finally, Gasquet responds: “I try to stay updated with interesting Minimum.”
(Something is wrong.)
There’s no opportunity for Art to pursue the idea, because the car stops again. Gasquet checks the mirrors, and Art looks out the window. As virtually all the public school buildings in Japan are identical in design, Art is able to identify the building immediately. A sign on the edge of the premises confirms his suspicions: they’ve arrived at Yokohamabane High.
“What’s our game plan?” says Gasquet.
“We notify the principal and gather the teachers for questioning,” Art replies. “Then we’ll ask them to search for anyone who—”
[ There’s one person in Yokohama that can find the unfindable. ]
Before the new thread of thought breaks his old, Art quickly tries to focus on the street outside; he eyes the criss-cross of sidewalk tiles, and follows the lines. But his gaze wavers. He thinks of finding the Healing Minimum – of Nice pursuing rumours in search of miracles where Art would enquire with hospital staff first –
[ So that’s your Superintendent’s methodology. ]
– and the thread winds around Art ever tighter.
"...No,” says Art, correcting himself. “We’ll move to asking the students directly and find out if anybody has been acting strange after the New Year when the semester began.”
“Is that really a good idea?” The car is parked and Gasquet looks outside. “This isn’t a small school.”
“That’s... a good point. We can't interrupt for too long. I’ll—I’ll leave my number for anyone to contact me.”
“I was thinking the hotline—”
Gasquet turns around. Under that gaze, Art wraps a hand around the door handle next to him.
“Not fast enough,” says Art. He smiles reassuringly. “It’s fine. If the worst happens I can get a new number.” He doesn't mention he's been meaning to, ever since Nice called his phone.
Gasquet shakes his head, resigned. “If you say so.”
—
“Here.”
Murasaki has no time to react before a bag is dropped onto his desk. Its contents clatter, and its sides droop around the silhouette of two boxy forms. Murasaki looks up further to see Honey peering down. She’s holding a bento box of her own between her fingers, and clicks her tongue with an irritated frown.
Without asking, Honey props herself up against the desk, hooks her toes around the arm of a nearby chair, then pulls it closer to use as a footrest. The chair belonged to a colleague who’d left on his lunch break.
Murasaki glances at the time, wondering when he’d return, and notices that Honey’s fifteen minutes later than usual.
“Did something happen?” he says idly, returning to the document on his computer screen.
Honey slides her chopsticks from their flimsy paper covering before popping her bento box’s plastic seal. “Some kid tried to ask me out.”
“Ah,” says Murasaki.
He types. Honey’s chopsticks snap beside him.
“The chocolates are in there,” she says, nudging the bag. “I don’t eat white chocolate. If you don’t want them, toss them.”
Murasaki nods wordlessly and continues typing. Honey starts eating, one leg pushing the chair back and forth, a blur at the edge of Murasaki’s vision that would quickly become annoying if it weren’t already.
“Am I supposed to ask you how it went?” asks Murasaki.
“If you want,” says Honey, dry. “The kid had the tackiest whistle. What a disaster.”
Murasaki isn’t particularly interested either. He makes a sound of acknowledgement, and tries to ignore her.
He finds out why Honey is hovering once he’s saved the file and sent it away.
“Are you free later?” says Honey.
One hand buried in the bag, trying to tease his lunch out from beneath the box of chocolates, Murasaki gives her a sideways glance. “Are you asking me out?”
“No. Are you free?”
“I think so,” says Murasaki. “Why?”
“I’m not. I... need a favour.”
“Of what sort?”
Honey pauses. “I’m low on lollipops.”
It’s a need so closely tied with the use of her (much, much more valuable) Minimum that Murasaki raises an eyebrow.
“Wouldn’t management handle that?” he says.
“Do you think they care?” Honey shoots back. “No. I can’t. They’d – they’d probably ruin the order or something just to save money.”
Automatically, Murasaki looks up to where their manager sits – beside the lifts and near the doorway – and sees the man tapping on his phone without any awareness of his surroundings at all.
He looks back to Honey again.
Perhaps there’s some amount of scepticism still present in his expression, because Honey sighs and rolls her eyes.
“Look: don’t even worry about why,” she says. “I can’t leave, and I just need to know if you can go and pick up some stuff for me tomorrow, and I’ll—I’ll let you use my Minimum for something, okay?” She doesn’t pause for a second, hurtles on. “They don’t care about you like they care about me so I can help you find somewhere to go once you drop out of this shithole and—”
“Save it,” says Murasaki. “I’ll do that favour. But I don’t need to leave.”
Honey stares at him for so long he almost feels uncomfortable, then puts her bento box aside. She reaches into her pocket and drops a folded piece of paper next to him; Murasaki unfurls it and finds an address inside.
Plastic crumples and Honey pushes herself off the table.
“Fine,” says Honey. “Let me know if you ever want a prediction. Don’t be surprised when you realise how little you look like you want to be here.”
Murasaki doesn’t manage to reply.
—
Leaving his number works. A student has been missing and his best friend is the one to report it to Art directly. There’s something about how she stumbles over every syllable that suggests she’s never come forward about her concerns, and every word ushers with it a faint echo that has Art wonder if she’s calling from one of the bathrooms, but Art doesn’t ask about either.
Art calms her, talks to her, takes notes, and reassures her that what she’s doing is the best thing to do.
“That’s—that’s okay.” Rei blows her nose, which carries through the speaker like a muffled horn. “Can I... can I ask a favour, Mr. Art?”
“A favour?”
“Can you make sure he’s alright somehow? I don’t know if you are from that police division but can... can you somehow...”
“I’ll keep in contact and forward any information on that I can,” Art promises.
Rei thanks him and begins listing locations. Art jots them down, takes a moment to catch Gasquet’s eye and mouth Call Rune, and tries to quash how his chest flutters with anticipation.
“Can you run a search?” Art tells Rune once his call with Rei has ended. “Look for any references to someone called ‘Theo’.”
Ten minutes, many filenames, and many megabytes later, photos and website snapshots begin downloading.
Art stops on a diary extract:
Theo said he probably would have jumped if it weren’t for me. What wonderful deeds I’ve done for him, wonderful deeds. So desperate and so delightful. What face will he make if I tell him I may have to leave?
Art’s phone almost drops with his stomach, and he jerks as if he can find a boy he does not know.
Nice is injured, Murasaki calls in some favours, and Ratio learns about himself and those around him.
Pairing: Nice/Ratio
Rating: T
Word count: 20k
Notes: contains post-Re:_ character exploration/development for all tagged characters happens (/why) and sliiiiightly dodgy editing. Somewhat invoked anime physics and anime injuries ++thanks tb for beta'ing!
In another story, Murasaki’s the best graduate of Facultas, Ratio is a doctor in search of a cure, and Art receives help on a case from a man with brown hair and three bandages – a man said to work with Mao.
Different meetings lead to different relationships. And what these all lead to? AU.
—
The apartment is as it always is: small, absent, and lonely.
January the first makes no difference to it.
Hajime tries not to make a sound when she enters and closes the door behind her, because – if the time on her phone is correct – Nice is in the midst of another one of his naps, and disturbing him would mean having to deal with an upset schedule and inordinate amounts of fatigue. Fatigue always meant Nice would burn anything he tried to cook one hundred percent of the time, and then Hajime would have to try and deal with dinner for both of them.
Hajime drifts silently past the futon, glances briefly at the time left on Nice's countdown – 15:21, so he'd just fallen asleep – and leaves him alone.
She tip-toes to the bathroom, grabs the bundle of clothes waiting for her, and throws her old garments in one corner for a thorough disinfecting later. She's already washed her hands after the job. There's no way to walk around the city with hands covered in someone else's blood.
She has a shower.
She washes her hands again.
Hajime's sure that Nice knows whenever she's hiding demons beneath her jacket, but it's one of the necessities they never share.
Nice's timer has counted all the way down to 5:55 when Hajime steps out, bandage already over her right eye. Hajime hovers. There's no furrow, no tensing of muscles that say he's having another nightmare.
Hajime likes it when he's sleeping peacefully.
A lock of hair has fallen into his mouth. Hajime tucks her legs beneath her before reaching out, brushing it away. She resists the urge to remove the bandage and check up on him with her Minimum.
“You have the directory,” Nice mumbles, lips curved in a satisfied smile.
The timer says 2:18 when Hajime rises to her feet and leaves for work again.
—
“Just a little theoretical experiment,” says Nice. “And then I'd like to make you an offer.”
On any other day, Art would have said that he had a case to solve, he had no time for theoretical experiments, but he's in Nice's unexpectedly companionable company, and the remains of Café Nowhere's coffee lie warmly in Art's stomach, so Art raises his brows.
“A theoretical experiment?” echoes Art.
“Yeah.” Nice starts absently swinging his umbrella. “Say – you were looking for a Minimum. How would you go about finding it?”
Art gives him a sideways glance. The question is all sorts of leading.
“I would check the directory,” he says, carefully.
“No, no...” and Nice shakes his head, “I mean, sure, that is an option, but what if it was just you as a detective? How would you go looking for it then?”
“You'll need to be more specific.”
“Okay, then,” says Nice's voice. “What if it was the Healing Minimum?”
Art snaps his head behind him. He stares at Nice, who'd stopped walking. Nice is busy fishing his umbrella from the bush it had become entangled in.
Nice notices he's being watched, and smiles back at Art innocuously.
“Guess I shouldn't do that,” says Nice, once he catches up.
Art is still thinking. “The Healing Minimum? The one which is said to have the ability to remove any illness?”
“That's the one.”
Before either of them could say another word, Art's phone rings. It's Gasquet. Art tries to cast the conversation with Nice aside and answers the call.
“Hello?” he says.
Static.
Art frowns. “Mr. Gasquet?”
No reply.
Art removes the phone from his ear and stares down at the screen.
Nice takes the moment to peer over. He notices the lack of sound emanating from the speaker and offers, “Old man's probably pocket dialling.”
It makes sense, but Art still can't erase the unsettling clouds condensing in his chest; perhaps it's the weather that's leading to his apprehension, because of how they'd just sat through a storm.
Art hangs up and puts the phone away.
“Healing Minimum?” reminds Nice.
Ah. They were in a conversation.
“Why are you asking?” says Art.
“Why not?”
Because you just told me that you were Feng, the one person in Yokohama that can find the unfindable, thought Art, and because the Healing Minimum exists only in legend, which would make it a perfect job for your description.
The question is too specific to be entirely theoretical.
Nice sulks in the silence.
“C'mon,” he says, and makes a motion almost like he's nudging. “It's not going to make a difference, because I've already nearly found it.”
Whatever Art opens his mouth to say, he forgets in surprise. “It exists?”
“Well, yeah.” Pause. “Kind of. Maybe. Sure.” Art opens his mouth again, but Nice ploughs on. “Who cares? What's wrong with answering? I'm just trying to kill time until we get back over here.”
The reassurance isn't reassuring enough to Art, but Nice is incredibly earnest, and Nice is in possession of a lead that Art requires. Art supposes he can humour him for one last time.
“Hospitals,” says Art.
Nice is swinging his umbrella again. “Hmm?”
“I would check hospitals,” Art clarifies, then takes a moment to collect the rest of his thoughts. “Question staff. Conduct interviews... search for contacts, assistance, and leads.”
“But what if you can't find anything in any of them?”
“There are always stories and rumours to follow.”
“Huh. So that your Superintendent's methodology.”
A movement in the corner of Art's eye causes him to turn around. Nice is tapping at the bridge of his nose thoughtfully.
“Is there a problem?” asks Art.
“Not really,” says Nice. “It makes sense that you'd think someone with a Healing Minimum would have connections to a hospital, but I don't do that. Mao and I try to stay as far away from you public service guys as possible.”
“How would you approach this, then?”
“Well, rumours and miracle stories first. Then... you've noticed, right? Whenever a Minimum is involved, there's always something that's missing. Craters without explosives. Fire without tinder.” Nice shrugs. “How I work, I hunt for that. Whatever I don't have. That's where I go.”
“That would be extremely inefficient,” says Art.
“Maybe for you,” Nice agrees. “But you're also under paperwork and jurisdiction.”
There it is again: The reminder that Nice works outside the law.
“Anyway,” says Nice, “thanks for your input.”
Art checks his watch, has another glance at his phone, and the police building rises from the skyline.
—
10: before I sleep (i dream)
—
The first hint that he's dreaming is when he's aware of a distant sound, recognisable as the beat of footsteps in the corridor.
“Hey, Art—”
Art wakes up with his head against his elbow and the fabric of his dress shirt pulled taut across his shoulders. There's a sheaf of paper between his fingers, bent against the surface of his desk, and when he lifts his head to blink blearily and glance around, the computer screen beside him is blank and sleeping.
He tries to remember what he'd been doing; one glance down reveals Sakiyama Seiji, and carries with it the memory that, as one of its prime agents, he'd been writing a report for the faceless officials in the Minimum Agency.
Gasquet pauses at the doorway. He's hovering with worry. He enters when Art starts to rearrange his hair.
“Is something the matter, Mr. Gasquet?” says Art.
The question is ignored. “Thinking about the same thing?”
Art can't tell what he's referring to, but assumes by the gaze toward his desk drawer that he's talking about Skill. The reminder about Skill's death anniversary clings messily to his conscience, a stain never harder to wash away.
(Except – he hadn't dreamt about Skill.)
“Yes,” Art lies.
There's a sigh. Gasquet tosses another bundle of papers toward Art, then turns around so he's leaning on the edge of the table.
“Those are the reports you wanted on suspicious activity in the area, circa two years ago,” he says. “I sincerely doubt there's any relevance in pursuing Sakiyama there.”
—a man, approx. 170cm, brown hair and blue eyes—, a segment reads, when Art moves to take them.
[ I... looked you up. Two years ago. ]
“You can never be too sure,” Art replies.
Hopefully, Gasquet wouldn't notice that the area included Art's apartment, in addition to including the police station.
Art's on the third page when Gasquet sighs again.
“Can I not convince you to take time off early?” he asks.
“I have work I need to do,” says Art.
“And you have sleep you should be doing.”
“My week off begins in two days.”
“That's no reason it can't begin now.”
Art pauses. “With all due respect, Mr. Gasquet, I—”
“Alright, alright.” Gasquet slides his shoulders back to shrug with his hands, and Art idly wonders which of the officers he'd picked that habit up from, because Gasquet hasn't shrugged with his hands before. “Can't say I didn't try.”
Art chose not to mention that Gasquet's been trying for days.
“Thank you for your concern,” says Art.
Gasquet waves a hand dismissively. “Don't thank me. Actually, can I borrow your car for a couple of days?”
“Pardon?”
“I need to move some belongings b'tween here and my cousin's place in Tokyo. You won't be needing it when you're off, no?”
“Not... particularly,” admits Art.
Gasquet leans closer. A sudden bristling runs up and down Art's back, beneath his jacket.
“So I can borrow it?” says Gasquet.
Art tries to shake it, but he can't escape the notion that he's being pushed against a wall.
“I... don't see why not,” says Art. The wall grows arms and wraps around him; Art breaks its grasp with the power of logic. “I can take public transport home tomorrow. Please be careful. Don't smoke inside. Avoid dirtying the interior.”
Gasquet laughs.
“Have some more faith in me, Art,” he says.
I do, thinks Art. Gasquet is Gasquet, who's always helped and always had his best interests at heart. Still, his smile hangs fragile, balanced precariously off the edge of his emotions. It must be the remains of Sakiyama's influence contributing to his paranoia.
Art decides to attend the next available courses at the Police Academy in order to refresh his education and guard him from that in the future.
He returns to the predictability of his paperwork, and doesn't dare shift his smile to reply.
—
On the first day, Art wakes up and conducts his usual morning routine, only to reach for his missing car keys and remember, somewhat belatedly, that he wasn't expected at Headquarters unless an emergency occurred or after seven days.
The knowledge paralyses him. Art hasn't had so much time to himself since Facultas – before he realised that, unless he spent every waking hour studying, he wouldn't be able to stay.
Art wanders aimlessly around his apartment, looking for something, anything. The floors are clean, and so is his kitchen. His bed is made, the sheets are fresh; he'd changed them less than a week ago. The long, cold fishtank empty against one wall; an impulse purchase that he could fill; but once he returns to work he won't have time to care for fish, not when he sometimes forgets to feed himself.
There's a bill on the counter. More paperwork. It's due in a month.
Art tries to deal with it but finds he isn't allowed.
Art decides not to call, taking it instead as an excuse to visit a branch personally.
—
A few hours later, he's across the road from Café Nowhere.
Yokohama isn't a city difficult to navigate without a car. It's large enough that walking from end to end would take half a day on foot, but its web of public transport is extensive and, though crowded, there are many options available. Art knows of them, but doesn't use them regularly enough to be familiar.
He discovered the branch is closed for the New Year. There are many festivities, but he isn't in the mood for celebrating; instead, he'd been following the instructions on his phone in search of a book store. Art would make his visits to Skill's grave count; not so rarely to be neglecting, not so often for them to lose meaning. Skill would have appreciated Art talking to him about some hobby, even if Art had only picked it up to assuage his brother's worry.
Less than five minutes after getting off the bus, Art finds he's recognising the street as one he's walked before. He doesn't know what he's expecting when he looks up.
Art finds Café Nowhere watching him back.
The door is ajar, casting shadows across the entryway. Sunlight illuminates the windows a blinding white and bleaches the warmth from brick walls. A moat of traffic divides them, with rushing cars and rapid engine growls, steeds of knights guarding a distant castle. It's nothing like it'd been in the rain, door closed but signs with arms wide open and keen to usher its visitors inside.
It's nothing like it'd been when he was with Nice.
They'd shared an umbrella, awkwardly. Art remembers the sound of his breath and the rhythms of his walk. Nice had entered Art's life as the fake deliveryman wearing earphones, in possession of a piece of evidence crucial to the arrest of Tachikawa Kenta. He'd warned. Helped. All in exchange for frivolities—
Frivolities in exchange for behaviour that never considered personal consequences or the law.
Art hesitates.
Already, Café Nowhere has forgotten him. Nice would have forgotten him too.
Art's tried, and tried. Skill should be the only thing on his mind; Skill, and finding those who'd taken his life, to make up for the world's injustice.
But thoughts of Nice won't go away.
Art looks back to his phone for further instructions. He unlocks the screen, but instead of being greeted by directions, he's met with the reminder he'd jotted down.
Find Miraki Lending. Hajime met with James Shunsuke?
Art pauses.
It's a long time before he turns around and pursues his curiosity.
—
Birthday's burnt more calories that week than he's ever burnt in an entire month.
Probably.
He's lost track of how many times he's gone on a walk to calm his head, watching Ratio lose track of time as he tries to adjust to a sleeping schedule where days are nothing but timeslots spread across naps few and far between. But Birthday's been on a lot of walks – until one of his legs kept cramping, and Birthday's been stuck at home.
Ratio'd asked Birthday to help wake him up, to prevent him from oversleeping.
Birthday's of the very clear opinion that surviving on four thirty-minute naps are undersleeping.
(Birthday figures he's lost more than enough calories stressing over Ratio.)
Today is day eight. It's eleven in the morning, and Ratio's shifts leave him with the time off. They'd run out of coffee earlier.
Birthday forgot to mention it, and it was 5 AM when Ratio discovered it the hard way.
“G'night, Ratio,” says Birthday, trying to hide his grimace behind a smile as he pretends to tuck Ratio in.
Ratio opens an eye to look at Birthday. There's an incredible bag beneath it, from the first day, when Ratio'd gone without sleep for twenty-four hours to force himself into the schedule. It's faded enough to no longer look like a parasite had gone and attached itself to Ratio's face, but not enough that Ratio doesn't look like he's grimacing back.
I'm sorry I haven't found your cure yet, says the gaze.
Birthday opens his mouth, tries to say, Do you think I want you to ruin your life just to try and save mine?, but he's promised to wake Ratio up in half an hour. New Year or not, Ratio's already scheduled his day with margins so tight they might as well not exist. He'd made sure that Birthday knows. If Birthday starts to argue, Ratio will be down a quarter of his daily sleep.
Ratio'd be awake, after half an hour of sleep, from 5 AM all until the evening.
“Sleep tight,” Birthday says instead.
Thank you, Ratio closes his eye and says wordlessly.
Ratio falls asleep, and Birthday's by his side, watching the time tick down twice as fast as normal. It's like the microwave effect, but in reverse. It's not the first time Birthday's wished that Ratio's naps passed according to microwave time.
“But I have promises to keep,” Ratio'd told him.
Birthday leans back and falls lifelessly into his chair. The back digs into the base of his spine. Birthday doesn't care.
They'd been twelve, when Birthday said he wanted a cure, and Birthday had been joking.
“I hate this,” he mutters to himself, but he's really talking about himself and the world and everything in between. “Fuck. I wish you'd realise that sometimes there are promises that aren't worth keeping.”
—
Art's first impression of Miraki Lending is that it is incredibly clean.
The signage is fresh, colours bold. Glass gleams in the light without a trace of a scratch or of any stain. Painted surfaces are unclouded. Both buildings to either side are injured, presenting chipped bricks plastered with ghostly tape remains.
Then Art walks closer and sees the marks on the walls change direction several times, and wonders how many times it's been renovated because the building is not one that is new.
Before he's given the chance to touch the handle, the door opens. Behind it is a giant of a man with wild blond hair spilling over a dark suit. He has a great scar on his face in the shape of an X. Art notes instantly the cut of his clothes and how he shows no sign of making any movements toward his own body. It's unlikely he's concealing weaponry, but Art doesn't doubt the man's size and muscles would be more than enough to compensate should he need them.
“Welcome to Miraki Lending,” says the giant.
The voice is harsh. Art hears the kind undertone for what it is.
“Thank you,” says Art.
“If you would like to enquire about a loan, the President will be here shortly—”
“I'm looking to speak with a Miss Hajime.”
All of a sudden, Art's path is blocked. The giant has shifted with barely any warning. The lack of signals and the defensive action causes Art to mirror the giant's tense posture unconsciously.
“Hajime is...” The giant hesitates. “Why do you wish to speak with her?”
Art decides to take the blunt approach. “She helped save my life.”
A flash of something passes through the giant's eyes – but before Art gets an opportunity to read it, they're interrupted by soft footfalls. Hajime emerges, tiny beside the giant's grand stature. The giant takes half a step back to give her access.
It didn't take long until Hajime spots Art. She gasps, curls her lips into her teeth. Her dull gaze flickers with the bitter taint of apprehension, and even the bandage over one eye doesn't manage to halve the reaction.
“Why are you here?” demands Hajime. She takes a sharp breath, then repeats monotone as if she were a recording, “Why are you here?”
“I...”
Art fumbles for words he no longer knows. At some point, he'd expected her to be like Nice; brighter, more playful. He'd already been off-balance, having to approach a day without the rigour of routine to guide him. Such a cold response threw him even more.
Hajime must have sensed that Art wouldn't be able to say anything. She turns and looks up to the giant beside her.
“Three,” she says. “If the President asks, I am on a short walk. Alone.”
The giant – Three – nods, though his brows are drawn in confusion. “I... understand.”
Hajime brushes past him and gives Art a sharp look instructing him to follow.
Art obliges.
He has no idea where they're going, and the streets change little, although the density of the people on its sidewalks begins to increase. Where there'd been a couple of people every handful of steps, there were now five. Ten. Dozens – mostly young adults, below the age of forty; once walking and moving alongside them, now starting to slow to a standstill. The low hum of distant conversations surrounding them begins to intensify.
And then the street opens into a loud shopping district filled with people.
Masks behind counters watch as Hajime pushes past, eyeing the groups of people. Art hurries his pace and concentrates on the peak of white from her cap, short against her surroundings. Hajime shows no sign of stopping. Art pushes through the crowd, which had settled back after she'd moved them, in order not to lose her.
Stalls selling clothes make way for displays of trinkets. The crowds briefly thin. They reach an intersection that leads to a food strip.
Hajime slows. Art stops beside her, and he finds his stomach has tensed. He takes a deep breath to return the wind to his lungs, forces himself to relax, and looks ahead into the strip. Dense, fragrant smoke hangs between the buildings on either side, carries to their noses with the help of a soft breeze. Art realises he hasn't eaten all morning. Have some lunch before you continue, it beckons.
Hajime shifts by his elbow, and Art wonders if he'll be asked to treat her.
“You can't visit me,” she says, suddenly.
Given by her reaction, Art has guessed as much already. “Is there a reason for that?”
"...Yes.”
Hajime doesn't elaborate any further. She turns around, away from the food, and starts walking again. Her pace is no longer as swift, and Art is able to walk beside her.
“What do you want?” she says, once a block has passed.
“I wanted to thank you,” says Art. “Nice told me you weren't scheduled to visit Sato on the day I was attacked.”
Hajime makes a movement like she's shaking her head, but as soon as Art turns to look, the movement is gone. For a while, she says nothing. Then, Art is no longer next to her; the cadence in her steps change unexpectedly, and she overtakes him.
"...nothing,” Art hears her say.
Her arms tuck into herself and she shakes her head again. Hajime's wake grows; the crowds are still in their way, but now they've noticed that Art and Hajime are together, so they part pre-emptively to allow him through after her.
“Are you also from Facultas?” asks Art, when it becomes evident she wouldn't continue.
"...Yes.”
“Which class were you in? Your third language—”
“Unregistered,” says Hajime. She doesn't turn around. “That's why... I won't be in it, your directory.”
“How did you...”
“Nice talks in his sleep.”
Art files the knowledge away. Nice's ability to retain information isn't as secure as Art had assumed.
“You're... looking for Nice, aren't you?” says Hajime.
“I'm not,” says Art, without hesitation, confident in the truth. “I only have some questions regarding your associations at Miraki Lending.”
There's a pause. Hajime stops, turns around. She scrutinises Art carefully. Though her stare is carefully emotionless, there's a suspicion, there; no effort is made to hide how her eyes are ripping him apart. An idea occurs to him, that Hajime is keeping her emotions beneath a certain threshold.
Art realises he's holding his breath.
Somehow, not knowing the full extent of Hajime's emotions is somehow more terrifying than if they were on full display.
“Liar,” she says.
I'm not lying.
The words don't go spoken.
“Stay out,” Hajime continues. “Nice doesn't... he doesn't need you. He doesn't need anyone who wants him only for what he can do.”
“I'm not looking for Nice,” says Art. “What connection do you have to Facultas? Do you – Would you know anything about strange events on the 7th of January, four years ago?”
Hajime pauses. Art wonders if she's about to leave.
Then, she stares at him and says: “Miraki Lending has nothing to do with Skill.”
—
“Are you alright?” are the first words from Three's mouth when Hajime returns.
Hajime barely spares him a glance, but commits the concern to memory. Concern could lead to guilt. Does he believe he's in her debt? It's a tie she'll need to watch and tear down if it ever became a necessity.
“The President?” she says.
“President Okura enquired approximately four minutes ago. I... responded as you asked.”
“Thank you.”
“Where did you go?”
Somewhere with Minimum, thinks Hajime.
Hajime doesn't reply. She tentatively lifts the bandage over her eye, and gives a small sigh of relief when the x-ray patterns of blue and white appear around her.
Of course, Three notices the sigh.
“Are you alright?” he asks again.
Hajime shakes her head dismissively, making clear her lack of interest in answering. She'd achieved what she'd set out to in her meeting with Art. Even if Nice is—
Even if Art—
Pressure rises in the back of Hajime's mind, accompanied by the memory of phantom needles and distant injections. She can't finish the thoughts. Her right eye pulses as a reminder about how she can't make another mistake. They're dangerous to consider at the current time.
The growths are pruned, swiftly, before they begin to consume.
Pruning is easiest when it's done all together. All... at once.
“You're getting soft, Three,” says Hajime. She makes her way inside. “Forget him... he owes me nothing.”
—
Art stands there, watching the spot where Hajime'd disappeared into the crowd. His heart has made its way to his throat, beating frantically against his empty chest; locked out, refused re-entry. The crowds part around him, this island alone in the waves of people.
Stay out.
Miraki Lending has nothing to do with Skill.
Isn't that more than what he's wanted? A clue, a clean break, to forget Nice, to...
[ Liar. ]
“Art,” Hajime'd said before leaving. There is no friend in how she pronounced his name. “There is a lot that Nice doesn't know... if you take advantage of that I will kill you. Skill's death is not by – not by— I—” she gasped and raised a hand to her throat, “I can't say. You are searching wrong. Hopefully... we never need to meet again.”
Art forgets to visit the book store.
—
Moral knocks politely on the young teacher's door, umbrella hanging off his wrist and the grip of his shiny golden revolver in his palm. It's late enough that nobody is awake, but it's also late enough that it happens to be three in the morning.
Moral isn't particularly worried, or anything. Momoka's records say that Kitazawa Yasuo is usually awake at the time.
After a minute or so, the door opens, and a half-naked man frowns suspiciously into the corridor.
“Good morning,” says Moral, shielded by the umbrella.
He fires. Gunpowder and blood splatter and combine on the clear plastic. Kitazawa's eyes are deliciously wide. It's always wonderful to see others respecting his power.
Kitazawa isn't dead yet, because he's scrambling for something, but Moral's more than prepared. He forces the door open and steps inside. Before the door is closed and any pesky neighbours wake up to investigate, Moral reaches inside his carry-bag and tosses a handful of spent firecracker casings behind him.
There isn't a body in the hallway. Kitazawa's probably trying to call for help, or trying to put his illicit pictures on the cloud, or something. What an exquisite Minimum. He'll find out that his phone and internet plans would all have stopped working.
Moral wonders if he should remove his shoes, and changes his mind. He drops what he's holding and claps his hands.
“Happy New Year!”
Too bad hide and seek isn't fun with a trail of blood to lead him.
