Summary: In which Index is a runaway nun with diaries, Soghita Gunha decides to go on midnight patrol, and Kamijou forever brings with him misfortune and a perchance for the impossible. In a collision of epic proportions, magic meets science, and with it begins a spiral of unintentional chaos threatening to derail plans laid throughout the universe.

Genres: Humor/Drama/Advenutre/Friendship

Notes: This. This is my first story in the Index/Railgun'vese, but I sorely doubt it will be my last. I know that there is another Index-meets-Gunha storyline somewhere in the fandom. However, it seems rather abandoned at this point. This is baisically... a semi-crack-ish idea that I have no idea if I will be continuing or not, as such, feedback will be greatly appreciated. Happy reading.

Chapter One: Coicidental

July 19th, 20XX

Dear diary,

You are the second of which I have attained this year. As my old leather bound journal has exhausted itself a short while ago, you will be its replacement. I have no idea just what may be recorded in your pages, but I would like you to know that my life is not one of which falls under the mundane's calculations of ordinary.

My title is Index Librorum Prohibitorum. I do not remember my real name. Actually, I do not remember anything else beyond the July of last year, when I find myself crumpled in a backyard alleyway within the districts of Tokyo, Japan, armed only with a nun outfit (it was very hard to move in) and a bag filled with a series of journals much like you. The journals were apparently written by my pre-memory wiped self. My benefactors were kind enough to let me keep them despite the damage that they might cause: which is to say, very little. The information kept inside is trivial—no schemes of supervillainy, no hidden plots that could cause the end of the universe—only the relaxation of daily life, which is gratifying all the same.

(I suspect that the journals had been thoroughly checked inside out before the Church decided that they were safe enough to not cause an abundant amount of chaos.)

The reason for the memory wipe is because of the 103 000 forbidden grimoires currently floating around in my head. I cannot access them. They are forbidden for a reason. Unfortunately, the memory wipe is not the only defensive measure that the church had decided to slap on me. The amount of spells keeping my mana and memories and everything and anything in check goes past the realms of astromical. Fortunately there are always loopholes that can be exploited with its particular defense systems.

There are magicians chasing me. A man with red hair who looks as if he came out of a boy band and a woman that is the enemy of all jeans in the world. Stiyl Magnus and Kanzaki Kaori. The me before apparently had very fond memories with these two, and their pictures are clipped at the back of a journal.

Anyhow it's that time of year again.

The memory wipe.

Currently, I am headed towards Academy City in hopes of seeking refuge among the Espers, and maybe find a cure that can negate the automatic defense system on myself.

In a way, the church is right. History has shown that power corrupts, no what matter situation or time. However, does villainy have to be the only direction that those with power must head towards? Here in Japan, I have read through comics, light novels, watched series of animated shows bursting with heart and resplendent emotion; of heroes of fighting, of villains' redemption, of blacks and whites and all the jewel tones—not only grey, never only grey—flowering in between. If they can do it, why can't I? Why can't I become a hero?

I am Index.

I am the holder of 103 000 grimoires.

Throughout the year, I have battled old women in the supermarket for the cheapest deals, stole prizes away from devil squirrels, dodged fireballs from trigger happy magicians, mastered the art of ultimate-ninja-stealth, and made an excellent poster child on why one should not go jay walking in a city as busy as Tokyo. I am index. These emotions and experiences I hold in memory have crafted the Index of today.

I am Index. Not the Index of a year ago, who agreed to the memory wipe, quiet and obedient, but with all sorts of raging anger and sick churning deep in her stomach, up to her throat, a flame with no fuel with eyes like chips of sea-stone and longing, longing to shout and scream and scram away; to hold on to her precious memories on the day of the ritual. Not the Index of two years ago, resigned and small and forever understanding, still a child, but wanting the good of the world more than anything else.

I am Index.

And I want freedom.

Dear diary, I hope that today's entry will not be the last, because they are coming. Now. For me. If the Index of the future manages to receive this message, I hope that it will inspire something.

Bombs made from foodstuff were one of the epitomes of awesome.

Hop-step-JUMP!

When one needed a quick escape and minimal damages, flour bombs were easy to obtain, caused very little casualties, and gave leeway to lots and lots of pandemonium. It may have taken a week and the local fire department trying to track down the mysterious murderer of wooden crates, but for Index, the resulting bouts of absolute anarchy was perfect.

Don't look down. Don't look back. Keep your eyes on the target.

She hit the ground hard, clacking elbows and knees against the rough concrete, stalling for just one moment to let the air go down easy through her throat and fill her lungs. Yellow and green popped like starbursts behind her eyelids. Pain—thick, dizzying, intensifying by the second—shot up her spine. Index squeezed her eyes shut—the landing hadn't been a good one. A lurch, she felt the defense system click on—warmth glowing hot and bright and burning against her back—and threw herself to the side, just as a fireball whizzed past her ear.

Damnit.

Craning her head just a little to glimpse the threat, Index soothed her breathing. This was no time to be having a panic session.

The boy (yes-no-maybe-appearances were never as they seemed when magic could stunt the destruction of cells) had long red hair tied into a tight ponytail. And he was quiet, oh so quiet. A sort of desperate quiet that edged past the norms of calculating and shown dull and anguished in the brown of his eyes. With his hands out flat in front of him, he was no doubt the originator of the fireball.

Index smiled to herself, soft and sad. It was sweet of him, holding back, caring for Index, forever trying even when he knew that Index no longer held any attachment to him.

Her skull throbbed. Shrieked and screamed and caused white spots to implode across her vision. Told her that she could just lie still and forget about the running, the conviction that had got her this far. Told her to let the boy work his magic and let all the pain and agony fade like background music—nameless, slinging around shattered, obliterated fragments of something that could never be grasped again. And that was unacceptable.

"Index," Stiyl spoke. Pain clouded his tone, befuddling his judgement, but there was still a fireball gyrating in his palm.

Before-Index liked Stiyl. Current Index did not. Of course, she couldn't totally slap the boy down as an enemy, Before-Index's feelings still lingered, crying out heart wrenching pleads in the back of her skull. Index could've gotten stuck with a more troublesome opponent. If the diary entries were of any indication, Stiyl was not one to actively harm Index in any physical way that didn't coincide with the word "accidental." But current-Index was tired and hurting and wouldn't sit by meek and docile. Current-Index had spent the last year wandering the streets, silent and wraithlike, trying to fill the awning blanks in her mind that screamed wrongwrongwrong. To Index, Stiyl was still a stranger, an enemy, someone that couldn't be trusted.

And she was close. So, marvellously close. Index lifted her head, felt the press of wind against her face, flinging back her hair. Just beyond the horizon, bobbing above the jungle of concrete buildings and glass paned windows, Academy City was in sight.

"Index, please," Stiyl wasn't so nice now, tone sharp and steely and laced with all sorts of bitter. Still begging though, trying to put in words what he couldn't say in soul—please don't it worse than it has to be. He took a step forward, extended his free hand.

Except Index gave exactly zero fucks. She knew what Stiyl was trying to communicate. Knew that he meant well with all his heart—Stiyl was kind and caring, bright and energetic and oh so, baby-kitten dear.

But Stiyl was also trying to rip Index apart from the inside out.

Again.

Pressing her palms flat against the ground, Index willed the throbbing away. She clamped down on the last drags of adrenaline flooding her system. Then turned. Smiled all strawberry milkshake innocent at the friend of the last Index, and maybe, had better circumstances arisen, the friend of the current Index too.

One-two-three.

A breath and Index bolted. Because her salvation was in sight, because the feel of her blood pumping through her veins sent shockwaves of hopeful up to her fingertips, because even apart from the red-haired fire magician, there was still Kanzaki-Goddamned-Kaori hurtling through the buildings, intent on trapping her.

Two hundred meters. One hundred meters. The wave of pedestrians flowed en mass, coloured in blurs of vivid rainbow with the setting sun. Index weaved through, ducking underneath hungering brutes and sidestepped the little girls with flowers in their hair.

HOP-STEP-LUNGE—

Inside the checkpoint, fluorescent lights fanned the hard tiled walls and citizens bustled about. Index adjusted her backpack strap, not daring to scan behind her. Here, in this metropolis of people, she was well concealed.

One step. Two steps. So, so close. The lights flickered and she went absolutely rigid. This was a port manned by Academy City. This was one of the entrances permitting access to Academy City. There shouldn't be any malfunctions of anything. Spinning a mile a minute, her mind dispatched hypotheses and horrible interpretations and all that could go to hell in a split second because what the fuck if they caught on already—

She barely caught the expression of hilarious caricature on the boy beside her before everything shut down, and black enveloped the room.

This is a story.

A legend.

A folklore.

A tale of many characters.

This is how it begins.

Sneaking into Academy City had been easy. All Index needed to do was glide with the chaos and slip in between the gates while the employees were occupied. Gathering food was not. Luckily, the former nun had enough loose change left over to secure a mountain of snacks from vending machines situated all over the city. She shuffled half into her bag, stuffed a quarter into her pockets and clutched the rest in her arms, hobbling around comically and trying very hard not to fall flat on her face.

A thin splattering of stars lined the navy sky. Depositing her treats onto a ornamental park bench and popping a pretzel into her mouth, Index relished the tang of salt crystals melting on her tongue and the audible crunch of the biscuit between her teeth. Pure junk food was wonderful. If anything in the world had the right to sparkle and forgo the basic laws of science and magic, it was food.

One bag of chips morphed into three, than seven, and Index found herself relaxing.

Yet as they say, nothing gold ever stays.

An almost sneer, masculine, and so very not welcomed. "Hey girlie, can I have some of that?"

So. Apparently cherishing delectables was not a thing in Academy City. Hurriedly shoving the last half of a chocolate bar into her mouth, Index opened one flat green eye at the offender. Brown, brusque and leering stared back.

"May I help you?" she asked innocently.

Obviously, that was not the reaction he had been expecting. The thug faltered, not knowing what to say.

Her fight or flight radar had survived dozens of confrontations with fire-breathing dragon magicians in haughty get-ups and astonishingly terrible fashion sense. This thug had nothing on them. He didn't even sparkle. Or emit any kind of danger-zone found in the skilled.

She rummaged through her pockets and dangled a bag of cheesy goodness in front of the thug's face.

She could see it now. Dark, glaring bruises sitting prominent against the boy's eyes, all raccoon like. The chafes of worn fabric against his shoulders. Academy City was well off, with barely a population of four million, why weren't the citizens treated fairly? Or was the boy a dropout of some kind?

Index pressed it into his hands, and then, sagely, "Even if you do not believe in God, his will shall always be with you, and forever guide you. Do not lose your path in the light. Work hard, and all will come together."

The boy paused, readjusted, and stared at her as if she was speaking Swahili. Huh. Index didn't think she accidentally reverted to a different language. Anyways, wasn't that what heroes did? Give a life-moving speech after beating the crap out of their opponent then becoming best friends? Okay, so the part on punching him out didn't exactly fit into the equation, but unless one's life was on the line, Index liked to stash the thought of violence underneath a jar of jellybeans. Perhaps it was the sentence on god. Citizens living in a city with Espers didn't really acknowledge the hijinks of magic and higher beings.

She didn't have time to dwell on it.

"How wonderfully compassionate!" bellowed out a new voice. "You clearly have GUTS!"

The thug took one glance, and took a small step back—wide-eyed, in semi-disbelief but glued to the spot. "Um..." he said eloquently.

"Why are you outside in the middle of the night?" Index inquired, sensible.

Poised with his hand in the air and the jacket/cape hybrid fluttering dramatically behind him, the intruder looked like a character straight out of a shounen manga. A very attention-wanting character, but still, what the heck, character designs were supposed to be unique for a reason. In her mind's eye Index could feel fireworks lighting up behind him, all flashy and bright and maybe borderline maniac. Perhaps even an ultimate transformation of some sort that always happened to the lead Shinigami/ninja/not-exactly human protagonist in the face of an epic one-on-one with the Big Bad. Like a magical girl show. Yes. That sounded right.

There was a period of awkward silence.

"Oh. Did I say the last part out loud?" Index hummed. Holder of several hundred thousand legendary grimoires or not, she was a highly impressionable child that delved head first into Japan's literature and animation without forewarning.

The thug sent the intruder a glance of mistrust and gave index a look. Through an impressive display of facial elasticity he managed to convey extreme gratitude, and something the former nun read as I really need to fucking go now because, um, you know, your crazy is great and all but it ain't for me.

Very much unnerved, he quickly exited.

"THROUGH GUTS, YOUR LIFE'S PATH SHALL BECOME CLEAR TO YOU, YOUNG GRASSHOPPER!" Shounen-protagonist boy hollered after him in all seriousness, eyes black and blazing with formidable faith.

After the last vestiges of the thug were out of sight she turned to headband-and-fireworks. "I'm Index Librorum Prohibitorum,"

The teen flashed smile that was fifty shades of blinding; bright and sunbeam and confident. "Sogiita Gunha." He pursed his lips, cocked his head to the side, and looked at Index queerly. "What were you doing out in the middle of the night miss. Your GUTS are worth noticing, but it ain't safe for a young girl like you."

Index had never been exceptionally sneaky. And in all honesty, the current situation didn't dictate her to be. "Well," she said. "Theoretically, remember, just a theory. You can say that I'm a nun that has some really trigger-happy magicians chasing after me from the Church of Nessecary Evil. Yes, they're very blunt about the naming. Yes, it means what it means. And that's because I just so happen to have a few hundred thousand forbidden grimoires filed in my head and they can be very dangerous. Thus, these non-existent magicians are trying to catch me and erase my memories again, as they do every year. But I don't want that. Theoretically."

Gunha furrowed his eyebrows, truly giving the nonsensical explanation deep, probing thought that really shouldn't be fucking necessary, because dammit, this was the freaking city of all thing science and not-magic.

Finally, he said. "So, living according to your own free will takes GUTS! I applaud you young lady."

Well. That worked too.

Index cleared her throat. "Building on that non-existent situation, let's say that the nun just recently entered a municipality of science in order to escape her… magically oriented pursuers. However, she has no idea where to run and find something/person that can potentially nullify her automatic defense system because it's night time and her pursuers are probably trying to track her down. According to your hero senses—I mean guts, what would you do?"

"Those spineless cowards trying to hurt a little girl for their own means, we will definitely defeat them, and make them regret coming here!" he preached.

All was going to plan.

With a flourish, Index grasped the offered hand, and Gunha picked her up, bridal style, the backdrop of stars and moon shining upon them in the signal of a grand adventure, and—

"That doesn't make any sense!" Kamijou Touma interrupted blithely, glaring searing black holes of disbelief into the heads of his two companions. "None. What do you mean you just took her home like that? You went from three sentences of conversation to BEST FRIENDS. She could've been trying to raid your house! And you have absolutely no proof that there are bad guys chasing her! Magic doesn't even exist!"

"Mmhmmsguuruleshhhhhhh!" Index said to her ramen.

Gunha leveled him with an even stare. Challenging Touma to say that his GUTS were wrong. Ramen broth dripped menacingly from his chin. "Are you telling me that refusing to help someone with so much GUTS and clearly needs support is wrong?"

"Your priorities are really stupidly out of whack," Touma pointed out.

"Don't worry, Kamijou-san." Sugar-sweet and all serene-like, Index would be the perfect image of a nun if it weren't for the attire of shredded jeans and a baggy sweater. "You will sparkle. With time. I promise you." Oh for the LOVE OF—not this again. Internally, Touma permitted himself to wallow and cry ugly tears. He was allowed. Kamijou couldn't tell if Index was messing with him or not, but there was that unmistakable pitch of evil laughter in her tone. It was there, just hidden. Touma knew it was fucking there.

And Gunha.

Gunha was one hundred percent completely serious.

It showed. In the rigid tension in his shoulders, like he was expecting some sort of magician attack out of the blue to come hollering for Index. In the way he kept on sneaking glances at the reflections in the shop windows, in the way he eyed Index with genuine worry and admiration and—

Okay. So, that was probably more because the girl had wolfed down two Super-Large bowls of ramen in fifteen minutes. Bottomless pit indeed.

"Another bowl of miso please!" She said happily.

Touma twirled the noodles between his chopsticks. Sighed. Then with deliberate motions, he let his head thunk against the swirling wooden grains of the counter with a strangled gurgle. At least the food was free.

I don't know why I posted this. Anyhow, reviews will be cherished, Feedback in any way is awesome.