I have been informed by my co-writer that that first chapter did a rather poor job of preparing you all for just how far off the rails things are going to go. Hopefully this chapter rectifies that.
Index/Free; Run
Tokyo. Population approximately 16 million within city limits. Unfamiliar to him; a distant memory for her. I spent twenty minutes looking at maps and now know it like I've lived here my whole life. It is 19:43; Tokyo is displaying its full neon splendour, and the dense traffic has thinned only slightly. We're on Route 5, heading southeast towards the harbor. Approximate speed, 60 kilometers per hour. The car is a Mitsubishi Chevalier, a mid-range family sedan. There are approximately 92,000 Mitsubishi Chevaliers in Japan. We are as inconspicuous as it is possible for visitors from England to be here. Car is equipped with the standard GoogleBaidu autodrive package. He is sleeping in the passenger seat. She remains awake in the "driver's" seat, but stares out the window, opposite me. I cannot see her face, but I suspect her expression is wistful.
The door is unlocked. They trust me. Why wouldn't they? 14 years is a long time.
The seatbelt is a problem. The sound of it retracting would be loud enough to get her attention. Retracting it slowly and quietly is even riskier; it would look extremely suspicious should she turn around and notice.
A solution presents itself. "Mind if I roll down the window a bit?" I ask her softly.
"Sure," she says, not looking at me. I nod anyway and tap the window-down button for an instant. A dull roar of rushing air and passing traffic quickly spills into the silence of the car. Not oppressively loud. But loud enough. I wait for approximately five minutes, until I am sure that she has returned to her memories, and that he has not been roused from his light slumber by the new noise. Then I click off the seatbelt.
I freeze immediately, watching for a response. She shows no sign of noticing, however, and I quickly relax.
We are now approaching the C2 junction at Itabashi. We are on an overpass and in the left lane, at the outer edge of the highway. This is ideal. I almost take a deep breath. Suppress it. This must be as unexpected as possible.
Then, in one smooth motion, I yank the door latch, shove the door open, and fling myself out of the car.
Release.
Category-defensive-passive-kinetic AND nonverbal:true AND visibility:low
Match found in: On the Heroic Arts, Archimedes, 230 B.C. "To Call Upon The Strength of Achilles". Please let this work—
I hit the pavement arms-first...and skid, leaving not blood and torn flesh but sparks in my wake, as a torrent of stored mana floods all but a few square inches of my skin. I spring to my feet and press myself against the side wall of the highway, just in time for a car to miss hitting me by barely a centimetre. There's a screech of tires from up ahead—she's already realized what's happened. No time to waste, then. The spell comes with a significant strength boost; I rapidly pull myself up to the top of the wall. I look down: the drop is nearly twenty metres into the city below. I hope I am not overestimating the strength of this spell as I leap forward.
I have never been skydiving, or ridden a roller coaster, or done anything much more exciting than ride a fast elevator. As I go into free fall, as my entire body floods with adrenaline and my every sense tells me I am about to die, I feel something amazing, something indescribable.
Is this what it feels like to be free?
I angle myself to hit the ground with my upper back first; this spell is less than ideal for landing on one's feet. The impact is bone-jarring but not particularly painful, and I'm up on my feet again within seconds. I cancel the spell immediately; the need for something nonverbal, immediately effective, and...relatively subtle has resulted in me draining far more of my very limited mana supply than I would have preferred.
Lock.
As the spell fades, so does the memory of how to cast it; as far as the geis is concerned, I am out of immediate danger. Very well; I probably will not need to use much more magic any time soon. Bystanders are gaping at me. Under normal circumstances, a stunt like that pulled in public would be a massive leak, one that would need to be dealt with immediately.
But these are not normal circumstances. This is why I chose Tokyo to make my escape, after all.
"Excuse me," I ask the nearest bystander in what I am led to believe is passable Japanese. "Where's the nearest subway station? I need to make it back to Academy City in time for curfew."
Academy City is not my first stop, however. My plan is not exactly difficult to guess, and I don't doubt they'd catch up to me rather quickly. No, my journey there will take a somewhat more roundabout route, and there are other matters I must take care of first.
Firstly: The stares of the other passengers on the dingy, cramped subway car confirm something I feared: I am extremely conspicuous. Japan is very much ethnically homogenous, and I am an obviously Caucasian teenager travelling on my own. Worse yet, I have a specifically identifiable feature: my hair is a rather unusual shade of silver-white, and I have it grown out rather long. I need a way to disguise it. I don't have enough time to dye it, cut it, or find a wig right now, either; these next few minutes are critical. The white dress I've been wearing (one of the ten or so that make up the vast majority of my wardrobe) is also just a touch too long and vaguely bridal (or perhaps angelic?) in appearance to fit my requirements.
In short, I need to look normal.
The thrift shop is on the verge of closing when I walk in; the manager's shouted "Welcome!" has a bit of an edge to it. I smile and reply with a "Good evening"; I'm in a hurry, but that's no reason to be rude. The shop is dimly lit and poorly organized, but a couple minutes of searching earn me an old newsboy cap sufficient to hide most of my hair under, a worn but usable backpack, and a couple changes of clothes that don't seem too old or malodorous. I am...less than up-to-date on fashion, and so go with something similar to what she wears, simple dark shirts and jeans, under the assumption that she is generally quite good at blending in. (And indeed, a quick review of the people I've noticed since coming here indicates that such an outfit will come across as appropriately plain and unremarkable.) I also manage to dig up a broken music box and a small crucifix. All of this is paid for via one of several 2000-yen bills nicked from his wallet last night. I find a public restroom to change in, then consider my old dress for a moment. On the one hand, it is enchanted with a variety of defensive spells, built up over several months to be capable of protecting me from most non-magical attacks. On the other, it is almost certainly a vector for locating me magically, and may even have a less arcane tracking device hidden somewhere in the embroidery. After a moment, I toss it in a dumpster, far enough from the thrift shop that the manager should not come under immediate suspicion.
Secondly: I am very, very hungry. The relationship of magic use with human metabolism is poorly studied. I briefly consider the possibility that my particular hunger right now is due to my using more magic than I have in years, until another loud growl from my stomach obliterates most of my capacity for rational thought. When my higher brain functions come back online, I find myself in a McDonalds, of all places. To my relief, it's much the same as the other McDonalds I have been in across the world: air that feels laden with vaporized grease, smelling of things that were once a potato but stopped being so long ago; dismally small patties of vat-grown cow meat sizzling loudly on the fryer; and a menu in obnoxiously loud colors offering dozens of variations on a simple combination of the two.
I smile a bit, and place my order. There really is nothing quite like it.
I quickly eat my way through the Big Mac and french fries. At the end, only a tiny piece of the Big Mac's bun is left, which I carefully wrap up in its paper and stuff in the backpack. The cashier watches me eat with what seems to be awe; as I leave, he asks if I am American. I smile and say I am; hopefully he will remember that and not my other features. Or the fact that I took the tray with me, along with a bottle of water. He looked far more engaged by his argument with the very angry redhead who barged her way in just as I finished, anyway. I stop in the convenience store next door and grab a small can of grape juice, adding it to the ever-growing set of odds and ends in my backpack.
Now, thirdly and most importantly: Even if I am visually disguised, they have other ways of finding me. Location spells are quick to set up and inexpensive to use, and there are few ways to block them without having access to one's own magic. And unfortunately, they do not register as a threat to the geis, making that option nonviable. There is an alternative, however, and one immediately present.
The doors of the small church are closed but unlocked, though the last Mass of the day is long over. It is, I note, a church of the Nippon Seikoukai—the Anglican Church in Japan. Not that the denomination matters. I take a seat in one of the pews at the back and begin to work.
Any holy ground is generally an excellent way to protect oneself from most magic. What holy ground is most effective generally depends on the beliefs of the person in question. I am Christian, and so a Christian church is the natural choice. Certainly, it will be sufficient to jam any tracking spell they could hope to set up within the next day or two, especially without the dress to use as a target. However, churches have the disadvantage of being static; hiding out in one is unlikely to remain safe for too long, especially with Christianity's limited presence within Japan.
Unless, of course, one devises a way to take the church along with them.
In the Catholic tradition, from which the Anglican Church originally derived most of its customs, a church has four essential components: the crucifix showing the image of Jesus Christ; the baptismal font, in which we are washed of our sins and reborn in His glory; the altar upon which bread and wine become His body and blood; and the tabernacle in which the transubstantiated Eucharist is kept.
I remove the crucifix, the water bottle, the McDonalds tray, and the music box from my backpack and arrange them around me. Then I begin to pray.
"In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti..."
"...et in terra pax hominibus bonae voluntatis."
And it is done. I have the essential components of a church, in which a Mass has been said, all in portable form. I will be the first to admit that it's not much of a church, but I took pains to make it as effective as possible at its intended purpose. Saying the Mass in Latin helped, as did performing the whole ritual while inside a vastly more legitimate church. All in all, it probably won't do much to help me against serious offensive magic. But it should be more than enough to keep a location spell from locking on to me.
I load up the impromptu font, crucifix, altar, and tabernacle (currently occupied by the Eucharist in the form of a half-eaten Big Mac bun) in my backpack, and slip out of the church. I blink a few times as my eyes adjust from the darkness of the church interior to the lights of the city outside—most noticeably, the small family restaurant across the street.
...I'm hungry again.
I suppose if this 'mobile church' is working correctly, I'm now untraceable enough to risk staying around a little while longer. And if it's not, well, it's not as if it matters much where I go.
I leave the restaurant temporarily satisfied, having devoured a plate of some kind of noodle dish called yakisoba. Whatever it was, it was absolutely delicious; it took significant effort not to order another plate of it.
But now I must move on. I head back to the subway station, thankful that Tokyo's transportation system runs twenty-four hours a day. It's now nearly 22 o'clock, and the station is far less crowded than it was immediately after my escape, but there's still more than enough people heading home after a late night at work to make it feel like a Tube station not long after rush hour. As I walk through the turnstile and head towards the train, I look around me, observing the people I pass. From their reactions, it seems my mission was successful—though I still draw a few curious looks, the proportion is far less than it was before. Good. Next stop, Academy City.
The sign above the station exit has two arrows, pointing to two separate queues. One arrow is marked "RESIDENTS & COMMUTERS" in Japanese, English, Chinese, and Korean; the other says "NON-RESIDENTS" in the same languages. There is no sign of officials from the Immigration Bureau, only the Academy City Police Department, but it is nonetheless clear what I am looking at: an immigration checkpoint. This is both unexpected—I knew Academy City was very nearly self-governing, but to this extent?—and a major problem: Not only do I have no legitimate reason to be in the city, but I also lack any sort of identification. My passport is back in that Mitsubishi Chevalier.
For a moment the possibility of calling off this entire endeavour occurs to me. I know how valuable I am; none of them would ever think of harming me, or allowing me to be harmed. I could call his mobile phone, arrange a rendezvous location, and within hours we would be on a flight back to London, as if this had never happened. True, my nearly-successful escape attempt would likely result in the geis being reapplied, with much more strictly and carefully defined release conditions, but little else would change. I could return to a life full of comfort, study, and delicious home-cooked dinners.
But then I recall that moment of my heart pounding, of my adrenaline rushing, of the lights and sounds around me suddenly seeming real and present in a way they never had been before as I plummeted from a height no human being was meant to survive a fall from. If I choose to go back now, I will never feel so free, so real again.
I find that to be unacceptable. And even as my resolve strengthens, a plan begins to form.
I pick up a nearby informational brochure which states, in easy-to-understand terms, what information and documents one needs to enter the city, for both residents and non-residents. Non-residents need a valid passport or Japanese national ID card, plus one of several fully completed forms stating their reason for visiting Academy City, the length of their stay, and contacts (if any) within the city.
On the other hand, residents and commuters only need a valid Academy City ID card. And considering why I chose to flee to Academy City in the first place...
I smile at the ACPD officer as I come to the front of the 'Residents' line. He smiles back, though it seems a bit forced. I suppose it is rather late. Only he and the terahertz scanner he operates now stand between me and freedom. "Hello," I tell him. "I'm very sorry, but I seem to have lost my ID card. I really do need to get back home soon; could you let me through?"
Now his smile is very forced. "Sure, kid. I'll just need your name and the name of your school, so they can send me your information."
Of course it wouldn't be that easy. But then, it's not as if I expected it to be. "Well, you understand, I'd rather my school not know I was out this late..." I start to stride forward, through the scanner.
"Hey. Kid. Stop. Stop!" I break into a run; with any luck—
Release.
There. He must have pulled his gun. Or a taser. It doesn't matter, though; what matters is that I am free again. I want to stop, to savor the rush, but I know I am a bit short on savoring time right now. I need something that will help me disappear. Literally disappear; there aren't enough people around to do something like a crowd-blending spell. But with this many people around, I can get away with something a little less draining than true invisibility. I run a search:
Category-stealth-camouflage AND mana usage:low
Match found in: OSS MANTA EIGHT Training Manual, author unknown, A.D. 1943. "Instantaneous High-Efficiency Camouflage."
It is not totally nonverbal, unfortunately, but at least it doesn't require perfect clarity or careful enunciation; it was designed for spies, after all. I focus in the way the spell requires, release a trickle of what remains of my mana supply, and whisper the words: "Let Liberty be my cloak in the night." Appropriate enough for the current situation, all things considered.
Search and spell both finish in just a couple of seconds. Mid-stride, my skin and clothes spontaneously turn...not translucent, not quite, but very close; they shift into a rough, blurry approximation of whatever's immediately behind them. It's less than adequate at making me unnoticeable, especially while I'm running, but I can't help but imagine it would make trying to aim at me rather difficult, especially in the middle of a crowd. I turn a corner, and the stairs leading out of the station are right there. I sprint up them, nearly trip but recover, and sprint out into the night.
I keep running for a long while, until the combined strain of the run and the spell leave me nearly ready to collapse. The spell fizzles out, and I feel the the lock on the vault of magical knowledge stored in my brain snap shut again. As frustrating as it is, it comes as a bit of a relief this time: it means I am out of immediate danger, at least. I slow down to a walk for a while, and take in the sights around me.
Academy City has little in common with central Tokyo, or indeed most of the cities I have visited. There are high-rises and skyscrapers aplenty, yes, but they are far less dense; the streets are busy but not jammed with cars. It has some of Tokyo's nighttime neon glow, but it's far less eye-searing. There are odder things, too: Waist-high, cylindrical robots travel in twos and threes, sometimes stopping to clean a piece of litter off the streets, other times rushing along to destinations unknown. A uniformed girl sets her soda down in midair to rummage through her purse for something; it hovers dutifully at her side until she digs out her mobile phone. A young, attractive man spontaneously appears in the previously transparent window of a convenience store; he asks if I'm enjoying my workout and alerts me that a cool, refreshing bottle of sports drink is only 200 yen inside. A considerably more solid young man with hair as white as mine leans against a wall in a dark alley; as he looks up from some manner of portable electronic device and his gaze meets mine, I feel the geis immediately unlock again...only to re-engage as he loses interest and looks down again.
I walk on for some time this way, with no particular destination or goal in mind. Eventually, it strikes me that my plans only went as far as getting into Academy City. I've given no thought to what I should do once I get there. Indeed, it's now rather late, I have no place to sleep for the night, and after the supplies and train fare I'm rather short on money.
I eventually find a sidewalk bench to sit down on to further ponder this problem. And before long, I find myself shifting around the contents of my backpack, trying to find the arrangement that will give me the least uncomfortable pillow. Before I can drift off to a fitful, uncomfortable sleep, though, I am rudely jolted back into reality by a robotic voice.
"Good evening, citizen. Identification, please."
It's one of the little cylindrical cleaning robots. I frown at it. "Identification?"
"All Academy City residents and commuters are asked to have their municipal identification cards on them all times between 23:00 and 4:30. Visitors are similarly required to possess an authorized ACPass card. Failure to show appropriate identification may result in temporary detainment. Identification, please."
"I, er, left it at home. I could go and get it, if you're willing to hang on for a moment?" I ask hopefully.
"Your failure to show required identification has been noted. Appropriate ACPD and/or Judgement personnel. Nell. Nell. Nel-el-el-el—EXTERMINATE! EXTERMINATE! EXTERMINATE!" The robot's relatively calm Japanese inexplicably switches to harsh, angry English without warning; it's nearly enough to make me run for my life on the spot.
But then I hear a high-pitched voice approaching me rapidly. "Sorry! Sorry! Forgot I had it set to 'Dalek'!" It turns out to belong to a young girl, who's quickly running towards me. Quite young. Not a day older than 12, if I had to guess, with short black hair. She's wearing a black T-shirt with English words printed on it. Something about there being 10 types of people; I can't read the whole thing in the dim lighting. She is also holding one of those huge universal TV remotes with more buttons than one could ever possibly need, and aiming it threateningly at the robot. "Don't worry, though. It's disabled. I kind of noticed it giving you a hard time and decided I'd lend a hand. I mean, I've pwned half the bots in this town, why not be a good Samaritan, right?"
Pwn is not a Japanese word I'm familiar with, if indeed it's even Japanese—it sounds more English than anything—but I can guess at its meaning. "You...hacked...the robot?"
She rolls her eyes. "Well, yeah. I swear, the security on these things is terrible. One buffer overflow via NFC and they're your faithful servant forever if you know what you're doing."
"Er. If you say so. I'm...not really very knowledgeable about computers." I have never actually used a computer, unless one counts a smart television with most of its functions disabled.
"Eh. Not everyone can be, right? Anyway, if you don't mind me asking...whatcha doin' out here so late? And without ID?" Unlike the robot's, her tone carries only innocent curiosity—not a hint of accusation to be found.
"It's...it's a long story."
She squints at me. "Long story? Come on. It's gotta be something real interesting if ya don't got anywhere to sleep. Are you foreign? You look foreign. American? You exchange or perma? Your Japanese is really good, by the way. My English, okay, but not so good!" She speaks that last sentence in heavily accented English, chuckling.
"Er, well, I'd really rather not say..."
"Come on. Tell you what. My big bro's outta town right now, so I got our apartment all. To. Myself. You tell me your story, I'll let ya stay at my place for the night. Sound like a deal?" She grins. She thinks she has me, and she's very nearly right.
"...Well..." I'm still not sure I want to risk staying in one place for too long, or possibly putting someone else in the line of fire. My train of thought is suddenly and violently derailed, however, by my stomach rumbling loudly. I remember from somewhere that 'allowing' your stomach to growl is considered rude in Japan, and hurriedly apologize.
She looks down at my stomach. Then back up to my face. Her grin widens, and she speaks one sentence.
"I have food."
"'Index', huh? Cool name. Kinda different. I'm Tsuchimikado Maika. Or, uh, Maika Tsuchimikado?"
"It's all right. I know how Japanese names work."
"Right! First one, then. Call me Maika."
"Maika. Right. A pleasure meeting you, Maika-san."
"Nice to meetcha too, Index-san. So, uh, that's the bedroom, there's the bathroom, and here's the kitchen. Not much, but hey, it's home."
The Tsuchimikado residence is...well, it's small. It's very small. You could fit the vast majority of it in my bedroom back in London, and I don't think I had an especially large bedroom. The bedroom is just large enough to fit a bunk bed plus a desk—barely large enough to qualify as anything more than a nightstand—that holds a TV, which seems to double as a monitor for a desktop computer. The kitchen is little more than a recess in the apartment's entryway, directly opposite the entrance to the bathroom—a pantry, a mini-fridge, and a stove/oven/microwave combo are all lined up in a row.
"Hey, so, what sounds good?" Maika asks me as I look around. She flings open the pantry and fridge, and looks through both intently. "I've got instant ramen...more instant ramen...uh...even more instant ramen...ooh, hey, quick-bake pizza! Pepperoni sound good to you?"
I inform her that pepperoni does indeed sound good, and before long we're sitting at a Japanese-style table she pulled out from under the bunk bed and somehow managed to wedge into the scarce floor space, while the smell of baking pizza wafts out of the oven.
"So, deal's a deal," she says. "You gotta tell me why you were out there in the cold, with no ID."
"Well..." I hesitate. I'm obviously not going to tell her the whole story. But how much can I risk telling her? Will she report me?
She sees my frown, and tries to reassure me. "I already figure you're not here totally legit. And I heard something went down at the subway station; I figure that's you. Don't worry, I'm not gonna turn you in or anything. Just, you know, wondering."
I sigh. We did make a deal... "Essentially...I'm running away from home."
She raises an eyebrow. "Running away all the way from America?"
"England, actually. And, well, we were in Tokyo on vacation, and I saw an opportunity." Close enough to the truth; the occasional excursion like this was the closest thing I got to a vacation.
"Wow. Why'd you come here, though? I mean, you had to have wanted to get to Academy City pretty bad to run the checkpoint like that."
"I'd rather not talk about that." That line of questioning would lead me into the awkward position of having to either pretend to be an esper or admit to the existence of magic, neither of which I saw ending well.
"Aww. Seriously? All I get is 'I ran away from home?'" She sighs. "Well, you got your secrets, I guess." The ding of the kitchen timer quickly interrupts what could have been a very long, awkward silence, and it's not long before fresh-baked pizza is served.
Maika lets me use her bed (the top bunk) for the night; I assume she's going to use her brother's bed, but she screws up her face in disgust at the mere suggestion. More so when I suggest I use it instead. "Don't you know what he does in that bed?" she asks, horrified.
"...no?"
She narrows her eyes, and looks around, as if to check whether her brother has suddenly returned. "He farts," she whispers secretively. "A lot."
That is more than enough to convince me that the bed in question is not suitable for use by either of us girls; however, we both refuse to let the other use the remaining bed. Her refusal ends up being stronger, and before I can do anything, she's extracted a spare futon and blanket from the closet and attached herself to the floor. I sigh and resign myself to graciously accepting her generosity.
I wake up early the next morning. Maika is sprawled out on the floor, blanket barely covering her legs, and it looks like she is in no danger of waking up any time soon. I quietly haul my backpack down from the bunk, step carefully over her, and find a sticky-note pad in the kitchen. I write a quick note of thanks and stick it on the inside of the door, then tiptoe out of the apartment.
I'd be loathe to stay too long with Maika and risk bringing trouble down on her head, but where should I go next? Almost subconsciously, I find myself walking up the service stairs to the roof of the apartment building, and before long I'm staring five stories down to the streets below. Part of me wants to go right back down, and start walking like a normal person. It whispers that this is insane, that it risks discovery, or—if I miscalculate—worse.
The rest of me tells that part to bugger off as I take a running leap into the open air.
Release.
I run a search, stretch my arms out to my sides, and joyfully cry out "Φτερά του Δαίδαλου, επιτρέψτε μου να πετάξει στα ύψη!" Shimmering veils of light form between my arms and my body and expand out to my sides, and my fall suddenly becomes a long, graceful, nearly level glide. There it is, once again: this feeling of life, of joy, of freedom. I suddenly realize that I'm laughing like a madwoman; I feel no inclination to stop, and swoop around a high-rise, watching the city pass below me at impossible speeds, feeling the wind blow through my hair.
And...there's an odd feeling of emptiness in the pit of my stomach...Oh, no. I think I'm low on mana. Very low. I did use almost all of my reserves last night, and I don't exactly generate it very quickly.
Panicking and cursing my stupidity, I look for a landing site, and spot a balcony on another apartment building, almost level with me, that looks as good as any other. I try and angle myself to bleed off speed as quickly as possible without stalling out and missing the landing entirely, and...it almost works. The wings fizzle out at the last minute; my forward momentum carries me the rest of the way, and I fall in a heap onto the concrete balcony.
It hurts. A lot.
It's not excruciating, however, and it doesn't feel like anything's broken. Bruised, certainly, but not broken. I lay there for a moment, then finally pull myself to up to my knees.
A young man with spiky black hair is staring at me from inside the apartment, bemusement evident on his face.
"Ah, hello there." Lacking any other good conversation-starters, I say the first thing that comes to mind. "I'm quite hungry. Do you have any food?"
