Chapter Eleven

He sits and waits. A solitary figure sitting alone in the corner of a classroom, fingers drumming rhythmically upon the top of the scratched wood of an ancient writing desk, he waits for his future to be revealed. Nervous butterflies, and an assortment of other creatures, flutter to and fro from deep within his stomach. The suspense is overwhelming. Still, it will do no good to worry over something that you have no control over. Patience is supposedly a virtue.

Faded sunlight shines through the dirty windows on the left side of the room, bathing Ms. Hazaki in harsh yellowy tones. She's up at the front of the room with the graded tests in hand. Now she's going on about how this particular test is worth more than any other previous test combined and how, if you screwed up on it, you are basically screwed for the semester.

He sits. He waits. He wants to know; yet he does not want to know.

Now she is calling out names and handing the papers back.

It had been a hard test. No, scratch that. An impossible test – six pages long, cumulative, and all essay. He'll do good to get a D.

He watches the other students as their names are called. He watches how their expressions change once they have been given their exam. Some faces light up into relieved smiles (startled by this, that anyone could've made a high grade on that test, he sneaks a peek at their paper, only to find the reason for their smiles to be a C.) but most are frowns. He has a sinking suspicion that once his name is called, he will join in with the latter group.

His name is called.

He scoots his chair out slowly. It makes an unbearable screeching noise against

the linoleum floor. Once at the front of the room, he takes his test from Ms. Hazaki with a shaky hand, anxious to observe her face as she hands it to him. But she has already moved on and is calling out another name.

This is it, he tells himself as he heads back to his desk. This is the test that will make or break you. He flips through the six pages of hell without looking down. If he failed, his GPA is history. His future career in politics is history. Anything less than a C and his life is history. Everything hinges on this test. This grade.

Without really meaning to, he looks down and sees a series of huge red slashes up near the top of the exam sheet, next to where he'd written his name. His heart sinks. He breath catches. All that red can only mean one thing: failure. Tears begin to well up behind his eyes, but he refuses to let them fall. It isn't his fault that he failed. Oh, no. It's that stupid Ms. Hazaki's fault. Oh, yes. Stupid Ms. Hazaki, who would rather chatter the class period away talking about her STUPID pet guinea pig than actually TEACHING something!!! Now his life was over, his future was over, but she was just going to keep on living like she always had, oblivious as to the pain she'd caused him. She wasn't going to suffer, he was!

Eyes bulging with hatred, he shoots the little whore a look that could kill. He hates her. With a passion. He wishes her dead.

Then he happens to glance down and sees that the slashes of red are actually words – "Great job! You really nailed this one! It's nice to see that somebody's actually studying!" – and there, proud and unashamed in bright red ink, his grade.

A one hundred and ten. A perfect score. He even got the bonus question right. Pure elation washes over him, cleansing him of the hatred he'd felt so strongly a moment before. A perfect score! It's impossible! But a second look confirms it.

The other students around him are complaining about their low grades, but he pays it no mind. Idiots. Maybe if they studied a little harder they would've scored higher. It isn't rocket science. Morons.

A few minutes later the dismissing bell for the day rings and he's out of there like a shot. He runs the however-many-blocks back home with a broad smile on his face and a song in his heart. A perfect score on the hardest test of the year! Imagine! He can't wait to tell his parents and bask in their praise.

The apartment complex is right ahead. He takes the stairs up. The elevator is too slow. Panting and giddy with happy anticipation after climbing up all those flights, he rushes to his door, throws it open and thunders inside without taking time to remove his shoes - which is a big middle finger thrust into the face of tradition, but who really cares?

"Mom!" He shouts. "Mom!"

"In here," comes a tired voice from the kitchen area.

Still clutching the impossible test, he races toward the sound of her voice and finds her hunkered over the oven, her black hair and face both shiny with perspiration. Various pots and pans surround her, each one filled to the brim with some kind of delicious-smelling spice or powder. She's preparing dinner. And, oh, what a dinner it will be once she hears the news! Her eyes will go wide with disbelief and she'll ask if he's kidding her and then he'll show her the test, the grade, and she'll hug him and tell him how proud she is! And then she'll make his favorite dish just for him because he's proven himself today.

"What is it, honey? I'm kind of busy right now."

He smiles. She'll stop in mid-stride once she sees his grade, oh yes. "We got our grades back today on that test we took a week ago."

"Uh huh," she says, and hurries past him to grab a carton of eggs.

"Many people didn't do so well. The class average was a D, which isn't all that great." He's toying with her now – delaying the moment. It may be cruel, but he wants to build the anticipation so that when he finally does tell her, it'll make it all the more spectacular.

"Huh," she says as she cracks two eggs open along the rim of a dish. The yellow yolks plop down into the batter and she grabs a spoon and begins to stir.

"But look what I made." He takes the test in his hands and extends it out to her. He's aware that he sounds a little like a two year old, but it can't be helped. He's just so excited.

"Wow. That's great," his mother says without looking. She then breezes past him on her way to the fridge. She opens it and takes out a jug of milk.

He frowns. Can't she stop buzzing around for five seconds and look at what he's showing her? He tries again. "Look at my score."

His mother sighs, the sound of which triggers a rockslide of sorts in his soul. "Just tell me. I can't look right now."

Slowly, ever so slowly, he takes his arm back. His mouth set, his eyes mere slits, he says, "A one hundred and ten." Each number comes out short and painfully accented.

"Wow. That's great," the woman says. She says this in the exact same tone she used when she didn't know.

Anger, red and throbbing, narrows his vision into tunnel-scope. She doesn't care. She can't even pretend to be excited. He takes the test up in both hands and has to use an enormous amount of self-control not to tear it in two. But he wants to. Oh, how he wants to. Wait. Actually that's not quite right. He wants to tear his mother in two. He wants to take her thin, dainty neck in his hands and twist until he hears a pop. He wants to punish her.

"I EVEN GOT THE BONUS QUESTION RIGHT, YOU STUPID SLUT!!!!"

The milk jug she had been holding falls to the ground and spills its contents out all over the floor in a white rush. She twirls on her heels and faces him, her mouth open in perfect shock and surprise.

She hears him now. Oh, yes she does. You better believe it.

Oh, look. Now she's gonna cry. Tears are already dripping from her eyes. Her hands fly up to her chest in a defensive gesture. She blinks. Once. Twice. More tears fall. "Wh- What did you say?"

But it's too late. He's already turning away and heading out of the kitchen. He hears his mother's voice calling after him: "Honey, I'm sorry. Mommy was just so busy. I'll look at your test now. Really. Why don't you come on back and you can show me how good you did, hmm?"

He stops and looks back. She's standing there in the doorway with red weeping eyes and pink blotches on her cheeks. She looks like a big fat ugly pig. And now she's smiling at him like she thinks an apology's not far off.

No such luck. He looks his mother square in the eye and says, "Do me a favor and go hang yourself."

She bursts into tears and he laughs all the way to his room.

His father comes home some time later to an empty kitchen, his wife having long since gone go bed. Dinner remains unprepared. The pots and pans are still out. The spilled milk hasn't been touched and is starting to smell.

"Dad."

His father turns to him. He doesn't look happy. "What happened here?" He exclaims, pointing to the mess on the kitchen floor. "You better clean this up before somebody gets hurt! What a mess!"

"You know that test we took a week ago? I got my grade back."

"A mess," repeats his father as rips a paper towel off the dispenser near the stove. He bends down and starts to clean the milk up. His tie, having been tucked into the waist of his pants beforehand, now comes loose and drops into the liquid. "A mess!!" He screams as he rips the tie from his neck. He takes it in one hand and slings it across the room. "I come home after a long day's work and this is what I find!"

"I made a one hundred and ten on it," his son informs.

"That's nice," Dad says. "Hand me another towel, will you? I don't think one's gonna get it."

He frowns. Surely his father will be more understanding. Maybe he just hadn't heard. Without budging, he repeats the score.

"Yes, yes. That's great. Now hand me another towel!"

He does. Begrudgingly.

Once the disaster has been diverted, he tries again.

"A one hundred and ten, huh?" His father repeats the perfect grade with a notable lack of enthusiasm. "That's pretty good."

A crazed laugh threatens to bubble its way up from his throat as he watches his father move into the living room. Pretty good? Pretty good?!?! No, it isn't pretty good, he thinks. It's REALLY good! It's VERY good! A 110! It's … it's … PERFECT!!!

The TV snaps on and his father settles into his favorite recliner, fully prepared to waste the night away watching American football.

He watches all this from the kitchen doorway. He watches his father clap when his favorite team makes a touchdown. He watches him as he shouts orders at the players and challenges the referee's calls. The fool. The imbecile.

Silent as a cat stalking its prey, the boy across the room closes his eyes and tilts his head back. He pictures his father's face in his mind – his sagging brown eyes, his receding hairline, his high distinguished forehead. He pictures his brain, his mind, as a locked chest, bolted tightly against the outside. And then, ever so gently, he begins to fiddle with the lock.

Like a child unwrapping a fragile Christmas package, he slips into his father's thoughts with great care. He doesn't want to alert him to the fact that he's sneaking around. Not that he would actually know what was going on. More than likely, the only thing he'd feel would be a slight tickling – something akin to the brain-freeze you get after slurping up ice cream too fast. If that.

Ah. Now the latch has been broken and he is free to dive into the mind of his father. He does so with abandon. Still standing statue-like in the kitchen doorway, he paws through his father's memories as if they were garbage. His mind is crammed to the brim with sports teams and fantasy football (American, mind you) and cheerleaders and game dates. Trash, in other words. Useless information. This isn't what he's looking for.

Years fly by like pages in a book being turned by the wind. Back and back and back. Flip, flip, flip. There. He stops the turning and focuses upon a particular scene, a particular instant in time. He sees himself as an infant. He sees his stupid cow of a mother holding him to her breast and he sees his father standing over them with a smile on his face. They're in a hospital room. Balloons and flowers are arranged everywhere, incasing the happy family of three among a bevy of cards and trinkets. It's a boy! Congratulations! Hip-hip, hooray!

He watches this scene in the past unfold with perfect clarity. His father's thoughts are glowing. He reaches out toward his newly born son with one big hand and thinks, My boy, my boy. You'll grow up to be big and strong just like his dad. Images of touchdowns and late-night football practices spring to mind and his father smiles once again. He already has his son's entire life planned out.

Flash forward an odd number of years. The son his wife has born him has turned out nothing at all like he had envisioned. He's turned out tall and strong, but lacking in the desire to prove himself physically. Instead of footballs and basketballs and sporting activities, he prefers books and telescopes and science experiments.

Now, standing in the kitchen doorway, he reads his father's mind and realizes that one word can sum up his thoughts toward his son: Disappointment.

Enraged beyond anything he has ever experienced, he takes the test in hand and shreds it into little pieces. He watches as the white bits of paper flutter to the ground. He watches his father, still sitting in his special chair, and wishes there were some way to punish him – to make him feel as unwanted as he was feeling now. His mother felt the same way. He's sure of it. He's nothing but a disappointment. But that's fine. Really, it is. Right there, at that moment, in that instant, he decides that he hates his parents and that he always will. There will be no forgiveness.

Later that night, he sneaks out of the apartment without telling anyone. He has his cherished telescope in hand as he transverses the night-streets of the city, on his way to the park. Stargazing has always helped ease his mind in the past. There's just something magical about looking up there and seeing the galaxy in all its magnified splendor…

But it does little to cheer him up tonight. But that's all right, for he doesn't want to be cheered up. He'd rather wallow in his pity than forgive his parents. His parents…. How could they think that about him – that he was a disappointment? Never mind the fact that they had never come right out and said it. And never mind the fact that he had gone trespassing into his father's private thoughts. It didn't matter. The truth was the truth. And the fact of the matter was he felt totally betrayed.

He looks through the eyepiece of his telescope and tries to enjoy the majesty of the stars, but it's no use. His anger will not abate. He hates them, his mother and father. More than anything else in this life, he hates them. He finds himself wishing that they'd never wake up from tonight's sleep, that they'll have a heart attack and die before morning.

He tries to enjoy the stars. It's a beautiful night for stargazing, however. The moon seems brighter than it's ever been. And not just the moon. The entire sky seems alive with magic. He can clearly make out each of the constellations. Sagittarius in particular seems brighter than usual…

He guides the telescope to the right a bit and gasps as something bright whizzes past the viewfinder. A shooting star? Grinning to himself, he pulls back from the telescope and studies the night for any sign of it. Weren't they lucky? Didn't some people make wishes on them?

"Oh, I have a wish," he says to himself. He thinks of his parents sleeping comfortably in their beds. "I have a wish indeed."

Then he sees it again – the shooting star or whatever it is. It's ripping across the blackness, leaving a fire-trail in its wake. It seems awfully big. It seems like … it seems like it's getting closer.

It is. And it's coming straight at him.

A meteorite! He utters a small cry of surprise and throws himself upon the ground, hands over his head. He knows that even a small rock, when traveling at a fast enough speed, can cause serious injury or even death. So he squeezes his eyes shut and waits for impact.

And there is an impact. He feels it first – a shuddering vibration that travels through his body and rattles his teeth inside his gums. Then he hears the sound, a delayed woomph! of something solid and heavy being thrust quickly into the ground.

He remains there, in that position, for a moment more before venturing out to see the point of collision. At first, though, all he can see is a gigantic hole about five feet in circumference and about two feet deep. Little curls of grey smoke twist into the air around the edges and a cloud of dust particles glides gracefully through the space above the crater. And then he sees something – something wedged way down deep into the earth. Something glittering black.

Fascinated, he reaches in with his right hand, only vaguely aware that the meteorite will most likely be too hot from its passage through the Earth's atmosphere to handle.

But it's not. If anything, it's cold to the touch. He lifts it from the crater and examines it. It stands out brilliantly against his white palm – a black slab of glistening rock, no bigger than a fingernail. It's lovely. It's beautiful in a kind of forbidden way. He turns it over in his hand and marvels at its sleek texture.

And then it speaks to him. It calls him by name.

Naturally, he is startled. He attempts to drop the stone, but it's stuck to his palm, as if by glue. And now it seems to be growing hotter.

The stone speaks again. Again by name, it calls him.

He blinks. This can't be real. He's hallucinating. He knows he is.

Little lost boy without a place, it says in a voice that is both male and female and yet neither. Do not fear. I wish only to speak with you.

That relaxes him a bit. The voice …. it's so soothing. So comforting. And not really like a voice at all, but rather like a series of emotions that his mind is forming into words. Like a gentle wave breaking upon a sandy beach, the voice speaks its tranquil message over and over again: Do not fear. Do not fear.

And he doesn't. His fear is gone, replaced by a sense of total unabashed awe. He is suddenly sure that he is conversing with a god. He leans forward and gently caresses the black stone with one reverent finger. Somehow he manages to string together words to form a question: "Who …. who are you? How do you know me?"

Who I am doesn't matter so much as what I can be, comes the gentle reply.

"Alright. But who can you be to me?"

If you would have me, I can be your mother. Your father. Your teacher in all things.

He nods in dreamy understanding. And suddenly he's quite sure this is a dream, but a dream from which he never wishes to awaken. He feels as if he's floating. Such a wonderful feeling of weightlessness. Up through the hazy gauze of the atmosphere and up to meet the twinkling stars.

The stone speaks again and when it does, he can hear the tiny chirping of bells ringing and chimes sounding, matching the connotation of the voice. You are truly a diamond amongst pebbles. You have a power. A great power, if developed properly. And I can teach you. Your power has drawn me to you. And I have traveled long to speak with you now.

"But I am unworthy!" He cries abruptly. A diamond amongst pebbles though he may be, but he is still a mortal conversing with a deity. He is naked and dirty in spirit and faith.

You are, this is true.

He closes his eyes in shame.

But I have need of you. You have your enemies and I have mine. Together, we can smite those who would defy us from the face of the earth!

He does not reply. He does not open his eyes.

The voice speaks his name again.

He opens his eyes.

My son, my son, the stone whispers. Never forget this thing that I am about to tell you: I am who you have been looking for, the one who truly needs you. Trust in me and all things will be well.

"I trust you." He squeezes his eyes shut against unshed tears and bends forward to kiss the black crystal with sinful lips. His heart feels heavy with gratitude. He has been chosen! For what or by whom, he does not know. It is only enough that he has finally been recognized as special by someone (or something) after all these years of …. of disappointment.

"I trust you."

A single tears slips through and drops upon the holy object in his hands. It evaporates quickly into the air with a hiss.

Will you make a pact with me?

"Yes! Yes. Anytime, anywhere. I pledge myself wholly and fully unto you, my master. Now and forever."

Good.

And now he sees sights beyond his imagining, as if he has passed through some unseen door that no mortal man has ever passed through. He passes underneath an ancient arch carved from ivory and sees a swirling mass of radiant light hovering formlessly in space. He weeps as he beholds the sight. Its beauty surpasses anything he has seen or will see. He tries to come up with words to describe the sight before him, but fails utterly. But it is no matter. It's enough to just watch and marvel and its indescribable beauty.

But that sight soon shifts to a winged woman sitting upon a throne. A multitude of subjects bow to her and honor her with gifts and she favors them with longevity and peace. She is as beautiful as an angel, with hair flowing long and silver and eyes twinkling a faded blue, but he hates her. How can anyone have such power? Who is she to pass judgment over all?

He asks his master this.

She is my enemy, the Voice responds coldly, as if even to acknowledge her presence is a painful task.

"Then she is mine as well."

And then he's back. Back on earth. Back in the park, with his telescope. But he is not alone. He still has the crystal and he can sense the presence of another.

You have the power, but lack the tools. Now I bestow those tools upon you.

Smiling a smile of most sincere gratitude, he lifts his shining face up to the night and extends his hands out in praise. He can feel the power as it is breathed into him. He can feel his cells expanding and his knowledge increasing. His skin seems to sizzle as the unknown magic courses through his veins. His forehead feels tight, as if the skin is being pulled in two different directions. It's painful. Very painful. But he knows it is a necessary hurdle to overcome.

Then it splits. The skin actually rips in two and he can hear the sound it makes as it does so – a moist tearing sound, like a wet newspaper being torn down the center. Blood splatters down his face and soaks the front of his shirt. The pain is unlike anything else.

And his hands! They're burning. Burning like a thousand white-hot suns. And, oh, it's unbearable! Death seems a stone's throw away, the pain is that intense.

And then, just when he's about to pass out or die from the pain, it's over. Just like that. It's over and he feels great.

Together, we will do great things. We will bring nations to their knees.

The boy collapses upon the grass and dirt in worship. He bows his head and closes all three eyes in respect. "Yes," he breathes. "You are my Master and I, your servant. I go where you go. I shall do what you command. Forever. And always."

He is special. He has been chosen. He is king of the world.

Finally.

Like a sleepwalker sauntering through a heavy mist, Satoshi awoke. He did so gradually and without hurry. The digital clock on the nightstand read 4:42 am - too late to go back to sleep, but too early to get up.

But he did anyway.

Without so much as a groan of displeasure from having been woken up so soon, Satoshi threw off the covers and stood up. The hardwood floor felt cold to his bare feet. He stood that way for a long time, stiff and silent. What had woken him up? Something must have. Indeed, there seemed to be a strange kind of energy hovering in the air – as if somebody had screamed and he had awoken to experience the last rumbling echoes. So what….

The dream.

Ah, yes. It all came back to him now. The dream. And what a dream it had been – a dream of bygone times when he had still been searching for answers. And not a dream at all, really, but old memories floating to the surface. Even now, two years after that fateful encounter in the park, he could remember it all. He could still remember the rage and the fury he'd felt after showing his perfect test score to his parents and then having that false praise extended to him. He remembered the impact of the meteorite later that night and the revelation that had come afterwards. Every detail from that day and the night following had been etched into his brain perfectly. And what not? It was then that he became … enlightened.

Two years ago. Had it really been that long? It was hard to believe. Things had certainly changed for the better after that encounter in the park, though. In fact, that one night marked the beginning of a new chapter in Satoshi's life. Prior to that, he had been lost, insecure, floundering, boiling with pent-up rage and frustration. But now he was totally and fully in control of himself. He was master of his own destiny. Before, he had been looking for answers in the wrong places. Now, he had not only the answers, but also knowledge and power. Now, not only was he a diamond among pebbles, but also a god among insects.

And all it had taken for him to change was a voice from heaven.

Satoshi ran a hand through his unruly hair and was surprised to find it moist with sweat. His mouth and throat both felt dry as a cotton ball. He needed a drink.

Moving with the sloth of a dreamer just having been awoken, he moved from his room, out into the hallway beyond, and into the kitchen area – the same kitchen where his mother had revealed her true colors to him two years ago. A soft unconscious smile played itself over Satoshi's mouth as he opened the refrigerator and took out a jug of milk, which he drank straight out of. Blissful memories. He then went over to the scant pantry and retrieved an old Snickers bar, which he scarfed down half of.

On his way back to his room, he took time to pause just outside the door at the end of the hall – the door Hotaru had been so curious with a few days ago. He pressed an ear against the cool wood and listened. Nothing. Silence. He couldn't hear a blasted thing.

Hmph. That wouldn't do. Not at all. There was usually such a constant rumble coming from behind the door that he had long since tuned it out. Now the abrupt silence seemed deafening. That meant they were slacking off. And that wouldn't do. There was a quota that needed to be met. So he gripped the door handle firmly in one hand and pushed.

An overwhelming aroma of urine mixed with feces struck him full in the face, threatening to send him reeling into unconsciousness, but he somehow managed to pull through it and step into the room beyond. Two years ago, the room at the end of the hall had basically been a giant step-in closet - useful for storage of the vacuum cleaner, among other things. Now, though, Satoshi liked to think of it as "the assembly line". This was where the magic happened. Of course, the magic wasn't happening right now because his workers had fallen asleep on the job.

Some work ethic, Satoshi thought as he eyed the two sleeping forms. They were sprawled out on the closet floor like corpses, two crumpled male and female shapes lying facedown amid a mound of sand. The man was snoring.

But Satoshi did not wake them up. At least not yet. First he had to check on their progress and determine whether or not they deserved a break, the little laggards. He gingerly stepped over the two of them and made his way to the back of the room, where the garbage big was. It was a big plastic monstrosity, designed for street-side duty, but its large size was perfect for Satoshi's needs. It was also enchanted. At the beginning of the creation cycle, it would be full of sand and once all of it had been used up, the thing would refill itself again by magic. A nifty little trick, really.

Right now, however, it was only half full. Half full – which meant they had been slacking off, as he thought they had been. Indeed, upon closer inspection he saw the half-finished body of a sand-figure propped up against the east wall. Its lower body had already been completed, its legs nicely filling out a pair of black jeans, but that was all. And that wouldn't do. No, not at all.

"Get up. Now," Satoshi growled, kicking the sleeping woman square in the side. He had to be tough with them. They could sense if you were a soft touch. They would sense it and would use it against you by lazing about when they were supposed to be working.

The woman awoke with a muffled cry of surprise. She flipped over crazily and rolled over the man beside her, who came alive with a sharp, sudden scream. The two of them began to mumble hurriedly, that inane retard-speak that Satoshi so hated. They turned their poor faces up to their master then, and looked upon him with sad, idiot eyes.

They disgusted him. They disgusted him just as they had two years ago. Even more so now, for the dream had revitalized his feelings of hatred toward his parents. But it had all balanced out in the end, hadn't it? Two years later and here he was standing over them like the god he was, and there they were, locked inside a closet ever since, barely competent – forced to poop and pee in the little bucket over in the corner and spending all their days slaving away to help their son realize his dreams of world domination.

Call it poetic justice.

Satoshi grinned devilishly and bent down on his hind legs, brining his face close to his mother's. She looked rough. Gone was the pretty raven-haired housewife Mrs. Yomata. A monster had taken her place - a bald, melon-headed monster with one eye swollen shut and the other eternally open, seeing the dark world of the closet through a clouded-over cornea. A big, thick ugly red scar ran the circumference of her head, encircling it like a tattooed crown. Gone too, was the big and strapping Mr. Yomata, the sports fanatic Mr. Yomata, the successful lawyer Mr. Yomata. A withered old man had stepped into that role, a man as hideous in appearance as the woman beside him. The two of them looked like monstrous twins, in fact – stand-ins for the Hunchback of Notre Dame, perhaps. They were practically identical from each other in their deformities. They both even sported the same ghastly scar.

That's where the surgery had taken place, you see.

It had been The Master's idea, of course, just like everything else had been. One night he came to Satoshi in a dream and told him what to do. Satoshi had awakened from the vision feeling skittish and whimsy with glee. He had been prepared to follow The Master's instructions down to the letter. He had retrieved a knife from the kitchen drawer and then plodded his way to his parent's room, all the while fantasizing over what exciting possibilities the future might bring.

But the most wonderful thing about that night had been the screams. And oh, how they had screamed! How they had yelped and shrieked and pleaded for mercy as he sliced into their skulls with the glee of a child carving up a jack-o'-lantern, all the while holding them down onto the bed with a mild telekinetic force. How the blood had sprayed. And how the screams had slowly died off, warbling into eventual nothingness, as he scooped more and more of their brains out….

All of The Master's ideas were winners, but that one had been especially good.

It had been done to ensure that they wouldn't be prompted to flee while constructing the droids - that they would be totally and completely subservient. But it came with a price. They held only the most basic communication and verbal skills. And talking to them wouldn't do you any good. They only responded to simplistic physic commands – and even then, nothing more complex than three-word sentences. Anything over that, and they would just sit on their butts and look at you. Look at you with those slimy yellow eyes of theirs.

"Ddaaarrr?" The Mrs. Yomata-thing bellowed. All of her three-second attention span was focused upon the half-eaten Snickers bar Satoshi still held in his hand. "DAAAARR!!"

"Hhhmmpapffh!" Papa Yomata wheezed. His effort at communication sounded like a long, drawn-out fart.

Disgusting.

Shut up. Both of you. He fired off the telepathic command like a shot from a gun.

They did. He had trained them well.

Satoshi eyed his former parents (he no longer considered himself related to either of them in any way) with an uncaring stare. You want this? He dangled the candy bar in front of their stupid faces the way a dog owner might taunt an uncooperative puppy with a bone. His father reached for the prize with one clawed hand. Satoshi snatched it away. Keep working. Maybe after.

Newly spurred into activity by the rare promise of food, Mr. Yomata rose to wobbling legs and bounded over to the magic garbage bin. He really did look like a big half-witted monkey with his knees knocking together and his arms flapping out behind him. He paused at the bin, took one last look at his son for approval, and dug both hands into the sand, using the bottom of his shirt to act as a catcher. He then bounced back to the half-completed figure by the wall and dumped it all into a pile next to the thing. Mrs. Yomata, meanwhile, had risen up and grabbed an old T-shirt from a hanger above and was already tucking it into the waistband of the figure's black jeans. White, with the words "Triangle Delta Triathlon" written on the back, Satoshi recognized it as an old workout shirt of his father's.

They worked as a team, stuffing the sand into the shirt and then molding it into the shape of arms, hands, and a head. Even the normally ungrateful Satoshi had to marvel at the care they took in sculpting. They carefully rounded out each finger into perfect organic cylinders. With steady hands, they hollowed out a space for the eye sockets. They were truly artisans at work. And why not? This was their new duty in life; and after two years of working at it, they had mastered the skill completely. And they had become quite efficient. In a twelve-hour day, they could easily create and bring to life about 50 droids. Calculate that by the length of their two-year imprisonment, and that equaled out to be around 36,500 created so far.

Droids. They were proof positive of The Master's divinity. Who else but a god could breathe the breath of life into a pile of sand and bid it to full, breathing reality? Even now, after the 36,500 mark, Satoshi couldn't help but be in awe of the whole situation. They were truly marvels of alchemy, these soldiers of sand. Each one possessed inhuman strength, agility, and best of all, the ability to change form. This was what impressed him the most – the way their faces and bodies could change. Yes, even now he was still amazed at the way their rocky featureless faces would begin to ripple and pull back just before the transformation and how the eyes would emerge from their sunken hollows as the sand slowly solidified into flesh.

"Daaargh!"

Satoshi turned his attention back to the situation at hand. His mother and father had completed their duty. The droid was finished. True, it looked less than threatening in jeans and an oversized T-shirt, but that didn't diminish the magic of it all. It was a top of the line killing machine nonetheless.

As Satoshi looked on, the droid began to move. First with a twitching of the fingers, and then with a rolling of the head, it began to stir. The Master was breathing life into it. The Master was energizing every grain of sand with his holy power. It was a marvelous thing to behold. And, like a wobbly marionette being guided by an unsure puppeteer, the thing rose to its feet. It regarded Satoshi for the briefest instant – its hollow eyeless face locking onto his dark almond eyes - and then it was gone, vanished into thin air with a brilliant purple flash and a loud boomph! as air snapped back into the newly empty space where only seconds before, a figure had stood. Gone. To where, Satoshi did not know.

"Daar!"

He looked down upon his parents, who were regarding him with childlike hope. They reached out, their claw-like hands motioning for him to give them something. Something …. but what? What did the little inbreeds want? Oh, yeah. The Snickers. Satoshi withdrew the candy bar from his pocket. It was already half eaten. No more than two or three bites remained – nowhere near enough for two people. Still, a promise was a promise.

"Don't choke on it."

It struck his father square in the chest and landed on the closet floor with a barely audible thump. Both Mr. and Mrs. Yomata looked at it for several seconds. Neither one of them moved, but their eyes regarded each other with a wary suspicion. Which of them would be the first to pounce?

Mr. Yomata.

He lunged forward, his hands reaching madly, desperately for the half-gone Snickers bar. His wife, hissing and spitting like a cat, shot into action then. She thrust forward for it as well, putting all of her measly 78 pounds of force behind the move. And she, being the quickest of the pair, reached it first. She snatched it up off the floor and took it to her bosom, laughing hysterically and singing high and off-key in a language only she could understand. But this brief moment of joy was short-lived. Blinded by animalistic rage and hunger, Mr. Yomata lunged at his wife and sank his rotten, yellowy teeth into her arm. Her scream was positively ear splitting. The Snickers drooped to the floor once more and this time it was Mr. Yomata who was taking it up in his hands. But Mrs. Yomata had already recovered and was hauling back, rearing to slap her hubby across the face.

Satoshi shook his head in bemusement as he closed the closet door shut on their childish squabbling. All that over a Snickers. And not even a whole Snickers, but half of a Snickers!

The poor dears.

It was all too perfect, really. The successful lawyer man and his happy homemaker wife – both so high and mighty, now brought low and humbled through the passage of years and the utilization of power. It served them right, the uppity pricks.

Oh how he hated them. Not that they were bad parents, exactly. No, not that. Neither of them had ever battered their son. Neither of them had ever abused him physically or verbally or otherwise. They just weren't the same caliber person that Satoshi was. They weren't in the same league. They weren't enlightened enough for his taste. But even so, even through all the loathing and abhorrence he felt towards them, he still had to admit he was grateful toward them. His mother had been the vessel for his birth, hadn't she? And his father had provided the necessary sperm. So in those two instances, he felt something approaching a faint thankfulness toward Mom and Pop Yomata, but that was it. There existed no love between the three of them. None at all. Not anymore.

Satoshi left the hallway with a grin on his face and moved back inside his bedroom. Walking slowly but with purpose, he went over to his desk and opened the drawer. After shifting through various odds and ends (old papers, scissors, pencils and pens, an invitation to take the Infinity College entrance exam), he found what he was looking for. A photo. He took it in his hands and moved closer to the window so he could get a better look at the image. Though somewhat bent and with one corner torn off, it was still a perfect time-captured moment.

Soft moonlight played through the window blinds, making the people in the photo come to life. There was Satoshi himself, a year younger, standing at the edge of some massive, Olympic-size pool. He was clad in his blue, school-issued Juuban High swim team Speedos. Three gold medals hung from red ribbons around his neck. One for fastest freestyle, one for fastest butterfly, and one for …. for …. well, he couldn't really remember. Two old men (one of them - his coach, and the other he couldn't remember; the mayor, perhaps?) stood by on either side of him, their big suited arms hanging around his bare shoulders. The two old coots were flashing the peace sign at the camera. They were smiling. Everyone was smiling. He had just broken three school records. Everyone was smiling except the man himself. Satoshi. He was just standing there in the middle, stiff and wooden, looking like a piece of meat smashed between two hamburger buns.

The present-day Satoshi shook his head and tore the picture in half. The two halves fluttered to the floor like dying birds. He still remembered that day. He remembered it almost as clearly as he remembered the night The Master had first made contact. It was still so clear in his mind because that had been the day when he had proven his father wrong -his father who thought poor little Satoshi was just some science geek without a competitive bone in his body. Well, he'd been wrong. So very wrong. That was why Satoshi joined the swim team in the first place. He didn't hold any personal passion for the sport; he just wanted to prove that he could do it. That he could perform in a way his father would've been proud of. And in the end he had emerged triumphant. He had proven that he'd always held the ability; he just hadn't had the desire.

That day … the cheers and the pats on the back and the many "congratulations"… Too bad his parents hadn't been around to share in the joy.

He kicked the photo scraps under the bed and placed his hands atop the mahogany box atop the desk. The box with the serpent design etched in gold upon the lid. Holding his breath in excitement, he lifted the cover with a soft squeak. Three objects lay inside, resting upon its deep purple velvet interior. Three objects shimmering yellow, blue, and darkest black. With reverent fingers Satoshi took hold of the Venus Crystal and held it up against his cheek. So warm. With its swirling yellow glare, it was like a miniature sun. He replaced it after a time and withdrew the blue crystal. The Crystal of the planet Mercury. What an acquisition that had been. And how easy it had been to take it from its owner. Once he'd been alone with that Ami girl, it'd all been quite simple. A little evil-eye mind reading and suggestion and she'd handed it over just as eagerly as you please. Unfortunately he hadn't been able to delve into her psyche too much, time being what it was and all, but he'd gotten enough. He had found her weakness and played upon it. It seemed that Ami Mizuno felt hindered by her role as a Sailor Soldier. She felt her dream of becoming a doctor would never come to fruition.

Boohoo.

But the Mercury Crystal… Satoshi clasped it tightly in both hands, as if it were a bird that might fly away at any moment. It was cool to the touch. Borderline cold. And slightly moist, like a ball of ice that was just starting to melt. And if you peered inside its glassy faucets, you'd swear it was like looking into a snow globe, with tiny whirling snowflakes spinning around in the inside. Mesmerizing.

Beautiful though it was, it wasn't the real gem of the collection. Satoshi gently placed the Mercury Crystal back upon the velvet cushion and took hold of the last object – a black shard, about four inches long. It was the same crystal fragment that had landed to earth as a meteorite those two years ago. Only back then it'd been so tiny, barely any bigger than a thumbtack. It had grown. It had doubled, tripled, no – quadrupled in size! It was feeding of the two Sailor Crystals' energies, and increasing in power as well as in size. Such growth from only two Crystals. Imagine if it could feed off all eight of them – what an increase there would be then! Imagine if it had the opportunity to suck the life out of the Silver Crystal. Why, if it could do that, it would become the strongest crystal in the universe! The thought made Satoshi blanche with hope. Yes. He would capture the hated Moon Crystal and he would offer it up to The Master and his Crystal and then he would crush it. Shatter it. Destroy the stone of false hope forever.

And then he, his Master, and the Black Poison Crystal would rule over all.

Speaking of which…

Satoshi cupped his hands around the Black Poison Crystal and collapsed like a rag doll upon the floor. He tucked his legs underneath his body and closed his eyes. He slowed his breathing. He bade his heart to cease momentarily. He invited the nothingness. The silence.

"Master, I seek an audience."

The Crystal began to vibrate. Slowly at first.

"Master, please look favorably upon your lowly servant."

Blackness began to creep over the mere darkness of sightlessness and then Satoshi felt himself being lifted up - up and up and up into a world beyond this one – to a world where his Master held reign. Blackness enveloped everything. The scent of burning incense pervaded the air. Then there was the sudden dizzying sensation of his mind folding back in upon itself. The urge to vomit rose in his mouth, but he fought it back. It would be over soon enough. He was merely traveling through dimensions via the Black Poison Crystal's negative power to warp time-space. And while thoroughly unpleasant, it would be over in seconds.

Servant.

There! Oh, he could hear The Master's sweet voice! Contact had been made once more!

Tears welled up behind Satoshi's closed eyes. This always got to him. Talking to The Master was like stumbling through a scorching desert, dying of thirst, and then suddenly coming upon a water fountain in the middle of nowhere. He could never get enough. It was always such a satisfying feeling, talking to him, and when their conversations were over, he always felt newly charged and ready to take on whatever challenges may lie ahead.

The time draws near, servant.

"Yes," Satoshi answered back, in a voice most meek. "I look forward to it."

The light of the White Moon has diminished. We must strike while they are weak!

"Yes."

There was a terrible rumbling then, as if the cosmos itself had sighed. But take a care, my servant. For I have not yet regained my former power. You will have to be my sword and shield. You are my last warrior.

"And I will serve you 'till the end. And beyond."

Another earthquake sigh. My last warrior was such a disappointment.

Satoshi stiffened with pride. I would never dream of disappointing you. He meant it, too. The Master was his mother and father – the only thing that mattered. He had no idea what other kinds of people The Master had employed in the past, but it escaped him as to why anybody would go against his wishes. How often did you get the chance to serve a living, breathing deity? And serve he would. They were already in the final phases of the operation. Attention had been diverted away from him, the true enemy, via Shingo – the brother of Sailor Moon.

Ha. What a ruse that had been! He had always known that in order to infiltrate their group, he needed a scapegoat and he had simply picked Shingo at random. Maybe it was a little too random and a little dangerous, choosing somebody so close to the core group member, but that was the beauty of it all! Sometimes things are just so random and so crazy that you simply have to believe in them. And the funny thing was the speed at which the others had latched on to the idea. All it took was him invading the mind of that miko chick and giving her a little push in the right direction. Then, to really solidify the charge, he had one of the droids assume the form of Shingo and attack Usagi in her sleep. It hadn't been successful (nobody had been killed), but that was really beside the point. The main objective had been for Usagi to see that it really was her brother. And in that respect, the mission had been a rousing success. Having the eye on Shingo meant that Satoshi could operate in anonymity.

"We will be successful," he said. "I know it. I have a feeling." He chuckled softly. "I am the Wiseman, after all."

Yes, The Master answered back. And with the Black Poison Crystal and the power of that planet on your side-

"Nemesis," Satoshi interrupted. It was a reflex reaction and he immediately apologized for butting in. "The planet you speak of finally has a name. Nemesis."

There was a rolling thunderclap of approval. Very well. With those two things on your side, victory is certain.

And with that, he was gone. The Master had broken off contact once again. Satoshi arose from the floor, his legs a little stiff from sitting in the same position for so long. He replaced the Crystal back into its box and closed the lid. Something flashed suddenly and he glanced out the window. An early morning storm was brewing. Lightning illuminated the sleeping city below and in that fleeting flash of blue, he saw the earthquake ruins far off in the distance. So many days later and they had only just begun the cleaning-up process. It had been bad, that quake. A news piece from a few days ago declared it one of the worst to ever strike Tokyo. And the weird thing, the report had said, was that the devastation had been very localized – limited to only a few city blocks. But the damage to that little area had been cataclysmic and complete. Nary a building stood within that circle of destruction.

Satoshi had to smile at that thought. The earthquake was only a prelude. Worse things were coming. Things were going to change soon – and by "things", he meant the entire Earth. The entire solar system was going to be affected. This time the damage wouldn't be limited to a few streets and buildings. Everyone and everything, from the homeless drunkard to the wealthy businessman, was going to feel it this time. Losing wasn't an option, either. He had The Master's power on his side. He had the Black Poison Crystal and the planet of darkness Nemesis, too. And ….

He grinned. And a little something else. An ace up his sleeve that he was more than willing to bet on.

Yes. Soon. Before the end of the week, those of the White Moon kingdom would be dead and buried.