TACO Run

Chapter 23

Clean and dressed—but unfortunately still poorly shaven—Cyrus consulted the notebook bound with a spiral of wire which miss Makoto had helped him purchase the previous day.

He hadn't made himself a complete schedule or itinerary, exactly, but he had jotted down various goals for the day. He would return to the academy where he had met miss Makoto, that he might have more space in which to work. Once there, he would spend a few hours carefully translating Lady Viatrix' journal, and then another few researching local advancements or technologies which might prove useful in his own world, once he managed to find his companions and return there.

Cyrus was confident that he would decipher and recreate the ritual in its entirety eventually, though he suspected it might take some time. No, his truest worry was the difficulty of finding his dear friends. For he had no proof that they had arrived in this city as he had, only speculation based upon his minimal observations of the spell's execution. And even so, the sheer enormity of the city would make any attempts to find them prohibitive, even without the language barrier. With it… well, as miss Makoto had proven, if an individual had a light-picture taken, then whatever device held such a picture could, in theory, post it upon the Net. But Cyrus was unfortunately ignorant of the methods by which it could be done, or the means by which he could find such light-pictures, had they even been taken.

Hm. It seems as though, despite the excess and availability of information in this world, finding particular types of information requires a deeper understanding of the workings of the 'Net than I yet possess.

Not to mention, the likelihood of any of his dear friends having light-pictures taken of them was, he thought, rather low. He rather suspected that Therion in particular would loathe the idea, though Alfyn was likely to be impressed and delighted by it.

That being said, he'd best get a move on, lest he miss the train to the Academy and squander a good portion of his day. He would hopefully find a tavern or food-stall along the way, as he had little wish to divert himself from the path laid out for him. Especially as a glance out the Kaffe's front door had revealed that it was raining steadily, and even with his robes on and their hood up, he didn't wish to risk Viatrix' journal taking a wetting. Tucking the ancient tome into the front of his vest was quite uncomfortable—his clothes were well-tailored to his frame, after all—but it would protect it a bit better than just his cloak might, and would free up his hands for his spellbook and phone—though the latter could quite easily fit within his coin pouch, if necessary.

Ah, but there I go again distracting myself! The train and its station are amply protected from the rain, so best not to delay. As dear Alfyn would say, time was currently a-wasting!

I must conclude, Cyrus mused regretfully a while later, that I utterly loathe trains.

It wasn't as though he hadn't decided that already of course. But some small part of him had hoped, however pointlessly, that the previous day's experiences had been unique.

Not so. If anything, this venture was worse than the previous, for it seemed as though his closest neighbor at the moment was an individual of nebulous gender and terrible oral hygiene, whose individuality had rendered them with a disproportionately large mouth in which to store a disturbing number of blunt, herbivorous-looking teeth. While their appearance might have been fascinating in a more relaxed setting, under the duress of forced proximity it was somewhat discomfiting. And the halitosis did not help.

Cyrus held his spellbook open before his face as a kind of barrier. High enough to conceal his nose and mouth, but low enough that he might peer over it at the other individuals in the train car to distract himself.

It was, despite his current discomfort, a fascinating view. The breadth of changes wrought upon humankind by Quirks was simply stunning, and though most were still recognizable as human, some were different enough that, had he chanced upon them unawares, he might have classified them as different creatures entirely! In particular, there was an elderly… woman, Cyrus believed, whose facial features resembled those of a fish. Some variant of carp in particular, he would guess, though he could not be certain. Oh, to have H'aanit or Tressa's expertise! The huntress was well-versed in all creatures of the natural world, and their dear merchant friend had an encyclopedic knowledge of the fish-markets.

A quiet, distressed sound from his left touched upon Cyrus' ears, and he let his gaze turn that way. He couldn't see much due to the train car's congested state, but he thought that the sound might have come from the young brunette clinging to a nearby pole. Certainly she seemed somewhat distressed, shoulders hunched uncomfortably, though as she faced away from Cyrus he couldn't attempt to read her facial expression.

A frown curved his mouth downwards. What was the source of her distress? The crowded environs were uncomfortable, yes, but not to such an extent as to cause one to whimper piteously. Perhaps her foot had been trodden upon? No, she faced the support pole, rendering her toes unavailable to such accidental assault. Perhaps she was ill? Headaches tended to, in Cyrus' experience, lead to a more exhausted demeanor than an upset one. Gastrointestinal distress might be the cause, but both of her hands gripped the pole, rather than one or both of them pressing against her abdomen as might be expected in such a case.

Curiosity—as well as some concern—compelled Cyrus to attempt approaching a bit closer, and he murmured apologies to his closest neighbors as he shifted and wormed his way through the crowd, edges of his cloak occasionally catching on pouches and satchels or protruding bits of abnormal anatomy. He was glad that he had thought to follow Hawks' advice and remove the soulstone adornments before leaving the Net Kaffe, as the crowds would make a thief absconding with them almost painfully easy, he suspected. Thankfully, most of his fellow passengers paid him no attention, giving him only the briefest of glances, if they acknowledged him at all. Eventually, he managed to grasp a new overhead ring a bit to the young lady's right, and resumed his scrutiny with a somewhat ruffled sigh.

Greater proximity allowed for much clearer observation. The young woman was not, in fact, a young woman at all, but rather a girl whom he would estimate to be no older than sixteen years of age. Her hair—a lovely shade of almost metallic bronze-brown—was long and straight, and gathered in a loose tail which fell before her right shoulder. The bag hanging from her left shoulder was too small to be called a satchel, and was instead a rather clever variation of a coin pouch, with a long strap of fine, well-dyed leather and a fine metal clasp sealing it closed. And her shoes—a great deal could be learned by observing an individual's shoes—were of a type which he had observed as being very popular in the local region, with the uppers made of brightly-dyed cloth and the soles of some odd, white substance which was not leather, and which he had not yet had occasion to properly identify. From that, and from the fact that her calf-length skirt appeared to be well-dyed green wool, he would conclude that she was from a family of modest means, likely on her way to visit friends or relatives, or perhaps on a trip to the marketplace.

None of which explained the cause of her distress.

But as Cyrus took in the details of the girl's mode of dress, a shift in the position of her closest neighbor caught his attention.

It appeared that said neighbor was a man around Cyrus' own age, and of an average build, wearing what he had observed to be the local attire most common to men in their maturity and early middle age—straight-legged trousers, a light shirt which buttoned down the front and at the cuffs in the Riverlands style, a straight-sleeved short coat of a material similar to the trousers, and the oddest neckwear he had ever observed. A dull, flat strip of cloth tied into a neat and uninteresting knot at his throat, with the wide end left to fall down the front of his shirt in a manner that somehow eschewed the idea of actual adornment.

He was also, to Cyrus' growing shock, caressing the back of the girl's left thigh in a highly inappropriate manner.

In the few seconds it took Cyrus to process what he was seeing, to realize that this reprehensible excuse for an individual was taking advantage of the train car's crowded confines to inflict himself upon a girl who had no means of escape, several other thoughts and observations tumbled over themselves in rapid succession.

The girl was obviously distressed, rather than accepting of the contact.

She was also obviously of a very timid demeanor, to endure such molestation in near-silence rather than cause a scene by confronting her assaulter.

Said assaulter was very obviously aroused, and whenever the train's car shifted, inflicted that arousal upon the girl's lower back.

The other passengers seemed entirely ignorant of the girl's plight, either through being distracted, an inability to observe directly, or willful obliviousness.

In conclusion, this… disgusting individual had targeted a victim whom he believed would be incapable of or unwilling to defend herself, in a situation where she would receive no help, and he could thus proceed with his repulsive overtures with impunity.

Cyrus was not one to lose his temper. Rage, after all, was a very dangerous emotion for a spellcaster to allow himself to be overcome by, leading to a lack of focus and self-control which could cause any elemental forces they called upon to go awry. And Cyrus, while a powerful spellcaster, was not gifted in precisely-aimed attacks.

Thus, despite his horror and revulsion and, yes, anger at the situation and the poor girl's plight, Cyrus' sub-collar temperature remained firmly tepid. He was not actively regulating his body temperature via magic at the moment, thankfully, or that observation might not have remained entirely true.

And so, deliberately calm, Cyrus determined the logical course of action.

Magic was out of the question. Even were he capable of precision, the crowded confines of the train car meant that inexcusable collateral damage would be unavoidable. Verbally accosting and reprimanding the loathsome individual would do little good, considering the language barrier. And taking into account the timidity of the girl, calling the attention of the other passengers to the situation might very well cause her even more distress than she currently suffered. This left only one viable option.

Cyrus was not suited to physical altercations. Even discounting his dislike for such things, he lacked the necessary skills and musculature to defeat any but the weakest opponents in a purely physical battle, and furthermore, he did not have anything even remotely resembling a staff, the only weapon he could wield with anything approaching proficiency in melee combat.

That said, he couldn't very well do nothing, and there were some few physical options that would not, he believed, result in violence.

Closing his spellbook carefully, Cyrus reached out and inserted the leather-bound tome firmly in between the molester and the victim of his revolting attentions. This incited a faint gasp from the girl—likely confusion and fear, as she could not observe what was happening behind her at the moment—and a jolt of shock from the loathsome individual thus thwarted. When he looked Cyrus' way, anger on his face, Cyrus met his gaze with all the righteous surety and furious disgust he held within. You will not, he thought as forbiddingly as ever Ophilia might, when faced with foes of malicious intent. And held that gaze, until the instinctive irritation on his opponent's face morphed into nervousness and fear, at the realization that yes, Cyrus was well aware of the trespass he had committed, and would not allow him to continue, and furthermore, was memorizing his facial features in such a way that he could absolutely identify him to the city guard, should the need arise.

Once that shift in perception and realization was complete, Cyrus removed his phone from his coin pouch with his free hand and—without looking away—activated the translation function on it. "My apologies for the proximity, miss," he said carefully into it in Scholar's Tongue, "but I believe you wish this individual gone, and in these crowded environs, my only option is to force myself between you." So saying, he did just that, doing his best to minimize the contact between himself and the girl, while forcing her molester to give way. As he did so, he held the phone around the girl's shoulder to where she might see it, much as Hawks had done to him at the Net Kaffe.

She shuddered of course. As was only to be expected, when an unfamiliar man came so close to her under such circumstances. But after a moment—during which the foul individual now barred from her proximity by Cyrus' presence did his best to pretend he'd never noticed either of them—she appeared to have read the translation on the phone's face and relaxed just enough to begin weeping silently, shoulders sagging as she clung to the supporting pole before her.

Cyrus withdrew the phone, frowning, and considered his next actions carefully. He did not know the girl's destination, but it was unlikely to be identical to his own, and he dared not leave her unattended on the crowded train with her assaulter still present. She seemed not to have a coat or cloak of any kind to keep off the wet and chill, either, which likely only contributed to the shivers rocking her frame.

Very well, then. Cyrus spoke into the phone again. "I apologize again for the forwardness, miss, but you appear to be quite chilled. If you would not object, I should like to offer my own outerwear for warmth whilst you recover, and I would suggest we exit this abominable form of transportation at the earliest opportunity." Holding the phone around before her again, he waited through her flinch until she could read the translation, and was relieved to see her begin nodding rapidly through the shudders still rocking her frame.

Pulling back, Cyrus tucked away his phone again and reached up to undo the clasp of his Robe of the Flame, shrugging it awkwardly from his own shoulders and wriggling about until he could drape it carefully over the girl's. There. Cyrus was not a particularly tall man, but the girl's smaller stature meant that the robe was a bit too lengthy, and dragged the floor of the train. It would be a hazard were any of their neighbors to tread upon it, so Cyrus took a moment to tuck the ends a bit more closely around the girl, murmuring another apology for the closeness as he did so.

She was still shaking, one hand having left the support pole to cover her mouth as though holding back emesis or sobs or both, and Cyrus dearly wished that the situation would allow him to teach her assaulter a proper lesson.

The train was slowing, however, the announcer's professional voice stating the name of the station at which they were arriving, and Cyrus memorized it absently as he waited for them to come to a complete stop, and then assisted the girl in hurrying from the train car while it disgorged a large number of its passengers. He did not, unfortunately, observe where her molester went, but he fixed the face he'd seen into his memory regardless, on the off-chance that they met again at some later time.

The girl was still shaking, near-staggering as he led her gently away from the crowds towards a less-public venue. He wasn't familiar with the area, unfortunately—it was not the stop he'd been meant to get off at—but he had eyes and a brain, and could find an out-of-the-way corner relatively easily, where the girl might have a moment to allow herself to release her suppressed suffering unobserved.

He was not expecting the form that release took.

The moment that she realized they were unobserved, the girl dropped to her knees and let out an anguished cry, back hunching as jagged metallic growths erupted from her arms and back and sides, piercing through her clothes and Cyrus' Robe of the Flame with a heavy ripping sound, and causing Cyrus to let out an undignified squawk of alarm.

…oh dear. Therion would be most displeased that his gift had been ruined so soon after Cyrus received it.

The young lady was panting and sobbing however, utterly exhausted by her trial, and Cyrus hesitantly went down on one knee as he waited for her to gather herself again.

After a moment, her sobs subsided and her breaths evened out, and with a final shudder, the metallic protrusions—they did appear bronzish like her hair, though bronze was not a naturally-occurring alloy—shed themselves like scales, clattering to the ground in a pile of rough-edged shards.

Fascinating! Cyrus was by no means allowing himself to be distracted from the girl's distress, but he would not deny a deep and sudden interest in this abnormality—obviously the manifestation of her Quirk.

Another deep breath, and the girl turned her head to look at him timidly over her shoulder, clutching at the edge of the robe he'd lent her. "Sumimasen, onii-san," she mumbled quietly, and when Cyrus frowned and consulted his phone for a translation, he was left even more confused, as she seemed to be apologizing for some reason, and… referring to him as an elder brother? Perhaps in this culture, it is commonplace for strangers to be referred to with familial terms until one is properly introduced? Much as members of Aelfric's church might refer to themselves as brothers and sisters despite any lack of familial relations? He didn't believe he'd been referred to as such by anyone he'd had dealings with previously, though…

Ah, but all such other individuals besides Hawks and Makoto were speaking to me in a professional capacity! Such encounters would surely bar the use of familial terminology!

That revelation was even more fascinating than the metallic protrusions the girl had shed, but Cyrus set it aside for later perusal, that he might focus on the situation at hand. "Think nothing of it, my dear," he said gently in Scholar's Tongue, waiting for his phone to translate his words. "Your distress was no imposition, and that miscreant's actions were not to be condoned or allowed to continue." As she read that, he considered their options. "Would you like an escort to the local authorities, that you might report the blackguard's actions and set them on the alert for his presence? Such an individual should not be allowed to roam free, lest he attempt such things again."

She shivered again, turning to face him properly and tugging the robe a little tighter about her shoulders. Her reply was accompanied by a shake of the head, and Cyrus frowned concernedly as he read it.

'No, no, I… I don't want to cause a scene and, and he's already gone, and I don't know his name or anything, so it won't do any good anyway.'

"Are you certain?" he asked, as she awkwardly started gathering the shards of metal she'd shed. "I would certainly be willing to accompany you—I got a very good look at the miscreant's features, should my observations be necessary."

She bit her lip, looking away. 'I…' A shudder. 'I want to forget this ever happened…'

"I am certain that you do," Cyrus said gently. "But if nothing else, the authorities can see you safely home, can they not? It would be inadvisable to walk about the city unaccompanied, considering the state of your clothing." Thankfully the rips weren't so ill-placed as to render her indecent, but the damage would not be easily repaired, and in the meantime would draw stares she surely wished to avoid.

She bit her lip, curling her knees up to her chest uncomfortably. 'I… I guess so.'

"Well, then!" Cyrus smiled at her confidently, and stood, offering her a hand up. "Let us proceed, for the sooner we can begin, the sooner this trial shall be over with."

She read that, managed a wobbly, uncertain smile, and took his hand.

Mikake bit her lip harder, but took the foreigner's offered hand and let him pull her to her feet, forcing a smile. Her skin flinched at the contact, and the clatter of shards hitting the ground again when she dropped them, and she looked away as soon as she could, shivering.

He didn't seem to mind, though, releasing her hand as soon as she was steady on her feet, and then kneeling back down to pick up some of the bronze shards that'd fallen out of her purse.

"I'm sorry, mister," Mikake mumbled, wiping her eyes again on the edge of the coat he'd let her borrow. It was heavy fabric, and smelled warm and kind of, of flowery. Not like roses, but almost like her grandmother's perfume. It wasn't a strong smell, but it was nice, and she buried her face in the coat's sleeves to block out the stink of the trains and the station and all the people walking through it.

All those people, and no one had noticed. Or if they had, no one had cared.

Mikake broke down crying again, knees giving out and bruising on the concrete floor. Voices washed over her, a cloud of nonsense sounds, echoing all around but not really reaching her. They weren't any more real to her than she was to them, they didn't matter, she didn't matter, even if she let herself cry, even if she'd caused a scene, she'd just have been another statistic. 'Girl gets molested on train.' Her family and her classmates would find out and the rumors would run wild and people would say things, they'd talk about it and gossip and look at her all wrong, and the man who'd touched her wouldn't even get his name or face put in the newspaper because what if it hurt his reputation?

And that was if he got caught, if they even bothered to look, if they took her seriously and didn't start scolding her instead for unlicensed Quirk use because she lost control afterwards and damaged her own clothes and she wanted to puke she was so scared and angry and violated.

An awkward sound made her look up a little, to see the foreigner worriedly holding out a handkerchief.

Mikake just kind of stared at it for a few seconds, trying to keep from choking on her tears, before she realized that she should take the handkerchief—who used handkerchiefs instead of tissues anymore?—and use it to wipe her face and blow her nose.

While she did that, and tried to pull herself together again, the foreigner murmured something into his phone and then held it out for her to read.

'Er. My apologies for rushing you, miss. I'm afraid I underestimated your lingering distress. I certainly shan't force you to visit the guard if you don't wish…'

Mikake bit her lip, but shook her head. "It's… No, you're right, I can't go home like this. Not by myself." She pulled the fancy overcoat closer around her shoulders, shivering as air conditioning blew a chill breeze through the holes her Quirk had put in her clothes. Just thinking about getting back on the train made her want to cry again, but trying to walk home like this would be even worse.

He read what she'd said, absently shifting the shards he'd picked up into the crook of his left elbow on top of a book he was carrying around. 'Just so!' he replied solemnly, and held out the phone for her to read again. 'Now then, miss, might you know where the closest guard station is?'

Mikake wiped her face again, as he tucked away his phone and gently pulled her back to her feet, shaking her head and hesitantly looking around to figure out where they were.

It was a little alcove near a set of side-stairs, probably the ones leading to maintenance or the announcer's booth or something. Station security probably wasn't too far away, but she didn't know where to look or which way to go. Where's the overhead map…

"Hm~"

Mikake glanced over at the foreigner—he'd let go of her hand as soon as she was up again. She thought he was maybe her cousin Tomo's age, twenty-six or so. Maybe twenty-eight. Right now, he was stroking his chin with one hand, looking out over the crowds the way she had.

"Ah!" Fingers leaving his chin, he gestured over towards a hanging sign, asking her something she couldn't understand and looking at her with a, an expectant, confident smile.

Mikake tried to smile back, and failed. "Thanks." He'd found the map for her, so maybe they could find a police box or the station security room or something. "Um…"

He just looked at her patiently, like he was waiting for her to do or say something and… and Mikake wasn't sure what to say to him. He'd put his phone away, so it wasn't like they could understand each other anyway…

Her phone. Maybe… maybe she could use hers to translate what he said instead? She had her hands free, since her purse could hang on her shoulder and he was carrying the shards she'd dropped…

Biting her lip again, Mikake fumbled her phone out of her purse and unlocked the screen, opening the app store and looking for a voice-to-text translator. What language is he even using? It didn't sound like the little bit of English she was learning in school…

'…have one of these devices as well? That will make things much easier!'

Mikake glanced furtively up at him, to see him smiling brightly.

…thank goodness there was a 'detect language' option.

'Now then, miss,' he said with a flamboyant gesture, like he was tossing a fancy cape aside, 'if that map overhead reveals the guard station's location, as I suspect it might, let us be off!'

One more shaky breath, and Mikake nodded. "Y-yeah," she said, forcing herself to stand up straight again. "Let's go."

A/N: Cyrus is from a culture of cravats and ruffles and satin ribbons. A world that never had Beau Brummell tell men that being frilly and flashy and colorful was Unacceptable. He finds businessmen's plain neckties to be bafflingly boring.

A/N: The ability to regulate his body temperature with magic is the only reason I can think of why Cyrus, who wears an obviously heavy black coat/cloak/robe, would be utterly unaffected by the heat of the Sunlands when he visits during the game. It also matches his Travel Banter with Alfyn, where he specifies that he is calm, and that his 'sub-collar temperature remains tepid', implying that those are two different but related things.

A/N: In Octopath Traveler, there is more than one side-quest dealing with men making unwanted advances on women, and in every one of those, the woman is more irritated than threatened, and has no problems telling the guy involved to piss off. Cyrus is by no means judging Mikake for being shy and not causing a scene, but it is outside of his general expectations, hence him deeming her as being extremely shy.

A/N: Mikake's Quirk is inspired by the manga Shishunki no Iron Maiden.