This story is a derivative fanwork written by GodandMen for the Toaru Majutsu no Index/とある魔術の禁書目録 franchise.

BAPTISM

IV

-x-

It started small.

The first explosiontook place precisely between Jim and Malyana. Its shockwave rippled through both of their bodies and sent them flying backwards.

She hit the wall with a thud, landing squarely on her back and knocking the wind out of her chest. Jim was luckier; he landed on his side and badly bruised his arm.

Even though Jim's landed more painfully, he had a clear advantage: he managed to get up first. Meanwhile Malyana was still on the floor, struggling to regain her breath. But even in that state she reached for her pistol almost immediately and instinctively raised it up.

She started firing.

Her eyes were still clouded with dust, but her fingers jerked the trigger blindly. She knew he could come rushing forwards at any moment.

She got lucky.

The first shot grazed Jim's cheek. A centimeter to the left and he would be done, but that was not it. She was lucky that he stumbled backwards, shocked, thinking he'd been hit.

That moment of hesitation cost him everything.

A precious half-second later, Malyana was back on her feet and her hands flashed into position for a sight picture.

The second explosion took place.

It was stronger than the first, and once again, it sent both of them flying across half the warehouse.

This time their landings were pretty fair; Jim went headfirst into a box of office supplies and Malyana shoulder-first into a pile of books. The third explosion didn't even wait for them to get up.

By now, killing each other was the least of their concerns.

The continued explosions temporarily blinded Malyana's eyes with a haze of flour. She had landed without her pistol so she reached blindly, frantically for the Beretta in the debris. Somehow she managed to find it and bring it to her chest.

Malyana eventually wiped away the dust in her eyes. Yet she could only watch as Jim scrambled up the wall and disappeared through the window.

The thought to shoot him crossed her mind but her body paid no heed to it. Instead, it was focused on escaping this hell of fire, dust and chaos. She clambered over the collapsed shelf on all fours like a fleeing animal and darted for the backdoor from which she had entered.

By the time she got outside even the adrenaline wasn't enough to keep her going. The operative made it five steps out the door before her knees gave way. She collapsed onto the pavement. The stinging pain in her shoulder, courtesy of Jim's kitchen knife, was now coming into focus.

Her Beretta pistol felt heavy in her tired hands. She tried to reach over and check the chamber but her hand slipped and the pistol clattered loudly to the ground.

Malyana looked ruefully at her Beretta 92F.

It was coated in grime and smoking with vapors both from firing and being in her hands. The chrome-coating, once slick with finish, had worn away from decades of extended use. Thousands of rounds passing through the barrel had chipped away at the muzzle's threading.

Even the silver grip of the pistol seemed dull and faded.

She remembered the first time she had held it, when she was but a girl of eighteen, and how beautiful and elegant the pistol had felt in her calloused fingers.

She remembered how much it had meant to her, something that she had forgotten during her time in the shadows – amidst the cloak and dagger, the killing and the darkness.

Now it was just an ugly piece of equipment: a lifeless tool that served its purpose tirelessly, without recognition, until it broke down and could do no more. Then it would be discarded and unceremoniously replaced.

But she did not give up.

She was too old, too experienced, too good, to just die here.

And she did not forget.

She must not. She could not. Malyana had fought too long and too hard to just forget. After all, it was what had kept her going all these years. She always remembered.

And this time, it was different.

The difference is that unlike a thousand times before, this time she knew what she was fighting for. She was no longer a pawn mindlessly following orders.

She was doing all of this for herself.

For him.

Somewhere deep in her tired, battered soul Malyana found the strength to get up. She hobbled over to a dumpster behind the warehouse. But it was not just any dumpster.

She knew that it was too late to hunt down the mongrel.

Judging by the increasingly louder and more violent eruptions that echoed from inside the warehouse, soon it might not even be safe to be in the same neighborhood.

Malyana had once seen how a small room filled with ammonia nitrate took out an entire whole floor of a skyscraper. For all she knew there could be explosives within the warehouse as well.

She gnashed her teeth.

The kid got away.

But the sounds of rapidly approaching sirens reminded Malyana of her own situation. There were people hunting her as well; well-trained, well-organized, well-equipped professionals. Soon there will be dogs, helicopters, armored cars, and tactical teams all swarming to the same spot, looking for anything that they can put a burst of automatic fire into.

Jim was the least of her concerns.

Malyana slipped the pistol back into her shoulder holster and reached into the dumpster. She fished around for a bit before finally pulling out the prepared backpack.

She quickly produced a hoodie and some napkins. Without stopping for a pause, she got up and started off in a jog. Meanwhile she threw the clean hoodie over her tattered clothes and wiped her face free of the blood and dust. Then she tied her hair up in a bun before quickly slapping on her wig. The thick set glasses came last.

By then, she was a good block away from the warehouse. Even though she could tell that they were closing in fast on the location, Malyana knew that the first responders would invariably be local Anti-Skill patrol units.

Not counterintelligence officers.

This gave her a good head start.

Malyana zigzagged her way through the narrow alleyways and soon disappeared into the maze of deserted buildings. Only the empty 9x19 Parabellum casings remained in the warehouse as witnesses.

The door slammed shut with a crash. With shaking hands, Jim managed to take out the camera and place it on the surface – what exactly he couldn't tell, not with the blood in his eyes – before he collapsed onto the floor of his dorm room. Later, he would thank himself for having the foresight of keeping the dorm keys on his body.

Jim was fine, really.

He was just fine.

Sure, there was blood dripping down his face. Yes, a nasty concussion was making rounds through his head. Every breath he took was a labor of pain. Then there were of course the assorted bruises and cuts that one would naturally sustain after a long day of hard, honest work.

But it was all good, because no matter how much it hurt, Jim knew that he would survive. He's been through worse in his day.

The real problem wasn't that.

It wasn't his fatigue or his wounds. His real problem was something else completely.

He knew that sooner or later, it would come calling.

What he had experienced on Friday night after it had first tasted Malyana was merely an appetizer. With the generous amount of fire in the warehouse, it must have eaten its fill, the most it has had in a long time.

The last time this happened he had spent an entire day writhing about in a ditch filled with decomposing bodies. Not because he wanted to stay there, but because he simply didn't have the presence of mind to even consider getting up.

The real problem was his left arm.

Despite his fatigue, Jim forced himself to his feet. He knew he needed to make the best use of his time while he was still able to move and think clearly. A strange melancholy overcame him as he looked around his new dorm room.

It was great!

A single bed, a small kitchen, and what looks to be a simple bathroom. He's never lived in such luxury before. It's a shame that he didn't come to it under better circumstances.

Jim limped into the bathroom.

He gingerly took off his electrician's jumpsuit, peeling the cloth off his bloodied wounds, and cut a section of it off with a pair of scissors he found. Then he wrapped it into a ball and ran it under the sink. The next step was to check for a towel, although if he couldn't find one he could always cut more of the jumpsuit.

Jim found a good, clean towel in the bathroom.

It'll do.

He checked his fingernails. It was coated in soot and grime from the warehouse, but Jim was still satisfied.

It's short enough.

A couple of splashes on his face and out he went, with the wet rag in hand. On his way out he opened the fridge knowing that he would be disappointed. No alcohol, of course not. Of course not.

I'd kill for a good chilled bottle of Rajdka right now.

He slowly sat down on his bed.

He didn't want to…but he did see it. He saw the piece of brochure on the low table. It was hidden beneath some other papers about electrical bills and waste disposal. But Jim did not miss it, not with its earmarked corner and red pen lying beside it.

Jim knew what it was before he even opened it. A long heavy sigh escaped his lips. It made sense. After all, he was supposed to have gone to the station on Saturday. They of course knew what happened to him. It was their business to know.

But he also knew that they didn't care.

He flipped through the brochure until he saw what he was looking for. The ear-marked page was titled "Events in Academy City". A red circle was placed on some random event.

Below it were the words, written in nondescript handwriting: "18:00 Sunday latest, do not miss."

There was no need for an address since he was told of it before he left Sofia. Jim looked at the wall clock.

It was 12:00 in the afternoon.

I have time, he thought as the pain finally arrived.

I have time.

As always the contractions came first, sending ripples of involuntary and painful spasms through his arm. He knew that for now it would be contained to there. He also knew that slowly, steadily, it would begin to spread all over his body.

Eventually, it would feel like he pulled every muscle in his body simultaneously. The pain would be blinding, absolutely consuming, and if he was lucky – which he rarely was – he would faint from it before it got too bad.

If he was still awake, the contractions would be followed by the fire; an insatiable ache that drove him mad with its hunger. He would invariably start digging and grinding his nails against his skin until they drew blood. Years and years of experience had taught him that it was all futile, that it did nothing to relieve his pain, and yet every time the ache came it still happened.

After all, the falsehoods of reason have no power over the truth of raw pain.

Once the contractions and the ache finally went away, a deep, suffocating sleep would descend upon him. It always started in his legs, slowly eating away until he could neither feel nor control it. Then it would work its way upwards, methodically crippling his body.

There would be nothing but the void in its wake.

The worst part was when it swept over his chest; by then his lungs would collapse and his heart would cease its rhythm.

What he never understood was why the asphyxiation never led to unconsciousness. Or better yet, death. He would always be awake no matter how much his brain screamed for oxygen. That meant that the feeling of being suffocated, desperately craving for oxygen, never went away.

He never lost consciousness, not until it waltzed its way up his neck and over his eyes.

By then he would lose control of his eyes, no longer able to hide behind the darkness of his eyelids. He would invariably spend the last moments with them wide open, and the scorching pain would shoot through his skull as the thick, murky darkness overwhelmed his vision.

And then, finally, the sweet release of nothingness.

He placed the wet rag in his mouth and bit down on it as the second wave of contractions began. He knew he had to make sure not to bite too hard, because at one point he would need to release it for the vomit to flow out.

His belt came off quickly as he gathered the towel and set everything in position. With shaking hands he took the towel and expertly wrapped both hands into it, like an oversized boxing mitten. Then, using his feet to hold on to one end and pulling on the other with his teeth, the prepositioned belt snapped tightly around the bundle, trapping his hands in the towel.

Practice makes perfect.

He knew, of course, that when the frenzy began in earnest he would struggle with such force that these crude restraints would eventually break. But it would still buy him a fair bit of time.

Finally, he slipped into the sheets and made sure to lie on his side, not on his back. He had learned that while he could experience inexplicable pain and impossible sensations throughout an episode, once he lost consciousness all the normal human rules applied again.

He still remembered that one time when he got through a particularly nasty episode – cruel, merciless pain of inhuman proportions, yet still irrefutably alive throughout – only to come within an inch of death when he woke up choking on his own vomit. All because he was laying on his back when the vomiting started; the bile accumulated in his throat.

After that he never slept on his back ever again.

Oh well.

The third wave of contractions began, and Jim couldn't help but smile to himself. No matter how many times he experienced it, no matter how familiar the pain was, its intensity never ceased to surprise him.

Years and years, and yet Jim could never really say that he knew it.

The contractions subsided presently, regrouping for another blow, and he took the moment of respite to curl into a tight ball beneath the blanket. He prayed that the next round would be bad enough to make him faint.

In that moment, right then and there, pain was the only reality that existed for Jim.

I have time.

I'll be fine.

"Please…please help her"

Her shadowy finger slowly brushed itself across his hair. The tip felt cold and sharp. But this sensation was a welcome distraction for him; a welcome distraction from the sagging weight of his chest rig, the dirty black bandanna pressing against his head, the thin strap of the Kalashnikov rifle digging into his shoulder.

And of course – a distraction from the damp, lifeless body he gently held in his arms.

He did not dare to look down.

He could not bring himself to do so; only the vague folds of her black dress crept at the corners of his vision. If he tried hard enough, he could just barely convince himself that it was the polynochkt dye from her dress that was snaking its way down his arms, that it was not…

"Why should I? She was already meant for me, was she not?"

"P-please, I'll do anything. You must save her."

Her finger slowly traced its path from his jaw down to his shoulder. A shiver ran down his spine.

"Anything? You will do anything?"

"Yes. Please."

"Anything…to save her?"

He closed his eyes and remembered her in the haunting black dress, dancing round and round in the meadow with the wreath of flowers on her head, her puffy cheeks glowing under the sunlight.

"Yes. Anything."

Suddenly he felt himself floating upwards, as if he was in a dream. A strange trance came over him and everything seemed to fade away; the war, her death, his own life. They all began to lose any sense of meaning to him. He saw the darkness silently swirling around him, thickening and darkening, but he felt no fear. Instead a peculiar calm settled in his chest.

She whispered in his ear.

"I can try to keep her alive…but nothing is free, my child."

"Anything."

"Even your life?"

"Yes. My life. Please."

The silence hung in the air like a layer of thin ice above a lake.

"A life for a life?"

"A life for a life."

Her frosty breath disappeared from his ear.

His vision was now nothing but an inky darkness. For a second he thought that he must have gone blind, or that his eyes were closed, or that he was standing in a moonless night. But he soon realized that was not the case.

A smile materialized in front of him; a wide crooked smile. Then the mouth opened wider and wider still, and by now he could see the long sharp teeth gnashing and grinding against each other. The terrible noise sounded like a thousand blade being sharpened together. Two red orbs of fire materialized above the ghastly smile. He saw now that even her eyes were contorted into a narrow grin.

The thought to say something, to protest, occurred vaguely to him. But he could not muster the will or the strength to do so. With dreamy eyes, he observed her long fingers extending out towards the girl in his hands.

Her sharp fangs wrapped itself around something hanging on the girl's neck.

"What a lovely little locket."

Breathe, you fucker.

Jim stared at the puddle of puke in front of him. It occurred to him that it was quite clear in color. Most likely because he hadn't really eaten anything substantial in the last couple of days. Maybe next time he should fast before an episode.

Breathe!

But he knew, deep down, there was a part of him that secretly did not want him to breathe.

Let it end, the voice said, let the pain end.

After all, he knew that one day, eventually, he would wake up and lose all semblance of control. And it would be quick too. They had taught him that all it took was five minutes of being deprived of oxygen to kill someone. That wasn't too bad. Five minutes was nothing compared to an episode.

But even if Jim's mind decided on doing that, his body had a mind of its own. After all, it wanted to live, to survive. So no matter how hopeless it was, his damned body just kept on trying.

I said…

The ringing in his ears returned, bringing with it the tremors of a resurgent headache. The old familiar desperation in his chest began to spread its wings. The corners of his vision darkened into a tunnel, winding down into the depths.

…BREATHE!

Finally, a small rush of air entered his nose. Slowly, gradually, his breaths became longer and deeper.

Not today, I guess.

So Jim just laid there, between the puddles of his own puke, simply breathing in and out, listening to his own nose inhaling and exhaling, feeling his lungs expanding and contracting. It was a good way to pass the time while he regained control of his body.

Finally, he sat up on his bed and slowly stretched his hands.

"A fucking episode and a dream? I guess today really is my lucky day!"

When he finally regained control of his entire body, he slowly hobbled to the sink and downed a couple cups of tap water. It tasted like ambrosia from the pond of the gods. The cool sensation of the water flowing down his parched throat made him close his eyes. He even felt a stir in his heart.

For a long time, he simply stood there, listening to the dust floating across the air, feeling the cool ceramic tiles beneath his feet, and simply breathing.

Jim was still alive.

He smiled at the absurdity of it. Then he started to giggle, and then the giggles turned into chortles and finally he started to laugh. Jim stood there like a madman, with his eyes closed, and simply howled with laughter.

I am still alive!

Jim methodically went through every part of his body, moving them, controlling them, and feeling them. He felt his lungs inhaling and exhaling air, just like it was supposed to. He placed a finger to his throat and felt his pulse beating in a steady rhythm. He ran his fingers across the wet surface of the sink, feeling the droplets of water brush against his skin. Even his troublesome left arm was quiet and compliant.

He was not in pain.

It was a simple pleasure that Jim had learned to appreciate. It was the simple joy of being without pain, the simple joy of being in good health, the simple joy of having control of your own limbs, of your own body. Well, calling it a pleasure may be misleading.

A more appropriate phrase would the absence of something negative.

The absence of pain.

But to Jim, it made no difference.

It was the euphoria of being alive.

Just as that thought crossed his mind, reality knocked him in the head and everything came crashing down. He was still covered in wounds. He was still exhausted from a long day of fighting. His mind was tired and depleted, and it pained him whenever he tried to think of something complicated.

Okay, okay, I get it. Fun's over. Back to work.

Jim looked around at his dorm.

It was an absolute fucking mess.

The entire dorm was swimming in vomit. It kind of amazed him how spread out and numerous they were. Some of them were quite far from the bed.

But then again he remembered having a full three-course episode, so he probably started to move around when the pain got particularly bad. He also had the sneaking suspicion that he probably obtained a couple of new wounds and bruises, but that was not important.

Jim had things to do and places to be.

He reached for the digital camera lying on the kitchen counter. It was covered in soot and ash but when he pressed the power button it turned on like nothing was wrong.

I have wronged you, Mr. ¥3500 camera.

You are a tough little fucker.

Forgive me for doubting you.

He checked the image quality of the day's pictures. They were all intact and in good shape. He placed it back down and scratched his head like an elementary schoolboy.

What else did he have to do today? In the back of his head a little voice reminded him that he had something very important to do…

The station!

A thunderbolt of panic shot through his heart. He quickly leaned over the kitchen counter and looked at the wall clock. It was 4:00 PM in the afternoon. Seeing that caused a wave of relief flowed over him.

He still had two hours.

But he also remembered that it would take him some time to reach the station, at least according to the address given to him by the Sofia station. So there was that.

That's when he vaguely remembered Yomikawa shouting at him in the interrogation room.

"Blah blah blah, Anti-Skill Station! Monday morning!" she had said, "blah blah blah…bring a uniform!"

An incredulous look formed on his face. It was already Sunday afternoon, how the fuck was he supposed to get a uniform?

Poor Jim could only curse his luck. Here he was, torn between his two duty stations, each demanding his full and exclusive commitment.

Granted, this was his real station but Yomikawa did not look like someone who cared about such minor technicalities. It's not like he can get a written note from his station chief saying:

"Dear Ms. Yomikawa, I need Mr. Jim's time because I need to work my little mongrel to the bone and send him out to die. Your Anti-Skill job is just a cover. So fuck off!"

He shook his head with familiar resignation.

Jim turned around and splashed some water on his face. He knew that his baggage had arrived before him and was waiting for him at a nearby delivery service. He can find some clean clothes there. He can also withdraw some more money from the bank if he needed anything, but he realized that his account was beginning to get dangerously empty.

Regardless, the priority right now is to get to the duty station on time. He'll have to figure out the rest later.

He stretched his neck and started walking towards the shower. That's when he stepped on a puddle of his own vomit and started gliding – like a true Olympic ice-skater – towards his bed.

But Jim did not panic!

He simply maintained his posture and held course…and proceeded to stub his toe on a leg of the table.

"OWWWW!"

A terrible, unmanly yelp of pain escaped his mouth as he bent over, clutching his wounded toe.

It fucking hurts like a bitch!

Just as that thought finished forming, a smile materialized on Jim's face.

Yes, it hurts so much! So terribly painful!

He started to laugh again.

It's so painful! I can't bear it! I will kill myself! Such, terrible, inhuman pain!

A dull ache nibbled away at his left arm.

"Okay, okay, I get it, no more fun. Gotta go places and do stuff."

He stepped into the shower and turned the water on, full blast, specifically making sure to set the temperature to the coldest possible. Then he took a deep breath and stepped underneath it.

The icy jet of water pierced his skin and made him howl in shock. But he endured it, letting it assault and numb every inch of his body. He tried not to flinch even when the icy streams washed over his wounds.

The water hit his head in clear streams and flowed onto the tiled floor in red waves.

Jim felt the sluggishness and fog in his head being washed away by the cold tide. He knew that he would need a clear mind when he got to the station. He needed to be on his toes mentally. He would be walking into a lair of predators, all eyeing each other with cold, calculating eyes, sniffing for any scent of weakness.

Finally, he stepped out of the shower.

It was time to dance with jackals.

-x-

First uploaded: 9/11/2020 (?)

Last modified: 1/8/2021

Word count: 4503

Changelog:

3/5/2022 – Prose edits, but terribly inconsistent. Eh.

1/4/2021 – General edits and final cleanup (hopefully).

15/3/2021 – General edits.

7/3/2021 – Shamelessly added girl's dress color and polynochkt.

2/12/2020 (?) – Shamelessly added Malyana pistol scene and "For him". Absolutely shameless! Cut chapter into two. Added shower scene and jackal comment.