February 12th, 2004. 1:48AM.
With her smartphone pressed to the side of her face, Kinuhata Saiai, again and again, over and over commanded for the device's built-in personal assistant to call the smartphone owned by Mugino Shizuri, who, surely, was still alive and well; absolutely, positively, there was no chance in the entire world that even a single scratch had managed to find its way onto the fifth-ranked level five's flesh.
Ring, ring, ring, ring, riiiiinnnnngggggg. Ring, ring, ring, ring, riiiiinnnnngggggg.
Ring, ring, ring, ring, riiiiinnnnngggggg. Ring, ring, ring, ring, riiiiinnnnngggggg.
The level four Offense Armour user's grip on her cellular device tightened, causing the chrome-bound outer shell to crack, and crunch beneath her grip, producing a series of unhealthy-sounding 'vocalizations'.
Still, Saiai had to admit, the fact that the device was ringing at all was a good sign.
Not that any good signs were necessarily needed; Mugino Shizuri was certainly unharmed. There was no way that someone like Mugino Shizuri could've possibly been harmed.
Even then, the Offense Armour user was forced to ask herself why exactly was it that she even cared about the Meltdowner. She was forced to admit that she'd asked herself a good question, one which didn't have an easy answer, by any means of the imaginations.
"We're sorry! Your call cannot be completed, as dialed! We're directing you to this number's voice queue! Please hold!"
Beep.
"Mugino here, if you need something, leave a message and might get back to you, if I'm feeling up to it. Bye."
"Kinuhata, goddamn idiot, can't you do ANYTHING right?! You, ride-along, what the fuck kind of cheap-ass power do you use?!"
"Kinuhata, goddamn idiot!"
The words echoed within Kinuhata Saiai's mind, the scathing, scolding words, the only words she'd ever heard emerging from between the Meltdowner user's lips.
Never had she uttered so much as a single word of praise towards her coworkers, those individuals who, terrified by the level five's power were effectively reduced to becoming the Meltdowner user's underlings.
"Hamazura always got it the worst… even if he IS Hamazura-y, at least he treats Takitsubo with common decency… like an actual person."
Terminating the failed call from her end, Kinuhata Saiai stuffed her phone into the front pocket of her attire, the strange, heavily-customized hybrid of a sweater and a dress.
"You're nowhere close to being powerless; you could easily start your own crew, and get things done for yourself, and take the full payout, plenty of Skill-Outs who need competent leaders. For once, baby doll, you could be in charge."
Even Hamasaki Tsubasa, the fourth-ranked level five esper, someone who had been diametrically opposed to her in that moment had spoken to Kinuhata Saiai with more respect than Mugino Shizuri ever had.
Speaking aloud to no one in particular, as she walked past the old family restaurant ITEM had spent considerable amounts of time and yen in, Kinuhata Saiai looked upward, toward the darkened sky, dotted by the glowing, sparkling celestial bodies known as 'stars'.
"I'll super shine, too, in my own way. I'm super finished with being pushed around by you."
February 12th, 2004. 2:02 AM.
From the embrace of slumber's darkness Frenda Seivelun was roused, more by her own internal, biological clock than by outside stimuli.
Against soft, warmed surfaces, of some sort, which turned out to be bed sheets upon closer inspection, and with a thick, woollen blanket cast over her form, the petite mercenary girl's head was laid upon a thick and fluffy pillow, the sensation of which lead her to believe the pillow had been stuffed with real feathers, as opposed to bunches of cotton.
Scanning the room, moving her eyes about within her head, Frenda Seivelun cast her gaze about, from left to right, upwards and downwards, identifying her surroundings as quickly as she could, even as her brain felt as if it was about to explode inside of her skull.
It was a hospital room. The walls and ceilings, sterile, simply a dull shade of white, or something close to white in coloration, Frenda found herself bathed beneath the golden, synthetic illumination produced by the numerous, rectangular light fixtures mounted within ceiling.
Giving herself the chance to soak up the warmth, she, Frenda Seivelun, someone who'd come to practically live and breathe Academy City's darkness had been hospitalized.
She might as well have been imprisoned.
It was a prison sentence. As soon as the doctors, whoever they were, went out of their way to seek out her files in Academy City's data banks, all would more than likely be revealed.
The room was small. It seemed to be growing smaller, the walls surrounding her, boxing her in, they threatened to begin, at any moment of their choosing – never mind the fact that the room's walls weren't sentient or even alive, at all – closing in on her. Claustrophobic.
Attempting to rise, Frenda's progress was immediately brought to a grinding halt; biting into her lower lip, with as much force as her petite maw could muster in order to prevent an anguished scream from fleeing her lips, throbbing, wracking pain echoed throughout the petite mercenary girl's knees, and through her lower legs, which shook, awkwardly, of their own accord.
Throwing back her sheets, and the comforter atop them, Frenda discovered a reality which shook her to her very core.
Her perfect, beautiful, slightly, smooth legs! They'd been marred! Casts, hardened, plastic supports, bound and reinforced with metallic frames were bound upon her knees. From within the casts, what looked like sections of Gauss bandaging poked out from their sides, individual, frayed threads made visible.
Right then, and right there, as she began to tear up, salty, liquid agony fleeing from the corners of her eyes, sliding down her cheeks, and dripping towards her plain blue-green hospital gown, Frenda Seivelun considered attempting to snap her own neck, or swallow the entirety of the nearest bottle of painkillers, of which there were none, at all.
"Alas, poor Yorick! I knew him, Horatio!" Frenda Seivelun cried aloud, before she slipped back into the embrace of slumber, her body's exhaustion beating her higher mind into submission, forcing the petite mercenary girl's mind to play by her body's rules.
February 12th, 2004. 1:28 AM.
While Saten Ruiko, the middle schooler girl who lacked any sort of esper ability despite having lived in Academy City for well over half of a decade found herself existing semi-comfortably, given the extended pain-relieving effects of the pill she'd been administered, the fourth strongest esper in not only the walled-off City-State but the entire world found himself in a considerably less comfortable locale, and in a considerably less comfortable situation.
Those who he'd called into the world of the living, the place blessed or perhaps cursed, depending on one's outlook, by the warmth of life and birthed from an artificial womb constructed through cold, unfeeling calculations and forged in one reality through the use of another, waited without any sort of higher thought processes to guide them, without emotion and without feeling.
Even if they'd wished to live the best they could, given their circumstances, such an ability was beyond them. For all of their limited humanness, they were without.
Without a command, without being told explicitly what to do, and just how they were supposed to go about doing it, each of the seventy-five voidclones looked onward and outward, standing tall and at attention, like so many soldiers drafted to further an artificial conflict.
Featureless and multicoloured, there were seventy-five voidclones, level four puppets who bore the original's likeness, at least in their shape; each lacked any defining features, as if each was some crooked, lifeless mannequin slapped together on an assembly line and doomed to forever exist propped up in a shop's window, clad in tacky seasonal clothing.
As if it dared not show itself, the wind seemed to have fled entirely from Academy City's seventeenth school district, heading for whatever hills were nearest to its location, like even they, part of the planet's very elemental makeup believed or realized they had no place in a certain switchyard.
With the womb of void having been dismissed, there laid one last matter which he would have to attend to, one last errand to run.
Even as he paid this fact mind, the fourth-ranked level five only knew vaguely of it; he was being observed from afar.
Beyond his sight, incapable of being detected through his other four senses, tiny UNDER_LINE units observed, and reported their findings directly to Academy City's General Superintendent, who observed the proceedings with, etched upon his face, an apathetic expression.
Aleister Crowley presumed to the best of his ability (and his ability was far from something to be scoffed at) that the level five knew, to some extent, that what he'd done was a means of making amends. The Last Order still lived. Hamasaki Tsubasa had betrayed his handlers, and had betrayed Academy City. Therefore, Hamasaki Tsubasa had betrayed Aleister Crowley.
But if SYSTEM could be achieved, if, through the use of the mind, man could reach out and touch the power beyond his scope, beyond his vision and beyond his feeble consciousness' limited capabilities, if man could grab hold of the very power of God, then the fourth-ranked level five, Voidwalker, might just prove himself to serve as a worthy source of amusement.
And, so, as Hamasaki Tsubasa viewed what, to the uninitiated, could've been easily mistaken for many copies of his own physical form's shadow, even given the lack of natural sunlight which had been seamlessly replaced instead with the moon's lunar grace, he stepped forward.
Stones of small sizes, not quite small enough to be properly deemed pebbles cracked and crunched beneath the soles of his shoes, shifting from one side and then to the other, as they were forced to part by the Draconian laws of physics and of gravity, bending knee to the all-powerful cosmic dictatorship.
Within his higher mind, bouncing about its confines like a mental patient gone stir crazy and bound to a straitjacket from which they could never even hope to flee from, a thought, taking the form of a strict, and sternly-thought command passed.
"Use your every resource and do whatever you possibly can to utterly destroy me."
Shifting, in their creator's direction, the voidclones, with their faceless heads turned to face Hamasaki Tsubasa, all at once, as if they shared an interconnected hive mind, permitting them to think as one, individual super-organism.
In response, as he'd intended, as he'd done so many times before the fourth strongest esper in Academy City turned on his creations, and, headlong into the fray he rushed them.
Retaliating, they manifested weapons of war to utilize against the individual they'd been commanded to assault; and follow that command they would, to a T. Curved, shifting blades of void, additional limbs, lashing and whipping at the oxygenated air around them, great and terrible, elongated masses of void energies upon which jaws, not unlike those a hunter's trap might've possessed were mounted, snapping at nothing, as if they, too were out to destroy the fourth-ranked level five esper, as their creators were.
Seventy-five level four espers, synthetic beings forced into the world, forged with energies beyond the Earth's elements as opposed to flesh, lifeblood and bone prepared for conflict.
Soon, however, despite their preparations, the first of the seventy-five voidclones fell.
A touch of the level five Voidwalker's foot upon the ground, forced and focused, pent-up within his leg an overwhelming, perpetually-compounded mass of void energies sent forth a great blast wave, completely devoid of coloration, black as the darkest of night skies.
Faced with a potentially lethal onslaught, faced with self-made foes almost too numerous to count, certainly too numerous to count in a situation where each of said self-made foes sought to destroy their creator, as per his command, Voidwalker's Personal Reality grew, evolved in a similar manner through which a level one esper might've achieved level two, through instinctual adaptation procedures as native to the brain as the need to drink, sleep, and consume nutritional foods.
The blast wave had lost coloration, as the void itself had been reached out to, grasped, produced by a Personal Reality which pulled the stuff that shouldn't have been from the very shadowy corners of the multiverse, where the warmth of life dared not take root.
Another voidclone fell, torn in half by a monolithic, blackened and jagged blade of void, jutting from the fourth-ranked level five's back.
Another, and another, the corpses began to pile, falling atop one another without so much as a vocalized grunt of discomfort.
For Hamasaki Tsubasa, it was living proof that the mass slaughter, the practical genocide of his own creations was, indeed a reliable means of reaching level six, the pinnacle of esper development, the sheer, lone reason why Academy City had been established.
Half a dozen voidclones struck the ground with a series of thuds, what 'life' had been granted to them ripped from them by a blade of void, and by twisted limbs from which grotesque and beastly hands jutted, taking synthetic, thoughtless and unknowing life as a particularly shifty thief might've snatched from the purse of a maiden unawares a handful of dollar bills.
The achieving of level six, the fulfillment of SYSTEM's requirements would bring an end to it all; the experiments, the usage of mere children as substitutes for laboratory rats, in a City-State that in and of itself, was a monumental maze without a beginning and without an end, the suffering endured by individuals such as the Accelerator, the Railgun, and the Mental Out, the newly-crowned (if Mugino Shizuri's 'untimely' demise was already accounted for by Academy City) fifth-ranked level five, a secretive soul, one who bore much pain.
Hamasaki Tsubasa couldn't undo their suffering, and he was more than lucid enough to realize there was little he could possibly do to undo their pain, but, he, the fourth strongest, could certainly prevent more needless suffering from being inflicted upon others.
All that he would have to do was survive the shift from level five to level six.
It was as he'd paid these considerations mind that one of his creations had taken advantage of the situation presented before it. Having crept up behind its creator, a level four voidclone called forth from the darkened corners of its own power, well over half a dozen limbs of void, each ending in a grotesque, if human-like hand attached to a broken-looking wrist; with four fingers and a thumb, all twenty four of the hands grasped onto the form of the Original Voidwalker.
Void passed through void.
Another voidclone swiftly approached from the front, and another from the side. Hamasaki Tsubasa was outright impressed; the thoughtless, mindless creations, the wind-up dolls he'd forged with his ability were practising flawless cooperation, working as a single unit as opposed to throwing themselves into death's embrace one by one.
Approaching from the front, the assailant voidclone's hand, curled into a fist met the centre of the fourth-ranked level five's torso, while, from the side, the flanking voidclone had spawned several blades of colourless, toneless void, each briefly whipping at the oxygenated air around them before they were thrown outwards, towards the Original Voidwalker.
Without paying a second thought to the potential consequences, Hamasaki Tsubasa put the calculations to work, preparing to as best he could purposefully engage in behaviour which some would've deemed to have been 'reckless', and others yet would've deemed to have been 'suicidal'.
A gargantuan mass of blackness exploded outwards from within the fourth-ranked level five esper, one which utterly consumed each and every single voidclone which hadn't the 'smarts' to, at the very least, attempt an escape from the blast wave.
Reaching upwards and toward the sky, bolts of blackened, colourless lighting-like anomalies emerged from the toneless explosion, leaving behind as they swiftly dissipated blackened, shredded remnants of themselves, which soon fell toward the earth below like so many scraps of an aircraft shot down from on high.
Blown away as if they'd been buffeted by gale force winds, sections of railway tracks, masses of small stones lifted from the ground, and many multicoloured shipping containers were tossed in every and all directions.
Twenty-four voidclones, those which had fled from the blast wave, halting their collective progression once the wave's limited area of effect had been reached, remained standing, as their fallen 'siblings' once had.
Speaking realistically, in order for the preceding events to make even a lick of sense, especially from a mechanical standpoint, explanations are in order.
Most, if not all of the Voidwalker's previously-displayed techniques had utilized concentrated and heavily- compounded bursts of void energies, directed from the Personal Reality in which they'd originated and into a particular section, or multiple sections of his physical form, used as something akin to a base and a stabilizer.
This, in theory, could be compared to the directing of an entire bowl of liquid into another bowl, which, especially if caution wasn't paid mind, would likely end up causing a great and spectacular mess, versus pouring, from one bowl into another the same liquid, but instead of recklessly pouring directly from bowl to bowl, relying on the aid of a funnel to carefully distribute the liquid, controlling and limiting the amount that would traverse from proverbial point A to figurative point B.
With the willing, with the aid of mathematical formulas, with the proper numerical units subtracted, multiplied, and divided in just the right way, essentially, a 'broken' and incomplete mathematical formula had been constructed within the mind of the fourth strongest esper, one which put in place no directional calculations to speak of.
He had unleashed from within him an unrestrained, outright, gargantuan and hyper destructive burst of void energies.
This, of course, wasn't as simple as it might've sounded even for the fourth strongest esper. Only if he'd choose to hypothetically lie to the faces of whoever might've hypothetically asked could Hamasaki Tsubasa hypothetically say that he'd managed the feat without issue.
As the surviving voidclones, following what could be compared to a machine's programming resumed once more their quest to destroy their creator, as per said creator's explicit instructions, Tsubasa panted, his breathing heavy, lungs heaving as his entire form shuddered.
Having fallen to a single knee, as if he was about to ask the empty space containing only air before him for its figurative, nonexistent hand in marriage, his temples throbbed, either side of his head wracked by continuous, repeated and painful 'waves' of anomalous activity. Pulsating, rapidly moving pain in his forehead caused the Voidwalker to feel as if a particularly rusty nail, with a particularly sharpened, pointed and jagged tip was being hammered directly through the front of his skull.
As powerful as he was, as much strength as he'd mustered through the continuous development of his esper ability, he was not invincible. He was not infallible and he was far from being the strongest one. Voidwalker was no Accelerator, and he never could be. Never.
Crack.
Suddenly, as if the very world around him had shifted on its axis, his vision spun, all things in his gaze becoming blurred, multicoloured masses, shapeless and amorphous.
Delivering a fist directly to its creator's throat with enough force to temporarily halt the fourth-ranked level five's inhalation of oxygen, a summoned voidclone had opened a window of opportunity for another to take up the mantle of aggressor.
Sweeping them up, as if they were little more than so much garbage that'd fallen from a dustbin in which they'd been contained, Hamasaki Tsubasa knocked the voidclones away, beating them back with the aid of a shaking, shifting limb of void.
Unleashing another uncontrolled and unrestrained burst of darkened, 'refined' and 'pure' void, ripped from expanses that should not have been, he gagged, vision spinning, stomach churning, practically turning itself inside out within the fourth-ranked level five's body.
Hacking, and spitting forth a glob of the substance perpetually produced by his mouth's salivary glands onto the displaced gravel beneath him, Hamasaki Tsubasa rose, gripping his throat with his left hand. Repeatedly and continuously, a sharp, stinging sensation rang throughout his laryngeal prominence.
One and a half voidclones remained to stand against their creator; the latter, as opposed to walking, was forced to crawl towards its target, given that the lower half of its body had been torn clean off, as well as a section of its leftmost forearm.
The former possessed no such limitations. Somehow, it'd managed to survive the uncontrolled burst of darkened void energy.
A consideration, one particularly relevant to the scenario in which he'd found himself passed through Tsubasa's mind.
If the truth of the matter involved a reality in which individuals of importance watched the proceedings through undisclosed means – and, surely enough, even if he had no means of knowing it, he'd found himself to be right on the proverbial money, given that Academy City's General Superintendent himself had been, and was indeed observing the proceedings – they likely weren't watching in the hopes of seeing a boy of high school age being pummelled by his own creations.
Even if the old dog had learned, and successfully executed a new trick, that alone wouldn't be enough. Crushing some poor sod's car between two artificial, summoned limbs, while impressive by his own standards, might not have been quite as grand in the eyes of Academy City's many important human cogs.
If he, Hamasaki Tsubasa, was going to prove that he could achieve the fabled level six and subsequently meet the requirements that would achieve SYSTEM, he would have to show any potential onlookers that he was more than a mere upstart level five esper with a chip on his shoulder.
No, he would inevitably have to show Academy City's human cogs just what it was that he could do. No holding back, no strings attached, no breaking.
The uncontrolled explosions, the unrestrained unleashing of void energies from within him, the volatile summoning by his Personal Reality only stopped because his mind could only manage so much.
But, there was a fact of the matter at hand which remained.
For a moment, even as he beat back and merely engaged in actively stalling his own creations who were out for his death, as per their creator's demands, he recalled the words spoken not only to him, the at the time level two void user, but the entirety of the middle school class by the aforementioned class's teacher, the troubled man who'd so long ago – at the very least, the moment seemed as if it'd occurred long ago to Tsubasa in retrospect –identified himself as "Kihara-sensei".
"In the spirit of physical esper ability development, a small, off-the-books lesson, boys and girls, ladies and gentlemen. There are two opposite 'brands' of exhaustion, sort of sharing the difference between two different brands of soda. There is of course physical exhaustion, the end result of overworking your body, and not giving it the rest and nutrition that it needs, but there's another sort of exhaustion: mental exhaustion.
"This exhaustion isn't real. It's the result of your mind trying to play tricks on you, so that it can have its way. Unless you're already someone who is very devoted, your mind is going to, at some point, want its body to spend some time lazing around, even when it shouldn't be lazing around. You needn't listen to that sort of exhaustion. Ignore it and tell it as politely as you possibly can, of course, to "go away."
Hamasaki Tsubasa gritted his teeth, and silently performed within his higher mind the calculations, and wordlessly assembled the required formulas that very well could've ended his life, or, perhaps, simply result in his instantaneous, spontaneous combustion.
Once more, as if consisting of so many soldiers who were ordered, brutally and harshly commanded by an overbearing, ruthless sergeant to approach the figurative breach, a gargantuan, echoing torrent of unleashed, uncontrolled and unrestrained void energies emerged, seemingly from within the very physical form of the fourth-ranked level five esper, buffeting, shaking, and, on occasion, depending on the nature of the physical object rattled, shattered all things within a five, ten, and then fifteen-meter radius.
Great mechanical cranes, titans forged of metal, formerly looming over Academy City's seventeenth school district, once standing tall fell as they crumbled beneath their own weight and height distributions, once their advantage turned against them; shaken utterly, and, in some cases outright bent, not unlike the limbs of a capture insect trapped beneath the merciless, unknowing paws of a particularly playful feline.
School district seventeen's roadways were torn asunder, sections of asphalt ripped from the very earth upon which they'd been constructed, tossed about like leaves thrown by the gusting rage of a cold, or warm front's winds.
Some structures collapsed as they were buffeted by the echoing waves of anomalous, non-elemental void, though others survived the onslaught, 'emerging' with only minor scrapes, empty window frames where panes of glass had, only seconds before, been set in place.
Thrown around like so many playthings, school district seventeen's cargo boxes formed multicoloured collages in the sky, as they flew across, upward, downward, and diagonally, battered at random by the fourth strongest esper's outburst.
What remained of school district seventeen's switchyard had come to rest in several monumental piles, amalgamations of twisted, jagged metallic beams, strips of asphalt, and sprinklings of uprooted gravel landscape, each, seemingly, taller than that which had come to be formed before the next. The oddly, paradoxically and ironic neatness of things suggested order had swept in of its own accord to combat the forces of chaos, even when said forces possessed the advantage of existing in the perfect 'home court' that was Academy City.
An exhausted Hamasaki Tsubasa nearly choked on his own vomit, as he lurched forward; greenish-yellow streams of the chunky bile emerged from between his lips, and soon found itself being regurgitated onto what remained of the switchyard's man-made ground, seeping in between loosened sections of gravel.
Still, even as the fourth strongest esper ejected his own lunch, afternoon snacks and dessert from within his stomach, etching itself upon his facial features was a grin.
Wracked by a volatile reaction to overuse of his Personal Reality or not, he, Tsubasa, he wasn't dead. He hadn't suddenly exploded with the force of a dying White Dwarf. He wasn't melting down, as the level five Meltdowner user Mugino Shizuri had, some mere hours prior to the moment in which Tsubasa had found himself.
Needless to say, the remaining voidclones, though remaining in existence on a physical level, had been shredded, the smaller scraps of their form buffeted like chaff before the wind's breath.
For a brief, few moments, Voidwalker had achieved 'level 5.3'. Nearly five and a half. His body, his mind, he remained stable.
Yet, he'd heard them. The whispers on the wind. The voices that emanated from everywhere and nowhere. So many countless voices, speaking in countless tongues. When she had been through her forced Level Six Shift attempt, had Misaka Mikoto heard them, too? Hamasaki Tsubasa wondered.
"̷̡͓̮͎͍̻̳̣͙͛̀D̷̢̛͕̠̰͇̟̹̳̻̹͔̗̖͛̉͛͋͒̔̕è̷̪͙͔̌a̴̡̢̗̦͉͉̥̠͖̞̘̯̠͌͌̿̂̇̿͑͜t̷̰͎̝͉̮͕̜̑̂͋͋͋͊̿̏̀͑͆͒̊̑̚ͅĥ̶̨̛̛͕̯̟̼̹̣̜̼̼̺̉̈́̔̎̌̾̌̒͜ ̴̼̱̩͕̱̞͆̐̎̐̋̏̎̒̂́̑̍̕͝i̸̧̠̲̗͚̺̖̺̯̖̹̻̜̜̊̊̈́̋̂̑͋̕̚͝͠͝s̷̛̳̲̒̃̈̈́͂͐̽̒̆̕͝ ̸̨̫̣̫̮͓̒̈́̊̀̑̒̈͆̔̈́̕c̴̛̖̔͑̒̅͒̏͆̀͗͝͝l̴̞̣̭̪̘̭̥͉̀͐ơ̷̖̪̝̦̳͉̗̺̳̥͉̘͚͋̒͌͑͑̂̄͑̋̈́͊̇͘͝s̸̨̲̖͕̥̖̗̹̮̟͎͙̜̖̒̀͂̃̔̐́̈́͘͜ȩ̶̰̒̆̎̌̏̂͒͝͠.̶͇̦̦̱̗͕̤̥̟͈͇̰̳̠̿̈̋͆͐̄͂̇̔̔̍̍̚̚͝ͅ"̸̨̻͍̰̬͙̬̺͇͉̊̿̊͗̐́̑̽͋̀̓̄͘͝
"̵̡̧̦̫͔̜̥̤͙̯̺͖̯͇͎̎͝Y̵̥͙̠̭̼̋̀̈̐̇͊͊̒ó̸̗̙̒̿̒̈́̀̊͋̿̕̕͝͠û̷͎̹̮̳̓̀͑̓̈́̄͘͜ ̸̧̡̡͉̫̰̠̙̳͍̠̭̞͋͋̅͊̍̓̄̓̂͗͆̌̈́͘͜͝ȃ̷̝̱̻̱̞̤̎̄̍̍̚ŗ̵̱̱̭̤̼̮̹̱̦͎͕̱͒͛̈̃͆̒̀̽̾͒̄̈́̎ë̵̢͓̖͖̙̱̯̥͎̬̓͋̽͜͝ͅ ̷̩̖̩̦̓̍̎̿á̴͇̜̫͈̺̂͗̍ĺ̷̪̟͇͚̗͓͆͊̀͋̓͘ŕ̵̨̡̝̯̜̺̤̈́̏ē̴̬̣̰͍͖͑̿͠ā̸̡͙̮̠͚̑̀̿͛̇̎̑͠͝͝͠ͅḑ̶̛̳̭͉̱̝̻͎̤̩̲͕́̂ỷ̴̨͍̫͚̥̙̲̳͇͙͍̬̥͂̎́̆ ̷̤̟̪̹̜̺͋̏͠ḋ̷̖̖͔̫ȩ̸̧̨̢̰͈̲͎̪̏̚ă̶̡̨̺̖̝͇̹͖̫̞͎̪̻͓͑͆̈́ḋ̵̛̘̤͍̱̬̝̙̮̦̹̟̳̌͂͜͜͜.̵̢̰͖͕̯̳͛̃͗͝"̸̛̺͖̞̳̯̏̿̈́͠͝
"̸̛̺̮̰̱̱͙̭͚̻̳̱̞͋͑̄̃̑̏̔͂̉͝͝͝Y̸̧̨̛̺̰̩͓̱̭͎͚̔͛̕ȯ̶̧̜̘̩̟̬̲̩͈͉͚͜u̴͓̟̗̙̻̣̜̒̽̊̉̒̂͠ͅr̷͖̼̙̗̤͖̓̿̀̇̆̃̐͘ ̸̨̛̩̗͉̣̥̝͒̎́͑͑̈́͐̉̑͗̓̀̒̚ç̸̧̩̣̯͈̲͓̻̜̥̹̦̤͂́̌́͒͒̄͐͊͘ͅǫ̵͓̻̭͈̰̻̻͇͊͐͊̀̑̎̒͂̌͘͝͝͝u̴̧̮̜̭̲̭̳̭̞̽́͑͊͒͑͝r̷͇̣̱͆̍̇̽̑̿̂̊̚͜͝ą̷̩̫̅͗g̴̡͍̮̬͙̦̦̜̥̖̲͉͙͆̇͆̎̈́͒̑̊͐̚̚͜͜͝ê̶̖̱ ̵͚̞̌w̵̨̹̭̦͚͓͖̩̖̉̆̌͑͑̄̀̎̔̍͗̍͠í̶̧̬̲̆̎̃̑͋͑̀͒̚͠ḷ̸̨͈̫͇̣̽͂̃̂͑̔̀̇̀͐͝l̴̨̨͇͔̠͓̲̟̽̄̓́̌̂͘͜͜ ̵̨̛̙̱͒͗̓̽̄͝͝f̷̡̪̮͉̥͋ȃ̷̡̨̢͍̫̭̥̰͙̥̙̪̫̫̔͂̍̐̄̆̌́̑̒̂̃̑̍i̷͎͓̥̜̗̗͇͚͎͎̊̀̍̋̏̒̓̉͊̔͌̕̚͜͝͠l̷̢̢̟̩͕͖͔͇͍͓͙͉̣̭̄̍͊͜.̵̜̜͉̜͓͂̋͛̕"̵̳̭͙̍͛̀͒̓͂̐̽͑̅͘
"̷̢̧͎̲̠̗̹̯̺̟̖͊̒̚Y̵̡̡̧̨̺͖̬̠̰̼̏̓͆o̶̬̯̜͙̖͊͆͆̈̾̓͜͝ų̶̪̦̼͍̫̰̫̎̒͑̍̂̾̂̍͋̅̐͘͠ͅr̷̛̰̬̺̉̈́͊̆̒͌͛̀̓̚ ̷̼̖̥̦̗͈̮͚̣̼̀́̀̊̿̊̇̔͜͝f̵̧̭͖͎̩͔̝̺͚̘̪̑̂͜r̷̬̽͛̆̑͆̄̊͝i̷̩̫̘̖͓̲͈̤͕̞͖̗͎̥̍̀ͅe̴̯̼̲̐̿̀̂̍̀̀̌̚n̷̢̛̰̪̘̤̱̻̤̠̟̱͇̄̈́̔͐͋̒͛͑̊̽͌̕͜͜͜ď̷̺͕̯̬͓̟̞̟͉̯͙̜͂́́͘͝͝s̶̡̯͓͗̿͒̂͋͊̆̇̃̆̇͝͝ ̵̢͇͔͈͎͓̹͎͙͓̲͓̀̊͛̀͊̏̆̾͘͘̕ẅ̵̨͔̼̫̱̟͓͎͆͑̾͊̽͝i̵̢͖͇͍̠͔̹͖̺̋̄̀́̆̈́̐̓͋͘͜͝ļ̴̛̭̼͚̯̥͉͎̩̩̞͓̄͆̈̓̃̓͂̃͊̒͜ļ̸̛͉̠̦̼̋̃̈́̈̈́̋̅̏̆̇̇͆͋̓ ̴̣͕̥̬̞̇̒͊͒̇͆̈́̔̊͘a̷͎̩̯͇̟̣̼̞͖̜̳͛͑̋̀̽̎̎͆͘͘̚ḅ̴̨̳̪̭͉̻̩͎̫͙̎̌́͐̎̊̀̓̈́̏̄̊̌͝͝a̴̛͍͖̗̼͓̳̼̐ņ̴̨̡̛̛̝̗̯͕̯̻̬̩̰̙̲͎̍̀̎̓͂͒͌͑̐́͆̋͝d̷̢̨̛̛͓̮̯̠̭͕̼̙̥̣͇͎̐͂͗̀́̄͌͌̎̕͠͝ͅơ̸̢̧͈̰͕͍͖̟͐̉͊̈́̊ͅn̷̡̡̨̨̗͇͈͖̝̝̯͎͉̋̈́̀̀̽̔̐̀͛̆̕ ̶̨̜͙͚̻̤̠͇͓̲̝̔͐̉̀̈́̈́͘͜ͅy̵̖̗̯̹̞̺̜͓͒͜ö̵̠͉̗͍͕͈͇̼́̆̈́͂̚͘͝ų̶͈̱̝̮̱̪̼̥͙͙͆͜.̶͓͉̼̐̽͒͑̔̉͌̉̅͘"̴͙́̎̔̿͑̆͘
̴̣͕
̴̨͕̗͕͕̖̗͍̱̫̐͆͑̓̄ͅ"̶̛̗̦̤͇̱̦̑̔̃͋̈́͌̀̊̅͜Y̶̧̨̩͖̖̠͓͈͉̮̘͉͚̥̤͋͌͊͂͒̚ö̶̝̮̗̳̘́͊̋͛̏̔͐͆͒͌́͝ủ̸̢̬̬̬̭͚̩͉̫̖͇̝̻̯͇̔ ̴̞̯̅́̀̓̆͐͐̉̓͗̆͗͘̚w̷̧̧̯̲͎̠̠͖͙̰̹̑̉̿̕͜í̸̲̹̲̳̦͓̖̥̪͉̱̹͎̼͊̆̉̇̆̌̃̚l̵̡̧̛̤͖͕̟̭̹̬̖̹̠͋͆̈́̇̇̈́͑͆́̓͠͝͠l̵͚̖͓̲̖̦͔̰͖̺̅̈́̓́̽̀̈̇̾̍͛̉̔̇ ̴̡̨̭̻̤̫̭͚̹͉͚͍̳͊̒͊̊̇̈́̇b̸̟̦̲͕̯̙̰͕̱̻͗̈́͑͒̋̃̔͘͝͝͝ȩ̵̺͔̩̼͙̗̦̤͕̊͊̌̿̉̈̏̀̅͌͗͆̓́t̸̞̲̼̤̝̞͊̓̔̀͂̅̅͛̎̕r̴̛̛͔̮̼̘̻͚͔̹͖͙͓͛̆̓̂̎͒́̐̕̚͘ą̷̧̨̨̗̹̖͓̣͕̼͐͆̉͒̒́̄̀̓̇̀̇́̋͝y̴̡̯̻̩͖̺̞͙͙̖͊̽̅͘ ̶̨̝̬̲͙͕͉̲͚̈̄̀́̈́̚y̴̡̝͔̽̎͌̔́̾͋̄̏͘ō̶̧̳̻͉̖͉̊̈̇̎̕ͅų̵̧͚͉̫̱̣̦͍̀͜r̵̛̯̞͓̞͗́̆̓̀̈́͋̋̑̄ ̷̡̱̺̫̗̲̟͖̮͙͔͌͛͊̔̋f̴̨̢̱̦̯͖͌̀̂́͗͋̏̇̉̏͗͑̋͝͠r̵̗̖̬̰̯̞̖̗͉̘̩̲̂̍̋̄̍̈́͆̋̈́̍͒͆͘͠ï̶̜͉͍̣͎̥̜ḙ̵̫̠̬̈̽͋̏́̅̆̕͝ñ̸͚̩̈́ḑ̴̧̻̪̗̩̗̺̗̹̫̝̓̀s̸̨̝̋̄̽̓̒͆͐̔̔̉̕̕̚.̴̪͔̲͇͆̅̒͗̉͊̏̃̊̏̃̚͝͝"̸̷̡̧̛̩̹̥̰̦̪̱͓͎̳̯͚͖̞̞̦̫͇͙̥̲̜̟̪̹̇́̎̒̎̏̿̊̌͛͆̍̎̾́̆̎̋͘͠͝
̴̧̨̢̝̜̜̯̘̺̩̻̆̀̈̄̔̎̌͗͆̐̅̇͘̕͝"̴̝̣̥́̇͐͋̏̐̄͗͆Y̷̢̘̜͖̣̯͚̮͑̕͜͜͜ͅo̵̡̩̗͇̪̗͙̞̤̳̯̟̭̊̇̈́̓͌̇̈́̇̌͛̊͘͝ů̶̫͆̈̄̈͂̈ ̴̡̡̛͚̩͕̙̯̲͓̤͔͚͔̣̓͆͊̾w̸̡͙̬͖̟̬̫̠̫̯͌ͅi̷̛̜̬͈͖͙̥͖͓̖̲͙̫̤͍͑̇̐̎̒̈́̓͆̿̊̈́̊͘͝l̴̗̯̱̼̥͕̰̦̝̼̺̽ͅͅl̵̻̫̘̠̤̳̘̩̹͇̊̉͗̿͒͜͝ ̷̗͙̔̾͝d̴̢̧̫͍̺̱̪̭̜͙͚̬̩͓̀͜ī̴̬̺̦̻̻͚̭́̌̐͐̚͠ȩ̴̳̖̻͔̖̙̳̖̬̟̀.̴̣̜̺͇̘̤̏́͝"̷̨̯̮̭̟͓͉͈̮̒̕͜ͅ
̷̤̙̰͙͔̬͂͗͊͝
̶̨͓̫͓̣̜̼͓̞͕͇̞̬̙̑͝
'Shadow Metal', as Saten Ruiko would have called it, one of her precious little Urban Legends. The Void. That which should not have been. That which was better off left alone.
Buzz, buzz, buzz went the smartphone contained in the rightmost pocket of his pants. More surprised that the device had managed to survive, somehow, when most of his surroundings, and most of Academy City's seventeenth school district had come to look far worse for wear, the fourth-ranked level five chose to ignore the call, even as he considered the likelihood of the caller being Saten Ruiko.
Without a singular instance of doubt in his mind, he was in no position to have a casual chat with anyone.
Then again, who could've said that Saten Ruiko was calling simply to have some sort of casual chat about her favourite Urban Legends, or some other adorable little Saten Ruiko thing she was always obsessing over? The level zero middle schooler girl could've found herself in legitimate trouble, proper danger.
What if, on some level, Gladio sought to further development of their level five's ability by pushing the aforementioned subject's mind in a forced state of duress, in which a precious life was on the line? Regardless of who found themselves in charge of the black operation, it was still sanctioned by Academy City, still under their heel of ever-dominating, ever-present control.
Observing the assigned phone number of the device, delivering the incoming call, he couldn't recognize the number's patterns – Saten Ruiko's phone number had something of a pattern to it, based on the particular numerical characters – and, in fact, the number had no patterns at all, merely a construct made up of so many nonsensical number combinations. Even where the name of the incoming caller based on their cellular phone's internal information should've been displayed, there was no name, consisting of alphabetical characters, only a messy amalgamation of numbers.
Panting, spitting the few remaining chunks of semi-digested foodstuff from his mouth, Tsubasa produced his phone, even as he slumped forward, even as he was barely able to keep himself on one knee.
Loosely pushing the device against the side of his face, he muttered into the device's internal microphone a loose, nearly guttural-toned greeting.
"H-hell…o?"
"Hamasaki-kun, you make me so very proud of today's youth. Rowdy and rebellious, yet, you've come to stand out from the crowds your peers make."
"K-Kihara!"
Hamasaki Tsubasa could only hope that the senile, aging man with the strange birth defect splattered across the side of his forehead, resembling some abstract form ripped straight from ink blot painting of a Rorschach test's surface had actually managed to record his combat data.
Through what means he'd previously done so from afar were unknown to the fourth strongest esper, but, it was obvious enough that the old man had more than one.
The reality, of course, which Hamasaki Tsubasa couldn't have known, was lurking high above – a considerable distance from the maximum possible range of the fourth-ranked level five's ability, at least that which he possessed as a level five esper – were numerous drones. Fluttering in place and small enough to snugly fit into the palm of a fully grown human being's hand, they recorded the proceedings, and loyally delivered relevant data, in the form of recorded video footage, directly to those who operated them from afar.
As if he'd been reading Tsubasa's very thoughts, the caller spoke their piece.
"I'll have you know, your recorded combat data is currently being forwarded to my analysis lab… a wondrous show you put on, indeed. Did you, by some chance, guess that you were being observed? Not by us, of course. We would never do such a thing, Hamasaki-kun."
"R-right."
He was suddenly less than thrilled about speaking to the man who, formerly, had attempted to forcibly shift Misaka Mikoto from level five to level six, a bird-brained scheme by all accounts, where the fourth-ranked level five esper was concerned.
"I do hope our salvage team can manage to scrape up your seventy-five cortexes," the elderly man remarked, "dismantling more clones than Omnitron has calculated to be required wouldn't be wise, Hamasaki-kun. Do try to remember that we've algorithms to follow."
"Don't concern yourself with the f-finer details," Tsubasa practically spat; though he hadn't intended for it to be, multiple globules of saliva fled from within his mouth, as he'd offered his pseudo-sarcastic retort, "Between you and myself, I want this more than you, K-Kihara."
"Perhaps, you're not entirely incorrect," was the elderly man's answer, in response, his chosen means of retorting, even to him, to what seemed like an accusation.
With a grunt, Hamasaki Tsubasa picked himself up, and dusted the legs of his pants off, as best he could, with his available hand.
"Kihara, I need a salvage team at Battlefield A Zero Seven B. Bag up the scraps, then report back with details, and, especially any findings and developments regarding the Void Body Crystal."
"Of course, Hamasaki-kun; you need only ask."
Terminating the call, and therefore abandoning the elderly Kihara to whatever fate the man with the glaring, all too visible birth defect was bound to, the fourth-ranked level five, as best he could, began his search for a new vehicle, a means of returning to his dorm where sleep could be found, and weakness could be subverted.
Tsubasa was quickly coming to regret the act of destroying his ill-gotten vehicle.
February 12th, 2004. 2:05 AM.
"Saten-san, eat up! You haven't even had any sort of proper third meal, have you?"
"Uiharu, I'm not hungry! The orderlies even offered! You know me, Uiharu; I never turn down a good meal, unless I'm really not hungry! Please stop trying to poke my eyes out with that spoon! Stop or I'll get up and flip your skirt!"
Leaning over Saten Ruiko's bedside, Uiharu Kazari held in her left hand a Styrofoam bowl containing a particularly hardy soup; tomato, in fact, with extra herbs and spices added, complete with far too much particles of shredded pepper atop the thick, creamy broth. In her right hand, Kazari gripped a flimsy, plastic spoon, which she repeatedly attempted to shove into her friend's mouth.
As the Thermal Hand user pestered the level zero middle schooler girl, Shirai Kuroko, with the assurance that her close friend wasn't grievously harmed, and on the road to a swift, sure recovery had turned her attention to the 'mummified' individual.
Having pulled up a simple, plastic chair located in the hospital room, taken from a row of four situated close to the room's door, she, complete with her green-toned Judgment band wrapped around her arm leaned forward.
With their assurance that they could at least speak to her without potentially causing themselves any sort of further harm, Shirai Kuroko pushed onward.
"You don't have to concern yourself with anonymity. As a Judgment Officer, I literally cannot use anything you tell me as a witness against you in any way, shape or form. I'm legally bound not to register anything you tell me in Judgment's database without your explicit permission."
Though almost entirely mummified, the individual in question had strategically-carved sections of their bandages removed; a small slit where the individuals lips were located, upon their face, and two, nostril-sized holes, aligned with the individual's nose.
"You won't believe me even if I tell you, miss."
"Is that what you think? Try me."
"I… ah! Forget it! I tried to use magic, okay?! I tried to use MAGIC! There are pamphlets scattered all over the City, and they tell you how you can use magic!"
"As I've learned… go on."
"I must've messed something up, somehow, because when I tried to use it, with the "Magic Circle"… thing… I just… I started rotting! I was bleeding everywhere, nose, eyes, e-ears… and mouth!"
Having garnered the attention of both Uiharu Kazari and Saten Ruiko, who'd come to bundle herself within her bed's sheets, and, further, beneath its comforter, Shirai Kuroko did her best to steer the conversation away from that particular topic, dismissing the 'mummified' individual with a simple declaration of "thank you, for your assistance."
Turning back, facing Kazari and Ruiko, Kuroko felt the leftmost pocket of her Tokiwadai Middle School winter uniform's skirt; the tips of her fingers pressed against the crinkled, crunched and sullied pamphlet held within the pocket.
"This is a bigger deal than either of us thought, Uiharu. I hope Konori-senpai finds a lead faster than we can."
For a moment, as her friend turned her gaze in her direction, Saten Ruiko presumed she was about to be blamed, or otherwise accused.
"Saten-san, if you knew anything more about this "magic" business, you'd tell us, right? Is that what ended up getting you hurt? You never did tell Shirai-san or I how you ended up in here, you know. We won't be mad, I promise!"
Folding her arms across her chest, the level four teleporter took to Ruiko's bedside; tilting her head, off towards her right shoulder, she bit into her lower lip, as she seemingly began to stare her hospitalized friend down.
Beneath Kuroko's gaze, Ruiko nearly found herself shrinking, like an especially meek child might've shrunk in the face of a particularly ruthless parent whose discipline was delivered in harsh rhetoric.
Could she lie to their faces? Could she really, really tell them a lie, even if it's what they wanted to hear? Would Shirai Kuroko and Uiharu Kazari be better off not knowing the truth?
Would they keep anything of the sort from her, if they'd found themselves in her situation? Were they already keeping matters hidden from their friend, perhaps for her own good? Matters she was better off not knowing about?
It still hadn't quite settled within her higher mind, but, Saten Ruiko wasn't about to simply accept, without so much as an issue, or without so much as a thought paid to ethical concern the existence of twenty thousand clones of her close friend, the Railgun, and the reality that over twelve thousand of those same clones had been mowed down, like so many blades of grass, in City-sanctioned experiments.
Ruiko possessed no reason to disbelieve the words which Hamasaki Tsubasa had imparted upon her; she had seen the clones for herself. One had even spoken to her, in full, complete sentence, using proper speech, as opposed to referring to herself in the third person as the two others had.
"Earth to Space Cadet Saten," Kuroko remarked.
Ruiko started, producing a soft, sudden and unconscious gasp, as she whipped her head from one side, and then to the other.
So deep in her own contemplation had she been that she'd entirely forgotten for the briefest of moments that she'd had any sort of company at all paying her time for visitation.
As much as she wanted to be as truthful as possible with her closest friends, the people who'd become close to her like her own family during her time in Academy City, Saten Ruiko paid reality the time of day; blabbering aloud, regarding the existence of thousands of the Railgun's clones being real probably wasn't the best decision she could make.
"Sorry, guys," Ruiko bluffed, raising her hands before her face, holding them some few inches away and shaking them from side to side, "I… got distracted! Sorry! Painkillers are kind of making me… loooooopy! Loopy, loopy, loopy! I'm NOT high, though! I don't get high! Drugs are for bad dudes, and delinquents!"
Shirai Kuroko leaned forward, arms remaining folded across her chest; closing the distance between herself and her close friend, Saten Ruiko, the level four teleporter girl produced a sigh while she gave her head a brief shake, seemingly of disapproval.
"It's fine, Saten-san. Now that I have your attention, I'll ask you again: magic. Do you know anything about this "magic"? The pamphlets scattered around Academy City are officially under Judgment investigation. I need to know anything you can tell me about them. You could very well end up having the lead that we need, a break in the case, anything."
Saten Ruiko swallowed, hard.
"Er, well..."