Before we begin, there's a quick disclaimer I'd like to put in place. I do not, in any way, shape or form own, or claim ownership of anything within the franchise(s) written and owned by Kamachi Kazuma, and by ASCII Mediaworks. This piece is a non-profit fan-made love letter to the wonderful Toaru Majutsu no Index series; though it brings joy to myself and hopefully to those who read it, this piece will generate no gain, monetary or otherwise, for me in any way, shape or form. Toaru Majutsu no Index is written and owned by Kamachi Kazuma, and illustrated by Haimura Kiyotaka. Toaru Kagaku no Railgun is written and owned by Kamachi Kazuma, and illustrated by Fuyukawa Motoi. Toaru Kagaku no Accelerator is written and owned by Kamachi Kazuma, featuring illustrations by Yamaji Arata. All I 'own', on a very technical level, is the elements found within that are products of my own imagination. Arguably, given that they are effectively being bolted onto an existing franchise, I wouldn't go as far as to say that I 'own' these, either.
Foreword: This piece was originally written in 05/26/2017. An effort to step out of the comfort zone I'd created for myself while writing 'A Certain Strange Scenario' and 'Times Change' which I'd felt (perhaps rightly) was causing me to stagnate as an artist, I didn't end up particularly like where this piece was going, narratively. I jumped into it without much forethought, and simply went nuts with ideas, throwing them at the proverbial wall and running with that which stuck.
'ToAru Majutsu no Index: GEDDUM!' was presumed lost until very recently when, along with another older fanwork I'd been penning, I found it backed up on a rather dusty, forgotten flash drive that I discovered while cleaning up my writing desk.
For the record, I do not intend to continue writing this piece where I'd left off, or otherwise rebooting it. I'm simply publishing it here on the archive for the sake of preservation, and with the hope that you, my lovely readers, will find it amusing or otherwise entertaining.
As always, all input, especially constructive criticism is welcome and encouraged!
Demon Hunters – Observers_Watching_From_Afar
August 2nd, 2007. 1:22 AM.
Academy City, Japan.
Night had fallen. Her caress, her gentle kisses, coming in the form of the twinkling stars, bound forever within the sky; at least until they died.
She cloaked those who dwelled beneath her, embracing them as a mother might embrace her dearly precious child.
Those who looked to the night's protection, however, were not children. They were not desperate, and they were not needy. They were hardly anything like children at all.
Atop the pinnacle of a great hill, some few hundred meters from the location of a Cathedral that was so well known to the people of London, England, they did not stand. They were not even amongst the oxygenized air of the outside world.
Instead, they were in the rear cab of a truck intended to be used for moving furniture from one location to another in a timely and efficient manner. Bright orange in coloration, depictions of wildlife were splattered on either side of the truck, for reasons the party involved couldn't even begin to understand. Wherever the original driver of the vehicle had gone to, only one involved was aware, and he wasn't particularly concerned with the truth of the matter.
There were six of them, in total; six of them in the rear cab of this vehicle, at the very least. There were others, too, scattered about, their forms contained within the rear cabs of other, pilfered vehicles, of varying sizes, shapes, and models, as well.
Within the rear cab, a queer arrangement had been established. Runes of various styles, sizes, and shapes were etched into the silvery, metallic walls of the cab. They seemed to dot every surface of either side of the inner walling. Each individual runic pattern glowed a bright shade of green, as if it was 'online'.
Of course, such terms couldn't have been applied to the workings of magic, not even of the darkest kind in all of creation. "Online" and "offline" were terms best reserved for the heretical realm of science.
The irony of utilizing Demoniac Runes against demons didn't escape those within the cab.
"Why do they keep telling us what he's thinking?"
"I'unno. It's not something I'd consider as part of a creative decision…"
"No, me neither… just keep it going, I guess? Maybe things will get less weird."
Rising to his enlarged, malformed feet, each toe tipped with an unnaturally-sharpened talon – a talon it was, more than any proper toenail – the intimidating presence rose. Forced he was to physically lean forward, in order to prevent the top of his head from scraping the inner ceiling of the truck's rear cab. The others who were about immediately stopped what they were doing, ceased their whispering, and looked to him, as if his simple act of rising from his seat itself had commanded their undivided attention.
His name was Cain, son of Adam, son of Eve, brother of Abel, the so-called "First Murderer", and the so-called "Betrayer". He knew better. Those who followed his example knew better. The world may not have known better, but, they did.
After all, a brother possessed by the power of something so vile that it could taint even the kindest, most selfless soul and tempt them with thoughts of rape and murder and pillage surely wouldn't have minded being felled.
Cain's teeth were elongated, sharpened, like those of a beast, his flesh bright green in coloration, mottled and gnarled. With bright, silvery hair, white as a blanket of snow that might've fallen over a human city in the months of winter, almost absurdly long, tied back and held in a messy, unkempt top-knot, he was clad in darkened, simplistic trousers, bound with runic symbols that looked to have been stitched into the very fabric of the material itself. His legs were elongated, enormous, not unlike the trunks of particularly mighty and healthy trees. With a chest that wouldn't have been incorrectly referred to as a 'barrel chest', his arms were just as thick, and just as mighty as his legs.
He wore no shirt, nothing materialistic to cover either of his breasts, or the various enormous, jagged scars, each of which had seemingly scabbed over, leaving behind traces of their presence.
Upon his chest however, Cain's skin was marred by many, many cuts; unlike those that were elongated, seemingly made by blades, or, alternatively, by claws, these scars had a pattern to them. They resembled the alphabetical characters of some alien language, gnarled, twisted and unorthodox in their appearance. From his waist to his thickened neck, his upper body was covered in them.
Over his eyes, wrapped around the back of his head and riding the edges of his ears, was a blindfold, a simple piece of cloth.
He was not the lone bearer of a blindfold.
Those who surrounded him had obscured their eyes, as well. Some wore blindfolds as Cain did; others wore two eye patches, one for either eye, either bound to their heads with tightened bands.
Before he began to speak, he took in his surroundings. Truthfully, it'd felt like it had only been yesterday that he aided the Roman Empire in its self-liberation, from the demonic, a grand and truly epic battle, one which, if his ancient mind was remembering correctly, spanned a period of months.
Suddenly, he'd found himself in a moving truck.
Regardless of the stark contrast, Cain, the Betrayer, shifted his weight.
"My immortal children," Cain remarked, addressing those around him; extending his hand, he unclenched his elongated, gnarled fingers, their talon-like protrusions, where fingernails should've been pointing toward those he spoke to. In the palm of his hand, a simplistic shred of paper was placed, an equally simplistic, singular runic character inscribed upon its surface.
"Here yet we stand, together, as equals and as brothers and as sisters in arms. As many of you might know, I have never been one for long-winded speeches…"
This comment seemed to draw chuckles from Cain's audience, both from those who sat before him, and from within the piece of paper, 'broadcasted', in a manner of speaking, directly into the channels of his mind's thoughts.
"Immortal children"? That's kind of creepy."
"I think that was the intention though."
"Hm. Maybe."
"There are just over one hundred of you, gathered around me. Some of you seek revenge, as I do, some of you seek to sate your inherent lust for blood, the curse we are all yet haunted by. Some of you yet, are here simply because you feel this is the 'right' thing to do. As we differ from one another, so are we, in our common foe, united.
"United are we in knowledge, too. We know that all of creation will perish in Hellfire if we do not halt the machinations of the Father of all Lies. Our first step toward their ultimate destruction is to strike the deathblow to a great and mighty monstrosity, worthy of our time, and demanding of our effort. Renegade or otherwise…
"Again, there are just over one hundred of you, gathered around me. By the time Mother Moon has passed, and Father Sun has risen, there may be a quarter of that number left standing among you. Speak to me, my immortal children. How far will you go? Will you die for me? I will die for you. I love each and every one of you, with every inch of my heart. I will die for you."
One rose from his seat; having seated himself directly across from Cain, within the rear cab of the moving truck, he slammed his hand upon his breast, and nodded his head. Like that of his 'father', his skin was tinged a bright shade of green, his teeth more akin to the fangs bared by a savage, rabid beast in the midst of a particularly tough bout of combat. Of Japanese descent, short, white hair, as white as snow adorned his head, riding the tips of his ears, and gently stroking the back of his neck. Well-built, physically, his arms and legs possessed defined musculature, visible even through his simplistic outfit, consisting of little more than what appeared to be a mere bright red tracksuit. Like the trousers of his 'father', his outfit, too, was adorned in runic markings.
"I will die for you, oh father, oh Lord. I, Karasuma Motozawa, will throw myself to the mercy of any pain, of any suffering, if it brings us closer to the fulfilling of your Plan."
From within the shred of paper bearing the runic symbol, a particularly deep voice spoke, within Cain's minds, intruding upon his thoughts.
"I'll do whatever it takes to get the job done, boss."
That was as fine an answer as any.
"There they go again with that!"
"It's kind of silly, isn't it? We don't really need to know what he's thinking…"
All around Cain, those who'd been seated before him joined their comrade, who'd risen, as they rose, too, and they saluted their Lord, their friend, their equal. They spoke their feelings and they stated their allegiance.
Cain could not see it, but, in the rear cabs of other vehicles, scattered around London, England, close in proximity to a certain Cathedral, by the span of a few hundred meters, at least, they rose, and they saluted. Their verbal acknowledgements were enough to satisfy their Lord, the First Demon Hunter.
"Push ahead, we push towards our destiny. If all goes according to plan, the beast below will not even know of our coming. Forwards!"
With that, the vehicles, their interiors splattered with runic carvings, began to push forward. The vehicle in which Cain stood, however, reversed, away from the cliff, departing from the vantage point they'd held, which, previously, had offered them a near-perfect glimpse of a certain Cathedral, and the surrounding areas, the perfect roost.
Down a path laden with clumps of gravel, which, over a period of some many years mixed with clumps of dirt, originating from around the small sections of woodlands surrounding either side of the gravel trail, the vehicle travelled, bouncing and shuddering about. Beneath its tires, clumps of earthen material were shredded, like sheets of paper caught beneath the sharpened edge of a blade.
One turn, two turns, three turns; the turns were sharp, but, the Demon Hunter responsible for commandeering the vehicle masterfully, if slowly performed each turn well enough.
"These controls suck ASS!"
"D-don't yell! People are trying to sleep, I'll bet… good grief."
"Eheheh… s-sorry, you know how it gets."
"You and your Nerd Rage, good grief."
Downward, the vehicle travelled, down a spiral-like formation, a mountainous range, and one, which, if the lack of garbage strewn about was any indication, wasn't regularly utilized by individuals either lost or purposefully seeking out a destination in which they could hike.
Breaking free from the trail's hold, the vehicle descended, crunching the last remaining sections of gravel beneath its tires, as the physical transition occurred.
It hit a tree, shaking the form of all of those within. The vehicle backed up.
From gravel and clumps of earthen material to a smoothed-over section of proper roadway, those aboard the vehicle practically felt the change, and, with proverbially open arms, they welcomed it.
Dozens of vehicles, too, made their way toward their ultimate destination, just as that which held the Betrayer made its way. Some had been parked in the vacant lots of shops, long ago having shuttered the blinds of their windows, as their owners departed for their homes, after the fall of night. Others had been parked in alleyways, squished between two differing structures.
Regardless of where they and the 'contents' they held had been lurking, each and every one of them now surged, as quickly as they possibly could, given the speed-based limitations of moving trucks, towards their final destination.
Through the cobbled roadways of an upper-middle class suburb, the Betrayer's vehicle passed, commandeered by the ever-skillful drivers.
It was a matter of waiting. The plans had already been discussed, the mechanics of what, effectively, was a raid had been worked out, as far as Cain knew, in the minds of those who followed him. They needed to ask no questions, and needed to confirm nothing at all. They, more than living beings, were biological, breathing weapons.
It was then that the Betrayer spat a globule of his own saliva, tinged a bright shade of green, and bubbling, like a teaspoon of liquid pulled from a witch's foul concoction, onto the palm of his hand. The liquid, produced by his warped salivary glands bubbled further, as it made contact with his gnarled, emerald green flesh.
With his right hand's finger, he dipped, and, then, traced over more than one of the scarred-over patterns located upon his bared chest.
"I can see all of you, with my Phantasmal Sight."
The power commonly referred to as "Idol Theory" by those who utilized it worked its magic, both figuratively and literally.
On the underside of the Betrayer's blindfold, runes inscribed upon the cloth material, identical to that which had been traced upon his chest, began to pulsate.
Though, previously, he'd been more than capable of seeing beneath the cloth material of his blindfold – in fact, his vision, augmented by the power of the magic worked through the runes inscribed upon the material offered him vision superior to that held by any mortal human being – with the aid of the spell activated through the outlining, and, the subsequent activating of the rune, Cain could see all things.
In front of him, below him, behind him, to his left and to his right, his sight was omniscient.
He also saw his own death, a thousand times over. The Betrayer witnessed events which had yet to occur, or, potentially, would never occur at all, events that could occur, if a certain proverbial pathway was hypothetically walked, if a certain set of actions were performed.
There were no answers provided to the Betrayer, only visions. It felt to him to choose that which he believed to be 'right', even if what was right, in fact, was utterly and completely subjective.
Cain saw them, too. In the winding, twisting network of tunnels beneath a certain Cathedral, they lurked, walking back and forth, stumbling about, as if they couldn't see anything five feet in front of their faces. The servants of Lucifer were as stupid as ever, bumbling about in the darkness of the Cathedral's lower tunnels.
It was a wise move to place such monstrosities below. The tunnels, otherwise, were easily breached. Cain learned of this through his Phantasmal Sight.
Some were tall, with elongated legs, and similarly elongated arms, mouths filled with sharpened fangs, great, reptilian tails extended outward, from just above their posteriors, their forms clad in what appeared to be heavily-plated body armor. Others were larger, with great batwings protruding from their backs, just below their heads, neck-less, mounted between either of their broadened shoulders. Their arms were thick, like the trunks of the mightiest trees, and their legs curled backward, like those of a goat. From either side of their head, horns, like those of a ram protruded. Others yet floated about, without arms and without legs. Tendrils, like those of some eldritch abomination dripped, downward, from below them, and upon their singular forms, singular eyes were mounted, widened and wild.
Their Prey had reinforcements, evidently. Their Prey, either aware of the presence of those who hunted it like the animal it was, or, alternatively, having grown paranoid in its old age, seemed to have cocooned itself.
Were the humans, those who associated themselves with the group identifying itself as "Necessarius" aware? Perhaps they, too, were demons. Perhaps they were willing acolytes who'd sacrificed their very souls for foul power. Perhaps they were simply unwitting pawns. The Betrayer couldn't be sure. His Phantasmal Sight offered no clues.
"Enemies, are those actual enemies? DO WE ACTUALLY GET TO FIGHT SOMETHING?! LET ME KILL SOMETHING! This is giving me Vietnam flashbacks to "Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde"!
"Relax! It's never that big of a deal! You can be such a drama que— NO! NO TICKLING! GET OFF! NO FAIR! CHEAP SHOT! I TAP OUT, I TAP OUT! STTTOOOOOOooooOOOOP!"
Time passed the various groups by, as they moved outward and onward. Maintaining his Phantasmal Sight, Cain witnessed nothing out of the ordinary. Those few who remained within a certain Cathedral, even in the lateness of the hour, seemed to be going about their business, either unaware of or unconcerned by the presence of the demons lurking just below the Cathedral's floors.
From within the rune clutched in his palm, among the other voices, muttering to one another, some individuals discussing battle plans, others discussing less savory topics, a familiar, booming voice spoke its piece.
"Boss, are we sticking with the same thing we discussed before?"
"Quite."
"You think it's going to work? It's going to be that easy, you think?"
"Sometimes, the most obvious of answers is the least obvious of answers. We continue with the established breach plan. All signs point to this stratagem being superior to others. There will be no crawling through arcane passageways, no breaching of secretive vents, leading to some dank, unused janitorial closet."
"The only way to do it, then, is to just do it. Got it, boss; glad we're on the same page."
Just as the owner of the booming voice began barking orders to his fellows, the Betrayer nodded his head, once, and then twice, looking from his left, and then to his right, silently offering all of those with him one, final chance to bail out.
From within the rune, the voice spoke once more.
"Makes me wish Thepes was here to pull this thing off."
Cain merely grunted in response, before offering a verbal reply to what, surely, must've been some kind of slip of the tongue.
"Thepes has his own troubles."
Lambeth Palace zoomed by, just barely visible through the tiny windows, mounted within the center of either window of the rear cab's doors; glorious, tall, with many spires pointing toward the sky, as if the place itself was designed to reach out to God, himself, a place, in Cain's mind, that was altogether an unfitting location to be found sitting just across from a demon-infested cesspit like a certain Cathedral.
Then, as soon as it'd begun, as soon as control was handed over to the observers, who'd watched and commentated from afar, from beyond the realms of the universe in which Lord Cain, the Betrayer, sought to purge demons from a certain Cathedral, everything stopped. All things ceased to move. The sky above ceased to flow, its darkened clouds halting, immediately, in their steps, grinding to a series of halts. The world itself seemed to suddenly stop spinning.
One of two commentators and observers seethed, gritting his teeth.
Sitting upon the leather couch, situated some mere feet away from the television set, he felt the palms of his hands wrap around the extended 'arms' of his controller, either pointing downward.
There, in the decorated and homey living quarters of the small apartment which he'd come to share with his co-commentator and fellow observer of the events that'd come to freeze before their very eyes, he could've easily allowed himself to fall into the embrace of Nerd Rage.
He could've thrown the damnable controller, unleashed his fury, and cussed the Visual Interaction Entertainment Apparatus Gods until they'd eventually strike him down for his blasphemy.
Knowing his luck, if he were to very well do just that, it likely would've turned out that there were, indeed, Visual Interaction Entertainment Apparatus Gods, and, more than likely, they wouldn't have taken kindly to the vicious, mean-spirited and aggressive barrage of verbal insults.
He, Kamijou Touma, son of Kamijou Touya, a mild-mannered, if slightly over-submissive man, son of Kamijou Shiina, an otherwise lovely woman who could radiate the aura of an apex predator, felt more of his mother's unusual 'set' of 'skills' nearly within his grasp.
Misaka Mikoto simply looked at her co-commentator and fellow observer, her head tilted to one side. Aside from the fact that he'd fallen into utter silence, save for the quick, shallow breaths, which he periodically produced, Kamijou Touma didn't appear to be in any sort of distress.
Of course, she knew better. She'd been his partner in all things since late November of 2004, after all. Well over two years; she'd been granted plenty of opportunities to study her boyfriend's nuances, educate herself regarding the secrets he'd inevitably come to hold in that head of his.
There were two things about Kamijou Touma that Misaka Mikoto knew, for absolute certain.
Firstly, he was a dedicated partner, loving, tender, understanding, speaking firmly when both of them needed him to be.
Secondly, to him, video games were serious business. Whether or not they'd always been, the third-ranked level five esper couldn't be sure. They'd certainly become serious business.
It was then, as if, on command, the Imagine Breaker's Bearer set down the controller, and jammed his thumb down upon the bright, white-colored button, located in the center of the controller, for a few moments. This had the effect of powering down the console to which it was programmed to interact with. The television's screen faded out, almost instantaneously, leaving behind darkness. Floating in the electronic void was a small box, with text bound within it, reading, "NO SIGNAL".
"Fuck this game," the young man remarked, rising, and stretching his form, as he stood as tall as he possibly could. "They should make games that work, y'know? Charging ¥413 for a demo that doesn't work, I don't know what's happening to this industry. I remember when you bought something, and it just worked. None of this "Day One Patch" crap."
With a shrug of his shoulders, he uttered what had effectively become his catchphrase.
"Such misfortune."
Misaka Mikoto looked up at him, remaining wordless; same old Kamijou Touma, just a few inches taller, with a scraggily bit of peach fuzz upon his facial features.
Maybe she'd bother him about shaving it; after all, when she kissed him, she wasn't out to try and kiss the biological equivalent of a patch of thorny brambles.
Then, she joined him, rising; though she couldn't quite find herself on 'equal' footing with her boyfriend, Mikoto came close enough, even if she did have to stand tall upon her toes.
"Relax; it's not that big of a deal. You're tired and grumpy. Does the big baby need a hug?"
An impish grin stretched its way across the facial features of Misaka Mikoto; almost immediately, she became the splitting image of her devious-minded Sister, Worst.
Lowering himself so that their respective fields of vision fell onto equal proverbial grounds, Touma faced the Railgun, his girlfriend, for only a moment, their eyes locking for the briefest of periods.
Without so much as a few seconds' worth of further ado, he proceeded to playfully and harmlessly 'tackle' her onto the couch behind them.
The flurry of giggling suggested he hadn't overdone it.
Just as his arms found their way around her back, winding and weaving beneath his girlfriend's shirt, practically entombing her – an entombment which Mikoto welcome – she nearly buried the entirety of her face into her boyfriend's dark, short-sleeved shirt.
With Mikoto in his arms, his mind and body surrendered, proverbially waving the figurative white flag of a truce. Fatigue seemed to finally hit him, like a bullet train striking an invisible wall of oxygenized air, in its path.
With a yawn, Touma's eyes found themselves closing of their own accord, disobeying his mind's commands. Even as he actively fought back, the soft leather beneath his body's right side, and the softer, silky smooth skin of his girlfriend's back, visually obscured beneath her bright green, Gekota-themed tank top both dragged him further, further into the abyssal maw of slumber.
"Just sleep, you dumbass," Mikoto remarked, lovingly; despite her harsh choice of words, her tone of voice spoke volumes. It was filled to the brim, not with contempt or disregard, as it had once been, but full of adoration and friendliness.
A crimson blush began forming upon her cheeks, and across her nose; there was that urge, that dumb, stupid desire to go and say something that was beyond corny.
"Love you. When you wake up tomorrow, I'll be right here."
"N-no… b-break…fast? S-such… m-misfortune. Y-you're not going t-to make a very good… wife."
"Make your own breakfast; you don't look crippled to me. Dork. Now sleep, or you're going to be grumpy in the morning, and I won't put up with any of that from you, mister."
"Love you… too. S-so much. Tired now."
He left the plane of waking minds. Nuzzling him, Mikoto allowed her own heart's rate to slow.
She still wasn't absolute sure as to what it was, but, there was something about being near her boyfriend that seemed to calm her, lull her, even. Funny, given that she'd sought to turn him into a pile of ash when they'd first met.
Whatever would come to pass in the morning, Mikoto would face it with a smile on her face, and her head held high.