"Yakumo Tsukamoto?" came a big, friendly voice from just inside the door to the office whose waiting bench she was seated on. "You can come in now. It's safe."

She smiled a little at that—not at the poor attempt at humor, but rather at the man's voice. It was deep and powerful, and reminded her a little of the Chief Editor at her first place of employ, with Harima—a veritable giant of a man, by anybody's standards, but a good man nonetheless—if you ignored how downright frightening he could be. (She had never really given up her suspicion that the Chief Editor's primary function was to scare the pages out of any artist who claimed to come up short).

She stood, folding her hands underneath her legs in an almost automatic motion that she had never really lost, and then straightened with them clasped in front of her tightly; it was something to do with her hands, yes, but it was more than that; it was something to do with her head. She felt herself wringing her hands just a little as she entered—already slick with a sweat wrought from nerves—and forced herself to stop. Another thing to do with her head.

The Chief Editor's office was a fairly dismal place, which only reinforced her suspicion that maybe those who filled the task were a little off-human; poorly-lit and cluttered, it bore all the adornment of a bachelor's hovel, despite the fact that the Chief Editor made more than twice what she would make. The only thing even remotely humanizing about the place was that most of the clutter was manga—rough sketches, submissions, and near-final products, spread around his desk, on the floor, on two of the three simple wooden chairs in front of his desk, all pockmarked with post-it notes bearing scrawled memos. She kept her hands clasped to prevent herself from reaching out to touch them—whether to straighten them or just …touch them, she didn't know—and bowed as soon as she was in the door.

"Reporting for my first day of work, sir," she said gratefully—and she was grateful—"please take care of me." Straightening up, she met his eye—he was a fairly small man, actually, no less than fifty years old, with a weathered, friendly face, and he smiled at her, rubbing his back with his left hand.

A moment of silence, and then he laughed until he could catch himself. She kept herself from frowning by clutching at the hem of her blouse—a fresh bout of nerves washed over her when he laughed, maybe because his laugh was too genuine, or maybe just because that was what you did when demons laughed, even old, friendly demons: You got nervous.

"Sorry, sorry," he said, straightening his face. "You're just...not quite what I expected." Well, at least there was one person who didn't pretend to remember her face—she was quite sure, after a moment of studying his face, that she'd seen him at her first interview.

"I'm…sorry?" she said, not relieved.

"You're very young," he said. "You'll find that most of our editors here are a little older, and a little less…polite." It was true—she'd heard somewhere that most copy editors were in their thirties, at least, coming out of a writing career, or an attempt at such. It wasn't awfully unusual to see one fresh out of university, but it wasn't unlikely that such a man might be surprised by one, either. "The demons over at Human Resources told me they were sending me their most qualified candidate still on the market, so I expected somebody with a few more years and a few less teeth…I guess that was my mistake, eh?" he laughed again, and this time, Yakumo couldn't help but smile with him. She found herself liking the man's friendly, open demeanor immediately, and she could even start to see the horns retract a little. (Though she still thought a little that calling the Human Resources people demons was a bit like the pot calling the kettle black).

"Yes sir," she said. "But…"

"But you do have experience, I know. Over at Jump, wasn't it?"

"Yes sir."

"Mmm," he said. "Well, in any event, you'll be working differently over here than you were over there—you were a blanket editor for two or three smaller serials over there, if what they told me is right."

She nodded, and her hands clutched a little tighter. This was the part she was afraid of.

No, "afraid" wasn't the right word. She didn't fear this. Her stomach didn't tighten in fear.

It tightened in anticipation. She was choosing her seat in her first university class for the first time all over again, wondering if anybody was going to sit next to her
(any boys)
or if they would all sort of … keep their distance.

"You'll be working under a single artist here, and an experienced one, at that. You'll be serving as both his assistant and editor, which sucks, and I'm sure you haven't had to do something so crappy since you were an intern, but in fairness, I don't really think he'll put you to work as an assistant—he's always kind of spurned the idea of having one, so your function will still mostly be as an editor."

"Oh," she shook her head fervently, "I don't mind; this is the only thing I have to do, so I should do it, right?"

He paused for a moment, looking very distinctly like he was mulling something over in his head, and for that moment, there was only a mute, tense silence.

Then he burst into laughter again. She pulled back, a little unnerved. He regained himself shortly, and bowed his head a little in apology.

"I'm sorry," he said, still giving the little faux-bow. "Just…that was exactly what he told me when I tried to tell him to stop sending his assistants away."

He…

That doesn't mean anything. There are lots of male manga-ka.

And yet, it did, and she knew it. That river was always moving, always sending her forward, and she could read it like a book. Not telepathy, she had lost that long ago, but she could still read it, clear as day. Clear as a river's water. But still…

She steeled her nerves. "He?"

The voice that answered her—not her, really, but him, the editor—was only a shade familiar, but it was familiar nonetheless.

"Oy," it said. "What is it, Nishido? I'm shit-beat, so please make it fast, if you don't mind plugging your ass for the day."

"Harima," said Nishido, the chief editor said, laughing as though the man hadn't flung an insult his way (and maybe he hadn't). "You have, as always, arrived just in time to avoid being punctual. This is your new editor, and, I hope, assistant, Yakumo Tsukamoto. She's only been…" he kept talking, but Yakumo stopped hearing him.

Her hands dropped to her sides, not clutching anything anymore, and she felt herself turning to face him.

She had been right.

The river was undeniable, after all.

Yakumo had lost the ability to see people's thoughts when she'd lost her innocence. It was her second year at university, and she had gotten to the point where the loneliness and the separation from her sister had become an almost unbearable combination.

But that wasn't all, of course. It never was. There was also a boy. A cute boy, and kind. She could see his thoughts, but they belied no falsity, no ill intent. He was, in fact, a complete gentleman, sweet and gentle in every way she could think of—though, she would later find out, not every way entirely.

And so, being as they were in university and Yakumo did indeed eventually allow herself to become enraptured with him, she eventually took him to her bed. They made love, and the first time it was painful, as it often was for girls, but also exceedingly gentle. She did it with her eyes closed—an intuition, perhaps—and when she opened them again, she could no longer see his thoughts, floating above his head in neat characters. For a moment, she panicked, certain that he hadn't enjoyed it, had hated it in fact, and her too. It was a panic that gripped her until the next day, when she realized that she could no longer see anybody's thoughts, including those of the professor who had leered at her so intently—and with so many grotesque things floating above his head—the day before.

It was actually a relief for her. There were things you never wanted to see, and if one were to make a list of them, other people's thoughts would top it. Especially your lover's, because no lover was perfect, just as no love was perfect. The sex would have been the most dangerous—men especially often had difficulty not considering their entire sexual history during each independent encounter, but Yakumo didn't know that. She suspected, of course, but in the end, she had learned the dark side of a person's thoughts the same way everybody else did: She was told.

Their relationship lasted about a year and a half, and it was good for about a year of it. All the things they did were completely, entirely new to her; the intimacy, yes, but also the …companionship. The companionship from somebody who wanted her; she loved her sister dearly, but she was still human, after all.

Her lover—she didn't like to think of him by name, only as her lover—had had one major flaw that she could see (or rather, that even her "love goggles," the sober man's equivalent to beer goggles, could not blind her to): He was fiercely opinionated, and vocal, around those with whom he was well acquainted. This was not uncommon at a university, but it was generally also not an issue with them. It was a surprise, the first time he began to argue with her, because he had been so gentle and soft-spoken until that point, but after a brief discussion which Yakumo wanted nothing more than to end, they came to a resolution—that he was right, namely—and it was never spoken of again.

Their one unresolved quarrel between them was that of Yakumo's sister. He thought she was overly dependant on Tenma, that she sheltered the girl too much, that the two would never be able to live (he had a very specific idea of what living entailed, and heaven help the man or woman who challenged it) without overcoming what he called "separation anxiety." When Tenma broke her leg during her third year at the ski resort, Yakumo left a day later than "as soon as possible." The delay was due to an argument which lasted almost two solid hours, one and a half of which were essentially her lover berating her for wanting to abandon her schoolwork and rush to her sister's side.

That was the only time Yakumo could remember raising her voice in anger to another person. She told him that she would do anything for the girl who "sheltered" her and had kept her from going insane and breaking down after their parents left, and that he was an insensitive fuck—also the only time she could recall swearing in anger—for not understanding that. She told him that she was going, and if he said another word to her before she returned, it would be the last he ever spoke to her.

Maybe he thought she was bluffing, or maybe he was just too stupid or stubborn to think about the consequences. Maybe the heat of the moment caught him, or maybe he just thought it was an angry lover's idle threat.

His next word was "If." It was his last, as promised.

She turned and left, and hadn't seen him since. Yakumo made no idle threats.

Tenma was fine within the week, and it felt to Yakumo as though the chimp that had been on her shoulder for so long—watch yourself, Yakumo. Don't say anything disagreeable, Yakumo. You wouldn't want to start anything. You wouldn't want to get him upset—had finally vanished.

It felt good. Damn good. She hadn't seen him since, which, while painful at first, started to feel pretty good itself after a while.

She hadn't seen anybody's thoughts since then. Little by little, she learned that she didn't have to. Over time, she began to feel the tug of that river that some people called fate, others called destiny, and a select few called ka. Felt it babble around her ankles, pushing her gently but undeniably. Gradually, after more than a few mistakes, she learned how to follow it.

And now the river had pushed her here. And all at once, she couldn't feel it anymore.

"Eh?"

Nobody had ever accused Kenji Harima of being quick on the uptake, nor of having fabulous mental acuity, but surely...

I don't look that much different, do I? Or did he just …forget?

"I…mouto-san?" Kenji blinked. Once, twice, and then a third time. I thought she…with animals…then does that mean...

He understood at once after that. "Nishido," he said, his voice grave and serious, and a little consoling—as best as he could make it, anyway. "I understand completely."

"Mmm?" Nishido said. "Yes, as I was saying, Ms. Tsukamoto here will--"

"Is your dog alright?"

Nishido stopped, and gaped at him, and now it was Yakumo's turn to stifle a laugh, her face lighting up as she clamped a hand to her mouth to muffle the sound. Which left Nishido completely lost.

--

A/N: Kind of an abrupt ending, I know--I don't really think I could go much further without going WAY too far, which I don't want to do right now, with my first round of midterms creeping up on me.

But hey, if you liked it, or even if you didn't, think about dropping me a review and telling me what I can do better, or what I can keep on doing. I'm always open to comments, and I've a good record taking people up on them.

Thanks for reading! Expect other characters to start making appearances in the next few chapters. I'm not sure how this is going to unwind yet, but I'm excited to find out.