TŌMA AND MIKOTO shot up in unison to a noise that shouldn't have been there. Some stupid electrical glitch had ruined their moment together. What misfortune. Tōma rose up groggily and stepped over to the fence and studied the three-story building across the way. A group of workers in heavy coats stood impatiently in the parking lot beyond the front door. The alarm was loud and annoying. Some of them plugged their ears with their fingers. Tōma shrugged.

"Nothing," he said.

"You sure?" asked Mikoto. "No one would pull a prank this late, and electrical bugs in the alarm system are almost unheard of."

"Well, it wasn't you, was it?"

Mikoto folded her arms and frowned. "I think we ought to check it out."

Tōma supposed that Mikoto said that out of some odd sense of moral responsibility, that she needed to make sure everyone was safe or else she would regret her inaction. Or perhaps she said that out of a sense of duty as a member of Judgment. Either way, Tōma wasn't about to argue with either her request or her reasons for making it. That additional X chromosome wrought an unforgiving, unyielding side to anyone who happened to possess one. He struck down the fleeting thought, rolled his eyes, and sighed. "Alright," he conceded.

No sooner had Tōma finished his sentence than an unholy boom erupt from beneath them. The windows on the first two floors of the other building shattered outward and shards of glass rained down on the icy pavement where the crowd stood. The ensuing shockwave knocked over the workers in the parking lot and activated several car alarms that blared in dissonance with the fire alarm. A wave of fire spumed from the basement and pushed upward against the first floor like a giant palm. Somehow, the foundations of the building held firm, but it would only be a matter of time before they capitulated. Tōma and Mikoto gaped at each other in a brief moment of confusion and then sprang from their paralysis.

They jetted down the stairs and raced across the street to the fire that was now an orange pillar. Smoke billowed toward the sky in a widening column. Even from a hundred feet away, they could feel the heat stinging at their skin. The workers had already retreated to the parking lot and were spewing strings of panicked syllables into their cell phones.

Good thing they're calling for help, thought Tōma. Because there's not much else we can do.

A middle-aged woman clawed at her cheeks as she cast an unrelenting gaze at the conflagration. She gasped in short, staccato breaths.

"What happened here?" Mikoto asked her.

The woman wiped the sweat from her forehead and turned to her. "I-I don't know. I-I was just filing some papers when I heard the fire alarm. I got out as fast as I could."

"How long was it between when the fire alarm was pulled and when the fire started?" asked Mikoto.

The woman shook her head. "I don't know. I'm sorry."

A young man with a bright, red cut across his forearm stepped forth. "It was about three or four minutes," he said. "Plenty of time for everyone to get out because no one was working on the third floor tonight."

"Are you alright?" asked Tōma. "What happened to your arm?"

"Just a scrape from a piece of glass. No big deal."

Tōma nodded and looked back. The building whimpered as the fire ate away at the supporting pillars. All the windows on the third floor burst at once, and smoke sprayed out from where the glass used to be. Tendrils of flame followed and clung to the outer walls like ivy.

"What kind of work were you doing up there?" asked Mikoto.

"I was just catching up on some work in the office?"

"Who do you work for?"

"Judgment. 51st branch. Why?"

Mikoto didn't respond right away. She held her chin for a beat and then looked back up.

"Did you see anyone on your way out who doesn't work here?"

The young man shook his head. Mikoto, disappointed, reentered her thoughts. Ripples of heat pulsed forth with every breeze. The blaze had seared a smoky essence into the air.

Tōma's hand landed on Mikoto's shoulder. "Mikoto, who's that?" He pointed at the fire with the other hand.

She turned back. Out of the blaze, a black figure darted out of the front doors and toward the parking lot where Tōma and Mikoto and the rest of the workers stood. A trail of ash swashed about in his wake. The tails of his trench coat fluttered in the wind. As he drew closer, the contrast between the figure and the fireball behind him closed to naught, and Tōma finally recognized the face in the photograph but tinted in a grotesque ochre.

Tōma shielded his eyes from another wave of heat. "That's…"

"Him!"

The running man slid to a halt as a brilliant bolt of energy unleashed from Mikoto's palm and landed inches in front of the tip of his boots. The bystanders turned to run. The man splayed his fingers over his chest to catch his breath. The towering pyre he no doubt ignited continued to burn. His coat was spotless and showed no evidence that he had been scorched or even singed. How strange. He was tall, much taller than Tōma had envisioned. His glasses were missing, but the calluses on the bridge of his nose were still shiny like polished pebbles. He was unmistakably the man in the photograph.

"Stay back here," Mikoto whispered.

"You sure?"

Mikoto nodded. "I'll handle this."

Tōma reluctantly stood in uneasy anticipation and watched Mikoto make slow strides toward the man. Tōma could make out a faraway gaze in his eyes beneath his wiry hair. He was stoic, like a death row inmate clinging desperately to his last mote of dignity before the firing squad pulled the trigger. Several streams of sweat rappelled down his face and met at his chin to form a single large bead that dropped on the pavement. He lifted his hand and ran his fingers through his hair. A reluctant frown constructed itself on his lips.

"Dante," said Mikoto, "you're hereby under arrest for arson and the attempted murder of a student."

"Is that how Judgment spun it?" He didn't flinch. He glanced up and then refixed his eyes on the ground. "You look familiar. Light brown hair, Tokiwadai uniform, no coat, so you must be either a pyrokinetic or an electromaster." He paused. "Misaka Mikoto?"

She didn't respond.

"I've seen you on T.V.," he said. "Look, you don't want any trouble, I don't want any trouble either. How about you just let me go here, and you'll have my word that I won't be a bother anymore?"

Mikoto snickered. "You sure underestimate me, Dante. You're coming with me, alive or dead."

Dante seemed disappointed that Mikoto had said that. Perhaps he was disappointed because he would be forced to fight and lose to Mikoto and then end up in prison. Or perhaps he was disappointed because he would be forced to fight and win and then regret it for another reason. Tōma licked his lips and prayed that it wasn't the latter.

Mikoto drew a hundred-yen coin from her pocket and held in front of her. The worn edges of the coin caught the orange glow in the distance. "Hey, do you know what a railgun is?"

Dante said nothing and did not look up.

"Also known as an ultra-electromagnetic cannon, it uses Fleming's principle of motion to fire bullets."

Mikoto flicked the coin up and discharged two parallel bolts of electricity from her fingers. The hundred-yen piece launched from her hand in an orange beam and shuttled past Dante, inches from his temple. Again, he didn't flinch.

"Will you surrender?" she asked.

Dante finally glanced up at Mikoto. "Do you know what Ohm's law is?"

"Huh?"

"It basically says that an electric current will follow the path of least resistance. I can heat the air around me into plasma, and that'll divert your electricity away from me."

Tōma dwelled upon his words for a moment. Plasma was just gas heated to such a high temperature that the atoms lose their electrons. The free electrons make plasma an excellent conductor, and since an electric current will always follow the path of least resistance (or the path of better conduction), the electricity would travel wherever the plasma lay since it's a much better conductor than air.

"As for your railgun, that's a simple matter of changing velocity. You can fire your coin at five times the speed of sound. I can slow it down to zero before it hits me."

Mikoto lowered her head. Sparks crackled from her eyes.

"Do you still wish to fight me?" he asked.

Mikoto swung her hand forth in an arc. A bolt of energy discharged from her palm and streaked towards Dante. Just before it struck, the energy veered away at a ninety-degree angle and seeped harmlessly into the ground. Another two bolts surged at him and were deflected by the same invisible wall. Dante never moved.

"Mikoto!" Tōma shouted. "Be careful!"

She clenched her fists and a layer of black iron powder lifted from the pavement. The iron assembled into a column and began to rotate. A buzz like a circular saw eating into aluminum emitted from the ensuing tornado. Loose pebbles danced on the ground like jumping beans. The pillar of iron extended high above Mikoto and arched forward. Dante looked up just in time to watch it crash into him.

Mikoto refused to exhale.

The pillar burst like a stick of dynamite, and pellets of iron shot outward in every direction. Tōma swatted away a stream of iron as it flew at him and it drilled through a nearby car in a clean hole. From the source of the explosion, Dante raised his hand and a jet of wavering air issued from his palm.

"WATCH OUT!"

The superheated air sliced through the bits of iron and toward Mikoto. She raised her hands instinctively and the pulse of air knocked her several feet backward into the concrete. He was quick. Before she even hit the ground, Dante was upon her.

Tōma blinked. Half a breath escaped his lungs.

Dante's fingers wrapped around her wrist.

Her eyes dimmed. The color drained from her cheeks. She trembled, terrified and nauseous. He released his grip, and the third ranked esper in Academy City plopped soundlessly onto the pavement. Her eyes were hollow.

"MIKOTO!"

The sound of her name boomed into the night and was then drowned out in its own echoes.

Dante turned sadly to Tōma. They locked stares. Something terrible began to sprout in Tōma's gut. His insides felt like a furnace. Rage rippled from his core. He felt like blood would gush from every orifice in his body. At Dante's feet, Mikoto lay immobilized but breathing.

"Get lost before you get hurt," said Dante, almost whispering as he turned to walk away.

Tōma clenched his teeth and lumbered in heavy strides at him, nerves tempered. Sweat in his eyes, wiped it off. Dante glanced over his shoulder. He threw a disappointed look at Tōma and swung his arms out. Tōma lunged, right hand in front of him, and a bolt of electricity met it in midair. Dante's eyes widened. A fist penetrated the wall of energy and connected with his mouth. He stumbled back, refusing to collapse, and rubbed his jaw. He grunted and forced a jagged frown, bone on bone. Sparks danced between them.

"Nice punch," he said. Only part of his jaw followed his muscles as he spoke. The rest of it gnashed against his tissue. "Quit while you're ahead."

A useless request, thought Tōma. He must have known it too.

Tōma launched himself again at Dante, but this time he skipped back and avoided his swing. Tōma's arm hung heavy and outstretched in front him. Dante stepped in and snapped his knee against his gut. Silvery spittle shot from his mouth. His diaphragm twitched from the blunt impact. Dante's elbow connected with the side of his head, and Tōma struck the ice. His brain thrashed in his skull. He could taste blood like molten iron frothing in his mouth. The ice felt cold against the nape of his neck. Tōma rolled over and slowly stilted himself on shaky legs. He held a hand over his stomach and grimaced between irregular breaths. His head hurt like hell. Dante massaged his jaw and waited for his opponent to catch his wind. The blaze continued in the background. The alarms weren't ringing anymore. He didn't know when they had stopped.

"Your right arm is interesting," said Dante.

Tōma huffed in shallow turns. He wiped his forehand with the back of his hand and fixed his stare on his opponent. Dante's trench coat fluttered in the January chill. Tōma tensed his legs. Loose snow brushed against his face.

Mikoto, he thought. Mikoto, he thought. He pounced.

A cruel breeze.

Blood splashed on the snow.

Perhaps he didn't think it through enough. Perhaps he was too blinded by rage to do so. Either way, he should've known that Dante expected him to attack him again. Should've known he would respond with a perfect counter to the chin. Now he lay paralyzed in the icy gravel, helpless as he stared into Mikoto's swollen, wet eyes, an image he would carry with him for the rest of his life. He wanted to go up to her and squeeze her and never let go, brush the tears away from her face, tell her that she was safe now and that it was all over. But his body refused to listen. This man had utterly defeated him.

Dante's shadow, blacker than black, crawled over his body.

It was impossible to move. Everything was numb. He tried to curse at his body for failing him, but the vowels perished before they reached his throat.

"Your right arm is interesting," he said again, squatting down beside him. He picked up his limp hand and then frowned.

He stood up and wiped his hands on his coat as if he had just graced a dead man. "It seems I can't borrow your abilities. Your ability negates mine."

Tōma only grunted. The taste of blood lingered in his mouth.

"It seems like you were given this ability for a special purpose that is far above me. I cannot possibly kill you here, and I never planned to."

Mikoto whimpered, lost in nausea. Dante looked at her and then back to Tōma.

"Who is she to you? A friend? A colleague? Perhaps a lover?"

You dare talk about Mikoto? Don't even think about it….

"Listen, I have no intention of keeping her ability. But I do need it for one last thing. After that, you'll never see me again."

A stray draft swept in black, smoky flakes on to the parking lot. The sound of fire trucks whining in the distance was a welcome noise. The column of smoke and embers billowed into the sky; all of Academy City could see it. It was both a trophy of Dante's victory and a symbol of Tōma's defeat. Dante let the moment drag on as if to taunt him. Tōma could only curl his fingertips and grunt while the moisture on the ground chewed at his elbows. Dante massaged the bridge of his nose and turned away.

"I'm sorry," he said. "Tell her that she'll be alright. I hate it when girls cry."

Those words hung in the air and then with Dante, dissolved into the distance.

Time passed. Whether it was an eternity or a moment, Tōma could not tell.

Mikoto was above him, sobbing his name, pleading for him to wake up. She looked like a ghost.

Please stop crying. Tears weren't made for girls like you.

She caressed his cheek with her hand, warm and soft. Men in fire gear ran past her. Red and blue lights flashed just outside his field of vision. Everything was going swimmy.

You'll be alright. You'll be alright. I'm sorry I worried you. Forgive me, oh, forgive me.

Mikoto calling out his name, remote and muffled, was the last thing he remembered before blacking out.