Disclaimer: All characters and locations belong to their respective owners.
8.
Illusion(S)
Mami awoke panting hard. She looked left and right, prodded the shadows stagnating in the room. Nothing was there. All was where it should be.
She relaxed and gazed at the ceiling. The vents rattled below the floor. The clock ticked. Birds twittered and tweeted, as merry as they come.
She turned on her side and looked at the clock. It was six, right on the mark. She sighed. She rolled away from the device, shifted under the sheets before she settled.
Time passed. The shadows retreated, the room brightening with the rise of a new day's sun.
Another sigh. She sat up, glanced at the green, digital numbers. 6:30 A.M. She stared at the blankets, kneaded the fabric between her fingers. A flick of the wrists removed them.
Her feet touched the floor. She shivered. It was cold. She pushed off the mattress and stretched. Joints popped and muscles pulled. She yawned, wide and soft and muted.
She went to the bathroom – refreshed herself, brushed her teeth, showered and toweled off.
She stared at the mirror. And stared. And stared. And stared.
She blinked, exhaled harshly. Thumb and forefinger pinched between her brow. She shook her head, gripped the edge of the sink.
She dressed. She sat at the vanity and combed her hair, curled it and tied it in familiar drill shapes. She set the brush down, grabbed the plastic sunflower clip. Fingers rubbed up and along the yellow, ovoid gem; slow, painstaking, reverent.
She smiled. She cupped it in both hands and stared at it.
A third sigh, a quiet sigh. She slid the clip in her hair and folded the metal pieces in place.
She turned on the television and made breakfast – French toast and scrambled eggs. She poured a cup of tea and sat on the tatami mat. She ate.
The television was tuned in to Crossroads Channel 10. A meeting or press conference was taking place at the police station. On the television, a broad-shouldered man spoke before a wooden podium. Behind him was a lanky, rail-thin fellow with narrow slits for eyes. He looked sour, as if he had bit into a lemon and did not like the taste.
She sipped her tea. It was very warm.
"…I am inclined to believe someone is out there who knows exactly what happened on the night of August twenty-fourth," the Broad Man was saying.
"Do you mean the person who called the 119 number?" a reporter asked him.
The Broad Man looked like he didn't want to answer that question. "Indeed," he said anyway. "Unfortunately, we still don't know who she is. The women we have questioned over the week have said they were not awake the moment the attack took place."
"How do we know the caller is female?" another person asked. "What if the person is male?"
"I can assure you, Miss Usagi's guardian angel is most definitely female." This was delivered by the Thin Man, who moved to stand next to his companion. "I answered the phone and relayed the young lady's message to the available units."
"Who's to say an attack ever happened?" some man's voice called above the ruckus of flashing lights and camera clicking. "You haven't found any credible evidence that supports your claims!"
"Tsukino Usagi has been comatose for little over a week," the Broad Man rumbled. "I have seen her myself, as have the Tsukino family and Miss Usagi's acquaintances."
"You refuse to answer my question! Where is the evidence, Officer? Is there something you're hiding that could possibly incriminate the investigation?"
"How dare you!" the Thin Man snarled.
Mami hummed. She swirled the tea in its cup, stared down at the liquid tilting and whirling like a dreidel on an anchor. She couldn't look away, it was so hypnotizing.
She wanted more tea, so she drained the cup and got up to refill it.
She set the kettle back on the counter and looked out the window. The parking lot was filled with an assortment of cars, trucks, and vans, broken here and there by a moped or two. The street was barren save for a trail of scarlet leaves tumbling across the pavement. A breeze stirred a heavy sigh among the foliage, causing branches to bend and caress the brick wall marking the property's boundary.
This place…Azabu Juuban…it was…smaller, tighter.
Mitakihara was so big…but it was so…empty. The wind turbines and expressway overpasses could swallow you whole when you least expect it.
But not Azabu Juuban. Azabu Juuban was safe, peaceful, free of burden and responsibility….
"We are not going to give up on this girl," the Broad Man was telling the gaggle of news-folk. "Mark my words; we are not going to stop until this person is caught. We will comb all of Honshu, all of Hokkaido, Kyushu, and Shikoku if we have to, but believe you me there will be justice. Tsukino Usagi may have only been the beginning, but we must do all we can to prevent a similar incident from happening and maintain our well-being and the safety of our children…."
And there were good people, too. People who cared, people who looked out for one another, people who made going through life that much easier.
Like Hino Rei.
Like Kaname Madoka.
The girl in the mirror raised a hand and fingered the sunflower clip.
The girl in the mirror frowned.
The girl in the mirror glared and glared, and she seethed until it seemed as though the action alone could break it, shower the counter with a million itty-bitty pieces.
Then the girl in the mirror awoke as if she had been in a daze, and she frowned once more.
Time passed.
Mami looked down into the cup. It was still full. It was cold and collecting condensation.
She glanced at the clock on the TV. It was a quarter to eight. She sighed.
She took the cup by the handle, held it over the sink, and tipped the contents down the drain.
If Mamoru were in a better mood, he would have taken his car and taken ten minutes out of his morning to get to Crown Arcade. Common sense would have prevailed at any other point in time and compel him to stop moping, there's nothing you can do, and save yourself the trouble of walking a half-hour from the suburbs all the way to downtown Azabu Juuban. Get with the times, his conscience said! People don't walk no more, it's the way of the dodo! Why ya gotta be that way, Mamo my man? Sit your can behind the wheel, key the ignition, and burn that fossil fuel! Burn that rubber! Screw the gas prices; this oughta make you feel like eighty-thousand yen again!
Mamoru told his conscience to stuff it, he wanted to walk, thank you very much. He didn't think he could focus driving, rather take to the street and travel the old-fashioned way without posing a threat to pedestrians despairing Usagi's invisible stalker was in their midst at this moment. Besides, it had been ten days since he'd last taken a good stroll. Might as well make it last while the weather was still tolerable.
He was in no hurry. Crown Arcade wouldn't open for another hour, but Motoki may or may not already be getting the place prepped for when customers started coming and the money rolling. At least he was keeping himself preoccupied, what with the pay raise he received upon being promoted to assistant store manager the previous year. A full-time position, longer hours, bigger checks, and so many other miscellaneous things to whittle the day away; unfortunately, that left Motoki with very little time to go visit Usagi. Mamoru wished he had his friend's kind of schedule; school and work could do so much until his thoughts meandered to his girlfriend and the helplessness stuffed among the stress-induced Styrofoam package peanuts.
He passed into the downtown area, wove in and out of the foot traffic on the streets. He lifted his head and was welcomed by frayed, yellow tape and a lone black-and-white sedan. He didn't dare draw closer, but he noticed there was no one behind the wheel.
He slowed his pace and allowed his gaze to drift. So this was it, huh? Four Guardians Park, named after the Four Saint Beasts: the Black Tortoise of the North, the Azure Dragon of the East, the Vermillion Bird of the South, and the White Tiger of the West. Each represented a direction, season, and was distinguished by unique characteristics. The tortoise represented strength, the dragon water and rainfall, the bird justice, and the tiger bravery. The few times he and Usagi came here on dates, he recalled seeing granite sculptures of these animals standing sentinel around the park's perimeter at their respective locations.
Why didn't they protect Usagi? Why didn't they materialize and drive the attacker away? Surely the Four Saint Beasts had to exist in some shape or form, even on a metaphysical plane. If they had protected her, she wouldn't be bedridden in the hospital, wouldn't have tubes in her arms and belly and Gods only know where else while friends and family and strangers alike held vigil like the Three Wise Men bearing their gifts on the journey to Bethlehem. She would be at his side, arms locked around his as they walked the stone path or dozed off on a bench as they basked in the sunlight filtering through the trees.
She could make the world brighter with a simple smile.
She could gather the shards of wounded hearts and put them back together again without the need for tape or thread or super glue.
She could….
Mamoru couldn't bear it. He tore his eyes from the park and willed his legs and feet to keep moving.
She couldn't do any of those things.
He kept to himself, hands in pockets and head lowered. He didn't bother to pay attention to the relative transition from quiet suburbia to raucous downtown until the grumble of engines caressed his eardrums and the number of pedestrians increased like a network of rainbow waterways interconnecting but otherwise flowing in different directions. He trudged along as if he were a man without a dream, a man who has little hope of finding his way home when he realizes he is lost and knows not where to go. He was only aware he had entered downtown when he stopped at the crosswalk and waited for the signal to cross to the other side to switch over.
After the light changed and he walked the distance to the next sidewalk was Crown Arcade in sight. Not much had changed in the five years it had opened – well, there was that incident in '11 when this guy was doing fifty in a forty-mile zone and he crashed his car into one of the building's windows because he floored the accelerator instead of the brakes by accident, but overall it was still the same place (plus a new window, but you wouldn't be able to tell the difference since the staff maintained the arcade every day).
Mamoru rolled his sleeve up and checked his watch. It was twenty past eight; that had to be a new record. Maybe he should have wallowed in his misery a little more, ah but no, he was a patient man through and through. It wouldn't do to break character and complain of long stretches in time with nothing to occupy his addled nerves but to stand outside the entrance and people-watch while growing increasingly agitated and impatient. Rudeness got you nowhere in life.
So, minus the addled nerves, agitation and impatience, Mamoru leaned up against the wall and settled in for when Motoki would unlock the doors and flip the SORRY, WE'RE CLOSED sign to OPEN. Motoki himself was bustling about inside, counting yen bills in one of the many cash registers (a procedure, his friend explained, that had to do with dropping money in a safe when the register exceeded four to eight thousand yen). Mamoru rapped his knuckles on the glass and flashed Motoki a wave, which the man returned when he realized who it was making that sound.
Mamoru turned away, but something caught his periphery as he was about to begin the ages-old waiting game. "What's this?" He twisted his body around until he was directly facing the window. "Puella Magi Magicka: Return to Zero?" It was a poster advertising a new arcade game, a beat-'em-up co-op "considered to be a spiritual successor to "Sailor V: Soldier of Justice!"" with "intense blood-pumping action" preceded by "Marvel vs. Capcom 2" and the Metal Slug franchise. The image featured five white silhouettes, each holding a weapon and striking various poses. The backdrop betrayed a dark and sinister funnel cloud circling above the ruins of a city. In the center of the funnel cloud was a beam of light and against loomed a large shape that looked hauntingly like (Mamoru took a moment to recollect his sparse video game knowledge) Copy-X's final form from "Rockman Zero". He had never noticed it on his visits here during the past week, so the arcade cabinet had to have been brought in while he was busy with school and work and driving to the hospital.
He noted with shamefaced amusement that the "Puella Magi" poster was blocking most if not all of the "Sailor V" advert. He choked back the laughter clenching at his gut. Minako was going to be pissed when she saw this. She'd vent to Motoki for sure, maybe slap him over the head a couple times with that foam "Minecraft" pickaxe she bought online if he told her he wasn't there when the game was delivered or some other excuse he was horrible at making. Poor guy, he couldn't lie his way out of a cardboard box. Mamoru uttered a hasty prayer for his friend's safety.
He could feel the smile tugging the corners of his lips. A small smile, but a smile nonetheless. It had been a while since he had last done that, he recalled.
He needed that. And he wanted more of it. It was what Usagi would have wanted.
The thought of Usagi resonated within him an ache in his chest, but he didn't waver. Didn't he tell his reflection earlier to chin up? Of course, how could he forget! But yet, his suspicions toward Officer Teguchi remained.
That killed his good mood. Mamoru huffed, leaned against the glass and closed his eyes—
("…Know that from the moment you made the contract you have sacrificed everything," said the white cat-thing. "This is the life you lead now. The life you lived before is gone. But be happy you are still alive! Not all girls who become Puella Magi survive the wrath of a Witch's hunger."
"Alive?" the redhead thundered. She snatched the thing by the neck and bared her teeth at its smiling face. "We're fucking zombies! You took our souls as payment for our wishes!"
"I asked you, Kyouko, as I've asked the others the same question as I posed to all girls before accepting the contract. Do you remember what that question is?"
"If I were to sell my soul to change one thing in this world, what would it be?"
"And each of you has told me what you wanted, the one desire you cherished with all your heart. You asked it, and in exchange for agreeing to combat the Witches I granted it."
"I didn't think you were being serious about the whole 'sell-your-soul' thing! None of us did!"
"You didn't ask. Besides, look at how well things came out! Sayaka wished for her friend to get better, now he's back in school and healthier than he was before the accident. Homura wished for her heart condition to go away, and it did; she doesn't have to take medication anymore. Madoka and Mami wished for strength to fight and protect the weak and their lives are no longer filled with pain and loneliness. And you—"
"Don't. Start," the redhead – Kyouko – hissed.
"You wished for all the people in your neighborhood to come to your father's church and believe in him."
"He knew it was magic! He knew it wasn't the Gods who answered his prayers!"
"But everyone believed him, didn't they? They believed him and loved him for spreading the teachings of the risen—"
"HE KILLED THEM ALL!" she roared, and she squeezed the cat-thing and shook him. "He killed them and killed my baby sister, my sister whose face I'm starting to forget! He set the only place I called home on fire and died laughing!"
"I'm sorry it happened," said the thing, "but you're still here. Aren't you glad you're here, Sakura Kyouko?"
"BASTARD!" She smashed its face against the alley wall, drew her arm back and smashed it into the brick again. And again. And again, until she could no longer see through the wet, crimson film. "YOU BASTARD! YOU BASTARD! YOU BASTARD!" She felt them tug and yank at her, their bodies wrapped around like a carnal embrace. Arms encircling her waist, hands clamped on an elbow, fingers and nails biting skin—)
Mamoru groaned and clutched his pounding head. He felt his gorge rise in his throat. His knees buckled and he put a hand to the wall to brace himself—
("Stop it, Kyouko!" There was a tug on her left arm, desperate and rough. "Let him go, you're killing him!"
She wheeled so fast and so sharply, and she caught a brief glimpse of Sayaka – the blue-haired girl – before her fist struck and Sayaka was sprawled in a heap on the ground. "Don't be a FOOL! He deserves it for all that he's done to us! If he hadn't waltzed in and made us the way we are, we would still be human! Still be mortal!" She glared at the bloodied cat-thing with its crushed skull and punctured face. Then she lifted her own dripping hand for the girls to see, and they wilted in despair.
"We would still be free!")
His stomach clenched, unclenched. Heart hammering away in its xylophone cage, pulse racing, sweat beading a trail down the curve of his jaw.
Oh Gods I think I'm going to be sick—
"Mamoru!" a voice boomed in his ear. Hands on his shoulders, the shifting of air marking a new presence. "Mamoru! What's wrong?"
Let go, his mind screaming. Let go.
Let go of the freaking wall! Wait, that wasn't him….
"Mamoru!"
"What?" he shouted. He spun about and prepared to shove whoever was holding him. Then he saw and he froze in mid-action, and his ire cooled like water on lava. "Motoki?"
"Mamoru?" the man asked. He dropped his hands to his sides, looking like he had just seen a third eye open in the middle of his friend's forehead. "Are you okay?"
"Y-Yeah," he choked. "I think so…."
"Are you sure? You don't look too hot."
"I'm fine, Motoki. At least, I think I am. I" he swallowed thickly "I don't know what came over me. I was waiting for you to open the arcade. I was standing by this wall" he gestured to the glass and the Puella Magi Magica poster "and all of a sudden I…no. No, it's not real. None of it is."
"What's not real?"
"Sailor V's not real, therefore Puella Magi aren't either. It's just a game. There's no talking cat-thing, no Witches, no soulless magi…."
"Mamoru," said Motoki, steady and concerned, "maybe you should go home. You know, lie down and relax. Take it easy."
"What am I saying? You must think I'm going crazy." He ran his fingers through his hair and exhaled. "It must be all that television. I've been watching too much of it lately. All you hear on TV are murders, rapes, burglary, job cuts; oh and there's Usagi, who everyone is talking about every minute of every gods-forsaken day, but what am I supposed to do about it? What can anyone do about it? There's nothing we can do to help her—"
"Mamoru!" Motoki clapped his hands on Mamoru's shoulders, hard and powerful like a mallet.
"What?" Mamoru snapped, voice pitching high at the end.
"It's going to be okay."
"Huh?"
"I know it's taking a while. I know people are getting angry. I am, too, but…everything will turn out alright." His features softened and his grip slackened. "It may be some time before we get answers, but the police will find them. I know they will. So, have a little faith in them? It's not going to be solved in one day. But it will. Eventually."
Mamoru deflated. "…Maybe you're right. I'm sorry," he removed Motoki's hands with joints flaked in rust, "I didn't mean to go off on you."
"Hey, no need to be sorry. It's in our nature to freak out every now and then." The good humor in his smile vanished, replaced with puzzlement. "But…what does Puella Magi Magica have to do with Usagi?"
Mamoru hesitated. How should he put it? "Motoki," he began, "you know of my ability, right? The psychometry?"
"You mean the one that makes you see and do all sorts of things when coming into physical contact with an object?"
"Yeah. I mean the psychometry, not that game and…look I'll tell you, but I seriously doubt you'll believe me."
"…Okay," said Motoki. "I'm not sure where this is going to lead…but I'll give it a shot. Why don't we take this conversation inside?"
"That would be a great idea, Motoki," Mamoru replied. He didn't care what time it was, how long he'd been struggling keeping his breakfast down and his sanity in check. Relief was flooding through his veins like a shot of extra-strength performance enhancer. "In fact, it's the best thing I've heard all day."
But the worst is yet to come, a voice whispered silkily in his mind. This is just the beginning.
No. No, it wasn't. This was as bad as it was going to get. Nothing more.
You're kidding yourself if you believe that. It's early, but give it time. The day will come. Hell will be more than happy to remind you of what – and who - is at stake.
And how would you know? He spat as he entered Crown Arcade. What are you, psychic?
Better. I'm a repeat offender.