The boy snorted, tossing back the dagger without care.
"Why should I need to 'eliminate' a troublesome devil . . . "
He cupped the bare emerald, teardrop-shaped amulet between two hands, rubbing it like a magic lamp of a Thousand Nights.
". . . when I can do everything in my power to her in this state. So she's in here, huh?"
The boy grinned down at the amulet with a sadistic hunger, evidently thinking evil thoughts, but it seemed impotent and untrue.
Katsuragi turned to look back, but found no trace of the being in the darkened ruins of the library.
Neo-Hellian Almachina was a typical portable pastime that many devils were familiar with. It was a game played between two players, on two adjacent circular boards with a blind boundary placed between. Each player would have three or more equal number of pieces to play with. Each player would then use these pieces to attack an area where they thought the other had placed theirs, hoping to eliminate a piece there in the process.
The game represented a battle between Neo Hellians and Old Hell.
That was what common demons of today knew anyway. A pastime for idle moments, a battle of luck and wits, as Specialist Nora, his current enemy and the rest of the specialists thought. Just a little game.
To Dokuru Skull, and to some other remnants who yet remembered Old Hell, the new, toned-down game was a caricatured reminder of bloodier games before. Of those he would but tell the littlest half-truths, shrouded with a mystique that made the younger devils assume instead of ask further. No one really wanted to know what the magi represented, or what a pseudo-turn really meant, or if one could fire off magics so blindly as in the game.
The key to the game, as many rightly thought, was in knowing how to read one's opponent. How one would react to having his piece get a narrow escape, or if their piece was destroyed would give a brief glimpse on the type of devil the other was. And to a devil, sometimes that one glimpse was enough.
But since everyone eventually thought of winning this way, the games naturally devolved into a type of staring contest as each player guessed this attack or that, barely trying to rein their own expressions in while desperately watching and understanding the other's.
Admittedly, it was hard to display emotion if one's head were a literal skull, and only the briefest flares of light in the sockets gave the impression that Dokuru existed. Were it not for that, he would be mistaken as one of the squad's own detection devices, which sat by the multitudes on every member's head. The sockets considered the multicolored circle in front of him, on which three figures were strategically set. His magi was damaged, and it was Nora's pseudo-turn. The self-proclaimed genius looked smug, but cautious. She didn't stop staring at her superior.
Outside their little cubbyhole of a conference room, the skyscape of Hell smouldered, muted flashes of light illuminating the ever-troubled sky. Now and then there were brighter flashes of neon, casting a rainbow glow on the devils' faces and making them seem lively, but these soon dimmed into dullness. This travel hub was one of those closest to the human world, magically speaking. Dokuru and the specialists had just returned from the human realm, and they whiled away their travel delay to the Far Eastern HQ on a Runaway Spirit squad official outpost in here with a mini-tournament of the game. No demon here denied it them because Dokuru was Section Chief, and this Section in effect, was his.
The machine was placed on top of the long, table-like surface, with Dokuru sitting on a chair on one side and his current opponent sitting on the other. The other specialists, some defeated in previous games, some awaiting their turns (for the outpost had only one game machine, regrettably), watched the game with a mixture of detached boredom and resigned tiredness. Some were writing up drafts of their full reports on their raiments, absently scratching places on their bodies where just recently, they'd had strange protrusions and growths that had faded after the spirits had been safely sealed.
The assortment of wings, horns and tails had faded after the initial trip to this travel hub, and Dokuru took the time to have each bewildered devil record their appearances on their raiments and submitted to him immediately. Each had stared in wonder at their temporary bodily changes (with the exception of Nora, who bore it all her usual pomp), probably thinking how such a transformation was possible. Then again, they were devils.
Nora luxuriously twirled a finger, calling out her next attack during her real turn - which missed any of Dokuru's pieces. He took the time to express relief on his voice as he announced the attack's failure, before clicking the button to "pause" the game. Nora made a sound that nearly sounded like a growl, though she did sit up properly as Dokuru turned his attention to the others.
"Specialist Nu-Faryun, what is the latest status of the two targets?" About two human days had passed since they had arrived at the hub, and about a week had transpired since they had left the human realm for Hell. Nora kept on staring dubiously at him. Dokuru flashed her a smile, then turned back his attention to Nu-Faryun.
A round-faced devil (whose head had transformed into a pumpkin-shape with devilish purple vines) cleared her throat, using her raiment to display a temporary screen. A series of different status images were displayed, before they tuned in to a news report stolen from a human TV station. The quality was dull and grainy, but the human speaking to the screen was distinct.
"As to the first, the human known as Nakagawa Kanon, there have been no relevant changes and no noticeable behavioral discrepancies that would indicate a reopening of the gap," the specialist said. The facts weren't all that unexpected; and realistically, secondary reports would be trumped by the strength of the Great Sensors. If there was a reopening, the magically imbued dishes would know first.
"Can you understand what that human's talking about?" asked one specialist who sat primly on a far chair (she had sprouted hideous carapaces and pincer claws), looking pointedly at the screen where the nervous-looking man yammered on about something.
"Let me pull out the translator index," said another devil, keying into her raiment with a few precise hand motions.
The single temporary screen bloomed and grew, unattaching itself from Nu-Faryan's raiment and rising to the center of the room, slightly above the game machine. The specialist drew up another screen, this time showing another image, this time of the so-called "library" that had been damaged in the second runaway spirit's release. A blanket memory modifier gas had been released into the school in the aftermath of the captures.
". . . many fans are now wondering what could have ever happened to cause the normally cheerfuly Kanon much distress . . . "
"Personality profiles gleaned from Member Hakua's reports are right on line with the surveillance we are having, and there has been no noticeable symptom of reopening. However it IS difficult to tell with these kinds of humans without a closer look." The specialist looked to her fellows. Nu-Faryun knew herself not to be good at human behavior. And by the looks on the others' faces, they weren't too.
"I think we can have Member Hakua confirm it for us," she stopped and added, "when she recovers." There were nods from the others before some of them looked back at the game.
"And what of Member Hakua herself? Are there any indications of danger?" Dokuru pointed his skull up at the floating screen, where there was a crowd of similarly dressed humans rallying and carrying effigies and small doll-figures of Nakagawa Kanon.
"She. . . hasn't reported in yet, so we would assume that she is still in the process of recovery. As to the latter, her replacement devil reports no new Spirit activity in her district. Though, there are concerns that some of the inquisitive imps have used the opportunity of being summoned to escape, as well as some reports of seal instability – she's had to close off most of them."
Dokuru made a humming sound. Nora snorted, (she had grown the traditional bat-wings and horns look), tossing her ample hair in the air, breaking the silence she'd imposed on herself since the game began. "How foolish of that devil to risk her corporeality for the sake of a capture. She should've been thinking of the consequences of her rash actions, and take responsibility! A true devil would have looked for alternatives! A true devil wouldn't have crippled herself willingly. And using those unsavory imps! Could she not have used her own power?"
"Now now," Dokuru lightly chided the bristling devil, who had been incensed that Hakua had actually succeeded in capturing two spirits at once – even if the specialists had lent a hand and she had risked her life towards the end of the operation. In spite of all that, Nora kept blaming Hakua's inexperience and poor judgement, going on and on about her faults loudly, something which the others bore with exasperated stoicism. "It was all Hakua's decision. I'm sure she understood the responsibilities her choices gave her. We shouldn't be dwelling on past successes, no, not even the failures. Here and now is our goal; you devils have no idea how much dwelling on the past will probably have you all thinking backward. Triumph and failure must be swallowed alike, like tonnic on a bad Hell-day. What matters now is that two Runaway Spirits are finally on their way to Hell, where they shan't trouble the mortal world anymore. And I believe that we as Runaway Squad members ought to value that fact."
Dokuru pressed the play button, ending his one-sided banter. A hush fell on the room. The game was restarted.
OoOoOoOo
"Now, just now, I know that I'm happy, cause you're here with me. . . "
"Hey hey, prez, do you got the latest scoop on Kanon-chan?"
"C'mon, we need it!"
A troop of students, mostly frothing boys but also some concerned girls surrounded Chihiro's desk, and she struggled to maintain the composure of her office against the horde. Truthfully, she hadn't brought her usual fix of magazines because she predicted this exact situation happening.
Finally shouting with some choice swear-words, she had the crowd back down, explaining that no, she did not have any further news about Kanon's latest funk.
". . . you, just you, is what I really need, and all the other thought means nothing to me. . ."
"Do you really have to stop by the library?" Ayumi asked. She was still in her school uniform, as her club activities had been suspended because of necessary repairs to the field; the ground had been ripped up and becoming uneven and unusable by some freak occurence. With no upcoming match, their advisor had called off the practice, which irked Ayumi a little.
"Hey now, exams are coming up, y'know? What I can get in the library is free trivia, and it's probably just what I need to trump that idiot Otamega!" Chihiro grinned.
"Really, well I could use some sleep. I had a hard time studying for today's quiz." Ayumi yawned slightly and stretched her tired muscles. It wasn't that she was dumb, or stupid or stubborn when it came to class. She just didn't have time to focus on it after a hard afternoon's workout when all her limbs screamed at her as she plopped onto her bed.
"If that's hard for you, how're you supposed to trump the both of us when exams come? Not that you ever did, of course. . ." Chihiro continued off-handedly.
"Hey, that's cruel!"
"I'm just saying, hehe." the class president stuck her tongue out playfully, her hands held out in mock surrender.
Ayumi glanced with tired exasperation at her friend, thinking on her strange, one-sided rivalry with one Keima Katsuragi, the only one she could never beat. Katsuragi . . . Unconsciously, she clasped her fingers behind her as they walked to the library.
"Love is the word I really need, cause all the other thought means nothing to me . . . "
The library was currently undergoing some repairs to the roof and sections of the wall in some parts of the room, leaving piles of books stacked near the librarians' desks while the shelves were unusable. There was a constant hammering and screeching sound coming from the workers, who each looked bored somehow. One of them yawned.
The two friends gave the scene a cursory glance as they headed for the nearest desk.
A pair of eyes watched the work going on with a gloomy resignation from behind a nearby shelf. They were being too slow! Meanwhile these books were in danger of being hopelessly thrown away! There'd been talk of just converting the damaged space for the A-V section after it would be repaired.
She had firmly (and loudly) voiced her disapproval.
"Excuse me, you're a librarian here right?" Shiori turned, somehow suppressing the urge to yelp in surprise, to see two girls looking expectantly at her, one with an earnest glint in her eye.
"Uh, yes! Can I . . . . assist you in some way?" she squeaked. She almost wanted to reprimand the girl for being so loud, though she knew how useless that seemed with all the repairs going on. She stifled an urge to yawn. All the worry was making her tired.
"Yeah, would you happen to have some good recommendations for-"
". . . Cause all the other thought just makes me realize . . . ."
"You lowly thrice-damned whelp. WHERE is the Lord of Change that brought you?"
"N-no, I was summoned by the mistress-" the darkness tightened around the imp's throat. "I speak truth! T-truth! Th-this unworthy one was summoned by the hated W-Word! No Great One summoned me!"
"If that were true, then why can you, a devil, afford to exist here? Has the Seal been lifted?" "It" demanded.
"S-seal? Th-this humble one knows of no s-seal. . ."
"How can any devil know not? Are you but newly spawned?"
"Yes, the mistress-"
The inquisitive imp ended up telling this presence everything. Afterwards, it found itself consumed.
"Poor fare, but it is flesh."The presence started to recede, its voice fading like the end of a bad song. "Is it fortuitous then, that I awaken now? . . ."
Aoyama Mio looked around. She was sure she'd heard a strange voice. The blonde thumbed her hair against her ear nervously when she saw the nearby alley, and grasping the sheafs of "now hiring" papers tightly to her chest, she ran, not wanting to risk an encounter with some lowlifes or worse at this time of day.
". . . .By my side, by my side, by my siiiide, stay by my side, by my side. . . "
"Non-chan! Kanon-chan! Kanon-ch-"
Their voices, which would have given her the energy to push through another performance, wear her throat raw for another advertisement, another voice-acting stint, her sleep diminished from late nights of planning with the manager and practices, or answering fan-mail and scribbling autographs; all those voices now seemed distant.
They worried. Her manager – even the entire crew - was worried. The loyal fans looked at her and it seemed like she'd been wheeled into the emergency ward of a hospital, preemptively diagnosed with a fatal illness. They feared for her, their idol, but they didn't dare go near her.
Last night, she'd fumbled with the microphone on stage, and her fans laughed it off together with her as she did a quick cute jig with her hips to appease their worry before going back on track. Her mind told her she was tired. Her heart, well-
That was problematic. There was nothing wrong with her heart, in the metaphorical sense. It only hurt once in a while when she passed by her beat-up beatbox in the corner of her dressing room, and she wondered what the new arrival was doing there; and it hurt a bit when she sat memorizing the lines to her new song, because when she asked who had written the lyrics, her manager had looked at her kind of oddly and said it was hers.
But it wasn't hers, as far as she could remember. When she put voice to the words, there was no familiarity there, just the same odd feeling she always felt when she sang her other songs, as if some ventriloquist had put the words in her mouth. But then the uneasy feeling would wash over her then, and then it would feel as if her heart were being pulled in many directions.
"By my side, by my side, stay by my side . . . " she hummed, grinning and waving energetically at the cheering faces. The song was almost over, and she was determined not to screw it up.
" . . . Tell me that you're mine, you always kiss me instead of lie . . . " After all, it wasn't like she'd fallen in love or any other cliched thing right? Well, it wasn't like she was forbidden to go out with someone, but her manager had said it would be better if she didn't have one, for now. So, definitely not that. No way. She'd have known if that was the case, she convinced heself.
The last lines in the song number were accompanied by the music gradually slowing then stopping. She stopped her gestures and put the microphone close to her chest solemnly. ". . . everything we went through'd be just a waste of our time . . So I'm writing this for you-"
"Oh crap, did Nakagawa forget the lines again?" Kanon's manager silenced the tech crews with a glare. She stood and narrowed her eyes at the idol's image on the screen, which had seemingly stopped even as the music reached its conclusion. "It's no good, bring out the emcees, tell them to go on and do the-" She stopped and listened, as did the silent audience, when Kanon said the final words, her head bowed and her face veiled by her hair, and even the bright lights couldn't illuminate them.
"And I'm writing this for me . . . and it's full of thanks and tears and a little bit full of you . . ." No good, there it was again, like in the practice sessions, always that heart-wrenching chill and she didn't know WHY! "This song will almost end, but that doesn't mean us too . . . " Tears shed and unshed dwelled on her eyes, and Kanon almost choked on the very last words, ending the song in a wet whisper
" . . . well, just in case someday you come to me and say hi."
OoOoOoOo
"It's like her light's diminished or something," said a man beside her. She ignored the bickerings of the rowdy boys next to her as she turned away from the images of Nakagawa Kanon's latest performance.
"The fuck- you going deep on us again?" the uncouth-looking companion sniggered, then puckered up his nose like a pig, making a snuffling sound. "You sniffing the funny stuff or something?"
"Shut up, I'm just speaking from the heart, like Kanon-chan always says. I'm a fucking fan alright? She's been like that ever since. . ."
She walked purposefully, but dutifully away from the district, her long black hair billowing behind her like a cape. Her hands were clenched primly in the shape of a fist, as she had always been taught to do, her sleeved arms straight at her sides. .
She paused on her long walk home, stopping on a bridge where she leaned over the edge to watch a pair of cats play with each other on the grassy part underneath. She spent some time watching their little play.
As the sun sank even more determinedly into the west, she continued on her way. She saw a group of girls in the same uniform as hers cross the street some feet before her, and she frowned slightly when she saw them crossing into the seedier parts of the district.
"Hey cutie, wanna hang out with some cool guys?" Leers greeted her as she coldly walked past, coming from twisted, lecherous faces squinting at her body. At first, she ignored them, but-
"Now cutie, that's rude, aintcha a student or something?" She could almost feel their breaths on her back, even though they were some feet behind her, sauntering after her as a confident group. "Us boys're just concerned, what with a girl all walking home all alone. . . We'd be happy to escort ya." Bugs, the lot of them. She stopped walking, instead watching their shadows come up on the ground below.
"I don't need any 'service'," she intoned slowly.
"Hey c'mon, we ain't exactly charging for it, it's free-"
"I meant-" she continued in a louder tone that oozed a razor's edge. "that you should use what wits you have left to go away, you poor excuses for bugs."
Another second voice piped up, amused, "Aw fuck, she's one of them highbrow types. I think it's time you do your thing, Yanda. Give her a good poke." One of them guffawed darkly.
The third, slightly muscular man shrugged, and walked on over with his arms uncoiled. She looked over the back of her shoulder at the advancing man, her gaze taking on a resigned light.
There was the sudden sound of wood being chopped, and the man toppled to the ground with a pained grunt, his feet having been swept out from under him smoothly.
"I think we got us a fighter boys," one, no two of them were now brandishing pocket retractable knives, and they stepped over the groaning form of their friend. She could almost see the slobber in their open, grinning mouths. "This should be fun." She faced them silently and resolutely, as a tree stills before the breeze. She watched their movements with a practiced eye. When they lunged, she did too.
There was a grace to her movements as she expertly weaved under and behind the one who came first, allowing the second one's blow to slide past her and cause him to stumble against his companion, before she again dodged the next blow, her hair dancing in the afternoon chill. The boys all fell down in a disgusting heap like a pile of disturbed refuse.
She glared down at the fallen pile of bodies. It had taken all but five seconds for her to do her work, if she'd counted. To her, it had been a really short skirmish. She raised her hand, unclenching it. She hadn't even needed to attack; she'd used their energy against them.
"Such weak creatures . . . " she declared while departing, ". . . not even worthy enough to sully my fists!-"
It was almost the hour of twilight when she finally returned to her home. It was her family's ancient home, regal, grand and vast, that not even time could shape itself upon the old-fashioned roofs. She walked past the series of buildings, treading swiftly over the small crafted bridge that went over the pond to the main house. Above her, some birds chittered excitedly on the autumn-touched trees.
She could smell burning incense from far away, and she realized, with her stony expression dissolving, that there would be a lecture. She swiftly made for her room – running was forbidden in the hallowed home – to change her clothes into something more formal – before heading for the main practice hall.
"Young heir, you are very nearly late," intoned the august, booming greeting of aged voices speaking in concert, as she slid the wooden door open. The sound came from a group of figures sitting primly along a line, their distinctness shrouded by copious amounts of the burning smoke. As usual it caught in her throat, almost always urging her to cover every orifice in her face or cough out, but she couldn't. Not here, not now.
"I deeply apologize for my indiscretion. I shall take any punishment that you see fit." She prostrated herself before the assembly, her body bared and her robes in a messy pile behind her. In that quick motion of subservience she had also removed the pins that had tied her hair to a bun, so now they were splayed on the polished wooden floor.
"You must listen, for now." A single voice said, she recognized it as her uncle's, "The signs have been gathered, and the signs have been interpreted, and a conclusion has been drawn. An ominous time approaches. Our Ancient Enemy walks once more. We have sensed it."
Ancient Enemy? She thought she'd been summoned for more instructions concerning her work, or something connected to her dojo, of which she was the Master to many unruly, weak students.
Though, she was only the Master to the public eye. As the sole remaining heir to the Kasuga-style Martial Arts School of the Life-and-Death technique, it was her responsibility to manage the flock of weaklings who converged on the school and wished to learn her family's arts. She was undoubtedly the strongest practicioner of close-combat fighting in Majima and the surrounding cities, having won many tournaments where she promoted her school.
But privately, the title of Master still belonged to her father and the group of forebears that made up the secret council, who hid behind masks of senility and disinterest in the art. They were the Masters and she was the One Heir, and the primary student for the art.
This art had been taught to her since her childhood, even before she'd been taught the Kasuga-style. It was an Art of the discovery and destruction of demons.
"Know this child, the tenets of the Kasuga, we who are the descendants of many noble clans of demon-hunters. To know the demon, you must be as human as you can be. To destroy the demon, you must yet be as human as you can be."
The Masters said that their family was an offshoot of offshoots, descended through fractious bloodlines from the demonhunter clans of antiquity. Over time, the Clan had developed its own style of hunting, even incorporating it into the auxilliary Life-and-Death style they had invented. It was said in some scrolls she had been made to read that all of Majima had once been the property of the Clan. She did not bother to guess when that changed.
The finer bits of demon-killing had been taught to her through the years, but the knowledge of demon-finding had yet to be taught to her. That was why she had still to lead a double life, as she'd always imagined, fighting demons in dark, deserted clearings or in dilapidated buildings at night. She figured it was because there was no cause to teach the heir, when there'd been no sign of the demons to speak of. Not when she'd been told her father and her father's father hadn't faced a demon at all in their lifetimes.
A voice that crackled like logs in flame continued, "It is unfortunate that it becomes so. The Clan had hoped to shield you and future generations from the advanced techniques of our branch, but it seems that will no longer be the case."
"It is disturbing to discover the continued existence of the demons," said a voice that she recognized as the raspy baritone of her father's, "But as the ancient agreements still bind our family, we are obliged to do our part as a Clan. Kusunoki, it shall be my duty now to teach you everything the Clan has to offer, as it is now yours to seek the presence of demons – and destroy them. The prized techniques of the Kasuga will be your tools, and our tenets shall be your guide. "
"There are ill tidings afoot," cried the first voice, "The strength of the Kasuga shall be needed should the demons come to Majima. Young heir, you are the only remaining vanguard, and so all our strength must, alas, be placed on a single man. The lone defender of this place where steel reigns in nature and a time when people do not know the darkness. You know your responsibility in this."
"I understand, Masters. I shall give my body and soul to this endeavor, to defend Man and the Kasuga name." She remained prostrated, letting the words out with the fervent insistence expected of her.
"Well spoken." There were grunts of approval all around. Then there was the sounds of shuffling and footsteps on the polished wooden floor as the Masters retired to their quarters. A single set of steps walked past her, and she heard her father's voice strictly say, "Get up, Kusunoki. The training shall begin this weekend. I trust you to arrange for the rescheduling of any future classes in the dojo."
She waited for his presence to fade, and as the sliding doors slid shut, she stood and put her robe back on. Kusunoki Kasuga spent some more time sitting properly in the darkness of the room, with the only sounds coming from the incessant chatter of the night citizens and her own deep, steady breaths.
OoOoOoOo
It was a quiet afternoon outside Cafe Grandpa, the brisk silence only intermittently broken by the snip-snips of a garden shear, and the occasional chimes of the entrance bells.
"We hope to have you again soon!" The Katsuragi Matriarch beamed and waved at the last customer. She had personally escorted the student out to the door so she could stretch her limbs after a long day of service. The coffee-ground smells wafted out from behind her, mixing with the scent of freshly cut grass and shrubs and the late afternoon neighborhood. She took a deep breath of both while she stretched, before looking around for the source of the snipping.
The grass at her feet were precisely and uniformly cut, attesting to the gardener's compulsions. She walked over it all on her way to the back, where he was crouched, finishing up his task.
"Keima, it's already closing time, I need to go prepare dinner. Is there anything specific you want?"
Thankfully, the boy wasn't secretly doing his stupid hobby on the side, or she'd reintroduce the PFP-tossing Olympics to her stubborn son. As it was, Keima turned his head at the sound of her voice and ceased the cutting. The boy placed the shears on the ground and wiped the side of his head with a damp cloth while he stood to rest.
"I've got no particular preference, mother, so it's entirely up to you." He cocked his head, realizing a thought. "But you know that. Why are you asking about it again?"
"Well since you've been such a nice and cooperative son today, I thought I'd reward you with something – even if what you want is going to be maybe something different." Keima had indeed been in a rare helpful mood the whole day, helping with the dishes after meals, offering to clean parts of the house for most of the day, and not objecting when she indirectly ordered him to trim the green outside by complaining about the gardener.
She only figured it was all because her crafty son had something in mind, something to ask her for at the end of the day in exchange for the meek compliance.
"Well, I've no preference, as usual. And mom, you're wrong about me wanting something. Today?" Keima spread his arms, indicating the green, no hint of sarcasm in his voice, "What's wrong with me being the model of a perfect son?"
Oh how her son could smile. It made him almost seem angelic, if she didn't truly know better, how she felt a devil rinning just beneath the surface. She supposed if it wasn't to ask for something, it was probably because some other things were making him indisposed to doing his hobby, and the subsequent boredom was enough to make him do the chores.
It was a chore to think things like this, she knew, and so she walked back to the house, wiping her hands on her apron as she shook her head, smiled and thanked him in turn. However, before she could re-enter the house, her son's voice stopped her.
"Oh by the way, I'm going to be gone for almost the whole day tomorrow, just thought I'd let you know. 'Gone early and back late' or something like that. So you probably won't need to prepare my lunch." She craned her head to see Keima nod to himself and crouch back to finish his task.
So there was something, she thought wryly. But then- "Keima, you do things like go on midnight walks and whole-day excursions the whole time," she called back to him. Keima stopped again and turned to look back at his mother. "Why are you asking formally now? You're always going on ahead without my permission, with not a single word to me about the where or when. Seeing you this polite makes me think there's something more to this 'day'. I don't know, heh, it's probably just me being paranoid." Was she?
She thought she could see a look of hurt, or resentment, or something flash in his eyes when he looked away for that brief moment, she couldn't be sure, she was too far away now to tell. But it passed like a small cloud revealing the sun, making it seem her imagination, because Keima laughed heartily the next moment, gesturing with the shears in defeat.
"You're right. It's way too weird to be formal like this. Anyway, it's good to be informed for once though, eh?" Adjusting his glasses, he turned back to his interrupted work.
For her brief moment of worry, she stood pursing her lips at the sight of her studiously working son. She shook her head slowly, brushing off the concern from her mind ,because she knew Keima was grown enough – though to her he hadn't reached the point of grown up – but again, he was at least grown enough to be rightfully out of her radius. God knows she was quite younger than him when she started exhibiting her own rebellious stance towards her uptight parents a lifetime ago. Though Keima was hardly taking after her mother, because he chose a different rebellion.
The Katsuragi matriarch hummed an oft-heard, jaunty tune, her thoughts on the next dinner. Oh why did Hakua-chan have to choose the time to follow her insufferable son's advice and head for her country's embassy . . . There were a lot of things she could still teach their newer family member.
The last thing she heard before the chimes welcomed her back into the warm interior were the repetitive snip-snips of the shear and the annoyed syllables coming out of her son's mouth. Pausing inside the doorway, she shook her head not for the last time as she went on to prepare the meal.
OoOoOoOo
Cheating was possible and quite acceptable in the game. In fact, it was even encouraged, as one of the tactics a player could use to secure victory. It demonstrated one's manifestation of demonic cunning to use whatever was on hand to deny the enemy a victory.
Of course, since the Almachina was reintroduced to the demonic masses, there were rules put in that rewarded the demon who caught their enemy cheating, adding a new dimension to the figurative staring contest that the game could devolve to.
It was thus prized, again, to have a poker face, which Dokuru had in spades.
Nora's last attack had really missed, but his announcement of it seemed to have convinced the proud specialist that he had lied, and so she was spending Dokuru's pseudo-turn glaring suspiciously into twinkling eyesockets. For his part, Dokuru was considering his next move: whether or not he would capitalize on Nora's paranoia or continue with his pre-planned strategy.
Should Nora call him out, the machine itself would be the judge, and should she be false, she would automatically lose. A fact that seemed to gnaw on Nora's proud exterior, giving her fellow specialists a rare glimpse of a flustered Nora.
"How much longer is this going to take?" said one member, who sat with knees drawn up (she had turned into a vague horned-toad thing). "I'm sooo hungry. . . ."
"Nora should just raise the whites, I mean, she is fighting the Chief himself." Nu-Faryan offered nervously to the others, who each made small noises of agreement.
"Silence! Did I ever ask for your opinion?" Nora snarled, without raising her eyes, keeping them desperately peering into Dokuru's face/skull to find a betrayal of expression. Along the way she had summoned her weapon of office, though many wondered what a single club could do to a Section Chief of the Runaway Squad.
"Ah, should I order the takeouts now and have whoever loses later pay?" offered another member. There were ready murmurs of assent.
"There will be time for a victory feast when victory itself comes!" Nora rapped her club on the table lightly, though its size made it sound like she'd slammed it. "Or else it will all taste like bitter ash in my mouth – which I know all of you have tasted more than once." Nora was the only one who giggled at her joke – there were sharp, cold glares from most of the specialists in the room.
Dokuru made his move, consigning his last remaining piece to another place, but chose to play defensively, reserving his energy and refraining from attacking on that turn. It was now Nora's turn, which he announced to her with the crisp warmness of his demeanor, his little boned hands steepled on the table.
Nora (wisely) chose to forego using the turn to call him out, and sank into her pseudo-turn with frenzied eagerness. "I'm sure I won't miss this time! I know exactly where you'll be sir!"Nora cackled, rapping her club excitedly. Dokuru thought he could see the silhouette of the thing she'd become during the mission, horns and all.
"So hungry~~~" the rest wailed.
OoOoOoOo
As usual, Keima spent his proper waking moments "meditating". If one did not appreciate the beauty of 2D every morning, the attraction would slowly vanish, and further down that road eventually lead to transforming into a righteous cynic who hated these types of games- and games in general. He'd observed the symptoms occur to people he never met but who voiced their stories through the 'net, and that, he thought, was good enough evidence. And so to stave it off, he perused a set of CG pictures, captioned by himself. They were the favorite scenes from his games, chosen because of their sentimentality and significance to him, the Capturing God. They were like trophies of hunted game, except this were trophies of his conquests in games, reminding him of his elevated status as the Capturing God.
Keima next started stuffing cartridges, peripherals and PFPs from a pile neatly prepared from the previous night into a bag. He periodically paused to consider the gamepacks he was putting inside, and some he returned back to their proper places on the shelves.
"Katsura-chii? You're certainly early-yah." came a disembodied voice that only he heard. It came from the glowing amulet around his neck, and it sounded like a childified version of Hakua de Rotto Helmium's normally annoying voice- complete with its own version of a language.
And that was because it was her voice, to an extent, originating from a being that was supposed to have trapped herself inside his conveniently ready amulet, possessing it like a deranged spirit as he'd glimpsed on some movies his mother had watched.
"We've been through this," Keima muttered to himself. To an outsider, it'd look like Keima had finally reached the cracking point. "I told you yesterday that today would be a special day. A special event, so to speak. And you're not allowed to talk at all throughout it, unless there's an emergency of Hell freezing over or something." Because hearing that voice again and again everyday was already a glimpse of hell.
"Ah-cha, I dyoo remember-yah. . . " There was the sound of yawning, and the amulet flared a brief heat, making Keima flinch. "I 'member ya menshyaning it, but I'd have tyoo ask again-yah: who is it ya'll be meeting-yeh? Ya nev'r did answer that one-yah."
It's just an old friend, eh nii-sama?
Shut up! Keima quashed the second voice to the back of his mind furiously. Hakua's current condition had, aside from creating awkward questions from his mother, added another disembodied voice to his head, joining the old one that on bad days, always made him wonder whether he'd already gone cuckoo. On other days, it was just plainly annoying, urging him to do "it".
"It" having become slightly more difficult do, what with the constant feeling of being watched by a pair of devil eyes.
"Katsura-chii?" asked Hakua, a tiny bit of concern creeping into the voice. He didn't know how it looked like inside that amulet, but apparently the she-devil could see and hear whatever was going on outside. He supposed it would be unnerving to see someone stare off or glare daggers into space for no apparent reason.
Keima visibly stirred, ignoring the unnerving echoes of laughter in his ears as he shook his head, "It's nobody that would concern you. Most of all? It's none of your business."
"Well exchuuse me for want'ng tyoo gather infermachyon on my Buddy-yah," huffed the voice. "Nyaledge isn't power, right -yeh?"
"In this case," Keima loudly said, testing the weight of the bag, now zipped shut, "I don't see how the knowledge would give you – or me- anything. Besides, you'll be spending the entire day getting to know all about it, and by the time the day's over, I'm thinking you'd see how it's not that relevant to you after all." Keima then started changing into his clothes.
You tell her, nii-sama.
Did I not tell you to stop speaking? Keima's eyelid twitched a fraction, assuring him that he was indeed close to a breaking point. "Though come to think of it, today would be some sort of Hell for you, she-devil." He sifted through several stacks of printouts, searching for something. "If you consider endless, boring human-speak to be Hell, at least. . . Ah, here it is." He folded the paper, reopening his bag and inserting it between the cartridges.
"Are ya cherious-yeh? Ya subjiyecting me t' tortyur by conversation-yeh? Oh-cha, woe is me-yah." Hakua said drily. Although she meant her statement to be sarcastic, her modified voice made it sound like she did mean it, as a child who'd been caught with hand down the cookie jar.
"Well, I'll be going," Keima mumbled over the threshold of Cafe Grandpa, allowing the early morning chill to waft over his snugly suited form. Grasping the bag, he closed the door silently, allowing the chimes to sound ever so softly. Keima paused for a bit after the door closed, listening beyond for a hint of his mother coming down. After a while, he shouldered his bag and set off.
"Wait-cha, have ya eatan, Katsura-cchi yeh?" asked Hakua. There was a hint of disappointment in there, combined with something akin to indignation. "I don' fyeel anythin' coming therooh th' bond . . . "
"Fixing somethng up would have woken Mom up back there, and I didn't want to spend another hour waiting for food while she interrogates me about my plans." Keima breathed, retreating even further inside the warmth of the folds of his clothes. "It's nice that you're worrying about my body, she-devil, but be assured that I'll be eating something when we get there." He frowned, recognizing the sudden, familiar surge of warmness coursing through him, along with the incessant pleas of that other voice. It took some of his reserve willpower to banish that. Not that he wanted to spite the devil or anything; he was hungry.
"Ya nyaw-cha, if I am ever t' rec'ver my form, a littel help would be nice-yah." remarked Hakua. "As I've explained-cha, what passes for eniyergy in thiyat b'dy of yours giyets shiyared wit' me, allowin' me to buil' up enyaff to raef'rm- yah. And everry bit of eniyergy comin' in is hiyelpfu', yoh! It is painfully borin' bein' cuuped up insayd here . . . and I still have lots of peyperwork to ketch up with when I get out-yah." The voice sounded genuinely distraught.
"Should've thought of that before roping me in. . . " Keima said in a whisper, eliciting an "Aha-cha, I heard dat, yoh!" from the she-devil. Bracing himself against the constant breeze, he pulled out his PFP and peripheral headphones, though he thought better of it with the second one, as having a voice speaking insults directly into your brain while you spent some quality fishing time with a heroine wasn't part of his definition of fun. He'd already had enough of Hakua contemptly commenting about his two-timing plenty of 2D heroines ("They're exclusive routes! Mutually exclusive-!") or scoffing at the use of magic in some games. ("-and they not ev'n usin' coamand ruunes? What kigh of undissipline' magic is dat- yeh?")
Keima rubbed the fingers of his free hand together, displeased to find them moist.
OoOoOoOo
Ultimately, the best way to win the Almachina, as many experts continuously discuss and debate, is by forming a plan of attack from the very start, preferably by the time one is challenged to play the game. It is then assumed that this scheme transcends whatever tactic or technique would be used within the game, beyond the likes of "first-turn determinants" or the Naberian gambits. A strategy is quietly formed in the mind of the devil as they analyze their opponent, and the extant branches of strategy lead on from there. A particular group of devils in the Near West attest that the mere act of declining or accepting a challenge is itself a strategic goal, though not many devils ever took the statement seriously. Declining meant automatically losing, so that was absurd.
Almachina was just a game, it bears reminding, despite its claim of mimicking the brutal byzantine belligerence of the Old Hell regime that, to many demons, was akin to legendary. It was a watered down version of apocryphal tales claiming how this one legion or that one duke was able to strike down a rival devil while they were a realm away among the humans; or of the cunning slithen who tricked a razorback into bombarding a seemingly empty area – thereby elimininating her bloodletter pursuers and shaming the pride-demon at the same time. Brutality and base cunning – prove your devilness by winning against your friends! Get an Almachina machine now! Though devils were far from easily star-struck like the babe-eyed humans, it seemed that this generation proved to be the closest to emulating the humans' propensity for cheapened thrills.
Many turns had passed since then, and Nora's hysteria had reached a fever-pitch. Defensive runes started glowing on her skin, subconsciously summoned by the master's desperation, even though there was no real combat threat. The fact that Dokuru had "let slip" that he only had one piece remaining apparently was no consolation to the specialist, as she tried and failed to pinpoint Dokuru's fleeing mage.
There were whispers of a stalemate among the other watching specialists, whose collective hunger had bypassed the peak of pain to reach a state of numb anticipation of the winner. Dokuru occasionally turned his head to look concernedly in their direction, while Nora merely shrugged them off, along with her own obvious hunger.
"This time I've got you, old geezer!" Nora ended her turn, glaring hungrily in Dokuru's direction. There were gasps, accusations of disrespect, but all Dokuru could think of at that moment before he declared whether Nora had scored a hit or not, was something else.
It was said that the greatest demons, the ones who had ascended to Greater status and achieved great renown in Hell, notoriety in the mortal realm and undivided disgust in Heaven, never spent a single moment of their existence being idle. They expended all their energies towards playing The Game, a Game that far exceeded the simplified simulacrum of the Almachina.
Strategy was foremost in their mind, and every action was guarded, every decision measured and all efforts were undertaken to observe the others do the same. Entire legions were sacrificed to oblivion with about the same throwaway mien as a player might today let his mage's location be revealed.
The books certainly claimed those things of the Greater Demons, corroborated by other certain documents in the various "forbidden" archives scattered throughout Hell. Yet none ever knew the stark truth to the legend, for not a single Great One wrote down what they knew and experienced. And so the natures of the dead lords and ladies passed from certainty through obscurity to myth. Chiefs like Dokuru were the ones who were more aware of these discrepancies than most, for in their position as Heads of departments it was required to at least think like a Greater Demon at times.
So what was Dokuru's strategy here? It did not go towards merely winning or losing this game. After all, if he won, then it would secure an image. Another image would be guaranteed should Nora win, though it was not so different from the former.
None but the devil himself knew what passed through Dokuru Skull's mind in that moment, what grand strategy he'd considered, and to what ends had that gone, or whether or not he saw something in the field, inside the Specialist's heart or within his absent own.
"Well, game goes to Specialist Nora," Dokuru shrugged, reaching for and palming the pieces that had fallen into the machine. The machine bleeped mournfully, flashing muted lights on his side, but on Nora's there were beeps of victorious fanfare and a digitized voice congratulating her. There was a moment of shocked silence. And then Nora shrieked and whooped in victory, looking insanely happy while thumping her club against the table repeatedly. Tthe others released a breath that had been bated all the while. Some shook their heads at Nora's attitude, while the others bleated about the food: should they continue the tournament after they'd eaten?
"No need, no need," Dokuru said pleasantly, calling out over Nora's noisy victory dance. "Let's call for refreshments from the outpost staff. I'm sure most of you would appreciate fighting Nora later on a full belly." He turned and congratulated Nora again on her victory.
"Why thank you sir. It was a good game indeed," Nora said sweetly, barely hiding her condescending smirk. She shook an imaginary hand petulantly before turning to the specialists.
As she dragged the other specialists outside with her, proclaiming her victory again and again, Dokuru Skull was unwittingly left with the process of sealing the game machine shut. Shaking his head, he gathered all the player pieces in his hand while he snapped the Neo-Hellian Almachina close. He gathered all the pieces and set them along the sides properly. Dokuru stopped at the last piece, recognizing it as his last one, before he put it together with the others. He looked from the sealed machine to the open door, where Nora's gleeful hoots could still be heard, then back to the machine. He tapped the machine with a bone finger idly. Strategy.
Vivian's Note: Hey there~~ You were probably thinking, maybe finding your day brightening up a bit to see an update? Maybe thinking, yay he got his computer and he can start writing again!
Nope.
He got nothing. All of the above were notes and snippets I found lying around my laptop. It's his tendency to start up a notepad, write up ten paragraphs, save, close then forget about it for later. Talk about sloppy right? Right?
Well I got permission to cobble them up, y'know to finally put it out there rather than sit taking up space in my laptop. He said sure, so I touched it up, edited it some, and here we have it. And to add his own apology, which I've condensed below:
"Terribly sorry, but economically speaking, I should be saving up for big stuff for the future first. No computers yet, until I luck out in the garbage somewhere. Cheers, Merlin."
Voice your thoughts with the button below, and I'll do my best to relay any questions about plot, any praises, criticisms and the like. And I'll do my best to answer!