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INDEX
SUMMARY
In the wake of Leviathan's destruction of Kyushu, the Protectorate casts its gaze on Kenta Takahashi. They offer him the world, and he almost takes it.
AUTHOR'S NOTES
神化 (shinka) — apotheosis.
A fic about Lung. This was originally posted on AO3 and Spacebattles. As I'm trying to kick my ass in gear to write more and slowly cutting Spacebattles out of my life, I thought I would post it here. I hope you enjoy it.
A special thanks to Juff and Waerloga on Spacebattles, for being my beta readers and wrangling the story into something attractive, SPAG and plot-wise, and to misha906, also on Spacebattles (go read I Need Some Space), for helping me out with Chinese names.
Also, if you walk into this thread and discover there is merely this index page, do be patient.
In the wake of Leviathan's destruction of Kyushu, the Protectorate casts its gaze on Kenta Takahashi. They offer him the world, and he almost takes it.
AUTHOR'S NOTES
神化 (shinka) — apotheosis.
A fic about Lung. This was originally posted on AO3 and Spacebattles. As I'm trying to kick my ass in gear to write more and slowly cutting Spacebattles out of my life, I thought I would post it here. I hope you enjoy it.
A special thanks to Juff and Waerloga on Spacebattles, for being my beta readers and wrangling the story into something attractive, SPAG and plot-wise, and to misha906, also on Spacebattles (go read I Need Some Space), for helping me out with Chinese names.
Also, if you walk into this thread and discover there is merely this index page, do be patient.
ONE: YOHA - A rocky start in the aftermath of a disaster.
TWO: OKAERINASAI - A return home, and a conversation.
THREE: SHITSUMON - An outing with friends is interrupted by an inquiry.
FOUR: TŌSŌ - A brewing conflict, external and internal.
FIVE: KETSUDAN - You have a decision to make.
TWO: OKAERINASAI - A return home, and a conversation.
THREE: SHITSUMON - An outing with friends is interrupted by an inquiry.
FOUR: TŌSŌ - A brewing conflict, external and internal.
FIVE: KETSUDAN - You have a decision to make.
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CHAPTER ONE: YOHA
CHAPTER ONE: YOHA
Alexandria found him in the depths and brought him to the surface.
He was half the size he'd been before when she found him. Shrinking fast, his power leaving him like water through a sieve. The heroine hefted his body above her shoulders and took off with a shockwave that rattled the ocean floor. Had it not been for his regeneration, she might have been too late, and even then Kenta could feel the sea beginning to suffocate him.
She rose far above the water. From this vantage point, Kenta was dimly aware that Kyushu was gone. Not just Miyazaki and the surrounding land—the island had half-vanished below the waves, with only wreckage and the remnants of buildings poking above the sea to speak for what it had once been. He wasn't sure of the population of the isle, wasn't sure if he'd ever learned it. A memory flashed unbidden through his mind—when he was fourteen and he and his mother had visited Fumamoto Castle. Considering Fumamoto was a prefecture away from Miyazaki, and likely hadn't been included in evacuation protocols, most if not all of the people had to be dead. Drowned, bludgeoned by wreckage, stranded in the storm.
By the time the shore of Honshu was in view the only traces of his transformation were the scales dotting his shoulders. He was soaked to the bone, cradled naked in Alexandria's arms; though her costume was dripping water and plastered to her skin she looked a good deal more dignified than he did.
They touched down in a ruined cargo dock, and Kenta struggled out of her arms and fell on all fours. She reached for him, said something in English, and he waved her away as he retched up water. A gasp for air sent him into a coughing fit—he saw her move in his peripheral vision, but she didn't try to help him again.
His regeneration took the brunt of the ill effects, and when he recovered he sat back on his haunches, wiping water from his chin and glaring up at her. Her face was inscrutable behind her helm—he could only see her mouth, set in a grim line. For a moment, neither of them said anything.
"I asked if you needed medical attention," Alexandria said, in near-perfect Japanese.
She spoke Japanese. It was something he hadn't expected her to bother with. Kenta had always had a perception of Americans being arrogant, unwilling to learn languages other than their own. It was small, but he felt a hint of grudging approval. "I can heal myself."
"You can regenerate? Have you tested it with drowning before?" she inquired, her head canting to one side.
There was a beat. "No. But I'm fine," he replied, standing to his full height.
"Most victims report no ill effects up to hours after the initial experience," Alexandria replied, and here he noted her Japanese became overly formal, a little artificial. "But you should be observed for a period of time afterwards, to ensure there are no delayed complications."
She was persistent. Persistent about seeing a small-time, foreign villain safe and sound. Not to mention he'd already said he could regenerate. Perhaps in her native tongue, she would have had a touch of subtlety. A snort. "Am I allowed to make requests?"
"For what?"
"Location. Would you take me to Kyoto?"
***
It didn't take long for the doctor to announce a clean bill of health for him, but he imagined treatment would have taken much longer had she not been with him when he was admitted. His tattoos were clearly visible, snaking up his arms and down his back and chest, and he could see the looks the staff gave him. Looks that were mixtures of fear and disdain.
The hospital staff gave him a blanket (no gown—perhaps they were already running low and needed it for their longer-term patients), ostensibly for warmth. He guessed it was a veiled way of telling him to cover himself. Shortly after, the doctor was called away by a nurse, and Kenta was left alone in the room, perched on the examination table with the blanket wrapped around his waist. He slipped off the table, standing in the middle of the room. An inhalation, and a fire washed over him, leaving him dry and steaming. Satisfied, he hopped up on the table again, pulling the blanket around himself.
A moment later, there was a light knock on the door.
He had expected the doctor. Instead, Alexandria walked in, damp cape dragging on the ground behind her. Kenta tensed, and she must have noticed. "I am not here to turn you into the authorities."
"You would regret doing so," he replied, eyes narrowing into a glare. It wasn't entirely a bluff; perhaps he could have put up a fight, but she was Alexandria, and Kenta was already exhausted.
"I am not here to make threats," the heroine stated in her clipped, formal Japanese, sitting in the chair across from the examination table. "I am here to make offers."
There was a pause. Then, he laughed. His grin was more a baring of teeth than an expression of mirth, and the tone was harsh, mocking. He could see her lips press together, almost imperceptibly.
"An offer," Kenta repeated, a grin still on his lips. "I guessed you had an ulterior motive. Would this happen to be an offer I can't refuse?"
"Not necessarily. You are free to refuse it," she said, her words even, emotionless. "I would not call it an ulterior motive. I was concerned for your well-being."
"Of course," he said, tone ironic. "Enough of this. What could Alexandria have to offer some inconsequential Japanese criminal?"
"Would you remind me of your codename?"
"Lung."
"You are not inconsequential, Lung," Alexandria continued. He appreciated, in a sense, the lack of honorifics appended to his codename. It would have come across as false if she had tried. "You fought back Leviathan almost single-handedly, a job that normally would have taken Scion. The American Protectorate could use your strength, especially considering the aftermath of this fight."
Kyushu, all gone.
"You're asking to me to join you," Kenta replied.
"Yes."
"Ah. No."
He got the impression he'd caught her off guard with that, her mouth opening in what he guessed was surprise. To her credit, she recovered quickly.
"Pardon me?"
"I refuse to join you," he said, sliding off the examination table, tugging his blanket a little tighter around himself. "You said you were concerned for my well-being—I think that care is superficial. The kind of care you'd extend to an object. You do have an ulterior motive. You want me as a tool to direct at the next Endbringer."
"That is not true—" She stood quickly; if anyone else had done it, it might have looked frantic, desperate. Alexandria managed to play it off. "You would be an equal among us, Lung. I urge you to reconsider—"
"Yes," he said absently, pushing the door open. "I don't owe you a further explanation. I have places to be, Alexandria. You understand."
She exited behind him, called after him once, but didn't pursue him as he walked down the hallway. Kenta couldn't have said what she looked like, standing there; he didn't look back.
Alexandria found him in the depths and brought him to the surface.
He was half the size he'd been before when she found him. Shrinking fast, his power leaving him like water through a sieve. The heroine hefted his body above her shoulders and took off with a shockwave that rattled the ocean floor. Had it not been for his regeneration, she might have been too late, and even then Kenta could feel the sea beginning to suffocate him.
She rose far above the water. From this vantage point, Kenta was dimly aware that Kyushu was gone. Not just Miyazaki and the surrounding land—the island had half-vanished below the waves, with only wreckage and the remnants of buildings poking above the sea to speak for what it had once been. He wasn't sure of the population of the isle, wasn't sure if he'd ever learned it. A memory flashed unbidden through his mind—when he was fourteen and he and his mother had visited Fumamoto Castle. Considering Fumamoto was a prefecture away from Miyazaki, and likely hadn't been included in evacuation protocols, most if not all of the people had to be dead. Drowned, bludgeoned by wreckage, stranded in the storm.
By the time the shore of Honshu was in view the only traces of his transformation were the scales dotting his shoulders. He was soaked to the bone, cradled naked in Alexandria's arms; though her costume was dripping water and plastered to her skin she looked a good deal more dignified than he did.
They touched down in a ruined cargo dock, and Kenta struggled out of her arms and fell on all fours. She reached for him, said something in English, and he waved her away as he retched up water. A gasp for air sent him into a coughing fit—he saw her move in his peripheral vision, but she didn't try to help him again.
His regeneration took the brunt of the ill effects, and when he recovered he sat back on his haunches, wiping water from his chin and glaring up at her. Her face was inscrutable behind her helm—he could only see her mouth, set in a grim line. For a moment, neither of them said anything.
"I asked if you needed medical attention," Alexandria said, in near-perfect Japanese.
She spoke Japanese. It was something he hadn't expected her to bother with. Kenta had always had a perception of Americans being arrogant, unwilling to learn languages other than their own. It was small, but he felt a hint of grudging approval. "I can heal myself."
"You can regenerate? Have you tested it with drowning before?" she inquired, her head canting to one side.
There was a beat. "No. But I'm fine," he replied, standing to his full height.
"Most victims report no ill effects up to hours after the initial experience," Alexandria replied, and here he noted her Japanese became overly formal, a little artificial. "But you should be observed for a period of time afterwards, to ensure there are no delayed complications."
She was persistent. Persistent about seeing a small-time, foreign villain safe and sound. Not to mention he'd already said he could regenerate. Perhaps in her native tongue, she would have had a touch of subtlety. A snort. "Am I allowed to make requests?"
"For what?"
"Location. Would you take me to Kyoto?"
***
It didn't take long for the doctor to announce a clean bill of health for him, but he imagined treatment would have taken much longer had she not been with him when he was admitted. His tattoos were clearly visible, snaking up his arms and down his back and chest, and he could see the looks the staff gave him. Looks that were mixtures of fear and disdain.
The hospital staff gave him a blanket (no gown—perhaps they were already running low and needed it for their longer-term patients), ostensibly for warmth. He guessed it was a veiled way of telling him to cover himself. Shortly after, the doctor was called away by a nurse, and Kenta was left alone in the room, perched on the examination table with the blanket wrapped around his waist. He slipped off the table, standing in the middle of the room. An inhalation, and a fire washed over him, leaving him dry and steaming. Satisfied, he hopped up on the table again, pulling the blanket around himself.
A moment later, there was a light knock on the door.
He had expected the doctor. Instead, Alexandria walked in, damp cape dragging on the ground behind her. Kenta tensed, and she must have noticed. "I am not here to turn you into the authorities."
"You would regret doing so," he replied, eyes narrowing into a glare. It wasn't entirely a bluff; perhaps he could have put up a fight, but she was Alexandria, and Kenta was already exhausted.
"I am not here to make threats," the heroine stated in her clipped, formal Japanese, sitting in the chair across from the examination table. "I am here to make offers."
There was a pause. Then, he laughed. His grin was more a baring of teeth than an expression of mirth, and the tone was harsh, mocking. He could see her lips press together, almost imperceptibly.
"An offer," Kenta repeated, a grin still on his lips. "I guessed you had an ulterior motive. Would this happen to be an offer I can't refuse?"
"Not necessarily. You are free to refuse it," she said, her words even, emotionless. "I would not call it an ulterior motive. I was concerned for your well-being."
"Of course," he said, tone ironic. "Enough of this. What could Alexandria have to offer some inconsequential Japanese criminal?"
"Would you remind me of your codename?"
"Lung."
"You are not inconsequential, Lung," Alexandria continued. He appreciated, in a sense, the lack of honorifics appended to his codename. It would have come across as false if she had tried. "You fought back Leviathan almost single-handedly, a job that normally would have taken Scion. The American Protectorate could use your strength, especially considering the aftermath of this fight."
Kyushu, all gone.
"You're asking to me to join you," Kenta replied.
"Yes."
"Ah. No."
He got the impression he'd caught her off guard with that, her mouth opening in what he guessed was surprise. To her credit, she recovered quickly.
"Pardon me?"
"I refuse to join you," he said, sliding off the examination table, tugging his blanket a little tighter around himself. "You said you were concerned for my well-being—I think that care is superficial. The kind of care you'd extend to an object. You do have an ulterior motive. You want me as a tool to direct at the next Endbringer."
"That is not true—" She stood quickly; if anyone else had done it, it might have looked frantic, desperate. Alexandria managed to play it off. "You would be an equal among us, Lung. I urge you to reconsider—"
"Yes," he said absently, pushing the door open. "I don't owe you a further explanation. I have places to be, Alexandria. You understand."
She exited behind him, called after him once, but didn't pursue him as he walked down the hallway. Kenta couldn't have said what she looked like, standing there; he didn't look back.
余波 (yoha) — Waves that remain after the wind has subsided; aftermath, after-effect.
CHAPTER TWO: OKAERINASAI
CHAPTER TWO: OKAERINASAI
Five days later, he went back home.
The death toll was an estimated nine million. Kyushu was devastated, unsalvageable, serving as both a hit to Japan's economy and to habitable land. The TV in his apartment spoke of nothing but clean-up efforts and foreign aid and statements from politicians. He passed time by helping the organization, loading trucks with food and water to be sent to Yamaguchi and Ehime, by drinking with the others, getting into fights with small-time criminals seeking to pick off supplies and overtake territory.
It wasn't enough, he knew. Nothing would compare to the fire pulsing through his veins when he grappled with the Endbringer, when the waves that pummeled the land evaporated against his body. When he became something that even the mightiest hero could look at and fear.
But that was all gone, and even though the boldest wakagashira treaded carefully around him, even though the name Lung was a hushed, awestruck whisper passed from rank to rank in the organization, he was nothing. Slayer of gods, and he had nothing to show for it but being a footsoldier in the yakuza. An inconsequential Japanese criminal.
It almost made him wish Alexandria had left him at the bottom of the ocean.
The house was intact, and much the same as it was the last time he had left, except several tiles were missing from the roof and some of the fence was missing. A woman with dark hair tied in a ponytail was standing in the garden, bent over and fixing a stake that was supporting a plant. He stood there and watched while she worked, waiting for her to notice him.
After a moment she stood and sighed. She must have caught sight of him out of the corner of her eye, because she turned to look at him. Her eyes widened, and she dropped the trowel she held to run through the gap in the fence and barrel into him for a hug.
"Welcome back," Kenta's mother whispered, reaching up and cradling his cheek.
He smiled. He didn't have anything else to say, and she knew that and accepted it (she always had), so she led him inside and made him soup.
Soup was something she put together on her own, with noodles, pork, and bok choy. It was, as always, supremely good. As he scarfed it down, she watched him from across the table. The resemblance between the two of them was such that people tended to comment on it, and Kenta could see it too, if he looked at her. The same light brown eyes, the same set of their brow, the same tendency to scrunch their mouth and nose if they were irritated. Even so, she said he looked like his father. Apparently it was the hair.
When he set his spoon down, she finally spoke. "You were in Kyushu, when Leviathan hit."
Her directness was a surprise. His mother (her name was Xunying, but she went by Honoka in her day job) had never spoken outright about his excursions before he left school. She had made perfunctory, almost obligatory comments about the kind of people that Daiichi and his friends had seemed like, but beyond that left it alone. When he officially dropped out of school, she fixed him with a look he couldn't place. Said she hoped he had a good job in reserve, and never spoke of it again. Xunying disliked confrontation, always avoided it, but Kenta saw it as a desire for peace, rather than cowardice.
When he came home one night, his eyes bloodshot and his voice practically a growl, she said nothing of it.
"Yes," Kenta replied, thumb rubbing at the edge of the table. There was no reason to lie. His mother was non-confrontational, not stupid. "And?"
"And what?" Her tone was sharp. "I worried about you, is what. I stayed up with the TV on the whole night, watching for any updates. Couldn't sleep the next night either, because I was up wondering if my son was going to be a name on a memorial because I never reined him in in school."
He had no idea what to say to that. "I'm sorry." It sounded feeble to his own ears.
Xunying sighed heavily, and stood to collect the bowls from the table. "You don't mean that."
"I do," he contended, chair squeaking on the floor as he leaned forward sharply. "I am sorry. I didn't think—"
"You didn't think," she cut him off dryly, and the bowls clattered in the sink. "I know that, Kenta. You don't have to tell me that."
"I'm not stupid," he argued, rising from his seat. "I knew what I was doing then, and I lived. I told myself I wou…"
He stopped—it occurred to him that there was a chance she didn't know. That he'd partaken in the battle was common knowledge among the yakuza; what he'd done, exactly, was not. She didn't need to know, what he'd become.
She didn't turn from the sink. The fact that he'd bothered to rise to the occasion, that she was right, made him feel foolish. He walked up beside her, and began drying the dishes as she washed. She gave him a look, but said nothing. They stayed in silence for a while, and he would have preferred she voice her disapproval rather than this.
"I am sorry," Kenta said again, putting into it as much sincerity as he could.
His mother didn't speak for a long moment. "I know you are." It was not acceptance. It was acknowledgement. Once again, he had no idea what to say.
There was another stretch of silence, broken only by the sound of clattering dishes and the gurgle of the drain.
"I don't even know if I should be faulting you for this," Xunying murmured. "You proved a long time ago that I couldn't control you. Joining that gang, dropping out of school. You're an adult now. You should be able to make your own decisions. Especially…" She faltered.
"Especially what?"
"When you came home that night, I had my suspicions, is all." Another one of those looks he couldn't place. "What happened to you?"
He recalled the woman in the suit, the bricks of white powder, his fellows dead or dying. Kenta stayed silent.
"You won't tell me," his mother said. There was no outward expression of agitation or sadness on her face, but it was still like a knife in the chest.
"It's something you shouldn't worry yourself about," he replied, placing his hands on her shoulders.
"That won't stop me from worrying," Xunying frowned, brow creasing. "Parents worry. I haven't stopped worrying about you since the day you were born, and when you won't tell me things like this…" She swallowed, didn't meet his gaze for a moment.
"What exactly do you know?" he said, trying to sound gentle.
"You have powers, don't you?"
"Yes."
"And when you came home that night, that was when you got them."
A beat. "Yes."
She looked up at him imploringly. She'd had to look up at him ever since he was… fifteen? Fourteen? "You can't tell me what happened to you?"
"No, lǎo mā."
"Ah." She pushed his hands off her shoulders gently, and reached behind him to pick up the bowls he'd dried and placed on the counter. "Will you put the pots away?"
"Yes. You don't have anything else to say? That's all?"
"I'm thinking about it," Xunying said, opening the cupboard and stacking the bowls.
They put the dishes away in silence. When he had put the last pot away and turned to face her, his mother was leaning against the counter. There was a strand of hair that had come loose from her ponytail and hung in front of her face.
"I know you joined the organization, after you stopped… hanging around with Daiichi, you know. That was easy enough to figure out." He knew she was looking at his tattoos. "Not exactly the kind of thing I wanted to see you doing."
Understatement of the century, Kenta thought.
"At the same time, I suppose… there were complications. I couldn't give you the opportunities that other parents could. And of course it wouldn't be easy, being hāfu."
It was an overly charitable assessment. Yes, he was never good in school, and could never fit in with the crowd that encouraged academic success. He could've been successful in sports, with his height and his strength, but why bother? No matter what he did, they would look down on him. He would always be Takahashi the freakishly tall, with the Chinese mother, with the shitty grades. Takahashi who didn't fit in. And he'd embraced it, chased freedom with the gang.
But that didn't change the fact that even without the iron fist of societal expectation pushing him down, he wanted more than just freedom. He wanted power, respect, and the best way to do that was to become part of the organization, use it to make his own way, precede respect with fear.
That wasn't something Kenta could have said to her. How he relished the fear in the eyes of his enemies, how he wanted nothing more than to feel that same rush he got when he fought Leviathan, when Alexandria stayed a good distance away.
"It isn't your fault," he said at last. "This was the choice I made."
There was a kind of wistfulness in her eyes. "I know, Kenta. But I can't help but feel some responsibility. Like it is my fault, for not giving you something better."
"Lǎo mā, you've already given me everything," he said, stepping forward and hugging her. "I couldn't ask for more."
She hugged him back. "Mm. So I finally get some damn respect, after eighteen years."
They shared a chuckle, and he could almost believe the tension was completely gone.
Five days later, he went back home.
The death toll was an estimated nine million. Kyushu was devastated, unsalvageable, serving as both a hit to Japan's economy and to habitable land. The TV in his apartment spoke of nothing but clean-up efforts and foreign aid and statements from politicians. He passed time by helping the organization, loading trucks with food and water to be sent to Yamaguchi and Ehime, by drinking with the others, getting into fights with small-time criminals seeking to pick off supplies and overtake territory.
It wasn't enough, he knew. Nothing would compare to the fire pulsing through his veins when he grappled with the Endbringer, when the waves that pummeled the land evaporated against his body. When he became something that even the mightiest hero could look at and fear.
But that was all gone, and even though the boldest wakagashira treaded carefully around him, even though the name Lung was a hushed, awestruck whisper passed from rank to rank in the organization, he was nothing. Slayer of gods, and he had nothing to show for it but being a footsoldier in the yakuza. An inconsequential Japanese criminal.
It almost made him wish Alexandria had left him at the bottom of the ocean.
The house was intact, and much the same as it was the last time he had left, except several tiles were missing from the roof and some of the fence was missing. A woman with dark hair tied in a ponytail was standing in the garden, bent over and fixing a stake that was supporting a plant. He stood there and watched while she worked, waiting for her to notice him.
After a moment she stood and sighed. She must have caught sight of him out of the corner of her eye, because she turned to look at him. Her eyes widened, and she dropped the trowel she held to run through the gap in the fence and barrel into him for a hug.
"Welcome back," Kenta's mother whispered, reaching up and cradling his cheek.
He smiled. He didn't have anything else to say, and she knew that and accepted it (she always had), so she led him inside and made him soup.
Soup was something she put together on her own, with noodles, pork, and bok choy. It was, as always, supremely good. As he scarfed it down, she watched him from across the table. The resemblance between the two of them was such that people tended to comment on it, and Kenta could see it too, if he looked at her. The same light brown eyes, the same set of their brow, the same tendency to scrunch their mouth and nose if they were irritated. Even so, she said he looked like his father. Apparently it was the hair.
When he set his spoon down, she finally spoke. "You were in Kyushu, when Leviathan hit."
Her directness was a surprise. His mother (her name was Xunying, but she went by Honoka in her day job) had never spoken outright about his excursions before he left school. She had made perfunctory, almost obligatory comments about the kind of people that Daiichi and his friends had seemed like, but beyond that left it alone. When he officially dropped out of school, she fixed him with a look he couldn't place. Said she hoped he had a good job in reserve, and never spoke of it again. Xunying disliked confrontation, always avoided it, but Kenta saw it as a desire for peace, rather than cowardice.
When he came home one night, his eyes bloodshot and his voice practically a growl, she said nothing of it.
"Yes," Kenta replied, thumb rubbing at the edge of the table. There was no reason to lie. His mother was non-confrontational, not stupid. "And?"
"And what?" Her tone was sharp. "I worried about you, is what. I stayed up with the TV on the whole night, watching for any updates. Couldn't sleep the next night either, because I was up wondering if my son was going to be a name on a memorial because I never reined him in in school."
He had no idea what to say to that. "I'm sorry." It sounded feeble to his own ears.
Xunying sighed heavily, and stood to collect the bowls from the table. "You don't mean that."
"I do," he contended, chair squeaking on the floor as he leaned forward sharply. "I am sorry. I didn't think—"
"You didn't think," she cut him off dryly, and the bowls clattered in the sink. "I know that, Kenta. You don't have to tell me that."
"I'm not stupid," he argued, rising from his seat. "I knew what I was doing then, and I lived. I told myself I wou…"
He stopped—it occurred to him that there was a chance she didn't know. That he'd partaken in the battle was common knowledge among the yakuza; what he'd done, exactly, was not. She didn't need to know, what he'd become.
She didn't turn from the sink. The fact that he'd bothered to rise to the occasion, that she was right, made him feel foolish. He walked up beside her, and began drying the dishes as she washed. She gave him a look, but said nothing. They stayed in silence for a while, and he would have preferred she voice her disapproval rather than this.
"I am sorry," Kenta said again, putting into it as much sincerity as he could.
His mother didn't speak for a long moment. "I know you are." It was not acceptance. It was acknowledgement. Once again, he had no idea what to say.
There was another stretch of silence, broken only by the sound of clattering dishes and the gurgle of the drain.
"I don't even know if I should be faulting you for this," Xunying murmured. "You proved a long time ago that I couldn't control you. Joining that gang, dropping out of school. You're an adult now. You should be able to make your own decisions. Especially…" She faltered.
"Especially what?"
"When you came home that night, I had my suspicions, is all." Another one of those looks he couldn't place. "What happened to you?"
He recalled the woman in the suit, the bricks of white powder, his fellows dead or dying. Kenta stayed silent.
"You won't tell me," his mother said. There was no outward expression of agitation or sadness on her face, but it was still like a knife in the chest.
"It's something you shouldn't worry yourself about," he replied, placing his hands on her shoulders.
"That won't stop me from worrying," Xunying frowned, brow creasing. "Parents worry. I haven't stopped worrying about you since the day you were born, and when you won't tell me things like this…" She swallowed, didn't meet his gaze for a moment.
"What exactly do you know?" he said, trying to sound gentle.
"You have powers, don't you?"
"Yes."
"And when you came home that night, that was when you got them."
A beat. "Yes."
She looked up at him imploringly. She'd had to look up at him ever since he was… fifteen? Fourteen? "You can't tell me what happened to you?"
"No, lǎo mā."
"Ah." She pushed his hands off her shoulders gently, and reached behind him to pick up the bowls he'd dried and placed on the counter. "Will you put the pots away?"
"Yes. You don't have anything else to say? That's all?"
"I'm thinking about it," Xunying said, opening the cupboard and stacking the bowls.
They put the dishes away in silence. When he had put the last pot away and turned to face her, his mother was leaning against the counter. There was a strand of hair that had come loose from her ponytail and hung in front of her face.
"I know you joined the organization, after you stopped… hanging around with Daiichi, you know. That was easy enough to figure out." He knew she was looking at his tattoos. "Not exactly the kind of thing I wanted to see you doing."
Understatement of the century, Kenta thought.
"At the same time, I suppose… there were complications. I couldn't give you the opportunities that other parents could. And of course it wouldn't be easy, being hāfu."
It was an overly charitable assessment. Yes, he was never good in school, and could never fit in with the crowd that encouraged academic success. He could've been successful in sports, with his height and his strength, but why bother? No matter what he did, they would look down on him. He would always be Takahashi the freakishly tall, with the Chinese mother, with the shitty grades. Takahashi who didn't fit in. And he'd embraced it, chased freedom with the gang.
But that didn't change the fact that even without the iron fist of societal expectation pushing him down, he wanted more than just freedom. He wanted power, respect, and the best way to do that was to become part of the organization, use it to make his own way, precede respect with fear.
That wasn't something Kenta could have said to her. How he relished the fear in the eyes of his enemies, how he wanted nothing more than to feel that same rush he got when he fought Leviathan, when Alexandria stayed a good distance away.
"It isn't your fault," he said at last. "This was the choice I made."
There was a kind of wistfulness in her eyes. "I know, Kenta. But I can't help but feel some responsibility. Like it is my fault, for not giving you something better."
"Lǎo mā, you've already given me everything," he said, stepping forward and hugging her. "I couldn't ask for more."
She hugged him back. "Mm. So I finally get some damn respect, after eighteen years."
They shared a chuckle, and he could almost believe the tension was completely gone.
お帰りなさい (okaerinasai) — welcome home.
Wakagashira — A high-ranking lieutenant in the yakuza; usually a second-in-command to the oyabun himself.
Lǎo mā (老妈) — A more colloquial Chinese word for mother.
Hāfu — A loanword from the English "half". Used to refer to children with one Japanese parent and a parent of another ethnicity.
Wakagashira — A high-ranking lieutenant in the yakuza; usually a second-in-command to the oyabun himself.
Lǎo mā (老妈) — A more colloquial Chinese word for mother.
Hāfu — A loanword from the English "half". Used to refer to children with one Japanese parent and a parent of another ethnicity.
i know
the post is still awaiting moderator approval, probably for spam purposes. get it together, sv!
CHAPTER THREE: SHITSUMON
CHAPTER THREE: SHITSUMON
It was a Friday evening, after a long day spent loading trucks and setting new boundaries, when the gang found their way down to the rougher parts of town. The middle of November brought with it a chill in the air; the transients that lurked in the shadows of alleys were clustered near shop doors, huddled under blankets. More people, Kenta observed, than usual. Refugees from the coast or from Kyushu, unable to find shelter, mixed in with the usual homeless people that wandered the city. He gave some coins to the first one they passed, and from then on one of the gang would follow suit by giving money to other ones they walked by.
When Kenta and the gang drank, they went to an izakaya called the Ryu. The owner wasn't yakuza, but the organization brought him good business, and in return the place served good food and better sake. (There was also the fact that they all had a bit of a guffaw at the idea of Kenta frequenting a place named the Ryu.)
Tonight, the place was empty except for the ten of them. All were seated at the robatayaki, talking, laughing, and passing the sake bottle up and down the counter. Kenta and several others were too young to drink legally, of course, but none of the staff really cared; after all, they had probably broken several other laws this week.
"Gimme the fuckin' jug, Lung," demanded Daisuke, who was sitting to Kenta's left. "Just because you can't get drunk doesn't mean the rest of us shouldn't be able to."
"Gimme the fuckin' jug, Lung," imitated Tadashi (who sat to Kenta's right) in a high, mocking tone. "Why? So you can pass out and piss yourself again?" Kenta, Yuu, and Akira all sniggered.
Daisuke, who considered himself the sensible one (but in reality was just uptight), turned bright red. "Shut the fuck up, Tada."
"Shut the fuck up, Tada—" Akira warbled in the same tone, then broke off into drunken giggles. A murmur of laughter sounded up and down the counter. Daisuke fumed, and Kenta took pity on him and poured him another shot.
"Thanks," the other boy muttered.
"Don't piss yourself, though," Kenta said casually, and Daisuke shouted in indignation as all of them laughed uproariously. Over the sound of their mirth, Kenta's ears picked up the jingle of the shopkeeper's bell.
He turned in his seat to look at the new customer, and stopped dead. Tadashi was the first to notice him tense and frozen in his seat; he turned to look where Kenta was staring, and his jaw dropped. The rest of the gang noticed them, looked to the door, and fell silent.
"Konbanwa," Alexandria greeted, pulling her cape all the way inside the doorway with a flourish. Kenta glanced over his shoulder to see the chef with a look of deer-in-the-headlights shock on his face, knife hovering over the salmon he was about to cut.
A pop song played faintly on the radio. Kenta could hear the sound of feet shifting on the floor, sneakers squeaking on the footrest of the bar stools. A rustle of clothing that implied reaching for hidden weapons.
Idiots, Kenta thought, even as he felt heat burn in his veins. You couldn't kill her. Not in a million years.
"Yasu," he addressed the chef. A noise that might have been Yasu jolting. "Where's your fucking manners? Alexandria herself walks in your restaurant and you don't welcome her?"
The squeak of bodies shifting in chairs. The tension in the room eased, but didn't leave completely; they trusted his judgement, but were still on alert. Yasu left the bar, hands clasped and head bowed in deference to the heroine, asking forgiveness for his rudeness in not greeting her. The sole waitress tried to lead her to a table. Alexandria smiled, thanked Yasu for his graciousness, and said to the waitress she'd take a seat in a moment, thank you.
She turned in the direction of the ten men at the bar, and Kenta had the distinct sense she was looking at him under her helm. "Hello, Lung. I was hoping we could have a discussion."
Nine heads turned to look at their leader. Kenta wondered if the idiots still had their hands near their pockets and waistbands, hoped she would take it as defensiveness rather than a threat. It occurred to him that finding and confronting him now had to be intentional. She wanted to put him on the spot in some way; if Kenta refused to speak to her, she would push, make the gang angry. Have an excuse to do something to them. Perhaps she wouldn't go that far, but he had no doubt that this entire situation had been to Alexandria's design. How had she even found him?
It was impressive, the thought that had gone into this simple encounter. He was disliking her more and more by the second.
"You picked an inconvenient time to find me," Kenta said, sliding off the stool and crossing the floor so he was a pace away from her. He shoved his hands into his pockets, lifting his chin and looking at her with raised brows. The posture was casually irreverent, even arrogant, meant more to give off a certain impression to the gang rather than her.
"I apologize." It sounded more like a statement than an apology. He wasn't sure if that was her Japanese, or her personality. "I will only keep you for a moment."
He turned back to the group and grimaced, sucking air through his teeth like this was something as simple as getting chewed out by a higher-up. Akira snickered, and most of the others smiled a little. His eyes fell on Tadashi, who looked serious. Nervous. Kenta flashed him a grin meant to reassure, but Tadashi's expression didn't change.
He turned back to Alexandria, who gestured at a booth in a corner. They sat. Her posture was alert but relaxed, back against the seat with hands loosely clasped in front of her. His own pose had turned defensive, arms crossed and resting on the table. Somebody turned the radio up, and the gang got to talking in low voices.
"It's rude to wear helmets at the table," Kenta remarked.
"I hope you can forgive my impoliteness. The helmet stays on," she replied.
Another moment of silence.
"This is about me joining you," he said.
"You are correct," said Alexandria. "I feel as though the situation that we spoke in was less than ideal for such a subject."
"So you think interrupting my personal life is ideal?"
A smile played at her lips. "It is certainly more comfortable. In addition, you are not recovering from fighting an Endbringer."
"You came because you thought my opinion would change in a different situation," he remarked, fingernail digging in a crack in the wood. And you wanted to put me on the spot in front of a group loyal to me.
She tilted her head slightly to one side. "How old are you, Lung?"
"Eighteen. Why?" Nineteen, in eight days. He'd almost forgotten about his birthday.
"Eighteen," she mused. "I remember what I was like when I was eighteen. I was… idealistic. I thought I could do anything with the powers I had. Bring peace, give hope. I found people older than me put too much stock in words and not actions." She smiled.
He didn't know how to take that, and glowered at her from across the table.
"I'm saying you remind me of myself."
"We are nothing alike," Kenta said coldly. "I don't have time for this. Say you what you need to say or leave."
"Allow me to make my point, then. I believe we started off poorly, Lung. I do want your help—you would be a valuable ally in the fight against the Endbringers. I do not, however, see you as a 'tool'. I think you have a place among us. You evidently have good instincts, and you have the qualities of a leader. The others over there—" She inclined her head in the direction of the gang. "—defer to you, and trust you. You could be an important member of the Protectorate."
Though he didn't want to admit it to her, he was flattered. He hadn't gained the respect of his gang solely through his status as a parahuman—the others liked him. He gave them respect, and they deferred to him in turn. Tadashi and Mamoru, part-black and part-Korean respectively, found kinship with him over their status as hāfu, thought him inspiring.
"If you kept a clean reputation," Alexandria continued, linking her fingers, "A position of power would come easily to you. With power comes wealth. You would have influence—everyone loves an immigrant success story. You don't seem the type to care about being a success story, of course, but it's a matter of gaining respect."
He was silent for a moment. "You've gotten better at making offers."
"I had some time to think about what you found important." Another smile.
"I still won't join you," he said simply, and he saw the smile falter slightly.
Alexandria took a moment to respond. "May I ask why?"
"You say fight against the Endbringers, like they're an enemy we can fight," Kenta retorted, glancing over his shoulder at the gang. "I fought Leviathan until my power left me, and I hadn't done any lasting damage. In a year or something he'll come right back again and destroy some other Kyushu."
"Isn't that all the more reason to fight back?" she said, and he thought he detected a hardness in her tone. "You saw what happened to the island. Surely you don't want that to happen again to some other country."
Subtly, he noticed that her Japanese had improved in the couple weeks since they'd spoken. What were Alexandria's powers? Strength, invincibility, flight, and… something about her mind. "I wouldn't wish it on any country. But I wouldn't wish a tsunami on any country," he said matter-of-factly. "The Endbringers are like that. They're not something we can fight. They're a natural disaster."
"They are anything but natural." A chill ran down the length of his spine—Alexandria's voice was cold, and sharp. "You're young. You've never known anything but life after Scion, I understand. But you cannot think this is normal, Lung. Behemoth turning the land where it walks radioactive is not natural. Leviathan targeting systems of fresh water is not natural. This is not weather, not a disaster—this is a war. One we may very well lose."
She'd stricken him silent. His eyes fell to the wood grain of the table. The heroine was right in that he had never known a life without capes—he had been barely two when Scion revealed himself to the world. Imagining a time before powers were common knowledge, before Endbringers were a fact of life, was unthinkable.
"A force of nature," she continued, "cannot think. It simply is. The Endbringers have a mind, however simplistic, and they use it to wreak more destruction than we could ever sustain. You have fought one Endbringer, once; I have been in every battle since their arrival. If they are a natural disaster, like you say, we will kill a natural disaster."
She put special emphasis on kill, and her intensity was so convincing Kenta could almost believe they could die. He imagined, for a moment, taking her offer. He and his mother would move to America. He would keep clean, leave the streets behind. Before long he would be Lung, matched only by the Triumvirate and Scion himself in ability to wound an Endbringer. When people looked on him, they would do so with awe and respect.
Every minute of his life would be a culmination, every second locked in battle with Behemoth and Leviathan a brush with apotheosis.
But his mother would never move to America. He was a street criminal, and they would never trust him that deeply. It would be like in school—Takahashi, with a stilted grasp of English, with a sordid past, with an all-consuming need to be noticed. When people looked on him, they looked down on him, some puppet of a foreign government's agenda spouting platitudes.
Every day of his life would be, was, a step downward from November 3rd, 1999. He would never do anything remotely as important as what he had done before.
He looked up, and he knew Alexandria was watching him behind her helmet. He held her gaze for one long moment.
It was enough of an answer for her. "I should let you go back to your group. Rest assured, Lung, I'll keep in touch." Before he could speak, she stood from the booth, leaving him at the table, thanked Yasu, and left the bar with her cape sweeping behind her.
Kenta sighed, and rubbed his face with both hands. He stood and made his way back to the bar. As he sat, Daisuke poured him a shot.
"What did Alexandria want to talk to you about?" Hiroshi asked, leaning forward to look at Kenta with wide eyes. "Did—are we in shit? Are the Americans gonna come after us?"
"No, they're not," Kenta said shortly. "We're not in trouble. It was a personal thing she wanted to talk about."
Exchanged glances all around. "Fuckin' Alexandria, man. What the fuck," Nobuyuki whispered.
"What did you even do to get her attention?" Youta said nervously. "Is this about Kyu—" Daisuke elbowed him hard, and he yelped.
Silence. Then, Tadashi spoke up.
"Personal thing?" he said incredulously, sipping his sake. "Are you trying to tell us Alexandria wanted to get on your dick?"
He couldn't help it. Kenta snickered. Then, it turned into a rumbling laugh, one loud enough to make all the others join in. Even Yasu offered a weak smile.
Kenta clapped Tadashi on the back. "It was supposed to be a secret," he grinned. "But you got it. She said she wanted me on the table right then, but I declined."
"That'd be hell to clean up," Yasu mumbled, and the group roared with laughter.
It was a Friday evening, after a long day spent loading trucks and setting new boundaries, when the gang found their way down to the rougher parts of town. The middle of November brought with it a chill in the air; the transients that lurked in the shadows of alleys were clustered near shop doors, huddled under blankets. More people, Kenta observed, than usual. Refugees from the coast or from Kyushu, unable to find shelter, mixed in with the usual homeless people that wandered the city. He gave some coins to the first one they passed, and from then on one of the gang would follow suit by giving money to other ones they walked by.
When Kenta and the gang drank, they went to an izakaya called the Ryu. The owner wasn't yakuza, but the organization brought him good business, and in return the place served good food and better sake. (There was also the fact that they all had a bit of a guffaw at the idea of Kenta frequenting a place named the Ryu.)
Tonight, the place was empty except for the ten of them. All were seated at the robatayaki, talking, laughing, and passing the sake bottle up and down the counter. Kenta and several others were too young to drink legally, of course, but none of the staff really cared; after all, they had probably broken several other laws this week.
"Gimme the fuckin' jug, Lung," demanded Daisuke, who was sitting to Kenta's left. "Just because you can't get drunk doesn't mean the rest of us shouldn't be able to."
"Gimme the fuckin' jug, Lung," imitated Tadashi (who sat to Kenta's right) in a high, mocking tone. "Why? So you can pass out and piss yourself again?" Kenta, Yuu, and Akira all sniggered.
Daisuke, who considered himself the sensible one (but in reality was just uptight), turned bright red. "Shut the fuck up, Tada."
"Shut the fuck up, Tada—" Akira warbled in the same tone, then broke off into drunken giggles. A murmur of laughter sounded up and down the counter. Daisuke fumed, and Kenta took pity on him and poured him another shot.
"Thanks," the other boy muttered.
"Don't piss yourself, though," Kenta said casually, and Daisuke shouted in indignation as all of them laughed uproariously. Over the sound of their mirth, Kenta's ears picked up the jingle of the shopkeeper's bell.
He turned in his seat to look at the new customer, and stopped dead. Tadashi was the first to notice him tense and frozen in his seat; he turned to look where Kenta was staring, and his jaw dropped. The rest of the gang noticed them, looked to the door, and fell silent.
"Konbanwa," Alexandria greeted, pulling her cape all the way inside the doorway with a flourish. Kenta glanced over his shoulder to see the chef with a look of deer-in-the-headlights shock on his face, knife hovering over the salmon he was about to cut.
A pop song played faintly on the radio. Kenta could hear the sound of feet shifting on the floor, sneakers squeaking on the footrest of the bar stools. A rustle of clothing that implied reaching for hidden weapons.
Idiots, Kenta thought, even as he felt heat burn in his veins. You couldn't kill her. Not in a million years.
"Yasu," he addressed the chef. A noise that might have been Yasu jolting. "Where's your fucking manners? Alexandria herself walks in your restaurant and you don't welcome her?"
The squeak of bodies shifting in chairs. The tension in the room eased, but didn't leave completely; they trusted his judgement, but were still on alert. Yasu left the bar, hands clasped and head bowed in deference to the heroine, asking forgiveness for his rudeness in not greeting her. The sole waitress tried to lead her to a table. Alexandria smiled, thanked Yasu for his graciousness, and said to the waitress she'd take a seat in a moment, thank you.
She turned in the direction of the ten men at the bar, and Kenta had the distinct sense she was looking at him under her helm. "Hello, Lung. I was hoping we could have a discussion."
Nine heads turned to look at their leader. Kenta wondered if the idiots still had their hands near their pockets and waistbands, hoped she would take it as defensiveness rather than a threat. It occurred to him that finding and confronting him now had to be intentional. She wanted to put him on the spot in some way; if Kenta refused to speak to her, she would push, make the gang angry. Have an excuse to do something to them. Perhaps she wouldn't go that far, but he had no doubt that this entire situation had been to Alexandria's design. How had she even found him?
It was impressive, the thought that had gone into this simple encounter. He was disliking her more and more by the second.
"You picked an inconvenient time to find me," Kenta said, sliding off the stool and crossing the floor so he was a pace away from her. He shoved his hands into his pockets, lifting his chin and looking at her with raised brows. The posture was casually irreverent, even arrogant, meant more to give off a certain impression to the gang rather than her.
"I apologize." It sounded more like a statement than an apology. He wasn't sure if that was her Japanese, or her personality. "I will only keep you for a moment."
He turned back to the group and grimaced, sucking air through his teeth like this was something as simple as getting chewed out by a higher-up. Akira snickered, and most of the others smiled a little. His eyes fell on Tadashi, who looked serious. Nervous. Kenta flashed him a grin meant to reassure, but Tadashi's expression didn't change.
He turned back to Alexandria, who gestured at a booth in a corner. They sat. Her posture was alert but relaxed, back against the seat with hands loosely clasped in front of her. His own pose had turned defensive, arms crossed and resting on the table. Somebody turned the radio up, and the gang got to talking in low voices.
"It's rude to wear helmets at the table," Kenta remarked.
"I hope you can forgive my impoliteness. The helmet stays on," she replied.
Another moment of silence.
"This is about me joining you," he said.
"You are correct," said Alexandria. "I feel as though the situation that we spoke in was less than ideal for such a subject."
"So you think interrupting my personal life is ideal?"
A smile played at her lips. "It is certainly more comfortable. In addition, you are not recovering from fighting an Endbringer."
"You came because you thought my opinion would change in a different situation," he remarked, fingernail digging in a crack in the wood. And you wanted to put me on the spot in front of a group loyal to me.
She tilted her head slightly to one side. "How old are you, Lung?"
"Eighteen. Why?" Nineteen, in eight days. He'd almost forgotten about his birthday.
"Eighteen," she mused. "I remember what I was like when I was eighteen. I was… idealistic. I thought I could do anything with the powers I had. Bring peace, give hope. I found people older than me put too much stock in words and not actions." She smiled.
He didn't know how to take that, and glowered at her from across the table.
"I'm saying you remind me of myself."
"We are nothing alike," Kenta said coldly. "I don't have time for this. Say you what you need to say or leave."
"Allow me to make my point, then. I believe we started off poorly, Lung. I do want your help—you would be a valuable ally in the fight against the Endbringers. I do not, however, see you as a 'tool'. I think you have a place among us. You evidently have good instincts, and you have the qualities of a leader. The others over there—" She inclined her head in the direction of the gang. "—defer to you, and trust you. You could be an important member of the Protectorate."
Though he didn't want to admit it to her, he was flattered. He hadn't gained the respect of his gang solely through his status as a parahuman—the others liked him. He gave them respect, and they deferred to him in turn. Tadashi and Mamoru, part-black and part-Korean respectively, found kinship with him over their status as hāfu, thought him inspiring.
"If you kept a clean reputation," Alexandria continued, linking her fingers, "A position of power would come easily to you. With power comes wealth. You would have influence—everyone loves an immigrant success story. You don't seem the type to care about being a success story, of course, but it's a matter of gaining respect."
He was silent for a moment. "You've gotten better at making offers."
"I had some time to think about what you found important." Another smile.
"I still won't join you," he said simply, and he saw the smile falter slightly.
Alexandria took a moment to respond. "May I ask why?"
"You say fight against the Endbringers, like they're an enemy we can fight," Kenta retorted, glancing over his shoulder at the gang. "I fought Leviathan until my power left me, and I hadn't done any lasting damage. In a year or something he'll come right back again and destroy some other Kyushu."
"Isn't that all the more reason to fight back?" she said, and he thought he detected a hardness in her tone. "You saw what happened to the island. Surely you don't want that to happen again to some other country."
Subtly, he noticed that her Japanese had improved in the couple weeks since they'd spoken. What were Alexandria's powers? Strength, invincibility, flight, and… something about her mind. "I wouldn't wish it on any country. But I wouldn't wish a tsunami on any country," he said matter-of-factly. "The Endbringers are like that. They're not something we can fight. They're a natural disaster."
"They are anything but natural." A chill ran down the length of his spine—Alexandria's voice was cold, and sharp. "You're young. You've never known anything but life after Scion, I understand. But you cannot think this is normal, Lung. Behemoth turning the land where it walks radioactive is not natural. Leviathan targeting systems of fresh water is not natural. This is not weather, not a disaster—this is a war. One we may very well lose."
She'd stricken him silent. His eyes fell to the wood grain of the table. The heroine was right in that he had never known a life without capes—he had been barely two when Scion revealed himself to the world. Imagining a time before powers were common knowledge, before Endbringers were a fact of life, was unthinkable.
"A force of nature," she continued, "cannot think. It simply is. The Endbringers have a mind, however simplistic, and they use it to wreak more destruction than we could ever sustain. You have fought one Endbringer, once; I have been in every battle since their arrival. If they are a natural disaster, like you say, we will kill a natural disaster."
She put special emphasis on kill, and her intensity was so convincing Kenta could almost believe they could die. He imagined, for a moment, taking her offer. He and his mother would move to America. He would keep clean, leave the streets behind. Before long he would be Lung, matched only by the Triumvirate and Scion himself in ability to wound an Endbringer. When people looked on him, they would do so with awe and respect.
Every minute of his life would be a culmination, every second locked in battle with Behemoth and Leviathan a brush with apotheosis.
But his mother would never move to America. He was a street criminal, and they would never trust him that deeply. It would be like in school—Takahashi, with a stilted grasp of English, with a sordid past, with an all-consuming need to be noticed. When people looked on him, they looked down on him, some puppet of a foreign government's agenda spouting platitudes.
Every day of his life would be, was, a step downward from November 3rd, 1999. He would never do anything remotely as important as what he had done before.
He looked up, and he knew Alexandria was watching him behind her helmet. He held her gaze for one long moment.
It was enough of an answer for her. "I should let you go back to your group. Rest assured, Lung, I'll keep in touch." Before he could speak, she stood from the booth, leaving him at the table, thanked Yasu, and left the bar with her cape sweeping behind her.
Kenta sighed, and rubbed his face with both hands. He stood and made his way back to the bar. As he sat, Daisuke poured him a shot.
"What did Alexandria want to talk to you about?" Hiroshi asked, leaning forward to look at Kenta with wide eyes. "Did—are we in shit? Are the Americans gonna come after us?"
"No, they're not," Kenta said shortly. "We're not in trouble. It was a personal thing she wanted to talk about."
Exchanged glances all around. "Fuckin' Alexandria, man. What the fuck," Nobuyuki whispered.
"What did you even do to get her attention?" Youta said nervously. "Is this about Kyu—" Daisuke elbowed him hard, and he yelped.
Silence. Then, Tadashi spoke up.
"Personal thing?" he said incredulously, sipping his sake. "Are you trying to tell us Alexandria wanted to get on your dick?"
He couldn't help it. Kenta snickered. Then, it turned into a rumbling laugh, one loud enough to make all the others join in. Even Yasu offered a weak smile.
Kenta clapped Tadashi on the back. "It was supposed to be a secret," he grinned. "But you got it. She said she wanted me on the table right then, but I declined."
"That'd be hell to clean up," Yasu mumbled, and the group roared with laughter.
質問 (shitsumon) — question, inquiry.
Actually, Alexandria tops.
Assuming not all of my audience are weeaboo shits, ryu is Japanese for dragon.
Actually, Alexandria tops.
Assuming not all of my audience are weeaboo shits, ryu is Japanese for dragon.
MaHaL
Conductor of the Choir of Death
- Location
- Canada
Kenta-mum best mum in Worm fite me.
CHAPTER FOUR: TŌSŌ
FOUR: TŌSŌ
"I'm planning on moving back to China," his mother said. It sounded more like an admission, a confession of sin.
Kenta paused with the bottle of water halfway to his lips. It was a sunny day despite the foreshadowing of winter, and the two of them were sitting on a bench in the garden together, watching plants sway in the breeze and making idle small talk. Then, this.
He took a swig of water, then set the bottle down on the bench between them. "Since when?"
"I'm sorry I didn't tell you earlier," Xunying said quickly, looking at him apologetically. "It's just—you've been busy, and I've been busy, and ever since Leviathan things have been so hectic."
"What brought this on?"
Her eyes fell from his face. "I've been talking to my sister, your aunt. For about… three months, now. I've always wanted to go back, because—well, don't take this the wrong way, but ever since your father died I had plans to move. Mostly I stayed because of you."
Something about that statement rubbed him the wrong way. "Because of me? You could've just moved after Dad died. I was eight, lǎo mā. It wouldn't have mattered then."
"It would've," she said sharply, looking at him. "The wars, the Imperial takeover, that was still going on then. I had a good job here—I couldn't just throw that away, bring my child to a war zone because I was homesick. Now that the country's stable, for the most part, and my sister's offering me a place to stay… I want to go home."
Irritation flared in him; he was certain if he thought hard he'd have good cause to be upset, but right now the emotion was sudden and unreasonable. "So you want to go now," Kenta said tersely, "when I've got more of a life here than I did when I was eight."
"Don't talk to me like that." She looked unpleasantly surprised by his obvious agitation. "I didn't say you had to come with me. You're an adult now. You just said—" She looked frustrated, like she couldn't elucidate it properly. "It seemed like you said it didn't matter to you, like you were brushing it off."
"Didn't you hear me?" he said sharply. "I said it wouldn't matter when I was a kid. It matters now."
"Didn't you hear me?" Xunying retorted, brow creasing. "I said you don't have to join me. I know you have a life here. It just—it seemed like—" She looked away, exhaling in frustration.
"What did it seem like?" His voice was lower, angrier, a tone he wouldn't usually have taken with her.
"Let me think, Kenta!" she snapped back, and he flinched like he'd been slapped. She saw his reaction, and her expression turned to one of guilt, then hardened. "Don't look all sad. You started this."
Silence from both of them, and Xunying rubbed her temples. "You just seemed dismissive, when I brought up—leaving. You sounded like you didn't care one way or another if it happened now."
"I do care," Kenta mumbled.
"I thought you'd be happy to have me off your back," she replied, crossing her arms and leaning back.
"Where did you even think of that?" he said, still irritable. "I want—you're important to me, and you know I couldn't follow you to China. They'd know I have powers, they'd find out I'm half-Japanese." Two reasons.
Her shoulders curled forward, as if she was trying to protect herself from his words. "I thought about that. And it hurt to think about. But I knew… I assumed… that you wouldn't join me. You would be on your own and you'd be happy because I wasn't breathing down your neck about…" She gestured vaguely. "All this."
"What?"
Xunying's lips pressed together in a thin line. "About the organization."
He exhaled sharply through his nose. "You're still on about that."
"I am," she said, the furrow in her brow deepening as she sat up. "I feel like that's a very reasonable thing to be 'on about'."
He bristled. "So you want me to be sorry for that? Why should I have to apologize?"
"Oh, you always apologize," Xunying spat, her voice rising. "You're always sorry. For making me worry, for losing your temper, for doing god-knows-what with the damn yakuza. When is sorry actually going to mean something from you, Kenta?"
"I mean it when I say it!" he argued. "I just can't—the things you want me to say sorry for, I chose them, and I want those things. I love you, I do, but I have my own life."
"So you want to be some street thug," Xunying said coldly.
"I don't—" Kenta seethed, felt heat shoot through his veins. He inhaled deeply, then let out a strained breath. "We're being helpful. Sending aid to the prefectures that need it, stepping in where the government won't. Have you seen the refugees who can't get in a shelter, who have to live on the streets?"
"Helpful! Oh, the yakuza are so helpful right up until they're pushing drugs and pimping. No matter how 'good' they seem to you, there's a reason I don't want you involved with them," Xunying said, her voice hard. "But I guess it's too late, because you're sitting in front of me covered from neck to waist with tattoos, trying to justify to me why you're a criminal."
"I'm not justifying!" he snarled, bringing his fist down on the arm of the bench. Something gave.
He looked, and saw a long crack down the center of the arm. It was by no means serious, something that could have been patched up with wood glue.
But it was a feature with permanence. A tangible effect on her environment, borne from his anger.
His ire was replaced by a flood of guilt (again). He looked back to his mother, mouth opening to voice some feeble apology (again), and faltered at her impassive face, her disappointed eyes.
(Again.)
She sighed, stood, and walked away. He heard the screen door open and shut.
Kenta put his head in his hands. He wasn't sure how long he was like that before he left, but she didn't come outside again.
***
That evening he called Tadashi.
"Moshi moshi," a bored voice said. "This is the Inagawa household. Speaking."
"It's me, Tadashi."
"Oh shit. Hey, Kenta," said Tadashi's voice over the line. Somebody shouted in the background, and there was a rustle, presumably caused by someone putting their hand over the receiver. Tadashi shouted something back in a foreign language, slightly muffled.
A second later; "Sorry, that was Mom. Wanted to know who I was talking to. Anyway, do you realize how fucking ominous you sound when you call me and you're like—" he dropped his voice comically deep, "—'IT'S ME, TADASHI'. I feel like I'm in Ringu whenever I answer the phone."
Kenta smiled, and in his most intimidating bass tone said "Seven days."
"Oh my gooood!" Tadashi cackled. "We don't even need to beat the shit out of guys anymore. You just call them and pull off that voice and they drop everything to get the fuck out. Man. Anyway, what's up? You calling me for business, or—" Tadashi made his voice faux seductive, "—pleasure?"
Kenta snorted. "Call it something in between. Are you—can I talk to you face to face?"
"Mysterious. You're dragging me out of the house, you owe me a ramune or something. Where do you wanna meet up?"
He gave him an address, and twenty minutes later, Kenta stood at a street corner with a convenience store bag in his hand. Somebody called his name, and he turned to see Tadashi crossing the street with a grin on his face.
"Hey, boss," the younger boy said casually, eyes falling to the bag Kenta held. "Ooh…"
"This is coming out of your wage," Kenta replied dryly, reaching into the bag and handing Tadashi a bottle of ramune.
"You're so mean. I should just strike out on my own, honestly," Tadashi said, popping the cap and sipping gingerly from the bottle. "Aah. Maybe I'll get powers. Then we'll be even."
"Don't count on it," Kenta said, tone clipped. "Let's walk."
He could tell Tadashi had several clever remarks on his tongue, but thankfully he kept them to himself. They crossed the street to a park, striding across the lawn. It was beginning to get dark, and the only people visible were far in the distance, sitting on blankets or walking on the path.
"Did something happen?" Tadashi inquired, leaning forward to try and get a good look at his leader. "You look more pissed than usual."
Kenta was silent, lips pressed into a thin line. Out the corner of his eye, he saw Tadashi's brows raise. "Oh boy. That bad?"
"Not even that. Just a lot of things. Stacking up."
"Been there." Tadashi's tone was kinder. "Do you… want to tell me about it?"
Kenta sighed, ran his hands over his face and through his hair. "I didn't tell you what Alexandria talked to me about."
The other boy looked surprised. "I got the impression you didn't want to talk about it."
"I don't want you to tell the others. After I… fought Leviathan, she found me and asked me to join the Protectorate."
Tadashi stopped walking, his eyes going wide. "Dude."
"Yeah."
"What did you say to her?"
"I told her no. She said she was worried for my well-being, that I… wasn't inconsequential to her, or something like that. Even flew me back to Kyoto." His eyes fell to the ground, scuffing at the grass with a shoe. "I was listening to her talk about all that shit and waiting for her to ask for something."
"When people talk to you like that and they don't know you, they want something," Tadashi observed.
"Mm. I would've listened if she hadn't tried to make herself out to be all high and mighty. But I was pissed at her, so I left."
"Makes sense, I guess. When she came to Ryu that night, was she following up on that?"
"Yeah."
"What else did she say?"
"She said she didn't see me as a tool. Basically said that if I joined, it would be pretty lucrative. Lots of power. Money."
Tadashi rolled his eyes. "Sure it would. You don't need me to tell you they'd probably drug you until you were catatonic and only let you out to fight Endbringers or whatever."
"No, I think she was telling the truth," Kenta said, sitting down on the grass. Tadashi joined him, looking at him curiously. "She doesn't have a reason to lie to me."
"She doesn't have a reason to tell you the truth, either."
"I know. But…" He made a non-committal noise. "Call it intuition, but I think she'd make good on her offer. She's a hero," Kenta shrugged.
Tadashi paused to consider that, sipping his drink. "Would you do it, if it was legit?"
"That's the thing. I might have, but…" He hesitated.
"But what?"
Kenta sighed heavily. "I don't expect you to understand. You weren't there. When I drove Leviathan off, I did more damage to it than anyone did in years." He pulled out his own bottle of ramune from the bag and popped the cap, but didn't drink from it yet. "It's not going to matter in the long run."
"Fuck you mean, man? You drove it off on your own. Only Scion can do that," Tadashi replied, brow furrowed.
"I wasn't anywhere close to killing it," Kenta said sharply. "My power started to leave me, Tadashi. That's never happened before, and I wasn't anywhere near hurting it in a way that mattered. And Kyushu still sunk."
"But you can still fight them," replied Tadashi, looking at him intently. "That's more than the majority of planet fucking Earth could do."
"It'd be the same as trying to fight a tsunami," Kenta huffed, his breath coming out as steam in the evening air. He took a drink of his ramune. "Pointless. If—if—I fought an Endbringer again, I'd do it on my own terms. I don't want to be a dog of the Americans."
"You just said you thought Alexandria was serious," Tadashi said, tearing up grass from the ground. "About all that good shit. Money and power. Besides, in this case you can actually hurt the tsunami. Push it back." He was leaning forward, fingers knotted in the grass, looking at his superior with imploring eyes. "Come on, dude. You said it was—it was like—"
"Like being king of the world," Kenta said, his words clipped.
"Yes!" Tadashi threw his hands up. "You can't say that and not want to do it again. You said it was better than any high, and now you're all 'oh, we can't beat the Endbringers'. Fucking capes. You're all crazy."
Kenta scoffed. "If you were me, would you do it?"
"Fight an Endbringer again?"
"Yes."
Tadashi hesitated for a moment. "I mean," he said, eyes flicking over the ground, "I guess, if I were you. It'd be terrifying. Kenta, you're…" Tadashi's gaze turned back to him, and there was an emotion Kenta couldn't name in his eyes. Respect? Adulation? "You're braver than any of us. You faced that thing and you beat it, and now you're sitting here and telling me about it like it's just—whoop, day in the life." His hands folded in his lap. "You should… I don't know. We're kind of stepping stones for you."
Kenta noted he didn't give a concrete answer on whether or not he'd fight an Endbringer twice, but decided to leave it be. "Don't say that," he frowned. "You're my friends. I wouldn't be able to hold my own in the organization without all of you."
"That's the thing. You don't need us, man," Tadashi said, playing with a blade of grass. "You don't need the organization."
For some reason, it made him think of what his mother had said to him earlier. So you want to be some street thug. A bitterness rose in him at the thought of her.
"I wouldn't be a leader without followers," was his reply.
"Mm," Tadashi hummed.
For a while there was silence, during which the two drank their soda and watched the sun sink below the horizon.
Kenta spoke up. "There's another thing."
"Hm?"
"My mother is… moving back to China," Kenta said, resting his cheek in his hand. "And if I go with her, I want you to lead the group."
Tadashi sputtered. "What? You're leaving? You can't just spring this shit on me all of the sudden—"
"I said if I go," Kenta cut him off, turning to look at him. "You know what they do to parahumans in China?"
"'Course I fuckin' do!" Tadashi retorted, sounding nervous. "Which is why you shouldn't be even thinking about this—doesn't your mom know you're a cape?"
"Yeah," he replied, absent. "She does. She didn't think I'd go with her."
At that, Tadashi was silent for a moment. Considering the implications, maybe; he knew, or had a good idea, of the strong relationship Kenta and his mother had. He looked up. "I don't know if I could do it. Lead, I mean."
"You're already my… lieutenant? Second-in-command? Whatever," Kenta said, picking at the grass. "If you do it, you'll do fine. The others respect you."
"Mmm," Tadashi hummed in reply, but didn't say anything else. His gaze was focused on the ground, as if deep in thought.
Kenta nudged his arm. "Don't worry about it too much. I'm not gonna be gone for a while yet, if I ever leave."
"Okay."
"Besides," he continued, "you'd be a good leader. You're good at calling the shots. Thinking decisions through."
"Thanks, Kenta." The words were terse, a little absent.
"No problem."
And that was that.
"I'm planning on moving back to China," his mother said. It sounded more like an admission, a confession of sin.
Kenta paused with the bottle of water halfway to his lips. It was a sunny day despite the foreshadowing of winter, and the two of them were sitting on a bench in the garden together, watching plants sway in the breeze and making idle small talk. Then, this.
He took a swig of water, then set the bottle down on the bench between them. "Since when?"
"I'm sorry I didn't tell you earlier," Xunying said quickly, looking at him apologetically. "It's just—you've been busy, and I've been busy, and ever since Leviathan things have been so hectic."
"What brought this on?"
Her eyes fell from his face. "I've been talking to my sister, your aunt. For about… three months, now. I've always wanted to go back, because—well, don't take this the wrong way, but ever since your father died I had plans to move. Mostly I stayed because of you."
Something about that statement rubbed him the wrong way. "Because of me? You could've just moved after Dad died. I was eight, lǎo mā. It wouldn't have mattered then."
"It would've," she said sharply, looking at him. "The wars, the Imperial takeover, that was still going on then. I had a good job here—I couldn't just throw that away, bring my child to a war zone because I was homesick. Now that the country's stable, for the most part, and my sister's offering me a place to stay… I want to go home."
Irritation flared in him; he was certain if he thought hard he'd have good cause to be upset, but right now the emotion was sudden and unreasonable. "So you want to go now," Kenta said tersely, "when I've got more of a life here than I did when I was eight."
"Don't talk to me like that." She looked unpleasantly surprised by his obvious agitation. "I didn't say you had to come with me. You're an adult now. You just said—" She looked frustrated, like she couldn't elucidate it properly. "It seemed like you said it didn't matter to you, like you were brushing it off."
"Didn't you hear me?" he said sharply. "I said it wouldn't matter when I was a kid. It matters now."
"Didn't you hear me?" Xunying retorted, brow creasing. "I said you don't have to join me. I know you have a life here. It just—it seemed like—" She looked away, exhaling in frustration.
"What did it seem like?" His voice was lower, angrier, a tone he wouldn't usually have taken with her.
"Let me think, Kenta!" she snapped back, and he flinched like he'd been slapped. She saw his reaction, and her expression turned to one of guilt, then hardened. "Don't look all sad. You started this."
Silence from both of them, and Xunying rubbed her temples. "You just seemed dismissive, when I brought up—leaving. You sounded like you didn't care one way or another if it happened now."
"I do care," Kenta mumbled.
"I thought you'd be happy to have me off your back," she replied, crossing her arms and leaning back.
"Where did you even think of that?" he said, still irritable. "I want—you're important to me, and you know I couldn't follow you to China. They'd know I have powers, they'd find out I'm half-Japanese." Two reasons.
Her shoulders curled forward, as if she was trying to protect herself from his words. "I thought about that. And it hurt to think about. But I knew… I assumed… that you wouldn't join me. You would be on your own and you'd be happy because I wasn't breathing down your neck about…" She gestured vaguely. "All this."
"What?"
Xunying's lips pressed together in a thin line. "About the organization."
He exhaled sharply through his nose. "You're still on about that."
"I am," she said, the furrow in her brow deepening as she sat up. "I feel like that's a very reasonable thing to be 'on about'."
He bristled. "So you want me to be sorry for that? Why should I have to apologize?"
"Oh, you always apologize," Xunying spat, her voice rising. "You're always sorry. For making me worry, for losing your temper, for doing god-knows-what with the damn yakuza. When is sorry actually going to mean something from you, Kenta?"
"I mean it when I say it!" he argued. "I just can't—the things you want me to say sorry for, I chose them, and I want those things. I love you, I do, but I have my own life."
"So you want to be some street thug," Xunying said coldly.
"I don't—" Kenta seethed, felt heat shoot through his veins. He inhaled deeply, then let out a strained breath. "We're being helpful. Sending aid to the prefectures that need it, stepping in where the government won't. Have you seen the refugees who can't get in a shelter, who have to live on the streets?"
"Helpful! Oh, the yakuza are so helpful right up until they're pushing drugs and pimping. No matter how 'good' they seem to you, there's a reason I don't want you involved with them," Xunying said, her voice hard. "But I guess it's too late, because you're sitting in front of me covered from neck to waist with tattoos, trying to justify to me why you're a criminal."
"I'm not justifying!" he snarled, bringing his fist down on the arm of the bench. Something gave.
He looked, and saw a long crack down the center of the arm. It was by no means serious, something that could have been patched up with wood glue.
But it was a feature with permanence. A tangible effect on her environment, borne from his anger.
His ire was replaced by a flood of guilt (again). He looked back to his mother, mouth opening to voice some feeble apology (again), and faltered at her impassive face, her disappointed eyes.
(Again.)
She sighed, stood, and walked away. He heard the screen door open and shut.
Kenta put his head in his hands. He wasn't sure how long he was like that before he left, but she didn't come outside again.
***
That evening he called Tadashi.
"Moshi moshi," a bored voice said. "This is the Inagawa household. Speaking."
"It's me, Tadashi."
"Oh shit. Hey, Kenta," said Tadashi's voice over the line. Somebody shouted in the background, and there was a rustle, presumably caused by someone putting their hand over the receiver. Tadashi shouted something back in a foreign language, slightly muffled.
A second later; "Sorry, that was Mom. Wanted to know who I was talking to. Anyway, do you realize how fucking ominous you sound when you call me and you're like—" he dropped his voice comically deep, "—'IT'S ME, TADASHI'. I feel like I'm in Ringu whenever I answer the phone."
Kenta smiled, and in his most intimidating bass tone said "Seven days."
"Oh my gooood!" Tadashi cackled. "We don't even need to beat the shit out of guys anymore. You just call them and pull off that voice and they drop everything to get the fuck out. Man. Anyway, what's up? You calling me for business, or—" Tadashi made his voice faux seductive, "—pleasure?"
Kenta snorted. "Call it something in between. Are you—can I talk to you face to face?"
"Mysterious. You're dragging me out of the house, you owe me a ramune or something. Where do you wanna meet up?"
He gave him an address, and twenty minutes later, Kenta stood at a street corner with a convenience store bag in his hand. Somebody called his name, and he turned to see Tadashi crossing the street with a grin on his face.
"Hey, boss," the younger boy said casually, eyes falling to the bag Kenta held. "Ooh…"
"This is coming out of your wage," Kenta replied dryly, reaching into the bag and handing Tadashi a bottle of ramune.
"You're so mean. I should just strike out on my own, honestly," Tadashi said, popping the cap and sipping gingerly from the bottle. "Aah. Maybe I'll get powers. Then we'll be even."
"Don't count on it," Kenta said, tone clipped. "Let's walk."
He could tell Tadashi had several clever remarks on his tongue, but thankfully he kept them to himself. They crossed the street to a park, striding across the lawn. It was beginning to get dark, and the only people visible were far in the distance, sitting on blankets or walking on the path.
"Did something happen?" Tadashi inquired, leaning forward to try and get a good look at his leader. "You look more pissed than usual."
Kenta was silent, lips pressed into a thin line. Out the corner of his eye, he saw Tadashi's brows raise. "Oh boy. That bad?"
"Not even that. Just a lot of things. Stacking up."
"Been there." Tadashi's tone was kinder. "Do you… want to tell me about it?"
Kenta sighed, ran his hands over his face and through his hair. "I didn't tell you what Alexandria talked to me about."
The other boy looked surprised. "I got the impression you didn't want to talk about it."
"I don't want you to tell the others. After I… fought Leviathan, she found me and asked me to join the Protectorate."
Tadashi stopped walking, his eyes going wide. "Dude."
"Yeah."
"What did you say to her?"
"I told her no. She said she was worried for my well-being, that I… wasn't inconsequential to her, or something like that. Even flew me back to Kyoto." His eyes fell to the ground, scuffing at the grass with a shoe. "I was listening to her talk about all that shit and waiting for her to ask for something."
"When people talk to you like that and they don't know you, they want something," Tadashi observed.
"Mm. I would've listened if she hadn't tried to make herself out to be all high and mighty. But I was pissed at her, so I left."
"Makes sense, I guess. When she came to Ryu that night, was she following up on that?"
"Yeah."
"What else did she say?"
"She said she didn't see me as a tool. Basically said that if I joined, it would be pretty lucrative. Lots of power. Money."
Tadashi rolled his eyes. "Sure it would. You don't need me to tell you they'd probably drug you until you were catatonic and only let you out to fight Endbringers or whatever."
"No, I think she was telling the truth," Kenta said, sitting down on the grass. Tadashi joined him, looking at him curiously. "She doesn't have a reason to lie to me."
"She doesn't have a reason to tell you the truth, either."
"I know. But…" He made a non-committal noise. "Call it intuition, but I think she'd make good on her offer. She's a hero," Kenta shrugged.
Tadashi paused to consider that, sipping his drink. "Would you do it, if it was legit?"
"That's the thing. I might have, but…" He hesitated.
"But what?"
Kenta sighed heavily. "I don't expect you to understand. You weren't there. When I drove Leviathan off, I did more damage to it than anyone did in years." He pulled out his own bottle of ramune from the bag and popped the cap, but didn't drink from it yet. "It's not going to matter in the long run."
"Fuck you mean, man? You drove it off on your own. Only Scion can do that," Tadashi replied, brow furrowed.
"I wasn't anywhere close to killing it," Kenta said sharply. "My power started to leave me, Tadashi. That's never happened before, and I wasn't anywhere near hurting it in a way that mattered. And Kyushu still sunk."
"But you can still fight them," replied Tadashi, looking at him intently. "That's more than the majority of planet fucking Earth could do."
"It'd be the same as trying to fight a tsunami," Kenta huffed, his breath coming out as steam in the evening air. He took a drink of his ramune. "Pointless. If—if—I fought an Endbringer again, I'd do it on my own terms. I don't want to be a dog of the Americans."
"You just said you thought Alexandria was serious," Tadashi said, tearing up grass from the ground. "About all that good shit. Money and power. Besides, in this case you can actually hurt the tsunami. Push it back." He was leaning forward, fingers knotted in the grass, looking at his superior with imploring eyes. "Come on, dude. You said it was—it was like—"
"Like being king of the world," Kenta said, his words clipped.
"Yes!" Tadashi threw his hands up. "You can't say that and not want to do it again. You said it was better than any high, and now you're all 'oh, we can't beat the Endbringers'. Fucking capes. You're all crazy."
Kenta scoffed. "If you were me, would you do it?"
"Fight an Endbringer again?"
"Yes."
Tadashi hesitated for a moment. "I mean," he said, eyes flicking over the ground, "I guess, if I were you. It'd be terrifying. Kenta, you're…" Tadashi's gaze turned back to him, and there was an emotion Kenta couldn't name in his eyes. Respect? Adulation? "You're braver than any of us. You faced that thing and you beat it, and now you're sitting here and telling me about it like it's just—whoop, day in the life." His hands folded in his lap. "You should… I don't know. We're kind of stepping stones for you."
Kenta noted he didn't give a concrete answer on whether or not he'd fight an Endbringer twice, but decided to leave it be. "Don't say that," he frowned. "You're my friends. I wouldn't be able to hold my own in the organization without all of you."
"That's the thing. You don't need us, man," Tadashi said, playing with a blade of grass. "You don't need the organization."
For some reason, it made him think of what his mother had said to him earlier. So you want to be some street thug. A bitterness rose in him at the thought of her.
"I wouldn't be a leader without followers," was his reply.
"Mm," Tadashi hummed.
For a while there was silence, during which the two drank their soda and watched the sun sink below the horizon.
Kenta spoke up. "There's another thing."
"Hm?"
"My mother is… moving back to China," Kenta said, resting his cheek in his hand. "And if I go with her, I want you to lead the group."
Tadashi sputtered. "What? You're leaving? You can't just spring this shit on me all of the sudden—"
"I said if I go," Kenta cut him off, turning to look at him. "You know what they do to parahumans in China?"
"'Course I fuckin' do!" Tadashi retorted, sounding nervous. "Which is why you shouldn't be even thinking about this—doesn't your mom know you're a cape?"
"Yeah," he replied, absent. "She does. She didn't think I'd go with her."
At that, Tadashi was silent for a moment. Considering the implications, maybe; he knew, or had a good idea, of the strong relationship Kenta and his mother had. He looked up. "I don't know if I could do it. Lead, I mean."
"You're already my… lieutenant? Second-in-command? Whatever," Kenta said, picking at the grass. "If you do it, you'll do fine. The others respect you."
"Mmm," Tadashi hummed in reply, but didn't say anything else. His gaze was focused on the ground, as if deep in thought.
Kenta nudged his arm. "Don't worry about it too much. I'm not gonna be gone for a while yet, if I ever leave."
"Okay."
"Besides," he continued, "you'd be a good leader. You're good at calling the shots. Thinking decisions through."
"Thanks, Kenta." The words were terse, a little absent.
"No problem."
And that was that.
闘争 (tōsō) — Strife, conflict.
Tadashi's mother is Nigerian, and though I didn't write it, the language she's speaking with Tadashi is Hausa, the most commonly spoken language there.
Ramune is Japanese pop. The bottles have a little marble in them sealing the top, which you have to pop to get at the actual drink.
Tadashi's mother is Nigerian, and though I didn't write it, the language she's speaking with Tadashi is Hausa, the most commonly spoken language there.
Ramune is Japanese pop. The bottles have a little marble in them sealing the top, which you have to pop to get at the actual drink.
Last edited:
- Location
- Internet, The
This is a good story.
The lack of spacing after cursive text has been extremely frequent in several stories recently. I'm starting to think it might be a bug after the migration.
CHAPTER FIVE: KETSUDAN
FIVE: KETSUDAN
It was two days later before he decided speaking to his mother again would be a good idea. Not that he had wanted to ignore her; rather, he felt the both of them might have needed time to cool down and realize just how stupid their spat was. More specifically, he needed to realize. He pointed this out to her in the middle of a tense phone call, and she chuckled. Kenta took that as a good sign.
A day after that, he and several other members of the organization were receiving a shipment of product at the docks. Daisuke leaned over and quietly asked Kenta if he was free on Friday. Kenta gave him a look. "Of course. Why?"
Daisuke's eyes flicked from side to side, and he leaned in. "I know your birthday's on Saturday," he murmured. "And you probably already made plans for that. Me and the others, we were thinking of doing something fun on Friday, is all. If you want."
Kenta promptly realized he'd forgotten his own birthday was coming up. "Sure," he said, almost sheepishly. "Of course."
Daisuke grinned. He had a disconcerting smile, one that showed all his teeth and looked more like a dog's snarl than a human expression of mirth. "Sweet."
His mother called him back that night.
"I was thinking," she said, her tone slightly stiff in what seemed like uncertainty. "Since it's… the twentieth on Saturday, we could go somewhere."
It gave him pause. What perfect timing. "Go where?"
"Go out for lunch, or something. You can pick the restaurant. I'll make you a cake."
"Yeah," he said immediately. "Of course."
So he spent Friday evening at a bar with the gang, where entirely too much booze was imbibed (not that it affected Kenta in any notable way), and sushi and desserts were ordered in copious amounts. He got the sense the festivities were more for the benefit of the others rather than him, but it was a nice gesture regardless.
He spent Saturday afternoon at a restaurant with his mother (he even wore a suit, sans tie), where they drank tea and talked. She avoided the topic of moving, which he was both irritated by and grateful for; he didn't need to be coddled about this sort of thing, and yet he preferred not to think about it. She told him that in the suit, he looked like his father. When they went back to her house, she presented him with a cheesecake (his favourite), with the number 19 written on it in strawberry halves and drizzled in melted chocolate.
On Sunday, he took the bullet train out of Kyoto, down the southern coastline. A notice on the map said he could ride as far as Shin-Shimonoseki station; Kokura had been almost wiped out by the waves, apparently. It was close enough.
It was late afternoon by the time he reached Shimonoseki the town. Signs of the destruction were everywhere, from disheveled, lost-looking people clutching their bags close to them, fallen trees and debris as he approached the edge of town. Kenta saw a sign that directed to a park up on a hill, and he made his way up the path.
The crest of the hill was shrouded in trees, except for a clear patch that looked out to the sea. It was empty of people except for a woman in a blue suit, standing by the railing that encircled the lookout point. Kenta walked up to the railing and leaned against it, gazing out over the sea.
Poking out of the water a distance away was what looked like the side of a concrete building. For some reason, he imagined it had been a car park garage. For an apartment, maybe. Farther away he spotted debris floating on the waves, and closer to the horizon a much taller building, a skyscraper, breaking the surface of the water.
He wondered what it looked like under the sea. How many houses rested at the bottom of the ocean? How many people were inside their homes when the waves hit, hiding out and waiting for the storm to subside? How many bodies out of nine million dead still lay under those waves, too waterlogged to float?
A muscle in his right wrist twinged, and Kenta realized he'd been gripping the railing far too hard. He let go, and shook out his hands. His regeneration took care of the rest.
"Are you… are you from there?"
His head turned sharply to his right. It was the woman who had spoken. She looked at him, a strand of hair falling across her face.
It took him a second to answer. "No," Kenta said, shaking his head. "I'm not from Kyushu. My sister is," he continued, unsure why he was lying. "She wanted to… see it for herself."
"Oh, that's awful," the woman said, her expression sad and sympathetic. She was a foreigner with coffee-coloured skin and straight black hair, with soft, shining eyes and full lips. Offsetting her softer features was a sharp jaw and full, arched brows. When he looked at her, he found he couldn't tell how old she was—she had a visage that could have been thirty or twenty.
"I'm so sorry," she continued. Her Japanese had more than a trace of an American accent to it. "For—your sister, but you, too. This entire thing is…" Her eyes fell from his face, and she pressed her lips together. "Any word I try to come up with is probably going to be inadequate to describe it."
"It's alright," he said, even though it wasn't. Not her fault an entire island had been sunk. "I appreciate the sentiment."
She smiled wryly. "Okay. I know an 'I'm sorry for your loss' doesn't really cover this kind of thing."
Was that humour? Was she trying to be funny? He wasn't sure, and it was irritating. Kenta forced a smile. "It's not exactly common."
"Mmhm." She cast her gaze out to the sea, at debris poking out of the water for a moment. "I'm a representative, a government official for the States, and I don't think half the people I see in meetings have really been out here, seeing the destruction."
"Probably," Kenta replied, eyes still on her. "It's a distant thing to them."
"There's a quote out there that says… oh, how would I translate it?" The woman's brow creased. "Something like… 'a million deaths are a statistic, a single death is a tragedy'." She looked back at him, met his gaze. "Often misattributed to Josef Stalin. I don't know where the original comes from. But I think that's how these people think. Millions of people dying is a blip to them. What's really important," she scoffed, "is the drop in the GDP, the decrease in industry. Habitable land and a birth rate, all the statistics without a thought to the things behind those statistics. Am I making sense?"
Something in her tone, her scorn, tugged a little at his memory. He couldn't place why.
"You're making sense," he said. "I'm from Kyoto. Lots of refugees on the street there. A lot of the shelters and hospitals are full, so full that there's really nowhere to go. And the government doesn't do anything. They sit there with their heads up their asses and make empty promises on TV." A beat. It dawned on him what he'd said. "Sorry for the vulgarity."
She let out a breath of a laugh. "It's okay. I can understand your frustration. Government impotence." Her head turned back to the sea, briefly. "I try my best to do something. Make myself heard, make it known that these aren't just statistics. But I'm worried it isn't always enough."
"I know how you feel," Kenta said, and he meant it.
Silence, for a long time.
"I'm Rebecca," the woman said, turning to him and holding out a hand. She suddenly looked mortified. "O-oh—should I bow, or…"
He smiled despite himself. Idiot foreigners. He knew what a handshake was. "A handshake's fine. I'm Kenta." They shook. Her grip was firm, surprisingly strong.
"It's nice to meet you, Kenta… san?" Rebecca tried, looking at him hesitantly.
"I'm fine without honorifics."
"Oh, good," Rebecca laughed, sounding faintly nervous. "I'm so terrible with those—God, I'm sorry, I must look like such an idiot to you. Not even bothering to properly learn your language."
"Only a little," he teased. "But don't worry about it. I'm not one for formality."
"That's very American of you," she said lightly, smiling at him.
He shrugged one shoulder, unsure of how to respond. There was another period of silence, during which he leaned against the railing, pretending to look out at the ocean, but mostly focusing his attention on Rebecca. He looked her up and down; the first three buttons at the top of her blouse were unbuttoned, exposing her collarbone.
"Why did you lie about having a sister?" Rebecca said.
There was a pause he could almost hear.
He looked over at her, and Rebecca met his eyes again, except the doe-eyed, soft gaze was gone. In its place was a look that was flinty, hard. Subtly, her body language had changed; there was no slackness in her jaw, or a slump in her shoulders.
Again, that sense of déjà vu. He knew this woman, but who exactly she was lingered out of reach at the edge of his memory.
"I wasn't lying," Kenta lied with a frown. "Why would you accuse me of that? You don't even know me."
"We've met, you know. You're not a terrible liar," Rebecca responded, in a voice completely unlike the breathy lilt she had spoken with before. This tone was assured, no-nonsense, and considerably more competent in Japanese. "But you need to lower your defensiveness when confronted on it. If I was anyone else, you might actually have fooled me into thinking you had a sister."
Anyone else. It clicked.
The skin. The hair. A 'government official'.
He felt his heart speed up, half in apprehension, half in rage. Rage at himself for missing it. Rage at her for deceiving him, playing at niceties, like this all wasn't a ploy.
"Did you stalk me here too?" Kenta said, his voice cold as he could make it. It wasn't hard—he'd revealed his name, for fuck's sake, exposed more of himself to her than he'd ever want to in a thousand centuries.
"Believe it or not," Alexandria said casually, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear, "this was coincidental. I imagine we had the same idea—visiting to see how bad the destruction was, witness the aftermath. I've been visiting several times, actually. I never expected you to show up."
"A very likely story," he spat, fingers curling around the railing. "So it's all a coincidence you find me in one of the hundreds of towns around here, talk to me while hiding your identity, and get my name?"
"It is, actually," she replied, calm in the face of his ire. "And you forget I'm also in a very vulnerable spot, revealing my face to you. You probably wouldn't be taken too seriously if you went to the American PRT and tipped them off as to my civilian identity without evidence, but it could still provoke unrest, an investigation."
"I have enemies who would want my name," Kenta mused, "who would use it to find my family and hurt them when they couldn't hurt me. You could do the same, using my identity as leverage."
Rebecca—Alexandria looked genuinely surprised at that. "I wouldn't—believe me when I say I have no intentions of doing that." She actually sounded like she meant it. "I wanted to foster familiarity between us, Kenta—"
"Don't call me that." The words were venomous, coming out as a growl that rumbled in his chest. "You don't have the right to call me that."
"I wanted to foster familiarity between us, Lung," Alexandria continued seamlessly. "It's understandable you wouldn't be inclined to listen to a hero, and I know your impression of me isn't exactly favourable."
"That's an understatement."
"That's disappointing," she said, even looking a little put out. "I've come to like you, Lung."
His lip curled. "From you, that's an insult."
Her brows raised. "I must have said it wrong. It's difficult, to meet with someone, try to think like they do in order to best communicate with them, and end up disliking them. It helps that you have a lot of likeable qualities. You've demonstrated that you're a thoughtful person in the conversation we were just having. You're a capable leader who trusts and cares for his subordinates, and you're incredibly brave and determined." She smiled, and it wasn't dissimilar to way she'd smiled while playing at being Rebecca. "Heroic qualities."
"You don't have to keep sucking me off. My answer's the same as it was when we first met—I won't join you," he said scornfully. "I've already told you why, unless you need me to refresh your memory."
He'd stopped leaning against the railing, instead facing her head on, tense like he was anticipating a fight. In contrast, Alexandria was casual despite the change in her demeanour, cheek rested on her hand. She looked him over, and he decided he liked it much less when he could tell she was analysing him. The mannerism came off as predatory, like a snake coiling to strike.
"You don't need to refresh my memory," she said, "but there's something else you didn't tell me."
"I wasn't aware I had to tell you everything." He hated how petulant he sounded, how her perfect, detached coolness made him sound like a whining child.
"You said you wouldn't join the Protectorate because you believed the Endbringers couldn't die," she continued, "but I think there's a more personal reason, is what I'm trying to say."
"So? Nobody really has a completely objective reason for doing things."
She didn't say anything for a second, merely watched him.
He'd had time to think about it, beyond that night in the bar. He'd be lying if he said it hadn't kept him awake at night, thinking about what she'd said, what he could do, the opportunities that awaited him.
He was torn between wanting there to never be another Kyushu again and abandoning any empathy he had for some other place beyond his sphere of influence. Maybe in five, ten years there would be another island sunk below the waves by Leviathan. Did he care? Yes, no. Both. The faces of homeless refugees in his mind were obscured by a shroud of fatalism, a feeling of tired apathy. A silent God stopped car accidents while the world burned and drowned at the same time.
He could be a hero in America, feared and loved by all, but he would leave his friends behind in a ruined country and a mother in a dictatorship. He knew he would always be an outsider to the Americans. Chalk it up to a number of things, but he'd only ever been able to fit in where he carved his own niche.
"You're conflicted," Alexandria said, interrupting his thoughts.
He could've snapped at her, tried to bite the hand that fed. He could have shunned her—in fact, he could have walked away long before. He'd done it once. She probably knew this.
"I have been considering it," Kenta admitted.
She smiled a little.
"Of course it doesn't mean I'll join you."
"We're willing to let you bargain," she said, folding her hands in front of her. "You don't have to make your decision right away, of course."
"If I said 'no' one more time?"
A thoughtful look. "Then I suppose it would only be right to respect that."
He weighed the words in his mind, and found they didn't spark the same ire that tended to rise in her presence. Kenta recalled their first meeting, where he learned she spoke Japanese and found a grudging respect for her.
He would return the sentiment. "I will take some time to consider your offer."
Alexandria beamed—actually beamed, the smile warming her face. "I'm pleased to hear you say that. I have meetings about foreign aid and the like to attend, and chances are I won't be free to find you again, so—" She reached in the breast pocket of her suit jacket and procured a card, handing it to Kenta. He looked it over—a simple white business card with some English letters in the corner, and a phone number in the middle.
"That's a proxy for my cell number in costume, so don't worry about the wrong person picking up," she said, almost casually. "And it's toll free."
"Alright."
"You're free to take as much time as you need to think, Lung," she continued, stepping away from the railing. "I understand this is a lot."
"Mm," Kenta hummed absently.
"But if you do choose to join us…" Alexandria left the statement hanging in the air, watching him with those sharp, dark eyes of hers. "Don't hesitate to call. You'll be welcomed."
Their eyes met, gazes holding for a moment. Eventually she smiled again, turned away and started walking down the path, heels clacking on the pavement. He watched her until she disappeared from sight.
Kenta realized he was still holding the card. He pocketed it, and turned back to the view.
When enough time had passed that he was sure he wouldn't meet her on the path, he left.
He spent the night in Shimonoseki and took the train back to Kyoto in the morning. That afternoon, he showed up at his mother's house while she was in the middle of packing, and helped her, in a sort of apology.
Life went on. The economy worsened, and the damage was never really fixed. People emigrated. Eventually, in January of the new millennium, so did Xunying.
In the evening after he saw her off at the airport, he held the card Alexandria had given him in his hands, eyes tracing the ink letters again and again. He didn't call the number.
Six months later, in June, Kenta said his goodbyes to the gang, and followed his mother.
He was hanging around outside Narita airport when he remembered the card he always kept in his pocket. Kenta pulled it out, and looked at the numbers again. What had she said then? It was a proxy for her actual cell phone number. Even if it was a proxy, she would likely want it to stay secret.
He looked around to make sure nobody was watching.
A small flame flickered into being at the center of his hand, and gradually consumed the business card, turning it into ash. Unsalvageable, unreadable. Keeping the number a secret was the least he could do for her. It was likely that if they ever met again, they would be enemies.
Kenta dusted his hands of the ash of the paper, and walked away.
END.
It was two days later before he decided speaking to his mother again would be a good idea. Not that he had wanted to ignore her; rather, he felt the both of them might have needed time to cool down and realize just how stupid their spat was. More specifically, he needed to realize. He pointed this out to her in the middle of a tense phone call, and she chuckled. Kenta took that as a good sign.
A day after that, he and several other members of the organization were receiving a shipment of product at the docks. Daisuke leaned over and quietly asked Kenta if he was free on Friday. Kenta gave him a look. "Of course. Why?"
Daisuke's eyes flicked from side to side, and he leaned in. "I know your birthday's on Saturday," he murmured. "And you probably already made plans for that. Me and the others, we were thinking of doing something fun on Friday, is all. If you want."
Kenta promptly realized he'd forgotten his own birthday was coming up. "Sure," he said, almost sheepishly. "Of course."
Daisuke grinned. He had a disconcerting smile, one that showed all his teeth and looked more like a dog's snarl than a human expression of mirth. "Sweet."
His mother called him back that night.
"I was thinking," she said, her tone slightly stiff in what seemed like uncertainty. "Since it's… the twentieth on Saturday, we could go somewhere."
It gave him pause. What perfect timing. "Go where?"
"Go out for lunch, or something. You can pick the restaurant. I'll make you a cake."
"Yeah," he said immediately. "Of course."
So he spent Friday evening at a bar with the gang, where entirely too much booze was imbibed (not that it affected Kenta in any notable way), and sushi and desserts were ordered in copious amounts. He got the sense the festivities were more for the benefit of the others rather than him, but it was a nice gesture regardless.
He spent Saturday afternoon at a restaurant with his mother (he even wore a suit, sans tie), where they drank tea and talked. She avoided the topic of moving, which he was both irritated by and grateful for; he didn't need to be coddled about this sort of thing, and yet he preferred not to think about it. She told him that in the suit, he looked like his father. When they went back to her house, she presented him with a cheesecake (his favourite), with the number 19 written on it in strawberry halves and drizzled in melted chocolate.
On Sunday, he took the bullet train out of Kyoto, down the southern coastline. A notice on the map said he could ride as far as Shin-Shimonoseki station; Kokura had been almost wiped out by the waves, apparently. It was close enough.
It was late afternoon by the time he reached Shimonoseki the town. Signs of the destruction were everywhere, from disheveled, lost-looking people clutching their bags close to them, fallen trees and debris as he approached the edge of town. Kenta saw a sign that directed to a park up on a hill, and he made his way up the path.
The crest of the hill was shrouded in trees, except for a clear patch that looked out to the sea. It was empty of people except for a woman in a blue suit, standing by the railing that encircled the lookout point. Kenta walked up to the railing and leaned against it, gazing out over the sea.
Poking out of the water a distance away was what looked like the side of a concrete building. For some reason, he imagined it had been a car park garage. For an apartment, maybe. Farther away he spotted debris floating on the waves, and closer to the horizon a much taller building, a skyscraper, breaking the surface of the water.
He wondered what it looked like under the sea. How many houses rested at the bottom of the ocean? How many people were inside their homes when the waves hit, hiding out and waiting for the storm to subside? How many bodies out of nine million dead still lay under those waves, too waterlogged to float?
A muscle in his right wrist twinged, and Kenta realized he'd been gripping the railing far too hard. He let go, and shook out his hands. His regeneration took care of the rest.
"Are you… are you from there?"
His head turned sharply to his right. It was the woman who had spoken. She looked at him, a strand of hair falling across her face.
It took him a second to answer. "No," Kenta said, shaking his head. "I'm not from Kyushu. My sister is," he continued, unsure why he was lying. "She wanted to… see it for herself."
"Oh, that's awful," the woman said, her expression sad and sympathetic. She was a foreigner with coffee-coloured skin and straight black hair, with soft, shining eyes and full lips. Offsetting her softer features was a sharp jaw and full, arched brows. When he looked at her, he found he couldn't tell how old she was—she had a visage that could have been thirty or twenty.
"I'm so sorry," she continued. Her Japanese had more than a trace of an American accent to it. "For—your sister, but you, too. This entire thing is…" Her eyes fell from his face, and she pressed her lips together. "Any word I try to come up with is probably going to be inadequate to describe it."
"It's alright," he said, even though it wasn't. Not her fault an entire island had been sunk. "I appreciate the sentiment."
She smiled wryly. "Okay. I know an 'I'm sorry for your loss' doesn't really cover this kind of thing."
Was that humour? Was she trying to be funny? He wasn't sure, and it was irritating. Kenta forced a smile. "It's not exactly common."
"Mmhm." She cast her gaze out to the sea, at debris poking out of the water for a moment. "I'm a representative, a government official for the States, and I don't think half the people I see in meetings have really been out here, seeing the destruction."
"Probably," Kenta replied, eyes still on her. "It's a distant thing to them."
"There's a quote out there that says… oh, how would I translate it?" The woman's brow creased. "Something like… 'a million deaths are a statistic, a single death is a tragedy'." She looked back at him, met his gaze. "Often misattributed to Josef Stalin. I don't know where the original comes from. But I think that's how these people think. Millions of people dying is a blip to them. What's really important," she scoffed, "is the drop in the GDP, the decrease in industry. Habitable land and a birth rate, all the statistics without a thought to the things behind those statistics. Am I making sense?"
Something in her tone, her scorn, tugged a little at his memory. He couldn't place why.
"You're making sense," he said. "I'm from Kyoto. Lots of refugees on the street there. A lot of the shelters and hospitals are full, so full that there's really nowhere to go. And the government doesn't do anything. They sit there with their heads up their asses and make empty promises on TV." A beat. It dawned on him what he'd said. "Sorry for the vulgarity."
She let out a breath of a laugh. "It's okay. I can understand your frustration. Government impotence." Her head turned back to the sea, briefly. "I try my best to do something. Make myself heard, make it known that these aren't just statistics. But I'm worried it isn't always enough."
"I know how you feel," Kenta said, and he meant it.
Silence, for a long time.
"I'm Rebecca," the woman said, turning to him and holding out a hand. She suddenly looked mortified. "O-oh—should I bow, or…"
He smiled despite himself. Idiot foreigners. He knew what a handshake was. "A handshake's fine. I'm Kenta." They shook. Her grip was firm, surprisingly strong.
"It's nice to meet you, Kenta… san?" Rebecca tried, looking at him hesitantly.
"I'm fine without honorifics."
"Oh, good," Rebecca laughed, sounding faintly nervous. "I'm so terrible with those—God, I'm sorry, I must look like such an idiot to you. Not even bothering to properly learn your language."
"Only a little," he teased. "But don't worry about it. I'm not one for formality."
"That's very American of you," she said lightly, smiling at him.
He shrugged one shoulder, unsure of how to respond. There was another period of silence, during which he leaned against the railing, pretending to look out at the ocean, but mostly focusing his attention on Rebecca. He looked her up and down; the first three buttons at the top of her blouse were unbuttoned, exposing her collarbone.
"Why did you lie about having a sister?" Rebecca said.
There was a pause he could almost hear.
He looked over at her, and Rebecca met his eyes again, except the doe-eyed, soft gaze was gone. In its place was a look that was flinty, hard. Subtly, her body language had changed; there was no slackness in her jaw, or a slump in her shoulders.
Again, that sense of déjà vu. He knew this woman, but who exactly she was lingered out of reach at the edge of his memory.
"I wasn't lying," Kenta lied with a frown. "Why would you accuse me of that? You don't even know me."
"We've met, you know. You're not a terrible liar," Rebecca responded, in a voice completely unlike the breathy lilt she had spoken with before. This tone was assured, no-nonsense, and considerably more competent in Japanese. "But you need to lower your defensiveness when confronted on it. If I was anyone else, you might actually have fooled me into thinking you had a sister."
Anyone else. It clicked.
The skin. The hair. A 'government official'.
He felt his heart speed up, half in apprehension, half in rage. Rage at himself for missing it. Rage at her for deceiving him, playing at niceties, like this all wasn't a ploy.
"Did you stalk me here too?" Kenta said, his voice cold as he could make it. It wasn't hard—he'd revealed his name, for fuck's sake, exposed more of himself to her than he'd ever want to in a thousand centuries.
"Believe it or not," Alexandria said casually, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear, "this was coincidental. I imagine we had the same idea—visiting to see how bad the destruction was, witness the aftermath. I've been visiting several times, actually. I never expected you to show up."
"A very likely story," he spat, fingers curling around the railing. "So it's all a coincidence you find me in one of the hundreds of towns around here, talk to me while hiding your identity, and get my name?"
"It is, actually," she replied, calm in the face of his ire. "And you forget I'm also in a very vulnerable spot, revealing my face to you. You probably wouldn't be taken too seriously if you went to the American PRT and tipped them off as to my civilian identity without evidence, but it could still provoke unrest, an investigation."
"I have enemies who would want my name," Kenta mused, "who would use it to find my family and hurt them when they couldn't hurt me. You could do the same, using my identity as leverage."
Rebecca—Alexandria looked genuinely surprised at that. "I wouldn't—believe me when I say I have no intentions of doing that." She actually sounded like she meant it. "I wanted to foster familiarity between us, Kenta—"
"Don't call me that." The words were venomous, coming out as a growl that rumbled in his chest. "You don't have the right to call me that."
"I wanted to foster familiarity between us, Lung," Alexandria continued seamlessly. "It's understandable you wouldn't be inclined to listen to a hero, and I know your impression of me isn't exactly favourable."
"That's an understatement."
"That's disappointing," she said, even looking a little put out. "I've come to like you, Lung."
His lip curled. "From you, that's an insult."
Her brows raised. "I must have said it wrong. It's difficult, to meet with someone, try to think like they do in order to best communicate with them, and end up disliking them. It helps that you have a lot of likeable qualities. You've demonstrated that you're a thoughtful person in the conversation we were just having. You're a capable leader who trusts and cares for his subordinates, and you're incredibly brave and determined." She smiled, and it wasn't dissimilar to way she'd smiled while playing at being Rebecca. "Heroic qualities."
"You don't have to keep sucking me off. My answer's the same as it was when we first met—I won't join you," he said scornfully. "I've already told you why, unless you need me to refresh your memory."
He'd stopped leaning against the railing, instead facing her head on, tense like he was anticipating a fight. In contrast, Alexandria was casual despite the change in her demeanour, cheek rested on her hand. She looked him over, and he decided he liked it much less when he could tell she was analysing him. The mannerism came off as predatory, like a snake coiling to strike.
"You don't need to refresh my memory," she said, "but there's something else you didn't tell me."
"I wasn't aware I had to tell you everything." He hated how petulant he sounded, how her perfect, detached coolness made him sound like a whining child.
"You said you wouldn't join the Protectorate because you believed the Endbringers couldn't die," she continued, "but I think there's a more personal reason, is what I'm trying to say."
"So? Nobody really has a completely objective reason for doing things."
She didn't say anything for a second, merely watched him.
He'd had time to think about it, beyond that night in the bar. He'd be lying if he said it hadn't kept him awake at night, thinking about what she'd said, what he could do, the opportunities that awaited him.
He was torn between wanting there to never be another Kyushu again and abandoning any empathy he had for some other place beyond his sphere of influence. Maybe in five, ten years there would be another island sunk below the waves by Leviathan. Did he care? Yes, no. Both. The faces of homeless refugees in his mind were obscured by a shroud of fatalism, a feeling of tired apathy. A silent God stopped car accidents while the world burned and drowned at the same time.
He could be a hero in America, feared and loved by all, but he would leave his friends behind in a ruined country and a mother in a dictatorship. He knew he would always be an outsider to the Americans. Chalk it up to a number of things, but he'd only ever been able to fit in where he carved his own niche.
"You're conflicted," Alexandria said, interrupting his thoughts.
He could've snapped at her, tried to bite the hand that fed. He could have shunned her—in fact, he could have walked away long before. He'd done it once. She probably knew this.
"I have been considering it," Kenta admitted.
She smiled a little.
"Of course it doesn't mean I'll join you."
"We're willing to let you bargain," she said, folding her hands in front of her. "You don't have to make your decision right away, of course."
"If I said 'no' one more time?"
A thoughtful look. "Then I suppose it would only be right to respect that."
He weighed the words in his mind, and found they didn't spark the same ire that tended to rise in her presence. Kenta recalled their first meeting, where he learned she spoke Japanese and found a grudging respect for her.
He would return the sentiment. "I will take some time to consider your offer."
Alexandria beamed—actually beamed, the smile warming her face. "I'm pleased to hear you say that. I have meetings about foreign aid and the like to attend, and chances are I won't be free to find you again, so—" She reached in the breast pocket of her suit jacket and procured a card, handing it to Kenta. He looked it over—a simple white business card with some English letters in the corner, and a phone number in the middle.
"That's a proxy for my cell number in costume, so don't worry about the wrong person picking up," she said, almost casually. "And it's toll free."
"Alright."
"You're free to take as much time as you need to think, Lung," she continued, stepping away from the railing. "I understand this is a lot."
"Mm," Kenta hummed absently.
"But if you do choose to join us…" Alexandria left the statement hanging in the air, watching him with those sharp, dark eyes of hers. "Don't hesitate to call. You'll be welcomed."
Their eyes met, gazes holding for a moment. Eventually she smiled again, turned away and started walking down the path, heels clacking on the pavement. He watched her until she disappeared from sight.
Kenta realized he was still holding the card. He pocketed it, and turned back to the view.
When enough time had passed that he was sure he wouldn't meet her on the path, he left.
He spent the night in Shimonoseki and took the train back to Kyoto in the morning. That afternoon, he showed up at his mother's house while she was in the middle of packing, and helped her, in a sort of apology.
Life went on. The economy worsened, and the damage was never really fixed. People emigrated. Eventually, in January of the new millennium, so did Xunying.
In the evening after he saw her off at the airport, he held the card Alexandria had given him in his hands, eyes tracing the ink letters again and again. He didn't call the number.
Six months later, in June, Kenta said his goodbyes to the gang, and followed his mother.
He was hanging around outside Narita airport when he remembered the card he always kept in his pocket. Kenta pulled it out, and looked at the numbers again. What had she said then? It was a proxy for her actual cell phone number. Even if it was a proxy, she would likely want it to stay secret.
He looked around to make sure nobody was watching.
A small flame flickered into being at the center of his hand, and gradually consumed the business card, turning it into ash. Unsalvageable, unreadable. Keeping the number a secret was the least he could do for her. It was likely that if they ever met again, they would be enemies.
Kenta dusted his hands of the ash of the paper, and walked away.
END.
決断 (ketsudan) — decision, determination.
This isn't really relevant to the story at all, but a headcanon of mine is that Kenta has a Chinese name; Tan Jiantai. Tan is Xunying's family name, and Jiantai is composed of the two characters that make up Kenta in Japanese; 健太.
If you didn't do the math, his (headcanoned) birthday is November 20th, 1980.
Thank you for reading Shinka.
This isn't really relevant to the story at all, but a headcanon of mine is that Kenta has a Chinese name; Tan Jiantai. Tan is Xunying's family name, and Jiantai is composed of the two characters that make up Kenta in Japanese; 健太.
If you didn't do the math, his (headcanoned) birthday is November 20th, 1980.
Thank you for reading Shinka.