XCEL

The morning had started out full of promise, especially for a December’s cruel joke of a Wednesday.

For most, midweek signposted either hope or dread, depending on one’s outlook. Depending on what happened in the early hours, it could easily swing either way. Irrespective of whether one held the day in high or low regard, however, most had no choice but to go about it anyway. The Kyoto basin, sitting at the foothill to three separate mountain ranges, had its seasonal climate shunted towards the extremes. Far too cold to snow, the air whipped at Hideyori Hakana’s exposed skin, what little remained visible. The executive wore the collar of his thick black trench characteristically high, buttoned tight to a few inches below his chin. Long hair insulated his neck, the sheer length of it tucked into his coat. This was kept in place by the man’s signature hat, secured so fast atop his head you would swear he had glued it there.

Even in the height of summer, Hakana was always cold. Low blood pressure had been a constant, what with his pale complexion, but years at nicotine’s seldom mercy had damaged his peripheral blood vessels such that the chill on his extremities never left. Arms tucked in by his sides, gloved hands shoved deep into coat pockets, he schwifted like an morally dubious penguin against the malicious wind that swept the streets, searching for unprepared stragglers. Its bloodlust was either misguided, or just mistimed. The sun had barely risen by seven in the morning. By his watch, it was only four past the hour. Hakana looked sideways out of one eye—his only eye. Soon these streets would be filled with usual folk: the purposeful, the clueless, and all flavours in between.

His walk had taken him west, past Nijo Castle, the next door park, down a few nostalgic shortcuts and toward a particularly auspicious corner of Ikuho Minami street. He didn’t stride, but didn’t dawdle. The easy movements of his head, punctuated only by the occasional jerk as fits of coughing squeezed his lungs, was one of a local. His eye glossed over most that the unaccustomed would be tempted to gawk at. His home was renowned for auspicious things, but those honours by and large went to the shrines and temples—the city’s plethora of cultural heritage—whose sacred grounds were trampled year upon year, rather ironically, by the endless train of foreigners who had come to “pay their respects.”

No. This place held personal sentiment. The street was typical for downtown Kyoto. Some buildings he passed bore the traditional sloped, tiled roofs; others were more modern and flat-topped. They jutted in and out of the street, the irregularity an aesthetic comfort. One of the only mainland cities to escape America’s wrath at the tail-end of the second world war, Kyoto was lucky in that the only force it had to contend with for the upkeep of its infrastructure was entropy.

Speaking of entropy: the wracking of his lungs wasn’t the only internal distress Hideyori Hakana was facing. When was the last time he had eaten? A car rumbled leisurely past, enjoying the lack of traffic at such an early hour. Hakana rounded the corner, stopped, gave a cursory glance over his surroundings, then allowed himself a brief smile. A pair of cherry trees stood stalwart, branches bare and pensive, either side to the unassuming door of Kohinozakura.

小火野桜 “Small Flame, Wild Cherry Blossom.” The four-character idiom was a play on words, the first part a homonym to the principal beverage served. The establishment prided itself above all on serving “proper” coffee. They imported the beans in fresh, and roasted them by flame prior to serving. This gave them enormous overhead, and limited capacity, but they were rewarded by a very high-status clientele. The café didn’t go to lengths to advertise itself. The building was glass-fronted and unassuming, tucked underneath a modern stack of likely offices—Hakana had never cared to check.

Walking by unawares, you’d dismiss it as easily as a bus stop. The subtle pink in spring, however, was one sight he would never forget.

He visited this place often in his Moments, of days long past. It would never be the same; he could only try and delude himself otherwise. Hakana felt his hand clench over his chest. Hope, a foreign sensation, welled in his throat. He hoped to be around next spring, to see the blossoms another year. You could see the cherry blossoms across the country, but only here could he see those two trees. They were special. Someone had once taught him to identify what was special, beautiful; what was worth protecting.

Protecting…

Yeah, that’s right. To protect what was worth protecting. This was all for her sake.

Hakana reminded himself he wasn’t only here to stand and look. The time for that had come and gone, and would surely come again. But now, he was an active participant in this moment still to be made. He cast a cursory glance around, then at his watch. They’d be here soon.

He blinked, then sniffed, before removing his hat and pushing past the sleek glass doors.

Kohinozakura had no bell. That was why he liked it here. If a shop has to go out of its way to announce one’s presence, one clearly has no presence. Hakana considered it mildly infantilizing, as if the building itself were walking him into the centre of the room like a nursery attendant with too firm a grip, introducing him rather against his will to all the other awkward little children as he scuffed his feet on the carpet.

The door hinges didn’t so much as creak, let alone squeal like some others. The man drifted into the shop with the draught, wraith-like. How often, he wondered, could he tarred with that descriptor? Not that it wasn’t deserved. Wraiths were always bad omens. What was he, if not exactly that? A wry grin contorted his thin mouth. Silence sung its soothing song in his ears. The distinctive lack of people wrought a sigh of relief.

Only one man stood behind the counter. His face bore so many lines, Hakana bet he could (and had once tried to, at his peril) figure out his age by counting them like tree rings. The aged proprietor wore a sprightly white polo shirt and loose black leather apron. He seemed determinedly disinterested in his only customer. The ignorant might have judged him senile, or at the very least deaf. The small tufts of white hair sprouting from both ears might’ve tipped them off. He was suspiciously busy cleaning a glass. Hakana’s brogues made no sound across the lacquered wood on approach. He laid his hat down on the glass counter-top, and kept his peace.

Eventually, “Are you going to say something, kid?” A raspy voice tickled the air. “Or are you waiting for me to die of old age so you can rob the place? Vile miscreant.”

Hakana only chuckled in response.

The maestro cut him a look, a wizened look of wizening proportions. “Oh, think it’s funny, do you? What time do you call this? You know how bad early mornings are for my knees! Do you want to hear what my doctor has to say? Or should I come out there and give you a physical demonstration?”

“Thanks for making the time once again, old man.” Hakana smirked. “We won’t be long. I’m sure you can crawl back under the counter for another few Z’s before you flip the sign.”

“That old joke?” The proprietor scoffed. “You need better material, Hideyori.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He waved it away. “Had a little bit on my mind lately. The stand-up routine has taken an indefinite hiatus. Once this mess is over, I’m sure I’ll have time to clean up my act.”

The old man’s face softened, but before he could address his concerns, the executive had turned and walked away.

“I’ll have whatever you’ll serve me.” Hakana approached the floorplan of booths and standalone tables. All empty; that was the whole point. He took his time to decide, before settling on the one he always chose—no, the one she had once chosen.

The booths set near the windows had individual shutters. Useful, but only if you fancied mounting suspicion. He’d never bother using the feature. His appearance attracted enough attention by himself, such that anyone looking thought his getup all one giant bit, and so paid him little mind. Either way, what was the harm now? There were so few about at this hour, dust and exhaust pollution collated into a tumbleweed and rolled, bouncing helpfully across the road.

The tables themselves were substantial, black, marbled stone polished to within an inch of its life. Each booth could sit six, and always did. Unless you were a regular, it was impossible to find a seat during opening hours. The upholstery was leathery, comfortably faded. Real or fake, it didn’t much matter. It was supportive, it was comfortable—to the executive, it was familiar. He lowered himself into its folds with the slightest of groans, placing his hat on the seat nearby. Taking off one glove, Hakana gingerly touched the back of his hand to the window, and winced. The glass was warmer. Ouch.

Soon, a bright and vividly acidic aroma roused him from the distant depths of recollection. The china saucer clinked against stone, as the proprietor made every effort to exacerbate just how much physical discomfort he was putting himself through in this simple act of service.

“I recognise it.” Hakana took a deep breath, hummed one moment, then said, “Kenya, Aberdare Range.”

“Oh, an expert now, are we?” The old man threw a jaunty grimace. “If you don’t like it after all this time, I’ll eat your hat,” he grumbled, deftly spinning the tray on one finger and shuffling off. “Your tab’s already stretching from here to Okinawa…”

Hakana nodded appreciatively, pinching the porcelain between two fingers and raising. The velvety espresso met his lips. A shudder arced down his spine, through his pelvis, and shook itself out into the floor through a twitch in his left foot. So concentrated, his mind was left tingling seconds after the fact. He set the cup back down. One sip was more than enough. He swore, acutely aware he’d scalded the tip of his tongue. From the back of the shop, the proprietor chuckled. He had his back turned, and pretended to be busy re-organising shelves.

Hakana was inches away from a retort, when the glass door swung open on its hinges without a sound. A pair of shadows crossed the threshold, and he snapped to attention. Two asynchronous pairs of footsteps clopped across the lacquered floor. An air of something solemn wafted in from outside: the ominous stench of petrichor.

“Heavens, we ain’t open yet!” The proprietor hobbled back behind the counter, flapping his arms. On recognition, he froze, mid-gesture. Both arms then flopped to his sides. “Should have known it’d be you two. Whenever that piece of bad news shows up—” he jerked a finger at Hakana, who smiled oh-so-innocently— “the rest of you ain’t far behind.”

“Please excuse us for intruding at such an early hour, Mr Koizumi. Unfortunately, us early birds have... worms to catch.” The first voice—dry, faded, male—belonged to a respectable, bespectacled intellectual. Short dark hair with a receding hairline—he hadn’t really aged well. His suit looked freshly dry-cleaned. Hakana could almost smell the chemicals from here. They threatened ruin the aroma of his flame-roasted Kenyan coffee! He took another sip just to make sure, and almost spluttered when he burned his tongue again.

“Sure,” grumbled Koizumi. “You birds sure do love your tweeting…”

The woman next to him tittered. “You love us really.” She had a brighter tone, accentuated through the smile lines etched into the corners of her eyes and mouth. Auburn hair was cut into a bob that hugged her ears.

“Just sit yourselves down already.” Koizumi allowed himself a begrudging chuckle. “Two more of the same, coming right up.” Once more, he busied himself with beans.

“It’s… been a long time, Hakana.” The woman approached his booth and slid into one of the opposing seats. Straightening her blouse, she shuffled up a little more to allow her associate room.

“The pleasure’s all mine, Serinaka.” Hakana nodded, his smile widening. “You’re looking well.”

“There’s little need to be so formal with her.” The bespectacled man adjusted said piece on his nose. “That’s my job.”

“And you haven’t changed at all, Karabachi. Hell, you’re still as square as that filing cabinet you kept around in the office. I don’t know how you do it. You must be a model for clothing hangers at this point, no?”

Hakana’s chuckle was strangled by the thin air. Karabachi and Serinaka exchanged a certain look. The stiff man’s stiff lip stiffened further still; the woman avoided meeting Hakana’s gaze.

Feeling a slight hitch in his stomach, the executive nursed his coffee cup in both hands. The warmth ebbing from the porcelain and into his fingers made to stave off the biting cold. He cleared his throat. “Cat got both your tongues? That’s unheard of—especially for you, Serinaka. What’s wrong, not pleased to see me? If it’s because I forgot either of your birthdays, you know I did it on purpose. I’ve done it before, I’ll do it again. It’s like she always told us; every day’s cause for celebration if you look at it right.”

The mention of “she” sent a paralytic spark through the room, followed by more silence. And more silence. Karabachi’s eyes were hid by the overhead glare on his lenses. Serinaka sighed through her nose, hands clenched into fists on the tabletop. She was the one to finally return Hakana’s serve. Even if she had something witty to say, it was too late: the ball had already bounced seventeen times, and rolled to a stop.

“Let’s not pretend we’re here for a catch-up.” Serinaka pursed her lips, a mournful shadow gracing a slender face worn back through years of small disappointments. “I think that’ll only make it worse.”

Hakana’s mirth shattered like sugarglass. A heavy breath spilled from dry lips. The man’s head sank between his shoulder blades. Elbows firmly planted on the tabletop, he steepled his fingers to stop them twitching. “What’s the matter?” He goaded, raspy voice unsheathing a serrated edge from the sheath of pleasantries from ago. “Am I not allowed to reminisce anymore? Do all those years have an expiry date now? I would have loved to be at the meeting where that was decided—”

“You know that’s not what she means, Mr Hakana.” Karabachi chided softly. His hands were firmly clasped on his lap.

“Here you go,” Mr Koizumi, either completely unaware of the situation or the exact inverse, hobbled over bearing two more coffees. He set them down with deliberation, then smiled. “It is good to see you two again.” He turned and shuffled off, mumbling, “if only you came more often when the shop was actually…” and the rest of his likely well-meant grievances was lost to the ether.

Serinaka revitalised herself on a sip of coffee. “Please don’t make this any more difficult for us than it needs to be. Surely you’re aware of the risk we’re taking by meeting you like this, let alone what we have to discuss.”

“Oh, it’s a burden now, is it?” Hakana growled. “Fine. I won’t bother you anymore. I’ll let you sweep all of this under the rug for good, let you go back to families, your civvie jobs. Your daughter’s graduated college now, hasn’t she?” A pointed glare at Karabachi. “Criminology, if I’m not mistaken. Taken after her father! You must be so proud. Would’ve been nice to know, just saying. If only I hadn’t found out months later, when she went out of her own way to get in contact. I didn’t even know she’d been to college, but it’s fine!” He raised both hands, then coughed into his sleeve. “You can live all the comfortable lives you want in the knowledge of what you’ve left behind. Go on. Say your bit,” he spat, wiring his trap shut to prevent himself saying what they’d both later come to regret.

The pair shared another look, before, “Allow me.”

Karabachi cleared his throat and procured some papers from a briefcase. One finger slid them across the table, then swiftly retreated. Hakana exercised conscious control to prevent himself from snatching them up. His eye scanned down the first letter, before he folded it into one pocket.

“As per our last meeting—”

“Four years ago!”

“Be that as it may—” Karabachi inhaled through gritted teeth, and Hakana shut up. “I tried to assure you the best I could that the department would do its utmost to aid in your search efforts. Both Ms. Serinaka and I have utilised all the leverage we still possess. But though we are still both affiliated, you have to understand our collective reach only goes so far.”

“What do you want me to say: you’re excused?” Hakana mocked.

“Please!” Serinaka rapped her knuckles on the table, and nodded to her colleague. “They weren’t in the least bit receptive to our plan of action, Hakana. The fact remains that they consider the case shut and sealed. They can’t keep tabs open this long. It’s been years!”

“You think I don’t know how long it’s been?” Hakana snapped in a subdued snarl. “For every single one of those years, an epoch has come and gone. I told you, she is still alive. I can feel it! I have spent the last decade collecting every receipt, employment file, business transaction and loose-leaf scrap of paper from this organisation, and do you know why? Because that is the mission I was assigned.” He leant back against his chair. “Have you already forgotten her most important lesson? Something worth doing must be seen through; something left unfinished has already been forgotten. Have you two already forgotten her?” He let that soak for a second more, but wasn’t done. “I know she’s alive, but I can’t take the place apart brick by brick without jeopardising this entire sting! All I need is manpower and resources from the military police to siege this whole operation and find her—”

“Manpower and resources the military police are less than willing to provide, Mr Hakana.” Karabachi sighed. “No matter how much she may have meant to us, the government isn’t going to dispatch its highest personnel troops to save a single ex-agent on a matter of hunch.”

“It’s not a hunch.” Hakana glared. “I’ve explained to you before, her psychic signature—”

“Don’t misunderstand. I don’t doubt your powers. They, however, will—and do, by the way. They need proof, Hakana; not statements, not hearsay. They cannot approve any kind of warrant without proof—”

“And this is about more than just her. I’d say you have no idea but no, you have exactly the right idea just how dangerous JPRO is. I have made quadruply sure of it.” His own ream of documents magically summoned into hand, he slapped it down on the table, narrowly avoiding knocking over coffee cups. “How’s this for proof? This details every single experiment JPRO has conducted since my last report, as well as—explained in explicit detail—every single one of their current plans and intentions. The other half of the ascension blade has been found.”

Both recoiled.

“Yeah,” Hakana nodded slowly. “Scary prospect, isn’t it? Exactly what I warned you about. Katsuro Harigane found the Banished Disciple’s tomb but, clever bastard, managed to slip the blade fragment out under our noses. It’s almost been in our hands several times since. His son has caused us just as much of a headache. What’s been happening in Chiba? Rinkaku Harigane’s been on the news. There’s no way you can play dumb. Senketsu, Kawarajima, Yorusada; and in Tokyo, the ‘Night of the Falling Sky’? It’s all connected. I’ve been there. I’ve seen it. Hell, I’ve even had to orchestrate half of it in order to keep up this daft charade. This conflict will only get worse, and if the boss manages to unite the full blade, there will be nothing—and I mean nothing—any worldly force can do to stop him from doing exactly as he pleases.”

“The power to oppose—to Overpower—any and all phenomena,” Serinaka quoted, horrified.

Hakana nodded. He meant to take another sip of coffee, but ended up downing the rest of it. Parched and scratchy throat at least partially quenched, Hakana savoured the taste a little while longer, revelling in the fear crystallised on their faces. “The government would be wise to take note of this, by the way. The boss has a particular bone to pick with institutions. Not just this country: governments the world over. They don’t like to let the citizenry know this, of course, but drastic change can only come from on top. The Japanese Government are the first on his chopping block.”

“I’ve shown you some before.” In one pale hand, he held out to them a large, beautiful orb. In my Moments, I have seen it all millions of times over. He will not stop. Gus Ishimatsu will become a calamity that leaves only ruin in his wake.” Hakana took a deep breath, and folded both arms over his chest. His tone calmed, though remained just as steely. “If you want any part in stopping this, you’ll do what I’ve said. You won’t ‘just do what you can’. You will do it. I know you can. I’ve known you both for too long. She believed in your skills, that same belief I am trusting in now. If you want to live the rest of however long in trying to forget what you could have helped avert, that’s fine by me. When Judgement Day comes, we—she and I both—will dance on your corpses, spit in your faces and laugh at your memory. That, at least, will give me some measure of catharsis, if nothing else, before the end.”

“You’ve made your point well. Though your rhetoric, it hurts.” Karabachi was the first to stand. “The most I can promise you is a month. You will hear back from us within that time.” Sweeping Hakana’s papers from the table, he tucked them into his briefcase and sealed it with two resounding clicks of the metal latches. He didn’t dare stay any longer. The man’s form brisked through the glass door swifter than the wind, knuckles whitening by his sides.

Serinaka followed, eyes a little red. Her gait wobbled, as though her knees had already gone home. “I can never repay the debt I owe Lady Miren. None of us can.” Her breathing was shaky, but she did her best to still it. “I will never mistake just how much she meant to you, and I’m sorry for how it has all turned out. You were always such a bright kid. But I know, no matter what we say, nothing will ever mean anything until you see her again. I know that.” With one final look into the man’s eye, she said, “Thank you for trusting in us. You know, you’re the strongest of us all. Out of the six of us, you’re the only one left. None of us can bear the weight of the memory anymore.”

And soon she too was gone. The rain had arrived five minutes ago; it drummed thick and fast against the shuttered windowpanes. Hideyori Hakana was left alone in the booth, head tilted down, eye shut. Words, said and otherwise, bounced in his mind like billiard balls, unceasing. Each collision produces a spark, each spark lit a fire, and the fires coagulated in his blood into an ungodly blaze, white-hot. Sweat plastered his shirt against his back. Hakana combed a hand through his hair. Kohinozakura was due to open soon. Mr Koizumi, bless his heart, had given them due privacy. He, however, couldn’t stay. His reminiscences, like all his moments, had to end. Only this one, he couldn’t simply rewind and watch over again.

Without a word, Hakana swept from the premises, coattails billowing in the morning wind. Rain of the dawn spattered his trench, as hat found itself secured once again on head. He started off down the street in a random direction, an unceasing stride. He glared, unseeing. He puzzled, unthinking. Each thud of a raindrop on his body felt like lead shot. With every step, Hakana felt that blaze burn brighter. It burned in every organ, every node, every vessel. Every breath seared his throat and the inside of his lungs, to the point where he could scarcely breathe. His vision vignetted, and Hakana swayed. He fell sideways against a building and tried propping himself upright. Claimed by the coughing, the man wheezed and hammered at his chest, but the coughing didn’t stop. His heart pounded in his head. The ground twisted beneath him. His ears rang shrill bells at the slightest sound. His solitary eye grew darker, knees weaker, as every cough wrenched more life, more breath from his body.

The fire within roared to inferno, and the world went dark.

Hideyori Hakana fell forward with a thump onto the sodden pavement. Hat knocked free, it rolled and came to rest upside down, collecting rainwater. His ashen hair, faded under the stormcloud, spilled into a gutter. An orb lay inches from his palm, dark ink swirling a picturesque representation of the stratosphere. As above, so below.