#44: storm children
Title: Storm Children
Fandom: Arashi
Word Count: 6,500
Summary: Urban fantasy AU. Magic is scarce in this city. It can be found rising from trodden clusters of cigarette butts, or in the gleam of a cat’s eyes in the darkness. Some days Nino has to scrape it off the soles of his mismatched boots, where it’s been caught with the mud and dirt found in pavements and puddles; other days, like this one, he finds it by accident.
UPDATE (23 April 2014): I've just discovered, while clicking around randomly, that the website I was hosting this on has apparently vanished the story entirely! So - on the off-chance that anyone might still wander over here and try to read this fic, I've posted the text version (with pictures to be added) in this LJ post.
a plant
It’s there, in a city of concrete.
Nino finds it first - a plant, growing between the cracks in the asphalt. He glances around.
“Masaki,” he calls. “MASAKI.”
There is no response.
“Lucky,” he murmurs, echoing what he knows Aiba will say when Nino shows him this unexpected treasure. He pulls up the plant, roots and all, and deposits it into an empty juice carton he keeps in his coat for such occasions.
Magic is scarce in this city. It can be found rising from trodden clusters of cigarette butts, or in the gleam of a cat’s eyes in the darkness. Some days Nino has to scrape it off the soles of his mismatched boots, where it’s been caught with the mud and dirt found in pavements and puddles; other days, like this one, he finds it by accident.
There is a sound of footsteps down the alleyway; Nino stiffens and straightens up. He tucks the juice carton back inside his coat and glances about curiously for the source of the noise.
Nothing.
He’ll investigate further, later. Perhaps after he’s found something to eat. For now, though, he has his plant.
Quickly, effortlessly, he clambers up a nearby drainpipe to stand on a small window ledge that gives him a clear path to the roof opposite him. He crouches slightly, throwing out one arm for balance.
With one leap, he flies.
a transaction
Today Nino is shuffling cards in the alleyway again, vanishing a card and springing the rest; cutting the deck twice and then starting over again.
“No secrets to hide away today?”
It’s Sakurai; Nino knows without looking up, because he catches sight of Sakurai’s shoes from the corner of his eye. Nobody in this town wears shoes like that, or keeps them as well as Sakurai does.
“I’m bored,” says Nino. “Are you here to buy?”
Sakurai frowns. “I’ve never bought, Ninomiya.”
Nino shrugs. “No harm in asking,” he says.
People pay Nino to hide their secrets away; they write it down on one of his cards and he vanishes them forever. It’s how he earns a living on these streets, and he’s good at it - once he’s vanished a card, the secret never surfaces again.
Unless Nino wants it to, of course.
“I’m here for any news,” says Sakurai.
“Read the papers,” Nino replies.
“Don’t be contrary, it doesn’t become you,” says Sakurai.
“What will you give me?” asks Nino.
“I’m the police,” says Sakurai, “I don’t give you anything.”
“I was thinking moffles, actually,” says Satoshi. He’s standing somewhere behind Sakurai and is in the middle of lighting a cigarette. “I know a good place.”
Nino likes Satoshi. He doesn’t piss in Nino’s territory when he leads the men on raids, and he’s given Nino a head start in a chase more than a couple of times.
“Moffles are nice,” says Nino. He glances slyly at Sakurai.
“Oh all right, moffles it is,” says Sakurai. “Honestly, I don’t understand either of you,” he mutters.
“And the news, Nino?” Satoshi asks.
The legs of Nino’s trousers are different lengths because he’d ripped a bit off the right leg after it had gotten cut in a fight. The left leg ends slightly lower but still above his boot, which he picked off a dead man years ago. (Freshly dead, so there was nothing to worry about.) The man had been one-legged, though, which was a bit of a shame, really.
It is from this left boot that Nino now pulls a slip of paper, crumpled but folded neatly into a tight little rectangle.
“Some numbers, that’s all,” says Nino. He palms the note and makes it reappear in his other hand with a little wink, before tossing it to Sakurai. “It’s been quiet recently.”
“Thank you,” says Sakurai. “Let’s hope it stays that way.”
“I prefer a little bit of white noise, myself,” Nino replies.
“What’s that?” asks Sakurai, but Nino’s attention is caught by something overhead.
“Just a bird, nothing to worry about,” says Satoshi, exhaling smoke. He turns to Nino. “So, those moffles?”
“Another time, perhaps,” Nino replies.
“Very well,” says Sakurai. “Let us know if anything else crops up-”
Nino’s already vanished.
a bird
Ask anyone on the street and they will say that Aiba has got crow’s blood in him. That one day, some years ago, he charmed and tricked a raven into giving him its powers of flight.
This story is only half true.
Aiba is fearless, and as smart as Nino is. That’s what Nino says, anyway, but only when his pockets are full of cash and their stomachs are full of dinner and good beer.
When Nino finds Aiba he is standing, perfectly balanced, on top of the narrow ledge of a roof. He’s coiled his long scarf multiple times around his neck but seems to have lost the jacket Nino scavenged up for him the week before.
“The weather’s getting colder, lately,” says Nino, landing quietly beside him. “Quit being so careless.”
“I didn’t lose the jacket,” Aiba tells him. “I left it behind.”
“Where?” asks Nino.
“I’ll show you,” says Aiba. “Come on.”
The jacket is lying at the foot of the concrete wall just behind the train station. Aiba steps close to it, picks it up, and pulls - hard - like he’s tugging at a lot more fabric than just a pile of leather.
“There,” he says, dusting the jacket off and putting it on. “I hid this to make sure we’d be the first to know.”
Nino just stares, eyes wide.
“When did you see this?”
“About an hour ago - the paint was fresh, then.” Aiba pauses and turns to Nino. “What’s the plan, Kazu?”
“I don’t have a plan,” says Nino. He sounds surprised.
a sign
a visit
Sakurai barely avoids spilling his tea down the front of his shirt when he catches sight of Nino at the window of his office.
“You never come here,” says Sakurai, setting the styrofoam cup down on the table and stalking over to the window to let Nino in.
“I’m not staying,” says Nino, gripping the lintel above with one gloved hand as he squats on the sill.
“What is it?” asks Sakurai.
“Someone left a message on the wall behind the station,” Nino tells him.
“A message for who?” asks Sakurai.
“For all of us, perhaps,” Nino replies.
“For-”
“The king is dead. That’s what it said.”
“What does that even mean-”
“You’re the police,” says Nino. “That’s for you to find out.”
Sakurai nods grimly. “And what will you do?”
“I’ll figure something out,” says Nino. He readjusts his footing on the window sill and pushes off.
Sakurai watches him leap off onto the adjacent roof, and cannot help but marvel a little bit.
They’re four floors up, after all.
a question
“You’ll get used to this city, that’s what they said,” says Matsumoto. “The ins and the outs, the urchin magicians, the crows and strays. The dirt.”
“There’s dirt, all right,” Satoshi replies. “Gets up my nose, makes me want to scratch it all the time.”
“You do scratch it all the time, Ohno-san,“ says Matsumoto, crinkling his own nose in faint disgust.
Matsumoto is extremely well-dressed, even for one of the King’s men. His tie is perfectly knotted, his shoes can rival Sakurai’s, and his bespoke three-piece suit makes Satoshi’s worn, stained coat sag in envy.
“So I hear the King’s dead,” says Satoshi. “Is it true?”
“Yes,” Matsumoto replies. “Saw the body with my own eyes. It was the Vole.”
Satoshi reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out a cigarette. “Nobody’s ever seen the Vole. How do you know it was him?”
Matsumoto smiles thinly as he lights Satoshi’s cigarette almost by reflex. “We found his body right next to the King’s. Wholly dismembered, of course, but the tattoos don’t lie.”
“Any other clues?” asks Satoshi.
“Come see for yourself,” says Matsumoto.
“Sakurai’s already on it,” Satoshi replies. He pauses; inhales on his cigarette. “But that’s not the question I should be asking, is it?”
“No,” says Matsumoto. “Not really.”
“The question we’re all asking, I suppose,” says Satoshi, “is what happens after this?”
a plate of moffles
“We’ll wait,” says Nino. “That’s what we’ll do. We’ve never played by the King’s rules. Even if there’s a new one we’ll just carry right on.”
“I suspect it doesn’t work that way,” says Satoshi, spearing a piece of moffle with his chopsticks.
“Nothing I can do about it,” Nino replies, shrugging.
“True,” says Satoshi. He finishes the last of his moffle in three neat mouthfuls and stands up to leave.
“What will you do?” asks Nino.
“Pack a couple of these to bring back to the station,” says Satoshi. “Sakurai likes them sesame flavoured. Or was it yam?”
Nino scowls. “Satoshi.”
“I’ll prepare for war,” says Satoshi. “The other towns aren’t going to sit still.”
a fortune
Nino has known Maki for what seems like forever. As far as he can remember she’s always been around, goggle-eyed as she watched him do his card tricks; leaving him little charms to keep him safe. She goes to school now, or at least that’s what he’s heard.
It doesn’t matter; he always knows when and where to find her.
“I know you don’t care for tarot cards, Kazu,” says Maki. “So why are you here?”
Nino hops down from the low balcony he was perched on and lands in a crouch beside Maki.
“Someone’s grumpy,” he says, grinning as he dusts his hands off on the knees of his trousers.
“Someone’s busy,” says Maki irritably, turning away from Nino to fiddle with her makeshift shop sign. She’s wearing her yellow dress again today, but her nice shoes that go with it are lying in a bag on the ground next to the plastic stool that she’s sitting on. They must have been uncomfortable. Her toes look naked in her flip flops; unpainted, lovely.
“Maki-chan,” says Nino.
Maki bites her lip, brushes her hair back from her face. “I looked at your fortune,” she tells Nino. “It’s not good.”
“It’s never good,” replies Nino. He wanders over to the yellowing magazines and begins to flip through the topmost copy. “Tell me, anyway.”
“Crows,” says Maki.
Nino laughs. It will always be a boyish chuckle, no matter how he tries to sound older. Most other people think it suits him, though.
“Don’t mock,” Maki snaps. “I used a good amount of magic on this.”
“You’ve wasted that magic, then,” says Nino, unable to repress a smile. “I’m surrounded by them. Rats, too. Lots. Nasty things.”
“You know not to take these things literally.”
“I know not to believe in these things.”
“Just be careful,” says Maki. She can’t quite keep the worry out of her voice. “If the King is dead-”
“If the King is dead,” interrupts Nino, “someone will have to rule in his stead.”
“Kazu-”
“I’m looking for a way to secure my territory if a war breaks out,” says Nino. “That’s all.”
“Do you know who sent the Vole?” Maki asks, slightly fearfully.
“No,” says Nino. “I don’t plan to find out.” He holds up his fingers and wriggles them in front of Maki’s face. Close to eight rings gleam dully as he does so. “Look, I’ll be safe.”
Maki’s charms are curious things. There are times in the late afternoon when they become strangely heavy while Nino is shuffling a deck, or when at night, a couple of the rings become slightly warmer than they are meant to be. Nino never takes them off, not if he can help it, at least.
“You lost a couple of them,” says Maki accusingly.
“In fights and things,” Nino says, shrugging. “And someone tried to set my cards on fire, too.”
“But they keep you safe, don’t they?” Maki asks.
“I’m still alive,” says Nino, spreading his arms wide. “Take my advice, Maki-chan. Lie low in school for a while.” He reaches into the pocket of his coat and tosses something to her.
It’s a poker card. Nino has added a spade or two and used a black pen to turn all the swallows on the back of the card into ravens.
“That should keep you safe,” he says with a wink, before clambering back up onto the roof he came from and vanishing out of sight.
a bar
When Sakurai first arrived in this town the first thing he noticed was the crows. The creatures are everywhere - on roofs and amputated tree branches, staring beadily down at the people on the streets; rooting through treasure and trash by the roadside.
The birds in other towns swarm trees and others perches only at dusk and dawn, cawing relentlessly in a flurry of wings and feathers. The crows here are different. Always, always they watch. They do not quarrel like the other birds, and at dusk and dawn the trees are strangely silent.
It is especially chilling, then, when they do caw in concert.
When Sakurai arrives at the Unicorn, Satoshi is already waiting for him with a cigarette in hand, surrounded from all sides by the sound of dozens of birds crying raucously.
“They only do that when something bad happens,” says Satoshi.
Under normal circumstances, the Unicorn at this time in the evening would already be full, but today it is empty. Its disgruntled patrons mill about outside, some still holding drinks as they smoke the remains of their cigarettes.
“How many dead?” asks Sakurai.
“Three. Street kids,” says Satoshi. “It was a stabbing. No traces of magic except the recreational sort.”
“Any witnesses?” asks Sakurai.
“Plenty,” Satoshi replies, gesturing at the rest of the patrons. “But you know this crowd - they only notice something’s wrong when there are dead bodies lying around.”
“Pity,” says Sakurai.
“Yes,” murmurs Satoshi. “I quite liked Chinen. He was a smart kid.” He flicks the rest of his cigarette on the ground and grinds it out under the toe of his shoe. “Come on, there’s nothing else to see. Cleanup will be coming round soon.”
“Do you think it’s the same people?” asks Sakurai, as they head off down the street. The town is never quiet, but tonight the bustle is twice as unbearable, its lights searingly bright. “The same people who sent the Vole, I mean.”
“It could be anyone, really,” Satoshi replies. “Whoever sent the Vole just opened the floodgates.”
“The floodgates?” repeats Sakurai. “You think there will be more?”
“Throne’s empty now,” says Satoshi. “People are going to want to fill it.” He pauses outside the entrance of a half-empty dessert shop with a considering look.
“What is it?” asks Sakurai.
“Well,” says Satoshi. “I was wondering if there was time for a snack.”
a prince
The King’s wake lasts nine days, during which servants and relatives all across the city burn their most treasured magical possessions to acknowledge his passing. The air becomes acrid with the stench of charred magic - incense ash and melted plastic; dead animals and cheap, charmed jewellery reduced to nothing.
On the tenth day, they bury the King’s body.
On the eleventh, Nino appears in Matsumoto’s window.
“It’s just like you to turn up when everything’s over and done with,” says Matsumoto.
“He wasn’t my King,” Ninomiya replies simply. “Now let me in.”
Matsumoto slides the window open but blocks the opening with his body when Nino tries to enter. “I’ll come out,” he tells Nino, clambering out the window to join him on the tiny balcony.
“Suit yourself,” says Nino, smirking slightly as Matsumoto attempts to brush the dirt off the ledge before gingerly sitting down. “So tell me, what did you burn?”
“I’ve got no reason to tell you,” Matsumoto replies.
“I bet it was one of your suits,” says Nino, and laughs when Matsumoto turns to scowl at him. “Oh come on, you’re dying to tell me.”
With calm deliberation Matsumoto pulls a pack of cigarettes from the inside pocket of his jacket and tips one out, placing it between his lips as he reaches into another pocket for a lighter. He doesn’t offer any to Nino. It is only after he’s lit the cigarette that he says, “I convinced a cat to shed its tail.”
Nino gives a low whistle. “A worthy gift.”
Matsumoto nods. “I don’t suppose you did anything at all?” he asks.
“I scattered some bread on the pavements,” says Nino, shrugging. “At least the crows were happy.”
Matsumoto makes a dismissive sound.
“This town’s in trouble, you know,” says Nino. He’s fiddling with a card out of sheer habit, palming it deftly before revealing it, again and again and again. “There’s something heavy in the rain. Masaki said he can smell it, rising from the pavements.”
“This town has always been in trouble,” Matsumoto replies, exhaling smoke. “You’ve survived, all the same.”
“That’s because I’m clever.” It’s not a boast; just a simple truth that has kept Nino alive. “What are your plans?”
“I’ve got no plans,” says Matsumoto.
Nino snorts. “Liar.” It’s not accusatory. They are all liars in some way or another, in this town.
They sit in silence for a while, taking in the city’s lights, all bright and gaudy colours in a haze of ash, at once vulgar and tired.
“All right,” says Matsumoto. “Maybe I’m thinking of leaving. Going someplace further north. Hokkaido, perhaps.”
“It’s cold enough already, here,” Nino says.
“I hear the magic doesn’t stink so much when it’s cold,” says Matsumoto.
“Magic reeks at any temperature, Matsumoto,” Nino replies. “That’s why people smoke so much. It kills the smell.”
“Interesting,” says Matsumoto.
“Yes, very,” says Nino. “But I’m interested in something else.”
Nino’s hands pause over the card; when Matsumoto glances down again, it has vanished.
“The King must have named a successor,” says Nino. “Who is it?”
“He didn’t tell me.”
“Nonsense,” says Nino. “You were close enough to him to be able to find his body after he died. He must have.”
“I wasn’t that close-”
“Don’t forget, Matsumoto, that I have eyes in this city,” Nino interrupts, and Matsumoto is slightly startled to find something considerably darker in his voice.
“All right,” says Matsumoto. “He did tell me.”
Nino grins. It’s all teeth. “Wonderful.”
“And what will you give me in exchange?” asks Matsumoto.
“Magic,” says Nino. “Favours. Safe passage out of the city, if you need that. Or, if it’s what I think it is...” Here, he pauses to lean in closer - “Protection.”
“Don’t jump to conclusions,” Matsumoto says sharply.
“You know I don’t,” Nino replies. “Have we got a deal?”
Matsumoto considers this for a long moment, before stubbing out the last of his cigarette on the metal floor of the balcony and nodding briefly.
“Trust me,” says Nino, making the previously vanished card appear again with a flourish. He hands it to Matsumoto together with a tacky ball point pen that still bears the address of a nearby love hotel. “I’m brilliant at keeping secrets.”
a meal
The crows don’t stop cawing. Day and night, they fill the air with noise, driving the city mad with the sound. Amidst this cacophony, the air becomes thick with heat and foreboding. A storm is coming, murmur the old women in the street corners as they rubbing their aching legs and ankles with pungent salves.
Nino has vanished from the alleyways, taking his cards and his news with him. Sakurai sits in his office and drinks his hot tea, declaring that they don’t need information of that sort even as he makes another routine glance at the window.
Satoshi smiles, and doesn’t say anything.
At half past one he excuses himself and heads out of the office with a packet of sandwiches and a bottle of milk. He takes the rear exit rather than the front door of the station when he leaves and wanders down the narrower alleyways, up uneven staircases and past garbage disposal bins. He doesn’t smoke. He’s looking for something.
When he reaches an empty concrete lot that still bears the faint marks of having once been a basketball court of some sort, he stops. The place is deserted apart from a lone, ragged-looking crow perched on a nearby railing, cawing intermittently.
Satoshi approaches the bird slowly and crouches down just a little way in front of it. He opens the packet of sandwiches, tears off a corner of the bread and tosses it to the crow, which devours it immediately. When it attempts to hop nearer for more though, he pulls away, shaking his head.
“That’s all for now,” he tells the crow.
It cocks its head and regards him for a moment with one gleaming black eye. Satoshi must seem harmless enough, because it takes another daring hop towards him.
Satoshi makes a tutting sound and snaps his fingers in front of the crow; a flame leaps from his hand in a momentary flash of heat.
The crow squawks and reels backwards, wings flapping wildly.
“You know who I’m looking for,” says Satoshi, smiling benignly as the crow makes an unsteady run and takes off into the sky.
It doesn’t take very long; Satoshi’s only halfway finished with his milk when he hears the sound of footsteps echoing from across the basketball court.
“I hear Nino’s out of town,” says Satoshi, by way of greeting.
“I don’t know,” Aiba replies. “He didn’t say.”
He’s wearing a leather jacket that has clearly seen better days but seems to fit him perfectly, and he’s still got that startlingly long scarf coiled about his neck. The crow from earlier is riding on his shoulder, and it caws at Satoshi in an accusatory manner when it catches sight of him.
“Here you go,” says Satoshi, casting not just one but two sandwiches on the ground.
In one swoop the crow has leapt off Aiba’s shoulder and is tearing into the bread and ham with beak and claw.
“Milk?” says Satoshi, holding out the bottle.
Aiba shakes his head. “Kazu told me not to share.”
“Good advice,” says Satoshi. “Can’t argue with that.”
As winter approaches more people will catch colds. A number will die. It’s the magic, Satoshi knows. It makes their bodies weaker; tears them down from the inside, slowly and to varying degrees. The stronger the magic, the more vulnerable the rest of the body is - and if the stories are to be believed, Aiba is one of the strongest in the town.
“Juice, then?” enquires Satoshi, pulling a smaller bottle from the outer pocket of his coat. When Aiba nods, he tosses the bottle over to him. “Green apple. One of my favourites.”
“Thanks.”
The crow has now moved on to the second sandwich, tearing off strips of it with its beak and gobbling it down with wild abandon.
“I’ve come for the news,” says Satoshi.
“I don’t have the sort you want. Numbers and things,” Aiba replies.
“Any news will do just fine,” Satoshi tells him. “The body count, for example.”
Aiba stiffens. “You know the body count.”
“Tell me anyway,” says Satoshi. “Perhaps we missed something you didn’t. That happens quite a lot, these days.”
“Four more, not counting the three at the Unicorn,” says Aiba. “One was a palm reader - that old man by the post office?”
Satoshi nods.
“You found that one, I’m sure,” says Aiba. “And the other three - street kids, all of them. Two were drowned in the Bay. The last one fell off a roof and didn’t get up.”
“Not everyone flies,” says Satoshi.
“Arioka flew,” Aiba tells him. “Almost as well as Kazu does. He wouldn’t have fallen if he hadn’t been pushed. Or charmed.”
“Any magic?”
“Maybe,” says Aiba. “Not from here, though. I can tell when it’s from here.”
“Let me know if it leads anywhere,” says Satoshi.
“Maybe I will.”
The crow has finished the last of the sandwiches. With a satisfied croak, it flaps its wings and careens off into the sky, barely avoiding a lamp-post as it goes. Satoshi smiles. The crow will remember this favour.
“People are moving into this town,” says Aiba at length. “Bringing in their new things. New magic. New families. Building new houses. It’s hard to keep track.”
“I suppose we just have to,” Satoshi replies.
“Maybe there won’t be a war.” Aiba says it like a statement but there is a question in his eyes when he turns to Satoshi.
Satoshi blinks slowly. “We can only hope,” he says, rising to leave. “Send Nino my regards if you see him.”
“That was a long lunch,” says Sakurai, when Satoshi returns.
Satoshi smiles. “I had ramen. It was good.”
“And your sandwich?” asks Sakurai.
“I fed it to some crows.”
a promise
“People have been asking after you,” says Aiba, somewhat accusingly. He’s looking down at Nino from atop a large telephone pole while a number of displaced crows circle idly overhead. It is actually rather menacing.
“I’ve been about,” Nino replies, picking at a bit of loose paint on the concrete ledge that he is crouched on.
“That’s what I thought,” says Aiba. He holds up his right elbow, almost as an afterthought, for one of the angrier-looking birds to perch on.
“I brought something back for you,” Nino says, reaching into his pocket and pulling out three silver coins, each one of them polished and gleaming.
“Kazu,” Aiba exclaims, his eyes shining with delight. “Go on,” he murmurs to the crow on his arm. It flaps its way over to Nino and picks up the coins in two swoops; one in its beak and the other two in its claws, rounding back to deposit them in Aiba’s outstretched palm.
“They’re yours, so don’t lose them,” says Nino warningly, as Aiba makes one of the coins vanish into the crow’s black coat.
“I’ll keep them safe, don’t worry,” Aiba tells him. “Here, you can hold on to this one for me.”
He tosses a second coin back at Nino, who catches it easily and palms it.
“Are you keeping warm?” asks Nino. “Eating enough?”
“This jacket really helps,” Aiba tells him, “and I can take care of myself.”
“I know you can,” says Nino, flicking a bit of paint in Aiba’s direction.
He watches carefully as Aiba tucks the third coin under the band of cloth wrapped around his wrist, where it will sit pressed against his skin.
“Masaki.”
“Yes?”
“I’m going away for a while again,” Nino tells him, “but if there is really a war I need you to remember what you promised me.”
“I’ll remember,” says Aiba.
“You’ll remember that you promised-”
“- I promised to show myself only when you call.”
“Only when I call.”
“Only then.”
Aiba remains on the telephone pole long after Nino has left, surveying the town as it approaches the end of a day. The setting sun bathes faded roofs and stained walls in a warm glow that feels deceptively like peace. The night-time shadows swell and spread.
a sighting
“Someone’s spotted him,” says Sakurai triumphantly, bursting into the office. “Ninomiya. He was near the bay.”
“Was he?” asks Satoshi, glancing up at Sakurai.
“Yes, talking to some punks. Nishikido and the others.”
“Strange,” Satoshi muses.
“You were the one who told me that he normally doesn’t deal with them if he can help it,” says Sakurai, with some heat. “Nino’s up to something.”
“But Sho-chan,” says Satoshi, leaning back in his chair, “Nino’s always up to something.”
a visit
When Sakurai returns to the office, he finds Nino seated on top of his desk with all of Sakurai’s documents and papers scattered about him. The floor is covered in shards of glass, and there is a draft coming in from the man-sized hole in the window.
“Honestly,” says Sakurai, “would it kill you to come in through the front door?”
“Possibly,” Nino replies, finishing off the last of Sakurai’s yuzu-flavoured sweets. “I heard you were looking for me.”
“I wasn’t,” says Sakurai. “Now get off my desk.”
Catlike, Nino springs off Sakurai’s desk and is standing at the broken window in a heartbeat.
“I hear you’re the sort of man who prefers guns over magic,” Nino says, gingerly removing bits of the glass still remaining on the window and dropping them onto the floor with the rest of the shards. “Is that true?”
Sakurai has refused magic for as long as he can remember. He doesn’t like the feel of it; like oil in the back of his mouth, grit caught in the skin between his fingers. He doesn’t like how other officers trade favours for protection charms, or cast spells to divine answers from clues.
“Maybe,” says Sakurai. “Maybe I like how a gun is a gun. It’s never fickle.”
“I guessed as much,” says Nino. “There’s not a lick of magic on any of your things.”
“I could have you arrested for breaking and entering-” Sakurai begins.
“You have a gun, don’t you?” asks Nino, with one foot out the window, his other boot crunching on the glass as he lifts himself to stand on the windowsill. “Most officers aren’t allowed to have one but you do, don’t you?”
“And if I do?” asks Sakurai.
Nino’s voice is deathly serious when he says, “I expect that when the time comes, you will know how to use it.”
a game
Matsumoto has been waiting for close to half an hour by the time Satoshi arrives.
“Had to report a broken window,” Satoshi explains as he hops neatly over a railing to join Matsumoto on the stone bench. “Tell Ninomiya that knocking will suffice, the next time he drops in for a visit.”
“I haven’t seen him, if that’s what you’re asking,” says Matsumoto.
“Of course you haven’t,” says Satoshi. “He’s been out paying visits to some of our neighbours.”
“How did you know that?” Matsumoto asks sharply.
“I didn’t,” says Satoshi with a little smile, “but now I do. It wasn’t hard to guess, though.”
“All right,” says Matsumoto, “let’s hear what you think he’s doing.”
“He’s forming alliances with the towns who will still make this sort of deal. Shibasaki Kou’s. The Nagayama brothers.”
Matsumoto tilts his head slightly to the side but otherwise gives no indication as to whether Satoshi is correct.
“But the only way he can convince them to play is if he’s already found a King, and if the King has got real powers,” says Satoshi. “A rightful successor, perhaps.”
“I can’t tell you,” says Matsumoto.
“You were close enough to the king to know who it was-”
“You don’t understand,” says Matsumoto. “I can’t tell you.”
“You-”
Satoshi’s eyes widen a little in sudden realisation. After a pause, though, he barks a laugh.
“Ninomiya will turn you into a pawn,” he tells Matsumoto. “That’s what he does.”
Matsumoto shrugs and reaches into his coat pocket for his cigarettes. “I’ve always been a pawn.”
“Well, then,” says Satoshi, still very much amused. “This shouldn’t be much of a problem for you, should it?”
Matsumoto shakes his head, and offers Satoshi a cigarette.
Satoshi laughs again as he lets Matsumoto light it. “Who knew?” he murmurs, bringing the cigarette to his lips.
“What I’m puzzled about,” says Matsumoto, after a long moment, “is why Ninomiya would go to such lengths. If he wanted power I’m certain he could easily make himself King.”
“Ninomiya doesn’t want power,” says Satoshi. “He already has it. It’s less complicated than that.”
“So what’s his reason?”
“Ninomiya will do anything to keep this town as it is,” Satoshi tells Matsumoto.
“How do you know this?” asks Matsumoto.
“Because I’m doing everything to keep this town as it is,” Satoshi replies, and when Matsumoto glances at him in surprise, he laughs again.
“I’m the police. What harm could I possibly do?”
a summon
“Was this you?” asks Aiba.
“It’s for me,” says Nino.
“What does it mean?”
Nino traces the three vertical lines with his index finger. “It means they’re ready to talk.”
“Should I hide the sign?” asks Aiba.
“Leave it, Masaki. It’s not just for me.”
a storm
Nino doesn’t like the tunnels and Shibasaki hates being up on the roofs. They meet in the middle, at a train station in the town that belongs to the three Nagayama brothers.
Nino arrives with Matsumoto but Shibasaki comes alone; the Nagayama brothers bring their three great dogs, which circle the group menacingly before retreating into the shadows.
They don’t greet each other. Instead, Nino says, “I trust that none of you were the ones who sent the Vole.”
“You insult us,” says Nagayama Eita, the oldest of the brothers, “if we wanted to kill your King we’d have gone in ourselves. It wouldn’t have been hard.”
“Mind you,” interjects Shibasaki, “their King did manage to rip the Vole limb from limb before he died.”
“But he died, didn’t he?” asks Nagayama Kento, grinning wolfishly.
“That he did.” Shibasaki’s smile is like ice.
“All right,” Nino interrupts, “You all know what I’m proposing. Our towns are the last of their kind, and the other, larger ones are circling us like vultures.”
“Narimiya, especially,” says Nagayama Kento heatedly. “Bastard cut off the fingers of one of my boys.”
“He didn’t just take fingers in our town,” calls an unknown voice. “He took lives.”
They turn at the sound; it’s Satoshi, crossing the tracks calmly towards them.
“Who is that?” asks Shibasaki.
“Soon he’ll have his men in to run your clubs,” Satoshi continues. “Soon you’ll be paying protection money.”
“He’s with me,” says Nino, holding up a hand to stop the brothers from calling their dogs. “And he’s right.”
“We know all that already,” says Nagayama Eita impatiently, “but your town is impotent without a King. What’s to stop us from leaving you out of the deal?”
“He’s right,” says Shibasaki. “I’ll call your bluff. Show us who your King is or these talks are over.”
“Very well,” says Nino. Beside him, Matsumoto grows tense. “I’ll show you.”
He doesn’t turn to gesture at Matsumoto or move to introduce him in any way. Instead, Nino reaches into one of his pockets and pulls out a single silver coin, polished and gleaming. He lifts it to his lips and whispers a charm, before tossing it straight up into the sky.
It remains suspended in the air for a moment, glinting in the sunlight, before falling back down towards them, but it never touches the ground.
A dark shape swoops past and intercepts it before it can drop past their heads.
And now there is the sound of wings; of dozens of crows amassing in the sky above them, cawing relentlessly in a frenetic, cacophonous whirlwind of sound that leaves even the dogs whimpering in fear. The first crow dips back down towards the platform and the rest follow like water breaking a dam, a torrent of dark and ragged fury. The noise is deafening; they are blinded by the onslaught of motion as the birds surround and then abandon them.
Amidst the storm of crows, nobody notices how Satoshi snatches the first crow out of the air and takes the silver coin from its claws. Neither do they catch sight of the man in the leather jacket, seated on the transformer unit of the nearest telephone pole. By the time the storm clears he has vanished, quite as suddenly as he had appeared.
“Impressive,” says Shibasaki after the crows have settled to roost menacingly around them. To her credit, she sounds relatively unshaken. “And your King?”
Nino’s eyes dart up to the spot on the telephone pole that is distinctly unoccupied by any bird.
He smiles. “Ma-”
“Matsumoto Jun,” Satoshi announces, stepping close to Matsumoto and slipping something into his hand.
Nino’s head whips round at this sudden interruption, but he knows better than to openly contradict Satoshi in front of the others. If Satoshi wants to name Matsumoto as King Nino will let him go ahead, but Matsumoto will need to show them magic that he clearly doesn’t have.
“Isn’t this just one of the King’s men?” asks Shibasaki, making no effort to mask the disdain in her voice.
“And the named successor,” says Matsumoto, taking a step forward and holding up an empty palm.
With a great cry the crows rise up into the air again, forming up into a great coil before each diving down towards Matsumoto’s outstretched hand, a seemingly endless series of crows paying their respects before winging their way off into the distance.
Even Nino cannot hide his surprise when the last and largest of the crows stays to land on Matsumoto’s shoulder with a deafening shriek, digging its pointed claws into the fabric of his suit jacket.
“Very impressive,” says Shibasaki. She is smiling again in genuine pleasure at this show of power.
“It’s just crows,” says Nagayama Eita, still looking visibly shaken. “What else can he do?”
“Yeah,” says his brother, shrinking back towards the dogs, which are growling menacingly now, hackles raised. “We’ll see if he can deal with this.”
At the sound of Nagayama’s shout the first dog is on Matsumoto in one great leap, knocking him to the ground. The crow flaps across to peck furiously at its face, but the second dog is already joining in the fray -
A shot rings out. The second dog collapses with a wound in its leg; the first shakes off the crow only to find a gun pointed in its face.
“Call them off him,” says Sakurai. “Or my next shot will be to kill.”
“All right,” says Nagayama Kenta sullenly. He whistles; the first dog backs away, still snarling, and the second one scrambles up to limp back towards its master.
Shibasaki laughs. “I see the new King already has subjects.”
“You shot my dog,” Nagayama Kenta spits, crouching to examine the bleeding leg.
“You have a deal, Matsumoto,” says Shibasaki. “I welcome this alliance.”
“As do I,” says Nagayama Eita.
“Brother-” Nagayama Kenta begins.
“Be silent,” says his brother. “The bullet went straight through. We can put the wound to rights.”
“This should be enough to heal it by magic,” says Nino. He reaches into his jacket and pulls out a battered juice carton. Growing inside is the tiniest of plants. “As an apology. The police officers in our town are far too eager with their bullets.”
As Nino hands Nagayama Eita the plant, Shibasaki observes the four of them with a considering look on her face.
“You are stronger than I expected,” she says. “Even with your little tricks and your grubby spells.”
“Look out for the crows,” Satoshi tells her.
“I’ll keep a few coins up my sleeves,” Shibasaki replies, directing a pointed look at Matsumoto. There is something in her expression that suggests she may have glimpsed at the glint of silver in his outstretched palm when he was calling the crows. She turns neatly on her heel and makes her way back up the tracks.
“Come on,” says Nino, walking over to them. “We’re done here.”
Only the most silent of the three brothers, Nagayama Tetsuya, notices the addition to the party of four as they leave the station. It is a tall man in a leather jacket with a long scarf wrapped around his neck, who drops down neatly beside Nino as they turn to go.
“Masaki,” says Nino by way of greeting, slinging his arm around the man’s shoulders.
Above them, a crow circles, cawing twice before dipping down to fly ahead of them.
Story notes: I started this on a whim while listening to the Tekkon Kinkreet soundtrack, and it quickly grew into this strange creature of a fic. If some images strike you as being particularly familiar, there is a high chance they were in some way inspired by the film.
Huge thanks go to calerine for policing my long sentences and adding in a comma or two. ♥
The photo in [16] a summon was taken by kulaire.
An accompanying drabble about Nino and his cards.
A short interlude after the story: (a town)
Overlapping with this story: a girl and a king
Also check out this lovely companion to Storm Children written by melonpaan: a(n) earring
Fandom: Arashi
Word Count: 6,500
Summary: Urban fantasy AU. Magic is scarce in this city. It can be found rising from trodden clusters of cigarette butts, or in the gleam of a cat’s eyes in the darkness. Some days Nino has to scrape it off the soles of his mismatched boots, where it’s been caught with the mud and dirt found in pavements and puddles; other days, like this one, he finds it by accident.
UPDATE (23 April 2014): I've just discovered, while clicking around randomly, that the website I was hosting this on has apparently vanished the story entirely! So - on the off-chance that anyone might still wander over here and try to read this fic, I've posted the text version (with pictures to be added) in this LJ post.
a plant
It’s there, in a city of concrete.
Nino finds it first - a plant, growing between the cracks in the asphalt. He glances around.
“Masaki,” he calls. “MASAKI.”
There is no response.
“Lucky,” he murmurs, echoing what he knows Aiba will say when Nino shows him this unexpected treasure. He pulls up the plant, roots and all, and deposits it into an empty juice carton he keeps in his coat for such occasions.
Magic is scarce in this city. It can be found rising from trodden clusters of cigarette butts, or in the gleam of a cat’s eyes in the darkness. Some days Nino has to scrape it off the soles of his mismatched boots, where it’s been caught with the mud and dirt found in pavements and puddles; other days, like this one, he finds it by accident.
There is a sound of footsteps down the alleyway; Nino stiffens and straightens up. He tucks the juice carton back inside his coat and glances about curiously for the source of the noise.
Nothing.
He’ll investigate further, later. Perhaps after he’s found something to eat. For now, though, he has his plant.
Quickly, effortlessly, he clambers up a nearby drainpipe to stand on a small window ledge that gives him a clear path to the roof opposite him. He crouches slightly, throwing out one arm for balance.
With one leap, he flies.
a transaction
Today Nino is shuffling cards in the alleyway again, vanishing a card and springing the rest; cutting the deck twice and then starting over again.
“No secrets to hide away today?”
It’s Sakurai; Nino knows without looking up, because he catches sight of Sakurai’s shoes from the corner of his eye. Nobody in this town wears shoes like that, or keeps them as well as Sakurai does.
“I’m bored,” says Nino. “Are you here to buy?”
Sakurai frowns. “I’ve never bought, Ninomiya.”
Nino shrugs. “No harm in asking,” he says.
People pay Nino to hide their secrets away; they write it down on one of his cards and he vanishes them forever. It’s how he earns a living on these streets, and he’s good at it - once he’s vanished a card, the secret never surfaces again.
Unless Nino wants it to, of course.
“I’m here for any news,” says Sakurai.
“Read the papers,” Nino replies.
“Don’t be contrary, it doesn’t become you,” says Sakurai.
“What will you give me?” asks Nino.
“I’m the police,” says Sakurai, “I don’t give you anything.”
“I was thinking moffles, actually,” says Satoshi. He’s standing somewhere behind Sakurai and is in the middle of lighting a cigarette. “I know a good place.”
Nino likes Satoshi. He doesn’t piss in Nino’s territory when he leads the men on raids, and he’s given Nino a head start in a chase more than a couple of times.
“Moffles are nice,” says Nino. He glances slyly at Sakurai.
“Oh all right, moffles it is,” says Sakurai. “Honestly, I don’t understand either of you,” he mutters.
“And the news, Nino?” Satoshi asks.
The legs of Nino’s trousers are different lengths because he’d ripped a bit off the right leg after it had gotten cut in a fight. The left leg ends slightly lower but still above his boot, which he picked off a dead man years ago. (Freshly dead, so there was nothing to worry about.) The man had been one-legged, though, which was a bit of a shame, really.
It is from this left boot that Nino now pulls a slip of paper, crumpled but folded neatly into a tight little rectangle.
“Some numbers, that’s all,” says Nino. He palms the note and makes it reappear in his other hand with a little wink, before tossing it to Sakurai. “It’s been quiet recently.”
“Thank you,” says Sakurai. “Let’s hope it stays that way.”
“I prefer a little bit of white noise, myself,” Nino replies.
“What’s that?” asks Sakurai, but Nino’s attention is caught by something overhead.
“Just a bird, nothing to worry about,” says Satoshi, exhaling smoke. He turns to Nino. “So, those moffles?”
“Another time, perhaps,” Nino replies.
“Very well,” says Sakurai. “Let us know if anything else crops up-”
Nino’s already vanished.
a bird
Ask anyone on the street and they will say that Aiba has got crow’s blood in him. That one day, some years ago, he charmed and tricked a raven into giving him its powers of flight.
This story is only half true.
Aiba is fearless, and as smart as Nino is. That’s what Nino says, anyway, but only when his pockets are full of cash and their stomachs are full of dinner and good beer.
When Nino finds Aiba he is standing, perfectly balanced, on top of the narrow ledge of a roof. He’s coiled his long scarf multiple times around his neck but seems to have lost the jacket Nino scavenged up for him the week before.
“The weather’s getting colder, lately,” says Nino, landing quietly beside him. “Quit being so careless.”
“I didn’t lose the jacket,” Aiba tells him. “I left it behind.”
“Where?” asks Nino.
“I’ll show you,” says Aiba. “Come on.”
The jacket is lying at the foot of the concrete wall just behind the train station. Aiba steps close to it, picks it up, and pulls - hard - like he’s tugging at a lot more fabric than just a pile of leather.
“There,” he says, dusting the jacket off and putting it on. “I hid this to make sure we’d be the first to know.”
Nino just stares, eyes wide.
“When did you see this?”
“About an hour ago - the paint was fresh, then.” Aiba pauses and turns to Nino. “What’s the plan, Kazu?”
“I don’t have a plan,” says Nino. He sounds surprised.
a sign
a visit
Sakurai barely avoids spilling his tea down the front of his shirt when he catches sight of Nino at the window of his office.
“You never come here,” says Sakurai, setting the styrofoam cup down on the table and stalking over to the window to let Nino in.
“I’m not staying,” says Nino, gripping the lintel above with one gloved hand as he squats on the sill.
“What is it?” asks Sakurai.
“Someone left a message on the wall behind the station,” Nino tells him.
“A message for who?” asks Sakurai.
“For all of us, perhaps,” Nino replies.
“For-”
“The king is dead. That’s what it said.”
“What does that even mean-”
“You’re the police,” says Nino. “That’s for you to find out.”
Sakurai nods grimly. “And what will you do?”
“I’ll figure something out,” says Nino. He readjusts his footing on the window sill and pushes off.
Sakurai watches him leap off onto the adjacent roof, and cannot help but marvel a little bit.
They’re four floors up, after all.
a question
“You’ll get used to this city, that’s what they said,” says Matsumoto. “The ins and the outs, the urchin magicians, the crows and strays. The dirt.”
“There’s dirt, all right,” Satoshi replies. “Gets up my nose, makes me want to scratch it all the time.”
“You do scratch it all the time, Ohno-san,“ says Matsumoto, crinkling his own nose in faint disgust.
Matsumoto is extremely well-dressed, even for one of the King’s men. His tie is perfectly knotted, his shoes can rival Sakurai’s, and his bespoke three-piece suit makes Satoshi’s worn, stained coat sag in envy.
“So I hear the King’s dead,” says Satoshi. “Is it true?”
“Yes,” Matsumoto replies. “Saw the body with my own eyes. It was the Vole.”
Satoshi reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out a cigarette. “Nobody’s ever seen the Vole. How do you know it was him?”
Matsumoto smiles thinly as he lights Satoshi’s cigarette almost by reflex. “We found his body right next to the King’s. Wholly dismembered, of course, but the tattoos don’t lie.”
“Any other clues?” asks Satoshi.
“Come see for yourself,” says Matsumoto.
“Sakurai’s already on it,” Satoshi replies. He pauses; inhales on his cigarette. “But that’s not the question I should be asking, is it?”
“No,” says Matsumoto. “Not really.”
“The question we’re all asking, I suppose,” says Satoshi, “is what happens after this?”
a plate of moffles
“We’ll wait,” says Nino. “That’s what we’ll do. We’ve never played by the King’s rules. Even if there’s a new one we’ll just carry right on.”
“I suspect it doesn’t work that way,” says Satoshi, spearing a piece of moffle with his chopsticks.
“Nothing I can do about it,” Nino replies, shrugging.
“True,” says Satoshi. He finishes the last of his moffle in three neat mouthfuls and stands up to leave.
“What will you do?” asks Nino.
“Pack a couple of these to bring back to the station,” says Satoshi. “Sakurai likes them sesame flavoured. Or was it yam?”
Nino scowls. “Satoshi.”
“I’ll prepare for war,” says Satoshi. “The other towns aren’t going to sit still.”
a fortune
Nino has known Maki for what seems like forever. As far as he can remember she’s always been around, goggle-eyed as she watched him do his card tricks; leaving him little charms to keep him safe. She goes to school now, or at least that’s what he’s heard.
It doesn’t matter; he always knows when and where to find her.
“I know you don’t care for tarot cards, Kazu,” says Maki. “So why are you here?”
Nino hops down from the low balcony he was perched on and lands in a crouch beside Maki.
“Someone’s grumpy,” he says, grinning as he dusts his hands off on the knees of his trousers.
“Someone’s busy,” says Maki irritably, turning away from Nino to fiddle with her makeshift shop sign. She’s wearing her yellow dress again today, but her nice shoes that go with it are lying in a bag on the ground next to the plastic stool that she’s sitting on. They must have been uncomfortable. Her toes look naked in her flip flops; unpainted, lovely.
“Maki-chan,” says Nino.
Maki bites her lip, brushes her hair back from her face. “I looked at your fortune,” she tells Nino. “It’s not good.”
“It’s never good,” replies Nino. He wanders over to the yellowing magazines and begins to flip through the topmost copy. “Tell me, anyway.”
“Crows,” says Maki.
Nino laughs. It will always be a boyish chuckle, no matter how he tries to sound older. Most other people think it suits him, though.
“Don’t mock,” Maki snaps. “I used a good amount of magic on this.”
“You’ve wasted that magic, then,” says Nino, unable to repress a smile. “I’m surrounded by them. Rats, too. Lots. Nasty things.”
“You know not to take these things literally.”
“I know not to believe in these things.”
“Just be careful,” says Maki. She can’t quite keep the worry out of her voice. “If the King is dead-”
“If the King is dead,” interrupts Nino, “someone will have to rule in his stead.”
“Kazu-”
“I’m looking for a way to secure my territory if a war breaks out,” says Nino. “That’s all.”
“Do you know who sent the Vole?” Maki asks, slightly fearfully.
“No,” says Nino. “I don’t plan to find out.” He holds up his fingers and wriggles them in front of Maki’s face. Close to eight rings gleam dully as he does so. “Look, I’ll be safe.”
Maki’s charms are curious things. There are times in the late afternoon when they become strangely heavy while Nino is shuffling a deck, or when at night, a couple of the rings become slightly warmer than they are meant to be. Nino never takes them off, not if he can help it, at least.
“You lost a couple of them,” says Maki accusingly.
“In fights and things,” Nino says, shrugging. “And someone tried to set my cards on fire, too.”
“But they keep you safe, don’t they?” Maki asks.
“I’m still alive,” says Nino, spreading his arms wide. “Take my advice, Maki-chan. Lie low in school for a while.” He reaches into the pocket of his coat and tosses something to her.
It’s a poker card. Nino has added a spade or two and used a black pen to turn all the swallows on the back of the card into ravens.
“That should keep you safe,” he says with a wink, before clambering back up onto the roof he came from and vanishing out of sight.
a bar
When Sakurai first arrived in this town the first thing he noticed was the crows. The creatures are everywhere - on roofs and amputated tree branches, staring beadily down at the people on the streets; rooting through treasure and trash by the roadside.
The birds in other towns swarm trees and others perches only at dusk and dawn, cawing relentlessly in a flurry of wings and feathers. The crows here are different. Always, always they watch. They do not quarrel like the other birds, and at dusk and dawn the trees are strangely silent.
It is especially chilling, then, when they do caw in concert.
When Sakurai arrives at the Unicorn, Satoshi is already waiting for him with a cigarette in hand, surrounded from all sides by the sound of dozens of birds crying raucously.
“They only do that when something bad happens,” says Satoshi.
Under normal circumstances, the Unicorn at this time in the evening would already be full, but today it is empty. Its disgruntled patrons mill about outside, some still holding drinks as they smoke the remains of their cigarettes.
“How many dead?” asks Sakurai.
“Three. Street kids,” says Satoshi. “It was a stabbing. No traces of magic except the recreational sort.”
“Any witnesses?” asks Sakurai.
“Plenty,” Satoshi replies, gesturing at the rest of the patrons. “But you know this crowd - they only notice something’s wrong when there are dead bodies lying around.”
“Pity,” says Sakurai.
“Yes,” murmurs Satoshi. “I quite liked Chinen. He was a smart kid.” He flicks the rest of his cigarette on the ground and grinds it out under the toe of his shoe. “Come on, there’s nothing else to see. Cleanup will be coming round soon.”
“Do you think it’s the same people?” asks Sakurai, as they head off down the street. The town is never quiet, but tonight the bustle is twice as unbearable, its lights searingly bright. “The same people who sent the Vole, I mean.”
“It could be anyone, really,” Satoshi replies. “Whoever sent the Vole just opened the floodgates.”
“The floodgates?” repeats Sakurai. “You think there will be more?”
“Throne’s empty now,” says Satoshi. “People are going to want to fill it.” He pauses outside the entrance of a half-empty dessert shop with a considering look.
“What is it?” asks Sakurai.
“Well,” says Satoshi. “I was wondering if there was time for a snack.”
a prince
The King’s wake lasts nine days, during which servants and relatives all across the city burn their most treasured magical possessions to acknowledge his passing. The air becomes acrid with the stench of charred magic - incense ash and melted plastic; dead animals and cheap, charmed jewellery reduced to nothing.
On the tenth day, they bury the King’s body.
On the eleventh, Nino appears in Matsumoto’s window.
“It’s just like you to turn up when everything’s over and done with,” says Matsumoto.
“He wasn’t my King,” Ninomiya replies simply. “Now let me in.”
Matsumoto slides the window open but blocks the opening with his body when Nino tries to enter. “I’ll come out,” he tells Nino, clambering out the window to join him on the tiny balcony.
“Suit yourself,” says Nino, smirking slightly as Matsumoto attempts to brush the dirt off the ledge before gingerly sitting down. “So tell me, what did you burn?”
“I’ve got no reason to tell you,” Matsumoto replies.
“I bet it was one of your suits,” says Nino, and laughs when Matsumoto turns to scowl at him. “Oh come on, you’re dying to tell me.”
With calm deliberation Matsumoto pulls a pack of cigarettes from the inside pocket of his jacket and tips one out, placing it between his lips as he reaches into another pocket for a lighter. He doesn’t offer any to Nino. It is only after he’s lit the cigarette that he says, “I convinced a cat to shed its tail.”
Nino gives a low whistle. “A worthy gift.”
Matsumoto nods. “I don’t suppose you did anything at all?” he asks.
“I scattered some bread on the pavements,” says Nino, shrugging. “At least the crows were happy.”
Matsumoto makes a dismissive sound.
“This town’s in trouble, you know,” says Nino. He’s fiddling with a card out of sheer habit, palming it deftly before revealing it, again and again and again. “There’s something heavy in the rain. Masaki said he can smell it, rising from the pavements.”
“This town has always been in trouble,” Matsumoto replies, exhaling smoke. “You’ve survived, all the same.”
“That’s because I’m clever.” It’s not a boast; just a simple truth that has kept Nino alive. “What are your plans?”
“I’ve got no plans,” says Matsumoto.
Nino snorts. “Liar.” It’s not accusatory. They are all liars in some way or another, in this town.
They sit in silence for a while, taking in the city’s lights, all bright and gaudy colours in a haze of ash, at once vulgar and tired.
“All right,” says Matsumoto. “Maybe I’m thinking of leaving. Going someplace further north. Hokkaido, perhaps.”
“It’s cold enough already, here,” Nino says.
“I hear the magic doesn’t stink so much when it’s cold,” says Matsumoto.
“Magic reeks at any temperature, Matsumoto,” Nino replies. “That’s why people smoke so much. It kills the smell.”
“Interesting,” says Matsumoto.
“Yes, very,” says Nino. “But I’m interested in something else.”
Nino’s hands pause over the card; when Matsumoto glances down again, it has vanished.
“The King must have named a successor,” says Nino. “Who is it?”
“He didn’t tell me.”
“Nonsense,” says Nino. “You were close enough to him to be able to find his body after he died. He must have.”
“I wasn’t that close-”
“Don’t forget, Matsumoto, that I have eyes in this city,” Nino interrupts, and Matsumoto is slightly startled to find something considerably darker in his voice.
“All right,” says Matsumoto. “He did tell me.”
Nino grins. It’s all teeth. “Wonderful.”
“And what will you give me in exchange?” asks Matsumoto.
“Magic,” says Nino. “Favours. Safe passage out of the city, if you need that. Or, if it’s what I think it is...” Here, he pauses to lean in closer - “Protection.”
“Don’t jump to conclusions,” Matsumoto says sharply.
“You know I don’t,” Nino replies. “Have we got a deal?”
Matsumoto considers this for a long moment, before stubbing out the last of his cigarette on the metal floor of the balcony and nodding briefly.
“Trust me,” says Nino, making the previously vanished card appear again with a flourish. He hands it to Matsumoto together with a tacky ball point pen that still bears the address of a nearby love hotel. “I’m brilliant at keeping secrets.”
a meal
The crows don’t stop cawing. Day and night, they fill the air with noise, driving the city mad with the sound. Amidst this cacophony, the air becomes thick with heat and foreboding. A storm is coming, murmur the old women in the street corners as they rubbing their aching legs and ankles with pungent salves.
Nino has vanished from the alleyways, taking his cards and his news with him. Sakurai sits in his office and drinks his hot tea, declaring that they don’t need information of that sort even as he makes another routine glance at the window.
Satoshi smiles, and doesn’t say anything.
At half past one he excuses himself and heads out of the office with a packet of sandwiches and a bottle of milk. He takes the rear exit rather than the front door of the station when he leaves and wanders down the narrower alleyways, up uneven staircases and past garbage disposal bins. He doesn’t smoke. He’s looking for something.
When he reaches an empty concrete lot that still bears the faint marks of having once been a basketball court of some sort, he stops. The place is deserted apart from a lone, ragged-looking crow perched on a nearby railing, cawing intermittently.
Satoshi approaches the bird slowly and crouches down just a little way in front of it. He opens the packet of sandwiches, tears off a corner of the bread and tosses it to the crow, which devours it immediately. When it attempts to hop nearer for more though, he pulls away, shaking his head.
“That’s all for now,” he tells the crow.
It cocks its head and regards him for a moment with one gleaming black eye. Satoshi must seem harmless enough, because it takes another daring hop towards him.
Satoshi makes a tutting sound and snaps his fingers in front of the crow; a flame leaps from his hand in a momentary flash of heat.
The crow squawks and reels backwards, wings flapping wildly.
“You know who I’m looking for,” says Satoshi, smiling benignly as the crow makes an unsteady run and takes off into the sky.
It doesn’t take very long; Satoshi’s only halfway finished with his milk when he hears the sound of footsteps echoing from across the basketball court.
“I hear Nino’s out of town,” says Satoshi, by way of greeting.
“I don’t know,” Aiba replies. “He didn’t say.”
He’s wearing a leather jacket that has clearly seen better days but seems to fit him perfectly, and he’s still got that startlingly long scarf coiled about his neck. The crow from earlier is riding on his shoulder, and it caws at Satoshi in an accusatory manner when it catches sight of him.
“Here you go,” says Satoshi, casting not just one but two sandwiches on the ground.
In one swoop the crow has leapt off Aiba’s shoulder and is tearing into the bread and ham with beak and claw.
“Milk?” says Satoshi, holding out the bottle.
Aiba shakes his head. “Kazu told me not to share.”
“Good advice,” says Satoshi. “Can’t argue with that.”
As winter approaches more people will catch colds. A number will die. It’s the magic, Satoshi knows. It makes their bodies weaker; tears them down from the inside, slowly and to varying degrees. The stronger the magic, the more vulnerable the rest of the body is - and if the stories are to be believed, Aiba is one of the strongest in the town.
“Juice, then?” enquires Satoshi, pulling a smaller bottle from the outer pocket of his coat. When Aiba nods, he tosses the bottle over to him. “Green apple. One of my favourites.”
“Thanks.”
The crow has now moved on to the second sandwich, tearing off strips of it with its beak and gobbling it down with wild abandon.
“I’ve come for the news,” says Satoshi.
“I don’t have the sort you want. Numbers and things,” Aiba replies.
“Any news will do just fine,” Satoshi tells him. “The body count, for example.”
Aiba stiffens. “You know the body count.”
“Tell me anyway,” says Satoshi. “Perhaps we missed something you didn’t. That happens quite a lot, these days.”
“Four more, not counting the three at the Unicorn,” says Aiba. “One was a palm reader - that old man by the post office?”
Satoshi nods.
“You found that one, I’m sure,” says Aiba. “And the other three - street kids, all of them. Two were drowned in the Bay. The last one fell off a roof and didn’t get up.”
“Not everyone flies,” says Satoshi.
“Arioka flew,” Aiba tells him. “Almost as well as Kazu does. He wouldn’t have fallen if he hadn’t been pushed. Or charmed.”
“Any magic?”
“Maybe,” says Aiba. “Not from here, though. I can tell when it’s from here.”
“Let me know if it leads anywhere,” says Satoshi.
“Maybe I will.”
The crow has finished the last of the sandwiches. With a satisfied croak, it flaps its wings and careens off into the sky, barely avoiding a lamp-post as it goes. Satoshi smiles. The crow will remember this favour.
“People are moving into this town,” says Aiba at length. “Bringing in their new things. New magic. New families. Building new houses. It’s hard to keep track.”
“I suppose we just have to,” Satoshi replies.
“Maybe there won’t be a war.” Aiba says it like a statement but there is a question in his eyes when he turns to Satoshi.
Satoshi blinks slowly. “We can only hope,” he says, rising to leave. “Send Nino my regards if you see him.”
“That was a long lunch,” says Sakurai, when Satoshi returns.
Satoshi smiles. “I had ramen. It was good.”
“And your sandwich?” asks Sakurai.
“I fed it to some crows.”
a promise
“People have been asking after you,” says Aiba, somewhat accusingly. He’s looking down at Nino from atop a large telephone pole while a number of displaced crows circle idly overhead. It is actually rather menacing.
“I’ve been about,” Nino replies, picking at a bit of loose paint on the concrete ledge that he is crouched on.
“That’s what I thought,” says Aiba. He holds up his right elbow, almost as an afterthought, for one of the angrier-looking birds to perch on.
“I brought something back for you,” Nino says, reaching into his pocket and pulling out three silver coins, each one of them polished and gleaming.
“Kazu,” Aiba exclaims, his eyes shining with delight. “Go on,” he murmurs to the crow on his arm. It flaps its way over to Nino and picks up the coins in two swoops; one in its beak and the other two in its claws, rounding back to deposit them in Aiba’s outstretched palm.
“They’re yours, so don’t lose them,” says Nino warningly, as Aiba makes one of the coins vanish into the crow’s black coat.
“I’ll keep them safe, don’t worry,” Aiba tells him. “Here, you can hold on to this one for me.”
He tosses a second coin back at Nino, who catches it easily and palms it.
“Are you keeping warm?” asks Nino. “Eating enough?”
“This jacket really helps,” Aiba tells him, “and I can take care of myself.”
“I know you can,” says Nino, flicking a bit of paint in Aiba’s direction.
He watches carefully as Aiba tucks the third coin under the band of cloth wrapped around his wrist, where it will sit pressed against his skin.
“Masaki.”
“Yes?”
“I’m going away for a while again,” Nino tells him, “but if there is really a war I need you to remember what you promised me.”
“I’ll remember,” says Aiba.
“You’ll remember that you promised-”
“- I promised to show myself only when you call.”
“Only when I call.”
“Only then.”
Aiba remains on the telephone pole long after Nino has left, surveying the town as it approaches the end of a day. The setting sun bathes faded roofs and stained walls in a warm glow that feels deceptively like peace. The night-time shadows swell and spread.
a sighting
“Someone’s spotted him,” says Sakurai triumphantly, bursting into the office. “Ninomiya. He was near the bay.”
“Was he?” asks Satoshi, glancing up at Sakurai.
“Yes, talking to some punks. Nishikido and the others.”
“Strange,” Satoshi muses.
“You were the one who told me that he normally doesn’t deal with them if he can help it,” says Sakurai, with some heat. “Nino’s up to something.”
“But Sho-chan,” says Satoshi, leaning back in his chair, “Nino’s always up to something.”
a visit
When Sakurai returns to the office, he finds Nino seated on top of his desk with all of Sakurai’s documents and papers scattered about him. The floor is covered in shards of glass, and there is a draft coming in from the man-sized hole in the window.
“Honestly,” says Sakurai, “would it kill you to come in through the front door?”
“Possibly,” Nino replies, finishing off the last of Sakurai’s yuzu-flavoured sweets. “I heard you were looking for me.”
“I wasn’t,” says Sakurai. “Now get off my desk.”
Catlike, Nino springs off Sakurai’s desk and is standing at the broken window in a heartbeat.
“I hear you’re the sort of man who prefers guns over magic,” Nino says, gingerly removing bits of the glass still remaining on the window and dropping them onto the floor with the rest of the shards. “Is that true?”
Sakurai has refused magic for as long as he can remember. He doesn’t like the feel of it; like oil in the back of his mouth, grit caught in the skin between his fingers. He doesn’t like how other officers trade favours for protection charms, or cast spells to divine answers from clues.
“Maybe,” says Sakurai. “Maybe I like how a gun is a gun. It’s never fickle.”
“I guessed as much,” says Nino. “There’s not a lick of magic on any of your things.”
“I could have you arrested for breaking and entering-” Sakurai begins.
“You have a gun, don’t you?” asks Nino, with one foot out the window, his other boot crunching on the glass as he lifts himself to stand on the windowsill. “Most officers aren’t allowed to have one but you do, don’t you?”
“And if I do?” asks Sakurai.
Nino’s voice is deathly serious when he says, “I expect that when the time comes, you will know how to use it.”
a game
Matsumoto has been waiting for close to half an hour by the time Satoshi arrives.
“Had to report a broken window,” Satoshi explains as he hops neatly over a railing to join Matsumoto on the stone bench. “Tell Ninomiya that knocking will suffice, the next time he drops in for a visit.”
“I haven’t seen him, if that’s what you’re asking,” says Matsumoto.
“Of course you haven’t,” says Satoshi. “He’s been out paying visits to some of our neighbours.”
“How did you know that?” Matsumoto asks sharply.
“I didn’t,” says Satoshi with a little smile, “but now I do. It wasn’t hard to guess, though.”
“All right,” says Matsumoto, “let’s hear what you think he’s doing.”
“He’s forming alliances with the towns who will still make this sort of deal. Shibasaki Kou’s. The Nagayama brothers.”
Matsumoto tilts his head slightly to the side but otherwise gives no indication as to whether Satoshi is correct.
“But the only way he can convince them to play is if he’s already found a King, and if the King has got real powers,” says Satoshi. “A rightful successor, perhaps.”
“I can’t tell you,” says Matsumoto.
“You were close enough to the king to know who it was-”
“You don’t understand,” says Matsumoto. “I can’t tell you.”
“You-”
Satoshi’s eyes widen a little in sudden realisation. After a pause, though, he barks a laugh.
“Ninomiya will turn you into a pawn,” he tells Matsumoto. “That’s what he does.”
Matsumoto shrugs and reaches into his coat pocket for his cigarettes. “I’ve always been a pawn.”
“Well, then,” says Satoshi, still very much amused. “This shouldn’t be much of a problem for you, should it?”
Matsumoto shakes his head, and offers Satoshi a cigarette.
Satoshi laughs again as he lets Matsumoto light it. “Who knew?” he murmurs, bringing the cigarette to his lips.
“What I’m puzzled about,” says Matsumoto, after a long moment, “is why Ninomiya would go to such lengths. If he wanted power I’m certain he could easily make himself King.”
“Ninomiya doesn’t want power,” says Satoshi. “He already has it. It’s less complicated than that.”
“So what’s his reason?”
“Ninomiya will do anything to keep this town as it is,” Satoshi tells Matsumoto.
“How do you know this?” asks Matsumoto.
“Because I’m doing everything to keep this town as it is,” Satoshi replies, and when Matsumoto glances at him in surprise, he laughs again.
“I’m the police. What harm could I possibly do?”
a summon
“Was this you?” asks Aiba.
“It’s for me,” says Nino.
“What does it mean?”
Nino traces the three vertical lines with his index finger. “It means they’re ready to talk.”
“Should I hide the sign?” asks Aiba.
“Leave it, Masaki. It’s not just for me.”
a storm
Nino doesn’t like the tunnels and Shibasaki hates being up on the roofs. They meet in the middle, at a train station in the town that belongs to the three Nagayama brothers.
Nino arrives with Matsumoto but Shibasaki comes alone; the Nagayama brothers bring their three great dogs, which circle the group menacingly before retreating into the shadows.
They don’t greet each other. Instead, Nino says, “I trust that none of you were the ones who sent the Vole.”
“You insult us,” says Nagayama Eita, the oldest of the brothers, “if we wanted to kill your King we’d have gone in ourselves. It wouldn’t have been hard.”
“Mind you,” interjects Shibasaki, “their King did manage to rip the Vole limb from limb before he died.”
“But he died, didn’t he?” asks Nagayama Kento, grinning wolfishly.
“That he did.” Shibasaki’s smile is like ice.
“All right,” Nino interrupts, “You all know what I’m proposing. Our towns are the last of their kind, and the other, larger ones are circling us like vultures.”
“Narimiya, especially,” says Nagayama Kento heatedly. “Bastard cut off the fingers of one of my boys.”
“He didn’t just take fingers in our town,” calls an unknown voice. “He took lives.”
They turn at the sound; it’s Satoshi, crossing the tracks calmly towards them.
“Who is that?” asks Shibasaki.
“Soon he’ll have his men in to run your clubs,” Satoshi continues. “Soon you’ll be paying protection money.”
“He’s with me,” says Nino, holding up a hand to stop the brothers from calling their dogs. “And he’s right.”
“We know all that already,” says Nagayama Eita impatiently, “but your town is impotent without a King. What’s to stop us from leaving you out of the deal?”
“He’s right,” says Shibasaki. “I’ll call your bluff. Show us who your King is or these talks are over.”
“Very well,” says Nino. Beside him, Matsumoto grows tense. “I’ll show you.”
He doesn’t turn to gesture at Matsumoto or move to introduce him in any way. Instead, Nino reaches into one of his pockets and pulls out a single silver coin, polished and gleaming. He lifts it to his lips and whispers a charm, before tossing it straight up into the sky.
It remains suspended in the air for a moment, glinting in the sunlight, before falling back down towards them, but it never touches the ground.
A dark shape swoops past and intercepts it before it can drop past their heads.
And now there is the sound of wings; of dozens of crows amassing in the sky above them, cawing relentlessly in a frenetic, cacophonous whirlwind of sound that leaves even the dogs whimpering in fear. The first crow dips back down towards the platform and the rest follow like water breaking a dam, a torrent of dark and ragged fury. The noise is deafening; they are blinded by the onslaught of motion as the birds surround and then abandon them.
Amidst the storm of crows, nobody notices how Satoshi snatches the first crow out of the air and takes the silver coin from its claws. Neither do they catch sight of the man in the leather jacket, seated on the transformer unit of the nearest telephone pole. By the time the storm clears he has vanished, quite as suddenly as he had appeared.
“Impressive,” says Shibasaki after the crows have settled to roost menacingly around them. To her credit, she sounds relatively unshaken. “And your King?”
Nino’s eyes dart up to the spot on the telephone pole that is distinctly unoccupied by any bird.
He smiles. “Ma-”
“Matsumoto Jun,” Satoshi announces, stepping close to Matsumoto and slipping something into his hand.
Nino’s head whips round at this sudden interruption, but he knows better than to openly contradict Satoshi in front of the others. If Satoshi wants to name Matsumoto as King Nino will let him go ahead, but Matsumoto will need to show them magic that he clearly doesn’t have.
“Isn’t this just one of the King’s men?” asks Shibasaki, making no effort to mask the disdain in her voice.
“And the named successor,” says Matsumoto, taking a step forward and holding up an empty palm.
With a great cry the crows rise up into the air again, forming up into a great coil before each diving down towards Matsumoto’s outstretched hand, a seemingly endless series of crows paying their respects before winging their way off into the distance.
Even Nino cannot hide his surprise when the last and largest of the crows stays to land on Matsumoto’s shoulder with a deafening shriek, digging its pointed claws into the fabric of his suit jacket.
“Very impressive,” says Shibasaki. She is smiling again in genuine pleasure at this show of power.
“It’s just crows,” says Nagayama Eita, still looking visibly shaken. “What else can he do?”
“Yeah,” says his brother, shrinking back towards the dogs, which are growling menacingly now, hackles raised. “We’ll see if he can deal with this.”
At the sound of Nagayama’s shout the first dog is on Matsumoto in one great leap, knocking him to the ground. The crow flaps across to peck furiously at its face, but the second dog is already joining in the fray -
A shot rings out. The second dog collapses with a wound in its leg; the first shakes off the crow only to find a gun pointed in its face.
“Call them off him,” says Sakurai. “Or my next shot will be to kill.”
“All right,” says Nagayama Kenta sullenly. He whistles; the first dog backs away, still snarling, and the second one scrambles up to limp back towards its master.
Shibasaki laughs. “I see the new King already has subjects.”
“You shot my dog,” Nagayama Kenta spits, crouching to examine the bleeding leg.
“You have a deal, Matsumoto,” says Shibasaki. “I welcome this alliance.”
“As do I,” says Nagayama Eita.
“Brother-” Nagayama Kenta begins.
“Be silent,” says his brother. “The bullet went straight through. We can put the wound to rights.”
“This should be enough to heal it by magic,” says Nino. He reaches into his jacket and pulls out a battered juice carton. Growing inside is the tiniest of plants. “As an apology. The police officers in our town are far too eager with their bullets.”
As Nino hands Nagayama Eita the plant, Shibasaki observes the four of them with a considering look on her face.
“You are stronger than I expected,” she says. “Even with your little tricks and your grubby spells.”
“Look out for the crows,” Satoshi tells her.
“I’ll keep a few coins up my sleeves,” Shibasaki replies, directing a pointed look at Matsumoto. There is something in her expression that suggests she may have glimpsed at the glint of silver in his outstretched palm when he was calling the crows. She turns neatly on her heel and makes her way back up the tracks.
“Come on,” says Nino, walking over to them. “We’re done here.”
Only the most silent of the three brothers, Nagayama Tetsuya, notices the addition to the party of four as they leave the station. It is a tall man in a leather jacket with a long scarf wrapped around his neck, who drops down neatly beside Nino as they turn to go.
“Masaki,” says Nino by way of greeting, slinging his arm around the man’s shoulders.
Above them, a crow circles, cawing twice before dipping down to fly ahead of them.
Story notes: I started this on a whim while listening to the Tekkon Kinkreet soundtrack, and it quickly grew into this strange creature of a fic. If some images strike you as being particularly familiar, there is a high chance they were in some way inspired by the film.
Huge thanks go to calerine for policing my long sentences and adding in a comma or two. ♥
The photo in [16] a summon was taken by kulaire.
An accompanying drabble about Nino and his cards.
A short interlude after the story: (a town)
Overlapping with this story: a girl and a king
Also check out this lovely companion to Storm Children written by melonpaan: a(n) earring