The 4:30PM to KIX

Fluorescent lights hum dully above. The cold, sterile whiteness of the immigration section grates on the senses, but the officer barely notices it, brain numbed by overtime. He slides the passport across the counter and barks: "Next!" Someone shuffles forward. He takes the offered passport and glances over the collection of stamps scattered through its pages.

"Welcome to Osaka, Ms... Magnussen."

"I'm adopted."

The officer grunts, flipping through the passport. "Business or pleasure?"

"Pleasure. I'm visiting a friend."

The officer glances up dubiously, then looks back down at the passport. He does some quick mental math and arrives at the number twenty-eight. Briefly, he considers whether to press the issue, and then decides that he's not paid enough for this.

"Quirk?"

"Look up."

The officer looks up instinctively and sees that the monitor before him has dissolved into a haze of static.

"That's my quirk. Whenever I'm recorded by an electronic device, this happens. It's conceptual or something. I don't know how it works."

The officer grunts. Flips to the front of the passport. "And this photograph?"

"It's a sketch." A small, mysterious smile. "Most photographs of me usually come out... wrong."

The officer grunts again, flipping to the nearest blank page, and stamps it forcefully and efficiently. He slides it across the counter and waves her off impatiently. "Next."

Off the girl goes, passport clutched in one small, dainty hand. To either side of her, incoming travelers emerge from their own queues, one after the other, headed for the luggage carousel. She feels their attention graze her figure: some of their gazes linger. She turns her head and allows her gaze, in turn, to drift over them: feels her quirk reach out, testing the edges of their self-regard. She's not in a rush, though. (More importantly, she has no intention of triggering any of the airport's well-maintained sensors or protocols. It's not worth the trouble.)

She reaches the luggage carousel without incident. Her trunk arrives and she reaches for it, but fails. She keeps trying, though, slim arms straining as she struggles to remove it, and eventually someone else intervenes. Together, they wrestle the trunk off the carousel. Panting, she looks up and sees a scrawny Caucasian twenty-something with thick spectacles. He's avoiding her gaze, which is annoying, but there's some ropy muscle beneath that anime hoodie of his. "Thank you," she breathes, subtly tugging her luggage towards herself.

"No problem," her knight in shining armor mumbles. She adjusts her stride, forcing him to keep up. They're almost at the exit.

Her eyes widen: she giggles prettily. Switches to Japanese. Tries to ignore the prickle of familiarity as she forms the words. "You speak Japanese?"

"A little."

"Oh, how wonderful!" She bumps his elbows, smiles as he stiffens. "Welcome to Osaka, then."

"Thanks."

"What are you here for?"

"Uh." He looks away. "Cultural enrichment." She thinks: Whores. Pornography. Love hotels. All men are the same.

"Oh, I see. Well, I'm meeting my cousin at the car-park. Do you want a ride?"

He blinks and turns to face her, but keeps his gaze fixed on her nose. She feels irritation rise in her chest. "A ride? I-it's fine."

"Please, it's no issue at all." They're out in the open, now, free of the arrival hall and its cameras, mingling with the general population. She sets a direction and walks confidently forward. He follows unhesitatingly. "Besides, my cousin says taxis in Osaka have been exorbitantly expensive lately. It's terrible, it really is. Surge pricing and all. It's the least I could do given that you helped me with my luggage."

"It was the least I could do, too." His Japanese is halting, but he's growing more confident. That's good.

They enter a lift. He does not resist when she sends them down to the basement. When the doors open, she checks her phone and moves her luggage nimbly down to where she knows her counterpart is waiting. He follows.

Over her shoulder: "What's your name, by the way? It's okay if you don't want to tell me, but at least tell me where your hotel is."

"I'm Chandler." He gives her the address of his hotel. "You're, uh, really strong."

She looks down at her luggage, already safely stowed in the back of the car. Inwardly, she curses herself. I should have let him help. Airily: "Oh, not really." She wrings her arms out, wincing. "I'm probably going to feel that for the next few days." She tries to meet his eyes again, but fails. "Shall we?"

They sit in the back. She listens to him breathe for a few moments before he makes eye contact with her counterpart in the rear-view mirror. His gasp echoes in the cramped confines of the car. Whip-quick, she reaches out and grasps his chin while he's still in shock, forcing him to meet her gaze. Her quirk lashes out, eager for action: his eyes glaze over rapidly, and he slumps back against the seat. When she's sure that he's under control, she gets out of the car and takes shotgun. Her counterpart starts the engine without a word, and they drive out onto the streets of Osaka.

"Your first?" her counterpart asks eventually.

She nods. "I sent the previous batch for a swim in the Kattegat." She does not mention that she told them to destroy any and all records of her life in Copenhagen before going to drown. She narrows her eyes at her counterpart. "You've never left Japan?"

"Why?"

"Airports screen for brainwashing. You should know this."

"I only travel by boat. And surreptitiously."

"Private jets work just as well," she opines. "The wealthy are exempt from such regulation. As always."

"The issue is ensnaring one of them." Her counterpart changes the subject. "Your things are in the glove compartment."

She withdraws a bundle of keys and runs her fingers over the metal. There's also a small, hard envelope, which she takes as well. "An apartment, all to myself? You shouldn't have."

Her counterpart shrugs indifferently. "Your cards are in the envelope. Banking, residency, rail transport, driving license."

She slices open the envelope with her nail and empties it out into her lap. "As long as I don't have to go out in public in that dreadful haircut." Deftly, she removes her purse and begins to slide the cards in one by one.


She's in a library, safely ensconced on one of its many couches, when she feels eyes on her. She doesn't do anything, not at first, but her quirk stirs beneath her skin. She turns the page three more times before allowing herself to look up. Her secret admirer has left, but well-honed instinct tells her that he's likely still on the same floor as her.

She stands, book held loosely under one arm, and enters the shelves. Her secret admirer is close: she can sense his presence, over her shoulder. She withdraws another book and returns to her couch, then reads some more. When she next feels his gaze on her, she looks up immediately, so quickly and so sharply that a few of the bones in her neck tremble from the suddenness. (It's fine, though. She's a sturdy girl, and heals fast.)

Her quirk struggles for purchase but fails to secure a firm grip. He's not attracted to her, but she does have his attention, which means that he's either some sort of hunter or someone from her past. If he's a hunter, then the jig is up. Most of her counterparts are in Japan. She'd be lying if she said she didn't feel relieved. If he's someone from her past, on the other hand...

She looks back down at her book, but she knows that her secret admirer knows that his cover has been blown. (If it even existed to begin with.) She focuses on his face, his frame, and recalls a particularly enervating incident in Tucson. That must have been... five, perhaps six decades ago. Or more. Or less. It's been difficult to keep her memories straight, especially as she moves into her second century, but at least all of the details are in the right place, if not the right time. She's followed his career idly, throwing in just enough disinformation to keep his so-called fans at one another's throats.

Unwanted attention can be ever so annoying, after all.

And yet. And yet. If Tucson was such a long time ago, what is he doing in such fine physical condition?

"I'm sorry, miss. Is anyone sitting here?"

She smiles.

"Not at all, Mr Wilson. You're looking well."

No hesitation. No surprise. "As are you. You look like you haven't aged a day."

She shrugs nonchalantly as he settles onto the couch beside her. "A lady must have her secrets, Mr Wilson."

He concedes the point. "I also realize that I never caught your surname."

She thinks back to her newest set of identity documents. "Nakamura. Ms Nakamura, if you'd like to be polite."

"Ms Nakamura." He shakes her hand gravely. Always the gentleman. The passage of time has smoothed over his rougher edges: after all, it did the same for her. "Have you been in Japan long?"

"As a matter of fact, no. I just arrived."

"Then you must allow me to treat you to a coffee, now that we've been properly introduced."

He takes her to a delightful little nook. They sip on their coffee and appraise each other in a private booth.

"What have you been up to?" he finally asks. She'd wager that he's the more surprised party in this exchange.

"Oh, here and there." She stirs her coffee. "Reading. Traveling. Not making too many waves. I don't like it when things are too hot." She's taken pains to conceal her activities. Her counterparts have done the same. It's all about the simple pleasures in life. "You?"

"I'm still here, aren't I?"

"Kyoto has been quite happening in recent months," she agrees. Her counterparts have taken care to steer clear of the mess. Osaka is much calmer. "Still, this new engagement of yours has been quite... restorative."

"Yes. Yes, it has." They both know what he is doing in Kyoto. "Do you plan to go sightseeing, then?"

"I'm just visiting." She takes another sip from her cup. She's almost finished. "Nevertheless, it's always good to meet an old colleague." She produces a pen. Writes her number on a napkin. "Promise me you'll stay in touch, Mr Wilson. You can always be relied on to keep things interesting."

"Of course."

"Thank you for the coffee."


She's in a quieter café. Less expensive than the one that Mr Wilson brought her to. It's important to economize, even though she's become very well-to-do over the years. (Having a time horizon measured in centuries can do that.) There's a pint-sized barista working the counter, and a small knot of rowdy students in the back. She recognizes their uniform: she remembers reading about the founding of Shiketsu in the newspapers. This was before she left Japan for the first time, but after she emerged from the frenzy and delirium of her early immortality. When she was still coming into her full power, she hadn't been very big on reading. To her detriment.

There's a boy discussing quirks with his girlfriend at one of the tables. She listens in idly as he brings up the Quirk Registration Service. Yes, things have been getting difficult in recent years: that's what her counterparts have been saying. Most of them reached maturity when the QRS was in its infancy, but of late, it's stepped things up, become more thorough than ever before. The subtle web of influence and information that she's woven over Japan, the place where she was born, where hundreds of her counterparts have lurked and plotted for almost a century, is fraying. The noose is tightening.

But she will endure. As she always has.

"Tomie!"

She waits. She wants to hear her name again.

"Tomie!"

Again.

"Tomie!" The monkey-boy at the counter squints at the cup in his hand again. "Order for Tomie!"

She rises to her feet and removes her earphones. Rushes to the counter, smiles apologetically. "I'm so sorry." She takes the cup from him and meets his eyes.

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Pub: 14 Mar 2024 04:58 UTC
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