Chapter 6: Revelation
Two days had passed since the disturbing encounter, and Seven could not stop the chill that had taken up residence in the base of his spine. Words scrawled past the computer screen as fast as he could read them, but so far none of his research had turned up anything on Mirai Kishida, or her mythical companion. At the moment, unconcerned with the former, Seven was searching for psychiatric counseling.
Angels did not exist. To accept that would be to open the floodgates to nightmares more insidious than he dare consider, and the beautiful winged floating lady was surely a hallucination -- the fruit of insanity born of a life filled with equal parts trauma and adventure. Surely, he had simply gone crazy, and no surprise there -- it ran in the family.
The thought brought to mind his sister, who had been missing since Seven had returned to the house, slinking back like a defeated dog to ponder the ramifications of his self-diagnosis. He sincerely hoped, at least, that he would not have to begin talking to walls or chewing paint, or whatever else crazy people did. He made a quick resolution to be the most boring crazy person in the history of the world.
Silence bothered him, and his free hand tapped a steady beat as his other worked the mouse to slip from page to page. In the end, he gave up. Megid had no professionals, just in the way a desert lacks water: its most needed commodity. If a desert had an abundance of liquid, then it would no longer be a desert. In the same fashion, if Megid had professional help, Seven strongly doubted it would be Megid any longer.
The paintings on the wall, landscapes of distant worlds rendered in his own hand, a clumsy god with a horsehair brush and meager palate, stared silently back as Seven considered them, wishing he dwelt in one of those fantasies instead of grim and unpleasant reality.
Realizing such melancholy whimsy was uncharacteristic, Seven pushed himself up from the comfortable computer chair and looked out the window. Fall had grown only more intense, and the sounds of the forest reached him now, however faintly; animals busily preparing for what the news predicted to be a brutal winter.
He needed to find Mirai once again to dispel the lingering suspicions; the phantasms on the edge of waking dreams, the nigh imperceptible vibrations of a deeper force churning tirelessly beneath his feet and at the center of his personal world. Like how he knew her name. He had heard it in a dream -- the dream, in fact, for he had only ever had a single dream; been surprised, in fact, to learn that other dreamers lived different lives, different fantasies, every time they closed their eyes. But he had seen many things in that dream, and so far, none had come to pass: Mirai Kishida, in fact, was the first.
With that chilling thought in mind, he pushed himself up on shaky feet and strode out the door, so focused he barely remembered to grab his jacket on the way out; and lucky that he did, for the first winds of winter had found their way south from Canada, and they would have shred his smoky cream-colored t-shirt and plunged their cruel blades deep into his already trembling heart.
He found her almost immediately; just distant enough that he couldn't feel her presence. Seemingly lounged against a tree idly and enjoying a piece of fudge chocolate half the size of her head. She had been there for days now, wherever he went, at the edges of his perception -- watching and waiting for something he could not understand.
As he approached, he carefully noted the way she carried herself. Slim and lithe, Mirai did seem fragile. Supple, perhaps, in the way that saplings bend to the elements but are not bested by them. Sunlight caught her eyes, dyeing them a burnished copper as they slid back and forth from Seven’s face to stare ahead, bored by the world, but utterly failing to hide her interest at his approach.
She blushed when he noticed, adding a flush of pink color to her tanned cheeks. Her hair hid beneath a hooded purple sweatshirt, accentuating her unique beauty. Today she wore a long charcoal grey blouse with striped red and black stockings that would have been far more common on the streets of Akihabara than New England, but Seven found himself catching his breath as he looked at her. Best of all, there were no angels floating around anywhere.
The next time her eyes slid his way, he raised a hand in greeting. He received a dangerous glare in return. Seven dropped his hand with a knowing shrug, expecting as much from the uncharacteristically hot-tempered young girl.
“What are you doing here?” she demanded even before he had time to open his mouth. Her hands were crossed now, firmly across her chest and he could see the fudge held between her fingers yet remained untouched. Her voice sounded harsh, overly so, as though trying to mask something beneath. Seven chose to press his luck.
“I just came to talk,” he said slowly, letting the tone of his voice bring soothing comfort, “in fact, I imagine you haven’t had a good meal since you came to Megid.” At this, Mirai’s eyes lit up slightly, and he continued, “Since there are no real restaurants here, you’ve probably been living off what you can find at the convenience store.” Mirai nodded emphatically. “Why not come back for dinner with me?" he asked, "My house is right over there, and although I’m not a fantastic coo…”
“Yes!” Mirai interrupted, looking around as though seeking approval from an unseen presence. A moment later, she repeated, calmer, “Yes. I’d like that.” She, too, seemed surprised at her quick response and blushed again, lowering her eyes to stare at a grey squirrel scrounging for seeds in the fallen foliage. Then her voice lowered, brusque with suspicion as a single word escaped her lips, "Why?"
Seven traced the squirrel as it discovered some treasure and rushed away to tuck it safely into its winter storehouse -- cheeks puffed with its other finds. "I'd say that it's tradition around here to invite new neighbors over for dinner," he said, "but that wouldn't be entirely honest."
He hesitated, wondering if he should say more, had to fight every instinct to force the gamble -- well aware that regardless of what the mysterious girl answered, it would place him on a path from which he could never return.
"I wonder if you have the answer to the question," he said.
Leaning close, Mirai's eyes widened as they caught the sunlight, sparkling with an inner fire and an unidentifiable emotion that might have been fear, were it not for the unbridled aggression that shone forth bright enough to blind that trepidation. Mirai whispered softly, evenly, "To what question?"
"Who am I?" Seven asked, his voice as level as he could force it. And then he shook his head, unhappy with the phrasing.
"No..." he corrected, "What am I?"
The question that had hounded him to the ends of the world escaped from him like a condemnation of himself, of his sanity, of the indescribable means of his own wavering and threadbare soul. He had never dared ask anyone before, and he imagined he never would again -- but some primordial instinct demanded that he ask the wisp of a girl who stared at him now, her breath caught in her lungs at the sublime disaster of worlds colliding.
A long time passed before Mirai answered him, carefully taking stock of the man in front of her. She tilted her head to one side, and then the other, as the strands of her midnight hair flowed about her, tied back into silky ribbons that hung near her waist and threaded with strips of multicolored cloth that dazzled Seven's eyes.
She moved in close to him, the black ski bag gripped tightly in one hand as she pressed her body against his, leaning in close to whisper in his ear, "This isn't the place, Seven Kharaos." Her eyes slid to the left and then to the right, indicating that someone was watching them. When he turned to follow her gaze, she grabbed him into a tight embrace -- or at least that's what it would have seemed. Her slender fingers lingered on his Adam's apple with just enough pressure to convey the threat and keep his gaze focused on her.
"Follow me," she said, "let's take a walk." It was not a request. As she untwined her body from his, she dragged her fingernails across his throat and up his cheek just hard enough to draw a pained excitement -- his life held, precariously, and only by her good grace. And then, she pulled away, a graceful twirl tha
t left the lingering scent of peach hanging in the air behind her.
Some time later, and none wiser, Seven followed Mirai through the twisted mountain paths that wound through the outskirts of Megid like a twisted net of roots. She remained silent, clearly lost in her own thoughts as she led him further and deeper into the forested maze, her back turned away and her face shadowed by falling leaves. They ranged so far, they entered territory that even Seven had failed to explore.
The sun rode high, and morning had given away to noon. Breath came heavy and difficult as Seven's lungs neared their limits, a line drawn by an undiagnosed asthma that had haunted him since his childhood. Blackness tinged the edges of his vision, and his footsteps began to fall in an uneven rhythm that sent him stumbling into low-hanging branches and bracing his hand against trees for support.
If Mirai had noticed, or even cared, she gave no indication. If anything, she picked up the pace, as though eager to put distance between the two of them, granted reprieve.
But she had something that Seven needed. He'd have followed her to the ends of the earth, crawling on hands and knees if he had to -- and though a second wind never came, he replaced it with a steely determination to learn the truth.
They broke through the trees to a rocky granite outcropping that jutted from the mountain like a broken bone, accompanied only by a rising wind that swept the sweat from Seven's forehead. The forest lay far below, painted in golden brown, as though finished backing in the sweltering heat of an unnaturally long autumn. Aside from a few scattered branches abandoned there by storm or by chance, little decorated the bluff save uneven stones broken free by frost and left there to await the day the whole mountain returned to dust.
Here, Mirai called a halt with an uplifted hand. She twirled about, half-surprised that Seven was still behind her, gasping for breath but iron in his stride. In her other, she gripped that ski bag ever tighter, revealing the rounded shape of whatever she held within -- too thick to be ski poles, Seven found himself drawn curiously to what the black nylon concealed.
But he quickly switched his gaze back to her, barely tall enough to reach his shoulder, she emanated a controlled danger so focused it felt as though it could slice paper. Seven had met dangerous men, mercenaries who could look around a pub and name you the exact price each life carried, including his own, oil sheiks who did not even consider that life had a value aside from theirs, and murderers, plain and simple, who measured life only in how much pleasure ending it would be.
Mirai did not strike him as one of those, yet she seemed far more dangerous still. The tiny girl wore violence like a mantle, a graceful cloak that concealed her true self -- uncharacteristic in the nervous half-smile she was leveling at him now.
"Before I answer your question, Seven Kharaos," she began, "I have some for you."
He nodded, his mouth dry, and his tongue ran over his lips nervously.
"Why did you come home?" she asked.
Seven tilted his head, as though unsure of the answer himself, he looked back towards where he came from, the sleepy village left far behind and found no reason there. Turning back to Mirai he said, "I guess I got tired," he said.
"Of searching?" she asked.
"Yeah..." he replied, "yeah... but how did you know I was looking for something?" he asked.
Mirai offered a tiny shrug, barely perceptible. "That's just the nature of people like you and I, Seven," she said, slowly looking him up and down, "we're always searching for something..." her voice trailed off, "and when we actually find it," she broke off before striding up to stand less than a foot away from him.
Rising up on the tips of her toes to better look him in the face, "That, Seven Kharaos," she whispered throatily, "is when to truly be afraid."
In an instant the blades were out, silver gleamed in the midday sun, and the empty ski bag stirred restlessly in the breeze as their razor edges rested against each side of his throat. "What's going on?" he shouted.
"Who are you, Seven Kharaos?" Mirai demanded, her voice a thin hiss, melodic but strained. "Why do you haunt my dreams?" she asked.
"That's what I want to know," he growled back, trying to step away from the swords the crazed girl gripped in her steady palms. She'd kill him if he gave a wrong answer, and even his restless shift caused the edged to dig deeper into his skin. "Tell me," he demanded in turn.
"These weapons have names," Mirai said, "Past and Present," she turned each one in turn letting him know which belonged to which. "Which do you choose?" she asked.
He looked down at her, into the clear deep brown eyes that drank in his attention and reflecting no answer. Death rode in the twist of her lips, neither a smile nor a frown, simply a frenzied relief not unlike his own, that had brought him to the here and the now.
"I don't want or need either of them -- one is done, and the other soon will be," he said, choosing each word carefully, "I choose you, Mirai, whose name means 'the future'. What do you choose?"
The swords lowered as Mirai twirled away yet again, gracefully catching her bag with an outstretched toe and kicking it up high into the air. In a single motion, she returned the two weapons to their home, spinning to a stop, the bag already carefully resealed.
She sauntered over to the edge of the cliff, each step a graceful and playful stride as she propped the dangerous package behind her back like a spirited girl with her umbrella, dancing in the empty breeze.
"Do you know what a Precipice Moment is?" she asked curiously, wheeling about once again to regard him. She bounced back from heel to toe, impatiently waiting for his answer, leaning forward and wide-eyed.
Seven shook his head. "No," he said, "please explain."
Mirai spun around again, balancing at the furthest tip of stone on a single toe, wobbling back and forth. "Hmm," she said, "have you ever considered fate? The overwhelming concept that the world runs on rails, an unstoppable river that drowns those who oppose it?"
"But what determines fate?" Mirai asked as she turned slowly to look at him again. The sun caught the edge of a cloud, casting her face with shadow. All Seven could see was her gleaming half-smile, and eyes that peered out of the darkness cast with a warm gold of their own. "When a coin spins through the air, what determines if it lands heads or tails?" she asked softly.
"We do," she breathed. "The infinitesimal calculations that determine the course the river takes and the coin falls," Mirai said, "we are the banks, we are the air, we are the vessels, the veins through which fate courses. And those moments, where the world itself presents two clear choice to be made by instinct, by the natural culmination of the human spirit -- these are Precipice Moments."
She reached out a slender arm, broadly gesturing over the fading forest that stretched out beneath them. "You've been out there, wandered from battle to battle, tuned yourself into both the present and the past. Have you ever once considered that the entire world balances lightly at the lip of an endless void?" she asked.
"One misstep and..." she reached out a slender leg over the cliff and leaned forward. Seven moved to catch her, a diving leap, but it was too late -- his fingers barely brushed the corners of her blouse as it slipped playfully from his fingers. Down she went, silently disappearing, not even a scream as she toppled from the ledge into nothingness. Seven scrambled to the edge on scraped hands and knees, wildly looking down for a way to save her.
"That," said a voice behind him. He whirled about to find Mirai standing directly behind him, her face a mysterious mix of devious coyness. The glow had left her eyes again, bathing them once again in an earthy brown -- Seven told himself it was all just a trick of the light, but his instincts begged to differ; warned him he faced something unnatural, supernatural.
"How?" Seven stammered, reaching out to touch her hand, to reconfirm reality and his own doubted sanity. He had seen her go over, and turned back to look down, for some ledge or path she might have used to circle back.
There was none, and only the empty sea of stretching pines and
bare maple branches greeted him, a graveyard of fallen leaves.
Mirai offered her hand, pulling Seven back to his feet without any effort. "Does it matter how?" she asked. "Even if I told you the exact details," she breathed, taking a measured step back from him, again tilting her head to the side to regard him, "it would not change the simple fact that the world you woke up in this morning, and the world in which you now exist are no longer the same, deshou?"
Seven took a long look at the new gashes added to his jeans woefully, frowning at the loss of his favorite pants, threadbare though they may have been. With a shrug, he said, "What do you mean?"
"We are at the threshold of a new Precipice Moment -- The founding of Camelot, the signing of the Magna Carta, the first shots of both World Wars, the moment humanity first awakened; all of these pale absolutely compared to what we face now," Mirai explained, chin upraised. "And for the first time, the Precipice Moment is not an event -- not a choice, Seven, it manifested as a person," she said, " and when the rivers of Fate have become a deluge that will sweep all of us away, and only he can fight its current."
Mirai's expression turned hard, but sadness sprung from her eyes, as she said, "Of course, the Precipice Moment has a name, and it is --"
"Seven Kharaos!" Destine's voice cut through the clear air like a bolt of lightning flung by a scorned Zeus, splitting the tense moment with a crack of thunder.
The mysterious girl whirled around, gripping at her black bag, ready to unleash violence. Beyond her shoulder, Seven could see his sister approaching, dressed in full officer's uniform. She was a Fish and Game officer, a wilderness cop, and clearly comfortable with the area as she traipsed over the uneven ground effortlessly.
Mirai looked back at him, "Say anything about what we were discussing and I kill both of you, consequences be damned," she hissed.
His shoulders grew tight once again, muscles bunching together in electric anticipation at the uniquely malevolent vibe his sister unleashed simply by existing. Despite calling his name, she paid little attention to him, instead she focused on Mirai, eyes distrustful and brooding with unquenchable anger.
"What's going on here?" Destine demanded, "We got some reports that there was a possible drug deal going on up in this area -- I get here and find my brother and an outsider."
"Who is she?" Destine's voice reminded Seven of his youth, when every rising sun had heralded the start of a new battle with her. They had fought over everything; if one said yes, the other said no -- if one claimed up, the other claimed down, and war had raged. Those days had passed, but as with all things once history, bitter memories often served only as prelude to the future.
Seven glanced between the two of them. "A friend," he said.
Destine jabbed her index finger at Mirai, "People like her have no friends," she said. Her breath came in huffed gasps, and her free hand clenched and unclenched, as though imaging itself wrapped around the petite girl's throat and squeezing tight.
"She has one now," he declared, moving to place himself between Mirai and his sister, "and I don't appreciate you being racist."
Destine strode a step closer, each step stabbed into the muddy rocks, punctuating her checked rage -- an emotion that threatened to fly out of control in a moment's notice.
He half-expected her to him. Instead, Destine leaned in low beneath his arm to look at the foreign girl eye to eye. Something indefinable passed between the two young women, noticeable only in Mirai's changed and unreadable expression.
"Now go," Destine demanded.
The girl turned to look at Seven again, she smiled at him softly as she nodded to herself. "You surround yourself with interesting people," she observed. "I'm afraid I can stay here no longer, though," she said.
"You owe me some answers, and I owe you some dinner," Seven whispered, hoping his sister wouldn't hear.
Mirai shook her head, "Not here," she said, "if you truly wish to know more, find me tonight. 9 PM. Meet me at the basin of that mountain." She gestured to the odd-shaped sloping monster that dipped about half-way down its profile, leaving a strange indentation. Locals referred to the area as, "The Bowl", and often used it to go drinking in the summer time. The mountain was actually a dormant volcano, sleeping since ages past.
Nodding, Seven said, "I'll see you then."
Mirai strode back over to the ledge, whispering something to herself, so low that it might have only been a trick played by the capricious autumn wind as she slipped over the side once again. But Seven heard it, and was sure the girl said:
"I hope not."
F-Infinity Saga Canto I Page 7
