Quetzalcoatl
Mochi Uranus
[Soundtrack https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lSOkw_Hxsas ]
Stairs. It’s the bane of Mochi’s existence, now. And boy, does Kyoto love its stairs. The shrines, the temples, the mountain trails. Only the most forward and modern bother to be wheelchair accessible. It’s something Mochi is grateful for, then, that the Kwoolani Temple values the needs of all of its adherents. Beside the stairway leading up to the temple, there is a smooth ramp, with regular flat plateaus where one can stop to catch their breath.
The accessibility ramp would be a lot more gods damned accessible, however, if the protestors didn’t make a habit of using it to stand on with their signs and their flags. Before he and Lixdite even arrive at the bottom of the ramp, Mochi can see them thronging. It pisses him off. It pisses him off these people here protesting something like a charitable temple when there’s corrupt corporations and a corrupt government hanging over their heads. These people come here to complain about something that doesn’t hurt them at all as if it’s the end of their world, even as gangs and murderers stalk their streets.
It's not lost on Mochi, the hypocritical irony of the thought crossing through his head. It curdles deep in the pit of his stomach, a bitter, sour little mote of doubt.
The Red Finger does bad so that the Temple can do more good in the future. Right? You need to tear down the system to build a better one, and when you’re in a war people get hurt. That’s just war. Right? The other side of the revolution will be better. Right?
Who are you trying to convince? Swallowing, Mochi holds his wheels and stops in front of the crowd. Who is he trying to convince? It’s only him in here. “Ahem. Some of us have places to be,” he clears his throat, bitterly chastising the protestors in his way.
When the crowd takes notice of him, they also take notice of Lixdite. Mochi could swear the heart-fluttering feeling of the aura radiating from behind him grows in intensity. Maybe that’s just his imagination, but for once he doesn’t need to get in a shouting match with the crowd or wait for someone more imposing to come move them out of his way. It feels good to have someone who has his back. Lixdite takes hold of the wheelchair and pushes him up the hill.
Then, they come across a familiar face. Mochi’s face curdles like his stomach. “Amahagene.” Purple hair hangs around the sword bitch’s menacing glower, more than matching Mochi’s animosity.
The girl’s fingers clench around her sign, knuckles pale as steel. “Keep my family’s name out of your mouth,” she states, like handing down a law. “Turn around and get lost.” Who the hell does she think she is?
“Who the hell do you think you are?” Mochi begins to bare his teeth in a snarl, then looks around at the crowd staring at them. As much as Lixdite’s aura drives them away, it turns eyes towards them just as naturally. The snarl turns into an acidic smirk. “You want an Amahagene to be seen bullying a cripple in public?” Takako’s eyes remain locked to his, staring him down.
“They will see an Amahagene defending our nation from foreigners’ exploitation.”
“Double bigot. How glamorous.” Mochi’s dry taunt doesn’t make her flinch. Only when Lixdite raises a hand do her eyes flick up to him and start taking him in. Blinders coming off.
“This is,” using a finger, Lixdite points past her, up the path to the temple, “Where we are going to a public place. We want no trouble.”
“And what is the relationship between you two?” she presses the godling, pointedly looking right over Mochi’s head and refusing to acknowledge him any longer. “…I recognize you. From the school. One of the exchange students.”
“I am Lixdite Acquilla,” the winged serpent replies, his introduction practiced and smooth compared to the rest of his Japanese. “Mochi…san,” he continues, using the incorrect honorific uncertainly, “Is showing me the city.” Raising a finger, Lixdite swirls it in a loop at each of the nearby buildings, presumably having forgotten the word for ‘around’.
Takako certainly isn’t affected by his aura, at least not like the others are. As she meets his eyes, it looks like she’s struggling not to march forward, instead of back. It’s impressive she’s managing. Mochi took her for all reptile brain. “Uranus is a traitor, selling the city out to these exploitative parasites,” she doesn’t even do the temple the service of looking or motioning in its direction when she speaks of it. “You’re better off not associating with him, or with them. People might start to think you’re like them,” the vitriol and subtle accusation- threat, even- are too well hidden in subtext for Lixdite to understand fully, Mochi thinks. Or he’s just that unflappable.
“This is a public place,” Lixdite repeats. “Please leave us, alone.” Not waiting for an answer, Lixdite starts wheeling Mochi around Takako, forcing some of the crowd back, receiving small words of discontent and looks of frightened malcontent in the process. Mochi’s classmate takes one step towards them, but she stops herself from taking more than that. He holds himself back from smirking at her. It’d set her off.
It would have been perfect. A blow-up out here, beating up a disabled kid in front of a highly political religious site. Amahagene or not, she’d be expelled for certain. Lixdite’s here, though. Mochi doesn’t want his kohai to get caught in the crossfire.
They leave her behind. The temple awaits, its exterior not much different from the other temples and shrines in the ward. Built to fit in, not to stand out. For all the good it did. People still look down on them, treat them like foreigner garbage. It’s no wonder High Priest Imamu saw something to be corrected in Japan. This country is rotting, rotten to the core. The mantra plugs the stab wounds, the punctures of doubt in Mochi’s certainties.
[Soundtrack https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1HBvX8liTnM ]
Propped open, letting in the fresh mountain air. The temple doors welcome them like a pair of open arms. “I’m sure High Priest Imamu will want to speak with you afterwards,” Mochi tells Lixdite excitedly, even as nervous energy fizzles in his stomach at the idea. What if they don’t get along? What if they do? “Let’s just… find a spot for now, there’s cushions to sit on,” he indicates the rows of soft, plush cushions in front of the raised platform, the stage- calling it a stage feels so dirty, tainting its sacredness with mundanity, but that is what it is. “I usually pick a spot on one of the sides, so I can park my wheelchair somewhere I’m not in anyone’s way,” the recommendation is voiced with none of the bitterness that plagues the rest of his speech. For Mochi, the community here is his community, not the school or the other students. Not even his neglectful family.
“Okay,” agreeing rather simply, Lixdite angles them towards the place Mochi points at, but his eyes are on the stage. There is Imamu, towering over the crowd, clad in his gold, his jewels, the white cloth that drapes his lower body and leaves his incredible physique openly on display. He would tower over the crowd on level ground. It’s not the same, inhuman size as the figure next to him. Gustave Gavial, standing beside Imamu and staring into the crowd through crocodilian eyes. The Chosen of Sobek is clad in the same golden finery, his divine physique bared for all to see, save for the consideration of social modesty.
Looking up at the figures on the stage with awe in his expression, Mochi turns back to see Lixdite doing the same. Maybe less awe. “Aren’t they amazing? Isn’t this place amazing? Like something straight out of legend.”
Lixdite’s eyes move from the stage and regard the architecture next to them. Above the spot Mochi selected, rather intentionally, is a gargantuan statue of a winged serpent. It doubles as a pillar, connecting to the ceiling and holding up the impressive arching heights of the structure. “Quetzalcoatl,” Lixdite says, and Mochi’s heart nearly skips a beat. He knows- he knows who this is, who he is. As much proof as anything that Lixdite too is Chosen, a vessel for something greater than human.
Chewing his lip, Mochi resists the impulse to spout his admiration too forcefully. “The resemblance is remarkable, isn’t it?” he opts instead for a more passive approach.
Only able to make a small thoughtful sound before Imamu calls for attention, Lixdite turns to listen with renewed interest.
Akuba Kaedabi Ohene
[Soundtrack https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sSYBlEL7r60 ]
The usurper, the murderer of nations, stands in front of rapt crowds and preaches virtue. Were it not for self-preservation and wisdom, Akuba would leap upon the stage and gut him here like a pig before his piglets. Wisdom wins, in the end, and Akuba listens not to the poisoned words of this tyrant. His eyes scan the building, taking in every feature, every entrance point. And he notices how much it is like a fortress. Every ingress, every egress, chosen to limit flanking positions. Side hallways built as chokepoints, balconies as vantages, and the temple floor a kill zone. This place of worship was designed by a man of war, and as a warrior himself Akuba sees the malign wisdom in it.
For not the first time, Akuba’s eyes linger on two figures within the crowd. He tries not to look their way, lest their eyes meet, but curiosity is human nature- as is spatial awareness the spider’s. Lixdite Aquilla, an exchange student from Italy, and one of Akuba’s class members. Since first they met, Anansi’s Webs have warned Akuba of grave danger from this other boy. Where Lixdite’s eyes rest, a predator’s eyes rest also, as if gazing out from behind his eyes. Not unnoticed to Akuba’s eye, either, the resemblance between Lixdite and the stone monument that looms above him. Another of Imamu’s misguided herd, or one of the tyrant’s true confidants?
The other student, Akuba does not recognize. His face, perhaps, and his wheelchair- but not his name. Brought, perhaps, by Lixdite to corrupt him with Kwoolanism’s promises as so many other desperate souls here were corrupted.
Forcing his eyes to turn away, Akuba looks onto the stage and- for a moment- his body freezes in place. A cold chill pierces his veins. The tyrant, Imamu, looks right at him. And then, unrecognizing, the tyrant’s gaze moves on. Akuba bunches his hands in his lap and squeezes them. So much misery, so much loss, all attributed to this man who does not so much as know his face.
That will change, before he dies.
Gustave Gavial
[Soundtrack https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BSZVhl_eo2Y ]
His name. It feels alien now, to be spoken to by that name. General Gavial. High Priest Gustave- the scorpion had kept his word, elevated him to equal status. It is baffling, unbelievable. The mind of a religious fanatic, as alien as anything from beyond the stars that it may believe in.
Strangest of all, the new title, Chosen of Sobek. Standing beside Imamu, Gnash- no, Gustave. Gnash was a gangster. Gustave is a god, or so they tell him. Standing beside Imamu, Gustave looks into the listening congregation as stories of Sobek are woven and shared, alongside apocalyptic rhetoric about the return of Apep, Apophis, the Bringer of Night. How the might of the Chosen would be needed to defend the world from this demon’s reincarnated form.
It’s nonsense, of course. In private, Imamu has spoken of the Reaper as this Apep he speaks of now, in plainer tongue. Yet every word Imamu breathes out comes ringing like truth, and in spite of his skepticism Gn- Gustave- Gustave wonders if there may indeed be kernels of it there.
There are few words Gustave is required to speak here, today. Imamu insisted he become familiar with the proceedings, and become accustomed to being on public stage. And that Gustave carry out the sacrifice.
“To celebrate the return of Sobek’s mighty champion, I bring a special sacrifice today,” holding up his hands, Imamu gestures to his attendants. From the side of the stage, they lead a live bull. It walks slowly and sedately, mind dulled by Zyra’s quirk. One of the attendants places a bolt pistol in Gustave’s huge hand. The grip, made for Imamu’s fingers, just barely manages to accommodate his own claw. In his other hand, Gustave takes up a machete from the altar.
The animal is so tranquilized that it has no reaction to Gustave’s approach. It lends him even an greater aura of divinity, Imamu claims. Taking a look at the crowd’s faces, Gustave finds he must agree. “This blood and meat, we offer to all of you,” Gustave announces. For appearances, he sets the pistol to its forehead and fires, causing the animal to slump to the ground. Gustave doubts it would have reacted one way or the other, had he sliced its throat while it stood there. On its feet or on the ground, the machete does the rest, and great rivers of blood pour out into indents in the stage. Servants with buckets follow the rivers to troughs, collecting the red liquid. The animal must have been held on a fast, for its bladder and bowels do not void as it exsanguinates live on the stage, and then is transported away by more attendants.
For charity. The meat would go to charity. Gnash’s first charity donation, hah! What a thing, this circumstance in which Gustave finds himself. The world is full of surprises.
Zyra Mein
[Soundtrack https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uGPUWE_r5vg ]
Within the temple’s sitting room, Zyra lifts a fine teacup to her mouth and tests the contents with her lips. Ah, just right. Tipping the cup back, she sips from the fresh, imported Fruchttee. A taste of home. Vaguely, she can feel the life of the sacrificial bull leave its body, the faint ‘tug’ on her quirk released and slithering back to her. It coils around her shoulders like a dense mist, invisible to everyone including her. No longer intangible, however. With training and practice, Zyra’s awareness of her ‘presence’ inside of others has been improving. Things must be approaching their end, the meat moved elsewhere and prepared for distribution.
When Imamu first invited Gustave to go up and speak with him, Zyra felt spurned, but with all the same casual ease as always he simply asked if she wanted to join them. She did not. It was the principle of the thing, that another could and she could not. Often, Zyra retires to this sitting room while Imamu speaks to the public. People, or the people side of people, has never been her strong point. For years she scarcely interacted with anyone who wasn’t a drooling invalid under her influence.
Shuffling feet, scores of them beyond the door, tell of the sermon’s end. Easing herself to her feet, Zyra approaches a mirror hung upon the door of a cabinet and smooths out her dress. White, to match Imamu and Gavial’s garments, and adorned with gold and jewels. Fake gold, of course. And real jewels, of course. Reaching up, she brushes her hair into a better position, checking the sides of her face for marks of impediment. With guests coming, Zyra finds herself experiencing a moment’s vanity.
Turning away from the mirror just in time for the door to open, Zyra pretends to have been looking out the window instead of vainly gazing into the mirror. Small windows, thin enough to double as bunker slats. “How did the people take to him?” she asks the two large figures that lumber into the room, without facing them.
“The folk took to me just fine,” speaking for himself, Gustave Gavail tromps on his massive, clawed feet to the floor able and seats himself.
“Tea, High Priest?” a servant’s voice asks.
“Certainly, my dear.” After the tea is poured and she’s left, Gavail continues the earlier subject, “For a people my gang preyed upon not a week ago, they take to me with frightening ease.”
“That is the mark of divinity, Chosen of Sobek.”
“And what is your divinity?” there’s a challenging tone in his voice that Zyra does not like, and she swivels on her feet to face him. The reptile sips his tea as though he were merely making polite conversation.
Still near the door, expecting someone, Imamu speaks before she can formulate a response, “Zyra’s divinity is plain to me. Not in body, but in the strength of her blessings, and the cunning of her mind.” Idle flattery, directed her way often enough. She welcomes it with a smile.
There is a knock at the door. Imamu stands still for a moment, then turns and opens it. “Ah! Mochi-kun. Please come in. And you bring a friend.” The door opens wider, and as Imamu swings to the side to allow passage, Zyra can see uncharacteristic strain in his expression. A tense jaw, barely restrained unease. It is not often she sees his calm mask crack. And only when it is behind his other, physical mask.
A boy walks in pushing Mochi’s wheelchair, tail slithering through the air behind him, wings curled against his back. Largely greens and whites, but his tail feathers are a prominent red.
No? No, looking again, Zyra cannot see it. Must have been a trick of the light. There is only a red fringe at the edges, like they were dipped in red ink- or blood.
Gnash arches his back, reptilian eyes focusing in, wary of the new arrival. The boy himself simply looks around the room with an impassive looking expression, until Zyra approaches him with an outstretched hand. There’s a mild tingling on her skin when he shakes her hand. “Konnichiwa,” she says, nodding her head. Zyra doesn’t bother with a fake or forced smile, she keeps her expression casual.
“This is my friend, Lixdite,” Mochi introduces his companion. Zyra is well aware of the name from Imamu’s briefings, but hadn’t put a face to that name yet. “He is from Italy and still learning Japanese, so please be gentle with your vocabulary.”
“I am pleased to meet you,” Imamu takes the serpent-tailed student’s hand next, pushing through whatever unease had stricken him. “I am Imamu Belmitope. You may simply call me Imamu.” That humbleness he carries himself with, that Zyra can never tell true nor false, shines through now. Always humble until wounded, his pride.
“My name is am Lixdite Aquilla, pleased to make your acquaintance,” the serpent boy answers, practiced and smooth.
There’s no offer of a hand from Gustave, who remains seated at the table. “Gustave Gavial is my name. It would be best not to tarnish your hand with mine, lest you be damned by association.”
“Softer language, High Priest Gavial,” Imamu reminds, regaining some of his form and easy friendliness. He moves to take a seat at the table, and invites Lixdite to join them with a wave of his hand. Zyra slinks back to her seat as well, their guest approaching slowly and warily.
“My joining of the temple was,” raising his head and closing his eyes, Gustave thinks after a simple word. For once, his verbosity does him no credit. “Troubled. Looked badly upon by many.”
Parking Mochi’s wheelchair in the fourth spot on the table, Lixdite awkwardly looks around, then kneels between Zyra and his school friend. “I understand. People can… look badly. Not kind.”
“I was the one who was not kind,” Gustave corrects swiftly.
Before the conversation can drift towards the crocodile’s crimes, Zyra waves a servant over to pour Lixdite and Mochi some tea. She speaks to him in Italian, “(I forgot to introduce myself. I am Zyra, Zyra Lawrenz,)” her mother’s maiden name. Easy enough to remember. Few know her even as Zyra Mein, but Imamu has hammered lessons of caution into her, and using pseudonyms makes him more at ease.
“(You speak Italian as well? It’s rare to find someone else who speaks my language in this country,)” Lixdite’s attention is piqued by that. “(Your name is German, if I’m not mistaken. Where did you learn?)”
“(I have traveled all across Europe,)” she boasts in response. While she and Lixdite speak of the sights she’s seen across Europe, Imamu patiently waits his turn, instead speaking with Mochi about how he’s doing at school, playing the part of caring mentor and encouraging the boy to be more diligent about his studies. Gustave sits silently, still observing them as if they were aliens on an alien world.
Akuba Kaedabi Ohene
[Soundtrack https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dsuJZx24V_A ]
The crowd milling about inside after the tyrant’s speech is done serve as distraction for the attendants. They give out poisoned charity, scarcely thinking to look up. Nestled in the crook of Sobek’s neck, Akuba watches for his chance to sling himself into the shadowed corners of the next statue.
There is a hallway at the back of the hall, where servants carrying signed papers and records vanish and then emerge without. An office. It is too much to hope that Imamu keeps something incriminating there, but Akuba would settle for a clue. Waiting for the lasts servant to disappear from the room, Akuba silently glides down into a casual walk, pretending like he belongs. He peers at the doors on either side as he goes. Staff restrooms. Backstage storage. Office. Stepping in, Akuba tests the handle. Locked.
He glances behind him down the hall, then angles the tip of his finger against the keyhole while another taps the metal. Closing his eyes, he feels instead with Anansi’s Webs. Gentle tugs, aimed and angled with the blade of his nail, feel out the mechanisms of the lock. It proves too complex for one finger, so Akuba awkwardly jams the nails of his two pink fingers into the keyhole and resumes his attempts.
Click. Letting out a relieved sigh, Akuba slips inside and locks the door behind him.
The office of the tyrant is decorated with mismatched tapestries of different tribes and cultures, forced to bend into the color and aesthetic of his own. They look mangled and crippled. A glass ornament blown with skittering scorpions inside draws Akuba’s eye, adorning the desk. A destructive impulse says to smash it, but no. That satisfaction can be had on the way out.
Quietly kneeling behind the desk, Akuba opens drawers, sifts through stacks of paper. This seemed easier in theory, until he reached the part where he had to speed read for anything of value.
Families who had received charitable donations of fresh meat. Nothing more than poor and desperate people pulled in by promises of aid.
Persons who had given blood at a clinic within the temple, and to which hospitals the blood bags had been sent. Only generous people who believe they place their trust in a good cause.
Purchase receipts for the livestock sacrificed on-stage. Michelson-sensei’s lessons on economics are only basic thus far, but the prices seem unusually low. Akuba’s hand hovers over these, then takes them and folds them into his pocket. Perhaps the farms have a deeper connection to the Kwoolani cult, or perhaps not. A lead all the same.
Tensing up as Anansi’s Webs vibrate in warning, Akuba stands. Footsteps vibrate through the floor, drawing towards the door from the other side. Thinking swiftly, Akuba pushes the tyrant’s throne back into place and takes up a cloth, pretending to dust the glass ornament.
A key rattles within the door and it opens. A broad-chinned Japanese man steps inside, startling at the sight of Akuba within. “Ah! Apologies, you caught me off guard. I did not notice anyone enter before me.”
“Yes sir,” thickening his accent, Akuba answers with simple words and a foreign bow, playing the part of a poor foreign serving boy. It has the desired effect, and the man passes him to set another stack of food donation forms into their drawer.
“Don’t mind me. Carry on,” he tells the boy. On the back of the man’s shirt is a bright blue and green splash-art of a manta ray. Akuba is reminded of something he saw on the news. A professional Japanese hero, one named Rescue Ray, endorsing the temple and signing a large donation check to his troubled youth center.
Corruption or charity? Akuba tucks the metaphorical clue into his back pocket as well.
Using the cloth in his hand, Akuba picks up the ornament and holds it above him, looking down at the sharp corner of the desk. Perhaps he could crack it there. The rug flooring is too plush and luxurious.
… No. Anansi’s wisdom speaks inside of him, and Akuba sets the ornament down. Right now, the tyrant has no cause to investigate, or to even suspect someone was in his office. Let it remain that way. A trickster works in secret, and bares his angry fangs only when they will strike at the heart.
Disappearing from the office, Akuba passes two other servants, exchanging greetings with them in the tyrant’s enforced Ugandan. His attempt to sterilize and centralize the tongues of East Africa. Perhaps these efforts at stealth have been overblown.
Then, ahead, Akuba spots Imamu and Lixdite speaking beneath the winged snake’s statue. Leaning into the shadow of a nearby pillar, Akuba pretends to be catching his breath from a weighty task and perks up his ears.
Imamu Belmitope
[Soundtrack https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7miCLg3RInU ]
With Lixdite Aquilla beside him, Imamu looks up at the statue of Quetzalcoatl. The god of knowledge, blood and healing, poised above him in all of its majesty, even as that majesty stands here with him. There can be no denying the divine aura Lixdite exudes. It echoes through Imamu’s mind and body, rendering him unable to forget the godling’s presence. “You think this is me?” Lixdite asks, in his clumsy Japanese.
“I think that he rests inside of your soul,” lifting a hand, Imamu angles the flat of his fingers towards the boy’s chest, but does not overstep with a touch. “That he gave his power to your family line. Leading to you.” Folding his hands back in front of him, Imamu admires the statue further, with silence all he receives from Lixdite’s side of the conversation. “I think it is good that Mochi has found a friend in you,” Imamu says, gently. And it is true. The boy is faltering. A pillar such as this to reaffirm his faith, that what he is doing is right and just, will harden Mochi’s heart and prepare him for the battles to come.
“You used his,” the godling’s voice falters momentarily, “Honorific before. But not now?”
“Ah,” Imamu laughs softly. “I too am not a native of this land. I try my best to remember them when I speak to the Japanese people, but in my own land, we use personal names freely. There are titles, of course, but a fellow divine need not concern himself with addressing me by those. We are equals, Lixdite.”
“Ah,” echoing the expression of understanding, Lixdite nods. “Another classmate from Africa. He also said this.”
“From Africa?” raising the crook of a finger to his chin, Imamu recalls a student matching that description from the class registry Reiji had acquired for him. No one noteworthy. With a casual shrug, he discards the thought. “Perhaps he is related to one of my congregation, who came here with me,” he supposes to Lixdite’s observation. “Have you-”
The divine aura fades, Imamu’s only clue that the godling has left. He turns to see the boy speed-walking towards the southern wing of the temple. Imamu glances up at Quetzalcoatl’s watchful eyes, looking down upon the temple clinic by design. Understanding comes to him and he smiles, calmly walking in the wake of Lixdite’s footsteps.
Unusually humble and sterile compared to the rest of the temple, the clinic looks like a modern hospital room. Curtained dividers are set between each bed, where nurses use needles to extract donations of blood. When Imamu catches up to Lixdite, he looks sheepish. “Sorry,” he says. “I thought…”
“You felt that someone had been hurt,” Imamu finishes the thought for him, and Lixdite’s eyes widen, looking up at him. A jolt of awe runs through Imamu’s spine from the divine pressure. “It is who you are. What you are. A god of blood and of healing,” Imamu walks between the stations, smiling at the nurses and donators. “It is only natural you be drawn to this place. These people are donating blood for the local hospitals. For the people who are injured.”
“I see,” Lixdite nods. “I have been to hospitals yes.”
Completing his circuit, Imamu leads the godling back out into the temple at large. “We do our best to accommodate the needs of our community.” As if on cue, a servant approaches carrying a wrapped plastic container of ground beef still fresh and bloody from their sacrifice, and Imamu smiles warmly at the pleasant timing. “Ah. And here,” he takes the container from the servant, who bows. Then he turns and offers it to Lixdite. “A gift of recognition from the Kwoolani to you.”
Reaching out and taking the container, Lixdite looks down at it. “Thank you. I will make good food with this.”
“I trust you will. I hope you will come to one of our temple dinners sometime,” Imamu offers. “Each of us brings something special, even if it is something small.”
“I will think of it. Goodbye,” as he’s about to leave, Lixdite remembers to do a small bow, which Imamu returns. Then he shuffles away to where Mochi is waiting by the open doors.
According to the student psychological reports, Lixdite’s family has a tradition of sharing food as a gift when meeting. Imamu hopes that the gift will put him at ease. Those farms were a worthy investment, both for supplying the temple and for housing human cargo while it travels between cities or needs to be hidden.
Akuba Kaedabi Ohene
[Soundtrack https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LK20OK8VTUw ]
The tyrant and his winged serpent leave. Having overheard their conversation, Akuba is now certain that Lixdite is feeding the Kwoolani information from within the school. Being recognized here would bring trouble. On his way out, he takes notice of a strange blue creature in a straw sunhat and dress, like one would find on an old grandmother, stuffing pre-wrapped sandwiches from the temple’s sandwich bar into a purse. None of his business… Akuba passes by and springs down the stairs towards the city streets. With a clue in his pocket and two in his mind, he feels one step nearer to avenging his people and striking down the tyrant.
On his way out past the protestors, Akuba is yanked aside by a hand on his shoulder. A girl with a stern and steely gaze glares into his eyes. “You. Are you one of them too?”
“Pardon?”
Taking his arm, the girl leads Akuba off the side of the path. “You are my second kohai today to be pulled in by this cult. But you’re from the same place as them, aren’t you?” her oddly sharp fingernail jabs into Akuba’s chest, and she rants on, “You’re one of them, then. You think you can come here and colonize the heart of our nation like a damned disease?” He starts to put the pieces together. He would be more offended if the girl’s concerns were not valid, and her anger not justified. But it will do neither of them any good to flail at one another like fools. Akuba raises a finger and sets it in front of her mouth. She slaps the digit aside. “Don’t you shush me!”
It halts the momentum of her tirade long enough for Akuba to get a word in edgewise. “I know,” he says, forcefully.
“What?”
Taking that moment to slip her grasp, Akuba motions her further from the main walking path. “I know what they are. And you have every cause to be concerned. But I am not one of them. Come. Let us speak in private.”
Mochi Uranus
[Soundtrack https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bzyTUekkMCI ]
The sun is still out when Lixdite slows the speeding wheelchair to a stop just past the dorm gates. Mochi laughs out the butterflies in his stomach and catches his breath. “That never gets old. So,” while they take a more leisurely turn back into the dorm compound, Mochi looks up. “What did you think of the temple?”
“The people seem nice,” Lixdite answers simply. “Maybe not the… lizard? man. Seems… not quite right.”
“He’s new, so I can’t speak much to him personally, but if Imamu trusts him then so do I,” Mochi assures his kohai. “They are… good people. When I was broken, they gave my purpose. When I was alone, they gave me community. I don’t think I would have… made it through the worst, without them.”
“Mm. I am glad. That you found help.”
“Me… too,” though it doesn’t ring completely true in Mochi’s heart.
“The woman did not seem to notice me.”
“Huh? She shook your hand, didn’t she?”
“I mean,” Lixdite gestures into the air a little. “My ‘aura’. It makes people feel uneasy around me.”
“That’s what that was?”
“Yes,” they pass through the doors to the dorm building itself, and Lixdite stops them in front of the elevator. “Does it feel bad for you much?”
“Once you get used to it,” Mochi rubs his hands together in his lap, “It’s not so bad. Kind of like sitting on a rollercoaster as it gets higher up and you’re anticipating the drop. Some people go looking for the thrill, you know? It’s all about mindset.”
“Interesting.” Any further thought or inquiry is interrupted by a loud rumbling behind Mochi’s head. “How… embarrassing,” Lixdite mumbles. “I have forgotten to eat again.”
“Still time before curfew. Why don’t get grab something at a konbini?” Mochi suggests. “There’s this place that makes little Mexican things called taquitos. You ever had one?”
“No. We can try it.”
On the way they pass by another student, who pulls down his hood and avoids their eyes.