Chapter Text
Right now, you guess you are seven kilometers above sea level.
Pressure builds in your ears. You are descending.
A city approaches beneath you. You think of your framed Paradise Lost piece: Lucifer free-falling.
You have been steadily descending over the Greater Tokyo Area for the past several minutes. The sight of the city is familiar, to a point. You cannot see it in full — the sprawl grows beyond the bounds of the window, beneath the plane, and into the misty line of the horizon.
You swallow. The pressure is relieved.
There is a woman in the seat next to you. You two have been silent company for the duration of the flight. The only words you two shared were when she offered you the window seat. That was hours ago.
You look at her profile view:
Her nose is an obtuse triangle balanced upon the acute angle adjacent to its shortest side. That shortest side bends in slightly as it descends, arcing into another, smaller triangle that constitutes her painted upper lip. The lower lip is a curve. The woman's head is tilted slightly down. She is holding an open book, with her elbows propped upon her knees.
The woman is wearing a suit. You are wearing a dress shirt, tie, and trouser pants. Your overcoat is in the compartment above. You swallow, relieving some of the pressure. It keeps building, because you are still descending. You are still looking at the woman.
The woman's eye swivels to you. Her face turns, and the profile morphs into a completely different and asymmetrical geometry. Another eye peeks from behind the ridge of her nose. The jaw is far less defined this way, drooping and oblong. Your eyes fall into hers: a big eye, and a little eye, because of the perspective.
You swallow.
Right now, you intuit that you should feel uncomfortable, at having been caught staring. But the woman's expression does not convey discomfort or offense.
The woman's eyes shift away from you. Her body shifts. She is looking past you. The edges of her mouth stretch. Her eyes brighten from the light of the window.
She remarks, "There's Tokyo." The woman is smiling, as though seeing an old friend. And she turns a bit more, and her countenance gains symmetry. Round eyes spaced perfectly apart, perfectly level with one another, with thin black eyebrows like half-halos above, and a narrow nose centered below. Beauty returns to her just like that, with grace.
"Yes," you say.
You turn your head back in an obtuse arc. And you straighten in your seat, to offer as much of the window as you can. You look through the same window.
Now, a city center scrolls beneath you. It's closer than before.
You feel pressure in your ears.
Inner Tokyo? Logically, yes. But you do not feel it — you do not know it.
You wonder how well the woman recognizes "Tokyo." Right now, you don't — not really, anyway. Tokyo has wards, rivers, and highways that are named. And you are descending over wards, rivers, and highways. But right now, you have no idea what's what.
There are buildings arranged in something that might resemble a coordinate grid, but is not. There are streets between the buildings, unseen, but hinted at by space between the vertical geometry. There are highways and avenues that are seen, lined with vehicles of various sizes. And in very many cars, upon the roads, and in very many rooms, in floors, in buildings, there are very many people that are unseen, though you know they are there. An unfathomable amount of people.
You are descending into them. Closer now. The view shifts. Because the plane has tilted. It — well, the pilot — is orienting it for a landing.
You swallow.
Landing always makes you think of that Doré piece, at your apartment. Hypothetically, did Satan flap his wings? Or did the rush of the fall enrapture him, make him forget himself? Even if he tried, he's already nosediving at terminal velocity…
You see a landmark: Tokyo Tower. It sits among its neighboring skyscrapers as a wire mesh traffic cone. And everything clicks in that instant, around this point of reference: Shibuya is right around there, and that cluster in the back is Shinjuku, and then part of the bay comes into view, and you recognize it. All of it. Like seeing an old friend.
You see the suspended port bridge over the water. There are cars on it — a sight you have never seen before. The woman looks on beside you. You feel compelled to take your index finger and press it to the window. And you say, "Look."
"Oh, yeah," she says. You can sense her nodding in your peripheral vision. "I still can't believe they finally finished it."
"Yes," you say.
Cars course over the suspended bridge, effortlessly crossing the breadth of the bay.
The plane is approaching the runway. Together, you and the woman watch the cascade of rooftops thin as you glide down.
You swallow one last time.
You landed. You are, and have been, walking.
You have your overcoat draped over your arm. Your other hand pulls your small wheeled suitcase along. A long, tall corridor stretches ahead, seemingly endless. On the left is a continuous window framed with steel, offering a view of the airport, the bay, and the city you will soon enter. The bright, white light radiating from the flat cover of cloud touches everything, sterilizing the edges of shadows into soft gradients.
Finally, you are at the Arrival Lobby. The woman — the one you sat next to, for hours — bids you farewell and good luck. She is smiling. You reciprocate, "Goodbye, good luck." She leaves, and you know you will never see her again; at least, you'll never recognize her. Her smell leaves with her. But the smell — Speed Stick. You'll undoubtedly smell it again, on countless others.
From a boutique, speakers sing out a melancholy, masculine voice, "Oh bye for now…" and you recognize the song, which is at least a year or two old.
You are standing in a concourse. You are now alone. This concourse is a panorama of information desks and kiosks, a currency exchange, ticket counters for busses and railways, and passages leading out of sight, all marked some manner of "Exit to…"
You head to an ATM.
Haneda Airport has undergone steady change over the decades. The experience has more or less stayed the same: hastily leave the plane, spend several minutes walking through an eternal corridor, spend several more minutes winding through queue-posts, and wind up at an imposing terminus, this crossroads of possibilities.
It always reminded you of arriving from Hell. It's kept the memory fresh. There are so many parallels, like when—.
The ATM feeds you your money.
Actually, you don't have time to remember Hell right now. You have to leave the airport. And to do that, you have to find the man that will drive you into Tokyo.
You bring forth the general shape of the man in your memory. He is tall. Usually, he is dressed in the same sort of outfit you are wearing. His silver flask is a giveaway (though plenty of men that are not him also have those flasks — this has fooled you in the past). There is a scar on his face, which has been there for many years now. And he has gray hair — this is important to remember, because his hair has changed over the years.
You stand and look at one side of the lobby. Face ahead. Pan right, slowly.
There are a variety of people here. Some are idly standing about. Some are looking at overhead maps, schedules, and informational bulletins. Some have luggage; some don't.
You don't see him.
Keep panning right.
Someone is looking at you. A man with glasses. He has a scar on his face, but it's not at all in the right spot.
Not him.
Keep panning.
Done panning. But you haven't seen him.
He must be sitting down. Sometimes he does this: eating, drinking, reading — whatever. Let's look again, take the bigger picture in, the whole angle of view, and let's pan back.
You pan left.
That man, with the glasses — still looking at you.
Whatever. Keep panning (left). Check the background.
He's not here. You wonder if he forgot, or if he's late. But he's never let you enter Tokyo alone before. And he's never late.
You revisit the man with the glasses. You set him against the phantom image of the man you are searching for:
Too short (still taller than you). Sturdy looking chin, masseters too — his jaw has a shape like a well-worn canine. The man is wearing a similar outfit to yours, and a similar outfit to the man you are looking for (sans overcoat.) And he has a scar. No, forget all that — the hair color is all wrong. Plus, too young.
But right now, you notice the man is holding a piece of paper. He is holding the paper at chest level, bouncing it slightly, clearly trying to bring attention to it. Right now, you are looking down at the piece of paper. It has printed text on it, by a laser printer. The text is bold, and it reads your name. Right now, you are re-reading your name.
The man is holding a piece of paper with your name on it. And he is looking at you. Now, his lips twitch in something like a smirk, or a physiological tick.
You begin walking up to the man. It is certain that he recognizes you. He knows you. But you do not recognize him. This is a familiar situation. This is probably a Public Safety Devil Hunter.
"Hello," you say.
"Hello," he says.
You two very slightly bow, hastily, at more or less the same time.
"You are waiting for me," you observe. The man nods.
You look at his glasses. They are Bézier trapezoids, mirrored, balanced upon the bridge of his nose.
"You are here to drive me away from the airport?"
"Yes."
His nose, by the way, is too small for him. The long scar running across his face emphasizes this disproportion.
"You're not who I expected," you calmly hammer.
He is not affected. "Captain Kishibe," he says, naming the man in question, "couldn't make it. They sent me instead."
"They?" you echo, accusingly.
The scar, by the way, is skewed right. (Your right; his left). Also, his glasses are lopsided.
He is not affected by your tone. "Dispatch. I got a phone call, and they said to pick you up at the airport, and gave me the arrival time of your flight." Again, he twitches a smirk, and even shrugs. "You know how it is."
"Yes," you say, even though you don't "know how it is." Then you ask, "Where is Kishibe?"
No — the glasses are straight. You can tell if you look from his left ear to his right — left eye, to right eye — his glasses are on straight.
He says, "I don't know."
"Aren't you from Division One?" you press.
"I'm not in Division One, no."
It's the scar — it's almost parallel to his glasses, but not quite. The scar makes the whole orientation of his face look slightly off. This is a face with character.
"I'm in Special Division Four," he says.
(That's your division.)
You look at the man, with his crooked scar. You believe him — you trust that he is in your division, but you do not recognize him.
"I'm sorry. I…"
The man smiles. He finally lowers the sheet of paper. "That's alright. My name is Madoka," he says. "I can't even remember the last time we spoke face to face; I'm not surprised you don't remember me."
He taps the sheet of paper and adds, "That's why I brought this."
Madoka is a name that you know from reports and other paperwork. Madoka is a good hunter. Madoka has an interesting face.
You want to keep studying it. You want to walk the thin frame of his glasses, over the narrow bridge of his small nose, and then walk back over his skewed scar. But you shouldn't do that right now.
"It's good to see you, Madoka."
"You as well. Did you have a good flight?"
You nod. "Yes. Why couldn't Captain Kishibe make it?"
He shakes his head. "They didn't say anything."
What is Kishibe doing? Why isn't he here to meet you?
Madoka asks, "Are you ready to leave?"
Why is Madoka here?
What would his jaw look like, if he clenched his teeth?
You are in the rear passenger seat of a black sedan. Madoka is driving away from the parking lot. The two of you are just above sea level, although you can't see the sea from the expressway here. You can see his scar and his glasses in the rear-view mirror.
When you reach the tunnel, you descend below sea level. This also reminds you of leaving Hell. Of course, your driver, Madoka, is nothing like Hell Devil. The lights lining the tunnel illuminate his face in amber flashes. They flare in his glasses. And with those burning, flashing eyes, small nose, and askew scar, Madoka might pass for a devil.
He has not asked where you want to go, and you have not told him. But right now, there are no other options besides following the road.
The tunnel ends. You are above sea level again. And eventually, Madoka drives the black sedan into Minato.
Towers and high-rises pack the avenue at either side, and every single building is distinct from its neighbors. Tokyo Tower — that massive traffic cone — is in this ward, but it is impossible to see it beyond the buildings.
Madoka finally asks, "Where am I taking you? Home?"
"No. Take me to the bureau," you direct.
You see him glance at you from the rear view mirror.
"You aren't tired after your flight?"
"I slept," you lie. "And besides, it's still the work day."
That's good enough for Madoka. You need to seize the time you have to locate Kishibe.
Traffic is all around you. So are pedestrians. There is unending noise all around.
The volume of life and activity is impressive; it always is, being in this metropolis. But you know it well enough to notice something: the noise, the traffic — it is not what it was years ago. In the prior decade. A certain energy is gone. Economic correction is at work, and it may last longer than anyone expects.
You see something in a storefront window: a miniature of a Daibutsu. The sixteen centimeter Amida Butsu sits in a lotus pose as you pass, as everything passes all around. It's gone, just like that, but you recognized it effortlessly: the one in Kamakura, a hundred tons of bronze oxidizing over centuries.
Tokyo always changes, in countless ways. Everything is constantly changing.
Kishibe did not pick you up.
This has never happened before. He always escorts you. But this is not an arrangement of your making.
For decades, it has been his unofficial responsibility to "keep an eye" on you. This means that, presently, he is preoccupied with something more troubling than you.
And that is concerning.
Madoka was sent instead. Logically, given what Kishibe knows about you, he would have sent another Division One hunter in his place. But Madoka was sent instead. Which means Division One had no one to spare.
And that is concerning.
And Kishibe isn't anywhere you can see.
And that is—.
Right now, you notice something else:
In the outskirts of the city, birds do their rounds, and you surveil through their eyes. One jungle crow flies over a particular residence in Chōfu. There, on one balcony, an empty mug has been left on a small, round table.
This is a message from one of your pawns:
"I have something important to discuss."
This particular pawn is worth listening to.
The crow swoops to a nearby park and scoops a fallen acorn into its large black bill. It then flaps its great wings, gaining altitude, and circles back to that balcony. It lets the acorn go, which falls perfectly into the mug. The mug rattles. Soon after, a man opens the sliding glass door and peers within the mug.
He cranes his head up. His eyes squint at the bright, cloud-blanketed sky. He sees the crow circling. The crow sees him lift the mug and turn it downwards, letting the acorn drop in his open palm. He carries the mug and the acorn inside his apartment, out of sight.
Just like that, the message has been received and responded to. The man will be waiting for you at a particular pub, roughly midway between his home and your bureau.
"Madoka?" you call out.
Through the rear view mirror, the two of you stare at one another.
"Yes?"
"Change of plans: I need to stop somewhere in Setagaya."
You tell him the neighborhood.
Going there, from here, before going to the bureau, would be a forty-something minute detour. You are carefully studying his eyes. You watch him think.
A forty-something minute detour, he is probably thinking.
Madoka just says "Alright."
The sedan changes lanes and turns at an intersection. You know he is heading towards the Route 3 expressway. He does not ask anything; he simply changes course.
If it were Kishibe, he would ask — "Who? What? Why?"
(He wouldn't expect answers. But he would be scrutinizing every last detail.)
Madoka appears apathetic. You do not know how to take Madoka yet; you only know he is a good hunter. But you decide that meeting your pawn is important.
On the highway, noise barriers obscure the streets surrounding the expressway, insulating you from the city once more.
You ponder the likelihood that your pawn's concerns are connected to Kishibe's unknown situation. Madoka appears to ponder nothing, instead being content to drive.
You have come to understand that everything is connected to everything else, directly or in some roundabout way. Like roads, railways, tunnels, the air itself…