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Raiden Ei has never once faltered. The arc of her naginata, halving seconds, millimoments, cannot be stayed.
(Raiden Makoto has always existed outside of time. She dances over centuries, lit from fireworks and overhead suns and each spin of the fan ulnar to radial.)
She kills between inhales and exhales. The blade sweeps past antimatter. Rained-out adverts pasted all throughout streets, all through the years. Getas half off. Calligraphy lessons til the season's end.
(Raiden Makoto tucks hair behind her ear absently. She has never been here, not when Ei actually opens her mouth. Not when she thinks about it for millennia before.)
Chiyo screams with the voice tuned for song. She is still melodious as Ei punctures seven purifying wounds into her trembling form; bullets of love. Her lips are stained with it. Her eyes are so, so red. Ei cannot be stayed. Cherry blossoms all around them.
(More and more, the sun sets red upon the adriatic.)
Ramen noodles, tariffs, the general's daughter, the sakura blooms this year will be unmatched, the serpent's people are still sending well wishes, the people's wishes, the people, the people—
("Stay," Ei demands. "Stay." )
Makoto's hair touches her nape, the knot of her yukata, the lordosic dip of her spine. It sweeps elegant lines, rich black strands, fissures of the old world beneath their feet. Ei says she wants to cut her own hair short for practicality. Makoto laughs and dances away with the scissors. "Oh, what's the use of practicality with you?" Ei is red in the face. Makoto twirls with cruelty shining in the twin blades.
But she is already forgiven. She always was.
("The scarlet sea reflects no light but its own. Have you heard of it? Have you seen it?"
"Don't be foolish."
Raiden Makoto giggles, one leg kicked into tomorrow and the other bent against the present. Each line of dark hair splays into seconds. Her being is timescattered the same way children scatter playing cards on summer evenings.
"One day I'll teach you to make this stew. We can gather the ingredients together, or make it a race, and the loser cooks dinner for the winner. What do you think?"
Ei looks at her miso. It reflects light just fine. The sun is setting outside again, fourteen seconds earlier than yesterday.
"You already cook dinner for me."
"Well, then you have a lot of meals to make up for, don't you?" And her laughter; a mess of cicadas and fireflies, a lifetime of playing loser. "I have eternal faith in you. Really.")
Raiden Ei has never once faltered. The world blurs before her stillness, held on a breath, on the cusp of a lightning strike. Her blade is an extension of herself and herself an extension of Makoto's will.
(The day will come when her blade fails her.)
The sun still rises the day Ei fails her lightning.
She holds onto her sister with all the practicality in the world useless. Knowing her body won't do anything for her body. Knowing, certain of the fact, that it is too late.
There is no light. There is no spacetime for photons to find them, particulate or wave, unchartable waters.
She is not thinking about the people.
She is thinking about the moon without the sun. The clockface without its hands. There is no light, no warmth and the seconds split into thirds and the river is red, she knows it, she sees it behind her eyelids and her fingers are going to bruise, she sees it—
Oh god. Oh, God.
(She was always, always out of time.)