Chapter Text
Akiyama Shiho stared in frank disbelief at the inch-thick stack of crisp white paper set before her on the coffee table. Near to her, collapsed deeply into the plush sofa, were her parents sporting equally starstruck expressions.
“To be honest with you, you’re the first parents we’ve had to make aware of the situation considering Shiho’s…extenuating circumstances,” said the severe-faced man—he was all sharp edges and tapered points; even his hair from the line that edged his face and neck to the triangular tufts that spiked up at the back—whose name was Karasuma. His lackeys were equally severe though to far less effect, looking rather more miserable than serious next to the sternness that was their boss.
“This is quite a contract,” was all her father could say. He was a lawyer, thankfully, yet even he looked stressed as he slowly parsed the pages of the contract. The bizarre document was lengthy, full of tongue-twisting, head-turning legal jargon; Shiho herself understood little of it. The front page served as a basic summary of the situation in succinct paragraphs that she’d read over four or five times already, enough to memorise the exact wording. Below that, printed across the bottom half of the page…
The creature was indescribable, and Shiho doubted the picture served it justice. It preferred to go by he/him pronouns according to Karasuma despite there being nothing masculine about it. For one, he was yellow. Truly yellow, not “yellow” in the way foreigners described the skin of Asian people; sunshine yellow; dandelion yellow; sickly snot, the kind that gets caught in your throat in winter, yellow. If Karasuma was all features, this thing was un-featured with a round soccer ball head, pinprick white eyes, and a big even smile that was nothing but teeth—akin to a child’s drawing. And that’s all without mentioning the tentacles that made up his limbs.
“Why children? That’s what I don’t understand,” said Shiho’s mom worriedly.
“Because it makes sense,” Shiho blurted. The five adults—her mom, dad, Karasuma, and his two lackeys—looked to her. “They’ll have eyes on him at least 6 hours a day for 5 days a week, and he’ll be in close range of about 30 people during that time. That, and this paragraph says he’s honour-bound not to lay a…hand…on any students. Not that I think we can take this thing at his word, but his word is all we’ve got.”
“She’s right,” Karasuma said, and he even looked slightly impressed. Slightly. “This is the best option we have, especially considering the isolation of E-class.”
Shiho’s parents flinched. The weight of it hadn’t set in yet. E-class. End of The Line.
Shiho sighed. “Give me a pen. I’ll sign.”
“Shiho!”
“Whether it’s this or a gag order for even knowing about it, I’m gonna have to sign something anyway. At least if I kill this thing, that’s ten billion dollars in the bank,” she snapped at her mom. “Think of all the things ten billion could do for me—for this.” She rapped her knuckles on the metal frame of her rickety wheelchair.
Karasuma’s eyes widened minutely and a small smile pulled his lip to one side before it just as quickly flattened back into a straight line; were Shiho any worse at reading faces, she’d have missed it entirely. Pride unconsciously puffed her chest and she straightened her shoulders, glad to have impressed at least one person in her life, even for something as inconsequential as this.
Karasuma said, “It takes no small amount of bravery to do this,” and it felt as though he meant it even if his tone indicated this was a speech he’d given 28 times already. “The reward money is so substantial not just because of the result—that is, saving the world from certain extinction—but also because of the extreme risk of being there when it’s done. We have no idea what might happen when this thing is killed or how it will react to certain stimuli.”
His gaze, and everyone else’s followed, turned to the window where outside on the horizon, the partially destroyed crescent moon was starting to rise. Its mutilated face, once full and bright, was now only about 30% of its original size. The rest had been carved out, ripped off and crushed into space dust in a blinding explosion that sent shockwaves across continents.
Shiho had had her theories. Everyone did. All were unlikely, and most she’d heard were deeply conspiratorial, but to learn not two hours ago that this thing, this alien, was responsible…it was simultaneously thrilling and burdening.
“How are we supposed to do this? I doubt you would’ve gone for kids if it required genuine ammunition,” Shiho wondered aloud. Another flinch from her parents.
At a nod from Karasuma, the unnamed lackey on the left, an average middle aged guy with glasses, unlocked a hefty briefcase that had been set on the floor at his feet, forgotten and unnoticed so far. Within, a semi-automatic-style gun—or so it looked to Shiho, not that she was particularly knowledgeable on firearms—and a rubbery, pliable green knife. The gun’s magazine was filled with bubblegum pink BB pellets.
“You’ll notice these are useless against humans. Mostly, anyway, so don’t go shooting someone in the face. These pellets will bruise you big time, but against your teacher? They’re lethal.” Karasuma demonstrated with the knife, manipulating it like a magician bending a spoon. He leaned forward to gently touch it to Shiho’s arm, adding, “The slightest touch with these materials will obliterate his form.”
“If you know how to kill it, then why do you need the children? Why do you need Shiho?” Shiho’s mom demanded.
“He’s fast—clocked at Mach twenty—and he regenerates.”
Shiho suspected there was probably great humiliation behind how they learned those particular factoids. She imagined the creature going toe-to-toe against a bullet train, or soaring through the air dodging bullets from the military’s super jets, jeering and cheering all the way.
Yes, it made sense, she thought, to need lots of people attacking all at once in proximity; in a closed, controlled environment.
Still, she wanted to ask, why me? Why this class? Why the hopeless layabout nobodies with no future?
Sensing her question, Karasuma finished with, “World governments have thrown everything they’ve got at this thing with no results. Traditional warfare clearly isn’t going to work, even with the best strategists and generals and fighter pilots on the planet.
“What we need”—he looked Shiho directly in the eye. She looked back without hesitation—“is creativity. We need someone who can think outside the box, who lives and operates outside the box.”
“Like E-class.” Flinch.
“Yeah, like E-class.”
It was silence that followed, broken only by Shiho’s dad humming and ha-ing at the contract, and the near hysterical hitched breaths of Shiho’s devastated mom. Shiho did not break her gaze. Neither did Karasuma. They stared and stared and stared as though in a professional contest. Why? Shiho didn’t know, but she was determined not to lose. She would not lose.
“What’s this bit here about personal transportation?”
Karasuma’s small eyes locked onto her dad. Shiho resisted the delightful urge to perform an Irish jig.
“Shiho can’t be expected to make her own way to campus. The current condition of the mountain pathways doesn’t allow for it.”
“Current condition of me, more like,” Shiho muttered. She was ignored.
“Unfortunately, the school board rejected the motion to improve the infrastructure, and we can’t spare the manpower for an official transport, so a compromise has been made.” The expression on Karasuma’s face turned downright grim. Once more, his eyes met Shiho’s, darker than they were before, narrowed, even slightly apologetic. “Your teacher will be picking you up for school everyday himself.”
“Say what?”