Chapter Text
People flow around each other as Kasumi balances on her tiptoes and readjusts the strap of her black school bag. She looks through the window, where her reflection distorts along with the tight gray walls of the subway tunnel.
“Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for riding with us today. Our next stop is Yongen-Jaya. Again, our next stop is Yongen-Jaya.”
“Ah, please excuse me, I think this is my stop!” Kasumi says to a large slouched man with a crooked toupee, and a variation to everyone else she shimmies past to reach the subway doors. “So sorry to inconvenience you!”
She checks her phone, pink with a jingling white bunny keychain. She squints at a red app with a symbol of a black star-pupiled eye that wasn’t there before. It pulsates in the bottom right corner of her home screen until she dumps it off for the digital garbagemen to deal with.
Kasumi’s finger hovers above her GPS app, but it keeps twitching toward her messenger app and its five unread texts.
“Hey.”
Checking her messages, she sees that all the texts are from her grandparents. Each message is signed by either Obaachan or Ojiichan; they’re all from her grandma’s phone. They’re making sure she’s safely gotten to Sakura-san.
“Hey!”
She doesn’t respond to them before moving to another chat log, one with Sumire. Kasumi hasn’t messaged her sister since last December. The date at the top of her phone reminds her that it’s now April ninth.
“Hey, are you listening?”
The further she scrolls up, the less frequent her own messages become. It’s an inverse timeline that goes from her saying she’s sorry about everything and asking if they can still fix this to her simply asking Sumire why she hasn’t come up to visit her and their grandparents.
“Oh my God, hello?”
The messages go back almost a year at this point, but there’s not a single response from Sumire. The last message from her sister is from March fifth of last year. It’s just a short “ok” response to Kasumi asking her if she still wanted to meet up after practice.
“Can you move!” A man wearing an army jacket over a gray sweater far too thick for spring shoves her off the train and walks past her, and several people follow him and each give Kasumi a distinct glare.
“Oh, I am so sorry!” She bows and apologizes to every person who walks past. “I let myself get too distracted. I am incredibly sorry for bothering you all.”
A lanky woman in a silver pantsuit doesn’t even hear her as she yells back at whoever’s on the other end of her call.
The doors close and the train hurries off, having already forgotten the entire fiasco. Kasumi waits until everyone she bothered has either left or joined another clique waiting for its ride before she runs up the stairs.
She follows her GPS for several minutes and turns to reach the backstreets. Looking over the area, she hears a man off in the distance screaming “this shit is rigged!” Walking along, she passes a cramped secondhand shop filled with abandoned furniture, glassware with clashing colors, and an old man who needs several seconds to take a step.
Turning right at the end of the backstreets, she finds a small gray house surrounded by an off-white stone wall and a black gate. The bright-green leaves growing from the cracks in the wall balance out the smell of piss and vomit.
Kasumi pushes the doorbell. It chimes. There’s nothing. Watching every window, the dark shapes behind them start to feel less like shadows and more like permanent stains in the glass. Ringing the doorbell a second time doesn’t distort any of the shapes.
“You looking for Sakura-san, ma’am?” A young deliveryman in a striped gray shirt spins a box labeled “FRAGILE” on his fingers.
“Yes!” Kasumi smiles over to him. “Would you happen to know when he will be home?”
“Probably not for a few hours.” He looks further into the alley. “He’s usually in his cafe around this time. Leblanc? It should be back the way you came.”
“Oh, you have been a huge help!” Her red ribbon droops forward when she bows. “Thank you so much. Truly.”
“Happy to help.” He smiles.
Giving him another bow, Kasumi runs off with a gymnastics sprint, reaching Leblanc in the time it takes a coin to fall from a hand and hit the ground.
In front of her is a rustic building with a red and white awning that reads “Café Leblanc” in fading letters, smaller type reading “Coffee and Curry” right above. A potted plant with dark dots on its leaves sits on the windowsill.
Piercing her arm with the strap of her bag, Kasumi memorizes the look of every letter on the sign and the exact shape of every leaf of the plant. Her foot wobbles during her first step and she almost looks at all the details again, but she lets her bag go, tightens her ribbon, and proclaims her arrival with a ding.
The smell only an expert hand can give to a cup of coffee mixes with curry spices to brighten the dim space. A man who looks like he spends more time on his hair than on thinking watches the TV in the corner while another grabs a jar of grayish coffee beans with a red seal off one of the shelves.
His dark beard makes up for his receding hairline, and the way he wears his black and gray-striped apron over a pink shirt exudes charisma more intense than the steam coming off the food.
“What would you like—” He sets the jar down when he sees her. “Ah, right. They did say that was today.”
“She’s a bit younger than I would’ve expected for you, Boss.” The customer whiffs his coffee for ten seconds before letting a drop into his mouth.
“It’s nothing like that.” Sojiro sets down the jar and walks over to Kasumi. “I’m Sojiro Sakura, but everyone here just calls me Boss.”
“It is an honor to finally meet you, Sakura-san! My grandparents speak very highly of you.” Kasumi reaches into her bag, revealing a box wrapped in pink polka-dot wrapping paper. “For you.”
“Don’t go trying to butter me up.” He takes the box from her, and then places it on the counter away from danger. “I only agreed to this because of the pay. Now, come on. We can talk more upstairs.”
“Of course.” Kasumi stares at a splash of coffee that has become a part of the bench opposite the customer. “I truly do apologize if I was too familiar. I really hope I did not offend you in any way, Sakura-san.”
“Stop calling me that. It makes me feel old.” He rubs where there used to be hair as he holds the banister with a web that flows like a burnt war flag. “And stop apologizing so much. Just get a move on.”
Kasumi covers her mouth to abort the air that almost becomes words. Swatting away the web as he stares at her, he creaks up the stairs while mumbling regrets that stumble over each other. She steps back, pulls out her pink bunny-themed coin purse, and looks between Sojiro and a vending machine outside. Sojiro’s clearing of his throat makes her put her purse back and smile. She skips upstairs behind him.
The room looks like an abandoned bomb shelter made by someone who didn’t know what apocalypse they were preparing for. A corpse of junk with a jerrycan head, a stepladder arm, and bag feet rots to the right. Sitting between two desks cluttered with books old enough to be made from papyrus is a red leather chair with more stitches than buttons.
Walking over to the large box sitting on the unmade bed, Sojiro places a boxcutter. The box is covered in various stickers with messages from Kasumi’s grandparents. Through smudged sharpie, they remind her that they love her and they hope she finds what she needs in Tokyo.
Indoor snow falls from the ceiling, but she stares at her grandparents' signatures and where they’ve ended up. Her face would make one think she was getting Sojiro’s entire two-story home for free.
“Everything they sent you should be in here. I’ll give you some sheets for your bed, but you’re on your own with toiletries once the ones from your grandparents run out." He crosses arms. “Understood?”
“Perfectly clear, Sakura-san!” The far-too-thin floorboards groan from her hop. “Thank you for everything. Obaachan was right when she called you an angel.”
“Is that really how she sees me?” He pinches his nose. “Well, at least she taught you some manners.”
“I have only lived with her and Ojiichan for a year, though.”
“You’re only, what, sixteen? Kids your age always underestimate how quickly you start to copy whoever’s around you.”
He gestures Kasumi over to his side before pulling a rose drape out from under the bed.
“A girl your age needs her privacy.” He tosses it onto the bed. “But don’t get any funny ideas! It’s just so you can change and do whatever else you need to do in peace. Feel free to use the bathroom downstairs, if you need to.”
“That is so considerate of you!” She claps. “Is there anything that I can do to thank you for everything you have already done for me, Sakura-san?”
“Didn’t I tell you not to call me that?” The two step away from the bed. “Just stay out of trouble and don’t give me a worse headache than you already have. I can’t handle the stress of dealing with a delinquent at my age.”
From his back pocket, Sojiro hands Kasumi a pink leather notebook. Its cover feels like trapped cement bubbles when she rubs it.
“In case you’ve just been blindly thanking me this whole time, remember this if nothing else: you’re on probation. You’re not a free woman. As your guardian, it’s my job to report to your probation office twice a month, so make both our lives easier and track what you do. If you get out of line, then I won’t hesitate to kick you out.”
Opening the book, she sees all its blue cell bars stretched across each sheet. There isn’t any room to squirm or grow; even the large subject box at the top would crack her neck if she tried to climb out through it. All she can do is slip the details of her life out to the guards.
“Stop frowning like that.”
One blink, and then two. Kasumi apologizes while she jams the notebook into her bag. Hearing several sheets at the bottom get crumbled, she shoves harder until the notebook slips into place and tears them.
“So sorry, Sakura-san!”
“I’m already too tired to correct you again.” He points at her bag. “Look, this is what happens when you stick your nose into other people’s business. Playing hero isn’t going to get you anywhere in this world.”
Kasumi drags the nail of her pointer finger through every canyon of her shoulder strap. Here and there, she gets caught on a white stitch that clashes with the black and was clearly done at home.
“Sakura-san,” her finger stops, “that man was trying to force that woman into his car. Do you really think that was right?”
“What?” He steps back, surprised by her rigidity. “No! Of course not! I’m just saying you shouldn’t have gotten involved.”
Kasumi funnels a full-body shake into stomping forward.
“I understand your concern, but that woman needed help.”
“Don’t forget that woman’s testimony is why you’re really here.” His foot movement, a pinkie toe in length, lets the dust remain where it is. “So all you really achieved was becoming a pain in the ass for your grandparents, and now me.”
Looking again at the surrounding junk, Kasumi sees a broom with a long cut of its brown flesh ripped out on one side. Its bristles are fingers with too many misaligned joints. Grabbing it and raising it to her chest, she nods at Sojiro.
“I apologize for all the trouble I have caused you, Sakura-san. Truly, I cannot apologize enough.” The broom impales the dust on long spikes instead of pushing it aside. “I promise to make it up to you and everyone else.”
Getting no response, she gets to work, starting around and under her bed until her dirt pile turns black. The trashcan with the pruned bag also erupts with dust when she shakes the pile into it; she breathes and wipes her eyes between coughs, filling herself with even more dust.
She hears Sojiro back downstairs by the time she can see again. Wet dishes clatter in the sink, the bell above the front door dings, and the TV is mumbling something about the subway that she can’t make out.
Armed with this aloneness, Kasumi spends the next several hours transforming the bomb shelter into an old warehouse. Grabbing a blue feather duster from the junk pile, she dusts the workbench, the couch, and the table beside the couch. She moves most of the loose junk to the shelf near the stairs.
Laying her pink polka-dot sheets on her bed under a departing lightbulb that required several flicks to turn on, she turns when she hears Sojiro coming upstairs. Like a magician with a coin, he twists the top of his beard and admires her work.
“Huh, I didn’t actually think you’d been cleaning this whole time.” The aroma of spices ushers Kasumi toward him. “Come downstairs.”
“Are you sure, Sakura-san?” She eyes the feather duster. “I would hate to get in the way of your customers.”
“You think way too much.” He heads for the stairs. “I already closed up for the day. Come on.”
Kasumi spends another moment looking between the feather duster and all the dust she could still get, before the smell of the spices urges her downstairs.
The smell of cinnamon and cumin overwhelms her so much that the way back stops existing, and all she can do is walk over to and sit at the counter to see the source of this oppression: a plate of curry with minced yellow onions, chopped carrots, and bits of grated apples. The colors of the meal blend so well together that they would make any amateur painter quit. Kasumi’s stomach yells for it.
“Someone’s hungry.” Sojiro smirks as he steps over to the dishes. She sees that there’s an opened pink polka-dot box on the table in the back. Beside it, a handmade glass plate with pink swirls. “I’m gonna have dinner back at my place later. Eat up.”
“Thank you, Sakura-san! You are too kind!” She plucks up her spoon then she chomps, chews, and swallows half her plate in seconds. In her rush, she still tastes the spiciness of the chilli powder mixing with the sweetness of dark chocolate.
“In other news,” a short-haired female host in a blue suit says on the TV, “police are still unsure what led the culprit behind today’s subway accident to drive down an opposing lane with passengers still aboard. According to our sources, not even the culprit can explain what was going through his head at the time.”
Kasumi sets her spoon down when the host starts listing some of the known victims and their conditions.
“Thank you for the meal, Sakura-san.” She slips out of the chair and bows to him.
“You barely even ate half of it.” He lets his current plate go back to drowning. “Don’t tell me you don’t like my curry. You were practically inhaling it just a few minutes ago.”
“Oh, no, the food was incredible. Some of the best curry I have ever had!” She brings her dishes over and sets them beside the sink. “I am just not as hungry as I usually am today. The stress of moving will do that to you. I can eat the leftovers tomorrow! I would hate for all this to go to waste.”
Sighing all the way through drying his hands, Sojiro grabs a plastic container from a nearby cabinet and slides her leftovers into it. They leave a trail of nutritious brown mucus behind, and some droplets splash against the counter and the rim of the container.
“Go on and get to bed. I’ll be taking you to your new school tomorrow so we can get that whole mess sorted.” He swings the fridge open, throws the leftovers inside, and slams it closed. “Don’t get used to free rides, by the way. Wasting one day driving you around is already more than enough.”
“Of course, Sakura-san.” Her smile is as camera-perfect as the host’s. “I will see you in the morning.”
Receiving only a huff, Kasumi heads back upstairs. She puts on her gray sweatpants and pink sweatshirt before turning off the light, hearing the bulb finally kill itself, and slipping into bed.
She returns to her messenger app and opens her chat with her grandparents. The same singular message is still waiting for her, marked as read but still unanswered. Letting her hair down and setting the ribbon of her bow on the windowsill, she breathes dust-free air and eases into her pillow.
[8:15pm] Kasumi: Hi Obaachan! I found my way to Sakura-san's place safe and sound. He is just as wonderful as you and Ojiichan told me he would be! I think I am really going to like it here. Thank you for pushing me to do this. I love you both.”
With that text sent, she returns to her chat log with Sumire. Refreshing the chat several times doesn’t suddenly spawn hundreds of replies and apologies to her messages. Scrolling back through the chat until the front door closes doesn’t offer a hint for where her sister is. After half an hour of laying there, Kasumi delves back to the bottom and leaves a message for someone down there to find.
[8:45pm] Kasumi: I hope I see you again. I love you.
The app with the star-pupiled eye is back on her homescreen when she closes the messenger app. Its pulsing red light follows her heartbeat. Each flash pulls her finger closer to the screen as it illuminates her darkened face.
Her finger is on the app.
She drags it into the recycling bin, her finger itching for answers.
Kasumi plugs her phone in and sets it on top of her ribbon. Staring at both as two men outside exchange crass comments about the hot doctor down the street, she pulls up her covers and lays down. She closes her eyes. She keeps them closed. They stay closed long after the two men have left, and only a little while after that can she sleep.
* * *
A chain holding nothing clinks against the blue upholstered walls and water drips from the blackness above the cell into the overflowing toilet. Shooting up, Kasumi’s leg chain clatters against her stone bed. Standing to break herself free of the black hole holding her down, she forgets all her years of gymnastics when she sees her black-and-white prison uniform.
“What’s going on?” She falls back.
“Quiet down, inmate!” A metal baton hits the cell bars, heightening a young voice.
Yelping, Kasumi turns around and sees two little girls wearing blue prison warden uniforms. They each have hair strung from platinum and eyes of grated amber. The one to her left has her hair in a braid, wears a black eyepatch over her left eye, and holds a clipboard; the other is holding the baton, wears an eyepatch over her right eye, and has two buns.
“Our master would like to speak with you,” the braided twin says, stepping aside in sync with the other.
Protecting her eyes from the godly glow descending from the ceiling, Kasumi sees a large blue circular prison room with cells everywhere. A red carpet with an ornate golden “V” and trim emphasizes a desk, its blue chair, and the strange man who sits there.
He’s dressed like a Victorian butler, but the veins in his eyes are trying to tear his face apart from his black pinprick pupils. His elongated nose hides some of his smile that rips at the edges of his flesh.
“Trickster, welcome to my Velvet Room.” He only turns his gloved hand after extending his arm. “I am Igor. I am delighted to make your acquaintance.”
“What is going on?” Kasumi cuts skin when she shakes the bars and slides her palms across rust.
“Watch yourself, Inmate!” The baton-wielding twin strikes at her and leaves a red mark on her hands.
“Our master has more he wishes to say to you,” the other twin finishes.
Kasumi blinks whenever she hears another drop fill the toilet. She coughs like she’s trying to vomit up chains in her lungs that are stopping her from breathing. The man chuckles.
“You are in danger, Trickster.” His fingers tap the desk without order or rhythm. “This place exists between dream and reality, mind and matter. Only those bound by a contract can reach this reflection of the heart.”
Gripping the stone slab and pulling herself up, Kasumi keeps slipping like she’s climbing the crackless surface of a skyscraper. Blood from the cut in the center of her right palm is getting on her fingers, but she only looks at the man and his unmoving servants.
“I have brought you here to speak of important matters.” His teeth never move when he speaks. “Ruin is approaching, and you are destined to be at its epicenter. To avoid your sentence as a prisoner of fate and prevent the end to everything, you must be rehabilitated toward freedom.”
Kasumi can only speak the first letter of her words, creating a cipher that not even she can understand. Turning to rob her of these sounds, the twins block the light and overshadow her.
“To your left is Justine. To your right, Caroline.” The twins don’t blink. “They will be assisting me in your rehabilitation. I will explain their exact role another time.”
“Hah, struggle as hard as you like!” Caroline slaps her baton against her palm.
“Our duty as wardens is to protect inmates. As long as you remain obedient, we can also be your collaborators.”
Her knees are now bundles of thin chains that scrape against each other as Kasumi stumbles to grip the cell bars. Scraping away the rust that once cut her, she stares at Igor.
“What’s going on?” Kasumi asks again.
“I assure you, all will make sense in time.” He looks toward the ring of an unseen bell. “But for now, the night is waning. Until next time, Trickster.”
“Wait!” The light dims and takes the bringers of the blue terror with it; the bell grows quiet; the water stops. “I still have… questions…”
She keeps trying to grip the bars and push herself up, but there are no longer any sensations to keep her awake. An unimaginably bizarre world sits in front of her, and she can’t feel anything from it anymore. Still struggling in this nothingness, she realizes that her palm is no longer bleeding. The next time she blinks she’s back in Leblanc.