#61 unfinished fics! conservatory AU, random spy AU, transformers+steampunk, Jin+Code Blue
Because I am currently going through a bit of a rough spot in terms of fic-finishing (and fic-starting, for that matter), I'm taking a leaf from laiqualaurelote's book and posting a bunch of unfinished fics. A couple of these have been more than a year in the making, but most of them are recent developments. Which possibly says something about how much more perseverant my past self must have been. :x
Aizawa, rather than Jin, becomes the protagonist of Jin. I found this idea extremely compelling while watching Jin, because Aizawa would be all D< D< D< and HotaruAyase HarukaSaki would be all o____o and it would be adorable. Contains spoilers for the end of season two of Code Blue, as well as Jin season one.
in a time of cholera
Fujikawa bursts into the Neurosurgery ward just when Aizawa is about to call it a day.
“The nameless head injury patient!” Fujikawa gasps. “The patient’s missing from his bed.”
That patient had come in around midnight the night before with acute hematoma, but when Hiyama examined the scans she had noticed another, original tumour running between the ventricle and the pinal gland.
“We’ll do an emergency craniotomy to remove the hematoma,” Aizawa had said, “and if possible we’ll remove the tumour as well.”
Hiyama had glanced up sharply at this but said nothing. If Shiraishi had been the one on call she would probably have something about waiting to let Saijo-sensei do the more complicated surgery the next morning.
But Aizawa is Aizawa, and Hiyama knows that all too well.
They search the hospital; a patient with injuries that severe cannot have gone very far.
The tumour had turned out to be in the shape of a foetus.
“You should write a thesis about it,” Saijo-sensei had told him the following day.
Aizawa had said nothing; had gone on his ward round and tried not to remember the lancing pain he felt in his head when he first caught sight of that tumour.
He finds the patient crouched on the fire escape, clutching onto a bag of medical supplies.
“You need bed rest,” Aizawa tells him. “You’ve just had surgery. Let’s go back.”
“I need to go back to that time,” says the man. His eyes are wild as he casts around frantically. It is only when he turns around that Aizawa notices the jar containing the foetus tumour.
“Why do you have that?” he asks, but before he can question the man any further he is once again gripped by a terrible pain in his head.
“I need to go back!” the man repeats, full of desperation. He turns to run up the stairs.
Aizawa manages to grab hold of the bag of supplies, but in the ensuing struggle the jar slips out of the man’s grasp. It goes flying in a beautiful arc down the stairs, with Aizawa tumbling after it.
The world turns.
The first surgery Aizawa does back in the Edo period is on the man who saved his life.
He makes three incisions in the man’s skull using the crudest of carpentry tools, while at the far end of the room the young samurai’s mother threatens to kill him and herself if the surgery does not work.
It is the most fear he has ever felt over a surgery in a very long time.
With only the flickering candlelight for illumination, Aizawa removes the build-up of blood from the man’s head. He ignores the apprehensive stares of the two women and focuses instead on the task of suturing.
This is what he knows - the way needle pushes through skin, the exact tautness required for a firm stitch.
“Will he really be cured like this?” asks the daughter, fixing him with wide eyes.
“In three days, if he rests completely,” Aizawa replies.
They prepare a room for him. He sleeps to wake up from this dream.
“You fell,” says Saejima. “Don’t you remember?”
Aizawa’s in a hospital bed. Someone’s changed him out of his scrubs and into pyjamas. There’s a bandage around his head.
“I time-slipped to the Edo period,” says Aizawa. “There was a samurai. I had to perform surgery on him.”
Saejima looks confused for a moment. Then she begins to laugh.
“It’s true,” says Aizawa.
“I performed surgery on you,” someone else says.
It is Kuroda-sensei. He picks up Aizawa’s chart with his right hand.
Aizawa wakes up.
The daughter - Saki - reminds Aizawa of Shiraishi. She’s got that same wide-eyed gaze, the same thirst to know, the same unexpected resolve.
She arrives with the medical equipment, rain-drenched and tracking mud, and doesn’t flinch when Aizawa asks her to hold Kiichi’s mother down.
He has taken many things for granted, it seems. Without anaesthesia the pain is excruciating; each incision and stitch he makes pure torture. This is something Aizawa has never properly registered before. All he has are his hands, here, and the realisation that they might not quite be enough.
Aizawa presses on, regardless. He will do everything in his power not to let this boy lose his mother.
Nino, Toma and Yamapi are spies-for-hire. Dodgy quality of writing, but Yamapi devouring everything in sight still amuses me rather a lot.
SPIES!
Yamapi’s into his third bowl of instant ramen by the time Nino notices it.
“Hey,” he says, tapping his index finger against the spot on the screen where their mark is standing. “Do you see that?
“For the last time,” says Yamapi, pausing mid-slurp. “Could you not touch the screen like that? You leave smudges.”
“Not like it’s yours anyway,” Nino retorts. “Leave it to Toma to throw the fit. Look.”
Yamapi puts his ramen aside and shuffles over to Nino’s corner of the van. “Something strange?”
“Look at the say he’s putting the book back into the shelf,” says Nino, pausing the video and hitting the rewind button. “And compare it with the title before.”
“A Comprehensive History of Japanese Law,” Yamapi reads. “But when you fast forward it’s become… Japanese Property Law in the 20th Century.”
“Think we got it?” asks Nino, grinning.
Yamapi beams, showing teeth. “Twenty million yen, here we come.”
It’s not always been like this. Nino’s not always been an expert-for-hire in radio, wiretapping and general espionage.
“You’ve always been a devious bastard, though,” Toma points out, while Yamapi consumes his seventeenth gyoza of the evening.
“Someone needs to Have Words with him about our food expenditure,” Nino grumbles, stuffing a gyoza into his mouth before Yamapi can devour it too.
“I think spying is something you just fell into naturally,” says Toma. “You did hate the outdoors, and you’re sneaker than anyone else I know.”
“You’re pretty sneaky,” Nino points out. “And so is Pi. Pi can be very sneaky.”
Toma sighs. “Everything Pi knows he learnt from you.”
“Very true,” Nino agrees. “And I’m happy to take the credit.”
“Someone has to,” says Toma.
Someone also has to take the credit for the Nino and Toma having to leave Police Intelligence more than two years ago. Nino is less happy about doing that, but he doesn’t quite have a choice in the matter, as Toma is wont to point out.
Not everything they were trained to do had been legal, back in the force. Things had come to a head when Nino had managed to help out some of the detectives with some tricky and not-so-orthodox surveillance. Sometimes things had to turn out like that, though. Solve the case, find some scapegoats.
Now they work freelance. They also earn a lot more.
“A lot,” Yamapi adds, beaming heartily over his yakisoba.
“Stop interjecting,” Nino snaps. “And we’re not making that much, after you deduct equipment maintenance fees and the amount of food you’re consuming.”
“And all those new game purchases that we’re choosing to ignore,” Toma adds slyly.
Nino likes his life right now. It’s not half as glamorous as James Bond movies make it out to be, but that’s how it is. Most of the best spies were the most normal-looking of people.
“Which is why you always send Toma out on the field instead of me,” says Yamapi. “Because I’m too good-looking.
“It’s because you only have two expressions,” Nino tells him curtly. “Toma will back me up on this.”
Toma nods. “Sad, but true.”
Matsumoto
The first thing Nino says when Jun appears at the park is, “Nice hair.”
Jun gives Nino a critical once over before shrugging. “Can’t say the same for you.”
“Oh, do shut up,” says Nino.
It appears that Matsumoto Jun can only get sharper over the years. He’s wearing a suit today. He looks very much like a gun-toting, license-to-kill sort of spy, far cry from his days as a slightly gawky analyst.
“I’ve got a big job for you,” says Jun.
“Oh please,” Nino replies, “put your own men on it.”
“The situation is rather too… complicated for that, I’m afraid,” says Jun, frowning.
“Is that so?” asks Nino.
“As much as I hate to admit this,” says Jun, “I suspect my department isn’t entirely clean.”
Nino scoffs. “Was it ever?”
“If this is going to be a problem-” Jun begins.
“Oh, no, no,” says Nino. “I’d be happy to help hunt down some moles.”
Jun nods. “You will be duly compensated, of course.”
“I’m charging double for this,” says Nino, “just so you know.”
“That’s not a problem,” Jun replies, smiling thinly, “because I’m paying triple.”
The entire van reeks of curry when Nino returns.
“Don’t worry,” says Yamapi, as Nino wrinkles his nose, “I saved some for you.”
“You can have it,” Nino tells him, “I’m not hungry.”
“Oh,” says Yamapi. “Should I text Toma, then?”
“Whatever for?” asks Nino.
“Because we have a job,” says Yamapi. “You lose your appetite whenever someone mentions large sums of money.”
“Text him,” says Nino. “And tell him we’re going to need backup.”
Backup comes in the form of Oguri Shun and Horikita Maki, who appear to have no qualms whatsoever about installing bugs and surveillance equipment in the homes of their former colleagues.
“I don’t understand why Toma’s the one heading in with them when I am clearly the expert in wiretapping,” says Yamapi.
“That’s because you’ll be keeping a lookout on the bicycle,” Nino tells him.
“I’m always keeping a lookout on the bicycle,” says Yamapi, looking dissatisfied.
“You are a very good cyclist, if that helps,” Maki tells him, in an attempt to be comforting.
“Thank you,” says Yamapi.
At the makeshift desk on the other side of the van, Nino is running through Jun’s list with Toma and Shun.
“I’d go with plumbers,” says Shun. “Everyone likes plumbers.”
“Not if nothing’s stuck,” Toma interjects.
“Oh, trust me,” says Shun, “there’s always something to plumb.”
“Fine,” said Nino. “Whatever works.”
Toma had been the one to procure their walkie-talkies. They had been on discount in a student garage sale outside Meiji University one afternoon and Toma had purchased them after some vigorous haggling.
The walkie-talkies were complete rubbish. They spat and crackled at inopportune moments. Once, rather memorably, they erupted into a chorus of terrifying blaring noises in the middle of the night, even though Nino insisted he had switched all of them off.
These days the walkie-talkies functioned as paperweights and doorjambs.
Nishikido
“I’ll pay you a five hundred thousand yen advance if you get Ninomiya to stop kissing me on the shoulder.”
Continuation to the Conservatory!AU. Directly after, I mean. This was originally supposed to be part two to Music is Communism, but you're playing Democracy, but it kind of stagnated. Parts of it read like the programme notes to a concert, and the second half is kind of fragmented. I may also have stolen some details and re-used them in other fics...
The start of April coincided with the beginning of Sho's hermitage.
With tests on the horizon, he found himself spending most of his time in a cramped booth at family restaurant he and his friends were camped out in, engaged in frantic but methodical revision. There was too much to study in too little time, and Sho was almost three weeks behind schedule because of all the hours he had spent working on Aiba's examination.
In Sho's cellphone, the messages were piling up. There were at least three from Jun reminding Sho that he did indeed require food and water to live, as well as a mail from Nino that contained a grainy photograph of him and Ohno brandishing two baguettes behind a sign that said STUDY HARD. Aiba, on the other hand, had sent Sho a total of twelve messages, the first being I PASSED - THANK YOU SHO-KUN and the subsequent eleven containing various emojis of elation.
He replied to none of them. There was no time to think about the others during this time; no time to think about that disconcerting itch to play music. And there was definitely no time to think about Aiba in that recital studio, about the way every note of his had soared on like a dream that emerged and unfolded into another. Instead, Sho immersed himself in fact after fact, poring over diagrams and formulas and struggling to read the illegible scrawl on photocopies of old A-grade essays a senior had written. It was a punishing routine that had been perfected over the years, and it left Sho exhausted but grimly satisfied.
His last paper (Econometrics II) ended on a moderately sunny Thursday afternoon. Sleep was the only thing on Sho's mind when he emerged from the examination hall - sleep, and perhaps some instant ramen. He was so intent on deciding which flavour he would make that he completely missed the familiar figure waiting just outside the entrance, waving energetically.
"SHO-KUN!" called Aiba, bounding over immediately. "It's you! I was looking everywhere for you this morning until someone told me that I was in the wrong campus."
"What are you doing here?" asked Sho, not meaning to sound as grumpy as he did.
Aiba seemed unfazed by this, however. "Ticket delivery," he chirped, pushing an envelope into Sho's hands.
Sho glanced down at it. On the front of the envelope, written in Jun's careful hand, were the words: YOU'RE COMING FOR THIS. Inside was a ticket to An Evening of Copland.
"It's next week," Aiba supplied.
"I can see that," said Sho. When he looked up again he realised that Aiba was taking a photograph of him with a cellphone camera.
"Jun demanded evidence that you received it," he told Sho by way of explanation, before snapping another one.
"Let me," said Sho, holding out his hand for Aiba's cellphone.
To: MATSUJUN
Yes, I missed you too,
you loser. - Sho
"Things have been going pretty well, all things considered," Jun told Sho over the phone. "It's the usual, you know - finding time for rehearsals in between orchestra sectionals and everyone’s numerous auditions; convincing Kamenashi's quartet that 'G Strings and F Holes' is a terrible name..."
"It is," Sho murmured in agreement.
"At least they managed to find themselves another cellist after Nino declared he was finished with them," Jun continued. "Taguchi’s good, but he’s also got that problem with nerves."
"You're always so exacting," said Sho. "I don't suppose Aiba's pass was good enough for you?"
"No," said Jun bluntly. "What Aiba did was merely to play his pieces well enough to mitigate the collective disaster that was everything else in his examination."
"And this is what you told Aiba after he got his results back?" asked Sho incredulously.
"Yes," said Jun. "He nodded and cheerfully offered to buy me a thank-you drink."
"Aiba," said Sho.
"Aiba," agreed Jun.
The Copland recital featured a sampling of his work over a span of more than thirty years.
“We’re playing some of his lesser known pieces,” Jun had told them, “so if you’re expecting to hear Appalachian Spring you’ll be sorely disappointed.”
“What he means,” Nino had added dryly, “is that everyone was too busy rehearsing for next month’s concert for them to rally the troops.”
Kamenashi’s quartet started the evening, with Copland’s Quartet for piano and strings. The perfect pitch incident had been the last straw for Nino. His replacement was a nervous-looking first year student named Taguchi, who did a fair enough job complimenting the rest of the group despite his obvious uncertainty. Akanishi, too, had departed for an extended trip to America, which probably explained why they had selected a piece that did not require a second violinist.
It was evident that the trio and their pianist Ueda were more than able to handle the pieces' bold flourishes and pensive meanderings, but their unusual choice of tempo (rather too fast, Sho thought) and Kamenashi's penchant for inhaling loudly and dramatically between phrases detracted somewhat from an otherwise competent performance.
The Duo for flute and piano was executed with equal ease, with the previously-absent Mao-chan accompanying a second-year flautist named Narimiya through Copland’s lush but lonely landscape. Sho could see immediately why Mao had been a logical choice for Aiba’s accompanist - there was a very grounding quality to her notes, and she followed Narimiya’s slightly quirky phrasing with admirable ease.
These weren't the players most of the audience had come for, however, as evidenced by the entirely more enthusiastic applause before the second half began.
The piano had been moved further upstage to make space for the members of the string ensemble, who were now busy tuning their instruments in a rapid swell of harmony. In the principle cellist’s seat was Nino, still fiddling with his fine tuners with a slight frown on his face. He looked rather more respectable than usual in his suit and bow tie, and when he first appeared onstage it took some very embarrassing pointing and exclaiming on Aiba’s part for Ohno to pick him out.
Sho’s efforts at pretending he didn’t know Ohno and Aiba were very much wasted, however, because it was impossible to ignore Aiba when he was like this. Aiba loved this; it was evident from the way he pointed and whispered and kept grabbing Sho’s arm to direct his attention to something or other during the interval. All Sho could do was nod in agreement and reply to Aiba very softly and calmly in the faint hope that Aiba would keep from exploding from excitement.
It seemed that Aiba wasn’t the only one who was excited about this next piece; the conductor and Jun made their entrance to the sound of enthusiastic applause, which settled into an expectant silence when they had taken their respective places.
Copland’s Clarinet Concerto had been written as a commissioned piece for Benny Goodman, and bore all the influences of the swing and jazz music so popular at that time. It was a piece characterised by caprice - slow and heartfelt in moments; a frenetic chase in the next. It wasn’t a piece Jun would have chosen three years ago. Jun didn’t do modern and frenetic. He liked the pieces with mathematical intricacy, or the lush and ornate sweep of the Romantic period. He liked technical challenges, tricky phrasing, and only once in a while made allowances for prudent applications of rubato.
This was Jun stretching himself, Sho knew; this was Jun demonstrating the range and verve of a soon-to-be world-standard musician. Jun had mentioned this only briefly during their phone conversation earlier that week.
“Any particular way you’re approaching the piece?” Sho had asked, and Jun had chuckled a little bit.
“You’re the only one I’m saying this to,” he told Sho, “but I’m going to play it in the style of Aiba.”
It was unexpected, but Sho found that he knew exactly what Jun meant. It was the departure from notes on a sheet; the wholehearted embracing of the music - reckless celebration. For someone like Jun, who grasped his pieces with masterful precision, it was, perhaps, the final ingredient to actual performance.
[Everything that follows is kind of snippety]
“Well, Aiba landed the solo part in the orchestra’s performance of Ravel’s Pictures at an Exhibition,” said Jun. “He’s been trying to tell you for a week now.”
"That's good, isn't it?" said Sho.
“Not if he can’t sit still for the whole three-quarters of the piece in which he has absolutely nothing to do,” said Jun. “It’s always challenging coming in cold halfway through the piece. Though the saxophone is so rare in the orchestral pieces we’ve been doing. It’s a good thing, really.”
“They lifted that orchestra ban on him, then?”
“What I mean, is, send him a mail at least,” said Jun. “And try to eat something other than muesli or instant ramen.”
“Some days I have instant soba, though.”
Jun rolls his eyes. “You know what I mean.”
He calls Aiba, instead. He tells himself it’s because he cannot bother himself to type out the mail and add the appropriate emojis, but there’s no denying the surge of ___ when Aiba answers.
“Hello? Sho-kun?” says Aiba, his voice sounding strangely muffled.
“Tell him we’re practising,” snaps Nino, somewhere in the background.
“Sorry, Nino says we’re practising,” says Aiba. “Wait, hang on -”
There’s a bit of a clatter that sounds like Nino putting his cello down and shuffling off.
“Nino-kun’s gone to get himself a drink,” says Aiba.
“Many drinks,” says Nino. “And then I’m going to play Super Mario.” (edit)
“Congratulations,” says Sho, “on the solo.”
“Oh,” says Aiba. “You heard about that?”
“I’ll show you what I’ve been playing so far. Don’t hang up!” More clattering as Aiba attempts to position the phone in a strategic location.
And this is how Sho finds himself lying on his bed with his phone pressed to his ear, listening to the smooth tumble of notes from Aiba’s saxophone, a magnetic sort of magic only slightly marred by the tinny sound quality.
Aiba plays as if he has the entire orchestra inside of his head, accompanying him on his playful amble through his section of the piece. Sho listens to the saxophone …….
“I’ve missed that,” says Sho.
He’s not sure if Aiba hears that, but before he can start to worry about it Nino has snatched up the phone and is saying, “You’ve created a monster, Sakurai. He actually wants to be good.”
Nino was going for as many auditions as he could cram into his schedule now; on the rare occasion in which anyone ran into him he always appeared to be rushing off somewhere.
“You’re going to have trouble when everyone agrees to take you in,” joked Ohno, but he was abruptly silenced by the force of Nino’s glare.
“It’s definitely good to cover all your bases,” said Jun, “but don’t you think Sendai Philharmonic is rather far away?”
“Well, he did also apply to the Sapporo Symphony Orchestra,” said Aiba.
“You hate the cold,” Jun pointed out as he turned to Nino.
“So how did those applications go?” asked Jun.
“All right,” said Nino, sounding rather smug.
“All right?” Jun repeated. “What does that even mean?”
“It means that he got offers from both the NHK Symphony Orchestra and Japan Philharmonic,” said Aiba, oblivious of Nino’s attempt at being mysterious.
“That’s brilliant, isn’t it?” asked Sho. “Which one are you choosing, then?”
Nino grinned. “Neither.”
“What?” snapped Jun. “You’re turning down both?”
“I’m joining the Tokyo Metropolitan, actually,” said Nino.
“The Tokyo Metropolitan?” Aiba repeated.
Jun, in the meantime, was nodding slowly, eyes narrowed. “I know exactly why you’re doing this and I disapprove, just so you know,” he told Nino.
“Wait,” said Aiba, “I don’t understand.”
“Yes,” said Sho, “neither do I.”
“It was a clear choice for me, in the end,” said Nino cheerfully.
Jun sighed. “He’s joining the Tokyo Metropolitan Symphony Orchestra just so he can play the theme music for Dragon Quest.”
This is like if Transformers met Steampunk and dragons were thrown into the edge. That is all I can say about it. Also Nino is a badass, but when is he not?
Luddites
It was a washing machine, this time. Or rather, it had been a washing machine. By the time Nino arrived it was a writhing mass of wire and metal, shedding its casing and spewing dark, oily water all over the floor of the otherwise tidy shop.
“I thought it would be safe, this looked like an older model-” Yamada Ryosuke began, as Nino inspected the thing behind the shop window. Yamada was still clutching at a bundle of soggy bedsheets; it dripped wetly as he spoke and bunched in his arms like despair.
“Know what’s even safer?” Nino asked, approaching the entrance of the shop, baseball bat at the ready. “Hand washing.” He winked at Yamada before pulling open the door and stepping inside.
It was like watching a silent movie, from the other side of the window. Nino strode up to the washing machine that was already showing signs of Sprouting. He raised the baseball bat high above his head and brought it smashing down onto the machine. Then he did it again. And again. And once more. It was methodical and brutal and exactly the reason why Nino was the best at what he did.
“It’s good that you called for help when you did,” Nino told Yamada, when he was done, dropping his dented baseball bat at the side of the pavement. “But you could have done just as well contacting Yamashita.”
“Well-” Yamada began, looking consternated.
“Look at this,” said Nino, turning slightly to display the band of cloth fixed around his upper right arm. “You know what this means?”
“It-”
“This is the kanji for ‘dragon’,” Nino told him. “It means you only call us. When. You. Need. One.”
“I’mverysorry!” said Yamada, looking near tears.
“No problem,” said Nino, giving Yamada a grin he clearly thought was benevolent. It came off more devious than anything else.
He glanced off into the distance. “Ride’s here.”
Yamada looked up.
It came out of the sky, coiling swiftly from behind the remains of a gutted building. A clawed serpent, steaming and belching as it moved powerfully towards the pair on the ground.
As it grew closer Yamada could see the way its metal teeth gleamed dully, the way it cocked its head towards them with something like awareness as it paused to hover by them.
“You’re slow today,” said Nino, hooking a foot in one of the harness straps falling from the dragon’s jaw. With practiced ease he hoisted himself up and clambered into its mouth.
“Stay out of trouble,” Nino told Yamada, before seating himself in the head of the dragon, his face visible from the dragon’s eyes that functioned as a cockpit window.
There was a huff of steam and a great clanking groan. Then the dragon was snaking its way back into the sky.
-
Something had happened to the machines. Computers, cars, calculators; anything metal that ran on electricity. They malfunctioned messily; shed their parts and became feral. Machines left for too long in that state Sprouted limbs and claws and fangs.
A Nintendo DS turned on its owner.
They were in the Dark Ages again; the great cities ravaged by Sprouted machines that burst into flames after they had spent themselves.
The first time Sho and Nino met, Nino was bludgeoning a Sprouted cellphone with a child’s water bottle.
“You’re vicious, for a small guy,” Sho told him, his expression a mixture of awe and distaste.
The distaste was uncalled for, really, given that Nino had just rescued Sho from said Sprouted cellphone.
“It’s why I’m still alive,” said Nino, grinding the last of the cellphone under his boot with an air of grim satisfaction. “What’s your reason?”
“Well,” said Sho.
Sho had missed the first onslaught entirely, on account of him having locked himself up in one of the reading rooms at the Keio library to finish a paper.
He had become aware of the problem only after the computer technician was a week late in delivering his corrupted laptop.
“The library was really old,” said Sho, “how was I to know that the photocopying machines outside my door weren’t normally supposed to make ominous crunching noises?”
Sho had nowhere to go, and Nino appeared to take especial delight in beating the living daylights out of any threats, so it was only natural that they stuck together.
“Well if you’re going to hang around you’ll need to start pulling your own weight,” Nino told him.
“I don’t think…” Sho began, staring down at the writhing thing that had once been a vacuum cleaner.
“Be thankful I’m letting you start with the easy stuff,” said Nino calmly, poking the vacuum cleaner idly with his stick. It reared up on - were those legs? Sho thought - with a clanking roar before Nino whacked it back into place. “Go on,” he said.
Sho took a deep breath, tightened his grip around the baseball bat, and hit the vacuum cleaner with a satisfying thunk.
“Watch out for the nozzle,” Nino called, as Sho continued to rain blows onto the machine.
The more a machine Sprouted, the more vicious and agile it became. The upside was that it also became more delicate. It took only five minutes for this one to be completely incapacitated.
Sho let the baseball bat drop to the ground, glancing wordlessly to Nino.
“Wait till you meet a ricecooker,” Nino told him. “Those are surprisingly nimble.”
-
When the dragon completed its winding descent over the landing field east of Steam City and came to a grinding rest, Ohno was already standing in wait.
“A clean job?” asked Ohno, as Nino climbed out of the dragon’s head.
“Baseball bat,” said Nino.
-
They were not prepared for cars.
This one was huge, scuttling and revving as it approached them, movements crablike. It was close enough for them to see the sparks of electricity leaping like lightning from one side to another, sure signs of a further Sprouting.
“My general policy when it comes to cars,” Nino said, “is to run.”
“Okay,” said Sho, seizing Nino’s arm in preparation for a mad, hopeless dash across the ravaged car park.
“But I think we can take this one,” said Nino.
“Are you insane?” asked Sho. “Let’s go while we still can.”
“It’ll catch up,” said Nino. He seemed transfixed, almost paralysed on that spot, still clutching his baseball bat. “If we can short circuit it, though-”
“No,” said Sho. “We can’t. I don’t have enough wires and tubing for that.”
“We just have to be quick,” Nino murmured, which was all right for Nino to say, because he was quick. Sho, on the other hand, was rather prone to panicking and choking at the most crucial moments. “Give me the wires.”
The wires were tipped with rubber for gripping, and functioned like a lasso. They normally threw it around the larger Sprouted with exposed circuitry to confuse and hopefully short circuit the creatures. Then they went in for the kill.
This car was too huge, though. It was standing on legs that had grown out from where its wheels once were, the roof collapsed upon itself and fused back in such a way that it looked somehow far more menacing than Sho would ever have expected. And it was coming closer, rearing a little on its hind legs-
“Give me the wires, Sho!” Nino shouted. “We don’t have time!”
“Fuck it,” Sho muttered, pulling the long wires from his backpack and feverishly handing them to Nino, who handed back one end of the grip.
“We’re both running round,” said Nino. “It’s the only way.”
“Okay,” said Sho, steeling himself for the worst.
Aizawa, rather than Jin, becomes the protagonist of Jin. I found this idea extremely compelling while watching Jin, because Aizawa would be all D< D< D< and HotaruAyase HarukaSaki would be all o____o and it would be adorable. Contains spoilers for the end of season two of Code Blue, as well as Jin season one.
in a time of cholera
Fujikawa bursts into the Neurosurgery ward just when Aizawa is about to call it a day.
“The nameless head injury patient!” Fujikawa gasps. “The patient’s missing from his bed.”
That patient had come in around midnight the night before with acute hematoma, but when Hiyama examined the scans she had noticed another, original tumour running between the ventricle and the pinal gland.
“We’ll do an emergency craniotomy to remove the hematoma,” Aizawa had said, “and if possible we’ll remove the tumour as well.”
Hiyama had glanced up sharply at this but said nothing. If Shiraishi had been the one on call she would probably have something about waiting to let Saijo-sensei do the more complicated surgery the next morning.
But Aizawa is Aizawa, and Hiyama knows that all too well.
They search the hospital; a patient with injuries that severe cannot have gone very far.
The tumour had turned out to be in the shape of a foetus.
“You should write a thesis about it,” Saijo-sensei had told him the following day.
Aizawa had said nothing; had gone on his ward round and tried not to remember the lancing pain he felt in his head when he first caught sight of that tumour.
He finds the patient crouched on the fire escape, clutching onto a bag of medical supplies.
“You need bed rest,” Aizawa tells him. “You’ve just had surgery. Let’s go back.”
“I need to go back to that time,” says the man. His eyes are wild as he casts around frantically. It is only when he turns around that Aizawa notices the jar containing the foetus tumour.
“Why do you have that?” he asks, but before he can question the man any further he is once again gripped by a terrible pain in his head.
“I need to go back!” the man repeats, full of desperation. He turns to run up the stairs.
Aizawa manages to grab hold of the bag of supplies, but in the ensuing struggle the jar slips out of the man’s grasp. It goes flying in a beautiful arc down the stairs, with Aizawa tumbling after it.
The world turns.
The first surgery Aizawa does back in the Edo period is on the man who saved his life.
He makes three incisions in the man’s skull using the crudest of carpentry tools, while at the far end of the room the young samurai’s mother threatens to kill him and herself if the surgery does not work.
It is the most fear he has ever felt over a surgery in a very long time.
With only the flickering candlelight for illumination, Aizawa removes the build-up of blood from the man’s head. He ignores the apprehensive stares of the two women and focuses instead on the task of suturing.
This is what he knows - the way needle pushes through skin, the exact tautness required for a firm stitch.
“Will he really be cured like this?” asks the daughter, fixing him with wide eyes.
“In three days, if he rests completely,” Aizawa replies.
They prepare a room for him. He sleeps to wake up from this dream.
“You fell,” says Saejima. “Don’t you remember?”
Aizawa’s in a hospital bed. Someone’s changed him out of his scrubs and into pyjamas. There’s a bandage around his head.
“I time-slipped to the Edo period,” says Aizawa. “There was a samurai. I had to perform surgery on him.”
Saejima looks confused for a moment. Then she begins to laugh.
“It’s true,” says Aizawa.
“I performed surgery on you,” someone else says.
It is Kuroda-sensei. He picks up Aizawa’s chart with his right hand.
Aizawa wakes up.
The daughter - Saki - reminds Aizawa of Shiraishi. She’s got that same wide-eyed gaze, the same thirst to know, the same unexpected resolve.
She arrives with the medical equipment, rain-drenched and tracking mud, and doesn’t flinch when Aizawa asks her to hold Kiichi’s mother down.
He has taken many things for granted, it seems. Without anaesthesia the pain is excruciating; each incision and stitch he makes pure torture. This is something Aizawa has never properly registered before. All he has are his hands, here, and the realisation that they might not quite be enough.
Aizawa presses on, regardless. He will do everything in his power not to let this boy lose his mother.
Nino, Toma and Yamapi are spies-for-hire. Dodgy quality of writing, but Yamapi devouring everything in sight still amuses me rather a lot.
SPIES!
Yamapi’s into his third bowl of instant ramen by the time Nino notices it.
“Hey,” he says, tapping his index finger against the spot on the screen where their mark is standing. “Do you see that?
“For the last time,” says Yamapi, pausing mid-slurp. “Could you not touch the screen like that? You leave smudges.”
“Not like it’s yours anyway,” Nino retorts. “Leave it to Toma to throw the fit. Look.”
Yamapi puts his ramen aside and shuffles over to Nino’s corner of the van. “Something strange?”
“Look at the say he’s putting the book back into the shelf,” says Nino, pausing the video and hitting the rewind button. “And compare it with the title before.”
“A Comprehensive History of Japanese Law,” Yamapi reads. “But when you fast forward it’s become… Japanese Property Law in the 20th Century.”
“Think we got it?” asks Nino, grinning.
Yamapi beams, showing teeth. “Twenty million yen, here we come.”
It’s not always been like this. Nino’s not always been an expert-for-hire in radio, wiretapping and general espionage.
“You’ve always been a devious bastard, though,” Toma points out, while Yamapi consumes his seventeenth gyoza of the evening.
“Someone needs to Have Words with him about our food expenditure,” Nino grumbles, stuffing a gyoza into his mouth before Yamapi can devour it too.
“I think spying is something you just fell into naturally,” says Toma. “You did hate the outdoors, and you’re sneaker than anyone else I know.”
“You’re pretty sneaky,” Nino points out. “And so is Pi. Pi can be very sneaky.”
Toma sighs. “Everything Pi knows he learnt from you.”
“Very true,” Nino agrees. “And I’m happy to take the credit.”
“Someone has to,” says Toma.
Someone also has to take the credit for the Nino and Toma having to leave Police Intelligence more than two years ago. Nino is less happy about doing that, but he doesn’t quite have a choice in the matter, as Toma is wont to point out.
Not everything they were trained to do had been legal, back in the force. Things had come to a head when Nino had managed to help out some of the detectives with some tricky and not-so-orthodox surveillance. Sometimes things had to turn out like that, though. Solve the case, find some scapegoats.
Now they work freelance. They also earn a lot more.
“A lot,” Yamapi adds, beaming heartily over his yakisoba.
“Stop interjecting,” Nino snaps. “And we’re not making that much, after you deduct equipment maintenance fees and the amount of food you’re consuming.”
“And all those new game purchases that we’re choosing to ignore,” Toma adds slyly.
Nino likes his life right now. It’s not half as glamorous as James Bond movies make it out to be, but that’s how it is. Most of the best spies were the most normal-looking of people.
“Which is why you always send Toma out on the field instead of me,” says Yamapi. “Because I’m too good-looking.
“It’s because you only have two expressions,” Nino tells him curtly. “Toma will back me up on this.”
Toma nods. “Sad, but true.”
Matsumoto
The first thing Nino says when Jun appears at the park is, “Nice hair.”
Jun gives Nino a critical once over before shrugging. “Can’t say the same for you.”
“Oh, do shut up,” says Nino.
It appears that Matsumoto Jun can only get sharper over the years. He’s wearing a suit today. He looks very much like a gun-toting, license-to-kill sort of spy, far cry from his days as a slightly gawky analyst.
“I’ve got a big job for you,” says Jun.
“Oh please,” Nino replies, “put your own men on it.”
“The situation is rather too… complicated for that, I’m afraid,” says Jun, frowning.
“Is that so?” asks Nino.
“As much as I hate to admit this,” says Jun, “I suspect my department isn’t entirely clean.”
Nino scoffs. “Was it ever?”
“If this is going to be a problem-” Jun begins.
“Oh, no, no,” says Nino. “I’d be happy to help hunt down some moles.”
Jun nods. “You will be duly compensated, of course.”
“I’m charging double for this,” says Nino, “just so you know.”
“That’s not a problem,” Jun replies, smiling thinly, “because I’m paying triple.”
The entire van reeks of curry when Nino returns.
“Don’t worry,” says Yamapi, as Nino wrinkles his nose, “I saved some for you.”
“You can have it,” Nino tells him, “I’m not hungry.”
“Oh,” says Yamapi. “Should I text Toma, then?”
“Whatever for?” asks Nino.
“Because we have a job,” says Yamapi. “You lose your appetite whenever someone mentions large sums of money.”
“Text him,” says Nino. “And tell him we’re going to need backup.”
Backup comes in the form of Oguri Shun and Horikita Maki, who appear to have no qualms whatsoever about installing bugs and surveillance equipment in the homes of their former colleagues.
“I don’t understand why Toma’s the one heading in with them when I am clearly the expert in wiretapping,” says Yamapi.
“That’s because you’ll be keeping a lookout on the bicycle,” Nino tells him.
“I’m always keeping a lookout on the bicycle,” says Yamapi, looking dissatisfied.
“You are a very good cyclist, if that helps,” Maki tells him, in an attempt to be comforting.
“Thank you,” says Yamapi.
At the makeshift desk on the other side of the van, Nino is running through Jun’s list with Toma and Shun.
“I’d go with plumbers,” says Shun. “Everyone likes plumbers.”
“Not if nothing’s stuck,” Toma interjects.
“Oh, trust me,” says Shun, “there’s always something to plumb.”
“Fine,” said Nino. “Whatever works.”
Toma had been the one to procure their walkie-talkies. They had been on discount in a student garage sale outside Meiji University one afternoon and Toma had purchased them after some vigorous haggling.
The walkie-talkies were complete rubbish. They spat and crackled at inopportune moments. Once, rather memorably, they erupted into a chorus of terrifying blaring noises in the middle of the night, even though Nino insisted he had switched all of them off.
These days the walkie-talkies functioned as paperweights and doorjambs.
Nishikido
“I’ll pay you a five hundred thousand yen advance if you get Ninomiya to stop kissing me on the shoulder.”
Continuation to the Conservatory!AU. Directly after, I mean. This was originally supposed to be part two to Music is Communism, but you're playing Democracy, but it kind of stagnated. Parts of it read like the programme notes to a concert, and the second half is kind of fragmented. I may also have stolen some details and re-used them in other fics...
The start of April coincided with the beginning of Sho's hermitage.
With tests on the horizon, he found himself spending most of his time in a cramped booth at family restaurant he and his friends were camped out in, engaged in frantic but methodical revision. There was too much to study in too little time, and Sho was almost three weeks behind schedule because of all the hours he had spent working on Aiba's examination.
In Sho's cellphone, the messages were piling up. There were at least three from Jun reminding Sho that he did indeed require food and water to live, as well as a mail from Nino that contained a grainy photograph of him and Ohno brandishing two baguettes behind a sign that said STUDY HARD. Aiba, on the other hand, had sent Sho a total of twelve messages, the first being I PASSED - THANK YOU SHO-KUN and the subsequent eleven containing various emojis of elation.
He replied to none of them. There was no time to think about the others during this time; no time to think about that disconcerting itch to play music. And there was definitely no time to think about Aiba in that recital studio, about the way every note of his had soared on like a dream that emerged and unfolded into another. Instead, Sho immersed himself in fact after fact, poring over diagrams and formulas and struggling to read the illegible scrawl on photocopies of old A-grade essays a senior had written. It was a punishing routine that had been perfected over the years, and it left Sho exhausted but grimly satisfied.
His last paper (Econometrics II) ended on a moderately sunny Thursday afternoon. Sleep was the only thing on Sho's mind when he emerged from the examination hall - sleep, and perhaps some instant ramen. He was so intent on deciding which flavour he would make that he completely missed the familiar figure waiting just outside the entrance, waving energetically.
"SHO-KUN!" called Aiba, bounding over immediately. "It's you! I was looking everywhere for you this morning until someone told me that I was in the wrong campus."
"What are you doing here?" asked Sho, not meaning to sound as grumpy as he did.
Aiba seemed unfazed by this, however. "Ticket delivery," he chirped, pushing an envelope into Sho's hands.
Sho glanced down at it. On the front of the envelope, written in Jun's careful hand, were the words: YOU'RE COMING FOR THIS. Inside was a ticket to An Evening of Copland.
"It's next week," Aiba supplied.
"I can see that," said Sho. When he looked up again he realised that Aiba was taking a photograph of him with a cellphone camera.
"Jun demanded evidence that you received it," he told Sho by way of explanation, before snapping another one.
"Let me," said Sho, holding out his hand for Aiba's cellphone.
To: MATSUJUN
Yes, I missed you too,
you loser. - Sho
"Things have been going pretty well, all things considered," Jun told Sho over the phone. "It's the usual, you know - finding time for rehearsals in between orchestra sectionals and everyone’s numerous auditions; convincing Kamenashi's quartet that 'G Strings and F Holes' is a terrible name..."
"It is," Sho murmured in agreement.
"At least they managed to find themselves another cellist after Nino declared he was finished with them," Jun continued. "Taguchi’s good, but he’s also got that problem with nerves."
"You're always so exacting," said Sho. "I don't suppose Aiba's pass was good enough for you?"
"No," said Jun bluntly. "What Aiba did was merely to play his pieces well enough to mitigate the collective disaster that was everything else in his examination."
"And this is what you told Aiba after he got his results back?" asked Sho incredulously.
"Yes," said Jun. "He nodded and cheerfully offered to buy me a thank-you drink."
"Aiba," said Sho.
"Aiba," agreed Jun.
The Copland recital featured a sampling of his work over a span of more than thirty years.
“We’re playing some of his lesser known pieces,” Jun had told them, “so if you’re expecting to hear Appalachian Spring you’ll be sorely disappointed.”
“What he means,” Nino had added dryly, “is that everyone was too busy rehearsing for next month’s concert for them to rally the troops.”
Kamenashi’s quartet started the evening, with Copland’s Quartet for piano and strings. The perfect pitch incident had been the last straw for Nino. His replacement was a nervous-looking first year student named Taguchi, who did a fair enough job complimenting the rest of the group despite his obvious uncertainty. Akanishi, too, had departed for an extended trip to America, which probably explained why they had selected a piece that did not require a second violinist.
It was evident that the trio and their pianist Ueda were more than able to handle the pieces' bold flourishes and pensive meanderings, but their unusual choice of tempo (rather too fast, Sho thought) and Kamenashi's penchant for inhaling loudly and dramatically between phrases detracted somewhat from an otherwise competent performance.
The Duo for flute and piano was executed with equal ease, with the previously-absent Mao-chan accompanying a second-year flautist named Narimiya through Copland’s lush but lonely landscape. Sho could see immediately why Mao had been a logical choice for Aiba’s accompanist - there was a very grounding quality to her notes, and she followed Narimiya’s slightly quirky phrasing with admirable ease.
These weren't the players most of the audience had come for, however, as evidenced by the entirely more enthusiastic applause before the second half began.
The piano had been moved further upstage to make space for the members of the string ensemble, who were now busy tuning their instruments in a rapid swell of harmony. In the principle cellist’s seat was Nino, still fiddling with his fine tuners with a slight frown on his face. He looked rather more respectable than usual in his suit and bow tie, and when he first appeared onstage it took some very embarrassing pointing and exclaiming on Aiba’s part for Ohno to pick him out.
Sho’s efforts at pretending he didn’t know Ohno and Aiba were very much wasted, however, because it was impossible to ignore Aiba when he was like this. Aiba loved this; it was evident from the way he pointed and whispered and kept grabbing Sho’s arm to direct his attention to something or other during the interval. All Sho could do was nod in agreement and reply to Aiba very softly and calmly in the faint hope that Aiba would keep from exploding from excitement.
It seemed that Aiba wasn’t the only one who was excited about this next piece; the conductor and Jun made their entrance to the sound of enthusiastic applause, which settled into an expectant silence when they had taken their respective places.
Copland’s Clarinet Concerto had been written as a commissioned piece for Benny Goodman, and bore all the influences of the swing and jazz music so popular at that time. It was a piece characterised by caprice - slow and heartfelt in moments; a frenetic chase in the next. It wasn’t a piece Jun would have chosen three years ago. Jun didn’t do modern and frenetic. He liked the pieces with mathematical intricacy, or the lush and ornate sweep of the Romantic period. He liked technical challenges, tricky phrasing, and only once in a while made allowances for prudent applications of rubato.
This was Jun stretching himself, Sho knew; this was Jun demonstrating the range and verve of a soon-to-be world-standard musician. Jun had mentioned this only briefly during their phone conversation earlier that week.
“Any particular way you’re approaching the piece?” Sho had asked, and Jun had chuckled a little bit.
“You’re the only one I’m saying this to,” he told Sho, “but I’m going to play it in the style of Aiba.”
It was unexpected, but Sho found that he knew exactly what Jun meant. It was the departure from notes on a sheet; the wholehearted embracing of the music - reckless celebration. For someone like Jun, who grasped his pieces with masterful precision, it was, perhaps, the final ingredient to actual performance.
[Everything that follows is kind of snippety]
“Well, Aiba landed the solo part in the orchestra’s performance of Ravel’s Pictures at an Exhibition,” said Jun. “He’s been trying to tell you for a week now.”
"That's good, isn't it?" said Sho.
“Not if he can’t sit still for the whole three-quarters of the piece in which he has absolutely nothing to do,” said Jun. “It’s always challenging coming in cold halfway through the piece. Though the saxophone is so rare in the orchestral pieces we’ve been doing. It’s a good thing, really.”
“They lifted that orchestra ban on him, then?”
“What I mean, is, send him a mail at least,” said Jun. “And try to eat something other than muesli or instant ramen.”
“Some days I have instant soba, though.”
Jun rolls his eyes. “You know what I mean.”
He calls Aiba, instead. He tells himself it’s because he cannot bother himself to type out the mail and add the appropriate emojis, but there’s no denying the surge of ___ when Aiba answers.
“Hello? Sho-kun?” says Aiba, his voice sounding strangely muffled.
“Tell him we’re practising,” snaps Nino, somewhere in the background.
“Sorry, Nino says we’re practising,” says Aiba. “Wait, hang on -”
There’s a bit of a clatter that sounds like Nino putting his cello down and shuffling off.
“Nino-kun’s gone to get himself a drink,” says Aiba.
“Many drinks,” says Nino. “And then I’m going to play Super Mario.” (edit)
“Congratulations,” says Sho, “on the solo.”
“Oh,” says Aiba. “You heard about that?”
“I’ll show you what I’ve been playing so far. Don’t hang up!” More clattering as Aiba attempts to position the phone in a strategic location.
And this is how Sho finds himself lying on his bed with his phone pressed to his ear, listening to the smooth tumble of notes from Aiba’s saxophone, a magnetic sort of magic only slightly marred by the tinny sound quality.
Aiba plays as if he has the entire orchestra inside of his head, accompanying him on his playful amble through his section of the piece. Sho listens to the saxophone …….
“I’ve missed that,” says Sho.
He’s not sure if Aiba hears that, but before he can start to worry about it Nino has snatched up the phone and is saying, “You’ve created a monster, Sakurai. He actually wants to be good.”
Nino was going for as many auditions as he could cram into his schedule now; on the rare occasion in which anyone ran into him he always appeared to be rushing off somewhere.
“You’re going to have trouble when everyone agrees to take you in,” joked Ohno, but he was abruptly silenced by the force of Nino’s glare.
“It’s definitely good to cover all your bases,” said Jun, “but don’t you think Sendai Philharmonic is rather far away?”
“Well, he did also apply to the Sapporo Symphony Orchestra,” said Aiba.
“You hate the cold,” Jun pointed out as he turned to Nino.
“So how did those applications go?” asked Jun.
“All right,” said Nino, sounding rather smug.
“All right?” Jun repeated. “What does that even mean?”
“It means that he got offers from both the NHK Symphony Orchestra and Japan Philharmonic,” said Aiba, oblivious of Nino’s attempt at being mysterious.
“That’s brilliant, isn’t it?” asked Sho. “Which one are you choosing, then?”
Nino grinned. “Neither.”
“What?” snapped Jun. “You’re turning down both?”
“I’m joining the Tokyo Metropolitan, actually,” said Nino.
“The Tokyo Metropolitan?” Aiba repeated.
Jun, in the meantime, was nodding slowly, eyes narrowed. “I know exactly why you’re doing this and I disapprove, just so you know,” he told Nino.
“Wait,” said Aiba, “I don’t understand.”
“Yes,” said Sho, “neither do I.”
“It was a clear choice for me, in the end,” said Nino cheerfully.
Jun sighed. “He’s joining the Tokyo Metropolitan Symphony Orchestra just so he can play the theme music for Dragon Quest.”
This is like if Transformers met Steampunk and dragons were thrown into the edge. That is all I can say about it. Also Nino is a badass, but when is he not?
Luddites
It was a washing machine, this time. Or rather, it had been a washing machine. By the time Nino arrived it was a writhing mass of wire and metal, shedding its casing and spewing dark, oily water all over the floor of the otherwise tidy shop.
“I thought it would be safe, this looked like an older model-” Yamada Ryosuke began, as Nino inspected the thing behind the shop window. Yamada was still clutching at a bundle of soggy bedsheets; it dripped wetly as he spoke and bunched in his arms like despair.
“Know what’s even safer?” Nino asked, approaching the entrance of the shop, baseball bat at the ready. “Hand washing.” He winked at Yamada before pulling open the door and stepping inside.
It was like watching a silent movie, from the other side of the window. Nino strode up to the washing machine that was already showing signs of Sprouting. He raised the baseball bat high above his head and brought it smashing down onto the machine. Then he did it again. And again. And once more. It was methodical and brutal and exactly the reason why Nino was the best at what he did.
“It’s good that you called for help when you did,” Nino told Yamada, when he was done, dropping his dented baseball bat at the side of the pavement. “But you could have done just as well contacting Yamashita.”
“Well-” Yamada began, looking consternated.
“Look at this,” said Nino, turning slightly to display the band of cloth fixed around his upper right arm. “You know what this means?”
“It-”
“This is the kanji for ‘dragon’,” Nino told him. “It means you only call us. When. You. Need. One.”
“I’mverysorry!” said Yamada, looking near tears.
“No problem,” said Nino, giving Yamada a grin he clearly thought was benevolent. It came off more devious than anything else.
He glanced off into the distance. “Ride’s here.”
Yamada looked up.
It came out of the sky, coiling swiftly from behind the remains of a gutted building. A clawed serpent, steaming and belching as it moved powerfully towards the pair on the ground.
As it grew closer Yamada could see the way its metal teeth gleamed dully, the way it cocked its head towards them with something like awareness as it paused to hover by them.
“You’re slow today,” said Nino, hooking a foot in one of the harness straps falling from the dragon’s jaw. With practiced ease he hoisted himself up and clambered into its mouth.
“Stay out of trouble,” Nino told Yamada, before seating himself in the head of the dragon, his face visible from the dragon’s eyes that functioned as a cockpit window.
There was a huff of steam and a great clanking groan. Then the dragon was snaking its way back into the sky.
-
Something had happened to the machines. Computers, cars, calculators; anything metal that ran on electricity. They malfunctioned messily; shed their parts and became feral. Machines left for too long in that state Sprouted limbs and claws and fangs.
A Nintendo DS turned on its owner.
They were in the Dark Ages again; the great cities ravaged by Sprouted machines that burst into flames after they had spent themselves.
The first time Sho and Nino met, Nino was bludgeoning a Sprouted cellphone with a child’s water bottle.
“You’re vicious, for a small guy,” Sho told him, his expression a mixture of awe and distaste.
The distaste was uncalled for, really, given that Nino had just rescued Sho from said Sprouted cellphone.
“It’s why I’m still alive,” said Nino, grinding the last of the cellphone under his boot with an air of grim satisfaction. “What’s your reason?”
“Well,” said Sho.
Sho had missed the first onslaught entirely, on account of him having locked himself up in one of the reading rooms at the Keio library to finish a paper.
He had become aware of the problem only after the computer technician was a week late in delivering his corrupted laptop.
“The library was really old,” said Sho, “how was I to know that the photocopying machines outside my door weren’t normally supposed to make ominous crunching noises?”
Sho had nowhere to go, and Nino appeared to take especial delight in beating the living daylights out of any threats, so it was only natural that they stuck together.
“Well if you’re going to hang around you’ll need to start pulling your own weight,” Nino told him.
“I don’t think…” Sho began, staring down at the writhing thing that had once been a vacuum cleaner.
“Be thankful I’m letting you start with the easy stuff,” said Nino calmly, poking the vacuum cleaner idly with his stick. It reared up on - were those legs? Sho thought - with a clanking roar before Nino whacked it back into place. “Go on,” he said.
Sho took a deep breath, tightened his grip around the baseball bat, and hit the vacuum cleaner with a satisfying thunk.
“Watch out for the nozzle,” Nino called, as Sho continued to rain blows onto the machine.
The more a machine Sprouted, the more vicious and agile it became. The upside was that it also became more delicate. It took only five minutes for this one to be completely incapacitated.
Sho let the baseball bat drop to the ground, glancing wordlessly to Nino.
“Wait till you meet a ricecooker,” Nino told him. “Those are surprisingly nimble.”
-
When the dragon completed its winding descent over the landing field east of Steam City and came to a grinding rest, Ohno was already standing in wait.
“A clean job?” asked Ohno, as Nino climbed out of the dragon’s head.
“Baseball bat,” said Nino.
-
They were not prepared for cars.
This one was huge, scuttling and revving as it approached them, movements crablike. It was close enough for them to see the sparks of electricity leaping like lightning from one side to another, sure signs of a further Sprouting.
“My general policy when it comes to cars,” Nino said, “is to run.”
“Okay,” said Sho, seizing Nino’s arm in preparation for a mad, hopeless dash across the ravaged car park.
“But I think we can take this one,” said Nino.
“Are you insane?” asked Sho. “Let’s go while we still can.”
“It’ll catch up,” said Nino. He seemed transfixed, almost paralysed on that spot, still clutching his baseball bat. “If we can short circuit it, though-”
“No,” said Sho. “We can’t. I don’t have enough wires and tubing for that.”
“We just have to be quick,” Nino murmured, which was all right for Nino to say, because he was quick. Sho, on the other hand, was rather prone to panicking and choking at the most crucial moments. “Give me the wires.”
The wires were tipped with rubber for gripping, and functioned like a lasso. They normally threw it around the larger Sprouted with exposed circuitry to confuse and hopefully short circuit the creatures. Then they went in for the kill.
This car was too huge, though. It was standing on legs that had grown out from where its wheels once were, the roof collapsed upon itself and fused back in such a way that it looked somehow far more menacing than Sho would ever have expected. And it was coming closer, rearing a little on its hind legs-
“Give me the wires, Sho!” Nino shouted. “We don’t have time!”
“Fuck it,” Sho muttered, pulling the long wires from his backpack and feverishly handing them to Nino, who handed back one end of the grip.
“We’re both running round,” said Nino. “It’s the only way.”
“Okay,” said Sho, steeling himself for the worst.