Maybe I'm a Lion (KnK/Prototype Crossover)

[saintsant]

Ahaha, holy shit! Lio accidentally stumbled on a fair approximation of Touko's contingency plan; the Prestige was a great movie. The combined snark, cynicism, and confusion that is his stream of consciousness continues to be a treat, and Blackwatch grows more sympathetic by the chapter. (Blackwatch, sympathetic? Time to check for flying pigs; though, it's not really Blackwatch so much as the CIA, but still...) Kokutou's snippets are the least interesting, though still eminently readable. That's not really your fault, just him being so... normal.

Hmm... trying to recommend this on another forum, and it's proving difficult adequately summarize. What genre would you say the story is? Horror, from Blackwatch's perspective? An adventure or a tragedy from Lio's? Or maybe a comedy, if you're Touko and just sitting back while smoking and poking fun at Kokutou's feline friend...

[Dullahan]

Hmm... trying to recommend this on another forum, and it's proving difficult adequately summarize. What genre would you say the story is? Horror, from Blackwatch's perspective? An adventure or a tragedy from Lio's? Or maybe a comedy, if you're Touko and just sitting back while smoking and poking fun at Kokutou's feline friend...

Honestly, your guess is as good as mine. Though I reckon "Supernatural Spy Thriller" is probably as concise as is achievable.

(Blackwatch, sympathetic? Time to check for flying pigs; though, it's not really Blackwatch so much as the CIA, but still...)

If I didn't feel like it was possible to make truly despicable villains sympathetic, I wouldn't be writing a story with Lio Shirazumi as the main character.

[saintsant]

Fair enough, threw it up on DLP for perusal. It's a travesty that more people don't read this; have you considered FFN?

[Dullahan]

Fair enough, threw it up on DLP for perusal. It's a travesty that more people don't read this; have you considered FFN?

To be honest, a lot of the early chapters - especially everything from the start up to Lio's breakfast at Ahnenerbe - is in significant need of a rewrite IMO, as well as some additional scenes to clarify stuff. Trouble is, there's sort of a dilemma here where I have to decide between going back to polish the early stuff or actually getting the story out, which - considering the horrible pacing you guys have to deal with - is something that I almost always end up favouring the latter option on. I said I'd do the rewrite earlier this year, but that never really materialised. Maybe once we get past a certain milestone in the story - the end of the Araya fight, perhaps - I'll take a hiatus to clean up the intro. As it is now, I wouldn't want to release it on FFN.

[Garlak]

I like how Lio constantly referenced the different ways Touko got stuff out. "That warehouse from the Last Crusade", indeed...

Also, the brief mention of MacPherson again was... touching.

[Dullahan]

Don't update the cannoli!
------------------------------------------------------------
Yokota Air Base

The inside of the van is pretty quiet now. Taizou's probably run out of things he can legally say about his career, and if he hasn't, he's worked out that Takeyama isn't the best person to talk to if he wants to auction off the film rights. The rain persists in beating down on the roof like some hyperactive drummer, and – though it's something he's usually found relaxing, whatever the situation – it puts him a little on edge. The influence of the situation they're in, at a decidedly conservative guess. In the absence of anything to distract him, Takeyama finds himself looking at the unconscious form of Fujino Asagami on the other side of the van's rear compartment. The old man said she was an heiress of some sort, and there's no reason to doubt him – on that, at least. She's certainly quite a beautiful girl, in the classical sense, which fits with the mental image the idea of 'heiress' tends to bring forth. The bags under her eyes and her rather damp and haggard appearance do tend to diminish the effect somewhat, though. She's not dead – despite someone's best efforts – but even so, the habits of a homicide detective are difficult ones to break. Takeyama finds himself idly wondering what she was doing this morning, before any of...this...happened. What kind of person she wa-ah, is. Fairly soon, this train of thought has passed through a number of stations, extending to encompass everyone he saw in the forest at Reien. The soldiers, corpses crushed, twisted and broken almost beyond recognition. The woman missing her head, with nothing but a bloody, bony stump of neck remaining above her shoulders. And the other girl, probably the same age as Asagami, slumped forward onto the table with a gaping wound in the back of her head, torn through to the other side by a rifleman's bullet.

Fucking hell; she was just a kid.

Anger brought to heel by professionalism is a familiar feeling. He imagines it must be the same for anyone in who's had to deal with criminals in a formal capacity. This entire situation has him wanting to punch someone in the face, though he knows that his position denies him that possibility. Taizou can talk about the 'rules of the game' all he likes; the facts are that, fairly soon, they're probably going to be meeting with a man who will take the death of an innocent girl and try to rationalise it to them, and Takeyama is going to want to punch him in the face. He won't, of course, but he'll want to. Chalk it up to a difference in background, but he doesn't think he'll ever be able to replicate the old man's sense of detached – whimsical, even – objectivity about the whole thing.

Not that that's wholly a good thing.

Centrifugal force makes its presence known in the van; once, twice, then three times. Three right-angle turns. Shortly afterward, the sound of the rain on the roof ceases entirely, just like that – indicating that they've driven underneath or inside something – and the van slows. It comes to a halt smoothly, with barely even a jolt before the driver cuts the engine. The Chinese CIA agent is a good driver, he'll give him that. No sooner do they stop than the van's rear doors are pulled open from the outside. Takeyama was only half-expecting a group of heavily-armed black-ops commandos to show up and force them out at gunpoint, but he's pleasantly proven wrong by a white-coated American doctor with a medical crew in tow. He gestures them out of the van, and they comply quickly. The two of them step out onto smooth concrete; a large, almost entirely empty floor space, lit from above by powerful white halogen lamps. They're in an aircraft hangar, no doubt about it. Behind them, the large sliding door has been opened only a fraction of the way, enough to allow an automobile through, but presumably not the now-absent aircraft this building was constructed to hold. In what seems like no time at all – and, indeed, it was only a few seconds – the medical team have carefully relocated the unconscious Asagami onto a surgical trolley. From there, the four-person team begin manoeuvring the trolley away as quickly as is safe to do so. Within another thirty seconds, Fujino Asagami has made it to the edge of the hangar, passed through a set of metal security doors, and vanished out of sight. Having been following the trolley with his eyes from where he stands next to the van, Takeyama now returns his gaze to where Taizou is looking, and discovers that – aside from the medical crew – there was someone else waiting for them.

Winthrop. Or Wai, was it?

The picture he saw must have been a few years old, though it doesn't seem like he's changed that much. A little more salt in the salt-and-pepper hair, perhaps, but no big changes. He stands there, silently, about five metres away on the concrete. He's taller than Takeyama was expecting, and rather lean, with his anonymous black-tie getup and thick-rimmed glasses that make him look more like a corporate lawyer than a CIA officer. The driver of the van – who got out a little while ago – walks up to him, and they exchange a few words in English which aren't quite audible. The Chinese agent nods, and walks out of the hangar, letting another steel security door swing shut behind him. Eventually, it's just the two of them and Winthrop as the sole living things in the empty hangar. The old man walks up to him, Takeyama following, and they shake hands.

“Jack Wai. Been far too long.”

“Has indeed, Mr. Honda.” says the CIA man with a nod. “Or 'Taizou', whichever you prefer.”

“Ask my daughter and she'll tell you the latter, so I suppose it must be true.” Their arms return to their sides. He then announces, with calculatedly hypocritical smirk, “You've aged.”

“So have you.” replies Winthrop, pointedly.

“So they keep telling me. Bit of a rum business, in my opinion; I certainly haven't the patience for it.”

“How's your wife?”

Wait, hold on. I though he said he met his wife in the latter half of the '70s...

Takeyama does some brief mental calculations.

...but if that was true, it wouldn't be possible for him to have a grand-daughter in high school.

He has to suppress a sigh.

So, obviously, he lied. Is it a compulsion with him or something?

“No longer with us, I'm afraid.” says the old man, frowning in a slightly uncharacteristic manner. “Liver trouble. Five years ago.”

“I'm sorry.”

“Oh, not to worry.” He waves his hand dismissively, and perks up again. “Anyway; how are your aunt and mother keeping?”

“Fine. Though I, uh...don't get to see them very often.”

“Hmm.” Taizou nods, and gives a knowing look. “Yes...I see what you've had done with your face.” He taps his index finger on the underside of his jaw, as if to point something out. “Plastic surgery, was it?”

“Among other things.”

“Rather like James Bond, don't you agree? Same character, now played by a different actor.” Taizou scratches the side of his head. “Actually, it's more like the reverse, now that I think about it. Like, ah...”

“You're thinking of the villain from Die Another Day, I believe.”

“Yes,” says Taizou, with a snap of his fingers, “that was it...I take it you don't have a orbital laser, though.”

“If I did, it'd make my job a lot easier.”

“Seems everyone in our line of work has days where they think that. I know I certainly do.” Taizou clears his throat, and glances back at Takeyama. “This here is my associate, Mr. Takeyama. Formerly of Tokyo's finest, so I'd advise you watch what you say around him; he may go Dirty Harry on you at the slightest provocation.” There are about to be words exchanged per this wanton assassination of Takeyama's character, but the old man gives him a look which shuts him down pre-emptively. Besides; this man is in a position of authority. Etiquette demands he shut up and let his superior do the talking.

Then again, there's nothing very polite about having people shot.

“All right.” says Winthrop, with barely the faintest trace of amusement. “Now, I'm certain the two of you have just as much time to waste as I do, so let's get down to brass tacks. Somewhere heated, preferably.”

“No arguments here.” Taizou tugs at the sleeve of his coat, still somewhat damp. “Lead on.”

They follow the CIA man out of the hangar through the same route the medical crew took; security doors leading to a ramp, which connects to an underground corridor. Fifty metres down that, another ramp leading up takes them into a building which – if the signage posted in English and Japanese is to be taken at face value – is a hospital of some description. They take an elevator up three floors, and then proceed down a long hallway with doors leading into various rooms – mostly hospital wards – set along the side. At the end of that, they turn another corner and come to a nondescript beige door, which Winthrop opens.

Just like being back in the office.

The room is lit with fluorescents set into the ceiling behind frosted glass. It's largely empty of decoration, or even furniture for that matter, except for the circular table with six or so chairs around it at regular intervals. Winthrop takes one, and Taizou takes the one opposite, pausing a moment to remove his coat and hang it on the back of the chair. Takeyama takes the seat on Taizou's immediate right.

“Right,” says Taizou, clapping his hands together on the tabletop. “We're here to hear – in strict confidence, of course – whatever it was you didn't feel like explaining in full to the Cabinet earlier this morning. Namely what you and this black-ops team you've brought with you are doing in Japan, since you're clearly not fighting terrorism, biological or otherwise. Unlike the PSIA and associates, we at Naichou are, in fact, able to keep a secret. At least, I am. That said, we will have to report to our superior – the Chief Cabinet Secretary – in due course, but I can tell you right now that, provided it's nothing too objectionable to our national interest, you'll probably be allowed to continue. The US alliance is important to us, after all.”

“To your present administration.” observes Winthrop.

“Bah! Naïve. Even from down south in Hong Kong, I'm sure you know what the score is in Chiyoda. The purpose of the ruling party is to pass legislation and be quietly ignored by the civil service. As long as the bureaucrats find it useful – which they do – American interests will always be welcome here.”

“The wonders of realpolitik.” says the CIA man, dryly. “You've become a cynic since we used to play Go together.”

“Haven't we all.” replies Taizou with a smirk. “What we do is just a continuation of international diplomacy by other means, and international diplomacy, as Fukuzawa put it, is really based on the art of deception. So get on with the deceiving; we don't have all day.”

“Where would you like me to start?”

“The beginning. Our sixty-four thousand dollar question for this afternoon.”

“That being?”

“Just who is Lio Shirazumi, exactly?”

* * * *

Unknown Location

“There's no going back now, but I take it you're absolutely certain about this?”

“Winthrop will not expose the Three Kings. He cannot, in fact. This was the development we desired.”

“Very well. And I take it the rest of this is, as you said, planning ahead.”

“Indeed.”

“For the defeat of Araya?”

“For the defeat of Blackwatch.”

“I suppose we'll see how that works out. Anyway, I wanted to talk to you about MacPherson.”

“The operation at Yaegaki Shrine was still a success, albeit to a significantly lesser extent than we would have preferred. The stage was not conducive to achieving the desired ending.”

“No, I'm aware of that. I have one question, though.”

“Yes?”

“The audio feed from MacPherson's wire. It picked up two gunshots. The latter we can assume triggered the mishaguji-”

“Troublesome, but difficult to avoid under the circumstances.”

“-but my interest is with the first one. We know by the sound it wasn't fired by MacPherson, and there was no indication that the mishaguji made an appearance prior to when they did. So what happened?”

“Is there such a great mystery about it?”

“Listen to MacPherson's comments immediately after that. He seemed very surprised that he hadn't been killed.”

“What are you suggesting?”

“You know exactly what I'm suggesting. In fact, I think we're both thinking the same thing.”

“The snake.”

“Refer to it however you will. As intelligence has it, inside that shrine is something akin to a deified natural phenomenon pre-dating the AD calendar. We can't underestimate it.”

“As we said earlier, its range of actions can be predicted and accounted for.”

“And what is the likelihood that it intervened earlier to save the life of whoever fired the first shot?”

“Why do you imagine it might have done that?”

“We know it has the potential to. We've seen how a mishaguji operates in the singular. As for the reason, speculation is likely to be useless. Its logic may not be comprehensible to humans.”

“Regardless, it is not likely to pose a serious threat. Whatever happens, we will have contingency plans prepared.”

“If you say so.”

* * * *

Elsewhere

The waistcoat-wearing man returns from his self-imposed exile to a non-visible part of the aircraft. Satsuki Kurogiri watches him as he sits down. He is holding his mobile phone as he does so, but replaces it in one of his pockets as he takes his seat.

“My apologies.” says Kaspar. “A business call. Unavoidable.”

“It isn't a problem.”

The two of them are the sole passengers of a rather expensive-looking private jet. The interior is richly upholstered, and where they sit is at a booth-like construction where the seats face each other, separated by a table. It's somewhat like what you'd find on a train. Their pilot is the Frenchman who drove Kurogiri out to the warehouse earlier. Barely a few hours earlier, in fact, though it seems longer. The shutters on the windows are closed at the moment, but opening them would reveal the morning sky lit by a recent sunrise. In all honesty, Kurogiri has little idea where they are; his attention has been entirely drawn by his own memories. The sudden curing of an affliction that has lasted him his entire adult life, brought about effortlessly by this peculiar man named Kaspar.

“I must also apologise,” he says, “for I have been keeping you in the dark more than is strictly necessary. A precaution, while we were on the ground. Security is paramount in our business. Should you have any queries, now would be an excellent time. I shall answer to the best of my knowledge.”

“I see. Then, to begin with – who is that man? The pilot.”

“No-one. He doesn't exist.”

“Then how,” says Kurogiri, flatly, “is he flying a plane?”

“Oh, quite well, I should think. The autopilot does most of it. Technology is so terribly advanced these days.”

“Is that the best of your knowledge?”

“He's one of the Thirty-Six Invisibles. Think of it this way; we are like the actors on a stage, and he is a stagehand.”

“What does that mean?”

“For us, it means that he doesn't exist.”

A long silence follows.

“Where is this plane headed?”

“Cape Town. South Africa. Have you ever been there before?”

“No.”

“Terrible shame; it's a beautiful city. You will be meeting with two people there; an artist and a scientist, respectively. Their names won't mean anything to you at this point, and I'm sure they'd prefer to make their own introductions.”

“Who are you?”

“That is an easy question to ask and a difficult one to answer. Firstly, by 'you' do you mean me in particular, or do you mean the organisation I represent?”

“The latter, first.”

“Certainly. We, Mr. Kurogiri, are the Three Kings. We are a private, non-governmental organisation which operates transnationally. Our existence is not known to the general public or to any national government...or, even, to the authorities of the supernatural world you are a part of.” Kaspar takes a sip from a glass of water he has sitting on the table in front of him. Kurogiri has one too; they were brought out by the Frenchman some time ago. “Our purpose, as set out by our now-deceased founder, is to ensure the survival and continuity of the human species indefinitely into the future.”

“So, what does that mean, precisely?”

“Tell me, Mr. Kurogiri; are you familiar with the name 'Fernand Braudel'?”

“I'm afraid not.”

“He was a historian. One of the pioneers of the French Annales school. Not your area of interest, I take it?”

“I studied linguistics at Atlas.” says Kurogiri, looking at his own glass of water. “As I'm sure you know.”

“I bring him up because his work makes a useful distinction for us regarding historical change. That is to say, between historical change in the longue durée – the long term – and in l'histoire événementielle – the history of events. The latter is precisely what it says it is. The diplomatic relations of nation-states, wars, revolutions, social upheavals, politics, popular culture and so forth. Open up any newspaper and you will find the history of events. In short, it's history on the human scale, capable of being apprehended within the course of a single human lifetime. The longue durée is, obviously, different. You can broadly divide it into two elements, the first being the very slow and near-imperceptible history of man in relation to the geographic and climactic environment and the second being the long-term history of social structures, economies, and cultures. Kingdoms, empires, religions, technological progress – these are the kind of objects of study I'm talking about.” Kaspar pauses, and takes a sip of water. “Anyway, the point I wish to make – which Braudel made – was that 'events'...l'histoire événementielle, as I said...are something like the foam on the crests of waves, while the deep currents of the longue durée flow underneath. It is in the deep structures, above and beyond the agency of individual humans, where the root of historical causation lies. Do you understand my meaning?”

“Somewhat. In essence, what you are arguing is that humans are the product of their circumstances to a greater extent than the reverse.”

“Very much so. For example, had there not been a Hitler, it would have been necessary to invent him. He – I mean, that such a person would exist and rise to prominence when he did – was the outcome of large-scale social processes extant in Europe at the time, far beyond the ability of any individual human to apprehend. The stab-in-the-back narrative, which developed after the Treaty of Versailles. Communism, and popular hostility to communism. German nationalism – especially relevant, since Germany only became a country in its own right in 1871. Anti-Semitism, which has a very long pedigree in Europe for a number of a reasons. These – among others – are the processes that existed on the longue durée which produced a Hitler. He did not make the wave, he merely rode it along with the rest of Europe – a mustachioed piece of flotsam on the surface of the great current of history.”

“That's quite a determinist view. Fatalist, even.”

“It is. Which is only to be expected. The Annales school came about as a reaction to earlier schools of thought which held that historical causation lay in the actions and interactions of great men; statesmen, diplomats, rulers, generals and the like. Needless to say, their train of thought went some way in the other direction. They took history out of the hands of He, The Person, and handed it over to We, The People. But, of course, since it is always the case that great men are vastly outnumbered by the masses – and that there is only so much historical agency to go around – they were not unjustifiably criticised for removing the individual will of humans from history.” He takes another sip of water. “And, by consequence, individual responsibility.”

“What do you believe?”

“There's little room for belief in my line of work. If you're asking, we have a slightly more nuanced view of historical causation than Braudel did. More empirical, if you will.”

“So why tell me this?”

“To explain to you what we are, Mr. Kurogiri. Braudel's concepts are, however flawed, a convenient shorthand. You asked me what the Three Kings do. I will say that our business lies in cause and effect. We conduct research and development towards the creation of systems, methods and techniques which allow us to influence processes of historical causation on both the short term and the longue durée. We are not a charity or an aid organisation like Amnesty International, MSF or the Red Cross. They can help people in need, this is true. Individuals. They can do so on a large scale, too; no-one denies this. But what of the deep structures, the ones that exist on the longue durée? How does one go about 'helping' an entire society in need? A failed state, for instance? It is not the same as helping each individual member. A government, a corporation, a religion, a cultural movement, a societal trend – these things are composed of individuals, but rightly considered they are something more than the sum of their parts. They cannot, and should not, be treated like humans, for the simple reason that they are, in the collective, inhuman. Their time-scale, their concepts, and their interactions rarely have any analogue on the human level. A good metaphor is this: if a person behaved towards his peers the same way your average nation-state relates to its peers – even though that kind of behaviour is tolerated, expected and even lauded on the international scale – we would consider them something akin to a high-functioning sociopath. Capable of appalling acts of violence with little in the way of guilt or regret, manipulative, superficial-”

“Like you?” Kurogiri says this – blurts it out, uncharacteristically of him – and doesn't quite know why. It's surely something of an incongruous thing to say. And only partially accurate, to boot. He finds himself – to his surprise – regretting it a little. A new experience for him. The dark-skinned man gives nothing but a raised eyebrow, and continues talking.

“It was determined long ago by our founder that ensuring the survival and continuity of humanity necessitated two things; firstly, a point of view that is, in and of itself, above history; subject to neither the foam on the surface nor the currents beneath. Something kept apart from the acculturating influence of the world, capable of truly objective judgement. A pariah of necessity, if you will.” Kaspar smiles, as if at some private joke. “Secondly, it requires an approach capable of intelligently responding to threats on all time scales and levels of abstraction.”

“Meaning?”

“Think of it like this; a criminal you can arrest or kill, but 'crime' in the abstract is not so easily disposed of. An ideologue exists on the human scale, but an ideology exists on the longue durée. It has rarely if ever been the case that the world has been at the mercy of a single madman bent on destroying it. That kind of narrative makes for good entertainment, but it simply isn't how things work. The greatest threats lie in the deep structures – the faceless, inhuman phenomena that exist on the longue durée. At the same time, however, the technological potential of humanity has now advanced to the point where actions taken on short time-scales – relatively speaking – can have profound impacts on these long-term phenomena. The interactions of the deep structures display complex and chaotic behaviour because of this, and this state of affairs will likely continue to exacerbate as technology advances. Anthropogenic climate change is a good example, though there are others.”

“'...inhuman phenomena', you say...” says Kurogiri. “The way you describe them could just as easily refer to the Fae.” he observes.

“An apt comparison, and quite correct. The Fae are extensions of nature, and have themselves been known to operate on the longue durée. They...are also an area of our concern.” Kaspar takes another sip of water. “Anyway, do you feel this has been adequately explained to you?”

“I think I understand what you mean now. At Atlas, there was quite a significant interest in something similar.”

“Indeed. We're well aware of what happens over at the Giant's Pit in Egypt. Ages ago, the founder mathematically predicted the end of the world. The Sixth Law and all that. Since then, they've been frantically looking for ways to avert it. The goals of our respective organisations overlap to a great degree, though our methods...differ.” Kaspar drains the last of his glass of water, and puts it down on the table. “Now, moving on to your second point; I believe you asked who I am, specifically. Correct?”

“I did, yes.”

“Our organisation is known as the Three Kings because we who administer it are three in number and named after the Magi of Biblical tradition; Balthazar, Melchior and Kaspar, that being myself. Not that we're a religious organisation, mind you. As I said, there's little room for belief in what I do. Besides, they aren't our real names. We use them for the purposes of security. Ultimately, though, we are simply the executors of the will of our deceased founder. If you are asking what I did before assuming my current position, I'm afraid that I'm not permitted to tell you. Again, security reasons. Any further questions?”

“Only one. What is it, precisely, that I have been hired to do?”

“Hm. Well; you can expect that I'll go into detail on that once we arrive in Cape Town and meet up with your associates-to-be. For now, I think it'll be best if I am brief.” Kaspar picks up his empty glass and rotates it in his hand, looking at it from various angles. “There is a peculiar creature which has surfaced in Japan. The like of which – so we believe – has not been seen for a very long time. Simply put, we have determined it to be a threat in need of our immediate attention. Your task will be to assist in dealing with it.”

“I see.” says Kurogiri, a little uncertainly. “I am not a combat specialist, though; precis-”

“It is well and good that you aren't. Combat is not our preferred way of doing things. More to the point, if this problem was as straightforward as simply defeating the enemy, we would have no need for you.”

“So why, then?”

“All the rest will be revealed in Cape Town, Mr. Kurogiri. I dislike having to repeat myself, so that will have to suffice for now. In the meantime, please, enjoy the flight.” Kaspar leans back in his chair, and places the earbuds connected to his MP3 player in his ears. “We still have a long way to go.”

* * * *

Ootsuki, Yamanashi Prefecture

The gap in the rain turned out to be just that; a gap. It's back now, as strong as it ever was. Thick, dark clouds boil overhead, not so much pouring water as dumping it, as if there's a vast upturned bucket somewhere above the troposphere. The noise is oppressive; the fog even more so. Everything past a kilometre or so blends into a grey mist layer, in which the only contrasts to be found are the sloping contours of the mountains, pencilled in in a slightly darker shade of grey. Whatever fraction of the sun's light that filters through the clouds is diffuse and gloomy; made indistinct by heavy scattering effects.

“...and from there, they just follow the turn-off all the way up to a gravel cul-de-sac...right. Got it. Sure thing, Mr. Suzurigi. I'll have the car sent ASAP.”

Ootsuki is a decently-sized town; one of the many control points on the Bezier spline that is the Chuo Expressway. Twenty-seven thousand people live here, surrounded by mountains, just across the river from the highway. Today, there's no-one out. Well, maybe one or two – indistinct shapes in the distance, passing between buildings, distinguished from the background mainly by the colours of their umbrellas – but the overall impression is that of a ghost town. Cars pass infrequently, their rear wheels kicking up sprays of droplets which fall in parabolic arcs back down to the soaking-wet road surface. They don't splash Akitaka as they pass, though if they did, it likely wouldn't make much difference. His charcoal-grey suit is drenched enough as it is, and he is looking forward to a change of clothes once they arrive back at the estate. For now, however, there are more important matters to attend to.

“Good. I'll be returning within the hour. Take no other action until then.”

“You got it.”

Akitaka replaces the receiver of the public telephone with a metallic click. The payphone is, fortunately, undercover; it's outside the front of a pharmacy and a little to the side, set up against the wall. Making the call to Ibaraki took not more than one minute. He walks back over the car, which he's parked – illegally, probably, but it's not likely they'll be there long enough to get caught – in a small side street running off the main road just next to the pharmacy. He gets in and closes the door, after which he takes the handful of change remaining from his use of the phone, and places it down on the dashboard in front of Kokutou.

“Do you want to call anyone?”

The kid looks like he's just been punched in the stomach. Dazed, winded; mind racing at a thousand miles an hour without seeming to go anywhere, just circling and circling the same thoughts without end in sight. Akitaka heard the long and short of what the Master told him. He himself lacks anything in the way of a comparable experience – there was the death of his grandfather at the hands of the present Master's father, but Akitaka was far too young at the time to remember anything of it – but sometimes that isn't necessary to sympathise with someone. Kokutou's emotions are written all over his face.

“Your parents, I think, will want to hear from you.”

“I-” He begins to say something, but cuts himself off. Seems to sink down a little in his chair. Takes a second or two to regain his composure. “...yeah. Yeah.” He says it quietly, as if not entirely convinced. He reaches out for the coins, but stops a little before picking them up, slightly awkwardly. He looks to Akitaka, as if for approval.

“Go right ahead.”

Kokutou's phone call is longer. About four minutes. The rain beating down on the roof of the car drowns out any possibility of overhearing it, though Akitaka doubts it'd be possible from inside the car even without the rain. He glances back over his shoulder at the unconscious form of the Young Master, lying face-up over the rear seats.

It isn't my place to comment, but at this rate, we might actually need that thing's help to defeat Souren Araya.

Eventually, he finishes up. Walks back over. Gets in the car, and closes the door. All that's left of the change Akitaka gave him is a single hundred-yen coin, which he turns over in his fingers without looking at it. Then he stops, and puts it back on the dashboard.

“Thank you.”

Akitaka nods, and places the coin inside the cup-holder between the two front seats. He starts the engine, gets the wipers going, and pulls out onto the road. It's a while – they're back on the highway, at least – before Kokutou says anything more.

“They knew.”

“Sorry?”

“They already knew.” repeats Kokutou, wiping his glasses on his sleeve, not looking at Akitaka. “It was on the news. Which makes it official, I guess.” He begins to put them back on, but stops, part-way through the action. Kokutou rests his glasses on his lap. A brief pause follows. “Miss Touko said-” He stumbles over his words, gulps, and continues. “...everyone said...she'd be safe.” He puts his hand over his face, and rubs his eyes. When he speaks next, it's barely a whisper. “So I just wasn't thinking about her. And now-” He stops, a deep breath cutting off his sentence, and doesn't continue.

The next few minutes down the highway are silent. Eventually, however, something has to change. Kokutou wipes his eyes, shakes his head, and puts his glasses back on. His expression is grim and regretful, but not despairing.

“I was thinking,” he begins, making a point of addressing Akitaka instead of speaking vaguely to himself. “about what Mr. Ryougi said. Earlier. Because of his eyes, you know?”

“I'm aware of the Master's ability.”

“He said that...MacPherson was able to truthfully say two things about Azaka's death.” He has to pause for a brief moment, then continues. “Firstly, that he, himself, wasn't responsible. And secondly, that they didn't intend for it to happen.”

“'They' being the Americans, if it was MacPherson saying it.” says Akitaka, indicating to change lanes.

“Yeah. That's what I thought.” Kokutou turns to look out the window. “And, um...on the news, they reported it as a death due to the biological weapon they said was used in the attack.”

There's another long pause. Akitaka recalls something – something the golden-haired boy said earlier, when he and the Master were in Touko Aozaki's office.

“Don't worry; it's not contagious, unless you drink my blood or something similarly stupid. The point is that, in most cases, like, ninety-nine point a lot of nines percent of the time, it does kill you. Horribly. It's like leprosy, haemorrhagic fever and mad cow disease all rolled into one.”

He regrets doing so immediately. From the look on Kokutou's face reflected in the window, it's clear he's doing the same thing.

“Do you think-”

“It could be true.” says Kokutou. “It could be. It would fit all the facts. There is an actual virus. Supernatural or not. It can kill people, except for those who are apparently rare cases. Such as Shirazumi. Who was there, at the scene. And,” he concludes, “Azaka was the only one with an open wound, immediately afterwards. There was a cut on her face.”

“I see.”

Which would lay the fault at the feet of Lio Shirazumi. By malice, by stupidity, or by simple bad luck.

“And they – the Americans – they want everyone to come back in, for a second round of tests. The people from the cafe, I mean.”

“Even if legitimate, it's still likely a ruse for them to try and capture you again.”

“I know. I, um...told my parents I was heading there, though. That I'd been waiting out near there for Azaka the, uh, the whole time.”

“That's a good move. They must be very concerned for you.”

“...yeah.” Kokutou looks at Akitaka, giving a slightly pained expression. “I hadn't spoken to them for...months, now, so...” He trails off, and looks away again. Another pause follows. Then, with an added note of urgency, the kid speaks again. “Mr. Akitaka,” asks the boy, “please. After we get to the estate – I need to get back to Garan no Dou. I need to talk to him.” The emphasis makes it perfectly clear who 'him' refers to.

“I'm afraid that's not possible.”

“Isn't there-”

“Not immediately. You will have to wait until the Master returns from the shrine. I'm not allowed to let you leave the estate before then.”

“I have to.” says Kokutou, quietly. “I have to find out the truth.”

* * * *

Ogawa Mansion, Kayamihama

Walls rise up on either side. Bricks and concrete, steel and glass. Pipes and wires, dirty windows and grimy doors. The alleyway stretches out like a maze, suffused with a golden glow from gently buzzing streetlights. Shadows deepen at the corners. Insects move from light source to light source. The night air is hot. It fills my lungs with every breath.

There's blood in the air. It has that smell to it.

Something clatters to the ground in the distance. The noise echoes and resounds. A monster-

-something shaped like a person-

-disappears around a corner.

I give chase.

There are other people, who I pass. Vague shapes in the gloom, indistinct like ghosts. They don't interest me. My attention belongs to the monster ahead.

Corner to corner. Concrete to concrete. The labyrinth is vast. Possibly infinite. And wherever I go, the monster is always a step ahead. Just vanishing out of sight.

Time accelerates. Wind rushes past me. With every turn, I gain ground. With every corner, I come closer to catching it. I hear its footsteps. I can feel its presence, lingering in the space recently vacated by it.

I'm right upon it now. Wind roars. Lights blur. I reach out to touch it-

-I pass through it, as if it were never there at all-

-and I lose my footing, and I fall to the ground.

And I fall to the grass.

And I see now that there was never any shadow, nor any alleyways, nor any buildings to delineate them. Not bricks or concrete, nor steel or glass. No pipes and no wires, no windows and no doors. Just this.

The dying embers of daylight illuminate the tree-covered tops of nearby hills, and dye the sky blood-red at the horizon fading to deep blue at the zenith. A great sound comes from off in the distance – the cries of thousands of black birds as they take flight.

It is the site of the end of a battle.

Corpses litter the ground. Their blood soaks the earth. Weapons lie, left to rust just as their wielders have been left to decay. What faces remain – not pecked at and torn off by the carrion-eaters – are frozen in their final moments.

Snapshots of pain, and rage, and hatred, and fear.

There is another shadow behind me. I turn and notice it; dark and tall and indistinct. It looks, but does not see me. It speaks, but I cannot hear it.

But somehow, I follow its gaze. I find what it is looking for, among the corpses. And I see-

-torn apart and eaten like all the rest-

-the only one who is smiling. Just as I am.

For there I see the monster.

And the monster's name is Lio.

* * * *

I wake up.

Granted, I wasn't exactly sure if I had for a few seconds. Disorientation, right? That, and the fact that this room's so fucking bright I had to clamp my eyes shut the moment they opened. The feeling of disorientation intensifies by a large amount when I realise that I'm not on the floor.

What?

I don't feel any contact – anywhere – with a surface. The more I think about it, the more bizarre it feels. I'm not falling – there doesn't seem to be any air movement – so I'm not sure how this actually works. I don't feel...gravity. No, no gravity. Weird. It's like being underwater – almost exactly like it, in fact – except without the water.

The hell?

Experimentally, I open one eye. The light still hurts at first, but the adjustment comes quickly, so I open the other one as well. What is at first blurry comes into focus, and then...

...well.

That is, uh...

...well.

I close my eyes again, and the world becomes a much simpler place. Please, just one second's respite, I beg of you; I need to put this into words somehow.

Incoming migraine...

I open my eyes again.

Oh, I am not in the mood for this.

And I look out over an infinite expanse of me.

Let me back up a little. I'm sure a lot of people are familiar with the experience of standing in an elevator with mirrors on the inside walls. Two opposite each other gives you that infinite-tunnel effect. In a hall of mirrors, you can go one better – have rooms with mirrors on all the sides, so you get an infinite-cubicle kind of thing.

Well, this isn't that.

I look to the front, and see myself – I actually didn't recognise myself in the first few seconds; seeing yourself from behind is something of an unfamiliar experience, but I worked it out pretty quickly – looking to the front. Not like a mirror, where the reflection would be flipped. The 'me' in front of me looks, exactly as I am looking at it, at the 'me' in front of it. And so on, ad infinitum.

I look to the left, and see myself looking to the left at myself, repeated ad infinitum.

I look to the right, and see myself looking to the right at myself, repeated ad infinitum.

I look to the rear, and see myself looking to the rear at myself, repeated ad infinitum.

I look down, and see myself looking down at myself, repeated ad infinitum.

I look up, and see myself looking up at myself, repeated ad infinitum.

It isn't just the cardinal directions. I'm on the diagonals, too. It seems like this; I am floating – suspended somehow – in the centre of a cube, and this cube, with myself included, has been duplicated infinitely and used to completely fill a seemingly boundless space. And it does seem that way. Everywhere my sight line doesn't intersect with a copy of me, it meets with a blank and faintly luminous white void. If not infinite, the copies must extend for kilometres at least.

“I think I preferred the interrogation, thanks.” I say – as does everyone else – in a tone betraying my exact level of patience for this situation. Dull, throbbing pain from my artificial left arm – still bearing the knife wound from before and the bullet wound which did a number on the knuckles – provides confirmation that this is, in fact, reality, despite my desires to the contrary.

Where is that damn Magus when you need her?

I'm not joking. This is precisely the kind of ridiculous situation she's supposed to specialise in, and I bet she's probably drinking coffee in her office, watching TV and lighting up Cigarette Number Seven for the day. If it even is today any more. I realise that I have no idea of how much time has passed. I'm groggy, of course, and my thinking is puddled, but somehow I'm able to contrive a brief recap of the events leading up to this.

Wake up, Miss Touko's place, breakfast, arrest, interrogation number one, interrogation number two, fight, escape, fight, captured, interrogation number three, interrupted, knocked out, wake up here.

It's really not very helpful. God, what a fucked-up day-or-two this has been. It's not remotely what I signed up for when I agreed to work for her. I grunt in annoyance, and so does everyone else.

Yeah; I've got to get out of here. Otherwise I'm seriously going to go nuts.

I close my eyes, and think about this.

Point one: someone broke in on my interrogation earlier, knocked me out, and brought me here.

I would hazard a guess that, if they had good intentions, they would have made them known by now. So I guess they don't.

Now, I think...

I look around, turning my body in the air to do so. It looks ridiculous; believe me, I know. I can see it, repeated ad infinitum. The kimono – like the human body – was not intended for zero-G manoeuvring.

...this is someone's idea of a prison, isn't it?

It's certainly original. And the more I think about it, the more it becomes clever, in a peculiar and twisted way that someone like Miss Touko would find more amusing than I do. A prison without walls, or bars, locks or guards. Just space. Now, the lack of gravity aside, I don't think the sheer amount of space in here could realistically exist. If this is inside a building, people would know about it, because it would be the size of a mountain. And then there's the copies to think about. Are they copies? They look entirely too much like reflections, albeit ones facing the wrong way. There's no discrepancy between them and me. And, like with the space, I seriously doubt anyone has the time and resources to build this many copies of anything.

So?

I turn it over in my head a few times, and eventually come up with an idea. It seems logical. More logical than anything else, anyway. Idea: suppose that there is no infinite space, and there are no copies. There's just a cube which I'm suspended in somehow. Judging by the distance between each of the duplicates, I'd guess it's about three or four metres to a side. Anyway, the appearance of...this...is created by, somehow, 'linking' the front face to the back face, the left face to the right face, and the top face to the bottom face. You pass through one from the inside, and smoothly come out the other. Since light does the same, you see yourself. It's all just the one cube, and all just the one you. Voila.

Something like that is definitely going to be the domain of magecraft.

Without a doubt. While I'm sure a certain someone would love to spend some time analysing this, my patience with this state of affairs is wearing very thin. A prison like this might have worked flawlessly against someone else. As for me, however; if it's magecraft we're talking about...

...I can kill it.

The space lacks Lines that offer themselves easily, but that is no indication that they are not there. I open my eyes wide. And I concentrate, just as Miss Touko has told me to. Her explanation of this involved using the word 'concept' more times than was probably healthy, but I did gather the gist of things from it. It's just like Asagami's ESP. It takes time to understand it – to find its 'Death'. With her ability, the effect was intermittent. In this case, however, this structure is being actively maintained through magecraft. The 'Death' is there; I just need to see it.

At first, nothing. No Lines. This is something formless, I know. And from the look of it, it's miles more advanced than anything I've seen before. But-

-they must be here.

And then-

-there.

It's like when your eyes finally adjust after stepping from bright sunlight into a dark area. The Lines come into focus, as if they were there the whole time. They were, in fact. I see them – they form a cubical lattice, extending out into infinity in every direction. I begin to think that I've made a mistake, but then I realise – they are the same Lines. The perimeter of the one and only cube has been made visible to me, and now I see it repeated through the same principle as the infinite duplicates of myself.

Alright.

Having found them once, re-acquiring them if I lose focus becomes easier. I check to see that I'm fully inside the cube – I don't want to think about what would happen if I killed the phenomenon while I was split across two faces – and then I awkwardly push myself through the air towards a triple intersection at one of the corners.

Problem; no weapon.

I improvise. The knuckles may be messed up, but the fingers on my artificial hand still bend. The pain gives me cause to grit my teeth, but eventually I finish it. The index finger points out as I float towards the corner. The nail is sharp. And, to be honest, I'm vaguely interested in what's going to happen once I do this.

And...

The finger connects. The Lines give no resistance. What happens next does so in the blink of an eye. Something not quite comprehensible occurs in the lattice – some geometrical transformation I couldn't describe if I tried – before the entire thing just implodes. The duplicates vanish, as do the Lines themselves, before finally the blank white walls of the cube just...disappear.

...cool.

The moment it does so, I realise I'm now under the influence of gravity again, and about a metre above the ground to boot. I shift my weight quickly, to avoid losing my balance. My boots hit the floor – stone, it sounds like – with a thud, dumping momentum with a considerable lack of elegance. I don't really mind, though. Taking a moment to shake off the disorientation, I look around.

It's an elevator.

A perfectly normal, mundane elevator. That by itself is cause for a sigh of relief, though I'm painfully aware that I'm probably not done with today just yet. Almost as if they were expecting me, the elevator's doors open with a ding, and I walk out into the building.

------------------------------------------------------------

As I said earlier, Taizou is the maternal grandfather of Shizune Seo, who shows up in Mirai Fukuin. He's thoroughly non-supernatural, though. Shizune's precognition comes from her father's side of the family.

The 'Fukuzawa' Taizou quotes is Yukichi Fukuzawa, whose picture is on the Japanese 10,000 Yen bill.

You know, I was going to do the whole SEELE thing, where the villains just sit around and talk about things that don't get explained. But that's really annoying, right? And then I was like, ain't no rule which says I can't have the Three Kings sit down and explain exactly what it is they're all about. Kaspar isn't lying during that scene, though he is omitting some parts. As for the two people Kurogiri's being taken to meet in Cape Town, I'll say just this: only one of them is an OC.

Kaspar calling the Frenchman one of the Thirty-Six Invisibles is a reference to Foucalt's Pendulum.

Fernand Braudel's historiography has been more-or-less accurately summarised by Kaspar. It's interesting because of how that interpretation interacts with Nasuverse mechanics; things like Heroic Spirits, who are recognised as individuals that changed the course of history and the like. More on this in my three-part series of seminars, Historiodynamics in the Works of Kinoko Nasu: A Braudelian Interpretation. :P

We're gonna need a checklist to count all the people who want to kill Lio basically just for existing.

Yes, the last part of Shiki's SUPER ULTRA MEGA SYMBOLIC dream takes place (sort of) inside the flashback Araya has in Paradox Spiral. Because of reasons which it is far too early in the morning to go into right now. Also, "The monster's name is Lio" is a reference to Naoki Urasawa's Monster, featuring another blonde-haired serial killer who crossdresses on occasion, and is very pretty. Hmm.

Spatial quarantine? Ryougi don't give a fuck. I always found the idea of Moebius Space to be interesting. This is my take on how it works. Notice that Shiki woke up, but Void didn't do anything. The world's not in imminent danger, so there's no need.

[saintsant]

Thanks for this. Really needed a boost after today.

[A Curious Stranger]

Man it's so weird that the only question that comes to mind is 'Why does Dullahan insist on the phrase 'Sixty-four thousand dollar question?' instead of something like million or five hundred thousand.'

[Kyte]

Google told me.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_$64,000_Question

...
You know, that looks pretty appropriate for a dude like Taizou.

[Troika]

I gotta say, for some reason this is giving me a vibe almost similar to that of the Matrix.

[linkhyrule5]

Good to see there's something else operating on the scale of the Three Kings. I wonder what Yaegaki is doing...

[EVA-Saiyajin]

And now Kokuto, his only friend (or the closest thing he has to one) is unsure of Lio. It's painful being Lio Shirazumi.

[Dullahan]

I gotta say, for some reason this is giving me a vibe almost similar to that of the Matrix.

The Matrix, eh? Interesting. What's the reason for that?

And now Kokuto, his only friend (or the closest thing he has to one) is unsure of Lio. It's painful being Lio Shirazumi.

Being Lio is suffering. But we all knew that already.

Good to see there's something else operating on the scale of the Three Kings. I wonder what Yaegaki is doing...

The god enshrined within the Yaegaki Shrine is, as was implied, probably not comprehensible to humans. Who knows what it's thinking. It'll get the chance to explain itself at some point. Though the explanation itself may not be comprehensible to humans. There's a reason it needs a shrine maiden to interpret for it...and she herself may not be entirely human by this point, either.

Also...I wonder, if anyone's drawn the connection between a god that has the ability to deflect bullets and a certain intelligence agent's story about a man who never got hit by bullets. Hmm.

[TheInfamousMan]

You know, reading this story has got me curious: You ever think about doing an omake with this Lio interacting with either Shiki or Kokuto who happens to have Cole's powers from Infamous? Much fourth-wall breaking and which game copied off who.

[Dullahan]

You know, reading this story has got me curious: You ever think about doing an omake with this Lio interacting with either Shiki or Kokuto who happens to have Cole's powers from Infamous? Much fourth-wall breaking and which game copied off who.

Unfortunately, I never played Infamous, so my knowledge of Cole's powers and the setting are limited to the fact that they're electricity-based and it's a city, respectively.

[TheInfamousMan]

Unfortunately, I never played Infamous, so my knowledge of Cole's powers and the setting are limited to the fact that they're electricity-based and it's a city, respectively.

I really recommend you play it. Its an awesome game (One that is unfortunately compared to Prototype, despite them being totally different plot/moral/power-wise)

[Dullahan]

I really recommend you play it. Its an awesome game (One that is unfortunately compared to Prototype, despite them being totally different plot/moral/power-wise)

I'll have a look at it. One reason I chose to do a [PROTOTYPE] crossover was that the whole thing can fairly easily be made to fit in with Nasuverse mechanics. I have a sneaking suspicion Infamous might require a more imaginative approach, if it came to that.

[GigansOrtus]

Been very busy, and short on opportunity to write everything here I've wanted to since last posting. I've been reading attentively, and continuing to enjoy things a great deal. I'm keeping a list.

One thing in particular strikes me as wrong or flawed enough to demand that I must respond now. That is in the history talk, in particular the paragraph starting with 'Very much so'. I'm certain that it doesn't satisfy me.

I tend to see it more in terms of the existence of the Soviet Union as a driver. In particular, the combination of the intrigue culture the Russians inherited from the Byzantines and the Communist ideology with the backing of a state power could not do other than meddle in the affairs of its neighbors. It was also prone to letting rumors of the results of its management of client states leak out into the rest of the continent.

That it was the Germans who most notably acted on reports from family in Soviet territory, and that the dominant faction of Germans had a wasteful fixation on Jews (with a huge opportunity cost in the amount of the communists they were able to kill), are factors that seem more prone to variation.

Likewise, the Great Depression was a stressor that probably influenced events in a worse direction, on net. (Gee, it is almost like lots of young men with much time and little future makes wars more likely and more severe. Good thing nothing like that is happening now. ) The Great Depression was apparently a narrow thing, if it had been earlier or later, various industries in different stages of their cycles probably would have made it more the usual sort of thing.

That said, I should keep in mind who is saying that. He seems to be talking the same sort of 'get the soft sciences up to or past the hard sciences' stuff that many anti-communists see at the heart of communism. So some biases that way might be expected from him or from his organization.

The only other thing for here this time, as I haven't read this closely enough for true C&C, is something I think of as a mere appendix.

Physics of the Ryougi cube. If she can see, either there is physical light, or it is mystic/pure eye stuff. The latter would be especially plausible if she could recognize familiar things from the lines alone, which isn't something I know about. If light, there probably must be a light source acting somewhere in the cube, maybe because magic. Probably also because magic to explain why she hasn't cooked in her own heat, or choked on her own waste gases. Gravity makes some sense, if the mechanism of gravity is blocked that way, no acceleration.

The pushing thing bugs me, but no worse than, say, mecha. Inertia/conservation of momentum being what it is, I wouldn't think air has the density/viscosity to let one move much against the drag from air friction. Got a cite otherwise? Would seem that trying might flip her around and do things to her 'skirts'. The application of usual methods in these circumstances might be to throw herself something, by preference something compact, dense and controllable, to 'one of herself', so that she could slowly change her net position to where she wanted to be. Shoes, coin purse, folded jacket... Alternatively, but perhaps much less feasible, using stuff on her to extended her reach for poking at a distance. Anyway, I can enjoy mecha stories despite ground pressure, so this absolutely isn't a problem for me.

One of my ideas about the bullet deflection was that CIA guy was the bastard offspring of Taizou's immortal, who as I recall I also think was involved in Blackwatch.

Edit: For spelling screw ups, and for just noticing that the chapter strongly suggests that Taizou's immortals had one of those things on or in him.

[TheInfamousMan]

I'll have a look at it. One reason I chose to do a [PROTOTYPE] crossover was that the whole thing can fairly easily be made to fit in with Nasuverse mechanics. I have a sneaking suspicion Infamous might require a more imaginative approach, if it came to that.

It might, but then again some things can be bent a bit in order for them to make more sense in the Nasuverse. Like say, the Conduit gene: One could say that its the product of the Age of Gods hidden within us, and if awakened could bring certain humans back to that level of being.

[Dullahan]

Been very busy, and short on opportunity to write everything here I've wanted to since last posting. I've been reading attentively, and continuing to enjoy things a great deal. I'm keeping a list.

One thing in particular strikes me as wrong or flawed enough to demand that I must respond now. That is in the history talk, in particular the paragraph starting with 'Very much so'. I'm certain that it doesn't satisfy me.

I tend to see it more in terms of the existence of the Soviet Union as a driver. In particular, the combination of the intrigue culture the Russians inherited from the Byzantines and the Communist ideology with the backing of a state power could not do other than meddle in the affairs of its neighbors. It was also prone to letting rumors of the results of its management of client states leak out into the rest of the continent.

That it was the Germans who most notably acted on reports from family in Soviet territory, and that the dominant faction of Germans had a wasteful fixation on Jews (with a huge oppurtunity cost in the amount of the communists they were able to kill), are factors that seem more prone to variation.

Likewise, the Great Depression was a stressor that probably influenced events in a worse direction, on net. (Gee, it is almost like lots of young men with much time and little future makes wars more likely and more severe. Good thing nothing like that is happening now. ) The Great Depression was apparently a narrow thing, if it had been earlier or later, various industries in different stages of their cycles probably would have made it more the usual sort of thing.

That said, I should keep in mind who is saying that. He seems to be talking the same sort of 'get the soft sciences up to or past the hard sciences' stuff that many anti-communists see at the heart of communism. So some biases that way might be expected from him or from his organization.

Good points here. I should mention, though, that Kaspar is simplifying his argument for the benefit of his audience. Kurogiri's not a historian, and Kaspar has enough consideration not to make him (and by extension, the readers) sit through an hour-long lecture. That paragraph is meant as less of an exploration of the specific circumstances surrounding WW2 than it is supposed to be Kaspar using a well-known example to make his point about 'deep structures'.

The only other thing for here this time, as I haven't read this closely enough for true C&C, is something I think of as a mere appendix.

Physics of the Ryougi cube. If she can see, either there is physical light, or it is mystic/pure eye stuff. The latter would be especially plausible if she could regnozie familar things from the lines alone, which isn't something I know about. If light, there probably must be a light source acting somewhere in the cube, maybe because magic. Probably also because magic to explain why she hasn't cooked in her own heat, or choked on her own waste gases. Gravity makes some sense, if the mechanism of gravity is blocked that way, no acceleration.

The pushing thing bugs me, but no worse than, say, mecha. Inertia/conservation of momentum being what it is, I wouldn't think air has the density/viscosity to let one move much against the drag from air friction. Got a cite otherwise? Would seem that trying might flip her around and do things to her 'skirts'. The application of usual methods in these circumstances might be to throw herself something, by preference something compact, dense and controllable, to 'one of herself', so that she could slowly change her net position to where she wanted to be. Shoes, coin purse, folded jacket... Alternatively, but perhaps much less feasible, using stuff on her to extended her reach for poking at a distance. Anyway, I can enjoy mecha stories despite ground pressure, so this absolutely isn't a problem for me.

'Because magic' is pretty much my answer to all these queries. It's mentioned that what Araya has created inside his apartment is close to True Magic, because he's a boss like that. More to the point, he set this up to confine her, not to kill her. It's not in his interest to have Ryougi cook in her heat or choke on her own waste gases, so he's designed it such that there are provisions to prevent that.

As for being able to 'swim' through air, I'll admit I've taken a little artistic license with how easily Ryougi is able to do it. In reality, it probably would have taken her a while to get from the centre of a cube to the corner, but 'Ryougi does breaststroke in zero-G for half an hour' doesn't make for very interesting storytelling.

One of my ideas about the bullet deflection was that CIA guy was the bastard offspring of Taizou's immortal, who as I recall I also think was involved in Blackwatch.

Nope. Taizou's Immortal was unconnected to MacPherson. It's not so much that MacPherson didn't get shot as it is that Akitaka didn't shoot him, which is the important thing here. It wasn't MacPherson's life that was saved, but Akitaka's. Hence why Akitaka is driving a car and MacPherson is now a puddle.