Cries of Confusion, Part 2 (Higurashi X-over)
Continuing . . .
Still unknown place, only later
After what felt like an hour, Frid was willing to admit that picking a direction at random, so long as it led away from the schoolgirl with the machete, might have been a practical idea in the short term, but not necessarily the long term.
Some parcel of time after that (another hour, maybe?), he was regretting the fact that he hadn’t just taken the chance to go past her; sure, he felt like hell and she was armed, but at least his death probably would have been quick, as opposed to slowly broiling alive . . . And by the time Frid noticed that the sun had visibly moved, he was getting uncomfortable flashbacks to his second (and last) visit to a particular anime convention, where he’d gotten lost en route due to travelling by different means. The sunburns had left him peeling skin off his arms in strips for a week afterwards, and he suspected now would be no different.
Assuming that he didn’t just drop dead somewhere on the road, at least . . .
He’d ditched the coat in the dump. Not only was it the most likely piece to have picked up THE STENCH (along with God knew what kind of germs and other substances), the state of it was too difficult to explain. Most of the damage to the rest of his clothes could be passed off as a maybe-unusually-high level of common wear and tear—or, depending on when he was, a fashion statement—and the remainder would need close examination to determine that it wasn’t, anyway. The other issue (and currently a major one) was the real possibility of heatstroke; the coat wouldn’t help with that, other than to induce it faster. While he might regret leaving it behind by nightfall, depending on how temperatures dropped, for the moment, it was the right call.
Frid had searched the coat’s interior thoroughly beforehand (choking back germ-phobic paranoia the whole time), and turned up a handful of Japanese yen in a hidden pocket. Not enough to qualify as an emergency stash, more along the lines of “I need to put this somewhere out of the way.” No weapons that he could find, which was both good and bad—there was nothing he’d need to explain carrying, but no means of self-defence, either. Still, having some local currency was a bonus . . .
Frid was fairly certain he was in Japan, even if “the Japanese countryside” was as specific as he could get. Aside from the psycho schoolgirl from earlier, what few definitive features the landscape had put him in mind of anime like Tenchi Muyo and Spirited Away. What he was doing here, when his last clear recollection put him in Romania (to say nothing of which Earth he was on), was still a complete mystery, but he was reasonably certain that was where he was.
. . . When the heat wasn’t getting to him, anyway.
He’d already felt bad upon waking up. Then he’d walked for what at least felt like a couple of hours (and the sun’s position argued that there was at least some truth to that), in summer temperatures, with no shade (he missed tall buildings) or breeze. At this point, only sheer stubbornness was keeping him on his feet—and even that was flagging.
If I stop, I’m never moving again—if I stop, I’m dead. Keep going. You’re walking along a road—there has to be civilisation somewhere . . .
Finally, buildings came in sight—though the nearest one gave him pause. It was a pleasant-looking two-storey structure, but the sign . . .
I should probably take the fact that it’s named “Angel Mort” as a bad omen . . . Screw it—I’m too hot, tired, sore, and dizzy to care.
Mildly curious as to who would think “Angel Death” was a good name for any kind of business, while silently taking it as confirmation that he had to be in Japan (who else would use anything like that, and in French?), Frid took a deep breath, steeling himself, and began to walk towards it.
Ryudo Temple, Fuyuki
June 20, 2004
“Once again, Emiya-kun, I must express my shame at having to call upon your services,” Issei said in a tone of contrition so sincere that it bordered on self-loathing. “It is a gross and unforgiveable abuse of our friendship, I know—but truly, I was at my wit’s end.”
Shirou chuckled ruefully. “Issei, it’s no problem, really—I’m happy to help.”
“Truly, you are the most generous of souls, Emiya,” the student council president—and arguably Shirou’s closest male friend—said in admiration. “Nevertheless, I will find some way to repay you for this.”
Shirou shook his head. “Don’t worry about it—even if it mattered to me, I haven’t done anything yet.”
The temple, as a place of tradition and worship, was naturally old-fashioned; Austerity and asceticism were practiced and followed here, as a rule. Nevertheless, it had at least some modern amenities, simply as a concession to necessity when dealing with the outside world. Homurahara required a phone number to call, for example, in case of an emergency related to Issei’s attendance. Barring said emergencies, however, or the infrequent appearance of guests, they were rarely used—and even more rarely maintained.
Naturally, this meant that when they did break down, it typically happened while they were in use and needed; hardly ideal. And even in a relatively small place like Fuyuki, repair technicians had backlogs to deal with . . . Fortunately for Issei, Shirou had a reputation for working small-scale repairs in a hurry—and even more fortunately, he’d been desperate enough to swallow his pride and ask.
All of which brought Shirou out here at an admittedly early hour for a Sunday, but emergencies, by definition, weren’t the sort of thing that took scheduling for convenience into account.
“On the contrary,” Issei rebutted. “You’ve already determined that the problem does not lie with the refrigeration unit—and while that bodes ill for the actual scale of it, it means we waste no resources in replacing it, only to find that our difficulties remain the same.”
“Diagnosis is easy,” Shirou waved him off. “Actually fixing the problem is what counts.”
The shed containing the temple’s fuse box was cluttered to the point of being claustrophobic; it kind of reminded the redhead of certain areas in Tohsaka’s house—where the things she or other members of her family hadn’t wanted to deal with had just been shoved out of sight, with no other consideration than that they were out of sight.
“You really ought to have someone clean up in here,” he observed. “It’s a trip hazard, if nothing else; and potentially dangerous, with all the electrical wiring running through here.”
Stuff (there really was no other word for it) was packed everywhere, leaving a “path” that was barely twenty centimetres wide—and even that was hardly a consistently uniform measurement.
“I will make a note of it, Emiya-kun,” Issei said diligently. “If nothing else, the initiates might welcome the change of scenery in their usual chores.”
For now, though, Shirou noted, it’ll make hiding my magecraft a lot easier.
“Step back a bit, please?” he requested. “I need a bit of room to poke around.”
Issei complied, and Shirou took care to position his body to block the other boy’s line of sight.
“Now,” he muttered, deliberately pitching his voice low, and dropping the volume with every word. “Let’s see what we have here . . .
“Trace, on.”
With the cocking of a gun echoing in the back of his mind, the redheaded magus called forth a surge of prana from himself, and sent it flooding into the object before him. Analysis was both a practised skill, for him, and among the most basic of magecraft, so it didn’t take long to produce results—in point of fact, the process was near-instantaneous. Still, Shirou drew things out for several seconds, making thoughtful noises and adding random motions, in order to make things look natural.
(Third-rate magus he might be, and not necessarily attached to the idea of secrecy, or of “the sacrosanctity of Mystery,” to borrow from one of Tohsaka’s lectures—not to mention, a lousy liar in general—but he could keep a secret, when he had to. And this particular one was a long-ingrained habit.)
“Ah,” the magus said, as though just discovering something. “There’s a bit of build-up on the fuse, from where it wasn’t quite properly plugged in; not enough to be visible, but enough to keep the contacts from connecting—which explains why it doesn’t look blown. Do some thorough and careful cleaning of both points—say, maybe ten minutes’ work?—and everything should be fine.”
“That’s a relief,” Issei said with a sigh. “You once again live up to your reputation as a miracle-worker, Emiya-kun.”
“You’re exaggerating,” Shirou denied. “It’s a simple problem, with a simple fix; you could’ve worked it out without me, if you’d known what to look for.”
“Nevertheless, I am profoundly grateful,” the other boy said earnestly. “And once more, in your debt.”
Shirou sighed, resolving to just let it go. Issei just wasn’t the type to not give people credit, even for the simplest, everyday things . . .
(He flinched, suddenly feeling like Saber, Tohsaka and Sakura-chan were frowning at him, for some reason. And Ilya was smirking, which felt worse.)
Removing the fuse in question, Shirou continued, “Anyways, if you have a fine wire-brush and some cloths, I can—”
The red-haired magus’s words and train of thought were brought to a sudden halt as his foot struck a randomly-jutting object unexpectedly—but sadly, his momentum was not. With a cry of alarm, Shirou abruptly found himself careening into a tower of knick-knacks, which proceeded to add insult to injury by half-collapsing atop him upon impact.
“Good heavens!” Issei exclaimed, alarmed. “Emiya-kun, are you all right?”
Shirou grunted, feeling no major injuries (even allowing for his acquired pain tolerance) as he slowly crawled out of the debris he’d been partially buried under. “I’m fine—lost the fuse, though.”
“That’s of far less concern than your health!” the other boy admonished. “Are you certain you should be moving?”
“I’m fine,” he stressed. “Here, let me help you pick some of this up . . .”
Ignoring Issei’s protests, he rose to a crouch, and began reaching for fallen items. Noting a stack of photographs half-spilled from a box, he began to pick them up, careful not to damage them. Once he had them all, he flipped them over in preparation to see if they were meant to be in a particular order—
And froze.
“. . . Issei,” Shirou asked, “what’s this?”
He was very proud of his efforts to seem nonchalant; his voice sounded almost perfectly level.
“May I see?” his friend requested, hand held out. Receiving the stack, he flipped them back over, muttering, “There should be—ah, here it is. ‘Cotton Drifting Festival, Furude Shrine, Hinamizawa Village: June 19, 1983.’” He looked up, frowning. “I vaguely remember that trip. Father wished to help an old friend’s family, following some tragedy—or series of them, I’m unsure of which. In my defence, I was only six, and did not quite grasp his meaning at the time.”
“‘Hinamizawa?’” Shirou repeated. “Where’s that? I can’t say I’ve ever heard of it.”
“I’m unsurprised,” Issei remarked. “He said it was very small—even compared to here—not at all modern, and quite some distance . . . If I remember right, it was supposed to be somewhere on Honshu.” He tilted his head inquisitively. “Where does this sudden curiosity come from, Emiya-kun?”
“Oh,” Shirou said, caught by surprise. Nevertheless, he went with a portion of the truth, as it would be credible. “It just struck me as weird, you know—the American in the photograph really sticks out against the background, and I wondered why he was there.”
Issei flipped the photograph over, and blinked. “Ah—of course, I understand. That was what prompted my questions, too, when I saw this photograph the first time. I don’t recall that Father was sure himself, honestly; though I do recall he said the man was quite polite and soft-spoken, I think—yes. His exact words were, ‘I was surprised that such a quiet voice could come out of someone so big . . .’”
The other boy trailed off, frowning suddenly. “I seem to recall something my father said afterwards about some sort of fuss being made about him, but I don’t know what about—I simply have the impression that it was bad.” He shook his head. “As I said, I was very young when I heard the story, and it was long ago. Nonetheless, I’m sorry I can’t be more enlightening to you—we could go ask my father, if you wish?”
“That’s fine, Issei,” Shirou reassured him hastily. “It’s just something odd, piquing my curiosity—there’s no real need to trouble yourself over it.”
Avalon Castle, Phantasmagoria Island (Grail Works, Ltd. Headquarters)
Outside the boundaries of time and space
Shirou stormed through the door from his house, demanding in a near-panic, “ILYA—how and WHY would or could Frid-san have wound up in a village in Honshu, in 1983?!”
Cries of Confusion, Part 3
Writer's Note: Part 2 has been revised, as I accidentally confused Issei's rendition of events with my plans for another character entirely - sorry about that. I guess I'm too used to thinking in ten-year gaps when thinking of TYPE-MOON . . . :rolleyes:
Continuing . . .
Angel Mort
Okinomiya, Shishbone City
May 29, 1983
Shion Sonozaki was wiping down a table for the thirteenth time (or so it felt like, at least) when the bells jingled, signalling a customer.
Looking up, she couldn’t make out much detail, as they were essentially a silhouette backlit by the late afternoon sun, but her first impression was “big.” Then the door closed, leaving only the restaurant’s lighting, and the sight combined with the smell had her think that a walking corpse had somehow stumbled in.
He was clearly an outsider to the area, as she’d not seen him before—that he was a foreigner was actually a little harder to distinguish, as only the shape of his face made it clear; his exposed flesh was too deep a red to judge its original hue. That, plus the glistening of that skin, and the dampness of his shirt (not to mention the smell) indicated that he’d been out in the sun for far too long. His eyes were more noticeable for being bloodshot than for their colour, as well as the bruise-coloured circles underneath them. His dark hair was matted to his skull, and his posture was unsure; more swaying in place than standing.
Overall, he gave the impression was someone who was extremely drunk, drugged, or ill, and liable to either throw up or pass out at any moment—so Shion was startled to hear him speak in remarkably clear and polite, if slow (and very hoarse) Japanese.
“Sorry for the intrusion—could I have a glass of water, and directions to a hotel? Hospital? Police . . .? I can pay . . .”
The care with which he spoke gave made her think that he was concentrating very hard—trying to remember words from a phrase book, maybe. Or maybe he actually was about to pass out, and it was just that hard to speak. But it was the way he stood, in those moments that he wasn’t wavering, that struck Shion most; he looked exhausted, defeated . . .
Most of all, he looked broken, and while Shion hadn’t yet fallen so far—she’d never be in her present position if she had, instead, likely still locked up in St. Lucia’s—but she would be lying if she claimed never to have seen shadows of that expression in the mirror.
When (she’d allowed herself to think that she would never see Satoshi-kun again, to wonder where he was, what had happened to him) Shion had been at her lowest, there had always been someone there to pick her up (her sister, Kasai, her uncle, Satoshi-kun) and they would want her to return the favour, right . . .?
“O – of course, sir,” she said aloud, stumbling a little on her words as she decided on her course of action. “Just a moment—Master!”
The manager of the restaurant wasn’t too hard to convince; granted, Shion was the employee, but she’d worked for him for a while, now, after all (and more importantly, he was well-aware of her connections). With a painfully-visible effort on his part, the poor tourist (?) followed her towards a corner table, out of sight—something standard in the design of Angel Mort’s franchises, as there were always customers who wanted privacy for certain reasons . . .
He barely managed to avoid collapsing into a sprawl on the booth’s padded seat and apologised for the display, which surprised her again—weren’t Americans supposed to be rude?
“It’s nothing,” Shion assured him professionally. “Now, I’ll be right back with some water—in the meantime, please use these if you’d like to clean up a bit.” She set one of her unused cleaning cloths on the table, and a package of baby wipes.
“Thank you,” the man uttered, bowing as deeply as the confines of the seat allowed.
“It’s nothing,” she repeated. “I’ll just be a moment, sir . . .”
She came back with one of the parfait glasses and a pitcher of ice-water. Again to her surprise, he didn’t gulp at it, as she’d have expected a man dying of thirst would, instead slowly sipping—but it was clear he savoured it. Still, to both know of the risks of simply gorging on water after being so dehydrated, and have the presence of mind to remember it under such clearly trying circumstances . . .? She’d certainly made such mistakes before.
(Like a certain would-be lunch date . . .)
It was impressive, in a way, and made her wonder just how someone who hinted at possessing such apparent competence had wound up the way he had—but then again, it wasn’t as though her own life didn’t contain plenty of similar examples . . .
“Thank you,” he repeated, much more clearly, and Shion blinked. His voice made him sound a lot younger than she’d thought—maybe closer to her age than Kasai’s? How did you tell with foreigners, exactly? So far, the only she knew for sure about him was that he wasn’t blond . . .
The whimsical thought flitted through her head that anime had lied to her.
A few minutes later, after half the pitcher was gone (and he’d asked where the bathroom was), she was giving directions to the Suekino Hotel. Aside from being where most of their tourist patrons stayed (for the rare tourists they got, anyway), it was one of several places she’d looked at as a possible refuge on breaking out of the Academy, so she knew the address.
“Thank you,” he said again. “Now, if you’ll bring me the check, I’ll be going.”
“Are you sure I can’t bring you anything else?” Shion asked, in that coaxing tone used by waitresses the world over.
“The water was more than I honestly expected to receive,” he assured her, “and it’s all I needed. The quiet rest and pleasant company were a welcome bonus.”
Shion felt her cheeks redden, a little. He didn’t sound like he was flirting; that, she knew how to handle, but the statement was too matter-of-fact for that.
“Then it’s OK,” she said. “A little water isn’t worth worrying about.”
His eyebrows rose. “Are you certain?”
“I’m sure,” Shion assured him. It really didn’t cost much; her paycheque could take the hit. The worst part of it would be that she’d owe the manager a favour, and she could handle that, too.
She didn’t mind taking advantage of people, when she could—she’d been chastised about it more than once, in fact—but there were limits.
The foreigner gave her a long look, causing her blush to return. “. . . I see.” He closed his eyes and looked thoughtful for a moment, and then opened them again and called in a raised voice, “Master?”
The manager appeared. “Yes, sir?”
The foreigner smiled without showing teeth. “I did get that right—good.” He reached into his pocket, and pulled out a battered-looking wallet.
“I am told, Master, that the Western custom of tipping is not looked well on in Japan,” he began, speaking slowly again. “Because good service is expected of employees, and they are compensated by the company for meeting those expectations. However, I would like to show my appreciation of your gracious understanding of my circumstances, and for the kindness of the young lady—because in my opinion, both are beyond what could reasonably be expected.
“And because kindness should always be rewarded,” he added quietly but firmly, looking at her, “though in my experience, it rarely is.”
He removed a stack of bills, counting off two and laying them on the table. “For your understanding . . .” Three more were added to the pile. “And for the young lady’s kindness.”
He specifically used “ojou-sama” to refer to her—a title she more often heard referring to her sister.
“Whatever you do with it, I feel you have earned it,” he finished, rising to his feet. “Thank you for your hospitality, and my apologies for the trouble.”
He bowed—again, not quite as well as a native, but as well as might be expected of a foreigner trying to be polite—and left, saying “Have a good day Master, and Mis—”
“Sonozaki,” she said hastily, seizing on the opening. “Sonozaki Shion.”
His eyebrows rose. “Your parents have an interesting sense of humour, Sonozaki-san—naming you ‘remembrance,’ when you’re so difficult to forget . . .” That toothless smile showed again. “Until later.”
He left, and Shion stared after the most interesting thing to happen to her in almost a year, not quite sure what to do next, when the manager’s voice startled her out of her contemplation.
“—rate, that’s almost twenty thousand yen for a few glasses of water and some directions,” he muttered. “I wish every bum off the street paid this well; I’d sell this place and open a soup kitchen . . .”
She blinked. While it wouldn’t be the first time she’d handled a tourist with no understanding of Japanese money, they rarely made this big an error. Glancing at the bills in the manager’s hands, she noted they were foreign currency.
Definitely looks American . . . But still, that much?
Shion was no stranger to seeing loads of money being thrown around casually. While very little of it had ever been spent on her, the Sonozaki family was both powerful and ridiculously wealthy compared to most people she knew. Still, it seemed odd for a tourist in that bad a condition to have that kind of money in the first place; she’d have thought he was mugged, going by the look of him—and who would do that and leave him his money?
Now she was curious. Who was this guy? How did come to be here, and to end up like that? Shion resolved to call her sister when she got off work. She would either know about him, or be able to find out; it couldn’t be that hard for her to learn more about a stranger in their area who looked—
(Grateful. He’d looked at her, and been grateful . . . When had anybody done that before . . .?)
Suekino Hotel
One hour later
For once, his luck wasn’t all bad. The hotel concierge had been willing to accept his American currency, and arrange for laundry service, while providing a bathrobe while he waited; and all at a very reasonable price. This meant that he could bathe and sleep in relative modesty, without worrying overmuch about his appearance, or spending all his available funds. Apparently, the restaurant waitress was apparently not just nice, but indicative of how friendly place this was, even above the normal reputation of the Japanese for courtesy.
Apparently, I hit the jackpot when it comes to “places to get stuck in,” Frid mused.
Now clean (after much, much scrubbing, the loss of at least three layers of skin, and possible second-degree burns) and gowned, he tried his first step towards fixing his problems.
“Ilya?” he called experimentally.
Nothing.
“Not especially surprising, given the last time,” he muttered. “I think . . .?”
By now, he’d more or less accepted that he’d been involved in “the Great Holy Grail War” somehow, but what memories he had of it were still fragmented. How he’d wound up here, he still didn’t know; and he still had the sense that there was something missing; not just the memories, but . . . He’d been an Exalt, hadn’t he? That status didn’t just stop—Exaltations only ended with the death of the host, followed by its passing to someone else. And while it was possible to destroy one, he thought, the host wasn’t going to survive the process . . .
“All right,” he told himself, “focus on what you know, or can deduce.
“I’m somewhere in Japan I’ve never heard of—it could be real, or fictional. Judging by the English undertone I could hear when I concentrated on people’s speech, though, it’s some kind of Japanese media; it’s the same effect I got when listening to the Misaki and Fuyuki crews. They sound like I expect them to when they talk, and if they have multiple voice actors, then it depends on who I expect . . .”
For example, when she was actually trying to use English, Rin switched to Mela Lee’s voice rather than Kana Ueda’s, at least to his ears. It took a bit of getting used to, but he’d managed.
“Given that things are apparently a lot cheaper than I’d expect, and there’s no sign of a debit machine anywhere, this place is either seriously rural, or it’s the setting of a historical piece of some kind,” Frid continued. “Odd timeframe if the latter, though—unless it’s a Makoto Shinkai or Studio Ghibli piece, maybe . . .?”
He couldn’t think of anybody else that did late-twentieth-century era stuff without obvious anachronisms like robots, UFOs, or the like. And he’d only seen the first couple of the former’s works, and was almost as behind on the latter, so it was certainly possible—and even of those he’d seen, it’d been a while. Short of spotting Kiki zooming overhead on her broom, he wasn’t likely to recognise anything easily.
“Can’t contact the Works directly,” he muttered. “And I don’t know if I even have the capacity to utilise a summoning circle—”
His last identity had been a magus, but if he was no longer a Lunar Exalt, did he still have access to that shape . . .? The fact that he (mostly) looked like Godafrid Úa Súilleabháin was, if not coincidental, just lucky—if he didn’t even resemble what little identification he had on him . . .
“Too tired to think,” he decided at last. “Not injured that I can tell, and there was that library we passed on the way here—go to bed, and worry about it all after sleep.”
And if he happened not to wake up, well . . . It wouldn’t actually be his problem anymore, would it?
Frid sighed as he collapsed on the bed.
“At least this is a nice, peaceful place for a vacation—involuntary or not . . .”
Contrary to his usual patterns, he was asleep almost the instant his head hit the pillow. This was unfortunate, because he had stayed awake, he might’ve realised the sin he’d just committed: He had tempted Fate—and as Frid himself had spent so many years fondly reminding people who did so, the woman had no self-control.
He would later look back on his statement in that moment and laugh . . .