Magical Sailor Fuku

He walked out the door. In retrospect, this was perhaps the worst possible thing he could have done. But, as this was currently the present and therefore lacking in 20/20 hindsight, he walked out the door anyway. He couldn’t help it, after all; the proverbial worm in the woodwork had spent the last week chewing away at the foundation of his head, and acute paranoia, coupled with a migraine painful enough to be described as “It Bob hurts!” had spurred him towards the door and the crisp November air at last. He hit the pavement at a near run and set out into the lonely streets.

Lonely, of course, was purely subjective in this case. Dozens of people bustled along and tried to appear busy, and traffic was a stop-and-go affair. Compared to the hundreds usually seen, however, the city looked damn empty. He paid the scant many no mind as he trudged down the street, unsure of where he was going or, indeed, why he was out and about in the first place. He figured something would come to him eventually and let his feet lead the way. They were very good feet, you know, and had never failed to take him where he needed to go.

The wind picked up a bit, and he found himself sticking to side streets. Here was where he first noticed something was off. In a city as large as this, he fully expected to run into drug dealers or other miscreants he passed through back alleys. But there was no one. Not a single, twisted soul jumped out from the shadows to offer him a good trip or to send him on a not-so-good one. He felt, for a moment, like the last man in the world, wandering aimlessly among the wastelands of civilization. The whole thing was… was downright spooky. He pondered it for a moment, unaware that his pain had ceased.

He snapped back to reality as a trash can fell clattering to the ground behind him, and turned around just in time to see the one responsible – or rather, to catch a glimpse of a shadow skittering across the corner of his vision. A sudden burst of intuition seized him: This was the worm, the gibbering bit of madness that had drawn him outside. He had just walked straight into a trap and tugged on the carrot.

The stick was pulled, the door swung shut, and the iron bar came crashing down.

He walked out the door. In retrospect, this was perhaps the worst possible thing he could have done. But, as this was currently the present and therefore lacking in 20/20 hindsight, he walked out the door anyway. He couldn’t help it, after all; the proverbial worm in the woodwork had spent the last week chewing away at the foundation of his head, and acute paranoia, coupled with a migraine painful enough to be described in no less than five words banned by international treaty, had spurred him towards the door and the crisp November air at last. Hitting the pavement at a near run, he set out into the lonely streets.

Lonely, of course, was purely subjective in this case. A good two dozen pedestrians, hurrying along and looking as busy as possible to avoid any real social interaction, coupled with traffic that hitched along in lazy outbursts, seemed awfully crowded to, say, a recent immigrant from the Antarctic, but city folk were used to crowds easily ten or fifteen times this. In any case, it was nothing more than a passing curiosity for our erstwhile shmuck, and he paid the scant many little mind as he set an easy pace up the boulevard, trusting his feet to pick the destination (hopefully somewhere without any sudden drops).

Eventually, he found himself moving into side-streets and alleyways as the wind picked up and reminded him that he was not, in fact, dressed for success, let alone thirty-four degree temperatures. It was several minutes before he realized that, now, he was truly alone. Despite the city’s reputation for muggings, drug deals, and other assorted violence, his trip through the alleyways had met with not one person offering a “nice trip”, or any willing and able to send him on one that wasn’t so nice. The place was completely and utterly empty. He felt, for a moment, like the last man in the world, wandering aimlessly among the wastelands of civilization. The whole thing was… was downright spooky. He pondered it for a moment, unaware the dreaded migraines had ceased.

He snapped back to reality as a trash can fell clattering to the ground behind him, and turned around just in time to see… nothing. Just an ordinary, almost cliché, alley: A few dumpsters here and there, a fire escape, a chain-link fence at the far en-

Wait a moment, he thought. Didn’t I just pass by this way? He was sure there hadn’t been a fence just a moment ago. Curious, he walked over and put his hand on it. Cold metal, a bit springy when he pressed on it. Definitely a fence. He decided to make nothing of it and headed back out towards the street.

Except another fence blocked his way.

He leaned on this one, sure he was hallucinating now and he would fall flat on the pavement. But sure enough, gravity was thwarted in its attempt to make a fool of him. He suddenly realized that he wasn’t in an ungodly amount of pain anymore. Panic set in. I’ve walked into a trap! an irrational part of him screamed. The other parts tried their best to dismiss the thought as rubbish, but the “A-hem!” from behind him propelled it into orbit. He’d walked into a trap, alright, and it seemed he’d tugged rather hard on the carrot on a string.

The stick was pulled, the door swung shut, and the iron bar came crashing down.


None of those metaphors, however, came anywhere near describing the truth of what transpired. There was no grand trap, no flash of ethereal light, no woman appearing out of nowhe- well, that one did occur. There was no dramatic special effect, however; she was simply there, standing in a spot inhabited only by dust and various microbes a moment before (the microbes were reported missing, presumed dead). She was dressed in an extravagantly simplistic dress, a flowing, clingy thing of blood-red cloth that, on anyone else, would be more accurately described as “rags”. Her hair was long and raven, that particular shade of black too conceited to let itself be lumped in with the likes of coal and oil. Her eyes were most striking, with their strange way of being no color and every color, all at once. His first thought (or rather, the first thought appropriate enough to be recorded) was angel, followed closely behind by demon, vampire, and alien. He wondered if she spoke English. He also wondered how she was in bed.

She cleared her throat again, loudly, to get his attention, frowning a bit as she looked him over.

“Well, you’re pretty scrawny, guy,” she said with no small amount of disdain. Then, as an afterthought, “… You are a guy, aren’t you?”

He shattered the image that had crept its way into the back of his mind, of a beautiful and kindhearted visitor. This woman was utterly lacking in any sort of modesty, clearly hated him, and likely didn’t have a compassionate bone in her body – assuming she had bones, of course. Attempting his best scowl – the sort that might get a trophy for participation but was otherwise thoroughly unimpressive – he answered, “I am. You are a woman, right?”

She scoffed. “Unoriginal, as well. I was hoping for a bass, but it seems I’ve caught a minnow… Regardless, tell me your name.”

He told her.

“And such a common name! My word, you’ve got to be the most utterly generic human I’ve ever seen!” The woman actually squealed a bit as she said this, as if she were a schoolgirl and he was some furry thing in a cage. Regaining her composure slightly, she continued. “Well, I think you’ll do nicely, human. Tell me: Do you desire… eternity?”

UberLurker wrote:A few random things which confused me were the xeno-holy-demon-vampire lady saying “… You are a guy, aren’t you?”, which made the protagonist sound to be a rather androgynous fellow, followed by “And such a common name! My word, you’ve got to be the most utterly generic human I’ve ever seen!”. Since a generic man is definately not androgynous and clearly recognizable as a man her two comments don't make a whole lot of sense together. Not that they have to.

Using italics for emphasis is all fine and dandy, but be sure you don't do it too much or it gets old quick. I'd say you're sort of toeing the line, okay for now but make sure not to use them any more often.

The book had sat on a shelf in the back of the library for years, unseen and unbidden. Most who browsed the nonfiction section were students looking for reference books, and those who weren’t always fell into one of two groups: the curious, and the occultists. Old Harris was known, after all, for his repertoire of books on spiritualism and the paranormal, a few even penned by Harris himself in his younger days.

But this book was special, in a sense. The title was unknown; despite being clearly printed, in English, on the spine, no one who looked at it could ever quite recall what it said. The inside was no better, filled with more of the “evasive” text and macabre illustrations that had only contributed to a reputation of the tome being cursed. Because of this, only the most devoted of occultists even bothered picking up the book in the first place, and none of them held it for more than a few minutes before wedging it back between Harris’ own “30 Things You Didn’t Know Ghosts Were Into” and “Meals to Die For: Cooking For the Spirits in Your Life” (neither of which had been bestsellers by any stretch of the imagination, but had at least sold better than “Zombifying Your Children”).

The old bookkeeper scarcely noticed the kid as he perused the cramped aisles. After all, he was just one more in a long line of boys and girls who came to the library either because it was close or because of Old Harris’ reputation as the local nutcase. This most recent arrival seemed not to care about the latter, and he meandered toward the back with the presence of one who spent time around books and damn well didn’t need-any-help-finding-anything-sir. Harris looked over when the boy finally stopped to peer at something, his eyes dancing as if they couldn’t quite find anything to focus on. The librarian sighed, knowing that he’d have to endure another round of pointless questions about that book.

“Hey, Mister? What’s this one?” he asked predictably. Harris opened his mouth to respond just as the boy rattled off a title.

He paused for a moment, unsure of exactly what he’d just heard. “Er, could you repeat that, son? I’m afraid my ears aren’t what they used to be,” he lied. Everyone knew that, despite his age, Harris had the hearing of a safecracker. The boy once again named a title, perfectly enunciated with a grace well beyond his years. And yet, for the life of him, Old Harris couldn’t remember what it was. He asked the boy to repeat himself one more time, digging in his ear with a gnarled finger.

The boy read aloud from the spine one more time, but the old bookkeeper seemed as perplexed as before. After a moment he shrugged, figuring it would be faster to just read the book himself than try to ask the old man about it. Flipping to a page near the front, he read the first words…



“’Eternity?’ Listen, Ma’am,” he said. “You seem like a nice… whatever you are, and all, but I’m afraid you’ll have to find someone else to peddle, uh, whatever it is you’re peddling to.” He was relieved for the first time in several minutes. She was just a dealer, that was all! Some sort of… teleporting dealer, but a dealer nonetheless. One enigma solved, he turned away and strode toward where he hoped there was an opening, looking very much the smug idiot.

Precisely three strides later, a conveniently placed banana peel sent him crashing to the pavement. The otherworldly woman’s sandals – honest-to-god straw sandals! he thought to himself – made slight scuffing noises as she crouched, bringing her face as close as she seemed to dare to his.

“You will not walk away, human,” she said, her tone of annoyance suggesting she was the type that liked things her way.

“I’m sorry, I don’t make it a habit to associate with strange women in back alleys,” he replied, keeping his gaze locked squarely on her shifting eyes. He braced himself for a kick or knife that didn’t come. Instead, the woman helped him to his feet brusquely and took a step back while he brushed himself off, tapping her foot expectantly.

“Well?” she asked after a moment.

“Well what?” he asked in reply.

“You’re going to ask who I am and what I’m doing here, aren’t you?”

“Oh,” he said, simply. He wondered if there was some trick he wasn’t getting. A brief glance at his surroundings revealed no obvious cameras. “Uh, alright then. Who are–“

“I am an Envoy,” she said dramatically. “I’ve come to fulfill the terms of the Contract.”

He waited for an explanation. She waited for an answer. Or a look of terrible understanding. Or for him to bolt down the street, he wasn’t sure which. He shrugged his shoulders, clueless as to what she’d meant with such a cryptic statement.

The “Envoy’s” shoulders slumped in frustration. “Honestly!” she practically shouted in annoyance, “Did you read the damn book, or is Moron your first language!?”