Chapter 0.5

“So?” Kazuo asked when Reiko returned later that afternoon. His eyes were distracted by something on the monitor. When Reiko leaned in, she saw him playing Solitaire. “How were they?”

“Why don’t you ask them yourself?” Reiko replied. “They’re waiting in the lounge.”

“That good, huh?” Kazuo chuckled. “I sure know how to pick ‘em–”

“You’ve got a sick sense of humor, chief,” Reiko growled. “What do you know about her?”

“Who’s–”

“Don’t play with me,” Reiko warned. “The girl. Fujiko.”

“I know as much about her as you do, which is to say, I know nothing at all.”

“You’re lying.”

Kazuo looked away from his deadlocked game and folded his hands on his desk.

“Believe whatever you want, Captain Nakamura,” he replied, “but given your reaction, it’s safe to say that we’re reached the same opinion. You and I knew the moment we saw her that she needs to be here, in Section Eight.”

“Or locked up in a basement.”

“Where do you think we’re standing, captain?”

Reiko sighed.

“Whatever. If those three are going to be here, I want to put them to work right away,” she said. “Do you want to come out and say something or are you too busy with your card game?”

Kazuo surrendered with his hands and stood up to fetch the cane leaning by his desk.

“For your information, you came at a bad time,” he said. “I had just gotten off the phone with that businesswoman before you walked in.”

“Not the first time you’ve used that excuse.”

“I’m quite serious this time,” Kazuo frowned. “Apparently she’s quite the local darling. Have you ever heard of a Mrs. Polar Bear?”

“I’m afraid I’m not familiar.”

“Well, I have a feeling you two will be seeing each other quite a bit from now on.”

Kazuo followed Reiko to the other end of the office, past the central library and its clearings of bookstacks that stood taller than either of them. There sat a hallway at the other end. Kazuo had never decorated it, and so it possessed the same mundane features like the other hallways littered across the Public Safety Commission headquarters.

The two of them overheard voices as they approached the lounge.

“Can you believe it? We’re going to be security for Egregore Seven. The Egregore.”

“Don’t lean in so closely.”

“I’ve been following Witch Fang Fang since before she ascended. I wonder if the newest Egregore will make a public appearance. You know, the Russian one? The one they call Ba–”

“Like I said, stop leaning in so closely, and why are you dressed like that? It’s creeping me out.”

“You’ve never watched anime before, Fujimoto?”

Much like the rote hallway outside, the lounge was a standard issue room that Kazuo had never properly furnished. It hosted a trio of musty, black leather couches. The countertops were stocked with instant coffee sticks, an assortment of ceramic mugs, a miniature sink, and two generously large electric kettles.

Reiko found Miyuki invading Mamoru’s personal space upon one of the couches. Her eyes dazzled as if imaginarium was used to enlighten them. Fujiko, on the other hand, stood reservedly alone by the countertop, both her eyes resting closed.

“Hello,” Reiko said. “Help yourself to some of the instant coffee on the counter if you wish. It’s not good, but neither Kazuo or I come here often. We’ll make some changes, now that you’re all here.”

“Kazuo?” Miyuki said. “You’re the professor who came up with Elio?”

“Well, ‘came up with,’” Kazuo bracketed his words in air quotes. “I helped with Elio’s creation the same way you would say you wrote a novel using a spellchecker.”

“Right,” Reiko continued. “This is Section Chief Kazuo Shinomiya, head of Section Eight. Our boss.”

“Our boss?” Mamoru repeated. “We don’t get a chance to say yes or no?”

“Oh, would you like that chance, Fujimoto?” Reiko crossed her arms. “Fine. If you don’t want the job, the elevator’s back that way.”

Mamoru didn’t move. Neither did Miyuki or Fujiko.

“That’s what I thought,” Reiko continued. “Please keep your combative thoughts to yourself, please. If you’re curious about your salary, Kazuo will handle your advance pay. For now, I need all three of you to get ready for work.”

Reiko tapped the air in front of her.

“Elio,” she incanted. Verdant imaginarium flowed into the lounge.

“As I’m sure you’ve guessed, we use Elio for more than just testing new recruits,” Reiko said. “It’s also how we share information and store evidence. You are all responsible for learning how to incant it on your own. If you need help, you can ask me or the chief.”

With a snap of her fingers, a bundle of photographs and newspaper clippings pinned to a floating chalkboard blurred into view behind her.

“Before we arrange security for the tea party, you’re going to help me solve a case, a cold one from ten years ago,” Reiko explained. “The higher ups have given us a week to solve it. Any more than that, and the book gets closed on this one. Forever.”

Reiko dragged her hand over one of the photographs. She spread her index and thumb, and the image expanded for the rest of the room to see.

A polaroid depicted a woman. She wore a flowery white gown and a crown of roses. She lay sprawled out over a concrete floor atop a pool of blood, her thin eyes stricken, her mouth agape. In the center of her body, the gown had been cut in a near perfect circle, and a runic sigil, taking the shape of infinity, had been burned into her stomach.

“This is Case Number 4009,” Reiko said. “You may be more familiar with its popular name in the papers. The Brideskiller.”

“This was that serial killer in south Sapporo?” Mamoru asked. “I think my parents convinced my sister not to marry that year because of them.”

“Oh, I remember this one,” Miyuki gasped. “Wasn’t there a celebrity that was one of the victims?”

“That’s right. You’re looking at her,” Reiko nodded. “This is Sakura Suzuki, a young singer who took leave from her agency because she had just gotten married. Two days later, local Sapporo police found her like this. Over the next twelve months, ten other women were found with the same sigil burned into their stomach. No connection between the women were ever found, except–”

“Except they were all recently married,” Mamoru murmured. “If I remember correctly, some of them were also bearing children.”

“That’s right, Fujimoto. I didn’t take you for a crime enthusiast.”

“It’s in the killer’s name, captain. It’s not that complicated.”

“Wait,” Miyuki raised her hand.

“You don’t have to raise your hand, Kobayashi.”

“Oh. Right,” Miyuki blushed. “What I meant to ask was, why do the sigils on the victim’s bodies not possess any Existence Formulae?”

“What are you talking about?” Mamoru frowned. “We’re looking at a picture.”

“No. We’re not,” Miyuki shook her head. “This dimension’s imaginarium does not exist in The Now. It reflects The Past. The photographs you think you’re seeing are just filmic snapshots of a real person’s memory.”

“Okay, nerd,” Mamoru rolled his eyes. “But you’re forgetting something. It’s not possible for magic sigils to not have formulae. All magic has a signature, the Existence Formula, that sustains its permanence in The Now. If it doesn’t have one, it can’t be magic.”

“So what’s your verdict, Fujimoto?” Reiko asked.

“Simple. The culprit wasn’t a mage,” Mamoru shrugged. “The sigils are a red herring. It’s probably just a drawing. It’s meant to make you think that there’s magic involved.”

Reiko glanced at Fujiko.

“Kazama?” she said. “You’ve been quiet. Do you have any thoughts?”

Fujiko paused, then breathed a reluctant sigh.

“It is as Fujimoto says,” she replied. “All magic requires a formula to underwrite its existence. If there is no formula, the sigils should have long since disappeared.”

“Exactly,” Mamoru nodded, “which is why–”

“However,” Fujiko interrupted and pointed at the hanging polaroids, her eyes still closed. “Those sigils are magical.”

“That doesn’t make any sense!”

“Let her finish, Fujimoto,” Reiko’s voice sharpened.

“I don’t know how it’s being achieved,” Fujiko shook her head, “but the sigils are made of imaginarium, which means they have to be magical in nature.”

Miyuki palmed her forehead.

“Of course,” she said. “It’s the Null Field Paradox, when you create undefined imaginarium constructs.”

“You just made that up,” Mamoru snorted.

In response, Miyuki quickly leaned closer towards him.

“Think about it this way, Fujimoto,” she explained. “How do you erase the imaginarium weapons that you incant into your hands?”

“I-I mean,” Mamoru stammered. “I just disperse them.”

“Yes,” Miyuki nodded, “but to do so also requires imaginarium.”

“Whatever,” Mamoru grumbled. “What’s your point?”

“I’m getting there. Now, let’s say theoretically, you could use less magic to disperse your weapons than it took to incant them. That means, in theory, you’ve created more imaginarium from nothing. Do this infinitely, and you’ll have accumulated more magic than at the disposal of every Egregore that’s ever lived.”

Reiko watched Mamoru’s brow furrow with confusion. But seconds later, his gaze hardened and his left hand drifted to his chin in rapt contemplation.

“Incantation,” he murmured. “Contender.”

The pistol that Mamoru had summoned earlier dropped into his right palm. Mamoru clenched his fist and the weapon dissolved into thin particles. He repeated this gesture several more times and shook his head.

“I can’t be certain,” he said, “but the imaginarium it takes to incant and then dissolve the weapon are effectively the same amount.”

“I believe Miss Kobayashi’s point,” Fujiko joined in, “is that if you were to compare the exact imaginarium required of both tasks, the difference would be non-zero.”

 “Exactly,” Miyuki replied. “The Null Field Paradox states that an infinitesimally small amount of imaginarium, a Null Field with no Existence Formula, is always created to prevent an infinite accumulation of imaginarium.” 

“But,” Mamoru squinted his eyes trying to wrap his head around the idea, “Okay, but if that’s really the case, then what disperses the Null Field?”

“That’s the paradox,” Miyuki pointed at the pictures. “Someone has done the impossible. They’ve accumulated enough null imaginarium that it’s become visible to us as a magical object. There’s one thing that jumps to mind.”

“Someone’s committed Taboo.”