01 Fuyukage North High, Hallways / A Winter Light

There he goes, tonight's main attraction.

The nameless outsider.

'Transfer Student' in his own tongue, three pairs of syllables rendered locally.

Te-n.

Ko-u.

Se-i.

Count it out, six beats of a phantom metronome, announcing in graceful time the measured yet paradoxically gaining footfalls of his pursuer behind him.

The very shadow (or is she Light?) he aims to flee from.

Not knowing why he's even being chased.

Not understanding the reason for his persecution.

Watch him now: the baffled first-year, the fear-stricken adolescent. All 4'12" of him. (Due for another growth spurt. Any day, now.) Tearing frantically down the empty hallway of his high school. Brows knit, lungs on fire. Sweat cold to the touch.

Watch too: his slanting two-dimensional doppelganger, longer than he is tall, by each step unanchored, then anchored again, to his indoor slippers (uwabaki! uwabaki!), running alongside him at an oblique angle, elongated, over classroom doors, over bulletin boards, conjured by the last of the day's light shining in through the unbroken row of windows to his side.

View of the empty school courtyard, ignored. Sun sinking into the mountains beyond. Orange haze.

He cannot see her. But he hears her.

"Traaaaansfer stuuuu-dent," she sings, voice echoing down the hall. "Bluuuue-eyyyes …"

She is behind him. She is beside him.

She is in his head.

She is everywhere, all at once.

"Oh, traaaansfer stuuu-dent …"

Himekawa Hikari.

Family name Himekawa, the princess, the river; given name Hikari. (Written as you'd expect, nothing complicated here.)

His senior, his senpai. Third-year to his first.

She saved his life, once. About a month ago.

~

Picture her sword, the very same one she's carrying now as she stalks him through the halls; picture it as it was then, catching the distant glint of a far-off streetlamp, as it sliced through the dark of an empty alleyway.

The blade's edge tracing invisible arcs, mere centimeters away from his face, his arms, his legs. Wherever the darkness gripped him.

"Better hold still, blue-eyes," she had advised, as she worked away at the shadows, hacking at the ink-black tendrils that bound him, that threatened to suck him into the gaping abyss behind him where, only a mere fifteen minutes before the scene in question, when he'd first stepped into the alleyway (gee, what a great shortcut this turned out to be), an unassuming brick wall had stood. "… Wouldn't want me to accidentally cut off a limb or two, would ya?"

Whoosh of air rushing past him with each swing. Sharp, somehow. Like papercuts, every time her blade passed.

"… Just pretend," she continued, voice cool, face blank, not even a hint of interest in the task at hand, "that I'm your barber. Close shave, get it? … Ah, what am I saying? Not like you even shave yet. … Actually, I'm just talking to myself, aren't I? Doubt that you even speak a lick of Japanese. How exactly did a pip-squeak grade-schooler like you end up in a desolate hellhole like Fuyu-no-kage-machi? Curious. Very curious. … (Where's your randoseru, kiddo?)"

And oh, how the transfer student would have loved to correct those haughty assumptions of hers at the time.

… To tell her that, first off, he could understand nihongo perfectly adequately, as he'd been speaking it since he was ten. (Writing kanji, well, hey, that was another story.)

And that secondly, his family had moved to Fuyukage, all the way from Tokyo, a little after the start of the term, thanks to his dad's work.

And also that, elementary school for him was, and this was crucial, not one, but exactly two graduation ceremonies ago, and, this being the case, his randoseru, which he only wore for about a year and a half at most anyway, was therefore tucked in a closet somewhere in his parents' room. (… Probably.)

And lastly, perhaps most importantly of all, that he actually did shave, thank you very much, it's just that his chin was super smooth right now because he just shaved, like, a few weeks ago, so he wasn't due for another half year or so.

… But seeing as how he was quickly losing consciousness at the time, all the transfer student could muster was an incoherent Mnghhngnngh, which vague, delirious mumbling Hikari could hardly hear anyway, his fading voice overpowered by the terrible, otherworldly shrieking that accompanied each freshly-severed tendril.

The rest of that night, he remembers now only in fits and starts.

Lying on the ground, looking up at the blank-faced, impassive beauty with the sword. Her long, black hair. Black hooded cloak to match, its crimson-lined interior. Underneath it, the familiar emblem of Fuyukage North High on her uniform blazer.

Ah, he thought, his very life fading from him through the gaping puncture wound in his side, courtesy of what must've been a stray tendril attack at some point during his binding. … So she's my senpai.

(… But wait, why haven't I ever seen her at school, then?)

And then her voice, cutting in and out as he drifted between perspectives, one at ground-level, the other floating (and he probably should've been more concerned, at the time, about this next part) high, much too high, above the alley, looking down below at the sight of himself, in the third person, his savior kneeling down next to him, tending to his wounds with a soft white glow, delivering elucidations unto him, those of which he retained to be delimited elliptically in his own future recollections, like so:

"… They're called 'Aberrations', blue-eyes. … Fuyu-no-kage's specialty. Won't find 'em anywhere else in Japan. The world, even. You can bet your bottom yen on that. … What are they? … (Hold still. Hold still. Stop squirming, you baby.) … Manifestations of the very same darkness which lurks in those places you oughta know better than to walk down at night. … (Say, not much in the way of self-preservation, huh, blue-eyes?) … No, seriously. Hold still. … Lucky I was on patrol. … I mean, then again, I guess I'm always on patrol. … The remnants of some atavistic malevolence that haunts this town. … This whole damn town. … Dunno why you're here, but you shouldn't've come, blue-eyes.

"Because nobody gets to leave.

"No. No, blue-eyes.

"… Nobody gets to leave."

No memory of how he found his way home afterwards. Safe in his bed. Cleaned up. Not a single physical trace of what had happened that night.

No wound, no scar. No pain.

In the weeks following, he asked around, about a long black-haired senpai.

That's how he learned her name. Her reputation among the student body.

The delinquent. The mad one. Notorious. Spoken of in hushed tones, with straightened backs, eyes avoidant.

And … And then?

And then, no more Aberrations.

No more Himekawa Hikari.

~

At least, not until today.

Earlier, in the middle of class. First sign of her in a month. Not as a face, or even a voice. But rather as a hand-written note, tucked into his homeroom desk.

Meet me in the classroom, blue-eyes. After everyone's gone.

- Hikari

And what had he expected? A sunset confession? Hands clasped demurely, thumbing the hem of her skirt? Reticent stammers, rose-flushed cheeks? I-I really like you, blue-eyes, p-please go out with me?

… Really, transfer student. Come on, now.

As if he had truly needed to see, when she finally showed up, in person, the heavy breathing and flared nostrils, the solid, unbroken whites of her eyes, the unsheathing of her sword, the loose and half-hearted damming of some antediluvian ferality barely withheld, finally bursting, giving way to that look of bloodlust bordering on, hey, what else could it be, but glee, yes sweet predatorial glee, her face animated in all the ways it wasn't that first night when she saved him, to know he wasn't about to land his first, steady or otherwise, potential girlfriend.

"Oh, traaaansfer-stuuudent …"

And now he is running, running.

Past the closed doors of empty classrooms, down empty hallways. Last of the day's light. Making for the entrance. Just a bit further, transfer student. His goal, the doors. As though past that arbitrary, pedogogical boundary line lies, if not his sudden extrication, then at least some hope for its possibility, in the courtyard beyond.

Outside, now. Chill evening air. He can't run any more. Doubled over, trying to catch what he can of his breath. P.E. was never his strong suit.

(Geez, transfer student, short and out of shape. Real catch, you. … Well, at least you showed a bit more self-preservation this round.)

He's facing the doors. Watching. He can't run anymore. He just can't.

She casually steps out into the courtyard. Sword in hand.

"… Your head on a pike, blue-eyes."

With her free hand, she puts up the hood of her black cloak.

"That's all I want. I'll make it fast. You won't even feel a thing."

Spoken coolly, not unlike how she sounded their first meeting, only this time tinged with an unmistakable, and it must be said, poorly-disguised, hint of wanton relish. (… S-say, did she lick her lips just now?)

Himekawa Hikari, less than a feet from him now. Face-to-face.

She raises her sword.

The transfer student shuts his eyes. Holds his breath.

"I told ya, blue-eyes. …"

A breeze blows by the pair.

"… Nobody ever leaves."

And then, finally: the sound of her blade, slicing through the air, aimed for his neck.

Whoosh.

Sharp, somehow. Like a papercut.