... And Into The Time-Out Box

I slept like shit.

Exhaustion and caffeine fought to a sad stalemate in my system, leaving me floating just below consciousness where fragmented dreams flit and dart like minnows; the waking world leaking in like the light playing on the rippling surface. The eerie beauty of crumbling safety glass flying away like a wave of glittering diamonds; the slender shadow tumbling end-for-end across bullet-chewed concrete; the blazing hellfire of the gator gods’ eyes as he sought me; eldritch presence rolling over me like his wet decaying swamp-stench; alien by way of unfathomable age. The grenade arcing into his mouth; the long shadow twirling as something knocks against asphalt and I’m turning too late as the potato masher tumbles and skips towards me–

–muscle memory responded; arm jerking my pistol free and my mind awake simultaneously. Sitting on the hood of my Humvee was a rather large crow giving me the stink-eye. He knocked on the window with his beak again.

I let my head flop back and rubbed my eyes – then shook my head violently as I felt exhaustion creeping back in. Dreams are always more vivid after real exhaustion, and mine were no slouches to start with. My watch said 3AM; the shadows in the lot said it was mid-afternoon.

I retrieved the cleaning kit from the glovebox and disembarked, setting it on the Humvee’s hood. The crow watched me pour the pond water out of it with a jaundiced look.

“Yeah, feeling’s mutual, buddy,” I grumbled at him as I wrung out a small padded mat and laid it down. “First a half-assed shifter, then a fast-food kami, and then a little travel-sized evil God. Why shouldn’t I have a discount raven knocking on my chamber door?”

The crow lowered his head and gave a low keening caaaw that gave me the impression he was calling me a wiseass. I drew my pistol, dropped the mag and cleared the chamber, and the crow snatched the ejected round from the air before I could. With a flurry of wings he launched off over my shoulder, managing a parting caaaaw! around the 230 grain Federal ball cartridge in his beak.

“Huh,” I said. “So much for the low crime statistics. I feel at home already.” I depressed the recoil spring plug, rotated the bushing out of the way and moved the slide back to the disassembly notch. Sliding the receiver off the frame, I liberated the spring and barrel, shaking excess moisture off them and lying them out to dry. I felt the mind fog clearing a little as I worked; familiar motions steadying my hands.

I was unloading the magazine when a voice rose behind me. “So it is a 1911.”

I started, almost losing my handful of rounds, and dumped them into the cleaning kit box as casually as possible before turning to look. The Boy Scout was approaching, outstretched hand offering me the magazine I’d spent earlier in the fight. I took it, shook it out vigorously like the other one, and laid it on the Humvee’s hood to roast in the sun with everything else.

“Yeah, ol’ reliable,” I said. Using the pokey end of the slide catch, I pushed the safety’s pin in enough that I could get a fingertip under it and wiggle it free. Pulling the trigger and lowering the hammer, I teased the grip safety out, letting me glimpse sear and disconnector past the leaf spring.

The Monster Division man’s eyes were riveted on the gun. “GI original?”

“Yeah.” Picking up a spray bottle of Ballistol from my kit, I hosed down the pistol’s guts generously, counting on the oil to displace any moisture, then cocked and “fired” the pistol a few times as I shook and turned it to ensure it seeped into every nook and cranny. I’d need a thorough cleaning later, but this’d do for now.

“That wasn’t bad shooting,” the young man said. “Going for the eye?”

“Yeah,” I said as I emptied the rest of my spare magazines into the cleaning kit and shook them dry. “He’s a mite big for a pistol.”

“How’s it shoot, anyhow? We only issue nine millimeter here.”

“Surprisingly smooth,” I said as I angled the cleaning kit so its contents could catch the sun. “Y’definitely feel it’s throwing a heavier round but the recoil’s not as snappy; it pushes back more than flips the muzzle.”

He nodded, his thoughtful gaze now turning to me. He was a bit lighter than me but an inch or two taller, an athletic type, close-trimmed brown hair a shade or two lighter than average. Coupled with his square-jawed face and sharp eyes, he radiated “bright young man” energy. Given his line of inquiry I pegged him as ex-military, shooter rather than mage.

“I see you’re awake,” Midget Mage’s voice floated in. I turned to find the big crow riding her shoulder and giving me a baleful look. She held up one palm and said something in Japanese, and the bird reluctantly dropped the shiny nickel-plated cartridge. She handed it over. “Sorry. Reggie gets a little cranky when dinner’s late.”

“Your familiar?”

She smiled – genuine, warm – and patted the crow. “Technically, but he’s really just a big baby.” The crow sneezed, but didn’t reject the patting. “He’s helpful sometimes, though. It’s how we found you so fast, for instance.”

I almost smiled. Even across oceans, some things about magi never change. “So. What’s the sitrep?”

Midget Mage pushed her glasses up her nose and answered: “Scene secure, survivors have been debriefed and processed – no fatalities, no injuries – and the scene’s been sanitized… though you might want to park that thing somewhere else before the glamour wears off. As for you…”

Boy Scout sighed. “I’ve had half the division blowing my phone up every ten minutes to make sure the mad yankee in his war wagon hasn’t gone anywhere and the other half are asking how sane I think you are.”

I crossed my arms, reclined against the Humvee, and gave him an expectant look.

“Nobody remembers the monster, or the fight, but they sure remember you. So basically everyone saw, well… you, being you, and the next thing they know they’re waking up outside and the entire store’s been blown to pieces. Satsuki-sa– Mrs. Satsuki was able to verify some of it, but…” He rubbed his temples. “I mean, you just showed up towing an evil voodoo god behind you and that makes the brass twitchy enough; once they hear about, about Colonel Sanders…” he sighed and drew himself up to his full height. “Let’s put it this way – it’d be a good idea for you to lay low for a few days.”

“… days,” I said, tasting the word.

“We’ve got to contact every priest in the know, come up with a story to feed the rest, plan and execute the rituals, call in the specialists to track the thing, get a kill-team together, get the legal and PR prep done for JSDF contingency support, wait for your government to dig up more actionable intel…” he caught my look. “Listen, this is Japan – you can’t throw a rock without hitting a shrine, even if it’s just a little family one in someone’s backyard. We know how to handle things in our own country.”

I slumped against the Humvee and turned it over in my head for a minute. “Fine… just…” I shook my head sharply, trying to sling away the fatigue fuzzing my hindbrain. “Where are we, anyway?”

“Northen Saitama prefecture,” Midget Mage replied. “Just outside of Gyoda.”

I framed my face with bladed hands. “I need you to put this in terms an American can understand, which means a compass bearing and range to Tokyo.”

“Oh. About fifty kilometers south? About two hours by train, a little faster if you drive and don’t mind toll roads.”

“Right, then I can roll up to Yokota or Yokosuka and flash my CAC card till a cot shakes loose–”

“Absolutely not,” the Boy Scout said stiffly. “We’ve got a safehouse not far from here–”

“Considering how seriously you’re taking an evil voodoo god with a grudge I think I’ll be the judge of ‘safe,’ thanks–”

“No way in hell you’re driving that beast through downtown Tokyo with a machine-gun in the back!”

“I promise I’ll stay away from any schools,” I snapped.

“I believe it, you seem to have been doing it all your life–”

The crow silenced us both with an impressively load croak, drawing our eyes to Midget Mage, who’s eyes were now hidden behind the afternoon sunlight glinting off her glasses.

Boy Scout scowled. “How do you do that–”

“We haven’t even introduced ourselves,” Midget Mage cut him off. Reaching into her clutch purse she produced a business card with a flourish crisp enough to make a dancer weep, proffering it with both hands. I took it, studying the elegant font that spelled out in English and indecipherable runes: “Karasawa Ruriko – Deputy Director of Field Operations – Reiwa-sai Group, Ltd.”

The Boy Scout was proffering his card now, also in Japanese and English, which read: “Takeda Kenta, – Cabinet Office Special Phenomena Response Division.”

“Right, uh,” I said, tucking the cards into a damp shirt pocket and fishing out my wallet. “Just a sec…” I had to tease the thin wad of soaking-wet business cards out of the tight leather pocket, then peel a few off the top with the edge of my government credit card. Gripping by the corner, I shook off some excess water and held it out to Midget Mage – Ruriko – and shook it till one card peeled off the other and landed in her hand.

She looked at it like a dead mouse just gifted to them by their cat. I shook the other one off a little more vigorously and handed it to Kenta, who didn’t seem to know what kind of face he should be making.

“… well,” Ruriko said, gingerly setting my business card down on the hood of the Humvee to peck at her phone, “now that I’ve got your number, I’m – oh you don’t have Line.” She conjured her pen and notepad with a flourish of her hands again, scribbled fast, and tore off a sheet to thrust in my hands. “This is where I stay when I’m in this area – nice and quiet and no damn tourists. I wrote a note for you, just show it to the girl at the desk.” She cut her eyes at Kenta, but he raised no objection. Gingerly retrieving the business card from the hood between thumb and forefinger, she sketched a shallow bow. “We’ll be in touch, Mr. Lanz.” Kenta looked like he wanted to say something further, but the short woman caught him by the elbow and almost dragged him off.

I drew in breath, objections on my tongue, only to swallow them again. You don’t do a sint in the Army without learning what a dismissal sounds like; Ruriko had just put a lovely scented envelope around the brick. Scanning the area again, I started to worry – plenty of clean-up crews, but no distant buzz of choppers, a blue sky devoid of lower-altitude drones… nothing to indicate the kind of search cordon NAIC would be establishing in the aftermath of a fight like that. Maybe they had their own ways… but maybe they didn’t.

I mounted up in my Humvee, spent a minute flattening out the note I’d accidentally balled up in my fist, and typed the address into my phone. The ragged edge of consciousness has a horrible clarity to it; the brain too tired to filter the raw friction of reality, and in that state I drove while planning my next moves.

I’d also learned it was easier to seek forgiveness than permission.