Trick Room

Six months passed. Junko and I settled into an easy routine. She visited every night except on Friday, as she spent the whole night preparing for missions against the rogue Americans. The rest of the time I spent training, reading manga (often re-reading), or meditating. A year ago I’d have said meditation was something only monks and hippies did, but it helped a lot. In addition, I even got into novels. Remember that box of Russian literature? I made a goal of getting through one per month. I failed the first two attempts, but on the third month I got through a fat, seven-hundred page book about a guy who murders a pawnbroker with an axe. That doesn’t sell the book very well, but it’s really interesting because the murder takes place pretty early, and then the rest of the novel is about—

Never mind. I’m not worried about spoiling it, but this kind of thing has happened before. I get excited, I start talking, I don’t notice the other person’s expression slowly shift like a melting glacier from genuine interest to polite attention to apathy and finally to frustration.

Back to training:

Things started to get a lot easier after I could do around twenty squats without feeling tired. Flexibility was also unexpected but welcome side-effect. At first my squats were like sitting on an invisible stool, but eventually I reached that stereotypical delinquent squat. You know the kind, in manga and stuff? A group of delinquents linger outside a convenience store and glare up at people so the whites of their eyes connect at the bottom? Junko referred to it as “hitting depth below parallel”, which sounded like technical jargon, so I mostly nodded and agreed.

My room quickly became filled with equipment, too. Each night Junko brought a bit more. She started with workout bands, dumbbells, and kettlebells, but eventually we managed to fit an entire squat rack with a barbell and steel plates. I didn’t have to worry about noise complaints, so I flung the weights around freely. Speaking of noise: The isolation was liberating. I laughed or screamed or roared or farted as loud as I wanted. Then came accessories like knee and elbow sleeves, wrist straps, and a 10mm lever belt. It amazed me how “looking” like an athletic person made me “feel” like an athletic person.

When she wasn’t bringing equipment, Junko brought food. She taught me about macronutrients: Fats, carbohydrates, and protein. As I mentioned before, protein fuelled muscle repairs and growth, so most of the food was high in protein. Stuff like eggs, tuna, chicken breasts, nuts and seeds, and broccoli, among other things. With the global shortages, I had no idea how she got her hands on such pure ingredients. Her parents were influential, so maybe they pulled some strings.

The real trick was eating the food before it turned grey. I learned to time my workout sessions so they finished before Junko arrived, after which I’d eat whatever she brought. At first I had trouble getting through a couple chicken breasts, but as my body changed, so did my appetite. Supplements helped, too, like protein powder, caffeinated drinks, and creatine. I asked Junko about Mizu-Hydro, but she said that wasn’t necessary anymore.

During that visit, I’d been a little tense. ‘I…’

Junko looked up from her phone. ‘Something wrong?’

‘Nothing. Unrelated to the mission.’

She leaned across the stack of steel weight plates we used as a table. ‘Doesn’t mean you shouldn’t tell me.’

‘I’m being stupid,’ I said.

‘What’d I say about that?’

‘Right, sorry.’ I took a deep breath. ‘I was thinking of my parents. They’re probably still overseas, but…’

Junko massaged her temple. ‘Want me to look into it?’

‘There’s no need.’

‘I wouldn’t mind, if there’s time. It’s not a priority.’

I didn’t push the subject any further, and part of me was glad that Junko didn’t bring it up again. Chances were my parents still sent their messages, still went on their business trips. By the time they realised I was gone, they’d assume I’d run away.

In summary:

I lifted a lot. I ate a lot. My body changed a whole lot.

Turned out my thighs could become uneven ridges of muscles, rather than the vaguely cylindrical shapes I’d always known. I could distinguish my biceps, triceps, and shoulders. Even my face looked sharper. Though…I didn’t have a six-pack. I asked Junko about it, but she said:

‘Do you want to be strong or look strong?’

‘…Both?’

‘We could trim your body fat percentage down, but it’d impact your strength. Focus on the mission, okay?’

I did. My strength and endurance continued to increase. Junko ran some tests in reality and estimated by pulling strength on the Fulcrum must’ve been, at maximum, around one-hundred-and-twenty kilograms. When she’d said that I nodded politely and continued the conversation, but when she left I leapt around the room and nearly cracked my head on the ceiling.

I did it! I did it! Forget one-hundred kilograms; I’d blown past that goal. And if the scaling ratio for telekinesis was still six-to-one, Junko could theoretically control up to seven-hundred-and-twenty kilograms. That was, like, more than a crocodile. Can you imagine tossing a crocodile around? Not a baby one—I’m talking about those massive ones that bite prey and roll around.

Wait, let’s go back a bit. I said a six-to-one scaling, but that was a mistake. The scaling had increased. You see, Junko discovered a way to make my apartment smaller. Apparently this increased the “quantum pressure” or something. It’s like when you block part of a hose so the water comes out stronger. First we removed the bedroom, which increased the scaling to twelve-to-one. Then we removed the unused balcony and storage closets, which brought the scaling up to eighteen-to-one. Finally, we removed the entryway, which pushed the scaling to an insane twenty-four-to-one. Sure, my life had been relegated to a living room, but it was totally worth it after I saw Junko’s video demonstration: She used telekinesis on a car! It was surreal, as if playing with a plastic model.

For the whole previous year I spent in my apartment, I thought if I could just leave I’d find new meaning to my life. I never would’ve imagined finding purpose inside those walls.

#

I made a habit of sleeping with the Fulcrum in-hand.

In a weird way, the Fulcrum began to represent Junko in my thoughts. When it was inert, she was happy and safe. When it glowed red and rattled, she needed me. By applying my strength to the Fulcrum it went back to normal, which felt like protecting her. At first the rattling was a source of distress, but eventually I wanted it to happen. I sat around waiting for the rattling. When hours passed in silence, I got anxious. Like, had Junko been injured? Or, worse, did she not need me anymore?

Still, Junko didn’t tell me much about the rogue Americans. Her clearest answer was that negotiations were still underway. With the changes to my body and an unhealthy dose of boredom, I got cocky. I wanted to tease Junko. Or test her. So, one day I ignored the Fulcrum. It glowed red and rattled, as usual, but I sat in the corner. I planned an excuse about going to sleep after an especially long training session. But, the Fulcrum glowed redder. Harsh light permeated the room. It stung my eyes. The rattling turned to violent shrieking, like a thousand forks on a thousand ceramic plates.

I scrambled to the Fulcrum, fused it to the floor, and wrenched. So abrupt and violent was the action that I felt a muscle or tendon or ligament twinge in my hip.

Shame washed over me. I’d failed her, after resolving to support her. Such a liar. For the first time in months, I reached for a certain brown box hidden atop the bookshelf. It contained…magazines. These magazines inspired specific…feelings. And when a person felt those feelings they…

Fine. Fine! It was fucking porn, okay? I’d quit using it because I read somewhere that athletes went without sex to increase their self-discipline. But, that sickly feeling of failing Junko warped me. The shame mounted. I took down the box and used it, which only made me feel more ashamed in the aftermath. I didn’t deserve to be with a girl, let alone a girl like Junko. I couldn’t even imagine being with one. The mere prospect of touching her terrified me. My mind conjured hundreds of images of her repulsed expression.

A couple hours later, the door burst open and Junko stormed inside. I started to rise, but she shoved me back to the floor. Rage contorted her features. ‘What was that?’

‘Sorry, I had a long training session and—’

‘Liar. You promised to always respond to the Fulcrum, but you didn’t. You think this is a game? I nearly died because you’re screwing around.’

My heart pounded. I kept my eyes to the ground. ‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry. It won’t happen again. I don’t know what I was thinking.’

Junko swore and paced the room. She tripped on a dumbbell, picked it up, and hurled it at the wall. It left a dent, but the grey began to repair itself immediately. ‘Why’s there crap all over the place? I’m not your mother, but clean your room. Seriously, you shouldn’t need me to make every little decision.’

In truth, it felt that way most of the time. Junko dictated my equipment, what food I ate, and when I needed to work the Fulcrum. I’d asked her about bringing in some new reading material, but she’d gotten annoyed and suggested I wasn’t thinking about the mission.

The mention of “mother” caught my attention, so I asked:

‘Have you heard anything about my parents?’

‘What’re you talking about?’ Junko snapped.

‘My parents,’ I replied. ‘I thought you’d research them.’

‘You told me not to.’

‘I wanted—I wasn’t sure, but…’

Junko groaned. ‘You literally told me to forget about it. Do you want me to check on them? Speak clearly or we’ll have misunderstandings.’

‘N-No. Well…’

Junko scrolled through her phone and scoffed. ‘I know we’re technically kids, but don’t be so sensitive. You’ll see your parents eventually, so put up with it for now.’

She continued to scroll. A new video?

‘Did you record a mission?’ I asked casually.

Junko’s expression darkened. ‘Why?’

‘I’m curious about how much we can move, since I’ve gotten stronger.’

‘You realise I’m fighting armed soldiers, right?’ She took a few steps toward the door. ‘But, sure, you’re bored, right? You think I can take a bit of extra risk for your entertainment, right?’

‘I-I’m sorry.’ I got to my feet, too. ‘It was thoughtless of me.’

Junko volume rose. ‘Wow, you think?’ Her shoulders slackened as she exhaled. ‘I’ve got a migraine.’ She did have an unhealthy pallor.

I apologised. ‘I shouldn’t annoy you when you’re not feeling well.’

‘I should be resting instead of visiting you.’

I apologised again.

Junko reached for the door but said over her shoulder:

‘Don’t ignore the Fulcrum ever again. Ever.’

#

I needed to apologise to Junko. I’d apologised earlier, but that was reactive and hollow. I wanted to really show that I hadn’t meant to fail her. Between pull-up sets, I considered options. It wasn’t like I could give her a bouquet. In fact, all I could do was get stronger. If I hit a new personal record, that might show her I truly made an effort. Unfortunately, my hip still irritated me. It didn’t constantly hurt, but squatting felt wrong.

While I searched my bookshelf for recovery methods, the door opened. Strange. Unless Junko took a nap, she usually visited at—

A girl stumbled through the door and landed with a thud amidst protein bar wrappers. She wasn’t Junko. Though, she also wore a school uniform with a plaid skirt and blazer. Her hair, dyed silver with pink highlights, swept to the left and reached her chin. The hair above her right ear was cropped short and dyed melon-green. She wore more makeup than Junko: electric blue eyeliner and lipstick, mascara, and lip gloss.

I brandished a dumbbell above my head. ‘Who the hell’re you?’ I shouted.

‘It’s you,’ she said, clambering to her feet. ‘It is you, isn’t it?’ She raised her hands, palms out. ‘You’re helping—what’s her name?’

I didn’t respond.

‘It's like I can smell her all over the place.’ The girl gave an exaggerated shiver. ‘Whatever. My name is Hasegawa Rina.’

‘Get out,’ I ordered.

‘Do you know what that girl is doing?’

‘Get out.’

The girl, Hasegawa, snapped her fingers a few times. ‘Name. Name. Kishino?’ Her eyes widened. ‘Kishimoto! That psycho bitch.’

‘Don’t call her that,’ I snapped, advancing with the dumbbell.

‘I’m telling you, she’s using these powers for something horrible.’

Junko warned me there were other Conduits. ‘They started it,’ I said.

‘They’re still people! They’re in a tough spot, but they should be given the freedom to do what they want.’

USA-sympathiser. Junko had shown some of the protests. A decent amount of people wanted the government to give the surviving Americans a small island. Junko said equal parts ignorance and fear caused it. ‘You need to leave.’

‘Let’s at least talk.’

‘Nothing you say will sway me.’

Hasegawa sneered. ‘You’re satisfied so long as it isn’t you?’

‘They brought it on themselves.’

‘You’re an idiot.’

My jaw clenched, but I didn’t have the courage to attack. Something nagged at me. ‘You have five seconds. What’s so horrible about Kishimoto?’

‘I…’ Two seconds passed. ‘I don’t know exactly.’ Two more. ‘I know it’s something.’ Her limit elapsed.

‘Nice try,’ I said, taking another step closer. Hasegawa retreated toward the door. ‘Find another Source.’ I took the last few steps. Hasegawa yelped and fled back into reality.

Junko. I had dedicated myself to her; that’s what I’d resolved. Everyone else but her had always wanted me to fail. But, then, why did I feel so uneasy?