[It's been nearly six hours since I sent this out, and I haven't seen it
cross the list. Nor is it in the FTP archive, when my last post and a
couple since then are already there. So, I'm left to conclude that possibly
due to the length, the server ate it. Here it is again, broken in
half...remember, send all C&C to me, and I'll relay it to the rest of the
authors.]
[Japan - northern Honshu]
[September 13, 1999]
Several technicians and officers seated around the JSDF monitoring station
looked up as Commander Edo Stureika walked into the room. He did not look
like he was in a good mood.
"Alright, what's so damned important that you had to get me up at three in
the morning?" he groused.
The technician seated at the satellite monitoring terminal stood, and bowed
apologetically. "Sumimasen, commander. We received an urgent communication
from the Tsukino Observatory in Hokkaido this morning, and we thought you
should know."
The commander frowned. "Alright, then, what is it?"
"An object of unknown origin was detected moving into high orbit over Japan
around midnight. The object is of massive size, and the observatory crew
could detect no recognizable markings. The object matches no known
configuration." The tech motioned to the main monitor screen, which lit to
display the orbital tracks of several of the satellites that passed over
Japan at regular intervals. Amidst the green lines floated an ominous
flashing red blob, flagged with a question mark.
"That's not a very clean lock...can't you get a more precise fix than
that?" The tech looked uncomfortable, prompting the Commander to continue,
"What is it, man? Out with it!"
"The image is computer generated, sir...compiled from visual data being
gathered from a number of observation stations. The radar can't see it at
all. That's why the observatory saw it before we did."
The commander frowned. "You still ought to be able to generate a more
accurate position than this. That's a fairly wide zone."
"We estimate that the displayed image is correct, to within a hundred
meters or so."
"WHAT?" the Commander bellowed in disbelief.
The tech started to sweat. "All visual data agrees, sir."
"But," argued Stureika, "That would make the thing..." he trailed off as he
studied the image again.
"Yes sir," agreed the tech miserably. "At least two kilometers in diameter,
and maybe ten long. Possibly larger."
Stureika gripped the console and closed his eyes. He hated Mondays at the
best of times, and this was going to be a whopper. He could feel the
headache starting. "Do we have a visual of the object yet?" he asked at
length.
"Hai. We have a feed from the observatory now. We had to arrange a secure
link." The tech keyed instructions into his console, and the tracking image
was replaced with a somewhat fuzzy picture that showed a massive, dark
shape blotting out the stars. A shocked silence descended on the
installation as the sheer enormity of what they were seeing started to sink
in.
The silence was replaced with a collective gasp as their relative positions
and Earth's rotation carried the object out of the planet's shadow,
revealing a cylindrical object of unbelievable size, the metallic surface
glowing a deep bronze in the sunlight.
"That...doesn't look like anything that I've ever seen before," the
commander decided. "Not even on the drawing boards. Anyone have any ideas?"
"Well," piped up another officer, "it's not ours. And it's probably not
Russian."
Stureika gave the man a withering look. "And I doubt the Americans could
put up something that large without anyone knowing about it either," he
snapped.
The officer had the grace to look sheepish, but shrugged. "Well, *I* wasn't
going to report a Yufou," he countered.
Raising an eyebrow, Stureika turned back to the screen. The man was right,
in a way...no one wanted to report that sort of thing. It tended to have
adverse effects on promotion. But this time...what else was there to call
it?
"Ma...masaka..." One of the techs in the back of the room was staring at
the image on the main screen, an expression of stunned disbelief on his
face. In fact, he looked to the Commander as though he'd seen a ghost. A
familiar ghost.
"You *know* that object?" he barked at the quivering tech.
The tech shook his head, never taking his eyes from the image on the
screen. "It's the Bell," he babbled. "It's the Bell!"
Stureika stalked over and shook the man roughly by the shoulders. "Bell?"
the commander repeated. "What Bell? What are you talking about?"
The tech shook his head and blinked, slowly focusing his gaze on Stureika.
"Gomen..." he managed as the Commander let him go. "It's just that...well,
it's not *possible* sir. It's not *real*."
"What's not possible?" growled Stureika.
The tech looked trapped, but sighed as he realised there would be no
arguing. "My...my kids are hooked on a series of OAVs called 'Mahou Tsukai
Tai!'. They've forced me to sit and watch them with them so often that I
know them by heart..."
The commander frowned. "And this...object looks something like one from
those OAVs?"
"Not 'something like'...*exactly like*. I *know* it sounds crazy...but that
thing," he gestured at the screen again, "is the Bell!"
The commander sighed, shrugged, and turned back to the screen and its
impossible image. "Well. It's as good a description for it as any at the
moment." He squared his shoulders and looked to the Comm Officer. "Get me a
secure line to the Minister of Defense. If I'm not going to get any more
sleep tonight, then neither is he."
******
Over the next two weeks, various governments became aware of the massive
object, codenamed 'Bell', which had moved into position and was holding
station over Tokyo, Japan. A general undercurrent of panic grew in the
various intelligence communities, and folders stamped 'Top Secret' and
'Need to Know' spread like dandelions. In the interests of 'national
security', every informed nation chose to keep the public in the dark about
what might be the first undeniable evidence of an interstellar
intelligence.
Even in Japan, a panicked government managed to keep a lid on the existence
of the Bell, despite the sudden rashes of unexplained phenomena starting to
occur all over the country. Observatories and other like facilities were
quietly taken over by the government, and all news was carefully screened.
Broadcasts leaving the country were the most heavily filtered, as officials
preferred not to let the rest of the world in on these strange events.
Not that anyone was paying much attention to the Japanese media these days.
The news programs were starting to look more and more like reruns of bad
monster movies, reporting people and things from fiction were suddenly
becoming reality.
And who'd believe something so absurd could really be happening?
=======================================================
P E N C I L S
=======================================================
c h a p t e r o n e
=======================================================
[Perth, Australia]
[October 6, 1999]
The atmosphere in the darkened room was one of deep silence. The blinds
were drawn tight and the door closed, various articles of clothing littered
the floor and a few issues of "Thunderbolts" peeked out from underneath a
single bed. The mass that was sprawled out on the bed emitted a few soft
snores every so often from beneath a fairly heavy doona. The wardrobe off
to the far side of the room was completely open to the world as it was
missing both of its sliding doors. These had been placed neatly next to it,
leaning against the wall with the mirrored one on top of the other. A pile
of books and various knick-knacks was sitting in one corner next to a
swivel chair, which looked fairly sturdy but was actually broken.
A soft beeping broke into the silence like a thief in the night; almost
unnoticed. A hand reached out of the jumbled mess of pillow, doona and
person, groping blindly for the watch at the top of the bed head that was
making the noise. The searching fingers closed securely about the band and
jerked it back into the nest. The beeping stopped a second later.
A few minutes passed, cars going by outside the window making small
splashing noises as they drove along the wet road. A couple of brave small
birds chirped to themselves, trying in vain to keep warm this unusually
cold spring day. They hopped about the windowsill, tweeting back and forth,
seemingly determined to remind the sleeper that the day had well and truly
begun. No soft snores answered them, but the heavy breathing indicated that
it wouldn't be long till they did.
Then the beeping started again, this time electing a response. Two eyes
blearily opened and glanced down at the face of the watch, wondering what
the time was. A thumb came up and depressed a button to the side of the
watch, activating the small light.
The relative quiet of an Australian city block in the morning was shattered
in an instant.
"Oh, SHIT!" Neurons that had been silent for a few hours, either
voluntarily or because the others had beaten them into submission, screamed
back to life as the time registered. Pillow and doona went flying as the
person practically jumped out of the bed. "I am going to be so late!"
A dishevelled, semi-naked young man stood in the middle of the room,
glancing around for the things that he'd need. Snatching up a pair of black
jeans from the floor, he strode across to the wardrobe and grabbed a shirt
from the wardrobe. Quickly opening the draws at the bottom he took a pair
of underclothes out as well, noting as he did so that the lack of them
meant that he'd probably have to do washing the next day. He walked quickly
out of the master bedroom and turned left into the bathroom/laundry of the
small flat, blinking as he turned on the light and stepped into the room.
Putting the clothes that he'd gathered down onto the washing machine he
stripped, taking another look at the watch face as he did so.
"Ok, class at nine, takes me twenty five minutes walking time, twenty
minimum. It's eight thirty five now, so that means that I have about five
minutes to have a shower, get dressed and put my stuff for today in my bag.
Oh goody." Spinning the taps wildly he stepped into the water as soon as
the shimmering curtain came spluttering out of the showerhead.
The whimper of someone having a cold shower on a day that would have fit
well into winter is not the most pleasant sound in the world. If, however,
you have about two minutes to shower and the water heater takes three
minutes to get going, at least it wakes you up.
Stepping out of the water as it had just started warming up, the young man
grabbed a nearby towel and quickly rubbed himself down, getting rid of the
water that was sitting on his skin. Scrubbing his short hair quickly, he
tried to get most of the water out of there as soon as possible. He looked
into the small mirror on the bathroom cabinet and nearly laughed out loud.
His browny blonde hair was standing straight up, sticking out at all
angles. Grabbing a nearby, much-used brush he attempted to make it sit
flat. Looking into his own blue eyes for a second and noting that he really
should have a shave he murmured softly, "I really shouldn't have gone out
last night."
Grinning to himself, remembering last night, Michael--known to most as Mike
or Mick--laughed softly as he continued to brush his hair into submission.
"But what would life be without a little fun every now and then?" Looking
at his body in the mirror he was mildly dismayed at the small gut that
still refused to die. As he pulled his shirt on he glanced at the time
again, and nearly freaked. "Damn! I have to stop piss farting around!"
Grabbing up the jeans, he was about to put them on when something struck
his nose. The delicate smell of beer. The type of smell one does not want
to be arriving to class with ingrained in one's pants.
Throwing the jeans into the fairly large "to-be-washed" pile underneath the
ironing board and remembering now that Paul had wrung a beer-filled sponge
out over his leg last night, Mike went in search of another pair of jeans.
Not finding anything viable left in his wardrobe, he turned to the small
pile of clothes next to it. These clothes had been a "present" from his
mother, the type of present you get when you leave home and conveniently
forget to take all of your old clothes with you. At least there was a pair
of jeans in it. Pulling the faded pair of blue jeans out of the pile and
glancing briefly at the mirrored side of the wardrobe door that was resting
on the floor on the other side of the wardrobe, Mike noted the writing on
the inside of the jeans.
'Michael John Ricketts, Year Eight, DDHS.' along with his address and phone
number at the time. A big believer in labelling things so as not to lose
them, his mother had written on them all the information that anyone could
ever possibly need to return them. "Year eight, eh? Only seven and a half
years ago now. Should still fit." Quickly opening them, he pulled the denim
up over his legs and zipped them up. Staring in the mirror, and looking at
what appeared to be a new layer of blue skin, he muttered to himself in a
tight voice, "Ooookay, so maybe they're a little smaller than last time I
wore them." Looking at his watch, and seeing the time--eight forty--he
decided against looking for any other, perhaps slightly bigger, pairs of
pants. As it was, he was going to be late; any more time lost and he was
going to be really late.
Quickly pulling on a pair of socks and his latest pair of sneakers, he
raced out into the main room of the apartment, grabbing his bag, workpad
and Walkman. Putting those into the yellow canvas backpack that had been
with him since his first year of school, he tugged the small buckles closed
and sighed. The bag was on its last legs and wasn't going to be around for
much longer. Slipping the rimless glasses that he wore on, he took a quick
look out of the window, dreading what the unseasonal cold meant he might
see.
Sure enough, dark grey storm clouds greeted his vision. The storm that had
been building for the last few days was here. What a storm was doing
showing up in October, Mike wasn't sure, but he blamed El Nino. Of course,
the great thing was that El Nino could be blamed for all sorts of things,
from unseasonal weather to where the last beer in the fridge at a party had
disappeared to. A sudden preview of the next few minutes flashed before his
eyes, showing a definite vision of him getting drenched on the way to
University if he didn't take a raincoat. Racing back into the bedroom he
grabbed the massive overcoat that was hanging on one side of the wardrobe.
Walking swiftly to the door, he switched the Walkman on and slipped the
earpieces into his ears. Opening his door, he swung the backpack onto his
back and stepped out into the slight drizzle that had sprung up. Listening
to the sounds of Triple J, the national "youth station", thanking his
foresight in getting out his jacket, and still wondering why the storm had
chosen today to appear, he started on the twenty five minute walk to
University.
=======================================================
[October 7, 1999]
In Nerima--or at least a Nerima, Kasumi Tendo walked upstairs to see why
Akane and Ranma hadn't come down. The answer was really fairly obvious.
They weren't there.
"Oh, my. I hope they didn't find another of those reality chains. That
makes them both so cranky..."
******
In a universe close, but not quite next door, one Ryoko was getting very
very upset.
This wasn't unusual, since she had a talent for getting upset rivaled only
by her, well, rival, Ayeka.
This time, the reason wasn't the rival.
"Come on, hasn't ANYONE seen Mom?"
******
[Georgia]
In a universe rather unlike any of these, things were getting out of hand.
Well, in the opinion of a casual fanfiction writer named Robert Haynie
(Although for reasons that will not be explained at the moment, most of his
readers were apt to refer to him as Kenko) they had gone past out of hand
and were sinking rapidly.
"Please! I don't speak Japanese hardly at all! I don't know what happened!"
The taller redhead was yelling at him. The shorter was playing with
something that looked uncomfortably high tech. And he was hoping to HELL
that the dark haired one wasn't planning to try to cook anything.
Short redhead said something in a language that definitely was not
Japanese, and if Kenko was right, probably wasn't human.
"Look, I really really don't understand..."
It wasn't easy to keep his eyes where he really wanted to keep them--which
was anywhere but the three girls. Dark hair was in pajamas, so was Short
Red, and Taller red--although still short--was in a close to transparent
blue teddy. Kenko knew--just knew--that not looking at her was a very good
idea.
Especially as he was also beginning to suspect that the stupid pencil was
behind it all.
He glared at it, partly from frustration, and mostly because glaring at it
kept him from staring at Taller Red. And don't think for a moment he didn't
know exactly who they were. All three. He just wasn't in the mood to admit
it to himself, or the universe at large.
Because it was just plain not possible. Hell, this was a plotline he'd
never even consider writing. Too much like one of those bad SI things or
one of those idiotic revengefics or something like that.
"Ah, that's better. Here, you'll want one too."
Kenko finally said something that the two Japanese speakers understood.
Unfortunately, it was a string of very dirty words interspersed with cries
of pain and a screamed "What did you do THAT for!?"
"I don't want the translator to get easily lost, of course. As an earring,
it's relatively safe."
"Yeah, well, I don't have pierced ears! Until now! That HURT!"
"Look, all I want to know is how I got here, and how Akane got here, and
how we get back--OW! Hey, kid, what was THAT for--I do not believe it."
Ranma--and Kenko somehow instinctively KNEW it was the Ranma from his Girl
Days cycle, otherwise no WAY would he--or she--be wearing that outfit,
froze at the sight of the third, as yet unnamed person.
"Not kid. Washuu-chan, if you please."
"But...but you're an anime character..."
"I was about to say the same thing. A favorite of Tenchi's I might add.
Although the outfit does seem somewhat...inconsistent," Washuu-chan
half-leered.
Akane, who'd had the good fortune to already have had an ear pierced,
looked about, and asked, "All right...now we can talk, right? So, where are
we anyhow? And who is this guy?"
Said guy was carefully tracing a picture of a bathrobe. Three times. And
hoping desparately this would work. So that he'd stay relatively unbeaten
on.
=======================================================
[Australia]
[October 6]
Edging himself forward, Michael slowly and silently cracked open one side
of the double doors, straining to hear if the lecturer had started yet. At
seven minutes past the hour it was a pretty sure thing, but you never could
be sure--people could get delayed, equipment could play up...just because
this was one of the better campuses available was no reason for difference.
Hearing the slightly strained drawl issuing from within, he cursed
silently. No such luck today, and, even worse, this lecture theatre had no
back door--making a discrete entrance impossible.
Resigned to his fate, he quickly opened the door and slipped inside. The
lecturer paused for a moment, then continued. Probably going to be asking
me all of the questions in the practical now. Mike sighed to himself as he
took a seat close to the door. Quickly placing his bag on the bench in
front of himself and opening it, he took out the thick, five-subject
workpad that served as his means of taking notes. Sparing the time for a
fast look around the room as his hand reached in to get a writing utensil,
he looked for one face in particular. As soon as he was sure that Paul
hadn't shown up to class a broad grin spread across his face.
His reaching hand groped around in the bag, but, after a few seconds of not
finding what he was feeling for, he looked into it. The Walkman, a Mars Bar
wrapper, some receipts, a small notepad and two textbooks stared back at
him. No pencil case. Bugger. Sighing in the realization that he couldn't
take notes, he settled back into his chair, putting his bag on the ground
beside him. He stretched, looking at where the lecturer was talking, hoping
that this particular lecture wouldn't be that important.
******
Nearly 2 hours and one lecture later, Mike looked longingly at the door.
Although he'd tried to keep himself on the task at hand, his mind had
wandered after a half an hour or so.
It was amazing how much stuff a bored mind could touch on. He'd found
himself thinking about nearly anything, from what to reveal to the readers
next in Mirror, Mirror to possible reasons why he was still single.
Actually the possible reasons were quickly narrowed down to one. While he
went out often enough and got together regularly each Friday night, it was
always with the same group, three other bachelors and two couples. No
single women. He had just resolved--as he had at least a hundred times
before--to find another group of people to hang around (preferably with a
few single women this time) when he was startled to hear the sounds of
students closing various textbooks and workpads.
Switching his attention quickly to the front of the lecture theatre, he saw
the lecturer had turned the projector off and was collecting his slides.
Poor old guy, still wasn't used to the fact that he could prepare the
entire lecture in PowerPoint and bring a single disk to the lecture hall.
Well, either that or he simply liked slides better. Shrugging to himself
and wondering briefly which it was, Mike picked up his unused workpad and
dropped it off the bench into the still open bag. Buckling the two straps
on the canvas bag closed he was just about to pick it up when something
caught his eye.
A golden glint winked at him from under one side of the bag. It drew his
eye as he looked at it, encouraging him to move the bag aside, pick it up,
look at whatever was making it and then horde that item for the rest of his
life. Feeling much like a human magpie--imagine, attraction to shiny
glitter--the young man reached down and tugged the bag to one side.
"What the..." He stared down at what had been revealed. A mechanical
pencil. A nice, usable, red-with-golden-highlights, click-and-write pencil.
He quickly picked it up and, as most people would, clicked the end,
watching as the lead popped out of the nozzle. Shaking it gently he
listened to the leads inside rattle. The damn thing was full!
Michael quickly looked around. Who owned this thing? The golden highlights
indicated that it might be expensive. The few people left in the lecture
hall were quickly heading towards the exit. He glanced up a few rows, left
and right. Nope, no one was looking for anything; it was just the typical
end of lecture shuffle.
"Heh. Mine!" Applying the old golden rule: Finders Keepers, Mike slipped
the pencil into a pocket and picked up his bag, slipping it onto his
shoulder. Walking towards the double doors that made up both the entrance
and exit to the lecture theatre, he shook his head. If only he'd found that
at the start of the lecture, then he could have actually taken notes. Or at
the very least, doodled while he was supposed to be taking notes. His blue
eyes glinted mischievously as he grinned.
Trudging off to the required practical and dodging the rain droplets that
were still coming down, the young man wondered why he'd felt the urge to
trace something. After all, since he hadn't traced--or seriously
drawn--anything in years, it'd be a pretty pointless exercise.
=======================================================
[Mexico City, Mexico]
[October 5, 1999]
Meet the ITESM, the Technological Institute of Advanced Studies of
Monterrey, more commonly known as "the Tec," for short. A place where
electronics laboratories were paces away from photography workshops; where
psychologists and industrial engineers worked side by side; where the
youngest high-school freshmen made everlasting friendships with senior
college students. A homey university, where almost everyone you meet could
be your best friend, and where technology met art in its most sublime form.
It had a pretty good cafeteria, too.
In such a place, even extraordinary events were considered usual fare.
Students running, left and right, trying to catch up with the frantic
advances in their courses. Accountants trying to figure out how much that
new building was going to cost. Teachers damning everything to hell as
their brand new laptops decided to implode and take months of quizzes and
exams with them. Otaku shrieking at the announcement of new showings from
the local anime clubs. All this and more was daily occurrence at the Tec.
However, to see a young Asian woman jump out of a drawing was NOT daily
occurrence, and even less to see such a thing originating from a drawing
made by one of your classmates.
During Linear Algebra, at that.
All of a sudden, thirty-six pairs of eyes were focused on the newest
addition to their class, paying no attention to the piece of paper behind
her which, for some reason, seemed to be ablaze with crimson flames. The
girl herself would have attracted a great deal of attention even if she
hadn't appeared out of nowhere, though. She was young, no older than 21,
and had a mane of scarlet hair that was slowly fading into a more
believable auburn. She was about five feet and five inches tall, and her
figure--despite being hidden underneath a long-sleeved white blouse and
dark blue trousers--was already making the few females in the class simmer
with jealousy (the males' reaction, thankfully, still consisted of staring
at her in shock while their brains tried to figure out what was happening.)
Her face, though bright and clear, betrayed her heritage; those with
clearer minds in the class identified her as Japanese.
But her eyes, which were the color of the midnight sea, revealed that she
was as surprised to be here as everyone else was about seeing her. Perhaps
even as surprised as the young man that sat at the desk behind her, on
whose notepad the blazing sheet of paper lay.
"Na...nanda?" she stammered, her eyes looking around frantically. "Koko
wa...Ra-Raeru-chan? Ome wa doko da?"
As her questions received no reply, she headed for the small balcony at the
back of the classroom. The shock of the students quickly became catatonia
when they saw a bright white aura explode from her body. Most of them just
signed off from reality when she flew out the window, with all the calm of
a shooting star on amphetamines.
After two or three minutes of silence, the teacher cleared his throat, and
said, with the voice of a chihuahua that hasn't seen a toilet in years,
"So, um, anyone want to come to the front and solve this example?"
Needless to say, the students were *not* of the mind of solving any partial
derivatives for the rest of the day. Or the rest of the semester, for that
matter. What they had seen today would not be easily forgotten.
There was one student who would not forget this occurrance at all, though.
Namely, the one from whose drawing the girl had sprouted. As the remainder
of the class toiled on (at least, as the teacher did,) he kept staring down
at his notebook, wondering what in the world had just happened...
And why was the picture itself colored red?
At last, the class ended. Still at a loss for words, the young man
collected what was left of his wits and left the classroom, trying to
remember what he might have done to cause this..."event" to happen...
[Two days earlier]
It was Sunday night, and a light drizzle bathed the concrete jungle of
Mexico City. People scurried to and fro, already looking for shelter from
the downpour that was sure to come. To Jorge Pratt, though, rain was always
welcome.
Better known by his Internet colleagues as Zef, for Zephyr, he stood out in
the crowd only because he was the only one not fleeing from the rain. He
was average in height and build, though somewhat athletic thanks to the
Taijiquan training he received at school. Seawater-green eyes peered out
from beneath thick eyebrows, which gave him the appearance of a cat.
Dressed in what he called his "uniform," namely black trousers and a
navy-blue collarless shirt, he also carried a long brown box, which was
slung over his shoulder by means of a makeshift strap.
It's not that he *wanted* to catch a cold. It was just that he had always
liked rain. That helped put a smile on his face as he walked towards the
bus stop. Yes, he *could* have taken a car, but with the traffic and
gridlock that just a little shower could create in Mexico City, he
preferred not to be the one at the wheel.
As he waited for the bus to arrive, he noticed that the drizzle had slowly
grown into a more menacing rainstorm. Shrugging, he decided that maybe he
should wait inside one of the stores along the street --it's one thing to
appreciate the cool sensation of a frail curtain of water falling on your
face, but to be pounded by raindrops the size of ping-pong balls is quite
another.
Drenched, Zef walked into a nearby shop, named "Lumen." It was rather
large, and it specialized in art materials. There were many families there;
he guessed they were making last-minute shopping for their children's
school stuffs, even though classes had started a month earlier. There were
also people browsing through the square-meter paper catalogues, or gawking
at the computer displays.
Seeing that it would take quite a while for the storm to calm down, Zef
thought that it was as good a time as any to catch up on the fanart he was
supposedly going to put up on his webpage--when he finally got around to
subscribing to another provider, that is. While he thought about what to
work on this time, he looked around for the pen and pencil counter, at the
same time looking for how much change he had left in his pockets. He
finally came up with the equivalent of three dollars when he found the
counter.
Looking over the selection, he quickly picked a regular pencil, a black
pen, and a unique mechanical pencil, colored red with gold inlays. He was
surprised at the price: roughly the equivalent of fifty American cents.
Taking the items, he also bought a pair of simple bond paper sheets and a
clear plastic board, then headed outside.
Waiting for the rain to die down, Zef remained beneath the store's awning
as he got ready to draw. He placed one of the sheets on the plastic board
and tapped on it with the wooden pencil as he tried to think of what
picture to make. Usually, he would take a used sheet of paper to draw the
rough sketch, with which he would work until he thought the picture was
finished. Then he would retrace it on the same sheet with black ink, and
finally, when all the details were ready, he would trace the entire picture
on a clean sheet, preferably using sharpened pencils so that the sketch's
rough lines could be translated into traces void of smudges or eraser
marks.
He finally set to work, inspired by a scene from his own fanfiction series.
It was a picture of Ranko Saotome, the main protagonist of his Song of the
Phoenix saga, and the main villain, a demon named Dyspherum. They were in
different poses, as if unaware of each other, yet with their hands clasped
together.
"I really have to work more on that story..." he thought. "Here I'm making
pictures of Dyspherum already and I haven't even written her into the plot
yet..." But those thoughts were quickly put aside as he continued to draw.
He was surprised at the ease with which the picture appeared on the paper,
especially the subjects' faces--then again, both characters were supposed
to be identical to each other save one thing: where he would carefully
shade Ranko's eyes, he only had to draw Dyspherum's as dark voids.
Nevertheless, although the faces were easily drawn, the shape of
Dyspherum's body eluded him. Ranko's had turned out exactly like he had
wanted it, but the posture of the demon's body was difficult to work with.
The feet were somewhat out of proportion, as were the arms in relation with
the legs.
After several more attempts, and a couple of accidents with the pencil's
eraser, he decided to give it a rest. Realizing that the rain had
diminished enough, Zef quickly retraced Ranko with the black pen, then
placed both sheets of paper underneath the board to protect them from the
remaining raindrops. Afterwards, he headed back to the street and was
pleased to find the bus already waiting at its stop.
He continued to try to fix Dyspherum's picture during the bus ride, but for
some reason, whenever he changed one thing, another, more glaring mistake
appeared. Then the eraser at the end of the regular pencil ran out.
Sighing, Zef took out the mechanical pencil he had just bought and turned
it around, so that its eraser could continue the job. The instrument was
barely half an inch away from the picture when he stopped.
He looked at the picture of Ranko, already finished and waiting to be
traced into its final form, and then at Dyspherum's, with a hand and a wing
missing but otherwise passable--not as good as Ranko's but not bad enough
to demand immediate correction. He shrugged and decided to conclude his
work with his favorite redhead before doing any more sketching on
Dyspherum.
Cautiously, thankful that there were no speedbumps or potholes in the bus'
path, Zef traced Ranko's picture on the clean sheet. The black ink was
strong enough to be seen easily through the paper, so the final draft was
quickly becoming a perfect duplicate of the original. Still, the mistakes
made on Dyspherum still nagged at him. Soon, even though Ranko was only
halfway completed, he ended up going back to the demon's picture.
It was then that he was rudely introduced to the popular concept known as
Murphy's Law.
Just as he was beginning to place the lead of the pencil upon the sketch,
the bus blew a tire, stopping abruptly and causing him to forcefully lurch
forward. The pencil stabbed at the sketch, Zef's body pressing against the
end that held the eraser and making the lead pop back into the barrel--not
to mention, causing Zef to curse slightly in pain. But as the momentum
continued to push him and the pencil forward, the metal barrel scratched
against the sheet, tearing away nearly a centimeter of paper right where
Dyspherum's missing hand would have been.
When Zef noticed what had happened, he frowned and swore, "Oh, damn..."
With a sigh, he shook his head and folded the paper in half, then split the
damaged part, which still had Dyspherum's picture, from the one containing
Ranko's. The half that was unscathed was still good enough to deserve
saving, and he could always draw Dyspherum independently and trace her on
the clean sheet afterwards.
Crumpling the torn half of the sheet into a ball, Zef came down from the
crippled bus and tossed the garbage into a nearby bin. Fortunately, the
vehicle had stopped just behind the other bus that could take him home; Zef
climbed aboard and sighed again.
Next time, no more drawing while on the bus, he thought to himself.
And the paper in the garbage basket suddenly started to shake.
******
It was Tuesday, which meant that there was a Linear Algebra class today.
Zef sat at his desk, oblivious to the teacher as he continued to spout
subjects already covered by earlier courses. At least that was a good thing
about Linear Al: since you had already been through it thanks to other
classes, there was plenty of time to work on things other than math.
Numerical Methods and Linear Algebra was Zef's equivalent of an Art class.
Even though he was already taking a Painting workshop at the Tec, Zef knew
most of his best drawings and sketches, which he would often translate into
pastels and charcoal paintings at said workshop, were done in classes like
Physics and Math. And ever since Sunday, he had had this strongest urge to
finish that picture of Ranko he had been working on...
=======================================================
[Central California]
[October 6, 1999]
A boy in his mid-teens was browsing through an art supplies shop. To most,
he was the otaku and fanfic writer known as Demented Otaku. Unlike most of
the other occupants of the store, he couldn't draw anything other than a
little SD scientist guy he made up.
A slight flash caught his eye. Having a weakness for shiny objects, he
turned towards the source of light. They happened to come from a group of
ordinary looking mechanical pencils.
Preferring ordinary wood pencils, he would have simply left the shop, but
since it was a shiny object, he decided to purchase it. Demented Otaku, or
"Demota" for short, picked up a green one and took it to the register.
"Fifty cents." The clerk said.
"Fifty cents for a pencil?" Demota asked. He was a bit of a miser since he
was low on cash most of the time, and decided to try out bargaining since
it always worked in the movies. He would soon learn that it didn't work
that way.
"How much do you want it for then?"
"Ten."
"Kid, it's just a pencil."
"Exactly. So it shouldn't matter how much I get it for."
Since the clerk was having a rough day, he decided to play along. "Twenty,
but that's the lowest I'm going."
"Twenty?"
"Yes. Twenty."
Twenty cents seemed reasonable for a mechanical pencil. Unfortunately, the
disgruntled clerk had something else in mind. Demota handed over a quarter
to cover the price, unprepared for the treachery at hand.
"You're about nineteen dollars and seventy five cents short."
"WHAAAT?"
"We agreed on a price. Twenty."
"But...but..." The teen was at a loss for words. He was about to refuse
buying the pencil, when a ray of light hit the green barrel of the shiny,
smooth, glittering surface, causing it to sparkle. It was so shiny...
That was the last thing he remembered before he found himself outside the
store with a green mechanical pencil, and twenty dollars gone from his
wallet. He mentally kicked himself. "Damn. I coulda bought a video for that
much." He decided to simply head home and make the best of the situation.
Besides, mechanical pencils were a rarity in his household. Demota was sure
that he could at least learn to become a better artist with a mechanical
one. Besides, just by holding this shiny wonder, he felt like a better
artist already! The Demented Otaku decided to head home.
******
"Tadaima!" He shouted upon opening the door. In response, a small grey cat
walked up to him, the only other living thing in the house at the time,
since his parents were visiting relatives in Taiwan because of the
earthquake, and his sister was at the house of one of her friends. Demota
kneeled down to the cat. "Oh well." He said. "Guess it's just you here,
Natsu-chan."
Natsu the cat replied with a soft "Myuu!". Looking at the clock, her owner
simply petted the grey cat a bit and filled her food dish, before going up
to his room. For some reason, he felt more confident in his artistic
ability just by holding the pencil! He felt more sure of himself.
He felt like tracing something.
Demota looked around his room for something to trace. His room was a bit
odd, however. Printed anime fanfics lay on the floor. Posters covered most
of the wall. A gigantic wallscroll of Ranma and Akane in wedding clothes
was on the largest wall, what he considered the best decorative piece in
his room. Anime videos filled up several shelves in his bookcase. On his
bedside table were his plans for world domination. Just some bizzare
things, but nothing too out of the ordinary. Out of ideas, he started
reading over his MSTs, trying to find some inspiration there. Kerrigan,
Washuu, Belldandy, and himself composed his MSTing team.
Perhaps there would be a good place to start! Except for Kerrigan. She
seemed a bit too grim for him to do much with for the moment.
He chose an Aa! Megami-sama! poster, and a rather maniacal looking picture
of Washuu he had printed a long time ago. Just for the heck of it, he threw
in a printing of Takeshi and Kasumi of Pocket Monsters at a picnic table as
well. Having no tracing paper of his own, he decided to swipe some from his
sister's room. "I'm sure Felicia won't mind." He said to nobody in
particular, as he usually did. "Her ability is far beyond tracing now."
After a little thought, he took the entire pad.
Soon, Demota set his latest attempt for artistic competence into action. As
he traced, the green pencil seemed to leave a shimmering line where the
lead was. When he was done, he stood to admire his handiwork. "Well, at
least it's better than my other ones. Hmm....that's weird." The pencil
lines were now beginning to glow. Deciding to ignore it and hope it would
go away, he turned around and started to walk out of the room. He stopped
instantly when he heard a sound. Kinda like TV static, then slowly fading
into clarity. He turned around, wondering what the hell was going on.
There, in front of him, was a curious and somewhat surprised redhead with
crab-like hair, a very confused woman with strange markings on her face, a
dark skinned boy with a lechereous expression that was currently staring at
the woman with the face markings, and a girl of about thrirteen that looked
completely shocked.
Demota, completely panicked and confused, did the only thing he could do
faced with such circumstances. He ran like hell.
Of course, that was before he slammed into the wall and knocked himself
out. He fell onto his side, his hands automatically going into the
Takahashi pose that had seared itself into his brain from his constant
exposure to anime. Of course, falling on his side automatically meant
falling down the stairs.
*thud*
*thud*
*thud*
*THWACK!*
==================================================
[Australia]
"Hey, John," Mike nodded in greeting to the other man, "can I catch a lift
home with you?"
The practical--as much fun as a practical in LISP can be--was finally over,
and the quickest, easiest way to get home would be to find someone with a
car that would be passing close by his neighbourhood. John Stallo, a close
friend and fellow student, fit the bill nicely. John was first generation
Australian, his parents had moved there from Italy just before he had been
born, a little over two decades ago now. His thin frame and thick black
hair showed his genetic heritage quite well. Shrugging to himself, and
adjusting his gold-framed glasses, John nodded quickly as he logged out of
his workstation.
The two exited the Computer Science building, watching the gathering clouds
and making small talk as they walked. "So, where're you parked today?" Mike
asked as they started to walk down the steps of building 314. On a campus
that was almost bigger than Mike's hometown, parking was getting fairly
scarce. The number of parking permits issued per year far outweighed the
actual number of parking bays, in this case by a factor of almost three
permits to one bay. The fact that they were walking down the steps--as
opposed to taking the side passage to the nearby parking--narrowed it to
two choices, the parking opposite them and...
"The Gravel Pit." John raised an eyebrow as he smiled, somewhat
sardonically. "I got here at nine on the dot. You know there aren't any
decent parking spots left by then." The slightest hint of Italian in his
accent revealed itself as he hit a few key syllables. John, curse his hide,
had travelled back to Italy on the Christmas holidays, to visit relatives
that hadn't followed his immediate family over here. The fact that he'd
been able to speak fluent Italian had probably gotten him halfway there,
while the most that Mike could remember--from lessons way back in primary
school now--were the words to "Happy Birthday".
'The Gravel Pit' was the affectionate name that the students had bestowed
upon this year's new parking bays, due to the fact that they were, as yet,
unpaved. Added to help deal with the ever expanding student population,
they were located at the very end of the campus--about a ten minute walk
from where the two were now.
Michael grimaced; that was almost as bad as walking home. Sighing quietly
to himself he asked, "So, how's your car going? Got rid of that yellow
sticker yet?" Almost as bad as walking home, but not quite. The campus
grounds were relatively flat, unlike his usual trek; added to that was the
additional bonus that he'd have someone to talk to for awhile.
John nodded again, "Yep, on Monday."
Silence reigned for a few moments as they passed through two of the
engineering buildings, watching as the normal life of the campus continued
around them. On the engineering bulletin board, a lonely green photocopied
sheet proclaimed the fact that the annual engineering and nursing ball
would take place sometime in the next three weeks. Making a note of the
date for future reference, Mike quickened his step as he realised that he'd
fallen slightly behind his taller companion.
"So? How much was the final bill?" The sticker had been a major point of
conversation for the last week or so; if the bill had been too high, John
would have scrapped his car, depriving all three--John, Paul and Mike--of
convenient transport.
"About five hundred. Give or take," John paused for a second, glancing at
the engineering cafe, "But, at least now I have a road worthy car."
That was true; John's car had been spluttering along for the past few
months now. Before he'd gotten the sticker, it was somewhat of a minor
miracle if the thing started in the morning. It had improved over the last
week as John had fixed things in readiness for the coming inspection. Now
the engine was, while not purring, at least not choking any more.
As they moved fairly swiftly down the outside avenue, eyeing the still grey
sky warily, they walked in silence past the next few buildings--the English
and Arts block. Not surprisingly, nobody was outside today, sketching or
practicing for a play, reminding them even more of the fact that the sky
looked ready to open up at any moment. Turning the corner and watching as
the Pit approached, John asked, "Are you going to play soccer on Friday?"
Mike nodded, while following John through the first few rows of cars, "Yep,
wouldn't miss it for the world." Catching sight of the upcoming olive green
exterior with the slight hint of rust that was John's car, he turned
towards it. Soccer was one of the best things about Uni, especially when
your supervising lecturer played the same game. Illegal tackles were not
entirely unheard of, and the occasional good play would be rewarded with
yells of 'That's an extra ten percent'. Mike smiled again. Yep, no way was
he missing Soccer on Friday; it was way too much fun.
John laughed briefly. "Do you think Paul will be there?"
"Heh." Paul still hadn't shown up, and after what he'd drunk last night it
wasn't really surprising. But then again, Mike couldn't really talk; after
all, he'd missed class once or twice for similar reasons. "Yeah, you know
him, doesn't miss a game." They were still smiling as the first spots of
rain hit the ground around them. A brief glance was all it took to convince
them to run the last few meters. Just before they reached the car, the
clouds above them opened up to divulge the rain that they'd been holding
for the last few hours.
As he stopped at his car, John reached into his bag withdrew his keys.
Fumbling a little in his haste to get out of the rain, he unlocked the
driver's side door and slid in behind the wheel. Reaching across he swiftly
unlocked the passenger's door, allowing the other young man to open the
door and clamber in. Michael shook himself briefly trying to get rid of as
much water as possible before getting in. To John's dismay, it went all
over the inside of the car instead.
"Hey, hey! Watch it there!" John mock-glared at the other occupant,
probably a little annoyed at the slight mess. Glancing at the water, an
apologetic shrug was the only way that Mike could answer.
Quickly closing the door behind himself, Mike wiped the rain from his coat,
trying to make less mess this time. Waiting as John threw his bag onto the
back seat, he hugged his own bag to his legs. Staring out at the large
amount of water that was running down the windscreen and the huge droplets
that were splashing off the bonnet and ground around them, Mike gave silent
thanks that he wasn't walking home in it, coat or no.
"What is with this weather?" Michael asked somewhat rhetorically, as John
started the car. Looking out at the unseasonal rain, John just shrugged and
then started to maneuver his way out of the impromptu car park.
******
Shaking the last drops off his coat as he stepped into his apartment, Mike
quickly closed the door behind him, locking it as a matter of course.
Glancing to the left of the doorway, into the sink of his small kitchen, he
sighed as he realised that he'd probably have to do something about the
number of dishes that were piling up. Nodding to himself, he admitted that
maybe, just maybe, "the leaning tower of plates" was not a good thing to be
building up. Again. Determined to do something about it, he opened the
cupboards under the sink, looking for the washing detergent and, of course,
finding none.
Sighing to himself and remembering now that he'd used the last of it last
time he'd washed up, Michael glanced out the kitchen window into the still
pouring rain. A trip to the corner shop was definitely in order. He watched
as a duck sought shelter under the slight coverage of a peppermint tree,
trying its hardest to disappear into the foliage. He stared; the rain
appeared to fall sideways as the wind picked up. But not right now, he
amended.
Deciding that out of...respect for the monumental effort that had gone into
the building of the tower--that architectural style, those graceful arches
of plate and bowl, the exquisite gilding of knife, fork and spoon, that
bloody weather--he'd gracefully forgo walking to the shops at this time.
Shrugging and promising to do it some time soon, he trudged in through the
kitchen area into the dining/main room behind it, where his computer lived.
Mike's computer never complained, blew up or decided not to work. It never
needed cleaning, other than the odd dusting, never needed any preparation
to start and hadn't actually attacked him yet--unlike the wardrobe. To put
it simply; Mike's computer was a Thing of Wonder (tm) in his Apartment from
Hell (tm). Switching it on, he watched as the blank neon glow gave way to
his start up screen--an animated Eva start-up picture--and eventually
dumped him into the familiar Windows desktop, which was also covered in an
Evangelion pic, featuring all three distinct Evas.
"Okay, let's see what's new." Nodding slightly to himself, and frowning as
the brown of his fringe showed briefly in his line of vision, Mike reached
past the monitor to his modem, switching it on and watching as the lights
flickered to life. Hitting a short cut to his net connection and waiting
while the newly activated piece of hardware dialed, he looked briefly over
the desk that his computer was sitting on top of.
The cover of Live's "Throwing Copper" reminded the young man what was
currently sitting in his CD drive. Popping the tray open for a second, then
closing it, he was content to wait for the player software to pick it up.
Several paper printouts were littered on various parts of the desk, most of
which showed parts of C code. Additional scribbles in the columns and free
space detailed exactly what a bored mind had thought about an assignment
that basically had been "translate Pascal to C" and the lecturer that had
given it. Most of them were quite descriptive, with insults levelled at all
things from his ancestry to what would happen if the scribbler ever chanced
upon him with a chainsaw at night.
Opening his mailer as soon as the modem finished its mating call, Mike
waited for his waiting messages to download, sorting them as they arrived.
"Crap. Delete. Save. Spam. Delete. Delete. Really delete. Save. Save. Read
now." Seeing a message from a friend, Mike opened it to find several screen
shots of a game that he'd never heard of before. Money Idol Exchanger, eh?
The pics showed several shots of what appeared to be some sort of puzzle
game. The background of each playing zone held a picture of an overly
exaggerated 'magical girl'. Above them were the words 'ain't they CUTE?'
Trust Nick. The guy was obsessed with the Neo-Geo, so these were probably
screenshots from there.
Sighing, and quickly deciding what he'd say back to that, Mike copied the
mail across into another folder. Popping open another window he typed in
the brief response: "You're a freak, know that, Nick? ^_^" hit send and
returned to his browsing.
He opened yet another mail from Nick, this time with a picture of two Fatal
Fury characters and another comment. 'Noooooooooo! How can she marry anyone
but me! ^_^ Found this at a site dedicated to the FF/KOF games. Remember
what happens when Mai and Andy come out together in '97? Check her feet.
^_^' Nick had included a link to the site at the end of the message, even
though both he and Mike had been there before.
The scene featured Mai Shiranui and Andy Bogard...well mainly the backs of
Mai Shiranui and Andy Bogard, anyway. The viewer was looking straight down
the aisle of a church, slightly elevated so that they could see over the
respective shoulders of Andy and Mai to the priest waiting at the end. It
seemed that Mai had broken the tradition of the bride and groom entering at
separate times, and was in fact clinging to Andy's arm as they both walked
towards their union.
They were half facing each other as they walked; their facial expressions
could be clearly made out from the viewer's perspective. Mai, walking on
the left, had a broad grin on what could be seen of her face, clearly
enjoying the proceedings. Andy, on the other hand, had an expression of
what could only be complete nervousness on his face. A little cliche to be
sure, but perfectly acceptable overall.
Andy was dressed in the stock standard black tux, complete with white
collar and polished leather shoes.
Mai was in a fairly demure white dress, which covered her entire back,
except for a small portion at the bottom. The hem of the dress was slightly
hitched to one side, allowing a glimpse of one shoe. It seemed that the
artist had seen the games and had neglected the bridal train to show off
something that would amuse most of the players. Mai was not wearing white
heels, or anything that one would expect under a bridal dress. Instead she
was wearing the soft red boots that she fought in.
Mike snorted in amusement. King of Fighters '97 had been a great game, and
while he hadn't really had the opportunity to check out whether '98 or '99
did the same, he still thought it was pretty funny. If Mai and Andy fought
against each other in the game, Mai would appear before the match in a
wedding dress, throw the bouquet at Andy and the quickly spin the dress off
and start the fight.
"Heh, good one." Michael rubbed an itch above his left eyebrow and shifted
his position about on the seat as he looked at the picture. Just as he'd
settled into his new position--legs stretched out in front of him and
shoulders resting comfortably against the headrest of the chair--he was
stabbed in the right leg. "What the hell?"
Reaching into the offending pocket, he pulled out the now almost forgotten
mechanical pencil. "Damn! How the hell did you manage to stab me?"
Remembering his legs, which had been stretched out at the time, the young
man shrugged. Sometimes weird shit just happened in this apartment--look at
the wardrobe.
Clicking the pencil once, Mike looked at the picture again. That'd be a
nice picture to have on hard copy. He blinked, looking at the pencil. He
hadn't traced anything in years! This was the perfect opportunity to
practice!
Whipping a sheet of A4 off the top of the paper pile that rested on his
computer, Mike pushed it against the monitor. Then took the time to curse
himself for being a stupid idiot. The print out on the other side of the
paper was showing through, nearly completely obscuring the picture
underneath.
Placing the page back on the top of his "recycled" paper pile, he drew a
blank sheet out of the printer paper tray. Pushing the paper against the
screen, he watched in disgust as the anti-static monitor failed to hold it
up. Mike muttered nasty things to the makers of anti-static monitors, then
reached across to his bookcase and grabbed the sticky tape. Wiping the top
of his monitor with the hand that held the tape, he noted absently the
layer of dust that rolled off the top. Putting the red pencil down, he
taped the sheet to the top of the monitor.
Leaning back, he studied his handiwork for a second. Yes, that'd do.
Picking up the pencil again, he pressed the sheet flat against the screen.
The young man quickly traced around the outer shell of the two main figures
in the picture. Sitting back, he looked at the outline.
"Hey, for someone that hasn't done this in years, that's pretty damn good."
Michael looked around the apartment. "Even if I do say so myself." He
grinned, then leaned in to fill in all of the inner details.
Outside, the unseasonal October storm that had driven most folks indoors
continued to grow.
=======================================================
[Port Arthur, Texas]
[October 7]
An obese form plopped itself down on a couch in a rather cramped bedroom,
and pondered the mysteries of life. Why did it always take Sam Goody's at
the mall two weeks to get the new anime tapes? Why did he bother shopping
there anyway, when it was easier and cheaper to purchase anime online?
And most importantly, why was the new art supply store at the mall offering
a promotional gimmick in which they were giving away high-quality
mechanical pencils, worth maybe two bucks a pop at the most, to shoppers
with $50 worth in mall receipts?
Examining the marbled green plastic storage tube he held in one hand,
Robert Morrison, who far preferred to think of himself by his Internet
nickname, The Eternal Lost Lurker, sighed. Ah well, a free gift is a free
gift.
Switching on his computer, he decided to take a better look at his new
possession while he waited for the increasingly clunky Presario to boot up.
Opening the storage tube, he slid the pencil out, and examined it in the
faint sunlight filtering through the window behind him.
It was, he had to admit, a nice pencil. The barrel was a smooth, metallic
green, and had a sheen to it that almost made it sparkle like an emerald.
He advanced the lead a bit, and noted that, indeed, the pencil was perfect
for tracing. Idly, he reached for the small packet of tracing paper which
had come with the pencil. He tapped the pencil on the table in front of
him. Curious that he felt a sudden overwhelming urge to trace.
With the computer finally booted up, he logged in to check his e-mail. As
he waited, he cast about for something he could trace. Nothing within
reach, he noted, but glancing at the wall scrolls hanging around the room,
he felt the urge to trace growing. He sighed. No way did he have enough
tracing paper for...
He blinked. Wait...he knew that there was a scan of one of his wall scrolls
on the Net. Launching his browser and surfing to the AniPike, he started
roaming through image galleries. It didn't take long for him to find what
he was looking for...a very nice image of Ayanami Rei, in an extremely
fanboy-friendly pose. With the image on its way to the printer, he started
surfing around a bit more, and on a whim, chose an image of Trunks, as well
as one of Pikachu.
Deciding that'd be enough to start, as his tracing skills weren't up to
snuff, he read a bit of e-mail, then logged off and cleared room on his
small table to do some tracing.
Starting simple seemed like a good idea, so he placed a sheet of paper over
the printed picture of Pikachu, and set to tracing. He was amazed at how
smoothly the job went; it took mere seconds to complete a tracing job that
normally would have taken him much longer. Finished, he inspected his work.
Not bad; the trace was perfect. After a moment's inspection, he set it
aside, and set to work on tracing Rei. The complexity of the image should
have made it more difficult to trace; instead, he found that it was as
simple as tracing Pikachu, the only difference being that it took all of
two minutes.
So engrossed was Lurker in his tracing that he did not notice the
shimmering lines of his first tracing. Nor did he notice when several
bright emerald sparks danced off the page, creating a swirling cloud of
light.
Lurker set aside the finished tracing of Rei, and began to place a sheet of
paper over the picture of Trunks. He lowered pencil to paper, and prepared
to click the lead advance, when...
"Pi..pika!? Pika Pikapi?"
Lurker froze. "What the hell was that?"
"Pi, Pikapi pika! Pika, pika pikachu pika pi?"
Lurker glanced around frantically, hand still frozen in mid-click. There,
in the chair which largely served as a repository for unwatched tapes and
discs, sat...no. It wasn't possible.
Lurker blinked, then rubbed his eyes with his free hand. It was still
there.
One foot tall. Yellow. Insufferably cute. And glancing around with a dazed
and somewhat upset expression.
Pikachu.
Faintly, he noticed the sparkling trail of light fading from his second
tracing.
And more than faintly, he felt another presence in the room.
"koko wa...doko desu ka?"
Numbly, he glanced to his left. Sitting beside him on the sofa, in the
(extremely pale) flesh...
=======================================================
Death came suddenly to the Ucchan. At least, it seemed like death.
One moment, Ukyou Kuonji was putting on her usual show, flipping
okonomiyaki in her usual manner, to the admiration of the patrons. The
next, she was enveloped in a swirling blue tunnel of light, floating
rapidly to God-knew-where. She could barely hear Konatsu's distant cry
"Ukyou-sama!" as hues of blue opened up on her as through an iris, the
blues growing deeper and deeper.
A pinprick of brilliant white appeared on the tunnel's horizon, and Ukyou
stared at it, transfixed, as it hovered in the distance. It was plain that
whatever that pinprick was, that was where she was going.
Oddly enough, all things considered, her life wasn't flashing before her
eyes. She'd heard that it was supposed to when you died; but even trying to
concentrate on whether she had any regrets was difficult. Each iris that
opened up a new shade of blue did so with such a rushing noise as to render
it nearly impossible to think. Maybe this was death's way of telling you it
was too late to even bother...
There was a deafening roar, and the little pinprick that Ukyou had seen at
the far horizon suddenly shot at her, growing at a spectacular rate of
speed. It devoured the colors of the tunnel before engulfing her with
blinding white light. Ukyou cringed against the light's brilliance.
<Kami-sama...this is it...>
Then, everything went silent, and Ukyou found herself sprawled on
carpeting. Well-worn, beige carpeting. Somehow, she'd expected better from
heaven...
And on top of that, her stomach hurt.
There was a crashing noise, and she sat up and turned around to discover
its source. A chair lay on its side next to a dining-room table where it
had fallen, perhaps when she had been flung into this room. She walked over
to the chair, stepping over a herd of plastic dinosaurs to get there. It
occurred to her that her stomach was suddenly feeling much better--she must
have landed on one or more of them. She picked up the chair: it was just an
ordinary folding chair. She brought it over to its place at the table.
On the table, along with several stacks of children's crafts and a few
newspapers, was a baseball cap. The writing on it was a semi-legible
amalgam of hiragana and kanji: "Okonomiyaki Ucchan." She gaped; it was the
logo from her shop curtain!
Who lived here, and how did they know about her? This couldn't be Japan,
after all...She looked around the large L-shaped room (or was it two rooms
without a wall between them?) This...house, it appeared to be...was of
peculiarly American design. No tatami, for one thing, and lots of
ground-level floor space. She could see cuts in the wall; evidently marks
of an extension or an addition built later on. <This deserves further
investigation...>
She set the hat down on the table where she found it. It brushed against a
book of manga, and she decided to postpone the search. This might hold
clues. Imagine her surprise to see a drawing of the Ucchan interior on the
page the book was open to. The illustration showed Konatsu staring at where
she had presumably been moments before, while the customers' attention was
drawn to three people sitting in the middle of the restaurant, almost as if
they'd been dropped there. The man looked rather like Dr. Tofu might, after
a bit too much food and a bit too little exercise. The woman, as Ukyou
considered this, bore a very vague resemblance to Kasumi, but shorter and
with wavy hair. The little boy looked like no one she'd ever seen;
fair-haired and blue-eyed, not even resembling the couple who were
evidently his parents. Had she switched places with these three? And how?
While she considered this, a voice came from upstairs: "What's going on
down there?" Whoever it was, he was speaking Japanese, much to her surprise
and comfort. Even more comforting was that it sounded like...
"Ran-chan? Is that you?" She walked around the table and into the adjoining
room, in the direction of the voice.
"Ucchan?" There was a rumble of feet running downstairs, and into the open
room charged...Ranma, himself. So, she *was* in heaven!
She leapt at him with a passion born of relief and love. He squirmed a bit,
trying to free himself from his grasp. "Uh...Ucchan...a little air?"
"Oh." She released him, a bit crestfallen. Okay, maybe it wasn't heaven.
But, in that case..."Where are we, Ran-chan? How'd you get here?"
"Well, we're in these folks' house." He gave her a quizzical look. "You
haven't met 'em?"
"No. There's no one down here."
"Oh. Well, the guy just ran downstairs with this pencil of his, yelling
something to his wife...I guess he wanted to show her what it could do. I
was just up here playing a video game on their computer, and I heard this
sort of whoosh! That's when I yelled."
"Well, they're not here anymore..."
It was at that moment that the doorbell rang. Ranma looked at Ukyou. Ukyou
looked at Ranma.
"I guess we'd better answer that."
"Guess so."
"Hey, it could be them! They mighta just stepped outside and locked the
door. They're expecting me to get it or something!"
Something in the back of Ukyou's mind doubted this, but it was worth a
chance. "Well, whaddya say *I* cross 'em up and answer the door instead?
That oughta freak 'em out."
Ranma grinned. "You go, girl." Ukyou walked through the hall to the door,
and opened it...and found herself staring at her double.
******
It is said that in this world, every one of us have doubles walking this
earth; Japanese legend, in fact, states that there are as many as five
copies for each form. Here, in what appeared to be America, Ukyou Kuonji
found herself face to face with her own double.
Then again...perhaps not. True, the girl's hair was dark and long, about
waist length, but it wasn't tied back with a bow. She was a bit shorter in
the legs, and stocky. She wore glasses. And of course, she was decidedly
Caucasian; pale skinned, almost abnormally pale (although that could be
just the effect of the contrast with her hair). Maybe she could pass for a
slightly older Ukyou, but only if you didn't look *too* closely.
Surprisingly, the girl didn't seem all that fazed by Ukyou's presence.
Indeed, she managed to place her, spot on. "So...you must be Ukyou Kuonji."
She stepped over the threshhold and walked inside as if she belonged in the
house. And she probably did...certainly more so than Ukyou or Ranma did.
Ukyou was glad she'd managed to keep up with her English studies. Of
course, there were other pieces of this puzzle to deal with. "You...know
me?"
"Oh, sure. Rachel and Randy have told me about you before. I've even seen
some of those cartoons with you and Ranma. Uh..." she looked around,
perplexed, "...where *are* they, anyway?"
Ukyou turned those names over in her mind a couple of times. Ran...di?
Crazy little brother? What a name to saddle a child with. Of course, maybe
it means something else, something better, in English. And Rei-cha...what
kind of name was that? These Americans sure had funny things to call their
kids.
It was Ranma who shook her from her contemplations. "[Hey, Ucchan, who's
this girl and what's she saying?]"
The girl set her backpack down next to the dining room table, and set
herself down insouciantly onto an old green couch next to the backpack,
narrowly missing an enormous gooseneck lamp that arched from the floor over
the entire length of the couch. "If you don't mind, could you ask Ranma
there to speak English? Randy dumps Japanese at random in his speech all
the time; it gets really annoying, if you ask me."
Ukyou gave a sideways glance at Ranma before sitting down next to this
girl. Giving her a conspiratorical wink, she told her, "I'm sorry, but
Ran-chan's English is not very good. He does not pay good attention in
class, with Hinako-sensei..."
Understanding came to the girl's eyes. "Ah...the one with the five-yen
thingy, right? Okay, I can understand that. Glad *you* pay attention,
though."
Ukyou was aware that her answers were careful and deliberate, and that her
accent was quite palpable, but smiled at the compliment. "Thank you. So am
I."
"Oi!" Ranma had his hands on his hips, looking a little put out at this
girl-talk. "[I heard that! Cut it out, willya?]" He may not have understood
much of what Ucchan was saying, but mention of 'Ran-chan' and
'Hinako-sensei,' combined with the looks in the two girls' eyes, made it
pretty clear that whatever they were saying about him, it wasn't
particularly complimentary.
Ukyou stood up again. "Gomen nasai, Ran-chan. [I didn't mean to be
insulting. But she doesn't know Japanese and you don't know English, so
I've got to bridge the gap here, okay, sugar? Maybe she'll be able to
explain things to us. Anyway, she wants to know where the folks who live
here are. You didn't see them leave, right?]"
"[Right. Just a whoosh noise, and when I came down, you were there, and
they weren't.]"
Ukyou turned and explained to the girl that neither of them knew what had
become of the couple. The girl grimaced. "Hm. Well, it probably doesn't
matter, after all. I was going to tell them about something that happened
to me with this pencil..." and she pulled a mechanical drafting pencil from
her backpack and offered it to Ukyou to examine, "but I see they've already
discovered its properties."
"Pro.. per.. ties?" The word rolled slowly off her tongue as Ukyou
carefully looked the pencil over. It wasn't particularly fancy, although
the barrel of the instrument was a fascinating swirl of shades of blue,
growing deeper and darker down to the eraser. Its pattern was vaguely
familiar...
"Yeah. I'd found these at our supplier's the other day, and was told that
it could improve your drawing ability considerably." The girl grinned.
"When you work at a sign shop, even though so much of our artwork it
computerized these days, every little improvement still helps. So I got
one--'only one to a customer,' they said--and found that their claim was
true. So I told Randy about it, as he used to draw cartoons back in
college. Thought he might be interested.
"Anyhow, I'd been using it for a couple of days, but today was really
strange. I was tracing over a customer's logo--one of these local
kindergarten day care places--and it had a couple of cartoon kids in it. As
soon as I'd completed the logo, the lines on the paper gave off this icy
blue glow, and when it died down, I was up to my kneecaps in cartoon
children. Just like the kids on the logo.
"Now, I love kids as much as anyone, but I couldn't deal with this. When I
was done with the sign, I took the kids over with me, and dropped them all
off with our customer. 'They're all yours,' I told him, 'don't ask where
they came from.' I figured it had to be the pencil, too--anything that
improves your drawing skill like *that* had to have a catch--so I came over
to warn the two of 'em...but it looks like they've figured it out on their
own." She gave Ukyou and Ranma a careful look. "Looks like they had more
fun with it, too."
The girl stood up, and motioned for Ukyou to return the pencil. "It's
really kinda strange...when I bought this thing, I was warned not to stab
the lead down on a picture." By now, she had walked over to the dining room
table, and had picked up the manga. "Was this what they were tracing?"
Ukyou shrugged helplessly, and the girl began riffing through the pages.
"Hm. Well, there's you, and Konatsu, and..." her
voice trailed off as she turned a page. She dropped the manga as if it were
burning.
"Good grief..." It was the picture of the three sudden arrivals to the
Ucchan. The look on her face told Ukyou and Ranma that she had found
them...in the manga. "So that's what happens..." She sat down,
contemplating the page momentarily, before stabbing her own pencil onto the
picture.
There was a roar of thunder, and a vortex of swirling blue appeared behind
the girl. With a yell of surprise, she dropped the pencil as she was sucked
in. The pencil hovered in mid-air for a moment as the vortex continued to
howl. It was now or never, Ukyou thought, and she stepped over a few toys
to get to the table, then reached carefully over to snatch the floating
pencil. As soon as she grabbed for it, the vortex closed with a dreadful
slurp.
At the same time, another vortex opened up just next to Ranma, who backed
away with a yelp. And none too soon, as he narrowly missed getting bowled
over by the Ucchan's kunoichi waitress, Konatsu, who tumbled out.
=======================================================
[Texas]
No.
This...this wasn't possible.
And yet, there she was. Chalk-white skin. Pinkish-red, unblinking eyes.
Short, fine white hair, with a faint cyan tinge, as though someone had
poured diluted chlorine through it. Plugsuit, white with black trim,
extremely tight-fitting, leaving very little to the imagination.
"anata wa...dare ka?"
Lurker's gaze shifted from the girl sitting next to him, who should not be
there, to the mouse sitting in the chair across the room from him, which
should not be there. And back. And forth.
Four things happened in the next five seconds.
Pikachu, in a moment of panic, cut loose with a mild Thundershock, which
struck Lurker and the girl who could not possibly be sitting beside him.
Lurker's hand, still holding the pencil, stabbed violently down on the
image of Trunks before him, clicking the lead advance and stubbing the lead
back into the pencil.
A shower of green sparks erupted from the pencil tip, and a harsh green
fire spiraled out of the paper, spreading up Lurker's arm, consuming him
almost instantly.
And Lurker screamed.
******