Crossover Earth '98
Alexander threw himself forward and off of the roof, leaping high into the air. His charcoal cloak billowed behind him, casting a shadow against the moon, if any of those few still walking along the street far below were to look up to observe it. Then he was across the street, the edge of the next rooftop cool and solid beneath his feet, and he continued running without missing a step.
Night in the city had its dangers. Most people would not consider the chance of falling thirty-odd stories one of them. In truth, neither did Alexander Greye. He had trained a long time for this day, almost since he had discovered his Gift. He had had to do so secretly, of course; but he had persevered.
This night would be his. This was the reason he had crafted the costume, the armored mist-grey bodysuit with white trim and the heavy charcoal hooded cloak, the black domino mask, invisible among the shadows beneath the cloak's cowl.
For Alexander Greye -- Pariah -- the rooftops were child's play. The true test would come later.
"Again?" he asked. His voice held only a faint trace of disappointment; this routine had become familiar to him.
"I'm sorry," Mother answered.
She might have said more, but he interrupted. "Where are we going this time?"
"Japan, honey. Tokyo."
"Japan." He sighed. "That's a long way from here."
'Here' -- Paris, France. Their family had lived there for little over a year. It was an unusually short term, but that, too, was becoming familiar to Alexander. His family had never spent longer than two years in one place.
Mother said nothing, so he pressed on. "When will we leave?"
But it was Father who answered, strolling into the room with his great grey trenchcoat, the one he always wore when the weather wasn't too hot or too cold, folded over his arm. "In three months, Zander. Your mother and I will have to get everything ready, so the people they're sending can take up where we left off without too much trouble."
Mother smiled gently, and knelt, holding his shoulders. "You'll like it there, you'll see. We have a nice apartment in the city, and there will be so many new things to see..."
Zander gravely pondered this news for a moment. "Can I go to a real school?"
His parents exchanged glances. "But Zander," Father said, "you don't speak Japanese. They won't teach in French, you know."
He smiled at Father. "That's okay. I have three months!"
Mother laughed and agreed.
Three months later, on board a flight bound for Tokyo, Zander chattered happily to Father, who occasionally made a brief response. Both were speaking Japanese, if somewhat haltingly.
The dark windows of an office skyscraper to his left gleamed in the moonlight, just the was his father's glasses had reflected the lights on that airplane. He frowned as he landed on the next rooftop, then nodded to himself, arriving at a decision. Gathering himself, he leapt straight up, peering over the top of that skyscraper. Was that a flash of red light? It was difficult to tell, from this height.
Well, this was worth a closer look, in any event. Landing, he immediately set out in that direction. With his speed, it took him no time at all to traverse the distance; alighting on a fire escape, he paused to survey the situation.
The red flash turned out to be a police siren, as he'd suspected, but he could pick out only one officer, crouched behind the open door of his vehicle. Waiting for backup, no doubt. Across the street, inside the convenience store, he could barely make out a figure standing not far from the window; the neon lights made it impossible to distinguish anything more.
He could wait, hope to discover more. Perhaps he could learn how many men were inside the store. Perhaps the policeman's backup would arrive. Perhaps there would be a firefight, and someone would get hurt, or the men would escape because of the delay. No, waiting, he decided, was not an option. His conscience would not allow that, this time. Speed was of the essence, and speed was one thing he did well.
He jumped, aiming for the store window. At the apex of his leap, he drew the katana that hung at his hip, and the length of gleaming steel became a part of him.
"The sword is not a tool." Oomora-sensei was lecturing again. "The sword is not even a weapon. A weapon is separate from its wielder. If you wish to master the Art, you must become one with the sword. It must become an extension of your body, an extension of your will. Your stance, its position, the movements of each technique; all these must become as instincts."
A dozen students knelt respectfully, attentively watching their master pace before them. Soon, his monologue would end, and they would bow to him. Then they would don the protective gear, take up their bokken -- wooden practice swords -- and drill, or perhaps spar.
Zander enjoyed the practice, had almost since he'd arrived in Japan. Just after his twelvth birthday. Four years ago. Never before had he and his family spent so much time in one place.
He had even been allowed to attend a real school, after the first year. By then, his knowledge of the language had been comparable to the other children his age. An exception had been made, despite concerns that Zander would not fit in.
He didn't, of course; at the time, he was the only foreigner at the school. It didn't seem to bother him. His grades actually improved slightly.
Still, his parents worried. "Join a club," his mother suggested one afternoon, not long after school had started. Almost everyone joined a club. Sports, academic subjects, gymnastics, flower arranging, mountaineering, and a host of similar activities each had a group devoted to them. Some students spent as much time there as with their studies, leaving them little time for anything else. "It will help you meet people."
Meeting people didn't matter too much, but Zander nodded anyway. "I will, if there's something interesting," he promised. The next day, he had spoken to one of the members of the kendo club. A week later, he had gone to his first practice.
Now, he was the best at his school, even better than Kobayashi-sempai, the club's president. He was second among Oomura-sensei's students, by general agreement. He still had few friends, but there were a number of acquaintances. His parents seemed reassured. All had gone well enough.
He smashed through the window easily. Before the shards of glass could reach the ground, almost before the men in the store could turn to look, he was beside the first. His empty left hand flashed out, striking three pressure points on the man's shoulder and neck with the ease of long practice. The man collapsed heavily to the floor.
There were two others inside the store. Armed. The nearer of the men -- the short, scrawny-looking one -- was quicker to react. He pointed his weapon at the cowled hero.
Beneath the cowl, Pariah smiled. It would be easy enough to dodge, but there was a better way. He raised his sword before him, and a trace of purple fire began to burn along its razor-sharp edge.
He raised the bokken before him, warily watching his opponent. Across from him, about two blade-lengths away, Kyousuke returned the favor.
Today, Oomura-sensei had decided that his students would spar. Zander was finding his match an uncertain proposition. He had the edge in speed, and perhaps in technique; he also had a slight reach advantage over his shorter opponent. Kyousuke, however, was unequalled on defense and implacably patient. If Zander's attack was less than perfect, he would be wasting his effort; Kyousuke would turn the strikes aside until Zander made a mistake and was unable to slip back into position. By the same token, Kyousuke would not move to the offensive unless Zander relaxed his guard; he was not fast enough to penetrate Zander's defense.
The two stood like statues for seconds, then minutes, each concentrating only on his opponent. Once Zander tensed, as if to attack, but Kyousuke was not fooled, and he allowed himself to relax. The wait continued.
Zander breathed deeply, focusing his ki. Kyousuke's blade shifted a fraction of an inch as he prepared for the attack that he sensed coming. Zander led with an overhand slash, and two wooden swords slammed together as Kyousuke parried. Immediately, he shifted to another slash, then a third, then a thrust; all three were blocked, as he had expected them to be. The exchange continued, picking up pace as both maneuvered. Finally, the time came to attempt the real attack, the one that might determine the outcome of this afternoon's practice match.
Zander yelled aloud as he started the swing -- too late. Kyousuke's own blade was already in motion; he would deflect the blow.
That was what logic and long practice told him should happen. He certainly didn't expect a flicker of violet flame to spring up along the wooden blade. Nor would he have thought it possible that his blow would shear through Kyousuke's sword and breastplate alike, missing his body by less than a centimeter, and continuing its arc into -- and through -- the brick wall of the dojo.
All of which is what actually occurred.
He'd had a devil of a time explaining it, too. He'd even had to hold back in pracice in the future, in hopes that the others would dismiss it as a fluke.
Zander wasn't entirely successful in his effort, but little was ever said about it. Not in the open. And those who had not been watching were reluctant to believe such a story without proof, which Zander would not -- could not, he claimed -- give.
Soon enough, everyone lost interest in pursuing the matter. He continued to practice secretly.
With a flick of the wrist, the violet-limned blade intercepted the bullet in mid-flight, slapping it away. Pariah allowed the motion to carry him forward, toward the thug who had fired the gun. The sword flashed again, and the man was left gaping at him, holing the bottom half of a gun. Most of the barrel, along with part of the hammer, had been sliced cleanly off and was lying on the floor near the man's shoe.
The small man swung a fist clumsily. Zander neatly sidestepped and disabled him with the same pressure-point combination he had used on the first. "Surrender now," he advised the third, who stood clutching his gun in white-knuckled hands. "It will be easier for both of us. Particularly for you."
After a moment of indecision, the gun clattered on the floor. Pariah lowered his blade, allowing the amethyst energy to fade, as he strode forward. A touch -- painless, this time, for Zander was a man of his word -- and he, too, collapsed into a dreamless sleep. Beneath the cowl, Zander smiled.
The entire battle, such that it was, had taken less than a minute. Not bad, for a first try.
But he could improve. He would need more practice.
He sheathed his sword and walked out the door, careful to keep both hands in plain view; it would be embarrassing to be shot by a policeman, after all that. Yes, there was the officer, peering out from behind the door; he was young, probably younger than Zander himself. A rookie. Zander wondered for a moment where his partner was, but he quickly set the thought aside. This was not the time; he could hear sirens approaching.
"There are three," he stated calmly to the young officer. "Inside. Unconscious, but not badly harmed. They'll wake in a few minutes."
The policeman started to ask something, or perhaps to thank him, but Pariah didn't stay long enough to hear. His work complete, he focused his ki and leapt.
By the time the cruisers arrived at the store, Pariah was twelve city blocks away.