Freyr - Tokyo Station
When Hisoka awoke, his arms were still crossed over his chest
as though he were holding someone. He stretched them uneasily, anticipation
fluttering in his stomach.
The driver's clock blinked 6:47. The bus was winding its way through the first wave of Tokyo rush hour on its way to Tokyo Station. Hisoka clasped his hands in his lap, closed his eyes, and turned his head so that his drowsing seatmate couldn't hear him. "Abwoon d'bwashmaya, nethqadash shmakh, teytey malkuthakh..." He hated doing this. It was like whistling in the dark as you crept past a sleeping bear. "Nehwey tzevyanach aykanna d'bwashmaya aph b'arha." Terrible if the bear woke up, terrible if you didn't whistle and your fear overtook you. "Hawvlan lachma d'sunqanan yaomana. Washboqlan khaubayn..." But there the analogy ended, because it was terrible if this bear never woke up. "...wateshbukhta l'ahlam almin. Amen."
Hisoka opened his eyes; the bear slept on.
The bus shuddered to a stop and a sleepy tide of passengers stumbled out, washing their bags with them. Hisoka waited until most of the people were out before slinging his rucksack over his shoulder and following them. He was a slight, chipmunk-cheeked boy of about 17, dressed in regulation jeans and a vast, fuzzy green hooded sweatshirt; apart from his long mop of hair, he was indistinguishable from the private-school second-years on their way to school.
He caught sight of his reflection in a window. He was indistinguishable from the private-school second-years on their way to school, apart from the fact that he looked as though he'd slept on a bus.
He considered the public bathroom briefly. It was more a meditation upon the folly of man than an actual weighing of the consequences of setting foot inside. Then he rubbed his nose with the back of his hand, sighed, and forged on.
Tokyo Station was as it always was, bright and loud and coated with plastic and concrete. The air was thick with chemicals--some to make the trains go, some to clean up the messes the trains made when they went, some to cover the smells of the rest. The traffic outside blared and screeched. Tokyo Station was the heart of Tokyo, Hisoka mused, and it reflected the city well.
Why did he have to be called to Tokyo? What he had to do could be done just as easily in Hokkaido, with its hills and vast flowering fields. Or in Tokushima, filled with hot springs. Or in Ostergotland, all covered with forest and surrounded by lakes and the sea. Or in Vacherie, where the land was so fertile that your shoes would take root if you stood still long enough. But noooo, it had to be Tokyo, a city which was nothing but solid asphalt for eight hundred meters down. Center of culture, they said. Center of power. Good TV reception. They were mad. He'd known that for years, but this only confirmed it: They were all mad.
Hisoka pulled an apple out of his bag and munched on it as he considered the options. There was no point in going to Asakusa for the next half-day at least. He vaguely remembered reading in a magazine that famed model Aoki Maki had just moved to Ueno, so Ueno was Right Out. Shinjuku...? He wasn't dressed for Shinjuku, but then, he never would be. Maybe the Shinjuku Gyoen Garden was open. Hisoka tossed away the apple core and scrupulously licked his sticky fingers clean, then shuffled aboard a train to Shinjuku Station.
"Abwoon d'bwashmaya..." - Aramaic: "Our Father, Who art in Heaven..."
Hisoka shuddered as he emerged from the train station. Hurrr.
Why did Tokyoites spend so much time rushing to shove themselves into one piece
of machinery which would take them to another piece of machinery which would
dump them in a sterile little cube crammed with machinery? And why did they
all feel like they had to eat kippers to do it?
The tide of salarymen receded, forming itself into rivulets which ran counter to the incoming tide of uniformed students. A single person stood out, an ethereal young man in plastic pants. He was wandering toward the station, but not fast enough for the tide, which swirled around him. Hisoka watched him with vague interest. It must be nice to stay out drinking all night.
Hisoka's stream wended past the young man's stream. As Hisoka passed the young man, the hairs on the back of his neck stood up. He snapped his head to the left and right, looking for the attack. Something was nearby. Something was hiding nearby. Something was--
The young man wandered into the station and was gone. Hisoka's sixth sense stopped howling. Hisoka looked around, puzzled, then turned and looked at where the young man had disappeared.
Hisoka gave a slow, sly smile. That silky hair, the pale blue eyes, the beauty which walked the fine line between the masculine and feminine--it had to be. Why hadn't he seen it at once?
Must have been the plastic pants.
Hisoka skipped streams and chased the young man into the station. He skidded to a halt and composed himself before the young man noticed him, then pulled an apple out of his bag.
"Oi, niichan!" Hisoka grinned and held out the apple. "You look hungry."
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