Chapter 2:

Unbelievable

Cold.

It was the first thing she noticed. It stung her nose and her ears.

Her eyelids fluttered open.

It was dark, shadowed. She was in an alleyway, garbage cans, recycling bins, and mouldering newspapers side-by-side. Her gaze wandered up, past fire escapes and electric wires latticing and crisscrossing, to the sky, a flat gray. Sound filtered in, muffled, sirens, cars, horns honking, chattering.

She blinked, slowly. Where am I?

"—You're finally up, eh?"

She startled.

He was a few feet away—a boy in a dark tracksuit, with a sharp, angular face, darker hair and blue eyes. They weren't blue like the sky or the ocean. They were blue like azure, cyan, something artificial. Neon.

He cocked an eyebrow, tilting his head. He looked like a cat. "Oh, no. Did I break you?" His voice was a sly drawl. He sounded young. He couldn't have been much older than her, and she was—

She was…

Her eyebrows creased.

I'm only…

How old was she?

My birthday, she thought. When's my…

She didn't know.

Wait. What day is it?

She didn't know.

It's cold. Is it spring, autumn?

She didn't know.

My parents. She thought. It was like grasping in the dark, hands scrabbling against the wall for a switch that would turn on the lights. Who are my parents?

Nothing.

My house?

Nothing.

Friends?

Nothing.

What's my name?

She didn't know.

It was strange, the absence, because it didn't hurt. Something vital was missing, like an organ or a limb, and it should have hurt, but it didn't. There wasn't even a ghost of it, no phantom pain lingering, and that scared her.

Who am I?

There was no answer, the only sound the traffic rumbling by outside, her breathing staccatoing.

"I wouldn't try thinking about it all at once," the boy advised.

She had forgotten he was there. Her head snapped up and she stared at him, wide–eyed and skittish as a deer. She took a step back, the pavement's chill muted against her foot, drawing her eyes down. She was wearing a plain, white kimono and tabi, but no shoes. Why am I dressed like this?

Her gaze skittered back to the boy, still leaning against the wall, casual. "Who are you?" She asked, tense.

His gaze sidled up to her and he grinned, Cheshire-like. "I'm Yato. I'm a god." He announced, like he wanted to tack on, I'm kind of a big deal.

"God?" She repeated, blankly.

"Yeah, y'know," he—Yato—hummed, lifting one of his hands, fingers curled, to inspect his nails. "Prayers, offerings, shrines, divine wrath, the whole deal."

"A god." She said, again, uncertainly. It felt like a misnomer when applied to a teenage boy in a tracksuit.

"Yep." Yato popped the 'p,' lifting an arm, lazily, to point at her. "And today's your lucky day, because you're my shinki."

She wondered, belatedly, if she should be offended. "Shinki? I don't…" She shook her head. "I don't know what that is."

Yato pushed off the wall, strolling towards her. He rolled his shoulders and stuffed his hands into his jersey's pockets. Closer up, she could see that the pupils of his eyes were slitted, like a cat's. He grinned, a slice of white. "A shinki is a god's instrument, used to carry out their divine will. It's a spirit who is chosen to—"

Wait.

"A spirit?" She interrupted, eyebrows furrowed. Her tone was incredulous, but something faint and strained crept in when she asked: "Are you saying that—I'm dead?"

His grin slipped from his face, replaced by something more serious and almost…sad. "Yeah." He clipped out. "I'm sorry."

Dead.

Dead.

I'm…dead?

"But that can't be right." She blurted out. She started wringing her hands. She felt like she was clinging to something important, and that if she let go—if her grip loosened, for even a moment—it would be torn away from her, and she would never have it again. "I'm right here. You can see me. You're talking to me. I'm breathing." Her throat ached and her voice was on the cusp of cracking. She felt her chest rise and fall, each breath quick with fear. She felt her heart thudding in her chest. Do dead people's hearts still beat? "I can't be dead."

Yato's expression remained still. "I'm sorry." He repeated.

She felt like she was being strangled. Her throat worked to make a sound, but none would come. She looked down at her hands, thin and pale even against the white of her kimono. The chill in the air seemed to sink into her, settling in her stomach, until all she felt was cold. She seemed to radiate it.

I can't be dead. She thought, but a voice whispered: You don't remember anything. You don't know where you are. You can't even remember your own name. If you're not dead, what are you?

She couldn't look at Yato. Her voice, when it slipped out, was small. "If I'm dead, and you're a…a god… Are you here to take me away?"

"No," Yato said. "I'm not that kind of god."

Silence lulled in. She should say something, do something, but all she could think was, I'm dead. I'm dead.

Something soft and navy-colored was thrust under her nose.

"Here."

She blinked, head lifting. Yato was standing in front of her—she hadn't even seen or heard him move—wearing only a white T-shirt, sweatpants, and sneakers, now. He was holding out his jersey. She stared at it, eyes wide.

He huffed at her surprise. "I can't let my shinki freeze to death. That'd be bad form." He pushed it closer, until it bumped against her chest. "Take it."

"I—I can't do that." She refused, out of reflex.

"Yes, you can." Yato insisted. "I'm offering very kindly to lend you my sweatshirt—lend it, mind you—and it's only common courtesy that you accept." Despite his words, his tone was soft. "You're cold. Take it."

She looked at him again, hesitantly, before her eyes fell to the jersey.

Slowly, she reached out and took it, turning it over in her hands. It was softer than it looked, worn and still warm. She slipped it on. It was a little big for her, but comfortable, and it smelled almost…nice.

She glanced at Yato. "Thank you," she said, quietly.

He looked pleased with himself, but shrugged, feigning nonchalance. "Eh, no biggie." He shifted, putting his hands on his hips. "Alright," he said. "How about lunch?"

What? "Lunch?"

"Yeah, y'know," Yato gestured, "second meal of the day, you eat it in the afternoon—"

"I know what lunch is." She pointed out.

"Excellent, we're on the same page!" Yato grinned that same Cheshire-cat smile from before. "What're you feeling like? We could go to McDonald's. I kinda want a teriyaki burger."

"But—" She pursed her lips, and shook her head. "I don't understand. If you— If you're not a shinigami, then why are you here? Why give me your jacket or take me out to lunch? Why—" Her voice was frustrated. "Why be nice to me, at all?"

A myriad of emotions flickered across his face, faster than she could read. Finally, he settled on exasperation. "I told you. You're my shinki. I'm giving you my jacket because you're cold. I'm taking you out to lunch because you're hungry. I'm here because you're here." He cajoled, softly: "C'mon. Lunch. I'll explain everything there. Nothin' creepy, I promise—no windowless vans or anything. Just a teriyaki burger, and maybe even one of those super-cheap plastic toys they give out in Happy Meals. How's that sound?"

She bit her lip. Well… She was hungry, and he had been nice, so far, if a little odd.

Besides, if she really was dead, there was nowhere else for her to go, was there?

She glanced up at him. "Nothing creepy?" She repeated.

"Scout's honor." He gave her a mock-salute.

"Alright." She nodded, adding, "Thank you."

Yato clapped his hands. "Great! Two teriyaki burgers, coming up! Follow me!" He declared, turning on his heels, heading towards the street.

She watched him take one step, two, and before she could stop herself, burst out: "Wait!"

He went still, turning back to look at her. The dim light coming in from the mouth of the shadowy alley made it hard to see his face.

"Do you…" She couldn't help it. It seemed silly to ask, but… "Do you know my name?"

He was silent for a moment, long enough that she doubted herself. Why would he know her name, or what it had been, at any rate, it was a dumb question to ask—

"—'Course, I do."

She stared at him, eyes wide.

It was hard to see his expression, but she thought she saw that look in his eyes, again—something close to sadness. "You're Kiyone."

Yato, it turned out, was right. The teriyaki burger was good.

She was sitting in a booth towards the back, a few feet away from the restaurant's window, facing the street. This McDonald's was older than most in Tokyo. The plastic seats were a faded, cracking red, and the wobbling tables were checkered with yellow and white. It smelled like grease. A heater hummed above her, hot air ruffling her bangs.

So much for being dead reducing my appetite… She sighed at the empty tray. Her gaze drifted up, around the restaurant. It was empty, except for a tired-looking salaryman sitting near the door. A few workers chatted behind the counter, while Yato filled their drinks at the soda fountain. No one had looked at them twice since they'd come in.

Yato strode over to the table, setting the drinks down and dropping into his seat. He scooched his chair closer, the legs squeaking against the linoleum. "I thought you'd still be hungry," he informed her, "so, I ordered you another burger."

"Thank you." She said, sincerely. She knit her hands together, in her lap. "This— It's very kind of you. You…You didn't have to."

He rolled his eyes. "I'm hungry, too." He hoisted his burger up, and took a large bite, shrugging. "'sides, y'need to eat. Takes a lotta energy, turnin' int'a shinki 'n' all." He punctuated his statement with another bite.

It would've been nicer if he hadn't said that around a mouthful of hamburger. She wrinkled her nose. Her gaze flickered to the window. It was getting darker out, the streetlights and storefronts casting more light while the sky grew dimmer. Pedestrians trickled by, tired students on their way home from club activities and cram school and salarymen and office ladies toting briefcases, off to drink the day's stresses away. A mother guided her young son—two, maybe three—by the hand, his cheeks and nose red, past the window.

She took a sip from her soda, the paper cup cold and damp against her hand, and set it down. The condensation ringed the table. Her fingers toyed with the jersey's sleeves; they were torn. "Yato?"

He had moved on from his burger to his fries, a whole fistful poised to be jammed into his mouth. He cocked an eyebrow. "What?"

"What you said, before…" She looked down at the table. "I'm…I'm really dead, aren't I?"

She heard him shift in his chair. His tray clattered when he set the fries down. His voice was quiet. "Yeah."

"I don't understand, though." She lifted her head, bangs brushing against her forehead. "How can I be dead? I'm—I'm right here." She could smell the meat and grease from the burger and taste the carbonation and corn syrup in the soda. She could breathe. She didn't remember being alive, but this felt a lot like it.

Yato smiled, wanely. "It's more complicated than that. You're not just a spirit, y'see—you're a shinki. You can inhabit this world, but you can't always interact with it."

She sighed. 'Shinki,' this, 'shinki,' that. "What does that mean?"

Yato frowned. He bit his cheek, thinking, and then his eyes brightened. "Here. This'll help!" He plucked the straw from his soda and reached over and took hers. He set the straws down on the table, parallel to each other.

Her eyebrows furrowed.

Yato grabbed a packet of ketchup, salt, and pepper each from his tray. "Alright." He said. "Let's say that this, here, is you." He lifted the ketchup. "And this, here, is any average joe—any average not dead joe, that is. Average joe belongs here, in the physical world." He placed the pepper down behind one straw. "And you, as both someone who's dead and a shinki, belong here, in the middle—not quite spiritual, but not quite physical, either." He set the ketchup down on the other side, the packets separated by one straw. "Meanwhile, spirits who're dead but aren't shinki go here, to the spiritual world." He put the salt behind the other straw, until they were laid out in order: salt, straw, ketchup, straw, pepper.

"So…"

"So, that means that while we all exist, we're behind different…veils, sort'a. Spirits, they're the farthest away—they can't interact with much, not without a whole lotta effort. Now, your kind, shinki, can interact with the physical world and those who inhabit it, but it's harder for you than it would be for, say, average joe, who belongs there." He flopped back into his chair, arms crossed over his chest. "So," he finished, looking proud of his work, "d'you get it, now?"

Not really. "I…think so?" She frowned. "But, wait, where do you come in, then?"

"Ah," Yato grinned. He flicked a thumb to point at his chest. "I'm a god. We're a special sort, y'see." He picked a fry out from the packet and set it down, vertically, until it spanned the packets and straws. "Like you shinki, it's hard for normal folks to interact with us, and vice versa—but, at the same time, we're able to penetrate through the veils that separate the spiritual from the physical."

"Okay." She nodded, slowly. "But… What does that actually mean?"

Yato gave her a look, and sighed. "Alright, alright. Forget about the straws, and all that." He glanced over his shoulder, back towards the counter. "See that kid, over there?"

She sat up straighter, craning her neck to look over Yato's head. "Yeah." The 'kid' was a pimply teenager wearing a black uniform and visor, carrying a tray with a burger on it.

"He's going to try to bring us our order." Yato relayed. "Don't say anything—just watch, alright?"

She stared at Yato, baffled, but nodded.

The boy came around the counter, toting the tray. However, when he got to the dining area, he paused. He stood for a moment, frowning, and glanced around the room—his gaze slid right over her and Yato. Then, he shook his head and turned, walking to the salaryman sitting by the door.

"What is he—?"

Yato pressed a finger to his lips.

The salaryman looked up, surprised, when the waiter came to his table. They exchanged words, the customer shook his head, and the waiter stood there, confused. He turned to look back at the dining area, but he didn't notice her and Yato. Instead, he shrugged, starting to head back to the kitchen, tray in hand. He was almost at the counter when Yato called him back.

The boy apologized, profusely. "I'm so sorry!" He exclaimed, handing them their order. "I didn't even see you there."

"It's fine." Yato grinned, taking the tray and passing it to her. He shared a look with her as he said, "happens all the time."

The waiter returned to the counter, still shaking his head, mystified, while Yato raised an eyebrow. "See?" He leaned over the table. His eyes flashed under the fluorescent lighting. "Normal people, they have trouble seeing us, sensing us, because we aren't normal. We're on one side of the veil, and they're on the other." Suddenly, he leaned back, with a huff. "So, now do you get it?"

She swallowed. "I—I think so."

"Good." Yato stretched, arms raised over his head. "Any other questions?'

She chewed at her lip. Well… "If I'm dead," she paused, glancing at him, before she asked, hesitantly, "then, do you… Do you know how I died?"

Yato was still for a moment, a stillness that had a tension behind it—then, it was gone, and he picked up a fry and popped it into his mouth. "Nope."

She blinked. "What— You don't know?" She didn't know what answer she had expected, but it wasn't that.

"Nope," he repeated, chewing, "I'm as clueless as you."

"But you… You said you knew my name!" She protested.

"Yes," Yato explained, exasperatedly, "because I gave it to you."

She blinked once, twice—a third time, for good measure. "Gave me? You named me?"

"That's what I said." He replied, and when she stared, he sighed. "Listen. Shinki are, at first, spirits, like anyone else. They have no name, nothin'—until a god finds them, chooses them, and grants them one." At her doubtful look, he added: "Don't believe me? You can see so for yourself." He jerked his chin at her.

"What?"

He rolled his eyes. "Look at your—" He paused and glanced to the side. His face looked a little red—wait, was he blushing? "Your, um, collarbone…area… Over your heart? Your chest."

She blinked.

"Do I need to draw you a map?" He snapped, face, if possible, even redder.

She frowned, looking down. She glanced back at Yato, making sure he wasn't peeking and that no one around them had noticed them, before she peeled his jacket and the kimono away from her skin, just a little, to look—

Her eyes widened.

It was there, below her collarbone, over her heart. It looked like it had always been there, as if someone had tattooed it against her skin, but it was smooth, like it had been painted on with a brush in fuschia ink.

清.

Clear, pure, noble. To exorcise, to cleanse. To purify.

Shō, shin, sei.

Kiyo.

She let go of the edge of the kimono and jersey, letting them fall back into place, and looked up at Yato. "'Kiyo,' for Kiyone?"

He was still staring, resolutely, out the window. His cheeks were pink. "Written with the character for 'sound,' 'ne.'" He informed, tone brusque.

"'The sound of purity.'" She translated aloud, her tone almost wondering.

He shrugged, reaching a hand up to rub at the back of his neck. "It's all that I could think of at the time, is all," he mumbled.

She watched him. A small smile slipped onto her lips.

He gawked at her. "What're you smilin' about?" He spluttered. "It's all I could think of at the time, is all! What, you don't like it?"

"No, no, I like it." She reassured. "It's a lovely name." She added, still smiling: "Thank you."

His blush worsened. "Yeah, well, 's'not like I could let you run around without a name," he muttered, sulkily, sticking a French fry into his mouth and chewing. He raised an eyebrow. "Is there anything else you wanna injure my pride over?"

She paused, thinking. "Well… I was wondering… Why do gods need shinki?" She tilted her head. "I mean, you're—well, a god."

Yato frowned, a fry sticking halfway out of his mouth. "Well… Just because we're gods doesn't mean we're all-powerful, y'know. We have different talents, skills, domains, what have you. Some of us are gods of war, luck, commerce—me, I'm a god of fortune!"

"A god of fortune?"

"Yeah." He grinned. "I grant people wishes, for five yen apiece."

"Five yen?" She gawked. "But—But that's so little!"

"Yeah, well, you gotta start somewhere." He defended. "And a little goes along way! I have a lot saved up." He informed, proudly, chest puffing up. "Besides, not all of us can be like those Seven Gods of Fortune and rake in the dough just by sitting on our keesters all day," he informed, tone sour.

"Still," she insisted, "if you're a god of fortune, what do you need me for? What could I do for you, that you can't do for yourself?"

He shrugged. "It's not like that, really. Like a carpenter needs his hammer, a god needs his shinki. Shinki are tools we use to carry out our will—y'know, defeat ayakashi and stuff."

Her knows wrinkled. "Ayakashi?"

"Yeah," Yato waved a hand, "like, bad spirits. I purify them, so they can't hurt people or cause trouble anymore."

She raised an eyebrow. "And I'm supposed to help you do this. Be a—a tool." She echoed, doubtfully. "I don't know if you've noticed, Yato, but I'm not exactly, well, ayakashi-slaying material."

"Not yet, you aren't."

She eyed him, suspiciously. "What do you mean?"

"Well…" Yato hummed, contemplatively, plopping another fry in his mouth. "There's one way to show you."

The afternoon had darkened to evening. The temple's courtyard was empty. The sign out front proclaimed that it was dedicated to Tenjin. Sunlight slanted into the courtyard, baking the brown leaves that littered the uneven cobblestones a soft, burnt orange. The temple loomed in the shadows at the square's edge, dwarfed by its large roof.

What are we doing here? She wondered, padding after Yato, the cold seeping through her socks to chill her feet. There's no one here.

"Alright-y." Yato stopped in the center of the courtyard, his shadow long and dark. His eyes were more purple than blue in the dimness. She shivered. "This should do it." Yato declared. He raised an arm.

"Yato," she started, "what are you—"

"—Come!" He burst out, in a voice that was different from how he'd spoken before, silly and childish. This crackled with energy, making the hair on her arms stand straight up, and for the moment of silence in the wake of his outburst, the air seemed to hum. "Seiki!"

It was like being sucked through a tube too small, or spread too thin, maybe, dissipated like mist in the air.

She was standing in the courtyard one second, and the next—she was somewhere, somewhere indefinable and unfamiliar. It was a space, open and boundaryless, impossible, dark. She didn't know how she was standing. She didn't know how she was existing.

Are you alright?

She blinked, startled. It was his voice. Yato's. It reverberated through the space.

"I—" She swallowed, her throat dry. "Yes? I think so. Yato, what happened?" Her voice was strained and thin with panic. Her fingers trembled. She curled them into her sleeves.

I told you. Shinki are vessels for a god's power, tools to help them. His tone sounded prissy, even in her head.

"I don't know what you mean!" She cried, frustrated.

I mean, Yato answered, like it was obvious, that this is the form you take as a vessel.

"That's not an answer!"

It is. He insisted. You're just not seeing it. We're connected, now—I can feel you, and you can feel me. You need to use that.

"How?" She asked, miserably.

Well, calm down, first of all. Taking my head off isn't going to help. He informed. Take a few breaths.

She rolled her eyes but did, letting her shoulders rise and drop with each one.

Now, clear your mind.

"That's kind of hard with you in my head." She muttered.

Heard that, he said, snidely. Calm yourself. Don't worry about seeing, worry about sensing.

Like that helps, she thought, but closed her eyes. Sense, don't see. She told herself. "Sense, don't see. Sense, don't see."

She swallowed, eyebrows furrowing. It was…strange, but her perception seemed to expand. It felt like she was disassociating—she saw from a different angle, her body disappearing and form shifting, shifting to…

Her eyes flew open. "Yato," she breathed. "Is— Am I—"

Yep.

"—a sword?"

She could feel him grin. Good job, Seiki.

A/N: Here's chapter two! This was a beast to write, but I hope ya'll enjoy it.