Counting to i

01 – Perihelion

It was just a video.

Nothing but a couple of high school kids filming a video of themselves doing something stupid and reckless. Something to post on the Internet for a laugh. No big deal. But of course, it was reckless. So when one kid fell into a busy street with a delivery van bearing down on him, it became obvious that the silly video wasn't worth it.

Until the impossible happened.

The kid was moments away from becoming a news story—a new, oily stain on the worn and patchy asphalt of Yokohama—and then he wasn't. A blink, and he's gone. Moved. Safe on the sidewalk. Neither he nor his friends could believe it.

A man in blue tucked his hands into his pockets as he walked down the same sidewalk. The group of kids didn't notice him.

Of course he grabbed the kid and pulled him out of harm's way. He was in the area. It really wasn't a big deal. He didn't do it for any other reason except he was there and he could act. He walked away from the event as if nothing had happened at all.

But then those kids examined their video of the impossible. Second by second and frame by frame. He was too fast to be caught by the camera shutter, but the before and after showed something peculiar. A man in blue appeared at the edge of the frame, and in the next the kid reappeared on the other side of the street with the man in blue walking away.

The kids cursed the grainy quality of their smartphone camera. They had no face to put to the man.

And then it ended up on the Internet. All of the reposts and hits and buzzing was enough to attract the attention of the Minimum Agency. Of course they could figure out who to blame for the "public display." They wanted him to come in and shoot another video as if it was all TV magic. It seemed like a lot of trouble, so he didn't bother. They tried to discredit the original anyway, without his help. It didn't quite work.

The video went through countless message boards and public forums and all rings of the social media circus. It was set to music and remixed with explosions for added flair. It was badly subtitled in a handful of languages and showed up on international conspiracy blogs. The impossible man in blue. Yokohama's resident superhero.

And then the Next Big Thing happened and everyone forgot about him. That suited him just fine. After all, it was just a video.

But the reach of that video has landed him here, causing him trouble even a year later. It's thanks to that video that he's being asked to take a case by this well-tailored woman speaking broken Japanese. He tried placing her accent when she first walked into Café Nowhere, asking for the Hamatora Detective Agency with a curiously strong r. He decided that English was her first, or best, language right before she admitted to living in the US for several years.

Nice can't help but wonder if she came all the way to Japan to hire Hamatora because of some silly video she saw on the Internet, so he decides to hear her out.

And as she reaches the end of her pitch, Nice finds his fingers idly drumming on the tabletop. The little paper sign reading 'Hamatora Detective Agency' has been shoved into the corner and forgotten amongst the mess of documents and information brought in by this woman—what was her name again? It was normal, yet not. Simple made strange…

Chihara Kyokkō. That's it. It seems she's Japanese after all.

She's also a stickler for details, if the papers covering the table are any indication.

But Nice is only halfway listening by the end. He'd cemented his position not long after she'd started, talking about her missing fiancé and Minimum Holders and the apparent devastation burning through the American underworld. All these things he doesn't know and doesn't need to know. She throws so much information at him at once. It's aggravating. Almost as if she's unable to discern what information is necessary and what isn't.

Nice filters through it on the fly. It's even more aggravating when he realizes how simple her case actually is, but she's been talking for about ten minutes now. As soon as there's a pause he holds up a hand, his words pinning her down like carefully aimed darts: "So, what you're saying is: You need power."

She swallows back what she was about to say. Nice could laugh at the exposed look that comes over her face. "What do you mean?"

"Dr. Muramasa, your fiancé, you worked together, right? You were both in the police force, and then you say he fell into the wrong crowd—"

She bristles. "He was taken by a powerful criminal organization made up of Minimum Holders."

"—and brought back to his native Japan. Since you worked with the police, you already know a lot about this organization. Just look at all of this paperwork you've brought with you." He motions to the stacks of paper and several files strewn across the table. "It shouldn't be much trouble for you to track down this huge and powerful group, right? So why do you need Hamatora? You've already said it: The organization is made up of Minimum Holders. Fighting fire with fire, huh?"

She smiles in some defeated way. "I suppose you have already figured out that I have no Minimum."

"Not necessarily. You could have a non-combative-type," he shrugs. "But since you just admitted it, I'll say that you don't."

"In any case, I am not asking for a secret weapon, I am asking for help." He raises a brow. "I believe my fiancé was taken because of the research he was doing on Minimum Holders. He was looking at how they worked, and new ways to fight against their abilities as the chaos in America only seems to get worse. The only way for me to help him was to follow the group to their base of operations—to Japan. But this is also their territory, and I am already at a disadvantage since I do not have a Minimum." She wrings her hands in her lap, fiddling with the diamond ring on her finger. "I would say that I only need your help extracting my fiancé, but they are probably already aware of my presence in this country and may consider me a nuisance. I have to find him and get him out as soon as possible. I need the help of Hamatora to do it. I am unable to go against them on my own."

Nice watches her a moment. He feels the pressure in her voice, despite her lumbering pronunciations. He gives a patient breath. "Can't you get your friends in the police to help? What about the American government? Kidnapping is illegal there, right?"

"Of course it is," she sighs, "but there's a loophole in America's extradition treaty with Japan. Because the parties involved are Japanese citizens, Japan can claim jurisdiction over the incident despite the fact that the crime was committed in the United States." She speaks the words as if she's rehearsed them a thousand times.

Nice hums a laugh. "That's awfully convenient."

"But true. Would you like me to bring up the legal documents?" She goes for one of the stacks of paper and he holds up his hands.

"No, no. I believe you. It just seems bothersome."

"Which is why I am prepared to pay for all of the trouble I cause you."

"Oh? I haven't even named my price yet."

"This case is worth a lot to me, so I will pay you 5 million yen for your assistance."

Nice suddenly leans forward in his chair. "Are you serious?"

"Is it not enough?"

"No, it's just—that's… an unbelievable amount."

"Then it should be enough to prove that I am serious." He meets her stare and believes it—she is serious. "I came here to gain the help of Hamatora, and that is what I intend to do. You now have all of the information." Her eyes turn expectant as she watches him from across the table.

But his expression remains flat. He still isn't convinced. There's something…

"So, what do you say?" she asks, uncrossing and crossing her legs. Fidgeting in uncertainty.

Nice chews on his lip, rolling the information around in his head one last time. He has to decide.

The moment he starts to answer is the moment the windows of Café Nowhere are blown apart.

X

A fist breezes past his ear. Quick step to the right. Twist his shoulder back. Slingshot the left fist forward—step into it. The punch is blocked by arms and elbows.

A knee comes up for his abdomen and he steps back. No contact. Fists held high. He takes another swing, this time with his right arm. This time he aims lower. The other man weaves around his punch and closes the distance between them.

Murasaki's arm blocks the incoming fist just before it crashes into his face.

He pulls his knee up into his opponent's stomach. The man coughs and steps backwards and Murasaki doesn't let up. He's upon him with fists and elbows. Only a few hits land. The rest are blocked or deflected.

If he'd activated his Minimum, the man's bones would be shattered. But it wouldn't be enough for the man to back down. Murasaki waits for the opening—for when using his Minimum would put an end to it. In a way that doesn't cause unnecessary suffering.

A wild kick crashes into his thigh. Murasaki doesn't flinch.

His opponent is a man with short dark hair and a splash of bruises across his left side. Murasaki has heard of him before. Nakamura Jun. A stray Minimum Holder.

And if Murasaki is remembering correctly, Nakamura's Minimum involves the hardening of his body until it's like stone. Murasaki takes another step back to create distance. To observe. To assess. To lure.

Nakamura brings his fists together before his chest, knuckles locked tightly together, making a circuit with his arms.

That's it. The trigger.

He lowers his stance and Murasaki braces for the impact. Nakamura rams a shoulder through Murasaki's arms and right into his bare chest and all the air is forced from his lungs.

It's true about Nakamura's Minimum. It's like being hit by a truck. If it wasn't for Murasaki's own Minimum, his ribs would surely be crushed. But as it is, Murasaki is pushed back with his shoes skidding across the concrete floor.

Nakamura swings his elbow towards Murasaki's face but hits nothing but air. Murasaki takes the chance to bury a strengthened fist in Nakamura's abdomen—aiming for his collection of bruises. And even through his Minimum, Nakamura falters. Murasaki's other hand grabs onto his face and throws him into the ground. A crater the size of his head is left behind on the floor.

But his Minimum means that he can still get up and fight. He deactivates it long enough to charge Murasaki from beneath, slamming into him and wrapping his arms around his waist. Murasaki's hands find Nakamura's belt as the impact lifts his feet from the ground.

Nakamura presses his knuckles together behind Murasaki's back and his Minimum reactivates. His body becomes like stone once again.

Murasaki loses his footing and they both go down.

Then they're rolling and rolling, each throwing the other over with the strength of their momentum. Tumbling. Flipping. Again and again and Murasaki feels the warm concrete beneath his back and lets go and presses his arms into the ground as he lifts one hip high—throwing Nakamura off balance. He swings a leg out to knock Nakamura's feet out from beneath him before he can regain his grip. His other leg arcs up as Murasaki twists his body free from Nakamura's stone grip and pins him down with a knee that pops a few of his softened ribs. His hands grab firmly onto his opponent's arms and he squeezes, the strength of his Minimum crushing Nakamura's bones like twigs beneath his fingers.

His screams are lost amongst the yelling of the spectators surrounding them.

Once the pain has drained his opponent's consciousness away, Murasaki stands. His face reveals nothing. The audience parts to let him pass through to the rear of the building. Several people rush forward to tend to Nakamura. To make sure he doesn't die.

A washroom has been installed at the back of the room, and Murasaki closes the door on all the noises of the crowded basement. He splashes his face with cold water from the sink and takes a clean towel across his chest. An open duffel bag sits in the corner and he snatches it up, easing back into his dress shirt and jacket and a pair of angular, red-framed glasses.

He hangs the bag from his shoulder and reenters the room of noises. Shouts of congratulations and hearty pats on the shoulder smother him. One man in particular offers Murasaki his hand. Murasaki knows this man. He's obligated to return the handshake. He thanks the man for his praise and they part shortly after. The man's hand slips into Murasaki's open bag as he walks away, leaving an envelope behind. His payment for the fight. Murasaki pretends to not notice.

He climbs a set of stairs and emerges on the public floor of the establishment: a restaurant. Lunch service has just ended, and as such most of the tables are empty. There's only one person left in the dining room as the staff flits about preparing for the dinner rush. A man in a casually-worn, yet well-fitting suit sits alone, nursing a glass of ice water and thumbing at his smartphone. A man called Tanabe. His dark hair is slicked back with product and a bright, clean scar marks his right cheek from chin to ear.

As Murasaki enters the dining room, Tanabe looks up from his phone and a smile breaks across his face. "That was a match to remember. Congratulations."

"Thank you."

Tanabe pockets the phone as he stands from the table. "Ready for the real work then?"

Murasaki only nods.

"You can drop that bag behind the counter," Tanabe adds, noticing the duffel bag on Murasaki's shoulder. "We'll be back here later anyway."

"I'd rather take it," Murasaki says, zipping the bag shut.

Tanabe simply slips on a pair of sunglasses and heads for the exit. "Suit yourself." Murasaki follows close behind. They both give the hostess a respectful bow as they leave the restaurant.

"Come along then," Tanabe grins, "You're my enforcement."

Murasaki nods without enthusiasm, but walks alongside him. 'Enforcing' is a bit of strong word, he thinks, since he typically does nothing at all. It seems his presence alone is enough to coax the payment out of their clients. Even bartering. So he simply stands there and lets Tanabe do all of the talking. All of the real work.

It may seem like bullying, but truly, The Family is the only thing keeping the suits in Facultas from owning all of Yokohama—and all the Minimum Holders gathered there beneath the shelter of kindred spirits. This Protection Service is real, whether the people believe it or not.

A few hours later, Murasaki and Tanabe walk briskly from their final stop. A breath deflates Murasaki's chest.

"Good work today," Tanabe says.

Murasaki answers with an affirmative grunt.

"A chatterbox as usual, I see." Tanabe mutters, but then his eyes light up. "What do you say we get some coffee? There's a place up the block with a killer house blend. ... You do like coffee, right?"

"I do."

"I thought so. I bet you drink it black."

"Preferably."

A prideful nod. "So what do you say? My treat. Especially after that match."

A moment passes. The strong scent of coffee suddenly wafts down the sidewalk, presumably from whatever shop Tanabe is talking about. Murasaki concedes. "Sure."

Tanabe's grin tightens the scar across his cheek. "Consider it a victory cup."

Murasaki could roll his eyes, but decides against it.

They're two doors down from the coffee shop—called Café Nowhere, by the looks of the sign—when the windows of the shop burst apart into shimmering confetti. Tanabe's steps falter. Murasaki merely blinks.

A man in a white hooded jacket stands in the street at the front of the café. His hand is held at arm's length, finger pointed towards the now shattered windows. Three more people fall into place beside him. They're all wearing similar hoods and similar smirks.

There's a long moment of nothing.

And then the crunching of glass underfoot. The door of the café slides open and a person steps out—a man in a bright yellow vest with bandages on his face and headphones dangling from his neck. He glances from the four hoods to the broken windows and pulls his arms behind his head. "You know, it's much easier to get in through the door."

The first man laughs and stuffs his hands into his pockets. "I like to make an entrance."

A shrug. "It just seems like a lot of trouble for a cup of coffee, is all."

One of the other hooded figures reveals a knife with the subtlety of an air raid. Even from his position so far away, Murasaki can see the sunlight reflecting off the blade. "Let's just get this over with," the figure mutters. "I'll take care of him while you guys grab her." And they all step quickly but clumsily towards the man in the vest.

The man takes his time placing the headphones over his ears. The figure with the knife closes in on him and he snaps his fingers.

And what happens next, Murasaki doesn't understand.

As soon as the man in the vest snaps his fingers, he's on other the other side of the street. Meanwhile the four people in hoods are bombarded with punches that definitely landed. All at once there's the sound of snapping fingers and skin hitting skin and the four figures collapse onto the pavement, completely outmatched in less than a second. Murasaki sees them jerk and fall in unison like a carefully coordinated dance.

The man in the vest pulls the headphones down and makes his way back towards the café. He absentmindedly shakes the punches from his right hand. The knuckles are already blooming with red.

And for Murasaki, in that moment, this man whose heart has never raced, who knows no such things as anxiousness or uncertainty—his hands are trembling.

A woman emerges from the building and speaks to the man in the vest. She says something about a "situation," and asks for his help, but Murasaki isn't really listening. He can't take his eyes off of the man in that brightly-coloured vest. The man that just levelled four opponents as quickly as Murasaki could blink an eye.

That man rakes a hand through messy brown hair. "Alright. We accept this case."

xx

Author's Notes— More Hamatora from me… [Surprise.] and it's a multichap! [Gasp.] But don't expect to be let off so easily. As I accept that I'm stuck in Hamatora forever, I can also accept that this is going to be a long one. And a messy one. Oh man.

As the first half should make obvious, this fic is going to be very… global is the word, I guess. In a way. Minimum Holders abroad! All of my research… But the majority of that won't be until later. And no, the title isn't a typo. It's relevant… and it took AGES to put together and I kind of like it because I'm actually a huge nerd but whatever.

It's all downhill from here,

-Destiny