A note before you begin, m'dear reader!

Welcome to the universe of Finding Mikan! 'Tis a mystery story centred on Hotaru's trials and tribulations of returning to Japan as an estranged twenty-five-year-old freelance inventor. So the exact same universe as the original, but different. This is an rational, adult perspective to a manga marketed for teens and preteens, and it discusses stuff. Dark stuff, mature stuff. Like addiction and segregation and divorce. Of course, there's also some other stuff like abandoned golden trophies, crimson pouches, bipolar government personnel and pet chickens but hey, all that stuff'll come later.

Thank you, MiladyQueenMab, for the cover image!

I, IndigoGrapefruit, officially disclaim whatever that is not mine as something that is not mine.

Enjoy, enjoy! Happy reading and remember, all's well ends well! ;)

Finding Mikan

Chapter One: Attack of the Tangerines

Ten minutes to landing, Hotaru Imai fixed her shrewd eyes on forty-floor buildings and even higher skyscrapers. In the early hours of twilight, Tokyo shone golden in its glory and grandeur. Through an oval window, she peered into a storybook of gleaming glass buildings and majestic bridges, of tiny bright white asterisks on passenger doors of the myriad cars that whistled by on the streets below.

And she could not help but to think of Boston, of New York.

For what else was this other than a wretched homecoming?

The facts were laid out one by one in black and white. She had not been in her "mother" country for an overwhelming fifteen years and she certainly never would have returned in free will. Despite that Hotaru already applied for an American citizenship, a few phone calls, legal documents, and assertive demands from the Japanese government landed her in a very itchy blue airplane seat without so much as a doctorate.

Fortunately for them too. Had they given her time to speak, she was sure she would have put Shakespeare's insults to shame.

But the entire thing was a very suppressed and controversial matter. In truth, their attempts had begun from the very moment she left the walls of Irving Academy, New York, an institution built to rehabilitate dangerous and uncontrollable Alices. After intense debate, she was granted time—some time, limited time—to enroll in the Massachusetts Institution of Technology in exchange for reluctant partnerships with American branches of renown Japanese corporations. It was either that or facing the wrath of a foreign, unremembered country. Eighteen-year-old Hotaru had been farfrom ready.

That was then.

Now was a completely different story. Deported with nothing but a small suitcase and waning shreds of dignity, Hotaru Imai, twenty-five-year old inventor, was finally returning to Japan.

What an opportunity to have! her business associates congratulated. The country itself was a booming industry in its prime. Its workers, a plethora of manufacturers and big name companies, would give half a body to form a contract with Hotaru Imai—a name synonymous with God amongst everybody who was anybody affluent.

But she did not need bodies. Dissection was a messy form of art that people like her brother took pleasure in.

For her, Japan was just a country full of unfriendly faces and unfamiliar streets. It was a dreaded trip down the memory lane, a place where, upon arriving, the first thing that came to mind was how different it was from what she imagined and how she remembered it.

Hotaru found herself freezing for a moment as she glanced for the first time in years past the legal gate of Japan. A strictly black-haired, yellow-skinned animated swarm obscured most if not all recognizable features of the city. To be honest, security scanners looked like hell gates and when she was asked by a security guard to yield her baggage for inspection she would have slapped him away curtly.

If he had not stared at her with unfathomable curiosity.

She took the time to examine the man back. A tall, silver-haired, blue-eyed lad he was, dressed in the standard airline uniform but not really belonging in it. Her nose wrinkled as she accidentally sniffed his sharp and dangerous cologne. Incidentally, it was also the moment he snatched her passport from her hands and held it up, leading her eyes to his name tag.

Chiaki H.

For the five torturous seconds he held her life in his hands, Hotaru racked her memories for encounters with this stranger. As she plunged deeper and deeper into her high school days, it was evident that they had never met before.

A final rustling of papers indicated the end of his examination. He duly extended the passport her way, an ambivalent smile crossing his face revealing a single dimple on his right cheek.

"Welcome back, Imai-san."

At times, she was wholeheartedly convinced that governments on both sides of the world were playing her for a fool.

There was no other explanation for the embarrassing idiot who was wrestling the crowd while flaunting a huge sign with "Hotaru Imai" smack in the middle of it, capital letters, sharpie and all. As much of a turn off that was, she wondered if she should commend him for his valiant efforts, but considering that hers was the name being shamelessly paraded… Someone seemed to be set on putting lemons in her mouth late this evening.

"I believe it is Imai Hotaru," corrected the name holder, nearly dumbfounding him with her fluent English. "Surname, given name is the way the Japanese address others, correct?"

All was triumph, for the cardboard name plate finally came down, the holder staggering, "n—no. I just thought that—"

"You thought I forwent all aspects of Japanese culture after spending fifteen years in a country where I would not need it. I know. It is a common misconception."

While he was still stricken, she already began making her way towards the cab and the bus routes, apparently both occupying a total of one underground tunnel. She hated tunnels. Her accomplice's strides brought him close but not beside her. He remained an average of one point six eight seven feet behind the last two wheel of her suitcase, signifying his inferiority and inexperience at the job that he had likely involuntarily been signed for.

Liabilities, Hotaru grimaced as a cab came her way.

Her chauffeur to be was a helpful middle-aged man in overalls. Like many others, he had the unhealthy but addictive habit of sticking cancer sticks in his mouth. Leaning against his curb, he temporarily removed the stub to offer help with their luggage, to which she politely declined. Wrapping one hand around the handle, she swooped her suitcase up and wrung it back down into the trunk effortlessly.

He clicked his tongue in esteem. "Couldn't 'a done it better myself."

In almost no time at all, the stub was stomped on and discarded and they were both strapped in their respective seat belts. Her assigned companion's attempt to follow was cut short by Hotaru slamming the door shut on him. He jumped back, surprised. No sooner had he opened his mouth to protest than she had scrolled down the windows to offer him an explanation.

"I—"

"No," discouraged Hotaru, warding him off with a stern look. "You must know of my hatred for the government. I understand you were told to escort me to my hotel and I would allow it in any other situation. I am sorry. You will probably get scolded for this, but I do not want someone as earnest as you to get caught in the crossfire."

"But I—"

"No. Best that you ask for another task. Driver, 4891 Sakamoto Hotel."

"Yes'm!"

He cranked the car to drive and they sped towards the white square of light, leaving the stammering man to bite the dust. It was only for the best, Hotaru mentally assured herself, because from hereon out, things were going to get messy and they were going to get messy fast.

A week.

She had been given a week in advance to deal with the frustration, the disappointment. She had had a week to pack, a week to deliver solemn goodbyes, a week to somehow forsake everything she had ever known and cope with the five stages of grief that came with it. A week was not nearly enough.

For instance, one could not reserve a suite at the Hilton Hotel a mere week in advance. So she had to settle for another hotel, one that a pleasing business partner and friend, Ross Anderson recommended.

The suite she was to reside in was far from shabby, but had yet to live up to its worth. After all, even a queen sized bed, a view over most of Tokyo, and tip top room service did not amount to much if peace, serenity and comfort avoided her in every corner of every room.

I would have found better in Boston, she thought bitterly as she sent an eight-legged mechanical spider to scout for hidden cameras and microphones. When it returned empty-handed, Hotaru crammed the spider into the outermost pocket of her suitcase. Her fingers met a sharp edge, and, with a slightly furrowed brow, she pulled out the traitorous object.

Her contact book. The old one, the one she used before all numbers either went straight on a Microsoft Excel worksheet or into her Blackberry contact list. It had been so neglected that the very first page stubbornly stuck to the back of the cover. Hotaru peeled it off with care. How long had it been since she last checked these numbers?

Irving Academy was by far stricter than Alice Academy in terms of contact with the outside world. Letters were screened so badly from both sides that every word from her friends and family sounded foreign. She had not talked to her parents ever since the day she escaped that hellhole and Subaru some two, three years ago. Her former friends were, needless to say, now strangers.

And so will Ross, Janine, and Tom gradually become.

The thought terrified her. She dared not delve any further.

Curiously, the numbers had been scribbled down in a time where she still looped her twos and crossed her zeroes. Considering that this was far beyond the reaches of her memory, most if not all of of them ought to be out of commission. Except for perhaps one. Or two.

Under My House and Mikan's House, there were two series of eleven digit phone numbers with matching area codes. Though Mikan Sakura was nothing more than a name and a far off memory, Hotaru was sure that her family retained the number, for when she attempted to dial it in her Blackberry the device pulled up Subaru's caller ID from two, three years ago. Since she had come this far, she figured there was no harm in going the extra mile. Her fingers pressed down on the call button.

Three soundly beeps filled the empty space before a soundly baritone graced her with a "hello?" She knew from memory that her father had a deep bass.

"Is Imai-san available?"

"I am Imai."

All air promptly deflated from her lungs. "Subaru," identities were validated on both ends as soon as she spoke his name. "This is a surprise. I thought you still lived in Tokyo."

There was a bit of uncomfortable shuffling on the other side of the phone. "I have been staying with mom and dad for a while now," he finally admitted.

"Why? Are they ill?"

"No!" he cried indignantly, "nothing like that. I don't recall ever telling you but Naomi and I formally divorced a few months ago. We've been separated for perhaps a year or two longer? She stayed in the apartment so I moved back to Nagoya."

Naomi. Subaru's wife—ex-wife now.

The first time Hotaru found out about their marriage was on the day of her graduation. They had already been married for four years then—a reckless union at the age of twenty two—and Naomi was pregnant with his child. Two, three years ago, Subaru mentioned his family again and though he was brief, he sounded fairly content with the life they were leading at the time. In between then and now, what had happened?

"Is this an issue?" he inquired further. He sounded irritated, although he probably did not mean to. Subaru never failed to manage an irritated undertone one way or another when he was talking to her via phone.

"What? You sound grouchy for a brother who is supposed to be missing his younger sister dearly. Do you not feel happy upon my return at all?"

Subaru muttered some bizarre comparison involving mothballs under his breath that made Hotaru roll her eyes in good nature. "It's not that I'm not happy," he finally sighed. "It's difficult to wrap my mind around it. Do you know how hard it was for me to put up with your antics when we were young? Not to mention you're inconveniencing everyone now that I know you'll be homeless indefinitely if I don't go to Tokyo soon. If I push a few appointments back, I might be able to reach you tomorrow or at the very least the day after. Where are you lodging right now?"

"4891 Sakamoto Hotel, suite fifteen sixty-one. The building is fairly noticeable, very elevated with a neon orange tangerine logo. Even at night you could see it from two blocks away."

When Hotaru first saw it, she thought it to be very peculiar. A Tropicana rip off business she could understand but what correlation did a hotel have to a kind of fruit that was not even mass produced in Japan? And Sakamoto Hotel Corp. turned out to be one of those companies that liked to "discreetly" advertise their logo wherever they could—on napkins, soap packets, towels, trays, almost like tacky product placement in a poorly directed movie. Her own suite came with no fewer than two tangerine shaped pillows and a beanie version of the said fruit.

"Oh, that. Yes, I know where it is. I'll pick you up and drive you over to the apartment."

She was confused. "What about Naomi-san?"

Subaru paused mid whatever he had been doing, almost making her roll her eyes again at her brother's forgetfulness. "Oh, Naomi," he deadpanned, "uh, she left for Kyoto a long time ago. She won over Hikaru's custody so I got to keep the apartment."

"Oh, so your son is with her right now." It was a little disappointing to say the least. Hotaru had been expecting to meet the tyke; it was one of the upsides to her so called homecoming.

Somehow, that turned out to be the unintentional detonation of a bomb that so very nearly destroyed her chances of settling in her brother's apartment. Almost immediately, heavy tension materialized in the air despite that Subaru was some five hundred miles away. His side of the phone was dead silent. She knew because her side of the phone was also dead silent. Since he was not going to do it, she decided to take the initiative to divert the subject herself, only to be cut off just as she opened her mouth to speak.

"Hikaru is at Alice Academy."

For a moment, Hotaru struggled to conjure a response. Peering through the window, her eyes found amongst the fuzz of Tokyo lights a large, dark rectangular patch of land contained behind ominous walls. "Ah," she finally managed. "Perhaps this is part of the reason why you divorced?"

One of the things Subaru had mentioned passively was that his wife was not an Alice. She never took a class on the dynamics of Alice and non-Alice relationships, but even a fool could piece together one plus one. Evidently, this was also so long ago that he completely forgot about telling her completely. Hotaru's question caught him so completely off guard this time that he really did steer the subject to their parents shortly after.

"May I speak to them?" she requested, opting not to press any further. Subaru was one of those people who could never be forced into revealing anything but would eventually open up himself if she left him alone long enough.

"Mother is visiting Sakura-ji and father is sleeping. Come to think of it, fine time you chose to call us. What is it, nine o'clock now?"

"Eight thirty eight and do not use sarcasm on me."

"I would have waited until tomorrow at least."

"Ridiculous. Tomorrow is a Tuesday; you would have been working. Do people not answer their phone calls most often in the evening?"

"Well, knowing you, you probably calculated the percentage chance of someone picking up."

Hotaru abstained from commenting. Her pride and dignity were battered enough as it is. She refused to her brother of all people revel in the fact that he hit the exact coordinate and sunk her battleship.

"Well I just want to know how they are," she retorted in a feeble attempt of retaliation, so that I can stop picturing them as elderly people with blank faces. "I suppose it was nice chatting with you, Subaru. No, I lied. That was sarcasm." Hotaru squeezed the back of her neck as she heaved a long sigh. "I have to call the government before the day is over. Got myself into a bit of a tight spot earlier when I ran from that rookie they sent my way."

"Poor rookie."

"Indeed, he was a pitiful thing. For the five minutes we went from the airport to the cab tunnel, not once could he summon the courage to actually walk alongside me. Or, you know, speak. He was so introverted I felt almost compelled to hold his hand as I would a four-year-old."

"Alright," Subaru half chucked, "goodbye Hotaru. I'll see you soon."

When she gently set the receiver down, she barely remained awake long enough to notice a tiny tangerine sticker on the side of the phone.

"It is a pleasure to meet you, Imai-san."

Silver hair. Blue eyes. Hotaru stared blankly at the hand in front of her.

"Why, yes," she stated with difficulty, gripping it tightly. "This is quite a surprise. When I heard that I would be meeting a representative, I did not expect it to be you, though you did make yourself quite known when we were at the airport."

"You don't sound so surprised, ma'am," Chiaki said, a faint smile forming on his lips.

To this, she simply pointed him to the chair opposite of her. A polite host, she asked if he would like her to order room service. A polite guest, he refused with the usual excuses: he had eaten before he came here, he was not hungry at the moment, his message was much too important to be interrupted for something as meaningless as food. They played their respective parts perfectly and amiably, each taking time to settle themselves in a comfortable position, not unlike the beginning of an intense face-off. He tugged at his hair. She shifted to make herself comfortable. And then it began.

All complacence evaporated shortly.

"Tell me," demanded Hotaru, entwining her bony fingers and placing them before her on the table, "is the job at the airport permanent or were you there for the sake of greeting me?"

"I am where I'm needed."

Unlike the other man, Chiaki was well-trained and well-prepared. His blue eyes, eyes the colour of the sky just as the last sliver of the sun disappeared over the horizon, gazed rather apathetically at her. Hotaru caught the statement he made from his lack of interest. The man pointedly showcased his experience with others who had come before her, letting her know that she was just as unimpressive as the rest.

When she said nothing, he droned on in a monotone, "well I'm here today to give a brief illustration of what your life will be like in Tokyo. Some of these—uh—restrictions may seem a bit unjust. It's just Japan, trying to secure their Alices like usual. You know how it is. I know how it. Alices are precious to governments, national treasure and the like."

With a very audible sigh, she leaned until she was touching the back of her chair. "Yes?"

"Well, first, upon your return to Tokyo, the Department of Alice Regulation and Control—ARC, as it's commonly known—came to a unanimous decision that it would be best if you do not leave the country again."

Well the good news was that he just stated exactly what she had already known. It was probably not Chiaki's intention to rub it in but Hotaru could not help but begrudge the man for doing it. Especially hateful was that he was probably forced to do for his job exactly what she was prohibited from doing, yet he still made it apparent in every way that he absolutelyresented the said job.

"You are encouraged to partake in as many activities within Japan as you wish. However, you should note that we keep a regular log of your activities. This includes when you access your bank account, what sales you make, what you buy, what corporations you make contracts with, the conditions of the contracts, and any involvement in the stock market if you so choose to invest in it."

Also anticipated. She actually expected something a little more extreme from ARC or whichever part of the government was responsible for Alice affairs. Hotaru opened a water bottle idly to occupy herself with something other than his monotone.

"We have granted many liberties, you see," Chiaki proclaimed, almost making her choke at the blatant lie. "It saddens me slightly to have to constrain a fellow Alice to such terms, but I'm afraid I do not have much say in the matter. You'll have to negotiate with a representative of ARC if you are unsatisfied with arrangements as of the moment."

About to bring the bottle to her lips, she paused midair. "You do not work for ARC?"

Chiaki snorted, offended, "of course not. Didn't I tell you that I am wherever I'm needed? ARC is just borrowing me for the moment, although if you have any complaints feel free to state them now because it'd just be inconvenient for everyone if you went downtown to their office to ask for an audience. The office is not there, by the way, in case you get any ideas."

Upon her silence, he decided to end their meeting by rising to his feet. The pleasantries were clearly lost between them, most evident when he showed himself out of her apartment without her escorting him. Minutes after he had gone, Hotaru finally turned her head to ascertain his absence. Shaking her head in disappointment, she took the twenty steps over to shut the door that he had left wide open.

Would it not be nice if everyone had the same mentality as Chiaki? Then there would be no one left to give a damn about what Hotaru did in this mediocre country.

When Hotaru first stepped outside of her hotel into the huge city below in bright daytime, she felt like she was seeing sunlight for the first time. Little in the world was as invigorating as downtown Tokyo in the ready day. Hotaru loved the city. She always had. She loved the bustling cars and the busy people. She loved the lively food stands, the looming structures and the live broadcasts that circulated all the newest trends.

With a pastry she purchased from Umenomiya's Bakery, she sat on a bench. Just by being there, a million underlying marketing strategies made their way into her greedy eyes. For the umpteenth time, she commended herself for her brilliant bout of genius. Cultural differences of eastern and western societies were ginormous. There were many successful commercials in Tokyo, Japan that certainly would have had quite the opposite effect had they been broadcasted in Times Square, New York.

Tossing her wrapper into a nearby garbage bin, the twenty-five-year-old woman leapt to her feet after seeing the replay of earlier advertisements. As she looked up, a large television screen faded from a Hyundai commercial to an album cover. Era of Orange and Pink, it was named. All the letters were spelled out with Sakura petals save the O, for which a bisected tangerine was used instead.

Again, the tangerines.

Apart from the album and Sakamoto Hotel, she also noticed a few other uncanny fruit placements. Tangerine balloons were common in vendors and trinket stores by the streets—family businesses—also displayed and sold a great deal of tangerine merchandise: rings, earrings, little cell phone charms.

The farther she strolled from the big corporate stores, the more tangerines seemed to show up. As Hotaru took the left route of a forked road, she began a mental count. With her hands in her pockets, she arrived at twenty three before walking absentmindedly into a small plaza that was strangely occupied with a mass of people.

A multitude of dark brown and black heads shielded everything from sight. At five foot two, Hotaru could not dream of getting a peek of the centre act in her current position without stilts. Some people were leaving though, creating spaces where they had been standing. Scrunching her body, she weaved through those small spaces until she found herself in the very front row, staring straight at the awe inducing figure.

Tokyo's citizens were mesmerized by a freelance chalk artist crouched on the floor. He was a filthy man, his forehead shiny with sweat and oily hair wrapped up in a bandanna. The art he created, however, was a completely different story. With hands as black as coal, he smudged a shade in a beautiful chalk painting of a vivid, three-dimensional tangerine that was accompanied by an erect vase full of cherry blossoms.

Suddenly, the man lifted his head to wipe his glistening, sweaty forehead. For one moment, he stared straight at her. His eyes were a vivid shade of crimson that aroused the strongest feeling of déjà vu in her tightening chest. As his expression slowly morphed into one of shock, Hotaru found herself giving an involuntary, strained gasp.

He looked like he was going to pounce on her so she clawed her way out of the crowd.

Amid the protests of irritation, there was a clear crack of chalk hitting pavement. The man excused himself. She could hear the loud rustling of baggy clothing close behind her as he tried to make his way past the very crowd he had gathered.

"Hey!" the gruff voice called out, but she pretended not to hear him and waved to a passing taxi.

As luck would have it, the taxi was occupied and thus drove on.

"Imai Hotaru!" he tried again, and she froze.

Slowly, Hotaru swiveled to meet a pair of feral crimson eyes, demanding some kind of recognition from her. She gave him none.

"I'm Natsume," the man urged. "Hyuuga Natsume?"

"I do not know who that is."

Thankfully, at that very moment the driver of a vacant taxi saw her beckoning hand and made her way over. Hotaru escaped the confrontation by quickly slipping in the back seat of the car. Natsume ran to the it, startling both women as he began yelling and barbarically banging his fists against the windows. As the inventor muttered her destination urgently, he yelled some more while making pointed jabs at the huge TV screen that returned to displaying Era of Orange and Pink for the third time.

She put a place to her temple in a vain attempt to shut out his fervent attempts at assaulting her even after the car started moving. Only when it gained momentum did he fall behind, first lapsing into a jog and then stopping completely. In the mirror, she could see his eyes fixated on the taxi all the way until they turned the corner.

Baffled and shaken, she pulled out her Blackberry to call an old friend that she often relied on during tight situations like these.

"Hello," she spoke in crisp English, "Ross? This is Hotaru. I am currently in Tokyo. I know, right? Truly among my kind." She got a chuckle for her sarcasm, for Hotaru versus Japan was a long running gag between them. "Before, when you came here you said that you made a few friends in the police forces. I cannot elaborate at this very moment but right now having a private detective would really come in handy. Really."

There was a pause of consideration as Ross ran through and filtered names in his mind. Hotaru knew him to be like her, a person who refused to settle for anything but the absolute best. An unconstrained smile grazed her lips as she recalled their unusual bonding many years ago in a time when they could only dream of the lifestyle and fortune they had now.

After much contemplation, he finally gave her a name and a number.

"Thank you. Thank you very much. How are your wife and children? I shall soon be sending them a few presents from Tokyo. Before you protest, I would just like to state that you have absolutely no say in this matter. It is decided. And no, you will not get anything from me before they do. Thank you once again for having my back. I am quite blessed to have a person I can trust as much as you, Ross. Goodbye."

With loosely crossed arms, Hotaru leaned her Blackberry against her chin while the world of tangerines whizzed by outside.

Hayami should be expecting a visit soon.

Thank you thank you thank you for choosing to read this story. It is my baby. I absolutely love it. Please please please alert, fave and review. It would make me the happiest girl alive.

:D

-IndigoGrapefruit