Shinha Mahou Shoujo Mitsurugi-chan!
Posted: 2008-07-01 07:16am
Okay, yeah, what the hell is this. Basically, a while back I got this idea that I should write a magical girl story. I'm a big fan of the mgaical girl genre, and have been for a while. So It hought I'd get in on the act, somewhat.
And this is the result.
Cicadas were droning.
Streetlights stood in the blanket of heat, casting out illumination in defiance of the night, drowning out the stars. With the click of boots, a figure strode down cracked pavement, passing each house on the street in turn. A dog rounded the corner, pulling its owner along behind it. As the man and his dog passed the figure, they both turned, as though in response to the flap of heavy fabric. He pushed his glasses up his nose, then shook his head; his dog was already jerking at the lead. The man in black continued on.
The houses, each small-and non-descript, passed him by, recessed back from the road at the top of a set of stairs. He stopped before one, no more notable than any other, his left foot in the air. He turned on his heel and stamped that foot down, and stared up at the house from beneath his hood. Minutes passed as the man seemed to become rooted into the ground, as old and solid as the steel rods of the streetlights. Then he walked up the stairs. The front door swung inward as he approached, the locks clacking open seemingly of their own accord. He did not pause before entering, ignoring the lined up shoes, all in their pairs. Down the hall, and a man with thin black hair stepped out. He glanced up, his eyebrows wavering, then narrowing. He opened his mouth to speak.
The man in black new everything there was to know about this person, and it wasn’t much of note. He was a salaryman, often tired, who sat in a grid with hundreds of other men just like him, so that he could better provide for his wife and new child. He would sigh at the long hours and unfulfilling tasks, though he would look at the photos on his tiny desk and forget about the monotony and competition for a while. For the new daughter to replace the first. For the gentle woman wracked by sadness. This man with the thin black hair, the small nose, the sloped shoulders, he was aware of his own insignificance.
However, his family came first. His hands were balled into white-knuckled fists, his cheeks red. The man in black cocked his head. What was he saying? “What are you doing in my house?” he reached out, as though to grab the tall figure by the lapel of his cloak. “Who are you?!”
“Maelgan.” The man in black said, as the man’s fingers snapped backwards. His arm convulsed and twisted in ways that it was never supposed to. His elbow popped, releasing a mist of blood. Before he could scream, his head twisted around. The man, now a different kind of statistic, fell limply to the floor. Maelgan did not glance down as he continued along the hall.
When he entered the small room, he found the young woman with one hand holding on to the edge of a crib. Her other hand was shaking, her eyes very wide. She opened her mouth and red streaked across the back wall. One of her vertebrae was now firmly lodged in the yellow plaster. She thudded when she hit the ground, and Maelgan approached. A chubby little girl, with wisps of black hair about her head; Maelgan’s finger gently touched her cheek. He lifted her carefully, then turned suddenly, his right hand snapping out. With a teeth-rattling thrum, a sword appeared in his hand, its surface a mirror. The lights went out.
An irregular portion of roof went spinning into the air, spraying tiles. The man in black crouched on the edge of his breach and then sprang to a nearby telephone pole, then leapt once more. The house collapsed behind him, though by that time he had reached the edge of the suburb. Little more than a flitting shadow, he passed over houses and cars and unsuspecting people who turned their heads at an unknown screech of sound. Dust and chipped masonry followed in his wake. His senses stretched out around him as he bounded toward the sheer face of a skyscraper. He landed feet first and ignored the woman in the grey blouse on the other side of the glass, as her movements slowed and she blurred out of focus, as though trapped in amber. The light of the stars above warped, as though hitting a bubble of water.
Or ice.
He let his mind bloom out, filling the full ten kilometre radius of the spatial stasis. Where was the originator? He needed a clear sky, and he was unlucky to break the barrier faster than he could kill the one behind it. He spun on one heel.
There.
The blade whipped around in a solid crescent of steel, impacting the onrushing thrust. Cracks began to spread through the window, as the weapons burst apart. Maelgan watched as his opponent’s pole arm became a whirlwind, arcing up from below. Armoured elbow smashed into the shaft as Maelgan stepped aside; the cross-shaped blades had come within millimetres of gutting him like a fish. With the child still in the crook of his left arm, Maelgan swung his full force into the head of the spear, pulling his foe down towards him. His blade hissed towards the enemy’s face, though he ducked out of the way – Maelgan took his chance and darted past him.
The exploding waves of glass were dragged upwards with his passage, leaving a cloud that glittered in the multi-hued city lights. The fairy dust of silica burst apart as Maelgan’s foe drilled through it; the buzzsaw of his spear hit Maelgan’s guard like the fist of a giant. Clenching his teeth together, Maelgan plunged his sword into the vortex; their weapons did not meet with a clang but with thunder, the resulting shockwave throwing the combatant apart like dolls and taking the top eleven floors from the already beleaguered skyscraper.
Maelgan pushed his feet against nothing, leaving white trails in the air. He hit the roof of another building after having travelled close to a mile, glancing down at the baby girl, he couldn’t help but smile – she was still asleep. No one else in the city would be. Still skidding, he turned and bent and prepared to fling himself into the night once more.
Something wrapped around his ankle, fixing him to the ground. He half turned, the near-perfect mirror slicing through the shimmering threads, the kiss of the blade’s tip leaving a glowing curve in the concrete. With a screech, twelve steely nails almost ten feet long plunged through his arm, criss-crossing into the stone. Snarling silently, Maelgan drew up his will, only to find his opponent standing on his arm.
The cross-headed spear was drawn back, the vibrating point in line with Maelgan’s eye. He could make out each individual swirl in the surface of the weapon. The man’s lips were moving, loose pieces of fabric fluttering from his armour. The rods of his binding mantra were bubbling and bursting under pressure from Maelgan’s mind, one by one. He’d be free in moments. Less than moments.
Not fast enough. The words hit him like a solid wall.
“CATACLYSMIC THRUST!”
With a sonorous crash, the man thrust his weapon forward, and it erupted into a crucifix of radiance that split the night asunder. The cityscape was drowned in hot white light, shadows stretching out in ridiculous prominence. A rumble passed through the air and buildings designed from the ground up to resist earthquakes snapped, shattered. Lightning danced amongst the dust and vapour, and the hypocentre blazed, a magnesium eye glaring up at the cerulean cracks in the sky. Most of the city contained within the field was now a hell of snapped structural steel and smashed concrete.
Maelgan drew in a breath, staring along the length of the glaive. The wielder was smiling, his grey pony-tail twisting in the hot turbulence. The last binding nail shattered and Maelgan’s armed blurred, knocking him away. With a flick of his wrist, he launched half a dozen flares, which were intercepted by the whirring spear. Destabilised, they erupted into waves of white atmosphere and ruby flame. As it cleared, fire licked across the surface of an invisible sphere and the man was rubbing his lip.
“Is this the extent of your power?” he asked, resting his weapon across one shoulder, loosely hooking his arm over the haft. “Is that really all the Seiken Excalibur can manage? Is that girl such a handicap? Is your concentration hampered by your attempt to shatter my barrier?”
He cocked his head. “I wouldn’t have thought you would have the time to play around with me. Aren’t you worried about my friends from Round Table showing up?” he gently slapped the spear, and it made a revolution of his neck. In the next instant he was on Maelgan, practically eye-to-eye. The thrust had been barely avoided, though to his shock, Maelgan saw a thin line of red appear across the girl’s face. There was a thump of displaced air and the man went tumbling away. Maelgan raised the sleeping child up in one hand.
“Sixtus Novak.” He said very quietly. “Pray.”
The girl went into freefall, and Maelgan disappeared, only to smash into Novak like a meteor. Lightning leapt from the point of contact between their weapons, and they crashed through the remains of what looked like a hospital. His hands free now, Maelgan’s strikes came with considerably more speed and power, meeting Novak’s growing tornado blow for blow. What was left of the hospital disappeared into a mushroom of dust, lit from within by strobing flashes; a cord of grey peeled off, curving up towards the falling child.
Loops of white fabric coiled around Novak’s body, pinning him in place. Unable to bring his spear to bear, he summoned up counter-binding mantra. As the bandage-like bindings began to burn, he sensed something on the cusp of his awareness; a pressure on his temples, a noise like a rapidly spinning centrifuge. The dense cloud he’d left behind, the size of several city blocks, was torn apart and scattered, leaving Maelgan standing at the centre of a hundred metre wide array of glyphs, glowing sigils and incomprehensible writings. He lowered his sword in a two handed grip, the point resting behind him. The circle blazed and Novak tore his left arm free.
Maelgan swung.
“DRAIG GYWN!”
It was a crashing tidal wave of frothing white, surging upwards. Novak strained against the mantra holding him in place as the white wall grew metres-long fangs and roared with the sonic booms of displaced air. He raised his hand as it washed over him and struck the far side of his stasis barrier. Terrifyingly massive cracks snaked across the sky, leaking light like blood. Maelgan’s spell etched a pillar of solid light across the entire tapestry of flattened, burning city. Novak’s spear went spinning off, plunging point first into a smouldering chunk of concrete.
The beam began to dissipate, leaving destabilised atmosphere crackling with electricity. Smirking, Maelgan flourished his blade and rocketed up towards the figure hanging in midair, a screeching comet radiating halos of white disturbance. Briars of blue licked across Novak’s glowing armour. Maelgan called up another binding mantra and nailed his foe to the spot; Novak’s arms swung behind him and slapped together. An iron bar punched through his wrists, bolting them together. Excalibur inscribed a plane of fire and blue light. Novak toed the blade and nudged it; a blow that would have halved him from hip to shoulder instead only scraped across the dense field of magic hanging about his person. His hips still turning, Novak brought his other foot into contact with the nape of Maelgan’s neck.
With ungodly force crashing into his neck, Maelgan did not see Novak twist his hands free. He did not even really feel Novak’s next blow; it was instead like an absence that seeped in through his back. He plummeted, and Novak held out one hand; his spear pulled itself out of its stone and thrummed into his palm like an iron thunderbolt. He turned his attention to the child, floating peculiarly unmolested. He held out his hand and the pearlescent soap-bubble surrounding her popped. Novak watched her squirm slightly in his right palm; my, how she soaked up Maelgan’s mantra so easily. He encased her in his own, a swirling iced-energy around her and freezing her in another protective barrier.
A concrete spar the size of a freight train and with greater speed than any jet fighter erupted from the urban grave below. Lazily, Novak spun his lance around his wrist. The blunt haft hit the chuck of stone, all but splintering its front fifth. Both spear and former foundation rotated, one of the cross-blades sinking into after revolution. Novak wrapped his fingers firmly around his weapon and heaved, returning the shortened chunk to send. Maelgan backhanded it, reducing it to chips.
“That really is all the Seiken Excalibur can do.” Novak said, resting his spear across his shoulder. Maelgan ground his teeth together and shifted his fingers around the hilt of Excalibur. He settled back on his heels, coiled his mantra around him and Novak only shook his head. “If we continue on any longer, my barrier will collapse, and I would prefer not to kill all those within because you do not know when you are defeated.”
Within his gauntlets, Maelgan’s knuckles went white. Around him, he could feel the shift of space and time as Novak’s snapshot began to bleed back into the real world. Heat drained from the stone, the air calmed, vapour swam back into the shape of humans. The cracks in the sky shrivelled and the stars regained their clarity. The patch of city grew from its own ashes, as though reborn. A stream of unassuming mortals parted around Maelgan, but pointedly ignored him. For a moment the man in black stared up at Novak with pale eyes, then he stowed his mirrored blade within the folds his cloak and strode into the crowd.
Novak sighed as Maelgan’s shadow left his sphere of awareness. His spear twisted like a loose noodle in the wind, disappearing into his palm. He frowned at the girl sleeping in his arm, then turned back towards her home.
*
~Was that really necessary?
The girl’s house spewed a column of black smoke into the sky. It was next to impossible to make out any actual details in the inferno. Novak shrugged, sitting cross-legged on a streetlight above the police cars, fire engines and crowd of slack-jawed onlookers. “There’ll be fewer concerns this way. The family tragically died in a freak fire.”
~Fewer concerns? You blew up the house! Said the female voice.
“Explosions happen. They’ll write it off as an accident.” He stood up and touched the little girl’s nose. “How far away are our reinforcements?”
~Silencer Squadron has just made transition. They’ll be on your positions in twenty seconds. Novak nodded. He could practically hear the concerned pause in his operator’s voice. ~Sixtus, what do you plan to do?
“I’m not really sure.” He said, floating above the mundane humans trying to fathom out the manner of events engulfing them. There were lights in the distance, a dozen in formation, growing brighter and closer. “How do you feel about moving to Japan?”
And this is the result.
Cicadas were droning.
Streetlights stood in the blanket of heat, casting out illumination in defiance of the night, drowning out the stars. With the click of boots, a figure strode down cracked pavement, passing each house on the street in turn. A dog rounded the corner, pulling its owner along behind it. As the man and his dog passed the figure, they both turned, as though in response to the flap of heavy fabric. He pushed his glasses up his nose, then shook his head; his dog was already jerking at the lead. The man in black continued on.
The houses, each small-and non-descript, passed him by, recessed back from the road at the top of a set of stairs. He stopped before one, no more notable than any other, his left foot in the air. He turned on his heel and stamped that foot down, and stared up at the house from beneath his hood. Minutes passed as the man seemed to become rooted into the ground, as old and solid as the steel rods of the streetlights. Then he walked up the stairs. The front door swung inward as he approached, the locks clacking open seemingly of their own accord. He did not pause before entering, ignoring the lined up shoes, all in their pairs. Down the hall, and a man with thin black hair stepped out. He glanced up, his eyebrows wavering, then narrowing. He opened his mouth to speak.
The man in black new everything there was to know about this person, and it wasn’t much of note. He was a salaryman, often tired, who sat in a grid with hundreds of other men just like him, so that he could better provide for his wife and new child. He would sigh at the long hours and unfulfilling tasks, though he would look at the photos on his tiny desk and forget about the monotony and competition for a while. For the new daughter to replace the first. For the gentle woman wracked by sadness. This man with the thin black hair, the small nose, the sloped shoulders, he was aware of his own insignificance.
However, his family came first. His hands were balled into white-knuckled fists, his cheeks red. The man in black cocked his head. What was he saying? “What are you doing in my house?” he reached out, as though to grab the tall figure by the lapel of his cloak. “Who are you?!”
“Maelgan.” The man in black said, as the man’s fingers snapped backwards. His arm convulsed and twisted in ways that it was never supposed to. His elbow popped, releasing a mist of blood. Before he could scream, his head twisted around. The man, now a different kind of statistic, fell limply to the floor. Maelgan did not glance down as he continued along the hall.
When he entered the small room, he found the young woman with one hand holding on to the edge of a crib. Her other hand was shaking, her eyes very wide. She opened her mouth and red streaked across the back wall. One of her vertebrae was now firmly lodged in the yellow plaster. She thudded when she hit the ground, and Maelgan approached. A chubby little girl, with wisps of black hair about her head; Maelgan’s finger gently touched her cheek. He lifted her carefully, then turned suddenly, his right hand snapping out. With a teeth-rattling thrum, a sword appeared in his hand, its surface a mirror. The lights went out.
An irregular portion of roof went spinning into the air, spraying tiles. The man in black crouched on the edge of his breach and then sprang to a nearby telephone pole, then leapt once more. The house collapsed behind him, though by that time he had reached the edge of the suburb. Little more than a flitting shadow, he passed over houses and cars and unsuspecting people who turned their heads at an unknown screech of sound. Dust and chipped masonry followed in his wake. His senses stretched out around him as he bounded toward the sheer face of a skyscraper. He landed feet first and ignored the woman in the grey blouse on the other side of the glass, as her movements slowed and she blurred out of focus, as though trapped in amber. The light of the stars above warped, as though hitting a bubble of water.
Or ice.
He let his mind bloom out, filling the full ten kilometre radius of the spatial stasis. Where was the originator? He needed a clear sky, and he was unlucky to break the barrier faster than he could kill the one behind it. He spun on one heel.
There.
The blade whipped around in a solid crescent of steel, impacting the onrushing thrust. Cracks began to spread through the window, as the weapons burst apart. Maelgan watched as his opponent’s pole arm became a whirlwind, arcing up from below. Armoured elbow smashed into the shaft as Maelgan stepped aside; the cross-shaped blades had come within millimetres of gutting him like a fish. With the child still in the crook of his left arm, Maelgan swung his full force into the head of the spear, pulling his foe down towards him. His blade hissed towards the enemy’s face, though he ducked out of the way – Maelgan took his chance and darted past him.
The exploding waves of glass were dragged upwards with his passage, leaving a cloud that glittered in the multi-hued city lights. The fairy dust of silica burst apart as Maelgan’s foe drilled through it; the buzzsaw of his spear hit Maelgan’s guard like the fist of a giant. Clenching his teeth together, Maelgan plunged his sword into the vortex; their weapons did not meet with a clang but with thunder, the resulting shockwave throwing the combatant apart like dolls and taking the top eleven floors from the already beleaguered skyscraper.
Maelgan pushed his feet against nothing, leaving white trails in the air. He hit the roof of another building after having travelled close to a mile, glancing down at the baby girl, he couldn’t help but smile – she was still asleep. No one else in the city would be. Still skidding, he turned and bent and prepared to fling himself into the night once more.
Something wrapped around his ankle, fixing him to the ground. He half turned, the near-perfect mirror slicing through the shimmering threads, the kiss of the blade’s tip leaving a glowing curve in the concrete. With a screech, twelve steely nails almost ten feet long plunged through his arm, criss-crossing into the stone. Snarling silently, Maelgan drew up his will, only to find his opponent standing on his arm.
The cross-headed spear was drawn back, the vibrating point in line with Maelgan’s eye. He could make out each individual swirl in the surface of the weapon. The man’s lips were moving, loose pieces of fabric fluttering from his armour. The rods of his binding mantra were bubbling and bursting under pressure from Maelgan’s mind, one by one. He’d be free in moments. Less than moments.
Not fast enough. The words hit him like a solid wall.
“CATACLYSMIC THRUST!”
With a sonorous crash, the man thrust his weapon forward, and it erupted into a crucifix of radiance that split the night asunder. The cityscape was drowned in hot white light, shadows stretching out in ridiculous prominence. A rumble passed through the air and buildings designed from the ground up to resist earthquakes snapped, shattered. Lightning danced amongst the dust and vapour, and the hypocentre blazed, a magnesium eye glaring up at the cerulean cracks in the sky. Most of the city contained within the field was now a hell of snapped structural steel and smashed concrete.
Maelgan drew in a breath, staring along the length of the glaive. The wielder was smiling, his grey pony-tail twisting in the hot turbulence. The last binding nail shattered and Maelgan’s armed blurred, knocking him away. With a flick of his wrist, he launched half a dozen flares, which were intercepted by the whirring spear. Destabilised, they erupted into waves of white atmosphere and ruby flame. As it cleared, fire licked across the surface of an invisible sphere and the man was rubbing his lip.
“Is this the extent of your power?” he asked, resting his weapon across one shoulder, loosely hooking his arm over the haft. “Is that really all the Seiken Excalibur can manage? Is that girl such a handicap? Is your concentration hampered by your attempt to shatter my barrier?”
He cocked his head. “I wouldn’t have thought you would have the time to play around with me. Aren’t you worried about my friends from Round Table showing up?” he gently slapped the spear, and it made a revolution of his neck. In the next instant he was on Maelgan, practically eye-to-eye. The thrust had been barely avoided, though to his shock, Maelgan saw a thin line of red appear across the girl’s face. There was a thump of displaced air and the man went tumbling away. Maelgan raised the sleeping child up in one hand.
“Sixtus Novak.” He said very quietly. “Pray.”
The girl went into freefall, and Maelgan disappeared, only to smash into Novak like a meteor. Lightning leapt from the point of contact between their weapons, and they crashed through the remains of what looked like a hospital. His hands free now, Maelgan’s strikes came with considerably more speed and power, meeting Novak’s growing tornado blow for blow. What was left of the hospital disappeared into a mushroom of dust, lit from within by strobing flashes; a cord of grey peeled off, curving up towards the falling child.
Loops of white fabric coiled around Novak’s body, pinning him in place. Unable to bring his spear to bear, he summoned up counter-binding mantra. As the bandage-like bindings began to burn, he sensed something on the cusp of his awareness; a pressure on his temples, a noise like a rapidly spinning centrifuge. The dense cloud he’d left behind, the size of several city blocks, was torn apart and scattered, leaving Maelgan standing at the centre of a hundred metre wide array of glyphs, glowing sigils and incomprehensible writings. He lowered his sword in a two handed grip, the point resting behind him. The circle blazed and Novak tore his left arm free.
Maelgan swung.
“DRAIG GYWN!”
It was a crashing tidal wave of frothing white, surging upwards. Novak strained against the mantra holding him in place as the white wall grew metres-long fangs and roared with the sonic booms of displaced air. He raised his hand as it washed over him and struck the far side of his stasis barrier. Terrifyingly massive cracks snaked across the sky, leaking light like blood. Maelgan’s spell etched a pillar of solid light across the entire tapestry of flattened, burning city. Novak’s spear went spinning off, plunging point first into a smouldering chunk of concrete.
The beam began to dissipate, leaving destabilised atmosphere crackling with electricity. Smirking, Maelgan flourished his blade and rocketed up towards the figure hanging in midair, a screeching comet radiating halos of white disturbance. Briars of blue licked across Novak’s glowing armour. Maelgan called up another binding mantra and nailed his foe to the spot; Novak’s arms swung behind him and slapped together. An iron bar punched through his wrists, bolting them together. Excalibur inscribed a plane of fire and blue light. Novak toed the blade and nudged it; a blow that would have halved him from hip to shoulder instead only scraped across the dense field of magic hanging about his person. His hips still turning, Novak brought his other foot into contact with the nape of Maelgan’s neck.
With ungodly force crashing into his neck, Maelgan did not see Novak twist his hands free. He did not even really feel Novak’s next blow; it was instead like an absence that seeped in through his back. He plummeted, and Novak held out one hand; his spear pulled itself out of its stone and thrummed into his palm like an iron thunderbolt. He turned his attention to the child, floating peculiarly unmolested. He held out his hand and the pearlescent soap-bubble surrounding her popped. Novak watched her squirm slightly in his right palm; my, how she soaked up Maelgan’s mantra so easily. He encased her in his own, a swirling iced-energy around her and freezing her in another protective barrier.
A concrete spar the size of a freight train and with greater speed than any jet fighter erupted from the urban grave below. Lazily, Novak spun his lance around his wrist. The blunt haft hit the chuck of stone, all but splintering its front fifth. Both spear and former foundation rotated, one of the cross-blades sinking into after revolution. Novak wrapped his fingers firmly around his weapon and heaved, returning the shortened chunk to send. Maelgan backhanded it, reducing it to chips.
“That really is all the Seiken Excalibur can do.” Novak said, resting his spear across his shoulder. Maelgan ground his teeth together and shifted his fingers around the hilt of Excalibur. He settled back on his heels, coiled his mantra around him and Novak only shook his head. “If we continue on any longer, my barrier will collapse, and I would prefer not to kill all those within because you do not know when you are defeated.”
Within his gauntlets, Maelgan’s knuckles went white. Around him, he could feel the shift of space and time as Novak’s snapshot began to bleed back into the real world. Heat drained from the stone, the air calmed, vapour swam back into the shape of humans. The cracks in the sky shrivelled and the stars regained their clarity. The patch of city grew from its own ashes, as though reborn. A stream of unassuming mortals parted around Maelgan, but pointedly ignored him. For a moment the man in black stared up at Novak with pale eyes, then he stowed his mirrored blade within the folds his cloak and strode into the crowd.
Novak sighed as Maelgan’s shadow left his sphere of awareness. His spear twisted like a loose noodle in the wind, disappearing into his palm. He frowned at the girl sleeping in his arm, then turned back towards her home.
*
~Was that really necessary?
The girl’s house spewed a column of black smoke into the sky. It was next to impossible to make out any actual details in the inferno. Novak shrugged, sitting cross-legged on a streetlight above the police cars, fire engines and crowd of slack-jawed onlookers. “There’ll be fewer concerns this way. The family tragically died in a freak fire.”
~Fewer concerns? You blew up the house! Said the female voice.
“Explosions happen. They’ll write it off as an accident.” He stood up and touched the little girl’s nose. “How far away are our reinforcements?”
~Silencer Squadron has just made transition. They’ll be on your positions in twenty seconds. Novak nodded. He could practically hear the concerned pause in his operator’s voice. ~Sixtus, what do you plan to do?
“I’m not really sure.” He said, floating above the mundane humans trying to fathom out the manner of events engulfing them. There were lights in the distance, a dozen in formation, growing brighter and closer. “How do you feel about moving to Japan?”
