#broccoli looms in the backdrop of every scene but it hasn't been mentioned yet bc not relevant to keiji's journey

[gurguliare]

Dumb ageswap preview since today is a no self-restraint day

There was a stray cat who frequented the convenience store. Actually there were several, but this one came very regularly at or around dawn, because the cashier who worked nights put out milk near the end of his shift. The first time Keiji saw it happen, he was fascinated, not by the cashier with his oversized T-shirt and apron but by the cat, who was dead. He wanted to know more.

Regular breakfasts of milk and attention soon gave the stray a bit of solidity. Not enough grow back flesh and bone, but enough that—on the darkest winter days, when the sun stayed down and simmered through the morning—the cat just looked like a cat, though a cat with holes for eyes. It got to the point where even an ordinary person would be able to tell that it was there, if only they knew what to look for. Keiji lost interest, not wanting to be caught squinting at a ghost when he should have been on his way to campus. But he thought about it. Somehow it always came before the living strays arrived, and drank without lowering the level of the milk… but the milk grew duller, more blue-white, and lost its smell. The other strays, when they came, were getting the dregs.

Most food, spirits couldn’t enjoy. In their dead mouths it turned to ashes. Offerings were an exception, but could a bowl of milk be an offering? If set out with the correct intent, perhaps. Or prayed over beforehand. It was hard to imagine the night manager praying.

Who was the night manager? He looked boring. He had a sloping bowl-cut, so long it covered his eyebrows and the tips of his ears. The grooves under his eyes shrank his eyes until his face was mostly frown and nostril. Not really a frown—a nonexpression gravity had sagged. He knelt like someone with bad knees, but he couldn’t be old, with that unwashed baby face. If Keiji closed his eyes and concentrated briefly, the cashier appeared as a person-shaped gap in a thick field of color. Most things, viewed in this way, bulged with pockets of spiritual energy, like food that looked delicious but could be halved to show the spotty mold. Even a powerless person had their life, that grew through their body in veins. The cashier was alive, but his life-force gave off neither energy nor colored light—Keiji had to hold open his mind’s senses to detect it, a dark river of “something” concealed in nothing, a life-river spilling downward so slowly it was easy to suppose that he had made some mistake: that the nothing flowed upward, instead.

It would have been too conspicuous to stand in front of the convenient store with his eyes shut, especially after the cashier went back inside. So he pretended to pace. After a couple of passes he walked into a stop sign.

“Oi, Mogami,” said a voice right behind him. “Are you sick?”

He turned slowly, in part because turning made his head swim. At the last minute he also remembered to open his eyes. Vice President Reigen Arataka, terror of blowoff clubs, stood with arms folded and so close behind that Keiji almost clotheslined him. Or would have done, if Keiji had been more like Reigen—waving his hands around at the start of every speech.

Arataka took a prim step back and didn’t relax his hold on his own elbows. “You look sick,” he accused.

“I’m not,” said Keiji pleasantly. “I’m just late. I’m afraid I’m letting down you and the president.”

“Not much to let down. You’re always late.”

“I’m sorry,” said Keiji, staring at his smeary storefront reflection with what he hoped was a sincerely mournful air. Behind the glass, the cashier was putting out new stock. “I didn’t think my student council duties would interfere this much with my preferred sleep habits.”

“That’s a real shame.” No one ever sounded less threatening than Arataka imitating a gangster, or perhaps the rough-cut hero of the movie who drove off the gangsters at the end. He was the sort of person who did it to put people at ease, raising his eyebrows and sneering to shake a laugh out of his victims. “Let’s walk together. I’ll make your excuses, if you like. ‘Mr. President, a thousand apologies. I got lost between the convenience store and the convenience store—’”

“That’s right”—Keiji mimed surprise—“you’re late too, aren’t you?”

Arataka gave him the uneven smile that Keiji often saw in friendly upperclassmen. Something about his sense of humor soured them after a while, though they liked his sarcastic deference. After all, it was still deference.

The president didn’t show up. Keiji enjoyed listening to Arataka fudge the agenda, though.

In homeroom, Ms. Kurata showed an unusual appetite for combat, striding jerkily to and fro and barking questions at the dozers in the front. The bands of dim light from the blinds made their way floating up her jacket, higher but less sharp every time she passed the windows, like she was being batted between a pair of ghostly claws. It was hard to say what had her so worked up. Kurata was an inconsistent teacher; funny and harsh when the subject didn’t interest her, but barely comprehensible when it did. Keiji didn’t mind either way. He took diligent notes and made copies in the time left over, which could sometimes be sold, and he watched the clock for sudden movements. Sometimes he lost time, but when that happened his hand usually had the decency to go on writing without him.

At lunch, he happened to see her outside, talking on the phone. “Eh, Mob, you’ll never guess… I woke you up? Sorry, sorry, forgot you’re back on the graveyard shift. Well, but you’re up now, right?”

“I saw ‘that’ spirit again. Oh, come on, you know what I’m talking about. That spirit! The one I can see! With the blushy face?”

“What do you mean, I should call your brother? You’re the esper, aren’t you? OK, OK, but I don’t even know the name of his agency—”

She dropped her phone in her bag and shook out her fingers as if it had burned her. “‘Spirits and Such’?” she said to herself, and gave a low chuckle. “Straight-laced as ever, Ricchan.”

“Hello,” said Keiji politely.

Kurata jumped and dipped forward like a drawbridge, arms akimbo. He had been standing in front of her for almost a minute; it wasn’t his fault she didn’t pay attention. “Mogami?” She straightened again and tightened her scarf self-importantly. “You weren’t eavesdropping, were you?”

“No, but I couldn’t help but overhear you discussing something that might impact the safety of the school. As a student council member…”

“Hey, that’s too bold, isn’t it? Could it be you’re going to blackmail me? We’ve got another two years together, sonny. I heard what your president did to Mr. Koga.” But she was smiling, cheek twitching a little, like she couldn’t select between amusement and real happiness that someone had heard her. Clearly she had seen something. She sat on a low ceramic wall and patted for him to join her. “Do you believe in the existence of the paranormal?” She had a deep voice which deepened especially for heartfelt performances—in the classroom, almost always heartfelt disappointment.

“Maybe,” said Keiji. “It depends. I can’t rule it out, since I’m not old enough to have really experienced such things. Does teacher believe?”

“You suckup.” She propped her chin on her interlaced fingers and sighed so hard it made her hair flip up. “I used to. I really used to, it was practically all I thought about at your age. I thought I was going to find aliens.”

“….UFO?”

“You don’t have to say it like that. Extraterrestrials are still a statistical near-certainty, you know. Fermi’s paradox, the Drake equation… Humanity’s brightest minds see beyond this low horizon!”

“I might have to finish eating lunch now, Ms. Kurata.”

“No, wait. I’m aware that you’re not interested in aliens. You heard me mention a spirit, right? Well, it’s true. Aliens might still give our species the cold shoulder, but evil spirits certainly don’t. This one—” She lowered her voice. “I first saw him over fifteen years ago. He’s green and he glistens, like snot. I don’t remember his name, but… Mogami, is it true you sold curses to other students in elementary school? Are you a spiritualist?”

“Not true at all,” Keiji said. “I sold charms. They weren’t effective, though. If I have any spiritual powers, I’m below average.”

“I didn’t see the spirit on campus,” she mused, leaning her face to one side in its cradle of fingers, which was slightly disturbing. “So it’s no concern of the student council.” Suddenly her hands sprang apart to wriggle in mid-air. “I tell you what. I give you details, and you make me a protection charm.”

“No, but you can have it for ¥1000.”

Tome whistled and put her hands away. “Cheap!”