Chapter Text
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Girl on the Tower
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Minamoto Teru was not the type of guy to pay attention to idle gossip.
While he couldn’t say he was particularly interested in the private matters of others, it wasn't always that he was unwilling to hear what the people around him liked to talk about. Some harmless whispering now and again was fine as long as it stayed just that. Moreover, being the student body president meant that it was important for him to be aware of the general happenings around Kamome Academy. But when the wellbeing of his peers was constantly compromised by the apparitions that plagued this school, undoubtedly some kind of hotspot for refuse clinging to the Near Shore, there were some things that deserved his attention far more than others. Certain rumors he was obligated to follow, to listen closely to, and see how each word and turn of phrase changed in this perennial game of telephone.
Their lives depended on it, after all. It's a simple fact of life that supernaturals cause trouble. And what's the value of a human being to them, then, forever at the mercy of any unchecked whim?
This truth was one that Teru carried with him wherever he went. But he never allowed it to weigh him down: he's still a high schooler, he realizes. It would be a failure on his part to let that stop him from living his life. All it means is that his priorities are skewed to one direction, secretly, and likely for the rest of his life.
That being said, he couldn't help becoming interested when he first came across the mysterious work of Kamome's anonymous artist.
“Minamoto-kun, come look at this!”
The female classmate he’d been walking down the hall with began tugging at his sleeve, causing mild bewilderment to tint the smile still on his face. “What is it?” He questions, though she doesn’t give a verbal response. Leading them over to a small gathering of students at one of the bulletin boards, his eyes were brought to a painting on full display to the chattering students.
It was a deceptively simple piece at first glance, a brown-haired girl, perched sitting out of the window out what seemed to be some kind of tower. At closer inspection, the tower seems haphazardly thrown together. Each section was distinct, like the builder had no real vision while constructing, but they came together neatly, as though meant to be placed there.
It held… purpose. The girl sat, legs hanging out of the open window near the top of the window. Her legs were in mid-swing, expression wistful in yearning as she seemed to prepare herself to leap out into the open air, her body bathed in the soft orange and red hues of sunset.
Teru feels something stir inside of his chest as he looks at the piece, yet, it’s difficult to pinpoint exactly what that feeling was. He leans forward, touching his chin in thought. Was the girl in the painting trying to make some kind of decision? Was she contemplating jumping?
Leaping to— or from something?
“Minamoto-kun?” The girl at his side makes her presence known again, seizing the opportunity to press herself up against his side in what he can only imagine was an ill-thought out attempt at seduction. Irritation claws at his insides, but he swallows it down, instead giving the girl a kind, yet tight smile. “Did you like the painting? It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” She asks, sighing as she slides her arm into the crook of his. Teru’s eyes flicker to where their arms were looped. If there’s one thing that frustrates him about his role at Kamome, it was this. The overfamiliarity: the fact that people presumed him friendly enough to touch and approach without his permission.
This girl wasn’t a friend or anything in the same realm of it. She was barely an acquaintance. Their teacher (and he despises every time he has to refer to that damned spider as that) had sent the two of them out to retrieve handouts that he had left in his office. His fingers twitch with the all too familiar desire to untangle the girl’s arm from his. He wishes that some wouldn’t paw at him so freely, always seeking what they wanted just because they desired it.
He dealt with it day in and day out.
It was so… tiring.
Though, a Minamoto man had a certain role to fulfill. He must always be flexible and kind. He must bear the burden of the common man’s woes and worries in order to keep them safe. He was a protector— a leader. His father and mother had drilled that into him from the moment that he was old enough to understand his duty. So, he doesn’t move the girl. He inhales and buries all of the niggling annoyance deep inside of him, where he places any other negative emotions that he feels and smiles. The girl flushes happily from the attention, only clinging to him more tightly.
Inhale and then exhale. In and out.
There — and now he feels nothing. Good.
Teru’s eyes turn back to the painting. Annoying or not, he supposes that his classmate had a point about the painting. There was a beauty to the piece, and a mystery to it that set the naturally inquisitive cogs of his mind turning. “It is,” he agrees, still smiling at the girl. Her name was Natsuki-san, if he recalled correctly. “Do you know who painted this?” He asks, pointing slightly towards the painting and expertly extricating himself from Natsuki’s arms as he did. She didn’t seem to notice or mind, luckily.
She smiles at him, standing slightly on the tips of her toes as she cups a hand near her mouth in order to whisper a conspiratorial secret. He almost grimaces, not another damn supernatural rumor. “No one knows! Everyone thinks that it’s an art student trying to amass buzz about their work secretly! Maybe they’re shy?”
He blinks.
Not a supernatural rumor, then. He’s almost pleased to hear that.
A mysterious art student who had painted an even more mysterious piece of art.
Teru can’t deny it.
He’s intrigued.
Perhaps it's because he hasn't paid enough attention, but he wasn't aware that the art club had such talent. He keeps studying this piece as though to preserve that indescribable feeling he got upon first seeing those paint-stroked, purposeful details. Something he wants to keep screwed shut in a jar, invisible yet existing ever still like air. He frowns to himself. It was a shame that the artist was keeping their identity a secret. If he knew who this student was, he could tell them how their work had affected him.
"Hey," Natsuki speaks up, pulling him out of his thoughts.
And just like that, it's gone.
Immediately, his expression reverts. "Oh, I'm sorry. Were you saying something?"
Natsuki suddenly seems very amused at him. Her voice takes on the same light, girlish quality as her giggle. "No, the warning bell just rang. See, everyone's leaving," she points out, directing his attention to the quickly dispersing crowd. "You didn't notice, Minamoto-kun? You must really be into that painting! Your tastes are so classy."
He returns the compliment with a tepid laugh of his own.
"Of course, my apologies. Let's be on our way."
The painting is no longer there when he passes that hallway again. It's after school the same day, on his way to the student council room when he notices, and he stops, taking in the space the girl on the tower had taken up before. The board somehow looks incredibly lacking without the artwork adorning it, regardless of it having appeared that same morning. Strange.
That's all the thought he consigns to it before he continues walking.
But not for too long, as it turns out. Surely, the busiest person in the world would have been distracted if absolute masterpieces kept cropping up around them. It was a bulletin board first. Then, the chalkboard of an empty classroom. After that, a window near the east second floor staircase. And so on, for weeks, pieces of art were innocuously placed at different locations around the school.
He would guess it's some sustained effort at mystique by the art club, getting a couple of rumormongers to spread awareness about them. Like any day now, they could expect a note posted beside the anonymous artist's work advertising their activities. In which case, he would've had to admire their ingenuity… However, the recruitment season was long over, so that wouldn't make sense. This was only corroborated by the fact that his friends in the art club seemed genuinely clueless about the origin of the paintings. Maybe it really was all the doing of a single person.
Either way, he's become quite the fan.
Searching for information about this mysterious artist becomes somewhat of a sport for him — a hobby to entertain himself with when there weren’t more pressing matters to attend to. He’s undeniably curious. Teru spent a lot of time at Kamome late at night in order to patrol and keep an eye out for any of the school’s cursed supernaturals who may be stepping out of line, and he had never seen the artist. Not once. Sometimes, a new piece would be posted early in the morning before any of the students arrived. So if they weren’t sneaking into the school late at night, then perhaps they were arriving early?
Still, that didn’t seem right either. He also arrived early in order to look over the different club proposals and to organize the school clubs’ budgets. When did this artist find the time to create these pieces, post them without anyone seeing them, and then slip away?
He’s curious enough to ask Aoi one afternoon while they are sitting in the school council room. “Aoi,” he calls sweetly as the other boy is organizing files.
Aoi doesn’t even look up from his desk as he responds with a swift and firm, “No.”
Teru chuckles. He really was quite the nuisance, wasn’t he? Still, Teru was nothing if not exceedingly polite. His patience knew no limits, and so, he wouldn’t outright tie his assistant up right away for the audacity of such rudeness. Really, a half-supernatural cockroach had the nerve to have such a mouth! As if he even had the right to exist. It was ridiculous, really. “I just wanted to ask a simple question,” he says, subtly raising his sword in warning towards his vice-president. His threat causes Aoi to pipe down for a moment, eyes narrowing as he watches him.
Good.
Quiet was good.
“Do you know anything about the artist who’s been posting their art around the school?” He asks, leaning the palm of his hand underneath his chin as his smile turns cloyingly sugary. “I’ve been curious about them for awhile now.”
Aoi frowns, brows pulling together in confusion. “You want to know about—,” he cuts himself off abruptly. “—that artist? Why? You’re an art buff now?” He asks snidely. Teru’s smile tightens, eyes closing as he breathes in a soft sigh of restraint. This really was far too much sass for Teru to handle as he lightly taps on his exorcism beads at his wrist. The bracelet unfurls, growing and stretching as he sends them towards the half-supernatural and binding him tightly as the beads string the struggling boy up into the air. Teru keeps hold like a leash tightly in his hand, smile only widening as he did.
“Hey! What the hell?!”
Teru laughs. Ah, that was much better. “As I was saying,” he continues, crossing one of his legs over the other. “I just wanted to know if you knew anything, Aoi!”
The other boy curses bitterly, “Bastard! This is an abuse of power! I don’t have to answer you!”
“Oh?” He asks, feigning surprise at the other boy’s attitude. “Then you’re saying that you want to stay strung up like this for the rest of the day?” Aoi’s eyes widen in horror, and Teru can’t deny that this was somewhat fun. It was a rather nice stress-relief, at least. Aoi had always been able to provide Teru with that. He kept any anger wrapped up tightly and it was wonderful to just stop pretending, sometimes. In some ways, he might say that Aoi was his closest friend.
He snorts at the thought.
“H-Hey!” Aoi squirms very much like the worm that he was. “I don’t know, alright! Why don’t you try going by the damn art room! Maybe you’ll find something there!”
The art room? The answer seemed so obvious that Teru was slightly annoyed that he hadn’t arrived at that very same conclusion, himself. He releases the beads, letting Aoi hit the floor with a loud thump. The other boy groans in pain, but Teru’s grin only widens. “Thank you for your assistance, Aoi! I think I’ll do just that!” He says brightly, standing up as he set down the stack of papers that he had been working on. More budget approvals.
“Can you edit the rest of these for me?” He lifts his sword, setting it at his hip as he leaves the club room, not even giving Aoi a chance to respond.
The art room.
He wonders if he’ll find the artist there.
---
There aren't many people around the school at this hour of the day. It was still light out, but most clubs had been dismissed by the time he left for the art room. Being the president and vice president of the student council kept him and Aoi busier than the other club officers, as there were always more student needs to attend to, piles of papers to sort and stamp, and events to plan for. But Teru wouldn't concern himself with that right now. School wonder status aside, Aoi knew how to make himself useful, just as an earthworm was at least a benefit to the soil it inhabited, for its lazing and writhing around. Such a flattering metaphor would never be granted to his colleagues.
So, leaving him to take care of things, Teru set off for the art room. While it might have seemed to Aoi that he'd left on a whim, this was not the case. The moment his underclassman’s suggestion was voiced, it'd clicked in his head: if the artist was working in secret, then they must be sneaking into the art room. More likely than not that was their work station, because the supplies they used were from that very room, as he can tell from the canvases and the type of paint they used. A simple, yet noteworthy consistency among every one of their works.
If they wouldn't appear at the earliest point or the latest point in the day, it had to happen somewhere in between, right? There's no better time than now, while there was an extremely small chance for them to encounter other people, to check the art room.
He walks briskly through the empty halls, feeling light on his feet. It's not that he was entirely expecting them to be there, but he can't help feeling chipper about it all regardless. Nothing has caught his interest quite like this in a long time. Admittedly, it felt nice to distract himself from the daily grind with a cute little mystery, no matter what comes from it.
Just for a little while. He rounds the corner, the last turn he has to make before arriving at his destination. As he nears the door, a figure comes into his peripheral vision, and Teru feels his curiosity pique. He stops short of the window looking into the art room; from there, he has a good view of what's inside.
And what's inside is a brown-haired girl.
A girl, seated in front of a canvas, with her hair done up in two braids, and a different school uniform from Kamome’s. Her hands are raised, one holding up a palette blotted with colors, the other brushing in the fluffy white of a cloud on a vast, blue sky. From her translucent back, he can identify her as the person— no, the character who appeared in the artist's work.
It's a supernatural.
With this realization comes something like the rapid onset of an illness. He can't liken it to anything else, as it can only be physiological, the way his insides frost over at the sight, rot congealing in his stomach, all while his hand instinctively reaches for the sheath of his sword. Likewise, the previously lax muscles of his face harden with contempt. So this was the enigma of an artist who'd been leaving their work around the school. Of course, now that he thinks about it, it makes complete sense how they were able to sneak around without anyone noticing. Of course it was just another spirit clinging desperately to whatever false sense of humanity anchored them here.
Even with the utter disdain he harbored for her kind, the sight was nevertheless pitiable. So much that he contemplates stepping inside and meeting face-to-face with the female apparition. He could quickly put an end to her existence by impaling her middle with his spirit blade. Let the lightning crackle and scorch through her incorporeal form, immobilizing her just before it engulfs the core of her being: her soul. Rupture that and he's won.
Send her off without another glance, resheathing his weapon as she vanishes from this world.
That is the vivid fantasy that plays out in his head in the span of a few seconds.
It would be so easy.
In some ways, Teru had been taught that annihilation was a kindness for these creatures, really. What kind of existence could an apparition ever hope to achieve as a paltry imitation of the living? They defied the natural order of the world, lingering in the Near Shore over petty regrets and wishes that would never be realized. Though, he had always viewed their destruction more as a necessity. Erasing these creatures was simply correcting a mistake. Righting a wrong. It was maintaining order.
He wonders what this girl had hoped to achieve through her paintings. Her art must be the source of her regrets, then. Apparitions needed to stick out in the memories and thoughts of humans in order to continue their loathsome existences, after all. It all made sense— the girl in the painting, the sadness illuminated in her teal eyes that seemed to call to something deep within his soul. That expression of the girl in that painting was yearning, then. A yearning to remain, to stay, even as she leapt to her demise.
Remember me. I’m here. I’m here.
It was a damned spell, just another trick to breathe more life into rumors that should have stayed dead.
And he had fallen for it.
Revulsion like corrosive acid sloshes in his stomach. Sparks of lightning ignite around his fingertips, crackling with barely restrained power. His hand closes around the door, preparing to throw it open and send this monster back to where it belonged.
“Worthless,” the girl murmurs from within the room. He has to strain his ears to hear her faint voice through the door. Her words are enough to momentarily stay his hand, stopping right as he’s twisted the handle of the door silently. “Just like the others.” Her voice is not exactly what he expects. From the angle that he can see beyond the small window of the door she seems small and dainty, almost like a mouse. It would match the delicateness of the features of the character who she featured in her drawings. A soft, gentle girl, ensnaring the hearts and interest of her viewers. He had expected her voice to match that image, but she speaks with a lower, more husky tone. Almost as if she’s just finished screaming herself hoarse. He doesn’t expect her to raise a box cutter into the air, slashing the painting that she had been working on diagonally. The fluffy clouds and blue sky break apart as the canvas crashes to the floor.
Teru’s body grows rigid, an odd hesitation coming over him. That hadn’t been exactly expected. If she was actively trying to remain within the memories of humans, then why did she seem so… resigned? She didn’t seem like she was enjoying herself in the least bit. He watches her continue to rip the painting to shreds, venting her frustration on the piece. She tears it to pieces, until the only reminder that it had once been a painting are the tatters that cover the floor. The display of anger is oddly captivating, as though he is witnessing something profound. Rather, something that he shouldn’t be seeing.
And yet...
He doesn’t awaken from his trance until the girl has already vanished from the room, leaving no trace of her existence behind. The destroyed painting is gone along with her, appearing to have never been there in the first place. The room was as pristine as it had been in the morning, neatly cleaned with all of the paint and supplies put away exactly where they should be. Teru blinks, frowning as he slowly opens the door to the art room. True, she really was gone.
His jaw clenches.
Why had he hesitated? Seeing a spirit throwing a temper tantrum shouldn’t have affected him to the point of inaction. His hand tightens around the sheath of his sword as his eyes dart around the room, but there was no one here any longer. He sighs, relaxing his posture once he was certain that he was alone.
It was probably for the best. Strange behavior or not, the girl hadn’t actually threatened a student with her artwork. His lips twitch as he thinks of his brother, as well. Kou wouldn’t be happy with him if he destroyed an apparition who wasn’t necessarily doing anything wrong. He had come to have grown quite attached to the different spirits of Kamome during his time here. Teru couldn’t say that he was enthusiastic about his brother’s new attitude, but he also didn’t want to unnecessarily upset him. He inhales sharply in order to calm himself. He couldn’t let his emotions cloud his judgement. He’s still sore about being tricked — about finding beauty in the work of a damned supernatural, but the ache had subsided into something that was far more manageable now.
Still, the apparition’s display gave him reason to worry. If she was angry enough to destroy her artwork, then could she possibly become a problem for students later? Was her rumor changing into something more grotesque?
He frowns.
He would just have to keep an eye on it.
---
School Mystery Number 4, "Shijima-san of the Art Room."
That is the true identity of the artist, he's certain. The tragic tale of a girl who committed suicide when her parents didn't approve of her dream, and had thus bound herself to a room where she could keep creating for eternity. It slots in perfectly with this apparition's behavior. Knowing that he had been deceived by the fabrications of a wonder, of all the scoundrels in the unliving world, only rubs salt in the wound.
But it also means that, as much as Teru would like to forget he ever saw those paintings, he can't afford to do so. His blunder attests to how dangerous this breed of supernaturals remains. The seven wonders are the most powerful beings in the school, and any deviation in their behavior is a bad omen. Why would her art start showing up now? It might seem harmless on the surface, but with the change that's begun to sweep over the supernaturals of Kamome, he mustn’t be too lenient.
And far be it from him to let her make a fool of him a second time.
So if he passes through that hallway more often compared to other places, that was perfectly justifiable. Yet, in spite of the special attention he pays to the room, he finds that she's actually absent from it more often than not. Perpetuating Teru's suspicion is the fact that when she is there, her destructive nature keeps rearing its head.
Shijima-san of the Art Room is, apparently, a perfectionist to the extreme. Even with the art she doesn't slice and tear and desecrate— the artificial snapshots she stares long and hard at, unmoving, her hands paused at her sides or idling in a pose that seems wanting to proceed, those pieces that somehow appear the next day regardless of how frozen she'd seemed in her indecision, as if she herself were nebulous art to be analyzed—
Despite the end product, she never seems happy with them.
Apparitions really are never satisfied, are they?
Shijima-san of the Art Room is only ever violent towards her own creations. If they aren't hung up somewhere, they're trashed, as if she cannot bear to even look at the creations she's deemed inferior to the barely passable ones.
Which is why it puzzles him to see that, one day, an unfinished painting has been left out in the open.
It’s dreadful that he can tell it’s hers just from one look. Teru waits outside of the door, but she doesn’t appear after twenty minutes of pure nothing. He has to wonder if this is a trap. He’d been careful to not linger too long every time he visited, and entered the art room only when he was confident she was gone. Up to this point, he hasn’t spoken with her, and he’d much prefer to keep it that way until she showed her true colors and he was required to exorcise her.
Still, there was a chance he’d been discovered anyway. The second-year student sighs, running a hand through tousled, blonde hair. What to do.
So many times he’s come by and there would be no sign of her. Shijima always took her belongings with her. But, regardless of how infrequently she appeared, the sight of her back as she sat there and worked away had become familiar to him (an unfortunate, but inevitable result of his surveillance). The more he thinks about it, the more obvious it appears to him that this is bait.
…He can’t leave it alone. If she was planning something after all, it would do no good for him to stand there and wait for it to happen. Best nip the danger in the bud before anyone else had the chance to get caught in the crossfire.
He loops a finger loosely around the beaded bracelet at his wrist. One tug of this and he could bind anything from a human being to a dangerous supernatural. That hair trigger movement paired with his lightning-fast reflexes could thwart any ambush.
As long as he was prepared for the worst.
Quietly, he opens the door and walks inside, hand at the sheath of his sword.
This time, it’s a bouquet of flowers being depicted on the composition sitting in front of Shijima’s chair. Roses, peonies, dahlias, hydrangeas, and others that are difficult to identify, given the incomplete state of this work. There’s something off about them: specifically, the direction of the flowers wasn’t anything like a still life he’s seen before. It’s almost like they’re growing out of the bottom right corner of the canvas instead of arising from a vase or a paper wrapping, then curving up to stand straight and tall. The flower stems extend up like long, spindly fingers. Yearning to grasp an implied stratosphere, to reach some undefined height. Or maybe they would continue to ascend skyward if their growth remained unchecked, forevermore?
If he reached out to touch them, would the petals feel just as soft and velvety as that of real flowers? If he inhaled deeply enough, would he catch the scent of gentle sweetness emanating from the straining floral bouquet? He reaches out, slowly, taken with the strange desire to touch, but stops himself. As impressive as the artwork was, that’s all it was— art. Even now, Teru can’t smell flowers, only the sharp, pungent odor of freshly drying paint. If there were anything more, it would be due to the tricks and magic of an apparition. Nothing more.
Teru’s jaw tenses, fingers tightening around the handle of his blade. He turns on his heel away from the accursed painting in order to better survey the area.
There’s a chill that settles over the entire art room, causing his skin to feel much akin to being exposed to a harsh, cold wind. It’s as though one thousand focused eyes have trained themselves on him, monitoring his every move. Shijima-san’s painting had distracted him from noticing it immediately, but the feeling is undeniable. She was here, somewhere, even if she wasn’t revealing herself yet. His lips curl into a small, cutting smile. This is bait, then. Lightning gathers around his fingertips, crackling with power.
“Wow, I didn’t realize that Minamoto-Kaichou was a fan of mine!”
He feels the tap of hands resting on both of his shoulders. It’s cool to the touch, as mousy brown hair suddenly obscures his vision, appearing in front of him so suddenly that he doesn’t have time to react. He almost falls backward, releasing a rather undignified shout, but Shijima is there to stabilize him, gripping his shoulders and keeping him upright. Her eyes are a bright, almost oceanic shade of blue and she smiles, darting backward almost as quickly as she had appeared.
Where had she come from?!
She lands delicately on her feet, one leg extended in front of the other before lightly gripping the hem of her skirt and falling into a curtsy.
“I am School Mystery Number 4, Shijima Mei. It’s wonderful to finally meet you,” she says, using a saccharine tone that was much different from the way she sounded while destroying her creations. “And this is my gallery… or at least, some of it.” She gestures towards the art room. There was artwork plastered everywhere, most from other students, but they seem to change the moment that she waves her hand. All of the canvases change, oil dripping down and eroding the work in a grotesque way until they’ve morphed into something different. He recognizes the new paintings as the work that Shijima had previously put up around the school.
The paintings that she had deemed perfect.
The preppy and bubbly tone is back as she says, “There! That’s all better. Welcome to my gallery, Minamoto-Kaichou! I’m sorry that I waited so long to greet you. I wanted to make sure that everything was in order,” she explains, and he watches as a small notepad and pencil appear into her hands from out of thin air.
Teru’s expression hardens. Right, if this was the art room, then this was most likely the entrance to her boundary. She was powerful here, able to bend reality to her will with the same ease at which she delivered paint onto an empty canvas. He masks his surprise, lips curling into a sardonic smile. She really did have some nerve putting on this entire song and dance. He keeps his muscles tensed. He wouldn’t be caught unawares again if she tried anything more dangerous.
“You must have misunderstood my intentions,” he answers, hands still clenched tightly around the hilt of his sword. “If you are ridiculous enough to assume that I’m a fan of yours.”
Shijima’s smile doesn’t fall, but he sees a flicker within her eyes— amusement. She was confident in her ability to deal with him here, then. “Is that really the truth?” She asks, bouncing on her heels before raising her notepad up to her face. She takes her eyes off of him and he almost wants to slice her in two at that exact moment. She didn’t even view him as enough of a threat to watch him?
It’s not often that an apparition had such gall.
She scribbles onto her notepad before revealing the contents of a quickly made sketch to him. In it, he sees a depiction of himself looking through the window on the art room’s door as he watches a miniature Shijima paint. “You come by so often, though! Just watching me work,” she smiles, and this time her eyes seem far colder as she outright drops the sickeningly sweet tone.
“I’m sure it wasn’t just because you wanted to exorcise me. You would’ve done it that first time you saw me then…right?”
His brows furrow at the drawing of the two of them, strangely unsettled. Though he shouldn't be. It's merely an attempt at mockery. With a scoff his eyes flick back up to the girl. "Don't be foolish. I've been keeping watch on account of your suspicious behavior. That's all." Again, he smiles. The pleasant demeanor he affects is plastic, like hers, and grows more fake by the second. "Make no mistake, Number 4. One wrong step and I would gladly end your existence."
The chill in her gaze hasn't lessened any as she lowers her notepad, and her pencil with it. Ignoring his threat, she instead inquires, "By 'suspicious behavior,' you mean the art I've been posting around the school?"
The question only makes him reflexively steel himself. Shijima had already caught him off guard before; she wasn't about to get a rise out of him with her attitude. He had neither the time nor the interest to entertain her innocent act. "You know who I am, so that makes this much easier," he speaks, frigid and direct. "If this is part of some underhanded ruse, then I have to put a stop to it."
The smile drops from his face. Stepping closer, one, two paces, icy blues stare her down as she's compelled to look up over the rim of her glasses.
"So I'd suggest you start explaining yourself."
She seems to mull over her words for a moment, quiet but still not intimidated in the face of Teru's unwavering resolve. Now closer, she seems mousier than she had before. And just like a little animal, she regards him as neutrally as one would an imposing tree in its way.
Out of the blue, the apparition gives a soft chuckle.
"Would you believe me if I told you the answer was nothing special?" His face is unchanging, waiting for elaboration. He certainly doesn't expect her to turn away from him and toward the flower painting, and his hand nearly crackles with sparks again. If she senses his cold stare boring into her back, she doesn't communicate as such, and continues speaking. "I am an artist. Alive or not, our greatest dream is to show our work to the world."
Shijima raises a hand to the edge of the canvas, lips thinned to a flat line. "It's breathing life into the things we create. Preserving the sentiment of each piece…" Her thumb brushes the dried paint of a petal. "…by planting them in the heads of other people. That way, I can protect everything that went into this art. Feelings. Circumstances. The reality that this art was created for."
A broad smile stretches across her face as she turns to face him once more. "I need an audience to do that. You understand, don't you?" She crosses her arms behind her. "Certainly, there are things you'd like to protect as well, Minamoto-Kaichou. Am I correct?"
Though he's not quite sure what provokes it, his mind rewinds to the first time he'd seen her in the art room.
The white clouds on blue skies.
The hollow echo of her voice.
The glint of a blade raised high in the air before blurring into a heavy-handed swing.
Is that the kind of person who has something to protect?
Every other instance of destruction starts to overlay atop each other. Different art, same ill-tempered, unsympathetic girl. He can't remember the number of artworks that have met the same fate since that day. Day after day after day of ceaseless anger and dissatisfaction towards her own creations.
What a complete waste of talent.
Teru can't help but think that.
"I don't think I would," he finally responds, staring hard at the artist in front of him. "Believe you, that is."
The look on her face dulls into…disappointment, almost. But mostly disinterest. Her eyelids lower halfway and she breathes out a near inaudible sigh.
"Then I have nothing else to say to you."
What a complete waste.
His jaw hurts when his teeth clamp together, and for the first time, he bares them as his sword slides out of his sheath in one, fluid motion. Shijima blinks down at the sharp edge that's suddenly at one side of her neck, eyes wide in shock. Right below the diagonal of his sword, the front of her uniform shirt is bunched up in his strong fist.
"What was that, now? You have nothing else to say?" He parrots the sentence back at her in the lowest part of his throat. "No other words of deception to offer? I'm shocked that you would expect me to believe that utterly pathetic excuse," he derides her, tightening his grip around the white fabric as his sword inches ever closer to the flesh of her neck. "Supernaturals don't know how to let go of the past. They cling desperately to the living world and fruitlessly chase after their selfish wants, not caring who is harmed in the process. They're fickle and hazardous…"
If he was frigid before, then he is absolutely heated now.
"…and you. You can't accept your circumstances, refusing to let the world carry on without your presence. Simply because you’re incapable of moving on." Disgusted, he turns his head away. "Frankly, I've never seen anyone with such an egregious lack of respect for their work. So before you have the audacity to claim that you are protecting something in the same way exorcists defend the living from your kind— have a little self-awareness. Please. This is horribly tasteless."
He sneers down at the girl, cursing his own foolishness. He had displayed hesitation towards this apparition only once and would not allow it to happen again. The well of respect that he had once had for her had all but gone dry. What had he been expecting from her when he had deigned to listen to her excuses? Had he expected some kind of explanation? Had there been a small part of him that hoped that talking to her would reveal what it was about her that allowed her to create such captivating beauty? Her artwork had held his attention and gained his momentary admiration, after all. There had to be some kind of reason for that.
Instead, she’d lied.
Just like all of her kind were predisposed to do. She would say whatever she needed to in order to survive as she clung to the rumors that determined her continued existence. Disappointment pools in his chest heavily. “Tell me, apparition,” he says, replacing his expression with a mask of cool politeness. “What could someone so violently destructive want to protect?” He holds his sheath behind his back, thick sparks of pitch black lightning gathering around the hilt of the blade as lightning shoots outward. Each spark gains a rigid form as they stab themselves into the floor of the art room forming a cage around them. The lightning crackles loudly, pulsating with raw power.
He’d correct that mistake now.
Her eyes widen a fraction, aqua eyes darkening with anger in the dim light of the art room as her understanding grows. “Oh?” His smile has returned, sickeningly sugary, as he leans closer to her. If she were still alive, he’d probably feel breath on his face at this distance. The air is devoid of heat, as though a chill from an open window had just come through. The tell-tale sign that an apparition was near. It was just another reminder of how inhuman she actually was. That couldn’t be hidden no matter what kind of human-like airs she tried to put on.
“Did you not know that I had seen that?” He asks, voice dripping with condescending sweetness. “Isn’t it unbecoming of an artist to treat their work so poorly?” She was perhaps an even worse liar than that loathsome earth-bound apparition his brother insisted on keeping around.
Still, it wouldn’t do well to drag this out. She had wasted enough of his time.
Shijima is strangely silent, even as he uses the hand that is bunched up within her collar in order to flip her over and slam her down onto the ground. The nearby easel shakes from the force of before toppling over, the painting of the beautiful bouquet crashing to the floor with a loud crash. The girl beneath him winces, the only sign of discomfort that she had displayed so far. So, she wanted to keep up a brave face, then? No matter. He pins her down and lifts his spirit blade in the air, preparing to drive the blade home.
“It’s funny—” she says suddenly, and he stays his hand for only a moment. It was the first time she had spoken since he had begun his tirade. “—how fixated you are on how I treat my work despite claiming to have no interest. You almost sound as if you’re hurt, Minamoto-Kaichou,” and then she smiles, as though she is amused by him. As though he’s some insignificant thing. Like he’s a petulant child throwing a tantrum. She lifts her hand, then, gripping his tie and yanking him downward, until they’re only a short distance apart. What was she—
“Are you sure that you aren’t a fan?”
It’s not often that Teru can say that he’s ever truly lost control of himself. He can count the moments on his hands. He often found such displays to be unbecoming. But it’s as though he’s been possessed as his vision goes red, boiling rage searing every inch of his insides. It scorches his veins as he drives his sword down, stabbing into the left side of her belly as he sends a powerful shock of spiritual power shooting through her.
Shijima screams in agony.
He ignores her, zapping her again— and again until she seemingly fades out of existence. It was the same with every supernatural that he has ever exorcised. The spiritual power from his sword would destroy their soul from the inside out, and they would evaporate, nothing but particles of the air, fading until they were no more. Like dispersing dandelion seeds through the wind. Teru sighs, looking down at the spot that had once been Shijima-san of the Art Room. It was a waste, truly. Such talent was squandered on a school-bound apparition who was nothing more than a violent faker.
He doesn’t feel regret as his anger begins to fade.
No. Though there is something heavy that weighs on his chest, for some reason. He can’t pinpoint the feeling as it builds. Perhaps it was disillusionment? He had been curious about Number 4. Her artwork had impacted him in a way that no supernatural had done before. He’d been moved. However, she’d been the same as all of the others. A problem for another day, he reasons as he sheathed his sword.
— Only for something hard and blunt to strike the back of his head.
He inhales sharply, vision spotting as he suddenly falls to his hands and knees. He reaches for his sword, but he’s knocked onto his back as chains wind themselves around his wrists, keeping from prone. What?!
“Minamoto-Kaichou,” he hears Shijima’s husky drawl. His eyes dart to the sound of the voice and he sees her sitting on a nearby desk, holding her notepad in hand. The chains binding him seemed to be growing from the notepad, wiggling like snakes as they tighten around his wrists. She blinks innocently, long lashes fluttering from behind her glasses.“Don’t tell me you really thought it would be that easy to destroy a wonder in her own boundary?” She shakes her head with a deep sigh.
“Disappointing.”
He supposes that made two of them.
“How—”
She smiles, lifting her paintbrush and pressing it to her notepad. She raises the brush again as another Shijima springs to life, as though she had been painted onto the air, herself. This Shijima also smiles at him, politely lowering herself into a curtsy. “I had thought better than to reveal my true self to an exorcist. I was curious about why you had been spying on me, but even I know enough about you not to risk something like that.”
He grits his teeth, gasping as cold fury seized within his chest. Another trick.
She’d fooled him again!
Spiritual energy sparks to life around him, though they did little against the chains on his wrist. They felt real, made of actual metal. He struggles fruitlessly, and Shijima only chuckles. It’s like she’s enjoying watching him make a fool of himself. No, he thinks hotly. She just enjoys playing with me. He couldn’t allow her to live—
“I’m surprised that you don’t understand why I destroy my artwork, Minamoto-Kaichou,” Shijima speaks. Her voice is back to that pleasantly sweet tenor again. It’s so fake that it makes him sick. “After all, artwork that is not perfect protects nothing. There’s no way to entrust my dreams within them if the piece doesn’t convey what it’s meant to. I can’t live in the memories of others unless it can reach that standard.” She pauses, eyes boring into his.
“Isn’t that why you destroy apparitions?” Her head cocks to the side, “We don’t live up to your standards, do we?”
"It doesn't matter how you spin your story." Bending his knees, his feet plant to the ground, using the leverage to give the chains a hard tug …to no avail. "Supernaturals are a threat." Yank. "So they must be exorcised," he exhales audibly.
That's why he can't give up. That's why he can't let this girl run around and do whatever she pleased. If he could just see where his sword had landed, then maybe—
"My, aren't you stubborn." She releases another sigh, approaching his restrained form. Though she moves closer, the metal links don't slacken any, as if the sketchpad willingly accommodated its master. "I haven't even done anything, and you're trying so hard to exorcise me." She drops down to a crouch, knees pressed close together. Teru stops right then, fixing her with all the pinpoint attention of a cornered, yet ever-prideful wolf trying to gauge its enemy's next move.
Chin dipped, pale brown braids droop from each side of her head to frame her delicate features. As if speaking to a small dog, her voice croons at him from above:
"Poor thing."
Unfortunate that she wasn't within kicking range.
This is definitely a dicey situation he's ended up in. It's been so many years since he was reduced to such a defenseless state by a supernatural. Wasn't he raised better than this? The eldest son of the Minamoto family should have known better. He should have been more careful around a school wonder, but now, he was paying for his thoughtless outburst. All because this one girl had managed to worm her way under his skin, as opposed to carving right into it with her reliable boxcutter. Words alone had left him open, red, vulnerable. Searing into him, much like how her art pervaded his existence even after he'd found out that it was the handiwork of a mere phantom.
He just couldn't understand why he was so…
Angry at her.
Something shifts in her expression and that alone is significant enough to raise his hackles. As much as he can in this state, anyway. "Those eyes," she murmurs, more to herself than him. A complete 180 from a minute ago, she seems nearly mesmerized, cupping her chin with one hand. "I've never seen anything like them. That pure disdain…" This time her smile imparts a more nebulous sort of emotion than before. "…No. Hatred, right?"
Teru refuses to humor her any further. He keeps his mouth shut and devotes every ounce of focus to devising a plan to get out of this ordeal. The apparition studies him for a long, quiet moment.
"I see now that nothing I say will change your mind." Shijima stands to full height. The shine of her glasses under the ceiling lights grants a strange obscurity to her expression. Teru can't quite make it out when she casts her eyes down on him, but at this angle, her upturned lips seem to cut a slit into her pallor. "I apologize that this conversation wasn’t very fruitful. But I think that's enough talk."
Shit. He has to do something. His wrists are bound. His legs are free, but unable to accomplish anything useful as far as he can tell. Loath as he was to keep talking to her, he finds that the only thing he can really do in this situation is interject with something, anything to buy time or divert her to another path. So his mouth opens.
Shijima cuts in before he can say anything.
"I can't stick around any longer. Goodbye."
And then she's out of sight.
Once Shijima vanishes, so does her clone, and lastly, the chains binding his wrists. Adrenaline throbs through every vein in his body. In less than a blink’s worth of time, Teru has leapt up onto his feet to recover his spirit blade, arguably faster than he's ever moved before.
But the chill that previously coated the air around them is fading and it already tells him that she's well and truly gone.
His skin is still cool to the touch, however, and rigid with tense muscles as his gaze darts around the entire room. Everything was the same as it was when he entered, save for the unfinished painting and easel that'd been knocked onto the floor during their struggle. The former was nowhere to be found, dissolved into the aether along with Number 4 and her gallery.
Unbelievable.
There is no satisfaction in his…it wasn't a victory. She'd spared him.
There's no relief to be found in his survival. She's not stupid, as she'd definitively proven to him during their encounter. She recognized him as a threat, apparent from the blow from behind and the chain link restraints. He demonstrated to her that he was ready and willing to terminate her existence.
Why?
—is the lone thought that reverberates against the walls of his mind as he stands there, stupefied.
Lightning follows a jagged path down the silver length of his blade; his grip hasn’t loosened despite knowing there was no danger. Underutilized, his weapon is still eager to dole out bolts and shockwaves. There’s heat beginning to overtake the lingering cold as he’s filled with the incessant temptation to obliterate, even if Shijima is no longer here, even if she wasn’t coming back and he knew that. He wants to destroy.
What remains, however, are not things meant to be destroyed. Rein in the temptation to knock another painting to the floor, kick a chair to the other side of the room, make a muddied mess of the wooden planks beneath his feet.
Because she’d disappeared and there was nothing left for him, he would push it down, push it down, push it all down.
Teru sucks in a breath and eases up on his stance.
There’s nothing he can do. Oh well.
All at once the heat drains from his body.
There’s no reason for him to loiter any longer. He calmly slides his sword into the sheath and reattaches it at his hip before dusting off his clothes. Any amount of smoothing over wouldn’t completely fix his disheveled state, but this would do. He doesn’t give so much as another glance at the fallen easel after setting it back in place, taking long, leisurely strides to the exit before quietly shutting the door.
A Minamoto man must always carry himself with dignity, after all.
All the better if his outer appearance failed to reflect the turbulent storm that’d seized him.
---
His thoughts don’t ease even through the night as he goes about his normal patrols through Kamome Academy. The school always held an oppressive, sinister air in the dead of night. With no students, apparitions moved freely throughout the halls. Some of them enacted the exact moment of their demise, puppets on a string moving the beat of some unseen manipulator. Teru erases them all. He normally left them be. They weren’t hurting anyone, but tonight, he finds their presence to be almost unbearable. He cuts them down without mercy, methodically stalking the halls to destroy any apparition weak and foolish enough to reveal themselves to him. The mokke are wary of him, preferring to stay in the shadows rather than provoke his ire.
He’d been at the mercy of prey that he had meant to destroy.
The very thought has him in a rampage as he continues his rounds, sword drawn as lightning sparks loudly all around him. He walks slowly, making his way back to the art room. It’s as though he had been drawn there by something. Perhaps he wanted to kill this apparition that badly. He peers through the windowed opening in the door, as he normally did and is not surprised to see Shijima there, just as she normally was when he catches her sitting, brush extended as she regarded her work.
She sits with the back faced to him as she paints a portrait of some sort. His hand clenches the door to the art room as he flings it open. Even if this was another clone, he would destroy it. He didn’t care at this point. He simply wanted this apparition gone. However, as he opens the door, his eyes are drawn to the canvas that she is working on.
He squints. It was difficult to make out what she was drawing exactly, but he catches striking gold hair, icy blue eyes and a face that is entirely obscured by darkness on the canvas. The person that she is capturing looks absolutely furious. He doesn’t think that he’s ever seen an expression so cold. It almost looked like…
And then she turns.
She catches his eyes and he grows frigid still, just staring at her. He’s unable to move. Just what was she drawing? Warm mirth shines in her eyes like a challenge that he’s all too eager to meet. His fingers constrict the hilt of his blade, a sliver of teeth bared. He’d erase her even if she was just a copy.
At that moment, Shijima smiles.
“Such hatred,” she whispers.
Both she and her artwork are gone a moment later, as though she had never been there to begin with. A growl of frustration bursts from his chest as he enters the room. The canvas was empty, as though nothing had been painted on it. He’s left alone with nothing but the buzzing of evening crickets, the groaning of settling wood and a single question.
Just what was she drawing?
—And why did it look like him?