どくがんりゅう の 軍記物語

Feathers like mirrors

“Numerology is a pseudomathematic, a cosmic leftover of human thought scrap that gets lapped up by occultists and fools.”

Tsubasa wondered, watching the stars as they passed in slowest arch across the dome of the o-zone sky, how many other religions, theories or thoughts could have been equally evaluated by his designer. Ironic, wasn’t it, that humans always wanted to quantify things? The assigning of numbers, pigeon-holed by mass, height, colour codes, aptitude examinations, fitness levels, and functions evaluations were integral not only to normal societal and child development, but to the other children of man as well. To his ‘kind’. The metallkinder, Neuman, cyborgs.

There had been 13 Seraphim Exarchs. 26 Seraphii. 13 Cherubim Exarchs. 30 Cherubii. 100 Ophanum…the Thrones.

Thirteen. Made up of the tens and a three in the ones. 10 is Rebirth and 3 is Neutrality. Communication and deliverance. Genderless. Androgyny. Or was it a 1 and 3? 1 was the individual, each of the thirteen built to stand alone, built to kill. The perfect assassins. One is the Aggressor. The product of men and Man, one is male. But 1 + 3 equal 4. Four is Creation. So it worked out anyway. The 13, the Rebirthed, perfect and genderless were a Creation. The Creation of Men. The children of men. It was not so different in Cantonese numerology, it just expanded and expounded the truth. The pronunciation of 4, sì, spoke so closely to the word for death, sǐ, that it was considered an ill number. Unlucky, death. They were bringers of that station, meant for it, and yet each had been unlucky. They were all mad, red-eyed bursts of light and laser, feather and flame.

San shifted next to him, pulling the microfiber fleece closer about itself in a cocoon.

  • Do the dead dream? * Tsubasa lifted himself back on his palms, then scooted what remained free of the blanket out from under himself. San would claim it soon enough. The air on the roof was chill, but the singular solitude that could be achieved in such a place could not be denied. Neither of them wanted company, save perhaps each other. * Or him. *

Tsubasa’s cheeks flushed at the thought, and there was an almost immediate tug in his groin. Passions be damned. He’d known long ago that forming attachments of any kind would lead to surges of emotion. He was not so serene, so different from his siblings after all, caught by his own human weakness, his desire. To be only the sword in the hand of a warrior had been his aim when he had been freed. Months had gone by in training, in drowning out anything of his soul except the white noise dictated by necessity of existence. He’d been so close to achieving ….nothing. To being truly neutral….and here he was punished for listening to the flesh between his thighs. He was a man again, named again. Not just ‘wing’, but that jumble of letters whispered in his ear as a sigh of lovemaking. He was gendered, sliced and broken and formed into the image of the dream of living mankind.

San murmured, soft nothings that could be numbers or letters. Bushi must be there, in the dreams of the dead man, bringing sighs to its cold lips. If the living dreamed of angels and the dead dreamed of the living and the angels dreamed of death, what else did they need in their world? There was no room for demons or gods.

So he prayed to none, sliding his fingers beneath the silk ties of his own loose pants, and dreamed of a living man instead.

Right palm lay open to the sky. Above his head, the extended arm served to complete the juxtaposition of long, svelte organic lines and cuts against the block and glass of the rooftop. He could almost feel warmth of fingers laced between his own, a memory of singular events already passed into the dust of ‘long ago’. Hideo was shorter then he, but housed a presence thrice his weight. The young samurai felt towering, once his inhibitions were laid down like a crumpled suit or discarded kimono. Dark eyes, piercing and black iron, once the trappings of the modern mind-fuck of life and glasses were thrown. Bushi had looked on him like a conquest, or prey.

Tsubasa’s wings burst from his back as he arched up, both knees drawn to the sky in mirrored arches to his spine and his toes pointed like a ballet dancer near the edge of air and creation. A bodhisattva now, that is how hideo would see him. Those dark eyes would soften with the shedding of feathers, his grip would lax. Petting hands, eternally curious and admiring would thread along each of his sinews. Seeing him anew. Tsubasa felt his skin flush, a steady drum beat flooding out the wailing of the wind in his ears.

Hideo’s skin was smooth, neither soft nor harsh. Bushi’s body was naturally bare of hair, and h is early life had been in fields, leaving him soft-tanned and supple, masculine as asian features could manage while remaining stunning as far as his tastes ran. His own body was so engineered, blemishless and bare even to his pubis. Their skins had slide together in casual fit, legs bound about hips and chest to chest as they’d sampled each other’s breath. Then he’d felt incredibly full, a vessel with only surface tension left to restrain him from spilling over.

The seraph startled as he heard a low, melodic note that must have been his own moan. His optical sensors burst with will o’wisp lights and he gasped, heat like lava sprayed over his hand and chest in the autumn chill. Feathers curled protectively in around his shoulders, shielding his shuddering from the wind.

“A beautiful show, if ever I saw one.”

Tsubasa’s back stiffened, and he was standing before the source of the voice had prepared their firearms again. There were four ninja, one of whom at least must be enhanced. The chameleon effect of their suits was an admirable touch, but the refractions as the material tried to compensate for the bends of the human form made an imperfect invisibility effect. His own sensors, the Third Eye, picked up on all their vitals, electromagnetic and infrared emanations anyway. How had he missed them? San wasn’t stirring, a bad sign. Above all else, they could not be allowed to acquire one of the Necropolis Project. Especially not the nice one.

“Require Identification,” his voice became hollow, twanged with mechanical symphonics. “State purpose and you may be apprehended for questioning. Failure to comply will require immediate actions leading to extermination.”
The ninja each stepped back, their weapons and chi were wavering. He’d looked so human, no doubt, just seconds ago. He couldn’t believe he was going into battle with his own cum, still wet, fanned across his stomach. Why had they just stood there and watched? “Silence equivocates non-compliance.”

His wings arched first then fanned, feathers stretching out and releasing in what looked like time-release lasers no doubt to their insufficient optical sensors. Blood sprayed in raindrop archs, secondary flows to satiate the pounding that hadn’t stopped in his ears. Maybe they had answered?


It was a grey vision, looking out beyond the tapestry curtains onto the streets and buildings below. There were always plenty of them about, the humans if that was what they could really be referred to, flitting to and fro out of buildings, shops and restaurants, hardly cognizant of the existence of dreams, of loftier intelligences. Or perhaps it was that they suffered from a disease of thought, a cancer, as it were, that gnawed their brains into some dull state like cattle, one that was cultivated and encouraged by the high castle dwellers and TechnoBarons.
Perhaps, in the conclusion of all things, it was as Yoshimitsu who was correct and it was he who was mad. The matter was not settled, much that was glorious and exalted in thought was encircled his own domain of thought and not by that playful charge’s. Emerson sighed, coming away from the window and with deliberate step made his way over to his Center.

What wires could not be fitted into unseen status were neatly zip-corded to each other and led out of the way of locomotion, leaving the image of the center a vision of Aryan efficiency. Twelve screens, half LCD and half IrisGel projections, the console chair with its own systems and the three extra keypads, body-jacks, satellite router, and the terra-systems tower itself were together a set up enviable by any NetJockey, though their confusion at an absence of disorder was assured.

Emerson peeled off his slacks, folded them distractedly to be tossed onto the nearby loveseat, and took his place in the command chair. Four jacks automatically inserted though slits in his spin and thighs and he hissed. The juvenile eagerness in idolatrous cyber geeks for such implements offered him only the conclusion that sure they must consider such intimate penetration to be of equal sensitivity and importance as to actual love. The importance, of course, stemming from the thankful assurance that such socially and intellectually challenged individuals would never see the middle of a woman’s legs, let alone another mans, unless it were recorded and on continuous playback to be reflected off their sweat smeared glasses


“Will you be busy tonight?”

Shinji looked over his shoulder, regarding the woman the same way he considered a dentist. The slew of photographers and makeup artisans, PR representatives and personal trainers bustling like a disturbed ant colony behind her only emphasized the feeling. “Yes.”

Her too-big teeth his behind her botox smile in an instant, and Ms. DeCroft turned to the nearest intern to whisper something about schedule changes. “Come on, show some-”

He was gone. One of the naturally most beautiful men she’d ever witnessed in her life, who would need next to no digital re-mapping, who was worth trillions of dollars of advertising and marketing revenue to OneSource, inc. was simply gone. Lillian DeCroft took the few steps between herself and the make-up prep set and gave a cursory look under the table and around at the studio walls. Nobody could just vanish .

Her cell phone rang three times before she answered it, still staring stupidly about herself.

“Subject 000-01-214 has been acquired for testing. Leak nothing, say nothing, or OneSource will require a new Hontou-Genki Focus Group. Shinji Amadeus never existed, for now.”

Her phone went dead as she lowered it to her hip. More then two thousand people worked in their division. OneSource was the number one agency for Media stars…she had to talk to Nakamura immediately.

It wasn’t unlike forcible submersion. Shinji felt the quicksilver glide of metal around his neck and the garrote tightened before he could even make a noise. His vision was blacked, and from the dull ache just at the base of his skull he guessed a neurodisruptor had been discharged on low at the spot. There were too many hands on him, all moving as space seemed to orient. He was flowing down a sinkhole into the dire emptiness of plough. Or he had watched Labyrinth with Ren too many times and the Helping Hands scene was scarred into his peripheral memory.
Adrenaline should have been shuddering his limbs with energy, but it felt like his heart was slowing. The beat became an even, deafening tempo in his ears, and the hands on his back, legs and shoulders seemed to take up the rhythm as rowers. More wires pressured his joints, snaking around his torso and legs. He would black out soon, and he scowled remembering the first few times during wrestling camp. Nausea almost always followed.

Was he going to wake up? A rather optimistic outlook, considering. The brain could really only survive six minutes without oxygen before damage started. Was this how Hideo felt, taking his first steps, or just as his toes broke the thin plasticy surface of water?

“Shinji-san? Could you sign the waver please?”

White light nearly exploded in his vision, like his father’s idea of halogen lighting as an alarm clock. Murmuring filled his ears, but he couldn’t make out any words. His eyes focused enough to make out human shapes clad in white, one particularly close to him who was pushing a rod and flat thing into his lap. He was sitting?

“Ama-kun, sign the waver for your surgery.” It sounded like Mom. What surgery? A feminine hand curled around his own and helped his fingers remember the letters of his name.

“What surgery?” His own voice felt thin. It was faint, covered by ionic filters and purifiers, but it smelled like a hospital. “I don’t need surgery.”
“Shhh….the anesthetic has you confused, deary,” Mother again.
His spine straightened and he stumbled and fell forward, a failed sprint from a sitting wheel chair, directly into the aide with the clipboard. Hands were on him again in the tangle, and he was lifted back into the chair.


I'm sorry, but we no longer support this web browser. Please upgrade your browser or install Chrome or Firefox to enjoy the full functionality of this site.