JackSGreyson Says

scurrying, chittering
crumbs on the floor
tiny paws, tiny mouths
patient and afraid

thudding and whining
along comes the dog
tamed and shameless
but well fed

beware the cat

—

No one is at home.

This is not a surprise.

No one is ever at home.

The girl–“it might be better if we don’t know each other’s names yet”–looks around curiously. He wonders what she sees, if she can spot the details of his life as easily as she could perceive him in a crowd.

“Please come in,” he says, toeing off his shoes and placing them neatly in the cubby by the door.

“Ah, please excuse me,” she responds by reflex, and doing the same with her own shoes.

“My house,” he says, inanely, as he guides her to the dining room, “You said somewhere private would be better. Would you like tea?”

“If it’s not any trouble,” she says, looking at him–and what a surprise that is every time–expression confused and nearly concerned, “I thought maybe you’d bring me to an empty park or something like that, not your house.”

He shrugs, kettle heating, preparing two cups.

“You’re overly trusting,” she chides, and perhaps, in a way, she’s right.

It’d be more accurate to say he’s desperate.

—

eight strokes
empty
horizon curving
endless nonexistent

at the heart
of every wish
is a lack

—

Over cups of steaming tea, the girl tells him about impossibilities. Powers beyond human capability sealed away within every human on the planet.

He thinks maybe she is playing a cruel trick–he her gullible audience–until she actually shows him.

It costs him one hundred yen, but she gives the sliced halves of the coin right back.

“Mine are Lightning Flames,” she explains, fingernail sparking bright green.

The expression on his face must speak for itself, because she continues, “Yeah, I’m not sure why they’re called that. There’s a kind called Rain too and it basically acts just like water does. Really, the only type which has a name that makes sense is the Sun Flames.”

“And you think I have these Flames, too?” he asks, hopeful but doubting. He’s only ever been a shadow–or maybe a lens if he’s being generous–to someone else’s light.

Again that expression of pity and guilt flickers over her face. She hesitates.

“… not yet.”

—

the absence of pleasure
is apathy
numbness spreading
cold skin

the absence of pain
is pleasure
relief and recovery
salt copper heat

which is stronger?
which is true?

—

“I need to consult with the others,” she says, firm in her denial, “I don’t know how much is safe to tell you yet. There’s the very real risk that if I tell you more–”

“–you’ll have to kill me?” he interrupts, disappointed and snide because of it.

Her silence is rebuke and confirmation both, enough that he stops. Remember the coin, his blood seems to sing, how easily she split the metal as if paper.

The sound of her putting on her shoes is simultaneously ominous and reassuring.

“My card,” she says, which jars him out of his fear. “I know, right? What kind of teenager has business cards–how pretentious,” she rolls her eyes as she holds out the card.

Ivory card stock with rich green letters providing an email address and phone number. No name, though, only a strange crest at the top and a lightning bolt below that.

“There are dangerous secrets in this world,” she warns, “but if you decide you really want to know or if you need my help… if you think the knowledge is worth the danger. Then you’ll know how to reach me.”

He takes the card.

She leaves, still nameless to him.

The card goes into a desk drawer, forgotten for almost two years.

No
she chokes out
heart in her throat
pulse and breath
teeth biting into
muscle and sinew
blood on her tongue.
No

—

“Oh,” says the girl, sidelong glance unsurprised, “Nice trick.”

For a moment he doesn’t understand, glances around to see who she might be speaking to. Surely it can’t be him.

There are people walking, yes, but the crowd flows around them like a river around a rock. Unheeding, unaware.

“I’m talking to you,” she says, head turning, gaze more focused. Looking directly at him.

“You can see me?”

—

We were the fallen,
sunlight through grey clouds,
air heavy
foreboding.

The sweet relief
of closed eyes,
secrets hidden behind
a false dream.

Scraping feet
scratching nails,
one two rhythm
of being on the run.

We were the fallen,
without wings or fire
or swords
empty.

—

The chatter of the restaurant is annoying, but all the better to cover their conversation.

“Vanilla milkshake,” she says, placing it on the table in front of him. Already the glass is beading with condensation, confection spilling over with cream and sprinkles.

Across from him she sits, sandwich and chips in a bright red basket, sliced pickle on the side.

“I’m surprised no one tried to steal the table,” she says, gesturing to the crowd waiting–standing room only.

“It’s not really invisibility,” he tries to explain, “It’s just that people don’t notice me.”

“Except for me,” she says, matter of fact, before biting into her sandwich.

“Yes,” he says, “except for you…”

They sit in near silence, chewing sounds notwithstanding, as he considers the situation.

“What did you mean by nice trick?” he asks, finally.

She pauses, swallows, furrows her brow, “Well, I thought you were doing it on purpose.”

—

the world sighs
scars forgotten
shuddering fearing
another blow

two minutes
to midnight
hands creeping
forward

quickly quietly
the loss of faith
sudden and sharp
our last

—

“If this is what you’re like without training,” she continues, as if her words aren’t currently shaking his foundations, “You’ll probably be ridiculously powerful if you ever get activated properly.”

Training? Activated? Powerful?

Him? The boy nobody can see?

Impossible.

“Anyway,” she adds, finishing up her basket–the sandwich long consumed, the pickle and chips swiftly disappearing–before wiping off the grease on her fingers, “I didn’t mean to freak you out. I’m only here for a short job, so don’t worry about running into me again.”

She stands up, the action jarring him out of his thoughts.

“Enjoy the milkshake, yeah? As an apology,” she says, before leaving.

“W-wait, please!” He calls out, hand reaching out, but not touching. The look she casts is forbidding, warning. He wouldn’t dare.

But she stops and humors him anyway.

“What did you mean about…” he trails off, unsure. He doesn’t know enough to ask questions, only knows that he has questions.

A different expression flickers over her face: pity tinged with guilt.

“It’s called Flames.”

~

A/N: Many moons ago, when Trailblazers was still its original fully titled Trailblazers Bright and Bold, I wrote tiny snippets set in a TBaB and Kuroko no Basket fusion in which somehow Kuroko was Tetsuki’s son and she travelled in time to meet him? I don’t know, it was based off an even stranger dream in which Kuroko was her son that her future self travelled back in time to give birth to such that they were the same age at the same time.

Anyway, this is not that.

But I still kind of liked the idea that Kuroko’s misdirection ability was due to unactivated Wave Energy (and that the other Generation of Miracle’s abilities were also unactivated Wave Energy spilling over into their basketball style), and so this is what shook out.

I don’t know if I’ll do anything more with it, but I was fond of the idea–strange as it was–and what better way to express that than writing it out after a shitty day at work 😀

edit: This crossover series is now called Blitzkrieg!