Author Games: The Absent Empress

Quarterfinals: Maanyo

Aar Xafane did not lack answers.

The fabric of his world was sewn from answers. Facts practically suffocated him at all times, trickled into his brain even when he did not ask them to, but they served as a solace in his more isolated moments. It helped, knowing how things were if not how things should be. Even without the proper questions, Aar could distract himself from feelings—fear, sadness, regret—with the answers no one would ever want, the facts so useless they ought to have been forgotten.

Of course, in the worst kinds of situations, questions outnumbered answers. These were the situations Aar did not know how to navigate; answers usually came so easily to him that a lack of answers meant something was seriously wrong.

Miffed, he leaned against the brick wall bordering the dark alleyway, hands jammed into the pockets of his windbreaker. The air was chilly in Tokyo, particularly at night, when the noisy heat of business hours had seeped into houses and left the streets shadowy and barren. He preferred daytime and the sensations it brought with it, the life and warmth and color. If he closed his eyes now, perhaps he could imagine himself in his mother's home, where her kaleidoscope of artwork guaranteed daytime anytime.

But Aar was here, and distractions could not be. On this empty street in Tokyo, with no known link to Ms. Sato's disappearance, he would not allow the usual distractions to take hold of him. Even the idle fact-finding needed to be silenced. Here, the facts didn't matter. The blinking, magenta-neon sign at the alleyway's edge did not matter; the squishing of King's feet in half a puddle as he shifted his weight didn't matter; the buzzing of insects around the metal trash cans behind him—

Aar closed his eyes and exhaled. Don't think of here, the voice in his mind intoned. Just breathe.

On the gray aluminum door to their right came five knocks, the first three rapid, the final two slow. The knocks had come from the inside, as the closest to the door were Irene and Reason three feet back.

The glow of the distant streetlights seemed to dim, the smell of spilled beer fading into the background. Irene nodded once, the motion barely visible, and the group of six advanced.

The doorknob turned with a click in Reason's grasp. Outwards it swung, emitting a draft of warm air and a whiff of spicy smoke. The hallway behind it was empty, the floor a beige lacquered tile covered with a strip of mock-Turkish rug. Reason stepped inside first, followed by Irene and Aar; from behind, Aar could hear the heavy footsteps of Glacier and King and the lighter, weaker steps of Nora Belasco.

Their source had told them to enter through the red-painted door at the end of the hallway, though no such door was visible. Stepping down the narrow hallway, then turning the corner—ah, there was the door—the group seemed bulky and out of place to Aar. Only one or two heroes should have come, but management had insisted they all work as a team.

The kidnapping in Chicago, along with the attempted systematic elimination of each hero by shapeshifter Azazel, had nearly worked due to isolation of the victims. On this mission, no one would be isolated. Half the group was trained in combat, instructed to strike if the situation turned sour; one hero came as a strategist, spokesperson, and de facto leader; and Nora and Aar were mixed bags, one physically and the other mentally. Nora would only step in under emergency circumstances, considering her fragile state in the wake of Azazel's poisoning, and Aar would provide counsel as necessary. Again, his physical skills were less than needed, but he'd noticed too many oddities in crisis situations not to be considered an asset.

Reason and Irene paused in front of the red wooden door. Nodding, Glacier strode past the three in front and knocked. First came three quick taps, then two slower, more forceful ones.