Chương 5: Debt Mark

Kurisu studied the structures looming beyond the passenger window, the blocks of stone and glass rising higher than the tallest pagodas he had ever known, dwarfing the multi-tiered walls of his clan's estate and the wood-and-clay merchant districts of his home that rarely rose above a standard two-story teahouse.

"Irvine Spectrum Center," Steven announced, killing the engine.

"We should be able to find everything here." Kurisu climbed from the passenger side, stamping his foot a couple of times, the ground beneath his heel even firmer than the paving stones of the castle grounds. As Steven led the way across the lot toward the building, Kurisu trailed a step behind, feeling the heat radiating from the blacktop, baking the thin soles of his borrowed rubber footwear.

Even though his host had insisted the 'flip-flops' were not zōri, the sandals offered the closest similarity to his homeland he had experienced so far. Steps away from the entrance, the glass doors parted with a hiss. Kurisu shifted a half-step off his centerline, his eyes darting from side to side as his left hand dropped to his hip, his thumb reaching to find a tsuba that wasn't there.

Finding only the soft fabric of his sweatpants, he lifted his fingers to pat the choker around his neck, studying the empty threshold with a frown.

"Are they invisible servants?" he asked in his native tongue. With a chuckle, Steven spoke into his phone.

"It's a sensor. It sees you coming and automatically opens the door."

"An all-seeing eye?" Kurisu muttered, shaking his head.

"You people squander your power upon such trivialities." Steven opened his mouth, stared blankly at the glass doors for a second before finally shrugging.

"Sure. But it's really just a matter of convenience. Come on, we need to find the Big and Tall section. Or maybe the Lumberjack section." Inside, among the clusters of people, Kurisu squinted at the glowing white tubes lining the ceiling, feeling the faint hum of electricity radiating from the lights. Trivialities indeed. With so much glass used to build the walls, he couldn't fathom why this world didn't simply leave openings in the roof to let the natural light inside.

After feeling the material of a garment Steven grabbed from a display table, Kurisu recoiled, curling his lip.

"This cloth is dead," Kurisu stated.

"It possesses the texture of oil." Steven arched an eyebrow.

"It basically is oil," he agreed, tossing the garment back onto the pile.

"Welcome to the twenty-first century." When they navigated toward the workwear section, they found pants, denim, and flannel shirts designed for manual labor. Kurisu dragged his fingers over the fabric, nodding in satisfaction at the denser weave. After eyeing the boy's shoulders and waist, Steven gathered three pairs of carpenter jeans, a stack of plain t-shirts, a pair of black work boots, and a package of socks, handing the entire stack to Kurisu before pointing toward a row of small, windowless stalls.

"Go try these on," Steven instructed. Kurisu stared at the narrow enclosure, darting his eyes across the solid panels. Get in there, boy. Grahk's steel boot drove into his back, kicking him into a box no taller than his waist and not even wide enough to properly curl up in. Straw scratching his skin. The thud of a latch dropping into place. Darkness.

"I will not enter that box," Kurisu stated, his voice lowering. Glancing at the translation on his screen, Steven shifted his weight with a sigh.

"It's just to change clothes. Privacy."

"I will change here," Kurisu insisted, dropping the stack onto a nearby bench.

"No! No, you won't," Steven hissed, scanning the crowded aisle.

"Okay, fine. We'll just guess the size. If they don't fit, we can just return them." Ignoring the warning, Kurisu kicked off the 'zōri' and dropped the sweatpants to the tile. Standing in the center of the walkway, he wore only the white fundoshi he had tore from a bedsheet that morning, a stunt that had earned him a rebuke from Mrs. Miller.

"Jesus!" Steven hissed, stepping sideways, blocking the view of a passing woman pushing a stroller.

"We are definitely adding underwear to the list. Fast! Put the jeans on fast!" After stepping into the jeans, Kurisu fastened the brass button, ignoring the gasps of the surrounding shoppers. He pulled the cotton socks over his feet and shoved them into the black leather, though the denim of the jeans gripped his legs, resisting his stride and digging into the back of his knees.

"This is abhorrent," Kurisu grumbled, testing his stance.

"Within tubes such as these, my footwork is entirely exposed." If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement. Catching sight of a plastic mannequin draped in a black duster, Kurisu stepped away from Steven, sliding his arms into the sleeves, the hem partially obscuring the denim from sight.

"This I can tolerate," Kurisu decided, adjusting the collar against his neck.

"It shall serve as a substitute for my jinbaori." Checking the price tag, Steven let out a groan.

"Ninety dollars?" He exclaimed, as the youth began to walk away wearing the coat.

"Fine," he sighed with a shake of his head.

"You look like you're about to fight Agent Smith, but whatever works. Let's go." When they reached the department store register, they watched the cashier scan the jeans, the boots, the packaged cottons, and the coat before typing the numbers into her terminal.

"That'll be three hundred and sixty-seven dollars and twenty cents," she said. Steven tapped his plastic card against the glowing machine, prompting the terminal to beep in confirmation. Watching from the side, Kurisu narrowed his eyes at the small blue rectangle, memorizing the brief interaction. After leaving the store, they cut through the lower concourse of the mall. Kurisu stopped in the center of the walkway, locking his gaze on a brightly lit storefront that read: Asian Gifts & Collectibles.

Behind the glass window, sitting among resin dragon statues and ceramic incense burners, stood a wooden rack of swords.

"A katana," Kurisu breathed. Before Steven could stop him, the teenager strode through the entrance, stepping into the dense scent of sandalwood filling the cramped space. Kurisu marched straight to the main glass counter, resting his hands on the display.

"How am I to operate without my steel?" Kurisu announced to the teenager working the register. Steven rushed inside, fumbling for his phone.

"No. Absolutely not. Kurisu, let's go." Kurisu turned, fixing Steven with a glare.

"I am unarmed!" Holding up the phone, Steven spoke slowly.

"You are a child," he began.

"You cannot have a sword. It is illegal. When you go to school, if you take that with you, you will be expelled and arrested." Gesturing toward the display case, Kurisu scoffed.

"They are right there. If the merchant sells them, it is evidently permitted by law."

"Those are for decoration," Steven argued, rubbing his forehead.

"They're wall-hangers. And honestly they'd probably break the first time you actually swung them at anything" Ignoring the explanation, Kurisu pointed at a black-sheathed katana featuring a red dragon painted across the scabbard. With a grin and a glance at Steven, who sighed, motioning to 'go ahead,' the clerk moved to pull the weapon off the back wall.

"Good eye," he said, setting it on the glass counter.

"This is a beauty. 1045 carbon steel, real Damascus fold, full tang. Only two hundred bucks." Kurisu picked up the weapon. Brushing aside the clerk's enthusiastic pitch, he gripped the handle, studying the construction. The wrap was loose cotton, lacking the tight, interlocking diamonds. The blade felt dead in his hands, plunging toward the tip like a wood ax. He dragged his thumb near the spine, noting the rippled hamon lines were scratched onto the surface rather than forged into the steel.

Kurisu slid the scabbard through the belt loop of his jeans, drawing the blade to perform a standard ready stance. Keeping a hold of the katana with his left hand, he used his right hand to flip the weapon a full three-hundred and sixty degrees, before striking the bottom of his fist against the tsuka, listening for a rattle in the fittings. He heard it immediately. The thing was garbage. Oh, it really was, but it was a blade.

"At least until I recover my true blade," he whispered, touching the choker around his neck again. Letting out a slow exhale, Steven finally dropped his hands.

"Okay," Steven conceded.

"Okay. But listen to me. This stays in your room. Mounted on the wall, or something. It never leaves. Understood?"

"Understood." Once again, Kurisu watched as Steven tapped the same blue plastic card against the machine, securing the weapon without trading a single physical coin. When they walked out into the heat ten minutes later, Kurisu kept the duster buttoned to hide the pants. He carried the cardboard box over his shoulder before stopping near the edge of the parking lot to glare at his black boots.

"These foot-coffins crush my toes," Kurisu grumbled, glaring at his feet.

"I would sooner return to those 'not-zōri'."

"Boots," Steven corrected, unlocking the doors.

"And no tabi today. We're done." Dropping the subject, Kurisu shifted his attention back to the wallet Steven shoved into his pocket.

"That blue talisman," Kurisu noted, pointing at the leather fold.

"You utilized it to force the merchants into submission." Steven paused to wait for the application to translate the audio, furrowing his brow when he saw the result.

"Submit? What?" Kurisu gestured toward the shopping bags and the sword box.

"You merely presented that tablet, and they surrendered the goods. Is it a spell of mind-control? Or a mark of debt?" With a laugh, Steven slid into the driver's seat and started the engine.

"Definitely a debt-mark, kid. You have no idea." By the time they returned to the house, the television blared in the living room, where Ace and Kellevra sat on the couch; the local school had let out early, signaling the imminent arrival of summer vacation. They stopped talking as Kurisu and Steven walked through the front door, staring at the teenager wearing a black duster in the upper eighties of late May.

"Whoa," Ace said, dropping his game controller.

"Is that a sword?"

"Don't touch it," Steven warned, as the screen shut behind them.

"It's for decoration. And Kurisu, go put it in the room. Then come down for lunch." Kurisu dipped his chin before carrying the box down the hall, leaning it on the bed as he pried the package open. With anticipation he pulled the acid-etched katana from the cardboard, gripping the handle as he exhaled slowly. After examining the empty drywall, he spotted two exposed nails and carefully rested the sword across them, stepped back, and nodded.

"It is better than nothing," he whispered while looking at the weapon.