An Exploding Ally XLII

"Okay, okay," Shotaro replied, exhaling sharply. "Let's take a breath and review what we learned about our church on Sunday."

"Sunday mosque too, technically," grumbled Bird, folding wings halfway.

Kotaro nodded. "That's right. And, uh, there is a Jewish place of worship, isn't there? Do you remember where Jews pray again?

"Banks."

"Shotaro!"

"What? Oh—shit." He massaged his hand across his face. "Sorry. That was—yeah. Sorry."

He shifted his eyes to the brick wall standing to their left, using it as a blackboard scrawled with potential comprehension. He gazed most intensely at the cracks in the surface, as if they contained some lost knowledge waiting to be recovered. The wind, in the meantime, had fallen into a silence, leaving the place with an eerie quiet.

Let's redo the lore. Three of those locations.

So, they settled in comfortably, their backs against the cold, hard wall, their phones lighting a dim, soft light in their open hands. They were surrounded by the soothing rustle of leaves in the alley, with the far-off, rhythmic cacophony of cicadas chirping in the distance. The bird's claw moved effortlessly across the screen as Shotaro pecked away rapidly and efficiently, his eyebrows furrowed in concentration.

Wailing Wall.

Kaaba.

Nazareth. Red Sea.

Every name lit up the screen in a rhythm, as if the echoes of different people's heartbeats were reliving and sharing the very same dream.

"The Wailing Wall," Bird went on, "is on the west side of the Temple Mount, the only remaining piece of the Second Temple, which once loomed in this hallowed spot." It is a site where Jews come to pour out their feelings in tears, pray from the heart, and send emotional messages hidden in the crevices on the ancient stones.

Shotaro nodded slowly. "That wall's been accumulating pain since Rome."

Bird squinted at his screen. "Kaaba—black stone cube, center of Mecca. Built by Abraham and Ishmael, according to Islam. Point all Muslims pray to. Walk around it during Hajj."

Shotaro's voice softened, speaking in a reflective tone. "Axis mundi. This is what they call the very center of the turning world."

Bird tapped again. "Nazareth. The Church of the Annunciation, specifically. Supposed site where Gabriel told Mary she'd give birth to Jesus."

Shotaro looked upwards at the white sky. "A prophecy before any."

There was a moment of silence.

And there is the Red Sea," he spoke softly, his voice low and nearly reverent, as if recalling some great event in the past. "It was the sea that parted for Moses. It was the sea that swallowed up the pharaoh finally."

Bird nodded, arms folded, shoulder against the wall, half-closed eyes in contemplation. "And every one of the three religions comes up against it in one way or another."

"Judaism passed through it," Shotaro replied, eyes firm. "Christianity recalls it as a flame passed hand to hand. Islam—the Qur'an speaks of Musa parting the sea. Same sea. Same miracle. Borne like an inheritance over time."

Bird scratched absentmindedly at the side of his head, eyes flicking back to his phone's map. "And now something's coming back around. Something important. That can't be a coincidence."

The—

A voice cut him off.

"Aniki, Aniki, Aniki!"

They turned. Mazino Hiroki came running up the alley, dust on his sneakers, blond hair all wind-tossed, and blue eyes wide.

"Hiroki!" cried Shotaro, already bracing in his body.

Bird pushed himself off the wall, breathing hard. Shotaro stared at him.

"Take Kotaro home," Shotaro instructed him, already shifting gears. "We'll talk about this later."

Bird nodded, picking up Kotaro as if he were light as air. "We'll go get ice cream," he whispered, low and exhausted, like a babysitter on adrenaline, already walking down the street with the boy in tow.

That left Shotaro and Hiroki alone in the alley, tension giving way to something much stupider.

Hiroki hunched over, panting like he'd run a marathon with no warning. "Aniki," he panted, resting his hands on his knees.

Shotaro's brow went up. "What? Something serious?" "Is it the terrible batch again? Hiroki's head snapped up, cheeks flushing—not with terror, but shame." No, it's just—there's this one girl—

"Fuck up," Shotaro interrupted, carelessly. "You need me to be your wingman now?"

Perhaps," Hiroki winced, massaging the back of his neck.

Shotaro grunted, shrugged his shoulders, and cracked his neck. "Fine."

Abruptly, he placed his hand on his own belly. He shivered slightly, gritting his jaw as though someone was suppressing a sneeze.

Two seconds later, he produced a set of slender earpieces—tiny, matte black, almost invisible to anyone except the wearer.

Here, he said, tossing one aside.

Hiroki blinked. "Are those—

Private channel. Invisible to everyone else but us," said Shotaro, adding his own. "I'll give you tips. Whisper mission-style."

Hiroki gazed at the device in wonder. "Damn. First Jesus, then Superman, and then Doraemon."

He smiled. "What can't you do?"

Shotaro sighed. "Swim, apparently. Now let's go."

.....

Mushashi's Yamato City hummed in their vicinity—neon signs buzzing, bicycles whooshing by, and cicadas whirring in the trees in the distance. Night was falling, covering everything in that gentle gold that turned even the most mundane concrete to poetry.

Hiroki's eyes landed on a person in the plaza. "Yo, look at that one. Purple hair, tall, big—

Smack.

Shotaro's hand struck the back of his head as forcefully as a judge's gavel.

"Ai, get a grip on yourself," Shotaro grumbled. "Now prepare."

Hiroki struggled the small communicator into his ear, continuing to rub the spot where Shotaro struck. "Okay, okay, I'm in."

Shotaro didn't hesitate. He shoved him ahead with one hand on his shoulder. "Go get her, tiger—no, I mean, my South Carolina bobcat."

Hiroki stumbled over. "There are no bobcats in South Carolina."

"Right," Shotaro replied, already adjusting the mic. "Because you're unusual, confusing, and totally in the wrong place. Now go."

Hiroki adjusted his collar as if he was heading to a job interview and not really heading to crash and burn in the real world.

He went over to the purple-haired girl, his nervousness performing acrobatics in his spine. She faced him, smiling benevolently, with inquiring eyes.

"Hi," he answered, his voice almost monotone. "Want to get a coffee or something at some point?"

There was a pause.

"I was just being normal—"

"She has standards," the chubby friend retorted, arms crossed as if she had just wrapped up a criminal case.

Hiroki blinked. And then he laughed. Not a superior laugh. A what the fuck is going on here laugh. He leaned his head to the side, hands on hips. "Hey, miss. Come here."

The fat one narrowed her eyes, disbelieving. But she moved forward, waddling like a boss battle cutscene.

Hiroki moved his position as if to execute a special technique.

Then—SMACK.

Thunderclap of palm against cheek. Her eyes widened. Her mouth hung open in horror as molar-filled food clogged up and clinked out in a shower of broken buttons. She collapsed on the ground like a bag of stale mayonnaise.

"STANDARD THESE HANDS, BITCH!" Hiroki bellowed over her broken form, nostrils flared, soul momentarily free from tyranny.

"AGHHHH!!" the purple-haired girl exclaimed, hands shooting up to her mouth.

.

"Huh?" Hiroki blinked. Glanced left. Glanced right.

The fat woman stood before him, chattering on about emotional maturity and the dangers of unwanted masculine attention.

"Damn," he complained. "That was just in my head."

He rubbed his temple. "I need some backup."

Then he cupped his hands and screamed from the depths of his lungs.

"ANIKI!!!"

A blink later—pop. A burst of static and pressure.

Shotaro stood behind him, eight feet of calm delinquent menace, silver hair catching the wind like a movie entrance.

He walked up to the fat girl. No hesitation.

Wordlessly, he lifted her up like a bridal carry.

"Let's go on a date," he stated bluntly.

Blink. They vanished. Gone. Teleported out of existence like he'd just taken out the trash with a smile.

Silence.

Just Hiroki and the girl remained now. Alone. The air is again fresh.

"So," Hiroki replied, rubbing his neck sheepishly, "you were talking about coffee?"

.....

Behind a newspaper with two sloppy holes punched out of it, Shotaro sat slumped in a café table chair, binoculars jammed up against his face like some kind of secret agent Looney Tune.

He was four tables away.

Four, not forty. Four.

But he leaned over the paper like a spy in broad daylight, observing Hiroki going all-out with Ayaka. The boy was waving his arms wildly, flustered but over-the-top, and she was laughing over her straw.

Shotaro glared at the lenses, intent as if tracking enemy patterns, not high school flirting.

In the meantime, with the other hand, he spooned ice cream off of a sundae dish and brought it to Tatsumi's lips—the chubby girl he had yeeted into a dating relationship for sheer social convenience. She laughed, wobbling cheeks, as he cleaned a little strawberry drizzle off her lips with a napkin as if they were a couple.

I adore a man who knows how to multitask," she replied, batting her lashes.

.Eat slowly," Shotaro replied without looking around, still observing. "You're going to get brain freeze."

She laughed once more, digging with gusto.

Shotaro took a deep breath. One eye still watches over Hiroki. One hand nourishing the enemy. All in a day's work.

Tatsumi was half done ranting, spoon half to her mouth, eyes glinting as she munched on her own sentence like bubblegum.

"——and fr, you serve like, such main character energy but lowkey? You're also kinda sigma-coded but not in a crusty fashion, like actually serving wholesome vibes, no cap. You ate. Literally. Ate. Ate down. And left no crumbs. Period."

Shotaro blinked.

His expression was set. Binoculars still gripped in one hand. Spoon of half-melted ice cream stiff in the other. He stared at her as if she'd only just started speaking dolphin.

"As someone who knows every language there is," he said slowly, turning his head, crimson eyes narrowing, "what the fuck does that mean?"

Tatsumi grinned widely, face blown up with too much whipped cream, eyes shining with that raw Gen Z chaos. "It means you slay, daddy."

Shotaro stopped mid-scoop.

His jaw eased a bit. ".Days like this make me think maybe Hitler was right," he muttered to himself, still staring at Hiroki.

Four tables away, the date had taken a turn.

Ayaka twirled her straw, tilting her head. "I mean, Carpenter Sakura was more emotionally nuanced than Sailor Moon. More realistic stakes. She was like. a magical girl with a mortgage."

Hiroki stiffened, blinking as if she'd just offended his family.

That's… That's completely ridiculous," he said, trying to keep a hint of hysteria in his tone. "Sailor Moon began the genre. There physically isn't any Carpenter Sakura other than Usagi Tsukino. That's like pizza being better than bread—it is better, but the bread walked so the pizza could run!

Ayaka leaned forward. "But Carpenter Sakura ran and then tiled afterwards. Emotionally.".

Oh my god," Hiroki panted, rubbing his temple. "You're really serious.".

"It's just an opinion!" she laughed, but beneath was a challenge to her tone. A spark.

Hiroki's eyelid flickered.

Shotaro sat there and observed it all, taking a swig of his drink over the tiniest gap in his paper. "Love always dies in its first anime argument," he complained, handing Tatsumi another spoonful.

Tatsumi swatted a smudge of chocolate from her chin with the back of her hand without once glancing away from the commotion fermenting at Hiroki's table. Her voice cut through the buzz of the café like a referee's whistle.

They're both incorrect," she said, loudly and defiantly. "It's Madoka Magica. Best magical girl anime. Hands down. It's trauma in a tutu.".

Shotaro didn't even flinch.

"Dragon Ball Z." he stated, gravely, as if it were scripture.

Tatsumi blinked at him. "That is not even remotely magical girl material.".

He sipped his straw, never taking his eyes off Hiroki. "That's the way the libtards think.".

She squinted. "That sentence doesn't make any sense.".

He finally turned his head, crimson eyes flat. Of course not, he said, cold as ice. "You're a liberal.".