williamfripp:

Inside a tiny, claustrophobic interrogation room of the Osaka police department, Indira Singh sat quietly, in meditation, eyes wide open.

She was using the techniques she herself had trained others in, Switching On Sojourner acolytes and guiding them through the delicate currents and treacherous tides of the Slipstream on their journey towards realization and acceptance of who they are and who they have been and, in some cases, who they were meant to be long before they gained a Vessel in this dimension.

Indira herself possessed knowledge far beyond many modern Sojourner sentinels, a knowledge passed down from one age to the next, like a genetic self help manual for the soul, and as she looked through her Sojourner eyes, she could “see” three auras through the two way mirror, talking amongst themselves, making the occasional gesture towards her as she watched, outwardly amused, but inwardly scared and cautious and ever wary of the possible presence of Wayward auras near her. She was more than a match for the majority of the unaware, un-Switched On public, but there were those among the Wayward that were not so easily out maneuvered, and as formidable as she may be, the less Indira had to use that part of her Sojourner inheritance the better. She was sickened by violence, physically and spiritually, and the use of her talents to do harm was inherently revolting to her, both as a human and as the reincarnation of a Sojourner elder.

Now there’s irony for you, she thought to herself and chuckled.

The door opened and a man dressed in a very conservative black business suit, with a starched white shirt and thin black tie, black leather shoes polished to a mirror finish. His face was clean shaven and severe as he frowned at her, his hands thrust into his pockets. He stood that way, gently rocking back and forth on his heels as he glared at her. as though the force of his will alone would compel her to break down like a hysterical woman and cry and plead for leniency. Indira, now completely in her present self, smiling sweetly at him, clasped her hands together in front of her on the table, and said nothing.

“You are, you say, the Aunt of the young girl,” he began in near flawless English, “Musashi?”

“Okino, yes,” Indira lied, and was shocked by how easily and perfectly the untruths spilled from her lips. “I was in Bangladesh when I heard she was attacked.” Indira shifted uncomfortably in her chair, playing the upset Aunt like a skilled actress. The policeman, her audience, was not impressed.

“Miss Singh,” he said, Indira’s pretense shattered, “the hospital officials told us who you are.”

He stepped up to the table and sliding back a chair opposite hers, sat down.

He leaned back and crossed his legs in front of him, a repetitive motion Indira had no doubt had been performed countless times in this very room. “And they told us why you are here.”

“They did?” she cooed, her smile turned down into a mocking pout. For some reason, she did not like this man and mocking him suited her present state of mind.

“Yes, they did,” he returned. “They say you believe this child is the Devil,” he said matter-of-factly, no hint of humor in the delivery. “Is that true?”

“That’s she’s the Devil?” Indira asked, sarcasm dripping from every word. “Of course not. Do you believe in the Devil Mr.?” she said, trailing off.

“Oh, please forgive me,” he said, rising and reaching across the table to shake Indira’s hand. “Detective Hideji Takagi.” Re-seating himself, he crossed his legs and resumed his laid back position.

“Detective Takagi, all I wanted to do was see if somehow I could help that girl. Nothing more.”

“You wanted to help the Devil?” he replied flatly.

Indira smirked. “Really, now, Detective,” she said grinning, “you are playing games with me.”

Takagi sat suddenly upright and leaned his elbows on the table, reducing the space between them.

“This is no game, Miss Singh,” he said sternly, “you infiltrated a state hospital, impersonated a government employee and was this close,” and, standing, he leaned closer to Indira, who, despite herself, instinctively flinched, “to a patient with whom you have a rather unpleasant history, according to the hospital records.” He sat back down and recrossed his legs. “The hospital administrator wants you deported immediately.”

Indira’s heart dropped. She had known the risks of being caught, had considered the possibility of a fine and a few days in jail, but had not reckoned on the fact the the hospital was run by the Japanese government. It occurred to her that Detective Takagi had been more than right when he said that this was no game. Still, she kept her mouth shut.

No one ever learned anything with their mouth, said Botu’s rich, African bass in her head, speaking to her from the Void. She had heard him say that many times to many young people, and as the memories flitted across her consciousness, Aaron Stiles’ face became conspicuously center screen, and she knew he had been searching for her, could feel that he was working on her behalf, but was also still very far away. All of this had registered in her Sojourner brain in the briefest nanosecond.


She looked at Detective Takagi, sitting there, watching her and waiting patiently for her to make the next move.

“I meant her no harm,” she repeated stubbornly, refusing to budge.

Again he rose, and grimacing at her, he shrugged his shoulders. “Then there is nothing I can do for you.” Turning, he opened the door and strode out, the door coming to a loud, clacking close behind him, locking her once again into the tiny room, a mouse to be studied and experimented on in an empty cage.

Eyes wide open, Indira Singh sat in meditation.