[PG] This story takes place in the very early moments of episode 45 (i.e., Day of Destiny, part 1), before the meeting . . . * * * * * * * "If this myth is tragic, that is because its hero is conscious. Where would [her] torture be, indeed, if at every step the hope of succeeding upheld [her]?" Albert Camus "The Myth of Sisyphus" ********************* Aphelion by +Gradient ********************* My name is Kino Makoto. I have been told that it means faith or devotion of wood. Actually, I know of several different kanji that can be properly read as "Makoto." The first set of them has the loose meaning of, as I have said, faith, devotion, or trust. I remember the day in third grade when I first encountered it in my lessons and felt an odd sense of pride. It actually motivated me somewhat in my schoolwork, not a particularly easy task lately. I thus looked slightly deeper for other possibilities. A second set, containing references to truth and sincerity, was found, a full year ahead of its school scheduling. Later, I found a third shade of meaning. I eventually asked my parents at a rather offhand moment, "Which Makoto am I?" My father looked puzzled for an instant, then amused. With a quick glance to my mother and then back to me, and with an almost inaudible chuckle at the bottom of his voice, he answered: "You are Makoto." * * * * * If someone were to see me sitting here silently in the dark, they might easily mistake me for my friend Rei. If only I could be so contemplative. The real reason why I'm meditating now is not to experience enlightenment, however, but rather to find solace. In the last few months, my life has become considerably more clouded and complex than my father's response. On top of that, I have been getting the distinct feeling that events around me are building to some sort of breaking point. I suppose the final battle with Kunzite and the other . . . developments of the day have given me confirmation of that. Part of the problem is that I'm having to question things that probably are best left untouched. Yesterday when I awoke I was a fourteen year old girl. Granted, I was a fourteen year old girl who had received fantastic powers and had spent the last few months of her life clearing youma from the streets of Tokyo, but for some reason that seemed so natural. And now I know why. It would seem that my life to this point has been nothing more than a convenient lie. "Oh, sorry to bother you Makoto, but you're really someone else. Defender of the Moon Princess. You died once, but we're going to give you a new life for a while, and then we'll have you back on the job before you know it. So just forget everything you've learned to this point. Time to get back to your really important work." That's essentially what that Queen said. I'd heard it from Artemis and Luna before, but I'd not given much thought to it. It's funny how a vision from beyond the grave seems more "official" than the declarations of two cats. Anyway, it's hard for me to be totally bitter. I know it was a noble cause. But still . . . . I mean, yesterday I was a fourteen year old girl. Today, I don't even know if I'm human. I don't know who I am. * * * * * So I sit here. The last week has not been particularly easy for me. I let my household chores go untended. I suppose "chores" isn't the right word because I feel so comfortable and safe doing them. However, after several nights of light sleep, this morning I had the overwhelming urge to clean. Clean my apartment. Clean my life. Get things in order. Besides, I would have absolutely died if any of my friends had seen the film of dust that I'd allowed to accumulate over the entire apartment . . . and myself. Speaking of dust, it's curious how sometimes you can find beauty hidden in ordinary, everyday things. This innocuous little pile of dust that I missed earlier, for example. I hold my hand over it, close my eyes and . . . Concentrate. The tingle builds in the tips of my fingers as my human side yields. I open my eyes and in the solitary ray of sunlight illuminating my plants I see the small particles slowly rising in unison, almost like souls on their journey to heaven. As the miniature army begins its delicate dance around my hand, some begin to glow in colours not easily described. Those that stray close to each other produce small discharges between them. The symphony of attractive and repellent forces grows as the breathtaking field patterns, seen only by me, take shape. The iridescent vortex begins to build as the pulse quickens. My little universe responds to its creator's movements in a satisfying way. And then I remember . . . snapping out of my little self-indulgent trance. Without me, they hang in the air, floating ever so leisurely downward, quickly forgetting their short, sweet taste of life. A moist cloth would have done just as well. * * * * * Cleaning a home is a very personal act. Looking at all of the pieces of a person's life all neatly laid out. I've cleaned for others, and always taken something valuable away from the experience. When I clean for myself lately, it's almost mechanical. I don't feel anything. I don't actually remember choosing these few items to take out of storage. And to be quite honest, I don't even recall placing the items in a semicircle on my tatami mat. Around me are four pieces of my life: a pair of ice skates, my photo album, my transformation pen, and a black case containing my mother's favorite possession. The skates were taken from a spot near my futon where I usually keep them, the album lies where Ami placed it earlier today, and the pen always stays . . . near me. This is the first time in quite a while that I've wanted to see this particular case, however. * * * * * I don't know how Shinozaki knew that I could skate. At the time I barely knew it myself. Like most of the times when he came to comfort me, the preceding day was a jumble of blurred emotions. Faces, people, all just haze to me now. The delicate threads that prevent us from falling apart have a way of keeping themselves hidden until needed. Usually, I am suspicious of people's motives. In the years before I joined the Sailor Senshi I saw and experienced much that made me believe that the world was made of nothing more than an endless chain of empty words. "I love you Makoto," or "This is for your own good Makoto," or one of a million other things like that. I suppose I shouldn't complain too much about possibly not being human now, since during those days I definitely wasn't. This moment, however, was one of those wonderful exceptions that we live our lives for. Fifteen minutes was all it took. Within fifteen minutes of being emotionally crushed, I was on the ice feeling free, with Shinozaki's gift. When I skated . . . I didn't quite remember pieces of my past life . . . but I did get a warm feeling that I couldn't explain. Like I was reclaiming something from long ago, or maybe something from not so long ago. I guess Artemis' comments when we were at the rink earlier were true. I remember making one jump and catching a glimpse of him through a glistening curtain of fine snow, with an expression that I can only describe as absolute contentment. And then he was gone. I didn't get to thank him. I didn't have to. The white leather still feels warm in my hands as I cradle them. * * * * * Ami visited me today. She claimed that we had scheduled a tutoring session for one subject or the other. I suppose she was telling the truth. Only Ami could remember something like this a mere matter of hours before we enter the Dark Kingdom. I, of course, happily greeted her. Of all the Sailor Senshi, Ami is the most puzzling to me. She seems to be my perfect opposite . . . now. Yet sometimes I feel much closer to her than any of the others. One thing about the Senshi that you can't escape is that each of us has a very specific part to play. I am the simple fighter. Ami is the complex thinker. I am solid, like wood. She is fluid, like water. I destroy. She creates. Or at least that's what the scattered reports in Mina's beloved tabloids say. Not too hard to guess who's leaking that information to them. Doesn't matter; it's probably pretty close to the truth. For some reason I feel a need to impress Ami, and the best way to do that is just to continue being strong, upbeat Mako-chan. I know I'm really Usagi's protector, but Ami always seemed to be the ideal sister that I never had . . . should have had . . . should have b . . . . I felt miserable as she left nearly in tears today. As usual before our tutoring sessions, I went to prepare our tea and whatever other confectionery delight I could compose. Three O'clock Fairy's coming a little early today. I heard Ami from the next room: "Are these your parents?" Hmmm, I must have forgotten to put up my photo album earlier today. "Yes. That's us fishing at Lake Ashinoko at Hakone. I'm holding my first Ugui." I correctly guessed which picture she was viewing. It had to be the first one; Ami's mind would never allow her to begin in the middle of a book. She then offered polite comments and polite questions on several more photos in the album. This is good -- she's able to see that I actually had a normal life at one time. I suppose that album's going to become more and more important for me as time passes. I've got two sets of memories competing for one mind, and one of them's got an unfair advantage. I became so involved in my work that I didn't notice that Ami had fallen silent for at least five minutes. That's odd. I wonder why sh --- Oh, God. The letter. She found the letter. As I rushed in, the answers were already in her eyes. Those big blue beautiful eyes. She was trying to refold the paper and slide it back into its envelope, but she couldn't control the shaking of her hands. I can't really blame her for nosing through things that weren't really any of her concern. It's her inquisitive nature. And besides, what would, what should a fourteen year old girl be doing with something having the letterhead of some government agency of which fourteen year old girls should be blissfully ignorant? I probably would have done it myself. I cursed my forgetfulness as she struggled to form words. This was painful to watch. Even more painful was that she thought that I was angry at her. I didn't know which would be worse, her believing that, or knowing that I was feeling more weak and embarrassed now than in any time in near memory. I wish that letter had never come. It's lying at the bottom of my wastebasket in a thousand pieces now, and I pray that there could be some way that I could forget about it, but it's too late. It's killed me countless times and now it had killed me in a way I never expected. Ami seemed to shift into therapy mode almost instantaneously. I'm not certain which of us she was trying to reassure, however. She was very good, considering the circumstances. She probably knew more about the Ministry of Transport and the Aviation Council and catastrophic instrumentation failure and gyroscopic discrepancies and the physics behind why planes crash than I, but that still didn't change the simple facts outlined in the letter, which was surely sent to the other families of the accident, although I always viewed myself as the only recipient. She finally gained enough courage to ask why I didn't tell anybody. Isn't it obvious? If it had been icing or turbulence or something like that it would have been easier. Whoever decided that the plane and my life should have been felled by lightning had a cruel sense of humor indeed. Ami began counseling again, and then she finally put it all together. I'm surprised it took her this long. It really is a wonder to watch her intellect at work, although this time I wished for a moment that she was blessed with my unfocused mind. A renewed look of shock materialized on my friend's already contorted face. No, not shock. That's too kind. I suppose resigned desperation is the only way that I know to properly describe it. The emotion of realization finally broke her trained, precise articulation in a way that no friend should ever witness. "Oh God, Mako-chan. You don't . . . I mean, I mean you don't think about it when you . . . when you . . ." I should have lied, if only for her benefit. I didn't: "Every . . . single . . . time." * * * * * It really is beautiful, a piece of art. My transformation pen, I mean. It's a shame it usually gets to see the light of day only when some evil has found its way to this world. You know, it's heavier than it looks. I like the weighty feel it has in my hand. I'm also amazed that it hasn't got one smudge or blemish on it, even though I've had it for several months. I've been half-tempted in the past to try to open it up to see how it works, whether it's by technology or magic. I mean if it were by magic, then there would still be the chance that . . . . No. What am I doing? I sound like Ami. With my luck, it would probably be hollow anyway. Besides, if it was magic, it looks like I would have gotten a better grade on that math test that I used it on last month. This symbol, the Jupiter symbol. Is that really who I was so long ago? And what about now? Don't get me wrong: I do enjoy being Sailor Jupiter. It gives me a sense of purpose that I haven't felt for years. I didn't ask for it though. That bothers me sometimes. Could I just walk away if I wanted to? I've been a Senshi for less time than any of the others, so I guess I haven't gotten used to the lifestyle yet. It's not like I have big plans to pursue or anything. But still . . . even though it was in the heat of battle, I wish Luna would have explained to me what was really going to happen when I picked up this pen for the first time. No, I could never leave. Ami would just use that computer of hers to track me or my money down wherever I went on this globe. Besides, if I made Usagi cry, I just couldn't live with myself. Yeah. That's it. That still doesn't change what we're about to do. Going into the Dark Kingdom . . . this just doesn't feel right. I've been having nightmares recently, the kind that you can't quite remember but are too afraid to go back to sleep anyway. No, that's not totally true. The screaming, I do remember that. I'm not the spiritual one in this group, so I don't think it was telling me anything about the future. I guess I'm just under a little more stress than fourteen year old girls should be. Or as Rei, the aforementioned spiritual one, so eloquently noted at a group meeting last week: "After what we've become, Ami probably should drop pediatrics or neurology or whatever she's musing over now in favor of psychiatry." Incidentally, she also made the grand prediction that one of us would crack within a year and that she, as always, would have to take up the slack. Optimistic creature, that Rei. After Ami left (only after I swore to her my sound mental state and received her promise of secrecy) I had the oddest impulse to telephone Shinozaki. I suppose I'm more worried about this than I realize. I think I was going to tell him everything about everything and lay one more problem on his shoulders. I got his answering machine, of course. He's going to be really confused when he returns and finds so many blank messages on his recorder. I just had to hear his voice for a while, even if it was only a recording. If we get back, I'm going to finally change some things. If. Makoto can also mean "reality," you know. * * * * * I haven't been looking forward to this. But there's an emptiness I just need to fill. This might be my last chance. I've tried to do this before. One latch is the most I've been able to open before totally breaking down. It's silly, really. I mean, I think I've done a fairly good job putting their deaths behind me. And then I remember that I hate myself for doing just that. When people look at me, I believe they come to a bunch of conclusions about what my life was like before. A disruptive influence, the result of a broken family. I think that's how one of my teachers described me once. In class, no less. I mean, think about it for a second. Is it any surprise that a girl who was near the top of her class and peaceful beyond reproach would change a little bit after her world was ripped away from her and what little life she had left greeted virtually every hour with loneliness? I don't think so. It's the only way she could survive. Two latches, I'm doing good here. I might finally do it this time. I guess I've accepted the change a little too easily. No, that's not it. The real reason is that the years of hearing these things about me have caused me to begin believing it. That's probably what would have disappointed them the most. Not the fighting. Not the low grades. They would have been concerned, of course, but in the end, they would have smiled and hugged me tightly. I suppose it's good they didn't live to see their Makoto forget her name. There. It's open. Now what? This is getting worse. Close it. Everybody knows you're otenba now, no matter what you do. You can't be her. You never could. No . . . no. I want it back. Just for a little while. I remove it from the case. Its smooth surface does not betray its age in the least. It was not only my mother's, but her mother's as well. It's so, so smooth. I rub it almost unconsciously. The black bamboo has held up very well since the last time I saw it. Some things do endure. At one time, I saw it almost every day. I saw my mother with it and, even at my young age, I recognized the beauty. Years later, after countless hours of practice and emulation, I too had achieved that beauty. I want it back. It's been too long. I've missed this so much. How could I have forgotten? It's time. I place the shakuhachi to my lips and begin to play a song with no name. And time stops. . . . . . . . . . . I . . . I can see them. . . . . . . . . . . Huh? A missed note? I never miss. No . . . it's . . . No, dammit! Not now! Please. Not now. I don't know whether to cry or hit something. * * * * * "What." The tone was as flat as I could make it. The person on the other end of the communicator was only momentarily taken aback. "Uh. Hi, Mako-chan! We were going to meet at the temple in a little while, before we go tonight." "Yeah, okay. I'll be there." "Mako-chan, are you okay?" "Yeah, I'm fine. I was just doing a little cleaning." She must have noticed the darkened state of my apartment. "Well . . . okay. I'll see you at the temple." "Fine." "And Mako-chan?" "Yeah?" "Happy anniversary." "Wh--what?" "Yeah! It's been exactly six months since you joined us! It seems a lot longer than that doesn't it?" I don't know which was the worst shock: that anyone remembered or that *she* remembered. "Yeah, I'd talked to Luna about having a party and she said that we could after this is all over. Well, I gotta go! Seeya soon!" [Click.] She really is a princess. * * * * * I guess that's it. Time to go. My plants have been watered and provisions made for their care. Everything's back in its place. I stand at the door and look back. A couple of thoughts about the future and the past. I turn the last lights off and leave. The funny thing is, in the last instant before the door closes, I catch a glimpse of my mirror and notice, through an almost surreal backlighting, that on my face is perhaps the most placid smile I've ever seen. And as God as my witness, I don't know why. * * * * * My name is Kino Makoto. It means faith or devotion of wood. Or so I've been told. - - - - x - - - - **************************************************** Author's Notes: Shakuhachi - a traditional Japanese bamboo flute Otenba - unfeminine; a tomboy Ugui - a small, freshwater fish *** Sailor Moon, Kino Makoto, and associated characters are the intellectual property of Takeuchi Naoko and/or Toei, DiC, Bandai, Kodansha and a host of other ethereal corporate entities. All clichés in this story are hopefully public domain, since it is so hopelessly riddled with them. All comments, questions, anecdotes, threats, can be sent to: gradient@thedoghousemail.com All emails concerning alternate connotations of "shakuhachi" will be summarily trashed. But before you flame me, note: 1. Planes *do* crash because of lightning. It's very rare, but it does happen; 2. How do you know Mako doesn't think just as articulately as Ami?; 3. I believe this story is consistent with Mako's comments during the meeting in JP Ep. 45; and 4. As for the instrument choice, it seemed only . . . appropriate. Thank you for your time. "Aphelion" +Gradient June 1998 Arcanum vitae fides e maerore est.