Tsuneishi Toshiro, head of the most powerful crime family in Japan,
tugged at his collar and sweated.  Despite protests from other _Yakuza_
families, he had made extensive connections with various criminal
organizations around the world.  The Russian mob, the Black Hand of
Sicily, South American cartels -- he had extended promises, made deals,
laundered money, and accepted merchandise.  The other families had been
coming around, and had grudgingly accepted his leadership, when things
had begun to go wrong.  Embarrassingly wrong.

	Vasily Andreovitch Cherenkov, a sweaty white walrus of a man, leaned
across the mahogany table and fixed Tsuneishi with a glassy eye.  The
representatives from the other mobs were clearly enjoying Tsuneishi's
discomfort.  <<Like wild dogs,>> Tsuneishi thought, <<ready to eat
whichever one falls.>>

	"I'm sorry, Cherenkov-san," said Tsuneishi, using the honorific out of
pure habit.  "I assure you that you will receive the money you are owed
very soon.  We have had... difficulties.  They will soon be overcome.  I
can only ask you to be patient."

	"What 'difficulties?'" growled the fat Russian.  "You didn't lose all
my money playing patty-chinky, did you, Toshi?"

	Tsuneishi bowed his head to hide an angry flush.  Much as he wanted to
slice the fat man's head from his shoulders, he was no position to do
anything but swallow the insult.  <<Always the samurai are at the mercy
of the moneylenders.>>  "No, Cherenkov-san," he said.  "We have had
legitimate business difficulties which make it impossible to repay our
debt to you.  But we are currently taking steps to correct the
situation, and I give you my personal assurance that you will be repaid
in due time, with proper interest."

	Cherenkov snorted.  "I don't want your assurances, Toshi, and I'm tired
of listening to your bullshit.  I want my fucking money, and if you
don't stop your bobbing and weaving and give me a straight answer, I
will personally cut off your pisser and shove it down your throat.  Am I
clear on this?  Now, what "situation" are you in?"

	"Someone is... interfering... with our operation."

	"Who?"

	Tsuneishi hesitated.  "Spit it out, Toshi," snapped Cherenkov.

	"Mmmerjeggul," mumbled Tsuneishi.

	"I can't hear you."

	"Magic girls," said Tsuneishi, louder than he intended.  "Pretty little
magic girls with rainbow hair.  They burn our money, destroy our
warehouses, and turn our best crystal meth into pink sugar candy.  With
ribbons.  And they giggle, and... and we can't stop them.  Not with
dogs, not with guards, not with guns.  We... we don't know what to do."

	Laughter swelled up and filled the room as Tsuneishi flushed again.



	After the meeting, Tsuneishi met with his lieutenant, Sato, a slim man
in his late thirties, who wore rimless glasses and a neutral
expression.  "Sato-kun," he said,"I want these syrupy little children
out of my hair.  I don't care how you do it, I want them gone.  Wiped
out.  Eliminated.  You can have whatever you need; I just don't want to
see or hear of another one of them.

	"That could be a difficult course of action." said Sato

	"It's your fault that I'm in this situation, anyway.  You were the one
who told me to make that deal."  Tsuneishi pushed his fingers through
his thinning hair.  He was terrified of looking weak, and knew that
younger men were anxious to move up.  It wasn't like the old days, where
you picked an _oyabun_, or mentor, and stuck with him until he retired
-- or died.  Now, the young pups would bite the pack leader if he didn't
move out of their way.  "Give me a solution, Sato-kun.  I won't just sit
in this trap."

	"I may have one, Tsuneishi-san.  The girls are interfering, yes, but
that's not where our true difficulty lies."

	"They don't make _yakuza_ movies anymore.  They hate us now."

	"Sir?"

	"I'm sorry. Go on."

	"Yes, sir.  The problem is that we cannot respond effectively to their
actions.  We have no magical girls of our own.

	Tsuneishi frowned.  "So what are you saying?"

	"Tsuneishi-san, we have a magic girl gap."


*   *   *

MISSY FOXGLOVE
By
David Homerick.

Episode #1
"Pilot"

*  *  *


	Sato stepped past the guards into the conference room and bowed deeply
as the doors swung closed behind him.  Tsuneishi eyed him crossly.  Sato
couldn't have arranged this in just a few days; he must have been hiding
it for months.  Keeping secrets.  <<Thinks he's so smart.  Just run
things on his own, never mind me.  Well, I won't let him.  I'm not ready
to be put out to pasture yet.>>

	"Well, Sato-kun, what have you got for me?"

	"Sato gestured to the guards, who swung the doors open again.
"Tsuneishi-san, please allow me to present the magical girl Missy
Foxglove."

	Tsuneishi watched critically as the girl entered.  She was slender and
pretty, maybe fourteen or so, just blossoming into young womanhood.  She
bowed deeply and straightened, hands folded, eyes cast down.  Her long
hair, bound back with a black velvet ribbon, marked her as a magical
girl, being a deep bruised shade of purple.  She wore the traditional
Japanese schoolgirl costume, a modestly cut skirt and middy blouse, but
black trimmed with the same deep orchid as her hair.  She also wore
purple pumps, about two inches at the heel and tied to her ankles with
black ribbon.  <<Young men will be killing themselves over her in a few
years,>> thought Tsuneishi.  He gestured to one of the guards, who
stepped forward.

	"When I give the word," he said, "I want you to kill this young girl."

	The girl glanced up, shocked, then back down.  Her eyes were set wide
and colored the same dark shade as her hair.  She remained silent, but
Tsuneishi saw her turn slightly and roll an eye back towards the guard. 
He leaned forward.

	"You'll have to kill this man before he can kill you," he said, "But I
don't want you to move until I give him the word."  The girl didn't
answer, but raised herself on her toes so that the heels of her shoes no
longer touched the ground.  Her eye rolled toward the guard again.  The
guard, for his part, unfastened his sidearm and prepared to draw it.

	 Tsuneishi savored the moment.  The girl rocked to the left and slowly
slid the toe of her right foot back and to the side, while the guard
crouched and twisted slightly.  Sato, on the other hand, remained
infuriatingly calm.  Tsuneishi raised his hand and rapped the table
sharply.

	"Now!" he barked.  The guard drew as the girl whirled, hands wide,
fingers curled like claws.  A faint violet streamer of glowing haze
stretched between her hands and sent a tendril snaking forward, forking
at the end.  One tip brushed the guard's wrist while the other caressed
his chest.  The gun flew from nerveless fingers as the guard collapsed,
gasping, face pale and coated with cold sweat.  The tendril withdrew,
and the girl turned to Tsuneishi questioningly.  Tsuneishi nodded to
her.

	Still the girl hesitated, and he saw her flick a glance at Sato. 
"Finish him," snapped Tsuneishi.

	The girl sent the streamer plunging into the guard's heart.  The guard
groaned and twitched and then lay still.  His breathing faded as the
haze withdrew, curled around the girl's hands, and vanished.  She
stepped back, turned, and bowed again, this time staying down, hiding
her face.

	"Thank you, Missy-chan," said Tsuneishi, "you may go now."  The girl
glanced back at the body as she was led from the room.  Tsuneishi
gestured for his lieutenant to come closer.

	"She's quick," he said, "and very deadly.  But can she take down
another little magic girl?"

	Sato hesitated.  "I don't know, Tsuneishi-san.  I believe she can, but
she's never actually fought one.  She did well in her training, as you
saw."

	"Won't the shoes be a problem?  They're pretty, but they don't look
practical."

	"She's not wearing a costume.  The shoes and the clothes appear to be
part of who she is.  They spontaneously modified themselves several
times during her training, as did her powers.  If you want her to wear
sensible shoes, you should probably send her to a psychiatrist."

	Tsuneishi nodded, eyes narrowed thoughtfully.  "Modified themselves,
hm?  What about her?  Is she reliable?"

	Sato nodded.  "Oh, yes, sir.  Missy's a good girl.  She's very loyal,
and she always does as she's told."


	
	Toguri Junior High School in Maebashi is a squat, ugly concrete
building built just after World War II with the curious property of
seeming dirty no matter how diligently it is scrubbed.  The dusty film
of neglect coating the building turns out, on closer inspection, to be
the paint job, and the halls are paved with sad, yellowish tiles that
may once have aspired to being off-white, but have sunk into dissolution
and dinge as the years passed.  Nonetheless, the building is indeed
scrubbed, quite diligently, by an army of students pressganged into
service every Friday.  They are released from class an hour early and
fan through the school building wielding buckets and brooms and mops and
sponges.  They sweep and scrape and wash and wipe, and though the
building never rises above its state of dingy disrepair, it does manage
to achieve a distinctly antiseptic form of dingy disrepair.

	On one such Friday, the door to the boys' restroom in the lower south
hall swung slowly open and a girl with short-cropped hair peered
nervously in.  "Cleaning time!" she sang, stifling a giggle.  "Here I
come, ready or not!"  Receiving no reply, she thrust the door open and
slipped into the room, lugging a yellow plastic pail containing sponges
and disinfectant spray.  The door swung back and thumped her companion,
who was attempting to wheel a mop and bucket into the room by pushing on
the mop handle.  

	"Oh, wow, we're in the *boys' bathroom*," the girl said in an excited
whisper as her companion extricated herself from the doorway.  "I betcha
we're not s'posed to be here.  I betcha it's a mistake, and there are
boys cleaning up a girls' restroom somewhere."  She dropped the pail and
walked up to the row of urinals.  "These are where the boys pee," she
whispered theatrically.  "I've heard about these things, but I've never
seen one."  

	The other girl threw her a puzzled look.  She didn't notice.  "They
stand here with their things out and-- Eeew!"  She squealed and darted
back to press herself against a sink.  "I don't wanna touch 'em!"

	Her companion, a slightly taller girl with long dark hair bound back
with a black ribbon, shrugged resignedly and took a sponge and a
disinfectant bottle from the pail.  She wet the sponge and began
cleaning the leftmost urinal, spraying with her right hand and wiping
with her left.   The short-haired girl watched in dismay.

	"I didn't say I wouldn't help!"  She hurriedly plucked out a sponge and
bottle and set to work on the rightmost urinal.  "There!  Now that's
twice the work, and we'll be done in half the time.  You're new here,
right?  Where are you from?  Do you have a boyfriend?  You're really
beautiful; I'll bet you had lots of boyfriends back where you come
from.  I have a boyfriend; his name's Yoshio.  He's really cute.  We
watch _Ekksu Firu_ together.  Do you watch _Ekksu Firu_?  That's a
really scary show; I like to be scared.  You sure don't talk much.  Oh! 
I forgot to introduce myself!  I'm Kosugi Chisa."  She stood, gave a
short bow, and beamed at the other girl.

	The other girl stood as well, and bowed.  "I'm Nakasone Michie," she
said quietly.  "I'm from Tokyo, and I -- I'm afraid I've forgotten all
your other questions."

	"Me too!" said Chisa.  "You have a really pretty voice, too.  Will you
be my friend?  I already have a friend, but if you'll be my friend too,
then I'll have two friends.  And then you can be my friend's friend, and
you'll have two friends too.  So will you be my friend, please?  I'll be
quiet so you can say yes."

	"I guess so," said Michie, a little overwhelmed.  She gave the urinal a
final wipe, then flushed it.  She watched her reflection on the
porcelain shimmer as the water came down.  "You're not -- you wouldn't
happen to be a magic girl, would you?"

	"Oh, I wish I were!" squealed Chisa.  "They're so pretty, and they
always fight for Love and Justice and stuff like that.  Yoshio says I'm
cute enough to be a magic girl, but he's my boyfriend, and he has to say
stuff like that or I won't kiss him.  Don't you wish you were a magic
girl?  I know I do."

	"I used to.  Sometimes."  Michie moved to the next urinal and sprayed
it with disinfectant.

	"Will you still be my friend, Michie-chan?" Chisa asked anxiously. 
"Even if I'm not a magic girl?"

	"Sure."  Michie reached over and hugged Chisa, who giggled, dropping
her sponge.


	After school let out, Chisa introduced Michie to her friend, a rangy
girl named Naoko.  They walked along the street together as Chisa
chattered.  "She's really smart, and she goes to a cram school, so she
can't come home with us.  Say something smart, Naoko-chan."

	Naoko rolled her eyes.  "Mandibular."  

	"Isn't she great?  She knows all kinds of words, and can write them,
too.  *You* don't go to a cram school, do you, Michie-chan?"

	Michie shook her head.  "That's great!" exclaimed Chisa.  "You didn't
look really smart, so I was hoping we could hang around while..."

	"Chisa-chan!" gasped Naoko.  "You've insulted her!"

	"Oh!" cried Chisa.  "I'm sorry!  I didn't mean you were stupid!  I just
meant that since you're pretty and Naoko isn't..."

	"Chisa-chan!  You've insulted *me*!"

	"I'm sorry, Naoko-chan!  Please don't be mad!  You don't be mad either,
Michie-chan!  Oh, when will I learn to keep my big mouth shut?"

	"When you're dead," snorted Naoko.

	A shadow passed over Michie's face, and she turned to hide it.  <<He
died so quickly,>> she thought.  <<And it was so easy, like turning off
a faucet.  I touched his heart, and he died.  So... so intimate.>>

	<<I can kill anyone that way.  I can kill Chisa.  A few seconds to
transform, a few more to touch her, and she'll be quivering and dying on
the ground.>>  She swallowed and wiped at her mouth.  <<I can kill her
right now, and she'll never talk or laugh again.  Never ever.  And
they'll never catch me, because I'll kill anyone who comes for me.  I'll
kill everyone in the world.>>

	<<And then,>> she thought giddily, <<I'll be all alone....>> 

	A hand clamped firmly over Michie's mouth and nose.  "You're
hyperventilating," Naoko said sharply.  "Keep that up and you'll pass
out." 

	"I'm sorry!" said Chisa, near tears.  "I didn't mean to make you sick! 
Please say you forgive me!  Oh pleasepleasepleaseplease...."

	Michie pushed Naoko's hand away.  "It wasn't your fault. I was just
thinking about... about something bad."

	Naoko raised her eyebrows, but Chisa was ecstatic.  "You really mean
it?  It's okay?  It's really okay?  You'll still come home with me?"

	Michie smiled at her reassuringly.  "It's really okay, Chisa-chan. 
You're sure your mother won't mind?"  Michie's mother would have raised
three kinds of hell if Michie had ever shown up with an unannounced
guest.

	"Oh, sure!" said Chisa.  "My mom's totally non-feudal.  You'll see." 

	Naoko stopped.  "I have to go, or I'll be late.  You sure you're okay,
Michie-chan?"

	"I'm fine, thank you."

	"Well, breathe normally, okay?  If you pass out in front of Chisa,
you'll probably scare her to death."

	Michie winced.  "I'll be careful. Thank you again."

	Chisa tugged at Michie as Naoko walked off.  "I *told* you she was
smart.  Come on, we'll be late for dinner."



	Chisa and her family lived in a small brown house in the western
style.  As the two girls entered the house, Chisa kicked off her shoes
and dashed into the kitchen, blithely announcing that her new friend
would be staying for dinner, and did Mama have to make THAT again; after
all, Michie was from Tokyo and used to the most marvelous food.  Michie
placed her shoes in a corner of the entryway and, after a moment
thought, Chisa's as well.  She walked over and peered into the kitchen.

	Mrs. Kosugi was calmly measuring out more rice as her daughter bounced
around her.  Chisa dashed over, seized Michie's hand, and towed her over
to her mother.  Mrs. Kosugi greeted Michie while putting the rice on to
boil.  Michie bowed and apologized for imposing on the family.  Mrs.
Kosugi, in turn, apologized for her daughter's behavior, much to the
indignation of said daughter.  Chisa grabbed Michie by the hand and
towed her back out of the kitchen.  "Let's go to my room," she said.

	Chisa's room was pink and cozy, full of stuffed animals and an actual
four-poster bed.  Michie perched on the soft down comforter as Chisa
introduced her to the entire menagerie, one by one.  There was Sazuko,
and Hattori-san, and Usagi No Gisagu, and a huge panda named Chan-chan,
and Mizuko the furry blue dolphin, and many more, giraffes and piglets
and something Michie tentatively identified as a wombat but Chisa
referred to only as "Toshi."  Michie saw very few dolls, and those were
rag dolls, not the kind of doll-baby she used to cuddle and bathe and
nurse back to health in another life long ago. 

	Chisa finished her recital and plopped down beside Michie.  "I got a
lot of them," she said.  "I wanted to be a veterinarian someday, but I
guess I'll just be a wife.  How many animals do you have, Michie-chan?" 

	"I don't have any."  Her apartment had been furnished as if she were a
woman in her twenties.  "I don't have much in the way of toys."

	"Oh, you can have mine!"  She picked up a floppy dog, a round black
piglet, and a kangaroo with the pouch torn off, frowned at each in turn,
and discarded them.  She cast about the room, then reluctantly picked up
Chan-chan.  Her hands shook a little as she held it out to Michie. 
"Here," she said.  "He's the best one.

	Somebody had been chewing on its ears.  "I can't take your favorite
toy," protested Michie.

	"Please," said Chisa.  She thrust it at Michie again.

	Michie accepted the big panda as Chisa watched anxiously.  She hugged
it and smiled at Chisa to prove she liked the worn toy.  Chisa smiled
back.  "He's really great when you're lonely, 'cause he's always there,
and he won't laugh at you or anything.  And if you're feeling bad and
want a hug, he doesn't mind."  She looked pensively at Chan-chan, then
turned to show Michie her music collection.  

	  When dinner was ready, Michie met Chisa's brother and father.  Her
brother was about a year older than Michie and made her uncomfortable. 
He made strange jokes and laughed too hard, and he kept watching her. 
Michie tried not to react when Chisa whispered that her father was a
police inspector.  Chisa's father seemed jovial, if a bit distracted,
and Michie found herself imagining all the terrible things that must be
on his mind.

	Michie couldn't bring herself to eat naturally, so she held the bowl in
her left hand like the rest of the family and tried not to be clumsy
with the chopsticks.  She felt very self-conscious and couldn't enjoy
the food, especially with Chisa's brother staring at her.  She
concentrated on moving vegetables from platter to bowl to mouth.

	The phone rang, and she dropped one in her lap.  She shot a swift glare
at Chisa's brother, who flushed and hid his face.   Chisa's mother
answered the phone, and announced that it was for Michie.

	"Hello?"

	"Ah, Hello."  It was Sato.  "I hope you are enjoying dinner with your
new friend."

	"Yes," said Michie.  "Her father is a police inspector," she felt
compelled to add.

	"Is he now?  That's a worthy profession.  A package came for you in the
mail today."

	The room grew cold.  "I see."

	"You should look at it when you get a chance."

	"I will."  Sato rung off.

	"That was my guardian," Michie told Chisa.  It was nearly true.  "I
have to go home soon."

	"You don't have parents?"

	"No," said Michie.  "They... died.  In a fire."  

	Chisa and her parents expressed condolences while her brother choked on
a mushroom.



	The sun shone redly through a window as Michie opened the door to her
apartment.  Sato's "package," an unlabelled manila envelope, had been
placed squarely on the low glass table.  Michie placed Chan-chan in a
corner and drew the blinds.

	The package contained a photo, a map of Tokyo with tick marks clustered
in one district, a round-trip train ticket to that district, and a
note.  "3:15 PM," it said.  "Dial Tokyo 6-7071."

	The photo was sharp but badly framed, an action shot of a slight girl
in schoolgirl attire, white trimmed with red, and wearing short black
boots.  Her hair was red too, not a Caucasian red but a candy-apple or
jellybean red, and tied in a long French braid.  Her skirt was so short,
Michie noted disapprovingly, that her underthings were visible.  One
hand was flung out before her, and some black substance issued from it,
passing out of frame.  Michie turned the photo over and found a word
scrawled on the back: LICORICE.

	So.  Tomorrow she would travel to Tokyo and receive instructions on how
to kill this Licorice, this magical girl.  She stepped into the small
private bath, stood before the mirror, and made the peculiar mental
shift from Nakasone Michie to Missy Foxglove.  A purplish fog passed
before her eyes as her clothing altered against her skin.  She held the
photo up to the mirror and compared the girl to her technicolor self. 
Purple and red, black and white.  Hunter and hunted.  But the eyes of
the girl in the photo held exhilaration and wonder, and the purple eyes
in the mirror held only dread.

	Michie did not sleep well that night.



	Saturdays were half-days, with light classwork, but Michie still could
not concentrate.  The _kanji_ she had studied all week mocked her with
their meaningless shapes, or twisted themselves into likenesses of the
girl in the photo.  She stared at historical events and the dates on
which they happened and could not convince herself that there was even
such a thing as the past.  Surely it had all happened yesterday, the
Meiji Restoration and the bombing of Hiroshima and her dinner with
Chisa.  She could not even throw the ball properly; her pitches floated
unnaturally or dropped without warning.  

	Then the day was over, and she was walking home affectlessly.  She
heard a pattering of feet behind her.

	"Michie-chan!"  It was Chisa.  "Are you mad at me?  Did I do something
wrong?  I'm sorry!  I won't do it again.  What did I do?"

	"What?"

	 "You walked right by me in the hall!  I called your name, but you
wouldn't answer.  You wouldn't even look at me!"

	"It's not your fault.  I'm sorry.  Um."  Michie racked her brain for
something to tell Chisa.  "I've been kind of... preoccupied."

	"Oh.  So... you're not mad at me?"

	Michie shook her head.  "No.  Chisa-chan, I... I have to go."

	"You do?  But it's Saturday!  I thought we could hang out and... and do
stuff."

	"No, Chisa-chan.  I have to go to Tokyo.  I have errands to run."

	"Oh."  Chisa slumped dejectedly.  "But we're still friends, right?  You
don't... not like me?"

	Michie shook her head again.  "No.  I mean, that's not it.  I'm just
not in a good place in my life right now."  She bit back an urge to
giggle hysterically.  <<I'm in an evil place in my life.  I'm in my
killing-people phase.>>  "Thank you for being my friend," she blurted,
"but I have to go."  She turned and fled down the street.


	
	The train sped over a bridge and down the Shumida River toward Tokyo. 
Michie stared at the photo of Licorice, rubbing it between thumb and
forefinger.  It wouldn't be long now.  Once Michie had harbored dreams
of being a doctor, of healing with her touch.  They would call her the
girl with the magic hands... then someone had wired eight ounces of
plastique to her father's car, and everything had changed.  Michie
hadn't known what kind of work her father did, only that her parents
refused to discuss it, but when Sato had told her that her father was a
_yakuza_ member, she had felt a terrible sense of correctness, of all
the dark pieces finally fitting together.  Sato had taken her in,
trained her, taught her to kill and to obey, and given her a new,
strange name.  Foxglove.  She still couldn't say it quite right, and
didn't think of it as really meaning her.  But she wasn't really
Nakasone Michie, either.  She wasn't anybody.

	She put the photo away and looked at her watch.  Half past two,
according to Mickey.  Would she be on time?  She would have to apologize
if she were late, but they surely wouldn't ask for the finger-cutting. 
Sato wouldn't do that to her.

	Not for being late.

	If she she didn't get off, but just stayed on the train... but after
Tokyo was the sea.  She could go north or south, but there was always
the sea.  But beyond the sea, there were Singapore and Bangkok, Hong
Kong, Manila.  Honolulu.  

	<<But I have to do this,>> she thought.  <<I don't have a choice.>> 
The thought made her feel 
better, somehow.



	She arrived in plenty of time, and made the call from the train
platform.  Sato picked up on the second ring.  "Hello, Michie-chan.  Are
you ready.?"

	"I think so."

	"You sound... apprehensive."

	"No.  Yes.  I don't know.  A little."  She laughed nervously.

	"Afraid?"

	"No, I... I don't like this."

	"Why is that, Michie-chan?"

	"Well... It seems... She seems so happy."

	"Ah."  Michie pictured Sato nodding sagely, eyebrows raised slightly as
he considered the point.  "And that should matter?  If she were unhappy
or angry, would you feel differently?"

	Michie couldn't answer.  Wordless thoughts pushed at her tongue, but
she couldn't find the right shapes for them.  Sato took her silence as
acquiescence.

	"I want you to go to the central plaza of the Kodama department store. 
A child will be put in danger there.  With luck, this will bring out
Licorice.  After she has rescued the child, you are to take her out."

	"Kill her."

	"Yes."  Sensing Michie's mood, he added "it's a horrible, unpleasant
task, Michie-chan, and it's only natural that it should repulse you. 
But it is your duty to overcome these feelings and fulfill your
obligations to the Family.  Do you understand?"

	"_Hai, Ojisan_."  Yes, Uncle.  A click came over the line, then a dial
tone.



	The Kodama plaza was a carefully simulated jungle with a boat ride and
a half-scale Indonesian temple.  The temple stretched up the walls at
one corner, nearly reaching a balcony on the next floor.  Crocodiles lay
lazily on the lower steps and in a pool surrounding the base.  Skylights
ran across the slanting roof many stories above and down much of the
south wall.  Sunlight angled down from them and dusted the treetops, but
the ground level was dusky and cool.  Mist drifted through the air from
the watering system, and chirps, buzzes, clicks, and growls issued from
hidden speakers.  Michie wandered over a bridge across the blue
fiberglass trough of the boat ride and settled herself on a bench near
the fenced-off temple area.  People moved past her, disappearing and
reappearing along the paths.  Hunger prodded at her belly, but her
entire gut was knotted and sore from tension, and she didn't want to
even think about eating.

	She waited, tense, hyperalert, nerves afire.  Minutes passed like
days.  She folded her arms across her belly and doubled over, trying to
concentrate on her breathing.  In.  Out.  <<Not too fast, you'll pass
out.>>  She closed her eyes, but her ears picked up a hundred tiny
sounds, all of them nerve-wracking.  <<Better with them open.>>

	Five minutes.  Ten.  Twenty.  Forty.  A full hour crept by, second by
second, stretching endlessly.  Another five minutes.  Ten.  Faintly,
Michie began to hope nothing would happen.  Then hope turned to fear. 
She would be waiting in this hell for all eternity.  

	Twenty.  A woman's scream rang through the trees, and Michie fairly
sobbed with relief.  She scanned the paths and bushes.  There.  On the
roof of the temple lay a boy, barely a toddler.  And above him a young
mother, pale and terrified, leaned desperately over the railing.  Two
guards restrained her as she began to climb bodily over the railing and,
speaking quietly to her, escorted her away.

	An old woman clucked disapproval by Michie's ear.  "A careless woman,
to drop her child like that.  And a son, too."

	"It wasn't like that," said another voice.  "These two punks grabbed
the boy and threw him over the railing.  There was nothing she could
do."

	Michie turned.  A small crowd had gathered behind her and was gaping
shamelessly at the spectacle.   

	"This is a very dangerous situation," a man in a pin-striped suit
observed sententiously.

	"I hear this happens all the time in New York City," chattered one
woman.

	"New York City!" chorused three more.

	"SHUT UP!" cried Michie.  "Shut up, you stupid clowns!"

	The old woman cuffed her on the temple, hard.  "Don't speak to your
elders like that, you horrible little girl!"	

	"Aren't the police going to come?" asked one young man.  "Or the
security guards?  Or somebody?"

	Michie suddenly realized that no, nobody was going to come.  Either
Licorice would show up and save the boy, or the boy would eventually
fall off the temple and be devoured.  The Family did nothing by half
measures; the boy's danger was quite real.  He was the bait in the trap,
and she was the noose.

	Michie fought her way out of the crowd, elbowing viciously.  A woman
floating by in a boat turned to her companion and said "Oh, look, dear,
they're putting on a show at the ruined temple."  Michie found herself
standing on the bridge with no clear idea of where to go.  Then someone
brushed past her, and she caught a glimpse of bright red hair.  

	The crowd drew its breath as Licorice stepped off the bridge.  She
walked halfway to the fence and slowed to a stop.  Michie gripped the
railing as Licorice tilted her head, studying the roof of the temple. 
Then the girl began to run, two, three steps, and *leaped*, bounding
over the fence and the pool and the heads of the astonished crowd as if
skipping over a crack in the sidewalk.  She landed among the crocs,
stumbled slightly, then jumped easily to the rooftop as one bit at her
ankle.  She gathered the boy in her arms, turned, and leaped again,
landing just a few yards from Michie.  The crowd applauded as she set
the boy down, and she smiled and waved at it.  Michie half expected the
mother to emerge from the crowd and snatch the boy up, but she did not
appear.  Neither did the boy run off into the crowd, but simply stood
there, eyes bright and glassy.  A look of uncertainty crossed Licorice's
face, and she suddenly darted across the bridge, past Michie.

	<<No!>>  Michie spun and followed.  <<I should've...>>  Licorice turned
sharply, entering the undergrowth, and Michie plunged after her,
vegetation slapping at her face and arms.  Emerging from the other side,
Michie cast about desperately for Licorice, but saw a sea of dark heads
with no sign of red.

	But over there -- a dark-haired girl with a long French braid, walking
quickly away.  Michie slipped into the crowd and began to track her,
trying to catch a glimpse of her face.  Lights set among the trees began
to flicker on as the girl made her way over to a group of food stalls. 
The girl had slowed, and was now walking quite lesiurely, so Michie was
able to edge past her.  She pulled out the picture and compared it to
the girl, careful not to stare openly.

	Her first impression was that they were two completely different
people.  But, try as she might, she couldn't fathom what that impression
was based on.  Both girls had the same build, the same hairstyle, and
even the same strong jawline.  She cast her mind back to Licorice's
rescue of the child, but found her memories strangely imprecise.  She
could remember the hair color and the costume, but nothing about the
face.  Baffled, she circled the area as the girl bought some
_Yakitori._,   <<Maybe that's why no one's ever traced one of these
girls.  Maybe the magic hides them.>>  She looked at the photo again. 
<<It resembles her.  It really does.  But I can't be sure.>>

	She put the photo away.  <<Anyway, I can't do it here.  Too crowded. 
I'll have to wait 'till she's alone.>>



	Tracking the girl was so like a game that Michie found herself enjoying
it.  Staying behind or to one side as the girl moved from shop to shop,
moving ahead when she dawdled or browsed, or watching the girl's
reflection in glass merchandise cases, Michie found the knot in her
belly easing as she immersed herself in the pursuit.  Sato had taught
her this skill personally, and she had excelled at it, following
randomly chosen people through crowded Tokyo streets for an hour or
more.  Then he would put a fatherly hand on her shoulder, and smile
approvingly, and say "you did well, Michie-chan."  She smiled at the
memories.

	 The girl had stopped and was talking to a tall boy in a brown leather
jacket.  Michie moved closer.

	"It was the one with hair like yours, you know, the red one?" said the
boy.  Michie spotted a water fountain behind the two and ducked past
them, heading for it. 

	"Oh... really?" said the girl vaguely.  "What was her name again?"

	"Licorice," said the boy, sounding amused.  "Her name is Licorice,
Mariko-chan."  Michie's stomach clenched as the cold water trickled into
it.  She braced herself against the fountain, head spinning.  The girl
said something, but she couldn't quite grasp it.  She put her head down
and took a few deep breaths.

	"Are you all right?"  The voice was close to her ear.

	The girl was leaning over her, peering at her with concern.  Michie
straightened uncertainly and turned.  The boy was a few feet away,
watching the two of them.  He was handsome.  Michie gave him a tentative
smile, which faded as her stomach twitched again.

	"You look sick," the girl continued.  "Do you feel like throwing up?"

	The boy shifted uncomfortably.  "Look I -- I have to go.  My shift is
starting."  He turned and jogged away.

	The girl gaped at him as he went.  "Oh!"  she said indignantly.  "Just
like a *man*!  As soon as things get messy, they just clear off."

	"Is he your boyfriend?"

	"No."  The girl smiled ruefully.  "He's cute though, isn't he?  I think
I could put up with him."

	Michie nodded, then grimaced. "Is there anything I can do?" the girl
asked.

	"Can you--"  Michie felt horribly vile as she prepared her next words. 
"Can we get away from this crowd?"



	Stars were appearing in the purple sky as the girl led Michie out of
the building.  They stood on a concrete bridge leading over a busy,
narrow street to a modern parking structure.  A light wind blew, a
trifle too cold for Michie's comfort, but she opened her mouth and
inhaled it anyway.  It helped.  The girl sat on the concrete railing and
looked off into the metropolitan crazy quilt of Greater Tokyo.

	"Are you a magic girl?" asked Michie awkwardly.

	The girl seemed not to hear.  Michie was about to repeat the question
when the girl said "Why?"

	"I saw the boy," said Michie.  "The one on the temple roof.  I've never
seen anyone jump like that.  And I... I thought I recognized you,
later.  Because of the hair.  But I couldn't be sure and I... I don't
know."

	"I remember you," said the girl.  "You were standing on the bridge.  I
bumped you as I went past.  Have you been following me?"

	Michie nodded mutely.  The girl grimaced.  "I suppose it doesn't
matter.  Strange how no one's worked it out before.  They always say I
look like her."  She turned and looked back out over the city.

	<<So it is her.  It's her, and it's time, and this is the perfect place
for it.  I can't put it off anymore.>>

	<<Do it.>>

	<<Do it now.>>

	She pulled the mist up and shifted, stepping towards the girl's back. 
She put her right hand on the girl's shoulder and reached around with
her with her left, sending her power up beneath the girl's breasts and
into her heart.  The girl stiffened and turned her head, looking at
Michie with eyes filled with shock and uncomprehending pain.  

	"I'm sorry," whispered Michie.

	Then the girl fell backwards over the railing.  Michie shrieked and
snatched at the girl's leg as she went, but only succeeded in tearing a
patch of fabric from her skirt.  A bus roared out from under the bridge,
striking the girl's body as it fell.  There was a dull crunch, and the
body emerged tumbling from behind the bus and settled, torn and broken,
face down in a smear of blood.  Michie gripped the railing, sucking in
the darkening air.  Headlights moved over the body.  Traffic stopped,
and people gathered around like ants.  Michie turned and walked stiffly
toward the parking garage.

	<<Oh, it's over and gone and I've done and killed her and there's no
way back now.  No way back.  And she fell and she broke and she bled and
I did it.  I don't even know why she died and I did it to her.>>  The
air was too thick to breathe, and Michie gasped and panted as she
walked.  <<I didn't want to make her bleed.>>  She stumbled and caught
herself against the railing.  Her head buzzed and her hands and legs
tingled.  <<I don't want to be me anymore.>>  She took another step and
her legs collapsed, sending her sliding to the cold concrete,
unconscious.



	It couldn't have been more than a minute until she awakened.  She
rolled onto her back, realizing she had reverted to her normal form. 
She climbed clumsily to her feet, wiping away bits of gravel that clung
to her cheek.  The wail of sirens floated up from the street below.  A
strange heady feeling engulfed her, and she felt reborn, as if she had
passed through some dark underworld and emerged from a crack in the
earth to stand wide-eyed in the cool night.  

	But the feeling faded as she made her way back to the train station,
leaving her tired and heartsick.



	Sato was waiting in the apartment when she got back, sitting by the
glass table.  "You did well," he said, light glinting off the lenses of
his glasses.  "We're all very proud of you."

	Michie stared at him and burst into loud, racking sobs.  She buried her
face in her hands.  Sato scrambled to his feet and took her in his arms,
pressing her face to his chest.  "It's okay," he said.  "I know.  It's
hard.   It's a hard thing."

	Michie raised her head.  "I liked her.  I really liked her.  She was
nice.  Why did she have to die?  Why did I have to do it?"

	Sato took her over to the table and they settled down on some
cushions.  He cradled her against his chest as she cried.  "It was
necessary," he said.  "She was interfering.  We can't have people
interfering with us."  He paused, thinking.  "When I was a little boy on
the farm -- did you know I grew up on a farm?  A little farm on
Hokkaido.  Anyway, one year my father decided to raise rabbits, and I
was given the job of taking care of the rabbits.  Every day, after
dinner, I went out to the hutch to feed them and clean their cages.  I
gave them names, and played with them, and saved bits of food from the
table to give them."

	"Then, one day, it came time to slaughter the rabbits.  My father asked
me to help him, but when the first rabbit lay on the chopping block, I
quailed and ran.  I hid behind the house and cried as my father killed
them, one by one."

	"My father told me not to be ashamed," continued Sato.  "It meant that
I had a kind heart -- just as you have a kind heart, Michie.  But he
said I had to have a strong heart, too, because only a strong heart
could do the things that needed to be done.  What you did today needed
to be done.  I know it hurt you to do it, but you did do it, and I think
you will find you have a strong heart, too."

	"No," moaned Michie.  "I don't want to have a strong heart.  I don't I
don't I don't.  Please don't make me do it again.  Please, _Ojisan._ "

	"Now, Michie-chan," said Sato.  "It's late, and I think it's time you
went to sleep."  He got up and lay out Michie's sleeping mat and
comforter and placed her gently onto the mat.  He removed her shoes,
tucked the comforter around her, and slipped Chan-chan into her arms. 
"Good night," he said.  "Tomorrow is Sunday, so try to rest as much as
you can.  I'll be by to see how you're doing."  He kissed her on the
temple, then turned out the lights.  Michie heard the door open and
close and the lock click.

	She lay there in the dark for a long time, clutching Chan-chan and
weeping quietly.  Eventually, she slept.


*   *   *

	Between the acting of a dreadful thing
	And the first motion, all the interim is
	Like a phantasma or a hideous dream:
	The Genius and the mortal instruments
	Are then in council; and the state of man,
	Like to a little kingdom, suffers then
	The nature of an insurrection.
				-- _Julius Caesar_


Notice:
MISSY FOXGLOVE #1 copyright 1997 David Homerick
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