The night air was cool and crisp, and Marron dug her hands into the pockets of her jacket as she and Sora ambled down Lower Main Avenue.

It was a friday evening, and the streets were swarming with people of every shape and color, from prim and proper families to the very dregs of Humanity. These were peak business hours for bars, nightclubs, and the other more X-rated establishments that spread along Down Town's concrete like wildfire, in a rainbow of screaming neons and flashing billboards.

Instinctively bringing the back of her hand to her mouth, Marron stifled a cough, then another. In the old times, she would have believed herself the victim of a seasonal cold or flu, but she knew better than to delude herself on the nature of her symptoms. Spells of fever, dizziness and unexplainable fatigue were only the precursive signs of the Caste's debilitating disease. From this point on, a general weakening of the senses would occur, followed by a gradual atrophy of the muscles and a numbing of the nervous system, and finally...

No, she wouldn't think of this now. In a few weeks it would no longer matter anyway.

*Tis the time to be jolly...* the young woman told herself, not without some sense of irony, as she eyed the arches of electrically lit stars above her head, and the rest of the recently installed Christmas paraphernalia.

And as always, it was the people that fascinated her. They scurried by from all directions, talking, laughing even, and Marron couldn't help but wonder. Were they all walking in blithe ignorance of the fate that awaited them? Looking at them you'd think they didn't even remember the terrible events that had occured in the wake of the Caste's arrival, as if the five years gap had magically thrown a shroud of sweet oblivion over their eyes and memories.

Once the magnetic curtain of iron fell around the city, it had been easy to forget. The slaughters? Just an overexaggerated casualty that would never repeat itself, or so the authorities said. The deportations into Satan City? A measure of security, designed to protect the citizens of the world until further notice, or so the authorities said. Protection against what? The dangers and evils that lurked outside the city walls, or so the authorities said. And thus, the fact that there was no way out of town -and no way in for that matter- had been readily accepted.

To make matters worse, social inequalities had never quite been so glaring: the small group of elite citizens resided in grand, staggeringly luxurious dwellings in the upper levels, while the rest had to content themselves with whatever their meager wages could afford. The average "lower" level apartment covered a rather uncomfortable 400 square feet per family of four, and some areas were located so far below daylight never reached them... Still, people had settled into this polluted, grey skied existence, almost without protesting, almost without asking questions. In their little minds, there was not a doubt that life would go on. Hindered at most, but that was good enough.

When one stopped to think about it long enough, it appeared Satan City was a prison, but a prison full of volunteers! It had been all too easy indeed.

Mister Satan's warnings of danger and calls to freedom had all too quickly been discarded by the public eye in favor of Quentin Parsimon's histrionic sermons and fallacious promises. But that had only been at the beginning. The two men's heated political rivalry soon came to an end, when the old champion was found mysteriously dead in his room one morning... Even then, his beloved city didn't take notice, for it was already too busy worshipping the rantings of a power hungry and manipulative senator, and thanking the invisible Gods that had graced the Earth with their presence. Or rather, their rampant Nashr'tali pestilence.

Humans could be so gullible, Marron was sometimes ashamed to be one.

But here came the inescapable reality check, whether anybody liked it or not: life would most definitely NOT go on. The clock was done ticking..!

In less than three weeks, the chilling prophecy would be fulfilled. The prophecy that would finally send the Nashr'tali Caste to the extinct species list... And horribly enough, the Human race as well. Of the ten million people who inhabited Satan City, no one would live to see the New Year's day of  796. No one would even make it past Christmas day...

No one... except for  *this* one, who presently stood staring into a gift shop window, his face closely pressed against the glass, so innocent and unsuspecting of the terrible mission he would soon be called to accomplish.

Marron felt her heart tighten as Sora turned to look at her, his face awash with childish wonder.

"Neechan," he called her, "mite, mite! I think you're gonna like this one."

Sweet Kami, time had gone by so quickly.

"What is it, Sora-chan?" she willed herself to respond, smiling.

Marron's mind suddenly twirled fast backwards into the past. It had been a cold Christmas morning, almost five years before, and in her arms Chichi-san had placed a baby. The young woman had loved him from the moment she'd gazed into his adorable infant face, and those tantalizing blue eyes that had already seemed to see through her...

"The paper press of your dreams," he said.

...Next, Marron pictured a mischievous and endearing little boy. An inhumanly precocious little boy, who had already started tinkering with complex mechanics and computers, and taken to reading through entire volumes of abstruse mathematical theories...

"It's gonna be a nice addition to your collection," Sora continued.

...And there she was, walking up to a black leather clad young man, who not so long ago had taken to piercing his ears and other unnamed parts of his body. Oh, and wearing near black lipstick and smoky eyeshadow, that somehow managed to look amazingly good on him. Sora was the kind of guy she would have gone out with as a teenager, had she only wanted to send her father into cardiac arrest.

Marron started in recognition as she looked over at the object the boy was showing her. Could he have made the connection? He seemed genuinely unaware of the coincidence. Maybe his subconscious was already sending him messages about his mission... Who knew?

The paper press in question was a small, but exquisitely crafted sphere, cut flat at the base. Embedded in the glass were tiny silvery snowflakes, and right in the middle floated the white winged figure of an angel. Black haired, blue eyed, like...

There was a light pull on her wrist, and Marron found Sora's tail wrapped around it as he practically yanked her from the window to the shop's door.

"Sora-chan, what are you doing?"
 
"Getting you a present," the boy chirruped happily.

Tiny bells jingled as the door was pushed open, and the shop keeper -a small, dry shell of a woman- immediately looked up from the counter.

"'Evenin' ma'am," Sora greeted her with a jaunty nod. "I'd like to take a look at that paper press you got on display over there, please."

Marron smothered a laugh against her fingers. Sora was in total seductive mode, eyes twinkling and a debonair grin pasted all over his face. But for once, his shameless display of charm failed to please.

"It costs a lot of money, young man," the old lady said tartly, her hawkish eyes narrowing in suspicion as she took in every detail of his appearance that screamed "HOODLUM!!!".

Undeterred by the shop keeper's attitude, Sora leaned closer over the counter, his mouth curving into a smile:

"Good. I so happen to have a lot of money. Now... if you'll oblige me?"

"I can't believe you bought this for me!" Marron said as she trotted fast after Sora, in an attempt to keep up with his long legged strides.

"You don't like it, Neechan?"

" I do, I do..., " the blonde honestly assured him, "but... " she pulled him down to her so she wouldn't have to yell over the crowd's noise, "how on Earth did you ever come by so much money?"
 
Sora came to an abrupt halt. "Neechan, are you implying that I stole it?" The boy arched a haughty eyebrow, and for a long time silently stared down at her until Marron found herself stammering out an answer, mortified that she should have made such a pride offending assumption.

"Of course not!"

"Well... I didn't this time," Sora conceded, the impish undercurrent returning to his voice. "I wanted to do something... What's the word Yamucha-san uses again? Ah, righteous. I worked to get paid...for once."

"Oh...You!!" Marron hit his shoulder, thoroughly embarrassed by his deception. He patiently let her vent out on him, her little fists causing nothing more than an agreeable tingling sensation on his skin. "So...what did you do anyway?" she asked, curiosity finally getting the better of her. "Work as a paper boy?"

"Hell no! I got better things to do with my spare time! Would have taken me forever deliverin' newspapers anyway, and for what? Five zeni an hour? Puleease. Nobody reads the paper anyway, they all got the net! Even that bum who lives in the trashcan in our back alley's got a laptop, can ya believe it?"

"Do you mind getting to the point?" Marron interrupted his babbling.

"I stripped," Sora replied simply. "I guess it runs in the family."

There was a dead silence as Marron slowly digested the information and recovered from shock.

"With your clothes off?" she asked weakly.

"Gee, no, with one of  'em really baggy pants and an extra-large flannel shirt buttoned up to my neck," Sora said sarcastically. "Yeah, I went to this really weird club on the other side o' town and I got naked for three nights in a row... Instant cash. Dude begged me to stay for a fourth night, with doubled fees and all, but havin' a bunch of pervs ogling at me ain't really my cuppa, so I bailed..." Sora shrugged. "The things I do for you, Neechan. But don't say a word to Chichi, or she'll have a fit. It's bad enough with my mom dancin' at the Lounge and all."

"Don't worry. I'll just tell my dad. He'll lock me up for the rest of my life and forbid me to ever see you again."

Sora made a theatrical gesture. "And may I add how deeply sorry I am for polluting your young, innocent mind, Neechan."

The young woman started laughing. Five year old indeed.

The Lounge's entrance, a small, measly looking door, stood in retreat at the bottom of a little flight of stairs. It was, Heaven forbid, the owner's very original idea of a class joint's low-key, discreet but elegant gateway to a world of refined pleasures, or whatever that really meant.

Sora executed a series of intricate knocks, and a little trap panel slid open at the spyhole level of the door. Rolling his eyes, he recited on a quick, low tone: "I come forth for the initiation. May I bathe in the light of knowledge...blah blah blah, whatever whatever..."

"Don't push your luck. Next time you say all the words, monkeyboy," growled the bouncer's voice as the trap panel slid shut. The door then opened onto a dark, narrow corridor, from whence one could already hear the low drum of music and faintly smell the scent of jasmine and incense.

"Who does Giovanni think he is anyway?" Sora whispered to Marron as they stepped inside. "Grand Master of the Free Masons or something?"

Whether or not the Lounge's interior lacked taste was not the question. All that mattered was that it was a world of wondrous, opulent luxury, designed to take one's mind away from the trials and worries of everyday life. And in the eyes of Giovanni, the self proclaimed "Grand Master" of the premises, the House was nicely getting along. There were many distinguished -money loaded- patrons tonight, among the usual crowd of regulars, the few perverts who only came here for one thing, and the more varied assortment of underground youths who wanted to be seen hanging out in a select, fashionable place other than big night clubs. All was good.

Guests and scantily dressed hosts and hostesses moved through forests of high columns, arches and cascades of heavy, intricately knitted lamé draperies. The coffered ceiling, riding low at the tables and booths' area, gently raised itself until it reached a high dome at the center stage and the dancefloor. Luxuriant plants -extremely rare and thus expensive in Satan City- grew directly from the ground, and some out of carved marble hedges that were strategically placed between dimly lit booths, for a more intimate look. The general lighting itself was subdued and sheer veils came floating down from the ceiling, contributing to the place's sultry, orientalish atmosphere.

Giovanni was in the middle of surveying his small empire when his scrutinizing eyes fell on a familiar face. A beautiful face to be honest, framed by a wild mane of black hair, and towering over most heads in the entrance hall.

A sigh escaped the man's lips. Sure, this one was a nice addition to the fauna around here, but...

"Hey, Sora-chan!" Giovanni finally decided to call out.

Marron elbowed Sora. "Talk about the devil."

"Hey, hey, kids," Giovanni repeated jovially as he approached the two of them. "How are ya? Hey, Marron-chan!" He let out a low, admirative whistle. "Baby, take a look at you! Drop that waitressin' at that stuck-up place uptown and come work for me!"

Marron grinned. "Thanks, but I don't think my father would approve," she said coyly.

"Like he ever approves of anything..." Sora chuckled, before Marron swatted his thigh.

"So," Giovanni said in a lower voice, wrapping an arm around Sora's waist (Giovanni was too short to reach Sora's shoulders), "No trouble tonight, OK kid? Think of your poor old Giovanni who's got a business to run. That means no beatin' up on the clients..."

Marron made a face.

"...and no throwing them out the front door," Giovanni finished.

"If you're talking about last time," Sora argued, "it was the guy's own damn fault. He shouldn't have grabbed my Mom."

Giovanni nodded wearily. "I know, I know kid. But that's what we got bouncers for. Ya know, you let Big Mo take care of it and you just relax and watch. You don't have to be a hero all the time. Besides, your Mama's a big girl. She can defend herself."

Giovanni had a point. She could certainly defend herself... against people. But for the life of her, Sora's "Mama" was absolutely helpless against lipstick. Yes, lipstick. That was something she'd never get used to, along with make-up, bras, stilettos, and the other more sophisticated instruments of torture many females of the Human species had to endure in order to please the opposite sex.. And needless to say, such drawbacks were never good where a professional exotic dancer was concerned.

Ooh, it wasn't being a woman that bothered her, far from it. Her strength, although restrained and confined in this city, had not diminished. Her friends -whatever remained of them- treated her the same. Chichi loved her as if nothing had changed. Having Sora had been by far one of the most wonderful, emotionally fulfilling experiences of a lifetime. Even the occasional "time of the month" didn't constitute so much as a trifle.

But this..!

With a mild look of annoyance, she fiddled with the unsufferable little tube of rouge. When she'd first started out on the job, she'd broken about half a dozen sticks a night, until Sora had painstakingly showed her how to efficiently apply lipstick. It was funny to think that her son had a better hand with all these things than she ever would. But that was the wonderful thing with Sora: he had a better hand than most people at just about everything.

"Wow!" a shrill voice exclaimed behind her. "How do you make that thing move like that? Is it, like, real?!?"

Kara slowly turned from the mirror to look at the new girl, a bouncy blonde with fake eyelashes and a surgically chopped down nose, who was presently examining her tail with great interest.

"Maybe," Kara breathed, as Giovanni's voice called out at her from backstage: "Kara! Time's runnin' out! You're up in a minute!"

Lights.

Music.

Silence, as the audience, almost in unison, reverently ceased all conversation and turned to watch their favorite dancer flow onto the stage, a lean, superb creature that was all combined grace and strength, lustrous pale skin and black satin. They paid little attention to the fact that she was barefoot at the beginning of her number, or to the fact that she had no make up on. It was the sheer beauty of her form that mesmerized them; the instinctive sensuality of her every gesture as one by one, she undid each button of her tight fitting blouse and skillfully let it slip down her back onto her tail...

To Kara, it didn't matter that she was practically wearing nothing, and that the whole point of her dance was to end up with nothing on. It didn't matter that she wasn't exactly dancing the way some particular customers preferred,  the way Giovanni had himself preferred at first. If anyobody wanted a lace clad sex kitten, there were several other girls in the club who could play the role to perfection- and with a straight face.

Kara was just being herself, and luckily, she'd been extremely well received by the public. It was no secret that many came to the Lounge just to admire the "beautiful woman with a tail", as one inspired artist once told Giovanni.

That same artist recently opened, in one of Down Town's most famous galleries, an exhibit where all the showcased pieces were charcoal drawings of Kara-- mostly in the nude.

Giovanni had never looked so proud.

Chichi had been pleased, surprisingly enough.

Yamucha had seemed rather interested, as much as the robe on his back would allow him to be (which was probably already too much by any religious standards).

Eighteen had breezed through the exhibit, impassible as ever, occasionally pausing to criticize the artist's inability to accurately render certain details.

Sora and Marron, equal to themselves as well, had fluttered excitedly from one room to another.

Kuririn never made it to the exhibit. He'd promptly fainted at the gallery's entrance.

"Orange/strawberry punch for you two cuties," the young barman purred as he set the trail down on the table. "Of all clients, you're the only people who ever order non-alcoholic drinks! If it weren't for you and him being so adorable, I'd be embarrassed bringing 'em here myself!"

"Thanks, Yoshiki-san," Marron grinned, as she watched him desperately try to get Sora's attention. But the boy's eyes and mind were firmly glued on the stage where his mother performed, to the point where he wouldn't have noticed even if the ceiling came crashing down on the people of the next table.

"Ya know, if it were my mother up there, I'd be hiding in the bathroom. Better yet, I'd quit my job here and take up meat packaging!" Yoshiki commented, slightly miffed by Sora's indifference. "Watchin' your own mother strip, now that's kinky. Boy, you oughta get a girlfriend or something. Or a boyfriend, maybe."

"Like you, maybe?" Sora suggested without averting his eyes from the stage.

"Well..."

Sora finally turned around and gently smiled at the other young man, causing the latter to blush to the roots of his hair. "You're sweet, but you're not my type," Sora said softly.

"What's your type then?"

"I don't know, Yoshi. I just don't know," Sora replied absentmindedly, as the thundering sound of cheers and applause rose in the air. "Haven't met the person yet."

"Kara...," Giovanni began, looping his chubby arm through hers. "I know this is gonna sound weird at first, but I'd like you to do a private dance for the people in..."

"But," the woman protested, "you know I don't do__"

"I know, I know," he assured her. "But hear me out. These people just came in for ya, and well, believe me, I don't think they want any of that from you."

Kara gave him a questioning look. "Just go," he urged her, patting her back, "and while you're at it take the rest of the night off. You deserve it, kid."

The Saiyajin cautiously stepped into the small, velvet festooned room. A slow smile bloomed on her face, as she recognized the four people who had squeezed themselves on the little bench against the far wall.

"Kara-sa." Chichi simply said, returning her smile.

"That man," Yamucha commented in reference to the Lounge's owner, " has a soft spot for you."

"That's a pretty cool job you got, you know that? I'd be working here too, but he just won't let me," Eighteen said, pointing to her husband.

"Aa... E..to, hi!" Kuririn sputtered between two hesitant waves. "Long time no see..."

"If you consider a week a long time," Yamucha retorted, barely suppressing a snicker.

Kuririn muttered something incoherent.

"Kara," the priest said, his seriousness returning. "We gotta unwrap it all tonight. Your ex came to see me this morning."
 

She used to resent anybody who called her by her Saiyajin name. She'd always rejected it as a personal insult, except, of course, when Vejita had been the person using it.

The latter's death changed everything overnight. Suddenly she didn't want to be Son Goku any longer, she wanted to be Kakarotto, and she'd insisted that all around her respect that one wish.Whether she was striken by guilt and remorse, or had finally come to terms with her past, nobody would ever know. It was a secret she would take with her to the grave, along with the events of that stormy summer night when Sora had been conceived.

She hadn't considerably changed, emotionally speaking. Her physical appearance set aside, her personality had remained fairly much the same, her exuberance and her immense appetite for life intact. Yet... there were times when one would catch her with that far off look into her eyes, a look that held all the sadness in the world, and seemed older that any had a right to be.

Just like now, Yamucha thought, as he watched her walking side by side with him. Out of a common accord, the group had decided to take a walk back home, as if to delay the inevitable moment when he would have to *talk* to Sora. The latter was happily sauntering ahead of everyone, giving Marron a piggy back ride, while the young woman's parents slowly trailed behind, their hands tightly clasped together. As for Yamucha, he didn't dare disturb Kara. Not yet. The Saiyajin woman was carrying Chichi, cradling her frail body with infinite care and tenderness. From time to time, Kara would deposit a soft kiss on the deathly pale, burning forehead, her expression unreadable...

Poor Chichi.

She'd been hanging on to life for two whole years since the first symptoms appeared in her, and she'd never once complained. She suffered bravely, in silence, even as her legs had given out, no longer allowing her to walk, even as her eyes had weakened to the point of near blindness.

She was rarely ever left alone. During the day, Eighteen would keep her company when Kara was off working at the construction site; Marron and Sora would take the afternoon and evening relays. But of all people, it was really Kara who had rearranged her life around Chichi.

If Goku had been clueless where finances were concerned, his female alter-ego had grown obsessed with money, but only for one very specific purpose: Chichi's comfort and well being. And that meant a warm home during the winter, equipped with every possible facility, and most importantly, medicine. It couldn't heal her, but at least it could soothe her. To this effect, Kara was spending fortunes on pain killers and natural herbs, sometimes up to 7000 zeni a week, which was more than Kuririn made in an entire month.

That's how things went in Satan City, much to the little man's dismay and outrage at its rotten social system. No one ever went very far on a small entrepreneur's salary, or a construction worker's for that matter. Unless one had it all delivered on a silver platter like those who lived uptown, the only activities that guaranteed any significant income were terrorism, hacking (which had become a substitute for the word terrorism of late), dealing drugs, running bars or nightclubs and of course, prostitution. Compared to some of the other options, stripping almost seemed like a decent, reasonable way to make a living.

"Don't tell me!" Sora made a move to cover his ears. He pointed his index finger at Yamucha. "You may act like the holies of holies right now, but you really are a mean, ruthless desert bandit. And, wait! Waaait. Your turn, Eighteen-san. You may look Human, but you really are some kinda super robot created by this mad scientist to destroy the world!"

Sora smugly slid down onto the carpet into the lotus position, his chest bubbling with laughter as he watched the set of bewildered faces around him.

"You gotta admit," Kuririn leaned over to Yamucha, "the boy may have no idea what he's talking about, he may be off by a few years, but he sure has a lot of imagination."

Yamucha didn't reply, but his expression grew noticeably darker. "Sora," he said stonily, "I am not joking!"
 
Startled by the priest's tone, the boy remained very still for an instant, as his hilarity gradually died down.

"Ok..." Sora said carefully. "I'm all ears."

"It's true," Yamucha stated for the second time, "there is a prophecy that says you were born to save the Human race."

"Save the Human race?" Sora repeated incredulously. "That's all?!? Any particular reason why you only choose to tell this to me now, instead of... a little sooner, maybe? You know, like, prepare the Chosen One for his calling, that sort of thing..."

"It was a-a conscious and deliberate decision on our part," Yamucha explained, somewhat relieved to see that the boy was taking it rather well--for the moment. "Nobody's supposed to know what you really are, that's an imperative. Should anyone else outside of our circle discover this..."The priest paused and furtively glanced around, almost as if he feared the walls would betray their secret. "You have to understand, there is just too much at stake. But now it's time and___"

"Hold a sec," Sora sharply interrupted him. "You're going at it like it's so obvious I should know about all this cabalistic stuff, but I don't! What are we talking about here? Full blown apocalypse due tomorrow morning or something?"

Yamucha winced. "Not exactly... More around the time of your birthday. And you do. Happen to have a dormant instinct, that is,  a... an innate, thorough knowledge of your mission. We'll just have to find a way to awaken it..."

Sora fell into shocked silence, his fingers nervously fiddling with one of his shirt's loose threads. He helplessly looked over to his mother, in an instinctive search for guidance and reassurance.

Kara simply nodded.

"Sora," Yamucha continued with some difficulty. "You're not like other children -you've never been- and it's not only because you're half Saiyajin. You probably noticed that you grow differently, that you...feel different. You can feel things like none of us can. You can think like none of us can... You're going to survive. Look at us, we're all dying of a virus, even your mother, and you've never even sneezed once in your whole life. Didn't that ever make you wonder?"

Sora gasped. As soft spoken as they were, the priest's words hit him with an unbearable realization.

"There's gotta be a cure," he countered stubbornly.

"...No," Yamucha shook his head. " There isn't any cure against the Nashr'tali virus."

"Nashr'tali..?" the boy echoed tonelessly.

"The Caste," Yamucha explained, "the gods, the top floor people you so often hear about but never see. They're as real as you and I."

The world seemed to spin faster all of a sudden, and Sora closed his eyes. "Did their leader really kill off billions of people, like Chikouri-san says?" he asked. "Did he..?"

Yamucha's throat ran dry. "That's... only a-a... one-sided version of the truth," he said awkwardly, mentally cussing out the crazy ex chief engineer of Capsule Corporation for aggravating the situation with his drunkard's ravings.

"Did he?" the boy insisted.

"He had to do what he did for a ve- very crucial reason..."

"Ain't no reason justifying mass murder," Sora spat coldly.

"He had to do it so the Caste wouldn't suspect him of anything." Yamucha forced his voice to stay even. "So he could distract them, cover up for us. For you."

Sora blinked, not understanding.

"Sora," Yamucha said again, his voice finally breaking, "the leader of the Nashr'tali Caste is your father!"
 

Like a madman he flew at full speed through traffic, against the flow of thousands of aircars. He could feel the sharp jolts of energy pulsing down his spine, the prickling sensation on his scalp as his hair stiffened, the golden aura developing around him. He hadn't been able to take it any longer after Yamucha's last revelation. He'd stormed out of his mother's appartment, so he wouldn't have to burst right in front of them.

Had they actually expected to drop this bombshell on him three weeks before the end of the world, and have him deal and get over with it?

He had grown horrified with each of the calamities that went past the priest's lips--and angry. He was furious with all of them for keeping him in the dark for so long, for placing such unreasonable high hopes on him.

But it was his mother he resented the most. The most frightening doubts had arised in his mind when he'd realized that his birth had been all but accidental. Had Kara ever loved him because he was her dear, only child? Or had she just planned him, and played along for five years? Every safe landmark he'd ever set in his young life had been thrown off the charts, leaving him with nothing but confusion. His father wasn't some happy deadbeat who'd left her after a one night stand as he'd always believed, but a Nashr'tali.

And their leader, no less.

Not to mention the monster who was responsible for all this.

A desperate sense of childish denial in him still begged for the nightmare to end.

For one last time, Zusa made sure every door and window in the apartment was well secured for the night. Robberies had increased of late in the neighborhood: it was the season when both hearts and wallets seemed emptier than usual.

As she turned off the lights in the working lab and headed for her room, her eyes fell on a figure sitting on the floor, huddled at the end of the narrow hallway.

"Sora..?" She started, completely dumbfounded. *How did he...? How could he?!?*  *Oh...never mind*, she mentally scoffed at her disbelief. She should have expected the boy to be fully capable of overriding the most carefully devised of her alarm systems.

"Can I just crash here for tonight?"

The query was soft, full of uncertainty. Zusa was momentarily out of words as she took in the look of sheer distress on his face. "Sora, what__"

"Yo mama kickin' you out, freak?" Chikouri rudely interrupted her as he peaked out of his room, clenching a bottle by the neck in his right hand. He was rewarded by one of  Zusa's reproving glares.

"Here," Zusa gently said as she put a comforting hand on Sora's shoulder."Take my room for tonight, ok?"

"But..." Sora weakly protested.

"No buts. I like my couch anyway."

With a snort, Chikouri went back to his room, slamming the door behind him. Ignoring the obnoxious behavior of her gruffy companion, she led the boy to her room, picked a pillow and a blanket for herself and went to settle on the couch.

For the longest time that night Sora stared at the ceiling, incapable to shut his mind off to sleep. Not a single coherent thought formed in his mind; he felt like he was drowning, and no helping hand was in sight.

Then he heard it. A creaking noise, outside in the hallway. Carefully sitting up, he made his way to the door he'd left slightly ajar. In silence he levitated towards the noise, until he found himself peaking into the living room.

Chikouri was leaning over the couch where Zusa had peacefully fallen asleep, and he was readjusting the covers that had fallen off her shoulders. And, gently, very gently, he traced a line along her cheek, his fingertips lightly brushing her skin. He watched her sleep for a long time, until some preternatural sense suddenly made him look in Sora's direction.

But the boy had slunk back into his bed at lightening speed, and was already falling into a deep slumber.

Something was wrong with him.

He was boiling inside, not with anger, or even fever, but with an uncanny new awareness of himself, from the nervous flicker of his tail to the very last cell at the tip of his nose... If he didn't know any better, he'd think his DNA was changing!

Or rather, evolving at an alarming pace.

*Freakin' weird...* he thought as he got to his feet, and walked towards the bathroom.

The little window's shades were still shut, but a flimsy ray of morning light streamed its way inside through the creaks. Leaning over the sink, Sora turned the cold water on, and briskly splashed water over his face, until he was sure he'd washed away the remnants of last night's make-up. He lifted his head up and peered at his reflection in the crackled mirror. People were right. He was the spit image of his mother.

But those eyes!

*My eyes...* Sora swallowed, as he got closer yet to the mirror, hoping his senses were only deceiving him.

His hand groped for the light switch on the wall, and when the overhead bulb finally illuminated the bathroom with harsh yellow light, the boy was staring at his reflection with morbid fascination.

"Oh God..." he whispered tonelessly.

There, right there in the mirror was his face, staring back at him through the brilliant aqua blue pools of two pupilless eyes.