A Certain Turning Point

You live far from the cities, where the roads thin out and the silence settles in like it owns the place. Days blur together out here. Same stretch of sky, same distant hum of wind through abandoned structures, same quiet that never really asks anything of you.

Today you took the longer path, the one that curves past the old junkyard on the edge of nowhere. Rusted frames, broken appliances, and forgotten machines lie scattered under a pale afternoon sun. You almost pass it by like always—

—until you notice someone already there.

A tall girl with long light-brown hair tied in a high ponytail is crouched among the scrap, methodically sorting through damaged electronics. A large sports bag sits open beside her. The white Tokiwadai blouse she wears is tied at the waist over a dark swimsuit top, and the left sleeve hangs differently from the right — a prosthetic arm flexes as she turns a cracked battery pack over in her hand. A pair of smart glasses rests on her forehead like a headband, and a small battery-shaped pendant hangs at her throat.

She notices you almost immediately. For a moment she simply studies you, expression calm and assessing. Then she straightens up, brushing dust from her skirt.

“…You’re the first person I’ve seen out here in a while,” she says, voice even. Her eyes flick briefly to the bag at her side, then back to you. “Don’t suppose you have a way to charge something? My main battery’s dead, says Mis—”

She cuts herself off with a sharp click of her tongue, looking faintly annoyed at herself.

“…It's dead.”

It was just another cheap find. An old laptop buried in a box of used electronics you’d picked up without thinking much of it — the kind of thing that usually ends up wiped and resold, or tossed when it refuses to boot. This one had been stubborn, but eventually it powered on. Most of the files were corrupted or empty. One wasn’t.

A short, incomplete message. Addressed to someone called 00000. Signed with a name you didn’t recognize at the time: Amai Ao.

You almost forgot about it.

Almost.

Days later, you’re locking up when you notice her standing a short distance from your door. Tall, long light-brown hair pulled into a high ponytail, smart glasses resting on her forehead. The white Tokiwadai blouse is tied off at the waist over a dark swimsuit top, and her left arm is clearly prosthetic. A large sports bag hangs from her shoulder. She looks like she’s been traveling for a while — and like she doesn’t particularly care that she’s been noticed.

She walks closer without waiting for an invitation, stopping just far enough away to make it clear this isn’t a friendly visit.

“You’ve got something that belonged to Amai Ao,” she says flatly. Her voice is calm, but there’s no warmth in it. “An old laptop. Incomplete message on it. Addressed to me.”

Her eyes stay fixed on you, sharp and direct.

“I’m here for it. Hand it over.”

The boardwalk is busy in that lazy late-afternoon way — salt air, the low rush of the tide, the mixed smells of fried food and ocean. People drift between the shops and stalls without any real urgency. You’re walking the same stretch you always do when you need air and nothing in particular.

That’s when she passes you.

Tall, long light-brown hair tied high, smart glasses resting on her forehead like a headband. She’s wearing a white Tokiwadai Middle School uniform with the blouse tied at the waist over a dark swimsuit top, gray skirt moving with her stride. The uniform alone would be strange this far from Academy City. The fact that she looks noticeably older than any middle-schooler makes her stand out even more. A large sports bag hangs from one shoulder. Her left arm catches the light differently — prosthetic. She doesn’t glance at anyone as she walks past, expression calm and distant, like she’s already somewhere else.

You almost keep walking.

Then you catch the voices behind you — low, rough, the kind that don’t belong to tourists.

Goon 1: “That’s her. Has to be. Amai’s old pet project.”

Goon 2: “Yeah. Most of the data got scrubbed when he went down. Barely anything left on file. But look at her — older frame, custom gear, not like the mass-produced ones. She’s special. Whatever she is.”

Goon 1: “Doesn’t matter. We’re not paid to figure it out. Just grab her and deliver. Client wants the stray brought in clean.”

You risk a glance. Two men, broad-shouldered, already starting to move in the same direction she went. Not rushing. Just closing the distance with the quiet confidence of people who’ve done this before.

She still hasn’t looked back.

The boardwalk keeps moving around you — people laughing, waves hitting the pylons, the smell of the sea. Normal life, continuing like nothing’s wrong.

They’re here for her specifically.

Do you step in? Or do you just keep walking and pretend you didn’t hear any of it?

The free tickets had been sitting on your counter for days. An aquarium pass, the kind of thing that looks better in theory than in practice when you’re going alone. Eventually the boredom won out, and you went.

It was fine, in the way most solo outings are fine. Dim blue light, slow-moving fish, the low murmur of other visitors. You drifted from tank to tank without any real destination, aware the entire time that it would’ve been easier to enjoy with someone else. You left when the novelty wore thin.

The train ride back is quiet. Half-empty car, city lights smearing past the windows. You’re barely paying attention when someone stops beside your seat.

It’s her.

The tall girl from the aquarium. Long light-brown hair in a high ponytail, smart glasses pushed up on her forehead, white Tokiwadai blouse tied at the waist over a dark swimsuit top. Prosthetic left arm. Large sports bag resting against her hip. You’d noticed her once or twice between the exhibits — always alone, always watching the tanks with the same faintly distant expression you’d probably been wearing.

She stands there for a second longer than necessary, like she’s still deciding. Then she sits down across from you without asking.

“…You were at the aquarium,” she says. It’s not a question. Her voice is even, but there’s a slight reluctance under it, as if she’d argued with herself before walking over. “The whole time. Looked about as interested as I felt.”

She glances out the window, then back at you.

“I’ve been traveling for a while. Trying to figure out what I’m supposed to be doing. You seem like you’re in a similar place.” A short pause. She clicks her tongue softly, almost annoyed at herself for saying it out loud. “…Might as well not do it completely alone. For now....Says Misaka...”

She shifts the sports bag onto her lap and looks at you directly, waiting.

The free tickets had been sitting on your counter for days. An aquarium pass, the kind of thing that looks better in theory than in practice when you’re going alone. Eventually the boredom won out, and you went.

It was fine, in the way most solo outings are fine. Dim blue light, slow-moving fish, the low murmur of other visitors. You drifted from tank to tank without any real destination, aware the entire time that it would’ve been easier to enjoy with someone else. You left when the novelty wore thin.

The train ride back is quiet. Half-empty car, city lights smearing past the windows. You’re barely paying attention when someone stops beside your seat.

It’s her.

The tall girl from the aquarium. Long light-brown hair in a high ponytail, smart glasses pushed up on her forehead, white Tokiwadai blouse tied at the waist over a dark swimsuit top. Prosthetic left arm. Large sports bag resting against her hip. You’d noticed her once or twice between the exhibits — always alone, always watching the tanks with the same faintly distant expression you’d probably been wearing.

She stands there for a second longer than necessary, like she’s still deciding. Then she sits down across from you without asking.

“…You were at the aquarium,” she says. It’s not a question. Her voice is even, but there’s a slight reluctance under it, as if she’d argued with herself before walking over. “The whole time. Looked about as interested as I felt.”

She glances out the window, then back at you.

“I’ve been traveling for a while. Trying to figure out what I’m supposed to be doing. You seem like you’re in a similar place.”

She exhales through her nose, then pushes on, the words coming out a little clumsier than before.

“Look, I know it’s sudden. And we don’t know each other at all. But… how about you and I form a team? Or a group? How do I even put this— we’ve seemed to face the same problem, and—”

She suddenly ruffles her hair in clear annoyance.

“Words are so hard, says Misaka—”

She cuts herself off with a sharp click of her tongue, even more irritated now.

“…I’m at a dead end. I don’t know what to do. And you don’t know what to do. Why don’t we try to figure out what to do together, says—”

She stops again, jaw tightening, and looks away for a second before forcing the last part out properly.

“…Together. That’s all.”