Boss Rush

An LLS Production

Prologue: The One to be Protected

For something to be proven to exist, it has to be observed, i.e. seen.

For something to exist, it has to have a position in time and space. This explains why nine-tenths of the mass of the universe is unaccounted for.

Nine-tenths of the universe is the knowledge of the position and direction of everything in the remaining tenth, that is, the story. Every atom has its biography, every star its file, every chemical exchange its equivalent of the inspector with a clipboard. It is unaccounted for, because it is doing the accounting for the rest of it, and you cannot see the back of your own head. Can you?

Nine-tenths of the universe, in fact, is the paperwork.

If you want the story, then remember that a story does not unwind. It weaves. Events that start in different places and different times all bear down on that one tiny point in space-time, which is the perfect moment.

Supposing an emperor was persuaded to wear a new suit of clothes whose material was so fine that, to the common eye, the clothes weren't there. And suppose a little boy pointed out this fact in a loud, clear voice... Then you have The Story of the Emperor Who Had No Clothes.

But, if you knew a bit more, it would be The Story of the Boy Who Got a Well-Deserved Thrashing for Being Rude to Royalty, and Was Locked Up.

Or, it could be The Story of the Whole Crowd Who Were Rounded Up by the Guards and Told 'This Didn't Happen, Okay? Does Anyone Want to Argue?'

Or it could be a story of how a whole kingdom suddenly saw the benefits of the 'new clothes', and developed an enthusiasm for healthy sportsin a lively and refreshing atmosphere which got many new adherents every year, and led to a recession caused by the collapse of the conventional clothing industry. Exactly what we shall leave to the imagination of the reader.

It could even be a story about The Great Pneumonia Epidemic of 'XX. Probably the side effect of the aforementioned collapse of said clothing industry.

It all depends on how much you know.

Supposing, you'd watched the slow accretion of snow over thousands of years as it was compressed and pushed over the deep rock until the glacier calved its icebergs into the sea, and you watched an iceberg drift out through the chilly waters, and you got to know its cargo of happy polar bears and seals as they looked forward to a brave new life in the other hemisphere where they say the ice floes are lined with crunchy penguins, and then...

...wham! Tragedy loomed in the shape of thousands of tons of unaccountably floating iron, and an exciting sound track...

...you'd want to know the whole story. The least little things can break through to the other side. Like stories. Because stories are important.

People think that stories are shaped by people. In fact, it's the other way around. Stories exist independently of their players.

If you know that, the knowledge is power.

Stories, great flapping ribbons of shaped space-time, have been blowing and uncoiling around the universe since the beginning of time. And they have evolved.

The weakest have died and the strongest have survived and they have grown fat on retelling... stories, twisting and blowing through the darkness, mere echoes that mutate faster than a bacterium. Their very existence overlays a faint but insistent pattern on the chaos that is history. Stories etch grooves deep enough for people to follow in the same way that water follows certain paths down a mountainside. And every time fresh actors tread the path of the story, the groove runs deeper.

This is, as one has called, the Theory of Narrative Causality. It means that a story, once started, takes a shape. It picks up all the vibrations of all the other workings of that story that have ever been.

This is also why history keeps on repeating all the time. Because humans are unimaginative on a whole, and any imagination may be distilled in a few bright sparks. Of course, given the statistical probability of an increasing population, that may change, but certainly not in this geological epoch.

Stories don't care who takes part in them. All that matters is that the story gets told, that the story repeats. Or, if you prefer to think of it like this: stories are a parasitical life form, warping lives in the service only of the story itself.

It takes a special kind of person to fight back, and become the bicarbonate of history.

Once upon a time . . .

…This story starts with flowers.

A song was being hummed as the woman strolled along the streets of the city, smelling like her own personalised flower garden.

It would have been cruel to call it a stench, yet there can be no other name for that cocktail of scent so strong that it emanated from her in a cloud as a force of spiritual bio-terrorism. This woman was dressed in a long pink dress that tapered at her tight sleeves and skinny ankles, was ridiculously tall to match the dress, and her blue hair puffed up like a pistil amidst the voluminous collars of her dress. In her hand was a staff topped by a blooming purple-petal rose.

Now, how this woman could stroll along a normal, everyday street that was not currently within range of a costume festival, in a time of the year that was nowhere near All-hallows' Eve, before so many people, is a mystery. A lot of things about this woman was a mystery; mysteries, after all, were the bread and butter of a witch.

This witch, Marguerite, was the Witch of the Time Flower, and in her hands she held out a seed of power, that blew away like so much dandelion fluff to the winds..

"Let's see which one will bloom to match the snow flower..." she laughed, something too eerily perfect...

"...which is therefore the goal of every single effort our organisation carries out..."

Briefly, Fudo Ryuusei considered yawning. That passing thought of rebellion faded as soon as it came. You yawned in front of Shimotsuki Setsuka only if you wanted that tongue fed to you, and Ryuusei was very attached to various parts of himself. Besides, this conversation was important as well...

"And thus, Regulus, you would do well not to embarrass your peers..."

…but it was getting repetitive. "We've been through this. Spare me the talk, please."

Setsuka paused in the middle of her perfunctory lecture to give him a look. "Fine. But, this is a highly sensitive arrangement. It will be the first time I am actually employing you in such a sensitive capacity. You realise that I cannot guarantee your life, correct?"

"I've been through enough missions you give us," Ryuusei nodded, still awake. "Basically, you're expecting a big handout from this, aren't you?"

"I am not," Setsuka answered. "Duel Academia is. Therefore, the protection detail. You'll be working with White Rose, Sylph, and Angel."

"Angel?" Ryuusei mouthed. "Who's that? And what happened to Glen and Reggie?"

"I loaned them to the police," Setsuka answered with relish as her office door opened. "Misawa Tsugare, you look as pretty as I saw you last. How many attempts was it now?"

"Boss, that's just cruel," the tall thin purple-haired man sniffed, clutching onto the shorter white-haired doppelgänger beside him for comfort. Both of them wore stylish black, Tsugare with belts and chains, and his younger cousin Misawa Nowaki, more popularly known as Youkai, wore a scarf.

"Boss," Youkai greeted, short, perfunctory, and unlike the trickster. Ryuusei knew for a fact that it was because of Rex's idea of a joke that Youkai ended up not getting into his boyfriend's room last night that had the white-haired psychic so listless. Raging hormones aside, Ryuusei then turned to the last member of the group.

"Shimotsuki-san," the girl greeted. She had extremely long blue-black hair done in a French plait, was extremely pale and skinny, with large, round indigo eyes, deep red lips, and a decidedly French air about her. She wore a red beret, a black strapless shirt, knee-length black skirt with white polka-dots on it, along with a red blazer, black Converse, and a very modest diamond ring on her engagement finger.

Ryuusei looked from Alexianna LeRouge to Setsuka. "Seriously? And Ishihara isn't throwing a fit?"

"Ishihara Takeshi does not decide how the Arcadia Movement is run," Setsuka archly replied. "Neither, in fact, can he control his fiancé's actions. If Angel was to decide to wish to contribute to our ever dwindling coffers, then obviously giving her some work is the best thing to do."

"Sherry-san...?"

"Madame LeBlanc is entirely amenable," Setsuka replied. Which could mean a lot of things. "I did, after all, cover for not only her elopement, but also all subsequent overhead fees incurred. Such as the damages done in a certain-"

"Thank you very much, Boss!" Alexianna called loudly. "I'll repay you, I promise!"

Setsuka's cold gaze swept from the nervous Tsugare, to the spooked Youkai, to Alexianna, and finally to Ryuusei. "See that you do."

Ryuusei paused. "Do you hear someone laughing?"

… and altogether, the hallmarks of someone who, while not quite capable of being labelled evil, was not quite altogether in the head.

"May the seeds amongst humanity bloom in this city," Marguerite mockingly sang. "And finally, one to match the snow flower will bloom in the height of summer."

OC applications are open once more! Please include:

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Parts of the prologue were adapted from Thief of Time and Witches Abroad, both by Sir Terry Pratchett. Imitation is the highest form of art, after all...

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