77"I am the Fifty-First God, Oiz, who rules over Antimony and whose domain is Repulsion," declares the floating, green-haired woman that had just emerged fully formed from the sizable stone slab behind her. "Are you the human who called out to me?"
Her harsh eyes are a strikingly bright sky-blue, and her cheeks—clay brown—are tattooed with dark green circles the same color as her hair. Her clothes are unusual, with a green-hemmed, short-sleeved overshirt that's white and gray and fastened in the middle by a sash that sort of looks like an obi, but which is sewn into the rest of the garment. Her sleeves are detached and conical and hanging from her upper arms, and she has ribbons tied to her lower legs in place of shoes. Her dress is a plain, rational gray beneath the overshirt, and her hair, in pigtails, is held up by gray-on-darker-gray tassels. She appears to be in her mid to late twenties.
Most of all, she is utterly, perfectly out of place in the tiny little storage room wherein Hachiman finds himself, prone on his ass, leaning back on his hands, gaping helplessly like a fish. The storage room, in which the woman, and Hachiman cannot stress this enough, floats. Several feet above the ground.
This is it, Hachiman thinks, stubbornly dry even in his hysterics. Ms. Hiratsuka's months-long campaign of psychological warfare has finally broken me.
"I'm talking to you," says his distressingly vivid hallucination. She scowls, and Hachiman gulps. The sheer disdain rolling off of this creature is enough to put every teenage girl and disapproving adult he'd ever displeased to shame, radiating out as if from the core of a star. "I really hate having to repeat myself."
"Are these—?" Hachiman starts to blurt out, raising his arm in indication, but the end of that question was command seals, and he thinks better of it. He coughs into that arm's fist, which he regrets immediately, because it calls his attention back to his hiked up sleeve and the tattoo that now snakes the back of his forearm. The tattoo, to which he had been about to refer to.
It's green to match the woman's green, constructed from stylized and geometric shapes. It sort of resembles a leafy plant, but Hachiman isn't much of a gardener, and he wouldn't know which one specifically. He looks from the tattoo, awful and clinging and still faintly, unnaturally hot, back to the woman, to whom he's very plainly less than a bug. Less than a single-celled organism, even.
Repulsion. It's an emotion Hachiman is profoundly familiar with, from within and from without. It's an experience all its own, and he'd believed, honestly, that he was used to it. No one had ever made much of a secret of their dislike for his… whole deal. But that doesn't make repulsion, rejection, enjoyable, and Hachiman, with his long and sordid history of rejection, balls his fist tighter and grits his teeth.
He doesn't like the way she's looking at him.
"What are you, fourteen?" he quips, before he can catch himself. Hachiman briefly freezes, because a real god would surely strike him dead for that one, but then he decides that it's a stupid impulse. This isn't a real god, it's a mental breakdown. He leans back on his hands again and digs his proverbial heels in. "And why are you asking the questions here, anyway?"
Her eyes momentarily widen, just a fraction, and her eyebrows climb just slightly up her forehead. Something about the woman's expression, tight with hostility as it was, relaxes, but only for a beat. It collapses back into abject loathing as she speaks, as if every word she forces up and out of her throat makes her want to gag. Somehow, though, Hachiman doesn't get the sense that this much, at least, is loathing that's aimed at him personally.
He's something of an expert.
"I introduced myself," she says. "You're being rude."
Hachiman bristles. "Don't act like I'm being unreasonable! This whole situation is unreasonable! You don't even exist!"
Arguing with his own hallucination is a new low, even for Hachiman. He doesn't actually believe that he's crazy, so really, it's a frank possibility that there was something wrong with the drink he had before. Either his clubmate, Yukinoshita, had opted to introduce biochemical conflict into their ongoing interpersonal feud, or he needs to call the FSA on the cafe that they've been helping out at.
The floating woman frowns, more so than she already was frowning. "Of course I exist."
"Yeah, right," Hachiman snaps. "That's exactly what a hallucination would say."
She sighs. Again, like Hachiman is the unreasonable one, which he feels is really very unfair.
"There are other people in this building, in the other rooms," she observes. "I just have to show you that they can see me too, don't I?"
"That could just be another delusion," Hachiman counters. But he deflates. "But at the point where I'm already so completely detached from reality that I'm hallucinating whole scenes, I might as well go with it."
The woman nods once, sharply decisive. Then, she flies over to the wall adjacent to the cafe's kitchen, and she phases through it to the other side.
I really have lost it, Hachiman laments to himself. He gets up, dusts himself off, and winces when the finger he'd cut catches a bit on the fabric of his borrowed apron. Nonetheless, he follows the woman out through the door, like a normal person. Komachi better not institutionalize me. I deserve at-home care, at least.
Hachiman wonders if this would be a good enough excuse to quit his club. With his luck, Ms. Hiratsuka probably wouldn't think so.
XXX
Before Hachiman Hikigaya became inextricably, existentially bound to a tulpa, his week had been progressing without any real deviation from the norm. His norm, sure, but also the norm of an average human being, with average problems.
For his flagrant antisocial tendencies, an unusually meddlesome teacher at his high school, Ms. Hiratsuka, forced him to join his school's Service Club, whose purpose is to complete odd jobs for students and faculty on an as-requested basis. Besides Hachiman, the only other member is the club's founder and president, Yukino Yukinoshita. She's about as antisocial as Hachiman, but she's very pretty, so despite her bad personality, he sometimes forgets. They have a bet going as to who can satisfy the most requests for aid by the time they graduate, and beyond that, a great enmity for one another.
Due to this enmity, and due to really having only known each other for the few days that Hachiman's been in the club so far, there's very little for them to talk to each other about. That's fine by both parties. After school, it's quickly become routine for Hachiman to join Yukinoshita in the club room to await solicitors, and then for them to sit in total silence in one another's presence, reading different books.
On one fateful Wednesday afternoon, Yukinoshita reads a translated copy of Plato's Republic. Hachiman, on a chair in the other end of the room, rereads the sixth installment in the Boogiepop series, Boogiepop at Dawn. When a knock sounds from the door, both of them look up like prairie dogs.
"Come in," Yukinoshita instructs, snapping her book shut and depositing it flat on her thighs, palm on top.
Hachiman doesn't follow suit, because he assumes it's only Yui Yuigahama, Yukinoshita's friend. Yuigahama had been the one request that Hachiman's been around for, and she really took a liking to Yukinoshita, for whatever reason. She comes by sometimes.
But the student who pokes her head into the room is someone he doesn't recognize. She's tall, and if Hachiman had to guess, he'd grok her as athletic. Her hair and eyes are forgettably brown, with the hair pulled back into a high ponytail.
"Is this the Service Club?" the girl asks. Hachiman, reluctantly, puts his own book down.
"It is," confirms Yukinoshita. She has this curt, clipped way of speaking that always throws Hachiman off, and it must throw the girl off too, because she blinks at Yukinoshita, as if retaking stock of her. The effect is only enhanced by Yukinoshita's air and appearance, with long, black hair and bright, cold eyes, a horror movie doll brought to uncanny life.
Yukinoshita gestures for the girl to take the only other unoccupied chair, and so the girl does.
"I'm Miki Kamiki," says the girl. She glances from Yukinoshita, who is beautiful but intimidating, to Hachiman, who likes to think that he's handsome enough, but whose eyes are off-putting. They've been described, often, as similar to those of a dead fish. Kamiki looks hurriedly back to Yukinoshita. "From Class 2-B. Ms. Hiratsuka told me this club, um… grants wishes?"
"We fulfill requests," Yukinoshita corrects immediately, annoyed.
Kamiki grimaces, commiserative. "I thought so. I wanted to ask if you'd be willing to help out at my cousin's cafe over the weekend." Sheepish, she rubs the back of her head. "He'll pay you, of course, and I'm helping too, but all three of his servers had to take sick leave on short notice. They all go to the same high school, and apparently, there's been a bad cold going around. And this Saturday, the cafe has this big themed event going on, so he really didn't want to just cancel. All the regulars are looking forward to it."
Yukinoshita contemplates all of this. The fact that Kamiki had been so forthright and prompt with the details, Hachiman can tell, has won her points with Yukinoshita. Finally, Yukinoshita inclines her head to Kamiki. "And you've gotten Ms. Hiratsuka's permission?"
"I have."
"Then I don't see a problem. What are our hours?"
"Wait, wait, wait a minute," Hachiman interrupts, holding up one hand, palm out, in the universal gesture for stop. Both girls give him dirty looks, which is patently unwarranted. "What if I have plans that day?"
"Like what?" Yukinoshita raises one skeptical eyebrow. "Lazing around the house all day, playing video games?"
Hachiman winces. He would argue that those are valid plans, but then Yukinoshita would threaten to take it up with Ms. Hiratsuka, who would never agree. Instead, he posits, "Anyway, the point is that you're not asking enough questions. For all you know, this themed event could stick you in a maid outfit."
Yukinoshita and Kamiki both jolt, alarmed.
Kamiki hastily waves the idea off with both hands. "No, no! Nothing like that. The theme is just something like, unseasonal halloween. You know, for fun. You guys would just have to wear the staff aprons, and they're very plain."
Yukinoshita relaxes, and Hachiman slumps back in his seat. He knows when he's been beaten.
At least, for once, he's getting paid for his labor.
XXX
It isn't until Hachiman is standing before the cafe whose address Kamiki had given them, together with Yukinoshita, that he realizes the magnitude of the mistake he had made. On its own, the address itself had meant nothing to him; but in hindsight, it becomes apparent that he knows this place. Crest Coffee, a trendy spot in downtown Chiba, familiar to Hachiman through his much more well-adjusted and popular younger sister, Komachi.
Trendy, here, is the operating word. As a certified loser and loner, the very aura of social acceptability that radiates off of the building's storefront has Hachiman already beginning to sweat. Its wide, airy windows have been decorated with orange, black, and purple streamers, and with paper cutouts of bats and ghosts and such. The walls are a facade of orange-brown, stylishly exposed bricks. The tables and chairs, both those set up outside and those he can see on the inside through the windows, are tastefully modern.
Hachiman thinks, very seriously, that he might turn around and go back home. Yukinoshita, though, seemingly unbothered, makes to go in.
"What are you waiting for?" she asks him, unimpressed, over her shoulder.
Hachiman winces, just a bit. He sticks his hands in his pockets and looks anywhere but directly at Yukinoshita. "This place is just fancier than I thought."
Yukinoshita frowns, and so that Hachiman can properly appreciate it, she turns around more fully to face him. "They don't even have a dress code."
A beat of silence. Hachiman stares at Yukinoshita. Yukinoshita stares back.
"What planet are you from?" Hachiman questions, finally.
Yukinoshita flashes him a mocking smile. "Makuhari district."
Hachiman winces with more vigor, and then regards Yukinoshita as if she were a very expensive oil spill. Really, it's not so surprising for Yukinoshita to prove to be some manner of wealthy, well-bred young lady, in hindsight. She had to have gotten that impenetrable sense of superiority from somewhere.
"Damn rich people," Hachiman complains, in the timeless words of Haruhi Fujioka.
Yukinoshita doesn't grace that with a response, and Hachiman follows her into the cafe.
Kamiki is already waiting at Crest Coffee's modest bar, wearing the staff apron and sitting at one of the stools, and she hops to her feet when Hachiman and Yukinoshita walk in. She'd been talking to the guy behind the counter, who looks so much like her that he must be her cousin. His eyes are a bit narrower, his haircut is short and choppy like Hachiman's seen on the covers of some of Komachi's magazines, and he must be a few years older than they are, but otherwise, the family resemblance is stark. He, too, is wearing one of the aprons, over a black, v-neck t-shirt.
Trendy, Hachiman repeats again, privately, in his head. He swallows. Today is going to suck.
"Yukinoshita, Hikigaya!" Kamiki greets, waving them over. At least she remembered Hachiman's name. "I'm so glad you could make it."
"That goes double for me," says Kamiki's cousin, smiling winsomely. It isn't quite as perfect as some other smiles Hachiman has seen in his time, but it still makes Hachiman feel like he'll melt, like the Wicked Witch of the West. But Yukinoshita doesn't slow in her stride, so he doesn't either, and they make it to the bar next to Kamiki. The cousin goes on, "Thank you, really. I was honestly starting to think we would have to cancel." He nods to both of them. "Kamon Kamiki. It's nice to meet you both, Yukinoshita, Hikigaya."
"There's no need to thank us," Yukinoshita tells him, matter-of-fact. She crosses her arms. "We're the Service Club. We fulfill requests for Sobu High School's students. No more, and no less."
"Not a need, maybe, no," Kamiki the Elder concurs, diplomatically. "But I wanted to." Before Yukinoshita can disagree with him, which Hachiman fears that she will, he pats the two aprons folded on top of each other to one side of him, on the counter. "These are for you. You two, together with Miki, will handle taking and carting out customers' orders, I'm on bar duty, and our cook, Yasumoto, is in the back. It's just the five of us today. So, can we jump right into showing you the ropes?"
Yukinoshita is pacified by the speed with which Kamiki the Elder has cut to the chase. She says, "Yes. Lets."
Hachiman doesn't want to, of course, because he has no interest in things like working hard or doing his best, but it's what he signed up for. He doesn't object either. Not out loud, anyway.
They get to it.
XXX
Kamiki the Elder is a patient enough teacher, and the work is relatively straightforward, so it doesn't take long for Hachiman and Yukinoshita to get the hang of what he wants them to do. Kamiki the Elder doesn't expect them to have the menu memorized or to make recommendations to diners, and he provides them with notebooks to write down orders and table numbers in, so there's nothing much to worry about. Yukinoshita is, perhaps predictably, slightly mystified by the whole process, but it doesn't prove to be a roadblock.
Hachiman does feel a little sorry for the customers, getting stuck with two antisocial waiters such as them, but not as sorry as he feels for himself for having to blow his precious day off of school on clubwork.
Their rudimentary training goes off without a hitch, and by the point that it's time to open, Hachiman and Yukinoshita are both as ready as they'll ever be. It's a bit hectic, and increasingly so as more customers trickle in, but Hachiman likes to think that he's reliable in a pinch.
No one is even especially rude to Hachiman, which would be unusual for him at school, let alone at a retail job. So, really, when the first thing goes wrong, close to the day's end, he's almost relieved.
He's just dropped off table 3's order when glass shatters somewhere behind him, and he pivots sharply on his heel to see what it is. The occupants of table 5, three middle school girls, stare back at him like deer facing down a car. There's a scattered pile of shards that used to be a cup next to one of the table's legs, and one of the girls has her hand frozen in mid-air, mid-emphatic gesture.
Hachiman rolls his eyes. "It's not the end of the world," he tells them, which immediately makes them bristle. Good, Hachiman thinks, as he kneels down beside the pile. Annoyance is better than panic.
He's just wondering about where the cleaning implements could be when Kamiki the Elder weaves his way between the tables and chairs over to him, armed with a broom and dustpan. A quick glance informs Hachiman that Kamiki the Younger has taken up his post at the bar, which is probably fine and legal, since Crest Coffee doesn't serve alcohol until after five in the afternoon. Kamiki the Elder grins reassurance at Hachiman and offers him the dustpan, so Hachiman grimaces uncertainly at him and accepts the proffered piece of equipment.
Hachiman keeps the dustpan secure, while Kamiki the Elder sweeps. Hachiman indulges, only briefly, in letting himself feel a little cool for pulling this much off without exchanging any words, before he remembers that this is perhaps one of the most mundane and routine procedures that any modern human has ever undertaken.
He scowls down at the shards of glass, mostly so that Kamiki the Elder, and especially the middle schoolers, can't see his face. He doesn't need anyone commenting on what a creepy-looking waiter he is. As he does so, however, he spots a bigger shard of glass that had slid farther than the others under the table, which it doesn't seem to Hachiman that Kamiki the Elder had noticed. Rather than pointing it out and putting Kamiki the Elder in a position to be stuck figuring out how to fish the shard back out with the broom, Hachiman plucks it from the floor, carefully, with his thumb and forefinger, and deposits it in the dustpan himself.
Just as he's letting go, someone nearby stands up where Hachiman can't see, and their chair scrapes loudly against the floor's tiles. It's sudden, and surprises Hachiman just enough that as he drops the glass, it cuts his index finger. Hachiman flinches slightly.
Today is just not my day, he broods, glaring at the small cut, almost a papercut.
Kamiki the Elder makes a face. "Oh, ouch," he says in sympathy. "Gimme a second, I'll show you where the band aids and the antibiotics are."
Kamiki the Elder sweeps up the rest of the shards and then picks up the dustpan, before Hachiman can. When he turns to go, Hachiman gets up to follow him. They are, however, interrupted.
"Wait!" pipes up the girl who had knocked over her empty glass. Hachiman and Kamiki the Elder both pause and look to her.
She has dark brown hair, not quite black, in a sleek bob that doesn't suit her childish face and overlarge eyes at all. She's clutching her purse in one hand, and in the other, she's hesitantly holding out a film of cutesy character bandaids to Hachiman.
"Take these," she offers.
Hachiman blinks at her, surprised. He takes the proffered bandaids mostly on autopilot, but he does have something of a soft spot for kids younger than him, and especially kids his little sister's age. He feels his bad mood… not lighten, not exactly, but dilute somewhat.
"Thanks," he says, a bit tightly, a bit awkwardly.
The girl nods back at him, also at a vague loss. Her friend, sitting next to her, narrows her eyes at Bandaid Girl, nearly sly, so Hachiman bids a hurried retreat before the poor middle schooler can get ribbed for showing him basic human decency. He stuffs the bandaids into his pocket.
Kamiki the Elder goes with him, visibly cheered himself, for whatever arcane reason.
"You know what they say about good deeds," he tells Hachiman brightly, when he catches Hachiman staring.
"They don't go unpunished," Hachiman mutters, just to be contrary.
Luckily, Kamiki the Elder doesn't hear him.
XXX
After Kamiki the Elder disposes of the broom and dustpan, he shows Hachiman behind the bar and then into the kitchen, and then, from there, into Crest Coffee's cramped little storage room. Hachiman is only really expecting it to be full of boxes and, potentially, decorations left over from past events that have been held at the cafe, so he isn't prepared to be particularly surprised.
He is, however, surprised.
Because while there are, in fact, plenty of boxes and such, there's also what appears to be a stone slab pushed up against one wall, taller than he is and impressively imposing.
"Woah," Hachiman blurts out. "Where did you get that?"
Kamiki the Elder laughs, perhaps somewhat sheepishly, and closes the door behind them. "My and Miki's great grandpa was a collector, and when he passed, he left most of that stuff to our grandpa, who left it to me. I thought I might be able to show this thing off today, since it's kind of spooky, but there just wasn't room, and I wasn't sure if it would be disrespectful. So I lugged it all the way over here, but then…" He laughs some more. Shakes his head. "I got cold feet. It's a replica, I think, of…" He shrugs. "Something."
"A fragment of the Hierarchy of Heaven," Hachiman says, still staring, before his brain can catch up with him. As soon as it does, he blanches at Kamiki the Elder, horrified with himself.
But Kamiki the Elder only blinks at him, and then he beams. Tentatively excited, he asks, "You know about it?"
Hachiman looks, pointedly, anywhere but at Kamiki the Elder. He rubs the back of his neck, uncomfortable and beginning to sweat. "Not really. I just had an archeology phase in middle school, kinda…"
Archeology phase. Yeah, right. He'd had a nasty case of Eighth Grader Syndrome, and specifically, the idea of divinity and cool, fantastical, overpowered rulers of the cosmos had appealed to him. Many of his fantasies had revolved around that core, and like many other delusional children everywhere, he'd peeked into mythologies he could read about on the internet to crib concepts for his made-up gods.
The first seven gods of this world, which include the three creator deities…
No, no, no, no, no. All of that, every last ounce of it, is completely behind him now.
That's his story and he's sticking to it.
"Hierarchy of Heaven?" Kamiki the Elder repeats, in prompt.
Since Kamiki the Elder doesn't seem to have connected the dots, Hachiman, reluctantly, figures that he should at least explain himself. "Yeah," he says, and his arm drops. "It's this huge… tablet, I guess, or carving, of the pantheon of the Mesoamerican Stoneworking culture. It was broken probably around the time they fell into decline."
"I haven't heard of them," Kamiki the Elder admits. "Are they like… what, the Aztecs?"
"Uh," says Hachiman, intelligently. "No. The Aztecs are from, what, seven hundred years ago? But the Stoneworkers were around fourteen thousand years ago, give or take. And when they went extinct, they didn't leave behind any successor cultures. The Aztecs, the Zapotecs, all those other guys, they're descendants of the Stoneworkers' contemporaries, who didn't blow themselves up. And those guys, they never went extinct at all. They're still living in, like, Mexico."
Hachiman cuts himself off there, and in something of a panic, he thinks, I've said too much.
So he tacks on, "According to Wikipedia, anyway."
This is likely as good a time as any to note, for general clarity's sake, that this Hachiman Hikigaya lives in a world that is quite similar to yours and mine, but not identical.
In his world, the archeological record reflects the existence of an early period of globalization and civic advancement, which took place roughly fourteen thousand years in the past. This period was characterized by the presence of sophisticated technology developed by cultures from all across the Earth, from the Mesopotamian Astrolabe culture to the Saharan Cord Weaving culture to the Scandinavian Burial Pottery culture, and it was ended by an era-defining collapse of some sort. The most prolific of these cultures were the Mesoamerican Stoneworkers, whose artifacts can be found across all the continents.
In our world, this would all be a bunch of hokey.
But Hachiman and Kamiki the Elder don't live in our world, so Kamiki the Elder says, "Wow! I had no idea. That's pretty cool." He approaches the slab, considering it. "Which god is this one, then? Do you know?"
Hachiman steps up next to Kamiki the Elder, trying to recall. The god depicted wears the same overshirt as all of them seem to, bears the same tattoos on her cheeks, and has her hair secured into long pigtails by chunky, tasseled ornaments. Her arms are crossed at her front, forming an emphatic X.
Hachiman doesn't immediately recognize her, and really, she might simply be a design dreamed up by the replica's creator, incorporating the common motifs of the fragments that have surfaced in museums over the years. Whatever the case, despite himself, Hachiman still can't help but feel begrudgingly impressed with whoever had made this slab. The Stoneworkers have been termed such in modernity, predictably, for their stonework, the inside of much of which almost resembles circuitry, so it's kind of nice to see a high-fidelity recreation in person.
The Hierarchy of Heaven is called a carving, but its face is smooth, and dark as an obsidian mirror. The god inscribed within, outlined, nearly lifelike, seems close to trapped in the rock, or like an image on a screen.
"I don't," Hachiman tells Kamiki the Elder, at length. "We don't even know that much about their gods that we can keep track of."
And it's true: even the names of most of the Stoneworkers' gods are lost to the fog of ages. Hachiman had mostly been interested in the Stoneworkers as a middle schooler because he'd liked their aesthetic, and because he'd fallen down a shallow rabbit hole of conspiracy theories about them. Fortunately, he's normal now.
"Well," says Kamiki the Elder. "This is already way more than I knew. If you're ever in the area and have the time, why don't you take a look at the rest of Grandpa's collection? There might be more in there that's related, and I'd want to hear about it. Honestly, I've felt kinda bad, letting it all just sit around in the attic."
"Sure," Hachiman manages, grimacing, slightly strained. He has no intention of following through on this.
Kamiki the Elder opens his mouth to continue talking, but the cook, Yasumoto, pokes her head in through the door.
"Kamiki," she says. "We need you at the front."
Kamiki the Elder perks up. "Just a second!" he assures her, so Yasumoto nods, leaves, and shuts the door behind her. Kamiki the Elder hurries over to a shelving unit stacked with boxes against another wall, and from one of the boxes, he retrieves a small tube of antibiotic ointment. He places it on top of the box, where he's sure Hachiman's seen it. "Help yourself. Let me know if there's anything else, alright?"
"Right," Hachiman returns, in the same tone as before.
Kamiki the Elder nods to him, as distressingly friendly as he's been from the start, and then sees himself out of the storage room. Hachiman is left alone with the replica, which is as nice as it is mortifying.
He should really just take care of his little cut and go, but against his better judgment, he cranes his neck up to stare at the unknown god. If it really is that good of a replica…
Hachiman's eyes narrow, flicking over the whole of the slab's face, searching. He finds what he's looking for near one corner, off to one side of the figure's calves, and nods to himself. It's an inscription, just one, short line, in the Stoneworkers' squat, squashed alphabet, and it would be strange if it were missing. All of the fragments of the Hierarchy of Heaven that have been found have it somewhere, if they're not too banged up.
It was the first string of words from the Stoneworkers' language that had been translated, though that language is still very poorly understood. Hachiman sounds them out the best he can in his head, and on cue, is filled with embarrassment that it's a skill he'd gone out of his way to acquire, in seventh grade.
Only one word, of the string, has no translation, because it would be the god's name. Hachiman squints at it, trying to work out what it would be, without really thinking about it. Without meaning to, he leans in closer, propping his palm flat against the replica. He doesn't notice his blood smear, just a bit, onto it.
" Before you, the greatest mystery, I stand clad in the words of my blood," Hachiman mutters, his eyebrows knitting together. " Answer your oaths, and let the name of the exalted be..."
He forgets to feel stupid. Later, he'll remember. But now, there's a sense of accomplishment as Hachiman says:
"... Oiz."
And then he startles and jumps back like the replica is hot, because abruptly, the outline of the god within lights up a blinding green.
His mind goes blank, but distantly, Hachiman realizes that it's not the replica: his forearm is hot, like fevered skin, and also glowing that same green through his sleeve, in some kind of a pattern. He stumbles back, panic only just beginning to well up in his guts and throat.
Slowly, impossibly, the image of the god shifts on the stone, sloping forward. Her head moves first, and before Hachiman can comprehend the sight before him, it pushes itself fully out of the slab, like a sticker peeling from paper. She emerges fully formed, three dimensional, pulling the rest of herself along into the world.
Hachiman falls back on his ass. He throws up both of his arms in front of himself, on instinct, out of a futile sense of self-preservation, but that only means that his sleeve hikes down and he sees the brand that the light had left behind on his forearm.
Command seals?! he screeches inside, nonsensically. His arms drop, but it's like it happens to someone else, from very far away. He leans back on his hands, craning his neck up.
Before him floats a woman, a god, with green pigtails and eyes nearly as unpleasant as his own.
And you already know what she says next.