Now, twenty-five centuries later, this building ruling the air over Demon City Shinjuku was surely a restoration of the original.
A sharp-eyed cameraman and reporter picked Kyoya and Sayaka out of the crowd. Eluding the mobile police guards holding them back, they got up close and pushed a mic into Sayaka’s face.
“A word for our viewers,” the reporter said.
“Hey,” said Kyoya. He turned to the camera and blinked. “Yo, Shiratori, Kayama,” he said, calling out his friends’ names. “You watching?” He flashed a V-sign.
“Wasn’t asking you,” the reporter said, inserting himself between Kyoya and Sayaka. “Miss, could you tell us why you received an invitation?”
Kyoya clapped him on the shoulder. “Go ahead, ask me.”
“Put a cork in it.”
No sooner had the reporter shrugged him off but he found himself sinking to the ground. He had suddenly gone numb from his shoulder down to his legs.
“You’ll be okay in five minutes.”
Kyoya reached out to touch the body of the cameraman, whose entire attention was focused on Sayaka. At that moment, a grave and dignified voice floated down from above.
“Welcome to my humble abode. I see that you have all chosen to attend, and for that I am deeply thankful. Inside I have prepared delights to satisfy every expectation. Feel free to spend as much time as your schedules will allow.”
“Kyoya-san.”
Sayaka took hold of his arm. Kyoya grinned affectionately and said, “Here,” and moved her hand to his left. He had the wooden sword — Asura — in his right. He had to keep that free.
Upon hearing the voice from above, the boisterous crowd went silent. Doors that led to what must be a foyer at the base of the tower—like the upside-down bell of a morning glory—slid open to the right and left. A band of light spilled out of the opening and poured down in front of the guests, connecting the ground and the air.
“Please climb aboard,” the voice said.
The prime minister was first in line. Of course, this one was a body double. After a moment of human hesitation, with all the dignity befitting the leader of a country, he stepped onto the ribbon of light rising skyward. He swayed a bit, then the prime minister—his double—followed the path into the air.
The guards hastily clambered after him. The crowd of close to a thousand surged forward and hopped on one after the other.
At the end of the line, Kyoya and Sayaka stood in front of the ribbon. The cameraman focused the lens on them. Sayaka seemed to have become the center of his attention.
Up to a few minutes ago, the video transmissions from within Shinjuku had come to naught. The magical miasma that engulfed this city suppressed all electronic waves. Now, although filled with static, the images somehow got through. That young man had dampened the interference.
The two stepped onto the ribbon. After an unsteady moment, they were already a yard in the air and rising at a brisk pace, Kyoya estimated about ten miles an hour.
“What is this?” Sayaka wondered, looking down at her feet.
“Not light. My senses tell me it’s a fluid.”
“Water?”
“Something like that. Moor the air in place and flow a concentrated molecular thickener across it. The glow must come from the air being bound in place and then manipulating its physical properties. Whatever it is, it sure does make you think.”
“About who’s behind it all.”
“The boss of Babylon.”
“Babylon,” Sayaka repeated to herself, as if trying to convince herself that it was all actually there.
Below them came the howls of beasts mingled with the siren calls of the lost souls of the park. Come down and join us, they cried.
The front foyer approached, as big as the lobby of a grand hotel. And at last, the two were drawn inside Demon Palace Babylon.