Maya
Magical Girl Rule No. 4: A strong enough smile can disarm anyone. Friend or foe.
Magical Girl Rule No. 4, Amendment A: This does not apply to parents or interdimensional super-soldiers currently raiding your refrigerator.
"Reimi, seriously, stop," I hissed, practically vibrating out of my socks. "That's my dad's. He counts those. He has a spreadsheet on the fridge door! Look! 'Tuesday: 40g Protein'! You're eating Tuesday!!"
Reimi ignored me. She stood in the harsh light of the open fridge, wearing the outfit we'd shoved her into last night: a gray t-shirt with a giant, wide-eyed cartoon cat on it that said Hang in There! and baggy sweatpants that pooled around her ankles.
She held a Tupperware of grilled chicken and broccoli like she was inspecting it for poison, then popped the lid with one thumb.
"It's dry," she grunted, shoveling a massive piece of cold chicken into her mouth. She chewed, staring me down. "You got any hot sauce? Tastes like cardboard."
"It's organic chicken breast!" I whispered furiously, glancing at the garage door. "And my parents are going to be home any second! You can't be eating straight from the tub when they walk in! You need to look — I don't know, less like a home invader!"
"I am a home invader," Reimi pointed out, swallowing. "I just happened to be invited."
"That's not — oh my god, wipe your mouth!" I grabbed a paper towel and practically threw it at her. "Look, my mom knows we found you, but she doesn't know who you are. We can't just say 'Oh, she's an interdimensional warrior who kills apocalypse beasts.' We need a story. Like an exchange student! That works. You're just a quiet, polite Japanese girl. That's all you have to say. You are a quiet Japanese —"
Reimi let out a long, ragged sigh that seemed to scrape the bottom of her lungs.
"Just tell them I'm a stray," she muttered, picking a piece of broccoli out of her teeth. "I ran away. Got lost in the tunnels. You found me. End of story."
"A stray?" I said. "Like, a victim?"
Reimi rolled her eyes. "Sure. Whatever makes them feel warm and fuzzy. People love a sad story. It lets them feel like heroes without actually having to do anything."
"That's cynical," Val said from the table, where she was furiously scrubbing at a grease stain with a rag.
"But it matches the description we gave them last night," Althea said, rubbing her chin.
"It's practical," Reimi said. "And pass the pepper. This chicken is a crime against poultry."
The rumble of the garage door opening shook the floorboards.
"They're here," Linda whispered, her face draining of color. "Oh god. I have a glaive in my pocket. I have a literal lightsaber in my pocket. Your dad helped me build my thing!" This chapter was copied from g.com without permission.
"Just act normal!" I hissed, smoothing down my frilled skirt, which I still hadn't had time to change out of. "Everyone look normal! Just a regular afternoon with no chainsaw or shotgun-summoning or death threats! Nobody mention weapons! Nobody mention dungeons! And if anyone asks about the crack in the basement wall, we had an earthquake!"
I breathed and let go of the transformation. My uniform melted away, leaving me in a set of pastel yellow pajamas. I smoothed my hair and tried to look casual. Footsteps in the garage. Clatter of keys. Rustling of a grocery bag. The door clicked, the knob turned.
"We're home! Please tell me the house is still standing!"
Dad's voice. Warm. Safe.
I forced a smile onto my face. It felt like I was stretching duct tape over a skull. "Hi Dad! Hi Mom! House is standing! Standing so hard!"
They stepped into the kitchen. Mom in a green dress and heels, her long brown hair swept back — graceful and tired, the way she always looked when she came off a shift. Dad behind her with the grocery bag, beard trimmed sharp, glasses riding down his nose.
He pushed them up. His eyes swept the room — Sector Scan.
He clocked me (sweating in my yellow pajamas), Althea (scrubbing a clean spot on the table like her life depended on it), and Linda (hiding a magical glaive behind her back).
Then his gaze landed on Reimi.
Reimi didn't flinch. She just stared back, expression flat. She looked bizarrely small in the cat shirt, bathed in afternoon sun. Small and battered and angry.
"Kouji," Mom said softly, stepping up beside him. "This is the girl. The one Maya brought back."
Dad nodded slowly. He took a step into the kitchen. "Right…"
Reimi set the Tupperware down on the counter with a sharp clack.
"I ate your food," she said. Her voice was rough, like she'd been shouting for days. Not apologetic. Just stating a fact. "I was hungry. I'll pay you back when I get money."
Dad looked at the empty container. Then he looked at her hands.
I held my breath. I saw his eyes catch on the faded scars. A couple of jagged white lines that ran up her forearms, the kind you definitely don't get from falling off a bike. He looked at the light bruising on her cheek. He looked at the way she stood: weight balanced, ready to move.
"Don't worry about the food," Dad said, his voice gentle. "You're the one they found in the tunnels? We saw the news on the airport TV. They're saying the whole Harrison section of the dungeon collapsed."
Reimi didn't answer right away. She just looked at him, measuring. Then a short, jerky nod.
"Restricted area," Dad said, no heat in it. "Dangerous place to be sleeping."
"Better than the park," Reimi muttered. She crossed her arms tighter, looking away. "Less wind."
Every word of it was true. She just left out the parts that would break the picture - but to my dad, it painted a picture.
A runaway. A kid sleeping in subway maintenance tunnels to stay out of the cold.
Dad's face crumpled. The suspicion drained out, replaced by something that looked like a kind of aching. He exchanged a look with Mom — the Sentinel Look. The "we have a civilian in distress" look.
"And your parents?" Dad asked carefully. "Do they know where you are?"
Reimi let out a short, sharp laugh. No humor in it. "No."
"Do you want to call them?"
Reimi looked him dead in the eye. "Hell no."
The words hung in the air.
My internal screaming intensified. Please don't call the cops. Please don't call the cops.
"Okay," Dad said, raising his hands. "Okay. No calls."
"I'm not going back," Reimi added, her voice dropping. "If you call the cops — if you try to put me in the system... I'm gone. I'll take my chances with the rats."
Dad stared at her. He saw the defiance, and behind it, what he thought was fear. A kid who had been failed by every adult in her life and was waiting for him to do the same.
"No cops," Dad said. "And no system. Not tonight." He lifted the grocery bag. "We grabbed a late lunch on the way home. Pizza. Everyone's favorites. You like pizza?"
Reimi looked at the box. Her stomach growled — a sound that cut through the tension like a chainsaw.
She didn't blush or acknowledge it. Just shrugged and looked away.
"I appreciate it when I get it."