Yumi selected another handful of pebbles from around the area, then settled herself with a determined expression, stacking one after another, working faster than he’d have dared. Not a single one of her miniature towers toppled. Behind them, he noticed Design approaching, still wearing her apron. It was an odd sight, and he realized he had basically considered her to be a fixture of the restaurant—seeing her was like seeing the bar itself rip up and come sauntering out onto the street.
Design wordlessly joined them, watching the shroud. The darkness lurched with each pebble, but then started to churn and bubble, like water boiling.
“Yumi…” Painter said at this new behavior. “Maybe…”
She increased her speed, building with both hands, growing her towers higher, higher, making the shroud churn and froth and agitate and ripple, then split. Right down the center, revealing a human hand, then shoulders and a face—a woman, dressed in the bright tobok of a yoki-hijo—reaching out to them with a voiceless scream. The shroud surged forward again, swallowing her, then bulged out toward the three of them.
Painter yelled and leaped back. Yumi scattered rocks in her haste to get away. Even Design—who had long claimed to be some kind of immortal unaffected by common fears—scuttled away until all three of them pressed their backs to the nearest wall: Painter’s whitewashed but unpainted one.
“What （lowly） was that?” Painter demanded.
“Your world is really weird,” Design said. “I have a number to explain how weird. It’s high. Super high.”
“That was a yoki-hijo,” Yumi whispered, looking at them both. “In the darkness. Why?”
Painter shook his head, baffled.
“Could be a nightmare,” Design said. “Taking the shape of a person—because you were thinking about them. Don’t trust anything you see made from that darkness, kids.”
“Good point,” Painter said. “This could be some kind of trap. Even if it’s not, isn’t this a distraction right now? The other yoki-hijo are on your mind, Yumi, but what would they want you to do?”
“To follow the will of the spirits,” Yumi said. “The scholars’ machine—we have to figure out how to destroy it.”
“I suggest hitting it,” Design said. “Very hard. Preferably with something that is more hard. I’d offer myself, as I make an encouragingly mediocre sword, but there are…complications.”
“We could just use a rock,” Painter said. “Stalk in there and hit the machine while the scholars are confused. What are they going to do? They’re a bunch of spindly academics.”
Yumi looked horrified. “I couldn’t do that!”
“You wouldn’t have to,” Painter said, glancing back at the shroud—which was stilling. In mere seconds, it appeared identical to how it had before. “I can destroy the machine, Yumi. Maybe that’s why the spirits sent for me. They need someone who doesn’t care about your society’s rules. Someone who can simply walk into that tent and do what has to be done.”
“Maybe,” Yumi admitted. “But we don’t move in haste. We should plan first.”
Of course she wanted to plan. “Yumi, you said this is getting worse. You said our time was running out. I don’t think we’re going to be able to come up with a better plan than just sneaking in and smashing the machine. We aren’t soldiers; we have no resources.”
“You could be right,” she said. “But I can’t help thinking we should go into this with more information. Design, you surveyed this world before you landed. How sure are you it was all covered in the shroud?”
“Not that sure,” she replied.
“Do you have maps?” Yumi asked. “A way to tell what’s out there in that darkness?”
“I don’t,” Design said. “But…I might know someone who can tell us. Someone who has traveled it extensively.”
Design led them back to the noodle shop. They snuck in quickly, trying not to draw the attention of the many painters coming off shift and gathering at their usual tables. Namakudo, one of Design’s assistant cooks, had been forced to come out of the kitchen to take orders.
Design led them through a kitchen full of boiling pots into a small room at the rear filled with…numbers? Yumi stood in the center and frowned, looking at the walls, which were ornamented with long stretches of numerical sequences that flowed and circled around; it was hard to tell where one ended and another began, or if they formed an infinite loop.
“Ah…” Design said. “It feels so good to come here and be near real art. Be back quicker than a chasmfiend gobbles a chull.” She darted away, leaving Yumi and Painter.
“Do you think she’s getting more eccentric?” Painter said, sitting on the floor. “Or is she just comfortable enough with us to let it show?”
“The latter,” Yumi said, looking up and finding numbers written even on the ceiling. “Definitely the latter.”
Design returned a few minutes later with Masaka in tow. Short, too much dark makeup, black skirt and her customary black sweater, collar all the way to her chin, hands lost in her sleeves.
“Ha!” Painter said, leaping to his feet. He pointed. “Ha! I knew it. I knew she wasn’t human.”
“Yumi,” Design said, “meet Chinikdakordich, the sixtieth horde of the Natricatich strain.”
Masaka pulled into her sweater a little farther, like a tortoise seeking the safety of its shell during the heat of the day. “We prefer the name Masaka,” she said softly. “We’re being human, Design. We’re getting very good at it.”
“I know you are,” Design said, patting her.
“So it’s true?” Yumi asked, feeling intimidated. “You’re…a creature like Design?”
“Not entirely like her, but yes,” Masaka said, looking down. “Is it…so obvious, Yumi? We’re figuring out many things. Human girls like cute things. We like cute things.” She looked up, and almost seemed ready to cry. “We made such a good human. You can’t even see the seams in our skin, so long as we wear makeup, and clothing with long neck portions! The trick is to make the entire face one piece. Took years of breeding.”
Breeding? One piece? Seams?
Uh… Yumi steeled herself.
Painter, laughing, sat back down. She shot him a glare, but he shrugged.
“Yumi,” he said, “Masaka being an alien is literally the first thing about any of this that has made sense to me.”
“I think,” Yumi said to Masaka—who evidently couldn’t see or hear Painter—“you are doing an excellent job. You’re, um, a very cute young woman.”
“We are?” Masaka said. She smiled, then stepped closer. Yumi forcibly prevented herself from backing up as the girl—thing—took her hand. “Thank you, Yumi. Thank you. Here, this is for you.” She slipped something from her pocket and handed it to Yumi. A…
A knife.
“Very good at cracking shells,” Masaka said, pointing at the hooked end. “And prying out the insides. Look, look.” She pointed at the handle. “Flowers inscribed here. Very cute.”