Troll Energy

The boy stepped back just enough to take us both in, eyes huge behind his bug-eyed goggles.

“Whoa. Whoa whoa whoa.”

He spun a slow circle with his fingers, sketching something vaguely atomic in the air.

“Did you two just beam in from a festival? Amerikamura’s still running those synthwave cosplay stalls, right? Or wait—are you doing a social experiment? Please tell me I get to be the control group.”

Ryoji gave him a look. The kind that said not today, maybe not ever.

But the kid was already pacing, hands fluttering around me like he was trying to scan my aura using sheer enthusiasm.

“Wait. Wait-wait-wait. Don’t tell me—she’s your stall prize, right? Like a limited-edition streetpunk girlfriend with unlockable backstory? I won’t tell Aneki, promise. Not unless I need leverage.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

Ryoji cut in, dry as asphalt. “She’s a client. Ballerina from Italy. Bodyguard contract. Her company arranged it.”

The boy froze. Blinked behind his lenses. Then zipped around me, suddenly serious in a way that felt more like awe than analysis.

“She really dances?” he murmured, almost to himself. “Like… balance-based expression mapped into muscle memory? Can I see your ankles? Just—briefly. For science.”

I stepped back. He didn’t notice. He circled me faster, arms flaring one moment, pulling in like a wind-up toy short-circuiting the next. Then he stopped. A breath. His eyes locked onto mine.

And then he spun on Ryoji.

“Is she the one, Nii-san? Is she—”

He didn’t finish. Just:

“—the one?”

The air turned sharp. Like metal tasting blood.

Ryoji didn’t miss a beat. “No. Her father knew Mr. Sakamoto, though.”

Just like that, the boy went still. Like his system had hit a failsafe.

The goggles didn’t hide the shift in his expression—subtle, like a flicker behind a lens flare.

He nodded once. Slowly. Then stepped back, eyes still on me. No longer manic—just wide, and wondering.

The machines around us kept humming. A filament sparked to life in a corner tray. But the room itself felt like it had just learned something it wasn’t supposed to.

Then: a clap.

“Well then!” he chirped, spinning back toward Ryoji. “What can I do for you, future onii-san?”

Ryoji didn’t flinch at the title. Again. “I need my gear. We’re heading north. We’ve been tailed since Tokyo.”

The boy’s face lit up like a circuit board.

“Oooooh, clandestine rendezvous! Cross-prefecture pursuit! Real cloak-and-dagger stuff. Can I be your operator via codec? Are there code names? Please say there are code names. I want to be Enceladus.”

“No,” Ryoji said flatly. “Just a simple person check.”

“Okay,” the boy sighed, undeterred. “No fun.”

He darted to one of the side stations and began rummaging through a drawer labeled in what looked like kanji crossed with math symbols.

Meanwhile, I stood frozen a few steps behind Ryoji, arms crossed, trying not to look like I was piecing together five lives at once.

This boy—this genius goblin—was maybe half my size and ten times as plugged into Ryoji’s past. He spoke to him like they were family. Trusted him like he was invincible.

And Ryoji let him.

Didn’t push him away. Didn’t bristle. He just let the kid orbit him like it was the most natural thing in the world.

There was something so easy about it, I almost felt like an intruder.

And yet—

The boy whirled on me mid-scan and stared. Really stared. Like he was trying to align every line of my posture with a blueprint in his head.

“Your spinal symmetry is remarkable,” he said in awe. “And that gait—there’s elasticity in the posterior chain. Do you run, or is that purely ballet? No, wait, don’t answer—let me guess.”

He circled again, brow furrowed, hands behind his back like a clockmaker inspecting a vintage mechanism.

“You’re—how do I put this—exquisitely built,” he breathed. “Like a sculpture, but kinetic. Do you know how rare that is in real-world specimens?”

“I—um,” I started.

“I mean, my god. The clavicle alignment alone is poetry. And the way your forearms taper—elegant but functional. Your femur-to-ankle ratio must be practically Euclidean!”

Ryoji stared.

“I’m only being clinical nii-san!!” he beamed. Then turned to me, tilting his head. “May I take a 3D scan for my archives? Purely for reference. I won’t even model anything lewd—unless you want—”

“No. Hiroto”

“Okay,” he said, hands up in mock surrender. “No scans. Got it. Just admiration, then.”

I stared at him, stunned into silence. And yet…

I didn’t feel creeped out.

That was the weirdest part.

He wasn’t leering. He wasn’t even flirting, not really. It was like watching a puppy see a snowflake for the first time—overwhelmed, awestruck, and absolutely convinced the universe had just delivered something rare and magical straight into his lap.

And for once… I didn’t want to correct him.

It made me feel strange. Taller. Like someone worth marveling at—even if only through a microscope.

I glanced at Ryoji. He wasn’t watching the kid anymore. He was watching me.

Not with amusement. Not with disapproval.

Something quieter. Sharper.

I looked away before I could name it.

Because right now, I liked being seen as more than someone’s daughter. Or someone’s heartbreak.

Even if it came from a mad scientist in a child-sized lab coat.

Hiroto paused mid-rummage, holding up a sleek black case half the size of a briefcase. “Okay but—gear? For a simple check?” He wiggled the case like it had opinions. “What are we expecting? Foreign spy? Domestic rogues?”

Ryoji leaned against the nearest console, arms folded. “Bad feeling,” he said simply. “Safety of the client comes first.”

Hiroto clutched the case to his chest like a dramatic heroine. “And Nii-san, I couldn’t agree more!”

He pivoted toward me with renewed fervor, face lit up like a dashboard in overdrive. “And what a client you are! Divine posture, clean kinetic lines, orbital balance—I swear if they were cloning dancers, you’d be the prototype. Wait. Are they cloning dancers? Is that why you’re here?”

I gave him a look. “You still haven’t asked my name, you know.”

He stopped mid-gush. Blinked. “Oh.”

Then, deep bow. Too deep.

“Forgive me, goddess of gait and symmetry. I am but a humble lab rat. Please—please call me Hiroto-kun!”

Ryoji gave a quiet exhale of amusement and pushed off the console. “We need safe passage north,” he said. “Preferably without being flagged at every gate.”

That snapped me out of the chaos spiral. I straightened, emboldened by Ryoji’s calm trust in this mad gremlin.

“Your brother-in-law’s pretty useful,” I said lightly, eyeing Ryoji. “What else comes with the family package?”

Hiroto practically squeaked nonsensically. “I—I—officially accept this honorary package tag!”

“Right,” I said, tone sharpening, “so… who tailed us? And why is my father involved with Mosan?”

The temperature in the room seemed to drop.

Ryoji didn’t blink. “That’s why we’re going to Wakkanai. To find out.”

Before I could reply, Hiroto spun in, hands up in a panicked blur. “I know, I know, I’m not supposed to eavesdrop, I swear I’m not breaching confidentiality—Nii-san always puts me in his contracts as remote support. I’m legally allowed to know things!”

I turned to Ryoji, startled.

He didn’t look at me. “He’s my operator,” he said flatly. “Always has been.”

Hiroto beamed. “I help with data relays and fail-safes and intercepts and—oh, oh, and costume planning, though he never listens to that part.”

I blinked again. “You’re his… handler?”

“I prefer ‘embedded genius with field adjacency,’” Hiroto offered brightly.

Ryoji cut in. “The pitcher was your father, Natsumi.”

I stiffened.

“He was supposed to be at the drop site. But the address in Wakkanai led to nothing but an abandoned lot. The building’s vacant. Shut down with the old coal company workers that used to be there.”

My brain turned that over like a lock with the wrong key.

Pitcher. Field. Abandonment.

Then Hiroto gasped. “Wait—baseball man! This is from your informant, right? The one who talks in curveball metaphors? He’s incredible. He once relayed seven locations in a single haiku!”

Ryoji’s mouth twitched. “Even he slipped this time. Told you we were tailed right after contact.”

I felt the chill return. The man on the train. The stares. The way the crowd parted in just the wrong way.

My father—whoever he was—had left behind a trail made of vanishing points.

And somehow, all of it had led to us being here.

In a lab above the map.

With a genius kid in a coat too big, and a man I was starting to trust without understanding.

Ryoji didn’t look at me when he said it.

“Time to call your father, Natsumi.”

I froze.

It wasn’t a suggestion. Not a question, either. Just… a decision, spoken aloud.

Lights popped on in my brain like someone had just flipped a row of emergency switches.

Call him?

Of course.

Why hadn’t I thought of that myself?

But the thought barely formed before another followed it, colder, scarier.

Why now?

Why was Ryoji saying this only now?

He glanced at Hiroto, who was already grinning like someone had just handed him an early Christmas and told him to unwrap it with explosives.

“Ohoho!” the boy cackled, vanishing beneath a workstation.

A moment later he reemerged dragging what looked like a rotary dial telephone that had been fed into a particle accelerator—half Bakelite monstrosity, half biomech relic. A mess of coiled cables, light diodes, and vacuum tubes trailed behind him like a mutated tail.

Wait.

Wait a second.

“Did you bring me all the way to Osaka,” I asked slowly, “just to make a phone call from here?”

Ryoji didn’t answer.

I turned to him, searching his face.

“You do have the number, right?” he asked.

I nodded. “I remember it. By heart.”

I swallowed.

“It’s the weather station’s main hub,” I said, like I was reciting from a memory that wasn’t mine. “I always call there. I leave a message with the station secretary. Then he calls me back. Usually in the evening. Sometimes the next day. It’s just how it’s always been.”

I trailed off.

No—it wasn’t just how it had been.

It was the only way I ever got through. Always a middle step. Always someone else picking up. I hadn’t spoken to him directly in three years. Maybe more. Not without waiting. Not without being routed. Filtered.

My stomach turned and I put a hand across it for comfort.

Who had I been speaking to all this time?

Was he even there? Was he even real?

A crack formed behind my ribs, small but sharp.

I stared at the machine Hiroto was powering up, watched the way it hissed and clicked like a beast stirring from sleep.

Ryoji wasn’t saying anything. He didn’t need to.

That silence said everything.

And I—

I couldn’t run from it anymore.

I squared my shoulders and turned to Hiroto, voice steadier than I expected.

“Set it up. Fast. I want that line live.”

He gave a salute, goggles bouncing. “Hai! Initiating quantum-dial warmup with analog sentimentality overlay. Please hold onto your butts!”

Cables sparked. The room filled with a rising mechanical hum.

And for the first time in years, I was about to hear my father’s voice without the weather in between.