Boman leaned back at his desk. He had made his report to the police, classes were finished for the day, and he was due to meet his volunteers at the Takahashi Clinic in an hour and a half. To walk, he would have to leave in twenty minutes. There was no direct bus route, so taking transit would save him only ten minutes, but he would be more rested when he arrived. Physically rested, that is. Before he arrived in Japan, Boman had never suspected what an ordeal merely being in the presence of strangers could be.

Boman was triply marked to the people of Japan. African heritage, two meters of height and a hundred kilos of bulk. And the mohawk didn't help, however much Boman loved the feel of it. All told, Boman thought he was getting a sense of what it must have been like for a freed slave to move amongst the white masters of the American south. Before Roy's father sent them to investigate Justice High, Boman had been ready to leave, ready to cave in before the sheer... silence of the world outside Pacific High.

Still reclined, with his knees pressing against the underside of his table, Boman looked around his room. Here, it was easy to feel calm and secure in his faith. But it was out that door that his faith and action was needed. Beside the door was a framed piece of paper, bearing only two words: I'm third. Boman didn't need to see the other two lines to read them. God is first. The other guy is second. I'm third.

A large cross hung on the wall behind his computer, with another frame to it's right. This one included the full text, a poem entitled 'The Difference.'

Playing on the speakers of his computer was an mp3 of last's Sunday's choir at his parents' church, sent by a friend back home.

Across from the computer lay his bed, with his pillow set near the window. In Boman's opinion, the east-facing window was the room's best feature. When, at the beginning of his second year, he was assigned this fifth-story single in the student dorm, on the favored side of the building, it seemed to Boman to be more than the random workings of bureaucracy. But, refusing all physical advantage was not a universal part of the Christian faith. Indeed, Boman's reading of the Bible had more in common the concept of karma: Cast your bread upon the waters: for you shall find it after many days. Ecclesiastes 11:1.

But he was going to walk, and he had another crumb to cast out on the way. With a motion of his arms, Boman shifted his center of gravity forward enough to tip the chair back to its normal posture. Placing his palms against the edge of the desk, Boman pushed. And pushed harder, causing the desk to rock into the wall. Finally, the chair moved. The rooms at Pacific were carpeted, so Boman used a plastic mat under his chair's rollers. After over a year of service, the plastic had given in and deformed beneath the wheels.

From the closet Boman donned his jacket and shoes. Rubber overshoes were given brief thought, but the forecast was dry. The single sheet of paper was still in the printer's tray. A few lines only darkened a small part of the paper's surface, but that little was meaningful indeed, and Boman felt a strange frisson of kinship. The few lines he told the police that morning seemed to him like a similarly small but critical part of his life.

There was a lot of white-space on the sheet, but it would serve as padding for the newspaper clipping that it was to share a envelope with. The clipping was the original story that attracted Boman's attention. It announced the official approval of the Takahashi Memorial Clinic, as well as the acquisition of a building, and described in glowing terms the clinic's vision of providing walk-in, competent care for the disadvantaged and those of no fixed address. The paper folded around the article, and both went into the half-sized manila envelope Boman had prepared earlier, then the entire bundle of paper went out the door, in his hand.

Humming under his breath, Boman slid the envelope into the mailbox. Ten minutes from Pacific, he had realized that the music was still on a loop, playing in his room. But it didn't bother him. Perhaps it would brighten the day of someone walking down the hall.

Boman did not believe in supernatural micro-management. There were no angels or demons sitting on his shoulders, making certain that every little thing he did was in accordance with one Plan or the other. There was no one to blame for his actions but himself. That was the meaning of free will, after all. Against this was set the fact that God knew the end of everything from the beginning. Like many young Christians, Boman had found a compromise between the two. It was strange, but truth was often stranger than fiction. God simply knew each and every factor that formed the decisions of human beings. From a person's parents, to the measure of a soul, to the influence of genetics and instinct, God knew it all, and thus nothing could surprise Him.

When everything is known, nothing is random. Einstein was right, God did not play dice. He played a very intricate and elegant game of solitaire, and He knew where every card was. Some Christians insisted on believing that it was a game between God and the Devil, but it wasn't truth. In Isaiah, God said straight out that He forms the light, and creates the darkness. He makes peace, and He creates evil. For there is none other. Why He made angels and a world that would both fall, no one could say. One of the classic citations came to mind, from first Corinthians 13: For now we see as through a glass, darkly; but then face to face: now I know in part, but then I shall know even as I am known.

Boman was at the doors of the clinic, five minutes early. Two of his volunteer group were waiting for him. Thin and of average Japanese height, Shinjo Suyoshi would have been the first, beating the slightly taller Ganta Tsu by no more than ten minutes. Boman knew that Tsu felt the charity work was worth doing, but he probably wouldn't get out and do anything without the reward of the english lessons Boman gave. For him to have arrived more than fifteen minutes early would be a landmark event.

On the other hand, Suyoshi had the most Christian heart of Boman's helpers, and if he had been waiting alone for more than ten minutes, he would have found something useful to do. Kagate Rina was the only confessed Christian in the group, but Shinjo was the most convicted, the most sure of the truth taught in the Bible. The only thing that held him back from confessing his faith was the fact that the elder Shinjos were dedicated Shintoists.

"Hey, Teacher-Boman." As the preacher's son came through the doors, Tsu greeted him in english. "They're still rushes to put this place to purpose. They moved a loony in today!" Tsu was not the best at english, but he wasn't at all embarrassed to show his failings to Boman. How else would he learn properly? Gorin took a stab at preparing students for international competition, but Boman was far better than any of the language teachers there.

Boman's parents each spoke multiple tongues, and they taught him all that they knew between them, as well as hiring native speakers of even more languages to teach him from a his first words. There had been some trouble when a four-year-old Boman was freely using words from a half-dozen languages, but over time the lessons had combined with a study of human nature to make him into a superb linguist and orator.

"'Loony' hasn't been on any of our vocabulary sets. Do you know the full form, and its origin?"

"Sure, sensei, its from 'lunatic,' right?"

Suyoshi chipped in with the second answer. "And that comes from superstition about the moon."

"Good, between the two of you. I'm glad you aren't just depending on me to teach you." Ganta shot a grateful look to Suyoshi, clueing Boman in on which of the two actually learned the word. "Now, what do you mean by a lunatic?"

Tsu switched back to japanese. "He's in one of the rooms. The guy doesn't really seem dangerous or anything, he just babbles and tries to pull everything apart to see what it's made up of."

"I cannot say that I am completely surprised." Boman replied in careful english. "In public, the health department has been talking about how much they support this place. In private, they have been telling Sasayaka-sensei to hurry and take pressure off the other facilities. To take pressure off the important facilities." The two Japanese nodded their understanding. 'Sasayaka-sensei' was the doctor in charge of the Takahashi Clinic, and the small but intelligent man simply informed Boman of what tasks his crew could help with most, and let the American organize his people.

The rest of the staff were somewhat amused by the antics of the volunteers, and were grateful enough for any help that they made things as easy as possible on the seven of them. At full complement, the staff would total only thirty-seven: six doctors and six assistants for each daytime shift, and half that many for the night shift, along with Dr. Sasayaka and his half-dozen administrative staff. At this point only two-thirds of the positions had been filled, even counting interns as full staff members. Thus, seven young, strong bodies were an answer to prayer.

"Let's leave off the partitions today, and focus on unpacking for the finished rooms. I think we may get help with the manual labor."

"Hey, Sensei?" Suyoshi stuck his head around the partition Boman was behind.

"Need help?"

"No... But, I... I think you should see this..." As soon as they were moving, the young Japanese began to fill his mentor in. "Two days ago, I got here early. You remember? Well, before you arrived, I started unpacking. It is easier to do alone." The pair reached one of the far corners of the first floor, a room they had finished quickly, in case any of the patients needed quiet. Now, the plate beside the curtained entryway informed the world that the room was occupied. "Tsumetai-sensei told me to start back here - the lunatic was not moved in until today." The one word was expressed in english, while the Shinjo youth twisted his hands together nervously.

"But, what is the problem? He," a jerk of Boman's head indicated the doorway, "isn't dangerous, is he?"

"No, and he is strapped down anyway. I don't really know why he's here. The chart says he's an America-jin or something. Perhaps he broke down while he was visiting, and they need to hold him somewhere until they send him home... But he just says weird and twisty surrealistic things, he's fine..."

"Suyoshi." Boman took his follower by the shoulders, and turned him so he would look up at Boman. "Recite the start of Psalm 91 for me, Suyoshi."

Taking a deep breath made Suyoshi feel the weight of the huge palms on his shoulders, the strong but gentle fingers curving over to his back. It was so easy to forget his nervousness with Boman around. He had no fear of blows or harsh words from the giant, but he knew that Boman would use either to defend him.
"He that dwelleth in the secret place of the most High shall abide under the shadow of the Almighty,
"I will say of the lord, He is my refuge and my fortress: my God, in him will I trust.
"Enough?"

The teeth were always startlingly white in the dark face. "It is enough when you feel its truth."

"I feel it." Despite the small shock each time, Boman's smile was so sincere that Suyoshi always found himself returning it. "The problem." One last deep breath before moving out from under the future preist's hands. "Since you decided to have all of us do lighter stuff today, I came back here to pick up where I left off, and..." Shinjo pulled the curtain aside, revealing the room. A single bed, with its occupant and a chart hanging from the footboard. A single box in the corner, when two or three are normal to stock a cupboard. An open cupboard, every shelf bare.

Boman walked over to the open storage unit, and ran a hand along the edge of the door. A third of the way from the top, his finger caught for an instant. "You taped on the usual inventory list, but it's gone too."

"Searching for what's gone is metalogical suffocation. If hope deferred makes the kestrel bored, then let the penguin go to its own first birthday." The calm voice, slightly deeper than average, did not fit Boman's conception of a lunatic, but the words were strange enough, and would only seem weirder to Japanese ears already working just to understand english. The churchman turned to look at the bed.

Lying in the bed seemed to be a human art project in overlays. A frame bare inches shorter than Boman's left black leather boots dangling over the end of the cot. Long matte black hair cascaded in a wonderfully gothic fashion, but was showing a plain brown at the roots. Both hands were bound, but the restraints seemed lost amidst the fantastic jumble of trinkets at the wrists, about half of which appeared to be real jewlery. Almost no plain skin could be seen on the bare arms, but every tattoo showed signs of wear, or was pealing around the edges. Eyes were lost behind two sets of lenses: dark blue mirrored clip-ons over rose-colored lenses.

"What is your name?"

"That question you could ask yourself, and do me the discourtesy of telling me what answer you come up with, alright? For the hand is quicker than the eye, but the mouth is slower, as the paradigm shift noticed, spilling tea over its own chin. What is shown to the world on paper is fundamentalist and misanthropomorphic."

Boman extracted a small fragment of meaning. "I'm Boman Delgado," he said, while moving over to check the chart. "Jonathan Gordon? And you're Canadian, not American."

"Yes! Even though I hate beer, I AM THAT I AM, CANADIAN! The mountain of rivers in winter and July separates me from the lumber-labor-brain-taxing Americans. Knowing that is equal to the feeling when the sun makes the sugar and spice crumble into the surreal joy of getting the last bite of a chicken burger."

Trying to follow the conversation literally, Suyoshi shuddered. "The last bite of whose chicken..." Boman glanced over and silenced him with a slight shake of the mohawk-topped head.

"Jonathan, may I ask you something? Did you see who took the boxes, and the bottles from the cabnet?"

"I saw it, just after the pouring of pelican's blood into my veins. Not long ago, that was. Soon, the pelican shall lull me to sleep and forgetfulness, it will allow me to forget the seed and the rot. Did you know, the spillage of pelican lifehope is the fourth sign of the End of Days? A black winged horse is born, with ten endings born in a manger. The seven seals, the seven vials, and the seven trumpets all wait in the black wings. A word of advice to those who FEAR: Clean the bath houses."

The flood of mangled biblical references threaten to distract Boman, but he kept his attention on his line of questions. "The man who gave you the... pelican's blood. Did he take the bottles?"

"Yes! The lifehope of a pelican came to me through a bottle, but it cannot return for the bottle was taken! King Sol and Queen Luna are displeased. I understand. You want to know HE. Well, know this well: HE came, and it seemed HE could not give without taking, and HE could not take without giving. HE wants to stand at the fulcrum."

"So, a man came, gave you your medication, and took the supplies with him? Did you see what he looked like?"

"I saw. I saw the granny, wheeling her chair at a hundred miles per hour. I saw the black-garbed strangers, marching in a procession... I looked into... their eyes." Jonathan's eyelids began to flutter, the drug taking hold of his mind. "The other world... the next... world." His eyes closed.

"Jonathan... Jonathan?" Boman gave up and turned to the silent observer. "Suyoshi, what kind of stuff was in this cupboard?"

"Well, it was the psychoactive stuff, Sensei. Stimulants, tranquilizers, anti-depressants..." He looked up into Boman's eyes as the idea that this could be theft occurred to him for the first time. "A lot of the stuff would have a street value."

"I'll go talk with Sasayaka-sensei."

"Hmm. So that's how it is. I have to point out, someone is certain to blame your people."

Boman nodded. The fact had crossed his mind. "The question is, will it just be someone who doesn't like my presence here, or will it be the real culprit?"

As it turned out, it was Dr. Tsumetai. One of those most opposed to a foreigner having anything to do with Japanese health-care, as well as being already involved. Of course, even before the reason for the meeting was revealed, no one would admit to giving medication to Jonathan. Whoever it was would have known what was up immediately.

"Boman-sensei?" Kongen Meiji asked quietly, as the seven members of the volunteer group settled in around two tables. As normal they had come to the Tokurodo tea house after finishing at the clinic. It was just down the street, so it didn't take any of them far off their route home. The name was an extra attraction.

Tokurodo was the name of the owner, but it translated to 'virtuous labor,' and that was apropos enough to be irresistible.

Like Suyoshi, Kagate Rina, and Doro Camui, Meiji attended Taiyo. Boman's group was actually listed as a 'club' there. There were no other Pacific students to in the volunteer group, but Boman was afraid to push too hard, since he had to see them day in and day out. Only Ganta Tsu and his roommate Ippen Gekido were from Gorin.

Kongen was tall for a Japanese, and quiet. Very often he would listen to the subtext of the conversation going on around him instead of asking questions, and when he did ask, it was often about something different from the topic under discussion. Boman gestured to him to continue.

"Have you learned more about the Games?" The Taiyo-Pacific Games had been a disaster. No one would blame Boman directly, and in fact everyone knew he had done nothing wrong, but still it hurt. The Games had been his project from the beginning. The idea for them had been around for a while, but it had been Boman who talked to key members of the Pacific Student Council about it, and he had taken an afternoon to go over to Taiyo, and float the idea amidst the clubs there.

"No, I haven't found out any more about what happened." Boman and a couple other students had been on the other side of the field, talking to some faculty from both schools, when the fight broke out. "No one remembers who started the argument. No one remembers who threw the first blow, aside from it being a Pacific student."

The fact that it had turned out so badly reflected on Boman, whether he was to blame or not. He was toying with the idea of holding a second day of events. If it worked out, then the goal of easing tensions between the schools would be acheived, and win or lose, the Pacific students would look forward to next year. But if it went wrong again, Boman's influence would fade to a shadow of what it had become this year. Losing influence was no something he was afraid of, but without it he would be far less effective. Boman had become accustomed to being able to help someone in need, or right a wrong, simply with a quiet word in the proper ear. And he might not have access to those ears without his reputation.

"Let's start today's practice," said Boman in the careful english he used for teaching, "while I tell the rest of you about what I interrupted on my way home last time, and what Suyoshi found today..."

Boman was on his way back to Pacific, feeling even more drained than last night. He had told his people the same bland story of an easily frightened mugger, and it felt even worse than when he told it to the police that morning. Even the teaching hadn't stopped his mood from falling.

Boman's parents had begun his training in languages early, even before he was learning to read, and he both enjoyed teaching languages and was good at it. Learning languages was easy for him as well, since he already knew some of every language group on the planet. But even that had been part of the problem that drove him over here. From his earliest memories into his teens, every day had been full, with lessons and church services, private schooling and physical training, both exercise and basic self-defense.

The question had slowly grown in his mind. Why was it so important that he present a good image? Why did he have to be there, on the front pew at Saturday prayer meeting, or leading a youth group? Why did he have to be able to talk to almost anyone, and do so clearly and effectively?

A teenage need for space and independence pushing at him, Boman had made his decision. He told his parents the reasons for his choice, all of them real, all of them honest. He told them both the goals and the questions, and they gave their blessing to his plan. Although they made it clear that they expected him to return to the US for his degree in theology.

Boman leaned against the corner of a building, and smiled. He had not truly understood what it was to be an outsider, and he had almost given up when his answers came in a dramatic fashion. Five schools, united by fate. Friendship and spirit overcoming even brainwashing. The mark of God's creation was in all people, and that was why he must do everything he could to see that they learned the truth.

Not that everything had been perfect since then. But it had been good. Now...

Boman pushed off the wall, and noticed what alley he was beside. He had paused here many times, but now a single memory would shape his impression. Red eyes, light glinting off fangs, his cross shining with the Faith of Man, not the Love of God...

Now he was confused again.

Author's note: No, that isn't how I really look. It's a metafloor. ^_^