Eclipse - Prologue

© 1998 by E. Liddell


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Author's Notes

Quick reminder: Sailor Moon and its characters are the property of Takeuchi Naoko and a bunch of other people. They don't belong to me. I've just borrowed them for a not-for-profit story. Please don't sue, not that you'd get any money from me anyway.

As promised, here's the story about the youma that I've mentioned a couple of times. Enjoy.

I do love feedback, people! Email eliddell@despammed.com.


He checked his watch. In five minutes, it would be two o'clock in the morning. Good. His waiting was over, then.

He shouldered the battered gym bag and forced himself to walk normally as he left the alleyway and followed the street for two blocks to reach the gates, which stood open. A couple of discreet questions to the planetary computer net, almost three months ago now, had told him that they would be.

The Negaverse had no true night, and so its embassy operated around the clock.

I'm almost there, he thought, staring up at the forbidding grey building. I'm almost free. Just a few more minutes...

Like the gates, the doors that opened onto the building's foyer were monolithic in scale, and slightly ajar. He wondered when they had last been closed. During the Dark Moon War, perhaps? This building had seen quite a bit of history, considering that no one would have considered its existence possible back when his parents had been born.

The faint smile that had been curling the corners of his mouth faded away. His parents...

The huge lobby was completely empty except for a single desk, at the far end, with someone seated behind it. He hiked across the floor, impressed in spite of himself.

The youma behind the desk was reading a comic book -- no, a "manga", he was going to have to remember to think in Japanese -- and paying absolutely no attention to him, so he rapped his knuckles against the nearest hard surface.

"What is it, kid?"

She didn't even look up! He was torn between laughing and crying. He'd pictured this moment in his head several times over the past few months, but never had it included this sort of anticlimax.

"I want to immigrate."

"Yeah? Come back when you're old enough."

"I'm sixteen," he snapped.

"Really?" She glanced down, fished under the desk for a moment, and handed him a wad of papers. "Fill these out, then."

He looked down at what he held in his hand. Forms. In triplicate. Five of them.

The torn feeling inside him became even worse as he fished through his pockets for a stub of pencil.

It was ridiculous. Absurd. Anticlimactic. But at least he was free.

Goto Part I


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