Chapter 10: Calibration

I learned the city had a rhythm before I learned how to breathe in it.

Not a sound—nothing you could hear. It was something deeper, something that pressed and pulled at the edges of my awareness. A constant flow beneath the streets and buildings, threading through people like invisible veins.

AIM fields.

I stood at the edge of the sidewalk, hands tucked into the sleeves of my jacket, watching the crowd move past. Students in uniforms I didn’t recognize. Office workers with tired shoulders. Espers who didn’t even realize they were leaking themselves into the world.

They moved like water around a stone.

I swallowed and stepped forward.

The pressure hit immediately—not sharp, not painful, just present. Fields brushing mine in passing, some faint and scattered, others dense enough to leave a dull ache behind my eyes. I kept walking anyway.

One step.

Then another.

“Talk to me,” Yomikawa said beside me. Not looking at me. Not stopping. Just walking like this was the most normal thing in the world.

I focused on her voice. “There’s… a lot today.”

She hummed. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” I hesitated, then forced myself to keep going. “Most of them are weak. Background noise. Like static.” I glanced sideways at a boy passing us, his field flickering unevenly. “Level One. Maybe Two. He’s not stable.”

Yomikawa raised an eyebrow. “You can tell that?”

“I think so.” My fingers curled slightly. “It’s not just strength. It’s how it moves. Smooth fields feel… quiet. The rough ones catch. Like tripping over loose wiring.”

We passed a vending machine, its mechanical hum cutting through the air.

Behind it, someone leaned against the wall—older student, relaxed posture, confident stride. His AIM field spread wider than the rest, controlled but heavy, like it knew it had space.

“Level Four,” I murmured without thinking.

Yomikawa stopped.

I stopped too, heart jumping, but she didn’t turn toward me sharply. Just… slowly.

“You didn’t even hesitate,” she said.

I blinked. “…Was I wrong?”

Yomikawa slowed just enough to glance at the record pulled up on her device.

“No,” she replied. “You’re just getting scary accurate.”

My stomach twisted—not fear, not pride. Something in between.

We kept walking.

The city didn’t feel smaller.

But it felt… legible.

I flinched as two fields overlapped too close, pain flaring briefly behind my eyes. I stumbled, caught myself before panic could take hold.

Yomikawa adjusted her pace instantly, creating space without saying a word.

I breathed in.

Out.

The pressure faded.

“I used to think power was loud,” I said quietly. “Big effects. Explosions. Flashy stuff.”

“And now?”

“Now I think it’s about control,” I replied. “The strongest ones aren’t the ones you notice first.”

Yomikawa chuckled. “Careful. You’re starting to sound like a professor.”

I snorted softly before I could stop myself.

The sound surprised me.

I realized then that I hadn’t checked for exits in the last five minutes.

Hadn’t counted doors.

Hadn’t braced for hands grabbing me from behind.

The city was still overwhelming. The AIM fields still pressed against me from all sides.

But I was standing.

Walking.

Choosing.

Ahead of us, the road curved toward a school district—taller fences, cleaner sidewalks, students with sharper fields and steadier steps.

I slowed.

Yomikawa noticed immediately.

“We don’t have to go that way,” she said.

“I know,” I replied.

I stared at the path anyway.

“…But maybe next time.”

She smiled—not wide, not proud. Just satisfied.

“That’s how it starts,” she said.

And for once, the city didn’t feel like it was closing in.

It felt like something I could navigate.

I let my attention drift wider—on purpose this time.

Not matching. Not copying.

Just observing.

A cluster of students crossed the street ahead of us, their AIM fields overlapping in a loose tangle. Most of them bled outward without direction, their presence fading the moment they passed.

One didn’t.

Her field held tight to her frame, pulsing in slow, deliberate cycles. Not large. Not overwhelming. But clean. Efficient.

Level Three, I thought.

But trained.

I felt it in the way her AIM didn’t snag on mine, didn’t fluctuate with her movements. It was controlled enough to stay out of everyone else’s way.

I frowned slightly.

“She’s stronger than she looks,” I said.

Yomikawa glanced at me. “Explain.”

“She’s not pushing,” I replied. “Her output’s low, but her structure’s solid. If she wanted to, she could force it higher.”

Yomikawa huffed. “That’s exactly the kind of kid who gives instructors headaches.”

I watched the girl disappear into the crowd.

Power wasn’t just intensity.

It was discipline.

I swallowed, then reached a little farther—testing the edge of what I could tolerate.

A sudden spike flared to my right. Hot. Chaotic. A field that surged outward in jagged bursts, crashing into everything around it.

I winced.

“That one’s dangerous,” I muttered.

Yomikawa didn’t even look. “Level Four?”

“Probably,” I said. “But unstable. He’s forcing it. His control’s lagging behind his output.”

A pause.

“…I think I could overpower him.”

The words surprised both of us.

Yomikawa stopped walking.

I stiffened instinctively—but she didn’t react sharply. Just studied me.

“You sure about that?” she asked carefully.

I nodded, pulse steady. “He’s louder. Not stronger.”

She held my gaze for a long second.

Then she smirked.

“Yeah,” she said. “That tracks.”

Yomikawa didn’t say anything else right away.

She just turned and kept walking, like I hadn’t just said something that should’ve scared her.

That, somehow, scared me more.

We took a turn off the main road, away from the heavier foot traffic. The AIM pressure thinned a little—not gone, but less layered. Easier to breathe through.

“Alright,” Yomikawa said finally. “Let’s put that mouth of yours to work.”

I blinked. “Huh?”

She gestured ahead with her chin. “Training. Real simple. No fighting. No heroics. Just awareness.”

My shoulders tensed automatically. “Here?”

“Here,” she confirmed. “City doesn’t pause just because you’re uncomfortable. Better to learn how to move inside it.”

That was… fair. Unpleasant, but fair.

She stopped near a small open plaza—benches, planters, a bike rack, a convenience store on the corner. People passed through without lingering. Transitional space.

Yomikawa leaned against a railing and crossed her arms. “Rules are easy. You don’t reach out unless I tell you to. You don’t match fields. You don’t push back. You observe, you label, and you ground yourself when it gets too much.”

I nodded slowly. “And if I mess up?”

She shrugged. “Then we stop.”

That was it.

No punishment. No pressure to push through.

My chest loosened a fraction.

“Alright,” she said. “Start talking.”

I closed my eyes for half a second—just long enough to steady myself—then opened them again and let my awareness spread.

The plaza filled in layers.

Close first.

A man sitting on a bench, scrolling through his phone. His AIM field barely extended past his shoulders. Level One almost Zero—nothing to read.

Two girls walking together, arguing quietly. Their fields bumped and tangled as they gestured, both flickering erratically.

“Level Ones,” I said. “They don’t know how to keep it contained.”

Yomikawa made a sound of agreement.

Farther out.

A boy locking up his bike. His field was narrow but sharp, like a blade kept sheathed. Focused.

“Level Two,” I murmured. “Maybe Three. He’s learned restraint.”

Yomikawa shifted, pulling something up on her device without making a show of it.

“…Registered Two,” she confirmed.

That small confirmation sent a jolt through me—not excitement. Certainty.

I wasn’t guessing.

I kept going.

There—near the convenience store entrance. A woman laughing loudly, gesturing with her whole body. Her AIM field flared with every movement, bright and uneven.

“Level Three,” I said. “Untrained. She doesn’t even realize she’s broadcasting.”

“Correct,” Yomikawa said easily.

My head throbbed faintly, pressure building as I held my awareness open.

I adjusted.

Pulled in just a little.

The ache dulled.

“That’s it,” Yomikawa said. “You feel that? That’s you setting the boundary. City stays loud. You don’t.”

I nodded, jaw clenched in concentration.

More people passed.

I labeled them quietly. Levels. Stability. Control.

I wasn’t perfect. A couple of times, I misjudged—thought a field was stronger than it was, or missed instability under a smooth surface. Each time, Yomikawa corrected me with a glance at her records, never harsh, never gloating.

And slowly—so slowly it almost scared me—I realized something.

This wasn’t hurting.

It was tiring. Overstimulating. My temples ached and my shoulders stayed tight.

But it wasn’t panic.

Not anymore.

After a while, Yomikawa checked the time and pushed off the railing.

“That’s enough,” she said. “Before you fry something important.”

I exhaled, the tension draining out of me all at once. My legs felt weak, but steady.

“I didn’t—” I started, then stopped. “…I didn’t dissociate.”

Yomikawa gave me a sideways look. “Yeah. I noticed.”

I stared at the ground for a second, then up at the sky between the buildings.

“I can… tell the difference now,” I said slowly. “Between strength and presence. Between power that’s just there and power that’s being used.”

She nodded. “That’s experience talking. Yours just came faster than most.”

That wasn’t comforting.

But it was honest.

We started walking again, heading back toward home. The city pressed in, AIM fields brushing past me like wind instead of waves.

Manageable.

Not safe.

But manageable.

I flexed my fingers inside my sleeves.

“Yomikawa?” I asked.

“Yeah?”

“…Next time,” I said, choosing my words carefully, “could we try somewhere with more students?”

She glanced at me, surprised—but not alarmed.

“Like where?”

I hesitated, then looked ahead toward the distant fences, the cleaner sidewalks.

“…Near Tokiwadai,” I said.

She didn’t answer right away.

Then, quietly:

“Alright. When you’re ready.”

My chest tightened—not with fear this time.

With intent.

The city didn’t feel conquered.

But it felt readable.

And for now—

That was enough to keep moving.

Tokiwadai felt different the moment we crossed the boundary.

It wasn’t the fence—though it was taller, cleaner, more symbolic than practical. It wasn’t even the uniforms, pristine and unmistakable as they moved in neat clusters across the grounds.

It was the density.

The AIM fields here didn’t just exist. They occupied space.

I slowed without realizing it, my steps faltering as the pressure settled over me like a weighted blanket. Not crushing. Not sharp.

Heavy.

“These ones don’t drift,” I murmured.

Yomikawa glanced at me. “Elite school. High concentration of espers above Level Three. Most of them trained from the start.”

“I can tell,” I said.

The fields here were brighter. Cleaner. More deliberate. Even the weaker ones had structure—habits carved into them through repetition and expectation. No wild flaring. No unconscious bleeding.

They knew they were being watched.

And they didn’t mind.

I breathed in slowly, grounding myself the way we’d practiced. The pressure buzzed along my skin, but it didn’t spike. My head ached faintly, manageable.

Then—

Something cut through it.

Not sharp.

Not violent.

Just… there.

My awareness snapped toward it instantly.

Electric.

That was the first thing my brain supplied—not metaphorical, not poetic. Literal. The AIM field surged and crackled like charged air before a storm, filling the space around it with restless energy.

Loud.

Dominant.

It rolled outward in wide arcs, brushing every other field aside without resistance, like it expected the space to belong to it.

Level Four—

No.

Higher.

My chest tightened reflexively.

But what stopped me cold wasn’t the intensity.

It was the control.

Unlike the unstable Level Fours I’d sensed before—jagged, flaring, desperate to escape their own limits—this one was deliberate. The noise wasn’t a loss of control.

It was a choice.

Like someone speaking loudly because they could, not because they had to.

And somehow—against all logic—it didn’t hurt.

The field washed over me, resonated for a split second—

And settled.

Warm.

Familiar.

My shoulders loosened before I even realized they’d tensed.

“…Huh,” I breathed.

Yomikawa followed my gaze.

A girl stood a short distance away, arguing animatedly with another student near the path. Brown hair tied back, sharp eyes, posture all restless confidence. Sparks danced faintly along a nearby railing, tiny arcs snapping and fading like an afterthought.

Misaka Mikoto.

The name hit me with a strange double weight.

Railgun.

Level Five.

And—

Her.

The character I’d loved long before Academy City stopped being a dream and started being a cage. The one I’d watched throw lightning with a grin, righteous and stubborn and alive.

Seeing her here—real, breathing, leaking power into the air—

It felt unreal in a completely different way.

Her AIM field surged again as she gestured, lightning-bright and impossible to ignore—and yet it never snagged on mine. Never tried to pull. Never tried to overwrite.

It was loud.

But it gave me space.

“That’s…” I searched for the word, fingers curling at my sides. “That’s intentional. She’s projecting.”

Yomikawa nodded. “She does that. Keeps people at a distance.”

I tilted my head slightly. “Yeah. But not to scare them.”

“No?”

“It feels more like…” I hesitated. “Like a warning sign. ‘I’m here. Don’t trip over me.’”

Yomikawa snorted. “That’s one way to put it.”

Mikoto turned then, mid-complaint, and her eyes landed on us.

On me.

The field shifted instantly.

Not weaker—just focused.

Her gaze sharpened, curiosity flickering across her face as she took me in. Hospital-stiff posture. Careful stance. The way my awareness didn’t quite stay where it should’ve.

For half a second, her AIM field brushed mine again—lighter this time.

Testing.

I flinched out of habit—

Then stopped.

It didn’t dig.

Didn’t scrape.

Didn’t flood me with echoes or memories or screaming nerves.

It felt like static electricity after touching a doorknob. Startling, but harmless.

Comfortable, even.

She frowned slightly, then smiled—small, crooked, more confused than hostile.

“…Hey,” Mikoto said. “You okay?”

The question was casual. Unloaded. No expectation attached.

I swallowed, surprised by how easily it landed.

“…Yeah,” I said. “I think so.”

Her field softened around the edges. Not dimmer. Just… kinder.

“Good,” she replied, like that settled it.

Mikoto’s eyes flicked to Yomikawa—too quick to be casual. Took in the stance, the way she walked half a step behind me, the clipped badge at her hip.

Then she jerked her thumb toward Yomikawa. “You dragging Anti-Skill around for fun now?”

Yomikawa sighed. “Watch your mouth, Railgun.”

Mikoto grinned unabashedly.

I watched the exchange quietly, my attention half on Mikoto’s presence, half on myself.

No pain.

No pressure spike.

No unwanted bleed of memory or sensation.

Just energy. Bright and contained.

Electromasters, I realized.

I’d been around their frequencies long enough. I knew their rhythm. The way electricity wanted to move, but could be told where to stop.

And Mikoto—

Mikoto felt like someone who knew exactly where her lines were.

Beneath the sparks. Beneath the attitude.

A kind person, I thought distantly.

The realization surprised me more than her power.

Yomikawa nudged me gently with her elbow. “You still breathing?”

I nodded, a little awed.

“Yeah,” I said. “…This one’s loud.”

Mikoto snorted. “Hey. Rude.”

“But steady,” I added quickly. “And… nice.”

She blinked.

Then laughed, scratching the back of her head. “Uh. Thanks? I think?”

Her AIM field flickered—embarrassment this time, not aggression.

I smiled before I could stop myself.

Tokiwadai still pressed in around me. The fields were still dense. Still heavy.

But standing there, under the crackle of Mikoto’s presence—

I didn’t feel like I was drowning.

I felt like I was learning the current.