"No, dear. Thursday is laundry day, you know that."

"Damn!"

"Crono Alvin Briare, what did you just say?"

"Umm, nothing, Mom!" Crono slumped onto his bed. These clothes reeked. Hell, he'd worn them for... wow, was that only one day? He thought for a second, and then raced to the attic. As he tore up the creaky wooden stairs, he slipped and knocked his face against the floor. He picked himself up, rubbing his forehead. Damned evil floor. Mom told him the other day that his father's old dress uniforms were still up here. Maybe one would fit him. He was, after all, getting to be a man, now. He'd rummaged through a rack of clothes and toiled over a few boxes before he found it: Dad's old sparring togs. Light, comfortable, perfect. Crono stripped off his stanky clothes and pulled on the pants. They were so smooth; it almost felt wrong to wear something that felt so good. He pulled the tunic over his head, buttoning all but the top clasps. At the bottom of the box were the gloves and boots. Thick and glossy, they fit perfectly. Crono tied the sash around his waist a! nd the outfit was complete. He stood before the old, full-size mirror and ran his fingers through his spiky hair. Better hide that, it might tell too much. As he searched for some sort of hood to pull over his head, his fingers fell on the inside pocket of the tunic. A full bandana was folded inside. He wrapped it over his head and positioned the eyeslits. Who was his father to have such a costume? He wished he could get Mom to talk about it, but it still hurt too much. As he started down the steps to his room, his eyes fell on the sword.

Hanging above the stairwell, it had sat, sheathed and untouched since his father had "left". From what little his mother had told him, he'd gathered that King Guardia himself had presented it to his father. He took the sword down from the wall and pulled it delicately from its sheath. It shimmered in the darkness of the attic. Embossed on the base of the blade were images of dragons in battle. Crono remembered what his mother had called this great sword: Murasame. He tied the sheath into his sash and replaced the weapon. He hoped he wouldn't need it.

Crono came to his room and slipped the telecom into the tunic's inside pocket. He tapped it through the shirt and a Gate to the past phased into his room. He gazed with conviction deep into the swirling nether. His friends could be dying, and he was the only one who could save them. As he was about to step in, he glanced at the mirror over his dresser. He smiled through the mask. If his mother could see him now. He wasn't a boy any longer. He was a man. A man in black.