An Unknown Man
Okita
"Yamada-san . . . Yamada-san . . . Yamada-san?"
Ah, that's right. That's you. At least, that's what they call you here, but it has never felt right. It doesn't feel like you.
The man blinked, shook his head and smiled, "I am so sorry Kinoshita-san! I was thinking what a shame it was we couldn't go outside."
Kinoshita coughed and pushed his glasses up his nose, "Yes, well . . . if the pollution didn't keep us indoors then the freezing temperatures would have."
Yamada gave a thick and phlegmy cough as he stuttered out, "Hm the cold never bothered me."
"Yes . . . anyways," the man never knew what to do with Yamada; he wasn't like the other inhabitants. He did not have the symptoms of heavy use and he seemed perfectly functional. That didn't mean he wasn't a user though. And if it weren't for the fact that he had appeared suddenly, horribly thin, at death's door, and unconscious he would never have believed the man to actually belong here. But he knew the man did belong, he had seen the scars. Scars that only a heavy user would have. Despite that, the man had no signs of use. He was getting sidetracked, "How are you feeling this morning? I see you combed your hair, that's good! Do you remember anything?"
The corners of Yamada's smile quirked, it was always the same question, "I remembered to wake up on the right side of the bed today."
Kinoshita clicked his tongue and looked disapprovingly. "Yamada-san. I am here to help you. How can I do that if you don't take these sessions seriously?"
Yamada blinked and then bowed his head, "My deepest apologies for wasting your time! I know you are only trying to help and have only the fairest of judgment for us."
Kinoshita gritted his teeth, there it was the slight sarcasm and act. Who did Yamada think he was? The addict didn't even remember his name. "Thank you for your apology, but how are you this morning?"
Yamada straightened his blanket, breathed in, and said, because why the hell not, "I had a dream last night."
"Why don't you tell us about it." Kinoshita didn't understand what the nurses saw in this man. His hair was too long, his beard and scraggly mustache did not really suit him …
"Someone is calling out my name. I can't see their face, and I can't really hear what they're saying but I know they are saying my name." Yamada popped an orange slice in his mouth as he took his time. The truth was, he didn't really remember much from his dream. It was always the same dream though, and every morning he'd wake up completely frustrated at his uselessness. He was wasting his time here. He didn't belong here. And every morning he woke up, he wanted to scream and cry. He didn't, but the bitterness was there. When he decided he had kept the therapist waiting long enough (the man was starting to grind his teeth back and forth) he smiled and said, "What can I say? It's a dream. The streets are splattered with blood," the other patients shiver and lean in a little closer," and you can hear the sound of metal hitting metal. Then, suddenly I am no longer holding a sword but a gun and it's gunfire not metal on metal."
Kinoshita made a sound at the back of his throat, "What do you remember about this someone?"
"I can't really see his face, but he feels familiar. Black hair? Narrow eyes? Too tall? Two arms? Two legs?" Yamada said as he tapped his fingers against his knee.
"Yamada-san, please be serious now!"
Yamada chuckled, "I don't know what he looks like, but sometimes I am angry at him. He's not always nice, but I know he's a good man. It's odd."
"I think it is obvious. You are dreaming of yourself, and you are angry that you let yourself use. This war is a metaphor for every addict's struggle with addiction. Yes... I am sure that's it." Kinoshita smiled smugly.
"Yes, there really is a lot more we can unpack from this dream, but we don't have time. Thank you for sharing." Kinoshita smiled half heartily and turned to another patient, completely satisfied in his interpretation of Yamada, "Yamaguchi-san! And how are you this morning?"
Yamada didn't care that the man didn't like him. He was an idiot anyways (for some reason that made him smile), and he preferred it when the man didn't talk to him.
He was just about to lose himself in his thoughts again, trying desperately to remember every scrap of the dream, he felt closer this time, when another patient leaned in and said, "I believe you."
Yamada patted the hand on his, "Thank you." He then turned to look out the window.
He was getting closer. He could feel it. He wondered about the world beyond this place. Was there someone waiting for him to remember? Did he have people out there? Maybe he had nothing. After all, he had been here for several months. . . Was he better off not remembering?
No. He did not belong here. He could feel the restlessness in his soul. He coughed.
Dr. Takani
Outside of the rehabilitation center, a car stopped close to the entrance. The driver, a rather large, lumpy sort of security officer stepped out and opened the passenger door.
Its inhabitant, a slight, elderly gentleman wearing a crisp, charcoal colored suit and carrying what had to be one of the most antiquated medical bags known to be in use in New Meiji stepped out.
Eyes squinting a bit beneath trifocals (the old fellow had never been one for the universally adopted retinal therapy, and preferred good-old fashioned lenses) the physician looked at the secured entrance of the center. For him, the definition of secure was materially different than what the operators of the facility deemed appropriate, especially for one of the "patients" inside.
Thin lips pinched, as if he was impatient or in a hurry, and without a glance back at his driver, he elderly man walked to the clinic door, waived some ID at the attendant and was ushered inside.
Escorted by a clinic administrator who was becoming more nervous by the minute, the old man walked briskly down the polished halls. This was an old facility, one of many left around after the civil war, but was in comparatively good shape to many medical facilities that catered to the destitute, forgotten and unwanted members of society.
(I wonder if that is what has prolonged his reaction?) The doctor mused as he entered the elevator with the administrator, who was now chattering like an insipid little rodent about KPI's, rehabilitation success rates, recidivism percentages and other metrics that had absolutely no bearing on whether or not the center would stay in business. This center, like many others, was simply a location from where to identify and select subjects for testings, and in some rare circumstances, this being one of them, examine the reactions of said test subjects in a more...benign environment than a top-secret military facility.
(Perhaps putting a subject in a more stress inducing environment right after testing has concluded would be more advantageous?) The doctor nodded slightly to himself as he considered the merits of triggering the flight or fight response as quickly and efficiently as possible. That was, after all, what this was about. Fight or flight being harnessed (specifically the fighting part) to a degree that human evolution was not capable of naturally achieving. True, casualties, whether to the subjects or to those caring for them, would be higher, but inversely so would the probability of a breakthrough.
(And I need one of those...now)
The old doctor scowled, sending the administrator nearly into hysterics.
There had been some good results in the testing, some VERY good results, in fact. Unfortunately due to the incompetence of the military (and in one singular case his own lack of judgement) the most interesting subjects were making a habit of either being killed in altercations or escaping from the testing facilities. It was very annoying, expensive and caused delays in timelines and funding opportunities. He hated delays. Always had. Always would.
"Where is the patient?" he snapped at the administrator.
"Uh..." Nervously the administrator thumbed through medical charts and schedules. "Well, with it being this early in the morning, initial patient observation and assessments are being completed."
"I want to see the patient."
"Now?"
The doctor looked at the administrator, making a mental note to ensure that the man was terminated from his position for being, as so many others in his field were, incompetent and absolutely useless to the cause at hand.
"NOW".
Okita
Shit. His heart stopped for a moment and he felt the chill in his bones. Something was terribly wrong. Please let them be ok. Please, oh PLEASE!
He watched the tall man tear through the house, and he heard himself call out to him. No, you have to find them. He'll find her.
He turned a corner, it was chaos, the furniture thrown about, and there was blood. But what unsettled him was the smell, the smell of death. SHIT.
He turned another corner only to realize he was back where he started. He grasped the doorframe, breathed, and tried to back track but as soon as he went through the door he was right back in the same room.
He shouted out to them. Nothing. He shouted again, and again nothing. He went through the door again. But he was still in the room. He tried walking out of the room backwards, but the room only seemed to get longer.
It was maddening. He couldn't get out. He was stuck. SHIT! He didn't have time for this!
Where were they? His heart pounded away painfully, his head spun with terrible possibilities. NO! Don't go there.
He could even taste the fear . . . No, that was blood. He had bitten his cheek to keep from screaming out in hysterics. Damn it, WHERE WERE THEY?
He tried going through another door, but ended up in the same room again. He screamed out, "TSUTOMU!"
Yamada gasped as he hunched over the sink, and watched his tears drip down. He took giant breaths. Gods, it hurt to breathe. That had felt far too real. It still felt too real, but it was just a dream. Right? His heart gave a painful pang, and without really thinking about it he thought, "Where are they?"
He shook his head, and splashed water on his face. Even if it wasn't a dream he was useless. He didn't even know who this Tsutomu was or is. Hopefully it is an "is".
That's what he got for dozing off at the arts table.
He was just shuffling out the bathroom when a nurse approached him; she was a pretty and young thing, and Yamada couldn't help but worry about her, she was so innocent.
"Yamada-san!" She smiled, and blushed when he smiled back at her. And not for the first time wondered what he looked like without the beard and mustache. The mustache he filled in with her eyebrow pencil.
"Ah! Shiori-san, you came in on this dreadful day?"
"I had to come in, we're so understaffed."
Yamada waited for the nurse to reach him before offering her his arm, "How lucky for me! It's always so lonely without you here." He said it with a touch of despair.
Shiori laughed, "You're a terrible flirt."
"Ah yes well, I have so few pleasures here and your company just happens to be one of them."
Shiori blushed, how could he still look so charming? "My boyfriend says you're an awful influence on me."
"Me?!" Yamada looked affronted. "You're the one sneaking me cookies and mochi."
"Hmm, yes but you're the one that told me to stand up to him."
Yamada nodded, "That's because you deserve the best Shiori-san." He led them to a quiet corner where no one would notice. Shiori liked to share her relationship troubles with him, and sometimes she even showed him videos about the outside world on her phone. It seemed that life was "going to hell in a hand basket" as her boyfriend, the conspiracy theorist, liked to say.
Shiori sat down, "Oh! Guess what? I am finally going to meet his parents tonight." She smiled a proud smile.
Yamada however frowned, "You haven't met his parents yet? How long have you been together?"
"Don't judge! Anyways, he sent me a video to watch. Do you want to watch it with me?"
"Is it a video where people are getting hurt and it's supposed to be funny?" Yamada sighed, why were those things funny? He didn't get it.
"No, this is politics. He says it's a big deal but I get so bored watching." She took out her phone, careful to turn her back so that it was out of view.
"Politics! Now that's something that's always funny." He inched in a little closer. This was indeed something that was far more interesting than men getting hit in the balls. Though when you thought about it, getting hit below the belt was the essence of politics.
"Here it is!" Shiori hit the start button and made sure the volume was low.
Yamada watched the video start up, policemen were lined up and it looked very official. Something big must have happened. Just as he was thinking that he got his next big shock of the day, a man walked onto the stage. A tall man with predatory eyes, a familiar man, a man he had seen in his dreams. The man of his dreams so to speak, and if he wasn't having trouble breathing he might have laughed at his own stupid joke. But right now, he was so far from laughing. He didn't even realize when he had snatched the phone out of Shiori's hand. He was so engrossed that he didn't see the momentary fear in her eyes or hear her gasp.
No, he started the video from the beginning and watched the man walk onto the stage again. He did it again, and because that wasn't enough he restarted the video again so that the man walked onto the stage four times.
"Today's conference will be conducted by the new Superintendent of our Criminal Investigations Department. Major Saitoh Hajime has been tasked with leading this investigation…"
The world really was going to hell in a hand basket!
"Y- Ya- Yamada-san?" Shiori's voice was quiet and tentative. The man had never done anything to scare her before, and she could tell he wasn't planning to attack, but it had scared her. She hadn't even seen him move!
He looked up at her with eyes very different than the ones she was used to. They seemed older and suddenly very alert, the laughter was gone. His very presence had changed.
" . . . Saitoh Hajime." His voice was barely a whisper, and his eyes glazed over. As Shiori took the phone from him he felt the slight tremble of her hands. He shook his head hard, but that only made the dizziness worse.
"Do you know him?" Shiori whispered. She didn't know why but this seemed like the kind of moment where one whispered.
"Shiori-san, put away your phone but show me the video later okay?"
Shiori's mouth hung open at Yamada's tone. It was direct and not at all the playful tone she was used to.
Yamada smiled and muttered under his breath, "Someone is coming our way." He straightened up, and leaned back into the chair, "I am sorry Shiori-san if I scared you."
Dr. Takani
"The patient is in here, Takani-sensei."
The administrator pushed open the door to the arts and crafts area of the clinic.
"Ah, good morning, Yamada-san. Enjoying some crafts, are we?" The administrator (unaware that his employment was all but terminated) gave the patient a nervous, watery smile. "The arts are the way to the soul, after all..." After getting a disgusted side-eye from Dr. Takani, he shut up so quickly that his teeth clicked together.
Takani stared at the thin, scraggly man. (I wonder...) Out of the many test subjects they'd experimented on, this patient had been one of the hardest to subdue, to break. Already possessing faster than normal reflexes and a higher IQ than the vast majority of involuntarily incarcerated serum candidates, he'd been such a promising, interesting specimen of a man and had fought, lethally when pressed, then savagely when cornered, to keep his body and mind whole.
Pursing his lips, Takani turned his head slightly, as if studying a tissue specimen under glass. The patient had gained weight, but not much and was, per usual, wearing that boyish, disarming smile. Soldiers and scientists who had taken his slight nature for granted or his smile for a sign of complacency, had done so at their peril. For many, the last thing they experienced before life left them was the image of that slender smiling man, right before he went for them.
(...do you still dream of streets bathed in blood?)
Okita
"The arts are the way to the soul, after all..."
Yamada watched as the two men approached, one he knew fairly well but the other . . . he hated on sight. He couldn't say why, but if he had been a wolf he would have bared his teeth and growled (or even better, sunk his teeth into his neck). There was just something about him . . . Something that made him want to push Shiori behind him, keep her out of the doctor's notice.
He could tell by the shrewd look the man was giving him that he was being studied. He also saw that this was a man of great importance, judging by the way the administrator was ready to piss himself.
It wouldn't due though to show how much he noticed.
So he grinned and laughed, "I absolutely agree!" He then winked, "Do you want to see my soul?"
Without waiting for an answer he stood up and walked to the table he had been napping at earlier. Hopefully drawing the man's attention away from Shiori. He shuffled through several large sheets of paper until he found the one he wanted, "Behold!"
Yamada proudly held up his work art, it was a crudely drawn picture of a sunfish that looked eerily like his therapist Kinoshita. The sunfish was even proudly sporting Kinoshita's glasses and there were even tufts of hair that mimed the way Kinoshita attempted to cover his balding head.
Before the men could say anything in response Yamada quickly displayed another drawing, this one of Kinoshita as a dung beetle. "I think that has to be my favourite one. I think it really captures the way he just gathers all that shit and tries to make something out of it." Yamada nodded philosophically, "But shit is still shit."
Yamada put down the drawings and sighed, "My therapist doesn't think they're very good, but there's no accounting for taste."
"So, what do you think?"
Dr. Takani
"Yamada-san!" The administrator was appalled. Mortified. Horrified. "THAT is not what art therapy is supposed to be about. Not at all!"
The fact, though he would never admit it, that he could clearly see a likeness of Kinoshita in the sunfish, to say nothing of the industrious little dung beetle, wasn't the point. Art was supposed to be the window to the soul of a troubled addict, not a sarcastic commentary about a respectable therapist.
"I'll have you know that I'm putting a note of this in your file." Yamada had a very, very large file.
The nurse made a sound. She was trying to stifle a smile. The administrator looked at her sharply.
"So you find this funny?"
The nurse shook her head and looked down at the floor. "No, Sir." She now looked frightened. Good. At least someone in this room had a semblance of sense.
"I would caution you against spending too much time with Yamada-san, my dear. He's not a good influence on anyone, leastwise employees of this medical clinic who wish to remain employed!"
Spit may or may have gone flying at the last part. The Administrator hoped to high heaven (and his current pension balance) that the physician standing beside him hadn't noticed.
He had. He noticed everything.
"Get out," Takani said acidly, without even bothering to look at his colleagues. "Both of you." He was disgusted at the lack of professionalism in this place. It was no wonder that the test patient wasn't exhibiting a more pronounced reaction to the serum testing. He was being treated by idiots.
Takani did catch the nurse's expression towards the patient as she quickly left the room, worry and concern clear on her face. (Interesting... I wonder if she'd be a useful trigger mechanism?) This patient had, after all, always thought himself so gallant with the ladies, so protective. Takani smiled thinly as memories played through his mind like a business presentation. (Not that he'd been able to save any of the female subjects at the facility.) He'd seen to that, hoping that it would trigger an outburst worth documenting from the patient. (And it did. The test subject had performed admirably. Exceeded expectations.)
Speaking of the test subject. They were alone now and it was time to get to the business at hand.
Takani walked slowly to one the the art tables and set his heavy, leather medical bag down. (You remember this bag, don't you?) In some way, shape or form, they all did...eventually. Things came out of the bag that weren't very nice. Things that hurt. Things that harmed. Things that killed.
Slowly, his eyes never leaving the patient, he opened the brass fasteners on the bag, the hiss and then subsequent click of metal the only sound in the room. Once opened, Takani reached into the bag...
Okita
"THAT is not what art therapy is supposed to be about. Not at all!"
Yamada's grin became lopsided as he said, "but it does my soul good!" He then laughed at the administrator's threat and pulled out an orange from his robe, taking food out of the cafeteria was against regulations.
But before any more threats could be said, the man ordered everyone out, and placed his bag on a table.
It was such a simple act but Yamada could feel every hair, every nerve tingle, and the urge to violently hurt the man intensified. The man watched him with sadistic pleasure as he opened his bag.
As Yamada watched the man reach into the bag he desperately fought the urge to rub the scars on his arms. Just as he fought the physical reaction, he tried to ignore the image that came to him.
An image of Shiori strapped down onto a metal table begging for her life, and a voice that said, "you wont be able to save her. Just like the others. You are useless."
Don't go there he told himself. Not right now, not here.
So he tilted his head to the side, smiled, and raised an eyebrow as though to say, "and what?" He stuck an orange in his mouth.
Around his mouthful of orange he said, "I'd introduce myself but I think you know more than I do." He swallowed, his scars burned, "They call me Yamada here, you can call me God."
Dr. Takani
(He does remember the bag...) Takani smiled to himself. It was always nice to have your handwork remembered, after all.
"Why don't I just call you by your real name, Okita-san?" He doctor looked up at the test subject as he pulled out a fountain pen and a notebook. "And yes, you are correct, I know you very well indeed.
Turning towards the patient, Takani flipped open his notebook and began writing.
Okita
Okita looked thoughtful, "Okita? I like the sound of that. Now, that doesn't sound common at all."
Dr. Takani
Takani documented the response. He documented everything.
"An uncommon name, for an uncommon man. How apropos, ne?"
Takani walked over, close to where the test subject was sitting.
"Tell, me Okita-san. Why are you here?" He motioned vaguely to the art room (what a ridiculous waste of space for a facility). "Why are you, uncommon name or not, being held in a rehabilitation center for addicts, derelicts and other unwanted members of society?"
Looking up, the doctor pushed his trifocals till they fit tightly against the bridge of his nose. "Do you remember why you were brought here? What you did to deserve this?"
The man was playing a game, a dangerous game, and he had the advantage. Okita would just have to play with what he had, wit and instinct. (Unless the man had a proclivity for oranges and a secret ambition to become an art dealer. Nothing would surprise him today though.)
Still, Okita allowed himself a few seconds to reflect over the information he had just been handed. It was a lot to take in, and if he had been anyone else he might have gone into hysterics or demanded answers. Okita didn't. The man did say he was uncommon though, whatever that meant.
Okita knew there was only one way to really get information from this man, and that was playing along. He didn't have to make it easy for him though.
"Uncommon you say?" Okita laughed. "I'll take your word for it. Why don't you tell me who I am and why I am here?"
He rubbed his chin, "While you are at it why don't you tell me who you are, and what you want. "
Dr. Takani
"Part of your rehabilitation is to remember who you are and what you are capable of doing."
Dr. Takani looked at the patient over the top of his trifocals, visually dissecting him as if he was a creature on glass, exposed and pinned for examination in a biology class.
"I'm sure you've noticed the scars on your arms and other parts of your body. What story, I wonder to they tell? Drug addicts tend not to have good stories, you know, even those with a penchant for trying to play the savior. Perhaps that's why you are trying so hard not to remember. There are, memories, after all the even the bravest man would rather not think about."
The leaned back and gave the man a bright, smile that didn't remotely come close to meeting his dark eyes. "As for who I am, isn't it obvious? I'm your doctor, Oktia-san. I have been for oh, let me think...nearly a year now?"
"Surely, you remember me, after all that we've been through?"
Okita
"I can't say that I do." Or that I am sorry I don't remember.
This man liked to hear himself talk, didn't he?
Okita really wanted to roll his eyes and shake his head. Instead he coughed, and out of the corner of his eye he saw how the Dr. paid very very close attention. His coughing fit while annoying, and completely ill timed did give him a chance to think of what the Dr. had said.
The man said nothing and everything all at once. He had thrown out words like capable, savior, brave, and oddest of all . . . drug addict. How did drug addict fit in?
When the coughing had finally subsided, he cleared his throat, and finished off the orange. He waited to see what else the "good" Dr. gave him.
Dr. Takani
"What? No witty retort? How odd."
Dr. Takani was scribbling on his notepad again, no longer looking at the patient.
Subject has indications of bronchial infection. Production of sputum evident. No signs of shortness of breath, though chest discomfort, fatigue and fever cannot be ruled out. Based on patient history, my confirmation of physical symptoms cannot be safely engaged in. Will delegate physical examination to G. upon placement. Unknown if current respiratory state is due to side effect of testing or due to unhealthy air quality, with the latter being more likely.
"Well, I don't blame you for coughing, though you really should get that looked at. The air outside is just appalling."
More scribbling and writing ensued as did a temporary silence between the two men.
"I had hoped you'd be well enough to leave here without further complications, but clearly, as your doctor, I must consider your long-term health now that it's evident you are still unwell. Pity, that."
Okita
Okita laughed, "I am grateful for your concern Dr. Sinister, but why would I waste perfectly good humour on you?"
"I don't think wit and humour are really to your taste." Okita gave the doctor his lopsided grin. "What do you want from me? Really? You won't tell me your name, you won't tell me why I am here."
Then after a second's pause he leaned forward putting his elbows on the table and said, "What did I do to deserve your notice?"
The doctor was determined not to give anything away, but he had to have come for reason. He braved the pollution, but for what? To see his patient? He could have sent anyone to do that. He could have done that virtually.
No, he was here for a very specific purpose of that he was sure.
"You come here despite the weather," he wanted to rub his arms, "We both know I am at your mercy here." He wanted to growl this last part, but growling more Saitoh's. What was the man doing right now? Was he – NO, right now was not the time.
Dr. Takani
"It must be so frustrating not to be able to remember. For what it's worth, Okita-san, this long term-amnesia was not anticipated. I'd apologize further, but must confess that I am very curious, strictly from a medical perspective of course, how you'll cope."
"Perhaps the trauma you've experienced has permanently damaged your long term memory, and you'll spend the rest of your life in a perpetual fog," Takani finished scribbling his notes. Yes, G. would need to handle the ongoing elements of this subject's care. Despite his best efforts today, the desired reaction, had, unfortunately, not occurred. "Perhaps your memories will return, bloody as they may be."
"We're patriots, you and I." Takani said, and for a moment, the professional facade slipped like an oily thing from his narrow face, revealing naked zeal. "I may not look the part, but I have more blood on my hands than even you, my boy. I have sacrificed everything for the greater good, my wife, my children, every binding tie that bound me to anything but this cause."
Takani mastered himself, slipping the mast back on with little difficulty. After all, he'd had decades of practice. "Why should you be any different?"
Standing, he looked at his test subject once more, his gaze once again cold and clinical as he ripped a sheet of paper from his notepad. "Here are your discharge instructions. I suggest you familiarize yourself with them."
And with that, Dr. Takani took his fountain pen and note pad and place them carefully in his old medical bag. His wife had given to him as a wedding gift. It was, without a doubt, one of the few things she'd done right during the relatively short extent of their marriage.
While his normal modus operandi was to see that test subjects who failed to meet expectation were immediately dispensed with, and again, his wife and children came to mind, for Okita-san, who despite these setbacks still held so much potential for the progression of the program, he was willing to make a singular exception.
"Any questions before I go?"
Okita
So he had blood on his hands. That did not surprise him, or disturb him instead it made sense. It gave his dreams meaning. He wanted to laugh, what would dear Kinoshita-san say to that?
"You ask me if I have questions, but you've failed to answer any. Aren't you a paradox," He smiled with true humour.
He thought about how easy it would be to grab the doctor, and smash his head against the wall. Wouldn't that be lovely? No, he wouldn't get answers that way and it seemed to be exactly what the doctor wanted. No . . . those impulses had to be squashed.
So instead he simply asked, "What did you do to your family?"
The doctor laughed, and walked out. As soon as he was out of earshot Okita too laughed. The doctor had said nothing concrete but he had dropped plenty of hints. He kicked out a chair next to him, and leaned back.
Okita looked down at the paper Dr. Sinister had handed to him; besides directions for immediate discharge from the facility it also held an address and a name. The man was sending him out into the world. Okita was being tested, but why?