"What do you think, Choe?" he asked me, amber eyes twinkling in the setting sun.
"About what?" I surmised there could be plenty of things for which my best friend could be asking my opinion. The scenery from his 87th-floor balcony was astounding, for sure. In all of Tokyo, it was probably my favorite place to be. A year ago we'd been in exactly the same spot, in the same chairs, sipping the same tea. I remembered, clear as day, exchanging book recommendations and plotting the end of society as it was then with the man I admired the most.
Perhaps he wanted me to comment on the tea, to see if I'd improved in my taste for it. After the riots that brought about the fall of Sibyl had dwindled, we had enough free time and leisure such that he could train me to be a connoisseur, to be attuned to the tones and notes of different brews. It was one of his great passions – "one of life's simple pleasures", he'd say, "sadly forgotten by those who have lost sight of their emotional and spiritual needs". Even back then, he was in touch with the subtleties of life and humanity, and I still wonder at how he had managed to keep it intact against all odds. When he found me four years ago, I was a petty criminal, a destitute outcast skirting the dirty corners of the city. I had spent my life hiding from cymatic scanners and barely earning my living on illegal hacking assignments. Makishima was my savior, and I knew as soon we began working together that someday he would be the savior of this broken world.
Maybe he wanted to know what I thought of The Man in the High Castle. He'd gotten me into Philip K. Dick that same year, and since then I've been an avid reader of his works. This was the most recent one I'd completed, and one of the most captivating, given that I finished it in the flash of a week. It was absolutely fascinating to consider the possibility of the opposite happening, of pure evil triumphing against righteousness, changing the course of the history we knew so well. Shougo had been quite taken by the idea too, particularly by the book-within-the-book, The Grasshopper Lies Heavy, which depicted the reality we knew to be ours as an alternate universe for the characters languishing in evil. He compared it, just as I thought he would, to a world in which Sibyl had survived and he, for whatever reason, had not.
Makishima, dead. He brought it up as a passing comment, but it disturbed me greatly to think of it. His death would be the only reason Sibyl would have remained in place in such a timeline, as his antipathy toward that system would have guaranteed continued attempts at taking it down, even if past efforts had failed. In a universe in which he had died – what would've happened to me? No doubt he was more intelligent and perceptive than I was. Yes – I would've died long before he did, had it been in our fates. I winced at the thought; death and violence never sat as well with me as it did with him. Of course, a man so comfortable with slitting someone's throat would not be as concerned about his own demise.
His silken voice cut through my thoughts like a freshly sharpened razor. "How do you like being ordinary?"
Of course. It's been a year since the riots that marked the beginning of the end for Sibyl. He wanted to know what I thought about his brave new world, the one he created with me.
"I still remember that day before the riots," he continued, "when I told you that we were just ordinary people living in an extraordinary world. Do you remember that, Choe?"
"Of course I do, Shougo."
"I dreamed of creating a world where ordinary people like us could do ordinary things in an ordinary way. That dream became a reality one year ago. How are you liking it?"
Whenever Makishima talked about his dreams, there was never mistaking a smoldering ambition underneath the composed cadence so characteristic of him. I noticed this time, however, that it seemed to be absent. I must have misheard.
"I must say, it's the happiest I've ever been," I replied, hoping to dispel whatever was bothering him. I watched his gaze extend beyond the skyline, far into the blanket of crimson clouds on the horizon. "And I'm glad I was lucky enough to share it with you."
"It heartens me to hear that from you. Thank you, Choe Gu-sung." He sounded contemplative, even sad. "Indeed, I walk around these days and see faces filled with life, purpose, and emotion. Their souls brilliant and alive. This is what humanity was supposed to be, and I'm infinitely grateful you all get to experience it." The corners of his mouth upturned in a wistful smile.
"Certainly – but what about you?" I asked. "How do you feel being the ordinary god of this new world, knowing that millions of people have been set free by your grace?"
"Who knows?" replied Makishima. "I'm beginning to think ordinary doesn't quite suit me."
"What do you mean?" I was very surprised by his response. Shougo was not the sort of man to regret his actions.
"Don't get the wrong idea. I don't regret taking down Sibyl," he answered. That man was perceptive to the point of telepathy. "But I was alive, truly alive, even when Sibyl was in power. I truly loved this game called life from the bottom of my heart. It was a game I relished in because of my special privileges, my clear Psycho-Pass. Under Sibyl, I wasn't ordinary – I was special. And certainly, being special brought me pain and isolation. But it also brought me life. It was exhilarating to be different, to use that difference to your advantage, and to know that you will always be pure in the eyes of God. Back in those days, I craved to be accepted by society and dreamed of what a world, or perhaps even an upbringing without Sibyl would've been like. I yearned to be unremarkable, and it was painful to know that I wasn't. That pain blinded me to the fact that being different was what made the game worth playing. What powered me through my suffering was the thrill of defying the law, of possessing the free will that made me human. And I realize now that it was those two things that kept me alive. In this world without Crime Coefficients, hue checks or cymatic scans, the pain of ostracism is gone, but so are the rules of the game I loved so much. I thought I'd be satisfied with being ordinary, but I'm not. My asymptomaticism made me who I was. Without it, I'm a bit empty, don't you think?"
I listened, completely stunned. Here I was, enjoying the new life I was given, while my best friend's passion for it was being slowly drained away. My heart hurt for him. I knew there was nothing I could say to make him feel better, but it was my duty as a friend to be honest.
"That's not true at all. You're still the most intelligent, charismatic and inspirational person I have ever had the privilege of knowing," I insisted.
His eyes twinkled. "Heh. Flattery will get you everywhere."
"See? It doesn't look like you've lost your sense of humor," I joked. "Besides, didn't you say that our connection to others should be the basis of ourselves? If I believe in your uniqueness, shouldn't that count for part of your identity?"
"What can I say? Sibyl raised me to inculcate those beliefs," he sighed. "I hated Sibyl, but hating it forced it upon me. Sibyl was – no, is, part of me, and I am part of Sibyl, however unwillingly. And without it, without the pain and the thrill it brings me – well, I'm just like a eustress deficiency patient, am I not? Empty, and dead inside." I was struck by the amused nonchalance in his voice, and remembered hearing it in situations of, as he'd put it, "intense irony".
"I've long known that suffering brings out the splendor of the soul, and Sibyl's suffocation of that led to the death of free will," Makishima continued. "Now it's as if the humanity I've given back to the world… came out of me." He took a quiet sip of his tea, and touched the handle of the razor in his pocket. "Well, just paying my debts, I guess."
We were silent for a long time. I hadn't expected him to spill out his thoughts so vividly, but now that he had, I felt an even stronger connection to him. To this person, so infinitely selfish and selfless, who satiated his lust for life so fully and then sacrificed it to save the world from mental enslavement, I felt an overwhelming amount of love and gratitude. He was my messiah, I was certain, and in that moment I resolved that I would help him regain that splendorous soul he had held so dear to him, in whatever shape or form I could.
But I didn't tell him that – not then. Instead, I changed the subject. Today was a day of reminiscence, after all.
"What do you think Kougami would've made of all this?" I asked.
"Who knows? He died fighting me, not Sibyl. Considering how alike we were, maybe he enjoyed the purpose it served him too. He would probably be miserable not being able to kill or use a Dominator. But most of all, he would be miserable not having me."
"Oh?"
"Come on, Choe. Don't tell me you thought both of us could've survived. If I hadn't killed him, he would've killed me."
"You speak of your own death so carelessly," I said uncomfortably.
The corners of his eyes lifted, and his face lit up. "Beautiful flowers, too, eventually wither and fall. That's the fate of all living beings." For a moment he seemed more radiant than ever, illuminated in the words and spirit of his former self.
"You'd be the one to die an elegant death," I admitted. "In a field, even, just like a flower."
"And you're just a pawn who would've gotten his brains blown out or something," quipped Shougo.
I laughed. It was nice to see him back in his usual mood.
"And the police force? They've been operating quite differently since the Ministries were disbanded, haven't they? What do you suppose they think of your work, now that it's been a year?"
"I wonder. Of those who are left, there's only one person's opinion I'm truly interested in."
"Hmm? And who would that be?"
The doorbell rang – a clear, glassy sound clipping the air. "Ah, that's the one," he said, quite pleased with himself. "I invited an old acquaintance – or friend, shall I say – to join our little recollection."
A friend! How curious. He didn't use that word lightly. "Have I met this friend of yours?"
"I don't believe so. Don't worry – my friends usually get along unless I set one loose on the other." He rose from his chair, and before he glided lithely towards the door, I saw the burning fervor of an arsonist watching his magnum opus in his eyes.
Makishima opened the door, already certain of who he would see, but the confirmation of which filled him with a vitality that was really quite extraordinary.
"It's been a long time, Officer Tsunemori," he said, smiling.