Track 1: Oyashiro-sama's Curse
He felt … free. He could feel his body flying through some endless void, flying at an unknown speed. He couldn't see anything, though. Something was buffeting past him, but he couldn't tell whether it was air, water or something else entirely.
What is going on? Is this a dream?
"Look at this."
The scientist walked across the once-pristine lab. Rust and wear and tear had ruined that image. His colleague was pointing at a complicated computer readout, displaying almost non-sensical data.
"So?"
"Subject CV-08 is travelling faster than any other specimen has. We're not ready for this!"
The scientist looked around the lab. Actually, it was somewhere between a low-budget lab, a service garage and an infirmary. It had had to fulfil all of those roles in its service. There were five stained gurneys in the room. Only one had an occupant; a metallic human torso, chest cavity open and spilling wires and components.
"That we haven't finished is true. How much time do we have?"
"I think about a week at most. Sir, you're not suggesting … the consequences … remember the Ka Incident?"
"Yes, I remember. But that won't happen again. We have more time to finish now. And we're not daft spitting drunk this time."
"But …"
"We'll just have to do the best we can," the first scientist said, pulling a soldering iron from his toolbox.
He felt himself accelerating. It was like he was a magnet; inexplicably drawn towards … something, getting faster as he got closer. He tasted something metallic in his mouth; blood, possibly.
He still couldn't see anything much, save a pinprick of light like a pinprick of a pinprick somewhere that could have been in front or behind him; he wasn't sure anymore.
Was the light pulling him in? Why?
"Time?"
"T-minus thirty seconds. We're not going to finish in time."
"We don't need to. Just the essentials."
The light was bigger now, perhaps as big as a stamp. It seemed to be reaching out to him. He let it. He couldn't think why; he couldn't think about anything anymore. But it seemed like a good idea.
"Five … four … three … two … one!"
The body on the gurney, now a complete human form, vibrated slightly. Its eyes snapped open; ceramic whites and emerald green irises in stark contrast to its hard, bald, overcast grey scalp and deathly gaunt face.
Servos whined in its jaws. And it screamed.
The first scientist was untroubled by the sound; something akin to a steel-cutting buzz-saw. He'd heard it too many times before to be fazed by it. He calmly reached forward, to the still-open chest cavity, flipping a switch deep where the body's heart should have been.
The sound petered to nothing, and the light vanished somewhat from its eyes.
"Sleep now, CV-08. Sleep …" the scientist murmured, before staring at his colleague.
"Time to finish what we started."
CV-08 only got its power restored a few days later. Now it was covered in a realistic (if unnaturally pale) silicone-rubber flesh, a long sheet of emerald hair to match its eyes, and a most bizarre outfit.
Its clothes consisted of a black sleeveless t-shirt, dark grey, baggy trousers was two seemingly luminous emerald-green bands around the ends of the legs and a single dot on each knee. Its shoulders were bare, but its wide, flaring sleeves started about halfway up from its elbows, following the customary black-and-emerald colour-scheme. It also wore a voluminous black cloak with green circuitboard-inspired patterns along the trim, pinned at the left shoulder with a chrome brooch. It also wore black on-ear headphones with green details and a grey fur hat with a raccoon tail. Its hair and cloak were arranged so that the left-hand side of its face and it right arm were hidden from view.
CV-08's visible eye slid open almost lazily, like a cat. It could see that it was in the grottiest little hospital ward you ever did see; a drab room of white and black décor that smelled too strongly of antiseptic. It tried to move its head, but couldn't.
"Good morning, sleeping beauty."
Its eye stared at the source of the voice. A scientist with a clipboard, oil and other fluids smudged into his lab coat.
"De-activating locking sequence," declared an empty, synthetic voice, and it felt its body no longer felt so stiff. CV-08 sat up.
"I don't think you should be doing that," the scientist reprimanded. "We need to make sure you're all okay first."
"What do you want to know?" CV-08 had never spoken before, but the sound of its voice stirred something deep inside its silicon mind …
"Let's start simple; how many fingers am I holding up?" The scientist held up his hand.
CV-08 stared, as though this was a daft question. "Three."
"Close; it was four."
"You are holding up three fingers; the fourth digit is a thumb, and doesn't count."
The scientist frowned but wrote something down on his clipboard. He muttered as he wrote, and CV-08 could hear him say 'Pedantic tendencies. Possible OCD'.
"I hope you know that I'm not obsessive-compulsive," CV-08 intoned dangerously.
"That'll be for us to decide."
He made CV-08 answer simple questions, perform motor tasks, the full works. CV-08 felt as though it should have just woken up from coma. To be fair, though, it couldn't remember when it had last been awake.
"Do you remember," the scientist asked gravely, "where and on what date you died?"
CV-08 felt as though it had been clouted in the stomach. It remembered something of its old life. "Hinamizawa, June 23rd I think. I can't remember the year." CV-08's head suddenly caught up with it. "Hang on; did you just say I died?"
"Yes. Don't let it upset you."
"I died."
"That's what I said."
"So why am I still talking and seeing things?"
"I also said don't let it upset you."
"Is this the afterlife?"
"Do you believe in it?"
"No."
"Then just tell yourself you got better. Do you remember your name?"
It strained its mind. Nothing could be dredged to the surface.
"No."
"Well, I'll tell you what: just call yourself 8 until you think of anything better. Or remember your real name."
8 looked at his bare shoulder, seeing the numbers '08' stamped just above the upper hem of the sleeve. What an imaginative name. "What do I do now? Are you done with me?"
"Yes. Go to the rec room. Ask someone to give you the tour."
"Rec room?"
"Go down the corridor, third on the left. By the way, leave your right arm and hair alone."
"Why?"
"Just leave them, okay?"
"Whatever," said 8, getting off the gurney and almost immediately falling over.
"Steady on," the scientist said, tutting and helping it up. "It'll take you a little while to get used to your legs again; you've been out for a while."
"Thanks," it … he replied, limping slowly and drunkenly to the door.
He could hear bickering coming from the room; not an argument, but childish bickering. It must be the rec room.
8 was posed with a new problem, however. The door. It had no lock, handle or discernible hinges. Just a blank metallic surface. He pushed at either end. He kicked it. He inspected the featureless plane.
Eventually, he yelled at it to 'open, damn you'. The door slid into the wall to the right somewhat grudgingly, as though it would rather keep him out.
The room looked like an average school common room. Abandoned plates and fast-food containers rested haphazardly on most of the flat surfaces that didn't already have something on. Old-fashioned arcade machines stood imperiously at the outskirts of the room. The walls were drab, but smothered in ancient score-charts, a washing-up rota that was completely devoid of any indication that anyone had noticed it, and an ancient dartboard surrounded by dart-holes, its surface as pitted as the surface of the moon. A large, plasma-screen television stood against one wall, with various games consoles arrayed on the shelf beneath it. A battered old sofa was placed facing the television, but there were other tables around the large room, with various card games left scattered over them.
There were four people playing a games console hooked up to the TV, playing split-screen on some shoot-em-up 8 vaguely recognised, though he was sure he'd never seen such a game before. The other occupants of the room were perched around the sofa, shouting encouragement at the gamers. None seemed to have noticed the new arrival.
The gamers were an incredibly odd bunch, too. One seemed to be a man in his early twenties with slicked brown hair who looked as though his head had been cleft open and badly stapled back together. Another was a blonde girl barely in her teens. The third was a tall guy with a long white coat, with blue hair and scarf. The last was a pink-haired girl … woman wearing mostly black and gold leather and with an octopus perched on her head. 8 had to rub his eyes to make sure he wasn't imagining it. He wasn't. It actually looked for all the world like a chibi version of the woman's head, but its hair turned into tentacles at the base of what should have been its skull. If it had one. It was rather unsettling. All were bickering about the game in a bizarre amalgam of what sounded like Japanese and English.
"What the hell, Al?" shouted the pink-haired woman, who seemed to have died.
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Where'd you get the grav hammer, you cheating bastard?"
"It's a random weapon spawn."
"So how come you always get it, huh?"
"Luka," said the blonde girl without taking her eyes off the screen. Actually, it sounded more like 'Ruka'; the girl had a very strong Japanese accent. She promptly scored a perfect headshot on what looked like a soldier in blue armour and a motocross helmet, much to the other player's distaste.
'Al' promptly snuck up behind her (she seemed to be playing as an alien in gold armour) and struck her down with what looked like a cross between a halberd and a sledgehammer.
The girl, naturally, was not amused. "Al, you team-killing, useless piece of [Japanese profanity 8 didn't understand]! I'll get you for that!"
"Too late," said Al gleefully. "Game over." And so it was.
Luka cuffed him round the ear. "Cheating son of a …" she was cut off by the octopus-thing blowing a loud raspberry at him. The octopus swivelled around and looked right at 8. Its face was human, but it looked just like an anime character brought to life. It waved a tentacle at him cheerfully, smiling with an expression that looked cheerful, but should not be feasible. 8 waved tentatively back.
The octopus' interest sparked that of the others, who all turned to stare at the newcomer. 8 felt awfully self-conscious.
"Uh … hi?"
The temperature of the room seemed to drop.
"I'm 8, apparently."
"Great," hissed Al. "A newbie."
8 didn't know what to say. "I … I was told that one of you need to give me the tour."
One, a girl a bit younger than him with teal pigtails as long as she was tall, sighed, and strode over to a desk, grabbing a fistful of straws from the drawer. "Right; Engloids over here."
Several of the members, including Luka and Al, sighed in exasperation and gathered around her. They each drew a straw as though this was very old hat. Luka drew the short straw, much to her annoyance and the others' delight. She strode towards him with as much dignity as she could muster, dumping the octopus on the head of the teal-haired girl.
"Might as well make the most of it," she muttered. She reached the door, standing next to 8. He was easily a few inches taller than her, but it seemed irrelevant; he could just as well have been a few inches tall, period. "Well, let's get going."
"Have fun," called Al sarcastically, as they left the room. Luka responded by flipping her middle finger at him for the last few seconds her hand was visible from the sofa.
"Sorry about that," she said. Her voice was mature, dark and mysterious. "We usually end up arguing about who has to look after the newbs, so we draw straws. It's nothing personal."
"Charming," 8 replied.
"So what's your name?"
"8."
"No; what's your name?"
"Dunno; can't remember."
Luka thumbed a button to call down the elevator. "We're gonna start from the top down, okay?"
"Whatever," said 8.
"About the name; don't worry too much. It'll come back to you soon enough."
There was a ping, and the doors to the lift opened. Luka strode in, 8 followed soon after.
Nearly every culture in the universe has some form of inherent lift behaviour. One of the most common is the 'don't speak, don't make eye contact' variant. And that is the one that 8 and Luka took up during their journey. The lifts were just like the ones he'd always ridden; boring.
He began to think about what the scientist had said. Why shouldn't he use his right arm? Was there something wrong with it? It was swathed in his cloak, so he didn't think anything of it.
They came out in a large, circular room, covered with a glass dome. The floor was a matt bronze colour, with plush, chocolate coloured leather sofas and futons. 8 looked out at the view; the ground seemed dizzyingly far below. Was he at the top of a tower or something?
There was something wrong with the ground. It was a dense grey carpet of concrete and steel for a good distance, but beyond that? Brown. Brown mud and dust as far as the eye could see. The sunlight seemed too bright, and the sky was dyed a bizarre nicotine yellow.
"We call this the inspiration room. We come here to think if we get mental block or whatever." Luka sounded bored, like she'd seen this room too many times to actually care.
"Nice place."
"It is nice at night. You wait, this is easily the classiest room on site."
The lift back down was as uneventful as the way up. 8 discreetly looked at Luka. She wore a sleeveless black leather top with gold trim, a black skirt in the same style but cut up the waist up her left leg. She wore some kind of brass ornament on her chest that put him in mind of the valves of some bizarre instrument. She also wore gold leather armbands, and on her right arm, a gold sleeve like his own, but with chocolate-brown trim. Her boots were knee-high, high-heeled and made of gold leather. Luka's eyes were a deep ocean blue, hair long, rose-pink and straight. She looked like she would have been quite a heartbreaker. So what was she doing in this grotty little place, playing video games and seemingly bored out of her mind?
That's when he saw it; either stamped or tattooed on her left shoulder was two digits.
03.
What did it mean?
He had too many questions.
Luka showed him most of the site; the management offices, the dorms, the library, the rec room, the infirmary. But there was one place she hadn't taken him; the large button in the lift marked B1.
"What's in the basement?"
"Why'd you ask?"
"Because it seems we don't need a key or anything to get down there. There must be something."
"There is, but that's for tomorrow; no more time today. Not if you want to eat as well."
She led him to the canteen. It was like pretty much every other school canteen he'd seen; a drab off-white room filled with eight-man tables and benches. They queued up at the self-service bar. Other people were getting food, swiping cards across the scanner with practised ease.
"We get our food, and swipe the card to say we've eaten. We're only given a set amount of credit every fortnight."
"I don't have a card."
"Take it out of my tab."
"I don't want to put you out of your way."
Luka laughed heartily. "I've got to at least pretend to be nice to you. Go on; choose something."
8 chose a salad. You can't go far wrong with salad.
Luka helped herself to a small bowl of rice and tuna, grabbing a pair of chopsticks as she did so.
"Move it!" shouted someone behind him, shoving 8 forwards. He didn't bother to see who it was, but a dark shadow fell over his eyes. He just followed Luka to a table like a lost puppy.
"Hey, Luka!" called the teal-haired girl, waving at them from an empty table in the middle of the canteen. "Over here!"
They sat down. 8 stared somewhat mournfully at his salad. Now he looked at it, it seemed limp and unappetising. He picked up his fork and put a couple of the bedraggled leaves in his mouth. They tasted bitter and soggy and chemical. He grimaced.
"I know it's bad, mate, but it's all there is," cooed the girl, rubbing his arm. "What's wrong with him?" she asked Luka.
"He's already got in Ritsu's bad books, and it's his first day."
"That cow; she can be a right bitch sometimes."
"I thought Namine Ritsu was a guy."
8 looked up. "Who?"
The girl and Luka pointed at a tall person in an elaborate maroon gown and wearing a little black top hat.
"She's a guy?" 8 asked incredulously. Ritsu dressed like a woman, looked like a woman, and now he remembered had the voice of a woman. "She's only fooling herself."
"What, are you gonna check?" asked Luka seriously, arching a perfect eyebrow.
8 pushed the wilted salad to one side and lay his head on the table. Today was not turning out to be a good day.
"Cheer up, kid," said the girl, though she was clearly younger than him. "What's your name?"
"Don't have one," the table murmured.
"He hasn't remembered it yet," explained Luka, popping a clod of rice in her mouth.
"Well, I'm Miku," the girl said to 8. "Hatsune Miku."
8 looked up. Miku was wearing a grey sleeveless shirt and a teal tie, a short, pleated black skirt and a pair of those sleeves that nearly everyone wore. Her boots were knee-high and also black. She wore a sleek pair of black plastic headphones with soft magenta lighting. Her eyes were large and childish and somehow endearing, and a strong shade of teal.
"You're Hatsune?"
"No, my name is Miku. We're on an informal name basis here."
8 reminded himself of the Japanese name system quickly. He would have to remember it if he was going to fit in.
"Sorry about earlier," said Miku, munching on an onigiri. "In the rec room. The guys don't really trust newbies."
"Thanks, that makes me feel so much better," 8 said sarcastically. "I just wish I knew where we are and what is happening."
"Don't worry about it," said Miku, waving it away. "They'll explain everything in due course."
"Who will?"
"Oh, just them," said Luka. It was miraculous how nonchalant and at once final she could sound. "Oh well; if you want to fit in, you'd best learn some names." She pointed out the blonde girl from the rec room. "That's Rin. She may look young, but she's a mean Halo player and can swear like a sailor when she's angry. She's a bit of a firebrand, but she's nice enough."
Miku and Luka began to point out more and more people, but 8 was finding it hard to keep up. One person did catch his eye, though; a white-haired woman slumped on a table by herself.
"Who's that?"
"Her?" asked Luka. "Don't worry about her. Look at the time! Come on; I've got to show you where you're sleeping."
"Kaito!" Luka shouted through the crush of tired bodies all trying to get in the lift at the same time. 8 frowned in puzzlement. Who's Kaito?
His question was answered when the other Halo player fought through the crowd. He was a bit older than Luka, but it was hard to tell exactly how old he was. As he had noted before, Kaito wore a knee-length white coat with sea-blue trim, a scarf the colour of a summer sky, brown trousers with a single yellow stripe running down the side of each leg. He wore white trainers and clutched in his fist was a half-eaten ice-cream.
"'Sup, Luka? This the newbie?" he asked, slightly suspiciously.
"Yeah. Don't ask his name, he can't remember yet. 8, this is Shion Kaito."
"Hi," managed 8 with a small wave.
"He hasn't got a dorm yet. Can he share with you for tonight?"
Kaito licked the ice-cream thoughtfully. 8 caught a whiff of strawberry. "I haven't got a bunk for you, 8. But I could arrange a futon. It may not be too comfy, but it'll do for a night."
"Thanks," said 8 gratefully, not realising just how tired he really was. His whole body felt old as the hills. It felt like really bad jet lag.
"No sweat. We may not trust newbies too much here, but we look out for each other. You are one of us, I take it?"
8 showed him the strange code stamped on his left shoulder. "This good enough for you?"
Kaito nodded. "Come on; the crowd's thinning."
8 lay awake long after his room-mate had started snoring. He lay on his back, thinking about things. Who were these people? Where was he? Why was he even here?
He wanted to go for a walk to clear his mind. He'd tried the door, but it was shut fast. Luka had explained that most of the doors were touch-sensitive and that his 'signature' would be sufficient, as he was now on the system.
It seemed that, however, the door wouldn't open. It was probably because it was Kaito's room and not his. So he lay there, trying to let sleep claim him.
"It's not working, is it?" asked a voice somewhere out of sight.
8 sat up, nearly jumping out of his skin. He was still dressed in his day clothes, the cloak wrapped tight around him; the air con seemed to be on full blast.
"Who's there?" he asked, realising for the first time that his voice sounded … odd.
"That's irrelevant. I need you to come with me."
"How? We can't get out."
"That won't be an issue," said the voice with a cold chuckle, and 8 saw the room dissolve into a void around them.
"Where are you taking me?" asked 8, slightly worried.
"Back," was all the voice had to say. 8 tried to look around, to catch a glimpse of his mysterious companion. But there was nothing around him.
Suddenly, colour returned to his world, and 8 fell over as land appeared beneath his feet. Not the steel tread-plate floor of wherever he had been, but hard, compacted dirt. Tall, leafy trees stood imperiously on either side of the path, and there was a haunting silence in the air.
"Where are we?"
"Head up the road," said the voice. "You'll soon realise where you are."
"I must be dreaming," 8 muttered, biting his tongue. The pain was all too real.
"It is a dream," replied the voice. "But does that make it any less real?"
8 soon reached the top of the hill. There seemed to be a large stone sitting area in front of him, and a huge, ancient building to his left. On his right, a tall stone torii, a frayed rope still tied to its cross-beam.
"This is … the Furude shrine." 8 gasped. "I'm in Hinamizawa."
Something was wrong. The higurashi were not chirping in the forest. Sirens and muffled conversations could be heard far below. He ran to the balcony. Searchlights and torches glinted like fireflies on a carpet of inky darkness.
"When is this?" he asked the voice, turning round before he remembered that there was nobody there.
"About two days after you left."
"After I … who are you, anyway?"
The voice seemed to hesitate. "I am Oyashiro."
8 felt as though something hard had walloped him. He remembered; the village, the deity, the fabled curse. "What happened here?"
"I could tell you; I saw it all unfold. But it would be easier for me to show you."
The scenery dissolved again, re-forming almost instantly. He stood in front of a long, two-storey building with several sheds scattered around the large grounds. 8 recognised it as the village school.
"Why did you bring me here?"
"I'll explain inside."
8 saw a handful of people in hazmat suits and gas-masks standing around outside the door, and a couple more milling in and out.
"Won't they mind?"
"They can't see, hear or perceive you or I."
8 wandered down the lonely corridor. A hazmat guy wandered past him, and 8 instinctively backed out of the way. He walked into the old classroom with a clipboard in his hands.
"Go in," Oyashiro commanded him. 8 hardly felt able to refuse.
He immediately regretted his decision. Arrayed on the floor and around the walls were dozens of bodies. It looked at first as though there had been some sort of mass drinking party; heads were lolling drunkenly, and everyone seemed unconscious.
"Hey, boss," shouted one of the suited men behind 8. "Found this one hiding in the toilets." He tossed something heavy, like a sack of potatoes, on the floor and clumped out.
8 looked around. He was staring at a face he once knew. He dropped to his knees, staring at the person, unable to believe it.
Their shoulder-length ginger hair was a mess, as though they'd been running their hands through it violently. Thin trails of spit and foamy blood ran from their gaping mouth, soaking into their flowing white dress. What was most horrifying was her eyes; once sparkling sapphires of life, now frozen, empty, barren.
It was Ryūgū Rena. And it was clear the she was not unconscious. She was dead. All of the bodies were.
8 began to hyperventilate, too shocked to speak. His eyes flicked from corpse pile to corpse pile. A green ponytail he recognised as Mion's. Chie-sensei's blank, pained face. Several other people he knew from the school.
"Too shocking for you?" asked Oyashiro, in a strangely concerned manner. The room dissolved, and they were back at the Furude shrine.
"About three hours ago, at the stroke of midnight, the disaster struck. Most of the villagers died in their beds. They tried to get their children to the school, hoping that the remote location would be safe. They were all wrong." Oyashiro sniffed slightly. Sniffed? Gods didn't sniffle, did they?
"What was the cause? The curse?"
Oyashiro actually laughed childishly. "You think the curse of Oyashiro-sama did this?" it asked mockingly. "You think I did this? The curse is a legend, created by someone who wished so dearly to be me."
A body faded into view in from of him. It looked like a twelve-year-old girl, with long lilac hair, a red-and-white miko's kimono, and childish features. She would have looked almost normal, were it not for the small black horns jutting from her skull, pointing down and looking like shiny spaniel ears at a glance.
8 was stunned. "You are Oyashiro-sama?"
The girl nodded solemnly. "It is a curse I have to live with."
8 looked her up and down. She reminded him of someone he used to know from Hinamizawa. Who was it again? R … Ri … Rika! That was it!
The girl … Oyashiro nodded, as though she knew what he was thinking. "Never wondered why little Rika was considered the reincarnation of me?"
"Hang on; you said reincarnation. You were human once, too."
"Weren't we all? All we have is our names when we die."
"I can't remember mine … wait, am I dead?"
Oyashiro shook her head. "Not dead. Just not alive."
"So what's your name?"
"Hanyuu," she said quietly. "Come on; there's more I need to show you."
"I don't want to know."
"But Henry …"
8 snapped awake in an instant, staring into the face of Shion Kaito, who was gripping his shoulders.
"Are you alright?" he asked.
"Why wouldn't I be?"
"You were writhing and thrashing and mumbling in your sleep.
"I'm fine Kaito. Don't worry."
8 woke up early the next morning; though he didn't know until he saw the clock on Kaito's bedside table (no window). 7:12. He'd been thinking about that strange dream, of Hinamizawa and the mysterious Hanyuu. And that name … Henry. He remembered now. That was his name as a human. Henry Parkinson.
He rested his head on the cool metal door. He hoped that it wasn't real, what happened in Hinamizawa after he 'left'. The expression on their faces wasn't something he was easily going to forget.
He rested his hand on the door, surprised as it slid open at his touch, nearly tearing his forehead off with it. The corridor looked as drab as ever, but something caught his eye. The strange octopus from yesterday was shuffling down the corridor, using its tentacles as rudimentary legs, and clutching a pot of chocolate mousse.
Henry stared at it for a while, before deciding that he hadn't slept enough.
The door slid shut as he went back to bed. The octopus, for its part, was oblivious to the whole proceeding, shuffling away and humming contentedly.