"'She comprehended the perversity of life, that in the struggle lies the joy,'" Makishima quotes from the book he's reading on the couch by the window that overlooks the Nona Tower. I know without opening my eyes that he's testing me somehow. I could look it up if I wasn't so content with my current languor. The sheets underneath me are wet and cooling from the fan above my naked body, but I can't force myself to make the effort of turning over.
"Which book are you reading?" I ask, my eyes still closed. The implants I call eyes are in autistic mode at the moment, so that when the lids remain closed the terminal that lives in my brain is quiet. It's the closest I can be to 'normal.'
"Maya Angelou's autobiography, "I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings."
"It's beautiful in its simplicity and apropos to our situation, is it not?"
"How so?" he asks, the lilting edge of his voice lifts. Good, he's curious.
"The harder we struggle against the Sybil System, the more joy we squeeze from it," I say, lifting my heavy arm, giving motion to my words.
"Did you know that this book was banned in the United States of America's schools for the latter part of the twentieth and the beginning of the twenty-first century?"
"They banned books?"
"Often, apparently."
"Sounds like home," I say, chuckling softly. "Where thinking itself was banned."
"Korea aside, our own society bans books simply by denying their existence, so yes, I believe we can see our current situation mirrored in the author's words."
"Why was it banned?"
"Lesbianism, premarital cohabitation, pornography, depictions of rape, and other acts of violence," he says as his voice moves from its current location across the room. Pages flip under his fingertips, ruffled almost in a lover's caress; I shiver.
"Heteronormative bullshit. If I activate my terminal I can watch snuff porn out of Korea right now for free."
"And perversely," he stresses the word, "the act of banning the book made it that much more interesting to the dissidents."
"Ironic, neh?"
"Very much so." The end of the bed dips as he settled by my legs. I reach out and lay my hand on his naked flesh. He's warm, almost too much to touch. My fingers retreat as if burned, but then I shake away the image that he's as white hot as a laser. He doesn't comment on my reaction, so he's either distracted by whatever has caught his attention, or he doesn't care. I'm not stupid enough to think he didn't notice.
A simple shift of muscles brings my eyes back online. A line of code appears and cycles through all the protocols that keeps me under the radar. As I check that everything is in place, he turns and rests his chin on his hand, and his elbow on his right knee which is crossed over the left leg.
"Anyway you look at it, our world is a cage of ideas, and we must use our own acumen to fight our way through."
"Thank god," I say, exhaling. "If we had to rely upon the fools who allow Sybil to dictate their lives down to the calories they consume to their life's work and spouse, we'd be as damned as them."
"To which god is your thanks aimed?"
"It's just a saying," I explain.
"Then you don't subscribe to the Heavenly Way of your ancestors?" One elegant white eyebrow lifts and slowly his mouth forms a half-hearted smile.
"That folk religion?" I laugh. "There is no ultimate principal of good and justice, no matter what the zealots contend." I fluff the pillows behind me so that I can look him more in the eye. I wish just once that I could see him with the eyes I was born with instead of the terminals hacked into my brain by the Korean Military Force during the war.
"Then what do you worship?" he asks. "Because you become what you worship."
"What do you worship, Makishima?" I deflect. In the binary language programmed into my eye sockets he's almost invisible. He's an elusive blur and blinding white light – a glorious beauty of data – looking at him has only one analogue: looking straight up into the blazing noon day sun.
"Freedom of expression – I believe it was one of those unalienable rights prompted by democracy. When everyone is alone and empty, we no longer have need of each other. We can find a replacement for any relationship, but our interface with our own mind – our own conscience – that we can never escape."
"You worship yourself, then."
"You are as astute as ever." His compliments are precious to me, and he emphasizes his praise by trailing his fingers over the lines of my stomach. "Partially I have to worship myself, since I am the only one who understands, and perhaps that's why my Psycho-Pass stays so clear. People talk of following their own path, but saying that in today's society is just ignorance and folly, unless you have the self-determination to step off Sybil's path."
"I follow your lead, perhaps that's why my Psycho-Pass –"
"You hacked Sybil, my dear Choe Gu-sung, that's why it stays clear even with the things you do for me. But I will not allow you to avoid the question. What is it that you worship?"
"Put the book down and come over here and I'll show you," I smirk.
After my shower, I dress and prepare to leave. There's only so much attention I can stand from the object of my worship, for sooner or later he'll see through me, understanding that I've already reached my potential's ceiling and that there is no room for me to grow with him without artificial help. I dread that day, when I no longer fascinate him.
As I check my hair in the mirror, he steps up behind me, still naked and leans against my back. His mouth closes around the stud in my ear and I close my eyes, despite the fact that the image of his ghostly form clinging to me is already imprinted on my memory forever.
"There is something I'd like you to do for me," he whispers as my earlobe escapes from his mouth with a plop.
"If it is within my power," I say, my voice thin and reedy.
I can feel his laugher travel up his throat where it touches my shoulder. "I wouldn't ask if I didn't think you could accomplish it, and truthfully, this is a waste of your talent, but I can't trust just anyone with this particular transport." His hands trail down my back and rest right above my ass.
"I'm a delivery boy now?" I say, moving my shoulder away from him; letting him feel my annoyance.
"As I said, I don't trust anyone else."
"Not even –"
"No one," he snaps, his hands tighten on my hips, possessively.
"What am I transporting and to whom?" My eyes open as I access the city's maps in my mind.
"Rikako Oryo is in need of some supplies at Oso Academy."
"And of course her beloved art teacher, Yukimori Shibata, cannot be seen with the same Plasticine used in the Specimen Case."
He says nothing, but his mouth forms a smile against my shoulder.
"I know she fascinates you, but…"
"She embodies my favorite quote by Rousseau: 'To live is not merely to breathe; it is to act; it is to make use of our organs, senses, faculties - of all those parts of ourselves which give us the feeling of existence.'"
"I'm weary of her demands," I tell him, "but I will continue answering her calls until you tire of her as well. When does she expect me?"
"Tonight. She's at the precipice," he says. "Soon she will reveal her true will and determination. I'm unsure if it will be enough to save her life."
"Then why bother with her?" I ask, knowing it sounds petulant.
"Don't be jealous. I'm not interested in her the same way I am with you. I watch her because the very act of observing makes the expression and trials valid. There's a point where we must all ""Throw away our books and rally in the streets.'"
I have to look up the reference. "The movie from 1971? Shūji Terayama?"
"You cheated," he accuses.
"I did. Is it worth seeing?"
"It is a metaphor for our lives and the descent of Japan. The hero is disillusioned with society and his goal is to achieve something worthwhile in opposition to everyone around him, who is simply content with their lot in life."
"Everything old is new again. How did we have all the lessons in front of us and fail so miserably to learn from them?"
"A good question Choe, and that is why I will never tire of you. I foresee that you and I will be together through to the end."
"But will we succeed?"
"How do we measure success for something that has never been attempted before? No, Angelou was correct, 'in the struggle lies the joy.'"
I nod and he moves away naturally as I turn. He winks one golden eye at me as I strengthen my firewall to keep clear of Sybil's radar and slip into the hallway to run his errand.