A/N: It's a two-hour not-so-oneshot but to hell with it. There will probably be more on this sickeningly soon. Before you hate me, I don't have my computer in Europe or the newest chapter of Revolution would be already up.
Arbeit Macht Frei
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Divine Wind
The experiment, as one might call it, as I will now call it henceforth, began in an unseasonably serene January and ended in a not-quite-cold-but-getting-there October, began in the fermentations of a bored mind of an eccentric history professor and ended in tears.
The experiment, rigged and finessed, bribed and bamboozled into being on the coattails of an overzealous history professor, a relic of pre-Impact academia. Waxing poetic as he tended to do through most of the period, drolling off into his own memory of an era forgone, gazing out the window wistfully, old voice stiff and sandpapery, flexing with the air of emotion as he detailed irrelevant events to those of us still listening.
Touji's headphones, little white beads of aural meditation, were firmly in his ears by this point, as they always were, drowning out the mumbling of an old man to the J-Rock sensation of the minute. Hikari, who'd given up all semblance of authority by now, sat at the front of the class with head in hands at her ineffective policing skills. Kensuke deluged himself in stolen wireless and the latest offerings of Stinger missiles, machineguns, ammunition, RPGs, flares, handguns, more ammunition, grenades, trip mines, and the occasional tank, all for offer in the black market arms capital of tribal Pakistan, filling out the order forms with OCD compulsiveness, clicking, double-clicking, barely scraping drool from trembling lips, and my God would you look at the muzzle on her! all to the tune of fortunes he did not have nor could afford. Asuka, over his shoulder, texted with pigeon fingers pecking the chiclet seed of her keypad, constantly in touch with an army of friends she rarely deigned to speak to in person though seemed fond of maintaining communiqué with them for all hours of the day. Other less familiar faces fidgeted, dug in noses when suspecting no eye upon them, snored lightly draped over desks like Dali's clocks, yawned, sighed, scratched unmentionable places, adjusted unmentionables chafing said places, and generally did their best to distract themselves with thoughts of a looming afternoon of which they could enjoy without the stammering hums of one white-haired owlish man, crooning to himself of lost fortunes, and gained territories; terrors and gallantries recalled in half-prophetic visions; he was truly, as they say, "out to sea" and long since lost upon these tiny behaviors which I had the manner and mood of recording for my own attempt at distracting myself.
Touji's track came to its finishing note and the synchronicity struck for the old man whirled upon us, igniting primal fear in my fellow distracted members, scrambling to look attentive to his sudden motion but unable to scrub the headlights from out of the deer's poor eyes.
"That's right!" he announced, holding up one finger and staring slightly up and beyond it, odd parody of some bronzed hero immortalized in a townsqaure somewhere in the south of France. "The trip," he finished softly, his whispery tone taking on a vague sense of wonder.
Asuka paused from her texting, the only of us perhaps not to cringe at the whirling parlor trick of alertness Professor Fushiki had pulled, paused and eyed him with a cynical glare, the kind that hounded lies from fools and frightened me most deeply because I knew no other course but honesty with her.
"Professor?" Hikari asked, making a quick double-check of the classroom's wakefulness, stalling lest she find any still dozing. Someone gave a sharp jab out of my periphery at one of our compatriots still entrenched in the crook of his elbow, bolting him straight up and (miraculously) looking bright-eyed.
"The trip," he repeated with shamanistic forcefulness, nervous grin suddenly alight as he stared back at the president as if she dared ask: "So who is this 'God'-guy, exactly?"
And that's how the experiment began.
"So what is this Yasukuni thing, exactly?" she said aloud, fighting boredom or pretending to sound as such.
"You—you don't know?" Kensuke sounded in turns horrified and mystified.
"It's some shrine, jeez…" Even Touji sounded disgusted with her ignorance—but then he tended to be disgusted with much Asuka Langley Souryu had to offer.
"It's not just some shrine!" Kensuke shrieked, even more manic. "It's one of the most sacred sites in all of Japan…"
Asuka barked a laugh and kicked an empty Pocari Sweat onto the checkered white lines of the lane marker on Diaji Street, never breaking her pace. "I didn't take you for the superstitious type, Kensuke. I thought you were too otaku for that shit." Behind them, as the marching line trudged further up the boulevard, the Pocari Sweat gave a satisfying distant crunch under the soft turn of a passing Mercedes' wheels.
"It's not about superstition," he growled, busy making a sweeping pan of the Tokyo skyline and the marching colors of Tokyo-3 High School Class A-2, out of our typical uniforms and showing the best of our closet in our new accessorized freedom, all behind our curious Pied Piper, Fushiki and his tufts of white hair twirling in October breeze and hydrocarbons.
"Yasukuni is a military shrine," he hissed softly. "Dedicated to all those who died, giving their lives in the service of Japan and the Emperor. The souls of every great hero to fall in battle lie there" he intoned, vision briefly yanked away from the Panasonic's viewfinder as he paused in his revelry.
"And villains," Asuka added with a snort.
Hikari leaned a little closer on Touji. "It's creepy, thinking of all those dead people watching you in there." She shivered a little for effect.
He smiled patronizingly and patted her shoulder with his free hand. "Spirits and ghosts are nothing to fear. Asuka's right, it's all just superstitions and ritual, nothing else."
I, busily bobbing my head to the iPod shuffle strapped to my belt buckle, interjected my own thoughts, and having absolutely nothing to say, parroted the chorus from Nazareth's "Hair of the Dog."
"Now you're messin' with a son of a bitch!" I murmured in my best English, trying to equal the stringy high-pitched lead despite having no idea of the meaning.
Asuka's cackling startled me. I glanced at her and she shook her head and waved me off.
"Keep singing Sinatra, you might impress someone some day," she mocked.
I closed my eyes and smiled. The noon's zenith warmed my face against the stubborn chill of downtown and another exalted memory, suddenly knowing I was on vacation, well a vacation of sorts, sparked my good mood easily. "What's wrong with singing?" I asked aloud. "I like to sing. Besides I seem to recall a certain night of karaoke—"
Her python's grip opened my eyes, clutching my forearm with sudden brutality.
"That is not be spoken of. Ever," she snarled in my ear.
Touji shot a glance at me through Hikari's tresses and grinned. "Yes, I do seem to remember a certain incident…"
Asuka, now having mirrored the couple by latching onto my arm, glared into the back of his crew cut as if to drive an invisible spike right through it. Beside me her cheeks were flushing a shade of her hair.
"Yes, a certain Rammstein song I believe it was," Hikari giggled from beside him, toying with one of his ears.
Her shocked mouth opened a fraction at the betrayal, suddenly finding herself without allies. "Et tu brutus?" I imagined her mouthing, then took the opportunity, the moment of weakness, to peck her on the cheek as liked to do whenever her pride was truly wronged. Her stiffened shoulders relaxed a notch and slapped me lightly on the wrist, stifled for a moment as her open mouth closed. She brushed fingertips across one of my favorite shirts, a cactus and a balloon leaning towards each other, a tiny pink Valentine's heart between them and the phrase "Impossible Love" in cursive above the scene. Then the peck was returned as lightly as it was given—Asuka preferred to be remarkably chaste in the view of our class—and remarkably unchaste in the privacy of an apartment where your legal guardian was often out all night on another bender.
Hikari, having watched the exchange giggled. "He's getting good at that, isn't he?"
"Fuck," Kensuke said, murdering the mood as his otaku's timing and vocabulary tended to do. For a moment I thought he'd lost a particularly good shot or the battery had gone… but no, the lens was turned dutifully ahead, staring down the front of our procession, suddenly parted and our very own Pied Piper, on… his knees?
The sounds of an old man weeping filled the silence that had swept over the procession. Hikari took a step forward but Touji held her in place. Shook his head just once.
The man had prostrated himself before a length of great black stone, a wall erected of a few grim blocks of obsidian marble. Stretching the length of our class's thirty odd students, a list of names held stoic, glittering faintly. The top of the plaque had only one line. Kamikaze. Somewhere above them a crow cawed harshly.
"Oniisan," the old man cried between sobs, reaching for the stone. No one moved.
It's weird, trying to post something coherent with a time limit on yourself. I truthfully have no idea what to make of this, only the slightest idea of where it might be going, and the dreadful premonition that it is too small for consumption. That said, I hope you found something enjoyable in it and don't worry or feel too bad for old Fushiki-san, there will be more to come and tug at heartstrings with later. The title shouldn't make sense yet, even if you know German. I'd say this thing will be done in two more chapters unless something really unexpected happens.