This is a re-imagining of the anime Uchuu Kyoudai (Space Brothers), modeled after Mirai Nikki (The Future Diary). While no characters from Future Diary will make appearances, exactly how this qualifies as a cross-over will be quite apparent as you read on. Please, comment! I welcome any and all feedback!
Chapter 01 – In Writing
The letter had been received tentatively by the same shaking hands that once, when they belonged to a boy, had struggled to contain a squirming frog late at night. He had spent his youth investigating the swamps and watching the stars. Perhaps this was the same boy, after all— and perhaps he was not sure whether owning up to being that same child was akin to admitting immaturity or rather to taking ownership of some undeserved credit. He wondered, more than once, why his childhood and present life were clear, but the times in between were so hard to recreate in his head, like a document in pencil when the graphite has been smeared to the point of being incomprehensible.
The boy was now tall and had this modest chin hair that was never going to become anything more than stubble. He would have shaved, but he liked the look—he thought it made him seem older. Every little thing that he could do to distance himself from his past, he did. That is why he went into the auto industry; or at least, that is why one night he concluded. These were all just thoughts in retrospect, excuses for why he had done what, at the time, merely felt like the only option left for him.
That was not to say he did not do well. In fact, his designs were very well-received. He almost had kept his job, too. He almost would have found something of a niche, and while nothing remarkable, it would have given him at least a bit of individual notoriety. Instead, though, he was staring at the ceiling, holding this letter. It was not until this letter was in his hand that he suddenly realized that he was still that boy from his childhood, and that he had a name to live up to. Rather, he had two names to live up to: his own, and that of his brother.
"The older brother should always be ahead of the younger one," he whispered to himself, and as he whispered it with his letter in hand, he heard the echo of a more confident, youthful self pronounce the same maxim. When it was his younger brother, however, that moved further and further ahead of him, he chose not to follow, but to walk the other way. All the time he had spent trying to write his own story for himself, independent of the goals he and his brother shared, was now smeared, his future indistinguishable within all this mess.
He had head-butted his boss, and in that moment, like so many moments in Nanba Mutta's life, he was acting on what felt right at the time, not what he saw best for himself down the line. In those moments, when his well-patted head slammed into his employer's chest, when the silent glances of approval were upon him from the other workers, he only was fulfilling the needs of the moment. This man had needed a head launched at him, and Nanba Mutta was just the man willing to use his head.
He was fired, and after working several odd jobs, Nanba Mutta was desperate enough to give his childhood dream another chance. Now, when he felt the letter in his hand, after he had so delicately pried open the envelope, he felt as though he had re-inhabited his old body, from years ago. The words were there, the characters in crisp black ink—he was thrilled that he was able to read it.
"That is, I wish I could read it," he thought to himself, "But it is so dark in here!" He groaned miserably. He had forgotten to pay the electric bill, and the only light in the room was what was entering from the window at the side of his bed. He sat upright, moving the paper just slightly, so that the moonlight would fall upon the text. There, he strained his eyes, to the point where beads of sweat began to form on his face—this was the letter that was going to determine everything. He had, after failing at all the miscellaneous jobs, taken part in a written examination, and this was going to tell him whether or not he passed. This was going to show him whether or not he had a chance at fulfilling the dream he and his brother, Hibito had both shared—the dream that his brother had accomplished, and he had abandoned.
He was so excited that he read the letter so fast the first time that he was unable to comprehend what he had read, so he went through it another time, this time aloud. "We at JAXA," he began, "Would like to formally congratulate you on your passing of our written examination…" He skipped a few lines. "Due to some mild changes in the structure of your next and final examination, to determine whether or not you will be the one selected to become an astronaut, only the top 12 scores from this written examination are proceeding..."
The letter fell out of his hands, which had moved to clasp his face. Mutta screamed, not out of excitement, but out of complete fear. "I am one of them!" he started up, now dragging his hands down his cheeks, stretching his face as eyes widened with dread, "The stakes are going to be so high, and the competition is going to be full of younger, smarter competitors! What chance do I have?"
Mutta glanced out the window, and in the full moon above, he saw Hibito's face. Suddenly, Mutta's face hardened into a determined expression, an expression not of emotion, but of an acceptance of a set of facts. "I let you go ahead of me," he whispered to himself, still looking out of his window. "And I tried to write my own story. Hibito, know this— I will not stop until I am there with you, in space. I am not going to let you go, while my dreams fade away. An older brother should always be ahead of the younger one!"
The letter had requested that each competitor bring important possessions along, but shortly after entering the JAXA building—a simple, unassuming white structure—he was asked to hand over the items he had brought with him, including his cell phone, audio tapes he had made with his brother during their childhood, mementos from his time at Aunt Sharon's, etc.
"Why make us bring our stuff, if we don't get to keep it?" Mutta thought to himself, as he was led down the hall by an enthusiastic young man in a lab coat. Mutta's eyes shifted around; each object flashed before his line of vision and struck him as critical. Where he went, the eyes of others followed. He felt like such a celebrity, and when he realized it, he could not help blush. "I've really made it, haven't I, Hibito?" Mutta was wearing a simple, grey suit and tie, and if it was not his style they were admiring or the giant, natural afro on his head, they were surely recognizing him as one of the elite finalists of the last examination. He glanced again at the person leading him. No more was he just a JAXA worker. Mutta saw him now as the glimmering man holding the key to his destiny.
This "destiny" took the form of a room which, from the outside, appeared no different than any other. Inside, however, there was a palpable change of atmosphere. When Mutta entered, he saw a long table stretched out in the center of the room, with six chairs on one side and five on the other. Nine seats were inhabited. "Am I late?" Mutta silently wondered, before looking to his wrist. He expected to find a watch there, but the realization hit him that he had been asked to leave his watch with the rest of his possessions.
Feeling the heavy sense of being watched by everyone in the room, Mutta rushed indiscriminately to take a seat at the table. He wound up sitting at the end on the side of five people, sitting next to someone younger than himself, someone in better shape than him, and someone who exuded confidence. If this was not enough to shake Nanba Mutta, when he looked across the table, he saw a mesmerizing young woman sitting there, looking straight at him. He felt redness rush to his face. She had medium-length, brown hair, and calm focus about her. "Why does this beautiful woman want to become an astronaut?" He wondered, thinking that he had best avert his eyes away from her, but refusing to do so.
"We are expecting one more," came a voice from the back of the room. Mutta made a sigh of relief; he now had an excuse to force himself to look away. Everyone turned their heads to acknowledge someone for JAXA, a bald headed man with a perpetual look of disdain. "This is so serious!" Mutta thought, "At least I'm not the last one to arrive. Poor guy—that's a bad impression to leave on JAXA and on the other finalists. He then looked at the person across from him, that pretty, young woman. "But I was still late," Mutta realized, "And everything that happens in these first moments is crucial. How we first interpret each other is going to have a big impact on how we continue to see each other during the rest of this examination. The details haven't been explained yet, but in the letter it said that how we interact with each other will be very important… And now her—" He glanced at the one sitting across the table. "—and everyone else—will remember me as the one who was the second to last to enter!"
There were coffee mugs in front of each person, and when he arrived, there was already a mug out for him. "JAXA is really taking care of us!" Mutta thought to himself, as he took a few gracious sips. He then scanned the room one more time. At the other corner on the other side, there was someone who looked incredibly nervous. Mutta noticed that he had this mole under his eye, and that those eyes were always fixed downward, as the body they belonged to kept shuddering. "I hope I don't look like that," Mutta worried. There was no telling if his nerves were showing through as much as that. "Worse yet, I could look like an even worse wreck!"
Mutta heard the door open—and so did everyone else, since the room was so tense and quiet—and watched as the last one appeared. The one who entered was almost square-headed and had golden hair. He was the only one here, Mutta noticed, who appeared totally at ease. This finalist took the last remaining seat, between two older men. He sat slouched back, with his arms crossed. "How did he make it here?" Mutta pondered, lightly looking him over. The subject took notice, narrowed his eyes at Mutta, and snapped suddenly, "Hey! Don't be stupid enough to count me out right away! I earned my place here, just like you."
Instead of making a response, Mutta immediately looked away and sat totally erect. "Did he read my mind?" Mutta wondered. His eyes automatically went straight ahead, but after they met with the young woman's, they moved again, down to the table. He could not find himself able to look any of these people straight in the eye—either they left him feeling inadequate, they got confrontational, or he became unbearably embarrassed.
"Now that the last finalist has arrived," the bald-headed man began, "We may begin." He made his way to the door, ever so slowly, and locked it. Every aspect of his mannerisms suggested that he was enjoying this silent, tense atmosphere, in which he was in total control of everyone's moods. Although his face was stern as ever, his body posture still strict, Mutta thought or at least imagined there was a touch of amusement in this man.
"Congratulations on passing the written JAXA examination," he said. "I am Tsurumi, and I am part of the body, overseen by Director Nasuda, who will be administering this next examination. I will be keeping a record of your progress, of your success and of your failures, and of the finer points of your personality—to see who has the qualities best represented in an astronaut."
Those weighty words fell on top of each finalist, and although they did not look at each other or make a sound, each one knew inside that they were all feeling the same emotion. "With the changes in the examination itself," Tsurumi went on, "Including the fact that the previous two examinations were combined into one, Director Nasuda has preferred to approach the explaining of the rules with a more personal touch."
While letting those words hang in the air, Tsurumi left the room for a moment, entering the through door opposite the entrance. From this mysterious room he returned a minute later, with a stack of papers. "This is your last opportunity to back out of this examination," Tsurumi said. "If you wish to back out later, this contact will bind you to the consequences, which will be expanded upon in more detail shortly. Once I have your agreement to follow through with this examination in writing, I will call you in a predetermined order to proceed to the next room, where Director Nasuda will explain the rules to you one-on-one."
"Hey!" erupted the one with the golden hair, "How are we supposed to agree to this, if we haven't even heard the rules yet?" Everyone looked at him with astonishment; he held nothing back in questioning JAXA's actions.
"If not knowing the specifics of the examination troubles you so much, you are free to not sign and to leave the room," Tsurumi responded, calmly.
He placed the waiver in front of each finalist, who in their own time and fashion wrote their name down. The last finalist, who had the golden hair, signed it dutifully, despite his earlier questioning. It was not a difficult decision; even the most hesitant among them, the one with that pesky mole under his eye, was not going to back out now. "This is so secretive," Mutta thought, after signing his name, "Why not just explain the rules to us all, and save the time and effort of re-explaining it to everyone? What is JAXA up to?"
After collecting the papers, Tsurumi addressed everyone from the door opposite the entrance and announced, "Everyone has signed. When we call your number and name, please proceed to the room behind me. We will start in ascending order, with Number 1: Nitta Reiji."
Managing not to show it, the man who rose out of his seat took a deep breath before doing so. He had purplish hair that spiked downward, and his eyebrows remained Mutta of a horned owl. "I had better try matching these numbers and names to these faces," Mutta concluded in his head. "It might be very important."
Nitta was in the room for quite some time. Without watches or any clocks in the room, Mutta was left to make his best estimation of the time, which he put at twenty minutes. "This is going to be a long process for the last one called," he considered, before a shout from inside the room broke his thought. "Next!" The voice presumably was Dr. Nasuda's.
"Number 2: Yuri Teshima," announced Tsurumi. When the name was called, one of the people at the table was startled and jumped slightly within his seat. It was the young man with the mole under his eye— and with hands trembling slightly, he left through the same door Nitta had taken.
Next called was Number 3: Itou Serika. Mutta watched as the young woman across from him rose, bowed slightly, and left the room. "Serika-san," Mutta mused, blushing as he watched her go. "That is such a beautiful name!"
Number 4 was Yomato Mizoguchi, perhaps the youngest finalist. He had neatly-trimmed brown hair, and on his way out, he passed a glance toward Mutta's general direction. "Does he know my brother is Hibito, an astronaut?" Mutta wondered, nervously gulping. "Or is he looking at the person next to me?"
It was this person, Kenji Makabe, who was Number 5. He rose from the seat and turned, instead of toward the door, to face Mutta. "Good luck!" He said, offering his hand. "Th-thanks!" Mutta responded, shaking Kenji's hand. Then, the man turned to leave, and already the room was feeling emptier.
Number 6 was one of the oldest in the group, Fukuda Naoto.
After him was someone named Ozzy Smith. "An American?" Mutta wondered curiously. "What is someone with an English name doing here?" Before leaving, the man turned to them, smiling, and said in perfect Japanese, "I would like to echo Makabe-san. May you all have luck on your side."
"Numbers 6 and 7 are both old," Mutta mentally noted, "There must be some sense to this order, but aside from these two, I'm missing what links them."
Adding to his confusion, Number 8 was Furuya Yasushi, the golden haired boy who seemed quick to speak his mind whenever he so pleased. "In addition to being the last one to arrive," Mutta summarized, as he watched him leave the room, "He also questioned JAXA. He isn't going to make it far."
He was so busy with his thoughts on Furuya that, when Number 9 was announced, he only caught half the name: Tomii. He was a very placid sort of person, or at least, that is how he seemed to Mutta at the moment.
Number 10 was not Mutta—meaning, for whatever indiscernible reason, Nanba Mutta found himself as the last one to be called. Before him went someone with the name Jennifer, the second American. "Something is very weird about this game," Mutta considered, "Furuya is one thing—but two Americans were allowed to go through to this stage, too."
Finally, Tsurumi cleared his throat and, to the almost empty room, said, "Number 11: Nanba Mutta. You may proceed to speak with Director Nasuda." Courteously, Mutta rose and pushed the seat back in after himself, before proceeding to the door. There he locked eyes with Tsurumi, who acknowledged him with a nod of his head. "Have fun," said Tsurumi, with the most frightening gesture of Mutta's life so far—his genuine smile. Mutta left the room.
An unsettling sight awaited him; the next room was pitch black, save what a spotlight from above shown down on: a single chair. "Please, sit down," came the voice of Director Nasuda, the same voice that Mutta heard earlier, calling out for each consecutive finalist. Now, though, he was being addressed in a personal whisper, although he still could not see the man. Mutta silently complied, and after sitting down, he heard footsteps from far away. "Although I can't see it," he concluded, "This must be a large room. It sounds like he's walking toward me from quite far away."
The figure emerged after a moment. Director Nasuda was a man who seemed curious about everything, although that was not Mutta's immediate observation, but rather an observation of those who had worked for years with him. He was not an easy person to crack on first encounters, and so Mutta only saw him as an enigmatic personage who, in truth, struck him as more as more of a symbol than a real person. The Director's white coat was open, revealing a spring green dress shirt underneath and a tangerine colored tie. He had a black bobcut and a fairly thick mustache; he had his hands behind his back, which was hunched forward just slightly.
"Nanba Mutta-kun," Director Nasuda began, smiling toward him, "I am going to make the rules clear and simple for you, alright?" Mutta, taking note of such kindness, gave an appreciative nod.
Director Nasuda began, "Going through regular exams and the like worked fine, but it was such a pain. I thought we could do better. Space is a dangerous place, hmm? I thought it would be a good idea for us to prepare each finalist for that sense of danger. You may recall the tragic incident, in which Brian Jay and his team perished… It is so sad, but it is inevitable. People die every day on earth, because it is such a dangerous place. Imagine what space must be like, if it really is the 'final frontier.' It is the final one, because it is the last thing most people see."
For stating that he would explain the rules in a simple manner, Director Nasuda had begun in an usual manner. Mutta listened painfully. He remembered the incident well, and he remembered how it shook neither himself nor Hibito from pursuing their dream. Mutta thought that perhaps this was a tactic the Director employed as a last minute effort to weed out anyone who really is not taking the opportunity—and the risks—seriously. However, he then rationalized that this could not be the case, since they had all signed the waiver prior.
"And with those things in mind, I came up with a very different, more intense examination," Director Nasuda explained, "One that will test the mind and body of each finalist. Nanba Mutta-kun, when we took your phone from you, we made an important modification to it. Allow me to return it to you."
He handed Mutta back his phone, continuing, "This phone is now one of the Diaries at play in this competition. This Diary is your life source. If this Diary is destroyed, you will die." Mutta looked at him with the most frightened sort of expression, yet he continued to say, as though unphased by the reaction, "There were microscopic nanobots in the coffee you all drank, and those nanobots are connected to the life of the Diaries at play. Each of the 11 players in this game have a Diary, and each is linked in this manner to their Diary. I think it is starting to become clear how this will work, hmm?"
Mutta made no effort to respond. He could not find any words, and even if he had those words to use, he was so intimidated by Director Nasuda—who, a moment ago, seemed like a living embodiment of his childhood dream—that he could not utter a sound.
"This examination is a fight to the death," the Director said. "You will all be contained in one environment, and the last one standing will become an astronaut. Everyone is given a fair chance. Use these." Director Nasuda, from within his coat somewhere, pulled out a handgun, which he tossed at Mutta's lap. He then reached in and pulled out another object, a combat knife, and threw it at Mutta, who panicked and snatched it quickly by the handle. He then fumbled it about in his hands, the feeling consuming him that this simply did not belong to him, that he would not accept these terms. He was waiting for Director Nasuda to break out laughing, to explain that it was all some elaborate joke, that the real examination was something easy, like a series of physical tests or simply keeping them in a simulation experience for two weeks. He did not reveal it as a joke. He did not say anything more.
Nanba Mutta had decided that he was willing to do anything to become an astronaut and take his place next to his little brother. He declared to himself the very moment he finished reading the letter informing him that he had passed the written examination. Now, however, he found himself wondering, "Would Hibito even go to such lengths as this?" Mutta could just imagine the shock on Hibito's face, if he heard that his big brother was even remotely considering following through with this bloody competition.
"No, I cannot do it," Mutta decided, as he stared back at Director Nasuda in silence. "Even if I have to fake it for a while, I will not participate. I will find a way out of this as soon as I can, inform the proper authorities, and everything will be fine." He saw Director Nasuda nod slightly. Mutta did not know what he had meant by this gesture, be it a sign of understanding or an acceptance of a challenge, but whatever the intent was, to Mutta, the nod was the sign of an eraser smashing down. The story Mutta wrote for himself so far, while not great, was something he did not want at stake, and now he felt as though this great force was about to obliterate it all.
"No one," Mutta concluded, "Will follow through with this." Even as he was led down a secret hatch in the floor, even as he held a gun in one hand and a knife in the other, he thought to himself, "JAXA… I always looked up to you, as I looked up to the stars. What happened? Is it just because I was born on the unluckiest of days that this is happening to me?
