(it's about time to mention this: many canon liberties have been taken in favour of original and story-specific world-building/explanations, to flesh out the universe some more. if you have questions about any specific choices, don't hesitate to ask!)
Over a year ago, Murasaki'd been in the shadows of a great stage.
"—the individual graduating with the highest grades in the history of Facultas Academy, Murasaki."
He walks into the light, followed by applause from people trapped in the dark. Standing on the stage is like being examined. The overhead lamps are too intense. His suit suddenly stifles him, jacket too tailored and tie too tight. He's choking. He's blind.
Murasaki smiles politely, accepts the certificate, presents it to the faceless and turns his back on Facultas's instructors sitting to the rear of the stage.
It's to the shadows he returns, not a minute later.
04: le papillon du chaos
Graduation from Facultas entails several things: the first, freedom from hellish training and brutal hours; the second, agreement to a strict, no-nonsense restriction upon the use of a person's Minimum in accordance with the Minimum Secrecy Act; and the third, the placement of oneself into some of the most successful companies in Japan.
Scouting and recruitment is a simple process. Companies send job positions to the Academy before every ceremony, occasionally mentioning the names of those they wish the request to go to, and the graduates are given a list from which to choose. Facultas's training has a core curriculum of strenuous physical activity, management, higher mathematics, legalities, psychology, philosophy, world history, communication at a business level in three natural and two computer languages—all supplemented by specialist education either best suited to the student's Minimum or of their choosing. All graduates have completed the equivalent of at least one formal university degree.
With such a system, there's no need for interviews or presentations to determine suitability.
Murasaki's the top student that year. He gets to pick first. There should be a certain apprehension accompanying the decision, since placement is done through back channels; graduation from a facility so secretive means second chances may not as well exist. Whatever he chooses will most likely be the job he retains for the rest of his life.
He can't bring himself to care.
He's accompanied by a distinct lack of passion as he leafs through the offers, scanning character after character after character. None resonate with his soul. Despite being first, only one offer requests him specifically. He's not surprised – considering his speciality.
We want you because you are the top student, it says, in many more words that ultimately mean the same thing. Fukui Holdings wants to expand its investments within Europe. Your specialist education in fine arts is unimportant to us, since you were the only graduate this year to pick French on top of your English learning.
He's offered assistance and mentoring, first work as a translator, and will be paid to take additional business courses at the same time.
Skim. Flick through the other offers to compare. Murasaki's eyebrows rise.
He'll be paid a lot.
For a man who's been a prodigy for most of his life, in a system designed to churn children into geniuses or break them beyond repair – a man with no real goal in life except to exist—
Money is as good a reason as any.
Three months ago, Murasaki learnt why Fukui Holdings had been so determined to hire him.
Murasaki's been good at avoiding more social interaction than he needs to indulge. He'd never cared about attaining promotions, or garnering the goodwill of his fellow co-workers, because so long as he's being paid to work he'll continue to complete it efficiently and a fraction beyond satisfactory. Not impressive enough to set any bars, not so little that he's perceived as lazy, but just enough to be considered reliable and worth investing in.
The only nomikai Murasaki'd attended had been the first. He'd lasted all of five minutes at the drinking party after the alcohol made its rounds, cigarettes were broken out, and his co-workers loosened up. After excusing himself, he'd never returned.
Three months ago, he'd received an invitation by email from someone with an email he didn't know, tagged it as junk, and added the sender to his blocked list.
Three months ago, the woman called Momoka visited him in order to ask why.
Murasaki's sure the visit has to have breached all sorts of protocol, but Momoka isn't one of Fukui Holdings' most influential shareholders for nothing. He doesn't find out her position until she drags him out for coffee in a private lounge. Murasaki's more annoyed by how he'd been interrupted translating mid-slide than amazed at the view of Tokyo's skyline, suspended a few hundred metres off the ground and framed by glass walls to three sides.
She's charming. Well-dressed, in a rich suit. A splash of red accentuates the undertones of her hair.
When he returns, his co-workers will be intolerable.
The aroma of bold coffee fills the space. Momoka smiles. "Your tea was just brewed. I would be surprised if it did anything to insult you so soon."
Apparently, Murasaki is frowning.
"Or perhaps you're examining the reflection?" says Momoka. "I hear fortune telling is back in fashion."
"Ms. Momoka—"
"Just Momoka. Please."
Murasaki doesn't indicate he's heard. "Ms. Momoka, may I ask why you've invited me whilst I should be working?"
"Stubborn one, aren't you?"
Murasaki takes a sip. It's good, expensive tea. Nothing he doesn't know already.
"I thought it was well about time I introduced myself to you," says Momoka, "and let you know why you're working for Fukui. You see – I asked Wataru if he could bring you in. Make a job offer you'd be a fool to refuse. I like Fukui. I also like you."
"I'm not looking for a relationship," the flat reply.
Her laughter sounds like bells. Perfect, as to be expected of a woman well-refined.
"What a wonderful answer."
For a while, there's silence. Momoka's watching him. Her stare is hypnotic, entrancing – at some point, the aroma of coffee'd been replaced by a sweet, flowery perfume.
She blinks, and Murasaki's in the real world again.
"It's always the most interesting people who come out of Facultas," says Momoka. "Tell me—as The Prodigy, the best graduate in history—why did you choose fine arts as your speciality?"
"I..."
...
Why had he cared enough to begin an answer?
Momoka's smiling at him again. It's equal parts patient and equal parts expecting. Murasaki decides he doesn't like the taste of green tea.
The cup is placed aside. "The sky isn't made of steel."
He neglects to mention it's a web instead.
Murasaki'd been shuttled across Fukui's many divisions, someone having decided that he'd apparently learnt enough to begin working on his own. For some reason that means relocating to Yokohama, to the headquarters of one of its subsidiaries.
It's all temporary, he'd been informed. All until their dealings in Europe are stable enough for him to travel and work directly from there.
When Murasaki notices that ninety-five percent of those working on Level Four have only one name, written in knifelike katakana lines, he doesn't bother hoping.
Two weeks later it's as if he'd never been assured.
(Murasaki thinks Momoka'd decided his answer was lacking, or she'd found someone else to keep her entertained.)
"Monsieur Bernier, à la suite de notre conversation relative à SICAV—"
It's nearing five in the afternoon in Japan. According to the digital dashboard on the back wall, it's late morning in the Eurozone and very, very early morning in New York. Murasaki's fortunate his third language is French. He's not forced into the cumbersome hours worked by those covering Wall Street. It's one less concern in a world where money has to flow smoothly through a handful of jurisdictions at the click of a button; a world where currency markets opened and closed at different times of the day. His job can be reduced to doing research and conducting deals in a market halfway around the globe. All for those who knew what they wanted, but couldn't speak the language.
His hours also mean that, of all the Minimum Holders on Level Four, those with the more... distracting conditions for activation aren't present whilst he's there.
Crack. A sheet of candy snaps in half.
Most of them, anyway.
At the desk directly opposite his, Honey grins, entirely unaware of Murasaki's frustration.
"Get you!" she says, followed by the obnoxious rattling of keyboard keys.
Honey holds Level Four's record for the fastest typing speed, at nearly two hundred words per minute. Murasaki eyes the tray on her desk, filled with a dozen lollipop sticks.
Analysis Minimum or not, he thinks, she also holds the record for the most annoying sound – made all the more worse by its unpredictability, because her activations are random and never according to any specific time.
He would have scoffed, but he'd seen how she can process thousands of variables from millions of statistics in a single instant, as fast as the most powerful supercomputers in the world. She holds a doctorate in statistics. She's being paid to develop a revolutionary trading algorithm, whilst he, like most of the others on Level Four, performed duties more akin to back office organisation.
Momoka's interest in him or not doesn't matter—compared to Honey, Murasaki is expendable.
(A sign on Honey's desk says, "Call me 'doctor' and I will skin you.")
Murasaki's call ends. He hangs up, glances over the notes he'd made during his conversation with Francis Bernier, and decides they're adequate enough that he may take a break and continue later.
The manager doesn't even look at him when he leaves. The ideal workplace harmony wa of a floor full of Minimum Holders, all with odd activation conditions and all integral to the success of the company, is nothing near traditional. Coming and going as pleased is not the strangest dynamic on Level Four, but one critical to maintaining self-control.
There's a convenience store in a corner down the road, so Murasaki buys dinner. Two bentos, the second for Honey. With the intensity at which she'd been typing, chances are that she won't remember to eat until midnight. She'd bought lunch for him when he'd forgotten a few days ago.
(He always leaves before her; he's never seen her go home.)
The clerk scans the boxes. Murasaki digs a hand into his pocket for change.
"Say," begins the clerk, suddenly. "Are you lost?"
Murasaki'd expected the comment to be standard convenience store talk, having handed over the exact amount. He glances around, unsure whether the urge is from some sleeping instinct or an uncharacteristic burst of self-consciousness, only to find that he and the clerk are the only people in the store. There are no other customers or even staff to give greetings at the door, despite it being Yokohama at five in the evening.
He recognises the clerk by the faint amount of facial hair at his chin that moves when he speaks. They're both regulars, and should know one another.
"What?" says Murasaki.
"Your eyes. They're tired of the world."
Murasaki opens his mouth to say that no, sorry, he's not remotely interested in anything religious or being preached to on his way out. He doesn't. A chill creeps out from where the arms of his glasses come into contact with his ears.
The clerk lowers the arm he'd raised. Murasaki has no doubt – it's the effect of a Minimum.
"Did you know that even graduates from Facultas are monitored in their day to day lives?" says the clerk. "You have a tail outside the store that we should be dealing with now. Consider it a gift for taking your time."
"What do you want?"
"To extend an invitation."
"I'm not religious."
"We aren't a religion." Hooded eyes sharpen beneath dark hair. Murasaki wonders how he could have once missed that stare's intensity. "We're a family."
Suddenly the main doors slide open, followed by greetings of "Welcome!"; the world returns to normal. Murasaki's purchase is extended to him.
"Thank you," says the clerk.
He then moves onto his next customer, smiling as if nothing'd occurred. Murasaki watches him.
If Murasaki expects anything else to occur before he reaches the sliding doors, he'll be greatly disappointed.
His return to the office is uneventful. Even if the clerk had been telling the truth, and Murasaki had been followed until now, the trip back is so much the same that he wouldn't have known. Still, as he heads up to Level Four, he resolves to cast the incident from his mind. By the time he's reached his desk the memory is nearly discarded altogether.
—Until he opens the plastic bag to find a black business card adorned with a butterfly.
Honey's still typing. She glances up only when Murasaki drops one of the bentos on her desk, lollipop protruding from the corner of her mouth, and nods silently in thanks without looking at what he'd chosen.
After he sits down, Murasaki ignores the logical thought to immediately throw away the business card in favour of his curiosity. Café Without. An address and telephone number are printed neatly in one corner. Struck by impulse, he turns the card over.
It turns out Café Without's business card is one-sided, with handwritten text on the back.
Freemum is our family.
Call if you ever need help. Ask for me.
You are not alone.
– Ishigami Shunichi.
/TBC/