Birthday does several things upon waking up each day. The first is checking his phone for messages, hoping a cute girl had texted him in the night. The second is being disappointed that he'd gotten no texts. Ratio greets Birthday at that point, and then moments later Birthday would have brushed his teeth (doctor's orders) before going in search of food. If he hadn't any plans, he'd also go searching for something to amuse himself with for the rest of the day.
Today, Birthday wasn't greeted by the real Ratio, only the Ratio in his wallpaper – a photo taken about a week ago, after Ratio'd fallen asleep at his desk, with stray inky lines doodled on his face from a pen pointed at his cheek. The real Ratio'd gone ahead, taken an earlier shift. He'd be working extra hours to make up for the yesterday he'd skipped, when they'd gone in search of Feng.
It won't be evening until Ratio's set to return.
Birthday sighs. It's cold.
Birthday curls his toes and shivers. He's cold.
Crouched in front of the refrigerator, still in his pyjamas, Birthday sneezes. His stomach growls, so loud it drowns out the sound of rain rat-tat-tatting against their windows; he'd overslept, so he's hungrier than usual.
Also, he's really, really cold.
The refrigerator is closed as Birthday gives up on his search, and then proceeds to go hunting for a toaster that's strangely missing. He doesn't get far before there's a rattling of keys at the front door—
—and then Ratio steps into the apartment, tablet sandwiched beneath an elbow, shaking water from the folds of a clear umbrella.
"Eh?" says Birthday. He cranes his head back out of the corridor to check the time, then looks back to Ratio again. It's not even noon. "Back so soon?"
At first, there's no reply. Ratio closes the door behind him, drops his keys in one of the endless pockets of his lab coat, then places the tablet aside before hanging his umbrella on the wall. There's one last thing removed before Ratio gets to slipping off his shoes.
Birthday stares at the eyepatch dumbly. Then, he looks at Ratio and his eyes.
Both of Ratio's eyes.
"Ratio...?" begins Birthday.
Ratio tosses the eyepatch to him. Ratio's not used to seeing with two eyes again; it flies wide, Birthday scrambles for it, fumbles the catch. The eyepatch slips through his fingers and lands lifelessly against the floor.
Seeing Ratio without a shadow eating half his face away is like meeting a version of Ratio taken straight from high school. Younger. Bizarre. Without the eyepatch, the symmetry is uncannily perfect, the flipping of half an image to make something whole.
Ratio's staring back at Birthday. He doesn't flinch, not even once.
"It's gone," says Ratio, in a voice uncomfortably small. "The Minimum. The curse is gone."
Nice stares at the sky.
His phone rings. Three people have his number. One won't be calling him back.
The call is ignored.
Nice doesn't know how long he's been standing, watching through the downpour. There's a sharp wind cutting over water and deep into drenched clothes. His feet had taken him left from the station rather than the right toward Chinatown, even though Yamashita Park is the last place where anyone wants to be in the rain; it's all grass, the occasional tree, and no shelter. Those unlucky enough to be sightseeing have retreated to the shelter of the rest house nearby, so Nice is alone and watching stormy grey clouds press down on Yokohama Bay.
Cumulonimbus clouds, formed in unstable areas of the atmosphere.
Nice remembers the book; 102. Paper 102 was one of many investigating the cause of the Minimum, but the first to provide evidence against mutations in a person's DNA. It compared samples from a subject who had come into the Minimum as an adult, after showing no signs of actualising one at a younger age; designation: Three. Three corridors lead out from his room at Facultas, door 117 to his left. Paper 117 was first to present findings on an individual's personal development related to the development of their Minimum—
A shadow falls over him. A hand drops onto his shoulder.
"Little Nice," says Mao, from behind, "what am I going to do with you?"
Nice blinks. All stray thoughts vanish, disappearing from consciousness as pigeons return to holsters up a magician's sleeve. Water no longer falls into his face; there's an umbrella shielding him from the rain.
Nice turns around. "You're back?"
"I am," says Mao. "I found the information you wanted."
"Thanks. I'll check my mail later. Cipher?"
"Three-two. The wisest man is the fool in brightest motley."
Nice laughs.
"They're worthy fools because of the best plaid, huh?"
Mao is holding a towel, draped over the arm holding the fish bread he's in the middle of eating. Nice had seen the towel, but hadn't registered its presence until Mao extends it to him. The piece of fabric is soaked through by the time Nice dries off his face and hair.
Mao is peering intently at him when the towel is handed back, spectacles like magnifying glasses, examining Nice for damage.
Nice doesn't need to say anything because Mao already knows.
"He isn't worth you," says Mao.
I know, Nice wants to say, but he doesn't, because he doesn't know when he'd started to care.
"Tell me why," says Nice.
There's a brief pause; Mao takes another bite of the fish bread, chews contemplatively. "...No."
"Why not?"
"Because," says Mao, like it's an answer.
"That's not an answer!"
Mao smiles a soft smile reserved for Nice and no more. Mao reaches out, tucks some of Nice's hair behind his ear.
"Forget about him, little Nice," says Mao. "Let's get you out of those clothes – there's work to do."
"I have a new job?"
"You do."
08: motley fools moralising time
"...This doesn't count as a job, Mao."
"Don't be so narrow-minded, little Nice," is the reply through the earphones Nice is wearing. "It's unbecoming."
"Look, it's that mascot!"
"Ah, Toranker!"
Toranker spots the two easily before jumping up and down, gesturing in welcome. It's a mother and daughter duo from out of town; a tourist brochure from Shin-Yokohama Station protrudes from the mother's handbag, the daughter's wide-eyed hurry is characteristic of a child that has never met Toranker before. Toranker gestures, the girl hops up next to him, and then the sliding of virtual shutters and artificial shutter-sounds begin.
Neither the mother nor the daughter ever notice Nice inside.
Nice poses obligingly for the photos, despite the suit's immobility. It's all exaggerated proportions and no real support save for a flimsy frame and as much stuffing as his mattress at home.
"Make sure you remember to promote," Mao had said, when they'd returned.
"What about you?" Nice's reply.
"The shop needs renovating."
Nice can't say anything to Mao when there are people so close, so he simply listens to the random thumps and idle humming, digitised by Mao's microphone and fed through the internet to the earphones in Nice's ears. Mao snickers suddenly for no reason at all; if Nice isn't so used to Mao's presence, the one-sided joke would be infuriating rather than comforting.
But it's not for Mao's own sake that he suggested the call.
"Come on, Mao," says Nice, once Toranker has waved its guests goodbye. "What are you up to?"
"Don't take that step you're about to take," Mao warns.
Nice obeys. "Lemme see."
There's the sharp sound of something being dropped down.
"No," says Mao. "You're still not allowed to come in until I'm done."
"Control freak."
"...They're here."
Nice pays attention to his surroundings again; Toranker is being approached once more. This time it's a pair of children, a young girl escorting a boy, both thirteen. They're twins, with the same nose, similar brows, boring dark hair. The same blank gazes and smooth faces like puppet dolls, less human than human.
They draw to a stop in front of Nice and stare.
"Yun and Yang are coming," says Mao.
Nice sends a glance in the direction of the shop even as Toranker gives a wave. Obviously.
The girl, Yun, eyes the tiger mask warily like it's withholding sentience and will eat them alive. Yang reaches up toward Toranker's head; Toranker kneels, and Yang puts his hand over Toranker's nose. Not once does Yun let go of her brother's shoulder.
Yang licks his lips and blinks.
"...Mr. Nice is being dumb," he proclaims.
"Good afternoon to you too," says Nice. "You guys have school today."
"Uncle Mao said we should come."
"They're helping me with renovations," adds Mao.
Nice frowns. "So they're allowed to see what you're up to but not me? I turned seventeen a few months ago."
"It's got nothing to do with your birthday," says Mao. "I need them for their own talents. You should be using yours."
There's a small stand inside the Toranker mask, for putting Nice's phone. It has Mao's email open, the data Nice had asked for and more, encrypted into code. Nice glances at the screen and flicks his head; the sensor taped to his nose detects the movement, and the screen scrolls down. "My talent, huh?"
Mao pretends he hasn't heard.
"Tell the kids to use the back entrance," he says.
The message is passed on. Yun's grip tenses briefly on her brother's shoulder. She flickers her eyes; she would have nodded if she was capable of nodding. Yang nods for her and taps Toranker's nose twice.
"Getting better, Mr. Nice," says Yang.
With those words, their farewell is complete, and Yun helps to steer her brother to where the back entrance stands.
Nice watches them leave.
"Find yourself a girlfriend if you like kids so much," he says to Mao.
He hears Mao shrug. "I don't need a girlfriend when I've got you."
"...You knew exactly how that would sound."
"Maybe. Maybe not," replies Mao. "What if I said I liked Hajime?"
"Then it's up to her. Do you?"
"I don't."
"Good," says Nice. "Either way, if you break her heart, I'll kill you."
"If I did, you wouldn't be able to catch me."
"Even you have patterns."
"It's not about patterns. Don't forget that I know you better than anyone else in the world, little Nice. Including you."
The sound of a door opening screaks softly across the line.
"Mao?" says Nice. "Shut the fuck up."
Without another word, a gesture to the sensor disconnects the call. The little popup reporting call time is dismissed. Nice sighs, though it's with a wry smile. Just because Nice can't hear his partner doesn't mean it's the same for Mao.
A street full of people greet Toranker, and Mao's data greets Nice again: everything Nice had asked for, and then some.
Mao knows Nice better than Mao knows himself.
"Don't get such a big head, Mao," Nice says, knowing Mao will hear, whilst mentally partitioning some of the data into his brain. "It's unbecoming."
If Mamiya is anything in this rotten world, he is good at his job.
"Would you get some refreshments, Mamiya?"
"Of course, President."
If he is anything else, he is a good actor.
"Do you require help?"
"It's fine, Three."
But of all the things he could be—
"Did you manage to get the position?"
"I did. Okura was very impressed by my Minimum. But, Ishigami..."
"I know."
—Mamiya is loyal.
"...Affirmative. I'm sorry I doubted you."
It's nothing but sheer loyalty to Freemum, its cause, and Ishigami and his dream, that keeps Mamiya from spilling the tray of refreshments all over Okura Yuichi and the clients sitting across from him. Mamiya bites the inside of his lip to prevent any animosity appearing on his features as he serves them. Twice his hair gets in the way of his vision, stabs him in his cheeks. Mamiya wishes he could wear his headband.
But Mamiya doesn't complain. Very few members of their family are in any condition to have a job, and money is the force of the universe, so Mamiya ought to remain silent and thankful. When Okura's business goes well, he pays well.
And when Okura's business is going well, he is usually using Mamiya's Minimum.
Okura had initiated a handshake with his clients after greeting them with the more traditional bow. Before the clients had then been escorted to the meeting room, Mamiya'd been sent a nod – bring those. Mamiya's speciality. So Mamiya isn't surprised when, as soon as the biscuits are politely tried, Okura's newest clients start dribbling over the floor in their desire for more. More bliss, more debt, more mess for Mamiya to clean up after contracts are penned and deals are done.
Mamiya spends the time avoiding eye-contact, staring silently at the painting on one wall. It's of a woman lost in an expanse of blue, white against a black tortoise and body entwined with an inky snake; an original, by some famous artist called Chiyuu.
The clients leave once they've signed their souls away.
"That's enough for today," says Okura. He grabs the jacket of his suit off Mamiya, who he'd given it to when the meeting began. The golden rings on his fingers clink as he puts the jacket back on. "Oh—Three?"
Three steps into the doorway of the meeting room, from where he'd been stationed outside. It's the only exit both in and out. The meeting room is second in regards to safety; the walls hide the fact they're built surrounding steel. Mamiya's never been allowed inside Okura's office, the safest of them all.
Mamiya'd thought it was sheer paranoia until a sedan had crashed through the front of the building, sending glass shards and buckled steel all across the floor.
(He'd thought that was an accident, too, until the driver assaulted him the month after. A fine wasn't enough compensation for an Ishigami who'd witnessed one of his own attacked before his eyes; Mamiya had watched the water boiling in the bathtub, and heard the screams drawn out over the course of hours.)
"Yes, sir?" says Three.
"Has Hajime returned?" asks Okura.
"Hajime has not returned yet, sir."
Okura's adjusting his cuffs. He curls his fingers. Very slowly, very carefully. One at a time, all the way up to nine. Three doesn't react. Mamiya realises he hasn't seen Okura's second bodyguards for a long time.
They'd still be alive, if they were lucky.
"I see," says Okura. "Mamiya."
"Yes, President?"
"Wait for her until she returns."
Mamiya religiously follows the time. Being punctual is a duty, not a preference. The shop closes in eight minutes and he's scheduled to meet with the rest of the family after work. Cleaning the meeting room has been refined to an art; it takes Mamiya seven minutes, never more.
Mamiya will never be late unless Okura makes it so.
"But sir—" says Mamiya.
He's cut off.
"Hajime's so cute!" says Okura. "I fear what could happen to her and her safety."
"There's no guarantee she'll be back."
"She'll be back," says Okura. "But if she doesn't... you'll just have to stay the whole night, no?"
"I can't do that, President—"
"Of course, you'll be compensated generously."
Pause.
"...How much?" asks Mamiya.
Okura tells him.
When Okura and his dog close the front door behind them, Mamiya's mopping the floor and cursing down the ceiling.
Money is the force of the universe. The Freemum are in great need of money. But there will be enough in this one pay check for both their bills and rent and maybe, finally maybe, Mamiya will earn enough extra that they may focus on future goals. Expansion. Promotional material. Business cards. Time off, so that they may go recruiting. An opportunity for Ishigami's dream to touch those unaware.
The office has never been so clean by the time Hajime finally returns. She takes one look at Mamiya, wrestling aggressively with a stain that had been beneath a chair, blinks lazily, then takes another bite from the half-eaten hamburger in her hands – as if she hasn't arrived nearly an hour after closing, and Mamiya hasn't had time to eat since the morning.
"The President went home," Mamiya tells her, reluctantly. "Leave the money on my desk. I'll take care of it—"
"James Shunsuke died."
Mamiya stiffens. "What?"
"He's the one I was collecting from?"
"Yes." Mamiya'd given her the details and James's address himself, as always. "Are you sure?"
"The police that wanted to question me were. Know him?"
"Do you care?"
"No," her flat reply.
"Then don't ask."
Hajime's moved behind Mamiya's desk, now. "Where is the first-aid kit?"
"You're injured?"
"I need a bandage for tomorrow."
The stab of fear from Okura's reaction were he to find out about any injury settles into relief, and then disgust at himself for even considering either possibility.
"Second drawer," says Mamiya.
Mamiya listens to her fumble with the handle's mechanism. He sighs.
"Need a hand?"
"No."
By the time she steps back from the desk, Mamiya's finished packing up the cleaning supplies, more than ready to go home. Mamiya looks at Hajime but only sees the right side of her face, where a gauze square sits snug over her eye. She hadn't been wearing it the day before. Briefly, he wonders if eyepatches have become fashionable when he wasn't paying attention, or if she's walked into a fist or a wall.
Like she can sense his gaze, Hajime turns around.
"Are you done?" says Mamiya.
He doesn't ask about the eyepatch because he doesn't care.
Hajime tilts her head. "Only if you lock up. Don't bother escorting me."
Before Mamiya can get in another word, she's gone.
"You're late, Mamiya!"
Mamiya steps into the Freemums' private lounge and slams the door shut behind him. It silences Club Without's garish dance beats, seals the small room off from the lights and those who make up the rest of the world. The private lounge could be a diorama in a bottle for how little it changes despite how long passes and how many live within. It's rented from a supporter for cheap and the services of their various Minimums.
Mamiya flicks his head, props his headband against his ears, and smooths his hair down in one swift motion.
"I was kept back, Gouda," he says.
"Evidently."
Gouda's twirling a black wig on the end of a finger, leaning against the back of a sofa. She's changed into her regular clothes, the fast food chain's red uniform sitting by her feet in a plastic bag. Beside her, spindly Suzuki fiddles with her hat, inspecting it curiously. Sakuraba raises a hand in greeting before returning to his magazine, silent from habit rather than any preparation for his Minimum. Masumoto doesn't indicate any notice of Mamiya's presence, deep in meditation.
Only two people are still at the table. Suruga, who takes the longest to eat due to the gag sealing his Minimum, and Ishigami.
Ishigami looks up when Mamiya takes a seat across, and blinks when Mamiya extends a check to him.
"Mamiya?"
"My bonus."
Ishigami takes it and looks at the number. His eyes widen sharply in surprise. "This—"
"For making sure his girl returned safely," says Mamiya.
"That much of a bonus just for today?" says Ishigami. "We've never gotten this much before. Did anything happen?"
Mamiya only allows himself half a second of hesitation.
"James is dead."
All noise draws to a sudden halt. Behind Mamiya, Sakuraba's magazine falls to the floor.
"I don't know the details." Mamiya speaks at the same level, because there's no need to raise his voice in a room where everyone is listening. "All I know is that the girl was supposed to be collecting from him but she got pulled into questioning. Okura wanted me to stay back and wait for her. That's what he gave me."
"He knew about James," says Gouda.
Ishigami looks to Mamiya. "Did he?"
"If he did, he didn't show it," says Mamiya. "Everything was normal. But Okura wouldn't do anything – James has never missed a payment, even if he was stupid enough to go to Miraki for his loan."
Mamiya doesn't mention how James hadn't had much of a choice, with rejections from banks and offers from sharks. Never let it be said that the Freemum only accepted those born and raised in Japan their entire lives.
"Then was the girl hiding something?" asks Gouda. "She does have that Sonic Minimum—"
"Enough," says Ishigami. He sighs a heavy sigh. "Mamiya, you must be famished. Please, help yourself. Then we may discuss what is going on."
Mamiya obliges. Dinner consists of cup ramen and scavenged leftovers destined for the bin; extra fried chicken and chips from Gouda, salads and unsold goods from Ishigami. Use-by dates have no relevance to those with a miracle healer. Suruga is banned from eating anything that may even potentially be sickening, and Mamiya is banned from bringing any consumables at all. Maintaining their group's health and function is easier that way.
It is when Mamiya is halfway through his ramen that Suruga is finished and Ishigami decides the meeting may begin.
"As you've all no doubt heard," says Ishigami, "James is dead. He was a kind, venerable man with one of the most unique and valuable Minimums in existence, and his loss will be felt dearly. In honour of his memory, I would like all of us to refrain from speculation. We will do as we always do – collect information, and then find out the truth in due time. Let the past remain in the past, and let us look toward the tomorrow where Minimum Holders may be free."
Suzuki chitters.
"Our plans?" echoes Ishigami. "The same as they've always been. It will all depend upon the next actions of Facultas's Murasaki. Sakuraba, does he still have the card?"
Sakuraba shrugs. He signs with both hands. It has not been thrown out.
"Excellent," says Ishigami. "We will wait for four more weeks to see if he takes action, planning accordingly."
"How can you be so confident that Murasaki will join us?" asks Mamiya.
"Because he is the same type of person as you." Ishigami grabs his cup, a flimsy plastic thing filled with too-sweet tea. "Now, let us toast. To a future where we are free!"
Half a dozen cups join his, thrust toward the sky.
"A future where we are free!"
/TBC/
