Reading guidelines
Break line = Change in location.
Octothorpe = Change or addition to the narrative's focal point-of-view within the same vicinity.
X = Time jump.
Bold text = English is being spoken.
Author's Note
While this story features 'Persona 5: Strikers' characters, no spoilers from the game will be present in Protocol Princess. The imports into the fic are for the privy of using established characters in canon and adapting them to the AU-lore of this story, rather than creating archetypal OCs from scratch.
The SIU director has a name – Nikaidô. In another fanfic I wrote, I found it weird to empty-label this character as 'SIU director' only in prose so I gave him a surname for my vernacular to work with. This will be imported into Protocol Princess.
Aiki (n.): A principle from Japanese budō where the martial artist channels into the harmonious energy of the fight (this is also something that's spoken of by non-Japanese martial artists like Bruce Lee, in different words). The gist of the idea is to lead your opponent into an advantageous position for yourself. This applies to their physicality, psychological and (depending on one's beliefs) psychic/energetic.
If you'd like to see a real world example, I recommend checking out Anderson Silva's fights, specifically in the Silva vs. Bonnar MMA bout.
.
The black sedan slowly rolled into a stop in front of the Tokyo Metropolitan Government Building. A secretary; a young woman in office attire's white blouse and pencil skirt was waiting for the VIP in this car. She bowed when the car's door opened.
A sexagenarian with a balding sculpted widow's peak stepped out of the car, securing his jacket's front button.
"Sakura-san, I trust your ride went well," the secretary prompted politely, raising her head.
Sojiro released a tired sigh he hadn't realised he had been holding for the past week. His heart was heavy during the car ride. Grim times were ahead.
"Thank you for your consideration. Please lead the way," he answered curtly.
The secretary nodded and gestured the way.
#
Thirty-one floors up.
In the boardroom meeting, sat three men.
"September 12th, your organisation sent fourteen operatives to Junya Kaneshiro's mansion – this report I'm reading says 'Zero dark'. What does that mean?"
"Zero dark is special operations speak for midnight. 12 AM. 000 hours," replied Sojiro.
"Hmph."
Jyun Owada leaned back on the chair, affixing his fingers in a pyramid. Seated next to Owada was the SIU director, Nikaidô, who was tapping his cigarette on an ashtray. The ashtray was full of dozens of spent stubs, bent like lifeless limbs over dirty ash. The gory sight matched Sojiro's mood today. To say that the DIH fucked up at Hokkaido, was an understatement.
Nikaidô spoke, the timbre in his voice carrying slow and measured.
"You sent fourteen men and women to bring Kaneshiro in-" Nikaidô took a puff and exhaled. The smoky cloud dissipated in the air-conditioning; its temperature set too low for Sojiro's liking.
"-How many in the extradition squad made it back alive?"
"One."
"One," repeated Nikaidô.
Kami, give me the strength to not slap him, thought Sojiro.
"Tss! How soft are they making them these days? Thirteen! Thirteen dead! We've lost Kaneshiro too!" reprimanded Owada.
"We have unfortunately lost a noble drug lord, yes," said Sojiro.
"You speak rather audaciously for a division with a bloodbath on its hands, Sakura. Should I assume these incompetent operatives used sarcasm instead of bullets against these phantoms from the shadows?" demanded Owada.
Anger lined Sojiro's face in sharp lines.
"Now listen here. These men and women were distinguished in both their capability and character in serving our nation. If you're the proxy to issue the fury and disappointment from the Prime Minister's office over this bloody tragedy, you may direct all scorn to me. Do not – cheapen their memory, Owada," said Sojiro.
Owada's neck flushed pink. Before he could get a retort in, Nikaidô waved his hand between them, his cigarette intensifying its orange glow.
"Now now. Let's not lose our composure, gentleman. We're here to review this new threat that presented itself. Shall we? Six days ago. . .two hitmen took out an entire DIH team. We know that. We also know-" Nikaidô snubbed his cigarette and slid out a glossy A4 print of a grainy image. Sojiro's grip tightened on the armchair. Even Owada sobered at the picture. It was a spy-drone shot taken in a Taipei market of a young man.
"-who the snake's head is. Number eleven on CIA's most wanted list, Goro Akechi. Codenamed, 'Crow' by intelligence divisions all around the world. His accomplice at Hokkaido is currently unknown but it's not far-fetched to assume that hired mercenaries come simply these days."
"Why has Crow returned to Japan? Why now?!" asked Owada.
"Isn't it obvious?" said Sojiro.
Neither of the other two dared to answer. Of course. Rumours of sired bastards were typically a touchy subject when it came to powerful men. Especially this bastard.
Sojiro leaned forward.
"Has the security detail been upped with the Prime Minister?" asked Sojiro.
Owada nodded, dabbing a handkerchief on his forehead.
"Everything has been tightened. Sojiro, I cannot stress enough how important it is you find this. . .this extremist with a vendetta! Where are you starting at first?" asked Owada.
"The money trail. Who's funding Crow? Satellite surveillance captured a plane flying over Hokkaido during the storm. We checked at all the usual places and no one chartered something that could handle a storm of that category. This means it may be a private-owned plane. Forensics also found cutting edge synthetic material and expensive military gear that was left behind at the manor. Whatever he's up to, Crow's already burned zeroes, just to get to Kaneshiro," said Sojiro.
"Get to him? Isn't it bloody obvious they wanted to kill him? What else would they need from a wretched mobster?" said Owada, a nervous-falsetto trickling into his voice.
Sojiro peered analytically over the rims of his glass at Owada. Nikaidô shot Owada a warning glance, suppressing his irritation at the politician.
Don't make it so obvious, fool! thought Nikaidô.
". . .Yes. They came to kill him. We do not know why at this stage," said Sojiro.
Pressed to quell Sojiro's suspicions, Nikaidô cleared his throat.
"There is one more matter. One you won't be pleased with but in light of the DIH's gross mishandling of the Hokkaido incident, Prime Minister Shido has issued this stipulative."
The SIU director picked up his mobile phone and dialled.
"Yes, let them know they can come in."
The door opened. In stepped a middle-aged woman with the airs of sternness. She wore her hair with a stiff chignon. Sojiro recognised her. Most people at the DIH knew the Commissioner of the Public Security Office. If one were to explain their organisation to a foreigner, the PSO was like Japan's MI5. No powers to arrest on local soil. But they monitored affairs with the main task of preventing domestic terrorism.
"I'd say good morning, gentlemen but we're not here to digest pleasant news, are we?" she said.
"No, we're not. Sakura-san, I'm sure you're acquainted with Kaburagi Miyako. Both of you head special intelligence operations despite ah – one being in the child agency of the Ministry of Justice. The other – Ministry of Defence. You two both know each other, yes?" prompted Nikaidô.
Sojiro cleared his throat, cutting in before Kaburagi could say something.
"Ah – yes of course. We've met during government official functions," Sojiro said curtly.
Miyako adjusted her gold-framed glasses, those eyes squinting at Sojiro with an expression he could not deconstruct.
What? Am I supposed to tell them we used to be fuck buddies during our college days?! thought Sojiro.
Sojiro smiled thinly at her, getting nauseated by the minute.
Owada clasped his hands.
"It's good we have different bodies collaborating to neutralise this threat. Sakura, I trust there is no objection to this?" asked Owada.
"None."
"Hmph. It's fair enough that the Public Security Office is getting involved. Domestic intelligence is supposed to be our specialty. What I don't understand is why. . .there is a third party involved in 'Protocol Princess'," said Miyako.
Sojiro blinked, wondering if he misheard.
"Protocol Princess?" said Sojiro.
Sitting beneath her gaze was like watching a death ray prime its beam. There was no annihilation yet the anticipation of intensity was there.
"Yes. I decided that will be the operation's name, having perused preliminary intelligence from this morning," said Miyako.
Tch. There she goes, deciding something important without even consulting with me first. I see her predilection for domination hasn't left her, thought Sojiro.
More importantly, what preliminary intelligence? wondered Sojiro.
"A third party? You already have DIH and PSO on Crow's trail. Who is the third party?" asked Sojiro, then he noticed the boardroom's door was still opened.
Nikaidô got up from his seat. So did Owada.
Nikaidô nodded to the door.
"Yoshizawa, you may come in," said Nikaidô.
Of all the people Sojiro anticipated in this meeting, a young woman with hair of wine deep red was not the type he expected. Nor was the tall broad-shouldered man with her, who appeared to be about her age except he was. . .
The blond, blue-eyed foreigner spoke, his English thick with Yorkshire roots, oily with the ol' fish and chips grub:
"Aye – good evening, gentlemen, madam. MI6 reporting in. I hear you're having a spot of trouble with some canker of a black bird, aren't ya?" said the foreigner.
Both Miyako and Sojiro stared at him at a pause. Sojiro spoke first, in Japanese:
"What is this?" he said, turning to Owada and Nikaidô. This – was something Sojiro was strongly opposed to and judging by Miyako's expression, she felt similar.
Owada shrugged, dithery.
"Ministry of Defence, Ministry of Justice and-" Owada nodded to the redhead and the Englishman, "-Ministry of Foreign Affairs have a stake in 'Protocol Princess'. The British are now involved in taking down Crow, with us," said Owada.
"I see. Now it makes sense," said Miyako, folding her arms.
"I'm still not following," said Sojiro.
The redhead spoke for the first time, addressing Sojiro in Japanese (although he caught odd traces of an accent in her Japanese – has she lived overseas? Sojiro wondered).
"Apologies for catching you off-guard, Sakura-san. My name is Yoshizawa Kasumi. This is my peer, Ian Dawson. As Owada-san mentioned, we're part of the MI6 contingent for 'Protocol Princess' as the nature of this operation involves an asset which belongs to the United Kingdom," said Kasumi with a slight bow.
An asset belonging to the UK? Wait. . .!
"You. . ." Sojiro stood up, slamming his palms on the table, ". . .are you telling me Crow has gotten his hands on the Vāsuki Venom?!"
"We don't have hard intel yet. The usual channels haven't lit up, so it's highly probable Crow is still looking for it," said Miyako.
"Now do you understand the scale of what is at stake here, Sakura? This is why failure is absolutely not an option. Owada and I will take leave now. I trust that there are logistics involved in putting three special intelligences into synch for an operation of this nature, so we'll leave you to it," said Nikaidô.
"The Prime Minister is expecting daily reports on 'Protocol Princess'. Do not forget," said Owada, when he was at the door.
Sojiro's hands fell by his side.
"He just said 'Vāsuki Venom'. Guess you told him what the deal is," Ian said to Kasumi.
"Come Sakura-san. Yoshizawa-san. Bring your Golden Retriever too. We have much work to do," Miyako said, snapping to charge.
"Wait," said Sojiro.
"What is it?" asked Miyako.
"Why 'Protocol Princess'? The nomenclature for operations typically come back to a target or an objective," said Sojiro.
"I'll explain in the car. Basically Sojiro-" Something passed between Miyako and Sojiro. It had been years since she addressed him by his first name, her saying it charged the word with memories, "-we're going to recruit someone whose lineage is pertinent to what's going on. If we can convince her anyway. She works at the Tokyo Metropolitan Police Department."
Sweat, saliva and her mouth guard splattered across the canvass of the sparring ring. Makoto gasped, half-raising herself up by a bracing forearm. From outside the ring, hoots and jeers erupted in the MMA gym.
"Oooh damn! You're too harsh, Sae-san!"
"Aw hell nah. Taka-kun, you can take my turn after this."
"Fuck no. If that's how hard Sae knocks her sister, I'd hate to see what will happen to me!"
"C'mon Makoto! Pick yourself up!"
Makoto looked up. Sae stood above her; gunmetal grey hair highlighted in a glimmering corona by the gym's incandescent tube lights.
"Get up. A beat cop would be dead if she stayed on the ground," said Sae.
Makoto secured the mouthguard, jumping gingerly to her feet. Her fighting awareness now wary of Sae's muscle taut legs. Just now, Makoto was too slow to adapt to Sae's momentum dash into a double-leg grapple takedown. One-on-one against a kickboxing artist was confounding Makoto's aikido style today.
Both sisters circled each other, fingerless sparring gloved fists raised. They were mirror dressed in a black sports bra and techwear leggings. Years of emotional context reverberated between the siblings; memories of their father, everything they had been through together since his death, Makoto growing up under Sae's care, the power dynamics when she used to live with sis – it was an invisible thread both were aware of in the ring, the background colour in their hearts, the deep note playing beneath the surface fanfare noise of the gym.
"Loosen your shoulders, Makoto. You're too tense. Don't think too intellectually about fighting. Use aiki," Sae instructed, ignoring their excited audience.
OK. Just one hit. I should be able to land at least one hit on her, thought Makoto.
Makoto's shoulders dropped. She exhaled.
X
Ten minutes later.
Spoiler: She didn't land shit.
Makoto winced, shimmying into her tight jeans in the changing room. Sae worked her through real good, leaving her sore on her backside. Makoto picked up her duffel, slamming the locker harder than she intended to, clanging a loud bang.
The crowd around the sparring ring was still thick. Onlookers were watching Sae spar with a six-foot Muay Thai practitioner, who looked like he was faring better than Makoto did, albeit still getting dominated by the older Niijima sister. At the doorway exit, Makoto recognised a familiar face; leaning one-foot-against-the-wall and arms folded. His bubble gum popped simultaneously with a thunder boom from outside, followed by rain's eruption.
"Senpai, going to do cop stuff?" asked Shinya.
Shinya was the gym's puppy, being reformed by the regulars here after his mother forcibly admitted him into an MMA training regime, to keep her son's habits healthy and away from bōsōzoku delinquents. This year was his final at high school.
"9 AM reporting at the precinct, for evidence cataloguing. Don't you have school today?"
"Nah. I'm not nerdy enough for Saturday cram school – I mean!" Shinya amended hastily at the red eyes flashing, "-I'm not. . .uhh. . .smart enough for it."
"Yes. That's why they have cram school. For those not smart enough."
"Aww cut me some slack, senpai. Anyway, I saw your fight with Sae-senpai. It was like watching Devil Jin destroy someone in a laggy online match," said Shinya.
"Laggy?"
"Yeah. Like Sae was the one all-in at the ring, pristine LAN connection. But your 'connection' was off. They call it 'aiki' right? It was like you were still sorting out stuff you didn't leave outside the ropes, when you stepped in there," said Shinya.
". . ."
"Hey don't let it get to ya. Sae's already scary anyway. She basically did a mega evolution outta her own aikido into kickboxing, so she knows all your style's weaknesses and dark zones. But I'm sure you'll figure out her elemental weakness. . .if she's human anyway! Ha!"
Makoto rolled her eyes.
"Let me know if you figure that out."
"Oh, if I do, will you let me-"
"No, I'm never letting you ride my motorcycle, Shinya."
The first thing Makoto ever bought from her police paycheques was her motorbike. The Honda NC700S, liquid-cooled, in-line 2-cylinder 670cc engine that torqued the bike's frame with not only acceleration but (anything could go fast these days, but not anything could have. . .) an acute personality that gave the ride's quality a personal touch for Makoto's intuition.
In the car park, Makoto secured her helmet and looked up at the raining sky. The visor protector was alive with a metropolitan energy of water droplets, moving across her eyes. Her focus shifted beyond the droplets. The storm-grey clouds dappled fingers of light in the clouds' gaps. Weather forecast predicted a week-long shower. She dropped her gaze, down to her leather-gloved hands on the handling bars. Makoto revved once, feeling the PGM-FI's engine vibrating a grumble beneath her.
Before she took off, the helmet's in-built Bluetooth headset rang in her ears.
"Hello?"
"Niijima-san? Where are you?"
Makoto recognised the precinct clerk's voice; Nakata.
"I'm at Shibuya, Nakata-san. On my way there. I'm not late, am I? It's not even eight."
"No – you're not. Look-" Makoto heard someone speak in the background; Nakata replied something back, "-just come straight here now. There's umm. . .some people who want to talk to you," said Nakata.
"Is something wrong?"
"No! I mean. . .I don't think so?"
O-kay,thought Makoto, after the call ended.
The RPM gauge revved, spooling combustion. Makoto rode off, to the precinct.
Ryuji braced against the steering wheel, grimacing at the compressing pressure of bandages that tightly wound around his torso and right shoulder. His left hand was secured in a splint with hash scars daggering out of his wrist, still bruised from that brutal night in Hokkaido. The night everyone on the extradition team died. Everyone except him. Ryuji looked to his left, half-expecting that Daisuke would still be sitting there, droning on about why Jessica Kizaki is the best in the JAV business. The front passenger seat was empty.
His uninjured hand tightened on the steering wheel. Whoever these terrorists were, Ryuji was hellbent on stopping the pricks and paying back in kind for what they did to his friend and him.
Ryuji's foot tapped on the vehicle mat in impatience, pressed for the current assignment to advance so they could get closer finding out who attacked them at Hokkaido and why. Consequently, this was why Ryuji was parked in Tokyo P.D's underground car park, waiting on his newly assigned partner (who was hardly like Daisuke) and this Niijima woman they were supposed to pick up. There had been a breakthrough in the shared intelligence with PSO and MI6. According to the 'Protocol Princess' mission brief, a low-rank policewoman and some bacchanal author were instrumental in all this.
Ryuji's phone rang. He answered.
"Yeah? . . .So, she's decided she's comin'? Took her long enough. Good. . .Nah nah mate. I'm still driving."
#
Makoto stepped into the chief's office. The man himself was bracing against his desk, rubbing his eyes from tiredness. Seeing Makoto, he sighed. Chief Inspector Suzuki made Makoto think of a human caricature of a walrus, with his round cheeks, large eyes and whiskers. He was not a bad guy, not a drop of corruption (except maybe – indulging in two yakisoba-pans at the cafeteria instead of one). Also hardly excitable like some shōnen manga hero mentor Makoto initially fantasised him as, on her first day on the job.
"You've spoken to DIH then," said Suzuki.
"I have, sir. I've agreed to their request to come in. It seems they need my help with an operation they're attempting. Normally I wouldn't bother because we already have a lot going on here chief but-" Makoto hesitated, stopping.
"I know. They promised you would fully understand what happened to your father. I didn't know Koji well back when he was active. Different departments. He was narcotics, I was homicide," said Suzuki.
". . ."
"Be careful, Makoto. These people, they have never regarded the police as equals. All their secrets, clandestine operations and prevarications – has more than once, put good men and women in harm's way for their own subterfuge."
"I will be careful. I wish there was a better choice but this is the only way I can learn more about my father's secrets. Why he became so distant in the months leading up to his death. . ."
Suzuki nodded. Makoto could tell Suzuki was not taking her seriously as she preferred. Like he saw his subordinate as a little girl still grieving over her father. In this instance, Makoto was afraid that Suzuki saw grains of truth in people.
"I'll see you off. It's rare we get DIH here anyway. Especially with that weird one they sent."
#
The driver in DIH's car was a grumpy looking blond guy who only nodded to Makoto as she approached the car. Makoto sat in the backseat, putting her duffel next to her. Across the car park, Makoto saw her motorbike parked.
I suppose I'll come back for it later, she thought.
At the front passenger seat, the other DIH agent buckled in and looked back at her. Tall, lanky and delicate all around; Kitagawa Yusuke was hardly the sort of persona Makoto imagined would be in the spy business.
"Are we good to go?" asked Yusuke.
Makoto nodded.
"Yeah."
The sedan pulled out of the car park, the driving a little too abrupt on the acceleration for Makoto's sensibility (Also, why is the designated driver someone with an injured arm?) but she did not say anything. Neither of the men spoke to her, instead conferring between themselves in low voices. Makoto only caught snatches of words like '. . .they want an outsider helping. . ." and ". . .I don't like MI6." At the rear-view mirror, Makoto caught the blond guy's eyes. She saw mistrust in them.
Makoto turned away, to the car window.
The rainy world outside passed by, the hum of tyres audible on the wet black road, spraying water from both sides. A bus snapped by, spitting a whine of spray on Makoto's window, blurring the murky streets even more. When Ryuji pulled into the highway, the water thinned into silvery raindrops. Makoto watched the raindrops stagger zigzag across her window, their unsteady energy reminding Makoto of the existential uncertainty she had been feeling about her own life lately.
Makoto did not know why she felt this way. Like – she made it. She was now part of the police force. Things were difficult in the beginning, that was true. Growing up with no conscious memory of her mother, only having the token of her book collection as a memento of a librarian parent. Then their father died when she was fourteen. Those years were rough at first but Makoto managed to put her act together towards the end of high school. She graduated as Student Council President, all the honours. In-between senior high school and college freshmen, she dated a couple of decent guys who were sweet to her. Makoto was still on good terms with both (One is an interior designer, now engaged. The other, a political scientist), even as everyone's priorities changed with stuff like moving to another city or focusing on career.
So why did Makoto feel this way? A sense of being incomplete as if she was waiting for something to happen to untangle the unspoken riddles which clouded her awareness in the sparring ring.
Getting restless with her thoughts in the back, Makoto prompted conversation.
"Is there a. . .umm. . .story to that injured arm you got there? Or is that classified in this line of work?" asked Makoto.
The blond looked back through the rear-view mirror. She thought he was going to ignore her ice breaker but he answered without a trip in words.
"Nah. Hardly can be confidential with the way things are right now. Plus, you're innit now. 'Protocol Princess'," said the blond.
"Protocol Princess?"
"That's the name of the operation we're undertaking. It's actually named after you. Also Sakamoto-san, you haven't introduced yourself," said Yusuke.
"Sakamoto Ryuji. Just call me Ryuji though. You too, pretty boy."
Makoto was taken aback. Named after her? What kind of espionage op was this supposed to be? She looked around in the car, wondering if this was all some big ruse, like a hidden camera show. Finding none, she played along anyway.
"Named after me – why is that?"
Both guys shrugged.
"They ain't telling everything to guys like us in DIH. Bet the MI6 team is getting spoilt with full access though. Tch!" said Ryuji.
"MI6? As in British intelligence M-I-6?" asked Makoto.
"That's how big this gig is, ma'am. PSO is involved too. We got three organisations, knocking heads together to try and catch the big bad guy, Cro-"
Ryuji slammed the brakes when a green SUV illegally cut in front of them in the roundabout. Ryuji bonked the car's horn in irate reproach. The driver shouted some unflattering invective back at them, giving the middle finger.
"Fuck your father!" snarled Ryuji before calmly returning to the conversation with Makoto, "-so as I was saying, we're tryin' to catch this terrorist who calls himself, Crow."
"You're not really a princess, are you?" Yusuke asked her.
". . .No, I'm not. And you don't need to call me 'ma'am'. Makoto's fine by me."
"Funny. You look so strict and imperious, you're more like the queen of the castle than a princess," said Ryuji.
Makoto scowled.
The chatter in the large cubicle office space turned quiet when Makoto entered the place with Ryuji and Yusuke. Including Ian and Kasumi, a conglomeration of PSO and DIH staff stopped what they were doing to stare at Makoto. Earlier today, everyone had been briefed on what 'Protocol Princess' was going to be about and who would be the primary agent. Commissioner Kaburagi's stipulation for the operation was a highly unusual one. Never before has an outsider been this closely involved in the histories of both agencies.
Makoto started at the spotlight she was put in.
Introductions were made. Makoto got to know Sakura Sojiro, Kaburagi Miyako (titles emphasised) and other key personnel like Zenkichi Hasegawa from PSO and DIH. During the handshakes, most of the staring had stopped now but Makoto could still sense the side-eyeing and hushed whispers around her. It increased her trepidation.
After that, Makoto was ushered by Zenkichi into a dark room with a projector. The redhead Japanese-descent woman from MI6, Kasumi Yoshizawa, took charge, explaining to Makoto that she will be bringing her up to speed for what PSO and DIH need for her.
A dozen or so people took seats in the briefing theatre, including Sojiro and Miyako. From her middle-centre seat, Makoto saw Ryuji and Yusuke were not joining.
The projector flickered on. Makoto straightened up at the still-image of the dark-haired young man. It looked like it had been taken incognito when the subject was leaving a café with a takeaway cup of coffee in his hand. One of the men sitting ahead of Makoto was smoking a cigarette. The line of smoke trailed up against the man's coffee cup as if the drink was steaming hot, out of the projection.
More than that. . .
"He looks half-familiar. Like I've seen him on TV. Or in the newspapers," said Makoto.
Kasumi nodded.
"You may have. Meet Amamiya Ren. Twenty-four years old, a former student of Kyoto University where he was part of a literature major program that he did not complete. Five years ago, Amamiya submitted a manuscript to Velvet Room Publishers. A novel called Sugar Rock Derby which would later come to be known as his debut novel and a bestseller in both Japan and overseas. Three years later, Beauty Thief Productions would secure exclusive motion picture rights. Today, there's a bidding competition ongoing between Netflix and HBO Max, who are hoping to nab the television rights to his other novel, Nekomata-" The picture flicked, this time to a still from a talk show Makoto saw last week, with that typical couch & desk setup where the half-serious comedian would interview some famous person or intellect. On the white couch sat Amamiya, hands wrapped around one knee in an easy-going vibe.
"Wait – did you say 'Beauty Thief Productions'?" asked Makoto.
Kasumi nodded.
"You can see how the dots are connecting, Niijima-san? We've been told you're acquainted with that movie studio's owner, since your college days. Haru Okumura is your 'in' to Amamiya, at an upcoming event. An international motor race."
Makoto did not know what to say to that. Were these people going to ask Makoto to use her friend?
Kasumi snapped back to the projector presentation.
"In the past two years, Amamiya's come to be known as one of Japan's most prolific authors; in the same league as the likes of Haruki Murakami, you could say. However, the bookish author is one side of the coin of his public persona-" Kasumi tapped at the tablet. The image flicked. Makoto saw a collage of tabloid magazine covers spelling out dramatic declarations. Normally she did not spare such publications a second glance when checking out at the supermarket. These specific covers happened to have numerous pictures of Amamiya. Flashbulb glazing images of the author surrounded by women in glittering dresses in a nightclub, a car park snapshot of Amamiya giving the middle finger to the paparazzi as he walked to his sports car and most scandalously, a rear picture of him hip-grinding bum naked against an hourglass-figure dance partner at a rooftop swimming pool.
"Our writer here is a notorious party boy. A few of Japan's conservative personalities have offered harsh criticisms for Amamiya's style as many high schoolers are fans of Nekomata, so they worry that he makes a poor role model as a destructive individual. After what happened last year, perhaps Amamiya's critics may have. . .been right," said Kasumi.
Flick.
An image of a yellow sports car smashed upside-down. Makoto gasped at the amount of blood on the passenger side.
"Last year, he and his girlfriend were involved in a single-vehicle car crash. The young woman died at the scene. At the time of the accident, Amamiya insisted otherwise, blaming a hit-and-run from another vehicle but the police findings were another matter. The investigator of the incident concluded that the driver of this Lexus LF-A was speeding too fast when the driver lost control. State prosecution was only able to press demerit points on Amamiya's licence and a sizeable fine. He dodged jail time as defence had hired an excellent lawyer and the prosecution's claim that he was driving above the alcohol limit; could not produce adequate evidence in court," said Kasumi.
How irresponsible, though Makoto. He got his lover killed like that?! Makoto was starting to dislike Amamiya.
"Was he truly drunk?" asked Makoto.
Zenkichi answered that one.
"The reason why they couldn't produce evidence of drunken driving is because…all of Amamiya's tests returned clean. Not even a trace of MDMA in his system. Prosecution blamed the police for the liability that they may have messed up the testing, like not checking soon enough after the crash," he said.
"Zenkichi is right. The controversial turn-out of a publicised scandal for Amamiya was followed by many media outlets and fans of his. Today, many believe that Amamiya was truly intoxicated when the Lexus flipped, grievously injuring his girlfriend, Chihiro Morimura," said Kasumi.
"Why is that?" asked Makoto.
". . .That Lexus was a powerful supercar. Also, barely two months after the accident happened, Amamiya was spotted in Tokyo's hotspots, clubbing and vacuuming white lines like nothing ever happened. A lot of his fans turned against him for making light of Morimura's death and it's brought a lot of vitriol to his Vero and Twitter accounts. The public consensus is that Amamiya never cared for Morimura or even the value of her life. Which led to the carelessness in that car crash," said Kasumi.
"Tch. What a weak-spined coward," someone muttered in the room.
"No one's told me why you're interested in this writer. At most, he's a reckless idiot who got his fiancée killed but I don't see how that warrants military intelligence getting interested in Amamiya. Or me being here," said Makoto.
Kasumi opened a new folder from the tablet. Makoto saw the words The Crow Files – CONFIDENTIAL. An image opened.
Another young man. Brown wavy hair, dark gloves, all geared up in spec ops equipment. Makoto was finding these pictures to be audition snaps for a bishōnen male lead in an action movie.
"Let me guess, another writer?"
"No. You're looking at why we're interested in Ren Amamiya. This here is one of the most lethal terrorists in the world. His name is Akechi Goro. Born in Japan before he emigrated to Scotland with his foster parents. He ran away from home, only resurfacing at eighteen to join the military. His aptitude tests revealed an exceptional IQ and a psychological profile that was optimal for special forces. Fitness was peak too. SAS recruited him and after training, he was leading his own black ops team in Europe, taking the callsign: 'Crow'. Crow's employment to Her Majesty ended when he and his team went dark in Paris. Mission control had no idea what was going on until four months later at a military base in Hawaii; a small passenger jet detonated. A handiwork of Crow's team," said Kasumi.
"Absolute bastard. I don't know how he convinced the rest of them to go rogue," muttered Ian.
"It was SAS's worst nightmare. This was when MI6 got involved. Initially, SAS had classified Crow's team as something of an underdog compared to their more experienced strike teams. Now this underdog was baring its teeth and we at MI6 realised it was rabid. After Hawaii, the newly minted mercenaries went after an NSA spy hub in the Northern Territory of Australia, codenamed 'RAINFALL'. It was a physical insertion for cyber-theft to collect the surveillance data of millions of civilians and they pulled it off successfully. Long story short, Makoto; Akechi is highly capable and dangerous," said Kasumi.
Zenkichi took over:
"Last week, we learned that Crow was in Japan. He. . ." Zenkichi paused, a look of pity passed in his eyes – it was directed at Makoto, ". . .got to Kaneshiro because Crow wants a weapon which the mobster stole years ago."
Makoto felt her gut clench.
"Kaneshiro? Junya Kaneshiro?" Makoto whispered.
"Tokyo P.D never released the official statement on who ordered the hit but you may have heard the rumour yourself. Yes, it was Kaneshiro who killed your father. He was supposed to face trial this week but Crow killed him. . ."
Zenkichi kept on talking but Makoto was no longer listening. She was thinking about that day at the park.
x
"Papa!"
"Ahh! There's my little princess!"
"You still haven't finished the story, papa! The one about the princess and the dragon!"
x
Dad. . .what's going on? These people are trying to pull me into a web of conspiracy of mercenaries, a hedonistic party boy and now you're involved, thought Makoto.
It was a lot to take in. Makoto closed her eyes.
". . .the recon digital footprint on Amamiya's assets matched Crow's M.O. Which led us to the theory that Amamiya might be funnelling funds to Crow, even though we can't find that evidence. Makoto? Hey? Are you all right?" asked Zenkichi.
Makoto's eyebrows were angled down; she looked both mad and confused.
"I get it. I don't have all the details but basically, the lot of you want to dangle me as innocent bait to Amamiya, so you can get to Akechi and this weapon that involved Kaneshiro and my dad's final case," said Makoto; her voice bitter.
Zenkichi startled. This woman was smarter than he initially gave credit for.
"Innocent bait is an oversimplification. Does our request upset you that much? You still have the right to refuse, Niijima. We won't stop you from walking out that door," said Miyako, speaking up for the first time since they entered the briefing room.
I. . .this just wasn't how I imagined myself finding closure over what happened to my father, thought Makoto.
"If I'm not bait, then what is it you want me to do?" asked Makoto.
Makoto knew she was taking the wrong tone with a senior figure in the chain of command but right now, her buttons were pressed too hard to care.
"Simply, we want you to gain Amamiya's trust. Get close to him, find out what you can. See if he knows who Akechi is and how much about the mercenary's plans. If you manage to 'win' over his guard," said Miyako.
"Is that euphemism for seduction? Like some spy slut?" suggested Makoto.
Everyone in the room shifted, looking away embarrassed. Zenkichi scratched the back of his head, looking at the floor. Kasumi coughed, tapping at the tablet. The projector powered down.
"I was thinking, an amatorculist. Ideally, being Amamiya's friend would simply have to suffice but given his bacchic reputation, who knows how he might respond to a bookish young woman like yourself? You will be justly remunerated, of course, whether this turns out successful or a dead end for us. Nobody's asking you to fuck him, Makoto. What we simply require is – intelligence. How you get it, will be down to your discretion," said Miyako.
Eight hours later.
Kasumi collapsed on the armchair seat, sighing.
"I'm exhausted," she groaned.
Ian passed by, tossing a can of 'BLACK' coffee her way. Her arm shot up, snatching it without falter.
Outside the tower, a black helicopter droned by. Ian stood by the floor-to-ceiling panoramic window, watching it canvass the city under rain.
"Seems like they're taking Crow seriously. Although the public wasn't informed about why there's a heightened terror alert," commented Ian.
Behind him, another MI6 operative was working at a PC workstation, her fingers typing away on the mechanical keyboard, filling the penthouse suite's lobby with the click-clacks. Penelope was their IT personnel for the team; an alumnus from Oxford with a major in programming. MI6 headhunted her for recruitment when she published her thesis on machine learning and its application for disruptions in political-science climates. Penelope pushed out the loose ginger curls out of the green-frame glasses, looking critically at the screen.
"Does anyone know where Sumire went? I need her help translating some of this code," said Penelope.
Kasumi shrugged.
"Beats me, Pen," said Kasumi.
"Are you hacking someplace where you shouldn't be looking?" asked Ian, looking over her shoulder.
"Not really. Just double-checking the hotel's online infrastructure, so that I know we're good on end-to-end encryption."
"How come Kasumi can't help you?" asked Ian.
"I know Japanese, Ian. But I don't know its jargon for nerdy computer stuff, how Nippon software engineers would sign off on the code. That's Sumire's thing. C'mon. You're the squad's leader. You ought to know your team members better than this."
"Someone say my name?" asked Sumire, entering the suite.
Behind Sumire was the team's biggest member, George; a 6'6" hulking mass of muscle, testosterone, maybe a drop or two of pit terrier bull – with a military-style crew cut for his style's definition. George was carrying two large suitcases, flashing peacock tattoos beneath the rolled-up sleeves, over his bulging arms.
"Oh, leave the weapons in the washroom, George," directed Sumire.
George grunted something monosyllabic. Kasumi watched him go into the washroom, with a raised eyebrow.
"I'm still not used to him," said Kasumi.
"Don't be silly, Kasumi. George is harmless. I mean. . .he's on our side anyway," said Sumire.
"All right. That's all five of us here. We'll wait for George to come back before we begin the mission brief," said Ian, clasping his hands.
"Did that woman accept Miyako's proposal?" Sumire asked.
"Niijima accepted. Took her a while after we explained and negotiated things with her-" Kasumi scrunched her nose, "-Can't say I like her much," said Kasumi.
"Ehh, you're being too harsh, Kasumi. Imagine being in Makoto's shoes and outta nowhere, this crazy spy mission is suddenly thrust at ya. I woulda' told anyone trying the same on me to fuck off, if I was a policeman minding me own business," reasoned Ian.
George returned to them.
"Sure, sure. Makoto didn't have to act all bossy though, especially at the Commissioner of the PSO. Who does she think she is, the Queen? Peh. She's definitely going to be difficult to work with. Wouldn't you agree, George?" asked Kasumi.
George grunted.
"See? Even George thinks so."
"I ran a telemetry on her online pornographic profile," volunteered Penelope. And before anyone could stop her, she added, "Niijima's favourite genre is 'anal sex'."
The twins groaned.
Sumire waved her hands at Penelope protesting, "Too much information, Pen!"
"But it's our job to collect intelligence on all persons of interest," Penelope pointed out.
"Anal sex is intelligence?!"
George grunted.
"George has a point about being one step ahead of DIH and PSO, for the best interest of MI6. We can't count on them to be one-hundred-percent straight with us. That Sakura guy gives me conservative vibes anyway. Penelope, put a file together on Makoto Niijima. I want to know what makes her tick, see how much of a chance she has at cracking this enigmatic writer, Amamiya. With or without their help, we will leave this country with Crow in a straitjacket," said Ian.
"Or a coffin!" piped Penelope.
The doors to the mahogany panelled office opened, in striding Sojiro – hotfooted in his step. Following in his wake was Miyako. Sojiro turned around and pointed at her saying:
"I do not like this plan and I do not trust involving a street cop in a DIH operation. It's reckless, the agent does not have proper field training and it's a long reach to finding Crow."
"Makoto knows how to fire a gun, Sojiro. That's what they teach in police training."
Sojiro uncorked a cognac bottle, frowning at the digital playback recorder that was on the desk. Earlier today, Miyako played the recording to Sojiro. That was when the logic of 'Protocol Princess' crystallised for him. It was also when he understood his old flame's capacity for cruelty and deceit.
Small wonder she made Commissioner of PSO, he thought, gulping the drink.
"You know that's not enough," said Sojiro.
"Then what is? The cumulative field training of thirteen dead DIH agents?"
"Damn you, woman! You think I don't feel guilty that I sent them to their deaths?! What do you know about having blood on your conscience, like this!"
Sojiro collapsed in his chair, bracing his head in his hand. Miyako softened at that. She went behind him, picking the snifter out of his hand. Sojiro felt delicate fingers massage at his shoulders.
"I'm sorry. That was cruel of me to say," said Miyako.
"So the cat apologises for meowing."
"Sardonicism aside, you're not really upset about the strategic integrity of 'Protocol Princess', are you?"
". . ."
Miyako reached at the digital recorder, her finger hovering above the 'Play' button.
"You've always been too sentimental. Perhaps you need a reminder for why we're doing this. Yuja's last act in Hokkaido cannot be wasted," said Miyako.
She pressed play.
"Audio log retrieved from the home telephone of Yuja Kurosawa. Voicemail left at – 12:22 AM."
There was a beep. Sojiro closed his eyes at the staccato burst of gunfire, beginning the voicemail. His friend must have known he was going to die that night so he made the phone call just before he was gunned down. To leave behind a crucial clue for the living.
It still was not easy for Sojiro to hear the dying cries of his people.
After the gunfire ended, there was silence – only punctuated by the clinks of bullet shell casings falling on marble. Then the conversation started. In the source file, the conversation was a bit dim in volume and had to be amplified by PSO's digital forensic technicians.
"Oiiii! Crow! Is the coast clear?!"
"Pardon my partner. While we have a similar goal, our temperament is quite differing. He's something of a joker in enterprises of. . .unsavoury matters," said Crow.
"You just killed all of them!" blurted Kaneshiro.
". . .yes. We did," said Crow.
Sojiro's brow creased. It was surreal hearing the voice of an international terrorist sound surprisingly. . .humane. There was no cinematic flair of madness. No leer of moustache twirling villainy. Crow sounded a lot like a normal confident young man. The part that unsettled Sojiro was what Kaneshiro said.
"D-Did Shido send you guys? To betray me?"
When Sojiro first heard the audio this morning, he asked Miyako to rewind that part three times, just to make sure he had not misheard. The revelation that the hangure boss was secretly in the graces of Japan's leader, astonished Sojiro. Shido Masayoshi was his superior in the absolute hierarchical and official capacity. What decision would he and Miyako make about this? They never showed the MI6 contingent this recording. They couldn't.
Then came the gunshot. Kaneshiro howling. More talking. The mention of Koji Niijima's princess quote was discussed, the inspiration of Miyako's operation name. Then came the giveaway. Yuja's final gift to the DIH; a clue to finding Crow.
"How do you even know something like that?" asked Kaneshiro.
"A lot of authors are literary nerds. I'm one of them," answered the second gunman.
"What could a writer possibly want with a military weapon and Shido?"
Kaneshiro sounded baffled. Sojiro could not blame him.
"The only thing any writer could conceivably be bothered about. When he raises his head from books about fairy tales, magic, dreams. . .nightmares and death. It's when nightmares and death reach him in the real world too – what I want is revenge."
Miyako pressed the 'Stop' button.
A writer. The dots were connected this morning from PSO's side. The second gunman was-
"Amamiya Ren. It seems he was telling the truth about the car accident. Someone killed the love of his life in a hit-and-run. Only, this someone happened to be powerful enough to bury the evidence in the police investigation. And that someone is likely-" Miyako sat on his desk, looking down at him through those glasses. Sojiro felt like a schoolboy, "-the nation's beloved Prime Minister," said Miyako.
"Must you say dangerous things aloud," Sojiro muttered.
"This is what bothers you, isn't it? We're knowingly sending Makoto into the viper's nest and she doesn't know it."
"All three agencies are going to use her, just to stop this terrorist. It's also foolish that everyone else doesn't know the truth about Amamiya."
"We're not telling the rest of the investigation team. This stays between the two of us until we figure out who the mole is. Clearly, someone leaked the details of the extradition op to Crow."
"Nobody in the DIH would sell out for their comrades to die. I refuse to believe it," said Sojiro, pinching the bridge of his nose.
"I can say the same for my PSO. Now we're at an impasse. Until the traitor is found and dealt with, this secret stays in this office," said Miyako.
"What about the Prime Minister?"
"What about him?"
"Don't toy with me, Miyako. Prime Minister Shido was implicated with Kaneshiro's criminal enterprise. What if Shido had something to do with the Vāsuki Venom's theft, all those years ago? There is no moral or legal authority for him to claim that weapon."
"This reeks like the CIA killing Kennedy conspiracy – except we're the good guys. Are you suggesting we secretly turn Japan's military intelligence agencies against the nation's leader? Imagine if the MI6 team catches a whiff of what we're doing. They'd report back to their superiors in the U.K; their cousins in the U.S. It could lead to an international incident between our countries. The closest adversarial tension we'd be at since fighting the Allied nations in the last world war."
"We can't just do nothing! I will not stand for shaming the honour of DIH's duty to the people!" Sojiro exclaimed.
Miyako sighed. She took off her glasses, rubbing her eyes. Seeing her without them reminded Sojiro of what she was like in her twenties.
"And here I was hoping you'd blindly posit your moral compass to what the government tells you, like a good little sheep," said Miyako.
Sojiro snorted. As if things were always that simple.
"Be patient, Sojiro. Let's focus on 'Protocol Princess'. The Prime Minister, Crow and Vāsuki Venom; dealing with these complications hinges on Makoto being successful in her assignment."
The curtains in the bedroom were strewn shut. Dried flowers arched out of a green bottle, distorting a hazy malachite vision of the man sitting on the bed. Opposite him, the luminous glow of a stereo was stark in the dark, playing that ballad song he found lame when Chihiro was still alive.
"Time's falling. . .out of these hands "
"I'll let you, leave me "
Ren listened to that song she loved much. He wondered what she would say if she knew what he was going through for her. As the lyrics bled melancholia into his bloodstream, circulating through his heart in RPM. What she would say if she was still alive.
Ren was used to these long minutes by now. Sitting alone with his thoughts in the dark, replaying his memories of Chihiro like a 45mm reel from a movie projector. Snatches of feelings and emotions slipped between the melodic massage to his mood; a day at the beach, talking about quantum immortality at midnight, property trespassing for fun, watching her read a novel so engrossed, the way Chihiro would look up and smile when she saw he was watching her.
His mobile phone buzzed. The caller ID said 'Unknown'.
"Hello," Ren answered.
"It's me."
Akechi.
"How are you holding up? Been quiet ever since Hokkaido."
"I had to find a place to lay low. Found a crib that's comfier than I bargained for. The yacht of an unwitting millionaire who has too much money on his hands but too little time for his frisky wife. Spent the past few days doing nothing but fucking and champagne. Oh – and helping out in her Stardew Valley farm."
"The last one is more important than stimulating her A-spot."
Akechi laughed.
"Any word from our insider?" asked Ren.
"Yes. They're moving faster than we anticipated. The operation is called Protocol Princess. It will be an espionage insertion towards the target."
"I'm the target."
"Mmhmm. You're gonna love who they're sending."
"Who?"
"One of Koji's daughters. Makoto Niijima."
Ren straightened up. One of the daughters will be coming straight to him then? That saved a lot of work. But it also gave away that DIH suspected what Crow was up to. Tricky.
"Is that the younger one or older? I remember your analytics said the eldest would be harder to crack because her psychological profile indicated a more shrewd, less vulnerable persona for informational exploitation."
"Relax. It's the youngest. DIH and the others must have chosen her because of what you said. They know they cannot use Sae Niijima because she'd be too sharp. The bait has been set. Now it's a matter of who will bite the poison first. Think you can handle this?"
"This Niijima sounds like volume one to ten of the psych's textbooks on daddy issues. How could she surpass my expectations?"
"Good. I'm going off the grid now for safety. If you figure out the truth behind where Koji hid the Venom, contact 'Madam Bushido'. I anticipate you'll be seeing more of her soon anyway."
The call ended. Ren tossed his phone on the pillow, falling back on the bed. Something was nagging at the corner of Ren's mind about the phone call. Like there was an off detail about something Akechi said. Oh well.
I'm sure epiphany will strike later, thought Ren.
"Makoto," he pronounced out loud. He had a feeling he'll be saying that name more often soon.
Song from the stereo – Rin Oikawa_I'll Be Your Home
Motorcycle – As tempting as it was to choose one of the most badass motorbikes in the world for 'Queen', I had to be considerate of her height at 164 cm. Among other bikes, I rejected the Kawasaki Ninja 400 because the Ninja (as respected as that bike is in the subculture) is a cliché. The elimination was then brought down to the Ducati Monster and the Honda NC700S. After closer research, I chose the Honda when it was noted that the NC700S was a bike that separated the critical amateurs from those who genuinely understood how to engage a motorbike for acceleration; on the disciplines of gearbox and throttle control. As well as the superior mileage capacity (338 km 241 km). I can imagine these two nuances appealing to Makoto's sensibilities.
RAINFALL – It's a real spy hub in Australia which the U.S 'requested' they could have here, just like how they 'requested' the CIA to stage an espionage coup in the country, a few decades back. lol.
Anyway, I hope this chapter was worthwhile. The premise of Protocol Princess is a bit complicated to set up, which was why I split the prologue from 'Revolutions in Melancholia'. Now that it's out of the way, the next chapters will better focus on the cream of this story.
(Yes, I'm using the same Chihiro from 13 Sentinels: Aegis Rim)