[This story is set between seasons 2 and 3.]
The island country of Japan had always been known as a nation that looked inwards, wary of outsiders, preferring to keep its own company. Never was this more true than in the current era, when the scars of war and strife that had rent the rest of the world forced Japan into permanent isolation, keeping its borders permanently closed to all save for the most exceptional and extraordinary of people. If one found a high enough vantage point, one might be able to gaze into the far distance, where violent storms wrought the sky, toxic chemicals tarred the sea, and the land was bruised and black with gunpowder soot.
And as far as vantage points went, there were few in the land more iconic than the Tokyo Skytree, a relic of a time long past when the world was still a global place. It continued to cling desperately onto its existence, awaiting the moment when it, too, would be consigned to the scrap-bin of the Sibyl System's meticulously-crafted history.
Atop the great spire, amidst the glow of the far taller, far brighter towers of steel and glass that surrounded the Skytree, a lone female figure stood in the observation deck, staring out into the glimmering sea of flashing lights and bustling silhouettes. She was clad in black from head to toe, dark hair crowning her slender face, dark eyes piercing through the gloom of the smog that permeated the canopy of the concrete jungle. Yet her outline was not fully shrouded in the murk – at waist-level, tucked into a plastic holster behind her back, was a telltale crisscross of jagged blue lines, a web of plasma and electricity stretching from trigger to barrel, the trademark of a weapon that most people only ever saw once in their lives, if at all.
The figure reached behind her back and felt for the weapon. There was a certain comfort in caressing its cold, metallic grip – weapons only did the bidding of their user, and would never betray that which commanded it. The only difference was that in this particular case, the wielder of the weapon was not necessarily its user.
Just then, a crackling noise spat in her ears. Right on time.
"Inspector, we've chased the target back into the emergency stairwell," said a voice marred by static. "He's making his way up to you now."
The Inspector nodded, and allowed herself a small smile. At last, they were getting results. Still, the hardest – and simultaneously easiest – part of the job was yet to come, and it was left to her to see it through to the bitter end. After so many outings and confrontations, pulling the trigger of the Dominator – the aforementioned weapon – had become second nature to her, both a reward to be appreciated and a duty to be fulfilled. There could be no greater joy and no greater honor than to apply those five small pounds of pressure through her index finger, and watch as justice was swiftly and summarily served.
The Dominator has a trigger for a reason, you know.
She shook her head and clenched her teeth. Even without being present in physical form, the specter of that person's frustrating naivete never seemed to cease its incessant tenure in the deepest recesses of her mind, constantly lingering like a shadow, casting doubt in everything she did. Perhaps with a few more cycles of stress care she would be well rid of the annoyance, but for now she would have to learn to live alongside it in the same way one might grow accustomed to a noisy neighbor. Maybe I should book myself in for a session tomorrow…
But now was not the time for such thoughts. For the moment, she had something she needed to do.
"Roger," she replied. "Leave it to me."
Right on cue, the sound of hurried footsteps crescendoing as they approached crept into her ears. They were uneven, rushed, and accompanied by the increasingly audible sound of panting and gasping. It wasn't clear what their target's next move would have been upon reaching the observation deck, but he would have known that there was no way out from here except out the window and into the crisp, cool night air. And, as anyone in the Inspector's line of work knew, there were few things more dangerous than cornering a scared and wounded beast whose back was against the wall. If the worst-case scenario came to fruition, one wondered just what sort of harmful chaos might ensue – both with regards to the hunter and to the hunted.
Thankfully, they would not have to find out.
She unsheathed her Dominator and pointed its glowing barrel at the door. The weapon whirred into motion, its stocky form bisecting and expanding to reveal a hidden cache of additional sensors and indicators, the exposed wires channeling additional energy to the Dominator's frontmost end. A cylinder protruded from the middle of the weapon, its obsidian surface shimmering and crackling in anticipation.
The double doors burst open, and a hulking silhouette staggered through, blotting out the light from the stairwell like the moon eclipsing the sun. A dial materialized in the Inspector's vision, and a triple-digit number flickered into view, briefly incrementing and oscillating before settling on its final setting: three hundred and five.
In other words, a number above three hundred.
"Lethal Eliminator," chirped a voice that rang seemingly from inside the Inspector's head, bypassing her ears, funneling its sound directly into her mind. "Aim carefully and eliminate the target."
The man, her target, had almost bore down upon her. She knew what was next. There was nothing else she could do.
And there was nothing else she would rather do.
With a quick squeeze of her index finger, a large hole appeared squarely in the center of the man's chest, allowing the light to stream through once again. Then, the rest of him followed, skin bulging and then exploding as the blood boiled from within, rupturing the vessels, exploding the flesh, splattering what remained of the body onto the carpet. Splashes of fluid inevitably flecked the Inspector's outfit and pale features, but she paid them no heed – a shower back at HQ would rinse them off sharpish. Only the stench was of any bother to her, but even an odor that left such a pungent aftertaste could be gotten used to if one was exposed to it often enough.
There had been a time when the mere sight of the crimson ichor alone, no matter how negligible the quantity, would have tied the Inspector's stomach into a knot, sending her brain into a frenzy as it pounded against the walls of her skull, begging for release from the horrors of the world. Though those times were not as long gone as she would like to think, they still felt far enough separated from her to seem like memories of a different person entirely. No doubt, this was a job that changed a person from the inside out.
Two more sets of footsteps followed, both of which she immediately recognized. The people to whom they belonged soon also arrived at the top of the stairs, upon which they stood and stared at the carnage that had just unfolded.
"This is… quite something," said one of them, raising his eyebrows as he noticed the blood on his superior's face. "You doing alright?"
"Why wouldn't I be?" The Inspector raised her arm and tapped briefly on the holographic keyboard emitted from the projector on her wrist-link. "Cleanup and forensics are on their way," she said. "Let's head back."
Stepping lightly over the gruesome remnants of what had, moments prior, been a living, breathing person, she brushed past her Enforcers and trotted down the stairs. After a while, she heard the sound of her subordinates trailing behind. She knew what they were thinking – she could see the shrugs they gave each other behind her back, the knowing looks they flashed as they gossiped wordlessly about their master, for lack of a better term. Not that she particularly cared, anyway – she wasn't here to make friends, after all – but it would still do well for them to remember just who it was that held the leash around their necks. Without barely having to lift a finger, she could send them back to the abyss whence they had come, where they would spend the rest of their lives rotting in a tiny, sparkly-clean jail cell.
The Sibyl System had marked them out as lacking the capacity to function in human society. That made them, for all intents and purposes, subhuman. And she would not tolerate any impudence from one lesser than herself.
They are human, just like the two of us. You know that, don't you?
The Inspector slapped her cheeks as hard as she could, and in the corner of her eye, she could spot her Enforcers flinching at the sudden gesture of self-flagellation. Not that the pain without served to alleviate the pain within by any tangible measure; in fact, it only seemed to make the dull ache beating at her chest even worse. No amount of stress care, however comprehensive, could ease the feeling that constantly gnawed away at her soul, turning the screws of burgeoning regret, qualifying whatever satisfaction or joy she managed to derive from her work. As long as that voice lingered, so reasonable and altogether level-headed in its proposition, yet so infuriatingly stubborn and unwavering in its conviction, the Inspector would not have a moment's peace.
Perhaps when all the dust had cleared and some semblance of the usual order had been restored to this chaotic world, she would have to pay the source of her frustrations a visit. She knew where to look – the Ministry of Welfare had seen to that, and had given her the keys to the door. All she had to do was walk through.
That, however, was a far, far harder thing to do than it ever seemed.
"What a pleasant surprise."
The woman sat hunched over the laptop on the sofa spoke without lifting her head, her slender, pale fingers continuing to patter away at the keyboard as her guest approached. Though she was clearly busy with whatever it was that she was typing, she could scarcely have asked her visitor to leave.
After all, her visitor had played a part in keeping her here in the first place.
As the outer cell doors slid shut with a hiss and a snap, Mika Shimotsuki pulled the inner gate open and stepped through. The dual security design created a dichotomy that harkened back to the olden days, when prison wardens had to open and close doors with the force of their own arms. Nowadays, with everything automated and automatically controlled, gates that needed pulling or pushing were fast receding into obsolescence. The door was protected by an eyeball reader, and was comprised of a formidable mix of metal alloys that could withstand even a truck being driven into it, but the primitive, mechanical, human element to operating it always remained.
Upon entering, the first thing that Mika noticed was the smell of coffee as it brewed in the kettle on the countertop next to the entrance. It was an unfamiliar aroma, and she'd savored all fifteen publicly-available brands over and over again throughout the course of her fledgling career as an Inspector for the Public Safety Bureau. That could only mean one thing, and she didn't like that realization one bit.
"They're treating you well in here, aren't they, Senpai," she observed, trying to sound as dismissive and nonchalant as she could in front of her former superior.
Her host finally stopped typing and pushed away from the desk in front of her, leaning back into the couch and gazing at her with a sickeningly familiar smile. "You came early today, Shimotsuki," Akane Tsunemori commented.
"I couldn't sleep." Mika went over to the kettle and, noticing the lack of steam wisping out of the nozzle, poked at its shiny surface. It was icy to the touch. "You shouldn't be wasting this coffee powder," she said crossly as she lifted the lid of the kettle to reveal a dull black watery concoction which had clearly been stewing there for far too long. "It's meant to be for government use, you know. They're kind enough to give you this much; you should at least cherish it while you still have it."
Akane chuckled. "My bad. I just got a bit too absorbed in my work."
"Work, huh. I guess writing that little treatise of yours is keeping you occupied, at least." Mika dipped her finger into the liquid, tasted it, made a face, and then dumped the contents of the kettle into the nearby sink. "Not like anyone will ever read it, anyway."
"And what about your work? I'm guessing that's what's keeping you up at night. Am I wrong?"
"None of your business," Mika snapped, though she couldn't outright deny the suggestion. Akane, seeing this, only continued to smile.
"If it weren't my business, you wouldn't be here." Akane propped her elbows up on her knees and leaned her chin into her open palms, as though she were getting ready to hear the latest gossip from a close friend. "So? How's the Chief treating you?"
Mika eased into the seat that faced opposite from her erstwhile partner and sighed. "Better than ever."
"In other words, not very well at all."
"You're the one who said it, not me." Mika glanced up at the corner of the room, where a transparent bulb housing a tiny camera lens was visible. "The volume of cases we get never seems to let up. More and more latent criminals coming out and roaming the streets. I sometimes just get this nagging feeling that something big is going to go down, just like what happened last year."
Akane nodded. It evidently wasn't difficult to recall what Mika was talking about. Their memories of the Kamui affair – and the subsequent fallout that had, in part, led to Akane's incarceration here – would likely never fade, regardless of how many years might pass. Though they had ultimately managed to sabotage the plans of the criminally asymptomatic terrorist who had sought to bring the city to its knees, that victory had come at a steep price, both on a societal and on a personal level.
This was especially true for Mika, who had still essentially been a rookie when the incident had quite literally exploded into her life, pushing her fledgling career towards a path from which there was no prospect of return. Now that she, like Akane, had seen the true face of the Sibyl System and its workings, her contract with the devil could never be rescinded. She would keep the Sibyl System's peace, or vanish forever into oblivion. For now, though, that was a compromise that suited Mika just fine.
"How are the others?" Akane queried, pulling Mika back out of her thoughts.
"What others?"
"The others in Division 01. You still have the same Enforcers, don't you?"
Mika stiffened noticeably upon hearing the question. "The Enforcers' wellbeing is not my concern."
"Why's that?" Akane tilted her head in apparent bemusement.
"You know very well why." Mika felt herself growing exasperated, as she often did when she was talking to Akane. The former Inspector had a knack for pushing Mika's buttons right where it stung, even on the few occasions she wasn't doing so on purpose. "They are criminals, or they have the potential to be. They're not the same as us."
"You know that's not true, no matter how much you try to deny it. Either way, we've talked about this a hundred times, I'm sure. And I don't think I'm exaggerating when I say that, given how many times you've visited." Akane's grin turned slightly mischievous. "You sure do miss me a lot, don't you, Shimotsuki?"
Mika said nothing. She didn't need to – her curled eyebrows and creased forehead told Akane everything she needed to know. For that briefest of instances, Mika was the greenie, the novice who had turned up for her first assignment soaked by the rain, shivering in the cold, dripping water from every spare strand of hair on her diminutive crown. Then, Mika blinked, and the bitterness and agony of the past year came rushing back, hardening her features, casting her mouth in a tight-lipped scowl.
She squinted up at Akane, who stared undauntedly back at her one-time protégé.
"Fat chance of that," Mika muttered.
Within the confines of a modern-day metropolis like Tokyo, the city never truly slept. For many, the night was merely a different form of day: one where the great bulb in the sky gave way to a cornucopia of flashing lights of every color, from the red blinking from the rears of vehicles to the ochre and white that emanated from every apartment, packed into needle-liked complexes that glowed like grotesque Christmas decorations, rising high into the smoky air, painting the clouds beige and gray. More conspicuous than the sights, however, were the sounds – the uneven hum of the city was incessantly punctuated by honking, chattering and flickering, a jarring symphony of artificiality that permeated every nook and cranny, all the way from dusk to dawn, from dawn to dusk.
Mika lay in her bed, staring up at the ceiling, her ears prickling as the noises from outside invariably made their way into her room, despite her best efforts to soundproof the walls. Whenever she felt she was on the verge of passing out, some errant crash or yell would pierce through the haze and jolt her eyes open again. Ultimately, she decided against continuing her futile attempts at sleep, and simply peered into the darkness, hoping that by some miracle, slumber would sneak up behind her and claim her for itself.
She suspected, however, that the cause of her momentary insomnia lay far deeper than what managed to reach her eardrums.
She glanced over at her desk, where atop the sleek wooden surface was a vase containing a bundle of crimson roses. They were plastic, though she preferred that to the alternative – plastic did not rot and wilt. She had bought them on a whim as she had passed by a department store, and here they now sat, never watered, never looked after, a monument to nothing very much in particular, save for whatever they might happen to symbolize.
That, however, was why the flowers meant so much to her. For whenever she saw those roses, those delicate little red petals, those luscious green stems, she remembered.
She remembered the heart-stopping sight of her closest friends, intertwined atop a stake, holding their heads in their hands, hands and legs clasped as one, pierced by nails through bloodless skin, flesh cold and ashen, eyes staring forlornly into a horizon they would never again see. She remembered the abhorrent arrangement of their coiled limbs, separated cleanly by the joint, stitched onto their torsos with horrifyingly meticulous attention. She remembered the thorned vines that adorned the sculpture of which her eviscerated companions were the main attraction, culminating in a bed of leaves and blood-red roses that swirled around the base of the effigy.
She remembered. And from that day on, she had sworn she would never forget.
Upon graduating from college, she had immediately enrolled into the program that she knew – or hoped – would bring her the solace that she sought. Only by righting the wrongs of the world could she ensure that Kagami and Yoshika had not died in vain. Only by delivering the hammer of judgment down upon those who tipped the balance of the scales of the world away from order could such tragedy be averted once and for all. In pursuance of that aim, she gave herself wholly, body, mind and soul, to the one who promised to fulfill her desires: the Sibyl System, the great arbiter, whose iron grip on Japanese society made sure that everyone fell in line and did as they were expected to do.
Whenever doubts arose in her thoughts, all she had to do was look at the roses. Then, a newfound flood of resolve would course through her veins, and she would not hesitate again.
"What price justice?" she asked herself quietly as she closed her eyes and passed at long last into sleep.
Her answer to that question was simple.
Everything.