There was a chance comment made in the "Togusa" thread in the FF GITS forum: "Togusa" isn't a proper Japanese name, and has to be written in katakana.
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And now we're grown up orphans,
That never knew their names.
We don't belong to no one.
That's a shame.
-- "Name" Goo Goo Dolls
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Mafumi was sixteen years old, and was a girl who needed for everything to be clean and in their place.
She hated it when her father tracked in mud and dirt all over her aseptic floor. She washed her hands four times every hour. She was constantly organizing and reorganizing her books, which had been wrapped in bubble wrap sheets after being sterilized.
She had long ago been classified as OCD, a diagnosis that she had accepted calmly. After all, it meant that she was finally able to categorize herself, something that had been eluding her for a while.
However, Mafumi had always resisted the doctors who wanted her to take medicine for her disorder. What, she asked, was wrong with being orderly?
The reply was that there was a difference between being orderly and being obsessive.
Mafumi waved it off. Her teachers praised her as a master cleaner, which always gave her a feeling of pride. Her own father always (vocally) admired the hard work she put in to make their home systemized. This was usually done right after he tracked all the dirt, mud, and germs.
Since Mafumi got home three hours before he did, she was always prepared to spring on the mess he tracked in, mop and broom at the ready. So far, there had never been a reprieve.
Not that she didn't complain about it. Mafumi always begged him to wipe his feet on the mats she had so carefully placed in front of the door and beat out over the fence every night. But he would only laugh and pat her on the head (which he knew she hated) and tell her not to be such a worrywart.
All of this had been going on since she was twelve, and her mother died. She had been diagnosed with OCD as nervous reaction to this death when she was thirteen.
But eventually, Mafumi decided that enough was enough. She had to take action.
It would be messy. That was unavoidable, but it still made her shudder. She resolved to get out the antiseptic wipes ahead of time.
She made pasta that night, since it was something that made her father feel loved and appreciated. Mafumi had decided that there was no reason to make him think that she didn't care for him.
And she did, really. But he insisted on trailing all that mud and dirt into their house, and it was simply intolerable!
She gathered the aconite into a small cup, knowing her father liked to taste the herbs before sprinkling them on. It had been a real stroke of luck that she had been able to find it on such short notice that afternoon; and the man from the black market had been so nice when he had come to the door, wiping off his feet, and taking a shower before she paid him. And even when he entered her, he'd been kind. Slow and gentle, stroking her until she begged.
It was the usual routine when her father came home; she pounced on the dirt he tracked in, scolded him for it, fumed when he patted her on the head, and then, finally, gave him his dinner.
Like her, he was a creature of habit. He tasted the aconite before eating anything.
This pleased her immensely; he hadn't taken anything that would dilute the poison. The kind man from the market had warned her about that.
He made a face as he swallowed that large pinch. "Mafumi, couldn't you have chosen something better? This tastes awful!"
"I'm sorry," she said meekly. "It was on sale today."
"It's alright, but -- Mafumi."
He gasped her name before slowly falling out of his chair, sending it sliding one foot and pulling his plate off the table. It shattered on the floor, sending pasta and porcelain everywhere.
"Now look what you've done," she said indignantly. "You're always so messy! You were never so messy when Mother was alive!" And she scurried off to get the broom, and the antiseptic wipes.
She barely noticed his labored breathing and eventual death as she cleaned up the mess, returning that part of the floor to its former near-sterile state. Just like she had hardly ever noticed him since Mother died.
Just like he had hardly ever noticed her.
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The legal process, Mafumi later discovered, was very slow and inefficient.
She didn't pay much attention to the charges that were laid on her after the police responded to her call. 'Time is relative,' as the saying goes, and she suspected that she would be having a lot of it.
The eventual ruling was that she would be removed to the Omega Psychiatric Institute, placed in Kyoto.
That was in the summer of 2014 AD. After Mafumi had been moved to the Institute, some workers found a young, mal-nourished child with russet hair and gold eyes, covered in blood, on the streets of the same city.
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Two years later, Mafumi was sunning herself on a bench in the Institute Park. It was a treat for her eighteenth birthday, and she was determined to make the most of it.
Movement near the door of the Institute caught her attention. She raised her head to see that some of the other kids from the psycho ward were being shown the outside world.
While most were her own age, there was one that looked painfully young.
She felt her mouth fall into a thin line. It was him.
His russet hair and gold eyes were bad enough. All of that was simply utterly unnatural.(1) But his medical records were also spooky. Honestly, who could have that low a blood pressure and still be alive? And the immensity of his appetite. He was always eating, but never gained an ounce over his seventy-five pounds.
Mafumi glared at him. The twelve year old flinched a little, but only a little. He was used to being glared at and beaten.
Disgusting piece of shit. She drummed her fingers against the side of the bench.
The worst part was that he didn't even have a proper name. Everyone just called him by his number: 42. Numbers were all well and good, but here, everyone had a name. She couldn't categorize him without a name.
Reaching a sudden decision, she stood and traveled to 42. She grabbed his wrist silently and dragged him to the door.
"I'm taking him to the Library," she told the security guard bluntly.
The guard accompanying them, she pulled the bewildered child along with her through the confusing white halls.
"You've gotta be kidding me," she muttered disdainfully. "Making me do this for you? You stupid or something?"
She didn't expect a reply, and didn't get one.
Since her admittance to the Institute, Mafumi had been placed on a daily regime of drugs. So far, all her physical signs of OCD had been suppressed. The mental need to systemize however, had not.
They got to the Library in a fairly short amount of time, and Mafumi released 42's wrist. Trusting that he would follow her, she headed to the dictionaries.
Bending over the bound volumes, she scanned them, dismissing the kanji immediately. No need to waste it on trash.
Spotting a useful looking red book, she pulled it down and sat down heavily at a table. She wanted to get this over with as quickly as possible.
42 waited next to her timidly.
She played with the dictionary for several minutes, mentally selecting some symbols and rejecting others.
Finally, she shut the book and went to the check-out desk where she retrieved a pencil and paper.
"Don't lose this," she said crossly as she wrote the katakana down. "You're lucky to get one."
Mafumi handed it to the golden eyed boy. "Your name is Togusa, now. It's a crappy name, but good enough for the likes of you. Now, get out of my sight."
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(1) "Ijime" is a severe social problem in Japan. The Japanese value homogeneity and conformity; if you are the same as everyone else, if you are another part of the whole, then you're safe. Ijime is when almost the entire class gangs up on one or two students and constantly torments them. Since there are usually at least forty students in a class, and they never change their classes (the teachers come to them), this means that the victims are unable to escape. There are no counselors for them to talk to; and the teachers can contribute to ijime as well. More often than not, the bullying can result in the victim(s) committing suicide. All this, because the victim is different in some fashion; even with something you'd think was a good thing, like being exceptionally gifted in math.
If Togusa grew up in Japan with his refusal to conform along with his strange hair and eyes, then there is little doubt that he must have suffered.