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4/9
It is the sunlight that wakes him. His eyes snap open and the dim remains of a headache fade from his skull. Did I doze off? He doesn't remember being tired. The trip to Tokyo hadn't been a long one. He reaches up to rub his eyes, and his fingers push against the lenses of his new glasses. He drops his hand. The glasses arrived before he'd left for Tokyo, but he still isn't used to them yet. It isn't as if he needs them.
The subway car continues to rattle along, and the brief glimpse of day vanishes as they race back underground.
"A mental shutdown?" Two schoolgirls stand by the train car's door, arms wrapped around handrails, heads dipped together in conversation.
"Mmmhmm," the second girl says. "I heard about it online. Apparently the guy's brain just went 'splat' or something and he drove the bus right into a store."
"Geez, that's scary."
"That's not all, I heard the same thing happened to that subway engineer who crashed that train last week."
The first girl frowns, "But, can that really happen to someone? I mean, I know there's that aneurism thing that kills you instantly, or something, but it doesn't make you act crazy, right?"
The second replies with a shrug and a giggle. "Who knows? Maybe there's some kind of gas in the subway tunnels that made him go crazy."
"Don't say that when we're on the subway!"
Akira's attention drifts away. They weren't talking about anything, not really. Just rumors and nonsense. He doesn't need to pay attention. He doesn't need to care. He had to learn this distinction during the trial. It had been the only way to keep himself sane. Know what you need to learn, and then learn it. Nothing else matters. He keeps his eyes on the floor for the rest of the trip.
The train reaches a subsidiary station just south of Shibuya, and Akira steps off and mixes with the people on the platform. His shoulders slump forward, his hands are shoved deep in his pockets, his eyes are fixed on the ground. He walks. He occasionally checks the GPS on his phone. He says nothing. He looks at nothing. He tries to think nothing.
He walks.
The sheer amount of people in Tokyo bothers him. He is not from a small town - it's only an hour's ride north - but never has he been to a place so congested. Hundreds of pedestrians slide past him on the sidewalk. Their eyes look everywhere but at him. He is fine with this.
A moment is all he allows himself to marvel when he reaches Shibuya. The mass of people, when looked at in a certain way, seems like its own entity, a creature of a million limbs spiraling out and snaking its way through the streets and alleys. A thing with a mind, a consciousness, of its own. I'm going to have to come through here, every day. It is a daunting thought.
His cellphone beeps. He is young and therefore trained to look at every notification as soon as one appears. Akira sees what he first mistakes to be a red error message. When he brings the phone closer to his face, he sees that a small red square, not unlike an app icon, has appeared on his phone. It suddenly grows in size until it takes up half the screen. The picture is of a menacing eye, with a black star centered in a carmine iris.
Akira has seen enough nonsense online that this should not bother him, but it unsettles him nonetheless. He presses his thumb to it, intending to drag it to his phone's trash.
Everything stops.
Everything.
Akira looks up and around. All the people, all the cars, even the clouds above are frozen in standstill. Nothing moves and nothing makes a sound.
Except, that isn't quite true. Across the intersection, mixed within the throng of frozen people, crackles a pillar of blue flame.
What the hell is that? What's happening? Akira takes a step away, and the flames grow. As his panic rises, the fire twists itself into a humanoid form.
A rush of heat spreads over Akira's face, and two burning wings rip themselves from the figure's back, arch and flourish.
"I AM THOU." The words pulse through him like a heartbeat and a warmth spreads through his chest. He lets out the breath he's been holding, and settles. He regards the figure with calm eyes. The corners of his mouth twitch upward.
In a single, brief moment, the flames break to reveal a clear image of Akira's own face. The grin this doppelganger wears is wide and sinister; the smile of a maniac. His eyes are bright gold and wild.
Then the image is gone. Akira blinks. Sound has returned in a mad wave and the people - frozen not a moment ago - move as if they'd been uninterrupted.
"Hey kid, keep it moving!" Akira turns and finds a middle-aged salaryman scowling up at him. "We can't all just stand around doing nothing." The man regards Akira's adopted school uniform and shakes his head in disgust. "Damn punk, just skipping school."
Akira's mind snarls. It's Saturday afternoon, asshole. School's already out. He doesn't say this. "I apologize, sir. Excuse me."
The man clicks his tongue and moves around him.
Akira retreats to the shade of a nearby building, and leans against the warm concrete. What the hell was that just now? Was I hallucinating? Those girls on the train had mentioned a 'mental shutdown.' Had he just flirted with one? He checks his phone. The unnerving red icon is still there. Akira shakes his head clear. It wasn't anything but a brief hallucination. Stress. That's all it was. Stress. God knows I've had a lot of it recently. He drags the alien icon to the trash, successfully this time, and returns the phone to his pocket.
Sane again, Akira continues to the station, his posture stooped, his eyes on the ground. He does his best to look as uninteresting and innocent as possible.
#
Yongen-jaya. The place feels forgotten. More storefronts are shuttered than open. The people, few in number, walk with the easy familiarity of those who have been here for years. It is both intimate and strange. Akira supposes there could be some charm to this neighborhood, but it is hidden beneath the grit that cakes everything.
He passes a hole-in-the wall medical clinic, a shuttered movie theatre, and a convenience store in his search for Cafe LeBlanc. His directions are not precise, and his GPS has difficulty tracking his location.
LeBlanc is a small storefront across from a bathhouse, its sign small and unobtrusive. Like the rest of Yongen-jaya, it feels like an afterthought, swallowed by the whole of Tokyo.
Nerves set in. He knows nothing about Sojiro Sakura, the man who will be caring for him. He is not a relative. He is not a friend. Akira does not know why this man has accepted him as a ward, but he no longer questions things. This has all been arranged.
He opens the door to LeBlanc and steps inside. His eyes take a moment to adjust to the dim interior. A series of booths line the wall, with a parallel bar alongside. It smells of cook smoke, coffee, lacquer and leather. It is the same inside as out, small, cramped and quiet.
A man sits on a stool. He wears a pink shirt beneath an ivory apron. His hair, though receding, is a lustrous black, and his beard is stylized into a point. A newspaper is in his hands, but the man looks bored. At the sound of Akira's entrance, the man glances at him over the tops of his glasses.
The two regard each other for a moment, as Akira tries to decide what to say. Then the man sighs and says, "I take it you're Akira Kurusu?"
Akira opens his mouth to reply, but his words stumble out in a mishmash. He clears his throat and says, "Uh, yes sir."
The man folds the paper and deposits it onto the counter with practiced hands. "I'm Sojiro Sakura. Come with me." He pushes himself off the stool and walks deeper into the store. Akira hesitates, then follows. Just past the tables is a bathroom, and just past the bathroom is a narrow stairwell. Sojiro plods upwards and out of sight. Akira takes the steps at a quicker pace.
Sojiro stands in the center of a cluttered, dusty attic. Bags, boxes, books, and tools lay scattered around the tops of tables, desks, shelves and a couch. An uncovered bed sits shoved in the far corner, beneath the window. "This is where you'll be staying," Sojiro says. Akira doesn't know what to say. The place is big, but it's more of a storage area than anything else. "Ground rules," Sojiro continues before Akira has a chance to speak. "First, if you make any trouble, I will kick you out." Akira blinks, surprised at the gruffness. "Second, I don't want to hear about your situation. I already got the gist of it. A man was forcing himself on a woman, and you stepped in. He got hurt and he sued you."
Akira bristles at the memory, and at the matter-of-fact way in which Sojiro describes it. Yes, that was what happened, but the context-
A small grin plays itself out across Sojiro's face. "That's life, kid. Better get used to it."
Akira stoops a bit more, lowers his eyes and says, "Yes sir."
A few more rules follow, most involving not bothering Sojiro or his customers. Then the man leaves, without as much as a handshake.
Akira moves to the bed and drops his bag. He sits down on the thankfully clean sheets. "One whole year, huh?" He says to no one. He can hear a small rumble from downstairs, which he associates with the typical noise of the cafe.
In this moment, Akira Kurusu has never felt so alone.
#
Akira spends his afternoon cleaning the room. When evening falls, the space is not organized but is, at least, livable. Sojiro, minus the apron and plus a slick white jacket and fedora returns from below. He regards the room with a surprised look. "Hm. Not bad, I guess." By the time his gaze turns to Akira, his interest is gone again. "We'll be heading to Shujin Academy tomorrow. You're going to introduce yourself to the Principal. I want to be in and out, got it?" Akira nods. "Just keep it simple." He turns to leave.
"Thank you," Akira blurts out. Sojiro looks over his shoulder at him. "For taking me in. Thank you."
Sojiro frowns, shrugs and says, "Don't mention it. I'm heading home. Don't steal anything." He walks down the steps and vanishes.
Akira drops onto his bed, and realizes he has nothing left to do. He takes his phone from his pocket. He opens his 'Contact List' and stares at the last remaining name in it, 'Home.' His thumb hovers over it for a time. Then, he slides the phone back into his pocket.
A small murmur makes its way up the stairs and into the room. Sojiro is speaking, but Akira can't make out the words. He stands and creeps over to the stairwell, the boards don't creak like he expects them to.
"...uh-huh. Yeah. This afternoon. Pretty early, I guess there were no delays."
Akira sits on the top step and listens.
"So, do you want to speak with him?" Sojiro asks. Silence for a time. "Are you sure? He's right upstairs, I can grab him for you. Honestly, it's no trouble... Right. Yeah, no. I understand. Sorry." More silence. Then, "I will. Goodnight." Akira hears a faint click, then a sigh, then the jingle of the door as it opens, and then finally silence once it's closed.
Akira stares down the stairwell for a while. He bites the inside of his mouth, hard, until he tastes a bit of blood. He does this because he will not cry. He will not cry.
He will not cry.
Then, exhausted, he gets up and goes to bed.
#
This time, it is the moaning that wakes him. It is faint, weak, and pained. He opens his eyes and sees a black ceiling, and cinderblock walls. He sees a lidless toilet, and bars where there should be a door.
He is in a box. Another box.
His clothes are tattered clichéd prisoner clothes, pinstriped in black and white. The air is heavy with the stench of sweat and piss. He sits up and finds his arms and legs shackled.
A nightmare. This is a nightmare. He wonders, then, why it feels so real.
Beyond the bars, a single light bulb illuminates a small circular room, ringed by cells similar to his. Panopticon. Beneath the bulb is a desk. The wood is rotting and peels to reveal the white beneath. The rug underneath is a frayed, monochromatic blue mess.
A stooped thing sits at it. It is not a man. It cannot be a man. Its features are too wrong. Its eyes bulge. Its nose, too long and knifelike. Its grin, too wide, its teeth too sharp. It is a caricature of a man, a farce, an imposter.
It meets Akira's eyes, and its grin grows just a bit wider. "Trickster," it says. Its voice is deep and hollow. "Welcome to my Velvet Room."