I am having a peaceful drive on a sunny morning in Chiba, after last night's tearful reunion with my old friend from high school. Life doesn't get better than this. True, I ended up killing my old friend and I am on my way to kill more people, but we can't get hung up on the details. It's all for the greater good. If I say it enough times I might even believe it.
Once again, one last time, I lost to Yui. Even back in school, whenever I cornered her with my clever mind tricks, she'd just turn the tables on me with a steady gaze and her heart on her sleeve. I was an arrogant fool to think that it would be different this time. I tried to save her and got her killed in the process, but my intentions were good. That counts for something, right? I am sure it makes a tremendous difference to the only girl who never had anything but a smile and a kind word for me, who never said anything but 'good luck' when I started dating her best friend. Who never told me that she loved me. Well, she did, in the end, just before I got her killed.
I am going in circles. Yui is dead and there is no bringing her back. Dead like so many other people I cared about. One would think it would get easier with practice. Yet I can hardly breathe.
I step out of the car into the cold Chiba morning, my uniform all starched and proper. Wouldn't do to be anything less than immaculate for this little pièce de résistance. Hilarious, Orimoto would say.
A deep and long ditch lined by freshly turned earth looks like a gaping wound cut in the lawn of Chiba Park. Handcuffed people are tumbling out of parked trucks onto the frozen ground, then being yanked upright by soldiers and marched off to the ditch. Some are crying, some silent, all beaten and dirty.
Opposite the ditch, a long line of people waits for rice in front of the county government office. They barely look any better than the prisoners and very few are even bothering to look at the spectacle. Hunger is the best vaccine for empathy.
Nobody would look at me twice in this breadline. I always hoped that my eyes would change later in life, that I would fit in with others. And I got my wish, just not the way I hoped. Streets are full of people with dead eyes these days. Mine are livelier than most.
I nod to Makito, an order is barked and soldiers start setting up machine guns. The prisoners stiffen visibly and I see a woman of uncommon beauty step out of the group, her bearing proud despite bruises and dirt. She yells something at soldiers but they ignore her, going about their business. It might be the last few minutes of your life for you but it's just business for them. There is a breakfast waiting back at the barracks so could you do them a favour and just die quietly? But the woman apparently lacks the social grace to do so and steps closer, yelling what I assume are curses or insults or some quixotic slogans. Power to the people, death to tyrants, god is great, you'll pay for this. I've heard it all. She finally steps too close and one of the soldiers turns and casually strikes her across the face with the barrel of his rifle. She goes down in a heap and doesn't get up.
The people in the breadline start turning to watch. There is little free entertainment to be had at this time of rolling blackouts and state-approved TV. The prisoners look shocked and a few run to the fallen woman to help her back into the group. Despite everything that has happened, despite what is about to happen now, Japanese still recoil at public displays of violence.
There is a long moment of silence with all preparations done, everybody frozen in place, hesitating before taking the final plunge. Then, predictably, one of the prisoners starts to sing. A few others join in and the tune grows stronger. The little tableau is all set, the doomed heroes bloodied but defiant, the crowd sullen but touched. All that is missing is the villain. I shouldn't keep them waiting.
I take one last deep breath and stride purposefully towards the waiting group. Passing between salutes, my face a stern but kind mask of a disappointed parent forced to discipline a wayward child.
Yui. Your taste in men is beyond horrible.
18 months earlier
I feel more than slightly ridiculous, limping into a cinema in a t-shirt and a bermuda shorts, scars livid on my legs. It's been years since I wore anything but a uniform. Fortunately, there is almost nobody to see me, all the films are pre-war reruns and the ticket is a luxury most people can't afford anyway. I refuse the pretty attendant's offer to help "a disabled veteran" and walk into an auditorium. Just one seat is taken and I shuffle painfully to sit by the man. As far as I can see in the flickering light, General Takahashi Kanji of the Imperial General Staff is wearing a nylon shirt with a floral pattern and I can't suppress a snigger.
He looks at me with annoyance but there is a good reason for this masquerade. The government is paranoid and a secret meeting between senior army officers could easily be misunderstood. And by 'misunderstood' I mean the two us ending up on the wrong side of a firing squad if somebody hears what we are talking about.
"We can't do it without you, Hachiman. Many of the key commanders refuse to join us as long as you keep your distance and you have the only troops that wouldn't hesitate to do anything you order them to."
"We've talked about this, Kanji. They might be idiots but they are a democratically elected government. We are talking treason here." Coup d'etats tend to be dangerous to both your health and reputation. I still care about the latter.
"You've been overseas too long. You don't understand how crazy they are. We are losing half of the harvest to cold, fallout and lack of fertilisers and they talk about a new investment cycle!" I've never seen Kanji so desperately in earnest. "But you won't believe it until you see it. So we have selected you as the army representative for tomorrow's government reception. Go there and listen and observe. Make up your own mind. Call me on a secure channel once it is over."
I move to stand up but his hand grips mine. "We have to do this, Hachiman. Whatever the cost to us personally. Millions of lives are at stake. The personal doesn't matter anymore."
Tokyo is shrouded in darkness as we drive to the Akasaka Palace. There are occasional flickers of lights in windows and shabby-looking people gape at our government limo in wonder. I cringe, turn my face away and am relieved to see that Makito looks uncomfortable, too. The neighbourhood changes as we approach the palace and, by the time we arrive, I feel positively shabby. The building glows with light, black limousines everywhere, evening gowns glitter and there are enough jewels in sight to feed an African nation. We climb a wide staircase, a gap opening in the crowd ahead to let us pass. Our dark dress uniforms are too plain for this company and I suspect our expressions do not match the joyous spirit of the celebration. My limp is not helping, either. Everybody wants to enjoy themselves, not be reminded of what was lost.
We enter the main hall and I stop in wonder. I've never seen anything similar, not even in the old times. I certainly couldn't imagine that such a place of beauty and wonder still existed today. An enormous chandelier glitters in reflected light in the middle of a great hall, which stretches into the distance, supported by ornamental pillars and filigree wall decorations. Is that gold? Ladies in evening gowns look on from the gallery as the orchestra plays and a few couples already dance something elegant and elaborate. Laughter and loud talk of beautifully dressed, good-looking people who enjoy this evening of magic assault my senses. Servers in white jackets are busy with their own intricate dance, balancing trays overflowing with food and drink between chatting groups. I take an uncertain step back and hear Makino's muttered "bloody hell".
We move a bit to the side and as I relax I start noticing that not everybody is enjoying themselves. There's an embarrassed face here and there and a distinctly uncomfortable-looking group of foreign diplomats down the hall. Still, the atmosphere is cheerful, almost hysterically so.
And then a procession of speeches starts, ministers I've never heard of raising glasses to a bright future, faceless officials seeing a new tomorrow for our Asian prosperity sphere, well-fed businessmen promising investments and crystal resolution TVs for everybody. One particularly gormless character raises a toast in our direction, congratulating "our heroes" on "winning the war". I can feel pain shooting up my leg at that piece of drivel and I wish somebody had told the people that shot me up that they've lost the war. I exchange glances with Makito and we start moving through the crowd away from the podium. I think we've heard enough.
We reach the top of the stairway and I notice the two people climbing. The background noise dies away, the time slows down to a crawl and it is like one of those nightmares where a car is hurtling towards you and there is nothing you can do. This is no nightmare, though very soon it will be, and there are still options available. I could just turn and run, or at least hobble away, dignity be damned. But I won't give them the satisfaction.
So I wait for Hayato Hayama, who climbs the last two steps very slowly, looking about as happy to be here as I am. He looks good, athletic and elegant in his expensive dark Savile Row suit, or wherever in the world suits that fit you like that come from.
"Hayama-san." I am unable to force out a single little pleasantry.
"Colonel Hikigaya. I am… surprised to see you here." But he is not looking at me but at his companion, a terrible mix of powerful emotions warring on his face. There is fear, and hate, and love there and I look away. Such moments are too intimate for others to witness.
When I look back Hayato has regained some measure of control and he smiles shakily. "I hope you are well."
"I am. Allow me to introduce Captain Makino Iwasaki." I turn to Makino and see such a loathing on his usually emotionless face that my breath catches. Why is everybody losing it all of a sudden? Perhaps it is a good thing I can't see my own expression. Makino is not looking at Hayato at all but at his companion and I almost make the mistake of following his gaze. But I catch myself at the last moment since I can make a pretty good guess at who that person is.
Long, long ago there was a boy and there was a girl and, like in all such stories, they fell in love. They were happy together but the boy got called to war and was away for years and years. The girl kept writing and the boy kept writing and they kept promising never to let go. But one day somebody shot the boy and his friend carried him through fire and flame to safety. And when the boy wrote to the girl from his sickbed there was no reply. So the boy asked his friend to take his letters to the girl who was somehow not receiving them.
And the friend found her in another man's palace. And the guards wouldn't let him see her and he had to fight them to enter and speak to her.
I never asked Makito what was said. Had it been worth knowing, had knowing it been bearable, he would have told me. It took a General Staff intervention to get him out of police custody. He had put two Hayama household bodyguards in a hospital.
So, I think I know who stands there, by Hayato's side. But as long as I don't look, as long as I don't acknowledge who it is - well, perhaps I can just say a few words and leave and no harm done.
"Nice to meet you, captain," Hayato says and doesn't offer to introduce his companion and I suddenly understand that he is as terrified of what might happen as I am. That we are working together here, just as we used to back in the high school, to get everybody out of this minefield safe and sound. But it has to be done quickly.
"So, how is your family, Hikigaya-san?" He offers the most innocent of questions. There are very few safe questions today.
"My sister is well, volunteering in the Greater Tokyo reclamation project. My father died in the Three Days. My mother last winter." I speak, proud of how composed my voice sounds.
I hear a gasp in my blind spot and a trembling female voice "Hikigaya-san dead? B-But… I saw her last winter!"
I close my eyes for a moment. It was a valiant effort.
There is a beautiful woman standing by Hayama's side. I even know her. Yukino Hayama, formerly Yukino Yukinoshita, a dear friend of mine. A stunning black dress, its style masterly understated, accentuates her perfect figure and the elegance of a fully blossomed beauty. She looks more lovely than ever. The marriage to Hayato obviously suits her.
"You visited my mother, Hayama-san? How nice of you." I think I am smiling.
"I… I wanted to help. I just came to visit. She… she spat me in the face." Mrs Hayama is growing paler by the second. Surely that can't be healthy.
"Oh, my mother spat you in the face so you left her to die alone of cold and hunger? So perfectly you." I am still smiling, but my mouth is starting to hurt. She takes a stumbling step back, her eyes full of some emotion I don't believe her capable of feeling. One more and, with a bit of luck, she will fall down the stairs and break that lovely neck of hers.
"Perhaps you should have been around to help your mother, instead of expecting others to do it," Hayato intercedes angrily.
"I was away fighting your wars. Getting shot for your corporate profits." And you stole everything I had.
"Which reminds me, I need to thank you, Hayama-san." My voice is almost back to normal. "For that evacuation from Shanghai just before the city fell. That was nobly done. Nobly done, indeed. I was wounded and you saved my life and my men, asking for nothing in return."
He looks at me speechless for a second and, to his credit, blushes furiously. Then turns to Yukino with a furious "You told him!".
She is once again her usual icy self. "I haven't said a word… you fool".
Hayato looks back at me, mouth hanging open.
I feel almost insulted. It was quite obvious, really. Me helpless and about to be killed in Shanghai, when a miraculous government order arrives to have me evacuated at the last possible moment. At the same time, my girlfriend stops writing and soon marries another man, whose family incidentally has a lot of pull with the government. Frankly, as a plot, it is pathetically banal.
Their faces, their reactions are proof enough.
I always suspected there was a reason. But the road to hell is paved with good intentions. We had something genuine and she sold it at the highest market price. The fact that the price was my life matters nothing at all.
They deserve each other.
We are done here. I turn to leave.
"You are a relic of the past," Hayato spits. "You have no place in the new Japan. You… heroes, soldiers and samurais are just wholesale murderers." I don't think it is me he is talking to.
I cry on the way back. I am not sure what for.
Kanji is still awake when I return. The channel is heavily encrypted. Heavily enough, I hope.
"You have seen it?" Kanji's face is tired. He carries a heavy burden.
"I have. I am with you." And with these four words, I become a traitor to my country.
His eyes close in relief. "I expected nothing else."
"About the execution lists," I have to ask this. "There are so many names".
"I agree. But you can't use force in moderation. Ministers, tycoons, industrialists, yakuza, they all have to go if this country is to have a chance." Kanji's words are determined but muscles on his face twitch. It is not easy to kill thousands. Not even with your pen.
I know he is right. Still. "I want one name removed." There are things more important than duty or pride.
"Of course," he doesn't hesitate a second.
"Yukino Hayama". A brief pause.
"Done," Kanji says. Then. "Hachiman. Her husband is also listed."
I think for a few seconds. What kind of a man am I?
"Goodbye, Kanji. Thank you."
Oh. That kind.