Two years later.

Chiba has been in my care. As everything ever left to my tender mercies, it is dying. Not dead yet, so perhaps I am losing my touch. But not for much longer.

Look at it, Hachiman. Just look at your handiwork. Drab, grey, crumbling buildings, windows smashed like rotten teeth. Every park stripped clean, every tree cut for kindling. Sputtering cooking fires leaving long lines of soot on once-mighty glass towers.

I jerk from my reverie as a glob of something brown strikes the bulletproof passenger window just a few centimetres from my face, leaving long muddy streaks to be washed away by the rain. It was probably excrement, though where the food needed to produce it came from I could not imagine. Well, you have rich people even at the end of the world.

No more bombs, no more resistance. But the citizens of Chiba still had the energy to fling shit at their military governor. The SUV swivels left, then right, almost, but not entirely, avoiding a makeshift barricade. Under the impact, its corner explodes into pieces of pavement, mud, and a single small human-like figure, casually flung aside by the big car. It looks dead. It looks gnawed on. I hope it was the dogs.

We pass a long line of wood-burning trucks, stopped by the roadside. The whole society is going back in time. Wood-powered vehicles. What next? Chariots? Unkempt, dishevelled soldiers are offering plates of rice to some skeletal, scantily dressed young women. A few years ago, I could still imagine these offerings being made out of altruism, or generosity, or pity. Back then, I thought I had seen everything. I am tired, so bone-deep tired of it all, numb to misery and suffering, mine and other people's. The only thing I wanted, craved, is to look away. But it is the world I built, I protected. The least I could do is look at it.

Ahead, the heavy gate of the Yukinoshita residence opens like a maw. Barbed wire flickers by the car, machine guns, more barbed wire. The gate thuds closed behind me with awful finality, cutting the external world off. I am home.

Makino jumps out, following my every step, his eyes scanning left and right, always staying between me and the external wall. Guarding and protecting makes him happy, or at least less miserable. Who am I to judge? We climb the mansion stairs and the guards part ahead of us like water.

"Hachiman!" My wife raises her eyes from the pile of papers, the smile touching her cold blue eyes. "Shoo! Shoo!", the assistants disperse, and the tall girl almost runs to embrace me, black hair streaming behind. Somebody still smiles when I enter. Somebody still runs to me. And they say the age of wonders has passed. People mostly tend to run away from me, the end of their flight usually punctuated by a gunshot.

She kisses me, and I feel no shame at kissing her back, my cold and wet lips pressed to her hot and eager ones. I failed the people, but I can still make a person happy. The collective is made up of individuals, after all. Single person's happiness must count for something, even when weighed against the misery of all.

"Oh, Hachiman, I missed you," she mutters, her flawless face pressed into the damp wool of my greatcoat. I touch her hair like it might break under my fingers, like she might disappear if I apply any pressure. "Yukino," I whisper. As usual, endearments can't make it past the lump in my throat. "We have to leave. Now."

She raises her head slowly and holds my gaze for a few seconds. Then, without saying a word, turns around and climbs into the car. I was never more proud of her. As we drive away, I still have to ask. I never could match her silent grace.

"Don't you need to pack something, Yukino? We will not be coming back."

"Everything I need, everything I ever needed, is already in this car."

Two days ago

Another meeting of the General Staff, another vote on genocide. Is it, though? That first genocide, the original sin, before the word lost any meaning, was six million people. We are now discussing killing 60 million. Ten times more. What is that? A supergenocide? A decagenocide? What fancy word will the future, if there is any, invent to describe what we did?

"All those in favour of Operation Dandelion?" the duty officer says. His vote trembles, like it does every time, and I don't blame him. Six hands slowly raised. Six admirals and air force generals, people who did their math and know there is no other choice. They have the courage to vote yes. If we don't do this, if we don't kill 60 million of our own citizens, cut the population by half, the country will collapse in an orgy of riots, pillage and robbery, with a few survivors fighting over the last scrap of food.

It is us, six army commanders, who keep voting 'no'. We are the cowards. We are willing to sacrifice the whole population, everybody, by refusing to act. To save what? Some imaginary, meaningless concept like our soul or honour? Perhaps it is just that we, of the army, still remember how killing a person face to face, intimately, looks like. Sixty million of such individual moments are evil on so cosmic a scale that it transcends any cold mathematical calculation.

"Seven to five. The operation is approved." Like in some grotesque parody, all our heads turn to the only raised hand on the army side of the table. Kanji, my friend, my superior, fellow conspirator, the man I followed on the long road from the burning Shanghai to high treason, is holding his hand up.

"I am sorry," he says to me, and his relieved smile wet with tears makes me shudder. "I am sorry," he says to the room, bowing deeply. Kanji stands up and walks to the door, his hand clutching for the sidearm with an eagerness I would find morbid if I didn't share it utterly. The last thing I hear, before the door closes behind him, is muttered "Mother, forgive me."

There is nothing I want more than to follow him, but I still have one promise to keep, and a few more miles to go before I sleep.

On my way out, I step into an empty office, pick up a phone and dial a number from memory. Let the Kenpeitai try to trace that. "Your excellency. Don't speak, just listen. The package will be delivered in two days. You have to be ready to leave immediately. Please, take care of it."

They call it high treason, and it carries a death sentence, but I've committed it before, and they can't shoot me twice.

Our car reaches Tokyo in less than two hours. I would never have thought it possible, but the city looks worse than Chiba. Has my governorship actually been a shining beacon of success? We pass by a burnt-out armoured car, with a crucified soldier stuck on top, an additional highlight for those who have missed the subtle criticism of the military.

Choking smoke from charred buildings drifts down the main thoroughfare, and we encounter a suspicious number of limousines heading out of the city. Apparently, even General Staff members can't keep their mouth shut when their families and friends are on the line. The bushido standards really are slipping.

I glance at my watch. This drive is taking too long, and I've wasted too much time before picking Yukino up. But taking care of your soldiers is what a leader is supposed to do, and I owe that tired bunch of survivors my life and my honour many times over. Arrangements for them had to be made, even if the time was short. Even if the time ran out.

Makino turns into a compound more heavily fortified than even our mansion is. The guards wave us through the heavy gate topped by a large flag, all radiant blue and proud gold stars. Its message of hope and beauty so outdated amidst the ruins of the world it used to represent. The courtyard is a beehive of activity, with people hurriedly dumping files and suitcases into the two remaining trucks. Somebody has taken my message seriously.

"We are here to see the ambassador," I tell the waiting secretary and he takes the three of us in. The search should be cursory, but it isn't, and the security team should be the usual pot-bellied rent-a-cops, but they aren't. One guard, fit, lean and sunburnt under his blond crewcut, scans, and then quickly pats me down. Another is watching carefully, just outside an easy reach. There are no guns visible, but I am certain that they would make a quick appearance if needed. They take my and Makino's pistols and turn to Yukino.

She gets that defiant look that has stayed the same since the very first day Sensei forced me upon her. "I would prefer to be searched by a woman if indeed there is any need for a search", Yukino says in her most imperious tone. The guard looks at her for a second, face impassive, and offers a curt "no", before proceeding to pat her down professionally, neither in a hurry nor lingering on Yukino's assets.

Inside, the building is a study in contrast between its usual dignified diplomatic opulence and chaos of shredded paper, smashed data disks and overturned furniture. A tall, gangly, grey-haired gentleman in an immaculate suit is waiting for us in the hall while displaying the consummate diplomatic skill of not appearing to be waiting for anybody at all.

"Welcome," His Excellency Jarl Gustaffson, Ambassador Extraordinary and Plenipotentiary of the European Union to His Imperial Majesty the Emperor of Japan, says warmly to my wife. He holds her hand a bit longer than strictly necessary. "Colonel Hikigaya," turning to me, his voice not exactly unfriendly. We understand each other very well, Jarl and I, and he is not the kind of man to envy another on something that will forever be out of his reach.

"Would you like to join me in my study for a chat?" Jarl says. I glance at my watch, but obviously not subtly enough. "A brief chat," he repeats, frowning slightly at my faux pas. "Perhaps your friend would prefer to wait here," he nods to Makino, "I am sure that he would find all the legal formalities awfully boring". Makino scowls and starts to say something, but I shake my hand and, as always, he obeys.

The study is a surprisingly small and cosy room, the desk and shelves swept clean. The fire burning merrily in the fireplace is consuming not wood but a pile of documents. Each of the two doors is flanked by a security guard, but their perfect parade rest positions are not something you can learn in a two-week company course.

"Please, sit," Jarl offers. "You know how happy I am to see you." I squirm slightly. Fire is coming that no fireplace will ever hold and I can almost feel its first hot breath. "But I know you are in a hurry. What can I help you with?".

"Mr Gustaffson, you will recall that we have talked about my wife and me applying for asylum in the Union." He nods. "Problems at work are now forcing me to reconsider my career options," Jarl's smile is tight and humourless, "and I was hoping that you could help us."

"I have already told you that I see no obstacle to your asylum application. Actually, I have full authority to approve it. Your luck is in, there is our plane leaving the Tokyo airport for Cyprus in two hours, and some seats are still available." Well, isn't that a coincidence. Though Jarl is cutting it close. A plane leaving in two hours might just make history by being the last plane to ever depart the Tokyo airport.

"We would be happy to offer esteemed guests, such as you, transport to the airport in our diplomatic vehicle so," Jarl's cough looks almost natural, "any misunderstanding with the authorities might be avoided."

"Oh, that's great Jarl," Yukino chimes in, "the best piece of luck we've had all this miserable year. I was convinced that the paperwork would take days. You do look like you are in the middle of a transfer," she adds, looking pointedly at the empty shelves.

Jarl's eyes flicker to me for a moment, and I pray that Yukino hasn't noticed. She can be deceived, but not easily and never for long. "Ah, yes, Yukino, we have been… downgrading the embassy, temporarily of course." True, in a sense. The half-life of strontium-90 is just 29 years. They will be back in no time. "Just until some renovation work is done," he adds, and I cringe at how awkward he sounds. You diplomats are supposed to be good at lying.

"I see," Yukino says, and even I can't read her. "Well, we will be in your care then. As you see, we are travelling lightly," and she stands up. I remain seated.

"My love," and she freezes in place, her back to me. I haven't called her that in long years. "I have something to arrange with Makino. You know, what to do with the men. I will join you at the airport as soon as I am done." I nod to Jarl, and he nods back. His people will get her on board the plane come hell or high water. Though I think it is not high water that is coming.

"Of course, colonel, we will keep a car available for you," and the smiles we exchange have all the authenticity of a 3000-yen bill smiling to a 30-euro one.

Yukino turns to me, and I brace for what is coming. Hair covers her eyes, but what I see of her face is frozen in a mask of haughty indifference. "Once again, you fail me, Hikigaya." No first name, no honorific. "Perhaps my first impression of you was correct, after all," and I wince at the memory of insults we exchanged in that classroom.

I step closer and raise my hand to move the black cascade of her hair, to see her eyes one last time. With no warning, Yukino swings, and I brace myself for the slap I deserve. What I get instead is a solid, professional, martial-arts-trained fist to the nose that sends me staggering back. Jarl takes a hesitant step, but I raise a hand. "No." I can feel warm liquid trickling down my mouth.

Yukino lifts her head, and I regret wishing to see her eyes. There is no love, no fury, no scorn in them. No emotion whatsoever, just a brief, disdainful, flicker to my face, then away, like seeing me made her sick. The warmth in her voice is the same she displays when thanking a waiter. "So be it. You have always done what you wanted, and I do not doubt you will this time no matter what I say. I will see you when I see you." I am obviously dismissed, and Yukino turns to Jarl. She nods, and he nods back. The last glimpse I will ever have of her is the ramrod-straight back disappearing behind an ordinary, "fire-door-keep-shut" office door. Really, with all the pain, death and suffering we have accumulated during our love story, I think we deserved a more romantic background for its ending.

It doesn't matter. Heartache is for other people. What matters is that she lives.

"Jarl, I still haven't told her about Dandelion. She must not know until you are airborne. You must take care of her. In time, who knows… but I really have to go." Duty is calling, not to the nation or a flag, but to Makino and a few dozen men who have followed me through fire and knee-deep blood.

Jarl turns to me, and his face is formal and cold. "Colonel Hikigaya, you are under arrest under charges of violation of Article 147 of the Fourth Geneva Convention. These multiple war crimes include the public execution of the Speaker of the National Diet of Japan."

For the first time in years, I am speechless. "You will be transported to the Union to stand trial. Take him away," Jarl says. The two guards step closer and handcuffs click closed on my wrists.