The United Future Party, which had seen the rise and fall of Masayoshi Shido, wasn't particularly uncommon in Japan, as parties went. It was fundamentally nationalistic and, in a country that spent centuries closed off from the rest of the world, that still had a lot of appeal. Parties such as itself, however, existed both in Japan and all over the world, with varying degrees of success.
Futaba looked at her computer screen. In itself that was absurdly common; it was, after all, where she spent most of her life, even before the Conspiracy took away her mother and pinned the blame on Futaba herself.
She recalled the conversation she had with her shadow in the tomb those people had her mind build for her. She remembered each word. Her shadow, her persona, herself, telling her to get mad.
Futaba had a lot to get mad about.
That was why she was humming, contentedly, to herself.
She finished typing. She looked at the screen.
Someone looking at her eyes might have sworn they'd caught a glimpse of a golden glow on her irises for a moment.
Just for a moment.
Alibaba, Oracle, Necronomicon, Futaba Isshiki and Futaba Sakura smiled sweetly and hit Enter.
The Union for National Prosperity party of Japan had been built on the ruins of the United Future Party, after Shido's fall and had been rapidly ascending after the debacle with the Phantom Thieves had cleared the way. Like power, ideology abhors a vacuum and new nationalism that claims to be pure and innocent of any misdeeds was no exception. Its leader and founder, Sentaro Sumiyoshi, had had the good fortune of having chosen not to enter Shido's party while sharing a decent bit of its ideology.
Of course, he didn't feel at all fortunate right now.
"Unagiya!" – he shouted, as he entered his office – "Have you seen the news?"
Hikaru Unagiya, his aide, looked a bit pale.
"Which ones?" – he asked.
"The corruption claims!" – Sentaro answered, not really bothering to use his inside voice.
"Sir" – said Hikaru, slowly. – "It truly pains me to say this, but there seems to be one or more for most of the members of our party above the lower ranks. And, for the ones that don't have those, there are others. Philandering, drug use, bar brawls. You name it."
That was enough to get Sentaro to lower his voice. Or, rather, to sit in stunned silence, mentally looking at the smoldering ruins of his party and political career.
The leader of Put Britain First, Peter Gordon, had really thought that story about him getting amorous with a pig in his youth would not see the light of day. Sadly, the other members of his party were currently too busy to help him, as they had to deflect all sorts of charges, mainly embezzlement.
Vladimir Ivanov, founder of the Russian National Population Party, was coolly waiting at his home. He knew he would get arrested for leading a human trafficking ring and he knew he had nowhere to run, as the people that could help him were dealing with their own worst secrets revealed.
Not that nationalism was too popular in Germany, but the revelations about Hans Schröeder and the members of his party didn't exactly surprise anyone. However, now, the local news networks had obtained proof that these people had World War II memorabilia in their houses, so to speak.
Sojiro watched the news as the reporter went on about how most or all parties with nationalist ideologies throughout the world had simultaneously been involved in numerous charges of corruption, crimes and other embarrassments. Unbeknownst to the reporter, a small logo of a toothy, smiling cat, one that would be recognizable as the symbol seen late in the past year on a televised calling card against Shido, adorned the lower right part of the screen – as it would for all networks.
He looked at his daughter, his face a mask of concern that he had worn a lot in the past year.
On the table, a person returned that look with an adorable – if slightly mischievous – smile.
Alibaba, the one who knows where the treasure is.
Oracle, the person who sees things others do not.
Necronomicon, the book of forbidden lore that brings disaster and insanity with the power of its words.
Futaba Isshiki, the genius daughter of a genius mother.
Futaba Sakura, the girl who remembered what she was put through, in the name of nationalism.
The girl who got mad.
They all crouched on the seat of a table at Café Leblanc, delightedly eating curry and washing it down with the best coffee the republic of Colombia (whose local nationalist party leaders had been revealed as cocaine kingpins) had to offer.
The girl who got mad had gotten even.