When he awoke, the sun was high in the sky and the wheel had long since found him and passed on his location to Nurtech. He knew nothing about the wheel, which had tucked itself out of sight. But he saw the sun, realized that he'd been unconscious all morning, and was filled with panic and confusion.

It took a great effort simply to roll himself onto his side, even though it had only been a few hours since his last charge in the back of the taxi. He tried to sit up, but the pavement refused to release him from its invisible clutches. And when he'd connected himself to his generator, and then waited in vain for the warm, familiar, glowing feeling to come, it quickly became clear that his generator needed to be charged as well - weeks sooner than it normally should. He had no way of calculating how many more charges it could give him. The rules by which he'd scheduled his life of scavenging for cells while living in the woods had gone suddenly out the window.

With fumbling fingers he replaced the four dead energy cells with four of the precious spares, one by one, from his backpack. The last cell, the fifth, was useless, unless he could manage to find three companions for it. He turned it over in his fingers a couple of times before letting it drop back down into its place beside Mr. Mitsui's wallet. Then he shoved the plug of his generator into his navel, felt the relief of the gentle surge to his core, and lay there anxiously watching the river of bright blue sky flowing between the tops of the buildings above. For now he could do nothing but wait. He had time to think. Much too much time.

"What did you think about, Blues?"

"Not wanting to die yet."

It was nothing new that he didn't want to die. But it was only since coming to Tokyo that he'd begun to understand his reasons. In his short life he hadn't managed to be of use to anybody: not Mr. Mitsui, not the girl on the train who'd lost her mother, not Ogata, not the rescue crew toiling in the sun. He hadn't thanked the three people who'd saved him from the collapsing train track. Hadn't delivered the message to Ms. Mitsui. Hadn't loved anyone, or been loved by anyone. If the sudden blackout he'd just endured was a sign that he was nearing the "total system failure" Dr. Wily had predicted long ago, well, what a waste his life had been.

It seemed there were invisible cords connecting human beings everywhere, transmitting feelings and reciprocity and goodwill. And this nourished people, just as food and water nourished them. He had no proof that it was true, yet it must be true, and true for him as well, otherwise he wouldn't suffer so much from being disconnected.

He wanted to feel connected. Perhaps he could, if only he could have a little more time.

His strength was returning. With his generator still plugged in, he heaved himself up into a sitting position. As soon as he was able, he was on his feet again. If he'd noticed the wheel, or if he'd even merely remembered the fact that it was out there looking for him, he would have put as much distance between himself and that rain-soaked alley as he could. Unfortunately for Blues, the first thing that came to mind when he stood up was the promise he'd made to bring water to the SAR crew, which he was determined to fulfill before continuing on to Ms. Mitsui's house.

So instead of fleeing for his life he lingered there, filling his backpack and arms with water bottles. The afternoon air was sticky and hot. He thought he had a vague idea of what it might feel like to be thirsty, and his wish to alleviate that feeling for someone else drove him on.

And then, once he'd reached the wall of rubble, came the discovery and the shock. The remains of the crew and the rescued victims were a jumble of charred bones. The water bottles slipped out of his hands and bounced against the concrete. He stared slack-jawed at the scene, and then like an idiot paced and shouted for help that didn't come and would have been far too late anyway.

Then he realized that if this had been the fate of the SAR crew, there was no one left but him to save the sole survivor he'd found buried alive in the last house on the row. So off he ran, only to be stopped in his tracks by the second shock. And it was there, in that street now turned into a dead-end by the collapse of the apartment building onto the house, as his mind reeled over the awful fate of the trapped human being inside, that the two men with their plasma rifles ambushed him.


By the time he heard the buzz and saw the flash of white light the first shot had already struck him. A searing, all-too-familiar pain ripped into his back and echoed through his body. His mouth opened, but he was too stunned even to scream. His legs gave way beneath him and he crumpled to the ground. Groaning, he reached out, pushed against the concrete, and tried to stand - but another shot, now in his left shoulder, put him in too much agony to move. A heavy boot came down on his back and pinned him. A second boot came down, this time on his left wrist as he struggled to reach toward the shorts pocket where he kept his knife.

"Son of a bitch," said a voice which Blues recognized with dread. "Made us come all the way to the fucking apocalypse."

With his cheek pressed against the concrete, all he could see was the mountain of blackened rubble which had engulfed the house. "There's someone trapped in there," he said, forcing out a whisper. "You've got to call for help."

"Huh?" The looming presence above seemed to regard Blues with uncertainty. "In there? Ain't no way anybody's alive in there." Then, to someone else, "check him."

"The drone got photos of him, man, and they match up. It's him."

"That ain't enough for me. I can't see his face. He's talking about helping people. I said fucking check him."

"Fine."

A second man's shadow blocked out the sun. Rough hands grabbed him by the hair, lifted his head from the ground, and pried off his face mask and shades. Out of the corner of one eye he saw close-up the hard and sunburned face of one of the men who'd hunted him in Shizuoka. The man's breath on his cheek reeked of tobacco and canned coffee. Based on the sound of his voice, Blues was sure he was the one who had slid down the ravine. Handling Blues harshly was a task he seemed to thoroughly enjoy.

"Looks like him." The man released Blues's head, stood up, and spat. There was a tugging at the scarf tied around his leg. "See that? It's where we shot him before. It's him. Let's do it and get out of here."

"Look in the backpack first. I'm not gonna off some actual kid."

"For fuck's sake." The zipper of Blues's backpack was yanked open, and his generator and last remaining energy cell were tossed with a rattling clank onto the pavement. If his mind hadn't been so addled with pain, Blues would have cried out in protest. "Happy now?"

"Yep. You were right." The man let out a relieved sigh, and the boot on Blues's back squeezed him harder. "The hell is that? A wallet? It ain't yours. You been nicking wallets, robot kid?"

"Somebody gave it to me," Blues said. "I need it."

The man let out a sad, sarcastic laugh. "You ain't gonna need it anymore."

"See, at first the company offered us a lot of money to bring you back alive. But that's changed. Now they've offered us even more to make sure you disappear."

"Dr. Wily helped build you, you see," said the first man. "You're damaged goods."

"A PR nightmare waiting to happen."

"Not like we care. It's nothing personal."

Apparently this was all the explanation they believed he had a right to, because after that they went silent. Then the cool, metallic barrel of the rifle was pushed hard against the back of his scalp.

"How does this work, anyway?" one of the men said. "How many times do we gotta shoot you? Where's the best place to make it quick?"

"Wait," Blues gasped. And then the words rushed out of him. "I came here to deliver a message to someone. I think she's close by. It won't take long. It's important."

There was a pause. The two men seemed to be exchanging wordless glances. And then one of them, the one who had insisted on confirming that Blues wasn't human, clicked his tongue pityingly.

"I don't think you understand," he said. "We don't do last requests."

If his plight seemed desperate just then, the rush of overwhelming pain from his core that followed nearly crushed whatever small hope he had left. He grit his teeth and squeezed his eyes shut. He had the looming sense that he was going to lose consciousness again as he'd done that morning. If he did, the pain and the terror would stop - and yet, somehow, he still mustered the will to object. No, no, not now. Please, not now. But his core had never heeded his pleas in the past, and it didn't heed them this time either.

"The hell's he doing? Did you shoot?"

"Not yet. Just a sec..."

I'm sorry, Mr. Mitsui. I tried...

For some reason, just before he went out he thought of Dr. Light.


It was pitch black. That was the first thing he knew. The second thing he knew was that he wasn't dead. His back and shoulder burned with pain, his body felt twisted and contorted, and there was the usual dull background ache in his core, but he was alive. Relief came. Then fear. Where was he? How long had he been asleep?

He couldn't stretch out his limbs. He could barely move at all. It was stiflingly, unbearably hot. He was stuck in a fetal position, encased head to toe in some kind of thick synthetic material. The floor beneath him vibrated gently, and his body within his cramped enclosure was swaying back and forth. Slowly, he came to realize that the painful end he feared was probably still ahead of him. The more he struggled, the more frightened he became.

As if from far away and through a wall, he heard the muffled voices of the two men ahead of him. He couldn't understand much of what they were talking about, but it seemed they thought dropping him in the bay was a bad idea. Better to head northwest, get out of the city as fast as possible. They'd find a suitable place soon enough. They just needed to keep their eyes peeled.

There was only one thing he could do. He didn't think his arms were bound, but they were squished firmly against his sides. If the men had taken his pocket knife, all was lost. If it was still there, and if he could reach it…

After a great effort he managed to wriggle one hand into his left pocket, and it brushed against the welcome handle of the knife. Slowly, carefully, he retrieved it, unfolded it, and over the course of the next few minutes managed to cut and rip a slit in his prison the length of the palm of his hand, which he was able to peer through. It was just as dark outside the spare tire case he'd been squeezed into as it was inside, but the air pouring in on his face felt cool and fresh, and it lifted his spirits. He had his knife and a little strength left, and before long he'd be out. And when the men opened the trunk to retrieve him, he'd give them the fight of his life.

But the car was already coming to a stop. The men were talking in pleased tones. It seemed they had found what they were looking for. They were surprised to see one left abandoned in the middle of the street. Then again, in the past two days they'd seen much stranger things.

Doors slammed shut.

"What'd I tell you? The key's still in it," called one of the men.

There was a click and a groaning creak, and daylight flooded in through the opening he'd made. The spare tire case was dragged, then heaved upward, by two pairs of hands. Blues caught a fleeting glance of the trunk of the car he was being removed from, and of the drone which had followed him nestled silently in one corner. He was flipped over, and for a split second he saw blue sky. It was quickly supplanted by the open maw of the back of a green waste disposal truck growing larger and larger through his tiny window. And before he could understand what was happening, he was heaved inside.

He landed on something large and soft. The place was dark and reeked of days-old garbage. Blues didn't know what to do. For just a moment, he wondered if the men were going to just leave him like that. If that were the case it would be better for him to stay silent and finish cutting himself free once they were gone.

Then the truck roared to life. He was pushed deeper inside, the door lurched downward, the window of light narrowed…

His screams echoed through the darkness. To his astonishment, the noise stopped and everything went still. Two pairs of footsteps approached the back of the truck. The men's faces peered inside and met his eyes with theirs through the slit in the plastic fabric.

"Still alive, huh?"

"Weird. Guess he didn't off himself after all."

"Told you."

"How was I supposed to know? I'll get the rifle. We gotta do it right. Can't crush him while he's still alive."

"Why not? He ain't human. It's like you keep forgetting."

"I know he ain't human, asshole. But he creeps me out. I gotta be able to sleep at night, you know? I'm gonna get the rifle."

"Well, hurry up before he gets out. He's got a knife on him."

It was hard to feel grateful just then for the small act of mercy they had decided to grant him, when that mercy only meant he'd be shot to death rather than crushed. So in a panic he hacked away at the case with his knife, even though it wouldn't save him in time. And he begged for his life, saying some stupid and pathetic things his future self would rather not remember. Suddenly he remembered Mr. Mitsui, his mind became clear, and the words flowing out of him swelled into a torrent.

He pleaded that there was a dead man in the mountains north of Shizuoka City whose family would never find him unless Blues told them where he was. And that there was a woman and a baby who would never hear that he was sorry and that he loved them, unless Blues passed on the message before he died. The message was important - the most important thing in the world. Who wouldn't want to hear a message like that?

"Because if someone ever said something like that to me…" Blues started, but couldn't go on. The words were too painful to speak.

The man's face in the middle of the slit of light was glaring blankly at him, unaffected. He crossed his arms and backed away, looking over his shoulder and muttering something about bleeding hearts. Blues's spirits sank.

The footsteps returned. Without a sound the barrel of the rifle appeared through the slit of blue sky at the opening of the back of the truck, and a bright red pinpoint of light pierced his eyes. He closed them. Time slowed to a snail's crawl. Blues would never understand why, when his grasp on life was at its weakest, he would feel as if the whole world was watching him. He wanted to disappear but there was nowhere to go. Strangely, he saw Ms. Mitsui and the baby in his mind's eye, staring back at him sadly. Blues saw their fates intertwined with his, for a split second a place in his mind opened up in which he understood with perfect clarity the value of his own existence and no longer felt alone. But the vision, like a lightning flash, in the next instant faded away into a background of ordinary terror, leaving behind only a pale ghost of what had been. He braced himself for an onslaught of pain.

And then with a gasp he realized he was slipping deeper into the recess of the truck. A terrible crunching sound, like metal scraping against metal, drowned out his panicked thoughts. When he opened his eyes again, the thin rectangle of sky was above him instead of beside him, and the barrel of the rifle was gone. He heard the two men shouting frantically to each other, doors slamming, and a car peeling away. Something big and heavy stomped after the car for a few moments, and then came to a sudden halt. The car sped off and the screeching of the engine faded far into the distance.

There was a sudden flurry of activity outside which Blues's ears couldn't interpret. Shots rang out which sounded a little like the firing of a plasma rifle, but higher in pitch. Once in a while something crashed into the truck and the whole thing rocked from side to side. But it seemed that this was incidental rather than deliberate. It seemed that anyone intent on killing Blues was gone.

Blues got to work again with his knife. Little by little, the slit in the tire case opened until he was able to twist his upper half through - and then, slowly, the rest of himself. His back and shoulder were wrenched with pain with every movement he made, but he continued on. He emerged onto a pile of garbage bags, and he forced himself to his feet, gasping. He reached up toward the door of the truck which had nearly crushed him alive, and with a cry pulled himself onto it. The opening was barely wide enough for him to squeeze his body through, and it scraped him in front and back as he wriggled his way forward into the sunlight.

His clothing was in tatters and his synthetic skin was branded with bloodless pink grooves by the time he'd gotten most of himself through. Soon he found himself dangling by his waist above the ground. With no way to turn himself he fell onto the pavement hands-first, then like an injured cat he skirted beneath the truck on his stomach and hoped beyond hope that he'd be safe and unnoticed there. Shaking with relief but still terrified, he wiped furiously at his eyes. It was a long time before he could do anything but savor the cool air on his skin and marvel at the fact that he was still alive.

Little by little, the sights and sounds of the world returned to him. He tried to take stock of where he was. He now realized that the front half of the truck had been crushed into the ground, as if by a giant foot, and that the back wheels were suspended a meter in the air. He and the truck were in the middle of an abandoned multi-lane overpass. The men and their car were gone, and the plasma rifle had been left behind next to the truck. The ground was trembling. Plasma shots rang out. And fifty meters or so away, a bizarre scene was unfolding in front of his eyes.

A hulking yellow and orange humanoid robot, at least five meters tall, with huge legs and even huger arms, was locked in a kind of deadly dance with a small blue boy-like figure. The big robot lunged, the boy zigged and zagged out of the way, plasma shots flew through the air, and the sequence repeated itself. Sometimes the big robot lifted a car and hurled it toward the boy, or uprooted a streetlight and swung it around. But the boy was fast; he jumped and ducked and maneuvered himself to safety. It took Blues a minute or so to realize that the plasma shots he saw came directly from the boy's arm. Slowly, he felt his eyes widen. Neither of the figures fighting in front of him were human. Scared though he was, he crept closer to the back end of the truck to get a better view.

In all the confusion of the movement and noise of the battle, the boy's face was what held Blues's attention the most. It was eerily like his own face, with some variations. Watching it was almost like looking at himself in a mirror, except that it lacked the sad weariness he'd seen in his reflection in the puddle earlier that day. The boy's face cycled through expressions of fear, determination, and hope, but there was nothing in it like sadness which Blues could discern. He watched in silent fascination, and grew more and more uneasy. He had the strange, dreamlike feeling that he was watching himself born into a different life.

Minutes dragged by, the fight went on, and the boy seemed to grow tired. One misstep, and the hulking yellow Light Number had knocked him to the ground. He cried out in a panicked voice which sounded vaguely like Blues's own. The Light Number stomped toward him, raised one giant menacing foot, prepared to bring it down...

Without thinking Blues dove for the plasma rifle which the two men had left behind on the ground. He'd never used one before and didn't quite know what to do with it, but nevertheless he lifted the thing up, aimed at the Light Number, and managed to fire. A bolt of white light tore through the air and landed squarely on the side of the huge yellow robot's head. The creature let out a low groan and stumbled sideways, and the boy rolled to his feet. The boy fired again, then once more, and the Light Number toppled over onto its side, groaned one last time, and was still at last.

Slowly, the boy lowered his arm cannon. He heaved a huge sigh, as if he couldn't believe what he had just done. And then a slight but steady smile crossed his face.

"Dad, I did it," he said to an invisible listener, and the smile widened into a grin. "Guts is down… Yeah, I'm okay. Minimal damage… I'm really okay, I promise! It was touch and go for a while, but I think someone helped me.

"...Yes, I'm coming home soon. Just need to make a copy first."

The boy suddenly went silent and stared wide-eyed in Blues's direction. For a brief moment his eyes seemed to focus on something. Eyebrows raised slightly, head tilted to one side, he took a hesitant half-step forward, as if not exactly sure what he was seeing in the truck's shadow, or even if he was seeing anything at all. "Hello? Is somebody there?" he said. Beneath the innocent goodwill in his voice was an undercurrent of fear. "Someone helped me. I know it."

"Blues," Kalinka whispered excitedly, "aren't you going to answer him?"

No. Clutching the plasma rifle to his chest, Blues stopped breathing and kept completely still, willing the boy to look away. Kalinka went silent, but the air was electric with her apprehension. She seemed surprised by the sudden and dramatic change which had swept over him.

After what seemed like ages the boy did look away, turning around to focus on the defeated Light Number lying inert behind him on the ground. He put a hand on its arm and closed his eyes. "I'm sorry," he said to it, in a kind and sympathetic voice. "I know it wasn't your fault. Don't worry. We're going to fix you."

On silent feet Blues scrambled from beneath the truck and ducked behind it. He was sure the boy wouldn't see him there. Kalinka's voice in his ear grew more bewildered and more insistent.

"Blues, I don't understand. Don't you want to know who he is? Doesn't he look a lot like you? Remember the news broadcast you saw on the train - how there were two Numbers left which Dr. Wily hadn't stolen? Didn't you put it together? Did you think that, maybe, he could understand what it was like to be you, to live in your skin?" Her incredulous voice was painful to hear. It was the first time his past self had disobeyed her.

"I didn't want to put it together," Blues said. Because despite their superficial similarities, there was too much about the boy that Blues couldn't recognize in himself. That lightness in his step. How, behind a wary face suggestive of new hardship, he nevertheless seemed self-assured and whole. It wasn't only the fact that his body worked properly and seemed to do whatever he wanted it to do, although that was part of it. There was something more… he seemed to have something intangible and vital which Blues had never had. It didn't occur to Blues that the boy might be in the midst of a struggle for his own life that was just as fraught as his own. He'd decided the boy was nothing like him. The boy was better than him, in every way possible. And then there was the powerful word that not-human boy had used, which Blues had never spoken. Dad.

"I didn't want to think he could be Dr. Light's. I told myself some other scientist must have made him, someone who had nothing to do with me."

"But his eyes…"

"Blue. Not the same color as mine."

"I mean, the shape. And the rest of his face. Look again…"

With a quiet but unshakable defiance, Blues fixed his gaze sternly on the ground. "I didn't want to look. Because I couldn't be sure he wasn't Dr. Light's, and I wanted to keep it that way."

"But you knew, didn't you?"

Blues pressed his hands over his ears, as if that could keep her voice out. But she was not going to abandon him, no matter how small and petty his past self may have been. There was a reason he was telling her this story. He reminded himself that he was safe. He could tell her the truth.

"Deep down, I guess I knew," he said, "and I hoped that his smile was fake, saying 'Dad' was some stupid and naive quirk, and that he was just as miserable as I was."

Although he didn't realize it yet, he hated Rock already.

But in a flash of light the boy had disappeared, and Blues now had more important things to think about. His generator was gone, and that meant he had a few hours of consciousness left at most. He wouldn't die here, right now, in the way those men had planned for him, but he would die soon enough. However, that didn't seem to hurt as much as the fact that the men had taken Mr. Mitsui's wallet from him. Even if he managed to find Ms. Mitsui in the little remaining time he had alive, he'd have no memento of her husband's to give her. She deserved better than that. Mr. Mitsui deserved better.

He deserved better, too. He looked back with hatred at the waste disposal truck, and felt his legs getting weak beneath him. His eyes filled with tears. He clenched his fists.

Damaged goods. Garbage.

"Blues, put me in there with you," Kalinka said. "Not just my voice. Everything. You can do that, can't you?"

"I think so."

She materialized beside him on the ground, and wrapped her arms - her real, smooth, warm human arms - around his shoulders. It was a miracle, a miracle of imagination and of memory. He could even feel her hair brushing against his face. He was amazed that he'd managed to pull it off, embarrassed though he was that it had to happen now.

"I stink," he protested.

"Don't be silly," she said. "You're perfect."

If he had been by himself at that moment, his exhaustion and pain would have overwhelmed him and he would have crumpled to the ground. But because Kalinka was there, he let his weight sink into her arms, and she lowered him gently to a sitting position. No falling over this time - she kept him upright even as his heart sank into a dark depth. He had no generator to hug, no energy cells to count, and no photograph of Ms. Mitsui and the baby to comfort him, but he had her. From their elevated vantage on the overpass, together they gazed beyond the silent and defunct Light Number at the skyline of the ruined metropolis, as the late afternoon sun blazed orange behind a veil of smoke between two leaning highrises. It was a sad sight, best not seen while alone and dying. A sudden pang from his core reminded him of what was ahead. This city, which in the past few days had become a tomb for many, would soon become his. Hope was in the air, but not for him. He burrowed into Kalinka's embrace, and there settled into something like grudging acceptance.

Fine, he thought. But he would find Ms. Mitsui first, wallet or no wallet. It was the best he could do. He had a few hours. Yes, it was enough.

When some of his strength had returned, drawn from some hidden source even he couldn't guess, she untied his scarf from around his leg and wrapped it instead around the two fresh plasma burns in his back. He couldn't see them and didn't want to, and he didn't ask her how they looked - but he could tell by the way she gingerly tied the knots that their appearance disturbed her.

"How long were you here, Blues, the first time?"

"Not long. A few awful, lonely minutes. Then I saw that, and I got up."

He nodded his head in the direction of the street sign indicating a left turn for Asagaya. It was the neighborhood in Setagaya Ward where Mr. Mitsui had lived. The wallet was gone, but Mr. Mitsui's full address was burned in Blues's memory.

"Blues!" Kalinka said, and her grip around his shoulders tightened. "Does this mean you're close now?"

Weakly, he nodded. "Let's go," he said. With Kalinka's help, he wobbled stiffly to his feet. He reached out and took her by the hand. "I've got to get there, or else none of this will have meant anything."