Shion walked out of the shower feeling better than he had in weeks. He owed the child born newly that day for his good spirits. When he was tending to the mother, he wasn't thinking about anything but making sure that she and her child survived. The feeling that swept through him when he heard the infant burst into a series of robust cries was indescribable. He had witnessed many a person cling desperately to life, but none ever declared their determination to live as loudly as newborns. He never forgot he was alive, but sometimes it was difficult to remember what it really meant to live. He had been fortunate to lead a life relatively free from hardship, but almost daily his job brought him into contact with those whose everyday existence was a struggle. It was gratifying to know that not every fight for life was a losing battle.
He left the new parents' home feeling reinvigorated and just a little bit greedy. He made a few unscheduled stops at the butcher and grocer, and though he returned home with lighter pockets, the satisfaction his bounty brought him more than made up for it.
Shion toweled off his hair and crossed the room. The mice were curled in a heap on the coffee table, and he spared a moment to smile at their cuteness before lighting the heater. He had already set the pot of water atop it before he went into the bathroom. Now the only thing left to do was put in the ingredients and wait for them to cook. He waited a few minutes for the water to boil, and after observing the light color of the liquid therein, decided to add an extra sprig of basil for good measure.
A bead of water from his hair rolled down his neck and Shion shivered. He drew closer to the warmth of the heater. It was well into the winter now and the temperature in the room was quite chilly. It was even colder outside, and he wondered whether Nezumi was still at the dump.
The sound of footsteps out in the corridor drew Shion's attention to the door. He paused in his stirring to listen more closely. The footfalls were soft and light, schooled to be virtually imperceptible, except that the person wasn't making an effort to hide their approach. It was a gait that Shion had often wondered at. He could only imagine how many years of careful practice it took to develop such a delicate step.
He left the ladle against the rim of the pot and rushed to unlatch the door.
"Welcome back!"
Nezumi had taken a step back when the door swung open and now blinked at him with a rare expression of surprise. He quickly recovered though, and shook his head.
"What if it wasn't me? You just threw the door wide open, and you're unarmed. If I were a thief intent on robbing you, I could have you dead or doubled over in a heartbeat."
"I knew it was you."
"You did, did you?"
"I recognized your footsteps."
"My footsteps?"
For some reason this revelation made Nezumi sullen, and he strode past him into the room without another look or comment. Shion closed and locked the door while Nezumi paused to sniff the air and zero in on the pot on the heater. Shion smiled to himself.
"How'd it go at the junkyard? Find anything useful?" he asked as he reassumed his place at the pot.
"An ancient computer. Although I won't know how useful it will be until I crack it open."
"It's a start at least. How were the kids?"
"Fabulous. I've never met such loveable, well-mannered children. They've quite convinced me to adopt."
Shion thought back to the interactions between Lili and Nezumi. Lili was one of the more well mannered children of his association, and Nezumi had been childish and unfriendly to her. He couldn't imagine how the other teen behaved when he was forced to interact with several kids, especially when one of them was Ei. Even Shion had trouble getting along with the boy. Although, he heard that sometimes difficult children responded better under stricter treatment. Nezumi was less tolerant than himself and more prone to speaking his mind, so perhaps he had better luck curbing Ei's bad attitude.
"I wish I could've been there," Shion said with a grin.
"They give you their regards, by the way." Nezumi unwound the superfibre from around his neck and shoulders and draped it on the boxes beside the door.
Nezumi's nose and cheeks were red from the cold and the color stood in relief to his pale skin. A few strands of his hair had come loose from his ponytail, but he had neglected to fix them. Shion discovered a possible reason for this when the other boy held his dirt-smeared gloves up to the lantern for inspection. Nezumi frowned at them and then peeled them off, followed by his jacket.
"Speaking of children, I'm guessing midwifing went well?"
Shion felt a flush of pleasure at the question. "It did! It was a healthy baby boy. You should've seen it, Nezumi. The mother let me hold him, and he was so small, I could fit him in the crook of my arm."
When the mother transferred the baby into his arms, Shion had experienced a mixture of apprehension and excitement. It hadn't been the first time he had delivered a child, and no doubt it wouldn't be the last, but he always felt a little awed in the presence of newborns.
The baby had dropped off to sleep very soon after he was wiped down, and Shion was nervous of waking him. All fears dissipated, however, the moment he felt the small weight resting against his chest. Despite the winter air seeping into the house, the child was exceptionally warm, and Shion couldn't help but marvel at how soft and peaceful he looked asleep. He voiced his thoughts to the parents and they all spent a moment of fond silence watching the baby slumber.
Shion grinned to himself at the memory.
"They were really grateful," he told Nezumi. "The father gave me some basil as thanks. Usually I don't accept gifts like that, but when he offered the basil, I couldn't help but think about making soup. So…" He gestured to the pot with a good-natured shrug.
Nezumi came forward and peered into the pot. He whistled.
"Chicken and vegetables? You must be really crazy about basil."
"Well, I thought I'd make something nice as an apology for running off on you."
"Buying my forgiveness with soup, huh? It's one of your more sensible ideas."
Beneath his joking tone, Shion was pleased to perceive a note of genuine interest.
"It needs a little more time to cook. Go take a shower and then we'll eat."
Nezumi disappeared into the bookshelves. Nezumi was in unusually good humor. Shion had worried that the other boy would be angry he had been left to the arduous task of combing through mountains of trash with a pack of unruly children as his only assistance, but while Nezumi did look tired, he did not appear especially irritated. In fact, it seemed to Shion that he was the most relaxed he had seen him. His amiable mood was likely a result of exhaustion, but Shion couldn't help but entertain a tentative notion that Nezumi was warming up to him. He didn't have any illusions about Nezumi's distaste for the West Block or his resentment at being trapped there, but he didn't think Nezumi held any specific hatred toward him. There were moments when they were reading or talking, when Shion fancied that he was enjoying himself, even if just a little.
He felt a small surge of pleasure at the thought, which he took pains to quash. It was unreasonable to assume that just because Nezumi wasn't acting openly hostile at this moment that he had in any way grown fond of him. It was impossible for a person to remain constantly angry and resentful; it simply wasted too much energy. Nezumi's languidness was far more likely a sign that the day's events had depleted his energy and he was now taking time to recharge. In any case, he was glad that Nezumi seemed as pleased as he was with the prospect of soup for dinner, and that encouragement was enough to make him focus more intently than before on his task.
When Nezumi returned ten minutes later, he crossed behind Shion and dropped down onto the couch. Shion kept dutifully stirring the pot. There was something very calming about the motion, and he was reminded of the last time he made soup.
It had been a particularly difficult season of illness. Most of the cases were nothing life threatening, but those with less means, or no means at all, were having a rough time of it. He had taken pity on a few children who were suffering from resilient colds, and thought that it might do them good to eat something warm.
While he watched the children slurping at the soup, he couldn't help but think that it always tasted better when one ate it in the company of others. There were many evenings when his mother would come home from work and put a pot of soup on the heater for them. She was an adamant believer that there was nothing better than drinking a piping hot bowl of soup at the end of a hard day. It was a belief she claimed to have inherited from her father. The memory made him feel an affectionate nostalgia for the days of his youth, and he began to absentmindedly hum a song his mother used to sing to him when he was little. He couldn't quite remember the lyrics, but he was certain they had something to do with elephant noses.
"I'm surprised you haven't made soup before."
It took a moment for Shion to register that Nezumi had spoken, but when he had, he tilted his head in a mute request for elaboration.
Nezumi clarified in a louder voice, "Well, soup's pretty easy to make, so it's surprising you're only just making it now."
Shion thought about conveying his previous thoughts to Nezumi, but in the end, he voiced the secondary reasons, which were just as true.
"The ingredients can be expensive, especially if you're buying them fresh, so I don't make it too often. But… I don't know. I felt like making it all of a sudden. It's a soup kind of day, don't you think?"
Nezumi smiled faintly and the softness of the gesture brought a similar smile to Shion's face. Over the few weeks Nezumi had spent with him he had been treated to a vast array of his smiles: cynical smirks; pitiless sneers; saccharine grins laced with 100 proof condescension; bleak expressions that were nothing more than a droll twist of the lips to flatter the casual observer. Nezumi possessed a never ending artillery of smiles to charm, and wound, and ensure that everyone was at least an arms length away at all times.
But the smile Nezumi gave Shion now was one of the rare few that was genuine. There were still traces of amusement in the curvature of his mouth, but there was no malice in the placid grey of his eyes. Shion thought the expression looked well on Nezumi's delicate features.
"You're laughing at me," Shion observed with a small smile of his own.
"No, I was just wondering if those people gave you anything else besides basil. Whiskey, for instance?"
"I'm not going to let you ruin my good mood," he said with mock seriousness. He ladled out a bowl of soup and handed it to Nezumi. "Here, eat your soup."
Nezumi took the soup in both hands and blew on the surface to cool it. Shion waited on pouring himself a helping in favor of watching Nezumi sample it. The other teen brought the lip of the bowl to his mouth and took a sip. Shion noted with growing apprehension that it took several seconds before Nezumi swallowed. His stomach somersaulted when Nezumi lowered the bowl into his lap and stared down at it with unmistakable distaste.
"What's wrong?" Shion very nearly whined.
"I didn't think it was possible," Nezumi said, turning slowly to face him, "but you've somehow managed to ruin soup."
"What? Why? What's wrong with it?"
"It's bland. The blandest thing I've ever tasted."
Shion scooped a little from the pot and sipped it. It wasn't the pinnacle of flavor, sure, but he didn't think it was as unpalatable as Nezumi seemed to think.
"What are you talking about? It tastes fine. You have to understand that we don't have as many resources as you do in No. 6. Of course it doesn't taste as good as what you're used to."
"Bull. Shit. This—" HHe raised his bowl, creating small yellow waves in the broth. "This is garbage. By anyone's standards. And I've sorted through enough garbage today to know it when I taste it." Nezumi tried the broth a second time and frowned. "Did you put salt in this?"
Shion's pride stung at the accusation. "Of course I did. I know how to make soup."
"Well, it needs more. Where's your salt?"
Nezumi plopped his bowl down on the coffee table and scanned the room. Shion glanced at the place he stashed the salt, but he did not offer its location to Nezumi. Since he received salt weekly in the Resistance's rations, he had been gradually accumulating the packets. They were useful for their cleansing and sterilizing properties, and large quantities of it weren't easy to come by. Shion bit his bottom lip.
Maybe if I don't say anything, he'll just drop the issue and eat the soup as it is.
The hope was in vain. Nezumi turned to him the next moment and repeated the word "Salt?" with no small degree of impatience.
"I need it for medicinal purposes," Shion complained.
"You should have thought about that before you made soup. Now where is it?"
Shion shrank back and mumbled, "In the box over there."
Nezumi pushed himself up and crossed to the side of the room to which he pointed, while Shion stared morosely into the steaming pot of soup. Cooking had never been a strong suit of his, but this was the first time anyone had ever said so to his face, and with so little deference to his feelings. Although he was less offended than disappointed.
So much for that, he thought with a sigh and fell back onto the couch.
Nezumi was making an awful lot of noise and Shion turned to see him rifling through the box at the end of his bed. He had pulled several items out and they lay splayed on the floor at his feet.
"Not that one," Shion said. "The one under my bed."
Nezumi moved to the bed and pulled the shoebox of salt packets out from under it.
"Unbelievable," he muttered, grabbing a handful. "You have all this, and you couldn't spare a packet or two to make your soup palatable?"
Shion slumped against the back of the couch. Nezumi grabbed his bowl on the way over to the heater and dumped its contents back into the pot before ripping open a few packets of salt and pouring them in as well. He stirred it and sampled the liquid.
"Much better."
Nezumi measured out two new servings and held one out for Shion to take. The metal of the bowl was hot, but not enough to burn his hands. The sensation of the heat against his skin was reminiscent of the fierce warmth of the newborn, and Shion felt his spirits take a melancholic turn.
Nezumi sat beside him and began picking carrots and chicken out of his soup with his chopsticks. "From now on, if you ever get the hankering for soup, I'll make it," he said to Shion in between bites. "I'm not a great cook, but I have enough practice to at least make a decent broth."
Shion sipped at the soup and acknowledged that it was better with the added sodium, but made no further remark. He couldn't get the child out of his head. He felt happy for the parents, he was proud of bringing the baby into the world, but now that the novelty of the moment had passed, he felt a familiar dread seeping into his thoughts.
What does the future hold for that child?
He did not doubt that the parents would try their best to ensure his happiness, but misfortune in West Block was as common as the cold. The father could lose his job tomorrow and the family could starve within a matter of weeks; the baby could be inadequately swaddled and die of hypothermia overnight. Such accidents were not unheard of, especially among first-time parents.
Or the parents might decide that providing for the child is too difficult and abandon him. Shion's chest ached dully. There wasn't a person in West Block who hadn't seen the little bundles left on doorsteps or tucked in the corners of alleyways. Shion had buried enough of them in shallow graves.
Safu hated seeing them. Whenever they came across an infant's corpse, her face contorted into a look of unadulterated disgust.
"What kind of person does that to a child—their child?" she would hiss. "It's cruel and it's sick. Some people don't deserve to reproduce."
There were many in his acquaintance that believed such children were better off unborn. He wasn't sure how he felt about that, but he knew as well any other West Block citizen that living wasn't easy. They were simply too under resourced. He did not mourn for himself, but he pitied the children who paid the ultimate price of neglect before they even had a chance. It was not a reality he wished on anyone.
"Hey, come on, don't be mad."
The sound of Nezumi's voice broke Shion from his reverie. Unbeknownst to him, Nezumi had long since taken notice of his deep silence and had spent half the meal trading discomfited glances his way.
Nezumi cleared his throat and continued in a jagged tone, "The soup wasn't really that bad. Just add more salt next time."
Shion placed his soup bowl down on the coffee table virtually untouched. The mice lifted their heads at the sound, but went back to resting when they assessed it was nothing to concern them.
"Nezumi, I've been thinking about what you said the other night. About how the Resistance and No. 6 are heading toward war."
Nezumi blinked. "Oh?" He relaxed against the back of the couch. "What about it?"
"Maybe we've got it wrong. Maybe it doesn't have to be so black and white. We're always talking in dichotomies: inside and outside the wall, us and them. But who says it has to be that way? Why can't we find a middle ground?"
Nezumi snorted. "What middle ground?"
"I don't know, one that doesn't result in a bunch of people dying. There has to be another way."
Nezumi's expression was unimpressed, verging on bored. Shion continued with desperate resolution, "I mean, look at us. We get along just fine, don't we? Who's to say the people in West Block and No. 6 couldn't see past their differences and learn to work together, too?"
A beat passed between them. Then Nezumi's mouth curved into one of his disdainful smirks.
"How presumptuous of you," he said with caustic calm. "And I suppose you have an ingenious plan as to how you're going to overcome several decades worth of bad blood? I'm really looking forward to hearing it."
Shion felt a flicker of frustration build in the pit of his stomach. This always happened when the conversation broached anything even remotely important. Whether it was personal territory or mention of No. 6, if Nezumi perceived a threat, he pulled back and an impenetrable wall came crashing down between them. In the span of a second, Nezumi became sardonic, arrogant, and unyielding, and in that same moment, Shion was reduced to a silly idealist who only thought the things he did because he was not educated or experienced enough to know otherwise.
Shion loathed it. He wanted to be understanding and respectful of Nezumi's space, but then there were times like these when he felt the urge to crash into that wall full force and tear it down, with his bare hands if he had to. The violence of the impulse unnerved him, but he could no longer pretend that the desire wasn't there.
If only I could breach that wall and eliminate the distance between us.
"The wall," Shion said with breathless realization.
"Hm?"
Shion stood up and began pacing excitedly back and forth between the couch and bookcases.
"What if we were to tear down the wall? If the main conflict is the inequality, then why don't we just remove the barriers? No. 6 and the West Block were one once. The Town of Roses, right? If they managed to exist peacefully before, then there's no reason why it can't work again. We could—"
Nezumi burst into laughter. It lasted only a handful of seconds, but it was enough to make Shion's blood simmer. He waited silently for Nezumi to collect himself.
"Of course," Nezumi chuckled. "Tear down the wall. Why hasn't anyone thought of that before? I'm sure once the wall is gone everyone will see the error of their ways, and we can all go back to holding hands and singing Kumbaya around the token campfire."
"Don't treat me with sarcasm," Shion ground out. "I'm serious. I would appreciate it if you would be, too."
"You want my serious opinion," Nezumi said, all mirth gone from his voice. "It wouldn't work. If we pulled down the wall, it'd be a bloodbath. If the citizens of West Block had free access to No. 6, the first thing they'd do is exact vengeance. And if you were afraid of innocents getting caught in the crossfire before, with that plan it's guaranteed. Nothing short of divine intervention could make that work." Nezumi pinched the bridge of his nose and leaned his head back against the wall. "It's a nice sentiment, but it's naïve."
Something inside him snapped.
"Stop calling me naïve!"
Nezumi dropped his hand and looked at him with an expression caught halfway between surprise and some other unreadable emotion that Shion didn't care to analyze. The only thing that mattered was that he had Nezumi's attention.
"Optimism and naivety are not the same thing! I know how hard it is, how hard it would be. But I refuse to accept things the way they are. How do we know it can't change if no one ever tries? You claim to know so much better, but you're complacent. You keep repeating the same lines: this is just the way things are; there's nothing you can do about it. That's just what No. 6 says."
Shion knew how dangerous the words were, even as they fell from his mouth, but he couldn't stop them, and what's more, he didn't want to. There was something about Nezumi, the way he spoke and acted, the secrets he kept and the harshness of his words, which stirred in Shion emotions so desperate and so angry, at times he could hardly recognize himself.
He was not an aggressive person—or at least he hadn't been. Ever since his mother passed away things had gotten away from him. He had tried to channel his loss and confusion into work and the cause, but these only exacerbated the feelings. He didn't want to give in to them. He wanted to be stronger. He needed to believe that no matter how hard things seemed that there was always the possibility of a positive outcome. Maybe the restrictive conditions of Nezumi's upbringing had conditioned him to accept a reality in which he could see no hopeful future, but Shion refused to buy into such a pessimistic worldview, and he definitely couldn't understand why Nezumi thought his way of thinking was superior.
He could see the flicker of threat in the other teen's eyes and knew that if he voiced the words sitting on his tongue, the conversation might escalate into a full-blown fight, but he didn't care.
"So you just keep on being cynical," he growled at Nezumi. "That way no one will ever know how scared you are."
The effect was instantaneous. Nezumi was not merely angry; his face lost all traces of human warmth. His features chilled into marble and his eyes held all the silent severity of blades.
"That's rich," Nezumi said in a voice as silken and sharp as night.
He rose from the couch and stalked toward him, and Shion felt a thrill of pure terror shoot down his spine. His foot drew back instinctively, but he stopped himself before the step was complete.
No. I won't back down. Everything I said would be for nothing if I back down now.
He slid his foot forward and raised his head to meet Nezumi's pitiless gaze. The other teen stopped barely an arms length away from him.
"If you think I'm so wrong, go ahead," Nezumi said in that same dark tone. "By all means, tear down the wall and charge into No. 6 with your lofty ideals and your promises of a better tomorrow. But don't be surprised when no one volunteers to join your crusade." Nezumi took another step forward, and this time Shion had no choice but to retreat closer to the bookcases.
"They don't want to be saved, Shion," he hissed. "No. 6 might be a city of lies and hypocrisy, but it's a hell of a lot better place to live than here. They have a constant source of food and protection, educational institutions, top-class medical centers. They're oppressed, but they're happy and healthy. And you wanna barge in on their carefree little lives and expect them to be grateful? They like the idea of the West Block as a garbage dump for the scum and degenerates of the world. You're not human to them; you're the cautionary tale they tell their children so that they can grow up to be just as meek and ignorant as their parents before them."
"Not everyone thinks like that," Shion said, struggling to keep his voice level. "There are victims in No. 6, too. You of all people should know. You were experimented—"
He let out a small gasp as Nezumi slammed him against the bookcase. Nezumi's forearm dug harshly into his collarbone, but he did not reach up to pry it away. The mice screeched and jumped up and down on the table, but Shion kept his attention trained on Nezumi in a resolute glare.
"What the fuck is wrong with you?" Nezumi growled. "I never once said I was experimented on. That was just a theory. I wasn't speaking from personal experience."
"No. 6 needed you for a reason. It won't go away just because you refuse to acknowledge it!"
Shion concentrated all his strength and shoved Nezumi roughly in the chest. The other teen staggered backwards a few steps before regaining his footing.
"You can't keep ignoring it! We need to talk about this!"
Nezumi eyed him warily from beside the coffee table. The aura of his anger had changed. It was more subdued, though not any less intense, like a panther biding its time while it decided whether the prey was worth going in for the kill.
"There's nothing to talk about," he said finally.
Shion inhaled deeply through his nose and held it. Although he had questions and concerns about Nezumi's experiences within the walls of No. 6, he realized it was not a topic with which he was likely to be forthcoming. Shion exhaled slowly and tried to temper the agitation in his voice.
"I don't know if that's true. What about the dreams?"
The question caught Nezumi completely by surprise. He stared at him, wide-eyed and lips slightly parted in disbelief.
"What? What are you— Why are you thinking about that now, of all times?"
"Somebody has to think about it. You said you dreamt about the man dying from the wasp before it happened, right?"
Nezumi had begun to pace. He raked his fingers through his hair, muttering, "I can't believe this," with surly concentration.
Shion forged on. "And then you dreamt about the voice telling you it would give you the power to destroy No. 6. I know you still have the dreams. I've noticed. I didn't say anything because I wanted to respect your privacy, but we have to talk about this now. People's lives are at stake—my friend's lives."
Nezumi stopped abruptly and faced him. "What do you want from me, Shion? What will it take for you to shut up?"
"Just answer my questions," Shion rejoined breathlessly. "Do you think the power the voice was talking about was the drives?"
Nezumi wrinkled his nose. "What? No. Definitely not."
"How can you—?"
"I am sure."
Shion quieted. Nezumi's words were crisp, but he heard the ring of honesty in them.
"…Okay. Fine. Do you think the dreams are in any way connected to why No. 6 needed you?"
Nezumi took a moment to consider the question, but in the end, he responded with a firm, "No."
"Okay. Fine."
"Fine. We done?"
Shion nodded once in reply. They stood staring at each other. Shion realized he could hear his heartbeat thudding in his ears. He wasn't used to getting so worked up, and now that it was over, he felt a little dizzy from the overexertion. His face and neck were hot, and he could only imagine how he must look to Nezumi, flushed and nearly trembling from spent emotion. The thought made him self-conscious. He didn't regret a single word of what he said; only that he had forgotten himself so completely in doing so.
Nezumi was the first to break the stalemate. He swiped his bowl off the table and helped himself to more soup. The childishness of the action was not lost on Shion, and it made him feel a little better about how he was handling himself. Given how poorly Nezumi dealt with the disclosure of information, he figured it would be wise to put a little distance between them, but since it was frigid outside and the room was small, the options for physically doing so were limited.
He hasn't told me to leave in a while.
It occurred to Shion that Nezumi hadn't banished him from the room since the night they had looked at the Correctional Facility maps. He wasn't sure what to make of it, but he definitely wasn't going to argue, whatever Nezumi's reasons.
Nezumi had reclaimed his spot on the couch, so Shion busied himself by cleaning up the pile of papers that he had scattered on the floor in his search for salt.
He had taken inventory of and cataloged all the boxes and shelves in the room when he and his mother moved in four years ago. The box at the foot of the bed held newspapers, maps, and schematics, all of them old, tattered, and virtually useless to anyone save, perhaps, a history enthusiast. Items of that sort were the only ones he had catalogued for this box, so he was a bit perplexed when he found a large white envelope among the pieces on the floor.
He picked it up. It was unopened, which was stranger still. He turned it face up and his heart lurched at the sight of the insignia stamped there in thick black ink.
So this is where I threw it…
He remembered the day one of the women at the hotel gave it to him. She said a man who called himself Rikiga visited her earlier that evening and handed her the envelope with stern instructions to deliver it immediately to Shion.
"Literally, he stuffed it into my hands, left the money and ran off," the woman said with a mixture of confusion and annoyance. "Weirdest John ever."
Shion hadn't cared how Rikiga acted when he passed off the letter. The only thing he heard in that account was that his mother was dead and Rikiga was paying visits to the hotel. He very nearly burned the envelope the minute he gained possession of it, but he didn't have matches on him, and when he finally got back to his room, he deemed it too unworthy to waste precious resources on. He stuffed it into the box by his bed and swore to never look at or think about it again.
He had been quite successful in his mission, but now it had resurfaced, and he was unsure how he should proceed. He wasn't angry with Rikiga anymore, and he didn't blame him for not being able to deliver the medicine. It must have been out of the man's power to do so. Even so, if he had already made peace with these thoughts and Rikiga on his own, was it really necessary to open the envelope? It had been gathering dust in the box for so long, surely it was too late for anything inside it to make any difference.
Don't be a coward, he told himself. I should open it. I should at least see what's inside. Maybe then I can truly move on.
He continued to stare down at the package in his hands while the legions of anxiety, responsibility, and guilt wrecked havoc inside him.
"What is it?"
Shion did not react visibly to Nezumi's begrudging interest, but he felt a twinge of relief that the other teen was there to break the vicious cycle of doubt and force him to face the matter at hand.
"A package from No. 6."
Nezumi was quiet, and Shion wasn't sure whether that meant he was satisfied with his response or that he was waiting for him to explain further. After a short deliberation, he decided that in light of the information Nezumi had divulged that evening, it was only fair he share some of his own.
"The one I mentioned before. From my mom's friend."
Nezumi hummed a disinterested sound and continued to watch him. "So?" he said, arching an eyebrow. "Get on with it, then."
Shion blinked at him. "What?"
Nezumi rolled his eyes. "Oh, please. Cut the deer in headlights act. It's painfully obvious how badly you want to open it. A blind man couldn't miss it. So, quit your waffling and get it over with. What are you so afraid of?"
"It's not that easy…"
Shion frowned down at the envelope. Nezumi was right, though. What was he so afraid of? He had treated Rikiga poorly, but he didn't think Rikiga was the type to react hatefully.
It's probably an apology.
Shion's stomach pitched, and he suddenly felt like the worst human being on the face of the earth. Before he could second-guess his decision, he tore the seal off the lip of the envelope and poured the contents onto the coffee table. A few sheets of paper and a photograph spilled out, and the mice dove every which way to escape being buried. Nezumi clicked his tongue as Tsukiyo leapt into his lap and climbed onto his shoulder.
Shion stared at the papers, his palms sweating in anticipation. He glanced up at Nezumi. He knew the other boy had no practical bearing on the situation, but the gentle calm reflected in the pair of grey eyes opposite him took some of the edge off his frayed nerves. Shion sucked in a deep breath and picked up the paper with his name scrawled at the top.
The handwriting was thick and slanted, probably the product of agitation, for the words were perfectly legible otherwise. With a jittery curiosity, he forced himself to make sense of the sentences on the page:
Shion,
I know what you're thinking, but before you write me off as a complete scumbag, I swear to you, I didn't touch so much as a hair on that woman's head. I went to the brothel for one reason and one reason only, and that was to deliver this package safely to you. Don't think for a second that this city has turned me into some kind of heartless bastard who looks down on people just because they live in West Block. I may be a useless old man, but my morals haven't rotted all the way through. I wouldn't do that to you. Not when you've lost so much.
I'm really, truly sorry, Shion. I know that probably doesn't mean much coming from some guy you've never even met, but who claims to have been friends with your mom, especially when I've let you down so completely, but I mean it from the depths of my heart. Karan was a great woman—she had the strongest spirit out of everyone I've ever known, then or since. Nothing shook her. No matter what, she always found a reason to smile. Her optimism and kindness were so infectious that I don't think there was a person who met her who didn't fall in love with her instantly.
When I met her, I was just a fledgling journalist writing for a small newspaper company that barely anyone had heard of, and even though there was a storm raging outside, your mother traveled through the rain and thunder to talk to me about some of the columns I wrote. Karan was a smart woman, keener than me and all the other guys working at Latch Bill put together. She knew something wasn't right about the new city-state, and she wanted me to look into it for her. But I only uncovered a little bit about the city before I got scared. I knew there was something fishy, but I was young and selfish, and I wasn't willing to put my life and livelihood on the line to get to the bottom of it. Some investigative journalist I turned out to be, huh? I told your mother about my reservations and she, the pure and understanding woman that she was, told me it was okay, that I'd done enough and she was really grateful to me for trying.
The wall was finished not long after, Karan on one side of it and I on the other, and seemingly overnight, the laws about going back and forth between places became absurdly restrictive. I was never able to see Karan again, but I've never been able to forget her indomitable spirit and beautiful smile, no matter how much time has passed. To me, she will always be that plucky student who trudged through a storm to ask a nobody reporter about his news column. If ever there was a woman who deserved all the happiness this world had to offer, it was Karan….
Shion, I tried. I need you to know that. There isn't much I'm good for these days, but I promise you I'm a man of my word. I exhausted every resource I had to get the antibiotics you asked for, but everything led to a dead end. I realize now that I should have tried harder. I should have broken into the medical center's supply and stolen what you needed. I was a coward and I was too afraid of the authorities getting suspicious of why I was asking to keep pushing. I haven't changed a bit. I'm still the spineless good-for-nothing man who let your mom down all those years ago—only worse because I've lived a bullshit existence in No. 6 so long that I've forgotten what it is to be selfless and brave. I never could be as strong as your mother. I was still protecting myself when I knew how important those antibiotics were to you, and I'll never be able to forgive myself for what it cost you and Karan.
I know it can in no way make up for what you've lost, but I've enclosed some stories and pictures I've kept from when Karan and I were younger, back before No. 6 built the wall and everything got so damn screwed up. I hope they can bring you some solace.
I realize in light of everything I just said, this is going to sound like a load of shit, but if you ever need anything again, (strikethrough)I will do everything in my power(strikethrough) I will die trying if I have to. I won't ask for your forgiveness, but please accept my sincerest condolences for your loss. You didn't deserve any of this.
I'm sorry.
Rikiga
By the time Shion finished, he was trembling. He had pressed a hand to his mouth while he read to smother the pain the words brought him, but to his credit, he did not cry. His eyes burned and his throat strained to release a sob, but he didn't make a single sound as his eyes tumbled over the page. He swallowed dryly and scanned the letter a few more times, but each line had already seared itself into his memory. He placed it down on the table and reached for a photograph.
His mother beamed at him from the picture. It looked to be a sunny day, and she was wearing a sleeveless gingham sundress. Her hair was cut boyishly short—at least a few inches shorter than Safu's. He liked it. It made her look fresher somehow, more eager to take on the world. He ran his thumb over his mother's smiling face. She looked so beautiful, so happy.
There was a young man standing next to her, grinning with boyish glee. For a moment, Shion wondered if he might be his father. From what his mother told him, his father was fast and loose with women as well as money, a hopeless drunk who ran off when the wall between No. 6 and the West Block was close to completion. Still, even as she described him in this way, her voice held a soft nostalgia. She had also said he was honest about his shortcomings, and always treated her and Shion with gentleness and care. He had wanted her to run away with him, but his mother was leery of traveling into the unknown with their newly born son. She refused, and he was gone the next day without so much as a backward glance.
However, the man in the photograph was not his father, but a young Rikiga, as the description, "The beautiful Karan and I posing in front of the Latch Bill!" on the back indicated. He placed the picture down next to the letter and glanced at the other papers. They appeared to be the stories about his mother that Rikiga mentioned.
I should send Rikiga a thank you, he thought with a flutter of emotion. He deserves at least that much…
"She was pretty. Your Mama."
Nezumi was slouched over the arm of the couch, head resting on his knuckle. He nodded at the picture and Shion offered a watery smile in response. He scooped the rest of the papers off the table. A second photograph was caught in between the pages, and it slipped out and fell to the floor on the opposite side of the coffee table.
"You dropped something," Nezumi said with a sigh.
He plucked it off the ground and held it out. Shion didn't even have time enough to extend his hand before Nezumi pulled the photograph back to leer at it.
"I know this guy," he said with clear disbelief.
"Who? Rikiga?"
Nezumi flipped the photograph around for him to see. It was a group photo of several men and women. His mother was in the center, but Rikiga was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps he was the one taking the picture.
"This man." Nezumi pointed to a tall, quiet-looking man standing at his mother's side. "The back says, 'Karan and her friends from the biological research team.' Did your Mama ever mention any of her other friends in No. 6?"
"No, never."
Nezumi gazed intently at the man in the picture and Shion moved around the table to stand beside him.
"He looks a lot younger here, but it's definitely him," Nezumi said, partially to himself. "He worked in the lab with me—" His eyes widened. "Son of a—"
"What?"
Nezumi shook his head, an incredulous smile tugging at his lips. "I can't believe this. That bastard."
"What? What is it?"
"The day before I was arrested, this guy," Nezumi waved the photograph, "approached me in the lab. It was weird enough that he came to talk to me, seeing as we never had so much as a conversation before, but then he starts going on about how I'm wasting too much time at work and I should be doing something more meaningful with my life. Completely out of nowhere."
"That is a little strange," Shion conceded.
"Yeah, but he also gave me a huge stack of papers—an extremely useless stack of papers because they were just print outs of the data I already had on my computer—but he had stuck this note on it." Nezumi barked a self-depreciating laugh. "It was so stupid."
"What did the note say?"
The other boy gave him a hollow smirk. "'Be cautious.'"
Shion frowned. When one added all the pieces of the exchange together, it did seem a bit odd.
"At the time, I thought it was just prank, or him underestimating me, but now… Hell, now it seems more like a warning."
"You think he knew somehow that the Security Bureau was going to arrest you, and that's why he gave you that note?"
The suggestion seemed to perplex the other teen at first, but then he saw something in the quality of his expression change. The contours of his face grew rigid and he leaned back against the couch with the air of one completely immersed in his thoughts.
"Maybe," he said at length. "But let's not get ahead of ourselves. We don't actually know if it meant anything at all. It could be nothing."
Despite his caution for restraint, however, neither Nezumi's looks nor voice were as confident as usual. In light of the description of the other man's conduct, Shion didn't think it was unreasonable or hasty to assume that he had valuable information. The evidence about the man was suspicious at least, and incriminating at most.
"If he warned you, that means he had intimate knowledge of the Security Bureau's plans. It's possible he might've known what they were using you for. Maybe he was even part of it."
Nezumi looked uncomfortable with the implication, but didn't voice any objections.
"We should contact him," Shion concluded. "What's his name?"
Nezumi was quiet.
"What's wrong?"
"…I don't know," he mumbled.
"You don't know?" Shion furrowed his brow. "About contacting him? Why not? He warned you. If he knows what they were doing, he's our best chance at finding out what No. 6's plans for you were."
"I know that. That's not it," Nezumi said shortly. "The problem is I—"
Shion waited for him to finish, and was amazed to see Nezumi's cheeks color, if only slightly.
"I don't know his name," he said finally.
"…But you worked with him, didn't you?"
Nezumi continued on brusquely, "Like I said, we never spoke to each other. That's why it was so weird that he came up to me." He crossed his arms. "We worked in the same lab, can't you just go from there? How do you plan on contacting him, anyway? The mice?" Nezumi glanced at the mouse still perched on his shoulder with suspicion. "How do they even know where to go? I don't imagine they can read addresses."
Shion ignored his questions. Not knowing the man's name complicated things a great deal. There must be hundreds of workers in the Robotics lab, and the man in the picture had no distinguishing features and appeared to be a fairly normal, if not an altogether forgettable, person. It would take forever to find the right man, especially if he was keeping a low profile. He doubted he called attention to himself within the city, otherwise he wouldn't have lasted long there. Shion recalled the description on the back of the photograph with a shade of confusion.
How did a man who used to work in biology become a technician in a robotics lab?
"Would a physical description work?" Nezumi asked suddenly.
Shion took a moment to consider the question. "It'd have to be extremely telling."
His heart gave an optimistic jolt at the smirk that spread over Nezumi's face.
"Well, there aren't many people in the lab who fit his description. Zero people, in fact. He's the only technician in a wheelchair."