Conversation remained scattered, limited to lighter topics as the two men ate and drank. Suzuki explained that he was scheduled for the night shift with his taxi service, and the old man promised to prepare dinner before he left. When a second helping of hearty miso soup coupled with another round of beer was finished, he took up their bowls and empty cans. Taro felt more alive with a belly full of warm broth and solid food. The faint beer-laden buzz took the edge off his aching body and let his weary muscles relax.
Suzuki encouraged Taro to make himself comfortable─he was still recovering, after all, and needed to go easy on himself. Checking those bandages was a priority now that he was awake, but before that the old man had one small request.
Taro had dismissed the bedroom's aquarium during his initial pass through the apartment, a wide tank set atop a low dresser. The filter bubbled through water that had grown slightly murky with accumulating algae; it would need to be cleaned soon, but that wasn't his job.
Inside the tank swam half a dozen palm-sized telescope goldfish, with their eyes bulged out and scales a mismatch of gold, black, and white. They remained passive until he lifted a hatch on the plastic cover. Red and brown flakes sprinkled on the water's surface like confetti and every fish ascended at once to receive their meal. Their tails sloshed excitedly as they pushed past each other for a morsel, which nearly splashed Taro's hands as he closed the lid on their enclosure. After those first few desperate bites the goldfish simmered down enough to cooperatively swim out of each other's way.
"It feels strange for a zoanthrope to keep pets," Taro said upon his return.
The old man chuckled. "You think so? Even in the wild, different species can cooperate."
Exceptions to the rule, Taro figured, but the old man insisted there were other types of relationships between animals besides that of predator and prey.
"Like parasites?" he asked flatly while removing his shirt. The alcohol made his muscles languid but Taro moved with enough caution to avoid any unnecessary twinges.
"Nonsense. Do you think the fish are hurting me?"
"Your wallet, maybe."
That made the old man laugh.
He sat on the edge of the table, facing his guest with an empty bowl beside him. Suzuki held one hand toward his junior─palm up and harmless. Taro observed the gesture with a furrowed brow; the tremor in Suzuki's hands had waned since they ate, and after their introduction nothing about the man set off his fight-or-flight response.
Suzuki only continued speaking when the younger man offered up a bandaged arm for inspection. "Sure, someone could see it that way. But then, would you say a child is a parasite?"
Taro grimaced─at the question and the medical tape peeling away from his skin. "No."
"I'm surprised. Children are expensive, difficult to handle, and they can harm the mother before they're even born. Just a single one could cause financial ruin."
"Are you speaking from experience?"
"That's ancient history…" Suzuki discarded old bandages into the bowl, "But as with my children, I give the fish everything they need so they can live a healthy life. In exchange, the fish keep me company and seeing them makes me smile. That's all there is to it."
"Doesn't sound like much of a trade off." Taro quipped, only to hiss when a few hairs peeled off with the gauze on his arm.
"What I'm trying to say is, if you view someone who depends on you as a parasite then you begin to see everyone like they want to hurt you."
Taro stared at the old man warily.
Suzuki asked him, "What's to gain from living like everyone is an enemy?" and Taro turned his head away, offering the bandage on his cheek.
"Nothing, I guess."
"You guess?"
"...I don't know."
Taro grew quiet. He winced at the intrusion of someone else's hand on his face, and with each pry of medical tape he resisted the impulse to jerk away from this foreign touch. Fresh air cooled Taro's irritated skin beneath so much adhesive, he breathed easier without the compression of tight bandages, but his buzz had begun to fade and talk like this wasn't helping.
"Why don't you give it some thought while you freshen up?" Adhesive stuck to Suzuki's fingers before he spread it across the bowl's rim. "There's a cloth and soap in the bathroom there. You shouldn't get stitches wet for about two days, and yours look older than that… It should be safe to clean them now─just be gentle. I'll have fresh clothes for when you finish, and we'll wrap you back up neat. How does that sound?"
Fair enough, he supposed.
Once again Taro observed this stranger he called me in the bathroom mirror. Stark white tiles felt cool against his bare feet and the promise of water made the room feel chilled as he stripped. With so few decorations he took no time in finding the cloth Suzuki mentioned, nor the soap. Brief confusion over temperature regulation aside, the injured man started the shower─then decided a steady stream of pressurized water might irritate his stitches, even if it was safe to clean them.
Tiresome, he thought, while running the washcloth under water. Rubbing the soap in the cloth between his hands, he reexamined the face looking back at him now that it was free of tape and gauze. There was a clear separation where his skin had been protected from sweat and city grime, and in that clean little cutout lay a crooked gash down his left cheek stitched neat and tight. He was lucky that he hadn't been disfigured; someone out there could still recognize his face well after an injury like that healed─family or friends, even coworkers might pick him out in a crowd and reunite him with his life.
The man calling himself Taro sighed and began to clean around his injuries first, making sure the runoff didn't touch the edge of his stitches. He went from top to bottom, face to chest, arms, torso and back. With help from the mirror he identified no hidden stitches or surprise injuries, only a great deal more bruising around his shoulder blades.
About halfway through the washup he moved to a stool in the shower and began to clean his legs. That was when Suzuki knocked and informed him of the fresh clothes. Taro watched the door open a crack, saw the old man's hand lower in a folded assortment of fabric, and from the open airway wafted an alluring scent of garlic, peppers, and ginger. He was still full, and couldn't eat another bite without making himself sick, but the sounds and smells of cooking from the next room enveloped him in a homey comfort regardless.
Taro returned from the bathroom, freshened up and dried to the best of his ability, a little under an hour since he'd entered. The new clothes Suzuki gave him were similar to what he wore before, only this time they were a better fit; a black t-shirt and dull navy sweatpants compared to the other light gray.
"The woman next door, Mizuki-san, donated these clothes," Suzuki said while stirring a pot of noodles. "Her son's off at university and about your size. She said he won't be missing them."
Taro grunted his acknowledgment before returning to the couch. Behind him, Suzuki finished preparing and packing up their food; the old man announced that he would be taking his portion of dinner with him in a container and he would pack Taro's up the same so he could heat it up later whenever he was hungry. Vegetable stir fry with soba noodles, he said.
After washing his hands, Suzuki joined Taro by the couch and presented him with a rubber band. "For your hair. I'm sorry I don't have anything proper…"
Taro stared blankly for a moment, his eyes weighed heavy by myriad thoughts. He took the rubber band and tested its elasticity; his fingers were a little stiff, especially after so much scrubbing, but with patience he succeeded in getting all of that hair pulled out of his face with only a few loose pieces hanging free that weren't long enough to catch. Down his back the ponytail reached about the middle of his spine.
From there they resumed their check up, with Suzuki rewrapping Taro's injuries that would most benefit from continued coverage. These stitches were indeed close to a week old, by Suzuki's estimation, though the old man was sure to remind Taro that he was not a medical professional himself. Sometimes, he said, his wife needed a hand with her patients, so he received a crash course in practical aid and bedside manner.
"Did your wife ever handle patients with head trauma?" Taro interjected after an extended quiet.
"All the time. Lots of fighters came through our door, even professional ones. Then there were people who just had accidents. Brains are fragile things…" When Taro did not continue this train of thought, Suzuki prompted him. "Why do you ask?"
"I don't─" he stalled, eyes drawn to the middle distance. Taro huffed and turned his head from the old man. "There's… blank spots I'm trying to fill."
"Disorientation is common," Suzuki rolled a fresh bandage around Taro's forearm just above the wrist. "I'm not surprised, with the state you're in."
"It's more than that."
"You don't seem concussed to me. Just let yourself rest."
Taro clutched the edge of the sofa cushion, short nails digging at the rough fabric.
"I can't─remember… anything."
Suzuki clipped the bandage in place before allowing himself to look more closely at Taro, who was doing his damnedest to avoid eye contact.
"Take a breath, son…" He waited long enough that Taro began to breathe deeply in earnest; it helped. "That's not unusual for whatever you must have gone through to end up like this. Of course it would be unlikely for your brain not to get rattled around a little, with injuries like yours… but head trauma isn't always the cause for memory loss."
The rest of his body was more wrecked than his head anyway, even without any broken bones─at least nothing more serious than a cracked rib. Most of the damage to his head seemed concentrated at his face, there weren't any stitches or open wounds beneath his hair that he found either, though there had been some dried blood he cleaned from his scalp.
"My wife ran into situations like that now and then," Suzuki continued, "and she described it like a defense mechanism. Our minds can protect us from stress and turmoil by blocking things out. Maybe your brain is protecting you from those experiences, at least until your body's healed enough to deal with them."
"So I should be grateful?" Bitterness carried roughly on his sore throat.
"Well," Suzuki's gaze dipped to watch his hands work, "I just mean there's a chance your memories will come back eventually. You'll have to be patient with yourself. These things take time."
Optimism was difficult to swallow in a predicament like this, but Taro had to admit that his brain trying to do him a favor by giving him less to think about while he recovered was certainly a more desirable explanation than the most important organ in his body being irreparably damaged.
"You remember some things though, don't you?" Suzuki attempted encouragement.
"Not much," Taro frowned.
His name was off the table, a complete nonstarter, which meant most of his personal identifying information was a bust until he found some other kind of lead. Red eyes wandered dully as he reached through his mind for any other clues, then snapped to attention.
"Incident."
"Sorry?"
"The news said something about an incident last week."
"Oh. Yes," Suzuki swapped Taro's arms, "that might be a good place to start."
Taro looked expectantly at the old man, who took a moment to understand exactly what his guest was asking of him. Suzuki set the first-aid pack aside and massaged his tired hands; this was as good a time as any for a break.
"This past month we've seen an increase of violent activity all around the city, but just last week things escalated further. There was a building in Toyohira Ward that caught fire, I can't remember the name of the company that owned it…"
"Paragon Systems," Taro repeated the news anchor.
"Right, that's the one. Well, the investigation is still ongoing so public information is limited, but from what I understand there were a lot of people hospitalized from the fire in that building. The way I heard it was that they were all zoanthropes, every single one of them. Because of all that, and the incidents leading up to this, there's been talk that this building had been used as some sort of headquarters for the ZLF. If that's true, they're probably responsible for the rest of this mess."
"You mentioned the ZLF before," Taro noted while testing the flexibility of his fingers.
Suzuki's expression shifted into that same sympathetic smile he gave when Taro didn't understand resonance. This was key information he lacked, and that must have concerned the old man enough to lay everything on the table for him from start to finish.
Step by step, and wrap by wrap, Suzuki explained everything as far as someone on the periphery of it all could─The Tylon Corporation and its multinational grip on the pharmaceutical industry, all of the sick experiments they carried out right under everyone's noses; the public outcry about zoanthropes upon their discovery and all the world's governments scrambling for ways to deal with them; radical insurgents hunting down anyone they suspected of being a beast, posting bounties and funneling a lucrative business on their heads; the Zoanthrope Liberation Front's rise as a beacon of hope in the face of oppression, and its subsequent fall into extremism; ending with the task force set loose by the United Nations as an equalizer to rampant, merciless violence from both groups.
This was the climate outside that "Yamada Taro" had awoken to, the street-bound violence which bore no remorse for all the innocent lives it chewed up. These groups touted themselves as representative of their demographics; fierce, enraged, righteous─and afraid. Beast Hunters claimed to speak for all humans in their revulsion toward zoanthropes, yet there were people like Suzuki's wife who were killed for daring to keep victims of the Hunter's violence alive. The ZLF claimed to fight against zoanthrope persecution even when they turned on their own kind the instant any of them refused to accept the subjugation and eventual eradication of humanity as their only recourse. Two cancerous fragments within healthy bodies, each hellbent on the other's destruction.
To hell with both of them.
Now Taro understood why Suzuki asked him to consider his words earlier. They weren't really discussing hypotheticals when it came to drawing lines across perceived enemies; theorizing about situations like this was a luxury people like them couldn't afford.
The old man had a penchant for lighthearted conversation, sometimes beating around the bush, but Suzuki had made a peace offering and in so many words told Taro that he did not see him as a parasite or an enemy. He must have hoped that Taro would feel the same but the weight of this information was a heavy burden to bear, much more painful for the old man relaying it all. His pleasant exterior cracked and Suzuki slouched forward with shame painted on his face.
Suzuki spoke at length of how he witnessed a campaign driven by hope twist into the same genocidal agenda as the one rallied against them. Zoanthrope superiority, evolutionary supremacy─these were the Liberation Front's core tenets─and anyone who stood in the way of their goals, man or beast, was eradicated one way or another. The ZLF was a scorched Earth organization, he said, as merciless and cruel to dissenting voices in their own community as the very enemies they vowed to protect everyone from.
Their talk left Taro restless despite the assurance Suzuki's resonance afforded. The old man did his best not to leave his guest on a low note, to speak of uplifting things and find something entertaining on the television to distract themselves. When it came time for Suzuki to leave for work, he took that strange air of comfort with him and soon the empty apartment buzzed with an uneasy silence.
Taro wondered, as he traced the pockmarked ceiling like constellations, about leaving then and there. He had full run of this man's home, he could take any supplies he needed and move quietly into the night… but the night in this city was just as unfamiliar as everything else to him. He had nowhere to go and his role in all of this remained elusive.
Dozens of people had been funneled from a burning building to intensive care, suffering immense physical trauma separate from their potential burns. The building that was now under investigation as a Liberation Front stronghold was most likely where he had come from, so what the hell was he doing there? Was he one of many who had been detained against their will for refusing to side with a terrorist organization on nothing more than birthright? Or was he among the militants who betrayed the people that depended on them?
Until he had that answer, security was in short supply─for himself, for Suzuki, and even for his neighbors.
"You really don't have to leave," Suzuki insisted the next morning. "It's reckless to push yourself while you're recovering like this. I won't kick someone injured out of my home, so why are you in such a hurry?"
"You said it yourself: we can't be too careful."
Suzuki grumbled as his words were turned against him.
The old zoanthrope had been more than accommodating but, as much as their resonance ran on the instinct of solidarity, Taro's gut twisted itself in knots over what could be chasing after him. First he was an escaped patient from a large-scale emergency, then there was the threat of police who might want him either as a key witness or a fugitive. And what if he was a criminal? Would he be able to convince the authorities his amnesia was real or would he be dragged through the courts just to make an example?
Suzuki must have understood his own safety was at stake when he chose to divert an unknown zoanthrope away from potential police custody. Even so, the old man refused to let his guest leave empty handed.
A rucksack, with pockets stuffed full of necessities, was presented to Taro as a parting gift. Toiletries and hygiene products people often took for granted when they had a roof over their heads made up most of the assortment, along with a generous helping of other supplies; the clothes he woke up in had been freshly laundered (which reminded him all too embarrassingly that he had pulled them from a stray laundry line) and packed with the neighbor's contribution; a first-aid kit to keep his injuries fresh and clean, along with any new ones he might accrue; a blanket, an umbrella, plus a few days worth of food and drink if he consumed wisely. With all of that, a modest amount of cash was also forced upon Taro to ensure he could get through Sapporo's public transportation without issue for the next while.
That wasn't all; Suzuki had banded together with the neighbors who helped carry this stranger's unconscious body into the safety of their building and found a pair of shoes that would fit him. Taro was now set with both sandals in the backpack and sturdy work boots on his feet, alongside a pair of jeans and a baseball cap with his hair tied up underneath.
"Isn't this too much…?" Taro's reluctance rang clear despite knowing he needed every donation.
Suzuki folded his arms. "Not enough, if you ask me… but if you need to go then you'll have to take it. This is all we can do."
The question had been at the tip of his tongue since yesterday and a number of possible answers hung in the air, the most obvious of which made Taro all the more hesitant to ask. With this excessive gesture in his hands and their time together running short, he forced the question.
"Why are you helping me?"
Suzuki's dour expression softened; of course the old man knew there was a very real possibility he had been harboring a fugitive aligned with a terrorist group, but his answer was simple.
"We have to look out for each other, because no one else will."
That sincerity hit him like a truck. Words escaped him, drowned by a strange cocktail of gratitude and guilt. Taro looked down at the strap in his hand, knuckles pale from the force of his grip.
"You better be careful out there," Suzuki warned, "I don't want to see you sent back to a hospital so soon. Or worse."
"Right…" There was no way he could repay the generosity everyone here had shown. He ought to at least thank this man after all he's done.
"The ZLF will be out for blood if they've lost one of their bases, and the Hunters are no joke."
"Yeah." Just say thank you, dammit.
"One last thing…"
Enough!
"Here." Suzuki removed a pair of sunglasses hanging from the neck of his shirt and presented them to Taro. "Those eyes of yours… Remember, you've got one hell of a stare."
Piercing red─unnatural by human standards. Their reflection hadn't startled him, though perhaps such a color wasn't unheard of among zoanthropes. Regardless, his eyes were unmistakable under any light and would immediately other him, so Taro accepted this last offering without question.
He donned the sunglasses there, standing by the front door, and adjusted his cap so they fit comfortably underneath. Whatever would help him keep a low profile.
"That's better," the old man sighed. "Now you can blend in with anyone."
"Suzuki."
"Mm?"
"What was your wife's name?"
"Ah…" he wavered, seemingly taken aback, "Hanoka."
"The next time you visit Hanoka-san, give her my thanks… For all of this."
Suzuki's breath left in a faint huff. He swallowed hard. "Of course… Take care of yourself, Yamada Taro."
Good luck, man without a name.
Taro closed the door softly behind himself, as if to make up for the way he slammed it the day before. Ahead of him, the door across the hall stood ajar and through it peeked the curious eye of an older woman just the same as he had done to her.
Unlike him, she didn't startle when he noticed. For several moments they stared at each other, assessing one another the only way humans could. With nothing said or done, Taro dipped his head to acknowledge the woman with a polite enough nod. She returned the gesture. There was a hesitance in her glance afterward that caused him to linger a few moments more, until the woman bowed her head directly and closed the door.
She must not have wanted to meddle, which suited him fine; this woman, and many other people in this building he hadn't even met, each wished this strange, suspicious, and potentially dangerous man well in their own ways. He would make sure not to waste their generosity.
There's some nuance in this chapter that might be unclear, so I'll just explain my intention. Forgoing the use of honorifics with Suzuki like our boy did is pretty rude, it can be read as a sign of casual closeness but that's also why it's considered disrespectful with strangers. This made his shift to using "-san" on Suzuki's wife and effectively calling her "Miss" noteworthy.
He may not remember the source of his pride but that doesn't mean it's gone; humility is a difficult thing for someone with a powerful ego to grapple with, but he has no justification for those feelings right now, no foundation for why he should feel superior, he just knows he doesn't want to feel lesser so that makes a direct expression of gratitude become a surprisingly vulnerable action. He skirted around that feeling by forwarding his gratitude to the deceased and emphasized it by speaking more respectfully than usual. That way, hopefully Suzuki could understand that gratitude was also meant for him without Shenlong feeling exposed.
