[CITY FINAL]

Masaru opens his eyes from his position leaning over his desk. It's not a flinch or a shock. His senses have become perfectly entwined with the moment of jumping from one world to the next. It is as natural to him now as waking up.

He sits up, looks at the monitor, and clicks over to the paint program. There she is. Valerie, even more beautiful now that he’s allowed himself to appreciate the delicate balance of line weights in the piece…

He looks at the others now: a confident, muscular Sato with a pretty girl in one arm and a Gunzon model in the other. The smiling Yuna, one hand held by each parent. He begins saving and closing the documents.

After all, this isn't the place to be fantasizing about art when there's so much business to be done.

He smiles. Perhaps that is the point of life entirely. Perhaps life, even its most serious moments, should be like art. It should naturally flow from oneself after sufficient practice.

He clicks over to Kenji's. Masaru admires the boldness, the dirt, the plate carrier, and the NATO patch on his shoulder as he bravely leads a squad of Japanese men around a dusty corner in a desert city. Masaru nods, glad to have known him. He saves and closes that as well.

There are more images, and he pauses at each one.

He sees The Knight's fractured form like a broken mirror as it renders a chivalric salute with its lance arched to its right.

He sees The Stranger, an unknowable amalgamation of hideousness until one looks close and notices the distinctly cat-like features: the little brims of the hat, how they perk up into ears, the sort of vicious thin pupils… and in the fortress of teeth along the rows in its face… could that be a smile?

He saves them both, but there's another image. The Chief Operating Officer Masaru. The successful Masaru. The better Masaru… and he looks afraid.

It’s not clear to the naked eye, not necessarily. But the more Masaru looks at that well-trimmed appearance, that sleek form, that honed figure, he feels the source of that constant professionalism, that endless striving, and it is not a source of self-acceptance. It is not a source that is aware of itself— it's fear.

Masaru finally understands. He saves that as well.

He does not hate that part of him, he simply understands it now. It is a part of him, and to run away from it is to run away from himself— to lose himself again in the delusions that society presents as answers.

No longer.

He closes this one to find one smaller image behind it.

It's him.

Dressed in a simple white shirt, the true Masaru stares back at the viewer of the piece. His body arched over in focus and interest. Masaru can feel the compassion radiating out of the painting. This is a man that cares about you. This is a man that finds a way to care about everything. Not fretting, not catastrophizing, but acknowledging. He’s someone that accepts the things he can't change, and will move any distance to change the things that he can.

Masaru saves it as well. He doubts he'll be able to keep them once he goes home, because he will go home, he's sure of that now… but he thinks whatever happens, it will be saved in his memories.

He accepts these people and their eccentricities, their flaws, their failures, and he accepts the ones that he finds in himself. They are parts of him, and by embracing them, he can find a way to manage them, to defeat them, to kill his demons and bury them in flowers with a loving epitaph: Here rested a different kind of man.

Masaru leans over from his desk to look across to the window. He sees the vacation center. Its light is on, like a lure to escape and run away from responsibility. His eyes flash and his smile turns into a grin. He stretches back in his computer chair, pulls himself up to the keyboard, and opens his email.

There are little tasks. Some sound nonsensically simple.

Send this email to this other person.

Change this spreadsheet.

Accept this calendar invite.

Sign up for this training.

Little tiny nothings that create the day-to-day flow of a busy salaryman's life. But he doesn't stop. Emails continue to appear as he accepts what they are: a part of his life, but not necessarily a part of who he is. He does not need to run anymore, and he does not need to be afraid of failing, because in each of those emails, he cares. He cares about the people behind them, those ghostly executives and coworkers and subordinates who just need a moment of him— a moment from someone who cares.

His body feels light and comfortable.

Eventually, he hears the clicking of keyboards around him, like the crackling of a chrysalis to reveal a butterfly of camaraderie. In only a few minutes, they're all there, clacking away busily at their own work.

The automatic lights of his office do not go dark because the shadows of his coworkers pass by with paperwork, deadlines, and simple chatting around the water cooler. "Hey. Thanks for that email, Masaru," one of the shadows says.

Masaru nods.

"Of course," he responds back with a professional tone. "We have to be at our best before going to honor our families." He winces at the cheesiness of his own line, but the shadow nods. And another who overheard him leans over from his desk.

"Absolutely."

"I think you're saying what everyone's thinking. It's a joy to just be able to get up to work and help people in ways they're not expecting." There's a short laugh around the office.

"What a romantic," another one says. "But I don't necessarily disagree. There is something special about working long into the night to be the best."

And Masaru was sure of it. Every second on the clock was another point of pride. He was creating something beautiful. Yes, it was only a fishing company. But while it was just a fishing company, it was also a fishing company that cares about people, cares about the environment. Cares about the very fish that they catch. They care so much, and they accept that when something's in their control, they must push forward with all effort to make an impression that isn't just excellent, but perfect in a way that a customer couldn't even envision perfection to be. Raising the standard, lifting the bar higher and higher to new dimensions of wonderment. It was an intoxicating atmosphere and everyone was having a good time.

They were proud of their work and that made all the difference. This continual enjoyment went on for twenty minutes and then the light in the vacation office turned off. Masaru doesn't even notice. He's discussing a potential merger with the executive officer who is really such a personable and friendly guy, as long as one prefaces the conversation with the work.

The elevator is called. The floor numbers on the panel trickle down to one. It seems as though someone in the lobby wants to come up. Masaru's smile doesn't fade, but he keeps at it. In only a moment, the elevator doors open to reveal the COO, the better Masaru, the perfect Masaru, the Masaru that cannot make any mistakes.

"What in the world are you doing?" he shouts, storming onto the office floor, immediately addressing not the XO, not the manager, but Masaru, who simply stands up and turns to face him.

"Well, sir, we did receive a really large shipment, and it was quite unexpected," he explains with a professional smile. "I think we should probably keep going until the work is done. If we missed even a minute, that fish could go bad as it stays in the port."

"That can wait a night, I think," the other Masaru corrects as he glances around at the several smiling, laughing coworkers. "I've already gone home, so you should too. You hear me? Go think about a vacation or whatever," he says waving dismissively as he turns around back to the elevator.

The real Masaru's smile is genuine, truly, unfettered by the expectations of superiors or the rat race. It is only him and he's happy to see his other self. "Pride in an organization is not simply up to its chief executives," Masaru explains. "Don't you think the more professional thing to do would be to continue the work until it's done tonight?"

The other Masaru's eyes flare red, not unlike The Stranger's. "What in the world are you talking about? Do you really intend to stay here another half hour when you all have families at home? How inconsiderate."

Masaru nods. "They understand. And it's not every night when one gets to do their best. But this is one of those nights, sir. Please, it'll only take half an hour."

The other Masaru grits his teeth and almost grounds his molars together. At the moment the scrape was audible, he stopped. "Fine," he belts out as he storms off over to the water cooler. "But you're coming back on time tomorrow. You hear me? You're not getting paid overtime for this."

Masaru nods. "Some things pay in ways other than money," Masaru explains. "Now, what do you think of this?" he says, pulling up a ream of paperwork and flipping it over to show The Copy.

This goes on for twenty-nine minutes and fifty seconds. Just about thirty minutes. And once they're done and the final email is sent that they're ready to receive the shipment at the right time and place with everything double-checked and all details immaculate, the XO gives the call and everyone gives a cheer.

"I think this calls for a celebration," the XO shouts.

And not a single one of them disagreed. "Let's go out and drink," a meek, low-ranking employee cheers out. Everyone agrees with a shout, and immediately they're packing their things, shutting down their computers, and heading for the elevator.

The other Masaru rears up in fury. "What do you mean? There's no need for that."

"You think you can just have a little fun because you overworked yourselves like dogs?" But everyone took this to be a joke and they laughed with him.

Even the real Masaru grins as he takes his copy by the shoulder. "Come on, sir. I'll get you the first round."

Everyone but the other Masaru cheered for his generosity. It was sure to be an excellent night.

"Come on, big man. Don't be such a stickler," said a fellow executive to the false Masaru.

"Yeah, sir. Cheer up. We did it," says a subordinate as they dance their way into the elevator.

The other Masaru's eyes glint like demonic embers as he addresses Masaru with his gaze. "So be it," he says.

His scowl almost comically reaches the edges of his chiseled face.

They all head out and pass right by the vacation center. Getouttahere!-kun’s standee watches by the wayside as the group passes by, and Masaru simply gives it a gentle, acknowledging wave. He watches The Copy carefully as its eyes glint wistfully in that direction. It purses its lips as if to suppress something from spilling forth. They get to the nearest noodle shop in the nearest alley, one that serves great ramen, but absolutely fantastic quantities of beer.

The shadow of the waitress leads them into a private room complete with a long table and twenty chairs. They all sit according to their rank. The subordinates nearest to the door, Masaru right in the middle, and the false Masaru at the very edge next to the executive officer.

It might be a bit of a horrible move and certainly not something one would do in polite company, but Masaru wagers on his very unique understanding of himself in this moment. After all, he is very poor at handling his alcohol. The first round of Ahasa Drys are produced in their tall glasses: an excellent light beer that's as exceptional in its taste as in the way it feels, with the myriad bubbles sharply pulling along their mouths.

The other Masaru looks at his own pint like a drawn knife. A challenge. He looks over to the true Masaru, who nods and takes a drink.