Million Dollar Pisha

Pisha stared as the Director stopped a couple paces from their dishevelled team. The Excursors behind him split, half of them chasing Moroya while the other half surveyed the cluttered crime scene.

“That’s the second time your squad has been face-to-face with Moroya,” the Director said. “And once again, you’ve let him escape. With A.O.A. property this time, no less!”

His voice was almost theatrical as his hands cupped his headset. Overhead, rays of moonlight filtered through the damaged domed ceiling.

Anma planted her palms on the concrete and pushed herself up.

Her fingers clenched into a fist. “They almost escaped with Pisha—”

“Watch your tone, Excursor.”

“There are more important things than my tone right now!” she shouted. “This situation’s your fault in the first place!”

Pisha grabbed Anma’s sleeve, wobbling to her feet. “Huh? How’s it his fault?”

Anma turned to her. “He was the one who leaked your existence, Pisha. It’s his fault Moroya found out about you. Koto was bait, too. All of it.”

Pisha staggered backwards. “You’re lying.”

Bats caught her, resting a hand on her shoulder.

The Director had set everything up? The reason the swordsman had almost kidnapped her, the reason all those people died in Koto, the reason their teammates had gotten slaughtered. It was all him?

Can a single person really be this evil…?

Bats leaned over, his machete scraping across the ground as he scooped it up.

“You’ve got ten seconds to explain yourself.”

The Director sighed. His V.R. visor lifted, illuminating the three of them.

“That much should’ve been apparent. After two decades, she’s been the only thing to force Moroya’s hand. Even this was planned to an extent.” He swept his arms across the archive room before folding them against his chest. “Though losing the briefcase was truly regrettable.”

Bats snarled. He marched towards the Director, nearly trampling his dress shoes as he came to a stop.

“That’s enough,” the Director said.

“Don’t tell me what to do.”

“Or what, Batsuora?” The Director’s hand drifted to his suit pocket. “You'll lose control again? Murder me like you murdered your own family?”

Pisha watched as Bats held his breath. Suddenly, his question in the mess hall made complete sense. The A.O.A. built muzzles to suppress them, their entire lives. But they hadn’t planned for when they’d break. Like the kid. Like her.

She’d noticed it before. The way he fought was almost like he was trying to get himself killed.

Can’t say I don’t get it. Moron.

Bats raised his machete. “Bastard.”

In return, the Director raised his glove. He held up a borderless cellphone, the same one he’d threatened Pisha with in that hospital the day she was captured.

Instantly, Bats groaned in pain. Sparks flew from his vibrating muzzle, and he fell to one knee. He clawed at the metal grates as his muscles spasmed.

“Bats!” Pisha gasped.

She started towards him before Anma hand tugged at her uniform.

“Careful, Pisha! The Director—”

“Don’t make this any more difficult than it needs to be, Pisha,” the Director interrupted. He waved the mobile between his fingers.

Pisha whipped around. “Shut the fuck up!” she shouted. “I’ve had enough of your bullshit!”

A sliver of the Director’s mouth, the only feature visible beneath his headset, pulled into a frown. “Has Moroya’s wild nature rubbed off on you?”

“I’m not some wild animal! None of us are! Stop talking in fucking riddles!” She marched towards him.

His visor flickered bright. “Enough, Pisha. Another step and I’ll be forced to move you from research asset to high-risk.”

Enough? You’ve had enough?

“What’s your research say about getting socked in the face, asshole?”

As Pisha’s sneakers slammed against the ground, her knees buckled. A single agonizing burst of pain detonated in her body. Like every death she’d experienced up until that point, condensed into one sharp instant. Instead of pins and needles, sledgehammers and chainsaws pierced straight through her brain, ripping and tearing at imaginary flesh.

Then, the aching stopped. Everything stopped. The next thing she knew, a blurry arm fell to the floor. A masked man stood ahead, tapping his foot.

Ah. It was her arm.

By the time she’d realised it, the searing pain had reappeared. A muffled voice gargled over the ringing.

“...The perfect time to test our unknown,” he said.

His sentence ended, and the room’s sound faded. When she came to, something hard was pressing against the side of her head. The concrete.

She rolled over, spotting the murky silhouettes of her friends. Bats’s pained twitching was the last image she saw before the room went pitch-black for a third time.

So this is it. Back then, this was what the Director had meant.

Her muzzle terminating her brain. Her body trying to regenerate. A never-ending cycle of pain. But, in between her brief moments of consciousness, her own pain didn’t even register anymore.

She was only thinking about Bats. The Director had activated his muzzle too, after all. He wasn’t used to pain like she was. And Anma was forced to sit back and watch them both suffer.

Isn’t that too unfair?

The room shifted into focus once more. Pisha plied her fingers open, then closed. It was like swimming through drying glue. She forced her fists down, slamming them into the floor.

Then, her leg. Then, the other. They thudded against the ground. When she opened her eyes again, she was kneeling, her torso slumped forwards like a Bobo doll. She swayed up to her feet like one, too, regaining consciousness a moment later to find she was still standing.

The Director muttered, though she couldn’t make it out. She dragged her left trainer forwards before fainting again. Then, the right. Between each step, a miniature death, until she stood toe-to-toe with the Director.

“Impressive!” he said, his voice finally close enough to understand. “Your ability is—”

Crack.

Before he could finish, Pisha slugged her fist into his headset. Glass stabbed into her knuckles as she shattered the screen, driving into the motherboard and wires beneath. The visor shifted between monochrome static and colourful signal blocks before finally blinking off.

The Director yelped, stumbling backwards. His wool gloves flew up to cover his now semi-exposed face, staining the fabric with Pisha’s blood. With an expensive-sounding crash, his cellphone banged against the ground. He tipped over and thumped down alongside it.

“Director, Sir!” one of the staff shouted.

The staffer scrambled forwards, nearly tripping over themselves before crouching beside the Director. Pisha didn’t wait for a diagnosis and stepped over his groaning body. She shook her hand as the knuckles popped into place, scattering the shards embedded into her fist across the bloodied floor.

Anma helped Bats to his feet, his muzzle now disengaged. The two stared at Pisha, their jaws both halfway to the floor.

Pisha gestured towards them, then addressed the reeling Director.

“We’re taking some P.T.O.”

* * *

Bats rubbed the back of his neck. “We get P.T.O.?”

The pair trailed behind Pisha up the twisting flight of stairs. Her fingers brushed the railing as Bats took the staircase three steps at a time.

“By law, I suppose…” Anma trailed off. “Are you alright though, Pisha? That looked awful.” She fished a spare set of glasses out from her belt and slid them onto her muzzle.

As Anma finished her question, the team reached the rooftop. The A.O.A.’s fluorescent lights were replaced by a deep moonlit glow. It was the same Tokyo sky as the night she’d jumped off that roof, set on ending it all. It felt like a million lifetimes ago. But, somehow, the sky felt different from that evening.

There might've been more stars out tonight. Or, maybe Pisha was just imagining it.

She sighed, hunkering down on the tin roof. Anma settled beside her while Bats squatted down at her other side. The roof groaned under their weight.

“Ah, yeah. Hurt like hell,” Pisha said. She leaned back, settling between the pair. “But… I think I’ll be alright.”

* * *

Intercity Excursion Force, Case File #15

Transmission Status: End.