Buried Truths

The man before them smirks wickedly - clearly enjoying the confusion hovering over Jiro and Junko’s heads. “Please, enough about me,” He says, pushing his thumbs into the arm holes of the bulletproof vest he sports, “I know you didn’t come here for me… you came here for him.” The strangely familiar, blonde man steps aside to bestow the scene behind him.

Sitting in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows - that display the entirety of the illuminated city below - is none other than Mamoru Fukumoto himself. A shame-ridden, hunched over father hangs his head over his lap, as his hands and ankles are tied to the wooden chair under him. While Mamoru’s back faces the city lights and the starry night sky, his sight finds solace onto the hardwood floor beneath his feet.

Junko’s stomach churns at the sight, laying her eyes on her own father so pathetically presented in front of her. Though Jiro’s expression remains unwavering, his heart pounds against his ribcage, and beads of sweat fall from his messy hairline.

“Don’t be shy, Mamoru,” The man speaks up after a moment of silence, “Say hello.” His voice is so clearly condescending, as the sly smirk sticks to his face. Once a few moments go by, Mamoru finally lifts his heavy head, and unveils his shameful, exhausted expression.

As Mamoru’s eyes glance forward, he sees two figures standing in front of the doorway. Blinking a few times, the blurry image finally clears up, and he basks in the sight before him. His daughter, Junko, is back to how she looked a decade ago. Her small, juvenile appearance stands next to a similarly aged Jiro - and they terrifyingly stare at the man in the chair. A fraction of a small smile washes over his tired face, and he blinks slowly at the hallucination.

“Dad…” Junko finally speaks, her voice just above a whisper, “What is this… What’s going on…” Mamoru does not reply, for he continues reveling in the fake image of his young, innocent daughter. The man in front of him shakes his head, and smiles patronizingly at the pathetic sight before him. Walking in front of Mamoru, the man places his hands onto the arm rests of the chair.

In a low, commanding voice, the man pesters Mamoru, “Come on, old man. These two didn’t come over for dinner. Tell them. Tell them everything, all the way from the beginning. You know they deserve it, so tell them.” Junko’s father stares into the man’s eyes, and his gaze holds so much dread and hopelessness that has been buried deep within his heart for years.

Mamoru shifts his eyes away from the domineering man in front of him. Smirking once more, the man backs away, awaiting the pathetic father’s story. Mamoru looks back to Junko and Jiro, and all of their petrified glory. They are back to their adult figures, and any shred of their juvenile innocence is long gone. Sighing, Mamoru parts his lips: “I guess, I’ll have to start from the beginning…” His voice is raspy and forced, the exhaustion visibly spilling from his words. Junko and Jiro tense, and prepare themselves for the truth, after all this time.

“The Special Operations Task Force division of the Tokyo Prefectural Police Department was created twenty years ago by Chief Nao Watanabe. Crime rates and gang activity were skyrocketing in the city, so Nao took charge and created this squadron to prioritize killing those larger threats within the city,” Mamoru begins, his eyes roaming against the terrain of his ceiling.

“Chief Watanabe chose me to Captain the Task Force, and tasked me with selecting my officers,” At Mamoru’s recollection, Jiro tenses in his spot next to Junko. His lips draw inwards, while his fingers curl into taut fists. “Takashi Shimizu, my partner before we were inducted into the Task Force, was selected as my Lieutenant. Miyu Honda, Hotaru Sawai, and Daitan Hagimoto were also chosen as officers.”

‘Miyu… Hotaru…’ Junko thinks to herself as she recalls the names of the other individuals who died in that fateful encounter with the original Tokyo Pistols. “For about six years, everything was going great. At the time, I really needed this promotion. Junko… your mother, Chie, she has… When she was in her twenties, she… she was diagnosed with schizophrenia.”

Junko’s mind flashes to her childhood home - now isolated from her current world - thrashed with garbage and boxes, and decorated with that collage of police officers and red thread. Chie even mistook her for a hallucination: a figment of her own warped imagination. The signs were always right there, but Junko never pieced it all together.

“The medication she was prescribed was incredibly expensive, and buried us in a mountain of debt. With this promotion, I was able to afford it all, and barely managed to keep a roof over my family’s heads. Everything was going fine, until I met him… Isao Hamasaki.”

Mamoru’s face tenses, and an indescribable emotion fixates on his features. Regret, shame, and an intense resentment is evident in his drawn expression. “Isao, he… he was a Captain in another precinct in the department, and he somehow got wind of the Task Force.”

Junko pulls through her memory, and cannot remember anyone by the name of Isao, and the lack of remembrance frustrates her. “He was known around the department for his unethical approach to justice, and his shady demeanor in general. So, when he asked to speak with me privately, I knew something bad was going to happen.”

From the area beside Mamoru, the blonde man stood with his arms crossed, and a knowing smirk painted on his face. Junko knows, from the bottom of her heart, that this man is Kei Okazaki: the person she met at college, she visited his family, and told the truth about her life to. But, why did Jiro call him Daku Aoki? Was he confused, and mistook him for someone else?

“Isao called me into his office, after hours,” Mamoru continues, his face tightening at the memory, “He had two men guarding the door, and another four men inside of the room. The first thing he told me… was that the conversation was to remain completely confidential, and to never speak a word about our meeting to another soul.”

Clenching his jaw, Mamoru swallows the collected saliva in his mouth. “Obviously I was feeling threatened, so I complied. Isao offered me something… that I still regret accepting to this very moment. My foolish thinking, Takashi’s persuasion, and our self interest got in the way and clouded my judgement. I swear, if I could go back, I’d-”

“Enough with the excuses, Mamoru,” The blonde man quips, “What’s done is done. No amount of apologies will make you look like a better man. Keep talking.”

Mamoru shuts his eyes in a slow blink, and sighs a dreadful breath. Opening his eyes once more, his sight lands upon Junko and Jiro a ways in front of him. “Isao asked if I was interested in… in using my ‘ammunition’ and ‘power’ to… assassinate a target of interest for him.” Junko and Jiro’s eyes go wide at the admittance, and the blonde man revels in their reaction.

“Of course, I-I was taken off guard. I asked if… if this was a direct order from my boss, Nao Watanabe,” Mamoru continues, further explaining the story, “But, Isao denied all of my questions, and told me this was a strictly personal endeavor. Then, of course, I told him off. Despite his off-putting reputation, the man was still a high ranking officer of the Tokyo Prefectural Police Department!”

Junko’s eyebrows tweak upwards, and she pulls her bottom lip inwards - attempting to halt the quivering of her mouth. The amount of disbelief running through her veins causes her heart to beat erratically in her ribcage. She holds onto the last shred of hope her soul could manage, pleading and begging this all is not true.

“I yelled and yelled at him, trying to tell him how wrong this was, how much trouble he could get into if word got out! Then… instead of threatening me, instead of telling one of his guards to shut me up, he… offered me money. The one thing I needed most at that time. He offered me… five million yen.”

Jiro’s eyes widen at the number, and his lips part from one another. “I admit, that amount of money made me hesitate. But, I walked out. I walked out of that office, and declined his offer with my badge on my chest.”

Mamoru drags his gaze from the adults in front of him, and places it onto the hardwood floor beneath them. “It’s just… I couldn’t… That money still hung over my head. I couldn’t stop thinking about it. Five million yen is… a lot of money.”

Junko squints her eyes at her father’s hesitant voice, and her hands fidget at her sides. “After a while, I needed to talk to someone about everything. I needed to get it all off of my chest and out of my head. So, I talked with your mother, Junko, and your father, Jiro.” Jiro’s fists tighten once more, and his jaw clenches in tension.

“Chie completely disagreed with the idea, and got angry at me for even considering it. But, Takashi… once Chie had left the room, he convinced me to accept the offer,” Mamoru’s voice softens in shame as he recalls the memory.

“He said that he didn’t care what he had to do - that five million yen was too much money to pass up. He told me I didn’t even have to do anything, that he, Miyu, Hotaru and Daitan would handle all the dirty work.”

Jiro shuts his eyes, and allows his head to fall at his neck. The mere thought of his own father convincing Mamoru to do such a thing… It made him sick. The air surrounding Jiro is filled with pure tension and shame, and the weight of those emotions weigh heavily upon his shoulders and mind.

Mamoru sighs a hopeless breath as his eyes shut slowly in shame. “So, I… I accepted Isao’s offer. But, when Takashi told Miyu, Hotaru, and Daitan about the assignment, Daitan was the only one who refused and completely opposed the idea. I should have listened to her, I should have…”

His voice fades at the end of his sentence, clenching his eyelids together in regret. “Daitan immediately withdrew from the Task Force, and went straight to Chief Watanabe. She told him everything, and completely ratted us out.”

“As she should have,” The blonde man mutters under his breath, not loud enough for anyone else to hear. Mamoru shakes his head, ashamed of himself and everything he’s done. The patheticism radiating off of him reaches each individual in the room, but none of them feel any pity towards the aging man.

“Nao found out, and he was instantly on our asses. We didn’t have anything else left to do, so we ran from the police and fled to the apartment you guys still use today,” Mamoru informs, his voice slow and steady, but a deep shame still remains painted on his expression, “Isao told some other colleagues about the deal, and they came to us for our business, too. Eventually, it became our jobs, our careers, our entire livelihoods.”

Junko’s cheekbones tighten as her face draws at her fathers retelling. “I never told you, Chie, or Niko about any of this. But… I also didn’t tell my officers that I didn’t tell you guys,” Mamoru’s eyes wander over his immediate surroundings, not knowing where to look anymore, “So, one night, Miyu let it slip, and Chie found out everything - after she told me so clearly to not accept Isao’s offer.”

“I’m going to save you. I’m not going to let him get away with this. He’s sick, he’s crazy! I know exactly what he’s going to try and rope you into, my love! Whatever you do, don’t listen to him! He’s a crazy bastard, Junko!”

Junko’s mind recalls her hysteric mother in the family court that fateful day, as she yelled at the judge, the jury, and the audience alike. Everyone thought she was just crazy - because of her schizophrenia - and no one believed the words she was so desperately trying to tell them. Little did everyone know, she was completely right.

“You have no idea of the things I’ve been through!”

“Chie divorced me, and tried to take you and Niko away from me,” Mamoru continues hesitantly, “I didn’t try to stop her, I barely even said a word in court. I knew you guys deserved to grow up in a loving environment, and I wouldn’t be able to provide that with my new job. But, Chie was making it so damn hard for the judge to choose her. And, as the judge ruled it, you guys stayed with me.”

Jiro looks to Junko, and catches the saddened look of disbelief that has yet to leave her face since the moment they walked into the apartment. Her face is tense, and her eyebrows draw up multiple lines of worry on her forehead. As her fists tighten, tremors run through her bones and shake her clenched hands.

“Time went by, and we continued doing what we signed ourselves up for. I just… I never imagined it would go this far, and make me sink so deep. It was just supposed to be one, measly assignment - just to make some quick money on the side. And, now… now…”

Mamoru sighs once again, and leaves behind the words lost on the tip of his tongue. “The Tokyo Pistols were our longest assignment, and the most requested by our clients. They were a new gang, but their power and strength grew faster than we were prepared for, so it took us a while to come up with a good plan of execution.”

Junko looks to Jiro now, showing concern for her best friend - for she knows what part of the story is coming up. Jiro’s face is stoic, and shows little to no emotion. Either he is extremely capable of masking his emotions, or he truly did not have any left to spare.

“Once we drew up a fool-proof plan, Takashi, Miyu and Hotaru set out to kill off the entirety of the Pistols. But… well, you know what happened after that-”

“Say it.”

Jiro spits, interjecting for the first time since he stepped foot into the apartment, “Say it, Mamoru. Don’t take the easy way out. Tell me. Tell me they died, all of them, brutally. Say it to me, you bastard! They didn’t die for you to be a coward and hide behind your words!”

Jiro begins to lose the collected demeanor he just previously held so easily. Junko reaches out a hand, and places it around his arm. Jiro thrashes out of her soft grip, and steps forward towards the man tied to the wooden chair.

“I’m so sick of being lied to, and being left in the dark all the damn time!” Jiro yells, raising his voice over the shame radiating off of Mamoru, “Who the hell am I supposed to believe anymore?! I just… I don’t… fuck!” Jiro throws his hands over his face in frustration, and his knees buckle from the pressure of the truth weighing him down - causing him to fall to his knees on the floor.

Junko runs up, and kneels beside him, gently placing her right hand on his shoulder, and her left on his hands over his face. “Jiro… calm down,” She coaxes, her shaky voice just above a whisper, “I need you to be strong for me, okay? We can breakdown about this later, I promise. Just… please, Jiro. Be strong with me.”

Suddenly, a loud tone sounds off from the direction of the blonde man’s position. Pulling out his phone from his back pocket, the light from the screen before him shines upon his condescendingly smug face. “Looks like our other guests are ready to arrive,” He informs, stuffing the phone back into his pocket.

He walks through the space between the fallen best friends and the shameful father in the chair. The soles of his shoes collide against the wooden floors, and his steps vibrate through the floorboards before they reach the officers on the ground. Reaching the living area, he passes the couch Junko was just lounging upon the night prior.

The man approaches the television, and begins toying with the buttons on the back of the screen. However, an error message presents itself on the display. He begins muttering and cursing to himself as he attempts to fix the problem, before stepping away, and throwing his hands to his hips.

“Akira!” He shouts, “Turn on the feed from Kiyama!” At his command, a very familiar, beautiful girl appears from the hallway, and waltzes to the blonde man’s position in the living room. Standing in front of him, the blonde woman presses one button, and the television comes to life.

On the screen were two people, tied up and kneeling on the floor. As Junko and Jiro’s eyes land upon the screen together, their previously weak and hopeless expressions quickly turn to ones filled with fear and worry.

“Good, everyone is here now!”