The Doctor, the Belt, and the Boy

As of May 15th, 2052, the verdict is clear. We still can’t travel through time. That is, while we’re in reality, living inside human bodies.

Turns out, the Doctor is neither real nor inside of reality.

Sitting on a stranger’s high chair, sipping espresso he’s never tasted, as the morning sun soaks through glass panes of an office he’s never had. Cleanly shaven, eyes well-rested. Only 22 years of age, yet already Head of Neo-Tokyo United’s Institute for Quantum and NanoTech — an organization that the other Doctor could only dream of working for.

“Yeah, I’ll be home by six. Don’t trigger the fire alarm when you cook, it’s annoying to fix.”

“Keep that up and you’re eating natto cans tonight! Kid, I’m telling y-”

“Later, Jii-san.” The Doctor waves, terminating the hologram.

…

With a ‘Jii-san’ who isn’t supposed to exist.

A robot secretary knocks on the door. “Doctor, the literature review you’ve requested.”

“Put it on my desk.” The Doctor slides on his lab gloves and walks out.

No doubt, the Doctor has escaped reality.

The real Doctor, not so much.

——————————

Once more, the Reaper finds herself within a blank vault, alone.

Well, not quite.

Atop a web-like substance, the Doctor’s body hangs. If that counts as company.

The void feels colder this time around.

She walks towards the body. This time, she hears her own footsteps.

Crack. Crunch. Like treading on a frozen corpse.

She reaches the web. Dispersed around the Doctor’s body are a million sapphire shards. They stare back at her like a colony of spider eyes.

She touches one of the shards, immediately flinching away. She frowns. Something burns. But her nerves didn’t detect overheating or potential scarring. In fact, she’s growing colder.

She is remembering.

We don’t know what she’s remembering — she’s not quite sure herself — but it squeezes at her chest. Like heartburn. Like a soft finger wriggling beneath all those electrical wiring and metal frames, until it pokes a hole somewhere and her insides collapse like a broken balloon, so she instinctively gasps for oxygen, oxygen, oxygen.

Of course, for her, breathing oxygen is not instinct. Yet she feels it like it’s her own memory.

Just like the smell of ash.

The taste of an emotion she instinctively categorizes as sadness.

The Doctor’s sadness.

Again, just instinct.

“Look at you and your sorry face.”

The Reaper turns around.

A boy stands behind her. She recognizes him. A young version of the Doctor.

He’s wearing a brand new school uniform, the shirt draping over his thighs like a nightgown.

His toes twitch agitatedly within their dress shoes.

He hops towards her, beaming,

He points at the Doctor’s body. “He has a lot to thank you for.”

The Reaper tilts her head.

“You did your job. And now, he’s happier.”

The boy takes out a scythe of his own.

“Here, let’s send him one step further.”

He climbs onto the net, reaching for the doctor’s body.

Slash.

“Come, now. Other clients are still waiting for us.”

She follows him.

Because instinct tells her that she has something left to do.

Something that should have been done long, long ago.

——————————

Deep within the cacophony of sounds — footsteps, vehicle engines, drones, and brand ambassadors speaking from virtual screens up high — unrest stirs.

A wave hits the surface of a commercial building, turning the smooth glass into a mosaic of shards.

Two shadows break out from the chaos.

They race south, like cat chasing mouse.

The Mouse is agile. It weaves between the maze of vehicles, propelling itself deeper into the safety of traffic.

But the Cat is faster.

It pounces onto the sides of buildings.

Signboards perch out from all directions. They overlay the path like mahjong pieces, their worldly hands reaching for the Cat like jackpot.

No matter for the Cat.

It finesses every obstacle— leaps over, loops under, completes ninety degree turns, straight up rams through objects at hypersonic speed.

The Cat gains more ground, so the Mouse changes strategy.

It zigzags off the main road and ducks into an alley, leading to a tourists’ market.

Holographic ads and neon signs undulate along the wiring of buildings, glossing the roofs with a cyan hue. Tassels of lanterns wind along the narrow pedestrian path, leading only deeper and deeper within.

Street vendors dot the passageway, selling cheap gadgets, flashing LED yo-yos, exotic fruits illegally imported from Macau. The soft thumping of rickshaw wheels mix with the monotone voices of robot waitresses working human-less soufflé stands.

The Cat halts with a sharp turn. A rider on a modified motorbike. Tight-fitting black suit, mid-heels, fully masked, only an odd strand of red hair showing from beneath the right earlobe.

The rider gets off. The moment her hands lift from the bike, the vehicle shimmers, shrinking to a pocket-sized gadget.

She hesitates, then walks into the alley — “Ma’am you won’t want to miss out on this!”

The tinkering of vintage music boxes.

“Please Ma’am.”

The clattering of outdated copper coins dancing in the beggar's cup.

“Excuse me, Ma’am!”

The thick smell of sweat filling the air to its brim.

The Cat turns back.

“Block 7. Reinforcement needed.”

“Agent, we need you back at headquarters right now.”

“With all due respect, Officer, classified assets are under hostage by the suspect.”

“Agent, now.”

The rider heads towards Headquarters.

——————————

Ground Level, Chiyoda Belt, Neo-Tokyo.

When the pavement starts cracking like chapped lips, you know that you are nearing its outskirts.

Sparse patches of stubby concrete housing cling to the bases of towering skyscrapers. The sunset mixes with the taller building's shadows, covering the block in a murky haze.

Naked children and postpartum mothers peek out from semi-basements and subdivided flats.

Under the flickering street light, their gaze meets yours.

You think you will never forget.

But you will, just like everyone else.

Because pass the slums and up the Chiyoda Belt, you are in another world.

——————————

Upper Level, Special Ward of the Chiyoda Belt.

The concrete jungle.

100 years ago, this was the Imperial Palace moat.

50 years ago, the national diet assembly motioned to tear it down.

The old must go for the new to come.

25 years ago, the diet assembly fell too. And with it, all nearby government estate – from the National Diet Library, to the National Police Agency General Building, to shrines and parks and residences belonging to famous dead men.

Not that the capital collapsed, but that it got reclaimed.

By none other than Neo-Tokyo United Corps Limited. Over the ashes of historical landmarks and royalties, its metallic structures sprout like weed. Conglomerate palace after palace. Their metal limbs intertwine, laying root in underground tunnels and overhead passages, absorbing nearby commercial hotspots like Otemachi and Yurakucho Districts. Headquarters of forty five Fortune 500 companies. Roughly a quarter of the nation’s GDP. All within some five kilometer radius.

The Chiyoda Belt is an ever-growing parasite. It consumes markets and public systems from within. It conquers.

It’s hungry for more.

And now, the Cat heads straight for it.

Into the mouth of the tiger.