Mask of Truth

I’m taking over. Hasegawa Rina, remember? Take your regular “default” female voice and layer a raspy, colic-induced filter over it. Drop the pitch a little. Up the cadence. That’s my voice. These words should sound different in your head, now. Hopefully you’re calibrated, so let’s start from a few months into Fukuzawa Kenji’s imprisonment…

The sun rose. The sky was blue. The grass was green. The girl, me, Hasegawa Rina was a motley bag of lies and empty promises. Don’t ascribe any particular emotion to these indelible truths. I don’t know when the lies started, but let’s blame it on the Hive Virus.

When androids were around, most people had the luxury of listing “socialite” as their occupation. Except, change the definition of “occupation” from profession to that-which-occupies-time-before-death. They wore sequined dresses and neon-adorned crowns. They attended events every few nights to chat with other socialites and sycophants, to have the privilege of rubbing elbows with those of greater prestige. They drank and danced and felt immortal. They snorted sneaz-ee off marble countertops in the bathroom when the immortality sensation thinned. They made friends and enemies and lovers and sat side-by-side at fashion runways like they were window shopping. And they did a day of mediocre work to pay for it.

Androids made it possible.

Androids made it easy.

Androids made us weak.

Put that on a fuckin’ T-shirt. Post-virus, anti-tech activists love that stuff.

Anyway, the androids stopped functioning. Times of strife approached. Socialites realised conversational skills didn’t rank highly compared to software development, carpentry, and hundreds of other qualifications.

I’d grown up thinking I could be a socialite. Thus, I started to lie. First I lied about not wanting to be a socialite. Then I lied about what I wanted to be instead. Next thing I knew, I was lying to everyone about everything. I knew it wasn’t healthy, but the more it worked the less I cared. If you really dedicate yourself to wearing masks—I mean really obsess—the masks don't slip. 

You might be wondering why I wanted to become a socialite. Well, from the outside, they seemed to have it figured out. Within an artificial world, they seemed to value human connections. Except...

No man is an island, but he should bloody strive to become a peninsula. In contrast, the socialites of last generation were grotesque continents, a mass of cloying humans with inhuman words and pre-generated emotions. Loneliness wasn’t vogue. Having real human relationships was stylish. It’s amazing how streamlined you could make friendships, romance, and family. Say the right things, feel the right things. Do the right thing, be the right thing.

I did everything right. I became an island. 

Back to the lies...

At school, I wore the mask of the orderly academic. I recited sweet and convincing soliloquies to career advisors about getting a sports scholarship after high school. I competed in sprinting and short-distance cycling; I became one of the top competitors in the prefecture for the under-18s (girls) bracket. My sprinting times were second only to the record-holder, a girl named Hoshino Ren. I liked the speed and intensity; I was too lazy for longer events. Nothing meant more than my career.

At home, I wore the mask of the loving daughter. I did my chores and told amusing anecdotes to my parents about things that happened at school. They asked me about boys and I blushed on command with eyes downturned. Bashful, at times I admitted to wanting to be a mother. Nothing meant more than my family.

At the temple, I wore the mask of the introspective believer. Meditation. Reach enlightenment. Transcend my physical limitations through the use of advanced cybernetics. Blah, blah, blah. Nothing meant more than my faith.

But among my friends, I wore the most unique mask. I spoke the coarse and chaotic slang of the street. I was garbed in light to carve away apathy’s darkness and reality’s gloom. Luminary Decadence. In the evening I dyed my hair silver, pink, and green, and by morning it reverted to black. We drank and danced in pop-up clubs and shaded alleys. Nothing meant more than fun.

Sometimes I got roped into sneaking out and partying on school nights, which led to fatigue the next day. When I fell asleep, teachers assumed I’d been training hard for an upcoming meet. Recall what I said about dedication to masks? The masks fed on each other. In a paradoxical way, when the masks cannibalised, they grew rather than shrunk.

So, there I sat, half-asleep in theology class.

Mr Tanabe, who had a habit of leering at my toned legs, lectured about TeleShinto and the New Sky Movement. The former believed the Hive Virus came from the techno-kami. The latter believed humanity needed to return to pre-tech lifestyles.

What did I believe?

I won’t tell you the masks became my face. Nothing so trite. I hadn’t lost my identity. I merely neglected it.

So, what did I believe?

The sun rose. The sky was blue. The grass was green. I, Hasegawa Rina, meandered through the days, borne by an ocean of lies. I hadn’t done anything meaningful in my entire life. Someday my life would end and a few dozen people would attend my funeral. When they read the eulogies, the crowd would get more and more confused, as if there were multiple corpses all bearing the name Hasegawa Rina. The scholar. The athlete. The daughter. The wife. The disciple. The hedonist. The slut.

On a certain Friday night I didn’t party, since my friends had the flu. Instead, I stared at the ceiling and clasped my hands together in prayer. 

‘Please, God, if you’re out there, let me do something real.’

Given what happened in the next few months, I had to wonder…

#

I’d heard about the shut-in situation. Tragic, etc. But, like most people, I didn’t think too much about it. Call me callous, but I used to believe the answer was simple: Something between them needing friends, a hobby, or other cheap, ineffectual solutions. Honestly, sometimes I thought they were nothing but lazy.

It’s easy to loathe people for being a “burden” on society. Those sorts of negative emotions: Loathing, hatred, fear. I thought they were difficult to feel, that poison to your soul would feel terrible, but they were the easiest emotions to cultivate. They felt good. The warped, vile fire warmed me. Love, kindness, compassion—those were troublesome. I’d never learned to cultivate them.

My feelings changed after my parents complained about a girl in the adjacent apartment. They heard weird noises in the evening through the walls. I guessed what the noises were, until one night my parents went out to dinner. I crept into their room and pressed my ear to the wall.

Rather than moans, I heard crying and impacts of metal on wood.

On impulse, I removed my Luminary Decadence clothes from a secret compartment under my bed, changed my countenance and mannerisms, and knocked on the girl’s front door. I waited a minute and knocked again. She spoke from the other side, barely audible:

‘Go away.’

I explained that I lived next door, but she interpreted it as a noise complaint. ‘That’s not—are you alright?’ I clarified. Nothing. A minute passed. I turned away, when the lock clicked.

The door swung open. Footsteps hurried away. I took this as an invitation to enter.

Stains of assorted colours and severity turned the walls and ceiling into a sort of repulsive, abstract art piece. Food containers, juice cartons, cardboard boxes, noodle cups, cheap chopsticks, smoothie jugs, and myriad garbage blocked my path. I’d challenge the best cave diver to navigate the mess. I covered my nose and advanced. After crushing a couple takeout box civilisations, I made it to a bedroom. Contrary to the rest of the apartment, the room was empty, aside from a yellowed futon, stacked bottles, and a row of dumbbells.

The girl sat in a dark corner.

‘Are you alright?’ I repeated. No response. ‘My name is Hasegawa Rina. I live next door.’

‘I know.’ She got to her feet, picked up two dumbbells, and did a set of Romanian deadlifts.

Short black hair stuck to her sweat-slickened forehead. She wore a singlet and PE shorts. The overall aesthetic reminded me of tomboys from a bygone era, though I doubted it was deliberate.

‘Why are you here?’ she panted.

‘I can hear you through the walls.’

‘You want me to stop?’

‘It doesn’t bother me.’

She nodded, grit her teeth, and finished a few more strained repetitions. At the end of the set, she dropped the dumbbells, which explained the sounds of metal on wood. ‘If I’m not strong enough, I won’t be granted salvation.’

‘I…see.’ I searched for signs of substance abuse but couldn’t find any. Well, being sober didn’t mean she was mentally stable. Working out usually put me in a good mood, but I understood it wasn’t a mystical panacea to wash away your issues.

Those stacked bottles in the room were more numerous than you're imagining. I'm talking literal floor-to-ceiling stacks of untouched Mizu-Hydro. They traced the walls like insulation. As I ran my hand across the bottles, the girl lunged at me. I stumbled away. ‘Don’t touch them,’ she said, starting to cry again.

‘No need to ration it,’ I frowned. ‘Are your deliveries not coming?’

‘They keep coming, but I can’t stop them. If they know I’ve stopped drinking…’ She groaned. Her eyes flashed to me. ‘You’re not going to tell them, are you?’

‘Tell who?’

‘Them.’

‘Right, them.’ I nodded along, to placate her. 'No, I promise not to tell.'

‘If I pour it down the drain, they’ll find traces and track it to me. If I break the bottles, it triggers an alert. There are nanobots in the glass. I’m already on two strikes. They don’t call them strikes, but I know they’re waiting for me to screw up. If this keeps going, I’ll run out of space.’

‘Couldn’t you always—I don’t know—drink some?’

‘You’re an idiot,’ she spat.

‘Right, I’m the idiot.’ I sighed. ‘Well, I’ll try keep my parents from complaining to the council, but could you try not dropping the weights?’

She didn’t respond.

I sighed again, accidentally inhaling the stale, sweat-filled air. ‘I get it, being amped up during a workout, but dropping the weights is super loud.' Still, she didn't respond. 'I’m a sprinter,’ I remarked, hoping to find common ground. ‘Not to brag, but I’m high in the prefectural ranks.’

‘I know. Hasegawa Rina, the up-and-coming first year prodigy.’ The girl wiped sweat with the back of her hand. ‘You’re going really well. I hope you don’t burnout.’

‘Excuse me?’

‘You’re on-track to break my record by next year.’

I paused. My record, I thought. ‘Hoshino Ren?’ I ventured.

The girl paused mid-repetition, nodded once, and continued. Hoshino Ren, one of the best sprinters not only in the prefecture, but in the country. She held the record but stopped competing. Guess I discovered why.

I hesitated, mouth ajar. ‘You mentioned burnout.’

‘Total exhaustion,’ Hoshino panted. ‘Hard to care about anything.’

‘I don’t understand.’

She dropped the dumbbells. ‘I ran. I was good at it. You said you didn’t want to brag, so I’ll do it instead. I was the best. I thought my life had meaning. I kept going, kept doing better. Then I stopped improving. Everything kept getting worse and I couldn’t stop it. Stopped training, stayed at home. It’s strange, everyone was nice to me. Coaches, teachers, friends, my parents—they all encouraged me. It was disgusting. I ignored them, and now here we are.’

‘But, you’re training, so do you plan to compete again?’

‘Never.’ She laughed without humour. ‘Honestly, I don’t even like running. I did it because it seemed right. No, I’m training for true salvation. I’ve seen the truth. I know there’s more to this life than what we see.’

‘Which salvation? TeleShinto, or more of a Septethürn Christian flavour?’

‘Neither. True salvation.’

‘…I’m not following.’

She laughed again. ‘I’ve never talked this much to anyone, but when I heard your voice outside, I thought: She’s a liar like me.’

‘I’m not a liar.’

‘That’s a paradox.’

‘Well, I’m not sure we’re similar.’

‘We are. If you burnout, you’ll understand better. Not that I suggest it. But, in case you do, make sure you’re strong. The strong reach salvation, while the weak are lost.’

‘Again, I don’t know what “salvation” means.’

Hoshino dropped her dumbbells and took long, bold strides to me. I gulped as she brought her face close to mine. Her skin glistened with sweat. Her eyes possessed an animal’s wildness. ‘If you want to see the truth, stop drinking Mizu-Hydro.’

Uh…huh, I thought. As Hoshino continued her workout, I crept from the room, retraced my steps, and went home.

#

The following morning, my dad brought in the Mizu-Hydro delivery. My parents drank it with breakfast, but I told them I’d have it on the way to school. Despite doubting Hoshino Ren's mental state, I wanted to see if her rambling had any validity. 

While walking, I took a detour along the riverbank. Beneath a bridge was an old, unused maintenance room. I went there often to be alone, to shed the mask for a few minutes. I took the Mizu-Hydro bottle from my bag and automatically went to open it, before realising why I’d taken the detour. I placed the bottle in the corner. My mouth suddenly felt parched, as if I gargled sand. My very skin screamed for moisture.

How did Hoshino resist it? With self-discipline like that, no wonder she was a great athlete. Hoshino hadn’t said how long I needed to stop drinking it, so I resolved to resist for a week. If nothing happened, Hoshino was crazy. If not—well, a bit of truth might be just what I needed.