Mask of Terror

The sun did not rise. The sky was not blue. The grass was not green. I, the liar Hasegawa Rina, saw the truth. I saw no sun. The sky was an endless sheet of murky grey splotched with yellowish white and red, as if cinder and blood mixed into thick, soured milk. The grass was brown and dead: A field of famine. Pedestrians at the railroad crossing had sickly, sallow complexions. Schoolgirls chatted while swarms of locusts and bats flew overhead.

I screamed and couldn’t stop.

My parents burst into the room. Hoshino Ren’s words rattled in my skull: Don’t let anyone know. My breath came in ragged bursts. Mantra. Mantra. What was the mantra? I gripped my curtains, head low between my shoulders, and tried to steady my breathing.

I am here. I am afraid. I must not hide. I will not be swayed.

I am here. I am afraid. I must not hide. I will not be swayed.

I am here. I am afraid. I must not hide. I will not be swayed.

My parents continued to ask me why I screamed. I hadn’t seen them yet. Did I want to know? I took a deep breath and turned. Their complexion was sickly, too, but otherwise they looked normal. I exhaled. ‘I had a nightmare,’ I answered. ‘It was about a cockroach, and then when I woke up there was a cockroach on my bed.’ A sudden, manic laugh escaped me. Coupled with my messy hair, I must’ve looked crazy.

My parents replied with their own uneasy laugh, but the more we laughed the more normal we sounded. ‘All for a cockroach,’ Dad said, wiping his eyes.

‘I thought you liked insects,’ Mum added.

My laughter petered out. ‘Not cockroaches.’ I assured my parents. They left. I scrambled to the bathroom and retched in the toilet. I reeled away, gripped the basin, and stared into the mirror. I held my eyelids back and inspected the main components: Iris, pupil, white. Nothing seemed amiss. I checked the rest of my body. Aside from a sickly complexion, I looked fine. I didn’t feel sick, though. Would the symptoms trigger if I continued to abstain from Mizu-Hydro?

I returned to my room and peeked outside. The horrific landscape hadn’t changed. Somehow, consumption of Mizu-Hydro altered perception. I couldn’t be certain of the extent, nor did I want to be.

Mum called from the living room. I checked the clock and swore. I’d overslept and spent too long in the bathroom. I’d be late to school. Scrambling into my uniform, I collected my bag and ran from my room. As I passed, the bottle of Mizu-Hydro on the counter seemed to scream at me. For a second, I imagined the liquid boiled and urged me to drink. I hurried into my shoes and ran outside.

I wanted to visit Hoshino Ren, but there wasn’t time. Any other morning I could afford to be late, but I had a pre-race meeting with the cycling team. I’d never missed a meeting. I’d draw attention to myself if I did. Besides, Hoshino wasn’t going anywhere.

The walk to school was the longest I’d ever experienced. Though I kept my head down, I couldn’t ignore minor changes to my environment. Everything seemed dull, as if reality itself was fatigued.

I made it to school and attended the cycling team’s meeting. I couldn’t tell you a single word I or anyone else said. The bell rang. I went to class.

Our first twenty-minute class was theology. Mr Tanabe walked in and quieted the class. My breath caught. When I’d glanced up, I expected the same sickly complexion, but…

Mr Tanabe had a ghoulish face. Thickly wrinkled skin pulsed with every heartbeat. His eyes were black and amber. His hair moved on its own, knotting and unknotting with the adjacent strands.

I am here. I am afraid. I must not hide. I will not be swayed.

When Mr Tanabe turned his back, skin at the nape of his neck slit horizontally. A mechanical eye swivelled and continued to observe the class. Mr Tanabe wrote a quote on the board. As he did, the eye popped from his neck, connected by a metal cable. The eye snaked along the floor and peered up girls’ skirts. No, I thought. No. I pushed my knees together. The eye lingered on me longer than the others. Don’t. The eye began to rise, tracing my leg but not touching. I held my breath and jammed my thumb into a mechanical pencil until I bled. My thoughts were aflame, screaming:

I am here! I am afraid! I must not hide! I will not be swayed!

Finally, the eye whipped back to Mr Tanabe like those steel tape measures. The lesson continued, and so did my breathing.

At midday, I visited the nurse and got permission to go home early. I kept a normal pace when leaving the school gate. Once clear, I sprinted. I almost wish talent scouts had been around; I sprinted with an intensity I’d never possessed during races. I could’ve beaten Hoshino’s record.

Speaking of Hoshino…

I slammed my fist against her apartment door. No answer. I wrenched the doorknob and found it unlocked. ‘Hoshino,’ I called, entering. Did I get the wrong apartment? All the clutter had vanished. The walls and ceiling were spotless. I stepped out and checked the name on the door. It read: Hoshino Ren. I went to her room and found it likewise empty.

Had she gone back to live with her parents?

Going home, I stepped on a tiny postcard in the entryway. It had my name on the front. On the back, it read: Don’t burnout.

Call it exhaustion, mental shock, being a girl, being human, or the unfulfilled wish to be friends with someone—whatever the reason, I cried. That five-letter, one-syllable word isn’t sufficient. Wept is decent. Sobbed, too. Cried-my-eyes-out is overdramatic. I don’t have a word for what I did. Tears fell in that ugly way where your face contorts, that way where your body spasms. I collapsed in the entryway, cried, and curled into myself, as if to escape the new reality before me.

I wanted to flee, to forget everything about shut-ins, Mizu-Hydro, and Hoshino Ren. But, attempts to think of other things made me feel worse. Ignore a wound and it only bleeds more. I needed to face it. Crying helped. When the fear faded and my mind regained rational functionality, I got to my feet.

For once, it didn’t feel like I wore a mask. I always thought my personality without a mask was horrible, but if reality’s truth was horrible, too, well: I was perfect.

#

I needed a plan. Go to the police? And, what, tell them Mizu-Hydro was a hallucinogenic? No, Hoshino Ren had suggested that people would know if I stopped drinking it, implication being that they wouldn’t be pleased. Go to the media? They had a thousand conspiracy theorists contacting them every day. Plus, they only reported on a narrow range of permitted subjects. Tell a friend? Oh, yeah…guess I didn’t have a “real” friend.

Part of me already knew the solution, but every other part rebelled. Yet, the hours passed, evening approached, and I knew what I had to do.

I went to the Root Scum club.

The bouncer remarked on me coming alone, but I ignored him. A couple of my friends called to me from the bar, but I ignored them too. My visage cut a path to the table of Sumiaka-kai members. As I neared, guards tried to stop me, but Samoa Samson gave me permission. ‘I missed you last time,’ he smiled.

‘I need information,’ I stated, to which some of the syndicate guys bristled. Again, Samson calmed them.

‘It’ll cost you.’

‘Guessing you want more than money?’ I replied. His smile widened. ‘But I’m not going into those rooms,’ I said, gesturing to the VIP section.

‘Coercion’s out of fashion, but charisma isn’t. How about dinner this weekend?’

‘Fine, whatever. I need information on shut-ins, Mizu-Hydro, and any rumours about…’ How to phrase it? Rumours about reality being a lie? ‘Just…rumours.’

‘Casting a wide net? Well…’ Samson flicked his hand. The booth emptied. I slid onto the plush seats but kept my distance.

‘You’re in luck,’ Samson continued. ‘What you said last time—it got me thinking about my grandfather. Don’t look at me like that; patience is a virtue. You see, my grandfather was a major shut-in. I owed it to him to at least check on the situation.’

‘And?’

‘And nothing. I checked. Those “rehab centres in the countryside” don’t exist. I don’t know what’s causing disappearances of shut-ins.’

‘So you’re wasting my time?’

‘Hold on. Next rumour: Mizu-Hydro. A few years back, one of our guys went on a tough job, had to do some tough things. Couple weeks later, he lost his mind. He started rambling about how Mizu-Hydro was poison and we were in a living hell. Then he killed himself.’

I swore under my breath. He likely saw what I did. His death worried me, but at least it confirmed my experience wasn’t isolated. Samson bounced his eyebrows at me, knowing he’d given good information. He continued:

‘It got me thinking: What links these two? Boom! Mega-corporations. It’s always those guys. I checked on current rumours.’ He glanced around, but nobody was in earshot. ‘Turns out those rat bastards are scurrying around more than usual,’ he whispered. ‘Some of our guys lifted their tech. Figured it was basic stuff, blenders and shit, easy to dismantle for salvage. But we don’t even know what our loot is.’

‘If you don’t get to the point, I’m leaving.’

‘Coercion’s out of fashion, remember?’ He chuckled. I didn’t. He cleared his throat. ‘Our guys were going to toss the loot. Can’t have corpo rats linking it to us. Except, someone offered to buy it.’

‘Who?’

‘First, guess how much they offered.’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Guess.’

My impatience had no effect. ‘A million,’ I snapped.

‘Add a zero.’

Ten million yen?

‘What’s the tech?’ I asked.

‘No idea. Our lieutenants are discussing if we should negotiate for more.’

‘Who’s the buyer?’

Samson flipped open his phone to check a camera feed in the VIP section. ‘She’s in there right now.’ He pointed out a girl standing in the corner with a few others. I looked closer. It was the girl I’d met last week.

‘She has ten million yen?’

‘Whoever she works for does,’ Samson replied. ‘Want to get closer?’

I needed information, but what if she recognised me? Would she assume I had an agenda? Even if I spoke to her, I couldn’t outright ask her about the stolen tech.

‘I didn’t make myself clear,’ Samson said, interrupting my thoughts. ‘I wasn’t asking if you wanted to meet her. I was asking…’ He reached for something behind the booth. His mechanical fingers split into multiple segments, connected with unseen sockets in the wall, and a moment later part of the booth slid away. An extremely narrow passage revealed itself. ‘After you,’ he said.

This could go very wrong, I thought. And yet, I crawled inside.

#

Once I’d crawled into the space behind the Sumiaka-kai’s booth, the passage widened, as if a spacious ventilation shaft. Samson followed me inside. We used our phones for light. Having him at my back wasn’t exactly comforting, but there wasn’t enough space to let him pass. Crouched slightly, I went further. I heard music ahead.

The passage split. From what I guessed, each route led to a different part of the VIP section. I later learned the Sumiaka-kai recorded what happened in the private rooms for blackmail material. Samson directed me, and we reached a one-way mirror. That position placed us conveniently behind the girl I’d met. What was her name? Kishino? No, Kishimoto.

Kishimoto paced a private room, phone to her ear. ‘He’s grown into a decent guard dog. A bit temperamental but easy to handle. I’ll send you a picture.’ She stopped, lowered her phone, and opened a picture of a shirtless teenage boy in what looked like an apartment. He had an impressive physique, despite his age.

‘We were right about him,’ Kishimoto said. ‘Same mutation, just needed to be triggered. Myostatin-related muscle hypotrophy. Did the picture go through? He’s beefy, right?’

My eyes noticed movement from across the room. Random items on the bedside table…levitated. Kishimoto had raised a hand. As her fingers moved, so did the items. It was like that fidgeting people do when talking on the phone. Except…ordinary people didn’t make things levitate.

‘The sprinter?’ Kishimoto continued. ‘Yeah, nobody will notice she’s gone. She’ll make a great Source. Oh, get off my back; I did my due diligence. She dropped out of competitions and lived alone for the last year. No, no, we agreed on using the salvation scenario. We toyed with the romance scenario, but she wasn’t interested. She ticks the asexual boxes. Uh-huh. Uh-uh. I’m telling you, the freedom scenario is short-sighted and expensive.’

Hoshino Ren, I thought. Sprinter, salvation. But, what were these “scenarios” Kishimoto talked about?

‘You’re not listening to me,’ Kishimoto said. ‘There’s enough evidence to suggest high-discipline Sources can safely withdraw from Mizu-Hydro, so long as you promise something in return. Therefore, the salvation scenario is best suited for—I’m not being naïve!’ She held the phone to her mouth. ‘Who’s the field agent? Who? Me! I am! I make the call.’

Kishimoto’s rage-filled expression vanished. She seemed to have immense control over her face. As she smoothed her hair, she continued the conversation in a lighter tone:

‘I’m collecting a fresh one tomorrow morning. Be ready at the usual drop-off. Yeah, yes, see you then.’ She hung up and left the room.

That’s all?

I needed more information. Kishimoto seemed to hold most of the answers I wanted. ‘I need to reach her,’ I told Samson, readying to go back through the passage. Instead, he pushed the wall panel, which slid open.

‘Go for it,’ Samson said. ‘Don’t forget: Dinner this weekend.’

I ignored him, hopped into the room, and rushed into the main VIP area. Kishimoto hadn’t gone far. I pushed through the crowd and tapped her on the shoulder. She spun, expression fierce, hand reaching for her back pocket.

‘Remember me?’ I asked.

She relaxed. ‘How could I forget?’

‘Thought I’d…take you up on that offer.’

‘You can take more than that.’ Her lips formed a smile, but her face left a dark impression. ‘Follow me,’ she replied.

#

Kishimoto and I walked to her house, a sizeable property. I avoided looking around too much, in case I noticed something new and horrifying about the world. I hoped she took my behaviour as nervousness, not withdrawals from Mizu-Hydro.

When we reached her house, she wasted no time bringing me upstairs. You don’t want to know what happened. Well, you do. But I don’t want to tell you. Okay, frankly, not much did happen. Don’t believe me? Here’s a summary:

Kishimoto undressed and went to a massive bed. She shoved aside a bunch of toy sea otters. Weird. She directed me. I did as she wanted. She enjoyed it. She didn’t reciprocate. She fell asleep. Seriously.

I feigned sleep, too, before slipping from the bed and inspecting the room. How would she hide secret documents? Turns out, not very well. I found manila folders in her dresser. I didn’t risk reading them for long, but I got a general idea of the contents. Each folder was a dossier, and the subject of each dossier was marked "to-be-harvested" or "converted-to-Source". The newest dossier was for Hoshino Ren. Its was marked converted-to-Source, though I didn’t know whether that was good or bad. Or, more likely, whether it was bad or worse.

If I stole the documents, Kishimoto would know. If I read them for too long, she might wake up. Besides, there was another source of information. Kishimoto had said on the phone that she’d be “collecting a fresh one” sometime during the next morning.

All I had to do was…wait.

I tried to sleep next to Kishimoto, but I was too anxious. Brief, fitful moments of rest left me sluggish when morning light peeked through the blinds. Kishimoto didn’t help. Her first words were:

‘You’re still here?’

I rubbed my eyes. She nudged me, said something about work, and told me to leave. I acquiesced but lingered in an alley across from her house. It wasn’t long before she emerged. She walked to the train station. I followed. She got on a train. I followed. She went to a generic apartment complex. I followed. Her friends from the club met her outside a certain apartment. They had brought a dozen cardboard boxes filled with packing foam. Condensation mist escaped the openings.

I watched from the elevators, keeping to the shadows.

‘She’s in there?’ Kishimoto asked her weird trio of friends.

‘Where else would she be?’ the muscular man replied.

Kishimoto yawned, cracked her neck, and rubbed her forearms. ‘Let’s do it.’

Raising her hand, the door’s locking mechanisms rattled and broke. She hadn’t touched it. The door swung inward. The four marched inside. The cardboard boxes floated through the air and followed them. I heard a brief scream, before it was silenced.

My primal, animal brain told me to flee. Youthful arrogance told me I was immortal. If I hadn’t stopped drinking Mizu-Hydro, hadn’t seen the horrors around me, I would’ve fled. But, I’d seen too much already. Why not see how far the corruption went?

I crept to the doorway and peeked inside. The entryway and hall were a mess of boxes, clothes, and merchandise. I guessed the apartment belonged to a shut-in. At the end of the hall, I spotted Kishimoto and her friends. Amidst them, a young man floated in the air. He didn’t move. He didn’t breath.

My heart pounded.

Kishimoto raised her hands. The man’s skin neatly split at various places, as if unstitching a toy. Blood dripped but never hit the ground. Kishimoto’s friends used their powers to keep the scene clean.

I clamped a hand over my mouth.

Multiple organs slid from the man’s body and floated into the cardboard boxes. Liver, kidneys, bladder, stomach, heart, and even the lungs. Worst of all: Kishimoto raised her hands higher, toward the man’s head. Bone cracked. The man’s scalp peeled back and—

I pulled away and nearly retched.

‘I feel a breeze,’ Kishimoto said. ‘Did you close the door?’

Kishimoto’s friends didn’t say anything, clearly assuming someone else had done it. I sharply inhaled and scrambled away on my hands and knees, moments before the doors slammed shut.