Mask of Resolve

My masks were slipping. Since witnessing Kishimoto harvest organs, every facet of my life had dulled. I hadn’t studied. I missed training. My parents asked about my health. I hadn’t spent time with friends. I felt guilty about neglecting everything, but I couldn’t bring myself to act. Failing to do anything made me feel guiltier, which made doing anything even harder.

I spent a lot of time in my room, doing nothing but letting my thoughts drift.

After all, my two glaring discoveries made it hard to function:

First, Mizu-Hydro was a nationwide hallucinogenic that made a terrible reality look normal. Even worse, I couldn’t tell anyone about it.

Second, Kishimoto and possibly many other people had telekinesis, like espers on TV, but instead of saving the world they harvested organs. I could tell the authorities, but I had a feeling nothing would happen. From what I’d witnessed, telekinesis left no evidence.

After the first discovery, I’d wanted to forget everything, but I resolved to keep pushing forward. Well, I’d pushed forward and felt even worse. I recalled those clichéd government-sponsored slogans about optimism and motivation posters on train station walls. They always offered the idea there was light at the end of the tunnel. All you had to do was continue. Almost all of us humans have that innate sense that we’re different, that our lives have purpose, that if we merely reach our potential we’ll be happy and fulfilled. What a joke. Happiness is a joke and fulfilment isn’t much better.

No, moving toward the light meant I’d get hit by the proverbial train. A better plan was to walk backward into the darkness…

I crept to the kitchen. Mum was in the laundry. Dad was having a bath.

I opened the fridge. Bottles of Mizu-Hydro waited on the door. They stung my senses, as if glowing cylinders of pure desire. I opened one and brought it to my lips. As the fluid touched my tongue, I recoiled and retched in the sink. Again, I brought the bottle to my lips. And again the fluid touched my tongue, only for bile to shoot up my throat. I spat in the sink. My chest heaved. It felt like I had two brains and neither agreed.

When the Mizu-Hydro had touched my tongue, memories of Hoshino Ren, Kishimoto, and the horrors outside pierced my mind. If I wanted to go back to my old life, I’d need to hire a Memory Doctor.

Hiring a MemDoc was legal, but you risked becoming a social pariah. Using it to treat trauma was normal, but if an unaffected person used the service, most acquaintances would assume that person had something to hide. If I wanted to alter my memories, I’d need to be discreet. It’d cost a lot, too.

No, I thought. Remember Hoshino Ren. The young man who got his organs harvested—I figured it was likely Kishimoto harvested Hoshino’s organs, too. I clenched my fists and breathed. You don’t owe her anything, I thought. Hire the MemDoc and go back to your normal life.

Yet…I knew I wouldn’t. It wasn’t that I liked the light, but I feared the dark more.

The doorbell rang.

‘Can you get that, Rina?’ Mum called from the laundry.

Composing myself, I opened the door with my fake, friendly smile. My expression vanished instantly. A towering figure dominated the doorway. Samoa Samson. ‘Oh, sorry,’ he said. ‘Is this the Hasegawa residence?’

‘What the hell’re you doing here?’ I hissed.

His brows shot toward the sky, like caterpillars plucked by a bird. ‘You look different,’ he remarked. ‘I hope you know temp-dye is bad for your hair follicles.’

‘How do you know my address?’

‘I have my ways. You agreed to dinner, remember?’ For a second, he looked genuinely hurt that I’d forgotten. How did a guy like that join the Sumiaka-kai?

The laundry door opened and shut. In seconds, Mum would be in the hallway and start asking questions about the massive man talking to me about dinner. I bit my tongue, seized a pair of black flats, shoved Samson back, and left the apartment. I’d text Mum about needing to run an errand.

‘You like Italian food?’ Samson asked.

Damn it, I thought. I fucking loved Italian food.

#

Samson’s driver brought us to Ginza. The opulence hit me when I stepped from the car, almost enough to make me forget recent horrors. I felt out of place. Samson wore an all-black, three-piece suit. Pedestrians wore chic streetwear or fashionable outfits for evening events. I wore a wrinkled T-shirt and flannel pants.

‘Cold?’ Samson asked, as I shivered.

‘N-Nope,’ I replied, teeth chattering.

‘I have a fur coat in the boot.’

‘No thanks.’

‘You sure? We have to walk for a bit.’

‘Fine,’ I seethed, scowling. Samson had an infuriating, self-satisfied smile, as if he'd won somehow. 

Samson and I walked for a while. I looked ridiculous. The fur coat belonged to Samson, meaning it reached my ankles. It was warm. Very warm. But a lot of people stared at me as we passed.

Finally, we reached the restaurant. Short steps led to a basement-styled restaurant. It had an arched ceiling, crystal lighting fixtures, and polished wood. My mouth watered at scents of garlic and herbs.

We were led to a corner table. Samson ordered for both of us. Garlic bread came out as an appetizer. It didn’t look or taste like regular fare. This was extravagant, well-prepared garlic bread. If joining the Sumiaka-kai meant I could eat like this regularly, I’d join in a heartbeat.

Soon after, two dishes of pasta arrived. We talked little. Samson seemed uncomfortable, out of his usual booth at the Root Scum club. I lacked my usual attire and dyed hair, too, which left me feeling vulnerable.

‘Do you like how you look?’ Samson asked abruptly.

‘Excuse me?’

‘That came out wrong. I meant, like, do you prefer this style or how you looked when we met?’

‘I…’ Good question. ‘It’s not about what I prefer. I can’t help mimicking.’ It was the first time I’d confessed that aloud.

Samson considered this for a time. ‘Over-reliance on people to form your identity is dangerous,’ he said. ‘You’re prone to losing your sense of self, like getting lost in a maze of mirrors.’ He twirled his fork and gathered a seemingly his whole plate of spaghetti. ‘The world relied on androids, a fake community, and our sense of self fell apart. When the androids failed, we forgot how to be ourselves.’

'I don't need a lecture,' I replied. Samson looked embarrassed.

‘Hey,’ Samson said, changing the subject. ‘We’re not selling that tech, in case you wondered.’

‘Holding out for more than ten million?’

‘The boss thinks we can use it, even with the risk of corpo rats finding out. The real problem is figuring out what it does.’

My breath caught. I stopped chewing. If the tech was what I thought, I knew what it did. It couldn’t be a coincidence that Kishimoto wanted to buy it for ten million yen. Surely the tech was what gave her telekinesis. ‘How will you find out?’ I asked.

‘There’s talk of kidnapping a corpo rat, but that poses a whole new set of problems. It needs to be implanted, but we don’t know what’ll happen afterward.’

‘What would you say if I knew what it did?’

It was Samson’s turn to pause. ‘I’d ask how you knew.’

‘Hypothetically, I couldn’t reveal that.’

‘Theoretically, if your hypothetical was true, I’d ask you to help.’

‘Conjecturally—’

‘Do you know or not?’ Samson asked.

‘…I do.’

‘Can you use it?’

‘…I can,’ I lied.

‘Will you?’

I gulped. How far was I willing to go?

Why was I getting involved? Because I was already involved. The Mizu-Hydro situation stole what control I had over my life, and I needed that control back. If I had the same powers as Kishimoto, maybe I could find a new life for myself. Maybe I could avenge Hoshino Ren. I’d have a new mask. Or, better, I’d remove my masks entirely.

‘Will you use the tech?’ Samson reiterated.

‘I will.’ I frowned. ‘Why me? Don’t you have goons?’

‘We prefer to call them henchmen,’ he smiled. ‘But, seriously, you being outside the Sumiaka-kai is exactly what I need. Do I trust you? No. Do I like you? Yes. So, if I give you the tech, I’ll expect your help in return.’

‘Another dinner date?’

‘You’ll work for me,’ he corrected. ‘With your help, I’ll climb the ranks of the Sumiaka-kai.’

If I agreed, I couldn’t go back. But, between the MemDoc and this shady, definitely illegal operation, I favoured the latter. All my masks, all my different lives, I wanted them to mean something. But, they didn’t. Faced with reality, true reality, caring about my athletic and academic performance seemed trivial. If I was going to face this new reality, I needed new power.

‘I’ll do it,’ I told Samson.

He smiled, got out his phone, and made a call. ‘Yeah, Doc. Prep for surgery. Yes that surgery.’ He hung up, turned to me, and gestured at the exit. ‘Shall we?’

#

Sometimes trauma makes people forget things. I can’t accurately say if the surgery was traumatic, but I remember almost nothing of it. The surgeon had a mole on his temple. The operating table had a sheet of plastic that crinkled when I lay down. The tech reminded me of a jellyfish. A disc needed to be implanted in the nape of my neck, and separate thin strands, like a jellyfish’s tentacles, would be implanted in my arms and legs. The surgeon administered an anaesthetic. As I lost consciousness, I spotted Samson in the corner, nodding to me.

Hours passed, but I didn’t notice. It felt like seconds. As I rose from the operating table, Samson told me the tech had been successfully implanted. He led me to a tall mirror. Stiches lined my inner arms and legs, and a piece of gauze covered the nape of my neck. I'd need to wear long-sleeved clothes until they healed. 

‘When can you start?’ Samson asked.

‘When I…’ Intense nausea overwhelmed me. I vomited on Samson’s shiny leather shoes.

The next few hours were some of the worst in my life. I’d had food poisoning before, but that resulted in my body expelling the harmful stuff. My body couldn’t expel the tech, though it tried its best. My body raged and rebelled against the tech, as if a caged animal. There was nothing to do but wait. Time cowed much.

I stayed in a cot a short distance from the operating table. At random times I grabbed blankets because I felt cold, and then I kicked them off because I felt hot. Sweat covered me. I shivered and trembled and could barely move. My joints felt rusted.

In between vomiting sessions, I made a brief call to my parents. I lied about staying at a friend’s house. They accepted it easily. They trusted me so much. Possibly too much.

I fell in and out of consciousness. I dreamed of an endless black expanse with tiny dots of white, as if drifting through space. My formless body drifted to one of these stars and it turned into a grey scene, like a monochromatic painting. It was an apartment. I went inside. A girl with toned arms and abdomen did push-ups, but her feet hovered above the ground. Pure planche. She finished a few, hopped to her feet, and started toward me, only to pause. ‘Where’s Alex?’

‘I don’t know,’ I replied.

‘Are you my new Conduit?’

‘I…don’t know.’

The girl looked hesitant to speak. ‘You should get in touch with your handler.’

‘Do you know someone named Kishimoto?’

‘Complaints should really be taken up with your handler.’

I nodded. She clearly wanted me to leave, so I did. I drifted among the blackness and reached another grey door. I went inside.

Immediately, my senses were assailed. I felt like a tracking dog, and everything in the apartment smelled like Kishimoto. It was too intense. I stumbled and fell. But, I didn’t have long to think, as a teenage boy approached me with a dumbbell overhead.

‘Who the hell’re you?’ he shouted.

I looked closer. No doubt about it, the boy was the same as the picture on Kishimoto’s phone. ‘It’s you,’ I said, getting to my feet. ‘It is you, isn’t it?’ What am I saying? ‘You’re helping…’ The other girl had reacted strangely when I mentioned Kishimoto. I decided being indirect might be smarter. ‘You’re helping—what’s her name?’

The boy didn’t respond. He looked ready to bash my brains in with that dumbbell.

‘I can sense her imprint all over the place.’ I shivered, remembering my night spent at Kishimoto’s house. ‘Whatever. My name is Hasegawa Rina.’

‘Get out,’ the boy mumbled.

‘Do you know what that girl is doing?’

‘Get out.’

I was getting frustrated. At least the other girl had spoken clearly. I snapped my fingers a few times. ‘Name. Name. Kishino?’ I pretended to remember. ‘Kishimoto! That psycho bitch.’ If the boy didn’t like Kishimoto, we could find a common enemy.

‘Don’t call her that!’ the boy screamed, stepping toward me.

Okay, change tactic. ‘I’m telling you, she’s using these powers for something horrible.’

‘They started it,’ he replied.

I paused, mouth agape. They started it? Did Hoshino Ren deserve her fate, just for being a shut-in? ‘They’re still people! They’re in a tough spot, but they should be given the freedom to do what they want.’

‘You need to leave.’

Not good, I thought. Something told me lingering in the darkness outside wasn’t good. Like, drinking too much and losing your grip on reality. ‘Let’s at least talk.’

‘Nothing you say will sway me.’

I sneered. Judging by the apartment, the boy might’ve been a shut-in, too. ‘You’re satisfied so long as it isn’t you?’

‘They brought it on themselves.’

Hypocrite, I thought. ‘You’re an idiot.’

The boy flinched. Might’ve had low self-esteem. ‘You have five seconds. What’s so horrible about Kishimoto?’

‘I…’ How to phrase it? He seemed fanatically loyal to her, so how would he react to the organ harvesting? Surely he didn’t know. Then again, judging by what he said, he seemed fine with it. Maybe he didn’t know the extent of what they were doing. What about Mizu-Hydro? Did he stop drinking it like Hoshino Ren? Shit, running out of time. ‘I don’t know exactly,’ I said. ‘I know it’s something.’

‘Nice try,’ he replied. He took a step, fury in his eyes. I retreated to the door. ‘Find another Source.’ He charged. I yelped and plunged back into the darkness.

Well, the questions continued piling up. Conduit? Source? I needed to figure out how it worked. I wasn’t alone, either, for better or worse; Samson was technically my boss, now. Plus, the word “debt” wasn’t taken lightly among the Sumiaka-kai. I needed to get the tech working. I needed telekinesis. If I could convince someone in those grey apartments, maybe I’d make progress.

The boy seemed loyal to Kishimoto, yet he also seemed unstable. I had the feeling I’d be able to find his apartment again, among the blackness. With the right information, maybe he could be swayed.