"Canary in a Coal Mine"

We now flash back to the perspective of MIYATA MIYUKI, the once and future PRESIDENT OF THE HISTORY CLUB, but currently just the PRESIDENT OF THE HISTORY CLUB (SHIKISHIMA NORTHWEST NI-MACHI MIDDLE SCHOOL) at the time of this flashback, with only THREE YEARS UNTIL THE CULTURE FESTIVAL.

Like any good anime character, my actions of today are intractably linked to the events of yesterday. Over a thousand yesterdays ago, in fact - aka, three years in the past, when I was just a wee Joshi Chuugakusei who could barely tell her shonen from her shoujo. Well, that’s a lie, because I had already crudely drawn three hundred pages of fancomic for Reincarnated in Another World…With Unlimited Mustard??? I don’t know if it’s been translated for the West yet, but I highly recommend it. The main character John dies at the end, but it’s still worth reading.

But in any case, I knew my shoujo, and I knew I was a typical shoujo protagonist (minus the bishie sparkles). I was a bit clumsy, a bit naive, a bit air-headed, but cute as a button and well-meaning. You could argue I’m telling and not showing things right now, but screw you, this is a flashback I’m trying to keep within a single chapter.

But in any case, being clumsy and naive and air-headed aren’t truly bad qualities. They’re endearing to the shoujo protagonist’s love interest and, perhaps more importantly, endearing to the audience. Rarely will ever something truly bad ever happen because of these flaws. 

Yet sometimes it happens.

But in any case, while I love all things otaku, it’s not what I want to do for a career. It’s not because of the fact that most people don’t end up being successful creators in the industry; it’s that I don’t want to be in the industry in the first place. I’d rather make my fancomics and fanfiction and keep things stress free. You see, both my parents are history professors at the University of Shikishima (ironically enough, they met at an otaku convention. Both my mother and father cosplayed as John).

But in any case, touring the University’s vast library and watching documentaries in the auditorium instilled in me a love of history that I still carry to the time of relaying this flashback to you. Being a history professor would be pretty neat - discussing your passions and teaching the next generation, and don’t even get me started on that sweet, sweet tenure. Plus, I’d look cute in glasses (I’ll wear them for show once I become a teacher). It’s a shame 99% of anime aren’t set in university - I’d love to see wacky hijinks of a four-girl ensemble in their university days. I could be the Sensei-chan! I’d rather not be a Christmas cake, though. If it comes down to it, perhaps I’ll marry Naruto Juro or even (chokes in disgust) Hayashi Hanzo!

But in any case, my historical passion and shoujo qualities led to me becoming the President of the Shikishima Northwest Ni-Machi Middle School History Club. We were a small bunch and affiliated with the main History Club at Shikishima High. How I admired them, and how foolish I was.

The recent Chrysanthemum Revolution on the mainland either freed Japan from Shikishima’s puppet-strings and established a healthy democracy, or was a manipulative plot by mainland keiretsu to create an oligarchy free from the Nakashima conglomerate, depending on your point of view. But in any case, Shikishima suffered an economic crash immediately afterwards, with the bad economy creating bad vibes which created bad teenagers. Teenagers are receptive to how adults feel, you know! If the adults say the sky is falling, we’re all doomed, then many teenagers won’t see any point in keeping it up themselves.

The third-years in both the History Club and Historical Research Club were bad teenagers - but how could I have known back then? In both clubs, leadership in those days was just a symbol of prestige, with a true passion for history gone to the wayside. The girls saw the club rivalry as an excuse for bullying, gossip, and wild love triangle schemes; the boys saw the club rivalry as an excuse for bullying, brawls, and wacky hazing schemes. But these were high schoolers, third-years no less, and were therefore the coolest people in existence to a second-year middle schooler like me.

“They seem a bit lame,” Kato Ryoko says to me during the usual walk home from Middle School. Her dark hair seemingly tinged with red in the light is scraggly, tumbling and curling down to her shoulders, compared to my black-hair neat braid. The other kids say her San-Machi orphanage used all their money to put her in a Ni-Machi middle school, so she couldn’t afford a good hair stylist. I think Ryoko likes to follow her own path and doesn’t care what they say.

I don’t care what they say, either. Ryoko’s the best because she loves magical girl anime, just like me.

“Lame?” I repeat. “Look at their dyed hair! Look at the way they rock those high school uniforms!”

“Just ‘cuz a person appears cool, that don’t mean they are.”

I don’t get it, so like with anything else I don’t get, I decide it’s not important and not my business.

On the way to the subway station, we pass by a convenience store. “Like any good shoujo characters, let’s get some juice,” I say.

Ryoko gives me a reluctant look, her hands going into pockets empty of any money. “I, um…”

“My treat,” I offer. “Not just because we’re in the History Club together. But because we’re friends.”

She gives me a shy nod.

Just like anime!

You see, that was my issue back then. I lacked a moral compass of my own. Everything I said and did was mimicked from somewhere else. The third-years, anime weeklies, manga classics - they were my Bible, my Gospel, my Evangelion (heh). I mimicked heroes when it came to easy things, like buying someone a can of juice, or walking home with a friend. I mimicked the third-years when it came to tough decisions.

Sometimes, when I got to the lockers at school, Ryoko would be dumping out tacks from her indoor shoes placed in there by a gang of popular girls. “Don’t worry!” I told her, because I wasn’t worried.

Sometimes, when I got to class, Ryoko would be wiping taunting scrawl from her desk, scrawl about her mom leaving the family, her father killed by Somalian pirates. “Don’t be concerned!” I told her, because I wasn’t concerned.

Sometimes, when I got to the bathroom, Ryoko would be yacking up the stuff she ate at lunch, if she even ate anything at all. “It’s alright!” I told her, because I felt alright.

See what I mean? I could do the bare minimum - tell her it’s okay, tell her it’s alright - and feel like a right and proper protagonist. I was doing my part. And, at the same time, I could feel like I was a cool third-year because I was telling my parents and teachers and friends how great it was to be a club president. Meanwhile, someone was suffering and I never even offered to be a shoulder to cry on. Sometimes, people need to cry. But telling somebody ‘hey, just be happy’ is an easier thing to do, and makes you feel heroic when you don't know any better, or close your eyes to the uncomfortable reality.

But in any case, the purpose of this flashback. In the October of my second-year, the talk of school was gossip surrounding the brewing war at the high school between the rival History Club and Historical Research Club in the build-up to the culture festival. There was a brawl at an arcade, a rumble at a restaurant, a cheating scandal (two-timing boyfriend), and a cheating scandal (math exams). Since the HRC didn’t have middle school affiliates, the History Club's vast network put all of the island's youth on their side. I was the proudest of them all, and loudest on boards like 3chan - we were beating the dreaded HRC and showing them what’s up.

Faced with this humiliation, the HRC turned to a man they didn’t truly understand.

“I think someone’s stalking me,” Ryoko told me in a hushed tone late during an after-school club session.

I didn’t look up from my manga. “Eh? Really? What does he look like?”

“He looks like he could be in college.” Ryoko gulps and taps her fingers together. “I heard…there’s a former delinquent with a real bad reputation. Bandit Ren, they call him. A trimmed beard, dark hair, dark eyes. I think it might be him.”

“You read too much manga!” I exclaim, reading my manga. “You’ll be alright!”

“Miyuki, I’m serious,” Ryoko protests. “I don’t know what to do. I really need some advice.”

I close the manga and smile. “Ryoko, it’s okay. Nothing to be worried about. When I watch too much anime in a single session, I start getting chuunibyou syndrome. The world seems like a place where the odd and fantastic really could happen. I doubt you have a stalker.”

Chair scrapes floor when Ryoko stands up in a huff. “Everything is always okay with you, Miyuki. The potted plant on my desk is nothing serious. The stolen shoes are nothing serious. Aren’t you my friend? Aren’t you concerned?”

Ryoko storms off before I can say anything. I sigh, scratch my head, and go back to my manga.

And then things escalate.

The phone call comes when I get home. It’s from Ryoko’s number, but it’s not from Ryoko.

“Miyata Miyuki,” a baritone voice greets, deep and haunting. He speaks slowly yet beautifully, a flat tone with no emotion, ethereal in its grace. “This is the man known as Bandit Ren. We haven’t met before, but perhaps my reputation precedes me.”

Despite the mid-autumn heat wave, I’m sweating something fierce. “How do you know my name? And where’s Ryoko?”

There’s a distinctive crack sound and a distinctive scream. “Ryoko’s here with me. Call the President of the Shikishima High History Club. Tell them the HRC has a young canary who’s already singing, but will be buried in a coal mine if they don’t show up at the abandoned San-Machi Third Station Tunnel soon.”

Another crack, another scream. The phone disconnects. I stare down at my own reflection on the blank screen.

Not my fault. Not my fault.

Since we’re an affiliate club, I have the President’s phone number. Normally, I’d be swooning and blushing over calling a guy like him, but I keep hearing the scream.

“K-Kaicho,” I greet. “Sorry for calling so late-”

“Eh? The hell do you want?”

I relay the situation. How the HRC escalated the war with the History Club by kidnapping a member of a middle schooler affiliate club. It sounds pretty stupid when you put it like that, but my best friend was in serious trouble.

Unfortunately, the President interpreted it the first way.

“You think a stupid story like that is gonna trick me?” the President barks out.

“You gotta believe me!”

“Even if I do, what’s it gotta do with me? That ain’t my middle school. You’re keeping me from a girl on the soccer club right now. I’m trying to score, so unless you’re offering to substitute for her, don’t call me again.”

He hangs up. I collapse on my bed. I’m weak, I’m stupid, I’m scared. I wanted to live in a world of fantasy and heroes, so I ignored the negative signs all around me. I pretended to be a hero while ignoring what makes them heroes - doing things they don’t want to do, because it’s truly right.

My parents were at a work event, and calling the cops…well, that’s scary.

I did have one more option. One time I told Ryoko I was scared about getting beat up by one of those Red Knife delinquents. The Red Knives didn’t even operate in Ni-Machi. But I was scared for once, and what does Ryoko do?

“If you ever get in trouble,” Ryoko tells me. “Call this number. He’ll help you, no questions asked.”

With trembling fingers, I dial the number. He picks up after the first ring.

“Moshi moshi, this is Mizutami Kouji speaking.”

==========

By the time I get to the abandoned tunnel, unconscious bodies already litter the entrance. I gasp and take a step back when the Mizutami twins emerge from the darkness, scraped and bloodied, walking out Ryoko between them. I want to vomit. The fingers on her right hand are all turned sideways.

There’s nothing else I can do but prostrate myself before them.

“Thank you. Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

Kouji gives me a pained smile, revealing a missing tooth. “I told you the whole Senko gang would be here to rescue your friend, but none of them cared enough to show up.”

“That really ticks me off, Nii-chan,” Mizutami Sumiko says. “I don’t wanna be part of the Senko anymore if Haruki is gonna sit on his ass and play arcade games instead of helping.”

“Rushing in all by yourself,” I mumble. “You guys are the real heroes.”

While Kouji gives me a stupid grin, Sumiko mutters, “Don’t patronize me.”

They pass Ryoko back to me. Sweat and blood stain her face while purple splotches run up her legs and arms. She moans at the sight of her ruined fingers.

“We didn’t run into your Bandit Ren,” Kouji says. “Nor were there any HRC members in there.” He gives a light kick to the unconscious body of a delinquent. “From what I can gather, the HRC asked Ren to escalate the war. Graffiti the homes of the History Club members, toss a stink bomb into their favorite arcade, that kind of thing. He gathered a bunch of Red Knives and did this instead.”

“Quit the exposition, Nii-chan.” Sumiko ushers us forward. “Let’s get the girl to a hospital.”

As we walk towards the nearest phone booth to call an ambulance, Ryoko and I lag a bit behind the Mizutami twins. I think they knew and wanted to give us space. The only audible sound for a while is the hum of overhead streetlamps and the distant rumbles of trains.

“Ryoko,” I say, because I don’t know what else to say. I know I can’t say, “It’s alright.” It never was. I can only think of one thing to say instead.

“I’m sorry.”

Ryoko finally lifts her head. Her eyes look sunken and there’s blood in her mouth. But she’s smiling.

“No, you’re not.”

We haven’t talked much since.