MOFA Headquarters 3rd Floor Meeting Room B2, East Hallway
1:25 PM
At a door kept open, two ushered in; their hosts to follow right after without a word exchanged. Four men sat, pairs of two opposite to one another. All present were about the same age as one another with equally as slow or unhurried movement despite all the ushering; unimportant details and such.
Two men sat on the left, one caucasian with an inch of brown fluff on top wearing a contrast-collar dress shirt, and the other a Latino with thick, unfashionable sideburns that teetered on the line of mutton chops. The Latino had an American flag pin implanted into his left lapel, whilst the caucasian fashioned bloodshot eyes at the center of a fresh coat of light reddish swelling painted over much older blackish skin. Both kept their lips tight, gaze only partially focused on their hosts with a degree or so’s difference. Both had come in with a newfound interest in clockwatching, and even though they were both conspicuously unsettled with unnaturally moist faces, they kept at their little facade. Representatives Andrews and Romero respectively.
Opposing them were two Japanese men with matching yellowish-peach pastel skin tones and equally contrasting generic dark suits. One, a peculiar five o’clock shadow and plump, yellow tie without all too much decorum, and the other armed by a not-so-prominent jawline and more than prominent combover. They both held their expressions to be grave, deep frowns and condoling looks high, though nowhere near as grave as their counterparts on the left. Representatives Hideki and Sora respectively.
None of the four had come into the room with any positive expectations for what they were to leave with; the Americans only anticipated, and the Japanese only worried.
Hideki and Sora looked down their counterparts, then to one another, as if to make for a humorous moment in a film. Simply seeing both, they were apprehensive. They made no faces, instead telepathically relaying their shared doubts that these two men were fit to negotiate any terms presently. If they were, then they wouldn’t be resting easy—they looked shell-shocked. For all they knew, the two Americans could’ve been holding back a spillway’s worth of tears.
Sora turned to the Americans and gave a nod, before reaching out to the two with a deliberate and steady tone with traces of warmth imbued into his speech, “We understand the situation that your countrymen have found yourselves in, and are open to discuss the issue for anything you may need,” he’d say with a surprisingly low voice.
Whether Sora spoke empathetically or diplomatically, the Americans’ reaction was all the same.
One of the Americans shuffled slightly, glaring at Sora. He wasn’t so sure where Romero emotionally was—something just north of a heavy disbelief, but also just shy of desperation and depression. Whatever blend of emotions in his head must’ve made for one hell of a concoction with stronger effect than even the strongest of hallucinogens.
The ice, it would seem, had been cracked. Not yet broken, but half of an inch from doing so. Representative Andrews asked, almost right after clearing his throat, “...Mister Hideki, with that in mind, I feel the need to ask, and excuse me if I may sound accusatory, but is the Japanese Government being wholly and entirely transparent and truthful regarding this event?” His tone was captious, posture condemnatory, and expression wholly blank. His words traced from one into the next, a sense of elegance to their fluidity already implied.
Sora felt a tinge of doubt, its sting hanging high overhead as he briefly considered it. They were, weren’t they? He thought they were, and he was hard-pressed to find evidence for the contrary, even if the Latino had tried pressuring him into doing so. Not all was settled either, this he knew for a fact, and they couldn’t run the risk of letting these diplomats all have undersupplied information to run with, in the very words of Minister Yoshimune in a faxed memo already two hours and three minutes old.
“We… will release the full extent of the information we have to all foreign missions once we have assessed the situation’s full severity to a more complete level,” he’d say, half of the words stolen right from the memo and spat out into verbal form. The list of excuses he could use threatened to throw his head into a spin as it grew, but the one he chose slid into place next to the official statement almost perfectly in his head, “We’re still missing key information, and several ministries including our own have only just finished their first rounds of initial assessments.”
Both Andrews and Romero listened in for their fill carefully, wanting to be caught needing to ask for clarification in any embarrassing way. It all made perfect sense to them, though would have easily been seen as holding a lick of dubious intent having left no opening. For now, however, these were the official words to be taken at face value, and the exact ones they’d memorize for Ambassador Gardner who they were both convinced should have been the one in attendance. Instead, a parlay with the commander.
The representative of fairer skin stumbled about mentally, leaving behind a trailing silence. No openings, none that he could use to flow into at least. “So… what can we be guaranteed then?” Andrews asked.
The two Japanese representatives took no time to refer to the Ministry’s official stance on the issue, already established within hours of the transfer, though very likely to be revised in several significant ways after the meeting.
“As the host nation in this time of a crisis, we can assure you that a policy of transparency will be upheld on our part, and should you ask directly, we could most likely meaningfully answer any questions or queries you may have regarding the current situation. This will simply take some time.” Hideki would hose out from his seemingly never-ending tank of statements. “Moreso, we can ensure at the very least the safety of foreign citizens with visa extensions and grants of permanent residency as refugees—”
Romero cut him off mid-sentence, his shock materializing to words that glided out of his mouth in a complaintive, halfway-to-deafening tone. “Damnit, we’ve been trying all morning and still we’re being handed the same responses! I–I mean, refugees?! Surely you can’t expect us to simply allow oursel—”
Romero’s sudden outburst was in return cut off mid-sentence by Sora, his words unequivocally backed by an authoritative voice. No additional effort was needed to get Andrews to back down, his tone quickly quieting and his words only overlapping with Sora’s slightly. “Yes, we can, Mister Romero. In all but our own bungled legal definition, the vast majority of Americans in Japan have been turned into refugees overnight who we run the risk of being unable to help,” Sora would say firmly, a sudden change in demeanor that took all else involved for a surprise.
However, as though switches were merely being flipped to change his attitude, Sora went on to return to his more gentle customer-service voice near instantaneously. He intended to reassure both Andrews and Romero of their intent with his tone, even if the latter wasn’t outright mentioned, “We wish to help you in this situation, and ask for you to listen first, Mister Romero.”
Romero pressed his lips together, subtly and gently biting on the inner part of his lip with a slight frown. Contrasting this, Andrews raised a finger, before curling it downward a second later as his expression shifted from an opened mouth ready to ask, to a pained grimace. The two considered their situation thoroughly, and what had been said seemed to fit well enough, be it that they were unable to process the situation wholly, held genuine acceptance of the notion, or some other factor that otherwise prevented them from continuing.
To this, both Hideki and Sora kept poker faces in response, with Hideki straightening and flattening his brows, and Sora keeping any unnecessary mouth movements to an absolute minimum. They gave away none, though in turn it only led to the churn and production of some more suspicion in the hot-headed Romero—Andrews, not so much, whose transfer-induced delirium had not yet reached breaking point.
Instead, Andrews was laser-focused on Hideki as he spoke, almost possessed as he found his head unable to turn away. Every one of the man’s utterances brought a compounding light-headed aching, and still, he couldn’t turn off any of his thoughts as hard as he tried to.
“So, on our part, we are entirely willing to both make concessions and come to reasonable agreement for nations that wish to not integrate entirely to ensure largely stable relations can be maintained into the future and return some sense of normality to non-Japanese nationals whose lives have been more significantly upturned,” Hideki explained, adding on to what his colleague had to say.
Both Romero and Andrews leaned inward toward him with their ears wide open as Hideki laid what was on offer across the table, clear enough that the two wouldn’t need any extra mental effort to understand.
They made no complaint to his point, not yet, slowly nodding as they were walked through the options like new customers would to a car salesman. Thus Hideki took it as a good indicator from the pair to continue with the menu, still yet to provide their dessert.
“We are granting stranded nations to retain some form of national identity and sovereignty by allowing them to maintain status as de jure national entities, of course by their own will and by whichever means they decide, though naturally some reliance on us would be maintained as a simple fact of life for an indeterminable amount of time,” Hideki continued, a tinge of sadness singeing the two Americans with his reminder, whether intentional or not, of a great something, a great place, that they’d lost.
The Japanese made no dilly-dally, however, their final course to be served out and the dinner to soon end. Hideki made one final addition that felt shoehorned in, and yet was of just as great if not equal importance to the previous line of discussion.
“I feel I should add…,” Sora interjected, slowly saying whilst seemingly reluctant to do so as he took a moment to think. Yet after, the words came out at a consistent pace with a totally neutral look. How uninspiring. “...that should maintained sovereignty occur for the United States, you can expect that we will, as the host nation, uphold all prior agreements and commitments to the best of our ability considering the current course of events,” so Sora ended for Hideki as a grin fashioned itself widely internally.
“Goddamnit, this to—” Romero was cut off by Andrews, whose hand extended over his chest. Andrews thought it over for Romero instead.
Though somewhat reassuring, he couldn’t help but ask what it was. A feigned attempt at sympathy to entangle them into little more than a tool of greater use than all the others in the box? Or was it a genuine act made to help them find some sense of solace when they were vulnerable? Maybe a mix of both, was what Andrews leaned toward.
And to all that the American diplomats could notice, there was no smirk, no conceited gleam in Hideki’s eyes, and it didn’t feel like a ‘gotcha’ moment. Even if the last two series of offers had read exactly like so, he only listed them out as matter of fact. Detached from the words he spoke as though they were on a pre-prepared list that he had no responsibility in creating. Tokyo clearly expected something of them, but they couldn’t put their fingers onto it. As outright as he could’ve said it, and what little was between the lines was only tucked slightly away in his words, left visible. Was he referencing the security treaty?
No, they couldn’t possibly have; it amounted to extortion. But…
To this, he was at a loss for words. The Japanese were being honest, as they usually were, making no attempt to smudge nor spill blotches across any weasel words to pervert his meaning—they would certainly receive help, but they’d get far more on their end if they’d effectively become another tool to the Japanese. Yet they felt they could not protest, for they understood that already the Japanese had been plenty generous in their offer, and so breaking one of the few things they could in turn provide would be plenty enough fuel for many to call for their heads.
And so, for the most part, they continued on their streak of backing down to each of Japan’s demands, opting instead to stay in the shadows and silence—besides, maybe Ambassador Gardner could better contest them when the time came to it. Nevertheless, both Andrews and Romero could only watch and listen as the very fate of their nation, which rested now in the shared hands of the Japanese Government and whatever remained of the American Government.
“If this is to keep our people well-spirited and it maintains their safety so, then we shall… hope to maintain cordial relations and spirits… with the Japanese government through… what means are necessary,” Andrews would respond; pauses of hesitation ever-present.
However, in turn, they raised a question—putting whatever sneaking suspicions they had into a point against them. They couldn’t guide, they had to push. Their own countrymen were at stake, and naturally, it was an itch yet to be scratched by anyone at the table of any nationality.
Andrews, whose skepticism had been primarily waning and little else hitherto, was the first to have done so, asking with an unsure waver in his voice, “I must ask then, Mister Hideki and Mister Sora, what exactly are the Japanese Government’s plans to accommodate everybody stranded; every tourist, every temporary worker, and every short-stay businessperson?”
A deliberate second of silence was taken by the Japanese side, both synchronized in deciding that it was best to not rush into an answer. Hideki, not yet exhausted from speaking, but certainly having taken the dominant role in doing so for his party, motioned under the table with a pat to his colleague that the metaphorical conch had been passed back to him.
Sora would then be the one to deliver the bad news, sitting unnaturally still as he broke it, “Mister Romero, I’m sorry to say this, but for now, we’re unable to say for certain—rest assured that we are working quickly on a solution that would satisfy every stakeholder. This is a multifaceted issue after all, but we can ensure that it is at-large resolved within the month.” He spoke in an eerily still voice that changed little in pitch and intensity, be it apprehension or nervousness that had forced him into doing so. Strikingly odd was his way of speaking that the Americans had taken notice, albeit only in eyelids closing their distance by fractions of a millimeter.
The answer, however, had much to be desired. Half of what had been said was only the obvious, and too vague was Sora in answering. Even if it was the then policy-directed stance they were to take, Andrews couldn’t help but reply in a half-joking manner even despite the pre-established somber mood that had set into the room.
“Well, I feel no more assured than when I’d come in here,” the Latino pronounced well, face rigid as ever. Mixed with these emotions of disappointment and light resignation was a singular drop, a drop of the same poison that would make any other’s hair lift and the dance of their vision erratic. Though neither of the symptoms were present in him, the sentiment minuscule in scale, it began its feast on the words fed to him; a cancer of an emotion that could grow with ease at such a time.
Hideki replied, “If that is so, then I ask for your embassy to keep all lines open for any news on the situation. By its very nature, it’s one which rapidly evolves, and we will keep you posted on anything new.”
“By this, I take it that we are then assuredly working mutually toward each others’ goals as nations?” Andrews asked for reaffirmation, cradling and rubbing his chin and cheek with his right hand.
His question finally faced and circled in on that that which he abhorred, he feared—for some time in the future an American flag to be hung tattered and alone. He asked, desperate to at least leave with one guarantee; a sentiment shared by Romero.
“You have our word,” Hideki answered with a curt nod, followed by the group finding it an overtly convenient moment to conclude.
Yet with this partial conclusion, both Andrews and Romero felt only partly satisfied, caught breaths and a prickling feeling in their skin still slamming the two of them. And still, they found no strength to muster, no energy to protest, and so there was no will to continue what was in effect a verbal repeat of the same messages laid on Gardner’s desk. Gardner could deal with the Japanese properly later.
The men of both parties extended their arms across the table, shaking firmly with one another as the palms of their hands met.
[+]
MOFA Headquarters 3rd Floor Meeting Room B7, West Hallway
Simultaneously,
The Japanese representative had sat in waiting, door kept unlocked but unmanned. Rather, he remained with his face buried in sweaty palms ‘till the squeal of the doorknob came. Two men sat opposed to one another, both approximately the same in height and build, that being about average between their respective nations.
On one end sat a dark gray, rather close to being black, suit rested on clear, unaged skin. The Japanese representative, Kishi Masuhiro, had been quick to have wiped himself down just enough with a handkerchief. He didn’t quake nor quiver, but had let his eyelids loose to blink as much as they wanted. And blink freely they did, doing so as if mechanized.
In contrast, Taiwan’s Representative Ming-hsin (their de facto ambassador), wrung his hands and let his feverish eyes show freely. He attempted in no way to hide any of his response, and so in no way was he commanding so much. Indeed, it should’ve been Masuhiro to be the instigator, the one to initiate the discussion with some form of reassuring remarks. Yet in B7, all had been flipped on its head.
The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.
“So, Mister Masuhiro…,” Ming-hsin would say with a strained voice, “This happening, at face value, changes many things. I’ve many things to worry over, and it’d be great relief should your people help,” He spoke readily, script memorized and committed. Enough was given already in a short enough time as well that he’d made known to the Japanese representative exactly what he’d say next. “So what exactly can my people expect from your side of things?” He asked with a squint.
With Ming-hsin’s mind imbalanced, paranoia manifest, and natural suspicions arisen, Masuhiro had every reason to be more than obviously nervous. Yet the Japanese representative was steadfast. He stood his ground firm, and it was unleashed not as a torrent of sweat or a craze of stammering, but in clamped-down hands and a chatter of blinks.
Ming-hsin’s demeanor took Masuhiro off-guard—a clear-cut statement that was straight to business. His surprise manifested itself into a quick touch of his throat with his index and middle fingers, helping him swallow down the shakiness in his tone that was being prepared. If it was right to business, then he’d reciprocate the gesture as best he could with a reply balanced between officiality and what was less so.
Masuhiro stumbled into the opening he’d been provided—he knew just what to say, but how to? “Representative Ming-hsin…, Japan is extending an arm to all those afflicted and found as victims to this transference that were brought with us—”
“Cut it out, Mister Masuhiro—right to it, would you?”
Masuhiro heaved to so much as speak as his mind blurred itself. His eyelids stretched outward, cool air filling in the space—enough so to have kept him going without having fallen into a mental flatspin. So, Masuhiro prepared his response.
“Permanentresidencywillbehandledby—…” He cut himself off. Masuhiro’s eyes widened moreso, full recognition of the pace he spoke. Ming-hsin noticed too, hard gaze burning and etching into his skin.
“...we intend on handling the…, the residency issue will be worked through at a reasonable pace…it can be expected to be done by the end of this month with emergency permanent residency permits granted,” he’d slip. “...additionally, for the sake of transparency…, we will keep your office completely aware of events as they occur. Past this, we are offering assistance to those trapped, though this effort will most likely be hindered by expected shortages in supply of primarily food and various necessities.”
Ming-hsin only nodded—little could be expected from him and his people beyond additional labor; this, both knew.
“I cannot say… for certain currently as, as of yet, nothing has particularly been made certain, though…,” Masuhiro said, ending in a voice that was in more apparent anticipation. His internal switchboards powered on as thoughts once more connected with one another against the air of his voice which changed to a much lighter one at a slightly less awkward pace. He resumed, “I’ve overheard that all non-Japanese nationals will be eligible for work and study on granting of residency,” he supposedly spilled, and in sympathy at that.
Right Ming-hsin was.
The Taiwanese man looked to have taken the bait, though Masuhiro felt stung in some way instead of pleased as if it was more in an effort to push things along than any mindless bite at the hook.
“Interesting… and of this strategy toward an end goal, how exactly does the Japanese Government intend to administer and oversee this process? I’d quite like to be assured of the well-being of my countrymen throughout this process.” He sounded vaguely intrigued, and Matsuhiro quickly noted the man’s sigh of relief and a drawn-out breath taken no matter his attempt at disguising it as a yawn, meaning there had to at least be some element of his ploy working.
“It would rest entirely on your shoulders as to whether the Taiwanese people would be administered as a collective under a continued sovereign entity with certain autonomies as opposed to absorption into the Japanese state.” He said as his hands flapped around like fish out of water. His initial anxieties thawed slowly, yet took great leaps as they were helped along by the contribution of Ming-hsin’s jaded demeanor. As it had turned out, it was a trivial task to satiate the Taiwanese Representative; control of the fiber of the narrative rested exclusively in his hands, Ming-hsin self-opting to a merely questioning role that it seemed would accept any answer.
Ming-hsin was only further put into a fascinated trance, apparently close to openly sponsoring the idea. The offers would work and benefit both sides, and while they’d need plenty of work to get done, what good in life came without an equal amount of work? He found little reason to object. While the capability of the proposals were in question, they presented themselves as steadfast, but he did ask, “Autonomies such as…?”
A token of goodwill. But Masuhiro wouldn’t be caught dead saying that. “Most importantly, it would mean that the Taiwanese people are to be administered by one of their own—it’ll help smoothen the process, but this should come alongside recognition of the sovereignty of your nation alongside various other tools of assistance.”
So a load of nothing packed as something then? While Ming-hsin was in no place to refuse, lack of oversight an enticing offer, he only listened on without providing an opinion.
And so Masuhiro sped things up. Things were going well and continued with a growing enthusiasm—from flimsy and dead to used-car salesman, maybe to be further invigorated—reciprocating the representative’s supposedly thawing attitude. “However, considering the sheer number of both mainland and Taiwanese nationals, the option to unify is available—” Only to be cut off.
“Do elaborate on this part, Mister Matsuhiro…”
“Why, er…” Taken aback, Matsuhiro was forced back into a corner to take just a moment to rewind. He was alarmed by the sudden change, and a gut feeling told him that it would all come to a head in the room. Yet he continued, and with only a slight sense of caution at that. “Should both you and Ambassador Guiying, as representatives of your own, come to a consensus by whichever means you decide, joint leadership is an option we’ve come up—” Again, cut off.
“Who— whoever came up with this idea, are they stupid!?” He’d exclaim, index finger raised in a lecturing manner. “How exactly do you expect us to agree to this proposal, Mister Masuhiro!?” Ming-hsin’s attitude flipped on a dime, or like, even. And it seemed as though it was less of a calculated mood, and more the result of emotions having been at the wheel for a while finally losing control in a drunken crash.
“I apologize for any offense, Representative Ming-hsin, but what part of the offer is of issue—”
“It’s… it’s frankly farcical, the notion!” he yelled down at him, towering over the now feeble Japanese man. Perhaps earlier the Japanese side had gained the advantage and initiative, but halftime had come and Taipei was determined having stolen the latter. “The point is that you are asking us to simply bring ourselves to meet these… these preposterous demands!? These pretenders—they-they threaten us, they call upon our domination, and turned us pariahs in all official manners—and now you want us to be all buddy-buddy with them!?”
Masuhiro knew no way to respond—gone with civility, and yet he had to maintain it for his own. Away with the niceties, and yet he was to stay as uptight as he could. He was stuck, as much as he didn’t want to admit. A rock and a hard place?
Maybe the diplomatic approach would work, he thought—some moral suasion and a reminder of the times to be what would do the trick.
“Rep… Representative Ming-hsin,” he stammered, picking himself up. “With all due respect, I urge you to settle all differ—”
With a hack and a slash, Ming-hsin cut him down and off for the third time, rather emphatically exclaiming, “To hell with that!”
At that point, Masuhiro had been entirely taken aback. His speech had been stolen by Ming-hsin’s fervor, and he wouldn’t last any longer should all the force applied by Ming-hsin be constant. No more of the diplomatic approach remained with him, and he’d had no choice but to resign. “That… settles that, then, Representative Ming-hsin.”
“Have you any more of this foolishness left, or has the circus ended, because I’ve not the patience ‘nor the willingness to be a part of any show,” Ming-hsin scolded, leaving a verbally scalded mark along Masuhiro’s face.
“None more, Representative… I wish you well.”
Ming-hsin only grunted at what he swore was a borderline half-hearted under-his-breath line by Masuhiro, “And I wish well on you,” as a response before he receded back to his thoughts. Damn them.
[+]
MOFA Headquarters 3rd Floor Meeting Room B13, East Hallway
Simultaneously,
Two men sat opposed to one another, once more both representatives as was the trend set by the prior two rooms. One Japanese, who ranked equal to the last, and one of the People’s Republic.
Ambassador Guiying, of the People’s Republic, was seated left of the door. His face was battered by no blemishes and marks, only slit across by thin lines at the top. His face was set upon by round glasses as written by the stereotype, and his hair in the form of a polished regular taper that grayed only noticeably at his sideburns. He was without a jacket, with his tie loose and top button undone. Beyond this, he was a man of ordinary build and miraculously, a relatively ordinary mind. For him, there was a pad already set down on the table. It was pushed aside and replaced promptly after he’d found himself comfortable.
His opponent, Akira Kishida, a man right from the upper echelons of the Ministry. The peg of the corner of his mouth found itself empty today, the usual sneer all but missing, a cynical note instead having taken its place. Identified by a little gilded Japanese flag lapel pin on pinstripe to the left of a tie inoffensively yet unusually striped by charcoal black, salmon pink, and forest brown, he was at least discernible in a crowd of his peers were one to specifically look for him, but not so much more unique than a penguin amongst a score more.
Both held their struggles, equally same yet equally different. Kishida, in combing through his memory for what it was Orochi-sa— no, Masato-san; what was it Masato-san had said of Guiying? Guiying, meanwhile, on sifting through mental filing cabinet after mental filing cabinet—Kishida…, Kishida…, he’d heard it before. Where in B7 the Japanese party was nervous from knowing the temperament of the person they were handling, the inverse had taken place in B13. And even so, it was only made worse by the weight of whole millions resting on the ceiling above.
“...so, Ambassador Guiying, on business, as I’m sure you’re aware. We’ve been…,” Kishida paused for a moment to think of a word. “Displaced.”
“And by displaced you mean left Earth?” Guiying would finish for him, not a single dash of surprise in his voice. As he spoke so, he tapped a pen against the notepad he’d set for himself, ball unextended.
“Yes.”
“I’ve gotten the documents already, and I’m sure Tokyo understands this isn’t particularly pleasant reading for me—several times over for my people, now trapped. So first on the agenda then, Mister Kishida, and throw me no bullshit here: is flight QR two-eight-seven back safe?” Down the ball went, crisp click sent through the rather stale air. Guiying’s tapping paused as such.
So physically, a response. Clasping his hands together, a light clap sounding off, Kishda ran his fingers across themselves under the table, what motions he’d had prior set into overdrive. Then, the hard response to be done verbally so. He considered speaking for a moment, before shutting down as he plucked away a minor error in wording. An inspection that went for imperfections at the very atomic scale in his speech. And past a second, Kishida was satisfied enough to let it continue out from his mouth. “We—,” Alarms went off, red klaxons spinning to the drumming of metal-on-metal. Guiying didn’t notice, but Kishida certainly did. A word trapped in his mouth; choking with a simple saying half out, half in. Quickly, quickly, crews of his mentality were deployed—from the vocal cords to his very brain, they swept in and pushed it all out, “—’vepassedacriticalhour—,” on consciously realizing, Kishida returned to usual pace, “it is most likely that the flight has crashed by this point,” Kishida treaded slowly this time, especially so thanks to his earlier mishap no matter how minor it was in any actuality. Guiying sighed and laid his head on a balled fist as Kishida resumed, “and unfortunately SAR efforts are not at present being motioned due to the exorbitant inherent risk involved and the extremely low likelihood of any fruitful findings given the area needed to be searched.”
A long quarter-minute followed in B13, Guiying only staring down Kishida with a look of… something? No read came through, but whatever it was, it must’ve been intense enough that Kishida felt a burning sensation all across.
The silence was only broken by Guiying taking one deep breath, a deep sucking of the air as the rat-a-tat-tat of his pen returned, followed on by a practically emotionless line. “Mister Kishida, you must understand, and I’m sure that you do, that this makes things very difficult for me. The… mere fact that your people are making no effort to find this flight is alarming in and of itself.” The Ambassador looked around the room thereafter, before calming ever so slightly. Perhaps it was best for later. “Onto a different issue, I must ask then, what will Tokyo be committing to the Chinese people through these times?”
Kishida switched on immediately, “We’re unsure thus far, with no real consensus, but a few things have been established to be necessary.” He paused. “Permanent residency permits key amongst, though we expect the process to be relatively slow but done by March at the latest. Accommodation on the other hand may take some time…, but we’re considering employing short-stay locations, so hotels and such.”
“And how shall they feed themselves? How shall they be employed? There’s quite so many, and they’re a ravenous bunch.”
“Well…, by its very nature, and I’d hope you can forgive us for this, we’re still not so sure—we’ve a basic premise for almost all the issues; retrofits to hotels for temporary extended residence until more permanent solutions, er…, and possibility for across-the-board financial stimulus. But food, mainly. Food is an issue we’re yet to resolve for even our own,” Kishida paused abruptly, as though having spoken explicitly such that what he knew could be shoved out as quickly as possible. An info dump, if some would. “Though it’s selfish of us to ask, we would however like to shift some small part of this weight on us to your side if that’s alright.”
Directly addressing the issues, good, good. But weight? Guiying leaned inward to hear what he had. “This weight being…”
Kishida wasted no time in continuing for him from where he’d left off, jerkily having taken back the mantle of the conversation. “Reassurance to your people that all will be well, and some amount of cooperation of course… Beyond this, we are hard at work on a more…” Kishida’s pace slowed—he’d slipped, almost. And as he moved toward the territory of the ambiguous, the call for caution was heeded. “...formal proposal that should address any and all concerns you provide.”
“Cooperation is a guarantee—I’m already in a corner with no way out besides bending to the Kantei’s whims.” Guiying adjusted his tone to suit—an upward inflection to a tone that juxtaposed itself immediately over the situation at hand. He’d have shot a cheesy smile had his presence been for any other reason. “It’s simply a matter of the extent of the cooperation you ask for that may be the cause for any issue that me, my staff, or my people may take. So what need I cooperate with?”
Kishida did not attempt to assert himself. It was clear enough to Guiying that Tokyo had only two things on their mind: something that would anger him or nothing at all. Once more, he decided not to press the issue further—not yet—perhaps it was something planned that they’d need to get through the diet and all first. Then, he’d see—
“Well, it’s less cooperation, and more a means to do so—while it’s not yet something on offer, we do intend on permitting a degree of autonomy for all those trapped, and we believe it would be beneficial for all for your side and the…,” Kishida selected carefully, “Taipei side… to undergo a merger of sorts—joint administration in some way.”
To some surprise for Guiying, Kishida did in fact assert something, having cut his thoughts off so readily. But autonomy? How so—he’d known of no land transferred past the embassies, save for those Americans and only under a mild technicality. Was it just a nothingburger meant to feed him for the time being? And the latter proposal; so it was that they’d easier control him—bundle him and the Taiwanese together. To this, he scrawled down the base details as quickly as he could have, dashes and dances of ink thrown onto the page. A thought equally as precarious as it was interesting.
Without any acid in his voice, Guiying would tentatively show his support in a steadily, preset-paced voice. “This does sound to be a… proposal then; peace between my nation and… the other… set so bitterly against one another. But do keep in mind, while I am personally sympathetic to them, I can’t ensure my subordinates at the embassy, let alone the masses of either my side or his, would be so open to this plan.” Spread relatively evenly along Guiying’s speaking was caution, his words seasoned well by the tone save for one granted a stronger kick. “I’m open to discussions with… the Taiwanese Representative, Mister Ming-hsin on this plan...” The Ambassador trod lightly, and so lightly did he tread along the word ‘Taiwanese’ that he was done with it in a heartbeat. Kishida, on the other hand, listened intently, raising no brow as Guiying continued, “But I’m not so convinced that this plan is any more than half-baked given the time it took from start to here.”
“Given the circumstances,” Kishida pushed forward with pain brought to his eyes, “We are certain that while these solutions might not be entirely satisfactory, but we’re fully open to any concerns or queries you may have regarding them.”
“Well I’ve nothing to say besides that if my people or Mister Ming-hsin and his own are against it, then unfortunately unification may very well still be a thing outside of our lifetimes.” Guiying paused for a moment. Against all that he’d been trained to do, Kishida had to physically hold himself back from responding within that time. “And it’d be quite rude of me as a guest to leave a mess should my compatriots riot over such a thing,” Guiying concluded uninterrupted with his lips clamped together.
To this, Kishida found his response easily. Like opening a filing cabinet marked reassuring, he withdrew his page. Sure, a scrawled-out word here and there, and lines filled in at that moment, but the template was all he’d need, surely. ‘Ol reliable, as those Westerners say. “And your concerns are merited so, Ambassador Guiying, however though I can make no guarantees presently, I can say that strong consideration is being brought to these issues that you’ve pointed out…” Kishida was a hawk. Or at least tried to be one. And though his vision was plenty less than a twenty over twenty, he just so happened to notice the features of Guiying settle just that tiny bit more. So he continued, “Promoting stability has been a decidedly key goal outlined by the Home Affairs Ministry, and it is assured that there won’t be any issue.”
“Hence the tanks, Mister Kishida?”
Guiying’s comment lingered in the air between the two for a few seconds, blinding Kishida in a manner not so dissimilar to the harshness of the sun on eyes fresh from the movie house.
He was stunned as if a flashbang had gone off in his face. The sheer audacity to poke fun in such circumstances. Surely, it must’ve been a sort of automatic response. Some holdover from the days of the past that preceded that moment. Kishida remained silent, as though ignoring his remark. His face went slack, offering no answer once more. Guiying took the hint—it probably wasn’t something his higher-ups wanted him to care about, maybe drawing attention away from the elephant in the room so that when it stampeded, he’d at least die unknowing. He couldn’t say for sure, but this was his best guess as to why he was silent.
“Of course, it’s silly of me to speak of the matter in such a way to my benefactors, but I fear the response may be negative should this plan be released publicly, and any escalation of any sort from your side may very well end with the heads of me and the Prime Minister on the line, and while I do feel assured in your Government’s ability to get things done, I fear the brashness of their response so far may simply be arming those who’ll scamper for anything to rally over.” Guiying sighed, appearance-wise discouraged with flecks of cynicism imbued. “Sincerely then, I hope that I and Representative Ming-hsin can rectify the past from this point forward.”
“...as do I, Ambassador. Once more, we ask that your people rest assured that we are moving toward workable long-term solutions with every minute passing.”
“Then there are no further matters I wish to attend to. Good day, Representative.”
“A—s with you, Ambassador…” The vowel of the first word Kishida’d spoken, or whatever Japanese equivalent in the same context should such a line have been translated, had found herself extended far longer than normal. The work of Kishida, who kneaded still at his words as everyone else, yet without the slightest sign of looking upon it in the process of doing so.
From there, Guiying prayed for two-eighty-seven silently as he left.