“—so, that’s what’s happening,” announced Hideyori Hakana, his back against the vaguely ajar door to the Glass Eyes’ breakroom. They’d had a new one put in since the boss had smashed the last. It took him a minute to find the handle, damn muscle memory. “You’ll remain in Biologics for the time being—I suspect Nori will want to keep a close eye on you—but I’ll see if I can’t pull some strings, set something up in the near future.”
Kiyosumi Sakazuki bowed earnestly. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me. I haven’t done anything yet.” Hakana extended a closed fist, and deposited a smooth marble into the woman’s palm, muttering, “As we discussed, contingency…”
She smiled, hand closing around the orb and slipping it into a pocket. “I suppose you’re right. Nevertheless…” She trailed off into a soft giggle, walking off down the corridor.
Hakana tipped his hat and chuckled into his palm. He put his full weight against the door—slightly heavier, he noted—and it swung all the way open. Shoulders drooping, he traipsed on through into the lounge.
“Was wondering where you got to!” A gruff voice called out from one end of the room. “I thought we were supposed to get the debriefing after we’d finished the detail.” Sunk into one of the low leather sofas next to the window to the perpetual paranormal storm raging outside, Toji Yamashita had a sandwich clutched in one large hand, and tore off another large hunk in his teeth. A hint of mustard drifted across the room.
Hakana wrinkled his nose. “Do you ever stop eating?”
The man’s eyes widened mid-mouthful. He swallowed thickly, the bulge momentarily distending his throat. “That’s uncalled for. Want me to start criticising your smoking habit? Bet I could buy some good gourmet steak with the amount you spend per week on packs alone. Was gonna offer to cook something up for the team; might still, but you won’t get any.”
“I’m your boss. I’m allowed to be crass sometimes; it’s in my contract.”
“It is?”
Hakana rolled his eyes, and sighed. One hand seized the wooden back of a spindly bar stool. He dragged it across the tiled floor and perched atop the squeamishly false plastic. “If you wanted a debriefing, here it is.”
The man gestured, sandwich still in hand. “And?”
“You did what I asked.” Hakana shrugged. “What else do you want, a medal?”
“Performance evaluation, next steps, that kind of thing. Someone’s really put you in a bad mood, haven’t they?”
“Meguru has that effect on me, yeah,” he hung his head. “Thinking of bullying someone in admin to change his company title to ‘Designated Court Jester’; that’s about the only part of his job he puts any effort into, anyhow.”
“Talks a lot of shit, cries when he gets hit.” Yamashita chewed on his sandwich. “Last person I knew who did that ended up in an early grave.”
Hakana eyed the man’s trademarked shovel leaning up against the sofa. “Your handiwork?”
He chortled. “My Specialty.”
“Oh, speaking of—” Hideyori drummed his fingers on the wooden counter-top. “You did some good work on the park. That kind of terrain would’ve been difficult for anyone to make sense of. Only, it’s a shame—I checked just now—it’s all been reverted, as though nothing ever happened.”
“What?!” The man looked outraged. Spittle and crumbs ejected from his lips. “How?”
Hakana gave a terse grin. “Spectres from the past that refuse to fade into obsolescence. One of mine have come back to haunt me, it seems; a whole other perspective to boot.”
“Your past?” Yamashita raised an eyebrow. “You’ve hardly told us squat.”
“For good reason.” Hakana’s breath caught in his throat, and he unleashed another splintering cough into the crook of his elbow. Wiping the corner of his eye, he wheezed, “Where’s Mokuzo? Would’ve thought she’d come back with you after the detail.”
“She had a meeting with Lord Ishimatsu.” Another voice spoke from another corner of the room. The surly Rikiya Atsura opened his eyes, unfolding his legs from the lotus position. “She assured me it wasn’t critical.”
Hakana’s eye narrowed.
Atsura was seated on the floor in meditation next to the coffee table. His perpetual glower shifted between his coworkers. One could never tell whether he actually harboured any ill-will, or whether he’d made that face on a whim once as a teenager and the wind had changed.
“When the hell did you get here?” Yamashita was busy licking his fingers clean of stray globs of mustard.
“I’ve been here since you arrived. You’re just very noisy and self-absorbed.” The samurai lifted himself elegantly from the ground, retrieving both swords from the wall and hitching them back onto his obi.
Hakana lit another cigarette. “How was your training with Bango?”
“The boy is confused, misled. He has power and determination, but is set on a fruitless ideal that will only pain him for as long as he pursues it.” Atsura exhaled heavily through his nose. “Hakana, a child like this: he should not be here.”
“None of us should be here. That’s the whole point.” The executive flashed his signature grin. “Dentaku Bango belongs in the Glass Eyes as much as any of us. Like you all, the boy came to us of his own free will. All I presented him with was an opportunity, and every chance to back down.”
Atsura’s fist tightened on the hilt of his sword. “You devil—”
“Now, now,” Hakana tutted, raising one finger and giving a condescending waggle. “Isn’t that just hypocritical. You’re correct, of course—I’m sure many world religions would consider me devil incarnate, if only I were that important—but what right does a failure of a Yakuza like yourself have to comment? When the time comes to weigh our souls against the feather—and believe me it will—we’re all falling short, some of us more than others.” Stubbing his cigarette on an impromptu ashtray he procured from an orb then vanished moments later, Hakana hacked up into his sleeve once again. “I’d say I’ll meet you all there, but I’m destined for something far worse—I’d wager.”
“You sound awfully at ease,” Atsura growled. “Have you lost every shred of self-respect?”
“Again, that’s awfully ironic.” Hakana cleared his throat. “I’m sure I don’t need to remind you of the state the boss found you in, do I?”
“Lord Ishimatsu showed me the light of redemption. He believed in my strength!” Atsura's jaw tightened in indignation. "He showed me his vision, a vision of a world where strength of heart, strength of will could prosper uninhibited by the thralls of cowardice.”
“Spare me the propaganda. You’re a second-rate swordsman and a first-rate alcoholic. Then again, Old Yoshine’s got you beat in the latter now too. Hang on—” Interrupting the samurai’s furious retort, Hakana raised a finger and looked around the room. “Where is the man anyway? Did he finally drown?”
“Last I heard, he was passed out over the balcony on the 122nd floor.” Yamashita stroked his goatee with one hand, wiping some of the leftover sourdough crumbs from his suit jacket with the other.
“Do me a favour and push him over the railing next time you’re up there.”
Yamashita chuckled, but Atsura looked outraged. “Are you truly suggesting we kill off one of our own?”
Hakana gave him a scathing, sardonic look. “He’s not much use alive, is he? Last time I heard, the teeth woman has started eating her rotating guard because we’re running out of test subjects to feed her. She’ll eat through the rest of our Rejected warehouse like they’re cocktail sausages if we’re not careful. If anything, his corpse will satiate her for at least the time being.”
“Do you hear the absence of humanity in your words and actions? I see now: back then you killed Momotaro, one of our own, out of whim, just to prove a point. His death served no purpose. You are truly vile.”
“And you are clearly in the wrong place, you delusional little man! You think that this accursed tower was built on foundations of goodness and honour, do you?”
“I refuse to carry out such a cowardly order.”
“Then do as you please!” Hakana bellowed himself hoarse, coughing into the collar of his coat once more. “I truly don’t care either way.” His jaded tone chimed among the glass bottles, and the room elapsed into silence.
The creak of the door hinges was deafening.
“Please excuse me. I hope I’m not interrupting.” Dentaku Bango heaved his way into the room, clutching a girl’s arm around his shoulders. Tsushin Techukara dangled from his side, unconscious. Dried blood ran a thin, sickly trail from the corners of her mouth and eyes.
“Your timing couldn’t be more perfect.” Hakana turned his back on Atsura, tilting his hat low over his eyes. “Need a hand, kid?” Walking over, he lifted Tsushin from off the boy’s back with a grunt and lay her down on one of the sofas. “Your extraction mission?”
“A failure.” Bango sat down on a nearby barstool, breathing heavily.
“I suspected as much.”
“It didn’t go according to plan at all. You assured me that Harigane was caught up at Kawarajima, and that the only person we’d have to deal with was Kage.” Bango glared up at Hakana. “Both Harigane and Subject 837 turned up at the mall, along with Detective Ibuse.”
“Ibuse showed up, did he?” The man’s jaw clenched. Damn fool. He cast another referential glance around the room. “See what I mean? A spectre from the past, and a nosy one at that. How the hell was he able to be in two places at once?”
A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.
Bango shrugged. “He was strong. I didn’t expect him to have a hand in all of this.”
“Yeah. Meguru came back all cut up and bruised, complaining about Ibuse showing up at Kawarajima as well.”
“He managed to injure Mr. Yoha?”
“Don’t do him courtesy he doesn’t deserve.”
“Sorry.”
“Don’t apologise, either.”
Bango took a moment's silence to think. “If Detective Ibuse’s on Harigane’s side, that explains why the police haven’t caught him. Do you think they’ve cottoned on yet?”
“Don’t care.” Hakana shoved another cigarette between his lips. “Police involvement was nothing more than a timesave. The boss never expected them to get anything done. All they needed to do was put up the appearance of a threat. That alone was meant to limit Harigane’s movements, make the kid easier to pin down.” He motioned for his lighter, which lay on the countertop nearby, just out of reach.
Bango hesitated, but the glare in his superior’s eye moved his hand before he could think anything otherwise. Cold, clammy fingers closed around the golden flick lighter. Hakana leant close. Fumbling with the striker, Bango eventually produced a flame and held it up. Hakana immediately took a drag, and thanked the boy for his efforts by puffing a grey cloud directly into his face. Bango recoiled and spluttered. His superior chuckled, snatching back the lighter and pocketing it thereafter.
Crack! A fist lodged itself into Hakana’s cheek, sending the man sprawling to the floor. Bango had stood up, nostrils flared, jaw clenched, glaring. Straightening himself, the boy tugged on the cuffs of his shirt and straightened his tie, shaking out his fist. His glare alone spoke volumes of reproach.
“Why you!” Metal flashed across the room with a blinding screech. The edge of a katana brushed underneath Bango’s throat. A trickle of blood ran down the blade's edge. Rikiya Atsura glowered, both hands steady on the sword, seething. Yamashita had stood on instinct, brow furrowed, brandishing his shovel.
“At ease, both of you.”
Both Glass Eyes lowered their weapons immediately. Hideyori Hakana had raised one hand to quell their reactionary anger. The man lay on his side, propped up by one elbow. His chest rose and fell, long hair trailing along the floor. Pulling himself up with one free hand on the corner of the bar, Hakana said nothing as he dusted off his coat and pinstriped trousers. Bango began to tremble, gaze clouded over with fear. Hakana met his stare, not with anger, but with respect.
“I deserved that.” He took off one glove and extended a hand. “Dentaku Bango, I’d like to apologise.”
Bango’s eyes narrowed, expecting a trap. Both hands remained firmly clasped over the tabletop. This was it. He’d get a bullet between the eyes the next time he blinked. But no, Hakana’s glare was insistent, forcing his hand a little further forward.
Bango shook the man’s hand. Hakana’s skin was cold and eerily smooth, like a freshly shed snake. “Apology… accepted.”
“Good. It was about time you finally grew a pair.” Leaning against the bar, Hakana turned his glare on both other men in turn, tugging his glove back on. “Well? What do you two have to say for yourselves?”
“What gives, boss?” Yamashita growled. Atsura’s brow lowered; he sheathed his sword.
The crack of gunshot rang around the room; Hakana withdrew his pistol and fired a warning shot through the floorboards, pointing it at each man in turn.
“Don’t fuck around with me. Talk about team solidarity,” he spat, lip curling. “You dare lecture me about honour, Atsura? The very moment your coworker musters the mettle to stand up for himself, you threaten to decapitate him. Take that sword out again, I dare you. If you don’t plan on plunging it through your own gut, I’ll do it myself. You’re pathetic.”
Atsura’s face fell into shadow.
“And you, lardass,” he turned the gun at Yamashita. “Why didn’t you say anything? Do you not care for your fellow agents? How the hell are we supposed to work together as a cohesive unit when you can’t even stand up for each other? Right now, I respect this kid more than both of you combined. If you can’t find it in yourselves to be useful, find someone else who will, then go kill yourselves. We clear?”
Both nodded.
“Get out of my sight.”
Bango watched in shock awe as both men left the breakroom like scolded children. Neither gave so much as a sideways glance. They both seemed to be scowling at themselves rather than anything in particular. Hakana’s scowl faded with a sigh, and the man pinched the bridge of his nose. A sobering wave of clarity washed over Bango’s skin like clear water.
This had been a test. They had both failed.
“Mr. Hakana, I—” Bango raised a hand, about to apologise.
“Don’t.” Hakana seized his wrist. “You’re in my good graces for now, kid.” The ice in his blue eye made Bango’s blood run cold. “Don’t ruin it for yourself.”
That seemed his cue to leave. Bango shivered, rising from his bar stool and crept from the room. He couldn’t help but glance back with reverence at the executive. He leaned over the bartop, rolling an orb between bare fingers. As he made to leave, Bango caught the intrigued amber gaze of a woman he recognised perched loftily on one of the sofas nearby. Her suit was neatly pressed as always, wooden hair ornaments gleaming in the soft light. Tan’in Mokuzo sat perfectly still, observing. When had she come in? He didn’t fancy his luck sticking around to ask, wrenching the heavy wooden door open a smidgen, and slipping through the crack.
“Intimidating as ever, Hakana; it’s always a sight to behold when you put your foot down,” Mokuzo remarked, unfolding one leg from the other and rising to her feet. “At times like these, I’m reminded of why Mr. Ishimatsu chose you. Though, it’s a shame you constantly brandishing around that gun. It’s a nasty habit, unbecoming of a gentleman.”
“And you have a nasty habit of not announcing your presence when you enter a room.” Hakana didn’t turn around. “Unbecoming of a lady.”
“I confess—” Mokuzo put both hands up in surrender— “I’ve never been very ladylike. There was never any room for elegance in politics; not even the poppy can bloom in such blood-soaked land.”
Hakana raised an eyebrow. “I never thought you one for poetry.”
“Oh, god forbid a woman has hobbies.” Mokuzo took the seat next to him on the bar. She unfurled a bound ream of paper from under her arm. “The documents you asked for. My little agents have been hard at work.”
Hideyori swiped the papers across the counter and rifled through the first few pages. “This’ll do nicely.” A grin tugged at one corner of his mouth. “I’m nearly there on my end. Just gotta tide them over for the time being. Don’t fancy pulling the cat out the bag just yet. I just need an opportunity. How was your meeting with the big man upstairs?”
“Tense.”
“No kidding.”
“All this stress on the job does no favours for my face. I spent nearly twenty-thousand yen last month on skin cream alone.” Mokuzo sniffed and straightened her back, kneading out a kink in her neck with her knuckles. “It’s not exactly comforting trying to present intel to a man who could, at a moment’s notice, obliterate you from existence with a single punch.”
“I take it he wasn’t in a terrific mood?”
“Is he ever?”
“Not ever.” Hakana grinned. “How much does he suspect?”
“Enough.”
“Good. He’s still not relenting; tried to probe him earlier, got a little more upset than I was supposed to. That should lull him into a false sense of security for the next little while. Paradoxically, the more of a corner he thinks I’m backed into, the easier it is for me to manoeuvre. Funny what delusions of grandeur will do to a man. Oh well.”
“All quiet on the western front?”
“Sadly. They’ve offered me precisely zilch as of late, and are now biting at the quick. Hypocrites.” Hakana chewed his lip. “They want the damning detail now, or else they’re calling the whole operation off—never mind the damn evidence portfolio I’ve been building for the past decade.” The taste of disdain oozed from every word, souring his tongue.
“The bureaucrats are never so lenient with others’ time frames as they are with their own, are they?”
Hakana gave her wary side-eye. “Must’ve irritated you to hell and back during your time.”
“Not really. The annoying ones usually ended up dead within a week if they didn’t meet their quota. There was no use to lug their dead weight around otherwise. Symbols and idols are only useful for as long as they mean something. Without implied value, currency is just numbers, coins and paper.” Mokuzo fished her phone from one pocket and glanced at the screen. “As for the purpose of my summoning, which I assume was your next question—”
“Don’t put words in my mouth—”
Mokuzo smirked. “The boss wants me to accompany him, Nori and Chisori for a meeting with the cabinet tomorrow.”
Hakana’s eye widened. “I hadn’t heard of this.”
“I thought so. Hence my telling you.” Mokuzo grinned. “A show of good faith, I’ll call it, just to show I’m making good on my end of our little deal.”
“A likely story. You think I’m that easy to fool, do you?” Hakana sighed. “You’d probably be right.”
“We may have had our differences in the past, but you came through for me in the end.” Her face dropped in earnest. “The least I could do was return the favour, leader.”
“Stop it, darling. You’ll make me blush.” Hakana reached for another cigarette, only to find his packet empty. He snarled, tutting loudly. He laid one hand on the table, trying very hard to suppress the twitching in his fingers. Plucking a cocktail stick out from behind the bar, he began chewing on that instead. “What’s the occasion?”
“I haven’t been told.” Mokuzo shrugged. “I doubt my role extends into charming the prime minister.”
“After last time?” Hakana chortled. “I’d be surprised.”
Mokuzo sighed and pinched two manicured nails into the bridge of her nose. “Like usual, women are meant to be seen and not heard. Isn’t that what Old Yoshine says? Always so old-fashioned, it makes me sick.”
“I doubt the man can do much anymore except drool.” Hakana snorted, biting the end off his cocktail stick and spitting it across the room. His eye flashed with triumph as the discarded end landed neatly in a tin receptacle some five feet away.
“Perhaps we should expedite the process and throw him in the hospice with all the other demented folk. Perhaps in the autopsy Dr. Nori can salvage some useful grey matter buried amid all that ego.”
“Maybe.” Hakana grinned. “Though, despite what I asked of Yamashita earlier, I’ve been told explicitly not to polish him off. That damn Chisori has some kind of plan.” The man shuddered. “At this point, I don’t even want to know.”
“You haven’t asked?”
“He’s still one of mine. I’m contractually obligated.” Hakana rolled his eyes. “That guy’s like a politician the way he’s able to dodge a direct question; infuriating.”
“This might be one occasion where your firearm-toting might actually be useful.”
“Oh, be quiet.”
Mokuzo stared ahead, eyeing a bottle of vodka on the shelf with a little too much curiosity. “I can’t tell you the pretence of the meeting, only that I was ordered to prepare twenty of my agents for an impersonation detail.”
“Impersonation, huh?” Hakana folded both arms over his chest, shuffling his chin between the collar of his coat. “If that means what I think it does…”
“Most likely.” Mokuzo nodded. The woman’s eyes narrowed, observing the reaction of her superior. “I slightly lose track of just how many I have by now, scattered who knows where, posed as who knows who.” She thumbed the slit of her third eye, wincing when it throbbed beneath the skin of her forehead. “The network you’ve made me establish, it’s ridiculous. You’d think having so many layers upon layers of redundancy would start undermining itself after a while, no?”
Hakana grinned. “The boss’ biggest mistake was overestimating my cunning.” He tapped the side of his nose with one gloved finger. “As much as he hides it, I’ve seen it in his eyes. I’m in his head. He knows that I know. He knows that I know that he knows. Once you get to that stage, it’s purely a question of who has the most mental energy to spare inventing useless layers of fickle deception. It’s all thanks to the Tyrant, really. That in itself was an opportunity I just couldn’t pass up.”
“It’s a gamble, isn’t it?”
“No. I’m not Meguru.” Hakana smiled into another orb. The way the light bounced off the glass made it impossible for Mokuzo to distinguish any detail. “I’m in too far to risk everything on a gamble. I’ve spent the last ten years examining every last detail, extrapolating every possible circumstance to its logical conclusion. I’ve seen so much, it’s become hard to tell whether or not I’m living in reality anymore.” He shook the orb with a flick of the wrist, then sighed. “If it doesn’t work out, I won’t exactly be around to tell you so. Hell, I’m damned either way—so I may as well tear down everything on my way out. I've never been a good loser." He spun the orb on the tip of his finger. "The beauty of this world is too fickle to risk it all on chance. Every card, I'll play; and when the game's about revenge, I play to win."