Borrowed time.
Borrowed time.
Hideyori Hakana, you’re living on borrowed time.
The heavens had opened that night. The rain had come, but not yet gone. Swift to arrive, yet reluctant to leave: the aftermath loitered in moon-fearing pools on the road and pavement. Puddles objected with petty little splashes as the water made way for his every footfall. Hakana strode down empty streets. Around him, residential buildings steadily went dark. The hum of traffic lingered, and a city owl crooned in the distance. With his next step, a little water—more vengeful than the rest, maybe—splashed up against his pinstriped trouser leg and slithered gleefully down off the hem and into his sock. His eye twitched. Every sensation had been amplified since leaving the clinic. The nurse’s screams through the closing door rang a delightful trill in the back of his head, a head that throbbed with decay. Hakana took one hand from his pocket. Under the skin, he felt the rot ebb and flow. He clenched a fist, and felt bone. He ran a finger along his cheek, and his skin, the consistency of mouldy jelly, gave way in miserable, damp flakes.
Borrowed time.
Hakana’s lip curled into a snarl. Who was he borrowing it from? Whoever it was, he’d held onto it for far too long, and they wanted it back. No-one ever had enough of it, time. He’d always held a certain distaste for those who excuse themselves for having failed to accomplish something on account of “not having the time.” Time could be made. If you want to do something bad enough, you’ll always make the time. How could you fail to have enough, or run out of it, if you can always make it? Anytime he heard that excuse, any respect for the excused evaporated like street puddles in summer mornings. Those were the type to never make full use of the time while they had it, the type who didn’t want anything bad enough to make the time they needed. Wastes of space, wastes of time.
He was different. He had used his time well. Hakana did not regret a single second of the past fifteen years. Every moment had been spent etching out every crevice of the organisation, scouring every single possible location for her whereabouts, and yet it was fruitless. From the very first moment of his ascension, he had felt her psychic signature. It was faded, yes: so faded, it had no location, but nonetheless distinct and present. He held onto that signature, buried it so deep within his chest. Its feeble thrum became his heartbeat from that moment on. Every ripple of her signature was a reminder. Every step he took, one closer to finding her.
His time was cut short. Every beat of his heart decremented a ticking timer. Tick, tick, tick. He took a deep, rasping breath, and felt the air bounce around inside cavernous lungs. How masterfully ironic. His mind had transcended all limitations: he could perceive cause and effect in his moments, observe infinite branching possibilities for years in advance, and yet he, like millions of others, would ultimately be humbled by the decay of this beautiful flesh. He’d laugh, if he was certain the sensation wouldn’t also make him vomit.
He needed more time.
Hakana ground his teeth together at the thought, hunching his shoulders against the cruelty of the wind. He’d gladly cast the world to hell and back if it meant he could ask her that one question. Only she could answer it. He had meant to ask it fifteen years ago, but she had left without saying goodbye. Her signal had grown stronger in the past month, the same time Harigane and the others had experienced their awakenings via the Excel Ritual, and so his search efforts had redoubled. Even now, she was still alive. Gus Ishimatsu kept her that way to taunt him, to ensure he’d never act too far out of line. Hakana had no doubts the boss knew all too well what his intentions were. The man had always kept him at arm's length for that reason alone. That fact made him smile. For all his bravado, Gus Ishimatsu wasn’t content to let him get close enough. To do what, exactly? Who knows. Perhaps Hakana wouldn’t do anything, perhaps he was truly committed to the man’s vision of strength.
Hakana barked a laugh into the night, and spat down a drain.
“Thought of something funny, pal?”
Hakana slowed to a standstill. He really wasn’t in the mood. The voice was resonant, jovial and amicable. It made his blood jut cold spikes through his skin.
“Usually, people laughing to themselves is a surefire indication things are going so well, or not at all. I love laughter. Such a contradictory emotion!” And to top it all off, the man laughed out loud as well.
“Your business, pal?” Hakana growled, not turning around.
“My business is everyone’s business! That's how you make friends, don't you know!”
The jovial man circled around to the front instead, an irritating spring in his step. Gaudy golden chains around the man’s neck jangled with every bounce. He looked like a fourth-place Elvis impersonator, missing out on the podium by a slight crook in the nose and heavy stitch-scarring underneath his eyes. His gelled black quiff glimmered in the scorn of the moon, quivering above a carefree, smooth face easy on most eyes, though unfortunately not Hakana's. He stood a head shorter than the executive, toting a partially unbuttoned red shirt of—was that velvet?
Hakana's back straightened, eye narrowing in distaste. This man clearly had none: the kind to spend meagre wages on expensive brands just to feign a kind of class by appearances alone. He avoided crass snap judgements if it could be at all avoided—such was the death of critical thinking—but there came a point where even a worm would turn. Stranger still, the man wore jet black aviators in the dead of night. Even if he was blind, that—to Hakana—was no excuse. Pity was the worst insult of all.
“You have until I take my hand—that definitely isn't holding a firearm—out of my pocket to say something of value—” Hakana retrieved an inch of pale wrist from his pocket— “or make like a tree.”
The threat bounced off the man's carefree expression like bungee gum. “Oh, don't be like that! C'mon, what's the matter, fella? Turn that frown upside down!”
I'll turn you upside down, Hakana thought with a grimace. He readied himself to summon his gun. He didn't like killing twice before sunrise, but if it came down to it…
“Tell you what,” the gaudy red man continued, somehow materialising by Hakana's side before the man had clocked the fact, “why don't we loosen you up with a nice drink? I’m best friends with the owner of one of the best izekaya in town. What do you say? Great! Let’s go.”
He chuckled and slapped Hakana on the back. Within an instant, they were there. A conflagration of fresh jubilation bombarded his ears like a parade of unwelcome houseguests. Then again, to the executive, all houseguests were unwelcome. The room was long and bathed in a dimming yellow glow; an inner-city bar without much lateral space to spare, so it expanded lengthwise. Drunken laughter followed the end of blended conversations and ceaseless anecdotes, bosses and their juniors sharing a critical moment of frankness in this judgement-free lapse. The clink of glasses accompanied by the generous splash of liquor, an establishment in full swing.
The executive spent the next moment utterly frozen, bathed in the overwhelm. Teleportation? It couldn't be. There was no telltale disturbance in the ambient field of psychic energy. Then, was this an illusion? A dream? Hakana checked his watch. All twelve digits, and the sixty minuscule sub-units between them stood distinct and clear. The second hand drummed a barely distinguishable beat against his wrist with every increment; one second less of his borrowed time.
A rough hand rolled his shoulder.
“What’s wrong, fella? Not enjoying yourself?” Mr Red Velvet clearly was. Lounging back into the corner of the seats, the man revelled in the social chaos. Friends of his surrounded the pair, chuckling and nattering away, raising glasses of beer and sake amid steadily less legible toasts to most under the sun. The booze hung so strong in the air it made the edge of Hakana's vision start to blur. The jubilant tones, however, cut through his stupor. He snapped around and seized the front of the man's stupid shirt, curling the thick material into a fist.
“What the hell kind of game are you playing at?” He snarled under his breath, but the Master of the Velvet Room simply laughed.
“Easy up on the shirt, man! No need to get so aggressive. Told ya, you need to relax, enjoy the atmosphere!”
“Cut the act.” Hakana's nostrils flared. “Who do you work for? What do you want?”
He made to retrieve his pistol. The process went in stages, but through practice had become as effortless as breathing. Each of his Moments had a corresponding identifier in cognitive space. He recalled the corresponding moment identity, snapped it into his hand, reached inside, grabbed the contents, extracted them into reality, then closed the orb—all in one smooth motion.
“You'd better explain yourself, else—” Hakana went through the instinctive procedure, flicking his wrist by his side, only for the characteristic spark of his psychic energy to fizzle out. His third eye flickered shut. “What—”
“Else…?” Signor Velveto rolled his hand, wile and smugness wrapping his face in a crinkly grin. The executive’s shocked face was cruelly mirrored in the mysterious man's shades. “What's wrong, can't get it up?” He pat Hakana on the shoulder. “Don't worry. Happens to the best of us.”
“My Specialty…” Hakana murmured. He snapped his fingers to actualise even the slightest spark. A futile effort. What the fuck? His connection to the Eye had been abruptly shut off. This wasn't like Techukara's Jammer at all. Her Specialty worked like a DDOS attack, overloading the target’s third eye with a conflicting barrage of psychic energy. The overload also caused some helpful secondary characteristics: the blinding migraine, the vision-locking. He felt none of that.
His connection to the Eye had been severed completely.
“Your Specialty, huh?” Chancellor Velvetine mused aloud. He played with stray hairs on his chin, feigning confusion. “How'd you get access to that Specialty of yours, I wonder?”
Hakana’s eye narrowed. What choice did he have but to play along? “Through the Excel Ritual, through my contract with—”
Velvetommy’s tongue flashed with glee. “Contract, what contract?” With a smooth flick of his wrist, he grabbed a length of ethereal golden chain from Hakana's third eye and pulled, yanking the man's head towards him along with. “I don't see no contract here, do you?”
Hakana didn't hesitate for a second, decking Velvety square in the cheek. Bone cracked, glass smashed. The bar's atmosphere flipped in an instant. The music and merriment stopped. Every other patron who, up until then, had been perfectly content enjoying themselves, descended on Hakana at once.
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“How dare you lay your hands on Lord Yakusa?!”
Hands locked around his throat, his wrists and under his armpits, pulling him to his feet. The executive struggled one moment, before realising how horribly outnumbered he was and deciding to save what remained of his dignity. From his limited point of view, the expression on all their faces was vaguely uniform: blends of indignation twisted their collective expression into a scowl.
“Attacking me in front of all my friends? Not a wise move, I gotta say.” The man called Yakusa picked himself up off the countertop. His shades had clattered to the floor. Where his eyes should have been, two eerie white voids gleamed. He held up a hand. A fistful of gold chains clenched tight around the friends’ throats, branding into the skin. Eerier still, none of them seemed the slightest bit aware.
“Yeah, sure. Friends.” Hakana spat, incredulous. “Also, your name is Yakuza?”
“No, no, no.” He waggled a finger. “Yakusa, with an ‘s’. My hands are in all their pockets, sure, but that ain’t exclusive. Wouldn’t be right.” He sighed, replacing his glasses. “I hate being pedantic about this kind of thing, but if you're going to invoke my name, you'd better do it correctly. Names hold power—you know that. Besides, it’s just common courtesy. After all, I’ve offered nothing but good times and company, haven’t I? All you’ve done so far is throw it all back in my face.”
“I don’t owe you jack.” Hakana bit his lip.
“True, but treating everyone with such hostile suspicion ain’t gonna win you no favours, Hideyori Hakana. You’ll be souring impressions of people who haven’t even had a chance to get to know you. And where will that leave you, when all is said and done? Make no friends, and you’ll die alone. I’m not Toshina, but even I can tell—” he tapped his wrist— “you ain’t got time to be makin’ more enemies, do ya?”
Hakana’s retort died in his throat.
Yakusa smiled and clapped his hands once. “Alright. You can let him go now, everyone. As you were. I love having such nice friends. The next round of drinks is on me!” Immediately, the hands on Hakana lifted, and a wave of cheer rippled through their assorted company. As commanded, the chatter resumed. The jovial ambience and gentle music through the speakers continued as though it had never stopped. Only Hakana and Yakusa were left standing. The latter smiled and looked around, before pointing to a more secluded table at the far end of the establishment. “Let’s start over, shall we?”
Hakana nodded and followed, sweeping hat from head. Sat at the table now—a table for two, with one chair and the other a bench set against the wall, he placed himself on the latter, insuring, at least, that no-one could approach from behind. On the way over, Yakusa had accepted an ornate box from another of his friends with suave gratitude. The box was wooden and finely crafted, with the detailing of a classic shogun gently burned into the soft pine. Yakusa lifted the lid, displaying a row of exquisite cigars.
“A peace offering, to show I mean you no harm. These are some of our finest.”
Hakana made to take one, but Yakusa retracted the box beyond his reach. “Nuh-uh-uh, nothing in life is free!”
The executive made a face, which got a chuckle out of his quasi-tormentor. “I’m only joking! Why don’t you buy me a drink in exchange, yeah?”
“Sure.”
“Then it’s a deal. Let’s shake on it, like men.”
Hakana’s brow furrowed. Why the insistence? “I’m not taking my glove off for you. No offence.”
“None taken.”
They shook hands, and Yakusa carefully extracted a cigar and placed it in the man’s gloved palm. The movement was so careful, so precise, it seemed ceremonial. Hakana wedged the rod square in his jaw, then brushed the hair from his face, leaning forward for the light that followed. It tasted as good as it looked. Real cognac barrel; a delectable sweetness, with trills of buttery and chocolatey notes adorning a stave of earth, leather, and petrichor. Cigars were out of his budget usually, but he had a few tucked away for special occasions. The sensation was enough for him to momentarily forget about the late doctor’s poorly timed warning.
“I was mistaken. You do have good taste,” Hakana conceded at last. That was about all the courtesy he was willing to offer.
“Glad ya like it. My boys got this box in from a company that just started up. Cost us an arm and a leg, so you’d better savour it!” He chortled. Swivelling slightly in his seat, he looked back to the bar, wistfully eyeing bottles of potent liquor. “A glass of chestnut shochu would do me nicely,” he concluded. “Thanks ever so much.”
Hakana snorted, and chewed on his cigar. An acrid puff left the opposite side of his mouth, followed by another bloody cough into his sleeve. He’d never get that drink. The cigar was his now. What kind of fool handed a stranger a nice cigar, anyway? Answer: the kind of fool Hideyori Hakana was more than happy to bleed dry before putting out of their misery. “Knock yourself out,” was all he managed, before a fresh length of golden chain lashed a noose around his throat. He let out a sudden, wheezing gasp. The cigar slipped from his teeth and clattered onto the tabletop. He clutched at the chain, but his fingers phased right through. Yakusa held the other end, and grinned.
“A glass of chestnut shochu would do me nicely,” came the gleeful refrain.
With a flash of blinding pain, the chains lashed out like vicious hookworm, burrowing deep into Hakana’s throat and mouth, linking themselves with thousands of miniature metallic clangs into a mechanism winding through his jaw, vocal tract and tongue. Before he knew it, his mouth was moving of its own accord. “Master!” His voice cut through the crowd and noise. “A glass of chestnut shochu over here, if you please!”
The balding fellow behind the bar rogered with a nod, and set about pouring the measure. The ethereal chains faded, and Hakana abruptly regained autonomy. He massaged his mouth, only to find no evidence of any strain, invasion or coercion. “What the hell did you just do?”
“Me?” Yakusa raised both eyebrows. “I didn’t do a thing. You just made good on our deal, didn’t you?” He removed his sunglasses for dramatic effect. “A deal is just another kind of Contract, don’tcha know.”
Recognition dawned on the executive’s face in a shiver, a flood of ice water down his spine. The man shuddered, folded his chest inward, then shoved the cigar back into his mouth and relit it from his own golden lighter. “Ha. Should have known from the start. You really couldn’t have made it any more obvious, could you? More fool me.”
Yakusa graciously accepted the glass of Shochu from the waiter, shaking him warmly by the hand and pressing a crisp banknote into the man’s palm with a wink. “Seems you’ve figured out my identity. Primordial Phenomenon of Contracts, at your… service.” A smirk twisted his mouth, and those brilliant whites gleamed.
“Honoured, your majesty.” Hakana coughed into his fist, and his vision momentarily blacked. Undeterred, he chewed another inch off his cigar. “What do you want with me?”
“I’m interested in you, Hideyori Hakana.” Yakusa leant on the table with his elbow, resting his chin betweem adjacent knuckles. “You’ve led an interesting life, in some interesting company.”
“I don’t work for free.”
“You’d be a fool to.” Yakusa nodded, approving. “Don’t worry, I ain’t soliciting. I simply wanted to stick my hand down ya pants before any of the others got to ya.”
Hakana wrinkled his nose.
“Gah! Sorry, slip of the tongue. Got the delinquents on my mouth right now. I like the cut of their jab sometimes. What I meant was—”
“I know what you meant.” The executive sighed. “Ashinaga was another of your lot.”
“Was?” Yakusa grinned. “Oh, don’t worry, he’s still around. Pretty pissed, too.”
“Can’t imagine why.” Hakana blew a puff of smoke at the ceiling fan. “I half-expected as much. The boss posturing around like a ‘roided peacock is making you all up in heaven shit bricks, so you came to me to help screw him over? You’re all on the same team, I take it.”
“You’re good, you’re good…” Yakusa nodded along, before crossing his arms and imitating a game-show’s loud incorrect buzzer. “Not! Don’t make the mistake of thinking I speak for the Eye, or the others. The whole title of ‘the Nine’ is another of your silly cognitions. We’re not a team. Hell, I hate a lot of those stuck-up fellas. When your boss punched Ashinaga’s lights out, I was kicking back with a tub of popcorn.”
“Similarly.” Hakana allowed himself a smile. “Though, seems you and I support different teams. You’re looking out for yourself, then?”
“Goodness, no. I’m looking out for all my fellas too, don’t forget!” Yakusa raised his arms and his voice with that final part, and everyone in the bar cheered. “Humanity’s such a wonderful sandbox. In all the years you’ve been around, I’ve never once been bored. Your cultures, your conflicts, it’s all so much fun. I can’t help myself but dive right in amongst and join in, kicking up the mud along with the rest of ya! Occasionally I see someone interesting and I thinks to myself, ‘hey, don’t that look neat?’ and I have myself a little fun. It’s a game I’ve played for millennia, and right here, right now?
The game’s never looked better. You’re just my next contestant, but you ain’t the only one.”
Hakana rolled his eyes. “I’m just another pawn to you, then? Figures.”
“Pretty much!”
“How can you be so frank? There’s a reason people usually don’t admit their nefarious schemes outloud, you know.”
“Oh, you mean Consequences? That ain’t my department.” He chuckled. “He’s a crafty son of a bitch and he’s got his own plans.”
A certain black-haired layabout flashed into Hakana’s head with a characteristic wink, grin and lackadaisical quip. A muscle in his jaw twitched. “I’m sure he does. So, cut the shit. What do you want from me?”
“I want to offer you a gift.”
“A gift?” The last gift horse he’d been offered had turned out pretty Trojan from his lack of suspicion. Hakana still felt the residuals of the chains that had spun their webs through his jaw. “A deal, you mean.”
“You’re a smart one, ain’tcha.”
“There’s obviously something in it for you.”
“There is, but unlike our last deal, you won’t have to do anything. Just using it will be enough for me.” He chuckled, which didn’t help his off-the-charts suspicion rating. “It’s a Blessing, one you might find comes in handy. I won’t name any names, of course, but there’ve been a few others. Wouldn’t want you to feel left out, no? You’ve got a good grasp on what I can offer, I hope.”
Hakana’s eyes widened. The jigsaw assembled itself in real time. Flames licked at his ribs. He hadn’t heard the name Toshina before. However, the very mention carried weight: mentioned in the same breath as Ashinaga, Phenomenon of the Fall, followed by the Phenomenon of Consequence, in whose lap Meguru Yoha smugly sat. The lucky bastard had a Specialty, but no third eye. Another who fit that descriptor? None other than his old friend Ibuse. Toshina was another phenomenon, and the mention of time in that same sentence had been a dead giveaway. A Blessing. He’d wondered for a while how the man had been in two places at once. He hadn’t. Furthermore, Meguru’s recollection of their bout only added weight. The man couldn’t teleport as stated, but rather halt the flow of time itself.
A Primordial Phenomenon’s Blessing? You always stepped out of your depth before you realised the full picture, didn’t you Ibuse? Seems you never learned a thing after all.
“So, you’re offering me a slice of that pie?” Hakana unfolded his arms, and laid one across the table, leaning ever-so-slightly forward.
Yakusa nodded. “You’re good at making deals; part of why I like ya.” He thumbed his chin a little more. “Your current predicament. You might know someone who might be stuck feeling a little blue. They might be able to help you, with the right kind of persuasion. Just food for thought—you never know when you might get hungry.”
The third realisation wasn’t icy like the first, nor hot like the second. Bolts of static crackled along his spine. Much like the cigar, he’d take the rest of his borrowed time for himself. Much like the cigar, he had no intention of giving it back. Furthermore, if his extension in logic proved fruitful, it seems he’d already get far more than he bargained for.
“I don’t make deals with the devil.”
A grin tore across Hakana’s face, a gruesome carving that slowly split his mouth ear to ear.
“I’m in.”