Cross Examination (Kiro no Kawa, Kohaku, Madoka, Marisa, Shu, Yae, Meliaya, Archie, Renka, Che Ngiem, Kenji, Kaoru, Saito Mimi, mention of the HLA and Ai Suishi)
A cold, concrete floor saps the heat from Yoshio’s feet through his socks. The CEO of Tamagokawa Noodle Company sits in the basement of his upper middle class home, inherited from his father before him. To the media, it is a symbol of the company’s humble origins and commitment to the good of the common man. Look, the advertisements say, Our CEO lives just like you. To his wife, it’s simple sentimentality she hopes he will grow out of. Who wouldn’t find it hard to leave the home they grew up in?
When you cut down to the root of truth, there is a darker reason.
Yoshio sits across from a young woman. A singer from a Kageoka nightclub. Nameless, still, but in his personal opinion she had the potential to go big. Just needed the right break. Just needed to escape the grasp of… people like him. But here she is, caught in his jaws. The poor girl. She’s tied to a wooden chair. He’s in a wooden chair too, but not tied down. She’s been gagged with duct tape, the silvery surface glistening with the moisture of tears running down her face. What remains of the sedative he gave her leaves her eyes glossy, groggy, struggling to stay open. It’s been long enough, though. She knows what’s coming. Muffled pleas come from beneath the strip of metallic fabric.
Behind the girl is a mirror, perched on the wall where it sits just above her head. Like a rectangular halo. The face of a tall, femininely pretty man with dark hair can be seen reflected in the mirror. It’s not Yoshio’s face. His own face has been worn down with the passage of time, stress wrinkles introduced to a once-handsome forehead, and he’s never considered himself feminine. No, the face in the mirror is that of Yoshio’s last victim. An ordinary salaryman who just so happened to fit the description of his master’s target demographic.
Bring me the beautiful people.
The man in the mirror smiles.
In the far-right corner of the room, there is a hole in the ground. Carved from the cement as if by giant claws, then down into the dirt below, carven through layers of substrate. It goes far enough down, curves just enough, that Yoshio has never seen the bottom with his flashlight. He’s not sure he’d want to. Every now and then, in this cursed room, he catches something glinting out of the corner of his eye, gone before he can face it.
The truth is that he cannot leave this house. This is where the bodies are buried. The bodies he buried. The bodies his father buried. All tossed down that hole, to whatever devil waits below.
Standing, Yoshio walks to a plastic table unfolded against the left wall. On it are a stereo CD player and a length of yellow rope. Part of him steels itself for what comes next. The other part, the part that gets a little larger, a little stronger each time, urges him on. It makes saliva pool in his mouth at the thought of it- of her. That dark half revels in the taboo of murder, flirts with the idea of darker temptations and perversions that Yoshio has thus far staved off.
A phone buzzes in Yoshio’s pocket, causing him to freeze. The woman tries to yell through the tape when he opens the door to step out of the room, but it’s a useless gesture. There’s no one else home. His wife went out to get groceries, Kohaku has long since moved out on his own, and Airi is in school.
“Fukuzawa Yoshio,” he holds his voice steady.
“Fukuzawa-san, this is Okomoto, your son’s principal.” The stern voice on the other end gives him pause.
“… Yes?”
“Due to an incident involving the assault of another student with a weapon, we have no choice but to expel Kohaku from Higan Academy. You should expect a call from someone soon about the court hearing, as the girl’s parents are pressing charges.”
Every blood cell in Yoshio’s body snap-freezes, running cold. Then, he starts to boil. “I understand,” he manages to say through grit teeth before he hangs up. Throwing open the door, he charges into the room, past the writhing, panicking woman. He marches before the mirror. “You lying bastard!” jabbing a finger into the glass, he stains it with the oils of his skin. “You swore! You swore to me that if I- if I played your game, you would spare Kohaku! What did you do to my son?!” Voice wild, spit flying, Yoshio feels himself possessed by a rage he did not know he had.
The man in the mirror smiles, his cute, girlish smile. ”I have spared the child my games,” he says, resting one elbow on the opposite arm to motion daintily with his hand. ”As per the terms of our pact. This…” That damn smile. Yoshio would smash the mirror if he weren’t so afraid of what it would do. He’s read enough stories in his time to know, a cursed object cannot be destroyed so easily, and its malice only grows with each attempt. ”… This was him. All him. His choice. The shared blood that runs through our veins, you, I, he- though it may call to him, the choice was his. No pact of mine.”
Still frothing at the mouth, Yoshio stares into the cold, lifeless eyes on the other side of the reflection. He can almost make out his own, faded, underneath the bizarre figment. Maybe that’s all this is. A figment. A terrible sickness of the brain he’s passed on to his son. His blood. This poisoned blood…
”Finish what you came here to do,” the mirror voice says, soft as steel. ”My pet is hungry, and I have other matters to attend. Or shall I begin whispering sweet nothings in his ear? Kohaku, my sweet… I have a deal for you,” the voice croons. ”Do you think he would take it? To escape from the consequences of his actions?”
Balling his fists, Yoshio shuffles to the small plastic table, kicking the door of the room shut. He reaches out and presses a button on the CD player, starting a song.. Blind Lobotomy, by the European metal band, Swordgasm. It’s one of Kohaku’s old CDs, that he forgot in his room. Yoshio uses it, to be reminded what he’s doing this for. Taking the length of rope, he wraps it around his hands. The cut of each fiber against his skin is familiar to him, like slipping on an old, worn-in glove. He walks behind the woman and loops it around her neck.
Then, Yoshio twists it and pulls. She struggles, rocking against her bonds, but the chair is bolted to the floor. Every jerk of her body sends a jolt of forbidden joy up the man’s arms, firing off signals in the dark corners of his brain. A little more of his soul dies in the act, and the dark thing taking its place revels in the digestion of its host as much as in the act itself.
Eventually, she stops. Yoshio keeps pulling, until he’s sure. Only then does he untie her.
Taking her in his arms, Yoshio carries her to the pit. There was a time when he would close their eyes, say a few words, and try to send them off with dignity. As much dignity as he could.
Yoshio drops her into the hole like a bag of trash. He’s just ready to be done with it.
It’s a thud and then a loud slap, accompanied by the dry snapping of bones. Hot breath steams the air, puffing from a jagged neck stump as if from a factory fumestack. The gaseous exhalation catches upon the air and ignites. Pale fire, blue and alien, deepens the darkness around it. Only the creature’s own porcelain-white skin is made to glow by the flame. Smooth, flawless, unblemished. A beauty that sucks the rest of the world dry.
Garasu no Omoide raises one long limb and sets it upon the stone floor of his abode. Delicate clinking sounds announce each movement, crawling on all fours to the freshly dumped body. Awful. Just awful. The fall has broken her nose. Clasping the extrusion between two crystal fingers, he snaps it back into place. Much better. Much, much. The errand-boy must be made to soften the chute or to remember care. CARE. No appreciation for the arts.
Looming above the corpse, Garomoi holds her by the mouth. He dribbles hot molten glass from the hole in the center of his shattered neck, pouring it down her throat. On contact, the pearlescent liquid silicon begins to spread like spiderwebs across her skin, deep into her flesh. Beautiful. She is so beautiful. Too beautiful to live, to change. She will join his collection. The Gallery. And she will be beautiful. Forever. Forever. Forever.
Child. Are you there, child?
In a corner of the large stone chamber, an ornate standing mirror glows from within. She appears. His Muse, his Lady. Light reflects from the surface of her hair, like a river pouring down her back. Feeling the breath clench in his chest, Garomoi clamors loudly to the mirrors side and prostrates himself. “Jaakunai-sama,” the Urban Hell’s voice speaks his Muse’s pet name softly, reverently, a whisper. “Why? Why have you come, how can I serve you?”
One of her hands, delicate and white, white as fresh milk, presses against the surface of the mirror. Garomai leans forward until the burning halo of his head and the stump of his neck reach through the glass. Her gentle touch graces his glassware skin, her sharp nails making his flesh sing when they pitter patter across his hard surface. ”I have come to commission you, my angel of beauty.” Her words make him shiver. Garomai tries to reach for her through the mirror, to take her in his hands-
Her hand clasps his and gently closes his fingers. They clink into his palm. “One touch. One touch,” he begs, whimpering puffs of flame and smoke sputtering in his stump.
”All things in time.”
Gently, but firmly, she forces his hand back out of the mirror. The mirror, so warm, so welcoming. Back into the barren reality of her absence. This ugly, ugly basement of stone and dust. “Who?” Garomai reluctantly pulls away, allowing the vicious air of the mortal realm to encompass his shoulders, to fog its chill against his flame. Anything for her. Anything to be let into her wonderful, warm, beautiful world.
A new image appears in the mirror. A girl. Pale and pretty. Dark hair hangs around her face, framing it nicely. Yes. He can work with this. “Who?” he repeats, this time in curiosity.
"Zennami. Yae. Her spirit is powerful, but her flesh is only human. Only human, still. She vexes me. You may make her beautiful, add her to your collection if you can, but if you cannot…”
“I will slaughter those who vex you. Jaakunai-sama. I will,” he promises.
”I know. Bid the mortal as you will. He will aid you at my command.” Him. Fukuzawa Yoshio. Garomai resents that he must share the credit for his works with this human man, but his Lady has forbidden the slaying of Yoshio. For all his flaws he is one of her children. One of hers’. That makes him… not beautiful, but not ugly. Neither worth collecting, nor worth killing. ”Do not underestimate her, Garomai,” hearing her pet name for him makes his skin vibrate, ringing out loud in glass-song. ”And do not dare to face her in the Realmwounds. She is Awakened.”
“I will do as you bid, my Muse. I will.”
Slinking humbly away from the mirrored portal, Garomai sees to his latest piece. His molten saliva has coursed through her body, eating the flesh and transforming it into solid, crystal clear glass. Every detail of her shape, from her hair to her clothing, rendered blemishless and untouchable by time. Taking the transfigured statue, Garomai carries her to the others- to his gallery. Each lit by their own candelabra of floating, blue flames. They glitter in the dark, each statue glowing with the power of the soul still trapped inside- souls that now strengthen their savior.
Garomai poses her carefully, as though she were singing with a microphone in hand. The glass flows under his touch, moving as easily as modeling clay. When he is done, the Hell creature steps back to admire his work. The image that will live forever in him.
Drawing her long, gnarled finger back from the glass before her, the Kiro no Kawa stoops low within the arched Hall of Mirrors. On either side of her, human beings in a dreamlike stupor make faces at their distorted reflections, barely cognizant of the Yokai’s presence. A scuttle of akaname crawl between the fairgoers’ feet, licking the dirt and mud tramped in on boots, and plucking discarded litter to savor its contents. Lurching to the exit, the Kiro no Kawa grasps the side of the opening with her twisting hand and steps out into the light of day. The late morning sun glitters on her skin, and she basks in it.
Kageoka Eien no Matsuri, the Eternal Festival. Some cloaked, some cloakless, Yokai walk among mortals here. They celebrate the coming of their Lord, experience human cultures and innovations, or simply trick and prey on the weak-minded. Seeping from the heart of the festival, Sakajo’s chained Ruptures emanate a Bleed between the worlds, allowing things from the other side to pass through. Or victims to be spirited away beyond mortal ken.
Kiro no Kawa walks leisurely through the crowd and daydreams, picking her way to the Festival Master’s hold. Her other half, the Taiyo o Korosu Mimizu. For but a few fleeting moments she had felt her missing piece through the skin of her perfect vessel, and then in a tempestuous mood the sun-eater had pulled away. The Yokai’s skin ripples and crawls in forlorn bliss at the memory, her many appendages coiling around one another in search of contact.
Yearning to witness the triumph of love, the Kiro no Kawa reaches out and drags a finger along the nape of a mortal’s neck. Her venom sinks into his skin, and he is taken by an intense passion. Grabbing the female that is his companion, he presses his lips to hers’, towering over her, establishing the dominance of his love. It makes the Kiro no Kawa feel a little better, to watch.
She will be made whole again. Reclaim what was lost. Under her guidance, Fukuzawa Yoshio’s game will distract the little detective girl from the greater game at hand. Until recently she’d kept the vessel’s father in reserve, for she had her little games to play with Mimi-chan and it kept her occupied. But now, Kiro no Kawa remembers the thrill. The thrill of her thumb pressing down on a puppet’s back, pressuring him with thoughts of love and of family. So strong… so strong he would kill for them. Just like his father before him. Just like any real man ought to.
Another reason to the thankful for Garasu no Omoide, her fledgling Yokai admirer. The Old Man lived in a different time. Before humans learned how to place eyes everywhere, to always watch over their shoulders. Without a little help, poor Yoshio might be caught before he plays his part. A stalker in the mirror, able to petrify souls and steal faces, is far more difficult for humans to trace than cocktails of poison.
Coming upon the keep at the center of the fair, the Kiro no Kawa steps through its threshold and into a Flooding palace. Here, that old fox Sakajo keeps his Ruptures bound with chain and ritual. Here, he walks in his own skin, and not that of the mortal fairmaster he had devoured and replaced. The seven-tailed Nogitsune, Thirty Third in Nurarihyon’s Hundred, drapes his feet leisurely over the side of a lounging chair, tail swishing against the floor. His fur is black as night, a mockery of the celestial Kokuko. Raising a cup of spirits, the wild fox bares his teeth in a gleaming grin. “Demon of Love! It is my esteem that you grace my festival. Have you come to play matchmaker among the celebrants at my temple?”
“Would that I could taste the joys of this shrine to sin,” she answers, a hand laid dramatically across her chest. “I come to attend matters not of flesh nor of heart, but of soul.”
“Such a marvelously mortal thing,” the fox comments, conversationally, sipping from his liquor while he waits for her to elaborate.
“I humbly request to use your grounds to convene a meeting of the bargainers, and of their harvest,” the worm bows her upper body. “No greater place than this to cultivate servants among humanity. The wonders we can show them…”
Swinging himself into an upright seated position, the Nogitsune plucks a human heart from an offering bowl at his throneside and bites into the organ like an apple, blood still congealed and preserved within. Swallowing with a smack of his tongue, he announces, “I never understood what they think mortal ‘soldiers’ can offer us. Human beings are amusements and delicacies, an enjoyable crop, but hardly a necessary one. I would come and meet these human-traitors at your summit, and take their measure!”
“Then, I will have the invitations scribed and sent,” the Kiro no Kawa flexes her appendages, pleased at the fox’s interest. There is much potential to be harvested from the mortal soul, if only more of her kind could be made to see.
Beings such as she and the new blood Yokai were born from the radiance of soul-belief, after all. Perhaps they all were, at a time… though the worm would never utter such an unfounded blasphemy. The favor of the old blood can be fickle, and their violence great.
A tug at the edge of her consciousness. The worm leans back and gazes into the sun through Sakajo’s skylight, letting its golden light wash over her body. She can feel her perfect vessel stirring again… “My duties call. May we meet again in good health, Sakajo Ojisama.”
“Ekeekeekee, in good health, Kawa-chan!” the fox waves the worm off, as she trudges from his palace and into the festive streets. She seeks for the dark corners, where she may commune with her distant offspring.
Kageoka City Courthouse stands above the orderly streets of the east end’s business district. Below the second story window, people and cars pass by in either direction, going about their days like normal. Kohaku rugs at the collar and cuffs of the suit he was stuffed into, which itches. To be frank, it’s shit. He could have just had his father bring a suit from home, if the Bureau hadn’t insisted it would look worse for their argument. Something about appearing too put-together. Better if he’s uncomfortable.
Behind Kohaku, his parents speak with Red and the lawyer. Red is dressed in a beige suit, which is what passes for a disguise compared to her usual dark suit. She’s supposed to look like a school principal or something. Guess she looks the part, glasses and all. More like a grumpy librarian.
All their voices are noise. This whole world is noise. He hasn’t been able to say a word to them. Father’s lecture, mother’s panicked reprimands. Kohaku just stood through it all, trying not to break down or snap. They don’t know anything. They don’t know anything about the stakes of what’s being fought for. There’s nothing to feel guilty for, it was always going to come to blood before the end. Always was.
It’s so hard to work up the energy to care.
Days. Days since Tai interacted with Kohaku, since he heard his Idolon’s voice, since he saw his love at all. It’s a soul-deep hollow in the pit of his stomach, the constant sensation of falling. Not a want. It’s a need. Like going without water, feeling the tongue dry out in his mouth, feeling his brain dehydrate and die. Like going without food, until his body starts to cannibalize itself. Everything else is noise. A limb has been torn away. No… just gone to sleep. Gone to sleep. Kohaku folds his arms and rubs them, trying to restore sensation.
Someone speaks behind Kohaku’s back, takes him by the shoulder, and guides him towards the courtroom where his hearing will be taking place. It’s Red. Pulling his consciousness back into his body is like a man dragging a hot air balloon to the ground by force of will alone. First, Kohaku remembers to breathe and sucks in a great gulp of air. Then, he remembers how to walk. She hands him off to the lawyer. Kohaku doesn’t remember his name. His face is so bland that he couldn’t pick the man out of a crowd if he tried. Just another irrelevant piece of meat.
Semicircles of seating expand from the judges’ bench like ripples in a pool. Red and Kohaku’s parents split off partway down the aisle to find seating with the other witnesses. People from school. Kohaku can’t look at them. Every time he tries, he catches a glimpse of that bright blond hair, and his guts tighten into a dense knot of guilt and rage. His hand twitches. He wants to gut her right here, and finish what he started. He wants to have never started it at all. How can someone want two things so diametrically opposed? It’s fucking stupid.
The lawyer leads Kohaku to the defendant’s table and sits him down.
Presiding over the room is an aging man with a long, bushy gray beard. It’s terrible, like those dead rats that hang from the faces of westerner biker gangs. Kohaku tries not to let his disgust show on his face. It seems this case is only worth having the one judge to make rulings. If nothing else, it will make this faster. Waiting through an argument between a council of out of touch old bonebags would grate like fingers on a chalkboard.
Whistling to himself, the fossil flicks his eyes between the heads filling the seats and a list on his desk. “I believe that is everyone. Are we missing anyone?” he asks, in a friendly tone. Kohaku isn’t sure if that’s a good sign or not. When the lawyer and prosecutor nod their approval, the judge shuffles his papers and lays them down. “Good. I have here a guilty plea from the defendant. Counsel, is that correct?”
The man beside Kohaku stands. “That is correct, Your Honor.”
“Has the defendant been informed of his rights?”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“Very good. Then,” as the lawyer sits down, the judge recites, “Fukuzawa Kohaku pleads guilty to the charge of assault causing injury. Based on the arguments presented in this hearing, it is within my power to render a sentence of up to fifteen years in prison, and-or a fine of up to five hundred thousand yen. The prosecution may call its first witness.”
From the other section before the judge, a tall, thin man with a narrow face and dark hair stands up. “The prosecution calls the victim, Onguuchi Madoka, to the stand.”
She goes. The girl, stubbornly wearing her bright colors even now, with the white of bandages visible on her neck and shoulder, wrapped down across the wound on her chest. Moving softly, as if fearing she might reopen the wound- performance, or reality? Kohaku stares at her, wide-eyed like a deer in headlights, unable to look away now that he’s forced to look. His heart pounds, and he clutches his wrist beneath the defendant’s table.
Pale. She’s so pale. Did I do that, or was she always that pale?
“Please,” the prosecutor says gently, “Tell us in your own words what happened when you were attacked.”
Onguuchi looks at her family. Parents and grandparents, seated quietly in the audience, among courthouse gawkers and secondaries come to watch the proceedings. For a moment, following her gaze, Kohaku meets eyes with the grandfather. Sharp, pointed hatred radiates from those eyes, concealed steel beneath a stern poker face. “We were having a meeting,” the witch speaks, and Kohaku’s head jerks back to focus on her. How is she going to dance around it, hm? A meeting about what? “I was talking to Fukuzawa-senpai, and he got this look. He reached for his chest, and I thought, maybe he was having, having chest pains from stress, ya know?” instead of addressing any of the details, she just glances over it. Whatever. That’s why the other side questions them too. “Instead, he grabbed a knife and lunged at me. I tried to defend myself, but he overpowered me.”
“What injuries did you receive, Onguuchi-chan?”
Madoka touches the center of her chest. “I was stabbed in the chest. It nicked a lung. Luckily, the doctors were able to fix the damage.”
“What lasting harm has impacted your life due to this injury?”
“Well,” an uneasy smile forces its way onto her face. She knows damn well she faces worse dangers in the Idea World. This isn’t a conflict that belongs to these unawakened and their fake laws. Noticing the judge paying attention to his face, Kohaku tries to control his breathing and remain calm as the girl continues her account, “I missed half a week of school due to recovery, and this was… I never expected to be attacked at Higan Academy like this. Not by someone I thought was a friend.” The fake-ass smile falls from her face.
A friend? Kohaku’s struggling sympathy is quashed down by rage at the Onguuchi’s claim. They fought one battle together. She’s a nobody to him, and he’s less than nobody to some stuck-up princess like her. Is she lying, or just fucking delusional? Tensing up, Kohaku prepares to leap to his feet in argument against it- but the lawyer places his hand on Kohaku’s shoulder and squeezes. Tightening his lips, Kohaku remains shakily in his seat. His whole body feels wet and cold, like he’s broken into an icy sweat. There’s pins and needles deep under his skin, and she shivers. It feels like entering a Bleeding Zone, but the unnatural prickling is trapped inside his bones.
“I don’t know if there’s going to be any like, health issues from this. The doctors sounded optimistic,” the girl gives the judge her precious little princess smile again.
“Thank you for recounting this event, Onguuchi-san,” the prosecutor’s voice remains neutral and professional. He holds out his hand to the judge. “I have no more questions for this witness.” As the prosecutor returns to his seat, Kohaku’s lawyer steps away from the table and takes his place.
Forced to take stock of the man, now that he is at the center of the stage, Kohaku notices his toupee, a mat of hair attached to his balding head, slightly crooked from the back. His suit, dark brown, is crisp and well-kept, in stark contrast to the sloppy job on his fake hair. Kohaku can’t tell if he’s a slob or not. “Onguuchi-chan, I hope you are recovering well,” the man greets her in a friendly tone.
“I’m doing okay,” the girl answers.
“Good, good,” the lawyer sniffs the air and licks his lips. “Did your friends bring you your homework so you could keep up?” Behind him, the prosecutor stands up and glowers.
“Your Honor, I object. The stand is no place for pleasantries.”
“I assure you,” the lawyer holds up the palms of his hands, “I’m getting somewhere with this!”
Drawing a hand down his beard, the judge smooths it into a fine gray column. It’s still hideous. All men with beards should be required by law to shave. “It’s related to your question about harm, I assume? Though I’m not sure how this is relevant to the case. Continue for now, Kimura-san.”
With a bow of gratitude, the lawyer repeats himself to Onguuchi, “Miss, did you receive your homework while you were in recovery?”
“Um, yes?” now just looking confused, the girl runs a hand through her hair. “My friends made sure I was taken good care of.”
“I’m glad to hear that,” smiling in a profoundly greasy way, the lawyer folds his hands in front of him. “It’s good to have friends you can count on- we’ll come back to this subject later, Your Honor, I assure you,” he quickly corrects as the older man moves to chastise him for wasting time on more nonsense. “Now, Onguuchi-chan. Can you tell me more about this meeting? What was it about?”
“Oh,” Onguuchi looks away, vacantly. “It’s just, Student Council business, you know.”
“And is Fukuzawa-kun a member of the School Council?”
“Uh. Nnno,” she admits, slowly. The lawyer misspeaking the name seemed to throw off her train of thought for a moment.
“So,” holding out his open palms, the lawyer looks around at the courtroom. “What was he doing there?” Quiet falls over the courtroom. Come on, you kami-worshiping witch. Can’t bring yourself to lie on the fuckin’ stand? Kohaku holds himself back. His body wants to lean forward in his seat and bare his teeth like an expectant shark. Ready to pounce. Ready to tear into her. Hush, child. Bottle your fury. All things in due time. A chill runs up Kohaku’s spine, cooling his coiled muscles. He could have sworn he heard someone whisper in his ear, touch the back of his neck. But there’s no one there.
The pause hangs over them, Kohaku’s lawyer waiting patiently with that grimy smile on his face. “Please answer the question,” the judge finally prods, and Onguuchi nods her head slowly.
“Fukuzawa-senpai, he works at the volunteer kitchen,” she says meekly. Not a real answer. Just a statement of a true, but irrelevant fact. “He was helping us with a few things.” Lies crafted from facets of the truth.
“Were you planning to close the volunteer kitchen?”
“Of course not,” even as her prosecutorial ally begins to stand to object, Onguuchi answers the question swiftly. “We love our community. We want to support them however we can.”
Waving the sharp-eyed prosecutor down gently with his hands, the lawyer continues, “Then, what could have possibly compelled this young man, with no prior criminal record, to suddenly attack you?”
Never having sat back down, the prosecutor intervenes. “Objection, Your Honor. How is motive relevant when the crime was already confessed to?”
“The circumstances should weigh into the punishment, and whether the defendant faces punishment as an adult or a juvenile, wouldn’t you say?” the lawyer swings around, shrugging his shoulders as he motions at Kohaku.
“I would say so. Would you answer the question, Onguuchi-chan?” the judge requests, gently.
Fidgeting with her hands, Onguuchi looks in Kohaku’s direction. Their eyes meet, and she flinches. He can still feel it pumping in his veins, that vicious impulse to carve her out of this world. This girl. This obstacle to my happy ending. She sees it too, the same look in his eye. He would do it again. Would I? Of course I would… “I,” she softly pads around the truth, ever skirting on the edge of fiction. It’s not so easy to keep secrets in a courtroom. “Was criticizing Fukuzawa-senpai’s… friend.” She says the word uncertainly. “It set him off, and he-”
“Ah!” clapping his hands, the lawyer cuts her off. “A friend? You didn’t sound so certain. Can you tell me more about this friend? Are they a boy or a girl?”
“… I’m not sure.”
“You were criticizing his friend, and you don’t know if they were a boy or a girl?” the lawyer raises his eyebrows in exaggerated shock. “Alright. Anything else?”
“They don’t go to our school.”
“And is that what the criticism was about?”
“No.” Face a thin poker face now, Onguuchi looks like a cornered animal.
“Hm,” the lawyer raises a hand to his chin, putting on a stern thinking face. “I’m still unclear on this, Onguuchi-chan. What exactly were you criticizing about this friend you’ve apparently never met, who doesn’t go to your school?” Silence. Kohaku can see the wheels turning in the girl’s head as she tries to think of something to say. Before she can, the lawyer shakes his head. “It’s alright, I withdraw the question. I think we’ve heard enough. Your Honor, I’m finished with this witness.”
Everyone returns to their seats in the midst of the awkward silence that follows.
“The prosecution calls Kiwigawa Marisa to the stand.”
The girl slides out of her seat and walks up to the bench. Kohaku hadn’t seen her. Hidden away behind Shu Jinko, avoiding Kohaku’s gaze. Avoiding looking at him. He can’t blame her. Just seeing his former gang member rubbing her hand sends Kohaku’s insides roiling. Black, tarry guilt bubbles up inside the ball of human rage, their heat clashing with the alien cold that’s invaded his marrow. Suddenly, Kohaku sucks in a breath. Remembers to breathe.
“… and when I grabbed him to try and stop him, he cut my hand,” testifying, now. Kohaku lost time again. Rat. Only rats squeal. No. Kohaku lost the right to Marisa’s loyalty the moment he struck her. Pushing down the misplaced anger, Kohaku clenches his fists on the defendant’s table.
“And how do you know Fukuzawa-san?” the prosecutor asks. In that moment, Kohaku picks up on the way the talk. The lawyers. His always refers to him by -kun, while the prosecutor insistently uses -san. Each trying to subtly affect how he’s seen by the judge. A child, or an adult.
“We were part of the same gang.”
“Can you tell me more about that?”
Marisa glances Kohaku’s way. He tries to smile reassuringly, let her know there’s no hard feelings if she talks. But she just jerks her head away and clears her throat. “We were called the Ideal Destroyers. There were just a few of us. I don’t want to give the others’ names…” Good. They shouldn’t have their names stained by their leader’s crimes.
“What sort of activities did the gang get up to?”
“We were training to get stronger,” looking around at the adults, Marisa visibly wavers. “It was, um. It was about not feeling powerless anymore, to change how things are. We sometimes fought other gangs, to stop them from preying on people.”
“And when you were engaged in vigilantism, fighting these gangs, Kirigawa-chan. Clarify for me, did Fukuzawa-san ever stab someone, or use a deadly weapon?”
Shaking her head, Marisa rubs her upper arm. “Never on a hum…an…” she pauses, eyes going wide as she realizes her fumble.
“Human? Did he use them on… a non-human?” Clearly this questioning isn’t going where the prosecutor expected. He cocks his head at the girl, confused.
“We, uh, sometimes drove off wild animals,” she awkwardly course-corrects.
“And Fukuzawa-san used weapons on the animals? Did he ever inflict pain or suffering on them intentionally?”
“No!” Marisa jerks up in her seat, shaking her head. “It wasn’t like that. He said it was a hunter’s duty to keep culling the dangerous wildlife, so, so people would be safe,” she responds. “He actually-”
“Thank you,” nodding his head, the prosecutor rests a curled knuckle against his cheek, cutting the girl off before she can say any more. “Can you tell us more about this ‘friend’ of Fukuzawa-san’s that Onguuchi-chan mentioned? Were they part of the gang?”
“Sss-” the consonant is drawn out as Marisa holds her tongue against her teeth, “-sort-of? She was more like his girlfriend. Weird, but, um, she hung out with us sometimes.”
Things are unfolding in an uncomfortable direction. Kohaku glances back at his parents, not relishing the talk they would try to have once this is over. The prosecutor looks at Kohaku’s lawyer, who wears a smarmy smile, visually taunting his opponent. “And why might Onguuchi-chan have disapproved of this girlfriend?” the prosecutor asks, tiptoeing through uncertain ground.
“It’s more like,” Marisa twists up her face. “Onguuchi-chan was trying to say he shouldn’t get too attached, because she’s going to be moving away soon.”
Everything about these vague stone-wall testimonies is wearing on the prosecutor, who rubs his forehead. “I see. We have no more questions for this witness, Your Honor. She is yours’, Kimura-san.”
Kohaku’s lawyer stands, but remains behind their desk. “Would you finish what you were about to say, before, Kirigawa-chan? When Matsushita-san cut you off?”
Marisa looks conflictedly at the wooden surface in front of her, running back the last couple of minutes in her head to find where it was at. “I was saying, he actually volunteered at animal shelters. He likes animals, it was only dangerous ones we went after.” She looks up at the judge seated above her, and holds up her hand. There’s a scar along the back. “He did this, but, he didn’t do that.” The truth is important to her. That he answer for what he did, not for some elaborate fiction. An aching shiver clears away some of the chill from Kohaku’s bones. Suddenly, he feels feverish. His body feels like it’s eating itself alive. I wish I could say I’m sorry.
“I see,” folding his hands behind his back, the lawyer bounces on his feet. “Kirigawa-chan, do you know how Onguuchi-chan somehow knew that Fukuzawa-kun’s girlfriend would be moving away despite never having met her, or in fact knowing that she was female, or a romantic partner?”
“… No. I dunno.”
“Thank you. No more questions for this witness, Your Honor,” the lawyer sits back down, practically giddy with the situation- and Kohaku can’t blame him. With every new testimony, the judge’s face looks more perplexed by the case in front of him. It’s a good thing the Bureau pulled some strings to fast-track this shit before the SC could get their shit together and got their stories straight.
Next witness called to the stand is Shu Jinko, the Prez himself. He walks up with that casual ease he has in any situation, lowering himself into his seat and politely nodding at the judge with a murmured good morning. The prosecutor stands and walks up to meet him. “Shu Jinko. Please tell us your position on the Student Council.”
“I’m the Student Council President,” the young man beams into the courtroom, as solemnly as he can manage.
“In your own words, please tell us about the vents leading up to Onguuchi-chan’s injury.”
Sitting up with excellent posture, Shu nods his head. “Of course. We were having a late-night meeting after taking care of some business, and having a debrief. Fukuzawa-senpai got some bad news about a friend of his, and then we were having a talk with him about some other stuff, and Madoka-chan got up really close to him. It was… really an awful situation from there. He had the knife I gave him, and we tried to get her away and to a hospital as fast as we could after it happened.”
Nearly suffering an aneurism on the spot, the prosecutor leans on his table for support. He opens his mouth, testing the air, seeing if he wants to open any of the cans of worms Jinko just popped out into the room. “I, we have no more questions for this witness.”
The lawyer- Kiruma- practically leaps out of his seat and saunters into center stage. “Shu-kun, you prefer Shu, I’m told?” The Prez nods. “Wonderful. Let’s take this one thing at a time, shall we? What was the debrief about, what was this business?”
“I can’t tell you that,” Shu states plainly. “It’s classified.”
For a long moment, the courtroom is dead silent. “You will answer the question,” the judge insists, furrowing his brow.
Shu opens up his mouth and lets it hang open, until finally he blurts out, “We were digging up worms and turtles that were in the city water supply.”
Once again, the courtroom is struck dead. Kohaku can see the prosecutor covering his face in his hands, and hushed whispers begin to form in the crowd of gawkers and lookers-on. “Was your worm-digging successful?” Kohaku’s lawyer asks.
“It was!”
“I’m so happy for you,” Kiruma claps his hands together. Matsu-whats-his-name has given up on objecting to Kiruma’s chattering by now. “Was this friend the bad news was about the same as the girlfriend?”
“No, he was another member of Fukuzawa-senpai’s gang. He got shot by the Yakuza while bravely rescuing civilians.” For the third time, everyone is struck silent by Shu’s wrecking ball testimony. “I’m not making excuses for him,” Shu adds, “But I know he was under a lot of stress. I’m glad to hear senpai decided to own up to what he did and try to make it right,” that dumb smile, even somber as it is, lights up his face. It bubbles up a strange feeling in Kohaku’s gut.
“What was the ‘other stuff’ you described, that followed?”
“Just what Madoka-chan and Marisa-chan were talking about with the girlfriend,” turning on the bench, Shu holds up his hand towards Kohaku. “And I just want to say, I think-“
“I object!” standing up so quickly he jostles his table, the prosecutor holds up his hand as if to physically stop Shu’s words. ”The witness is not here to address the defendant. He is here to answer questions.”
“You’re right, I’m sorry,” Shu bows his head in apology.
Kohaku’s hands are shaking. He has no idea what to feel. Luckily, his lawyer is here to do the thinking and talking for him. “Why was a member of Fukuzawa-kun’s alleged gang defending ‘civilians’ from the yakuza, and how did you come to know about it?”
“They were helping our friends restore peace to the Fujiwara Ward after the water that was poisoned by the worms made everybody crazy.” Kiruma is struggling not to break down in laughter. “They called us after it happened.”
“… You gave my client the knife?” is all Kohaku’s lawyer can manage to wheeze out.
“Well, I confiscated it, but then I gave it back to him to help us dig out the worms. And the turtles.”
“I have no more questions for this witness,” waving a hand to the judge, the lawyer returns to the seat and slides into it, looking as emotionally exhausted as his counterpart. The aisles of pews behind them are alive with chatter, as Onguuchi and Mihama confer with Shu in panicked whispers and the spectators erupt into gossip.
The judge pounds his gavel to restore order. “… I think we could all use a recess. Everyone step outside, calm yourselves, and we will resume in half an hour.”
Tasteful white and sky-blue walls, carefully tended to. White dirties easily, so they must expend a great deal of effort keeping it in shape. Aoi Chiheisen Apartment Complexes, three buildings directly adjacent to one another, stretch in either direction down the street. Yae Zennami steps out of the passenger seat of a police cruiser and takes in the familiar surroundings.
An upper middle-class apartment building, catering to those with the character and breeding to rub shoulders with the upper echelon, if not yet the monetary means; or else the spawn of the wealthy, testing the waters of their own freedom. The building is located two blocks from her own residence. That’s not the only reason the police contacted her so quickly, nor the only reason she chose to answer that call.
“This way, Zennami-chan,” Officer Igarashi leads her inside. The local department’s dedicated go-fer, and oftentimes her personal chauffeur to crime scenes. With a ring of keys, attached to his belt by a rubbery string, he opens each door in their path until they come to Apartment 204. Cordoned off with police tape. Opening this, too, the man holds the tape up while Yae ducks underneath.
Immediate observations: no sign of a struggle. A clean, modest apartment, marred only by a few pieces of clothing tossed over the back of the sofa. Yae leans over it to examine them. Light blue jacket and hat. The victim went out last night, and had just gotten home and tossed aside her outerwear. Someone followed her?
Crouching down, Yae examines the floor. There are faint drag marks on the tatami mat, leading to the door.
“You said she was a singer?” Yae asks, pacing through the ergonomically merged living room and kitchen, separated only by the boundary between linoleum tile and tatami. The television is switched on to the news channel, where the very disappearance Yae is investigating is being reported on. “Where did she sing?”
“The Atsuki Tenno nightclub,” Igarashi replies. Past him, in the kitchen and the bathroom, crime scene technicians are bagging and logging evidence. “It’s downtown. She was one of the amateur performers who’ve been with the club for a few years.”
“Trying to make a name for herself, draw attention,” speaking out loud to herself, Yae swerves into the kitchen. It seems the girl had garnered the wrong kind.
Stopping in front of the refrigerator, Yae looks at the reason she was called. Slipping on a pair of black driving gloves, Yae removes the photograph from the fridge and takes it to the kitchen table.
ZENNAMI YAE
Mismatched letters cut from newspapers and magazines, your typical fare for a calling card. They’re glued beneath a photograph of a woman, dark hair hanging around her face. A face that Yae noted immediately bears a striking resemblance to her own, down to the broad, confident smile. Asano Natsumi, singer. Latest in a string of people that have disappeared, in ways eerily similar to this case.
Turning her head, Yae peers into the bathroom. On the bathroom mirror, the woman’s appearance is burned into the glass, a dark tint that doesn’t match the rest- the dark brown shade of sunglasses. People call these Mirror Memories, an urban myth similar to old Western tales about photographs stealing your soul. Those who disappear can later be seen in mirrors by others, some of whom escaped the same fate. Always people with unseen scars, warts or other flaws beneath their clothing. As if the phenomenon only desires people with unblemished skin. There is no doubt in Yae’s mind that there are supernatural elements to this kidnapping, but there’s more to it than that. It’s not a Yokai pulling people into a mirror. The drag marks hint at a human abductor. Or at least one with a physical form.
A Rogue Awakened using their Idolon to stun their victims before taking them, maybe?
All past disappearances attributed to the Mirror Memories phenomenon occurred in lower class neighborhoods. Not in Forbidden Zones. It’s too easy to track who goes in and out, meaning that the perpetrator does not live in one. They stuck to the low-hanging fruit in areas that were barely better than slums. Harder to track them that way.
Until now. A woman abducted, who lives in an apartment building only a few blocks over from the Zennami residence, and the first calling card left behind, calling her out specifically.
Why? Why break the pattern, and why now? Are they getting cocky?
“Officer,” Yae speaks, reaching out to tap one of the investigators on the arm. “Does this building have surveillance footage?”
“Yeah, but it’s no dice,” the man rumbles. “Somebody replaced the footage with the face of some girlyman.”
“It’s the Mirror Memories,” one of the younger officers speaks up, in fearful reverence.
“Aw, shut up. Probably just some new-age hacker with a new gizmo,” the older officer shoots back, trudging back to work.
A feminine man. Yae recalls a disappearance case matching that description somewhere recent on her backlog. Resting an elbow on the kitchen table, she traces circles around her chin with a finger. “The camera footage wasn’t replaced,” she says, only to herself, barely more than a breath. Cameras have glass lenses, which can hold a reflection. No doubt, then: a supernatural entity, potentially an Idolon, is working with a human accomplice.
Glancing up at the clock, Yae checks the time. Madoka-chan’s court case should be well underway now. Yae was on the witness list, but had to decline to testify due to this case popping up, and-
“Ah,” she says. Standing up from the kitchen table, Yae makes a beeline for the door. A case appears, suddenly calling Yae herself out to answer, on the same day as the court case got fast-tracked? No chance. “Igarashi-san, I need you to take me to the courthouse.” Yae never doubted that the court would reach a conviction. It’s a point of national pride, after all. But what if Fukuzawa and his cronies have something else planned?
Somehow, Fukuzawa Kohaku is connected to the Mirror Memories kidnapper. And Yae intends to get answers.
Sequestered in a side room with his legal team, Kohaku sits in a chair next to the window, resting his forehead against the cool glass. His skin feels like it’s crawling over his musculature. It basks in this alien Bleed radiating from inside his bones. When hands grasp him by the shoulder, he flinches and jerks upright.
Kohaku’s father leans down, hugging him from behind. The man’s hands, they’re shaking. Why? The case seems like it’s going well. Shu’s entire testimony was a grenade dropped into the narrative. If anything, Kohaku’s starting to wish he’d ignored that bitch agent’s advice and plead not guilty. “What?” he asks, standoffishly. “Sorry,” he says, more softly, wincing at the immediate regret. His father doesn’t deserve to be snapped at. “I’m on edge.”
“Is she the white lady?”
The words his father whispers in his ear make Kohaku’s skin tense around his fingers, his heart hammers in his ears. “What?”
“Your… girlfriend, that nobody seems to have seen?”
“No. I’m… she’s someone else,” muttering, Kohaku twists in his father’s grip to see who else is watching. Red is across the room, sharing a cup of coffee with Red and Kimura. “How do you know the white lady?” he asks, voice low. Adults shouldn’t be able to interact with the Idea World that way.
Fingers tightening on Kohaku’s shoulders, his father hisses out a breath between his teeth. “Your grandfather and I… both saw her too. What does she say? Whatever it is, don’t listen. And never take any deal she offers, never play her games. Promise me, son.”
“She appears in my dreams. I… don’t think she’s offered any deals?” swallowing down a dense, frazzling lump of nerves, Kohaku reaches up and grips his father’s hand. “Otousan, she kept calling me her child.”
“Promise me.”
“I promise. I won’t take any of her deals- gh, hah,” Kohaku jerks forward, gasping as his entire body is wracked with dozens of pinching sensations. He can feel his father’s teeth clenched, suffering some similar sensory assault. “It’s true? Then we’re both…” Child of my venom, flesh of my soul. Do not dare reject me.
“You two alright over there?” Kimura is leaned back in his chair, laughing casually as he watches them cringing in the back of the room. “Take it easy, now! We’re cruising down easy street. Sure, you’ll probably get a fine, but I’m feeling it. The judge is off-balance, ready for a one-two punch once we get to call our witnesses.” As he tries to give them a pep talk, the lawyer’s watch beeps. “Aha, there we go. Time to get back in the arena, so put your game faces back on, alright?”
Swallowing, Kohaku takes a deep breath. The white lady’s punishment gradually eases out of their bodies, and he and his father relax their shoulders. “Come on.” Nodding, Kohaku accepts his father’s hand to help him stand.
Down the hallways, back into the courtroom.
Everybody settles, and the judge recommences proceedings: “We will now continue with the next witness of the prosecution. And let’s all try and keep our composure this time, hm?”
“The prosecution calls Mihama Meliaya to the stand.”
Another painful face. The younger girl isn’t afraid to look Kohaku in the eye, and the sad disapproval in her face is somehow worse than all the rest. She climbs into the witness’s bench, barely able to see over the desk in front of her. A courthouse worker brings out a booster chair, and she awkwardly hops into it.
“Could you please tell us the events of the night in question, using your own words?” the prosecutor sounds tired. He expects the youngest witness to paint another ridiculous tale.
Mihama folds her hands in her lap. “As part of a science and community-service project, the Student Council has been doing ongoing testing in the Fujiwara Ward. Before you say anything, yes, we had the appropriate passes and security measures in place,” when she speaks, clearly and concisely, everyone in the room suddenly has their eyes on her. Kohaku can see Kimura’s face twist into a pout as he considers how to tackle the girl in cross. “Evidently not enough, since one youth- not a student- involved in the project was lost. We had Tanaka Daisuke, street-name Takoyaki, and the rest of the ID Gang as escorts. We also worked closely with the group called the Fujiwara Senki, who are invested in improving the lives of the Fujiwara Ward residents and quelling the rampant gang activity. At the time, we believed the Ideal Destroyers to be of like mind.”
Unlike the others, the girl seems all too willing to stretch the truth to weave sense into the biggest holes in their narrative. Kohaku narrows his eyes. He sees her in a different light, now. Still the Mihama he knew, part of his volunteers, but also a worthy foe.
Straightening out his suit, the prosecutor nods, now back on his figurative feet. “Please continue.”
“We discovered some animals within the water supply of the ward, and some surrounding areas, with insufficient filtration systems in place to deal with their excretions. This presented a very real health risk to the city as a whole, so we removed the animals and purified the water,” Mihama continues. “Unfortunately, the group Tanaka-san was with encountered some Yakuza thugs. They must have been in the midst of some sort of deal, because they opened fire. Tanaka-san was lost in the exchange. When we got the news, Fukuzawa,” she shoots an evil eye at him, neglecting any honorific. Fair. “He started to lose his cool. As discussions were ongoing, Madoka-chan tried to calm him down, and he attacked her brutally with a knife. That summarizes my knowledge of events that night.”
“Very thorough. Thank you, Mihama-chan,” taking a step back, the prosecutor raises a hand to the judge. “We have no more questions for this witness.”
Kimura takes his opponent’s place, the cocky look on his face torn off, replaced with one of concentration. “Mihama-chan, can you tell me how Fukuzawa-kun looked immediately prior to and during the injury?”
The girl looks at him carefully before she answers, “He spaced out, then got this freaky look on his face. Teeth bared, growling like an animal, even drooling a little.”
“Did my client appear to be in his right mind?”
The prosecutor stands. “Objection. The defense has not pleaded insanity.”
Turning on the spot, Kimura wheels his hands between his opponent and their judge. “I’m not arguing that my client is insane, which is such a discriminatory remark I argue it should be struck from the record. What I’m getting at is that at the time of the injury, his decision-making was-”
“Counsel is testifying now,” the prosecutor interrupts.
Slamming his gavel, the judge sighs, “Both of you, quiet down. I will allow the witness to answer the question.”
Letting out a slow breath from her nose, Mihama says softly, “I’m not an expert witness on the subject of psychology. But… no, he did not look in his right mind.”
“Thank you. No more questions for this witness, Your Honor,” with a nod of his head, Kimura returns to the defense’s table.
Next to be called to the stand is one of the foreigners. Archibald. Kohaku notices a conspicuous absence of the Russian here. Probably prefers not to get publicity attached to shit like this. The brit doesn’t look bothered, so much as out of place, slouching onto the bench and leaning on his elbow.
“Archibald Florence,” the prosecutor addresses him. “Are you a member of the Student Council?”
“No.”
“Are you affiliated in any official capacity with the Student Council?”
“Nope.”
“Would you call any member of the Student Council a friend?”
At this, Archie shrugs. “Shu and Yaya are okay.”
Tongue running over his teeth, the prosecutor nods. “Can you tell me why you were present on the night of the injury?”
“Hired muscle.”
“Can you elaborate?”
“I’m big. I’m tough. They paid me to help with the thing. Yaya say it better than I would.” Of course, the payment was in Idea parts.
“And can you confirm Mihama-chan’s account of events in your own words?”
“Water was dirty, fixed the water,” the rough-cut brit recites, looking bored already. “We came back and he stabbed the girl.”
With a nod, the prosecutor releases the witness. Kimura doesn’t have anything to add, this time. Instead, the final witness for the prosecution is called up. Renka Cho. The right-hand woman of the Russian. The chill presence in Kohaku’s bones swells at her presence as she passes, and his skin ripples wherever it rests loose. Kohaku can feel, more than hear, the worm-woman tittering.
“Tell us your account of the injury, Cho-chan.”
“That woe would come was clear to me from the beginning,” the one-eyed girl says, in a distant voice. “The cards fell foretelling disaster, only its source and element were unknown. A pale mist had fallen over the cards, shrouding them in the light of wrong stars.” Kohaku can see the prosecutor’s regret come back to the surface, as he realizes that he’s talking to a loon on the stand. “What become clear to me in the moment preceding the injury is that Fukuzawa Kohaku has been afflicted with a great and terrible [Love]. One that clutches the hands, the feet, and puppets them to the tune of madness. It is his own, and it is his other’s. The moment Onguuchi-chan trod upon his sacred ground, the sting was assured. Were any of us in his place that night, I doubt we would have had the strength to resist… save perhaps for a precious few,” her eyes drift to Shu and Onguuchi in the audience.
No one talks for a moment as the prosecutor takes a breath. “I move to strike this testimony, Your Honor.”
Kimura stands this time, “Objection! This girl’s spiritual beliefs are not grounds to dismiss her observations about my client’s mental state.”
“I will allow it,” the judge says, waving a hand. “Have you any more questions, Matsushita-san?”
“I do not.”
“Nor do I, Your Honor.”
With the two counsels in agreement, everyone returns to their seats. “That concludes the prosecution’s witness list,” the judge announces. “Kimura-san, would you call your first witness for the defense?”
“Wonderful,” standing, the lawyer claps his hands. “The defense calls Ngiem Che.” Sensei eases his way out of one of the aisles and walks up to the stand, dabbing his sweaty forehead with a cloth. When he sits down, Kimura asks him conversationally, “Can you tell us your profession?”
“I teach the Sciences at Higan Academy. My specialty is physics.”
“And are you familiar with my client, Fukuzawa Kohaku? Can you attest to his character?”
Adjusting his glasses, Ngiem-sensei sits up straighter. “I am. He has always been a model student, completing his work on time, and involving himself in volunteer projects for the good of the disadvantaged. If he was involved in this alleged gang activity, it did not appear to impact his studies.”
“Had Fukuzawa-kun confided in you about any struggles he was having in school?”
“Yes,” finally folding his fidgeting hands in his lap, the sensei takes a breath before continuing. “There were stressors in his life outside of academics, which he was open and honest about with me. These sounded like serious mental health issues, so I recommended him to some colleagues I’d worked with in the last, at Akai Tsuki Institute for Troubled Youths.”
“Can you tell me about what they do?”
“A…TITY,” Ngiem-sensei coughs as he speaks the acronym phonetically, tugging at his collar, “They work with at-risk youth, and students experiencing mental health crises. They can get the psychiatric help they need, without neglecting their academics.”
Going back to the defense table, Kimura picks up some documents. “Permission to approach the bench?” With a nod from the judge, Kimura approaches him and hands him the documents. “I submit this evidence, Fukuzawa-kun’s application and admission forms for the Institute, you can see here the application is dated prior to the injury. Fukuzawa-kun was in the process of seeking help when the injury occurred.”
Stepping back, he allows the judge to peruse the BAE’s forged documents. “Well…” he furrows his brow. Kohaku holds his breath. When the judge takes out some glasses to inspect the small print and his expression relaxes, Kohaku exhales in relief. “This seems above-board. Is that all from this witness?”
“Only this: as the school taken action in regards to the incident?”
“Fukuzawa-kun has been expelled,” Ngiem-sensei answers, matter-of-factly.
“Do you believe the punishment adequate, given the circumstances?”
Kohaku’s sensei looks less certain at that question. “I believe that Fukuzawa-kun is where he needs to be.”
“I see. That is all, Your Honor.”
Matsushita replaces Kimura, in a brief shuffle of bodies. “Ngiem-san,” the prosecutor opens, “Can you tell me more about your alleged contacts at this alleged institute, of which I have never heard?”
“Objection,” Kimura stands and raises a hand. “Discriminatory tone!”
“Sustained. Reword, Matsushita-san.”
“… Can you tell me more about your alleged contacts with the institute?”
Nervously, Ngiem-sensei fidgets with his glasses again. “We’re connected through my research.”
“What research would that be?”
“It’s physics-related, for my Master’s thesis,” sensei explains. “Related to some theoretical particles and waveforms. This is not really relevant, is it?”
The prosecutor’s face remains tight, and stoic. “Can you give us any names?”
“Some of them are tied up in government projects, so I um, don’t think I can.”
“Why did you notify no one of Fukuzawa-san’s mental state?”
Rubbing the back of his head, Ngiem-sensei pauses, “Ah, I felt it was a breach of trust, and confidentiality. It could, um, damage his- mental state more.”
“Why are you so nervous, Ngiem-san?”
“Objection, badgering the witness,” jolting up Kimura objects. “People get nervous on the stand, it’s perfectly normal!”
Frowning, the prosecutor looks out into the audience. “… I withdraw the question. I have no more questions for this witness.”
“I am happy to inform everyone that this is our last witness,” Kimura pipes up as he stands. “I’m sure we’re all eager to get to lunch. I call Fukui Reiko to the stand.”
Getting up from her seat among the audience, Red makes her way to the stand. She takes a seat, looking stately and proper.
“Can you tell us who you are?”
“I am Fukui Reiko, Head of Admissions at Akai Tsuki Institute,” Red lies blatantly, with all the ease of blinking.
“Did you handle Fukuzawa-kun’s admission personally?”
“No, I have people for that. But I am familiar with the case,” the woman answers. “I looked into it after reports of the incident reached us.”
“What did your facility’s psychiatrists have to say about Fukuzawa-kun?”
“He appears to suffer from a dissociative disorder. There are episodes in which he believes himself to be outside of his body, an observer to its actions.”
“Could he have been in one of these episodes during the injury to Onguuchi-chan?”
“It sounds accurate,” Red nods her head, matter-of-factly.
“And,” winding up as though preparing to throw a haymaker, “Did the psychiatrists’ assessment indicate any possible triggers?”
“It is likely that bullying was happening at Higan Academy, related to Fukuzawa-kun and his choice of girlfriend, which certain other students disapproved of. This is likely-”
The prosecutor lunges to his feet. “Objection, hearsay!”
Turning slowly, Kimura spreads his arms in a helpless shrug. “The documents and session transcripts are in evidence. I understand you didn’t have time to commit them to memory, Mitsushita-san, but that is not my client’s fault.”
Glancing at the file still in front of him, the judge admits, “I do see some mentions of it. Overruled.”
“This is likely the cause of his secrecy regarding the relationship,” Red finishes her sentence unprompted, glaring down at the prosecutor.
“I have no more questions for this witness, Your Honor.”
Walking with fierce purpose, Matsushita advances into the middle of the room. “Reika-san, why are none of your psychiatrists here to testify as expert witnesses?”
Remaining firm under the pressure of his gaze, Red doesn’t so much as twitch. “We handle many students with extreme needs. Their schedules are busy, and this hearing as on short notice,” she somehow manages to make it sound like it’s the prosecution’s fault, shoving the fact in his face. “Disruptions would have endangered the well-being of other students. You have the documents. That is their testimony.”
“What security does your institute have to guarantee that no further injuries will occur?” the prosecutor demands.
“Security cameras, security personnel, electronic and analog locks,” Red counts on her fingers, “Medicines to regulate moods and reduce the risk of episodes, smaller class-sizes, supervised social periods to prevent bullying. If mandated by court authorities,” she adds, subtly, like a suggestion, “We can have students wear ankle monitors when in public. All such outings require prior approval and are under direct supervision.”
Though he’s far from out of steam, the prosecutor falls short on ammunition. “No more questions for this witness, Your Honor.”
Once more, everyone returns to their seats. Kohaku feels on edge as the judge adjusts his position and visibly deliberates, stroking his beard. “This case has been one of the most confused and rushed I have ever presided over,” he says, skeptically. “However, I believe I have a sound picture of events. Fukuzawa Kohaku has pleaded guilty to the injury of Onguuchi Madoka. By witness accounts, he was aware of his deteriorating mental health and in the process of taking steps to correct it. This does not diminish the need for punishment, but it does not appear to me that the client will be at risk of re-offense while in the custody of Reika-san’s institute. By court order, I will require Akai Tsuki Institute to employ an ankle monitor upon the defendant at all times, and for all future reports on the defendant’s mental health to be submitted. Any decision on release from custody or decrease in measures will be subject to an additional future hearing. Further, the client is not to be within fifty meters of Onguuchi Madoka or Higan Academy,” as he delivers his judgement, the man stands. “Lastly, due to the seriousness of the injury, I must apply the highest possible penalty in fine: five hundred thousand yen. Regardless of the circumstance, this criminal behavior cannot be tolerated.” A fine… Kohaku’s family can pay. It's not a problem, and the judge knows it- the maximum penalty is the only one that will so much as sting. The ankle monitor though, and the restraining order- those are going to be a pain in the ass for Idea World operations.
“Lastly,” not finished, the judge raises his head and looks down into the audience. Kohaku follows his gaze straight to Okomoto. “This vaguely defined project of the Higan Academy Student Council, where students wander the city slums in the protection of gangs and vigilantes… it is ridiculous, absurd, and absolutely unsafe. I will be filing a report with the Board of Education regarding these activities. That, will be all.”
With a slam of the gavel, the judge seals the court’s decision.
Chaos in the courtroom! Each side strikes, blow for blow, jabbing for the vitals. Objections, arguments, manipulation… the only thing that would have made it better is a jury trial, the American way. And some way to get inside and watch the deliberations. Of all the court cases Kenji was watched, this one was certainly the most lively. Of course, he stopped coming to criminal court so often after the vast majority of cases turned out to be so dry.
Now civil court, that’s where they get spicy with the drama…
As it stands, Kenji is left quietly pouting that he never got to record a single second of the proceedings. You would think the legal system would be a bigger fan of recording things for posterity! The courthouse workers nearly managed to confiscate his camera, only returning her after he convinced them she would not be a problem.
(Once, on his first visit, Kenji had bawled on the floor while they tried to extract her from his clutches, eventually conceding to let him keep her in his bag with a staff member seated beside him. They were very embarrassed when people started coming over to see what was wrong. Ever since, the rule has stood on the young director’s occasional visits.)
Shuffling his way out of the aisle beside the worker who’d been left to babysit him, Kenji quickly ducks his escort and scurries to the top of the courtroom. Tongue stuck between his teeth in concentration, he peers over the crowd to see where Kohaku is going and charts a route to intercept them. Feet scampering across the hardwood floor, Kenji swerves and pivots around the flow of exiting theater-goers gossiping about the latest show.
Through a towering set of wooden doors, out into the bustle of the halls. Just ahead, Kenji can see Kohaku’s parents leaning in to give him a hug, while that ‘institute’ lady shakes hands with his lawyer. Slowing his pace, Kenji reaches into his bag to extract his camera, looping her lifeline over his shoulder with tender care. “The press will be waiting for him outside, but the first interview is ours’,” the boy whispers to her, like a promise. The recording light clicks on, catching the final moments of the family’s relieved embrace. “Fukuzawa-senpai!” he calls out, not wasting a moment once the hug breaks.
The senior’s head twitches in Kenji’s direction, the intense look bringing his feet to a stuttering stop. Kohaku’s hair is plastered to his forehead as though he’d been sweating through a fever, and his skin sits strangely on his face. It’s hard to describe. Like it’s not quite attached to the musculature underneath. Already, thoughts about how to achieve the same uncanny effect with makeup start to percolate down through Kenji’s skull, into his grey matter. “Sorry, did I startle you?” ultimately unshaken, Kenji puts on a broad smile. “I’m glad you got… a decent result!” No prison time, at least.
“Is this a friend of yours’?” the man standing next to Kohaku, his father, is tall and his face looks older than his years. Kenji recalls seeing the man in commercials for his company, and he looked a lot more together there. Good makeup, or just a really strenuous quarter? Something about the way he looks at Kenji, eyes sharp with suspicion.
Ah, yes, the camera. Kenji must look like the press. “Don’t worry, I’m not with a school news program or anything.”
“He’s a friend,” Kohaku states, simply. Reaching up, he smooths the hair out of his face, feeling the dense pockets of moisture and looking down at his palm in disgust. “I’m a wreck right now. Please don’t put anything in a video until I look better.”
“But the raw emotion, the aftermath of all that adrenaline- it’s real! You can’t fake this stuff!”
“He asked you to stop recording,” Kohaku’s father sternly reprimands.
Behind them, the lawyer peers over like a shark smelling blood in the water. “Sounds like a civil suit in the making?”
Swallowing, Kenji switches off his recording. “Ahaha, there’s no need for that. It’s just a habit. I’ll erase the unflattering footage later,” he assures them. Though he’s still undecided on the matter. “I was just wondering, Fukuzawa-senpai. Could we meet up at a better time, to talk? Maybe over some coffee, or tea if you prefer?”
“I’ll need to put in an outing request,” Kohaku answers, looking over his shoulder at the woman with the spectacles. “I…” he pauses when his mother leans in and whispers in his ear. Kohaku’s face twists up in embarrassment. His ears redden, though his face remains oddly pale. “No, this isn’t my girlfriend.”
“Though I do look fetching in a dress! Did you know that in Shakespearean times, all the women were played by men?” Kenji babbles. “I think they must have been phenomenal actors!”
Wiping the sweat-laden hand on his pants, Kohaku nods his head absently. “This is Kurosawa-kun. He runs the school’s Film Club. He’s alright.” Kenji’s face beams at the praise. “If a little strange.”
“To be a great artist, you must think differently from the ‘normal’ people,” Kenji responds. It’s a point of pride, if anything. “It’s called vision!”
The ‘institute’ woman walks nearer, and Kenji feels her eyes on him. As if peeling back the layers, trying to look down into his soul. Joke’s on her… “Social connections are important to a healthy mind,” she says, in a detached sort of voice. Kenji can tell from the way she spoke in the court, and the way she speaks now. An actress herself, playing a role. But who is she really, and where is Kohaku really being taken? “I will vouch for Fukuzawa-kun’s leave to meet with you.” She’s hungry, seeking something. For a moment, Kenji worries that he’s made a mistake by stepping into her field of view. “Right now, however, we have a lot of work to do… moving in officially.”
“Is that so?” a girl’s voice, as casual as her saunter down the hall. Zennami Yae, approaching them with a swagger in her step. Kenji perks up and subtly hits record again, sliding his finger over the light. “I heard you scored the maximum penalty on the fine. One thing that irks me about the law is when it doesn’t apply to the rich,” the girl stops in front of the group and places a hand on her hip. Kenji glances at Kohaku, who is staring at her with wide eyes, wild and dry. He looks as if he could leap out and attack her right here.
“My client has nothing to say to you, so go play detective somewhere else, little girl,” the lawyer attempts to shoo her away with his hand, like an insect or a small animal.
“The case is over, your client can speak for himself,” Zennami responds. “So, how does it feel, Fukuzawa? Getting off more or less scot-free? You don’t look happy.” She goads him, trying to provoke a reaction. Kohaku’s mother places her hand around his shoulders. Kenji can see the older boy breathing heavily.
“We’re going, please move out of the way,” walking towards her, Kohaku’s father glares down at her. Though his words edge upon politeness, there is no gentleness to them. Like a razor blade concealed in sweet Halloween chocolate. There’s a spark of the same wild intensity his son carries, but dull, tarnished by exhaustion. Kenji is eating up every detail. And he’s sure she is too. But should he report what he sees to the Club, or keep it locked up in his personal archives? It would be frustrating to watch Tachibana ruin everything a second time.
“I hope you get the help you need,” offering one last smug parting comment, Zennami moves aside and allows the Fukuzawas and their hangers-on to pass down the hall. Once they go, her gaze turns slowly onto Kenji. “Doing a little documentary work? I saw that finger slip…”
“Oh, you know me!” Kenji responds chipperly. “Do you have any closing comments for the viewers?”
“This case is far from closed,” tipping back her head, Zennami marches past Kenji, into the nearly empty courtroom. She drifts towards the other Student Council members lingering behind around the Onguuchi clan.
“And the final scene has yet to play,” Kenji whispers a quiet agreement under his breath. What side will Fukuzawa Kohaku take, come the point of no return?
It’s after hours, the dipping sun shining in through the computer lab windows. Hunched in front of a boxy computer monitor, Kaoru has to remind herself to stand and stretch every hour or so to keep from ruining her posture. Hand on the mouse, she clicks through link after link. Her other hand picks across the keyboard, tapping out searches and inquiries.
A deep dive into the online public record, searching for any traces of the Fukuzawas. Any elements of dirt that she could dig into. Though her movements are minute, they are fierce and driven by purpose. Drive by the image of the blood-stained knife, and Madoka’s pale face.
The Death Mark aches. It throbs against her skin, each time her thoughts linger on morbid things. As if Death’s eyes are drawn towards her. Fushihara, they called him. Kaoru is still in the dark on that front. They have a name now, but how can they even begin to fight something like that? It fuels her desire to contribute, to chase down a lead, any lead. Not just as Scarlet Senshi, but as Nagamine Kaoru.
Thinking back to Kohaku’s face, knife raised, flesh stretched into an inhuman expression… Kaoru can sense there’s a deeper meaning there. Not just a freak of nature. Somehow, he is connected to their enemy. An enemy. But which enemy?
So she digs.
Time crawls on, and the sun slides lower and lower in the window, casting long shadows through the Higan computer lab. Kaoru sifts through another obscure forum, talking about the secret lives of the rich and famous. Her eye catches on something as she scrolls down the page, and she rolls the sidebar back up. “Fukuzawa Toshio,” she recites the name. Kohaku’s grandfather, who’d founded their company. “Arrested on drug charges, released with a small fine.” It’s not much, but it’s the first blemish on the radar. Could that be the reason for Kohaku’s feral behavior? Was he on something? Drug use isn’t hereditary, but growing up in a home where it’s normalized can lead to picking up on the habit.
Copying some of the text from the forum post, Kaoru starts digging again. Toshio was found in possession of Yuneru, a sleep aid, without a prescription. It was barely a controlled substance back then, which is why it never really made the news, but the more Kaoru digs into the drug, the more disturbing the picture it paints.
Yuneru is a benzo, and in certain doses can cause loss of consciousness, as well as both retrograde and anterograde amnesia. Its harmful side effects on the body lead to the drug being all but discontinued in the modern market, but its legacy persists in the underworld as a date rape drug. Kohaku’s grandfather was arrested for possession of roofies, before they were more widely known.
Spiraling deeper down the rabbit hole, Kaoru glares into the screen, the colors of webpages reflecting off of her glasses. Other headlines she’d passed earlier begin to take on a darker meaning, leading down new branches.
Fukuzawa Toshio sponsors pub crawl for company MVPs.
Tamagokawa Noodle Restaurant employee still missing after pub crawl.
Fukuzawa Toshio appears onstage as apprentice to hypnotist Nakahara Hanzo.
Nakahara Hanzo death attributed to arson, no suspect yet found.
Fukuzawa Toshio to judge Kageoka beauty pageant.
Curling her lip in disgust, Kaoru sits back in her chair. All the evidence is clear enough to her that Kohaku’s grandfather was a Grade-A piece of shit. But it’s one thing to throw a bunch of rumors around, it’s another to get something actionable out of decades old news stories.
Suddenly, the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. A prickling awareness of danger strikes. Swiftly, Kaoru clicks the power button on the monitor, which blinks off in a flash of white light. She carefully slides her chair in and scurries on silent feet into a small closet full of computer parts.
It’s pitch dark out, now. A shadow crosses in front of the computer lab door, silhouetted in the window by the lights from the hallway. There’s a halo of bright, platinum hair that hangs around the mysterious stalker’s head. The dorm manager, Saito Mimi. She must be doing a patrol of the school building or something for dorm students up past curfew.
It would be an inconvenience to be caught in here after hours, but that doesn’t strike Kaoru as dangerous. So why would she feel…
The knob turns, and Kaoru holds her breath as the woman steps inside, then closes the door behind her. Her shadow moves through the cubicles, passing through each row of computers. She eases the chairs out and touches the seats, before moving onto the next one. Why?
Saito-san leans down and feels the seat Kaoru had just occupied. The woman freezes, and Kaoru realizes now. She’s feeling for warmth. After sitting on that chair all day, it’s absorbed Kaoru’s body heat, while the others would be cool and fresh.
The dorm manager takes a seat in the chair and turns on the computer monitor. Its light illuminates the woman’s face, eerily still and blank. Kaoru kicks herself for not turning off the computer tower as well. She’s not used to these things, since her family couldn’t afford one at home. It quickly becomes evident that the dorm manager is more familiar with computers, as Saito opens Kaoru’s internet history and begins scanning through all the sites she’d visited.
Then, Kaoru’s stomach drops as Saito opens her student email account. Kaoru had rarely used the thing, but just the act of an adult she doesn’t know snooping there, it feels violating. Now, Kaoru is kicking herself for not carrying a camera on her at all times like Kurosawa-kun and his mechanical safety blanket. If it was just her word against Saito’s, the Student Council would listen, but could get through to Okomoto-koncho? After the Census Club debacle, Kaoru’s faith in the school staff was forever tarnished.
Now, so is her trust.
Rather than simply snooping, Saito opens a new email draft and starts typing. Tense, Kaoru remains in place, hesitant to step out and confront the woman. That sense of impending danger hasn’t gone away. She waits until Saito finishes drafting the email and stands up, walking back out of the room, giggling to herself in a perverse way. Kaoru shudders, disturbed. Only several more minutes later does the feeling of dread pass, and she steps out to look at what Saito sent from her email account.
Kaoru’s blood runs cold. It’s a love letter. A confession, written in uncertain hand, as if the author had no idea how to express things the way a teenage girl would. Yet, is that sort of awkwardness really out of place?
Dear Shu-senpai,
I’m writing now to say to you what I can’t manage to say in person. I know you must get this sort of thing all the time from other, more interesting girls. But I just can’t keep pushing down my heart any longer. I just have to say it. I have to say it! Shu Jinko, I’m in love with you. Can we please talk about this tomorrow after school?
Sincerely from, Nagamine Kaoru.
The email… was sent to the entire class. Everyone. Kaoru dies a little inside from social embarrassment, slamming herself down into the chair to look for some way to cancel it, delete it, send out damage control. Then, a chill runs up her spine. The tingling despair of distant danger.
The email was sent to the entire class.
Including Ai-chan. She knows Kaoru isn’t really interested in Shu, right? Right? Kaoru stares at the list of recipients, teetering between trust in and fear of her most unstable friend.