Chapter Text
Timeliness is Godliness – my favourite proverb, perfectly encapsulating the essence of my philosophy for running a successful enterprise. Any business worth its salt ought to take such words to heart. Having implemented this principle to such great efficacy for the Ikariya Financial Group, I would imagine most others ought to follow suit. It’s thus to my great dismay that this abject incompetence in organizational management has unreasonably stalled my plans for this afternoon. To force someone of my calibre to wait in queue for…
“How long have we been waiting, Sosuke?”
He looks down at his watch. “Two minutes and 47 seconds.” Well, I guess it hasn't been that long yet…
“The Artists’ Alley only opened at 11:30 am, yet it’s already become so crowded.” Sosuke gestures to the queue extending past and around the corner. “I wouldn’t have thought that science-fiction is still in such high demand.”
“That is why I had requested to get to the Sunshine Bazaar at 11:00 AM sharp, Sosuke. A pop-up event like this one will attract enthusiasts from hundreds of miles away, like flies to honey. Did I not make that clear?”
“Pardon me, Young M–ehrm Makoto, but I recall you instructing me to pick you up at 11:00…” Ack! The vagaries of human language have spited me once again! Also…
“Good catch, Sosuke. Though your commitment to proper reverence is appreciated, it’s important that we keep a low profile today.” Perish the thought of ruining the Artists’ Alley’s exquisite ambience with the large security detail the House would certainly insist upon. Not that such measures would likely be necessary anyway; what better bodyguard than the mighty and fearsome Hound of Ikariya could a young, noble heir like myself ask for?
That said, Sosuke’s innumerable adversaries might struggle to recognize him today. As I had requested, he arrived dressed incognito, wearing a pair of jeans and a black turtleneck sweater, the neck covering the protrusions of his spinal mod. Quite clever, Sosuke. Mother has always said he had a discerning taste for fashion and style. I myself have chosen to don my academy’s uniform, which isn’t actually much different than my regular clothing, aside from the blazer and trousers in place of my preferred Japanese-style attire. Even at school, I do insist on wearing my favourite sandals – they’re much too comfortable.
After an excruciating seven minutes and nineteen seconds, Sosuke and I finally pass through the gates and into the gallery. Every aisle in here shows itself to be a cornucopia of masterfully drawn posters and treasurable memorabilia, crowded by commoners for whom I can at least say have impeccable taste in media. Pins and stickers and keychains abound – Warworld 75k, Excalibur 21XX, The Lost Galaxy, Beyond Stars & Time, even something called… “Star Trek”? It looks old and dated, but who knows, perhaps a piece of vintage media could prove mildly entertaining.
"There's so much variety here." Sosuke looks around like a caveman suddenly transported into the space age. "How does anyone have time to watch all of these?"
"Patience and a good memory, Sosuke." I graciously take the time to educate my bodyguard on the intricacies and endearing qualities of as many of the countless stories represented here as my time can afford me. He nods along, but I can't quite tell if he actually understands me or not… At least he's a good listener.
Sneaking through the crowd of giants surrounding me, I reach the holy grail of my journey, a large booth dedicated to the greatest interactive sci-fi film I’ve had the pleasure of watching – Märchen Line. I really must thank the red-haired lawyer's android for introducing me to this magnificent artistic accomplishment, or perhaps the one who programmed her, rather? A heartwarming coming-of-age journey, intertwined with an ingenious commentary on the improper manipulation of the masses and the utter futility of prolonged, attritional warfare? Why, it's perfectly fit for both a starry-eyed young man and a glorious general-in-the-making. I am both things, to be clear.
But suddenly, horror creeps up my spine. The section where the posters of the main cast should be is completely, wholly empty! It’s surely impossible for the vendor to have already sold out of their entire stock! I slam my palms on the counter and look pleadingly at the young lady standing behind it. Sosuke skilfully catches several pieces of merchandise that I had unwittingly flung off the table, then starts profusely apologizing to the fellow guest he had knocked to the ground in doing so.
“You must have more copies of the posters, certainly! Don’t you!?” I point and wave my hands around wildly.
“I’m terribly sorry, kid. Part of the shipment got delayed this time, so we’ve run out of certain items a bit early. Please check back next month.” The weight of my disappointment crushes my heart. I can’t possibly fit next month’s event into my schedule. Perhaps I could use my connections as heir of the IFG to track down the supplier… No, wasting company time and resources would only irritate Grandfather.
As I listlessly walk away, shuffling my feet along the ground, I spot an oddly familiar green shape. Someone with green hair and an impressively large cowlick? It could hardly be a coincidence! I cut through the crowd in front of me to find none other than Serra, the very same android who helped acquit Sosuke of these ridiculous charges a few months back. The venue’s cheap LED lighting must be refracting off her snow-white cloak in inexplicable ways; how else does one explain the halo-like energy radiating off of her. She expends little effort carrying the heavy bags and rolled up posters resting in her arms. A blonde, purple-wearing individual whom I don’t recognize accompanies her. Despite standing several meters away, Serra instantly notices me and smiles gleefully. Using the analytical power only a computerized mind could afford, she plots out the best path to weave through the crowd between us.
“Oh? I didn’t expect to bump into you here, Makoto.”
“Well, Serra, it shouldn’t be too surprising to run into a fellow science-fiction enthusiast at an event like this.” I stretch my hand out for a handshake, something I do from muscle memory as a young businessman. Serra awkwardly tries to return the gesture, despite her hands being full.
“Uh, you know this nerd, Spearmint?” says Serra’s apparently quite rude companion, with an ignorant glare betraying their lack of class. Their atrocious outfit is quite telling too.
I take my finger and poke this dunce right in the chest. “Indeed! Serra and I are associates on good terms with one another. She has more than proven her worth not only as a legal aide, but also a conversation partner and connoisseur of good literature.” I smirk at how my refined vocabulary has left Serra’s “friend” struggling to use their own, judging by his uncultured squint and grimace.
Serra clears her throat. “My apologies… François Snow, this is Makoto Ikariya, a former client of Adonai’s.”
“Thanks, but just ‘Fran’ will do… wait, this kid hired Morgan?”
“Yes, indeed!” I shout, “though you need not concern yourself with the details. The matter was resolved some time ago.”
“Right… not like I care much anyway. About the legal stuff, I mean, Makoto Ikariya.” Fran adjusts the strap of the brown leather Qucci messenger bag slung across their shoulders and grins mischievously. Why the odd emphasis…?
“Speaking of ‘good literature’, Makoto, I managed to get my hands on an early release of the twenty-first volume of the Excalibur 21XX manga here.” As Serra rustles her hand around in the paper bags hung on her arm, looking for the book in question, one of the posters leans over, unfurling ever-so-slightly. I spot the off-white hair and unmistakable cat-like smile of a certain soldier in the Voyager Armada. My intense desire overwhelms me, so I grab the poster from her and roll it out.
“Ah-ha! No surprise that a fellow Märchen Line superfan would be so diligent to arrive early.” I check the other posters in her arms and find that this is the only Märchen Line one she has. “It seems you only had the chance to purchase one, though you did make an excellent choice for your one poster.”
“Oh, thank you. I find myself admiring strong characters a lot, especially ones who use their strength to help others. Y’know, like a certain ‘ultimate martial artist’. I’m hoping a poster like this will help keep me inspired to keep growing. I want to always be getting better and stronger.”
“Yes, quite! Strength, physical, mental or otherwise, is an attractive trait in any woman. A heart of gold and an innocent smile are certainly enviable too.”
“He-he, I guess I can agree with that too.” Serra’s precious smile shines soft and pure.
“So, this girl’s your waifu or something?” Fran tactlessly interjects.
“Bah! Such droll terms you employ, my friend. Nissa Mayamir’s strength may captivate my attention, but I’d hardly fall in love with a fictional character before…” I move just my eyes toward Serra. She’s still smiling. I hand her the poster back, but she gently pushes it away, suggesting that she wants me to keep it. I gladly take the poster of my… favourite character.
Fran checks their phone, then gestures toward the exit with an outstretched thumb. “Hey Spearmint, shouldn’t we head back and meet up with Morgan soon?”
“Umm… I think we have at least a little more time.” Serra’s eyes glow a brilliant orange hue before she abruptly turns to me. “Oh, Makoto! Do you want to come with us?”
Her earnest question takes me aback. “C-c-come with y-you?” I mutter, nervously.
“Well, when we last met, Makoto, I got the impression you don’t hang out much with other kids. Though Fran and I aren’t technically kids, we’d be glad to have you tag along anyway.” Fran raises a finger and opens their mouth to object. Serra gives them a sharp glare, silently communicating to say nothing.
Serra is quite correct, anyway. As the heir of House Ikariya, it’s rare for me to spend quality time with my peers my own age. Aside from Sosuke perhaps, there’s no one I’d consider a friend in the truest sense. My cousins all envy my privilege as the heir and my classmates are too frightened to approach me. Could this be a rare opportunity? At the opposite end of the aisle, Sosuke appears to be searching for me. Now, my better judgement tells me that I shouldn’t disappear from my own bodyguard, but…
What could one day spent with good friends hurt? Bringing an adult with us would only ruin the ambience of the occasion. Besides, Serra is strong like Sosuke, perhaps even stronger! Who or what could possibly threaten me with a guardian angel standing by me?
“Why, I’d be glad to spend my precious time with you, Serra… and your companion too.” Fran could at least try to look a bit less disgruntled by my presence. Grabbing them both by the sleeves, I hurry with them out of the artists’ alley, ducking my head so Sosuke doesn’t spot us.
After stashing Serra’s prized purchases at the public coin locker, the three of us meander to the mall’s central complex. An abundance of natural sunlight shines down from the Sunshine Bazaar's gigantic skylight stretching across the ceiling, illuminating countless boutiques and restaurants, cascading down the twelve floors below us. Of course I know plenty about the city’s largest shopping complex – the IFG holds significant stock in the management company, after all – but actually experiencing a space of this magnitude is something else. I do most of my personal shopping online, since the House never lets me leave my home unsupervised. I turn to my new friends, emphatically holding my arms akimbo with the wonders of capitalism on full display behind me.
“Well, my friends, which establishment shall we delight in first?”
Fran rolls their eyes in what seems to be my direction. “From how fast you dragged us out of there, I figured you had something in mind.”
“Well, no… It was simply imperative that we exit the Artists’ Alley as quickly as possible.” Huff, I loathe embarrassing myself in front of common rabble (and Serra).
“I thought nerds like you and Serra, y’know, enjoy that kinda stuff.” They cross their arms, followed by the same mischievous grin as earlier. “Whatever. If neither of you have a better idea, I know exactly where we should go.” They dash away, beckoning me and Serra to follow them.
Before I can follow, Serra tugs at my blazer. “Makoto, you did run off in an awful hurry.” Her eyes are filled with an older sister’s gentle concern. “Does Sosuke know where you are?”
…how do I answer!? Honestly or… agh, my heart doesn't want to lie to Serra. My indecision makes me say nothing at all, my lips hanging open.
“Well, I got his contact info back when Adonai and I represented him. I could send him a quick message if you’d like.”
“Thank you, but please don’t. No matter what you or I say, Sosuke won’t accept me wandering off on my own.” I clasp my hands together and rub my thumbs against one another. “He would never trust anyone besides himself to protect me; not that he doubts your strength, Serra, but it’s ultimately his responsibility, you see.”
“Are you sure this is a good idea, then?”
“Probably not, but as they say, ‘nothing ventured, nothing gained’. What’s the worst that could happen, anyway?”
“HEY, WHAT’S KEEPING YOU TWO NERDS!!?” Fran shouts from the balcony on the other side of the escalators.
I take Serra by her delicate hand and try leading her to Fran’s location, but I immediately fall flat on my face. Serra helps me back to my feet as I clutch my forehead, hoping to alleviate the throbbing pain.
“S-sorry, it doesn’t appear you’re strong enough to pull 200 kilograms…”
200 kilograms!? I never imagined even smaller Androids would be so heavy.
Serra and I catch up to Fran outside an impressively large footwear store. Must be the chain’s flagship store or such.
“So, Kars is releasing a limited-time run of their vintage style sneakers. They’re gonna run out quickly, so we gotta be quick.” Sprinting past towers of fashionable footwear, we reach a lavish display with the Kars logo proudly shown above it. Fran stares in total shock at the pair of sleek, black-and-white skateboard shoes prominently presented in the center.
“God damn. 500,000 credits for a pair of shoes. I know they’re limited-time but… and these are the last pairs too…” The smallest of tears form in the corners of their eyes. Having been so graciously gifted the poster earlier, I ought to pay that good karma forward, lest I leave a bad impression on my companions. From my wallet, I produce my personal bank card – sleek and jet-black, with a simple yet elegant gold stripe and the IFG’s logo on the right-hand side. I hold my card between my fingers for Fran to admire.
“Hah! Fret not, for that price is mere pocket change for someone like myself.” Indeed, it would make only a small dent in my monthly allowance of 300,000,000 credits – a reasonable amount for the House to grant me – and such generosity will make a commoner like Fran here feel elated for the whole week. I take the shoebox from the display and proudly carry over it to the front register. As I walk away, I faintly hear Serra and Fran muttering something between themselves. Nothing important, I’d bet.
Serra shakes her head disapprovingly. “Fran, those shoes aren’t ‘limited-time’ or anything. They’re just really expensive…”
“Yeah, you and I know that, but Makoto clearly doesn’t. If I gotta suffer him the whole day, might as well make him put that dragon hoard to good use.”
“You’re shameless, Fran.”
“What can I say? A sucker’s born every minute. At least doing it this way is more fun than my usual phishing scheme.”
After leisurely perusing many, many stores (and using up a decent chunk of my allowance), Fran brings us to the single most astonishing sight so far – rows upon rows of deluxe digital entertainment, lively music blaring through the speakers, and junk food galore. Mother would get hysterical if she found me here, and I myself find it awfully flashy and loud and overstimulating. But my heart will gladly suffer such inconveniences for the sake of my new friends.
This lavishly decorated arcade has not only traditional machines – replicas of vintage games over a hundred years old now – but also three-dimensional holographic displays, Adds-as-opponents, and countless other novel paraphernalia. One in particular catches my eye: a game called Elite Starfighter V. The machine’s exterior is covered by dynamic depictions of far-future dogfights, rockets and multi-coloured lasers and everything. No buttons or joysticks on this one, just one of those “immersive” virtual reality headsets. The machine proudly advertises it as a bold and innovative feature for the series’ fifth entry.
I pick the headset up and inspect it. After tapping my card on the reader, a green circle lights up on the headset. I carefully place it over my head, the rim sealing itself against my face. My surroundings transform in a single instant. I’m now inside a gargantuan hangar on a spaceship, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with several NPC pilots. My clothes have been replaced with the fleet’s uniform. This game feels so real!
A tall, muscular and imposing lady with a radiation scar across her left eye barks at us. Us pilots all stand straight. “Recruits! Are you ready for your first taste of space combat!?”
“Sir, yes sir!” The NPCs all chant in unison.
The commander glares at me like she’s about to use me like a punching bag. “Do I need to repeat myself, Private?”
“N-n-n-no, I’m ready… ma’a–SIR!!” My heart feels it's burning, and my face sweats as if I’m being boiled alive. A mixture of fear and… another feeling I can’t quite figure out.
After the commander gives me a brief tutorial cleverly disguised as a drill sergeant’s berating speech, the game transports me to my starfighter’s cockpit. The inside looks exactly like the real thing too! Okay, there isn’t a “real thing” in this case, but I’m sure you understand my meaning. All this spinning and flipping around in the vacuum of space (or rather, a perfectly convincing representation thereof) makes me very grateful that the headset has an anti-nausea function built in. An enemy starfighter blows mine up just as I manage to get the hang of the controls.
Undeterred, I pay the machine 75 more credits for another attempt. And another. And another. My skill improves with each one, naturally. The satisfaction of destroying these aliens’ pitiful starfighters and racking up a high score doing so is comparable to attaining a full understanding of the densest philosophical writings. I’ve reached third place on the leaderboard! And now second place… Only a few more…
“Makoto! Try some of this!”
The sudden distraction proves fatal for my poor starfighter. Who dares to interrupt me!? It must be Fran or some other rude and inconsiderate ruffian. I rip the headset off and turn to this adversary, ready and prepared to snap at them…
It’s Serra, offering me a piece of a triangular flatbread topped with thinly-sliced sausage and excessive amounts of cheese, which I believe is called “pizza”. I’ve heard of it, but never had any. I clear my throat and hastily switch gears. She waggles the pizza in front of me, wanting me to accept it. Well, if it would please Serra…
The moment I take it from her, my fingers end up coated in grease. The egregious volume of oil and fat they must have used to cook this does not agree with my throat in the slightest. Or my stomach, for that matter. It’s so scorching hot, it burns the roof of my mouth! Would it have killed them to at least add some vegetables to balance out the umami of all this meat and cheese? I finish chewing and force myself to swallow it.
“Mhhm, Hhau ish itt?” Serra eagerly asks, her own mouth half-stuffed.
“It’s amazing! I–ullp–love it!” I lie while trying my best not to grimace. “You have such a discerning taste, Serra. Where did you find such detest–delectable treasure?”
“Where did I find it? They sell it here at the arcade. I can go and get some more if you’d like.”
Perhaps I should instead file a complaint with management for having the audacity to sell guests food this disgusting…
“Oh! Fran’s waving at us. Let’s see what they found!” She grabs me by the shoulder and drags me away from my newfound love. Oh well…
Fran stands before a machine decorated with skeletons, gory undead creatures, and other macabre imagery. This one too has an unconventional control device – a microphone. They can barely contain their excitement. “Okay, okay, okay, this one is sooo cool – ‘Curse of the Necro-Singer’. I’ve been waiting for the arcade to get this one for ages.” This one seems more than a little silly. For one, what on Earth is a “necro-singer”?
“Okay, so, like, the premise of this one is that you gotta mow down waves and waves of zombies coming after you. But not with guns or swords or anything boring like that, you use… your voice.”
Serra puts her fingertips together and her eyes sparkle. I, on the other hand, can’t bring myself to especially care. Not when Elite Starfighter V is also on the menu.
“Your voice?” Serra asks.
“Yup… it’s basically a karaoke machine but you kill zombies while you’re singing. And if you beat all twelve stages, you usurp the Necro-Singer herself and become the new ruler of the underworld. And then the next player has to take your crown.” The current "necro-singer" is someone by the name of F. Reyes.
One thing Fran said is bothering me. “…you can’t kill a zombie. By definition, it’s already dead.”
“Shut up, nerd.”
“He is right though, zombies are destroyed, not killed, except perhaps in cases when they are created by biohazardous waste or such…” At least Serra agrees with me.
“Whatever.” Fran shoves their messenger bag in my face, expecting me to hold onto it while they demonstrate the game. You’re quite fortunate, François Snow. I’d throw your stupid bag to the ground and crush it beneath my heel if Serra wasn’t here to watch.
True to Fran’s description, hordes of zombies gorily explode as they sing along to licensed metal and punk-rock music. I will admit that Fran’s singing voice isn’t terrible, though that hardly makes the visuals any more appealing to watch.
Fran’s breath heaves like it’s being weighed down by an iron anvil. Their voice is totally exhausted after only the game’s second stage. The third one begins without a care for Fran’s condition.
As the next song begins, Serra’s eyes suddenly twinkle like stars. “Oh hey! I adore this song; let me do this stage! Please, please, please…”
“Yeah… sure… I need to… catch my breath…” Fran steps away from the machine and leans against the one beside it.
Just as the song’s lyrics begin, Serra yanks the microphone and takes a huge gulp of air. Her voice is… heavenly. I guess it’s easier to precisely control your vocal folds as an android, but it’s mesmerizing all the same. She perfectly recites the first verse before singing the chorus:
I got the devil on my shoulder (Over and over)
And I just can’t sink any lower (Lower and lower)
The hounds of hell are getting closer (Closer and closer)
I got the devil on my shoulder (Over and over)
Honestly, why wasn’t Serra the one playing from the start?
“Your talent for singing is incredible, Serra.”
“Thanks, Makoto. I’ve practised this one a lot. Never when Adonai is home though. The song bothers her for… some reason.”
“Well, that’s certainly odd.” I’m not given even a moment to think about it before the next wave approaches. “Ah, Serra!” I point to the screen while nudging her shoulder. She belts out each song the game throws at her so elegantly and perfectly. Suffice to say, she beat all twelve stages and earned her rightful title as “Necro-Singer”… whatever that means. Her high score will certainly be a difficult one for challengers to her crown to overcome. Take that "F. Reyes"!
Serra celebrates with a proud, charming smile. Her eyes suddenly flash, and the excitement in her voice washes away. “Adonai just messaged me. I’m late, and she sounds quite irritated.”
We exit the arcade and start our long journey to the front lobby. I glance through the skylight, hoping to distract myself from my melancholic feelings. Some kind of aircraft zips past, casting a brief shadow over us. My friends paid no attention to it. My keen perception tells me it was likely a helicopter, though I can’t be sure. There is a helipad on the roof – probably just airlifting someone in response to a medical emergency.
Sigh… stumbling upon Serra and Fran in the Artists’ Alley… taking me to the arcade… with all the music and food and wonderful entertainment…
I almost feel like I’m actually a child.
Grandfather and the House put unfathomable pressure on my miniscule shoulders. I’ve had no choice but to grow up as quickly as I possibly can, precisely so that I can best serve the House’s interests. In exchange, they bestow me with all the power and authority I could conceivably desire. I’m free to use anything, or anyone, as a tool. The servants of the House are meant to be no more than furniture to me. Yet, I can’t shake this feeling… this question that haunts my waking hours… Am I just a tool too?
I understand well why House Ikariya puts its faith in the power of capital – the power of money. After all, it’s the lifeblood of our glorious nation. But are they… happy? Every day I’m surrounded by ambitious corporate climbers running the proverbial rat race. They fawn over me and lavish me all manner of pleasantries, but do they actually like me? Am I anything to them without my wealth? Am I anything to Grandfather beyond being a vessel for his inheritance. Grandfather is a ruthless man – do I really want to become like him? Face-to-face with a man who’s sold his entire world? Do I just continue to laugh and shake everyone’s hands?
I flinch from some fingers snap thrice right beside my ear. “This is ground control to Major Makoto! Is there something wrong? Is your circuit dead or what?”
“Oh, my sincerest apologies. I must have spaced out… no pun intended.”
“Serra didn’t have time to wait for you, so I told her I’d keep an eye on you. Also, here you go.” Fran presents two bowls of ice cream, one mint flavoured and the other peanut butter and chocolate. I take the latter one.
“Thank you. Very considerate of you, François Snow.” I bow my head slightly (and only just slightly). Fran and I sit on the bench by the central fountain.
“Don’t mention it. Serra insisted I do something to make up for taking advantage of you earlier…”
“Taking advantage of me? Whatever do you mean?”
“Don’t worry about it…” Fran looks away sheepishly while rubbing the back of their neck.
I squirm in place, trying to find the best words to express my feelings. “I’ll be real with you… um… buddy… I had tons of fun today… a totally radical time, you might say…”
“Stop talking like that.”
“Yes, sorry, ahem. Though you are uncouth and undeserving of my favour, I am willing to offer you more of my precious time. Though my schedule might make in-person visits infrequent, we could utilize a video calling app and play games that way.”
“You sure? I’ll wipe the floor with your ass, nerd.”
“My competencies extend to much more than just financial planning, François.”
“Challenge accepted! You better get on ca–”
*CRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAASH*
Fran and I shoot our gazes upward to search for the origin of that thunderous noise. A dozen or so masked, heavily armed figures slide down ropes hanging from the helicopter I had spotted earlier. Without missing a beat, they spread across the plaza, two of them standing right before me and Fran. They certainly don’t look like medical professionals…
Sporting heavy military jackets, gaiter bandanas, sturdy metal helmets, large goggles with red one-way lens, and even gas masks, these blackguards aren’t just dressed excessively – they’re making a statement. They want all who bear witness to them to feel afraid. Well, if that's their intention, then I…
…have already pissed myself a little.
I look in every direction I can think of, searching for a route out of here. I believe I’ve found one. I try getting up and making an expeditious retreat away from this place, but Fran yanks me back down.
“Dude, they’ll fucking shoot you if you just run away like that.” Fran whispers under their breath.
“Then what would you prefer we do!?”
One of the masked figures turns around. Right there, on the back of his jacket, and those of all the others, is a certain symbol I’ve seen on the news many times, but have hitherto had the good fortune of never seeing myself. An empty symbol, one the public can’t help but project their fickle whims and opinions onto…
To some, it means chaos and anarchy…
To others, it means revolution and hope…
A crimson-red heart, shattered to pieces by a single, precisely aimed bullet