28. Brazen Shadows

The phrase “death sentence” is literal. The moment you are sentenced, you die.  However long it takes between then and when your heart finally stops, by whatever method the law chooses, is irrelevant. That’s just your purgatory; penitence for the underworld.

July 5th. I remember that day, because it was a Tuesday: my favourite day of the week. My brother Sasuki, twelve years older, finished college early that day. He’d pick me up from school, and we’d spend the evening down at the park. He’d often bring his flute and serenade the evening sky; awestruck, I’d play along on whatever stick I could find on the ground. My brother was always a leader. I was always happy to follow; I’d be second fiddle, if I had ever learnt how to properly hold the bow. We didn’t care what time it was, so long as the sun was still up. Sometimes there would be other children there too. Even if there weren’t, Sasuki was always there. We were together. We were nearly always together, he and I.

July 5th. We were together on that day too, the day both of us were sentenced to death.

Japan largely abandoned capital punishment by the ‘50s. It must’ve been America’s fault somehow; most changes after the war had been. Our parents voted against its total abolition, along with most of their friends. Must not have been a very popular change. Something about tradition, I remember them saying. I wonder if they would’ve changed their minds if they knew what awaited both their beloved sons.

It was revenge. He deserved worse for ruining my brother’s reputation. His name had been Masahiko. I’m sure he had a first name, too. The gun emptied itself disappointingly quickly, but the metal felt nice and heavy in my hand. Eventually Sasuki told me to stop hitting him. He said the man wouldn’t be singing any time soon. I laughed so hard the knife I took to his throat slipped and cut up what remained of his face. He’d always been funny, my brother. He knew how to make me laugh most of all.

We were taken somewhere special after our sentencing. The Tokyo Detention Centre. My brother and I had performed to large audiences before, but now the entire country knew our names! It was brilliant, he said. I don’t know how long we spent there, but I couldn’t have asked my brother even if I wanted to. The guards cut out my tongue. I expected it to hurt. It did, but not enough. By then, I had ceased to feel anything. All I felt was the blood pooling in my lower jaw. It tasted funny. I was still numb from the jubilation of caving in Masahiko’s skull. Everything else—the sirens of the police cars, the voices of the officers—felt muted, dull. All I hear in my head is the music I used to play. I still hear it to this day.

Sasuki and I died on the day, July fifth. From that day forward, our existence held no meaning, so we held one another. There then came a man who brought us back to life.

First, the guards dragged me from my cell. I didn’t listen to what they said. As far as I was concerned, that was it. It was over. It had already been over for far too long. Would there be music in heaven? A reward, perhaps, for suffering this leaden silence. A long series of hallways, blank with evenly spaced lighting, came and went, before I was thrust into a room; one where I was never meant to be. There was no noose, no retractable floor. The room wasn’t much different to the rest of the Detention Facility. This one, however, was divided in two by reinforced glass.

In it, I caught my own reflection. I was thinner now, no surprise there. The skin on my face had been pulled taut over my cheekbones, sallowed. My eyes had once been my pride, but now they were little more than dark recesses below the shade of my brow line. My hair, once glossy and black, had since wilted. It hung in sad strings over my forehead.

A desk had been placed on either side of the partition, with two chairs on their side and one on the other. A visitation room. Why was I here?

It didn’t matter because, the next instant, I saw my older brother. The prolonged lack of sun had turned his skin deathly white. Entire clumps of his grey hair had dropped out. His face was a lonely skull, haunted by the memories of a lifetime’s past elation. A baggy white shirt hung off his shoulders as though they were a coat-hanger.

Life was abruptly injected into his sorry face when he saw me, and I him. Sasuki embraced me, choking up with wracked sobs. I felt the erratic rise and fall of his skeletal chest. “Kanekuda,” he said. “I hope you never forgive me.”

I didn’t respond; I couldn’t. All the response I could muster was a throaty, gurgling cry. I held him tighter still. I had thought I’d never get another chance.

“Gentlemen.”

A voice echoed through the room. It came from behind the glass. We parted. A large, broad-shouldered man stood on the other side. White hair was cropped close to his head, and the man had a strange set of black symbols tattooed over his throat. Not only that, but a strange slit was carved into the middle of his forehead.

“Please,” he gestured to the seats ahead of us, then moved to sit in his own. “Talk with me for a moment.”

I looked around. Cameras in every corner of the room were trained in, almost twitching in their sockets. The man’s voice boomed around the empty hall with such incredible timbre it made my legs tremble. I’d never felt so awed in a single man’s presence.

 “Forgive my impudence,” Sasuki asked. “Who are you?”

“A fan.” The visitor grinned. “I’ve enjoyed your stellar performances, the both of you. I thought it a shame to let them put an end to such a beautiful sound.”

“I’m sorry to disappoint you, sir, but it’s already too late for that.” Sasuki was looking at the floor. “My brother and I, nice though it was to be reunited, have been sentenced to death. I suspect,” he looked behind him, back through the gated doors at the far end of the room, “our execution is imminent.”

“Is that so?” The man looked amused. “Then perhaps I should not have gone to the effort of getting your sentences overruled, if the both of you are so pathetically downtrodden as to forfeit your lives.”

His words cut me deeper than the guard’s knife when they severed my tongue. My brother and I shared a look in disbelief.

“You did, what?”

“I believe I made myself clear.”

“Why?”

The man’s grin faded to a gritty frown. “Weak men use the shackles of petty law to restrain the strong. Your rise to fame and then infamy is a tale as old as time. You mastered your craft, you applied yourself to your field. You became strong. Weak men see the strength of strong men and grow jealous. They pull whatever trick at their disposal, using the crafted lies and crutches of their society to spite those that dare be better than them. You were spited as such, Sasuki Yoshine, and you did what the strong man would. You took matters into your own hands.”

The man then moved his piercing gaze onto me. I froze. “You were perhaps even stronger,” he continued. “Not only could you not bear to see the reputation of your dear brother besmirched, you were the one to carry out the deed. Am I right?”

I nodded.

The man looked pleased. “I was inspired on hearing your story. That’s why I want you to work for me.”

“Inspired?”

“The weak have no place in this world. It sickens me. Your actions gave me hope that the truly strong of this world aren’t so quick to falter under the weight of the oppressive society built to contain them.”

“What work do you want us to do?” Sasuki asked. “We’re both nothing but musicians.”

“That’s a pity. I see so much more potential in you, more than you could have ever dreamed of.”

The slit I saw earlier then split into a gleaming, glaring third eye. With a sickening motion it blinked, and stared eerily between us both. I felt my jaw grow slack.

“I find it such a shame when a breathtaking symphony ends with no encore.” The man shook his head. “Allow me to provide you with that chance, my esteemed friends. I cannot allow you to be persecuted anymore for your strength of heart. What do you say?”

Even if presented with a thousand choices, our decision would have been the same. The encounter with that man, that deity of a man, had been so enthralling, so overwhelming that any doubt in both our hearts had instantly evaporated, replaced instead with ironclad admiration.

---

Kanekuda Yoshine had been relentless.

If it weren’t for Kinuka reinforcing his jacket with her specialty, Tegata knew he wouldn’t have survived this long. The unceasing barrage of concussive sound from the man’s trumpet made his body ache all over. He’d barely had enough time to dodge, let alone fight back, and so had taken hit after hit.

Their environment suited his assailant perfectly. A long, barren corridor. Tegata’s only option was to take out the man standing in his way. Fleeing would be signing his own death warrant, as it meant exposing his back to the enemy. Kanekuda Yoshine flashed a sharp grin, raising the trumpet to his lips. Tegata spotted a section of thick piping jutting out from the wall. He dived behind it, and the sound bullet clanging off the metal made his ears ring.

He’s absolutely lethal.

Tegata had a long time to get to know the Glass Eyes by name and by face; an entire adolescence incarcerated along with the other subjects of Project Theia. Now he knew why this man belonged to the team. The ruthless fire in his gaze had abandoned all semblance of humanity.

Lowering the instrument, Kanekuda strolled closer to where Tegata lay in wait. Using the bend in the pipes as a springboard, Tegata leapt into the air. He twisted into a kick, slamming his heel into the man’s head. Kanekuda raised his elbow to deflect the blow, seized Tegata’s ankle and threw the boy over his shoulder. Tegata landed on his back, head smacking against the floor. Stars burst behind his eyes. The psychic energy that pulsed through his nerves was enough to silence the shock. He’d have to grit his teeth through the pain. Tegata twisted sharply on the floor, sweeping his left leg across the ground, and spun himself into a crouch. Kanekuda leapt back, avoiding the kick by inches, and landed on the balls of his feet. Tegata only had time to raise his arms in defence; Kanekuda, trumpet at the ready, closed the gap in little over a moment to deliver a devastating blast, point blank!

The sonic boom sent Tegata flying. Gritting his teeth, he wrestled back control of his body from the inertia and managed a backwards somersault, landing on all fours and skidding to a halt. His chest heaved, all the wind knocked out of him. That blast had been the worst of all, even with his psychic reinforcement.

His greatest strength is at close range! His trumpet is like a shotgun!

Tegata had to create distance. Standing, the boy clenched his fist out in front of him, splaying the fingers of his other hand underneath. Now five metres away, Kanekuda fired another burst of soundwaves.

“Scarab!”

A shiny black shell rose from Tegata’s shadow, a shield to deflect the blasts. A scarab beetle the size of a small car emerged.

“Go!” Tegata pointed at Kanekuda. The scarab’s mandibles clacked, and it charged. Catching the trumpeter in its wake with the crown on its head, it drove him some distance away like a bulldozer.

“Return!” Tegata commanded. It was risky to keep his powerful Shadow Puppets manifested for very long; it drained too much psychic energy. The scarab melted away into a pool of darkness.

Kanekuda snarled, bolts of psychic energy arching over his limbs. His eyes darted all around, awaiting an opening.

Tegata made another shape with his hands. He wouldn’t win in a battle of force; Kanekuda’s specialty was too simple, too powerful. He couldn’t risk using Scarab again. One of his most powerful shadow puppets, it drained his psychic energy like few others. If he wanted to retain any stamina for after this bout, he’d have to fight conservatively. Interlacing his thumbs, Tegata splayed both hands wide. He had to whittle the man down at range, then move in for the kill. He couldn’t waste time.

“Flock!”

The lights of the corridor cut out. Tegata’s cry heralded no summon.

Kanekuda had found the light switch.

Tegata cursed and readied a stance, but the trumpeter was too quick. Skating along the floor, guided by the bolts of purple lightning over his feet, the man drove an uppercut into Tegata’s jaw and knocked him airborne. Flourishing his trumpet, Kanekuda fired another volley of sound to batter him down and into the ceiling.

Tegata’s pained cries were drowned out by the sound of collateral damage, as the resultant force from the trumpet drove him through snaking metal pipes and into the light fixture overhead. Tegata fell to the floor with a thud. Blood leaked through his coat, shards of glass sticking out of his back. The flow of his psychic energy ceased, his signature growing dull.

Kanekuda waited. No movement followed. The man made a thoughtful noise, and stepped closer and bent down to feel for a pulse. He would’ve gladly killed the boy, but the boss wanted him alive. He’d spent his entire life disobeying orders, but not this one. Slinging him over his shoulder in a fireman’s lift, Kanekuda carried Tegata out of the dark corridor and into the light. That damn Yamashita kept changing the layout. He’d hit the man the next chance he got. Kanekuda looked to either side, trying to remember which way went where.

“Bull!”

A large dark object thundered down the corridor and hit Kanekuda like a freight train. The bull rampaged down the corridor, goring Kanekuda wildly with its horns and slamming him once more into the wall. The moment after impact, Tegata had rolled free and fell to the side, panting. He still held his hands in the summoning position.

“Return,” Tegata commanded. The bull huffed and sank back into the floor. Kanekuda wanted him alive. Otherwise, his pulse would’ve been a surefire way of getting one final shotgun blast of sound to the head. That would have finished him off, no doubt about it. Tegata cursed himself for getting careless. They knew his weakness. He couldn’t afford to chance his life on luck again.

Kanekuda Yoshine still grinned, though his suit was ruined. The puncture wound in his side from the bull’s horns leaked blood in a splotchy pattern down his front and over the floor. The bull had broken at least five of his ribs. The man winced, stumbling with every third step. His performing composure lay in tatters. A maddening, breathless laugh reverberating from an open mouth contorted into a wide smile, a mouth that held no tongue. His stare locked on Tegata, and the man inched forwards.

Only then did Tegata notice a distinct lack of trumpet. It didn’t take long to locate the shiny brass scattered halfway between them in the corridor. Their eyes met. Kanekuda knew, and now Tegata knew. Moreover, Kanekuda knew that Tegata knew that he knew.

The only thing that could have followed was a mad dash for the prize.

Psychic energy arched through both their weary nerves, and they broke into a sprint. Tegata, however, had the edge. Throwing his hands out in front, fingers splayed, Tegata cried Flock once more.

Several dozen birds burst forth from his shadow, talons bared. They rent and tore at the man’s skin, circling him in a vicious crowd, pecking ravenously at fresh meat. Kanekuda cried in pain, but never stopped running. They had slowed him down enough. Entering the final stretch, Tegata dove head first, seized the instrument and broke his fall with a roll. Clutching the warm brass with one hand, Tegata dismissed his flock with the other. 

Kanekuda Yoshine emerged from the maelstrom of black, his mark overshot. His suit no longer resembled anything even close, and all exposed skin was pockmarked with angry, bleeding red marks. The Flock had taken entire chunks out of him. The sight of Tegata with his beloved trumpet was enough to elicit a feral roar. Kanekuda dashed towards him with reckless abandon, psychic energy surging through every limb. Tegata made a hand signal with his one free hand, but soon abandoned trying to summon anything. Instead, he put the stolen trumpet to his own lips, but no sound. The Specialty wasn’t tied to the trumpet after all!

The musician let loose a throaty, maddening cackle and launched into a flurry of punches, a barrage of force. Tegata raised both arms to defend, but steadily lost more and more ground. One unlucky punch broke his guard, and Kanekuda’s next right hook hit the boy’s jaw with a resounding crack. The man’s knuckles sang in pain. The impact knocked Tegata back and slammed him against the nearest wall. The trumpet flew out of his grasp, and into the hands of its rightful owner. Kanekuda approached, but it wasn’t time for the final note just yet.

Stood with his back against the wall, Tegata grit his teeth in agony, clutching his injured jaw. He’d been backed into a dead end.

Kanekuda Yoshine put the trumpet to his lips and unleashed a gigantic wave of bass so loud and resonant it better resembled an earthquake. The ground beneath them and all four walls around shook, moments away from collapsing.

The sheer vibration was too much stress on Tegata’s body. A series of splintering cracks later, and all the bones in Tegata’s legs abruptly shattered. The boy gasped, and crumpled to the floor.

Kanekuda lorded over his prey, triumphant. His mouth opened and closed. The man would’ve said something, but with his lack of tongue, all that emerged was a choked gargle. Tegata lay in a broken heap. He had his hands together and his lips were moving, but Kanekuda acted before he could finish the command, raising his trumpet to deliver the final blow. 

His third eye pulsed a telepathic message directly into Tegata’s head. For the first time, the boy heard Kanekuda Yoshine’s true voice.

“Shows over, buddy. This is the final note.”

“It’s your final note, alright,” Tegata mumbled. With his head against the floor, he felt the four-legged footfall of another thunder past him and pounce.

The Jackal bit Kanekuda’s head clean off.

There, for another moment, the suited body still stood, hands holding aloft the instrument of destruction. A jet of blood spurted from the neck as the body teetered back. It hit the ground with a wet thud, a coating of crimson eternally staining the tiled floors. The jackal dropped the man’s head and trod solemnly back to Tegata, pushing its snout against the boy’s motionless head. A hand rose up to stroke under its chin.

“Return.”

A grateful howl, and the hound sank back into the boy’s shadow. He had to do what he did, he had no other choice. He’d promised he’d do anything and everything to save her. He’d come so close, but at what cost. He looked at what remained of his legs. All feeling had gone. He couldn’t move anything below his hips. The pain was great, but the shame, even greater. 

Tegata Kage lay sprawled out on his chest, feet from his defeated opponent. This, he supposed, was the price he paid for making a promise he knew he could never keep.