42. The Shark

4E0D52D5

The blue-haired kid had no name on the records—none of them did—but it didn’t take long for Hideyori Hakana to remember. He had been there on that day, after all: the day their identity, their future, their everything was torn away by an overwhelming hand who cared neither whether they lived nor died, only on how far their power—his essence—could further the mission of the organisation.

Acting on orders didn’t expunge his guilty conscience, but the man had long since silenced the voices in his head that still cried foul. He was very lucky to still have a conscience at all. Questions of ethics interfered with his work and so, much like anyone else who dared to so, they were discarded. Extraneous semantics had to be abstracted in order to view the bigger picture.

Hideyori observed another moment now, another freeze-frame. It took time and practice, but he had developed his tools of observation such that he could stop, rewind or fast-forward the local flow of time like VHS. This let him look into everything, see every detail, and extrapolate answers to his lifetime of burning questions.

The version of him in this moment stood opposite a small crowd. The intruders to the facility, five-strong, faced off against a threat with a range of expressions from trepidation to rage. None were consumed with rage quite as much as the blue giant. Even in stopped time, the boy almost quivered. Hideyori the observer circled him, visible eye narrowed. The boy, on seeing him had been engulfed in a visceral, gut-wrenching rage that soon translated into brutal action. Hideyori let the scene play in slow motion, and watched his former self only just manage to avoid the punch sent his way with a carefully tossed orb. The impact from the punch left fault lines in the wall. Such strength, even for a psyche user, was impressive.

His initial reason for appearing had been to toy with them, mostly, and see how they’d react. You could easily frighten someone with minimal threat given the right tone and choice of words. How they reacted and dealt with the situation gave a surprising insight.

Hideyori Hakana had left that scene with no insight at all, only the overwhelming question of “why?”

The girl with the guns, Juusei Kanon, had reacted similarly. The stark change from abject fear to wrought-iron vengeance suggested the flipping of some a primal switch, the triggering of a core, traumatic memory. Hideyori was no saint—no-one knew that better than he—but such a reaction seemed disproportionate. If it were on the silver screen, you’d call it bad acting. This reaction was genuine, but what caused it might not have been.

That raised another matter, his very own boss. The man had always been wary, distant—suspicious. Despite his leadership and strategic counsel, Hideyori had always been treated as just another pawn, never privy to plans until it was his responsibility to execute them. The doctors did not get this treatment. Why was this? Had they not been “initiated” into the company the same way?

Could it be he knew?

Hideyori rested his chin in the crook of his palm, eyes closed. It couldn’t be. If so, why had the man not acted? To delude him into thinking the coast was clear? With no proof either way, he knew he would only think himself in circles. Then again, he was so close. He must’ve been forgetting something. Hideyori’s lip curled as he took one last drag and stubbed his cigarette out on his glove.

Forgetting…

Forgetting what?

No. Forgetting!

Hideyori’s eyes shot wide open. That was precisely it. Their reactions; another screenwriter had redacted a critical line from the script, and inserted their own. Most wouldn’t bat an eye, but a critic with their scrutiny—his scrutiny—could tell. The man’s brow furrowed. He’d seen enough; he was satisfied. The landscape dissolved once more, and Hideyori felt the sharp pull as his consciousness left the orb. He blinked, the chilly sunlight of the morning a harsh reawakening. The wind whipped strands of hair across his face. It stung, which only added to the slight scowl that steadily split his dry lips, chapped by the blades of the wind. Hideyori licked them and grimaced.

That did not help his mood.

“Excuse me.” A disembodied voice, male-sounding, came from a few feet to his left, the midst of his blind spot. “Excuse me, mister?”

Hideyori ignored them, staring out over the water. They weren’t talking to him.

Then came a tap on his shoulder.

They were talking to him.

Fuck.

“I’m very sorry for bothering you,” said the botherer, bothering him anyway. He had been about to say something else, but withered and spluttered like a geranium in a furnace as Hideyori turned an eye-patch in his direction.

“Can I help you?” He growled.

“Yes!” The botherer squeaked. “Would you mind taking our picture?”

Hideyori raised an eyebrow and turned to face them properly. A woman clung to the botherer’s arm, a conventionally attractive, helpless little thing that would likely starve if locked in a convenience store overnight. She had an infuriating giggle, and seemed intent on getting proper mileage out of it. Her boyfriend, spouse, or whatever relation—Hideyori didn’t much care—bowed towards him with arms extended like the Japanese foreign minister offering a peace treaty, only holding a camera phone instead of political appeasement.

At this point, Hideyori wasn’t really sure which he’d rather.

He had half a mind to look around and see if there was anyone else he could defer to, but didn’t bother. Had there been, this daft double-act would definitely not have approached him. Every so often there was this little spark of interaction between the two, a little poke or a whisper or just a glance in the other’s direction. Hideyori felt his skin begin to prickle.

How dare they.

It seemed he took too long to respond. Mister Botherer, having risen out of his bow with an expression so fearful he looked like he might perish on the spot, stuttered out the simpering attempted recovery of, “o-o-or if you’re busy, that’s fine too. Sorry. I just thought that, seeing as you’re—”

“Sure.”

Hideyori put out one gloved hand. When the botherer caught his eye, he grinned, nearly making the poor man drop the phone. His sidecar-attachment chortled at his expense, which made her sound like an hourglass-shaped seagull. They shared another look, and had a little laugh together. Hideyori couldn’t help his lip curling at the sight.

How dare they.

“Oh, thank you, thank you!” The man bowed again.

Hideyori sighed. “Hand it over already.” He paused, coughing into his other fist. “I’m sure you two have places to be.”

“Uh, yes sir!”

Soon, the two had finished arranging themselves like a pair of dolls. They perched on the rough stone seawall, which separated the wide pedestrian walkway from the water lapping against the heels of the stonework. It was a picturesque spot for candid photos, more often than not during the summer.

As requested, the mysterious stranger dutifully took their photo, handed back the phone, and went on his way a Samaritan, leaving the blissful young couple with a lovely memory to preserve their day out together for years to come.

Except, of course, that was never what happened.

The botherer stepped towards Hideyori to hand over his phone, and who seized his wrist. The next moment, the man was gone. Weaving an iridescent marble between his fingers like a street magician, Hideyori’s dangerous grin dropped into a silent snarl.

How dare they.

Nothing registered on the woman’s vacant expression as her boyfriend was whisked away, save for a slightly open jaw.

“Nothing to say?” Hideyori leaned in close, dangling the orb in front of her eyes like a pocket watch. “Goodness me, you’re boring.”

How dare they taunt him so.

Placing his palm on her forehead, a sudden shove and a violent encapsulation later, Hideyori now held an orb in both hands. They were separated, now and forevermore. A blank void would suit her nicely, he thought, crushing both marbles under one shoe. Opening the botherer’s phone, kindly unlocked, Hideyori took a single picture of himself before hurling the device into the sea.

“And a damn shame, too. I hate boring people.” Hideyori growled, striding off down the promenade, both hands firmly seated in his pockets. “Don’t swim up to a shark and expect a handshake.”

---

If you go somewhere often enough, soon the journey—no matter how long—feels almost seamless. In the absence of new information, the brain often omits familiar scenes and motions from memory at all altogether to save energy. One second, you remember just setting out; the next, you’ve already arrived.

For Hideyori Hakana, the journey was so familiar, his return to Nowhere took no time at all. He always left a moment in the labyrinthine tower, a large glass orb set into a door—his “office.” The door itself didn’t lead anywhere, and the exact location of the door was never constant. The nature of the unpredictable, fluctuating space meant the building’s layout periodically underwent a random shift. It was a nightmare to navigate by sight alone, and memory made things worse. Tracking psychic signatures, however, made the task a triviality.

The orb in the door glowed, and from it Hideyori warped into the corridor. His stride did not break, nor did the ire hard set into the man’s face. The door had already shifted into a different area, but Hideyori had spent so much time in this godforsaken tower, that he already knew where. Familiar hallmarks honed into view, a marble bust, Roman-era, loomed at the end of the corridor. Hideyori took a right. The walls were a dark blue, easy on the eyes if it weren’t for the harsh industrial lighting. Panels set into the ceiling sent a glare off the smooth tiled floor. The familiar ache returned to the backs of his eyes, and Hideyori’s frown took a downturn. He turned left. Large windows flanked him on either side, an endless gaze into the void. Forks of purple lightning accompanied the perpetual rolling thunder.

“Welcome back,” a chuckle followed the greeting jeer. “Had enough brooding for one day?”

Meguru Yoha had been waiting for him, it seemed. The man was cooped up in a recess in the right-hand side of the wall, hard at work—hardly working. Hidden from the overhead glare, his messy black hair and tanned skin almost blended in with the shadows. Dark eyes gleamed with idle mischief to be made.

Hideyori slowed and made the mistake of looking at the man. Sighing, he pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Yo.” Meguru performed a mock two-finger salute, grinning. “Pleasure to see you as well, partner.”

Large hands then grasped the outside of the wall, and the beefy man pulled himself out with the slight groan of minimal exertion. Hideyori was tall and lean—a menacing shade clad in his coat; Meguru, marginally taller, was twice as built. How the man still retained a spine at this point considering the amount he neglected to use it was anyone’s guess.

“I’m your superior, not your partner,” Hideyori chided. “Quit it.”

Meguru pouted and circled in front of the other man, hands folded behind his head. “Why so glum, bro? Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten all the fun we used to have!”

Hideyori glared at him. “I’m not in the mood. Stand aside.”

“Where you off to this time?” Meguru leaned closer, arms raised, fingertips pressed against the ceiling. “You up and vanished earlier. We were all worried, thought you’d finally lost it.”

“I said, I’m not in the mood.” Hideyori’s nostrils flared. “Did you have something important to say for once? Or did you just come to waste my time.”

Meguru’s only response was a widening smirk. Hideyori growled and shoved the man aside, resuming his stride off down the hallway. Meguru hit the left-hand wall. His grin vanished, eyes wide. “Woah, woah. Easy, tiger.” He raised an eyebrow, amused at the rise. Meguru opted to follow Hideyori and kept pace, hands in his pockets. His superior strode ahead, whilst the chippy man peeked at his expression from the side. “Seriously, what’s going on with you?” Meguru asked. “You’ve been all business lately: ‘work this, mission that.’ What happened to our raids on the Pachinko parlours, man? We used to make it out rich!”

Hideyori clenched his jaw. “It’s none of your business.”

“You sure?” Meguru’s smirk grew increasingly more irritating. “Seems you really have forgotten the old days. I’m always your partner, remember?” The man’s teeth glinted in the white light. “We’re sworn brothers, you and I. You can tell me anything.”

“We were never brothers—sworn or otherwise,” Hideyori scoffed. He didn’t look at Meguru once. “You’ve been hanging out with Atsura too much, all that silly Yakuza bullshit.”

“Lame.” Meguru put his hands behind his head again and closed his eyes. “Seriously, when did you get so boring?”

That was one jibe too many. A crystal ball smashed, and Hideyori had Meguru pinned up against the wall in an instant, the cold barrel of his handgun pressed into the soft flesh underneath the man’s chin. Meguru Yoha flattened himself against the wall, muscles so tense they were paralysed. His cocky expression evaporated; the man’s eyes now saw true fear.

“Never call me boring again,” Hideyori Hakana glowered. “Got that, partner?”

Meguru’s chest rose and fell. Silence proved his submission. The two men remained at deadlock before Meguru’s smirk returned. He chortled under his breath. “That’s more like it.”

Hideyori retracted his gun, and the implement disappeared into another orb as soon as it had appeared to begin with.

Meguru, still a little shaken, followed more or less undeterred. “You’re off to see the boss, then?”

“Took you long enough,” Hideyori grunted. His mood hadn’t alleviated. Hardly surprising. They now climbed a flight of spiralling stairs, ascending a square tower that descended into oblivion. Sometimes, especially now, he felt like jumping.

“Whatcha talking about?” Meguru picked at his teeth. He had a grain of fried rice stuck somewhere, and it was annoying him.

“Prove to me you can do some work first,” was the cool response, “and I might consider telling you.”

“Frosty as always,” Meguru chuckled. “Fair enough.”

They took a left-hand exit off the stairwell and started down another corridor. This one had a different aura to the others. Gravity itself seemed to intensify as they approached the door. Meguru loosened his already-loose tie a little further, sweat beading down his face. “Hate this place,” he muttered.

Hideyori was about to knock on the door, when he winced suddenly. Putting out a hand to stop Meguru, he pulled an orb out of his pocket and looked at it for a moment. For the first time in a while, the Shark grinned.

“Meguru. You said you were bored, didn’t you?” Hideyori discarded the orb, and gave the man a dangerous side-eye.

“I don’t like that look.” Meguru took half a step back.

“Too bad.” Hideyori was the one grinning now. He seized the front of the man’s shirt and yanked him closer. “Careful what you wish for.”

Meguru’s face fell. “What’s up?”

“I’ve got a job for you. There’s another distortion in the city, Kawarajima Park. Be a dear; investigate it, won’t you?”

“Why me?” The man whined. “Can’t you pawn that off on another of your minions? What about Bango?”

“Bango’s improving his technique,” Hideyori noted. “Atsura’s training him. This, I want you to do.” The man took out another orb and shook it, revealing a bird’s eye view of two figures running along a bridge. He showed it to Meguru, and the perspective descended on a certain boy with messy black hair. “Would be a good warm-up. Test your luck, maybe. Who knows, he might even show you a good time.”

Something—a spark, a primal fire of delight—ignited behind Meguru’s eyes. He shared the other man’s grin. “You got it, boss.”

“Good man.” Hideyori patted him roughly on the shoulder and tossed him the orb. “This should take you to the office of one of our partners, a private doctor’s clinic a few blocks away from the park. I trust you don’t need a map?”

Meguru clicked his tongue, snarled, clasped the orb tight in one large hand and warped away thereafter. The orb swallowed itself up a moment later.

“Now you can finally do something for once,” Hideyori cursed under his breath, then laughed to himself. “Don’t wear yourself out now.” Finally, he turned back to the large door ahead. The man took a breath, steeled his nerves, then knocked.