Chapter Text
Rei sleeps fitfully. In part, it’s having a stranger in the apartment with him. But mostly it’s Hiromitsu. Is the acidic cocktail of guilt and rage and sorrow that’s lingering in his system.
He finally falls into a deep, dreamless sleep around 6am, and only wakes to the rumble of traffic and birdsong at 10.
He opens his eyes blearily, tongue stuck to the top of his dry mouth, and rolls over to look at the clock. For a minute he’s convinced he’s somehow reading the hands incorrectly, that his brain has malfunctioned.
Then he realises that it really is 10am, and he’s overslept by three hours. Overslept with a stranger staying in the room next door. He tumbles out of bed, foot catching on the duvet and sending him hopping across the tiny stretch of floor space to the far wall. He kicks the cover off and rounds the bed to burst out into the living room in just his boxers and t-shirt.
Moroboshi Dai is sitting on the couch with his legs crossed, slippers dangling from his toes, drinking a cup of coffee and watching a cooking program on TV. He looks up at Rei’s explosive entrance, eyebrow raised.
“I overslept,” says Rei, stating the obvious.
Moroboshi smiles. “It’s not a problem. I read for a long time, but eventually it was all just… very overwhelming. Thus, this,” he gestures at the TV, where Okino Youko is cheerfully cracking an egg into a bowl.
For a moment Rei looks at him, this man from another era. The world has moved on without him, casually obliterating all his memories, his touch-points. His friends and family. They may still be alive, but after all these years he’ll have lost much time with them.
Rei coughs, throat dry. “I wasn’t very sympathetic last night,” he begins, slowly.
“I have the impression that I wasn’t the only thing on your mind,” replies Moroboshi, raising the remote and turning off the TV. The background noise vanishes, leaving them in silence.
“No,” agrees Rei. Sleep put some distance between him and the fact of Hiromitsu’s death, but the wound in his heart is still gaping; he doesn’t want to deal with it now. Can’t deal with it now. “But that was my issue. I shouldn’t have let it take precedence.”
“I don’t have a problem with time alone. In fact, sometimes it’s preferable. But I appreciate the sentiment.”
“I didn’t ask you last night – we were managing so well without the personal questions. But I want to know what happened to you. You weren’t breathing, you know.”
Moroboshi reaches out and picks up the packet of cigarettes and lighter from the small side table beside the sofa. He stands and goes to the sliding balcony door, pulling it open and letting in fresh, crisp fall air. He steps outside to light up and Rei follows him, staying just inside the doorway and out of the cold. Moroboshi’s left-handed; Rei had noticed it absently last night, but it sinks in now, the way he holds the cigarette between the index and second fingers of his right hand while he operates the lighter with his left.
“It was an experiment,” he says, after he’s taken a drag. “I can’t explain the science, but this wasn’t the intended outcome.”
“What was?”
Jade-green eyes glance down at him. “Something even less believable,” he answers. “Although now that I think of it, perhaps the original goal was achieved.”
Rei suddenly thinks of Miyano Elena’s research, of the work now being carried out by Sherry. Of the rumours he’s heard: The ultimate cure / an impossible dream / the fountain of youth. Perhaps the science was more possible than believed. Perhaps Elena truly had achieved at least a part of her goal.
Elena, Moroboshi had said, when he woke. What if it really was Miyano Elena he asking speaking about?
“Eternal life,” says Rei, slowly.
This time Moroboshi turns to look at him, eyes hardening.
Rei continues, his own voice now steely. “You asked for Elena. Miyano Elena – am I wrong?”
There’s no answer. Rei, feeling his way forward like a blind man, takes the final plunge: “I was sent by Rum.”
“What’s your name?” asks Moroboshi, voice suddenly rough. He turns to stand silhouetted against the bright sky, a blue wisp of smoke rising from his cigarette.
“Bourbon,” replies Rei, crossing his arms. “And yours?”
“Rye.”
Rei feels his heart constrict in his chest. This man isn’t the friend he had always imagined, isn’t a source of trust and support.
He’s the enemy.
“Come in when you’re done,” he says offhand, keeping his tone casual as his mind whips itself up into a fervour. “We can talk.” He closes the door behind Moroboshi – behind Rye – and returns to his room to get dressed. And, more importantly, to think.
The refrain echoing in his head is along the lines of: fuck, fuck, fuck. He hasn’t rescued an innocent; he’s rescued a villain. Has blown PSB’s plan, whatever it was, out of the water.
So now it’s up to him to recover the situation.
He’s heard of Rye, but by the time he had joined the ranks of the Syndicate the stories had become something closer to legends. Rye and Gin were partners, then enemies. Rye was a perfect shot, his acumen never met since by any of the Syndicate’s subsequent snipers. Rye didn’t make mistakes.
At least, not until he vanished. There were all sorts of stories about that, too: dead, turned, fled.
Rei had never heard any rumours linking the sniper to the body in the basement. But it makes sense. If somehow the PSB had recovered him, had managed to capture not only Rye the operative but a scientific guinea-pig, they would have wanted to keep him close. And if, over the years, he had shown no signs of coming out of the coma state Elena had put him in, perhaps he would have been forgotten.
Rei dresses in a shirt and blue knit sweater, bulky enough that it disguises the press of the pistol his slides into the back waistband of his khaki pants. As he’s pulling on his socks he hears Moroboshi re-enter, the door rumbling closed behind him.
This will take delicacy. If even half the rumours are true, Moroboshi is a force to be reckoned with. Is truly, absurdly dangerous.
Fortunately, so is Rei.
***
“I’d like to know more about current operatives,” says Moroboshi, when Rei re-enters the living room. He’s sitting on the far edge of the sofa, one long leg resting over the other, utterly casual.
Rei smiles predatorily. “How do I know you are who you say you are?”
Moroboshi smiles back toothily. “How do I know you are?” he returns.
“You agree we both know Miyano Elena,” says Rei. “Tell me her other name.”
“Hell’s Angel,” replies Moroboshi, easily. “What are the orders regarding NOCs?”
“Capture if possible, otherwise kill on sight. What’s Rum’s position?”
“2IC. Who did you kill last night?”
Rei freezes. His heart actually skips a beat, a hollow feeling in his chest. “What?”
“Last night. Blood under your nails, intense emotional reactions, vomiting at the smell of meat. Who did you kill?”
Rei swallows. There’s only one answer he can give: “A PSB NOC. Morofushi Hiromitsu.”
Akai stands and walks past him, Rei swivelling stiffly to follow his course through the apartment. He stops at the laptop and opens it; it’s locked. Rei steps over and unlocks it, and Moroboshi brings up an article on the screen.
POLICE OFFICER DEAD IN ACCIDENT
Morofushi Hiromitsu died of unnamed causes in Shibuya last night.
There’s even a picture of him from the Academy graduation, his younger, rounder face staring seriously at the camera. Rei swallows back bile.
“First kill?” asks Moroboshi.
“Screw you,” snaps back Rei. He turns and walks into the kitchen, where he pulls out a can of beer. It’s only 10:30 in the morning, but what the hell?
“You had a busy night,” says Moroboshi, undeterred. “First a kill, then breaking into the Metro to find me. I suppose I should count myself lucky.”
“I suppose you should,” replies Rei flatly. He takes a swig of beer; it tastes strange in his still-dry mouth.
“If we’re voicing suspicions, I would like to know how you managed that,” says Moroboshi, lounging against the wall. “Invading the enemy stronghold, that is.”
“My specialty is stealth and secrets,” says Rei. “Enough intel can get you access to anywhere, even the Tokyo Metro. At 2am it’s not hard to dodge security. Truthfully it would be simpler to hack their servers, but to see you… that necessitated a trip in person. Security would likely increase after Scotch’s – Morofushi’s – body was found. It was now or never.” He pulls out a chair and swivels it so that he straddles it backwards, hands resting on the curved back. He’s regaining his composure now, finding his feet after the shock of Moroboshi’s final question.
“And now? Who will you turn me over to?”
Rei shrugs, carefully neutral. “I haven’t received any further orders.”
“Who’s still active?”
“Rum, obviously. Gin and Vodka. Vermouth. I think Korn and Chianti are probably since your time, whenever that is.”
“2003,” replies Moroboshi.
15 years. The war in Iraq, the financial crisis, the Touhoku earthquake. Barack Obama, Donald Trump, Brexit. Facebook, Youtube, Twitter. Major events of the past decade and a half flit through Rei’s mind as he tries to understand what Moroboshi’s missed.
“You’ve missed a lot,” says Rei. He’s no longer concerned with pampering this man, with playing to his feelings. This is Rye, a Syndicate operative, and he doesn’t deserve Rei’s pity. “I suppose that’s what you signed up for, chasing after eternal youth.”
“I didn’t sign up for it. I was volunteered. By Gin. They wanted someone they could trust if it turned out the drug did work.”
“And someone they wouldn’t miss if it had adverse effects? That’s not what I’ve heard about you.”
Moroboshi smiles, a sharp-edged grin. “Flattery. But Gin has always been quick to risk my life – I think he’s always half-hoped I wouldn’t come back. No love lost between us. I never thought the drug would actually work – and certainly not that it would have this effect.”
“Frighteningly spectacular,” agrees Rei.
He’s faced with a quandary. Personally, he wants this man out of his apartment – out of his life. He’s in no mood to be sheltering members of the Syndicate, to be weaning them back into their work. But professionally, this is an opportunity. Moroboshi seems inclined to listen to him, maybe even to trust him. There could be something to exploit there. If he turns him over to Vermouth, he may never see the operative again.
Ultimately, he decides to put the decision off. He finishes his beer and smacks the can down on the table. “You need clothes,” he says; Moroboshi is of course still wearing the same slacks and knit top as yesterday – as he has for the last 15 years. “We’ll get you ready, then I’ll call in for orders.”
If he is to gain Moroboshi’s trust, they need to spend more time together. He can sacrifice a bit more of his personal reserve of comfort.
Rei even lends him a coat, his second-best; it’s a little short in the sleeves and narrow in the shoulders, but at a glance it fits fine.
He slides his phone into his pocket without remembering to check it.
***
They cross town to Shinjuku and the agglomeration of stores there. The first thing he buys for Moroboshi is a phone – “This will be the most important piece of equipment you have,” he says, showing the operative how to add his own number into the contacts list. He also provides the numbers of a few black market dealers for weaponry and fake ID.
Then it’s off to the clothes stores. Moroboshi is clearly no clothes horse; he sticks to the cheap, serviceable stores and tends towards black and blacker. He picks out a few long-sleeved (black) shirts, a pair of slacks and a pair of jeans, a navy knit sweater, a black toque, and a long charcoal-coloured wool coat with a high collar.
Rei would never admit how good he looks in it.
Their last stop is to a barber, at Moroboshi’s request. Rei goes to the nearest bank to take out more cash and after that to the conbini for a couple of onigiri to appease his growling stomach.
When he returns the three seats in the barber’s shop are empty. Rei glances at the tall man with dark, close-cropped hair standing by the counter reading a magazine.
Then looks again.
It’s Moroboshi, his waist-long locks gone. Without them he looks somehow trimmer, more svelte. Certainly more modern. The lines of his face haven’t changed, though; Rei would know them anywhere.
“You really know how to make a change,” says Rei, coming over.
Moroboshi puts down the magazine. “I needed to freshen up,” he replies.
Rei pays, then hands Moroboshi 50,000 yen. “You can fend for yourself from now on.”
The operative takes it and tucks it into his pocket. “Understood.” As they leave, he pulls on the knit cap.
***
They eat lunch together at a local Chinese restaurant.
“I understand now why you haven’t stayed in contact with your family,” says Rei as they eat from shared plates, each with a bowl of rice and a cup of green tea. “But if you need help finding them, I do have good networks.” It’s an offer aimed to earn Moroboshi’s gratitude, and perhaps even to learn more about him.
“Thanks, but I can do my own digging,” replies Moroboshi.
Rei shrugs, hiding his disappointment easily. “Suit yourself.”
Moroboshi takes a drink of his tea, then puts it down on the well-polished table. “What will you do now?”
“Call Vermouth, I suppose. She’s my main contact. Are you – were you – based here?”
“Sometimes. Sometimes in the States. It really depended what was needed. I had no permanent base of operations.”
“Sounds tough.” Rei finishes his rice and scoops a few final shrimp into his bowl.
“I don’t need much to feel at home.” He finishes his own meal and puts his chopsticks down. “You haven’t told me yet: how did you wake me up? As far as I know Elena had no antidote developed – she didn’t think she would need one. Has she developed one?”
“Miyano Elena is dead. She died shortly after the experiment on you, I’m guessing. Her daughter, Miyano Shiho – Sherry – has taken over as head scientist. As for your question, I’m not at liberty to answer it.”
Moroboshi raises his eyebrows. “Still keeping secrets?”
“Only the ones I’m not authorized to share,” lies Rei, fluidly. And then, ringing the call bell for the waitress. “Ready to go?”
“Of course.”
***
Outside Rei checks his phone for the first time that day. He sees several texts, but the name on the top one immediately arrests his attention: V. He thumbs it open and scans it:
What happened to Scotch?
He leads the way around the back of the building into a dark alley and calls the number.
“Bourbon,” says Vermouth, sounding more hasty than usual. “What on Earth’s happened? Was Scotch as PSB agent? How did you know?”
“He was. I discovered his secret last night. And I ended it,” he says, with all the coldness he can muster.
“You should have captured him.”
“That wasn’t an option. It was him or me,” he says, fabricating a story.
Vermouth harrumphs.
“Listen, Vermouth. I have some news. After dealing with Scotch I thought I should see if the Metro was onto us, so I snuck in last night. And guess what I found in the basement?”
“Well?”
“Rye. He’s here with me. Now.”
“What?” He can hear the incredulity in her voice. “He disappeared more than a decade ago. After Hell’s Angel gave him the kiss of death.”
He glances at Moroboshi, watching silently. “Well he’s back now. Want to talk to him?”
“Alright.”
Rei hands over the phone to the sniper. “Hello?” He stands listening for a minute. “No, I don’t know what happened. I was asleep – or something that passes for it – the whole time. Bourbon woke me up.” He listens again. “Understood.” He lowers the phone and closes the call. “I’m to meet Vermouth at Ikkebukuro station. She’ll deal with me from there.”
“I see.” In a way, he’s glad. He’s in no state of mind to be dealing with a detailed deception right now, and hasn’t had time to make up a strong story. But despite that, Moroboshi hasn’t raised his ire. Hasn’t done anything other than behave well, despite Rei’s occasional outbursts of pettiness.
The fact remains, though, that he’s awoken one of the Syndicate’s strongest operatives. Even if he can make use of him, somehow siphon information from him, he’s likely dealt more of a blow to his own side than he could have imagined.
“Thank you,” says Moroboshi, simply.
Rei forces his mouth into a smile. “No problem,” he says. “Call me if you need me.”
Moroboshi turns and walks out of the alley, heading for Shinjuku station. Rei stands watching him for a moment, then glances down at his phone. He pulls up his text log and thumbs through the incoming ones.
One is from the number he texted last night: his superior. It came in hours ago, at 6:04.
We have to talk. Now.
Shit, thinks Rei.