Work Text:
When he was still alive, a teacher had told Sho about the mathēmatikoi. It had been the only time he’d ever paid attention in class – and the only time he’d ever had to.
He had been too young, he remembered, to be learning half of the shit he got up to back then. It was meant to be too hard – too difficult – college level stuff, adults only. But that had been garbage to begin with. He’d never struggled with maths – not really. No matter how far into the equations you got, they were all inherently problems, designed to be solved. Sometimes solving them was a little more than one two, one two, but that didn’t make them a struggle. It made them a challenge. And one he was more than capable of undertaking.
His teacher had noticed. He’d been quiet, back then – singular, sitting in the back row with his books. But he’d always been good at reading people, and she, like so many others, had been… unsettled, by him. Her eyes avoided him when sweeping the room. She didn’t comment on his downturned face, so clearly not listening to what was being taught. He passed his tests, handed his work in on time, and that was all that mattered. She saw no need to interfere.
Until, one day, she did. Sho still didn’t know what had changed, or why, and it drove him mad sometimes, a non-linear equation. But she had watched him, from the front of the class, when the bell rang and everyone else had scrambled to leave. Swallowed visibly. Stood still for a moment, as if hesitating. Then, she’d grabbed a book from the shelf; stalked towards his desk; crouched down to his level; and talked to him about what she cared about.
I never really wanted to be a kids’ teacher, she’d admitted (the small-talk that preceded this had been arbitrary, and had long since been deleted from Sho’s memory). I always found math easy, so I stuck with it, and this is where I ended up. But when I was at school, my big passion was history – ancient history. You know what I mean by that, right?
He hadn’t dignified that with a response. Just glared down at his textbooks, nails digging into his arms.
Well… anyway, she had continued, scratching the back of her neck awkwardly. There was this guy, in Ancient Greece. Pythagoras. You know Pythagoras?
a2 + b2 = c2. Simple equation.
Right. Well, that’s not all he did. Of course, his theorem was very important, and you still need to learn it, even now – but he did other stuff, too. Stuff we don’t usually talk about in class. Stuff you might find… interesting?
She’d waited again, perhaps expecting him to declare his enthusiasm. Sho had simply huffed, still refusing to look at her.
Like… music. Did you know that music is based on mathematics? You can make the most beautiful songs, all using mathematical principles. Pythagoras discovered that. He thought that, between math and music, you could measure things like emotions, and aesthetic feelings. He wanted to quantify the entirely subjective. Beauty, to him, was based on math.
At this point, Sho’s fingers had started to twitch. That evening, at home, he’d looked it up himself: “Pythagoras is credited with discovering that the most harmonious musical intervals are created by the simple numerical ratio of the first four natural numbers which derive respectively from the relations of string length”. Music as numbers. Beauty as numbers. He’d been fascinated. But that was just the start.
Erm, what else…? He was also a religious figure. No, I’m not lying! She’d laughed, then – a surprisingly easy sound, when he finally lifted his head and looked at her sceptically. Knowledge and wisdom were very important to Ancient Greece. You had Aristotle and Diogenes, Plato and Socrates… Pythagoras simply based his philosophy on numbers instead, and used them to explain the creation of the universe. To the Pythagoreans, numbers were everything. Why wouldn’t they worship them?
So, back to music. They thought music could heal you, through something called ‘numeric harmony’. Sounds nuts, right? But they just saw it as a balancing act between opposing forces. Like… balancing an equation. If things tilted too far one way, the soul went off-kilter. If they went too far the other way, same deal. So, they made music to balance it out, and make a person feel better.
Sho liked music. When he was young, he would entertain himself by hanging around in music shops, and shoplifting the cassettes he couldn’t afford (and couldn’t do without). In his head, he was already going through a list of songs, counting beats, trying to reverse-engineer their solution. His teacher didn’t notice the slightly manic look come into his eyes. She kept going.
In that way, they thought numeric harmony was the basis of all things. They saw it as a matter of nature – two forces of equal weight and symmetry, neither one overwhelming the other, keeping everything nice and balanced. Like… interactive pairs, in physics. Or the food chain, in nature. One animal can’t get too aggressive, and kill all the others, because otherwise it will have no food to fall back on. Two minus two should always equal zero, and in the same way, forces should always stay in balance. Do you understand?
They even had theories about death, based on this kind of harmony. You see, they believed in something called ‘transmigration of the soul’ – meaning that, after death, the soul would move on to a new body. If they lived bad lives, they went on to a worse body to make up for it. If they lived good lives, they moved on to a better body to even that out, too. Make sense?
And then there –
Why are you telling me this? he had asked, finally – not because he was sick of listening, but because he wanted more than she could possibly give him. Second-hand meant divided value. He wanted to go home, do his own research – pour over his own battered books, until his head swam and he felt he could understand what Pythagoras meant for himself. His eyes caught on the textbook under her arm again. Her smile was shockingly warm.
Well, I noticed how much you apply yourself to math. I figured it would be nice for you to see how it branches out into other subjects, too.
She had passed him the book at that point – dog-eared, torn, so clearly from her own college days. He almost snatched it from her, looking at the title. Mathēmatikoi. Scholars of the second school of Pythagoras. Of course.
She didn’t last, at that school. He supposed he wasn’t surprised – what kind of teacher goes up to a kid and makes it clear they hate their job? – and he couldn’t say he cared too much, when it happened. She was trivial. Nothing more than an uninspiring integer, part of the mundane scenery of his day-to-day life. By then, he was solving much bigger equations, and he simply didn’t have it in him to care.
And, besides… it meant she wasn’t around, when it happened.
In the grand scheme of things, his death had been trivial, too. Roads intersecting. One binomial going too fast; one kid thrown on the heap. Happened far too often, as he would soon learn in microscopic detail. But it hadn’t been the end. Sho hadn’t let it be. Because the last thing he’d thought about, thoughts screaming in that hospital bed, with fluid filling his lungs and his heart beating in his ears –
The last thing he’d thought about, were those words spoken to him so long ago. The words he’d studied so many times, they may as well have been printed on his eyelids.
Transmigration of the soul.
The first iteration, anyway.
He’d crossed over from the RG to the UG, and hadn’t looked back since.
He remembered the feeling of crossing over very well. Even now, he was amazed at just how different the UG was – so much clearer than the RG, the contrast between working behind-the-scenes and being on-stage. In the RG, everything happened to you. You were a part of the equation, whether you liked it or not, and that meant you could never look at it with objective eyes.
But, in the UG, you were separated from all that meaningless trash. He could see the truth of things, the inner workings, for the first time ever, and it made him laugh so hard, because he was right, god damn it, he was RIGHT. Beyond the physical, Shibuya was nothing more than numbers, played at different times and in different orders. It had a vibe to it – something that thrummed under his feet and moved in currents through the air. He could predict it. It could be channelled.
By him.
That first week, he’d nearly driven his partner insane, talking about it. They hadn’t understood each other very well. Sho had gone for as long as he could without a partner, predicting the influx of Noise through probability long before they appeared, but you needed one to finish the Game, so he’d had to settle in the end. He’d found this one cowering in a corner, about to become Noise food, screaming for someone to help him, so Sho had decided to grab him instead. The boy had been so thankful. Insipid. His gratitude had fallen on deaf ears, and didn’t last long once he realised what kind of function Sho was.
Sho had never even learned the boy’s name.
He thought the boy might’ve hated him, by the end.
Sho didn’t care. All of that week was just a means to an end – vanishing, at infinity.
It passed quickly, in retrospect. They got through the missions with a single-minded focus; Sho solving the riddles far too easily; his partner, simply tagging along for the ride. Afterwards, he would go off on tangents unrelated to the day at hand, and his partner would scream at him, terrified in a way Sho could never understand. What about the Noise!? What if they come back?!
Solve your own functions, zeptogram. I’ve got numbers to crunch.
He learned a great many things, on his own that way. He learned about the effects of Noise, and the burden they placed on the human mind. He learned about Reapers, and the capitalist hierarchy they subscribed to (it was an exponential set, getting higher the more points you got, but it was all trash really, they were playing snakes and ladders with peoples’ lives and they didn’t even realise). He learned that the city itself was made of music – the vibe, pulsing through the concrete, resolving itself into song.
(They thought music could heal you, through something called)
Numeric harmony.
Only, it wasn’t quite the harmony Pythagoras had been looking for. It was a mess. It fluctuated all the time, never quite settling, moving with the crowds of Shibuya and giving Sho a headache nine times out of ten, but if he tried hard enough, he could mess with it. Achieve harmony himself, by erasing Noise – balancing equations – looking inside peoples’ heads and fine-tuning. The Reapers called it his ‘latent ability’. They watched closely, job ignored, as he reached into peoples’ music and redistributed the set.
Someone else watched him, too. A pair of unseen eyes, hovering in the dark. Sho tried many times to lure them out, setting traps, bristling at nothing – but they never appeared. It got worse as the week went on, and Sho’s paranoia got out of hand.
What are you talking about, man? his partner asked in frustration, while Sho went on muttering to himself. There was something here – something that didn’t want to be seen – something far, far too interested in him. Hey! Hey, I’m talking to you –
Something touched his shoulder and Sho snapped, shoving him aside. His partner’s face had gone flushed, hard and angry. It was a tipping point. Sho could feel it, was a part of Shibuya’s music, and something had been waiting to crescendo for a while now –
What the hell is your problem? His partner had snarled, pushing him back. We’re supposed to be working together on this, man, and you just –
There. Sho had sensed something, just to the left of an alleyway, and he had stalked over to investigate with a growl. His partner grabbed his shoulder, bunching up the fabric. He was surprisingly strong. Stop leaving me alone! he’d demanded, more out of fear than anything else, but Sho was already done. They got into a fistfight in the middle of Tokyu Plaza, and Sho came out on top. That was Day Six. When Day Seven came around, his partner was nowhere to be seen.
He did, however, hear the sounds of Noise, not too far away. Sho did nothing.
Somehow, he didn’t get Erased. Without a partner, he couldn’t hope to complete the last challenge, but another pair managed to do it for him anyway. They came together, a group of three, in a white space at the end of the day – confused, tired, dead on their feet. Sho’s partner was still nowhere to be found. Because of that, his time in the Game could not be classed as a victory.
As it turned out, that didn’t matter so much. Not when a man called Megumi stepped out of the woodwork, saying that Sho had potential, he could be a Reaper, if he so wished. Sho’s eyes had flashed with greed. It had been such a simple equation, he hadn’t even had to think about it.
Transmigration, iteration two: Player to Reaper. Just how far could this rabbit hole go?
From that point, things started growing exponentially. Sho didn’t have to sleep. He haunted Megumi most days, learning the ropes, absorbing every little bit of knowledge Megumi could spare him – and then spent his nights reading books, trying to contain it all within himself. He learned the words imagination, and Higher Plane. He learned about the rulers of the UG. Game Master. Conductor.
Composer.
Everyone went quiet when Megumi talked about the Composer. Like a shark sensing blood in the water, Sho immediately demanded to meet him, but Megumi had only laughed, and told him, in no uncertain terms, no. Absolutely not. In the background, Sho had heard another type of laughter – lighter, airier; the same kind of feeling he got from those unseen eyes, watching him all the time. It made him angry.
His experiments continued. It turned out, he could use his music to make things better – or, he could make things worse. Sho played on both ends of the spectrum, holding pieces of Soul in his hands; watching them fade away as their owners writhed and cried on the floor.
Very quickly, it became clear that the other Reapers didn’t see things quite the way Sho did. That Konishi woman was cold and frigid; that Kariya guy was lazy; and Megumi himself didn’t seem to care about anything all that much, content with the peak he’d already reached. It was infuriating to see. All that potential, all around them, and they behaved like sediment, drifting to the bottom of the heap. Sho’s frustration made him louder – more determined to know it all, understand it all. If these tasteless tetrahedra wouldn’t do it, then he would.
… But that wasn’t all. Not really. Somewhere in his anger, in his resentment, Sho came to realise something else. He didn’t just want to understand the UG, and all the things around him. He wanted to own them.
Shibuya was his. He could hear it’s beating heart, feel the flow of blood through its veins, read the chemical makeup that made up every building and street corner. It was messy, but it was beautiful and it was his. Nobody else could possibly understand it the way he did. He just needed to find a way to take it.
That was how he met Hanekoma.
It was one of the tricker bits of info to get out of Megumi – the existence of the man called Hanekoma. It took him almost an entire year of banal Reaper work, pretending to be on his best behaviour while he went behind the Conductor’s back and skimmed through his ledgers. On paper, Hanekoma was just meant to be a barista – a strange but ultimately simple function, who could see from the RG into the UG. A coincidence. But not even Megumi entirely believed that. His ledger was filled with question marks, strange events Megumi had noticed, jotted down and forgotten about in his complacency.
November 1st, 20**. Strange activity noted by Wildkat Café. Must send Harriers to investigate.
March 21st, 20**. Players noted congregating around Wildkat Café. Is he interfering? Must confer with Composer.
June 17th, 20**. Reapers report strange Noise formations around Wildkat Café. This is getting out of hand. Must speak with Hanekoma myself, and put these worries to rest.
The notes ended after that. Sho found his curiosity swelling. So many little incidents; on their own, they wouldn’t amount to much. But together, they were the closest thing to a lead he’d ever had. He would be a fool to let this go.
Sho had stalked him for a while, shamelessly gathering evidence. At first, there was nothing of interest. Hanekoma did interfere in the Game – egregiously, in Sho’s opinion – but it was never anything more than a few helpful words to scared Players. He invited them to his café; gave them a drink, never for free; and, more often than not, handed them the secret combination of ideas they needed to win. Bravery. Stoicism. Friendship. Sho could feel his impact on their music himself. They left the café feeling so much lighter, so much braver; and, more often than not, they went on to survive, brighter and better than ever before.
That was strange. But it wasn’t what he was looking for, and he was getting annoyed, spending all this time watching without getting anything for it.
Then, when the kids’ backs were turned, Hanekoma had glanced over his shoulder. Looked past the shadows, straight at Sho. He’d given his usual roguish smile and winked, even though he shouldn’t have been able to see him, shouldn’t have been able to sense him – and just for a moment, his vibe had skyrocketed. Sho had had to cover his ears and back away, unable to stand it, unable to even listen to it. It had been too high – too high for someone in the RG, too high even for someone in the UG.
Whatever Hanekoma was, he wasn’t human.
But why reveal that to Sho? Was it a warning? Or, perhaps… an invitation?
The bell rang out over the shop floor. Wildkat was as empty as ever, filled with the fragrance of coffee and the stickiness of sugared pastries. Hanekoma sat behind the counter, reading a book. Despite the loneliness of the shop floor, he didn’t so much as bat an eye when Sho arrived, boots making hard sounds against the tiles.
“Was wondering when I was gonna see you again, kid,” he said, in lieu of a greeting. The corner of his mouth turned up. He flipped over another page. “Should’ve come up and said hello before now. Didn’t peg you as the shy type.”
Sho gritted his teeth, and flipped the ‘OPEN’ sign to ‘CLOSED’. He was determined; this was the day, and if he was going to do it, he may as well do it right. No interruptions. “You know what I am, right? Old man? Subtract the small talk. I’ve got questions for you.”
Hanekoma rolled his eyes. There was a mug of coffee by his side, filling the room with scented steam. He lifted it to his lips and took a lazy sip. “C’mon. Kid. Kitaniji should’ve told you what I am already, so don’t sweat it. I never interfere with Game business – unless things are going real slow.”
He laughed, then – a barking sound that reverberated off the walls and bounced back at Sho. Sho refused to flinch, and didn’t react. He just crossed his arms, scowling, and tried to glare Hanekoma down.
Lazily, he put his coffee back on the counter. Flicked another page of his book. His eyes followed it for a moment, before quickly going back to Sho. “You’re the math kid, right?” he asked, quirking one eyebrow. “I’ve heard of you. Youngest Reaper in a long, long time; one of the first to make Game Master this year. You’ve got a future in this industry, kid. Not many can claim that. Or would even want to.”
Hanekoma sounded vaguely amused, when he said that. Almost thoughtful. He studied Sho unabashedly, and Sho got the feeling he shouldn’t say anything – shouldn’t give anything away just yet, should see where Hanekoma was going with this. The man let out a quick sigh.
“I’ve seen what you’ve been doing, y’know. That little ability of yours’ is no joke. Numeric harmony, right? Who’da thunk it?”
Sho couldn’t help but tense at the words, not used to hearing them from other peoples’ lips, but Hanekoma didn’t give him a chance to speak. “Of course, it’s even worse when you seem to be trying to make a mess. Had to clean up quite a few of your little ‘projects’, over the last few months – and God only knows what you’re trying to achieve. So, as long as you’re here, kid – spit it out. What’re you really after?”
Hanekoma’s eyes watched him levelly, over the rim of his glasses. His expression gave nothing away, but Sho felt distinctly seen – like the layers of him had been stripped away, leaving everything bare. He took his time thinking, trying to calculate what was happening.
Was Hanekoma the one watching him? No, Sho didn’t think so. The eyes that looked at him now weren’t quite the same – not dissimilar, but different enough to put his mind to rest. Hanekoma was something separate. A new formula.
Could he trust Hanekoma? The short answer was no, but Sho was starting to get desperate. He was running out of things he could do by himself, and he didn’t want to become like the other Reapers – bored and indifferent, happy to stagnate now that they were dead. Hanekoma could change that. He was certain.
And if he was wrong… could he give all this up? It was a pretty easy life, being a Reaper. Endangering it could equal erasure. But that was sentimental garbage, and Sho discarded it with a jerk of his head, the moment it came into his skull. None of that mattered. The only thing that mattered was going up – exponential, approaching infinity –
“Kid,” Hanekoma prompted him, suddenly seeming bored. He leaned back on his chair, eyes drifting back to his book, “What do you –”
“Transmigration of the soul.”
Hanekoma paused. His eyebrows rose, toying with his hairline. When he started speaking again, he sounded just as flippant as before – but there was an expectation to it, now. Sho had surprised him. For better or worse, he had Hanekoma’s attention.
“Huh. Big words, kid. Care to dumb it down a notch for yours truly?”
Sho’s scowl deepened. After so many years of talking to himself, Sho hated having to police his own vocabulary, and he had a feeling Hanekoma already knew precisely what he was talking about anyway. He answered the question with another question, “What do you know about the Composer?”
Silence. Sho felt the weight of it on him, and Hanekoma’s quickly changing impression. He looked at Sho differently – studying him, rather than simply dismissing him. His dark eyes flashed with something Sho didn’t entirely understand. Then, he got to his feet and clapped the book shut. He pressed his palms flat against the counter and looked Sho dead in the eye. Sho didn’t respond. He just glared back, feeling that he would do anything to make his dreams a reality.
Finally, Hanekoma spoke, “What do you want to know?”
As the two men talked into the night, the book remained on the countertop. It was old and ragged, with coffee stains on the cover and cigarette burns on the pages. Face down, the title read: Mathēmatikoi.