Chapter Text
His brother had always been the child their family had wanted. His brother was kind, he was humble, he was brave. His brother always had been too brave. He’d acted like going to war was some saintly, heroic thing; like it wasn’t willingly stepping into the jaws of a cruel fate, letting her tear him limb from limb. Tear until there nothing remained but memories, and a pretty, empty grave.
Tachihara remembered mourning his brother before they’d actually lost him. It’d started after his brother had sent a letter home, before things had become dire on the battlefield. His parents had read the letter first. Then, their mother had handed it to him, saying, “Keep these close. We don’t know how many more will arrive.”
It’d felt like his heart had stopped for a moment. He’d stared up at her, confused, the slow drift of understanding crushing him. Maybe she meant he'd come home soon?
"Really?" He’d beamed. His mother had stared down at a hopeful, bright-eyed boy, and taken the light from his trusting gaze, crushing it beneath the weight of her own grief.
"Many don't make it back from war, Michizo."
She'd said it matter of factly, as if she’d given him the time of day and not that devastating news that his beloved brother might never return. Even then, she’d offered him no comfort. Instead, he’d hugged the letter to his heart as the scent of gunpowder met his nose. He’d hated it, and he could have only imagined that his brother had hated it too. He’d wanted his brother to return. He’d wanted him to wrap him in strong arms and embrace him, like he did every morning. He’d always whine when his brother had ruffled his hair, but at that moment, he’d wished for nothing more than the heavy hand carding his messy hair.
He’d cried himself to sleep that night, waking up from endless nightmares. They’d been all too vivid as he’d curled around the letter from his brother, the scent of gunpowder invading his sleep. He was with his brother, he heard gunshots, and he’d breathed in as the guns roared. He’d seen bullets pierce soldiers, and then when he’d tried to hug his brother, to see his face, he’d seen metal tear through him no matter how much he’d wished the nightmare would stop, no matter how hard he tried to stop it. Finally, he’d woken up, tears soaking his pillow and letter clutched so tightly that he’d ripped it. That felt worse, somehow. What if he never got another to hold like this, what would his parents say-
He’d sobbed til his head was light, his throat was dry, and the sun had been slowly creeping in through the curtain. He’d wondered if his brother saw the sun out on the battlefield, or if the war was too awful for such warmth to even consider shining down on the combatants. He’d hoped that even if his brother didn’t come back, that his brother would be able to see one last sunset.
The thought of that had been enough to settle his mourning into something palatable, at least for a while. It hadn’t been able to lay the beast to rest, but it’d made it lean against his side with something semblent of domestication.
It still snarled and nipped at him, but he could heal from those little wounds.
–
That day, the sunlight filtered in through the window, a weak attempt to soothe the pain of the news. They’d put the package on the kitchen table, curtains open to let threads of light illuminate it, like a terrible spotlight. The package was neatly shut, as if a small coffin. He watched his father open it with the same care he would have used to bury a child.
When the package had been opened, he sat in numb silence and watched his tearful parents embrace. The news spread through the rest of the house with the speed of a wildfire, fueled by the last, futile remnants of their hope for a safe return. When he approached the terrible little box to pay his own respects and say a proper goodbye to his brother, something broke in their home.
"Why wasn't it you?" His father snapped. His mother held a stained, neatly folded, uniform to her heart and cried, ignoring her husband. The verbal blow landed like a physical hit, and he felt his eyes widen before he took a step back.
"You barely have an ability. It should have been you ."
His grandmother had chimed in, grief poisoning her words. Tachihara opened his mouth and found himself wordless. So he stopped his tongue. Then, with a heavy finality, the right words came.
"I'm sorry, Grandma."
It was all he could manage to say as tears pricked the corner of his eyes. He would have gone to battle in his brother’s stead. If he’d been able, he would have let that monstrous conflict tear him apart. Deep down, he knew that no one would have spoken to his brother in such a manner, had it been Tachihara’s life snuffed out.
Later in the evening, he tried his luck at paying his respects, but his brother’s belongings were hidden away, like treasure in a tomb. No one had noticed the envelope, tucked away under the fold of the cardboard. He pulled it out with care, afraid to tear this one. This envelope didn't smell like his brother. Instead, it reeked of doctor visits and bad flour. Nevertheless, he held onto some hope that maybe it would be some final message.
It wasn't addressed to him.
Dear Akiko,
I have to start this off by saying I'm sorry to cast this onto you. But you are too just, angel. I cannot go out there any longer. I see people torn apart. Every day. The knowledge sickens me, knowing you must put them together again.
We are losing.
I'm sorry to present you with a corpse you can't animate. I know I'm betraying my country, but I've already deserted it for Hell.
Tell my brother I wish a thousand brighter futures for him.
His brother’s signature was smudged. Ink had spilled, covering the characters. His last words, written when he was alive, had left him nameless. Tachihara read it again and again, slowly understanding with cold finality that these were his brother's final words. They weren't meant for him. They were for the person who had caused his brother’s suicide .
Tears tracked down his face, cold on his skin as he crumpled the note in his hand. Thoughtless, he didn't return it to the box before he ran to his room, attempting to muffle himself in the pillow. Soon, the soft pillow was soaked with his tears. He didn't care. How could he, when the weight of the world was so grave.
Something in him was painfully aware that he was never supposed to read the note. Even so, the rightful recipient loomed in his life, though he'd never met them. Perhaps, the shadow had been cast over his future because Akiko’s name was the only name that remained legible. At that moment, he knew what he had to do. He had to meet this Akiko. If he couldn't get his brother back, then he needed to know what he had been like. Had he still been kind and warm? Had he kept everything Tachihara had loved about him?
Or.
Maybe he just wanted his brother to have the right company down there.
–
As he got older, his parents chained him to their own agonizing grief. They didn't look at him. Their gaze focused on someone who wasn't here anymore, someone who would never come back. When they tired of their grief, they turned their tear-stained eyes on him. At family dinners, they focused on him, but not because they saw him. He hated it, because he knew their smiles weren’t really for him. They talked around him, not to him.
Tachihara didn't think they were attempting subtlety when they pressed the idea of him dyeing his hair. He'd just agreed and nodded, too numb to argue when they said he'd look good with orange. He wasn't arguing, despite words dancing on his tongue like swords. All the protests he wanted to scream were silenced. He couldn’t say those things to them, not without consequences. He wished they would move on already, see him as himself and not a caricature of a dead man, see him as the hurt kid cut with knives they all gripped the hilts to as tightly as they held their sorrow to their hearts.
He stared at himself in the mirror after his hair was dyed and he couldn't deny that, in some way, the obvious distinction from his brother felt good. But it was like a forced trip to a theme park, the same kind of superficial happiness put on because everyone else is wearing the same mantle and no one wants to stand out. If the hair dye made all the mournful looks finally cease, then he would keep it as long as he had to and play along with this awful puppet show until his strings came off.
–
He bore their words as long as he could. Eventually, he decided that it was fine to strike out on his own. For eight long years, grief had been scorched into him like a brand. Now, at sixteen, the mourning had morphed into a shining spark of hatred, as if it were metal worked into a blade and cast into his soul. It was his awful, shitty brother's fault he'd had to dye his hair, his brother's fault that he was just a fucking replacement, his brother's fault that he had been so nice. It was infuriatingly hard to hate someone like him.
But Tachihara managed, thinking of his brother every time he shoved ball bearings in his pockets to grab and fire off when someone tried to bring him in, thought of him as gangsters watched with disbelief when their bullets couldn't pierce Tachihara, because he was smarter than his brother had ever been, because he didn't use his ability to make trinkets like he had.
Money piled up until he was rich as a monarch and Tachihara felt undeniably proud. Could his dumb, righteous brother stoke fear in gangs? Would he have had money to spend on whatever he wanted? Would he have traveled like Tachihara so often had to–no, that Tachihara did because he wanted to.
–
After getting too cocky, he was brought in on a freezing cold night. He didn't know what he had been thinking, believing those bragging idiots in the bar. In hindsight, a government building should have felt like suicide, and he didn't want to have an end like his brother. But he had been a moron who thought that if the Gifted Division wasn't there, then he could have gotten away with it.
People so much worse had been waiting. As blood flowed out of his mouth, he stared up at his captors with blurry eyes. The first person made his capture feel even more humiliating.
She was a teen, demeaningly younger, with reddish-pink hair. She was grinning at him as she leaned on a sword. He glanced at her outfit, a dark red long sleeved shirt, pants, cape, and matching hat. She didn't seem to be able to stand still, constantly moving, whether it be tapping her feet, running her hand around the hilt of the sword, or swaying. Standing next to her, the next soldier was more intimidating.
Their expression was scarily blank. They stood up straight in an exact, practiced posture. With dark brown, almost black hair, and three flower petal tattoos under one eye, they had been wearing metal arm guards. Tachihara had destroyed those. Now, blood was dripping from their forearms and he almost shuddered as they crossed their arms, as if they felt no pain.
The last one Tachihara couldn't see at the moment, because their hand had a tight grip on his hair. He hadn't seen much of them during the mockery of a fight, but he'd learned their name, at least. Jouno.
"So!!" Breaking the silence, the girl continued, "We're gonna take you back to base, you're gonna meet the commander, and then you're gonna decide something!"
She spun around the sword, looking up at the person holding him still, “Jounoo, do you have the–”
“Don’t make me out to be a forgetful idiot like Tetchou.”
Jouno’s grip tightened, making Tachihara struggle to not flinch. Faster than he could process, he was dropped to the floor and Jouno kicked him onto his back. Tachihara yelped as his hands were yanked in front of him and he finally got a chance to see Jouno.
They were tall, with white hair that ended in red tips. They wore the same outfit as the other two, and now, so close, he could see a symbol on the hat. It was shaped like a diamond and he thought that it might be made of gold, and he knew what he was going to do--
“I can tell from your racing heartbeat that you think the metal on my cap can get you out of this as a last ditch effort. I can smell your sweat, and I can tell that you’re exhausted, that you’re scared. In a moment–” Jouno paused and fixed him with a chilling smirk, snapping a pair of handcuffs onto him. “You’ll feel helpless.”
The handcuffs greeted his skin with pinpricks of pain which grew into a feeling akin to touching a live electrical wire, agony spreading through his veins. It was as if fire devoured the oxygen in his blood, before, thankfully, the pain was followed by an aching numbness. Tachihara’s eyes widened. All he could manage was the crumpling of a fraction of the golden pin. Again, Jouno yanked him by the hair, pulling him up. Before the brunette interjected, he was sure they were about to bash his head open.
“Jouno, stop,” they said calmly.
Jouno scowled as they stood back up. “Why should I?”
“He’s a new recruit. We shouldn’t give him a bad first impression.” They stepped closer, effectively making Jouno scowl and drop him, backing off. They bent down, helping him up with an arm wrapped around his shoulders.
“My name is Tetchou Suehiro. We are the Hunting Dogs.”
They said this without visible emotion, as if they hadn't just beaten him into the ground a few short minutes ago. They let him lean against them, eyes still blurry and head aching. He didn't process what they said next, everything going black.
–
Fukuchi Ochi, Tachihara decided, was much scarier in full dress uniform. He towered over the Hunting Dogs, even while sitting down. An alcoholic smell hung in the air, though Tachihara didn't see any bottles. He did spy a bucket just barely behind the desk, but it just introduced a new smell to the air. Vomit.
Teruko dragged him up to the desk, Jouno and Tetchou quarreling about strange food combinations. He tried to tune them out, deciding he'd wonder what was wrong with them later. He stared at Fukuchi as fear crawled up his spine, a wild animal seeking shelter.
It was almost impossible not to have heard of him. Fukuchi was the most influential man in the world. He’d starred in movies—some of which were cult classics—when he had the time, and hell, Fukuchi even had merch.
He hesitated to speak, wondering if he should introduce himself or if Fukuchi already knew, if Fukuchi was already disapproving of him and–
“Your brother was in the Great War, wasn’t he?”
Fukuchi spoke solemnly. Tachihara’s eyes widened, and a spark of anger roiled up in his stomach.
“Yeah, but that ain’t any of your fucking business! Why the hell did you pry into–”
Fukuchi raised a hand and it felt like the world stopped spinning. Tachihara shut his mouth, even Tetchou quieted, and Jouno followed suit a moment after. Teruko just shot Tachihara a look. As he waited for Fukuchi to talk, the tension in the air felt like he’d angered a god in his own church, and he wondered if he’d be a sacrifice.
“My condolences. I only wanted to know more about who would be joining our ranks.” Fukuchi put his hand down as he kept speaking. “I’m sure you already know, but I’m Fukuchi Ochi. The girl standing next to you is the Hunting Dogs’ vice captain, Teruko Okura.”
Teruko crossed her arms, her ability–or so he assumed–activating, and suddenly she was older and taller.
“And my abil-”
“I know you’re eager to show off, but let’s wait on the abilities,” interjected Fukuchi.
Teruko huffed at that, not changing back, and Tachihara was sure this was to taunt him. Everyone here could crush him like a bug and he was all too aware of it.
“The two back there are Jouno Saigiku and Tetchou Suehiro.”
Tachihara looked behind him as Fukuchi spoke, watching them nod as their names were listed. He turned his gaze back to the war hero. He wasn’t sure why it had gone quiet, a few beats of silence passing before Tachihara realized everyone had been introduced but him. He felt heat crawl up his cheeks.
“I’m Tachihara Michizo,” he said quickly, ducking his head. Teruko giggled, while Jouno stifled a laugh. Tetchou strode over, setting a hand on Tachihara’s shoulder. He looked up at them.
“That happened to me too,” They explained briefly.
Tachihara let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. “Oh. Okay.”
Fukuchi laughed, immediately diverting the two’s attention as he stood up, vaulting himself over the desk.
“Well! So, Tachihara, I hope you’re willing to join us?”
It was phrased like a question. Tachihara knew it was anything but.
“..Yeah.”