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The anniversary was coming up.
The date approached with a steady gait, the days passing by. The numbers on his calendar indomitable ink-black monoliths in what had otherwise been a snow-white haze.
It wasn’t like he had it written in, no note marking the significance of the day that was now a mere six away. It wasn’t a day he wanted to memorialize, and yet it was trapped in his mind, a bird in a cage, singing, singing, singing.
The day he had lost her.
It had been billed as a lab accident. Yakou knew better. He may not get the most high-profile of cases, but he was still a detective. Mysteries itched under his skin, the need to solve them irresistible since childhood, and he couldn’t help but sniff out what he could. Out and about in the city, he knew things were changing.
The Peacekeepers had been encroaching even more, Amaterasu Corporation enacting its will on the city. The citizens weren’t seen as people anymore, but rather cogs in this terrible machine, this city so much worse than a city should be. The air had grown heavy, and Yakou could see it, even if there was little he could do to fight it.
Especially after she was gone. He had tried to investigate, but even his most underhanded efforts got him nowhere. Amaterasu Corporation protected the truth too closely for him to see it. But Yakou knew the nature of it—she had been murdered for her work.
She had always known her life was dangerous. That danger contributed to how the two of them had met, but the shift in Kanai Ward had made it worse, resulting in her death.
He’d never even gotten to see her body. Her will left everything to him, the submarine, their accounts. Everything they had together outside of that damn building, it was his. Everything within, though, even her, was forbidden to him. He didn’t even get her ring back.
Amaterasu didn’t dare give him even a single clue. They knew he was the only detective left in this mockery of a city.
And now it had been months. Six days from a year since his life had been reduced to ash. It pulled him down. He hadn’t taken a case in weeks, only spending the barest amount of time outside. Otherwise, he was locked into his old reports, his research, his alcohol stash. Anything to keep the shadow back.
He had to keep living. She would’ve wanted him to. And he had to live until the opportunity arose for him to learn the truth.
Truth, something he was ever-seeking, something that even as a boy he had thought noble and pure to attain. But he was older now, darker. His motivations tinged with the failure to keep this city from becoming shrouded in lies. And even he wanted only one thing from the truth now:
To make the culprit pay.
Five days left. Yakou felt himself slipping. The abyss of grief within him tearing him up. Lost in it, he wanted nothing more than to let it consume him. Just for a little while, just so the worst could pass as he finally had gone a year without her. He wanted to be near-unconscious for it. To wallow until it passed, to try to force himself to reach a time where it would be lessened.
Grief never left, but it got easier, didn’t it? That’s what everyone said.
So, he’d set himself up and sink the sub for a few days. He would allow himself to wallow in his grief, surrounded by the comforting pressure of unassailable water and metal. No one would bother him, no lost pets, no affairs, no background checks, nothing. It would be just him, alone with it.
That was what he’d do.
And he may have been despondent, but he wasn’t irresponsible. He forced himself to get dressed and shower, making himself presentable enough to leave, pulling on his coat to go up and out of the submarine he called home, headed out to get supplies.
It was a clear and sunny day, the streets filled with the familiar to-and-fro bustle of humanity. Yakou picked his way between the gaps, comfortable with his place in this world. He made a few stops, picking up enough food and water to last him, more alcohol too. If he was going to wallow in his grief, he would need a companion.
As he started on his way back, he listened to the chatter around him—people were still talking about the blood tests. Some people he knew voiced suspicion of them, but pretty much everyone had gone in, as directed by the Peacekeepers. Yakou hadn’t bothered, more out of tired laziness than wariness. No one had come for him yet, so either their records weren’t good, or they really didn’t care who went in and who didn’t. Whatever it was for, Yakou probably had worse things in his blood already.
The bottles in one of the bags he was holding clinked with each step.
Hell, maybe they were using tax records for their list of citizens. If so, Yakou Furio, a man who lived in an unofficial address, who hadn’t bothered to file his taxes for the last two years, had probably slipped through the cracks.
He always did. She was the one who had shone, blazing bright. Yakou was nothing but a gentle shadow behind her. And, without her, he was less than that.
Less than a shadow, nothing but a fleeting mirage.
Dragging himself back into the blissful darkness of the sub, Yakou closed the heavy doors behind himself. He’d already tossed his jacket onto a chair as he headed towards the controls, deftly engaging the mechanism to sink the sub. He wasn’t going to go anywhere, just down.
Down, into that deep dark. Water lapping against metal, a barrier between him and the rest of the world. Between him and this city, this placed he loved, which had turned from hope to despair, from truth to lies.
Shrouded, endlessly, in mystery.
As the sub sunk, he did as well, settling down at his desk, bottle in hand.
The next seven days were spent in a blissful nothingness. He drank and ate, but otherwise remained listless below the waves. Various clocks on the ship showed him the time, and as he went between sleeping and waking, he would note each day that passed, writing in broad strokes across his calendar, cleaving the days in twain. Those imposing numbers covered by new-wet ink.
Joyless and empty, it was a relief to let the time pass. It would be over soon.
The day came and went. And, slowly, he decided it would be time to rejoin society. To rise back up into the sun, to search for his next case. He’d have to get up, wash himself off, clean up the sub, and resupply.
Everything he needed to do to keep living.
He had to keep going.
When the submarine resurfaced, it was raining.
Of fucking course it was—anything to make him want to just sink for another day. That wasn’t an option, though, he’d finally drank himself out of his water. He may be surrounded by river water, but that wasn’t exactly potable, and he wasn’t stupid enough to try. (He had to live, after all. Self-preservation his first priority. There was no truth to be found in his own corpse—none that he cared about, at least.)
The rain pelted down over the outer metal of the sub, soft tinks against the backdrop of water-on-water and water-on-pavement. He stood on the deck, coat on, a ratty umbrella clutched in his hand. He usually didn’t bother to go out in the rain, instead deeming to wait it out in the sub, so it’d been ages since the umbrella had been used for anything. There was even a hole in it, near one of the spokes, not that he particularly cared.
Sighing, he headed down the ramp, footsteps thudding, heavy.
Was it just him, or did it seem messier than usual?
It wasn’t just him.
It was like a storm had raged through the entire city. Blood, rubble, scattered shards of bone. Trash was everywhere, amid the destruction and detritus. Buildings were destroyed, not entirely, but holes were punched through concrete, steel beams bent from some sort of impact.
There was blood on the streets, scarlet streams washing away with the rain, neon lights reflecting in the bloody pools. The places the rain didn’t touch remained, ghastly, stained with dried sprays of red. Enough to know that someone had died there.
It was like a bomb had gone off. But surely, even below the waves, he would’ve heard such a thing. A serial killer then? A shooting? The Peacekeepers finally turning rogue against them all?
None of it made sense. It was like he’d missed the apocalypse somehow. His whole city destroyed, with him utterly unknowing.
The relief that filled him when he finally saw other people was indescribable. He moved over to them, in a rush, calling out. There were a lot of them, thankfully, people outside with trash bags in their hands, picking up the rubble. Some were wearing flimsy raincoats, others awkwardly holding umbrellas in their elbows as they worked. Some just stood out in the rain with nothing, drenched to the bone.
None of that mattered to him. Appearances irrelevant—finally he had people. He didn’t know any of them, but they were his people. His city, his people—everything he lived for.
He asked them what was going on, why everyone was outside in the rain, why the city was in ruins.
“We’re cleaning up,” one of them said. “This is our home—we can’t just leave it in shambles.”
“W-What happened?”
“No one knows—we’re all as confused as you are.”
“And the rain?”
“It hasn’t stopped since everyone woke up. We can’t wait forever, we need to make our city our own again. Despite…whatever it is, that happened.”
Yakou blinked. He…couldn’t believe it. He opened his mouth, whispering hoarsely, “No one knows what happened?”
The group of people shook their heads in unison. No one knew a thing.
The city was unified in this. Everyone Yakou talked to over the next few weeks remembered nothing of the week he’d sunk the sub. It was like all time had paused for Kanai Ward, as the world outside plodded along. To the rest of the world, a week had passed, but to everyone here, time had stopped.
Had they truly slept for seven days? No one seemed to believe that.
As everyone pitched in to clean up the rubble, the blood, the endless evidence of destruction, they talked. But no one had any answers.
Yakou replied that he, too, had no idea what happened. Because…he didn’t. Even though he remembered the days passing, had purposefully sunk himself away from society, watching the hours go by, drowning himself in water and booze, time measured in increments of emptying cigarette butts out of his ashtray.
He remembered marking the calendar off in bold strokes of black marker, each one a victory against the anniversary of the worst days of his life. For him, unlike anyone else, the days had passed.
But he had no idea what had happened here, so he stayed quiet. Together with his city, trapped in an unknowable mystery. Yakou, used to lost pets and tailing cheating husbands, had no way to even begin approaching it.
And so, he helped clean up his city. He even helped people inside their own homes. His own, unmarred, needed nothing from him. So he gave himself to the people, helping as much as he could. He put away groceries, helped fix furniture, cleaned away broken glass. Anything he could do to help, he did. The work was more fulfilling than anything he’d done in the last year.
And, as everyone decided to speak less of the Blank Week and to never discuss it with outsiders, Yakou was perfectly happy to agree with the consensus.
Yakou didn’t understand the new meat bun fury that overcame everyone recently. Sure, they were convenient, especially as the stands popped up as they were working on clearing the city of all the damage that had happened, but the taste of the things wasn’t anything to write home about. Not even with mustard.
Even after the clean-up work was complete, the stands lingered in every district of Kanai Ward, popular to the extreme. It seemed like every few days he’d wave off someone inviting him to come along to grab one. It was like he was the only person who thought they were fine, but not really worth the cash, not even the cheap ones. Ramen was cheaper, and he wanted to save his money for booze.
He gave in to the invites occasionally, but otherwise barely had an interest in Kanai Ward’s new staple food.
It was surprising that the authorities didn’t have much to announce concerning the Blank Week. He had thought that Amaterasu at least would’ve known something with their resources, but all of his digging around aligned with their public announcements (what little there were). They seemed to be as much in the dark as everyone else.
And sure, they could still be lying. Yakou wasn’t going to trust Amaterasu as far as he could throw it. But… even he, with various connections and resources, couldn’t find a thing.
But, surely, if this was their fault, or if they knew what had happened—even Amaterasu Corporation couldn’t keep a secret this huge, not when the Blank Week was on everyone’s mind, even though they’d stopped talking about it. The truth would surely spill. A whole week lost, and no one breathed a word? Even with their fancy new CEO, that wasn’t possible.
Their ‘commentary’ on the Blank Week was largely in between the lines. Silence and careful phrasings that every citizen knew how to interpret, but to the outside world would look like typical corporate buzzwords. Anything on the space between was just…nothing.
As far as he was aware, no one remembered the way Yakou did. Honestly, he was starting to wonder if he was misjudging his own drunken haze. Maybe he had lost the same time everyone else had, he just thought otherwise due to the inebriation. And yet… there were moments of clarity in his memory that he couldn’t deny. The coolness of the bottle neck between his fingers, the smoke of the cigarette as he exhaled, how it drifted up to swirl in the air on the ceiling. The sound of the waves, the water current moving around the sub. His own ennui as the hours drifted by. It was all too real to be a false memory or dream.
For some reason, Yakou Furio had experienced the Blank Week. Where everyone else had missed it, he alone had been awake.
He knocked himself out of his thoughts as the news program he’d put on lit up with a new story. This one was about the seemingly-endless rain that had begun to pour down on Kanai Ward. It was a phenomena, they said, something the scientists at Amaterasu were studying. It could continue, they said, because of how the weather patterns were forming around this region. There would be upcoming changes to infrastructure and waterways to mitigate any issues caused by 24-hour rain.
Something else too, an additional point at the end—the rain was changing everyone’s biology. It didn’t seem to be harmful, and no one should be alarmed by the changes. They listed out several options, most of which Yakou assumed were side-effects of not knowing the sun, but then…they added a final, utterly strange, point.
Apparently, this rain would slowly turn everyone’s blood pink. Some people may have already noticed their pink blood, and it was not a health concern—just a change.
Yakou stared at the grainy television screen. He was no scientist, but he was someone who thought about the truths of the world, and this…seemed strange. Stranger than the Blank Week, stranger than a city of never-ending rain.
In the following days, he would hear everyone talking about it, some even cutting themselves, small pinpricks on their fingers, to show the change. Bright fuchsia blooming in droplets from the wounds, completely alien to what they’d all known before.
It was yet another mystery on the pile of Kanai Ward. Too much for one lone detective to solve.
It would be days, before Yakou would see his own blood. He’d seen it on so many others since the announcement, people checking the color as if it were a game. It was probably a more alluring thing to talk about than the Blank Week—the further from that mystery, the better.
And so, one morning, absentminded and exhausted, he accidentally cut himself with his shaving razor.
The razor nicked his skin, and he bit back a swear as he brought it down, leaning closer to the mirror so he could see the damage. A pinprick of blood swelled from his skin, and the sight of it made him freeze.
His blood was still cherry-red, as scarlet as always, dripping sanguine down his cheek.
That was the first time he realized something was truly wrong.
-----
Makoto Kagutsuchi had come to this city as the only man who could save it.
He’d been too late to save the humans, but not so late as to doom the city. No, he stepped in, quick, to salvage everything he could.
This city, drenched in human blood—a city now filled with facsimiles. Realistic facades painted over the truth of what their bodies were. Personality and memory impenetrable masks. No one knew their true nature, imperfect as they were. Under the sun, they wouldn’t remember a thing. And, in night, they didn’t recall the day.
Until they died, at least. That was their most terrible flaw, when loss wasn’t loss entire, monsters born from would-be corpses. It wasn’t their fault. None of this was their fault.
No. Those truly at fault were already dead, destroyed by their own innocent creations.
There was a lot of work to do. Makoto hardly slept for the first several weeks, too busy getting the secrets set in place. Easy, when no one was alive to remember. Harder to solve the bigger problems. The necessity of sustenance for his people, setting up the supply chain, retrofitting a previously existing factory, blocking off the district for secrecy and to have somewhere to put the bodies. (No one had died yet, but it was inevitable that people would die in a city, even homunculi could be murdered. And he was too familiar with murder to think it wouldn’t happen).
He had to check every contingency he could. At the moment, he’d been running reports to compare the blood tests to the current citizenry. Confirming missing persons reports for those who had not given their blood (and thus, people who were gone forever without a copy in place). He checked, even though he didn’t have to. He had to find any weaknesses in his foundation. Any and all leaks had to be plugged, to protect his solution.
It couldn’t be imperfect.
And so, he searched. Cross referencing, accessing bank records, CCTVs, employment forms and medical assessments. Tax reports, population surveys, school records. Everything from right before and right after the Blank Week, looking at every angle, every person.
And eventually, he found a single inconsistency.
Of course it was a detective.
-----
Yakou stood before his corkboard, staring out at the clippings and notes he had pinned across it. It had been awhile since he’d worked with anything complex enough to lay out like this. There were scarcely anything in print about it, barest references if reading between the lines—most of what he’d pinned up were his own notes, hastily scrawled observations, interviews, notes on the status of the city. Anything he could think of, really.
The people seemed all too willing to forget, to speak of it as little as possible.
Next to the corkboard was his own calendar. He’d gotten a new one, since, so that this one could be preserved. Across each day of the so-called ‘Blank Week’ were dark lines, his own hand drunkenly scratching out the days. Each day’s mark was a little different. Some firm and harsh, others barely-there thin. The day he dreaded most was shaky, the line far from perfect.
He remembered making each one.
He remembered everything. But they remembered nothing.
It didn’t make sense.
And, more. The rain, endless, changing their biology. His blood didn’t match. He’d been out in the city, alongside the people he knew. He’d been out in the rain, adopting the same new culture of ‘bring a raincoat or umbrella everywhere’ that everyone had learned. There was no reason for him to be different, not if the rain was the cause.
So, it couldn’t be.
He was different then everyone else now. Scarlet instead of pink. Something had happened, while he was gone. When he had sunk below the water, something else had happened to Kanai Ward during the Blank Week.
Something that changed everyone in the entire city. Everyone except him.
Yakou was good at evading Peacekeepers. It was necessary in this city that had always hated detectives. He didn’t like trouble and so he didn’t seek it, and he’d gotten pretty good at avoiding attention. That all came to an end though, upon returning to the sub one evening to find them waiting for him.
He was picked up without preamble, cuffed without any explanation at all, but he knew better than to try to resist. One of him versus five of them? He wouldn’t even have a chance if it were one-on-one.
He didn’t know what he was expecting, but Kanai Tower wasn’t it. Shoved through the ritzy lobby and into an equally fancy elevator, he tried to ask, again, why they had arrested him and what they were doing here. Again, nothing.
At least they had the decency to slide a key into the cuffs and remove them. They rode the elevator up, all the way to the top floor. Yakou stood there, dumbfounded as the digital number above the elevator continued to rise. Once there, they shoved him out, and then one told him to move along. The Peacekeepers stayed in the elevator, riding it back down.
Yakou blinked.
So. All of that…wasn’t an arrest?
And he was…here. At the top?
There was only one person he could be here to meet, but he had no idea what it was they’d want from him. He hadn’t even seen them before, aside from vaguely being aware of their existence. The goings-on of Amaterasu Corporation were worth at least a modicum of attention from every citizen in Kanai Ward.
It wasn’t like he could run away now, though, not after the Peacekeepers had brought him here. Steadying himself, Yakou walked towards the only door and knocked.
-----
Makoto Kagutsuchi waited for his guest to arrive.
The Peacekeepers weren’t to be trusted, so he gave them absolutely no indication as to why he wanted to meet with Kanai Ward’s only detective. He simply told them to grab him, knowing they’d obey such a minor request.
And they did, finally, Makoto watched through the camera just outside of his penthouse as they shoved the unfortunate and unkempt Yakou Furio towards the door. The detective looked understandably rattled, but he straightened himself up and took hardly any time at all to knock on the door.
Makoto opened it with a button press, closing the laptop with the feed and turning to face the front door himself. He approached, waving a hand idly towards the sitting area. “Yakou Furio. Thank you for joining me. I’m sure you’ve heard of me, but I’m Makoto Kagutsuchi, the new CEO of Amaterasu Corporation.”
Yakou blinked down at him, shuffling on his feet, wary. Makoto stood completely still, waiting. “…Nice to meet you,” he replied, taking a few steps towards the couch, but not sitting down. Makoto could make due—this wasn’t to be a long conversation anyways. “I’ve heard of you. It’s only been a few months since you’ve been here, right?”
Oh? The detective knew he wasn’t from Kanai Ward? How interesting. Information on him was scarce—it seemed Mr. Furio had better sources than his appearance led one to believe.
“Correct,” he nodded, threading his fingers together behind his back. Standing, Yakou dwarfed him. But, most people did, and Makoto was unaffected by such things. “And, with how my time here has been so short, I’m sure you’re wondering…why exactly it is I called you here.”
Yakou frowned, but he tried to turn it into a smile. Shaky and nervous, perhaps it’d be more subtle if Makoto wasn’t so used to reading people. “I sure am!” the man said, a little too loudly, “Haven’t been picked up by Peacekeepers in months.”
Right. Makoto had read reports on that—Yakou Furio had been causing more issues in his search for information following his wife’s death. But, suddenly, all that had dropped off. Perhaps he realized how dangerous it was. Or, perhaps, the man had simply given up.
Those thoughts were for another time, though. Circling behind him, watching how Yakou’s eyes followed his movements, Makoto spoke slowly, “Mr. Furio. Where were you during the Blank Week?”
To the man’s credit, the stiffening of his shoulders was barely noticeable. He let out a short, half-laugh, “What, me? Like everyone else, I was just at home. Woke up one day and then saw all the devastation in the city.”
Makoto’s eyes narrowed behind his mask. When most people were asked about this, they spoke very differently. First, the devastation of their own homes was foremost, waking to a home that looked like someone had broken in was far from normal. Yakou had nothing to say of his own home.
And, more damning the phrase ‘one day’. That implied that he remembered multiple days of that week. No one else, not a single soul in Kanai Ward spoke about the Blank Week like that. Makoto had already been certain, but now his hypothesis truly was confirmed. That was all he needed.
And yet, he pushed, stalking closer to peer up into Yakou’s face, to watch how the man’s eyes darted away from him. “What color is your blood?”
The man floundered. “…I’d, haha, rather not be threatened, Mr. CEO-sir. I’m doing all I can to tell you what I know, I’m not lying or anything—”
Makoto hissed. “What. Color. Is. Your. Blood?”
“…The same as anyone’s?”
Makoto laughed, the sound only slightly muffled behind his mask, “Oh, Mr. Furio, I won’t fall for that.” He leaned back on his heels, the blank pane of his mask staring up at the detective. “I’ll ask again: Where were you during the Blank Week?”
Sweat dripped down Yakou’s cheek. “I-I—I was home. Like everyone else.”
“In your submarine?”
“Y-Yeah.”
“Hm. Very well.” Makoto rocked on his feet, turning from Yakou with a flourish, heading back towards his closed laptop on the counter. “You may go, Mr. Furio. I have no further need of you at this time.”
“At…this time?”
“Correct. Goodbye, Mr. Furio.”
Yakou, unnerved, backed out of the room, offering more awkward goodbyes as he did so. The man was too nervous, no wonder he barely had a foothold in this city. Makoto watched him go, making no move to stop him.
No. With the truth he’d already known glaring out of every facet of the man, Makoto had no reason to stop him.
Makoto loved this city, and everyone in it. There was just this one, last, thing. A fly in the ointment. A speck of dust marring the otherwise flawless glass. A spot of sunlight in his manufactured night.
The final human of Kanai Ward.
He was a tool, a knife that could pierce through the heart of the mystery. The only one who bring this whole city down around them.
He could be invaluable, for either side. A blade of truth, bringing light to all? Or, a tool of darkness, who would forever trap this city in lies? Once the time was right, Makoto would use him for the latter. He was a piece to be placed perfectly on the board, to put the truth in check.
Makoto watched the man depart, and wondered who would strike first. The WDO? Or him?