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Kiyotaka was fourteen years old when the government shut down the White Room. They’d tried to be hush-hush about it, forcing the signage of so many NDAs he’d almost lost count; which he could understand – Japan didn’t need its fresh veneer of a kawaii, peace-loving country with disciplined citizenry to be wiped away, leaving behind the looming shadow of Empire. Horrors soaped, scrubbed off and poured down the drain, just like with Unit 731. How nice.
But it wasn’t like the subjects– children got nothing. A large portion of them, minds so tormented they’d shattered, were admitted into mental hospitals; everyone had the sponsored therapy; those who were stable, normal enough, had the chance to be adopted. And Kiyotaka’s father – his benevolent, gracious father – had left his mansion and personal fortune of five billion yen to him.
The mansion was unkempt with weeds; smothered in mold, dust, cobwebs, potentially a new virus, and everything unpleasant in between; nothing there waiting for him. The money – despite his generally unfeeling nature – disgusted him; it was gathered from billionaires who sponsored the program, who were no doubt unable to feel any guilt whatsoever, and were powerful players in keeping the White Room out of the public eye. Both aspects were indubitable, vexing ties to his past; so, brain drunken upon his new freedom, he burned it all down and ran away.
(As long as he was under the watch of carefully selected staff, he would never be truly free.)
In hindsight, Kiyotaka should have thought twice before doing it. Sure, the money could’ve been used for benevolent purposes or to buy himself luxuries. But that was in the past.
No more examinations. No more white walls.
Now he was just a nameless, homeless kid without a penny to his name, wandering the streets of Albuquerque Tokyo. Okay, that sounded pretty terrible.
He really shouldn’t have burned all the money.
–
Unlike the rest of the tokubetsu-ku, Albuquerque felt more American than Japanese. For one – there were more homeless people compared to any other area he’d traveled through so far. The sky almost appeared yellower, more cloudy, as if tainted by some ungodly spirit in the area. People leaned over sporadically on the streets, tranquillised, paying no attention to the young anomaly clad in a white hospital gown; Kiyotaka thought he’d seen a gun or two; and the public transportation system was sluggish.
As someone who’d spent his entire– previous life within the walls of sanitised, spotless spaces, smelling faintly of bleach and rubbing alcohol, places so empty that even swallowing would sully the quiet atmosphere, the rundown roads and invasive tobacco(?) smell was the last kind of area Kiyotaka wanted to be in. But also, stealing would be easier. Sleeping without being questioned would be easier. And it wasn’t like he didn’t know how to defend himself from the occasional armed vagrant (or nine).
Kiyotaka clung to the shadows, avoiding any cameras as he traversed the city. Sneaking past the row of tall, glistening skyscrapers; past all the bars, restaurants, and little cultural streets; he eventually hit the suburbs. Now, to find an abandoned area…
After another half-hour of strolling about, the young boy grew increasingly fond of his new shoes. Sure, they were second-hand when he received them – spotlessly clean (but he was too meticulous not to notice the slight weathering of the outsoles and how the insoles appeared fitted to other feet) – but it was the first pair he’d ever ‘owned’ and that had to mean something. Within the White Room, he recalled with a grumble, he was barefoot most of the time, and only wore footwear during physical activity.
And then he would shed his gown, and wear something that was veritably his.
The day was going to bed, dusk dusting the tips of the downtown highrises. Kiyotaka’s journey insofar rewarded him with a couple of banknotes (a shame that people increasingly used digital currencies), some smoke-emitting machine a teenager was using, and a rusty knife. Somehow, the roads in his present location grew even more cracked and potholed as he forged ahead, so he decided to stop for the day. No use in getting lost in the dark. Leftover dumpster-donuts would serve as a decent-enough dinner, even if the sweetness made him want to puke; it was better than nothing after all.
A set of rundown apartments seemed good enough. Surely, the crackhouse located right next to the structure would ward away anyone well-off, and the poor souls stuck living in such a situation would care less about another hopeless thing to enter their dreary lives. Kiyotaka chose one of the seemingly-abandoned rooms, cozying up on the ratty mattress to catch up on sleep. The walls were cracked, the smell of (potentially) rat feces hung in the air, giving the crumbly walls an oily tint, though he liked it far better than the White-Room rooms, and infinitely better than the Mansion rooms.
(Because there was life, or used to be. From the sparse clippings of paper dispersed throughout the room, a man named Matsuo Kenji used to live here.)
For once, Kiyotaka could have the desire to sleep. Though it was his racing thoughts that kept him awake – for the first time in his life, there was no schedule dictating his next move, no looming wraith standing in his way; he’d spent so long yearning for freedom that he’d forgotten why exactly he wanted it. Was he brooding about his lackluster life choices? Or the fact that little had concretely changed at all? Rising to a seated position, wincing at the loud-ass creak of the bedframe, Kiyotaka decided he ought to make a list. His posture straightened as he deepened his focus.
Number one: survive, perhaps through getting a j*b; number two: make at least one friend; number three: go to the beach; number four:... He was out of ideas. Maybe he could make that something like – visit Mount Fuji, but if he had to list every single place he wanted to visit, the list was bound to be endless. And besides, he’d seen many locations using VR – would traveling the world even be worth it anymore?
If Kiyotaka weren’t so caught up in his thoughts, he would have heard the melody of footsteps approaching from afar, and certainly would have concealed himself within the shadows before the door to the seemingly-abandoned (but not anymore) room was unscrupulously pushed open.
A man – looking old enough to be in his sixties, a receding hairline with dashes of white, and abysmal under-eye conditions – froze at the frame of the door. He stared for six-hundred milliseconds, then in an astounding display of energy, he grabbed a broken piece of glass and aimed it at the intruder. “Who the fuck are you?!” he threatened, voice cracking a little from dehydration.
Kiyotaka was surprised and attempted to use that emotion to appear scared by the intimidation tactic; coupled with his frail and youthful appearance, it would likely make people hesitate to harm him, or if there was no empathy to be had, then underestimation would do. Except, all his face could pull was an Mbappé special.
Before the old man could get too impatient, however, Kiyotaka said, “Sorry, I just ran away from an abusive household. I sought refuge here because I thought no one was living here.” His tone was flat, lacking emotive depth, but he was sure that his super sad 10/10 backstory would win the stranger’s heart.
The old man looked a little taken aback; Kiyotaka observed his facial muscles tensing as a precursor to laughter, but he did relent. “Where’re you from?” he asked, setting a heavy backpack down onto the only dustless portion of the floor.
Kiyotaka didn’t miss a beat. “Shibuya.”
“No offense, but you look a bit too poor to be from Shibuya.”
“Well I am.”
There was a long sigh as the man hobbled to an adjacent room. “I guess, bro.”
Surprisingly, the residence had running water, and a stove. When Kiyotaka peeked into the other room, he saw that the old man was pouring a can of chicken stock into a tiny, partially-rusted pot alongside vegetable scraps. So… not a squatter. His right hand was fondling a cigarette absentmindedly and the hums of an old song broke through tired breaths. It wasn’t long before the bland bowl of saltless soup was done.
The old man glanced cursorily at the doorway and flinched. “Whoa, stop staring at me like that.”
Kiyotaka nodded and proceeded to look at the floor, though the mixture of confusion and malaise radiating from the old bastard was so strong he could practically feel it on his skin. Soon, a bowl of soup was set onto the countertop, and another staring match ensued.
“I, uh, are you thirsty?” the old man asked.
Kiyotaka thought quickly before nodding. “Yes.”
“Had anything to eat recently?”
The donuts did count, but Kiyotaka was ready to never eat one again. His eyes flitted to the dark beige soup, which probably didn’t taste much better, or like anything at all (so, basically White Room food). Damn, he really, really wished he didn’t burn his billions of yen to ash.
Breaking out of his thoughts, the boy said, “Yes.”
A bottle of beer was retrieved from a haphazard pile of clothing, shoes, and booze, then was placed roughly next to him. “ 's all I’ve got.”
The old man returned to sipping on his meal. Incredibly loudly. It was as if he were incapable of just silently, perfunctorily, displacing the liquid – no – he had to wiggle his tongue around like a gay man, ensuring that the soup would bubble as much as physically possible before it entered his mouth. And, sure, Kiyotaka could simply leave the room and go to bed, though he was unsure if he truly had the ability to given the ungodly sounds emitting in such proximity.
The chill of Kiyotaka’s gaze finally got to the man, as he looked up. “What?” he asked audaciously, as if he weren’t the problem.
“You eat uproariously.” At the silence, Kiyotaka added, “It means ‘very loud’.”
“To display my appreciation for the chef? Can’t man have simple pleasures anymore? And–” Abruptly, the anger dissipated, as if the old man decided that it wasn’t worth it, or perhaps it was exhaustion creeping up on him again. “–uh, nevermind.”
As if on instinct, a pack of cigarettes was retrieved from his pants pocket. His old cigarette had long been puffed for all its worth, currently crumpled onto the floor. Kiyotaka was grateful for the reprieve, though conflicted on how he should feel about watching someone ruin their lungs. The lighter was flicked on; the cancer stick fit right between his lips and was lit in an efficient fashion.
Kiyotaka continued to stare. Unintentionally, it may have made the old man a little self-conscious, as his gaze dashed all about the room. “What?” And… inhale. The air would be laced with nicotine from the burning tobacco, Kiyotaka surmised, then rapidly transferred into his lungs, and then his brain. Millions of harsh chemicals would ruin them. But the old bastard was starting to smile. Smoke unleashed from the cracks of his mouth. The cigarette was released, and the man basked in the hazy, grey cloud like it was heaven. “What?” he asked again, this time giggling. “Want one?”
“Isn’t smoking bad for you? And addictive?”
“Well, I’ve been smoking for quite some time now, and I’m not even addicted that much.”
“Right…”
“And it makes you feel real good,” the old man began to slur.
Kiyotaka was going to argue further, since the other was clearly high on something. Though he was a little curious about what it was like… He shrugged after a longer deliberation. “Sure.”
Why not?
With his calloused fingers, Kiyotaka kept the cigarette in its ‘proper’ position. The flame from the measly lighter was warm; the rolled-up paper was already heating up from the boy’s cold touch. Soon, the leaves would ignite. (When should he inhale? Exhale? He really didn’t want to breathe in the smoke.)
After a second or two, Kiyotaka decided to take a breath. And then he realized he shouldn’t have worried at all! Colors burst out of their physical prisons, seams and edges boldened; for one, singular moment, Kiyotaka felt that everything was in its right place; the world was positively buzzing.
He exhaled, then began to choke.
The old man’s crumbly chortle rang from beside him. “Wow, all that from a single puff? Damn. Wait until you try heroin.”
So, on the first day of Kiyotaka’s true freedom, he’d robbed someone for the first time. Tried donuts for the first time. Tried smoking for the first time. And would potentially try beer for the first time.
He would likely try heroin sooner or later.