Based on a certain art in the mishimmie
http://shimmie.katawa-shoujo.com/post/v ... ch=shizune
(this story will take some liberal moves considering the KS universe. Bear with me)
Index
Prologue -Forgotten Memories-
Question Arcs
Resonance -Hakamichi no Tegami-
Memento -Ikezawa no Tegami-
Echoes -Satou no Tegami-
Cloudland -Tezuka no Tegami-
The Road Home -Ibarazaki no Tegami-
Answer Arcs
-Coming Soon-
Resonance
It was easy for anyone to remember the early days of the war. I know it, you know it—hell, even the blind could recognize it. To many of us, it was...uneventful. The sound that echoed across the world was filled with jubilee and patriotism, followed with excitement and curiosity.
But to me…
…
To me, it was the sound of automatic rifles, artillery fire, heavy walkers, and my mother’s sniffled cry that truly defined what ‘war’ is.
“NAKAI…! GET YOUR ASS OVER HERE!”
“ARTILLERY…! NAKAI, HURRY UP WITH THOSE AMMO AND GET IN THE TRENCHES!”
“WALKERS…! WE HAVE WALKERS INCOMING!! MAN THOSE AT-RIFLES!”
It was late-May, 2044 up in the Korean Front or—what we servicemen would nick as—the ‘Kimchee Grinder’. After four years of war spanning from the island of the Pacific to the borders of the Korean Peninsula, the end of this godforsaken conflict was nowhere in sight. For years, we, the members of the 55th Mechanized Infantry had fought an enemy we no longer saw as ‘degenerates’ or ‘savages’ as our government had once proclaimed, but as equal humans who were unfortunate enough to be used as pawns for the benefit of the politicians back home. Ironically, I have no right to say that as I am the son of a renowned politician who owns the majority of seats in the Diet. Still, I joined this war for a very different reason than most people—I enlisted, mind you.
“Goddamn you’re crazy,” said one of my fellow squad mates as I jumped into the trench. “You could’ve bought the farm early if spending most of your time lingering out there!”
“We still have to hand it to you, Sergeant.” Said another as I passed him the ammo for the Raiden Anti-Armor Rifle—a new line of portable Anti-Armor rifle made by the Morita Corp. “Your reason for joining this war is similarly insane. Who the hell would join this meat grinder just to search for a lost father?”
Yes. My reason for joining this war was to search for my father, who had been missing since April 22nd 2043. That was not the exact date of his disappearance, but an indication of it. Back then, I had still been home tending to my mother and attending school; that date was the last time we ever heard from my father, his last letter before his complete silence. My mother—broken as she is after my father was conscripted on September 5th of 2042—stayed strong and vigilant for any news concerning him while maintaining the Women’s Home Security Council AND her support within the Diet; her ever-present strict personality and commanding aura ensured that position, to say the least. I do have to say, the government was ‘generous’ enough to provide proper treatment and medication for anyone considered ill and disabled who nonetheless would be conscripted—I guess the phrase ‘desperate times’ call for desperate measures’ is legit in this occasion.
“Alright, less chit-chat and more shooting…! We have GEU Walkers 800m inbound with a number of armor and infantry support!” I said with zest and order, prepping them for the battle. “We hold them off here, and this battle is ours! Our reinforcement of Naginata hover tanks and Shogun walkers are coming, ETA 10 minutes; with it, we can push them from this country and earn ourselves a one-way ticket home!”
The ground shakes, the sky cracks, and the orchestra of cannons and air-to-ground fighter-bombers synched its respective melody, signaling the start of the last battle in the Korean Peninsula. After this, it would be a long march to Siberia, China, and Australia.
“FOR THE ALLIANCE…!”
-------------
That is not too long ago, just two years counting back if I remember correctly. Now, in this dimly-lit auditorium, I am before the audience of the ‘Greys’—military historians, war veterans, and ‘elites’ of the newly appointed Federation; the now-recognized ‘World Government’. In here within this hall, countless others before me have stood, confessed, and replied to the call of the Federation and their need to fill the ‘gaps’ in the history of the ‘Last Great War’. They aren’t specific about it though, nor are they keen on informing most of us about what we are supposed to tell them other than these ‘letters’ we are told to carry when summoned. Why letters?
Because these letters—they said—provide a link between the common people and the servicemen during the war.
These are the ‘missing’ links these ‘Greys’ said hold the answer in their quest to fill the blanks in their history textbook. I, for one, am in possession of such letters—not from the front, but from back home. Another reason why I am called here today is due to the recognition by this ‘Federation’ as one of the living ‘writers of war’, and as such I will receive generous compensation for our participation in this entire ordeal. Of course, any sane man would be stupid to have refused such generous support.
"So, Mr..."
"Nakai," I reply as formally as possible to the emotionless figures.
"Yes, Mr. Nakai…so to get our facts straight, you are a sergeant in the 55th Mechanized Infantry and served in the Korean, Siberian, Chinese, and Australian front for the reason of ‘finding your lost father’. You are familiar with the topic of this interview and its objectives, correct?"
“Yes sir, I am.”
“Excellent,” the lead figure replied, “Then we shall not waste our time on any unnecessary conversations. Now, before we delve into a much deeper topic we would like to hear about your father. When was the first time you received letters from him?”
Well, it is a good start of an interview—or what is made to look like one considering all these lightings, isolation, and ‘hush-hush’ these ‘Greys’ appeal to their candidates.
"December 25th, 2042. It was...a gift, so to say, from my father. He couldn't spend Christmas that year after having been drafted, so it felt more like an apology letter to me personally."
-------------
December 25th, 2042. It was a pretty memorable day for me since it was the first time I got to spend my time alone at home as a student. Tokyo was cold as ever, and the conflict that raged made news like hot cakes to a hungry child. I was just home from school when the letter arrived.
“BOY! There’s a mail from your disgrace-of-a-father! Get over here!”
Scratch that, I was
not alone after all. Apparently, my mother had decided to send our grandfather to watch over me while she and her friend took on that debate in the Diet concerning the war and possible talk for peace with the GEU.
On the brink of the war, the world was divided into three different sides all vying for one thing that this planet lacks: resources. Everything, from oil, steel, wood, iron to natural gasses was exhausted and with it, the talk of cooperation and peace. There were plans of expanding our reach into space with the proposed ‘ascension project’, but that too was going nowhere when many nations literally up each other’s throats. Up on the West, there’s the Greater European Union—abbreviated as GEU—which spanned from the coasts of Greenland, the Cape of Good Hope in Africa, and to the Siberian wasteland of Russia. By far, they were the prime aggressors compared to the North American Coalition considering the amount of land they held and annexed. The North American Union—or the NAC for short—was to our East, and they were a combination of North America, Mexico, South America, and Cuba; Canada was included in their alliance, to my surprise. And then there were we, the Pan-Asian Alliance, the PAA, or the ‘Alliance’ as we nicknamed ourselves. Our territory spanned from Japan, Korea, to the South Pacific, and up to the Middle East. Australia was not part of our territory, but instead was part of the GEU after it pledged its loyalty to ‘King and Country’. With this, the background of the war was set. With the failure of peace negotiations later in 2039, the entire world was set for an all-out, two-front free-for-all.
At that time, such worries about politics or war hadn’t set its teeth into me; I was more worried about finishing my homework and reports for the student council than anything happening outside.
“Dad sent us a letter…? Really…?”
“Yes, a letter from that embarrassment,” replied my grandfather, crossing his arms and thumping his chest. “In my days, we men were never to leave our family behind for some petty conflict—even if that meant dodging recruiting officers! We
were to support our family with pride and distinction! Not leave the women and children to fend for themselves; speaking of which, that uncle of yours, too! Disgraceful…!”
“But mother’s story about her high school and how she met father pretty much told me that you ‘left’ her to ‘care for her-self’?”
“YOU DARE TALK BACK TO YOUR GRANDFATHER, BOY!?”
It was never a good idea to bring up such topics to my mother’s old man. He was quite an ass-hat…sometimes.
“Maybe your mother left to fend for herself, but she is different! I did so like a lion who would throw his cub down the cliff so it will be great! Despite marrying that ‘disgrace’, she showed the country what she’s capable of and won herself a secure position in the Diet! She’s a proud member in the line of…”
By this time, my grandfather would ramble on about ‘pride’, ‘honor’, and ‘dedication’, as well as about ‘what it takes to be a man’; I blocked out most of it as I was too excited over my old man’s letter. Still, his ass-hat of an attitude was just a cover for the all-caring, all-loving, high expectations father he was—my mother and father’s wedding photo proves it. Seeing my grandfather toasting my old man, tears running in his eyes, and his moist cheeks in the photos that chronicled the wedding gave me that sense of satisfaction knowing what he
really was.
“…and that is why YOU shall not be a disappointment!”
“E-excuse me…?” Like I said, I had blocked out the rest of it. And so it ended with another lengthy lecture…
“DISGRACEFUL! All this advice and you are spacing out?? Where did you inherit that trait? -From your father!? DISGRACEFUL…!”
We won’t get into that part—his lecture, I mean. Truth be told, my family owes my grandfather quite a debt considering how he managed to kept us away from government hands for a hefty two years before he lost it. I am not sure what he did exactly, but I believe his connections helped him to maintain that distance between ‘us’ and the ‘old government’—I was too young and stupid at that time to realize this, but now I know. My uncle was the first to be drafted on August 2041, then my dad later on September 5th of 2042.
“Now, I suppose you wish to read that letter your old man sent you. I shall bother you no further and—before I forget—Merry Christmas.”
A smile crept up my face. Thank God he decided not to take this any further. “Thanks grandfather…and Merry Christmas to you too!”
“Don’t forget to tell your mother; I believe she’ll be happy to hear this.”
-------------
The letter was—as I said before—more of an apology. In it he wrote what he was doing, his well-being, the people he served with, as well as how he missed us dearly. My mother smiled that day and made yakiniku for us to celebrate Christmas; an empty seat with a complete set of utensils was present at the table acting as a spot for my father, almost as if we were waiting for him to be back home. My grandfather disagreed with the general idea, but my mother insisted and—with the help of her friend—convinced him to take his seat at the dining table, all four of us including my old man. Of course, my old man was never there that day.’
“Concerning your father’s conscription in late-2042, Mr. Nakai,” interrupts one of the ‘Greys’. It seems he’s translating what the other guy beside him is saying in what appear to be…sign language?
Hey…that IS sign language.
“What were you and your family’s general response when he was conscripted?”
…
“Excuse me?”
“We asked about your family’s general response to his conscription.”
“Ah…” I click my tongue, swallow a ball of spit, and turn away from their gazes. “Right...”
If there is a question I wish to avoid, that would be it. The initial response of our family was mostly negative—my mother and I can’t blame them, and for once my grandfather stood on our side in this matter. There was a lot of screaming, crying, a lot of pushing and hitting, and when it was all over it felt as if you just lost a piece of yourself somewhere in Okinawa, where then a local, westerner or tourists took it and spat on it. It felt like life was a big joke that God decided to play on you. But really, should I tell them that? Should I tell them that my strong and proud mother had fallen on her knees to beg the officials not to take him away? Should I even tell them that these men didn’t even hesitate to
hit my mother AND father when he jumped in to protect her? I don’t know; I just don’t know…
There are things in this world that men are not allowed to dwell upon; this is one of them.
“I…do not wish to talk about it…”
Slowly, my mind slips back to that time.
-------------
The news of his conscription came on September 5th of 2042. That was a given a fact. But his ‘pickup’ came two days later in the form of a green truck escorted by two men in uniform—lightly armed. It was a sunny day; the clouds didn’t even obstruct the rays of Earth’s longest running light company when I gazed at the usual parade of military fighters across the sky of Tokyo. The air, however, was a lot heavier at home than in the city...
I noticed them, men wearing the distinctive green-grey uniform from the PAA headquarters knocking on the door of my house. My heart was pumping, my foot drawn to a halt, and I began to take short, heavy breaths in between my observations as they waited for someone to open the door. I resented going over there; like hell I’m greeting them! Next thing I knew, I’d be dragged along with them like what happened to my uncle back in ’41!
“This is the PAA Recruitment Services! Is anyone home at the moment?” one of the men started pressing on the doorbell. The other banged his fist to the door. “If there is anyone here, answer the door or we will use force!”
It didn’t take long until someone answered it, and by the second someone did the door swung open with force from the men in uniform. I started my walk to the door—both curious and worried on what was going on, hugged the wall as I moved closer, peaked around the corner, and listened to the conversation between the two men and the person who had answered the door—my dad.
“Good evening, sir. We assume you know the reasons why we are here to make this visit?”
“Please, just a little longer! I am still in the middle of packing and right now my—“
“We can’t afford any more delays, Mr. Nakai!” one of them interrupted with gust. “The PAA has called you to serve your country in this time of need, and you dare to turn your back?”
“No, I mean there’s this and…”
His conversation was cut short when he heard the footsteps of someone else close behind him—my mother. I couldn’t quite make out what they said to each other—probably due to the distance—but when the men began barging in, asking him where his luggage were, then dragging him from his house I realized where this was all headed for. My mother didn’t hesitate to leap directly to my father and hug him tight, crying and tugging him not to leave her as they were engaged in a one-sided tug-of-war. Immediately, I built up my courage to charge right into the conflict and take side with my mother as the men began to raise their fists.
“YOU DARE OPPOSE THE CALL OF DUTY??”
“There will be repercussions for this act under Article 12 of the Pan-Asian Alliance! Cease and Desist!”
Even so, my mother was persistent on clinging to him; my father, too, was desperately protecting my mother from the men. For a short moment, he stared me right in the eyes with the determination and authority I assumed he’d learned from my mother’s side of the family.
“Go tell your mother everything will be alright.”
“Dad…?”
“Tell her that I will be okay, and that I will write often. I’ll try to make it back home once it is all over, but if I can’t do so then you will have to take responsibility for this family.”
My throat dried up and my lips were frozen speechless.
“So please, don’t wait for me.”
I hesitated. Doing so would meant saying ‘goodbye’ to my old man who had raised me for eighteen years, not knowing for certain when I would be able to see him again. But disobeying his orders meant exposing my family and me to repercussions by the PAA; that often led to further complications and dire consequences. The more I hesitated, the longer this continued. For the first time in my life, I was held responsible for the lives of others I care about—a decision that would forever position us on the black list of the PAA or the absence of my old man. My mother often told me that in life, ‘sometimes the right decision is not the most popular one’. This was one of those times.
I tapped my mother’s shoulder once, twice, then three times to finally get her attention and stopped the struggle between my family and the men in uniform. I took deep breaths, sighs, and started telling my mother what dad had said earlier. She stared at me intently, probably wanting to lecture me until my ears bled for taking a side against her, but she was soon taken by my father’s word when she looked at him worriedly and distraught.
“[Don’t worry,]” he said. “[I will be okay. The time I have spent with you is precious, and I will try to make it back here in one piece—for you and our son.]”
Abruptly, my father stood between my mother and the two men, his hand stretched wide as if protecting her from anymore abuses they might have pulled. I kneel beside her, my hand resting on her shoulder before I hugged her as both officers proceeded to escort father into the truck. Before he left the house, he turned to us and—with a smile and confidence—proclaimed. “[I’ll write! So don’t worry about me!]”
That was the last time I saw my father eye to eye. My mother, with her tear-swollen eyes and her resolve nodded at him and finally waved goodbye one last time before dashing forward and landing a soft kiss as his parting gift.
…
I felt terrible to have omitted my father’s last message to ‘not wait for him’ from my mother’s attention.
-------------
“Mr. Nakai?”
I snap back in attention, reminded by the voice of the ‘Greys’ that trails off in the auditorium after their last question. Of course, all that has happened are just memories of my past which forever haunt me in my sleep. That was the first time I’d seen my mother break down in tears and collapse, a mirror of what her character is—strong, determined, vigilant, and disciplined. The next time I’d see her like that was when I decided to enlist in the military with for reason I was not keen to explain to my mother—even to this day, she never understood the reason ‘why’ I joined.
Nor does she know whether I am alive or not, although that was partly my fault.
“Sir…?”
“We asked you about your family’s general response before you spaced out. Do you, or do you not have anything to tell us about this?”
“Well, sir…as patriotism was considered subjective at that time,” I take a deep breath and sigh. If my grandfather sees this, he’ll call out what a disgrace I am for ‘showing weaknesses. “I’ll say that we weren’t exactly thrilled about the news.”
“So what made you decide to enlist?”
“Well, there’s….”
I pause for a second, letting the atmosphere and the thick smoke of the cigar sink right in to get my composure. ‘This is just an interview’, I say to myself almost a thousand times as a constant reminder that I am not in particular trouble to have been called here. Meanwhile, the guy in the back and his sign-language fluent partner continuously discuss whatever is provided to them by their colleagues; my first guess was that he too is a veteran of the war, but upon further inspection his physic and build are far too frail for that which led me to believe that he is a ‘deaf-mute’. I have little to no interest in the guy himself, but more in what they are talking about—I too am fluent in sign-language.
Of course, this is no time to be translating what they are saying—I understand it clearly, but now is not the time. I still have a story to tell about home, my mother, and my leave…
-------------
It was late at night, about two to three hour past midnight. The thunderstorm an hour ago had kept me awake for much of the night and forced me to listen to the maddening rhythm of the clock accompanied by the drizzle outside. Just outside my door, the dimmed corridor that had lasted for the past hour was as quiet as the solemn night as every member had laid to rest. It was raining. Having been woken up an hour ago, I couldn’t go back to sleep and was instead staring at the white ceiling of my room—sometimes, the words my father had spoken to me before he left us echoed in my dreams; the thought of taking full responsibility for the family as a man had never crossed my mind. I was still a first year college student, and most of the things that were on my mind were either passing my classes with a top rank or getting a good job after it was all over.
The thought of joining the PAA Military never even once crossed my mind.
After being sick and tired of watching the ceiling for another ten minutes, I stood up and decided to head downstairs to the kitchen for a glass of water—that was my initial plan in hopes of getting some sleep. But as I walked past my parents’ bedroom, I noticed the dim light that came from within and with it, a short, sniffled voice of someone crying. I was rather hesitant to check who it was; the other day, my mother asked her friend to stay with us for both company and convenience considering their job. Curiosity did get the better of me, and slowly I crept to the door and pushed it open intending to see who it really was.
The date was April 22nd, 2043. I would forever remember that date as the day where he was officially ‘spirited away’.
There on her reading table, with her glasses neatly tucked beside her was my mother with a letter in her hand, sobbing quietly. I didn’t have the chance to read the letter we received this morning, but judging from my mother’s reaction I believed it was more bad news relating to my old man up at the front. For a minute I stood there unfazed, my eyes trained at her unusual behavior—in the 19 years I had spent with her, this was the second time I saw her to be so different from her usual demeanor. Sadly, it wouldn’t be the last. I took a step forward, wanting to ask her what was wrong or to comfort her in any way possible, but digressed at the thought of being powerless over the entire ordeal. I never had control of the situation when my father was taken away, nor was I able to comfort her. But it was always my mother’s sharp intuition that surprised me, when at that last second before I slipped through the door, she noticed me and faced me; her eyes were swollen with tears.
She wiped her tears, took deep breaths, and fixed her glasses.
[Why aren’t you in bed,] she asked. [You still have classes tomorrow; you shouldn’t be up this late.]
[I’m sorry…]
[But since you’re here, is there something you would like to know?]
[Well…] I stop myself, my lips trembled and my hand shook. I was unable to bring myself to ask her about the reason ‘why’ she was crying or ‘what’ was in the letter. But as quiet as I was, she always managed to read my mind—said she learned it through her experience with dad.
[Thank you for your concerns.] She smiled, stood up, walked towards me, and embraced me for a long minute. I cried for as long as I could, knowing how much of a fool I was for not understanding the pain she went through when he was taken away.
That night, I went back to bed feeling dejected and powerless.
I read the letter my old man sent me the next morning. Unlike his previous, it was filled with apologies and resentment for his fate out there in the front. It was filled with dejection, remorse, and most importantly despair of his situation and the war that had no end in sight. I was furious, angry and more or less disappointed of my old man for bringing such words into the family. This is the man I looked up to? The man who, from that letter, was left in despair and dejected? Did he even realize how much pain mother had to endure as she waited for him day by day? I couldn’t bring myself to finish that letter and decided to slip it back into the envelope; mother might have understood him a little better than I did, but that didn’t grant him the right to give up life just like that! Hell, if he wished for it so much, why not just drop down and die so we wouldn’t have to fret over it any longer?
…
I really, really should have been careful of what I wished for.
A month passed, two months, then three. After that, an entire year passed with no word from my father. During that time, the PAA proudly announced its progress in the Korean Peninsula with the deployment of what they call the ‘Nova’-class warhead that managed to break the stalemate that had been in place since 2042; I was in my twenties, second year of college when I heard of the news. My mother was increasingly becoming more and more worried about my father’s whereabouts, hoping that he would write back as soon as possible, hoping that her letters would reach him, and hoping that this delay was just a fault caused by the affairs abroad. Then, on May 5th of 2044, two men in PAA uniform came and gave us the news concerning my father. My mother read the letter and collapsed to the floor, as if her soul had been taken away right before us right there and then. I helped her up to the sofa, and when I read what was in that letter I realized what was going on.
My father had been declared missing, along with the entire Japanese 22nd Infantry Division on the Korean Peninsula.
There were no specific reasons, exact time and location, nor what had brought such catastrophe to an entire Division which consisted of hundreds, if not thousands of men. And then it sparked on me. It was something that runs in the family—our determination, persistence, and stubbornness about swallowing facts as a whole. Maybe ‘dense’ should be included in that list too. As I gazed at my mother and her friend, my cursing grandfather who had caught wind of the news, and the two men in uniform as they left our dwelling, I was determined to see this to an end.
I would search for him. Alive or dead, I swore on my own grave that I would not return until I found his whereabouts.
And thus, on May 10th of 2044, I enlisted with the Japanese 55th Mechanized Infantry Division.
It wasn’t easy to tell my mother of this decision—honestly I wished to keep it from her. I secretly began packing my luggage, clothes and memorabilia of my family to carry with me as a ‘charm’—the cat-doll my mother gave to me when I was still a child was also included. But on the night before my leave, my mother caught me off-guard and asked me what I was up to. I had no other options, and so I told her of my decision without telling her the full extent of my plan. She was furious, confused, and yet at the same time felt rejected for being left in the dark and disappointed with my action. I couldn’t back out anymore, however; what chance I had had been washed away the day I stepped into the recruiting office. The next morning, my mother’s friend was waiting by the door, arms crossed and looking extremely displeased. I didn’t waste my time to say goodbye to my family, in fear of never wanting to leave. And so, I stepped out the door with haste.
“Hii-chan,” she called out. “Are you sure you’re just going to ‘leave’? Your dear mother is still in bed, you’re not going to say goodbye to her?”
“No…” I replied, feeling slightly guilty. “If I do, I might never step outside.”
There was a brief silence. The transport truck that had been sent to pick me up honked its horn once.
“…will you be ok?”
“Yeah…”
“You will write back home, will you?”
“Y-yeah…” I noticed at this point that I began to stifle the tears I had been holding.
“You’ll return home for dinner, will you?”
“Y-yeah…!”
“Then…” Her voice was stifled. My eyes began to swell. “Stay safe!”
I never saw or heard from my mother since. As her friend often act as her ‘Hermes’, I considered her presence by the front gate to be my mother’s ‘goodbye’. I tried not to look back since.
-------------
The ‘Greys’ who are facing me begin to discuss with one another. Their eyes constantly shift from one guy to the next, then to me. What they are discussing is almost inaudible, their voice brilliantly suppressed by the whisper and the tapping of their shoes and pens. Of all the ‘Greys’ present, probably the ‘loudest’ one I single out is the deaf-mute who uses sign language and his interpreter—he’s too skinny to be a veteran, so I’m guessing he is born as one. Their discussion is short, but brief. They might be obscured by the dark lighting of this room, but it’s enough for me to read what he is saying to his translator.
[The Marshall is getting impatient,] He states.
[We aren’t getting enough information from him regarding the ‘weapon’; it’s a long shot to find details of it from recounts.]
Weapon, he said? Is there another purpose of this interview? I couldn’t catch what his friend said—oh, wait of course; his translator will translate that too.
[His records indicate his involvement on multiple fronts—Australia’s one of them; maybe we could ask him about it.]
[What we are looking for are the effects—not survivor stories! The two Nova detonations in 44’ happened for a reason, and they’re not showing results; we need evidence—testimonies, data, statistics, everything!]
Two detonations…? Is it about the ‘Nova-class’ warhead? Was there another two aside from Korea and Australia? But in the war, there had been more than two detonations happening all across the globe. What are they talking about?
[We might have to be a little forward about this—we need the information soon, the Marshall is getting more impatient by the minute.]
[Agreed, but caution is advised; we can’t afford to leak this to the public.]
They nod in unison, their attention returns to me with haste, and their eyes trained on my next move. “Mr. Nakai, we would like to ask about your experience in the war—will that be okay?”
So there is something going on behind this interview—an ‘original purpose’… Who is this ‘Marshall’ guy? What makes the ‘Nova-class’ warhead so important to them? More importantly, what
is the ‘Nova-class’ warhead? The military never gave us any specific details about the weapon and, to be honest, I have never seen anything like it! The light generated from the explosion is hot, but not exactly ‘fire-hot’; it was also blinding too, like the glare of the sun on a crisp day. The yield of the explosion is uncertain, but if I were to estimate it by mere guest and observation it could possibly total up to two-three Hiroshima bombs—maybe more. And more importantly, what was left of the impact is…
“Would it be okay for you to describe your experience in the war—particularly, your involvement in Australia?”
Well, whatever it is these guys are looking for, it doesn’t concern the initial objective of ‘filling the blanks in the last Great War’. I’ll cooperate, and see how much I can dig out from them—for now.
“It’s alright with me, sir. That’s why I am here…”
-------------
The ‘land of the great outback’, the ‘great outdoors’, or simply ‘Australia’; it was the last frontier for many of us as personnel of the PAA 55th Mechanized Infantry Division, but the first as soldiers of the recently established ‘Federation’. By this time, I had served the PAA for nearly a year until the disastrous ‘Battle of Trans-Siberia’ which nearly claimed the lives of most members of the 55th Mechanized Infantry Division—I was among the lucky few who survived. The operation was supposed to be a simple search and destroy—locate any GEU POW camps, liberate the prisoners, find any intel, then rinse and repeat. This is one operation I couldn’t afford to miss, knowing the possibility of finding my father amongst the POWs. The operation went smoothly for the first few weeks, with our division liberating up to eight different POW camps scattered across Siberia—some of them were marked by the GEU as ‘abandoned’. The men and women we found on these ‘abandoned’ and ‘forgotten’ camps were exhausted, some were barely alive, while others had resorted to cannibalism—they were often put out of their misery by orders of our officers.
But by January 29th of 2045, we hit a snag.
The Siberian front was expansive—
too expansive. Logistics became problematic, and slowly our offensives were grounded to a halt with GEU winter units striking deep through our lines and successfully disrupting any hope for resupply. By February, we were on full retreat to China carrying whatever we could as the GEU staged its ‘Winter Offensive’.
“AMBUSH…! GET TO COVER!!”
“SOMEONE GET THE LIEUTENANT! WE’RE GETTING—AUGH…!”
“MAN DOWN!”
The distinctive echo of the GEU’s Tungsten Rifles cracked the blizzard sky, successfully disoriented the men and women of the 55th Mechanized Infantry who were unfortunate enough to be caught in the crossfire. We were in the center of their kill-zone, armed with our standard-issue Smart Rifle and escorting IFVs and halftracks full of wounded, food, and munitions. The GEU assault was relentless, spared nothing in their advance, and eliminated the bulk of our underequipped division into scraps and bodies. We were outgunned, outmaneuvered, and outnumbered—with such combination at our hands, it was a sure disaster.
“Sergeant…! What are we supposed to do…!? We need orders!”
“The Lieutenant is dead, sir! His IFV just blew up!”
“Sir, we have GEU L5 Walkers moving in, 500m! Orders…?”
I was confronted by my men. Our commanding officer bought the farm when the forward GEU ambush element destroyed his IFV with their portable rail-gun, our munitions were almost exhausted, and we had little chance of victory to fight back. Surrender was our only option.
Of course, such actions were considered a disgrace in my family.
“Grab what you can, and hump it!” I replied with haste. Like the rest of them, I too was afraid. “There’s only a small window of opportunity; when that time comes, we’ll fight our way out of this and link up with the rest of the division at the rendezvous point. Everyone have their maps with them?”
“SIR…!”
I loaded a new magazine, cocked the rifle, and quickly calibrated my helmet visors—Smart Rifles worked in conjunction with it to identify friend or foe, measure distances, and calculate weaknesses on hard targets. “Good.”
“What about the POWs?”
“This blizzard and our luck prevented us from evacuating them earlier, so take them with us if you can but leave them if they became a hindrance. We’re stretched thin as it is, and like it or not it is our only chance of survival! Do you get me?”
“YES SIR!”
We were trapped under fire, our vehicles were disabled, and we were outnumbered and outgunned ten to one. As much as I hated doing this routine, I couldn’t help sometimes seeing this entire ordeal as a ‘competition’, ‘challenge’, or a ‘game’ in the ‘survival’ category; it’s not the right attitude to take upon matters of life and death, but it often did give me that courage and motivation.
I would bring my men out of this alive, and that was a pretty clear goal if you ask me. “COVERING FIRE…!”
When the cold wind hit our faces, our rifles barked with ferocity and signaled the men to run as fast as they could with what they could carry. The GEU realized this, returned fire, and cut-down the first three runners before the scum were gibed by our grenades. The next group of runners began to move after we laid another barrage of cover fire—both from the first runner group and our staging position. Next the third, the fourth, the fifth along with the POWS in tow, and then came me and my squad, the last few survivors of the rear guard. We ran through ankle deep snow with whatever we could carry, under fire from GEU snow troopers and their L5 walkers. Thankfully, the snow storm concealed us from their barrage—my cat-doll which I hung on the back of my gear nearly lost its leg when a tungsten round grazed it. The POWs and some of my men weren’t so lucky, and perished either during the retreat or due to the extreme weather. We barely escaped with our lives that day.
Later on in China, we were engaged by the GEU for another year before their offensive was ground to a halt—we were 10km from Beijing. From what I heard after our extraction earlier that year, only 1/3 of the entire 55th Mechanized Infantry Division were accounted for, with many more considered ‘missing in action’. The prisoners we liberated on our offensive didn’t fare any better than us; most were returned to the frontline by the PAA, recaptured, and or executed on sight by the GEU. The operation was a disaster for the PAA, but for me it served as a short breather and relief—knowing that my father wasn’t among the prisoners we’d rescued or in one of the ‘forgotten’ camps should have had discouraged me, but the fact that he didn’t have to go through that entire ordeal reassured me. He was still out there, somewhere in one of the hundreds of POW camps in Siberia we never had the chance to liberate, and that I am sure of.
My other form of relief came in form of letters; particularly from my mother.
Her letters were always filled with worries and concerns, but they always glittered with words of comfort and love. I regretted leaving her each time I a letter; her words were strong, commanding, but fair and comforting at the same time. It was sufficient to break my resolve. Her friend had been staying with her throughout her ordeal, and she would often replaced my mother’s hand writing and tell me how the situation was at home. She had been in constant debate with the members of the PAA in pursue of a peace negotiation with the GEU and the NAC; much to my dismay, she had lost quite a number of seats in the Diet for reasons she was never keen to elaborate on. Most of the time, I was worried about her well-being after I heard about the two fire-bombings that happened in Sendai and Saitama. But nevertheless, we managed to stay in touch for a year until…
…until Australia.
“Hey Sarge,” called one of my men. “Why are you carrying that old cat-doll with you? It’s purple and it sticks out like a sore thumb to our uniform.”
“The only thing that sticks out in here is your head, Private. Now keep your mouth shut or you’ll bite your tongue; we’re landing in 30 seconds.”
Our final assignment with the PAA came on January 17th of 2046, destination: Australia. With the offensive in China stalled earlier that year, the GEU decided that the best way to ‘win’ this war was to strike the ‘soft belly of the dragon’, and that meant attacking our southern territories of South East Asia. Thankfully, our intelligence caught wind of this operation and soon enough decided to launch a major offensive on the Australian continent—this was done despite the fact the NACs were harassing us on Midway, Wake, and Hawaii. When the orders were given, the PAA devoted five army groups to the operation, each assigned to take over and control certain territories in Australia. Our objective was the city of Darwin in the Northern Territories. Another simple ‘search and destroy’ mission—or so HQ had told us.
They were never simple in my book.
“CLEAR THE HOVERCRAFT! GO! GO! GO!”
When you’re in the thick of the action, there’s always that short moment of doubt whether you will make it out alive. When our captain ordered us to disembark, a bullet whizzed past me and immediately killed the guy beside me. Another came, then another, and before long we were greeted with a hail of tungsten rounds which tore through our men like a hot knife through butter. Most of us that managed to disembark were quickly pinned under whatever cover we could find, it be the wreckage of our hovercraft, beach obstacles, or rocks that littered across our landing zone. I ordered my men to stay put, using wreckage as cover while we waited for orders and reinforcements. Just two minutes after our first touchdown, our walkers came ashore and tore through the defenses as our airborne troopers with their gunships deploy behind the lines and push inland.
“Get up! On your feet!” screamed the Lieutenant, prompting us to follow his lead. “We still have a city to take and a war to win!”
The Lieutenant, along with the majority of the 55th Mechanized Infantry, was vaporized in what happened in Australia a week later.
The close quarter fights that happened in Darwin were short, vicious, and brutal. Often we were forced to use our wrist blades to gut the GEU trooper up close, other times our anti-armor rifles were improvised as heavy sniper rifles to flush out snipers from their spot. The walkers we deployed didn’t have much effect on the battle as they were exposed to GEU magnetic anti-armor grenades and grenadiers stationed in the buildings. Nonetheless, we secured the city in one week and set up a forward headquarters at the city’s airfield. Everything was looking good, and for once the PAA seemed to have regained its footing and was on the offensive.
“Listen up; we have a new task at hand.” The NCOs and squad leaders of the remnants of the 55th Mechanized gathered around the Captain as he started his briefing. “We have orders to join an offensive down south.”
“Isn’t that what we’re supposed to do anyway?”
“The order came a little earlier than anticipated, Lieutenant. Apparently, intelligence wants us to finish dealing with the GEU here in Australia to handle a ‘dark horse’ faction.”
“Dark horse…?” I asked. “You mean the faction led by the veterans? They are negligible; they’re still guerilla size last I heard.”
“Then you’ve been missing a lot of news, Sergeant.”
The Captain paced to the right and picked up a remote for the monitor. The monitor played the all-too-familiar PAA News, a government-owned agency, and showed us the first ‘face’ of the ‘Federation’; the faces of men, women, and child who banded together in arms under one flag determined to stop the war. The fact that this was happening all around the world in different countries was frightening—the thought of having to return home to kill what I stood for was chilling.
“In recent months, these ‘rebels’ have gained significant power and support. We are to finish this operation quick; High Command wants us to return home and quell these dissidents.”
“But sir, they’re our…”
“Our
enemy, Sergeant. Get your facts straight.”
There never was a clear confirmation on whose side was ‘right’ in the war; whether it was the PAA, the GEU, or the NAC, they all had different reasons to fight for—primarily, survival. When the ‘Federation’ first appeared in the middle of the war, it had the clearest objective of all the factions: to end the meaningless bloodshed and unite under one common flag, and as such all other factions declared this ‘dark horse’ as an enemy.
We commenced the operation at 0500 hours, launching a full-scale push from Darwin down towards neighboring towns and cities, up towards the desert of Australia. My squad was aboard an attack gunship nicknamed the ‘Tengu’, part of Attack Group Alpha, the tip of the spear into Australia. We were to be the first to expand as army groups two, three, and four prepared to leave at 0530. We were airborne, about 300 feet above the ground when I felt a slight chill down my spine—it’s that feeling you get when something was off, misplaced, or awkward. In fact, the entire operation felt awkward; everything went a little too smooth, High Command even gathered its officers in Darwin for a meeting.
But then, at 0515 hours a flash erupted from behind us at Darwin.
We couldn’t tell what it was—hell, within that chaos alone it’s a miracle anyone could tell what just hit us at a short notice. The ground below erupted, the gunship spun out of control, and from within Darwin a ball of light expanded and engulfed the city, the army, and all its surroundings. My gunship plummeted, crashed and tumbled across the dirt a few clicks from Darwin along with forty-fifty others of the first wave. I crawled out of the wreckage and hid under the shade of the wreck as a deafening white noise echoed in my head when we—or what was left of my squad—was engulfed in the light.
I closed my eyes.
The radio crackled, and died.
There was a brief silence.
And then there were none.
-------------
“So, how did you manage to survive?”
“I’m not sure…” I reply, eyes avoiding contact. “I honestly thought I was a goner. When that light hit me, my surroundings were instantly lit—the gunship’s structure may have saved me from certain death, but that’s all I can think of.”
“Then, what happened?”
“When I had come to, I was standing in a barren wasteland. A few clicks from my position were what used to be Darwin, now flattened without a trace.”
The ‘Greys’ murmur to one another, then turn their attention back to me. “How did you survive?”
My seat shifted, and I uncomfortably readjust my position. “A ‘Federation’ trooper found me a week later. I had been conscious for a week or so after the crash, surviving with just the water in my canteen and the rations that had been distributed while I wandered the desert hoping to find a living commanding officer or at least a familiar face. I had no means of communication, the radio operator was killed in action, the radio he carried was shorted, and even if I do have a working one, I don’t know who I should contact. I passed out after I ran out of food and water.”
“After that,” I continue. “I woke up in a ‘Federation’ controlled field hospital tent, interrogated by a military officer and presented with the option to join the fight as a new soldier; he also mentioned the guarantee of food, water, and bedding. Of course, I couldn’t refuse.”
I sigh. “I was tired. I was sick AND tired; sick and tired of the war and the entire ordeal of the foolish two-front, free-for-all exchange between the three factions. I simply gave up on trusting the ‘old government’ and joined the ‘Federation’ which promised unity and an end to the war.”
“Did you manage to keep in touch with your family? Any letters you sent to them considering your survival?”
I pause. It is probably a mistake in my part—for all I know, my family back home assumed me to be ‘killed in action’ in Australia. I didn’t bother sending any more letters after that—another reason was me joining the ‘Federation’ on a whim; such cowardice would have been an embarrassment in my family, and to them I am already dead. Add to it, the fear of safety towards my family—if the PAA figured I defected to the ‘Federation’, chances are they will be branded as ‘traitors’, interrogated, tortured, and possibly, executed. I don’t want that. It is better if they believe that I’m dead than having them to suffer any further.
“No.”
After my reply, I focus my attention on the pair sitting on the far right corner of the rows of ‘Greys’—the deaf-mute and his translator. The entire hall is currently discussing on what they should do next, thus I have all the time in the world to read what they are saying. As swift as his hands are, it is easy to read his movements when you are raised in similar background.
[He doesn’t show any symptoms of the weapon unlike any of the subjects we interviewed earlier,] He said to his colleague. Symptoms…? Isn’t the ‘Nova-class’ warhead a heat-based weapon? [His conditions are stable, and there are no indications of PTSD or hallucinations]
Is there supposed to be in the first place?
[This interview is fruitless—it’s the same thing we heard over and over again. Prepare the next subject.]
Wait, so what
are they looking for? What is the purpose?
[He should consider himself lucky. What was his name again?]
[Nakai.]
[Ah, yes. So he is
that Nakai; I knew I’ve heard the name a week before.]
Wait…there was another ‘Nakai’ before me? Could it be…?
[He’s pitiful, but he did provide sufficient data. If only this ‘Nakai’—if only he could learn the fate of his father after Korea, he’d realize what a fool he is.]
Son of a…
They knew. So they knew all along what happened to him, my objective for participating in the war, what happened in Korea, Siberia, and Australia—all of it even before I stepped my foot into this installation? Not to mention, they knew the whereabouts of my old man! And here they never bothered to tell me about it…?
“So you guys knew…”
Their discussions are brought to a halt. My interruption successfully gained their attention. “So you guys knew all along even before I stepped into this facility?”
“Excuse me Mr. Nakai, we don’t understand what you…”
“SHUT UP!” I snap. Their eyes tenses and their hand motion the guards on the perimeter to be at the ready. “Watch me.”
I raise my hands; my eyes scan the petrified audience as I begin to ‘speak’.
[Do you understand what I’m saying, you bunch of sick degenerate f***s?]
The ‘Grey’ sitting on the top right corner freeze on contact. I grin victoriously, showing a slight dominance over these men.
“Mr. Nakai, how did you understand…”
“[I AM THE PROUD SON OF SHIZUNE HAKAMICHI AND HISAO NAKAI,]” I continue, this time accompanied with a voice as I give into my rage. “[And I demand an answer from the lot of you!]”
“You’re the son of that fervent politician…!” reply one of them. “The ‘Silent Tiger’ of the Diet…!”
“[This isn’t an interview to 'find the missing link’ in history, is it?]” I conclude. “[You’re looking for something else—that WEAPON! And I believe my father has a hand in this!]”
“Mr. Nakai, we assured you that...”
“[WHERE IS HE!?]”
The ‘Greys’ exchange gazes, their eyes signaling the guards to surround me as a precaution; I sense fear and distress—funny thing is I take pleasure in this. “Please Mr. Nakai, if you maintain this rage any further we will have to...”
“[You know where my father is. And I demand an answer RIGHT NOW!]”
“We assure you, we know no other ‘Nakai’ that is related to…”
“[“LIES…!]”
I spring forward from my seat, my arms stretch far in an attempt to strangle the closest ‘Grey’ I can get my hands on. My lust for information becomes my drive to attack these so-called ‘historians’ and ‘veterans’ regardless of the consequences that will befall me. My action, however, is cut short with a snap of a finger from the furthest ‘Grey’ to the left. It irritates me that I am so close to finding my father, yet he is so far from my reach.
“Guards!”
Two armed men march from each side of the stage and make a mad dash towards me. They are insignificant. With the experience I gained at the front it is easy for me to quickly shake them off, disarm one of them, and use his rifle to hold a combat-ready stance at the other. Quickly refocusing my attention to my surroundings—realizing I am surrounded with armed guards—I ease myself and give the longest stare I have ever give to another man.
The 'Greys' are terrified. Probably not by the fact that I had managed to disarm one of their guards and held the other at gunpoint, but by what I possibly can do to them if their escorts aren’t around to save them.
"Mr. Nakai, if you could please leave this installation and..."
“[Hitsuda,]” my breath is steady, my arms are aching, and my nerves relax as I look no further than the end of this discussion.
"Pardon?"
“[Hitsuda Nakai,]” I reply with the last of my strength and my dry throat. “[This won’t be the last time you’ll hear from a Nakai—or a Hakamichi.]”
I took a deep sigh one last time, my back faced towards them. “[I'll take my leave now; good day.]”
With a swift bow, I raise my chest up high, toss the rifle back to the other guard, and march towards the exit of the facility.
-------------
Maybe it was wrong of me to accuse my father to have taken part in this entire ordeal. Maybe it was wrong of me to search for him in an impulse, leaving my deaf-mute mother, her friend, and my grandfather at home to fend for themselves for the past two years. I haven’t even written anything to them since their last letter in 45’! How am I supposed to face them? To tell them that I have been alive all this time, when in the ‘official’ records of the PAA I am assumed to be ‘Killed in Action’? Not to mention, the last few letters sent by my mother’s friend—Aunt Mikado—before my absence detailed my mother’s slow decline from reality when she learned that I was ‘dead’, and I foolishly decided to postpone my reply to those letters too.
Now it’s all too late.
I am a disgrace, a reject in the Hakamichi bloodline after what I had done for the past two years—my grandfather would gladly behead me or hang me upside down on a flagpole if he ever saw me face to face.
For what I have done to my mother, my family, I am as good as dead to them.
…
God, I’m an idiot…
“Hicchan…!”
Tell me, do you believe in redemption? I don’t, or I stopped believing it after my experience in the war.
I guess now is a good time to start believing it again…
“Hicchan, what are you doing standing there? Come over here!”
‘Hicchan’. I haven’t heard it for a very long time; my mother told me it was originally my father’s nickname given by Aunt Mikado—or ‘Misha’ as she liked to call her.
“Stop standing there like a statue, boy! Who do you think you are to have the right to feel so ‘high and mighty’ above your elders? Is this what the Hakamichi bloodline has come to? What a disgrace! Get down from there!”
Then there’s grandfather Jigoro, still carrying his katana and being quite an ass-hat. I’m a little relieved to know that he’s using the katana more as his ‘third leg’ than a weapon nowadays.
And then there’s my mother, the once determined, proud, and strict Shizune Hakamichi, standing between my grandfather and Misha with a blank stare in her eyes. Aunt Mikado told me how depressed she had become over the past year in her last few letters I never had chance—or courage to that matter—to reply. I assume that when the PAA officers came to her door, informing her of my status as ‘presumed KIA’ that became the catalyst that destroyed my mother’s resolve; her last letter, written by Misha, was more of a prayer and wish that I would still be alive to read it—I never received the letter until the day I planted my boots back in Japanese soil in March of 2046, just three months after the end of the war. Slowly, I make my way down the steps of the installation to come to terms with my family.
“How did you…”
“The Federation tipped us,” Misha replies. Her huge grin feels so familiar after so long. “They said that a ‘family member’ has been called for the interview. We weren’t exactly sure who it is since…well…”
“I was reported ‘killed’…?”
Misha frowns, her hand stop signing. “Well…yeah.”
“But you’re alive, right?” she continue. “And you’re back just in time for dinner, too!”
I chuckle, releasing the last few bit of pressure in my mind. “Yeah...”
Next, I turn to my grandfather. Even after two years of absence, his demeanor and slightly intimidating presence never change. “Grandfather I…”
“Are you a man, boy?”
His question fazes me for a minute. Again, he repeats the question. “I say again, are you a man?”
“Y-yes…”
“Then lift your chin and look ahead. In my days, men weren’t supposed to watch the floor when walking straight! It’s an embarrassment; a disgrace!”
Still, despite his personality, his odd ways of showing care for his family never cease to amaze me. “Now go and talk to your mother.”
I grit my teeth as I stand face to face with my mother. Her eyes stare at me blankly, as if she had lost herself in a maze made by her own mind. I can’t blame her; the people she cared about, the ones she loved, her life, everything was taken away from her three years ago. Even as I stand before her, she fails to recognize me and keeps her long, dark gaze towards the horizon. Even when Misha attempts to capture her attention, her only response is a short gaze towards her before falling back into the abyss of her mind. I have no one else to blame but myself for putting her through this ordeal. There’s almost nothing left of her old personality, her vigor, her demanding character that bosses the Nakai household around despite her inability to speak; now my mother feels like a shell of her former self. I can’t stand it anymore—my old man and my grandfather told me that it is a ‘disgrace’ for a man to cry, but at times like this I believe it is okay to do so. Slowly I lean forward crying, embracing her, and call out to her ears in vain over and over again.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry…”
Then I feel her hand reach up to me, tapping me once, then twice, and three times which causes me to pull away. She stares me right in the eye; her blank gaze slowly vanishes as tears build up in her eyes. Her hand begins to trace the contours of my face, my hair, and finally lands her palm on my chest, feeling the steady heartbeat. Her hand soon finds its way to the purple cat doll that is firmly attached to my side, feeling its rough texture and shape left by two years of exposure, causing her to recoil in surprise. She twitches, gasps, and recoils before retracing her previous steps. Then, she pulls away and signs.
[Hitsuda…you’re alive!] She signs. [You came back!]
A smile forms on my face, although it is more of a ‘tragic’ smile than a happy one. [Mother, I’m sorry for…]
SNAP!
Her dexterous finger catches me off-guard for a second—a trademark of her to shut us up. Quickly, she clasps my hand together as a way to tell me not to ‘say another word’. [Is that what you’d say to me after all these years? An apology…?]
I slip my hand from her and signs back. [No, but I believe it is the right thing to do.]
[Don’t,] she replies, signing back. [You remind me of your father sometimes, Hitsu-chan.]
‘Hitsu-chan’; I never thought I would hear that name ever again.
[You are an echo of what I was; a resonance of both your father and I, the greatest gift Hisao has left in this world.]
I shy away from her gaze, wanting to hide the fog that slowly builds up in my eyes. She quickly prevents that from happening. [I appreciate your effort to look for him, Hitsu-chan. But I don’t think that is what he wanted.]
She took a step forward. [I believe he wanted you to be safe. That is what he would wish for more than ever.]
She smiles softly. She smiles!
[Welcome home, Hitsuda.]
I break down in tears, and with whatever strength is left in my tired hands, I use them to sign her back before diving into her deep embrace.
[I’m home.]
Fin - Hakamichi no Tegami
