Chapter Text
“Nona, I’ve seen enough,” he said.
“No, you haven’t,” the telepathic voice promptly responded. “That was barely half of his condensed memory pool, and a fourth of the complete collection that Quin so generously cut down for you. How exactly do you expect to make an accurate decision based on a measly twenty-five percent of a human’s life history?”
“It’s funny you say that,” said Decim, “because I have never reached a firmer verdict based purely on memories. I don’t think I need to see another mutilated body or hear another pretentious remark to decide where this bastard is going.” No sooner had the words left his lips, than another lurid image of blade slashing throat assailed his mind’s eye. He winced, almost feeling the blood splatter onto his skin. “Is the game even necessary in this case?”
“Adherence to proper procedure is imperative, Decim.” Nona’s tone was uncompromising. “You are fully aware that criminal justice systems have a very different face in the twenty-second century, and that not all people are rightly brought to justice for their wrongdoings – or good deeds, for that matter. Our establishment is the last barrier between a life and the fate it ultimately deserves, and therefore our judgment must be of the absolute highest accuracy.”
“And what makes you think watching him playing a damn bar game is going to change my mind?”
Nona sighed impatiently. “Under normal circumstances, the purpose of the game is to draw out the darkness in a visitor’s soul, yes?”
“Right.”
“With him, the darkness is apparent. So in this case, I’d like you to think like a scientist, and try your best to create circumstances that would produce evidence to the contrary.”
Decim nodded weakly. “I see.”
“Don’t break any rules, Decim,” she warned. “I hope you still recognize that your tenure remains in review following your last misstep. There are posts in this tower to which I can demote you, that aren’t nearly as glamorous as the one you have now.”
He nodded again, even more weakly.
“And… that should be it. Best of luck, Decim.” The final bloodstained memory clicked shut like a TV being turned off, and a little digital blip sounded that indicated the end of the transmission. Decim stared into the lounge in front of him, feeling physically ill.
He’d never abhorred a client so intensely in his entire career as an Arbiter.
“Are you all right?” asked the black-haired woman by his side.
Decim didn’t respond immediately, but being reminded that she was there heartened him somewhat. He decided that he could enlist her assistance in the task of passing objective judgment on the incoming visitor, which would’ve been close to impossible by himself.
“At any moment now,” he said, “a monster is going to walk through that hallway and into Quindecim. I want you to keep an eye not only on him, but also on me. Make sure I maintain my… composure. And try, as difficult as it may be, to use your human instincts to find the slightest hint of redemption in the being of this cretin.”
“Monster? Cretin?” she chided. “I know you’re an Arbiter, but do you have to be so quick to judge?”
“You don’t know what I’ve seen.” Memories were not to be divulged, probably for the best.
“How bad can it be? In my time on Earth, I learned that everyone has some source of splendor in their soul, no matter how pitch-black it may seem,” she said, smiling encouragingly.
“And in my time at Quindecim, I learned that the pitch-black side often wins. As I said…” Decim resisted telling her about the riots, the dismemberments, the human corpses turned to grotesque plastic sculptures. “You don’t know what I’ve seen.”
“Indeed, I don’t. But I know I’ve never seen you like this before. It’s unlike you, being so… involved.” She was silent for a second. “You don’t happen to know what he looks like, do you? So that I can prepare myself, and know what to expect?”
He didn’t know what to expect. Arbiters viewed memories from a first-person perspective, so he didn’t have a clear picture of his target’s appearance. He only had a name. “No,” he said, shaking his head gravely. “My guess is that he would look like a serial killer.”
“So… scruffy, aggressive, mentally unstable? Something like that?”
Before Decim could answer, Nona’s telepathy interrupted his thoughts. “Makishima Shougo is on his way up,” she said. “In the meantime, before I forget, here’s data from his opponent.”
“Is that him?” asked his assistant. “That can’t be him.”
Decim’s first instinct when he saw the man at the end of the hallway was in wholehearted agreement with her. In the last two minutes, he’d spent less mental energy processing the new set of memories being funneled into him than he did trying, with limited success, to piece together a convincing portrait of Makishima Shougo. He had come up with not much more than generic markers of insanity – crazy bloodshot eyes, dark greasy hair, scarred skin, grimy street clothes – and the smartly-dressed, porcelain-skinned, light-haired young man ambling leisurely down that hallway could not have possibly hewn further from that image. And yet, Decim’s judgment knew better. As little attention as he’d paid to the memories of Makishima’s soon-to-be competitor, he was dimly aware that they had belonged to a woman rather than a man, and while this visitor was feminine, he was undoubtedly male (although Decim didn’t know if his preconceptions of gender norms were more accurate than his preconceptions of serial killers). And furthermore, Decim had the vague notion that he seemed familiar. He wondered if this was another one of Nona’s tests.
The man was now close enough for Decim to register the strange yellow hue of his irises. The instant their eyes met sent a chill through him that removed all doubts of his target’s dangerousness. This man was Makishima Shougo, the twisted and terrifying mass murderer who was capable of shocking atrocities and would likely wreak havoc on Quindecim if things weren’t handled properly…
“Hello there,” repeated Makishima. This time Decim snapped out of his preoccupations. “May I inquire as to where I am?”
Makishima’s voice was like Decim had heard in his memories – fluid and calm with a silvery edge, and much more characteristic of a cultured art school professor than a violent psychopath. But then again, Decim was beginning to question his likely outdated mental representation of psychopaths.
“Welcome to Quindecim,” said Decim, rattling off the protocol. “I am your bartender, Decim. Thank you for coming.”
“So this is a bar,” said Makishima, delighted. He sat down, crossing his legs comfortably and surveying his surroundings. “It’s very beautiful. It exudes a classical charm that most people in this age fail to appreciate, and I imagine I’d enjoy a conversation with the architect responsible.”
“Thank you,” said Decim. He had no other response. What kind of person commented on the aesthetics of Quindecim before questioning why they were there? Decim felt his ability to appropriately handle this case diminishing by the second, and was suddenly taken by the irrational fear of Nona storming in with a mouthful of lessons and a demotion decree. He glanced discreetly at his assistant, hoping she had picked up something he didn’t, and was more than a little annoyed to realize that she looked absolutely fascinated.
“Would you like something to drink?” she offered.
Makishima sighed. “I suppose it would be strange to order tea at a bar like yours. A glass of red wine, then.” He smiled disarmingly and extended a hand. “I don’t believe I caught your name.”
“I don’t remember,” she said, but took his hand anyway.
“Funny. I don’t, either.” His eyes twinkled as he turned her hand over in his. “But what’s in a name? ‘That which we call a rose, by any other name would smell as sweet.’”
“Shakespeare, right?” she said, casually retracting her hand and heading to the back of the bar. “I liked that play, although I didn’t think both of them had to die. It seemed a little too much to me.”
“Ah, yes – had Juliet been more patient and less consumed by blind love, perhaps she would have survived,” he mused, as she tipped plum-colored alcohol carefully into a glass. “But would she have found meaning in life without Romeo, who was doomed to begin with?”
“That’s enough small talk,” said Decim flatly. “It’s time to get serious.” Where on earth is that girl? This game is long overdue…
“That’s right.” Makishima wrapped three fingers around the stem of the wine glass, and trained his eyes on Decim. “You did look like you had something awfully important to tell me.”
“Well…” Nona, if this is a test, I fail. Just call it quits, for the love of God.
It’s not a test, he heard Nona reply. He’s a real client. Do your job.
“I’m listening,” said Makishima.
Decim gathered his thoughts. “I have one important thing to ask you before proceedings begin,” he said. “Do you remember what you were doing before you arrived here?”
Makishima took a thoughtful sip of his drink. “Vaguely,” he said.
An alarm went off in Decim’s head. Nona, he thought, panicking.
He’s bluffing, came the instant reply. He doesn’t remember. I wiped his recent memory storage clean. But I’d consider being cautious; if he feels the need to bluff about this, he either suspects something, or he’s being very crafty from the get-go. That being said, people do have different rates of memory recovery.
“What do you remember?” asked Decim.
“Well…” Makishima drew his lip inwards, recollecting. “I remember having a strange dream. I was in the middle of a small room stuffed full of human brains. The brains looked fresh out of the skull, soft and wet and stacked on top of each other. I realized I could hear sounds coming from those brains, and they were talking about me. In a fit of anger, I reached into my pocket for my razor.”
Decim was unwillingly reminded of many slit throats. If this was all made up, he sure had a vivid imagination…
“But before I could get to the brains,” continued Makishima, “they exploded, splattering me with blood and neural matter, staining my white clothes. That was where the dream ended. After that, I found myself in the elevator that led here, where I met a gentleman named Clavis, and realized that my razor had disappeared.” He paused briefly here, quietly contemplative. “I really liked that razor, and it’d be a shame if someone were to have taken it from me.”
Decim didn’t doubt that the tower staff had stripped Makishima of his weapons, as pointless as that really was. “Do you remember anything else?”
“That’s about the extent of my memory.”
There was a tense silence as Makishima brought the glass to his lips again. Decim waited almost agonizingly, but it didn’t come. There was no panic, no questioning, no attempts at escape – only a chillingly ominous calm. He looked at his assistant again, and even she now looked unsure of what to do. Decim felt oddly disappointed, and began to see a little truth in what Ginti said about the entertainment value of watching clients freak out and stumble through their ignorance.
Then he heard what sounded like hurried footsteps echoing down the hallway, and almost breathed a sigh of relief.
“Looks like you have company,” said the black-haired woman to Makishima with a little grin.
A young, small-framed brunette wearing an oversized teal jacket ran hastily towards them. “Sorry I’m late,” she panted, almost tripping on an elevated step. She took a moment to catch her breath. “Are you… Decim?”
“Yes,” said the bartender. “Welcome to Quindecim.”
“Thank god – I was told by Clavis to look for you, on the elevator. Nice to meet you. My name is – ” She halted. Her eyebrows furrowed in confusion as her memory failed her.
“Don't worry. It’s not an uncommon occurrence in these parts,” assured the woman behind the bar.
Her words came half a second too late; a pair of amber eyes had already narrowed.
“The first instance – well, I didn’t particularly mind being nameless,” said Makishima. “The second – ” he motioned to her with a brief lift of the chin – “perhaps a charming coincidence. But a third case of anomic aphasia in the exact same room?” He planted his glass onto the bar with a deliberate clink. “That gives me enough reason to be suspicious.”
Finally, Decim detected an appropriate point of entry for his spiel. “Well, now that you’re both here, I can finally explain the situation you have been placed in,” he said.
“Hitooo-tsu!” chimed in his assistant, enthused by the rolling of the familiar ball.
“I cannot tell you where you are right now.”
“Other than a bar named Quindecim,” pointed out the female guest. “I do have that much information.”
The black-haired woman ignored her. "Futaaa-tsu!"
“You will be playing a game against each other.”
“A game?” A half-smile appeared on the corner of Makishima’s pale lips, and his voice brimmed with barely contained amusement. “You’re appealing to my playful sensibilities here, Decim.”
“Don’t get too excited,” muttered Decim.
"Mittsu!"
“Your game will be decided by roulette.” The board appeared behind him effortlessly.
“Hmmm… this isn’t Club Exoset, is it?” asked the young woman. “I don’t know another place in the city where gambling hasn’t already been outlawed.”
“I do not know what you are referring to,” answered Decim, although he suspected he did.
“Gambling is a major risk factor for – ”
"Yottsu!"
“You will risk your lives in this game.”
Makishima was positively beaming. “I like this place. I'd love to participate.”
“Wait a minute! You’re not even going to ask me?” protested the young woman. “He said against each other. If I don’t want to risk my life, you don’t get to.” She shook her head in disbelief. “If this is some sort of arthouse isolation facility,” she mumbled to herself, “I wouldn’t even know what to think anymore.”
Finally, some semblance of normalcy has returned to this job, thought Decim.
"Itsutsu!"
“You cannot leave this place until the game is over and one of you has won.”
“Very well,” said Makishima. “What do you say, miss?”
“If I just refuse to play…” Her forehead was knotted in thought. “Would it be possible to claim automatic loss and concede the victory to you? I don’t mind – I’m not all that competitive.” She looked at Decim. “What would happen if I did that?”
“I would not recommend it,” said Decim gravely. “But if you want, I can show you.” The shelves behind him split apart like sliding doors, revealing his highly prized mannequin collection that he knew most people mistook for hapless defectors who were slaughtered and hung.
The young woman’s eyes widened in horror, taken by the ruse. The more perceptive Makishima looked at the mannequins curiously, and was abruptly struck by a familiarity about them, and in turn, a vivid memory:
He slams the heavy mechanical appliance down repeatedly on the android’s head, ripping through the flimsy artificial skin and crushing its skull. A green bionic fluid spills liberally from the cracks where the protective layers have given way. The cyborg’s face is now a pathetic skeleton of mangled metal, completely devoid of the humanity it had attempted to feign. Frantic eyes bulge from their naked sockets, and he hears Touma Kouzaburou beg for his life. It fills him with unspeakable contempt.
“Are you afraid of death, even after obtaining the omniscience of God?” he whispers.
He blinked, realizing that the mannequins were once again concealed, and the rest of the group was awaiting his response. Casting Decim with a steely glare, he said, “Forgive my rudeness, but I sincerely hope you aren’t another one of Sibyl’s puppets, sent to sell me on a lost cause through some bizarrely deceptive maneuver.”
Decim shook his head. “You are mistaken. Quindecim is not affiliated with the Sibyl System.”
“Not affiliated with Sibyl… do you mean we’re not in Japan?” questioned the brunette. Decim was reminded of the analytical nature of her memories. “And what do you mean, Sibyl’s puppets?” she asked Makishima, who only smirked.
“I cannot answer that,” Decim said simply.
She nodded. “I understand. My guess is that you’re a criminal, and you’ve kidnapped me and brought me where your actions will be out of range for judgment.” She took a deep breath. “I’ll play the game,” she said, eyes resolute but lower lip trembling, her opponent noted. “If you promise to answer my questions when it’s over.”
“As will I,” Makishima agreed. “If you promise not to interfere.”
Hesitantly, Decim gave his assistant the signal. The large panels in front of the players began to flash and glow, producing an almost comical sound more befitting for a game show. After a few seconds, the bottom left panel turned over clunkily, revealing a terribly drawn picture of a toy gun followed by an overly enthusiastic announcement from the black-haired woman:
“DEATH SHOOTING RANGE!”