Ikigai

By Max J.C. Lee

New Tokyo, 2051, a corporate state experiencing the best and worst of humanity where every individual is interlinked by greed or ambition. One misstep or misunderstanding can spiral out of control where the only solution can be found at the end of a smoking gun, bloody blade or a dollar bill. 

 

The unyielding Victor King leads Midas Industries, a company involved in every facet of life from war to peace. He is determined to instate the Like-For-Like Law, making crimes against androids equal to crimes against humans. Victor pulls all the strings holding the megalopolis together to achieve his goal, including its underbelly of intrigue, organised crime and terrorism. He, like many others, will do whatever it takes. 

 

Ryuu of the fading Miyamoto yakuza family fears his culture and his children being lost to corporate power and rival families. Xander Henderson uses violence and terror to manipulate others into doing unspeakable acts to bring down the corporations. However, as usual, it is often honest citizens who suffer the most. One such person is Tony Nickelsen, an augmented factory worker. He only wants to protect his family and his men but finds himself in the middle of a dangerous game.

 

Every struggle is about to come to a head and no-one, not even Victor King, will escape unscathed.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Max JC Lee
• Release date: May 18, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393316121

Book preview

2

The Psychologist

May 2051. New Tokyo, Japan.

A bolt of lightning, amongst the persistent rain, cracked across the landscape behind Isabella Campbell as she sat at her desk. Its glass surface was almost invisible to the naked eye and defined by subtle soft curves around its edges. Stacks of neatly aligned holographic images of miniature folders dominated most of her desk. While carefully organised into little flickering towers, their amount was still overwhelming to any who would dare attempt to surmount it.

It was late in the day. The rest of the building’s occupants had vanished for the evening. Their disappearance turned the skyscraper occupied by several hundred small to medium companies, including Davidson Psychology, into a peaceful maze of metal and glass. It was the only time Isabella could catch up on work. The automated vacuum cleaners, which patrolled the empty corridors and conference rooms, were the only things which could interrupt her. Along with the continuous falling of rain against glass, which welled within her a feeling of comfort and reassurance, there was no better time to be productive.

Isabella’s office was a relatively small space by current standards but as elegant and orderly as she was. A large window stood in place of a wall behind her, providing a view of over thirty-two other skyscrapers which were all within throwing distance of each other. A minute slither of the natural landscape was visible between their masses if she stood in just the right spot. Her desk was accented with matte greys and whites, which gave it a sophisticated albeit dull appearance. A dozen accompanying shelves, cabinets and storage spaces contained all the amenities one could expect of a modern office, not that you would be able to tell. Everything was hidden behind glossy opaque panels which would slide or fold away in a variety of creative directions when demanded either by touch, voice or a flick of the hand. It left fifteen items immediately visible, most of which were gathered around the centre of the office, which was its focus.

Isabella’s clients had two options, an armchair or a sofa, both of which were antiques. She would sit and listen in another armchair which, like the others, had fallen right out of the 2010s. Isabella had made a conscious effort to make the office feel as welcoming and as nonthreatening as she could. Welcoming and nonthreatening was what retro provided.

She breathed a heavy sigh as she flipped a holographic piece of paper which hovered above her desk in front of her. The image folded in on itself and neatly into a 2D folder. Isabella then dismissed it to the upper-right edge of her desk where it placed itself on top of a stack, the updated side. She looked to the left corner, the to be updated pile was still far more enormous. With a casual movement, she brought the top folder of the collection towards her. It unpacked itself immediately and spread its contents across the desk for her to read. It was a never-ending cycle of treating and more often than not reporting on her clients’ progress to their superiors. It was not unusual for certain companies to believe they knew what was affecting their employees. That, or they had some other agenda which they were never inclined to share. Politicking was not Isabella’s forte; client confidentiality was.

Isabella’s attention drew upwards at the sudden sound of knocking. She looked through the words of the holographic paper hovering in front of her to see Geoffrey Davidson standing in the doorway.

You really need to find something else to do, he said, smiling kindly.

Isabella laughed as her eyes refocused on the words. Come to encourage me to find some friends again?

Geoffrey stepped into the room. Well, it wouldn’t hurt, would it? Out of everyone in this building, you are always the last one to leave. You’re young, and you can’t spend your whole life here.

I enjoy it, and I’m thirty-two, she stated as she typed an additional note on a keyboard projected flat atop the desk.

Ah! Geoffrey said, throwing a lazy, dismissive hand in her direction. Thirty-two is young.

So is sixty-five, she retorted.

You know I keep telling myself that but I don’t think my body quite believes it, he replied. Oh look what I got for my birthday! Geoffrey pulled up his trouser legs to reveal his ankles where a series of skull and crossbones across black socks peered out.

Socks? Isabella stated, bemused. They’re not very you.

No, perhaps not, he answered, looking down at them. But they are what my grandson chose, and I quite like them, beats boring old grey ones, he added cheerfully.

If Isabella were brutally honest, she would have admitted that he looked a little older than he actually was. But he had aged rather gracefully. There was still a slimness to his stature, which she recognised from old photographs and videos. He still possessed all of his hair although it had long since turned to a silver-grey which suited him well while his features were sharp and prominent like an old English warhorse.

Geoffrey sat down comfortably in the client’s armchair across the room, clasped his hands together and watched Isabella as she worked.

Her silhouette was shadowy against its background. She possessed that space behind her desk as if it had always been meant for her. No matter how much time passed, her back remained straight and taut, bracing slender shoulders against all of her daily tasks. Each movement she made was usually snappy as if locked in one permanent setting. Her blonde hair was always tied up in a bun with no strand out of place at any time. Geoffrey would have described her features as simple, unremarkable even, but containing a perfect symmetry which crossed notions of beauty across a variety of cultures. As a boy, he had watched movies from the early days of Hollywood, where the likes of Grace Kelly and Audrey Hepburn were the centre of attention. If he could be so bold in thinking, Isabella was of similar descent. Maybe in a different life, she could have been a movie star.

After a very long pause of being absorbed in her work, Isabella looked up at Geoffrey again as he was reaching into his blazer’s inner pocket. His hand returned into the open, clutching what looked like a small pen about the length of an old fashioned credit card. It was wrapped from top to bottom in a silver reflective coating with a gold tip. Across the coat were the words Midas Industries Biomedical. Geoffrey laid his right palm facing up on his leg and placed the gold tip of the pen directly into the centre of his wrist. There was the sound of a pneumatic injector firing which caused Geoffrey to wince for a brief moment. As he removed the pen, there was a tiny red mark on his skin where the gold tip had landed.

Isabella watched every moment and pretended that she had failed to see the act. Are you still here? she asked casually.

Geoffrey smiled and let out a soft snort as he slid the pen back into his pocket. I’m not leaving until you’ve left this office, it’s almost eleven. Go home.

She quickly diverted the conversation to her actual intention. I didn’t realise you were still taking those.

I am, annoyingly. They brought me in for a check-up a week ago and told me I needed to up my dose. The new liver is working perfectly, but it seems everything else around it doesn’t like that fact much.

A look of concern spread across Isabella’s face. How many doses do they have you on now?

Four-a-day, I-

Geoffrey! Isabella quietly exclaimed, as if trying to hide her voice from the empty surroundings.

I know, I know, it’s a lot, but it really does help, he urged. It stops the nauseousness and occasional agony.

And your premiums?

Gone up, obviously. But they said it’ll only be for a couple of weeks then I’ll be able to go down to two every week again.

That’s what they said a year ago about two doses every day, that by two months in you’ll be able to get by with eight a month.

I know, Geoffrey replied knowingly.

Isabella sat back in her chair. The rain behind her was pouring down now, blanketing everything beneath it and blurring the harsh lines and vibrant illuminations of the megalopolis.

It was Geoffrey’s turn to redirect the conversation. Look, go home and get some rest, take it as an order from your boss. It’ll all be here tomorrow, trust me, and don’t worry about me, all right?

Isabella’s thoughts were still bothered by Geoffrey’s seemingly random adjustments in medication. Even so, her face eventually conceded from one of duty to acceptance.

Geoffrey waited for her to join him after she had gathered her things before speaking again. Have you been in touch with your father recently?

Isabella paused as she was putting on her coat, momentarily caught off guard by the question before continuing with the movement. Oh, Geoffrey, I was hoping you weren’t going to ask me more than four times this month.

I know it’s difficult, but you need to have some sort of contact with him, not in person, obviously, but just the odd message or two. I know he loves you and that you love him. It’s-

"I don’t love him. I am not his daughter. You know what kind of man he is, so please stop asking."

Geoffrey had hit a nerve, and he knew it. It pained him to see her like that, her voice would alter, and her posture devolve. Okay, I’m sorry I asked, he paused. Get home safe?

An apologetic smile returned to Isabella’s face, and she touched him on the shoulder. I’m sorry, and I will thank you. I’ll see you tomorrow.

Geoffrey nodded and together they hesitated before each other in a moment of farewell.

Begin sleep cycle, Isabella stated, projecting her voice around the room.

Beginning cycle, a woman’s voice echoed in response, almost human but still clearly a machine, the cadence reflecting that of a slightly older generation of voice assistants.

Blinds began to descend from within the ceiling and consumed the glass of the window inch after inch. Lights from within several strategically placed panels flicked off instantaneously, plunging the space into shadow accompanied by a faint orange and red tinge cast by one of the neighbouring skyscraper’s billboards.

Good evening, Miss Campbell, continued the woman’s voice.

Isabella made her way down the corridor, carefully stepping over the odd cleaning robot or two which hovered along the floor. She boarded the familiar elevator at the end, made more from glass than metal, and rapidly descended the fifty-four floors to Street Level Zero, or S0 as it was often referred to in mapping programs.

This peculiar naming system was due to the increasing development Tokyo had seen in the past thirty or so years, now formally known as New Tokyo. Streets and roads now often had three layers, sometimes four. Street Level Zero was the original surface level. Street Level One or S1 was one above and Street Level N-One or SN1, and N-Two or SN2 and so on were the levels below. While the lower levels were below the surface, they were often well exposed for ventilation purposes. This resulted in large vertical drops between the skyscrapers and Street Level Zero and Street Level One, granting daunting semi-subterranean commercial vistas.

Isabella extended her umbrella as she left the safety of the glass skyscraper and ventured across the wide but short bridge which connected the building to the street over the ventilation chasms either side. Her office was located right in the middle of New Tokyo. So much so that when she stepped outside, she was immediately on what had become nicknamed the Boardwalk. A vast construction project which saw just over ten per cent of Tokyo demolished to accommodate its development. It linked every major district of New Tokyo with a ten-lane roadway and three eight-metre wide pedestrian walkways. Artificial trees with imitation leaves which were twenty-five per cent more efficient at converting carbon dioxide to oxygen than organic ones lined the centre of the walkways. These three walkways were the main arteries for anyone not using a vehicle — a central walkway connected up to a four-track maglev railway system suspended over the roadway with stations spaced at regular intervals. Finally, there were large elevators which zipped people up and down to the upper and lower street levels.

Even at eleven at night it was awash with people and vehicles. All of them had a reason to be out this late, and most were heading home from skyscrapers exactly like Isabella’s. Additionally, like Isabella, their primary mode of transport home was the maglev.

It still somewhat surprised her that whenever she looked at the faces of the crowd that it was always distinctly varied and mixed. There were people from all over the world here in New Tokyo, many different faces, different races and creeds. Partly because of the mass influx of people who joined the city with the arrival of the powerful TechFive. It brought citizens looking to work for them, work with them or set up their small businesses alongside them as Geoffrey did.

Isabella joined the stream of people under umbrellas as they all hurried in the same direction. The rain had picked up significantly now and drenched everything. Images from hundreds of familiar signs and illuminations which hung from every available space reflected in the water as crude interpretations. As far as she knew, they never turned off. They repeated their sales pitch, campaign pledge, lobby or news story every second of every day without fail.

The rain and water always changed the noise the city made. The vehicles, whose engines were utterly silent and only generated sound with their tires against the asphalt, evolved into one continuous splash as they hummed past. Nearly all were automated and usually one or two-seaters, taking up the least amount of space possible on the road and rarely stopping. Single seater ‘pod’ taxis zipped past in herds, gathering together as part of their design to be as efficient as possible. They, in turn, were followed closely by smaller packs of cheerful automated delivery trucks no taller than one’s knees or waist. The majority of New Tokyo’s citizens used them, and they would carry all sorts of things from groceries to consumer purchases to sensitive documents. Those who could afford the faster aerial drones used those instead.

One of the pod taxies sent a small wave of water up at Isabella as she continued to hurry to the maglev. The usual chatter of people and billboards was dampened, thankfully, by the rushing pitter-patter of rain on the tops of umbrellas.

Part one of getting home was a matter of negotiating one of the crossings in the road to the central walkway, getting onto the maglev platform and then finding a reasonable spot to stand. That would be the majority of the battle done.

Isabella pulled her raincoat in around her waist as she ascended the bridge shoulder to shoulder with hundreds of other people as lightning cracked across the sky once more. Its intrusive light barely made it past the layers of towering structures or interfered with the incessant glow and flashes from the billboards overhead. New Tokyo never tired, and it never stopped.

3

The Journalist

Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking. We are on our final approach to New Tokyo International, and we’ll be landing in about fifteen minutes. It is currently 08:14 am local time.

Anthony Russell sat up in his seat, the announcement bringing his tired mind around from a doze. A soul which had sought much from the world and desired to find every story worth telling. He reached for the window shade as the cabin momentarily vibrated which signalled that the engines dialling back. Sunlight danced across the plane’s arched wing before pouring into the cabin of the one thousand one hundred seater Midas Industries Albatross Class passenger aircraft. Anthony remembered the first time he had seen it, he had covered its unveiling and launch back in New York and written an extensive article for The New York Globe. Even today, he remembered the way its design had caught the imagination of the public.

Through the ages, we had always compared an aircraft’s wings to those of a bird. But no plane had emulated the definition of that form as it was in nature until the Albatross Class. Its wings began at the bottom of the fuselage and arched upwards as they spanned outwards. At the halfway point the arch crested and then curved back down again towards the tip.

Before its unveiling, rumours spread that the wings might also actively change shape. When it finally sat on the tarmac for the first time, everyone watched in awe as the wings shifted from straight to arched, demonstrating its ability to do so during flight.

Writing about the Albatross was one of the few technology-related pieces Anthony had actually enjoyed. He remembered the moment he knew he had been relegated to the poor excuse of journalism. It came when Anthony had completed a piece about some celebrity’s dog’s eating habits. He would not have wished the tragedy of reading it upon anyone. The New York Globe used to stand for something when it was revived in 2025 and the two or so decades of technological advancement which followed. It was what inspired Anthony to become a journalist in the first place. Funny how a name can stay the same, but the perception of it can change in a moment of realisation. New York had become full of journalists just like him covering news stories which did not matter about people who did not matter. It had been time to leave, and he decided he would join in on the highly debated phenomenon which was happening on the other side of the world.

Anthony squinted into the light through heavy eyes set into a face which had little unique about it besides its honest appearance. He both loathed and thanked it, it had allowed him access to a story on more than one occasion and perhaps a relationship or two when he had little else to offer. But he could tell that he was fast approaching the age where his honest features were getting countered. Frown lines across his forehead were starting to find permanence where they formed, and the hint of weight about his jaw and chin had begun to take hold. They certainly did not carry the same charm as the weight on your cheeks.

The morning mist outside the window of the descending aircraft began to clear to reveal the city Anthony hoped would be his break.

The tops of its glass and metal skyscrapers were the first to greet him, their highest floors always above the mist and clouds. Then New Tokyo harbour and its glistening waters melted into view dotted intensely by ocean liners and cargo carriers. They either waited patiently or dozens of cranes and drones swarmed them at one of eight different but almost identical ports built directly into a vast waterfront wall. The wall stretched all along the coast in either direction and into the distance. It served as a constant reminder of the rising sea levels. Even though much had been done to counter the effect of climate change, it still proved to be a thorn in humanity’s side. Behind the ports and waterfront wall was where the megalopolis shot upwards. A dominant main road snaked its way around the skyscrapers traced by maglev lines until they were no longer within sight. From the vantage point of a plane, one could see how different modern-day New Tokyo was when compared to pictures taken at the turn of the twenty-first century, which they never failed to parade around. While it was considered one of the big industrialised and technologically advanced cities of its time then, it was nothing when juxtaposed to now. The landscape was dominated entirely by buildings of at least sixty stories or higher. Its maglevs, ports and superhighways were its new arteries and connections to the outside world. Entire wards had been specialised, deemed as residential, industrial or commercial. Where they had run out of space above they had dug down. Whole city blocks had been shifted with giant movers to form neatly gridded streets, what they could not move or would not move they simply demolished. There was nothing that existed for no reason. This labyrinth of a megacity also spilt into the surrounding area, consuming mountains and forests in the far distance and absorbing neighbouring towns which became its sub-districts and manufacturing complexes which collectively made up New Tokyo. All of this thanks to the political and technical gumption of a group known as the TechFive.

At the turn of 2020, a proposal was put forward by five rapidly advancing technology companies. The proposition came at a time when Japan was feeling the pressure from other world and neighbouring economies as well as national concerns. Its population was ageing rapidly and set to decrease year on year, suicide rates were on the rise and outside investment was going elsewhere. A run of mediocre political leaders only helped to compound the problem. It could feel itself being left behind, and it had to think, radically. The answer came in the form of the TechFive who put forward the idea of moving their headquarters to the various wards of Tokyo in exchange for zero construction restrictions or limits on research and development programs. Japan would get a permanent economic and workforce boost while the TechFive would gain an unregulated playground.

Of course, it only took a few years for it to escape the control of the Japanese government; the bureaucrats were outplayed by the ambitious. Through clever legal wording and capitalising on political desperation, the TechFive gained governing control of Tokyo’s twenty-three inner or special wards and the twenty-six western wards. In the following thirty-one years and using the existing ward organisation, they turned the city of Tokyo into a business. They redeveloped the twenty-three inner wards surrounding Tokyo harbour into the vast web of skyscrapers it was today housing the world’s best and brightest. In turn, they relegated the other western wards to storage, huge manufacturing complexes and residential housing for those who could not afford the incredible cost of the inner wards. When combined, New Tokyo was able to match the manufacturing capacity of any global superpower.

Depending on who you talked to, the takeover was either a good or a bad thing. New Tokyo became the symbol of resistance against global government control, the last sanctuary of free trade run by businesses for businesses. Where anyone could come and make something of themselves, under the guidance of the TechFive.

Ninety-five per cent of the city was now owned by the TechFive, from its ports to its health and education systems. What one corporation could not buy by itself was bought collectively by all five who put aside their constant legal battles and pooled their financial, legal and intellectual muscle to make it happen. The enemy of my enemy is my friend, is how the saying goes.

While rightly criticised, the effect of what became known as the New Tokyo Proposition saw an explosion in progress. In the worlds of robotics, medicine, transportation technology, aerospace, even the colonisation of mars saw bounding leaps forward, and the city enjoys a higher life expectancy of two per cent above the global average. That last part remains contested.

However, with extraordinary progress came instability and violence. Gang attacks, corporate espionage, corruption, assassinations of government officials and high ranking corporate assignees, as well as police violence, frequented the headlines daily. Altogether it meant that the megalopolis state had been under curfew eighteen times in its young history.

The thirty-one years of New Tokyo’s development is still a topic of study amongst academics who try to quantify the benefits versus the drawbacks.

As far as Anthony was concerned, this was the last place on earth where there was something new happening every day, stories worth telling, events that could change the world. It did not matter that the news company he had been offered a job at was a subsidiary of Midas Industries, the largest of the TechFive and the designers of the very plane he was flying in. Although they had paid to put him in business class, which was peculiar, it was a bonus nonetheless.

Midas Industries was closely followed by Hills Commercial Solutions, Torren Robotics, Bluesky Multinational and Vlatten International. Their headquarters ranged from being the tallest buildings in the city to multi-structure behemoths in the case of Midas Industries. Each one occupied most of a single inner ward and proudly displayed their logos to any arriving traveller and were visible to Anthony as his plane made its landing.

This is going to be the start of something better, Anthony whispered to himself.

His attention was caught by a man who sat in the seat next to him.

A metallic prosthetic arm shifted back and forth as a machine hand rummaged around alongside an organic partner inside a small leather wash bag.

Anthony could see a small bead of sweat forming near the hairline of the man who owned them.

A small slither of chrome on the floor by the man’s feet caught Anthony’s attention. It was labelled Midas Industries Biomedical. Hey, I think you dropped what you’re looking for by your feet.

The man looked up from the wash bag and then down at his feet. Relief spread across his face as he saw the chrome which gleamed up at him. He reached down with his prosthesis and picked up the pen without hesitation or trouble and placed its gold tip in the centre of his right hand’s organic wrist in one uninterrupted motion. The man sighed heavily as the pneumatic mechanism fired quietly. Thank you, friend, he said as he offered an open hand to Anthony. Name’s Matthew.

Anthony shook Matthew’s hand, a man who he had sat next to for the past eleven hours without sharing a single word. All that remained of the encounter was a tiny red mark visible on Matthew’s wrist. They would not be together much longer to become acquainted with last names.

The card reader accepted the keycard which Anthony had picked up from the airport, and the door slid open effortlessly. He had managed to find his way from the airport, through the central wards to the western ward of Hachiōji on the border of New Tokyo. It was the only area he could just about afford to rent. His new employers, the New Tokyo Herald, had organised everything for him from the moment they had offered him the job. They booked his business class ticket on the next available flight, found an apartment, one which fit his budget, left the keycard in a personal storage container at the airport and even paid for the maglev train card. If only they had covered the rent too.

Anthony stood in the doorway of his new apartment in disbelief.

It was small, small perhaps being an inadequate description, it was tiny. Anthony had never seen anything quite like it, small enough for a cat to be comfortable, wide enough to lie down one way but not the other. The bed itself already consumed a third of the space. The rest was taken up by a desk and chair which unfolded from the wall. There was a small electric stove permanently fixed into the wall next to a square kettle which could be fit flush leaving only an odd protruding handle visible. Finally, at the other end of the apartment, there was a circular floor to ceiling window which became see through the moment the door slid aside.

Perhaps it was cheaper to build one wall out of glass instead of prefabricated metal? Anthony thought.

It provided a view of several hundred other identical apartments opposite, each one a little microcosm of human existence. All appeared to be constructed from a single set design and slotted together on site. Anthony placed his hand against the glass window. It wasn’t glass but instead a kind of plastic, minutely flexible under some pressure.

Definitely cheaper than metal.

Anthony now understood why Hachiōji had received the nickname ‘Little Pod Ward’. It will have to do, for now, this will be home.

4

The Princely Brothers

Kento stepped out of the black car which made up one of the two vehicles of a modest convoy, having arrived at the destination. He had on a simple black suit which made him almost indistinguishable from the other men who accompanied him. They had arrived at an unassuming building located in the outer residential ward of Akiruno, out of the way of the main transport routes into the city. Even though it was one of the wards furthest away from central New Tokyo, every inch had seen development, and buildings were squeezed in alongside each other. The state of development was often casually measured on the average height of the buildings above and below Street Level Zero. Akiruno had an average height of two hundred metres above Street Level Zero and eighty below.

Kento and his men had arrived at what was a rather small building with a crude facade where the buildings either side drew the eye more. In this megalopolis, privacy and isolation were expensive luxuries, but curiously, the tall residential structures on the building’s flanks had no windows which overlooked it directly.

He loathed having to come here.

A set of metal gates slid aside, and a gleaming gold car revealed itself as it sat silently in the corner of the courtyard. It was a hideous thing, an embarrassment to the family.

Brother!

Kento looked up from the car to see Kenji who threw his arms out wide in a receptive gesture while being flanked by casually dressed men carrying automatic rifles with loose fingers. The two embraced each other, but Kento did not return the same enthusiastic greeting.

You look well, you keep putting on weight, Kenji joked.

Kenji’s words were playful and brash, the complete opposite of Kento who had always been the reserved brother.

You look like you’re going to a funeral, Kenji said as he tugged lightly at Kento’s tailored suit with heavily ringed fingers. He gestured to himself and his reflective red shirt with the top three buttons undone and half-tucked into a pair of white chinos. Relax!

The pale blue skin of a snake was just about visible, tattooed across Kenji’s chest where it wound its way beneath a gaudy gold chain. Kento recognised a small jade token hanging from it. It was the shape of an oculus, a circle with a hole in the centre and small enough to fit snug in a closed hand. Their father Ryuu had given one to each of the three siblings, including Kento and Kenji, the day they were born. It was a token for each of the immediate family, and they wore them religiously. The one which belonged to their mother was buried with her.

Kento was pleased that Kenji had continued to wear it, even if it was attached to such a hideous necklace. Why did you call me here? he asked.

I have a gift. Kenji threw his arm around Kento’s shoulders and pulled him towards the building. Come see.

One of Kenji’s men opened a steel door deep within the building. It revealed a darkened room draped in shadow and dry as a bone. Kento followed Kenji in, and the door clanged shut behind them.

Time to wake up, Kenji said slyly.

Harsh light flashed into the space.

A naked man sat in a heap against the room’s far wall with his hands tied behind his back. Dried blood covered a bruised face, and most of the man’s chest and thighs.

Kento took a moment to adjust, more to the light than the blood and smell. What is this Kenji?

This guy is the scumbag who stole from us.

What did he steal?

Kenji smiled. Does it really matter?

Kento walked calmly towards the man and pushed his head to one side. His neck revealed a small tattooed head of a foo dog with a flaming mane and red eyes.

This is an Amari. Kento turned to face Kenji. "What did he steal Kenji?"

Kenji could see that his brother was displeased. I thought you’d be on board with this. I kept him for us to bring him to our father.

Kento flinched at the words and the suggestion. "You wanted to bring an Amari before father? You still haven’t told me what he did! Do you even understand what this could mean for the family if your action was unwarranted?"

I told him, spat the man through the blood.

Kento turned back to the man and saw his angry eyes looking up at him.

But your brother is too stupid to know better.

I think you’re getting soft brother, Kenji whispered as he arrived at Kento’s side.

Kento starred at his brother for a moment before he grabbed the bloodied man by his long stringy hair and punched him across the face. Blood sprayed across the floor and dripped from Kento’s fist as he withdrew his hand from the single blow.

With his face unchanged, he pointed an accusing finger, held close to his chest, at his brother. Do not doubt me, Kenji.

Kenji raised his hands and laughed, but its conviction was dampened by its briefness.

I’ll ask again, Kento repeated. Is there a reason why you took him?

Silence. His brother offered no reply, only an overconfident smile.

Kento stepped forward into Kenji. Clean this shit up, patch him, put his damn clothes back on and send him back to wherever you found him. Do it now.

The sunlight was reassuring as Kento freed himself from the confines of his brother’s safe house. He was not afraid of violence, but he despised it if it was not necessary, mainly if it caused more problems than it solved. Kenji was reckless, and this was just the latest of a long string of antics which put the family in more danger with every occurrence.

It had only ever been a rumour that the Amari family had been responsible for the assassination attempt on their father years ago and the indirect death of their mother. But Hiroshi Amari had been to the funeral and every anniversary gathering and event since. Rumours were just that, unproven possibilities.

Kento put it out of his mind and produced a slim metal case from the inside pocket of his suit jacket and retrieved a cigarette. French cigarettes, it was the only luxury he allowed himself to have. He lit one and breathed deeply, feeling the smoke as it filled his lungs and relieved him.

As he exhaled, he could not help but let the golden car catch and hold his gaze.

This is unacceptable, Kento thought. He needed to consult his mentor. However, Kento already knew his father was not going to be happy, this was going to be the last straw.

5

The Rising King

2035.

Victor King walked steadily through the mud flanked by the men who he trusted with his life and had been instructed to not let him stop for any reason. Shake hands, hand out water and give your wishes, but do not stop.

The heat and humidity soaked his loose white shirt with sweat. It clung to his tall and thin twenty-six-year-old frame which moved like that of one ten years older. He had to learn quickly after the death of his father, and the weight of responsibility was heavy. Thousands of tents surrounded Victor and people seemed to appear from their openings in a never-ending stream of desperate humanity. Never had he seen such pain and suffering yet felt there was so little that he could do to