![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Title: Tsukumogami (The Subtle Knife Remix)
Fandom: Joker Game
Rating: 12
Summary: The men of the D Agency have learned that every last fragment of their identities is disposable, including their souls. But are true monsters made, or born? [Alternative Universe - Daemon AU]
Notes: This story is a remix of![[archiveofourown.org profile]](https://p.dreamwidth.org/b164c54b26e4/-/archiveofourown.org/favicon.ico)
makiyakinabe's tools of the trade, written for Remix Revival 2017. (Also on AO3.)
The first section of this work contains a heavy fixation on knives and cutting (in a magical and not necessarily literal self-harming sense) which may affect those who are sensitive to such things. Reader discretion is advised. Additional notes are at the end.
Tsukumogami (The Subtle Knife Remix)
It starts with an exercise of the imagination.
Imagine that you are looking at a small table, covered with a square of old kimono silk. On top of the silk is a slender knife with a plain wooden handle -- a simple yanagiba, meant for cutting thin slices of fish. The wood is worn smooth and glossy from countless hours of handling; the honed blade glints dully in the dim light.
Focus on the knife, letting your eye trace its shape from end to end. Take your time, study the contrast between the steel and the wood. Consider how the blade is fitted to the handle, still tight and secure in spite of the hard use the knife has been subjected to since its creation. Now think of what it would feel like to pick up the knife, to hold its weight in your hand and find the right spot on the handle for it to rest perfectly balanced in your grip. And then think of what it would feel like to hold the knife up before your eyes and run the pad of your thumb lightly along the sharpened edge, putting just enough pressure on it to feel the point at which the blade would threaten to break the skin.
Yet all this time, the knife has remained on the table, resting on the square of silk. And just when you think that there is nothing else for you to look at, or contemplate -- for it is just a simple kitchen knife, after all -- a voice breaks your silent concentration.
This knife is very old, the voice says, speaking close to your ear. A quiet voice, familiar but strangely unplaceable. Perhaps as a child, you were told that an object that existed long enough to reach a certain age would become self-aware -- gaining the power to think and feel and understand. A reward for its tireless and dedicated service, in a sense. Or perhaps a reflection of the care that was given to it to allow it to reach such an old age. It is not so hard to imagine that this knife is old enough to have received such a reward...to have become one of those special objects blessed with a life of its own.
You have not moved, but suddenly the knife that had been on the table is right there in your hand. The solid wood of the handle, cool and firm to the touch against your fingers and palm. The sturdy metal of the blade, now close enough for you to see how the whetstone has marked it time and time again.
Such a knife, of course, would be more than a mere tool, the voice informs you, calm and rational and matter-of-fact. It thinks, it feels, it understands. Not so different from the fish that have gasped out their last breaths under the point of this humble instrument; they, too, were able to think and feel and understand in their own simple, animal way. And perhaps that is where the power of this knife truly lies.
The heat of your hand has warmed the wood. The angle of your wrist makes the light slide along the blade, drawing your gaze inexorably to the cutting edge.
For every life that it has taken -- more lives than the sword of even the greatest warrior of old -- has imbued this blade with a fragment of its existence. Fragment upon fragment, life upon life, absorbed by wood and metal. Until the wood and metal can hold no more within their rude elements, and its power must be released. The voice falls silent, but only for a moment, and then its next words are oddly contemplative. Yet for all of its age and power, it is still a knife -- and a knife is made for one purpose, and one purpose only.
Although you have not moved, and the knife is still in your hand, you hear a soft, scraping sound from very close by. The slither of metal against stone makes your skin itch, makes the hair on the back of your neck prickle with some unspeakable sensation.
Skin from flesh. Breath from body. Life from death. The crudest, dullest blade might achieve that much. A touch of amusement, lilting and cruel, slips into the voice. But with the fragments of a hundred thousand lives in this blade, what else might it be made to sever?
You hear another scrape, and another, and another. The sound grows angular, thinner, sharper, the repetitions as much felt as heard.
Would you like to find out?
(scrape, and scrape, and scrape)
Would you like to see for yourself?
(scrape, and s c r a p e, and s c r a p e)
Would you like to --
'That's not possible!'
Sakuma's voice, real and loud, rends the room like a thunderclap. At his side, a cold wet nose brushes his clenched fist, as Ichiko seeks both to ease the tightly wound tension in his body and to demand reassurance from him in turn in the face of the unbearable idea that has been placed in front of them. The brief connection between himself and his rei is a comfort as always, but Sakuma knows that Ichiko is even more ill at ease in this room than he is.
Seven of the D Agency's eight elite spies, scattered about the common room in their usual genteel tableau of leisure pursuits, are observing the scene with near-identical expressions of mild, polite interest. They might be watching a game of go or a round of billiards; dispassionate bystanders to a man. The eighth -- the cause, and target, of Sakuma's outburst -- blinks with faint bemusement at the violent reaction to his words.
'What isn't possible, Sakuma-san?' Miyoshi says. On the lapel of his suit jacket, his rei Suzuran flutters her jewel-like wings, as a lady might smooth her kimono or skirts to regain her sense of propriety in the face of a man's offensive crassness. Miyoshi barely seems to notice the dragonfly's movement, which makes Sakuma grit his teeth all the more.
'Your exercise of the imagination,' he growls. He manages to unclench his fist enough to rest a hand on Ichiko's head, letting the familiar calming warmth of his rei's soft fur ground him against the words that have made him almost light-headed with revulsion. 'You cannot convince me that such...such an abomination could be done as you suggest.'
Miyoshi's mouth quirks. 'Abomination is a strong word, Sakuma-san. Especially for something that is purely a thought experiment.' As he speaks, Suzuran creeps up his lapel, finally coming to rest on his shirt collar like an ornamental pin. 'Though I confess that I fail to see why you find it so disconcerting.'
It takes most of Sakuma's self-control to avoid snarling at the infuriating man. Only an awareness of their audience, human and rei alike, forces him to stand his ground instead of allowing Ichiko's raised hackles to show how unnerved this conversation has made him.
The other spies, and their rei, are still watching the four of them. Odagiri has given his shoulder to the black-winged and beady-eyed Yuriko, the crow's glossy feathers looking as sleek and smooth as his own hair in the evening lamplight. Amari is leaning against the billiards table, cue and chalk momentarily forgotten, as the tanuki Ayame peers out from the shelter of the table's massive frame. Kaminaga has let his hand fall away from the chess board that he and Miyoshi had been playing upon earlier, but has chosen to rest it on the arm of his chair so that he will not disturb Momoka, curled up in his lap as if she were merely a pet cat. Fukumoto, also seated, has stretched his long legs out in front of him, as if to make Noe's spindly heron legs seem shorter by comparison. Coiled around Hatano's forearm, Hana tests the air with her forked tongue and tilts her head to obtain a better view. Murasaki, sleek and white in spite of her name, looks like a rich woman's ermine accessory around Jitsui's neck. And Kureha may share a certain sisterhood with his Ichiko, but Sakuma has never seen a dachshund bare its teeth in such a mocking smile from where she sits at Tazaki's feet.
Eight spies. Everything about them, from their names to their smiles, is as false as a forged passport. Like professional actors, they are comfortable slipping into whatever role they are expected to play; after all, they have been trained to think of their identities as disposable, as easily changed and discarded as a necktie or a pair of gloves. Sakuma did not doubt that these men, the D Agency's hand-picked elite, would go to the greatest of extremes if the mission demanded it: to shave off all of their hair, to disfigure themselves with razors or acid, perhaps even to sacrifice a hand or an eye --
(unbidden, the thought of Lieutenant Colonel Yuuki's cold and unfathomable gaze surfaces in his mind, and he suppresses a shudder)
-- but there are limits beyond which he simply cannot comprehend.
How can it be that not a day before, the rei perched on Miyoshi's person was not Suzuran, but Yuriko -- who is now so seemingly at home on Odagiri's shoulder? The very same Yuriko who had placidly preened her feathers beside Fukumoto as he put the finishing touches on the noon meal the day before yesterday...and who, as they all prepared to sit down to eat, had made a nasty feint at dive-bombing his Ichiko before coming to rest on the back of Amari's chair?
How is it possible that these eight men seem to have a different rei beside them every time he sees them, as if not even their souls are their own?
'Those men are monsters,' Ichiko had grumbled for his ears alone, as she groomed the fur that Yuriko had ruffled in her pretend-attack. It had been hard for Sakuma to think clearly in the face of the hatred and fear roiling off of her. 'Can't you feel it? That lack of connection, that void where their hearts should be? And the demons they call rei are even more -- '
At the time, Sakuma had hushed her with a touch of his hand. He could understand Ichiko's deep unease, but that was still no excuse for her to sink to the spies' improprieties. To even speak of another person's rei so directly, let alone with such informality, was a grave breach of politeness. Even the most backward child knew that the more distant and discreet rei no katachi -- that shape -- was the only proper way to refer to another person's rei if there was no way to avoid it. And yet now here he was, thinking and even talking so freely about something so utterly taboo that he scarcely had words to describe it.
'I do not suffer from anything,' he declares stubbornly, at last. 'I merely object to your insult to my intelligence. You expect me to believe in some nonexistent magical kitchen knife that holds a power so impossible that it can cleave our very existence in twain?'
The whole notion is nothing short of absurd. He could no more think to sever himself from Ichiko than he could contemplate deliberately cutting off his own hand to give it to another person as a replacement for a missing one. Ichiko had settled into her four-legged canine shape from an early age, gamboling beside him like the eager puppy she had been as he grew from a toddling child to a running boy. She had accepted her final form long before he was old enough to enter the military academy, and had been as delighted as Sakuma was to find so many of her kind there. The thought of her submitting to another man's touches and caresses made him feel sick and violent by turns, just as he could tell that the thought of him seeking anything akin to their bond in another man's rei made Ichiko want to scratch off her own skin.
Miyoshi, damn the man, is quick to reply to his scoffing.
'How interesting that you use the word cleave, Sakuma-san,' he says. 'In English, the verb to cleave has two meanings. It can mean to sever, as in to cleave with a knife.' On his lapel, Suzuran remains calm and still even as Miyoshi brings his hands up incorporate gestures to his explanation, turning a hand on its side and bringing the edge down against his open palm. 'But it may also mean to bring together as one, as the Christians say when they speak of how a man shall cleave to his wife, and they shall become one flesh.' He touches his hands together lightly, palm to palm, as if he were praying before a shrine. The slight smile has never left his face throughout.
'I don't need an English lesson.' Sakuma's gaze narrows. 'I know what I see. And none of what you say makes any sense.'
'Sakuma-san,' Odagiri says, breaking into the conversation for the first time, 'is there a point to your line of questioning?'
Sakuma's breath catches, his tongue suddenly feeling heavy and thick, because what is the point of this? What does he gain from running after their riddles, chasing the enigma that lies behind Miyoshi's description of the impossible knife? He has learned some of the secrets of their trade, from seduction to safecracking, during his time observing the D Agency's brutal selection process, but he is not like them. He has not given up his heart, or embraced that void that Ichiko had spoken of. And yet --
'If I am to work with you,' he says slowly, scanning the faces arrayed around him before returning to Miyoshi, 'then I should at least understand something of the nature of your craft, correct? And if you say' -- a lifetime of training and instinctive politeness makes the next words stick in his throat like a sliver of glass -- 'that Suzuran is no more your rei than Yuriko or Ayame or Momoka or any of the others are, then what purpose do they serve?' He can feel Ichiko tense up at his side, but he's too far gone in this to hear the profanity for what it is.
Silence, for a thin, fragile moment. But before Miyoshi or any of the other spies can answer, another voice cuts through the shivering stillness of the room:
'The hour is late, gentlemen.'
Sakuma all but whirls round, spine stiffening as he bolts to attention. Lieutenant Colonel Yuuki's solid frame occupies the open door, as if he had been present for the entire conversation.
To a man, the spies who had been sitting rise to their feet. Those who had been standing lay aside their games and pastimes. And without a word, they and their rei make their way to the door, as Yuuki steps forward into the room to let them pass through. Miyoshi and Suzuran are the last to leave, with a nod to Yuuki and a parting smile for Sakuma that is equal parts pleasant and pitying.
'Sir, I -- ' Sakuma begins, once Miyoshi has vanished into the darkness of the corridor, but Yuuki's forbidding stare quells whatever protest or plea he had been about to make.
'I advise you to let the matter rest, Lieutenant.' Quiet and calm as his voice is, it nonetheless carries more finality than a bullet finding its target. 'That path is not yours to take. Do I make myself clear?'
None of this is clear, is sitting behind Sakuma's lips, a jumble of syllables wedged between his teeth. Instead he swallows, and nods.
It is one thing to question the impossible. It is another thing to dwell for too long on the unthinkable...and perhaps that, as much as anything, is the true source of the dread that seeps into the marrow of Sakuma's bones whenever he and Ichiko are alone in the presence of their commander for any length of time. Because they are alone, in the most abhorrent sense of the word.
(Would you like to find out?)
The demon lord of D Agency has no rei of his own.
(Would you like to see for yourself?)
And Sakuma can think only of a simple kitchen knife on its silken bed, and how deep such a knife would have to cut to do away with a man's soul entirely.
Notes
To move away from the His Dark Materials Christianity-based construction of daemons, I have used the word rei (written as 霊, in the sense of soul or spirit) as an equivalent term. The phrase rei no katachi (that shape, written as 例の形) is therefore the polite way to speak about a daemon, alluding to something that both the speaker and the listener know about but for whatever reason do not wish to discuss or mention directly. It is similar, in a way, to how the Japanese translations of the Harry Potter books use the phrase rei no ano hito (written as 例のあの人) to mean 'You Know Who' or 'He Who Must Not Be Named'.
I suppose it's for the best that this story does not contain the extra thousand words of Sakuma and Miyoshi obliquely sniping at each other over how the eight spies sharing rei is a perfect metaphor of the Japanese imperialist slogan hakkou ichiu (八紘一宇), an expression used to justify the Greater East Asia expansionism. Considering that the slogan really only became publicly popular a few years after this fic is set, I ended up trimming the conversation out...but I think the story works well enough without it.
Return to the Master List
Fandom: Joker Game
Rating: 12
Summary: The men of the D Agency have learned that every last fragment of their identities is disposable, including their souls. But are true monsters made, or born? [Alternative Universe - Daemon AU]
Notes: This story is a remix of
The first section of this work contains a heavy fixation on knives and cutting (in a magical and not necessarily literal self-harming sense) which may affect those who are sensitive to such things. Reader discretion is advised. Additional notes are at the end.
Tsukumogami (The Subtle Knife Remix)
It starts with an exercise of the imagination.
Imagine that you are looking at a small table, covered with a square of old kimono silk. On top of the silk is a slender knife with a plain wooden handle -- a simple yanagiba, meant for cutting thin slices of fish. The wood is worn smooth and glossy from countless hours of handling; the honed blade glints dully in the dim light.
Focus on the knife, letting your eye trace its shape from end to end. Take your time, study the contrast between the steel and the wood. Consider how the blade is fitted to the handle, still tight and secure in spite of the hard use the knife has been subjected to since its creation. Now think of what it would feel like to pick up the knife, to hold its weight in your hand and find the right spot on the handle for it to rest perfectly balanced in your grip. And then think of what it would feel like to hold the knife up before your eyes and run the pad of your thumb lightly along the sharpened edge, putting just enough pressure on it to feel the point at which the blade would threaten to break the skin.
Yet all this time, the knife has remained on the table, resting on the square of silk. And just when you think that there is nothing else for you to look at, or contemplate -- for it is just a simple kitchen knife, after all -- a voice breaks your silent concentration.
This knife is very old, the voice says, speaking close to your ear. A quiet voice, familiar but strangely unplaceable. Perhaps as a child, you were told that an object that existed long enough to reach a certain age would become self-aware -- gaining the power to think and feel and understand. A reward for its tireless and dedicated service, in a sense. Or perhaps a reflection of the care that was given to it to allow it to reach such an old age. It is not so hard to imagine that this knife is old enough to have received such a reward...to have become one of those special objects blessed with a life of its own.
You have not moved, but suddenly the knife that had been on the table is right there in your hand. The solid wood of the handle, cool and firm to the touch against your fingers and palm. The sturdy metal of the blade, now close enough for you to see how the whetstone has marked it time and time again.
Such a knife, of course, would be more than a mere tool, the voice informs you, calm and rational and matter-of-fact. It thinks, it feels, it understands. Not so different from the fish that have gasped out their last breaths under the point of this humble instrument; they, too, were able to think and feel and understand in their own simple, animal way. And perhaps that is where the power of this knife truly lies.
The heat of your hand has warmed the wood. The angle of your wrist makes the light slide along the blade, drawing your gaze inexorably to the cutting edge.
For every life that it has taken -- more lives than the sword of even the greatest warrior of old -- has imbued this blade with a fragment of its existence. Fragment upon fragment, life upon life, absorbed by wood and metal. Until the wood and metal can hold no more within their rude elements, and its power must be released. The voice falls silent, but only for a moment, and then its next words are oddly contemplative. Yet for all of its age and power, it is still a knife -- and a knife is made for one purpose, and one purpose only.
Although you have not moved, and the knife is still in your hand, you hear a soft, scraping sound from very close by. The slither of metal against stone makes your skin itch, makes the hair on the back of your neck prickle with some unspeakable sensation.
Skin from flesh. Breath from body. Life from death. The crudest, dullest blade might achieve that much. A touch of amusement, lilting and cruel, slips into the voice. But with the fragments of a hundred thousand lives in this blade, what else might it be made to sever?
You hear another scrape, and another, and another. The sound grows angular, thinner, sharper, the repetitions as much felt as heard.
Would you like to find out?
(scrape, and scrape, and scrape)
Would you like to see for yourself?
(scrape, and s c r a p e, and s c r a p e)
Would you like to --
'That's not possible!'
Sakuma's voice, real and loud, rends the room like a thunderclap. At his side, a cold wet nose brushes his clenched fist, as Ichiko seeks both to ease the tightly wound tension in his body and to demand reassurance from him in turn in the face of the unbearable idea that has been placed in front of them. The brief connection between himself and his rei is a comfort as always, but Sakuma knows that Ichiko is even more ill at ease in this room than he is.
Seven of the D Agency's eight elite spies, scattered about the common room in their usual genteel tableau of leisure pursuits, are observing the scene with near-identical expressions of mild, polite interest. They might be watching a game of go or a round of billiards; dispassionate bystanders to a man. The eighth -- the cause, and target, of Sakuma's outburst -- blinks with faint bemusement at the violent reaction to his words.
'What isn't possible, Sakuma-san?' Miyoshi says. On the lapel of his suit jacket, his rei Suzuran flutters her jewel-like wings, as a lady might smooth her kimono or skirts to regain her sense of propriety in the face of a man's offensive crassness. Miyoshi barely seems to notice the dragonfly's movement, which makes Sakuma grit his teeth all the more.
'Your exercise of the imagination,' he growls. He manages to unclench his fist enough to rest a hand on Ichiko's head, letting the familiar calming warmth of his rei's soft fur ground him against the words that have made him almost light-headed with revulsion. 'You cannot convince me that such...such an abomination could be done as you suggest.'
Miyoshi's mouth quirks. 'Abomination is a strong word, Sakuma-san. Especially for something that is purely a thought experiment.' As he speaks, Suzuran creeps up his lapel, finally coming to rest on his shirt collar like an ornamental pin. 'Though I confess that I fail to see why you find it so disconcerting.'
It takes most of Sakuma's self-control to avoid snarling at the infuriating man. Only an awareness of their audience, human and rei alike, forces him to stand his ground instead of allowing Ichiko's raised hackles to show how unnerved this conversation has made him.
The other spies, and their rei, are still watching the four of them. Odagiri has given his shoulder to the black-winged and beady-eyed Yuriko, the crow's glossy feathers looking as sleek and smooth as his own hair in the evening lamplight. Amari is leaning against the billiards table, cue and chalk momentarily forgotten, as the tanuki Ayame peers out from the shelter of the table's massive frame. Kaminaga has let his hand fall away from the chess board that he and Miyoshi had been playing upon earlier, but has chosen to rest it on the arm of his chair so that he will not disturb Momoka, curled up in his lap as if she were merely a pet cat. Fukumoto, also seated, has stretched his long legs out in front of him, as if to make Noe's spindly heron legs seem shorter by comparison. Coiled around Hatano's forearm, Hana tests the air with her forked tongue and tilts her head to obtain a better view. Murasaki, sleek and white in spite of her name, looks like a rich woman's ermine accessory around Jitsui's neck. And Kureha may share a certain sisterhood with his Ichiko, but Sakuma has never seen a dachshund bare its teeth in such a mocking smile from where she sits at Tazaki's feet.
Eight spies. Everything about them, from their names to their smiles, is as false as a forged passport. Like professional actors, they are comfortable slipping into whatever role they are expected to play; after all, they have been trained to think of their identities as disposable, as easily changed and discarded as a necktie or a pair of gloves. Sakuma did not doubt that these men, the D Agency's hand-picked elite, would go to the greatest of extremes if the mission demanded it: to shave off all of their hair, to disfigure themselves with razors or acid, perhaps even to sacrifice a hand or an eye --
(unbidden, the thought of Lieutenant Colonel Yuuki's cold and unfathomable gaze surfaces in his mind, and he suppresses a shudder)
-- but there are limits beyond which he simply cannot comprehend.
How can it be that not a day before, the rei perched on Miyoshi's person was not Suzuran, but Yuriko -- who is now so seemingly at home on Odagiri's shoulder? The very same Yuriko who had placidly preened her feathers beside Fukumoto as he put the finishing touches on the noon meal the day before yesterday...and who, as they all prepared to sit down to eat, had made a nasty feint at dive-bombing his Ichiko before coming to rest on the back of Amari's chair?
How is it possible that these eight men seem to have a different rei beside them every time he sees them, as if not even their souls are their own?
'Those men are monsters,' Ichiko had grumbled for his ears alone, as she groomed the fur that Yuriko had ruffled in her pretend-attack. It had been hard for Sakuma to think clearly in the face of the hatred and fear roiling off of her. 'Can't you feel it? That lack of connection, that void where their hearts should be? And the demons they call rei are even more -- '
At the time, Sakuma had hushed her with a touch of his hand. He could understand Ichiko's deep unease, but that was still no excuse for her to sink to the spies' improprieties. To even speak of another person's rei so directly, let alone with such informality, was a grave breach of politeness. Even the most backward child knew that the more distant and discreet rei no katachi -- that shape -- was the only proper way to refer to another person's rei if there was no way to avoid it. And yet now here he was, thinking and even talking so freely about something so utterly taboo that he scarcely had words to describe it.
'I do not suffer from anything,' he declares stubbornly, at last. 'I merely object to your insult to my intelligence. You expect me to believe in some nonexistent magical kitchen knife that holds a power so impossible that it can cleave our very existence in twain?'
The whole notion is nothing short of absurd. He could no more think to sever himself from Ichiko than he could contemplate deliberately cutting off his own hand to give it to another person as a replacement for a missing one. Ichiko had settled into her four-legged canine shape from an early age, gamboling beside him like the eager puppy she had been as he grew from a toddling child to a running boy. She had accepted her final form long before he was old enough to enter the military academy, and had been as delighted as Sakuma was to find so many of her kind there. The thought of her submitting to another man's touches and caresses made him feel sick and violent by turns, just as he could tell that the thought of him seeking anything akin to their bond in another man's rei made Ichiko want to scratch off her own skin.
Miyoshi, damn the man, is quick to reply to his scoffing.
'How interesting that you use the word cleave, Sakuma-san,' he says. 'In English, the verb to cleave has two meanings. It can mean to sever, as in to cleave with a knife.' On his lapel, Suzuran remains calm and still even as Miyoshi brings his hands up incorporate gestures to his explanation, turning a hand on its side and bringing the edge down against his open palm. 'But it may also mean to bring together as one, as the Christians say when they speak of how a man shall cleave to his wife, and they shall become one flesh.' He touches his hands together lightly, palm to palm, as if he were praying before a shrine. The slight smile has never left his face throughout.
'I don't need an English lesson.' Sakuma's gaze narrows. 'I know what I see. And none of what you say makes any sense.'
'Sakuma-san,' Odagiri says, breaking into the conversation for the first time, 'is there a point to your line of questioning?'
Sakuma's breath catches, his tongue suddenly feeling heavy and thick, because what is the point of this? What does he gain from running after their riddles, chasing the enigma that lies behind Miyoshi's description of the impossible knife? He has learned some of the secrets of their trade, from seduction to safecracking, during his time observing the D Agency's brutal selection process, but he is not like them. He has not given up his heart, or embraced that void that Ichiko had spoken of. And yet --
'If I am to work with you,' he says slowly, scanning the faces arrayed around him before returning to Miyoshi, 'then I should at least understand something of the nature of your craft, correct? And if you say' -- a lifetime of training and instinctive politeness makes the next words stick in his throat like a sliver of glass -- 'that Suzuran is no more your rei than Yuriko or Ayame or Momoka or any of the others are, then what purpose do they serve?' He can feel Ichiko tense up at his side, but he's too far gone in this to hear the profanity for what it is.
Silence, for a thin, fragile moment. But before Miyoshi or any of the other spies can answer, another voice cuts through the shivering stillness of the room:
'The hour is late, gentlemen.'
Sakuma all but whirls round, spine stiffening as he bolts to attention. Lieutenant Colonel Yuuki's solid frame occupies the open door, as if he had been present for the entire conversation.
To a man, the spies who had been sitting rise to their feet. Those who had been standing lay aside their games and pastimes. And without a word, they and their rei make their way to the door, as Yuuki steps forward into the room to let them pass through. Miyoshi and Suzuran are the last to leave, with a nod to Yuuki and a parting smile for Sakuma that is equal parts pleasant and pitying.
'Sir, I -- ' Sakuma begins, once Miyoshi has vanished into the darkness of the corridor, but Yuuki's forbidding stare quells whatever protest or plea he had been about to make.
'I advise you to let the matter rest, Lieutenant.' Quiet and calm as his voice is, it nonetheless carries more finality than a bullet finding its target. 'That path is not yours to take. Do I make myself clear?'
None of this is clear, is sitting behind Sakuma's lips, a jumble of syllables wedged between his teeth. Instead he swallows, and nods.
It is one thing to question the impossible. It is another thing to dwell for too long on the unthinkable...and perhaps that, as much as anything, is the true source of the dread that seeps into the marrow of Sakuma's bones whenever he and Ichiko are alone in the presence of their commander for any length of time. Because they are alone, in the most abhorrent sense of the word.
(Would you like to find out?)
The demon lord of D Agency has no rei of his own.
(Would you like to see for yourself?)
And Sakuma can think only of a simple kitchen knife on its silken bed, and how deep such a knife would have to cut to do away with a man's soul entirely.
Notes
To move away from the His Dark Materials Christianity-based construction of daemons, I have used the word rei (written as 霊, in the sense of soul or spirit) as an equivalent term. The phrase rei no katachi (that shape, written as 例の形) is therefore the polite way to speak about a daemon, alluding to something that both the speaker and the listener know about but for whatever reason do not wish to discuss or mention directly. It is similar, in a way, to how the Japanese translations of the Harry Potter books use the phrase rei no ano hito (written as 例のあの人) to mean 'You Know Who' or 'He Who Must Not Be Named'.
I suppose it's for the best that this story does not contain the extra thousand words of Sakuma and Miyoshi obliquely sniping at each other over how the eight spies sharing rei is a perfect metaphor of the Japanese imperialist slogan hakkou ichiu (八紘一宇), an expression used to justify the Greater East Asia expansionism. Considering that the slogan really only became publicly popular a few years after this fic is set, I ended up trimming the conversation out...but I think the story works well enough without it.
Return to the Master List