and again…

and again…

and again…

And then all there was was a blackness.

...and movement.

...and senses.

...and motion.

Koi had been excused from school. His father was at work, and had been unable to pick him up. He was forced to walk to the local Civic Center, where his mother worked as a file clerk, typist and receptionist. She was busy directing a group of older teens to the correct office for jobs when he walked disconsolately through the door.

“Koi!” she exclaimed, startled to see him. “What are you doing out of school?”

“I walked out of my Politics class,” he muttered, not meeting her eyes. His bag was on the ground, shirt untucked, and he looked like he’d been crying again. Mussed hair and his sniffing added to the effect that he was not ready to go back to school. In a momentary flash of parenting insight, Amatsu realised that she and Tetsu must have been crazy to think that Koi could just deal with this and move on. She looked over at Chikira, the other office girl. “Chiki, any chance you can hold the fort while I run Koi home?”

The younger woman and close confidant looked the couple over only for a brief second before nodding her assent. Smoothly leaving her office chair, she slipped into the main receptionist chair and picked up the telephone headset. As she placed it on her head, she made a shooing gesture at Koi and Amatsu. Amatsu ran round the desk and gave her a tight hug before returning to Koi with her shoulder bag. She was fishing her car keys out before they even reached the main sliding doors.

As the car quickly joined the smooth flow of early afternoon traffic, she turned to her son and said, “Tell me what happened today.”

With a sigh, he related to her what had transpired in the Politics class. She listened without interrupting for five minutes, and let him wind the story down. “It was the fact that nobody in school knew that his class had been selected, Mom,” he said. “They were so shocked. I mean, it’s not like you can miss forty-two seniors after an entire class just disappears!”

She shook her head. “I can’t believe you,” she said neutrally. He swung round – or at least tried to. The seat belt prevented him turning all the way round from where he had been gazing idly at the traffic passing by. His face was a mask of outrage.

“What did you expect me to do?!” he demanded. “Sit there and take that bullshit? Listen to her sound off about the state of the economy and how everything this country has ever done wrong can be traced back to the youth? I don’t think so.”

“Koi!” she snapped. “Watch your language!”

He turned his head, and fixed his gaze on an indeterminate point above the horizon. His scowl was settled firmly ion place when she spoke again.

“While I share your sentiments about Kyo, I cannot condone you storming out of your lesson like that. Nor can I tolerate your language and revolutionary attitude at this time.” Her eyes were fixed firmly on the road, and she sensed rather than saw Koi turn to face her with an open mouth. She cut across his half-formed protests with one hand momentarily raised from the wheel. He sputtered to a stop. Her next words were so low he barely caught them.

“I fully agree with them.”

---


They were watching TV later on that night. Amatsu had called in sick for the rest of the day, and had made Koi help her prepare dinner as a punishment for swearing in the car. Tetsu had lectured Koi for ten minutes as soon as he walked in, and Koi was now in a thoroughly foul temper. Not even his mother’s fine cooking had improved his mood. The Report had been aired on the news, and it wasn’t looking too good. Seven new deaths, but none of the names had been announced. It was about ten pm, and they were still waiting tensely for the knock on the door, and the dreaded news being delivered by a Government lackey in a cheap suit and fake smile.

They waited.

It was the day after the class which his brother was in had been taken by the government. Koi hadn’t slept the previous night, but he didn’t feel even remotely tired. His school bag was heavy with textbooks. He had to think for a second, back to the last lesson three days ago and what the teacher had said they’d be covering.

He stopped suddenly when he remembered her last words.

”Okay, class, bring your textbooks in for next lesson. We’re going to be taking a look at the Millenium Education Reform Act.”

The Battle Royale Act.

To Koi’s knowledge, he was the only kid in his class who had an older sibling in his brother’s class. A couple of his best friends knew that Kyo had been taken by the Government, but most of the rest didn’t even take an interest in class, let alone their classmates’ families. He wasn’t looking forward to this lesson at all.

Taking his seat in the classroom, he stared at the chalkboard with the same writing on it that Kyo had faced when he woke up two days ago on an island far from home. The white chalk lines on the board that spelled out the Government’s solution to everything: Kill the Kids. The teacher came into class with her arms full of papers and her bag balanced delicately on top. She made it to the desk without the whole tower falling over, and began laying it all out. Koi caught sight of a gleaming metal band and went cold when he realised what it was.

The collar.

Normally, Koi was one of the top contributors to lessons, but this time, he stared fixedly at the writing on the board, his mind lost in a sea of possibilities.

What if Kyo survived? How many people would he have killed? How many had he killed so far? Had he killed? WHY had he killed? What was the point of this whole, stupid Act?

The buzz of conversation in the class stopped, and he snapped back to full alertness, to find the whole class staring at him. He realised that he must have said the last question aloud. The teacher was staring at him.

“Koi? Are you all right?”

“No,” he replied in a monotone. “I’m not. I can’t believe that you can stand there and talk about a class of friends being forced to slaughter each other or face certain death by explosive collar as a ‘great honour for the Republic’.”

“It is a needed piece of legislature,” she said faintly. She was not used to people disagreeing with the political line in her lessons. As a Politics teacher, she was subject more than most to vetting procedures to find out whether she was a subversive influence on people, especially children. Studying Politics at the University of Tokyo had opened her eyes to the retribution the Government was perfectly willing and capable of unleashing.

“You’ve taught this class politics for two years, Miss Oshima,” he stated. “And yet you would be perfectly willing to see us all forced into an explosive collar like the one on your desk, sent out with either a machine gun or a pack of painkillers for a weapon, and slaughter each other. I don’t understand how this is a needed piece of legislation.”

“The economy was in ruins when it was first introduced. The youth were not working, the concept of respect for your elders had eroded away.” Her voice was getting stronger with each word. She was back on familiar ground. “Inflation was running very high, unsustainably high. Unemployment was running at fifteen percent, again, an unsustainably high figure. The Government decided that the Millennium Education Reform Act was the way forward. And look at the state of the country today: Inflation almost gone, eradicated. Unemployment running at a much better figure of seven percent. It’s still too high, but the Government is working on that as well.”

“Fine. But why then, if it’s such a great honour, does the winner’s family get relocated with a complete identity change? Fear of retribution from his victims’ families?”

“It’s judged as an appropriate safety measure.”

“Thank you, Miss Oshima,” said Koi, She turned away, just as he stood up. “Well, then, guys, I’d like to let you know then, that in three day’s time I might not be coming back to school. My brother’s in the class that got taken yesterday. From this school.”

There were gasps of shock from all around the room. Koi barrelled on, his voice giving vent to the frustrations that were bottled up inside.

“If Kyo wins, he has to live with the knowledge that he killed at least one of his classmates. If he loses, our family has the honour of having him die in glorious Battle Royale for the Republic. And I refuse to listen to any more of this bullshit.”

So saying, he stuffed the textbook back into his bag, picked it up, and walked out.

Kyo didn't remember taking Koichii out of the house to go and play, but his neighbour, Mrs. Hakashima, had urged him to. She was a nice lady, who kept cats, and she had said that Mommy and Daddy had some grown-up things to talk about. He didn't know what sort of grown-up things made them cry. He thought only kids did it.

They were doing it again, talking grown-up stuff and crying. Kyo had learnt the months ages ago, and realised that it was about this time last month that they had done this.

He hoped they were okay. He really didn't want this to become a regular fixture of his life.

"Koi?" he asked.

"What?"

"What do you think they're crying about?"

The younger boy shrugged. "Uhh. Dunno."

They were at the top of the tree in the back garden. It was a grand old cherry tree, and they had both long ago mastered the pathways in its branches, all the way to the top. For now, they were both lazing on branches close to each other, and near the rope that held the rough swing in place. Kyo was laying on his front on a particularly wide branch that just fit his small frame. Koi was sitting on one branch, his body leaning against another that was running parralel a couple of feet above it. They spent a lot of time in the tree together.

It was years before he had his own version of grief to deal with, and that's when he put it all together, his parent's sadness, and there being no more trips to his grandparent's houses, in the shadow of Mount Fuji or far south on Kyushu.

A childhood friend killed in a car smash. The other driver at fault. The funeral was for three people, the husband, wife and their son. He had been in Kyo's middle-school class for two years, and they had become good friends, hanging out at the local arcade, and doing things that guys their age generally did.

You weren't supposed to bury your best friend, not at fourteen. Not when you'd managed to get into the same class at High School.

He wept openly for his friend, and the good times they had shared, and the good times that would never be. A small part of him wondered, right at that moment, whether anyone would cry at his funeral.

“But why can’t we go and see Nana and Granddad?” whined Koichii.

“Because, honey, they’re in a special place right now,” said his mother, fighting back tears. Koichii was too young to understand, but Kyo was not. At seven, he was old enough to understand the concept of death, and while Tetsu and Amatsu cried, he hustled his brother off, and they went to play in the garden.

That was for his paternal grandparents. His mother’s parents were killed on an intersection in Kyoto less than six months after. The household came to a standstill.

Friends and neighbours rallied round, and they all pitched in, helping with the funeral arrangements and looking after the two youngest Tanakas.

Neither of the boys attended the funerals. They were deemed too young by the adults. During this time of grief in the household, Koichii became interested in computer games, suitable for his age, and Kyo started going to the library, and reading books that were not suitable for his age. Making a start in the children’s section, he read through everything that interested him in less than three months. His particular favourite was The Hobbit.

One of the librarians noticed and seeing the level and speed at which he was reading, steered him towards the regular section of the library. She was able to “creatively misfile” an application for a library card, and the now eight-year-old Kyo was able to start taking books home. He began in the science fiction and fantasy section, and relished these books more than any other, because there was always a happy ending.

The collective squeal of disgust came from thirty fifth-graders. The farmer looked up, from his stool, blinking. The cow just continued to stand there, completely disinterested, and munch on the cud she had been chewing for the past God-knew-how-many hours.

“Kids, kids, settle down. Petal here doesn’t like the noise,” he said.

“That’s gross!” said three kids in unison.

“…And that stuff is what we put on our breakfast cereal?” asked young Kyo disbelievingly.

“Well, of course it is,” said the farmer. “It doesn’t grow in bottles on trees, you know.”

As he made his stealthy way through the corridors behind the stage, the folded note tucked safely in his pocket, his thoughts were centered on one specific room. Reaching it, he tried the door handle. Finding it locked, he paused for a second, glanced in both directions, then removed his student ID card from his shirt pocket and slid it inside the door frame.

Running it down the gap between the door and frame, the card encountered resistance as it hit the angled plate. The card pushed the plate back into its housing, and the door swung silently open. He slid into the room, assured of secrecy in which to carry out his little plan.

Taking a thin black marker from his pocket, he carefully drew a small symbol in the bottom corner of the paper, a couple of intricately stylistic symbols inside a circle. He left the note in a prominently visible position, then slipped out, allowing the plate to click back in, masking his entry.