Chapter 23: Hunted And Haunted
Chapter 23: Hunted and Haunted
The months that followed the chaotic "evacuation" at the end of the Second School Year had transformed the island into a place of profound, echoing silence for Michiru Inukai. After slipping away from the frenzied embarkation, she had retreated into the island's deep, overgrown interior, finding a precarious solitude in hidden coves and forgotten, crumbling outbuildings of the sprawling academy. She had survived, barely, on her knowledge of the few edible plants Kyouya had taught them to identify, on rainwater collected in broad leaves, and on a fierce, quiet resilience she hadn’t known she possessed. The island, stripped of its teeming, terrified student population and its menacing faculty, had become a different entity – still haunted by memories, but also imbued with a wild, untamed, almost melancholic beauty. She missed Arthur’s quiet, if awkward, companionship, Nana’s newfound, fierce protectiveness, and even Kyouya’s stoic, reassuring presence more than she could say. She often wondered where they had been taken, if they were safe.
Then, one cool, late summer morning, the unnatural silence that had become her constant companion was shattered. Faint at first, then growing steadily louder, came the unmistakable, deeply unsettling thrum of powerful marine engines, followed by the distant, mournful blare of a ship’s horn. Ferries. More than one. Michiru’s heart, which had settled into a rhythm dictated by the tides and the rustling leaves, now hammered against her ribs with a mixture of terror and a wild, desperate hope. New arrivals. The Committee was repopulating its monstrous school.
Clutching the sharpened stick that had become her primary tool and occasional weapon, Michiru Inukai, on hearing the undeniable sounds of pupils arriving once more, decided to forgo her hard-won isolation. Her loneliness, a constant ache, warred with her ingrained caution. She had to know. Were they among the returnees? Or was this a fresh batch of unsuspecting victims, doomed to endure the island’s horrors anew? With a surge of trepidation, she began to make her way, slowly and stealthily, through the dense undergrowth towards the distant, now reactivated docks, her senses on high alert.
For Arthur Ainsworth, the return to the island was a descent into a familiar, deeply dreaded circle of hell. Strapped into a hard plastic seat on the transport vessel, surrounded by silent, grim-faced Committee agents and a new cohort of bewildered, frightened teenage Talents, he felt a suffocating sense of despair. His brief, brutal interlude on the mainland – the back-breaking labor, the constant fear, his abduction, and the chilling pronouncements of Tsuruoka’s subordinate – had stripped him of any lingering illusions. He was a prisoner, a marked man, returned to this cursed place with a death sentence hanging over his head. Nana Hiiragi, he knew with a chilling certainty, would also be here, Tsuruoka’s orders to eliminate him no doubt ringing in her ears. This strange, unending, almost timeless progression of his life, from one bleak May in Crawley to this even bleaker, surreal late summer, felt like a cruel, cosmic joke.
As the ferry docked with a familiar, jarring thud against the weathered pier, Arthur was herded off with the other students, his gaze sweeping the familiar, yet now even more menacing, landscape. He saw Kyouya Onodera further down the pier, his expression as impassive and unreadable as ever, though Arthur thought he detected a new, harder glint in his pale eyes. Nana, too, was visible, a flash of incongruous pink hair amidst the drab uniforms, her face pale and drawn, her usual ebullience entirely absent. She avoided his gaze.
The new students, wide-eyed and apprehensive, were being marshalled by a fresh contingent of stern-faced teachers Arthur didn’t recognize. He felt a familiar wave of helpless anger towards these oblivious newcomers, lambs to the slaughter. His priority, he knew with a grim clarity, was survival. He had to evade Nana, to anticipate her moves, to find a way to neutralize her as a threat without becoming a killer himself. The thought was almost laughable in its impossibility.
Then, a small movement at the edge of the bustling, chaotic pier caught his eye. A figure, small and hesitant, emerged from the shadows of a stack of weathered cargo crates. Her white, fluffy hair, though matted and unkempt, was unmistakable.
Arthur’s breath caught in his throat. His heart seemed to stop. It couldn’t be.
“Michiru?” he whispered, the name a fragile, disbelieving prayer, his Japanese clumsy but heartfelt.
The figure turned, her wide, gentle eyes finding his. A slow, hesitant, almost incandescent smile spread across her dirt-smudged, gaunt face. “Tanaka-kun?” she breathed, her voice weak but clear.
Forgetting the guards, forgetting Nana, forgetting the new students, forgetting everything but the impossible, miraculous sight before him, Arthur stumbled forward. Nana, too, had seen her, her own face a mask of utter, stunned disbelief, her hand flying to her mouth. Kyouya Onodera, his usual stoicism momentarily fractured, actually stopped in his tracks, his eyes widening almost imperceptibly.
Michiru Inukai, who had chosen solitude over evacuation, who had somehow survived alone on this cursed island for months, had come to see who had returned. And in doing so, she had just irrevocably altered the deadly game that was about to begin anew.
The fragile, almost forgotten sense of hope Arthur had so carefully, so secretly, nurtured during his vigil over her seemingly lifeless, yet persistently warm, body now surged through him, potent and overwhelming. She was alive. Truly alive. And she was here.
The reunion was brief, cut short by the harsh commands of the guards ordering the students to move towards the school buildings. But as they were forced to separate, Michiru flashing him a quick, reassuring, if still weak, smile, Arthur felt a subtle shift within himself. He was still a target, still hunted. But he was no longer entirely alone in his knowledge, or in his desperate hope. Michiru’s presence, her impossible survival, was a testament to something beyond the Committee’s cruel calculations, beyond Tsuruoka’s monstrous designs. It was a spark. And perhaps, just perhaps, that spark could ignite something more.
Later that day, as the grim routine of the Third School Year began to settle over them, Arthur knew his primary task remained unchanged: survive Nana Hiiragi. He saw her watching him during the opening assembly, her expression unreadable, the conflict within her a palpable, dangerous force. He would use his knowledge of the island, his understanding of Nana’s methods, his sheer, stubborn will to live, to evade her. He would be a ghost, a shadow, always one step ahead. The cat-and-mouse game had resumed, but now, there was a new, unexpected piece on the board, a fluffy-haired girl whose very existence defied death itself, and whose presence might just change everything. The new students, chattering nervously amongst themselves, remained entirely oblivious to the complex, deadly currents swirling around their upperclassmen, unaware that their island academy was, once again, a hunting ground.
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Chapter 4: The Vote and Early Manipulations
The lunchtime encounter with Nana Hiiragi left Arthur feeling raw and exposed. Her ability to mask her true nature behind such a dazzling facade of innocent charm was profoundly unsettling. He knew, with a certainty that settled like a stone in his gut, that she had filed away every detail of his fabricated “vision,” and would be dissecting it for any hint of threat or exploitable weakness. His decision to put himself forward for class representative now felt even more reckless, but also, paradoxically, more necessary. He needed to understand how she operated in a position of influence, however minor.
The day and a half leading up to the vote was an uncomfortable lesson in social dynamics for Arthur. The other serious contender, Inori Tamaki, the sharp-eyed girl with the severe ponytail, campaigned with earnest efficiency. She spoke logically about her organizational skills, her desire for a fair and well-run class, and her commitment to representing student concerns to the teachers. She garnered a respectable amount of quiet support from the more studious and pragmatic members of the class.
Then there was Nana Hiiragi. She didn’t so much “campaign” as weave a subtle, irresistible web of charm. She seemed to be everywhere at once, a whirlwind of perfectly pitched compliments and thoughtful gestures. She learned names with astonishing speed, remembered trivial details about classmates’ hobbies – a favorite manga series here, a struggling subject there – and offered to help with homework (though Arthur, watching closely, noticed she often then subtly delegated the actual work to other admirers). When she spoke to someone, she made them feel like they were, for that moment, the most important, most interesting person in the room. Her promises for her tenure as class representative were vague but universally appealing – a more fun, more inclusive class environment, more activities, a stronger sense of unity. It was a masterful performance, and Arthur, watching her, felt a kind of horrified admiration. She was a natural politician, a born manipulator wrapped in a veneer of utterly adorable sincerity.
Arthur’s own “campaign,” by stark contrast, was a masterclass in awkwardness. He made no speeches, offered no grand promises. His efforts consisted mostly of him standing near groups of students during breaks, occasionally offering a stilted, phone-translated comment if directly addressed, or a clumsy nod if someone caught his eye. He’d initially entertained the idea of trying to rally some support, perhaps making a vague, unsettling promise about using his “Chrono-Empathic Glimpse” for the vague benefit of the class’s future, but the words felt hollow, dangerous, and far too likely to backfire. His primary reason for even putting his name forward remained largely internal: to observe Nana more closely as she vied for influence, and perhaps, in some small, almost imperceptible way, to signal to Nanao Nakajima – who seemed to shrink visibly whenever the topic of leadership arose – that not everyone who sought a position of authority was an overwhelming force of charisma. He’d hoped his own unlikely, ill-equipped candidacy might make Nanao feel slightly less isolated in his timidity.
Nana, naturally, with her acute social antennae, noticed his continued, if quiet, presence in the running. During a break between classes, as Arthur was trying to decipher a particularly complex kanji in his textbook, she approached his desk, her expression one of perfectly crafted, almost sisterly concern.
“Tanaka-kun,” she began, her voice soft and melodious, “I was just thinking… are you absolutely sure you want the burden of being class representative? It really does take up so much time, you know, with meetings and organizing things. And there’s an awful lot of… well, social effort involved.” She tilted her head, her violet eyes wide with feigned sympathy. “With your communication being through your phone, it might be terribly stressful for you. I’d hate to see you overwhelmed.”
Arthur met her gaze for a moment, seeing the glint of calculation behind the concern. He looked down at his phone, typed a brief reply. “Responsibility is… sometimes necessary, Hiiragi-san,” the synthesized voice stated, deliberately opaque. He didn’t elaborate.
Nana’s smile didn’t falter, but he saw a new flicker of something – annoyance? Reassessment? – in her eyes. “Of course, Tanaka-kun,” she said smoothly, her voice still dripping with false sweetness. “Just looking out for a fellow new student.” She gave a little wave and flitted off to charm another group.
Over the next twenty-four hours, Arthur began to notice subtle shifts in how other students interacted with him. When he tried to join a conversation, even with his phone ready, one of the participants would suddenly remember an urgent task elsewhere. He overheard snippets – or rather, his phone, with its microphone active, caught stray Japanese phrases that it dutifully translated on his screen when he reviewed the ambient audio later: “Tanaka-kun is a bit… strange, isn’t he? Always so quiet, with that machine…” or “Can we really rely on someone who needs a phone to talk for him to speak for us?” and even, more pointedly, “I heard his ‘Talent’ makes him moody and unpredictable. What if he has a bad ‘glimpse’ about a class trip or something?”
The comments were always deniable, never directly attributable to Nana, but their timing was impeccable, their effect insidious. She was isolating him, not with overt aggression, but with carefully planted seeds of doubt and discomfort, painting him as an unreliable eccentric. It was unnervingly effective. He felt a knot of unease tighten in his stomach; he’d hoped to remain a minor curiosity, but her actions suggested she was already taking him more seriously, as a potential irritant, than he liked. This wasn't just about winning a symbolic vote for her; it was about ensuring no unpredictable elements, however minor, remained within her sphere of influence. She was methodically clearing the board.
Finally, the last period of the next day arrived. Mr. Saito, with his usual slightly flustered cheerfulness, produced a small, slotted wooden box. “Alright class,” he announced, rubbing his hands together. “Time to cast your votes for your new class representative! Please write the name of your chosen candidate clearly on the slip of paper I’ll provide, fold it once, and then come up to place it in the ballot box.”
Small slips of paper were distributed. Arthur stared at his for a moment. He had no illusions about his own chances, nor, if he was honest with himself, did he particularly want the job. His candidacy had served its quiet, observational purpose. He carefully wrote ‘Inori Tamaki’ in hesitant katakana, then folded the paper. As the students filed up row by row to deposit their votes, he watched Nana. She dropped her own slip into the box with a confident, radiant smile, even offering a cheerful little wave to Mr. Saito, who beamed back.
The counting was swift and public. Mr. Saito, with the surprisingly willing assistance of Inori Tamaki herself (a sign of her own good sportsmanship, Arthur thought, or perhaps a subtle power play by Saito to demonstrate impartiality), tallied the votes on the chalkboard. The chalk clicked with a steady rhythm.
The results were, to Arthur, hardly surprising, though the decisiveness was still a little startling. Inori Tamaki: 8 votes. Kenji Tanaka: 1 vote. (Arthur felt a small, inexplicable pang. He suspected, with a strange mixture of gratitude and embarrassment, that it was a pity vote from Nanao Nakajima, or perhaps even a mistake by someone else.) Nana Hiiragi: 21 votes. (The remaining students in their class of thirty).
“And the winner, by a very significant majority, is Hiiragi Nana-san!” Mr. Saito declared, leading a vigorous round of applause. “Congratulations, Hiiragi-san!”
Nana beamed, her eyes sparkling as she stood to accept the accolade, bowing graciously to the class. “Thank you, everyone! Thank you so much! I promise I’ll do my very best to represent you all and help make this a truly fantastic and memorable year for us all!” Her voice was full of earnest sincerity.
Arthur felt a strange cocktail of emotions. There was an undeniable surge of relief; the thought of actually having to perform the duties of class representative, with his profound communication handicap and utter lack of understanding of their school’s social labyrinth, was daunting. But beneath that relief was a profound, chilling sense of unease. Nana’s victory had been a foregone conclusion from the moment she’d entered the classroom, but the subtle, almost surgically precise way she had neutralized him as even a token competitor was a stark lesson. He had wanted to understand how she operated, and he’d received a masterclass in social engineering and covert manipulation. The downside was now glaringly clear: he was definitely, irrevocably on her radar, marked as someone who didn’t quite fit, someone who had, however ineptly and briefly, stood in the path of her ambition.
“And in other exciting news,” Mr. Saito continued, his voice full of oblivious good cheer after the applause for Nana had finally died down, “please do remember that at the end of this school year, we’ll be having our traditional leaving party for those students who might be moving on to other pursuits! It’s always a wonderful highlight of the academic calendar, a chance to celebrate our achievements together!”
Arthur almost snorted aloud, a bitter, mirthless sound he barely managed to suppress. A leaving party. The irony was a palpable, acrid taste in his mouth. There would be plenty of students “leaving” this island well before the end of the year, he knew with a sickening certainty, and their departures would be anything but voluntary or celebratory. He glanced at Nanao, who was looking at the newly elected Class Representative Hiiragi with an expression of timid, almost hero-worshipping admiration. Arthur’s jaw tightened. He might have lost this meaningless vote, but the real struggle, the one for Nanao’s life and the lives of so many others in this classroom, had barely begun. He had to be smarter, more careful, and somehow find a way to use his terrible, fragmented knowledge before it was too late. And Nana Hiiragi, now armed with a modicum of official power, would be watching his every move.
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Chapter 22: Mainland Purgatory
The mainland was a brutal, disorienting awakening into a new kind of hell. Stripped of the insular, albeit perilous, structure of the island academy, and now, crucially, without his phone translator which had been casually confiscated by a bored Committee agent during the chaotic disembarkation, Arthur found himself utterly adrift in a sea of indifferent, uncomprehending faces and a language that was now an almost impenetrable barrier. The yen he’d had in “Kenji Tanaka’s” school uniform pockets had been minimal and was quickly exhausted on a few meagre portions of rice balls. He was just another nameless, homeless youth, lost and invisible in the sprawling, pitiless concrete jungle of a large Japanese port city. His limited, halting Japanese, learned through painful necessity on the island, was woefully inadequate for navigating this complex new world.
Days blurred into a miserable, exhausting cycle of gnawing hunger, damp cold, and the constant, weary, often fruitless search for some form of shelter from the elements or a discarded, half-eaten meal in a fast-food restaurant’s overflowing bin. He slept in darkened alleyways that stank of stale urine and rotting garbage, under the echoing concrete arches of bridges, the ever-present fear of discovery by police patrols or less savory, predatory elements of the city’s underbelly a constant, unwelcome companion. He missed Michiru with an ache that was a physical pain in his chest; her quiet presence, her unwavering kindness, their shared, fragile peace during the last island break, had been a small, precious light in his otherwise oppressive darkness. Now, that light was extinguished, and he was stumbling blindly.
A few desperate, soul-crushing weeks into this miserable existence, as he was huddled in a damp shop doorway, trying to escape a biting, persistent late summer rain, a sleek, anonymous black car with tinted windows purred to a silent halt beside him. A man in a sharp, impeccably tailored dark suit emerged, holding a large black umbrella with practiced ease, shielding himself as he approached. He addressed Arthur by his island name, his Japanese precise and formal.
“Tanaka Kenji-kun?” the man inquired, his voice polite but utterly devoid of warmth or inflection, his eyes cold and appraising as they took in Arthur’s ragged, rain-soaked appearance. “My employer has taken an active interest in your current welfare. He understands, through various channels, that you may be… experiencing some temporary difficulties adjusting to mainland life.” He paused, allowing Arthur to absorb the implications of being so easily found. “He is, therefore, prepared to offer you refuge, assistance, a chance to rebuild your life under more… favorable circumstances.”
Arthur stared at the man, then at the opulent, waiting car, a stark symbol of power and influence in this grimy, indifferent street. He didn’t need his phone to translate the chilling intent behind the polite words. This was the Committee. This was Tsuruoka, reaching out with a silken, poisoned glove. “Who… who is your employer?” Arthur managed, his own voice raspy and weak from disuse, the Japanese words clumsy and heavily accented.
“A concerned benefactor,” the man replied smoothly, his expression unchanging. “He believes that Talented individuals like yourself, particularly those who have endured the… unique rigors of the island program, deserve ongoing support and guidance, not abandonment.”
Arthur almost choked on a bitter, hysterical laugh. Support. Guidance. From the very people who ran a death camp for unsuspecting, Talented teenagers. “Tell your ‘concerned benefactor’,” Arthur said, the English words a sudden, angry torrent from his lips, before he caught himself and forced out a stumbling, defiant Japanese reply, “that I… I appreciate the offer… but I prefer to manage my own affairs. I require no assistance.”
The man’s thin lips curved into the faintest, most chilling of smiles. “A most regrettable decision, Tanaka-kun. My employer is not accustomed to having his… generous offers so readily dismissed. This opportunity may not present itself again.” He produced a plain, unmarked white card from his inner pocket, offering it to Arthur. It held a single, untraceable phone number. “Should you reconsider your position.” Then, with a slight, almost imperceptible bow, he returned to his car, which slid silently away into the rain-swept streets, leaving Arthur alone once more, shivering in the damp doorway, the card quickly turning to sodden pulp in his trembling hand. He knew, with absolute certainty, that he’d made the right, the only, choice, but the brief, chilling contact, the effortless demonstration of their reach, left him profoundly shaken and with a renewed sense of being hunted.
Meanwhile, many miles away, Commander Tsuruoka was indeed displeased. Not only had this Kenji Tanaka anomaly refused his "generous" offer of controlled reintegration, but Nana Hiiragi, his once-star asset, was proving increasingly problematic, her operational effectiveness compromised by sentimentality and doubt. During a particularly harsh, psychologically invasive debriefing session following her return from the island after the truncated second year, Tsuruoka informed Nana that her next assignment would be a return to the island academy, with a new, carefully selected intake of students. He then fed her a meticulously constructed, entirely false narrative: “Kenji Tanaka has become a dangerous rogue element, Hiiragi. His so-called prescient abilities are unstable, making him a unpredictable threat. He has evaded all our attempts at compassionate control and assistance. He is now, regrettably, considered a significant threat to the integrity of the program, potentially even to wider national security interests if his abilities fall into the wrong hands. Your primary, non-negotiable objective for the upcoming term will be his swift and permanent elimination. There will be no failures this time. Is that understood?” Nana, still reeling from her own recent traumas and Tsuruoka’s chilling manipulations regarding Mai, had listened with a pale face, her mind a maelstrom of conflicting emotions and a growing, terrifying dread. Arthur, a threat to national security? The haunted, weary boy who had so tenderly cared for Michiru’s lifeless body? It didn’t track, not at all, yet Tsuruoka’s orders were absolute, backed by the implicit threat of unimaginable consequences should she disobey.
Arthur, entirely oblivious to Nana’s new, horrifying directive concerning him, eventually, through sheer, desperate persistence, found work. It was grueling, back-breaking, spirit-crushing labour on a sprawling construction site on the city’s outskirts, hauling bags of cement, shoveling rubble, mixing concrete under the relentless summer sun. The pay was insultingly minimal, barely enough for a shared, flea-ridden bunk in a crowded, squalid flophouse that reeked of stale sweat and cheap alcohol, and a daily bowl of watery, tasteless noodles. His days became a monotonous, exhausting blur of brutal physical exertion and profound mental despair. He was Kenji Tanaka, anonymous construction grunt, his past life as Arthur Ainsworth, respected (if unfulfilled) accounts clerk, a fading, almost unbelievable dream; his time on the island, with its constant terror but also its strange, intense connections, a recurring, vivid nightmare. He thought often, achingly, of Michiru, wondering where the Committee had taken her, if she was safe, if he would ever see her gentle smile again. The hope of it was a distant, flickering, almost extinguished candle in the vast darkness of his current existence. The irony of his current occupation, he sometimes thought with a bitter twist of his lips, was that this was the kind of life Kyouya Onodera had apparently endured before his own arrival on that cursed island.
His miserable reprieve, such as it was, didn’t last. One sweltering evening, as he trudged wearily back towards the dubious sanctuary of the flophouse, his body aching from head to toe, his spirit numb with exhaustion, a dark, unmarked van screeched to a halt beside him on the deserted, dusty road. Before he could even register the threat, before he could think to run, several grim-faced figures in plain, dark clothes erupted from its sliding door and bundled him inside with brutal, practiced efficiency. He struggled instinctively, a desperate, futile thrashing, but they were strong, their movements coordinated, their grips like iron. A rough cloth, smelling faintly of chemicals, was pressed hard over his face, a sweet, cloying, sickeningly artificial scent filled his nostrils, and the ugly, indifferent world dissolved into a suffocating, unwelcome blackness.
He awoke, gagging and disoriented, in a bare, sterile, windowless room, strapped tightly to a hard metal chair. A single, painfully bright spotlight shone directly into his face, making him squint. Tsuruoka himself wasn’t present – Arthur was clearly not yet deemed worthy of the commander’s personal attention for this particular stage of his “re-education” – but a subordinate, a cold-eyed, stern-faced woman in a severe, dark military-style uniform, stood before him, her arms crossed, her expression devoid of any discernible emotion.
“Tanaka Kenji,” she stated, her voice flat, impersonal, chillingly devoid of inflection. She consulted a thin file in her hand. “Or perhaps, given your rather… unusual background, you currently prefer the designation Arthur Ainsworth?” She didn’t elaborate on how they might know his original name; the casual, confident implication of their far-reaching, invasive intelligence network was, in itself, a potent form of intimidation. “You have proven to be a persistent, and rather tiresome, inconvenience, Mr. Ainsworth. You were given a generous opportunity to cooperate with our organization. You unwisely declined.”
She took a step closer, her shadow falling over him. “Our organization has a significant, long-term investment in the island program, and its successful outcomes. Uncontrolled, unpredictable variables such as yourself cannot, and will not, be tolerated indefinitely. You will be returning to the island academy for the next academic year, with the new intake of students.” Her lips curved into a smile that held no warmth, only a cold, clinical menace. “Consider this your final opportunity to demonstrate your potential utility to the Committee. Or, failing that,” her smile widened fractionally, “to be… neutralized, shall we say, in a more controlled, predictable, and entirely deniable environment. The choice, as they say, is yours. Though, I suspect, largely illusory.”
Arthur said nothing. There was nothing left to say. He was trapped, a terrified, exhausted pawn being forcibly moved back onto the bloodstained, treacherous board.
The journey back to the island was a disorienting, humiliating blur of sedatives, blindfolds, and the gruff, dispassionate presence of his Committee guards. When he finally stumbled off the transport vessel onto the chillingly familiar pier, the sight of the imposing school buildings, nestled amidst the island’s unnervingly lush, verdant landscape, filled him with a profound, soul-deep sense of dread and utter resignation. A new intake of students, fresh, innocent faces full of naive hope or nervous apprehension, were already disembarking from another, larger ferry, their excited chatter a grotesque counterpoint to his own internal despair. The Third School Year was about to begin, and Arthur Ainsworth knew, with a terrifying, inescapable certainty, that he was now not just an unwilling observer or a clumsy, desperate interferer, but a designated, marked target. And this time, he had no phone, no easy means of communication, and very few allies left.
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Chapter 36: An Idea Forged in Unreality II
He looked at them, his gaze steady, his heart pounding in his chest. “It’s a long shot. A horribly dangerous, probably insane long shot. But it’s a start. It’s an idea. And right now, frankly, it’s the only one I have that doesn’t involve us just… waiting in this damp, cold cave for Tsuruoka’s agents to eventually find us and pick us off one by one.”
He let out a slow breath, the weight of his own audacious proposal settling upon him. He, Arthur Ainsworth, former accounts clerk, a man whose most daring act in his previous life had probably been disputing a parking ticket, was now seriously suggesting infiltrating a secret government death camp for super-powered teenagers to foment rebellion based on a half-remembered Japanese comic book. The sheer, unadulterated madness of it was almost enough to make him laugh, or weep. It was hardly a board meeting strategy session back in… well, anywhere remotely normal, he thought with a grim internal shake of his head. The utter bizarreness of asking a group of traumatized children and young adults for ‘better ideas’ on how to dismantle a tyrannical shadow regime, huddled in a makeshift shelter in what felt like a never-ending, surreal, and increasingly dangerous May… if he wasn’t living this waking nightmare, he would never in a million years believe it.
Arthur ran a hand through his already dishevelled hair. “Look,” he said, his voice infused with a weary but unyielding earnestness, “anything we decide to do, anything we can do, it won’t be quick. And it certainly won’t be easy.” He met their wide, stunned eyes one by one. “But something needs to be done. We can’t just hide here forever. We can’t let Tsuruoka and The Committee win, not after everything, not after what they’ve done, what they plan to do.”
He squared his shoulders, a flicker of the old, pragmatic Englishman surfacing through the layers of trauma and disbelief. “That’s my proposal. My… one idea.” He offered a small, almost apologetic shrug. “Unless, of course, anyone else has any better ideas?”
The fire crackled, its small, hungry sounds loud in the sudden, profound silence. The weight of his words, the sheer, almost suicidal audacity of his plan, hung heavy and palpable in the damp, smoky air of the cave. Arthur had laid his desperate, improbable strategy on the table. Now, he could only wait for their reaction, for their judgment, for their decision on whether to embrace this madness, or to seek another, perhaps even more perilous, path.
