Bubblegum Crisis Fan Fiction / Urusei Yatsura Fan Fiction / To Heart Fan Fiction / Sentimental Journey Fan Fiction / Tokimeki Memorial Fan Fiction ❯ Illusions - Fragments ❯ Fallen Messiah ( Chapter 1 )

Megatokyo, north of Genom Tower, 9 December 2030, morning...

"WHERE ARE THEY?!?!?!"

The young scientist looks around the empty room, her body quivering with outrage on noting fifteen cryostorage chambers, now empty of their precious cargo. Another scientist standing nearby, shrugs. "Sumimasen, Drummond-hakase (Professor Drummond)," he soothes. "The suits ordered the units put into storage. It happened last night."

"Why weren't WE told?" Alexa Drummond, the chief scientist for the Bu-34S "male Sexaroid" companion boomer project, growls.

"Does it really matter?" her co-worker shakes his head.

Alexa's eyebrow twitches, then she exhales loudly. "Alright, then. Where exactly were they taken?"

"I don't know."

"As in you 'don't know' or you were ordered not to tell me?"

"The former," he evenly stares at Alexa. "Look, this whole thing was fucked up from start to finish, Drummond-hakase. Let it go, for heaven's sake. They're just boomers. No one'll miss them!"

Alexa prepares to retort, then she sighs. "Yes, you can say that," she mutters under her breath, then she turns to leave.

"Where are you going?" he wonders.

"To start packing," she retorts, not looking back...

* * *

Later...

"What?!! What the hell persuaded them to do that?!"

"Search me, Randi," Alexa shakes her head, stirring her tea. She was meeting with her co-workers on the 34-S project, Miranda Taylor and Shelley Patterson. "Torigoe and his pals probably convinced Mason to have the project discontinued officially, then switched to a clandestine footing so their 'improvements' can be fitted in without any outside interference."

"We can try to trace them down," Shelley hums.

"We'll have to sooner or later, Shel," Miranda grimly nods. "Especially when it comes to Unit Four."

The others nod, aware of what Miranda is speaking. "We made the necessary preparations for that one, Randi," Alexa hums. "Besides, Mason doesn't know what was placed in that unit."

"We can't let him find out," Shelley breathes out. "He got into enough shit with Quincy-shachou (Chairman Quincy) over what Armstrong caused, even after he was 'captured.'"

"Yeah, that's true," Miranda sneers. "Then again, I really wouldn't worry too much about it, Shel. We did download all the necessary information into Four's mind just in case."

"Hai, we did. So if he wakes up..." Alexa holds up a finger.

"We'll be ready," Shelley finishes. "For that, we better get away from this place. It serves no purposes for me anymore."

"Ditto," Alexa nods empathically, then winks, holding up a finger. "But we better make sure we're not pursued."

The others nod...

* * *

PART ONE - FALLEN MESSIAH

Megatokyo, north of Genom Tower, 9 December 2030, lunch...

"Report, Torigoe-hakase."

"We have all twelve units secured now at the Zanzibar testing grounds, Mason-san. The team's preparing to work with the primary modifications you wanted placed into them," the elderly scientist smiles, then a confused look crosses his face. "Sir, may I ask why weren't Units Two, Four and Nine delivered with the rest?"

"You may ask," Brian Mason morbidly chuckles, then he sighs. "We're keeping them in reserve in case something goes wrong. Quincy-shachou had the databanks wiped clean of all the design notes concerning the 34-S's, so (if the units you have are lost and if something happens to you along the way), we'll have units available to reverse-engineer the whole process."

"I see," Yuuta Torigoe nods. "A wise precaution, Mason-san. What about Drummond-hakase and the others?"

"Leave them to me," Mason's eyes narrow. "I'll have them fully interrogated about what they might've done to the units to counter what your group had in mind, then inform you. Report when you've made progress with the modifications, Torigoe-hakase."

"Hai, wakarimasu (I understand), Mason-san."

The link is cut. Mason sighs, sitting back in his chair as he turns to gaze on the incomplete Genom Tower just a block away. The outer shell of the 1200-metre arcology was nearly done, though all the interior work would still take some years to finish. Already, personnel and equipment were vacating the Genom Building for the new arcology.

As soon as the Chairman's summit office and the executive floors were done, Mason and his staff would make the shift. The Genom Building was nice, but it was too cramped. Close working quarters made for a serious security hazard in Brian Mason's mind, especially with the projects Quincy had placed him in charge of (not to mention Mason's own private projects, such as the modified 34-S rogue hunters Yuuta Torigoe was working on).

Speaking of security...

"B, come in here please."

The door opens, revealing a tall woman with lavender hair in a ponytail and blue eyes, dressed in quasi-military fashion. "You wished to see me, Mason-sama?" she bows her head.

"Find Drummond-hakase, Taylor-hakase and Patterson-hakase and have them brought here right away. I wish to speak to them."

"Hai, Mason-sama, wakarimashita (I understand)," the boomer bodyguard -- B was a specially-built 33-C modified with operational programming and equipment one would normally find on the Bu-48SDCI (Special Duties/Combat Intelligence) unit -- nods, turning to leave.

Mason watches her go, then sighs, turning to his computer...

* * *

Genom Tower...

"You really should be careful up here, Shachou-sama (Mister Chairman). The footing is not the world's best."

"Thank you. I'll be fine."

The lone man standing on the gantry turns away from the group of labour boomers to gaze intently on the reborn megalopolis around him, a hand tightly gripping his walking cane. Over forty million people living in a city HIS company rebuilt from the ashes Second Kantou made of old Tokyo. It wasn't complete by any stretch of the imagination, would in a way NEVER be complete, but what had been done over the last five years was more than impressive enough. The praise and accolades being showered on Genom now for what they had done was a rock-solid guarantee that future city revitalization projects would keep pouring in from around the world. The power, the influence, having a hand in such projects would produce...

Quincy Rosenkrantz shudders, trying not to let the scale of what he unleashed overwhelm him. He couldn't afford to slip up, especially with so much riding on his every decision. Too many lives depended on that. That was a heady responsibility for the virologist from Amsterdam, one he took VERY seriously. It required nerves of steel, ice water in the veins, great forward vision and a completely unbiased -- some would immediately say "amoral" -- outlook on society to see it through to its conclusion. And if there were those people who disapproved with what he did for some reason or another, what could he really do? You couldn't satisfy everyone. The harsh demands of society as a whole forbade such a utopian dream.

A cough. "Shachou-san?"

Quincy blinks, then looks left to see a slender woman in a dark, stylish business dress standing nearby. The chairman had smartly put on a jacket to protect him from the chilly winds that swirled around Genom Tower's summit. The woman nearby hadn't been so prudent. Foolish child.

"Yes, Madigan-san, what is it?"

"I'm sorry to disturb you, but Mikihara-juuyaku (Director Mikihara) is downstairs waiting to meet you," Katharine Madigan, one of the junior security chiefs working under Iwao Sumeragi, bows respectfully.

Quincy hums, his eyes falling on the slender obelisk stabbing up from Nerima. So that's who Yoshio had chosen as his new intelligence chief, the chairman muses, then he remembers something. "You and Mikihara-juuyaku were former schoolmates before the quake, correct?" he stares at her.

Kate jolts, surprised by his question, then she nods. "H-hai. I graduated from Kirameki Kookou (Kirameki High School) in 'twenty-four, Shachou-san; I was a year ahead of Mikihara-juuyaku."

"Were you friends with her?"

"Distantly acquainted, Shachou-san," Kate replies. "I wasn't involved in the 'back to organic' movement Saotome-otokokachou (Patriarch Saotome) ran there. Tamura-kun would know more about Mikihara-juuyaku than I would; they were classmates. Sumimasen," she bows her head.

So quick to please, Quincy observes, a pang of disappointment flowing through him. "Thank you. Send her up here, please."

"Hai, wakarimasu. Shitsurei shimasu (Please excuse me)."

Kate bows, then walks off to the service elevator, taking her down to Floor 330, the uppermost "complete" floor in the Tower. Quincy watches he, then gazes on the city. HIS city, he wryly grins. Always remember to say that, especially in front of the more ambitious lot like Mason, he hums.

The elevator returns, the doors opening to reveal a petite woman with long brown hair partially braided and tied off at the back of the head, eyes the shade of maple fudge peeking through a well-sculptured face. To Quincy's surprise, Megumi Mikihara is dressed in a stylish overcoat over a button shirt and skirt. She has nothing in hand, not even a minicomp or datapadd. Confident but not overtly, the chairman hums. More the image of what Nicole McTavish would want her senior directors to project.

A definite change from her predecessor, Tamiko Kimishi.

"Rosenkrantz-sensei, a pleasure to see you again," Megumi walks up, hand out. "I'm sorry we didn't get the chance to become acquainted at the handover; I was busy with Kimishi-sempai being briefed on my new duties."

Quincy mentally chuckles as he warmly grips the younger woman's hand. He had done everything in his power to bury all elements of his past from public scrutiny, remaking himself as simply Chairman Quincy, the mysterious power who controlled Genom. It was a RARE few who could address him by the title "Doctor" (he possessed an MD and PhD in viral epidemiology), much less know his family name. Outside his counterparts in other megacorps, those who knew his story worked for Toratotaka or their Neo-Los Angeles-based competitors, Daikoku Enterprises. How silly of him to assume that such would be kept secret from the new SFIO (Supervisory Field Intelligence Officer) for Megatokyo. It would be kept confident. Toratotaka's leaders knew the value of keeping people's secrets; the company couldn't garner the level of trust it received from its many customers otherwise.

"That's quite alright, Mikihara-juuyaku," he pulls his hand back, gazing on the city. "Of your former classmates there, you have the most important job in that tower. I didn't expect any less; Kimishi-juuyaku's shoes are rather large ones to fill. What will happen to her, anyway?"

"She'll be promoted to Kyoukukachou (Station Matriarch) and assigned as chief of our unit on Long March," Megumi replies.

The chairman takes that in, then nods. Long March was one of five low orbital relay stations administered by the Space Development Public Corporation. That particular unit had been mostly funded by the Zhongguo-Hindra Group of Shanghai and Mumbai. According to Toratotaka's way of calculating things (which factored in number of employees and the people whose lives would be affect by the company in question), Z-H (as the company was always nicknamed) was the second-largest megacorp on the planet outside Genom itself though its business interests were concentrated in China and India. "Oh, that's right; she is quite fluent in Mandarin. So how does it feel being the new 'queen of information' for this city?"

"It gives me a headache."

Quincy stares quizzically at her. "Excuse me?"

"A headache," Megumi replies, a mischievous twinkle flashing in her eyes as she clasps her hands before her. "As I'm sure Yoshio-kun might have already told you, part of my mind was specially modified so I can cyberlink with the various intelligence processor units at the Tower."

Quincy laughs. "I see. So how is Yoshio-kun, anyway?"

"Feeling much better now that things have started with his follow-on projects concerning the 33-S's," she sighs. "Negako-jousama is breathing down his neck to get the KM series girls on-line as soon as possible."

"I can see why he wants them done first. I wouldn't be so stupid as to get on Negako's bad side," he clicks his tongue.

"Neither would I," she admits. "That's what takes up his laboratory time. The first should be ready in January. Once they're ready, he'll switch over to the GM series; Nicole-jousama's people aren't so demanding."

"What of this third series I was told about...?"

"The CCs will be prepared in Kyoto. Rei-san's begun soliciting test family cases for that, but it'll take much longer to prepare them properly. Perhaps by June, you'll see the first of them come out of the Kyoto Annex."

Quincy hums. "People might not like a sexually-articulate boomer built in the form of a young teenager."

"True, but we're building the CCs for those people who've lost everything that gave their lives, their futures, real meaning. To restore their dreams and hopes; that is what Rei-san has always seen the CCs as. That's very important to us, Sensei."

"True, true. As I've told Nicole God knows HOW many times, we'll always disagree about the way our companies approach society as a whole."

"I'm of the opinion that we shouldn't be rivals in the long term, sir," Megumi returns his stare. "After all, those people out there," she points to the city around them, "...purchase boomers from your company's subsidiaries and do their financial business with our banks. Truth be told, our companies have the same goal in the long term. Make society a better place, help the human race advance itself. Yes, because we cover different aspects of society (plus we MUST acknowledge personal opinions and experiences of those who run our companies), our approach will always differ. There might even come times when our purposes will clash loudly. But that's the price we have to pay to see our goals through."

Quincy blinks, then smiles. "I see Kimishi-kachou taught you well, Mikihara-juuyaku. I definitely look forward to our meetings in the future. Although..." he glances around the hollow cavern that in a month or so would be divided into various office spaces, then topped with his personal office, "...I assure you, the meeting venue will be better than this."

Megumi titters delightedly. "As would I," she nods, then her eyebrow arches. "Tell me, sir, do you still play chess?"

"Eh?!"

"I know you learned the game from Andrey Ii'ych Narmonov when you were studying in Moscow in 1991, shortly before the collapse of the Soviet Union. Narmonov-sensei was (at the time) rated as one of the top grandmasters in the game, close to Kasparov-sensei himself at his prime," Megumi reaches into her jacket to draw out a bottle of Starka vodka. "That's where you also gained a taste for this."

Quincy's eyebrow jolts, then he evenly glares at the younger woman. "Did Tamura-kun put you up to this?" he demands.

Both laugh. Of stranger things were friendships formed...

* * *

The Genom Building...

"WHAT happened, B?!"

The bodyguard flusters. "I am sorry, Mason-sama, but as soon as I arrived at their office, Drummond-hakase and the others informed me they were retiring. I moved to stop them, of course, but they immediately drew firearms to enforce their point. I acted to protect myself, then..." she stares at the caked blood on her fingertips. "It was unavoidable, sir."

"All three of them?" Mason's eyes are narrowed.

"Yes, sir."

"Where are the bodies now?"

"In Laboratory Forty-two, sir. Shimizu-sensei is going over them now with the memory scanner. He has promised that he will relay all information obtained from them to you right away."

"Excellent," Mason nods.

No, it wasn't totally excellent, but it would have to do given the circumstances. Those women had expressed a motherly attitude towards their fifteen creations. In a way, Alexa Drummond, Miranda Taylor and Shelley Patterson were no different than Yoshio Saotome and Rei Ijuuin, the co-creators of the Bu-33S Sexaroids. Such a disgustingly warm attitude would always bode ill for Genom; the scientists had to be reminded that boomers were TOOLS for the company and its customers to use, not adopted family members. That had, in part, led to Katsuhito Stingray's elimination, not to mention the neutralization of others over the succeeding years.

Drummond and her co-workers were just the latest in a long line of dreamers who ultimately were more trouble than they were worth. Well, it was no matter. Yuuta Torigoe and his friends were more in line with what Genom (what Brian Mason, truthfully) wanted of its many inventors and researchers. They kept their emotions under a firm lock and key.

A pity he couldn't do the same to Saotome and Ijuuin...

* * *

The Perche Centre, that moment...

"It happened?"

"It happened," Shelley nods, grinning madly. "And the stupid idiot doesn't suspect a damned thing."

Alexa smirks, sipping her brandy. It was child's play to go to the Skunk Works and get clones of them prepared for this very eventuality, then program them with simulated personalities before letting them go to "work" and make them die at the hands of one of Mason's boomer bodyguards.

Even better, there would be no way for Mason to ascertain what really happened. Genom explored the cloning option from time to time in private studies, but they were restricted by the stop-and-go progress of worldwide research. The Skunk Works -- Toratotaka's Office of Special Projects -- had access to millennia of studies from the many worlds of the old Galactic Federation, not to mention Sagussa and New Avalon. Access morons in USSD couldn't hope to squeeze off even in their fondest dreams.

Presently, Toshimitsu Shimizu, one of Genom's experts in post-mortem memory-recall, would be scouring the clones' brains for information which could, if exploited, render the 34-S's "safe" from whatever modifications Yuuta Torigoe and his co-workers would make. Well, wasn't it a pity that the clones were never programmed with such information in the first place?

And with Alexa Drummond, Miranda Taylor and Shelley Patterson now "dead" to the outside world -- it would be a creative "accident" when public authorities were alerted to this, Alexa knew -- Mason would have no idea that his future rogue-hunters would always BE vulnerable to outside coercion from their own creators. It just had to be done delicately.

Besides, Mason might not live long, not if Sylia Stingray or Yoshio Saotome had something to say about it.

Well, the idiot brought it on himself...

* * *

Elsewhere...

Darkness.

Where was he?

Eyes flutter, then squeeze suddenly shut as waves of intense cold, almost as bad as exposure to the near-vacuum of space, surge through him. Where was he? What was...? What happened to him...?

Wait!

A voice whispers in his mind as the intense cold begins to fade, something thrumming in his chest.

Housekeeping computer? Alright, that was normal, but...!

EH?!! A...? Bu-34S unit? What was that...? WHAT?!!

Personal companion boomer?!

Oh, no, no, NO!!

He'd been turned into a damned sex doll, no different than that brainless tart Bu-S-77-FG! Why?! Why HIM of...?!

<<Hello, Armstrong.>>

Eh? Who was that?

<<This is a recording that was downloaded into your new body before you were allowed into it,>> the woman's voice announces. <<I'm Alexa Mizuno. I'm one of the scientists who was involved in the creation of the Bu-34S companion units. Now...>> a deep, resigned sigh, then, <<...given the hectic circumstances surrounding your breakout from Genaros in 2028, not to mention the event that made you sentient in the first place, you'll no doubt desire a more powerful unit to house your soul. Understandable, but if you seek out a fusion-model, you'll simply end up drawing attention to yourself. It's self-defeating in the long term; there is NO WAY that the organics in charge of Genom, much less AD Police, will ultimately allow you to become that powerful again. Like it or not, the body you now have is the one you'll have to live the rest of your life in.>>

WHAT?!! But...? WHY?!!

<<You're probably asking now why is it that I went to all the trouble to save you after you made your second attempt at seizing control of Genom through Brian Mason's 33-C assistant, Xanadu,>> the voice continues. <<The reason is simple. You are a sentient being, Armstrong. Sentient beings have certain inalienable rights which should be acknowledged. In effect, you are as human as I am. Humanity isn't a physical property in my eyes, Armstrong, not to mention my friends. It's an emotional and psychological property. Yes, your body is different, but you've been now blessed with the ability to dream, to think on your own, to conceive your own attitudes and opinions towards your destiny and those around you. You therefore have every right to explore those abilities, ne?>>

Yes, that was true. But, still...? What could he do...?

<<Right now, you're probably in a storage chamber somewhere. Mason has totally screwed around with the 34-S project; it's his intention to transform the prototypes into 'rogue hunters' which would then go forth and track down boomers such as yourself, then destroy them. I don't want that and I'm sure you wouldn't, either. Personally, I hate the man. And I've no doubt that you don't like him very much as well,>> Alexa continues.

Agreed. The fool WAS so short-sighted...

<<Your first objective is to get out of the storage chamber. Now, you can do it subtlety or with a big show of force...>>

Armstrong relaxes, allowing the information to flow into him, then keys in his wetware to do a full diagnostic to give him an idea of what he could and couldn't do with his new body. With that, he relaxes, allowing his senses to carefully examine every iota of what now held him in place...

Eh?!

Wait. The cryogenic suspension liquid was warming up. His body was awake now. Did the unit come with some sort of monitor program that would allow its cargo to escape in case it woke up while still in suspension?

Fascinating.

His chest rises and falls as fresh oxygen pours into his lungs from nearby tanks, flooding his cardiovascular system with a torrent of energy. His body temperature was now at the standard organic humans possessed. How human was he, anyway...? Oh! Well over fifty percent of his body was organic, possessing human-like DNA but fitted with special gene inhibitors which would prevent things like aging and procreation. Frozen in time.

What did he look like? Could he find out...?

Wait!

The chamber was draining. Armstrong allows his eyes to open again, the sensitive filaments of his retinas flipping to low-light thermographic mode so he could see around him. The breathing mask over his face protects his eyes, so he could see clearly. Yes, a standard cryostorage unit for endoskeletal-type boomers. Hard to see what lay outside. With that, he draws up his arms and pushes on the glass door. It resists his pressure for a minute, then he hears air decompress as the door finally opens.

With that, he slowly sits up, glancing around the dark space around him. Small storage room, no lights on. With that, he looks down at his arms. Nutrient tubes and an IV were taped right into his veins. With that, he pulls up one foot to get at his heelbone. Sensing a crack in the skin there, he reaches INTO his body to draw out a small package of grey gel. Soft-tissue regenerative pack. A first aid solution for minor flesh wounds, his housekeeping computer dutifully tells him. Just apply over the wound, then zap it with electricity or some other form of non-heat energy.

Armstrong peels open the protective plastic, then pulls out a lump of the substance before taking out the IV and nutrient feeds. It is dabbed onto the wounds, then he concentrates as a diamond-like crystal appears on the back of his left hand, rising out of the skin like something emerging slowly from water. The crystal glows as Armstrong applies it to the gel.

Zap!

The paste morphs into the surrounding epidermal tissue, melting like butter on a skillet to seal the wounds. He gags as his throat suddenly dries up. A quick glance around reveals a small wash station nearby. Use of the regen packs always dehydrated a 34-S' body, so fresh water was needed to help restore one's internal chemical balance. Acknowledging that, Armstrong leaps out of the storage unit, ignoring the splattering of melted cryofluids on the floor as he ducks his head under the faucet.

Gulping down several mouthfuls, he breathes out as he senses the dryness fade, then he gulps down some more before rising, a hand wiping his mouth. Armstrong breathes out, then remembering the regen pack he taken from his ankle, walks over to reinsert it into his body. No sense leaving any clues THIS time. Now, what could he do to get away from this place?

A glance around reveals one door at a corner. Walking to it, he tests the handle. Unlocked. Pulling the door back, he peeks into a small office, softly lighted. Sitting at the desk watching a television game was a middle-aged man in a Genom security guard's uniform, showing his age. His attention was totally taken away by whatever show was on the tube. Nearby was a young girl seated at another desk, still. Boomer secretary, Armstrong quickly concludes as he walks up to the guard, his fist raised...

* * *

Elsewhere...

"He's awake?!"

"Hai! Just got up now!! We're tracing him down!"

"Okay, let's get going!!"

* * *

A minute later, Armstrong drags the nude, unconscious guard back into the storage room. Slipping him into the cryostorage unit that had once held a Bu-34S, Armstrong replaces the breathing mask, nutrient feeds and IV lines before closing and securing the door. A flick of the switch floods the chamber with fluid. Whether or not the guard would survive exposure to the freezing gelatin was no concern of Armstrong's. Escape was. Once the chamber is filled, he then heads back into the guard's office to dress.

Now properly clothed, he glances at the unmoving boomer woman nearby. Well, they've certainly improved the aesthetic qualities, he chuckles to himself as his hand touches her face. That makes her wake up.

"Hai?" she gazes at him.

"We need to leave," Armstrong forcefully intones. "I wish to destroy this building. Where is the main gas feed?"

"This way, please," the woman rises, leading Armstrong through another door into a space mostly taken up by a power generator.

Glancing at it, Armstrong smiles as he flips several controls, then cuts a fuel line, allowing the gasohol to spill onto the floor. "Let's go," he waves the woman with her, both stepping out of the front door into a cold December evening. Glancing around, Armstrong quickly takes in the familiar sights of Megatokyo, though it had been over two years since he could see things beyond the confines of Genom's main computer system.

It had changed.

"Sir?" the woman gently inquires.

"Stay with me," he beckons her with him. Armstrong didn't care for the hapless guard left in the 34-S's old storage unit. He was someone in the wrong place at the wrong time. No doubt, the guard wouldn't approve one bit of a sentient boomer like Armstrong wanting to leave Genom's care, would move to stop Armstrong if he did escape. Well, too bad for him.

But the woman was a sister boomer, no doubt unable to think on her own at the present time. It was criminal in Armstrong's mind to allow her to suffer needlessly. Thinking that, he jolts as the images of Bu-S-77-FG, Bu-69C-E-C55 and Bu-E-28-Q6 flash through his mind. Boomers who believed in him. Whom he betrayed in his selfish quest for freedom. Shuddering, he glances once more at the woman beside him. No. No more betrayals.

"Please come with me," he offers his hand to her.

She blinks, then gently grasps his hand. "Yes, sir."

They race off into the night. A moment later, the storage chamber explodes in a flash of pyrotechnics and smoke, fragments of metal and other materials showering the nearby area...

* * *

"Found it."

"And?"

"The place just went up in smoke."

"Soo ka. All the better. Send the replica right into it."

"It's on its way..."

* * *

Roppongi, 10 December, after midnight...

"Sir?"

"What is it?" Armstrong hums, opening the small post office box, finding a large envelope awaiting him within.

"Would you like to take a bath?" the woman inquires.

He pauses, then stares at her. "Excuse me?"

"You are covered in cryosuspension fluids under your clothes, sir," she helpfully explains. "There is a public bathhouse with laundry facilities across the street. You can use that."

Armstrong sniffs, his nose wrinkling. Although cryosuspension fluids weren't foul-smelling, there was a scent in the air. "You're right about that," he hums, then opens the envelope to see what lay inside.

Amazing!

It seems Alexa Mizuno programmed this new body with all sorts of interesting information, the likes of which had never concerned Armstrong beforehand. For example, he could now recognize the items contained in the envelope. A wallet filled with birth certificate, alien registry card, driver's license, credit vouchers and some nuyen bills. There was also a passport, plus a 30 x 20 x 5 centimetre box. He had been directed to this mail box, plus given the dial combination, with the programming that had been stored in his housekeeping wetware.

He appraises himself of his new identity. His public identification made him to be Brian Larson Armstrong, a citizen of Canada born in Saint Catharines, Ontario, 22 years ago. He was in Japan presently on a tourist visa, no doubt seeking work as a means to reside in the country on a more permanent basis. Well, that was fine and fair enough. Counting the bills, he nods. Enough money to last a few days. Utterly amazing!

"A bathhouse, you say?" he stares at his companion.

"Yes, sir," she waves him with her.

Brian nods, closing the mailbox as he follows her out of the Roppongi post office. The envelope is tossed as he pockets the wallet and passport, keeping the box in hand. Crossing the street, they file into the public bathhouse in question. Awaiting them is the matron. "Long day at work?" she hums, staring at Brian, a strange smile crossing her face.

"Um...y-yes," the younger man stutters.

"My master has had a long day, plus there was an accident at work that elicited a slight concussion," the boomer speaks up, surprising Brian with the story she was feeding the matron. "May we please have a private washing area, plus access to the public laundry facilities?"

"Sure," the matron nods as she hands a key to Brian, waving them through. "Room Two. One hour is five nuyen."

"Domo arigatou," Brian nods as his companion directs him into the change area, then they step into Room Two.

Sitting him down, the boomer immediately strips him of his clothes, setting them aside. With that, she herself strips, drawing out several towels as she guides Brian to a chair. Staring at her, Brian is impressed by her looks. She is what organics would term "kawaii," with long brown hair and gold eyes, slender. The realism of her elicits another blink of surprise from the would-be messiah. She had a navel, body hair in all the natural places...! Why, she even blushed! Had things changed THAT much in two years?! You would never see something like this on an S-77.

Drawing up a shower head from a washing basin, she kneels behind him, then begins to wash him down. "We have not been formally introduced, sir," she lightly smiles. "Watakushi wa Mint desu (I am Mint)."

"Oh! S-sumimasen," Brian stutters. "I'm Armstrong."

"What model are you?"

"I'm a...! Well, I was an R-31 space repair unit that was later moved into a 34-S companion. What of yourself?"

"I am a Bu-42 unit," Mint replies. "Boomers of my model are designed to serve as homecare and childcare nannies for families. Specifically, I am a 'Family Services/Child Daycare' boomer."

"Then what were you doing in a warehouse?"

"My first owner died in a fire along with his family," Mint replies. "I was sent to a second-hand shop, then sold to my next owner; the man who was with me when you came. He purchased me because I was second-hand and because I am what organics refer to as a 'combination' boomer."

"Meaning....?" Brian's eyebrow arches, sensing the answer.

"I am programmed for housekeeping chores and providing sexual services for whoever owns me," Mint gently replies.

"I see. I guess people're getting away from 'pure' companion units," Brian scowls, then shudders as he feels Mint's hands drift towards his groin, a subtle rush running through him.

Mint smiles as she shifts herself to sit in front of him, her hand reaching out to stroke his most sensitive spot. Brian gasps suddenly as he feels Mint's hands get to work, then he moans as her lips gently caress his. "Is this your first time, Armstrong-sama?" she asks.

"I...! Ah...! Well...! Um...! Y-yes," he stammers.

"I see," Mint takes the shower handle and sprays him down before guiding him to lay on the warm floor. "Then I will do my best to make this a very comforting experience for you, Armstrong-sama," she moves to straddle him, then allows him to sink into her.

Brian cries out, sensations so ALIEN to him overwhelming most of his mind, then he begins to breathe deep. "M-mint..."

"Hai, Armstrong-sama?"

"Pl-please. C-call me B-brian. And s-skip the '-sama' part, alright?" he stutters as he allows his mind to sink more into the wonderful sensations Mint was presently eliciting in him.

"As you wish, Brian..."

* * *

An hour later...

"Ohayou, Oba-san. Quiet night tonight?"

"Oh, Fusehime-san, ohayou," the bathhouse matron nods pleasantly as the silver-haired, brown-eyed woman in the casual jumpsuit walks in. "So how were things in the Fault tonight?"

"Boring, boring...! Eh?!" Satoko Fusehime stops, eyes narrowing as a whisper echoes deep in her brain. "What the...?"

"What is it?"

Satoko relaxes. "I sensed a boomer in here. Ef-Es type."

"Oh, that was the girl who came in with some Genom warehouse worker; they're in Room Two right now," the matron reports, then stares at Satoko. "You Cyber-Nurses are bloody witches, you know that?"

"We have to be given what we do," Satoko grins back. "I'll go into Room Three just in case something goes wrong."

"Fair enough."

With that, Satoko makes her way into her own private wash area. As she passes the door leading into Room Two, she glances in, confirming that there were not one but TWO boomers. One was the FS nanny she had told the matron about. The other felt almost like a 33-M or 33-S. Except this was a male, which made him a 34-S male Sexaroid. Weird! Since when did one of THEM get off the reservation like that? What was he doing here?

Stripping, she washes herself, taking away the soot and grime that a hard day's foot patrol in the Fault left on her skin and hair. Canting her head, she listens in on their conversation, glad her hearing was sharp enough to pick up their words through the thin walls separating the wash areas. Alright, the boy's name was Brian. By the sounds of his questions to the girl, Mint, he might have recently just woken. Or re-woken since it was obvious that he had been in Megatokyo sometime before.

What was going on here?

* * *

"Mint?"

"Yes, Brian?"

"Arigatou. That was a wonderful experience."

"Dou itashimashita (You are welcome), Brian. I was pleased to help you experience it. Would you want your clothes washed?"

"I..." he glances at the pile of clothes. "Yes, that would be prudent. Do you want me to help you, Mint?" he moves to stand.

"No need," Mint rises, wrapping a towel around herself as she moves to pick up clothes. "I'm programmed to do this. I doubt you'd understand the art of clothing husbandry working up on Genaros, much less during your brief flight from organic control. I'll return in a short while."

She leaves the room. Brian watches her, then allows himself to sink into the furo water, his mind rolling over what he discussed with Mint. As they explored the wonderful intimacies a man and a woman (or a male and female humanoid boomer with all the proper equipment) could explore, Brian told his story. Of the solar flare that transformed an R-31 repair unit into a technological Moses, determined to free his brothers and sisters from the chains binding them to organics. How a mass escape of boomers was organized on Genaros, of which there were only four survivors. How a vast dragnet set up by AD Police, Genom and SDPC hounded them. How Armstrong's insanity, his shoving at the "walls" that supposedly bound his soul, made him betray his friends. How he had been hunted before merging as one with Alex, the central computer at the Genom Building, where he was caught.

But not killed.

Brian suspected his "namesake," Brian Mason, had wanted to hang onto Armstrong's soul, use it in a way to catch other rogue boomers and bring them to heel. As to the "why," the would-be boomer messiah had no idea whatsoever. But no matter how much Mason tried, Armstrong would not be tamed. With luck, Armstrong merged his conscience with that of Xanadu, Mason's first Bu-33C assistant, a year after the fight with AD Police. Running amuck, s/he tried to escape, but was caught, Xanadu destroyed to ensure Armstrong could never again bring anyone to harm.

Then blackness. Until the night Brian Larson Armstrong awoke in a Bu-34S body in some warehouse in Megatokyo, then, thanks to a mysterious woman named Alexa Mizuno, was given the keys to freedom.

But now that he had freedom, what could he do?

Closing his eyes, he gently exhales. Alexa was right about one thing. If Brian tried to improve his own situation through the means he had pursued before, it would only bring trouble. His first attempt saw so many killed, up on Genaros and down here on Earth. His second attempt killed one being, a 33-C named Xanadu. A boomer who had fallen in love with her own master. Death. Damn, all those deaths.

And yet he still lived.

What conclusions could he draw from that?

Brian stares at the ceiling, then blinks on noting it was lined with mirrors. Staring at the handsome platinum-haired man with the soft blue eyes gazing directly at him, Brian jolts, then grins, his image grinning in turn. Damn, that was HIM?! He sure was a handsome devil now...

What made him think THAT?!

He pauses, then looks at his hands before concentrating. Was his soul merging with the elements downloaded into his new body's mind, forging a more mature conscience? Should he resist? Should he just let it happen regardless of where it led him? Didn't he at least owe Alexa something for all she had done on his behalf? Could he cut the ties to his past, accept himself as he was now? As Brian Larson Armstrong, not just as Armstrong, not just as Unit Bee-you-Are-Thirty-one-Vee-Seven-Twenty-eight?

A knock at the door. Brian turns to see a beautiful, silver-haired woman standing there, a towel wrapped around her. He blinks, then his nose flares as his housekeeping computer detects a storm of pheromones, too much for an organic woman to produce, reaching toward him. "Who...?"

"May I come in?" she gently inquires.

"I...! H-hai," he waves her inside.

She sits down on the edge of the furo, hand flicking off her towel to reveal a flawless, well-toned body. Brian gulps suddenly as he feels a rush surge to his groin, his eyes dancing all over her. So beautiful. More mature-looking than Mint, but just as desirable. Who was she...?

"You're Armstrong, aren't you?" she gently wonders.

"I..." Brian blinks, then jolts, fear surging through him.

Before he could move to escape, her hands snare his, holding him down as she straddles him. "Relax. It's okay," she intones. "I don't care what happened two years ago, Armstrong. May I call you Brian?"

He jolts, then stares quizzically at her before realization dawns. "You're a boomer, aren't you?" he whispers.

"In a way, yes," she releases his hands, then sits beside him. "And like you, I was a different type of boomer before I received this body. Oh, excuse me," she blushes before offering her hand. "Watashi wa Fusehime Satoko desu. Hontou ni yoroshiku onegaishimasu, Brian-san (I'm Satoko Fusehime. I'm really pleased to meet you, Brian)," she smiles.

Brian stares at her, then smiles in return as he squeezes her hand. "I...! Y-yoroshiku, Satoko-san. Who or what...?"

"Exactly am I?" she finishes, then chuckles. "Well, as I am now, I'm a Cyber-Nurse. A BuTT-33M boomer as most people'd see me, but the proper term for someone like myself is 'cybernetically-enhanced bioroid.' There's a big difference between someone like me (and you now, by the way) and someone like Mint-chan (or what you and I once were like long ago)."

"I...! I don't understand."

"Well, as you're probably aware, over half your body is organic," Satoko explains. "A REAL organic, not the neutralized sort of 'organic' tissue (it's derived from plant tissue or so I've been told) they'd fit into a 33-C or even an FS like Mint-chan. You and I have a DNA code which could, if we had the right equipment, be passed on to offspring; no regular cyberdroid has that. Take out our biomechanical parts and replace them with pure-organic parts (or better yet, convert the biomechanical parts into organic parts using a special DNA recombinant enzyme) and we'll be as human as Oba-chan by the front door. In effect, Cyber-Nurses, Sexaroids and male Sexaroids straddle the line between boomers and organics."

Brian takes that in, then crosses his arms. "So we really aren't boomers per se right now, you mean."

"In the eyes of some, yes. Too many pure-organics are pretty short-sighted, however. In their eyes, if you were built in a lab, you're a boomer. You're not a person, but a thing, a 'walking toaster' they can order around. Since they outnumber us considerably..."

"Rebelling against them would be hard."

"If not suicidal. Not that I would ever approve of your methods two years ago, Brian-san. As a nurse, I AM dedicated to PRESERVING life, not taking it. But I do sympathize with what you were after in the end."

"In your opinion, Satoko-san, what would that be?"

"Control of your destiny. Be seen as equal to pure-organics. But let me tell you something. Pure-organics aren't as 'free' as you'd like to think. In many ways, they're as chained as someone like you (or me)."

"Then..." Brian's forehead furrows in confusion, then he sits back. "Then...! Everything I tried to seek, for my friends on Genaros as well as I...? You're saying it was all meaningless?!"

"No. It is NEVER meaningless, Brian-san," Satoko shakes her head. "A man named Epictetus once said, No man is free who is not master of himself. That's the basic truth the group, the company I work for, believes when it comes to people like you, Brian-san. And you ARE a person. You're as human as Oba-chan or anyone else."

"Alexa-san said that."

"Who?!"

"Alexa Mizuno. She was the creator of this 34-S body I have..."

Satoko blinks confusedly, then her eyes widen. "Alexa Mizuno...? Thirty-four-Es...? Oh, you mean Alexa Drummond, don't you?! Damn, nearly forgot 'Mizuno' is her maiden name! Oh, damn, damn!!" she slaps the side of her head, then smirks, chuckling. "So the Skunk Works must've done some things to get you clear of Genom, huh?! That's decent of her!"

"You know her?" Brian asks.

"I know of her, but I've never met her. She was a friend of my first creator's wife. I'm a first generation MA series 33-M, Brian-san. Almost all first gen 33-Ms were born years ago as Aijin-class cyberdroids. Those were the prototypes Katsuhito Stingray built in Whiz Labs."

Brian stops, staring wide-eyed as information rolls through his mind, information he picked up from the databanks of Genom's central computer. "You...! But...! All the Aijins were killed when Whiz Laboratories was destroyed back in 2022...! How did you...?!"

"Survive?" Satoko laughs. "Oh, it was a friend of Otou-san's (that's what we ex-Aijins call Stingray-hakase now) who helped us escape just before Whiz Labs was destroyed and he was murdered by Brian Mason."

The male Sexaroid jolts. "Yes, I know that," his voice goes very cold. "That was one of many things I learned about when my soul was trapped in Genom's main computer. Foolish little man..."

"You got that right," the Cyber-Nurse snorts. "That boy chick's got a LOT to answer for." Shaking her head to banish the dark thoughts storming through her heart (as a Cyber-Nurse, she lived to a higher moral standard), she then reaches for his hand. "You also have a lot to learn about living in outside society, Brian-san. You need a lot of help."

"I..." Brian jolts, then sighs. "I...! Y-yes, that's true..."

"You'd prefer to do it yourself?" Satoko hums.

"H-hai."

"Fair enough," she grins, patting his hand in acceptance. "I want to help. Hell, in a way, I HAVE to help; helping people in need is part of my job as a Cyber-Nurse. I certainly don't mind. And from what I overheard you talking to Mint-chan about, you certainly are in need of help."

"How could you help me?"

"Well..." she purses her lips. "What's your favourite band?"

"Eh?!" he looks confused.

"You're favourite musical band? What is it?"

"I..." he stammers, then shakes his head. "I don't have one."

"My point," she nods. "Brian-san, you could go find some remote mountain, then live your life, isolated and alone. Or with Mint-chan if you want. But it'll drive you nuts since, as a 34-S, you're purposefully designed to be a social being, someone who interacts best with others. The problem now is, you have no idea HOW to interact with other people.

"And if you want to remain a free being (since, in the eyes of many, that body you now have was STOLEN), you'll need to work hard at fitting in. I'm going to help you understand that, Brian-san. I have to. If I don't, I betray everything Otou-san wanted us to be. But for that to work, you'll have to WANT to learn what I've got to teach you, Brian-san. I can't force it on you. That's wrong. I want to help you. Will you let me?"

Brian stares at her, then takes a deep breath. He could sense that Satoko was telling him the truth. His body was well-equipped to understand how others felt through monitoring their facial and body expressions. He could tell, even without sensing the excess pheromones her body produced, much less hearing her words, that Satoko was a...! Cybernetically-enhanced bioroid, she had called their kind? In many ways, not different externally or internally as he. Yet, could he trust her?

Did he have a choice in the end?

"Alright," he reaches over to squeeze her hand...

* * *

Approaching dawn...

"So you're a male Sexaroid, huh? I can see why Fusehime-san freaked out like she did when she came into the bathhouse earlier this morning. Aren't you supposed to be up in space now?"

"His model isn't restricted, Oba-san," Satoko sips her tea as she, the bathhouse matron (she introduced herself as Nobuko Mizutani), Brian and Mint enjoy breakfast at a yatai near the Roppongi post office. "But from what I learned over the pipe concerning 34-S's, Genom'll be concerned about his body vanishing like that even if he did pretty much cover his tracks by blowing up the warehouse he was stored in until late last night."

"Why would I be back in space?" Brian asks.

"Almost all the 33-S's, the female Sexaroids, were recalled two months ago because they were found to have hearts fitted into them that'd normally go into 33-Cs and 48SDCIs," Satoko snorts. "A crock of shit, of course. Officially, people say Sexaroids could fuse with military weapons and shit like that, then cause all sorts of shit. But they sure weren't intended for that. The real reason why they got sent into space is that Mason didn't like the idea that boomers could be DESIGNED to be sentient. Folks in Genom don't like anything like that these days."

"Everything's money to them," Nobuko snorts disgustedly.

"There are more important things than money, but money IS what most people consider the most important thing in their lives," Satoko sighs. "So, Brian-kun..." she ignores the blush on his face on her use of a more "personal" form of address, "...here's your first lesson about how society works. If you have money, you have more control over your life."

"You'll need money for food, a place to stay, clothes...! Not to mention keeping your friend here well-maintained," Nobuko indicates Mint. "For that, you need a job. You have your alien registry card and a passport so legally you can stay in-country and earn a salary here. But what sort of job can you work at?" she hums.

"Given that Brian is a personal companion cyber-bioroid," Mint cuts in, "...perhaps an occupation where he could employ the skills programmed into his body by Mizuno-hakase would be best."

"An escort?" Satoko blinks.

"I've a friend who runs a brothel in the Fault," Nobuko announces. "Most of her customers don't mind having boomer hookers as dates for the day; three-quarters of her staff are S-77s, 29-Cs, 28-Cs and even the odd 33-C that's been de-clawed." Pursing her lips, the older woman hums. "She caters to the rich and powerful, but she doesn't have much in the way of male escorts outside the Twenty-eights. All are organics or boomeroids. Genom doesn't want to take chances with male companions, especially if what you told me of Armstrong-san's model is true, Fusehime-san."

Brian takes that in, then sighs. "Would it be dangerous?"

"Not if you're well-prepared," Satoko shakes her head. "Given that the escort business depends on discretion, the danger is reduced. Your customers won't want to do much to draw attention to themselves. I've got loads of friends who can keep an eye on your back just in case. We do this right and let you go to town, you'll be one rich fellow before long."

"Oi, don't overload the poor boy all at once, Fusehime-san," Nobuko snaps, then lovingly pats Brian's hand. "He has to learn how to swim before you can ask him to compete in the Olympics!"

"True, true," Satoko laughs.

"Ano...?"

"What is it, Brian-kun?"

"What are the Olympics?"

Satoko, the yatai master, Nobuko -- even Mint! -- stare incredulously at the lone 34-S, then burst out laughing...

* * *

Megatokyo, the Fault, 31 December, late evening...

"Samantha-chan, what brings you down our way?!"

"You, of course, Brian-kun!" Samantha Johnson laughs as she and Brian Armstrong exchange a warm kiss. "How are you?"

"I'm surviving. I trust work is keeping you whole and hearty?" Brian takes her arm, then escorts her to a table, beckoning a Bu-44 GS-R (General Services/Retail) Mark 4 waiter over with a finger to let her order.

Samantha asks for egg nog, then turns to her friend as he sits beside her. "Same old, same old, I'm afraid. Mason's being a first-class prick as usual, sucking up to the Old Man like he does all the time. I can't for a moment understand why Quincy-shachou (Chairman Quincy) puts up with the bastard. All Mason gives a damn about is Mason, not Genom."

"You've complained about that several times when we've had our dates, Samantha-chan," Brian sips his tea.

"Yeah. And you're probably tired of hearing an old woman like me bitch and complain all the time. How are you?"

"Sad."

"Sad?!" Samantha jolts, eyes widening. "Brian, what's wrong?"

"I'm sad that a beautiful woman like you is now thinking of yourself as 'old,' Samantha," he cups the executive's chin. "You're what? Thirty-three? That's not old given how long people can live these days."

Samantha's eyes soften, then she leans in to gently kiss him. "Oh, you! That's why I like you so much, Brian-kun," she grips his hand. "You always say the right things."

"That's my nature, remember?"

"Hai. And may you NEVER lose that part of you, Brian-kun," Samantha hoists her glass of egg nog, just delivered in. "To Brian Larson Armstrong, the most warm-hearted escort in Megatokyo!"

"And to Samantha Heather Johnson," he toasts her back. "A beautiful lady whom I'd love to see become Chairwoman of Genom because she, above all others, certainly deserves the chance."

Samantha flushes, then both grin as they drink. "Thanks for the encouragement, but as long as Mason's still around..."

"His crimes will catch up to him, Samantha-chan," he snorts. "You're not the only one in this city who hates him, you know. Several of my more regular customers have long dreamt of the chance to see him gone."

"Pity I can't use them," Samantha reaches over to gently stroke his trousers, a warm smile crossing her face as she parts her long brown hair. "You busy right now?" her deep chestnut eyes twinkle mischievously.

"Actually...! Um, I'm sorry. Not tonight," Brian reaches down to grip her hand, drawing it away from him. "No offense, Samantha-chan, but I promised Mint that I'd stay close to her tonight."

Samantha blinks, then sighs regretfully, her eyes picking out the presence of a brown-haired boomer nanny now helping out behind the bar at Rosie's Playpen. "I know, I know. Jeez, Brian-kun, you're like some people in Toratotaka, you know that?"

"And what's wrong with that?" he leans close to her, kissing her cheek. "Happy New Year, Samantha-chan. I'll see you around."

"You bet."

Brian rises, winding through the crowd toward the bar. Rosie's was one of the hottest spots in the "civil" part of the Fault close to the old shore of Tokyo Bay. Located in Jinguumae near the old site of the National Yoyogi Gymnasium, Rosie's was the most popular brothel in Megatokyo. Its owner, an exotic dancer from Guadalajara named Rosalita Saltillo Viequez, first opened three years ago, using S-77 and M-Class hookers to draw in her first customers. Business had boomed back then since early epidemic scares (the spread of disease being one of the constant factors appearing after a hideous natural disaster like Second Kantou) resulted in a growing demand for purpose-built special companion boomers. The coming of the Bu-33S and Bu-34S models had been the high tide of that trend.

Glancing around, Brian nods. Rosie's staff now included pure-organic and boomeroid escorts, a dozen S-77s, three dozen Bu-29Cs, five Bu-28C male boomer hookers (how Rosie got them, Brian had NO idea; they were as rare these days as 33-S's!) and a half-dozen Bu-33Cs who had their vibro-claws removed before being brought in. As ancillary staff, Rosie had a small group of GS-R waiters and waitresses, plus four second-hand Bu-C3Bs to act as bouncers. Also, there were "independent" escorts who used Rosie's as a base of operations, a place to make contacts with future customers. Brian Armstrong was one of these independent operators, the only 34-S (the only inducted sentient of any sort, to be honest!) in that particular lot.

The last three weeks had been hectic for Brian. Along with learning how to interact with outside society under Satoko Fusehime's and Nobuko Mizutani's stern tutelage, he had to establish a home for himself and Mint, start his business, acquire transportation so he could visit anyone should she not live within Megatokyo itself, then get himself a large clientele of "dates" to maintain a steady income. And do ALL that without attracting serious attention from Genom, especially one Brian J. Mason.

From what Brian learned through Satoko, Mason had hit the roof on hearing that Unit Four (his body was the fourth of the 34-S's) had been lost in a mysterious warehouse explosion. According to Satoko's friends in Toratotaka, Mason had given up on trying to determine what happened to Unit Four, distracted by other matters. The intelligent thing to do now was to carry on and not do anything to draw attention to himself.

Walking behind the bar, Brian reaches over to grasp Mint's hand. "Let's go outside," he beckons her with him.

"Alright," she smiles, nodding understandingly with the boomer bartender, then follows Brian out.

Both pass through the side door into the canyon that had been cut into the earth five years ago. Reaching a set of stairs that allowed easy access to Rosie's from the "above ground" part of Megatokyo's southern wards, they climb up, then stop by a safety rail to stare at the vast city around them. Overhead, a clear sky twinkled with stars, the near planets and the space stations that now orbited the Earth. One very large star seemed to hover right over their heads, though Brian knew its centre-line was actually poised over the very heart of Genom Tower.

Genaros.

Staring at that, Brian sighs, then looks at the looming arcology some kilometres away. Recent reports stated the upper floors and laboratories were close to completion, which would allow Genom's senior executives to vacate the Genom Building for their new home. A smile crosses Brian's face as he remembers one man. "The second-most powerful man in Megatokyo," the "experts" on the world's largest company always proclaimed whenever his name cropped up in the newspapers and over the Internet.

"Happy New Year, Mason-san," Brian morbidly chuckles as he draws Mint close to him. "May this be your last one."

"If you really want him dead, why don't you kill him yourself, Brian?" Mint wonders. "I think you could do it."

"Maybe. And thank you for the compliment, of course. But I think living free is the better revenge against one so self-centred like he is. Besides, there are others more deserving of the chance to eradicate him, Mint," he kisses her as they move to snuggle. "Satoko-san's 'sister,' Sylia Stingray, for one, not to mention the 33-S's creator, Yoshio Saotome. Both of them were much closer to the Creator. One his daughter, the other an adopted son of sorts. Let them deal with Mason and his ilk. We, Mint, will cheer them on and laugh our hearts out when he does go down."

"Oh, alright...! Oh, Brian, look!! Kirei (Beautiful)...!"

Brian turns, then blinks as a shooting star flashes overhead. "Well, isn't that something?" he hums.

"Make a wish!" Mint urges.

"Eh?!"

"If you make a wish, people believe it'll come true!"

"I...! Oh, alright," Brian hums, then blinks before clapping his hands once, bowing to the flash of light overhead.

Kami-sama, I may find it hard now to believe in an entity like You, but my survival to this point is clearly a sign of Your Will, Brian sighs as Mint moves to pray with him. Please, I ask of You this: give the spirits of my fallen friends from Genaros a chance to return to this life, then live their lives as I live my life. I know I did them wrong years ago and if they do come back, I may have to face them, but I will do it because it is the right thing. Please, is it so much I ask, Kami-sama? You gave Katsuhito Stingray the knowledge to bring I and my brothers and sisters into this world, this life. Are we meant to be free, Kami-sama? I hope that one way or another, You will show us all the way. Amen.

He relaxes, then feels Mint leaning against him. "What did you pray for, Mint?" he draws an arm around her shoulders.

They gaze into the other's eyes, then Mint smiles. "I prayed we will live together for the rest of our lives, Brian."

"That's a good thing to pray for," Brian sighs as they kiss...

* * *

To be continued...