Summoning Our Country - NHS Kai

Chapter 16.5: Yoha no Naka

Physically far from the scenes of chaos that continue to erupt in the Rodenius continent, following the obliteration of Lourian administrative and military cohesion by Japan's Operation Zanzibar, the Japanese capital was by no means far removed from the consequences of such a daring move. The administration was under extreme heat and pressure from the rest of the government and the people for its actions in the Lourian theater. Following decades of obstinate adherence to a policy of strict peace and non-belligerence, Prime Minister Takamori single-handedly dismantled Japan's pacifist reputation in a single day with the greenlighting of a bombing of the Lourian sovereign. While the legality of the strike remains to be debated hotly throughout the nation, the resounding consensus agreed that it was a blatant belligerent action by Takamori–a step that was too far out of line.

Compounding the still pervading economic crash, food crisis, widespread blackouts, and so on was renewed anger by the populace against what they perceived was a warmonger leading Japan back to open militarization. On top of already routine unrest in the capital due to homelessness, food shortages, unemployment, and so on were protests centered on government buildings in Kasumigaseki in the heart of Tokyo. The worst of these protests was occurring at the Ministry of Defense, where an angry mob was trying to storm through the main gate, only to be pushed back by countless cans of tear gas and jets of cold, pressurized water from metropolitan police water cannons. Having sneaked into the compound via a designated path for government employees, Matsumoto Akira was beholden to a view of the mob repeatedly pushing against the stressed reinforced steel of the main gate, like a relentless tsunami repeatedly crashing on a dike. From where he was in the building, he could hear the resounding, rhythmic chants of protestors crying out in disenchanted unison.

"OKADA, RESIGN! OKADA, RESIGN!"

A chill ran down Matsumoto's broad back.

Never before was he a witness to a protest so violent. Then again, they all had never been witness to a modern Japan bombing and killing the rulers of another sovereign nation before.

As much as he shared the sentiments of the protestors, his job urged him to look away, and his heart beckoned him to ignore their cries. Past the spine-chilling cries of protestors being silenced by the gushing of pressurized water, he could feel the warmth of the cup of coffee he held in his hand. He looked down on it; the plastic and cardboard that held the caffeinated drink was a sight he missed, for coffee had been strictly rationed the past two months. Only after coffee successfully (and miraculously) grew in Qua-Toynian plantations in sufficiently large quantities did they lift the rationing on coffee just last week–a sign that their efforts were boring fruit. Finally, Matsumoto thought, as the smell of caffeine tickling his nose teased him to indulge in the drink. However, this cup of 473ml of aromatic, brewed coffee was not meant for him, for written on top of the plastic cover in black marker ink were the characters for "Okada."

Putting down his belongings on the desk that denoted him as secretary, he brought with him only the cup of coffee as he walked towards the room of his superior, Okada Masako, the Minister of Defense. As he stood in front of the door, poised to knock and then enter her office, he heard the loud sound of countless blunt objects hitting the floor from beyond the wooden door. Matsumoto's fight-or-flight instincts kicked in, sidelining the established custom of knocking on the door first before entering, fearing for the safety of his superior.

"Minister?!"

Swinging the door open with his free left hand, Matsumoto entered the office. The simple, elegant atmosphere of the room was even more pronounced during the morning when the rays of sunlight coming from the rising sun would give the room its somber, yellow color. Disturbing the tidiness of the office was an array of books, documents, and their respective boxes scattered about one corner. In the middle of it all was the figure of a woman sitting on the floor as if she had tripped, her modestly short stature exuding an aura of weakness, compounded by the fact that she was in a pose that emanated frailty. To anyone looking, it looks as if she had tried to reach for something from the topmost shelf of the tall bookcase, the contents of which were now scattered all across the floor. To Matsumoto, the mess had to wait, for the woman was his primary concern.