Type 88

The Cell

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At 9:00 p.m., Mark and Eugene Reierson sat in a windowless room in the basement of the Athena Prison in Japan. They had been there longer than they had planned.

Over the years, they argued. Regardless of whether they actually disagreed, they spent their downtime arguing about anything and everything.

"I, for one, am happy he's here." Mark said, leaning back against the cell wall, his arms folded over his chest. "Always thought he was a weak-willed old man. A real leader shines when the world goes to shit. What's happening now? Fucking suicide cults—"

"Mark, where have you encountered suicide cults?" Eugene asked, picking at his fingernails.

Mark ignored him. "Someone organizing shit like that should be dead, not lucky enough to be here."

"OK, number one," Eugene said, "you think Shiro organized this? What would be his end game—to wind up here? Yeah, he's right where he wants to be. And number two, are you sure he'd rather be here than dead?"

Mark didn't respond.

Eugene continued. "Taking a stand against rash decision-making and advocating for people to reconcile their differences is the opposite of weak willed. That took balls. He gambled on the rest of the world agreeing. He lost. So be it. Now he has to live with the consequences. It probably wasn't smart to gamble on people's abilities to think rationally."

The two of them went back and forth, Mark on the offensive and Eugene taking the high road, until two guards threw the room's ironclad door open.

"Mark. Eugene," one of the guards said. "Another enlightening topic?"

Mark and Eugene kept quiet.

"Well, holy shit!" the other guard said. "They're speechless! It really is the end of the world."

The guards rolled Shiro Miyamoto into the room. Shiro was strapped to a stretcher, his mouth muzzled.

Mark and Eugene put particle masks on. The two men leaned over the stretcher. Shiro looked into Mark's eyes, expressionless. Mark paused, glanced in Eugene's direction, and started the torture regimen.

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