Yashiro moved through the halls of Oso Academy, a bastion of tradition and formality. The architecture intertwined modern elements with classical grandeur, while students navigated in their distinct uniforms.
Rounding a corner, Yashiro entered the teachers' lounge. In her hands, she held a bundle of documents and a steaming cup of coffee. Touma's presence caught her eye as he occupied a table, his gesture silently beckoning her. She hesitated for a fleeting moment before making her way to him.
"Business to attend to?" Touma glanced at the folder in her hand, his tone momentarily wistful. His hands rested on the table, fingers entwined, as though afraid she might slip away.
"Just a minor task with a staff member," Yashiro replied, her voice calm and measured.
"Why not join us?" Touma's hand gestured towards the empty seat across from him.
Her gaze shifted to the man opposite Touma, his white hair cascading across his chest. She looked away, as if about to decline the invitation.
"Perhaps another time," Yashiro responded.
"Do you know Aoki Chiyo?" Touma's question sliced through the air, catching Yashiro's attention.
"Only by reputation," Yashiro acknowledged, her brows furrowing slightly.
"She's the secretary's daughter," Touma continued, his gaze fixed upon her.
"And?"
"Word is, she was assaulted along with two friends in a restroom," Touma explained.
"I see."
"Ended up in the infirmary with wrist pain," he added.
"Good," Yashiro retorted tersely, her eyes reflecting a detached mixture of emotions.
"Did you hear about it?" Touma's gaze remained fixed on her, his words probing for a reaction.
"No," Yashiro confirmed, her expression unreadable.
"Got nothing to do with it?" Touma's inquiry delved deeper, seeking to unearth any connection.
"If you're suggesting I had a hand in it, why not simply report me?" Yashiro's tone held a trace of defiance.
"Because I know that's what you want, I won't," Touma replied calmly, leaning back in his chair.
Makishima, a silent observer thus far, interjected, "I am sure whatever she has done, she did so with a conviction she deemed righteous."
Yashiro's frown deepened, her gaze shifting to Makishima's poised figure.
"I don't doubt that. My intention is to underscore the ripple effect of actions on one's future. Fortunately, your anonymity shielded you this time. Had they recognized you, I would have found myself in the principal's office once again, striving to safeguard your interests," Touma stated.
"I've never asked for your protection," Yashiro retorted, her voice edged with a touch of frustration.
"Are you aware that your actions could result in expulsion?" Touma's question held a sense of gravity.
"Yes."
"This could be the end," Touma observed, his expression a medley of concern and reprimand.
"So be it," she replied.
"What's going on?" Touma's expression furrowed, casting a shadow of concern across his features. Yashiro's eyes briefly avoided his gaze as she lifted her coffee cup to her lips. "You've never been one to conform, but the past few months? The truancy, the wandering. Can't you see where this is going? Allow me to offer clarity—to give you the truth."
"What?" Yashiro's exhalation carried a mix of curiosity and resignation, as she settled into a chair opposite Makishima, a silent observer from the periphery. Her posture eased as her gaze meandered to her untouched coffee cup, an anchor amidst the unfolding discourse.
"You're smart, so smart yet endearingly naive," Touma shook his head, his words evoking a flicker of a smile from her. "The Aokis of the world will always exist, and the girl you aided? She'll take shitty orders from people who will probably be Aoki. Much like she's doing now. And that will be her life from now on until her hue gets clouded and she ends up in a cell or gets killed by the police. That's her life. You keep acting like this, it'll be yours," he paused, reaching for her coffee cup. "That's a path ahead of you. A life of servitude. But there's another," he pulled a black cell phone out of his pants pocket, placing it alongside her coffee.
Yashiro's gaze flickered between Touma's intense stare and the device he had placed before her.
"A life infused with the power to steer the course of events," Touma continued, his voice measured yet brimming with conviction. "You see, existence is often defined by two prevailing modes: the desire to shape events or the acquiescence to their shaping. The orchestrator or the orchestrated. The catalyst or the reaction. Do you truly think you can transcend this fundamental duality?"
Yashiro met Touma's gaze, her countenance a blend of contemplation and determination.
"What if I were to reject both?" her voice remained steady.
Touma's eyes narrowed slightly, a subtle yet cryptic smile touching his lips.
"Choice is often a mirror to the soul," he responded, leaning back in his chair. "When presented with two options, people are driven to concoct excuses or introduce additional alternatives, a defense mechanism against acknowledging their own inclinations or confronting the fear of judgment."
Makishima ventured a subtle smile, his gaze flitting between the interlocutors.
"And you think you know me well enough to draw such conclusions?" Yashiro's gaze hardened.
Touma leaned in, his demeanor unwavering, his voice a calm stream infused with certainty, "Perhaps I do. But let's simplify matters, shall we? A simple choice: the cup or the phone."
Yashiro's gaze danced between the two objects, a pendulum oscillating between competing futures. Her mind danced upon the precipice of comprehension.
"Ah, the purity of your intent," Touma's voice tinged with a rueful undercurrent. "Yet when thrust into this dichotomy, most are drawn to the latter."
"And what do you think my choice would be?" Yashiro's eyes narrowed.
"Well, you've already made your choice," Touma's smile deepened, his fingers lightly tapping the black phone on the table. "Your unspoken admission lies right here, in this unassuming device."
Yashiro's lips parted, her gaze shifting towards the phone.
"Why?" her voice wavered.
Touma's smile evolved into a knowing grin, "For the intricacies of humanity seldom align with the canvas of pristine integrity. Given the opportunity, men are often drawn to power, whether brazenly acknowledged or subtly veiled beneath layers of moral rationalization."
"Is that your belief?"
Touma leaned closer.
"I believe that when faced with the right circumstances, men would choose the path that grants them authority, even if they resist acknowledging it. I've posed this question to others, and interestingly, they've all arrived at the same choice. It underscores the intricate complexities of human nature—a truth that even the purest of souls, such as yourself, cannot fully escape."
"You may perceive the world through that lens, but it remains a perspective that eludes my understanding," Yashiro exhaled softly, her gaze drifting from his to the phone.
"Time will be the arbiter of your resolve," Touma concluded.
"May I have my coffee back?" Yashiro's request carried an air of detachment, an attempt to reclaim the moment from its weighty implications.
Touma returned the coffee cup to her.
"Compassion has often been regarded as a vulnerability," he mused softly.
"No," Yashiro responded, her gaze steady. "I've never seen it that way."
"I've found little use for it," Touma shrugged.
"Because you're a narcissist," Yashiro remarked, taking a sip of coffee and looking away, her tone tinged with a blend of familiarity and exasperation.
Touma met her assertion with a discerning gaze, an unspoken exchange that lingered beyond the spoken word. Makishima's eyebrows arched for a fraction of a second, a subtle shift in his contemplation.
"I know little of narcissism, but labels rarely capture the full essence of a person. You of all people know that well," Touma observed, his fingers tracing patterns upon the table's surface.
"The concept of equality often intertwines with discussions of power, doesn't it?" Makishima's voice interjected, his tone measured.
Yashiro's gaze shifted between Touma and Makishima, her interest piqued by the shift in conversation.
"Equality, an aspiration that has driven societies for centuries," Touma expounded, his eyes tracing an invisible path along the ceiling. "I'd run away from anyone who starts talking about it faster than from the plague."
"Don't you think there's a big difference between treating humans equally and forcing them to be?" Makishima asked.
"Hayek said that the first is the condition of a free society while the second is serfdom," Touma affirmed.
"A distinction that becomes particularly poignant when examined through the lens of governance and authority," Makishima added.
"A sentiment that resonates even more profoundly in a world shaped by Sibyl," Touma continued.
"The Sibyl System, a manifestation of centralized control, enforces a uniformity that disregards individuality. The force that aims to create equality can inadvertently strip away freedom," elucidated Makishima.
"The path towards coerced equality often leads to the erosion of individual freedom. The very force introduced with seemingly noble intentions can ultimately become a tool wielded by those with ulterior motives," Touma concurred.
"Equality, a cornerstone enshrined within the principles of justice—equality before the law, unalienable rights bound to one's humanity. These tenets, immune to manipulation by constructs like titles or stratified categories. It's interesting how some interpret equality differently, transforming it into a concept that transcends the political sphere and ventures into the metaphysical realm," Yashiro interjected, her words punctuated by a sip of coffee.
Makishima's lips parted, a single eyebrow raised, his gaze weaving between Yashiro and Touma.
"But this alternate interpretation challenges the very laws of nature," she continued. "It strives not for equality before the law, but for an equality of attributes and personal virtues, disregarding the inherent variability of individual nature and choices. In a world where nature bestows beauty and intelligence unequally, and individual volition leads to diverse choices, these proponents of equality seek to challenge the very fabric of reality. They aim not to rectify injustice within man-made institutions, but to reshape the course of natural causality itself. It relates to the altruism we discussed earlier, but the core intent remains just beyond my grasp."
"Yashiro, investing your time in understanding such folly might prove futile. Instead, consider what you stand to gain from it," Touma advised.
Yashiro inhaled, her gaze shifting momentarily to the phone before returning to her coffee cup resting on the table.
"Interesting," Makishima mused, shaking his head slightly.
"What?" Touma's gaze shifted to Makishima, curiosity etching lines on his face.
"At times, your discourse assumes the tenor of a classical libertarian, yet in others, the resonance of a socialist. An intriguing blend that's not indicative of a lack of identity, as one might initially conclude," Makishima noted, his words punctuated by a subtle upward twitch of his lips.
"I value your insight. It delivers the very confirmation I sought—the affirmation I needed," Touma replied.
"Affirmation for what?" Makishima raised an eyebrow.
"Labels are mere tools. The realm of politics is devoid of absolute ideologies. Your inability to fathom that isn't surprising, given your historical indifference to political matters," Touma elucidated.
"Precisely," Makishima concurred.
"Imagine if you possessed a bit more of her discernment," Touma gestured towards Yashiro. "You might have asked, what of those at the pinnacle?"
"I possess no inclination to delve into the perspective of the collectivists," Makishima admitted.
"Comprehensive understanding emerges only when one can traverse both sides of the coin. The fortitude of our convictions alone often falls short. It's the capacity to engage with counter viewpoints that genuinely empowers us. In its absence, our preferences rest on shaky ground. It's not solely about listening to sources that reinforce our beliefs, steeped in their own perspectives. It's about confronting those beliefs firsthand, in their most compelling and persuasive manifestations, even when championed by those who ardently embrace them," Touma expounded.
"Sounds like John Stuart Mill," Makishima's eyes narrowed.
"Indeed," Touma smiled, his gaze ascending towards the ceiling. "Ultimately, as Sowell suggests, politics often entails the art of translating personal desires into a national agenda—a stark reminder of the intricate layers concealed within seemingly noble causes."
"Sowell's observation extends to those who forget their mortal limitations, mistaking themselves for gods," Yashiro mused.
Makishima's raised eyebrow invoked a knowing smile from Touma, a fleeting chuckle tracing its way from his lips, harmonizing with the spark that danced within his eyes.
"I'll fetch our drinks. Would you like anything?" Makishima's voice carried a soft undertone as he stood, casting a contemplative gaze at Yashiro.
"No, thank you," Yashiro waved her hand in polite refusal.
Makishima's gaze lingered, capturing the tableau of the moment, before he turned and navigated through empty tables to retrieve their beverages.
"He doesn't know what you're capable of," Yashiro's voice held a pensive edge, her gaze tracing Makishima's distant figure as he conversed with another teacher.
"Neither do you," Touma's tone deepened, his demeanor assuming a more serious bearing as he leaned forward, forearms resting on the table. Yashiro's frown echoed her thoughts, flickering between Touma and Makishima.
"I wonder about the path he chose for himself," she mused.
"Why the sudden interest? That's rare," Touma studied her features with a serious expression.
"Why? It's not," she shrugged nonchalantly.
He raised an eyebrow, a mischievous smile playing on his lips, "What's up with you?"
"Nothing," she frowned, evoking a chuckle from him, a smug smile and narrowed eyes. "What are you trying to prove with this game?"
"The truth."
"You already know the truth," she waved her hand. "My answer. You lied to him."
"I guess."
"Are you trying to isolate me?" Yashiro raised an eyebrow.
Touma lowered his gaze, his voice gentle. "I'm trying to help you, Yashiro."
"You have this habit of hiding under the teacher's suit whenever it's convenient. You're like an onion."
"You as well. You excel at keeping yourself isolated, don't you? A lifelong practice? Three years, and you still haven't completely shed those layers," Touma leaned back in his chair.
"Is that your approach with every student? Nudging them a bit, compelling them to respond to your queries in a way that aligns with your preferences?"
"I don't impose on anyone. Has your father ever coerced you into answering questions?" he frowned momentarily, his voice lowered. Yashiro fixed a stern gaze upon him. "There's that cruel look again. I sensed it lurking somewhere."
"I get cranky listening to analysis with tricky questions and sarcastic remarks."
"Can't seem to regain any control?" Touma asked, his fingers tapping lightly on the table.
"You like to be in control?" Yashiro met his gaze, a subtle smirk playing on her lips.
He laughed softly, pausing for a moment. "Don't get saucy with me."
Yashiro's smile widened, and she took a deliberate sip of her coffee. Her eyes briefly flicked towards Makishima, who engaged in dialogue with a fellow teacher before pivoting back towards them. Touma's smile expanded momentarily, an arc of recognition illuminating his features, but a veneer of solemnity returned as Makishima approached.
"Have you come across the latest headlines?" Makishima began, his gaze oscillating briefly between Touma and Yashiro, as he handed out the beverages and pastries. "The scandal involving the esteemed politician Ryoji Hashida."
"I've heard allegations of falsified psycho pass, accusations of corruption, and the spectacle of dodging media inquiries with convenient amnesia," Yashiro remarked, a hint of a smirk tugging at her lips.
She had indeed seen the news reports, the lurid details of Hashida's alleged corruption and the subsequent public outcry. His death had sent shockwaves through the nation, leaving a trail of questions and speculation in its wake.
"The court of public opinion was swift and merciless," continued Makishima. "Hashida's fall from grace, his once-pristine reputation now irrevocably tarnished. A man who managed to defy the system, wielding deception and influence to sidestep justice. And yet, his eventual exposure was not orchestrated by the veneer of authority, but by the very flaws embedded within his design. The wielders of power, it seems, remain susceptible to the snares of hubris."
"Perhaps this isn't the result of political terrorism, as some speculate. It carries a distinctly personal undercurrent," Yashiro mumbled, a shake of her head punctuating her words as she focused on the table.
"How can you discern that?" Makishima's query was punctuated by the crunch of a madeleine.
"The imagery of the crime scene, its meticulous arrangement, akin to a grotesque work of human art," Yashiro explained. Her gaze shifted from the table to Touma's phone, then to the space nestled between his black vest and white shirt, where a red tie found its home.
"Elaborate," Touma's voice held a note of gravity, his gaze lowering.
"The removal of his brain, paired with the insertion of the hippocampus into his anus—a surreal, artistic tableau. Witnesses who stood in its presence mistook it for a holographic creation," Yashiro clarified, her words echoing with a haunting elegance. "I can't help but ponder the message hidden within. Although, for optimal reconnaissance, I would have chosen a different location—perhaps a bustling square or even right in front of the Public Safety Bureau itself? Imagine the maelstrom of media frenzy that would ensue," Yashiro's eyes widened as her thoughts raced.
"What is the underlying message?" Makishima inquired.
"Remember now?" her voice was softer.
"A promising detective in the making," Touma quipped, a wry smile forming as he sipped his coffee.
"No, that's... that's not it. I'm just curious. I think this guy is a meticulous craftsman, well-versed in the domains of surgery and chemistry. This is likely not his maiden voyage into the realm of murder, nor will it be his last. Monetary gain seems to hold little sway over him. But I don't know. I'm not a cop," Yashiro's fingers played with her cup, a thoughtful ballet of movement.
"Let's hope this isn't his grand finale," Touma's voice was measured as he set his cup down.
"Why?" Yashiro's gaze locked onto his.
"Because, in the process of unraveling this enigma, a certain vigor and vitality radiate from you," Touma's voice trailed off as he appraised her features, a subtle shake of his head accompanying his words. "It's a rarity—a sight of you truly alive."
"Is that necessarily a positive trait?" Yashiro's voice wavered, her eyes shifting downward.
"Perhaps. Yet, the ultimate judgment rests with you alone. What's your perspective?" Touma's inquiry sought to breach her inner reflections.
"I feel like I'm gradually losing my bearings. My mind is incessantly plagued by alternate realities—what if Hashida, my parents... if events had woven a different tapestry. I'm uncertain if this influx of emotions is a harbinger of positivity. I question whether my sentiments are anchored in rightness," she confessed, her gaze oscillating between her cup and the figures of Touma and Makishima.
"This isn't a riddle I can decipher for you. I can only sit here alongside you and listen," Touma's voice was a calm reassurance, a beacon of companionship.
Yashiro sighed in acceptance, a nod punctuating her understanding. A fleeting moment of her eyes being closed embraced her before she rose, gathering her folder and cup.
"I'll remain vigilant for any updates," she remarked, her words carrying a sense of purpose.
Touma's head dipped slightly, his gaze lingering on the vacant seat she had occupied. Yashiro cast them one final glance, a trace of a smile gracing her lips before she departed.
"How close do you think she truly is?" Makishima's inquiry was laced with speculation, his attention shifting to Touma.
"Pretty close. Yet the narrative is far from over. This may kindle a renewed fire within her," Touma mused, his gaze tracing Yashiro's departure.
As the sun bathed the park in a warm embrace, casting long, languid shadows across the ground, a figure emerged from the midst of the bustling crowd. Inspector Aoyanagi Risa strode forward with purpose, her presence commanding attention amidst the chaos. Towering over the throng, she possessed a statuesque stature, her slender but fit frame exuding an air of confidence and capability. With her brown eyes sharp and attentive, and her hair styled into a blunt cut with side bangs to the right, she seemed every bit the embodiment of authority.
"This is Inspector Aoyanagi Risa," her voice resonated through the park, crisp and authoritative, transmitted through her wristcom. The holographic communicator glowed softly over her wrist, a silent witness to the unfolding scene. "Yes, I've confirmed it. A girl who appears to be underage is hanging from the stage of an idol concert being held in Chiyoda Public Park."
Security drones darted around the stage scanning every corner of the scene, while holographic barriers shimmered and swirled, warding off the prying eyes of curious onlookers.
"Yes," Aoyanagi continued, her gaze unwavering as she surveyed the scene before her, her attention divided between the display and the conversation in her ear. "She has wings on her back and a drape from her waist like a stage costume. Kozuki-kun, take her down quickly."
Kozuki Ryogo, typically the jovial soul of the team, now bore a solemn countenance as he strode towards the stage, his movements purposeful and measured. His blue eyes, usually alight with mischief, now held a fierce determination. His colleagues exchanged puzzled glances, but they followed his lead.
"What?" Aoyanagi's voice crackled through the earpiece. "There's no way she's alive." Her brow furrowed in concentration as she observed the girl hanging limply from the stage.
"We want to take a look at it," she insisted. "I'll have to do more research, but her wings appear to be skin drapes stripped from her back. It was probably disassembled along the musculature. It appears to be a thigh, radiating out from the base."
The scene unfolded like a meticulously crafted masterpiece, its every detail akin to the delicate wings of a butterfly awaiting to spread its beauty under the azure sky and the warm embrace of the sun.