XCEL

JPRO was, at its core, a scientific firm. The vast majority of its personnel had nothing to do with the supernatural demon that lurked behind the curtain. Most psychologists, psychiatric care facilitators, researchers and the like—living in ironic ignorance to the sinister motivations fuelling their work.

Objectively speaking, their work was well-recognised, praised even. Those accolades weren’t in vain, either. JPRO had pioneered several experimental psychological treatment methods for behavioural disorders previously thought debilitating, as well as in provision of care in private facilities for those who suffered. Genuinely decent work and, to the public, more than deserving of a blind eye. What wasn’t there to like? Problematic individuals from all walks of life were removed from society and institutionalised somewhere they would surely be safe! It saved public tax money, spaces in national hospitals, and kept public distress to an all-time low.

In record time, JPRO had charmed the government and secured several lucrative contracts. So what if a few thousand had gone missing, were experimented on and turned into irrational abominations—the souls that once were, perpetually suspended in a tortuous void of torrential information. So long as the masses weren’t confronted with the uncomfortable reality, all was well.

The progenitors of that uncomfortable reality, the masterminds; Hideyori Hakana sought an audience with one now. With JPRO’s operations hidden behind a literal dimensional curtain, the location of the reject laboratory wasn’t easy to disclose and make sense of at the same time. Fortunately, Hideyori had a permanent backdoor. Within minutes of warping into the foyer, Hideyori was approached by a bespectacled man in a coat almost as glaringly white as the pristine walls and floors. The executive in all his black stood out like the sorest thumb imaginable.

“Dr. Chisori has been expecting you, sir.”

“I can imagine.” Hideyori barely bothered to hide his scowl. It’d only end up hurting his face otherwise. He gestured ahead. “Lead the way.”

Then began the traipse through indistinguishable winding corridors, navigated by the scientist as though he’d been born and raised in the complex. Eventually, they stopped before a large metal door.

“This is as far as I go.” The scientist explained. “My security clearance doesn’t allow me any further. You’ll have to authenticate with your psychic signature.”

Hideyori nodded. The mole scare was fresh in their minds, it seemed. Ironic, given who was now granted access. It still surprised him just how segregated the flow of information was. “You’ve got no clue what’s being worked on beyond these doors?”

“No. My role is in administration only,” the scientist replied. It showed. Absence of characteristic third eye slit aside, the man was clearly no psyche user. Hideyori studied him for a moment, his vision overlaid with a blue hue—seeing beyond just the visual. Evident of a normal person, psychic energy radiated unevenly from his person, focused mostly around the head. Comparing the two side by side, only the psyche user exhibited any kind of “flow.” The more proficient their control over their psychic energy, the less it radiated from them, the less was wasted. The scientist’s mental acuity was evident from the sheer amount of psychic energy he produced, but none of it was harnessed. Hideyori felt, heard the energy buzz around the man’s head like a hornet’s nest—no doubt, this individual was prone to bouts of brain fog.

Hideyori placed a palm on the door’s sensor and his third eye blinked. He sent a pulse of psychic energy through the metal framework. Rewarded with a series of successful mechanical clicks, the door opened, revealing a glass-fronted observation chamber. Consoles were lined up against the wall, far outnumbering the sparse yet diligent attendants. The even distributions of their psychic energy marked them apart from the others. Why hadn’t one of them come to get him instead? The large security door slammed shut behind him, and Hideyori stepped up to the only other man standing. The scientist was a broad-shouldered man with mousy hair that curled grey around the ears. Though dressed like the others, his psychic energy—jagged, fluctuating—forced the executive’s stomach into an unpleasant lurch.

“Chisori.” Hideyori swallowed the bile in his throat and announced his presence. “What’ve you got for me?”

“Ah, Hakana! So glad you could make it!” The man turned around, arms held wide. Yugo Chisori was a curious amalgam of an individual. Two parts scientist, one part television presenter; the man had a resonant voice and strangely cheerful disposition. His toothy smile didn’t match his eyes, eyes that seemed too small for his face. “Today is a wonderful day, is it not? Truly, an amazing day!”

“Depends on what you’ve got to show for yourself.” Hideyori narrowed his eye, nonplussed. “The boss is getting impatient.”

“The Definition Project,” the man proclaimed. “A substantial breakthrough!” His exuberance had left him slightly out of breath. “Our understanding of the Rejection Process has opened a whole other world of possibilities! You should rejoice with me. The boss’ patience will be rewarded.”

“It had better be,” Hideyori growled. “We had two escapees from the Theia containment facility not long ago. The Warden failed. That’s on you.”

“Is it?” Chisori’s smile remained engraved into his square jaw. “I had been informed of the infiltration, I will admit. Whilst it is a shame, dealing with security threats and the containment of subjects is and has always been under the Glass Eyes’ sole jurisdiction. When the tool fails at its job, the fault lies not with the smith, but the workman. Am I wrong, Hakana?”

“The boss’ words, not mine.” Hideyori’s lip curled. Retrieving an orb from behind the man’s ear, the executive pressed the cool surface up against the scientist’s cheek—a Damocles’ sword. “And don’t point your finger where it doesn’t belong, or else you’ll find someone bites it off.”

The scientist’s smile vanished. One eye began to twitch. A large, gnarled hand grasped around Hideyori’s forearm and wrenched the threat away. “In that case, try not insulting someone’s competency in their own place of work. You don’t see me passing judgements on the painfully inefficient way you run your merry band of mental cases, do you?”

“Watch your mouth, Chisori.”

“Doctor Chisori,” the man corrected. He took a deep breath, nostrils flaring. His voice dropped several octaves and decibels both. Chisori squared up, and his jovial resonance gave way to a harsh, strained undertone. “Let me remind you of where you stand, Mister Hakana. Let me remind you who is most valuable to this organisation and its goals. Let me remind you of who the boss has entrusted with the actual work. It’s Doctor Chisori to you. Remember that.”

With no verbal rebuttal, the doctor considered the battle won. Hideyori had his hat tilted down, an effort to hide his scowl.

“I suggest we abandon this.” Chisori’s easy-going smile returned. “Neither of us have spare time to bicker, I’m sure.”

Hideyori nodded. The flippancy of the scientist’s demeanour unnerved even him.

“The rejection process precludes the awakening of a specialty,” Chisori explained, as though Hideyori didn’t already know this. “The drones sufficed for this; they are infantrymen, soldiers blessed in strength and feeble in mind. Suited for their purpose. Even so, I wondered whether it was possible to trigger the rejection process at a later stage.”

Hideyori took a deep breath. “Instead of being rejected outright, they would have time to develop a specialty before being fully awakened.”

Chisori nodded. “The Theia subjects all held far too much individuality, hence why we scrapped the project. Their personalities offered too much resistance to Egregore’s influence, and so they had to be subjugated. This, irritatingly, reduced their potency as combatants, didn’t it?”

Hideyori pondered this, nodding. “It didn’t matter for some. Techukara, for example: all I need her for is her Jammer; it's useful. So long as she’s able to do what’s asked, I don’t care.”

“Indeed. Those we chose not to subdue, by contrast, later showed us the error of that thinking.”

Hideyori grinned. “The Kage boy came back with a vengeance, didn’t he?”

“It’s amusing, isn’t it?” Chisori beamed. “Especially when it’s your neck on the line, not mine.”

Hideyori’s grin soured.

“It’s as you said, though,” Chisori continued. “Fortunately, in Techukara’s case, the ramifications were fortunately minimal. Others? Not so much. Statistically speaking, Theia was a colossal failure. Eighty percent of the subjects that manifested a specialty, an already small percentage, became useless husks once their free will was broken.” Chisori scratched his sideburns, his voice as carefree as though he were discussing the latest sporting fixtures. “That was an error in Dr. Nori’s planning, however, not mine.”

“Seriously,” Hideyori gave the man a disgusted glare. “What is it with you scientists constantly being at one another’s throats?”

“Friendly competition in the workplace propels productivity. I don’t expect someone of your ilk to understand.”

“Sure. Real friendly, that.” Hideyori rolled his eyes. His legs grew weary. Approaching a bespectacled scientist sat behind a console, the executive motioned for the man’s chair with a sharp whistle and a point elsewhere.

Most of the scientists in the control room had borne silent witness to their superiors’ conversation, pretending to get on with their work. This one was so committed to this particular bit, that he pretended the man calling for his attention didn’t exist. The reward for his dedication? A bullet between the eyes. The bang shook the chamber, and the man slumped off his seat. The specks of crimson gave the clinical white walls some much needed decoration.

“Pay attention next time, square-eyes,” Hideyori murmured, dragging the swivel chair out from behind the desk and sitting himself down, oblivious to the shock he’d just injected into every other employee in the room. “You’d think,” he continued, still talking to Chisori, “with all those degrees, basic tact might feature on a syllabus somewhere. If you ask me, higher education’s a bigger conspiracy than we are.”

The rest of the scientists looked between Hideyori and Chisori like frightened lambs, waiting for the signal to run off somewhere.

“What are you standing around for?” Chisori asked, exasperated. “One of you—Takemiziki,” he pointed at one man, “dispose of the stiff. The rest of you, get back to work. I’ll fill the vacancy later.” The corners of Chisori’s smile remained rooted into his cheeks, almost painfully so. “Was it really necessary to shoot one of my staff? Is your kind not capable of asking with words?”

“I’ll shoot you as well,” Hideyori remarked, lighting a cigarette. “Don’t tempt me, doc.”

“Smoking is prohibited in this facility.”

“Fuck off.”

Chisori inhaled then exhaled through gritted teeth, running both hands through the sides of his hair, ironing out some of the natural grey curls. “Now, are you finally ready to see the new product? Or do you have any other grievances you want to take out on either me or my workforce?”

“Nope. I’m satisfied now.” Hideyori had folded both arms and legs, reclining on the stolen chair. “Go right ahead.”

Chisori unclipped a transmitter corded securely to his hip. “Bring it in!”

Hideyori looked beyond the thick observation glass at the white room beyond. Doors at the far end opened, and two JPRO scientists wheeled in a wardrobe-sized glass chamber. Contained, a mass of black smoke writhed and coiled into rough shapes, slamming against the sides of its prison.

Hideyori’s eyes narrowed. Occasionally, the smoke dispersed the light in such a peculiar way that, for brief moments, the shape looked almost human.

“This is our latest and greatest triumph,” Chisori explained. “The Warden was the prototype; its psychic abilities? Rudimentary. This, however, is a truly Defined reject.” The man spoke with such warped pride. It was like listening to a father congratulate his son on his first murder victim. “It retains no mind of its own, and yet possesses a fully functioning specialty. Preliminary responses to Egregore’s control are promising. The only problem with it, however,” he added, wincing as a thud shook the room. The mass of smoke had decided to throw its entire weight against the glass from all sides; the accompanying scientists did all they could to stop the container from pitching over. “It still behaves like the drones,” said Chisori. “Whilst there is no identity, there is no rationality. It attacks without mercy, without distinction.”

Hideyori had been watching it snake around its containment chamber, fascinated. “What’s its name?”

“It has none. It doesn’t need one,” Chisori replied. “The less identity it holds, the better.”

Hideyori tutted and shook his head. “Boring. Let me in there. I’m going to talk to it.”

Questions of how he intended to do so aside, Chisori raised an eyebrow but offered no complaint. He tapped a few commands into a control tablet set into a panel nearby, and a set of doors on the far end of the control room opened. If the Smoke reject went on and asphyxiated the mobster-lookalike, the scientist wouldn’t exactly be the first to grieve.

Hideyori, on his way over, stubbed out his cigarette on one of the empty console keyboards and left it there with a smile, stepping through the double doors and into the examination chamber.

“Dr Chisori, sir,” one of the scientists piped up. “What on earth is he doing? That’s incredibly dangerous!”

“I know.” Chisori smiled. “Don’t worry. Mr Hakana here is a professional, or so I’m told. Whether that means the same to the neanderthals outside our division is none of my concern.”

The scientists accompanying the reject’s containment chamber echoed these concerns. Hideyori was having none of it, and abrasively dismissed them with a scowl. The scientists refused and dug their heels in the sand, only to give way when the man retrieved his trusty gun-shaped negotiation device. Bolting for cover, the scattered scientists hurriedly shut the doors to the control room and retreated to their once abandoned posts. They, like all the rest, had their eyes riveted on what took place beyond the glass.

“Let’s crack open that shell. You deserve to be free.” Hideyori withdrew a fist from one pocket and raised it. Psychic energy crackled through the air, flowing through his entire body in a rhythmic, alternating current. The smoke man glared at Hideyori with beads of malevolent red. One strike was all it took. The reinforced glass became a fine mist and, for at least a moment, all was still.

Only for a moment. Freed, the smoke reject took its first opportunity and expanded to fill the space. The entire room was abruptly shrouded in a smog so thick even the professional chainsmoker himself could scarcely breathe. He, however, had a trick up his sleeve; and, no, this time it wasn’t another pack of cigarettes. As he often did, Hideyori held out an orb. This one, however, was special. This one glowed with a special radiance, pulsing as though alive. It gave off such a bright aura, you could scarcely see the glass edge.

“A gift,” Hideyori proclaimed, holding the orb high above him. “To celebrate your newfound identity.”

This, somehow, resonated with the cloud. From somewhere in the smog, that same pair of red eyes gleamed. The smoke began to condense, aggregating into thousands of gaseous threads that wound around one another into ropes. All the ropes of smoke rushed towards the orb, gravitated to its brilliance; millions of molecular moths to one spherical lamp. Hideyori took his hand away, and the orb hovered there. The smoke cradled the orb, a most precious child. The smoke coiled itself into a jealous shroud around the orb, before pouring in. The coiling cloud, instead of smothering the light, was illuminated. The orb suddenly brightened to blinding extremes. Hideyori Hakana had long since turned away, hat tilted low to shield from the glare. The grin on his face, much as it infuriated Chisori, told the scientist that the glorified hitman knew exactly what he was doing.

“You are not benevolence.”

A deep, faded voice shook the experimental chamber. The light had subsided. Hideyori Hakana turned around, only to be greeted by a featureless, mirrored shadow. The smoke rippled in a tide, its otherwise solid surface undulating with even the slightest movement of the surrounding air. From where the man’s eyes would’ve been, the malevolent red still glared. The smoke had mirrored everything, from the folds of Hideyori’s cloak, to the brim of his hat.

“You’re right,” Hideyori responded at last. “I’m the furthest thing from.”

“Then, why?” The smoke man did not move. “Then why did you give me life?”

“I can’t answer that.”

“Why not?”

“That’s for you to figure out,” Hideyori grinned. “Last thing I’d want is to spoil the fun.”

“What is fun?”

“You’ll do nicely.” Hideyori chuckled and turned away. He put a thumbs up towards the two-way mirror.

“Are you afraid, Hideyori Hakana?” Asked the smoke man.

Hideyori stopped dead. “You already know my name.”

“You created me. You gave me a soul.”

“Not with that purpose in mind, I’ll admit.” Hideyori’s curiosity had been piqued once more. He turned back around. “I suppose it was inevitable that my consciousness began to leak in at least a little.”

“I will ask you again. Are you afraid?”

Hideyori raised an eyebrow. “Always.” He didn’t look it.

“Do you fear death?”

“Doesn’t everyone?”

“I hold no concept of death; I cannot fear it.”

“That tracks. After all, you’re smoke. Smoke never dies.”

“I am… smoke?” The smoke man paused, puzzled. “What is smoke?”

Hideyori grinned. “A pollutant. It gets everywhere, sticks to everything—blackens the world. It kills millions of people every year. Humanity’s self-induced plague.”

“I am… a plague?”

“Now, now,” Hideyori raised a calming hand. “I’m sure you’re wonderful on the inside.”

“I have no inside. I am a pollutant. I kill millions of people every year.” The smoke drifted closer, to the point where Hideyori was already breathing him in. It tickled, the same way Death tickles the spine after one narrowly avoids being hit by a bus. “Hypoxia induces loss of consciousness in humans within fifteen seconds,” the smoke man continued. “and is fatal within ten minutes. I could kill you before you could even realise it. You could already be dying.”

“I’m sure you’re right.” Hideyori gave a well-timed cough into the crook of his elbow. “I might’ve already beat you to it, though.”

“You are not afraid?”

“Of you? Not at all.”

“That’s right. You created me, after all.”

“Do you want to kill me?”

“No.”

“You will, in time. Let’s hope neither of us live that long.” Hideyori took a deep breath, satisfied. “What’s your name?”

“I have no name. I am humanity’s self-induced plague.”

Hideyori tutted. “No good, no good at all. You need a name. Everything needs a name, even plagues.”

“What is my name?”

Hideyori scratched his chin for a moment. “Kemuri.”

The smoke man nodded.

“What’s your verdict?” Chisori’s voice blared over the loudspeaker.

The man held up one finger, “wait,” and the speaker cut out. Chisori lowered his transmitter halfway, brow furrowed.

“One final test,” Hideyori stated, looking the newly christened Kemuri dead between his red, pin-prick eyes. “Oh, tranquility. Penetrating the very rock.”

Kemuri paused for a moment. All in the observation deck held their breath. Then came the faded, deep voice’s response. “A cicada’s voice.”

“He’ll do. Get him ready for deployment.” Hideyori ordered. “On my way over, Techukara alerted me to something else earlier, too: a couple girlies I’ve got my eye on in Chiba’s Yorusada Mall, having far too pleasant a time” A grin stretched across his features. “I reckon they’re sorely lacking a good bogeyman.”