Chapter 4
Why was it always dragons?
I'd had a fairly pleasant day. We'd split our time between freelance translations and language lessons targeting the vocabulary needed in high school classes. I wasn't happy to be going back to 10th grade. At least the lessons were familiar. Mostly familiar. Math was the same. Science had advanced, but the basics were still there. History was Japanese history, or world history from an Asian perspective. Because of the differences in the timeline after 1982, there was no mention of Scion, and superpowers did not appear in the world for several decades.
From what I could see technology and culture had regressed during some dark decades after powers became widespread and vigilante culture rose to combat the supervillains. This remined me of home, though without the Endbringers making everything so much worse. After almost a century of chaos, the rise of Quirk laws and Pro Heroes turned the tide. The current world seemed to have regained the progress lost and reached a technological state similar to the early Twenty-first Century. There were a lot of areas that were more advanced, but most people's day-to-day lives were not much different from how I grew up.
Japanese Literature was the class I was most concerned about. Even though my Mom was a literature professor, I had limited interest in the classics and less in contemporary literary fiction. While the readings for the class were completely unknown to me, I had learned the basic concepts discussed in most literature classes during dinner table discussions with Mom. I was comfortable with the theoretical aspects; it was the actual reading and subsequent writing I was worried about.
I fail to understand your concerns. We have already shown that our system of collaborative reading and writing is a viable solution. Why should the fact that the text is literary rather than mundane amplify your anxiety?
In part because metaphor and allegory, allusion and subtext do not necessarily translate well. They will likely lose much of their impact. And those are often the sorts of things my mother would talk about when she discussed her classes and the problems students had understanding what they were reading. And that was in their native language.
Japanese is my native language.
This is another example of how I am completely reliant on your language abilities to communicate in this world. Effectively you will be doing all the work in this class. I will be the passenger. That sort of passive role is hard for me to accept.
It will be much the same for me in English class.
I know. And we'll be working together in all the classes. I don't really know why I am so bothered by this one in particular.
Perhaps it is the connection with your mother?
Probably. If there was a class on labor relations, I might freak out about that one too.
It seems we both have issues surrounding our families. From what my parents say, everyone does, at some level or other. We are the sum of our parent's dreams and nightmares.
Doesn't sound like you'll have too much trouble with metaphors. Do you have a favorite subject?
Literature and art, I suppose. They allow one to explore the greater human condition from varied perspectives while delving deep into individual experiences and emotions. If schools offered courses on theology and philosophy, those would likely represent the pinnacle of my preference, but sadly those must be pursued through private study until University level.
What's your least favorite?
The heroic aspects of U.A.'s curriculum cause me the most unease. The more mundane content regarding laws and regulations, business practices and practicalities are all palatable. It is the practical application of quirks to conflict and violence that I abhor. It is diametrically opposed to the pacifist teachings of the Buddha.
But there is a long tradition of Buddhist martial artists and warrior monks. Or at least that is what kung fu movies would have us believe. I hoped she did not hear that, but it was pretty much my only exposure to her religion.
There is, but those are not my beliefs. Perhaps those that choose to follow such a path of righteous violence should spend some time communing with the dead and discover the true cost of wanton aggression and indiscriminate brutality.
I could not believe how arrogant and condescending this girl from whom I had previously only seen sweetness and light was being.
I am not an angel. Perhaps I do take too much pride in my beliefs. Intellectually I know that heroes do violence to prevent greater violence. That not all aggression is brutality and not all conflict is wrong. But emotionally I find it hard to reconcile that with my strongest beliefs. And this disgust may influence my impressions of those for whom violence is easier.
I shudder at what you must think of a monster like me. How can you stand the constant closeness to your greatest fear?
I suppose, to some extent you humanize the dichotomy that causes such confusion in me. You are not a monster, though you have done monstrous deeds. You have done evil acts to achieve good ends. You are my existential dilemma in spirit form. And you have agreed to help me in my hour of greatest need. My hope is that I may help you achieve redemption as you help me avoid my greatest fear – that should I follow the heroes path I might lose myself in righteous violence.
That I can understand.
Part of the day I reviewed my actions during the plaza incident. Why had I gotten involved?
Sure, several of the people I helped might well have been worse off if I'd not been there. But people die all the time. And I had learned long ago that no one, no matter how strong or powerful, can save them all. My urge to protect people had driven many of my actions throughout my cape career – from my first fight with Lung to the final battle with Scion. Ultimately, I wanted to protect the innocent, or as many as I could.
Is that a bad thing? Emily asked.
No. But saving people can cause more trouble than it avoids. It is all about the second and third order effects, as my old boss Revel used to lecture the Wards.
I continued, You've told me last night's actions were illegal and open me to significant legal liability. While secret identities are not exactly a thing here, I still risked people finding out I was the one getting involved. That could piss off all the embroiled capes as well as any other villains with a stake in the conflict. I don't know who those capes were. I don't know who their friends or compatriots might be.
Did I just piss of all of the Yakuza in Tokyo, sparking a gang war that will kill thousands? Or maybe I just blocked the plan of some mastermind supervillain who is now going to be sending his numerous minions after me? Or worse sending them after your family because they think I'm you?
Basically, I fucked up. I have to be smarter. I have to know more before I act. I sighed.
It had been a long time since I had worked without backup. Lisa or the PRT had done most of my planning – or at least provided the intel on which I based my own plans. I was flying blind here.
I am sorry I have not been able to provide more appropriate assistance. I will endeavor to improve in the future.
It's not your fault. While this may be your world, you're not a hero or villain – a cape in my parlance – though you have a power. This is on me. I just have to realize I can't do things the same way I did at home.
Once again, I decided to spend the evening wandering. I wanted to explore Tokyo beyond the reaches of Mosuaizuri. I took the bus into Musutafu, where I got on the Keio Line at Tatooin Station. I rode all the way to Shinjuku, in the center of Tokyo. On the train was a group of westerners speaking English loudly. Their accent was American.
"I still say Godzillo could take All Might!" a young man with deep purple hair boasted. He looked to be about my real age, maybe a little older, as did most of the group. There were seven of them – a mix of normal looking and slight mutations that was common in this world. They all wore t-shirts or hoodies branded with the logos of different US universities. I assumed they were all students in Japan for some sort of study abroad program.
"Don't you think it's weird!" interrupted an orange-haired girl with cat ears. "That the fifth ranked hero in the US is actually from Japan while the top ranked hero in Japan got his start in the States?"
"And Godzillo actually started as a hero here in Tokyo before moving to Seattle!" added a black guy with pointed ears and red eyes.
"I mean look at All Might," the cat girl continued over the interruption. "Have you ever seen a more American looking guy? All tall and blond and buff!"
"That's racist!" argued another girl, this one with Eurasian features and striking blue eyes.
I noticed the rest of the people on the train were avoiding even looking at the group. Most of the locals were sitting silently reading or playing on their phones. A few were quietly talking in pairs. It was the contrast that made the Americans seem so loud.
I listened surreptitiously as the train neared Shinjuku. The discussion, or discussions, because there were often several going on at the same time, ranged over several topics. I was unfamiliar with the current politics in the US, but it sounded pretty similar to the sorts of arguments you'd hear in my time – taking away PRT or End bringer specific references of course. I must not have been as careful as I thought because the Eurasian girl caught me listening.
"You don't agree?" she asked in English.
"I … I don't really know the specifics, but the relative value of capital and labor has been an argument since before Marx's time."
This caught the attention of the group, even those that had not been rehashing Das Kapital. They all turned to stare at me.
"Hey! You speak English!" the purple-haired guy exclaimed.
"Are you American?" asked the tabby.
"No," I said. "But I spent some time near Boston and Chicago a few years ago."
"Cool!" a big blond guy that looked a bit like All Might said.
"So are you from Tokyo? We're visiting from a school in Kyoto and would love a local guide." I wasn't sure if the black Vulcan was hitting on me, but the signs pointed to maybe.
"Sorry, this is my first time here," I said. "I come from a small town and haven't traveled much in Japan."
"Cool!" Blondie shouted. "We can explore together!"
"Even up the numbers, at least," murmured a plain girl with dull brown hair and glasses. "Maybe Ray will stop hitting on me."
"I'll never stop," the pointy eared player grinned. "Your reactions are too cute to stop."
"That's sexual harassment!" the Eurasian girl pointed out, loudly.
Somehow, when the group of students got off at the main station, I found myself pulled into their orbit. It said something about me that my first thought when I realized what was happening was that I was under a Master effect. I quickly realized there was a more mundane explanation – some sort of social gravity. Or just maybe the relief of being able to communicate in my own language.
You have begun speaking at the same discourteous volume as they have. Why is that? Is there a congenital plague of deafness rampant among the citizenry that your countrymen must speak at such ear-piercing levels? asked Emily.
Shit. Sorry.
I tried to moderate my volume, but soon forgot as I interacted with the other Americans. Occasionally Emily called my attention to locals looking on us with disapproval. I ignored them.
We found ourselves in a snack bar when the conversation turned to continuing bigotry in the US. It seems the current target of the vocal minority were those with obvious mutations. They were often discriminated against, regardless of racial origin or sexual orientation.
"I haven't seen anything like that in Japan," Kitty, the tabby girl, said to me.
"I have read of small but vocal groups that feel the same way. But we have different prejudices as well." I decided to take the opportunity and pulled out my phone. "Here's an example. This was my family being attacked for our heritage two weeks ago."
The group crowded around and watched the short attack. They did not seem to understand what the prick was yelling, but they all gasped as Inoue smashed my head and our car with his rocks.
"What the fuck!" Ray demanded. "Tell me the punk's in jail."
"Are you ok?" Elise, the quiet brunette asked. She stopped herself as she was reaching for my head. To check the wound was my guess.
"I'm healing, but my family have noticed some personality change and language difficulties since the head wound."
"You sound fine to me." Egon, the purple-haired kid pointed out.
"You're right. I just noticed. Apparently, the difficulties are in Japanese, but not in English. Different parts of the brain I guess."
"Can we see it again?" Jim asked. I played it again.
"What were they saying?"
"Why did they do that?"
We were starting to draw attention from the other patrons of the place.
"My family are from a historically persecuted minority in Japan called the Burakumin. In places like Tokyo and Kyoto no one really cares. But in the boonies, the inaka, old beliefs and prejudices can still crop up."
"That's more than prejudice. That's assault!" Ray seemed to be taking the attack personally. "What did the police say?"
"The boy was the local landowner and magistrate's son. The father came to our house and demanded I make a public apology to his son."
"Excuse me please," interrupted a Japanese man speaking accented English. "I am a journalist. I was sitting over there and could not help but overhear. May I see the video please? This may be a story worth sharing." I guessed reporters couldn't afford to be shy. "You are right that most people think bigotry against Burakumin has long disappeared. If you have proof that is not the case – and that government officials are hiding it – people should know."
"Yeah!" Jim, the big blond, said. "You gotta see this. Get the word out. Nail them bastards."
I hesitated, mostly to build tension. I had been planning a public relations operation to fight the Inoues and their control of the valley. I had never much cared for Glenn Chambers, but I had learned how effective his type of opinion warfare could be. I just didn't know how to get started in this new world. There was no PHO to rile the masses.
The reporter pulled out a business card. Looking at it, I couldn't see how he could be a plant of Inoue's. Stopping at this bar was a random occurrence. Nor had I mentioned the magnate's name, so it is unlikely this reporter was trying to protect him. Perhaps I could leverage him to get what I wanted.
"Tokuda Taneo desu. Hajimemashita. Dozo yoroshiku." He bowed over the card as he handed it to me.
I introduced myself, not requiring Emily's translation, and returned the bow.
All the Americans bowed in concert.
"May I see the video," Tokuda requested, once again in English. I handed him the phone. He watched the video several times, finally turning to me.
"May I have a copy of this?" he asked. "I would also like you to identify the people involved and tell me about the magistrate's visit to your house."
"I can do better than that." I swiped to start the second video, taken during the confrontation with Inoue.
The Americans had trouble following it. I got the impression their Japanese, while better than mine, was by no means fluent. Tokuda watched it several times. Then asked for more background.
"Inoue-bugyo …"
"Why do you call him that?" the reporter asked in Japanese. "There have not been Bugyo since the Meiji Restoration."
I blanked. I called him that because the Yanagis did. Emily? Help please.
What is wrong?
You weren't listening?
I can't understand English that well and did not feel you needed to waste your time translating for me. I have been observing your interactions and meditating on them. Perhaps we can discuss them in more detail at a later time?
Sure. Tokuda is asking why you call Inoue bugyo, when there aren't any bugyo anymore.
The head of the Inoue family has used the Bugyo, or Magistrate, title since the time of the Tokugawa when they were official Magistrates of the Mines. They continued to use it after the title was no longer valid, and the government allows it as it is considered meaningless and the Inoue own the valley. There is likely some illicit remuneration involved to maintain the status. I doubt they try to use it in the broader world, but their dominion on their land is almost uncontested.
Wow. That is a generational ego of epic proportions.
I repeated her explanation in English so the Americans would not feel left out. I also thought there might be some advantage to harnessing their outrage. It might spur the Japanese government to take some action if word of the disgrace spread among the foreigner community. No government liked to look bad to outsiders.
I ended up sending the attack video to the reporter and the Americans. I asked that if they did post it, they kept my family's name out of it. "My family still have to live in that place and any negative publicity linked to them is likely to cause more problems."
"You can report this to a Pro Hero," replied Tokuda. "This was an attack with a quirk. It is within their jurisdiction."
"The ideal would be a hero that specializes in covert investigation," I said. "This is simply a single example of the trouble going on in that region. It is not just violence against Burakumin. There is so much more."
"What sort of things?" Egon asked.
"Nothing I can prove. This video is the only evidence I have. It would take a brave and skilled investigator to break this open." Nothing wrong with appealing to a reporter's ego. If he doesn't want to sniff out the story, perhaps he has a hero friend he can point to it. Tokuda left after that, though he made sure he had my contact information first.
I also took the time to swap contacts with the Americans. I could easily imagine a time when having access to people with contacts in the US could prove useful. It was entirely possible I might need an escape route out and America seemed like the most likely bolt hole.
As the group started drinking more, I decided it was time for me to get back to my apartment. It was past midnight by the time I got off the bus.
Mosuaizuri was a very different place at night. Every shadow was ominous and every movement furtive. Restless after the long commute I wandered a bit on the way home. It was after the fourth or fifth random turn that I realized I was being followed.
I sent out my poltergeists to get a better feel for the situation. I was wishing I had kept the mask from the previous evening, but it was obvious whoever was following me knew who I was, if not what I was.
It was the dragon guy from last night. I could feel his scales and wings as he glided from roof to roof. He was tracking me from above. Why was it always dragons?
I used my spirits to guide me as I doubled back on my trail. I was looking for some underpass or basement stairway to get me out from under the sky and force him to come to me. There was an underground walkway beneath the train tracks. It was long and likely dark at this time of night. I had avoided it so far, but it was ideal for my current needs. I hurried towards it.
The dragon picked up on my change of pace and direction. It got his hunter's instinct going as he followed more closely.
I ducked into the near entrance of the tunnel. As I suspected, it was dark. Luckily, my spirits found it currently empty. I stepped in about six feet and faced the entrance I had just entered. If he came in from the other side, I could exit this one before he could get to me. The tunnel was too narrow for his wings. If he came in this way, we would find out his reason for following me, one way or another.
I started gathering gravel and trash from the rail bed. I used the gravel to break any glass I found and grind it into small sharp shards. Just call me Shatterbird junior.
A shadow passed the closest entrance. I backed up as he landed and started stalking forward.
"I just want to talk," he said in Japanese. Emily was hanging in there, but I could tell she was on the edge of retreat.
"I can … hear … fine from … there." Emily's phonetic prompts were slow and shaky.
Come on Emily. You have to calm down. The only way to avoid conflict here is to talk. And I can't do that if you close down. Let's do this together.
You are right. I can do this.
"Are you alright? Were you injured in the fight last night?" Emily's translation was more certain.
"No. I'm ok. Is that what you want? To check on me?"
"That, and to talk to you about what you did. You look too young to be a licensed hero. Do you have a provisional license?"
I chose not to answer.
"Ok, stupid question. If you don't, then you were breaking the law. Even the sort of rescue work you were doing is illegal if you use your quirk."
It was hard to guess his age because of his inhuman features. He was larger than most teens. He could be an adult, or his power could make him larger than normal. I continued to stare at him. Having practiced a bit in the mirror, Reiko had a good face for staring, somewhat uncanny and she could be unnervingly still.
"If you are breaking quirk laws on the side of good," he continued after a moment. "You are considered a vigilante. A long time ago almost all heroes were actually vigilantes. Now it is frowned upon heavily."
"And yet you are one, right?" I asked.
"Things are a little different in Mosuaizuri. There is no real law here, and the few Pro Heroes are little better than thugs for hire. Someone has to protect the civilians from the gangs and villains. No one here cares about the quirk laws."
"Then why shouldn't I be a vigilante?"
"I'm not trying to convince you one way or the other. I just wanted to be sure you knew the rules. If you want to help the people around here, no one is going to call the Hero Public Safety Commission. Not unless you make a powerful enemy with outside connections who feels they need the back up to get rid of you."
"Is there someone like that around here?"
He tilted his head. "Maybe. There are so many players in the game here it is sometimes hard to see who is who."
"Last night for instance," he continued, becoming more animated. "Meathead was probably acting on his own. He usually avoids working in the district, since he lives here. As far as I know no one hires him to break things in the neighborhood. They always point him towards other districts or cities. But someone could have paid him to hit the Face Border Clan, either to wipe them out or to get them riled up. Or the Clan could have decided they were offended by his unusual features and set out to cleanse him. They're crazy that way. Don't mind body mutations, but the face must be pristine."
"Until you can see the long-term impact," he wound down. "you'll likely never know if someone like Giran or the Nine Head Dragon was involved."
"Sounds like quite the mess." I offered.
"It is."
"Are you telling me both the giant and the team attacking him were villains?" I had thought it was a team of careless heroes going after a bad guy and ignoring the people around them. I'm not sure villains openly fighting each other and tearing up the town was better or worse.
"The only supposed 'heroes' were the two guys looking down from the rooftops. Slidin' Go, the guy with the cape, is an independent. He seems to watch more than doing anything – as you saw last night. Greedo, the guy in armor, runs the only official Hero Agency in Mosuaizuri – though they're really bounty hunters. They're open about it too. Bounty is even in the agency name. None of them do anything good for the people here."
"The question you'll have to answer for yourself is whether you want to defy the law to help the people. You've done it once. Consider carefully before you do it again." He pulled out a card and spun it towards me.
I caught it with a spirit and brought it close enough to read. There was a number on it.
"Call me if you want to talk more, or need help." With that he slowly backed out of the entrance and took off.
Not too bad, for a dragon.