An Exploding Ally XXXVIII.

"So, hi everyone. Welcome to Man or Bear. We have Samantha with us today. She's away with Bear Grylls in Devil's Asscrack Valley—a valley with a 99.9999% death rate."

"This is SO NOT what I was thinking of when I decided what to do about the bear!" screamed Samantha with rage, her words lost and drowned out by the din of the helicopter as it started to lift into the poisonous and polluted air above.

"Well," the narrator sneered, "then try to get your point across more clearly next time, if, of course, you do get back."

Click.

The screen went dark.

Hiyori Toyotaro sat on the kitchen counter, teeth clenched around a burnt-out slice of toast that was now nothing but a charred, unidentifiable bite. Her face was set hard in the unmistakable grimace of a person chewing on a slice of cardboard purely out of obstinacy and defiance.

"What the hell even is television anymore?" She muttered, crumbs adhering to her lip.

Behind her, her mother Sakura Toyotaro, with her neatly styled bun and neatly ironed blouse to suit her neat personality, barely looked up from the whirlpool of morning emails she was reading. Every swipe of her tablet seemed to be issuing a stern verdict of suspension upon some unfortunate soul, as if every motion of her finger was a solemn judgment.

"They will do whatever it takes to earn a buck and pay their bills for this specific moment in time. These kinds of survival shows," she replied bluntly, cradling her teacup. "Our culture is desperate. That is what the entertainment industry is giving back to you."

"Samantha, ironically enough, was literally pushed into a deadly death pit as a result of her ill-fated choice to utilize the wrong noun."

"Consequences," Sakura mused, savoring a slow sip from her drink. "Perhaps the next time she will hear more diligently and listen more attentively."

Hiyori leaned back in her chair dramatically, folding her arms behind her head, a sneer forming like a blade. "God, you'd wear that on your head." Welcome to Devil's Asscrack—hope you brought a pen and a signed waiver."

She glanced at the extremely shiny dinner table, hesitated, and inched forward slowly.

". And besides that, I hate that disgusting man myself, but why on earth would there be a set of voodoo dolls with Shotaro's face on them for sale at what appears to be a ghostly souvenir shop?"

Sakura Toyotaro didn't hesitate.

But her whole body vibrated, like a tuning fork struck by divine insult.

A tremor ascended her jaw. A vein quivered at her temple. One eyelid flickered like a malfunctioning screen struggling to display common sense.

Then—with the rigorously contained poise of a woman who'd swallowed decades of rage for breakfast—she exhaled through clenched teeth.

Snap.

Her porcelain cup broke in her hand, cracking in two. Steam whistled into the morning's stillness.

"Who is that boy?" She snarled, each word dripping with venom. "He is entropy in sneakers. A lawless atomic bomb in my school of achievement. He doesn't walk—he waltzes through procedures like they're backup dancers. He converts others to his madness. His 'ronins'—Mazino. Bird. Next it'll be the janitor. Then the walls. Then the laws of physics."

"You're foaming," Hiyori answered, not even glancing up.

"I'm not—" Sakura interrupted, turning to the sink, spitting with elegant effort. She gazed down. Her lip. Foaming. Confirming.

On the kitchen counter was a regiment of teeny-tiny voodoo dolls—Shotaro Mugiwara-clone heads, stitched together with surgical contempt. One of them had been pierced through the temple by a toothpick labeled :Detention Slip #894.

Hiyori slowly closed her eyes. "Alright. That is not even funny. That is really unhealthy. And this is from me."

"You'll never get it," Sakura replied rigidly, her voice tight as a piano string. "That boy is a personal affront. Not only to rules, but to the price humans paid to be civilized. He's an exposed nerve in my system of order. A chaos beast. A thumbtack walking around in the tender heel of civilization."

Hiyori, chewing on dry toast, grumbled, "But here we are. Me, bleeding out of my soul. You, losing your mind at breakfast. And he's probably doing backflips in traffic or saving raccoons."

Sakura's teeth grind.

"I don't hate him," Sakura clarified, her voice as frigid as a scalpel. "Hate implies there is emotion. I abhor him. I abhor his being. I abhor every breath he breathes. I abhor his space. I abhor his oxygen waste."

She said it without blinking, standing like a statue carved out of steel and clean expectations.

Hiyori, whose laces were tied halfway, simply stared.

You're emotionally invested in him, literally," she told him bluntly. "You have a punching bag with his head stuck on it. In your office. Next to your framed doctorate in educational warfare."

Sakura remained silent.

So Hiyori jumped up from her seat, arms flung wide in pure dramatic exasperation. "MOM! There is a sheer cat-and-mouse obsession here! Between you and Mugyiwara Shotaro! You can't function without him!"

Sakura's eyelid twitched.

I am not Batman, she scoffed.

"He's your Joker!" Hiyori! she yelled. "He's anarchy! You're an empire builder! He breaks rules! You build empires of rules! You've built your entire nervous system on disapproving of one guy who doesn't even know he's your moral arch-nemesis!"

I am not infatuated with him—

"You monitor his class attendance, his lunch, his sock color! You called a staff meeting regarding his sudden arrival at class ten seconds late with a live pigeon!"

"He defied physics and dress code—"

Mugyiwara.

"Face it!" Hiyori burst out, her bag around her arm like a club. "You don't want him out of here. You want him locked up. You need the tension. You feed on it. You'd atrophy without it. You're addicted to the game."

Sakura's hand jerked towards her teacup and paused in mid-air. Porcelain clinked silently.

She regarded her daughter. Not angry. Just. Impenetrable. Like a wall built too many years ago to remember what it was hiding.

Then, so soft, Hiyori almost missed it:

If he weren't present… the silence would be intolerable.

Hiyori blinked.

Her breath caught—half awe, half shock.

"Wow," she said with lips curling up. "That's the most romantic shit I ever heard."

Sakura turned away, her robe crackling like paper. Silence fell between them, tight and awkward.

Hiyori's voice followed:

"You don't even care about your own son that way."

That stopped her.

You remember him, don't you? The quiet one? The one who wants to paint instead of choke on corporate resumes?" Hiyori's voice cracked, bitter and gasping. "Your actual son? You can't even remember the last thing he showed you."

That's different," Sakura grumbled.

"Yeah. It is," Hiyori replied. "He doesn't take up space in your head. He doesn't defy your command, so you don't know what to do with him. Shotaro? Shotaro takes up residence in your head for free. You make policy changes because of him. You send him memos about being there. Meanwhile, your actual child is in the basement painting desolation onto canvases you never cared to see."

Sakura was silent.

She didn't deny it either.

She just stood there—immobile, trembling a little under the weight of a truth she'd obscured in principle for years.

Hiyori slung her accessory bag and departed for her badminton match. As she left the room, she muttered to herself, Maybe chaos has to prevail at times. And her mother, in the back, didn't say a word.

"That's why I'll make my own gang," Hiyori muttered, fists stuffed in her blazer pockets, eyes sharp and burning. "And I'll revolt against him."

Not out of hatred. Out of necessity. Out of spite for the fact that her mother's heart had more room for the chaos boy than for her or her brother.

This wasn't just about Mugyiwara Shotaro.

This was about Sakura Toyotaro.

This was about the son who wanted to be a painter—gentle, soft-spoken, aching to make something beautiful—and the way their mother looked at him like a malfunctioning machine. Like a cracked vase that couldn't hold discipline.

The son who never got scolded for defiance because he didn't fight back. Just faded.

The son she ignored.

But Shotaro?

Shotaro she obsessed over.

Shotaro she watched.

Shotaro she hated with a kind of hunger that looked a lot like obsession.

And that... that was unforgivable.

So Hiyori would be seen.

She would raise a banner of rebellion with her own hands. She'd break every rule Shotaro ever shattered—louder. Smarter. With purpose. Not chaos.

She wouldn't just challenge him.

She'd conquer him.

"If this were any other life," she whispered to herself as she passed the front gates, her voice almost trembling, "he'd be my best friend. Maybe even…"

A pause. Her cheeks flushed—not from love, but shame.

"Maybe even a crush."

Her fingers brushed her left arm. The skin was smooth now. But she still remembered the faint sting—that day. The day she was yelling at Hiroki Mazino, pushing him too far, Shotaro appeared out of nowhere.

He didn't shout.

Didn't warn.

He just stared, eyes glowing faint red, and used heat vision to sear a line across her uniform sleeve. Close enough to feel. Close enough to shake her.

She hadn't cried.

But she hadn't stopped thinking about it either.

Because Shotaro—damn him—wasn't a hero. He wasn't a god. He wasn't even good.

According to him, he was 'an immoral person playing good guy.'

But he wasn't cruel.

And that, more than anything, made him dangerous.

Hiyori's steps quickened as wind curled through the school courtyard. Somewhere in the distance, the bell hadn't rung yet.

But she knew:

War had already started.

.....

Abraham Lincoln Island.

The tiniest, strangest point on the Musashi no Yamato island chain. Rolled in fog and seagull urine. A location which for whatever reason acquired an asylum that took its name from the 16th President of the United States—because it sounded classy to some Tokyo ministry functionary. Or because "Lincoln" didn't sound so scary as "Isolation Center for the Mentally Insane."

Either reason, Big Abe Asylum remained.

There was a rusty metal plaque suspended over the front gate, slightly askew, clinging by two screws:

"BIG ABE SANATORIUM FOR THE EXTREMELY MISUNDERSTOOD."

Underneath it, in neat kanji, someone had scrawled with a Sharpie:

"Enter sane, leave haunted."

This was where the nutcases were kept. Unclassifiables. Too unstable for the mainland but too pitiful for death. Botched super-soldier projects. Pyromancers who recited Nietzsche. A man who spoke nothing but ancient Greek and lined his eyelids with eyes so he could "sleepwatch." All of these patients shared one thing in common:

Nobody else wanted them.

Fog hung over the shore like a wreath of cigarette smoke. Out there, somewhere over the cliffs, the sea didn't break—it whispered.

And in the midst of it all, behind barbed wire and twisted spying poles, the setting changed.

Something approached.

Something was already alive.

The fog on Abraham Lincoln Island churned like glass breath. Fog curled over the serrated cliffs, vibrating with ancient static. Seagulls screamed somewhere in the distance like they'd witnessed specters—and perhaps they had.

"Aniki, what the fuck are we doing out here?" Hiroki asked, wide-eyed. His messy blondehair whipped in the sea breeze, and his blue eyes scanned the eerie coastline like it owed him an explanation. 

"Community work, Hiroki," Shotaro said quietly, stepping onto the gravel as if he owned it. "You know… fixing the people." He lifted a hand and gestured Zenkichi "Bird" Gojo forward.

"Pull the stuff down."

Zenkichi groaned, pulling a heavy box from the back of the rickety boat. Pots, ladles, rice cookers—utensils. The Ronins arrived with cookware. For an island full of madness.

"Been waitin' ya, boy," a voice in the fog. Deep. Graveled. Old.

All three stood still.

Hiroki narrowed his eyes into the fog. A lanky figure emerged out of the mist—a black suit, stovepipe hat, beard as legendary as time.

"Holy shit!" Hiroki gestured, mouth agape. "Is that—is that Abraham Lincoln?!"

The figure halted, removing his hat with politeness. The brim cut through the fog like a guillotine.

"In the flesh," said the man. Then dryly, "Well. undead, at the moment.

Hiroki's jaw hit the dirt.

"Abraham. Fucking. Lincoln."

"Yeah," Shotaro whispered, casually stepping beside him. "When did he get shot? He had about three seconds left to live. So he made a deal with Mephistopheles. Dug himself out of his own grave after his funeral."

"WHAT?!"

Abe—yes, the Abe—gave a sharp nod. Then he extended his left hand.

It wasn't a hand.

It was a chainsaw.

Rusty. Loud. Still warm.

The chainsaw that took the place of Abraham Lincoln's missing left hand hummed with a low, ravenous growl. The bullet wound in his head—where John Wilkes Booth had placed his mark—remained open. Not bleeding. Not healing. Just sitting there. Like a historical landmark too obdurate to topple.

He grinned like a piano in mid-collapse. "Welcome to Big Abe Asylum," he said. "Let's cook dinner."

Shotaro applauded once, near nonchalantly. "Right. So," he turned to Hiroki and Zenkichi, "here's the deal."

He indicated behind them—toward the creaky dock that complained with each wave, toward the jailhouse building nestled in the jungle beyond.

"This island is full of nutcases. Real ones. Folks too far gone for the mainland to even bother trying to fix. Nobody goes here. No cooks. No cleaners. No caretakers."

He approached, letting fall a sack of rice onto the gravel like an offering to the gods.

"So," he went on, "once a month, first of the month, I appear. Cook enough to feed Abe and the cons for a month. Clean the shit from the walls. Hose off the off the floor. Grapple with Honest Abe here"—he nodded at the zombie president—"because that seems to be one of his recreational activities."

"Shotaro," Hiroki stated matter-of-factly, "you… you fight Abraham Lincoln?"

Shotaro blinked.

"Every time," he answered. "He says it's the only way he's alive."

Abe cleared his chainsaw arm with a mechanical sputter, the sound echoing like an old Harley refusing to die. He stood at the edge of the cracked courtyard, a silhouette of undead patriotism and unfiltered menace. "Stretch first this time, Shotaro," he called out, voice dry as gravel. "Last time, I dislocated your spine."

Shotaro adjusted his collar and muttered under his breath, "I let you do that."

Meanwhile, Hiroki had gone stiff beside the ration crates. His jaw hung open as he slowly rotated toward Zenkichi.

"This place is cursed," he whispered like he'd just found himself in a B-movie script with no escape clause.

Zenkichi didn't blink. "Yeah," he said. "Honestly, I've been meaning to ask—what did you even give Mephisto to get resurrected?"

Abraham Lincoln Island.

The tiniest, strangest point on the Musashi no Yamato island chain. Rolled in fog and seagull urine. A location which for whatever reason acquired an asylum that took its name from the 16th President of the United States—because it sounded classy to some Tokyo ministry functionary. Or because "Lincoln" didn't sound so scary as "Isolation Center for the Mentally Insane."

Either reason, Big Abe Asylum remained.

There was a rusty metal plaque suspended over the front gate, slightly askew, clinging by two screws:

"BIG ABE SANATORIUM FOR THE EXTREMELY MISUNDERSTOOD."

Underneath it, in neat kanji, someone had scrawled with a Sharpie:

"Enter sane, leave haunted."

This was where the nutcases were kept. Unclassifiables. Too unstable for the mainland but too pitiful for death. Botched super-soldier projects. Pyromancers who recited Nietzsche. A man who spoke nothing but ancient Greek and lined his eyelids with eyes so he could "sleepwatch." All of these patients shared one thing in common:

Nobody else wanted them.

Fog hung over the shore like a wreath of cigarette smoke. Out there, somewhere over the cliffs, the sea didn't break—it whispered.

And in the midst of it all, behind barbed wire and twisted spying poles, the setting changed.

Something approached.

Something was already alive.

The fog on Abraham Lincoln Island churned like glass breath. Fog curled over the serrated cliffs, vibrating with ancient static. Seagulls screamed somewhere in the distance like they'd witnessed specters—and perhaps they had.

"Aniki, what the fuck are we doing out here?" Hiroki asked, wide-eyed. His messy black hair whipped in the sea breeze, and his blue eyes scanned the eerie coastline like it owed him an explanation. "This isn't Tokyo. This isn't even a suburb. This is straight-up mental."

"Community work, Hiroki," Shotaro said quietly, stepping onto the gravel as if he owned it. "You know… fixing the people." He lifted a hand and gestured Zenkichi "Bird" Gojo forward.

"Pull the stuff down."

Zenkichi groaned, pulling a heavy box from the back of the rickety boat. Pots, ladles, rice cookers—utensils. The Ronins arrived with cookware. For an island full of madness.

"Been waitin' ya, boy," a voice in the fog. Deep. Graveled. Old.

All three stood still.

Hiroki narrowed his eyes into the fog. A lanky figure emerged out of the mist—a black suit, stovepipe hat, beard as legendary as time.

"Holy shit!" Hiroki gestured, mouth agape. "Is that—is that Abraham Lincoln?!"

The figure halted, removing his hat with politeness. The brim cut through the fog like a guillotine.

"In the flesh," said the man. Then dryly, "Well. undead, at the moment.

Hiroki's jaw hit the dirt.

"Abraham. Fucking. Lincoln."

"Yeah," Shotaro whispered, casually stepping beside him. "When did he get shot? He had about three seconds left to live. So he made a deal with Mephistopheles. Some Faustian jazz for another go-round. Dug himself out of his own grave after his funeral."

"WHAT?!"

Abe—yes, the Abe—gave a sharp nod. Then he extended his left hand.

It wasn't a hand.

It was a chainsaw.

Rusty. Loud. Still warm.

The chainsaw that replaced Abraham Lincoln's absent left hand buzzed with a low, hungry snarl. The bullet hole in his head—where John Wilkes Booth had left his signature—was open. Not bleeding. Not healing. Just there. Like a historical landmark too stubborn to destroy.

He smiled like a piano in mid-collapse. "Welcome to Big Abe Asylum," he said. "Let's cook dinner."

Shotaro applauded once, almost casually. "Right. So," he leaned over to Hiroki and Zenkichi, "here's the deal."

He gestured behind them—to the creaking dock that groaned with each swell, to the jailhouse building squatting in the jungle beyond.

"This island's crawling with nutcases. Actual ones. People too far gone for the mainland even to bother trying to cure. Nobody comes here. No cooks. No cleaners. No caretakers."

He came over, dropping a bag of rice on the gravel like a sacrifice to the gods.

"So," he continued, "I show up once a month, first of the month. Cook enough for Abe and the cons to last a month. Clean the shit off the walls. Hose off the off the floor. Wrestle with Honest Abe here"—he nodded at the zombie president—"because that appears to be one of his hobby activities."

In the background, Abe revved his chainsaw arm like a man testing a war-crime lawnmower. Metal snarled, sparks danced. He stood there like a disgruntled mechanic holding his breath for a customer to notice the engine was still on.

"Stretch first this time, Shotaro!" he growled. "Last time, I dislocated your spine."

"I let you do that," Shotaro muttered, already rolling his neck like this was just cardio.

Hiroki stood as stiff as a board, eyes wide, mouth halfway to the ground. He glared at Zenkichi like a man staring into the abyss and receiving sarcasm as a response.

"This location is haunted," Hiroki breathed.

Zenkichi didn't even blink. "Yeah," he said. "For real, I just want to know—what the hell did you even give Mephisto to make this agreement fly?" 

Once again, Abe didn't say anything immediately.

The chainsaw froze. The wind grew silent. And the dead President's eyes—ancient, heavy—vacant somewhere far away.

Then:

"Detroit… and Ohio."

Silence.

The birds even ceased screaming.

 "…It all makes sense now," Hiroki whispered, slowly running his hand over his face as if he could remove the comprehension that had just settled in his brain.

Abe blinked. "Also New York City."

The boys looked at him.

"You ever wonder about the rent?" Abe said seriously. "And the conditions? Exactly."

"Honestly even I too would be flying planes into their buildings if I have to pay 1000$ to live in a match box" Hiroki said.