Psycho Pass: Apology Of An Endgame

6

In the large room which had a dark brown carpet on the wooden floor, continuous blows resounded. For a moment they stopped, replaced by brief gasps from both pencak silat practitioners.

"You're not familiar with knives," observed Makishima.

Yashiro was a few steps away from him and his straight razor. She had put on black sweatpants and a gray blouse that was a bit too big for her, and it hung down past her waist.

"They are very much like you."

He curved his lips and rolled up the sleeves of his white shirt, "Is that so?"

Yashiro inhaled deeply as she wiped some sweat from her forehead with her hand. Makishima was slowly pacing around without taking his gaze from hers. The two hands stood firm to block all kinds of strikes.

"Humanity has always sought simpler ways to kill. In the past, you had to train to learn how to use bows or swords. Later, with the advent of firearms, that physical effort and exhaustion was greatly reduced. Anyone could shoot, even a small child. And now... we managed to develop one that does not even require the will of its wearer. It is so easy to kill when you are not responsible for your own actions, isn't it?" she slowly shook her head and squinted. "You instead..."

He stepped forward with his left foot, while both hands thrust outward inviting her to attack further. Yashiro used hand strikes, but he smirked and counterattacked turning his body. His left hand caught hers, and she prevented him from bringing his knife closer by grabbing his forearm. They stared at each other for a moment, trembling and breathing sharply in equal measure.

"Guns are quick. They don't make you feel the emotion... they don't make you... responsible in the same way. And in their final moments, people show you their true nature. But that's something you have already proven in the flesh... haven't you, Yashiro?"

She managed to let go of his grip and attacked him with feet strikes, which he immediately recognized and used his right hand to catch her foot, pushing with the left one her shoulder and sweeping her with his own foot. She fell like a simple doll and grimaced for a second, turning her body to the side like a worm on the ground. Makishima released a fleeting smile and as he slowly stood up, folded the blade of his straight razor into its handle and tucked it into the pocket of his white pants.

When he reached out to her, it took her several seconds to grasp his forearm. Yashiro noticed that his skin was soft and warm, but his grip was firm, not entirely enduring—he released her as soon as she stood in front of him, as if he could not allow himself to touch her. She could not help but lift an eyebrow. It was not shyness, for Makishima was the last person who would feel shame, but she still would not quite figure out what it was.

And then it hit her—it was the same for her. While at the academy she saw herself capable of hugging everyone, something as simple as tapping him on the shoulder to call him over did not usually cross her mind. But neither of them felt like a stranger in the presence of the other. Yashiro guessed then, that if anything her attitude was more relaxed, it was due to the fact that she did not have to pretend anything in front of him. Moreover, it was very likely he would be disappointed if she dared to treat him with the same warmth with which she treated people. He would recognize that mask, for he also carried one with him.

Yashiro was learning fast, and even Choe himself had mentioned that she was very quick. He enjoyed watching them fight, studying both of their progress. And while they practiced, his expectant figure had been all that time in a corner leaning against the wall. Choe threw a water bottle at her, but she had turned in his direction and managed to catch it, otherwise it would have hit her in the face. Then she opened it and drank quickly. Her throat was dry because she had not taken a drink in hours. Choe somehow managed to recognize those little details lately, though Yashiro was not entirely sure how he did it.