Type 88

Part 4 - The Fallout, Chapter 8

8

Eighteen Days until the Deadline

Shiro's leadership, on shaky ground before the broadcast, crumbled in the weeks following his speech. His advisors, shepherded by General Sang, pounced at the opportunity to renounce Shiro's words. The old man had finally become delusional and incapable of leading. It was time for a change.

Sang injected fear into Japan's zeitgeist, which engulfed the country in waves of violence. Gunfire rang through the capital during the day. Looting and death followed at night. The media stopped covering each incident in depth, as the chaos spiraled out of control. Eventually the country was locked under martial law.

The people of Japan did not revisit Shiro's warning to see the writing on the wall. Instead, they turned their allegiance toward Sang and his message. Japan was weak, and this had led to decay. Sang continued to roll the snowball. Each of his public appearances stuck a shiv in Shiro's side.

Shiro could no longer make public appearances, and his presence in the capitol building was a risk. He refused to allow this to affect his demeanor. To keep busy, he continued to tend his garden, under close security supervision. The routine was the same as always: examine seedlings, plant seedlings, and bury compost. It kept his body active, which kept his mind clear—away from rash decisions.

He waited for his next, and likely last, chance to leave an impact on the people of Japan and his legacy as a whole. He had no idea when this would be.

As the days and weeks passed, he accepted that his window was closing, if not slammed shut already. When he grew despondent, he repeated his routine. The day's selection of seedlings turned into the first handful he could grab. He absentmindedly planted them, forgetting where the last patch was. He buried compost, which, as his back gave way, began to litter the surface of the plot.

He continued this routine: examine, plant, and bury, until Tori tiptoed her way through the garden one Sunday afternoon, informing him that he had a visitor.

General Sang was waiting in his office with a message.

***

Shiro sat behind his ornate oak desk, running his fingers over its exclusive contours. It carried the faint markings of each important piece of legislature passed in the last decade. Thousands of signatures, faded into the oak's surface, softly engraving Shiro's legacy.

He looked up and met the gaze of General Sang. "General, can I offer you anything to eat or drink? We have fresh vegetables from the garden."

"No, thank you, Shiro," Sang said. He sat a head taller than the old man, but the two were roughly the same height standing upright. Years on Shiro's side of the desk had broken his posture.

"Well then, I suppose we should get right to it," Shiro said. "You haven't entered this office alone in months. Before you start, may I ask if this concerns the broadcast? Or is there a separate agenda at hand?"

"The military's focus is centered on the broadcast, Shiro," Sang said.

"Have you determined the origins of the voice?" Shiro asked.

"No, sir," Sang said.

"Do you have a tangible plan to do so, General?" Shiro asked.

"No, sir," Sang said.

"Then I believe we have nothing to talk about," Shiro said. "Your directive is to determine the perpetrators of the threat. To have a direction without this knowledge is to leap into an abyss that knows no bound."