Rebellion of the Soul

Chapter 1: Signature

I looked out the window. The earth was shaking, but this time it wasn't an earthquake of the ground. It was an earthquake from the heart.

Tokyo. Stay here for too long and it starts to swallow you. You become indistinguishable. The bustle of the city and the arching skyscrapers that loomed above you, as well as the herds of people, both visitor and local. It made you feel like you had limitless freedom in your little cage. An apartment is nothing special here. A desk, a laptop, a wardrobe with my.. 'casual' clothes, and cosplay from years past stuffed in the back. In the corner, a small mirror and assorted accessories, strangely mixed in with my records and a waste paper basket vomiting scrunched-up paper onto the floor. Trite, but I kept it that way. It was all a girl needed in this day and age.

It was about 7AM when I first heard the noise. I was hanging over the edge of my unkempt bed, strumming my Rickenbacker 4003 and inspecting the Narita postcard I had gotten from my few remaining family through the letter box just two minutes before. Again, this was nothing surprising. I received a postcard from my family every New Year's and it said roughly the same things each time too. I'd been in Tokyo about two years or so, so this was my second Tokyo-related postcard. "Hope all is well in Tokyo. Remember to clean your room and pay off your debts. Don't get lost Jakuko!". Ugh. If they really did care that much, they'd write more than three short sentences, and actually use the name I prefer: Jakuna. Who names their daughter 'weak child' anyway? Jakuna was much more in line with my style, even if I did look physically weak.

It had just been New Years and most would expect the noise outside to be the celebration of the coming of 2020. Of course, that's sort of what it was. If you could call a street-wide rally a celebration, that is. I pressed my face further against the glass of my tenth-floor apartment room and peered down at the ants below, marching towards the termite nest in the east. I planned to think nothing of it, but once I heard what they were chanting, it grabbed my attention.

"If you take our freedom, we take your power! If you hide our creativity, we hide your influence!"

I had noticed over the past few years that censorship in Japan had been on the rise. It reminded me of a certain Friday afternoon, with the lights dimmed and the traffic humming outside as usual. The television flickered, something about a new agreement between us and America about the distribution of Japanese media for the standards of the West. I was hardly paying attention.

I never realised how serious it was. I glanced over at my bass, lying askew in the corner by my wardrobe. I shook my head to abolish the thought and kept looking out the window at the mob as they proceeded east. Until I was interrupted once again; a knock on the door.

"Delivery for... Miss Kaku..shitsu?"

"Yes, the door's unlocked"

The tall delivery man struggled with the door handle until it made a short burst open. He stood awkwardly holding the package as I tiptoed over and signed for it with a huff.

"Thank you" he said with forced politeness

I stood at the door, mentally shooing him away as he aimlessly waited for me to say more. Eventually, I slammed the door as he turned away.

I tore open the package respectlessly and threw the wrappings in the already overflowing bin. It was a new t-shirt, adorned with the word EDOGAWA in bold, red letters across the chest which stood out on the black background. The Edogawa flag was jauntily placed at the end of the word. I could immediately tell this was from my old friend Yoshimura, who seemed to be obsessed with Tokyo. Even if his present was a year late, I gave a short smile, followed by a crinkle in the corner of my lips. I remember when I told him that I was moving to the Eastern Tokyo area, he asked me which ward I was going to live in without hesitation. He was like an excitable puppy in that respect. I carefully yet hurriedly hung the t-shirt up on the front of my wardrobe, hoping to continue my front row seat at the window.

I whipped out my phone and started recording the scene outside. I spread my fingers on the screen to zoom in on one of the banners being held. It read: 'Gendai Bunka Jinmin Undou', or 'Modern Cultural People's Movement'. It seemed like quite an old-fashioned or even official name for this kind of demonstration. Maybe there was more to it than just a demonstration? I shuffled quickly over to the other side of my bed and searched through the sheets until I found the television remote and switched it on. The small set at the foot of my bet crackled into life. The screen lit up with the very same image I saw from my window, but this time I could actually see that these people were, in fact, real people. My brain filtered out the monotone newscaster voices as my glance moved from face to face, noting the passion in their eyes and expression. This was clearly no hastily-prepared demonstration. Months or even years of boiling vengeance hid behind their reasoning.

I'd never found myself so enthralled by the television before. My legs were crossed and my palms pressed on my ankles as I leaned forward intently. Slowly, as if my own consciousness was returning to me, the voices of the monotonous newscasters flowed into my ears again.

"~...began in the Shinjuku special ward of Tokyo in the early hours this morning. It is reported that the protestors plan on continuing into Chiba...~"

Shinjuku? At this rate, it looks like the place will be famous for more than Godzilla...

Not wanting to get too sucked into the moment, I uncrossed my legs and slid off of my bed, leaving the drone of the television to accompany me in the background. I wearily stalked the mirror, combing my hand through my messy and slightly matted black hair. The poorly-inserted electric purple highlights reflected with morning sun. With the brush clasped between my delicate fingers, I dragged it through my hair until it was in a semi-manageable state. I swiped up my hair ties, elastic stretched and disfigured because of their overuse. After the daily struggle of making a comprehensible set of twintails, I twisted my body in the mirror to see if I was presentable enough to the outside world. I huffed with relief. I glared at the door, the two long strips of hair that represented my pigtails riding over my shoulders and hovering beside my arms. Time froze for what felt like an hour.

It was finally time to go outside again.