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1.
“It’s against regulation, of course,” someone would invariably say sooner or later.
“What is?” Another, a simpler soul, would ask. Then a nod at a certain direction would steer their attention toward the subject in question, who at this point had just entered the room.
Even then, it would be difficult to determine exactly which part of the newcomer was against regulation, since everything about him seemed to be just that. The colour of his hair was enough case for concern, even more so in its less-than-orderly state. There was also his attire—a suit, for all intents and purposes, except the jacket must be inches too long, not to mention dyed in the most obnoxious shade of green known to mankind instead of the traditional black. Coupled with the fact that he wore his shirt untucked and the flamingo-patterned tie askew, the man successfully stood out like a sore thumb in the sea of crisply pressed black suits.
Every single one of these, however, paled in comparison to the fact that he seemed to be either drunk or half-asleep, and almost entirely supported by his companion.
The briefing room quieted down almost at once. Even in silence, reactions varied. Inspector Ginoza from Division One rolled his eyes but kept any verbal comment to himself. His enforcers also seemed relatively unfazed by the spectacle—rather amused, even. The rest of the room, however, was not quite as inured. Direct stares and sideway glances, from incredulous to amazed, followed the two men as they made their way to the backmost row of seats, one practically carrying the other.
On a normal day, the Bureau was a furnace of gossips. Add a little fuel—namely the rare appearance of the notorious Inspector Makishima Shougo of Division Nine and his equally notorious enforcer—and it would turn into a raging inferno.
A low wave of murmurs picked up again as soon as the two had sat down. In the same seat, most of the room couldn’t help but notice. And Enforcer Kougami still had a conspicuous arm around Inspector Makishima as the inspector dozed on his shoulder.
“But there’s no such thing as Division Nine,” a newbie recruit, fresh from the academy and brimming with textbook facts, argued in a whisper.
This was a cue for some of the old-timers to relieve the uninitiated of their ignorance. The Bureau’s collection of worst-kept secrets was extensive, but among the most controversial had to be the existence of Division Nine and its inspector; who, if rumours were to be believed, had taken the post at the age of sixteen; who, as someone else had been said to overhear Chief Kasei mention in passing, maintained not only a 100% success rate but also the clearest hue in the country; who—again through the same grapevine—had managed to do so through methods so unconventional and outrageous that no partner could ever hope to match him lest their Psycho-Pass be compromised. Enforcers, too, entered and left his command at an unprecedented rate, with injuries (oftentimes fatal) and/or sharp deterioration of mental health listed as the most prevalent causes.
That was, until Enforcer Kougami Shinya came along.
“But why keep Division Nine a secret?” the newly initiated persisted.
“Because technically it doesn’t exist. Because the cases they handle aren’t supposed to exist either.”
“Not supposed to exist? What does that even–?”
Any further query was interrupted by the arrival of Chief Kasei Joushuu. Everyone hurried back to their respective seats. Enforcer Kougami half-heartedly elbowed Inspector Makishima. The latter stirred, mumbling softly, but did not wake.
Chief Kasei studiously avoided looking in their direction.
“Good morning,” she spoke in a tone that indicated it was anything but. “We’ll begin our briefing. The last three months have seen a sharp rise in the average stress level at certain districts…”
–
2.
“They’re fucking, aren’t they?”
Tsunemori Akane, only two weeks into her new position in Division One, turned bright red at Enforcer Kagari Shuusei’s comment. Standing to his left, Enforcer Kunizuka Yayoi frowned and flicked the back of his neck.
“Don’t be vulgar,” she scolded him. “Besides, it’s none of our business.”
“I’m just saying,” Kagari muttered defensively, rubbing the abused spot. “Look at them.”
Akane was indeed looking—and so was the rest of the gym, for that matter. The three of them had arrived a few minutes ago only to find the place jam-packed with people, gathering around what looked like an ongoing spar. She recognised the two men from her first briefing the other day: the inspector from Division Nine and his enforcer.
Even a novice in hand-to-hand combat like her could tell that she was looking at two men used to fighting. It wasn’t just the speed; it was the ease of their movement, the way they responded to each other, the effortless grace. A dance would be a more apt name.
“Is it that time of the month again?” Enforcer Masaoka Tomomi had suddenly appeared behind them, still in his suit and tie.
“Looks like it. Third Friday of the month; practically the only thing predictable about those two.”
“They always do this every month,” Masaoka explained when he noticed the bewildered look on Akane’s face. “That’s Inspector Makishima Shougo, Division Nine. The one getting his ass kicked is Kougami Shinya, his enforcer. Kougami used to work with us in One but got transferred to Nine about two years ago.”
“And this happens every month,” Kagari added with a theatrical sigh. “Which means this is… what, his twenty-fourth, twenty-fifth try? You’d think Kou would’ve given up by now.”
Masaoka laughed. “Kou? Given up? He doesn’t know what that means.”
“Probably explains why he lasts so long with Maki. The guy goes through enforcers like Yayoi here cup noodles.”
The comment earned him another flick, this time to his right ear. “Don’t believe every gossip you hear.”
Masaoka nodded sagaciously. “Exactly. Makishima really isn’t that bad.”
“You only say that because he likes your paintings,” Kagari accused, rolling his eyes. It earned him a grin from the older man.
“What can I say? We both understand art.”
Kagari made a face. “Yeah, right. Art. Though I gotta admit Kou looks so much better now. He was a real mess back then after– ouch. That’s gotta hurt.”
Akane turned just in time to see Makishima pinning Kougami down on the practice mat. Kougami made one last effort to sabotage Makishima’s footing, which the latter rendered useless with a well-timed block. The match effectively ended when Makishima got him to stay down using his entire weight.
“That’s weak, Shinya.”
Kougami groaned. “I’ll get you one day.”
Makishima smiled, a smile so soft and private that Akane felt her face burning. Then he reached down to push Kougami’s bangs out of his eyes.
“Yep, definitely fucking,” Kagari muttered.
–
3.
It wasn’t like Aoyanagi Risa didn’t know what to expect.
When Chief Kasei informed her that Division Nine would be aiding her Division Two in the new case, she must admit to a certain degree of relief. Six years as an inspector had taught her more than a few things about violence and the darker side of human nature. This included where her own limits lay.
This case, with its parade of dead bodies growing moon orchids out of what once had been their brains, was a little past those. When they began to find live instead of dead victims, she was pretty much desperate for help.
Makishima Shougo arrived half an hour later, tie loose and neck covered with small bruises that looked very much like what they were. Kougami Shinya, only marginally less messy, followed not far behind.
Risa felt her lips twitch. “Only the two of you?”
To Makishima’s credit, his ever-present smile did not falter. “We happened to be together when the chief called.”
“I’m sure.” She smirked, but refrained from pointing out that it was almost two in the morning. Rumours that a certain enforcer was basically living outside the PSB Tower had been circulating for months now; but to bring up the subject right before these two were about to help her didn’t seem to be a wise course of action. “Did she brief you on the case?” she asked instead.
“Only the barest facts. And she said you just found more victims. As in more than one.”
“Seven in total.”
“Alive?”
Risa bit the inside of her mouth. “You’ll see for yourself.”
She led them into the abandoned apartment complex and up to the sixth floor. The emergency stairs, she explained, was the only way in or out of the building. The front doors had been sealed two years ago, after the last tenant had left, and since then the building had remained empty. Or so everybody had thought.
At least until today.
Makishima listened to her explanation in silence, hands tucked deep into the side pockets of his coat. This was the third time Risa had cooperated with Division Nine, and as in the previous occasions, Makishima was polite but detached. She had learned to take it as evidence of how uninterested he was in her or her team. It wasn’t like he couldn’t do better if he wanted to. Once, she had witnessed him charm a gun-toting criminal in a room full of hostages, provoking and coaxing in turns, until the man had fallen under his spell and allowed himself to be subdued.
“A homeless man found them,” Risa continued as they passed the fifth-floor landing, the light from her communicator flitting across dust-strewn steps and grimy walls. “It was hard to get anything coherent out of him, but no wonder, after the kind of horror he found. Basically he noticed a man coming in and out of this supposedly empty building. Had been for weeks. And tonight, he decided to tail him, right to an apartment on the sixth floor. When the man had left, he broke into the apartment and saw what’s in it. There.”
The sixth-floor corridor offered scant more light than the emergency stairs. Two enforcers were standing on guard in front of the third door from the exit. Both looked visibly relieved at their arrival.
“We haven’t got the drones in,” Risa said again. “You prefer an unprocessed scene, right?”
“Yes, thank you,” Makishima replied pleasantly and nodded at one of the enforcers to open the door.
Risa remained just behind the doorway, secretly relieved that she could hand this part of the job over to someone else. Besides, that someone else was Makishima Shougo. If anyone could plunge into this horror show and make some semblance of sense out of it without too much risk on their mental health, then it would be him.
She watched as he slowly walked the scene, moving from one kneeling, tied-up victim to the next, examining their conditions, noting the orchids sprouting out of the exposed interior of their heads as a tourist would in a gift shop. There was something almost inhuman about him, about his easy composure and utter lack of terror in that kind of environment. It was as if none of the horrors could touch him.
Kougami was the complete opposite. Tension lined his shoulders like a set of armour. Every movement carried a purpose, like a hound poised for an attack. Risa still remembered him from their early days in the Bureau: intense, earnest, idealistic to a fault. Inspector Kougami Shinya had never been one to showcase his emotions, but there had been an openness about him then that had drawn people in.
After his so-called fall from grace, he had grown distant, strained, black fire contained in an iron cage. Everyone had thought: it was only a matter of time. Sooner or later, the cage would break, the violent beast inside let loose.
But then he had met Makishima—and that, as they said, was that.
Watching the way they worked together was a study in contrasts. Makishima moved among the victims as his fancy would take him, from the one with the biggest flowers to the one with the brightest colours. Every now and then, he would make a comment on the type of orchids or the different knots on the ropes. Kougami’s responses were usually limited to one or two words, murmured into the shroud of horror that enveloped the room. He made his progress systematically, going clockwise starting from the one nearest the door.
Makishima also called him ‘Shinya’. Risa knew that she was not the only one who noticed—or the only one who felt uncomfortable hearing it. The familiar address clearly did not settle well with her enforcers either, if their frowns were anything to go by. Inspectors and enforcers worked together, but they were not friends. They were not supposed to be that close.
“This one.” Kougami stopped in front of one of the victims, the one farthest from the door.
“Yes.” Makishima came to stand beside him. “He’ll come back for her. Which means we can lure him out.”
It took every scrap of Risa’s willpower, bolstered by her own curiosity, to step inside the apartment and approach the two. “What do you mean? What are you talking about?”
“This,” Makishima nodded at the kneeling woman before them as Kougami shifted to make room for her, “is his special one. They all look the same at a glance, all attractive young women between the age of twenty and thirty. But a closer examination will show you the different degrees of craftsmanship. That one over there is obviously one of his earlier projects.” He pointed at the one nearest the door, with a wilting purple orchid. “Look at the cut around her cranium. The work is messy. He didn’t even bother to shave her hair properly. The next one is slightly better. And so is the next. He’s obviously building up his skill.”
Risa tried to push down her nausea and look at the victim in front of them through objective eyes. “So you’re saying this one is the best?”
“Yes, and not only in a technical sense.” Makishima lowered himself on his haunches, peering at the victim’s face. “He has given her the most care. Look, these knots on her ropes—intricate, striking to look at but serving no real purpose other than in the aesthetic sense. He’s even kept what’s left of her hair and braided it into a necklace around her neck. This woman is his true objective. The rest are just dominoes leading up to or away from her.”
“And you think he’ll come back for her?”
Makishima looked up at his enforcer, who shrugged in return. “Someone who builds this kind of collection?” Kougami deadpanned. “He’ll come back, all right.”
Risa took a deep breath, ignoring the smell invading her nose. “So we’ll just have to wait for him. Stake out the place.”
There was no response from the two men for some time. Then Makishima stood up, more speed than grace, and balanced himself with a hand on Kougami’s shoulder as he leaned in. Whispered words passed between them. Something, a sharp expression, flickered across Kougami’s face, and then he glanced at Risa.
He snorted. “Good luck trying to sell her that idea.”
Makishima’s sigh was long-suffering. Risa narrowed her eyes, suddenly annoyed.
“If the two of you are not going to share whatever brilliant idea you happen to–”
“You should burn the building down,” Makishima told her, matter-of-fact.
It took her a second or two too long, but Risa finally managed to force a chuckle out of her throat. “Yeah, not quite up to your usual standard of hilarity, Makishima.”
“Because I’m not trying to be hilarious. You should burn the building down.”
She should have laughed. Risa knew that it was the only sane way to deal with Makishima’s brand of eccentricity. He loved to shock his audience, to spew one outrageous thing after another—but he was also the person with the clearest hue in the Bureau, and in the end, it was the only thing that counted, wasn’t it?
She didn’t laugh. Instead, she looked him in the eye and said, “Are you out of your mind?”
Makishima shrugged. “It will be much quicker than just waiting for him to show up. This way, he’ll come running at once.”
“You can’t set the building on fire.” Risa was aware that her voice was rising both in pitch and volume, but at the moment, she couldn’t bring herself to care. “These women can’t even move! You’re not suggesting we burn them alive, are you?”
The gaze that swept across her anger was cool, dispassionate. “Are they? Alive?”
Risa gritted her teeth. “I don’t care. We’re not burning the building.”
“It’ll be a blessing for them to die.”
“You don’t know that.”
Makishima looked like he was about to say something—in fact, unleash something so cruel and terrible that it would leave her weeping in the dirt—when Kougami stepped in, his hand on Makishima’s arm. “We don’t have to burn the building down. Not exactly. We can light just enough fire to fill the corridors with smoke. He’ll come as soon as he sees it.”
Risa frowned, breathing through the hot remnants of her ire as she tried to digest this new idea. “So make it seem like the building is on fire?”
“Yes.”
“You think it’ll work?”
Kougami raised his eyebrows at Makishima. The inspector sighed. “If there’s enough smoke, yes,” he admitted. “The drones have smoke bombs, so you can use those and keep the fire at minimum, purely for the theatrics. You should also get some people down there to spread the word out. Let everyone in the vicinity know that the building is on fire. Dismiss the perimeter drones and get them to start evacuating the surrounding buildings. He’ll come when he hears what’s going on. He can’t afford not to.”
Three hours later, everything had gone according to Makishima’s plan, the perpetrator apprehended as soon as he had stepped into the emergency stairs. Risa sighed in relief once she had sent him away in a prison car. All that was left was the case report, and then she could put this nightmare behind her.
Turning around, she saw Kougami standing next to a squad van, an unlit cigarette between his fingers. She paused, hesitating, and then decided to approach him. There was no sign of Makishima.
“Need a light?”
Kougami accepted her lighter with a nod. “Thanks.”
“Thanks for stopping him.”
There was no response for some time as Kougami lit up his cigarette and took a long drag. Above them, the sky was slowly turning into that particular shade of blue that came just before dawn.
“He’s not wrong, you know,” he finally said, tossing the lighter back at her. “Those victims, they’re better off dead.”
“It’s not our call,” she said past a lump in her throat.
“When is it ever?”
Risa said nothing. She understood exactly what Kougami was saying. Makishima’s words still echoed in her head, and she knew that this case would haunt her long after she had forgotten the rest of her career.
But as she watched the armada of ambulances drove away, each carrying a victim that could probably no longer be called 'alive', Risa realised that she still would not have been able to make a different call, even if she had agreed with Makishima.
She took a deep breath. Alive or dead, at least now they were out of her hand. Whatever came next, it wouldn’t be for her to decide.
–
4.
“You want to ask me about Kougami?”
Masaoka Tomomi must admit to a degree of surprise, even astonishment, at the turn his evening had taken. Suzuki Toji, formerly a Division Six inspector, had never bothered to keep his opinion on enforcers a secret. His dislike of them was a known fact throughout the Bureau. Those under his command could only grit their teeth and bear it, but any other enforcer with any sense of self-preservation knew well enough to stay out of his way.
And yet here he was, cornering Masaoka at the Bureau’s underground bar after work hours, apparently to interrogate him about Kougami Shinya.
“Isn’t it obvious?” Suzuki snapped, scowling at his glass of vodka. “You knew him the longest. You already worked with him back when he was still an inspector. You were also there when he screwed up so badly that he got himself demoted to enforcer.”
“Well, when you put it like that.” Masaoka sighed, resigning himself to the slew of unpleasantness ahead.
“So you know what kind of person he is.”
“To a degree.”
Suzuki’s mouth curled into a sneer. “And yet a degree us inspectors can only aspire to. So share your knowledge, enforcer. Give me your opinion of him. And that’s an order.”
It took Masaoka his entire self-control not to roll his eyes. For the span of two seconds, he considered the idea of resorting to only the vaguest philosophical answers, just to mess with this irritating asshole. Luckily for them both, his sense of self-preservation kicked in just in time, forcing him to stay in safer waters.
“I’m not sure what it is exactly you’re asking.” He finally settled on caution.
Another scowl appeared on Suzuki’s face. “Don’t pretend that you haven’t heard.”
“About your recent transfer to Division Nine? Everybody in the Bureau has, I’d imagine.” Masaoka paused, and then added with more delicacy, “Are you worried about working with Kougami?”
“Me? Worried?” the inspector hissed, the word a snarling whip out of his mouth. He was so angry that he jumped to his feet and knocked Masaoka’s glass in the process, spilling beer all over the counter. “Why would I be worried about working with some– he’s just an enforcer! A dog in the system!”
“Then–”
“Which brings me to my point,” Suzuki cut him off brusquely. “He’s an enforcer, but he definitely doesn’t act like one. That’s my point of concern.”
Masaoka took a moment to digest this statement. “Why, precisely? Did he disobey your order?”
Suzuki’s expression twisted into a grimace. “Not as such,” he sniffed and resumed his seat. “He’s too smart for that. He may be a dog now, but everyone knows he held the leash once.”
Masaoka remained tactfully silent. The wary bartender had brought him a new glass of beer and he was glad for the distraction. Suzuki was taking sips from his own drink, obviously wrestling with words, before picking up his argument once more. “My point is he seems to... have some sort of hold over Inspector Makishima.”
This time, Masaoka couldn’t quite keep his incredulity under control. “Over Inspector Makishima? Really?”
The inspector, predictably enough, bristled at this perceived offence. “You think this is funny?” he snapped, loud enough to attract a few glances from the other bar patrons. “Makishima is an inspector. For an enforcer to be able to influence him to that degree is a cause for concern. In fact, it’s nothing short of my duty to report it.”
Masaoka considered his reply. He had no wish to contradict an inspector, least of all one as belligerent as Suzuki, but he wasn’t about to throw his friend under the bus either. “Kougami is a good detective,” he said at last. “He has good instincts, but I doubt he can influence an inspector. And this is Makishima we’re talking about.”
“Of course, the special, the one and only Makishima Shougo,” Suzuki muttered, every single word dripping with venom. “So fucking special that everyone just lets him do whatever.”
That gave Masaoka pause. Now he began to wonder whom the object of Suzuki’s animosity actually was. After all, the effect Makishima had on those around him was only too obvious. They ended up either hating him or worshipping the ground he walked on, no in between. Makishima’s attitude certainly did not help. His dismissal, his sheer indifference toward those who couldn't rouse his interest was never deliberate. Neither was it ever carried out with malicious intent, and yet, this only served to make the insult a thousand times worse.
Masaoka could only imagine what such a blatant lack of recognition might have done to someone as vain, as conceited as Suzuki. He was familiar with the kind of spite and ugliness that could follow when pride was slighted. He himself only had the opportunity to know Makishima somewhat better on account of his art. Masaoka never thought of himself much as an artist—painting, for him, was more of a hobby, a stress outlet than any serious pursuit—but for some reasons, Makishima seemed to like his works and regularly showed up in his makeshift studio. Suzuki evidently had no such distinction to raise him from the average masses.
“They’re too…” Suzuki spoke again after a period of seething silence. “It’s like they can finish each other’s thought. And the way they treat each other.” He paused, face drawn into a pinch. “It’s disgusting.”
Had it come from anyone else, Masaoka wouldn’t hesitate to give them a piece of his mind. In this case, against this asshole, he contained himself with a diplomatic suggestion. “If there is a concrete proof that Inspector Makishima has been influenced by his enforcer, like maybe his Psycho-Pass–”
“Not that,” Suzuki interrupted with a brusque wave of his hand. “I’ve checked. He’s as clear as he always is. But that doesn’t mean anything.”
Masaoka let the argument go and finished the rest of his tepid beer. He was now desperate for an excuse to leave, or any sort of interruption as long as it could lend him reprieve. Unfortunately, everyone else in the bar also knew better than to put themselves in the line of fire.
“Tell me about the case,” Suzuki suddenly said.
“What case?”
“The one that screwed him up. The Specimen Case.”
Masaoka almost flinched. Even now, almost three years after they had arrested Touma Kouzaburou, he still couldn’t think about the case without wanting to crawl out of his skin and curl up somewhere dark and safe. To say that he absolutely wanted no part of this conversation was a severe understatement.
“Everything is in the report,” he clung to evasion.
“You think I haven’t seen the report?” Suzuki shot back impatiently. “Facts and details. Names. Time and place. But that's not what I'm looking for. What I want to know is what it was about the case that unhinged him. He went absolutely to pieces.”
“Then why didn’t you ask me?”
Later, Masaoka would wonder how he could have possibly missed Kougami’s arrival. And yet he must have—because there he was, just behind Suzuki, leaning against the counter and giving his superior the kind of look that told Masaoka this was exactly why the inspector had such a massive problem with him.
Suzuki’s face turned into a violent shade of red, either from fury or mortification or both. “You. Were you listening in on us?”
Kougami’s lips curled in contempt. “You were talking about me, of course I listened. Only an idiot needs to ask.”
Suzuki spluttered. “How dare you… you… dog! I will report you to Chief Kasei! She’s not going to tolerate this kind of attitude from the likes of you!
“Wanna bet?” Kougami retorted with a smirk. “My guess is she’ll just laugh at your getting your pants in a twist.”
The entire bar had gone silent. Masaoka didn’t need to look around to know that every pair of eyes were fixed on the brewing fight.
“You’re dead,” Suzuki hissed, his whole frame shaking with rage. “I’m going to make sure of it myself, do you hear me? The Chief–”
“The Chief knows her priorities,” Kougami said with a shrug. His eyes slid away, scanning the rows of bottles on the shelves—as if this argument with his superior hadn’t even deserved his full attention. “Sure, maybe she’s not overly fond of dogs, but some people are more useless than dogs, so–”
No one was really surprised when Suzuki lunged at him. No one was really surprised when Kougami dodged the attack with ease either. One had a reputation in hand-to-hand combat, the other most decidedly did not—and so when Enforcer Kougami rendered Inspector Suzuki unconscious within three moves, nobody could admit to any modicum of surprise at all.
Had it been anyone other than Suzuki, Masaoka might have been moved to pity. He knew exactly how hard Kougami could hit, and by the looks of it, he hadn’t exactly been pulling his punches. This outcome, however, roused nothing in him other than a swell of grim satisfaction. And judging from the stifled laughter and not-so-hidden grins from the other bar patrons, he was not the only one.
“Think I can get away with self-defence?” Kougami wondered aloud, shoving Suzuki’s prone body away with his foot.
Masaoka shook his head, torn between amusement and resignation. “You shouldn’t have done that.”
“He’s an asshole.”
“Of course he is—we all know that—but this will bring you more trouble than it’s worth.”
“Oh, it’s worth it, trust me,” Kougami declared, taking the empty seat on the other side of Masaoka. “I think I’ll have beer.”
Masaoka stared, speculations and theories suggesting themselves to his mind. “You did that on purpose,” he said slowly, testing the words. “Riling him. Making him attack you.” Then, the grand conclusion: “You want to get rid of him.”
Kougami’s grin was sharp, lightning-quick. “Like I said, he’s an asshole.”
“Just because of that?”
“That’s more than enough reason, if you ask me.” Kougami rolled his shoulders, the gesture so casual it couldn’t be anything but not casual. “And, well, he doesn’t like him.”
Masaoka didn’t have to ask the identity of this ‘he’. Only one person had enough presence, enough relevance, to fill this conversation without being named. He could feel the slow spread of a grin across his face.
“I see.”
Kougami grimaced. “Shut up, old man.”
“What? I didn’t say anything.”
“Yeah, yeah. Keep it that way.”
–
5.
“Well, well, Makishima Shougo.”
Karanomori Shion watched, an indulgent smile on her face, as the Division Nine Inspector sauntered into her domain. As usual, there was something about Makishima, something in the way he moved and carried himself, that made him look a little unreal, somewhere between a king and a ghost.
That royal spectre now smiled at her, vague and benevolent both. “It’s been a while, Karanomori.”
“Has it? Well, you obviously know where to find me, so I don’t think the fault is mine.”
His laugh was light, airy, and there was a hint of apology in it. “I’ve been busy.”
“With your pet? I bet.” She shot him a conspiratorial smirk. “He’s quite a handful, isn’t he? Heard he made your latest partner cry a few days ago—excuse me, former partner. Less than two weeks on the job and already requesting a transfer. The Chief wasn’t pleased.”
“I almost forgot you had eyes everywhere.”
“You’re so cute when you try to lie,” she said fondly. “So. What can I do for you today, Inspector Makishima?”
He didn’t answer at once. Instead, he approached her desk, the echo of his footsteps near soundless under the hum of her computers.
“I need information,” he said a moment later, stopping just in front of her. “On Choe Gu-Sung.”
“Isn’t that the hacker in the Specimen case? Why? What about him?”
“I want him.”
Shion’s eyebrows shot up. “Are you serious?”
“Yes.”
She turned back to her main workstation and her fingers flew over the keyboard, summoning case files from the depth of her archive. “He was heavily involved in that case, wasn’t he? Something like mutilating six people and turning their body parts into plastics?”
“He didn’t actually do the mutilation.”
“Maybe not, but that doesn’t mean he’s innocent. It was only because of his hacking skills that the real perpetrator—wait, here it is. Touma Kouzaburou. Sure, this guy’s the one who did all the grisly gory stuffs, but his hacker friend was the reason he could escape detection for so long. And it’s not like Choe Gu-Sung is harmless to begin with. His CC is through the roof, over 400.”
Makishima shrugged. “Like you said, he has some very useful set of skills.”
“Yes, but with a CC like that, he’s way too dangerous to work with. The Bureau would’ve already used him otherwise.”
“So where is he now?”
“Rehab. Maximum security.”
Makishima made a noncommittal noise and lapsed into a pensive silence. Shion stared at him, an uneasy weight forming somewhere under her ribs.
“Are you really serious about this? What about Kougami?”
Makishima’s gaze flicked back at her. This close, in the dim of her office, the gold of his eyes was unsettling. Makishima might look like a cross between a ghost and a king, but everything about his history spelled that he was neither. In big bolded letters.
He was something much more dangerous.
“I can have more than one enforcer, can’t I?”
“That’s not what I meant.” She pushed her chair back to look at him properly. Makishima waited, his expression somewhere between bemused and indulgent. “This is the Specimen Case we’re talking about. You know what happened to him in that case.”
He nodded, acknowledging her warning. “Of course I will talk to him first.”
Too many objections sprouted in her mind, but in the end, Shion lent voice to none. “Well, it’s your decision,” she relented with a sigh. “And it’s not like you need his permission or anything. You’re the inspector.”
“True, but he’s Kougami Shinya.”
Shion didn’t even try to decipher what it meant. Nevertheless, the answer presented itself to her later that night, through one of her cameras.
The hour was late. She had been waiting for the result of her final data analysis, fatigue beginning to weigh down her eyelids, when one of the video feeds in her observation screen lit up. It was the camera in the fifth-floor corridor, facing a row of vending machines. Close to midnight, that part of the building was pretty much deserted, covered in darkness, until the sensors picked up some movement and flooded the place with dull white light.
A second later, two figures stepped into her camera’s line of sight—Makishima and Kougami.
Which was nothing out of the ordinary at first glance, only two colleagues working late and now in a quest for midnight snacks. Makishima was notorious for his sweet tooth while Kougami had his own type of poison—one that she unfortunately shared—and if they looked more like equals instead of an inspector and his enforcer (standing side by side, shoulders occasionally brushing, postures at ease), then it wouldn’t be anything Shion hadn't expected.
But then something shifted. She missed the exact moment it had, mostly because she had looked away for a moment to reach for her cigarettes. When she returned her attention to the camera feed, Kougami had pushed Makishima against one of the machines, what was visible of his face contorted in anger.
Shion raised an eyebrow. She hadn’t turned the audio feed on, but there was no mistaking Kougami’s rage. Or the fact that he was snarling at his inspector. Makishima’s expression, on the other hand, remained unchanged. His responses were calm, measured, a steady current in the face of Kougami’s angry torrent. As Kougami got more and more furious, Makishima seemed to match him with even thicker layers of composure. It made an interesting study. Shion was just settling back in her chair, ready to enjoy this rare glimpse into Division Nine’s dynamics, when yet again it changed.
Kougami’s hand shifted, a quick, sharp movement, almost vicious—and suddenly his fingers were a rigid cage around Makishima’s throat.
Shion stared, mouth open in shock. For a moment, she couldn’t breathe, as if it were her neck that was straining against the ruthless pressure of Kougami’s fingers. And they were ruthless. Even from that distance, through a camera, she could sense the force, the intent, the violence behind that intent. Kougami wasn’t playing. From that angle, she couldn’t see his face, but the stiff set of his shoulders and the taut curves of his arms spoke enough.
Shion’s hands hovered above her keyboard. She ought to report this, or at least alert someone for help. Kougami who had lost control was dangerous. She knew this very well. Had stolen enough looks on enough reports that said the same thing, over and over again.
It was the sight of Makishima’s face that gave her pause; the smile, the triumphant curve of his lips even as Kougami pushed his head against the vending machine, just before rows of candy bars and gummy bears. There was something almost obscene in the way Makishima wore his vulnerabilities. He flaunted it, delighted in it, in fact, his neck open and bared for the pleasure of Kougami’s fingers.
Shion found herself reaching for her ear piece and finally turning the audio on.
“–to kill you. I’m going to fucking kill you.”
Kougami’s voice was low and harsh, a cross between a threat and a plea, edged by the kind of desperate rage that often ended in murder. Makishima was gasping in the chokehold. His face began to turn red, but then his hand rose, shaking but tender, stroking Kougami’s cheek.
There was a moment of stillness, string-taut. Then Kougami abruptly let go, his hand falling from Makishima’s neck to clutch at his shoulder. Who was steadying whom was unclear. Makishima was coughing, leaning against the vending machine, with Kougami slumped over him. The sound of ragged breathing filled Shion’s ear. It took her a moment longer to notice that she was gripping the edge of her desk, knuckles white.
“Gonna fucking kill you one day.” It was still Kougami’s voice. Much of his rage was gone. In its place was a new kind of desperation, trailing the end of every word.
Makishima was smiling, eyes closed, his face tipped toward her watching camera. Then, slowly, he brought his arms around Kougami. His hands came to rest on Kougami’s neck, and there was a world of gentleness in the way he cradled Kougami’s head and let it settle on his shoulder.
“Come with me,” he murmured.
“Shut up.”
“We’ll go and see him tomorrow,” Makishima continued, his voice still shaky, but there was no mistaking the steadiness behind it. “And then you can decide. If you say no, then I won’t take him.”
“Fuck you,” Kougami snarled—and did something, somewhere, that made Makishima gasp, his fingers digging into Kougami’s back. The smile, however, remained on his lips, the rare, soft one, pressed against the curve of Kougami’s cheek.
“It’s alright, Shinya,” he whispered, achingly tender. “I’m here.”
Shion heard the low pained sound, the choked sob, muffled against the fabric of Makishima’s jacket.
When Choe Gu-sung joined Division Nine three weeks later, Shion couldn’t say that she was surprised.
–
6.
If a few months ago anyone had suggested that Hondou Atsushi would find himself kidnapping and torturing a fellow inspector out of jealous spite, then he would have laughed—and probably arrested the person who had dared make the suggestion and put them in a rehabilitation facility, just in case.
And yet here he was now, with the great Makishima Shougo at his mercy.
Hondou stepped back, taking a moment to regulate his breathing—and perhaps also distance himself a bit from the terrible sight in front of him. He was drenched in sweat, his once pristine shirt now clinging to his back. There was more blood than he would have liked on his hands, in the crevices between his fingers. It would, he knew from experience, be a hassle to clean.
Makishima had fallen silent, limp in the grip of the chains that hung him from the ceiling, his feet barely scraping the stone floor. He had been nowhere as docile earlier, thrashing about and spewing threats when Hondou began to cut. His screams still clung to the walls of the abandoned tunnel like ghostly echoes. Hondou found himself breathing them in, savouring the memory of them. They had excited him, making him dig deeper, carve more lines on bleeding skin. Now, in the silence, their memory bred a different kind of satisfaction, keeping his mind clear and hands steady.
Strictly speaking, Hondou Atsushi had nothing against Makishima Shougo. Before the case, they had rarely ever crossed paths, he the senior inspector in Division Four and Makishima heading the elusive Division Nine. After all, there was enough room for more than one genius in the Bureau, as long as they were not pitted against each other.
Until the infernal case came along.
It had begun just like any other case, with several dead bodies and several viable suspects. When two weeks had passed and Hondou had yet to make any breakthrough, Chief Kasei had begun to drop hints during their weekly meetings. She even made a point to mention Makishima and his perfect record—unprecedented, unparalleled, unchallenged. Hondou only smiled and kept his expression penitent, dutiful, all his rage locked tightly inside.
But then he made a mistake.
It was one mistake, insignificant in itself, and yet it led to the death of five more civilians. Before Hondou could gather his wits and redeem himself, the Chief had already assigned Division Nine to help.
Makishima solved the case in thirty-six hours.
Hondou swallowed the insult, but his hatred grew. He began to keep track of Makishima, of his perfect record and even more perfect Psycho-Pass. Of his likes and dislikes. Of his habits and idiosyncrasies. Of the places he visited and the people he spent time with.
A plan brewed in Hondou’s mind.
He had come across the abandoned tunnel and its convenient 'amenities' in an investigation years ago. The place had been declared off-limits to civilians, but being an inspector in the PSB meant that he had access to all the data he needed. With enough experience and enough patience, he began his careful planning, orchestrating the perfect crime.
A few traps and four dead bodies later, he had Makishima Shougo under his mercy.
Hondou was careful—oh he was so very careful. Not only that he made sure nothing could be traced back to him, he also kept constant track of his Psycho-Pass. Committing this level of crime, he knew, would affect his psychological health. His extensive experience in hunting criminals, however, had taught him more than a few tricks. There were medications, some not quite legal but certainly effective, to help keep his heartbeat slow, his blood pressure normal, his Psycho-Pass clear.
In short, everything had progressed without a flaw except for one thing.
Hondou did another cymatic scan. This time, he was reasonably certain. Makishima might have an almost inhuman psychological resilience, but anyone who had been subjected to prolonged torture would definitely be affected. The amount of stress would be enough to turn anyone dark green, a compromised state by any standards.
(He knew. His four previous experiments had shown as much. None of them could maintain their Psycho-Pass integrity past the second hour.)
The result came out in less than five seconds. Any sense of satisfaction Hondou had felt earlier vanished without a trace when he saw it.
It was light blue.
Makishima’s Psycho-Pass did not change. It remained the softest palest blue, a hue so bright, so beautiful it was obscene. Envy burned inside him at the sight. This was the one thing he wanted to wreck the most and yet, despite everything he had done, it hadn’t so much as turned a shade darker.
Hondou forced himself to take a series of deep breaths, grasping for calm. They barely helped. The anger refused to subside. That delicate blue still haunted him, mocked him for all his wasted effort. Futile. Worthless.
“Why?” he moaned, and to his horror, tears of frustration began to blur his sight, casting prisms on the blue. “Why doesn’t it get worse?”
There was a soft laugh. It came from Makishima, who still had his head bowed, his arms spread, his body wrecked—and yet, he was laughing.
Fury took hold of him. Hondou breathed through the choking fire and spat, “Funny, is it?”
“You’ve got it all wrong,” Makishima murmured, voice scratchy from all the hours he had spent screaming.
“Have I?” Hondou felt his fists clench, the digits trembling in outrage. The last time he had checked, his Psycho-Pass had been normal still. His CC, perhaps, had inched a little past 70, but it was nothing that couldn’t easily be corrected with the right combination of drugs. Which he would take as soon as he was done here. He took a deep breath and force his focus, once more, on Makishima. “And what have I got wrong, pray tell?”
“We’re not equals to begin with,” came the whispered answer.
“You dare say that even now?”
“It’s not an insult,” Makishima rasped, his straining muscles shuddering with pain. “Just facts. Why would you be jealous if we didn’t even have the same starting point to begin with?”
“What are you talking about?”
“The truth. There’s a reason why I… why my Psycho-Pass is so clear.”
For a moment, there was only silence as Hondou stared at the bowed head, the curious curl of those lips—a smile even now in the grip of agony. “You’re saying you cheated,” he said out loud, heart drumming in his chest.
“In a way.”
“What is it? Drugs? Surgery?”
Makishima’s mouth twisted into a half smile, half grimace. “No. Something more inbuilt.”
And then he told him.
The silence that came after was absolute. There were truths so terrible that they unmoored those who learned them. This was one. To think that he had gone so far, done so much, suffered so deeply, while in truth he had lost before they had even begun. Because Makishima was built different. A freak.
The sudden urge to wail and rail at the world did not help.
“So what you’re saying is,” Hondou managed to say at last, the words scraping his throat, “throughout your life, no matter what happened, your Psycho-Pass has never risen above normal.”
“Even if you keep me here for years.” Makishima’s voice was thready but patient, matter-of-fact. “Or even if I commit the worst atrocities you can think of, my Psycho-Pass will remain clear. No matter what I do, no matter what I think, no matter what I feel, it will always show that I’m healthy. Always.”
“Then you cannot exist.” Hondou reached inside his coat. The automatic pistol was a new acquaintance, the smaller built, the way it sat on his fingers unfamiliar and uncomfortable. But unlike a Dominator, he could do whatever he wanted with it. “You’re a freak,” he continued, each word dripping with hate, but when he raised the gun, his hands no longer shook. “Freaks like you cannot exist here in this ideal world. So I’m just doing my duty. Once I’ve erased your existence, all will be fine.”
“I’m afraid it won’t be quite as simple as that.”
“Why? Are you saying that if I shoot you in the face right now, you’re not going to die?
“Oh, I will.” Makishima raised his head slowly. He looked worn-down, broken, exactly like a man who had experienced hell for hours, but there was something in the way he stared at the mouth of the gun. Something that almost looked like hunger. It made Hondou want to squeeze the trigger. “But the aftermath, it won’t be easy for you.”
“And why is that?”
“Because you’re alone.”
Hondou laughed, high and shrill. “Well, so are you, bitch.”
“Am I?”
It came out of nowhere, a light pressure on the back of his head. Hondou froze. He didn’t have to turn around to know that he had made yet another mistake, this time a fatal one. And now he had a Dominator pointed at his head.
“Drop your gun.”
And here it was, the other reason for Makishima’s unbroken streak. They said Kougami Shinya was the perfect hunting dog—and maybe he was, if he could track his inspector to this place.
“You drop your gun,” Hondou managed to squeeze the words out of his dry throat. “Or I’ll blow your inspector’s pretty face off right here and now.”
“Just try.” Kougami’s voice was pure black ice. “And I’ll show you hell. You’re not going to die for a long time.”
Fear was an alien thing to those who did not often feel them. Hondou felt it now, like an icy breath stroking down his spine, and he nearly recoiled despite himself. Those two were lovers; it was practically the worse-kept secret in the Bureau. And it was the only reasonable explanation why Kougami would be here, alone, all to rescue Makishima.
Another hot lash of envy pierced his insides. He never had someone like Kougami, someone who would risk everything, lay down everything, just for him.
“I’m not going to say it again.” The pressure increased on the back of his head, a shove, a threat. “Drop your gun.”
“You can’t shoot me,” Hondou retorted, his brain finally catching up with the details and nuances of his predicament. “I’m an inspector. You’re just an enforcer. Sybil will never allow you to shoot me.”
“That would be correct,” Makishima murmured, thin and raspy. “If not for one thing. The present state of your Psycho-Pass.”
Hondou heard, felt himself laugh, the sound pounding inside his head. “Your pet still can’t do anything unless–”
“Unless your CC has gone over 300.”
“As if that could ever happen.”
“Shinya,” Makishima’s voice was a caress, sweet and deadly, “will you please inform Inspector Hondou what Sybil thinks of him at the moment?”
He heard the familiar whir, the click, the judgment. “Full criminal,” came Kougami’s answer. “CC at 319.”
Hondou froze. Terror was a slow-spreading poison; slow, and yet so silent that he hadn’t noticed until it had him in its grip.
“Impossible,” he breathed out, panic dragging denial on its heels. “It was only 80 a few hours ago!”
“You’ve been talking to him this whole time,” Kougami deadpanned. “That’s what he does. Fucking with people’s head.”
“That’s not very nice,” Makishima muttered, eyes squeezed shut as if to stave off another wave of pain. But then a smile bloomed across his lips, every bit as beautiful as it was ruthless, and that was when Hondou saw him for the monster he was. “Now, will you put him out of his misery, Shinya?”
Hondou’s last thoughts before his world exploded in red were all fury and despair—except for one thing, and this thing was his only consolation.
Because he knew it wouldn’t take Makishima long to follow him.
–
7.
There were many times in the long painful road of their friendship when Ginoza Nobuchika felt that he could hate Kougami Shinya.
This, sitting in a hospital waiting room at three in the morning, was one of those times.
“I’m sorry.”
Nobuchika made no reply. Of all the things Kougami could be sorry for, this wasn’t even near the top five. He could list at least a dozen worse instances off the top of his head. In fact, this was practically a walk in the park compared to the hell Kougami had put him through three years ago, after the Specimen Case. The heartache, the despair of losing one of his closest friends to an obsession, watching it drag him into a criminal status and unable to do anything about it because Kougami had simply shut him out—oh yes, Nobuchika could definitely hate him for it.
But Kougami had called him an hour ago, sounding as close to desperate as he had ever heard, and despite only going to bed less than two hours before, Nobuchika had dragged himself out of his apartment and arrived at the hospital in fifteen minutes. Kougami, as an enforcer, could not remain outside the Tower without an inspector to supervise him. With Makishima unconscious and going into surgery, he had called the first person that came to his mind—and that turned out to be Nobuchika.
Nobuchika didn’t know what to do with that information. Not that he particularly wanted to do anything, for that matter.
After submitting an official notification that Enforcer Kougami was temporarily under his charge, he had put a call to Karanomori. The analyst had sounded subdued, hesitant even, sharing with him the pertinent details of the case only sparingly. That rare display of reticence, above all else, had told Nobuchika to proceed carefully.
“What happened exactly?” he asked at last.
For a long time, Kougami gave no indication that he had heard the question. He kept staring at his clasped hands instead, brows furrowed, shoulders hunched. Nobuchika waited. He was not the most patient of men, but he was familiar enough with Kougami’s habits to know that he would get a response eventually.
After a while, Kougami broke his silence. “What did Karanomori tell you?”
“Only that it was Hondou from Division Four.” Nobuchika paused, frowning. “I still find it hard to believe. He always seemed so… respectable. So sane. One of the best in our ranks, in fact.”
“He wasn’t our chief suspect either.” Kougami lowered his head, pressing the heels of his hand into the space between his eyes. “We knew it was someone from the inside—I mean, the person who did the murders. Someone who knew how the Bureau worked, all the loopholes and stuffs. But we weren’t even looking at Hondou.” A pause, and then Kougami added, a touch bitter, “At least I didn’t suspect him.”
Nobuchika offered no comment. He knew better than to step on that landmine. Nobody knew the exact dynamics between Kougami and Makishima—how they worked together, how they navigated the disparity of their ranks, how they tackled a line of investigation without stepping on each other’s toe despite being the two most brilliant investigators in the Bureau. Back then, the idea of putting the two together had seemed like insanity. Nobuchika had fought tooth and nail against the transfer, only five months after Kougami’s demotion, but it had been all for nothing. The Chief had made her decision.
As it turned out, she knew what she was doing. Under Makishima’s command, Kougami stopped getting worse. His Psycho-Pass remained in the compromised level, but at least it hadn’t deteriorated further—which was something considering the state he had been in back then.
As for Nobuchika, he had learned to accept the truth, bitter as it was, that he couldn’t help his former partner. Makishima could, and that was that.
“Karanomori also mentioned something else,” Nobuchika spoke again a moment later, his tone betraying none of his thoughts. “She said Hondou used you as bait. As in he pretended that he was holding you hostage, and that’s why Makishima fell into his trap.”
Kougami’s fingers clenched. “Yeah. That’s what he did.”
For a moment, neither of them spoke as the implication sank in. Nobuchika still found it difficult to wrap his mind around the idea. From the beginning, Makishima Shougo had always been the embodiment of everything he hated, from his complete disregard of rules and unconventional methods, to his special status and perfect track record. And then there was the fact that nothing seemed to be able to affect his Psycho-Pass while Nobuchika kept struggling with his daily. Even worse, Makishima wore all these blessings lightly, seemingly without a care, both indifferent and aloof.
And yet here he was, fighting for his life on the operating table because, apparently, he cared about Kougami Shinya.
“All this time I thought no one could touch him,” Nobuchika murmured, mostly to himself.
Kougami whipped his head up. “He’s not that–” he began, something very much like anger sharpening his tone, but then cut himself short just as quickly. A strained pause followed. “You make him sound inhuman.”
Nobuchika shrugged. “Most of the times, he makes himself seem inhuman.”
“Well, he’s not,” Kougami snapped.
“I’m not saying he is. But I think you’re the only person in the entire world who has the privilege to know that.”
Kougami made no answer. The stark lines of his features, however, gave away much, literally everything Nobuchika needed to know, but this above all: that whatever Kougami Shinya meant to Makishima Shougo, it was at the very least mutual.
“He’ll be fine,” Nobuchika heard himself say, suddenly, painfully desperate to comfort his friend.
Kougami’s only reply was a wordless nod.
–
+1
“I want gummy bears.”
Shinya felt his eyebrow twitch. “Eat your goddamn apples.”
Makishima sighed. “You know, the most important thing in a period of convalescence is a positive frame of mind. So in this case, if I find myself wishing for sweets, and yet someone who really should know better still insists on thwarting that wish for reasons beyond–”
“Oh for the love of– here,” Shinya growled, fishing out a packet of gummy bears from inside his jacket. He had brought some—just in case—and judging from the sweetly complacent look on Makishima’s face, he knew it too.
“You’re the best, Shinya.”
“Why can’t you be normal for once?”
“Because you’d find me boring,” Makishima said cheerfully as he tore the packet open. “And then where would we be?”
“As if that were possible,” Shinya muttered under his breath. He still remembered—the panicked chase, the black despair that had swallowed him from the inside as he held the bleeding (dying) Makishima in his arms. The thought of Makishima gone was unthinkable, and yet he had lived with it, breathed and drowned in it for close to eighteen hours before the surgeons finally walked out and announced that Inspector Makishima would pull through.
Makishima was smiling. “You’re so sweet. Sweeter than sweets, even. Want one?”
Shinya looked at the offered piece between Makishima’s fingers, bright orange and smelling vaguely of citrus and about a hundred chemicals that couldn’t possibly be healthy. “There’s something really wrong with you, you know that?” he complained out loud but leaned in all the same to take the piece of candy into his mouth.
Makishima’s smile widened, his fingers lingering, pressing gently on Shinya’s upper lip. “Haven’t you heard? Two wrongs can make one right.”
“You made that up.”
“Did I? Oh well. Doesn’t mean it’s not true–”
Shinya didn’t realise how much he wanted to believe it until he chased the lime green bear disappearing into Makishima’s mouth. He had kissed Makishima so many times that this should have been everything familiar—and it was, except for the new undercurrent of something that made him stumble, stutter, gasp into the kiss. Something very much like fear, swelling inside his ribs and threatening to burst.
“Don’t do that again,” he muttered, words trembling, floundering in the space between their mouths. “You said two wrongs. So there can’t only be just one.”
“Okay,” Makishima said, smiling, fingertips pressing along the curve of Shinya’s jaw, and pulled him closer for another kiss.
End