It Ends Where it Begins
Bunkyo City
Tokyo, Japan
Bam! Bam! Bam!
A fist pounded on the door, punctuated by the repeating jingle of the apartment doorbell.
The cacophony ripped Dr. “Taka” Hawkins from her computer game–induced trance. She yanked her gaming headset off her head and rubbed her eyes as they readjusted to reality. Her mind, however, had no desire to readjust.
Most nights, she would be deep in a coding binge, her fingers orchestrating syntax, projecting scores of code like a cyber-Mozart. Instead, the music hall of her mind remained quiet tonight—no symphony, no opera, only the mind-numbing escape of a virtual fantasy world. She had been consuming the digital content of the role-playing game for the past three hours. A Michelin-starred chef at a cheap buffet restaurant. Just the fix she wanted, not the fix she really needed.
Bam! Bam! Bam!
She spun to face the front door.
“Taka-chan, Ichikawa desu. Hayaku doa akete kudasai!”
Dr. Hawkins sighed and shook her head. It was her mentor, Dr. Kenzo Ichikawa, the last person she wanted to see. Maybe I can ignore him? A glance at the clock: 1 a.m. What could he possibly want, or be able to say after what happened today?
She reluctantly traversed her small living space and spied through the peephole to see Dr. Ichikawa outside in a huff. With a click and a creak, she opened the door.
“Taka-chan, I’m so sorry to barge in on you like this. Has anyone come by tonight or tried to get a hold of you?” He wrung his hands, his eyes wide. Sweat stained his blue dress shirt. His typically well-combed hair was a mess, and he appeared to have lost his rimless glasses.
“No.” She frowned. She wanted to just close the door on him, the way she did earlier that day when she stormed out of their lab, but Dr. Kenzo Ichikawa always exhibited consistency and stability. Tonight, nothing about him seemed consistent or stable. “What’s going on? If you’re here to change my mind about quitting—”
The elderly Dr. Ichikawa waved off her words, stumbled through the entryway, flipped off his black dress loafers, and scurried inside.
The studio had a compact kitchen, an adjoining bathroom, a living space with a two-cushion couch, and a shelving unit built into the wall that held her futon and a television. A tiny desk hugged the far side where a gaming computer framed the frozen image of the paused game. The small and sparse quarters suited the scientist, who devoted her life to her work.
She folded her arms, both decorated in tattoo mosaics of birds, crashing waves, and the Anasazi god Kokopelli, and prepared herself for some elaborate attempt at reparation. Dr. Ichikawa indecisively fidgeted then settled on the couch, cradling his bag on his lap. At nearly six feet of height, Dr. Hawkins towered over him, glaring.
“I…I have something important I need to tell you.” His voice quivered. “I have made a grave mistake, and I fear I have put you at risk.”
“Put me at risk?”
“Well…someone. I have been keeping something from you even though the dreams told me this is inevitable.”
Dr. Hawkins blinked. Nothing is inevitable.
“Did you run the algorithm again or—”
“I ran it again and again. Nothing changes. I can’t… It won’t…” He shook his head, then seemed to plead, “You know, everything we have done has been to help people…but I’ve gone too far.” His eyes drifted across the intricate blue and white oriental rug that overlay the tatami where she lays her futon each night. His countenance carried acceptance and defeat. He took a deep breath and shifted his remorseful eyes to meet hers. “I need you to trust me…as a colleague, as a friend, as a—”
“Don’t even finish that sentence. After what you—”
“I know, I know,” he said with his hands raised in surrender. “Just trust me one…last…time, please.” He swallowed. His heavy words clung to the air, pressing down on both of them.
Dr. Hawkins paused.
“What…what is it? It’s not who I think it is, is it?” she asked, her brow furrowed. Perhaps he does have a foot in reality… Just one.
He reached into his brown messenger bag.
“I need you to sit and face toward the kitchen. I don’t want you to see what I have in my bag until I’m ready.”
“You’re not making any sense. What do you have in the bag?”
“I just need you to trust me…please. Everything will make sense in a moment.”
“Fine,” she conceded, flinging her folded hands free. She knew deep down Dr. Kenzo Ichikawa held no malice. He was a troubled man after all. She had always known that. He was troubled in the way that peasants and commoners in mythology are troubled by meddling gods—troubled by tragedy, troubled by gifts, troubled by time, of which Dr. Kenzo Ichikawa seemed to have too much, too many, and too little. So, she sat, settled in with her back to her mentor, her knees together, and her hands on her lap. Black yoga pants hugged her legs, and a baggy T-shirt with the print of some heavy metal band’s skeleton mascot holding a gun defended her torso. Her long, dark honey–colored hair folded behind her ears and flowed along her tall, thin frame like water pouring from a pitcher.
“Ow! What the—” She spun and grabbed her left shoulder. In his right hand, Dr. Ichikawa brandished a spent syringe.
“I’m sorry. I need to keep anyone from getting it. And this is the only way I knew how to do it.” He scrambled away from her, cowering from her anticipated anger.
“Kenzo! You sonofa—”
She rubbed the point of injection on her shoulder.
He shoved the syringe back into his bag as his phone pinged. He scanned the text message, his face turning pale.
“I have little time. I must go. Thank you, Taka-chan. When all this is over, let history be kind to me.” A faint smile quickly bent the edge of his lips before dissolving. His seventy years of life passed and vanished in that simple expression. It wasn’t an apology, it was a farewell. He rushed to the door, speared his shoes with his feet, and sprinted off into the rain.
“What’re you talking about? What did you—”
In a rush of emotions, her initial confusion shifted to waves of anger.
Dr. Hawkins, or Taka-chan, as she was known to her Japanese colleagues, suddenly understood. Our lives are in danger…
She popped up to run after him and stumbled when the room started spinning. She bobbled at the step before the entryway, one hand holding the door open, the floor pulling at her. She propped her other hand on the wall to catch herself as her eyelids grew heavy. She dropped clumsily on the step; the front door closed…then her eyes.
