Knights and Knaves puzzles

Dazai   Back at Heathrow, I had excused myself to the restroom and, with a pen, inscribed upon my forearm, near the crook of my elbow: "221." At the time, it felt like an excess of caution, a measure bordering on paranoia, as superfluous as everything else I'd scribbled onto that slip of paper for Chuuya. Mori had always been meticulous in drilling into me the necessity of contingency plans — redundancies upon redundancies, escape routes branching out like the mycelial threads of some vast, unseen organism. Yet I had been so certain. We would dispose of Joanne and her cult swiftly, surgically, without complication. More often than not, Plan B proved redundant; enemies tended to be significantly duller than one might anticipate. I was fortunate to have erred on the side of prudence. The three days that followed Chuuya’s rather theatrical exit — crashing through the ceiling of that sanctimonious little charade — were... peculiar. To put it delicately. I floundered in an ocean of paranoiac conjectures, clawing at stray threads, each one fraying in my grasp, ensnaring myself further in a web of uncertainty. Every night, I fell asleep convinced that revelation — swift, merciless — was imminent. That I would wake to find my mind already rewritten, my memories siphoned away without ceremony, no altars, no incantations, only a void where my sense of self had once been. I had always relied on my intellect above all else — trusted it as one trusts the ground beneath their feet. The mere notion that my thoughts might be compromised, my reasoning no longer my own, was a terror more profound than the prospect of a summary execution. Each morning, upon waking, my first act was to seek out the inked "221" on my arm — to reaffirm that I still recognized myself, still remembered why I was here. Each night, I traced over the fading numerals, ensuring they would remain come dawn. 221B. Baker Street. Chuuya. I am still, for now, myself.   The days passed within an establishment called Avalon. It was a halfway house for children recently subjected to their operation — the excision of all that made them extraordinary. A sanctuary, if one were to adopt their euphemistic parlance, or an orphanage, to put it bluntly, for those now tasked with learning how to exist as mere mortals. Joanne had brought me there on the very day of my arrival. "There is something I would like to show you," she had said. Ordinary tourists, upon arriving in London, are typically shepherded toward Westminster or the Tower. My own first sightseeing destination had been an orphanage for maimed children. Not physically maimed, of course. Which, in some ways, was worse. The car carried Joanne, her son, Wilde-san, and several guards through the rain-slick streets toward Whitechapel. The journey was long, it was raining in an unbroken, insistent cadence. Water sheeted down the windows, distorting the world outside into vague, wraithlike smears of light, as though we were sinking into the depths of some river. I had turned to Joanne and asked, "Is it truly wise to keep such children together? Some have lost not only their abilities, but their memories as well. Being in close proximity to those who remember could trigger recollections, could it not? And then you would have a problem on your hands.” "Those with families to return to, naturally, are sent home. But not all are so fortunate," Joanne had replied evenly. "Those who remember are forbidden to speak of it. Some truths, I am sure, seep through, but hardly more than the usual childhood flights of fancy. And in any case — what choice do I have? At least when they are gathered in one place, they can be supervised." "Would it not be more prudent," I had pressed, "to teach them how to wield their abilities safely? To ensure that they pose no threat — to themselves or to others?" "What you are suggesting," she had countered, "amounts to training them to harm others in a controlled manner. Turning children into weapons. And, I cannot help but ask: for whose benefit?" "Well, as the principle goes, that which brings the greatest good to the greatest number—" "Ah, dull utilitarianism? How tedious. I expected more from you, Mr. Ikita. You do not strike me as a man preoccupied with the common good." "Fine," I had relented. "For your benefit, then. You could employ them just as you do the Brontë sisters and Wilde-san." "Ah, so we return to weapons," she had mused, lips curving slightly. "You have, in essence, just advocated for a superpowered Hitler Youth." "I wasn't talking about myself, and that is not—" "No need to protest. I never said I found the notion immoral." She had paused, then added, "I will tell you why I do not pursue such a course. First: some of them are irredeemably ungovernable. Only recently, I gave my blessing to a six-year-old girl. A pyrokinetic. Unable to master her gift, she incinerated her family, their home... and ten neighboring houses besides. Her mind was an unrelenting wail of anguish. She was utterly beyond control." I had imagined, then, Chuuya — without me, left to his own devices, unfettered. A force of obliteration, entropy given form, capable of razing the world itself to ruin. And that was not hyperbole. "With sufficient patience, anyone can be molded to serve a purpose," I had observed. "Pairs could be formed — individuals of equal strength or counterbalancing abilities, trained together—" "You continue to intrigue me, Mr. Ikita," Joanne had murmured, though her tone betrayed not surprise, but amusement. "By ‘together,’ do you mean against one another? Encouraging them to battle? To scorch and electrocute each other in controlled skirmishes? That is hardly humane. To put it mildly. Have you, perchance, heard of the Milgram experiment?" "Yes," I had replied — perhaps a touch too curtly.   I am ten years old, and Mori speaks to a red-haired boy I have never seen before, standing across from me: "Go on, use your gift. Don’t be afraid, he can take it." Mori often uses me as a living target for his subordinates' training. People are usually reluctant to use their abilities on me — especially those who are seeing me for the first time. Some offer timid protests, but, of course, Mori never allows them to stop. It is amusing to watch them waver, to see their hands tremble, their faces pale, their foreheads sheen with sweat — only for them to obey in the end. Mori, without a doubt, is right in one thing: practice is indispensable for mastering one's abilities. There is no cruelty in this — after all, no ability can harm me… not directly, at least. Though there are certain side effects — burns from smoldering fabric, for example. But this boy has never seen me before, and he has no idea how No Longer Human works. He is small and doll-like, with eyes as unnaturally blue as wildflowers. He studies me for a long time and, judging by the grim and almost feral set of his expression, arrives at a carefully weighed conclusion: I don’t like you. I brace myself for a blow that will hardly do me any harm — but something entirely unexpected happens instead. He moves with startling agility, seizing me by the waist, and suddenly, the ground is no longer beneath my feet. I am weightless, upside down. I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from yelping — the sensation of the flight is eerie and stupid, my hair hanging absurdly towards the floor — and though I try to banish the thought, exhilarating. I dangle there, mere inches from the ceiling, and the red-haired stranger, hanging upside down as well, keeps a firm hold on me, clearly delighted by my startled expression. "Nakahara," says Mori. His tone sends a familiar chill down my spine — the kind that always makes me wonder what punishment awaits me this time. "If you are unwilling to use your power, then you have no place in the Mafia." The boy rights himself effortlessly, lowering us both, setting me down with surprising care — like a fragile toy. He tilts his chin up. "Oh yeah? Do I usually look unwilling? Am I doing a bad job?" We all know perfectly well what Mori wanted from him. But, technically speaking, the boy did use his ability. And if Mori were to argue the point now, he would only make a fool of himself. "Usually, you do well. This time, you disappointed me." "Guess I’ll go cry about it." "Save the insolence for Kouyou," Mori replies, voice cold as ice. The thought that this red-haired boy — barely larger than a house cat — took pity on me sparks a cascade of emotions, none of them pleasant. Half an hour later, the flying boy named Chuuya Nakahara and I are successfully pummeling each other into the dirt, with no abilities involved. A few years down the line, our fights acquire… additional elements. The kind of elements one would not consider appropriate for public display, if you catch my meaning. Around that time, Mori assumes full and absolute power over the Mafia. And even Chuuya finds it harder to resist him — so what hope do I have? Through all these years, Mori never tires of explaining to me (or, more often, demonstrating) how flimsy all ethical constructs are, how fragile the thin veneer of civilization and morality covering the savagery and malice of mankind. He spares no effort in proving to me that there is no such thing as a good person — and, of course, he tells me all about the Milgram experiment.   …I was long past ten years old when Joanne looked at me with those cold, fish-like eyes and smiled faintly. "And secondly," she said, "what you’re describing — a training camp — would make sense if I were some cartoonish villain plotting world domination with an army of superpowered children. But I have no such ambitions. My aims are simple, honest. I do precisely what I say — I offer salvation to lost souls. I heal those who are suffering, as well as those who inflict suffering on others." She paused, tilting her head slightly. "Sometimes, as you may have noticed, my rhetoric can be… exaggerated. A touch too much about sin, filth, and damnation, wouldn’t you say? But that’s because people grasp ideas better when they are amplified. And, surprisingly enough, I truly do consider the greater good… even a bit of humanity. I make no pretense of being an angel — sometimes, harsh measures are required, as they will be in the case of Mr. Nakahara. But surely, you of all people understand that noble goals sometimes demand ruthless means." The rest of the drive to Avalon passed in silence. That was the first time I thought: this woman was intelligent, unsettlingly like me, and perhaps I had underestimated her.   Avalon turned out to be a beautiful old building, dark brick entwined with ivy. Inside — orderly, clean. To be honest, I had expected something grimmer — sacrificial altars fashioned from gutted dolls, streaks of blood on shattered bathroom tiles. Something akin to the cliché orphanage in a bad horror film… or my own childhood, which was no more picturesque. By my estimation, no more than fifteen or twenty people lived in the facility. Most of them were children. And I mean truly children, unlike Anne Brontë (or Atsushi), — six, maybe eight years old at most. Inconceivably small. And already — irreparably broken. Though Joanne, I imagine, would have preferred to call them healed. Then again, over the following days, I found myself increasingly uncertain of the difference. The children were not pleased to see me. Some watched in wary silence, their gazes sharp and distrustful like sullen wolf cubs. Others expressed their discontent aloud: "Who the hell is this guy?" "When is Miss Avenger coming back?" By merely stepping into this space, I had disrupted the order of their world — their hierarchy. Joanne did not introduce me. Instead, she stood there, watching with a faint smile, waiting to see how I would handle myself. The key was to capture their interest with something peculiar. I made no move until a girl, her tone demanding, marched up to me and asked: "Who are you? Why are you just standing there? "I’m a vampire," I informed her. "What?.." "I cannot cross the threshold of one’s personal space unless invited," I added with a smile. Some of the older kids smirked. A few even snorted. The younger ones did not grasp the joke, but the hostility had already begun to shift into curiosity. "You think you're so damn funny?" a boy of about sixteen said with open hostility. "It is not my only virtue," I replied amicably. The boy spat demonstratively onto the floor and muttered through clenched teeth: "Fuck off." The children held their breath. "Pardon me?" I said gently. "I said, fuck..." he started again. "And the rest?" He hesitated, a flicker of uncertainty crossing his face. Never try this trick on a child whose confidence is barely greater than that of a loaf of bread. Or on those for whom cursing is not a performance of bravado but a native tongue — Chuuya, for example, would have repeated it without hesitation and added… much more (I hid my smile). "…Off," he mumbled, now slightly less certain. "Once more? I didn’t quite catch that." "Fuck..." he began, but then faltered, his cheeks reddening as he finally grasped how ridiculous he must look. A few muffled chuckles sounded from the others. "Swearing will not make you more confident if confidence isn’t there to begin with. That’s something you might want to work on," I said, still as politely as ever. The laughter grew. "I see we have some troubled youths here," I remarked to Joanne. "And how. That particular boy had possessed a gift — one you might have considered highly useful for your little Hitler Youth... Apologies, that joke does leave an unpleasant aftertaste. In any case, the boy could impose his will upon others. Not for long — something akin to a stupor — but long enough for his purposes. Do you want to know how many people he robbed and how many girls he raped before I purified him?" "No, thanks. But it’s not the ability’s fault." "Of course not. A venomous snake is not to blame for its fangs, yet it is the fangs that are pulled. Stripped of his power — and of the repulsive memories of what he had done with it — he had become significantly less dangerous to those around him. You must admit, it is the most merciful method of correction: he is neither in prison nor tormented by guilt or nightmares. He remains an unpleasant boy, certainly, but perhaps now he has a chance of becoming something better... This place housed both those whose abilities had been a personal hell in which they simmer and those whose abilities had been hell for others. You could, if you wished, read the case files of all these children — and not only children. Or consult the internet, should you suspect me of lying or distorting the truth." "I do not think you are lying. And I understand why you wanted me to see these children. What I don’t understand is why you feel the need to convince me of anything at all. I never said I disagreed with your Church’s principles." "Good, if that is the case, Mister Ikita," Joanne said. "That is very good…"   ***   Chuuya enjoyed comparing me to a chess player (typically pairing the metaphor with some profane embellishment), but, unfortunately, chess was a poor analogy for our situation. The events at the house in the woods had made that particularly clear. Chess is a sequential, zero-sum game of complete information — not always simple (however unpleasant it is to admit, Mori usually beat me), but, at least in theory, solvable through brute-force calculation. In war, information is never complete. Each player sees only their own pieces. For the longest time, I had deceived myself into believing I understood the opponent’s positioning, that I could anticipate every move. In reality, I was groping my way through the fog. Moreover, war is not a sequential game — it is a parallel one. Only in bad books does a great strategist dramatically defeat his rival while the latter patiently waits for his doom, making no countermoves. In reality, players act simultaneously. You do not see the enemy’s move until you see its consequences. Your most brilliant plan may shatter against an unforeseen counter-strategy halfway through its execution. In short, I had come to the same realization as Socrates: that I knew nothing. A most unpleasant thought. And then, of course, war is a negative-sum game — the longer the match, the greater the losses… How? How had my ability failed to work on Joanne? Clearly, she had some form of protection against me. This led to one of two conclusions: either she was immune to the harmful influence of any ability, or she was specifically resistant to No Longer Human. The latter implied that she knew what my ability was — which meant she knew my true name. She knew everything. When Chuuya had bolted from the purification ceremony, Joanne had seemed genuinely furious — but perhaps she had merely been putting on an excellent act. Game theory has a concept known as the "rank of reflection" — "I know that you know that I know that you know..." In simpler terms, it refers to the levels of deception within a game. Up until this moment, I had assumed Joanne to be a rather straightforward, first-level player. That placed me on the second level. But what if she was, in truth, a third-level player? What if she had merely let me believe I had deceived her — playing me as a cat toys with a mouse? Perhaps I should amend my earlier statement: I knew that, so long as I was alive and still in possession of my ability (which I had confirmed by nullifying Charlotte’s powers and weakening the barrier at the ceremony), then the same must hold true for Chuuya. But the thought of "it could have been worse" has never been among my preferred comforts. "Mister Ikita," Joanne said, "I don’t imagine you’ll be surprised if I ask you to remain in England for a while. You know Mister Nakahara well — perhaps you could assist in his search and capture." I calculated that panicking and exposing myself would be fatal. Continuing to play along — whether this was a game of deception or simply cat-and-mouse — would at least buy me time to regain my bearings. I chose to remain in character: Mister Ikita, the baffled and contrite observer of Chuuya’s escape. "Of course," I said obediently. "I would be glad to be of service." (At the very last moment, I reminded myself to choose a neutral phrasing, omitting who exactly I would be serving. I nearly forgot to factor in Wilde’s presence — I had to tread carefully to avoid lying... assuming that even mattered anymore. I was beginning to suspect Joanne could see straight through me.) "Then let’s consider you officially working under my command," she said. "No, no, membership in my Church and renouncing your abilities remain strictly voluntary (except for those who pose an obvious threat), and I won’t ask you to handle that aspect of our work… But I have noticed that you’re good with children. You did say you were a teacher, didn’t you...? The children of Avalon could use a good teacher." Saint Joanne, as it turned out, was well-versed in the psychological stratagem known as the “Foot-in-the-Door” technique — the principle by which securing a minor concession increases the likelihood of obtaining a larger one. Perhaps she was unfamiliar with the terminology, but the method itself was clearly not foreign to her. This did not surprise me in the least. The question remained: what did she want, if she was indeed playing a level above me? Did she hope that, sooner or later, I would come to accept her ideas and, like the others, plead for her to "purify" me? A rather audacious assumption on her part. And yet… not entirely foolish. Nor entirely senseless. Mori had often said that one might deceive whomever one pleased — except oneself. And if I were to be wholly honest, I knew why the very concept of the Church of the Equalizers had enthralled me from the start, as a flame enthralls a moth.   Thus, I became a resident — or a prisoner — of Avalon. (I resisted the urge to ask outright which one I was, mindful that any hint of disobedience might result in my abilities being nullified or my existence terminated altogether.) They showed me the room I was to live in first. A small chamber with a window half-cloaked in ivy, letting in little light, and a fireplace that had, by all appearances, not been lit in many years. The air was stagnant, damp. A bed, a wardrobe, an empty bookshelf. It was not the most hospitable of dwellings. London’s infamous weather, it turned out, was no mere slander. A grey shroud of rain refused to lift. Droplets tapped against the window in the morning, at noon, at dusk… There exists a well-documented form of water torture — one binds the victim so they cannot move, and lets a single drop fall onto their forehead at regular intervals. My past in the Port Mafia had acquainted me with far more such curiosities than the average person, so I knew that while this method is often attributed to the Chinese, Europeans had employed it as well. The Mafia preferred more expedient and effective techniques, though. The essence of torture is that, at first, the steady dripping is merely an irritation, but soon, each drop begins to feel like the strike of a hammer against the skull, and before long, the prisoner, driven mad, will confess to any crime demanded of them. Now, I do not claim that the ceaseless rain beyond my window was equivalent to torture, but when paired with the tangle of bleak thoughts in which I thrashed like an insect in a web, it was a torment in its own right, dismantling my sanity with the methodical patience of a seasoned psychiatrist. To make matters worse, there was Oscar Wilde — always there, lingering. He did not seem to live in Avalon full-time — he surely had an apartment, more likely a house or an estate — but as Joanne’s sort-of-secretary, he handled certain administrative matters at the orphanage and had been assigned a room here. His constant presence grated on my nerves. I was uncomfortably aware of how easily I had been demoralized. Worse, I understood why: it had been a long, long time since I had lost. To be precise, I had only ever lost to one person. And thoughts of him — of being ten years old again — of fear, the eternal companion of my childhood, a feeling I had believed long buried — haunted me without mercy. Drip. Drip. One particular logical paradox played on an endless loop in my mind: the Prisoner’s Paradox, or the Paradox of the Unexpected Execution. The premise is simple — an inmate is told two seemingly contradictory statements: “You will be executed at noon next Friday, and it will come as a surprise to you.” The prisoner, recognizing the contradiction — how can an execution be a surprise if he knows the exact time? — concludes that the sentence cannot possibly be carried out. And yet, come Friday, he is indeed executed, and it is, as promised, a surprise — because he had convinced himself it was impossible. I used to find that paradox amusing. I no longer did. Had I, in those early days, considered striking first, eliminating Joanne physically? Yes. But she was almost never alone. There was always someone nearby, someone whose combat skills were, at a glance, no worse than my own. And then, once I was settled in Avalon, I discarded the thought entirely. Even without a weapon, I could have tried — one can kill a person with a knife, a fork, the leg of a chair if one must — but I feared that she had some means of defense beyond my comprehension. A failed attempt would be worse than inaction — it would expose me at once. How had my ability failed to affect her — twice? Could she be immune not only to supernatural harm but to physical violence as well? “You will be executed at noon next Friday.” Drip. Drip.   "And what exactly is expected of me?" I inquired on the first day of my newfound "teaching" career. "Psychological counseling? Fractions and logarithms?" "Fractions and logarithms are my domain," Joanne replied with a smile. "Not every day, of course; they usually study on their own. They’re all of different ages and at different levels, so we don’t hold lessons in the traditional sense. The teacher’s role here is to help with whatever a child struggles to grasp. Miss Avenger, who used to teach literature, recently left… Do you think you could take her place?" "Literature?… Most of them are little children. I doubt we should be assigning them essays on the thematic underpinnings of The Odyssey." "Yes, we’ll leave the return to Ithaca for the older ones. The little ones just need something simple read to them." Evening had already set in — though given the perpetually overcast sky, it was hard to say if it had ever been truly daylight — and the children seemed to be preparing for bed. "Why don’t you read them something now?" Joanne suggested suddenly. "Very well — what shall it be?" "Recalling our recent conversation, I would be tempted to suggest something by Nietzsche… Just a jest, Mr. Ikita. A fairytale. Read them a fairytale. Last night, they listened to The Little Mermaid. Next in the collection… ah, The Snow Queen — perfect." The children gathered around me. Joanne, too, sat nearby, ready to listen. I began: "Once upon a time, the Devil crafted a looking-glass which had this property: that everything good and beautiful that was reflected in it shriveled away in it to almost nothing, but everything that was no good and looked ugly came out plain and showed even worse than it was …" I was reminded of the times I had read aloud like this before, to Q. What had I read to him? Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, I think. For every child, there exists a story that, with merciless precision, encapsulates the hell in which they simmer — the phrase Joanne had used, wasn’t it? Q never did find his way out of his rabbit hole. "… In a cramped city, where few had the luxury of even the smallest garden, and where most had to content themselves with potted plants indoors…" I remembered my supposed role as a teacher and added, "The flowers in this story symbolize love." "…There lived two children who, by fortune, had a little garden larger than a mere flowerpot." "They better have had a kitten," a girl interjected. "There was a kitten too," I assured her patiently. "And a puppy?" demanded another. "They won’t let me have a puppy here." "There was a puppy as well. But the story is not about them. Now, as I was saying — there lived two poor children, who had a rose garden…" "Are they still alive?" "You’ll find out if you listen properly and don’t interrupt." "I hope they didn’t die," she remarked, but she took the hint, and the rest of the tale unfolded in silence. "...‘Ow!’ the boy cried suddenly. ‘Something stabbed me right in the heart! And something got into my eye!’ The girl threw her little arms around his neck; he blinked, but nothing seemed to be there. ‘It must have fallen out!’ he said. But it hadn’t. What had entered his eye and his heart were two splinters from that Devil’s looking-glass, in which, as we surely recall, all that was grand and good appeared wretched and contemptible, while all that was wicked stood out in grotesque relief. Poor Kay! Now his heart would turn to ice. The pain in his eye and his chest soon faded, but the shards remained lodged within. ‘Why are you crying?’ he asked Gerda. ‘Ugh! It makes you look so ugly! It doesn’t hurt at all! Yuck!’ He recoiled suddenly. ‘That rose is being eaten by a worm! And that one is crooked! Rotten roses they are, after all, like the boxes they're in!’ " By the time I reached the scene of the Snow Queen riding her sledge into the winter square, nearly all of children had fallen asleep. The girl who had asked about the kitten dozed against my shoulder, jabbing me mercilessly in the ribs with her sharp elbow. "Kay was in a dreadful fright; he tried to say the Lord's Prayer, but he could only remember the multiplication table …" I paused, uncertain whether to continue. "Do you notice the insinuation?" Joanne murmured softly, careful not to wake the children, a smile in her voice. "A good person thinks of faith, of God, while a boy with a shard of the crooked mirror in his eye can only think of arithmetic…" "Of course. And only a scoundrel would ever find beauty in the symmetry of snowflakes under a magnifying glass rather than in the living roses," I replied in the same hushed tone, puzzling over why she had chosen this story in particular. A metaphor of some sort? I was Kay, and she the Snow Queen? It was difficult to imagine this woman — this living calculator — harboring any romantic inclinations toward me. My thoughts did not venture further down that path. "That’s the moral of the tale, after all: the highest virtue is selflessness, not intellect. Are you truly a teacher?" "I used to be, yes… And as a former mathematics teacher, I find such a moral slightly offensive." "What use is multiplication," I mused, "if, in the end, the word Eternity will assemble itself, guided solely by love?" "Precisely. I see here an implication of the popular genius-villain trope — you know, how movie murderers are always connoisseurs of classical music. What do you suppose gave rise to that?" I hadn’t noticed how fully the conversation had drawn me in. "I suspect it originates from an age-old ideological war, typically framed as ‘the conflict between town and village’ — more simply, between collectivism and individualism, the herd and the self," I answered. "The village is a tight-knit community where everyone knows each other, where people live in families, celebrate births and mourn the dead together. Such a society fosters collectivist morality — altruism, as well as doctrines that emphasize unity, whether religious or ideological, be it socialism or fascism — whatever binds people together. The city, by contrast, isolates individuals; each person survives alone. In place of herd instincts, individualism takes root. The city’s highest value is the self — self-reliance, personal freedoms, the triumph of reason as a pragmatic tool over the village’s simple moral values." Joanne listened with keen interest. She observed, "An interesting perspective. And of course, a city-dweller often has both money and leisure, allowing them to appreciate non-essential pursuits like art and music. Right?" "Right. Among ‘the common folk,’ one often hears the sentiment that these very qualities — wealth and excess time — are what make villains villains. And so we arrive at the caricature of the cultured cannibal, eviscerating his victims to the strains of Wagner." We sat there in the dimness, surrounded by peacefully slumbering children, discussing ideology and social structures. A peculiar sight for any hypothetical observer. "And where do you stand in this conflict?" she asked. "One does not take sides if one seeks to judge objectively. When you reach a certain age, you’ve encountered countless ethical constructs, each branding some values as virtuous and others as vile. You can pick whichever you like." "Or you can refuse to choose, is that it?" "Precisely." "You said ‘a certain age,’ but a more fitting phrase might be ‘a certain degree of indifference’… But surely you must value something, Mr. Ikita. You seem to value your intellect?" "Of course — inasmuch as it serves practical needs. Intelligence evolved as a tool to facilitate survival. But one mustn’t make a god of reason. In essence, self-awareness is nothing more than a useful delusion, a means to schematize the world. One might even say — a metaphor, built upon itself." "You are fascinating to converse with. And whatever you may say… or perhaps even think — you do have a position. I wonder if you noticed that you used the word herd — twice." With that, she rose. "It’s late. It seems you’ve gotten along well with the children. I hope your work here brings you joy. And… Believe me, nothing would please me more than for us to be on the same side." I watched her go, perplexed.   ***   “You shall be executed at noon next Friday; it will come as a surprise to you…” If Joanne truly was a third-level player, merely biding her time, prolonging the exquisite pleasure of the kill, at what precise moment had she realized who I was? I combed through every action, dissected each word I had uttered, turning them over in my mind like a gambler scrutinizing the dice that had sealed his fate. And what if she had been playing at a higher level from the very beginning? I had thought myself shrewd, sacrificing Atsushi and Akutagawa for the sake of the unexpected — yet perhaps she, too, had sacrificed her own subordinates, those faceless figures I knew nothing about — miss George Eliot and whoever else — to instill in me the comforting illusion of control. And when would she grow bored of toying with me and finally decide to kill me — or “purify” me? If she erased my ability, what would remain of me? If her power could not merely strip a gift away but overwrite memory itself — could it, like Q, reshape the mind so completely that I would be left wandering a virtual reality of her design? What if all I recalled of myself was already a fabrication, and Osamu Dazai had never existed? Who am I? Do I exist at all? “...Self-awareness is nothing more than a useful delusion, a means to schematize the world, a metaphor, built upon itself...” “221,” the number inked onto my hand. I found myself looking at it incessantly, perhaps ten times a day — whenever uncertainty gnawed at me and I needed an anchor, however tenuous. 221. Baker Street. The meeting with Chuuya. I resolved to hold onto this: as long as my ability remained intact, I was still myself. But the last time I had used No Longer Human was during the purification ceremony — when I had reached out to Charlotte, half-undone the barrier, and helped Chuuya escape. Since then, I had no way of knowing if my power had been stripped from me — for Avalon held no gifted to test it on. Whenever Joanne was near, I took care to maintain a deliberate distance, ensuring she never so much as brushed against me, even under the pretense of accident. But what if her nullification did not require direct contact? What if it worked remotely? Through food, perhaps? Do not eat the food of the fae, do not give them your true name, do not step within their rings of mushrooms — for when the magic fades, they will find your withered corpse at the center… Perhaps this orphanage, this ceaseless rain beating against the windows, these children — perhaps all of it was merely a construct of my mind. I would not have been surprised. Drip. Drip.   One would think that three days would suffice to remember a few names, yet I had come to distinguish the children not by their faces, but by their lost abilities: the girl who had once been a pyrokinetic, the girl who used to freeze things, the boy who had once taken the form of a raven — like invalids labeled by their afflictions: the deaf, the blind, the lame… One does not need to understand people in order to be liked by them — especially children. It takes little effort to find a kind word, an encouraging remark. The younger ones clung to me from the start, while the older ones — the likes of that “fuck off” boy — kept their distance at first. A few were even blunt enough to voice their disdain: “You’re worse than the others because you only pretend to care, when really, you couldn’t give a damn.” I did not argue. Instead, with unexpected gestures, captivating stories, and useful advice, I gradually won them over as well. If you asked me why I bothered, I would have said it was simply force of habit. I had spent years in the Agency being charming, being likable. It was second nature now. In hindsight, I regretted not adopting a different strategy, for these damaged children — clearly unaccustomed to kindness — latched onto me with alarming fervor. And that… that was discomfiting. It was suffocating. In this place, I thought often of Oda. He had liked children. He would have made a wonderful teacher — earnest in his desire to help, genuinely invested in whatever trivial matters troubled them. He saw people. I saw strings waiting to be pulled. “You really do get along with everyone remarkably well,” Joanne observed, visiting the orphanage as she did each day — to oversee our progress, as well as to teach her mathematics lessons. “Gaining a child’s trust is hardly a challenge.” “No more difficult than piquing someone’s curiosity or earning their affection, wouldn’t you say?” “Does it surprise you that I try to endear myself to them?” I smiled, not quite understanding what she was getting at. “Not in the least. Being good is simply more pragmatic than being bad.” “Precisely. I came to the same conclusion long ago — mistreating people yields diminishing returns. You may use them once, perhaps twice, but after that, they’re worthless to you. A good person, however — people become attached to them. And those who count themselves as your friends can be used over and over again.” Joanne shook her head. “That may be the most cynical definition of morality I’ve ever heard… but I suppose it’s still reassuring that you arrived at it, however roundabout the path.” I was candid with her on purpose — deliberately laying bare my cynicism, ensuring that was the facet of myself she saw. But there was something else. Odasaku — he had believed in kindness. He held that certain things must be done simply because they were noble, righteous… merciful. That the greatest virtue was, above all, to be merciful. The sentimental might claim I had left the Mafia because betraying that principle would have meant betraying his memory. But what nonsense it would be — to abstain from an act merely because one dead man would have disapproved? To me, kindness had been meaningless — until I found a way to rationalize its utility. That was what I had just outlined to Joanne. That was the chasm between Oda and me. And yet, despite knowing I would never be anything like him — never be anything like Atsushi, or Chuuya — I was invariably drawn to such people, as if bound to them by some inexorable law of polarity. And therein lay the problem: baring my amorality so freely to Joanne, I was ensnaring myself within my own trap. The more I played this role, the more I struggled to remember what I was doing here at all. If I neither sought anything nor believed in anything… then why had I begun this game in the first place? There was no meaning in it. As there was no meaning in anything. “...But I meant something else,” Joanne said. “You have a remarkable talent for being different — that was the first thing I noticed about you… A man with a vivid imagination can be anyone at all, isn’t that right, Mr. Ikita?” “I’m not sure I follow,” I replied, feigning incomprehension. “I’ve been watching you quite closely — do forgive my frankness. You don’t merely find common ground with people; you shift, you transform entirely, like shedding layer upon layer, peeling away as though you were a cabbage head. And yet, I wouldn’t say you’re pretending. In every role, you are utterly sincere.” “And what of it?” “Did I say it was a bad thing?..” She tilted her head slightly. “But it does raise certain questions. For instance, whether there is a core beneath all those layers — a real self, a true identity, buried somewhere under all that shedding…” I knew perfectly well what she was trying to do — slipping yet another wriggling worm of doubt into the seething pit of grave-scented ones already festering in my mind. And yet, I couldn’t help myself; I thought, quite obediently: yes, indeed — what am I? Clever, perhaps. Though there are cleverer ones. “But surely you must value something, Mr. Ikita. You seem to value your intellect? ” What else? Anything at all?.. You're empty, said Atsushi’s voice in my head. Joanne was right — I was no one. That’s why it was so effortless for me to be anyone. Like a house where guests come and go, where only other people's voices and thoughts echo in the halls. And when the last visitor leaves, all that remains is silence. “Did I say it was a bad thing?..”   I leaned my forehead against the mirror in the corridor. The figure reflected in the dim light — dark, indistinct — felt foreign, unfamiliar. Is that me? Who am I? Do I exist at all? “Kay looked at her; she was so beautiful! He could not imagine a face more intelligent, more exquisite. She didn't seem now to be of ice, as she was when she sat outside the window and beckoned him. Now she appeared perfect. He had no fear of her whatsoever and told her that he knew all four operations of arithmetic, and with fractions, too, and the area of the country, and how many inhabitants, and she smiled all the time, till he thought that what he knew didn't come to much…” “You will be executed at noon next Friday; it will come as a surprise to you…” “Kay shivered, wishing to recite the Lord’s Prayer, but all he could recall was the multiplication table…” Drip. Drip. “You will be executed at noon next Friday…” “Not necessary to give lessons today,” one of the children said suddenly, with uncharacteristic gentleness. “Better have some tea, Mr. Ikita…”   ***   As it turned out, I was not quite a prisoner after all. At the very least, slipping out of the building proved to be no challenge. It was early morning, the world still drowsing. If there were eyes on me, losing myself in a city of millions would not be particularly difficult. And so, three days after Chuuya’s escape from that infernal ceremony in the forest house, I arrived at Baker Street. And— Chuuya was not there. There was a queue. An entire street-long procession of tourists. But no Chuuya. And my head, which always throbbed in the presence of that wretched ability of his, remained perfectly clear — empty, even — and that was no comfort at all. For a moment, my heart nearly stopped. The sheer number of grotesque new theories that slithered into my mind at that instant — on top of the old ones, already vile enough — is best left unsaid. I forced myself to stay calm, to hold on to the certainty that my mind had not been tampered with, that I still knew who I was and what I was doing. Why wouldn’t Chuuya have come? He must have understood the hints I scrawled onto that paper in the plane — he knew me well enough… Unless he hadn’t come because he was already— Was this how it ended? Just like that? Checkmate? I stared at the crowd milling about in front of the so-called 221B, which was not even 221 in truth, and my mind was an abyss of meaninglessness. Chuuya, seeing this scene, would have scoffed: "Shit, it’s packed to the goddamn rafters." ...Good God. Could that be it? He wasn’t dead. I wasn’t insane. He had simply taken one look at this throng and — quite justifiably — decided this was hardly the ideal place for conversation. And besides, he was probably furious with me. Chuuya, Chuuya… Where would you go first in London? If you were alive. If you existed anywhere beyond the confines of my own head. Where? I asked for the address of the Tate Gallery, and within half an hour, I was already ascending the steps.   It took me a moment to grasp why the stylish redhead girl smoking at the museum doors seemed vaguely familiar. “Oh, for fuck’s sake, don’t be an idiot,” she snapped, flashing bright blue eyes over the thick black frames of her glasses. “The glasses suit you,” I said. “Pretending to be smart?” It was only after the words left my mouth that I realized — these were the first I’d spoken to Chuuya since we met by the cryptomeria with the red ribbon, since he beat me senseless. Or at least the first I’d spoken plainly, without all the spy-game nonsense. That conversation felt like it had happened a hundred years ago. A hundred years and nine circles of hell. He was probably expecting different words — if not warmer ones, then at least more meaningful. “Yeah, no, fuck off.” Chuuya turned on his heel and strode toward the museum doors. Apparently, he hadn’t quite finished admiring his favorite paintings yet. “Alright, alright, I’m sorry!” I caught up with him. “Nice disguise.” The only remnants of his usual attire were the black choker around his neck and, of course, the gloves. Even his most sacred relic — his hat — was gone, replaced by a messy knot of ginger hair. His coat had been swapped for some kind of mourning shroud, layered, tattered tank tops, obscenely tight leather pants (the pinnacle of bad taste), and platform boots (why not stilettos while we’re at it?). Around his neck hung an assortment of pendants, gothic or maybe vaguely ethnic, and his ears were adorned with fake piercings of a similar style. He had, it seemed, thrown himself into his new persona with great enthusiasm. And in new clothes he looked much younger than he really was — practically a teenager. “And I don’t look half bad, do I?” “Depends on the criteria,” I said cautiously. “There’s a risk they won’t sell you alcohol. And, I don’t know if you’ve realized, but with your face and…” I tactfully swallowed the word height, “…graceful physique, this look isn’t even androgynous.” “Oh, just say it — look like a chick, yeah? Only without the tits.” He sounded almost proud, as if expecting compliments. “Well, more or less. But as long as you’re happy with it.” I’d always suspected that Kouyou’s parenting would eventually lead him to some form of gender dysphoria — though, no doubt, she’d been hoping to turn him into a delicate porcelain doll in a Gion district kimono, not… whatever this was. Did it suit him? I wasn’t an expert in such matters. To me, Chuuya had always been Chuuya, whether in ripped tank tops, business suits, hoodies, or traditional silk robes. I knew, objectively, that he was beautiful — I’d seen how people reacted to his sharpness, his charm, the grace tempered with undeniable force. Half of the Port Mafia, regardless of age or gender, lusted after him. But I… I had simply gotten used to him, I think. “Look, I found a tank top in All Saints just like Cara Delevingne’s!” he boasted, flicking his cigarette for emphasis. “I make one hell of a hot little chick, don’t I? I’d totally fuck me.” Under different circumstances, I would have made a snide remark about that, but I wasn’t in the mood to escalate things. Besides, there was nothing particularly new in Chuuya’s relentless narcissism. “But you,” he added vengefully, “look like you got skull-fucked with a toilet brush. And when I say ‘skull-fucked,’ I don’t mean like you’re some big fan of toilet brushes, lying there all happy and smoking a cigarette after. No, I mean it like there’s fucking blood and brain matter splattered everywhere and—” “Thank you, I get the idea,” I cut him off. This monstrous human being couldn’t possibly be a figment of my imagination… right? “Chuuya,” I said. “Don’t laugh, but… answer me. Who am I? Who are you? And what the hell are we doing here? Explain. In detail.” “…Huh?” After a brief pause, realization dawned across his face. He narrowed his eyes ominously and, in a sepulchral voice, intoned: “The truth is, they fucked with your brain a long time ago — scrubbed it clean with ‘Ariel Automatic.’ Everything you think you know about me? You made it up. Chuuya Nakahara is just your imaginary childhood friend, invented so you wouldn’t croak from loneliness. And me? I’m not him. I work for your enemies. My name is Joushi Ikita. Look, I even have a credit card with my name on it.” “…Hilarious. Really. But you, by the way, could’ve had your brainwashed too.” He waved a hand dismissively. “Nah, unlike you, I’d know if I lost my ability. That’d be like losing my sense of smell or sight…” He paused, then added, “But hey, you could test yours on me. It’s easy. Wanna try?” Chuuya balanced his still-lit cigarette upright on the tip of his index finger — it stood straight, like a tiny lighthouse. Then he flipped his finger over, and the cigarette remained hanging, as if glued in place. I hesitated before reaching out, touching the strip of bare skin between his glove and coat sleeve. Maybe my hand was trembling slightly. The cigarette detached, tumbled down, hit the stone step, and went out. I think I even exhaled out loud in relief. Chuuya smirked. “See? You’re fine. You just let your fucked-up little head run wild with nonsense. Jesus, Dazai, your brain is so full of shit they could start shoveling it out by the truckload.” And, honestly, who could argue with that? I wanted to tell him about the endless rain, the kind that felt like a water torture. But that would mean explaining the Prisoner’s Paradox, and all those silent, ghostlike children — shadows of themselves — and Kay with his fractions and roses, and the conversations with Joanne, that terrifying woman who mirrored me like some warped reflection, and the tangled web of paranoid theories, and Oda Sakunosuke and his death, and Milgram’s experiment, and memories of my childhood — no, no. Chuuya didn’t deserve to be dragged into the hell where I had spent the past three days, locked inside both a damaged children’s orphanage and my own skull at the same time… And anyway, he probably wouldn’t understand. Not that I really thought he was stupid — but this kind of thing simply didn’t interest him. I reproachfully asked, "Why not Baker Street?" "Have you even seen your precious Baker Street?" "Fair point," I sighed. "Still, you could've left some kind of clue." "Why? I'm the dumbass here, so I need clues. You're smart — you’ll figure it out." "Well, I did," I said, not without a hint of pride. "Although I had several possibilities in mind..." "What other possibilities? This is the Tate Gallery! It's drowning in Pre-Raphaelites. Ophelia by Millais is hanging here, for fuck’s sake!" "Oh, Chuuya… You are the very definition of tragicomic." "So you think this is funny? You should be grateful I'm even talking to you. Google ‘voluntary consent,’ you dense fuck, you might learn something new." "Chuuya! I tracked you down in a city of nine million people without a single clue. I practically wore through three pairs of iron boots and gnawed through three loaves of iron bread. You owe me forgiveness." He’d forgiven me long ago; otherwise, he wouldn’t have come at all. We both knew it. He sat down on one of the steps, and I settled beside him. He smelled as he always did — of his peculiar, expensive perfumes, a sharp and vivid scent, something like pepper, honey, and amber. It belonged in the sun-soaked Mediterranean, not in this damp London gloom. Chuuya fished out another cigarette and, without looking, offered me the pack. I took one out of sheer habit, though I hadn’t smoked in what felt like a century. They were those Indonesian clove cigarettes — kretek — of course he had managed to find them even here. "If you don’t count the galleries and fashion boutiques, this city is absolute fucking shit," Chuuya declared, exhaling a thick plume of smoke. "Back home in Yokohama, it’s warm and nice right now — you could take a walk, ride your bike. And here? It’s cold as a witch’s tit, the wind’s slapping me in the face, and everything’s as damp as a mermaid’s asshole. I bought an umbrella, I’m carrying hot coffee around like a fucking security blanket, and I still keep sniffling like some homeless street rat. Why the fuck does everyone romanticize this place? It's a goddamn mess — architectural vomit, glass and concrete dicks sticking out everywhere like I haven’t had my fill of that shit back in Japan. The Tube is a rat’s nest. The Thames stinks to high heaven — what the hell are you laughing at? You don’t like the word ‘concrete dicks’?" "No, I'm laughing at the ‘mermaid’s asshole’. You know, Chuuya, in these past three days without you, I nearly hanged myself." "Wow," he said, with about as much emotion as if I’d told him I was out of milk. "Big shocker." And suddenly, I felt like that boy from the fable who kept crying ‘wolf.’ Christ, Chuuya — half an hour ago, I thought you were dead. Or that you never existed at all. And here you are, strolling through museums and shopping like it's just another Tuesday, still thinking about art and the taste of cigarettes. I didn’t say it out loud. But he must have understood something — just one look at me and he had already mentioned a "toilet brush." "Eh, it’s all bullshit," he said, as if trying to be reassuring. "Knowing you, I bet you’ve been keeping an eye on Atsushi and Akutagawa, and you’ve already heard the kind of bullshit they’ve been spoon-fed. And we’ve already seen enough of those cult-crazed brats to know how this works… For it to really get its hooks in, a person has to believe they're fucked up." "Yeah, I’ve come to the same conclusion," I said thoughtfully. "That ability plays on self-esteem issues… But it’s not as simple as just knowing something’s wrong. Not everyone understands what exactly they’re ashamed of, what they’re trying to erase, what they feel guilty for — what makes them vulnerable…" "Do they?" he asked, sounding so genuinely perplexed that I couldn’t help but smile. Oh, Chuuya… He truly had that rare gift of accepting things, including himself, exactly as they were. And because of that, he was immune — untouched by shame or guilt. "You know," I admitted, surprising even myself, "I originally had a very different plan. No Atsushi, no Akutagawa. Just you. The idea was that hypnosis wouldn't work on a narcissistic bastard like you, so I could just slip you past Joanne…" "How sweet. And were you also planning to ‘forget’ to tell me about this plan?" I sidestepped the question with all the grace of a limping donkey. "I ultimately decided it wasn’t worth the risk. Besides, you’re terrible at pretending." He snorted in offense, then — like a sulky five-year-old — grumbled out of nowhere, "Well, and you... your hat is stupid. No one wears those anymore." "Atrocious hat," I agreed meekly. "My great-great-grandfather sent it down from the afterlife." Something about my easy compliance seemed to genuinely unsettle him. We were so used to bickering that when one of us actually agreed with the other, it sent the other into a panic. And yet, I didn’t want to argue. Even though, perhaps, bickering with him right now would have been nice. No — what was best was simply being here, in the warmth of his familiarity, the scent of smoke and perfume. He gave me a long, wary look, as if trying to decide whether I was concussed. "Do you wanna go see Wicked?" he asked, voice full of suspicion. "No, I’m not a changeling, if that’s what you’re implying. And I’ll go wherever you want, as soon as I get my brain unscrambled and figure out what the hell is happening." "I’ll… think of something," he promised. "That musical has a fucking amazing song in it—" He even shut his eyes in bliss for a second. Honestly, he could’ve suggested anything right now — Wicked, a museum trip to see Ophelia (as if I hadn’t already seen the painting a thousand times in internet; he’d fried my brain with Pre-Raphaelites back in the day), a four-hour wine tasting, a shopping spree for hats or cologne — I would have nodded and followed, smiling. It felt like the best day of my life. And like I’d never been happier to see anyone than I was to see Chuuya right now. Schopenhauer says happiness is merely an illusion formed in contrast to suffering. But let me tell you — when you’ve been through enough suffering, that illusion feels quite real. "Now," Chuuya declared, tapping ash from his cigarette, "start talking. What the fuck happened in that house in the woods? And let’s figure this shit out."