Some issues in the existence of fictional characters

"That's what 'ran away and was never seen again' means in these parts. It means 'eaten.'"

"Um and what about 'happily ever after'?" asked David, a little uncertainly. "What does that mean?"

"Eaten quickly".

— John Connolly, The Book of Lost Things

Tokyo of the early twenty-first century surfaced in their conversation rather unexpectedly. Makishima was lounging on the couch, rereading Moby-Dick. L lay sprawled on the floor beside him, legs crossed, absentmindedly gnawing on something while lost in thought, as usual. And then, out of nowhere, he said: "I wonder… if we put your page into the Death Note or my page into your Psycho-Pass…" Had it been anyone else, Makishima might have thought it was some sort of lewd euphemism. But coming from L, the thought was undoubtedly as pure as a child's tear. (Their little adventure in the vampire love-burger hadn’t changed much in their dynamic; neither of them seemed burdened by any awkwardness. L, for his part, had no concept that there was anything to be embarrassed about, and Makishima — who firmly believed sex was an overrated subject to begin with — had no intention of enlightening him.) "…who would we become?" L finished. "Maybe in Psycho-Pass, I’d be Kogami Shinya?" "You’re nothing like Kogami," Makishima said honestly. "If anything, you’re the anti-Kogami. And I wouldn’t make much of a Kira, either." "I still want to see your world with my own eyes." L rolled onto his side and studied Makishima’s face. "Let’s go there." Makishima sighed in exasperation. "Listen, this isn’t like crashing at Count von Weisshaar’s castle. Do you have any idea what your Crime Coefficient would be?" Actually… that was a good question. L had already demonstrated a level of moral flexibility that would make the Spanish Inquisition proud. Sure, he always believed he was acting in the name of justice, but then again, most serial killers would say the same. And if he were ever put in the position of an Enforcer, he’d comply with orders right up until they clashed with his own bizarre moral compass, which, let’s be honest… would probably be the very first assignment. "The second you step into Psycho-Pass, you’d be turned into a pile of bloody chunks," Makishima concluded. L didn’t argue, just sighed. "Shame. I really wanted to see what Earth looks like in the future." And that was when Makishima, without thinking, said: "Better let’s go somewhere like your world. I want to see how you lived." By now, they should have known better. Every one of their ideas, no matter how reasonable at first glance, always ended in disaster. This one was no exception. From Makishima’s perspective, Tokyo in 2015 wasn’t all that different from the Tokyo he knew from Psycho-Pass. A forest of identical skyscrapers, millions of tiny lights merging into an endless void of loneliness and despair. That was how the world looked from three hundred and fifty meters up. For the past three months, he had been living on the Tembo Deck — the lower of the two observation levels of the Tokyo Skytree. There was a second deck, a hundred meters higher, but up there, there was nothing but lights and an unbearable sense of existential horror. Here, at least, there were cafés and shops. At the start of the outbreak, he had wedged the only functioning elevator at the top. Whatever horrors unfolded on the lower floors, neither humans nor zombies were willing to take on the grueling climb up all those flights of stairs. Later, when there were hardly any uninfected people left in the city, he removed the stopper so he could occasionally descend. Just in case, he camouflaged the elevator doors with a folding screen depicting old Edo, a relic from the tower’s former decor. Not that it really mattered — infected often wandered into the lower levels of Skytree, but their minds were too far gone to even register the existence of an elevator. It had all started in the most predictable way for stories like this: a weapons research lab owned by a massive corporation; a virus engineered to turn primates hyper-aggressive, spreading faster than Ebola; a clumsy lab technician who didn’t secure a cage properly; a couple of escaped monkeys biting a few employees; and those employees… well, long story short, within a month, nearly all of Tokyo was gone. The ones left weren’t literally undead, but they sure looked the part — and they had the same insatiable craving for flesh. Makishima survived for two reasons. One: unlike most of his coworkers at the lab, he actually knew how to use a gun — and had no hesitation about it. The lab had been located not far from Skytree, in the quiet, old-fashioned district of Asakusa, and as soon as the outbreak began and the city spiraled into panic, he saw exactly where things were headed. There was no better fortress than the tower. But the real reason, of course, was simpler: he was the protagonist of this little narrative. And what a boring story it would have been if he’d been infected and died right out of the gate. He had a clear goal. He wasn’t some brilliant scientist — just a regular lab tech (tragically!) — so he couldn’t engineer an anti-zombie vaccine himself. But the lab’s central computer could — if only he could find someone immune to the virus. As for who that miracle person was supposed to be… Makishima had a pretty good guess. So he spent his days and nights with binoculars pressed against the glass of the Tembo Deck, scanning the streets for a single living person among the dead. The wait turned out to be agonizingly long. At first, he had expected that — Tokyo was a thirty-million-strong anthill, and picking out one person in that chaos was next to impossible. Besides, things were still too dangerous down below; even a hazmat suit and an arsenal wouldn’t have saved him. But after the worst of the carnage settled, he started making excursions into the abandoned city — a wasteland of mindless predators wandering aimlessly, frozen traffic, looted apartments, piles of corpses, and scattered, utterly useless biohazard signs. From Skytree, he could spot signs of human presence — a car suddenly rolling down the street, a flickering light in a window. Many lights were still on by sheer inertia, but turning them on and off meant someone was alive. Whenever he saw something like that, he went to investigate. But every time, his search ended in nothing. He had no interest in joining survivor groups. They were useless at best, outright dangerous at worst. Once he confirmed that his person wasn’t among them, he always returned to his tour d’ivoire. And slowly, those signs of life faded away. The whole thing felt like some cruel parody of his loneliness in Psycho-Pass. "History repeats itself, first as a tragedy, second as a farce." But when you’re not an audience member but the lead in the performance, the farce stops being particularly funny. He was willing to wait forever if he had absolute confidence in his plan. But doubt started creeping in. What if I got it wrong? What if no such person exists? What if this is a story with no happy ending? And really, happy endings were nothing more than cheap indulgences for the masses — little to do with real life. That thought made him… deeply, deeply uneasy. A few times, the idea of shooting himself — or just taking a handful of sleeping pills — crossed his mind. Not out of cowardice, just logic. He wouldn’t reallydie; he’d simply wake up again in their Library of Babel. But something stopped him every time. L was still here, somewhere, wandering the same ruined city. Wandering alone, without even the faintest hope — because he didn’t know about the lab, or the antivirus, or that the world might still be saved.   One evening, as Makishima once again gazed out over the dead city sprawling beneath his feet — without much hope, just out of habit — he noticed strange, flickering lights near Tokyo Bay. Beyond Rainbow Bridge, next to the massive Ferris wheel glowing in the dark, he spotted through his binoculars a building of bizarre architecture — an intricate lattice with a sphere trapped inside, as if a ball had been caught in a cage. And it was inside that sphere that the light was flashing. Three short bursts, three long, three short again — there wasn’t a soul alive who wouldn’t recognize that signal. SOS. His first instinct was to throw on his hazmat suit, grab his weapons, fuel up a car — any car, they were all his for the taking now — and race toward the beacon of hope. But he forced himself to wait. A nighttime excursion into a city crawling with the infected could end badly, even in a vehicle. That night was the longest of his life. The cage-and-ball structure stood on Odaiba, a small artificial island in the bay. At dawn, he set out immediately. But just as he was about to reach his destination, he ran into an unexpected problem — the entrance to Rainbow Bridge, the only direct connection between the Shibaura shipyards and the island, had been blown to hell. And whoever had done it had been thorough — not even on foot could he make it across the wreckage. So Makishima found a nearby supermarket, grabbed a couple of rockets — fireworks, since signal flares weren’t an option — and started launching them every few minutes from a spot near the shore. A desperate move. He knew full well the rockets would attract the infected long before they reached whoever had sent the distress signal. And sure enough, the zombies wasted no time. They swarmed his car. Makishima let his foot rest lightly on the gas, and the vehicle began rolling backward. The zombies, slow-witted as they were, could still tell there was a warm, delicious human inside, and they weren’t giving up. He kept his speed low. The zombies kept up — fast, for zombies. A few of the more agile ones managed to scramble onto the roof. That was his cue to end this little game. He slammed the gas. The added weight sent the car skidding. It spun out of control, slammed into a guardrail. By the time he wrestled the wheel back, the infected had already piled onto the vehicle like flies, smashing at the windows. One hand on the wheel, the other reaching for his gun — twelve rounds, twenty zombies, but he had another gun, if only he could reach it— “Duck, please.” A familiar voice. Makishima obeyed without hesitation. The shotgun blast nearly deafened him. Another shot. And another. In the middle of the road stood L. No hazmat suit. No protective gear. And Makishima didn’t even need to see the bandaged leg, the unmistakable imprint of teeth above the knee — he already knew. He had found the special person he needed. For a moment, they just stared at each other in silence, drinking the sight in. Then L, in his usual judgmental tone, said: “You look awful.” Makishima laughed — out of sheer relief. Not because it was funny, but because maybe for the first time in his life, he was happy. Truly, unbelievably happy. The author of this story clearly hadn’t strained themselves with the details. The lab where the virus had escaped was an amalgamation of every lab ever conceived — sterile white walls, chrome-plated equipment, cold fluorescent lights. Corpses of humans and animals scattered on the floor, dried pools of blood, traces of catastrophe. The AI controlling the lab’s systems spoke in an even, colorless voice. “Confirmed. The individual you retrieved possesses antibodies to the virus.” “Well, that’s that,” Makishima said. “Start synthesizing the vaccine.” L was in the adjacent room, lying inside a cylindrical pod — something like an MRI machine. “Would you like to say your goodbyes?” the AI inquired, with the same indifferent tone. “What? I—what?” “When the necessary brain tissue has been extracted for study, the subject will expire.” ...Excuse me? Hold on. That wasn’t the deal. An hour ago, Makishima had been so overwhelmed with joy he thought he might lose his mind. He wasn’t ready for the ground to be yanked out from under him like this. He had spent all this time, all these months searching, only for L to just die? For Makishima to be left alone again? The only response he could come up with was an utterly stupid question: “Are you sure?” “Absolutely. The operation has a one hundred percent fatality rate.” Well. He supposed that was only fair. Saving the world from a zombie apocalypse and expecting all the main characters to survive — that would be too much. Syrupy, unearned happy endings were for cowards. He’d even thought that himself, not too long ago. No big deal. L wouldn’t die, not really. He’d just return to the library. And Makishima would, too. ...Wouldn’t he? “I’m initiating the procedure,” the computer announced. Makishima heard the hum of that same tube, the one that looked like an MRI machine. No, he had to come back. Because once the vaccine was created, the story would finally have its ending… right? He remembered all too well how empty and terrifying the city had been, full of corpses and zombies, while he was alone. The long weeks and months on Tokyo Skytree, the single flicker of hope that had kept him going — only to deceive him over and over again. What would become of him when even that flicker was gone? Probably, all that would be left was to sit and wait, hoping for the mercy of insanity. “Cancel the procedure,” he said. He could almost hear the digital gears grinding, ones and zeroes scraping together in the processor as it tried to process the command. A second later, the computer responded: “Explanation required.” Makishima only shrugged and walked toward the operating room doors. “You are behaving irrationally given the circumstances. I apologize, but I will have to lock the operating room.” Makishima frantically tapped at the keyboard, trying to override the lock. “If you continue interfering with the procedure,” the computer said, “I will be forced to—” “Oh, shut up,” Makishima snapped. He grabbed L’s shotgun, which had been leaning against the wall, and fired several shots at the computer’s main system unit. The humming stopped. The lights flickered, then went out. A minute later, L poked his head out of the operating room. “What just happened?” “The computer was evil,” Makishima said vaguely. The shotgun in his hands trembled slightly. “Hey, what’s up with you?” L asked, puzzled. “You look like hell.” Makishima had no idea how to explain what had just happened. L was supposed to stay in that lab — that much was certain. This was supposed to be a story about saving the world. But now? What was it now? A story about selfishness? And more importantly — what now? He had no idea what to do with a story that had veered so far off its intended path, but he was sure of one thing: nothing good would come of it. He wanted to delay the moment when L would ask, So what do we do now? — because Makishima had no answer. L watched him, concerned. To change the subject, Makishima asked, “How did you even get into the city from Odaiba when you saved me from the zombies? The bridge was blown up.” “I blew it up myself — to keep the infected from crossing over. But the upper part of the bridge was still intact. I took the Yurikamome line. You showed up right on time, almost at Shimbashi Station. The trains still run like usual — zombies are too dumb to step onto them.” “The Yurikamome…?” Judging by L’s sudden grin, the complete and utter confusion on Makishima’s face was amusing. “No wonder the future sucked for you,” L said. “You didn’t even have Odaiba over there, did you?” What did he mean, didn’t have? Makishima knew something about Odaiba, albeit vaguely — once a military outpost in the bay, later a landfill for Tokyo’s ever-growing waste, and then eventually, the island had become part of the city… “Come on,” L said. “I’ll show you Odaiba.” “…It was the most popular leisure spot in Tokyo — especially for families, tourists, and couples on dates. The Yurikamome line is driverless, controlled entirely by computers. People thought it was cool — like the magic started before you even set foot on the island.” “And you lived here for all three months?” “Yep. You can take off that hazmat suit, by the way. No zombies here. The few that showed up, I took care of — and even cleaned up the bodies.” Makishima pulled off his mask, and immediately, a gust of wind from the bay hit his face. It carried the scent of seaweed and fish. A strange feeling. For the past three months, he had only seen the world through a protective suit or through the thick glass of the Skytree — "through a glass, darkly." They strolled along Odaiba’s small beach, then turned toward the buildings. The entire island was essentially one massive entertainment complex — museums, malls, movie theaters. There weren’t many structures, but all of them looked as bizarre and pseudo-futuristic as the Fuji TV building — the one with the giant sphere in a metal grid, where L had sent his SOS signal. “There’s a great robot exhibit at Miraikan, the Museum of the Future — wanna check it out?” L asked. “Most of it still works. You can even control some of them yourself…” Robots didn’t interest Makishima. There had been no shortage of those in his own world. Instead, L dragged him to the International Exhibition Center, where, as it turned out, Comiket had been taking place when the outbreak started. “The biggest convention in the world for comics, games, doujinshi, cosplay, all that stuff.” This remark led to a lengthy explanation from L, and then to a series of bizarre sights at Comiket itself — sights that left Makishima so bewildered that at first, he didn’t even know how to comment. It wasn’t until later, when they had already left the convention and wandered far from the Exhibition Center, that he finally reacted. In the park, completely unprepared for what he saw, Makishima stopped dead in his tracks in front of a ten-story-tall battle robot model. And declared, “I’m absolutely certain that nothing like this ever existed in my world. There must’ve been a different Odaiba there.” “What, you got something against Gundams?” L asked. Makishima had nothing specifically against Gundams. It was just that everything about Odaiba felt absurd — like some kind of metaphor for escapism in the worst possible sense. He tried to explain: “I can’t believe there were that many people who were seriously into this kind of weird, ridiculous stuff. Spending their lives drawing fan comics, sewing stupid costumes, throwing away their education and careers because they were obsessed with fictional characters… Shutting themselves off from the real world like this — it’s basically the same as giving up on life.” L snorted. “Look who is talking!” Makishima frowned. “Wait, you actually like this nonsense?” “And what if I did?” L shot back, suddenly sharp. Makishima felt… awkward. But then L shook his head. “No… I was never into anime or anything. But maybe, in the end, it doesn’t really matter what entertains us. Whether it’s investigations or drawing doujinshi about battle robots… It’s normal to have weird interests.” Then L suggested they go to the arcade. “What’s the point?” Makishima asked, puzzled. “There’s no security, everything’s allowed. You could just shake the claw machine and take whatever you want.” “That,” L said in a lecturing tone, “is precisely the most pointless thing you could do. Aren’t you even a little curious? I think if you calculate the angle, speed, and grip strength just right — and I am, of course, smart enough to do that — winning a prize should be easy.” “That’s nonsense,” Makishima said. For the next hour, they competed, trying to fish out stuffed toys. In the end, Makishima won — he was the first to make the machine surrender a soft, long-eared creature. It was utterly ridiculous, but oddly satisfying; he handed his prize to L with a triumphant smirk. L, not looking the least bit disappointed in his loss, tucked the plush under his arm and mused aloud: “Let’s see… Where else do people usually go here? We could take pictures in a purikura booth, but that might be a bit much — we’re not gyaru schoolgirls, after all. Let’s ride the Ferris wheel instead.” On their way to the towering Ferris wheel with its multicolored cabins, Makishima spotted yet another sign of the island’s utter madness — a metro station named Tokyo Teleport. But after surviving Comiket, his mind had built up some resistance, and he let it slide without comment. From the top of the wheel, the view was breathtaking. The sea, the Rainbow Bridge, the intricate layers of highway interchanges, and the skyscrapers of Tokyo, bathed in the golden light of the setting sun. This strange, endless day of unclear genre was finally drawing to a close. Looking out over it all, it was easy to pretend the apocalypse had never happened — that the figures in the distance were ordinary, smiling people instead of monsters, that the air was safe to breathe without a hazmat mask. But in reality… L, sitting across from him in the cabin, pulled him out of his thoughts. “Why do you look so gloomy?” Makishima sighed and finally admitted, “The computer in the lab… There was nothing wrong with it, actually. I just… got scared of being alone again, and…” “I figured,” L said thoughtfully. “You’ve changed, you know. Since the first time I saw you… It’s almost like you’re a different person.” “Really?” Makishima frowned. “But only at first glance,” L added. “In truth, you’re even more you than before.” Makishima gave up trying to untangle that and said, “Honestly, I have no idea what to do now. We’re not making a vaccine, we’re not saving the world from the virus…” L laughed. “Have you seen yourself? What kind of world savior would you make?” “Still, this was supposed to be a story about saving the world. And now it’s about… what? Instead of stopping the zombie apocalypse, we’re playing claw machines and riding Ferris wheels. Doesn’t that seem… meaningless to you?” “You and your obsession with meaning…” L scoffed. “Of all the things to worry about. Who cares what happens to the story? We can always leave it — one way or another. You know that, right? We are our characters, but we’re also more than them. Even if we’re part of the story, we’re more than it.” Something about those words struck Makishima deeply, even though, logically, they weren’t new. It was like walking down a long dark corridor toward a light — knowing you’d reach the sun, but still surprised by its warmth when you finally stepped into it. We’re more than the story. More than any story. And that was when it all ended — suddenly, and yet, in some way, exactly as expected. Every other time, they had transitioned into the library without noticing. But this time, Makishima saw it happen — the Tokyo Bay around them, glowing with the last light of sunset, slowly, almost reluctantly, fading and dissolving. The Ferris wheel’s cabin was gone. They were sitting on the floor of a dimly lit room in their Library of Babel, surrounded by books scattered across the carpet like a witch’s circle.