Some issues in the existence of fictional characters

The one charm about the past is that it is the past. — Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray

  "I don’t get it," L admitted. They were having tea in the kitchen again. Dusk had fallen. The lampshade cast cozy, patterned shadows on the ceiling and walls, like interwoven leaves. "What’s there not to get?" Makishima said, a hint of impatience in his voice. "Words. The world is made of words. Every story told becomes real. 'The world is a text' — you haven’t read Derrida, obviously, but that’s basically what he wrote about. You asked me to find a way out of here, and I did. We’re no longer trapped in a little house with a dozen bookshelves. Our world is infinite now." "Technically, I found the way." "We found it," Makishima conceded. L nodded, satisfied. He reached across the table for the sugar, and Makishima, for what must have been the tenth time that evening, caught himself staring at the dark pattern revealed by the neckline of L’s T-shirt — a mark like some strange, unseen flower, just below his collarbone, near his heart. "Stop staring," L said. "Not like I care. I’ve got my own." "Not like mine." Makishima wondered if L felt the same unease he did. After what had happened there, in the book (was it a book?), on the playground (was it a playground?), on the other side of reality (or was this world the other side?) — after that, Makishima had felt as if he’d been split open like a suitcase, his soul laid bare, raw and vulnerable. He hadn’t been ready for that. "No. Not like yours..." His own marks lay hidden under long sleeves — two symmetrical crescents on his wrists. They looked nothing like the scars of a suicide attempt, and yet every time he saw them, that’s exactly what came to mind. Maybe because once, a long time ago, he really had been a suicide. A successful one, at that. He had no idea why, after their journey into that last book (who knew magical realism would turn out to be such a practical genre?), their bodies still bore these marks in the places where wounds had once bled. Metaphors lose their charm when taken too literally. So here, back in the familiar world, the scars had the appearance of intricate tattoos rather than injuries. They served no functional purpose anymore. L and Makishima had already tested their newfound knowledge: now, whenever they entered a book, they could perceive the story both as a living world and as text — like those hidden 3D images in children’s books, where if you looked at the pattern just right, an image would suddenly appear. So, the world was made of words (Makishima had always suspected as much, hadn’t he?). And to rewrite it, any writing tool would do — even something as mundane as a ballpoint pen. No need to carve words into skin, smearing themselves with blood. And yet, the marks remained — a flower on one chest, crescents on another’s wrists. A testament to something. A reminder of pain, of helplessness, of absolute honesty. Every time Makishima saw them, he felt unsettled. "So now we’re on our own, huh?" L said. "What do you mean?" "I mean, nothing’s tying us together anymore. I’ve always annoyed the hell out of you. Well, now you don’t have to put up with me. I want to go back to Death Note. I think I know which moment needs rewriting." "Rewriting it… to what end?" "To make sure I don’t lose to Light." L paused. "No, earlier than that. To stop Light from becoming a monster." The first thing he thinks about is saving Light… The thought sent a dull, unpleasant feeling through Makishima, like a toothache. No matter what L said about Light, he had loved him. Deeply. "…I think I need to go back to the very beginning," L went on. "He has to realize right away that he’s doing something wrong. Right after his first kill? No, earlier. Before the notebook ever falls into his hands." "But then you two would never meet. And the story wouldn’t exist." "So what? I’ll survive. And a lot of people won’t have to die... What about you? Going back to your own story?" "Yeah. I guess." Wasn’t that what they had both wanted all along? They had fought their way through a dozen ridiculous stories with one goal: to escape and rewrite their own. "So this is goodbye?" Makishima asked, surprised by the uncertainty in his own voice. "I enjoyed traveling with you," L said. "We saw some… strange things." "I liked it too. And you didn’t annoy me. Well, at first you did, obviously, but I got used to it." Makishima smirked, then, to his own surprise, added: "I even felt kind of special, you know? That you chose me to help you find a way out." A quiet panic gripped him: they were about to part ways, and he might never see L again. "Listen… If you ever get tired of that psychopath of yours playing god, I wouldn’t mind filling in for him sometimes," Makishima said awkwardly. "I mean, we can meet here again if we ever get bored. And… go somewhere else together." Why had he said that? He had no idea why he wanted to keep this absurd, irritating, utterly unlike-him person around. And L probably had no need for him, either. But L’s face lit up. "Yes! I was thinking the same thing. No matter how far apart we are, we can always come back here. To the same point in space and time. Well, we never figured out what this place even is, exactly, but I’m sure we can phrase it somehow. Like… 'that morning when we met in the library.'" "Then let’s put it to the test."   Makishima Shougo had almost forgotten how repulsive the world of the early twenty-second century was. Well, maybe not every world, he corrected himself, but the one that, by some unfortunate coincidence, happened to be his home. When he saw the looming, all-too-familiar silhouette of the NONA Tower again, a stupid joke came to mind: “Characters who misbehave in Psycho-Pass get reincarnated into Psycho-Pass.” Not very funny, really. But this time, he had the power to change something in this rotten world. To truly change it. He flips through the pages of the book — cities, nations, political conflicts, human lives rush past him — then picks up a pen. (On another level of reality — he presses the tip of the pen against his wrist, breaking the skin, dipping it into his own blood.) (The world shifts.) He rewrites the story. At first, Makishima tries to do something about the Sibyl System. To finish what he started from the very beginning. What happens to Japan after Sibyl System’s fall... well, it’s not like he wasn’t prepared, but reality manages to exceed even his most pessimistic expectations. He knew chaos would reign — but he believed that amidst that chaos, he would finally see the kind of People who could rise above the herd, above the limits of the crowd... Instead, all he sees are murderers, looters, rapists, weeping women, abandoned children, bewildered old men. Fear, rage, cowardice, cruelty, helplessness, despair. And nothing else. Makishima Shougo walks through a city torn apart by civil war, like the goddess Morrigan stepping over the bodies of fallen warriors on the battlefield, and realizes that he will never find anyone worthy of the free world he always dreamed of. No one who even wants that world. Deep down, perhaps he always knew that Sibyl was never really the problem. “People will figure out for themselves whether they like the world they live in or not,” right, L? The problem wasn’t Sibyl. The problem was him. Maybe, instead of trying to fix the world, he should have started by fixing himself. What made Makishima Shogo who he is? Where did it all go wrong? How does one make him happy? The pages rustle as he flips through them. Words race across the paper. He rewrites his own character. He decides to unravel the thread from the beginning. Little Makishima Shougo has a perfectly normal psycho-pass. (It changes nothing — he still ends up an outsider among the other children, people are still stupid, predictable, boring, all the same.) His hue isn’t as clear and bright as Tsunemori-Akane-With-The-Innocent-Eyes, but he is a model citizen. He doesn’t turn a blind eye to Sibyl System’s flaws, but he accepts its existence. He even trusts Sibyl to find him a romantic partner based on a perfect match of IQ, tastes, and interests — he’s curious who it will choose. To his surprise, Sibyl selects a woman who truly suits him: smart enough to keep their marriage distant yet pleasant. He takes a job as an art history professor. His colleagues — his friends, really — are gentle intellectuals, always ready to share a drink and a conversation about painting and literature. He has never had to kill anyone. He owns a beautiful home. He has a brilliant daughter. A normal — a good — human life. No, that’s not it. The pen’s tip bites into his wrist again, staining itself in red. (The pages whisper, the pen scratches.) (The world shifts again.) Makishima Shougo, exemplary citizen, receives a Class A approval to work at the Public Safety Bureau. Aware of the system’s moral corruption, he, like Kogami Shinya, like Tsunemori Akane, continues to defend it for lack of a better option, trying to influence Sibyl from within. He is utterly sincere in his desire to serve the law. He likes to think he is doing something good, that he is finding traces of kindness in people. He is one of the Bureau’s best agents, though, for reasons no one quite understands, he avoids using the Dominator whenever possible. He and Kogami are partners. They would walk through fire for each other, to the gallows-foot — and after, Kipling-style. They don’t fuck. They’re just friends. No. The pen scratches. They do fuck, and how. Makishima and Kogami have been inseparable since childhood, bound to each other from the moment they met. When they become teenagers, one of them simply walks into the other’s room one night — no explanation needed — because becoming lovers feels like the most natural thing in the world. Their thoughts, hopes, and fears are shared, their sentences unfinished because the other completes them. Instead of a chain of resentment tying them together, there is only perfect understanding. And standing by Makishima’s side — someone who is his mirror image — isn’t that what he’s always wanted? Kogami shares his dream of toppling Sibyl. Together, they lead a revolution. They are almost like Bonnie and Clyde. No... All these stories have something in common. Makishima finds them boring. He sees that his story has infinite variations, that he could rewrite them endlessly— but none of it brings him joy. Once, he thought that only in mathematics does changing the order of the terms not affect the sum. Turns out, in life, it works the same way. He can make reality whatever he wants. He can make himself whoever he wants. The problem is, he wants nothing. At least, not here. Not in this world. One morning, while shaving, he catches his reflection in the mirror and suddenly understands— Makishima Shougo, the snob, the tragic romantic, the humanist, the terrorist, the villain, the victim— —really did die in that field, shot through the head. A long time ago. This man, standing here now — undeniably, he wasonce that person. But Makishima Shougo is no longer the only thing he is. He has outgrown this story. It’s a little sad, like when you realize that the favorite shirt you wore all last summer is now too small. He doesn’t know who he is now. Not that it particularly bothers him. Maybe, one day, he will forget this name entirely— And invent a new one. Isn't it time to admit that he hates this world? He knows in advance that even this won't bring him happiness, but he simply can't deny himself the pleasure of watching it all collapse. When an entire civilization is built on a foundation of servitude, the only path to salvation is its downfall. The pen scratches, letters rushing across the pages like battle formations of dangerous insects… Sibyl offers the criminal Makishima Shougo a place within itself, and he agrees. It doesn’t take him long to convince his fellow minds in the collective consciousness to act as he needs them to. Japan — or rather, Sibyl — plunges into the inferno of global conflict, joining the wars that have already set the rest of the world ablaze. What follows is a war so monstrous that the World War II seems like a schoolyard brawl in comparison. Humanity learns best through pain. The World War II, in its time, granted the planet many years of peace, tolerance, and various liberal values. And now, after the dust settles on the Third, ignited by Sibyl, the survivors… understand many things, too. The global population has been reduced by a factor of a hundred thousand. Every human life is now fragile and precious. There are no more wars, and there won’t be — not for a very, very long time, perhaps ever. There is nothing left to destroy. The only thing left for humanity is to build. Every talent, every fragment of knowledge, is cherished. Sibyl is wiped out in the war, and Makishima-the-character perishes along with it. But Makishima-the-reader is pleased with what he sees. His conscience does not trouble him. It’s not about some bloody satisfaction against a world that treated him unfairly — that would be childish. He understands that many would call him a monster worse than Hitler, but the new civilization rising from the ashes of his war truly is kinder, wiser than the one before. Even Kogami would have admitted as much if he had lived to see it. He always took a little longer to move past notions of right and wrong, but in the end, he always acted the same way Makishima did. For a while, he admires the world he has created. And then, he erases it all. Every last word. Everything in Psycho-Pass returns to its proper place. Everything happens again. Humanity has built its brave new world. Sibylcontrols every detail of every life. A man with a psycho-pass as white as the first snowfall stages a hopeless but beautiful rebellion against the system. A man with a psycho-pass as dark as all the circles of hell is sent to hunt him down. They understand each other better than anyone else in the world, but one of them must die — there is no other way. Kogami pulls the trigger. Makishima dies on the roadside, golden fields swaying all around him. Everything unfolds as it was meant to. The man who is no longer Makishima Shougo accepts, with a quiet and gentle sorrow, that this story is best told exactly as it is.   *** The man (who still thought of himself as Makishima Shougo because he hadn’t yet decided on another name) returned to the dark wood a little earlier than planned. Or later — time had no real meaning here. In any case, it wasn’t the right moment. It was autumn again, but clearly not the same day (not the same year, not the same millennium?). The leaves were still clinging to the branches. The wind was strong. The forest was pale, draped in a veil of fine, relentless rain, sometimes flung into his face by the wind in sharp handfuls. He pulled a dark-covered book from under his arm and tore out a page. For a few seconds, he stared at it. Then he let it go. "I release you, Kogami Shinya," he said. "I no longer exist — forget my face, forget my name. Become someone else. The world is far bigger and more interesting than you think. Find a story that suits you. Farewell, Shinya. With love… and squalor." The wind caught the page, sent it tumbling to the ground. He watched it skitter and spin, as if it were a living thing, until it disappeared from sight. "Well," he sighed, "that’s that." Then he pulled out his own page and wrote: "The day L and I met in the library, between 7 and 8 in the morning."