Within The Void

[OFFICIAL LOGBOOK ENTRY] Date: October 10, 1997. Location: Tokyo, Sanya. Note: 3 years after the injury.

      The methodical knocking on the cutting board. Dry, abrupt. Devoid of all fuss. Not sharp, not loud, but its echo resonated in the kitchen's silence. Like a series of short shots. Every movement – a calculated strike, brought to automatism. The blade easily sank into the onion, and the handle met the wood of the board with a dull thud. A pause. The knife swept across the board, tipping the onion into a bowl. Rings, perfectly identical, fall in a heap. Then the carrot goes into action. The same rhythm. The same impeccable cutting angle.

"...quietly…"

      In the man's hands, the knife moved not with force – but with precision. He didn't saw, didn't crush the pulp. His hands moved as if dancing. His gaze, however, remained both empty and focused at the same time. The man looked at the vegetable, but… saw something else. The past, lined up in ranks, where every step was regulated, and disorder was equated with death.

"...unusually quiet…"

      The silence continued to press. Even the knocking of the knife didn't resonate in his consciousness, didn't break the inner silence. It didn't fill the void – it emphasized it, beating the rhythm of loneliness. A strike. Another. Like nails being hammered into the coffin lid of this day. This life. Everything is even. Everything is measured. Everything is hopeless.

"...tomorrow… the same thing…"

      The old, worn-enamel pot filled with vegetables, and water on top. The fire beneath it ignited with a quiet click. Only it could, even a little, fill the inner silence with its steady, low sound. The man didn't sit down to wait. He stood by the window, looking at his reflection in the glass. Or through it. He didn't fully understand himself.

"...everyone is going somewhere…"

      His posture held neither calm, nor relaxation, nor even tension. A stance "at ease," familiar to his muscles. In his eyes – emptiness. Darker and deeper than outside. Without even a hint of domestic coziness.

"...and I… here?..."

      This kitchen – his guard post. This dinner – his duty. Just another small task. Just another perfectly executed item. Just another day devoid of meaning.       The smell of boiled vegetables, simple and joyless, slowly filled the room. The smell of survival, but not of home. Soon the man would eat. Just as silently. Just as methodically. Then he would wash the dishes, put everything in its place, wipe the countertop clean. And again he would be left alone with the silence, the gloom, and the perfect order, which reminded him of discipline but could no longer fill the void inside.       He slowly looked around the kitchen, but didn't see the room in it. Only an object. Every item stood here with centimeter precision. The handle on the cabinet door parallel to the edge of the countertop. Three jars of cereals lined up in a straight line. The corner of the towel aligned with the corner of the oven door. Not a speck of dust. Not a single photograph, trinket, carelessly discarded item. Not a hint of life. Only bare functionality, subordinate to an unwritten code.

"...barracks…"

      The man reached out. Adjusted a mug, shifted by a millimeter. In the light of the bulb, a pale, uneven scar on his forearm flashed. An old mark, of which there were many on his body. The mind tried to forget. The body – never. His shoulder ached when the weather changed. His knee – when the pressure shifted.

"...tired…"

      From the window came the muffled hum of the city, someone's laughter, a dog's bark. The sound of life…

"...life?..."

…But it barely seeped into the apartment. It shattered against the glass, as if against armor. His eardrums perceived it, but didn't transmit it further to the brain.       The air in the apartment smelled of sterile cleanliness, metal, and… loneliness. The smell of the almost-ready food seemed alien here, almost offensive.       The man approached the sink. Water, hitting the metal, responded with a deafening roar in the silence. He was finishing cleaning. His movements remained economical, rational. Every muscle was subordinated to the goal – to eliminate traces of presence, to return the system to its flawless equilibrium. Rinse. Wipe dry. Procedure. When everything was finished, the man froze in the middle of the kitchen. Readiness…

"...what am I waiting for?..."

      The apartment filled with darkness. Even the light of the bulb no longer diluted it.       A sharp, short car horn outside. Just a signal. Nothing special. But in his mind, he already heard the click of a cocked hammer. And the world vanished for a moment.       Sand. Scorching, fine, omnipresent. It clogged his ears, gritted on his teeth. The sky – gray from smoke, heat. "Private, hold the flank!" – someone's voice. Almost a shout, cutting through the hum and wind. The commander's voice. The backs of comrades. One – young, red-haired – suddenly drops sharply to his knee, as if stumbling. Only he doesn't get up. He topples over sideways. Falls. The sand beneath him turns red. A dark, thick stain spreads under his body. No scream. No noise. Silence. Deafening, louder than any explosion. And the smell. The coppery, sweetish smell of blood, mixed with gunpowder and dust. A smell that never fades.       Headlights flashed outside the window. For a second. Less. A bright flash, sliding across the room for an instant. Almost imperceptible, but tearing him out of the memories. But the man wasn't remembering. He was seeing. Right there, on the perfectly clean kitchen surfaces that reflected the dim bulb's light. He blinked. His palm involuntarily clenched into a fist, feeling for a non-existent rifle. The taste of sand and metal appeared in his mouth again. His heart froze for a moment, then began to beat faster. Dully and heavily pounding in his temples. "...I am here…"       He took a slow, controlled breath. Tried to catch the rhythm. Listened. The steady hum outside. A burst of automatic gunfire in his head. The sound of the past wasn't drowned out by anything. It always lived inside. From "then," continuing "today" and stretching into the distant "tomorrow."       The man turned and looked at his empty, impeccable apartment. Everything in its place. Everything under control.

"...control – just an illusion?..."

      The only thing that remained truly real was the taste of iron on his tongue and the quiet echo in his ears. An echo only he could hear. He took a step forward. Heavy but sharp, almost convulsive. As if trying to shake off the numbness. Walked into the other room. Just as sterile a non-room. Further – past the sofa, covered with a strictly made bedspread without a single crease. Past the coffee table with a book on it. It lay exactly in the center, corner to corner.

"...everything is correct…"

      The equally empty bedroom. He approached the wardrobe. Silently opened the door. Inside – three identical dark shirts, two pairs of trousers. Nothing extra. Not clothes – a uniform. His fingers automatically grasped the edge of his t-shirt, folded it into a neat packet, and put it away in the wardrobe. He took out one of the shirts. Buttoned it. Top to bottom. Quickly, without hitches or mistakes.

"...and everything is wrong…"

      Back past the sofa and the coffee table. Past the kitchen entrance. To the hallway. To the apartment exit.

"...quiet… so unpleasantly quiet…"

      He put on his jacket. Heavy, old. In the pocket, he found a stray crumb of tobacco. He froze for a second, rolling it in his fingers.

"...and there's no one to tell that everything is 'wrong'..."

      The kitchen again. The trash bin in the corner. The man sharply flicked the crumb into it. Because life is what seeps through the cracks. It's the dust on an imperfectly polished floor. It's a cobweb in the corner under the ceiling. It's the smells that linger on the home textiles. He removed the small crumb. Not onto the floor. Into the bin. Because minor disorder is part of life. He no longer had a life.

"...without an order… without a framework… what for then?..."

      The hallway again. Heavy boots. The keys lay on a metal ashtray by the entrance. Exactly in the middle. He took them. The sound of metal on metal. The only loud sound he made voluntarily.

"...go out…"

      His hand rested on the door handle. Cold metal.

"...metal everywhere…"

      Turning the key in the lock. The door opened with a quiet creak. An irritating sound, but the man couldn't find the cause. No matter how much he tried to lubricate the hinges, the creak remained. The door slammed shut. "...go out, but where?..."       He didn't know where he was going. Just forward. Just down the street, just so as not to remain in that perfect, oppressive silence. He couldn't anymore. The silence had become a punishment. The absence not only of sound but also of meaning. A reminder of a reality in which he no longer had a place. Not on the street, not in the house-barracks. Only function. Only order. "...don't care where… just… forward…"       The city after the rain. Asphalt – a black mirror, swallowing the blurred reflections of streetlights and distorted shadows. The air heavy and damp. Smelled of cooled concrete and wet leaves. The man walked. Step – sixty centimeters. Torso slightly inclined forward, as if against the wind. The trees weren't swaying.

"...one… two… one… two…"

      People. Blurred figures emerging from the fog and dissolving in it. Strangers. Alive. A couple opposite. The girl was laughing, covering her mouth with her hand. The guy next to her had his hands in his pockets. He was smiling. His lips moved occasionally. He was telling her something, and she laughed even harder. Her boots – bright red, light. Not for the season. Impractical. Vulnerable. A risk.

"...shoelaces are untied…"

      A man in a business suit was talking on the phone, gesticulating. Voice loud, pushy. Pretending to power. The left lapel of his jacket was bent. The handkerchief in his breast pocket was blue. Incongruity. Sloppiness.

"...we would have been punished for that…"

      A group of young people. A loud argument. One was insisting on his point, jabbing his finger in the air. His posture was aggressive, but his stance was unconfident, his weight distributed incorrectly. Easily knocked off balance.

"...noise without strength…"

      The man walked on. Just forward. Unconsciously analyzing the people around him, as he would analyze terrain. Targets, routes, threats, vulnerabilities. They were alive, noisy.

"...unpredictable…"

      But even in their chaos, there was its own logic. Inaccessible to him. He observed them like alien beings. A cold, detached interest. They breathe. They feel. He – just functions. Doesn't live. Not anymore. His life remained in the distant past. Hidden in memory, like a terrible dream one wants to forget. But he didn't want to forget. No one asked what he wanted.       Further down the street. To where… just "there." Without a specific destination. Analyzing people. Analyzing their behavior. Analyzing their appearance. Analysis. Analysis. Analysis… His gaze stumbled upon an old man. He was trying to lift a heavy wheeled bag out of a puddle. His hands were shaking, his back bent. The bag had fallen on its side. Before his eyes, the young guy again. Again falling sideways. Again blood on the sand.       Something clicked inside. Not sympathy. Not pity. An order. The object requires assistance. A weak link on the route.

"...eliminate the problem…"

      He approached, without speeding up his pace. "May I?" – his voice even, without intonation. Almost not even a question. He wasn't waiting for an answer. His hands grabbed the bag's handle. In one motion, set it on the sidewalk, checked its stability. Water dripped from the plastic onto his boot. The old man muttered thanks. His eyes grew moist from embarrassment or relief. The man didn't listen, didn't look. Fixed the object's condition. Vertical position, stable. No threat.

"...mission accomplished…"

      He nodded. Stiffly, militarily. Wiped the drop of water from his boot and continued on his way. He had helped. But hadn't become closer. Hadn't become part of this world. Remained an external observer who had only intervened temporarily to restore order. And now was again going nowhere. On the wet asphalt, in which the city was reflected. He didn't remember how long he walked. Or if he was walking at all. Only blurred pictures remained in his consciousness. Not movement. A sharp relocation. His legs brought him on their own to a blue neon hieroglyph, flickering in an alley. A heavy wooden door. Inside, it smelled of smoke, old wood, and something else. Sharp, clean, but alien.

"...have a drink…"

      The bar was small, dark. The man sat down at the counter. Back to the wall. View of the entrance. "Shochu. And ice," he ordered, without looking at the menu. His voice sounded slightly hoarse. Unused to speaking. While waiting, he studied his reflection in the polished counter. His own, and that of three men in the corner. They were loud. Too loud. One was large, with a scar across his eyebrow. He was gesticulating, telling something. Another, skinny, with a sly grin, was nodding. The third was silent. Just drinking, but his eyes scanned the room. Attentively and quickly. "...a familiar gaze… do I look like that?..."       Threat assessment – low. A noisy, disorganized group. Unpredictable, but not dangerous. "...they look like my comrades…"       The bartender placed a thick glass in front of the man. The clear liquid inside swayed. The first sip. Fire ran down his throat. Pure, merciless, washing away the dust of today. Of yesterday. Of all the days. The man didn't blink. Closed his eyes for an instant, dissolving in that sensation. Warmth spread through his empty stomach. Another sip. The sensation deeper, sharper.       His gaze caught on the group nearby again. The skinny one said something, and the large one burst out laughing. Loudly, openly, throwing his head back. The sound was rough. Genuine. Not laughter for laughter's sake. Something that erupts from the depths when a person isn't afraid of being heard.       And he listened. Didn't analyze. Just listened. And the silence inside, which had become a second skin, for the first time didn't protest against it. It, too, seemed to be listening.       The large guy suddenly turned. "...felt the gaze?..." "Hey, samurai!" he shouted. – "Why you sitting alone like a ghost? Come over, let's have a drink!"       The man didn't answer. Didn't move. Not immediately. Just looked. They were everything he had lost. Noise. Disorder. Familiarity. And in their eyes, there wasn't the emptiness that was in his. Something burned there. Rough. Partly ugly. But alive. Like his did when surrounded by the sounds of gunfire and the smell of blood. He slowly raised his glass. Rose himself. Moved closer. Because… just "because." Without a reason. Or because looking at them, he remembered his artificial comfort. Because for a moment the world regained its colors. Because…       The skinny guy said something, and everyone laughed. The laughter was loud, uneven. Alive. The man also smiled involuntarily. Barely noticeably, but he smiled. At the joke. At their energy. Because at that moment, in the very center of the silence that lived inside him, something shifted. A sensation. As if ice that hadn't melted for years cracked for an instant. Yielded to the onslaught of alien, unfamiliar warmth.       The silence didn't leave. It became deeper. Heavier. But for the first time in many years, it ceased to be absolute. Inside, the echo of someone else's rough laughter sounded. And in that, there was something painfully familiar. Something he had long forgotten. "My name's Omoshiro Zen," the large one clapped the man on the shoulder. His hand was heavy, but the gesture held no aggression. – "This is Yamada Yoji," – he nodded at the skinny one. – "And Yamamoto Taro," – a glance at the silent one. – "And you?"       The man took a sip of shochu. A pause to collect himself. "Gisei Itami," his voice sounded uncertain. As if the man hadn't introduced himself to anyone in a long time and was no longer sure that was indeed his name. "Gisei-san…" Yoji repeated, swirling his glass. – "You… don't look like the regulars here. Your back is too straight… your gaze…" – he didn't continue. It wasn't necessary. Everyone understood. "Retired military," Itami briefly explained. He wasn't expecting a response. It wasn't required. Just a statement of fact. Like hair or eye color.       Before his eyes, the sky gray with smoke again. Behind him – the barracks. Next to him, many guys. Young and old. Some talking among themselves, laughing. Some smoking off to the side. Some just drinking something from tin mugs in silence.       A sudden rumble. Growing, approaching. Not a sound. A pressure, pulling him to the ground even before understanding what was happening. His ears pop. The air thickens. An explosion. Not a sound. Again, damn it, not a sound. An impact. First – a white, blinding flash. One that burns the retina. Then – absolute darkness. And only later, with a delay, comes the wave. It lifts, throws him like a splinter. Bodies. No longer people. Bodies. Some are flung aside. Others – upwards. Someone falls, trying to stand on legs that are no longer there. Someone no longer moves. In his mouth – the taste of iron and ash. In his nose – the acrid, nauseatingly sweet smell of scorched flesh. Around – silence. Deaf, cottony. Oppressive. Inside his skull, a deafening ring. A high-frequency white noise, filling everything. It displaces thoughts. Burns out fear. It – is the only thing that exists. The man lies. Can't move. Can't scream. He just looks. At the wreckage, at the pieces. Pieces of people. A hand lying in the dust. The fingers still clutching a mug. A little further – what was once a head. "I understand," Taro said quietly, pulling Itami out of the memories. His voice was low and calm.       The man looked at him. Directly. In the eyes. Something inside clicked again. Taro didn't just dilute the silence. He truly understood. "...is he the same?... was I right?..." "You understand?" – Itami didn't believe it. Didn't want to believe that someone else had been through his pain. Understood that he wasn't special. That there could be many people with broken fates around. But desperately refused to believe it. "Many here have broken fates, Gisei-san," Zen poured him more shochu from his bottle. A gesture of brotherhood. – "My business went under. My lover left me because of it, the bitch… Only I and the debts remained. Yoji…" – the man laughed, – "...was always on a slippery slope. And Taro…" – he fell silent, glancing at his friend. "I was military too. In the past. Lost something important there…" – Taro fell silent for a few moments. Took a large gulp from his glass. – "You understand yourself what I'm talking about," he lowered his glassy eyes. Itami nodded in agreement. "The point is…" Zen continued, – "...that we all walked in circles here. Like ghosts. Until we realized – there's nothing to wait for. And no one. No one is coming, nothing will fix itself. The world wasn't waiting for you, and it isn't waiting. You know what we decided?"       Itami silently looked at him, letting him continue. The ice in the glass was quietly melting. A drop of moisture slowly slid down the matte surface, leaving a dark trail behind. "...nothing to wait for…"       The words echoed in his mind. Not in Zen's voice. The echo came from another room. White, smelling of medicine with an aftertaste of death.       The man lies on a bed. His body – alien, heavy, pierced with tubes, wires and… pain. In his ears – that same, never entirely fading, ring. The white noise left after the explosion. He turns his head towards the door, looks at the man in uniform. An official. His face – a mask of polite indifference. He places a folder on the bedside table. Expresses meager, dry condolences and says something about a pension. Evenly, without intonation. "We regret the loss of your health." Not "we regret that you were left crippled." Not "sorry we didn't protect you." Loss of health. The man tries to say something. To ask. About his comrades. About what happens next. His throat is tight. The ringing in his ears intensifies, drowning out everything except the official's voice. He picks up the folder. His gaze slides over the printed lines, the numbers. The sum of the payments. A laughably small sum of the payments he is entitled to.

"...nothing to wait for…"

"We decided that enough is enough. Enough waiting for someone to pay attention to us. Enough losing. Understand?" – Zen continued, peering into Itami's almost empty gaze. – "If the world doesn't give you a place… you… take it yourself. By force. By wit. By cohesion."       Quiet music played in the bar. Laughter came from other tables, but here, in their corner, a tense silence hung. Itami felt drops of moisture under his fingers. "Suppose…" – the man finally spoke. – "What are you getting at?" "Don't you want to get back in the ranks? The real ones? We need people like you," Zen poured more drink into Itami's glass, leaning slightly forward. Closer. – "Think about it, samurai. I'm not promising an easy life, but… it will have meaning."