Soulmate Stories

It was pretty outside; they were in what appeared to be a private garden, with a few other patients walking about. The others all had bodyguards in pristine suits that stood cold and professional behind their clients. Some even wore Arasaka suits. Most looked at our party with surprised, calculating eyes, but none dared approach.

The garden had real cherry blossom trees, the pink petals standing out in the manicured grass they were placed in. Everything was very orderly, with little pockets of rocks poking out of pristine white sand. There were bushes along the path, green and soft-looking, and the path itself was made of pristine, smoothed-over stones, each with exactly the right amount of white sand between them. There was a wooden fence with a twine rope running through it and a little stone fountain, sleek with running water cascading over the smooth stone.

Yorinobu walked with slow, purposeful steps, back straight, and expression frozen into stony silence. He had placed his hand in the crook of his elbow, marching him along as they went. For the first few moments, they walked in silence, taking in the scenery, stopping for a moment or two at times to appreciate a certain tree or one of the fountains. He didn’t see any rhyme or reason to where they stopped or why, but Yorinobu certainly didn’t seem to want to enlighten him.

Yorinobu’s other hand lay atop his own that was trapped, cold and dry. The contact was unappreciated, but he knew better than to try to free his hand. His other hung limply by his side, his back hunched, and his steps lazy. He thought in amusement how odd they must have looked, a complete dichotomy. Him in his white hospital wear, crumpled from use, slouched back, and sad face; Yorinobu in his pristine suit, straight back, and cold face. How very strange they must have seemed.

In the end, it was him who broke the silence that had fallen around the pair, too tired to deal with whatever game Yorinobu wished to play.

“My mother, when will her funeral be?” His voice was quiet and tired, it felt like he had to make a great effort for every word.

Yorinobu glanced at him briefly, studying his face, and then turned his eyes back to the path ahead of them.

“Within a month or two.” He had an accent, but it wasn’t grating to the ear; instead, it seemed to add flavor to every word he said.

He glanced up at Yorinobu this time but found his face had gone even colder than before, and he couldn't read a passing thought.

“Why so late?”

They stopped in front of a particularly vibrant cherry blossom tree, and Yorinobu studied it for a moment or two before responding. “You need time to adjust.”

“What will happen to me?” He couldn’t help but ask.

Yorinobu continued his perusal of the cherry blossom before answering, letting his question hang in what was quickly becoming an awkward silence.

“Do not worry, I will ensure you are taken care of. You shall stay at the Arasaka estates for a time and then with me more permanently.”
David reached up as he listened, staring at the cherry blossoms, and let a pink petal land gently on the tip of his finger. He couldn’t catch it, though; every time he tried, it just slipped off his finger, swirling lazily through the air to its death. One after the other.

After the fifth petal, Yorinobu tugged gently on the arm he had in his grasp, and he didn’t fight the pull. Later maybe, later he would fight all of this; he was too stubborn, hated authority too much. Now though, nothing mattered but the grief and its depths.

A few more steps, and Yorinobu continued.

“Our marriage shall be held in a year's time. It shall be a private affair, as much as such things can be kept private. You shall be permitted to continue attending Arasaka Academy in Tokyo if you so wish. If not, I shall hire private tutors to complete your education. You will not need to worry about much.” He paused for a second, as if contemplating. “I understand that this is a change to what you might have,” he pursed his lips as if searching for the right word, “expected in life, but I promise you that it is a good one. In time, you shall see that as well.”

After that, they did not speak and just continued their walk in silence. Soon after, Yorinobu stated he had to get back to work, patting his hand gently as if to wish him farewell, and soon after, he was returned back to his room. The Arasaka guards took up positions by his door. For a second, just one, he considered making a break for it. Considered just running and running until the sight of cherry blossoms was stricken from his memory and all he could see was the sunset. But then the apathy returned. He fell back on his bed with a resigned sigh and fell into a deep sleep as the man who he had learned was called Oda took up position by his bed, an ever-present guard both to protect him and ensure he could not escape.

It was a relief when the smothering darkness of sleep took him. The only comfort he seemed to have.

“Yes, Takemura.”

“It is nothing, Arasaka-sama.”

Yorinobu glanced up at him in careful study and then, with a dismissive motion, turned back to his monitor.

“You wonder what I think of the boy?”

Takemura stiffened marginally behind him but gave no other indication of his thoughts. So small that unless you had spent years with him, you would have missed it. Lucky for him, at least in this regard, he had spent years with Takemura.

He pulled up a file to read for his next meeting and started to briefly scan through it, pursing his lips in thought as he contemplated the question.

“He is young. It is… surprising just how young, and not only in age. Have you ever been to Night City, Takemura?”

For a few moments, Takemura did not answer, and he read about a particularly interesting proposal by one of their more innovative labs for a prototype smart link that would allow for a greater volume of data processing in a relatively similar time period compared to their current model. Though when reading the fine print of the study, there were fairly high rates of degradation compared to the other models and would require almost three times the maintenance costs.

“Only for brief periods and only in select areas, sir.”

He glanced up for a moment, but Takemura gave away no more clues for his emotional state. He signed off on further development and pulled up the next proposal covered in the meeting, something to do with developmental Dedicated Heuristic Controllers with sub-additional task designations that would be able to function on multiple objectives at the same time.

“Ah, with my father then.”

Takemura shifted once again, the only visible display of his discomfort with the topic at hand.

“Yes, sir.”

He took a moment to sign off on the form he was reading and then let out a sigh, taking the chance to rub his eyes before his next two meetings, held back-to-back.

“It is a cruel city. It ages you, and not in a good way, but the boy still has an innocence about him I would not expect from a resident.”

“He must have had a very loving mother,” Takemura commented, his voice thoughtful.

“Perhaps, but foolish.”

Takemura shifted one more time, this time in thought. “I suppose it matters little now.”

Yorinobu quirked his lips, something sadly fond in his expression.

“Yes, I suppose so.” Then, with another sigh, he turned back to his monitor, his face losing all emotion as he joined his meeting.

He did not move himself from the tight curl he kept himself in for the next few days, outside of the hour each day that Oda forced him up for a walk among the cherry blossoms. Before, he imagined that he would have been ignored, just another patient. Now though, when he walked down the hallway with a full Arasaka escort encircling him, people bowed. The nurses and doctors fell into a perfect ninety-degree angle, their faces pale as he passed. The other patients did as well, at least the ones with less expensive-looking clothes or fewer escorts. Some of the wealthier ones stared openly, calculation in their eyes and easy smiles on their lips.

Watching for any hint of weakness, any hint that might give them an advantage. Some even tried to approach, swaggering over to where he was admiring a cherry blossom or looking at the little droplets of water splattering from the little stone waterfalls, the only hint of disorder in the entire garden. They were quickly blocked from view by the men and women standing around him. Polite words on their lips, but dismissive and very clear nonetheless.

Oda didn't leave his side even as he lay in bed and drifted off into the ever-encompassing darkness of sleep each night.

He once found enough emotion to be curious, to ask how he rested, and Oda told him that he had chrome. He didn’t call it that, called it cyber-technological upgrades in the hypothalamus that allowed him to not need to sleep as much as an individual without such upgrades.

He wanted to ask more, but the grief was starting to swallow him up at that point, and he instead let the soft warmth of the sun caress him to sleep.

Within a few days, the doctor declared him healthy and hale. Soon after, he was shuffled out of the white room with its white walls into fresh air and an expensive-looking AV with four AVs surrounding it as his guards stood straight-backed and alert. Oda tapped just his fingers against the katana he liked to keep at his side as if he was ready to draw it at any passing shadow. Then Oda and he were sitting on black faux leather seats with red accents, the vehicle rising into the air. Even as apathetic to the world as he had become, being in an AV for the first time was exciting enough that he couldn’t help but stare out at the passing scenery, watching the world zoom past under him, an unfamiliar skyline reminding him that he was very far from home.

It was a brief ride, short and extremely well-guarded, then they were landing in a well-manicured courtyard that led on to what he later learned was a traditional shoin building. All gleaming wood and smooth white paper walls. Oda seemed to relax once they had landed, and he was guided out of the AV and into the large empty structure. It had attached buildings as well and was rather expansive, with fields and fields of freshwater ponds and woods and little stone paths, all exceptionally well guarded.

By flying robots and armed Arasaka guards, all with two express objectives: keep all unauthorized visitors out and him in.
He was led up the stairs to a smooth, empty bedroom with a mattress that sat snugly in the middle of the room with a white cherry blossom painting above and two lamps laid out symmetrically. He took very little time to observe the room, being shuffled into a large metal shower that gleamed with expensive-looking little square tiles. Oda stood outside as he washed, using soap that felt nicer than anything he ever touched and a razor that didn’t even catch on his skin. Then he grabbed a fluffy white robe that hung near the shower, dried himself off, and changed into silk pajamas that slid over his skin and hung off him like a particularly warm blanket. He curled up on the bed and fell back into sleep’s comfortable embrace soon after.

But before he did, a thrill of rage shot through him at the thought that he had just been treated as a child, unable to even dress himself. Still, that dark, dark blackness was calling, and he let it take him.

Oda stood silent sentinel over his prone form.

For the first two days, he was allowed to laze around, brought food by quiet servants, all expensive with real meat and rice, vegetables steamed lightly or tossed in unsalted wheat batter. After those days, however, he was dragged out of bed, given a tasteful cotton yukata, white with little red flowers that he didn’t know the name of nor cared to learn, and black branches. All the clothes after that were given in that style, either yukatas or kimonos or any other traditional clothing that they could find, all meant to be restrictive and uncomfortable, at least he thought so. He would later learn that the fabric was made to be constraining around his stomach to try to prevent him from slouching too much, due to a comment Yorinobu made after visiting him that first time.

Most were decorated with little cherry blossoms or red flowers with black vines, and all were white in color, something to symbolize something, though he never cared much to find out. He was given something called masa geta to wear on his feet when he was outside and soft slippers when he was in.

Maybe they didn’t want him to stew too much, maybe Oda just grew bored because very soon he was dragged out of bed and forced to go on walks around the expansive, manicured gardens much like the one at the hospital. Then, after that, men and women started coming in suits, fresh-pressed, an aged look on all their faces. They looked like what he imagined respected professors might, all pompous and refined-looking. They were assigned to teach him Kanji and Japanese and to continue his education. He also gained piano and poetry teachers, and it was even discussed about getting him a koto instructor, but it was decided that such things could wait until he was better adjusted.

He learned most of the gossip of the instructors and servants from Oda, who was free with his words and acted as a silent, ever-watchful shadow.

He would later learn that the family kept human servants for the express reason that they tended to be more expensive, and so having them on showed just how wealthy they were. What family that was left, that is. Most who lived on the estate were either very old or very young, and all avoided him like he was a cyberpsycho.

Quiet and meek and respectful whenever they did run into them. Oda said it was because they weren’t quite sure of him yet, and he was of a much higher position within the household than they were, all being distant relatives with little relation to Yorinobu. He asked why they lived here if that was the case, and Oda just looked at him for a moment in silence before stating that it was simply the way things were done. He didn’t ask more after that.

It was all very lonely, with really only Oda to talk to. Yorinobu did not live on the estate himself and was busy with whatever he got up to. Days passed, then weeks, then a month or two. He kept asking when he could see his mother, but all he ever got in return was that the funeral would happen soon and not to worry; Yorinobu was taking care of it.

He was forced to grow his hair out of the style he preferred, it being a bit too unorthodox for his station. The hair was trimmed by the silent, quick hands of one of the servants until it fell in soft waves, traditional, making him almost look feminine. He hated it, he hated all of it, and as the days passed and his grief subsided, his chest filled with rage. With spite and hate. For all of it. For what he had become.

Even his shard port, something his mother spent months saving up for to get him, was removed, exchanged for the newest Arasaka model, deep red with black lines as if someone had allowed a cherry blossom to bloom on his neck. He hated that too. He was given other modifications as well, all without his permission. All that would happen is one day he would wake up and be told that while he slept, he was put under and given something new.

First, a layer on his lungs and throat to help with his breathing. Then a cellular layer on his stomach to neutralize poisons. Fingers with increased dexterity to help him with instruments. Heart valves to help with his blood flow. Optical eyes that could see in the dark and zoom far into the distances. He was assured that it was all top of the line, unaffordable for all but the richest of corpos, all done by some of the most skilled surgeons in Japan. It didn’t matter. The first time he opened his eyes, pounding in his head, he tried to rip them out. He had to be physically restrained, and his lessons were canceled that day and for a few days after. The thing that finally stopped him was Oda taking him by his collar, staring him straight in the eye, and with real anger in his eyes, said to stop being so selfish. He almost lashed out right there, but then he thought of his mother and her soft smiles, and all the fight drained out of him.

He would have what was respectfully called tantrums, tearing up his room and the artwork and anything really he could get his hands on. Yet, no one ever stopped him, no one ever interfered unless he hurt himself. Seeing one of the servants, quiet and meek as the rest of them, on the floor after carefully picking up the little scattered shards of a vase he smashed, just drained all the fight out of him after.

He became snappish and rude but never violent, trying to get a rise out of anyone, but all people would do was agree with him or stand silent and statuesque as he ranted and raved and found every insult he could find. It is very hard to be an asshole when no one ever even reacts. It is very hard when all you feel like is a bully.

Oda’s disappointed eyes sucked any lingering bitter enjoyment out of it.

The only thing he wasn’t allowed to do was leave.

He tried once, despite knowing better, just threw his shoes off and put on the lightest yukata provided, and in the middle of the night, after requesting a glass of water from Oda who obeyed with knowing, disappointed eyes, he threw the screen door open and just started running, running and running until trees were whipping by and he was breathing hard, big panting breaths.

It was pointless. As he came in sight of the high-backed fence that was the last line of defense for the compound, men in dark Arasaka suits designed to allow for ease of movement and bulletproof from everything but a submachine appeared almost from thin air around him.

The worst thing was that they didn’t even hurt him. He tried to fight, of course he tried to fight, but within seconds he was on the ground, panting heavily as two men held him in a constricting yet gentle grip. Oda appeared a moment later, materializing from the dark trees as if he was a demon appearing to make a deal with a foolish idiot. His eyes were calculating.

He realized in that moment that Oda had never even lost sight of him. It made this little pit in his stomach expand until it felt like it was consuming him.

They didn’t even give him a bruise as they dragged him back to his room. The servants still awake had cold faces and downcast eyes, and the other guards didn’t even look up from their positions, but he felt shame regardless. He would realize the reason they didn’t just tranquilize him in the beginning was to drag him back, to show him how powerless he was, how truly hopeless.

He didn’t try to run after that. Even as idiotic and impulsive as he could be, he knew better than that. He even tried to butter them up, let their guard down, but Oda was one of the best; they all were in the industry, and all just looked at him with cold, respectful eyes, watchful for any threats to him that might suddenly appear.

His life became one of routine, waking up in the morning as the birds, real and carefully bred, sang. He would wash and dress in clothes he could never have dreamed of even looking at only a few months ago. He was served a breakfast of real rice and salmon, sometimes eggs with steamed vegetables and real miso soup. He attended poetry, piano, and then after two months, koto lessons. Lunch with real chicken or beef or pork with rice and some kind of pickled vegetable or steamed, with miso soup served on the side. Then lessons in his academy classes, calculus and philosophy and communications. Then dinner, more Japanese dishes, all with real ingredients that must have cost a fortune to grow. A walk in the gardens for an hour, then lessons in Kanji, Japanese, and calligraphy with fake ink, the only synthetic product given to him and only because he was just beginning to learn. Then he was taught to wash the brushes, and then late at night, he would be given additional lessons in how to run a traditional tea ceremony. When the moon was full in the sky and midnight was approaching, he was permitted to sleep, waking up and doing it all again the next morning.

It made one day fall into another, and outside of his frequent bouts of anger, a permanent state of exhaustion fell over him. Oda was the only one he had any real conversation with, and even that was rare. He still asked after his mother, but the response remained the same.

After five months of this, as he was starting to really settle into his role because as much as he tried to fight it, humans are adaptive creatures, and he had become forced to adapt. That’s when Yorinobu decided to visit.

It was Friday, though he could barely tell anymore, days having lost their meaning outside of the brief respite during Sunday afternoon when he was given time to take to himself. Given access to classical books like "Rashomon" or "No Longer Human." Things supposedly meant to relax him and provide enjoyment. He usually just slept through the time.

But it was Friday, and like most days, it had been exhausting. His fingers cracked and creaked from long hours spent over two instruments he could barely play. His back was stiff from time spent sitting on the ground. No matter what position he tried to maneuver into, after a while his legs would go numb and discomfort would be brought on.

A particularly dense lesson on third derivatives made him numbly meander his way to the dining room he was forced to use for dinner, despite it feeling so very cold.

When he slid the screen door open, smooth and well-oiled, he didn’t even see Yorinobu at first, sitting with one of those little wooden tables set up opposite his usual cushion. He just stumbled over the smell of food, eyes downcast and shoulders slumped, Oda as always right on his heels.

It wasn’t until he was sitting down, using chopsticks as awkwardly as he usually did, still unfamiliar with the instruments, stuffing rice into his mouth like a starving hound that he glanced up and saw the man sitting before him, watching him closely. His chopsticks froze halfway to his mouth, the rice clutched in them falling messily onto his lap. For a moment or two, he just stared and stared and stared. Yorinobu was in what he had learned was a masculine yukata, all black with something called a haori over it, though most names tended to confuse him more than anything. He looked straight out of a period drama, and he had to wonder once again why the man insisted on traditional dress when in the estate, as he had learned. All anyone would tell him was that it had to do with his father.

Yorinobu’s face was still stony and grim, his lips pursed in thought.

He looked down at his lap, wincing slightly at the wasted food, but the last time he had tried to eat food he dropped, Oda had grabbed the meal from his hands and forced him to watch as he threw the whole thing in a trash bin. After that, he had learned not to let food drop, well almost learned. It helped that his study of his lap brought his eyes away from Yorinobu’s cold, intense stare.

It lasted for a minute or two until Yorinobu did something surprising. He sighed.

He glanced up at that, seeing real emotion on the man's face for the first time, though it was gone so quickly he couldn’t make it out.

“You eat as if you are being starved.”

He frowned at the older man, slightly insulted. “Well, I wouldn’t be so fucking hungry if you fed me properly.”

There was the click of teeth behind him, a clear show of Oda’s discontent with his language, but in that moment, he couldn’t give two fucks.

“If you wish for more food, you just need to ask.” It was chastisement, as if he was a child. He just frowned harder.

“When? Between my first fucking twenty lessons of the day or at my hundredth?”

Yorinobu did not react to his angry tone, just took an elegant bite of his own meal, katsu with rice, pickled daikon, and cabbage salad. Once he had finished chewing, looking more like an artist playing a role than a human, he looked up, his eyes still cold.

“Those are for your own good.” It was a declaration. His tone stated that they were done discussing the matter.

David debated arguing long on the matter, on needling in, but the last few months had taught him that being needlessly antagonizing got him nothing but disappointed or pitying gazes and failure. So, he grit his teeth and swallowed down the acid he wanted to spew at the man.

“My mother, I want to see her.”

Yorinobu studied him for a moment, looking for what he couldn’t tell, until he took another bite of his meal, chewing for a long moment.

“That is why I am here.”

He finally turned to Yorinobu with a question in his eyes, but Yorinobu, like the complete asshole he was, took another slow bite of his food.

“Her funeral is this Sunday.”

David couldn’t help himself. He lunged, his vision turning red, his hands outstretched to do something, claw and tear and hurt.

“YOU BASTARD!”

He shouted, bottled-up rage in his voice as his plates and dishes crashed to the floor, the table violently pushed aside. Before he could even graze Yorinobu, he was on the floor, Oda holding him firm but gentle, meant to constrain but not injure. He writhed for a moment or two, trying to fight his way out as Yorinobu, like the complete fucktard he was, continued to eat his meal, his cold, assessing eyes never leaving David's face even as he elegantly brought up one bite and then the next. After David was left panting on the floor, a sheen of sweat on his face and hate in his eyes, Yorinobu continued as if nothing at all had happened.

“We shall go together. It shall be a quiet affair intended for family only. She shall be buried in the Arasaka family grave. Despite not being of our lineage, I thought it appropriate. You,” and at this, his voice turned to one of cold command, tightening around David like a muzzle, “shall act in a respectful manner. I will not have you shaming this family because you cannot control your emotions. If need be, I will allow the administration of a hormonal regulator. Is that understood?”

David went to growl, to bare his teeth and scream his rage, but the pressure on his back and Yorinobu's cold, hard eyes made him think twice, think better. So, despite feeling like he was swallowing battery acid, he grit his teeth until it felt like they were powder but forced out a bitter, “Yes.”

Yorinobu did not smile, simply nodded his head as if the answer was obvious, and waved for Oda to release him. Then, a moment later, new food was brought in, and the spilled food was cleaned up as if nothing ever happened.

“Eat,” Yorinobu ordered, and David did.

The worst thing was that Yorinobu didn’t even look smug about it. He just looked as if what naturally should have occurred did, and there was no use commenting about it one way or the other.

That was the worst part.

“I do not have the focus to watch you stew, Takemura. Out with it.”

“Sir. I did not mean to distract you.”

Yorinobu glanced up from his datapad, rejecting a datashard advertising proposal based around natural themes. Such things had grown old, and most of the main demographic for such shards would find them unappealing from such themes.

He placed it down on the side of his nightstand, standing as he did so to get a glass of whisky, something he could sip without feeling the impulse to chug down.

“Well, you have, and I do not have the patience to ask a third time.” His glass, real crystal with fine interwoven branches carefully raised on its surface. He placed one ice cube and then another. They clicked together with a satisfying little sound, and he felt himself finally start to relax.

“Sir. Today, you reminded me of your father.”

He glanced up, studying the cyborg’s face with careful eyes, pursing his lips slightly as he took a sip of the smooth liquid. “How so?”

Takemura shifted, straightening his spine. “Sir. With the boy earlier today, you were stern.”

He snorted a little, the sound breaking through the professional air he tried so hard to maintain throughout the day. “Stern? The idiot lunged for me.”

He took another sip, enjoying as his muscles relaxed at the familiar burn down his throat. “You have entrapped him here in an unfamiliar environment and taken all possible choices from his hands. Then you tell him that even his own mother's funeral arrangements have been taken from him. It is understandable why he would be upset.”

Yorinobu raised one finely tailored eyebrow, amused.

“This is unlike you, Takemura. An actual criticism? You disapprove?”

Takemura did not react to his veiled question, simply settled in the corner by his bed where he liked to maintain a watch as he slept. “No, sir. How you handle the boy is yours to decide. I simply wished to share my opinion of the situation.”

Yorinobu let the brown liquid swirl once, twice in his glass before swallowing it with one large gulp, placing the crystal gently down on the table and falling back on the couch laid in the room, his head resting on his arm a moment later and his eyes drifting closed. His bed was cold and untouched.

“I thank you for your opinion, but I believe I will continue with my current course for the boy,” he mumbled, already drifting off to sleep, yet he knew that Takemura heard him anyway.

The cyborg’s eyes were ever watchful and assessing.