Surrogate

Rated E10+ Ten and Up

An old man sits at a table on his back porch. The early morning sun illuminates the empty pages of his journal with a cool, blue hue. He takes a deep breath and looks out to the river a ways down. A flat smile bunches up above his scruffy chin. He rolls up his sweater sleeves and picks up his pencil.

“Hello there, journal,” he writes. “I think I’ll call you Jānaru. This is the first time I’ve ever done something like this, but Dr. Kelly says it would be good for me to journal.

“My name is Satoshi Hamada. I was a janitor at one of the American branches for Warrior Medium Services. It’s an honor to meet you, Jānaru. You can call me Satoshi if you’d like, no need for honorifics. In all my years, I’ve come to miss the informalities of youth. But I don’t mind if you’d rather call me Mr. Hamada. I understand how it might feel strange. Most of the kids back in Japan would just call me ‘gramps’ or ‘grandpa’ anyway.”

Mr. Hamada sketches a little character sporting his same dark hair and glasses laughing in the right margin. He smirks at the drawing.

“I used to work in one of the Japanese branches, in Saitama, as a tactician of sorts. I would plan missions for the newbies and things like that. I wasn’t a commander or anything, small time work. I loved those kids though. Very strong and brave. Most people don’t know, and will likely never know, how hard they work to protect our sense of a normal life. One day, I hope this world can be revealed to the public. I doubt I’ll live to see it but, hey. That’s life I suppose.

“My daughter, Aki, was a Warrior Medium in Saitama. A damn good one, too. I only--”

Mr. Hamada stops writing. His breath begins to shake. He sets the pencil down and wipes his eyes with a sniffle. Eyes still moist, Mr. Hamada clears his throat. Picks up the pencil. Erases the last couple sentences. He continues from “that’s life I suppose”.

“When you work at a WMS base, you can relocate to any other branch around the world at the end of a contract term. I chose to leave Japan after Aki’s last mission.”

Mr. Hamada gets up, coughing into the pit of his balled fist. He slides open the glass door leading back into his quaint Lansing cottage. A robin floats down onto the table. It hops about, pecking once at Mr. Hamada’s pencil before flying off at the sound of the sliding glass door opening. The old man returns to the table, wielding a steaming cup of coffee. He takes a sip. Too hot. Picks up the pencil.

“New York is beautiful. Not just the city, but the country as well. The branch I moved to was located in Manhattan, a place I’d seen in movies, whose magic I only felt once I arrived. It really was how I’d always imagined. Though I think I’m still partial toward Tokyo. Perhaps just nostalgia.

“I applied to be a janitor even though I could have easily gotten my old job or better. Truthfully, I didn’t want to get attached to the kids like I was back in Saitama. I’d had enough heartache for one lifetime. The universe seemed to have other plans.”

Another chibi version of himself manifests at the bottom of the page. He’s strung up like a punching bag as a tiny Milky Way with disembodied gloves and shoes lays into him. Next page.

“There was a young lady who was scheduled for status evaluation a little less than an hour after I’d made my way to the east side bathrooms. She’d arrive almost always an hour early. Her name was Nayla. Light brown hair, dark green eyes. Seemed to be in her early twenties. Around the same age as Aki when she was killed.”

Mr. Hamada freezes. Erases that last part.

“...when she died.”

He takes another sip of his coffee.

“Nayla was beautiful in the way that a fox is intelligent. Natural, pure. Her smile was kind even when the fear still lingered in her eyes. I was quite familiar with the look. So many of the new recruits would return from their first few missions with it. It is true when they say that nothing you experience during training or pre-field courses can prepare you for a true encounter with the supernatural evils of this world.

“Nayla was no different. So one day, I couldn’t help but approach her as she sat in the waiting room with her hands in her lap. She stared at her twiddling thumbs, in a trance (I assumed) because she was rather startled when I greeted her. My accent wasn’t as strong at this point so I’m sure she understood me (or at least pretended to).

“‘Oh!,’ she said. ‘Hello, sir.’

“She was very polite. I stood under the threshold of the very accommodating and homestyle waiting room and introduced myself. That’s when she told me her name. I asked her what year she was, and I remember her hesitating at first.

“‘Um, third year.’ She nodded and looked away.

“‘Third year?” I said with wide eyes. “Wow. They take more care of you kids here in America than in Japan, wow.’

“I remember her tilting her head and asking if I’d worked at WMS before. I told her all about how I used to plan missions for recruits back in Saitama and how I moved here. Her face lit up like she’d just found buried treasure.

“‘I would’ve never guessed,’ she said. ‘Why are you a janitor then? They should’ve given you your old job or something similar when you moved.’

“‘Yes, yes.’ I turned to check if anyone was coming down the halls. ‘They offered it to me, but I said no.’

“‘Why is that?’

“I think I lied to her then. Something about wanting to start fresh, something I would never say. To be honest, I don’t think it made much sense, but she was respectful. I asked her if every third year has to do status evaluations, and she timidly explained how she’s a special case since her first year was so traumatic. Aki was the same way. In Japan, however, they didn’t usually make exceptions like this. There just wasn’t enough time.”

Mr. Hamada stares at the sentence. He takes a sip of his now lukewarm coffee. It is a bit chilly outside for early autumn.

“We chatted for a bit longer,” he continues, “About her teammates: two boys who care very much for her even if they can be irritating. She asked me if the Warrior Mediums here are anything like the ones back in Japan, but I wasn’t able to fully answer before she was called in. She said goodbye to me like it wouldn’t be the last time. And it wasn’t.

“The next time I saw her, it was the same type of situation. This time, however, she noticed me. Her face lit up and her posture straightened like a rabbit at the sound of a crunching leaf.

“‘Hi, Mr. Hamada!’ she called with a grin.

“‘Oh, hi!’ I said. ‘Another evaluation?’

“Her sigh came with a chuckle. ‘Yeah. They really help though. Dr. Yelling, she’s great. I love her.’

“‘That’s excellent. So she doesn’t yell too often, huh?’

“‘Ha-ha, no. No, she’s great.’

“I’m sure Nayla was only laughing to make me feel better, but it was very respectful. I thought it was pretty funny though.”

Mr. Hamada proceeds to fill the rest of the page with a drawing of two young men standing back-to-back. In one’s hand is a sword with lighting arcing along the blade. The other wields a pair of oversized steel gloves. Both are dressed in what appears to be armored school uniforms.

“This time, our chat was cut short by those teammates I’d heard so much about. The tall, dark skinned one was Rock. He was so cool with his lightning katana. A star pendant hung by a chain at the pommel. The other was Herbie, a blondie with a roguish attitude. He wore a bandana and was always smiling. Nayla told me he fought with giant metal fists.

“‘Excuse me, sir,’ said Rock, putting a strong hand on my shoulder. ‘Sorry to interrupt. Nayla, let’s go.’

“‘What’s going on?’ She checked her mobile phone. ‘I have a status evaluation in like thirty minutes.’

“‘Pique says they need us in Brooklyn. Someone woke up the ghosts in Green-Wood.’

“Nayla stood, head bobbling slowly. ‘Ugh! Again?’

“‘Look, she’s already whining,’ Herbie chimed in. ‘Hey. Come on, Nayl. Chop chop.’

“‘Do me a favor, Herb.’ Nayla pointed a finger in Herbie’s face then pinched across her lips. ‘Zip it. See ya later, Mr. Hamada!’

“Rock turned to me for a handshake. ‘It was nice meeting you, sir. I’m Rock.’

“He had a good handshake. Even a blind man could tell how strong he was even just by the sound of his voice. Herbie joined the other two down the hallway waving back at me.

“‘Later, Gramps,’ he said. Nayla reached over and flicked him in the back of the head. I couldn't help but beam from ear to ear when I heard that. Seeing them together was surreal. It was like being inside a memory. So clear. It had been years since I last saw a team off. Only later did I have the thought, This wasn’t part of the job description.”

Mr. Hamada chortles to himself.

“I found myself worrying about them. Nayla hadn’t shown up for what I assumed was a weekly evaluation, and the worst case scenario began to consume my thoughts. That’s about when I started to catch myself. Remind myself of why I took this job. This was exactly what I was trying to avoid. So, I accepted it. I told myself they were dead and that was it.

“One day, I decided to eat my lunch on the base grounds. I heard some of the other janitorial staff stick around for the break, so I went looking to see if I might find friendship in people who would most certainly not be put in constant danger. I didn’t find anyone. I asked around, but everyone was either too busy or not interested in speaking to me. So I ate alone. I found a nice spot in a courtyard I’d only ever seen some of the kids hang out. Everyone would have either been on missions or training so I thought I wouldn’t be bothering anyone.

“Then I heard someone say, ‘Hey, look! It’s that old guy!’

“I looked up to see Herbie getting slapped by Nayla. Rock, towering behind the other two, simply raised a hand in greeting. They were all carrying bags of fast food and sipping soft drinks. I waved to them with a quick nod of my head.

“‘Can we sit with you, Mr. Hamada?’ Nayla said.

“My mouth was full so all I could muster was a puffy, ‘Mmm!’ and a thumbs up. They sat with me and mostly just talked to each other. It was a delight. Listening to them joke around and talk about the mission was something I never really did with the kids back in Saitama. I connected with them more after briefings and naturally over time. It was strange but pleasant.

“When Herbie found out I used to work with Warrior Mediums back in Japan, he made a big deal out of it. I insisted that I never worked much in the field, but my stories convinced him otherwise. Most of my stories came from what I’d heard from the kids though there were the occasional tales of having to defend the base from attacks. According to Rock, the Manhattan base hadn’t been attacked since the 1800s. He was quite the history buff.

“That wasn’t the last time we all spent time together. They even started to invite me to hang out with them on the weekends which I usually declined. No sense in having an old man spoil their fun. I’d still see Nayla every week before her status evaluations. She started sharing more and more with me including her dysfunctional home life and lack of a father figure.

“‘I’m lucky I got paired with the guys, really,’ she told me once. ‘Sure they’re big, dumb boys but…’ She smiled while staring off into space. ‘It didn’t even take that long for them to start treating me like their little sister.’ Tears began to form in her eyes. She looked down, shielding her face with a hand. ‘Ha-ha, sorry.’

“‘No, no, please,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry for not realizing this was a sensitive topic.’

“Then she looked up at me. Her face was like one I hadn’t seen since the day Aki came back from her first big mission in Osaka. Nayla’s irises were warped by the overflow, her nose and cheeks turned to rose to match pursed lips crowned with glistening drainage. I was just about to leave her alone when she lunged forward from the waiting room sofa. She pulled me into a hug that I wasn’t sure I should reciprocate. So I reached up and patted her on the back. It didn’t feel as awkward as it seems now.

“Once she let go, she thanked me for listening.

“I nodded and said, ‘Anytime.’

“I remember still believing I wasn’t attached to these young people. Yet, I still get a warm feeling in my heart when I think of how both Rock and Herbie started calling me Gramps. Nayla always called me Mr. Hamada though. Very respectful.

“There was a crisis near the end of that year. The higher ups got word of a demon summoning ritual happening somewhere in Massachusetts and sent more than a dozen teams, including Nayla’s, to put a stop to it. It reminded me of Osaka. Aki was tasked with aiding a backline of Warrior Mediums who were not expected to see much action. The summoning was more than anyone expected, and the demon that was summoned ended up taking three days to defeat. Aki dealt the final blow. Everyone was so proud.

“At this point, I wasn’t worried at all. I didn’t see Nayla, Rock, or Herbie for weeks. I heard that things got a little out of hand, but I had faith in those three. They were up for the end of the year honors due to exemplary service. Rock was a good leader, and Herbie had great instincts when it came to improvising. Nayla was a natural born fighter with marksman skills I’d only read about in Warrior Medium history. She’d show me videos they would take using a camera attached to Herbie’s armor. Very smart, I wish I had thought of that back in Saitama. It would’ve been great for training.

“Almost two months went by before I saw Nayla again. I didn’t know at the time but she had already been brought in with the other few survivors. I came to clean the east side bathrooms, and there she was. Sitting up against the wall of the waiting room. Her head buried in her legs, arms wrapped around her head. She was bawling. In her hand she clutched a torn and bloody bandana while a singed star pendant hung from between her fingers.

“In that moment…”

Mr. Hamada stops writing. He runs a hand through his thinning, salt and pepper hair. Lifts his glasses to rub his eyes. Then a long sigh drifts from his wrinkled mouth.

“In that moment I felt a leash draw me back. A leash I’d likely put on myself. I’m honestly not really sure. I should’ve gone in there. I should’ve said something or maybe nothing, but I should have been there. I should have. But I wasn’t. I left. I opened the door to the bathroom and hid behind my janitorial duties.”

Mr. Hamada’s hand begins to shake.

“I spent all of my vacation days at once. When I came back to work, I found out Nayla had quit. I felt so selfish. I was so selfish. How could I mourn those boys when I wasn’t even there for Nayla when she needed me? How could I say that I cared when all I did was--”

Mr. Hamada roars as he rips the page he was writing on out of his journal. He throws the pencil toward the river and crumples up the paper, leaving it on the table.

The old man storms into his house, scoops up his keys from the kitchen counter, and heads out to his car. Halfway into the four hour drive down to Manhattan, he turns off the radio. His face is dead. Blinking hard every so often to cage his heart.

Upon arrival, he parks near a cookie shop in Morningside Heights. He orders a jumbo chocolate chip and finds a nice place to sit in Riverside Park. Mr. Hamada sits for hours holding his cookie. Not once does he take a bite.

Around two in the afternoon, the old man falls asleep on the bench. The cookie miraculously stands firmly in his grip. At half past three, he is awakened by the sound of a young woman’s voice. He opens his eyes, and before him stands a woman in her early thirties dressed for jogging. Light brown hair, dark green eyes.

She pulls out her earbuds. “Mr. Hamada?”

The old man’s eyes go wide. At the realization, his gaze shoots downward.

“Mr. Hamada, it’s me,” the woman said. “It’s Nayla!”

Mr. Hamada’s tries to slow his breathing. He looks up. Nayla’s smile shines brighter than ever. She giggles and stands up straight, arms outstretched in request for embrace.

The old man clears his throat and stands to his feet. He opens his mouth to speak, but Nayla’s arms have already swung up and around his neck. Mr. Hamada is paralyzed.

Nayla shakes the old man in her loving grip. “Hug me back, Mr. Hamada.”

Cookie in hand, Mr. Hamada returns the embrace. He can hear Nayla sniffling behind his head, so he pats her on the back and she starts to laugh. Nayla releases and sits down on the bench, prompting Mr. Hamada to do the same. He can barely look her in the eye.

“Soooo,” she asks, “How’ve you been? I thought you had retired. That’s what they told me at least.”

“I-I did.” Mr. Hamada clears his throat again. “I did retire.”

“Please don’t tell me you stayed a janitor the whole time.”

“I--ah...I didn’t, I…”

Nayla tilts her head.

“I found another job,” Mr. Hamada says. “Upstate.”

“What?” Nayla reels. “Man, somebody must’ve missed out then. You were always the coolest.”

Mr. Hamada's eyes begin to water. He takes off his glasses and stares into his lap. He fails to hide his shuddering breath.

“Wha…” Nayla puts a hand on the old man’s back. “Mr. Hamada, what’s wrong?”

“I’m sorry,” he lets out through broken exhalation. “I’m so sorry.”

“Sorry? For what?”

“I wasn’t there. I wasn’t there when you needed--” His words are intercepted by suppressed bouts of weeping.

Nayla’s face softens. She leans over to rest her head on Mr. Hamada, arm slung over his shoulder. Her other hand reaches to interlock her fingers.

In one hand, Mr. Hamada holds a tear sogged cookie while the other is pressed into his snotty face.

It was so for nearly an hour.

“It took me a while to, uh,” Nayla eventually says, “Find peace.”

Mr. Hamada puts on his glasses. “How did you do that?”

Nayla looks at the old man. “I allowed it to find me. When it was ready.”

Mr. Hamada finally makes eye contact with the young woman he once knew. For a moment, he sees Aki. All grown up and away from the dangers of what she believed to be her calling. But even as reality resettles, Mr. Hamada's pride does not wane. He smiles and nods.

“What about you, Mr. Hamada?” Nayla says. “Do you feel at peace?”

The old man turns toward the river, takes a deep breath, and looks at his cookie.

会いましょう。

ここで待ちます。

ああ平和。

--Hamada Satoshi