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cyanideicecreamuuu · 12 days ago

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Ch.2 - You are not animals, and you were not born on a boat.

Atsumu Miya x Oc

1944, World War II - Philippines, Los Baños. The Japanese military police, the Kempeitai, establish in Los Baños one of the harshest civilian labor camps known in Japanese history. Atsumu Miya is interned as the son of an enemy and a traitor to the homeland-until the arrival of a mysterious young woman shatters the fragile balance of his existence.

⚠️ Content Warning: graphic descriptions, lemon, sensitive themes. Recommended for a mature audience only :)

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Ch.1 - https://www.tumblr.com/cyanideicecreamuuu/786242990941323264/ch1-drowning-while-standing-on-solid-ground?source=share

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The truck jolts over every pothole, every slippery rock beneath the wheels, and I keep banging my head against the hairy brute next to me, who’s sobbing like a child. He must be new—still got pink cheeks and something to cry about.

All things considered, I’m fairly calm in the face of the unknown and my likely demise. What’s really getting on my nerves is the stench of sweat coming off the giant beside me.

At first, it's just a murmur, hissing in different tongues, timid among the moans, sobs, and the thunder roaring outside the truck. Then it grows bolder—but still, it’s anything but brave.

"Where are they taking us...?" "That woman was German. They say there are no labor camps in Germany, only death camps..." "Someone keeps stepping on my foot!"

Whining. Thankfully, I only catch the bits in English, sparing myself the dozens of French, Danish, and whatever else you can imagine.

Then the sweaty man beside me whispers, “Schneider. Helene Schneider.” He says it like a curse, like a dying breath right before a heart attack.

"You know that woman? Who is she?" I ask in English, not even realizing it’s my voice until I hear it.

"Helene Schneider. The textile factories. Used to be this massive industrial complex near Essen. A real giant. When the war hit and her father died, she inherited the whole thing."

For a second, I can’t breathe. Not just because the man smells awful (which he does), but because, in that deep rumble of a voice, I hear my mother’s accent—the Southern States drawl, a bit dirty, like dust and moonshine brewed in basements. My eyes sting for the first time in months, and I allow myself a flicker of sympathy for this oversized, hairy kid who speaks in the same lazy tongue as my mama.

"And what the hell is she doing in Thailand?" I whisper too, like we’re swapping secrets and handmade bead bracelets in the back of a schoolyard.

"Dunno. Before the war, the company I worked for was financing the Schneiders’. Reckon it’s 'cause the whole dang economy tanked, ya heard?"

The truck stops abruptly. A jolt shakes us all—someone falls over.

We got on this rust-bucket less than an hour ago. How can we be there already? Trips here never take less than a day—the roads are too torn up for prisoner trucks to glide smoothly between the industrial zones of Los Banos.

The rear hatch creaks open with effort. Wind and rain still batter the metal, like even the storm wants to keep us in. It pushes the rusted slab back toward us like it’s trying to say, Stay in. You don’t want to see what’s out here.

Once it’s open though, it’s not that things get any better. But they don’t really get worse either—because we can’t see a damn thing. Just a wall of relentless rain that turns everything gray, watery, and caked in mud.

"Everybody out! Now!" a voice yells from outside, broken Japanese accent cutting through the storm.

It’s not the same soldiers as before, though arrogance is clearly still part of the uniform. We begin climbing down slowly, carefully, from the wreck. Some trip, others cut themselves on a jagged piece of fender that seems to exist for the sole purpose of slicing open unsuspecting arteries. Forming into neat, disturbingly neat lines comes naturally now, after months in the camp. No one even has to say it. We line up like we’re waiting for a firing squad.

Through all the gray and mud-slop, I manage to spot two figures—men, judging by the boots. One is definitely the driver. The other is the man from the camp; the one who stepped out of the car just after the camel-colored woman. Clean-cut, composed. Gaunt face, but neat, even with all the filth raining down on him from the sky. His coat is immaculate, gloves dark, his eyes sharp and cold like polished steel. He looks at us like he’s checking names off a list.

He speaks without raising his voice, but every word rings out clearly:

“One third of you will depart again immediately with this truck. The other two groups will be transferred with the next vehicles, which are on their way. There has been... a slight change of plans.”

He speaks, like the camel-colored woman, in flawless Japanese.

He walks around the truck, approaches the driver's door, and pulls out a large, heavy sack. He drops it onto the ground, indifferent to the mud around him. The man to his right—the driver—starts distributing its contents to each of us. Bread. Dark, hard, soggy loaves, but real. The smell is real. The sound of bread breaking is almost violent, after days of nothing.

A last meal before we're riddled with bullets? I'm not the only one thinking it—because despite the rain drowning out most of the world, the looks on our faces are painted with pure disbelief. The man gives a small, mocking smile.

“Miss Schneider doesn’t want her workers showing up dead before they even enter the factory.”

Efficiency dressed up as irony.

I haven’t even had time to bite into my dirt-mixed chunk of bread when the man pulls a list from his coat pocket. He squints to read it, and the driver offers to grab an umbrella from the cab to shield him from the rain.

He starts reading.

“Thomas Radley. Pieter van Aalst. Frank Delacroix. Atsumu Miya. Billy Kearns.”

Silence. No one moves.

None of us are used to being called that way anymore. The man's expression stays flat, but he pauses for a second. Then he looks up at the sky, irritated, like he’s dealing with stubborn children caught sneaking candy in a store.

He looks back at the page, then raises his voice again.

“43-927. 38-201. 46-188. 40-755. 47-414.”

My number.

My blood freezes. They called my number—but what’s worse is they called my name too, and I didn’t react.

The man stares at the row of souls in front of him, then makes a quick gesture with two fingers. “Forward.”

We move. Legs obeying before the mind has even registered the command, moving mechanically through the filthy puddles at our feet. We stop a few steps ahead of the rest. I feel their eyes on the back of my neck more than the rain tapping on my skull.

The man isn’t looking at us anymore. He’s already back to speaking with the truck driver. Quiet voices. No explanations.

The two other trucks arrive almost at the same time, engines growling as they brake in the slick mud; the soldiers—or whatever those armed civilians are, they look Kempeitai enough—start moving immediately. One by one, the men are loaded in. Some are helped, others shoved.

I watch those trucks like you watch a chance that was taken from you before you even knew you had it, as the last of the soaking wretches disappears, swallowed by the slamming of the rear doors.

The man in the dark coat whispers one last thing to the first driver, then gives a small wave of his hand. The driver climbs back into the truck, and all at once, the engines start. The wheels begin to turn, falling into line like mother duck and her ducklings, setting off again.

Then the man turns toward us, a slight look of disgust on his face.

«Kommt mit. Los, los.»

He looks at us like we’re delaying a timetable. With a jerky little pirouette, and without even checking if we’re following, he disappears into the trees. His boots are pristine, yet he mutters curses every three steps through the mud.

«Verdammter Drecksregen... Ich schwör, noch ein Tropfen und ich fackel den Himmel ab!»

Five minutes, maybe more—I can’t really tell. At some point, what little light filters through the dark, threatening clouds overhead is swallowed by the vegetation that closes in around us, until we reach a narrow, barely beaten path, like it's only ever been walked by ghosts since the dawn of time. In front of us, a green military jeep. Tall, mud-caked, but solid.

“Get in. Quickly,” the man orders. Now that I’m close enough to kick him in the teeth, I can’t help but notice how young he is—almost a child, with soft, round features. It makes me want to leap on him even more, pummel him properly, and make a run for it—but I’m fairly certain I saw something glint beneath his coat, right at belt level.

I climb in after the first two, the others follow. The seats are cold, stiff—but real. Not like the truck benches or the camp’s wooden planks. Actual padded seats. As I sit, it feels like my ass has forgotten what it’s like to touch anything that doesn’t resemble a bed of nails.

The man opens the driver’s door, settles behind the wheel with a dull, irritated expression, like the day has already dragged on too long, and starts the engine. The ride is steady, confident, slightly twitchy. He’s clearly disgusted by our presence—probably the stench of old sweat, dried blood, days without soap or dignity. I’m tempted to shit on his front seat, just to annoy him, but I promise myself to be a good prisoner. I admit there’s a thin line of tension running down my spine, anchoring me to the leather upholstery.

He drives in silence, eyes burning with repressed hatred, for about half an hour until we hit a road less steep than the path before. Another hour, through fields and tiny rural farms half-drowned by the monsoon, before finally slowing as we pass between two tall cypress trees flanking a wrought-iron gate.

Ahead, suddenly, a clearing. A path of precisely laid stones, trees lined up neatly on both sides, soaked grass carefully trimmed. And at the end of it all, a house. Enormous. Made of dark brick, shutters closed but straight, no sign of decay. Maybe once a farm, now restored. The roof is solid, the lines clean—I can clearly spot the old barn structure beneath it, low ceiling, probably once for goats.

The engine dies with a final sputter. No one moves until he opens the door and climbs out. Slamming it. Couldn’t wait to get out of that gas chamber of stinking bodies, apparently. He takes a good ten seconds to breathe untainted air, then barks: “Out. And follow me.”

As everyone climbs down from the vehicle, he pauses to light a cigarette—but stops, exasperated. He turns toward the jeep: the rear door is still open.

«Verdammt nochmal...» he grumbles, marching back. He pulls the list from his coat pocket again with a sharp motion, scans the names.

Then he lifts his gaze toward one of the men—a young guy, too—who’s stopped, uncertain. Only now do I realize we’re all fairly young, all fit.

“43-927… no. You. 38-201, right?”

The poor guy nods slowly.

The man looks him straight in the eyes, this time speaking with an almost perfect accent in the boy’s own tongue—rough Danish, probably picked up on the street or in the barracks, but clear enough to get the message across.

«I er ikke dyr. Og I er ikke født på en båd. Døre lukker man.»

Then he translates, with a cold tone, in Japanese, as if reciting from memory: “You are not animals, and you were not born on a boat. Doors are to be closed.”

I want to slam his head against the door of his fancy car—because no one here speaks Japanese except me, and there’s absolutely no reason to translate that crap. Stupid fucking German.

The Danish boy lowers his gaze, walks back, pushes the door until it clicks, then turns and silently rejoins us. The man gives a nod, satisfied: the universe is back in order. He slips the list into the inside pocket of his coat, turns, and without waiting, starts walking toward the door of the house.

The door opens with a barely audible creak. My pupils don’t even have time to adjust to the change in light before something hits me: warmth. Not Thai sun warmth, but something visceral. The air smells of spices, of meat slow-cooking, and an old gramophone welcomes us with a piano tune, like we were expected guests. It’s so overwhelming that for a moment I feel sick. My stomach tightens—but not from hunger. It’s as if my body no longer knows how to react to something alive. And I wonder: what am I doing here? This place isn’t mine. It doesn’t belong to me. I’m a mud creature now, a work animal, something that lives in the barn with the goats.

The lights are golden, warm, soft, hanging from above in cut-glass chandeliers. The walls are cream-colored, the floor glossy wood. Everything is spotless.

Each step makes our rotted shoes creak. Every lit corner exposes the filth on our jackets, the stains of dried blood, the crusted skin. In that light, we look like broken toys, chipped and forgotten, in the display window of a secondhand shop on the verge of going under.

The man takes off his coat slowly, hangs it with care on a brass coat rack. He runs his hands through his hair, then over his shirt, smoothing it as if to restore some disrupted order. Then he suddenly remembers us—the five wet dogs he brought into his house—and the disgust returns to his face. With a swift gesture, he sets the papers down on a side table near the entrance. Then he calls out, not raising his voice too much:

“Lavenka!”

Footsteps from the floor above, slow, heavy. The mouse waiting helplessly for the cat that will play with it before devouring it.

He turns and simply sizes us up. In his gaze, again, that something tired—but also... repulsed. As if the stench had seeped through his gloves, through his coat, and into his skin.

“You need to wash,” he says flatly. “Lavenka will take you to the bath.”

It’s ridiculous to even think we could set foot in another meter of this house without first scrubbing off every trace of the world we came from—and I’m completely in agreement. Now that I’m walking on this polished wood, I’m disgusted with myself. As if I’d suddenly recovered a sliver of humanity, a faint sense of decency.

After an interminable minute—enough to make me reflect on how massive this house really is—the cat arrives, ready to toy with us. But I have to rethink all my imagined layouts, all my internal blueprints: Lavenka, whom I had pictured as a towering woman with a whip in hand, is instead an old lady, hunched, her steps slow but sure. She wears a thick apron, frayed at the edges, and a scarf tightly tied around her head. Her back is bent nearly in two—but her face… her face is an enigma. It’s full of deep wrinkles, so marked they seem fake, like her skin had melted—or like it was just a rubber mask left out in the sun to decay. Even her wrinkles have wrinkles. I can’t tell if she’s smiling, or if her mouth is just another deep fold in her skin.

She says something—but not in German, nor in any language anyone present seems to recognize, judging by the expressions on the faces of my fellow misfortunates. The words sound soft, drifting through the air like ancient lullabies—meaningless to us, but full of meaning to her.

Of course, no one moves.

The man exhales sharply, visibly annoyed. He gestures abruptly, impatiently, with his arm. “Go. Gehen Sie schon.” Lavenka moves slowly but surely, and we follow behind like a herd of shadows, filthy, worn out; and despite the bone-deep fatigue we all feel, we still have to slow our pace—because the woman is slow. God, she’s slow. Like a giant slug dragging the weight of the universe across her back.

We pass through a long hallway, lined with dark wooden furniture, thick rugs, a faint smell of lavender and beeswax. The style isn’t Asian at all—in fact, it feels completely Western.

Lavenka stops in front of a small, somewhat shabby wooden door. When she opens it, it reveals a wooden staircase descending. The walls tighten around us as we go down—clear sign that we’re heading into a basement. The air shifts: narrow, cool, and with that telltale scent of damp stone and windows never opened. On the sides of the cramped room, there are three showers—or what’s left of them. Just the showerheads, poking out of the wall, rusted and weary.

There are piles of folded towels resting on a wrought iron chair, in laundry baskets that have seen better days and a few sewing needles.

Lavenka turns. She smiles—or maybe she doesn’t. Then she points to the showers, still without uttering a single word we can understand.

The man reappears in the doorway, arms crossed, like he’s genuinely worried he’s dealing with five idiots who don’t know how a shower works.

“Move.”

With clumsy steps, we approach the showers. And, okay, maybe we do look like we’ve never seen one before—because we start inspecting the nozzles with the same wariness you’d give a creature that might spring to life and bite your nose off.

“You need to undress.”

His voice slices through the damp air like a knife. He’s still standing in the doorway, one eyebrow raised in a disgusted expression barely contained. “Have you ever bathed in your lives?” he adds, mostly to himself, like he can’t quite believe what he’s looking at. A small, nervous laugh escapes him—mocking, without question.

He turns sharply and, placing a hand firmly on Lavenka’s hunched shoulder (I think it’s her shoulder—or maybe it’s just an extension of her hunch), he guides her out of the bathroom. A gesture of charity, if that fossil still had eyes capable of witnessing five young men stripping down. She lets herself be led out, tilting her chin slightly—maybe a farewell gesture, maybe a blessing—before both disappear behind the door.

All our fingers tremble as we unfasten the worn buttons of our uniforms, peeling off layers that aren’t even clothes anymore but crust. They could stand on their own if I were any good at balancing things. Hell, with a touch of magic, they might even walk, given the ecosystem that’s taken root in the fibers after months of never being washed.

One by one, we start to wash. The rusted showerheads still do their job with surprising dignity: the water at our feet instantly turns a revolting brown, and I have to tilt my head up toward the stone ceiling to stop myself from puking up bile and whatever’s left of my dignity. I try running my fingers through my hair, but they get caught in clumps of knotted mud and filth; with some effort and force, I manage to reduce it to straw instead of hardened sludge blocks that feel like wrapped candy.

The door opens again, and the guy steps back in. He’s taken off his gloves—apparently, we’re clean enough for him now. But not enough for him to lower his guard. He’s holding another sheet of paper, folded in two, and a thin pencil. He leans against the doorframe without stepping fully inside. His eyes sweep over us without a trace of embarrassment, like we’re fish laid out at the market.

“Thomas Radley. Size?” he asks in English.

Silence is his only answer.

He sighs, rolls his eyes skyward as if dealing with a classroom of particularly dense children. Checks the sheet. Then: “43-927. Size?”

Thomas lifts his head slightly. “Large.” The man scribbles something down.

“Pieter van Aalst?” Again, no answer.

“38-201,” he prompts again, on the edge of what seems like a mild nervous breakdown.

Pieter shrugs. “Medium.” It continues like this until he gets to me. But before he can say anything in that irritated voice of his, I cut him off: “Medium.”

I look at him. He looks back. He wants to say something—I can see it in his eyes—but he says nothing. Just notes my answer down. I allow myself a flicker of pride at my tiny act of rebellion, if you can even call it that.

He folds the sheet with precision, tucks it neatly into the inside pocket of his jacket, then turns and leaves without a word.

We’re left there, naked as worms, waiting for lightning to strike us from above.

The door bursts open again with a sharp, irritated snap, and he comes back in carrying clothes. He sets them down on the wrought iron table next to the towel chair, arranging them by size with the care of a surgeon—or a maniac.

“Why are you still wet?” he snaps suddenly, like he was just waiting for an excuse to scold us. Probably had to dig for that one. Little prick. “Hurry up. We don’t have time to waste. They’re waiting for you upstairs.”

I dry myself off with one of the rough towels from the wicker basket, then take my clothes. They’re strangely soft—or maybe it’s just that they’re not made of burlap sacks like the camp uniforms.

The man watches us get dressed like a factory foreman. Observing every move, every mistake, every bit of hesitation—ready to pounce. I’m tempted to slow down, just to see him throw a fit like he did with the car door. But I still remember the glint near his belt. That glint could very well crack open my skull.

He doesn’t say a word. Once we’re all dressed and lined up like schoolboys on the first day of class, he turns and heads back up the stairs.

For the first time, we all look each other in the eye. A tiny sense of belonging loosens my shoulders—united in the shared cluelessness of death.

We start climbing the stairs, one after the other, me last. And I think: if I go crazy now, he’ll have four others to kill before getting to me. But where would I even run to, with the bodies of my companions collapsing onto me in a pathetic attempt at escape?

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cyanideicecreamuuu · 12 days ago

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Ch.1 - Drowning while standing on solid ground

Atsumu Miya x Oc

⚠️ Content Warning: graphic descriptions, lemon, sensitive themes. Recommended for a mature audience only :)

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My name is—no, I don't think anyone cares anymore. No one here has a name, not even the biggest egomaniac in the world can afford such a luxury.

They've been calling me 47-414 for weeks now. "Forty-seven Four-fourteen," for the more refined among us. A number, etched onto a metal tag around my neck, as if I were a breeding cow. Sometimes I hear that damned jingling echoing in my head, even when I'm completely still, lying there, wrecked, on my luxurious rotten wooden plank that has been my bed for the last four months.

I won't say my name, but I suppose some context is due; lately, questioning context inside my head has become my favorite hobby. I was born in 1927, Japanese father, American mother. I don't know whether that was luck or misfortune, given recent historical events, but my parents decided to stay in Japan, probably because the underdeveloped economy—though growing—made it easier to feed two children for the price of one. Yeah, they really hit the jackpot, the bastards: two kids suffering for the cost of one, two birds with one stone—or two stones with one bird, in our case. My twin brother actually has a name though—Osamu—and it hurts my ego to admit this, but every morning I wake up with his eyes burned behind my eyelids before I even open them, and lips half-parted in a desperate whisper trying to call him.

Mr. and Mrs. Miya (let's give them names too—naming things makes it more fun to argue with them in your own head) were proud Japanese citizens, though one of them was an import. A true woman, branded Made in USA behind her ashen blonde hair that made every bitter old woman in Hyogo turn her head. You wanted blonde hair too, didn't you, you shriveled prune? Me too. But fate and genetics gave me brown hair. I'm drifting off. My mind isn't as sharp as it used to be months ago, and I often find myself staring at the flies in the air. The day I start doing that with drool down my chin, I'll take that as the final sign to throw myself into the electric fence.

Anyway—as I was saying—mixed parents, made two damn fine kids, Japan. A relatively normal life. High school, sports, the occasional girl kissed at a village festival... until the War came. The Second one, to be precise. God, if I had in front of me the person who had the power to make such decisions, I wouldn't know what I'd do, because siding with the Germans was a profoundly stupid move. I think so, half of Japan thinks so, but most of all, my father thought so. Maybe because he was deeply in love with his baby, his "one and only love," or maybe because he had a bit of sense left. But as a stubborn man proud of his ideals, when faced with what he believed to be "the cross that would lead to Japan's final downfall," he didn't stay quiet. Neither did my mother—just to complete the picture.

What happens when you mix those elements? My father was executed in the town square. My mother bought three tickets to Manila that very evening with the little money we had left, but waiting for us at the airport were some very courteous soldiers of the Kempeitai. At that point, we no longer had my father's properly Asian face to shield us from our own people's distrust—only the filthy memory of a traitor to the nation, a mother from an enemy country, and two bastard kids, the result of a historical disaster like this. They shoved us into two different trucks, and that was that.

The problem is—I haven't seen anyone again. Not my mother, not my brother. But they told me I was lucky. By separating me from Osamu, they did me the biggest favor possible, because being a twin here is worse than being guilty. People like us end up on operating tables, under lamps, blades, needles, and forceps. "An opportunity for science," as if digging into the heads of two seventeen-year-olds whose father was just murdered could cure cancer. But I know what it really means: it means Osamu isn't here, and I don't know whether he's better off or worse. And I can't decide if that's a relief or a curse.

I'm seventeen. Seventeen. And every time I think about it, I feel stupid. As stupid as every teenager should feel, still unsure whether they're meat or fish. Stupid because, despite all the signs over the last year flashing like neon billboards, I still don't hate my father for what he did—or rather, what he said. Because even though they tore me away from my best friend, my brother, I still can't shake this bit of pride in my eyes that makes me seem arrogant to those who beat the hell out of me every day.

They say the Los Baños camp is one of the harshest the Japanese army has created for imprisoning civilians, deserters, or just people born on the wrong side.

Of course. Never a stroke of luck.

I work until I can't see straight. My hands bleed, but I haven't felt them for days. I've stopped counting the hours, the wounds, the missed meals. I sleep on wooden planks that stink of mold and piss, clinging to bodies I don't recognize, bodies that barely move. In fact, I'm pretty sure I only imagine some of them moving just to avoid admitting that they don't move at all anymore.

Today is just another day. A scorching October morning, barely softened by a heavy rain, typical of this time of year in the Philippines. A week ago, it rained so hard a man working at the bottom of a quarry literally drowned while standing. He didn't even move, didn't try to run. He saw a crack of salvation—a dignified death—in drowning while standing on solid ground.

I don't know what time it is. Maybe it's before dawn, maybe noon has already passed. The sky is a dull gray that almost feels like a blessing compared to the usual murderous sun of these islands that erases any trace of time. I pull myself up with difficulty, like every morning. My bones are stiff, my muscles sore, and my stomach claws at itself from the inside. Around me, someone coughs, someone moans, but God willing (if this is God's highlight of my day, he really needs to review his priorities), the sound of the rain on the metal sheets overhead drowns out every other violent noise. No one talks. We don't talk. No point. We'd have to speak Dutch, French, Chinese, Korean, and more to even try to understand each other.

I expect the usual siren, the usual shouting, the usual mad dash to the gate for roll call.

But instead, they arrive first. The soldiers.

One by one, they enter the barracks like a blast of cold wind—yelling, batons in hand, rifles slung over their shoulders. They want everyone outside. Now.

I step out, dragging my feet through the water. Or at least, I hope it's water, given the rain, but I don't dare look down—I'm afraid of being more disgusted than I already am. My feet, soaked inside ruined shoes, move like they don't belong to me. The tag with my number slips between my fingers, cold like everything else. 47-414. I never forget it. I repeat it to myself while they line us up, side by side, in the middle of the yard. No one dares say a word. Just the sound of boots slapping in puddles, rifles lifting. I count at least five, six. Aimed.

One of them laughs. I can't understand what he says—can't even see clearly through the storm lashing the island. But no one ever laughs here. Hearing that sound is more terrifying than anything else.

We wait. In silence. Motionless. No one explains why we're here. No one says if it's an inspection, a check, a punishment. God, maybe it is a punishment—who knows what for. Making us stand in a ridiculous jumpsuit under a monsoon so violent it could rip trees from the ground. Maybe they've grown tired of shooting us and are letting God finish the job for them.

Then, the sound of an engine splits the air like a whip crack.

A car. Red. Shining like blood—definitely German. Gleaming, flawless, completely out of place. It doesn't belong here, with the mud, the filthy uniforms, the frozen bodies standing silent in rows. It speeds into the yard, skidding, nearly mowing down the group to my left. One guy falls, pushed over by the gust and the streams of water underfoot. No one helps him. No one moves.

The car stops in the center of the courtyard like it's a stage.

The door opens, and he steps out.

Sadaaki Konishi, Imperial Japanese Army junior officer, in charge of the Los Baños labor camp. A tall man, lean, with eyes that never change expression—not even when someone dies. His long coat barely stirs in the wind. Even nature refuses to mock him, as it does us. His insignia gleams like stolen medals, despite the total absence of sun. He walks like all of this belongs to him. And in a way, it does.

Behind him, two or three girls bounce along. Blonde. Young. Laughing. Genuinely laughing. One lets out a shrill giggle like she's at a theater show—and if their hair wasn't already a giveaway, that laugh, so open and nasal, confirms they're absolutely not Japanese. Too much. Far too much.

Then the other car door opens.

A girl steps out. A woman—older than me, I think, but not by much. From her expression, I'd say she's a hundred, but the total lack of wrinkles makes me doubt it. Long black hair, wavy like silk, rippling under the sickly light of this diseased sky. She's wearing a camel-colored coat, with light fur at the collar and wrists. High heels—she moves through the mud and rain with the grace of someone born to it. She walks slowly, with a confidence no one else here possesses. A young man—another officer, maybe—opens the door for her, holding a large black umbrella. But it's clear: he's not in charge. He's just an escort.

Konishi looks at her. Only her. He completely ignores the girls at his side. They're still laughing, desperate to bring the attention back to their dry, pretty faces under delicate parasol-like umbrellas. He approaches her like she's a political figure, an authority. He doesn't introduce himself. No one does. They start talking right there, in front of us, like we're just part of the scenery.

She pulls out a cigarette. He lights it for her, and once again, the wind seems to calm for the drama of a single flame in the rain. Konishi takes out a silver flask. Cheap Japanese whiskey. A nation of idiots—economic protectionism only produces garbage liquor. He offers it to her. She smiles, takes a sip, and hands it back. If it disgusts her, she doesn't show it at all.

Silence breaks again.

Konishi snaps his fingers. Once. A dry, silent order swallowed by the storm overhead. The soldiers beside him snap to attention like puppets yanked by invisible strings. Then, one by one, they begin to load their rifles, each a second apart at most—creating a ticking symphony that seems to mock us.

A boy next to me—maybe Danish, maybe Russian, I don't know—lets out a stifled whimper. His eyes fill with tears that the cold freezes before they fall. Idiot. I'd never let these bastards see I'm about to shit myself in fear. Still, my heart races. Probably a mirror neuron thing—like yawns. I start looking for escape routes where there aren't any. I didn't work like a mule for months just to wake up one morning and get shot for... what, exactly? Might as well act crazy—at least I'll know who to blame.

I'm about to start yelling something obscene when the woman in camel raises a gloved hand and places it gently on Konishi's arm. The officer, like a schoolgirl, practically blushes at the touch.

Pathetic man.

He nods, and the soldiers lower their weapons.

"Sadaaki," she says, clear but composed, "there's no need. I believe the rain has dampened even the most unruly spirits. I don't want to ruin my appetite with unnecessary bloodshed just for a show of strength." Her accent is sharp, clipped; her A's are tighter—but overall, she speaks perfect Japanese.

He laughs. A short, hysterical, too-loud laugh. Then he offers his arm like they're at a ball.

"Forgive me, Fräulein Helene," he says in a disgustingly syrupy voice, softening even the harsh sounds of that foreign tongue I don't recognize. "Yours is a sensitivity... that my men and I are not used to. But, as you can see, I'm a man who listens to intelligent women."

She takes his arm, slowly. Doesn't grip—just brushes it.

And together they begin to walk among us. Among the frozen, silent bodies who don't even dare breathe. Some close their eyes. Others look at the ground. Konishi walks by, laughing like he's in a wax museum on his first date. She looks more like a babysitter. She looks at everything but him, studying. Or rather—evaluating. Like a mother at the market, sharp eyes examining the produce for the best deal.

She looks. Moves arms and faces like they're zucchinis, melons, checking their freshness.

"You see, Helene," Konishi begins, "this is an excellent camp. Other civilian camps look like daycare in comparison. They work until they collapse. They don't ask questions—and, more importantly, they don't make demands. You're in the right place."

"I'm assessing the options," she replies calmly. "But I prefer resilient individuals. Not wounded beasts ready to die on the first trip."

"Oh, but we have all kinds here. Slavs, Greeks, Hungarians... even some Brits, you know? Not to mention Americans—they come in droves, though they die fairly fast."

"I trust your judgment. But not blindly." Her voice is warm, but sharp as glass. It's obvious—she's in control, even if she's not flaunting it. He nods too much, laughs too much. He's trying to please her. But she doesn't seem impressed. Or flattered. She moves like she already knows everything.

They pass just inches from me. I don't lift my gaze. I breathe quietly, still, frozen fingers trembling at my sides. They don't see me. Don't pick me. No one mentions me. A bit offensive, really. Am I one of the beasts ready to die at the first cold snap? I've eaten dirt and leaves just to make it this far.

"You know, Helene..." he says, dropping his voice, making it more intimate. "You could stay a few more days. The militia lodgings aren't as squalid as this place, and I'm not a bad conversationalist. Or at least, that's what the women who stayed long enough say. I don't think Manila's going to run away if you stay just a little longer."

She smiles. Polite. Untouchable.

"I appreciate your hospitality, Sadaaki. But you know well that I'm not here to... entertain myself."

He laughs again. Too loud. One of the soldiers at the end of the line flinches at the sound. Konishi doesn't even notice.

"So diplomatic. You're an enigma wrapped in silk. And yet, every time we meet, I feel like I understand a bit more."

"Then you're improving. Interpretation is a rare gift in your circles." Her tone remains impeccable. No overt irony, but each word slices precisely. Yet it doesn't wound him. Konishi is too self-assured, too convinced of his power—or maybe the only woman he's ever truly spoken to was his mother. He keeps talking, proud.

"Look at this order. This efficiency. This place... it's like an orchestra. Everything works. Every piece in its place. Punishment, discipline, natural selection. It's perfection, Helene. And do you know what it takes to achieve this? Not just violence. Intelligence."

"And cruelty," she says, as if making a neutral observation.

"Ah! But that's the fun part."

They keep walking until they stop in front of an old man, face split open by a head wound. Maybe he staggered, maybe he was hit earlier. The blood is dark, thick, and even though death is painted across his eyes, the poor guy insists on standing. She pauses for a second. Looks at him like one would observe a car crash, with morbid curiosity. She makes an almost imperceptible movement, pulling a white embroidered handkerchief from the edge of her glove. Takes the man's hand, places the handkerchief in his bony fingers, and gently closes them around it. Then she resumes Konishi's arm and starts walking again.

He watches the scene with pure amusement.

"You're cruel, Helene. Cruel in a way I adore. Do you know why? Because you give hope. And in a place like this... hope is worse than hunger. It's slow torture. A poison."

She doesn't respond immediately. Lights another cigarette, offers it to him without even looking.

"Or maybe it's the only form of control you allow me."

Konishi smiles. A thin smile, as if this is a game of seduction and he believes himself a master.

"Maybe," he gloats, as though holding the secrets of the universe in his fake mystery. Then he gestures broadly to the line of bodies. "Tell me—have you made up your mind about which one you want?"

She inhales slowly. Her eyes scan the raw flesh that surrounds them. Apples, oranges, bananas. Who's got the best price? Let the gentlemen come forward.

She stops. Looks ahead—not at one face, not one body, but the whole. The entire row of bent, mute, frozen but still-living souls. Then she turns to Konishi. Her gaze isn't lit up, not emotional. It's simply resolute.

"All of them," she says. "I'm buying all of them."

The rooster has crowed.

A shiver runs through the prisoners. Some lift their eyes, confused. I hold my breath. I think I misheard—after all, identifying as a vegetable at a market isn't exactly my best skill. Konishi, though—he understood perfectly. And for half a second, his face takes on the expression of a true fish. Not out of water, not boiled. Just... a fish. In all its slimy, scaly, disgusting existence.

Then he bursts out laughing. A long, harsh laugh that scrapes his throat. Then he stops, tilting his head like he just heard a joke that went too far.

"All of them?" he repeats, incredulous. "Do you know how many there are? Hundreds. Do you realize the value of a labor force like this? They're trained, they know what to do, they don't talk... You can't just take them."

"I can." Her voice is flat. Unequivocal. "I don't fund you and your men for amusement like I'm playing with dolls—I fund you so you'll look the other way when I need it. In honor of the Axis."

"But—" Konishi looks at her, for the first time uncertain, like someone who just got beaten at poker despite holding a perfect straight. "And what about me?" he whines, like a spoiled child. "You can't just show up unannounced, storm into my camp, and take an entire block of detainees!" He breathes, thinks better of it. "Stay. At least one more night. I'll get you the paperwork, the transport, whatever you want. But stay. At least tonight."

She doesn't respond immediately. Takes a few steps through the mud, swallowed by the rain, as if truly considering the proposal. Then she turns to him, cigarette smoke trailing from her fingers, her coat mocking the wind.

"Have you heard what happened in Leyte?" she asks. "The Americans landed a few weeks ago. Manila is chaos. Your kind compatriots are sweeping through churches and schools with a dedication I must admit is unique to your people. They'll be here within the week. Strong men, young. Some speak fluent Japanese and Thai. They'll be much more docile. Most of them are Christian humanitarian workers. You won't lose anything. Just a bit of old dust."

She looks him in the eye as she speaks. Konishi clenches his jaw. Says nothing for a few seconds, then exhales sharply and turns to an officer.

"Get the trucks ready. Now. Everyone who can stand, load them up. The others..." He waves vaguely. "Those who can't make it, leave them. They're not worth the price."

She stops him. "No. All of them. Every breathing body. Those who can't walk will be carried. They belong to me now."

Konishi grits his teeth. He wants to argue again, but he doesn't.

"Helene... listen," Konishi insists, voice lower now, forcibly suave. "This isn't rational. Taking all these men... you're paying full price, but many of them will die before even arriving. You need strength, efficiency—not... dead weight."

She stops again. This time, she doesn't smile.

"Do you know how much a regular worker costs, with contract and permits, after the inflation of your goddamn currency?"

He doesn't answer. She does it for him.

"Seventy thousand occupation yen per month, minimum. Do you know how much a camp worker costs me, once I've paid the bureaucracy? Fifteen hundred. And do you know how many I need to keep what I've built running? A thousand. Two thousand. These men cost me less than a single rail shipment. And I didn't become one of the richest women in East Asia by being sentimental, Sadaaki."

Her voice is flat, but her eyes are sharp as blades. Konishi looks at her, his smile now taut, stretched like a rubber band about to snap.

The soldiers are still frozen.

She looks at them. Doesn't yell. Doesn't command. She simply makes a tiny motion with two fingers, quick, nearly invisible. But it's enough. The soldiers snap to, almost dazed, and begin to move. Rough voices cut the silence. Some prisoners fall trying to stand. Others are lifted and shoved toward the trucks at the far end of the yard.

Helene adjusts her gloves slowly, then climbs into the car without turning back. No wave, no nod to Konishi. The man—the young one—who had stepped out with her opens the door and follows, shaking the rain from his umbrella.

Konishi hesitates a few seconds longer; he walks closer, trying once more to slip into that final space between power and abandonment— when one of the prisoners, skinny, maybe American, limps too close to the car in an attempt to climb into the truck.

Too close to the officer.

Konishi draws his pistol in a reflex.

No yelling. No hesitation.

He fires.

A dry thud that echoes even through the swallowing rain. The body collapses, splashing water and brain matter as it hits the ground. No scream. Just a fall—streams of rain and blood starting to stain the brown mud red.

The car halts before it can shift gears, the screech of the brakes mixing with tires slipping in the sludge.

The door opens again. Helene steps out.

She's no longer composed. Doesn't care if her camel-colored coat is soaked through. The polite, restrained smile is gone—replaced by a tense, unreadable expression. Her cheeks stiff, eyes cold and dark as shattered glass.

She walks directly toward Konishi, slow but deliberate steps. She looks him in the eye. Doesn't speak for a long moment.

"That was one of my workers." Her voice is low, but piercing. "You just blew his brains out in front of me like he was yours. But he wasn't. He was mine. And now you owe me fifteen hundred yen."

Konishi stares at her. Silence. As if he's searching her face for any sign she's joking. But she's not.

"I want it by tonight."

Then she turns. Walks back to the car. Gets in. The door shuts with a clack louder than the earlier gunshot, followed by the low growl of the engine warming up, ready to go. The soldiers are finishing loading the last bodies onto the trucks. Some moan. Some collapse and are dragged up with no care. Cold hands. Lips cracked by the brutal heat of past days, now infected by the beating rain.

Then the window rolls down—probably for the last time.

Helene's face is partially hidden by the fur collar of her coat, but her eyes are steady. Unrelenting. She looks at Konishi, still holding the gun, with faint smoke curling from the barrel, blending with the steam rising from the monsoon rain striking the hot earth of Thailand, and the dead body at his feet.

Her voice, when she speaks, slices through the air like a fine blade:

"I also want all the prisoner documents loaded onto these trucks delivered to my residence by tomorrow morning. Including the dead one's."

A pause.

"By post. And signed."

Then the window slides back up. The car moves forward slowly, passing beside the body on the ground—mocking it, almost—with its fiery red glow, redder even than the poor man's blood.

I hear the sounds of the trucks opening and closing. Orders shouted. Metal tarps slammed down. As I mentioned, these days I often find myself staring at flies in the air—even if this time, they were two damn big and entertaining flies. I don't even realize I've reached the yawning maw of the truck reeking of piss and sweat.

A boot to the ass, and I'm shoved inside.

The metal is freezing, the rain's drumming unbearable, the stench suffocating. Crammed bodies. Shallow breaths. Wide eyes. No one knows where we're going. No one dares ask. Certainly not me.

Then the rear door slams shut with a heavy thud—and I can't help but think how much it reminds me of when my father used to put snails in the shed to purge. And closed the metal door with the same enthusiasm and force as those idiots outside.

Darkness.

No light. No air. Is this how those poor snails felt—the ones Osamu and I used to gather for the garden?

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**Author's corner**

As our dear protagonist mentioned, I believe a bit of context is in order. Not that any amount of context can rationally explain or justify why I wrote a fanfiction about Atsumu Miya from Haikyuu set during World War II, but I feel like it's necessary for the more skeptical readers out there. First of all, I'd like to excuse myself for all the mistakes that might be in the ff, English is not my native language :')

Three years ago, I started university, and in my Japanese 1 exam, alongside the language, I had to study the history, of course. Never having been a big fan of dates and places, I spent years trying to find a way to enjoy them—and the best I found was this: romanticizing them. I've got about ten fanfictions where characters from totally different worlds are dropped into historical settings I once found hard to study. Yeah, I know—it's crazy.

I found them all on the Google Drive I used during Uni, and after revising them a bit, I thought: "Why not publish them?"

The historical references in this fanfiction—dates, locations, even Officer Konishi—are all real. Los Baños was one of the harshest and most brutal civilian labor camps in Japanese-occupied territory, largely thanks to Sadaaki Konishi, who ran it from 1944 to 1945. The "occupation yen" was the currency imposed by Japanese forces in conquered territories (in this case, Thailand, replacing the official Thai baht).

As for Leyte, the Americans landed there in an initial attempt to liberate their fellow citizens. At that time, fearing the arrival of enemy troops would undo everything they'd built, Japanese soldiers rushed to round up civilians of enemy nationalities to send to forced labor camps. The Battle of Leyte would eventually lead to the Battle of Luzon, during which the Japanese evacuated Manila in March 1945. This fanfiction (first chapter) is set in October 1944.

The rest of the characters are fictional—and clearly a bit borrowed from Schindler's List. Eighteen-year-old me wasn't exactly a fountain of originality ^^'

I hope I haven't offended anyone by tackling such a sensitive topic, but I've always found it easier to grasp complex concepts when they're wrapped up in slightly silly stories like this.

Thank you so much for reading!

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