Battle Royale (Remastered)

by Koushun Takami, Nathan Collins

  Shuya gulped.

  Then he saw it, inside the half-open bag—the teacher in charge of Class B, Mr. Hayashida. No, the former teacher. No, the former Mr. Hayashida.

  His cheap, blue-gray suit was soaked in blood. Only the left half of his black-rimmed glasses (the source of his nickname, "Dragonfly") remained. Unsurprising, given that only the left half of his head was still there. Behind the single lens, the red marble of an eye stared languidly at the ceiling. What was left of his hair was mottled with a gray jelly that must have been brain matter. His left arm, watch still on, spilled out from the bag, as if relieved to be free of the confines, and dangled off the front of the podium. Anyone in the front row would have been close enough to see if the watch's second hand still moved.

  "All right, all right, all right, quiet, quiet." Sakamochi clapped his hands, but the girls' shrieks persisted. "Quiet, please! Really, you all—"

  Suddenly, Kondo, the baby-faced soldier, drew his sidearm.

  Shuya thought the soldier was going to fire a warning shot at the ceiling, but instead, Kondo seized the body bag with his free hand and dragged it off the platform. He then lifted Mr. Hayashida's body so

  that the teacher's head was level with his own. He looked like a hero in some sci-fi monster movie battling a giant cocoon-spinning worm.

  The soldier put his gun to Mr. Hayashida's head and squeezed the trigger twice. The teacher's head blew apart, insides spraying out, the energy of the high velocity round scattering bits of brains and bone in a bloody mist that fell upon the faces and chests of the students in the front row.

  When echoes of gunfire subsided, Mr. Hayashida didn't have much of a head left at all.

  The soldier tossed Mr. Hayashida's body beside the podium. The screams had stopped.

  42 STUDENTS REMAIN.

  The standing students fearfully lowered themselves back into their seats. The unimpressive soldier on the end dragged Mr. Hayashida's body bag to the corner of the room, then rejoined his two comrades beside the teacher's podium. Sakamochi returned to the lectern.

  The room was again silent, save for the sounds of one student somewhere near the back: miserable moaning punctuated by splashes of vomit spilling wetly on the floor. The smell came soon after.

  "All right," Sakamochi said, calmly smoothing back his hair, "Mr. Hayashida was, you see, very opposed to your selection for the Program. Well, this all happened so suddenly, I feel bad about it myself."

  The students had gone still. They had accepted reality. This was not a joke. They were going to be forced to kill each other.

  But now, finally, Shuya desperately made himself think. His mind, dazed when confronted with the impossibility of the scenario, had been awakened by the ghastly sight of Mr. Hayashida's corpse and the cruel performance in which it had featured.

  I have to escape, whatever it takes. But how? Right, first, I need to talk to Yoshitoki. . . and Mimura and Sugimura. But how exactly does the Program go, anyway? The details haven't ever been made public. I know we're given weapons to kill each other with, but are we allowed to talk? And how does the government monitor what happens?

  "I-I," said a voice, interrupting Shuya's thoughts. He raised his head and opened his eyes.

  Yoshitoki Kuninobu half stood, blankly staring at Sakamochi, unsure if he should finish what he had been about to say, as if the words had spilled out of their own accord. Shuya's body tensed. Yoshitoki, keep quiet!

  Sakamochi offered a warm smile and said, "Yes, what is it? Ask me anything."

  On automatic pilot, without even thinking, Yoshitoki continued. "I . . . don't have any parents. Who did you contact?"

  "Ah, yes." Sakamochi nodded. "There was a student living in a welfare institution. You're Nanahara, then? The school records said you had . . . ideological problems. And—"

  "I'm Nanahara," Shuya interrupted, half shouting.

  Sakamochi glanced at Shuya, then looked back at Yoshitoki. Yoshitoki looked at Shuya too, still something vacant in his expression.

  "Oh, sorry, sorry," Sakamochi said. "There was another. You must be Kuninobu. Right, I made sure to contact the administrator of the facility where both of you live. She was . . . rather pretty."

  Sakamochi grinned at the implication he had seen her personally. As utterly cheerful as the smile was, there was something nasty to it.

  Shuya grimaced. "Is she . . . Did something happen to Ms. Anno?"

  "She was like Mr. Hayashida, Nanahara. She resisted on your behalf. To make her obedient, well..." Sakamochi paused before calmly continuing, "I had to force myself upon her. Now, don't you worry, she's not dead or anything."

  A crimson rage sprung up inside Shuya, but before he could say anything, he heard Yoshitoki yell, "I'll kill you!"

  Yoshitoki stood. His face had changed, with a heartfelt anger rarely displayed by the typically genial boy. His classmates had likely never seen him like this before—nor would they have even imagined him generally capable of the emotion—though Shuya, having lived together with his friend for so many years, had encountered that expression maybe a couple of times. Once was in the fourth grade, when a hit-and-run driver struck the orphanage's dog, Eddie, outside the front gates, and Yoshitoki chased after him. The second time was just a year ago. A man had been using the House of Mercy and Love's debts as an excuse to make dogged advances on Ms. Anno. When she finally scraped together the money and rejected him once and for all, he deliberately cursed her out where the children would hear. If Shuya hadn't stopped him, Yoshitoki would have knocked the man's front teeth out, whatever the cost. Yoshitoki was incredibly, incredibly kind, and could laugh off most any offense, whether it was being made fun of or being pushed around. But hurt someone he loved, and his response would be ferocious. Shuya admired that.

  "I'll kill you, you bastard!" Yoshitoki went on shouting. "I'm going to fucking kill you and bury you in shit!"

  "Oh?" Sakamochi said, flashing an amused smile. "Do you really mean what you're saying, Kuninobu? Listen, people have to take responsibility for the things they say."

  "Fuck you! I'm really going to kill you, and don't you fucking forget it!"

  Shuya yelled, "Yoshitoki! Let it go!" But Yoshitoki didn't seem to hear.

  Sakamochi spoke again, this time in a soothing yet oddly gleeful tone. "You know, Kuninobu, what you're saying right now, that's in defiance of the government."

  "I'll kill you!" Yoshitoki didn't relent an inch. "I'll kill you kill you killyou"

  Just as Shuya lost his patience and was about to shout again, Sakamochi shook his head, then turned to the three soldiers standing beside the podium and made a sharp gesture.

  The three camouflaged men, Tahara, Kondo, and Nomura, extended their right arms in unison, like the Four Freshmen or some other vocal group striking an impassioned pose for a song's climax—though this ensemble happened to be holding pistols. If this were the chorus, it might go, Baby please, Baby please / Spend this night with me.

  From his seat diagonally behind, Shuya could see Yoshitoki's goggling eyes bulged open even wider.

  The three guns flashed simultaneously. Halfway into the aisle, Yoshitoki's body danced the boogaloo.

  It was over before anyone, including Noriko Nakagawa directly behind, could duck.

  And as the gunfire's echoes faded, Yoshitoki slowly leaned to the right, then flopped to the floor between his own desk and that of Izumi Kanai to his right. Izumi gasped.

  The trio held their pose, arms outstretched and level. Three identical wisps of smoke wafted from the muzzles of their pistols. The room was oddly silent. Between the desk legs, Shuya saw his friend's familiar face pointed straight at him, those goggling eyes open, staring at a point on the floor. A pool of bright blood began to spread. Yoshitoki's arm, splayed at his side, began to spasm, shaking from the shoulder down to the fingertips.

  Yoshitoki!

  Shuya stood and began to run to Yoshitoki's side, but Noriko got there first. She cried, "Mr. Nobu!" and stooped over him.


  The soldier with the fake smile was the only one to shoot her. She fell forward as if she had tripped and slammed atop Yoshitoki's convulsing body.

  The man immediately pointed his weapon at Shuya. Becoming more and more confused, Shuya froze in place. Moving only his eyes, he looked at Noriko. She was on her hands and knees atop Yoshitoki. Blood gushed from a wound in her right calf.

  To Noriko, Sakamochi said, "Leaving your desk without permission is not allowed." Then to Shuya, "The same applies to you, Nanahara. Take your seat."

  Shuya tore his eyes from the sight of Noriko's rapidly bloodying leg and from Yoshitoki beneath her, and looked Sakamochi straight on. He could feel his neck muscles twitch from the shock.

  "What the hell is going on?" Shuya shouted, on the verge of crying, unable to make himself move. The insincere soldier kept his pistol trained right between Shuya's eyes. "What the hell are you doing? You have to—Yoshitoki needs first aid! And Noriko . . ."

  Sakamochi frowned and shook his head. Then he repeated, "Take your seat now. And you too, uh, Nakagawa."

  Noriko, her face pale from the sight of Yoshitoki, slowly lifted her head to look at Sakamochi. Anger overshadowed what must have been incredible pain. She glared at Sakamochi and said, clipping each word, "Please help Kuninobu."

  Yoshitoki's right arm continued to spasm. But as Shuya watched, the movements were quickly abating. Without immediate attention, his wounds would clearly be fatal.

  With a sigh, Sakamochi turned to the insincere soldier and said, "Tahara, make sure of it."

  Before Shuya had time to think Of what? the soldier aimed his pistol down and fired once. Yoshitoki Kuninobu's head jolted, and something sprayed out and splashed onto Noriko's face.

  Noriko was dazed, her mouth agape. Dark red flecked her face.

  Shuya realized his own mouth was hanging open.

  Though part of his head was now gone, Yoshitoki kept on staring at the same spot on the floor. But he had stopped spasming. He had stopped doing anything at all.

  "Look," Sakamochi said. "He was dead already. Now, if you've seen enough, take your seats."

  Noriko looked down at Yoshitoki's gnarled head. "Oh," she let out. "This ..."

  Shuya was still in shock. His eyes were locked on Yoshitoki's face, glimpsed between the desk legs. His thoughts were paralyzed, as if it were his brains that had been blown out. His mind whirled in a tornado of memories of times spent with Yoshitoki. Little adventures camping and rowing downriver, rainy days engrossed in old, well-worn board games, watching a copy of an American movie that had made its way to the black market, The Blues Brothers. (Amazingly, the film had even been dubbed in Japanese, though the voice actors were terrible.) The two lead characters had been in an orphanage, and for a time, Shuya and Yoshitoki played pretend Jake and Elwood. Then he remembered the expression on Yoshitoki's face, not so long ago, when he said, "Hey, Shuya, I. . . kinda . . . got a crush." And after that. . .

  "Can't you two hear me?" Sakamochi said, or perhaps repeated, as Shuya might in fact not have heard. He just stared at his friend's face.

  As did Noriko. If they had continued like that, the two may have soon followed after Yoshitoki Kuninobu. Beside Sakamochi, the insincere soldier was pointing his gun at Noriko, and the other two soldiers pointed theirs at Shuya.

  But a calm voice—carefree, even—saying, "Teacher Teacher Teacher," brought Shuya back to reality, or at least made him turn dimly to face the voice's source.

  On the other side of Yoshitoki's now empty chair, Shinji Mimura had raised his hand. Noriko finally looked his way.

  "Um, Mimura, right?" Sakamochi said. "What is it?"

  Shinji lowered his hand, and The Third Man's voice sounded no different than any other day when he asked, "Since Nakagawa is hurt, could I help her to her chair?"

  Sakamochi's eyebrows rose a little, but he nodded his consent. "Sure, go ahead. I want to keep things moving."

  Shinji nodded, stood, and walked to Noriko's side, kneeling between Yoshitoki's body and her. As he moved, he had taken a neatly folded handkerchief from his pocket, which he then used to wipe Yoshitoki's blood from her face. Noriko didn't react.

  "Come, Nakagawa, stand," he said, taking her by her right arm and helping her up.

  Then, with his back turned to Sakamochi, Shinji looked at Shuya, who was still half standing at his desk. Beneath crisp, upturned eyebrows, Shinji's typically good-humored eyes had turned solemn. With an arching of an eyebrow and a minute shake of his head, he jerked his left hand down, palm open. When Shuya didn't understand, Shinji repeated the gesture.

  The second time, Shuya realized through his daze that Shinji was telling him, Settle down. He returned Shinji's gaze and eased back into his chair.

  Shinji gave him a slight nod and helped Noriko to her seat, then turned his back again and returned to his own.

  Noriko's right leg dangled from her chair, blood gushing from the wound, staining her white sock and sneaker in bright red, like she had put on one of Santa's boots.

  Finally regaining her senses, Noriko started to thank Shinji. But, as if he could see behind himself, the boy dismissed her with a shrug. She withdrew, and her eyes fell back down to Yoshitoki, lying just to her right. Her gaze froze there, and though she didn't make a sound, Shuya could see her eyes filling with tears.

  He too looked at Yoshitoki's corpse, the legs of the desks fragmenting the view. A corpse, that's all it was now. There was no denying it. Though unable to fully process what had just occurred, Shuya knew this was a corpse—the corpse of the boy with whom he had shared the last ten years of his life.

  As he looked into Yoshitoki's gaping eyes, anger came to him, pulsing, building steadily, resolute, taking control of his body. He thought he might be shaking. Emotions quelled by shock returned to him. His lip curled as he turned to face Sakamochi.

  The man watched him with amusement. I'll never forgive you, Shuya thought. I'm going to kill the bastard!

  Shuya was only moments away from exploding as his friend had done, but then he remembered Shinji's gestured message—Settle down. An outburst now would only bring him the same fate as Yoshitoki. And now Yoshitoki's crush, Noriko Nakagawa, was badly hurt. If Shuya died, what would happen to her?

  With effort, he broke away from Sakamochi's gaze and buried his eyes in the top of his desk. He felt miserable. Denied an outlet, the rage and sorrow threatened to crush his spirit.

  Sakamochi chuckled, apparently turning his attention elsewhere.

  To keep his body from trembling, Shuya clenched his fists under his desk. Strongly, strongly, he clenched. But with Yoshitoki's body so near, forcing down his emotions was not easy.

  He really couldn't process it. Can it really be? Can you lose someone just like that? Someone that close, gone?

  The two boys had always been together. What they had done together may not have amounted to much, but when they had been playing in the river and Yoshitoki nearly drowned, Shuya was the one who saved him. When they were collecting grasshoppers and carelessly stuffed too many into a single box, killing nearly all of them, they both felt bad about it. They had fought over who Eddy the dog loved more. When they snuck into the attic over the school's faculty room for a laugh, and it looked like they were about to be caught, they pulled off the escape and laughed about it together. The two really had been inseparable. They had been.

  And now, he's gone?

  Shinji raised his hand. "Teacher, I have another question."

  "Again, Mimura? What is it?"

  "Nakagawa is hurt. Wouldn't her being in the Program make it unfair?"

  Sakamochi laughed in amusement. "Yeah. Well, that may be true, Mimura, but what of it?"

  "Couldn't you see that her wounds get treated and have the Program postponed until she's healed?"

  Shuya, having barely been able to control his tumultuous emotions, marveled at Shinji Mimura's composure—though he was surprised he could be any more impressed with the boy than he already had been before. It was tr
ue,- Shinji was far calmer than Shuya had managed. If Shuya could match it himself, maybe he could buy himself and his classmates more time to find an escape.

  Sakamochi burst into laughter. "What an amusing suggestion, Mimura," he said. Then he offered a different solution. "All right, then, how about I kill Nakagawa. That would make everything fair, right?"

  Not only Noriko, but all the students tensed. Shuya could see Shinji's back muscles stiffen beneath his school uniform.

  Right away, Shinji said, "I take it back, I take it back. I give."

  His joking tone sent Sakamochi into another burst of laughter. The insincere-looking soldier, who had already begun reaching for his holster, returned his hand to rest on his rifle's shoulder strap.

  Sakamochi clapped his hands twice and said, "All right, listen, you all have different aptitudes. Whether intellect or physical ability, you all start unequal. So Nakagawa won't be receiving any medical atten— You there! No talking!"

  With a shout, he threw a white object at Fumiyo Fujiyoshi (Girls #18), who was about to whisper something to the female class leader, Yukie Utsumi. For a second, Shuya thought it was a piece of chalk—a guess that would have been apt, back in another world.

  Thuk! Making the sound of a nail driven into a coffin, a thin knife sprouted from the center of Fumiyo's high and fair-skinned forehead.

  Yukie's eyes widened as she saw it, while Fumiyo made for a bizarre show, looking up, trying to identify the knife in her own brow, her head tilting back.

  Then, in an instant, Fumiyo collapsed sideways. Her temple slammed against Yukie's desk, jolting it.

  This time, no confirmation was needed. Who could have a knife sticking out of her forehead and survive?

  No one moved. No one spoke. With held breath, Yukie stared down at Fumiyo. Noriko watched with a stunned expression. Shinji Mimura pursed his lips and looked at Fumiyo, who had fallen into the same aisle as Yoshitoki.

  Shuya forced his dry throat to swallow and thought, He did that just because he felt like it. On a fucking whim! Our lives are at the mercy of this bastard, Sakamochi or whatever his name is.