Chapter 24. The Rival's Measuring

The white corridor of Mirage Omotesandō resembled a hospital’s.

Only quieter than a hospital, and colder, and more expensive. The walls were a matte white. The floor was a dark grey stone that swallowed the light. The strip lighting buried in the ceiling fell evenly, without mercy, like a verdict. The air carried a faint citrus and the inorganic smell of disinfect.

I gave my name at the reception desk. Seri Himuro. I have an appointment with Rui Takatsuji. The woman behind the counter offered a smile too polished to be warm and let me through. The elevator carried me to the top floor. The doors opened onto a room walled in glass.

Rui Takatsuji was standing at the far end of it.

I

She stood with her back to the window. The Omotesandō streetscape spread out behind her slender outline. The silver-rimmed smart-glasses caught the afternoon sun and threw it back in a thin blade.

“You came.”

No greeting. She glanced at me once and indicated the chair nearest me with her chin. I did not sit.

“Rui Takatsuji.”

I said her name clearly. My voice echoed in the glass room.

“There is something I wish to ask you.”

“Something you wish to ask. What a coincidence. I have something too.”

Rui laughed. Only her lips moved. A smile with no temperature.

I said what I had come to say. The words I had prepared, pressing each one down like a seal into wax.

“Your people extracted the measurement data of one of my clients. And you turned the story her body tells into Veil’s advertisement. I would like that returned. The data, and the story. They belong to her.”

Rui let a beat pass. Then she looked out the window. The zelkova trees along Omotesandō were stirring in the early-summer wind.

“Seri Himuro.”

She turned back to me.

“You set the word story on too high a pedestal.”

“A pedestal.”

“You treat it as a sanctuary. Something that must not be touched, that must not be reduced to numbers. That is emotional sentiment. Nothing more.”

Rui walked to the table at the centre of the room. A slim tablet lay on it. She flicked the screen with a finger.

“Can you prove that what you call a story truly saves people? Or is it only sentiment — a gentle lie, a self-satisfaction? Can you prove it.”

“Prove it.”

“Yes. Prove it. Numbers can be proven. They are reproducible. Does this reading of yours have that quality.”

I bit my lip. I tried to answer and the words would not come. In a sense, what Rui said was right. A story is not reproducible. Measure the same body twice and the reading will shift with the day’s light, the hour’s mood. That mutability was both the craft’s strength and its weakness.

“You cannot, then.”

Rui took my silence for what it was.

“Then let us prove it together.”

II

What she proposed was a live, public measuring.

“The same subject, measured by each of us, at the same time. I will quantify with Veil’s full-body scan. You will read — with that, what is it, Contura. And we will publish the results then and there.”

“Publish.”

“Yes. I will invite a small audience to this room. Two of Veil’s staff, and one companion of yours. We will stand a fair third party as well. And we will see — which reading reaches the subject. We will see it shown.”

“That’s —”

“Will you run from it.”

Rui’s eyes narrowed. Behind the smart-glasses a cold light ran.

I could not run. The fact I had learned in the aftermath of Mai Aso — that Veil had mined my client’s data, spun the story out of it, and hung it up as if their own analysis in a national advertisement — I could not let that stand. And if I backed down here, Rui would broadcast to the world that the craft was, after all, only sentiment.

“Very well.”

I accepted.

“On one condition.”

“Speak.”

“You will obtain the subject’s permission before measuring her body. And what is read will not be made public unless she wishes it. Keep these two things. Only these.”

Rui looked faintly surprised. Then she gave a small nod.

“Your ethical Laws. Very well. I accept the condition. But —”

She lifted the tablet.

“What if the subject herself wishes it to be public.”

”…Then I will follow her will.”

“Then let us call her.”

III

The subject called in was a Veil assistant named Kaede Mizushima. Twenty-four. Roughly my age.

Kaede stood beside Rui, looking nervous. A slight frame in a white blouse and navy slacks. Her shoulders were drawn in, faintly. I recognised the habit — the kind that belongs to someone afraid of being seen in a mirror. Being the same age, I knew it by sight.

“Kaede. I am going to measure your body. Live, and in public. Is that acceptable.”

At Rui’s question, Kaede hesitated a moment, then nodded.

“Yes. If you will look at me, Takatsuji-san.”

In her voice I heard awe, and dependence, and the faintest tremor of fear. I did not miss it. This girl had lodged her sense of her own worth in the fact of being evaluated by Rui. A good number, and she could breathe; a bad number, and she would shatter. That was the shape her life had taken.

The audience filed in. Two of Veil’s staff. And, as my companion, Sono Kiryū had come. Sono leaned against the wall by the entrance, arms folded. When her eyes met mine she gave a small nod. I’ve got you, it said.

A single industry reporter, as the third party. Rui had arranged it — in fairness, she said. I knew which way that fairness would lean. But I had no grounds to refuse.

IV

The measuring was simultaneous.

Two glass booths stood side by side at the centre of the room. On the left, Veil’s full-body scanning rig. On the right, an empty space — where I would raise the Outline Sight with Contura.

Rui moved first.

“Kaede. Undress.”

A curt instruction. Kaede unbuttoned the blouse and stepped out of the slacks. In sports bra and briefs, her slight body was laid under the white light.

Rui struck the scanner’s console. A pale, blue-white light licked over Kaede from the crown of her head to the soles of her feet in a single instant.

Numbers cascaded down the screen like a waterfall.

“Height, one hundred sixty-one centimetres. Weight, forty-nine point two kilograms. Body fat, twenty-two point one percent. Muscle mass, thirty-six point eight kilograms. BMI, eighteen point nine. Basal metabolism, one thousand two hundred twenty-eight kilocalories.”

Rui’s voice was a recitation. No inflection. Only the numbers, laid in a row.

“Left-right asymmetry — right shoulder, forty-one point three. Left shoulder, forty point eight. Right leg, fifty-one point two. Left leg, fifty point eight. A slight rightward lean. The effect of the dominant hand.”

She went on.

“Beauty score — skin elasticity, seventy-two. Complexion, sixty-eight. Somatic deviation, fifty-eight. Falls within the top decile of her age cohort.”

Finally, Rui turned the screen toward the audience. On it, a 3D model of Kaede’s body rotated, with numbers tagged to every part like labels on a diagram.

“Comprehensive evaluation. Somatic deviation fifty-eight, body fat twenty-two point one percent. Slightly slimmer than standard, muscle mass below standard. Room for improvement. Recommendation — twelve hours of resistance training per month, increase protein intake to sixty grams per day.”

Rui set the tablet down.

“That is all.”

It was accurate. Cold, perfect, accuracy. The reporter was writing furiously. The Veil staff nodded along. Numbers are legible. Numbers are objective. They persuaded.

My throat went dry.

Kaede, inside the glass booth, was looking up at her own body — at her body plastered with numbers. What rose on her face was not relief. Nor was it fear. It was closer to resignation. Ah. So this is the body I have. The face of someone sentenced by a number. The face I myself had made, again and again, in front of a mirror.

V

“Next, you.”

Rui looked at me.

I stepped into the right-hand booth. I asked Kaede once more for permission.

“Mizushima-san. May I read your body.”

Kaede blinked. Rui’s scan had not asked her anything. “Oh — yes. Please.”

I lifted Contura.

The phone in my pocket. A finger to the screen. Coh’s voice resounded inside me.

“Seri. We measure. I release the light.”

Pale blue particles seeped from my hand. They dissolved into the air and traced the surface of Kaede’s body — shoulder, collarbone, chest, waist, hip, thigh.

The light drew rings around her. And numbers floated into the air. They matched Rui’s almost exactly. Shoulder breadth, chest, waist, hip. A dimension is a dimension. The Outline Sight, the Measuring — both stand on the same bedrock of number.

But from here, it diverged.

The numbers burst all at once into particles. The particles swirled, gathered, drew themselves into a single line, and became letters.

And in the air, a body of light shaped like Kaede’s rose up.

I read that outline.

It was a slight body. The shoulders were not broad. But on the right alone there was a faint flare. The left shoulder was drawn inward. The chest was shallow. The line from waist to hip was gentle. And the neck — the neck was thrust slightly forward. Together with the shoulders, the whole body tilted forward, hunched, compressed.

Coh whispered.

“Can you read it, Seri.”

“I can.”

I answered. And I read.

VI

“Mizushima-san.”

I turned to face her. My voice shook, a little. But the words came clearly.

“Your body is telling me something.”

Rui crossed her arms and leaned against the wall. Please, she said, with an ironic open hand.

I spoke.

“Your right shoulder is slightly broader than your left. That may be the effect of your dominant hand. Takatsuji-san is right. But — the left shoulder being drawn inward is not the dominant hand alone.”

I pointed to the left shoulder of the luminous outline.

“Here, it is hunched. As if sheltering someone. Or hiding from something. The body takes the shape of what the heart is doing without knowing it. You are afraid of something. You are trying to make yourself small. Unseen.”

Kaede’s eyes went wide.

I went on.

“The neck, forward. This is the shape of someone who has spent a long time looking down. At a screen. Or reading someone’s expression. Your body is shaped like a question you are always asking someone — am I all right.”

“Stop —”

Kaede’s voice caught.

“And the line from waist to hip. It is gentle. Rounded. This is the shape of kindness. You had, originally, a body built to receive people, soft and open. Now it has gone hard. The muscle has seized with tension. The body is trying to protect itself.”

Finally, I spoke the insight. The letters hanging in the air brightened.

Your body has been slowly shrinking to answer someone’s evaluation. But that breadth — it has not vanished yet.

VII

Kaede was crying.

Without a sound. Only, the tears came. Inside the glass booth she held her own arms around herself.

“Why —”

Kaede’s voice was hoarse.

“How do you know. I never said. I’ve never said it to anyone.”

“Because your body was telling it.”

I said it quietly.

“What you did not put into words, your body said in your place. I only read it.”

Rui moved.

”…I see.”

She picked up the tablet.

“The numbers matched my scan. On accuracy, I have not lost. But — your reading touches a dimension my numbers do not. I will grant that.”

It was uncharacteristic of Rui. At the corner of the room, Sono raised an eyebrow.

But the coldness returned to her at once.

“Still. That does not mean a person is saved. Your reading is moving. Kaede cried. But after the tears, what remains. When she looks in the mirror tomorrow, what will have changed. Your story may draw a person’s tears for a moment, but will it change the body. Will it make her stand on her own feet.”

Rui turned to Kaede.

“Kaede. Will you end this with crying. Or will you take these numbers and use them to improve. Choose.”

Kaede wiped her eyes and looked at Rui. In her eyes there was hesitation. A body used to dependence finds it easier to obey the number. Easier than listening to a story. An instruction is plainer than a sentence.

“I —”

Kaede opened her mouth and stopped.

Then she looked at me.

“Himuro-san, was it.”

“Yes.”

“That thing you read. The breadth hasn’t vanished yet. Is that true. Can I still — spread out.”

“Yes.”

I nodded.

“Your body is hunched now, but it carries the strength to open out. How you use that strength is for you to decide.”

Kaede laughed, a little. A watery, unsteady smile. But standing there, she looked — just slightly — more on her own feet than she had standing before Rui.

VIII

The audience dispersed. The reporter left, still scribbling. The Veil staff went out in silence. Only Sono remained, bringing me water.

“Seri. Did you win.”

Sono asked it in a low voice.

“I don’t know.”

It was the truth. Rui’s analysis had been accurate. My insight had struck Kaede’s heart. But Rui’s question — after the tears, what remains — was sharp. A story moves a person for a moment. Whether it endures, no one knows. Numbers are cold, but they are there tomorrow, and the day after, and the day after that.

Rui, in the corner of the glass room, was keying something into her tablet. When she had finished, she came toward me.

“Seri Himuro.”

“Yes.”

“I acknowledge your power. But it is reducible to numbers.”

“Reducible.”

“The left shoulder’s contraction. The forward inclination of the neck. The muscular tension. All of it can be expressed numerically. Postural angles. The location of myofascial rigidity. What you call a story is only a literary translation of precise numerical analysis. What I do and what you do are, at root, the same. You have only added the seasoning of emotion. That is all.”

I started to object, and stopped. In a sense, Rui was right. Number and story may share a root. The same body, told in two different languages. But — no, I thought, too.

The look in Kaede’s eyes when she turned to me. That voice, asking can I still spread out. That is not born of a number. A number says room for improvement. It does not say the breadth has not vanished yet. That difference — I had to prove it. And I had not proved it yet.

“Takatsuji-san.”

I asked, last.

“Have you ever measured your own body.”

Rui’s hand stopped. For an instant — only an instant — her eyes wavered. Then the cold smile returned.

“Every day. I manage it perfectly.”

“I see.”

I did not press further. Something was off, I felt it. But I had, at that moment, no way to confirm it.

IX

I walked to Omotesandō station with Sono. Dusk was coming on. The line of zelkova trees threw long shadows.

“Seri.”

Sono said.

“That woman, Takatsuji — it’s not about winning and losing, with her.”

”…No.”

“Your reading was something. The girl cried. But that woman never backed down. Reducible to numbers, she said. Is that just bluster.”

“I don’t know.”

I murmured.

“But I learned one thing. Rui acknowledged my power. And on the strength of that acknowledgment, she still believes it can be reduced to numbers. Until I overturn that, the stolen story won’t come back. As long as she thinks the same thing can be done, more efficiently, with numbers, she will not stop.”

“Then what will you do.”

I stopped walking. The station entrance was before us. People flowed in and out. Each body carrying its own story on its back.

“Next, I have to prove something larger. That the story holds something numbers cannot be reduced to. Striking the heart is not enough. The body changes. And the change cannot be explained by numbers alone.”

Sono folded her arms and thought about it.

”…That’s a large piece of work.”

“Yes.”

I touched the pocket that held Contura. The cold of the metal. The presence of Coh, faintly warm.

“But it’s what I have to do.”

The next step. To prove that the story changes a person — to Rui, and to the world. And I could feel, already, that the stage for that proof was close.

The dusk over Omotesandō was a wash of orange and purple and indigo. Beside Sono, I went down the station stairs.

—

On the train home, I read a sentence that had surfaced, without my noticing, on Contura’s old screen.

The machine is only the measuring. The reading is done by a person.

Whether Coh had left the words for me, or my grandmother had once set them down, I could not tell. But I pressed that sentence into the floor of my chest.

Tomorrow, I move. To prove the victory of the story.

—

(Continued in Chapter 25. The Hollow Victory)