Planet: Chapter 2 - part 1

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A heavy jolt shook me awake. I’d hit my head. It throbbed slowly, a spreading ache. I reached up and touched the sore spot on top of my head. No bump... None. Guess I’m fine. The van clatters and bounces like it’s hopping on rough ground, lifting me up from the seat. It just won’t sit still.

Outside the yellowish, dust-covered window, I can see leaves and branches, really close. They tap against the glass, making sharp snapping sounds. Even though the glass protects me, every time I hear it, my shoulders flinch. Ah, we must be deep in the mountains. The road’s narrow. I wonder where we’re headed... Not that it matters. As long as I do what the higher-ups tell me when we arrive, that’s all that counts. My father said that, too.

There’s no chatter. Everyone in the van is quiet. Maybe they’re asleep. I close my eyes and imagine the bento I’ll have at lunch, hoping it’ll have fried chicken. Then, the shaking stops. The van has pulled to a halt. The door opens, and everyone gets out. I’m the last to step down and... huh? There’s this odd feeling. I’ve forgotten so many things from back then, but this place feels familiar. The brown-roofed building in the back, that’s the office. Beside it, a shed with a tin roof, completely open at the sides. Across the river view, rows of dorm containers line up. The containers are rusty, vines crawling all over them like abandoned houses left untouched for ages. Opposite the containers, up toward the mountainside, piles of industrial waste are stacked up in heaps. It’s just like it used to be.

"So this is the infamous Yano," Hirakawa-san says, shading his forehead as he stares at the trash heap.

"Mura, does this bring back memories of your old stomping grounds?”

“Yes,” I answer. The team leader standing beside Hirakawa-san turns to me with a surprised look. “Mura-san, you used to work here?!”

“Stayed till the place went under,” Hirakawa-san answers in my place. The team leader puts his hands on his head, saying, “No way.”

“They say the work was hard, the daily pay was low, and there were a lot of injuries.”

All the sites were rough.

“There were a lot of injured workers.”

Back when I was working at Yano, one time the scaffolding shook, and I fell. “Good thing it wasn’t from a high place; you got lucky,” they’d told me. Still, breaking a leg hurt a lot. Since I was staying in the dorm, I had a place to sleep and meals. While I couldn’t work, my dorm fees racked up daily as debt, but I was grateful.

“Well, in sloppy places, safety’s hardly a priority...” Hirakawa-san mutters under his breath. The team leader sighs deeply, sounding tired.

“This place has changed ownership multiple times and was pretty much left as is, but now that they’re finally putting in a road, the owner had to let it go. It’s a mess. Speaking of which, I heard recently that some recruiters outside the Center are tricking laborers and bringing them to nuclear plants.”

“It’s been like that forever.”

They keep talking in low voices, but I catch something about recruiters and trickery. My father used to warn me to avoid any recruiter jobs not affiliated with the Center.

The site is big, and we’re sharing it with other companies. Our job is to demolish the office building. It’s more finicky than breaking down walls—lots of screws to remove and detailed tasks that take time.

Near the office, there’s a huge truck going back and forth, hauling out the industrial waste with a steady rumble. Every time dust clouds rise, the scaffolding shakes, turning the air a pale yellow.

In another company’s work area, a guy in a yellow jumpsuit loads containers onto a truck. My father always wore a yellow jumpsuit, so for a second, I wonder if it might be him. But then I remember he went back to our star. Watching closely, I realize it’s not him. Still, there’s something familiar about the face. Just as I start trying to remember, the name Kanabe pops into my mind. Kanabe-san, the guy who’d once bought me a drink. He was a good person. I always remember the good ones.

At lunchtime, after eating my bento in the shade of the van, I walked around a bit. Some spots felt nostalgic, while others seemed new.

The waste pile behind the office looked a bit lower than it did that morning. I noticed two workers there. They were from a different company, standing at the edge of the pile, smoking. A nice smell drifted over. It used to be breezy and cool in that spot.

“Why would they lay something this thick?”

A rusty, reddish iron plate, about the size of three tatami mats, was set beneath the industrial waste pile. When a worker stomped on it, it made a solid clanging sound. It was quiet during the lunch break, with no work going on, so the sound echoed loudly.

“Maybe the ground’s soft, and tires sink into it.”

“Doesn’t really feel like the ground’s that bad, but it is close to the river, I guess.”

I looped around from the back toward the company entrance, passing by the toilets. A faint smell of urine drifted up. The sharp, stinging stench that used to make my eyes water and stomach turn—it was gone now.

People who had been sitting quietly in the shade started to stir, moving around like ants. Lunch break was over. Time to get back to work. Got to keep going.

As I was loading sheets of tin from the dismantled wall onto a truck, loud voices erupted, and a crowd gathered near the industrial waste pile. Hirakawa-san stretched his neck out, saying, “What’s going on over there?” The team leader, glancing toward the waste pile, said, “Wonder if someone got hurt. I’ll go check,” and headed in that direction. By the time I finished loading the tin, he was back. Clicking his tongue, he said, “They found bones over by the waste pile.”

“The police are coming, so they’re putting a stop to our work here for now.”

“Oh, geez,” Hirakawa-san groaned, clutching his head. Bones, huh. Sometimes, if you’re digging out a foundation, they show up. When they do, work stops. That’s why everyone says bones are a hassle.

“Since it’s in the mountains, maybe this was an old graveyard. But then again... it’s industrial waste…” Hirakawa-san’s voice trailed off.

“They say it was found under the iron plate,” the team leader explained, “...and they’re dressed in what looks like work clothes.”

Everyone had been talking, but at that, a sudden hush fell over the group.

“If they’re dealing with all that, there’s no way it’ll get sorted today. It’s a waste of time for us to just sit here waiting. I’ll go ask if we can call it a day.”

The team leader headed back toward the waste area. Hirakawa-san, muttering, “This is why low-rank jobs are such a hassle,” turned and looked at me, staring.

“You were here a long time, right? Ever hear anything?”

“What do you mean by hear anything?”

Hirakawa-san turned his head away with a face that said, You’re not the kind to be involved in something like that.

People were lounging in the shade, smoking or checking their phones, like it was still lunch break. Someone who had gone to check things out said, “They covered it with a tarp; couldn’t see the bones.”

The blaring siren of the patrol cars drew closer, echoing even inside my head. I hated that sound. I hadn’t done anything wrong, but just hearing it made me restless, my chest pounding. I hated the police. Nothing good ever came of them.

“If we’re not going back to work, I’d like to just head home. This is bad luck,” Hirakawa-san grumbled as he sat, muttering. I sat next to him and lit a cigarette, even though it wasn’t break time. Everyone else was smoking, so I figured it was fine.

The bathroom had smelled so bad, but now it barely smelled at all. I wonder if the smell goes away when it’s not in use. As my cigarette burned halfway down, I was debating whether to finish it or toss it when the team leader came back. He walked over to me, casting a shadow.

“Mura-san, you worked here before, didn’t you?”

The team leader looked down at me.

“Yes.”

“The police want to ask you some questions.”

When I was near the Center, the police would sometimes call out to me, asking work-related questions. If they kept talking, eventually, my head would start buzzing, and I wouldn’t understand anymore. If I just kept saying “Yes, yes,” they’d tell me to get in the car, keep asking questions, and I’d keep getting lost in it all. It always ended with a headache. I hated it.

“Could you come with me?”

The team leader beckoned me over. I hated the police, but I had to listen to my superiors. Even as I thought about how much I didn’t want to, I walked alongside the team leader.

“They don’t think you’re a suspect or anything,” he said.

“It’s just that the company went under, so I think it’s more for background information.”

The area where they’d found the bones was roped off with a blue tarp.

There were five uniformed officers standing nearby, with plenty of other workers gathered around. Among all the workers, I noticed one in yellow. It was Kanabe-san in his yellow jumpsuit. Kanabe-san was unmistakable.

“He’s a former worker here,” the team leader said to the officer, talking about me.

“It’s Mura, the kid.”

Kanabe-san came over and stood next to me.

“Where did you say your father went?”

My father was taken back to our star by the ones who came for him, but I wasn’t supposed to say that. If I said it, the ones coming for me might stop.

“I don’t know where my father is.”

“He disappeared suddenly, didn’t he?”

“Yes.”

“When did that happen?”

“A long time ago.”

“Like five or ten years?”

I don’t know how many years. I’ve never counted.

“It was a really, really long time ago.”

Kanabe-san placed both hands on his waist. Maybe he had some pain there?

“The bones found under the iron plate… They were wearing a yellow work uniform. Your father used to wear yellow a lot too, didn’t he?”

“Yes. My father wears yellow clothes.”

The surroundings fell silent. I wondered why. Maybe everyone was staring at me? It felt strange.

“I hate to say this, but… those bones that were found—could they possibly be your father’s?”

Kanabe-san’s words shocked me, and I shook my head fiercely.

“No, no, it’s not him. My father is happily living with my mother.”

Because they’re aliens, the two of them are on our star. Kanabe-san looked up at my face and asked, “Really?”

“Yes.”

The ones coming for me will arrive too. The officer approached and asked, “Can I speak with you?” I’m supposed to listen to the police; everyone says it’ll just cause trouble later if I don’t. They say it’s best to stay calm. And if not, then run off as soon as you see them.

“Specifically, what years did you work here?”

Sometimes they ask me about specific years, like calendar years or eras. I know them now, but I won’t later. I only know my own birth date. Since I don’t know, I say, “A long time.” If they ask, “Two, three years ago? Or longer?” I respond, “Yes,” to whichever number they say, and then they ask, “Which is it?” Since I don’t know, I keep silent, and they stop asking.

“During your time here, did you hear of any big disputes, or people disappearing all of a sudden?”

Big disputes meant fights, probably. There were always arguments, both verbal and physical. People disappearing wasn’t unusual either. People would come in and go; it was always like that.

“Everyone disappeared.”

“Everyone?”

“Everyone. The last ones here were me and Ueno-san.”

“If there’s anything else that comes to mind, even minor things, please let us know.”

I wondered what the officer wanted to ask me. Was it about the past? I didn’t remember much about the past. Nothing came to mind. Oh, actually, I remembered a little.

“There was a brown dog, and when I gave him a fish cake, he did a little trick.”

“I see,” the officer said, his voice unsettling. I hated it. I tried hard to remember, and now my head felt like it was going to burst. When there’s too much I don’t understand, and I keep thinking, I get like this. I get exhausted. The officer was talking, but I didn’t understand. It all turned into a mess, and I couldn’t make sense of it. I didn’t understand, but I felt like I needed to respond, so I kept saying, “Yes, yes,” until the officer stopped asking questions. Was it over? Good. My head felt a little lighter.

“We’d like… though it’s only in skeletal form, for you to take a look at the remains.”

The officer was talking to me. I understood that. Bones—I’d seen them before. Buried bones. The skull was white.

“…It’s not mandatory, but…”

“Oh, okay.”

I followed the officer. The blue tarp is lifted, and I see it. There, down in the hole, buried in the dirt, there's something. A mud-covered work jumpsuit with a lot of pockets. It's stained a brownish color, almost like it's dirty. There's a bit of yellow peeking through. Is it lying on its side? Near the top, that white part might be the skull. The strands that look like tangled string… are those hair? Yeah, probably hair. Makes me feel a little uneasy. And within the hair, there’s something. Something yellow. What could it be? I crouch down to take a closer look. It’s a yellow flower.

“Huh.”

The policeman comes closer. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s the same as my dad’s.”

“What is?” he asks, his voice louder now. I point at it, feeling a tinge of fear.

“My dad uses a flower hair tie to pull his hair back.”

Mom used to wear it. And after Mom was gone, Dad started using it—a yellow flower hair tie.

“This person… they’re wearing the same one.”

The policeman says, “Um,” then asks cautiously, “Your father used one of these too?”

“Yes.”

“Could this… be your father’s body?”

“This isn’t my dad.”

“Then, do you have a way to contact him? There are a few things I’d like to ask.”

I can’t speak to Dad. He’s living on our star now. Why does the policeman keep asking things that make no sense? What am I supposed to do? My head starts to feel tight again. Thinking is exhausting.

“I can’t contact him.”

“Why not?” The policeman’s tone sharpens.

“I can’t contact him. But he’s doing well with my mom.”

“If you can’t contact him, how do you know he’s well?”

It’s because she came to pick him up, and they returned to our star together.

“... I just know.”

“Uh, excuse us for a moment,” Kanabe-san says, pulling the policeman aside. They talk a bit further away, and then they all come back.

“Hey, kid, how long has it been since you last saw your dad?” Kanabe-san’s voice is gentle, and I feel a relief in my chest.

“It’s been a long time.”

“Your dad disappeared while you were working in Yano, right? We’re sure about that?”

“Yes.”

“…I see.”

The others talk amongst themselves now. They aren’t asking me any more questions. Thank goodness. They were asking so much that it was all getting mixed up and murky, like dust spreading in the air. The more they asked, the less I understood, and everything around me, even things I could see, began to feel distant and blurry.

Kanabe-san’s mouth moves.

“That person down there… it’s really not your dad, is it?”

“No, it’s not my dad.”

Kanabe-san falls silent for a moment.

“Mura, could you help the police out with their investigation?”

Kanabe-san’s request sounds almost pleading.

“Whether that person is your dad or not, it would be good to help them get back to their family. Leaving them here wouldn’t be right.”

The person who turned to bones, they were alive once, too. They probably had a family. Not being able to see your family… that’s lonely. I know that. Mom used to cry if Dad was late coming home.

“Yes, you’re right.”

I’ll cooperate with the police. But something about it… something feels off. I don’t know where this uncomfortable feeling is coming from. Maybe it’s because of the police? Yeah, that must be it.

◇:-:◆:-:◇

The constant drumming fills my ears—rumble, rumble, rumble. Sitting, lying down, it’s all the same, just rumble, rumble. The rain is relentless, pouring down like a shower handle turned all the way. There’s a mountain in the rain. Something someone left behind. It’s the same as it was before I went into the dorm.

Here, near the Center, the overhang is long enough to keep me dry. But lying here on just a piece of cardboard over concrete—it’s hard. My back hurts. So does my hand. One of my wrists throbs when I touch it, hot to the touch and swollen compared to the other. Even lying down or awake, it just pulses. Last night, a pile of things fell: carts and a heap of stuff, and then a bike without tires dropped right onto where I was lying. It hit my wrist. There was no blood, but by morning it was swollen. Pain, pain, pain.

When the pile collapsed, someone was there. I heard voices, and they were laughing. Maybe they were playing on top of the heap. I remember there was a guy who used to toss things from those heaps all over the road. He even got caught once. When was that, anyway?

My stomach growls. It’s been rumbling so much that even clenching my stomach tight can’t stop it. I’m hungry. I want to eat something. The older man who built a cardboard house under the shelter said, “There’s no food service anywhere today, y’know. Hungry, huh?” and he gave me some bread. He’s so kind. The bread had green mold on it, and he told me, “Just pinch it off where the mold is, and it’ll be fine.” The bread tasted good, but not long after, my stomach started to hurt, and I got sick. I was hungrier than before I ate.

With no money, I can’t buy food. It just keeps raining, and no recruiters are driving to the Center. Ugh, thoughts I don’t want to have keep popping up. I’d rather forget them, but they keep coming back.

The policeman talked to me a lot. Yesterday, he got mad, saying, “That body under the steel plate—that’s your father, right?” When I said, “No, it isn’t,” he shot back, “That’s what the test results say.” Every time I said “It’s not,” he repeated the same thing over and over.

He kept asking if I had a bad relationship with my dad or if he had fought with someone. His loud voice scared me. My head started to feel tight, and even though I could tell he was talking, I couldn’t make sense of the words anymore. I lied, saying I needed to go to the bathroom, and I left the station. As soon as I got outside, I felt lighter. Thank goodness.

I hurried, wondering if the policeman would follow me, but then I realized I didn’t know where I was. It was evening, and I came across some men working on pipe repairs. When I asked one of them for directions, he told me. When I said I had no money to get home, he offered, “If you’re okay with just partway, hop in,” and drove me in his van to a big overhang by the Center, where I could walk the rest of the way. I was so grateful.

It rained yesterday, and it’s still raining now. I’m cold. I’m hungry. The older man said that if I wait until tomorrow, there’ll be food service. That body isn’t my dad. Even if the tests say so, it’s not. My dad left with my mom and went to our star. If I wait, they’ll come pick me up. Will they come soon? If it’s raining, maybe they can’t come.

My hand hurts. When I got hurt on the job, someone from the company would take me to the hospital. But this wasn’t from working, so I’m not sure what to do. I don’t really want to go to a hospital—it sounds like such a hassle with all the paperwork. I just want the pain to go away soon.

I’m hungry. No food service today. No money. Can’t buy food. I’m hungry… ah, the movie theater. Maybe I should go there. They pay money. But I hate it. I hate that place. It hurts all the time there, and I can’t stand it. …But I’m hungry.

A shuffling sound. Someone’s coming nearby.

“Hey, kid,”

I look up. I can see his face. Wrinkled, with gray hair mixed in. The old man from the cardboard house. The kind one who gave me bread.

“There’s food distribution at the park. You should go. You haven’t eaten in a while, have you?”

The word “distribution” wipes away the fog inside me.

“Yes, I’d like that.”

I stand up slowly, my body stiff and aching. The sound of the rain grows louder in my ears. Ah, it’s still raining. Umbrella…where did I put my umbrella? I had one, I think… but where? I don’t see it anywhere. Maybe I never had one. Yeah, maybe I didn’t.

The moment I step out from under the overhang, my hair is soaked, the cold rain spilling over my head and shoulders. I hear the old man’s voice call out, “Hey, take an umbrella with you!” He holds out a pink umbrella. When I open it, I see the frame is bent, giving it an odd shape, and there’s a little white rabbit printed on it. Cute.

“Thank you.”

As I walk, each step makes a wet squish-squish sound. My shoes start to soak through, the cold seeping into my feet. My pants get wet from the bottom up, turning dark with the water, and every touch sends a shiver down my legs. The rain comes at a slant, so even with the umbrella, my face gets wet. I hunch my shoulders and pull the umbrella closer to my body.

Then—bam! Something crashes into me, my umbrella flying out of my hands, and I fall sideways. My ankle twists with a painful snap.

“Ahhhh!”

I clutch my foot. “Watch where you’re going, idiot!” a big man yells as he storms off under a green umbrella. The rain pours down, and I can’t avoid getting drenched now.

Careful not to put my sore hand on the ground, I sit up, but when I try to stand, my foot throbs harder. Every step sends a shooting pain from my foot up through my leg, sharp and relentless. The pink umbrella’s shape is even more twisted now. Walking hurts. Throb, throb—it’s endless. My hand hurts too, the pulsing pain from wrist to fingertip. I’m so tired of this.

I squat down in front of a closed storefront, leaning against the wall under the overhang. I’m hungry. My foot aches. My hand aches. I’m hungry. I don’t want to walk anymore.

The shop’s awning keeps most of the rain off, though the occasional gust still sprays me a bit. Leaning my back against the wall, I examine my foot. It’s still pulsing, not quite like when I walk, but a steady throb, throb. My wrist too, throb, throb.

Zaaaa—zaaa—the rain just won’t let up. It’s impossible to work in this weather. Nothing good ever comes of rain. If only it would just stop. It hurts. Everything hurts.

Umbrellas, all colors, pass by, moving from here to there, back and forth in the rain. Once the rain stops, maybe I’ll hop on one foot to somewhere dry. When will this stop? My hand and foot both hurt. I need to work, but... maybe I could go back to one of the dorms. The dorm at Tani was alright, but the police kept coming around. They yell at me even though I’ve done nothing wrong. Maybe someone would let me stay in a dorm again. Even if I end up in debt, I’d pay it back once I’m healed and working again.

The gray sky darkens bit by bit, the gloom settling in deeper. Umbrellas move from here to there, stopping and going. Finally, one umbrella, a black one, stops in front of me.

“…Hello.”

It’s a guy with a shaved head. Did we work together at some point? Maybe we met on a job site. I’m not good at remembering people like everyone else.

“What are you doing out here?”

What was I doing? I was hungry, waiting for the food distribution… my foot suddenly throbs again. It hurts. Hurts.

“My foot… it hurts.”

“Which foot?”

“This one.” I lift my aching foot, and as I put it down, my heel hits the ground with a sharp pain that makes me wince. “Ah,” I let out.

“Why not go to the hospital?”

“I can’t. I’m not in a dorm.”

“A dorm?”

The guy tilts his head.

“Why don’t you at least head back to a dorm? I could call you a taxi.”

“I don’t have any money.”

“Yeah, I guess it’s pretty far from here… by the sea, right?”

He tilts his head again. As I watch, my body shivers uncontrollably. The chill seeps in deeper, my teeth clattering. I hate this feeling, this awful feeling.

“I’m broke too, but my place is close by. You could come with me for now?”

A home. A home is warm. Warm would be good. I’m so cold.

“Yes.”

“Alright, this way then.”

The guy with the shaved head points toward the park. Over there, huh. I really don’t feel like walking, but it can’t be helped. Leaning on my good hand, I push myself up, balancing on my uninjured foot. When I put weight on the hurt foot, a sharp, tingling pain buzzes through it. I have to walk, but it hurts. Every time I put my injured foot down, I lift it back up from the pain. Maybe I can hop along on my good foot, so I give it a try.

A chuckle. The shaved-head guy is laughing.

“What are you doing?”

“My foot… it hurts.”

“…Oh, right. Sorry for laughing,” he apologizes.

“Why are you apologizing?”

“Well… I just thought it was my fault. Here, lean on my shoulder.”

He steps beside my injured side and grabs the back of my shirt. My body feels weightless for a second.

“Okay, let’s get moving.”

He starts forward. I try to take a step, but his body wobbles, and we end up tugging each other along, awkwardly stumbling. After a few wobbly steps, he stops.

“Um, can you try to match your steps with mine?”

I thought I was already matching him, so I try to pick up the pace. But when I put weight on the injured foot, pain jolts through me, causing me to arch my back.

“Ah—ow, ow.”

“Don’t put weight on the bad foot,” he reminds me.

He moves forward again, this time without wobbling, but soon enough, I forget and step with the wrong foot, and the pain makes me wince.

“Not much of a skipper, are you? You’re, uh, impressively clumsy.”

The word “skip” brings back memories. Back in school, I was left alone in the classroom to practice dance steps, while the teacher patiently worked with me. She was kind, but I hated practice. No matter how much I tried, I couldn’t get it right—it was miserable.

After a bit of limping and wobbling, he says, “This is taking too long. I’ll carry you.” Though I can walk, I let him hoist me up on his back anyway.

“Whoa, you’re light,” he says. Though he doesn’t look muscular, he’s strong enough.

“Could you hold the umbrella for me?” he asks.

I take the black umbrella in my uninjured hand and hold it over us. The guy walks with a steady plod. At first, I’m a little tense about being carried, but soon I relax. Ah, this isn’t so bad—no pain in my foot or hand, and no effort needed.

“Um, could you hold the umbrella so I don’t get wet?” he asks.

Realizing he’s getting soaked, I tilt the umbrella forward to cover him more.

“Uh, like this, I can’t see where I’m going,” he says.

I’m not sure what to do, so I wave the umbrella around a bit, and he mutters, “Never mind.” He says nothing after that.

The guy carries me past the edge of the park and down a path that leads behind some vending machines to a square building. He climbs the stairs, step by step, until he reaches a landing and stops. “Alright, you can close the umbrella now,” he says. Since my hand is still sore, I fumble and let the umbrella drop to the floor with a thud. When I reach to pick it up, he lets out a startled “Whoa!” and I wobble unsteadily on his back.

“Please don’t move suddenly like that,” he says, his voice tense with worry. The sharp tone makes me flinch.

He nudges the umbrella into a corner with his foot. “I’ll get it later…” he murmurs, then keeps climbing the stairs. At one of the floors, he steps into the hallway. He stops in front of a door, turns the lock, and opens it.

This is someone’s house. I haven’t been in many people’s homes. There’s an unfamiliar smell in the air that makes me a bit nervous, and I glance around.

It’s a square room. The entryway is about half a tatami mat, with the main room about ten tatami mats (15.6 square meters or 168 square feet). A small kitchen sits in the front, a bed in the back, and instead of a wall, a rust-colored curtain hangs near the far end.

Still carrying me, the guy steps inside.

“Sorry to ask this right after bringing you here, but, uh, if you don’t mind…could you take a bath? I can lend you some clothes.”

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