The day of the G7 summit arrived with a sky the color of polished steel. The area around the Osaka Interstellar Tower was a fortress. Black-suited security agents moved in tight, disciplined formations. Police barricades blocked off a ten-block radius. The air itself hummed with the nervous energy of concentrated power. It was a scene of perfect, intimidating order.
And into that scene of perfect order, Kenji's army brought the chaos.
They arrived not as a mob, but as a bizarre, mobile art installation. The "Bitter Truth" protest was a masterpiece of surrealist civil disobedience. Tanaka, standing on a small, portable stage, was not shouting slogans; she was reciting a long, rambling poem about the "tyranny of sweetness" into a megaphone, her voice echoing off the glass and steel of the surrounding buildings. Kaito was leading a team of Society members dressed in sackcloth, who were handing out tiny paper cups of their infamous, astringent cold-brew tea to the confused but intrigued lines of international reporters.
"Taste the truth!" Kaito would proclaim to a bewildered BBC journalist.
"Let its challenging flavor profile deconstruct your preconceived notions of palatability!"
Other students were engaged in even stranger activities. A group was performing a slow-motion, interpretive dance meant to represent the "struggle of a single soybean against the oppressive forces of coagulation." Another student, the one who had baked the charcoal briquette of a cake, was methodically building and then knocking over small towers of burnt toast, a silent, powerful statement on… something.
The security forces were utterly baffled. They were trained to handle riots, bombs, and assassins. They had no protocol for dealing with a dozen young people chanting, "What do we want? Epistemological honesty! When do we want it? After a period of thoughtful reflection!"
The protest was peaceful. It was polite. And it was so profoundly weird that it was impossible to ignore. The media, bored with the endless motorcades of black cars, swarmed them. Tanaka was already giving an impassioned, nonsensical interview to Reuters about the "flavor profile of freedom." The diversion was working better than Kenji could have ever dreamed.
While the world was distracted by his disciples, Kenji made his move. He was not in a tactical suit; he was in a crisp chef's uniform. He was not carrying a weapon; he was pushing a small, stainless-steel catering trolley. Sato's work had been flawless. A series of frantic, last-minute calls from the office of a junior attaché from the Swiss delegation—a young man who was, it turned out, the president of his university's Takahashi Philosophy fan club—had resulted in a special catering contract. Takahashi-sensei himself would be providing "an authentic culinary experience" for the international press lounge on the 75th floor. It was a massive security breach, orchestrated through sheer celebrity and bureaucratic incompetence.
"Name and purpose," a grim-faced guard said at the first security checkpoint.
"Takahashi Kenji," he said.
"I'm with the catering."
The guard checked his list. He looked at Kenji. He looked back at his list. A flicker of recognition crossed his face.
"Wait, are you the scrambled egg guy?"
Kenji sighed internally.
"I am the chef, yes."
The guard's grim expression softened.
"My daughter loves your stuff. She tried to make one of your foundational cakes. Set off the smoke alarm. Can I get a selfie?"
This became a pattern. At every checkpoint, his fame, which he had considered his greatest liability, became his greatest asset. The guards, the administrators, the diplomats—they were all disarmed by his bizarre celebrity. He was frisked, his trolley was scanned, but he was treated less like a threat and more like a strange, exotic creature who had wandered into the wrong habitat.
Sato was in his ear the entire time, a calm, invisible presence.
"Okay, Kenji, you've cleared primary security. The press lounge is on your left. According to the schematics, there's a service elevator at the back of the kitchen. That's your route to the upper floors. I'm looping the camera feed in that corridor now. You'll have a ninety-second window."
He found the press lounge. It was a chaotic room filled with jaded, cynical journalists from around the world. The junior Swiss diplomat who had arranged his presence rushed over, his face flushed with excitement.
"Sensei! An honor! A true honor!" the diplomat gushed.
"The journalists are restless. They crave authenticity! Please, grace us with your art!"
Kenji was led to a small, makeshift kitchen at the back of the lounge. He was expected to cook. He had, of course, come prepared. He had one dish, one move, one single, solitary play in his book.
He set up his station. He took out his bowl, his whisk, his eggs. He began to cook. The journalists, drawn by the commotion, gathered around. They watched as he, with a pained, deeply thoughtful expression on his face, proceeded to make a simple, lumpy, slightly undercooked pile of scrambled eggs. He plated it without garnish and presented it to the Swiss diplomat.
The diplomat tasted it. His eyes went wide.
"My god," he whispered. "It's so… honest. So… unadorned. It's a statement on the raw, unverified truth that we journalists are supposed to be seeking! It's a critique of fake news!"
A murmur went through the press corps. They all clamored for a taste of the "truth eggs."
While they were distracted, dissecting the "narrative authenticity" of his dish, Kenji slipped out the back, into the catering kitchen, and towards the service elevator.
"Okay, Sato, I'm at the elevator," he whispered into his wrist.
"I see you," her voice came back.
"The camera is looped. But be advised, there's an unscheduled patrol moving up from the 70th floor. Your window just got shorter. You need to move. Now."
He got into the elevator and hit the button for the 98th floor, just below the broadcast hub. The ride up was the longest minute of his life. He emerged into a silent, deserted corridor lined with executive offices. This was the seat of power.
"The broadcast hub is at the end of the hall," Sato's voice guided him.
"Heavy steel door. Biometric lock. I can't bypass it remotely. You'll have to use the cloning device I gave you."
He approached the door. It was as formidable as she had described. He pulled out a small device that looked like a sleek, modern business card holder. He was about to press it against the biometric panel when he heard them.
Voices. From inside the room.
He pressed his ear to the cold steel of the door. The soundproofing was excellent, but he could just make out the conversation within.
"…and the beauty of it, Director General, is its subtlety," a familiar, melodic voice was saying. Dr. Inaba.
"No force. No violence. Just a gentle, persuasive hum. A nudge towards a more… harmonious state of being."
"And you are certain this is untraceable?" another voice asked, a voice that was deep, powerful, and accustomed to command. It was Director General Morita.
"Completely," Inaba replied.
"It will be dismissed as a simple wave of public contentment. A good news day. They will never know their minds have been opened."
"Then proceed, Doctor," Morita commanded.
"Show me the future."
Kenji's blood ran cold. He was out of time. He was too late. The Director General wasn't a target; he was a client. Or worse, a partner. The final betrayal.
He looked at the door. He had one option. Not stealth. Not subtlety. Just a single, desperate, chaotic act. He gripped the heavy steel fire extinguisher on the wall next to him, ready to create one last, magnificent, history-altering mess.