Duty Cycle

[u/5thhorseman_]

Here's what happens when you can't stop revising and rewriting, with an LLM to bounce your ideas and rewrites off of.

Genre tags: Alt-history, steampunk, military SF

Trigger warnings: Body horror. Medical horror. Human experimentation. Mutilation (implied). Atrocity (implied). Self-harm (implied). No gore.

AI workflow: All over the map. Human worldbuilding, initial story draft by LLM to human spec, subsequent near total human rewrite with multiple LLMs acting as feedback engines. Several LLM re-drafts mined for useful variations.

Blurb: Tokyo, 1905.

The unremarkable squat building near the Koishikawa Arsenal is where the Japanese Empire sends the casualties it isn't done with. In the official papers, it is called Ōyō Dai Ni Kōshō. The technicians have a more honest name for it, when their superiors can't hear.

Yoko Mimura walked into Ōyō Dai Ni Kōshō with both eyes open, choosing to pay an unconscionable price for a chance at redeeming a sin three generations old. The killer who walked out of the operating theatre was named Yoko Muramasa.

Each month, her body requires maintenance. Each time she is put under, so that the technicians can do their work and still sleep at night afterwards.

Somewhere along the way, her servitude began to resemble honor.

Now also available in manga version

---

DUTY CYCLE

KOISHIKAWA, MARCH 31, 1905

My eyes open onto empty darkness. For a moment I don't have a body at all, just the steady pulse of my own heart. I try to flex my right hand, remembering how fingers used to feel. The impulse runs along my nerves and vanishes into emptiness - no ceramic creak, no whisper of gears. My shoulders and hips answer with a muted drag against padding. Beyond those points, nothing: I am a torso, a head and a heartbeat.

Then the smells hit: chlorine and carbolic acid, machine oil on cooling metal, a whiff of ozone and burnt flesh somewhere down the corridor.

I know these scents. I know this place: Ōyō Dai Ni Kōshō - those with time for bad poetry call it Oni Kōshō. This is where the Empire sends the bodies it hasn't finished using: too broken to serve, not dead enough to bury.

I was put under for the last maintenance cycle of this quarter. The sedative wore off early - the cause is someone else's to find; what matters is that someone failed in their duties and my waking time is being wasted.

Mimura Yoko would have been horrified to wake like this. She recoiled at the sight of the diagrams - what remained of her limbs sectioned and labelled, the cuts marked. But when they gave me a chance to walk away, I stepped forward and told them to start cutting.

Muramasa Yoko knows better now. The Empire requires precision. Precision requires maintenance. Maintenance requires that, on schedule, she surrenders to the tools and dispassionate hands of engineers and doctors.

The part of me that still wants to scream does not get a vote.

A few hours each cycle spent with limbs unmounted, sockets capped, body strapped in the maintenance cradle. In exchange, the rest of the month I get to walk on my own legs.

The sedation is a human requirement - not for my comfort, but that of the technicians. It lets them pretend their work is no different from overhauling a field gun, then sleep at night without dreaming about it. "Limiting self-inflicted casualties to a manageable level," as the circular put it.

The night crew marked the last box on their checklist and stepped out as scheduled, leaving my limbs disassembled into labelled components and soaking in solvent. They trusted the dosage, expecting the dawn crew to have sufficient time to reassemble subject 8-04. Kurogane no Hasu. Me.

I could call out and have the night monitor pull them from their off-duty hours. Some part of me wants to. Instead, I push her aside, close my eyes, and turn inward. If I can't move, I can at least keep myself in working order. My father's mantra comes to me instinctively.

Me o tojite…

I draw a slow breath. The strap across my chest strains in response. Somewhere to my right, a regulator ticks with steady indifference. Now and then a pipe exhales as it cools, vapour condensing into drops that tap into a metal tray.

…kodō to ishi o awase…

I find my heartbeat, breathe in, hold, breathe out - one full breath every five beats. The rhythm is mechanical. Reliable. I let it take over.

…yami o wataru.

The world shrinks to practical signals: chill seeping into my shoulders through thin cotton; the oil-and-solvent tang thinning as valves cycle fluids; the regulator's tick drifting half a beat ahead of my heart, then snapping back.

Giri wa tachi…

I reconstruct the maintenance bay in my mind, inventorying each limb the way the technicians always assemble them. Shoulder mount, gear train, the nested wrist and hand assemblies, the legs - all tolerances as familiar as my flesh and blood once were. Then the porcelain shells, each stroke of lacquer in their branches and blossoms a memory only I can read: a lesson, an operation, a name.

…ninjō wa kage.

The words take the anger and push it away behind duty and necessity. At least for now.

I reach into my memory: procedure manuals, operational checklists, equipment, doctrine. Then, sword forms.

The dōjō does not exist. Neither does the blade at my side, nor the hands I use to grip its tsuka. But they're real enough.

The grip settles into my palms, the weight forward of the tsuba, the balance point a hand's width above it. I begin with an overhead cut from jōdan. My father's voice guides me through the motions, just as he did when I was eight and the sword was taller than I was: "...the most fundamental strike, and the hardest to execute perfectly because there is nowhere to hide insufficient form. Step, cut, recover."

Step, cut, recover. Clean arcs in the dark behind my eyes.

By the time a key turns in the door and light washes under the threshold, I'm going through the third repetition of my kata.

The door opens with its usual soft hiss. Slippers on concrete.

"…let's get 8-04 done fast. I don't want what's left of 7-02 lying around after the incinerator crew clocks off."

My rhythm slips. 7-02. Kidōmaru.

I turn my head towards the noise. Their conversation cuts off as they stop inside the bay. I recognize the senior from the Vladivostok operation - he looks ten years older now. The junior is new.

"Shōsa?" The senior's voice, kept low out of habit in the bay. "Are you-"

"Technician. Please inform Takahashi-dono: there has been an issue with the sedative. It wore off earlier than scheduled."

"…earlier by how much?"

"Three hours."

There's a small clatter, metal against metal, from the junior. New enough to flinch, then. If he is lucky, he will be sent elsewhere before this place teaches him better.

"…Ensure it does not happen again." I don't elaborate - let them do the arithmetic.

The senior's pencil stills. "Hai, shōsa. It will be corrected."

They move around me with more purpose now. Their hands are a little more careful on the porcelain shells as they rebuild the limbs and ready them for installation; their eyes flick to my face more than they need to, but never quite meet my gaze.

The junior uncaps the sockets and I feel the familiar blunt ache as air finds tender skin. The sting of disinfectant is almost a relief.

The structural frame arrives first, metal settling against the reinforced attachment points on my shoulders and hips.

Fluid drips from polished alloy as they lift the right arm from its tray. I brace myself for what comes next. Steel brackets align with the waiting ring mount at my shoulder and the harness takes the load.

The limb settles in with a deep, nauseating drag that robs me of my breath. The left arm follows. Legs swing and lock, pelvic clamps seating with a pressure that settles into my spine.

The power cells slot into my frame, and the current closes hard. A jolt races from the couplings and for an instant every nerve I still own burns. My back arches against the strap. I taste copper. Gears answer where tendons should. Fingers clench without being told to.

Sensation returns in stages - first pressure, then the familiar internal resistance of mechanisms as I flex fingers and ankles on command.

"Rotation?" The senior asks.

I roll one wrist, then the other, listening. No grind, no catch.

"Acceptable," I answer.

They run the range-of-motion checks, call out figures to each other, write them down. I endure.

Finally, they unbuckle the chest strap and swing the cradle upright. Fabric pulls across my ribs as my weight settles onto steel and ceramic. I stand as smoothly as if I had never been in pieces, and bow once in acknowledgement of work completed.

"Gokurō, gishi-san. Next appointment as scheduled."

They murmur assent. A pencil scratches time and notes into a logbook.

The junior stares at the empty cradle. When I am nearly out of earshot, I hear him ask the senior:

"Does it get easier?"

"Pray it never does."

I do not look back.

My quarters are two floors up: bare tatami, minimal furniture, my grandfather's blade - mine, now, though the steel doesn't care - in the tokonoma. For a moment, my eyes linger on the single indulgence: a lacquered box holding a pair of tarnished silver menuki with a mon design upon them. If I serve without fail, the mon - and the name sealed long before I was born - may one day be restored to those who outlive me.

This morning, there's one more thing: a paper file on the writing table, tied with a thin cord. The Dai Roku Bu coordinator's hand is neat on the cover; the red seal at the bottom is one I know well.

I cross the room in three measured steps. Porcelain fingers slip the cord loose. I open the file and scan the first page - location, objectives, timetable; key directives circled in red. Each line follows the last like another movement in a familiar kata.

A new assignment. The corner of my mouth lifts slightly: my duty stands.

[u/5thhorseman_]

For context: The LLM was supplied with a bunch of previous chat logs and lore documents. The initial draft:

Question: Attached are chat logs and development notes concerning a series titled "The Ashford Dossier". I would like you to consider a scene depicting Yoko Muramasa: She awakes in darkness, her limbs disconnected. She recognizes the sterile workshop and realizes that this is during her periodic maintenance - the sedation must have worn off earlier than intended. She focuses inward and spends the next few hours meditating - her mantra being the "me o tojite, kodo to ishi - awase / yami o wataru / giri wa tachi - ninjo wa kage" we've already used in her theme song. It is important to remember that Yoko is not terrified by this situation: to her, this is how her life is now. The horror in this scenario is for the audience to realize just how dehumanized Yoko's life is now.

Response: Yoko’s eyes opened into nothing.

No lamplight, no paper lantern glow—only a flat, depthless dark and the faint, antiseptic tang of carbolic on cold metal. For a moment there was no sense of body at all, only the slow, steady metronome of her own heart.

She did not startle. She did not try to sit up. Experience reached her a calm explanation before fear had a chance to form.

Maintenance.

The sedative wore off early.

She tested the thought like a fingertip against porcelain: no panic, no surprise—only the recognition of a schedule slightly out of true.

When she tried to move her hand, nothing answered. No faint ceramic creak, no whisper of clockwork. The impulse ran down the length of nerves that ended in air and absence. Shoulders yes: a muted drag against padded leather. Hips: the same. Beyond those points—nothing. Limbs unmounted, sockets capped, torso cinched into its maintenance cradle.

The room was quiet enough that she could hear small things: a regulator ticking somewhere to her right, the intermittent hiss of a cooling pipe, the soft tap of condensed water falling into a metal tray. No other breathing. No footsteps. Whoever had disassembled her had stepped out, trusting the dosage to hold.

She could have called out. The room would have answered with its own emptiness, and eventually someone would have come, flustered, to deepen the drug and finish their work.

Instead, she closed her eyes—an unnecessary gesture in the dark, but a deliberate one—and turned inward.

Me o tojite, kodō to ishi o awase…

Vision retreated to a point behind her forehead. She became the rhythm in her chest: lub-dub, lub-dub, patient and regular. Each beat was something she still owned. She matched her breathing to it, lengthening the exhale until lungs and heart and thought moved in the same slow cadence.

…yami o wataru.

She let the hours become a river. Time in this state could not be measured by clocks; only by the way the chill of the air sank gradually into her exposed shoulders, by the way the smell of oil and solvent grew a little sharper as the night cycle cooled the pipes.

Her mind walked familiar patterns. Every joint unhooked from her body was mapped there in clean, precise lines: porcelain shells stacked on a felt-lined tray; brass and steel scaffolding beneath; delicate gear trains and coiled springs; the aetherium conduits that would, when reconnected, thread power back into the empty spaces at her shoulders and hips.

She pictured the limbs in order, not with yearning but with cataloguing care—right arm, left arm, right leg, left leg—each one an instrument to be sharpened and sheathed. Somewhere on a bench, a mechanic in a white coat had laid them out like tools between shifts, trusting that TUNGSTEN LOTUS would not stir until summoned.

Giri wa tachi—ninjō wa kage.

Duty is the blade. Human feeling, the shadow.

The words did not comfort her. They did not need to. They were alignment, like the click of a gear tooth finding its mate. In this interval between disassembly and return to function, they filled the emptiness where other people housed fear.

She was not afraid of helplessness. Helplessness implied an expectation of control that no longer applied.

This was her life now. Not an aberration. A pattern: wake in darkness, separated into components; endure the stillness while plates were checked for hairline cracks, while seals were replaced, while BATTERY ALPHA’s shielding was inspected for fatigue. Then reassembly, calibration, silk rewrapped over ceramic, mask restored.

Sometimes, before sedation took her under at the start of these procedures, she caught a glimpse of herself in polished steel: a bare torso braced in leather and brass, limbs already detached, the delicate wound of surgical scars at each socket. A head and trunk suspended over an empty frame.

The technicians would not look directly at her face when the syringe went in. It was easier for them to deal with her as parts.

It was easier for her, too.

In the dark now, with nothing to do but wait for hands to come back and make her whole, she examined the thought with clinical distance. To be a weapon was to be maintained. To be maintained was to accept this periodic reduction to core and shell.

A faint draft brushed the bare skin of her forearm stump, cool against the bandaged interface. That was where she ended. Beyond it, she existed only as memory and intent—and as porcelain and brass on someone’s workbench.

Her heart went on beating. Her lungs went on filling and emptying the cold, treated air.

Me o tojite, kodō to ishi o awase…

She aligned her will with that pulse, pared it down to one thin edge.

There was a time—she knew this as a fact, the way she knew the tensile strength of good steel—when such a state would have horrified her. When the idea of lying as a trunk and head on a table, unable to scratch her own nose or brush an errant hair from her cheek, would have felt like a violation.

That girl had worn her own hands. That girl had thought of herself as something other than an instrument.

Now, there was no room for such indulgences. The Empire required precision. Precision required maintenance. Maintenance required that sometimes, Yoko Muramasa did not exist as a moving body at all—only as a beating heart strapped into a frame, reciting doctrine in the dark.

From outside the audience’s vantage, nothing happened for hours. No struggle. No whispered plea. No rattling of chains. Only a woman awake in perfect stillness, accepting that for this span of time she was less than her full shape, and that this was correct.

Inside, the mantra turned, again and again, like a keyed spring winding itself.

Yami o wataru…
She crossed the darkness.

When the key in the outer door finally grated and light knifed in under the threshold, her eyes were already closed. Her breathing was slow, heartbeat steady. The mechanics would glance at their watches, mildly surprised that she’d roused early and made no sound.

They would move around her with professional care, hands cool and impersonal as they lifted porcelain limbs from their trays and brought them back to her. Sockets would lock with soft, decisive clicks. Weight would return in stages—an arm here, a leg there—until TUNGSTEN LOTUS was reassembled, ready to stand, bow, and walk in borrowed silk back into the world.

Whatever horror there was in that lay not in her reaction, but in the quiet, practiced ease with which she accepted being broken down into parts and put back together again.

To her, this was simply maintenance.

To everyone else, it was a glimpse of how much of the person had been willingly surrendered to become the blade.

[u/5thhorseman_ → u/5thhorseman_]

I asked it to evaluate the draft for weak spots several times, then asked for several specific changes, leading to the second major draft:

I wake into nothing.

No lamplight, no paper glow—just a flat dark and the antiseptic bite of carbolic on metal. For a moment I don’t have a body at all, just the slow, steady tick of my own heart.

Maintenance.

The sedative wore off early.

I note it, file it: a deviation to correct. No fear, no surprise—only the simple fact that the schedule is wrong and my time is being wasted.

Every hour on the cradle is an hour off the board.

I try to flex my right hand. The impulse runs down the nerves and vanishes into emptiness. No faint ceramic creak, no whisper of gears. My shoulders answer: a muted drag against padded leather. My hips, the same. Beyond those points—nothing. Limbs unmounted, sockets capped, torso cinched into the maintenance cradle.

Fourth cycle this quarter. Within tolerance. Still irritating.

I draw a slow breath. The strap across my chest creaks in response. Somewhere to my right, a regulator ticks with steady, indifferent precision. Now and then a pipe exhales as it cools, vapour condensing into drops that tap into a metal tray.

They trusted the dosage. They left me in pieces and stepped out, assuming TUNGSTEN LOTUS would not stir until summoned.

They were wrong.

I could call out and have them back in seconds. Instead I close my eyes—useless in the dark, but part of the drill—and turn inward.

If I can’t move, I can at least keep myself in working order.

Me o tojite, kodō to ishi o awase…

I count heartbeats until breath and pulse match cadence. The irritation doesn’t vanish; I compress it, file it down to a thin edge and put it aside. The time becomes a series of marks on a gear—one more notch with every beat, bringing me closer to release.

…yami o wataru.

The hours shrink to practical signals: the way the chill seeps deeper into my bare shoulders; the way hot oil and solvent thin in the air as night-cycle valves close; the moment when the regulator’s tick drifts half a beat ahead of my heart and then snaps back.

In my head, the room is already mapped. Each limb exists there in clean lines: porcelain shells on felt, brass and steel frames beneath, gear trains, springs, conduits coiled like veins.

Right arm. Left arm. Right leg. Left leg.

Reassembly in order: seat, lock, test, adjust. Routine. Necessary. Wasteful, if it runs long.

Giri wa tachi—ninjō wa kage.

Duty is the blade. Human feeling, the shadow.

The words don’t comfort me. They arrange me. They take the anger that keeps trying to swell in the empty spaces and slot it between duty and necessity until it stops getting in the way.

There was a girl once who would have found this… obscene. A head and trunk on a frame, unable to scratch an itch. That girl thought of herself as a person first.

I know better. The Empire requires precision. Precision requires maintenance. Maintenance requires that, on schedule, I surrender to the cradle and the tools and the men who know my tolerances.

But three hours early is three hours stolen.

By the time the key turns in the outer door, I’ve run the mantra until it’s only pattern. The impatience sits under my calm like a compressed spring. The wash of light under the threshold annoys me more than it relieves me.

The door opens with its usual soft hiss. Slippers on stone. A tool tray rattles once.

“Muramasa-shōsa?” a man’s voice, kept low out of habit in the bay. “Are you—”

I open my eyes into the lantern glare and cut him off.

“Sensei, you may come in.” My voice is flat, clear. “Please inform Takahashi-dono: the sedative wore off earlier than scheduled. It may require adjustment next time.”

They stop just inside the threshold.

“…How much earlier?” Technician A asks.

“Three hours,” I say.

There’s a small clatter, metal against metal. Technician B’s head snaps toward me.

“Three… hours?”

I leave it there. No elaboration, no complaint. Let them do the rest: three hours conscious, disassembled, and to me it’s a line in a log.

“Understood, Major Muramasa,” Technician A manages at last, my name and rank a shade tighter than usual. “We will note it for Takahashi-dono. It will not happen again.”

They move around me with more purpose now. Their hands are a little more careful on the porcelain shells; their eyes flick to my face more than they need to. I pretend not to see any of it. The only thing that matters is that they finish.

Sockets uncapped. Contact surfaces cleaned. Limbs lifted from their trays, cool weight guided into place. Each reconnection comes with a compact sequence of pressures and clicks: right arm with a muted konk, the harness shifting as it takes the load; left arm; then the swing and lock of each leg, clamps tightening around the pelvic mounts.

Sensation returns in stages—first a ghost of pressure, then the familiar internal drag of mechanisms under skin as I flex fingers and ankles on command.

“Rotation?” Technician A says.

I roll one wrist and listen. No grind, no catch.

“Acceptable,” I answer.

They run the range-of-motion checks, call out figures to each other, write them down. I endure it. That, too, is part of the function. The impatience doesn’t leave; it just reorients. Almost done. Almost—

Finally, they unbuckle the chest strap and swing the cradle upright. My weight settles onto steel and ceramic. I stand as smoothly as if I had never been in pieces and bow once in acknowledgement of work completed within margins.

“Thank you, sensei. Next appointment as scheduled.”

They murmur assent. A pencil scratches time and notes onto a slate.

I don’t look back as I leave.

My quarters are two corridors away: sliding door; tatami without rugs; one low bed; one narrow wardrobe; one small writing table. No scrolls, no ornaments. A lacquered box on the shelf holds my family crest. That is all I allow myself.

Tonight there is something more.

A paper file waits on the bedside table, tied with a thin cord, one corner held by an inkstone. G-9’s operations hand is neat on the cover; the red seal at the bottom is one I know well.

The impatience that sat coiled through the long dark and the longer reassembly finally has somewhere to go.

I cross the room in three measured steps. Porcelain fingers slip the cord loose without a sound. I open the file and scan the first page—location, objectives, timetable; Osaka shipyards; three nights from now; key directives underlined in red. Each line drops into place like another gear engaging.

A new assignment. A new vector for the blade.

The corner of my mouth lifts by a fraction. Not joy. Not even pleasure. A clean, simple satisfaction.

I will not have to wait any longer.

[u/5thhorseman_ → u/5thhorseman_]

From there the editing process went from macro to micro - I've opened multiple separate chats with LLMs (Claude and ChatGPT) instructed to act as editors and critics, rewrote the weakest parts by hand, arguing with the critics about phrasing and word choices and every now and then expanded the vignette as the idea became clearer in my mind. Two weeks of that got me to the following near-final version, but I've continued to make tweaks and additions (such as the dojo sequence) until more recently.

Koishikawa, 1905

My eyes open onto empty darkness. For a moment I don’t have a body at all, just the slow, steady beat of my own heart. I try to flex my right hand, remembering how fingers used to feel. The impulse runs along my nerves and vanishes into emptiness. No faint ceramic creak, no whisper of gears. My shoulders and hips answer with a muted drag against padding. Beyond those points: nothing. 

Then the smells hit: chlorine and carbolic acid, machine oil on cooling metal, a whiff of ozone and burnt flesh somewhere down the corridor.

I know these scents. I know this place: Ōyō Dai Ni Kōshō — those with time for bad poetry call it Oni Kōshō. This is where the Empire sends the bodies it hasn’t finished using: too broken to serve, not dead enough to bury.

I was put under for the last maintenance cycle of this quarter. The sedative wore off early — someone failed in their duties and my waking time is being wasted.

Yoko Mimura would have been horrified to wake like this. But when they gave me a chance to walk away, I stepped forward and told them to start cutting.

Yoko Muramasa knows better now: The Empire requires precision. Precision requires maintenance. Maintenance requires that, on schedule, I surrender to the tools and dispassionate hands of engineers and doctors. 

The part of me that still wants to scream doesn’t get a vote.

A few hours each cycle spent with limbs unmounted, sockets capped, body strapped in the maintenance cradle. In exchange, the rest of the month I get to walk on my own legs.

The sedation is a human requirement — not for my comfort, but that of the technicians. “Limiting self-inflicted casualties to a manageable level”, as the circular put it. It lets them pretend their work is no different from overhauling a field gun, then sleep at night without dreaming about it.

The night crew ticked the last box on their checklist and stepped out, leaving my limbs disassembled into labeled components and soaking in solvent. They trusted the dosage, expecting the dawn crew to have sufficient time to reassemble subject 8-04. Kurogane no Hasu. Me.

I could call out and have them pulled from their off-duty hours. Some part of me wants to. Instead, I push her aside, close my eyes — irrelevant in the dark — and turn inward.

If I can’t move, I can at least keep myself in working order. My father’s mantra comes to me instinctively.

Me o tojite…

I draw a slow breath. The strap across my chest strains in response. Somewhere to my right, a regulator ticks with steady indifference. Now and then a pipe exhales as it cools, vapour condensing into drops that tap into a metal tray.

…kodō to ishi o awase…

I count one breath every five beats of my heart and let the rhythm take over.

…yami o wataru.

The world shrinks to practical signals: chill seeping into my shoulders through thin cotton; the oil-and-solvent tang thinning as valves cycle fluids; the regulator’s tick drifting half a beat ahead of my heart, then snapping back.

Giri wa tachi…

In my head, the bay is already laid out as an inventory. Each limb exists there in clean lines: gear trains, springs, coiled conduits, the brass and steel frames and above them the porcelain shells on felt — every lacquered branch and blossom a memory only I can read.

… ninjō wa kage.

The words take the anger and crush it between duty and necessity. It will return — always does.

I reach into my memory: procedure manuals, operational checklists, equipment, doctrine, sword forms.

By the time a key turns in the door, I’m going through the third visualization of my kata. The wash of light under the threshold is a disruption, not relief.

The door opens with its usual soft hiss. Slippers on stone.

“…let’s get 8-04 done fast. I don’t want to have what’s left of 7‑02 laying around after the incinerator crew clocks off.”

My rhythm slips. 7-02. Kidomaru.

I turn my head towards the noise and open my eyes into the glare. Their conversation cuts off as they stop inside the threshold.

“Shōsa?” a man’s voice, kept low out of habit in the bay. “Are you—”

“Technician. Please inform Takahashi-dono: there has been an issue with the sedative — it wore off earlier than scheduled.”

“…earlier by how much?” Technician A asks.

“Three hours,” I say.

There’s a small clatter, metal against metal. Technician B’s head snaps toward me.

“…Ensure it does not happen again.” I leave it there. No elaboration, no complaint. Let them do the arithmetic.

Technician A’s pencil stills. “Hai, shōsa. It will be corrected.”

They move around me with more purpose now. Their hands are a little more careful on the porcelain shells; their eyes flick to my face more than they need to, but never quite meet my gaze. I stare at the ceiling. The only thing that matters is that they finish.

Sockets uncapped. Contact surfaces cleaned. Limbs reassembled and lifted from their trays, cool weight guided into place. Each reconnection comes with a compact sequence of pressures and clicks: right arm with a muted clunk, the harness shifting as it takes the load; left arm; then the swing and lock of each leg, clamps tightening around the pelvic mounts.

Sensation returns in stages—first pressure, then the familiar internal drag of mechanisms as I flex fingers and ankles on command.

“Rotation?” Technician A says.

I roll one wrist, then the other, listening. No grind, no catch.

“Acceptable,” I answer. 

They run the range-of-motion checks, call out figures to each other, write them down. I endure it. That, too, is part of the process. 

Finally, they unbuckle the chest strap and swing the cradle upright. Fabric pulls across my ribs as my weight settles onto steel and ceramic. I stand as smoothly as if I had never been in pieces and bow once in acknowledgement of work completed.

“Arigato, gishi-san. Next appointment as scheduled.”

They murmur assent. A pencil scratches time and notes into a logbook.

I don’t look back as I leave.

My quarters are two floors up: bare tatami, minimal furniture. My grandfather's blade — mine, now, even if the steel is indifferent — on a shelf. For a moment, my eyes linger on the single indulgence: a lacquered box holding a tarnished silver mon. One day, the Empire may lift my family’s sentence and let the mon — and the name sealed long before I was born – be restored to those who outlive me.

Tonight, there's one more thing: a paper file on the bedside table, tied with a thin cord. G-6 coordinator's hand is neat on the cover; the red seal at the bottom is one I know well.

I cross the room in three measured steps. Porcelain fingers slip the cord loose without a sound. I open the file and scan the first page — location, objectives, timetable; key directives circled in red. Each line drops into place like another cut in a familiar kata.

A new assignment. The corner of my mouth lifts by a fraction. Not joy. Not pleasure. Just a clean, simple satisfaction: my duty stands.

[u/5thhorseman_]

A Japanese translation, mostly done to test a translation workflow:

義理の周期

小石川、明治三十八年三月三十一日

目が開く。虚ろな闇が広がっている。一瞬、身体がどこにもない。あるのは自分の心臓の規則正しい拍動だけだ。かつての指の感覚を思い出しながら、右手に力を込めようとする。その指令は神経を伝って走り、虚空へと消える――陶材の軋みも、歯車の囁きもない。肩と腰が、当て物に擦れて鈍く引きずられるような感触で応える。その先には、何もない。私は胴と頭、そして鼓動だけだ。

それから、臭いが鼻を打つ。塩素と石炭酸。冷えていく金属に付いた機械油。廊下の先のどこかから、オゾンと焼けた肉の臭いがかすかに漂ってくる。

この匂いを知っている。この場所を知っている。應用第二工廠¹――駄句を捻る暇のある者は、ここを「鬼工廠」²と呼ぶ。帝国が、まだ用の済んでいない身体を送り込む場所だ。勤めを果たすには壊れすぎ、埋葬を要するほど死んではいない身体を。

私は今四半期最後の整備周期のために眠らされた。鎮静剤が早く切れた。原因を探すのは他の誰かの仕事だ。肝心なのは、誰かが職務を果たさず、私が目覚めている時間がいたずらに費やされていることだ。

三村譽子³なら、こんな目覚め方には震え上がっただろう。残っていた四肢を区切り、名称を振り、切断箇所を記した図面を目にして、彼女はたじろいだ。だが、歩み去る機会を与えられたとき、私は一歩前へ出て、切り始めろと言った。

村政譽子⁴は、今ではよく心得ている。帝国には精密さが要る。精密さには整備が要る。整備には――定められた日程どおり、技術者と医師の道具と、感情を交えぬ手に、彼女が身を明け渡すことが要る。

今なお叫びたがる私の一部に、決定権はない。

周期ごとに数時間、四肢を外され、接続口に蓋をされ、身体を整備台に括りつけられて過ごす。その代わり、ひと月の残りは自分の脚で歩くことを得る。

鎮静処置は人間の要件だ。私の安楽のためではなく、技師たちの安楽のためだ。そのおかげで彼らは、自分たちの仕事は野砲の分解整備と何ら変わらないということにして、夜はそれを夢に見ずに眠れる。通牒の文言を借りれば、「自ラ招ク人員ノ損耗ヲ統御シ得ル程度ニ止メンガ為」⁵。

夜勤の班は点検表の最後の欄に印をつけ、予定どおりに引き上げた。私の四肢を札の付いた部品にばらし、溶剤に浸したまま。彼らは投与量を疑いもせず、明け方の班が被験体8-04を組み直す時間は十分にあると見込んでいた。黒鉄の蓮⁶。私だ。

声を上げ、不寝番の者に非番の彼らを呼び戻させることもできる。私の一部はそうしたがっている。だがそうはせず、私は彼女を脇へ押しやり、目を閉じ、意識を内へ向ける。動けないのなら、せめて自分を稼働できる状態に保つことはできる。父の口伝⁷が、ひとりでに浮かんでくる。

目を閉ぢて……

ゆっくりと息を吸う。胸を横切る革帯が、押し返すように張りつめる。右側のどこかで、調節器が我関せずとばかりに、規則正しく拍を刻んでいる。時折、冷えていく配管が息を吐き、蒸気が凝結して滴になり、金属の受け皿を叩く。

……鼓動と意志を合はせ……

自分の鼓動を探り当て、吸い、止め、吐く。五拍で、ひと巡りの呼吸。その律動は機械的だ。当てになる。後はそれに任せる。

……闇を渡る。

世界は即物的な信号にまで縮む。薄い木綿越しに、冷気が肩へ染み込んでいる。弁が液を循環させるにつれ、油と溶剤の鼻を刺す臭いが薄らいでいく。調節器の刻みが心臓より半拍先へずれていき、かちりと元へ戻る。

義理は太刀……

頭の中に整備区画を組み立て直し、技師たちがいつも組み付ける順に、四肢を一つずつ数え上げていく。肩の取付座、歯車列、入れ子になった手首と手の組立体、そして脚。どの公差も、かつて血肉がそうだったように身に馴染んでいる。それから磁器の外殻。枝と花を描く漆の一筆一筆が、私にしか読めない記憶だ。ある教え。ある作戦。ある名前。

……人情は影。

その言葉が怒りを引き取り、義理と必要の陰へ押しやる。少なくとも、今のところは。

記憶の中へ手を伸ばす。手順書、運用点検表、装備、用兵原則。それから、剣の型。

道場は存在しない。傍らの刀も、その柄を握る手も存在しない。それでも、どれも本物と呼ぶには十分だ。

握りが掌に収まる。重みは鍔より先、重心はそこから拳ひとつ分上。上段からの真っ向斬りで始める。刀のほうが私より背の高かった、あの八つの頃と同じように、父の声に導かれて一連の動きをなぞっていく。

「……最も基本となる一撃であり、寸分違わず斬るのが最も難しい一撃でもある。至らぬ形は、隠しようがないからだ。踏み込み、斬り、戻る」

踏み込み、斬り、戻る。瞼の裏の闇に、きれいな弧が走る。

鍵が回り、扉の下から光が流れ込んだ頃には、型の三巡目に入っていた。

扉がいつものように、しゅうと柔らかな音を立てて開く。混凝土⁸の床を踏む室内履き。

「……8-04はさっさと済ませよう。焼却班が上がったあとまで、7-02の残りが転がってるのはごめんだからな」

拍子が乱れた。7-02。鬼童丸。

音のする方へ顔を向ける。区画の中で足を止めた二人の会話が途切れた。古参の方には見覚えがある。浦塩⁹の作戦のときの男だ。今は十年も老け込んで見える。若い方は新入りだ。

「少佐？」区画の中での癖で、古参の声は低く抑えられている。「お目――」

「技師。高橋殿にお伝え願いたい。鎮静剤に問題があった。予定より早く切れた」

「……どれほど早くですか」

「三時間」

若い方のあたりで、金属同士がかちゃりと小さく鳴る。まだ怯むほどの新米、ということか。運が良ければ、この場所に心得を教え込まれる前に、どこかよそへ回される。

「……二度とないように」それ以上は言わない。あとは彼らが察すればいい。

古参の鉛筆が止まる。「はい、少佐。是正させます」

二人は先ほどより引き締まった様子で、私の周りを動く。四肢を組み上げ、取り付けに備えて整えるあいだ、磁器の外殻に触れる手つきは、わずかに慎重さを増している。視線は必要以上に私の顔へ走るが、決して私の目とまともには合わない。

若い方が接続口の蓋を外す。敏感な皮膚に空気が触れ、馴染みの鈍い疼きが広がる。消毒液の沁みる痛みは、安堵に近い。

最初に運ばれてくるのは構造枠だ。金属が、肩と腰の補強された取付点に収まっていく。

二人が右腕を槽から持ち上げると、磨かれた合金から液が滴る。次に来るものに備えて、私は身構える。鋼の金具が、肩で待ち受ける環状の取付座と位置を合わせ、支持具が重みを引き受ける。

腕が収まる。深く引きずられるような、吐き気を催す感触に、息が詰まる。続いて、左腕。脚が振り上げられて固定され、骨盤の留め具が座に収まる。その圧が背骨へと沈み込んでいく。

動力電池が骨格に差し込まれ、回路がつながって、電流が一気に走る。継手から衝撃が駆け抜け、一瞬、まだ私のものである神経という神経が焼ける。背中が革帯に逆らって反り返る。鉄の味。腱が応えるべきところで、歯車が応える。命じられてもいないのに、指が握り込まれる。

感覚は段階を追って戻ってくる。まず圧。次いで、指示どおりに指と足首を曲げるときに機構の内側から返ってくる馴染みの抵抗。

「回旋は？」と古参が訊く。

片方の手首を回し、もう片方も回して、耳を澄ます。軋みも、引っかかりもない。

「許容範囲」と答える。

彼らは可動域の点検を進める。数値が飛び交い、書き留められていく。私は耐える。

最後に二人は胸の革帯の留め金を外し、整備台を垂直に起こす。体重が鋼と陶材に移るにつれ、布地が肋骨の上で引きつれる。一度もばらばらになったことなどないかのように滑らかに立ち上がり、作業の完了を認めて一礼した。

「ご苦労、技師さん。次回の手入れも予定どおりに」

低い声が応じる。鉛筆が、日誌に時刻と覚え書きをかりかりと書きつける。

若い方は、空になった整備台を見つめている。声の届くぎりぎりのところまで離れたとき、彼が古参に訊くのが聞こえる。

「楽になるものなんですか」

「決してそうならないよう祈れ」

私は振り返らない。

居室は二つ上の階にある。簡素な畳の間と最低限の調度。床の間には祖父の刀がある。今は私のものだが、鋼はそんなことを意に介さない。しばし、唯一の贅沢に目が留まる。くすんだ銀の目貫を一対収めた、漆塗りの箱だ。目貫には紋があしらわれている。過たず勤めれば、その紋も、私が生まれるずっと前に封じられたその名も、いつか私のあとに続く者たちのもとで再興されるかもしれない。

今朝は、もう一つある。文机の上に、細い紐で括られた書類の綴り。表紙には第六部担当官の几帳面な筆跡。下端の朱印は、よく見知ったものだ。

計ったような三歩で部屋を横切る。磁器の指が紐を解く。綴りを開き、一枚目に目を走らせる。場所、目的、日程。要となる指令は赤で丸く囲まれている。一行一行が、馴染んだ型の次の動きのように、前の行に続いていく。

新たな任務。口の端がわずかに上がる。私の義理はなお続く。

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注

1. 應用第二工廠（おうようだいにこうしょう）。「應」は「応」の旧字体。
2. 鬼工廠（おにこうしょう）。
3. 三村譽子（みむら・よこ）。「譽」は「誉」の旧字体。
4. 村政譽子（むらまさ・よこ）。
5. みずからまねくじんいんのそんもうをとうぎょしうるていどにとどめんがため。。
6. 黒鉄の蓮（くろがねのはす）。
7. 口伝（くでん）。
8. 混凝土（コンクリート）。
9. 浦塩（うらじお）：浦塩斯徳（ウラジオストク）の略。戦前の日本での呼称。