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Mine Yoshitaka did not sleep—but he had dreams.
Machines like him were destined to operate at all hours of the day, and the keyhole on his back was a testament to this fact. Every morning, he was faithfully wound up by a caring hand, storing energy to power every piston and cog in his body. He worked and toiled the day away, and by the late evening, when the heaviness began to set in his joints and his movements slowed, the cycle would repeat. Mine never slept. He was never off-duty, and he did not complain, because he knew nothing else.
But Mine had always been a dreamer, though he would never admit otherwise. In this regard, he envied humans.
Machines like him were made for utility, not ambition. Unlike most, Mine had had multiple jobs throughout his lifetime, none of which he had chosen for himself. He took what he was given, and he did not complain, because he knew nothing else.
When Mine was young and new and the latest, greatest invention, he used to dance in private tearooms with a smile painted on his face, draped in expensive kimono that betrayed not a speck of dust. He could barely hear the pluck of the shamisen over the mechanical whirr of his own brain, could barely turn his head without revealing his metallic joints. But he was proud; after all, he was made for a specific purpose, and he did it well. What more could he want?
He never knew what it was like to want until someone showed him how. Someone, a long time ago, had designed him with ambitions in mind. Someone who desired something more than a happy, vacant face and a silent walk.
But Mine did not want an empire, or a fortune, or fame. What he wanted was much, much more than that. For what he wanted, Mine would disassemble himself piece by piece if it meant having a taste.
Mine wanted to be anything other than the piece that he was constructed to be. He wanted to be strong, unbreakable, irreplaceable.
Useful.
And he had failed.
He puts a hand to his breast, listening to the steadfast clockwork beat of his heart. Looming at Daigo’s bedside, Mine studies his pale, handsome face. He looks serene in rest. Too serene.
When he was less young and less new and no longer the latest, greatest invention, he had a silk kimono and a face carved from cypress. Every gear, cam, and piston in his body was lovingly shaped from an anonymous block of cedar by his master, and he moved with the gentle clunking noise of a well-loved automaton. And his master did love him, in a way.
They used to travel together, showing off Mine’s masterful calligraphy and elaborate fan dances to fund his master’s craft. He was a master artificer, perhaps the last of his kind; a man who had seen the fall of fire and the rise of steam and turned away from them both in favor of old-fashioned clockwork. And though there was certainly demand for such pretty toys, it did not last forever.
When the shows dried up and the rest of the master’s machines had been reduced to firewood to pay his debts, there Mine was at his sickbed, waiting with his rotted gears and moth-eaten kimono, for no one else would. And when his master died, there he would stay, grinding to a halt with no one to wind him up again. A statue watching over a skeleton.
He ran out of power after that. For how long, he did not know—but when he opened his hinged eyes, there he was: Daigo. An artificer with soft eyes and a smooth voice, whose specialty was rescuing discarded junk like him.
Mine thought he had seen God.
What is your name? he asked.
And Mine answered I am a butai karakuri, for that was what he was: a life-sized doll, a mechanical entertainer and nothing more.
Daigo shook his head. Not that, he said, What is your name?
And after thinking for a long time, he remembered.
My name is Mine Yoshitaka, he said, for that was what he had chosen: the peak of justice and faith. They were the characters he used to write in calligraphy, and he was quite fond of them.
Daigo had smiled. Said, That’s a beautiful name, and patted his old, decayed hands. I’ll make you look the part.
Thus began the transformation of the machine known as Mine Yoshitaka.
Dojima Daigo was a peculiar man. Though he was made of flesh and blood, he surrounded himself with works of artifice. His workshop was piled with boxes of assorted bits and bobs, brass and bronze, an horologist’s dream. Daigo often awoke to the chirping of mechanical canaries he had lovingly assembled with his own two hands, the roar of airships passing by their tower in the sky. He wanted for nothing—he had a clockwork doll to pour his tea, a walking ottoman to fetch his clothes, a cogwheel cart to haul his tools, and a refurbished entertainment karakuri for everything else. This last one was quite dear to him, so he made good on his promise.
He broke off Mine’s tracks so that he could move however he pleased; he disassembled his delicate buyo hands and fashioned a newer, stronger pair of titanium and hydraulics; he draped his strong frame in heavy cotton, loose so that his sleeves did not catch on his ceramic ball-joints. Daigo commissioned a delicate porcelain mask and a head of real hair, so that even if humans recognized his mechanical limbs and stiff movements, they could still see the facsimile of a man in the machine.
Mine did not understand why Daigo expended all that effort. No doubt, Daigo expected great things of him. And Mine, being grateful to the man who had broken him free of the role he was condemned to play, wanted to serve. So serve he did.
He served him when the clan was a shadow of its former self, crawling with snakes and vultures. He served him when foreign agents and politics came searching for his influence. He serves him even in death, and unlike Daigo, he has no compunctions about sacrificing the man Daigo had risked it all to protect.
He cared not what others had to say about him; after all, he was not designed to feel shame for anything other than a subpar performance. Though the streets of Tokyo were filled with mechanical toys of all shapes and sizes—automatic buggies, gearbox dogs, self-piloting dirigibles—it was rare to see a man with a human automaton at his side, and those who spoke of him did so in hushed, conspiratorial voices. The Tojo Clan, which prided itself on the blood of its men and the stupidity with which they spilled it, had no love for a being who possessed neither. Of course, because he was the Chairman’s beloved pet, they could not so much as touch him without incurring Daigo’s wrath. But Mine was not so blind that the leering of his underlings was lost on him.
But he did not care. And neither should Daigo, so Mine told him; but then, he always cared a bit too much about his projects. Daigo was a brilliant artificer, but a brilliant Chairman he was not. Before Mine convinced him of his use to the Clan, it was rife with corruption, not an ally to be found. Mine took it upon himself to become the friend Daigo so desperately needed.
He looks down at Daigo, looking so small and fragile in his hospital bed.
His only friend, now.
Mine desperately wishes he could feel. Touch the pale hand resting at Daigo’s side, taped to a drip affixed to a monitor. He should have been there when some anonymous assassin dared to raise his gun against Daigo. He should have been in front of the bullet, catching the metal in his ribcage and stopping it with his mechanical heart. Instead, his heart continues to tick, tick, tick—a slow beat to match the mocking beep, beep, beep of the heart monitor. Man on machines, man that is a machine—what is the difference? What good is Mine, now that the only human he’s ever loved is even deader than him?
A phone rings, its tiny bell piercing the uneasy silence settled over the hospital room. Mine does not startle; he does not have human reflexes because predators of the organic kind have no interest in him. An underling (human, he thinks smugly) hands it to him, careful not to brush his hand over Mine’s claws. He answers in stiff English, spurring on processors installed by an inferior mechanic. He’s received many modifications lately, not all of them tested to their fullest effects.
A smarmy voice on the other end assaults his ears. Will he be there, it asks, when their deal is sealed and the Tojo Clan is restored to its former glory? Is he ready to fulfill Daigo’s last wish, despite the damage it would cause? Despite the real people who will be hurt by this decision?
Who cares, Mine replies. Who cares? What is one life or even ten lives if they are not Daigo’s?
What good are humans if they cannot even fix their own? Don’t they understand how important Daigo is?
Machine lives have always been expendable; creatures like him reduced to scrap for the crime of no longer suiting the trend, or having a failing part, or simply not being new enough. When the debt collectors swarmed his creator’s house and picked off his belongings to sell, who had wept for Mine? Did his intricate brain and complex motions inspire awe and envy? Of course not.
If an object is no longer useful, it should be discarded. Why should humans be an exception to the rule?
So no, Mine says, he has no intention of reneging on their agreement. Why should he? Now that Daigo is as good as dead, he’ll have no objections. The line goes dead; the stage is set.
Somewhere deep in the bowels of the hospital, a dragon tears his way up the tower. Mine orders the nurses to disentangle Daigo from his wires and wheel him toward the maintenance elevator. If Kiryu, the man who left Daigo to fend for himself, wants to try stopping Mine, he’ll have to do what Mine has done for his whole life: fight his way to the top.
Mine exits the empty room, leaving behind the sounds of distant gunfire.
Kiryu meets him there. Of course he does. No one can keep the Dragon of Dojima down. No matter, though—Mine isn’t the only one who has been honing his skills. He might even catch him off guard with a few new tricks up his sleeve.
“Do you really think this is what Daigo would have wanted?” Kiryu asks, his face thunderous.
Mine bristles. How dare he presume to know Daigo better than himself? How dare Kiryu, a man who stuck Daigo with a throne he never wanted and only stayed long enough to watch his ass touch the chair, impose on his kindness? What good has Kiryu ever done for Daigo, the man Mine has dedicated his short lifespan to serving? What is a few years and some change to an entire life spent at his side?
So he snarls, “Daigo is a kind man. A kinder man than you deserve. Daigo’s dream is my dream, and unlike him, I have no sympathy for your mess. That is not my problem.”
Kiryu shakes his head, bewildered. “How could you be so callous?”
Mine sneers. “It is in my nature.”
“You are not forced to be cruel,” Kiryu replies curtly. “Cruelty is an option you consciously choose, just like I choose kindness. Daigo did, too. You and I aren’t so different.”
“You think I don’t know that?” Mine hisses. “Living a life of isolation, rejection, conformity, all committed by your kind, and you don’t think that leaves a mark? There is no room in this world for weakness, and you cannot convince me otherwise.”
Kiryu sighs and shakes his head. For a moment, he looks far wearier than a man of his age ought to be. But then, he squares his shoulders.
“If I can’t convince you with words…” in one fell swoop, he tears off his shirt and stands bare-chested and proud. “I suppose I’ll have to stop you with my fists.”
Mine knows, from many conversations with Daigo, that behind those broad shoulders writhes a dragon forged in ink, hissing and spitting. Though he hadn’t anticipated that fate would turn its teeth his way, he isn’t entirely unprepared.
With equal grace, Mine casts aside his tailored suit, showing off the upgrades he’d quietly acquired. Where once there was simple wire frame now is metal plate, housing brand-new pistons and pumps that move his arms. A solid, reinforced cage encircles his chest and shields the delicate clockwork of his heart, while a steel-plated skull houses the tiny cogs of his brain. Hidden still beneath his clothes are sturdy hydraulics that have transformed his dainty shuffle into a blinding sprint. He always knew he’d take up arms on Daigo’s behalf, and Daigo’s death ensures that Mine will do so forever. Once Mine makes short work of the Dragon, the golden handgun at his waist will put Daigo out of his miserable non-existence.
They leap at each other like ambush predators; Mine hears more than feels the connection of metal with flesh. He dodges Kiryu’s attacks with ease and returns the favor tenfold, savoring the sound of bone giving under his fists. He does not feel pain, and so does not flinch when Kiryu’s hands latch around his wrist and hurl him overhead. He lands on his feet with minimal jostling of his internals, already lunging in for more.
Kiryu bends and grunts, but he does not fold. His knuckles meet Mine’s steel without a second of hesitation, and his eyes betray neither hatred nor pity. Whereas Mine’s metal skin buckles and warps with impact, Kiryu’s human flesh always springs back when Mine strikes, bruised but intact. He slows, but does not weaken, trading blow for blow with no less force than the first. Already Mine can sense the slowing of the pinions powering his brain, taxed to their limits. His time is running short.
Kiryu sweeps his legs and Mine feels something give in his knee. He tries to right himself, but too slowly—with a right hook that cracks his jaw, Kiryu has Mine on his back. Unlike Kiryu, Mine’s energy is finite, and it dwindles by the second. There is no such thing as pride to Mine; he decides against continuing the fight, knowing already that the tide has turned against him.
To his surprise, Kiryu does not leap upon him and finish the job. Instead, he drops to a knee, heaving with exertion. A trickle of blood drips from the corner of his mouth.
“Looks like I lost,” Mine rasps. “Is this what it feels like, to feel your world crashing down?”
His phone rings from his pocket. With unsteady hands, he disentangles it from the wreck and answers.
It’s Katase, says the voice on the other end. Katase: unendingly loyal, perhaps overly so. One of the only humans who ever bothered to work with him at all, much less respect him. The only person he trusted to dutifully wind up the mechanism on his back, buying time day by day—a job previously only performed by Daigo. Katase cared for Mine almost as much as Mine cared for Daigo, and he could respect that.
President, are you there? She asks.
“Yes,” he grits out.
Are you hurt? She sounds concerned. President, I’ve been so worried—
“I’m fine,” he interrupts, trying to reassure. It doesn’t quite hit the mark. “Katase…you know, you’re the only person who ever—”
The parts for your new upgrades came in, she cuts in. I’ve scheduled the technician to install them first thing tomorrow. We need you back in commission as soon as possible for the Dubai acquisition. The stakeholders personally requested your presence…
Something dies inside him. He tunes her out, dropping his arm. “...Is that all?” He wonders. “Am I only worthy of life for as long as I am useful?” He lets his head fall back. He closes his eyes.
“All my life, I’ve had a purpose…and as long as I fulfilled it, I could stay,” Mine says. “I wanted so badly for humans to see me as an equal…so I played the part. But humans will never see me as anything but a machine, will they.”
Katase buzzes irritatingly at his side. President? President, can you hear me? We need you to—
He hangs up. Drops the phone.
Kiryu raises his head. A trickle of blood trails from the corner of his mouth and Mine feels an unaccountable rush of pride for having put it there. “Mine,” he says. “As long as you live, it’s never too late to change.” He looks world-weary and unbearably earnest. He extends a hand. “There are people who care about you because you’re you, not because of what you can do for them.”
Mine stares into his eyes and finds neither truth nor lies. He finds pain, and exhaustion, and most of all, love. Kiryu is overflowing with it, and even a heartless machine like Mine can see it. He wants to believe.
He wants to be loved.
Hand meets metal hand, and Kiryu hauls him upright as if he weighs nothing.
Of course, that’s when Mine hears the footsteps. Three sets, heavy tread, advancing slowly and menacingly. Andre Richardson, his erstwhile ally, now an inconveniently-timed enemy. Mine turns toward them, and if he had a face capable of expression, he’d be glaring.
“What’s the CIA doing here?” Kiryu growls.
“Not the CIA,” corrects Mine. “Black Monday.”
Kiryu stiffens with recognition, fixing his stare on the blond man in the middle. “That’s…”
“Andre Richardson,” Mine finishes. “He’s the one who told me you were coming.” His internals creak in protest as he staggers to his feet.
“Looks like your role in all this has come to an end,” Richardson says, raising his handgun and leveling it at Mine’s chest. Mine does not flinch.
Kiryu steps forward protectively. “What are they planning?” He asks Mine.
“To kill us and find someone else to push the military bill through.” Mine gives Richardson the coldest, uncanniest stare he can muster. It’s not difficult; he knows very well how he is perceived. He unnerves people with his very existence. “In other words…I’ve outlived my usefulness to them.”
Just like you’ve outlived Daigo.
Richardson chuckles. “There are plenty of people who could replace you,” he reminds Mine, as though there isn’t a manual that details exactly what he is and isn’t capable of. If Mine dies, there is an entire menagerie of artificial creatures that could carry out his duties. He was reminded of his disposability every day, when he walked by Daigo’s side and heard hawkers touting the latest and greatest in steam machinery. “And unfortunately, you both know far too much for me to let you live,” Richardson drawls, showing off blindingly white teeth. He raises his handgun, finger on the trigger. The bead hovers over Kiryu’s chest, and Mine boils over with rage.
“Die,” he declares.
A thud of a body hitting the ground draws their attention in the direction of Daigo’s bed; its occupant rolls right off, snatching up the golden gun Mine had discarded next to it. Quick as a flash, he fires off two bullets: one for each of Richardson’s bodyguards. Pinpricks of red bloom over their chests and they drop like stones, shrieking.
Richardson’s jaw drops open and he fumbles to retrain his sights on their assailant. Another shot strikes him in the hand, sending his revolver skittering across the concrete. “What the fuck?” He gasps.
“I’m…not ready to die,” Daigo croaks, hands eerily steady. “You hear me?!”
One last bullet embeds itself in Richardson’s chest. He lets out a choked howl and sinks to his knees, blood gurgling from his throat. Kiryu, ever quick on the uptake, stumbles toward Daigo.
“Daigo!” Kiryu rolls him over and props him upright. “Are you alright?”
Mine can scarcely believe his eyes. Daigo, a dead man. So dead, Mine had been seconds away from killing him out of mercy. Now alive and feeling enough to gasp in pain and clutch Kiryu’s arm like a lifeline.
Daigo huffs. “I could ask…the same…of you, Kiryu-san.”
His beautiful eyes alight on Mine’s damaged carapace. “Mine? What are you doing here?” He sounds genuinely worried. “Are you hurt?”
So innocent, his Daigo. Too trusting.
“It’s alright,” Daigo says. “I’m alright.”
Mine doesn’t even know what he could say. He cannot lie. He does not know how. Not to Daigo. “Chairman…”
With a hoarse roar, Richardson lurches to his feet with revolver in hand, pointed directly at Daigo. “I’ll kill you all,” he gurgles, choking on his own blood. Time stops.
Mine directs all his remaining energy to his legs and races to intercept him. Richardson’s bloodshot eyes widen comically and he staggers back from Mine’s advances. “Stay back!” He shrieks, firing off shot after shot that lodge in Mine’s internals but fail to halt him in his tracks. Chamber emptied, he clicks the trigger uselessly even as Mine hooks an arm around his neck and tightens. Though Richardson screams and blusters, his pleas fall on deaf ears.
With no bullets left, Mine glances toward the skyline and knows what he must do.
He drags Richardson toward the edge of the roof, keeping a firm grip on the squealing, kicking burden in his arms. He meets Daigo’s horrified eyes. “Chairman. I’m sorry.”
Daigo lurches forward, trying in vain to stop him. “Mine, what are you doing?!” He raises his voice, using the authoritative tone he only reserves for his unruliest patriarchs. “Get back here!”
Mine has never been on the receiving end of such a voice. He has never defied Daigo’s orders before—until now. “Daigo-san…I don’t deserve to live,” he says calmly.
“Mine!” Daigo screams, tears in his eyes.
“I might be a sorry excuse for a human, but I can uphold my vows like one,” he says to Kiryu. “It’s too late for me.” It’s not a lie; his backup systems are failing by the second, and a bullet has lodged deep inside the mechanisms of his heart.
“Mine, stop!” Kiryu pleads. Mine sees fresh pain in his face, despite his severe appearance and stoic demeanor. He thinks that Kiryu is a good man, after all; looking into his beautiful eyes, he’s almost sorry he ever wanted it different.
It takes a herculean amount of effort to haul them both onto the ledge. He casts one last look at Daigo, who is wan and pale but alive . For Daigo, Mine would give the world. His life is a bargain by comparison.
“I wish we could have met sooner, Kiryu-san.” Mine locks his arm tight around Richardson’s neck, so that even if he were to lose power right now, he would be forever condemning them to fall together. “I hope, in another life…I’ll have what it takes to earn your respect.” His eyes meet Daigo’s one last time, wide with fear and anguish. It’s an expression Mine has never seen on him, and his only regret is having put it there.
With arms wrapped tightly around Richardson, Mine lets himself go slack. They tip backwards into the cold night air. As his feet leave the ledge, he hears Daigo wail his name. Richardson is screaming, but he scarcely hears it over the rushing of wind.
I’m sorry, Daigo, he laments, watching the tower’s zenith recede farther and farther away. I’m glad I could be of use to you…one last time.
He closes his eyes.
And with an ear-splitting crash, Mine is no more.
Mine does not sleep—but still he dreams.
He dreams of a man with soft eyes and a gentle soul. A man who saw worth in the worthless and life in the lifeless. He had many names: Sixth Chairman. Dojima-san. Young Master. But to Mine, he was just Daigo.
Daigo had the strong frame of a fighter and the delicate hands of an artificer. He was a man who could command the loyalty of an army several thousand strong and construct a fleet of machine men just as easily.
He had fists that struck like lightning, but they were most often put to use on the many clockwork creatures he maintained in his home. One of these was a miraculous machine: an automaton that danced and wrote and poured tea like a man. He had acquired it in a rather sorry state, for time was not kind to once-living things like silk and wood. It took a very long time, but he restored the karakuri to its former beauty. The karakuri, endlessly grateful to its creator, vowed to serve him as long as he would live. In time, the karakuri came to love his creator, who had kindness in spades and even more vultures willing to use it against him. But emotions like love were never in his design, and any human would be rightly repulsed by such a flaw in his programming. So the karakuri toiled in silence, and thought: I am useful to him, and that is enough.
Mine opens his eyes.
The clockwork ticking of his heartbeat is deafening. Then, it is not—replaced by the weary sigh of a man who has worked for far too long. He would recognize that tired sound anywhere.
“Daigo,” he rasps. His eyes search the room, alighting on the man before him. He is covered in mechanical grease and looks like he hasn’t slept in days, but it is undeniably Daigo.
“Mine,” Daigo breathes, and he looks close to bursting into tears. He does not; instead, he lunges for Mine and wraps his big, strong arms around his metal body. Mine reaches up to rest his cold hands on Daigo’s warm back, soaking up his heat. He finds himself hugging back, tighter than he thought possible.
After a few moments, Daigo squirms in his embrace. Mine loosens his hold reluctantly, allowing Daigo to pull back and look him in the face.
“Do you remember what happened?” He whispers.
Mine flounders. “I—I tried to save you.” Tears well up in Daigo’s eyes. “I…broke. I broke, didn’t I?”
Daigo’s lips twist in anger. “You died, Mine. You—you idiot!” He stalks toward his work bench, rooting through the drawers and muttering under his breath. When he returns, it’s with a hand mirror that he sticks into Mine’s face.
And it is Mine’s face: a porcelain mask, once pristine, now blooming with fractures that shine like gold. Every tiny shard pieced together and mended like a kintsugi bowl.
It is beautiful.
“It took me three months to put you back together, you asshole!” Daigo scowls. “After I spent so much effort rebuilding you the first time, honestly.” He lowers the mirror, breathing deeply and releasing his irritation. When it is gone, his shoulders droop and his hands shake.
“I thought I’d never be able to fix you,” Daigo whispers.
“Why?” Mine croaks. “I’m even less useful to you now than I was before. What good is a broken machine? Why bother to fix me?”
Daigo looks so, so sad. “Because I love you, Mine. Don’t you understand?”
Because I love you, Mine.
“Oh,” Mine says dumbly. “Oh.”
“For a state-of-the-art automaton, you sure are stupid,” Daigo says, running a hand through his disheveled hair.
“But you are…human. You can’t…”
“I can’t what , Mine? I can’t care about you? I can’t listen to my own emotions?” He looks hurt. “Do you think that little of me?”
“Of course not,” Mine replies immediately. “I trust you.”
“Then trust me,” Daigo lays a hand on his knee, “when I say you mean the world to me.”
And he leans in and presses a gentle kiss to Mine’s cracked porcelain face, threading their worn fingers together. Mine closes his eyes, focusing on the pressure of Daigo’s lips and the quiet rasp of his beard against his body. He feels something dangerous and new, something horrible and true. When he holds Daigo in his arms, he feels love.
And when Daigo presses a hand to his metal chest, Mine swears he can feel his clockwork heart tick just a bit faster.