Falling Man

The lives of the people were the Earth's future, that was what he had always said, what he had always told himself. Around him came the sound of noise, the footfalls of passers-by, words exchanged between friends, casual bickering amongst school children and office workers. He looked down at the bowl in front of him, jabbing at the thin, pale noodles amidst the miso with his chopsticks, coming away with a small piece of spring onion between the white plastic stalks.

They had kept going for a few years after the formation of the Grand Cross, after the defeat of the Psyma Family, and then in the face of the War on Terror, they had disbanded, not because it felt as if it wasn't their duty to keep protecting the Earth, but simply because the weight of it, the sheer scope of it was crushing. He remembered standing in front of the television with his sister, watching the news broadcast, the plume of black smoke, the rising dust cloud, the sinking shaft of the building as it toppled. How many people had lost their lives, he asked himself, and, in the evacuations after, in the shadows of those twin unstable towers, how many members of the rescue services had also lost their lives?

Immediately after the first impact, airspace around America had been restricted. They had tried to move in, had tried to assist, and had been prevented by red tape both at home and abroad. The world had changed after that, less than two years after the foundation of the Super Rescue Lab, less than a year after the defeat of the Psyma Family, and it had all seemed suddenly futile, the world sliding into a new era of war and occupation in which they could find no place.

He sighed, placing the chopsticks down atop the bowl as if he had finished, and then changing his mind, picking them back up. Still, he did not eat though, listening instead to the voices of others as they passed by the stand at which he sat, hearing the distant chime of traffic lights changing, the slow rumble of trains beneath his feet.

They had all gone back to their jobs after the disbandment. Well, all of them except Shou, who had finally got his shot at being an Air Force pilot, much to the consternation of their father. Like others of his age, he had seen service in Afghanistan during the protracted campaign and the UN occupation that followed; like others of his age, he had come back changed, quieter, more withdrawn, full of unspoken questions.

He jabbed downwards, driving the chopsticks into a lump of tofu, splitting it in two, then stirring the remaining noodles about the bowl.

Bay Area 55 still remained, and the connexions that had facilitated the movement of their Rescue Mecha were still there, their maintenance now taken over by the local government, Super Rescue Lab's resources brought out and put to use as part of a national reshuffle of the emergency services. In order to use the machines, the pilots would have to use the Anti-Hazard Suits, he supposed, and though he had never seen them in action, he assumed that part of the sale of the resources would have involved his father retooling the GoGo Braces for more generalised usage so that they could be produced en masse.

He sighed, leaning back on his stool, tilting his head, looking at the world upside down and wondered if the Anti-Hazard Suits they now used still had their own distinct colours or if they were all the same?

How were they being used now, he asked himself, but he knew the answer, at least part of it, as whilst he had not seen the Anti-Hazard Suits in action, there had been footage on the news recently of Pink Aider being used as a mobile vaccination centre in Shizuoka.

Would it have been better if they had persisted? Would it have made any difference if they had stood their ground against the nonsense of both national and international bureaucracy and just focused on saving lives, not only in Japan, but in New York when the towers fell, in Afghanistan during the war, and, at last, at home, when the earthquake had hit and the reactor in Fukushima had gone into meltdown.

What had he been doing on each of these occasions, he asked himself, yet quickly his resolve had returned. He had been doing what he could. As a member of the Fire Department, he had kept doing what he could, where he could, and that was exactly what he would continue to do.

Apparently making up his mind, he placed down his chopsticks for the last time and pushed his stool out, the sign above him reading Michinoku Ramen fluttering in the breeze of his movement.

"Thanks for the meal," he smiled at the girl behind the counter, who inclined her head and offered her thanks in return.

Reaching down to the chair next to him, he picked up his hat, straightened his jacket, and without further doubt, Metropolitan Fire Department Commissioner Tatsumi Matoi made his way back into the city and out into the world.