Just One More Time Before It Ends, Episode 1 | Unclassified Noise, S-Class Reaction
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[Short blurb under title]
That work had a commercial success rate of 0.01%.
And so, the world decided that erasing it was the right thing to do.
[Main Text]
Just One More Time Before It Ends
Episode 1 | Unclassified Noise, S-Class Reaction
Sawa Hinata was about to erase her own work.
Standing in the center of the stage, a transparent approval panel floated before her.
User consent.
Finalization process.
Permanent deletion of incomplete data.
Confirm?
Sawa's right hand slowly reached out toward it.
Her left hand stopped it.
It was only for an instant.
Her left hand, which had emerged from her pocket, grabbed her right wrist.
Sawa looked at her own left hand as if she were surprised herself.
She let go immediately.
No one noticed.
Not the audience.
Not the judges.
Not the Completion Bureau's terminal.
Only one person, Toru Kanzaki, saw it.
Her right hand was trying to end it.
Her left hand didn't want to end it yet.
Only Toru saw that.
The New Creator Award, final selection meeting.
The venue was a real-world hall.
However, only the work titles and evaluation scores on stage were superimposed in the air through the attendees' retinal terminals.
The space, with its walls, floor, and lighting all unified in white, was bright, clean, and devoid of waste.
Above Sawa's head, the work title was displayed.
Lighthouse of Emptiness.
Below it, the judgment results were listed.
Commercial success rate: 0.01%.
Continued reading rate: 3.2%.
Structural stability: Insufficient.
Market adaptability: Extremely low.
Adaptation potential: Indeterminate.
Completion recommended: Deletion.
There was no applause.
There was no murmuring either.
That was not unusual in this place.
Works that don't reach people are ended early.
In this world, it is believed that this protects the person's future.
The woman standing beside the stage turned to face Sawa.
Elena Shirase.
Completion Bureau, Creative Arbiter.
The person who preserves works that reach people.
The person who ends dreams that don't reach, for the sake of the person's future.
Elena was smiling quietly.
It was not a face meant for blaming.
It was a face that guided people to their end without blaming them.
"Your writing has strong quirks."
Her voice was soft.
"The structure is unstable. The characters' goals are also vague. It's difficult for readers to judge where they should place their emotions."
Sawa nodded.
"Yes."
"However, I am not saying you have no talent."
Sawa's left hand gripped something in her pocket again.
Paper.
Few people write on paper these days.
But she was crushing it in her pocket.
"It is not rare for people to be bound for years to an unfinished work. Some people continue to hold onto words that didn't reach, and end up losing their next words as well."
Elena lowered her voice just a little.
"You are not losing your work. You are stopping it here before the work makes you lose yourself."
They were kind words.
They were neatly polished so as not to sound cruel.
Sawa smiled.
"I'm fine."
The voice came a little late.
At the edge of her vision, the recommended response text suggested by the terminal was reflected.
I'm fine.
I thought so too.
I will move forward.
Sawa chose one of them.
"I thought so too."
Toru was standing at the edge of the venue.
Holding a gray terminal for auxiliary staff, he was in charge of processing works scheduled for deletion.
Normally, Sawa's work would have been just one of many.
Judgment: Worthless.
Completion recommended.
Pending deletion.
That should have been enough.
Toru Kanzaki finds beauty in what the world calls trash.
A sentence erased without being sent.
A story where only the title remained and the text stopped after three lines.
A conversation rewritten many times and finally deleted.
A "but" that was started and then deleted.
Sometimes, a thin light spills from the edges of such things.
Fragments that don't have a name yet.
In this world, they call it noise.
Only Toru sometimes thinks it is beautiful.
The auxiliary staff terminal gave a cold notification.
Work efficiency: 61%.
Recommended action: Skip the confirmation process.
"Kanzaki."
A man, also an auxiliary staff member, called out from behind him.
"You're stopping again. There are two thousand of these just today."
"I know."
"If you know, then just process them. Completion is recommended."
The man peered into Toru's terminal.
"You're really inefficient with things like that."
Toru didn't reply.
An old protected folder appeared for just an instant at the edge of the terminal.
Frozen data that shouldn't have appeared on today's work list.
Folder name.
Something that wasn't yet a world.
The creator field was unreadable, as if cracked.
Toru immediately switched screens.
He pretended he hadn't seen it.
On stage, Sawa's approval panel was still open.
Toru looked at her manuscript displayed on his terminal.
Lighthouse of Emptiness.
The text was unfinished.
It cut off in the middle.
Character names were still placeholders.
The same expressions were repeated many times.
The final part was mostly bullet points.
Perhaps it wasn't finished.
Perhaps it wasn't polished.
Perhaps the judgment of 0.01% commercial success wasn't wrong.
Toru tried to close the screen.
That was when it happened.
A thin light spilled from the edge of the manuscript.
In the white venue, it was so small it was almost invisible.
But Toru could see it.
The gaps between the letters.
The traces of deleted paragraphs.
The end of a half-written line of dialogue.
Fragments that didn't have a name yet were spilling out from there.
Toru's fingers stopped.
He wished he hadn't seen it.
He thought that.
The person herself said she would erase it.
The arbiter also said it was better to stop.
Perhaps that really was kindness.
Closing it was also her right.
He knew that.
Even though he knew, Toru's breathing began to grow ragged.
Fingers approaching the delete button.
A face smiling and saying, "I'm fine."
The left hand that stopped the right hand.
They overlapped with another face.
A voice that was soft, tired, and yet believed in Toru.
—If you say so, Toru, then it must be true.
Toru gritted his teeth.
This is similar to before.
He thought that.
Even though he thought it, he couldn't put it into words well.
He had to stop.
Probably.
And yet.
Sawa's right hand touched the approval panel.
Toru had stood up.
The chair scraped against the floor.
The auxiliary staff man turned around.
"Kanzaki?"
Toru didn't answer.
He started walking toward the stage.
The security terminal reacted.
Outside auxiliary staff access authority.
Warning.
Warning.
Toru didn't stop.
The venue began to murmur.
"Kanzaki, what are you doing?"
"Go back."
"It's in the middle of processing."
Toru stopped in front of the stage.
Sawa looked at him with a surprised face.
Elena's smile faded just a little.
"Intervention by auxiliary staff is not permitted."
Toru looked at Sawa.
He intended to look at her.
But in truth, before her face, he was looking at the fragments spilling from the manuscript.
"If you really want to erase it, you can erase it."
Sawa lost her words.
"But."
Toru started to say, then stopped.
Don't let numbers decide the end first.
He tried to say that.
It was the correct thing to say.
It was too correct.
Toru swallowed it.
Instead, he looked at Sawa's smile.
"That 'I'm fine' is not your voice."
Sawa's eyes wavered.
"But, they said I have no talent."
"I don't know if you have talent."
Toru looked at the manuscript.
The fragments were trembling as if they were about to disappear.
"But, this is still..."
Not finished.
He tried to say that, but his throat choked up.
Is it for Sawa's sake?
Or is it just that he doesn't want to see that scene again?
He didn't know.
Without knowing, Toru said,
"It's not the face of someone who wants to erase it yet."
Elena said quietly,
"Toru Kanzaki."
Called by his name, Toru shook his shoulders slightly.
"Opening what the person themselves is trying to close. Isn't it a bit arrogant to call that salvation?"
Those words fell into the venue.
No one argued.
Toru couldn't reply immediately either.
Elena continued.
"She has consented. You appear to be following not her will, but your own lingering attachment."
Toru's fingers trembled.
He thought, that's right.
Even so, the fragments were about to disappear.
Toru looked at Sawa.
"If you don't want to, tell me."
Sawa opened her mouth.
She tried to say something.
But before that, the approval panel glowed faintly.
Finalization process, ready.
Ten seconds until automatic deletion.
Something snapped inside Toru.
He couldn't wait for Sawa's answer.
He should have waited.
He knew that.
Even so, without looking at Sawa's face, Toru touched the fragments of the manuscript.
Heat ran through his fingertips.
The next moment, the heat turned into pain.
It was a pain like having a thin needle inserted under his fingernail.
Toru held his breath.
The contours of the world shifted.
Letters floated up on the white wall.
An erased sentence.
An unsent memo.
A half-written line of dialogue.
A metaphor that stopped halfway.
A placeholder name.
A paragraph that should have been erased.
They gathered into light.
However, that light was not just beautiful.
Many alternative versions overlapped, making a low noise.
The lines of dialogue erased during revision leaked out simultaneously in Sawa's voice.
Sawa stepped back just once.
Like someone chased by their own voice.
Someone in the venue covered their ears.
The terminal issued a warning.
Unauthorized expansion of incomplete logs confirmed.
Elena's voice became sharp.
"Stop it."
Toru couldn't stop.
He didn't even know himself if he wanted to stop.
It was just that the fragments were still warm.
That's why he couldn't let go.
A black line ran across the white floor of the venue.
At first, it was a thin sketch line.
It increased in number, spreading as if to tear the floor.
The surface of the white wall peeled off like thin paper.
From underneath, rough lines like those drawn with a mechanical pencil appeared.
Background layout.
Erased rough sketches.
The outline of an unfinished town.
In the center of the stage, a lighthouse made only of framework stood up.
The upper half was still just lines.
The stairs cut off halfway.
The windows had no color.
Only the light part was indicated by a placeholder circle.
Even so, that lighthouse was certainly there.
It was not a display on a retinal terminal.
Pushing up the real floor, the unfinished scenery stood.
A place that was not the venue was eroding the venue.
A town without a sea.
A town where no one gets lost.
A town where guide lines are drawn on every road, and everyone walks the shortest route.
There is no one who gets lost on the road.
There is no one who stops.
There is no one who takes a detour.
In the middle of the town, a girl with a placeholder name was looking up at the unfinished lighthouse.
The people around her were smiling.
Their faces were not yet drawn.
People with only gray outlines said in the same voice,
"There is no sea."
"No ships will come."
"There is no one who gets lost."
"What use is a lighthouse?"
The girl was trying to place a light that hadn't been drawn yet at the very top of the lighthouse.
Her hand, too, was half lines.
Even so, the girl said,
"I was told that if no one gets lost, then a light is unnecessary."
Her voice wavered slightly.
Alternative lines of dialogue overlapped.
The lighthouse is a landmark.
The lighthouse is a prayer.
The lighthouse is the way home.
They all feel wrong.
The girl continued, searching for words.
"But, the people in a town where you can't get lost..."
There, her voice cut off once.
An unfinished silence.
A silence where the continuation was not yet decided.
Even so, the girl gripped the placeholder light.
"I thought that even when night comes, there is no place to stop."
The air in the venue wavered.
The venue was quieter than when they were looking at the perfectly polished award-winning work.
It was incomplete.
It was rough.
It was contradictory.
It was a story with a 0.01% commercial success rate.
And yet, someone held their breath.
Someone looked away.
Someone frowned.
Someone looked like they were about to cry.
Elena watched it silently.
A blood-like red light oozed from Toru's fingertips.
One sensation in his fingertips disappeared.
The reenactment wouldn't last long.
The lines of the lighthouse began to crumble.
The gray people returned to blank paper.
The girl's face also disappeared without being drawn.
Finally, only the placeholder light remained.
That, too, disappeared immediately.
Only the white walls and white floor returned to the venue.
However, something did not return.
The completion approval panel was still open.
Sawa's right hand was not touching it.
She was not looking at the lighthouse.
She was not looking at the manuscript either.
She was not looking at Toru.
She was looking at her own hands.
The hands that were trying to end it until just a moment ago.
The hands that now didn't know what to do.
Toru looked for Sawa.
He couldn't find her immediately.
She was standing in the corner of the stage.
Her smile was gone.
She wasn't crying either.
Only the color had drained from her lips.
Sawa said softly,
"Why?"
No one in the venue moved.
Toru couldn't move either.
Sawa slowly raised her face.
Her eyes were not so much blaming Toru as they were the eyes of someone whose drawer, which they didn't want opened, had been opened without permission.
"Why did you show it?"
Toru couldn't say anything.
Sawa was no longer looking at the manuscript.
She was only looking at her own hands.
Those hands were still trembling.
Elena's words returned late.
Opening what the person themselves is trying to close.
Isn't it a bit arrogant to call that salvation?
Toru looked at his own hands.
Sawa's manuscript had not been erased.
But Sawa was not saved.
Only that fact remained in the middle of the white venue.
A low judgment sound rang out.
Terminals throughout the venue displayed the same characters in unison.
Unclassified noise detected.
Market prediction impossible.
Emotional fluctuation value exceeds standard.
Reenactment log, unclassifiable.
S-Class reaction.
Elena Shirase looked at Toru slowly.
The smile had vanished from her expression.
It was not anger.
It was not disappointment either.
It was just a face checking a processing target.
"Toru Kanzaki."
Toru didn't answer.
"What did you pick up?"
Toru gripped his own hand.
His fingertips still hurt.
No blood was coming out.
But only the pain remained.
At that moment, the venue lighting dimmed by one level.
The front door opened.
He thought that.
But he was wrong.
The man in the black uniform was not at the door.
By the time he noticed, he was standing right in front of Toru.
There was no distance in between.
There was no sound of walking.
Only the shortest distance was placed as a result.
In the man's hand, a thin white terminal was gripped.
It was not a blade.
It was not a gun.
But the moment Toru saw it, his spine turned cold.
The screens throughout the venue were dyed red.
Toru's auxiliary terminal as well.
The guide panel on the ceiling.
Sawa's deletion approval panel.
Even the smart display superimposed on Toru's field of vision.
They were filled with red letters.
Unclassified noise, S-Class reaction.
Target: Toru Kanzaki.
Processing category: Erasure.
The man in the black uniform pointed the white terminal at Toru.
"Bug confirmed."
There was no anger or hesitation in that voice.
"Toru Kanzaki. I will complete your incompleteness here."
Light gathered at the tip of the white terminal.
Toru finally looked back toward Sawa.
She was still looking at her own hands.
Was it the world that made those hands tremble?
Or was it herself?
Toru didn't know.
Was it her he wanted to protect?
Or the fragments?
He didn't even know if it was his own lingering attachment.
Even so, he didn't want to make not knowing a reason to let go.
Toru gripped Sawa's manuscript again.
The next moment, the light of erasure fell.
Click here for the continuation
Episode 2 | An Encore No One Wants
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Click here for the work introduction