Eastern Vignettes

[Touzen]

Today, Kenji Sato worked from home. Employed by a medium-sized cooperative that prides itself on equitable work practices, things were alright —a hallmark of Post-Delegationism. If anything, that was the motto of Post-Delegationism in 2024: Things were alright.

Of course, as a senior engineer with 10 years of tenure, he had been assigned a larger share of the profits than the recent graduates, as was custom. But as far as he knew, nobody at the company went home without being able to make ends meet. His workspace, though filled with the latest technology, was notably devoid of any ostentatious display of wealth or power, reflecting the societal shift towards modesty and collective welfare that had emerged after the “taming” of capitalism after a revolution that was rapidly moving towards its centennial anniversary.

Yumi, his spouse, was teaching at a community-run school. Her lessons today had revolved around the history of the revolution and the recent political upheaval. Always classics when you just wanted to flip out an OwlPad to let the students self-entertain.

Their children, Hiro and Mei, in contrast, had enjoyed a day in which OwlPads were notably absent. They didn’t go to school, but were homeschooled by Kenji’s father Takahiro. Yumi was a teacher, but didn’t like rigidity of schools for her own children. And with Hiro’s diabetes, it just felt right to have a family member take care of the kids. Most families didn’t have that luxury.

The elderly grandparent, once a prominent figure in the local trade union, spent the morning sharing stories with Hiro and Mei. These tales were not the usual talk of epic battles between ancient samurais Mei was so fond of but of the struggles and triumphs of the working class, the importance of solidarity, and more than a bit of romantic reminiscence about Takahiro’s own memories of what life was like, after the war, and during his time in Jizhou. The cotton warrior puppet christened Gege was clutched quite a bit less enthusiastically that day.

Lunch was a quiet affair, with the family gathered around the table discussing their day. Before long, the conversation had turned to Hayabusa's resignation, a topic that had dominated public discourse both on social media and in the rapidly declining print media of the journalistic collectives. Kenji maintained a subscription to the Touzen Times, though he rarely more than glimpsed through it - it was more of a status thing. After having perused the comment section of the paper, he expresses a cautious hope that recent reforms might lead to a more open and democratic society, conveniently agreeing with the last column he had read before putting the paper down. Yumi was concerned whether maintaining the social safety nets that have protected them thus far wouldn’t fall by the wayside before long. Maybe she would have to pick up tutoring again as a side gig. The prospect of even less sleep did not excite her.

"Yumi, did you discuss the resignation in class today? How did the students react?" Kenji asked, breaking Yuki’s rumination.

Yumi, who had been helping Mei with her homework, glanced up, a thoughtful expression crossing her face. "Yes, we did. It was quite the discussion. The students seem hopeful but understandably concerned about what the future holds. One of them said, 'Does this mean we'll have more say in how things are run?' It sparked quite the debate."

Hiro, ever the inquisitive one, chimed in, "But dad, why did the dictator resign? If he had all that power, why give it up?"

Kenji exchanged a look with Yumi before answering, "It's because true leadership, Hiro, isn't about holding onto power. It's about knowing when to step aside and let the people decide their future. Hayabusa believed in Post-Delegationism, in our ability to govern ourselves without a central authority dictating our lives."

The grandparent, who had been listening quietly, added, "In my days, we fought hard for the rights and freedoms we enjoy today. Hayabusa's resignation isn't the end but a new beginning. It's up to us, and you, to shape what comes next."

That afternoon, the family takes a walk through their neighborhood, participating in a community clean-up initiative. Such activities were common in Shinkyō, where civic engagement was not just encouraged but expected. The sense of community has always been palpable, with neighbors greeting each other warmly, discussing plans for the upcoming community forum—an event designed to facilitate dialogue and collective decision-making in the neighborhood that had become popular in the Hayabusa era.

That night after a day of hard work and good discussions the heart of Shinkyō, under a sky streaked with stars, the Sato family slept, perhaps in not the best possible society, but a society that nevertheless had afforded them modest luxuries and an absence of the worst horrors other places had in store for the common man and woman. Things in Post-Delegationism were, as they said, quite alright.

 

[Touzen]

In the shadowed, less frequented corners of Shinkyō, far from the gleaming council chambers and bustling, optimistic streets, there existed another side of the city. Here, in a dilapidated building that many would rather forget, where immigrants from Central Touyou often ended up having been priced out of other areas of the capital, a group of individuals found themselves bound not by shared ideology and a quite alright state of affairs, but by disillusionment and escape.

The room was dim, illuminated only by the flickering light of a single, bare bulb. It cast long shadows over the faces of those gathered, a mix of young and old, each carrying the weight of their own discontents. Among them were Kai, a former factory worker; Mina, a young artist; and Takeshi, a student of political science, but after 19 semesters, that was firmly rooted in theory.

Their conversations, unlike the debates of politicians in the high street press or those that had carved out a respectable existence for themselves, were punctuated by cynicism and the haze of substance-induced detachment.

Kai, attempting to lighten the mood, having lightened up another Implarian death stick. Rummaging through an old, dusty box filled with various discarded items, he pulled out a battered hat, placing it jauntily on his head. “What do you think? Is this my new look?”

Mina, her laughter breaking the heavy air, shot back, “Only if you’re planning to start a new fashion trend called ‘post-apocalyptic chic.’”

Takeshi, always the observer, added with a wry smile, “It’s the perfect metaphor for us—a bunch of misfits trying to make the best out of what we’ve been left with.”

The room erupted with genuine laughter, a rare sound in the confines of their usual gloom. The hat made its rounds, each member trying it on and striking exaggerated poses, momentarily casting aside their burdens.

As the hat landed in Mina’s hands, she placed it atop her head, tilting it to the side. “You know, we might not have much, but we’ve got more style than half the city.”

Kai, looking around at his friends, nodded in agreement. “Yeah, and probably more brains too. We just use them to debate the finer points of life, like whether instant noodles count as a meal or just a sad excuse for one.”

Takeshi chimed in, “Definitely a meal. Add an egg, and it’s practically gourmet.”

After the impromptu spark of light faded from the room, a deafening silence fell over the exhausted crowd. From somewhere outside, shouting and coughing could be heard outside, before the sirens of the Citizens’ Police wailed away into the night. Dogs barked.

Kai broke the lingering silence, his voice rough, "They talk about Post-Delegationism like it's some kind of utopia. But what about us? Where do we fit in their perfect society?"

He did it again, even though they had agreed that politics were a no go. Too exhausting.

Mina, leaning against a graffiti-covered wall, her eyes distant, responded in factual surrender to the realities of the rules violation at hand, "We don't. That's the point. It's all about the collective, the community. But some of us fall through the cracks. What good is their freedom if it doesn't reach all the way down here?"

Takeshi, his academic aspirations eroded by disillusionment, added, "It's an ideal, but ideals don't feed you or keep you warm. They promised a stateless society, but all I see are new hierarchies, just under different names."

The conversation meandered through topics, from the failures of the current system to support those most in need, to the irony of seeking liberty in substances that only further entrapped them. Laughter, bitter and mocking, filled the room as they contemplated the irony of their situation—critics of a system that preached inclusivity yet left so many behind.

"It's like we're invisible," Kai said in an attempt to rekindle the conversation he had started, a note of anger in his voice. "To them, we're just shadows, problems to be ignored rather than helped."

Mina, her voice soft but fierce, replied, "Maybe we are invisible to them. But we see each other. Maybe that's where we start."

The night wore on, filled with more talk, more smoke, and the occasional sound of sirens in the distance—a reminder of the world outside their makeshift sanctuary.

Mina, picking up a sketchpad, started doodling, capturing the essence of the night. “We should document our adventures, the Chronicles of the Crack Den. It’ll be a bestseller, for sure.”

 

[Touzen]

Higashi Shinkyō, a fancy area situated on the eastern hills just outside the historic city walls. Father Mateo’s Tiburan Catholic church was quietly abuzz with activity. It was a crisp Saturday morning, and the church was hosting its annual Winter Fair—a day that his predecessor had established as a community outreach event to root the church in the community. That had arguably been a success - every year, the event was drawing not only the regular parishioners but also curious locals eagerly buying up the handmade wooden crafts and other trinkets offered at various stands throughout the charming neoromanticist-style house of God. Although Tiburan Catholicism was a tiny minority religion in Touzen, it was disproportionally represented among the richer strata of society.

Among the familiar faces were Mrs. Adler, who moved over from the Rhein area about 30 years ago, known for her vibrant Rheinish personality and deep commitment to the church (her locally born husband usually preferred to sleep in), and Mr. Saito, a businessman whose contributions to the parish were generous, essential and tax-deductible.

As Father Mateo navigated through the stalls, greeting attendees with a warm smile, he approached Mrs. Adler, who was manning a booth selling homemade Gallo-Germanian pastries. “Mrs. Adler, your pastries seem to be the highlight once again,” he remarked, admiring the array of treats as a young girl handed over a few notes of the demurraged local currency in exchange for a sweet delight.

Laughing, Mrs. Adler replied, “Only because people can’t resist a good strudel, Father. But I was thinking, why not use this gathering to kickstart something new? Perhaps a program to help our neighbors with language skills or job training? You know how those people from Lanur always struggle with Tian characters.” “Those people” had started to move into ward-funded newly constructed housing im the area in what many of the old hands in the area suspected was a deliberate effort to break up the perception of Higashi as a rich neighborhood for the better class of society.

Father Mateo pondered her suggestion. The fair, with its communal spirit, seemed the perfect backdrop to introduce such an initiative. “A splendid idea,” he agreed, dismissing his initial idea to subtly drop a hint about Lanurians keeping the plumbing and gardens of the local villas in shape, making them more than just “those people”. “Let’s see what the rest of our community thinks.”

Nearby, Mr. Saito was overseeing a silent auction, the proceeds of which were traditionally donated to the church. Father Mateo approached, sharing Mrs. Adler’s proposal. Mr. Saito’s response was immediate and supportive. “Let’s put it to the test today,” he suggested. “We can announce the initiative during the auction. It’s the perfect moment to gauge interest and gather support. And I think Mr. Ueda had mentioned his factory combine would be eager to hire more immigrants to meet its DEI targets, if only they could read the signs on the factory floor.”

However, not everyone shared their enthusiasm. As the auction drew a crowd, Mr. Tanaka, the church treasurer, and Ms. Hiroda, a local teacher, expressed their reservations. Standing beside Father Mateo, Mr. Tanaka whispered, “Are we certain this is the right direction? Our resources are already stretched thin.”

Ms. Hiroda nodded in agreement. “It’s a noble cause, but are we equipped to handle such a program? There’s already so many local problems we have to take care of.”

Father Mateo acknowledged their concerns with a nod. “Your points are valid, but let’s see what our community says. We serve not only their spiritual needs but their temporal ones as well. And besides, it sort of is a local problem now.”

As the auction came to a close, Mr. Saito seized the moment. “Before we conclude,” he announced, “we have a proposal to make. How many of you would support a new church-led program for language and job training?”

The response was a mixture of curiosity and enthusiasm, with many hands raised in support. A notable number of hands stayed put as well. Nevertheless encouraged, Father Mateo addressed the crowd, outlining the proposed initiative's broad strokes and inviting feedback.

The father was already thinking plans, committees, outreach to local businesses. For him, this was what church was about - making a tangible difference in the community where the state decided not to get involved. Caesar would get his coin and a social program on top of that.