1. ONE

A tight frown tugs at Sevastian's lips, pulling his gaze away from the butterfly perched on his left shoulder as a flurry of wind whips past him—it's heavy and verdant, lush with vegetation and the sweet hint of rot of the green far behind him—and tucks the fluttering lock of blonde hair behind his ear.

With a flutter of his eyelashes, he releases the briefest exhale, opening his amaranth eyes to the light playing on the rippling surface of the gentle waves. Deep sapphire spills past the horizon, barred by the weathered cliff he stands upon. Amber sunlight pools like a glaze, bleeding into the pink hues of the sky, lightening the grey peppering his tousled hair, and reveals the rock pools and pebble beach just below his sight.

The butterfly takes off, light bouncing off it's wings—coloured like a puddle of petrol—and stations half a meter from his line of sight.

"Host?" It's voice is a soft whisper, gentle, and he hums as to confirm his attention, "You have ten ticks."

He hums again, softly, gaze slipping back to the sea, wrinkly fingers curling into fists on his side. His eyes gloss, rubbing the indent on his ring finger: thin and circular, like a pink ring.

***

His first mission is to die trying to ensure Makishima Shougo's ambitions succeed—a criminal, meaning he must first understand what this world classifies as a criminal, and why.

"You're in an authoritarian dystopia where omnipresent public sensors continuously scan the mental states of every passing citizen where the Sybil System, a fully computerized network maintained by the Japanese Government," the System informs from Sevastian's shoulder as he scrawls on his notepad, sat on his bed, hunched and face cast in a pale yellow glow, lips pursed straight, "endlessly measures the biometrics of Japan's citizens' brains and mentalities using a cymatic scan."

No privacy, Sevastian scribbles, waiting for the System to continue as he peeks at his reflection in the bedroom window. He stomachs the unfamiliarity: the medium-length curly black hair and sharp eyes, the dark blue glasses framed on his long nose, his shorter-but-enough-to-be-lanky height, younger twenty-year-old body with no stubble or chest hair whatsoever, his long fingers joined to his pale hands, the absence of the ring mark on his left ring finger, and the disconcerting feeling of having most of his sight dominated by his left eye, the little of his right a blur outside the frame of his glasses.

He pulls his gaze back to his notes with a sharp inhale, focusing on the System's soft, calming voice as they resume speaking, "The resulting assessment is called a Psycho-Pass, which includes a numeric Crime Coefficient index, revealing the citizen's criminality potential, and a colour-coded Hue, alerting law enforcement to other data, as well as the improvement (clearing) or decline (clouding) of said Psycho-Pass."

He wrinkles his nose in thought, flicking his pen around his right thumb, "What—" and swallows thickly at the sound of his voice, "—if it exceeds the accepted threshold?"

The System beats its wings once in approval. "Exceeding one-hundred, termed latent criminals, they are pursued, apprehended, and either arrested or decomposed by the field officers of the Crime Investigation Department of the Ministry of Welfare's Public Safety Bureau."

"...Operations structure?" He lifts an eyebrow, running the information through his head again while he skims past his notes, correcting and emphasizing certain text.

"Elite officers known as Inspectors research and evaluate crime scenes, including all personnel involved, with the assistance of Enforcers. Enforcers are latent criminals charged with protecting the Inspectors, adding their expertise and carrying out Inspectors' instructions."

"If they threaten the public or the Inspectors?"

"Shot."

Sevastian pauses his hand, and turns to look at the butterfly. "Shot?" He echoes, and takes a pause, "Life-threatening shot—dead or dying—or an immobilising shot?"

"Typically immobilising."

Sevastian's tongue peeks out of his pink lips when he nods, skimming over his notes written in English, "The core is one's mindset. Maki...shima's either a latent criminal, active or... invisible if he believes what he's doing isn't wrong..." He furrows his eyebrows, then he stops—because it feels strange, to not feel his wrinkles, his eyebrows... to express the same in a different body—"Meaning almost all of..."

"Japan," the System supplies.

"Undoubtedly trust the Sybil System," he finishes firmly, "but... what is it that allows the system to do that? How can a system... operate like that? Ruling Japan with an iron fist? All the collected data, stress levels... means it should be keeping the citizens happy..." Sevastian frowns tightly, "and is doing whatever to maximize it..." He looks back at the system, "Does it manage work too?"

"By using Psycho-Pass results and aptitude tests, the Sibyl System determines which jobs are best suited for each individual following their graduation, ensuring the population is kept happy and productive."

"Allowing further control, politicians... their puppets," Sevastian adds, narrowing his eyes. "Therefore anyone... who doesn't fit Sybil's requirements are undesired—" he cocks his head, "—easily exiled, and then there's... the rest of the world. It controls only Japan, wants to maintain what it's doing, foreigners would increase the workload, then there's criminals too... so Japan is isolated, self-supported... probably one or a few border entrances, exits, whatever," he nods to himself. "Now then, darling, the important question: have I yet to take my assignment test?"

"Yes," the System answers, flapping its wings again as more sunlight pours through the window, blinding Sevastian. "Host has five months."

"Five," he repeats softly, staring at the System with a raised eyebrow, and pushes his glasses up. "Thank you, system dear." He slowly pushes himself off his bed, flexing his toes with pursed lips before slipping into his blue slippers.

He looks down at his blue shorts, looking back up around his room to the blue furnishings and exhales softly. "At least the colour induces relaxation," he mumbles under his breath, splaying a hand across his bare abdomen, against the thin layer of fat.

He trudges outside his room, craning his neck down the hallway and peeking into other rooms, stopping to enter the shower room, swapping his slippers.

He runs his hand through his hair, eyeing the 2-in-1 shampoo and conditioner sat on the shelf, "Is a shower really worth it with this garbage?" Sevastian speaks to himself.

"Your mother would disown you," the System says, flapping just above Sevastian's shoulder.

"Indeed she would, dear," he murmurs, stepping to the sink when a scowl tugs his lips, "He just washes his face with water? No wonder his—my—skin is gross."

"Cry too," the System adds as Sevastian snags his toothbrush, jerking back when it buzzes with one touch, clattering on the tiled floor.

He hurriedly puts it back, switched off, and rubs his arms with a shaky sigh. "Sorry," he mumbles, "It was unsettling, 's vibration was too strong." He lifts his head to look at the System, parting his pursed lips, "Is this why there's five months?"

"Host is dissatisfied with your current flexibility, among other… expected things," it points out, resting on his shoulder, antennas jutting from its head.

Sevastian's back presses against the wall, slumping onto the cool tiled floor when he tucks his knees to his chest, bringing his hands to cover his face with a murmur.

"I thought I'd... be fine," he speaks into his hands, voice muffled, "I'm an utter fool for leaving early."

"Host has at least five additional months, taking into account there is no penalty for this mission," it comforts, "host is already doing excellent progress."

"A plan is just a plan," Sevastian shudders an exhale, wrapping his arms around himself and resting his chin on the dip between his knees, blinking past the blurred smudges on his lens. "Success is not absolute—I could be a casualty of something tomorrow, today perhaps. A robbery gone wrong? I can't protect myself with this flimsy, dried noodle body."

"Five months," the System repeats in a gentler tone. "This has been taken into account."

"Right, right," he sighs, lifting his head, "Five months is enough to start coping with this." The bathroom light warps through his smudged lenses, so he shuts his eyes, leaning his head back against the wall, and breathes in through his nose, exhaling through his mouth.

The System clicks, for one second to help time Sevastian's inhale and exhale, sweat clinging to his skin.

"Am I living a stolen life?" He murmurs, taking a deep breath, "An imposter?"

"If host can recall our meeting," it says, continuing when he nods, "I asked for host's consent."

"He consented to this?" Sevastian whispers, steadying his ragged breathing, "Why would he do that?"

"Classified information, as is host's," the System replies, "but you are not living a stolen life as you have his permission."

"Is he… gone?" he asks slowly, "Like me, but without the whole system thing?"

"Affirmative," the System beats its wings.

"Oh, okay," he nods subtly, opening his eyes and plucking his glasses off to put them next to him. "What's his… my name?"

"Sawada Hiroyuki, surname, first name, no familial ties, and you have five friends, two of which are close."

"Sawada… Hiroyuki," Sevastian tests on his tongue. "Hiroyuki Sawada, Sawada Hiroyuki… Hiroyuki…" he furrow his eyebrows, "What do they mean?"

"Sawada is a common topographical name, meaning 'rice paddy in the swamp', and Hiroyuki is a Japanese name, derived from the words 'hiro', which means—based on the kanji characters—'broad or wide', and 'yuki', which means 'happiness' or 'blessing'," says the System.

"Happiness, huh." Sevastian mulls, "You weren't kidding, were you, sweetheart?"

"No, I was not. Does host now wish to inherit his memories?"

He sighs, picking his glasses as he gets into his feet, placing them on the vanity. "Yes, yes, all's well," he replies in-between blinks, leaning over the sink to look at his hands. "Hit me, dar—"

His head thunks against the vanity mirror, dragging down with a muffled squeak, chest blowing steadily with his cheek squished against the cool marble and eyes closed.