"Learning to Talk Again" by Myūto Minashigo

Konichiwa reader. Jonathan has told me to warn you, before you decide that you wish to read about my past, that this tale is not for the faint-hearted. My life has not been easy, far from it. This is not a comedy, nor a romance. All that I will write are the simple facts of how I got to The Academy, and I will not gloss over the grisly details.

Now, since you either believe that I'm lying or that you can handle this narrative, I will begin.

I was born in Japan to a wealthy family. My mother had inherited her father's company, a manufacturer of instruments of war, so we lived off of that income. However, my father had a somewhat obscene passion for gambling, and mother forced them to have separate bank-accounts as she refused to indulge in his habit. This sense of security would eventually be the downfall of our family.

Even before I was born the debts were building up, but afterwards they got worse. Father was determined to win back the money so mother wasn't the one that had to fend for the family. But his pride only forced him deeper and deeper into debt.

In the beginning it was just friends and colleagues he owed, but as he grew more desperate he started gambling with shady characters. It wasn't long before he owed money to the Yakuza. They started to threaten the business, committing what we call sokaiya. They bought shares in the company and threatened to divulge the fact that the owner's husband has an obscene gambling debt, dishonouring my mother and spoiling the reputation of the company. They got as much money from my family as they wanted.

One week my mother missed a payment, so a man came over to reinforce the Yakuza influence. He had messy, black hair and wore black trousers, shoes and shirt. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, showing off irezumi (tattoos) of dragons, zodiac animals and yin yang symbols. He had a knife strapped to his waist, which he used to cut off the little finger of my father's left hand. I saw all of this from inside the laundry basket my father had hidden me in. I was only two years old.

My mother never called them Yakuza, only bōryokudan. That's what the police called them, meaning "violence group". Even though they only got violent when we didn't pay, she had heard stories of other people injured or even killed by them. She had warned my father against gambling with them, telling stories of people she knew who had just disappeared after dealing with them, but he was so confident that he could win the money back.

The shatei and kyodai (little and big brothers) were usually the ones that came to collect the money, but we were occasionally visited by the shateigashira and wakagashira (second and first lieutenants), accompanied by a kaikei (accountant). The kaikei were always more smartly dressed, in suits, with no visible irezumi. The higher the rank of the brothers or lieutenants, the more irezumis they had. The lieutenants were both bald as well, with intertwining dragons tattooed to their heads. Only once were we visited by the oyabun.

The oyabun was the boss, and only got involved in very important or dire affairs. He paid us a visit after my mother had got tired of sharing her earnings with Yakuza and called the police. Sadly, she was not aware that the majority of the police were corrupt and ultimately reported to him. He was tipped off and came over one day, completely unannounced.

My parents usually had time to hide me since they knew when we would be visited, but this time they were caught off guard and I was left to see everything that unfolded. I was three years old when it happened, a year on from the incident where my father lost his finger.

He entered with his two lieutenants, one on either side. He was much older than they were, as can be expected as it must take decades to rise to the rank of boss in such an enormous, multinational criminal syndicate. However, he was still quite tall, and looked like an alpha lion accompanied by two cubs eager to prove their worth to the ageing patriarch.

The oyabun had no visible tattoos, most likely removing any that were visible in order to keep a low profile. The only inclination that he had any was that his hair seemed to move around on top of his head, like a wig that was hiding something.

The lieutenants had knives strapped to their waists, like they normally did. They were longer than the ones the brothers carried, but were nothing compared to the sword carried by the oyabun. The sheath was so much more decorative than that of the lieutenants', theirs being black and plain with his being red with intricate carvings of dragons down the side. Even the hilt was more decorative, wrapped in red and gold instead of black, with a piece of red string protruding from the end that was tied into seven knots.

My mother led the oyabun into another room so I was left with my father and the lieutenants. I could hear a muffled conversation, but even if I could make anything out it most probably would have made very little sense to me anyway. I just sat in the corner while my father stood outside the other room and the lieutenants stood by the front door.

My mother returned behind the oyabun after the conversation and whispered something to my father. The lieutenants had walked over to them now to guard the oyabun once again. What I didn't know at the time was that the oyabun wanted to take me and bring me up to be a prostitute and a drug mule. That fact prompted my father to do what he did next.

There was a flash of steel as my father grabbed one of the lieutenants' knives and slashed it across his face before stabbing him in the stomach. He yelled in agony before falling to the floor, motionless, and two kyodai rushed in (or at least I imagine only the big brothers would be summoned on such a high profile job) and tackled my mother to the ground.

The other lieutenant, who was either the wakagashira before or would be now blocked a slash from my father before twisting his arm back around and pinning him up against the wall, forcing him to drop the knife. While this had happened the kyodai had lifted her onto the table and pinned her down, the same table that bore a scratch mark from where my father lost his finger.

The oyabun began to undress, revealing an intricate tattoo all over his upper body of a man facing off against a dragon. As he removed his trousers I could see that the tattoo continued down his legs and also onto other areas that I wish not to mention.

He then ripped my mother's trousers from her with great force, proving why he was still the oyabun in his old age. She was kicking and screaming but then one of the kyodai held his knife to her neck, so she laid still whilst the oyabun climbed on top of her and defiled her in such a manner that I feel sick talking about it even to this day.

My father tried to struggle as he saw the tears roll down his wife's face but the wakagashira had him pinned to the wall with a knife held at his stomach. He was being forced to watch as a consequence of him fighting back. If only he had stopped gambling none of this would have happened, but it is much too late for that kind of thinking.

Once the oyabun had removed himself from my mother he gestures to the kyodai and began to redress. With no remorse the kyodai with a knife at her throat dispatched her with a quick slice. As soon as he saw that my father could take no more, so he grabbed the wakagashira's knife and thrust it forwards in a final act of pride. He would rather have died by his own hand than by that of the monster that had done such terrible things to his family.

So there I was, sat in the corner, bawling my eyes out. The oyabun, now dressed, walked over to me and gestured to the wakagashira to give him a knife. I imagine the reason for what he did next was that he thought I might fight back like my parents did when threatened by the Yakuza, so I would simply cause trouble for them if I was used as an asset.

For some reason they were feeling charitable. They could have killed me and been done with it but they decided to do something else. It isn't uncommon for the Yakuza to do this, they're some of the first responders with natural disasters like tsunamis and earthquakes in Japan, delivering aid any way they can.

The wakagashira grasped my chin and opened my mouth. Then the oyabun held my tongue and, in a quick slice, cut it off. Looking back, I understand that he did it so I couldn't identify any of them later, but I was only a child and chances are that I would have forgotten the incident. Regardless, I blacked out from the pain.

When I woke up I was in an orphanage. I must have been taken there by the Yakuza, and I presume they were the ones who cauterised the stump where my tongue used to be whilst I was unconscious. But that wasn't the only mark I was left with.

They had scarred me internally. My parents had been killed, my mother raped, my childhood home burnt to the ground once they had left and any form of inheritance from my mother's company diverted into the Yakuza's funds. I was poor, orphaned and mute.

But what nobody knew was that I had an affinity for machines. By the time I joined The Academy, after twelve years in the orphanage, I would have recovered my voice and enough funds to pay for certain equipment I needed.

By the time I was four years old I had dismantled the keyboard from the carers' computer and the speakers, not out of animosity for them but mere necessity. The carers were amazing, especially with so many children there, but there was no way of me to communicate with them. Therefore I had to use what I could find and, at only age four I managed to create a machine that enabled me to speak.

It was very primitive at first, but I constantly upgraded it. The only problem I had was funds, but I soon learned that I couldn't just create machines like the cumbersome second voice-box I had hanging from string around my neck, but I could control them to a certain degree.

I first started to notice this when the older children got annoyed with me every time I walked past the television. Each time it was a different outcome; the channel could change, the volume alter, or it may turn off altogether. When I grew a little older I learned that I could use this affinity for technology to my advantage. I could walk up to a cash machine and withdraw money, only small amounts so as not to raise suspicion, but it built up enough for me to improve my voice box.

The mark II was a lot more compact. I had it strapped tightly to my neck and the device I had programmed monitored the vibrations of my voice box to produce sound. It made the odd mistake but it was while I was changing the batteries once that I noticed it continued to function without any power, as long as it was in contact with my skin. A power supply wasn't necessary, as I was the power supply.

This inspired me to spend months designing the mark III, the one I still wear today. The idea was that it simply wouldn't be visible, as it would be inside my throat. I gathered up some equipment - a credit card scanner, headphones, and plenty of delicate tools small enough to work on a machine intended to fit in my throat without leading to death. It would be risky, but I felt very confident that I could manage it.

After weeks of work I had managed to build it. It was designed to scan the movements of my vocal cords and these would correspond to programmed movements that then released speech. The only problem now was to actually get it into my throat, but I had a plan.

Of the many friends I made at the orphanage, one of them went on to work in the black market, collecting organs. He was older than me but nobody knew by what amount, since he was taken there after the tsunami with no birth certificate. Chau Muratong was the name that was given to him here.

I had kept in contact with Chau, and it was a good thing that I did. He had always shown an aptitude for surgery, I still remember the time he dissected the orphanage's pet rabbit after it passed away. But for once, somebody needed Chau to put something into a body instead of remove something.

I called him up to give him the job brief in great detail and also partially to try and barter for what the English call "mates rates". He was actually happy to do it for it for free and gave me the address where we could meet up, but I still felt like I should pay him for the inconvenience, so I "withdrew" some money from an ATM on the way over.

Upon reaching the location, down a particularly shady looking alleyway, I found Chau. The alley was completely empty, but I think it would have been easy to find him even if it was bustling with people. He was never one for inconspicuousness, wearing a blood-stained apron and a wooden leg that bore a tally for every successful removal.

Doing such illegal activities your senses grow more profound, so he heard my footsteps and turned before holding out his arms to embrace me. I shot him a look that let him know that my sense of hygiene forbid me, so we simply shook hands instead. I know that's not much better, but it would have been rude not to do so, and at least I could wipe my hand on my trousers when he wasn't looking.

He told me to follow him, and so I did. He led me into a derelict looking building, it's only contents being a metal table and a selection of medical tools on a stand next to it. I was instructed to lie down on the table, and that was the moment that I realised this wasn't going to be a particularly fun experience.

I didn't need to tie my hair out of the way, I had it in a short bob so it wasn't an inconvenience. When Chau came over with a syringe full of some sort of anaesthetic I handed him the mark III and used that as an opportunity to slip the money into his pocket so he wouldn't know until later. Just before I lost consciousness I felt him remove the faulty mark II model from my neck.

When I awoke I felt a bit groggy and my neck hurt, as you can imagine. I was instructed not to speak for the next couple of days while I got used to it, and I was given the mark II back just in case the new model didn't work as planned. Then Chau sent me on my back to the orphanage.

Three days later, when I finally worked up the courage to try out the device I had in my throat, I found that it worked perfectly. It still sounded robotic, just like the previous models, but it was much less cumbersome and I was told that the scar would barely be visible. It had taken me seven years but it was time for me to get my voice back.

I was at the orphanage for another five years before I was "adopted", and in those five years I accumulated dozens of blueprints of machines I could build. There were plenty of weapons, I guess that was just in my blood, but other things too. Incredibly compact cameras, ear-pieces that could translate speech into an understandable language, robotic limbs with a myriad of hidden functions, aircraft that hovered with the help of superconductors, even mechanised suits that could push our capabilities far beyond that which our bodies of flesh and bone can manage.

But the parts for some of these we're far too difficult to track down, and it wasn't feasible to build some of these things in the orphanage. So until some other means became available to me I satisfied myself with simple prototypes made of equipment that "mysteriously stopped working" at the orphanage.

But on my fifteenth birthday I found those other means, and they came in the form of a large, muscular man that came to the orphanage. He had short brown hair and spoke English in an American accent with a bit of a German twinge. Normally I didn't notice visitors that much, but this one asked for me by name.

The carer he was speaking to pointed me out to him and I felt slightly worried. After a significant amount of pestering I had convinced one of the carers to tell me why I was here, so I thought this man may have had some sort of connection to the Yakuza. I couldn't see any tattoos on him, but only his hands, face and neck were visible, everything else covered by his suit.

He came over to me and my heart started pounding. I could feel the device in my throat and it became slightly painful as my throat tightened. But then all of my suspicions were dismissed when he started talking to me. He spoke of a school for young, gifted individuals like me on a far-off island. There was someone who was half tree and another that could create huge underground explosions. Even the headmaster had an ability - the manipulation of snow and ice.

It sounded enticing from the start, and new beginning, a chance to hone my technological prowess and control. But the icing on the cake was the finance. I would be given my own workshop and testing facility for my inventions. Complete creative freedom would be mine as long as some of my creations benefited what the man referred to as "The Academy".

Needless to say I jumped at the opportunity. Before I knew it I was being driven with this man, who is the PE teacher and "talent scout" at The Academy - Herr Volss Hellstrom, to the nearest port. Once there I was met with a magnificent wooden ship. However, with my technological brain I couldn't help but notice how antiquated it looked and I spent the entire journey coming up with improvements. I even think I overheard the captain sniggering when I pulled out a pencil and paper to start sketching some of my ideas for later use.

Once I was at The Academy I found that I was finally at home. It took me a while to get any equipment I needed, but the facilities were the best I could have possibly asked for. Before long everyone was wearing my translation ear-pieces and the compact cameras were fitted into everyone's suits as soon as Jonathan turned up, in order to chronicle our missions.

I was finally happy, after all of my tribulations. But don't thank me for the story. If it wasn't for Will, who can see the memories of anyone he touches (Jonathan refers to it as "tactothymesis") I would never have found out exactly what led to me being here. So thank you for reading, and well done for making it to the end.