The jeep takes a turn, the headlights play across a road sign and, just like that, I am in Chiba again.

I can't say I missed the place. It has been more than five years since I last thought of returning. They say home is a place you can always go back to. The place is still here but the only thing this Hikigaya Hachiman has in common with the kid who left all those years ago is the name. There can be no going back.

I turn slowly in my seat, shrugging off the heavy combat smock. Makino's eyes remain glued to the road, his posture still erect after three hours of driving. Somehow he manages to convey the impression of a nod without moving his head a fraction.

"Sir."

"Makino."

Strange how conventions and customs that have lost all meaning still manage to anchor us to reality. When everything else is gone we fall back to our postures and our regular shaves and our pretence of formalities. Like true formality is ever possible with somebody who once carried your mangled body through fountaining earth, fire and ear-shattering noise. But it is what remains when truly reaching out to someone becomes impossible.

Driving down empty, dark streets, not a light in sight, the blackout and curfew in effect. Burnt skeletons of buildings from last year's riots still mar the skyline. We pass three roadblocks, but every time soldiers wave our little convoy through without checking. I don't like it. Carelessness gets you killed, even in Chiba. Even when you are home.

We stop in front of the Chiba city office, a monstrosity of a building I would have been happy never to see again. I step out to watch our three trucks stop behind us as soldiers jump out smartly. Not many left now, but I keep dragging those tired veterans with me. They are the only family I have left these days. My actions keep getting my family killed, but what else is new?

My footsteps echo across the pavement, under a limp Rising Sun Flag, to a small gaggle of officers waiting in front. A brief exchange of salutes and the previous military governor of Chiba departs, wishing me success. It would take an effort to do worse.

"We need you there, Hachiman," the general says, his video stuttering badly, as so often happens these days, even on military channels.

"I go where I am needed, Kanji".

"I am sorry it had to be Chiba. But there is nobody else I trust." Kanji is a graduate of the same hard school of trusting nobody you haven't bled with.

"I go where I am needed, sir".

"There is trouble in Chiba. Resistance is still active and that fool of a governor can't suppress them completely."

Resistance? Somebody still takes those clowns seriously?

"But they are not the main problem," his eyes focus on me and some of the tiredness goes away. "There is this woman, a human rights activist, and she causes us no end of trouble. She has the ear of the European ambassador and she keeps filling it with stories about mass arrests and executions. All true, of course," and he smiles joylessly, "but it is something we can ill afford. One would think that the Europeans have their own problems to worry about but they keep complaining and protesting. There is even talk of sanctions."

"Won't happen. They need us."

"We need them more. We can't afford the risk. There will be starvation this winter, again, even as it is." He trails off, a vacant look on his face. So much has been sacrificed and we still can't feed our people.

"So, why haven't you disappeared her already?" He really doesn't need me to tell him that.

He looks away and I know something is wrong. Kanji doesn't look away no matter how bad the news is. "Well, her name is Yukino Hayama and somebody… her name was removed from last year's execution lists. Nobody dared put it back."

For heaven's sake, Kanji! Is my trainwreck of a personal life a stuff of gossip in military cafeterias?

"I am not questioning your judgement, Hachiman," he says, his eyes hard and kind and not tired at all. "Do what you see fit. But deal with her."

I sit behind the governor's enormous desk, going through files on my tablet, a half-eaten can of mystery meat contributing its rich aroma to the atmosphere. I hate the opulent office but I don't have the energy to look for another tonight. I know better than to offer Makino to sit.

"So, we have thirty-six Resistance sympathisers in custody?"

"Yes."

"Prepare orders for their execution and bring them to me for signing. Tomorrow morning, somewhere public. Maximum visibility."

I go back to one of the files again. Distribution of subversive leaflets. Resisting arrest, a soldier wounded. A search of the apartment discovered five kilos of homemade explosive. Name - Yui Yuigahama. I am not surprised in the slightest.

And Yui's homemade explosive. I feel a smile tugging at the corners of my mouth. It must have been burnt to a crisp.

I still play with my dinner when Makino closes the door behind a girl, no, a woman, in a dress that once must have been brightly coloured. The scraggly, unkempt hair covers half of her face, but I can still see a broken nose and a big, black bruise spreading across her cheeks. It obviously wasn't a gentle arrest. But it is her, all right.

"Yui."

Her head snaps up, she seems frozen for a moment, then a series of emotions flow across her face far too quickly to follow, like one of those time-lapse videos… day, night, day, night again.

"Hikigaya." Now that hurt.

"Please sit, Yuigahama-san." Her face contorts briefly, whether in disgust or in pain I can't tell. But she drops into the big armchair bonelessly, like it was taking all her strength and will to remain standing.

"It has been a long time." My small talk skills are beyond rusty. But I've learned to kill people in the meantime so all those years haven't been a total waste.

"Not long enough," Yui says, staring above my head.

This is going nowhere. Our goodbye was laced with fragile smiles, unshed tears and unspoken recrimination. I was trying not to hurt her with my happiness and she was trying not to notice. We both failed. She never called since. Apparently, my career of a uniformed murderer did nothing to improve her disposition.

"Have you been in touch with Yukinoshita?" Why am I doing this to us both?

Her empty gaze suddenly bores into me and I recoil from the sudden fire in it.

"The bitch! The two-timing whore!" she spits. I'll take that as a no.

"The rich, pampered brat, who always got everything she wanted!" Now, now, Yui, that is not entirely fair. Yukino tragically lost her husband, a man missed dearly by all those who knew him.

"An armchair revolutionary in her suburban villa, while my friends get shot by a truckload!" And far more trouble to us than you ever were.

"Never appreciated anything she had 'cause it was served to her on a silver platter…" Yui's anger is nearly spent. She is a shadow of her old self. Years of bad food followed by months in jail will do that to a woman.

"Go home, Yui."

"What?!"

"Just go home. Stop this nonsense. You are helping nobody and you are the only one that will end up hurt." I swallow. "That will end up dead."

"No! This is my country, too! I will rather die than let you jackbooted Nazis stomp all over us!" There is some fire in her still.

"Are you completely delusional? Have you taken a look around these last few years? You are not fighting for some oppressed masses yearning to be free!" Now my voice is getting shrill. "The world is a broken place! This country is hanging on by its fingernails! We are forcing even kids to work, redistributing every grain of rice and still there is not enough to go around."

"And you shoot everybody who opposes you." She whispers.

"And we shoot everybody who opposes us," I say. "Whatever is necessary to survive." The words are righteous but they taste bitter.

"You achieve nothing, Yui. There are no more media and journalists to report about your heroics. Nobody ever hears of your petty ambushes and attacks. If one of your bombs goes off and nobody hears it, does it really make a sound?" Why am I so desperate to convince this girl from the past long forgotten? I am way past forgiveness.

"Never." She might be a shadow of the old Yui, but all of the stubbornness is still there. It is time for stronger measures.

"All right." I stand up, my face a frozen mask. "I have on my desk execution orders for thirty-five of your friends. I intend to sign them and they will be shot in the morning."

A visible shiver runs through Yui. She looks at me like she really sees me for the first time. But there is no stopping now.

I unholster my gun and chamber a bullet.

"So if you really want to start killing jackbooted thugs who have taken over your country then you should start big. With the butcher of Yokohama, with the infamous Hikigaya whose men stormed the Diet." I slide the gun across the desk to her.

"And save your thirty-five friends in the process." I sit down and look at the opened can of meat. Suddenly I am hungry.

She slowly takes the gun and checks whether it is loaded. I notice with wry amusement that her distrust hurts me. After all, I never lied to her.

Yui stands up, slowly and deliberately. Her arm rises and I find myself looking into the barrel of my own gun. It is not a pleasant feeling. Her hand is not shaking. My life is about to end in this tasteless office. But I can't find it in me to care.

"I hate you, Colonel Hikigaya."

There is no give in her voice. None at all. I close my eyes.

A single shot, impossibly loud. I never thought my little Yui had it in her. Seconds of waiting for that exquisite pain pass before I raise my eyes to her again. A smoking gun still pointed at me, her nose still broken, her face covered in bruises, yet all transformed by that old Yui smile.

"I love you, Hachiman. Never thought I'd have another chance to tell you that."

By the time I start moving it is far too late, and I know it. My shout is just a matter of form, lost in the chaos of the door flying off its hinges and Makino moving in, firing off three quick shots with a smooth economy of movement you have to admire. Her eyes were already glazing over when I reached her. The face still warm to the touch, though.

"Good shooting, Makino."

I stand up and turn to leave, straightening my uniform. Whatever he sees in my face makes his eyes flicker away for a moment.

"Sir."