What a friend

This is his story.

Please forgive me if my memories are somewhat idealized or if I’ve embellished a few details.

When we first met, he introduced himself as “Mitra.”

He had never been given a name.

It wasn’t because he had been so terribly mistreated that no one had bothered to name him, nor was it because he had lost his memory.

At the time, he lived in a small facility by a lake.

Back then, similar facilities were still scattered far and wide.

The people living there identified one another by codes resembling batch numbers.

Even now, an identification chip should still be embedded in the left side of the back of his neck.

It was a cruel system.

Members of the upper class had chips implanted in their fingertips. Ordinary citizens had theirs on the right side of the back of their necks, while lower-class citizens had them on the left.

Those at the very bottom had chips implanted in their heads.

Ah, yes. I was talking about names.

Only those with chips in their fingertips or on the right side of their necks were permitted to have names.

However, our party had a rule: we addressed one another by name.

So, out of necessity, he chose a name for himself.

Mitra.

He had three cats: a brown tabby, a silver tabby, and an orange tabby.

Three tabbies. In Japanese, mi can mean three, and tora means tiger, a word associated with tabby cats.

And so, Mitra.

It was the best name he could come up with, given his lack of education.

When he explained where the name came from, everyone in the party laughed.

Everyone except me.

Back then, all I cared about was carrying out my assigned missions, one after another. But something undeniably changed in me after I met him.

Ah, I suppose there was a reason everyone called me so stiff and serious.

I’m terrible at telling stories.

Perhaps I should start by tracing his memories back to a little before we first met...