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Primal Memory.
An eternal bug is now just a part of the main system.
A voice escapes. Fingers press down. Realizing lips are useless, they pierce the throat. Trying to change the laughter—like it's blowing through a wall full of artificial gaps—into cries. But it smells of futility.
A retrospective screening brings on goosebumps like a standing ovation. No matter how much my own palm strokes and presses down on that head, it has no effect. Since my own hands weren't doing the trick, I borrowed someone else's instead. His fingertips are stiff, far from beautiful skin. Like sandpaper.
*Gasa gasa*—to quell the festive mood of my skin, I trail it all over in the manner of a backscratcher. The sight of one person employing three hands must be quite a turn-off from an outside perspective, surely.
I try placing my remaining hand on top of the back of the hand touching me... Hmm, this is, you know. It brings back the same feeling as when you touch your own hand that's gone numb after sleeping on it under your pillow, completely devoid of sensation. Even digging my nails in ruthlessly gets no reaction—a one-way interaction.
After dallying for a while with this standoffish right arm, my mood cleared, coinciding with the dawn of reality.
Its role fulfilled—and since my preferences don't lean towards nuzzling it after this—I played dress-up nicely, wrapping the cloth around it to cover its nakedness, and... "In about thirty minutes, you'll meet the other parts."
Is this a first meeting? Or are you friends reunited after decades, like childhood companions? The term "family" wouldn't be inappropriate either.
And are you the right arm of a corpse? Or the corpse of a right arm?
Will the time ever come when individuality sprouts within you?

You have something like a mouth, properly formed on the cut surface, yet you offer no answer.
*Ufufufufu.* In rock-paper-scissors, you can only throw paper, can't you? You're such a stiff. ... Anyway, I need to properly rebury my name.
Honestly, the fact that it can't even stay quietly buried speaks volumes about its poor upbringing. "Besides, it's totally objectionable that *this* name doesn't have its own dedicated house!"
That's why I hated my old name. Okay, that's the end of that.

*Beep-beep.* The rice is ready. Guided by the electronic sound, I drift back to the kitchen.
After fluffing the rice in the cooker, I *chacchaka-chaa* whip up some eggs, shape them, and prepare rolled omelets. Akane is the sort of girl who seems like she'd accept a kidnapping or two if dairy products and eggs were part of the deal, so this is enough for a side dish. She can get tea from the fridge herself, and then there's the note. I get the ballpoint pen and memo pad from the table and jot down a commonplace message.
"Good morning Akane, feel free to eat the rice. I'm stepping out for a bit," I paused, then added, "...Don't go outside," and folded my arms.

[...Joys and sorrows included.
I'd prefer if she obeyed this instruction for a while. For her own safety. Especially within the apartment complex—if she were to go out, it would almost be better to go as far away as possible.
But we're no longer living under the Ooe family's protection and chains.
Therefore, this note isn't correct.
It's not incorrect either, but it isn't correct.
Touka probably would have wanted her last wishes entrusted to Nishi.
Just like Kaneko-kun's dog inherited the name Jirou from Tarou.
You know, Touka. After Mother, you were my favorite in the family.
Because you were the most properly human.
Though you were incorrect within the environment that was the Ooe household.
.........] *Scratch, scratch.* I drew two horizontal lines and rewrote it.
"I'll be back by lunch, so don't raid the fridge."
"This will do."
This situation here shows signs of developing into its own serious problem.
Ah, this is troubling. Even if man lives on bread alone, you still need money.
The cash I scraped together before escaping the mansion has mostly departed on its journey. The only comfort is knowing those kids will never be truly homeless. Well, that's a lie. I can't afford to worry about those unfilial children who've lost their homing instinct.

In the entryway, I lightly adjust my yukata and run my fingers through my hair like a comb.
"Well, I'm heading out," I say as a farewell greeting to my sister, who's tossing and turning uncomfortably in the back room.
Now then, let's go out, carrying two right arms.
To the other end of the Murder Apartment.

The name this right arm's continuum was called when it was alive was Tsurusato Shingo.
So I hear.
Judging by the arrangement of moles and the time it took for his face to return after making an expression, he was a man in his forties. Since I moved into the apartment, the number of times we crossed paths is probably less than the number of people I've parted with in my life. That's a lie, though.
Incidentally, I remember the number of people I've met so far.
Nineteen. No more, no less.
No matter how vast the world built by humans on Earth may be, the 'people who were in my world' are all there were.
As long as the individual human doesn't inflate, the world can remain small. I'm incredibly busy protecting the world within a seventeen-meter, ninety-centimeter radius of myself. I know my limits.
Ah, endless digressions. Truly, my thoughts are just like centipedes, tangled in superfluity and tangents. It means nothing to the entire world's population, but I dislike bugs. Especially crickets.
Mr. Tsurusato was often seen by residents polishing the car parked within the apartment grounds. Weekdays, holidays, didn't matter. Always in a running shirt, his skin swarthy, his way of speaking, thick with the local dialect, sticks in my ears. For me, hailing from the next prefecture, it held the precious value of an uncivilized tongue, yet at the same time, I couldn't manage to extract any friendliness from it.

Believe it or not, I'm shy around strangers. Though, for the past few years, my situation has been like holding only spade cards in a game of trump, so perhaps such pure emotions have dried up.
Wouldn't it be lovely if that weren't a lie?
Well then, I've arrived in front of Mr. Tsurusato's residence.
The room at the right end of the single-story apartment building. The exact opposite position from ours. If Mr. Tsurusato and I are black stones, there are four white stones between us to be flipped. All six rooms are occupied.
Let's try knocking right away. Using, of course, the hand most familiar with this house.
*Thump, thump* with the back of the hand through the cloth. Hmm, since the nerves aren't connected, judging the force is difficult. I wonder if this is what it feels like to hammer a nail with a frozen banana.
"Imaike Toshiki-kuuun, Fukiage Yuka-saaan, Nonami Erina-saaan. Let's plaaay."

3
Skipping the wait for a reply, I stated my purpose for visiting.
It would be pointless to call out to the tenant, Mr. Tsurusato. After all, the main body is absent.
And if you lack the mouth to tell your life story, then I shall ignore your ears as well, *pshaw pshaw*. This motive is true, and simultaneously a lie. They coexist.
Contradiction is merely an inconvenience for humans.
............Well now, I wonder how the three inside will react. I'm also slightly worried whether the names I memorized perfectly last night were correct. It's neither bragging nor self-deprecation, but I'm actually hazy on my own father's name. Because I only ever called him Father (I try to gloss over my brain cells' infidelity by ending with the air of a well-bred young lady).
"...Um." Oh, a voice that sounds like it has a reputation for poor articulation comes from behind the door.
"Um, you're the person living, like, three doors down... Miss Whatsername, right?"
"Indeed I am. My name is Nekobushi Keiko," I say. Though it's my fifth alias.
This way of speaking, sounding like the 'a' vowels are hard to pronounce, must be Nonami Erina.
"Why are you at this room... huh? Oh, right... Ah, please wait a moment, we're having a strategy meeting... looks like I shouldn't have said that, so don't listen... to that part."
"Understood, understood, understood. Ah, also, one piece of information. I stand on the same ground as you all, and I've brought my proof of participation. Therefore, I cannot report you or anything, so please open the door quickly."
To save time, I lightly revealed my position, and the door promptly swung open—*thwack!* Hit my forehead and bit my tongue. That's odd... Why didn't my chest hit first and protect my face? Seriously.
Appearing from inside to greet me was the sole white flower among the three, Imaike Toshiki—if this were a shojo manga about fifteen boys and girls, his buddies would probably call him "Imaki." His hairstyle, like socks worn improperly, is soaking up the summer sun again today, prompting observers to worry, 'Won't that catch fire or something?' Just kidding, though.
Towards the suddenly arrived yukata-clad woman reeking of phoniness, he puts on an expression like someone who just drank an illegal drug and tries to gauge the depth of my words. Not that they're lies, particularly.
"What do you mean?"
"I mean this."
Before the suspicious Imaki-kun's eyes, without any fanfare, I removed the cloth, intending to poke him in the eye with the third party's right arm... but doing so would just make me a suspicious person, so I spoke first.
"Mr. Tsurusato's right arm. I am its possessor."
Placing the cloth under the arm, I grasp the wrist. Then I show it off to Imaki-kun. Though he probably possesses something similar himself. My guess is he has the right leg.

Imaki-kun's expression weaves a complex pattern as he looks back and forth between me and the former Tsurusato-affiliated Right Hand (full R-roll). Then he cranes his neck slightly, looking left and right down the apartment corridor.
"Where's Shirota?"
The original... oh, excuse me, the *owner* of this hand was Mr. Tsurusato. The one who plundered it was Hisaya Shirota.
A comrade of Imaki-kun and the others, and a member of a family living in this apartment... or so he was.
"I have this. Doesn't that explain his situation?"
Surely he wouldn't just hand something like this over normally, right?
People who can't account for unforeseen circumstances are the first to fail.
How will they fare this time?
"How much do you know about us?"
"Just that one of you started something. My neighborly relations are reserved, so I lack information about you specifically, *ho ho ho*."
I tried smiling while staring intently. Imaki-kun averted his gaze sharply as if dodging a curse, his eyes doing the shuttle run of conflict.
"It's hot again today, isn't it? I'd love some shaved ice for the first time in a while; lemon syrup is my favorite."
Trying to rattle his brain and autonomic nervous system as well, I threw in some small talk that was clearly out of place. Like Momotarou crashing the scene in a wooden boat during the final reunion of the lovers in a romance play. Imaki-kun seemed to intensify his distrust of me further, omitting even half-hearted replies like "Huh" or "Yeah, guess so." And that assessment is correct.
My reputation among acquaintances for having a fishy exterior and interior—wait, that covers my entire composition, doesn't it? I think it would be wiser to emulate some medicine or other and keep it to about half, though it's my own business.
Eventually, with a grimace that vividly displayed the reluctant determination of someone stranded on a desert island who, driven by hunger, forces themselves to eat an unfamiliar mushroom they've discovered, Imaki-kun turned back to me. Lingering too long at the gate risks someone emerging from another room for their commute.
It seems the scale tipped—not towards trusting me, but towards the unknown of what action I might take if turned away. If worse comes to worst, they can just conspire with the two inside and dismember *me* three-on-one.

How terrifying. Must I, with such a minor role, entrust the protagonist spot for Part Three to my successor? Part One was so pointlessly long; talk about favoritism, favoritism... Let me turn all this resentment into a lie, *fufufu*.
"Come on in for now," I was invited, so with a slight bow and a "Pardon me," I stepped up into Mr. Tsurusato's room. Eek, my first time visiting a gentleman's home on business.
The fact that the master of the house is already deceased is also quite curious. Using Imaki-kun's back as a guidepost down the corridor, I follow at a fixed distance. Though, being an apartment, we quickly arrive at the room where the girls are waiting. The room layout is the same as mine, I noted with a rough observation.
The room Akane and I use as a bedroom seems to have been Mr. Tsurusato's private room; things that looked like work tools and car polishing equipment were lined up. And a table, and Fukiage Yuka, and incidentally, Nonami Erina.
And in the center of the three, like a convenience store version of a Manchu Han Imperial Feast, lay a vast array of food items, about half of which had been consumed. Personally, the frozen shrimp shumai looks delicious.
The gazes directed at me from the two sitting girls are hypersensitive and simple. Emotional waves, one vertical, one horizontal. Well, more than any of that, my attention is drawn to the cool air filling the room.
"*Uaaah, ooooh.*" The air conditioner was running full blast even though it was morning. The heat and humidity clinging to me solidified and peeled off my skin in flakes. Guided by the cool breeze, I strode straight through the space between the three sitting figures and approached the air conditioner. Just then, the window came into view, slightly moisturizing my vision.
Stretching both arms diagonally backward, I surrendered myself to the light from the window and the breeze from above. Back in the days of luxurious confinement in the Ooe household, I used to impose twenty-four-hour labor on the air conditioner during the summer.
Now, all my room has is a second-hand fan. And when my bangs flutter in that lukewarm draft, memories of life back home try to resurrect themselves from the decay. Ah, how infuriating.
"Um..." Representing the three, Nonami—I'll refer to her as Erina from now on—addressed me. As much as I wanted to bask in the 24-degree cool air forever, I reluctantly turned to face them.
"Hello!" I greeted them, bending the fingers of my other hand like a *maneki-neko* lucky cat.
Somehow, this hand is gradually acquiring the status of a magic hand or something. Shall we walk through your second life together? If you cannot walk alone, I shall become your legs. Yes, that's a lie.
"I'm Nekobushi Keiko from the same apartment building. A pleasure to make your acquaintance."
Pinching the sides of my yukata, I curtsied like a lady. Please interpret this name as a stage name or alias. Both Ooe Yuna and Sanae Rika are identities that would cause some problems if they became widely known.
"Yukata-san is, um, oh, uh, Nonami Erina, good morning," Erina-chan introduced herself stickily, sluggishly ignoring my name. I believe they were all around seventeen, so that makes me the eldest.
...Oh dear, what should I do? Looking calmly, I realize I'll be an adult next year. Reality is cruel.
Putting that aside, Erina-chan. Although her appearance, with its basic yamabuki-yellow color scheme, could blend in with urban high school girls, the moment she opens her mouth, fragments of an elementary schooler spill out like sand. That was the impression.
Hmm... If I had to describe this vacant atmosphere, yes, it's dimwitted.
"You know, you seem like you'd evolve if you attached a hermit crab or something to your tail."
"Eh? A hermit crab..." *Kupo.* She uncapped the marker she'd pulled out and crouched down. *Kyukyukyu,* the sound of it gliding. Opening up her upper body like a clam revealing itself, Erina-chan had drawn an imaginary picture of a hermit crab directly onto the floor.
"Like thiiis?"
The impromptu hermit crab was turban-shell shaped, as precise as a monochrome photo from an encyclopedia.
"Very skillful," I chuckled, smiling bewitchingly. Though that's subjective; someone somewhere might have described it as 'a smile like a stretched-out broken rubber band.' How accurately rude, *pshaw pshaw*.
While I was appreciating the drawing haphazardly, Erina-chan patted the seat of her skirt, meticulously checked for something, and then reported, "Um, I don't seem to have grown a tail yet."
"I see. That's wonderfully human, so please refrain from reverting to your ancestors."
"Okay... *Ueoh?*" Not just her eyes, but her neck too began to rotate slowly. At a speed a fly could land on, slower than the blades of my fan turn, making me suspect her insides might operate at a similar pace.
"So, who are you? We'd like you to talk about that."
Perhaps finding the exchange with the continuously rotating girl exasperating, Imaki-kun intervened to take control of the situation. Well, readily accepting a walk-in participant would naturally meet resistance; the only standard example I can think of is a beachside swimsuit contest. Speaking of which, swimsuits and I have absolutely no connection.
No, I'm not referring to my figure. Yes, yes, really. Shut up.
I moved away from under the air conditioner and sat seiza-style at a fixed distance from the three. I succeeded in changing the triangle formed by human coordinates into a rhombus. That's about as far as my arithmetic studies went, which is why I still don't understand fraction calculations. Not that it matters now.
However, with the four of us surrounding this space, it feels just like a magic ritual. Though it's more wholesome since we're not using organs or anything. Is it because they're snacking in between? It smells of daily life, not... decay.
The air conditioning, the blue sky born from the passing dawn, and barley tea. Amidst this summer scene, I felt as though we were eerily dissolving into the room, blowing bubbles. Yes, an illusion, of course.
Somehow, I put on airs. I let my gaze drift to the other person, gauging her reaction.
"There aren't that many topics I can discuss, not enough to wonder where to start..."
Fukiage... Yuka-chan remains silent, earphones plugged into both ears. She doesn't break her *taiiku-zuwari* (sitting with knees drawn up). The only movement comes when she reaches for the plastic bottle beside her or brings food to her mouth.
Oh yes, I forgot to mention earlier, but resting at the feet of the three are the remaining parts of Mr. Tsurusato's body: the left arm, the right leg from the knee down, and likewise the left leg, each sitting there demurely. I was actually ignoring them because it's gruesome.
Still, these three seem to have no qualms about eating next to human body parts. Well, I suppose it's somewhat better than tearing into the "limbs" themselves, starting from the skin.
Is that... a lie?
Huh?
"Um." *Tug, tug.* Someone pulls on my yukata sleeve. Need I specify who? "Whaaat?"
"Why does attaching a hermit crab to your tail make you evolve?" Her neck is still rotating.
Too focused on her own path to care about the pace of the conversation. Just like a shoddy version of Natane. "I'd like to know that myself."
I rebuffed her naturally. That thing clearly hasn't grown at all, yet she insists it's evolution. Basically, it's like an ordinary boy becoming "Bicycle Boy" just by riding a bike. What localized evolution. In that case, can I claim to transform into a different Ooe Yuna just by wearing a differently patterned yukata? The day I'm called Iridescent Woman isn't far off. *Hmph.*
"Is that so... hmm." She started rotating her neck the other way. Playing radio calisthenics? Speaking of which, it's about that time. When the neighborhood elementary school kids gather in the housing complex parking lot for arm-swinging exercises, their unhealthy lack of enthusiasm outshone only by the cheerful voice from the radio.
I let Akane participate once, but she didn't seem too out of place. That girl is small in many ways. If she just minded her words and actions, blending in as an elementary schooler wouldn't be impossible. And I could pass as her mother... *ho ho ho*, what an excessive joke. You see, I don't dislike family, but I'm not fond of the parent-child dynamic.
"So, let's ignore this one for now." "Yes, let's set her aside." Imaki-kun and I agree to shelve the issue.
I straighten the hem of my yukata, sit up tall, and face him again. Imaki-kun seems taller when sitting, though that's expected given the height difference. It feels somewhat surreal that his face—the kind that looks like it would bully an old man over seed rice at the end of the century—is intently observing mine. No, I'm probably the only one holding back laughter.
"Tell me what you know."
"I'm fully versed in the game you're about to start. I came all the way here specifically to participate. As Hisaya Shirota-kun's proxy."
I finally began to speak on the main topic. And simultaneously hid a deception within my words. The cheese looks tasty.
"Then, where is this Shirota?"
"Who knows? I'm not involved in his whereabouts." Not a lie, phrased this way. Coarsely ground sausage.
I prepared Akane's breakfast, but I just now realized I haven't put anything in my own stomach.
Facing the rapidly diminishing food items (mostly consumed by Yuka-chan), how long must I impose this voluntary abstinence upon myself?
The remaining Erina-chan was still fidgeting. The way she tilts her head could land her a role in a movie as a little forest spirit.
"So, won't you allow my participation? It would be such a shame after I went to the trouble of receiving this hand last night and eagerly rushing over."
That's a lie, though. Ah, truly a lie. Even I would prefer the life of a plant.
My flattery makes Imaki-kun's expression soften, somewhat easing the tension.
"Well, having unexpected events happen sounds interesting. Besides, if Shirota's not here, that means I'm the only guy."
He's seeking friendship to the extent of exchanging jokes. Though he probably hasn't let his guard down.
Either way, they probably won't let this beginning end with a mere anomaly like me; they must have been fully prepared for this.
Well, now that I have permission, let me brandish my freedom a little.
"Are there any drinks left in the fridge?"
"Ah, I think there was something."
Who could possibly possess the landlord's severed head, which would surely be indignant at this exchange treating a stranger's house like their own? They gathered here to probe for that very thing.
Standing up, I head towards the kitchen. Opening the refrigerator, I find Mr. Tsurusato's torso crammed into the lower section. Presumably, the food that was originally in this space is now being tucked away into the three's stomachs, making the large-scale snacking a perfect crime.
Good grief... Though I'm not directing this at anyone specific, has someone mistaken the refrigerator for a corpse storage unit? The genuine storage place for corpses is the grave, you know.
But looking at a human body like this, just the torso... it resembles a mascot costume.
Well, humans are mostly just meat suits for microorganisms, after all.
I wonder what feelings and decay are currently vying within the right hand of the man I ended up facing in this form. The bright red cut surface looks like it might burst into tears, wail, and drip red tears, yet it remains unresponsive.
I pull out the only remaining bottle of yuzu juice and close the refrigerator. Will this quench my thirst? I feel it's on the level of drinking sweet red bean soup in the desert.
"This is a rental, so eventually, his absence will become public knowledge due to unpaid fees."
Returning to my spot, since no one else mentioned it, I bring up the existence of a time limit.