The view of the ocean was stunning. Rural Japanese countryside was split only by a small wood cut village and a thin road. Otherwise, the Hokkaido pine forest flowed like thick grass until it meat a rocky and student stop at the sea.

The village looked like something time forgot. Wood signs written in a cursive that not even a modern Japanese person could read, sat above the ornate doorways of each nonresidential building. One such building – a bath house – had its back faced to the water. In the distance boats bob up and down while fishermen stand knee deep casting thin white nets onto the windy waves.

Paul Lehman had been deep in conversation around a book that no one on earth had heard of when their silver Lexas pulled up in front of the bath house. Leslie hadn’t listened for a few miles. She was too focused on the water and the trees and how it all pulled together. She was struck by how difficult it would be to describe this scenery and opted to take pictures wherever she could. Though, eventually (due to the secrecy of her current mission) she opted to stop taking pictures and try and commit the image to memory instead. This was more difficult that it should have been because her senior editor had a thing for blabbing on and on in the mornings.

Leslie stepped out of the car wearing a white top that looked both professional and as inconspicuous as she could still be. To top off the ‘trying to be no one important’ look, she added an anime ball cap, though she couldn’t have told you three things about where it came from. It did make her look like a tourist which she passes as better than Paul.

Paul was dressed in a nice buttoned up shirt. He was completely balled on the top of his head but still had thick black hair on the sides. His press badge was tucked into a handsome leather computer case which he instinctively slung over his shoulder. Leslie told him to throw the badge out or leave it at home, but Paul frankly never listened to women – especially not ones that worked for him.

After all, journalists aren’t secret agents. Secrecy is not part of the job description.

If anyone should ask, Paul and Leslie are married and enjoying a wonderful honeymoon. They met online, married in only a few months. They know next to nothing about each other because they decided to save themselves for marriage. Neither were religious but Paul does a solid impression of a Baptist minister.

Inside the bath house Paul shuffled across the wood floor while Leslie admired the paintings that hung on the walls. They looked like original work – not something store purchased. Maybe a grand kid or great grand kid.

The woman sitting at the desk appeared to be around 300 years old. Her back was curved so that she seemed to look straight down. She was shorter than a normal person should be. Her arms were thin, and her hair was thinner. She didn’t look up when Paul approached the desk – maybe she couldn’t. She just kept looking at the floor like she’d found something special down there.

“Konnbanwa. Iego ga hanashimasu ka?” Paul politely asked the ancient woman. His Japanese was terrible, but he was able to ask a few basic questions. “Do you speak English?” was one of the more useful things he knew how to say.

“Amerikajin desu ka?” The woman asked. “Are you American?” Paul hoped it didn’t matter but then again, his two contacts had been Americans, and they’d been allowed in. the Japanese were xenophobic but evidently this one hated Americans more.

“No, we’re English.” Paul didn’t try and say it in an English accent. He doubted it would matter. The woman turned back in the direction of a back room and began to yell something Paul couldn’t understand.

Then she added “Hayaku, Bakaero!” and Paul did know what that meant.

A man with thick black hair emerged from behind the counter and bowed to the couple. “Pardon the confusion. I am Ikari.” He said in an accent that you would think is fake. “This facility has a policy against serving foreigners. I am sorry.” He bowed again and this time his hair bobbed a little.

Paul and Leslie knew this would come up. It was intentional – their contacts picking a place that would have been inaccessible to anyone that wasn’t invited. They’d given the front desk a code phrase – though they picked an odd one.

“We are here to see a man about a horse.” Paul said and he died just a little inside. Paul had to explain that one to Leslie who just thought it was a weird phrase. Paul wondered if Ikari knew what that meant but based on his reaction he suspected he didn’t.

“Third door on the left.” Ikari said with a bow.

When they reached the room Paul knocked softly and quickly took a step backward unsure what might come out. In his fifteen years as a senior editor, he had been a part of many tense moments in history but none quite like this one. This story was bigger than he could wrap his mind around. It was the kind of thing that brought a journalist out of the hell that was reporting and into a new light. This was a book – or even something bigger. This could get him out of a newsroom. This could make him famous. It was also important.

The door opened slowly at first. Leslie’s curiosity got the better of her, and she poked her head to one corner to peek inside. A young man poked his eye through the slat in the door back at her. Something shiny retracted just out of her vision but she could hear the sound it made which made her a bit sick feeling. It sounded like a utility knife – only longer, and she wondered what it could have been.

Peter Bradley opens the door all the way and motions for the reporters to come inside. Peter is twenty-seven, slender built. He has long wavey hair that parts in both directions giving him the look of a preppy kid from Vermont. His jaw is sharp but too much so, and his chin is longer than a normal person’s should be. The only hair on his face is peach fuzz, and he’s been working on it for years. He closed the door behind them without emoting.

“Sorry we’re late. It’s hard to get out here.” Paul said, extending a hand to shake. Peter obliged but with a business casual reluctance.

“I know. That’s why I picked it.” Peter said. His voice was cold.

“I thought there were two of you.” Leslie chimed in. She set her bag down behind the door and put her coat on a rack next to the bathroom.

It was a very nice room. The walls were mostly wood but well-kept and freshly stained. The room missed a bed but two futons were piled into individual piles on either side of the room. One pile was stacked neatly but clearly by someone who had never had to fold a futon before. The other stack made no attempt at cleanliness. Across the room the patio was only guarded by two sliding thin paper walls, but presently the patio was wide open.

“Roper is on the porch. Smoking.” Peter said.

“He knows that’s bad for you, right?” Paul asked. Trying to make the mood slightly lighter. He didn’t know Peter hated those sorts of ill thought interjections.

“He knows…” Peter replied.

Harold Roper wasn’t done with his cigarette when he came in from the patio. As he crossed the room the little white roll continued to smoke lazily at the end of his lips.

“Hey, they made it!” Harold said, his voice sounding like a Texas dad on thanksgiving. He didn’t have a strong accent, just a light twang of something that made him seem like he was different. He sounded like he came from an older world. His speech was slower, just a tad more drawn.

He brushed his hand on his leg, then shook hands with both Leslie and Paul who nodded and exchanged pleasantries. Harold had a completely different presence than his partner Peter. Where Peter had been meek and seem to not want to even be in the room with Paul and Leslie, Harold commanded the space. It felt warm talking to him.

Maybe, that was because Harold was also devilishly Handsome. He had light brown hair that was styled in a way to make it look messy but professional. He had dark brown eyes and a clean shaved face, thought today some stubble was growing in.

“Rope. Can’t smoke in here.” Peter interrupted.

“Fuck, I’m sorry.” Harold said, his eyes getting wide. He turned and put the cigarette out on a newspaper which sat on the coffee table in the center of the room. For a moment it burned a little hotter, then sputtered out.

“It’s ok. It’s not that big of a deal.” Leslie said, trying to not make Harold feel uncomfortable. Peter rolled his eyes out of view.

“No, Peter’s right. The owner’s a good friend. I shouldn’t smoke in here… Can I help you two get anything set up?” Harold asked. He clasped his hands together and raised his lips.

“Do you know how to set up a camera?” Leslie asked. Harolds eyes got big.

“Well, I can…” Harold started to say before Peter cut him off.

“He can’t.” Peter said, and for the first time he had a faint smile on his face. “But I can.”

While Peter and Leslie set up the camera equipment, Paul and Harold went back to the patio for a smoke. Consequently, when it came time to set up the mics, and the backdrop, and all the other important things, Paul and Harold were still smoking.