Interlude
OWING TO THE DATA acquired from our informal trials, we were granted approval to hold official clinical trials. Three years later, optional shifts were made a reality. Many parallel worlds chose to start their experiments at the same time, fostering the exchange of information, and as a result, the multiverse essentially turned into a giant quantum computer. This in turn led to even more breakthroughs—the ability to observe imaginary elements directly, and with it, the power to stabilize IPs (also known as an IP lock) and other technologies related to controlling movement between worlds.
Naturally, with the abundance of new shift technology, laws governing it were enacted swiftly. After all, criminals stood to gain a great deal from the ability to travel between worlds. If they committed a crime in their home world, they could optional shift somewhere far away, lock their IP, and stay there to easily evade punishment for their crime. The act of pinning a crime on a parallel self would come to be known as IP fraud.
In response, the Japanese government established several new laws as well as a Ministry of Imaginary Technology. All research facilities performing imaginary science experiments were required to register with the Ministry and submit a full log of IP capsule use. Furthermore, new departments were established within Japan’s National Police Agency and the Public Prosecutors Office specifically to handle multiverse criminal investigations and prevent IP fraud. Suspects would have their IPs temporarily locked until the end of their trial.
With the advent of the Ministry of Imaginary Science, our laboratory was reclassified as a National Research and Development Agency and was renamed as the Japan National Imaginary Science Research Institute. (A mouthful, to be sure!) After that, we started getting a lot more visits from total strangers, like police detectives and lawyers. The increased amount of paperwork and other boring tasks consumed a lot of time otherwise spent actually researching things—but our bolstered salaries made things a lot easier for our families, so it wasn’t all bad.
At that time, optional shifting and IP locking weren’t part of everyday life for most people. However, its implementation was spreading like wildfire, and it wouldn’t be long before private-sector corporations started offering it as a household service. Society was struggling to keep up with this rapidly evolving technology.
But as the rest of the world grappled with a massive paradigm shift, Kazune and I spent our newlywed days in peace. Sure, we had our little spats here and there, but for the most part we got along swimmingly. On the other hand, as a child of divorce, every time my mother commented on how “lucky” we were to have each other, I wasn’t really sure how to feel.
The world was hurtling at breakneck speed into a new era, yet neither of us experienced any major parallel shifts outside of those experiments we took part in. Life was good. And during the second year of our marriage, we had a son who we named Ryou. We chose the kanji of his name to symbolize crisp spring water—a foundation for life’s blessing, an origin point, and a good home.
My only real complaint was that Kazune spoiled Ryou too much and didn’t seem to have as much time for me anymore, but obviously I knew it was extremely pathetic for a grown man to get jealous of his own son. I did my best to hide it.
Fortunately, as Ryou grew older, Kazune’s obsession with him calmed down, and my mother agreed to babysit him so we could finally go on dates again. Now it was Ryou’s turn to get jealous of me for “stealing” his mommy. He made it a point to barge in on us as much as possible, and whenever he and I got into little tug-of-war battles over Kazune, she would shake her head at us with a smile.
It was those little mundane moments that truly meant the world to me.
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And then, the year before Ryou started first grade, Kazune and I were struck with the greatest calamity of our lives.