[!] All images and text are to be taken ICly. [!]
An excerpt from an author under Karakura News.
Bear Maulings
Images and writing by Nylu
Bears were not always native to the island of Karakura, a near self-governed city southeast of the country Japan. There is a lack of congruence in that statement alone; if bears are not native to this island, how could they've been introduced to the land? In Karakura's prolific history, there is one singular event to be distinguished that will explain.
August 22nd, 1963: a date etched into the heart of Karakuran history and an indelible scar festering beneath a collective memory, haunting calendars and bloodlines alike, refusing the reprieve of forgetfulness. On that day, the worst massacre Karakura had ever witnessed unfolded: an accidental, grim tableau of carnage that threatened to silence an entire era.
This begins in the hazy throes of mid-July, when the streets of Karakura teemed with youth and when Karakura’s air whispered of clandestine summer secrets. Streets were overflowing with children’s effervescent laughter, the pores of their fingers sticky with mix-match popsicles, and their laughter spilling into the heat of the day. Teens huddled in the alleys of the new arcade center, hands and feet sunk deep in the forsaken thrill of mischief, oblivious to the ignorant and those who shun their youth. There had been a flow in the city's consistency. A lack of deviation.
The meteoric ascent of the Itsbyoshi era had left an imprint on the influential families of the region. Among them, the Mizukawa family—long synonymous with the grueling art of fishing and burdened by decades of strewn hardships—found themselves compelled by being left in the dust. While many families had already pivoted to ventures of higher profitability—most notably, the venerable Tsukasa family, who had forsaken their agrarian origins in favor of industrial innovation—the Mizukawas faced a fresh, nascent affliction: their traditional reliance on fishing was no longer tenable amid the shifting tides of fortune. So, what can one do when the gears are shifting? Embrace the flux and become a cog, which was the only viable option at the time.
Koda Mizukawa, now a notorious persona, decided that summer was ripe for a bold gambit—an invitation to the bays of Karakura that would lure tourists from both the mainland and far-off lands. His plan was deceptively simple: invest a portion of the family’s earnings into a tourist magnet so magnificent that one had to behold it with their own eyes to believe it’s grandiose truly. Given the Mizukawa family’s deep-rooted ties to fishing, the idea coalesced naturally around one concept: The Karakura Aquarium. Spanning 150 yards by 150—five whole acres dedicated to an unmissable spectacle—it promised to be the crown jewel of local attractions.
In theory, success was all but assured, considering the capital he had risked—even taking out loans to secure the coveted plot of land. The only hurdle were the moral contortions. Koda had struck a deal with a man—went by Reed Mitchel, some kind of scanty American purveyor—who offered to ship some aquatic treasures at a bargain. The catch? These fish hailed from the world’s most famed marine havens—the Great Barrier Reef, Saya Del Malha, the Red Sea Coral Reef, and beyond. They would be ferried in vast storage containers aboard colossal vessels that also hauled cargo ranging from food, cutting-edge technology, and even animals—a cheap business indeed, replete with its own pitfalls. Still, for Mizukawa’s ambitions, a single shipment would suffice. After all, it couldn’t possibly get any worse. Could it?
We fast forward a few weeks; construction had reached a state of readiness, and Reed Mitchel had already set sail with his promised cargo of exotic fish. Mizukawa received word posthaste—rumors swirled that he was already reaping the dividends of his wager. The collection was swift, and with shipments having already been embarked a week prior, Mizkawa had already dispatched the funds he’d pledged.
His excitement was uncontainable; earnest nights found him feverishly jotting down ideas, pen racing across his journal with the urgency of some cruel boyish, masculine pride. On certain evenings, he stationed himself at the port, hands cradling that same well-worn journal and a talisman: a diminutive oarfish fry. This continued up till August 22nd.
He had to be there to witness the spectacle firsthand, to etch the scene into memory. He needed to be there to furnish his wife and children with irrefutable proof that their lives were on the cusp of a radical turnaround. And indeed, that promise wasn’t entirely far from the truth.
It began quietly—the shipment hauled in as the gangway descended onto the port. Kurakurans had long caught wind of his scheme; after all, he was notorious for his nosiness and could never seem to keep his tongue in his mouth. A crowd had been waiting, and the cheers for the promise that this singular shipment might herald erupted. At the vanguard stood Koda Mizukawa. But soon, that initial calm transmuted into an eerie disquiet. The men who had ascended to assist with the unloading had not returned, their absence replaced by piercing shrieks that split the silence. Karakurans, the fools that some of the lot were, murmured that the sound resembled a second burst of cheers from above; others speculated it was nothing more than the creaking protest of the ship’s decrepit hinges. Then, with startling clarity, a definite roar erupted from the ramp—a raw, gruff timbre that stilled the crowd in an instant. What could possibly produce such an unbridled, audacious sound? What, indeed, was descending that ramp? Questions came in rapid waves, and Mizukawa—still standing at the very forefront—found himself overwhelmed, unable to parse every question at once. It was not until these questions turned into concern, and Mizukawa, split between the brink of question and answer, had not heard the furry reckoning that crept up behind him.
At first, the sun beamed down uncharacteristically as Mizukawa turned to be confronted by a vantablack silhouette. It wasn’t until his eyes began to discern the grotesque outline—two rows of crooked yellow fangs, gleaming, set amongst the swirls of umber fur—that his instincts kicked into high gear. Without reason, oarfish still clenched in his hand, his body ran before his head brain could, surging impulsively ahead of his reason, and he hurled the talisman forward towards the danger before his legs could marshal even a modicum of adrenaline.
What unfolded next was a maelstrom of pure, unadulterated chaos. No one could make sense of who ran where, who was grabbed, who was thrown—everything had blurred into a singular frenzy of motion. On the eve of the massacre, twelve lost their lives, and twenty-five more were injured. Koda Mizukawa did not fit into either of these categories.
In truth, Koda Mizukawa hadn’t seen any of the unrelenting bedlam. He turned on his feet and left, but over the ensuing days (which gradually morphed into weeks, then into months), he and his family became the scapegoat for the debacle, while Reed Mitchel vanished into oblivion—so much so that his very name was expunged from any record. Officials later assert that nearly one hundred and fifty bears had initially unleashed, but that number would soon grow exponentially over a grueling three-year span. Koda Mizukawa was besieged by the press, government, et al. for lawsuits and compensation, and the burden soon fell onto the Mizukawa family itself, as none of Koda’s kin or relatives could step beyond the sanctuary of their estate without courting further calamity. There were protests—maybe too many to count— with an alarming number regarding news coverage—it was free and facile fare for the media—ensued. Headlines cascaded like autumn leaves in a gale, swept away by the next big thing, and it wasn’t long before the weight of scrutiny became unbearable. The relentless exchanges, jeering crowds, the omnipresent whispers of blame, the debt that warned of bankruptcy. Karakura had made its stance clear: the Mizukawa name was a stain upon its soil. And so, without fanfare or farewell, the family vanished. Their estate, once the proud example of their lineage and their ambition, was empty to the brim, its gates rusting beneath the salt-laden breeze. No one saw them leave. No one saw them again.
In the aftermath, the Ochiba forests—both inter and outer—were where the bears settled, alongside the deep expanse of the Itsbyoshi woods. When the blood dried and the last of the wails faded into the wind, the toll was set in stone: two hundred and forty-two lives lost, three hundred more left scarred—some in body, all in memory.
