Please support the translation by reading the translation and commenting on otakutl official site.
Thank you.
Everyone from Otaku Translation
Chapter 3: The Limits of Modern Medicine
The strangest morning of Leo Wallace’s life began with the official website of his university’s mental health center.
With a trembling hand, he filled out an online assessment form detailing symptoms like "auditory hallucinations, anxiety, and despair," all while enduring a running commentary from the voice in his head—a voice that sounded disturbingly like Franklin Delano Roosevelt. The disembodied president offered real-time critiques on each carefully worded psychological question.
One prompt appeared on the screen: “In the past two weeks, have you felt hopeless about the future?”
“You should select ‘almost every day,’” the voice remarked dryly. “It’s a good question, though. Look at the incompetent fools sitting in Congress today, or those Wall Street speculators who’ve lost all sense of restraint. Any rational person would feel hopeless about the direction this country is heading. This isn’t just your problem—it’s an accurate diagnosis of the state of our nation.”
The next question read: “In the past two weeks, have you heard voices that others cannot hear?”
“No doubt about it—check ‘yes,’” the voice said smugly. “And I suggest you add a note in the remarks section: mention how charming and charismatic the source of these voices is, not to mention my exceptional leadership skills.”
Gritting his teeth, Leo ignored the sarcastic advice and hurriedly completed the questionnaire. He then booked the earliest available emergency counseling session.
---
The counseling room smelled faintly of cheap air freshener.
Dr. Miller greeted him—a woman in her fifties, with perfectly styled blonde hair and a practiced smile. Her office was meticulously designed for comfort and neutrality: soft beige walls adorned with abstract paintings whose meanings eluded interpretation, and a plastic potted plant tucked into one corner.
“Please sit down, Leo,” she said, her tone as gentle and unthreatening as the décor.
Leo sank into the chair, his hands nervously resting on his knees. He knew he had to say something—but not everything. He couldn’t possibly tell her the truth.
He couldn’t say: “Doctor, there’s a dead president living in my head, Franklin Delano Roosevelt, and he never stops talking.”
That confession would land him directly in the psychiatric ward.
Instead, he opted for a safer version of events. He vaguely described hearing an “inescapable voice” that sounded eerily human but lacked any discernible origin. He blamed it all on stress—student loans, academic pressure, unemployment—all valid concerns capable of overwhelming anyone.
Dr. Miller listened attentively, nodding occasionally as she scribbled cryptic shorthand notes in her notebook. Her expression radiated calm professionalism, the kind meant to reassure patients they were in competent hands.
When Leo finished speaking, Dr. Miller offered him a sympathetic smile.
“Thank you for sharing that with me, Leo,” she said. “Based on what you’ve told me and the results of your questionnaire, your case is quite typical. You’re experiencing acute anxiety accompanied by mild auditory distortions brought on by stress.”
“In simple terms,” she continued, “your brain is overloaded.”
“What you’ve been through recently has triggered a heightened state of stress. It’s very common, really—you’re not alone.”
Her words were scientific, authoritative, yet imbued with empathy.
She picked up her pen and began outlining a treatment plan. On a prescription pad, she wrote the name of a medication—alprazolam, a powerful anti-anxiety drug.
“I’ll prescribe something to help manage the physical symptoms of your anxiety,” she explained, handing him the slip of paper. “Additionally, I strongly recommend weekly cognitive-behavioral therapy sessions. Together, we’ll identify negative thought patterns and work to break them.”
Finally, she reached into a decorative box on her desk and handed Leo a small card bearing the words: Breathe deeply, stay present.
Throughout the entire consultation, the voice of FDR in Leo’s mind remained unusually silent.
But as soon as Leo stepped outside the clinic, prescription in hand and sunlight warming his face, the silence broke.
“Pills and platitudes,” the voice muttered, tinged with disappointment. “Is this what passes for leadership in the twenty-first century? Child, let me tell you—if during the Great Depression I’d handed out tranquilizers to every unemployed American citizen along with a little card telling them to breathe deeply, the flag flying over the Capitol Building might be a swastika instead of the Stars and Stripes.”
The weight of those words hit Leo like a ton of bricks.
He stopped walking and stared at the crumpled prescription in his hand. Alprazolam—a chemical designed to dull his senses, numb his pain, and temporarily erase his troubles.
With a surge of frustration, he balled up the paper and tossed it into a nearby trash bin without a second glance.
Science hadn’t helped him. Modern medicine, with all its authority, had reduced him to nothing more than a broken machine in need of repair. Instead of offering solace, it left him feeling more isolated than ever.
Standing on a bustling street in Pittsburgh, Leo felt a deep, bone-chilling uncertainty settle over him.
Just then, the voice returned. Gone was the playful sarcasm; now, it carried a grave seriousness.
“Are you ready to see proof?”
The voice paused, giving Leo time to process the question.
“Go to your university library, child. History doesn’t lie.”
Driven by a mix of desperation and morbid curiosity, Leo found himself walking toward the university library. His student ID still had a week of validity left before his student loan debt officially severed his access to the academic system. After that, he’d lose access to expensive databases and internal archives forever.
He decided to make one last, absurd attempt before being completely shut out.
Seated at a secluded corner table, Leo logged onto a computer.
“Good,” the voice encouraged. “Now, open the university database homepage. You should have access to the National Security Archive’s declassified files—a privilege reserved only for graduate students in the history department.”
Leo’s fingers moved swiftly across the keyboard, navigating to the plain but treasure-laden interface. Here lay millions of government documents gradually released to the public over decades.
“Ready, child?”
The voice sounded like an experienced navigator charting a course through uncharted waters.
“…Ready,” Leo whispered, barely moving his lips.
“Search keyword: Trident Conference.”
“Filter document type: memorandum attachments.”
“Date range: May 22–25, 1943.”
“Access level: TS-SCI. Focus on documents declassified within the last six months.”
Leo’s pulse quickened. These instructions were precise—too precise, even for someone well-versed in historical research.
Following the directions, he set the filters. A handful of results popped up, all blurry scans of handwritten memos.
“Open the third file in the list,” the voice instructed. “Go to page three, bottom right corner. Look closely. During a break in the meeting, I was in high spirits listening to Winston Churchill complain about Washington’s weather. I picked up his fountain pen and scribbled a Latin phrase—Acta non verba—meaning ‘actions speak louder than words.’ Next to it, I drew a crude little sailboat.”
Leo’s throat went dry. Trembling, he clicked on the third file, navigated to page three, and zoomed in on the blank space in the lower-right corner.
Through the grainy pixels of the scanned document, he saw it: elegant, flowing handwriting spelling out Acta non verba. Beside it, a laughably childish doodle of a sailboat sketched in a few hasty strokes.
These intimate details—buried under layers of history and unknown to any published work or scholarly article—were undeniable.
Leo’s rational mind scrambled for explanations. Could some historian have recently discovered this and published it just days ago?
“Well done,” the voice interrupted his desperate self-reassurance. “Your expression tells me you see it. Lesson one: the devil is in the details. Now, lesson two.”
The voice paused, as if gathering memories.
“Back to the search results. Find a document titled: Supplementary Notes on Logistical Requirements for Operation Fruit Basket.”
Leo exhaled sharply, returning to the search page. Among the mundane titles, he located the oddly named file.
“Operation Fruit Basket,” the voice chuckled warmly, “was a private joke between Winston and me. You see, he couldn’t live without his Scotch whisky, but my bureaucrats kept throwing logistical hurdles in the way. So, we devised this operation to smuggle some fine vintage bottles to him under the radar.”
Leo opened the file.
“Now, look at the supply requisition list in the attachment,” the voice guided. “You’ll find a line crossed out with ink. It lists two crates of medical alcohol. Next to it, there’s a handwritten annotation.”
Leo zoomed in on the list and spotted the crossed-out entry. Adjacent to it, written in bold, confident strokes, was a note:
“For medicinal purposes, of course.—F.D.R.”
That signature. Those three letters, instantly recognizable from countless bills, documents, and photographs. F.D.R.
At that moment, Leo’s blood froze.
His eyes locked onto the digital metadata tag of the document. Upload date: yesterday.
Forgery was impossible. No historian would bother with such trivial minutiae, let alone publish it mere hours before Leo viewed it.
The truth crashed down on him like a tidal wave, obliterating every shred of denial.
Leo leaned back in his chair, which groaned in protest. His mind went blank.
All the absurdity, fear, self-doubt, and struggle crystallized in an instant when he saw that signature.
Alone in the quiet archive room, Leo whispered hoarsely, awe mingling with terror in his voice:
“Oh my God… it really is you, Mr. President.”
The voice in his head fell silent for a moment. When it spoke again, the playful charm was gone, replaced by commanding gravitas.
“Yes, child. It’s me.”
“Enough pleasantries.”
“Our nation is sick—gravely ill.”
“And you hold the diagnosis but lack the cure.”
“From today onward, I am your remedy.”
“Our work begins now.”
Please rate or leave a review for this novel at
If you would like to support this translation, you may choose any one of the options below.
How to find a list of chapters
Please find the chapter label next to your favorite translator's name, and click the label.
