In 1998, manga in English still felt like contraband culture. Shelves weren’t overflowing with glossy omnibuses the way they are now; you found Akira—if you were lucky—wedged between superhero floppies at the comic shop, its Epic/Marvel trade dress trying to make it look like it belonged next to X-Men. It didn’t. It was bigger, heavier, and smelling faintly of ink and revolution.
I’d read Vol. 1 and thought I knew what I was in for: neon biker gangs, street-level grudges, and that post-punk electricity humming in every panel. But Vol. 2 ripped the walls off Neo-Tokyo and revealed the machinery behind it—military bunkers, psychic test labs, and political shadow games. What had been a turf war was suddenly a war-war.
Tetsuo’s arc hit hardest. In Vol. 1, he was the friend gone missing, the one you worried about. Here, he’s back, bristling with power he can’t quite control, and Otomo draws him with the twitchy fragility of a live wire.
Watching him drift toward the cryogenic chamber that holds the enigma of Akira felt like watching a fuse burn toward something too big to comprehend.
Meanwhile, Kei and Ryu’s resistance cell sketched out a whole other layer of Neo-Tokyo—a place where youth rebellion collided with state authority, where graffiti and motorcycle grease were just surface textures over deep political unrest. Otomo’s cityscapes—every window lit, every pipe rusted—were as much characters as Kaneda and Tetsuo, and in 1998, those hyper-detailed panels looked like a prophecy of the urban sprawl we were growing into.
Back then, the 1988 anime was already legend—passed around on VHS like sacred scripture—but Vol. 2 made it clear that the movie was just a compression, a trailer for something far stranger and more expansive. In these pages, the plot started reaching for the full breadth of Otomo’s dystopia, planting seeds of cataclysm the film could only gesture toward.
Reading it in the late ’90s, you could feel the story stretching—expanding beyond the alley brawls into questions of secrecy, power, and the fragility of cities. And for a teenager on the edge of a new millennium, those questions didn’t feel like fiction.
They felt like the scaffolding behind our own world, just waiting for someone like Tetsuo to pull it down.