Five PM. The sun's rays scatter off of the streets, a frozen river of ice and gravel. The surface is a ruddy orange, somewhere between the glow of tequila nights and the blood of revolutionary martyrs. The sky is dappled red. You need to find your inner poet and shoot him for being counterrevolutionary. Seriously, you're trying to stretch the ambulatory mess of bruises and almost cancer regenerative you call a body into something more comfortable on the shitty plastic seat of a once trendy boba tea shop. Or maybe it's still trendy. Edgy kids who want to have something to brag about would flock to this place like flies. Speaking of...
Yuexia sits opposite you, her white raincoat traded for some monster of an overcoat with fur trimmings. If she expected you to do the same to the bandages, ha, jokes on her, you have a medical condition and you don't have a sweater so the gauze ain't coming off. "Hello?" The flip phone presses against your cheek. "Yes, this is the guy. Hi. I notice you haven't picked up yet. Well, I'm just uh." You wet your cold chapped lips. "Just letting you know that this is my number now, I guess. Call me if you're gonna die in the next couple minutes. Or something. I'll try to get there."
"Smooth. You could go into the bodyguard business." She's slouching over some iced sweet tea, rattling the straw between the cubes. "I know my aunt would love someone like you."
Communism and a paycheck wars within you. The paycheck deploys the hatchet of capitalism and wins. "Sure, if she pays me," you reply in clipped syllables.
"It's a paycheck." She rolls her head around the table. "It's not poison, why are- oh, right, you're a commie. Wow."
Her tone is listless. The air of someone commenting on a particularly interesting dead dog in the curb. "I don't detect any revolutionary fervor within you, comrade."
"Bro, throwing me off a building won't work. You know I'll just do a superhero landing."
The tea is… it's hot leaf juice. Honestly it's okay but you don't have any other references to judge. "No," you shake your head, feeling the rumblings of thespianism within your chest. "I'll do something worse. Something that will shrivel the bones of reactionaries." Your voice contorts, it is a harsh whisper. Yuexia is seconds away from drawing her sword, wrapped up in another jacket by her side. "I'll recite theory at you."
"What-ever. My dad does that and he probably knows more than you." Her eyeroll is a thing of legendary teenage pique. "I can probably sit through it."
"Your dad shows good revolutionary spirit. Who's your dad?"
A bicycle rolls by the window. The rider meets your eyes, peeking out between the gauze. He looks away first. Bitch. "Uh-uh." There's a thin, pale finger hovering between your eyes. "Nice try but you're not getting my personal information Danger Stranger."
"Thank you. I've always wanted to be called Danger Stranger."
She laughs, a snorting chuckle. You laugh, a chuckling snort. Laughter is the release of a build up of tension. "Anyway, do you really have amnesia?" she continues. "I got the story- well, 'story-' from Flay, and I don't think amnesia works like that. Probably."
The plastic chair is uncomfortable and you think if you lean back further it would snap. "So it's a chi imbalance. Or I've been enchanted. Possibly by demons, or capitalism."
"Okay first of all chi imbalance doesn't work that way. It only alters your mood. And secondly demons don't exist. Urrgh. You're just going to say you don't know that, aren't you? Anyway, I'm dropping it. Do you want to know who you were before you lost it?"
You nod. "S'why I'm doing this."
"I thought it was critical anti-imperialism."
"I am vast. I contain multitudes."
"Two things aren't a multitude." You get the feeling that she's staring somewhere within you. Past the skin. Past the meat and the bone. Something ephemeral. "Who were you, anyway?"
"Philosophically? I dunno. The self is a-"
"Shut up, Grand Abbot Tut. Forget it. Stupid question. Are you feeling alright? I don't want your carcass breaking down in the middle of whatever we gotta do."
"Please stick to one question. Please."
She does that haughty tilt her head thing. "It pleases me to deny you your preference. How's the weather?"
"Cold." You roll the possibility of a better reply in your head. There's one. A perfect tu quoque. "How're you? We're probably going to murder some motherfuckers in cold blood. It ain't no fair fight."
Youxia drained her cup. "Criminals. Criminals criminals criminals. I don't give," she enunciates, "a shit. A flying fuck." This is the first time she used those words since you met her. "
"Are you saying that to convince me or to convince yourself?" You lean in.
The table rattles. "This is bullshit. I should be making you uncomfortable. I hate this." You grin, wide and lazy, and lean back again, sipping on your flavorless but somehow too sweet jasmine tea. "Urgh. Fine. I guess…"
You wait. She goes through some more expressions. "I don't know. I guess I'll cross it when we get there."
"Remember." You raise the plastic cup. "They're all criminals."
Zing.
Location. A garage. The machines lay silent. The brick and mortar building at the center of a parking yard, cars from hydrocarbon to electric to nuclear cell lying in stages from in pieces to good as new. The yard is as wide as a football stadium, the garage is about the size of an expansive duplex.
"Yakuza front, right?" Youxia hazards.
You grunt, measuring the distance and straining your ears. Can't hear shit. Wind's whipping too loudly. Does that sentence even make sense. "You know, I never really thought about cars being that much of a money maker. I thought it was all guns and drugs and robot gun arms."
"It's good to have rackets that aren't as hot," you grunt. The staff- your staff now- leans against you. It's a bit of a drag to carry it around.
Youxia nods, sagaciously. "Yes, and drag racing is always popular. You ever done that? Drag racing, I mean. You don't need guns and robot gun arms and you do drugs."
A harsh but honest appraisal of your character. "Are you nervous or something?"
"A harsh but honest appraisal of my character."
"Thief." First guy. Can't see his face but his hair is in a samurai bun and he walks like he's prepared to throw hands any moment now. Kirishima L-T? You try to remember who was with Kirishima during the interview. Really strain your eyes through the gloom. No, you still can't see him. "I'm moving closer. I want to listen to them." You drop down lightly, ignoring Yuexia's protestations. There's a chain link fence blocking the way between the lot and the alley you landed in. No problem. You waited for Guy 1 to look away and then you vault over it and put your back against a car.
Yuexia waves. You wave. She raised two fingers and pointed at the entrance and ducked back down again. So, the other guy sent two people. "Hey, how ya doin?"
Rough. Gravelly. In Chinese. Odder and odder. "I don't have that much time. Is Wang here?" Second voice. Lighter, almost a whisper.
"Heeeey~"
God you want to punch the third voice. Presumably Wang.
"Okay. Let's get this over with." Oldest. "This dick measuring contest is doing our business no favors. So let's work out an agreement."
"You repeat what you said in the email. Okay. Here's the deal. You off Oogami. I'll do Kirishima."
"And Kirisaki?"
"Irrelevant. The yakuza brand is tainting our image. Wang, what are you doing?"
The crunch of gravel. Oh, shit, shit, shit. "Noothing." Every syllable is drawn out. "I just thought something waaas heeere."
"Hrm. Is there?"
"Naw~"
Phew. "Okay. So we off them both," the whisperer continues. "But then what? I remind you that a third of our revenue comes from the Korean route. The Korean route, I remind you, that relies on Kirishima's charisma."
"Pawn it off to the Russians. They're eating into our share anyway. Tell A that I am willing to allow them access to Yanbian in return for their snakehead contacts."
Yuexia peeks over the roof with her black furred raincoat. Now?
[1.2] {Wrathful Manifestation} Hit them now Now NOW.
[]- Wait. It's just getting good.
