Polluted Jianghu: 新年少鹏

[Laplace]

"We," you declare, "are preparing a people's struggle against the Japanese imperialists."

It was unexpected in the way a sudden brick wall in the middle of a freeway was unexpected. The conversation dashed itself upon it, a ten lane pile up in White Raincoat's neurons. You can sorta see how she's had her train of thought derailed and you should really focus on your metaphors. "Do you have an ounce of self-awareness?" Fei Dao lifts his empty bottle to his lips. You can read indescribable sadness at having to deal with your shit in a slightly more sober fashion.

"I traded that for the immortal dialectic."

"I'm just here to profit from the revolution," Flay interjects, not even bothering with hiding the grin. "Had some free time, saw the times were a'changing, and thought, 'hey, I could make money off of this.'"

"I, uh. Ah," the newcomer sputters.

You salute her with an empty bottle. "Money is an ephemeral concept but I commend you for showing good and virtuous action."

"Cool beans. So, cutie, are ya still gonna make trouble for us?"

"I'm not cute," White Raincoat insists. "I am striking."

"You're like ten go home."

"You're not my mother," the girl insists. You feel like if she wasn't balancing on a railing she would be stomping her feet. You idly look around. Nobody looks like they're listening. After the yakuza scarpered, conversation resumed. Er. Shit. Didn't you lay out your goals? Shiiit. Well, Flay seems at ease about the whole thing. Hopefully that means something. "If you're going against Kirisaki-rengo, I want mmmph!" Fei moves and drags her to the floor with a hand across her mouth.

"Don't give up the game," Flay hisses. "Take a seat." White Raincoat does so in the face of cybernetic maternal sternness. Or was it sororal? Flay looked in her twenties, White Raincoat was in the upper edge of her teens. Sororal. "Anyway, do you really- no, this is the wrong question to ask." Her voice is a harsh whisper. "What's your credentials. Please don't say vigi-"

"VIgilante."

"Goddamnit."

"What? They're all bad people anyway. I don't give a shit about them," she says as if that excused everything. You supposed it did to some people.

"She did break that guy's leg and probably brain damaged him severely without a second thought," you offer in support.

"What? I just hit him on the head where the brain… oh."

Flay looks at her. "So? Still feel up to it?"

She looks back, a fearsome uncompromising justice built on a foundation of police procedurals and genre fiction shining in her eyes. "Yes. As long as I get to beat everyone who remains."

Flay looks at you. "How about you?"

"Do you have anyone else in mind?"

She waggles a hand. "Yes, but they'd probably want more money up front than I'm comfortable with. Hey, you. What's your price?"

"Justice," the girl replies.

"You're even worse than him. I hate all y'all."

You stretch out a hand for a high five. White Raincoat hesitantly obliges. "Who… are you? I'm sorry, I've been talking to you so long I still don't know all of your names."

Flay jabs a finger at herself. "Bobbie Flay. Tech consultant. That's Fei Dao, master of the flying knife, as his name advertised. And uh, this guy."

"Sup," you say.

"He doesn't remember his name. He's between names," Flay clarifies. "Now, how about you? Please don't give me some-"

"Yuexia."

"In poor light that almost sounds like a name so that passes." The cyborg takes out her phone. "Alright, so the two of you are all in, right?" Both of you nod. "Alright. Gimme your phone number, Moon Knight. I'll message you tomorrow for a meeting place."

Holy shit, is that a full palm around the fist salute? You are in awe of this exemplar of chivalry and old martial arts films. She lightly jumps over the railing, vanishing out of the door and into the night. "That was fucking surreal," you summarize.

"Yeah. I think I found someone weirder than you."

"Is that a challenge?" You squint at her. Her horrormused expression tells you everything she thinks about that. "Anyway, I'm stuffed. Do you have an ask no questions motel?"

She did. Red Corner Hotel, the neon lights overlooking a street where the sidewalks were torn out and never quite fully replaced. The rental bike stations were secured with iron chains, and there at the end was a neighborhood security armored van with a sleepy security guard loitering the corner. He doesn't give you a second glance as you wedge open the glass door on the edge building. The inside of the Red Corner isn't any better. A narrow room, one side hosting a help desk where a clerk was blowing bubblegum. The other side had an assortment of empty tables and an empty Pepsi-Cola freezer.

"Room?" the clerk asked brusquely.

"Yeah."

"Hundred yuan a night. Money upfront, cash or electric. Breakfast separately. No smoking, drinking in the rooms."

You grunt in assent, shoes squeaking over the tiles as you pull out the manila envelope and dig out a hundred yuan bill. The red slip of paper disappears as soon as you slap it down on the varnished tabletop. In its place a plastic chitty slides to you. There's not even an elevator and the wooden stairs creak under your weight. The clerk pulls out a bottle of beer and downs it when she thinks you're not looking.

Whatever.

Your hundred yuan garret apartment is calling. Outside the narrow window is a red light from the neon sign. A rickety folding metal chair sits, no, exists?, in front of a narrow writing desk. It fills you with an indescribable urge to pick up a pen (in this day and age) and scribble a self loathing novel about socialism or alienation or some other horse piss

The Zhenyan jacket goes on a coathook. You should probably liquidate that. Your trackpants find a home on the desk, and so does your sleeveless undershirt. For a long while, you stand there, almost naked if not for the bandages wrapping over the entirety of your corpus. A shiver runs up you. You feel for some reason there should be a cancer stick between your lips right now.

It is silent. You hate it. You feel like something's… something's empty with it. Then you shook your head. You know what to do tomorrow. If Flay dips then you'll just go it alone.

The bed is about as uncomfortable as you can expect. The springs groan and creak and the pillow has lumps. But it's warm inside.

Dream…
[]- There is a dreadful heat that chokes the ground. The sun, fat and red, hangs on the horizon. In the distance, the beat of horse hooves. {Increase Chase the Red Sun to Intensity 2}
[]- Something is eating people. You hear it in the cabinet, slurping the fat from their bones. There is a spear in your hands. Are you eating? {Increase Harmonious Society to Intensity 2}
[]- The moments are stretched out, in the wake of the thunder. Pengju is waiting in the sky, the radiance of the Buddha touching this web of dust. {Increase Wrathful Manifestation to Intensity 2}
[]- Xingtian is howling defiance. You know it is not Xingtian, flensed of skin and a brass skull, but it dances nevertheless. Also it's on fire. {Increase Pain is a Teacher to Intensity 2}

 

[Laplace]

Storm clouds as black as raven feather banners cover the sky, roiling like a witch's cauldron. Lightning white as bone touches the grand, frozen even as the skies move. You are lying against the turf, watching the lightning play across the sky. Raindrops land on your face, running off in rivulets. The air is crackling with ozone. You can taste the frisson in the air. It's comfortable, but if this is your dream you can't help but feel that you could have just skipped this.

"Stupid dream," you mutter. Then again, most dreams are. Post facto justifications of tangled events firing in the old grey matter. You don't have higher hopes for a lucid dream.

A thundercrack.

"What is it now?" you groan.

Get up.

"Why? I'm sleeping. This is rest."

You can't rest. Not now. Not ever. Hands reached around your collar, pulled you to a standing position. You stumble, just for a moment. Water beads obscure your vision. Look at me, it snarled. You wipe your vision clear. You don't know what you expected. Pengju? This can't be Penju, not this assembly of knives rusted together into a bird headed man. Stand up straight. It hits you in the chest, and you reflexively follow its orders. Why are you resting?

"I can't believe this is a question."

Why?

"You're the world's shittiest spirit guide."

Why do you fight?

You raise your eyes to the sky. Fuck, there's still rain. "I don't fucking know. I don't fucking know the reason why I do half the things I do. I feel like the world's on rails and I'm just here for the ride. Maybe it's just because I wanted to fight. To feel like I could control something but then he fucking beat the stuffing out of me."

See?

"No, I don't see. Is- is this some fucking koan?"

If it is, what are you going to do?

You slug it in the face. You get your fingers cut open to the bone for your troubles. Good answer, it snarls. You will need fury to survive the fucking Jurchens. You are marching to war and you will need all the fury you can mus-

"Yue Fei, you died. You were betrayed by the emperor and the Song fell to Genghis Khan. Why are you lecturing me now?"

-ter, so remember the method of spears and hands and feet and that you must descend to hell if no one else will. You have to defend Tianxia! Have to have to have to have to have to have to have to.

You laugh. You can't believe it. Yuexia's self righteous larping got to you. "It's the Japanese. And I'm here to steal their shit to figure out where I came from. And for money. It's Yuexia you want to say this to. She'd eat this shit up."

Do you really believe that? The world is falling away, the landscape collapsing into nothingness.

"I-"

Darkness.

When you wake up your fingers throb like they've been sliced open. Maybe they are, but the bandages aren't red with blood. Awareness comes slowly, thoughts seeping into your cortex as you mechanically don your clothes.

Oh. Oh shit. Right, today's the big day. You hustle down the stairs. There's no one around, but that doesn't mean anything. The same clerk is at the desk, so you pay another hundred from the envelope in your pocket before you leave.

An hour later you're at the meeting point, an isolated courtyard that's connected to the main road by a narrow alleyway, which raises interesting questions as to how Flay managed to get a van parked in the courtyard, next to a planter's box where a withered tree stretches to the sky. She pops her head out from the back door of the van. "Hey, you're here early! Did you get new threads? No, wait. Why are your bandages still on?"

"Yeah, the Zhenyan jacket felt too obvious. And it's a fashion statement." A shiver runs through you. Should have gone with a winter coat or at least a sweater under the track jacket. You lean the rental bike against the post, and wander over to the van. There's banks of turn-of-the-millenium computers in there, backed up with antennae connected to comms equipment and TV screens. "Nice setup," you say as you munch a jianbing. "How'd you get the van in here?

"Thanks. I brought it in through that garage." She points at a steel folding door. "Lots of this stuff is cheap, but it works. C'mon in, I need to get the presentation set up. Yuexia is coming too, she's just taking-"

"Taking what?" the voice comes as a surprise. Yuexia lightly hops on to the van, sword leaning on her shoulder. "I had to get a reason to leave after last night. My maid-"

"You have a fucking maid?" you burst out. A fucking maid. Holy shit. If she's so fucking rich why is she farting around the streets. Doesn't she have anything more important to do like, you don't know, drink champagne made out of crushed pearls or some ostentatious shit like that.

"Yes?" Yuexia seems uncomfortable, fingers playing around with the hilt of her sword. "It's just like a housekeeper? Why're you mad?"

"Communism," Flay interjects testily. "Both of you simmer down. Okay, so Kirisaki-rengo." An organization chart pops up on a wall monitor. One name at the top splits into two, and those two have things such as 'goon gang- Cannibal Justification' and 'racket- Sato Import/Export' attached to them. Affiliate gangs and rackets, you suppose. "They're an Osakan syndicate that lost a war bigly. S'why they're in China now- they had a local branch during the fifties, and the oyabun- Kirisaki Daichi- took all his talent here. Now, he's got two sub bosses- Kirishima Manzo and Oogami Hiroshi."

The slide changes. Kirishima Manzo has high cheekbones and a thin sword scar running over a milky eye. Another scar twists his mouth upwards. Oogami Hiroshi looks more like a guy you'd see at a bar doing his best to avoid his wife looking for him.

"So. Psyche profile. Kirishima Manzo is your violent guy, your real go getter. There's a video of him personally ripping out this guy's spine cause he called Kirishima a bad word. Business sense of a shark which is not all that good. What I've dug up on him is that he's burakumin. If I was feeling freudian, I'd say the fact that he's a complete psycho bastard is rooted in an inferiority complex, trying to prove that he's a man among man. But that's not important. The important thing is that he's got Korean gangs friendly with him so he gets to smuggle Korean manufacture into J3."

You gesture at the monitor with your breakfast. "Isn't that a lucrative racket?" The question surprises you. Why would you know about this crap if you're just a legbreaker? "Even second shelf Korean cybernetics can net you tens of thousands. How did this psycho land that racket?"

"Good question. It's because Oogami Hiroshi is a card carrying member of Nippon Kaigi."

"Yeah, that'd do it."

Flay nods. "Oogami is a very boring money earner. As far as I can tell he doesn't even skim off the take."

"Fake," you declare. "He's just got a really good accountant in his pocket."

"Yeah, maybe. Anyway, he does a little shabu shabu dealing on the side. Sorry, 'health supplements.' Runs a couple dark casinos, extortion schemes. If Kirisaki bites it Oogami would be the best choice but he's also a racist. Keeps on trying to get Kirisaki-rengo to take back Osaka. I don't really like his chances with the organization he has right now."

You try your best to remember the org chart. "They have… seven gangs under their thumb? I just remember the one named Cannibal Justification, though."

"It's a cool name," Yuexia agrees.

"They literally eat people," Flay says as she alt-tabs to a shell and enters a few commands.

"I meant that they're villains who need to be exterminated," Yuexia backtracks.

"It's still a cool name and I can't judge cannibalism," you contradict.

"The duality of man," Flay laughs. "Okay, so, the plan. Both of them are hiring." She points a finger at Yuexia and you. "Each one of you goes to a separate boss. You follow their orders while I hack into their network and spread some kompromat. Trigger some low key conflict among the mook gangs. That's where you two come in- I want you to off some moderates, plug in some faked data, and Bob's your uncle, we have a civil war."

"You do this often?" You chew and swallow the last of the jianbing, stuffing the plastic bag in your pocket.

Flay winks at you. "I'd tell ya. But then I'd have to kill ya."

Pretend to work for:
[]- Oogami Hiroshi
[]- Kirishima Manzo

 

[Laplace]

The pills taste like concentrated bitterness. It's the most bitter thing that ever bittered but within moments you feel like you could dance a jig on neurotoxin dipped knives suspended over a moat of lava filled with piranhas. Ouyang Meng really did know her shit, you guess. You sorta expect to get in a fight in the abstract, but more than anything your lower spine has been killing you and the only painkillers you had on hand were her pills.

Flay's unmarked white van drives off into the snowy city, leaving you alone in front of a six story business park. The lowest floor is a Korean barbecue, but there are no lights on and the chairs are all stacked up. Kirshima Manzo's office is in the penthouse suite- those windows have a light shining through them. A door by the barbecue stand, with a camera and a speaker attached. Deep breaths. Flay coached you through this and most of it was just glare menacingly and threatening imminent violence. You know that. Shit's all you know.

You ring the buzzer next to the door by the barbecue and wait, shifting from foot to foot, staring at the fisheye lens.

"Yer here for the job?"

A light accent. "Yep," you reply. "Open up. It's freezing out here."

A whatever the yaks call their bottom feeder opens the door and tries to glare at you. All he manages to do is make you think of a cat. You really feel sorry for the guy that has to intimidate you. He's trying, bless his heart, but a thug that knows karate (he's bouncing on the balls of his feet) and has a switchblade in his pocket doesn't measure up to your you-ness. You clap his shoulder. He flinches, arm twitching in the two motions before a right straight. "You're doing great work," you try as you brush past the thug and up the stairs. It doesn't really help him but you like to think it does.

"Go take a seat in the waiting room! Mr. Kirishima's out for a while." he yells at you. Then he throws the knife against the floor and storms out to sulk. Cute. You head up the stairwell. There are patches of it where someone spackled it over with whitewall. Then you're at the waiting room, closing the door with the frosted glass window behind you. There's no one in the waiting room, so you settle into the couch by a potted plant, leaning over to grab and flip open a magazine from the coffee table.It's about local culture, which is fairly dire. There's an endless stream of hipster-ass art films about the inherent emptiness of capitalism but we should seek inner balance rather than do something about it. You run an eye down the interminable opinion columns, the vacuous lifestyle articles. The only thing that catches your gaze is an advertisement placed out by the Palace Museum.

A bronze spear and a bronze sword. Fuchai of Wu and Guojian of Yue's weapons that they wielded when they vied for hegemony all those years past. You idly wonder how many favors the director had to call in from Henan to pull this exhibit off. The bronze weapons are held across each other, under a statue of the respective users, great rivals in life, immortalized in… ice? That can't be right. You frown and look at it again.

No, yes they got a guy from Harbin to sculpt Fuchai and Guojian. Neat. Dyed water ice to mimic colors. Your eyes are drawn again and again to Fuchai's spear. Wouldn't it be nice to swing that around? Your palms itch at the thought. How many heroes can the Palace Museum hire, really? Or you know, you could just poke around the violent maniac adjacent economy and turn up a spear. Rather than, like, lifting priceless historical artifacts.

The door slams open. Kirishima Manzo storms in and the room is filled with a small stormcloud of sharply suited yakuza thugs. In all his scarred glory, Kirishima stands in front of you while his flunkies screen the exits. You scratch your cheek as the underboss takes out a cigarette and lights it. The bastard, you think. You want that.

"You're the only one?" he growls. Like a bag of rocks.

"Didn't your guy already ask that?"

"He's the only one," a pencil pusher interjects, adjusting his glasses. "I told you, the Wu Manor scared off the rest."

Kirishima growls some more. "And the only one that joined is this mummy? We have to have other people."

"I really don't like the tone of your voice," you remark mildly. Ha, you're enjoying this. The frission of violence, threatening to boil over. A job that's like dancing over razorblades. It gets the ol' sodden brain going. "It's contributing to a hostile working environment. Besides, haven't you watched movies? It's always the weirdo that turns the tide, and I can reassure you that there are very few people in Jing-Jin-Ji that are less weird than I am."

"Holy fuck," someone says. "The rot's got into his brain."

Emotions play and flicker across his face. Frustration, fury, and all that. "You know who I am?"

"Yes. Kirishima Manzo."

"Do you know who I work for?"

"Kirisaki-rengo, on the down and outs in the churn in the J3 underworld. Why the third degree?"

The room all of a sudden is silent. A snub nosed revolver, gleaming in the filtered light, sits like a lead weight in the room. It has its own gravity, all the thugs know what is going to happen. You do too, but you are cool as cucumbers. You faced Metalhead, this pistol is nothing. It clicks, you feel the press of the gun through the gauze swaddling your forehead. "Now," he hisses. "Give me a reason why I should spend war money on you, broken boy."

Front for the job:
[1.1] {Pain is a Teacher} "Pull the trigger and find out."
[1.2] {Wrathful Manifestation} "I'll take all of you. Y'all ain't shit."
[]- Refer to Sunflower and Metalhead. Earnestly refer to your virtues.

 

[Laplace]

The time for a signal to race down the brain to the finger ranges from 150 to 200 milliseconds. A bullet travels three thousand kilometers per hour. Your heart pounds, slow, so slow. Th-thoom. Th-thoom. No, that's just your thought outrunning time, through the turgid murk of the transient world. You see everything. You see the orange bloom within black clouds, the gunpowder exploding in x30 slowed down time. Alternating currents of heat and cold run down your back, your left hand rising in a blur.

And everyone else?

They are leaping backwards. Birds startled in flight, the part of your mind that comes up with inappropriate metaphors say. The shock of the explosion sends microscopic ripples down Kirishima's sleeve. He smells like cologne, covering up the rusty copper scent of blood. The lines, stark white on his tanned hands, say that he is a fighter, that he has taken knife, pipe, and fist to the skulls of our fellow man.

Next, the screech of metal on metal, the bullet spinning against the rifling. Who would hear this? It is covered by the thunderous shock of the gun firing. For you alone. Your hand claps the barrel, you can feel where the bullet is, like a progress meter it is heating up, from the root. You grab it tight, crushing it with the sudden force of lightning touching the earth. Metal twists, squealing in protest. You complete the motion, a wrenching of the wrist and it is all over.

You hold the broken barrel in your hand, clenched in your fist. The very tip of the bullet protrudes out of your hand, peeking out of the bent barrel, and your thoughts immediately jump to the prurient.

The shock on Kirishima's face is delectable. That little fucking mummy shit, you read. God, I might just make it after all.

"So?" you ask. The broken barrel swings between your fingers. You didn't just rip it away. You crushed it, so hard you can read your fingerprints in the hot metal. You stick it between your lips like a cigar. There's no smoke you can blow, and the hot metal and the gunpowder steam scorches your mouth. Moron. "Am I hired?" To mimic a billowing cloud of obnoxious cigar smoke you sputter out a single drumbeat pah.

Nobody liked that.

"I hate you so much but you're the real deal," Kirishima admits. "You're hired."

"This is why I'm the only one that signed up. The rest were scared by your devotion to making this workplace the most hostile workplace on the face of this earth."

Kirishima's mouth quirks in a way that might be Uncle-ish fondness or homicidal frenzy. Hard to tell. "Don't overestimate yourself," the accountant corrects. "It's the Wu Manor. And also the holidays." The scarred Yakuza drags a couch chair opposite you. "As a matter of curiosity, are you, ah, from Yanbian?" the accountant probes.

Yanbian Korean Autonomous Prefecture. Things are falling into place. These guys- Kirishima's group- are probably an ethnic Korean gang that joined Kirisaki, smuggling robo-bits up from the Korean Economic Union. So, who's the old boss? Perhaps the accountant, but you have a niggling feeling Kirishima killed him when taking over the gang. The way the accountant said Yanbian, he made it sound like home. But, Kirishima has a Japanese accent. He could be zanichi. That's a double reason why he'd super hate Oogami.

Aw, fuck. You sorta feel bad about the plan now. Well, maybe Kirishima could just break away. And, as Yuexia adroitly summarized, they're villains anyhow.

"Nope," you say. "If this is about why I signed up, let me be clear- I have skills, lack morals, and will kill for cash." The lie slides out of you easy as breathing. Like a slug scooped from its shell.

"Oh, doesn't that describe us all." The accountant sniffs. "Well, do you have a nom de guerre? For record keeping."

"Ming Jian."

The pun makes the accountant chuckle.

"Okay, shut up now," Kirishima interjects like an icebreaker smashing through… well, ice. "Ming Jian, your first job. I have a warehouse full of mechanicals that I need guarding, and I know that fucker Oogami is planning a hit by proxy to make me look bad to Father."

You… don't really yawn. More like test out how functional your jaw is. It sorta is, sorta is not? "Why don't I just kill him? Make it easier for you."

Kirishima waves it off. "No. This is in the family. You don't get a say. You will never," he emphasizes, "get a say."

Fair enough. "Fair enough," you repeat. But it'd work, maybe. He's considering it. "Should I get going now, or do I have some time?"

"Huaran Street, three thirty PM," he barks out. "Its the only warehouse, you can't miss it." He sticks out his scarred hand and you take it. "Don't fuck up."

---

"So, how'd it go?" Flay looks up from her computer at you, taking off her headphones for a moment. The rear compartment of the van is pleasantly warm, if a bit stuffy and smelling like hot metal. You called Flay for a pickup two blocks away from the yakuza office. It took a bit of walking and a lot of not trying to freeze.

"I dared Kirishima to shoot me and broke his gun when he did." You shake out the snow in your hair as you step into the van. The door closes behind you, shutting out the snow and the cold. "Catch." You toss the broken barrel at Flay, who plucks it out of the air without looking.

"Hn. So you got in?"

You nod, looking around the narrow room. "Where's Yuexia?"

Speak of Yuexia, and Yuexia arrives. A snowdrift brushes against your legs. "He was a creep, sister," she complains, tossing her white hood down. "Urgh!"

Flay snorted. "Yeah, well, you're the one that picked the smack dealer."

"Only 'cause this guy took Kirishima. Can we switch, or is it too late for that?"
"Hell no. We have a connection! Go make one with your creepy meth dealer," you shoot back. It garners a glare, and then a snort.

"And there was this guy," Yuexia continues, "he had like, a slit open mouth? Don't the Japanese have a monster about that? So many earrings! He tried to get me to cut him, which is all kinds of ew and no."

"Big rip." The cyborg turns around. "So! Let's get started- you, Mr. Between Names, what's Kirishima got you doing?"

"Guarding a warehouse. The one on Huaran," you say. "Three thirty in the afternoon. Kirishima thinks Oogami might send a hit squad over soon."

Yuexia raises a hand. "Yeeah that's uh, me."

Hell yeah, you get to beat up Richie Rich.

Flay's thinking. "Yuexia, when are you planning to take the warehouse?"

"Midnight, I think?"

"How many people are coming with you?"

Yuexia shook her head. "I don't know. They said something about the brute squad, and I think the slit-mouthed guy is coming with me. Or he's not. I can't speak Japanese."

"Hmm. Okay, I think they're just going to show up to look tough," Flay thinks out loud. "So what you two are going to do," she says, "is escalate like mad. Yuexia, I'm sorry about this but I need this guy to call you bad names."

"Eh, whatever, we're gonna fight anyway." She shrugs it off. You sneak a look at the time- twelve o'clock.

"I'd win, just to be clear." You crack your knuckles. "Flay, can you drop me off somewhere that sells weapons?"

"Screw you," Yuexia retorts as Flay guns the engine. "I'd win. Your head's cracked."

Three hours later (the cafe you spent the time at didn't have very good anything to justify another half hour) you step onto Huaran Street, bouncing your new mass market spear against your shoulder. The wood is cheap, the red tassel is some fake polyester shit, but the spearhead is decent quality. It feels good to have it in your hand. Like a limb you didn't know you had until you lost it. The security guard at the warehouse gives you a look. You smile and he waves you by.

Huaren Street is empty. As in, there's no buildings. There's only a low block of the warehouse, the rest of the street consisting of empty or parking lots. The rolling metal door opens up, a smattering of grey jumpsuits workers moving between shelves and shelves of unmarked cardboard boxes. "You're the security consultant?" The woman who greets you has a low buzz cut.

"Yessir."

"Great," she moans. "Wonderful. Well, welcome to the Huaran Warehouse. We're a totally legit import export storage space for a third party electronics manufacturer. Feel free to look around, but don't open anything without permission."

To Do List:
[]- Do your job and case the wider joint. Build an understanding of the land.
[]- Walk around the warehouse. Pretend to work. Scope out the possible loot.
[1.1] {Harmonious Society} Talk to the other people. Identify faultlines and hear stories.

 

[Laplace]

You would like to know where to start with a conversation. Really dazzle them with your sparkling personality. Unfortunately, the only thing you have is a bag of anger issues, communist slogans, and half faded migraines masquerading as a personality. This is harder than it seems but you know where to start: find an oldie smoking off to the side and ask about the weather. Problem: there is no oldie here. You shrug and begin to walk a circle around the warehouse, paying attention to the faces. You count about thirty heads fucking around, for lack of a better word. There's even a laptop connected to a game system that has Smash Bros idling in the background. Three workers are lazing about in front of it, intent on the game or their soda.

An image on the screen tosses another image against the platform, smashing it against the floating rock as a number increases from 0% to 50%.

"Aren't you s'posed to be working?" A woman in a baggy jacket turns to face you after soundly humiliating her counterpart, who tosses his console on the floor. Two pigtails that look too young for her and a cigarette dangle from her lips. Wait. Only the cigarette dangles from her lips. Her pigtails are on the back of her head. Where are you going with this?

"Aren't you?" Master of rhetoric, you are.

The woman shrugs with a dead-eyed apathy you can only admire. "I'm on my break."

"Long ass break." You point a bandaged finger at a small and growing pile of plastic wrappers that sits at the feet of the one that's currently snoring away like a bandsaw. She leans over and whacks him, startling him but only that. "There's nothing to do," she says. The sleeper snorts and turns over. The crinkling of plastic follows his slow geological shift.

"Then why don't you let me win for once?" her counterpart, a young man with a shock of dyed hair that flops around in a vaguely offensive direction, complains. "

The cigarette turns circles in her mouth. "Get good," she spits out. "Do you wanna play a round? You'd probably be more fun to beat than this chump."

"Fuck you," Hairshock says, adjusting how he's lying against a crate. "Seriously, though- dude, what's up with those bandages?" Now he's turned around, looking at you with shock in his eyes.

"I lost my sweater," you say. "Anyway, uh, it's been a good chat. I'm gonna pretend to work some more before I fuck off. Ciao." They make vaguely agreeable grunting sounds as you turn around to find Buzzcut Manager. The shelves of merchandise are oddly well arranged, from your cursory inspection. The eyes of the workers follow you, your uncanny figure, a mummy in a tracksuit, bouncing a cheap spear against his shoulder.

Man, now you know why no violent murder gang tools around with spears anymore. It's incredibly awkward, having everyone look at you like that. You don't think a lot of them are working. Makes sense- slow day, the merchandise is all packed, and if Wu Manor knows their shit they probably clubbed Kirishima's middlemen first. The question is, how much money is Kirishima burning on having the workers be around?

Well, probably nothing. He probably made them work here to work off their debt.

Buzzcut Manager's watching some sitcom on her tablet in the overlooking security office, boots propped on her desk. She hears you coming up the metal stairs. "Is there a problem?" she asks, not even bothering to pause the show. A smatter of forced laughter rises.

"Uh, I was sort of expecting you to give a shit," you admit.

Why bother? The shrug of her shoulder says. "Yeah, join the club. I'd be a lot more busy but nobody's buying. Not even the black market, which is all sorts of fucked."

You nod, then point at the really badly concealed slackers. "What about them?"

"Sanhe kids. Did you see a girl playing Smash? She brought like, fifteen people with her," she dismisses, the term for the subculture of youth transient workers. Work for a day, party for three, and if you have to sleep in a trash bin with a hangover for the next week, well, who cares? Sit, eat, and wait for death. "I'd be yelling at them but I wouldn't be able to find any more replacements."

"Dope. I have another question." She makes a go on hand gesture so you go on. "Who do you sell to?"

"Dunno. Don't care. Boxes go in. Boxes go out. Who knows." In her tablet screen a too well dressed housewife breaks a wine bottle over someone's head, you don't care who. "That being said, uh. The manifests say a lot of this goes on a train to Kazakhstan. So I'm assuming a snakehead gang."

"Dope," you repeat. "What's your opinion on…" you wave a hand. "All of this. The yaks?"

"Well, I hope I don't get a bullet to the head, but that's about it." She smiles at you, lazy and cynical. "That's your job."

"I have a feeling Kirishima'd rather me protect his warehouse of cybernetics."

"You meant Oogami. I worked with Kirishima and he's probably the best shady underworld boss I had."

"That's a low fucking bar."

Buzzcut Manager nods. "Okay. He's the best boss I had, period. He doesn't try to pull the parasocial bullshit everyone else does. He pays me on time. He doesn't care what I do with the warehouse as long as it looks pretty when he comes around. Do you have something else to say?"

You stepped on a landmine. Immediately disengage. "Okay, I get it," you raise your hands. "I'm going to shut up and fuck off now. Sorry."

"Good. Fuck off and do your job."

Well, that was a failure. The good news is that you know nobody is around to guard Huaren Warehouse. The bad news is that people might actually like Kirishima and that might be a problem. Or it might not. You need to talk to Flay about this. Well, not right now. First you want to talk to the detritus of today's society.

"Hey, kiddos," you say, throwing your spear against the wall. It clatters centimeters away from the sleeper, who "Room for one more?"

"Ffuck you." Hairshock raises you a middle finger. "I'm probably older than you, fuck off."

"Sure. Hey, give him your controller." The woman turns and you see a name tag on her chest- Ming Ming. Weirdly cute name. You settle down next to her. The good. You have an in. The bad. Hairshock tagged you in during a losing streak. Ming Ming traps you into an infinite wombo combo, and your bullet catching speed doesn't help you diddly shit against unfair cheating video game strats. Video games are bullshit. Transmission lag is bullshit. You hate it. "Ha~," Ming Ming breathes. "Yo, do you want to bet money on this?"

You shake your head. "Eh, can't blame me for trying." Ming Ming shrugs. "Surprised to see someone take the job. The last guard signed off with broken shins."

"I'm pre-broken. You don't have to worry about that." God shit it. How the fuck do you- no, that's the wrong button. You hate this control and you hate this game. "By the way, did you see Kirishima when you got hired?"

"Seriously, dude?" Ming Ming laughs. "Yakuza underboss, giving a shit about us." She waves a hand and you notice some burly looking fellows giving you a stink eye. "Man, that's a stupid question. No, Ms. Bao handles us transients."

"He tried to shoot me," you say.

"And then?" Hairshock looks up from his bottle. He's curious.

"Well, I caught the bullet with my kickass kung fu skills and that basically impressed him into giving me a job."

Hairshock nods slowly, thinking to himself. "So what you're saying is that I should learn kung fu to catch bullets so I can impress employers."

"Hey man, in this job market?" Ming Ming's eyes twinkled. "Anything goes."

Okay, here you go. "Even working under threat of the Wu Manor?" You toss it out casually. Just putting it out there. It freezes over the congenial atmosphere. The bottle- glass- breaks under Hairshock's grip. Hysterical strength, you wonder, or internal force?

"It's money," a voice wavers in the background.

"Work for a day, party for three," Ming Ming agrees, laser focused on the laptop screen.

"Hell of a pay to get you to work against the Wu Patriarch. I heard he was pretty buff," you note.

Ming Ming shrugs. "He's not going to fight me. What's the point? There's hundreds of us. If it wasn't us who got the job at a marked up pay, someone else would. And…"

"No, he definitely would." You draw on Hong Erhu's dismissal of the Jianghu, the rivers and lakes, teeming with psychotic, grudge obsessed fish. "We're all petty motherfuckers. And if he trained his internal force, he could be old enough to have personally seen the occupation. You think he'd be a forgiving type?"

"Shit."

Worming In...
[1.1] {Chase the Red Sun} "Have you considered unionizing? Proletariat solidarity in the face of the reactionary pig-dogs!" (Increase Chase the Red Sun to Intensity 2)
[1.1] {Harmonious Society} "Still, Kirishima's hired you. And he's hired me to ensure general bodily survival. Don't need to worry." (Increase Harmonious Society to Intensity 2)

 

[Laplace]

"Still," you lie, "Kirishima's hired you. And," for emphasis you jab your own thumb at your chest. It stings like hell. Should've expected it. "He's hired me to ensure that all your limbs are attached to your body. So really, you don't need to worry. Because the other guys don't have anything. Probably," you disclaim after a moment of thought. "I mean they could hire some raggedy ass motherfucker and suddenly find out they're the chosen one. Or they'll hire a man with no past that wandered in from out of town with a big iron on their hip. In which case I'm gonna lose."

"That's fair," Ming Ming nods. "I can't expect you to win against the chosen one or a man with no name."

"Yep," you with no name nods. Read the room. The joke punched some of the tension away, but the sanhe workers are still… wary. Unsure. They're walking on eggshells and your bandaged mein is no salve for their worries. We might get maimed, man, you pick up on the edge of your hearing, a man with a drinker's nose says to his counterpart. Him? You think he could? Bottom of the barrel, man. Perfect. The doubt creeping in. When you hit this place you don't want them in the crossfire.

Actually, you frown as you smash buttons to escape Ming Ming's death combo, why doesn't Kirishima have gun hands hanging around this place? How many properties does he have to protect? Man, you should have asked more questions about this kinda stuff to Flay. "So uh, mister," Ming Ming starts, "is something gonna go down tonight?"

"Probably," you shrug. "He gave me the job immediately so I assume it's urgent. So, could be today. Could be tomorrow. Who knows."

New game. New character. You hit random and wait for Ming Ming to pick her's. "Yeah I think I'll stay here tonight," Hairshock offers.

"Why, dude?" Ming Ming picked uh. Fuck you don't know. Some giant lizard thing.

"It's warm, dude," Hairshock throws back. The game starts and Ming Ming's giant freak lizard grabbed your Mario and dragged the icon across the floor and into a wall. Then you respawn. Then again. "Also, uh. I'd rather not… you know." Die, it goes unsaid. The cold cockles of your heart warms with the thought that someone is relying on you. Or is that sick power tripping? Who knows. Who cares. "Wow, you're getting wiped. I thought you people had better reflexes." Wow, rude. You hope Hairshock eats a stray bullet.

"That just means I'm better than him," the local esports god says. "Better watch out, dude. I'm gonna take your job soon. How much do you make, even?"

Before you can respond, Hairshock does. "Doesn't it depend? It's contract work so it depends on how much you can screw out of your employer and how much the employer can screw out of you."

You shrug. "Last job I got a couple grand. But I had to split it first, so."

"Man." Ming Ming stops. "I got more money when I was streaming weekly than that. And I didn't have to get my shit kicked in in anything other than tournaments."

"I don't think work for a day party for three kids can talk shit about my career choice. Anyway, good talk." You drop the controller on the ground. "I'm gonna walk around and make sure no cyborg ninja asshole is sneaking around.

---

At exactly midnight, the moon hanging over you like some morbid metaphor, three bully boys knocked on the door of the Huaran Warehouse. The first one was a big, slackjawed man. Is he the leader? No, not him. Slackjawed and dull. He's just muscle, there to hold the gang in line. Her, the one in the back, chewing bubblegum? No, a killer, someone that gets the blood flowing. So that guy, that oldhead lurking in the back. He's the commissar, you guess. And, of course, the superhero Yuexia, besides the oldhead, the moonlight shining off of her perfect white raincoat.

"Sup, bitches," you say, ambling out to meet them with a thermos of tea and a spear in your hands. The hot air from the warehouse blows out from the doorway. If you have to fight you'd really prefer it to be inside the warehouse. "Y'all here for the tea?" Which was pretty decent for tea. It was hot and wasn't too bitter. You raise the thermos in salute.

"You're the security?" Slackjaw. Stepping forward and eating up your space. He's trying so hard to be Metalhead which is just a mountain nobody can really reach. "The hell are you wearing bandages for?"

"Nothing. I think they are very comfortable, and everyone will be wearing them in the future. Especially you, if you keep asking me why." You still got it. Or you had it. Or you never lost it. Slackjaw tosses the flow of conversation to Bubblegum. You can't see Yuexia's face. It's hidden under the shadow of her hood. She's just waiting for now.

"Huaran Warehouse," she chews with filed teeth (doesn't that give you dentures), "is under new management now, Mr. Help."

"I didn't get no memo." Take a step back. Physically as well as mentally. You want to create some space for Oogami's men to feel like they can advance to. What's their style? Slackjaw looks like he does some sort of grappling, the way he stands and how his back muscles bulge under his cheap suit. Bubblegum… you don't know, her jacket is pretty baggy. But her knuckles are scarred, you saw that when she scratched her cheek. The oldhead in the back, watching you watching him, he does a kind of kendo. Don't need no analysis for that, there's a katana by his waist.

"Oh, do we have a stickler here?" She's so close. You can feel her hot breath through the bandages. "Here's your memo. You're one man. We're four. Fuck off or we'll break your legs."

"Will you?" You lean forward. "C'mon, here they are. Take'em if you can. They've been pissing me off ever since I woke up." She looks to her companions. "No? Shame. Well! Unfortunately my asking price for this warehouse is two legs. Come and take 'em."

Things went sideways from there.

[1.2] {Wrathful Manifestation} Win the Fight: Send Oogami's men back home without limbs. Maybe dead. Make Oogami rely on Yuexia more.
[1.1] {Pain is a Teacher} Toss the Fight: Wreck the warehouse, oopsie some temps. Indulge in your masochistic tendencies. Get Kirishima mad.

 

[Laplace]

Your bullshit psychoanalysis is right. Bubblegum crosses you with a hook, you meet her scarred fist with your forehead. Toughest part of the body. If you don't mind the risk of a concussion. A crack, a scream, you flip your spear to face the four. The haft splinters microscopically, you can tell, it feels too stiff and rigid, the way it bends as you run through stances. Oogami's troops (and Yuexia, a part of you remembers that technically she's on your side) do the backwards shuffle off of Huaran Warehouse's porch.

"Well?" you taunt, the tassel waving like a lure. "Any takers? I think my legs are the best part of my body."

"Me," Slackjaw growls and he comes at you like an angry bear, arms spread wide as to tackle you. You meet him with a probing thrust, he grabs it and wrenches it away in a single motion. You stare, dismayed, at the two frayed sticks in your hand. Shitty construction, a voice jeers. You get what you pay for, you dumb kid, so why the hell did you skimp?

He grabs you by the shoulder and collar and throws you head to concrete. Your feet hit the warehouse overhang, your thumb hooks his collarbone and your left hand makes it's own hold in his side. Slackjaw strains against your grip, that and the "Leggo, you bastard!" he howls. In pain. You can feel something wet and sticky against your fingers.

"Fuck no! You're just gonna throw me if I do!"

"Hold him there!" The rasp of steel leaving a scabbard. Oldhead and Yuexia, bearing down on you. You let yourself be thrown, two cuts carving deep into the warehouse walls. You spit the plaster out and roll away from Slackjaw. His kick whistles above your head.

Your head rings. The world is fuzzy. "The hell," Bubblegum snarls, right above you, "are you smiling for?"

Did she punch you? You can't feel it. "I just love life." No yeah she's hitting you. Straighten up like it doesn't even matter. "Y'call that a-"

Why do you remember how getting kicked in the balls feels like? A high pitched keening noise ambles its way out of your vocal cords. Fuck, you'll be walking funny for the rest of the week. You throw a wild elbow, she steps out of your range so you take the time to recover your breathing. Each breath rattles your ribcage.

Shit. They're in the warehouse now. You go from crouch to sprinting start and smash into Slackjaw, barrelling him through a door. He goes down easy. You leave a fist sized crater in his face and roll off of him before Bubblegum's kick hits your spine.

She's got a knife now, icepick grip. She's not waving it around like an idiot, so she knows how to use it. You backpedal away, there's no winning a knife fight. Especially when the knife got two swords backing them up, what the hell, this isn't fair. Hands curled around a metal shelf strut and hey, presto. An even shittier spear. You drive it through her guard and into her shoulder. A crash and clatter, there's the cyberparts and package pellets all over the floor.

Oldhead next to you all of a sudden. A flash of steel and the strut is bisected. "Not again," you moan and then your cheek flares up red and hot. You switch stances, from spear to saber, and wildly swing at the hazy figure in white leaping over your head. It's not a sword. It's a beam of moonlight.

No, what the fuck are you talking about. It's a sword. It's a meter odd of steel, not some fucking poetic metaphor.

You feel air on your face. When you lightly press on the wound you feel bone. That's not right. Yuexia looks like she doesn't quite know what to do. "Fuck you, bitch," you supply her a line. "This was my favorite face." Bubblegum, ashen faced, a pallor of death, whateverthefuck, she's holding a rag against her shoulder hoping the strut didn't go through an artery. Slackjaw, he's down for the count, dead or unconscious.

"Y-you have spares?" Okay, good. Good good. She's getting it.

"Your's," you snarl. Oldhead steps in front of her.

"That's no way to speak to a lady."

"Fuck off and go to the retirement home."

Something within him snaps. Bubblegum's eyes widen. Yuexia steps away. There's froth in his mouth and his face is rapidly reddenning. "A retirement home? A fucking retirement home! I'll kill you you fucking swaddled baby son of a bitch you fucking tosspot you-"

He was there, cursing your general existence one moment, the next, his sword almost kisses your neck. Oldhead's fast, but he can't be that tough, can he? You let the sword whistle above you and hit his knee as he dashes by. "Little goddamn shit I'll boil your bones you bitch-" and of course he doesn't go down. He strikes downwards three times, you block the first, you try to block the second and the strut snaps. Before he lands the third you reverse your grip and plunge it into his gut.

A funny gurgling sound crawls out of his mouth. Fatal? He's old. Anything could kill him. "You… I'll weave a scarf," a hand latches around your throat. You let it, more out of interest than anything. "Out. Of. Your vocal cords." It constricts like a vise, a spider. You break his wrist and he drops, still staring at you like he's got lasers in his eyes.

You turn at Yuexia. She's staring at the oldhead, cradling his hand against himself. Or Bubblegum, breathing steadily as she stares up at the roof. Out the corner of your eye you see the temps peeking at you past a shelf. Aw, fuck. You're gonna have to keep fronting.

Your cheek throbs. You still walk like you're missing your knees. And the bruises Metalhead gave you are hurting and not in the fun way.

[1.2] {Wrathful Manifestation} "You. Double or nothing. Let's go."
[]- "You should call a doctor or something. Your buddies are all dead or dying."

 

[Laplace]

The qualia of mercy is not dispensed with. Sorta. "You should call a doctor." You reach a finger into your mouth. Your teeth only feel like they're loose. They're still rooted. For now. "They're all dead. Or they're all dying." Just leave, man. I'm tapped out for the night.

Yuexia's hand opened and closed around her sword. She looks at Oldhead, gurgling froth behind you. "If you leave," he says, eyes red and bloodshot. "I'll never. Tell you. Where. He. Is."

So she has reasons to larp vigilantism other than bougie flexing. That's surprising. You open a filing cabinet in your mind and toss that away. "You have two hours, I guess, of gasping on." You turn to Oldhead. "I think your curses are funny, and I hope you live. I want you to see me again and call me a bitch again."

"Fuck you, bitch. There. Now let her kill you."

You shrug. "I respect your commitment. But, you know. If you die, you won't be able to tell her whatever you wanted to tell her. On account of your, you know. Death."

"All this talking around won't solve anything!" A sword flashes, she's drawn it for dramatic effect, flourishing it in the warehouse. Your eyes follow it. "I'll beat the stuffing out of you before the ambulance gets here!"

"I respect that spirit. And in that spirit, drop your sword," you invite, "seein' as the only thing I've got is this kinda spear." You look down. The half that would have formed the tip is in Oldhead's gut. "Kinda half a spear."

"No."

"Fuck."

She came at you like a moonlight spectre, you exploded forward like a cannonball. She was a world apart from this one, each of your steps left deep prints in the concrete floor. You thrust the metal spar at her and the thing just passes through her. You blink. Everything still hurts. This isn't a hallucination. You'd feel a lot better if it was.

"First round goes to me," she says smugly.

"I want to rub your dumb face against a cheese grater," you reply. There's no blood on the strut. Was that some sort of qigong? Man, you wish you knew how to do that.

"Jealousy is a sign of a small mind," she grins in an even smugger way. "Take this! Moon Scar-Sword!" Then she-

She's above you. Her sword like a guillotine. You duck forward, stumbling and feeling that cold steel pass so close to your neck. Then she roundly clouts you about the head with her free hand, landing behind you in a flutter of cloth. The world rings, distant and tinny. You turn. "Did you fuckin' call out your attack?" You're ok. Just rattled. Next time you're breaking her nnnwait you're on the same side.

"Yeah?" Youxia raises an eyebrow, resting her scabbard on her shoulder. "Why, is there a law?"

"No," you admit, turning the strut in lazy circles, "but it's sort of cringy, isn't it?"
"Oh, you say what's right and what's wrong now? The guy that looks like Pharaoh Tut, but as like a washed up forty year old pretending he's still a high school rebel."

"I'm younger than that," you reply, lacking any better rebuttals.

"Okay. Thirty years old!"

"Fuck the both of you!" Oldhead. He's still alive. Wow. "Do the fucking job you were paid to do!"

"Eh, four out of ten. Could be better." You waggle a hand. Youxia nods under her hood.

"I will beat you like a taiko drum."

"There we are! See, this is the kind of material I expect, y'see- wow rude." Youxia's blade, reflecting the moon from the windows, slices in front of your eyes and you grab her wrist and squeeze. Your fingers hook into the flesh between her bones. So she's made of flesh after all. Not moonlight and trust fund money. Imagine that. Sweat beads on her brow. You trained for this. Uncle had you squeezing rocks until you could crush them in your grip. Youxia would feel her bones creaking together and this pressure, her veins and arteries rubbing together until they feel like they would pop-

She hits you with the end of her scabbard. Your teeth rattle. You think one of your pearly whites is leaving the gums. One cut turns into two. Two cuts turn into three. If her wrists hurt, Youxia isn't letting it show.

You are losing. Slow and certain. With each clash, the strut gets carved down, from a meter to three quarters to half until it's just a nub above your fingers, each time, she opens a long, thin cut across your arm, your shoulders and your sides. You're faster than her. Stronger. Every time you move your limbs snap like gunshots. Just that she's never there where you expect. You could blame how Metalhead broke you into bits, you could blame sleep deprivation but honestly she's just pretty good, you think as you toss the last ten centimeters of steel at her face and pedal back.

You wish you had a cheese grater. Her sword whips over you as you dive into a tackle. She vaults over you before you could grab her.

Now you are pacing around each other. You miss Metalhead, you think as you watch her for any moves. Harder than it looks. Her raincoat is pretty baggy. He might have beaten you into a pulp but he didn't do any of this tricky dick you'll never hit me shit. And the thing is, you consider, making an abortive jab to her eyes, she has the absolute advantage. Light enough to just flow around anything you can throw at her. And she's got a not shit sword, and you're not nearly good enough to beat her barehanded unless you want to shove your gangrenous body into it and go from there.

Which uh. Why do you care, again? Really. Why do you care? You're working together.

Fuck, you just don't want to lose. She doesn't want to lose. If you ask her she'll laugh and keep beating you like a taiko drum.

So it goes.

"Hey!"

A stick hits you and clatters against the floor. "What the hell?" You turn. Ming Ming pointing at Hairshock. Hairshock pointing at Ming Ming.

"It wasn't me!" both of them say.

"Both of you are dead when I get my gut fixed," Oldhead snarls.

"Zero out of ten." You kick the staff up. Geeze. It just feels good. Light and whippy. You twirl it around yourself and it's like you never lost your old one. Wait, which old one? It's darker, finished oak of some kind.

"So, uh," Youxia coughs, "Are we gonna-"

You were always an early starter. Before she finishes her sentence the tip of the pole pieces where her eye were. She's in a backflip, one hand wrapped around the end and you slam her against the floor. A dinner plate sized crater manifests, Youxia bounces like a basketball. When she tries to get up she finds you next to her and for once she blocks, the flat of her blade nearly touching her forehead.

She disappears in a swirl of white. You throw an elbow on a guess and it hits something soft and squishy. Youxia backs away, choking and you scythe out her legs and point the pole at her.

"Fuuuck," she swears. "I give. I give."

"Cool beans," you say and help her up. "Call an ambulance or something. Hey, oldie, you still up?" You walk over to the old man. "Feel like walkin', or do I need to help you up?"

"I am going to skin you with your own teeth," he says, carefully picking himself up. "And wipe my ass with it. No. Help that big lunk." He goes to help Bubblegum. Slackjaw is heavy, but not that heavy. The five of you work in silence. You feel like you're the one making it awkward. The car they came in guns away under the moonlight, a fifth man, a driver, at the driver's seat.

Man, you could really go for a smoke right now.

What Happens Afterwards?
[]- Kirishima's here. All six feet of fury, scar tissue, and cigarette smoke, asking about this, asking about that.
[]- A moment of peace before you pass out. Just you, the temps, and the manager, having an easy talk.

A/N: Apologies for the break.

 

[Laplace]

There's something to be said about the mummy look, you consider as you sit and reapply your bandages in a cleared area of the warehouse. The bloody scraps are easy to replace and there's a minimum of blood on your jacket. You'll still have to get a new one, Youxia tore this one up pretty good. The biggest thing that's bothering you right now is your cheek. You shoved a wad of gauze against it but it still feels like it's going to split open every time you open your mouth too wide. Ouyang Meng's pillbox is half empty now. You took one, and when the pain didn't go away you took another and then another until you feel like the world is made out of opium smoke and cobwebs.

A breath rattles out of your lungs. A knot of guilt and the morning's jianbing sits in your gut.

"Hey, uh, a moment?" The two temp kids, squatting down opposite you. This time it's hairshock that appointed himself ambassador to the world without. "How you holding up?"

You waggle a hand. "Could be better. Could be worse. It could be raining. Can I bum a smoke?" Ming Ming passes one to you with a lighter. "Thanks."

All is right in the world.

You exhale the first drag, burning your lungs with tarry smoke when Hairshock asks, "is it, like, normal to be that polite?"

You shrug. "I dunno. What's normal?"

"Like, for jiexia," he waves a hand. Your eyes lazily track it. "I've been at uh. Ground zero? And usually they just stomp the shit out of anyone who's down."

"I'm not that kind of violent murderman," you honestly say. "Where'd you find this?" You flick the staff leaning against the wall next to you. "It's way too good, too good to be lying around here."

"Guy before you had it," Ming Ming says, lacing her fingers behind her hair. "After this dude from Wu Manor turfed him to the emergency room we kept it. Was gonna sell it for beer money."

"Respectable," you nod. You'd probably do the same thing, really. But probably for harder shit. "Did you know my predecessor?"

"Some jackass with two of those things. Kept on going on about how he had three heads and six hands like he was in a movie. Then he got both of his legs super broken. Er"

"You're leading up to something." Her hands play with one of her pigtails. "Is this about Oldhead? I wouldn't mind him. He's all talk. Went down like a chump. I could take ten of him."

"Yeah, you can." Ming Ming picks up a pebble, a chip of concrete from that hole you smashed in the floor ten meters away. "I can't. And now we just helped you roll him. So."

"We're kinda fucked," Hairshock adds.

"Aren't you sanhe kids? Eat, sit, and wait for death is your motto." The pebble hits your head and clatters against the floor. "Ow," you say for the sake of appearances.

"Starvation's one thing but the yaks are another. I don't wanna get chopped to bits."

"Join Kirishima full time, then. Apparently he's not total shit."

She runs a hand through her hair. "You're a fucking help. Shoulda let the weirdo beat you up. Are you high? You sound high as fuck."

Your head rolls like a bobblehead. You rattle the pillbox. Ha. You trapped yourself in this thing. Hadn't expected them to glom onto you like a limpet, but there you are. "These painkillers are really goood. I'm on cloud nine right now. Sorry. Do you want me to do something or what?"

She leans in close. "Some protection against Oogami would help."

[1.2] {Harmonious Society} "Okay, fine. I'll talk to Kirishima and get him to uh. Do some shit for you."
[1.2] {Wrathful Manifestation} "Gimmie a number. I'll get a phone tomorrow and if you get in trouble you can call me."
[1.1] {Chase the Red Sun} "I'll uh. I'll go find Comrade Hong. And ask her to help the proletariat. I guess?"
[]- "Lol. Lmao." Just blow them off.

---

The next morning finds you in Flay's van, buzzing with electronics. You greeted Youxia- who arrived first with an ice-pack on her wrist- with a quiet nod and waited for Flay to bring another powerpoint (seriously why) on the monitors. "Okay! Good job last night, Kirishima and Oogami are both pretty pissed, from what I can tell from the drones."

"You droned them?" Youxia asks. You're too intent on this bag of chicken nuggets to ask questions.

"Microdrones near their offices," she confirms. "Set'em up while y'all were interviewing. Anyway-"

"Typical for an American to use drones," you say through a mouthful of dubious meat.

"-ha, good one, Kirishima and Oogami're both mad. As hell. Did they tell you to do anything yet?"

"The slitmouth told me to leave. He wants me to come back this afternoon for something." She flicks you a Look. "I'm sorry, can you stop chewing so loudly?"

"No. Fight the system." She growls deep in her throat but you go on. "Anyway nah, I haven't gotten anything yet. Actually, can I bum a phone? I need it. Oh, thanks." You catch a black square of plastic that flies in the dimly lit van. It's a flip phone. "Is there anything new going on?"

The computers hum. Shouldn't she be using solid states? Who even wants to use air cooled stuff these days? "Yeah. We have some lieutenants -on their own initiative- setting up peace talks. We could fuck with that, or we could try to cut at their base."

The Next Move
[]- Forget it. It's Gangland: Start peeling off gangs from Oogami and Kirishima. Off some middlers while pretending to be from Oogami slash Kirishima.
[]- Strike the Head: You know what really would cramp up the plan? Moderates. Gank the lieutenants and make it look like the other guy did it.

A/N: Not the biggest fan of this update, but hey, it's up.

 

[Laplace]

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.