Jiji’s Mimosa Table. Sitting between the front and back facing seats. Pamphlets advertising the different transmission-fluid cocktails these clanks drunk.
Sake, vodka, rum.
The usual alcoholic beverages, I guess.
What a beaut it is, though. Like its daring you to ask why it’s a drop-shaped wooden statue that drips up with a ‘fuck you’ to gravity.
“GRR! Underage matrons are not to be served alcohol beverages—”
Shit!
Jiji’s glaring shifty-eyed daggers at me. Damn rear view mirrors!
“Don’t fault a girl for trying …” I say, sheepishly sheeping into my chair.
He rolls his eyes before looking ahead.
I guess reading those pamphlets is my only way to kill time.
So, I crumple one., and I wonder how many can I throw at him before he reacts?
“You want me to crash this plane?”
Damn rear-view mirrors. I slowly lower the pamphlet projectile.
“It’s not every day you get to see the city this high up. Why not take a look—”
Holy fucking shit the madman opened up the fucking floor, is he out of his mind—oh. One-way floor-monitors. Crustiest of geezer flash-ware—woah.
The buildings are speckless mirrors. The cars driving upon the black glass arteries of Tokyo’s highway glow a creamy chromatic of peach, pink and blue from the braggers. A dark speck blasting full brights from the laggers. We were so high up that no amount of squinting could tell me the brands. Towers shaped like bone cabinets, or cola-dark blocks that are drowning a glowing mascot, or product.
“That’s so … pretty.”
“Yeah,” Jiji says. “Especially for you, kid.”
I look up at him at him.
“What do you mean?”
He glances up at the mirror to meet my eyes.
“You get the corpo-preem treatment.”
I mean it looks really fucking cool, with the floor open and all that, but to call this preem?
“You know what I see when I look down there?”
My eyes land on an adorably grumpy scraper—its body curved into an upside-down U, two blocky ‘eyebrows’ locked in a frown.
“A workplace, I guess?”
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He’s quiet for a beat, and I see his eyes scanning the face of Tokyo.
“Wish I could see that. Sounded cute.”
I try stand slightly to point down to the right, but the belt holds me down.
“Right there, Ji! Look! Crank those eyes up, oyaji-yarou! The building that looks like it’s frowning.”
He takes a deep breath before he looks ahead again.
“Not according to my eyes.”
“Dude, like… look sorta below-right of you. Can’t miss it. Buildings around it looking like cabinets.”
“I see whales.” he says, a soft smile in the rear view mirror.
“The city, or the animal?” I say, no beats missed.
“… You mean the country?” he says, eyebrow raised like a smug a-hole.
“How the fuck can you see a country down there?”
“No, I mean—.”
That’s on Jiji for thinking I’m fucking dumb.
“No, Kumori. I hear a whale crooning,” he says, slowly looking over his shoulder at me. “It’s whale song’s about ‘’.”
“Huh?”
He nods as he turns forward again.
“Brag-ware claiming it can reach frequencies that not even ‘whales can’.”
“You mean… ?”
He snores a slurp from his mimosa-ware. “Adware targeted at me.”
“Designed for the crustiest .”
He snort-spat his drink with a grin.
“It’s strange how I hear the least expected things coming from you,” he says, looking ahead again. “Thought you said moms couldn’t foot the bill for school.”
I roll my eyes.
“School’s free in Japan, Ji. Even the ‘fancy’ ones. Just based on proximity.”
“And they all are way past yours?”
“Nope.”
Getting off the pilots chair, he takes a seat before Jiji’s Mimosa Table. Knocking on wood, a glass pops down from the three prongs spewing into it. He takes his drink.
“I see.”
Bet you see through me to the marrow with your adware oculars.
“Kira, the dear light of the Hikari family,” he says, taking a sip. “A who needs her own daughter to look after—”
Crumple-ball thrown, strikes him right in the eye. He didn’t flinch. Killed his smug smile though.
“About your employment, Kumori.”
I look away, arms crossed. Jiji knowing about moms tells me one thing—she’s fucking up with him, and this fucker probably thinks he’s gonna get all fatherly with me about it. He tries to catch my eyes. See it at the corner of my eye.
“Kid… the last gig you done traumatized the client.”
Oh this is just one of the richest fucking things he could have ever told me. I scoff, shake my head at the damn notion of an artsy fucker getting icky over some gruff delivery.
“Got it to him in time, though.”
“Of course you did. You had an hour to deliver something that was 15 minutes away.”
“Bullshit,” I say snickering as I look at him. “If that’d be the case—”
“Kid—you said you needed to warm up—and that took you about half an hour to complete.”
He sets the drink on the table.
“Afterwards? You landed right outside of my damn house—“
“Cube.”
“Whatever.”
Ain’t letting his ass thinking it’s something it ain’t.
“And then? You only had four minutes left—which you figured were enough since, you’d probably just improvise, right!?”
I squint at him. Thinking he knows shit about me, huh? Crossing my arms, don’t even spare him another minute of my attention—
“So you took the tram. Literally. And almost fucking died, kid.”
Damn, Jiji. Had to pull out the vibrato-chords, did you?
“, you’re being too damn dramatic about it all—“
“Kumori. You are not chipped out. You cannot do the fucking stunts you tried to.”
“Sure seemed like I could to me. I’m still here, aren’t I!?”
“She fucking said missing the goddamn point—teenagers, I swear to God.”
The hovercraft lands, autopilot stopping on a pad in Akihabara.
“Kid, you have to understand—when I hire a ‘ganic, I give them the necessary means to complete a gig without them ending up painting the town red with their own fucking blood.”
He stands up and opens the door.
“You, on the other hand, seem to have other ideas.”
The chocolate-bar staircase clicks into place.
“Alright,” I say, stumbling as I try to stand up. I unclasp the damn belt, and stand up. “Don’t get why you gotta be so dramatic about it all, Ji.”
He stands before the door, and looks at me, before he takes a deep breath.
“Gokurousama. O-Genki de.”
I swear to god, this guy is too fucking dramatic.
“Alright, saraba, Rōjin-yarou.”