Chapter 6


    Teach’s bar, Adachi Ward. Built directly out of the middle part of a 40-something story skyscraper—it looks like a protruding tumor that reaches for whoever happens to get close.


    Carving into half the double-decker highway turned sidewalk I currently stood on, it used to be an old newsroom building. Now? He’s refurbished it into the place of zero fucking subtlety—where gossip comes to thrive for the oldest of babas, to the “slickest” zakos thinking they’re getting the latest scoop.


    A literal, and physical information highway—if that highway was the town’s bicycle.


    A holobanner sashes the building, his logo covering a tenth of it. The rest of the holobanner real estate went for the adware that probably chipped a few ￥ennies off his rent.


    I push open the doors—heavy, since there were no engines to whir them up—and get blasted by airborne recycled food oil mixed with hand sanitizer and moldy chestnut. Damn sting has me double-take for a nosebleed.


    Seems like Teach is going for a ‘grungy and gritty’ atmosphere for his clientele. That or he’s probably too damn cheap to fix his damn air conditioner.


    Got past the front guard seeing as there was no fucking front guard. Ought to be every teens dream, huh?


    No guard to ID-check. Meaning nothing stopping you from all-you-can drink booze-buffet—well, except for the fact that you’d most definitely never want to black-out here.


    Whole place was in shambles. Being a former newsroom, the ceiling should’ve held a lattice of cushioned tiles and light panels, but instead looks like a trypophobic nightmare. Ceiling lights hung by their plugs—some still working fine, others strobing a seizure out of you. Rug would’ve squished if the trash-soup people spilled on it hadn’t dried up.


    Felt real crusty—like stepping on wooden bubble-wrap.


    Walking through the isles, the patrons sneer and grin at me as if they’re worth a damn in my playbook.


    Underneath the second story steps were two two fellas sitting by a faded poker table. One wearing a trench coat with samurai-shoulder pads flattened to sleek boards, the other not wearing his skin, a borg showing the human anatomy, if it was sponsored by bootleg organs and muscle fiber.


    Fucker had nothing to hide, and nothing to show.


    “Hey,” I lean in with an elbow on the table “You know where Teach’s at?”


    “The shore,” says the dinner-plate samurai.


    “She said Teach, not beach, you crashhead!”


    “Know she ain’t said shit worth hearing, though!”


    They laughed like their life depended on it—each hyuck sounding like it was exhaled through a spinning metal fan made of thin strands. Can’t tell if they’ve burned their squawk-boxes drinking, or if they’re working as advertised.


    I stare the trench coat samurai dead in the eye, and he stares right back, grinning even more, before he nods at someone behind me. Looking back and I see Teach swiping a rag across the bar counter underneath the second story staircase.


    “Spend a ￥ennie—patch them vocals up, yeah?” I say, smirking with a nod.


    Made them snicker again—this time sounding steel whool being dragged through a cheese grater.


    Talk about vocal range.


    I walk towards the bar Teach is standing at. He is serving a single patron—a de-gruffed shozaku (corpo smallfry).


    I sit beside him on a bar stool and tap the counter to steal Teach’s attention.


    Teach steals a glance my way, before beelining it to his dishwasher.


    The lid pops open. A plume of sterilized steam baptizes him into a blissful, wide-eyed stare—shortcircin his brain.


    His eyes linger on the dishes, before he pulls out an invisibly clean mug. Grabbing a rag that’s traveled the whole fucking nine yards through everyone’s ass crack, he sullies the mug whilst making himself look busy.


    Real subtle, Teach.


    “Yo, Teach—“


    “What’s your neon-cyanide, Crepper?” he says, throwing his face to the zako next to me.


    “The usual fucking coolant. And make it extra fucking radiant.”


    Crepper’s voice was something different—a voombox (voice boombox) equalized with a cradling finesse tuned by the finest bootleggers. Like a podcaster turned news anchor from the gruffest newsroom there ever was.


    “Atta boy—gonna tear through those pipes proper, eh?”


    “One can only hope!”


    Teach rounds the corner and pulls out a bottle of vodka. Neon-cyanide, my ass. He fills the mug he rag-fondled, and then adds some blue crap that’s glowing (which is probably edible food coloring), before he heads back to Crepper to plonk a toothpicked olive into it.


    “One sip too deep, and you’ll be pissing neon for a week.”


    I swear—the things these clankers do to feel special.


    “Yeah—enjoy your neon-snot vodka.”


    Crepper splurts mid-sip, coughing glowing blue specks onto the counter. He swings his face at me, his glare growing four additional eyelids. He clicks and smacks his lips before dragging his sleeve across his mouth with a drawn-out sigh.


    “Why did you have to say it like that?”


    “Why the hell not?”


    “Kinda kills the vibe, doesn’t it?”


    “Oh?” I grin, barely stifling a giggle. “You must be from Roppongi.”


    He raises his hand to his face—other hand the fingering the damn sleeve. Manliest advertisement he’ll never be.


    “More refined than that.”


    “Toilet-scrubber in Azabu, then?”


    He turns towards me, pupils shrinking into pricks. Irises radiating, his thick and immaculately trimmed eyebrows press down to a botoxed scowl.


    Teach cracked into a cackle.


    “Nice seeing you here, Kumo-chan!”


    “Oh, now you notice me, senpai?”


    Crepper grins, shining his pearly whites like he was advertising them.


    “A firecracker, this one, eh?”


    “Yeah, popping up like your mortgage interest.”


    Crepper un-grins, his pearly whites shying like they should.


    “More like a damn weed, with that dandelion hair of yours.”


    Hey, that one was decent!


    “Ouch, went straight for the hairdo,” I say, snickering. “What else you got?”


    He rolls his eyes. “You lost, kid? Anything I can help you with?”


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    Teach comes back with another mug he was rag-fondling. He took a good look at me, before his eyes fell on the canister.


    “Light’s blinking on your take-out can, kid.”


    No way—it’s supposed to hold two freaking days. I quickly whip-spin the canister to look and—green blinking light. Meaning, the heat was gonna die soon, and the damn food would get cold once I got back.


    “For fucks sake, Ryo-Kata,” I growl under my breath whilst looking for the battery-compartment.


    Crepper’s fingers suddenly enter the scene—as they almost wrap around the top. I yank it away.


    “Get your own damn ramen, Creeper!’


    “It’s Crepper.”


    “I know what I said!”


    I pull up the canister again, and the green blip turned yellow. Shit—why the fuck is movement causing the thing to drain? Gotta find the fucking compartment—wait, what am I supposed to swap it with? Shit, I look at Teach—


    “Oh—that’s interesting,” Crepper says, his hands already laced on the damn thing again. “A kinetic canister—made for rocky deliveries. You’ve got something special in there, don’t you?”


    He grins at me, squeezing the botox out of his pores as his brows press down on his eyes.


    “Looks like it’s running out of heat.”


    Wish Crepper’d keep to himself, honestly.


    “Is that so?” I say, as I try to figure out how to open the damn battery compartment. There is a fucking button that’s pressable here, but the damn thing doesn’t even click, or swiff, or slide—no! It just fucking sinks, before doing fuck-all!


    “Let me give it a try—”


    “You wanna be less suspicious, zako-yarou!?” I say, slamming the cylinder on Teaches counter.


    He sighs, smug smirk still sliced on his lips. The silence draws out, and the yellow light starts blinking faster. He reaches for the canister, and with a quick spin-toss, he turns the blinking light towards himself, before his other hand reaches under it. He presses down the switch, before pulling something—and the damn canister opens up like a steaming babushka-doll. The two boxes inside looked the same—and the contents… still Mochi Usagi, and the sun. Huh.


    “Don’t worry, kid,” barely heard Crepper speak. “It’s an easy fix.”


    Couldn’t really see what he was doing. Sights blurred up a bit as I kept staring at the decoration Ryo-Kata had built. That asshole—I swear, he doesn’t get enough credit for his work.


    A golden glint coming from the corner of my eye draws my attention to Crepper—who was pulling out a fucking di-barelled snub-shotty from his inner pocket.


    “Y-YO!”


    It’s the perfect sawed-off shotgun to deal a kill-shot that doesn’t kill.


    “Easy, kid,” he says, shaking his head. He breaks open the sawed-off, and pulls out one of the batteries slotted in the barrel. He then pulls out the one from the food-canister, before slotting his shotty’s battery into it.


    Light shone a solid green again.


    “There ya go, oughta keep it juiced up for a while longer.”


    … Why did you do that? Shit, words didn’t come out.


    “… W… what do I owe you for it?”


    Come on, Kumori—get a proper voice. Stop sounding so wispy, girl.


    “Good grief, kid,” he says, laughing. “Who wrung you out and hung you up to die?”


    “I said, name your price, za… Crep.”


    He chortles. “My price? Is surviving that mopey face. It’s as lethal as my daughters’.”


    “Sorry,” I could barely fucking talk. “Today’s been a bit rough, that’s all.”


    Crepper remained quiet. Guess he had nothing to say.


    “Well, you’re in a bar, kid. What’s eating you up?”


    I scoff, rubbing my eyes—suddenly aware I’m exhausted.


    “More like what hasn’t.”


    “So—one of those days, huh?” Teach chimes in.


    “Yeah, where SAT-drones try to cozy you to a pulp.”


    Whole bar went dead silent.


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    A few beats pass, and I start hearing feet shuffle across the crusty rug. I snap my head left, then stand up and stare to the right. Teach, Crepper, and I were the only ones left in the pub. Finally, I look at Teach.


    “The fuck’s going on?”


    Teach exhales, deep and slow, scowling under half-lidded eyes.


    “Well, kid. Either you’ve gone fucking suicidal and disowned Kira as your mother—


    —or you’ve pissed off the wrong fucking ‘zako,’ and they’ve messed with your civ-status.”


    There we go. That’s why I came here. To listen to Teach’s cryptic bullshit instead of getting answers about the damn clingy SAT-drone.


    “… Yeah, kind of why I’m here, actually—”


    “Of course you are.”


    “Shit, Teach—thanks for the warm welcome.”


    He snarls, then exhales, shaking his head. “You’re putting us all in danger for being here, you know that, right?”


    “Yeah, motherfucker—just returning the investment.”


    “Excuse me?”


    I stand up, snarling back. “Teach! You fucking owe me!”


    Teach scoffs, shakes his head, and fucks off muttering some bullshit around the corner. Guess he needs time to cook up an excuse that won’t put him on the providing end of a favor.


    “Surprised to hear the old man owing anyone,” Crepper says, leaning back. “Usually goes the other way around.”


    I drag a slow glance his way.


    “Yeah—and Teach usually doesn’t skimp on the necessary deets for a gig.”


    I look over at Teach. “Had to improvise. Woke up in the ER.”


    I raise my voice, making sure Teach hears me. “And he said he fucking owed me for it!”


    Teach twists, and power-walks straight back to us.


    “You’re cashing in a broken chit, kid—this favor ain’t in the same league!”


    “Too bad, motherfucker! Because if I recall correctly, you said—what was it again?”


    He scowls.


    “Oh, don’t go shy now! Say it with me, Teach—‘Whatever you want, kid. I’ll fix it for you. Promise!’”


    We both stare at each other as if a gun would shoot the first one breaking eye-contact. He grits his teeth, a silent snarl. Don’t need such theatrics—he’s gotten the point.


    I pull out the red key-shard I yanked out of the drone’s mem-hole, and show it to him, the pretty little green circuitry glinting neatly under the strobing square-light.


    “You’re pissing off the wrong fucking people, kid,” he says, grumbling a sound equivalent to a rock slowly turning into liquid, before he dives underneath his bar and opens what could be considered a hatch to a hidden panic-room. He descends whatever steps were under the hatch, the sound getting more dull for every step.


    “… Did he just fucking delta out of the situation?” I ask Crepper. He just shrugs.


    Slowly, we heard the footsteps grow in volume, when Teach emerged again from his rabbit-hole.


    He throws a briefcase on the table—clicks, then clacks open its dual-latches, before it’s pneumatic springs yawns it open. He runs his hands over something within it—fingers clicking keys on a keyboard—face green-lit by a monitor inside.


    He clicks his tongue, head tilt of disapproval, and shakes his head.


    “You’ve really—REALLY—pissed off the wrong kind of people.”


    I roll my eyes. “Give it to me straight Doc - is it cyber-aids?”


    Mercy, that glare could melt rabbits.


    “You’re the only homeless person in Adachi Ward right now. And they’ve already released a ‘vaccine’ to remedy that.”


    “Shit—that bad, huh?”


    Teach clasps the briefcase shut again, putting it aside.


    “Yeah, and I’m not too sure I prefer having you here with that kind of heat on you.”


    “Yeah,” I say, looking at him. “That bad…. huh.”


    … I mean, maybe Kira has disowned me. Or better yet, maybe she’s dead. Either way, I ought to have gotten the memo. But no, Teach said I had just been… erased.


    As if that would’ve answered all my questions. I honestly have so many more questions.


    But honestly—the only one that I can think of now?


    “… Mind giving me a ride back home?”


    “Yes, I do mind—”


    “Kenzo-san. You smuggle people all the damn time. Don’t—”


    My throat constricts again. I am just so fucking exhausted. I am so fucking beyond exhausted.


    “Please don’t make me beg you.”


    I just can’t hold it in anymore. I grin, and I could taste the fucking salt of my tears running into my mouth.


    “Kid—good fucking grief, spare me the water works—”


    “You have a fucking Faraday-trunk for these things—”


    “And she’s an organic,” Crepper added. Thanks, Creps.


    “You should have ZERO issues … just giving me a fucking ride, man.”


    He grovels, I could see my fucking water works were inspiring him some too. Goddamn old fool was always too sensitive to admit it. Guess we’ve got that in common.


    “Kid just wants to enjoy a meal with her moms, Ken.”


    The fucking nerve Crepper had to sound so calm about it. Fuck Kira. It’s more that I need to get this shit back to her so that she gets sustenance, or else her sorry ass will probably starve to death.


    “Alright! Alright. Alright. Let me just—hold on,” his breath shudders out. “I need to make a few phone-calls. Gotta load up the blocker in the car.”


    He plants the phone to his ear, turns around, and walks down into the floor-door staircase. He stops two steps down.


    “Tag along, Kumori.”