RONIN

Arcady lights ding with electrifying promise.

The Pearl Lounge shines pale blue LEDs along the crowded sidewalk, patrons walking in and out, hammered, jovial. Alcohol sloshing to and fro from half-drunken bottles splashing at their feet. One crosses the street and bumps Shintarou on the way out with eyes like metal nuts and tubing lodged down their throat to power a respiratory filter. He shoves them and leans against a lead-scored brick wall tagged with graffiti. Not his vibe. Not his scene. The Pearl Lounge is a place for wannabe has-beens looking for a shred of regard. The usual squealers of self-importance - high collared, fancy cars, flashy cosware. Jewelry dangling in out the open whining to be snatched.

Suits pass through here, the sophisticated types, the types who sell their soul to get ahead of the corporate playing field. Shintarou's here for one of them, the one chowing on noodles clear as plastic - Cascade Fukuhara. He sits with a lieutenant of the Suzuki-Han, shrouded by a group of their soldiers - dark suits with pearlescent eyes, the boogeymen of Little Osaka, likely discussing Kitano Grade arms. His silver cyber hand jerks as he raises his wine glass for a toast.

Shintarou twirls his musashi as he watches. A rude handgun, heavy and liable to blast you in half, silver metal for a finish engraved with a row of suns tracking the nose. Heavy steel like that for a Street-Razor is a brutal and effective tool for murder.

He kills for a living. The usual hits vary from a roster of pedophiles, rapists, and suits. There's catharsis to plugging marks that get his blood boiling. He's a Street-Razor by trade, a Ronin by way of life. Been killing since he was six, then it was gang killings, an unsuspecting element of surprise for the Qilin Kicks. Then he's suddenly 17 and moves on, hungry for more, getting higher profile marks, no thug looking over his shoulder for a percent. Now he picks his own contracts - his own sport.

Cascade raped Seiko Murakami, a waitress who put every cent into propelling him six feet under. Four thousand to do him, and no one wants to do him. Too hazardous for health to wipe out the Silver Snake of the Kitano Corporation. Got threads across Nirvana's meat grinder; the 50 Kokei, Kirinkikku, and the Black Dragons. The real authorities in Shima even the STAT can't crack down. 

Shintarou spits at the idea, rage consuming him like radioactive decay.

—-------------------—---------------------------------

Time's on fast-forward, cars spill onto the street like black streaks, coughing smog. The crowd thins, less rowdy. There's a smell of copper in the air like old blood. Clouds gather in the dead current that is the amber sky, bleeding through the narrow cracks of the daunting sprawl of skyscrapers.

Cascade exits with his leftovers neatly tied in a handkerchief, shaking hands with the eldest of the Suzuki-Han as they depart in a limousine. He walks to the parking lot in the back. Shintarou follows him, trigger-happy. He checks his ammo to ease into the oncoming rush - an 8-shot cylinder stares back at him intensely, "quick and nasty," it tells him. He grinds his teeth.

Cascade fumbles with the key to his white Tesla when he's startled by the cold steel of the musashi pressing into the back of his skull. His food goes splat across the ground. Shintarou presses the steel harder as Cascade elevates his hands.

"Easy, man. Chill." He slowly turns and faces him, the neon in his eyes goes dim. "You want money? I got money, man. Lots of it. Name your price."

"I don't want your money. Seiko Murakami sends her regards."

"Seiko Murakami? The fucking waitress?"

Shintarou nods.

"Guess you're one of those fucking Street-Razors then, huh? Just peachy."

He stumbles. Shintarou's eyes drift for a moment as Cascade sidesteps the gunshot. His metal hand shifts into a big fist, decking Shintarou, and sending him rolling as the musashi slips out of his hand and slides to the edge of a gutter. The muscle graft along his chest cushions the impact and for a second, he can't breathe. A quick spit and he scrambles to his feet.

Cascade bolts for him, spinning a kick into his gut, sending him flying into the front window of a Mustang, shattering the glass. It goes dark. He flashes awake, senses assaulted by the bustling climate. He picks glass out of his eyebrow and lifts himself, second heart pumping adrenaline on overdrive.

"You shouldn't get too cocky, Razor." Cascade grunts. He winds himself, loosens his joints, and cracks his neck. He's spry with hardware you wouldn't expect beneath that white suit. Respiratory bio mods, joints reinforced with titanium, enhanced speed. He moves fast. He's liquid.

Shintarou dashes. Cascade throws a punch, aiming for the center of his head. He ducks, a short blade shrieking out from between his knuckles, slicing Cascade's abdomen.

The gravity sets in as he holds the place of impact, panting.

Shintarou takes a quick breath, struggling to get all the air in as he gashes out their face, backing from a retaliating elbow. Cascade growls, slugging his blows. Shintarou weaves through them, slashing at his arms. The next blow breaks through a smidge away from his nose. He whirls, tucks their arm, and snaps it open.

The crack booms.

Cascade stumbles. Shintarou kicks his face, knocking out his teeth. He vomits them up, broken arm twitching. Shintarou takes a few steps away and grabs his musashi, wiping off the grime.

Cascade pulls himself up, trembling as Shintarou straightens his wrist.

"You should've stayed still."

"Wait—"

Shintarou fires.

Cascade holds his stomach, guts spilling onto his hand. Another bullet flies into his neck and he gargles. Fleeing to the alleyway, he crashes through trash as the way ahead is more congested, hanging on the fence blocking his path.

Shintarou lights a Marlboro as he follows, pumping rounds through Cascade's back, who convulses, fence wire bunched between his metal fingers. Blood gushes into a pool beneath him as he kisses the cold wet pavement. Shintarou stands over him and plugs the last round into the back of his skull. Heart rate 195 to 0, flatlined. He stuffs the musashi into the front of his pants, takes a long puff, and checks the dent in his chest, gliding his fingers across the impact dealt to the graft.

"Shit." He pinches the end of the cigarette and tosses it.

—-------------------—---------------------------------

The city screams, bloated corpses within maggot-filled alleys are picked at by stray dogs. Smashed-out windows on buildings every shot of the way ahead. Gasoline fires edge the street crowded by homeless, desperate for food, waving around knives, bottles, and whatever scrap they can get their hands on. Gangs pop shots at them, scrambling to keep their place of business approachable, defended, handing out Agent Summer like it's cheap hard candy for profit.

Shintarou pats off the last bit of glass as he shoves through a group of thugs who eye him like a pack of hungry, cybernetic piranhas. Dog Jaws - red neon hair, ragged clothes, scorching irezumi like hot plasma. Flashbacks of what their kind to him did are on replay. He hears the screams - a woman's voice calling out to him - Ivy's. Echoing far until it rings in his ears.

A cry for help.

"Got a fucking problem, Street Waste?" A thug taunts him with a jagged kitchen knife as he takes a few steps away. He primes the musashi and reloads it. Then it hits him, forcing its way in - that insurmountable pain. He stops his hand.

"What's the matter? Scared of a little fucking knife?"

Shintarou ignores him. Ignores those thoughts that'll get him killed, no matter how sweet they sound on a platter. He's still got business, still got to give hope to an otherwise lost soul. He stuffs away the musashi and the thug laughs as he keeps walking.

—-------------------—---------------------------------

A mile out of Shima, into Pengsha, he visits Xiao. There's a restaurant there - Mama Liu's. Fried chicken stinks like old sweat, the steam mixing with cigarette smoke wafting out the front heavy enough to get you buzzed. It's packed inside. Wrong orders all around as people make a fuss, clawing for receipts and waving firearms around like toys - even the cooks.

The tall, well-built man at the door examines Shintarou with chrome eyes he can see his reflection in. Shintarou notes the Uzi he's got strapped to his shoulder that he's probably itching to use. He isn't going to be his excuse, keeping his head down as he finds a seat at a booth, past the heads of a few thugs wired to a SID - Simulated Interface Device - the portable black orb at the center. It's likely a snuff experience by the way they jerk around.

Shintarou's stomach churns at the thought. He's recorded a few while he was down bad. Anything to make a cici.

Stimulation via murder, via torture. The endless pit of a depraved live interface recording off the street.

He ripped out his recording implant years ago. Didn't like the taste it left in his mouth. Didn't like the newer gigs his former employer wanted him to be part of. Gigs of a sick and twisted kind. And for that, one day, he has enough and walks up to their office, sparks up a friendly enough conversation about the weather, and just when things are getting boring, he blasts them like you would a sick fucking dog, and burns a cigarette into their forehead for better measure on his way out.

The place used to be a rundown post office building renovated into something else entirely - something seedy, something you can't wash off in the shower. The guilt of running with those types sticks with you, clinging to every cell of your being. There isn't a night Shintarou doesn't go to sleep, and nightmares conjure up those memories of what he did and had to do. It's his forever curse.

He orders the steak lo mein and a bottle of baijiu to wash out the thoughts, and chows down while he waits for Seiko.

When she shows, the air is different. It's still and it gives him chills. She's the petite one in the orange blouse. Black hair, shoulder length. Eyes covered with deep black shades. There's a bandage wrapped around her throat, a little foundation to cover the bruises.

She clutches her purse as if alien to her surroundings, ready to kick up and run out, fast. She finds Shintarou and sits across from him. He fingers his yellow bandana, airing out the sweat. He can taste it. Seiko leans on the table, scanning the place, paranoid. She edges her neck out. Shintarou shakes his bottle of baijiu for her attention.

"Want some?"

She shakes her head, crossing her arms. He takes a swig. 

"Is he dead?"

"He's cold," Shintarou says to ease her mind. She uncrosses her arms and lifts her shades to reveal sapphire eyes. Shintarou loses himself within. 

"Here." She wires him the four thousand. She's on her feet a second after. Shintarou taps his fingers, feeling condemnable.

Then it happens. He pops up and follows her out of the restaurant. He grabs her arm, she jumps, zips around.

"You'll need this." He wires back three thousand of the four thousand.

"Why?" She asks. Shintarou lets her go. He lights a Marlboro, offering a drag as he coughs against his dent. She takes one, the taste of her lipstick is sweet as he plops it back into his mouth.

"Why'd you give me the cicies?" She leans against the wall. He takes a second to answer.

Blue neon hangs above, drenching them, igniting Seiko's eyes.

"Don't let this place take everything from you."

"It already has."

He offers her the last of the cigarette. She takes it, hesitantly. He leans closer, a tiger prowling along his neck inked in green.

"You need to keep your head down. Lay low."

The amber sky falls, clouds invade, and the rain is pouring hard. Decadence shows itself up the street in neon, lights flickering as holograms make their way along the sidewalk, repeating scripts, repeating street performances.

"Why do you stay here if there is so much suffering?" Seiko flicks the last stick of ash. The question catches him by surprise. He goes still, his breathing faint. A knot ties itself beneath his two hearts.

The question stings the more it repeats in his head.

"Because I have to."

"Why do you have to?"

"This city and I have a long history. It ain't over yet." He raises the collar of his jacket. The two stir in silence a little longer, until the light above starts to flicker. He pushes off the wall.

"I have to go."

"Wait—"

Shintarou stops.

Seiko writes something down on a piece of paper, her direct line.

"If you ever want to talk." She nervously clutches her shoulder. Shintarou takes it. He shoves it into his raincoat pocket, vanishing into a cloud of mist. 

—-------------------—---------------------------------

Shintarou rides the bus back to Shima to his apartment in Little Osaka, rain like bullets against the windshield. He pays his fee, climbs the steps, and passes the neon Coca-Cola sign into the ramshackle he calls home. Buckets and pans fill with water creeping from the boards. Smells old. Musky. The place is a hair away from crumbling and Shintarou braces for it.

He wires the four hundred from the job to for his electric bill. Another one hundred for the water.

"Leeches."

He throws off his coat, pulls the red fender off the window seal, and plugs the amp into the box resting beneath a pile of books. Flopping onto the cushioned chair at the center of the room, he slips a pic out of his bandana. As he plucks the guitar back into tune, he's interrupted by a last-minute call from an unknown line and answers.

[Shintarou Lee?] The voice in his head asks.

[How'd you get this line?]

[A friend of yours referred you. Don't worry. We're running a Seishin blocker. One-way tunnel between me and you.]

Shintarou drops the guitar, primes his Musashi, and checks outside his window for any movement within the storm.

[I smell trouble.]

[Enemies are easy to come by.]

[Who'd you say was this friend of mine?]

[Isamu Nakajima.]

Shintarou takes a second to follow up. [Make it fast.]

[Good. I need your services, Razor.]

[Usual bag and tag?]

[No. I'm hoping to recruit you for a small operation. One with a lot of cred attached. High risk. A lot of heat.]

[Details?]

[Details will be expelled once you and I have a sit-down. Lots to discuss. Too much over the line.]

[How do I know this isn't a stick-up?]

[You picked up the line. It'd already be your funeral. Mr. Lee, time is wasting. I'd prefer an answer immediately, as I am looking into a few more candidates for the job. I'd appreciate your cooperation.]

Shintarou taps the musashi against his temple. [I'm in.]

[Wonderful. The name is Ricardo Trang. You can call me Rico. I look forward to our future together, Razor. Isamu will call you with the details, set you up right. That he will. Now, I bid you farewell. And thank you for your time.] The line cuts. Shintarou lights a Marlboro, picks up the guitar, and plops down in the chair. He dips his head over the arm, strumming slowly to collect his thoughts.

—-------------------—---------------------------------

Red and blue hues from the Coca-Cola sign sink into the apartment. Shintarou lowers the guitar and slings the strap over the chair. His muscles ache like there's battery acid in his joints as he stands. He pours a glass of water in the small ivory kitchen, tastes the bitterness. It smells rotten, a fruit rotten. He smacks his lips and sets the glass down, eyes gliding towards the bed nailed to the floor to a battered frame of drawers packed beneath.

He punches to get one open, and out slides a SID. He sickeningly holds the black sphere between his slender fingers, examining his distorted reflection within the glossy surface.

"I have to see you again." He slumps on the bed, memory foam all the way to his ears. He hesitates as he plugs the SID into the processing implant on his temple. Euphoria rushes through him as his muscles settle into the cold sheets, and he gravitates into a white light of consciousness, ascending him into the distant memory.

"Your favorite spot." He hears his voice call out from the abyssal clear as the heat rises. Water crashes onto the rocky shores of Orion Beach. Fire spits out of pipelines, igniting the skies. The bustling nightmare of Nirvana looms behind as the distant ringing of STAT sirens, gunfire, screams, and bloodshed are cased within. He sits before the water reaches its end, digging his hands into the sand, shuffling bits of metal and sun-kissed plastic.

He faces Ivy, caresses the construct of her image, her curly locks entangled within his fingers. Her cheek is soft espresso skin. Her almond eyes luminescent chrome, study his rugged features.

She moves her lips to speak, hesitating, "I'm pregnant."

Shintarou rises from a slouch, more surprise than she's ever seen on his face.

"Is it mine?"

Ivy lowers his hand.

"If it wasn't, I sure as hell wouldn't tell you." She laughs, as does Shintarou, whose shock turns into a glimmer of a smile.

"I don't know what to say."

"Then how do you feel?"

"I don't know how I feel."

"It's okay, Shin. It's okay." Ivy rubs his back, goosebumps arise along the nape of his neck.

"It's not. I kill people for a living. What the hell could I ever teach a child?"

"Everything you have done you have done for survival. Nothing more, nothing less. Besides, maybe in our own little fucked up way, they'll find what you do rad!" Ivy punches his arm. He unties his bandana, squeezes it, the sweat dripping from his palm.

"Where would we go?"

"Anywhere but here. Anywhere but this city. The longer we stay here, the more the fucking worms eat us, right?" Ivy lights a Marlboro, passes it to him.

"You shouldn't smoke." Shintarou takes a drag.

"Yeah, well, this is my last one. Promise."

"Sure." Shintarou ponders places beyond Nirvana, beyond the desert wastes. "How about Alaska."

"Alaska," Ivy pauses, a smile creeping slowly on her face, "whoo.. I see you. Far, far away. I dig it."

"We'll need money."

"Where do you plan on getting it?"

"Leave that to me."

"Just be careful, alright?"

"Always, Ivy." Shintarou scoots closer, wraps his arm around, looking deep into her eyes, his reflection faint within the chrome.

"I love you. I know I don't say it much, but I do. So just be careful, okay?"

"I will—" the recording abruptly cuts. Shintarou beams back to reality, the confines of his apartment narrow. He lays there, a black hole of agony gaping in his chest. He yanks out the SID and clutches to it, rolling over on his side. The overwhelming dread invades after a brief dopamine high as he closes his eyes to the dream. The dizziness spinning him in and out of the darkness to an unsalvageable future that turns to ash.