Just before it seems the room will explode into violence, the second razorgirl grabs the first one’s wrist.
“Forget it, Karina. These filth aren’t worth it. Especially not over an otaku. Those noodles know more about fucking than he does. Probably stiffer too.”
Kiro flushes again, hands trembling in his lap.
The first one licks her lips hungrily, then slams the hilt back home into its sheath.
“You’re right. Let’s go somewhere civilized and get the stink of monkeys out of our hair. This pitiful little backwater bores me.”
They back up to the bead curtain and the second one ducks through, privacy mask rising to cover her face. The first one stares at me for several seconds longer, our eyes locked onto each other.
“I’ll remember you, little mouse.” She grins, jewel-fronted teeth glinting. “You, your insolent shopboy, and that ball-less lump. Next time, I’ll not leave without my fun. See you soon.”
The privacy mask turns her face to nothing, and the bead curtains rattle once more. Jase lets out a breath.
“Whew. Thought for sure the needlefish were going to get a second lunch there.” He turns the jolter off and returns it below the counter. “You okay, Ash?”
I don’t answer right away, trying to calm myself down, quiet the adrenaline coursing through my veins. It’s not an encounter. You’re in the real. It’s not an encounter. What I want to do is chase after the razorgirls and end the threat, two quick slices, but this isn’t the Game. Cutting down two Han embassy guards in the middle of the street would bring a lot of attention to people who don’t need it, and I can’t do that to Jase and Johnny. I’ll have to be patient, deal with the razorgirls when the time is right if they decide to mess with Kiro again.
“…Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine.”
Jase stares at me for a couple seconds, then turns around to help Johnny with the woks. Kiro shakes slightly, hunched over the counter like he wants to sink into it. A tear rolls down his cheek into the bowl. I put a hand on his shoulder.
“How’re you doing, bro? That was pretty intense.”
“…Why do they hate me so much? What did you do to them to make them hate me?”
I can feel my hand tightening, stress and frustration and anger tautening already vibrating muscles.
“What did I…? Kiro, those razorgirls wanted to hurt you because they could. That’s what gets them off, part of the conditioning they go through. I was trying to protect you from them.”
He stands abruptly, the stool falling with a clatter, and I step back, startled.
“Well, maybe I don’t want your protection! Maybe I can handle myself! Maybe I’m tired of getting sucked into all this drama that surrounds you, tired of your victim complex, tired of you blaming me and everyone else for your problems! It’s bad enough in the Game, but out here too? I’m the one that gets picked on, every time. I’m sick of it! Sick of you!”
Hormones, it’s hormones, don’t drive him away—
“Victim complex? Kiro, look, it’s not your fault—”
“No, it’s your fault! I’m going back home. Don’t bother me anymore, not here, and especially not in the Game. I’ll find my own guild. I’m done with you, Ash!”
He walks to the curtain, feet stomping on the polymer floor.
Don’t lose your temper don’t lose your temper don’t lose—
“Fine! I thought you were someone I could trust, a support I could rely on, but you’re just like Dad, bailing out when things get tough. Refusing to look at the truth because it isn’t what you want it to be. Coward.”
Kiro falters midstride, then lowers his head and bulls through the curtain, out into the darkness. One of the bead strands pops loose and falls to the floor, scattering brightly colored balls in a rattling shower. I groan, and slump onto one of the stools.
“Fucking great. Just… great. Got any more noodles, Jase?”
5
[His Phantasmal Touch]
“Soooo, that was awkward.”
I ignore Jase, pushing more noodles into my mouth, following them with long pulls from a tall glass of water, watching my credits tick down with each swallow. The flat taste doesn’t pair with Johnny’s cooking at all, a by-product of the fact it’s essentially boiled swampwater, but if I don’t get some carbs into my system and rehydrate, it’ll be full body cramps for sure. The normal savor of Johnny’s cooking barely registers on my taste buds at the speed I’m chewing and swallowing.
“Ash?”
“…We’re fine. He’s going through a phase. He’ll get over it.”
Jase’s eyes narrow, and he stares at me.
“You sure about that, Ash? Because what I saw was a guy who wants nothing to do with his big sister, and that kind of stuff tends to linger. Sometimes it’s permanent. Sometimes it gets uglier than that.”
“Wise words from someone barely out of puberty. I said we’re fine. Drop it. Anything else?”
“Yeah. Got a job for you. Tonight. Silkie shipment coming in on a container boat out of Industan. Gummies want us to interdict and seize something; no questions, no tracks. Intel they gave, and you can trust it as much as you want, puts three hostiles onboard, specifically tasked with ensuring delivery. Close combat specialists.”
I pause for a moment, thinking.
“Why’s a silkie container boat coming here? Tariffs are going to eat up all their profit.”
Jase shrugs.
“Dunno. All I know is there’s a job.”
I keep pushing noodles into my mouth, forcing fuel into my body.
“Any guns?”
“Not according to intel.”
“What’s the payment?”
“Enough for water and another couple weeks of your mom’s bills. Oh, and free noodles, of course. You in?”
“…Yeah. Where?”
“Dinghy’ll meet you on the waterlevel of Eastspire. Oh one hundred.”
“I’ll be there. Gimme some more food.”
Jase hands me a third bowl and then disappears into the small storage room at the back of the kitchen. I finish up in silence, Johnny continuing his ballet of woks at the stove, dipping them toward the small mountain of cheap recycled paper cartons next to him, quickly sealing the containers once they’re full. He looks at me with one eyebrow raised, then at the cartons, and I nod.
“No problem. I’ll hit them on my way home. Send me the locs.”
He pulls a faded olive duffel bag from beneath the counter, darker patch where the unit insignia once belonged, and neatly stacks the cartons inside, then slides it toward me. I scoop it over my shoulder, the nylon strap digging into my flesh, and head for the door, gulping down the last of my water. A list of locations in the Brown appears in my glasses, phosphorescent green numerals floating ghostlike in the corner of my vision. Most are less than a five-minute walk, simply requiring me to traverse the lift-and-stair network inside the megaspire to different levels before I head back to my own shabby room.
I enter the murky red light of the main corridor and make my way to a lift bank, blending into the crowd of silently moving figures, blue swatches dotting their clothes. It could almost be mistaken for a prison complex, or deepground mining outpost, if you didn’t know to look for the subtle twists and taps of hapgloved hands. I twitch my fingers, hidden inside the pockets of my hoodie, and access the small ’Net icon that looks like a grinning bone mask in front of a spiderweb. A blinking prompt appears, and I enter my fifty-character alphanumeric password, making sure to time my inputs within the standard parameters set to my profile—another, less obvious layer of security, one much tougher for an intruder to spoof. Seconds later, conversations explode into existence around me, a strange mishmash of acronyms, animated pictures, memetic links, and contextual shorthand.