Pollen
Chapter seven

News reporting in Little Tokyo consisted of pretty much two things: celebrity gossip and celebrity scandal. Everything else was tacked on or passed over completely. It seemed that the public here had no sense of value and lacked the basic ability to be genuine. The media lapped it up—why shouldn’t they? This is the reason Shunka shuddered when Pres had given her contact details of a journalist named Mana. She’d seen a report only three weeks ago about a 13-year-old karaoke wannabe who’d had a video made of her singing her favorite song. The press pounced, deemed it the worst song of the year, and it was laughed at by every opinion maker and schoolchild. The 13-year-old killed herself. The media were responsible; Shunka knew that for sure.

Mana, from what she could tell, was an odd hack. His erratic articles ranged from award-winning celebrity exposés to hard-hitting stories on food production. He had also written pieces on discrimination against minorities and about the Transport Unions’ dealings with the Flower Factory. A subtle conspiracy thread ran through them all. What kind of conspiracy? He didn’t seem to know. Despite this, his bread and butter relied on stories that promoted the humiliation of others. Mana, it seemed, lived a contradiction.

A sour taste developed in Shunka’s mouth as she zipped down the rain-soaked avenues that stretched out long and straight. She cut off from the Broadway to enter a hub of light. Fluorescent beaming arches bent out of the K-Thrill zone like rainbows of opportunity. It was a huge cul-de-sac and home to five super-clubs, all devoted to karaoke, sex, and gambling. Each building aimed to outdo the next, but they were dwarfed by the style and sophistication of the Darbar Hall.

Unlike the other clubs, the Darbar Hall was built in the style of a temple and its facade was unpretentious. Still, it was a marvel to look at. Thousands of red brick tiles, placed by hand, formed a fountain of five roofs. Each of the five layers, identical to the next, supported the one above. The topmost floor crowned with giant king cypress wooden letters simply saying Welcome Travelers. Floodlights on the ground lit up the whole building and changed colors in succession, highlighting the architectural features of the temple. The garish flashing lights of the other joints looked childish. This was the place to be—but only if you were on the list.

Shunka rolled up to the red-carpet entrance of the Darbar Hall. Mana had arranged for her to be on the guest list, and because of her focus and loathing of hacks, she could feel her stomach spin like a centrifuge. She knew there’d be lots of celebrities here, people she idolized and saw every day, just never with her own eyes. K-Thrill was the top chain of the karaoke circuit. If you were in the K-Thrill charts, even if you were ranked last, you were somebody.

K-Thrill was a way of life in Little Tokyo. All of life’s little pleasures combined into one: adulation, fortune, and self-indulgence. For a majority of the district, K-Thrill was also the hub of organized crime, the juggernaut of entertainment for Little Tokyo. A mix of karaoke, live audience interaction, judges, fireworks, scandals, live sex cams—where corruption was actively encouraged.

The lines between entertainment, law, and real life got blurred for performers a long time ago. They lived the fantasy and the masses loved them for it. The magnetism and confidence of the K-thrill stars lured Shunka in as much as everyone else. She had no martial arts training for combating the stars in her eyes; she justified her obsession by reminding herself that she was still a teenager. Her nerves were on fire.

Two weeping fig trees stood sentinel at the entrance where a security force performed various checks and scans depending what list you were on. The guest list was strictly controlled; eight people had died in the past five years trying to gain entry. She presented herself with her arms out, expecting the usual foray, and rolled her eyes. The guards looked a little perplexed as she stood there under the scanner. “You’re on the VIP list,” one of them said. “Through you go.”

“Not gonna give me shit for my mods?” She said—both surprised and delighted.

“You’re on the VIP list, so someone trusts you. Break the rules and you and your guarantor will have broken legs.” He waved her in with a worn smile.

Shunka strode through into the reception hall. Immediately she saw Matsumoto Hideto, who played trumpet and had soaring vocals. Shunka had had his image wallpapered on her EEG for an entire month last year. Walking through reception was like entering a camp of flamboyant refugees. There were packs of punk Lolitas giggling in the corners, spotting their favorite stars who, in turn, spotted them back. They looked them up and down briefly before moving on. There were Visual Kei’s with their unusual hairstyles: spikes, sweeps, and giant hair shaped into flames and pulsing with color apps. The J-rock boys and girls and the PVC gods and goddesses were always in some drug-induced dream. They sulked around in their trademark black-and-pink suits like Satan’s field officers.

Shunka felt ten years behind the style. She’d gone down the punk Lolita route, too, but the fabrics looked old; the red-check that was in style three months ago had been replaced with a more feminine red stripe. Rolling her eyes at a few disapproving looks, she pushed on for the main hall.

Before entering the main hall, shoes had to be exchanged for slippers. Naturally, the slippers were styled too. Shunka went for the ninja black. The main rectangular hall was flanked by two L-shaped wing corridors, both pounding with shades of madness. The stage was elevated only a foot from the floor, but above it a huge projection light rig hung with more spotlights, lasers, and smoke machines than an alien invasion. Beyond the rig an ornate trellis laced across the roof and formed sweeping patterns that created a giant weeping swirling Tomoe pattern. The amazing detail took her attention for a second too long and she stumbled into a cartoon girl, her eyes too wide to look human. Excusing herself she looked about for the bar; there was none. Instead, a small staff of waitresses attended people seated among the huge collection of booths.

The booths were small and wooden, and were dotted around in a spiral before the stage. Each had its own touchscreen technology wall so that you could get interactive with the stars. If you didn’t have a booth, you had to run on natural energy and try to get invited in. Booths were organized so the most significant guests were at the front, face-to-face with the action. Shunka felt like an intruder the closer she walked toward the stage. She found herself three rows back, so close you could see the sweat of the performers. She found Mana’s booth. He sat neatly, crossed legged on the floor, wearing a grey double-breasted suit—smart, but not stylish. He nodded as she sat down opposite him. He didn’t give a great first impression. His eyes were dark and his face showed signs of stubble, roughly shaped into a beard. He had a thin chin but broad shoulders. He looked more like a failed artist than a seasoned journalist.

“Hey.” He said—gruff, but not aggressive. “Shunka, right?”

“Yeah,” she said still adjusting to her surroundings.

“Like the place?”

“Love it!”

“That’s disappointing.”

“Why?”

“You sounded different from the rest of the sycophants ’round here.”

“Hey, I’m no sycophant, I’m a teenager.” She smiled. “Come on, you’ve seen this lifestyle every day for the past . . .” She paused to study him. “Hundred years? I haven’t, and if I can’t smile and take it in then I’d be guilty of missing an opportunity to experience something I never thought I’d see. So, let’s relax, or do you want to get straight down to business, buddy?”

Mana laughed, and then sipped his Chinese green tea. He smirked while studying her face. “Okay, kid, okay.” He put his tea down. “I’ve been told I’m not exactly easy to get to know. It’s my job, you know—let your guard down for a second and you become the story. The number of times some little punk has tried to frame me to advance their careers? I tell you, it wears you out.”

“Well, okay, then.” Shunka instantly let go and started smiling again, her eyes darting about.

“It’s a mess. It’s a big crumbling system of value round here. A little advice, kid: if someone starts talking to you, ignore them. They’ll want something from you, and to be honest, they don’t take prisoners.”

“Neither do I.”

“Ah, you’re a sweet kid wearing last month’s clothes. You’re already a target.”

“Wouldn’t have thought you’re a fashion type.”

“Hey, look at me—of course I’m not.” His smirk turned into a genuine smile, “But you gotta keep up in my profession.”

“Yeah, I did read up on you.”

“I’m flattered. Listen, I know you need something from me, but what I’d love to know is, what am I getting in return?”

“The Transport Union.” Shunka leaned forward and winked.

“I’ve heard it all before honey, trust me.”

“You take my advice and listen to me. I’m not what you think.” Shunka said pointing at him.

“Your advice? Kid, I’ve had enough advice, enough listening, enough following. If we”—he gestured to the whole hall—“are going to overcome the herd instincts that motivate our needs, we have to do some thinking ourselves, and keep it to ourselves. I’ll do what I want to do. Tell me a story, sure, but don’t give me any advice.”

“The herd? You think I’m one of them?”

“You are one of them, the look on your face when you came in, I saw you checking yourself against the rest of them. I saw you looking disappointed that you weren’t up-to-date. So yes, you’re part of the herd.”

“Listen, buddy, I don’t need a lecture. You’ve bitten at one too many bad steaks in your time and that’s fine, but don’t question me and why I care about how I look. You know why I’m here talking to you: because the most important thing in my life right now is making sure a friend of mine doesn’t get hurt because of her ex-boyfriend. If you think that’s herd mentality, or an actual fucking value, that’s your call. But I don’t need some sour hack’s philosophical sob story.”

Mana raised his tea. “Cheers.” He chuckled. “You know,” he sucked air in through his teeth, “I don’t talk to many people these days who don’t want something from me, and all I get is bullshit and more work. But at least you seem to know what’s valuable.”

“Life is not that bad.”

“Nah, it’s not too bad sometimes. Once I got twisted up with an upcoming star. They are full of zest when they’re starting out. This one kid was so hell-bent on making it that he concocted a story that he was in touch with another district. He’d been transmitting his music and had fans on the other side of the wall. He invited us to a live video demonstration where we’d be able to hear his fans’ reaction—the first inter-district gig. I investigated and found out that his ‘fans’ were his Mum and Dad putting on accents in their basement, surrounded by all sorts of crap they’d traded, thinking it looked foreign.”

“That’s fantastic! What happened?”

“Well, while everyone was watching the live feed, I walked in. The parents froze when I walked into the shot and waved.” Mana grinned. “There’s some pretty fun moments sometimes. But you know, I get paid for shit articles like ‘Akemi Ta has changed her look twice in one week—who is this chameleon really?’ ‘She’s had 7 abortions and her last hairdresser reveals all this week.’ There are all these glitter starlets everywhere, but most of them are cock-sucking and pussy-munching their way to an early career peak just to be eaten whole by the public when they are exposed as talentless frauds. Then, they go on to write a bestselling autobiography of their ‘astonishing’ lives at the age of 26. Honestly, what the fuck?”

Shunka laughed. Something in his weary sarcastic delivery made his bitterness toward the world funny. His scathing criticism of the space he inhabited felt life affirming to her.

“Oh shit,” Shunka said, her eyes popping with an unexpected delight. “I think Hanako is looking at us.”

Mana peeked out from the booth. Hanako, the Flower Child, was indeed gazing over. “She’s sweeter than her press makes her out to be.” Mana said.

A waiter approached with a bottle of Koshu rice wine and poured two glasses. He then produced a note from his top pocket. The writing was beautifully ornate, scribed on thick watercolor parchment that read

To my darling Mana,

I hope you enjoy this two-year-old bottle with your beautiful companion and trust you can stay for my performance. I have some news that might be of interest to you. I know how hard it can be to get your attention so I’ll give you a clue . . . The Flower Child has a secret.

Hanako.

“A treat”—Mana raised his glass—“from the Flower Child herself.”

“Wow,” Shunka said beaming. “Seriously, I’m trying not to act like a kid here, but, wow!”

“You a fan?” he said without judgment.

“Sure am.”

“I’ll give you this one for free. At age four, her mother was giving Hanako a spray tan, and at the age of eight, she was already a dynamite pole dancer, in her living room, with a padded bra, the works. That’s the kind of stories I have to deal with every day. Now I’ve told you a secret; that means I trust you. I know I can be rather . . .” he searched for the right word, “prickly, at first. So enough fun and games, let’s get down to some drinking and a little business. You got info on the Union?”

“Yeah, so have you?”

“That’s right. So who is going to be the trusting one and spill the beans first?”

“Well I’m against the clock here, so I don’t have any more time to waste.”

“Well okay little lady, shoot.” Mana reclined with his rice wine. “Hit me.”

Shunka was about to begin when she saw Hanako leave her booth and step up to the stage. A hush descended upon the hall; she was the first of the megastars to perform tonight. Her hips shook, her delicate hands rose as the lights dimmed. She spun around to the audience. Explosions went off around the stage and petals flew through the air. With this distraction, she picked up her trademark forearm flame-throwers and shot a burst purposefully over Mana and Shunka while giving them a wink. The heat from the flame seemed to linger like sunburn across their faces. She burst into song as a giant projection beamed images of her as a glamorous Lolita, saving the city from all sorts of enemies, from dragons to an army of ninjas. The whole thing was ridiculous. Shunka knew it, but she was smiling.

“Wow, that’s pretty crazy,” Shunka said.

“This is a tame warmup for her,” Mana said.

“Okay, it’s a long story, so I’ll give you the highlights. A guy named Chow X used MMOG games to transmit large amounts of stolen data from the farm network to various Transport Union databases. I don’t know what that data is, but it sure as shit isn’t our personal diaries. Anyway, the farm has got the usual goons investigating, but I’ve got a bad feeling they’ll find a setup to finger my friend. And that is not going to happen. My source tells me there was a spike in data in a racing sim two days ago.”

“Sorry, you said our personal diaries?”

“I’m a Farmer.”

“Ha! I thought so. I can’t believe it.” Mana was clearly thrilled. If this panned out he’d have the scoop of the year and he might even be able to tell a real story. Everyone paid attention when a Farmer was involved.

“Now tell me what you know. My source wouldn’t waste my time if he didn’t think you knew something,” Shunka said.

“I’ve been looking into the Union for the past 18 months. It seems that they have been systematically taking control of the importing of flowers. They pretty much control the tunnels and have ousted the Traders. The one thing they do not control is the food.”

“So?”

“So they have been stealing little snippets of data like protocols and passwords from the Farmers for a long time now. I’ve been looking into some strange EEG patterns, led me to a guy named . . . Chow X. He runs a racing MMOG game.”

“That’s the guy. Where is he?”

“You ain’t gonna like this kid.”

“I said, where is he?” Her posture straightened, her eyes tightened.

“He’s dead. As far as I know, he’s been murdered.”

“By who?”

“A professional—that’s for sure. I think you you’ve missed the impact of this story. Chow X might have tried to set your friend up, but he didn’t do a great job. The threads still clearly led to him. The press will be all over it soon, but it’s his employers you need to worry about.”

“But the only people who’d want a dead hacker would be the Farmers for stealing our data. Right?”

“Investigative journalism is not a strong point of yours, is it?”

“Being polite isn’t a strong point of yours.”

“Rule number one in the scumbag’s handbook, kid, is never be polite if you can help it. Rule number two is if someone is getting their hands dirty on your behalf, make sure your hands are really clean. Imagine if Chow X got paid for his hack and then decided to spill the beans—for a price—to the Famers? What a mess.”

“So the Union killed him, then?”

“Bullseye! They want to control Little Tokyo. They’ve already got the racket on the flowers and the tunnels, if they control the food as well . . . goodnight freedom. This place becomes their place.”

“So it’s a power grab? Why grab power? You make yourself a figurehead.”

“Kid, listen, I’ve been around the block several times. I’ve seen every type of crazy known to mankind. I’ve seen people cheating on their partners with their pets, for Christ’s sake. And I’ll tell you this for nothing: there doesn’t always have to be a reason why someone does something. It can be out of sheer boredom. Everyone’s different. The Union, they think different from you and me, but they are probably sitting there having the same conversation about us. They don’t get where we are coming from because we don’t share the same values. We all huddle around those who share our values; otherwise we’d be at each other’s throats all the time. The conflict the union is attempting to start is their will to power, it’s their driving force. It’s the underlying motivation for everything they are and do. They seek achievement, ambition, and the clusterfuck to attain the highest possible position in life. Think about it—makes sense, doesn’t it? After you take over one area, you look to the next. You guys are fucking crusaders with swords. They can’t match your firepower, but they’ve got a lot more nuts than you—that’s for sure. It sounds as though they’re about to screw with you. Now the problem is, you lot aren’t exactly the type to roll over and submit, are ya?”

“Nope.”

“So what happens when you’ve got two organizations, both extending their power but within a limited area, like our walls. Either an arrangement has to happen—but again, I’ve got the funny feeling neither side is the talkative type, so that leaves us with option B. The Union is setting up to strike first. They want to impose their will and their values on us all. They value their pride and strength above all.”

“Frankly, I’ve had enough of people wanting to impose their will on me. I’ve spent my entire life locked in these walls having a big bad invisible force imposed on me. The Union knows something we all don’t. And I am going to find out what that is.” Shunka crossed her arms definitively.

“And how are you going to do that?”

“You’re going to write a story.”

“No one cares about that hard-hitting stuff. It gets buried under the rug.”

“I know, but you can be sure you’ll catch the attention of those who have their ear to the ground from within the Union. They monitor everything to make sure they are fully in control of their public appearance. This little story will piss some people off, and I’ll deal with them.”

“You want me to put my neck on the line?”

“You saw the rain today, we all did, and no one wants to talk about it. No one wants to face it; it’s swept to a corner with the rest of the dusty taboos. If you can’t help me, then I’ll be going in alone, and trust me, you’ll have something to write about either way!”

Shunka flinched. She looked up to see Hanako shooting her flamethrower so close to their heads, she could smell burning hair. Hanako had reached her finale, panting, sweating, her eyes swollen to cartoon proportions with a new app. Shunka noted she needed that app.

“Okay kid, you got a deal, but there’s a little favor I need from you first.”

“What?” she said bluntly.

“See Lady Fireball up there, she’s got some info on the Union. I’ve been working on her for months. It seems she’s ready to let the secret out tonight. I think you might have been the motivator. She gets in a furious rage when I’m with other women. It’s generally my exclusive article that sends her off to top-five ratings in the charts. I told her I ain’t gonna be in this game much longer, and now she tells me she’s got something gold for me about the Union. Funny thing is, I can’t help but feel that she is being played, which means I am being played. I really want a Farmer looking out for me. If she’s full of shit then I’ll write your story, if she’s not then we may well be on our way to busting some balls.”

* * *

The private booths seemed more like a lap-dance venue than a place for the rich and famous to unwind in. But then that was probably the point. There was one long mirrored wall with a strobe light that pulsed at the corners. The other three walls were made from a light-absorbing fabric that could be painted on by drawing a finger over it. It already had unusual motifs and the occasional penis drawn by previous guests. Graffiti didn’t change from the lowest slum to the biggest penthouse. Mana and Shunka sat, sighing at Hanako’s obvious rock star lateness. The flashing strobe unnerved Shunka, the moments of black, the stillness of a moving image. Then the door was flung open and the warm red light of the hallway flooded in.

“For fuck’s sake,” Hanako said with her hands on her hips. A small ass-licking entourage followed close behind her. “I’ve told them a thousand times, no fucking strobe, that thing gives me a headache. Turn the fairy lights on.” One of her lackeys shouted at another lackey who ran off. Within seconds the strobe was off, much to Shunka’s relief. “Everyone wait downstairs out of my sight,” Hanako ordered her crew. She entered the room and the glass door swished close behind her. Pink fairy lights lit up and sparkled like precious minerals.

“Mana, my darling, my love.” She embraced him with air kisses. She didn’t look delicate on stage, but here and now, she looked like a stick of a teenager.

“Let me introduce you to Shunka,” said Mana, holding his hand out to Shunka. “I’ve taken her under my wing. She’s going to be learning everything from me—a rising star in the literature world.”

“Delighted,” Hanako held out her hand.

Shunka, unsure of the etiquette, shook it awkwardly, realizing as she gave the porcelain hand a firm grip she was supposed to kiss it. “Hi.” She said, still a little star struck despite her best efforts to maintain her composure.

“Oh my dear, you’ve got a lot to learn, but don’t you worry about a thing, Mana will teach you everything you need to know.” Hanako’s condescension was wickedly executed.

“You had some information for me?” Mana flipped open his Network pad and placed his fingers and thumbs on the pad, ready to write.

“This is off the record.” She peered down at the pad. “Seriously, no pad, no EEG.” Hanako had never been serious about anything other than her time in the spotlight. Mana took his hand off the pad and tucked it away.

“I’m going to make this short. My time in the light is ending and my creative direction is all over the place, so I’ve started a new career. I’ll give you the exclusive on it. More than that, though, I have a gift for you as you have been so very kind to me. I met a very interesting young man on my last shoot. He produces the movies, but it’s a hobby. He’s actually a geneticist from the Union moonlighting as a porn producer.”

“Porn producer? That means . . .” Mana said.

“Let’s not get bogged down in details, dear.” She cut him off. “I told you you’ve got the exclusive, now listen. I told him about you, about your investigations and he wants to talk to you. He’s at the Aga Khan studio. He wants to talk to you tonight.”

“And who exactly is he? And what exactly did he want to know about my investigation?” Mana glanced at Shunka.

“Oh, I don’t know the details, he said he wanted to talk to you directly, that he knew something about the Transport Union that would give you an orgasm.”

“He said that?”

“Well, I added the bit about an orgasm.”

There was a knock at the door. Hanako spun around on her heel and, with a vindictive snarl, opened the door. Shunka could see she’d taken a deep breath to begin her tirade, but now she remained silent. She was shoved back into the room; she tripped on her stilettos and landed on her bony ass.

Two men walked in. Shunka pushed herself up from the sofa, dodged to the left and landed an uppercut on the first guy. He lifted off the ground with the force of the blow. The second guy attacked; Shunka adopted a different style, moving into the White Crane. She diverted his blows as she maneuvered herself between him and the door and kicked it shut. Hanako crawled to the corner and curled into a tight ball while Mana sat, sipping his rice wine and reclining into the sofa.

“I know you’re from the Union. Tell me what your job is here with us and who ordered it, and you’ll walk out of here with all your bones in the right place.” Shunka growled.

He stayed silent and pulled a long sword handle with no visible blade from a hidden sheath. She knew what it was: the nSword, a carbon nano-tube of such ultra-fine carbon the blade was sharper than a diamond edge—stronger too. It had the added advantage of being almost completely invisible. She studied her opponent. She knew she had a clear advantage at hand-to-hand combat, but he was full of improvisation. He was lean and toned, with a thin face twisted in a grimace.

He attacked with two thrusts, one coming from above his shoulder and cutting across her torso, the second, a swing sideways, aimed at her head. He returned to his defensive posture. She jumped back and ducked, but the blade had caught her on the shoulder, taking off a thin strip of skin. Flinching at the pain of impact, she tried to shake off the blow as blood trickled down her back. His blade work was good, but his footwork was rusty. She could tell he was traditionally schooled with his ‘up close and strike’ philosophy. Shunka backed away and when she reached the corner, he attacked. She faked left and rolled away right, back to the middle of the room. The sword struck the wall, leaving a perfect thin slit.

“Er, could do with a little help here, I can’t see the blade.” She sifted through her optical apps but none of them picked up the blade. She armed her palm Taser, a closed-circuit pulse of electricity that ran through her hand. However, she wouldn’t dare get close enough to use it. Her opponent remained silent, focused on cutting her head off. He attacked again with three quick strikes. Shunka, not knowing the sword length, found it hard to judge how to evade his strike. On his second strike, the tip of the blade caught her upper arm and left a shallow, paper-thin cut—he was getting closer. Adrenaline and bloodlust flowed hot through her heart, provoking an extreme level of excitement within her. But she remained cool, allowing the logic of her mind to guide her.

Mana filled up his glass and threw it at the attacker. The rice wine splashed over the sword and ran down its edge. Shunka’s optical apps kicked in and picked up the liquid. She advanced, watching the blade and his feet. When he took his first diagonal strike, she dipped to the side and took a step forward. His feet frozen, he tried to swing in but she used her position to spring forward and with some weight behind her thrust, she planted her hand with force on his chin. A charge channeled through her palm and illuminated his jaw bone. The current surged furiously around his skull and down his spine. His legs creased as he fell to his knees, then onto his face. She took a moment to catch her breath and deactivate the palm Taser.

“Is he dead?” whispered Hanako, looking like the little girl that she was.

Shunka ran a scan—his heart was barely beating. She looked at her hand and smiled. “Wow,” she said, looking up. “This thing’s only a prototype!”

“A catastrophic success, I’d say,” Mana said, putting his empty glass down.

“I never knew how crazy my stalkers really were until now.” Hanako said pulling herself to her feet. “Thank you for saving my life.”

“Your stalker?” Shunka said looking confused. “Are you fucking . . .”

“Welcome,” Mana interrupted. “Now let’s get the hell outta here and meet your contact. If they are onto us, they are onto him.”

“How exciting!” Hanako clapped. “It’s like an action film and I’m the star.”

“You ready?” Shunka said, shooting Mana a bullet in her snarl as she walked ahead, kicking the fallen warrior and picking up his nSword as she left.

“Bad decisions make good stories,” Mana replied.

Hanako led the way, taking the “star” exit, the underground neon-lit mirrored tunnel that led to the blacked-out parking deck. All cars here were identical: pure black, not a mark to tell them apart. Hanako beckoned her driver by pointing; a pulse of data left her finger to light up her driver’s dashboard. She’d had it installed a few months ago—the “magic wand” she called it. The car rolled up within seconds. The doors opened automatically. Inside there was a champagne bottle, popped and ready to drink, and a gaudy interior that made Shunka recoil. The car set off for Hanako’s studio while Shunka took a look at her wounds.

“Oh dear, please try not to bleed on the seats,” Hanako offered her a napkin.

“Thanks.” Shunka swiped the napkin and wiped the blood from her shoulders.

“I had a blood clotter app fitted a long time ago, but that blade was damn sharp. Listen Mana, you can be guaranteed the Union knew I was coming for you, and for that I apologize.”

“Hey. No worries, sister. Hell, that was the most entertaining evening I’ve had since my wife left me.”

The bright lights of the Broadway flashed past them, highlighting the drunks, the prostitutes, and even families, all in a chaotic dance in the electric fog of the night. Shunka wondered how many of them knew that private wars were being waged on their behalf. She’d always taken these things for granted, that life was there for you to live. But what were the forces that controlled how you lived? How did they affect you without your knowledge? She felt she was living a side life, one just off from the center of her own. Yesterday, the only things that concerned her were boys and apps; now she was cleaning blood off of her shoulders—now a target for an enemy yet to show its teeth.

Then it happened. The news she’d been expecting all this time. Pres rang into her EEG with a message:

Heads up, in 20 minutes this fabrication will become the public’s reality. A small time hacker couple by the names of Chow X and Miyu Otomo have been caught red-handed stealing trade secrets from the Transport Union and selling them to corrupt Farmers. The information gathered indicates the Farmers no longer have the ability to feed Little Tokyo and were looking to import contaminated food. Chow X has been obtained by local authorities, but Otomo is at large. Good luck.

Shunka knew this was riot-inducing, and not even the Farmers could withstand the full force of the masses.

The car turned off the Broadway and wound its way through neighborhoods bathed in green light, quiet and peaceful. Shunka looked at the windows of people’s homes; each seemed to burn with warmth. Families settled in for the night, relaxing on the couch, watching their giant walled screens of entertainment. Some of them sat there logged into the EEG and stared out the window with zombie eyes. Others were at their kitchen windows, cooking up dumplings and sticky rice while watching cooking videos in an augmented reality of the world.

Her head hurt. She missed home. She wanted to know why she was alone. While being without a family gave her strength and independence, a part of her was never whole and it wore her down. She wished she could remember just one thing about them. As Mana and Hanako bickered over the champagne, she wondered how her mother would be affected by the choices her daughter was taking. She reminded herself that she was doing what she had to do; she sharpened up.

The car pulled up outside the studio on a quiet street lined with warehouses. Shunka had expected a giant flashing red arrow pointing at the door and full-length optical thinning mirror doors. It was, however, an unassuming, simple white cube building framed with well-tended shrubs, sandwiched between respectable-looking warehouse studios. The night air was cooler than usual and it sent a shiver through all three of them. Hanako’s heels clipped the glassy pavement.

“Now then, my lovelies,” Hanako announced, “Please be cool. People will be doing some rather odd things in here, I mean things that you might disagree with, but whatever you think, please don’t embarrass me. I’m vouching for you, okay?”

“Okay.” Shunka crossed her arms. “You know princess, we’ve all got the same equipment.”

“I’m sure, but it’s what you do with it. Now, do I look beautiful?”

“Yes,” said Mana with a practiced reflex. Hanako walked ahead and placed her hand on a black pad to unlock the door. Shunka sent Mana a wary look, to which he and whispered, “Tell a lady she’s beautiful, she’ll believe it for a moment; tell her she’s ugly and she’ll believe it for a lifetime.”

“Welcome to my new home,” proclaimed Hanako. With a whirl, the silver frosted doors slid open. The bright light bleached the entrance for a moment but Shunka’s optical apps adapted instantly; Hanako walked in shielding her eyes. The smell of sex hung around them. It clogged their noses and sent their hearts racing. A spider scuttled across the floor and dashed for a crack in the wall. It was so quiet—no noise, no groaning. Mana seemed visibly disappointed. The front of the reception desk had an ultrafine-resolution screen with photos of glamorous porn stars, taking it in all sorts of positions, but no receptionist. A photo of Hanako appeared, spurting flames from her arms with her legs in the air.

“I call it ‘the scorcher’; I shoot my mini flames when I come. Oh it is so much fun, you should see the look on the guys’ faces. Now where the hell is Bishi, she’s forever leaving her desk. Bless her . . . she wants to be a star too. She’s been working out every day for months now, she’ll have the right body soon—maybe she got lucky today?”

Hanako beckoned them forward to plain white double doors, with a big red LED displaying a flashing live sign. She placed her hand on the pulse lock; the scan ran the print of the palm and her heartbeat, and flashed green. When they opened the door, the smell of sex was now mixed with the smell of fear and the stench of shit. Hanako screamed as they walked into the scene of a massacre. Naked bodies were slashed open and sprawled helplessly across film-sets of bedrooms, parking lots, and temples. The camera crews had had their heads beaten in with their own equipment. The room was covered with shattered glass and splinters of bones.

One couple had been caught fucking in a sex swing. The attackers clearly had had enough time to play with their victims; two swords pierced their torsos and kept them in their last position—suspended in death. Another guy had his cock torn off and pinned to his forehead with a dagger.

Hanako fell to her knees and wretched. Mana rubbed his eyes and Shunka began to cry. She tried with all her might not to let the tears cascade, but she was as helpless as the dead around her. Her hands shook, and she thought of home. A flash of a memory gone before she could hold onto it. Good things in life get broken; she knew that. She stood behind Hanako and placed her hands on her shoulders.

“Hanako, listen, you have to be strong for one more moment okay? Where would your contact be?” she whispered.

“What happened?” the Flower Child sobbed.

Shunka sniffed and pushed her tears aside. “I’ll tell you everything I can soon. I don’t know what type of girl you are, but I assure you, if you’re the type who wants revenge, I’ll help you with that. But right now, tell me where your contact is.”

Hanako looked up at Shunka. “He was waiting for me in my office.” She almost choked on the thick air, the panic taking grip. She pointed slowly to a door to the left of the dungeon set.

“Good girl. Stay here a second.”

“No way, I’m coming with you.”

“Okay, stay behind me.” Shunka cleared the tears from her eyes, and fired up her forearm shot. One of five explosive rounds shot from an app called “the Serpent,” inserted below the skin. The app was only to be used in times of emergency, since it had to break a ten-centimeter-long strip of skin to be used. She activated it. Two scalpel-sized blades broke the skin and cut a perfect line; the app then issued a clot command and the thin carbon-black tube rose up with gold and red stripes lighting up. It hurt like hell, but a second later it was fully charged and the adrenaline took over.

They walked silently, stepping over broken limbs. Mana, still staring at the sets of death, slipped on a large splatter of blood but quickly regained his balance. His stomach turned. He swallowed back the acid in his throat.

Shunka knelt down. A half-naked teenager with a bloody towel wrapped around her waist lay sprawled out across the step up to the dungeon set. Her big blue eyes were still open, but her arms had been broken at the elbows, and a halo of blood was seeping from the back of her head. Shunka placed her hand on the girl’s chest and tuned to Mana and Hanako. “She’s still warm; the blood’s still flowing. Whoever did this is either still here, or watching us.”

“Weapons?” Mana’s confidence ebbed away, his voice cracked.

Shunka squeezed her nSword and her right forearm. She clenched her right fist and brought the Serpent in line with her eye for aim, and held the sword in her left hand in a defensive guard. She moved toward the door and thought of her options: either slow and easy, or hard and fast. She kicked the door with such force that it swung open and then slammed back on itself. This only annoyed her more, so she crashed into the door with her shoulder with the Serpent leading the way—the room posed no threat.

The office had been left relatively untouched with the sound system still playing some J-rock. The wall screen flickered, continuously re-booting itself. The desk was tidy with neat piles of pads and screens and a few random coffee cups. A chair had been placed in the Center of the room. There slumped a dead man in waiting, holding his stomach. A clean sword strike had gone through him; he’d lost a lot of blood and his face was shrouded with the ghost about to take him. He couldn’t speak, nor could he lift his eyes for one final glimpse of the world. Shallow breaths, a body on auto-survive mode. In his hand a pad with the words “Hachiko Arcade” written on it. He seemed to try for a sigh, but didn’t have the breath to be able to. Shunka knelt down to see his face, but he had already left the world.

The wall screen flickered back to life; the video showed the internal security recording. Seven white suits flew in, slicing and butchering with speed. Their suits were flawless but Shunka knew they weren’t Farmers; they didn’t move the way they were supposed to. But she also knew that the public wouldn’t look at technique, all they would see would be the images of Farmers murdering Little Tokyo’s favorite porn stars. The EEG flashed up on Shunka’s eyes. The story about Miyu was breaking with the footage of the massacre. “Time to leave,” she growled.

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