The see-through double-doors of Bossman Shishito’s skyscraper are unguarded.
Atop the glass stands the Yugure crescent moons—mirror images of one another, stuck on the doors with plastic adhesives—and behind them the various idle secretaries and assistants who control the building’s ground level. Between koi ponds and boulder-filled dry gardens, sand imported and non-radioactive, the off-the-clock girlies provide a businesslike atmosphere as they shuffle blank papers back and forth throughout their off-days, looking busy. Here they chitter long into the sunrise, cigarettes at their thin lips, backbiting and insulting through corners of mouths, trash-talking their previous John’s, management as a whole, and most importantly whatever girlies are not present at the moment.
Outside, confronted with your own disheveled reflections, Ø chokes the meat by the collar. She’s dragged Glasses, forcing him to hop and shimmy along with you through the dingy backdoors of Bloom!, out into Tiangong’s alleyways where a gap-toothed and barefooted rickshaw boy asked no questions in exchange for a hefty fare, and finally to the double moons atop the Yugure’s automatic doors.
With a calming alarm of entry, subtle enough to be heard by the barcoded secretaries locked in endless conversation, Ø heaves the hog-tied killer—head first—through the thin glass doorway, shattering one of the two moons, the stick-on plastic warping with glass, shards sticking as if they were caught in a spider’s web.
Too late—the door’s sensor notices your presence, and although shattered straight through, its frame slides open, glass crinkling along its tracks, allowing you and your mare entry into the compound.
Secretaries stand in confusion, cupping their lacquered mouths and rubbernecking as your prey tracks blood across the marble floors and steamed carpeting, attempting to crawl away, broken, nearly-dismembered digits scraping tiled floor, before Ø once more collects him by the collar, his conservative button-up ripping further, now gashed all the way to his armpit, Glasses’s weak chest on display.
And as you approach the building’s central elevator, the single guard on-duty, his wrinkled coffee-colored slacks a size too large and de Joux brand sunglasses too opaque to see more than a meter ahead, straightens his posture. Yet, stood in place, pecs flexed in intimidation beneath pinstripe puresilk jacket and unbuttoned collared shirt spackled with hula girl cartoons, face at Zen, he makes no effort to stop you.
With a shove, the mare brushes the gangster aside and slams the button for the familiar penthouse thirty stories above.
There, on the top floor, the dojang is filled to the brim. Where once it was a venue for training, the mare dispatching her students on the soft plastic matting, successfully holding down the first non-murderous career of her life, tonight it’s a venue for celebration. Or at least you assume, as you see the gangsters tipping over from intoxication, their criss-crossed legs cradling giggling girlies in their laps. Others lurk in corners, scheming with half-closed eyes, lips slurring at ceramic rice wine decanter rims, fangs and claws retracting in negotiation.
The question lingers in the mare’s tired thoughts—what exactly are they celebrating?
But as the elevator doors open, with a four-tone chime, all eyes turn to you. The evening’s revelry stops short. Cigarettes fall from mouths. Laughter cuts short against the low reverb of three-string sanshin-infused disco—which itself abruptly disappears, decibels dying with a fizzle.
The roaches scatter from your warpath, Glasses’s soiled sole-less socks kicking upwards, body seizing for oxygen, hung by his collar, pitch-black feet colliding with expensive bottles of erguotou and sake decanters. His filthy feet whip the foreheads of prone passed-out goons, many with hands on their pistols, most of them cradling an equally spiked girlie, awakening in baritone choruses of vitriol. Ø heaves forwards, tossing the hogtied meat into the dojang’s center, knocking over chabudai, spilling plates of nigiri and over-filled glasses of beer.
Onlookers hold their breaths, shocked stupid by your entry.
Some are familiar—gangsters you’ve met in your time on Tiangong; Shishito’s copy-cat prostitutes and over-paid wannabe tough guys, muscled frames and facial scars synthetic, for show or intimidation. Others have only heard the stories of your various chores in service of their bossman. Tall tales that unfolded through a malicious telephone game from John to girlie to John to girlie, incomprehensible to the end listener, Tiangong whispers about you and a certain mare either blown out of proportion or their meanings lost entirely.
At the front of the refurbished hall is the table for high-ranking gangsters. It’s semi-raised. Dotted with luxury liquors and emptied plates. The Yugure under-bossmen sit, overly-tattooed, scarified and old. Survivors of pointless gangland conflicts due to a modicum of skill and a whole lot of luck. Through eyepatches and opium hazes they track you and your mare, attempting to remain stoic, unfazed by what appears to be a couple humanoids returning from Hell.
There, flanked by his immediate subordinates—the ass-kissers he rules through threats of violence—and sat at a glorified kiddie table, Boss Shishito winces ever so slightly.
“Don’t know what the party’s for, but I’ve got your meat,” Ø brays over the silenced amps. A wounded animal, peppered with glass, your suspect lays still. Glasses is unwilling to move, accepting of his capture, only intermittently kicking, writhing in subconscious discomfort, drooling blood from a maw of cracked teeth and split gums.
Bossman Shishito descends from his promontory, the leader reluctantly accepting the gift in his court.
“This is no killer,” he scoffs, investigating the man’s frothing mouth with a single blue puresilk tabi sock, careful to avoid sullying his footwear, attempting to save face in front of his Family.
“You’re wrong, Shishi—I’ve caught your man. Just like you were wrong to sell me out to the cops.”
“The White Axe Family had him on contract,” you cough. “He’s the one that racked up the bodies in that meat house. Spaced a bunch of other underworld types. Random people, too. He’ll be sore about it, but if you call Lieutenant Fairsykes, he’ll want to hear. Probably just as much as the other Families,” you add, confident in your ability to resolve conflict, desperately hoping to recoup your situation. “You gain a whole lot of face, the Settlement gets a murderer behind bars, and we get back in the law’s good graces. Big win-win-win for everyone. Like you wanted,” you lick chapped lips.
The bossman slinks down to his knees, investigating the mangled teeth of the captured man. Shishito prods the killer’s cheeks, checking if they’re cybernetic, investigating for traces of amphetamine jumps, spezie spikes, nerve damage to insinuate that of a trained killer. But, he finds nothing, only a typical Tiangong unimportance.
“Tell me,” Bossman Shishito questions, cupping Glasses’s chin as his jaw cracks underneath. “Did you kill my property?”
“Yes,” the murderer mumbles as clearly as he can, pockets of empty teeth whistling, his voice soft, unassuming, without a hint of fear, tears of pain collecting at his broken glasses. “If any of your girlies were found carved, it was my doing.”
“You don’t look like a killer.”
“I apologize,” he coughs, a split molar sullying the plastic mats, “but looks may be deceiving. I’ve been in the service of the White Axes, as they freed me and brought me into their fold,” he groans reflexively, moaning with pain. “But I’m an exceedingly efficient killer.”
“Alright Shishi, that’s enough,” your mare interjects, her voice barreling into the paper walls, jolting awake any gangsters who remained unconscious. “That’s your meat. Give me my reward and call the cops.”
“Yes, yes, your reward,” he hisses. “Ke, please, retrieve the funds for our two friends,” he dismisses, returning to his whispering conversation, coalescing with the meat on the floor.
“What’re you doing, taking down his will?” Ø spits. “Space the guy already!”
This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
“No, I’d rather not.”
“Then I will,” Ø sighs, lurching forward to lay a few hundred stomps of her hoof into the killer, her irritation palpable, the credits not yet produced, relishing the thought of murdering Glasses in particular.
“That won’t be necessary. You’ve completed your job. The meat’s mine, I’ll handle him.”
An uncomfortable silence snakes through the hall, your face contorting in a horrible realization. Ke’s arrival, with a simple dark-blue painted, reinforced aluminum designer Magnin briefcase, puffing with credits at its rigid edges, the luggage’s combination lock broken—it’s an obvious piece of booty from a previous heist.
Ø pauses, her paranoia building off your rumbling disgust.
“Bossman Shishito, with all due respect, you need to hand him over to the authorities,” you interject. “They need—”
“No, I will handle this situation in-house,” he murmurs.
Ke shakes, his hand bandaged, missing a ring finger recently cut off as a sign of piety. He’s light on his loafers, his thin arms holding the briefcase slightly too far out of his reach, uncomfortably flexing his shoulders for leverage, straining his weak back beneath the red-and-white Hawaiian shirt he wears, attempting to hand it to the mare
“Stop! Ke, don’t you take a single step further,” Ø belts, holding a hand to the lackey, other clawing towards the Star at her torn waistband. “Open it up yourself and clean it out. I’m not getting anywhere near that thing.”
“Saturday-sensei, this is your reward,” he implores, pretty face contorting into an uncomfortable smile, thin eyes squinting, “all your credits are here, I promise! Are you sure—”
“I said open it,” she howls, “empty it! I don’t know what’s inside, but with the way you’re holding it, I’m not getting near it! What, you think I’m that stupid? That I’d walk in here and take whatever shit you give me?”
The bossman brings his hands to the killer’s torso, flipping Glasses over, investigating the mare’s hog-tie rigging. He motions for one of his underlings, who assists in shifting the murderer into a more comfortable position. Glasses lays nearly fetal, as if he were an injured creature.
“You’re out of your mind,” you mumble, sand still lodged between teeth, dry mouth clammy. “The guy killed hundreds in this arcology alone. More elsewhere, that White Axe guy, Madame—” you stammer, “I mean—Bossman Big Jay said,” you huff with fatigue, “before we spaced him that another arcology had this same problem too.”
“He did? That’s nice, isn’t it? Such enemies can make valuable allies.”
“You can’t control a killer like this. The White Axes couldn’t either,” you complain.
“They were small-time pushers, a crew not worth spitting on. The Yugure? We’re intergalactic, five thousand strong. Every cycle a new war begins, another problem needs resolving,” he muses. “And you’ve seen how difficult it is to find useful help, haven’t you?”
Ke hesitates for a moment, taking another cursory step towards you and Ø. The mare slaps a hand to your chest, pressing you backwards. It makes you cough, nearly sending you to the ground
“A step closer and you lose an arm, kid!”
“Take the bag!” Ke pleads, confused. Seems like he doesn’t know what’s in there, either.
“Open it, empty it!”
“I can’t!”
“Do it or you’re dead!”
Ke drops it to the floor, sending those nearby on high alert, most standing on tip-toes or gangsters diving behind compatriots and girlies, onlookers unsure of what’s inside as a supposed reward, themselves
“Turn the guy in,” you yowl to Bossman Shishito, stupefied, “get back some respect, some face, clear your name, clear my name—mine and Ø’s I mean—and get us back to what we’ve shared for these past few weeks, it’s a semblance of normalcy—”
“All of those rewards pale compared to such a valuable tool, which you’d understand if you weren’t some useless courier strapped to a wanted killer,” he bellows. “Ke! Ignore the bag. Take the meat and clean him up. Get him re-tied, and post three men to guard him at all times. Three we can trust!”
“He’s a mass murderer,” you spit.
“And he’s clearly discrete! He’s not running around the Settlement, destroying property, helping my girlies sell behind my back, bringing the heat up to my eyes, slagging my reputation to anyone who listens—unlike you both, he’s an asset, a tool, not seen, not heard, not shaking me down for more favors!” he growls, standing up with a huff, his bodyguards withdrawing their pieces, bolo, and daisho in a similarly threatening posture. “You’ve forgotten, Mr. Ignoti, that you are visiting my planet, and are here with my hospitality. Whatever ill name you’ve earned during your stay is your problem, for you and your girlie!”
“His what?” the mare snaps.
“You heard me! What would you call yourself? A pirate with no ship? Gladiatrix with no goals? You’re a whore,” he brays, “because a mercenary can be discrete, at least. You’re roaming ronin, employed by an invisible agency. You’re liabilities with no place near my Family.”
“What’s family?” the mare’s yelling is high-pitched, spiteful, over-emotional rather than over-murderous. “This here, with girlies not worth the knock-off clothes you buy them or their feet binding after you break their paws into a million pieces? Kids like Ke who don’t know any better—like how you didn’t when we were young—making your same stupid mistakes while you play big bossman at the big kids table?” she screeches, “or me, who kept your pitiful ass alive cycle after cycle? When you’d be sitting there, choking on your own blood in the pits, about to get your windpipe broken like a chopstick before I’d help you, again and again?”
“Help? You’d be the one brutalizing me! And not just me—everyone else, every kid in ludus, without fail, walked away with some horrifying story about the unhinged anthropomorph. You think I brought you here because I wanted your help? I wanted you as a tool! And even at that—as an object—you fail!”
“Bossman Shishito,” you speak on the mare’s behalf, her hooves turned to cinderblocks, built into the compound’s foundation, “just open the bag. Give her the cash.”
The bossman motions again, confident in his position, towards a different scared goon. The gangster approaches Ke, ripping the case from the kid’s frozen digits. In one motion, Shishito brings a kris’s blade to the mangled lock, beating the briefcase open, stacks of bills falling to the floor without fanfare. Ø and your host stare daggers into one another as you take initiative, falling to the plastic floor, groaning against sunburn as you crawl, inspecting the balled-up credits on your scraped hands and knees and stuffing them into the mare’s gifted alligator-skin bag—along with your previously stolen loot.
Outside, another maglev train passes by, the Yugure compound vibrating to its foundation. You wonder how many arcologies it’s traversed this day alone. How many live in a similar state; drenched with whores’ blood and radioactive dust, existing as a tantalizing flame in the wasteland’s distance, an overpriced mirage of civility attracting, chewing up, and spitting out nomadic hustlers such as yourselves?
In your scavenging, you come across a single wad of credits, folded-over and stapled. Inside, the soft off-red blinking hue of a tracking chip, amateurishly hidden, brazenly added to your haul. Ø notices, and every hoofbeat she takes towards the Bossman Shishito earns her another cocking hammer or unsheathed sword from a surrounding goon, all perspiring, shaking with inebriated anxiety.
Both her bloody knuckles grip the bossman’s hanten. It’s powder blue, now soiled with crimson, covered in white-yellow sunflowers and a dishabille malocclusion-suffering kitsune seated above a familiar crescent moon. The vixen is put together, not wailing with narcotic laughter, arteries split while a hyperventilating jindo sobs nearby. It’s fictional on Shishi’s back and comical in its coincidence—as if he’d ever have the empathy to care for two of his girlies’ fates.
Usually, she’d kill a man like this. Split bone through skin, chew through artery and consume flesh raw. And feel relief, if only for a moment.
But she only Ø stares down her dehydrated muzzle at your soon to be ex-host. Wordlessly, he produces a key, no doubt for a barely functioning starship to hit the road. You feel the mare’s heart beat with a foreign emotion, one of betrayal. It’s been a while since someone stabbed her in the back—someone she didn’t expect to. She’s become complacent in your company. Sloppy, taking for granted the refreshing, childish naiveté you bring to your relationship.
One that drips into her psyche like water torture, sullying her killing nature, clouding her wisdom with compassion.
Her voice is lower than usual, like she’s stepped from the bridge of her flagship the Cimarron. Emotional, like how she sounds when you’re near death, lost among olive trees and floating atop clouds, nearing samsara’s exit.
“Listen, Shishi,” she chokes, “I’m not coming back anytime soon.”
“I’ve assumed,” he growls.
“But I may be back,” her breaths are heavy. Like they’re whispered from the top bunk, across the filthy canteen tables of Agapito. You’d almost call it friendship, with the bloodied knuckles and mutual disappointment they share. “It’ll probably be a while, sure, probably more than a few hundred cycles. I’d give it a few years, even. But, on the off-chance that I’m back here in the Settlement, Above, and you haven’t shaped up, and there’s a familiar killer on the loose, then within an hour of touchdown, and you can time it, I promise, everyone from your Family, from your head honchos at the big table, to the kid buying you smokes,” she gestures to Ke, who looks away with shame, “to the girlies at the front desk doing her nails or cranking Johns in your rivals’ clubs—is spaced. And before I get to you,” she huffs, “surrounded by your discount whores here in the penthouse, pissin’ your kimono like how you did when we were kids,” she pauses, remembering the same Shishi from her childhood, sleeping in the bunk below, whimpering in pain from the day’s sparring, and previous day’s, hiding his sobs as he prayed for mercy, relying on others for protection, eventually receiving a reprieve from training altogether, returning to the world in which he thrives as a scared, backstabbing vermin dolled up with the finery of a mob boss, “before I get to you,” she sniffles on repeat, voice shallow yet pitched, equine snout crinkling, grimacing with a personalized sort of emotion, a foreign one that makes calcified tear ducts inflame, her nails cutting gashes through puresilk hanten as she trembles with rage she cannot bear to act upon.
“I’m breaking your fuckin’ nose again.”
“Don’t worry,” he snaps back. “It’s my business,” he spits without remorse, his nearby gangsters diverging, parting like seas, guiding you back to the elevator, out the front doors, and banishing you back into the wilderness from which you once had found refuge—for only a few weeks’ time.