Cigarette smoke trailed in the air like weightless and lazy snakes. The room was full of it, the tendrils pushed around by a slowly revolving ceiling fan above. It was a dark brown color, darker still because the light fixture in its center was off. It blended in with the dark wood of the ceiling, barely visible in the low light of the table lamps; their glow seemed to get stuck in the smoke the way an insect gets caught in a web. Various suited men loafed around the tables, two of which were big enough to host a card game in this sitting room. Those not seated in chairs were slouched on couches, ashing into small crystal ashtrays on much smaller end tables. You ashed in the ashtrays because if you ruined the pattern on the carpet, or the black chairs, couches, and recliners, you'd stain them with your blood next. The walls would be fine, being that they were already a deep red.

Small chatter was splashing about the room, talks of business, from building acquisitions to payments received or owed. The men here naturally spoke with their voices hushed, as if accustomed to it, but would occasionally bark into laughter. They mostly drank from tumblers, the clinking ice against the glass playing a strange staccato against the dull throb of conversation.

A black door to the room opened, and a young man stepped in. His hair was slicked back, his face clean shaven; he looked young, and somehow dangerous. There was an aura about him, a confidence too mature for a man that young, especially in a room like that.

Everyone hushed and stood. Cards were put down, and so were drinks. The young man, wearing a well fitted black suit, stepped forward and shook the hands proffered to him, smiling the whole while. He was called brother by them, and he said the same in kind. Behind him walked in a few other gentleman a few years older than the young man, and they received the same treatment, and were dressed the same if not better.

Everyone was speaking Chinese.

Everyone was Chinese.

It would be a real feat to be invited into that room if you weren't.

The new arrivals sat at one of the tables, except for the young man, who leaned against a wall behind his older companions. His glasses caught what little glare there was from the light, hiding his eyes.

One of the new arrivals, wearing a blue suit, raised his hands, commanding attention. He then spoke of how well business was going, and how far the enterprise was expanding. Its influence was now felt in many of the SoCo cities, and operations were starting to crowd the opposition. Another man spoke up about how there were a few city councilman they were backing, and that they were likely to win the upcoming elections.

The man in the blue suit said that was great news, and said their uncle was pleased. With luck, they'd get the mayor on their side soon. Maybe even get their own mayor, someone fully loyal, who didn't play all sides.

They spoke like this for a long time, every man climbing higher and higher in spirit. The young man against the wall said nothing. He slid his eyes across everyone in the room, studying them, but kept the small smile on his face the entire while, looking mildly jovial.

After maybe thirty minutes, the subject of MetaTropolis™ came up. The first entirely player-built city, MetaTropolis™ was originally an anarcho-capatalist pipe dream thought up by someone named Gultt, who'd since been murdered, and now the city was limping back towards SoCo governance with tears in its eyes. The greens already had precincts up in the city, and the local guards were essentially greens themselves, now. The community there had reached out again and again to the enterprise, who eagerly wanted to put a foundation down before the filth fucked everything up. You could never trust the greens, anyone with sense knew that, even when you had them paid off and in your back pocket. A hungry dog attacks anything, even its master.

One of the men in the room looked agitated. He asked for the blue suit's attention. It was given, and the agitated man spoke, "Cui Boqin, this matter in MetaTropolis™ is extremely important."

Cui Boqin sighed, and deflated for a moment in his blue suit. But it passed quickly, and his steely eyes bored into the talker's. "You aren't suggesting we aren't taking this extremely seriously, are you?"

"I would never say that, brother.

"However…"

Cui Boqin narrowed his eyes.

"However, I do have to say I am a bit concerned this matter was handed to Han Aiguo."

The young man in the black suit smiled at the talker from where he leaned against the wall.

The talker motioned at the young man. "He's still young, and I'm not certain he has the experience necessary to pull off this deal."

Cui Boqin put his hands on the table and cracked his knuckles.

The talker kept going. "I don't need to mention it, do I? How there's been crackdowns on wands? Treaties, even, between north and south. They're finally clamping down on any magic, and not just the portable kind. The outside is getting involved, even that stupid criminal court in Europe is making press releases. They haven't stepped in quite yet but any misstep we make threatens the business. Our clients rely on getting those weapons, which is going to be even more important as they become even more scarce. We already know it's a sign of extravagance, that you don't give them out to anyone who would just die. Only a fool would do that! Give them to fodder! But with all mages having to be entered into the registry and watched now…"

Cui Boqin glared at the talker. "It certainly sounds like you are questioning uncle's decision."

Young Han Aiguo, in his black suit, snorted a quick laugh from where he leaned against the wall behind Cui Boqin.

The talker barely contained a snarl towards Aiguo. "We all," and he motioned around the room, "are concerned that the SoCo and Northern Federation are going to come down on us. And neither has any love for us or our people.

"I would like to request an update from Han Aiguo, at the very least. Some kind of report. Because I already know you won't allow us to send anyone to the deal in MetaTropolis™."

Cui Boqin pounded on the table and stood over it, his face turning red as he began to lay into the talker for his impudence.

However, Han Aiguo raised a hand and asked Boqin to stop. The room went quiet, and everyone turned to look at Aiguo, except Boqin, who kept up his stare at the man who asked for the report.

Han Aiguo said, "It's all right, brother. If anyone wants to hear what I plan to do, I feel it's fine. We're all partners and family in this society, so, I feel what is being asked is only fair.

"Even if it may seem insulting that it's being asked."

A slight chuckle through the room.

Han Aiguo began to pace back and forth slowly. After a few moments, "I understand the MetaTropolis™ situation, as does uncle… which is why I suspect I was put in charge of it."

A hiss from somewhere in the room.

Aiguo ignored it. "It's why I decided to be proactive and dispatch my agent already. Which is why I guess it's fair that you ask for a report today."

There was a lot of noise in the room now, with Cui Boqin calling for order.

===+++===

In MetaTropolis™, a slight Chinese woman sat up in her bed, tousling her hair. She closed the book Frontier she'd been reading; she looked at it with a raised eyebrow, her mouth pursed in a look of agitation. She tossed it down onto the bed, and headed to the bathroom of her hotel room in her underwear.

===+++===

Aiguo continued when the noise died down, "I decided to send my agent early because I was worried someone might try to tail them. That's a security risk. My agent won't be found, but any of yours?" He smiled, and slowly pointed that smile at every man in the room. "I don't like those odds."

===+++===

The woman was out of the shower and combing her hair now. It usually hung in a feminine cut outside business, with the front two ends being longer than the bob in the back, but now she was combing it all back over her head, slicking it back, even. She picked up the cigarette she left burning on the edge of the sink, making a French inhale, then exhaling into a series of smoke rings.

===+++===

"The job will get done just fine. I trust in my dealer."

The talker from before stood up and pointed. "You sent one representative?!"

"There's some friends who can make a quick response if needed. But just one should probably be enough."

The talker looked around Cui Boqin, who was now standing straight, trying to be as intimidating as he could be; but even Cui was looking a bit troubled even while keeping his eyes on the talker.

The talker ignored Boqin. "Who did you send?!"

===+++===

The woman in MetaTropolis™ got dressed. She wore a sharp black pantsuit, with a white dress shirt beneath her single-breasted jacket. The blouse's collar stabbed out over the suit in two points. She checked herself for wrinkles and lint, and then walked over to a deep magenta cloak that hung on a hanger over a door knob. She put it on, checked all her holsters, grabbed the bag of merchandise samples, and left the room. Her footsteps were soft, even in her brogues.

===+++===

Aiguo shrugged. "I sent them flowers."

Everyone in the room shut the fuck up. Boqin now turned to Aiguo.

The talker took a step back. "Flowers…?

"What kind of flowers?!" he shrieked.

Aiguo blew smoke out his nose. "Roses."

"Not… not… a million?!

"Not her!"

Aiguo smiled darkly, this time showing his teeth.

"I sent a million," he replied.

===+++===

Guo Qiáng, known as the Silent Gardner, the woman who used to work tirelessly making wands and staves for the enterprise, but now would stay silent in the face of your pleas as she obliterated you… she walked down the sidewalk towards the sit-down. The former craftswoman turned hitter, the woman who slaughtered an enemy raid entirely on her own and set a whole city block on fire, carried a bouquet of samples for her buyer, a tiny part of the million roses of the enterprise, who the filth called the Red Gang.

She walked briskly and without a limp, eight months before she took a management position at a small wood shop, and twenty months before spying on Kevin Clemmons and Anya Vicars in a restaurant and grille called the Treehouse.

===Part Three: 飞了 (Flying… but maybe more like Flew Away)===

The streets of MetaTropolis™ were packed, people essentially tripping all over each other, even pressed up against the stalls they were trying to buy goods from. The sun beat down on all them, evaporating their sweat into a haze that mixed with the smell of fried foods. Steam wafted out of laundromats, makeshift dryers using magical crystals to tumble dry clothes that in some cases had to be operated by hand; a metal box would house a contraption similar to a raffle drum, rotated by a poor bastard using a crank (you paid them to use the machine, but had to operate it yourself) over a glowing fire crystal powered just enough to generate heat. Others hung their clothes out their windows to dry, making it look like the street was lined with a million waving flags. Some of the buildings were actually stacked fairly high, sometimes even ten or fifteen storeys, rickety apartment blocks or vertical malls, though it was more common to see two to five storey buildings. This section of town mostly had people speaking various forms of Chinese, though there was some English, and a decent amount of it was British English. Qiáng pushed through the crowd, keeping her bundle (strapped to her like a messenger bag, on a single strand of string) close to her side. She was chewing on a churro as she walked; her hotel was close to a little Mexico area, and she hadn't had a churro in… maybe months. Churros for breakfast, fuck it, she figured, it was decent walk to the nightclub, it would be burned off (it was very easy to forget that virtual food didn't make you fatter, and, believe it or not, it was very comforting to forget it). She was eating her third and final one, not caring about the sticky mess on her fingers. There would be a bathroom at the club. And nobody would dare mouth off to her over that. There is always time for churros. Always.

The streets were clogged with the foot traffic of everyone, and no cart was going to even attempt to make it through; they came when it was still dark, jamming the streets with their tired horses and oxen which shit everywhere. There were a few street cleaners that tried to stay on top of it, but they only had so much time before the morning rush flowed in. After so many people tread through it, the crap was pretty much spread out over hundreds of pairs of shoes, essentially finishing the job the cleaners didn't. Overhead, you'd catch someone upper class on a flying mount, one they either owned or even rented. They were apparently trying to not drop as much garbage while flying above, and there were very hefty fines if the mounts shit on anyone. It's probably why it was better to rent a mount than try to own one as a status symbol; showing up in court because your pegasi (plural for pegasus) drawn flying carriage crapped all over a fruit stand was more than a little embarrassing. Better to leave it to the rental people.

Back home, her brothers raged against brother Aiguo, asking what the hell was wrong with him. This woman was both a legend and a liability. She was a good hitter when shock and awe were called for. She was so damn good at it, that anyone deep in the life had heard of her. To some, the Silent Gardener was a regular Keyser Söze, a spook story that some people didn't think was real, a tall tale cooked up by wannabe black society jerkoffs to scare the shit out of the competition. And that was all well and good until the crazy bitch actually showed up, and you got to believing that she did take on a whole raid herself.

The story was, some upstart enemy gang wanted to put down and destroy an illegal wand and stave workshop run by the enterprise, where she toiled quietly day and night, paying off debts and arming the people who finally took her in. She found her home, rediscovered her heritage, and was doing her part to protect it. So when the raiders burst in and started killing everyone, she killed them back.

She danced a bullet ballet the likes no one had ever seen, unleashing the wrath of heaven, earth, and womankind in a storm so fierce it seemed to set the world afire. A street became a battlefield, a hell so intense, when the first responders finally beat back the flames and saw the destruction she wrought, all they could do was stand in agonized horror and scream bloody gore.

That night was far from Qiáng's thoughts, however. She had a light step as she moved through the crowd, an easy demeanor that didn't quite reach careless. Her sunglasses carried your reflection the same way a pond would, right before an alligator would burst up and snatch you with its jaws. If she ever caught anyone's eye, they moved out of the way. You didn't dress like that in this part of town unless you traveled in the society, were deep in the life. But most of the crowd was focused on their own troubles, and she was the better for it.

The crowd barely thinned out when she got closer to the entertainment district for this part of town. It didn't feel right to not call it its own entertainment district, being that this part of MetaTropolis™ felt like a city into itself. You could live here your whole life and not have to speak English. More importantly, you could get a job here and not have to speak English.

She wasn't at a point where there were bars, but there were a few liquor stores stuck among the grocers. With a shrug, she walked into one. The nightclub she was going to do business with was on the border with this slowly realizing Chinatown; their liquor would probably be piss. Watered-down piss. Picking up a bottle on her own might end up being the best option. A part of her voiced a concern that this might be an insult to the people she was looking to do business with, but it was ignored. Fuck 'em. They had to earn the respect of the enterprise, who were picky with their customers. Make a few bad sales and the heat comes down on everybody; if she got arrested, and ended up going inside, trying to get out of the life when she was released from the game was going to be impossible. Sure, they were in a video game, but selling illegal weapons was a serious fucking charge, and they killed real fucking people. It didn't matter if it was in the virtual world. She wouldn't get a small, say, ten year sentence. She would get freed from the game and then put in a real super-max cell, and for the rest of her life; her chances got even worse if they could ever connect her to any killings. No way in hell she'd get medium security. Some white boy once said it would be Cell Block 99 for all of them if it ever got out what they did in Anereta. She didn't understand the white people reference, but the gravity with how it was said could still sober her up many nights well past that conversation.

She needed a drink.

She walked into the closest liquor store without even noticing the name, her mind flooded with troubled thoughts; however, her face was one of pleasant tranquility.

Entering, she saw an Asian clerk leaning on the counter with his wrist up to his face. She greeted him as she walked past. He nodded back slightly with a grunt, then went back to whatever he was reading off his wrist.

She traced her fingers across the bottles on the shelves. Nothing particularly interested her, but she would be damned if she was going to be stuck with whatever swill her hosts offered. Her fingers made pleasant little pinging sounds as she brushed the liquor; her face was relaxed, and a small smile tugged at her lips, like a kitten pulling on a string.

There was a slam from the front of the store, and she peered around the aisle towards the counter.

The man behind said counter was currently being yanked over it by his shirt. A group of four white guys were doing it, each with a wooden sheleighleigh. Qiáng sighed. She wasn't supposed to get in trouble, but now here it was.

She didn't pay even a bit of attention as she walked up front in a careless gait, making plenty of noise as she did so. It wasn't until she was five yards from them that she thought maybe she should have. None of these guys were wearing a mask.

She leaned against a shelf, adjusting her glasses. The four white boys were confused, and one made a move towards her. She drew out a wand and pointed it at him. She shooed him away with a flick of the wrist, then replaced her weapon. The one clearly in charge stepped around his buddy holding the clerk, and asked her, "What the fuck do you want? You a cop?"

She pulled out a fresh cigarette and lit it. After a French inhale, she said, "Nope."

"Then what the fuck is this?"

"I'm the law around here."

"What?!"

"What's the shakedown for? You don't look like robbers."

"This ain't none of ya business."

"I'm pretty fucking sure this is precisely my business." She blew a smoke ring.

The leader looked at his boys, then back at Qiáng. "Who are you?"

"Let him go, and we'll talk."

"He has to pay his protection."

"That's fine." She drew on her cigarette. "I didn't say let him walk. I said put him down."

The leader looked to his boy holding the clerk. After a hesitation, "Let him go." He pointed at the clerk. "Don't you move." He turned back to Qiáng. "Okay, who the fuck are ya?"

"I'm with the enterprise. They have hold out here."

"Like hell you are!"

"What do you want? A business card?" She smiled. "I guess you can always crack me over the head and see who chases you down afterwards." She puffed on the cigarette. "Wanna try it?"

The leader licked his lips nervously, drawing a breath and looking unsure. "...no."

"Good boy."

The leader pointed at her. "You can't interfere with our business. We're folded into the enterprise, but we need to make our money."

"How much does he owe?"

"I'm sorry, what?"

"How. Much. Does. He. Owe?" She bounced a finger back and forth as she talked.

"His dues."

She reached out ten gold cent-pieces from the coinpurse at her hip. "Let's call it a grand. An even thousand. I doubt you're getting more than four grand a month from this guy. Here's this week's."

"What the hell are you doing?"

She shrugged. "You take it, then pay your boss his take. He then gives his dues to the enterprise. Eventually, at some point, I'm paid mine.

"I'm just letting you borrow this."

She held out the coins.

The leader looked at the coins, then at Qiáng's face. "What the hell do you do for them?"

"I sell roses."

"...what?"

She took a step forward. "I said, I sell roses."

The clerk fell to his knees. "Oh god!" He held up his hands towards Qiáng, pleading. "Please! Please, don't do anything!"

The leader looked back from the clerk when he realized that Qiáng was now only three paces from him.

She held the coins out to him expectantly.

He gingerly put forward his hand, and she slowly dropped the coins into his palm.

Without saying a word–and without taking their eyes off her–he and his boys left the store.

When the door closed, Qiáng looked down at the clerk by her feet. "Get up. You won't make any money down there."

He stood up shakily, his face pouring sweat. "I've heard of you…"

"I'm sure you have."

"Silent Gardener…"

"Please don't say that."

"Oh!" He grabbed away the bottle of liquor she was carrying. "You don't have to pay… wait! Wait right here! I have better things in the back! Imports!" He leaned towards her conspiratorially. "Stuff that you can't usually get. From around the northern blockade."

"Any decent bourbon? Maybe baijiu?"

He nodded enthusiastically, squeezing her hands briefly before rushing into the back. She heard some knocking around and clinking there, and when he returned he pushed a sack at her. "A man named Li distills some good baijiu. And I put in a bottle of Winthorne Black!

"Take it, take it, it's yours! No charge!"

She paused before going to the door, and said, "You know, you keep giving away things like this for free, you might not be able to pay."

"I… um… it's fine! We'll manage! And it's great to finally see the enterprise come here! It's been awful, the community is really struggling!"

Qiáng only nodded at the man with a smile, and left.

Leaving the liquor store, she finally realized how much of an insult it was going to be to walk into a nightclub with her own bottles. The nice thing to do would be to get a bottle from them, buying it or no. She sighed as she walked. This was another example of her trying to plan ahead when she was dead tired; it must have been close to four in the morning when she got into town, with her waking up at eight. She’d started reading that book, hoping to nod back off for a quick nap, but the book just ended up keeping her awake for a variety of reasons.

She looked back down at her bouquet–a small cloth wrap full of some serious firepower–and the sack with the liquor; just a small half-tired Chinese girl carrying a bundle of guns and a bag of booze. Peak model citizen. She’d be a lauded VIP, given the utmost care, and attention… in the nearest prison. Judges lived on sentencing someone in her situation; you do something stupid like this, they leaned over their desk smiling at you, part insulted and part amused by you being so brazen (read as “stupid”) on their turf.

Stop it.

No one was giving her a second glance, no one was following her. She pushed her glasses up her nose, the glare hiding her eyes. There was no other way to play this outside of nonplussed. Go right towards the extremes, right to the crazy choices, all with the somnolent blankness of a fentanyl victim's eyes. Make everyone think twice, make them wonder if you were stone cold fucking nuts, the bastards.

Boqin had explained this to her long ago. The two of them were the only ones still at the bar, the one about four blocks from uncle’s building, the clock showing three ten in the morning; the bartender was long gone, so her and Boqin were pouring their own drinks out of a bottle they grabbed from behind the bar. The club was owned by an associate, so no one would bother them, and being the only two there suited them just fine; it’s only so often when you run into someone who knows a good bourbon, which made Qiáng, at that moment, receptive to Boqin’s ramblings on life.

Boqin, in a move most would find utterly psychotic, had joined Anereta after the terrorists’ strike on the game. Boqin was in the debt of the black society, who had some interest in the growing establishment ingame. There were new and exciting possibilities when it came to… exacting the “art of adjudication" outside the realm of meatspace law enforcement. Among other things.

Boqin was to join up with the aging "uncle" (and nobody understood where that old man came from, if he was even truly old or even a man) after pulling a contract on a Russian. The target was one of those chud trolls–terms Qiáng used and then had to explain to Boqin–who ran a few crypto scams; the Russian was also a bit chummy with some hackers. This sneaky fuck was good at laundering money by moving it around, being part of a dark web market inner circle, as well as a few exchanges. The bastard’s pod, where his body slept, was rumored to be in Cyprus, but he was currently in the American servers; he’d been messing around with friends there when he got trapped in the game. Everyone figured a lag spike would take him out, but he was still alive somehow, which threw shade on his body being in Cyprus. Still, this was a good opportunity. The Russian was a serious name in the competition, and the fucker had pulled a scam on someone’s son, absconding with a disgusting amount of money. That was too far; the word was put out, and Boqin was given the hit.

Being in an American server left the Russian all alone. There was a chance that he picked up some protection, but it was most likely purchased ingame; he was such a greasy nerd who didn’t have any good friends, especially any serious ones, from the real world to back him up. By friends, Boqin meant acquaintances, and by that, he said to Qiáng with a sigh, “Someone who understands how you stick with your own, your people, and you don’t trust anyone outside it,” the fuckin’ cops always looking for a handout, the judges and politicians who were no better than whores, and would sell you out if there was a dollar in it. The people you grew up with, the people in the neighborhood, from the same building, where you watched their back and they watched yours, “The kind of thing that can’t be bought, it can only be earned.” The Russian was a dork who never did any time, it was explained, someone who didn’t make any connections when in a cell. This was just another nerd who was trying to pull one over on society for kicks, a bored tourist, trying to… how did she describe it?

Qiáng poured them both another drink, doubles, and neat. “You mean the sigma thing?”

Boqin snapped his fingers and pointed at her. “Yeah! That! That shit is the same mindset you’ve always seen, now it’s got a new name. Some tourist fuckin’ chasin’ money for braggin’ rights, for kicks. Another dumbass who should have worked in a bank, but either they found it not cool enough, or they were too stupid to do well there. And if he worked in a bank,” he took a drink, “he’d still try to scam people. He couldn’t live without doin’ that. He needed to. Anyway, cocky shit heads like that don’t see the value in havin’ friends, connections to the community. They think they can buy everythin’. They think everyone has a price.” Another drink. “What they don’t understand is people accept payment to persevere themselves. And in our world, there is a particular type of honor, and a particular pride to people like us,” and she felt a warmth in her breast as Boqin referred to her as a comrade, “hold in their hearts. And that?”

He pointed at her chest, probably meaning to poke her before realizing that wouldn’t be appropriate. “That? That will make people refuse your money. The money is to preserve the self. The money is not a substitute for yourself.

“Anyone who defines themselves through the creations of others is to never be respected. Even in family, even in country and home, there is a place for oneself. And anyone with honor understands that the preservation of society preserves one's self. You buy the nice car so you can keep yourself alive, not so you define yourself by the effort of the others who made it. We have to be mindful of this, of keeping our people’s pride. Through our history, others always called us divided and weak. We were constantly under attack from foreigners–still are–because we were perceived as divided. Our people ransacked, whored by vile nations, our labour extorted, our children addicted. By bastards so greedy, they sought not only our land, our labour, but our fucking history, stealing it away to their museums. Bastards. But… we persevere.

“But this punk?” Boqin spit on the floor. “That fucker didn’t understand any of that, not even his own people’s history. This was a man without culture or roots. Just another pathetic individualist who couldn’t understand people, so he just told himself that he did and walked around like that was fact.

“You know, you never get anywhere acting cold. Or too tough.” He fumbled the bottle as he poured another pair of drinks for them. “Smiles.”

“...Smiles?”

“Yeah.” Boqin turned to her, with an almost too-large, toothy grin. “Smiles. Smiles are always the most effective and lethal poison. The guys in prison who made the most noise, the most problems, usually were put down the hardest. You never wave your arms and scream and yell. Only the weak and insane do that. The weak are subjugated, and the insane are put down on general principles. Prison isn’t jail. Prison lasts for years. Only a fuckin’ moron makes waves. You keep it calm. You know that American movie Cool Hand Luke?”

She didn’t.

“Aw, all right, forget it. I learned English from movies, but… That's not important. It’s just a movie, anyway. Well… you know that dog, the ones the Mexicans invented, the tiny one with the bat ears?”

“Chihuahua?”

“Yes! That small runt you can step on! They make noise because of their size. What they should do is hide. A true predator hides.” He took another drink, then stared into her eyes. “You know what they call a pack of tigers?”

She didn’t.

Boqin smiled. “An ambush.”

He filled both their glasses.

“When an animal gets quiet,” he continued, “When its very energy makes the air feel still… that’s when you know a real fight is coming, and you better run if they know what’s good for you. But a real professional doesn’t even let you know he's about to kill you. Straight fights are for fools. This is a business. That means handling things quickly and at low cost.

“This Russian dork knew none of this. And it made him weak. That’s why I’m telling you this.” He sipped and regarded her. “Hm. Did I ever tell you that you remind me of my niece?”

She shook her head.

Boqin smiled. “My sister has the most beautiful daughter. I don’t think her husband… ugh… well, she did… look, I respect her decision… but… whatever, it’s not important.

“But my niece?” The warmth of his smile made her think of the sun breaking through the clouds on a rainy day, causing a warm mist to rise in its golden glow. He spoke of the young girl as if she was his own, about how she was starting gymnastics, and in his opinion, could probably compete, about how the girl had her mother’s fiery temper, which in turn reminded Boqin of his own mother. He talked about the pop bands the girl was into, how most of the time she was taciturn and shy, but very polite and prone to smiling, until you pushed her buttons a little too much. The girl was getting too old for her stuffed giraffe, something she would probably take with her everywhere if she allowed to; the girl still cuddled with it every night, her little face buried deeply into its neck. She slept so beautifully, Boqin said. If anything ever happened to her… he let that trail in the air.

He took a drink. “There’s nothing I wouldn't do for her.” He regarded Qiáng again. “So, you, little rose, pay attention. They don’t teach this in school, and you can’t keep notes on top of that.” He chuckled. “That would be considered evidence.”

She laughed softly, and covered her mouth shyly.

“So,” Boqin said, “This Russian ended up hiring me as a bodyguard, the dumbass. I can’t doctor my past outside this video game, but it can be hidden.” He waved a hand around, the lit cigarette between his fingers drawing strange shapes with its smoke. “Some connections of mine changed my logon date, so it looked like I was here from the beginning. Using some contacts, I helped cook up a new background for myself. The story was that I was just a civilian who got into trouble with the law, with the greens, trying to make some money when shit was scarce, back when the terrorists first hit. We cooked up some references, said I joined various crews and pulled some heavy work, some legit, some not. Despite having a start in legwork, I could work just well as a fixer, a street smart operator. I’d learned enough, could advise good enough. That ended up being a role the Russian needed filled, so I join up, smile, say please and thank you. Embed over the course of a few days. Let the enterprise, let uncle up with an extraction plan. The enterprise built a little crew of dipshits, hired them through a proxy, to try and hit the Russian. The kind of morons with “Born to Lose,” tattooed on their chest. The idea was to make a distraction, and clear the enterprise of being involved in the hit… Because that Russian was gonna fuckin’ die… I was gonna kill ‘im. It’s just that the Russian had some okay protection, and we needed them outta the way. So, the decoys, they hit this deli we’re visiting, me, the Russian, and his crew, and the losers stand no chance against the bodyguards. They didn’t even think there was gonna be any! These morons were the type to run in, spray some shots, or run in as a mob and stab up a single guy. The bodyguards were taken by surprise, but managed to dig in; it wasn’t like they were that good either. But the Russian and his crew didn’t know the clerk was in on it, and in that chaos, I ran off with the Russian. Y’know… to keep him safe.”

He quickly jabbed her in the side with his fingers. “You put the blade there. That’ll kill ‘em. Not immediately, though. They gotta bleed first. So, you hit them in the neck. Fuck up their larynx. Rip it out with a blade, you stab it right.” He poked her liver. “Get ‘em here, they’ll sit right the fuck down. If they stay standing, run the blade around their guts like the stick shift in a car. You drive?”

“...I have.”

“All right. Run the gears, and you hit a buncha nerve endings, rip up the liver. If they run away–and they can–hopefully, they get sepsis. Always remember, bleeding takes time. It’s why I don’t trust a nine millimeter. It’s like stabbing someone from a distance. Takes too long. However,” he held up a finger while taking a drink, “You put a few twenty-two caliber into their head while real close? Works perfect. Can knock ‘em right out and put holes in their brain. You follow me? Gun sounds like a door getting slammed shut, too. Just don't overdo it; eventually, people will figure it out.

“I hid a small single-use twenty-two cal tube on me during that job. Press a button on the side, and it fires one bullet, then it’s spent. I got him out of the fight, saying we needed to get to safety. Once we’re in the back alley, I gut checked him with my shank to put him down. Then, I put one in his brain. Got it? Sit him down, then put one in his brain. Always put one in the brain.

“Understand?”

“...yes.”

Either that, she thought to herself as she walked through the streets of MetaTropolis™, or you disable their body in any way you can. There’s a YouTube video, from a long time ago, of this old man–star of a firearm channel–using a .500 Smith & Wesson revolver on a running push mower. With every blast of the hand cannon, the lawn mower keeps sputtering and trying to run, even as oil and gasoline sprayed out of it. He just kept shooting it, over and over.

A human body has evolved over a million years to stay alive and through all kinds of trauma. You gotta kill it a lot harder than you think. It’s a lot like shooting a lawn mower with a .500 Smith & Wesson. It’s a lot fucking worse if you are using a rock.

Hopefully, she wouldn’t have to do that today.

The nightclub where the first part of the negotiation was to take place was just down the street from her now. Shue pulled up her wrist, and called them to announce herself.

Nobody was standing by the front door of the place, which had an awning leaning over the sidewalk. The front of the building was flat stone, with nothing eye catching displayed at all. It was nestled among a bunch of other buildings, garish stores and a restaurant that were dressed up in neon colors, desperate for attention like aging barflies. The nightclub, however, looked almost hostile in its normalcy; it's name wasn't even on the front. Qiáng couldn't even remember it; she was just following the nav point on her wrist map. This place was supposed to be exclusive, hidden from most drunks wandering around. The building looked like a goddamn gray brick on the side of the street; that seemed a bit overkill in Qiáng's opinion.

Nightclubs, nightclubs, nightclubs, it was always fucking nightclubs. Every dipshit gangster wanted to run one. And almost all of them sucked. She didn't get the draw. It was like an adolescent fantasy, or maybe a more grown up version, though only slightly; when you're a kid, you want to be a YouTuber or Twitch streamer, an astronaut, an eSports star, someone who played real sports, the president, a superhero, and animator, a game dev, and every single one of those dreams was fucking stupid and you dropped them. The first real time someone laughs in your face you toss that shit behind you like an old stuffed animal. But now you're stuck. You don't know what to do. And you desperately need to look adult.

When you crawl out of whatever hole you were stuck in, either studying or selling drugs to people to studying, you suddenly think you're an adult when you first go to a bar or club. All those people, the music, how the bass literally moves you with a sonic force, right in your chest. It's why religion is successful; people like noise. We came from the wild, where anything would hear us and eat us, where we always had to be quiet. Being able to be loud, to run around in absolute freedom sets off a reaction in our minds, and it changes everything. You're not just part of a cliqué, or group of friends, but a whole scene that's alive and firing pulsating sonic waves that crash into the stillness of night, shattering its peace, turning that darkness into something wonderful. Or maybe it's the drugs saying that. Doesn't matter. Doesn't even matter if it makes sense. It feels right.

Then comes the day when you realize you were just shoved into a room that was as busted as your old school auditorium, everybody is sweating on you, and the fucking watered down drinks are expensive. It was a scam, the lights dimmed to hide how ugly the situation was.

Some people don't make it to that last part. Some cling onto it. For some dipshit gangster, it's the first time they felt like they made it. It suddenly becomes a goal for them to chase. A sign that they've not just made it, but are big in the life. And none of them understand how to run anything, don't get that some of these places are fronts, and essentially you aren't really the one having any fun, but are essentially a chaperone who watches as a bunch of fucked up dancing idiots wreck all your furniture. And you have to be nice to them. You can't get mad at a drunk; they'll always get madder than you. So you have to smile, bow, and only go for a sucker punch when it is absolutely safe; if you fuck that up, you have a psycho on the loose. If you have to bounce them, you have to rush them like correction officers rush an inmate; quick, without emotion, five guys (if you're lucky to have five guys on hand), one for each limb and one to watch their head. No talking. No point! they're wasted. If you don't have five guys you gotta call the cops, and that means hoping you're on good terms with them.

It's a massive pain in the ass, not glamorous at all, and requires constant vigilance and attention. Everything you do has to go into it. And, unfortunately, owning a club is the mid-life crisis buy for a lot of gangsters. The same way some dad will buy a nice car and not know how to drive or care for it, a gangster will run a club. And the ones that are good at it are usually the creepiest bastards you'll ever meet; the kind of person who always seems to be sober around drunks.

That guy.

We're not talking about some designated driver (though you should never trust that guy, either). This is someone who can be around drunks and not drive them nuts. They're manipulative. And if they run the business, they get you to spend a whole paycheck in an evening before politely asking you to leave. Maximize profit, and reduce damages from crazed drunks.

The whole scene always made her skin crawl. She usually stuck to a few small dives. The glitzy plastic shit always made her feel ill. Even young, she always saw the fakeness of it. Now that she'd met more than a few of the assholes that ran places like that, she only went to these places when she needed to. There were a few small places that had good stock she would go to, and Boqin came with a lot. Aiguo as well, but he would usually cruise the club scene, able to cut through its choppy waters like a shark.

It wasn't until Qiáng was almost done with uni that she became a real drinker. She thought the kids at high school parties were morons, just babies trying to play pretend. Trying to look like what they saw in movies and music videos. Same with college. She was dragged out a few times by friends, who always chastised her jokingly. It was her twenty second birthday when she got into bourbon. It became known to the five others in her group that night that she never drank, not even on her twenty first birthday. They kept goading her to get at least a beer, and she said fine, and immediately ordered a vodka martini. The idea that she was the one getting ideas from movies did cross her mind, but she ignored it. She was fucking with her friends. That's how she was. All up tight until she would meet your challenge, and then try to outdo you. Hell, that same reaction, that same quirk of hers, was how and why she lost her virginity. She got right on top of the guy (who suddenly seemed terrified), ignored how weird it felt, and rode him, half-snarling, half-smiling that she better be one to finish first.

He'd gulped.

A lot of people didn't see it coming from her, mostly because she didn't talk much, and when she did, she was cordial. It didn't pay to be mean. It did pay to be quiet, just hanging out in the background, but if you were spotted, being nice always helped. She got good at it. She found a way and tone to use while talking, and people tended to stop and listen. She started speaking a bit softer, and they would lean in to hear her, bringing them close. It helped, until it didn't, and it usually didn't when it was someone coming at her for being Asian.

But that other part, when she'd ante up, rise up to you then bet higher, was kept hidden. A lot of people end up regretting the first time they had sex. She didn't. Not that she liked the guy, and they broke up not that long after, but the whole thing was on her terms. She was only mildly curious about sex when he kept pestering her, and when she relented, she made sure to stay up on top, in every meaning of the word. Men could be so funny. If he got close to finishing, he would stammer it to her, and she'd stop. She got him to keep her going with his hands during those periods. She thought guys were supposed to finish right away, but this guy certainly didn't. Maybe he wasn't a virgin. She'd never bothered asking. The boy from next door, that her parents were excited about her dating, they liked him, and she was starting to realize she didn't. Oh well. He kept at her with his fingers, and it was clumsy, but there was something about how he kept looking up at her while doing his best… she'd jumped right back on him, and got what she wanted. She let him go inside, she was on birth control.

Past that night, there was a bit of an escalation in her behavior. It was around then she started smoking. She had no vices, and besides, they were supposed to calm you down; everyone should have at least one, and why not pick your own vice, instead of it picking you? She didn't want to vape. She had one, but didn't like it as much.

She'd been on a hot streak with this behavior, until that fucking vodka martini. How did James Bond drink that shit? Her friends told her not to do it, but nooooo, she was Guo Qiáng, she'd made up her mind.

You cannot ever look dignified after puking into a public toilet, not after you stumble out of the stall, not after you wash up in the sink, and not after finally making it to the Über. The looks the sunuvabitch gives you in the mirror, the, "I'm kicking this bitch right out if she starts puking in here," looks, cannot be defeated by your feeble attempts to look dignified, which, you don't, because you're doubled over with your forehead on the window, babbling that you're good, you totally know what you're doing. Her friends would quote that one, "Oh, don't worry, she totally knows what she's doing," to pick on her from time to time, and… well, to be frank, she deserved it. She didn't stop saying it the whole ride home.

She'd told this story to both Boqin and Aiguo (because he tagged along that night; she would have never talked to him like this if it was just them alone, but Boqin was there that night) one time at a small bar they frequented; a very small bar, it was more like a rectangle carved into a building, with the bar and stools running along the right wall, some booths down the left, a front door, and some other doors (two gendered bathrooms and a door to the back area) in the back. They were seated on three stools, Boqin closest to the back wall, then Qiáng in the middle, and Aiguo on the end. Qiáng was explaining, "That's when I started drinking liquor."

Aiguo rubbed his eyes. "You skipped right over beer?"

Qiáng shrugged.

Boqin sighed. "I worry about your behavior."

Aiguo said, "I'm surprised by it."

Boqin asked, "You are?"

Aiguo looked away and drank from his glass. "Okay, maybe I shouldn't be."

Qiáng lit a cigarette with a smile. Her lipstick stained the butt of it, leaving a pink ring on the end. Blowing out smoke, she said, "They didn't think I'd order it again the next time we went out."

Aiguo turned to her. "You did?!"

Qiáng shrugged, and blew a smoke ring.

Boqin rolled his eyes. "No you didn't."

Qiáng let out an, "Ugh," and turned towards Boqin. "What makes you…?"

The middle-aged gangster frowned at her. "I don't think you're that stupid."

She huffed and spun herself back towards the bar. "Okay, fine. I didn't.

"It was still a screwdriver, though."

She felt Boqin roll his eyes, and this made her smile again. She loved this. She loved it when he called her Blossom. He did that when he thought she was acting too crazy. She tried not to think about how he'd been in the life since age fifteen, and had been a bruiser, then a serious hitter. She didn't like to think about that. She focused on the moment. He was calling her Little Blossom now, saying that you had to be careful with drinking, it messed with your reflexes

Aiguo didn't look at her. "Yeah, I guess I shouldn't be surprised." He didn't come out with them as often, but he would never shun them. It'd been him and Qiáng that walked out of Canterbury alive. That was it, no one else. Qiáng killing who knows how many people, and Aiguo escaping his kidnappers and setting up safe passage for both of them. After that night, they became legends.

Uncle cared about their careers, both of them. Qiáng wondered if he felt sorry for sending them out to Canterbury. He didn't feel like they failed; there was no winning in that one. He still had the same trust in them as when they joined the enterprise. He'd met with both of them (separately; they didn't join the society at the same time), which was rare. He took great interest in them, though no one knew why quite yet. This is why Boqin made sure to guide these kids through this life; whatever uncle saw in them, maybe Boqin saw it too.

But, now, she was alone, standing by the coat check area in yet another nightclub. A bouncer's hands took their time running up and down her body, and she tried not to let it bother her. He'd already taken her knife and the two wands she brought for defense; no problems there, she'd told him about them and he said he'd take them. But she thought he liked touching her too much.

You always need to remember every lesson you learned when in a stress situation. Always remember your training. People went out of their way to invest their knowledge in you. Prove it wasn't a wasted effort.

Remember who you are, and remember who they are. They aren't your kind.

The guy at the door stopped feeling her up and eyed her baggage.

She motioned to the bottles with a warm smile, "I brought some Chinese liquor, and if that fails to please, a very good bottle of Winthorne."

The guy looked like he barely resisted shrugging. Instead, he nodded, "I'm sure that Mr. Russo will appreciate your thoughtful gesture."

She bowed her head–while also performing a slight curtsy–and followed the door guard to the back. This meant crossing the floor, booths around the walls, some space dedicated to tables, and a large dancefloor near a stage. A nightclub. So many of them made her think of corporate supermarket or fast food chains; they all have the same damn layout, all follow the same template, so when you enter one, you can't tell it apart from any other. They all bleed together in your memory, a mess of shitty bisexual lighting and people wildly flailing. She'd rather have a nice drink in the quiet, but there was almost never any such luck.

They went through a door to the left of the stage, and after walking past a VIP lounge, a storage area and a green room, they climbed a narrow staircase to the office.

It would be easy to mistake it for a separate VIP area. She wondered how they got half the furniture up the narrow staircase they just climbed, before spying a door far across the big room. There was enough room for some couches around a table, a card table off to the side, a bar right next to it, nice rugs, a nice desk, and right then she stopped taking notes; it didn't matter how nice it was, there wasn't many places to hide in a fight, not much cover, no place to duck out of harm's way. She looked at the nice carpet and thought it would be impossible to get blood out of it. The desk was at the far wall in front of a bank of two-way mirrors; you could watch the dance floor from there, but they couldn't see you.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

The room was organized to display wealth, good taste, and even strength. It was the perfect diorama of a gangster trying to impress upon you he had his shit together. The only thing missing was an aquarium with exotic carnivorous fish. She wondered if that meant this man hadn't watched enough gangster movies–so the idea hadn't been put in his head yet–or he'd seen so many already he knew that would be tacky as fuck.

Mr. Russo was wearing a pink shirt (probably a fucking tee shirt; there weren't any buttons on it) under a cream single-breasted jacket. He stood up from behind his desk, and she saw he had dark blue jeans on. She tried not to do a double take when she caught a glimpse of his shoes, realizing that he was one of those assholes who wore fake Nikes. Nike never partnered with Anereta; if you wanted the swoosh, you had to ask for it to be made by a custom shoe maker/cobbler. The shoes were snow white, the accents and swoosh black. This was a pretty big city; it was no surprise that some people weren't wearing the default clothes like the peasant bumpkins did. She was no exception herself, after all. But fake Nikes did cross a personal line for her.

Mr. Russo was a white boy, though he looked tanned, like he just came back from a vacation; he had that white person summery glow about him. It made the white of his teeth stick out. His skin didn't have that weathered look, however, like you get in real life; it looked smooth and healthy, like he slept in a moisturizer bath. He had dirty blond hair that was cut very neat. The hair was more brown than blonde, but it was very light for brown; would that be chestnut? Regardless, the sides were buzzed expertly, a bit of a fade, like the cleancut look of a pro footballer (soccer, to you Americans out there), or at least one of the fans trying to emulate one.

Russo hesitated a bit coming around the desk, his hand halfway up, looking unsure if he should shake Qiáng's. She placed the bottle bag at her feet, which settled it; Russo came forward and took her hand in a grip that wasn't so strong, but somewhat wet, and warm.

He offered her a seat as he went back to the desk, and she obliged. The air in the room was cool. Air conditioning was hard to get in Anereta; it took an intricate networking of either lightning or generic magic energy crystals to power the fans, as well as probably several ice crystals to blow cold air through in the first place. She made sure to make a comment on it, which made Russo beam at her. "Best climate control in the city," he boasted in a chirp he tried and failed to make smooth. "Nobody gets heatstrokes dancing in here."

"Good to know you're ahead of the competition. And very clever." What Russo had accomplished was boilerplate, bog standard; any decent business owned such things. Of course, ordinary people didn't. She continued, "I bet you get a lot of freeloaders coming in to take advantage."

Russo laughed. "Oh, they try. But security keeps the riff raff outta here. No free rides in this town, and definitely not in my club."

"Mmm." She nodded, trying to be outwardly congenial.

But the conversation still died.

Russo cracked his neck. She was waiting for him to show her around. It felt like something was wrong, and she didn't know what.

Russo made a gesture. "Want anything? Water? Sparkling water? Hell, we even have soda here. It's no bother if you want it."

"Do you mind if I get something to eat?" The time of this meeting could almost be seen as a great offense. It wasn't late enough for serious discussion over a meal, but it wasn't the first thing in the morning either; that would have been far worse, a quick appointment to finish and get out of the way. However, even if it wasn't still early in the morning, anything before four in the afternoon was a brush-off.

Jesus, this was early for business. The running of his club was more important; he wanted this over before the club opened proper, which is where he clearly was going to be where he would put his full attention. What a fucking asshole.

Why did Aiguo send her to this?

She buried that question. This wasn't the time for that.

But it bobbed back up, not wanting to stay buried. Why her? Why here, with this guy?

"Something… to eat, huh?" Russo rocked back and forth in his chair.

Qiáng reached into her bag, and retrieved the baijiu. "I'd like to drink to success, and this is best accompanied with a meal."

"Well, the kitchen isn't open yet, unfortunately. They're still getting the deliveries."

Qiáng's smile no longer showed teeth, but she tried to keep it warm. "I guess it can't be helped."

"What is that?" Russo motioned at the baijiu, and she told him its name, and a bit about it. She left out the part of drinking with more than two people. And having someone on the right. And a lot of other shit. She pretty much just said it was Chinese liquor. "Really?" Russo leaned over the desk. "Heard people talk about it. Never seen it."

"Care to try some?"

He shrugged. "Why not? What do you use, shot glasses?"

"Yeah, but not entirely. You have any with a stem? Like a very tiny wine glass?"

"I think I do. I forget what you're supposed to drink out of them. Lemme look." To her surprise, he got up himself and messed around at the bar. He held up two glasses, small shotglasses that looked like tiny wineglasses, asking if they would do, and she said yes. He motioned for her to come over.

Her face darkened, but only as she bent to pick up the bottles. The closed smile was back up when she walked over.

Russo was regarding her carefully the entire while. It made Qiáng's flesh crawl. She had a pretty good feeling nobody would dare pull any shit, but it still paid to be cautious. If she never came back, or was molested in any way, any and all properties Russo owned would be firebombed, his men would be gunned down at random in the street, and Russo himself would go to a seafood dinner. Like that one guy, who was chopped up and deposited up and down a river and bay. Dinner for the fish.

Unless Russo was suicidal, or extremely ignorant, nothing would happen to Qiáng. Not even the stupid would fuck with the enterprise; the enterprise had taken great pains to make sure its messages were very easy to understand.

Russo set the glasses up on the bar, and she poured. All the while, she wondered if the man would be idiotic enough to say no to the enterprise. It would be chaos if Russo remained solo. It was one of the things the enterprise was good at, bringing order to chaos. When everything was separate, and the money flowed wherever, they were easier pickings for the greens. Consolidation guaranteed protection for both the community and the enterprise, and further protection gave the cops less to try and break up. They still sniffed around even when you paid them, the fucks. They had nothing better to do, and would make noise about needing to look good for mayors, commissioners, whatever. Senators on the outside. And you could never trust them to not fuck with the community. Consolidation made sure shakedowns for protection also didn't get out of hand, with upstarts with no backing causing trouble.

Like what happened earlier today. It's why she was able to pour the two drinks in the first place. She held up her drink to Russo's, the base of the glass in her palm, with only her thumb, index, and middle fingers holding the stem, the tips lightly resting on the glass. The way uncle drank. The way they all did. She toasted to his success. He nodded and thanked her.

She braced herself for the kick, and had to close her eyes. The baijiu fought Russo as it went down, lighting his whole throat on fire, if his reaction was anything to go by. After a moment, "Mother fucker! God, that shit doesn't go down easy!"

She was actually kind of impressed that his reaction hadn't been stronger. Her first one made her sit down for ten minutes and wonder what the fuck she was doing with her life. On occasion, it still did. She had to give Russo credit.

He stepped away from the bar, now suddenly wanting to show her what his plans were for this place. They didn't leave the office, though, which was still off putting. He quickly blathered on about what acts they were looking to get as MetaTropolis™ gained a safer reputation. He then mentioned extending the VIP area, and getting more of the girls to work it.

She leaned against the bar, and a little harder than she intended. This… this hadn't been brought up. She knew that Russo was involved in a front, but by what he was now saying, it sounded like he had something to do with running a fucking brothel. And that might be a charitable way to put it.

No one told her anything about that. She heard this guy needed some friends and maybe they'd sell to him. It was better to fold him in than fight him or refuse him. If he was refused, he'd go to the boatmen or something, and that would make the enterprise weaker.

But she didn't think they were getting into this. She decided two things: one, to ask as much as was polite as the nature of Russo's business, and two, to use her clear "nail polish" more; her nails weren't actually coated in nail polish, but something that would change color if she dipped them into a poisoned drink. It's why, despite the nasty looks, she always stirred her drinks with her finger.

"You run the girls out of here?"

"No, nothing like that yet. We run a different service. You call them up. They also run camera shows."

She blinked. "You serious?"

Russo shrugged and smiled. "People like their cartoon girlfriends. You can tip them and they do shit for you. I've been at it for a minute now."

"Before we got trapped?"

"Hell yeah. People were trying to make all kinds of hookups and shit way before! But they were all out there on their own, so, I consolidated. Brought order to all of it. Of course, once I got fucking stuck in here a lot of it fell apart, but we built up a decent local following here. And I'm rebuilding." He produced a bottle of his own Wintorne along with two tumblers, nodding to Qiáng. She gave him a nod back, and he proceeded to pour two drinks. "You can't go solo in Anereta, even back then. The devs wanted to game clean, and the booth operators didn't want to clean all kinds of juices outta their booths. Though, I guess now they got no choice." He put an ice bucket on the bar and handed her a drink.

She dropped in two cubes. "You were setting up people to fuck?"

He sipped and regarded her a bit cooly. It was then she realized she was coming off as far too ignorant to handle this deal. Still, Russo continued. "Not always. People were able to spectate at home, too. That's where a lot of the business came from back then. It still does, a little, but people fucking ingame clearly has become more of a thing. People like these girls than some shitty animation or bad AI bullshit."

She stirred her drink.

"It's paid for all this. Christ, people are really horny for cartoons. Yeah, we'll even get an aquarium in here soon. I'm gonna put it right there," and he motioned towards one of the walls.

She sipped her drink through tight lips, and merely nodded her head as a response.

"And with the Anereta devs essentially destroyed from the terrorist attack, I've had a much easier time," Russo finished.

"Even from the greens?"

"They're a recent thing. MetaTropolis™ had legal prostitution. And all I have to do now is give the greens a bit of entertainment at their parties from time to time. Oh, and pay them. You know how it is."

She nodded.

It was then Russo started to slowly tap his fingers on the bar.

She kept on looking right at him.

He took a slow drink, his eyes still on her. "I know who you are," he said in some rather rough Japanese.

She stopped leaning on the bar, her hands barely resting on the surface.

Russo wore a nasty grin. He continued in Japanese. "You're the one they send when they want to say something… without saying anything aloud."

No response from her yet. She quickly figured he'd rehearsed whatever the fuck it was he was about to say. Keep calm.

Russo started to pace the room. "Though, I don't understand why they work with a girl who's the child of two Japanese nationals."

She responded in flawless Japanese, in a very quiet and steady voice, "They were not Japanese."

Russo kept walking about and smirking. She kept a very close eye on him, especially where his hands were.

Russo shook his head slowly, and picked up a piece of paper that had been laying on his desk. He furrowed his brow in mock concentration. "They were both orphaned in Japan. You know, at first? I honestly thought they were siblings." He smiled at Qiáng.

She was near scowling at him.

Russo shrugged. "Evidence seems to suggest otherwise. A bit, anyway. But, they both grew up in Japan."

"Separate orphanages," Qiáng growled.

Russo kept right on going. "Everything points to them being born in Japan, despite Han Chinese heritage. Just more dandelion seeds blown into the wind after the economic crisis. Neither of them had their parents for very long, so…"

The look of disgusting satisfaction on his face made her want to crack the Wintorne on his jaw. "So," he said, "They were raised as Japanese nationals. Kind of sad, don't you think? What's the word you always use? Oh yeah," and he switched back to English for the one word, "Diaspora."

Her jaw kept tightening, and he kept going. "They didn't even know their own language. It's very rough being a foreigner in Japan. Famously so. To be kept in one of those foreign sections of the city, and be in a minority even in that, must have been terrible. I guess maybe that's how they met?"

She didn't care if the question was rhetorical. "My parents," she caught the edge slipping into her voice and tried to dull it, "met working in the same smelting plant. Did they bond over being lost children? Sure. I wouldn't say they didn't. They pretty much told me as such. Did the Japanese treat them like animals?" She took a long slow sip from her glass. "Oh yes. Oh yes they did. Did they feel ashamed? Very much. But all this can be inferred. You're not proving smarter by stating it."

Russo's smirk deepened. "Your mother got pregnant before they could flee to America."

Qiáng said nothing.

"The delivery happened on the plane. You only just barely were an American citizen."

Still nothing from her.

"Your Japanese is good, and their Chinese was horrible."

"Don't you assume anything."

"Which nation?"

"...what?"

"Which nation is the great nation?"

She was quiet.

Russo held up three fingers. "You got China, Japan, and America. After all the wars of the last fifty years, which one do you think is the great one?

"Because your name isn't 'rose.'"

She turned away from him and back to the bar.

He walked over to her. "They looked it up online. I know that, too. They didn't learn Chinese proper until they got to Los Angeles. But they wanted to name the baby girl something pretty. So they looked it up online. And they fucked it up."

She wasn't looking at him. She drank her drink sullenly.

"But you're with the enterprise." He chuckled. "The Silent fuckin' Gardner." He started his pacing again. "The girl that could. The mousy girl who found herself in the mysterious uncle's favor, somehow. Nobody really knows. The little half-American half-Japanese…"

"My blood is Han," she spat in Mandarin.

Russo kept going, not paying her any mind. "The little college brat, a goddamn accountant or some shit, tax lawyer, whatever… someone with no ambition. Someone who is looking carve out a nook and make basic pay. Not shake up the world. Somewhat understandable, I guess. The daughter of the orphans had become an orphan. But she still had her college, and then her nice job.

"So this brat gets pulled into the game, then about a year in, she joins the enterprise, and no one knows why. They figure it could be problems with the Cratelli family, or one of the Russian syndicates. All anyone knows is that a bunch of them get dead soon after she gets roped in. This girl who isn't a real Chinese. Working with the Chinese. Making her little 'roses' and growing the enterprise's trade. Until that one night in Canterbury. A big raid from some rivals that ends with whatever you people call a capo getting kidnapped, and everyone else dead. Except the little girl. The little brat that set a whole city block on fire in a rage. Or so they say." Russo sat back down behind his desk, ice clinking in his glass.

Qiáng's back was to the bar; she'd spun around on the stool, and was staring Russo down.

He didn't flinch. "And now this chick is sitting in my office, for some reason, as the lead negotiator. Like your uncle is tryin' to say somethin' without sayin' somethin'.

"And I'm not amused." The smile was gone from Russo's face, and had been for a while as he got more and more worked up.

Qiáng studied Russo for a long time. When she spoke, "If you ask nicely, I can be easy to understand. Mostly because I don't sound like I learned my Japanese from an anime."

He smirked briefly, and switched back to English. "What is your uncle trying to pull."

She went back to English as well. "I was asked to meet you for a deal. So, I'm here." She cracked ice in her teeth as she motioned around the room with her glass. "Facilitating a deal."

Russo put his feet up on his desk and folded his hands in his lap. "You."

She nodded with mock congeniality. "Me."

Russo looked up at the ceiling. "The wannabe mysterious one. The supposed Luca Brasi, Keyser Söze. You?"

She just shrugged.

"Leave that bundle and come back tomorrow."

There was a deep frown on her face.

"I don't want you around here until I check some things." He leaned over the desk at her. "I'm not going to be intimidated. There's others out there, big fuckin' names. You ain't nothin' special. They all come struttin' through my office door looking for fuckin' handouts because they think they got the right. Well, they're wrong. I built this fuckin' place, I kept it open, dealt with the fuckin' cops, the dumb assholes who wander in here, and kept these…," a very slight, but noticable pause here, "girls in line, because they're too fuckin' dippy to keep themselves outta trouble. I been through it all, and I ain't gonna be pushed around by some… little girl." He made a motion at her. "Bedtime stories don't frighten me."

"You know, if I'm supposably so fucking mysterious… how do you know I am who I am?"

Russo stood back up. "Because I checked you out! Because I was told! Because I'm not some dipshit hustler who's copying what he sees in a music video! I run a business! And I'm not gonna lose it!"

"But you haven't even introduced yourself yet." A slow smile spread across her face. "You haven't even asked me my name. And you are Ryan Russo, correct?"

He sat down and glowered at her. "Tomorrow, Guo Qiáng. I'll see you tomorrow."

They stared each other down for a few minutes. Eventually, Qiáng left the bundle of weapons, and took her bottles with her.

===+++===

Russo was clearly going to make a fuckton of calls about her, and she didn't know to who or what he was going to say. What the fuck had Aiguo sent her into?

She had a reputation to people deep in the business, not to everyday morons on the street. That was thanks to uncle; it was reported that there were no survivors from that fire. The SoCo wasn't so strong in Canterbury at the time, so it was a simple matter of informing some contacts of what to say, plus getting in touch with the people they had working at the local news outlets. She hadn't thought it possible of uncle, but it was done and dusted. She agreed to become a trigger for them, and passed on a decent chunk of her weapon making knowledge to other enterprise wandsmiths, ensuring they were the best armed outfit in the whole of Anereta. Order would be brought to chaos, and it was that night she learned what she should have learned that other awful night, the last time it happened. That night in the secluded forest, as she straddled that man in her ripped clothes and his blood ran cold between her thighs: she wasn't an idle person. She was someone who took action. She was a killer. A murdering bitch. She just needed to accept that and move on.

She stopped in the street as the foot traffic swirled around her. People gave her strange looks as she stood there, eyes pointed at the ground, unmoving. She suddenly cut out to the side, ducking through an alley.

===+++===

"What do you mean, you need more money?"

"Boqin, I'm not going back to that hotel," Qiáng said into her wrist. She was standing in a shabbier hotel room, standing to the side of the tiny window, peeking through the curtains at the streets below. "Where the fuck is Aiguo? I've been calling him for hours."

"I don't know," Boqin admitted.

"You don't know either?"

"Do you really want it to spread around that you're panicking?"

A pause. "Does it sound like I'm panicking." There was an iciness to her rhetorical response.

"You're calling here a ton."

"I need to."

"You're acting like a woman."

Silence.

"We both know how that can go."

"Where's Aiguo?"

"I don't know, Qiáng."

"This guy has already made up his mind on what he is gonna do. He's stalling us, for whatever reason."

"Is that why you took a second hotel room?"

"You weren't in there, Boqin. He recited my history to me. And it was decently accurate."

"...how accurate?"

She drank from her tumbler of bourbon. "A lot of stuff about my parents, where I was born. He said it to me in Japanese."

Boqin only listened.

"He didn't know, or he claims to not know, why I ended up with uncle. It was accurate enough, though. He threw all that in my face because he was freaked out that it was me showing up to do the negotiations."

"...all right."

"Where the fuck is Aiguo? Why won't he answer my calls?"

"He's been locked up in meetings all day. Look, you're not in imminent danger, right?"

"Sure, because I switched hotel rooms." She crunched some ice loudly into the receiver.

Boqin sighed. "Look, I'll send you some money. But that's it. Just sit tight for now."

"I'm going to have to go to the meeting tomorrow," she said.

"Is that a question?"

"I'm just stating facts."

"Where's the bundle."

"He's got it."

"Are you serious?!"

She set her glass down hard on the windowsill. "What the fuck was I supposed to do? And that's how it would have gone anyway!"

"All right, all right." They didn't say much of consequence past that, and they hung up soon after. She went to her things, which were spread out all over her bed. She'd gotten this room an hour ago, after sneaking back to her old one and clearing it out. She didn't bother checking out; if anyone asked the front desk, Guo Qiáng was still staying there for the next two nights.

They thought she was panicking.

The enterprise thought she was panicking.

She sat on the bed and started inspecting her weapons: wands, four staves, her knife, as well as her pistol grip launcher and a small pouch that lay next to it. The enterprise were going to think her such a woman. Calling back was a mistake, but what was she going to do? Russo had a detailed dossier on her, essentially, and she had no idea where he got that info; she went over every deep conversation she had ingame, poking through the fog of drunken memories, trying to figure out who she told what. Her fingers slid along the shafts of her wands and staves, slowly beginning to tremble. What if they just called the cops on her?

She felt a tightness in her chest and a sickness in her gut. Head feeling light, she was now off the bed and pacing with the room's lantern turned very low. She looked back at the bed, then to her feet. Her eyes lingered briefly on the two bottles sitting on the nightstand. She quickly turned her back on them, and began checking her nails. She walked over to the lantern, holding them up to the dull light.

After a moment of this, she walked over to her overnight bag and fished out a pair of nail clippers. She cut them very short, so short two of her fingers bled. She grabbed a file next, and after washing away the blood, neatened them.

She stood her pillow up on the bed, leaning on the wall. Carefully, she closed her hands into fists, and began to throw punches into the pillow. After she was done, she opened her hands, inspecting both her nails and the palms of her hands. She nodded, satisfied.

Her HUD popped into her vision, saying she had a call. She pulled up her wrist and answered.

"Ma'am?" a voice whispered to her. It was the hotel clerk from the first place she stayed at.

"Yes."

"Two men claiming to be your brothers in law showed up and asked me not to announce them. They said it was supposed to be a surprise, something about your birthday… but you told me to call you, even if you weren't there…"

"You did good. Don't worry about those men. And thank you for telling me."

"It's no problem! You didn't even need to pay me, they seemed so creepy…"

"Don't spend that money any time soon," Qiáng snapped. "Don't worry, you're not in any trouble, but just wait a bit before you spend or deposit it, okay?"

"...okay…"

"All right, good night, then."

"...good night," and the woman hung up.

Qiáng threw another coat of poison detecting gloss on her nails, hid her staves and knife under the bed, and loaded up her cloak with the wands, the pistol, and bag of seeds. After checking her nails again, she blew out the lantern and left.

===+++===

She got noodles at a stand and asked the man there what place had the best entertainment around there. The man shrugged, saying it was maybe Russo's place. Qiáng asked him why he was uncertain, and the man said that it was because he didn't know if any of the singers and DJs played anywhere else anymore.

She brought this up around town as she walked the streets, wandering into any bar with a stage. Most of them were empty stages. And the reason was that everyone played at Russo's. No matter where she went, that's what she got. And people were really fucking bitter about this. This part of town used to have a pretty busy nightlife, but it was slowly being squeezed to death. She asked why there weren't any new acts, and it seemed like every DJ or singer or whatever got snapped up by one of the various places Russo ran; turned out the man ran more than one place.

She kept her gaze low as she walked the streets, thinking. Nobody paid her any mind; she didn't even know or care if she registered as female. Maybe it was better that way. You didn't fuck with a sharp dressed youth with hair like that, at least, if they were a man. She didn't look like no salaryman, not in that suit and cloak.

Around eleven o' clock she stood across from the back alley that led to the rear entrance of Russo's club. She balled and unballed her fists in her pockets. Her lips were moving as her eyes stared ahead with no focus, but what she said was lost in the clamor of the city streets. She turned slightly away for a moment, before she began to boldly stride towards the back door.

In the street there was a cart full of strange instruments and equipment. A few loaders were standing around it, and she skirted around them and towards the covered cart. She quickly plucked out what were maybe a few mic stands and some odd glowing tubes. She walked briskly with them towards the back door and the bouncer there, who was talking smooth to the three women standing there. She carried herself past in a hurry, holding up the equipment. Nobody paid any attention to her.

Once inside she found herself in a hallway that led to a green room and some other shit. She didn't really take notice. She leaned what she was carrying against the wall and walked to the end of the hall, which became nicer looking as she went. This went to the VIP area and the office. Off to the side, was a bench and a large potted plant. After a cool glance side to side, she slid two wands out of her cloak and hid them at the base of the plant inside the pot.

She walked back towards the entrance, and stopped in the middle of the hall, squinting as she looked back from the entrance to the potted plant. Her face was scrunched up in thought. A man and a woman stumbled out of the VIP area past the plant, and didn't seem to notice her. The man had his hand on the woman's stomach, under her shirt. Qiáng looked back and forth from the plant to the entrance, and nodding, strode towards a door in the hall.

It wasn't locked, and it was a storeroom. She bit her lip. Her eyes scanned back and forth, before suddenly shooting up. She pulled out another two wands, and while standing on a low shelf, she slid them on top of the vent.

She left the storeroom and headed carefully back towards the rear entrance, trying hard not to make noise. She didn't look like she was sneaking, she stood straight and tall, but moved her feet very carefully. Qiáng seemed drawn to one of the metal lanterns in the hall, each housing a glowing white crystal for light. However, as she stepped up to it, she suddenly shook her head. Instead, she looked up at the wooden rafters overhead, put a wand between her teeth, and with a quick hop, grabbed and pulled herself up. She placed the wand up there, and dropped back down. She looked up and down the hall. No one was there.

Qiáng strode to the VIP area next. Nobody stopped her; it appeared any checkpoints were outside the hall, on the other side of the the door that led to the club. She stood in its violet glow for a moment, and the skimpily dressed femmes walking about. Any gender you wanted, serving drinks in heels, tight and short clothing squeezing their slender bodies. A lot of people lolled about in here, with several speaker horns dropping from the ceiling and piping in what the DJ was playing. The sound quality was pretty good. Some of the femmes were pulled onto people's laps, and that's when she stopped paying attention to it. It took everything she had in her to not grimace.

She sat briefly at one of the tables, and pretended to drop something. Studying its underside, she saw the table's central support rose from the floor and spread out arms to the bottom of it like a flower. She stuck another wand there, and walked away.

There was a sideboard against the wall. She wedged another wand in between the back and the wall. There was another plant in the corner, and she could fit two wands there. There was a trashcan just inside the VIP ladies' room, against the wall. She dropped her last two behind it.

Once that was done, she started skulking around the tables and booths set up in the VIP area, studying the faces. Nothing stuck out.

She flagged down one of the servers, a young woman with floppy rabbit ears. Qiáng went to place her order, but was taken aback. "...Haven't I seen you before…?

"On posters. I've… I've seen you on posters. You're one of the local night acts, aren't you? A DJ?"

The young woman smiled bashfully, and somewhat ashamed. She looked down and slightly away. "...Yes."

"You're… you're back here?"

The girl looked back up. "...I have so many fans, and… and I just appreciate them and everything this club has done for me, I owe them so much…"

Qiáng touched the woman's arm with her fingertips, her demeanor suddenly different. "Well, sweetheart, how about… do you have those little bottles of Winthorne? Like the ones they stock in hotels and airplanes?"

"I… I think so, but why would…?"

Qiáng caressed the girl's cheek. "Just fetch me one and a tumbler to go with, please?"

The girl smiled through her confusion, and walked off to get Qiáng what she wanted. She came back very quick, and still apologized. Qiáng shushed her and poured the drink for herself.

The girl asked, "Will that be all?"

Qiáng touched her arm, "Maybe later, sweetie."

The girl nodded, and walked off.

Almost immediately, Qiáng put the drink down on a random table, and waved down another server.

She repeated the process four more times, then started stalking about the tables again, trying to play it cool, play it calm, looking for an empty one that was already set for people to sit at. She finally snatched three of those expensive napkins restaurants use, she didn't know what they were called, the thick ones where they wrap up your utensils. She stuffed all this into her pockets and bellied up to the bar next to a very tall and very sweaty man.

This time she did sip the Winthorne double she ordered, letting the ice rest against her lips as she regrouped. The tall man next to her kept eyeing her, and eventually she looked right back at him. He put his hands up, saying, "Wow, a Winthorne drinker!"

She turned to him, smiling warmly. "The best you can get ingame."

"Hell yeah, damn good shit! But… uh, don't take this the wrong way, but, I don't see a lotta women drinking it."

She chewed some ice as she smiled at him. "I'm sure you don't see a lotta women back here, either."

"Well… um…," and then he laughed to ease his tension. "No! I guess you don't!"

Qiáng giggled.

The tall man turned back towards the bartender, trying to keep it together. She gave him no hint that he was failing. He ordered a Winthorne for himself, and, after a moment, "You need another?"

Qiáng finished off what she had left and pushed her empty glass towards his.

The bartender was summoned, and she raised her glass to his in thanks. He said not to mention it. For a moment, it looked like he meant to turn away from her again, but didn't. She kept herself pointed at him.

He looked a bit nervously out to the rest of the room, and leaned in close to Qiáng, "Hey, are you thinking of, well, spending time with Sera?"

Qiáng looked out and saw the floppy-eared bunny girl DJ, and then back to the tall man. "Oh, is that what you've been thinking of?"

"Well… I, uh… I really like Sera."

She had a coquettish lilt to her voice. "Do you?"

"I mean… I remember when she first was… oh, man, I don't wanna talk about this…"

Qiáng leaned in. "She's very pretty. Why do you think I'm here? I just loved watching her onstage, couldn't get enough."

"It's so great she got there! I remember her cam shows… god… I just… wanted to touch her…"

"Mmm."

He looked at Qiáng and then back forward. "Look, I don't… I don't want to get in the way, but…"

Qiáng then laughed and touched his knee. He flinched, and she said, "Here I am, not even knowing your name and you mine–which might be just fine, actually–and wondering what to make of you, but you're trying to figure out who goes first!" She laughed and leaned closer. "I figured you wanted to join in."

He was staring at her in disbelief, but a smile was starting to form. "What…?"

"Why not just, well, you know… share."

He turned back around, and Qiáng pouted. "Don't tell me you're nervous."

"I'm very fucking nervous. I've… I've…"

"Never?"

He shook his head. "Never."

She took a breath, "Well…"

A hand grabbed her shoulder. "Excuse me, miss."

The tall man turned away from her very quickly, and she knew she was fucked. She'd spent too much time teasing this creep to notice these two cocks walking up to her; she wanted to pump the tall man for more info about this operation, but too late now, she'd gone ans fucked it. She spun to look at the men accosting her.

They were both powerfully built, and were very heavy in their movements. "We've been looking for you all night, ma'am."

She sipped her drink. "I bet you have."

One of them pulled the tumbler from her hand and put it back in the bar. "This way, please."

She offered no protest, and was promptly guided away from the bar and towards a dark corner. There was a door in the VIP room, and it led to a stairway into a basement, which was just a hallway that led to several rooms that were obviously soundproofed. Qiáng tutted. Russo was doing some of the business right here on campus. What a fucking idiot.

There were a few guards walking around down here; the basement was divided up into quarters, and was bigger than Qiáng would have thought. There were maybe eight, no, sixteen rooms. Four per quad: four at the base of the stairs (two rooms to the left, two to the right), four across the intersection, as well as four to the left of that and four to the right of the center. They headed left, to the last door on the left.

Inside was lit with deep red lighting, and you could make out a bed, a loveseat, and a sideboard. It was just roomy enough for the three of them. One stood in front of her, and the other went to shut the door behind her. The one in front was telling her something, she didn't know, she was too busy under her cloak, wrapping one of the small liquor bottles in the napkins. Oh, he was probably telling her to take the cloak off to check for weapons or something. It didn't matter.

Her hand tightened into a fist around the napping wrapped bottle, and she swung it into the man's jaw, glass first.

The guy in front stumbled as his head snapped upwards, and he sat on the bed hard. The man behind her went to get her in a bear hug, but she spun and opened the napkin, slapping the shards of broken glass right into his eyes.

The blinded man fell back, grabbing at his face, which only pushed the glass in deeper. He crashed backwards into the door, pinning it shut, and was screaming so hard that his voice was immediately going hoarse. Qiáng wrapped another bottle in the napkins and slugged him in the side of the head, which sent the man to the ground.

The other jumped off the bed and charged her, his mouth open and bellowing, so she smacked the open napkin over it, pinning it with her one hand, while the other pinched his nose.

The man stopped his charge immediately as reflex took over. Horror spasmed across his

face, and blood began to pour out of his mouth. He fell into the door, and was choking with wet, gurgling rasps.

Qiáng ran to one of the metal lanterns, pulling it open and removing the light crystal inside. She whispered some words to it, after which the crystal darkened and she flung it to the bed. Raising the metal lantern high, she began to beat in the head of the blinded man, who writhed and screamed on the floor. She was unrelenting, bringing the lantern down on him again and again, so much so that the lantern lost its shape, becoming a malformed and demented cudgel. Once the man was dead, she turned to the other, whose eyes were wide but his chest did not move with breath. She beat him a few times in the temple as well. The man gave no reaction. She tossed the lantern aside, straightened up her suit and cloak, and left the room.

Crouched in the door frame, she could see there was a guard down the hall to the left, playing with his wrist menu.

Qiáng produced what looked like a pistol from under her cloak–the launcher. It was of strange design: the barrel was quite long, at maybe eight inches long, and tapered, of all things, almost to a point. The front sight was rather pronounced as opposed to the rear sight, which looked like it was a thin rectangle that had a vertical slot cut into it. The fat rear of the barrel sat on what looked like the curved pistol grip of an old Peacemaker, giving the gun a very amateur feel, something made in a backyard after a long drinking session. There was no cylinder, just the barrel sitting on top of the pistol grip, and out of the back of the barrel there was no hammer to see, just something that looked like a knob. In front of that was the chamber, where a very conspicuous bolt action handle protruded to the right. Qiáng worked it, exposing the chamber, and from the tiny pouch that accompanied the pistol, she placed a very tiny round inside the gun. The rear of the casing faintly glowed green, and the front end was not a bullet; it wasn't pointed, but instead round, and organic, like a small seed. She closed the weapon, and sighted on the man down the hall.

The trigger pull seemed pretty heavy, but the tiny woman managed it. The sound that issued was the clack of the hammer, followed by the release of what was an enchanted gust, a very quick, forceful push that almost sounded like a BB gun which used compressed air.

The velocity of the projectile was much faster than a pistol crossbow, even full crossbows, and much quieter, save for the clack of the gun's inner workings; but most people probably wouldn't recognize them anyway. The force-enchanted pebble launched the small seed right into the man's head, causing him to reflexively bring up a hand to smack at the small bite he felt.

Less than half a second later his eyes opened wide, the animal part of his brain knowing there was something wrong. His hands were suddenly claws, scratching at the sides of his head, trying to get inside the deep center; his fingernails now beginning to leave oozing grooves in the flesh. As he kept digging at his temples, his eyes darted about, confused, but then full terror overtook them as his whole body began to convulse so hard he could barely stand. His head was twisting about now, and his hands worked even more furiously, as he opened his mouth to scream. But what was forced out through his now shattered teeth was what looked like a cluster of bonsai branches. His neck was starting to bulge, and no air escaped his mouth. His hands fell to his sides and began flopping chaotically as he leaned against the wall and the convulsions became worse.

That's when the bonsai tree exploded out of the top of his head, causing everything but his legs to stop twitching. He fell onto the floor as the skull fragments and meat dripped off the ceiling, the war crime known as the bonsai bullet finishing its task.

Qiáng turned around from the mess and loaded another bullet into the pistol's chamber. She made sure to police the spent casing, slipping it into a pocket, and disappeared around the corner. There was then another metallic black, and a gasp. Then others.

Fifteen minutes later, Qiáng stepped back into the VIP room, and was using a key to lock the door behind her. Once that was done, she began to walk towards Russo's office.

There was a guard at the bottom of the stairs, and she smiled at him. "Your boss wants to see me."

"...he does?"

"Very much. Two of you told me so." She motioned up the stairs. "May I?"

"...yeah, sure…," but she was already past him and up the stairs.

She stopped at the door and pressed an ear to it. What she heard made her frown. Opening the door, she said, "I don't know where you got your ideas about me but I feel we could have avoided a lot of… unpleasantness."

Russo, who had been sitting behind his desk, jumped up at the sight of Qiáng entering the room. The guard at the bottom of the stairs followed her in, looking at Russo, then at Qiáng. A different guard grabbed Qiáng's arm and stopped her, but she only noticed what was tucked in his belt: one of the sample wands she brought that afternoon. The rest of it was piled on one of the card tables, which had been dragged into the center of the room. She counted the rest of the men as she continued, "I don't know where you got it in your head I was coming for you, or that the enterprise would even do that, but maybe it's because of your guilty conscience. This place is rather disgusting, and even more unprofessional. I'm just about worried you're one of those sick fucks who keeps the girls in an apartment you own, while someone fucks their body out in the real world pod."

Russo pointed at her. "Don't, you, dare, ever, ever dare to pass judgment on me. I give these bitches a fuckin' home, and this is how they repay me?!"

"Wait… excuse me?" And it seemed like he did pimp out unconscious flesh girls in the pods. Just stick them in an apartment ingame, and they're lucky if someone calls to warn them that they're suddenly going to start… feeling. Bile roiled in her throat, but she kept it out of her voice, "You're not implying I've been hired for a hit?"

"They don't send you to this kinda shit! Regardless if you're the craftsman! Woman, fuckin' whatever!"

"I'm not going to say you don't deserve it but what in the fuck makes you think anyone could afford me for that? I take care of enterprise business. We aren't guns for hire."

"Who says you can't be?!"

"Anyone with a working brain! Do you have any idea how hard it is to run a murder for hire scheme? Unless you're way up north it's near goddamn impossible you fucking moron!"

"I'm not gonna hear this. I'm not! You people are a bunch a lyin', sneaky bastards, and I'm not gonna hear it!"

"Well, I'm sorry to hear that our negotiations are a failure."

"You fuckin' people are gonna pop me for bein' some kinda degenerate when you people have your snakehead shit?!"

"What in the fuck…?!" She tried to take a step forward but was yanked backwards by her arm. There were seven enemies in here, counting Russo. She continued, "We don't do any snakehead shit, you racist little shit! How the fuck we are supposed to be a part of that shit when we're in a goddamn video game?!" One at her side, holding her arm; another a little ways to her right, the guy from the stairs; Russo, dead ahead; three at the bar to her left; one near the windows overlooking the club.

All within ten meters.

Russo pounded his desk. "Are ya kiddin' me?! Everyone knows you're workin' with the CCP! Recruitin' people who are sick of America's shit!"

"What in the fuck are you talking about?! Are you out of your mind?! That's some insane conspiracy theory bullshit!"

"You're back in with the government! They call you patriots now, send you to crack protestors' skulls outside the game! Everyone knows it!"

She shook her head, now feeling weird. "You're insane."

"No. I'm not. I've been through I don't know how many greasy fucks like you who think you can take it all from me, and you can't. You can't! And you can't treat me right!

"That fuckin' uncle a yours! That sick weasel is sendin' money into a crypto laundromat and it goes back home. Every fuckin' weapon you sell goes into that system, and you keep sendin' your people in to whisper in the ears of any Chinese out there, especially if they're Americans. Promise 'em order, a place to go."

"...where are you getting this from?"

"And they bite! I heard about that shit in the liquor store! That's where that fuckin' shit liquor you brought in here came from, isn't it? You bastards wanna come in here and take over and suck this e-bitch money into your pipeline, you greedy fuckin' bastards! I ain't gonna…"

He looked around incredulously. "Did any of ya even fuckin' frisk her?! She's still got that cloak on!"

The man holding her turned her around, and ripped open her cloak. Hanging right in one of the holsters was the bolt action pistol. Qiáng's face was completely blank as this discovery was made. The man grabbed her gun, and she reached forward and calmly plucked the wand from his waist belt.

She fired into his guts, blasting a wet but smoking hole there. She quickly spun and shot the stairway guard in the head, and then looked at Russo.

When she shot him in the face, Russo spun with force of the blast, sending arterial spray up the wall.

The three at the bar ran for the card table, and Qiáng ran and slid along the floor, shooting out one of the legs. The table tipped towards her, spilling the wands on the floor. She grabbed two and flung herself backwards, sliding on her back while firing into the three men, hitting them with ice shards that shredded them. The man at the window made a noise, and without thinking, she shot him as well, the ice shards tearing through him and shattering the window; the man fell through it, people only barely getting out of the way as the man smacked into the ground in a splat.

She heard noise on the stairs. Qiáng saw a service cart off to the side; she grabbed it, flung open the door, and kicked the cart down the stairs.

The men trying to climb up tried to clamber back down, and she ran out, following the cart, firing into them.

People were stampeding out of the club now, with a dozen of them still trapped behind the door in the VIP room; they banged on the door, screaming to be let out. Qiáng flung herself off the stairs onto the VIP room floor. As she did so, arrows and a few spells streaked down the hall. She heard a noise, and turned to see the bartender bringing a blunderbuss to his shoulder. She lay into him with both wands until they were empty; bottles exploded behind the bar, liquor mixing with blood before coating the walls. More noise came from the hall, and she reached in and grabbed the wand she hid under the table. As the first wave ran into the room, she was walking backwards towards the plant and firing into them. Three men were killed, with one losing an arm at the elbow and another's leg dropping away from his hip.

The people who had been banging on the door stopped and could be heard running back down the stairs.

She grabbed the wands in the plant, then kicked open the door to the ladies' toilet. She put the wands from behind the trashcan in her cloak, and readied the other two.

There was a bunch of footsteps that all stopped at once. No one came around the corner into the VIP room.

Qiáng aimed at the wall, and lay into it with the two explosive wands from the plant, all while sprinting out of the bathroom.

The whole wall almost came down; she didn't know if she even killed anybody. She bolted around the corner, leaping over the men who dove to the ground there. There was so much dust and smoke in the air, she had no idea how many there even were. She barely cleared them, and hit the ground in a roll. She only just got to a knee as they tried to draw a bead on her. Whoever wasn't killed ended up running away as she used up what was left of the explosive wands. She drew the trashcan wands, and fired while walking backwards, lightning scorching the walls. The door to the club flew open behind her, and she pointed one wand in either direction and fired wildly while still heading for the exit. No one dared to even peak a head in until the tell tale fizzling sound of two empty wands was heard. The men poked their heads out, but by then she had retrieved the wands from the hallway plant, and managed to kill two in the VIP room, and one in the hall door. She turned and kicked open the store room door, firing the last of the lightning into the hall door to the club, blasting it off its hinges.

She jumped and smacked the vent, grabbing the two wands that fell. She jumped back out into the hall and fired ethereal arrows through the smoking doorframe to the club as she ran by.

Now any known enemies would still be inside. She fired all the arrows down the hall, to keep them there. Once at the door, she jumped up and grabbed the final wand, flicking her aim anywhere she could feel there might be a threat. Nothing moved except clouds of smoke.

She pushed her bangs out of her eyes, and quickly yanked the back door open. No one came in, no one shot at her. She stuck her head out, checking left, then right. All she detected was the sound of sirens. She ran out the doors and into the night.

===+++===

It took her two weeks to get home.

MetaTropolis™ went into complete lockdown in the hour after the shooting, and Qiáng had to plead a way out of the city with the men Aiguo said were there to back her up. It turned out they weren't even in the city, but instead staying at an inn outside of town, by maybe seven or eight kilometers. They picked Qiáng up in a small rowboat they rented, and that in and of itself was an ordeal; rented boats weren't supposed to be out at night, so the three men playing backup had to rent the damn thing near sunset, make a long run up the river beach just outside the city (hoping nobody came after them), get there at dark, have Qiáng jump out of the bushes she was hiding in, drop her off somewhere safer, then return the fucking boat, then go back and get her on foot… it was a goddamn ordeal.

The three men weren't prepared for anything at all. They swore to her they were following orders. She listened to their excuses while she checked her fingers over and over again for broken glass shards. She'd found and pulled out four while waiting in the bushes. There was a good chance her hands were ruined; that injury was going to require a good doctor to do a check up.

She was now in a restaurant owned by uncle, bandages fresh off her hands, drinking Winthorne and staring absently over the bar. The bartender had left her the bottle, not wanting to get involved any further, even if nobody else was there at the moment. He went about getting ready to close, and left as soon as he could. Qiáng sat on her stool, flanked by chairs put upside down and placed on the bar top and tables. Her face was blank as she drank. She took only small sips, and this was still her first drink.

There was a mirror behind the bar. She stared at the figure standing behind her now, the one in the tan suit. Aiguo met her gaze in the mirror, and said nothing.

He walked slowly to a table behind her, righting a chair and sitting in it. He stared at her back, studying it.

"What the fuck happened."

She didn't turn around.

Aiguo didn't take his eyes off her. "Russo's dead."

Still nothing from her.

"Maybe around ten dead. Rounding down. The greens have lost their fucking minds. The mayor of MetaTropolis™ is saying she's going to do a major crackdown."

Qiáng grabbed two more ice cubes for her glass, then filled it with bourbon.

"Way more than ten died, didn't they."

"Where the fuck were you, Aiguo."

He snorted. "Doing my job."

She turned on him now. "Really." She cut off his retort, "I kept calling and calling. That whole thing was a fucking setup."

"Like hell it was."

She stood up, jabbing a finger into her chest. "He knew who I was, Aiguo! I'm not just talking my fucking name! He knew everything, or damn near everything about me!"

Aiguo started to pace with his hands in his pockets. "So that means you had to kill him?!"

She stood her ground. "He sent men to my room, Aiguo! They tried to sneak in, they weren't calling on me! I almost fucking died, Aiguo!"

He stepped up to her now. "You shoulda just done the fucking deal, Qiáng!"

"He wasn't going to play!"

"You don't know that!"

She turned away and leaned on the bar.

Aiguo steadied his breathing. "Uncle is furious."

Nothing from her.

"This was an important deal."

She turned back around, fresh bourbon on her breath. "Where the fuck was my backup?"

Aiguo gave her a level stare. "You came back with them…"

"They were so far outta town I would've been fucked. I pretty much was."

Aiguo made an exasperated gesture. "Do you think they would have overlooked some out of town Chinese coming in…?"

She stepped right up to him and smacked away one of his held up hands. "No. No, no. Listen to me. Listen to me, you fuck," she growled. "They would expect me to have backup. Not at the meeting but around. They wouldn't have said shit. They'd have to take it and like it. Our ultimate gesture," and she pointed upwards, right into his face, "Would be that my backup weren't there while I talked with him. Anyone with half a fuckin' brain would know not to kill an emissary of the enterprise, so why did they try?"

"You're paranoid."

She scoffed.

"You've lost you're fucking mind…"

"They sent men after me! They came right for me! And when they fuckin' cornered me they dragged me to some basement where no one would've heard me!"

"Qiáng…!"

"I don't need anything outside a that! And you fuckin' know that!"

"They're callin' you a mad dog!"

Her shoulders heaved with heavy breaths.

"You went crazy and shot their place up!"

"He had a detailed history of my fuckin' parents!"

Aiguo looked away.

"Where they were from, where I was born! He spoke to me in fuckin' Japanese, Aiguo!"

He gritted his teeth. "There's no proof of any of this."

"Where were you?!"

"You sound completely unhinged…"

"Where the fuck were you?!"

He stepped forward and nearly bumped her chest with his. "I thought, incorrectly, that you could handle this shit! That you had your fuckin' head togetha good enough for this shit! And all you did was fuck it up!"

She finished her second drink and came close to throwing the tumbler at him.

"You acted as a panicky woman! Go ahead, look at me like that! It won't do shit. It's what's bein' said. You panicked. You blinked. You finally cracked, like people have been sayin' you would."

"Aiguo! Aiguo!" She stood right up to him. "They weren't gonna play! They were never gonna play! The whole thing was a setup!"

Aiguo regarded her carefully. He spoke slowly. "They called us. They said you objected to their business. That you hassled some of their guys in… some sort of, liquor store? You held them up as they were getting protection money? Like, you wanted to shake them down?"

"I… I did not…"

"They claimed you were a problem from minute one you entered town. Look!" he said, and put up his hands, "That's what we heard. You had a problem with their girls, how they made their money."

"You'd take someone's word from outside us…?!"

"You blew up a nightclub, Qiáng!"

She didn't say anything.

"People are callin' you a fuckin' mad dog! That you've gone completely nuts!"

She stomped over to the bar and poured herself a drink.

Aiguo rolled his eyes. "Yeah, that's really gonna help…"

"Shut the fuck up, Aiguo."

"No!" He walked over, grabbed the glass out of her hand and threw it against the wall, shattering it. "No! No god fucking damnit! I will not shut the fuck up!

"This is bad, Qiáng! Real fuckin' bad!"

She poked an index finger into his chest. "Pour me a goddamn drink."

"You're losin' your mind!"

"Pour, me. A, god, damned, drink."

They stared each other down for a long time.

Aiguo backed away from her, and only looked away from her glare as he poured a tumbler of scotch on ice. She stepped towards him, but he lifted the drink to his own lips, taking a deep pull of the liquor, and when he was done he leaned on the bar and regarded her coldly.

She said nothing in response.

He took another drink and walked passed her, handing the tumbler off as he went. She didn't drink any. She just stared at it.

"Fine, Qiáng. I'll believe you."

She didn't say anything.

"I'll go talk to uncle."

Still nothing.

She took a drink from the glass.

Aiguo paused in the door, and then walked back over. She didn't turn towards him, didn't even look at him in the mirror.

"...Guo," Aiguo said, his fingers brushing the back of her elbow.

She recoiled with a start, half-turning towards him with wide eyes. It only lasted a second; she turned away, fingers fumbling with her drink.

"Guo," Aiguo said again, sidling up extremely close to her. She ignored him, and reached out a few ice cubes from an ice bucket in the other side of the bar.

She dropped the ice into her glass and started to pour another drink as Aiguo kept talking, "Qiáng, I hope you understand how serious the enterprise takes its business. It is life-and-death out there, and many people rely on us.

"The consequences for acting against the enterprise are most severe," he said with a half smile. He was purring straight into her ear now. "You would do well to remember that. The enterprise always collects on debts accrued, even those earned in blood."

She held the tumbler up to her face, lips partially open though she wasn't drinking, as Aiguo walked away.

===+++===

Qiáng screamed and grabbed at her right knee, her face screwed up in awful pain. She massaged her leg relentlessly, try to stretch out her knee as the pain ran up her leg and stabbed at her mind.

"...Ms. Guo?"

She looked up, and quickly realized that wasn't the first time someone spoke her name, but more like the the sixth or seventh. She squinted in the firelight, and was able to make out her companions, and suddenly felt embarrassed for creating a scene.

Kevin Clemmons was sitting up in his bedroll, it a clenched mess between his fingers, his beat up face a mixture of shock and concern. The woman, Vicars, was still laying on her side, but she'd opened one of her eyes and was watching warily. Kneeling next to Qiáng was the Reverend Kelley, who must have rushed over while she was still in pain. He looked like he wanted to put his hands on her shoulders, but was holding back.

She took a breath. "I'm fine," she sputtered. "I'm fine. Really. I'm all right now." She grabbed at her knee. "Sometimes it flares up." She forced a smile.

"I'm fine. Really."

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