He shrugs. “Why not? Aren’t you going to the Thanks-A-Latte at Tokaido University? I’m going that way anyway. And I haven’t had a hot meal and company since my mother decided to lay low.”
“Don’t know how to cook, Momma’s Boy?”
“For your information, I do, Teacher’s Pet. But it’s never up to par,” the Geisha retorts. “Besides, it’s not every day I get to have my mortal enemy as company.”
A surge of heat boils under my skin. So you can watch me squirm some more. I huff. “More like a captive audience. I can pay for my own ticket.”
“I’m aware, but I’d like to be a gentleman today.”
I roll my eyes at the comment. “Is it safe to assume that I don’t have a choice in this?”
“You assume correctly, Hound.” The Geisha clicks his tongue. “But I’m willing to pretend like you do. Humor me for once. I’ll even buy you something to eat.”
“Fine, but you have to eat one of everything on my plate,” I say.
He raises both eyebrows. “You think I’d poison you?”
I raise both back at him. “You think I’d trust you?”
The Geisha chuckles. “Fair point, Hound. But if I were going to do that, I wouldn’t do it in this roundabout way. And I surely wouldn’t do it on a random encounter with you that I’m not prepared for.”
“Next person in line,” The clerk calls.
With a glance at him, we step up to the clerk window and order our train tickets. In the time left, I grab a grilled eel and salmon rice ball bento box, then we wait for the train. The Rabbit Line wheels along on the tracks, shiny white frame stopping in front of us. The Geisha picks a window booth for us and we sit across from each other. The train rattles into full motion and bossa nova pours from the radio.
I lean back into the cushion seats and watch the fast food restaurants and grocery marts streak by. In the corner of my eye, I see the Geisha open his book to a dog-eared page.
“What are you reading?” I ask.
“Arthur Schopenhauer.” He flips a page. “Philosopher long before our time. And one of my favorites.”
His response doesn’t surprise me. The Geisha always seems to gravitate toward things like philosophy, literature, and poetry. “German guy who thinks that love is a trick to get us to reproduce?”
His light brown eyes flick up to me. "You know of him, Hound?"
“Read him in a literature class at Red Dragon Academy. I kind of liked him,” I say.
"Because he thinks love is a trick?”
“Well, I liked his views on gods more,” I say. “About if there are gods, then they must be evil.”
“I was about to say…” The Geisha lays his book on the table, his smile returning. And as much I hate admitting it, he is captivating in civil conversation. Not in a heart-stopping, world-colliding kind of way, but a gentle one like dawn poking into a dark house. “I’d be shocked if you thought love was a trick with that ring on your finger, Hound.”
I scoff. “Of course not. But that’s how I remember him.”
“Then you think that love is the real deal?” The Geisha asks.
“You think it’s not?”
He shrugs. “Think of the nation we live in, Hound. It’s always about the next paycheck or how you look. If you have no money or no usefulness who do you think will stand by you? There has to be something that forces us together, otherwise no one would ever bother with each other.”
I open my mouth to say something, only to find that I don’t have any words ready. I glance at my ring and then I say, “So you don’t think that people can love each other because they make each other happy?”
“Certainly they can. But even bringing joy means that you are providing a use to your spouse. Would the man you love still love you if you didn’t do what made him fall in love with you?” the Geisha asks.
“Probably. I didn’t have to do anything to make that happen.”
The Geisha cocks his head at me, much in the same way that King does whenever I do something baffling to him. He pulls his book upright and turns the page. “As far as you know.”
My fingers itch and blaze at the statement. I glance at my phone wishing someone would call or text me, even if only to save me from this conversation. With a scoff, I ask.“And I suppose that you do?”
“I can’t say I do. But there isn’t much in this world that doesn’t have a condition attached to it, Hound.” He turns the page. “Even us.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s called Show-guns for a reason, isn’t it?” The Geisha asks. At my silence, he dog-ears his page. “You mean you’ve never wondered why that is?”
“It’s just a name. They probably just wanted it to be called something clever.”
“Perhaps. But the ‘show’ is what the world sees. The ‘guns’ just do what they’re told,” the Geisha says. “As long as we keep up our tatamae, no one cares what’s underneath.” He clicks his tongue and then looks out the window. “That’s why I told you at the retirement party that it’s not about the position anymore, Hound.”
I clench my hand into a fist. “Everyone in Showguns isn’t like that. Mai and the Silent Seven aren’t like that.”
The Geisha chuckles. “Wake up, Hound. My mother is all you know of Showguns, Hound.” He leans in. “You’ve had a silver spoon in your mouth for years.”
A bell dings. “We will be stopping at Tokaido University Town Center shortly,” an automated voice chirps. And I’m only too glad to hear it and feel the train roll to the stop. I grab my stuff quickly and get up.
“Have a nice day, Hound,” the Geisha says with his polite smile.
The comment needles me more than it should. Not just because he gets the last words, but because they sound…
Sincere.
3-3 'Ah'
The Geisha’s words worm into my mind the way an irritating song worms into your conscious. The harder I try to focus on work and put the train ride behind me, the more forcefully his words come back. It gets so bad at the cash register that more than once I have to catch myself from writing badly-misspelled variations of Arthur Schopenhauer on a customer’s drink. Zen Hour saves me, stopping the giant torrent of customers to an occasional trickle.
I go in the break room to get myself together and to get my bento box out of the fridge. I pick a seat at the tables out in front of the cash register and listen to my colleagues’ chatter.
Mint-popping Guy swipes the back counter with a towel. “C’mon, Gina. You’d totally die first. How far are you going to get on those chicken legs?”
Pigtail Girl watches him clean, but makes no move to help. She turns her gaze to her new French tip manicure. “Farther than you, Ren. You don’t even look like you’re in shape.”
New Guy comes in from the back, thick-muscled arms hefting two stacked packs of 24-ounce water bottles with ease and sets them down. “What are you guys talking about?”
“Who would die in a zombie apocalypse,” Pigtail Girl says. “Ren keeps saying I will.”
On the other side of Mint-Popping Guy, Acne-faced Literature Boy scrubs the frappucino blenders in silence. He hasn't said a word since the talk began.
“What do you think, Jun?”
I blink. “Huh?” I look over to find New Guy and the others looking at me expectantly. “Sorry. I didn’t hear.”
“I was saying that we could use Gina as distraction bait for the zombies,” New Guy says. “I asked what do you think?”
I nibble at a salmon rice ball. “Oh yeah. Definitely.”
Pigtail Girl stamps her foot and scoffs. "Oh my gods, you guys. I have to die first in all of these stupid conversations!"
Maybe it's time to take a hint. I check the clock. 2:55. Almost time to get out.
The front door swings open.
Aviator shades atop her head, wearing a beige trench coat, and looking the part of a female detective on a case, Heaven strides in. She waves to me. “Hey. You’re already off?”
“No. Just a f
ew more minutes. Did you want to buy something to go or…”
Heaven shakes her head. “No thanks. I was actually going to ask if you wanted to go somewhere and get something but you already beat me to it by the looks of it.”
“I don’t mind getting something else,” I say. “Is the meeting going to take long?”
“Not unless you have a lot of questions, but I’ll need to ask some if you don’t mind.”
Then it’s just like a normal interview. I should’ve figured that, but I suppose Heaven couldn’t have been expecting me to be in business attire since she agreed to pick me up from work. “Sure.”
A smile spreads on her lips. “Good. I’ll be out in the car, then."
Once Heaven is out of earshot, Pigtail Girl says, “Is she your sister or something?”
My eyes narrow at her. Is she blind? “We don’t look alike. At all.”
She makes a dismissive gesture with her hand. “All you foreigners look the same to me.”
Adrenaline flares like a smashed raw nerve. A foreigner! I open my mouth to say something, but then I think better of it and get up to throw my finished food away instead. You’re one of the things I won’t miss about this place.
After enduring the Geisha and a long day at work, getting into Heaven’s car is just the stress reliever I need. The heater is on at full blast and peach wafts from the dangling dream-catcher-shaped air freshener. Soft, deep house seeps from the radio speakers.
I breathe in the sweet smell. All the tension in my muscles slips, as I gaze around. Floor is clean. Probably even shampooed recently. Dashboard is spotless. And windows are bird shit-free. Seats are free from scratches. Shiny black paint job. This isn't the same car she drove Megumi and I to the game in. "Is this a rental?" I ask.
"No. I have two cars.”
Damn. Can I have one, please?
Heaven peels off her coat, exposing a tribal S-shaped tiger tattoo on her shoulder. I don’t remember seeing this on her when we met; it’s such a bright white against her tan skin like cream poured into a fresh mocha latte. When her arm moves, the tiger seems to breathe and its bright blue eyes pulse with an inner life.
Heaven’s not the type of girl you expect to have a tattoo. Usually it’s Showguns people (though obviously we don’t expose them in public willynilly), more shady types like released felons, and seedy-looking foreigners from the West.
“I surprised you have a tattoo,” I say.
“You’re like the third person in Fedora Clan who’s told me that,” Heaven says, as she looks in the rearview mirror. “Is there some taboo I don’t know about, or…?” The question is left to hang as she tosses her coat in the backseat.
“Tattoos have a bad rep, but you’re…” I have to stop the word foreigner from coming out. Just the thought of drawing anymore race lines is almost enough to make me sick. “I don’t think many people would care too much if you’re from out of the country. Glimpsing the tiger briefly, I add. “The job on yours is really nice. Almost looks like it might jump at someone.”
The corners of Heaven's lip lift as if I told a small joke. “Thanks. I’ve had it for a long time.” She starts the car. “By the way, have you heard anything from Megumi?”
I sit up a little at the question. “Megumi? No…I was actually going to ask you about that.”
Heaven frowns. “Then she never went home? She was supposed to get dropped off.”
“No. Last time I heard anything from her directly was Sunday.” I link my hands in my lap. “My aunt called the police to look for her, but they haven’t said anything.”
“Hmm. They came to the lab because according to them it was the last location she was before she went missing, but no one has found anything yet.” Heaven sits up to check for cars behind us. “I was hoping you’d know something since you both live together.”
An awful plummeting sensation takes over in my stomach. If there’s no signal at all, then…is Megumi dead? Ice crawls under my skin. No, no, no. Megumi can’t be dead. She just can’t be. I try to stay positive by reminding myself of Mai’s case. No signal but still alive.
Heaven spares me a brief glance. “Do you have one?”
After a moment of confusion, I realize she’s changing the subject back to tattoos. “I have one under my collarbone. It says, ‘fall down seven times, stand up eight’. Who did yours?”
Heaven only offers a raised eyebrow and a noncommittal grunt to a car taking its sweet time to pass behind us. Once it’s gone, she backs out. “I’ve had it a long time. I barely remember.”
The behemoth Engineering buildings of Tokaido University recede on our right.
“So, where exactly are we headed?”
“Espresso Train,” Heaven says. “Unless, you really want to go somewhere specific.”
“No, no that’s fine. I’ve never been. Is it close?”
“Ehhhh, close to me. I don’t think it’s a drive you’d want to make everyday for your morning coffee if you’re coming from Aokai.”
“I’ll take anything over Thanks-A-Latte.”
“You don’t like it?”
“I work there. My aunt owns the chain. I really don’t want to go there on my off-day.”
Heaven chuckles. “I totally get that. Though, that may not be the case for much longer, no?”
That’s right. I wonder if I should’ve brought along a resume or asked if I needed one. But then again, if the Geisha pulled the strings, I shouldn’t be worrying. “The job’s that good?”
“Probably a lot more fun than messing around with coffee all day,” Heaven says, switching lanes. “You like video games, so I’m pretty sure you’ll like the job.”
I twiddle my thumbs together in my lap before a question pops to mind. This is a good time to see what the Geisha is up to. “Do you know a guy named Genji Fujiwara?”
“Yes, why?”
“How do you know him? I was surprised you two know each other.”
Heaven doesn’t say anything at first. “He found me through my genetics research on the Akuma gene and the Radiance gene. Tokaido Research Institute is one of the few places authorized to handle it. So he wanted to meet up in Taitai and talk about it.”
“Radiance Gene?” I echo. “I’ve heard of the Akuma gene, but not the Radiance gene.”
“They’re mutations of each other, but the Radiance gene is a lot more rare,” Heaven says. “But when the two are active in the same individual, the Radiance gene restrains the Akuma gene. We’re hoping that the Radiance gene is the vaccine for Devil’s Disease that we’re looking for.”
Then maybe that’s why the Geisha has been hanging around the Gene Splicing Lab. Only thing is, I don’t understand why he would need the Akuma gene or the Radiance gene. Assassins don’t need touch ups on their occupational injections, nor does he have Devil’s Disease. No one in Showguns has it either.
It’s a quiet, fifteen-minute ride before Heaven’s got us riding through a neighborhood I don’t know. Every shopping center lot has a fancy fountain and floral-ridden archways. Even the corner liquor store is pristine with decorative gabled roofs, bronze lion statues, and crisp-sounding wind chimes. This place has an ancient charm reminiscent of Ise. Everything you’d ordinarily overlook in a town suddenly looks as important as a palace here.
We pull into a small lot that’s only got a handful of cars. I spot our destination tucked between a convenience store and a ramen shop: Espresso Train.
Inside, it’s a completely different atmosphere than Thanks-A-Latte. This isn’t a coffee shop where you order your shit and then get the fuck out. There are booths and couches instead of individual tables and loose chairs. Towards the back, there’s a curtain-closed stage with a mic and a stool out in front. A dry erase board rests beside the stage with half-faded words scribbled in black marker: “Poetry Slam Tonight featuring Nspyred.”
Heaven orders a chai latte and a ham and cheese panini. I decide to have a cappuccino and we both sit down at a couch booth.
“So w
hat exactly is this job all about?” I ask.
Heaven lays a manila folder down between us and puts an arm around the back of her seat. “To be blunt, I’m doing research, and I’m short on competent people. It’s a virtual reality simulator. Did Megumi say something already?”
"Not much. How virtual are we talking?”
Heaven takes her shades off. “It’s very similar. Raw chi energy can be manipulated into solid objects if it’s process in a spacial way, and as a result, we’re able to create spaces that aren’t much different than real life. Real spaces, Jun. As real as this coffee shop.” She opens the manila folder, revealing two photos. Both are the same shot of this parking lot.
"Umm… this is the parking lot?"
Heaven nods. "Correct. But one of them is a projected version of this parking lot."
My eyes widen. “But they look the same!”
"Exactly."
Peering at one, then switching to the next photo, I ask, "Are they safe for people?"
“At the moment, mechs from PoleControl are the only things getting put in. But it's safe for anyone. And that’s where you come in. Our five-man, beta team needs one last member.”
So that was what the screen at PoleControl was all about then? “Is there some kind of requirement?"
“There’s a background check, a drug test, and a physical diagnostic exam. There’s usually a written and a game exam, but you've already proved that you know your way around video games," Heaven says. "But I will say that, it's a lot of exercise so be warned. It's required that everyone work with our personal trainers to build up stamina."
"Huh..." I fold my arms. "It's all physical then?"
“For the most part. Some days you might critique gameplay from other players, others you might get to play Lords of Earth or something, but we try to keep that to a minimum.”
“And how about the hours?”
“Monday to Friday. Nine to five but with lots of breaks after exercise blocks.”
“And this is all at Tokaido Research Institute?”
“Correct.” Before I can open my mouth, she goes on. “The pay is probably five or six times more than what you make at Thanks-A-Latte and you could carpool with me like Megumi used to do sometimes, so that’ll save you gas. So what do you say?”
Vicissitude Yang Side Page 20