The three of them swapped their walk for a jog, their footsteps splashing through the cramped, deserted alleyway. Passing the last of the bars, Pierre wondered how many of them counted Chiisana Sekai’s more unusual guests amongst their regulars. There sure were a lot of closed doors, and a lot of very specific tastes.
By the lane’s end it had tapered to such a narrow point that they had to squeeze themselves sideways between the shanty buildings leaning over from either side. Pierre almost lost a button off the front of his uniform. Steam was rising from a vent in the rickety lane beyond, obscuring the way ahead. A cat mewed somewhere in the darkness; Pierre hoped that meant there weren’t any rats about. He followed Wesker through the steam, pushing aside a thin metal fence and inhaling the creeping scent of fish.
They emerged into what at first looked like a single, giant hall, with a low-lying ceiling and a horrendously cluttered floor. But as the steam cleared Pierre saw the space before him for what it really was - a mad, sprawling, structurally unstable, half-derelict marketplace. What he’d thought was a ceiling did indeed hang low - sagging a mere seven or so feet above the ground - but it was in fact a collection of overlapping rooftops made of tin and corrugated steel. Rain water dripped through the cracks, as did spots of moonlight. There were stalls and stands stretching out as far as the eye could see - as far as Pierre’s could, at any rate. Some of those stands were the lengths of buses. Others were little more than a stool beside a fold-out jewellery board. Some were made of sturdy material, such as plaster and metal refrigerators. Others were built from wood that had long ago turned rotten.
The whole market was deserted. Trading hours had come to a close about an hour and a half earlier.
Something crunched underneath Pierre’s shoe. He lifted his foot to see, amongst the moss and weeds growing out from the cracks between the concrete, a discarded and soggy paper bag.
‘And Japan is normally so astonishingly clean,’ he said to himself, shaking his head. ‘It’s like we’re in a whole other world to the glitzy streets out there.’
‘You mean that figuratively, right?’ asked Viola, emerging from the steam behind them and taking a look around. ‘It’s hard to tell with you sometimes.’
They pushed forward, following one of the plethora of paths between the stalls. Here and there the gaps between roofs would open up, allowing more moonlight in and giving them all a better view of the dazzling skyscrapers beyond. Pierre would have preferred the canopy of corrugated sheets to overlap completely; he was hoping his eyes would acclimatise to the dark.
Though at times he wished they wouldn’t.
As markets went, it was no Borough Market. It wasn’t, to use a word, glamorous. Or all that pleasant, to use another. It wasn’t just the smell that was the problem. It was what was making the smell.
The market appeared to be, predominantly at least, a fish market. It made sense - Tokyo was known for them the world over. Take the Tsukiji market, for example - it’s the largest wholesale fish and seafood market on the planet. But Tsukiji market this was not. What this grimy little competitor couldn’t boast in either size of standards it more than made up for in sheer odour. It was a fleshy, salty assault that clogged the nostrils and built up a white, sticky residue on one’s tongue.
Not all of the day’s catch had been sold. From the look of some of them, Pierre had no trouble imagining why. Octopi lay on chopping boards, missing limbs. Eels hung from metal hooks on the beams above stalls, dangling like wind socks. Big plastic vats were overflowing with rejected fish and crabs and other aquatic beasties, ready to be sent to the incinerator, or the landfill, or to wherever it was that the unsold seafood got sent. And flies swarmed over all of it like a black poison, fighting to buzz and nibble.
It was a miracle the vendors managed to make the place look even remotely presentable for when the market opened up each morning. Pierre wondered how few of the market’s customers had ever bothered to take a look at the place after hours, and how many would dare come back to buy if they did.
Somewhere a chain rattled in the breeze, because the market wasn’t already foreboding enough without one.
‘Do you still know which way we should be going?’ whispered Viola, as the three of them pushed forward down what could only loosely be described as a path. The stalls didn’t so much follow a grid pattern as simply crop up wherever there was a square inch of space (and sometimes, much to the other vendors’ chagrin, even where there wasn’t).
Pierre looked over his shoulder at the way they’d come. Or the way he thought they’d come, at least. There was no sign of the steaming vent or chain-link fence from before. And all the stalls looked the same. It wasn’t as if he had any signs to go by.
‘Pretty sure,’ he replied, withering under the gaze of Wesker’s doubtful eyebrows. ‘It feels right, and that’s usually worked out okay. Always been good at orienteering. Helps with using the doors.’
‘I’m starting to think it would have been quicker to go the long way round,’ sighed Wesker, raising his hands and taking responsibility. A bucket of fish heads was blocking his way. He kicked it aside. ‘Or to have used the doors like Viola suggested, for that matter. If this ain’t a maze, it’s a goddamn obstacle course.’
‘Well, if the warehouse is at the back of the arcades, then it’ll probably be closer to…’
‘Quiet!’ hissed Viola, ducking down behind the wooden counter nearest to them. ‘There’s somebody over there!’
Pierre and Wesker darted into cover beside her. Their three heads poked over the top as one.
A figure stood in what amounted to a clearing, at least by the market’s standards. At first they were masked by the shadow laid by the tin rooftops, and outlined only in streaks of silver. But then the moon crept out from behind a passing cloud, and the figure turned to look around herself, and Pierre caught a glimpse of a sleek and ankle-length dress.
‘Hold on a moment,’ he said, his voice low. ‘I recognise that woman. She was leaving the hotel with her friend just as we arrived.’
‘She doesn’t seem to have gotten very far,’ whispered Wesker. ‘What do you suppose she’s doing out here? It hardly seems the right sort of place for a woman of her, y’know, calibre.’
‘Oh yeah?’ said Viola, shooting him a look as sharp as a javelin. ‘And what calibre of woman are you saying would be seen sneaking around here, pray tell?’
‘None!’ hissed Wesker, throwing his metaphorical shovel away before he could dig a hole more than a few inches deep. ‘It’s not a place for men, either!’
‘Will you both be quiet?’ snapped a jittery Pierre. He desperately wanted to get moving. ‘Somebody else is coming!’
The woman in the dress looked in the direction of the noise, too. It wasn’t just one somebody that was approaching but half a dozen, all in suits as dark and starless as the Tokyo night sky. Six stern faces emerged from the gloom around her.
One of the men stepped forward into the meagre light. He was an older gentleman, with his hair tied back into a ponytail and the thinnest of moustaches marching across his upper lip. A pale scar ran down the side of his chin, curved like a smile… like the smile he was most certainly not wearing upon his face.
‘I recognise that man as well!’ whispered Pierre, ducking back down to look at Wesker and Viola. ‘He was the boss or whatever of the Yakuza who shot at me! It doesn’t look as if they have Ms. Rundleford with them though.’
‘Could be that you haven’t pushed her through the door yet,’ replied Viola, risking another peek over the top. ‘I mean, they don’t look like people who’ve just witnessed an act of inter-dimensional assault.’
‘It was an accident,’ grumbled Pierre.
‘Why isn’t the woman running away?’ Wesker asked.
Pierre popped his head up again. It was a good question. Why wasn’t the woman running for her life? She simply stood there, silently, her hands clasped behind her back, even as the old gangster approached. When he stood only a few f
eet from her, he bowed slightly. She did the same in return.
‘Oh, this is not a place I think we want to be…’ whispered Wesker.
The old gangster clicked his fingers and two of his younger underlings disappeared back into the darkness of the seemingly infinite market. A couple of awkward, silent moments passed before they returned, moving a little slower than when they’d left, dragging a slumped and groaning something between them.
Their boss stepped aside and the woman in the dress took a nervous step back. The bruised and bloody something was thrown to the floor between them.
‘Oh I don’t know, Wesker,’ replied Viola, enthralled. ‘I think this is very interesting.’
‘I’m not sure I want to see this,’ moaned Pierre. That being said, he kept watching. He couldn’t help it.
The boss grabbed a chunk of the beaten man’s hair and pulled his head back so that the moonlight splashed across the man’s face. The woman flinched. It was subtle and she tried hard to hide it, but Pierre caught it all the same. The gangster asked a question in Japanese. The woman nodded. Another click of the boss’ fingers and the two henchmen dragged the protesting man back into the darkness outside their circle.
Pierre strained his eyes. It looked as if the woman was rummaging inside a handbag or a purse of some kind. He felt a chill run down his spine. What if the woman pulled out a gun?
But she didn’t. Of course she didn’t. She retrieved from the purse something almost as dangerous, however - a thick envelope, stuffed with cash - and with a grateful nod passed it over to the old gangster. He took it from her with a slow and ancient smile.
‘What in the multiverse did we just witness?’ asked Pierre.
‘God knows what that stupid bugger did to that girl,’ said Viola, ‘but I think he’s about to get what’s coming to him.’
‘Yep,’ agreed Wesker, watching as the woman walked one way into the shadows and the gangsters all walked the other. ‘I’m pretty sure they call that conspiracy to commit murder. Light bit of contract killing.
‘Jesus. When did things get so bleak, eh?’
Pierre stood up. Blood rushed to his head… but so did an idea.
‘When I got a glimpse of the warehouse through the door, there was an upturned chair and a lot of dry blood,’ he said. Wesker and Viola rose to their feet also, peering into the darkness. Viola’s hand was resting on the grip of her gun. ‘That must be where they’re taking that man they were dragging!’ His face fell. ‘Oh. That probably isn’t great news for Ms. Rundleford, is it?’
‘I can’t imagine the Yakuza are huge fans of witnesses, no,’ said Wesker. ‘But the gangsters haven’t got to the warehouse yet, and that means your inspector hasn’t got there either.’
‘We’ve still got time,’ said Viola, squeezing his shoulder.
‘Yeah, well, maybe not as much of it as we’d like,’ said Pierre, climbing over the stand behind which they’d been hiding. ‘They’ve already got that woman’s cash, remember? It doesn’t leave them much incentive to charge by the hour.’
Chapter Eight
‘Did we miss the warehouse? I feel like we missed the warehouse.’
Pierre, Viola and Wesker had emerged from the market into a busy, neon street - the same busy, neon street that they’d first walked down upon appearing in the city. Pierre recognised the anime schoolgirls dancing on the twenty-foot screen above the video game paraphernalia store, and the poor girl in her pink maid’s outfit still handing out flyers further down the road.
‘Of course we missed it,’ said Pierre, hurriedly looking up and down the street. ‘How would we have even known if we’d found it? I dare say the front’s going to be more eye-catching than any sign nailed above a loading bay door.’
‘What did you say this place was called?’ asked Wesker.
‘Press Start Tokyo,’ replied Pierre. He sighed. ‘God, I hope the sign is in English.’
There was more bustle and noise down the path to the trio’s left than to their right, and the way to the right led - eventually, after some turns - back to the hotel, so they headed towards where the lights were busiest. The pavement was as cluttered with people as ever, but at least most of the umbrellas had been retired. Wesker was no longer at risk of losing an eye to the wandering tips of their canopies. A couple stumbled out of a store that somehow consisted solely of those hat-for-your-cat tombola machines and bumped into Viola. She stood glaring at them until they shuffled away.
‘This one’s named after a potato,’ said Wesker, looking up at a sign that would have given even the most flamboyant Broadway musical an inferiority complex. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘I’m not sure you’re supposed to, old friend,’ said Pierre, pushing forward through the crowd. His eyes resembled those of a man sitting in a busy train carriage, convinced he’s the only one who can hear the ticking of a bomb. ‘Just keep looking, okay?’
‘Is this an arcade?’ asked Viola. She was standing beside a rotating candy-floss machine, looking optimistic. And hungry, somehow.
‘Not quite,’ sighed Pierre, deflating. ‘Good effort though.’
They carried on down the street, ignoring the cries of the billboard screens and the tooting of the traffic and the enthusiastic pedlars of discount tickets into hedgehog cafes. Every now and then Wesker or Viola would point out a flashy, jingly-jangly establishment on the opposite side of the road, and Pierre would have to make a snap judgement on whether a.) the Japanese characters of its sign sufficiently translated into something resembling the concept of ‘pressing start’, and b.) that it was indeed an arcade, and not a love hotel or matcha ice-cream parlour.
Time, as infinite as it technically was, was most definitely running out.
‘What about this one?’ suggested Viola, gesturing towards a massive sign towering over their latest portion of pavement. Pierre turned around wearily.
‘No,’ he sighed, ‘that’s…’
He found himself staring up at a row of letters five feet high, each painted in a different style and colour to the one before. One S was in lower-case and sky blue; one T was jagged like a lightning bolt and twice as yellow. The Os were both doughnuts, for some reason - one chocolate, the other pink with sprinkles. To the left of all the letters was a blocky, cabled oblong adorned with numerous buttons and joysticks.
PRESS START TOKYO, said the sign.
‘…exactly it. You’re a life-saver, Viola!’
He wrapped his arms around her in a move that surprised even him. Viola gave him a gentle pat on the head in return.
‘Shall we go in?’ said Wesker, standing in the open doorway, waiting. People were staring and laughing at him as they walked in and out. ‘Or do you two need a moment?’
Viola rolled her eyes and marched past him into the arcade. Pierre shook his head and Wesker laughed.
‘Come on,’ said Wesker, giving him a slap on the back. ‘Not long now. We’ll be back home before you can say…’
‘Banished to the Space Between Worlds?’
‘Yeah, that. Chin up.’
They followed Viola inside. If Wesker had thought the street was loud, nothing could have prepared him for the noise within the arcade. From every direction - including the six storeys above their heads - came bubbly eight-bit melodies, midi-guitar riffs and slap-bass jazz interludes that interrupted and danced with one another, creating what was best described as the aural equivalent of a spicy enema. Not that any of the gamers seemed to mind. Few were standing around trying to hold a conversation; near enough everyone was attached to one of the hundreds of machines - their fingers hammering away at the buttons, their eyes glued on the twitching pixels.
‘So an arcade is like a really boring carnival,’ said Wesker, looking around at the seated zombies. He sniffed. ‘Smells about as bad as one, too. Don’t see any horses though.’
Viola had wandered off to a row of old crane machines, and was eyeing up the plump, fluffy toys inside. Climactic, pomp-filled music was pumping out from b
ehind them. Lights flashed around the glass cabinets in time to the beat. Every now and then Viola would prod a button, but the crane just dangled there.
‘I wouldn’t bother,’ said Pierre, trying in vain to pull her away. ‘Nobody ever wins those things anyway. They’re rigged.’
‘Never been a rigged game I couldn’t win,’ grumbled Viola, and prodded the buttons a little harder.
‘Over there,’ said Wesker, nodding towards the darkest and most dingy corner of the arcade. ‘There’s a door with an Employees Only sign on it. I bet that’s the way to the warehouse.’
‘Good work,’ said Pierre, biting his lip and going back to tying his fingers into knots. ‘Come on, Viola.’
‘Yeah, yeah. I’ll catch you up,’ she replied, never taking her eyes off the cuddly prizes.
Pierre and Wesker walked across the sticky carpet towards the far wall, passing a couple of racing pods (the seats and pedals turned on a gyroscope) and a pair of bongo drums connected by ropes to another pair of nunchuck-like sticks. Everyone seemed to be giving that game a wide berth. A couple of spotty teenagers were squatting in the corner, wordlessly thrashing one another at a beat ‘em up.
They paused at the door and looked around in as subtle a manner as a hotel concierge and cowboy bartender can. Nobody was paying them any attention, and there didn’t appear to be anyone supervising the floor. Unless they were busy playing one of the games, that is.
‘I’m gonna say it,’ whispered Pierre. ‘I’ve got a really bad feeling about this.’
‘Don’t sweat it. No confrontation, no putting ourselves at risk. We’re just going to see how things play out, and bring Ms. Rundleford back home with us - if we can get to her.’
‘And if we can’t?’
‘Then you’ll be in no worse a situation than you already are. Look on the bright side. It hasn’t even happened yet.’
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