Teach’s bar, Adachi Ward. Built directly out of the middle part of a 40-something story skyscraper—it looks like a protruding tumor that reaches for whoever happens to get close.

  Carving into half the double-decker highway turned sidewalk I currently stood on, it used to be an old newsroom building. Now? He’s refurbished it into the place of zero fucking subtlety—where gossip comes to thrive for the oldest of babas, to the “slickest” zakos thinking they’re getting the latest scoop.

  A literal, and physical information highway—if that highway was the town’s bicycle.

  A holobanner sashes the building, his logo covering a tenth of it. The rest of the holobanner real estate went for the adware that probably chips a few ￥ennies off his rent.

  I push open the doors—heavy, since there were no engines to whir them up—and get blasted by airborne recycled food oil mixed with hand sanitizer and moldy chestnut. Damn sting has me double-take for a nosebleed.

  Seems like Teach is going for a ‘grungy and gritty’ atmosphere for his clientele. That or he’s probably too damn cheap to fix his damn air conditioner.

  Got past the front guard seeing as there was no fucking front guard. Should be every teens dream.

  No guard to ID-check you from an all-you-can drink booze-buffet—except for the fact that you’d never want to black-out here.

  Whole place was in shambles. Being a former newsroom, the ceiling should’ve held a lattice of cushioned tiles and light panels. Instead it's a trypophobic nightmare, with ceiling lights hanging by their plugs—some working fine, others strobing a seizure out of you. Rug would’ve squished if the trash-soup people spilled on it hadn’t dried up.

  Feels real crusty—like stepping on wooden bubble-wrap.

  Walking through the aisles, the patrons sneer and grin at me as if they’re worth a damn in my playbook.

  Two fellas sit at a faded poker table beside the stairs to the mezzanine. One in a trench coat, samurai shoulder pads flattened into sleek boards. The other, a skinless borg with a human anatomy sponsored by bootleg organs and muscle fiber.

  Fucker has nothing to hide, and nothing to show.

  “Hey,” I lean in with an elbow on the table, “You know where Teach’s at?”

  “The shore,” says the dinner-plate samurai.

  “She said Teach, not beach, you crashhead!”

  “Know she ain’t said shit worth hearing, though!”

  They laugh like their life depended on it, each hyuck sounding like it was exhaled through a spinning metal fan made of thin strands. Can’t tell if they’ve burned their squawk-boxes drinking, or if they’re working as advertised.

  I stare the trench coat samurai dead in the eye, and he stares right back, grin stretching to his molars. He nods at someone behind me.

  There he is. Underneath the mezzanine floor. Swiping a dirty rag across a bar counter.

  “Spend a ￥ennie—patch them vocals up, yeah?” I say, smirking with a nod at the two gents.

  Made them snicker again—this time like steel wool dragged through a cheese grater. Talk about vocal range.

  I approach Teach serving a single patron—a shozaku (corpo smallfry). I sit on the barstool beside him and tap the counter to steal Teach’s attention.

  Teach steals a glance my way and beelines to his dishwasher.

  The lid pops open—a plume of sterilized steam baptizes him into a wide-eyed bliss—shortcircuiting his brain.

  His eyes linger on the dishes, before he pulls out an invisibly clean mug. Grabbing a rag that’s traveled the whole fucking nine yards through everyone’s ass crack, he sullies the mug whilst making himself look busy.

  Real subtle, Teach.

  “Yo, Teach—“

  “What’s your neon-cyanide, Crepper?” he says, throwing his face to the zako next to me.

  “The usual fucking coolant. And make it extra fucking radiant.”

  Crepper’s voice was something different—a voombox (voice boombox) equalized with a cradling finesse tuned by the finest bootleggers. Like a podcaster turned news anchor from the gruffest newsroom there ever was.

  “Atta boy—gonna tear through those pipes proper, eh?”

  “One can only hope!”

  Teach rounds the corner and pulls out a bottle of vodka. Neon-cyanide, my ass. He fills the mug he rag-fondled, and then adds some blue crap that’s glowing (which is probably edible food coloring), before he heads back to Crepper to plonk a toothpicked olive into it.

  “One sip too deep, and you’ll be pissing neon for a week.”

  I swear—the things these clankers do to feel special.

  “Yeah—enjoy your neon-snot vodka.”

  Crepper splurts mid-sip, coughing glowing blue specks onto the counter. He swings his face at me, his glare growing four additional eyelids. He clicks and smacks his lips before dragging his sleeve across his mouth with a drawn-out sigh.

  “Why did you have to say it like that?”

  “Why the hell not?”

  “Kinda kills the vibe, doesn’t it?”

  “Oh?” I grin, barely stifling a giggle. “You must be from Roppongi.”

  He raises his hand to his face—other hand fingering the damn sleeve. Manliest advertisement he’ll never be.

  “More refined than that.”

  “Toilet-scrubber in Azabu, then?”

  He turns towards me, pupils shrinking into pricks. Irises radiating, his thick and immaculately trimmed eyebrows press down to a botoxed scowl.

  Teach cracked into a cackle.

  “Nice seeing you here, Kumo-chan!”

  “Oh, now you notice me, senpai?”

  Crepper grins, shining his pearly whites like he was advertising them.

  “A firecracker, this one, eh?”

  “Yeah, popping up like your mortgage interest.”

  Crepper un-grins, his pearly whites shying like they should.

  “More like a damn weed, with that dandelion hair of yours.”

  Hey, that one was decent!

  “Ouch, went straight for the hairdo,” I say, snickering. “What else you got?”

  He rolls his eyes. “You lost, kid? Anything I can help you with?”

  Teach comes back with another mug he was rag-fondling. He took a good look at me, before his eyes fell on the canister.

  “Light’s blinking on your take-out can, kid.”

  No way—it’s supposed to hold two freaking days. I quickly whip-spin the canister to look and—green blinking light. Meaning, the heat was gonna die soon, and the damn food would get cold once I got back.

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  “For fucks sake, Ryo-Kata,” I growl under my breath whilst looking for the battery-compartment.

  Crepper’s fingers suddenly enter the scene—as they almost wrap around the top. I yank it away.

  “Get your own damn ramen, Creeper!’

  “It’s Crepper.”

  “I know what I said!”

  I pull up the canister again, and the green blip turned yellow. Shit—why the fuck is movement causing the thing to drain? Gotta find the fucking compartment—wait, what am I supposed to swap it with? Shit, I look at Teach—

  “Oh—that’s interesting,” Crepper says, his hands already laced on the damn thing again. “A kinetic canister—made for rocky deliveries. You’ve got something special in there, don’t you?”

  He grins at me, squeezing the botox out of his pores as his brows press down on his eyes.

  “Looks like it’s running out of heat.”

  Wish Crepper’d keep to himself, honestly.

  “Is that so?” I say, as I try to figure out how to open the damn battery compartment. There is a fucking button that’s pressable here, but the damn thing doesn’t even click, or swiff, or slide—no! It just fucking sinks, before doing fuck-all!

  “Let me give it a try—”

  “You wanna be less suspicious, zako-yarou!?” I say, slamming the cylinder on Teaches counter.

  He sighs, smug smirk still sliced on his lips. The silence draws out, and the yellow light starts blinking faster. He reaches for the canister, and with a quick spin-toss, he turns the blinking light towards himself, before his other hand reaches under it. He presses down the switch, before pulling something—and the damn canister opens up like a steaming babushka-doll. The two boxes inside looked the same—and the contents… still Mochi Usagi, and the sun. Huh.

  “Don’t worry, kid,” barely heard Crepper speak. “It’s an easy fix.”

  Couldn’t really see what he was doing. Sights blurred up a bit as I kept staring at the decoration Ryo-Kata had built. That asshole—I swear, he doesn’t get enough credit for his work.

  A golden glint coming from the corner of my eye draws my attention to Crepper—who was pulling out a fucking di-barelled snub-shotty from his inner pocket.

  “Y-YO!”

  It’s the perfect sawed-off shotgun to deal a kill-shot that doesn’t kill.

  “Easy, kid,” he says, shaking his head. He breaks open the sawed-off, and pulls out one of the batteries slotted in the barrel. He then pulls out the one from the food-canister, before slotting his shotty’s battery into it.

  Light shone a solid green again.

  “There ya go, oughta keep it juiced up for a while longer.”

  … Why did you do that? Shit, words didn’t come out.

  “What… ” My throat constricts, so I clear my throat. “What do I owe you for it?”

  “Good grief, kid,” he says, laughing. “Who wrung you out and hung you up to die?”

  “… Just name your price, z—…“

  I take a deep breath, barely able to keep a lock on his eyes. “Crepper.”

  He chortles. “My price? Is surviving that mopey face. It’s as lethal as my daughters’.”

  We both remain quiet for a while. The chatter of the other patrons slowly permeating—then fading from existence.

  “What’s eating you up, kid?”

  I look away. The patrons clinking glasses from booze they bought elsewhere. The pachinko machines with no glass.

  I release a long breath with a slow shake of my head.

  “So—one of those days, huh?” Teach chimes in.

  I look at him, and I smile.

  “Yeah,” I say, knowing exactly how this is going to make him feel. “Where SAT-drone has tried cozying me to a pulp.”

  Whole bar went dead silent.

  I hear feet shuffling and prickling across rug.

  Teach exhales, deep and slow, scowling under half-lidded eyes.

  I pull out the red key-shard I yanked out of the drone’s mem-hole, and show it to him. His eyes trace the glinting green circuitry, the pathways shining despite the strobing light, before he glares me down.

  We both stare at each other as if a gun would shoot the first one breaking eye-contact. He grits his teeth, a silent snarl.

  “You’re pissing off the wrong fucking people, kid.”

  He dives under his bar, and a latch is heard opening a door. An elongated rectangle of blue light permeates through, and Teach descends into whatever it came from, footsteps growing duller into the rabbit-hole.

  I turn towards Crepper.

  “… Did he just fucking delta out of the situation?”

  He shrugs.

  The footsteps grow in volume again, before Teach emerges from the rabbit-hole.

  He throws a briefcase on the table—clicks, then clacks open its dual-latches. The pneumatic springs yawns it open. A green bloom illuminates Teach’s face from the monitor inside. His hands enter the briefcase, his fingers clicking on a keyboard within.

  He clicks his tongue, scrounges a thousand yards into the screen with a tilt of disapproval. Eyes narrow, he peers closer, before backing with a bated exhale.

  “Give it to me straight Doc - is it cyber-aids?”

  Mercy, his glare could melt rabbits.

  “You’ve really—REALLY—pissed off the wrong people, kid.”

  “… Can’t be that bad, can it?”

  “You’re the only homeless person in Adachi Ward right now.”

  “Ah, so it’s worse.”

  Adachi Ward used to be a former homeless haven. Government incentive emphasized it into ‘former’.

  The briefcase is clasped shut, and Teach pushes it aside.

  “Yeah,” he backs into a center-pillar. “Shit—not too sure I want this kind of heat.”

  He’s chewing the skin between his finger and his thumb. Shaking his head, his eyes darts around a very specific point on the floor.

  It’s funny how he’s the one having an existential crisis over it when I’m the one that’s stopped existing.

  I wonder why.

  Maybe Kira has disowned me.

  Maybe she’s dead. Low-key banking on this one.

  He is still muttering bullshit he wants me to hear.

  “Risking it all just for—what if they were—kid knew this was dangerous—kind of her fault, really—”

  “… Mind giving me a ride back home?”

  That shut him the fuck up. He glares at me, letting the quietude of his bullshit weaving simmer.

  “Kumori,” he finally says after a beat. “Yeah, I do kind of mind.”

  “Cool,” I say, slowly leaning in. “Shame you had to owe me then, huh?”

  His snarl impacts into his flubbery cheeks.”

  “Bullshit.”

  He shakes his head, when suddenly—he grins. Probably fucking realized what I meant.

  “You’re cashing in a broken chit, kid.”

  “Just like you cashed in a broken fucking source, chum.”

  “This favor ain’t in the same league!”

  I lean on the counter, head propped up by my fist.

  “Real shame what happened. Had you going into the deep end of it.”

  I straighten up.

  “Ended up in the ER for three days straight, at least. Remember that?”

  He looks away. Don’t need his eyes for him to hear this.

  “Because if I recall correctly, you said—what was it again?”

  He scowls back at me.

  “Oh, don’t go shy now.” I stop smiling like a fucking fool, and lean in with a whisper. “Say it with me, Teach.”

  Eyes widen, “‘Whatever you want, kid. I’ll fix it for you. Promise.’”

  I lean back on the chair, arms crossed, face dead like the rat he hasn’t cleaned up in the corner.

  “And if memory serves me right,“ I say, barely dragging my shoulders to a shrug. “You have a faraday trunk.”

  “And she’s an organic,” Crepper adds.

  Thanks, Crepper.

  Teach’s eyes reddened. Rage doused in moroseness. Tears brimming on the cusp of fury and frailty—mimicking mine.

  I am so exhausted. So fucking exhausted.

  “Kid just wants to enjoy a meal with her moms, Ken.”

  Rather, I need to get this shit back to her, otherwise she might honestly starve to death.

  “Alright!” he snaps. “Alright. Alright,” he stops, eyes trading stares left and right of no one. “Let me just—shit.”

  He grovels as he pulls out a phone. “Hey. Yeah. Load up the blocker in the car. No, nothing like that. Hey—” vein pops on his forehead. “—just do as I fucking tell you, okay?!”

  Voice in the phone chitters a bit before hanging up.

  He nods to me.

  “Tag along, Kumori.”