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Chew Law Cafe , Canton Canal

The evening clouds wept over New Malacca, yet, the neon fire kept burning in the sea.

At least, that’s how Marcus sees it. Pearl of the orient. Jewel of the South China Sea. Hah. The only jewel of the sea he ever saw was one at the bottom of a ceramic mug. Speaking of which……….

“ Kopi Kosong. Susu soy ” Marcus speaks in a clipped voice to the robotic waiter - an old 2030 model that’s more of a tourist attraction now rather than something functional. Its old hydraulic joints shift and clack as the holo-screen glued to the front of its chassis reads out his order before grinding on to the next table on its treaded tires. Chew Law Cafe is in a paradoxical state of being packed and empty at the same time, customers filtering in and out at a dizzying rate. It reminds Marcus of a factory line, automated, precise, efficient. The sad truth for most in New Malacca is that to live here is to be on the move constantly. Marcus sighs, shakes his head and looks outside the kopitiam while mindlessly rifling through his afternoon paper.

There are two things that Marcus believed were a part of Hibiscus Lanel. First was the nosy hawkers that got in your way and second was the rain. The latter was on the forefront today as the sky thundered above. It rattled on the corrugated tin roofs that were a staple of the district and poured down the gutters onto the syncrete walkways, pooling into puddles. All of it flowed down towards the central river that snaked its way through New Malacca.

The main headline almost made Marcus puke. The 70th anniversary of New Malacca isn't something to celebrate about, no matter how much Mayor Yokgan touts it around like a political bat. New Malacca isn't rising above its bloody past. It’s sunken already and anyone who tells themselves otherwise in Marcus’s mind is a fool. He flips over to the next page. Corpo adverts. Independent journalism hidden behind mountains and mountains of useless drivel. He’s lucky that his order arrives fast enough to distract him and even luckier that the kopitiam has a refill policy.

5 hours pass in a tumble of odd passerbys, more cups of kopi and crossword puzzles. He looks at the clock when the sun streams onto his table top. 6:30 PM. It’s only a fifteen minute walk anyway. Marcus folds the paper two times into a bundle and tucks it underneath the crook of his elbow. He sets out on a stroll on the east side of the Canton Canal. The sunset turned the Canton Canal from its blue countenance into a river of rust, its oily glimmer rippling over the surf. It has darkened into the color of brick, eddies of red swirling as if something lived underneath the great wreck, with gnashing jaws, waiting to grab him by the neck.

Marcus takes his time walking. Life is meant to be savored, not rushed into a pit of needles and gunfire. All the while, he stares at the set of coordinates stuck within the bottom right hand corner of his cyber-optic along with a single name.

Suraiboshen. Silver Ocean.

The distance doesn’t matter. 1 kilometer, 200 meters, 10 feet. Only one number matters.

500,000.

He crosses over an old bridge, past a young tourist couple who were politely haggling passersby to take a photo. He walks past a labyrinthian alley of drooling AR addicts with a pile of burnt out sim-chips on their side. Past a lazing gang of motorboat racers lounging on their rides. Past the thick heavy fume of incense and myrrh from street shrines that were plastered to the sides of old buildings. His joints creak and crack. His lungs feel like they’re on the verge of popping like over-inflated balloons. The metal glued to his flesh repulses him, even after all these years. His mind tries to focus on the destination but his body pulls him back with doubt.

His left hand, flesh and blood, not the plastic fake on his right, tightens, nails biting into his palm. He can do it. He still has to. New Malacca will have to die first if he doesn’t.

It’s only when he crosses over 34th Mcgonagall Street and turns the corner of a conga line of antsy hover rickshaw drivers does Suraiboshen finally come into view.

Situated near the borders between the Canton Canal and Hibiscus Lane, it’s awfully quaint for its popularity. For one, it’s not plastered with enough holo-adverts to make him puke nor is it like the multi-story high rises of the tradeplex. The restaurant settles for being a relic of a past with its squat temple-like facade and terraced bamboo eaves. Paper lanterns dangle on the corners as a wind blows through the area. It’s bold in its unassuming nature. Marcus respects that.

A single rope bridge connects it from the side of the canal to a set of sliding lattice doors with Japanese iconography. Two men, with sloping shoulders and tower like frames, are waiting side by side to each other at the front of the entrance as he walks closer to them. Each of them have clean-shaven heads, save for the top-knot sprouting from the back,a web of circuitry and metallic sutures lining the sides of their skull. Their hands rest on a blocky handgun that looks more like bricks of metal. Both of them wear clean-pressed dark suits with polarized shades that fail to hide their red optics.

" Are we just going to stand here? " Marcus holds out his hands to the side, nodding at them. " Or are you going to search me?"

The left guard holsters his heavy-calibre sidearm and pulls out a oblong device that screeches intermittently every so once in a while as it passes along each and every corner of his body. He pauses, checking the instrument. His eyes glow meanwhile, a minute long conversation taking place in the span of seconds inside his head. He then nods, " You're clear to go through. Don't go in waving your heat around and you'll be fine."

" Surprised you're letting me keep my weapon." Marcus says sarcastically. " Seems like a high-class joint like this should practice more stricter security standards."

" Our employer believes that our client should have adequate insurance." Big and Large to the right gruffly sighs in annoyance. " To a reasonable extent, of course. If you had any explosives or packed something much larger than that dinky little thing...." His voice trails off as he lets out a snort of amusement. "Besides, you're not much to write home about, old man."

" What my partner means to say, sir,...." The left guard softly speaks in a more diplomatic tone. "...is that Suraiboshen operates with the open-carry firearm laws of New Malacca. We trust that you understand the consequences if you discharge your weapon in this place. Many guests are fond of this place." He emphasizes the last word. “ That being said, please wait in the hallway. You will be called by our employer once the others have arrived.”

Others? Marcus did his best to not show his surprise and merely raised an eyebrow. “ I thought this was going to be a solo job.”

“ Our employer never specified otherwise.” There was a sharkish smirk on the guard’s face that was quickly replaced by a stoic mask of professionalism. Marcus wondered how they entertained themselves if their job was to stand around and look intimidating all day. All right. He’s willing to play along. Marcus enters into the building and the door shuts with a soft click behind him.

A lacquered wood hall greets him with long benches on either side. Two people have arrived already, sitting a fair distance from each other. One is as small as him, dressed slick in a stylish long coat that is adorned with heavy metal buckles. Marcus immediately doesn’t like him. The toothpick in his mouth doesn’t do him any favors. The other is still, spine straight like a sign post, with their legs locked at a 90 degree angle. The hijab covers her features so that only her face is revealed. Her dimpled grin is offset by the black rims around her twitching eyes. He makes note of the curved scabbard behind her back, barely visible underneath her polyester cloak. How did they allow thatin?

Marcus ignores the piercing stares he gets. Let them judge. He understands that in terms of appearances, he’s practically endangered as it gets. 30 is the new 90 in the age of Paradigm organics and other bioware startups. One telomere therapy is all you need to turn back the clock. He sits down, brushes the dust off his pants and rolls his shoulders, taking in a deep breathe.

He just needed to do one job. Even if it meant working with other people, one job. 500,000 asyuan. The door at the end of the hallway was the key to his future and he'd be stupid to let as something as trivial as teamwork get in the way of that.

[edit] My mistake. Coming soon.

“Forgive me father, for I have sinned.”

The Catholic chapel in Hibiscus Lane could hardly be called a chapel: it was barely the size of an old college dorm room, with nothing to its name except a sole neon bulb, two short pews and a cramped confessional chamber that almost necessitated a foetal position to get into. But for Nicolas and the few remaining old-fashioned people like him, it was home, a welcome refuge from his worldly business.

“What are your sins, my son?” Nicolas could sense the old father behind the screen lean back in his creaking wicker seat.

Nicolas took a deep sigh before continuing. “I beat a man to death.”

There was a palpable, disapproving silence that hung over the room. Evidently the father found it amusing to let his flock stew in the guilt of their own transgressions beforehand. Nicolas did not.

After a long moment, the father spoke. “Did he die quickly, at least?”

“I suppose so.” Nicolas fiddled with the beads of his rosary in the dark chamber. He remembered how he and the other enforcers had kicked and punched the hogtied banker’s head until all of his front teeth fell out, and how they had taken turns to break both his arms and both his legs.

“We dropped him off at the harbor with weighted stones,” he added.

The father thought for a while, then responded. “Say ten Hail Marys and one Act of Contrition. Go forth and sin no more.”

It was Nicolas’s turn to be silent. He had not expected his penance to be so light this time. “Thank you, father.” He got up to leave.

“And don’t let me catch you frequenting those befuddled electronic dancers again!” the old father cried out as Nicolas stooped through the door.

“They’re not even that sexy anyway, father!” he replied as he exited into the sickly warm air of Hibiscus Lane.

Even as his status in the Black Yangtze essentially permitted him to go anywhere he wanted, Nicolas was painfully aware that in the nicer parts of New Malacca, he was still an outsider. To most of the wealthy that resided here and the visitors stupid enough to call this place a tourist attraction, he was supposed to just be a rumor, a killer who did what other people could not be seen doing. The few people that were unlucky enough to bump into him on the sidewalk quickly distanced themselves soon afterwards, some of them looking back in bewilderment at a tattooed Yangtze thug quietly murmuring the Rosary. A tourist couple soliciting photos let out a quiet, yet audible gasp as he passed by.

“Virtual girls! Virtual girls! Get the newest models here!” A hawker selling piles of data chips for VR sex partners in holo-containers was bothering everyone within two metres’ distance. “Virtual gi-”

He turned and choked on his words when he saw Nicolas staring at him with an emotion somewhere between boredom and disgust.

“Which way to Suraiboshen?” Nicolas wasn’t normally a big fan of Japanese cuisine (raw fish wasn’t really his thing), and his retinal geomap wasn’t displaying the route correctly.

“T-take a right and then a left at t-the second juncture.” The hawker extended a shaky bionic finger to a street off the main lane.

“Thank you.” Nicolas turned towards the route as his geomap recalibrated. The hawker scampered off farther down the street, hopefully to sell his wares somewhere less reputable.

His implants alerted him to an incoming video call. When he answered, it was Chang Kow, an underboss of the Black Yangtze and Nicolas’s immediate superior. The man lay in a plush red sofa in equally decadently red robes, but there was no hiding his round and somewhat pig-like physique.

“Nicolas, are you there?” For all his luxury, Chang Kow’s harsh Hokkien accent betrayed the peasant land of his birth.

“Yes, boss.” Nicolas acted professional, if not slightly bored in front of the old pig.

“You’re on the way to the job?”

“Yes, boss,” Nicolas replied in a monotone voice. “I can see it already.” The faux-ancient spires of Suraiboshen were coming into view.

“Good.” Chang Kow leant back in his red cushioned chair through the screen. “That 500,000 asyuan will be a big boon to the Black Yangtze. Don’t fail us.”

“I won’t, boss,” Nicolas replied as he ended the call, fully intending not to take that 500,000 asyuan to the Black Yangtze. It would become the last transaction to an offshore savings account he had kept hidden from his employers for months. It would become the last part of the money he needed to find Linda and Sean in Los Angeles.

Linda. Sean. The thought of them distracted him for a while, until the security team at the restaurant entrance brought him back to his senses.

“Make sure both of those weapons are set to stun, please,” one of the guards robotically intoned, noting Nicolas’s pistol and the long rifle template slung across his back as the other searched him with the scanner.

“Already are,” Nicolas muttered as he raised up his arms.

After a while, the search was complete. “Please wait in the hallway. You will be called by our employer when everyone is here.”

Nicolas was surprised. “This isn’t a solo job?”

“No, sir, it is not. Now get in so that you don’t block the entrance.”

Nicolas was somewhat unceremoniously ushered into the inside of the restaurant. He automatically swiveled his head to get a full view of the room, a remnant of his police days. He noted a couple of odd faces - at least odd enough for New Malacca - and an old man who he vaguely recognized.

“Marcus? Is that you?”

The outskirts of the Triangle close to Canton Canal

Twenty-seven degrees wasn't as hot as it could get here in New Malacca, but it was still unbearable when one was in a house with no air conditioning packed with AR and VR addicts that haven't moved in days, the walls had mold and it smelled of mildew, oil, and B.O. The perfect hiding place from an organization that was built on the foundation of paper records and wouldn't think to find their target among a group of a Deep abusers that lived in squalor.

Xia laid on a futon next to a girl they didn't know the name of. That's not completely true. She told her name the first time they connected to the Deep together nine months ago. She said it was 01101011 01100101 01100101 01110000, but they don't know what that means. Binary code isn't something they've picked up on even with all the time they've spent in Precipice houses. Like the one they're in now. They meant to leave hours ago, but 01101011 01100101 01100101 01110000 grabbed their hand and wouldn't let go, until she showed them something they didn't understand in the Deep. Although, they're fortunate she pulled them along into her Deep interface or Xia would miss their appointment later on today. One they should be leaving for now that the sun was west instead of high in the sky.

Xia pulled their hand away, but 01101011 01100101 01100101 01110000 kept them connected and they weren't skilled enough to detach their mind from someone else's interface. They didn't want to do this, but they really couldn't miss this appointment. Xia slammed their fist into 01101011 01100101 01100101 01110000's chest. She gasped and popped up, while Xia rolled onto the floor out of reach. They were still connected, but she didn't have the hold on them like she had before. It was a shallow connection for them to communicate through their interfaces without either having too much influence over the other.

That hurt. Why'd you do that?

I have an appointment. I gotta go.

When will you be back?

Xia shrugged. This was their third time here. It depends on how long they get to stay in any one place before the Green River Snake assassins catch up to them. If this job goes well, then they'll be back afterwards. If it doesn't, then they won't. Simple as that. They pushed 01101011 01100101 01100101 01110000 forehead, she fell back onto the futon, and just like that they disconnected and she was in the Deep forgetting the last twenty-fours they spent together. Xia changed into their full spectrum body suit. It activated the moment they zipped it up. The color changed to beige, unassuming, and unnoticeable to the average person. They put on the head mask to check if the settings were functioning today. Their vision was clear, their optic scope could see a house bobbing in the water miles away clearly. It was a great day for their tech. Xia pulled it off, hid their bag in a cabinet next to the room's door, then left the house.

It was a short boat ride into the heart of Canton Canal. They paid the water taxi, then continued their trek on foot. If the Snakes tracked down anyone that's had contact with Xia, which they do sometimes, they don't want the cabby to give any information about what they could've possibly been doing based on the location they were dropped off at. There was too much riding on this latest assignment. The ad for the 500,000 asyuan was not only the biggest possibly payday they've ever had, even when they worked for the Snakes, but it was more than enough to get all their bootleg body mods removed and replaced with legitimate technology from reputable a company. By the time Xia arrived at the
Suraiboshen their suit turned navy blue when the sun on the horizon. Two bodyguards stood outside the omakase doors. They weren't anything they haven't seen before. Large, looked like they could throw them around, the usual intimidating type that hasn't scared them in years.

"Weapons on hand?"

Xia's right arm deconstructed and turned into a sniper rifle. They left their nail gun in their bag. Chances are if they needed to use it, then they could just snap the target's neck. The guard on the right looked mildly impressed, but did a once over on the rest of them, and they could tell that first impression was short lived.

"Keep it normal. Please wait in the hall way with the rest of the group. Our employer will be with you shortly." The guard on the left opened the door to let them in. Just like he said there were four other people waiting. The ad hadn't said anything about this being a group assignment, but unexpected things happened in their line of work all the time. Xia didn't sweat it. It'd either turn out good or it'd turn out to be shit. The money was the main goal and if they had to team up to get it, then so be it. They only hoped 500,000 asyuan wouldn't be split between all these people. They took a seat next to the woman with the hijab and pull up a AR tetris game in the meantime.

“Tells you something about Buddha-nature. Vodka, bloodstains, burning headache. My gun is gone, and it took the stim-high with it… Life—as he once said—is suffering, but we must fight on, or something like that.”

Xiaolan blinked her eyes like she was trying to get rid of some filter pulled over them. It didn’t go away. Later, she’d realize she may have just gotten too used to seeing life through the filtered AR of her pair of Hearts Up! sunglasses. She was staring at her reflection, who was also prostrated on the dark floor of the hotel room, full-lotus with red-stained hands immersed in two glasses splashing vodka over their rims. It’d get the bloodstains out, she thought, but at what cost? Xiaolan could have sworn she’d seen this image before, digitally alight on the wall of some great pagoda somewhere lost to time. Or maybe she simply foresaw her own fate—some great, graceful, Bodhisattva of death or something like that.

Spilling half a glass of tainted vodka in the process, she pressed down the dictaphone's button once again with her elbow. “Bodhisattva of death… I’ll use that somewhere. It’s like zen, but with more aesthetic. Zen as fuck.”

Who was to say, really, what happened? Could it have been an impulse surgery? They couldn’t be the stains of her own exsanguinations. Xiaolan knew this because she was too powerful, perhaps even immortal. The very thought conjured images of her squaring up hand-to-hand with Raijin. Maybe it was the thundering in her skull. She removed her hands from either pint glass, flicking them around until the sterile smell misted her accidentally. It was only then that she realized, through the mental haze and visual fog, it was going to be another day of suffering. No moisturizer.

Xiaolan’s war purse was lighter upon leaving that morning. A rather off putting interrogation of the morning staff in the fine establishment below her hotel offered few answers. ‘The Big Shooter’ was gone, which would mean she would be stylistically limited until her reunion with her custom boomstick. As she left the bar, she plucked a dying bougainvillea from a growbox out front, knowing she'd need it later. There, walking through the damp streets of New Malacca, Xiaolan was hardly present in reality, searching instead through a dark void wherein she hoped to find memories of a night gone wrong but found only blackness. It did cross her mind that today was a day of more than just derelict wandering, awaiting the return of someone with a vessel to go raiding, or wasting away confined in bars she couldn’t afford following cons she could never quite keep up with herself.

It was late enough that Xiaolan already couldn’t keep track of the sun. Perhaps she’d slept through the day on purpose, because of her imminent meeting. It was a sort of fate that always befell her. Rest never came easy, appearing as a haphazard burnout of the lights, only to leave the Artist of War to awaken in another instance of reality altogether. Always, it seemed, moments before she had to be up and going somewhere else with great urgency. Flowing like water over the steel plates patching streets that wouldn’t be paved for generations.

The Whip’s pink plated was more dented than it had been the night prior. When Xiaolan felt herself take its handlebars in her grip—feel the slight skew off their axes—she couldn’t help but manifest the half-mil asyuan. Coin, as she called it sometimes, was abject. It was a horrid necessity—one of the Tools of War. She pondered life as a footpad, a footsoldier, or just one shield in a phalanx. The infantrymen rarely pondered their coin. The general, however, played abstract games to determine the fate of nations. Warfare, as it had modernized, had become less its romantic predecessor and more a game of shifting coin, economy variables, petty intrigue that nonetheless changed fate like no honorable battle ever could. It was through the half-mil that she could once again place herself among the generals, and with the coin there was so much to be done. Enemies could be ended, alliances reestablished, capital collected, and even—perhaps—dormant relations kindled.

The Whip fishtailed into a drifting stop at speeds cruel enough to leave slashes of blackened rubber burnt into the already dark pavement. Dancing figures, flashing through forms and kata ran through sequences of precision techniques across her mirrorshades. Xiaolan had the habit of leaving files packed with information splayed across her vision—like she was unconsciously sapping their secrets into her brain in the day-to-day. She grinned when she saw the two men standing as Yin and Yang before the door to Suraiboshen. Catching glimpses of their own optics, the Hearts Up frames upon Xiaolan’s face flickered red, as if greeting them. She smirked.

The establishment, the Artist presumed, might have just the sort of chemically-addled compounds laced into their confections to erase the overwhelming sense of DOOM that coursed in her veins. Every day, in fact, she hoped she’d find the right chef, or sensei, or guru, or enemy that might help her escape the forsaken state of constantly falling and falling towards something dark and unwelcoming. But then, where was the fun in running away from the battle?

“Your general’s come.”
“You’ll find nothing of interest.”
“I am the weapon.”

She paused, letting the perfect structure of her rhetoric linger. Xiaolan was a strange one to frisk, especially with the Big Shooter still absent without official leave, but it was her presence that manifested an edge. The colleagues within must have taken notice. Xiaolan was quick to make herself known.

“Do my screens deceive me or do I stand witness to a fine section of warriors?” She stepped down the hall, swiveling her head just enough to allow her glasses to devour the schematics of the establishment as well as the profiles of the group she’d been directed to join without making her gesture’s intent clear. Upon first observation, the rogue detected no immediate enemies or hazards.

But so began the game,
And the Artist of War, prepared to follow the Way,
Readied her reclamation of a throne on D8.

Symbols danced across her visual field layered by lines of code. A cascade of characters that threatened to overwhelm her with barely contained neurofeedback. Her skin was cold. Metallic. Her skin was not her own. Awareness consumed her. Data moved at the speed of light. Her nerves were fiberoptic rivers. She felt alive. She felt whole.

She was slotted into the Seawolf. The atmospheric diving suit was battered and bruised, but still functional. Her last job had fallen apart as soon as she had hit the water. They'd wrecked her drone. They'd banged up her suit. And they almost managed to sink the tanker before she had sent them sinking to the bottom of the South China Sea. The payout barely allowed her to salvage the situation. She was broke, real broke. Her drone was busted up. She owed money and she'd soon run out of old favors to call on. She was sinking too fast.

Diagnostics from the Seawolf reeled her in from her depressing thoughts. The damage was superficial. The Seawolf was still operational. She was still operational. Her trusty friend, the Seadog had taken the brunt of the damage. The drone was out of action until she could afford some serious repairs. She could hear the hum of the AI in the corner of the metal warehouse she had commandeered. It was alive. It was processing, it was calculating, and it was thinking, but it's body was broken. She needed a life raft. She needed something to keep her floating.

Connected to the Seadog she felt a lifetime pass in seconds, minutes, and hours. The urge to remain. The desire to cast off the weak flesh that bound her burned deep within her heart. There was freedom in the machine. There was rapture in the darkest depths of the Deep. The diver was stubborn. The diver was proud. She wouldn't give up. She wouldn't surrender to the waves even as they towered above her and came smashing down on her head. She would struggle until she sank beneath the waves. Numbers drifted into her field of vision, gently reminding her that it was time to go. She hesitated. She always hesitated. Without her connection to the machine she felt empty. She felt incomplete. The Seawolf called out to her. It whispered to her. Instant, overwhelming euphoria beckoned her. Communion with the machine. Perfect unity. Escape from the depths of the South China Sea.

Wrapped beneath an olive rain poncho, Toma moved carefully. Water glistened on her bare ankles. Her rifle was slung over a shoulder, hanging loose and ready beneath the poncho. Her pistol was holstered along the small of her back. She trusted Chang. He wouldn't send her into a setup, but she didn't know the employer. She wasn't going in naked. Suraiboshen. She didn't know what to make of it. She'd never been there. It didn't make sense. Meeting in a five star sushi joint wasn't the usual way she fished up a new job and a fresh stack of credits. She wondered if there'd be sushi. There was always time for food and drinks, especially if her potential employer was paying. Dinner would make it a worthwhile trip even if the job turned out to be a wash she reasoned.

Toma wove through the meandering crowds with purpose and a faint pang of hunger. Disconnected from the Seawolf she felt the needs of the flesh return to her awareness in faint waves of unwelcome reality. She palmed a cigarette from the pocket of her faded shorts, submerging her hunger beneath a layer of burning nicotine. Canton Canal belonged to the triads. Belonged to the Black Yangtze. As much as any piece of the floating city could really belong to anyone. The surface world was always shifting, always changing, and the depths, the Undertow, her world, existed beneath the reach of petty tyrants.

The cigarette fell apart into ashes as the wake warrior reached the address that Chang had scribbled down on the back of the pack of cigarettes. She had chain-smoked her way through almost the entire pack of cigarettes as the day faded into darkness. She hadn't been in a hurry. She'd needed to stretch her legs. She'd wanted to think things through. She doubted she was being followed. She wasn't anyone important. She wasn't carrying anything hot. She was just another swimmer struggling to stay afloat in between the rolling waves.

Toma stopped to light the last cigarette, posting up against the front window of a store offering the finest in antique typewriters. Real typewriters that stamped ink characters onto paper with each press of a mechanical keyboard. Tools of the wealthy and esoteric. Complex machines from the analog age. The proprietor took one glared at the wake warrior and looked as if he was about to say something before he retreated back inside his store. Toma nodded sagely as he left her to smoke in silence and continued to watch the street. The cigarette lingered between her lips, an ember glittering in the rain. The restuarant reminded her of a temple. Drawn in minimalist lines, the simplicity of the squat structure convinced Toma that there was serious money involved. Only the wealthiest in New Malaca would spend a fortune to make something look simple. Aesthetic architecture turned into high fashion at the cost of credits. It seemed like a waste to her. She preferred salvage, the endless bounty of the South China Sea.

She stamped out her cigarette on the street. The wake warrior crossed the robe bridge and eyed the two yojinbo guarding the entrance. Visible chrome was a bad sign. Guns were a bad sign. Heavy guns held in the hands of kitted up street samurai ithcing to use them were a worse sign. She didn't doubt that the two suits would be more than happy to gun her down if she seemed like a threat. She pocketed her lighter slowly, exaggerating her gestures, slowing down her movements. Gunfights were bad for business. She didn't need the heat.

"Nice shades," Toma offered, facing the two mountains.

The guards smirked back at her and two pairs of red eyes gave her the once over. Combat models she suspected. Gear worn when overt violence was the only purpose. The suit on her right, gestured towards her rifle, "You're not getting in here with that automatic."

Toma shrugged, relinquishing the amphibious rifle with an ease movement of her shoulder. The hired muscle handed her a token as he took her rifle. The chip felt smooth in her hand. Cherry wood she thought glancing at the delicate reddish-brown hue of the wood. Natural cherry wood. Expensive. Very expensive. Chinese numerals were carved into the ticket. 777. Jackpot. She hoped her luck would keep. She needed a break. She needed to make some serious money. She needed an easy job, but the payout told her otherwise. 500,000 asyuan. 500,000 asyuan promised trouble. Lots of trouble.

"Turn in the chip on your way out and you'll get your weapon back," the gaurd said as he stepped closer. The delicate scanner in his gigantic hand beeped loudly as it passed over the diver. She didn't move. MAD scanners were nothing new. She wasn't loud. She wasn't worried. Her cyberware wouldn't ping any sonars as anything interesting. Not unless the operator was really listening. And they usually weren't. She was running silent and she was running deep.

"You can keep the pistol," he said briskly. "However, do not abuse the generosity of this house. Unwarranted use of your weapon will be met with appropriate violence."

Toma nodded to the mass of metal and muscle as the doors slid open with the familiar click of a disengaging electronic lock. Toma stepped into the room and waited for the door to close behind her. The lock had been triggered remotely. Someone was watching. Despite the minimalist décor she suspected that Suraiboshen was protected by a high tech security system. Something fancy. Something stolen from the depths of a corporate R & D facility. Something very discreet, something that had cost a stack of cred-ships. The smell of money, real money troubled her. Rising too high above the waves meant danger, real danger. The sort of danger that even a crash dive to crush depth couldn't escape.

The hallway was crowded and Toma didn't hide the frown that appeared on her lips. She worked well with others. Diving required cooperation. Never dive alone. Never dive alone was the sensible advice of all dive masters. But Chang hadn't said anything about others. He hadn't said it was a team effort. She didn't work with strangers. Trust came slowly to her and she preferred to vet any potential allies. She recognized few of the faces. Marcus. Marcus stood out to her. She recognized the grizzled old mercenary. She remembered the job. She remembered the bodies. They'd buried half a start-up beneath the waves that day. If Marcus was there, it meant violence.

Xiaolan. Her heart shaped shades brought back memories of open waters. The remains of a battle, scattered with debris and dead pirates. Xiaolan meant war, real war, and kaleidoscopic violence fueled by synthetic drugs loomed. The pirate was reliable. The smuggler was talented. Toma trusted her. As much as one could trust a pirate. She followed her own strange code of violence.

The diver caught the end of a question as she stepped into the hallway. Her muscles still ached. She didn't want to sit down. Interfacing with the Seawolf she had forgotten to move. She had ignored the pleading request from her limbs. She had silenced the whispers of her flesh. She'd listen to the pitch. She'd eat some sushi. She'd do the job. She'd do the job so long as it didn't threaten to sink her.

"We are but sea dogs in search of coin," the Scrapper replied, offering a subtle nod towards the Artist of War. She could taste the adrenaline as it began to slowly seep into her veins.

"No, no. Nadia, the couch needs to be centered with the window and the holoscreen!"

"But- Obaasan, didn't you tell me you wanted it centered with the bar?"

The old woman in question, Mrs. Saito, put her hands on her hips, huffing as she stared incredulously at the young woman who was currently in the process of sliding a couch across her floor to the desired location. Or at least she would be if Mrs. Saito could decide on a location. They'd been at this for nearly an hour and the old woman kept changing her mind about where precisely she wanted the couch. 'Put it next to the window.' 'No, put it next to the bar!' 'Actually no I want it centered with the bar.' 'Why did you put it there??'

Nadia was beginning to get a little bit exacerbated with her neighbor but she was doing her best to hide it, lest she get another lecture about disrespecting her elders. Mrs. Saito was nice enough most of the time but lately had been getting a bit... touchy. Nadia wondered if maybe there was something going on with her personal life, or if maybe her mind was just getting worse. She hoped it wasn't dementia. Mrs. Saito was a good neighbor and Nadia would hate if anything happened to her. There were many advantages to having an old grandma live across the hall from you, some of which were the unending food, having someone to keep an eye on your place if you had to go somewhere, uninvited comments about your weight and/or hair, offers to set you up with their friend's grandson, unending food, occasionally actually good advice, hugs, food, you get the gist. They didn't exactly have the closest relationship but they were certainly on friendly terms. Nadia got her groceries, Mrs. Saito cooked her dinner. Nadia helped her move her furniture around, Mrs. Saito watered her plants while she was on a job. They helped each other out with the little domestic things and didn't get too involved with actual personal lives for the most part. Nadia was fine with that. She didn't really feel like explaining to the old woman that she spent most of her time as a hacker in the-

Oh no.

Nadia abruptly stopped pushing the couch brought up a clock in her eye display. 6:23PM. She was late.

"Sorry Obaasan, I have to go. I'll help you later!"

There were some sounds of protest that Nadia ignored as she dashed back to her side of the hall, grabbed a backpack with her gear in it, ran to the kitchen to stuff some chocolate and matcha cupcakes she'd made that morning into her preservative container, threw on her shoes, and ran outside the apartment building to start booking it towards Canton Canal. Thankfully she lived somewhat near Hibiscus Lane so it wouldn't take her too long to cut through that. Sure she'd be running straight through triad territory looking very suspicious with her panicked expression, but surely nothing bad would happen... right? There wasn't much time to worry about it anyway.

It wasn't until she was a good ten minutes from her apartment that Nadia realized it was raining and she probably should have at least grabbed an umbrella or something, but it was too late for that now. She'd just have to grin and deal with it. Thank goodness cybernetics were waterproof. Nadia remembered this one report she'd read about a new cybernetics company that tried to start up, but they forgot to make the components waterproof, so the first time one of their models took a shower it completely fried their nervous system and killed them. It was a stupid, horrible mistake that was a once in a lifetime level of stupidity. But that didn't stop Nadia from having this nagging worry that her cybernetics were going to fry her brain. What if there was a component in there jangling around that was just waiting to make everything go up in flames?

Nadia plotted a course to Suraiboshen as she ran through the crowded streets of New Malacca. There were shouts and curses as she bumped into a few people, tossing apologies over her shoulder before disappearing around corner and repeating the process as she weaved her way through Hibiscus Lane to Canton Canal. A few of the street merchants in their floating markets recognized her and waved, asking where she was headed off to. Nadia just waved back and kept going. Oh she was definitely not made for this. Sprinting was not her thing, much less running a friggin marathon across an entire keyzone. She was a hacker for the Deep's sake. She spent all day jacked into wires and screens, not running around of the streets doing backflips and parkour like some of these gang members she heard about. You could probably hear her huffing and puffing from five blocks away. Any other time she would have probably just said screw it and sat down for a minute, but the promise of 500,000 asyuan was too much. It was too much and could push her cause too far for her to just give up because she was tired and a little out of shape, so she pushed on despite the building ache in her legs and the burning in her lungs. This was going to hurt tomorrow, but it would be so worth it.

Hopefully anyway.

Eventually the restaurant in question came into view and Nadia slowed to a walk, taking the time to catch her breath, adjust her somewhat damp clothes and very damp hair, and check her time. 6:58 PM. She wasn't horrifically late. She took off the jacket she'd been wearing since it was pretty much soaked, though her shirt was still alright. Her pants felt just as soaked as her jacket but thankfully they were black and as long as no one looked too close she could play it off like they were dry.

"In a hurry. are we?" One of the guards asked with a raised eyebrow as she approached.

"Hah..." She was still panting and catching her breath. "Got a bit caught up. How are you guys this evening?"

They didn't respond to her small-talk. "We're going to have to search you. Any weapons we should know about?"

"Two pistols," she replied, reaching down to unclip them from the holsters on her calves, which fit underneath her baggy pants, and showed them to the two guards. They looked them over and one of them frowned.

"Are these semi-auto?"

"Yes."

The one looked her up and down with a raised eyebrow, and Nadia shrugged. "They're just for self defense, fellas. I don't intend on shooting anyone unless they shoot at me first."

They deliberated with each other for a moment, apparently trying to judge whether or not she'd be a massive threat, and then gave one of the pistols back to her with a chip. "You can keep one, get the other on your way out. Do not abuse the generosity of this establishment and be responsible with your weapon. Failure to do so will result in hostile retaliation on our part."

"Sounds good enough to me." They scanned her, checked her backpack, she clipped her pistol back in place, and then entered the restaurant to wait in the hall with the others as the guards instructed her in the midst of her scan.

Wait, others? That hadn't been a part of the deal.

As she entered the hallway, there were indeed several other people standing there. Some she recognized just from running in relatively similar circles, and while she'd never actually met them, she knew their faces. It was part of her job to know people's faces. There were others still that she didn't recognize in the slightest. Then one person in particular caught her eye, and Nadia's face immediately lit up.

"Scrapper!" Nadia exclaimed, flinging herself at the woman in question to give her a hug- damp clothes and all. "I haven't seen you in so long!"

"I've got nothing."

"Hrmph."

"Ray? Any bites?"

"No."

"Well damn."

Huddled underneath cheap raincoats, feet dangling off the edge of a makeshift wooden dock in one of the hidden nooks deep within the West Bengal Port sat a pair of hunched over men- idling by a pair of fishing rods. A cooler with a single, tiny fish and a growing number of empty beer cans sat between them, and a tray of bait sat relatively full atop a small platform of empty cans. Hoods pulled over their face, all that could be seen of the two men sitting on their own were their scruffy beards and a pair of beaten up sticks of tobacco with cherry red tips. The larger of the two men shifted in his seat, throwing a crushed beer can into the cooler.

"You've got work coming up?" the scrawnier of the two men asked. Ray nodded as he took another puff of his cigar.

"What's the job?"

"You know Ahmad, they didn't quite say." Ray replied as he reached out and plucked his fishing rod out of its nook in the dock and began collapsing it.

Ray regarded Ahmad with a glance. Ahmad was a kindly fellow- perhaps too kind for the rough waters of New Malacca. A smallish, simple blue collar laboring man- who spent his days slaving away at the docks for dirt pay and spent his nights drinking beer and fishing with a foreigner whose primary trade tools were firearms and bullets. Quite frankly it was a miracle Ahmad had not yet been mugged, shot, and left floating in the water yet. To his credit, the man did keep his head down and out of trouble most of the time, and no one was too interested in messing with a pair of fishermen when one of them had a shotgun leaning next to him.

Collecting up the rest of his fishing equipment, Ray tossed it all into a damp rucksack that sat just behind him, slinging the heavy pack over one shoulder, and pulling his shotgun sling over the other. Ahmad began packing up his stuff as well, muttering something along the lines of always having terrible luck with the fish when Ray was around, and that they could smell the man's chrome and knew to stay away.

"Don't go off and die now." Ahmad said as a way of saying goodbye.

"You might actually have to spend time with your wife if I did." Ray retorted with a grunt. Ahmad snorted and the two went their separate ways.

A short walk to the transport hub, and a ride on the water taxi later, and Ray was cruising his way into the heart of the Canton Canal. If it wasn't for the extravagant cost of living, Canton Canal would be the closest thing Ray had to home in New Malacca. The neighborhoods and local shops all spoke Cantonese, old chinese men sat around smaller cafes playing mahjong for seemingly weeks at a time, and of course there were the Triads. Even though Ray had no particular love for the Triads- something about their presence just reminded him of home, in a seedy, watch your back or else you might catch a knife kinda way.

Suraiboshen reminded Ray of the quieter nooks of Hong Kong- out of the way, not as much foot traffic, and devoid of the constant neon glow of street signs and advertisements. Almost akin to a small hole in the wall restaurant that only true locals would know about. Of course this wasn't the case with Suraiboshen- it wasn't just dinner, it was a meeting with who knows who for a job doing who knows what. Who it was and what they were doing, Ray didn't particularly care about. Like most jobs in this place, the legality was questionable, and the motivations just as seedy.

There was a small security team waiting for him at the restaurant- as well as a growing crows of what Ray could only assume were his new coworkers. Not entirely surprised, Ray could only hope that the juicy 500,000 they offered was an individual fee, and not something to be split up amongst the group- as unlikely as it was.

The security team didn't even have the chance to open their mouths before Ray's shotgun was unslung and placed into one of the guards' hands. They looked at his pistol but didn't say anything. Sidearms weren't an uncommon sight in New Malacca anyway. He received the chip from the other guard and pocketed it. He was about to take another step when the guard held out a hand.

"What's in the bag?" the guard asked, his hands already rifling through the pack.

"Meds, ammo, fishing rod." Ray listed off plainly as the guard handed the pack back to him with a grunt.

"He's clear." the guard said- but probably not to Ray, "Wait in the hall with the others, the boss will call you in when its time."

Ray walked into the hall where the others stood around waiting. "Evening." Ray nodded at the collective in a way of acknowledgement. Some of them were vaguely familiar- others complete strangers. Not that Ray was completely opposed to the idea. He, likely similar to many of the others here, preferred working alone. It harder to get stabbed in the back when it was just you- but he wagered if the client had the capital to offer up 500k on a job, chances are he had the resources to scout out at least professional wetworkers.

Ray popped open his cigar case- possibly one of the only dry spots in the building, and pulled out a thick, but fairly beaten up cigar. There was the short click of a lighter, a puff and a short grunt as Ray leaned himself against a nearby wall, smoke gently curling away from the burning tobacco stick.

All there was left to do now was wait.

Well, there was a familiar face. Marcus slowly stood up, the hydraulic joints implanted in his legs creaking, as he bade Nicolas to come closer. His face was crinkled in a leathery smile, eyes brightening in recognition.

“ Nicolas.” He stuck out a scarred hand to shake the Filipino’s own. “ Nice to see you’re caught up in this mess too. Just don’t make me burn my own pay like I did for you in Vietnam, okay?”

He ended it with a firm squeeze in his handshake, giving the Black Yangtze gunman a smile, before patting him on the shoulder genially and sitting back down. Nicolas was a little greyer around the hairs the last time he worked with him but the Black Yangtze gunman’s stony countenance was unmistakable. You had to have a certain self-assured confidence to survive New Malacca, enough to push without getting pushed back but not to the point where you made too much attention. Some learned that lesson by force whilst others never took it to heart.

After Del Rosa settled himself down, several more came behind him, each more annoying than the last. One of them was a Russian that smelt of seawater and port rust. That Toma girl. His eyes met hers with repricatory acknowledgement, of the past they had with one another. The next came in a blur. A walking rainbow that looked more like a glamour girl than a professional mercenary. A girl that was young in both age and experience. A man built like a brickhouse who was relaxing in the corner, cigar fumes wafting from the blunt in his mouth like a lit fuse. Marcus’s jagged cataracts flickered back and forth each new arrival that passed through the doors of Suraiboshen. He remained passive, his chin angling towards them as they sauntered into the quiet hall that was quickly filling with chatter by the second. Marcus counted eight in total. You had to have a certain self-assured confidence on you to survive New Malacca, enough to push without getting pushed back but not to the point where you made too much attention.

Eight people. Eight complications. Eight potential guns pointed at his back when he would be least expecting it. The money it would take to finance an operation like this, though…...The former cop frowned. The client had promised 500 grand. Simple arithmetic brought the figure to 4 million asyuan in total, split between the 9 of them. The only people who could afford to burn that kind of money on the underground black market were the type whose shadows stretched across the canals, the kind of people you tended to avoid the footsteps of. CEOs,drug lords, federal executives, industrial magnates.

Who could throw that kind of money around without making a big splash in the pool?

He mulled on that for a second. And then another. Marcus shook his head, clearing away the doubts that were floating to the top of his mind like pond scum.

No time for regrets. He took the job and he’d deal with the newcomers, damn the consequences.

For the next couple of minutes, nothing happened other than the odd bit of chatter. Marcus thought about striking up a conversation with Del Rosa and decided against it. Marcus sighed and then, unclipped a thermos from a magnetic strip on his belt. The silence of the waiting hall was broken by a pressurised hiss followed by the sound of an 80 year old throat slurping down spoonfuls of something that smelt like mouldy socks.

“ Look at you. ” Marcus stopped drinking and looked up to see who had spoken to him. The cocky little shit across from him, the one with the longcoat, was lounging on his chair, legs crossed together. The edges of his lips were curled in contempt, the toothpick tucked in between waving back and forth. He then leaned forward and glanced at him in amusement. “ I mean, what’s an old guy like you doing in a place like this? No offense but the nearest retirement home is three blocks from here. I can take you there if you want, hell, call a cab for you given your…” Marcus noticed his eyes flickering down at his prosthetics. “ condition.”

“ I needed rent.”

“ Well -” The merc guffawed. “ Never heard of a hab block that cost 500,000 to stay in.”

Marcus was beginning to hate him already. He merely shrugged his shoulders and continued to sip his soup. The merc didn’t take a hint and proceeded to chatter on about crap that Marcus couldn’t care less about, his accolades, various jabs taken at how old he was and other things that the taste of ginseng soup helped him weather through. Eventually, the one-sided conversation reached the point where the merc drew back a sleeve of his jacket and revealed a sleek cybernetic arm that looked more like a teenage girl’s birthday gift fashionware.

“ Check this out.” The merc flexed his right arm and grinned at Marcus’s unimpressed face. “ Titanium alloy actuators. Custom inter-neural gel relays in the millisecond. High broadband Deep connectivity. Plus - “ He twisted the elbow to the right and a wicked barrel unfolded from under the palm of his arm. “ Don’t get me started on the integrated weapons systems. What about you?”

“ Couple of hip replacements.” Marcus paused, taking a sip. “ Vitamin supplements. Hearing aids. ” He patted the side of his leg and detached a part of the exoskeleton. “ Built in walking stick.”

The slick haired merc shook his head in mirth before his gaze darkened. “ The way I see it, we need the best for this job. Not some old geezer.” His hand then wandered towards the inside of his coat. “ How about we make the pay bigger for everyone?”

His eyes were still focused as he took a long draught from his thermos. It was only after he took a swallow that he realised his hand had moved towards his holster. The bastard had gotten under his skin. He then wiped an oily smear off the corner of his lips before speaking.

“ I’ve lived this long. Can’t say the same about you.”

There was only the industrial puff of air conditioning, the hallway growing more cramped and small by the second. He stared back calmly at the blonde haired punk while the merc grinned ,egging him on. For a moment, it looked like a gun fight would break out within the five star restaurant. The doors broke the din of silence as they opened, revealing a pale emaciated waiter. His cheeks were gaunt and he barely filled the black yukata that he wore. A large metal orb replaced his left eye, dancing around excitedly as it spastically twitched around whilst the other eye remained looking forward. He gave a cough and then, spoke quietly.

“ He’s waiting. “ He stepped to the right and bowed his head slightly. “If you would follow me, please.”

Marcus let the others go through first, sitting in his seat until he was the last one behind. The slick haired lan jiao, meanwhile, flicked his toothpick at him while he was passing by, bouncing off his cheek and onto the floor.

As he stood up and made his way behind the group, Marcus swore that he would ram the next toothpick he saw into the man’s uvula.

The first thing that was disconcerting to him were the glass walls, ceilings and floors that surrounded him as he followed the waiter. The tunnel branched off like an ant farm into several smaller rooms that were blocked off from view by smeared plexiglass. Cages of bleached coral hanged, multicolored schools of fish swimming in and out of them. If they could be called fish. They were more crude hybrids, caricatures of the time he went out fishing in the Andamans during his childhood. Tuna the size of pygmy whale sharks, the heads of freshwater fish stapled onto their saltwater relatives, crabs with more than a dozen claws. Out further past, he could barely make out the murky forest of high tension cables and struts that anchored New Malacca to the sea floor. As the waiter led them down a transparent staircase, the water darkened, looking more like a hungering void.

The group stopped at the furthest edge of the tunnel, where it led into a rocky outcrop. A pair of paper doors laid in front. Marcus could make out muffled shouts from the inside that made him slightly cautious, The waiter didn’t seem to mind, lifting his sickly hand out underneath a laser scanner. The machinery whirred before a needle protruded out of the wall. It pricked the palm,a tiny bead of red fading from sight. The paper doors shuddered and then parted, folding into the floor and ceiling.

The sound of rushing water greeted him. In contrast to the wooden makeup of the entrance, the sushi bar was downright industrial. The rock the bar was built in had been sheared, moulded, melted and polished into a perfectly square interior, free of cracks or jags. The walls weren’t stone, though. They were water, falling endlessly. The pools they rested in were bereft of life, of lily pads, of the koi fish you usually see in tourist places to invoke some cheap sense of orientalism. It just flowed and flowed, never resting in one place as the water reflowed back up.

Shame the scream broke the ambiance of zen the architect was trying to go for.

In the center of the room was a circular bar in the middle of the room with mounted stools surrounding it like the spokes of a wheel. From far back, Marcus could barely make out one man sitting on the stool flailing his arms around like an angry child while the other, standing in the centre, paid him no attention. He did manage to catch one part of the argument as the man sitting on the stool screamed out in harsh Cantonese.

“ - This was not part of the deal!”

Arguments were as common as oxygen in New Malacca. The man sitting on the stool was corpo, much of that evident from his Cheffron suit to the Malaccan Pewter watch on his right hand or the barely visible surgery lines on his head that spoke of next-gen cyberware, only available for those of top societal pedigree. However, corporate skin therapies couldn’t cover up the fact that he looked like he was a man on the run from the law. The top right quarter of his forehead looked as if it had been charbroiled. His clothes were tattered at the sleeves and ridden with dried sweat. His eyes were bloodshot and his breath stank of sake.

He stabbed a pudgy finger towards the chef in the centre. “ You think these are acceptable terms?”

The chef was the bigger of the two. Half of his stocky body was draped in a white yukata that was stained with blood, draped diagonally across his sternum. The other half was tattooed, an intricate drawing of Kali on his belly and a dragon skirting across his chest. Keeping in line with the fashion code of the establishment, his hair was tied in a bun on his back. The only thing cybernetic about him was the cybernetic arm that gripped the head of the fish by the gills, myomer fibers pulsing in the bicep, and those eyes. Well, what was left of them. They were replaced by red lenses surgically inserted into his skull, never blinking, constantly open. He didn’t seem to pay any attention to the man yelling at him, focused on the large flounder he was currently descaling.

“ You should have been more specific in the terms of your contract, Mister Chan.”

“ I’m the one paying you!”

That was the moment when the chef cut off the head of the flounder with a single stroke, gumming up the corpo’s mouth. He paused before speaking slowly.

“ You think your...money gives you any authority here?” He set the knife down, wiping the grease of fish fat with a towel. “ You came to me. I didn’t come to you. I have resources that you require, contacts that only I can acquire and the mind to make your wishes reality. If you want our partnership to prosper, Mister Chan, I suggest you be more respectful.”

“ There will be time for introductions later.”

It was then they both noticed the band of mercenaries that had arrived in the midst of the argument. Marcus stayed quiet as he gave a bow of deference.

“ Irasshaimase. I apologise for the introduction of your client.” The corp moved to speak but was silenced by the pupiless glare of the chef. “ For now, please, relax. You all must be famished after travelling here. Please sit, we have much to discuss.”

Toma shrugged and took a seat at the bar. She didn't care much for arguments. She cared even less for arguments between her employer and fixer. The diver eyed the fish the culinary fixer was gutting carefully. It looked fresh. More importantly it looked clean. She hoped that there was sushi on the menu. Despite a life spent beneath the waters of the South China Sea Toma made a habit of avoiding any fresh catch. The waters were full of pollutants and the average fish contained more plastic than she cared to consider. Synthetic proteins and tofu was the breakfast of champions in New Malacca.

The corporate suit worried Toma. He seemed flaky. He seemed like he'd crack. She suspected he'd drown all of them if it meant saving his own worthless skin. She'd happily relive him of his money though. She'd just keep an eye on her sonar all the while, especially when it came time to collect. Clean up jobs were never fun when you were the mess that needed cleaning.

She breathed in and leaned back, balancing precariously on the stool as she took in the room. The running water comforted her, reminded her of the deep, a simpler place, and a better place. The brutal minimalism of the room and the chef spoke to something deeper inside of her. Toma doubted any of it had come cheap though. It was some sort of statement that she didn't care to ponder over. Not when there was fresh fish in front of her. Not when there was thousands of credits on the line.

Xia kept a close eye on who came through the door, but they didn't look like they paid attention. They caught every detail of every person that came through the door in the split second they took their eyes off the game. Some conversations ensued, their ears picking up every word out of their new comrades' mouths. Some were in languages they understood, others in languages they knew of but never learned. They kept an especially close eye on the old man and the guy talking to him. The situation seemed tense and chances of a shoot out were high. They didn't stop playing their game, but they did slow down, waiting for the opportunity to move out the way once guns were drawn. It didn't come to that. A waiter came out of the doors everyone waited in front of. He looked like he'd seen better days. Bodies that gaunt made them think of Deep addicts. It could have been a number of things that made him look like that, but what was the point in speculating? Chances are they'll never see him again anyway. Either this is the last job they'll have with the person that contacted them, they'll die on the assignment, or the waiter will die from whatever that ails him.

Xia wasn't the first to follow the waiter. They were content to follow in the middle of the pack. The hallway was unlike anything they've ever seen before. From top to bottom was covered in glass, short halls branched off from the main one, schools of fish that looked like experiments gone wrong swam passed the glass. They couldn't tell when they walked up that part of the building was underwear. They knew big money had to afford all of this, but not even The Snakes had anything this expensive. Or at least obviously expensive. The waiter led them down a staircase further under the sea. At the end of the tunnel were paper doors, shouting went on beyond them. That wasn't good. Xia knew that arguments could easily break out into a gun fight, though something this high class only had patrons that knew not to toe the line between dismissible offenses and retribution.

When they passed through the door they were greeted with a bar, endless waterfalls and pools, and a man yelling at the person manning the bar. They couldn't under the man, Cantonese wasn't one of their languages. The chef spoke to the suit like they were having a casual conversation, before addressing the group. He spoke in Japanese, Xia's mother tongue as far as they know, and offered them food. Xia wasn't going to turn down a meal. They haven't eaten since yesterday, body used to skipping meals from a hard childhood with the Snakes. They sat at the bar, comfortable as ever with someone that feels a little bit like home.

"Do you happen to have anything with yuzu in it?" Yuzu sake, yuzu glaze, yuzu anything, because they can't find it anywhere else other than Shin Ryushu Docking. A place with this kind of money and Japanese influence decor and uniforms had to have some type of deal with SRD. Perhaps imports of the good variety and the best versatile fruit known to the world. They could've looked at the menu, but they knew Japanese menus. Hundreds of options and too much going on. Best to save time and ask.