Western District
Mind games only worked when both parties actually decided to think so far. Rather than play the guessing game, the short-haired woman simply leveraged her physical prowess instead, pushing through the groups of people gathered before the entrance, before striding away, not breaking into a full sprint but certainly still aware that she was being followed.
Juujomaru Station was in the western district, and it certainly reflected the aesthetic of the older part of Tenoroshi: there were no escalators and the construction was still a mixture of wood and iron, a constant cave-like dampness clinging to it. At this time of day, few others were in the station, and Mana had no trouble at all with spotting her quarry, her own tenacity helping her keep up. The stairs did a number on her sides, the station master blew a whistle and shouted at her to slow down (not that either woman heeded his instructions), and the dimness of the subterranean station soon gave way to the light that spilled from breaking clouds.
The splotches of blue that made it past the overcast skies was beautiful enough to give Mana pause.
But the short-haired woman turned the corner down a side street, and Mana continued her pursuit. It carried her up the hills, down winding roads, past neglected playgrounds, between aged apartments, all as her heart hammered against her ribs, her lungs heaving up and down. And yet, the distance between the two never closed, and the posture of the woman she chased never flagged. Was Hanami ever that good a runner? Like Kouta, she had been in the Go Home Club during high school, with a propensity for loitering around convenience stores after school. Could someone change that much in two years? Or had she never been close enough to Hanami to notice all this?
Mana’s thoughts were cut short as she turned down another alleyway, colliding with, no, being bodyslammed by the woman who she had pursued just moments ago. Her back pressed against the wall, a garbage can toppling over as the woman’s forearm positioned itself over her neck. This close, the difference in height, in muscle mass, was clear; Mana was an entire half foot shorter than her, and it looked as if she had noticed that as well. There was still fear in her tawny eyes, but it was frenetic now, aggressive, as she leaned in close.
“Who the hell are you and why are you following me?!”
Southern District
Well, it was the polite thing to do, doing nothing. Minutes passed into an hour as Tsurushi waited, doing nothing of importance. Maybe she stood up to get herself a glass of water. Maybe she closed her eyes to doze off a bit, sleep being a scarce resource for any teacher of elementary schoolers. Maybe she searched for free Wi-Fi in vain, and settled for browsing on data instead.
Regardless, time passed meaninglessly, and soon, the door opened, a middle-aged man with a bulbous nose stepping out. With pale skin and blue eyes, he looked at least half-foreign, and each movement of his spoke of confidence and competence. Dark hair parted to either sides of his face, and his neck was thick and powerful, the hallmarks of a lifter. He fixed his tie as he walked out, Hisui leaning against the doorframe to watch him leave. Her own complexion was slightly flushed, the difference standing out only more when framed by her silvery locks.
The man picked up his suit jacket from the coat rack, nodded once at Hisui, then at Tsurushi, and strode out of the office. His steps hadn’t made a sound throughout.
“Bit early,” Hisui remarked after a couple seconds, “But no point in making you wait without purpose. Tsurushi, you’re free to come in.”
Tristan Und Isolde continued to play in the background as Tsurushi stepped into Hisui’s office. There was consistence in design here, the office sharing the same bright, sterile appearance that the rest of place had. Linoleum floors again, monochrome-and-glass furniture again. The fluorescent lights were replaced with dimmer, incandescent lighting, however, and the blinds of the window were open as well. Noontime sunlight filtered through, giving life to the potted plants by the windowsill and giving warmth to the room. It wasn’t air-conditioned, here, and a faint, floral aroma was dispensed by a silent machine in the corner of the room. Hisui sat in her black leather swivel chair, while motioning for Tsurushi to lie on the white lounge chair.
She waited a couple of moments for her client to settle, before asking, “Troublesome week?”
The sound was explosive and passionate, raw and hungering. It fed off the crowd’s enthusiasm and amplified it in turn, everything rising and rising to whip the crowd into a frenzy. Though New Blue Glitch had to take a rain check for the event, their absence was hardly noticed, the rest of the lineup intense enough to keep people from being dissatisfied at all. ApocaSis had the opening act, heavy metal triplets performing purely instrumental music that had the entire live house shaking in their bones. Rites of Hammerhead followed up with their own act, madmen who were, if their Facebook page was to be believed, “classical musicians brought back from hell to unleash true torment upon the spineless strummers of modern society”. Wielding electric versions of classic stringed instruments, most impressive being their absolutely savage contrabass, they pizzacato’d away while their lead singer screamed Latin into a loudspeaker. Compared to the eccentric starters, Dread Daughter and Handmask were certainly more standard, but doubtlessly equal in energy as well, their setlist one technically complex song after another. Their explosive (and maybe a bit stupid) guitarist even dove off the stage regardless of the fence, his feet almost smacking a blond part-timer in the head before he was surfing the crowd. And, in a rare occurrence, Firestarter, despite being busy with their aboveground music careers, showed up again as well, old-timers in the field still belting out their signature lyrics of apocalypse and rebirth, resurgence and revenge. Closing things off, of course, were the Quartermasters, the bone-pulverizing solos of each member of the band looking both absolutely painful and absolutely glorious. It was youthful excess and it was semi-deranged grunge, but only in Galaxy could one get away with smashing one’s drum set so hard that the drumsticks cracked, before tossing the sticks into the crowd and continuing the solo with his knuckles.
That too was stupid, but in the end, it was entertaining and it was metal, and that was exactly what the concert-goers had paid for: unrestrained entertainment on the day of the Lord. Or, well, that was what most of them paid for.
Some of them, like Marc, hadn’t paid at all, not with money at least. Holding back the fence and almost being decapitated by someone’s foot, while being right behind an amplifier had made the concert a far more intense experience than he had expected. The fatigue was certainly growing now, but there was also the buzz of adrenaline that coursed right underneath his skin, electric and eclectic. Looking around, it was clear that other part-timers at Galaxy felt the same thing. They had only barely made the deadline, but in the end, everything worked out and they got to enjoy for free what others had to pay for. A hard smack landed between his shoulder blades as Miwa showed up beside him. “Nice work,” she said, her own countenance a far cry from the stressed, ice-cold persona she had before all this began, “Have some water. And this as well.”
The mixed-blood had a bottle of ice cold water shoved into one hand, and in his other hand, he received an empty garbage bag and a trash picker. Of course. As the live house emptied out, it was clear that no one but the staff were expected to pick up all the cups and shit that was littered on the ground. Work never ended, it seemed. Miwa had already turned away, hopping up onto the stage to inspect damages and disconnect amplifiers.
Some others were more fortunate, though they were unable to appreciate it all that much. With a backstage pass gained solely from knowing a guy who knew another guy, Miyane stood alone, watching people file out of the live house and leaving only chaos and trash behind. No one spared her a glance, all enthused about the performances they’ve just witnessed, the plans they had for the afternoon. Was it going to be food? Were they inspired to get back to their own instruments? Were they just content to head off to a park and bask in the afterglow? No one here, not even the Firestarters, were ever going to make it big, not nationally, not internationally. But inside, at least, in this little hole in the ground, they were stars. And who was she?
“Oh shit, Daehyun, didn’t know you were talking about MiA!” A reedy, unfamiliar sounded amongst the din, closer and closer. It belonged to the same drummer from before, the dumbass knucklerapper. Bichromatic hair was swept back in wild curls, while his ear piercings were similarly different, a ring in one and a nail in another. Though his face seemed to lend itself well to a naturally nasty sneer, the youth’s expressions were wholly divorced of sarcasm in this instance, dark eyes widening.
Daehyun was beside him, his own manicured features standing out all the more when complemented by this wild child. “Well, surprise. Miyane, Yuudai. Yuudai, Miyane,” he introduced swiftly, a glimmer of amusement in his eyes.
“Pleasure to meetcha,” Yuudai said, immediately bowing. “Real big fan of your earlier works, miss!”
Well, he was certainly earnest.
Which was a far cry from what he was in that alleyway, watching her bleed out as her organs were plundered. Yasuo nudged Marina, but she was doubtlessly already aware of the presence of the young man, the way he acted without looking at all bothered by the murders he had been an accomplice to in the past. The voice was the same. The appearance was the same. Only the mannerisms were different, but then again, Japanese society was skilled at cultivating humans with multiple faces.
“Kang Daehyun and Sou Miyane,” Yasuo supplied, eyes glancing towards the two beside Marina’s quarry. “One’s a big name in K-pop, and another used to be. What’s the plan now?”
