Dinner And A Show - Part 1

Tokyo was buzzing.

Not metaphorically, but actually alive. The neon signs hummed, the sidewalks pulsed, and the alleyways behind the so-called “secret” arena practically vibrated with underground energy.

Somewhere in the chaos of the uptown district, tucked between a food market and a three-story Pachinko parlor, was a back entrance marked only by a flickering red lantern with a black sumo holding the Oda clan symbol. A pentagon-like flower inside of another bloomed flower.

Low-key, outside of the obviously well dressed people walking inside past some of the security positioned outside.

Their van, painted like an old Japanese soft-serve truck, sat idle in the shadows two alleys down, but still in view of the place’s street entrance. The jingle was busted, the cone on the roof hung crooked, and the back held less popsicles and more firepower.

John stood beside the van in a purple suit and black tie, staring at the device his sister gave him. It was a rectangular device that had a hard black piece on one half and a clear glass on the other. The black part was to interact and holograms appeared above the glass. He tapped twice and two golden tickets projected midair, glowing softly. Laz rolled down the window and stuck his hand out to see the tickets. John handed over the device.

Laz, who was already fully committed to doing this mostly solo, squinted at the fine print. He frowned. “Man and woman,” he read. “Non-transferable entry tags. Which means unless you’re going to wear a dress, this won’t work!”

“What,” John said, taking the device back, “How the hell are we getting in then?”

Laz eyed the arena. “We don’t have time for this BS. John, you’re the only one who knows what this guy looks like. You two go in. I’ll prep the exit route. John when you see him, get a picture and send it to me and tell me where you are. I’ll figure out some way inside. If you can get him outside, even better.”

“Oh no,” Mango said, opening up the side of the van. “How will we go on without your charm and charisma?”

John shot Mango a side glance. “Guess it’s just you and me.”

“Don’t sound so excited.”

As Laz disappeared outside to the other side of the truck to gear up, John leaned against the van, arms crossed. “You have anything to wear?”

Mango then pulled out a crushed shopping bag from under the seat as if on cue. Out came a shimmering silver dress—dangerously short, slit high, and unapologetically tight.

John blinked. “Where the hell did that come from?”

“I found it.”

“You found it?”

“In a store window. On a mannequin.”

He shook his head.

“Don’t judge me. You’ve got a mafia trust fund. I have initiative.”

“You also have no shame.”

“And you have no idea how good I’m gonna look in this.”

She slid the van door closed and changed behind it, yelling, “No peeking!”

“I’m not peeking,” John called. “I’m praying. There’s a difference.”

When she stepped out, his silence said everything.

“Well?” she said, striking a mock pose. “Should I twirl or are you already in love?”

“I’m considering proposing,” he said, “But unfortunately I have to go find a needle in a haystack.”

“Smart man.”

Laz yelled from the other side. “Will you two get started, already?!”

He offered her his arm. She took it like it was a joke.

As they walked through the alley, the crowd thickened. High rollers in custom suits, shady people in thousand-dollar streetwear, bodyguards with fake tourist smiles.

Mango’s adrenaline spiked. This wasn’t just another gig. This was blood-money rich. The kind of people who had more in their pockets than most banks. She could already feel her fingers twitch.

Stay focused, she told herself. You’re here to stop a satellite superweapon. Not shoplift a Rolex.

Then again… maybe just one Rolex.

“You sure you’re ready for this?” John asked.

“For what? Oh! The mission! Uh, yeah.”

“You’re not great at resisting temptation, huh?”

“Not when my real temptation wears a purple suit.”

He looked down at himself. “You like this?”

“It’s alright,” she said with a shrug. “A little villain-chic.”

“I was going for ‘rich guy psychopath.’”

“Oh good, you nailed it.”

The arena loomed closer now, music and chanting spilling from behind steel doors. Security scanned passes, checking guests with surgical efficiency.

Mango slipped her arm through his tighter.

John glanced at her.

“Don’t get attached,” she said softly, eyes still forward.

“You planning to stab me again?” he asked.

She grinned. “Not unless you kiss me again.”

He chuckled under his breath. “So I’m safe for now.”

“For now.”

They reached the front of the line.

Mango smiled at the guard. “Just here for the show.”

John held out the glowing tickets.

The guard put up a black box to John’s phone-like device. A blue light came from the box. The guard lowered his shades, looked them over again and then nodded. “You will have to show it again to get into your seats,” he said with a thick Japanese accent.

The doors slid open.

Showtime!

***

From the outside, it looked like it was some small hole in the wall. But once John and Mango stepped past the threshold, it opened up into something else entirely. A cathedral of expensive decor and luxury. Marble floors gleamed like polished bone, and a massive waterfall trickled down a glass wall into a koi pond. This large area was just the lobby and yet its many expensive lanterns, several bars and cushion seats made it seem as if the action was in here..

It was beautiful. Disgustingly so.

The main lobby buzzed with conversation, laughter, and clinks of expensive glassware. People handed over their coats to uniformed attendants, disappearing behind a mirrored cloakroom. One guard scanned tickets like it was a regular Friday night at an opera house.

They stepped deeper in, their footsteps muffled by thick carpeting. The people here were a wild mix. Middle Eastern oil heirs, Ugandan tech moguls, South Korean fashion giants. A couple who might’ve been Hollywood producers whispered to a small man in a tux with two security guards trailing him like shadows.

“Diverse crowd,” Mango said, “Good thing too. If this was all Japanese, we’d stick out like a Black guy and a blonde white woman.”

They walked up to an upper level balcony. John took a deep breath and focused on the crowd. “FOCUS.”

The holographic screen blinked in front of his vision, invisible to anyone else.

<<<>>>

[Loading… Now accessing F.O.C.U.S: Field Operative Cybernetic Uplink System. Now live. User Identification: John Nero.]

[Classification: Spy.]

[Mission: Acquire codes and Identify both Bailiff and Peter.]

[Reward: Increase in XP and NOT losing your job.]

[Do you accept?]

<<<>>>

The screen popped up with a “Yes” or “No”.

I really don’t have a choice, the thought, I accept.

<<<>>>

[Mission: Start!]

<<<>>>

A timer started on the screen from zero.

Skill: ANALYZE. Crowd.

<<<>>>

[Analyzing surroundings...]

[Highlighting potential VIPs...]

[Searching Memory banks…]

[Six known individuals…]

<<<>>>

FOCUS showed him a screen of the six people. They were random rich people that he knew. A few Wall Street people, a sultan, even a rabbi and a cardinal, but none of them matching the someone who would fit the name Bailiff. John shook his head.

<<<>>>

[No positive match: Bailiff.]

<<<>>>

He clenched his jaw slightly. No sign of him.

But something else caught his eye. Half the room had small black clickers tucked subtly into their hands or laps. At first, they looked like tiny remote controls. Nothing strange, until John focused.

<<<>>>

[Object identified: Auction Clicker.]

[Linked to Silent Bidding System. Target Item: Classified weapons.]

[There is a frequency active that currently is connected to each clicker.]

<<<>>>

John leaned over to Mango. “This isn’t just a match. It’s a goddamn auction. This complicates things. How does Peter plan to get codes if everyone can bid on it?”

Mango looked down at a woman in front of them, daintily pressing her clicker like she was ordering dessert.

Mango was focused on her giant jeweled necklace. Its giant emerald center was calling to her. Mango was practically drooling.

“Let me guess,” Mango said. “The prize is big, shiny, and orbital… I wonder how much something like that would go for…”

Mango’s mind stranded off. She saw something more interesting. A sword on a stand. Its blade was beautifully maintained. Its hilt was gold and covered in rubies. She walked toward it as if it was commanding her body. Her Knife Shade talent was good with a dagger, how much better would it be with a fucking sword? The thought alone made her reach out for it.

Suddenly, John grabbed her hand.

She turned to see him, disappointed. “Don’t even think about it,” he said.

“I have no idea what you mean,” she said innocently.

A server, young and robotic in posture, approached with two crystal flutes of champagne and two clickers on a silver tray.

“Your bidding devices, honored guests,” he said with a bow. “Discreet use is encouraged.”

Mango took hers without hesitation. John followed, palming the clicker in one hand and keeping the other at his side. He slid the earpiece from his jacket sleeve and pressed it into his ear.

He spoke quietly. “Laz. You hearing me?”

“Loud and irritating,” Laz’s voice came through. “What’s the update?”

“There’s no one selling the codes,” John murmured. “They’re auctioning them. Crowd’s full of power players.”

“Damn. And Bailiff?”

“Not yet. We’re heading in to watch the match. Keep the truck running.”

“Always do.”

They moved from the lobby to the entrance hallway, showing their passes again to get to the inner chamber.

John’s phone started to buzz. He picked it up and saw Lea’s name on it. He let go of Mango for a moment. “Sorry, I have to take this.”

Mango frowned and crossed her arms. “Who in the world could possibly be important enough for you to take that now?”

John stepped a bit away from her and covered his mouth. “What?”

“What?!” Lea snapped on the other end of the phone. “What do you mean ‘What’? You crashed a fucking helicopter? Why aren’t you back yet?”

“Because the job’s not done yet!”

“So? Your part is over! Get back here before something terrible happens! You’re not a real field agent, remember?”

“I’m whatever I need to be to get the job done. There’s still a chance I can save them and I have to take it.”

“... I hope you know what you’re doing. Just send me your location so I can go to sleep.”

“Fine.” John pressed a button on his phone. “There, sent.”

CLICK!

Lea hung up. He could tell she was pissed. He’d have to deal with that later, but for now he needed to focus. He grabbed Mango’s arm. “Shall we?” he asked.

Mango raised an eyebrow but didn’t argue and followed him. They moved down the hallway and into the central event chamber and Mango stopped breathing for half a second.

It was like stepping into a roman colosseum with private seating. The sumo ring was circular, elevated, and stood at the center of the room on a massive gold piston. Around it, a pit gaped, dark and slow-moving, filled with some kind of reflective liquid. It looked like mercury. Dangerous and majestic all at the same time.

Above them, the ceiling arched like a cathedral dome, painted with murals of ancient Japanese wars. In the paintings, gods and demons manipulated the warriors. In the middle was Oda Nobunaga with a gold aura.

They took their seats, side by side in a padded velvet booth. There was a chaudary board in front of them and bottles of wine. Mango kicked off her heels immediately and tucked her feet under her. She felt the furry velvet floor between her toes. Classy.

“Do you even know the rules of sumo?” she asked, popping a grape from the tray in front of her.

“Big guy pushes big guy out of circle,” John said.

“Wow. You should teach a class.”

A server arrived with plates. Delicate Japanese dishes, precisely cut sashimi, tempura so light it crackled, soup poured from a teapot.

Mango instantly started to dig in.

John raised an eyebrow. “You know we’re not here for dinner, right?

“If I’m going to face death, I’m not doing it on an empty stomach.”

John kept his eyes on the platform.

“This is the Nobunaga International Championship,” said an announcer from a balcony above. “The finest tournament in the Eastern Hemisphere. Tonight’s battle is sponsored by our generous private funders. The winner receives ¥50 million and an unbroken sumo gold trophy. The loser...”

A beat.

The announcer smiled cruelly.

“Burns.”

A hush fell across the room.

The first match began. Two massive men stepped into the ring, bowing, slapping thighs, doing the old rituals. John noted the edge of the platform not only had no guardrails, but was tilted down on the outside. The floor beneath it shimmered. As the match progressed, a mechanical whirring sounded beneath them.

Every time one wrestler was pushed out of a ring, the platform retracted slightly, shrinking. They kept fighting, brutal and unrelenting. The crowd bid silently around them, clickers ticking like secret metronomes.

“Each round, the platform shrinks,” John whispered.

Mango stopped chewing. “That’s messed up.”

By the final round, the platform was a thin circle floating above the reflective pool. Two champions faced off, both bruised, both heaving. A mechanical hiss echoed as flames ignited below them. Colors of red, orange, roaring up from the pit.

John heard whispers. Then he noticed the earpieces on the table. He put one in and listened to the voices on the signal.

“Misle time under an hour, guaranteed.”

“Sold! To the lovely couple in ...”

“Twenty-five billion starting—”

He looked around. Everyone was still eating. Laughing. Drinking.

One of the wrestlers was thrown off.

The flames swallowed him.

There was a violent and bone chilling scream. Long and slow. The fire did all the talking. The room started to stink of burning flesh. Everyone started to clap in approval.

Mango stood up abruptly, covering her mouth. Her chair scraped loudly against the floor.

John caught her wrist. “You alright?”

“I’m gonna puke.”

She darted out of the booth, heels in hand, bare feet slapping on marble in the hall.

John followed, weaving through the halls.

She reached the back corridor, hands braced against the wall, taking shaky breaths. Her body trembled, her silver dress shimmering in the low hallway light.

John stood behind her, giving her space.

“I’ve killed people,” she said between breaths.

“I know.”

“I’ve stabbed them, poisoned them, choked them. But this...it’s evil.”

Silence stretched between them. John stared at the floor. He felt something inside him crack, some final piece of hope about how deep this rabbit hole really went.

He stepped closer. “Hey.”

She turned, eyes wet, jaw clenched.

He reached out, gently brushed the hair from her face.

“I told you there was more to this than what’s on the surface,” he said. “They treat people as animals and believe that they are more than people. They believe their money and power makes them gods. And why wouldn’t they? Everything the one way or another. It’s like fucking Mt. Olympus in there. But the downfall of every god starts when they spit on those who worship them.”

He helped her off the ground. “And our job is to remind them of that.”

Mango just nodded and wiped her face. Suddenly there was a cheer from the crowd. The next match had already begun.