In the Dragon's Den

In hindsight, Kira should have figured the business above was a front. That the Don would undertake ventures from underground, where magic influence on the above world would be somewhat dampened. Grand larceny had never been carried out in the name of honest men. Nowhere in the history books, at least.

What struck Kira first was the warmth. Down there in the bowels of the earth, in a den for wielders, where no heater would function for long, if at all, she’d expected her breath visible as it was above ground. But it was comfortable, and her fingers chilled by night and dripping water began to feel like flesh again. Color seeped back into her face. A thin trickle of sweat ran down Arata’s cheek, and no more.

The pair descended deeper, taking care not to trip and fall down the steel and glass staircase where two guards in sunglasses awaited watching them from the door, making no effort to help when Kira stumbled. They did, however, have the courtesy to hold open the door for the pair of thieves – once Arata’s backpack was inspected and entry was approved by those on the other side. Tucking an elbow in addition to one leg, the girl snuck by the burly pair into the inner chamber.

For Kira, it felt only fitting to gasp at what lay within.

Arata made no such honoring, instead ushering her towards the table in the room’s center. The surface was a white marble with crimson veins, and solidly build. Sharply it contrasted with the design of the room, which resembled a shrine of Shinto worship, with an altar, hanging lanterns, warm braziers to heat the room – though, somehow, the smoke was siphoned out – an arched ceiling, and all the other dressings with names of which she possessed no memory to pull from. All of rich, dark wood. Two more men whose muscles strained the stiches of their suits flanked the altar, standing at attention.

A third was seated between, head knelt in reverence before the altar on which the sculpture of a dragon presided over them, carved from green gleaming stone, their jaw fixed open in permanent roar. Behind was a framed portrait of a man who couldn’t have been less than eighty at the time of painting: no hair, no teeth, cheeks blemished with age, and a ropey scar stretching from cheek to cheek that triggered Kira’s brain to itch.

It was familiar, but she couldn’t place why.

In the corner was a bar, and an abundant one. A plethora of bottles in countless colors packed the shelves. Someone was already drinking there. There was no barkeep to speak of. Simultaneously opulent and impious, it somehow perfectly fit a wealthy patrician of the criminal underworld.

It had taken them two false walls, one illusory wall, one guarded checkpoint, one side passage suffused in the scent of garlic and oil, one staircase, and numerous stares from keenly suited, slick-haired, “Indistinguishable from mirrors” polish level wingtip shoe-wearing guards – all of whom from the waist hung some barreled or flanged apparatus intended for the making of superfluous holes, or the forceful insertion into them – to reach there, after all.

Hefting the box upon the table, the two retreated to the bar, crashing onto seats fair distance from the drinker, gasps of pain slipping from their tongues. Kira slumped over, watching her fingers twitch. She could have fallen asleep there. The bar was the perfect height to rest her head in circled arms, had her stomach not bubbled a muted whine, and the drinker not been rotating their glass in one hand on the counter peppering the air with growls of glass on wood.

A very full glass, Kira noticed, her eyes now narrow. It seemed to be releasing small amounts of steam, as if the ice within the amber liquid were dry. A ring of dim blue light rounded its base – a ring of sigils.

“Nice work, you two. Exciting stuff coming in over our street crews. Very exciting. Subtle as a pair of meth-buzzed gorillas busting up a schoolyard.”

The not-drinker’s eyes snapped up to Arata’s, then Kira’s, through a tangle of blond hair streaked dark in places as though greased. Kira bit her tongue, wary of the den of criminals she was in, its people she’d had no dealings with.

“That shit wasn’t us, man.” Arata’s head lolled towards the other, cutting in.

“That blast certainly came from no one the Don sent. Rebound sunk three city blocks in every direction. Big tech’s bound to make a killing from all those phones and watches taken out, probably about as much as the city will pay to get all its electrical infrastructure running again.” Their eyes never left Kira. “Fine time to invest if you’ve got the capital.”

Arata shifted in his chair with a wince. “Means no cameras, right?

“And no fridges, no phones of any brand, no computers. No ATMs. No ankle monitors. No heart monitors. No pacemakers. And none of that tracking software the insufferable love to bleat on about.” The distinctly feminine voice cracked like a teacher’s ruler, and trudged through the tar of three packs a day. “But, hey, no cameras. Just a lengthy trail of terror with no leads for the cops to follow, meaning they’ll be crawling aimlessly for any scrap they think will direct them. Here, maybe, soon enough.”

“Don’t try to lump that on us.”

“Hey, I’m not lumping anything on anyone. Those’ll be the Don’s decisions. Course, if you know anything…”

“We know nothing.” Kira said.

“Yeah, that much is obvious.” Pushing her drink aside, the woman leaned over the counter close enough for Kira to count every wrinkle. She rolled her shoulders until they popped, bare outside the narrow straps of her blue muscle shirt. “Plan on introducing me, Arata?”

“Kira, this is the Lieutenant. Lieutenant – the girl you least want to piss off.”

“If any police come crawling, well, meager animosity won’t hold a candle to the Don’s flames.” She turned back to Kira. “Tell you what, though: if you do remember anything, at any time – preferably before finding you becomes necessary – swing by. Just make sure no cops are tailing you.” Snorting to herself, the Lieutenant picked up her drink again, sloshing around the liquid within. Kira was beginning to believe it was merely for show. A prop, like a wand magicians wiggled over their hats. <Presto!> A rabbit. “Cheer up! Hard part’s almost over! Hey, either of want a drink?”

Both barely-twenty-year-olds raised their hands.

“Yeah, I bet you do. She looks like she wants the party to keep going. I know some folk who like a little liquid courage before a job, but you look like the after-afterparty type.”

She was laying bait without grace or subtlety, and Kira knew it, but she also remembered Arata’s constipated expression, his need to look “tough for the cameras,” and let that guide her instead. A job was completed successfully. Money was on its way. No truth in those could be taken away. Licking her lips, Kira pushed herself up on shaking limbs, and flashed a smile with too many teeth.

“Come closer. I wasted my arms hauling your boss’s artifact across the city, but I don’t need my hands to have you shitting blood.”

“Ooooh, scawey.”

“You have no idea,” mumbled Arata. He tried to keep a straight face. Still his lip curled up anyway.

“If you thought one teensy artifact was too much to carry, then it’s time to hit the gym, little lady. Seriously – my leftover ribs I give my dogs have more meat. Get some bulk and make an impact everywhere you go. Add to your astounding reputation among our enemies after tonight.” The Lieutenant flexed her own impressive bicep, mottled with burn marks.

“The quality of decision is like the well-timed swoop of the falcon which enables it to strike and destroy its victim. Therefore the good fighter will be terrible in his onset, and prompt in his decision.”

Kira’s head spun with how quickly Arata was up from the stool, his ponytail practically whistling at the severity of his bow that followed. Grimacing, she followed his example, setting her eyes to the floor and waiting.

Waiting.

Until the slow shuffle of cloth indicated the man at the alter had risen, footsteps thumping to mark his approach. Another sound – drawn-out, lackadaisical sliding from the barstool.

“Be bold,” said the Lieutenant. “Be relentless. Be like the boss who will now be forced to handle the fallout.”

“Questions are all that will come to our doors, and questions we can endure from lesser men. They are a consequence of earned respect. I suspect our family has taken a fair portion on this night. Be away, Lieutenant. Gather your tools for the long night ahead.” Around the stooped pair he strode to the bar, and Kira heard the clinking of glasses and ice barely over the pound of blood in her skull. A double dose of pain was blooming in her lower back. As Arata had not risen she had rejected the idea also, imagining the cool spillage of drink was over herself instead. Heat and dehydration were nibbling fierce. At two thunks on the counter, the Don’s shadow fell upon them, deep as a grandfather’s laugh.

“And to you, friends, old and new – raise your heads, both of you – a toast to fine work. Drink, both of you, while the night is young and the rats still scurry from our light. Or, lack thereof.”

He was an older man, the Don, with a crop of black hair dusted grey at the roots. A goatee like a trident marked his chin, sharp and brutally maintained with no aged touch to see. He wore a finer suit than the rest, all white, and his first three fingers on each manicured hand were sheathed in golden filigree ending in a wicked talon. As Kira took one of the drinks he held out, careful not to graze any finger for fear of one party drawing blood from the other in result, she observed a peculiar white stripe before the first knuckle of one middle finger. Like her father when he would wash dishes, removing it beforehand to preserve its cleanliness. She doubted the Don had even lifted a finger to clean in his life unless to order another take on the task.

But marriage? Someone’s boxes are definitely getting checked. She took a thoughtful sip on the drink to dispel the thought. The liquid was clear and scentless, like water, the glass chilled by sigildry, perfect counterbalance to the room’s heat ramping up her thirst. It slid over her tongue the same, and came back up burning.

Shitshitshitshitshitshitshit

“You honor us, Don,” Arata said, a wary leer her way.

ShitshitSHITshitshitshitSHIT

“But, as we’ve told your lieutenant…” he continued.

SHIT. SHITshitshitSHIT.

“…that explosion wasn’t our doing. We only capitalized on the situation…” Arata swallowed dryly, his own drink forgotten for the moment. Slowly, but surely, the Don’s gaze was departing for a more interesting sight.

Shit-shit-shitSHIT. SSSSSSHHIIITTTTTT.

“…uh, created.”

The Don’s eyes were fully upon Kira now in all her watering-eye glory. She racked her brain for any possible excuse. Anything at all. Anything a cold burn might grease the gears into dredging up from a long forgotten class. It had only been a year.

Shit…shitshitSHIT. SHIT – wait. “Was that Sun Tzu?”

“Drink, Kira, don’t question,” murmured Arata.

The Don’s eyes lit up. “A student of history!”

“Insects.”

“Entomology!” she cried, wiping alcohol and drool off her chin. A bit of mucus, too, trailing from both her eyes and her nose. “I knew I’d heard those words somewhere before. My father quotes him all the time.”

“Always a place at my side for one so versed. History is aswarm with such conflicts, the boots and the insects, as my father of fathers knew.” He clapped Arata on the shoulder. “You cast lots with the most interesting companions, boy. This one more so than the last.” Another, lighter pat he gave, alongside a wink, before turning to his guards and whistling.

Allie? Kira mouthed. Arata’s eyes widened. He gave the slightest shake of his head, and with a finger drew a line across his throat: the universal sign for “shut the hell up.” The Don returned his attention once the guards were at his side. Each presented a black attaché case, meaty fingers resting on the edges of locks.

“But where are my manners? Already I dream of our future cooperation without having paid your time tonight. Bad business etiquette. Forgive me my presumptuousness.” His guards snapped open the cases as he snapped his fingers. “One million yen for successful retrieval, as promised, and an additional one hundred thousand for the pain and suffering of the insects who thought to intrude on my territory.” He smiled warmly. “Each.”

An angelic hymn practically emanated from each arrangement of beautiful notes, of stacks on stacks on stacks wrapped in red, stamped bands. Kira was afraid of drooling again. None of them were freshly pressed either. These were all pre-crinkled. Pre-laundered. No business would spare these a second scrutinous glance since they hadn’t appeared to have come straight from a machine. Perfect for wielder hands that were barred from banks and would unmake credit cards.

One job, and you’ll have all you need for school. And a bit extra to come back when you miss us.

“There my lovelies are!” Stripping off his gloves in two quick jerks, Arata rubbed bare hands together, the very image of avarice. “Finally my bed will be warm again.”

“Would you prefer some amount in flesh? I can arrange for a shipment.”

“Can’t pay the bills with someone else’s girls. I’ll take cash as usual, thank you.”

“I can have a horde of women delivered?” Kira asked. The thought disturbed her, that the Don might have the power to do so.

“Or you can join me!” Arata interjected, his tone joking. “Kill both our birds with one stone, and save me some money. Hell, we can pool our rewards together and get a nice place just outside… wherever it is you’re going. You’ll study, I’ll clean, cook, wash, keep the place presentable. Same as your old man.”

“I’ll give you half my cut to never say that again.”

The Don raised an eyebrow at that, his dark eyes shifting between the two of them, but anything he considered saying was cut off by the reappearance of the Lieutenant, an instrument trunk in tow, the very same one might have used to transport a school orchestra’s worth of violins, whose wheels made clear to everyone in the room not one had ever felt a drop of grease despite loud, repeated complaints. Several lengths of grey pipe were attached to her belt all strapped together, resembling one-sixteenth of a PVC skirt. They banged low chirps against her legs and bumped woodenly against her truck.

“She’s leaving us for school. I never saw the use, personally. Everything I could ever need to learn is right here where we live.” Arata held his arms aloft and out, looking as though he intended to embrace the Don, Kira, and the guards in a bear hug. The older man took a step back. The befuddling effects of sudden wealth were clearly taking hold.

“Youth is a crown of roses; old age a crown of thorns,” said the Don, reciting another line, though this one Kira did not recognize. “There is a greater world beyond here, one you will miss should you pass the opportunity to explore it. You will envy her wider world.”

At a healthy conversion rate of yen to dollars, the amount she’d earned would more than enough cover the multitude of costs accompanying school. She ran through the ratio provided by her mother, estimating out what she’d made for this job, hand outstretched for the case proffered her.

“Boss, what the fuck is this box I'm looking at?”