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A fortnight after their jaunt in England, Edamura Makoto found himself being whisked away to Australia. Why Australia? Laurent lowered his eyelids pityingly and murmured something about how his colleague – Makoto hated that – would only thrive in English-speaking countries. “Ideally, this would give you a chance to work on your atrocious pronunciation,” said Laurent, “though I don’t think the Australian inflections will do you any favours.”
“I bet they’ll find you charming with that attitude!” Makoto jeered. He tore into his seared scallops, inwardly impressed by the other’s choice of cushy airline and impeccable starter.
But…
Judging from the way a cashier in an airport gift shop giggled when the conman thanked her, Australians found Laurent charming enough.
And Makoto hated that a lot.
Laurent landed him a bookstore job. Makoto’s days passed in a haze of checking inventory, stacking shelves and advising customers on which set of highlighters would best suit their aura. In the evenings (on the few occasions when Laurent didn’t materialise in Makoto’s tiny apartment, snake an arm across his back and jostle him off to the Sydney Opera House or Darling Harbour), Makoto wandered the streets, sweat dripping from the end of his nose, brow furrowing as he deciphered what people around him were saying.
Where were Abbie and Cynthia? Laurent shrugged, lips curling. They had business to take care of. Then, in an attempt to provide clarity: things to do.
And Laurent? What was he scheming in the Australian capital?
The man blinked and came to an abrupt halt in the middle of the park. The backdrop of emerald trees made him seem taller than usual. He seized Makoto’s shoulders and said gravely, “No, this cannot be. Edamame – are you telling me your geography is worse than your English?”
Whacking Laurent’s hands aside, Makoto demanded, “What do you mean?”
“Canberra. Canberra’s the capital.”
To be on the safe side, Makoto checked with the internet.
The jerk was right.
At the end of a shift that had seen Makoto be ambushed by hardback dictionaries, he stepped into the warm evening and decided to treat himself to a capsule toy. There was an entertainment store nearby that had a selection of vending machines, some of which were dedicated to Japanese imports. He’d spied a familiar display of colourful samurai just the other day. A square-headed Tokugawa Ieyasu would definitely lift Makoto’s spirits. He bobbed along, pressing a coin’s ridges into his fingers.
They were sold out!
Makoto spoke to the first employee he saw – a tall kid with oversized glasses and incredibly curly hair. “Uh, excuse me?” Makoto began, pointing at the empty vending machine, “When will you have more samurai? I saw them recently.”
The kid cleaned his ear with one finger. “Dunno.”
“That’s… it? That’s all you have to say?”
“If I dunno, I dunno,” he replied, rather helpfully. “We’ve got another store right near Macca’s. Go right at those traffic lights –”
Makoto didn’t wait for the end of the boy’s instructions. He stomped home instead, checked his apartment for hairy insects, showered, changed into shorts and a vest and lay on the floor with his legs propped up against the back of the sofa. He scowled at the ceiling. Laurent would swan in at any moment and wave his arms and suggest that they do some Laurent-ish thing, his French-ness veritably oozing from every syllable that dripped from his mouth. Honestly! Between all these accents, how was Makoto supposed to pick anything up?
As though summoned by the fierceness of Makoto’s ire, Laurent arrived five minutes later. He dropped a briefcase on the coffee table, then loomed over his compatriot, concern scribbled across his features. “Edamame?”
A huff.
“That doesn’t give me much to work with.”
Makoto sprang up in a sudden display of flexibility; Laurent leant against the sofa, arms folded. “Work,” repeated Makoto, pointing at the briefcase. “Is that what that is? I know you didn’t drag me to Straya for a holiday.”
“Straya…” Laurent tried to disguise his grin with a cough. “You’re catching on, little soybean.”
“Shut up Laurent! I already told you that I don’t want to be involved in any more damn schemes!” Makoto leapt over the sofa and fumbled with the briefcase, desperate to prise it open, the hairs on the nape of his neck rising as he sensed Laurent watching on with unabashed amusement: “We’re here for a reason – so seriously – fess up!”
The briefcase exploded. An array of plastic capsules bounced across the living room, covering Makoto’s flooring in tiny globes, planets that were green and yellow and blue and some scorching shade of magenta. Makoto wearily swivelled towards Laurent, who waved a hand and said, “It is a hobby, correct?”
Makoto recovered the capsules and placed them back in the briefcase. Laurent followed his example.
“It is a hobby, if you do it properly. But this is all wrong.”
“Please enlighten me, sensei.”
There he went, indulging another of his new interests: since arriving in Australia, Laurent had taken to sprinkling the odd Japanese word into his sentences, sounding like the high school students who loitered in the manga section of the bookstore (one girl had even asked for Makoto’s autograph, confusing him for some famous voice actor – the sales assistant’s burgeoning conscience hadn’t stopped him from going along with the lie). Makoto rolled his eyes. “You went too far. The whole point of gacha is that you’re supposed to pick up one or two and feel lucky if you get something good. This is cheating.”
Once the briefcase was brimming with capsules again, they dropped onto the sofa. Laurent scratched his jaw, contemplative. “Now consider things from my position, Edamame. Maybe I find capsule toys more enjoyable when I know that I have a complete collection. Maybe I strongly believe in keeping the whole team together.”
“These aren’t… random gacha?”
Laurent shook his head. “No. They are from the same set.”
Makoto scolded, “You still went overboard. You’ve gotta have at least a hundred gacha here! You’ll end up with triples of everything.” He reached for a capsule and squeezed the plastic base. It popped easily, revealing a square-headed Tokugawa Ieyasu.
“The shogun!”
“Hmm?”
“Oh! Of course you wouldn’t know.” Makoto tipped the miniature figurine into Laurent’s palm and continued, “This is Tokugawa Ieyasu. After the Battle of Sekigahara about four hundred years ago, Lord Tokugawa unified Japan and eventually became the shogun. Sekigahara pretty much marked the start of his rule.”
Laurent peered at the figurine, assessing its flyaway hair and purple armour. “He had an interesting ensemble, this shogun.”
With a grimace, Makoto recalled the logo that had been stamped across the vending machine. “I’d never even heard of Four S – Super Sengoku Samurai Squad, but we sell a couple of posters for it at work. Kids these days are real weirdos.” Makoto passed Laurent a blue capsule. “Your turn.”
“Why thank you,” said Laurent, surprised. He held the capsule to his ear and lightly shook it, listening to the model bounce around within. Makoto tapped his feet. At last, Laurent pulled the plastic apart. This samurai’s locks were audaciously long and he was clad in green robes. Laurent’s gaze returned to Makoto, who declared,
“That’ll be Maeda Keiji.”
“How can you tell?”
Makoto indicated an emblem on the figurine’s back. Five circles were arranged around a small core, resembling a flower in bloom. “This is the Maeda family’s crest. You know – Maeda Keiji was also known as Toshimasu. Back then, samurai changed their names a lot.”
He frowned at Laurent.
“Mmm?”
“Oh, nothing.” Makoto locked his hands behind his skull and lifted his nose into the air. “Just thinking that you’re not a very good conman.”
Laurent laughed. “Confidence man, Edamame. Or con artist, if you must.”
“Artist suggests that there’s actually some finesse to what you do. You’re a swindler, Laurent, pure and simple.” Makoto’s voice turned waspish. “And how the hell has no one caught onto you yet? You use your real name for every damn mission –”
“Ah! How can you be sure that I am, indeed, called Laurent Thierry?”
Makoto swallowed. “You’re not?”
Laurent stretched his arms across the back of the sofa. “Let’s try the next one.”
A hoard of famous figures invaded the table. Takeda Shingen, a fearsome warlord known as the Tiger of Kai. Sanada Yukimura, a warrior so strong it was said that such a talent would only appear once a century. Another Tokugawa. Ishida Mitsunari, who stood in opposition to Tokugawa Ieyasu. Uesugi Kenshin, renowned for his honour and Takeda’s legendary rival. Toyotomi Hideyoshi – Laurent remembered him fondly. The history lesson grew more and more detailed as Makoto opened more capsules. Whenever they came across a double, he quizzed Laurent’s memory.
The night deepened. Laurent smiled at the dinner that Makoto set before them, a combination of instant noodles and Black Ivory coffee. “It’s good to see you spend your earnings on something,” he said, lifting the cup to his lips. He indicated the space around them. “Why not treat yourself to better accommodation? You have the means.”
“That’s the quickest way to squander money,” said Makoto around a mouthful of noodles. Laurent leant forward, squinting; Makoto chewed hastily, gulped, cleared his throat and repeated himself. Then he added, “I enjoy myself a lot more this way, Laurent.”
“As long as that is the case.”
They returned to the capsules. Oda Nobunaga, the man who first unified Japan. Then another. And another. Sanada Yukimura. Akechi Mitshuhide – Makoto spent fifteen minutes explaining how Akechi rebelled against Oda and ultimately assassinated his former ally. Laurent ran through more names. This little one with a shock of fiery hair was Katakuro Kojuro. That one with the magnificent sideburns was Hojo Ujimasa. Hideyoshi. Again. Yukimura. Keiji. Ieyasu. Who the hell did Laurent think he was, switching to their first names? Shingen. Kenshin. Best friends. Put them side-by-side. Separate Mitsunari and Ieyasu.
“That is all of them,” announced Laurent. He yawned. “I will be on my way –”
“He’s missing.”
Laurent ducked, checking under the coffee table. “They’re all there. All eighty-six toys are accounted for.”
When he straightened, he was met by a fervent glare. Makoto said stiffly, “I saw him on the banner. What happened here? Eighty-six gacha and we didn’t get a single One-Eyed Dragon? There are only twelve freaking characters!”
“Perhaps there are, in fact, eleven to collect?”
Makoto howled. “No one in their right mind would make an anime about the Sengoku era and leave out Date Masamune! He – he led a campaign when he was fourteen. He founded Sendai. He… he’s got to be stupidly rare. They skimped out on him. That’s what it is!”
He tore from the room (Laurent sat with his palms on his knees and stared at a wall) and returned half a minute later, fully-dressed.
“We’re going out. There’s got to be a couple of machines that you didn’t hit.”
“Edamame,” Laurent rose with a flourish, “before we depart, I’d like to remind you of your own words. Capsule toys are about luck, correct? What can be gained from this obsession?”
Makoto replied darkly, “When you’re in this deep, there’s no point in quitting before the job’s done. Now let’s move.”
Laurent glided behind Makoto, smiling ruefully at the back of the other’s head. They would make an odd pair, dressed in pastel shirts, navigating Sydney in the last hour before dawn. Any onlookers would probably wonder why the foreigners prodded and poked capsule machines. They’d probably wonder why one of the men kept yelling into his hands as each egg provided yet another disappointment – and picturing Makoto’s dismal expression was almost enough to make Laurent wish that he hadn’t used his resources to design and advertise a fake cartoon series and replace existing capsule machines with his own units. He almost wished that he hadn’t conspicuously left out one of Edamura Makoto’s favourite warlords.
Oh! How those eyes had gleamed, revelling in grand stories....
Almost.