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Baiken took her kiseru from a pocket in her kimono and, with a quick movement, lit it, licking her lips in anticipation for the sweet, poisonous smog.
“Ma’am, this is a no-smoking zone.” The cashier frowned, as did the three customers in front of her in line. And while the aforementioned customers cowered at her glare, the teenage boy’s acne-ridden face only hardened in response. Kid’s braver than most so-called warriors she ever met. Baiken clicked her tongue, but obeyed, turning off the Pod inside the kuchimoto and stowing it away when the flame in the bowl was snuffed.
She fucking hated McWonder.
She eyed Delilah, who had left her side to find a table for them in the strangely crowded fast-food restaurant, and now was sitting, listless, kicking her legs and staring at nothing. Her usual creepy self, fortunately. She didn’t get why the girl had been so damn insistent on having her accompany her for lunch like this, as Delilah would usually just get takeout for both of them, but hey, a change of pace didn’t seem like a bad idea. But she did dislike how crowded spaces made people’s stares, ranging from repugnant fear to just vague, all-encompassing discomfort, that much more noticeable. Or how people in larger-ish cities were this inconsiderate of personal space, frequently getting their clothes or bags stuck onto her sword. Or how they were just so noisy, complaining about everything: from people’s choice of clothing to their way of speaking. Sure, not smoking inside made sense, but non-smoking areas in the plain outside? Where there’s fresh air for everyone? Fucking stupid is what it was.
Another customer was finished and the line took a step, the samurai following suit after scratching her right leg with her left one, and looked at the face of the same boy who had the admittedly admirable guts to tell her off in such a minor way.
“Welcome to McWonders, what can I get you?”
Baiken eyed the obnoxiously colorful menu, scanning the greasy items, fake steam coming from them in its disturbing simulacra of actual food, and its prices. A veritable feast of bad food that was bad for your mood and health alike. But Delilah insisted, so…
Ain’t much I can do.
“Alright, I will… Uhhhh…” She turned her face around to yell. “OY, DELILAH! WHAT DO YOU WANT?!”
Silence filled the restaurant as people stared at the insane lady with the sword yelling. The too-familiar bellowing of her friend broke the girl out of her stupor, and from the table, she mouthed her desired meal.
“WHAT?!”
The girl did it again, her voice almost a whisper even in the stunned silence of the crowd, and Baiken clicked her tongue. “JUST FUCKING COME HERE AND TELL ME ALREADY!”
Slowly, almost as if wanting to extend the bit, Delilah came, her almost unblinking gaze varying between Baiken and the people in line. Between her and Anji, at least one member of this dysfunctional little group had to be even remotely self conscious.
“You didn’t need to yell.”
“How else am I supposed to make you hear me?”
At Baiken’s shrug, Delilah scratched her cheek in worry. “Now someone’s going to take our spot.”
“If they want to see tomorrow, no, they fucking won’t.” She eyed the other customers, who made sure to show they had understood the message by looking everywhere but her general direction as she spoke. She put a firm, but kind hand on Delilah’s back. “Now, what was it you wanted me to get again?”
“Happy Meal. Chicken nuggets, fries, and a medium cola.” Like she was reciting the corporate description of the food. “Six-piece, by the way.”
“They sell cola in pieces? Huh.” That was new. She really should pay more attention to such stuff.
“It refers to the amount of nuggets. Or they get you the four-piece one. I want six.”
Baiken turned to the visibly dissociating cashier. “‘kay, then a six-piece Happy Meal thingie, with some cola, and-” Baiken turned back to Delilah. “Does this thing even make you happy?”
“Not noticeably, no.”
“Then why the fuck is it called a ‘Happy Meal’ for? It fails on step one.”
“Marketing.” Delilah shrugged. “I don’t care that much.”
“Wouldn’t that make it a false advertisement or whatever, then?”
“It’s just a trademark. I don’t think they ever meant it.”
“Well, they should. Someone who’s more naive may just fall for i-”
“A Happy Meal with a medium cola instead of the kids’ drink.” The boy, almost completely in auto mode, typed on the screen. “Which toy?”
“Crusader Turtle Balian.” Delilah looked down then back up again after a few seconds, as if remembering something. “The one with the machine gun.”
“Sorry, we’re out of them. We still have Crusader Turtles Amaury, Richard and-”
“What do you mean you don’t have the toy?!” Baiken put her hand on the stone counter, her bountiful assets following suit with the movement. “Thing’s called a ‘Happy Meal’ and it can’t even give the girl the toy she wants?!”
The cashier looked at her. Then at the sword that was still very much at her hand’s reach, then back at her scowling face. His eyes were more worn and had more wisdom than anyone else’s Baiken had ever seen. This kid had lived more years worth of defeat than she probably would ever. “Ma’am, I just work here. I won’t be of much use in this regard.”
Before Baiken continued with her tried-and-true method of getting what she wants through intimation, Delilah pulled her by the empty sleeve. "It's fine. I’ll take Amaury then. He’s sorta cool too.”
“...Tch. Fine.” She backed off. “I’ll have this one with the abocado sauce.”
Delilah kept looking forward even as her voice raised “It’s ‘avocado’.”
“Did I stutter?”
The boy cleared his throat. All of this for minimum wage. “One McYucatán. Would you like the combo?”
“Fries and drink? Sure. You still don’t have any alcohol on the menu, right?”
“Not yet, ma’am.”
I fucking hate this place. “Fine. Large cola, then.”
Swift typing and a piece of paper started to be printed. “Happy Meal with a large drink, and a McYucatán combo. That’ll be 9800 W$, ma’am.”
I fucking hate this place. Baiken reached for the wallet inside her kimono, retrieved the scrunched-up bills and coins, and put them on the counter. A bit of a silent wait later, and the two trays were delivered, and the unusual master-pupil duo went back to the - predictably - table Delilah had picked earlier.
Baiken let a smug smile form. “I told you it would be fine.” Delilah refusing to answer was taken as yet another victory, and they sat in their familiar, comfortable silence.
Above all, the reason Baiken hated food so much had more to do with how unnecessarily hard it was to open all the small paper and plastic bags things came in with a single hand. Using teeth wasn’t always a good idea, as stuff could spill, and she also couldn’t pick food and drink as easily. It was just too much of a hassle for what was supposed to be, well, fast.
“...Baiken?”
The samurai stopped mid bite, a small bit of the avocado sauce on the corner of her mouth. “Yeah?” She watched as the girl seemed to fumble with something inside her small purse, until she produced a small, light blue paper envelope and slid it on the table in her direction. “This is…?”
“Happy birthday. I thought it would be sad not to get you something.” Delilah kept her head low, but had her gaze nervously fixed at Baiken as the older woman took the envelope and, with some difficulty, opened and emptied its contents on the table. “Anji helped, by the way. Told me to give you his birthday wishes.”
It was a small omamori. Light pink paper with white lotus prints and a bright red silk hope on the top. Simple, really, but charming in said simplicity. On the front, kanji written in deep, black ink:
There is no wisdom to be attained
For attainment too is empty.
Baiken picked it by the rope and let it lightly spin and sway in front of her. She could barely remember how to react appropriately to such a small thing. A life where she could celebrate a birthday, much less hers, was a memory so distant it didn’t feel her own.
“...Where did you get the money for this?”
“I called Chipp. Told him you weren’t getting me food. Answer sent the money right away.” As naturally as if she had just washed her hands or got a new book from the library.
Baiken reached over the table and gave her a small bonk in the head with a knuckle, getting an admittedly satisfactory “ouch” from the girl.
“Stupid brat.” The harshness of the words didn’t make her smile smaller in the least.