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At the sight of this junk yard, Sojo was at a complete loss for words — it was such an unbelievable spectacle.
When Yura invited him to his base, Sojo had assumed they’d end up back in that weird… bullshit place outside space and time (or whatever the hell that was), where he’d chatted with him and that guy in the funny hat. He’d imagined the base would be pompous and expensive, very much in Yura’s style (even though Yura looked like a salaryman who was about to grab a knife and go to war with the whole world, but whatever, forget Yura, at least he looked presentable). But no — here he was, standing in front of a fucking abandoned building. A goddamn trash heap! How were the doors even still hanging on? It even reeked of cats and something else he really didn’t want to comment on.
He couldn’t think of anything to say except to gape.
“Holy shit, what a fancy place! Is this, like, postmodern style or something?”
“Post-what-now?” Kuguri, who’d accompanied him on this arduous journey, looked like he wanted nothing more than to bite Sojo’s head off for the obvious remarks and dumb jokes. “What’re you staring at? This is a temporary base, obviously we don’t live here.” Sojo stopped examining this abandoned offspring of a canned-goods factory and an economic crisis and stared at him instead, not believing it at all, and Kuguri clearly got nervous. “It’s a distraction!”
“Uh-huh. Sure.”
“Fuck off!” Kuguri finally snapped. “Not everyone’s got the money to throw their ass onto silk sheets every night! We’re fighting for an idea here!”
Sojo decided that the lamentations of the poor and miserable were not part of today’s plans, and that the accusation about silk sheets was bullshit, because silk sheets themselves were bullshit. He said nothing and went inside, gripping the handle of his suitcase tighter.
This was the prototype Yura was so eager to see, and, to be honest, Sojo was pissed that he had to come to this shithole himself — it would’ve been far more logical to meet at his lab. On the other hand, he didn’t trust Yura much and was wary of letting him onto his own turf. You could tell right away that this office worker selling empty promises and terror needed to be watched like a hawk, so it was better that Sojo came here himself. Yeah, it was inconvenient, but at least that snake wouldn’t pull anything on Sojo’s territory.
But after arriving, he started to doubt whether that had been the right idea.
Before, Sojo had felt a restrained respect for Yura — he, too, had decided to spit in the world’s face, was a problem, and had given everyone a massive headache by killing Rokuhira Kunishige (Sojo didn’t approve, but he genuinely admired the speed and the quality of the job). But now he thought — shit, he really is just like all those crazy revolutionaries who spend twenty years rotting in the jungle, only instead of palms and bananas he had glass and concrete. Still, whatever. He was getting paid, and Sojo couldn’t give a crystal-clear fuck about the rest. His tolerance threshold was pretty wide, roughly on the level of modern politicians, so he could let a lot slide.
However, when he reached the center of this ruin that smelled like an abandoned factory, Yura was nowhere to be seen. In the middle of the empty hall stood a table with two chairs, completely out of place against the old mosaic on the wall and the battered surfaces around it. The whole place reeked of brutalism, while the chairs — with their curls and flourishes and all that crap — absolutely didn’t. And the vase with fresh flowers on the table didn’t add any charm either.
Sojo stared at it blankly for a few seconds, then dumped his suitcase onto a chair. He was sick of holding the damn thing.
“Kuguri, my joy, where’s the boss?”
“I’m not his secretary,” Kuguri bared his teeth, and Sojo thought — no, if you were sent to meet me, you’re absolutely a secretary, just not a pretty one. “Call him and ask!”
Yeah, right, like hell he was going to call him. Yura set the meeting himself and then bailed? When Sojo was about to elegantly turn on the spot and leave, because he was a man of business and respected his time (and yes, he fully intended to check out the bathhouse he’d seen on the way), soft footsteps sounded behind him. Then a figure stepped out of the darkness… someone Sojo hadn’t seen before, or if he had, he clearly hadn’t cared.
It was some punk with waist-length peach-colored hair. His face was doll-like, unnaturally pretty, and that alone made Sojo uncomfortable, because in that cute appearance, he immediately sensed a threat to his suddenly freed-up evening.
“Yura asked me to let you know he’ll be here in half an hour. Some urgent matters came up.”
“What the fuck kind of matters?” Sojo started to bristle. “We’ve got a meeting, damn it!”
Seeing the conversation start, Kuguri’s eyes flew open, and then he did a one-eighty turn.
“Great. Hiruhiko, babysit this asshole until Yura gets back.”
“Babysit?!” Sojo protested, but when he turned around, Kuguri was already gone. He just threw his hands up. “Fucking unbelievable!”
The young man, clearly here at Yura’s request (or demand?) to entertain the guest, sat down on a chair, crossed his legs, and examined Sojo with childlike, sincere curiosity. His gaze lingered longest on the katana at Sojo’s waist. Kuregumo had been a nice gift, and that was the only reason Sojo still tolerated Yura and this little stunt of his. Fine. Half an hour wasted wouldn’t kill him. After that, he’d definitely hit that bathhouse — the sign had looked way too tempting, and tattoos were allowed there. A real rarity these days.
When Sojo sat opposite him, lazily leaning back in his chair, the boy flashed a dazzling smile. Where the hell did Yura even find people like this? Such a weird, motley crew. Thank god he hadn’t invited Sojo to join them, that would’ve been… weird. Seriously.
“Is it true?” the boy finally asked. “That you fought Rokuhira Kunishige’s son?”
Sojo didn’t like that, even though he understood that rumors about that failed fight would’ve spread fast.
“How do you know he’s Rokuhira’s son?”
“We killed his father,” the boy shrugged casually. “Of course, we know he has a son. And that he wants revenge.”
Well… fair enough.
“Remind me, what’s your name?”
“Hiruhiko,” the kid smiled wider. “We haven’t met like this, face to face.”
“Yeah, got it…” Sojo asked mostly because he didn’t want to think of the punk as nameless. In business circles, that was called etiquette and small talk. “Yura’s not dealing with him right now, is he? Why wasn’t I told there’s a kid with the seventh sword?”
“I think Yura decided it would be more interesting this way.”
Fuck him and his idea of ‘interesting.’ Though Sojo sighed inwardly and begrudgingly admitted — yeah, stumbling onto that and provoking the punk into revealing himself was more fun than if he’d shown up to that cafe fully informed. There’d been intrigue, a sense of thrill… damn it. He’d never admit that to Yura. To hell with him and his little secrets. That’s not how business is done! Even if it is more fun. It was bad enough that Sojo had gone to deal with it himself, but because of that idiot, he’d lost two solid mercs and Daruma the dumbass, whose conscience suddenly flared up his ass and made him bail.
He patted his pockets, looking for cigarettes. When Hiruhiko held out a pack of cherry Marlboros, Sojo nodded gratefully. Even a lighter. What service… If only it weren’t in a ruined shack.
“No,” Hiruhiko suddenly added. “Yura isn’t dealing with Rokuhira right now. He’s apparently in a coma?..”
Seriously? Though he did get struck by lightning. Maybe he should visit him in the hospital for a nice heart-to-heart. There, he definitely wouldn’t be able to do anything, and Sojo could finally get answers to the questions that had been tormenting him for so long. But later. Whatever.
When Hiruhiko suddenly leaned across the table and locked eyes with Sojo, even he felt a little uneasy. What was with the sudden intensity?
“Is it true?!” Hiruhiko pressed. His eyes burned like two pink sapphires, almost glowing. “That he was so magnificent in battle?!”
…huh?
“What?” Sojo blinked charmingly, playing dumb, and Hiruhiko shook his head like he was explaining something painfully obvious.
“Come on! He’s my future best friend! Only we understand each other in this whole wide world!”
…what.
Hiruhiko clasped his hands by his face and sighed dreamily.
“We’ll beat each other bloody, and that will be the most sincere gesture we can show one another.”
…what.
“That’ll be real friendship, not the crap they talk about on TV!”
“I think,” Sojo said with genuine concern, “you’re in for a massive disappointment.”
The boy waved him off frivolously.
“You just don’t get it!..”
Yeah, right. Of course, Rokuhira would want to be buddies with someone who worked for the group responsible for his father’s death. Naturally. A plan as reliable as a Swiss watch. Sojo wanted to say Hiruhiko was full of crap, but then thought it wasn’t fitting for a thirty-year-old man to argue with some punk who wasn’t even allowed to drink. So, like the most respectable adult in the world, he stayed silent and forced a polite smile. Sure. Keep hoping Rokuhira will give a damn about you. He’d refused to talk to Sojo at all, and Sojo had two advantages: Kuregumo, and the fact that he was his father’s Biggest, Realest Fan. Well, he kinda tortured a kid, but that wasn't a big deal!
He looked at Hiruhiko again, clearly far too deep in his fantasies about how he and Rokuhira would murder each other, then suddenly spoke up.
“The only thing is you’re gonna be disappointed.”
“And why’s that?” Hiruhiko asked sharply, his voice ringing with displeasure. Sojo shrugged.
“Because I’ll kill him first.”
He hadn’t planned to, and didn’t particularly want to — working something out with the kid would’ve been more profitable — but the guy was a stubborn moralist, and Sojo knew that type too well. He’d never agree to work with him. Never. What a shame. Sojo had so many questions for him! About the weapons, about his father! About so many things!
Hiruhiko looked at him with the absolute confidence of a youth spouting nonsense and believing it a hundred percent.
“Then obviously you need to lose. And die first.”
Well. Obviously. Sojo smiled sweetly.
“What are you, out of your fucking mind, pink mop?”
Red blotches flared up on Hiruhiko’s face.
“W-w-what did you call me?! And you—” his eyes darted around, and Sojo snorted inwardly. Yep, here comes a lame insult. “An oversized tanuki!..” They just stared at each other, and Hiruhiko wrung his hands. “Fuck you, I know that was shitty!”
Look at him. Rokuhira’s future best friend, with insults like that. What a charmer. Sojo just beamed brightly, which only made Hiruhiko angrier, then glanced at his watch and sighed. Looks like these thirty minutes are going to drag on forever…