part0007

Okay, before you say anything, I just want to clarify this wasn’t my fault. I didn’t ask to be in this situation. I certainly don’t want to be in this situation. The situation just kind of found me.

As these things invariably do from time to time, I guess.

The two guys standing in front of me aren’t especially impressive in any way. They’re both shorter than me. Neither are as broad as I am. They’re dressed the same—black tank tops beneath colorful short-sleeve shirts, which hang open above loose-fitting jeans. Too much jewelry around their necks. I see they have some muscle. It’s the sinewy kind that pulses and tenses along the arms, signaling fitness and a modest strength comparable to their frame.

One of them is talking. A lot. I don’t understand him because he’s speaking Japanese.

That’s not an exaggerated metaphor for the fact I can’t tell what he’s saying. He’s actually speaking Japanese. For the last two years or so, I’ve been living in Tokyo. I share an apartment with Ruby.

But it works. We’re both happy, which is great considering everything that happened prior to moving out here. Don’t get me wrong, we’re not… y’know… together . We just live together. Which is totally different. There’s nothing—

You know what? Never mind. This probably isn’t the time to get into all that.

The guy’s still speaking Japanese, and I still don’t understand a word of it. Normally, I would. Like most people nowadays, I have a little piece of tech called a Pilot, which is an earpiece that translates most languages into English in real-time. But I wanted a little peace and quiet and a couple of drinks tonight, so I left it at the apartment when I came out to the bar.

However, given this guy’s body language and the look on his face, I reckon I can catch the gist of what he’s saying. He’s scowling and gesturing sharply with his hands. He also keeps pointing a finger near my face—which, I swear to God, I’m going to break if he doesn’t stop. He’s purposely flexing, rolling his shoulders and twisting his head to crick his neck every few words.

All textbook behavior designed to intimidate.

Yeah… good luck with that.

His friend is scowling at me too, except he’s not saying anything. Instead, he’s holding his nose, trying to stop the bleeding.

Now that was my fault.

Look, here’s what happened. I was sitting on a stool at the bar, right? I had a beer in my hand. It’s called Asahi. It’s all I’ve drank since I moved here. I’m not sure how I survived without it. Beats the hell out of Bud. It was lovely and cold. The glass bottle felt like ice, and the condensation dripped onto the counter with each mouthful.

I heard a commotion behind me. Now, this place is pretty loud. Music—and I use that term in its loosest possible sense—was blasting out, and it was busy without being overcrowded. There’s enough going on that if I could hear the commotion from where I was sitting, it had to have been something pretty intense.

So, I looked over my shoulder and saw a girl. Whether she was old enough to be in a bar, I honestly couldn’t say. Here, the legal drinking age is twenty. If she were too young, it wasn’t by much. Eighteen or nineteen, for sure. She wasn’t a local. Maybe not American but definitely not Japanese. She wore a skirt that barely covered tomorrow’s laundry and a top that showed more than it concealed. Her skin was a dark tan, her hair black with tight curls. She was attractive, if you like that sort of thing.

There were two guys standing in front of her. The same two standing in front of me now. The one doing all the talking and gesturing had his hand on her arm, gripping it tightly just above the elbow. He was trying to drag her toward him. She was screaming and struggling to move away. The other guy looked on, laughing.

I turned away. Took another gulp of my beer. Tried to ignore it. Figured it was nothing to do with me. I was out for a quiet night. Tokyo is an amazing place, breathtaking at times, but it has its dark side too. I’m not saying it’s right, but things like that happen. It’s how the place works, and most people accept it. It’s rarely safe to get involved. Everyone is just looking out for themselves.

But then I looked around again, just in time to see the first guy slap the girl across the face. He used the back of his hand. The crack was loud. The music stopped. Onlookers gasped.

That was when I resigned myself to the fact that I’m not most people . That whatever was going on had suddenly become everything to do with me.

I’ve seen and done a lot of shit in my time. Some of it good, most of it questionable at best. I’ve spent the majority of my adult life doing bad things for profit. I like to think of myself as a nice person, but I’m not naïve enough to think I’m a good one. I’m certainly not a hero.

That said, for as long as I can remember, I’ve never stood for anyone doing wrong by people who don’t deserve it. There’s already so much shit in this world we can’t do anything about—there’s no reason you can give me that justifies purposely making it worse.

So, I got to my feet. Pushed my way through the crowd of slack-jawed locals holding cell phones. Moved toward the three of them and, without breaking stride, stepped between the girl and the two guys. No hesitation. No doubt. Just did the only thing in that moment that made any sense to me.

I heard her whimpering behind me. I heard the quiver in her breathing. It told me she wasn’t sure if her situation just got better or worse.

The guy on my left was the taller of the two. He stopped laughing almost immediately. He looked surprised, clearly wondering who I was. The guy on my right, who had been grabbing the girl’s arm, had already begun posturing up, seemingly unconcerned with who I was, focusing instead on how I could dare think of interrupting his fun.

I looked them both in the eyes, holding each gaze for a long beat. Then I stared more intently on the guy who had slapped the girl. I smiled at him, nodded a greeting, and said, “Kon’nichiwa , dickbag.”

The taller guy made the first move. He was fast but nowhere near fast enough. He started to throw a punch, but mid-swing, I took a small step to the left and whipped the heel of my palm into his face, finding the gap he had left in the process.

Rookie error. You always keep your guard up, even when you’re attacking.

His punch never connected. Never even came close. I broke the thin cartilage in his nose. He staggered back, stumbling into the booth behind him.

The other guy wasn’t happy about it, understandably, but did nothing except posture some more. I saw the restlessness in his stance. The hesitation. He didn’t want to lose face, but having just seen me handle his friend with very little effort, he wasn’t in a rush to attack me and risk the same thing happening to him.

Which it would have.

He was beaten before the fight could begin.

I glanced back at the girl, told her she was safe, and that she might want to call it a night. She understood me, thankfully. She nodded, turned, and made her way out through the crowd, who all kindly parted to give her space.

See? How is any of this my fault?

The guy with the busted nose takes deep breaths through his mouth, boring a hole into me with his beady little eyes. He won’t make another move. He’s learned his lesson. This other guy’s still thinking about it, but I’m not in the mood to wait around and see if he finds his balls in the next couple of minutes. My drink's getting warm on the bar.

I gesture him away with my hand. Shooing him as a master would his slave. Dismissing him as if he’s nothing. “You’re done. Leave while you can still walk unaided. I see you again, you wake up in the hospital. Clear?”

There’s a moment’s silence. I roll my eyes. Of course, that wasn’t clear—he can’t understand me.

I have another piece of tech, called an Ili. It’s a tiny microphone-slash-speaker… thing that works in the opposite way to the Pilot. It translates whatever I say into another language and broadcasts it in a robotic voice. Most people have Pilots, which negates the need for anything else, but sometimes it’s useful to have the option. Just in case.

But my Ili is sitting on the side in my apartment, next to my Pilot.

Oh, he’s started talking again. Started waving his finger near my face again too.

I can see I’ll have to rely on the universal language.

No, not mathematics. The other one.

I grab a hold of his finger and wrench it back, feeling the delicate bone snap at the second knuckle. He yells out in obvious and justifiable pain. I push the finger back further, forcing him down on one knee.

“Don’t be a baka . Use your brain. Walk away.”

I like that word. Baka . It means idiot . I’ve picked up some of the language while I’ve been here. Mostly just the essentials—how to order beer, how to insult someone… that kind of thing.

He finally shuts up, choosing instead to nod his head rapidly and hold his other hand up in apology.

I smile down at him. “There’s a good baka . Now get your ass outta here.”

I let him get back to his feet. His friend grabs him as they run toward the door, scrambling through the crowd, looking back at me for fear of being followed.

I take a deep breath. It helps calm the flow of adrenaline and subdue the rage.

I look around the bar, ignoring the shocked expressions on everyone’s faces, habitually checking for any additional threats. I see nothing. After a moment, the music starts up again. The crowd turns away. The cell phones are slid back into pockets.

My work here is done.

I make my way back over to my stool. Sit down heavily. Wearily. Take a long, satisfying pull on my beer, emptying the bottle. I shake it at the barman, who nods and brings me another one. He flips the top off the bottle as he places it in front of me. I take a grateful gulp and tip the neck toward him.