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My path soon converged with that of the other travelers. A few in the back, wearing black hooded ponchos, might've been the men I saw at the underpass. As I entered the village, acrid tangs of tobacco and cannabis mingled with pungent aromas of grain alcohol and smoked meat wafted out to assault my nostrils. Deciding to seek shelter, many of the trekkers began pitching their camps near the shacks.
Separated by narrow causeways and connected by a network of thick planks that spanned pools of murky water in rocky crevasses, Sawagi's upside housed various traders, along with its share of homeless orphans. Wide-eyed children with grubby faces and spindly limbs peered out from ramshackle lean-tos as I passed. Older and braver, a group of boys followed me around a corner, begging for something to eat. I gave them some of the kudzu, then quickly shooed them off when I caught one sidling just a little too close to my knife sheath. The last thing I wanted to deal with was a pick-thief.
Rain drummed against corrugated metal rooftops and sluiced across the planks, making them slick and tricky to navigate. Most of the time I had to shuffle along sideways to avoid the runoff from the close-spaced roofs. While trying to turn down one of the narrow passages, I slipped, ass-landing on slanted sodden boards. As I pulled myself up, cursing, I glimpsed a man in a black rain poncho at the far end of the walkway. Though a long hood obscured much of his face, I could feel his gaze crawling over me like ants.
I hurried to the intersection of another set of planks and skidded around the bend, nearly barreling into a couple who were bickering outside knife vendor's stall. Murmuring an apology, I hurried past tobacconists, hawkers of shochu and bottles of homemade wines. If the black-clad man was the other soldier, the sooner I found my way to the undercity, the better.
"Got fresh jerky here! Venison," a man shouted from a rickety-looking, plywood and metal-topped shed. His impromptu trading post also happened to be conveniently located near the source of the reek I'd smelled earlier, a cannabis stall.
Tempted to give him a hard pass on the meat—anyone could say it was venison—I decided to play a hunch and slipped through the doorway into a soy and spice-scented cloud. The bearded man beamed at me from behind a covered table. Arranged in a semi-circle on its stained oilcloth were a number of baskets, each containing a different variety of cured meat. Behind him, dusty glass jars on equally dusty, ceiling-high shelf units boasted more of his wares, as well as a large assortment of seasonings (most of which looked like they'd never been opened). Strung between the shelves on a length of wire, a patched canvas curtain divided the shed into public and private sectors. In one corner, rain steadily plink-plinked into a bucket that sat atop an enormous dented dehydrator. Wind whistled through gaps in the door and walls, causing the room's only light source—an old camp lantern on a long, frayed cord—to sway wildly back and forth, casting lurid shadows across the room.
The man, who was only a little taller than I—and nearly as wide as he was tall—bowed. Then, opening his arms wide, as if welcoming a long-lost relative, he said, "Welcome to Junichiro’s Jerky Shack! I got every kind of jerky you'd ever want! I got deer, rabbit, even wild dog, if that's your cup of fur! And if I don't have the flavor you fancy, bring me a fresh kill and I'll make it in minutes. That's right, minutes! Just. Like. That." He snapped his fingers. "So, what'll it be?"
Since I didn't see any power source in the shed, and those jerky strips of his looked like they'd been boot soles in an earlier incarnation, I knew Junichiro's shop had to hide an entryway to the undercity. Though I couldn't recall the exact entry point from my last visit, I'd never forgotten the odd phrases Satoshi had uttered to get us inside. All I needed to do now was test that theory.
Bowing my head, I leaned in to him and whispered, "Junichiro-sama, I need to disappear."
He chuckled. "Doesn't everyone these days? Still, why do it on an empty stomach? You look like you could use a good meal."
I shook my head and repeated my original statement, this time, adding a question at the end: where might I find a tattooist?
"Oh, well, if a tattoo's what you're after, I can recommend a lovely lady only a few doors—"
"Ie, Shinu! Shinu no irezumi-shi!" Again, I repeated everything, only now, putting particular emphasis on the word Shinu in the event that one person could actually be that thick.
"Alright! Yes!" Junichiro scurried to the door and after securing its bolt, returned to the table. "What you're looking for, little lady... Well, we've all heard the expression, 'Wherever you are, you're never far from a Shinu's shadow,' but what you're asking..." He shook his head. "It isn't easy and it's no quick fix. A lifetime in hiding, one eye always over your shoulder: that's no way to live. It's not a life at all..."
I didn't remember this being such a song and dance for Satoshi. Maybe a man in his mid-twenties with a young child in tow stirred more sympathy than a woman who traveled alone. Before beginning my spiel for what I hoped would be the last time, I said, "Junichiro-sama, I need to—"
"Yeah, yeah, I heard you the first time, honey! I'm willing to deal, but you'd better be packing more than just kudzu in that old satchel of yours." He cleared a space between the baskets of mystery meat.
"I'm prepared to make it worth your while, whatever it takes." I pulled out one of the better wristlets.
"Hmph! Good condition—and easily hacked, too." He turned it in his hand, nodding approvingly, although a thin veneer of perspiration was starting to glow above his brow. "It's a start, but like I said, it takes more than one drop to fill a bucket. What else have you got?"
He accepted the wristlet with the shattered face, although with visibly less enthusiasm, but completely balked at the GPS, even after a demonstration of its handy, color-coded soldier-finder. "We have a pile of these below. Where do you think all the deserters go, sweetie?" he wheezed between belly laughs. When they finally subsided, no longer smiling, he fixed me with a shit-or-get-off-the-pot stare.
Reluctantly, I accommodated. The mini-beam launchers piqued his fancy, as did one of the larger knives on my sheath. Although it had always been a favorite, at this point, I was in no position to quibble.
As it took its place next to the firearms, measured footsteps echoed on the planks. Gaze flicking to the door, Junichiro pressed a finger against his lips.
The footsteps halted just outside. I could see their owner's shape partially silhouetted through the slats in the door. Its handle jiggled but the lock held fast. Statue still, I held my breath. Someone rapped twice, waited, then rapped again.
"Old Juni's got himself a special lady friend in there," a man shouted. "Give the fat man five minutes, he'll be finished by then."
"And she'll be flattened!" another roared drunkenly.
The shadow knocker slowly moved on, accompanied by peals of raucous laughter.
Junichiro waited, listening until the sounds of those steps faded away. Others soon shuffled past, their progress dogged by wheedling cries and the slip-slap of small bare feet on wet wood.
Finally, he looked back at me. "Best we finish this. Give me your wakizashi and we'll call it a deal," he whispered, indicating my naginata.
"I have something much more valuable." I reached into my pack.
He rolled his eyes at the phial of white powder. "Valuable? Please."
"Hey, it's good stuff: military grade," I assured him. "I got it off some soldiers up north." Technically, it was the truth. True enough.
"Those guys across the way get me high for scraps of meat. No, I want your wakizashi."
"It's not a sword, it's a naginata—and it's staying with me!"
"'Whatever it takes,' isn’t what you said?" One hand dropped to his fly, while he licked his fleshy lips. "Well, if down's where you want to go, Renata-san—"
I grabbed both guns from the bargaining table, flicked them to STAT-Charge, and aimed one at each of his heads. "New deal, motherfucker: Take me to the undercity or I'll send you to the underworld!"
Raising his hands, he stuttered, "Y-you said—you s-said—"
"I never told you my name, asshole, so who did?" My first shot, a warning, set the boards between his feet ablaze.
Spluttering something about protection, his now-livid face drenched in sweat, he backed away.
"Who told you my name?" The next shot, which sizzled through the canvas curtain, stopped him in his tracks.
A small white orb drifted slowly through the hole in its scorched fabric. Hovering above his head, it began to elongate, until it had achieved a thick, eel-like shape that undulated with a menacing soundlessness. I'd heard of psyche scramblers, but until now, had never seen one in action. I only hoped this one wasn't coming for me. I preferred my short-term memory intact. Lowering the barrel, I leveled it at the center of his chest. "Unleash all the little friends you want," I said, "I asked you a question and I'm not leaving until you answer it."
"Li-il...ffends?"
"Focus, dickwad! Who told you my name?"
As he looked up, the eely shape split into multiple tendrils. Seven identical ghostly snakes plunged into his mouth, nostrils, eyes and ears. While their heads dove deep into every available orifice, their tails coiled about his head and neck. Intertwining, their bodies spread outward, then fused together, trapping Junichiro in an inescapable opaque cocoon. Clawing and gurgling, he fell to his knees, eventually face-planting with a force that set the shack walls shuddering.
The serpentine mind scramblers retracted. Reforming into a single mass again, they shrank back into a tiny ball that wafted back—not to protective darkness, but the palm of a long-fingered hand.
"What an awfully eventful life you lead, Renata."
Special Liaison Kei stepped through the curtains.