John
It was dark. He had a sword from the President. He had an address from his sister. He had three beers at a station kiosk. This was the final task. Kai. Kai was the master manipulator. That slime had weaselled his way into the lives (and beds) of the women dearest to John. Kai was despicable. Worthless. Club Ganymede was located somewhere in the heart of the sleaze district, Shinjuku Ni-chōme.
John exited at the correct train station, then promptly got lost. The heat was nauseating. His phone had been bleeding charge since his overseas trip. Something was up with the battery. He wandered in the vague direction he had memorised.
He entered a club that looked to be the right one and quickly discovered it was not. He staggered to a counter and reality blurred and spun. It was exclusively men. It felt impolite to turn tail and leave, so he drank a shot passed over by a boy in a sleeveless shirt with rainbow eyelashes. John tried to stay calm, turning and tapping at his phone: 5% battery life. Ganymede was only two streets away. Why couldn’t he find it? Then the phone died. The explosive brays of laughter, the glitter on thick shoulders, the ways men were caressing each other blindly and perpetually all became too much. John pushed his way out and wandered through the laneways, dodging excited patrons. If he took them on in Overlords, these types would be low-grade thieves and pimps. Discardable. Easy points.
The alleys narrowed and twisted and seemed to change when he tried to retrace his steps. He was assaulted by the fatty, smoky stink of cheap yakiniku and oily noodles: fodder for drunks. Every so often, someone would notice the scabbard dangling from his belt, threatening to pull down his trousers. They took it for cosplay. They guffawed or tittered in that awful, high-pitched nasal way, then returned their attention to their companions. John stopped in a convenience store and bought another three cans of beer. He’d be damned if he was going to endure another over-priced sugary drink served by some weirdo. He spun, tripped and fell from bar to club. Some he never managed to enter; security would look pointedly at the weapon at his hip and give a minute shake of their heads. At least they understood he was serious.
Three beers and three circuits later, John found his destination. It was on a street he was sure he had walked several times. Ganymede was announced by a cheap sign, high overhead. Not high-end enough for street-level real estate. John smirked. This guy was trash through and through. He pushed past a gaggle of Office Lady-types and took the lift to the fourth floor alone. It was all so tacky. Ana would be appalled if she knew. The lift seemed about to shit the bed. Gum, cigarette butts and convenience store receipts had accreted in its filthy corners.
The elevator shuddered to a stop and a discordant chime announced his arrival on the correct floor. John’s heart rate picked up. He touched his hip to feel the sword still there. This was right. This was where he needed to be.
He followed the signs, then waited behind a short line of women around his age. He resisted the urge to tell them the mistake they were making. He needed to gather his nerve. At the reception counter John was met by a man in a bandana who looked over him suspiciously.
“I think you’ve got the wrong place, sir.”
“I don’t,” John began. “No. This is Ganymede, right? I need to see one of the men that works here.”
“Not many of those, I’m afraid,” the pirate-type responded, folding his arms. John could imagine his own arms becoming Fuujin’s, with leather gauntlets, thick hands, and pointed knuckles ready to bring the sword down on this nobody barman. It would be easy. There was no one to stop him.
Easy points, John thought.
“Kai!” John demanded. “A man named Kai works here.”
Bandana man startled for a second, then looked like he was about to laugh.
“Kai’s been fired. Kicked out two weeks ago. Actually, used to be a housemate. Kicked out of there too. Burnt his clothes. My life has never been better.”
“What? How do I find him?”
“Hell if I know,” the man shrugged, looked over John’s shoulder—presumably at a growing queue—and said, a little more kindly, “Pal, whatever your story, I wouldn’t worry about it. Kai is a nobody. There’s no ‘him’ anyway.”
He slid a pamphlet across the counter to John like a poker hand and tapped a by-line. It was hard to focus. John squinted to read:
Club Ganymede
Tokyo’s hottest gender-reverse host bar.
Meet beautiful boys—women dressed as men!
Female guests only.
John took the pamphlet and staggered back, knocking into several female guests as he went. He flipped the card and found his confirmation: eight photos of ‘men’ in two rows. The very last of these, X-ed out in thick marker, was a portrait of the person who had attended John’s family picnic.
He hiccupped. His breath came in little gasps. He had no inhaler on him, but he didn’t need it. He was laughing. Laughing!
A woman.
A no one.
“There is no heart,” he said hysterically, pounding the lift buttons to return to ground level. “There is no-fucking-one to blame!”
The trains would be stopping soon. He had to move. To leave. If he didn’t, he would be stuck in this hell forever, drowning in wet muscle and beer and vomit. He made it to the station, hopped a train then realised he desperately needed to piss. The bathrooms were repugnant at that time of night; tourists and drunks were the worst. After relieving himself, John looked into the mirror over the sinks at a wild man with a sword dangling at his hip.
He was a joke. He needed to go home to his wife. He was chasing a ghost. There was no heart.
Or was there? Some moron had left a phone charger plugged in by the mirrors. John’s phone was a fit. He plugged it in and watched, mesmerised, as the number rose from 1%. He vaguely registered the announcements for the last train, but remained fixated. At 30% he could make a call. Get a cab.
Exiting the washroom, John dropped the sword at the feet of a homeless man who was too busy coughing to wheeze about ‘spare change.’
John shuffled on, scrolling through numbers until he found his mark.
“Hello?” Natsuko said. “Are you okay?”
“Yes.” John said. “All fine. Fine, wrong number, just—”
Natsuko was uncharacteristically silent. Then, in a voice far less confident than he was used to, she said, “How is your son, comrade?”
He stopped dead still and leant against the tiled wall of an empty subway station.
Natsuko? Natsuko was Satoshi?
Fucking Koko-natsu?
Fuck.
John choked out, “Natsu—what the hell? You were sending those—Why would you?”
“I missed you,” she said. “We hardly talk, and, like, I thought… I’m sorry.”
“Did you know what was happening? Did you know about Ana and—”
“I guessed,” she said. “I wasn’t sure.”
John’s breath came in hitches. His glasses fogged.
“She said I could have whatever I wanted.” He swallowed. “And she was talking about the house. The money. All the shitty, fucking art. She just never understood, you know? Everything, for me—my everything was—” John could feel his face betraying him. His nostrils flared, and his eyes stung, and he felt his lips pull back in a mask of misery. He bowed his head, squeezed his eyes hut, and sobbed to finally speak to his one true comrade.