Tokyo Blues

“Shush,” says Zoe before I finish my sentence. I’m in the middle of asking her about some of the eerier spirits lurking in the side streets of Tokyo – parents who melted into liquid filth when the bomb hit and left their children orphans – when I’m met with an abrupt wave of the hand that brings my mouth to a standstill.

“How long have you been doing this, Lily? Do you still shit your pants every time a bunch of filth-crazed mutants run at you? Idiot.”

I really like Zoe. She’s a fellow Dragon who’s been doing this for at least twice as long as I have. Either she’s got a blunt personality or she’s been in the field for so long that she no longer has the patience for niceties. She’s also very, very attractive, so it doesn’t bother me much when she ends our conversation by telling me to fuck off.

I’ve been on the lam for six months now which in practical terms means nothing seeing as how I’ve become so powerful that anyone looking to collect on my capture has simply stopped trying. Maybe the fact that I’ve been wearing the same clothes for the past two years says something about the way I see myself. Namely, that I’m blind to my own transformation. On a lark, I decide to hit up Daimon Kiyota for an update on the world-wide situation.

I know there’s nothing new to report and the look on Daimon’s face when I walk into his office tells me that he knows I know there’s nothing new. This swanky swell sees right through me.

“You’re all wet, baby. Those cheaters on your chassis aren’t helping you see the Big Six Picture. Now, this cat isn’t beating his gums just to get you in the struggle buggy and take you for a ride, you dig? No, no, no, Mrs. Grundy – I’ve seen you when you hit on all sixes, so let me level with you: put some color in that bluenose. You’re a deb doll who acts like a fish in a wet blanket when you could be a real live wire. It’s high time you started strutting like a fence-swinger.”

And with that, he turns right back around and hums to himself while eyeballing the ever-changing, never-ending light show of the pachinko machines in the parlor below. It’s the least he’s ever said to me. In other words: scram.

It makes perfect sense. Well, it does after I look it up on the internet. Normally I don’t bother trying to understand what Daimon is actually saying – I figure he makes a habit of riffing off whatever chaos theory theme is swimming around in his head. Somewhere in the jungle of prose I pick up on the Cliff’s Notes: do this, obtain this, go here. Those are the most important things, usually.

This time, though, I parsed his jive: you’re a bearcat, moll. Now get a wiggle on and don’t take any wooden nickels, you dig? Yeah, you dig.

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