Chapter 2

"Wake up," Yoyo barked at the new recruit, throwing a package at his feet. "You got another run to make."

Pockets stretched briefly before peeling himself up off of the couch. A sharp pain in his neck prevented his head from turning too far to one side. He cursed the uncomfortable couch silently. "Already…?" He moaned through a yawn. He had been putting up with this for a little over three weeks now: waking up at the crack of dawn just about every day to deliver packages. Some days he would have as much as four deliveries to make before he could retire for the night and Yoyo was right; these runs were no walk in the park. He had to learn to lay low when the cops were around and move fast when he spotted another rudie he didn't recognize. So far he had managed to avoid any trouble, save for a few squabbles with the police. Because of Rokkaku, the law enforcement never carried guns. No one in Tokyo was permitted to have firearms, which made dealing with the police a bit of a breeze for someone on skates unless there were just too many of them.

Dealing with rudies was another story entirely. In the absence of conventional weaponry, the local street punks took to using rocket powered skates to fight with instead. Thus, the roller skating gangs of Tokyo were born. Over the years, they developed their unique form of hand-to-hand combat into a dance-like martial art. Yoyo started to teach Pockets the basics of it, but it wasn't something you learned over night. It was very intricate, and took a lot of skill. It would take much longer than a few weeks to master but Pockets was making good progress. Although the fundamentals were fairly effective against the police, Yoyo warned him it wouldn't be enough to save him in a fight with any of the other gangs. Luckily for Pockets, he was fast—and remarkably so. The busted up black blades that he wore weren't even capable of performing a boost dash like the more modern variety, but he was somehow still able to outrun everyone who had attempted to catch him so far.

The garage was usually pretty empty in the mornings. The other GG's all had homes to go to. Pockets was the only one who couldn't afford his own place, so he stayed overnight. Sometimes he would have the company of a few others who had been partying a little too hard and passed out on the floor, but aside from that, it was just him most nights. The other GG's normally don't start showing up until after noon. So why was Yoyo here so early?

"It's still dark…" Pockets complained. "Can I do it later?"

"No this one's priority," said Yoyo.

Pockets lifted an eyebrow. "Since when do we do priority shipping?"

"They're paying extra."

That caught Pockets' attention. "Okay," he said as he took the package from Yoyo. This one was different. It wasn't the normal, shoddily wrapped brown paper wrapping that he had come to expect. This box was clean, white, and sealed to professional standards almost as if it had come straight off of a shipping truck. It was heavier than the other ones, too. Pockets rotated it, scanning the outside for a shipping label or something of the sort but no such thing existed. The exterior of this box was completely unmarked. "Where's the address," he asked.

Yoyo pointed to his arm. "It's in your wrist radio. Whoever ordered this one is real serious about security, yo. They wanted the address to be sent only to the carrier."

"And that's me right…" Pockets mumbled unenthusiastically as he maneuvered through the radio's menus. He noticed a new message was waiting to be opened. It had no title, just a single line of text. A few digits and a street name, that was it. "Found it," He announced. Fortunately, that was all he needed. He just had to punch the address into the GPS and he could be on his way. A few key presses later, his GPS was directing him to a building somewhere on the edge of Benten, the downtown district of Tokyo. It wasn't too far from their current location, in fact, it was fairly close to where he woke up just a few weeks ago with a pounding headache and a curious case of amnesia. An ailment that still plagued him to this day.

Pockets had been very patient with his amnesia, hoping his memories would come back on their own given a little time but that proved not to be the case. It was now three weeks later and still he couldn't even recall his own name. He was just about ready to accept that his condition might be permanent, and strangely that didn't bother him so much anymore. After all, what he didn't know couldn't hurt him.

After taking a moment to get his bearings together and wake fully from his nap, he grabbed the worn out pair of blades sitting next to him and inserted his feet into them, one boot at a time. He strapped them up nice and tight and stood up, subconsciously balancing his weight equally between both legs to make sure that one didn't roll out from underneath him. Yoyo patted him encouragingly on the shoulder.

"Make sure you get it there safe," The red spectacled rudie lectured. "Remember, there's extra money in it if you do."

"Yeah yeah yeah…" Pockets mocked. He was finally getting tired of taking orders from someone younger than him. Actually, he had no idea how old Yoyo was. For that matter, he had no idea how old he himself was either. At any rate, he was tired of taking orders from someone shorter than him. That being said, he appreciated the work, and moreso, he appreciated the money. The new clothes he was wearing was incentive enough for him to keep pushing the packages. So, he grabbed the white box up off the couch, stuffed it into his new backpack, and headed out the garage door.

Every venture out into the streets was risky for a rudie, especially so for a rookie like Pockets. The rollerblades made him both a curiosity and a target in the eyes of the population. Every rudie, regardless of the gang they represented, carried the responsibility of living up to the legendary name. That meant disregarding the law whenever possible and tagging your name on any surface likely to catch a glimpse or two from a passerby. They had a reputation to uphold, they were the face of the revolution. Strong-willed, wild, and passionate; the rudies would save the city from itself, if only they could save themselves first. The same characteristics that made them so revered often put them at odds with each other. It wasn't long before their original objective—to liberate the people from the oppressive rule of the Rokkaku Group—devolved into an endless game of territorial tug-of-war. Most of the original rudies were just frustrated youths who couldn't find a place within the system anyway.

Misguided as they were, the rudies were the true heroes of Tokyo. Their paint brought soul back to the streets and their efforts eventually lead to the downfall of Gouji… At least that's what the old kook who ran Jet Set Radio would say. If Rokkaku was truly gone, then why was the city still in such dire straits? The people moped around soulless and freedom seemed to be at an all-time low. Tokyo's alleged saviors were still pushed to the brinks of society, forced to live their lives ducking the cops and doing odd jobs just to make ends meet.

So here he was, the newest addition to everyone's favorite little band of misfits, shuffling through the city at a brisk pace with package in tow; the contents of which were a mystery even to him. He knew, however, that whatever it was, being discovered with it could come with some serious legal penalties. People didn't pay at the rate he was getting paid to have flowers delivered. Just the thought of opening the box made him nervous even though he would never have to. He didn't really want to know what was inside any of his deliveries, and this was no run-of-the-mill package. Whatever was in this one, had to be worse than the rest. He was not looking forward to meeting the person who requested it.

Temporarily distracted by his own thoughts, he forgot to keep an eye out for trouble. Although it was unlikely to bump into any rudies or cops at this time of night, it was good practice to always remain vigilant on these runs. A quick survey of his surroundings told him he was still in the clear. He picked up the pace a little.

Benten was always busy in his experience. He was convinced that no one in this section of the city ever slept. But then again he had never been out and about at the ungodly hour of four o'clock in the morning. The streets were deserted and it was dead silent. He glanced down at his radio watch to discover that he was not far from his destination. Determined to get this delivery over and done with, he kicked into high gear. The wheels on his blades made a loud whirring noise as he pushed them against the pavement. And then he heard something alarming. It sounded as if his weren't the only pair of skates echoing throughout the empty alleyways.

Pockets turned both of his skates sideways and slid to a complete stop to listen. He had heard correctly. There were at least two other skaters closing in on his position. Fuck. He cursed himself for being so careless. Now he would have to shake his pursuers. With a single solid push, he propelled himself in the direction opposite of where the other skaters were coming from. Within just a few seconds he had already reached max speed and he was flying through the street. The wind pushing against him was so strong it almost felt as if it might just pick him up. He looked over his shoulder occasionally to make sure that they weren't gaining ground on him, but there was no sight of who was following him. It was probably Rapid 99 or the Love Shockers, he couldn't remember whose territory he was in. Either way, the last thing he wanted was to be spotted, because if they identified him, that could spark up a rivalry that would make any future deliveries in this area much more difficult. He was confident though that no one could keep up with him.

After running for what felt like the better part of an hour, he was exhausted. He pulled over in a narrow alleyway between two large buildings, next to a dumpster that smelled of decomposing animal carcasses. He almost puked, either from overexerting himself or being forced to suck in gallons of the putrid gas wafting over from the nearby waste. On the other hand, he could no longer hear the screeching of skates against concrete. He had finally lost his tail, but not before he had put himself miles off course. He took a few moments to catch his breath, then he rerouted his GPS and started off back towards the assigned drop off point.

Some time later, he was finally approaching his destination. Completely drained from both being woken too early and having to outrun some rival gang members, he barely had the stamina to make it even a few more meters. His wrist radio dinged, signalling to him that it was done giving directions, but that couldn't be possible. The address he had been given wasn't even a residence. He didn't realize it until now, but he had been following the GPS instructions mindlessly, as if by autopilot. His legs had carried him into the center of a little park, a tiny oasis in the urban sprawl that was Benten-cho. The park was bisected by a small river which in turn was divided by an even smaller wooden bridge. Pockets rolled over to the red-painted bridge and leaned his chest against the railing. He folded his arms on top of the wooden handrail and draped his head lethargically upon those. It had taken him so long to get here, the black sky was already starting to turn a deep shade of blue. He marvelled briefly at the koi fish swimming aimlessly through the water beneath him. Their colors and their smooth, winding movements were almost enough to lull him to sleep.

"So you're the GG's new errand boy now?" someone addressed him.

The abrupt and unfamiliar voice was enough to shock Pockets out of his half-conscious state. His head yanked up violently and he turned to meet his new company. It was a young woman with a slender face, long dark hair, and equally dark eyes. She wore a black leather jacket with a white undershirt and jeans. Perhaps most importantly, on her feet were a pair of skates. They were a newer model fitted with the rudie standard jets, but he had never seen a pair quite like these. The black boots reached almost halfway up to her knees and they hugged her calves like tube socks.

"I guess so," he sleepily replied to her question. Pockets wondered how he didn't notice her approaching at all. He must've been really tired. Nevertheless he removed the backpack from his shoulders so he could open it and retrieve the box from inside. For some reason, he didn't even entertain the possibility that this stranger might be hostile. She had a disarming quality about her that made Pockets automatically assume that she wasn't an agent of an opposing gang looking to make sure he never set foot in their turf again. She also wasn't the hardcore kingpin he was expecting the package belonged to but she was the only soul around as far as he could tell, and he wasn't about to wait any longer for someone else who fit his preconceptions to show up. She had to be the one for whom the package was intended.

After he dug the plain, white box out of his bag, he held it out for her. She didn't take it. She just stood there, staring at him with a look he couldn't begin to decipher. Worry? Is that what he was seeing in her eyes?

"You don't remember me?" she asked.

Pockets' heart skipped a beat. This girl knew him!? The thought of potentially having to reveal his amnesia to someone made him nervous for reasons he didn't understand—even if she was just a stranger—and there was no way around it in this situation. He couldn't even pretend he recognized her. He could only hope that they weren't close. He shook his head. "No," was his honest response.

"How could you not remember?"

Pockets shrugged ambiguously, still holding out the box for her. "Here," he offered.

"No." The girl pushed it back towards him. "It's for you."

Now he was thoroughly confused. She wanted him to keep the package for himself? He couldn't understand why she would do that. Pockets looked at her, then at the package, and then back at her. She was encouraging him nonverbally to open it. His job was to deliver it to her but it was clear at this point that she wasn't going to accept it.

"Open it," she insisted out loud.

Pockets struggled for a moment. Opening the box would be a direct violation of their very strict policy. He remembered Corn explicitly instructing him several times to never open any package intended for delivery. Although he hated it sometimes, Pockets took his job very seriously. He couldn't open it, not in good conscience. "Look," Pockets said to the woman. "I went through a lot to get this to you. Could you just take it."

"And I went through a lot to set up this meeting between us," she retorted. Although Pockets was intentionally being a little standoffish towards her, she maintained an amicable demeanor. "Open it."

But what about delivering it safely? What about the bonus pay? Against his better judgement, Pockets began to tear away the tape that sealed the box closed.