[ 1 ]
Takami Keigo stood outside of the address given to him. The thin sheet of paper almost slipped out of his hands, threatening to follow the cab that just passed by. He scratched his chin. Nothing was ever easy, was it?
It was just a couple of weeks ago when his fingers gripped a black pen, scratching his name on to the paperwork. His agency barely graced the public forums before the Commission shoved a case into his hands. Most of his classmates attached themselves to existing agencies.
They also didn't have a whole room full of people to impress. It was whatever. Takami had a plan. If he could prove himself with this case, he could be on his own. Finally.
Well, kind of. The ball and chain wouldn't break unless he was number one. Then, why did they assign such a cold case? What did the Commission want him to learn? What did they want to gain from him? It wasn't a headline grabber.
Disappearances happened every day, nothing new. Especially within that industry. He knew the statistics. They were just a bunch of boring numbers backed behind brilliant colors in an attempt to catch the eye.
When they handed over the manila folder, their lips had curled. Glasses glinted against the fluorescents while the President's voice droned over the conference call. Takami took to digging underneath his fingernails and ignoring her spiel for the most part.
"Good luck, Hawks," the President had said, her voice echoing around the cavernous room.
"Yeah, yeah, whatever," Takami had drawled in return and didn't even bother to look up from his enormously important nail-digging task.
Luck? Like he needed it.
He had skimmed through the folder that night. It was straightforward. There was nothing fancy about the case, nothing that made it hero worthy. Showboat villains weren't the only ones with their hands in the stirring pot of pointless deviance. And no one cared about run-of-the-mill crime anymore.
Staring at the underground club felt like a strange joke without a punchline. No, Takami didn't need luck. He needed a better case, one that meant something, one that would give him support.
Climbing the hero ladder and soaring to the top was the only thing he thought about. The names within the file he read felt like a building cement boot. As he reached the bottom of the page, he could see himself sinking down to the abyssal ranks.
The purple neon sign above the red door was a set of fishnet legs, kicking back and forth, inviting the lowest of the low inside.
Why would anyone wanna come here? It's so dirty. His thoughts shifted from the garbage bags piled high in the alley to the current state of his new apartment. Ah, yikes. Whatever. Different kinda dirty.
Takami took a step forward. He was only eighteen. Oh, shit. He didn't even think about that. Digging a hand in his back pocket, his fingers worked quickly through all of the slots in his tattered wallet.
I have a fake in here somewhere, come on.
Rain leaked from the inky blue night sky, puddles reflecting the various colors of Tokyo's red-light district. Despite the name, it was a rainbow of oddities with no stop signs in sight. The club in question was on the outskirts. That meant Takami had to wade through the river of debauchery.
The club, or Nightcrawler, was pretty famous for being the worst. Takami sighed, staring at the piece of plastic between his fingers. He scrunched his nose at the identification picture.
Damn, why am I so goofy looking?
Shaking his head, Takami tried to hype himself up. He flicked his wrists a couple of times. Strip clubs weren't exactly in the job description. Why was he so nervous about this? If he was seen in a place like this— wouldn't that affect his ranking?
No one would notice him. It would be fine.
Yeah, it would be fine. Takami just had to talk to a girl by the name of… Pretty Kitty. He made a face as he reread her name. Lame. Whatever, he had no place to judge. He was named after a fucking bird, and it was unbelievably predictable. He could've been Scarlet Thunder or some shit.
Scarlet Thunder was way cooler than 'Hawks' anyway. The Commission had already determined his hero name before he even broached school. No one liked his hero name suggestions. Takami chalked it up to lack of taste.
He shoved the bitter thoughts out of his head and stared at the bouncer. Getting in wasn't a problem. It was what came after.
Entering the club felt surreal. A long black hallway was pulsing with violet lights along the carpeted path. Takami followed behind a group of drunk men, blabbering about who they were there for. At the end of the hall, an archway opened up into a hot and blinding mess.
Strobe lights almost knocked him off his feet. He couldn't even focus on the naked woman with bunny ears hopping across the stage. The music pulsed beneath his feet, jolting his entire body. The men in front of him pumped their fists, heading for a table in a gaggle of excited cheers.
Get in, find Pretty Kitty, and leave. Get in, find Pretty Kitty, and leave.
Takami headed for a table on the outskirts of the club, avoiding eye contact with anything that was shiny or that resembled a tassel. He knew what it would be attached to. Settling at a table, he shifted in his seat.
There was another group of men just having a blast at the front, throwing money like it meant nothing to them. All she was doing was hopping all over the stage in fuzzy platform shoes. But who was he kidding? He couldn't do that.
Those heels were too tall.
He scanned the room again. No one was recognizable. Through the sea of women and men alike, he caught sight of teal hair. Well, maybe one person. He straightened up in his chair, his eyes narrowing.
Joke? No way.
The woman, wearing a gaudy orange fur coat, raised a martini glass. Golden sunglasses absorbed the purple light, sparkling as she bobbed her head. Her neck dazzled with golden chains. Takami's ears perked, and he could just barely recognize her voice. It was her obnoxious laugh that gave it away.
Joke held up a massive wad of cash, wildly animating a story for one of the stage performers. A server stopped by her table too. They were all happily chatting amidst the head-pounding bass, which felt virtually impossible. Joke beamed as a scarlet red concoction filled her glass.
Takami rubbed his temple. It's time to wake up, Keigo. If you're gonna do it, now would be a great time.
It was challenging to pay attention to anything. If that was what all clubs were like, Takami didn't want any part of it. Joke pointed to the stage, rocking back and forth to the music. The performer wiggled her cotton ball tail in Joke's direction. Bills rained down like confetti.
"What's your poison, sweetheart?"
A deadpan female voice yanked his attention away from Ms. Joke. She had pink hair, chopped right below her chin. Magenta feathers dripped off of her body, revealing a bejeweled underwear set underneath. She looked like a flamingo. Was it a theme night?
Is that a thing? For dancers?
Takami cleared his throat, waving a single hand. "No, thanks."
"Kay."
She turned away, the lights shifting from deep violet to emerald green. Takami's eyes widened and realized her attention was exactly what he needed. He forced his shoulders down and calmed his bouncing leg.
"Wait," Takami said, loud enough for her to hear.
The flamingo girl glanced over her shoulder, giant yellow lashes catching a couple strands of hair. "Change your mind?"
"No, but I've got a request."
Takami didn't see anything wrong with his words until he realized where he was. She faced him again, a hand on her hip. "Sorry, sir. We don't do that here."
"That's not—"
Her eyes rolled, venom lacing her words. "I don't care what you heard from your brother's cousin's husband. No. Requests."
"No, no. It's not that kinda request," Takami said. He needed to rescue the drowning conversation. "I just gotta talk to Pretty Kitty. Five seconds, tops."
The bunny woman on stage spun around on the pole, and even though it was impressive, Takami kept his gaze on the flamingo girl. Her tight lips melted into a wide grin. The wildfire of annoyance diminished into a low burning flame of… something else. Medium heat irritation?
She slid her tray onto a neighboring table. Feathers along her hip twinkled with glitter. The tinkling sounds of beads swished together when the music lulled. The flamingo girl kept her gaze on Takami, flattening her hands on his table and leaning in close.
"That's me," she said. "What do you wanna talk about?"
"Got anywhere a little more private?" Takami asked.
Flamingo girl ran her tongue over her teeth. "Yeah. This way."
Her chin jerked over toward a black curtain. A new girl emerged, red and green crystals alluding to a frog-like bodysuit. Takami pushed out his chair, and the flamingo girl picked up her tray again. They weaved between tables toward the curtain.
The bunny woman was hand plucking money from patrons close to the stage. Takami briefly glanced at the entire scene and then back to the girl guiding him.
"I'd like to keep this between us if that's possible."
The flamingo girl didn't look at him. "Sure."
She lifted the curtain. There was another long hallway behind the curtain, a couple more women passing by them. Takami kept his eyes forward. His mind was reeling with questions. What would he start with? Would he talk about the disappearances or mention the shaky singular lead?
They passed by several rooms, dingy yellow light pouring out of what looked like dressing areas. The emerald green light faded into tangerine orange. Flamingo girl's eyes became slits as the two reached the end of the hallway.
"In here," she said.
Magenta nails wrapped around the doorknob. Takami watched her grip tighten around her tray. He squinted, his eyebrows coming together. His eyes flashed quickly between the platter and the girl attached. She twisted around, crossing her arm over her chest.
Ah, fuck.
Her backhanded strike with the tray barely passing by his nose as he jumped backward out of the way. Takami pressed his hand against the back of the wall. Without realizing it was a door, damp air rushed by his ears, and he stumbled into a dimly lit alley.
The flamingo girl her head out into the alley. She lifted her free hand to her chin before musing to herself. "That was supposed to work."
"What was that for? I thought we were gonna talk!" Takami flung up his arm in frustration.
"You're the one that has to do the talking! What the fuck do you want with Pretty Kitty?" Flamingo Girl demanded.
She's not Pretty Kitty. I should've seen this coming.
"I thought we agreed on a conversation," Takami said, trying to keep his rising agitation under wraps with smoothness. "A conversation is mutual. Preferably without tray slinging."
"I don't know what the hell kind of world you live in, but people don't come here to ask questions!" Flamingo girl's voice rose with every word.
"Let's tone it down, okay?" Takami held up his arms, showing his palms. "I'm not here to cause trouble. Swear on my life."
Judging by her response, there's more to this story than I realized. There he was, thinking the case was going to be easy.
She peered over her shoulder and held out a finger, pointing toward him. Takami felt his mouth open. What was going on?
"I'll be right back," Flamingo girl said after some hesitation.
"Wait, I—"
The door slammed midway through his words. Takami's open hands balled into fists, and he shoved them into his jacket pockets.
"Way to go. Great start, Keigo," Takami said to himself, staring at the door.
Car horns bellowed in the distance. It was still drizzling outside, droplets hitting his face when he looked upward. It was as if the sky was laughing so hard, it started crying. Absolutely phenomenal. Perfect.
The plastic bags that tumbled across the concrete ground gave an ominous feeling of an upcoming standoff. Takami started to gnaw on the inside of his cheeks. What was taking her so long? He didn't have time for any more thoughts, however.
The door kicked open. A new silver tray zinged through the air, careening toward Takami's forehead. He sidestepped, and it hit the opposite building with an eardrum-shattering crash. Cocking his head, Takami put his hands on his knees. He raised a hand and waved toward the door.
"Can we cool it with the trays, please? Thanks."
A woman emerged from behind the door, an unlit cigarette hanging loosely from her lips. Blue hair hung in waves, framing her face. Her hands had horrifyingly long nails that arched like indigo talons. The flamingo girl peeked out from behind the woman, pointing at Takami.
"It's him. That's the guy."
"Not surprised. Bill said there was some eighteen-year-old kid about to shit himself at the door."
The woman flicked her lighter on, a flame dancing in front of her.
Takami stood up straight again. He opened his mouth to defend himself. "That—"
"Not talking to you yet," the woman said, taking a drag. "What did he say he wanted again, Birdie?"
"He said he wanted to talk to Pretty Kitty," Birdie said, not looking away from the taller woman. "I don't know why."
"I just want to talk to her. It'll only take a second," Takami interjected again.
"Talk to her about what? I don't have a crystal ball, kid. Cough it up," the woman said through her teeth.
He couldn't reveal the investigation outright. Any one of them could be involved. Takami froze, trying to keep a level head. Facts and knowledge from school exploded like fireworks deep in his brain.
In the simulations, if he was friendly and collected, people would respond to his questions. If they didn't react well, they were guilty. These women didn't appear particularly guilty. One was crusty, the other one looked like she was about to take flight.
Perhaps they were tough customers. Or they could be actual threats. Eh, more like semi-threats. Takami brought himself back to the moment.
"Um… I… We went on a date, and I… wanted to apologize. Yeah. Apologize for… leaving early," Takami said.
Nice.
The woman sighed, rubbed her forehead with the heel of her cigarette hand, and muttered to herself. "Christ."
She stomped out from the doorway. Her body towered over Takami. As if being a giraffe-like woman wasn't enough, she completely eclipsed the singular light above the doors. He didn't remember reading about Amazons anywhere.
"With lies like that, I have no fuckin' idea how you're still alive," she said.
Takami put his hands together. "I, personally, didn't think it was half bad."
The woman stared at him, blinking twice. "This is how it's gonna be then, huh?"
She raised an eyebrow and sniffed. Drawing in a deep breath of the stale night air, she apparently decided to continue speaking.
"Alright, well. Let's start over."
The woman lifted the cigarette to her lips, taking a long inhale. Under the shallow lamplight, he could see makeup settling into the worn lines along her face. A poorly drawn mole rested right above her upper lip, and egregious amounts of blush caked her cheeks. Smoke swirled like pale purple ghosts through the air.
"I'm Fantasy. Welcome to my club." Fantasy's lips curved into a smile, and she sarcastically swept her arm out in front of her. "So, I'll ask nicely one more time. Who are you, and what do you want with one of my girls?"