Fwip fwip fwip went the little red card, dancing about Ichigo's fingers. "The register," Ichigo growled, a vein pulsing on the side of his neck. "Focus on the register, please." But the corpulent man he faced had eyes only for the flipping card, and Ichigo's words went unheard.
Okinawa's Pawnshop was the most recent step on a goose-trail of laymen and assorted journeymen and restorationists. It turned out there were no real professionals when it came to antique cash registers—there hadn't been any need for a long time—but there were a lot of otaku that were quite interested in getting their hands on it. The vintage alone made it valuable, even broken, and hobbyists would pay through the nose for even scraps. This pawnshop belonged to one of them, one of the better known collectors. Okinawa was a reputable source, he'd been assured. A slight issue, however, lay with the pawnshop—an extension therein, of Okinawa's desire to get ahold of old mechanisms people wanted to be rid of, nearly always ignorant of the true value of the baubles they pawned off.
Ichigo found the predatory nature of the business unpleasant, but he'd suck it up if the man really was as good as promised.
Unfortunately, when he'd gone to pay after exhaustively haggling with the stiff that ran the counter, the strange little chit he'd almost entirely forgotten about slid out of his wallet while he'd tried to tug out his credit card. Ichigo had had a bad feeling as he watched the shopkeeper's eyes follow the card all the way down, transaction forgotten. Okinawa had been described as a collector for all types of antiques, he'd recalled at the time, with no small morbidity.
The shopkeeper had wasted no time at all proving Ichigo right, and the owner, Okinawa himself, had made himself known shortly afterward. Pound for pound, the man was both twice as large, and twice as annoying, as Keigo had ever been.
"Look," pleaded the portly man, "please, let me examine the card. I will examine the register myself afterwards—it will only take a minute. I just want a closer look." Sweat gleamed in beads across his liver-spotted forehead, and he patted at it nervously with a checkered handkerchief. "Just a closer look," he repeated, "these things must be done precisely."
Ichigo felt a dull throbbing in his temples. "I have no idea what you're talking—whatever, it doesn't matter. Can we please focus on why I'm here." He stared expectantly at the man, who, as he'd feared, paid absolutely no attention to his words at all.
"I've never seen that type of telephone card before—" the man babbled on excitedly, "—limited run of some kind, maybe? Airtel had short supply in Japan—"
Ichigo swallowed and his eyes darted behind the counter, where the broken little cash register still sat, assorted loose bits in a little box beside it. It bore a dull gleam in the sunlight, presenting an almost oil-slick patterning on the sides, invisible in moonlight. A forlorn little spring protruded from the mechanical keys.
His eyes slid back to Okinawa, who looked back at him with something like expectation. He looked entirely too excited for Ichigo's comfort.
Ichigo wanted to bury his face in his hands.
He'd somehow run afoul of one of Japan's few telephone card collectors. The man had quickly begun to throw around USD in his offer for what he'd informed Ichigo was a telecom card predating release outside of Italy. Likely, it would be dated at roughly 1978, meaning that by Okinawa's stilted explanations, possession of the card itself put the previous owner of the little shop as someone of significantly greater means than the humble store would indicate. Wherever they had gone now, they likely hadn't done it poor.
All of which, Okinawa had stressed strongly—if it had been left behind, it was fair game, he argued. But Ichigo continued to insist that the card belonged to the store. He didn't own it, so sale was off the table. Now, if only Okinawa would understand that—
"—It doesn't matter!" Okinawa protested. "Your virtues are misplaced, dear boy! Buy the man a diamond necklace! Gold coins! Silver cutlery! He will thank you, should he ever return for it!" Okinawa hurriedly heaved out a thick book from under the table, knocking over several stacks of paper in his excitement. Ichigo felt his eyes nearly pop out as he spotted a gravure idol on the cover before Okinawa flipped it open, and immediately vocally protested. Okinawa looked up, dismayed as Ichigo hopped to his feet, face red and finger shaking as he thrust it accusingly outward.
"No!" Ichigo cried, "No more! This is too far, damn you!"
"Mr. Kurosaki," the man replied, flustered, suddenly aware of what he'd shown his customer, "it's not what you think! Look!" He flipped it back to the cover, and thankfully covered the models assets before scoring the title with his hands. Despite himself (and his burning cheeks) Ichigo leaned in to read it.
Telephone Card Catalog 98~99
Ichigo mouthed out the words with some confusion, flustered but fighting not to show it, looked up at the man. "The hell is this?"
A large wrinkle formed between the mans brows, but the shaking in his hands belied his excitement. "A valuation—an estimate, for the valuation of telephone cards."
Ichigo felt the pounding between his eyes redouble as he mouthed valuation of telephone cards to himself while Okinawa flipped rapidly through pages, muttering to himself.
"Most telephone cards only gained value once companies realized that, as disposable artifacts, they could hold value as both monetary devices and commemorative artifacts," the man explained absently, "but as all true fusilatelists know, there are certain runs—certain prints that defy value as merely memorabilia or collectibles." The man looked up sharply, so keen a look in his eye that Ichigo nearly stepped backwards. The man's whole face seemed to harden into dark lines, as he asked, "The card is unused, correct?"
"Right," Ichigo said automatically, and watched Okinawa immediately smoothen out into the round-faced slightly anxious man from before. Ichigo felt a surge of irritation as the man seemed to flounder about through the book once more, wondering to himself if it was alright to answer a question like that—about someone else's property, to boot!
"Get on with it," Ichigo growled, stung.
Okinawa looked up at him helplessly, answering, "I beg your forgiveness, but—this is important, you see? You cannot misunderstand that I am trying to cheat you, here!" He spun the book around, and speared a fading portrait of Bruce Willis with his hand, captured mid-motion on a plastic card between a black-and-white of Revolutionary Girl Utena and a Love Hina reprint collectible. 80,000¥ was printed beneath.
Ichigo sucked in a deep breath. "It's a misprint," Okinawa said reverently. "One missing letter, and the value explodes exponentially."
He slowly slid the book back across the table to himself, fixing Ichigo with an entirely serious look that was entirely at odds with the surreality of the conversation. "You're holding a card, one of at most 100 I've ever heard of. Every single one, all of them, printed entirely without label. A catastrophic mistake. They are printed with no makers mark, and no value, at a period where this kind of critical failure was all but impossible. I've never even seen one before, only heard of them. We don't know how much they are worth—but the value cannot possibly exceed 10,000¥, which was the highest a card could go at the time." Okinawa formally folded his arms. "Mr. Kurosaki, I will buy that card from you for 1,000,000¥. Immediately." He leaned forwards, and there was a sincere sort of plea in his eyes. "Please, I have no intent to use or damage the card in any way. Quite the opposite. I wish to see it preserved, a true, rare guidepost to an era almost past."
Ichigo swallowed.
Ichigo was still sweating as he exited the pawnshop. By the end, walking away had felt like wading through concrete—not because he intended to sell, but because he'd been genuinely moved by Okinawa's passion. The man had been totally sincere, and it surprised Ichigo how difficult to refuse him it had become.
Okinawa had eventually agreed to repair the register at the initially agreed-upon price, offering to waive the cost just as thanks for showing him something he'd been so deeply passionate about, but Ichigo had refused point-blank. He'd felt guilty enough refusing him. He didn't want to owe the man something as well. He reflected on that as he jogged across a busy intersection, the roar and rhythm of the city starting to replace the monotonous melancholy of the pawnbroker's office. For a pawnbroker, Okinawa hadn't been so bad. Of course, he likely might've had a different impression had he been trying to eke out some cash out of old valuables. Giving the man a hold on his soul, that was a place Ichigo never wanted to be. The thought made him queasy, and Ichigo reflexively picked up his pace to make some distance.
To his regret, as it so happened. Ichigo was forced to stop as a door opened ahead of him and a girl dressed like a maid in hi-tops walked out, wheeling a bicycle. He felt a shiver crawl up his spine, slightly averting his eyes as she passed. For a long second, he felt like she'd paused next to him. He'd just contemplated moving on, when he heard her giggle at his obvious discomfort, and move on. He felt his ears flame until the clicking of her bike receded into the traffic.
If only the store hadn't been in Akihabara, Ichigo cursed internally as he started moving quickly, he might've even considered coming back. Okinawa was a greasy pawnbroker, but he knew his stuff.
But Ichigo hated this goddamn place.
It was still early enough that most of the otaku were still holed up in their rooms, and the cosplay cafes were still writing out their specials on the little chalkboard stands they kept at tripping height beside their doors, but the people outside were all-too eager to assume Ichigo was an early bird out for some deals, and quickly took him in as one of their own. To his disgust, people that crossed his path seemed to go out of their way to cross in front of him, to trade secret smiles. No growl was too menacing, no glare too convincing; he embodied a character to the hilt in their eyes, and if they didn't recognize him, it only further established his hipster nerd cred.
Ichigo had rarely felt so ashamed in his life.
"Hey man, nice cosplay!" Someone yelled out across the street. Ichigo peeked at them from the corner of his eyes, and saw some guy wearing a massive red plastic coat and a cardboard perm. An old lady stumping past shot him a dismissive look. Ichigo gestured rudely back, and the loser actually clapped.
He hated it here so much.
Ichigo growled deep in his throat, and jerked his hood on. Now he only looked like an asshole. He'd be tempted to take the alleys if he didn't know that the homeless population was scrounging what they could right now, and he just didn't know if he could deal with the pressure of more sour looks right now.
So he hurried along, keeping his head down. And, to his surprise, the hassling he usually got really did drop away to almost nothing. Most of the people around him looked exactly as tired as he felt, and with his hood up, he looked like everybody else; eager to get out of here before the first wave of tourists. The cosplayers almost unconsciously avoided them, sticking to their own groups, and Ichigo found his passage more or less unbarred.
It was a bright day, today, and with his newfound freedom, he found himself slowing a little. He'd never really allowed himself to take the place in, typically finding reasons not to go whenever Keigo found some new anime to natter about, but it really was quite pretty. As expected of a tourist trap?
He squinted up at the buildings around him. They rose fairly high, and some of the novelty stores had even kept the old electronics lettering above the new signs. It wouldn't be visible at night, when neon blinded the customers to anything else, but in the daylight, the place had an eerily faded grandeur to it. Worn down. Some of the buildings had vines crawling up the walls like arteries, and it made them seem eerily conscious, looking down at the passing crowds with an ageless patience. The people scurried along below, more river than crowd, finding cracks and nooks to sieve into.
And there were many places to end up. Every store seemed about as wide as a closet, and if he spread his arms, he could almost block access to three of them at once. But people almost fought to get inside, each catering to some obscure niche media probably.
Presumably Okinawa had opened during the tech boom, and just never sold. Impressive, considering how much money he must've been offered. Ichigo couldn't imagine staying. Just being among the crowds had sapped Ichigo's energy; living here might've killed him by proxy. He was almost crawling by the time he hit the end of the street.
He felt involuntary tears prickle his eyes as he finally rounded a corner and saw the big white lettering for Akihabara station up ahead. He almost sighed with relief, until he saw someone running up a massive banner for some anime chick, and felt his blood pressure spike upwards.
Down the Yamanote line, a 20 minute wait, quick line change, 5 minutes, a quick jog down the main thoroughfare, three blocks down, two side alleys and an irritatingly long wait for a red light, Ichigo was still shaking his head as he strode into a Starbucks, almost desperate for a quick dose, and nearly slammed into Tatsuki.
"Whoa," she said, unimpressed, as a bit of her drink slopped over the side of her cup and onto her hands.
Ichigo immediately snapped out of his brood, opened his mouth to apologize, and held it, as he watched her hand redden, and then blister slightly.
"Isn't that...hot?" he asked instead, perturbed.
She looked up at him, an entirely flat look in her eyes. "Yeah." He could've nearly bought the emotionless act, but a small muscle was jumping in her neck, and beads of sweat had erupted across her forehead.
He might've called her out for trying to look cool, but she'd completely succeeded in intimidating him, so he backed off slowly instead.
The gorilla shaped like his old friend snorted in triumph, and sipped casually at her drink, leering at him over the rim, until a voice broke them both out of an impromptu staring contest.
"Tatsuki!" cried out a high-pitched voice, and Inoue Orihime flounced into frame, holding several bandages at the ready. Ichigo looked away in slight embarrassment as the beast was forced to play nice while her friend fussed over her hand.
"I'm just gonna..." he muttered, and edged slowly around them, pulling out his wallet as he did so, like some kind of emotional shield against the obvious concern being exhibited in front of him. Tatsuki growled, and he nearly flinched. He did hurry, though, slipping past and fast-walking towards the counter, which appeared to have developed some kind of holy aura in his swimming vision.
"Ah!" he heard behind him, as Inoue finally noticed his passage, eyebrows shooting to her scalp. "Kurosaki-kun! Hi! That's..." a burst of noise drowned her out as several people in a neighboring table burst into laughter, so he just half-smiled and waved in vague acceptance, before turning back to the counter, where the barista held out a sample cup like it was his personal Grail.
"...oh." Orihime drooped slightly as Ichigo vanished into the crowd.
"What an asshole," Tatsuki growled, eyes narrowed as she watched Ichigo scarper like a rat across the store. As if that would save him from her Rising Dragon Strike. "I'll hold him down next time, see if he can duck a conversation then."
Orihime yelped, cheeks flushing as Tatsuki's hand began to make vague and threatening movements aimed loosely below Ichigo's belt. "Tatsuki! No! Please!"
Tatsuki chuckled dirtily at her obvious shame. "Alright, alright." She rolled her head, feeling a few pops ratchet in her neck. "Christ, what was eating him, anyway?" She muttered, as Ichigo tripped over his own feet while reaching for a bill. Noticing movement in the corner of her eye, she saw Orihime biting her lip while staring at Ichigo—usually something fairly cute, but it was devoid of her usual dreamy air. "What's up with you?"
"N-no!" Orihime jumped a little, and turned back to Tatsuki, waving her arms. "It's nothing, I just..." She half-turned and pointed at Ichigo's wallet. "Did you recognize anything when Kurosaki-kun walked past us?"
Tatsuki took a moment to digest that—it was probably the weirdest question she'd heard all day, and this following an absolutely riveting conversation about beans and jam on cereal.
"No," she said confidently. "Except for the name on his cards, I guess."
Orihime tilted her head thoughtfully. "Must've been in my head, I guess."
Okinawa the Pawnbroker sighed once more in his office, swirling a tumbler of cheap whiskey and sighing wistfully over the lost opportunity.
His collection shone in the dim light. Hundreds of cards, organized by preservation, age, and distribution location. His pride and joy. So few understood him, and the honest pride he saw in the cards. They were touchstones of a passing era. They represented more than the domination of technology, but the dissemination, and cultural adoption as it passed through hands. Hispanic mascots vied for place beside anime cutouts. Laminate mausoleums occupied the crown of his sprawling assembly, each one as austere as the last.
In his youth, he'd seen them with his own eyes. How to explain how things had changed? How to explain the miracle of technology to someone for whom technology was life itself?
The card the boy had held, Okinawa thought wistfully, would have held pride of place. 1978, a mere two years after the first issuings, commissioned from within the country, from the government itself, a full decade before the Germans would roll out the Bundespost line, and 4 years before they would even touch the shores of Japan. Commissioned, it was said, in secret by a military attaché from Japan itself.
The history that had been at his fingertips, he could scarce believe. He'd been genuine when he'd offered the boy a free ride. Even if he hadn't sold, witnessing the card lit a warm heat in Okinawa's chest.
And like drinks, good news had to be shared. Humming a slight tune, Okinawa hefted an old refurbished rotary handset, clicked out a number, and let the sweet rhythm of the dial tone ease him back into his chair.
"Hello? Hello? Daisuke, listen—yes, I'm quite fine, and—yes, I heard. I don't care. No, listen—listen! Old man, you would not believe what crossed beneath my fingertips today…"
