HORRIBLIS IMOUTO ANONYMUS, PART II

JUNCHIRO KUSANAGI

I felt like gomi.

These past few days had been a nightmare, not only in performing my duties in reprisal for the attack, but also in trying to keep Motoko safe. Sleep had been hard to find, and fragmented in the moments when found. Often in the bucket of whatever vehicle I happened to find myself in, or in lost moments of microsleep, finding myself gone from one location, and already arrived in another. It was a cause for agitation, not only for me, but the band of killers that I found myself a part of.

Food, likewise, was more of an energy source than a leisurely activity. More often than not, I inhaled whatever was at hand, whether it came from a sketchy stall, or out of a SCSM. I found the barest hints of comfort in the XXLs, if only that. There was a foodstuff that never failed, no matter Motoko's whining. It was the perfect food - portable, reheatable, chock full of all required nutrition for a growing man, and amazingly delicious. I really had no clue what her issue with the burrito was, it was peak food, and tasty to boot. Nothing like Sojasil - which they made outta scop and old cardboard. In another life, maybe I could have been a food taster for AllFoods, but it was not to be.

My life was tied to the Tyger Claws, and my place was with Kamikaze. I was the Oni, after all.

Staying at the conapt was alright, with the increased security presence, but I didn't want it to become a prison. Didn't really feel like being surrounded by the gang right now either, and to be honest, I was hiding from Akari and Motoko both. Though if I was honest with myself, it was from the latter. From shame, at my actions in response to her own. Another excuse, in an attempt to push away responsibility.

What a burden it was.

When Okāsan had flatlined, we were left alone, and I was left with responsibility. Which I had neglected to the point of Motoko's kidnapping. The girl who awakened from her coma may as well have been a different person. Yet I tried to be there for her all the same, but lost another piece of my heart as a result. Then more of me, with each passing sunset, and the ripper's knife. Until I barely recognized the man in the mirror, for I too had changed.

And all the while, Motoko had left me behind.

The sense of failure was more crushing than the burden of responsibility. Pilar's words about his own situation had given me some perspective. I almost wanted to seek him out again at Lizzie's, in part apology for abandoning him to the tender mercies of his own little monster, and in part because he seemed to understand what I was going through better than most. Yet I wasn't ready to face Rita like this. How could I even think of a relationship when I couldn't even sort myself out? And the off chance of running into Motoko again, after my outburst in the conapt... I couldn't risk it.

I had struck out at her in blind anger. My own blood. My imouto.

Shame, disgust, fury, self-loathing. They formed a storm of chaos within, one I didn't even know how to begin to address, let alone solve. I was fucked up. She deserved better than a deadweight for a brother who did nothing but paint a target on her back.

All the women in my life had died, one after another. I wasn't a smart man, that I knew, but I could do basic math. The common denominator was me. She would be better off without me in her life. Yet the Tyger Claws would not let her go so easily. If I gave a pound of flesh, would Fujimura let me go? Unlikely. And I was too big a coward for the honourable exit.

Which was how I'd found myself in a little pop-gun watering hole, barely a bar with stools beyond a noren. Such a place was often called an Izakaya, though the owner seemed to be Hispanic, or some other type of Central American. Brown hair in a ponytail, a five o'clock shadow, and surprisingly little chrome. He even had a katana up on the wall behind him, which was fair - and while I was in the lower end of Little China, Night City was a melting pot of various cultures.

For a fusion place, they had some pretty stellar burritos. I wouldn't say better than XXLs, but maybe on par. And of course, I wouldn't mention that to the owner, it simply wasn't polite, especially since he was making my food. Interesting names for the menu though, a whole wind theme, or something. Fitting, for a member of Kamikaze. Maybe I'd bring the others here for a drink, sometime. Or maybe this would stay as my little hiding hole of self misery.

I took a sip of the Blue Grass in front of me, a decently priced Tequila, perfect for drowning sorrows, fears, and an uninteresting past.

The barman greeted a new customer, though I didn't pay attention until they sat down next to me.

"Olá choom. Se importa se eu me sentar?" / "Hey choom. Mind if I take a seat?"

It took a moment for my agent to translate that. Sounded Spanish, but not quite, same language the barkeep had spoken. I didn't turn, just grunting a response, "Free City."

He chuckled, and elbowed me in the side, "Reason I'm here." I felt a spark of irritation, the desire to kick the gonk's teeth in gritting my own as I turned to him with a grimace. His appearance forced me to nearly double take.

He was a clown. A clown built like an Animal, sure, but there was no mistaking that red tech-hair, or the red clown nose. What the fuck? Unbidden, a memory arose. Okāsan's words of warning.

"Jun-kun, if you ever see someone that looks like a clown, trip your choom and run. Don't look back, no matter what you hear."

"Before you start throwin' questions – yeah it's a grenade, and yeah, it's active. Veeeeery active."

His words snapped me back to the present, and I blinked, pulling my optics away from where they had been fixed and meeting his dark eyes. He was grinning at me, arms crossed over a beefy chest.

"No shit, huh?" My voice was coarse, guess fatigue was catching up with me again. Why exactly did mom say to run if I saw a clown?

He continued in English, with a thick accent, "Be honest, you've seen crazier mods out here, right? But this has gotta be top 10. Maybe even 5. But hey, who says it's a competition, right?" He waggeled his eyebrows, and I couldn't help but snort, taking another sip. Maybe it was the liquor talking, or maybe this gonk was exactly what I needed right now.

My very own Pagliacci.

He pressed on, emboldened by my response, "Prob'ly wanna know how I got it. Yeah yeah, everyone does."

I nodded, "Sure, why not? Gotta be an interesting story there, and it sounds like you wanna share."

He gestured to the barkeep, "Cachaça, por favor." / "Cachaça, please." My agent struggled with that one, so maybe there wasn't a direct translation. Some kind of drink, maybe?

The barkeep's voice was heartfelt, but downtrodden, "Desculpa cara, não tem mercado pra isso aqui." / "Sorry bro. No market for it here."

The big clown sighed, shaking his head, "It's a damn shame the hooch here is so bad though. Nothing's got any bite. Not enough for me, anyway. I need something that'll rattle my brain with just a sip." He glanced at my glass, "When in Rome, right? Tequila then." It didnt take long for him to have his own glass, and after a tentative sniff, he raised it in toast to me, "To siblings!"

My laugh was bitter, and I raised the glass in turn, "To gonkshit siblings." Myself, moreso than any other. She'd even combed my hair, like Okāsan had once done. Gods, I sucked. I was supposed to be the older, wiser one, damn it! The glasses met, before emptying down our respective gullets. I slammed the glass down on the counter with perhaps more force than necessary.

"Well, had a fight with my brother and the fucking genius decided it'd be cool to try out some pliers on my shncozz. So naturally I picked this as a fitting replacement. Suits me down to the ground, don't you think?"

Luckily I had already swallowed, or I would have choked. Fuckin', what?!

I turned furrowed brows towards my make-up wearing choom, who was gesturing to the barkeep for another round, "Keep 'em comin'."

I gestured, horizontal knife hand emphasizing my words, "The hell you from, that someone thinks that's a good idea?"

He grinned at me in reply, "Brazil."

I frowned, "I thought they spoke Spanish in Brazil?"

Both the clown and the barkeep laughed at that, and it was the latter who replied, "Common mistake, choom." He topped us up, and I turned my attention to my drinking partner again.

"I guess it works well enough, but aren't you worried it'll blow?" He said it was active. Should I be this close? It wasn't even a digital pin, but an old school, physical one.

"Maybe, but it'll be memorable, no? Took some getting used to, sure, but lookin' on the bright side my bar game skyrocketed."

I couldn't help but laugh again, "Now I know you're screwing with me." I was starting to get warm, but I was also starting to feel good, as most of the shitty intrusive thoughts took a back seat.

He waggled his eyebrows again, "'Hey baby, pardon me for being nosy, but that drink looks like the bomb. What is it?' Never miss a shot with that one. Ozob's guarantee."

So Ozob was my new choom's name, huh? "I'll hold you to that." I offered a hand, "Jun." Maybe I could try my pun game on Rita?

He clapped his own sausage fingers around mine, and we spent a second wrestling. Damn that was a strong grip, and we broke away after a moment with no clear victor. He eyed me specutively, "Not bad. You ever think of fighting?"

I grabbed my glass with a bit of a sway, "Do I ever."

He raised his own, "What do you do? Karate? Ninjitsu?"

I laughed, "Why, think you can take me?"

He smiled at that, taking a sip, "Maybe." His lips twisted in distaste, "Or maybe another time, after I find a proper drink." He gestured to the barkeep, who only shrugged in reply, "My biggest craving? Cachaça. And not any cachaça – talkin' 'bout the one and only No Regrets Cachaça from my hometown. Oh BOY. One shot in the morning and you'll be feeling the beat all day long... Or it'll waste ya there and then. Big diff." His sigh was heavy, "Too bad NC ain't got any. Whole place could use a kick up the ass."

And maybe he was right. Night City could use a kick up the ass, and Motoko was the one doing the kicking.

It could have been worse. One of us could have taken pliers to the other's nose. Or thrown them through a table, then beat them into unconsciousness with a bar stool. But we didn't, and we wouldn't. Motoko was trying, so I had to try too. To be a better Onii-san. For her.

And if Night City would get its ass kicked, I'd be right there, helping her do it. That was a promise.

Ozob's voice broke me out of my spiraling thoughts.

"Ay choom, we drinkin' or what?"