Whether it was Atlas, Umbramire, or Tata, Yama spent many a night in taverns, sometimes with his comrades, but mostly alone. Tonight was no different, save for the fact that he was in Nerconor—the land of the living dead—and not on the western edge. It was a nice change of pace, he had to admit, not getting shot at or kicked in the head by horses.
Yama knew that ordering several of the strongest drinks on bar’s menu solely because his immense size granted him immense tolerance was improper for a samurai. Did he know it eight Whisked-Aways ago? Yes, but he also thought that was a stupid name for a drink, only chosen because of the high alcohol rating. Even with the 20% mutant markup, it was still the most booze for the buck.
Besides, if I was in danger, the bartender would have cut me off, Yama concluded, pleased with himself. Two drinks in, such logic may have had a leg to stand on when bartender wasn’t pouring drinks as if failure to do so would get her eaten by the grey giant, bone and all. Her pale, grey-white skin was tight in some places like her face and loose enough for adjectives like drooping to apply around her elbows. Bien reigned where flesh fled her body, and Yama’s mind played a creaking sound every time she moved. Maybe that was just his own bones moving though. Regardless of the audio that may or may not have lingered around her like a ghost, she had shoulder length black hair, brittle like rust flakes.
(I didn’t think you were going to eat me,) a female voice says, entering the narration. Our brutish hero shrugs this off and continues with the story.
And it’s not like I do this often, Yama reasoned as he took a sip of the radioactive-orange drink, the heat spreading through his mouth and down his throat; if he opened his mouth that he’d unleash a torrent of fire and burn the cute little bartender, which would be a shame. Yama kept his mouth closed, letting out a content sigh once the moment had passed. Tomorrow, we’re back on the straight and narrow like a good samurai. Tonight, I want to get fucked up.
Maybe I’ll get my own ship after this job, Yama thought, swishing the drink around in its glass. Danzo and Targe already have their own ships, and father didn’t have any problem with Zero building his. Doesn’t he know I could be far more effective if I didn’t have to catch a ride all of the time? Yama imagined his father was there and in the rare mood to listen to his fourth son. He has to know that. Why else would he give the others their own ship?
Yama pulled himself from these thoughts with another drink before scanning over the mostly empty bar. “Exshuse me,” he said as the bartender came by again, realizing his slurred speech for the first time that night. “Could you please shange the shannel on that shcreen?”
The girl nodded slowly. “What would you like?” she asked, tiptoeing around each word as if debating whether or not Yama would be able to understand each one.
I can fucking read, write, and talk, Yama thought, picking up on the space between the girl’s words, the same kind he had dealt with in the Yakuza and queen’s court. Is it really so surprising of an idea? “NU, please, if you have it,” Yama said before clarifying, “Nimese Universal.”
She scoffed. “I know what it means and yes we have it.” Yama would have preferred her condescension to this bitchery. “I’m not dumb,” the girl added, the like you that Yama could see on her lips going unspoken.
(I didn’t think that at all,) the girl says with a small pout.
(I’m used to other people saying it, forgive me,) our hero responds before turning back to the story.
The girl flipped the channel before tending to the dwindling bar patrons. NU thought that at this hour—well, whatever time it was several million light years away back in Ni—a reel of sumo wrestlers would be a good use of airtime. Would prefer some actual news, Yama thought with a huff, only to giggle when the two fighters slammed into each other.
“Could you do that?” the bartender asked sometime later, pulling Yama from his giddy stupor. “I mean, you’re—”
“Calling me fat?” Yama drawled, smiling just a bit so the girl wouldn’t be scared.
(I was slightly scared,) the girl says, (but you would be too if you were in my shoes. You’re huge and armed and were drunk.)
(I wasn’t half drunk!)
She bops him on the head. (You were eight drinks in, you lug!) she exclaims before sitting on the nearby couch, leaving the giant to rub his head.
His charm didn’t seem to work as the girl waved her hands defensively, as if that would actually stop Yama. “Nonono,” she said quickly, her words piling up like shuttles. “It’s just you’re the biggest Nimese, biggest person, I’ve ever seen in my life.”
Live a little, girl. There are bigger fish than me. “Yea, I did that once or twice, but bounty hunting pays better.”
“Quite the career change,” she said, eliciting a chuckle from Yama.
He shrugged. “Maybe. Both hire me for my size, though.”
The girl moved to clean a spot two customers had just left. “Bounty hunting seems more dangerous.”
“Most of the people I hunt come quietly,” Yama said. “Big enough dog with a loud enough bark will never need to bite,” Yama recited from memory. Father would be proud of that one.
“Big enough dog and you won’t need to bark at all.”
Yama smiled. “That’s good. I’ll have to remember it.”
“The name is Claire Huntley, if you want to quote me, though, I do expect a cut of the royalties.”
“Yama Kikuchi,” Yama said, each syllable quieter than the last as Claire moved away. Companion gone, Yama turned back to the broadcast.
Queen’s samurai to compete in universal tournament, the ribbon read as the broadcast showed a Nimese man with slicked black hair—should have had a fire hazard sticker with all that gel—and a beard of stubble. The embroidered tigers on his gold-accented, red kimono eyed Yama hungrily, and he could hear their wet snarls through the projector. Along his hips were two sheaths of matching lacquered wood, one holding a katana and the other a wakizashi.
(What’s the difference?) The girl asks (They’re just swords.)
Our hero looks at the girl like he’s going to hurl. (A wakizashi is shorter, while a katana is closer to an actual sword in length. Mine is a katana, but probably unwieldy for anybody else,) our hero says before continuing the story.
It’s a nice kimono, Yama had to admit. Too bad the threads are wasted on one of the queen’s dogs. The samurai class had always had nice threads, which it seemed had only gotten better since the Nimese queen had declared herself empress and created several new provinces for her occult friends to govern.
“I’m talking to Jira Kano,” a Nimese reporter said in Nimese as she held the microphone for the man. “Jira, you are going to compete in this tournament in Tata. Do any of the other competitors give you any kind of pause?”
Jira grabbed the microphone, nearly yanking the reporter from the ground. “I fear none of the other competitors. They will all fall, either to me or before me in this tournament. My queen has assigned me this battle, and I will bring her victory.”
“Such confidence!” the reporter exclaimed, eyes glossy with admiration. “Which competitors do you look forward to fighting the most?”
“Ginevra Walker, of the Blades of Nightfall,” Jira rattled off. “That woman has used a twisted alterism to kill several of my fellow samurai, and for that I will relish in her death. I only hope that our queen will bless me with the fortune to be the one to do so.”
“Well said! Let us all pray to the Eternal Queen and the Spirits of Takamagahara that Jira will represent us well in this contest and bring victory and glory to our empire,” the girl finished before the broadcast switched to the next anchor.
You’re one to talk of twisted alterisms, Yama thought, gripping his glass together with each word out of Jira’s mouth. When the news changed, the glass finally shattered, drawing Yama’s mind from the broadcast and to the fact that his hand was now coated in sticky alcohol.
Claire scurried across the bar, towel in hand. “Hey, I just cleaned that! I’m cutting you off!”
Fair enough, Yama thought dismally. “Sorry,” he said. “Can I help clean this up?”
“Some napkins will soak it up fine,” Claire commanded as she got a glass-shard bucket and a new rag while Yama dabbed up the liquid. “You’re still cut off, and I’m adding a glass to your tab.”
“Fine,” Yama grumbled as he stood to leave. “I was done drinking anyway.”
Cheap was one word that could describe the room Yama rented above the bar. Suffocating also worked, and Yama had to duck just to enter. Like a coffin in here, he lamented. Moving into the even smaller bathroom, Yama brushed his teeth with the supplies in his backpack before moving to bed. It was too small, even diagonally, and Yama threw the covers and pillows to the ground. Why can’t I deduct the cost of a bed? he wondered before sleep took him. I never use them anyway.
The girl shrugs. (Girl has to make money somehow.)
(I’m already paying through the nose for my drinks,) our hero says under his breath. When the girl shoots him an icy glare, he ducks into his shoulders. He knows what she’ll say; you come in, everyone else leaves. (Nothing, forget it.)
Yama remembered Kano from before when his family had fled west-space and the Nimese empire 45 years ago. Kano had been in court for the queen—or whatever extravagant title she chose nowadays—an aide barely above being forgotten, and certainly not important enough to warrant a higher title. He got the small tasks like tidying up, writing letters and forms, and occasionally silencing somebody who spoke ill of the queen’s dark sorceries or her occult buddies.
Kano’s new kimono left little explaining that he had been promoted and to a high position. Makes sense, Yama reasoned. When his family and friends had staged their rebellion and subsequent flight, Kano had been amongst the samurai to assail and surround the rebellion’s ringleader, Tanjiro Ieyasu. In the following days, the queen sent them a video of a dismembered Tanjiro stuck on several pieces of bamboo, using her power to keep him alive for the duration. Every frame had been seared into Yama’s mind, so when the little samurai who stood silently by the queen appeared on the news 45 years later, Yama recognized him instantly.
His mind played that scene on loop, unbidden. The queen’s mouth moved, but no words came to Yama over the groans of his friend. Yama knew the queen’s hand movements, having replayed the horrid scene enough to act it out himself in a one-man play. With each flick of her hand that she used to drive the bamboo deeper, the groaning grew louder, stretching longer. After an hour, Yama began to do the voice of the queen, figuring he still had hours left to go. The damned waiting was always the worst part.
“Ishimura, you can still return and swear—”The queen, Kano, and Ieyasu all exploded into inky black everything around them. This is new, Yama thought as he looked around the darkness. Is Ieyasu’s mangled corpse gonna come out at me like some shitty movie? Would serve me right for getting drunk like that.
The inky blobs coalesced into a hollowed-out cylinder of night sky with a campfire at the bottom. Yama felt a wind across his hands and looked down to see his slate-grey, poncho coat and T-shirt replaced with a simple red kimono, no extra embroidery. Oh, it’s here again, Yama thought as he looked across the campfire to find its sole denizen, dressed like Yama had been just moments ago. The man was giant like he was and had the same mercury-grey skin. His beard was longer and uncombed—hiding his scowl marvelously—and his hair flowed freely to his shoulders while Yama’s had been kept in a tight bun. “You could kill him, you know,” he said, each word another press of nails into Yama’s mind.
“I have another job at the moment,” Yama said, though he did not feel his mouth move. It never did when he talked to this midnight marauder.
The man waved his hand dismissively. “You don’t actually want to go there. Its gonna be a big tournament and you’re gonna see Kano’s ugly mug every day for the next couple of weeks, knowing you could kill him.”
“There will be other opportunities in the future. Father will see to that.”
The man shrugged. “Maybe for one of the better sons, the ones who get ships. For big dumb Yama we have”—he man pulled out a piece of paper from inside his coat—”Pharan drug lord. Personally, I’d rather put this fire out with my face.”
“Yes, I know,” Yama said through his teeth. “This is the way of things, for now.”
The man shrugged again. “Doesn’t have to be. You bring home a samurai head on a platter, and you just might get your pick of the jobs in the future, maybe even a ship to go with it.”
I killed plenty of samurai before we left home, but Kano killed Ieyasu, Yama reasoned. That counts for something, right?
But so does doing the job you are assigned. That it is assigned to me should be enough on its own, Yama told himself. “Maybe,” he said, “but I do not think father would appreciate me dirtying his platter with a head. I have heard enough of this, be gone.” He batted his hand at the specter, sending him to rise with the flaming motes in the air until all was black
Yama tossed and turned, batting away sleep as it tried to bring him into its embrace. His eye creaked open, and the 3:07 displayed in red from the nightstand clock stabbed at his eyes like a jammed finger. Sighing, he forced himself onto shaky arms and out of bed. “Whatever, I wasn’t getting any sleep anyway,” he mumbled as he dropped to his feet.
He stood and straightened himself, back creaking like a rope drawn until it frayed. His knees screeched like rusty rusty gears as bone ground against bone, and Yama winced. He had had new cartilage sewn into him just weeks ago, and now it began to tear again. He had some funds, but the numbers slammed into his gut, air fleeing through his open mouth. He stumbled into an awkward, bent-kneed hunch, his body looking roughly like a question mark from the side. Ugly as it was, it was still better than looking at him from the front, he figured, with his busted boulder of a face and a grin that stopped just short of approachable.
His knees sighed in relief, and when the fire in his calves died, Yama made the bed. He held the sheets carefully, each fold made with mathematical precision that would have otherwise escaped Yama. Satisfied, he retrieved his backpack and pulled a black toolbox from it. His skin rippled lightly, and a raw itchiness raked down his body. He had woken just in time.
Inside were his tools, several pills, jarred slurries, needles, and needles better suited to sealing holes in drywall than anything approaching medical use. 21 in total, some taken daily, others weekly; all needed just to stand and run as his job demanded. He grabbed one of each pill and popped them into his mouth, grinding them with his teeth and telling himself they were candy. They weren’t, never would be, but they wouldn’t be any better if he told himself how bad they tasted.
He grabbed his powder-smudged scale and weighed out the slurries before pouring them into a large, dented cup. The final mixture was a black-green sludge, and Yama counted down from 32 as he drank the bitter, oily mixture. His belch brought it back to him, thicker and grittier than it had been. He wiped his mouth with a napkin before grabbing his needles. At least they were clean.
The final drugs could not be mixed, much to Yama’s dismay, their contents strong enough to necessitate a different limb or large muscle for each. Morphabol—the last and largest of the needle drugs—took five minutes just to pump into him, after needing to be left out for 20 minutes. If his thumb fell too far or lingered too high at any point—no, he wasn’t going to mess it up again. A cold numbness spread through his left thigh, and Yama let himself sigh as if he had just come. He hadn’t, and his mind had long since stopped falling for his tricks.
He shuddered as the drugs took effect inside him, passing over him like a cold wind. The itchiness subsided as the micro-guts anchored to his muscles lapped up their first serving of chemical sludge like starved dogs. The parasites gave his skin a lumpy, almost tumorous appearance, as if his muscles had been cloned and braided. It was through their gluttony that the chemical torrent of steroids could be broken down and redistributed without melting Yama, and some days, he wished they would.
The organoids readjusted their anchoring to his muscles as they sucked down the chemicals, mouths gripping tight like lampreys. Like the itchiness, it subsided like a bastard brute of a sibling smothered to sleep, but Yama felt no comfort. This had to happen everyday. This was duty. If he ever stopped feeding them his muscles, they’d wake in search of other food, and the growth hormone produced by his acromegaly could only sate them for so long. “Gluttony begets gluttony; action begets action,” he muttered once again as he left his room, words sticking to the top of his mouth like ash.
Yama stumbled into the bar, finding Claire perched on a stool with her head resting between her arms as she watched a holo-projector. In her tiredness, her skin sank, cheeks sloughing closer to her chin like a rockslide coming to rest in a valley. Her limbs bore the same tired resignation, and in the spaces the skin vacated, tendons and bones were made known to the world. She didn’t seem to mind, not more than she minded the 7’3” Nim coming toward her, anyway. “Bar’s closed.”
And I didn’t even get drunk like I wanted, pity. “ It’s too early to drink anyway,” Yama said, having resolved to never drink before noon since he left home. Well, Ishimasa and the code of Tenshi had resolved such things for his children. Whether his brothers obeyed, Yama could only guess. Targe and Gin—the second and third sons—probably didn’t drink much, before noon—notice the italics—Zero didn’t drink at all, and Danzo—the first son—pounded booze like he misheard designated driver as designated drinker.
“It’s 3AM.”
“Like I said, too early.”
“3AM is late.”
“Early or late, I’m not drinking. Does that work for you, your highness?” Yama asked with a light bow.
Claire rolled her eyes and Yama was concerned they’d fall like marbles from her head. “Fine by me. I’m just waiting for the next bartender to come in.”
“Can I order breakfast?” Yama asked.
Claire shook her head. “No. My cook left.”
“Can I make breakfast? I’ll pay and make you something as well.”
Claire looked Yama up and down before nodding, once. “Sure.” She grabbed a menu and flipped it open the breakfast section, landing her finger on the cinnamon roll pancakes. “If you break anything, I’m charging you double for it.”
Yama rolled his eyes. Typical. Why’d I expect anything different? “How about a wager, then?”
Claire shrugged. “More than happy to take your money in my establishment.”
“I’m going to blow your socks off with this dish and my tab is cleared,” Yama proposed.
“And when you don’t?”
“I’ll pay my tab, double,” Yama said. Not a chance. Cinnamon roll pancakes? Child’s play.
“Deal.”
“And you have to say something nice about me,” Yama added quickly. Too far? No. I’m winning this.
“Don’t push it,” Claire batted her hand at Yama. “You have pancakes to make, now go.”
Yama strode into the kitchen and ignited the pinions to low before searching the fridge and cabinets for ingredients. He found his Eggsactly Right, SuperDuper Sugar and faux-flour, the first item being stored in a rubber-chicken looking squeeze bottle so the fake egg liquid would come out of the chicken’s ass. Synthetic, all of it, Yama thought drearilu as he looked over his ingredients. If I had genuine ingredients, this would be nothing, the giant thought as he scanned for anything to cover the chemical taste of the ingredients in front of.
No ingredient that wasn’t a mix of chemicals and over-concentrated flavorings came to Yama’s aid. If I cook it longer, that should reduce it further and get rid of some of the medicine taste, he reasoned, drawing on years of cooking mostly expired ration cubes to something that approached edible. It could be done, and every merchants with more than three years under their belt had a recipe they swore by. Yama—in the game for a damn hot minute now—had plenty of adages to get him through. It would be a matter of timing to reduce the chemicals while not making the ingredients too crispy. Luckily, my father practically beat timing into me, Yama thought with a smile.
He doused Claire’s eggs with herbs and spicesa—cheap enough to be genuine, usually. He did the same for his meal, laying the salt on heavy like winter’s hail. His micro-guts liked salt and small appeasements staved off worse consequences. So Yama figured, only knowing that they’d writhe and moan inside him like horrible children if they didn’t get their lick. What he wouldn’t give to eat alone, just once, maybe with a pretty girl.
Yama emerged from the kitchen with three plates; two held three cinnamon roll pancakes and the third—balanced on his forearm—held a three-egg omelet that he planned on annihilating. “As the western Atlasians say, bon appetit moiselle,” Yama said in an exaggerated accent, curling every syllable.
Claire scoffed. “I hope you can afford to eat those pancakes.”
“I’m not paying,” he said sternly, holding her gaze and offering a fork. “Eat.”
Claire poked gingerly the top pancake before severing a piece, leaving a thin column of steam behind. The smell of cinnamon fled the cut, drawing the nose to the center of the swirl pattern Yama had designed like a maelstrom of flavor. Claire looked at Yama and gulped, her eyes embarrassed like a child who had gotten stuck in a tree with no descent plan. She quickly brought the fork to her mouth and stuffed the morsel in, moaning as it went down. “Did you bring genuine ingredients in that pack of yours?” Claire asked, already loading her fork.
Yama smiled lazily and pulled the plate away. “Does that mean I won?”
“Yes!” Claire exclaimed. “Now give me back my pancakes!”
Yama slid the pancakes back to her before cutting into his food. Orange cheese flowed like lava from the omelet, cubes of ham forming a slag atop it. In Yama’s mind, a pig charged through an egg before flying on chicken wings into the swirling orange sun.
“That’s amazing,” Claire said, the last bits of her second pancake still in her mouth. “How long are you staying in town for?”
“Leaving in a few hours. Why?”
“Just trying to do the math if I can afford to hire you as a live in chef,” Claire said. “It’d be tight, but I think it’d be worth it.”
All of Yama’s bones locked tight with nervousness, seizing around his surgery bloated heart like a choking fist. People sent him out to do things; rarely did they want him back, and when they did it was to deliver bad news or convey job details in person so he didn’t cleft confused. He forced himself to scoff, keeping his shoulders high around his head. “It can’t pay better than bounty hunting.”
“That guy, from last night”—Claire pointed at the projectors above them—”is he your target?”
“Not my current one,” Yama said softly. It might be a decade before we put the nails in Kano at the rate father moves us around. “No. I’m going to Janus for this next gig.”
“You don’t look too happy about that.”
“I’m not, but my employer is paying the bills, so I go where he says.” Yama shrugged. “I’ll get him one day.”
“Could get him now. That tournament had a big prize pool. 150 million runemarks.”
Yama’s eyes widened and he ran the numbers. That’s ship money right there.
Father wouldn’t like me leaving for a ship, Yama reasoned. No, this is foolish, chaotic. “I can’t just join a tournament in a week and besides, there’s no guarantee I win.”
Claire scoffed. “As big as you are”—she gestured her hand overYama’s body—”I’m sure you can manage to get one of the open entry spots and I’m sure you can win. You’re basically built to be a prizefighter. When you win, maybe you come back here and sponsor this little pub as the pub of choice of the great Yama Kikuchi,” Claire wiggled her fingers to imitate a storm, “and make me some more pancakes.”
Can’t go there for a ship, Yama reasoned, but bringing back Kano’s head? He killed father’s best friend and a good number of our allies, still is hunting them, likely.
Yama shook his head. No amount of numbers could justify abandoning the tenets, and he was never the best at math anyway. Showing that the samurai still live, that honor didn’t die, that would be worth it. Yama pulled out his handheld dex-device before searching for zip-ships to Tata. Father isn’t going to like this, he thought as he selected one that left in a few hours. Yama slid Claire the remains of his own pancakes. “Will you cheer for me?”
Claire nodded. “Of course.” She pushed Yama’s shoulder lightly. “Now go win that thing.”
Yama left the tavern and stepped into the cold morning air. Like most times in Nerconorian space, it was cloudy and Yama knew rain wasn’t far behind. Pulling up his hood, Yama trekked to the zip-station with a new target on his mind and the taste of eggs and ham in his mouth.
Order is the highest virtue for a samurai to observe, for from it flows structure, truth, and beauty.
The Tenets of Tenshi