Orgies and Cheese
Kenji
Thewarroomsmelledlike men—sweat, cigar smoke, gun oil, leather, the sharp metallic tang of ammunition being sorted and counted.
I stood in the doorway and let the contrast hit me.
Several days ago, I'd been in here with Nyomi on a romantic date. Now that same room was packed with men—dozens of them lining the walls, gathered around tables covered in weapons, talking in low voices, checking magazines, cleaning barrels, doing the quiet preparatory work of people who understood that soon some of them might not exist anymore.
TV screens were muted and mounted along the upper walls and showed the news coverage of Tokyo rebuilding after the bombs. Subtitles appeared and disappeared. Red graphicsscrolled. Worried anchors cycled through speculation about the bombings.
I walked in. Under my arm, I carried the book from my mother’s belongings,The Rites of Burial and Becoming.
Reo waited for me at the entrance to the miniature Tokyo. He stood with his hands clasped behind his back—perfectly still, perfectly composed, his black suit unwrinkled despite the fact that the man had been partying all last night and stuffing his mouth with cheese.
As I got close, he moved his gaze to the book and then returned it to me.
Hiro walked up next to Reo and yawned, still wearing his fur coat and leather pants. No shoes were on his feet.
I frowned. “Did you even go to sleep last night?”
“We were too busy.”
I stopped in front of him. “Busy doing what?”
“We had to do the race up the claw. Don’t tell Nyomi about that by the way. I like her thinking that we are perfect gentlemen.”
I smirked. “Who won the race up the claw?”
“Reo.”
I snapped my view to him.
He apparently had to cough into his hands.
“And how are your ribs, Roar?”
“Just fine.”
“Stop pushing yourself too far.”
“When does one have the opportunity to climb a massive dragon’s claw?”
I glared.
“However, in the future I will be more careful.”
I could see the race up the claw. The party still going. Music still loud. All my men drunk.
Hiro at the bottom in his fur coat, shouting the rules nobody would follow.
The Fangs already lined up along the base, betting on each other in low voices the way men bet on horses.
Reo somewhere in the middle of it, pretending he wasn't going to climb. Pretending his ribs weren't healed enough. Pretending he wasn't already calculating which side of the claw had the best grip.
And then as soon as the signal came, the Roar moving first, scaling up a thirty-foot dragon claw.
If I had been there. . .I would have beat them all.
