"We still have the whole afternoon anyway. Got any recommendations? I actually thought the water-screen show was pretty cool."
"What was it about?"
Elena curiously reached out and touched Putato's still-damp hair, catching the faint, distinct scent of pool disinfectant lingering on him.
Pulling Elena along by the hand, Putato found himself momentarily tongue-tied. "Forgot. If we watch it again, I'll probably remember."
"Why don't we go street racing instead? On my way over here, I saw a bunch of them setting up an underground race. Looked pretty fun."
"What kind of race?!"
Elena casually tipped her hat, pointing a finger toward the red-haired kid who had just stolen the motorcycle, now hitting the throttle, rounding the corner, and disappearing down the alleyway. "That was the bike I rode over here on. We need to go get it back."
...
Cean Boulevard.
Cardboard boxes printed with all sorts of brand labels and names were stacked on both sides of the street like an improvised vehicle-inspection checkpoint. A few punks with pierced ears shook spray cans and painted a bright red tire logo right onto the cardboard barrier wall.
A long, colorful banner braided from shopping plastic bags was tied between the chain-link fences on either side of the road, keeping the revving motorcycles idling behind the starting line.
"Racers to your marks!"
"Woo-hoo! Tamaha's back in action, baby!"
The screech of rubber tearing against asphalt instantly drew the eyes of the spectators perched along the concrete pipes. "Tamaha! Didn't your ride get boosted? You actually steal it back or something?"
"Shut your mouth and count down already!"
Tamaha looked around nervously, his eyes suddenly going wide as he spotted Elena approaching at a leisurely pace, with Putato, a guy who looked suspiciously familiar, right by her side.
In that split second, it dawned on him that he'd probably stolen a bike from someone in the exact same business. Without wasting a single breath wondering how the hell they'd caught up so fast, he slammed down the throttle, burst straight through the plastic banner, and rocketed onto the street. The rest of the Bōsōzoku erupted into a storm of curses as they kicked their engines to give chase.
A rider who was still taking a drag from a cigarette by the cardboard wall scrambled to throw down his smoke and hop onto his own bike, only to see a guy and a girl casually stride over and mount his ride without asking for permission. Pulling a cleaver from his belt, he hollered out a furious threat: "Get the fuck off my baby!"
His answer was a thick wad of banknotes thrown right at his chest by Putato. "Borrowing it, bro! I'll bring it back in one piece later!"
"Stop, you bastards!"
The howling wind quickly drowned out the owner's furious shouts. Putato wrapped his arms firmly around Elena's waist, only to realize within a few seconds that the racers ahead of them were basically playing Road Rash for keeps.
In a high-stakes, high-speed underground race like this, they actually had the nerve to kick each other's bikes mid-drift!
SCREECH!
An unlucky rider whose handlebars took a direct boot to the front wheel lost control, veered off course, and plowed straight into the guardrail. The bike and the rider tumbled across the grassy shoulder in a cloud of sparks and fresh blood.
"Did we make a wrong turn?! Is this even an actual racetrack?! Why are there normal cars on this road?!"
Rounding a sharp hairpin turn, Putato was greeted by a sea of red taillights jamming the street ahead. The neon-lit high-rises flanking both sides bled a blinding glare into the smog, thoroughly polluting his vision and making it almost impossible to read the road.
"A racetrack? Nah, they just pick a random stretch of highway and set up a starting line. Only the guy who takes first place gets the cash prize. Relax, I've watched these races a bunch of times while out on my walks, I've got plenty of experience."
Before Putato could even process Elena's confident smirk, he noticed the rider on the bike right ahead of them flick his wrist, fully extending an oversized, rainbow-strobing stun baton.
"What the hell, this is an item race now?!"
SWISH!
As the stun baton came swinging toward him, Putato flicked his hand, and a thick coil of Workshop Mindcord whipped out from his sleeve, wrapping tightly around the baton.
With a single, effortless tug, Putato ripped the weapon clean out of the rider's grip and sent it sailing into the distance.
"Hold on tight!"
Wrapping his arms around Elena's waist again, Putato felt his body temperature steadily rising, stimulated by the biting headwind. The motorcycle accelerated hard, taking a sharp turn that nearly sent it skidding out of control.
BANG!
Putato planted a boot against the side of a passing cargo truck, forcefully kicking the bike back upright. He never imagined that riding a motorcycle could feel like walking a tightrope between life and death.
"Look at you, Putato, turns out you're pretty handy on a bike yourself!"
BANG, BANG, BANG!
A few more heavy kicks to the surrounding vehicles left the entire highway erupting in a chorus of furious honking.
Tail lights and headlights blurred into an endless, dizzying ribbon that flashed and vanished before his eyes. It wasn't until they completely broke out of the dense traffic that the bike finally settled back into a stable groove.
Looking back, Putato spotted several overturned motorcycles and skin-grated riders scattered across the pavement. Utterly baffled, he yelled over the engine, "Are people really line up to sign their own death warrants like this?!"
"Welcome to the Backstreets. As long as there's cash on the line, people will do anything, no matter how batshit insane it is. If you won't do it, someone else will."
Elena enthusiastically licked her lips. "I see the kid!"
Having just dodged a machete swing to take first place, Tamaha looked back with a smug grin, only to have his jaw drop in sheer horror. He hadn't expected those two lunatics to ride so aggressively. If they caught up to him, it'd be a two-on-one beatdown. Gritting his teeth, he pinned the throttle to the max.
"Shit! Going this fast, how the hell are we supposed to stop?! Are all these riders full-body cyborgs or something?!"
Even as they steadily closed the gap on the red-haired bike thief, Putato still found the entire premise of this race completely unhinged. Glancing sideways, he saw a determined Tamaha swerve violently toward them. Looking at that suicidal trajectory, a collision would probably turn all three of them into roadkill.
"Hahaha! Well, let me show you how we stop!"
Elena stopped caring about a closing Tamaha altogether. With zero hesitation, she gunned the throttle, letting the deafening roar of the engine tear across the entire stretch of asphalt.
WHOOSH!
The plastic-bag finish line was snapped clean in half by the front tire, immediately followed by a massive, towering wall of cardboard boxes stuffed with straw. Putato felt the rough cardboard scrape violently against his skin, not unlike taking an ice-cold abrasive scrub, followed by a sudden, sickening sensation of weightlessness.
SPLASH!
Hitting the water, Putato immediately kicked his way back to the surface. Looking up, he saw the unfinished bridge jutting into the air. Dozens of cardboard boxes had been knocked into the river alongside them, their contents of straw scattering loosely across the undulating ripples.
...
By the riverbank.
"Get it now? If you can't stop, you just dive into the water. If you wanna take first place, slowing down isn't an option."
Elena reached a hand down toward Putato, who had just paddled over, gripping his wrist and hauling him up in one clean motion.
"Admit it, this was way more thrilling than that lame amusement park, right?"
Patting the strands of river weed off his jacket, Putato glanced back at the water, where a recovery crew was already hooking lines to salvage the sunken bikes. He looked back at Elena, who was standing with her arms crossed, waiting for his review, and could only offer a blunt: "Without a doubt."
...
At the entrance to the broken bridge.
"Damn, that was insane! You guys are the fastest maniacs I've ever seen on two wheels, straight-up suicidal! As of right now, you're the Speed Kings of Cina District! I'm personally gonna spray-paint your names right onto the bridge support pillars."
"If you're up for it, we've got another round going down near the central commercial district tomorrow. Only riders who take the Speed King title three times qualify for the Iron Knights' annual grand finals."
Elena cheerfully scooped up the cash prize while the surrounding spectators gawked at the historical track record that had just been shattered. The giant display screen overhead was looping multi-angle camera replays of their wild finish.
[Congratulations on your appointment to the Iron Knights]
[Acquired Talent: Speed Rider]
[Description: The second I let off the throttle, I die.]
[Effect 1: You gain advanced vehicular mastery.]
[Effect 2: While moving at high speeds, you significantly reduce kinetic impact damage.]
Putato wasn't surprised that he could farm talents off loose, informal outfits like this; it had been the exact same story back with the Gladiator Gang.
Though, shouldn't this be called "Brick Rider" instead?
"Wait, what about the red-haired kid?!"
It was only now that Putato remembered their original target. Scanning the crowd, he realized the kid had vanished into thin air ages ago. He turned to remind Elena, but she just whipped her hair, sending a shower of river droplets flying straight into his face.
"Who gives a crap about him anyway?"
"Whatever, who cares? I stole that motorcycle right out of your company's parking lot anyway. By the way, are you sure that whole Urban Girl stream of yours isn't gonna blow up in your face? Getting tangled with the Index is a massive headache, you know."
...
Elena nonchalantly picked at the edge of Putato's bandages with her fingernails, like a cat endlessly swatting at a glass cup.
Putato stared with utter disgust at a cold glass of iced coffee sitting on the nightstand, teeming with floating dead cockroaches. The concoction looked less like a drink and more like cockroach-infused moonshine, with a thin layer of greasy film slicking across the surface. Swallowing down his nausea, he looked at Tamaha, who was cowering behind the wooden bedframe, and said, "Hey. Haven't we met somewhere before?"
"Boss! I literally rode three whole laps around Cina District and the commercial hub, how the hell did you still track me down?! Fine, I'll just give the damn bike back, okay?!"
Clutching a mattress peppered with cigarette burns, Tamaha pleaded for his life in absolute defeat.
"No, what I mean is... didn't I borrow a motorcycle from you a while back?"
Seeing that neither of them was making a move to kill him, Tamaha raised his head in confusion. The woman wasn't even looking in his direction, still flicking at the bandages like she was picking off fleas, while the guy, now with his Eye Wrap and facial wraps removed, looked painfully familiar. "It was you! You're the bastard who made me miss the Void Fist recruitment window! Those guys are absolute hardasses; show up thirty minutes late and they slam the door in your face, no exceptions!"
"My buddy made the cut and walked away with a fat signing bonus, and my girlfriend ended up dumping me to run off with him!"
Hearing that, Putato couldn't help but crack a dry laugh. This idiot had basically dodged a bullet and walked away with his life. Not wanting to waste any more time, Putato said, "Consider the bike your compensation, then. Oh, and by the way, Void Fist's southern branch got completely wiped off the map yesterday. Next time you think about joining a Syndicate, you'd better check with the Urban Girl for advice first."
Ignoring the confused, dumbfounded shouts behind him, Putato sidestepped the junkies nodding off in the alleys, completely out of their minds, only to realize the sun had already set.
Yet the second he stepped outside, he was greeted by a gang of people in wheelchairs, propelling themselves with either their arms or single legs, furiously racing down the street and bashing into each other. A one-armed man violently swinging his crutch to bust another guy's wheel left Putato completely flabbergasted.
"Elena, don't tell me there's an actual wheelchair racing league around here too? Who the hell is even sponsoring this?!"
Elena, having finally snapped off the last of his bandages, glanced casually toward the street and replied with complete indifference: "Nobody sponsors it, obviously. Who gives a damn about a bunch of useless cripples? They're just finding their own fun. Otherwise, they'd end up like the rats, fading into total obscurity. At least with a race, everyone's name gets written down on the leaderboard."
"Why, you interested in joining?"
"Nah, I just figure setting up an Urban Girl community center might bring some peace and quiet to this neighborhood. At least card games and chess tournaments won't leave people with broken arms and shattered legs."
Putato immediately contacted Obana. Unlike before, she didn't question whether it would turn a profit and agreed to handle the logistics right away.
Elena didn't seem particularly interested in the idea. Instead, she flashed a mischievous grin and playfully nipped at Putato's right ear. "Let's go mess around at the Depreciation Gang's place. They've got this super quiet room where people actually pay good money just to sit and meditate."
...
Depreciation Gang.
The entire chamber was lined with waffle-patterned, pale-yellow acoustic foam. The isolation was so intense Putato could clearly hear the steady thrum of his own heartbeat. Elena pressed her cheek greedily against his neck, entranced by the rhythmic rushing of blood through his carotid artery.
"What's so fun about this place? Doesn't really seem like your style."
Putato's mouth was promptly covered by her hand. Looking down, he was startled to see Elena keeping her eyes shut, desperately trying to rein herself in as she listened. The sound of her own blood circulating grew louder and more frantic, giving Putato a very bad feeling.
"No matter how many times I experience it... your blood smells, and sounds, so damn sexy."
What kind of unhinged compliment was that?
"Wait! Not here. Palara's room must've cost a fortune to build, don't trash the place."
"Tch. If you feel so bad for her, you pay for the damages, then."
...
The next day.
Palara took a single glance inside the soundproof meditation chamber, then turned back to look at an awkward Putato with an utterly bizarre expression. "So you're telling me an old injury flared up, and that's why the place looks like a crime scene?"
"Where's the other lady who came in with you?"
Using his communicator screen as a mirror, Putato examined his reflection and scrubbed furiously at his neck, but the dense, dark cluster of bite marks refused to fade. His facial bandages had been shredded to ribbons, leaving him without so much as a scrap to cover them up with. "She took off already. Put the property damages on my tab, and... seriously, my bad about this."
"I just hope you won't treat my establishment as a love motel next time. Cleaning this room isn't as simple as swapping out the bedsheets, you know."
Palara shook her head, the silver accents dangling from her gray mask chiming softly.
Straightening his clothes, Putato noticed that every single employee working here wore an identical mask. Even when clients called out for service, they addressed every single staff member as "Palara." He hadn't expected the Depreciation Gang to pull off such a smooth, rapid corporate pivot.
Palara reached out to push Putato's cash-bearing hand back down, then asked in a measured tone: "Would it be possible for the Depreciation Gang to place a custom order for a batch of Urban Girl statues? I've noticed a lot of our patrons are quite fond of her. It would provide significant assistance to our mutual-aid counseling sessions."
"No problem on my end, but... aren't you guys running an anonymous confession booth? What's an Urban Girl statue gonna do for you?"
Waving two attendants over to sanitize and repair the room, Palara let a distinct chuckle slip through her mask. "A good number of the people seeking psychological counseling here are deeply religious. Displaying her image is the only way to avoid sectarian conflicts between them."
Putato was left utterly speechless. Trying to understand the logic of cultists in this city was a fool's errand. Was the Urban Girl functioning as some kind of universal religious currency now? In the end, he still paid out the nose for the repairs anyway. "Sure, whatever works. Just get in touch with Obana and give her your exact specs."
...
K Nest, Candy Avenue.
The street was lined with novelty gashapon machines dispensing bizarrely flavored hard candies. Strolling past, Putato leaned in for a closer look and spotted a laundry list of unhinged flavors: Bone Ash, Wet Soil, Boiled Water, and Fried Chicken. It was genuinely hard to imagine anyone actually spending money on this crap.
The moment he stepped into a wildly popular Fried Chicken joint, his communicator buzzed against his chest. He originally thought it was the notification for his Fixer promotion, only to see that familiar anonymous caller ID flashing on the display.
"Dear Grade 3 Fixer, Mr. Vanda. We are delighted to see that you have arrived at the designated coordinates as scheduled. Moving forward, we require you to recover all targeted assets within a strict one-week timeframe. To optimize operational efficiency, the assignment will be segmented into discrete sub-commissions."
Sounds courteous on the surface, but Putato hadn't forgotten Xiao's warning or Obana's past experiences. The executive management of a Wing wasn't going to cough up money easily just because they were swimming in corporate cash.
"I don't like taking anonymous gigs, and I like half-assed partnerships even less. Let's lay all our cards on the table. I'm aware that your Corporation maintains close business ties with L Corporation. What I want is a heavyweight recommendation letter penned by your higher-ups."
Even though every Wing of the World operated under strict information-security protocols, with an extremist wing like N Corp outright banning video-recording tech, lateral corporate transfers and career shifts were still commonplace. In fact, the entirety of The City was basically an interconnected mega-conglomerate carved up by the Wings; even the homeless rats in the alleys formed a functional layer of that corporate ecosystem.
After repeatedly and aggressively shutting down the other party's attempts to stay behind a burner profile, Putato finally forced the liaison to accept a face-to-face video feed. The caller turned out to be an energetic young guy who gave off the exact same vibrant energy as Lesti, that unmistakable, starry-eyed corporate loyalty and idolization of the Wings.
"Greetings, Fixer Vanda. I am your direct liaison for this operation. You may refer to me as Misasa."