Ranko exhaled slowly through her teeth, fidgeting nervously with her fingers as she took in her surroundings. She wished the taxi hadn't already pulled away from the curb, or she might well have dived back into the back seat.
"Would you relax? Seriously, girl!" Hitomi laughed, flashing a winning smile to a doorman wearing a tuxedo shirt and a red jacket as the glass door was pulled open for her. "We're gonna have a good time. We're gonna drink. We - well, most of us - are gonna get laid. Fun will be had by all. Take a chill pill, already!"
The anxious redhead caught a glimpse of herself in the mirrored wall behind the green marble fountain that burbled idly in the posh hotel's lobby. She was wearing a shimmering emerald cocktail dress, covered in sequins that almost made it look silver when the light caught it just right. It was slit up the right side almost high enough to expose her underwear. The dress had cost more than two-thirds what she and Akane paid a month in rent for their little one-bedroom apartment in Minato, and she still felt entirely naked in it. "A chill pill?! 'Tomi, I don't think I can afford one of the peppermints in that candy dish over there."
"Then it's a good thing everything's free once we get upstairs," Emi rebutted. She swept a curl of blonde hair out of her eyes with fingers encased in a pastel blue opera glove. "Crazy thing about being rich - as soon as you can afford everything, they stop making you pay for it."
The redhead shrugged her shoulders. "Maybe I'll find out one day, if we keep cranking out albums. But today? Fuck, Ems. I really don't feel like I belong here."
Emi stepped in front of her friend, blocking her path and stopping her short. She reached out, firmly gripping the shorter girl's shoulders with both of her hands. "You listen to me, now. You are a motherfuckingsuperstar.You've performed for… well, hell, probably millions by now, and the only reason you're not loaded is 'cause Kondo's a fucking cheapskate. Hell, me and 'Tomi only got an invite tonight 'cause we brought you." Emi gave Ranko a slight shake to get her attention. "The only thing that's gonna make these people think you don't belong is if you act like you don't belong. You understand?"
Ranko could only manage a sheepish nod in reply.
"Good. Now, keep your shit together, and act like you've been there before. C'mon." Emi led her two companions through the lobby to an elevator with a brass mirrored double door, pressing the button to summon it. The echoing clacks of three sets of heels on the marble floor felt like the sound of impending doom to Ranko, despite the effervescent excitement of her friends.
"What if I don't know how to act like I've been here before?" Ranko asked quietly once the elevator doors closed behind her. She resumed fidgeting with her fingernails, brushing the black velvet purse dangling from her shoulder behind her hip.
"It's simple," Hitomi insisted. "Always smile. Always. Don't ask questions you don't already know the answers to. And, ya know… be a lady. That should be easy enough, right?"
If you only know how hard that still is sometimes, girl, Ranko thought darkly as the elevator chimed to indicate the top floor had been reached. You can do this, Ranko. Just… make them think you're a princess and the whole fucking world revolves around you. No big deal. Just pretend you're Mei and it's your birthday. You got this.
The trio emerged into another small lobby area on the top floor. A short hallway led to a small, intimate lounge area off to the left, furnished mostly with red velvet couches and plush high-backed chairs that Ranko thought would not seem out of place in the throne room of some Scandinavian queen somewhere.
On the right side of the hall, a large restaurant sprawled across most of the visible space on the building's top floor. The steakhouse had glass doors and walls. Probably 'cause the people who eat there just wanna show off that they can afford to, Ranko mused. Through the untinted windows, Ranko could see a great many couples enjoying their romantic dinners, all dressed almost as formally as she was. It reminded her a bit of Maison Ikkoku, the high-end French fusion restaurant where Akane had proposed to her.
For the second time.
The strangest thing to Ranko, however, was not that she did not feel as if she fit in with the other guests at the party. It was that she saw none.
"Um, 'Tomi? You sure you got the address right?"Ranko made a polite, if awkward, nod to a man in his mid-thirties who made eye contact with her through the transparent wall from his table in the classy steakhouse. "I swear," she grumbled under her breath, "if you made me dress like this for some kind of prank, I'm pushing your narrow little ass out of the plane."
With a scoff and a wave of her hand, Hitomi began making her way down the narrow walkway between the two businesses. "Would you please have a little faith?!" She hung a left, making her way past the smoking lounge. The girls found themselves in a windowless corridor that appeared to come to a dead end as soon as it passed the lounge.
Undeterred, Hitomi led the trio to the end of the hall. There, they found a narrow alcove branching off to their left. It seemed to be designed to remain unnoticed from more than a few meters away, and the silk ficus plants bookending its entrance only aided in its camouflage. At the center of the space, which measured a scant four square meters, an enormous man in a dark suit stood with his back to the wall. Something about his presence reminded Ranko of Lance, who she'd had to plead with for the better part of an hour to convince him to take the evening off and leave her in the care of her friends.
The large European man said something in Chinese, which none of the women understood. After his question had gone unanswered for a few moments, he repeated it in English. "Can I help you girls?"
Hitomi nodded, walking closer and flashing him a bright smile. "Hello! We're friends of Marconi."
The guard nodded sharply. "Understood. Have a good time, ladies." He turned to the wall, pressing a small silver button that his body had obscured. The wood paneling of the back wall of the alcove, which had appeared to just be the wall itself, slid open to reveal another elevator. Its entire interior was lined with brass railings and green marble wall treatments.
"Whoa!" Ranko marveled under her breath, emitting a low whistle as she joined her friends in the little cubicle. There was only one button inside, indicating the elevator had but a single destination. Emi pressed it, and the doors swept closed. With a quiet whir, the elevator began to rise under their heels.
In moments, a chipper chime played in the musicless lift, and the door slid open again. Ranko found herself on the rooftop of the hotel building. There had to be hundreds of people milling about in conversation. Another few dozen danced on the rooftop's southeast corner, under the thrall of a college-aged disc jockey positioned behind a sound system that rivaled even the one at Steam. Servers of both genders darted among the crowd in black slacks and tuxedo shirts, carrying silver trays of hors d'oeuvres that seemed to be depleted mere seconds after they were filled. The center of the party space was dominated by a long swimming pool that glowed aqua owing to the lights installed in its walls below the surface of the water, though no one occupied it at present.
"Marconi? Who's that? The dude hosting this thing?" Ranko tried to mask the intimidation in her eyes, but doubted she was succeeding.
Emi shook her head, seeming far less concerned about being overheard than her friend was. "No, goofball! Marconi is the guy that invented the radio. And, since this is a party for music people…"
"Actually," interjected Hitomi, wagging a finger in the air. "It's not. I watched this documentary on one of the flights - to Perth, I think it was - and they said that Marconi just sort of got credit for it. Apparently, it was actually some guy named Nikola Tes-"
Emi firmly clasped both of her hands on her chattering girlfriend's shoulders, interrupting her train of thought mid-sentence. "Hitomi? Babygirl? Light of my life? Listen to me a second, okay? You know I love you, right? And, like, later on, on the plane, or in our room or something, you can tell us all about this boring shit until you're blue in the face. I promise. But right now, at this moment? Every second you spend yakking about dead science guys is a second we don't spend drinking free top-shelf booze and getting laid by billionaires. So, could we maybe do me a teensy little favor, and fucking lock in a little bit?!"
Ranko could only shake her head with an amused scoff.
"Whoa," Hitomi mumbled, unable to fully conceal her gawking as the trio passed a handsome gentleman that might have been in his fifties. He wore an impeccable black silk suit over a crisp maroon dress shirt. "Is that Armani?!"
Tittering, Emi leaned over Ranko's shoulder to respond to her girlfriend more quietly. "The suit? Or the guy?"
The brunette shrugged, cocking her head far enough to the side for her dangling earring to come to rest on her bare shoulder. "Honestly? Both? He's certainly hot enough to be a big-time fashion designer, anyway."
Emi clicked her tongue, turning her head surreptitiously to examine the object of Hitomi's interest. "Hard to tell," she said, speaking at a normal volume once he was out of earshot. "After all, Italian guys only come in two flavors: Mario, and Whooo-weee-gi." She fanned her face with her left hand and grabbed Hitomi's wrist with her right, pulling her toward the gentleman. "Let's go say hi!"
"But… what…." Ranko sighed in exasperation as her friends dashed off, resigning herself to trudge along behind them in her shimmering green cocktail dress.
Emi reached the man first, waiting until he finished his smalltalk with another partygoer before speaking up. "Hey there! How you doin', sugar?"
Oh, gods, Ranko thought, resisting every urge demanding she either flee, or cover her face in embarrassment. I am literally here to be their human sock on the doorknob tonight. Please, kill me now.
"Well, hello there." The suave man grinned at the trio, popping an olive on a toothpick into his mouth. His eyes took in each of the three girls in turn. Hitomi and Emi each put on their most winning smiles, and Ranko was relatively certain Hitomi had actually stuck out her chest somewhat. However, when his gaze finally settled, it was on the shy girl in the middle. "Absolutely charmed, miss…?"
Ranko's eyes bulged wide. She turned her head quickly to the left and right, praying one of her companions would speak up, but it was clear who had been singled out. "It's, um… Ranko. H-hi. I, uh… umm…" She looked down at her hands, rubbing her fingers together as if she were washing them without soap or water.
"I, ahhh… We've gotta run! Good talking to you!" Emi waved to the posh gentleman, unable to fully conceal the wince on her face. She took the stammering singer firmly by the wrist. "Come here, you!" she growled under her breath, dragging Ranko to a darkened corner of the rooftop behind a planter arrayed with ferns. "My gods, Ranko! That was…"
"... fucking tragic!" Hitomi finished for her girlfriend. "Seriously, how in the actual fuck is the girl who wroteTurn Me Off/Turn Me Onso entirely incapable of flirting?! What's wrong with you?!"
Ranko whirled on Hitomi, frustration building in her eyes. "Maybe because I'm fucking married, remember?! I don't want to flirt, 'Tomi!" She lowered her volume considerably, leaning closer to the brunette. "Especially not with a guy!" Ranko sighed, clearly reading the disappointment on her friends' faces. "Look, girls. I told you, I'm no good at a place like this. Put me in a skater dress at the Phoenix, and I'm fine. Here?! I'm a total fish out of water. You said you couldn't get in the door without me. Well, you're in the door. Why don't I just go do the wallflower thing, and leave you two to bag every eligible gazillionaire in the joint without me holding you back?"
Emi frowned, stepping closer to Ranko and patting her on the arm. "Look, we didn't mean it like that. Yeah, we're excited and all, but we don't want you to feel like you aren't welcome to hang with us. We love you, girl. You know that."
Hitomi nodded in wordless agreement.
"I know," Ranko said, showing her friends a smile and hoping it was convincing enough. "I'm not mad or anything. Honestly, you're probably right - at some point, I'm gonna have to get used to this kind of scene, whether I want to or not. Right now, tonight, I don't think I have enough diamonds in my veins to pull it off, though. It's always sort of been my style: when I go into something unfamiliar, I just sort of sit back and watch for a little while, and I figure out how to assimilate and make it work. I mean it. Go have fun. I'll be around up here. Come and get me if you need an icebreaker, or want me to sign somethin' for somebody, or whatever. It's cool, I promise."
Hitomi reached out for her friend's hand. "Are you sure? We sort of railroaded you into doing this, and we didn't realize how uncomfortable it was really gonna be for you. You don't hate us?"
The redhead reached out, pulling each of her two best female friends into a hug with one arm. "Of course not! Go on. Have fun! I mean it! I'm gonna go find the bar and see if I can get a little lip lube flowing." She grinned as the girls squeezed her back. "And remember, if one of you manages to get knocked up with some mega-rich dude's kid tonight, name it after me."
"Yeah, but what if it's a boy?! Do we go… I don't know, Ranji? Ranya?" Emi giggled as she pulled back from the group hug, checking herself to ensure her dress had not been mussed too badly by the embrace.
Ranko swallowed hard. "Well, uhh… we'll burn that bridge when we get to it," she spat. Even if they would never know its significance, she did not know if she could stomach hearing the name Ranma cross the lips of her friends. "Go on! Shoo!"
The ebullient pair waved to their third wheel, flitting off together after a svelte Scandinavian man in a white tuxedo jacket.
Okay, Ranko thought as she found herself alone. Time to get invisible. She slowly orbited the outer edges of the rooftop, occasionally peering down at the street some twenty floors below. From her vantage point, she could look out over much of the Shanghai skyline. Despite it being a Tuesday night, the city was alive with enough activity to rival any Saturday in Tokyo. I wish you were here, Akane. You'd freakin' love this. She traced the metal guardrail with her fingers, sighing and closing her eyes as a cool December breeze caressed her skin. It was a bit chillier than she would have preferred, especially in the dress she was wearing, but given how much money Hitomi and Emi had spent buying her the elegant cocktail gown, she had dared not ask them to splurge for a suitably formal jacket as well.
Exhaling slowly as the breeze subsided, Ranko opened her eyes and made her way to the bar. It consisted of a narrow, black lacquered counter barely long enough for two bartenders to work behind, with a matching back bar. Rising from the back bar was a frosted glass half-wall, backlit with neon in a bright cyan and lined with shelves that overflowed with every conceivable type of liquor. While Ranko recognized the types - tequila here, bourbon there - and some of the brands, the specific formulations were unlike anything she'd seen in her days as a server. Probably 'cause I paid less for the whole damned bar than what a glass of that shit costs, she thought with a dark chuckle under her breath.
What interested Ranko most about the bar, however, was that it was vacant. Without anyone to serve them, dozens of irritated partygoers milled about the area in front of the counter. None held glasses, but most wore scowls. "What's going on?" she asked a middle-aged woman in a deep violet dress in English.
"Would you believe this?" The woman scoffed angrily, gesturing to the bar counter with her hand. "The bar staff never showed up! Some excuse about traffic or something, I suppose. It's pathetic!"
Ranko's head tilted a bit to the side. "And everybody's supposed to be drinkin' free, right?"
The older partygoer groaned with an exaggerated roll of her eyes. "Yes! This is just beyond embarrassing. See if Huang manages to get anyone to come to his parties in the future after this!"
Why don't they just pour their own, if it's free anyway? Ranko looked over the bar counter, not seeing anyone that seemed even remotely interested in doing so. It's 'cause they think it's beneath them, she concluded. Don't know how to do anything for themselves, even if their life depended on it.
Her eyes panned the frustrated group again, and a wide smile cracked her lips. Well, alright, then, she decided. Fuck it. Yui, I hope I make you proud.
She rounded the counter, slipping her purse strap off of her shoulder and stashing it in a hollow next to the well. "Alright!" she called out loudly. clapping her hands as sharply as she could in order to get the thirsty partygoers' attention. She spoke English, assuming that it was more widely spoken than Japanese in the heart of one of the busiest international business hubs in China. "What's everybody drinking?!"
The counter was immediately swarmed with some twenty well-dressed socialites, each shouting over the others with their orders.
"Whoa, whoa, okay! One at a time! And, order in either Japanese or English, please! I'm doing my best here!" Ranko quickly took inventory of the bar area. Okay. I've got lemons and limes, most kinds of juices for mixers, looks like all of the major liquor types. I can work with this. The demanding cacophony of thirsty revelers did not abate, however. Think. What would Yui do? She thought back to the busiest nights at the Phoenix, when her elder sisters found themselves backed up with orders. Grinning, she pulled down a bottle of tequila that she presumed was at least as expensive as her dress. A slender, opaque bottle of triple sec joined it on the counter in a flash a moment later.
"Alright! Who wants a margarita? Show of hands!"
Ranko counted eight upraised palms. She quickly readied four aluminum shaker tins in a row along the bar counter's recessed edge, bouncing the spouted bottle of triple sec over each until a sufficient quantity to produce two cocktails had been added. She did the same with the tequila bottle and a bottle of lime juice she located in a refrigerator under the countertop, adding a splash of simple syrup to each. A scoop of ice was added to each of the shakers next, her hands moving at almost supernatural speed.
The redhead next mated four mixing glasses onto the containers, giving them each a solid whack to make sure that they had formed a proper seal. Last thing I need is to get lime juice all over some snooty rich bitch's favorite dress, she thought. She splayed her fingers through the rack of drinkware that hung upside-down over the counter, pulling down four long-stemmed margarita glasses with each hand. Each received a quick dip in simple sugar before being dragged through a shallow tray of salt to rim them.
Her preparations completed, she picked up one of the shakers in each hand, vigorously thrashing them over her shoulders. As she shook them, she tried to make eye contact with each of the waiting socialites, flashing them all a winning smile. Building the drink is when you sell the drink, and the shaking is when you sell the service, she remembered Yui saying. She uncoupled each of the mixing tins, splitting the contents into four of the waiting margarita glasses and passing them to the four people left of the counter's center point that awaited them. Without a pause, Ranko hurriedly snatched up the other two shakers and repeated the process.
"Alright! What else can I make a bunch of?" She listened intently as a new flurry of drink requests were shouted at her, trying to single out anything she heard more than once. "Okay, I hear rum and Coke. Easy! Who wants one?"
Five hands shot up.
"You got it! Comin' right up!" Ranko gathered five highball glasses, scooping ice cubes into each. Searching the back wall, she spied a bottle of rum labeled Ron Centenario 1985. Well, Ron, hope you make good shit, she thought, upending the bottle for an eight-count over each glass. That done, she filled each cocktail the rest of the way with soda from the six-tap gun before giving the drinks a quick stir and impaling a lime wedge on each of the glass rims.
Now, this, Ranko thought with a smile as she distributed the libations, I can do. This feels like home. It was a welcome respite for her. However many shows she did, in however many cities and countries, there was a part of her that would almost always have preferred to be singing for a couple hundred people on her little wooden stage back in the Minato harbor district, helping her sisters sell drinks and sling brick oven pizzas two at a time through the slatted blue saloon door separating the Phoenix' bar room from its commercial kitchen.
On she went, each time producing fewer drinks at once until there were no orders left that could be batched. Only two people remained waiting at the counter for service: a gray-haired Chinese woman in a somewhat frumpy red dress, and a debonair-looking gentleman of seemingly European descent with dark olive skin clad in a white tuxedo with a black bow tie.
"I think you were here first," Ranko said, turning to the middle-aged man with a smile. "What can I make for you?"
Smiling broadly, he held up his hand to wave her off. "I'm happy to wait." He gestured with his other hand to the woman to his left. "Ma'am?"
"Old fashioned," the elderly woman barked, an air of disdain in both her voice and her facial expression.
Sheesh, lady. It's not like I work here. I'm just tryin' to help people have a good time, Ranko thought as she searched for a bottle of bitters. She combined a few dashes from the bottle with simple syrup, bourbon and a quick squeeze from an orange wedge, leaving the rest of the fruit skewered on a mixing straw. "There ya go."
"Hmmph." The old bat took her drink, turning on her heels and waddling away from the counter.
The tuxedoed man shrugged his shoulders, motioning to the departing woman with a tilt of his head and offering Ranko a reassuring smile. "Guess you can't please everyone."
"I guess not!" Ranko leaned forward on the counter, resting her elbows on it. If I'd known I was gonna be doing this, I wouldn't have worn heels, she thought, transferring more of her weight to the lacquered surface to give her feet a bit of a rest. "But I can try with you, at least. What are you drinking?"
The European waved her words away with the back of his left hand. He wore a wide gold band on his third finger, but it didn't look like any man's wedding ring Ranko had ever seen. Nearly the whole surface was pocked in diamond chips. "Nothing that can't wait a minute." He gestured to the half-empty bottle of bourbon in front of Ranko. "You look like you know what you're doing back there. You don't see a lot of that at these sorts of things. Most of the folks who come to these parties were born with a silver spoon in their mouth and the matching knife jammed up their ass. I don't think they could find a clue with a flashlight and a map, the lot of 'em."
Ranko blushed, chuckling a bit at the man's unorthodox viewpoint. "My family and I own a little bar in Japan. Nothing as fancy as all this, but enough to teach me the basics, anyway." She scooped the bourbon bottle from the counter, turning toward the back bar to return it to its place on the glowing glass shelves. "Honestly, I've never even met the dude that's supposed to be hosting this thing. I really hope it's not you, and if it is, that I didn't piss you off jumping back here. I just wanted to help out! I guess… it gives me a little taste of home."
It was the gentleman's turn to laugh, and his laughter was full and sincere. It reminded Ranko quite a bit of her adoptive father, and she wondered if the man's similar style of bushy mustache played into the association she made in her mind.
"Oh, no!" he answered, leaning forward and resting some of his weight on the counter as well. "Not remotely." With an unwavering smile, he swirled his finger in the air as if to gesture to their entire surroundings at once. "So, what's a barkeep who's not afraid to get her hands dirty doing at a stuck-up shindig like this, anyhow?"
The redhead giggled with a slight blush, glancing to her right. She spied Hitomi through the crowd. Her friend was clinging onto the arm of a Middle Eastern looking man in a smart navy silk suit. "Oh, I'm not the bartender. That's my sister, Yui. Well, most of my sisters, really. I mostly sing there. And, ya know, other places too, I guess."
The European's charming smile seemed to widen further. "And does our singing bartender-who-isn't have a name, perchance?"
"I'll trade you," Ranko replied with a devious smirk. "I'll give you my name, if you give me that drink order."
The man gestured to the wall of liquor behind Ranko. "Surprise me. Pour me something that's popular back home. And, since that wasn't technically an order, I suppose I owe you my name, so at least it's fair. I'm Viktor."
Ranko smiled, surveying the inventory of the shelves behind the bar. Okay. Rum I know I got, prosecco, mezcal… She picked up a different bottle of rum, searching its label for an indication of its alcohol content. 145 proof. Probably close enough. She pulled the bottles down and more besides, gathering her supplies on the counter. "My name's Ranko. Ranko Tendo."
She turned again, facing her new acquaintance and beginning to fill a mixing glass with pineapple juice. Not having the pre-infused mixer at her disposal as she would have at home, Ranko threw a pair of jalapeño peppers in an empty highball glass and muddled them until she had extracted as much of their juice as possible. She added the juice to her mixing tin, careful to strain out any bits of pepper or seeds. A four-count each of rum and mezcal soon joined the concoction, along with some lime juice.
"So, what do you call this drink?" Viktor asked, standing up taller and peering over the counter to watch the lithe redhead work.
Ranko beamed up at him as she began shaking the cocktail over her head. Look at me, Yui. Out here making your masterpiece famous all the way in Shanghai, Ranko thought. "You, sir, are officially about to be the first person in China to ever experience the Dragonfire."
"Yeah?!" Viktor chuckled as he watched Ranko transfer the drink to a Collins glass and stir a bit of prosecco into the cocktail. "I guess it's called that because of the jalapeño?"
The redhead flashed him a mischievous grin. "Among other things. Hey, do you smoke, by any chance?" She reached her hand out, curling her fingers toward herself repeatedly in an unspoken demand.
Viktor reached into his breast pocket, pulling out a pack of cigarettes and shaking it until one of them slid partially free of the foil lining. He extended it out to her, passing her a lighter with his free hand.
"Thanks!" She snatched the lighter from his palm, ignoring the offered cigarette. Ranko swiped her arm across the neck of the second, more potent bottle of rum, catching it and bouncing it over the glass once in a single fluid motion. Before the liquid had a chance to settle into the cocktail, she flicked the lighter with her thumb, igniting the alcohol she had floated on the drink's surface. She regretted having no pineapple chunks to garnish it with. With a column of blue flame still dancing on the rim of the glass, Ranko passed it across the counter to the genial gentleman. "Your Dragonfire, sir."
Viktor took the glass in hand, deciding to let it burn out on its own rather than blowing out the fire. He lifted the still-flaming cocktail, tilting it ever so slightly in her direction by way of a salute of thanks. "It's been a pleasure. Thank you, Ranko." With another warm smile, he turned away from the counter. He meandered away from the counter, gazing down at the cyan flame that lazily swayed on the surface of his drink as if it somehow contained the answer to a question he couldn't quite articulate.
He glanced back over his shoulder at the mercurial redhead, who had since thrown herself into the construction of a Mai Tai for a twenty-something blonde that seemed to be constructed of more silicone than flesh.
Ranko Tendo… Viktor thought, watching her work through the wisp of white smoke that rose from his cocktail once the quarter-shot of rum fueling the flame had been fully spent.
… who are you?