Daisy was genuinely unnerved by the sheer force of Maki's stubbornness. She fumbled for words. "My financial situation right now isn't exactly... great, so..."
The consul, who had been watching from the sidelines with barely concealed amusement, stepped in smoothly. "Please don't worry, Miss Johnson. You saved our citizens at considerable personal risk — the consulate would like to provide a modest reward as a token of our gratitude. Miss Matsumoto is fully capable of supporting herself through her own efforts. You have absolutely nothing to concern yourself with."
The remaining three women and every consulate staff member in earshot wore the same expression: say yes, say yes, please just say yes.
Maki Matsumoto, for her part, simply waited — patient, immovable, radiating the conviction of someone who had already decided how this was going to end.
Daisy couldn't find a way out. The consul made quiet assurances that official channels would be used to handle the criminal organization — there would be no retaliation, no loose ends. And so she found herself walking out of the Japanese Consulate in a mild daze, ten thousand dollars richer, and one "retainer" heavier.
The cool air outside cleared her head fast. She thought about the consul's smooth smile and understood what had actually just happened. He didn't want this incident becoming public. By accepting the "retainer" along with the reward money, she'd effectively agreed not to talk. It was politely wrapped hush money.
She had to admire the political craftsmanship. Politicians who'd survived this long didn't get there by accident.
She laughed quietly to herself, pocketed the ten thousand without a shred of guilt, and turned to assess her new situation.
"What can you do?" she asked Maki.
Firearms — no. Driving — no. Bladed weapons — no. Stealth — no. Assassination — definitely no.
Miss Matsumoto possessed exactly one qualification: a Japanese law license that she hadn't even finished her probationary period on before being lured to America. The certificate meant nothing here without passing the bar exam again, and her English needed serious work before that was even a possibility. Clothing, food, housing, daily necessities — all of it would fall on Daisy, at least for now.
On the walk to find a new apartment, Daisy connected to the network through her phone and quietly knocked out the cameras around her old building. The Japanese men she'd fought never showed up — the consulate had almost certainly made a call. Still, she wasn't going to take chances.
To people unfamiliar with East Asian faces, most looked similar enough to be interchangeable. But these particular Japanese men had seen her face up close. Hell's Kitchen wasn't small, but it wasn't large either. Finding one specific attractive young woman in the neighborhood wouldn't be that hard.
She sent a quick message to her roommate, telling her to stay at her parents' place for a few days. Then she took a shortcut and sprinted back to the apartment to pack.
The electronics had to come with her — a hacker's tools, in the wrong hands, were a liability she couldn't leave behind. Most of her clothes too, cheap as they were — she'd worn them, and she didn't want to think about what certain people might do with that. She packed her roommate's clothes for good measure.
With a backpack on her shoulders and a suitcase in hand, she jogged out.
She met up with Maki and they found a new apartment in Brooklyn, in a neighborhood with a large Chinese community.
"Here — you can borrow a couple of my things." Daisy held out two outfits. Maki's clothes had been torn during the escape.
Maki thanked her and, apparently seeing nothing awkward about the situation, began changing right there. Daisy considered giving her some privacy, then, for reasons she chose not to examine closely, did not.
Maki was shorter than Daisy, with legs that lacked Daisy's particular length — clearly someone who didn't prioritize exercise. But there was no question why she'd been specifically selected, even for the kind of operation she'd been caught in. Whatever she'd been eating growing up had done exceptional work. She filled out Daisy's blouse in ways that honestly bordered on structurally impressive.
Daisy stared, then looked away, then decided not to continue that line of thought.
After getting settled, Daisy discovered that Maki could cook — a genuine surprise. When asked, Maki explained it matter-of-factly: home economics was part of the standard curriculum back home, and most kids could handle a kitchen by age ten.
That gave Daisy pause. In another life, in a country she tried not to think about too hard, the cultural pendulum had swung entirely the other direction. Cooking had somehow become a thing men did.
Daisy herself had picked up a few dishes over the years — being a broke writer with a lot of time and not much food money forced a certain creativity — but she was fundamentally lazy about it. She rolled up her sleeves, ready to help.
"Please — you shouldn't." Maki blocked her exit from the kitchen with quiet authority and physically steered her out. There was no room for argument.
Fine. Daisy was not, at heart, a person who sought out extra work. She'd washed a car, taken hostages, fought Russians, and beaten up Japanese men all in one morning. She stretched out on the couch. She was, honestly, starving.
Western food culture didn't put much stock in lunch — decent breakfast, decent dinner, and lunch was whatever was convenient. Daisy had never adapted to that rhythm.
The smell coming from the kitchen was promising.
Maki emerged with two dishes: something close to mapo tofu, and a stir-fry of greens and bean sprouts. "Chinese cuisine," she explained, a little earnestly. Plain rice on the side.
"I'm so sorry — there wasn't much time. I'll do better." Maki knelt in a formal seated posture and bowed her head.
Daisy felt genuinely embarrassed. This was a hundred times better than the bread she'd been living on.
"Eat with me. We should be reasonably safe here, but try to keep a low profile for the next few days."
"I've been nothing but trouble for you."
They exchanged the usual pleasantries and began eating.
Daisy's metabolism, since her powers had developed, had become quietly brutal. She burned through food at a rate that was one of the primary reasons she was constantly broke. What she really wanted was meat — large quantities of it — but Japanese portion sizes were famously modest. Beautifully presented, carefully balanced, and completely insufficient. She worked through most of both dishes and the entire bowl of rice, and she was still somewhere around forty percent full.
She wanted to do a Luffy and just yell "I want meat!" But she'd just met the woman. She smiled pleasantly and announced she was full.
Maki cleared the dishes and immediately began tidying the apartment. Daisy, lying on the couch in a mild food coma, found she couldn't stay in the room without her conscience bothering her.
She went out instead and came back with a stack of law textbooks and an English-for-beginners series. She called the consulate — they confirmed they'd help with Maki's documentation.
When she got back and opened the door, Maki had finished the apartment and was now doing laundry. Daisy's laundry. Including, she noticed with some alarm, several items of underwear.
"Oh — no, that's really not necessary—" Daisy moved to intervene.
"It's fine." Maki didn't look up. "I do this for my family all the time. Please don't feel uncomfortable."
Then, in the same even tone, she added: "Miss Johnson smells very nice, by the way."
A cold sweat broke out somewhere between Daisy's shoulder blades. She pivoted sharply to the safer topic. "I brought you some law books. You've already got the foundation — focus on getting your license sorted first. And your English pronunciation needs work."
Maki bowed, nodded, and produced a string of sincere thank-yous.