Vicissitude: Yang Side (Lost Earth Series) Read online

You nod and turn back to your computer desk, and move the mouse on your laptop. It blinks into life. In the corner of your eye, you still see Bastet watching you, but when you glance at her over your shoulder she is padding away toward the hallway. You shift your gaze back to your computer and type in your password. You really don’t feel like looking through reports, but Megumi promised that she’d send her report on Mura Masah and Masah Mune before she goes to sleep and you want to read it before your meeting tomorrow.

  A throaty hacking noise sounds from beneath your bed. You twist in your chair.

  Lips peeling back, your dragon familiar, Taro, slithers from under the bed. He’s not the picture of grace or elegance of any normal dragon. Drool foams between his yellowed fangs and down his unkempt brown beard. His slithering is clumsy and jerky, a motor impairment kink he’s carried from birth. But he has the most innocent air about him despite his thin-pupiled crimson eyes.

  Warmth and ache wrestle inside of you. Warmth that Taro looks well. Ache that he reminds you of the wager you made with Bastet. As long as you assist Bastet in her mission, he lives. Easy enough, but at one important cost. You can’t be the one to kill the King of Dragons. Granted, you have plenty of reason to do it yourself, but if you do, then you’ll live in an eternity separate from Taro. Many nights you’ve contemplated what would happen to him if you fail in your mission to; after all, he can’t care for himself. You push that aside and run your fingers through his black fur. I have to win.

  Taro growls, thrusting his ridged snout into your hand. His forked tongue curls around your fingers and retracts. It’s rough. Hot. Like heated sandpaper. With every flick, his tongue explores a little more of your hand as if he’s a blindman trying to see with his tongue. Strange as the gesture is, it’s all love. His savage strange love.

  Your thumb brushes over one of his soft nostrils. “You should be asleep. It’s late.”

  Taro’s tail thumps the bed, looking up at you expectantly. He’s insisting on Flame’s suggestion: No, you go to sleep.

  You shake your head. “I’ve got reports to read, Taro. I can’t rest now.”

  He grumbles, then retreats back under the bed.

  Your laptop pings. You lean over. An email from Megumi with an attachment. You open it.

  Day 1

  So far overall, I did notice that Masah Mune is not as active or as social as Mura Masah. At first, I thought maybe she had some underlying health problems. But when I turned on my computer to watch The Red Hood, she came to watch and even assumed similar activity levels to Mura Masah during the duration of the show. It may still be worth screening her, just in case.

  On the other hand, Mura Masah has one small issue. I’ve noticed that despite it being after noise-making hours, Mura Masah still makes a lot of noise sometimes. She does it whenever I stop holding her or if I stop petting her and try to put her in the coop, so it seems that she considers separation from her caretakers to be an emergency distress. My only guess is that the difference in their behaviors is influenced by the different Akuma genes in combination with the Radiance gene. The man-made 616 mutation combined with the Radiance gene seems to have resulted in an almost completely ordinary chick. At this moment, it’s hard to say what the 666 original version of the gene combined with the Radiance gene is doing in terms of Masah Mune’s behavior.

  However, what I can confirm in all this is that despite having the riskier version of the gene, Masah Mune isn’t sick.

  The Radiance gene grants full immunity to Devil’s Disease.

  ZenGaming’s elevator doors press shut.

  You smooth your black pencil skirt and punch the button for the fifth floor. No need to be nervous. This morning you did the math for the chances that Kentaro Watanabe, director of ZenGaming, would say yes to your proposal and you’ve estimated your win chances to be about ninety-one percent. Nine percent fail rate for the possible clash of personalities, bad mood, or other factors beyond your control, but you don’t think it’ll come to that. He’d have to be insane to pass up an opportunity like this.

  Floor numbers scroll in teal. One. Two. The cigarette-scented man next to you steps off the elevator. A cloudy-haired woman with horn-rimmed glasses steps in. She casts a glance at you, then gravitates to the wall and pointedly folds her arms as if you are deranged or a dangerous animal. As if you should feel bad for standing where you are.

  You aren’t surprised by this. Brother World Tokaido is no different from its Sister World counterpart: women look down on you just because you look foreign, men either disregard you entirely or hit on you. Everything clicks now. Why Jun asked how you liked the country, why she seemed so uncomfortable when you listened to all she had to say, why the casual indifference in her golden gaze chinked away into flat out revulsion for the briefest heartbeat when you said that even strangers are like family.

  A silent exhale leaves you. Such a shame for a blossom to think it’s a weed.

  Three. Four. Five.

  Ding! The elevator doors wheel back on their tracks. You take a step toward the exit, but the woman clops past you in her red pumps.

  Amusement strikes its spark in your chest. People never cease to amaze you.

  Lords of Earth posters hand on the walls of cubicle you pass, most of them Thunder God. Through the glass window of a break room, employees sip steeped tea and watch a five-versus-five game on a flat screen. Most of them look like they’re in college, or graduated recently. You’re glad to see that this is a game made that the players have a say in and not stuffy old folk.

  Up ahead, you spot that woman, settling behind an open semi-circle desk. A brass name tag rests at the corner. Rutsuki Yokohama- Receptionist.

  A grin parts your lips. Oh, this will be fun. You stroll up to her. “Excuse me.”

  Rutsuki taps a sheaf of papers against her desk—feigning importance. At the sight of you, her lipstick-caked lips squish into a thin fuchsia sliver. She tips her glasses down a notch to look up at you. “Are you lost, foreigner?”

  You coax a strand of hair behind your ears. “Actually, I’m looking for Mr. Watanabe. Is he in right now?”

  The receptionist swivels toward her desktop monitor. “Mr. Watanabe doesn’t take walk-ins.”

  “I’m not a walk-in, Mrs. Yokohama.”

  “Ms.Yokohama.”

  Probably because you’ve tainted your beauty with all your bitterness. There is a saying for people like her in your native tongue. Chanar oioi muleshozoloh. You can’t please the angry pigs.

  Rutsuki’s coral pink acrylics clack away on her keyboard. “And your name is?”

  You shift your weight to your other leg. “Heaven.”

  Her upper lip crinkles up. The way her big incisors touch her lower lip makes you think of a buck-toothed rat or a gopher in a cartoon. She clicks her tongue. "I don't see you."

  You squint, craning your head to peer at the screen. She’s not even looking at anything close to a schedule list. “Should I call the director so we can clear this up then?”

  Her expression falters. She studies me. “You’re lying.”

  You reach into your laptop bag for your phone. “You keep telling yourself that, Ms. Yokohama. But I’m sure the director might not appreciate you hurting his chances for a virtual reality game.”

  Rutsuki’s eyes narrow, but a fist is going up to her mouth.

  With a thumb, you scroll through your numbers. Your finger hovers over the director’s name.

  “Wait.” Rutsuki sits up, lips flapping to make sound. “Tokaido Research Institute, right? That’s you?”

  You press the corner of your phone to the edge of your mouth. “That’s right.”

  She clears her throat. “There’s no need to disturb the director, miss. He’s all the way at the end of this hall.” Rutsuki gestures to the hall behind her.

  Thought so. Regardless of what Tokaidens think of foreigners, the old stereotype seems to stand true. Give up their family, their religion, their life, but never their cushy job or the money the
y make. “Thank you.” You don’t like saying it to her; you don’t think rude people deserve niceties. You slip past her into the next hall.

  The last door at the end has a brass name plaque. Kentaro Watanabe. You rap your knuckles against the door twice.

  “Come in.”

  You push your way in.

  Mr. Watanabe looks up from the manila folder in his thick hands. He doesn’t look the part of a video game playing man. Thick fingers. Broad shoulders that seem too big for his black suit jacket. Mustache waxed to tapered points. His bushy eyebrows raise as his bifocals gaze takes you in, but he doesn’t seem unfriendly. “Heaven from Tokaido Research Institute?”

  You give a perfect ninety-degree bow. "Yes, that’s me, Mr. Watanabe.”

  He rises to shake your hand. “Nice to meet you. Please have a seat. You liked matcha, right?”

  Threads of warmth thaw your heart. You’re surprised he remembers. When you spoke to him on the phone, you only mentioned your love for green tea lattes and coffee once. “I do.”

  A smile pleats his lips. “Good. Lattes are being brought up for us as we speak.” Mr. Watanabe sits back down and clears his throat. “Now what’s this about a proposal?”

  Your fingers dance across the zipper trail of your laptop bag and unzip it. “I came to ask if you would be interested in joining me for a virtual reality simulator project that I’m working on.” You slip a hand into the open pocket and pull out your own binder. You push it to him. “It would be great if we could combine our simulator with your games.”

  His eyes narrow, finger stroking his clean chin. His mouth opens, but the creak of the door cuts him off.

  A delicate woman with a crown braid carts the cobalt tea cups with your lattes into the room. She sets a cup beside you and Mr. Watanabe, bows, and removes herself from the room. It’s gorgeous. A foam-drawn phoenix spreads its wings atop the emerald green surface.

  You can’t help but grin. Is he the one trying to impress you?

  Mr. Watanabe’s sip draws your gaze. He’s flipping through your binder of simulator pictures. Nodding to himself. The occasional eyebrow lift. Sip.

  You shift in you seat and bring your latte cup to your own lips. It’s all you really can do while he looks. Frothy milk-lightened matcha warms your stomach.

  Mr. Watanabe pauses. “So what exactly are the features of the simulator? From the looks of this it maps costumes onto people and projects environments?”

  “It can recreate thermal conditions too,” You add. “Also textures, tastes, and smells.”

  His eyes widen. “Impressive. How far along is it in its development?”

  “The basic project is moving into its final stages,” You say. “At this point, it would only need minor tweaks to project a game like Lords of Earth or any of your other games.”

  Mr. Watanabe brings his cup to his lips. The neat foamy phoenix in it distorts. “I like it.”

  You lower your cup. “Like it enough to work on it with me?”

  He flips to the last page. Shuts the binder. His hands form a pale steeple. “I do.”

  1-7 'Ah'

  That dream is back. Clouds of darkness twisting together like the long sleek body of a python. Turbulent gusts toss the dining room tables on its side. Papers fly everywhere. Chandelier bulbs flicker and shatter one by one. The snake-like creature slithers upstairs.

  And no matter how fast I try to run, the darkness is faster. As if I’ve been thrust into slow motion and the rest of the world moves in real time.

  Jin’s scream stabs my hearing.

  And then it’s over. I'm upright in bed again, clutching my Tora doll, while my heart is throwing itself against my chest. A heavy burn fills my sweat-sodden muscles as if I’ve run a marathon in my sleep.

  That’s twice I’ve had that dream. Is that a reason to be concerned? Is there something wrong with me? Something I’m ignoring? I don’t see how. My gaze travels over our shared Lords of Earth posters, the mammoth-sized tome titled Korea Theory: Before The Tohenian Revolution resting on the edge of Megumi’s desk, the chick coop housing the red fluff-balls that Megumi brought home, my old saxophone collecting dust in the corner beside my chair. The more I look at them— real tangible objects, the sillier the dream seems. Of course there’s nothing wrong.

  I rub a shaky palm across my forehead. Maybe tea will help. I turn to open the window and let air open.

  It’s already cracked.

  My eyes narrow. I closed you yesterday. Why the hell are you open? My fingers itch to slam it shut, but instead, I pry it open wider so a breeze can start up and roll out of bed.

  King, in his hallway puppy-bed, perks his ears at me. He trots at my heels.

  Eyeing his empty food bowl, I stoop down to the cabinet under the sink for King’s Power Pup chow. The steak and ham-hock shape pellets rattle into the blue dish. And King happily shoves his entire face into it.

  I wash my hands, open the cabinet for a mango green tea bag and my brown “I Hate All Weekdays Equally, Not Just Monday” mug. I fill it with filtered water, and heat it in the microwave. King cracks kibble pellets between his fangs, reminding me that he’s not the only thing that I need to feed and water today. There’s Regi when he comes over. Megumi too.

  And of course, Jin.

  I frown. Gods, what the hell does he eat anyway? He would likely starve if I fed him fashion magazines of people who dress correctly. I open the fridge. There’s not much. A few white peaches. Megumi’s fruit-infuser water bottle. A watermelon I don’t feel like cutting. Oranges. Leftover pho if necessity calls. Deli ham, cheddar cheese, sandwich condiments for the convenience of the super lazy. Eggs, green onion, tomato, milk, spinach, button mushrooms. Could make an omelet. And ask Regi to bring something to cook for dinner.

  The microwave beeps. I take the mug out and dip the tea in. Orange tendrils seep from the bag and sweet mango wafts to my nose. I drink. Tea warms me up, wakes my senses. I’m alert.

  “And what are you doing up this early morning, hmm?”

  My skin prickles. I cough a few times. Shit. Didn’t even hear Tammy coming. She has the most silent feet on the planet. “I could ask you the same thing.”

  Aunt Tammy is a vague red shape in the darkness. Only a few shreds of moonlight from the miniblinds stretches to her garnet heels. “You could…” The light switch flips on. “But last I checked this house is in my name.”

  In the light, Aunt Tammy looks a little more humane. Black hair wound in a neat bun, glasses at the end of her nose, and red nails tapping her coffee mug, she’s probably down here for her twentieth cup of liquid Thanks-A-Latte shit before work.

  I move over so she can access the coffee maker. “Just wanted some tea.”

  Tammy opens the cupboard, letting out the strong scent of coffee beans. She gives me a sidelong glance. “At five in the morning, kitty-cat?”

  “Might as well. I don’t have anything better to do at five in the morning.”

  “Actually you do.” Tammy scoops a few spoonfuls of coffee beans into her coffeemaker. “Something interesting came in the mail chute.” She turns a raised eyebrow onto me. “You sped through not one, not two, but three red lights?”

  I almost spit out my tea. I wipe my lip with my thumb and squeak, “Three? I could’ve sworn it was only two.”

  Tammy’s eyes harden into a glare. “Only two?”

  “I wasn’t paying attention.”

  “Clearly.” Tammy shakes her head. “Were you drunk or something, kitty-cat?”

  “No. I was just…” I suck in my lips, trying to find the right words. “I forgot I was supposed to do something for a friend. I’ll pay it.”

  Tammy jabs a manicured nail at me. “You’d better. And you’d better not do something like this again.”

  I clench my teeth. “It won’t.”

  “Good. And at least try to interact with Jin today.”

  “Why?” Seeing Tammy’s narrowing glare, I immediately add, “What do you want me to do with him?”


  The coffeemaker gargles and spews hot brew into the coffee pot. Tammy sighs. “Play one of your video games with him. Take him to the store. Help him with something. You know… actually spend time with him, kitty-cat. Like Genji.”

  I raise an eyebrow and take a slow sip at the mention of the name. “Genji?” My lips are so unused to calling him by name that it sounds like a foreign language.

  “Yes, Genji. He goes out of his way a lot for Jin, you know. Last week, they went to a ZenGaming convention.” At the last drip into the pot, Tammy pours herself a steaming cup of black coffee. “Jin even wrote a short story about him for his class. He got an A on it.”

  Gross. Blood boiling, I pause. Even with the tea, my mouth is dry for words. I study the granite countertops. “Jin’s a smart kid.”

  “Mmhmm.” Tammy’s heels clop-clop-clop on the linoleum tile. “You could’ve gone with them. You like games too.”

  Not even if you put a gun to my head.

  She opens the fridge for creamer. “And when was the last time you two were even in the same room, Jun?”

  I hold my mug at my lips. “Yesterday.”

  “When was the last time you had a meaningful conversation with Jin?”

  “Define meaningful.”

  “‘Go walk King’ is not conversation, kitty-cat.”

  My lips press into a thin line. “Why put this all on me? If he wants to talk to me, there’s nothing stopping him.”

  “No offense, kitty-cat, but…” Tammy strides past me. She glances over her shoulder. “You always look so angry and uninterested in everything. It’s hard to tell if you care.”

  I take King for a stroll around the block and watch the whole world wake up. Pink sun shafts reach across the roof shingles. A crow flock banks as one under thick red-tinted clouds. Across the street, Cat Lady’s fat brown tabby Persephone arches her back on a bed of cropped grass, soaking in the light.

  It’s magical how the sun can splash the sky with reds, blues, violets, yellows, oranges, and pinks. Every day’s sunrise and sunset is a little different from yesterday’s. It’s the time when the least amount of people are out. The time when no one stares at me.