Northwestern District
Non-confrontation was the norm when faced with train-barging miscreants, and though there were plenty of hard stares in the direction of Mana, none of the normal people within the train said anything; delinquents were to be seen and avoided, not to be chastised publicly. Midday meant, thankfully, that the train hadn’t been packed to the brim, and though Mana had to push past some people (who refused to move in a meager show of disapproval towards her actions), her path through the cars was relatively smooth. There was a young woman holding a silent bundle to her chest. There was an office worker, eyes downcast, staring at the box of personal stationary resting on his lap. There was a child with brown twintails, eyes set to a hard glare upon Mana, before they directed themselves back to the window, the dark blur of the tunnels. Mana passed them all by in her hurry, eyes searching for that head of short hair.
And then, she saw her. Leaning against the door, arms crossed, one foot tapping against the ground. A beat, or just a tic? Her eyes flickered upwards, and in that moment, their gazes met. The woman blinked, a mixture of fear and surprise in her eyes.
“Juujomaru Station, Juujomaru Station. Arriving at Juujomaru Station.”
Five, ten seconds before the doors opened again. Clutching her purse against her chest, she turned out of the entrance and strode quickly down the train cars. There was no question about it: she was walking away from Mana.
Southern District
The office building that Anenokoji’s business was in certainly could have seen better days. Though the stone steps leading up to higher floors looked relatively intact, graffiti spilled on every inch imaginable once you got past the first floor (which smelled of blood, piss, and fear, but was otherwise spotless). The second floor’s CGA office had the sadness of an accounting firm that didn’t see all that much business, with the place only being open three hours a day, and only four days a week. Today, it was closed, and tomorrow, it was also closed. A dirty glass window showed nothing but empty shelves and cardboard boxes, as if the firm was perpetually in a state of movement, whether it be in or out of this office. A couple cigarette stubs were swept in one corner of that floor, but Tsurushi found it easy enough to step over that. It was on the third, however, that things changed. Though graffiti still coated the walls, they did not cross over onto the heavy, steel door with ‘Anenokoji Counseling’ written on a plate.
She opened the door, of course. There was no buzzer, and, twisting the knob, the door was unlocked to begin with. A cool breeze breathed out as Tsurushi entered the third floor office, and the first thing that was noticeable was just how meticulously clean everything was. Linoleum reflected the incandescent lights affixed to the ceiling, while a speaker system somewhere played Wagner’s Prelude to “Tristan Und Isolde” softly. Though there were no sofas, the chairs were padded, and the coffee table had a spread of magazines on top, largely innocuous genres such as lifestyle and cooking, with the occasional science magazine sprinkled in. Potted plants were lined up on the windowsill; a half-full water dispenser gurgled out bubbles of air every couple of minutes. There was no receptionist present, nor even a desk for them, but it was a small room anyways.
It wouldn’t be all too surprising if Hisui ran this place herself.
There was another door in the room, incomprehensible words slipping out from the gap below. It was really simply a matter then, of whether to wait or to enter.
With mere minutes to go before the doors to the live house opened up, the area around Galaxy had certainly become congested, crowds of young folk spilling out onto the roads. Vehicular traffic was sparse, of course, so it wasn’t as bad of a situation as it could have been, but there was a thick atmosphere of rowdiness that seemed to defy the perpetual gloominess of Tenoroshi. People jostled each other, bumping hips and elbows as they crowded around the small entrance, no proper queue in sight. From mohawk-sporting punks with piercings all over their face to prep student desperately trying to fit in to wizened old men who smacked younger folks with their canes to families with young children who just happened to enjoy satanic shredding and hellish hammering, there was a wide enough variety of people that Yasuo and Marina, with their sudoku books and their bagged vodka, were one of the more normal features.
Unnoticed too, amongst the chaotic anticipation, was the taxi that passed by the crowd and circled around to the back of the building. By the private parking lot, Daehyun, in his sorta ridiculous and certainly not serious get-up of big shades, a baseball cap, and a cough mask, stood, leaned against the door, one foot placed against it to keep it open. It was the privilege of the rich and famous, after all, to obtain backstage passes to everything, and Miyane, fallen idol as she may have been, was no exception. As she stepped out of the taxi, he pulled the door open, and the strumming of the last instrument check washed over her, the sound so bright and so dark.
Only a few minutes left before the show began. Overhead, the clouds began to part, bright rays of sunshine breaking through the gloomy expanse.
Indeed, for Marc, the end was almost here. He had been yelled at more in the past hour than he had in his entire life, all cordiality gone once the blond youth decided to ‘play’ along and help out the understaffed part-timers at Galaxy. Once it became abundantly clear that he didn’t know what he was doing at all with the mess of cables, he had been passed around like a present that no one wanted, forced to carry things to and fro while dancing around amplifiers and taut wires, instrument cases and railings. Given no mercy or leniency due to his tall stature, he was worked to the bones with no real chance to escape and lock himself in the washroom. All work had to end though, and finally, everything looked ready to go. The lights were working, the sound systems were working, the seats were lined up, the floor was swept, the wiring taped, and the fences, ostensibly to discourage stage-diving, were set up.
“Akira,” the icy part-timer called from across the room, a mixture of anticipation and exhaustion in her own voice, “Drink up. You’re on fence duty. Make sure people don’t knock it over.”
Moments later, she hurled a can of some sort of Chinese energy drink towards him, the beverage whump-whumping towards him like a fastball from an ace pitcher.
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