*** Haiji

  ‘1955. That was the year it all started.

  Some old folks with stories to tell say it was called “The Third World War” when it first happened. Some called it “The End Times”—usually the olden era religious sects craving an apocalypse. I don’t really get that mindset, and frankly, I don’t care for pointless info. Others called it “The Step.” This ‘event’ has been given numerous dramatic names over the past 96 years, and I’m sure there will be more in the future... that is, if the world doesn’t actually fuckin' end first.

  Still, I guess the real point folks tried to say is that the lives of every living human changed. Their faith... Laws... Struggles... Way of life.

  That’s the history passed down by our forebearers, the keepers of records. But to those of us born into this era—an era adapted to this conflict—it’s just the present reality. Not history, not mystery... just plain reality. We don’t really complain about it.

  To us, it is simply “The War” or “The Unknown War.” But who really gives a shit? It’s just a stupid name.

  This ‘War’ is basically the whole world being invaded by creatures through gateways to other worlds. Even after almost a hundred years, mankind doesn’t know much about their origin beyond the Gates, and we know even less about their intentions. As far as anyone can tell, their goal is somewhere between colonization and our total annihilation.

  Honestly... I don’t even know why the hell I’m thinking about this shit. It’s probably that stuck-up TV guy on the train. He was arguing with some guest about ‘The War’ on a screen with a shattered display, hanging from the ceiling inside a metal cage.

  I looked out the window. The rain was still falling steadily. My eyes were drawn to the billboards decorated with neon lights and the towering buildings around them. Just like every other night, military hovers, surveillance drones and police helicopters patrolled the Osaka sky.

  I let my eyes wander, absorbing any distraction to take my mind off the fact that I didn’t get any work today. Part of it was the nasty, heavy rain earlier; the rest was just because today was one of those days that fuckin' sucks.

  ‘Maybe I’ll find something at the Underground. It’s Wednesday—Scrap Night.’ I just hoped Hoshi would put me in a cage. E-Grade Evolve fights pay like shit, but I just hoped my luck would stink less than the shit in the air.

  Finally, after more than 50 minutes on the train, I got off at Sumiyoshi Station. I stepped out of the barely-functioning, graffiti-covered car and walked toward the exit, ignoring the homeless bums crawling around like roaches. Some begged; others just stayed in their corners, doing whatever suckers like them do.

  I stepped out onto the shanty main street and was immediately hit by the chilling wind of the rainy night. The streets weren’t as crowded as usual. Normally, the place is a hive; people going to work, selling junk, or just hanging around. Tonight, there were only a few ‘workers’ like me and the usual loiterers occupying the shadows.

  Groups of people huddled under the shades to avoid the rain, most of them smokin', vibin', catcalling and shit. Some even threw me stink-eyes for no freakin' reason as I walked by, but I ignored them. Bastards be always looking for trouble.

  The wind picked up, carrying trash and shifting the trajectory of the raindrops. I cut into an alleyway and broke into a run. I didn't care about getting soaked; I just needed to reach the Underground, fast.

  I cut through the knotted back alleys of the neighborhood until I arrived at the Underground's block. Catching my breath, I slowed my pace as I walked down the narrow street.

  In one dark corner, I saw the silhouette of a guy getting beaten by street punks. In another, a man was grabbing a girl roughly by her hair, shoving into her from behind with her hands pinned against the wall. A group of guys stood out front—covered in ink, bandanas, and piercings—watching like they were guarding the spot. Probably waiting for their turn.

  The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

  I passed a couple of partially demolished buildings where loud rap music exploded from the windows. On every fuckin' block, there were street punks dealing, smoking, or rizzing and haggling with prostitutes. Every block was full of low-lifes like me, just doing their thing.

  Finally, I reached my destination: a gym with “UnDerGrounD” flickering in fluorescent lights above the door. Some letters were busted up. It was a wide, squat building, a victim of time, junk, and graffiti.

  A couple of guys stood by the entrance, talking. I caught scraps of words like “pushers,” “crap,” and “dead man,” but the wind carried the rest away. Not that I cared... The fuck is wrong with me today? Yapping to much!!

  I recognized one of them—Razor. He was leaning against the wall, passing a joint to a pal. He wore a ragged hoodie and a black factory jacket, the tattoos on his lips and jaw clearly visible under the lights. He raised his head, reaching behind his back for a weapon as I approached.

  “Calm the hell down, Razor. It’s just me,” I called out. I kept my voice steady and walked into the light so they could see my face.

  “Shit, I almost didn’t recognize you, Rat-boy... You’re usually covered in more shit. Guess the rain washed your fuckin' face for once...” Razor said, bursting into a loud, hollow laugh. His crew joined in. I’ve seen corpses with a better sense of humor than Razor.

  I sighed internally. I hated that I had to roll over for this mind-scraping bullshit most days just to bag some coins.

  “Scrap Night still on?” I asked, still standing in the rain. We slapped palms in a street handshake. “My run today was a bust... no elixir, no coin. Hoping Hoshi can fix me a spot, no matter the pay.”

  “I ain't his errand-boy, shitface,” Razor snapped, taking the joint back. “If you want a spot, get inside and meet Saburo yourself. Now get the fuck out of my face.”

  I strolled into the gym. Huge dudes were lifting "dumbbells" made from heavy vehicle gears, the metal clanking as others sparred or shadow-boxed in the corners. I walked up to the counter—a slab of reinforced glass covered in scratches and old paper stickers—and rang the bell.

  After a few seconds, a man stepped out. He was a beefy, bearded tank, about 6'2", with tattoos crawling from his neck up to his temple. He had the kind of wrinkles that put him in his mid to late thirties, and his rolled-up sleeves showed arms, wide and beefy like tree trunks. They showcased his connected, full-sleeve ink—heavy and patterned in styles ranging from sharp-edged tribal flames to Japanese koi.

  “Ahiii, it’s just... you, Rat-boy… was expecting someone else. So, what elixir you got on you?” the big guy asked, cracking his knuckles.

  “Nah, today was straight-up a ‘no-pay day,’ Saburo,” I replied, combing my wet hair back with my fingers.

  “Then why are you here? To wet my fuckin' floor?” Saburo asked, clearly vexed as he diverted his gaze to something on his counter.

  “I came to check if there’s a spot—”

  Before I could even finish, Saburo looked back up and shut me down.

  "The party’s about done. Weren’t many spots for E-Grade Evolved in the first place… ain’t no way there’s anything left for you to snatch up," Saburo grumbled, sounding beat or snappy. Not sure.

  "Saburo, I need some ‘bread.’ I ain’t going home dry. Just find me something—anything. Or I can go meet Hoshi myself," I muttered, bordering on a plea.

  Saburo sighed, grumbling under his breath before finally spitting out a response.

  "I can’t promise you shit, but if you’re that desperate, go see Hoshi. Maybe there’s something left," he growled, then rang a bell. A dude nearby, busy throwing kicks and locking a beat-up bag with his legs, stopped and trudged over.

  Saburo gave a lazy tilt of his head. The dude nodded and jerked his chin at me, signaling me to follow. He led me toward a door on the left side of the gym. The moment he opened it and we stepped inside, every damn pair of eyes in the room was on me. When they saw I was just tailing the guard, they went back to their cards as we made a beeline for a steel door across the room.

  My escort banged out a knock. The peephole slid open, showing a miserable pair of dead eyes that scanned us from top to bottom before the door swung wide.

  On the other side stood a punk, shirtless and showing off a bony, heavily tattoo-covered chest and back, with an AK-47 slung over his shoulder. My escort traded a dirty look with the sucker. They had a brief stare-down before the guard grudgingly stepped aside, letting us through.

  The room was a dump, littered with nylon, animal bones, and random scrap like pipes and metal shards. Thick, grimy plastic curtains hung from the battered ceiling, cordoning off the left side of the room.

  The air was thick with the sound of metal being sawed and the acrid smell of burnt iron. Behind the ripped and shredded curtains, I caught a glimpse of the work. Two sweaty, muscle-bound guys—covered in piercings—were hard at it. One was hammering away at spearheads and axe blades, while the other held a welding tool that shot out a blue flame, fusing a weapon on a metal panel.

  I stuck close to my escort until we reached another steel door. He gave the same rhythmic knock, and this time it slid open without an inspection.

  It wasn't a room, but an elevator. A slender old man sat inside on a stool. As he yanked the lever sticks on the floor, the gears groaned, struggling for their very ‘lives’ to turn. The elevator creaked as it began its slow descent. My mind was all over the place—calculating how savage the punk I'll be scrapping will be and wondering what the hell I’d do if I came up empty.

  When the elevator finally stopped, the old man opened the door. I was hit with the roar of a noisy crowd—yelling, laughing, and cussing. I gave the old man a small nod of thanks, but he just looked away, not giving a damn.

  I turned to the crowd of gutter rats filling this underground pit. The night was clearly winding down. Of the four cages, two were already empty. In one, a pair of guys were dragging out some poor bastard covered in blood—mostly his own. In the last cage, a fight was still dragging on. Even a kid could see it was over; one guy was beating the life out of his opponent, teeth and blood flying like twisted spray paint.

  I stretched my neck, trying to spot Hoshi. I pushed through the dense crowd, catching heat from half-naked chicks I accidentally brushed against and dudes giving me shit for bumping into ‘em.

  I didn't care. I needed Hoshi, and the junkies could whine all they wanted.

  Finally, I spotted him. He had the same build as Saburo, wearing a black tank top and a heavy chain around his neck. He was covered in tattoos from his neck to his wrists, including a mark on his temple that mirrored Saburo’s ink, with similar patterned sleeve-like tatts as him too. He was laughing with some guy in a suit.

  I froze. The guy in the suit had a wing-stretched bird tattooed right on his forehead.

  Shittttt!!! A Black Bird!