"Who tipped me the black spot the day we landed and began this dance?"
One For The Money
TRACK 1: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8D79VCO6-nM
As the evening descended upon the bustling streets of Kyoto, the neon lights of the cityscape flickered to life, casting a vibrant glow onto the street as they advertised everything from sake to soaplands. Across the city, salarymen loosened ties, packed into subway cars, and for those working at 360 Hero Agency's newest branch, headed to the Torikizoku two blocks down the street. Nestled on the top floor overlooking the train station across the street, the establishment's wood paneling and soft lighting defied the building's otherwise sterile exterior.
A gentle breeze alleviated the sticky heat that clung to Toru Imaishi like a wet blanket. To him, it seemed everything felt that way lately. From the morning commute to stumbling to bed, life just seemed to uncomfortably hang over him, leaving him greasy and dejected. At least alcohol cut through the grease.
Rather absentmindedly, Toru turned the corner past the building's convenience store, muscle memory carving a beeline straight for the escalator to the top floor. It wasn't until mere steps before the metal grating that he noticed the yellow caution tape and piece of paper taped in between the rubber-adorned handrails.
OUT OF ORDER
You're fucking kidding me.
Toru's irritation flared as he glanced up at the broken escalator, his heart sinking at the inconvenience. With a resigned sigh, he adjusted his grip on his suitcase and looked around for an alternative route. Spotting the staircase nearby, he squared his shoulders and made his way over, steeling himself for the climb.
Each step felt heavier than the last as Toru trudged upward, the weight of his fatigue dragging him down like an anchor. A bead of sweat dripped down his face as he passed the third floor. He could almost hear Coach Fujisawa's tenor voice booming through the stairwell of the science building as memories of his college rugby days flooded back to him. "Faster, Imaishi! You call that a sprint?" The memory brought a grim smile to Toru's lips, as though he could still feel the burn in his thighs that'd last for days after practice.
Taking a moment to catch his breath as he reached the top floor, Toru straightened his posture and adjusted his rumpled suit. He glanced around the empty corridor, his eyes landing on the door to the Torikizoku. The warm glow of light spilled out from the windows, inviting him in like a beacon in the darkness.
Toru was hit with a wave of sensation as soon as the automatic doors slid open with a hiss. The scent of grilled meat mingled with the savory aroma of sauce, causing his stomach to growl like an attack dog. Even sober, his sense of smell was better than most people, which definitely worked against him as he passed by the kitchen.
Damn, of all the days to forget my lunch at home...
The chatter of twenty different conversations filled the air, punctuated by the clinking of glasses and the sizzle of food on the grill. As Toru made his way toward the usual spot near the window, he put his suitcase in front of him as a server slipped by, holding a tray of empty glasses high above her head. Through the clamor, he picked out a familiar voice, one no doubt made bolder by one or two beers.
"Oi, Daisuke-san, Daisukeeee-san! 1000 yen says you can't catch this piece of karaage in your mouth!"
AND they got started before me? A loud cheer went up from his coworkers as Tatsuro Miiura flicked the piece of fried chicken up with his chopsticks, his aim clumsy as it arced through the air. Daisuke, mouth fully opened, leaned back on the wood bench, weaving about to try and predict its course. The karaage sailed through the air, and just as it seemed destined to miss, Daisuke's mouth snapped shut like a steel trap, catching the morsel with precision. The table erupted into cheers and laughter as Tatsuro fished out his wallet from the pants pocket, theatrically plucking a 1000 yen bill as Toru arrived at the end of the bench, dead-eyed from staring at his computer all day.
With a resigned sigh, Toru dropped his bag beside the table and slid onto the bench, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips despite his fatigue.
"Hey-hey, Toru! Long time no see!" Tatsuro exclaimed, slapping his coworker on the back a little too hard.
Toru flinched ever so slightly at the slap before returning the gesture with a force that made his junior coworker choke on his pint. "'Sup, Tatsuro-san." He leaned back against the bench and rubbed his hair, muscles protesting the movement after hours spent hunched over his desk.
Tatsuro leaned in, his breath smelling of cheap beer and fried food. "You...old sponge, you. Let's get you drunk!"
Toru chuckled lightly, the weariness in his eyes slowly undoing. "That's what you could come up with?"
Tatsuro shrugged, before reaching across the table and gesturing towards a plate of chicken yakitori. "Hey, I'm on four beers and three hours of sleep, give me a break!"
Toru's gaze shifted away from Tatsuro to the rest of the table. Most of them worked in the outreach office; among others, there was Daisuke, the event coordinator that always seemed to wear a slightly better suit than everyone else but wouldn't tell anybody the brand; Yuki, who Toru still believed was mad at him after he spilled coffee on her slide deck (why the hell would you PRINT THEM OUT they're on your computer they aren't going anywhere), and Mitsuyo, who spoke 3 languages and was probably going to get that promotion before Nyoro-yaro ever thought of giving it to Toru.
Then there was Futaba Kondou. Amidst half-full drink and spilled conversation, the accountant sat opposite Tatsuro, lazily stirring her miso soup with her chopsticks. Something seemed off about her tonight, something that made his gaze linger for a little bit longer than the others, though he couldn't quite put his finger on what it was. For all his experience, he still had trouble figuring out women sometimes. Shaking off the thought, he grabbed the last skewer from the tray, taking a hearty bite as he flagged down the waitress.
"Excuse me, one mega lemon sour..." He trailed off, glancing over at Futaba, who was too busy checking her phone to pay any mind to her surroundings. "Uh, yeah, that's it, one mega lemon sour." The waitress nodded with a polite smile before hurrying off to fulfill Toru's order.
SECOND DRINK OF THE NIGHT
TRACK 2: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OD7s62BTy9M
With a relaxed exhale, Toru set down his mug, turning back to the group. "You gotta be joking, Mitsuyo-san! You're really a Giants fan?"
Mitsuyo chuckled, taking a sip of his drink before responding. "Yep, born and raised in Tokyo. Giants all the way."
"Oi, oi, oi, you know you live in Kansai right?"
Mitsuyo raised an eyebrow, a playful glint in his eyes. "Haha, really? You're getting worked up over baseball, Toru-san?"
Taking a big swig of chuhai, Toru leaned forward, putting a thumb to his chest with gusto. "Damn right I am, I love baseball! Tigers are the pride of Kansai, yo. It's like you're a spy."
Mitsuyo shrugged, a smirk playing on his lips. "Hey, I can't help where I was born. But you gotta admit, the Giants are doing good this season."
Toru crunched down a piece of karaage. "Where? Where?"
"I mean..."
"You just gave up 3 runs to Ryukyu last game, that's a minor league team in a trenchcoat." Toru's interruption drew a few chuckles from the group as Mitsuyo's grin faltered slightly. "Ouch, Mitsuyo-san, that's gotta sting," Tatsuro chimed in, his eyes twinkling with mischief.
Mitsuyo shot Tatsuro a mock glare before turning back to Toru, his competitive spirit reignited. "Alright, alright, you got me there. But let's see how the Tigers fare against the Eagles next week."
Toru smirked, welcoming the challenge. "When the Tigers win, you gotta sing the fight song at the chourei." He could feel the liquor kicking in way faster than it should. Never a good idea to drink on an empty stomach. Mitsuyo countered almost immediately. "Okay, if you lose, you have to wear a Giants jersey to work until the Giants win their next game."
"You bastard, it's a deal."
EARLIER
The faucet burbled as cool water splashed into Toru's cupped hands. The lighting of the third-floor bathroom was softer, a sunny amber of the sort found in the restaurants Nyoro-yaro—no, Nyoro-kachou, you're not about to fuck this up—probably took Racer V to. Or was it the other way around? That Mitsubishi ad—jeez, the phone calls he had to take for that—brought in some serious cash, as far as Toru knew.
Opening his hands to drain out some of the water, he splashed some onto his unruly hair, combing it with his hands to make it lie a bit flatter on his head. Clearing his throat, he turned off the faucet with one hand while fetching a paper towel with the other. Lips moved silently, reciting the pitch he'd typed up over a lukewarm lager and the Red Hurricanes game.
"Our projections for the TV spot estimate around one point five million viewers in the Kansai region..."
The memory of the 38-29 loss stung momentarily as he dried his hands, rubbing the cheap paper over a glue-crusted callus he'd earned clocking some creep who was trying to date his sister way back in college. It reopened a week ago, cut by an especially sharp piece of plate glass he'd landed on after diving out of a second-floor window. Nothing some superglue and a 1.2 liter bottle of malt liquor couldn't fix.
"...we want to bring the hero to the home with this..."
Toru scoffed reflexively. What horseshit that was. Even the wide-eyed PR interns from Shiketsu's business course that darted around the office every now and then knew a hero in the home was like a bull in a china shop. Crisis management meetings were a solid 20 percent of his job, whether it was Three-Sixty accidentally no-knocking the wrong building—For real, three public apologies was too much for a numbers error. Goddamn pigs—or Racer V oversteering into some tech mogul's luxury coupe—Damn, that insurance rep had a nice rack, should've invited her out for drinks.— Hell, Toru knew it since he was in grade school after Yamamoto slammed a villain through the stairwell of the apartment complex he grew up in.
What was that guy's name anyways? Yokai? Yojimbo? Something with Y. Used to know all those names, now you gotta look up who half the heroes Nyoro wants you to email are.
His fingers twitched, a habit he’d picked up when he was still playing drums. Funny how muscle memory worked, even without practice. He couldn't help but tap out a rhythm on the ceramic of the sink.
Shit, is this what it's like to get old? Am I getting old?
A muted blip from his pants pocket pulled him from his thoughts. As he pulled out his phone, he hoped it'd be anything but another text from that foreigner nurse. Sure, she was a good time, but something about hero schools seemed to bring out the crazies. Especially at Shiketsu.
Flack
ozumi1: All set, Toru-san? Nyoro-kachou's asking
Somehow, it wasn't. Toru sighed and typed out a quick reply, letting autocomplete take over on the last word:
imaishi2: On my way.
Taking a final moment to compose himself at the restroom door, Toru began the walk back to his office. First, it was the squeak of a hinge, and the faint thud-thud-thud of his polished leather shoes on tile. He entertained the recurring thought of hiring a quitting agent—Might be worth looking into. Gotta be better than doing it myself.
Next, the smell of a bento box reheated in one of the microwaves drifted past, as faint as it was maddening. Damn, you're a grown-ass man and you seriously forgot to pack a lunch? His sister’s voice drifted in with the reprimand, and he could almost feel her disapproving look behind the words.
I'll grab something later, he told himself. His stomach grumbled anyway, as if to flip him the bird.
And finally, as the glass paneling surrounding the door to the office came into sight, Toru's foot caught the edge of a sharp, hurried figure. His shoulder hit something solid—hard—and he stumbled back, years of rugby practice correcting his balance long before he hit the ground. The sharp, hurried figure in question wasn’t so lucky. He skidded to a halt, arms flailing as the impact knocked the wind from him. A black briefcase slid out of his grasp and clattered to the floor with a sound that penetrated the artificial quiet of the walkway. Papers, documents—an overstuffed manila envelope—spilled out in a fan around him.
Kawajiri Pharmaceuticals.
*Ayo, hold up, the hell's a pharmaceutical rep doing here? Wouldn't a partnership get
"Oh, ah, sorry," Toru mumbled, fishing through his coat
"Ann, ya know, here's the thing, you guys." His eyes scanned the table, looking for someone to latch on to. Tatsuro was almost snoring–no luck, thought he went to the bathroom to do a bump, guess he really was going to pee. Daisuke was staring into his beer right as Yuki took a big sip of hers. Mitsyuo's a Giants fan, he's beyond help, and Futaba–wait, where'd she go? She wasn't by the table. Did she leave?
"I'on get
Wait, seriously, where was she?
He sniffed the air, and sure enough, that perfume she always wore, the French one with orange blossom
"Oi, waitress!"
"To~ru, just use the tablet, you're gonna get us kicked out."
Absentmindedly, he pawed a hand backwards towards the offending voice. "Shaddup, shadafackap, I gotta do somethin', yo."
WHAT'RE YA, A COP?
"Lobos-bacchan, Lobos-bacchan, open up!" Winded, Toru leaned against his elderly neighbor's door, coughing up a languid string of spittle.
"Apo? Ikaw ba yan?"
"Tchhh...I'onknow whacher sayin', yes?"