Mechanical Maniacs: Life After Life
By Hadrian (Hardman) Howell
CHAPTER 5: Guest
It was two weeks later, and I found myself at the Monsteropolis Airport, gate 79.Yeah, the place is obscenely huge. The airport is actually the entirety of S District, aside from the Monitor's Tower that can be found in every District. I was sitting, as I had been for the last four hours, and awaiting the arrival of Flight 2137, direct from Tokyo.
I felt profoundly uncomfortable. It wasn't just that may ass had gone numb from sitting for so long, no. I was dressed like a chauffer, sober and, for the first time in years, clean-shaven, which it turns out pisses me off now for some reason. My gray-streaked hair had been hasitly dyed back to its original black, and I was wearing makeup, of all things, to hide some of my age wrinkles.
I was chewing my way through my second meal of the day when the plane actually arrived, and passengers poured out of the adjoining walkway and into relative freedom once more.
This was my cue. I held the placard with the name over my head and waved it around a little, hoping the person I was supposed to be meeting here would catch sight of it. IF, in fact, he'd boarded the damn plane at all. I was really hoping he did, because this would have been a sad, sad waste of my time otherwise.
The crowd began to thin before I saw him, his face as sour and screwed up as ever. These days, he apparently went by the assumed name of Nagi Kurasawa, a highly successful businessman. But back in the good old days, 15 years ago, I knew him better as Kenta Eigen. Magnetman.
Of course, back then, he was an angsty little snot and we never really got along well. But hey, fifteen years is a long time. Maybe he's more well-adjusted now.
He approached me, pressing through the mass of people, and I remembered to bow in respect as he approached. "Kurasawa-san," I said as politely as I could manage, "I trust you had a pleasant flight?"
"Words in any language cannot express how much I hate that I have been made to return to this wretched city."
Oh, goody. He hasn't changed a bit. More than that, he didn't seem to recognize me, either. That would make the next few steps a lot harder, which should have been almost impossible, given his general social disposition.
"My employer would like to meet with you," I said, trying really hard to make sure I spoke with proper diction. Sound like a 30's detective story for as long as I have and try normal English again. It sucks. Trust me. "I trust that now is a convinient time?"
"First," he said, giving the terminal around us one of those snooty, high-class glares that the rich are apparently allowed to do, "I must collect my luggage and be seen to my suite. You will drive me." It was a command, not a request. I ground my teeth together in the back of my mouth, but I couldn't say anything. God only knows, if I snapped at him now, the whole plan might fall apart.
Outwardly, I flashed an empty smile. "Absolutley, Kurasawa-san. My only concern is your comfort and happiness."
We began to head toward baggage claim as I heard him mutter something in Japanese. I know my take on the dialect is about as rusty as Eskimo farming skills, but I think it translated roughly to "You have your work cut out for you."
The Middleman (no kidding. He actually called himself that.) had set this up, with some advice being taken from Needlega- um, Constance. I know, I know, I wasn't comfortable with her choice of identity either, but she'd apparently been able to infiltrate this terrorist organization based on the stories (which had been blown WAY out of proportion) of Cassandra's psychotic alter-ego that'd been told around MPD HQ.
Officially, for all the Middleman and his bosses knew, Kenta-- Dammit, Mr. Kurasawa was here to be schmoozed for funding. He apparently had a reputation as a somewhat bad person, with some shady dealings the world over (although I'd been privately assured that it was a cover), which made him the perfect candidate for some annonymous funding. As far as Needlegal's plan went, however, she felt she'd be able to convince Kenta to help out in foiling the plans of the Middleman and his friends, as well as be able to gather a greater amount of information than we could as simple subordinates.
All in all, it was a good plan.
The killer for me was that there was no point at which I could just tell Kenta who I was. The Middleman had me wired to watch my every move, to insure that Mr. Kurasawa was on the up-and-up, and wouldn't try to screw with the plan, or that I wouldn't intentionally do anything to clue him in as to the true nature of his purpose here in an attempt to sabotage the whole thing.
We acquired Kurasawa's baggage, all eight cases of it, damn him anyway, and somehow loaded it into the limosine I'd been told to drive him around in. I attempted to strike up something like conversation only once, and it went poorly, which in retrospect I was thankful for. It would have been a bitch to speak properly for a long, involved conversation.
We passed through a lot of checkpoints, and four different Districts before arriving in D District, at a hotel called The Ophelia. If the Rezatium was a classy apartment building, The Ophelia was a palace. The suites here were more like three-floor condos that were 60 stories up, towering over the other buildings in D District.
Needless to say, it was a long, uncomfortable elevator ride, and at the top, I had to do all the heavy lifting. 15 years ago, that would have been the easy part, but I would have had to take the stairs.
Nagi Kurasawa contented himself with telling me which drawers to put his belongings in as I unpacked his luggage for him. When I was finished, I was ordered outside, where I stood by the door and took a few deep breaths to keep myself from marching back in there and hurting him.
One of the elevators let out a distinctive 'ding,' and the doors slid open. Out stepped the Middleman and Constance, followed by a man. He was thin, but gave the impression of strength in a way only a well trained man can, and his eyes took in everything. Every detail. An old habit he'd formed a long time ago when he spent a lot of time looking through a scope. Every time I saw him, though, I had to suppress a grin when I looked at his head. Male pattern baldness had claimed Raijin (or Lucas Denozo, our cell's infiltrations expert) early, it seemed.
The Middleman smiled at me as he approached. I'd become very familiar with his expressions, and something about them nagged at me, but I could never put my finger on what. None of the others seemed to notice anything, though, so I chaulked it up to the Middleman being creepy.
"I trust our guest has been well taken care of?" He asked me.
"Yeah," I nodded. "He's kinda 'n a mood though. Yer gonna hafta lay it on kinda thick if ya want him ta agree ta somethin' b'fore he's over th' jetlag."
"That shouldn't be a problem," he said, patting me on the shoulder. "Your part here is done, my friend. I advise you go home, take a shower, and get some rest."
"Sure," I grunted. I didn't need to be told twice to get out of this monkey suit and, even more important, to get this damn wire off me. The last thing I needed was to be monitored all day by the bad guys. I was in the elevator on the way down before the Middleman even knocked on the door of the suite. I only hoped Raijin and Needle could pull off their part of the job.
And seriously, I need to get this makeup off of me. It makes me feel... eurgh. I'm just sayin'.
