Chapter 5 - The Relationships of the Gods, Part One

The Relationships of the Gods, Part One
 
I Want to Be a Wind

Kako to mirari o narabekaete mo
Kotae wa mitsukaranai kara
Iikagen joonetsu gomakasanaide
Saisho no steeji ni katoo yo
Chansu wa itsudemo
Shinjiru kimochi no
Tsuyosa ni hirei suru
Nido te naide, kaze ni naritai
Kizutsukeau yori mo atsusa kisotte
Kimi o makikomu, kaze ni naritai
Owari no nai yume o ima
Oikaketau ne
 
*~*~*~*~*~
 
Monday morning... 
   Sunlight winked off the forty-two rows of windows inlaid into the walls of the monumental Jahana Group Building. The place was easily one of the tallest skyscrapers in the vicinity, towering at twenty-one massive stories and surrounded on all sides by a small forest of planted trees imported from Europe. They were an ubiquitous drop of green emerald in the center of the city of Tokyo. Statues graced the small courtyard in front of the building with their white-and-gold marble presence, and displayed prominently just above the first story of the building was an ornate golden mural, covered in fanciful shapes and spirals.
   “Madame Reimi?” Reimi’s husband, Washio, typed a last key on his computer with a flourish and turned to look at her. “We’re good to go.”
   Reimi smiled at him, a gentle, loving smile that looked almost out of place on her cool, regal face. She thought it was cute that he still called her Madame Reimi—though only at work. At home, it was another matter. “Then let’s get started.”
   Washio nodded, giving Reimi his own smile, and tapped something else on his keyboard. Immediately the myriad of communication screens lining the wall of the small office flashed into life.
   “Good morning, Madame Reimi!” chorused a host of images appearing on the screens.
   “Good morning,” Reimi returned. “Now...let’s begin with your reports.”
   “Most of the countries that were formerly receiving VG transmissions from us have taken the new footage willingly,” wrinkled old Mr. Kawakama of Nagoya butted in quickly. He was always the first to speak. “We’ve also expanded, quite surprisingly, into Cambodia, Thailand, and Zimbabwe. I suppose—” Mr. Kawakama went even more wrinkled than usual, “—we have the...er...new fighters to thank for this.”
   “However, your decision to include men has also caused some problems, Madame Reimi,” added Mr. Yoshida of Osaka. “Not to criticize you, of course, but most of the Middle East refuses to take the footage now that men are involved.”
   “What’s our payoff so far?” Reimi asked, her eyes narrowing. “What percentage of previous popularity are we operating at?”
   “Well, country-wise, we’re only operating at 88% of previous broadcasting,” Mr. Otomo of Fukuoka said, adjusting his thick glasses pompously. “Several countries aside from those in the Middle East have refused to take the new footage, although they have offered to broadcast the female contestants alone.”
   “On the other hand, if you look at the true popularity of VG,” put in Mr. Royama of Kitakyûshû, “we’ve actually benefited from having men involved. Our range of viewers has increased dramatically—in countries such as the United States, we have literally doubled the popularity of VG.” He cleared his throat meaningfully. “In fact, if you crunch the numbers, we’ve actually gone up from the 100% of twelve years ago to 102% in the present time.”
   “I see,” Reimi said, smiling slightly.
   “However,” Miss Daishi of Kôbe cut in, “as far as monetary gain goes, we have fallen behind. We were already behind eleven percent when we started up again, and the decision to include men has dropped us a further four.”
   “It should be noted, however,” Mr. Royama said blandly, “that even without the fifteen percent, we are still performing admirably and are in no need of funds.”
   “There is certainly no lack of money where VG is involved,” Mr. Yoshida agreed.
   “However, the drop of income is worrisome,” Reimi said. “I’ll see what I can do with the Middle Eastern countries. Mr. Otomo, feel free to relay their complaints to me as soon as possible.”
   “Certainly, Madame Reimi.”
   “Now, about the upcoming nationals tournament...”
 
*   *   *
 
   Reimi sat back in her seat with a sigh. “Well, things aren’t falling apart. That’s good.”
   “Things won’t fall apart,” Washio said stoutly. “Everything’s going just fine.”
   “Do you think it was a good idea to let men participate?” Reimi asked, her eyes closed.
   “I think it was the right thing to do,” Washio replied.
   Reimi smiled slightly. “Maybe...maybe. Washio, would you leave me for a moment?”
   “Certainly, Madame Reimi,” Washio said, clearly puzzled. He rose to leave. Reimi caught him by the wrist as he went by and reached up to brush her rose lips gently against his—then, her smile eclipsed by a brief sigh, she dropped back into her seat.
   “Just for a moment. I’ve been feeling tired lately.”
   “Don’t overdo things, Reimi,” Washio murmured.
   “I’m not spreading myself too thin,” Reimi assured him. “I just need a quiet moment alone.”
   Washio left.
   Reimi leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes again. She sat silently for a minute, then for two. Contrary to what she had told Washio, she was not resting. Every fiber of her nerves was standing to attention. She waited.
   And then—
   “I hear you, Midori.”
   Jahana Midori stopped dead halfway into the room, letting out a groan. She looked very much like Reimi, with long, flowing, lilac-blue hair and a gorgeous creamy complexion, but her eyes were her father’s, huge and chocolate brown, filled with a sweetness that even her annoyance at being caught by her mother couldn’t extinguish. She was eleven years old now, and forever trying to sneak into places Reimi didn’t want her to go.
   As usual, looking at her, Reimi felt a pang in her heart. Midori was so sweet and energetic and mischievous. If Reimi’s mother, Miranda, had let Reimi go about her own way in the same way Reimi let Midori go about hers, would Reimi have been like Midori, carefree and kind instead of scared and cold and, eventually, violent?
   “How do you always hear me, Mom?” Midori asked, little-girl voice resigned.
   “It’s hard not to in such a quiet room with only one door,” Reimi pointed out. “You’re not allowed in here, Midori, you know that.”
   Washio often called his daughter Midori-chan. Reimi could never bring herself to. She didn’t even know why—she just couldn’t.
   “I know,” Midori muttered, “but I like listening to you talk to them.”
   “You like hearing about VG.”
   “Yeah, that too,” Midori admitted.
   Reimi sighed. “Midori, I have told you over and over again—”
   “Not until I’m sixteen.” Midori finished the sentence with the weary practice of one used to finishing such a sentence. “I know, Mom. But can’t I pleeeeeease—”
   “No.”
   “You don’t even know what I was going to say!”
   “It doesn’t matter,” Reimi said. “I know that the answer is no.”
   “What if I was asking to eat Brussels sprouts?”
   “I know you weren’t, and therefore the answer is no.”
   Midori sighed. “Yeah, I wasn’t.” She paused. “But can’t I fight—”
   “No!”
   “Just once, Mom! PLEASE? Once? Against anybody you want!”
   “No.”
   “Can I fight you?”
   “NO!”
   “Anybody!”
   “NO-body!”
   Midori sighed dismally. “All right. Fine.”
   “Midori, I don’t think you realize what VG is like,” Reimi said. “You can get hurt—and you will, if you fight. You’re too young. I will not let my daughter be exposed—”
   “At this age,” Midori finished.
   Reimi sighed. Midori sighed, and turned to leave.
   “Midori,” Reimi said softly. “I don’t want you to fight the way I did.”
   Midori paused at the door, then let out her breath in a rush. “I know, Mom.”
 
*   *   *
Monday evening...
 
   “What CD should I put on?” Kotaro asked, opening the stereo and taking out his MEIYO CD.
   It was the last twenty or so minutes of work at Bubblegum Ice Cream Parlor, where Nijiiro worked. At Bubblegum, there was one utterly archaic stereo which had been blasting out music at the place for at least thirty years and often began skipping songs unless you kicked it, which was why it was on the floor behind the counter.
   This late, there weren’t many people looking for ice cream, especially not at a place famous for bizarre flavors such as white chocolate macadamia, kahlua and cream, pumpkin pie, and of course, bubblegum. Although Nijiiro worked early on weekends, on weekdays like this he went to school in the morning and worked at Bubblegum until late into the night. Then, usually, he spent all of Sunday—his day off—sleeping.
   “AQUA!!” Nijiiro shouted, waving his Aquarium CD aloft.
   “You always say Aqua!” Kotaro retorted, reaching for another MEIYO CD.
   “That’s `cause they’re good and you know it! AQUA! AQUA!!!” Nijiiro kicked Kotaro out of the way and went for the stereo.
   “Like hell!” Kotaro yelled, shoving his CDs into Shiro’s hands and tackling Nijiiro.
   Nijiiro and Kotaro fought on the floor for a few fast and furious seconds, with Shiro off to the side looking half amused, half worried. There was no need to worry, however. Nijiiro cheated by kissing Kotaro on the cheek, and then while Kotaro spluttered and cursed, Nijiiro shoved his CD into the stereo and hit Play.
   “Mwahahahaha!” Nijiiro shouted as Aqua’s Happy Boys and Girls started up.
   “You’re DISGUSTING, man!” Kotaro scrubbed at his cheek with his sleeve. “God...now I wanna scrub my skin off, or something...”
   “Be grateful. I could have kissed something else.” Nijiiro gave Kotaro a way too innocent smile.
   “I don’t know why I work with you,” Kotaro grumbled.
   “Aww, I love you too.”
   “At least skip over this one,” Kotaro said. “This one is just stupid.”
   “Is not.” But Nijiiro obligingly skipped—and the stereo skipped the next one too, landing on number three.
   “Hiya, Barbie,” said the stereo.
   “Oh, GOD,” Kotaro moaned.
   “Hi, Ken!” the stereo and Nijiiro both said to each other.
   “You wanna go for a ride?” the stereo and Nijiiro both offered.
   “Sure Ken!”
   “Jump in.”
   “I’m a Barbie girl...”
   Kotaro leapt forward and whammed the Skip button. The stereo, catching his urgency, skipped itself as well.
   “Hey!” Nijiiro protested as the sound of crickets came from the stereo instead.
   “I HATE that song!” Kotaro explained, at a rather loud volume. “It’s DUMB and it’s ANNOYING!!”
   “You wouldn’t know a good song if it bit your leg off,” Nijiiro sniffed.
   “This one’s probably the only good one on the CD,” Kotaro said. “Doctor Jones, right?”
   “Sometimes, the feeling is right, you fall in love for the first time...” the stereo sang.
   “I thought you liked Roses Are Red,” Nijiiro said.
   “Oh yeah, that one too.”
   “Oh well. This one’s good.” Nijiiro joined in with the CD. “Summertime love in the moonlight...Ai-piyaiyou, ai-piyaiyae. Ai-piyaiyou, oh...”
   The music stepped up, and Nijiiro began weaving from side to side, raspberry and lilac locks brushing over his smile. Kotaro rolled his eyes, but didn’t try to stop him.
   “Dance with me?” Nijiiro offered.
   “Hell no,” Kotaro said amiably.
   “Fine, be a stick-in-the-mud.” Nijiiro turned to Shiro instead. “Dance with me, Shiro-kun?”
   “Um...” Shiro demurred.
   “C`mon, it’s too much fun not to!” Nijiiro pleaded.
   “I don’t really...”
   “Please, Shiro-kun!”
   “Well...I...”
   There was no outright refusal in Shiro’s voice, so Nijiiro jumped in before he could change his mind, dragging his coworker off into the ebb and flow of the music.
   “Kick him, Shiro-kun!” Kotaro shouted helpfully. “Or better yet, kick the stereo! Break his CD!”
   “First person to lay any body part on that stereo with the intent of harming my CD loses said part!” Nijiiro yelled over his shoulder at Kotaro.
   “You’re gonna kill Shiro-kun, Nijiiro!”
   “As if, we’re just dancing!”
   “Which is really wrong, by the way.”
   “Why don’t you shut up and make yourself useful by stopping up a sewer drain or something?”
   “C’mon, Shiro-kun, tell Nijiiro it’s wrong and stop spinning with him!”
   Shiro was too busy trying to keep his balance as Nijiiro whirled him crazily about to say much of anything.
   “You’re both crazy,” Kotaro muttered.
   “You should lighten up and try it for once!” Nijiiro cried, spinning wildly. “Whoops—! Sorry Shiro!!”
   Caught off guard as Nijiiro spun, Shiro flew forward and hit the side of a table. He overbalanced and fell partially across it, and something gold fell out of his shirt pocket and clanked against the table.
   Something the familiar gold of a VG card.
   “What is tha...?” Nijiiro gasped. “Shiro-kun! You’re in VG?!”
   Hastily Shiro grabbed it and shoved it into his pants pocket instead.
   “Shiro-kun!” Nijiiro belatedly let go of Shiro’s hand. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
   “Or me either?” Kotaro had gotten to his feet and come over to see. “How long have you been a VG Senshi, Shiro-kun?”
   “About...a month,” Shiro muttered, coloring.
   “That long?!” Nijiiro demanded. “That’s almost as long as I’ve been one! Shiro—”
   Shiro didn’t say anything.
   “Shiro, why didn’t—”
   “Because I’ve only lost,” Shiro said, bluntly and quickly. “The boss chewed me out earlier today because so far, I—so far, I haven’t won a match.”
   There was a very nasty silence.
   “Not one?” Nijiiro repeated somewhat stupidly.
   Shiro didn’t say anything.
   “Have you lost...um...” The words sounded almost foreign from Kotaro’s mouth. “Have you lost...badly?”
   Shiro still didn’t say anything, but the flush rising in his cheeks answered for him.
   The silence spiraled horribly, until the stereo finished with Doctor Jones and plunged blithely into Heat of the Night. Nijiiro, more to do something than for any particular reason, stormed over to the stereo and hit the Skip button.
   “I don’t like that one very much.”
   Kotaro moodily snatched up three cones with one hand—it was a knack he had which Nijiiro was always trying to master and so far had only failed miserably to imitate—and splashed ice cream over them. “Here. I’ll pay later.”
   Nijiiro hit Skip again and shook his hair back from his face as Lollipop (Candyman) began to blast out of the stereo. “Now that’s appropriate. Gimme one.”
   Kotaro threw one at Nijiiro, and just as Candyman began in earnest Nijiiro attacked his white chocolate macadamia ice cream with single-minded determination. Kotaro bit off the bottom of his cone—he preferred sucking the ice cream out the bottom as opposed to licking it off the top—and handed the last to Shiro. Shiro bit into it.
   Nijiiro laughed somewhat awkwardly. “I can’t understand how you can do that. It makes me spasm.”
   “You spasm whether he’s biting ice cream or not,” Kotaro said.
   “True,” Nijiiro agreed. “Spazzing is healthy.”
   “Compared to what? Smoking?”
   “Indeed.” Nijiiro almost lost ice cream down the side of the cone, but caught it with his tongue. “And—oh, and basketball, too.”
   “What’s wrong with basketball?” Kotaro demanded.
   “I hate it and spazzing is healthier,” Nijiiro declared.
   “I think Shiro’s biting ice cream makes more sense than you do,” Kotaro muttered.
   “Everything makes more sense than I do.”
   They left it at that for a minute and went at their ice creams in silence. Candyman slowly wound down to its close, and stopped—and then the door opened just as the next song, Roses Are Red, began to play.
   Nijiiro looked up and choked on his ice cream.
 
 
   “THERE you are!!” Jin expostulated.
   Nijiiro lost control of his ice cream, and about half of it fell off the opposite edge and splattered over the floor.
   “Jin?!” Nijiiro grabbed for napkins. “What the hell are you doing here?”
   “WHAT THE HELL AM I DOING HERE?!” Jin roared. “Why didn’t you TELL me you came back that SAME NIGHT?!”
   “What same—? What are you talking about?!”
   “Whaddaya mean, what am I talking about?! After you—” Jin changed his sentence at the last minute, “—freaked out and ran out of your house, your family was freaking out even worse!! I went out to look for you and spent FIVE HOURS on the street in a ripped-up Jin Saotome costume LOOKING FOR YOU and you don’t even bother to tell me that you went back just fine and LEFT ME OUT THERE?!?!”
   That made Nijiiro feel guilty, which in turn made him mad. “I never ASKED you to look for me at all! It’s your own stupid fault for staying out—why the hell would you stay out five hours looking for me?”
   “Because I was worried! Your family made me worried! They were so worried it made me worried!!”
   “You don’t even like my family!”
   “Sure I do! YOU’RE the only one I have a problem with! The rest of your family’s fine!”
   “They used to beat you up in elementary school!!”
   “Your mom never did.”
   “What?! She concussed you with a frying pan in second grade!”
   Jin opened his mouth, but then paused. “I don’t remember that.”
   Nijiiro considered this. “Well, I guess that’s not too much of a surprise...you were so morphined up afterwards you thought your mother was me...”
   “Why are we talking about your family anyway?!” Jin demanded. “This is about you—”
   Jin stopped, obviously fighting to say something, then reached out and grabbed Nijiiro by the shoulder instead.
   “Ow! Hey! What are you doing?!”
   “We’re going outside!” Jin dragged Nijiiro towards the door. “I can’t think with your stupid music playing!”
   “Stop it! OW! You’re going to rip my shirt!”
   Jin kicked the door open and wrenched Nijiiro around out into the street outside of Bubblegum. Inside, Kotaro and Shiro watched, Kotaro with eyebrows raised, Shiro with his brow furrowed.
   “Listen to me,” Jin growled very quietly. “You know perfectly well why I was worried.”
   “Your balls?” Nijiiro said, not bothering to keep his voice down.
   “YES,” Jin said, no longer keeping his voice down either. “You were this close to doing something and then you freaked out and ran away. I was worried I’d traumatized you or something.”
   “Traumatized me?!” Nijiiro snorted. “Oh, please. What, did you think you were the first naked guy I’ve ever seen?”
   “No, but—”
   “I was in VG for a little over a month before you found out. Or what, did you think I was such a bad fighter I’d never gotten a Level 1 victory?”
   “No,” Jin snapped. “But I was pretty sure I was the first one you ever touched before.”
   There was nothing Nijiiro could say to this, mostly because it was the truth, so he ignored it. “Why is anything I do cause for you to worry about me at all?! And what do you mean, I was ‘this close to doing something’?!”
   Jin dropped his voice to a sharp whisper. “Nijiiro, you were lying on top of me with your hands all over me, and your eyes were gold.”
   Nijiiro, just opening his mouth to argue, froze.
   “You know how many times I’ve seen your eyes turn gold? Twice. Once when you saw the VG finals match last year between Jahana Reimi and Yano Tsuyosa and she blasted his clothes to shreds with one hit, and once when I was playing Soul Calibur as Kilik. You think I didn’t see you watching me do that? You think I haven’t heard you telling your girl friends that Kilik reminds you of a younger Yano Tsuyosa? Well, guess what, Nijiiro, I have. But, I’ve never seen your eyes go gold looking at me before. And then, when your sister dropped all those dishes—”
   “Cousin,” Nijiiro interrupted automatically.
   “Your cousin—I don’t give a damn who it was!” Jin snarled. “When your cousin dropped all those dishes, your eyes went so black they didn’t look real anymore. You were scared out of your mind. And then, when you looked back at me and said you were sorry, you know what color they turned then? Blue-purple.”
   Nijiiro swallowed.
   “I have never seen your eyes turn purple,” Jin said. “ANY shade of purple. And your eyes only turn blue when you’re sad. Really sad. And I’m not talking blue-purple like Reimi’s hair blue-purple. I mean like...like...” Jin fumbled for a word. “Indigo-purple! DARK! You were hurt, Nijiiro! And it worried me!”
   For over a minute, Nijiiro couldn’t think of anything to say. As far as he knew, his eyes had never turned purple before. Ever. And furthermore, the fact that Jin had kept such close tabs on his eyes—he even knew what their colors meant!—was unnerving. Did he—? But even if—but then—
   “Nijiiro?”
   Nijiiro and Jin both jumped. Naoki had come up behind Nijiiro without either of them noticing. Ayaka had finally persuaded him to ditch his old clothes for jeans that used to be Ashootei’s (they fit him much better than they fit Nijiiro) and one of Daisuke’s shirts. He was also wearing a jacket Nijiiro recognized as Fuma’s. Typically Ii-eclectic combination, Nijiiro thought, a bit hysterically.
   “Who are you?” Jin demanded rudely.
   Naoki stared at Jin, but Nijiiro decided to step in before any sparks flew. “Hayami Naoki, this is Suzuki Jin.”
   “Jin?” Naoki raised his eyebrows. “The one you beat the pants off of—” although he didn’t say it, the word literally hung in the air before him, “—in VG that first day we met?”
   Jin went scarlet.
   “Naoki-kun’s also in VG,” Nijiiro said, purposely using the -kun to tick Jin off even further. “And guess what? He’s staying at my house right now.”
   Jin blushed so ferociously that Nijiiro couldn’t help wondering just how far down he was turning red. “Nice...to...meet...you.”
   “Yeah,” Naoki said, clearly not buying it. “Look, Nijiiro, I came to walk you home…your sister was worried because Fuma couldn’t do it, so she asked me to…are you done working?”
   Nijiiro looked reflexively for a watch, remembered he had given it to Hiroji two months ago, and looked inside of Bubblegum instead. Kotaro and Shiro were still watching him, but the clock had hit eleven-thirty. Nijiiro waved at Kotaro and Shiro, made an apologetic face, and then turned back to Naoki.
   “Yeah, I’m done.”
   “Wait a minute,” Jin said. “Nijiiro—”
   “Jin, I’m sorry you stayed out for five hours!” Nijiiro snapped. “I’m sorry I didn’t come tell you yesterday that I was fine! But I really don’t want you to have to worry about me! So please, can we drop this?”
   “No,” Jin said mulishly. “Nijiiro—”
   “You didn’t traumatize me or anything,” Nijiiro interrupted, “so you don’t have to worry about that either, okay?!”
   Jin opened his mouth to say something, then closed it abruptly, turned around, and ran off down the street. His long white scarf whipped behind him like a banner, almost glowing in the night.
   “Traumatize you?” Naoki asked.
   “About when he tried to attack me,” Nijiiro lied. “When I went to check on him after dinner. Remember? And he was mad, too, because he stayed out late looking for me because Mom was so worried about me, but I just came back and he stayed out looking.”
   “Ah.”
   Nijiiro threw scarlet and azure hair out of his face and started walking towards his house. Naoki caught up with him and walked beside him in silence for a little while. Then he asked, “How late did you say he was out?”
   “Oh...” Nijiiro tried to keep his voice light. “A few hours.”
   “Didn’t you say five?”
   “...Yeah, I did. So?”
   “That’s a long time to be looking for you,” Naoki remarked. “He must’ve been pretty worried himself.”
   “Not really,” Nijiiro said. “He just wanted to fight with me.”
 
*   *   *
 
   Shiro left Bubblegum at 11:37. Kotaro had left three minutes earlier, leaving it to Shiro to lock up. Not that he really minded that.
   It was Nijiiro Shiro minded. Usually Shiro didn’t have a problem with Nijiiro—he was kind of too energetic for his own good, but that was his own problem, nothing of Shiro’s. But just now, first dragging him into the dancing, then finding his VG Card, and then getting dragged outside into a conversation—actually, it looked more like a shouting match—with not one, but TWO very sexy guys?
   People like Nijiiro have everything, Shiro thought moodily, closing the door and locking it. He can act however he wants and nobody cares. He wins in VG and gets a raise at work. He challenges people all the time and he actually wins. He’s always hyper and outgoing and emotional and everybody seems to like him!
   Shiro dumped the keys in his pocket and kicked a nearby rock, sending it spinning down the sidewalk.
   He complains about his family being huge and loud sometimes—I’ll trade him any day. If he wants small and quiet, he should try my house. It’s just me and Mom, and we spend as much time away from each other as possible. I hate her, her and her constant nagging about me and every single thing I do. I breathe wrong to her.
   Bet Nijiiro’s family loves him, just like everybody else, down to those two hot—Shiro kicked the rock between his feet—gorgeous—he kicked it back between his feet even harder—sexy—he kicked it against the nearest building, and it ricocheted off and came back to him—men!!
   Shiro kicked the rock so hard it flew down the sidewalk and out of sight.
   There weren’t many people out on the street at this time. This was a more shopping-oriented area of the city—no nightclubs or late-night bars—and almost everything was closed. Shiro was alone under the streetlights, with only the muffled roar of nearby traffic to break the nocturnal silence. It probably wasn’t a very safe place or time to be walking home, but honestly Shiro didn’t care. Who was going to try and kidnap him? Even if they did, his mom wouldn’t pay a ransom or struggle to get him back. She probably wouldn’t even notice unless they sent her a note, and if they did, she wouldn’t care. She didn’t want him, any more than he wanted her. Whatever showed up, it couldn’t make things any worse.
   It was this attitude of Shiro’s that resulted in his making the biggest mistake of his life.
   “Hey, you.”
   Shiro stopped.
   Leaning in an alley just ahead was a man, a rather well-built man, with glimmering brown eyes and ruffled blonde hair, wearing a slick tank top and baggy, multi-pocketed jeans. Shiro gave him a cursory glare, then started to move on.
   “I’ve seen you on T.V,” the man said. “You’re in VG, right?”
   Shiro stopped again, then turned around very slowly and deliberately to face him. “Yes. Why?”
   By the man’s second sentence, Shiro had already drawn the conclusion that he was a relatively new VG-er, still uncomfortable with both the fighting and the stripping, attempting to cut his teeth against other poor inexperienceds like himself. Depression rolled through Shiro’s slender shoulders like a stinging wave at the remembrance that, although he and Nijiiro had been in VG for almost the same amount of time, Nijiiro was a burgeoning star, while he was—
   The man’s next sentence took him completely off guard.
   “I’d like to help you.”
   The idea of a total stranger offering to help Shiro—especially after seeing him lose at VG—was a concept so foreign to Shiro, he couldn’t grasp it at first.
   “Help me,” he repeated blankly.
   There was a catch. There had to be a catch. What did this guy want in return? Money? His mother wouldn’t give him an allowance. Sex? From him? Yeah right. Well, what the hell else could he want?
   “Why?” Shiro demanded.
   “I think you have potential.” The man stretched, gorgeous muscles rolling like well-oiled ball-bearings beneath his skin. “I’d like to help you realize it.”
   Shiro laughed harshly. “What potential could you possibly see in me?”
   “Potential above and beyond that of your sister,” the man said, folding his arms above his head to stretch them further. The movement yanked up on his tank top, revealing that his jeans were pulled down a good inch lower than most people would dare to wear them. Shiro locked his gaze on the man’s face, certain he was trying to seduce him, and equally certain it was working damn well.
   Then his words sank in. “Above my sister’s?”
   “Your sister has incredible potential in the field of chi,” the man said. “On the other hand, with the right kind of...help, you can surpass her. Not only her. Anyone you come up against.”
   The man brought his arms down to his sides again swiftly, arresting his tank top somewhere around the bottom of his stomach, and shoved his hands into his pockets. His jeans crept down another centimeter, and despite his best efforts, Shiro couldn’t help watching them do so.
   “You could have Yano Tsuyosa naked at your feet,” the man said softly.
   Shiro’s eyes widened. The idea of Level 1-defeating Yano Tsuyosa—leaving him stripped of his title, his reputation, his clothes, before all the world—it couldn’t be possible. It was about as possible as winning the lottery.
   But winning the lottery was possible.
   “That’s impossible,” Shiro said slowly.
   The man took one of his hands out of his pocket, and showed to Shiro a small Advil bottle. He opened it, and shook out a single, round, white ball into his hand.
   “This,” the man said, holding it up for Shiro to see, “will unlock your potential.”
   “A pill?” Shiro snorted, the wistful fantasies of watching Yano Tsuyosa writhe in front of him blown to shattereens. “Please, how dumb do you think I am? There are thousands of supposed VG-stimulants out there. Either they don’t work, or they make you so sick you can’t VG until the effects wear off anyways. If that’s all you’ve got, I’m leaving right—”
   “I don’t think you understand,” the man said quietly. “This does work. You know Komiya Hayato?”
   Shiro knew of Hayato. He was generally believed to be the surefire winner of this year’s VG tournament. His fighting style was intense—some of the people he had fought were so battered afterwards they had trouble performing for their Level 1 Loss.
   “Are you trying to say Komiya Hayato takes those?” Shiro snorted again. “Yeah right.”
   The man brought his other hand out of his pocket and held a piece of paper out to Shiro. “Look at this.”
   Shiro reached out and snatched the paper from him. It was a receipt, and at the bottom, in bold, blocky kanji, was Hayato’s signature.
   “What is this supposed to prove?” Shiro snapped. “I have heard of forgery, you know. You can take those pills and shove them—”
   “Try one,” the man urged. “A test run. Free of charge. If you still don’t think they work, you’re welcome to leave, no strings attached. If you change your mind and decide you want them, we can work out a price. And I can assure you, there are no lasting side-effects.”
   Shiro raised his eyebrows. “Lasting?”
   The man smiled, showing teeth. “Two traits easily observable in Komiya Hayato. This pill shortens your temper, making you more violent and prone to lash out easier than usual. Komiya-san is quite the violent fighter, is he not? And as for the other...as long as the pill taps into your potential, you’ll be one hot-`n-heavy bastard.” The man slid his free hand up underneath his tank top and scratched his chest, displaying the entirety of his flatly muscled stomach. “Komiya’s semi-permanent erection is my doing as well.”
   “So you’re saying this wonder-drug makes you stronger than Tsuyosa, better at chi than my sister, madder than a rhino, and harder than a rock?” Shiro shook his head and repeated again, “Yeah right.”
   “Try it.” The man offered the pill he had tipped out earlier to Shiro, then took it back, dropped it back into the bottle, and held out the bottle instead. “Take one. Any one, so you don’t think it’s one real one in a bottle of duds. No charge. No conditions. No tricks. Just swallow one, and see if you think it works.”
   Shiro looked at it. The truth was, he was horribly tempted to. The chance of it actually working, of it making him able to beat Tsuyosa, to beat Eiko, was irresistibly alluring. It even beat the far more likely chance that the pill would just knock him out and allow this guy to take him and do whatever he wanted with him. And as for those side affects...a hot temper and a lasting erection? How bad could that be?
   If the idea of being knocked out and stolen away had meant more to Shiro, he might have made a different decision. But it didn’t. And he didn’t.
   “All right,” Shiro said, picking a random pill out of the bottle. They all looked the same—like small white marbles—and they probably all tasted like cough syrup, too, Shiro thought as he swallowed it.
   The cough syrup taste faded quickly from Shiro’s tongue. He stood there, waiting.
   “Give it a minute to be absorbed,” the man said quietly. “Just a minute...”
   This was a hoax. Such a hoax. So dumb. Probably once it hit his stomach he’d throw up, and the whole thing would be over.
   “Ten, nine, eight, seven,” the man counted off. “Six, five, four, three, two...one.”
 
 
   Quite suddenly, totally unexpectedly, the entire world leapt. Shiro yelped and fell to the ground, feeling as though the ground underneath his feet had just done a jumping pirouette. Then something in his vision shimmered—and the world leapt into focus.
   But what focus! This was focus so finely tuned that every crack in the sidewalk was visible. This was focus, not only in his eyes, but in his ears, bringing the sounds of the faintest breeze to his attention. Focus so fine, the throbbing ache burning down his groin was enough to paralyze him.
   “Listen to me,” the man said, and his voice came to Shiro’s mind as though through a thick, colorful mist. “This is what you’ll feel when you take these pills. Can you feel anything?”
   Shiro opened his mouth, but at first couldn’t seem to say anything. Then, after he thought he had said it, he heard his voice, also through a colorful fog; “Yes. Oh, God, yes.”
   “Call up your chi,” the man said, and Shiro, looking up much slower than he thought he usually did, saw that they were now very close. The man had moved closer to him when the world had jumped. “The same way as usual, but call it up. See how much you can summon.”
   Shiro stood up. The world was solid again—more than solid. It almost seemed to hold his feet gently, waiting to toss him in the right direction. It made Shiro dizzy—the world itself was helping him now? What had that pill done?
   Conjure up his chi, the man had said. All right. Easier said than done. But again to Shiro’s surprise, his chi came easily to his fingertips. Too easily. So easily that his fingertips blazed with it in just a few moments. The heat of his chi was starting to hurt. Reflexively he threw it away from him.
   A searing, blazing, sparkling blast of chi erupted from Shiro’s hands. The mass of energy roared into the street and slammed into a light post, snapping it like a twig. The post slammed into the street, burning all over with his chi. His chi. Except it was black, black as a raven’s plumes when before it had only ever been translucent, like  his sister’s.
   Hands touched Shiro’s shoulders. Shiro knew without turning around who it was, and wondered how he could be so sure.
   “Aim,” the man whispered into Shiro’s ear, rubbing his hands slowly down Shiro’s shoulder blades and around to the front of his chest. “Aim for that piece on the street. Call your chi up again—just as much as you’ll need to shoot it over that building. Think carefully, and aim.”
   Shiro didn’t even feel the man’s hands slide down his ribs, but his body did, and rose to it, arching into these warm, masculine hands. Shiro raised one hand, focusing entirely on his chi, and called it together into a lance—just enough to shoot it over the building. Then he fired.
   A spear of black chi arrowed out, hit the remains of the light, and sent it blasting up into the air, right over the building.
   “Excellent,” the man murmured, undoing the buttons on Shiro’s pants. “Now come over here and practice on these trash cans.”
   Shiro willingly followed the man back into the darkness of the alley. He needed practice. Focusing on the first can, he brought together a tiny dab of chi—just the smallest possible flame—and flicked it at the trash can. The tiny flame drilled a hole right through the solid metal. Ecstasy filled Shiro’s mind.
   Not just his mind. Although his brain was too full of sights, of sounds, of the heady flames of chi and the incredible sense of triumph at having so much chi so perfectly under his command, his body was under another power. The drug-seller ripped Shiro’s shirt off his chest, stripped him nearly naked without Shiro’s mind noticing a thing. But his body noticed, and rose on a wave of ecstatic heat filling his skin, buoying his entire body up like a balloon—held to earth only by the searching, invading hands of the drug seller. Every nerve of Shiro’s body moaned with passionate delight as the fiery touch of strong, masculine hands seized control of him—but the electrical inferno of nerve signals never reached Shiro’s brain, locked as it was in the misty exaltation of success, success at long last. He didn’t even feel it when the man first thrust into him, taking, marking him as violently and completely as Tsuyosa had Naoki just months ago.
   And so Shiro stood in the darkened alley, showering black chi into the alley, burning scorching holes in the trash cans, the cement, the walls of the neighboring buildings, as the man who had lured him into the fog of the drug took his payment in hard, virgin sex that Shiro neither consented to nor knew about.
 
*   *   *
 
   Shiro woke up in his bed the next morning, with no memory of how he had gotten there or of what had happened after he had left Bubblegum. The bottle of pills in his hand refreshed his memory somewhat. He guessed he had been satisfied with the effects of the pill, and paid the man for this first bottle. He wondered vaguely what the price for it had been, and when he found his wallet on his bedside table, empty, he figured he knew what he had paid.
   If he had only known what else he had paid.
 
*   *   *
Wednesday
 
   “Got it,” Nijiiro said, coming out of Ariyake Coliseum and holding out Naoki’s VG card. “You’re registered, I’m registered, it’s all good.”
   “They bought it?” Naoki stashed his card away in his pocket.
   “That you were coming, you just sent your VG card ahead so I could register for you? Of course they did. I told you, it happens all the time. If you’re worried you might not get to Ariyake in time to register, you send your card to a friend of yours and they’ll do it for you. All of your info’s on this card, and it’s firewall-protected and who knows what else. It’s not like somebody could fake it and enter you without your permission.”
   “Okay, okay, I get it.” Naoki almost smiled, something he’d been doing with increasing frequency. “Arigatou, Nijiiro.”
   “No problem. Now that I have incentive to get you to win, I’m gonna make certain-sure you do. Or I do.” Nijiiro paused. “Naoki, if we end up in the finals together and we have to fight each other...what...well, I mean...how...”
   Naoki looked at Nijiiro and answered his stumbling question. “We’ll go all-out against each other. No holding back. Whichever one of us is stronger is the one who should go on. That’ll be the one with the better chance of winning for both of us.”
   Nijiiro mulled this over for a few seconds, then nodded. “Yeah. I guess so. Come to think of it, I’ve never seen you fight. Are you good?”
   “Not really,” Naoki said lightly. “Tsuyosa killed me.”
   Nijiiro winced inwardly. Bad conversation topic. “Well, Tsuyosa’s one of the best. Have you ever fought anybody else?”
   Naoki shrugged. “Not really. I guess one or two other people. When I...left my parents’ house, I enrolled in VG because I thought it might be a good temporary job. Then I got the other one, but at least I kept the card.”
   Worse and worse. Nijiiro struggled for a change of subject. “So...do you like to read?”
   Naoki snorted. “You need to work on your topic transitions.”
   Nijiiro flushed. “Yeah, well...do you?”
   “Yeah, reading’s fine. I don’t usually have much time to, though.”
   “What kind of books do you like to read?”
   Naoki considered. “I like mythology a lot. Myths are pretty cool. Weird, but cool.”
   “Like Amaterasu and the whole rock thing?”
   “Yeah, but other countries’ myths too. Norse myths are weird. Like this one where the goddess Freyja found this necklace called Brsingal, that dwarves had made, and wanted it so badly she slept with the dwarves who had made it to get it.”
   Nijiiro shuddered. “Uckh. I’m not a jewelry person.”
   Naoki raised his eyebrows. “Really?”
   “Shiho’s the jewelry girl in my family. Well, and Hiroji, but he’s just a freak. I think jewelry’s kinda ridiculous.”
   “Really? Huh.”
   Nijiiro glared. “Believe it or not, I’m not totally effeminate.”
   Naoki coughed. Nijiiro was ready to kick him, but then Naoki pointed further down the street and said, “Hey, is that a VG match?”
   A huge crowd was congesting the intersection Naoki was pointing to. It had to be either VG or a car accident, and the cheers from the crowd made it pretty obvious which one it was.
   “Yeah, it is!” Nijiiro broke into a run. “C’mon, let’s go see!”
   “Why?” Naoki inquired.
   “I try to keep on top of VG matches. The more I watch, the more I know about fighting and how other people fight, and the better I’ll do later.”
   Naoki coughed again.
   Nijiiro stopped running and glared back at him. “I only like seeing some of them naked.”
   “I didn’t say anything.”
   “I knew what you meant! Now shut up and get over here!” Nijiiro ran up to a girl on the outskirts of the crowd, and stood up on his tiptoes next to her. “Who is it? When did it start?”
   “Ii-kun!!” the girl squealed. “Oh—the match? It’s just starting—Minami Reijiro versus Fujisaki Shuji!”
   “I’ve never heard of either one of them.”
   “They’re both new. Here, stand here, it’s easier to see.” The girl moved out of the way, almost bumped into Naoki, and whirled around with an apology on her lips. It died into a blush when she looked at him. Naoki looked uncomfortable and took a step away, on the pretext of trying to get a better view at the VG ring.
   It looked like a one-sided match. One of the two fighters, a young man with spiked russet-brown hair, wearing a white button-up shirt with the sleeves ripped off and black pants, had the other, dressed in form-fitting black leather, in a headlock. The one in leather didn’t even seem to be fighting back, even as he was driven down to the ground by his opponent.
   “Who’s the one who’s losing?” Nijiiro asked.
   “Minami-san,” the girl said, wrenching her eyes away from Naoki with the sound of ripping paper. “I think this’ his first match.”
   “If that’s all he does, it might be his last,” Nijiiro said. “He’s getting killed out there!”
   Fujisaki Shuji grabbed Minami Reijiro and threw him into a devastating suplex. The crowd gave a collective wince, and for just a moment, Nijiiro saw Reijiro’s face.
   His hair was blonde, the tips dyed black—or perhaps naturally black, bleached but for the tips. He had cinnamon-colored skin, eyes such a shining green that even from yards away in the crowd Nijiiro could see them, and a face...his face. His face was beautiful. Even as Shuji slammed him down onto the VG floor, his face remained unmoving, expressionless, so beautiful it struck down into Nijiiro’s heart.
   Reflexively Nijiiro’s hands flew to his mouth to suppress bile. He knew that that face, the vision of frozen, tranquil beauty even at that moment of severe punishment, was going to haunt him.
   It obviously was not haunting Shuji. He left Reijiro on the ring floor for a minute, took a step back, and brushed his russet bangs out of his face. He unbuttoned his shirt and waved the edges, as though to fan himself. Not every guy can pull off the sleeveless-shirt look, but Shuji could. He flipped his shirt open, showing a chiseled chest with gorgeous coral nipples, and rolled his muscles in a leisurely stretch. The crowd lapped it up. Nijiiro had to admit, this guy was good at publicity.
   Reijiro stood up.
   Surprise rolled heavily into the air. Reijiro had taken quite a beating, and most of the onlookers had been sure he was down for the count. Apparently not. Shuji looked surprised for a moment as well, then readied himself to rush.
 
   Reijiro pointed his palm at Shuji.
 
   An energy blast the likes of which Nijiiro had never seen exploded out of Reijiro’s hand and engulfed Shuji completely. It was blood-red, a searing stream of so much chi that it was a wonder Reijiro could still be alive after using it. It slammed into Shuji, devoured him in crimson, lifted him off the ground, sent him spinning through the air, drove him heavily into the floor.
   The full scope of that energy blast was impossible to describe. Nijiiro could only gape. He was only called back to himself by the sound of the scoreboard above, which had decided that this was definitely a one-hit K.O.
   BEEP BEEP BLIP BEEP...LEVEL 3
   Shuji lay, seemingly stunned, on the floor of the ring for a moment. Finally, with an effort, he raised his head and saw the score.
   “What was that?” Nijiiro asked, astonished.
   “I have no idea,” the girl gasped, equally astonished. “He didn’t land a hit on Fujisaki this whole time...and then, with just one blast...!”
   “Amazing,” Naoki muttered.
   Shuji slowly dragged himself up onto his feet. He should have left his shirt alone when he had the chance—now just the barest ribbons hung around his shoulders. His chest and arms were crisscrossed with dozens of tiny cuts left by the force of the energy blast, which was nothing short of mindblowing—usually chi couldn’t break the skin, even if it felt like it could.
   However badly he felt, Shuji had still lost on Level 3, and like Jin, he had to pay for his loss. Slowly, probably painfully, he kicked his shoes off and brushed the ribbons of his shirt off his chest. His pants were shredded almost beyond recognition—he just had to undo them, and they fell both down and apart, drifting black ribbons down to the floor. Here again, vanity was Shuji’s undoing—underneath his pants he was wearing very tight black briefs, and although his pants had blocked the majority of Reijiro’s energy blast, quite a bit had still seeped through. Most of one side was missing, and as soon as Shuji had stripped himself to here—as far as he had to go—that side broke, and Shuji’s large balls burst out into full view. He was wonderfully well-endowed, perhaps not record-holding, but enough to make Nijiiro’s chest flare up with that clenching flame of lust. The briefs fell down to his ankle, leaving him completely naked, blushing uncontrollably.
   The whistles and catcalls were inevitable.
   “Nice plums, Fujisaki!” yelled a jeering voice.
   “Do you actually shave those?”
   “He does! Look, they’ve got fuzz!”
   “Not plums then, peaches.”
   “How many guys’ve you let try `em, Fujisaki?”
   “I’ll give you fifty bucks for two minutes with `em!”
   Shuji was blushing all the way down to his nipples by now, but it was the rules of VG that he had to stay in the ring for at least two minutes, allowing himself to be seen by anybody who wanted to look. That wasn’t the bad part anyway, especially not when your clothes got ripped to shreds like this. The bad part was when the two minutes were over, and you had to leave the VG ring and go into the crowd. In Shuji’s case, butt naked.
   Although there were of course national laws against kidnap, sexual harassment, and rape, related to VG or no, the crowds around VG rings were so large and unpredictable that it was impossible to tell whether someone fell against a Senshi with the express purpose of feeling them up or whether they were just pushed. Nijiiro had a feeling that a lot of people were going to be “accidentally” falling into Shuji as soon as he left the ring.
   On a sudden impulse, Nijiiro lunged forward into the crowd.
   “Nijiiro?” Naoki shouted.
   “Hold on!” Nijiiro shouted back as he disappeared. “Be back soon!”
   Then he had vanished beneath hordes of people.
 
*   *   *
 
   Advancing through a post-VG crowd was a talent perfected by few. There were two distinct tides—the people who wanted to leave to go back to their original business, and the people who wanted to get up to the ring to congratulate the winner and boo—or, more often, “accidentally” feel up—the loser. No matter which way you were trying to go, the other tide worked against you and made it almost impossible to move unless you were at the outskirts of the crowd.
   Nijiiro, owing to inherent agility, was one of the few people who could pretty much get wherever he wanted to go even in a crowd of this size. And it was a large crowd. New VG senshi were always wild cards whom anyone with any interest in VG at all jumped at the chance to see in action, to weigh their talent, strength, and expertise against other VG competitors. Two new VG-ers in a single match? It was a bigger attraction than free food at the movies.
   Urgency drove Nijiiro forward at a greater speed than even he had ever gone before. As he fought, pushed, slid, slipped, apologized, and snuck his way past other people, he counted down seconds. Not many left in Shuji’s grace period.
   A sudden predatory sigh went up just ahead of Nijiiro. Nijiiro jumped into the air, trying to see over the hat of the woman in front of him, and realized he had miscounted the seconds. Shuji was leaving the ring. Reijiro was already gone.
   Adrenaline is a marvelous thing. Nijiiro blasted the last ten feet to Shuji’s location in record time, surrounded by a miasmic fog of taunts and jeers.
   “Loser.”
   “Wimp.”
   “Show-off.”
   “Jerk-off.”
   “Homo.”
   “Fag.”
   Rage ignited in Nijiiro’s veins, and gave him the impetus to jumpstart a plan. Because, embarrassing and rather stupid as it was, Nijiiro had made it this far without one. But hey, as long as one came in the end, that was all that mattered, right?
   Shoving a way-too-eager-looking personage out of the way, Nijiiro stormed up, tossed his long rainbow hair out of his face, and slapped Shuji resoundingly across the cheek.
   Everybody around, including Shuji, froze.
   “That’s for losing!” Nijiiro snarled, imitating Chihiro as best he could.
   Then he switched gears, grabbed Shuji around the shoulders—which was a bit of a reach—and pressed their lips together in a sweet, chaste kiss. It was a remarkably pleasant experience, but not one Nijiiro had the leisure of enjoying.
   “That’s for finally challenging somebody,” Nijiiro purred, leaning his head briefly against Shuji’s chest. “Too bad you got flattened. But...” Nijiiro lifted his head away, “all that means is I’ll have to give you more...private lessons. Hmm? C’mon, let’s do something about that bleeding...”
   Giving his best Chihiro-glare at everybody in his way, Nijiiro dragged one very confused Shuji out of the masses and into an alleyway with all speed.
   “Wha-?!” Shuji began, but Nijiiro clapped a hand on his mouth.
   “Shut up and follow me unless you’d rather they had you!”
   Shuji shut up.
   Nijiiro dragged him down to the end of the alley, looked around, and pushed Shuji behind a dumpster, hiding him somewhat.
   “Okay,” Nijiiro said. “Safe. For now.”
   “Who are—” Shuji frowned. “Wait...your hair...are you...?”
   “VG Senshi Ii Nijiiro.” Nijiiro nodded, but stopped quickly because looking...er, down...was too distracting. “Yeah.”
   Shuji’s copious blush was slowly fading from his bare body, but at this it flooded back. He shielded himself with his hands as best he could, blood rushing to his face.
   “Here.” Nijiiro yanked off his jacket and offered it. “Tie it around your waist.”
   Shuji snatched the jacket gratefully, looking as though he might cry.
   “Ii-san,” Shuji muttered, winding the jacket hastily around himself, “why are you helping me?”
   “Because I didn’t want you getting groped by half of Japan.”
   “I appreciate it, but I—”
   “I don’t want you to do anything for me, and don’t even thank me yet, because you’re definitely not safe yet.” Nijiiro glanced down the alley. Thanks to speed and as much confusion as Nijiiro had sown among the crowd, nobody had found them yet, but that was only a matter of time. “I know you’ll have to get used to this kinda thing, `cause it’ll probably happen again, but this bad on your first time? That’s, like, just cruel.”
   “You just did that...to help me?” Shuji repeated. “But you’re—”
   “I know it wasn’t a great idea,” Nijiiro interrupted. “Sorry, but you’re going to have to get used to the press calling you my boyfriend. Or vice versa. For a little while, at least.” The mere idea sent panic clenching Nijiiro’s stomach. Jin’s reaction was going to make Mount Vesuvius look like a firecracker. “I’ll deny it, of course, but nobody’s gonna believe us for a while, not after—”
   “So wait,” Shuji broke in. “You don’t want...me? In return for what you just did?”
   “No! I mean—” Nijiiro reddened. “It’s not that I—it’s just, I’m so not making you sleep with me because I helped you. That’d just be—”
   Shuji grabbed Nijiiro, pulled him in close, and kissed him with a deep, relieved passion. Nijiiro made a sort of indistinct yelp against Shuji’s mouth, but Shuji used this as an opportunity to deepen the kiss further. It was hard and hot and bizarre and not at all like Naoki’s kiss and not at all like the kiss Nijiiro had initiated and not at all unpleasing an experience.
   “Shu—” Nijiiro tried indistinctly, but even this muffled, half-hearted protest didn’t stand a chance, stifled by Shuji’s tongue.
   “Thanks,” Shuji whispered against Nijiiro’s mouth. “I owe you big-time for the Get-Out-of-Jail ticket. Anything you ever need, swear I’ll help you back.”
   Then the new VG senshi broke away, ran to the entrance of the alley, teetered there for a moment—obviously steeling himself to face the streets—and ran to the left, as fast as he could.
   Nijiiro stayed in the alley, stunned. That was the first time anybody else had ever kissed him and meant it that way. It was—
   Totally overshadowed by the uncontrollable, blazing desire to repeat the experience. This time with Jin on the other end.
 
*   *   *
A Month Before This Day...
 
   It was late afternoon on the beach, the sands still golden and the waves still blue but the sun far over in the sky, starting to maybe possibly think about dropping down beneath the horizon sometime soon. Some people had just left the beach. Those who hadn’t were drawn to the VG area as though by a colossal magnet. This was certain to be one of the best VG matches of the year.
   VG Senshi Miyure Chikao had just challenged VG Senshi Ryusaki Hajime to a match. Both had been in VG for only a few months. Both were extremely famous for their battle prowess, and sported voluminous fan clubs—although the size of their fan clubs had less to do with their VG experience than with their bodies, and the incredible sexiness thereof.
   Chikao was a muscleman. He was an ex-wrestler who had ended his career with the sport, but unlike many wrestlers, he made the transition to VG willingly. It was perhaps his willingness to adapt to a sport so similar and yet so different to his first that allowed him to succeed where most wrestlers had failed—that, or maybe it was just his arms. Chikao had shoulders like steel and muscles like rock—every line of his upper body was so sharply defined it could cast its own shadow. His granite-like pectorals chiseled down to abs that might have been sculpted instead of exercised, but despite their size, his muscles were not bodybuilderish; they instead had that firm tone of Grecian perfection, which gives the impression of slenderness despite having considerable volume. In his baggy black-and-orange pants, black-and-brown hiking boots, and black-and-blue fingerless gloves, he was an epitome of masculinity, his incredible torso accentuated rather than hidden by a skintight white tanktop and a dog-tag necklace.
   His opponent wasn’t quite as muscular, but neither was he any less masculine. Ryusaki Hajime had long, thick, shining black hair pulled carelessly back into a ponytail at the nape of his neck, raven strands falling around his face and into his dark, soot-lashed eyes. Hajime was no pretty-boy, though—he was tall, almost three inches taller than Chikao, even considering that Chikao was wearing hiking boots and he was barefoot. He was a surfer, one of the best to ever visit this particular beach, and as a result he was nothing but honey-tan muscle from head to toe. On this particular day, he was wearing a knee-length and short-sleeved aquamarine yukata, tied as carelessly as his ponytail around his waist with a dark blue sash. The long line of bare, amber chest was enough to give half the girls in the crowd heart palpitations—and probably did, coupled with his long, muscular legs, still glittering with beads of seawater.
   Neither VG Senshi gave their opponent more than a few seconds to consider strategy. Chikao lunged at Hajime, Hajime rocketed at Chikao, and the two of them slammed into each other with a chi-induced crash that sprayed the watching crowd with seawater and sand. They seemed actually an excellent match—Hajime’s chi aquamarine, Chikao’s tangerine; Hajime’s enveloping, Chikao’s striking; Hajime shoving, Chikao slamming.
   Through and around and surrounded by their chi, the two VG Senshi hammered blows against each other like blacksmiths. It was parry and counter and rush and dodge repeated over and over in a seconds-long dance, neither managing to quite land a hit, but each landing closer each time.
   It was Chikao who landed the first blow on his opponent. He caught Hajime’s fist with one hand; Hajime struck at his stomach with his other; Chikao sidestepped, pulling Hajime critically off balance and just avoiding the blow; and Chikao’s other fist backhanded beneath Hajime’s and hit Hajime in the stomach instead.
   Hajime bent from Chikao’s blow, but was not even close to giving up. He slid his free fist over the path Chikao’s had taken and landed a blow in Chikao’s side. Chikao just had time to wonder what the hell the surfer was doing before the fist he was still holding suddenly bent backwards at the wrist. Taken off guard, Chikao lost his grip, and Hajime seized his wrist, twisted viciously downwards while holding his other fist perfectly still—and like a lever around a fulcrum, Chikao flipped around Hajime’s hand and smashed into the floor of the ring.
   But that was only half of the move. Hajime yanked Chikao upright again at arm’s length, brought his leg up, and landed a solid kick directly to Chikao’s jaw. Chikao flew backwards and slammed down on the floor again, feeling like he had just been hit by a steel girder.
   Hajime remained as he was, his leg held where he had kicked Chikao with it and his upper body leaning back, the slightest smile curving his lips—and the crowd exploded. The light-blue yukata was falling out of the way, held back by his raised leg, and revealing underneath a flash of tightest, lowest-possible-slung, bulging, bursting black.
   Hajime let his leg fall before anybody could get any more than the most tempting flash of blackness, but it was enough. The crowd was in paroxysms.
   But the fight wasn’t over yet. Chikao got back to his feet, wiping a stream of blood from the edge of his mouth, and shook his short, scruffy, wheat-colored hair out of his face. Then he charged Hajime again.
   Hajime brought his hand up as though throwing something, and out of thin air, following his hand, came drops of sea-blue chi which knitted themselves into a wave, a rushing wave of opaque chi that splattered into Chikao’s face. It didn’t hurt, but it was just like getting a bucket of paint thrown into your face, and Chikao was temporarily blinded.
   Then hands seized his arms and twisted them into a lock behind his back. No prizes for guessing who that was. The crowd’s shouts grew gleeful. It seemed that this match was just about over.
   Chikao allowed himself one quick smile. How right they were, even if it wasn’t quite the way they thought it to be.
   Using Hajime’s hands as a guide and his grip as a brace, Chikao thrust his upper body sharply down—pulling Hajime forward and down across his back—and shot his hiking-booted-foot upwards, directly between Hajime’s legs.
   Hajime let out a choking gasp. Chikao had not held back—the kick burned up through every nerve he possessed. He started to fall further, but Chikao swung around, seizing Hajime by the front of his yukata, and slammed him against the nearest corner of the VG ring, up against the post. His knee flew upwards and followed his foot’s path, right between the surfer’s legs.
   Despite intense, unbelievable pain, Hajime attempted to fight back, but Chikao was having none of it. He grabbed Hajime by his long black hair and yanked his head upright, while slamming his other arm across his chest, preventing him from bending. All breath gone, Hajime struggled, choking, for air while pain incinerated his entire body, radiating out and up from his groin.
   It hurt just to watch. Hajime, pinned up against the pole by Chikao’s knee, held up by his hair, Chikao grinding brutally down against the pole with no regards for anything between his kneecap and the metal itself.
   Hurt for anybody except Chikao, at least. Chikao was in seventh heaven. He could feel Hajime’s balls, his huge, soft, vulnerable balls, conveniently trapped within the speedo Hajime was wearing, feel the hardness he was smashing into them as he crushed them back against the metal. It filled him with lust and heat and the will to dominate. He bore down harder.
   Hajime was clinging to Chikao’s arm with both hands, vainly seeking some kind of escape or relief through the contact, but none was forthcoming. Sweat was soaking through the fabric of the yukata, pooling in the sharp cliffs of Hajime’s collarbones to slide in rivulets down his chest, to Chikao’s arm. The feeling of sweat sliding over his muscles, of Hajime’s nails driving into his skin, was too much. Chikao yanked Hajime’s head back still more sharply, making the veins in his neck stand out like relief carvings, and wrenched his arm away from Hajime’s fingers to untie the yukata, and throw the tie out into the crowd.
   The yukata fell easily open, and the crowd went nuts. All Hajime was wearing underneath the yukata was a single, scanty black speedo. The speedo itself was huge, but despite that it bulged, burst, overflowed with its contents, because Hajime was one of the best endowed men to ever enter Variable Geo, and everyone knew it.
   Chikao let his eyes roam, from the brimming black package of male genitalia he was still grinding back against the pole to Hajime’s muscular amber thighs, forced apart by the intrusion of his knee and quivering with intense pain, up again to the top of the speedo—low-slung by cut and pulled lower by the weight of its contents, and by now so low that if it wasn’t for Chikao’s knee, Hajime might as well have not been wearing it—to follow a slim path of almost-curling black hair up Hajime’s waist and over his stomach to his navel, hair glittering with the sweat still sliding down Hajime’s chest like rain. It was irresistible. Chikao leaned forward, bringing all his weight against Hajime’s massive balls, and let his tongue lick a long, slow, salty trail from Hajime’s collarbone up his heaving throat.
   Hajime tried to scream, but he had no breath left to do so, even when Chikao pushed his sweat-soaked yukata off first one shoulder, then the other. Even through the briars of pain whipping through his entire body, Hajime could feel the cloth slide torturously slowly down his arms and off his back, helped along by Chikao until it was all bunched at the base of his spine, caught between him and the pole. Leaving him clothed in nothing but a falling black speedo and Chikao’s knee, before the VG match was even over.
   Chikao suddenly withdrew his knee from Hajime’s groin, letting the yukata fall finally to the floor, and threw the surfer to the ground by his hair. However, he had kept one small token. Hajime landed on his back, tears finally rolling down his face from the pain, not even realizing that the overworked and overfilled black swimsuit had been torn from him in the toss.
   Hajime’s entire long, luscious, honey-colored body was exposed to the crowd, and the attention of every person was focused on every inch. Hajime’s erection lolled back on his stomach like a drunkard, making up for the time it was held down and back by Chikao’s knee, and his balls...Hajime’s balls were so large that those in the crowd who had not up til now seen them were astounded. Later, teasers in the crowd for the match between Shuji and Reijiro would taunt Shuji by calling his balls plums, but that was an exaggeration and they knew it. Hajime’s seriously were of such a size, low and heavy enough to hit halfway down his thighs, now clad in nothing more than a light coat of Hajime’s fine, curling hair.
   Chikao wasn’t ready to give up his new toy yet. His own erection hard and pushing against the front of his baggy pants, he tossed Hajime’s yukata and torn speedo into the crowd (where they quickly disappeared—NOBODY wanted Hajime to leave this match clothed) and walked up to his opponent, who was vainly trying to regain some vestige of muscular control before—
   A heavy hiking boot pressed savagely down on Hajime’s balls, and he jerked, arching his back with unconscious desperation, cinnamon-dark nipples hard as his erection. His hair, slick with sweat, lost its tie and came loose, strands sticking to the hot perspiration streaming down his chest and raining off his back.
   The feeling Hajime’s balls had made against his knee was nothing compared to this—the feeling of absolute control, watching this gorgeous, defenseless, completely naked man while his impossibly heavy balls pulsed underneath Chikao’s foot. Chikao wanted dearly to stomp down as hard as he could, but he held himself back, relishing the torture pouring in tears down Hajime’s face. Slowly his foot ground down still harder, and Hajime let out a wordless scream of imploration.
   It was like a fisherman and his catch—Chikao standing, triumphant and cool, his arms folded, eyes taking in every detail of Hajime’s torture; Hajime arched, writhing, naked, black hair plastered in sweat-sticky streaks across his face and chest and back, hard amber body glimmering all over with sweat and tears—and more, as Chikao forced him into a pain-induced version of a Level 1 loss that stunned the crowd speechless with its volume.
   Until—
   BEEP BEEP BLIP BEEP...LEVEL 2
   Chikao sighed. By VG law, when the computer declared a match over, it was over, and there was nothing you could do about it. If you continued to attack your opponent after the match was ended, you were disqualified, without exceptions.
   However...
   Chikao took his foot off Hajime’s balls, and Hajime finally—finally—curled into a fetal position, shuddering uncontrollably, body racked with spasms of pain.
   But the worst was yet to come. Chikao yanked off his fingerless gloves and stuffed them into his pocket, slipped his arms underneath Hajime’s curled-up and shaking body, lifted him easily, and threw him over the side of the ring into the hands of a group of teenagers whose eyes glittered with raw animal desire.
   “He’s all yours,” Chikao said to the crowd as a whole, and as the entire crowd imploded in on itself—a thousand hands, each reaching out to seize Hajime’s balls for their own—Chikao left the ring, a fisherman throwing his catch to the sharks, licking lines of sweat and semen from his dripping hands with a kind of smug pleasure.
 

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