Memory 16: Jolt

The park is tiny below them, formed in a perfect oval.

Hurricane can make out a castle in elegant miniature, and the Mark Twain Riverboat, dead in the water. The hedges aren’t trimmed into fancy shapes anymore, but he thinks he sees one that used to be Mickey’s face.

It would be a great view, any other time.

It’s a great view now, but Hurricane has other things to worry about.

Worry one: the sonic boom splitting through the air, signifying the arrival of a metric ton more eldritch horrors. There were plenty already – black and sinuous and crawling with eyes and teeth – but all at once, the number’s just about doubled.

Worry two: the things haven’t found the shielding equipment yet, but they sure are looking. They took out the university hospital, now a smoking ruin in the distance, and the nearest train station’s a blackened crater.

Iyawa’s been having them steer the battle back to neutral ground, out toward the sea and away from potential targets, but Christ, there are a lot of them.

Hurricane twists and dodges, and he tells himself not to think. It isn’t hard; exhaustion is a constant, sluggish pull at the back of his mind, a low-level hum of white noise. It’s easy to let go of everything and just let his body move – slice, slice, thrust, and then he swoops down and comes up again, twice as fast, sending his blades spinning in a wide arc.
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Memory 17: Most awkward family dinner

The apartment’s a tiny kitchen-living room combo, the only furniture a sleek metal table with two chairs and a cookplate on the kitchen counter. There are schematics spread out over the table, and a pen beside them; a tablet, with the screen dark, rests on the counter.

Hurricane’s standing in the doorway, a plastic bag in one hand. He toes his shoes off and nudges the door closed behind him with a foot.

“Hey, Ma?” he says. He pads into the hallway, passing a cramped closet of a bathroom on the left. In the bathroom mirror, the boy looking back is perhaps eleven years old, in a worn t-shirt, hair disheveled. He passes without stopping – sticks his head into the first room on the right, revealing a cramped bedroom lit only by the flickering of a computer screen.

His mother is elbows-deep in a hollow chest-plate that looks about on par to fit a person. Her hair is longer now, the bun pulled back from her face with a meticulousness that nears severity. She’s wearing a labcoat and has a nametag, but the dim lighting obscures what it says.

“Ma?” says Hurricane. “You eat yet?”

She doesn’t glance up at him – continues tinkering, head bowed and brows furrowed.

He waits in silence for thirty seconds or so, then clears his throat. “I, uh. I swung by distribution. Want me to make dinner?”
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Memory 18: Trials

“How’s that?” says Yoshioka.

Hurricane blinks, peering through the unfamiliar faceplate.

“The fit’s okay,” he says.

And it is; it’s snug and comfortable, made for his measurements, though the HUD takes its time starting up – flickers to life a full ten seconds after he’s synced and suited.

“HUD’s got a delay,” says Hurricane. “Just kicked in.”

He peers around the room, taking in the details – checks for visibility and accuracy, the way he’s supposed to. He watches the readout begin to do its thing, the glowing letters pulling up names and vital signs as he regards Yoshioka and the techs all in turn.

Then he actually reads the labels, and he starts to laugh. He laughs until he’s gasping for air – until he has to pop the faceplate because he’s kind of dizzy.

“Might wanna check the connection to the main database,” says Hurricane, when he can breathe again. “Everyone’s got your name, dude.”
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Memory 19: Bright

The room’s awash in color, all LED glare and bright neon. The tube lights that rim the ceiling are hot pink and mellow teal, and the screen flashes and shifts with hues designed to catch the eye. Everything smells like old cigarette smoke, and the karage on the table in the center, and the fries that were devoured an hour and a half ago.

Nemesis’s to his left on the padded bench, close enough that their shoulders bump. Sasha's to his right, belting some maudlin song in Russian into the microphone. He can sing, kind of. You'd never think he could – he's like 6 foot whatever and looks like a bruiser in a gangster flick - but he's mostly on tune, and his voice is low and mild and full of feeling.

Across the way, Ryota's passed out on Iyawa's shoulder. Next to them, Mayu's twisting in her seat to answer the phone on the wall. The music's so loud Hurricane didn't even realize it was ringing.

"Last call!" says Mayu, shouting to be heard. "Everyone's getting another drink, so finish your drinks!"

"What?" yells Nemesis.

"DRINKS," says Mayu, and mimes chugging. She says something into the phone and hangs it up again. Then she reaches for her drink, still half-full, and swallows it down.
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