A ragged cry went up from the fleet, Lotusmen raising their hands and calling its name; a testament to their power and ingenuity, now taking its first tentative steps toward the red dawn awaiting it to the north.
DOOMDOOMDOOMDOOM
DOOMDOOMDOOMDOOM
Daichi licked his lips, tasted black. The little man standing beside him turned, bloodshot eyes drifting aimlessly until at last they settled on Daichi’s own.
“Do you see?” the little man breathed. “The end?”
Daichi’s gaze was fixed on the Earthcrusher, breath caught in his lungs as the giant lumbered from the staging grounds, pursued by swarms of shreddermen, clattering and clanking like tiny soldiers after their emperor. All of them marching off to war.
“I see it,” Daichi rasped.
“No. You do not.”
The Inquisitor pointed at the colossus.
“Not there.”
He pointed to the ground beneath their feet. The miles of deadland, wreathed in choking, soup-thick fog. Daichi swore he could see tiny figures moving in the vapor, watching the Earthcrusher depart. The little man spoke again, an unmistakable smile in his voice.
“There.”
18
MOCKINGBIRD
The rain was warm as firelight, thick as treacle, black as midnight.
Yoshi trudged along the empty railway line, swathed in a hooded cloak of black rubber. Split-toed boots crunching in the gravel beside the rust-chewed tracks, gloved hands inside his sleeves. He’d not been able to find a handcart driver awake at Yama station, and trains weren’t running since the refinery explosion. So, he was walking south, gale blowing black droplets into his goggles, soaking bitter into the kerchief around his face.
Had to start fucking raining, didn’t it?
Minutes turned to hours beneath a thunder sky. A few Kitsune farmers were reaping the last of their lotus before the rain’s toxicity ruined it, despite having nowhere to sell it anymore. The downpour finally dried to a trickle, and he slung the hood back from his brow, wrung out his kerchief. And glancing into the sky, he saw a winged silhouette sailing amongst the bloody-gray.
At first he thought it might be Hana and Kaiah, come to talk him down. But squinting hard, he realized its wings glinted metallic, and there was no rider on its back.
He watched the beast spiraling in broad circles, seemingly without point or purpose. There was something lonely about the figure up there in all that sky, something that spoke of a body who’d lost their way. Licking his lips and spitting, Yoshi reached into the Kenning, groping for the arashitora’s mind.
Looking for me?
A long silence, broken by distant thunderclaps. He watched the beast for a slow minute, about to shrug and set boots to road when he felt the beast’s voice thunder in his mind.
WHY WOULD I LOOK FOR YOU, MONKEY-CHILD?
… Who the hells you calling monkey-child, birdbrain?
AH, BIRDBRAIN. VERY GOOD. A BARB SO SHARP THE VERY AIR BETWEEN US BLEEDS, BOY.
Someone shit in your morning oats or something?
ARASHITORA DO NOT EAT OATS.
Can’t hurl an ounce of blame if someone’s been shitting in them.
YOU ARE NOT AMUSING.
Oh, doubtless.
OH, DOUBTLESS.
What, so you’re a mockingbird now?
MOCKERY WELL DESERVED, BOY.
Fine. Go fuck yourself.
Yoshi ran one gloved palm over his stubbled scalp, pulled his hood back on, and resumed walking. He could feel the arashitora still circling above, languid, occasionally swooping toward the earth, pulling up at the last moment and hurling back skyward. Like a child, running for no reason other than he had legs and there was ground beneath his feet.
Yoshi found himself reaching out again, marveling at its texture—nothing like the simple beasts he’d spent his life inside. There was an element of Daken in there, a sense of the feline that bought hard-edged sorrow up in Yoshi’s chest. But there was also a primal, razor-sharp edge, predatory and stained with frustration. He’d never felt anything like it in all his life.
I CAN FEEL YOU, MONKEY-CHILD. STUMBLING ABOUT IN MY MIND.
So?
SO GET OUT.
Say please.
PREPOSTEROUS. COULD GUT YOU LIKE A FISH. COULD DRAPE THE CLOUDS WITH YOUR INNARDS. WEAK. WRETCHED. USURPERS. TURNING SKIES TO RED AND— Izanagi’s balls, I’ve just figured it. You’re out here sulking, aren’t you?
… YOU KNOW NOTHING.
I know a tantrum when I see it. Gods know Jurou taught me all about them. Rich boys throw the worst kind, believe me.
AND WHO IS THIS JUROU? ANOTHER MEWLING MONKEY-THING?
Yoshi stopped short, reaching down and slinging a handful of mud into the sky.
Come down here and spit that shit! I’ll teach you some respect for the dead, you whoreson. I’ll fix it so you can apologize to his godsdamned face!
He drew the iron-thrower he’d stolen from the Kitsune Daimyo, dancing in a ridiculous, frustrated little circle. Finally he spat into the mud, thrusting the weapon back into his obi and marching down the tracks with thunderclouds crashing over his head.
… I AM SORRY.