There Are Many Tokyos In Flower

Chapter 8: Nostalgia is the law of the Universe

There was no surviving a hit like that.

Martin knew it, even before he turned his head. Rin's body looked like one of those rag-doll dummies you see in a video game's physics engine — limp limbs flailing about, dangling eerily  like the joints had been twisted about. Head resting against a shoulder, eyes staring at something so far away it would be measured in parsecs.

It wasn't the first time Martin had seen the light of someone's life get snuffed out, seen the strings — that tied a person to their body — cut.  It wasn't even the first time he had seen it happen to a client. There was no reason for him to do anything other than phone it in, collect the package, and figure out what to do with whatever the fuck it was. Possibly launch it at the sun.

There was no reason for him to be running into the street after her. Less than no reason — this idiot cyberpunk commune felt that driving around with onboard AI in their vehicles was protection enough to let people zip around at appalling speeds. Getting hit by anything larger than a gerbil at highway speeds could be lethal, and most of the motorcycles these idiots drove around in were so overstuffed with metal and lights a Mad Max enthusiast would tell them to tone it down.

None of this very reasonable line of thought reached Martin's awareness, much less his legs, which now carried him across the highway as fast as he had ever run before. He barely noticed the pull of the wind as a bus blew past him, let alone the motorcycles, before he crossed most of the highway and skidded on his knees in front of where Rin had stopped.

"No," Martin found himself muttering, as he felt for a pulse. Even as he felt for something he knew wasn't there, his eyes traced over the distortion of her skull, the oddly flat shoulder, and the misaligned ribs.

"No no no," Martin kept saying.

He kept looking at her, kept looking for a sign of life he knew wasn't there. As if undoing death was just a matter of finding the life hiding inside.

"Well, this can't be a movie," BIRD said as it fluttered down and landed on her shoulder. "Or if it is, this definitely wasn't playing in theatres."

"What?" Martin asked, barely hearing the little robot.

"Good looking women don't die on-screen unless it's a slasher flick. Dude deaths are way less distressing," BIRD explained, in the same way someone might explain how paint was applied to a car. Oddly interesting to most people, but tedious to anyone who actually knew how it was done. "I think the John Wick formula states that the population of a small town worth of guys is less important than a single puppy."

"Bird, I know it wouldn't hurt you, which is why you should take me seriously. Shut the fuck up," Martin warned the winged smartphone, before he reached down to search her pockets.

"Robbing her?" BIRD asked.

Martin took the wallet out of her pocket, and was mildly surprised to find a whole, useful wallet there. She had several pieces of ID on her, including a staff card at a university, drivers' license, punch-cards to several stores that looked like they had been in there for years. He took a deep breath, and let a lifetime of cold professionalism settle over him like an old coat. "I need to notify her family, and her college dean. And contact someone to figure out what do do with the package."

"Pretty sure none of that is part of mercenary work," BIRD said.

The little machine was right, of course. Martin's obligation to his client ended with her death.

Which did nothing to assuage the gnawing hole in his stomach, as he looked at her unnaturally still face.

The face that had smiled, the first time he ever saw her.