The night lamps glowed a timid blue. It rained during the Primera earlier; Daiko missed that detail somehow.

  Terrestrial were the clouds now; low, thin, and wet. They hovered just above the ground, coating the neighborhood in a lonely fog. The lamp rays could hardly reach the broken pavement beneath his feet without suffering a misty distortion, yet he never doubted where he was.

  He massaged a familiar pothole with his toe before stepping over it unseen. For its fortitude, he nodded to a triangular stone balancing on end upon a fire hydrant for a third day in a row. Finally he listened to the sound of a swing set suffering its rusted finitude, abandoned but for the company of a gentle breeze.

  Blinking, he found himself in front of the Westwood Garage again, not knowing how many times he’d gone around the block now.

  Located on the very cusp of downtown, one half of the block consisted of high-rises ascending toward the metropolis of Tosamir like steps leading to the pearly gates. On the other side stood mid-sized businesses, with three to four-story flats wedged between the climbing walls of industry.

  Sounds of the Primera permeated the mist from bars and taverns replaying their earlier performance. He imagined some of the cheers were of a more mystical breed, having been brought to his ears from the stadium itself hours ago, only after they finished a reverberating dance with the city’s skyscrapers first.

  After the crew won, Daiko had come to the Westwood Motors garage for solitude. Among the grease and coats of faded paint there lived a simplicity he could hardly describe. Within an hour of his arrival, the crew returned, having sought the garage for an entirely different purpose. They brought dozens with them whom Daiko had never seen before, but had the look of people who followed such things as galas, exhibitions, and primeras for a living. Who was he to gatekeep their fawning self-importance?

  He told the team to go ahead and take the space; after all, this wasn’t just his sanctum. Besides, the garage would be closed tomorrow. Win or lose, they’d earned a day of rest—that was the deal they’d made.

  If his behavior was suspicious, they didn’t mind. Mark invited him profusely to join the celebration but he turned the offer down, already forgetting the reason he gave. It wasn’t the truth, that he knew. Why else would he still be here circling the block again and again?

  The night was still deep as he approached the garage. Its five retractable doors vibrated from the music within, and lights shimmered behind the opaque windows like ghouls.

  The side of the building was Snake’s personal canvas of graffiti. Streaks of color lay dormant beneath the lamplight yet four words stuck out in reflective yellow like the eyes of a jaguar in the foliage.

  DO RIGHT. FEAR NOTHING.

  Arthur’s catchphrase—his father’s, really—placed there one year into his tenure as spotter and after the boy repeated the phrase incessantly. The phrase had always resonated with Daiko, but never had the words intersected more strongly than tonight. All this talk of what was or was not right, and Daiko couldn’t even decide whether to join a party at his own place of business.

  The front door banged open, and Daiko was startled away from his turbulent thoughts. A few partygoers stumbled out, clothes immaculate no longer, it was their faces that carried the revelry now. They laughed as the fog swallowed them whole.

  Daiko chanced one more glance at the graffiti but found its provocative colors all but slumbering now, nearly imperceptible among the rest of the art.

  Get it together, old man.

  Another person left through the front door, and Daiko caught the edge before it closed.

  A portion of the Primera crowd seemed to arrive for the party while he took his musings for a stroll. Two hundred people? Three? From the shop floor, to the catwalks, to the test rooms along one wall, people were woven together in a writhing mass of rhythm.

  Daiko looked up to the third-floor landing, to his isolated office, and was relieved to see it withstand the onslaught of company, its door sealed tight and windows dark but for the mirrored light. The sigh of relief was lost in the noise, but he was glad Val hadn’t found a way to break his lock just yet.

  He found a wall to lean upon, and became mesmerized by the lights and sounds. For a moment he was reminded of Jupiter's inspiring moonscape, its staggering light filtered through neon green rings, the fallout of HVM3’s nightmare…

  Ten minutes, he told himself. After that, he’d go right up to his office and drown his thoughts in manifests and receipts. The garage might be closed tomorrow so the crew could celebrate, but that didn’t stop the business. Joyce had agreed to show up early to help him manage the morning shipments, bless her soul.

  Just as Daiko was considering whether it was time to climb the stairwell, Mark stumbled out of the crowd like an amoeba separating.

  “Daiko—uh, sir. You came back.”

  Mark’s hands went to his neck, where he made a good show of straightening his tie, but then realized it wasn’t there. Looking back at the dance floor, he seemed to consider going back in to look for it. Instead, he gave Daiko a sheepish look and joined him, doing a decent impression of being sober.

  “Can I get you a drink?” he asked.

  “Sure can.”

  Alive with something to do, Mark walked a short ways and stuck his hand inside an insulation tub that was now a very expensive beverage cooler. He fished out two matching cans and threw one to him. Daiko’s hands, sure as rain, caught it with hardly a glance, though he did look twice at the label.

  A chartreuse meck struck a pose symmetrical to the lightning bolt beside it. The word Napeskein was painted across the can in neon pink cursive lettering.

  Daiko wondered if Mark was given a case by one of the marketing reps, along with a promise to put Erin or Cenn on the next ten thousand units. The way Mark looked at the can, Daiko guessed he wasn’t too far off.

  Daiko smiled, and raised the can high, “to the Primera.”

  Mark nodded and raised his own, “to the goddamn Primera.”

  They shared a reverent silence as they drank. The garage had become an industrial rave, and its owner watched it writhe with glossy eyes, unconcerned for the mess they’d have to pick up later.

  “What a crazy night, I still can’t believe it,” Mark took a drink, then wiped his chin free of the foam. “So, where you been? Thought you went home.”

  “Me too.”

  “Yeah? What’s going on?” Mark asked with boldness only the drunken are granted with.

  “I’m fine. You know how I get after these things.”

  Mark continued to eye him unabashedly.

  “Don’t know. Your brooding seems different.”

  “I’m not brooding.”

  “Partner. Sir. Mr. Hitori. The season just ended. The team’s next match is months away. So your whole party-when-the-work-is-done mantra is no good here.”

  “Maybe I’m thinking about where our mecks are in all this?”

  “You wound me. I might not know how to use half the tools in this place, but I can still park our loading skiff. They’re locked up in the auxiliary garage out back with the shop tools light enough to carry.” He raised an eyebrow. “What else?”

  Daiko took another drink, mildly annoyed that he was unable to hide much from his people these days.

  “Alright. I just have a lot on my mind.” He looked at his watch. “I’ll need to be back in the morning to—”

  “Come on, knowing Joyce, she’s already done half the work. That woman can’t sleep if there’s an ‘i’ left undotted.”

  “You’re probably right about that.”

  Mark snapped his fingers.

  “Oh, do me a favor when you’re in the office tomorrow,” he raised his can again, and then shook it gently until Daiko did the same. “Update our voicemail to say ‘Westwood Motors, Primera Champions’. And bring an extra notepad when you review our messages. Ran out of business cards tonight; had to write our number on people’s forearms by the end of the race.”

  “You got it.”

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  Daiko went to drink but found there wasn’t any left. Mark noticed him inspecting the can and slapped him on the back.

  “Hang on,” he said, and disappeared into the crowd.

  As he waited, Daiko watched the string lights as they flashed in tune with the music. As he followed the pattern above the dance floor, the crowd parted, and there in the middle was Mina. Erin was with her, mirror images of each other, bright, cool, and smitten.

  Daiko was beyond such fears of his daughter falling in love, now it was about living with it. He still had trouble remembering when their romance started. Was it when they first met during Mina’s first summer home from university? Daiko wondered if that was why she started coming home every holiday after that. Here he thought she was coming home to help out around the shop, spend some time with dear ‘ol dad.

  Do right, fear nothing…

  The words tapped his mind like fingernails on a doorframe. What would she think of his conversation with Christian? Not only had she inherited his disposition toward the Empire, but harbored her own ill will toward Jupiter itself, being that it was the last resting place of her mother.

  “Sir,” Mark’s voice split the cacophony.

  Daiko turned but couldn’t find the man. When he next heard his name, he looked up to find Mark standing on the balcony right outside his office. He nodded his head toward the door.

  A fine idea.

  The office door slid shut, and sound slipped away.

  Mark found the light panel and expertly activated the soft blue LEDs on the first try. Only then did Daiko see what Mark was holding.

  “Oh, this?” Mark said. “Just a rash purchase by a young business owner a few years ago.”

  He let Daiko inspect it.

  “I know you’re not much of a spirits guy, but this is the best scotch in the Empire.”

  “Even I can tell that. How long did you say you’ve had it?”

  Mark counted in his head with some effort.

  “8 years, 4 months, and a couple days ago.”

  Daiko gave him a weighing look.

  “Or something. I bought it after our first profitable year since taking over the Garage from my uncle.” He looked at the bottle as though the memories were drifting within. “Coincidentally, it was also the one year anniversary of your employment with us.”

  Mark snapped out of his trance and handed it to Daiko; the amber liquid did indeed have an enchanting quality to it.

  “I showed you how to run a shop, you did the rest.”

  Mark went on as though not hearing him.

  “To think, I had Mons Daiko Hitori working as a meckanist for a whole year and didn’t even know it. When Val said she was paying an old man under the table for projects, I thought she’d finally figured out how to fill out the new-hire paperwork herself. When I finally heard her say your name—remember what I said?”

  Daiko almost coughed in laughter

  “I think you said Mons Hitori was taller.” Daiko shook his head. “I’ll remember your face until the day I die.”

  “It was probably the same look I had when you offered to help run the shop. Honestly, I thought you were walking into my office to resign that day. Can’t imagine what life would’ve been like if that had been the case.”

  Mark slipped back into his trance, the bottle still in hand

  “I’m not sure what kept me from opening it after that first year. I think a part of me knew that something better was on the way.”

  He walked to the wall cabinet, extracting two glasses, words brimming with excitement.

  “So there was the first year we made a profit. Then I nearly brought it out again when you proposed we turn the garage into a SportMeck team. I remember having the bottle in my hand when we signed Erin and Cenn to their first contract… After that, I nearly opened it when we won our first match, but thought it would be bad luck to open the bottle before the season was over. So I waited again…”

  He set the cups down and ran his hand over the aged label.

  “Then we fell short of qualifying for the circuit cup that year, so I waited some more. Then we just…”

  “Kept winning.”

  “Exactly… Anyway, there’s no doubt in my mind anymore, I was waiting for this moment.”

  He cracked the seal below the cap, considered throwing the plastic away then pocketed it instead, and gave the glasses a healthy pour. No champagne flutes, no suits, no speeches; just another quintessentially them moment this day had produced. He doubted there’d be another like it, and so tried to drink it all in.

  “Oh, that’s good, Mark.”

  The soon-to-be most-sought-after team owner gave an uncharacteristically silent and content nod.

  They sat in his worn leather chairs, facing the desk. Amid the clutter of tools lay a small violet-blue book, its downturned corners pushing the cover upward, as if the ideas inside were trying to take flight. Fitting.

  He followed their flight to the images skating upon the wall behind his desk—schematic chalk drawings, stark white lines glowing in the dim blue light. He had always liked the ephemeral feel of chalk: fragile, yet somehow more final than the precise specs Mina etched into her slab.

  He gazed at the drawings as though they were written by someone else, and followed the bright chalk lines as they met others in smooth, sometimes abrupt arcs—each a path leading to the next. His shorthand script was etched sporadically, hardly legible even to him. Shadows swept across the board where his sleeve had brushed through an expired idea. In the darkened room, it gave his work a disembodied feeling—like a surgeon had removed pieces of his thought process, leaving a vacuum behind, hungry and in need.

  The sound of Mark refilling his glass pulled him away from his thoughts.

  “Tell me again that nothing’s on your mind,” Mark said.

  “Tricking an old man to drink is reprehensible,” but he took the filled glass just as Mark pulled the bottle away.

  Daiko swirled the contents to distract himself from Mark’s interminable patience. He was high-strung, a micromanager at times, and more na?ve than someone in their thirties should be. Yet somehow, he’d become a competent businessman. Christian may have been his oldest friend still alive, but Mark was perhaps the only person to know this version of Daiko.

  What the hell.

  He slipped the rest of his drink and placed the empty glass onto the table between them with a restrained delicacy.

  “They want me back.”

  Mark seemed surprised by the admission, but recovered quickly.

  “Who?”

  “Our shining Empire—but the CORP, specifically.”

  Mark almost went cross-eyed as he considered. “As a pilot?”

  Daiko laughed—the idea seemed more ridiculous now that he’d heard it for himself.

  “No, something else,” he rapped his knuckles on the table beside his empty glass. When it was full again, he continued.

  “Research and Design.”

  Mark snapped his fingers, “the guy in the tunnel, right? Surprised you didn’t kill him on the spot… though you have been gone awhile, sir.”

  Their laughter put him at ease.

  “So you told him no?”

  Daiko hesitated, and Mark leaned forward.

  “You said yes?”

  “No.”

  Mark’s eyebrows shot up. “But… you didn’t say no, did you?”

  “Arcomeckanist,” Daiko said, bringing his glass to his lips. “That was the offer—the CORP’s right hand.”

  Mark went rigid, and Daiko watched as the man ran his hands slowly down the arms of the chairs.

  Daiko went on reliving the conversation with Christian.

  “I thought the worst thing he’d do was try and buy our mecks.”

  “This wasn’t just some suit, was it?” Mark asked abruptly.

  “...No. An old co-pilot of mine got promoted recently. To Admiral.”

  Mark’s jaw lost track of its hinge as he tried to fumble his way into a response.

  “The highest-ranking officer in the military—the Executor of the Navy, Estrellador fleet, and CORPs—that Admiral? He came to see you personally?”

  “Mhm.”

  Mark shook his head in disbelief.

  “And you didn’t say no?”

  Daiko pinched the bridge of his nose, taking a calming breath.

  “Anyway… the guy’s in my head now, he was always good at that. Told the council he’d convince me before he leaves for Jupiter in a couple weeks. Part of me wishes we’d lost tonight, just to see if he would’ve asked me still.”

  “I would’ve had to fire you.” Mark dragged his hand across his face. “Of course he wanted you back—did he mention the mecks, or the P.I.S.? Did you?”

  “No but I’d bet the Primera cup he knows there’s something different about our tech.” Whether Christian—or his council—knew the tech they sought was an evolution of the very same ideas the old regime used as basis to force him out of his position on Jupiter…

  “So he doesn’t know we were driving prototypes?”

  Daiko looked over at Mark, a conspiratorial look on his face, and was glad to see one returned in kind.

  “Jupiter,” Mark leaned back, his voice taking on a dreamlike quality, “I can’t imagine…”

  “Me neither,” said a third voice.

  Startled, Mark and Daiko exchanged a glance, peering into the darkness to find its source. Mark slapped the light panel, turning on the bright overheads. Daiko flinched, prying his eyes open to see Val scrunched up in the corner, groaning loudly.

  “Easy. Sirs. Can we—” she crawled on all fours to the light panel, pawing at it until she eventually reactivated the blue dims. “That’s better.”

  “Val, what the hell?” Mark said.

  “I was thinking the same thing,” she mumbled, but then her eyes fell on the bottle of scotch, and a sudden clarity passed over her. She stood still for a moment before walking in a slow circle toward the door. “Imagine my surprise, dear brother. Here I was, napping in my office when the two of you—”

  Fast as lightning, she backhanded Mark where the sun didn't shine, swiped the bottle, and ran out of the room.

  The bones in Mark’s legs disappeared, and he collapsed to the ground. Daiko was too surprised—and frankly too impressed—to do anything about it. Cradling his jewels, Mark hobbled to the door after his sister, but she had already jumped the stairs to the first landing. Mark watched her disappear into the dance floor. He looked back, gripped with pain.

  “Lotta help you were.”

  “I’m just an old man, Mark. What’d you expect me to do?”

  “Yeah. Right.” He made his way back to the chair, wincing as he sat down. “I saved that bottle for years, and she’s probably spilt the rest all over the garage.”

  Daiko raised his glass, trying and failing to keep his amusement hidden.

  “So,” Mark said, “you were about to tell me what you’re going to do about the offer.”

  But the bubble of vulnerability they’d spent precious time creating had burst, and the clarity he’d almost reached vaporized with it.

  “Sir?” Mark asked after another minute.

  “What am I going to do?” He looked at Mark, eyebrows raised. “This.”

  And downed the rest of the scotch.

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