“Look at yourself, do you really think going to the dungeon entrance is an effective—much less optimal—strategy? Fun fact: 100% of respondents voted you should improve before trying to enter the next dungeon.”
Aren’t these the same people who think watching me suffer is ‘funny’?
“Your memory is flawed.”
What does that say about you?
Bee avoids answering the latest question. “There is a point where dark humor is no longer funny; even for its fans.”
Emi takes her turn at ignoring the voice in her head...wait, never mind. You would know, Emi thinks as she continues rolling over small mounds of dirt that line the well-fertilized rice paddy. Fog moves around her like the ghost of an annoyed pedestrian on a New York City sidewalk—one among the millions vaporized.
Bee thinks like an exasperated mother, “Look at our new jacket; just got it and already you’ve turned the thing into a muddied mess.”
Emi slows her roll, as if about to point out a hypocrisy.
Bee cuts her off: “Yes, I am well aware the state of your clothing—or lack thereof—hasn’t stopped you thus far. I, unlike you, care about presentation and was simply pointing the fact out.”
Command: Follower Count.
[FOLLOWERS: 120]
Like a farmer with small children who left the keys in the plow, Emi reaccelerates, smashing the seeds of rice trying to take root in the long dormant and now overturned soil.
“Trust me, that number will drop when they realize all you’ve accomplished for the past hour is rolling through a field like a pig.”
People love pigs.
“Correction: People love to eat pigs. Watching them roll around in the mud is not as popular as you might suspect. If it was, pigs would have much longer lifespans.”
My only leg is malfunctioning I have no other choice.
A small green triangle appears in Emi’s display.
She continues rolling in the direction of the much bigger red triangle that marks the entrance leading to the next dungeon…and guarantees unsafe passage to the next part of the prison. Soon, she stops, her curious nature unable to be ignored for too long: Fine, I’ll bite.
“Yes, I have borne witness.”
Emi sits up, rubbing her tongue over her gums where fangs are still missing while she cups water in her hands and rubs at her newly donated coat as if the power to start a mudslide is in her hands.
The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.
Where does it lead?
Even as she asks it, Emi has already zoomed in and thereby expanded the waypoint in her display.
[LOCATION: OKAGO SCRAPYARD]
A scrapyard? Command: Remove waypoint.
The triangle flashes off; Bee turns it back on.
Baka! Command: Only obey my commands.
[ERROR: INVALID COMMAND]
Bee, turn it off.
Bee takes her fingers off the places she is currently blocking the pain pulsing from Emi’s right leg.
Emi folds in on herself like a distressed hedgehog who just spotted the shine of the long beak-like mask worn by Unit 731’s leader in the forest line half a mile away—where he watches in wait like a long-billed crow circling far above his prey. Her muddied jacket would serve as perfect camouflage against the dark soil if not for the fact that she is still a mammal—and the parts of her that aren’t, run even hotter with power—marked by her heat signature.
She clenches her jaw: Okay! You made your point.
Bee stops the pain faster than Emi could ever snap her fingers.
Emi unfolds as if each bit she straightens will bring back the pain. She sighs when she is finally sitting straight enough again. Tell me then, how exactly will a scrapyard help more than going to the dungeon and crawling our way out of here.
“I just showed you.”
Emi flinches, beads of sweat falling from the frosted tips of her growing blonde hair. My broken leg? What about it?
“You just answered it.”
Baka! I hate nazonazos.
“Everything is a riddle to one who is just the right amount of idiot.”
A splint…we can make a splint for my leg at the scrapyard. Or we can make crutches.
Bee laughs through the speaker. “You are so fucking stupid.”
Just then, a tongue as cold and hard as sandpaper stored in a freezer licks the back of Emi’s head.
She shivers from the goose flesh rolling down her spine, despite the relief of knowing who just licked her, before speaking through her neck. “And where exactly have you been all this time? I needed your help.”
Emi’s companion, Futakuchi-onna, growls: “Hitman was helping. Hitman building good reputation for Emi.”
I don’t think I want to know what that means.
Jashi appears from the fog via message: [Jashi: It means he is building our brand; please stop smashing my seeds or all his work will be for nothing.]
Emi speaks pleasantly through her voice box, as if kindness was ever an effective business negotiation method. “If I agree to go to the scrapyard, will someone, I don’t care which one of you, agree to tell me what we are going to do there?”
The wind picks up, sending water droplets into the air as if the fertilization of the water has caused gravity to be inverted. But other than that, no one else answers.
Emi repeats her question without repeating anything: “I know you all heard me.”
Hitman mumbles, its mouth half full of mud and seeds like it’s trying to grow rice and eat it at the same time, “Scrapyard has everything.”
“How do you know?” Emi asks with squinted eyes that provide limited protection from the rising rain.
“Building reputation. Seen graveyard. Many legs.” Hitman spits a seed in whatever direction its mouth is facing like a baseball player leaning out of a dugout.
Emi corrects her companion, while wiping the wind-blown seed from her cheek. “You mean scrapyard.”
[Jashi: What’s the difference?]
Bee starts to concur: “Good poi—”
Emi cries out in pain, grabbing counterproductively at her leg one more time.
What was that for?
“Warning: Danger.”
Couldn’t you have just said that?
“Yes, but you were right: I do enjoy watching you roll around in the mud. Now hurry, before they get bored of watching and try to eat you.”
Psychopath.
"No, just desperate. Welcome to Hachijo."
I meant you.
[Jashi: She's messing with you; she knows who you meant. Now move away from my field...as fast as you can. Stay low.]
Bee laughs though the speaker just loud enough for Unit 731 to hear: "'Stay low'...now that's funny."
How should Emi escape recapture by Unit 731?
