Cut From A Tattered Cloth

Chapter 2

Snow fell from the sky.

Eijiro felt none of it. Not the snow dusting his shoulders or the night wind biting his face and arms. In his inebriated state he barely felt the glass shards digging into his palm. He strode through the empty streets, his feet steady for a man fresh off of two quarts of malt beer.

Kelly had him all wrong. Yes, Eijiro was a drunk. But he wasn't trying to drink himself into a stupor—at least not tonight. He needed the dulled awareness that came from the bottle; but he couldn't afford to get wasted.

Especially not tonight.

His right hand closed tighter around the frayed cloak, feeling the hard lump inside of it.

Sorry, Kell, he thought, But you'll have to find someone else to train your kusogaki. I've got other plans.

Traffic hummed in the two levels overhead. Where Eijiro stood in the ground zone, everyone was either on foot or pedaling a bicycle. In other parts of Capitol City Eijiro might've seen lumbering groundcars carrying goods to those first-tier shops and markets. But here those were few and far in between. Most shipment deliveries were made in the hoverports zooming through the second tier of traffic and the airships drifting above them in the third tier.

As he made his way to the West Aeroport Bridge it hit him again just how crowded this place was. The Capitol City of Zaram had so many people they needed to build up three times as high to fit everyone. And even with thousands of people crawling over each other like maggots on a rotting carcass, they still seemed to run out of room.

Eijiro cut through a side ally, avoiding the tail Kelly had set out for him. Watching the undercover officers arguing from their hoverport Eijiro smirked. The CCPD was slipping if he could tell he was being followed while drunk.

Sighing, he turned on his heel, taking in the slums of Zaram in all their glory. It had been a mistake to come here; his own father had said that eighteen years ago. Yet here he was--homeless, all but jobless, and no next of kin to his name. He would die alone, a foreigner in a country that had always hated him.

But that really shouldn't feel new to him; Eijiro was used to being hated.

He felt the coil wrapped tight in the folds of his cloak. He had always hated the thing--the stupid costume the Zaramian government dressed him up in. All for the sake of saying they were "inclusive." Reaching out to countries they had abandoned centuries ago in order to parade them around like exotic pets. The whole concept made Eijiro sick. Even more so when he accepted that he was one of those pets. The exotic Cloth Mage from the east.

A couple of thugs lurched from the shadows in front of him. One brandished a metal crowbar and the other held a pair of glass knives. Their faces covered by surgical masks. Eijiro made to step around them, not the least bit concerned. He didn't have time for this, he had a schedule to keep.

"Hey buddy," said the man with the crowbar, "This is our street. And you've yet to pay the toll."

"You're wasting your time," Eijiro said, not breaking stride, "You'd be better off dancing at the M-track station."

The man with the glass knives tsked. "Uh-oh, buddy. There's an extra fee for having sass in the corset. And unfortunately you don't look like you carrying the right...equipment to pay that."

Eijiro stared at him, bloodshot eyes incredulous. "Last chance, kids," he said, "Walk away now and I pretend you never said that."

They laughed. The man with the crowbar swung his arm around in amusement. "Like you're one to talk," he said, "I heard about you--you're that cloth man from the sunlands."