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I wandered through the crowds, trying not to wonder about how I was going to find a place to stay, or some way to live here until the red light and the book brought me back home. My own easy acceptance of the situation seemed a little odd even to me--but then, I'm accustomed to being a little odd. The one need I couldn't escape was becoming more apparent by the minute, assaulted as I was by the scents of food from the vendors carts. I was hungry.
"Now there, missy--keep your eyes in your head and your tongue in your mouth!" The bread-man rapped me lightly on the forehead to make sure he had my attention. I looked up sharply, my eyes watering with the hunger. Probably excess drool. But I hadn't eaten since--how long ago was lunchtime in Tokyo?
Some of this must have shown on my face, because the man's expression softened visibly. He looked around, careful to make sure no-one was watching, and then pressed the soft, warm loaf into my hands.
"Now don't go telling anyone I didn't make you pay for that," he said with mock sternness, "or they'll think I've gone soft."
"Arigatou gozaimasu..." I smiled, and promised, and slipped off into the crowd.
I settled against an alley wall to eat the bread and get my bearings. Evening was approaching and soon I was going to have to find a place to stay.
"Excuse me." I looked up to see a tall young man standing against the wall nearby. He smiled pleasantly, now that he had caught my attention. "You looked lost, that's all. I thought maybe I could show you around."
Now I know, and I knew then, that walking around cities with strangers is taking a pretty big risk. But let's face it, even staying in the city was a risk at that point--did I really think I could do better on my own? So I smiled, climbed to my feet, and nodded. "Sure. That'd be great."
He tried to be chatty, pointing out landmarks and buildings and streets that would have interested a real tourist, but the path he was taking seemed to lead further and further from the reputable-looking parts of town and ito a district full of dilapidated buildings and broken walkways. And just as I was about to ask where exactly we were going, he stopped.
The first sign that something was wrong was also one of the last. They poured from the cracks in the broken walls and into the alley; a half-dozen tough, jaded street kids of sixteen or so, all watching me and my "guide" ferally.
"Well that's different," one leered. "What say we keep her around a while, fellas, eh?"
"Over my dead body," I grumbled, too low for them to hear. Already I was dredging up forced memories of childhood defense classes, tensing muscles under my clothes and hoping the excess of cloth in the ankle-length skirt I'd worn that day didn't get in the way.
They advanced, threatening. I took a deep breath to still my shaking, willing my face to show no sign of fear. When my "guide" snarled and ran forward, I ducked out of the way and kicked out at him.
My foot connected with his chest and he stumbled back, breathless. I heard cloth rip, felt a loose flap of fabric flutter around my ankle. The rest of them moved at once, cornering me against the wall. It was with a calm sort of detachment that I watched their moves, ducked them, occasionally blocked them. My muscles remembered what my mind had forgotten, the kicks and punches that sensei of my childhood had drilled into me.
And then that torn bit of my skirt got tangled in my legs, and down I fell.
A hand grabbed roughly at my hair. I pushed myself onto my hands, struggling to get free of that dirty, angry grasp. "Get--away--from me!!" But this time I had no hard, swift kick to back up those words.
And then a rock, thrown from some nearby rooftop it seemed, hit with a thunk against his head.
"What's the matter with you?" The voice was condescending, scornful, and entirely familiar. "How many men do you need to take on one skinny girl?" The street toughs looked up, finally noticing the mercenary's silhouette on the rooftop.
By the time they noticed, of course, it was too late. By the time he leapt to the ground, spinning and kicking in a blur of motion too fast to keep up with, they had all either fallen or run away, retreating back into the cracked walls they came from.
"I know I said I wasn't going to help you." It sounded almost as if he were apologizing for coming to my rescue. "It just looked like you could really use a hand." And then he reached down to offer his, and pull me up to my feet.
I smiled wryly, brushing myself off. Not that the mud and dust was going to come off anytime soon. "And I probably shouldn't thank you, since you already know I haven't got any money."
The boy shrugged, and grinned, though it looked like it took him a bit of an effort to do so. "It's okay...look, I know you're lost and all...want me to get you some dinner or something? You won't be poor forever, right? You can make it up to me."
How painful generosity can be. But what could I say? He really didn't have any obligation to me, and if he was going to hurt me, he could and would have done it already. So it was an easy step to relief when I smiled. "Don't worry. I will." I didn't say thank you. I just followed him away.
Go on to Part 3
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