New Tokyo's sky bled red, the color of spilled wine over a dark canvas. The paint? A healthy mix of pollution and smog.
Blue skies and fresh air were a luxury reserved only for those fortunate enough to dwell in the self-sustained ecosystems high above the ruined surface of the Earth. Years ago, Mason had a real chance of making it. A better life for himself and his family.
Bullshit, Mason decided. That was what dreams were. Bullshit that was designed to fool you into chasing after the unobtainable.
A block away from the New Tokyo Pawn was a squat building composed of washed-out red brick. The hotel was likely the cheapest the city had to offer. If it could even be called a hotel. It was really just a hastily converted office building.
The receptionist was a Japanese teenager who didn't speak a lick of Japanese. An increasingly common sight as English dominated the conversations of New Tokyo. A depressing triumph of globalization.
Mason walked up to the receptionist and gave her a brief nod. She looked less than pleased to see him.
"I already told you," she said with a huff, "no money, no board."
He took out the roll of cash the pawnbroker had given him and showed it to her. "Same rates as always?"
The teen begrudgingly nodded. "Thirty for a week," she said. "Same as always."
. . .
Mason didn't realize just how much he had missed the conveniences of civilized living. After a hard scrubbing of nearly a month's worth of grime and dirt, he felt like an actual person. Living underneath an underpass in a cardboard box had a way of dehumanizing you.
His room wasn't spacious by any means, but it was warm. The stench of tobacco and depression lingered in the air, though. Still, something was better than nothing. A saying he had gotten far too used to.
There was a small terminal on the desk pushed up against the ugly faded wall of Mason's room. He punched in a number burned into his memory and gave it four calls before giving up. His estranged wife wasn't taking calls, or perhaps she had finally made good on her threat and gotten a new number.
Mason didn't give a rat's ass about the witch anymore, but at the very least, he wanted to see his daughter's face one last time before kicking the bucket. A bullshit dream.
I need a smoke, Mason thought, rubbing his finger against the cash in his pocket. In the cold, urban jungle of New Tokyo, money was the only true God. He knew that all too well.
. . .
They came out of nowhere, and even after dragging him out to an abandoned factory set to be demolished, the men in dark suits weren't quite finished with him. What group did they belong to? They certainly looked mean as fuck. Definitely not the average street gang. What mess had Mason gotten himself into?
"You've made a mistake, friend," the leader of the suits, a tall, well-built man who many would consider handsome. At least if not for the dozens of scars crisscrossing through his face. Why didn't the fucker just get cosmetic surgery? It didn't look like he was strapped for cash or anything. Mason decided his name would be Scar from now on. "Those two kids you put into a coma? They were my idiot nephews, and even if I despise their fucking guts, they're family."
Mason opened his eyes, rubbing his bruised cheek. He tried to get up from the ground, but his legs refused to listen to reason. Move. Move, or you'll die. This deserted factory floor wasn't where he was supposed to die. There were still bastards that needed punishing.
A kick to the jaw sent Mason tumbling backward.
"I'll remember. . . your. . . faces," Mason forced out of his mouth. Was his jaw broken? It sure felt broken.
"Good," Scar said, mercifully stepping away from Mason. "I'm your new employer, after all."
Out from the shadows stepped a figure Mason figured he'd never see again. Baru. Looking a little pissed was an understatement. He most certainly wanted to tear Mason apart at the limbs.
You should've listened to my advice, Mason thought bitterly.
One of the suits behind Scar stepped up with a camcorder in his hands. "Introducing Baru the Demon Monkey!" he announced with great gusto. "His archenemy! The man with no heart, cold as ice, the Iceman, Mason!"
"I trusted you!" Baru shrieked, rushing toward Mason with a look of absolute hatred.
Dredging up the last of his energy, Mason scrambled to his feet only to meet a punch straight to the eye.
Baru didn't stop there. Kicks, punches, stomps, he didn't stop until Mason was a bloody mess on the ground. "Cherish you better? What a joke." Baru finished with one last kick to the ribs. "You were a shit friend anyway. I did some thinking. It wasn't the streets that did this to us. It was our own fuck ups. I can't keep wallowing in pity for myself."
A small chuckle was the only thing Mason could force out of his split lip. Everything in his body ached, and the last thing he needed was a monologue from the guy who kicked his ass.
"This isn't over," Mason wheezed. "I'll pay you bitches back. You assholes better watch your back."
Scar knelt down to Mason's level and grinned. He reeked of cheap cologne. "It's a pleasure to work with you, Iceman." The man dropped a roll of cash on Mason's chest. "Try to keep your spirits up. You're in for a world of pain."