It's morning. Time to see what the day holds.

You woke groggy, not bright, but early enough. Swinging your legs off the bed, you wiped your face, disoriented until the past few days crashed back—Sasha, the raid, Deadwood. You stumbled to the bathroom, cursing under your breath. The mirror showed a dulled version of you, worn by rough nights and rougher choices. Stripping down, you hit the shower. Warm water lasted three minutes before turning cold—screw that, no soap today. You dried off, savoring the perk of living alone: wandering naked. The room was warm despite the chill outside, so you grabbed pants, a white shirt, and skipped the jacket—Red Tie would kit you out anyway.

Deadwood slumbered below your window, guards swapping shifts in the dim streets. The museum across the way, lit up last night, was dark now—a stark contrast. Your stomach growled, so you headed downstairs for coffee, hoping to beat the crowd. Maybe Scarlet or Kenji would be up—they owed you, or so Scarlet hinted. Elevators were a no-go—too old, too risky—so you took the stairs. The lobby was emptier than expected, fresh paint clashing with yellowed forest paintings on the walls. Coffee brewed somewhere, its scent your only company as you stuffed your hands in your pockets and prowled the space.

A crash jolted you—a table in the dining area. Mumbled curses followed, then an annoyed sigh. “Damn, that was clumsy.” A girl’s whisper, not Sasha or Scarlet. You stepped closer. She stood, wiping coffee off a red pleated skirt and dark leggings with a white rag. Her black coat and wavy, shoulder-length hair screamed pristine—untouched by this world’s grit. She didn’t hear you approach.

“Hello?” you said, soft but clear. She spun, eyes wide, hands out like you’d lunge. Dark brown, slanted eyes softened as she saw your calm stance, her hand dropping to her chest.

“Gomen’nasai,” she gasped, then caught her breath. “Who are you?”

“English only—some German,” you replied, stepping back. “Japanese?”

“Sorry,” she said, accent-free—rare for anyone from the Far East. “You scared me. New here?”

“Warren, Red Tie contractor. Just rolled in yesterday with McKinley, Kenji, and Scarlet.”

She smiled, warm and quick. “Akiko. I danced last night across the street—ballet, not...whatever you’re thinking.” Her face flushed as you fought a grin.

“Ballet out here? Nice. Didn’t catch it.”

Her brows knitted. “I know Kenji, not the others. Heard your crew took a hit.”

“Yeah, we didn’t all make it,” you said, tilting your head. “Gyangu?”

She laughed, a bright sound. “Gangsters?”

“Sure, why not.” You chuckled too. She was charming—polished makeup, cared-for look. Her troupe had to be valuable, guarded tight in this ****-trade wasteland. Japanese rumors swirled in your head—California foothold, navy ties—but her presence here was a mystery.

“I spilled my coffee,” she said, gesturing to her skirt. “Gotta go, but if you’re Red Tie, we’ll cross paths again.”

“Count on it,” you replied, giving a slight bow. She dipped deeper—“Arigatō”—and hurried off with her rag.

Coffee in hand, you returned to 101, sipping and waiting for the inevitable summons. As the sun crept up, a knock hit your door. Not Akiko—McKinley, holding a box with your name. “New uniform,” he said. “Put it on, meet us downstairs. Big meeting.”

“Yeeess, sir,” you drawled, shutting the door. The box spilled gray fabric—bluish, with brown leather straps and an SU buckle: Southern Union surplus, Texan grit. No Spanish meant Texas won something down south, flooding the states with gear like this. You dressed, the uniform sharp but heavy with history.

The lobby was packed now—men, women, mutants, all in grays, chattering until a booming voice cut through. A tall, seasoned officer, swagger in his stance, owned the room. Sasha stood near McKinley, her eyes flicking to you—sharp, cold—before snapping back. Scarlet and Kenji were MIA. The officer welcomed everyone, then got to it: “Wall’s taking hits—need volunteers. Katana Arts Studio too, after some accidents.” Half the room shot up for the wall; the studio got shrugs.

“Why’s no one jumping for that?” you muttered to McKinley.

“Babysitting,” he said, leaning back. “Japanese are untouchable here—boring, no honor.”

“Sounds like my speed,” you said. “I’m used to babysitting gigs.”

He frowned. “If that’s your tea.”