He gone done it. He stepped over that line beyond which the right to expect normal, inbounds behavior ends. Inger is a nice, southern girl with manners. Until a man crosses the line. Then the country girl comes out. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. And hell is terrified of a pissed off country girl.
He weasled his way into catching Inger and Tala having tea in the American Cafe. Then demanded, “Girl, come with me! NOW!” If the devil himself cowers while facing a pissed off country girl that boy is a damned fool for believing she would submit.
Damian is back in Norfolk at the Saito-Gumi debtors prison. They moved him to a production line where he attaches arms to torsos. Could Tavros do this work? Yes. But Damian hasn’t just ignored Inger’s boundaries. He’s done worse. Worse that put him on this stupid assembly line doing bullshit robot work.
For Demo (做樣子)
Thanksgiving was last week. Inger’s Mom used her Stuart Street house to host. Seating for sixteen, the good china and silver put out. Inger comes from upper-middle class kin. They ain’t rich. But they ain’t broke either. Inger would rather eat fermented tofu than live in her Stuart Street home. But for holidays it is perfect. Both a flex and a familiar comfort in one showcase home.
Stuart Street is for show (做樣子). It is her Mom’s sine qua non—her performance piece to make catching a man from a good family as easy as catching goldfish. Her Mom’s art, so there is that.
Inger is upstairs in one of the old servants rooms on the third-floor. She shares it with the house robots who are off-duty. Her particular Mikako is in the basement watching the caterer work. It still has exposed lath and smells like cedar and 150 years of Richmond dust. She’s wearing the same hoodie from 2119, hair in a knot, sitting cross-legged on a tatami mat she dragged up here herself, eating cold leftover pho straight from the carton with the chipped Miskatonic mug balanced on her knee. The makeup table and the gown for the dinner waiting for her queue.
This room, like most of the public facing rooms in the house, has private passages for the staff to move about and do their work. Inger appears as if by magic in the parlor through one of these passages. Then it’s hours that feel like forever in the public spaces of the house–the parlor and dining room for the women and the smoking room for the men. Even in 2125 some traditions survive.
Burnt Bird
Garnish Catering does an awesome job. Inger’s Mom orders the full deal. Chefs and line cooks give the basement kitchens a full workout. A maitre d working the front of the house to ensure everything stays perfect. Wait staff and bartenders to do the service. Two different bars, one in the smoking room and other in the parler. Inger’s Dad liked Flips. But the bar was fully stocked so the men had what they liked. In the parlor the fashy drink after dinner was syllabub. Beforehand there was coffee, tea, and cocktails.
Inger tipped the parlor bartender and cocktail waitress. She made this request: serve me watered down drinks or mocktails. This was a show, not a moment for getting drunk. Inger nursed a Rum & Coke, heavy on the coke, through the early part of the dinner. When everyone sat down there was a low alcohol white wine at her seat.
Dinner was the usual: roast turkey, candied yams, mashed potatoes, peas and onions, cranberry sauce, oyster dressing, and an Edwards Country Ham. Mince, pumpkin and apple pies for desert. Then back to either the smoking room or the parlor for gendered time. The men return to the smoking room to watch a game. The parlor hummed with idle chat in alto and soprano registers.
Safe Spaces
Charlie’s old basement inlaw apartment got remodeled. It is now an office for the butler who runs the house the rest of the year. Miki, her Mikako, sat herself in Charlie’s old chair and is toying with the wall of monitors he built. Inger’s second floor bedroom is a 做樣子 rendering of a tweenie ghost who forever wears corsets and lace. Awful.
After dinner Inger slipped through one of the hidden doors for the servants and robots. She went down to the kitchen where the caterer’s staff was cleaning and packing to go home. This was more like it. These are people she can relate to. tbh, she’d rather barback her Mom’s event. That felt more normal than the designer gown cat and canary show she just acted in.
She played Bubble Shooter for a bit, thanked the staff, and headed out. There were cars available nearby. Inger needed to walk for a bit before crossing the river. Reaching West Broad she ordered a car and waited for it. Soon enough it arrived and took her home.
Down the street from Inger, Mrs. Winslow’s front door was open. Hip-Hop Gospel was filtering out into the street. Miki commented, “Mrs. Winslow’s food smells really good.” Probably so, but Inger was done with people for today, “Yeah. But I’m done for the day.” “Understood.”
Her bungalo has two bedrooms, five rooms total. She was in the kitchen wiping down the stove and the countertops, “Honey, rest. I’ll straighten up.” The energy of the day left her to be replaced by an overpowering wish to sleep.
What the Hell!?
Inger opened up her tablet and pinged Tala, “I’m going to kill him.”
“Excues me?! Those are harsh words. No, ‘hello, how are you?”
“Tala, I’m sorry. Damian escaped somehow and kidnapped my Mom.”
“What!?”
“I’ll send you his message.” After a minute or so, Tala messaged back, “Does anything stop this guy?
“Seems not.”
“What do you need to stop him?”
“My katana. It’s at the casino. Is anyone with keys to the dojo at work?”
“Let me check.” After a couple minutes, Tala messaged, “Hideo is there. But he worked swing and is almost off shift.”
“Ok, cool. Do you know if the door network is up?”
“It is. Damian’s access, all of it, is cut off.”
“Is it safe?”
“Safe enough. It is good. You should be fine.”
A Sword is Just a Piece of Steel
Inger met Hideo at the dojo, “I need my sword.”
Hideo’s voice is steady, almost ceremonial, “Inger, you must train. The sword is not enough without the spirit behind it.”
Inger snaps back, raw and urgent, “What about my Mom!?”
Hideo meets her eyes, unflinching. He switches to Japanese, grounding her in the dojo’s ethos, 心配するな。我々が面倒を見る。母は守られる。At that moment, word arrives—Damian has been dragged back to his cell in Norfolk, bruised and broken, his escape short-lived. The dojo’s network, unseen but vigilant, has already acted. Hideo continues, “The crisis is contained. But your path is not about chasing Damian. It is about becoming more than fury. Train now, so when the true test comes, you will be ready.”
“はい、先生。失礼な振る舞いをして申し訳ありません,” replied Inger.
Inger spent an afternoon performing kata and ukemi. Then met Tala in the American Cafe for dinner. It was good to eat regular food instead of cuisine that came with a resume. She heard, through one of the casino security people, that Damian was recovering in the prison sick bay. He fought the security team that found him at the Stuart Street house. That’s twice now that he bowed up and claimed he could whoop their ass. Sure. And pigs fly. She and Tala ate light and finished the meal with tea. Damian was a problem for another day.