Killing Machine

EXT. SHENZHEN, FACTORY RUINS - NIGHT

MORGAN COOPER picks his way through the ruins of an abandoned electronics factory, his right hand grasping the scabbard of his sword to keep it from rattling. He soon arrives in a clearing lit by the full moon, where a man who looks like him waits with a hand resting on the hilt of his own sword. This other man is MUNAKATA TETSUO.

TETSUO: I had hoped the Phoenix Society would send you.
MORGAN: They told me you murdered an Adversary, a Peacemaker, and an Inquisitor. They say you did it in cold blood.
TETSUO: You sound as though you doubt them.
MORGAN: They’ve never lied to me before, but I don’t want to believe it.
TETSUO: Because you thought of me as a friend?
MORGAN: We grew up together. We trained together at ACS. I was there with you when you faced the Milgram Battery, and you were there with me. Every time you fell in love and got burned, I was there with a bottle so you’d have an excuse to cry and somebody who would listen without calling you a pussy. What did that make us, if not friends?
TETSUO: How about brothers?
MORGAN: All right, brother, I’m not gonna say you owe me an explanation but I’d sure as hell appreciate one.
TETSUO: What good would an explanation do? You have your orders.
MORGAN: They expect me to kill you, dammit.
TETSUO: (nods)
I have had it coming for years. So did those I put to the sword. So, to be honest, do you.

TETSUO reaches into his shirt and pulls out a bronze medal on a leather thong. He takes it off and holds it aloft so it can catch the moonlight. A close-up shot of the medal would show that it depicts a hanged man who died with a Mona Lisa smile.

MORGAN: That’s a St. Judas medal. You’re not just an Adversary, you’re an Iscariotine knight like me.
TETSUO: So were Banks, Rutherford, and Hackett. We all took oaths of eternal hostility against every form of tyranny, but when somebody from the Executive Council offered us everything we thought we ever wanted to trample those oaths, that the Phoenix Society might continue its mission, we betrayed those oaths for the greater good.

TETSUO throws his St. Judas medal aside.

TETSUO (CONT’D): What if it was all a lie? What if there is no greater good? What if we’ve been serving the tyranny we swore to oppose all along?
MORGAN: Is that what this is all about? You’ve decided that the Phoenix Society itself is tyranny, so you’ve embarked on some kind of crusade?
TETSUO: No. That would imply that I still care about liberating people who do not want liberation, people who are so comfortable in their chains that they would damn me for even wanting to help them.
MORGAN: Then you’re doing this for yourself? Is this some misguided attempt to live up to your ideals? Help me understand, dammit.
TETSUO: You don’t need to understand. You need only draw your sword—and kill.
MORGAN: No.
TETSUO: (smiling)
This is why I had hoped it would be you the Society sent. Maybe you can understand why I’ve embarked upon this course.
MORGAN: Would it kill you to say something that makes sense?
TETSUO: Remember how you said that the Phoenix Society hasn’t lied to you yet? What if they’ve been lying the whole time?
MORGAN: Are you c—
(stops himself)
Have you lost your grip on reality?
TETSUO: Maybe I have. Or maybe I’ve just stopped buying the narrative.
MORGAN: What narrative?
TETSUO: You think you know what you are? When you’re on the job you’re Morgan Cooper, Adversary and knight of the Iscariotine Order. When you’re on the stage with Crowley’s Thoth alongside Christabel Crowley and Naomi Bradleigh you’re Morgan Stormrider, lead guitarist and backing vocalist. You’re a citizen of New Amsterdam. You’re a man. You’re human.
MORGAN: What am I, if I am not any of that? What are you, if you are not what you are?
TETSUO: You must decide that for yourself, as I must decide for myself. If not, others will decide for us as Imaginos did when he played the Mephistopheles to our Fausts.
MORGAN: What does this Imaginos think we are?
TETSUO: His creations. His weapons. To him we’re einherjar, biological androids designed to kill demons, each of us an army of one. The Phoenix Society and its corps of Adversaries, Peacemakers, and Inquisitors are nothing but a system designed to test us and train us. And as long as we do as we’re told we can have anything we want.
MORGAN: So, why are you doing this? Don’t you have everything you want?
TETSUO: I want to be more fully my own self, and not just what others think I am. I want to take my own life and live it out for my own sake. The Society cannot give me that. I must take it for myself.
MORGAN: And this required three murders?
TETSUO: Banks fabricated evidence against trade union leaders to make them out to be exploiters. Rutherford used his position to engage in arms trafficking. Hackett took bribes from the other two to look the other way.
MORGAN: Can you prove this?
TETSUO: (holds the first two fingertips of his right hand to his ear)
Malkuth? Are you listening?
MALKUTH: Always.
TETSUO: Give Morgan the dossiers I compiled for Adversary Banks, Peacemaker Rutherford, and Inquisitor Hackett.

MORGAN receives an incoming data transmission. Opening the files using his implant, he sees damning evidence against the three Phoenix Society personnel TETSUO stands accused of murdering.

MORGAN: I can’t do this. Please, Tetsuo, for both our sakes surrender and make your case in court.
TETSUO: Guys like us don’t get trials, and you damned well know it…
MORGAN: All I know is that I can’t just walk away. Please don’t force this duel.
TETSUO: We both forced this duel. All of our choices led to this moment. We made this fate for ourselves.

TETSUO draws his sword, a katana with hiragana engraved at the base of the blade to identify the weapon as the work of Nakajima Chihiro. MORGAN draws his own blade, an Elizabethan backsword with the same maker’s mark as that of TETSUO’s weapon.

MORGAN: (en garde)
At least strike the first blow.
TETSUO: That much I will do for you.

TETSUO approaches carefully, sizing MORGAN up, before loosing a piercing cry and striking the first blow. MORGAN parries the blow and counters it to draw first blood, and the men continue to fight until both their swords snap. Their strength and fury are such that it doesn’t take long, despite Nakajima’s craft.

TETSUO steps back, smiles, and casts aside his broken sword. As MORGAN throws his own sword aside and draws his knife, TETSUO grabs him by the throat, lifts him off his feet, and begins to electrocute MORGAN.

TETSUO (CONT’D): You will survive this, but will you survive the knowledge that you are not the mere human you pretend to be? I am the one man you cannot kill to preserve your secret. But preserve it I shall, so long as you tell Imaginos that I am dead and gone.

With a defiant snarl, MORGAN drives his knife up into TETSUO’s brain from under his chin and falls to the ground. He gets to his feet, shaking off the effects of TETSUO’s shocking grasp as the other man collapses into his death throes. For good measure, MORGAN draws his 11.43mm semiautomatic and shoots TETSUO twice in the head. As the last gunshot’s echo fades, Morgan looks up and sees a white-haired prettyboy in a white suit step out of the shadows. This is ISAAC MAGNIN, the dark lord who already rules the world and is trying to save it from the tyranny of demons.

ISAAC MAGNIN: (slowly clapping)
Bravissimo, Morgan. You have passed the penultimate test.
MORGAN: (aims at ISAAC)
Did you arrange all of this just to suit your sense of drama?
ISAAC: I arranged it to suit yours. Now go back to your little rock star fantasy life, and enjoy it while you can. Your greatest trial is yet to come.

INT. LONDON, ROYAL ALBERT HALL, BACKSTAGE - NIGHT

A weary-looking young woman sits in her dressing room, facing the mirror of her vanity table. Her chestnut curls are disheveled from her exertions on the stage earlier tonight, and her makeup is smudged and streaked with sweat. The violin resting in the open case atop one of the chairs by the wall shows that this is CHRISTABEL CROWLEY, violinist for the art rock power trio CROWLEY’S THOTH.

Somebody knocks on the door.

CHRISTABEL: (muttering)
Can’t I get five minutes alone?
(louder)
Who is it?
MORGAN: I’ll come back later.
CHRISTABEL: (gets up and flings the door open)
You’re already here. Just say what you came to say, dammit.
MORGAN: (lifts up a vase containing a dozen long-stemmed black-tipped burgundy roses)
I wanted you to have these. You were incandescent tonight.
CHRISTABEL: (indicates a place for MORGAN to place the vase)
I’ve seen this movie before. You think you can give me roses, praise my performance, and everything will be all right again? We can go back to being lovers, with everything forgiven?
MORGAN: (shakes his head)
We’ve always done a show in London for Winter Solstice, and I’ve always brought you roses afterward.
CHRISTABEL: The way you always bring Naomi roses, too?
MORGAN: That’s different. She gets white roses, and I have them delivered instead of giving them to her personally.
CHRISTABEL: Try actually looking at me for once. Do I look like I give a toss about the bloody roses?
MORGAN: (closes the door behind him)
No. You’re still angry about Shenzhen.
CHRISTABEL: Damned right I am. You got up hours before dawn without a word of explanation, and left me and Naomi to face the media alone.
MORGAN: It was the job. I got orders that couldn’t wait.
CHRISTABEL: They couldn’t have found somebody else? I’ve told you before that I don’t want you letting your day job intrude upon the band — or upon us.
MORGAN: (sighs)
It was Tetsuo. Remember him? He turned, and the management thought I was the only one who could take him out.
CHRISTABEL: You had all that time on the maglev from Shenzhen to London to make yourself presentable, but could you be bothered? No, of course not!
MORGAN: There’s a reason for that.
CHRISTABEL: To hell with your reasons. You showed up halfway through the warmup band’s set, in your Adversary’s uniform, and armed. You went on stage wearing your sword, reeking of blood, sweat, and gunpowder.
(sniffs)
And ozone. I’m not even going to ask about that.
MORGAN: I’m sorry. I know we’ve talked about keeping that aspect of my life under wraps, but I literally had no—
CHRISTABEL: Shenzhen to London, you shit, is eight hours on an express maglev. Twelve on a local. That should have brought you here in plenty of time. Where the fuck were you?
MORGAN: I was in jail, dammit. The New Middle Kingdom authorities take a dim view of dueling, and didn’t give a shit that I work for the Phoenix Society and was on a mission sanctioned by the XC. By the time the Society sprang me, the only hope of getting here in time was a suborbital flight, and even that was delayed. I ran here from the demon-ridden airport because I knew you were counting on me.
CHRISTABEL: Nobody can run that far. Not that fast.
(Christabel turns away, but can still see Morgan in her mirror.)
You take pleasure in this, don’t you. You love rubbing my face in the fact that you not only do the Phoenix Society’s wet work, but that you aren’t even human.
MORGAN: I’ve always accepted you as you are. I only ever asked the same of you.

Christabel turns back toward Morgan, her hands trembling as if suppressing a powerful negative emotion. Rage, perhaps? An urge toward violence? Revulsion? She is too good an actress to let the full extent of her feelings show.

CHRISTABEL: (barely audible)
You ask too much.
MORGAN: I should go change. Do you want me to escort you to the afterparty?
CHRISTABEL: Don’t bother attending. I don’t want to see you again tonight.
MORGAN: You know people will talk if I do that. If you want to break up, we can, but I don’t want to break up the band as well.
CHRISTABEL: Fuck the band!

Suddenly overcome with rage, Christabel grabs the vase of roses that Morgan had brought her and hurls it at him. He catches it without seeming to move, and backs away.

MORGAN: We’ll talk later.
CHRISTABEL: What more is there to say? I’ve had enough…

Morgan remains silent, waiting for Christabel to finish.

CHRISTABEL: I’ve had enough of the band, and I’ve had enough of you. I would spit on Tetsuo’s grave if I could. It’s a shame he failed to rid the world of you instead.

Morgan opens his mouth as if he intends to respond, but closes it without uttering a word. He turns away from Christabel, still holding the roses he had given her, and makes to leave. Before he can escape, Christabel has one last knife to stick in him.

CHRISTABEL: I’m only here in the band, with you, because Isaac Magnin is paying me. The thought of continuing this farce a moment longer sickens me.

INT. LONDON, VAUXHALL PLEASURE GARDENS, BALLROOM - NIGHT

A statuesque woman in an elegant black evening gown weaves through the crowd as if searching for somebody, stopping only to offer a moment of polite conversation to guests she recognizes as influentual donors to the cause the band is supporting by attending this gala event. The rubies she wears in her ears, on her wrist, and at her throat bring out her scarlet eyes, and crimson ribbons constrain the cascade of her snow-blonde hair. This is NAOMI BRADLEIGH, the third member of CROWLEY’S THOTH, a classically trained keyboard player and coloratura soprano.

NAOMI: (muttering as she searches the crowd)
Where’s Morgan? Why isn’t he with Christabel?

A slim brunette with eyes glimmering from excitement (and perhaps a little too much caffeine) spies Naomi and drags her escort along to meet her.

BRUNETTE: Ms. Bradleigh? It’s been years, so I’m sure you don’t remember me, but—
NAOMI: (smiling)
Christine Pennington, right? We both dodged a bullet named John, if memory serves.
CHRISTINE: (laughing)
Oh my god, you do remember. But nowadays it’s Pennington-Glendale. When Marion and I got married we decided to hyphenate. We should catch up sometime.
NAOMI: I would love to, just so I can hear how you managed to snag the Lord Mayor of London, but I’m actually looking for the rest of the band. I’m sure Christabel is managing well enough, but Morgan always seems to get lost at these events.
MARION: Before you go, Ms. Bradleigh, would you indulge my curiosity? Do you really have an Adversary playing guitar and doing backing vocals? I could have sworn it was actually Morgan Cooper up there with you tonight. He recently cleared up a small embarrassment involving one of my staff, so I remember him quite clearly.
NAOMI: (forcing herself to smile)
I think the costume was Christabel’s idea; she handles every aspect of our stage presence. As for the resemblance, I daresay Morgan would say something like, “Some poor bastard looks like me? Damn.”

Christine gives Naomi a meaningful look, and a second later a text message appears in the display Naomi’s implant superimposes over her visual field.

CHRISTINE: «Nice save. I’ll have to chastise Marion for his little faux pas later.»
NAOMI: (replying by text)
«It was as much for my sake as yours.»
(speaking)
Have a happy Solstice, and congratulations. You look good together.

After sharing an air kiss with Christine and shaking Marion’s hand, Naomi plunges back into the crowd to resume her search. She eventually finds Morgan with his back to the bar, holding a drink and watching the crowd. Morgan raises the glass in a salute as Naomi approaches.

MORGAN: Don’t worry. This is still my first drink.
NAOMI: I wasn’t worried. I’ve seen you drink before, remember? It might as well be water, for all the good it does you.
(catches the bartender’s attention)
A glass of the house red, please.
MORGAN: Been mingling, I see.
NAOMI: One of us must.
(sips her wine)
You make a valiant effort at it, but your unfortunate resemblance complicates matters, and Christabel obviously can’t be bothered tonight.
MORGAN: That might be my fault.
NAOMI: Because you had to go on stage as you were? These things do happen.
MORGAN: (shakes his head and finishes his drink)
It gets worse. I gave Christabel her roses, and we talked.
NAOMI: Oh, dear. Nothing good ever comes of that.
(sips her wine again)
So, are you going to dish or what?
MORGAN: I’m not in the mood tonight, Nims.
NAOMI: If it’s that bad, then I’m going to have to insist. It’s for your own good, love.
MORGAN: Wait. Is that…

A slim woman in a midnight blue gown with voluminous chiffon skirts appears. Her chestnut curls spill over her bare shoulders without restraint, and her heterochromatic eyes (one grey and one orange) glitter with malicious delight. This is CHRISTABEL, and escorting her in his usual bespoke white suit with royal blue cravat is ISAAC MAGNIN.

NAOMI: Un-fuckin’-believable. Morgan, do you trust me?

Without waiting for him to reply, NAOMI waits for CHRISTABEL’s gaze to alight on her and MORGAN. Once she’s sure she has the other woman’s attention, she gently grasps MORGAN’s chin and kisses him. MORGAN’s eyes flare in shock; he wasn’t expecting this.

Neither, from the murmur rising from the other guests, were they.

CHRISTABEL: You certainly didn’t wait long.
NAOMI: Did I spoil your entrance?
ISAAC: Ladies…
NAOMI: Hello again, father.

MORGAN raises an eyebrow about this, but is wise enough to keep silent.

CHRISTABEL: (turns toward the crowd and raises her voice)
If you’ll grant me your attention for a moment, I’ve a brief announcement. Those of you who attended tonight’s show have had the privilege of attending the final performance of Crowley’s Thoth. As of this moment, we have disbanded, and there will be no hope of a reunion.

Pandemonium erupts as CHRISTABEL flounces from the ballroom, and ISAAC turns to NAOMI and MORGAN with a wry smile.

ISAAC: That was a rather dramatic turn of events. We should meet like this more often.

INT. LONDON, THE HELLFIRE CLUB, ROOM 5150 - NIGHT

NAOMI is first into the room, holding her high-heeled ankle boots in one hand and looking like she had just run a gauntlet. Her hair is disheveled as if she had actually had to run for her life, and the little bit of makeup she had worn is ruined by sweat. MORGAN follows, closing and locking the door behind them after putting out the “Do Not Disturb” sign.

Dropping her boots, NAOMI flops onto one of the queen-sized beds without turning it down. MORGAN opens the minibar and mixes drinks for both of them. When he’s done, he hands Naomi a double Scotch on the rocks.

NAOMI: You have no idea how much I need this.

NAOMI sits up to sip her Scotch, ignoring that one of her gown’s straps has slipped from her shoulder. Morgan slips it back into place before sitting on the other bed.

MORGAN: This is mostly my fault. If I had refused the Shenzhen job…
NAOMI: (reaches into her bodice and pulls out a Saint Judas medal)
If you had refused, they probably would have put a couple of hollow points into your head and stuffed you into a dumpster.
MORGAN: One of these days you are going to have to tell me about your service and how you got out. How did that work, given how you addressed Isaac Magnin?
NAOMI: I had hoped to avoid that conversation a little while longer.
MORGAN: It’s not like I haven’t seen your Saint Judas medal before. I just never commented on it.
NAOMI: (sipping her Scotch)
I’ve always appreciated your discretion. The situation is complicated.
MORGAN: (laughing bitterly)
Complicated is knowing you’re with the wrong woman and not daring to do anything about it. This isn’t even in the same league.

NAOMI and MORGAN drink their Scotch in silence. It isn’t until NAOMI has finished her drink that she speaks again.

NAOMI: Now, who might the right woman be?

MORGAN reddens slightly, and stares out the window to avoid meeting NAOMI’s gaze.

MORGAN: That too is a conversation best avoided at the moment.

Neither MORGAN nor NAOMI speak again for several minutes. Before the silence can grow too awkward, the daemon serving the Hellfire Club resort of London intrudes.

HELLFIRE CLUB DAEMON: I’m terribly sorry, but there’s a Miss Ashecroft who insists on speaking with you both. Shall I patch her through?

Before either can answer, the wall screen flares to life and shows a young auburn-haired woman wearing a headset looted from some pre-Nationfall space program’s mission control center over a gray baseball cap with a SDF-1 logo and a faded t-shirt that says, “My Schwartz Is Bigger”. She’s leaning back in a massive leather chair with her feet on the table, and she’s wearing ripped jeans and an ancient pair of Doc Martins worn from dispensing multiple arse-kickings.

The room in which she sits is crammed with ancient computers, most of which appear to at least be drawing power. One of them appears to be a Cray, and another is clearly identifiable as a PDP-11 with a VT-100 terminal showing a Unix login prompt. There’s a poster on the wall showing an angry black man with a pistol asking the ageless question: “POSIX, motherfucker! Are you compliant?” This is CLAIRE ASHECROFT.

CLAIRE: You wouldn’t believe how many favors I had to burn to get through to you two.
HELLFIRE CLUB DAEMON: Young lady, disconnect immediately. You are intruding upon my guests.
CLAIRE: Take it up with the sysadmin, Dorian. He knows me. Biblically.

HELLFIRE CLUB DAEMON :(huffing as if personally affronted)
I am terribly sorry. Such an intrusion is unprecedented.

MORGAN: It’s not your fault. We know Claire.
NAOMI: Unfortunately.
CLAIRE: Love you too, Nims.
NAOMI: (shaking her head)
What is it, Claire?
CLAIRE: Well… Let’s start with the fact that you finally got around to snogging Morgan. Does that mean he broke up with Christabel?
MORGAN: More like she broke up with me.

CLAIRE gets out of her chair and begins a victory dance. Her headset goes flying as she starts banging her head to a tune nobody else can hear as she plays along on air guitar.

CLAIRE: (singing)
Ding-dong, the bitch is dead!
MORGAN: Dammit, Claire.
NAOMI: You burned God knows how many favors just to ask me about that kiss? If Christabel hadn’t shown up with Isaac Magnin, ready to make a scene, I would have waited until I could do it properly.

MORGAN gives NAOMI a speculative look.

CLAIRE: So, you think Christabel’s boffing Isaac Magnin? I wonder how long that’s been going on. What does she see in that arsehole, anyway? Doesn’t she know the white-haired bishounen always turns out to be the bad guy.

NAOMI and MORGAN share a glance. They’re both familiar with CLAIRE’s sense of humor and tendency to see the world in terms of tropes common to the media she consumes.

MORGAN: Turns out Magnin has been paying her to be in the band and play Mata Hari with me the whole time.
CLAIRE: (becoming deadly serious)
That’s probably not the only game that arsehole’s been playing.
NAOMI: What does that mean? What do you know?
CLAIRE: There’s this job I’ve been doing for Morgan.

CLAIRE looks to MORGAN as if asking for permission to say more.

MORGAN: Go ahead.
CLAIRE: Remember how you had me cracking public CCTV networks to get eyes on Tetsuo so I could alert you when he was nearby?
MORGAN: You shut that down, didn’t you?
CLAIRE: I was seeing to that when I got an alert. Either somebody inherited his IP address, or he’s back from the dead. Either way, somebody with that IP address was sighted in Boston talking with a guy named Alexander Liebenthal. Name ring any bells?
MORGAN: No.
NAOMI: Morgan, if Tetsuo isn’t dead, might he come after you.

MORGAN :When I faced Tetsuo, it looked like he wanted out. Now that he’s officially dead, the Society has no reason to go after him. As long as I leave Tetsuo alone, I suspect he’ll return the courtesy.

CLAIRE: Should I keep an eye on him anyway? Just in case?
MORGAN: Thanks. That’s probably a good idea. I’ll have Astarte keep paying you. Was there something else?
CLAIRE: Actually, there was. Nakajima Chihiro wants to see you in Tokyo. Says it requires discretion.
NAOMI: (places a hand on Morgan’s shoulder)
Should I leave, and give you some privacy?
CLAIRE: Better not. Paparazzi and reporters everywhere. Besides, I’m handling the arrangements.

EXT. TOKYO - SHINJUKU - NIGHT

The streets of Shinjuku are almost as bright as day from all of the neon signs advertising the shops, restaurants, bars, nightclubs, and other establishments running late into the night to cater to people with money to burn and a need to cut loose and party. People in gaudy outfits accost people who don’t seem to know where to go, hoping to lure them, but most stay well clear of MORGAN COOPER.

MORGAN cuts through the crowds despite being dressed in civilian clothes: a double-breasted navy pea coat over a forest green turtleneck sweater to ward off the winter chill, slim cut bluejeans, and motorcycle boots. He wears his sword in a plain leather baldric that would also take a holstered pistol if he were on the job, but the authorities have their eye on Morgan and he doesn’t want to give the police an excuse to bust him when he doesn’t have the Phoenix Society to back him up.

A single glance is enough to warn most promoters away. For the rest, it is enough for him to touch the hilt of his broken sword. It’s mostly a bluff; even if his sword was brand-new he wouldn’t draw on people just trying to make a living, but they don’t know that and he’s not about to tell them. He knows he cuts a menacing figure, especially when focused on a particular purpose.

Nevertheless, a small group of students wearing Crowley’s Thoth t-shirts approach him.

FEMALE STUDENT: (speaking halting English)
A-are you Morgan Stormrider?
MORGAN: (speaking Japanese)
I suppose I am. What can I do for you?

The students relax once Morgan addresses them in their native language, and continue.

MALE STUDENT: Claire sent us.

Morgan’s guard goes up, and he uses his implant to pull up a street map and plot an escape route. He’d rather not have to cut his way free of this crowd with a busted sword, but he might still have to knock of couple of these kids on their asses.

FEMALE STUDENT 2: Sorry. We’re supposed to say we’re here on the Queen’s business.

Morgan relaxes a little; it’s part of a passphrase exchange, and he knows what to say next.

MORGAN: Which Queen?
FEMALE STUDENT 1: The size queen who’s gonna own your tight little arse once Naomi gets bored with you.
(licks her lips)
Gotta admit I’m kinda jealous.

MORGAN releases a breath he didn’t realize he was holding, and relaxes his grip on the hilt of his sword. The lewd response was pre-arranged; CLAIRE was always saying such things, and MORGAN shrugged it off because it was her idea of flirting. She wouldn’t do so much as try to steal a kiss from somebody she wanted without first getting enthusiastic consent.

MORGAN: Where are we going?
MALE STUDENT: You’re actually pretty close. We’re going to continue down this street and turn right into the next alley. There’s a love hotel with a bar on the first floor called Midnight Sun halfway down and on the left. That’s the place.
FEMALE STUDENT 2: (blushing)
We’re supposed to go in with you, to make it look like you’re here to score with some groupies.

Morgan shakes his head and indicates the lone male student.

MORGAN: This must be another of Claire’s ideas, because he’s not my type.
FEMALE STUDENT 1: (laughs)
Claire said none of us are your type, but you’ll just have to close your eyes and think of England.
FEMALE STUDENT 2: This was the best cover we could improvise on short notice. There’s nothing to be done.

They stop at the alley. MORGAN looks down, searching for signs of an impending ambush, but sees nothing.

MORGAN: I’ve come this far, so I might as well go the rest of the way.

INT. TOKYO - SHINJUKU - MIDNIGHT SUN - NIGHT

As MORGAN expected, his student escort did a quick fade once he had crossed the threshold of MIDNIGHT SUN. A red-bearded giant towers over him and gets in his face, as if he has no intention of letting MORGAN enter.

MORGAN: (looks up at the bouncer)
I suppose there’s a cover charge.
BOUNCER: No weapons allowed. Not even for Adversaries.
MORGAN: Fair enough.

MORGAN removes the baldric holding his broken sword and hands it over to the giant. The giant stores it in a locker, but doesn’t close it. Instead, he looks at MORGAN as if expecting something.

BOUNCER: That can’t be all you’re packing.

MORGAN is annoyed, but can’t exactly fault the guy for doing his job and doing it well. He had been in the other guy’s shoes once upon a time, and faced down a few guests determined to hold out on him.

MORGAN: Can’t blame a guy for trying, right?

Before the bouncer can reply, MORGAN pulls out a selection of knives, knuckle dusters, a mini-taser, and a can of pepper spray.

BOUNCER: That all this time?
MORGAN: (taps his temple with a fingertip)
There’s this, but I’m terribly attached to it.
BOUNCER: (steps aside)
Have a good time.

MORGAN presses a banknote worth 100mg of gold into the bouncer’s palm as he passes. It’s a day’s pay for the bouncer, but chump change for MORGAN. He’s not really interested in bribing the guy, but he remembers his own time in this shit job and how little it paid compared to the risk involved. Besides, it was money the Phoenix Society extorted from the rich, so he’s just doing his part to redistribute wealth a little more equitably.

He scans the club looking for NAKAJIMA CHIHIRO, but it isn’t easy. He doesn’t know who might be waiting for him to use his implant and thus identify himself as a target, so he makes due with a naked-eye visual search. Unfortunately, MIDNIGHT SUN is dark, crammed full of office workers in sober suits, and if NAKAJIMA isn’t willing to meet MORGAN in her office, then she has most likely gone to the trouble of disguising herself to look like an ordinary white-collar wage slave.

Rather than make waves, MORGAN heads directly to the bar. The BARTENDER gives MORGAN a once-over.

BARTENDER: (speaking Japanese)
What do you want?

MORGAN doesn’t really give a shit; as an einherjar he can’t get drunk even if he drinks the whole bar dry, but the BARTENDER’s gotta earn a living, too.

MORGAN: (slaps a 100mg banknote on the bar)
Sake will do. Keep the change and leave the bottle. I might be here a while.

The BARTENDER complies, leaving two small porcelain cups with the bottle. Before MORGAN can reach for the bottle, a woman in a mid-range off-the-rack suit with her hair cut in a pageboy pours for them both. She places a business card under MORGAN’s cup. MORGAN takes both.

(CLOSE IN)

An expensive business card that reads in both Japanese and English:

Nakajima Armaments Company of Osaka
Nakajima Chihiro, CEO

MORGAN gives the business card a look before studying NAKAJIMA. It had been a while since they last spoke in person, but now that he’s gotten a good look at her he recognizes her again. The short hair is new, and the suit doesn’t quite fit right.

MORGAN: Good job on the disguise. I didn’t recognize you at first.
NAKAJIMA: I spotted you as soon as you came through the door. You had the European tourist look down, but the sword gave you away. I don’t do custom work for just anybody, though I daresay most of my favored customers are more respectful of my wares.
MORGAN: Did you go to all of this trouble just to berate me over breaking a custom sword?
NAKAJIMA: No, but most of this subterfuge wasn’t my idea. It seems our mutual acquaintance in London is quite the espionage otaku.
MORGAN: Claire’s something of an acquired taste, and it’s probably a good thing she’s not around to hear me say that.
NAKAJIMA: I’ll take your word for it. Did she tell you anything?
MORGAN: She just said you wanted a discreet meeting. So, what happened?
NAKAJIMA: This is more of an arms control issue, but I don’t know any Peacemakers I can trust with this. There’s something I must show you, but not here. I’ve rented a room for the night; nobody will ask any questions.