When I get to Shinjuku to pick up Col. Baldwin’s kash, I know this will not be a good scene. The JR wifi burns my implant(s) from the inside out and offers relief only if I accept ‘yes’ to the terms and log in. Going to have to endure the pain a bit, which is not impossible, advanced futsukayoi training finally paying off. Still, weird dream state walk from the ticket gate to the underground bank. Have I been here before? Yes, over and over: past the elevators that lead to crowded cafes, the stairs up to station square bathing in perpetual AltaVision, girls in delicate clothes with smartphones fused at the cellular level into their faces.
At the bank, windows reveal some sort of security perimeter inside: a Small Angry Manager (who I know already smells like hair tonic and an ashtray), withered and 50-ish, and a goof guard in heavy black Sentai Enemy Armor.
Something is up. They knew I was coming before I even did. Fuck it and turn back to the ticket gate. Should be less heat down the Chuo-line. Instead, there is already a heavy police presence at Nakao Rachel station: some agitated moving fast from position to position, while others just stand around scanning with Heavy Vibration. I think I’m going to be stopped for sure and dragged into the bright room again, regardless of whether I am carrying Baldwin’s billions on me or not, but a Chinese woman in all-fake designer wear takes a bag check on the chin in front of me. A happy moment, but mine, mine, mine alone.