Like the constant hushing of a waterfall hidden behind a labyrinth of trees, muffled voices drone louder along the endless trail of doors with each one-legged step toward the pulsing red waypoint. The cold water that is still making the slow crawl off the bleached walls, circles in a slow procession around her foot until it drops out of sight in the formation of a thin waterspout. Beneath the floor, powerful pumps immediately recycle the water back into the ceiling.
Finding herself out of breath, Emi searches for oxygen by leaning against the damp wall, crossing her arms over her prison uniform to prevent her skin from sticking.
“Stamina: +2. Health Status: 93%.” Her legs and lungs appreciate the break, but her patience runs short; she unwraps the black cord tied like a rope belt overtop the waist of her wrinkled Hachijo Prison Outfit and holds the handsaw at her side.
“Inventory Item Equipped: Handsaw.”
The weight of the one-handed weapon, and the lean of the flooring that allows gravity to push the water toward the centered drains, makes the line of her lopsided hopping closer to an ‘S’ than anything straight.
“You are aware, to your few viewers, you appear to have reached the point of drunkenness where business negotiations may begin.”
I don’t plan on taking part in any sort of negotiations. She rubs her bruised left thigh where the saw was last holstered too loosely to prevent it from bouncing. But I wish I were drunk—the pain is killing me.
“I bet you’d be an angry drunk.”
Moving around the corner, Emi stops at the open doorway where the flashing red triangle goes from a point in the distance to an arrow pointing down.
Looks like no one’s home. You’re sure the flashing waypoint means what you think it does?
Queen Bee scoffs, “That better have been a joke.”
The chattering voices heard on approach to the shady room have gone quiet, but the neon haze rising along the walls of the otherwise dark room highlights their hot air in low-hanging clouds.
One hop—the door closes and locks, pushing Emi in the rear and sending her fast-hopping forward to stop herself from falling. If the overhead lights hadn’t already been off, they would be now. All along the shelved walls, bioluminescent fluid fills glass jars in various shades of blue, red, and purple that light the way to the checkout counter like a private runway. A backlit shadow stands at the register in wait.
In her spare hand, Emi lifts a jar as if considering purchasing it, noting the secured metal lid. Sitting at the base, the small objects being preserved appear to be simple dark stones like those found on the ocean floor. She shakes the closed jar and sends the objects floating at random within the thick lava-like substance. Lighter now, the off-white stones appear to glow, revealing their full shape. Emi jumps in shock.
The jar falls through the air. But not before Queen Bee has time to squeeze in an unproductive jab. “If not teeth, what exactly did you expect to find here?”
Even hard glass turns soft when it hits the ground—the jar shatters into a million pieces.
A shrill voice, an angry female child’s voice, scratches in a mumble behind the counter. “Make her pay.”
The second voice is that of a stepmother too scared to stop spoiling her opportunistic stepdaughter. “You will pay for that, Emi.”
How did she know my name?
Queen Bee sighs.
Oh, right…she must be a cyborg. Think that’s how she and Nygil got so tight?
“I doubt it.”
Emi walks toward the voices, taking a bright jar off the shelf as she goes and placing it on the counter. No need for night vision; the blue under-glow illuminates the edges of the dangerously thin woman in crisp lines that fade as they reach her head as if the artist ran low on ink in their neon-gel pen.
Tunnel vision too narrowed to bother reading the woman’s bio beyond: Inmate Number: 92576 (Futakuchi-onna), Emi cocks her head. Is her hair moving?
“Movement Detected.”
Her cheeks still puffed-up from the healing process, a cartoonish smile squeezes between them. She thinks she points at her missing teeth, but the cheeks stand in the way. I already paid.
Queen Bee laughs, “I don’t think you’re showing the emotion you think you are.”
Emi’s inflated face drops the smile, showing her annoyance.
Futakuchi-onna reaches out a surprisingly warm hand, running it over the top of Emi’s patchily shaved head. “I recognize this shape.” She leans forward, licks Emi’s scalp and smacks her lips as if trying to connect the taste on her tongue to a memory.
Queen Bee states, “See, that wasn’t the effect you were going for, was it?”
Emi wipes her head and crouches. Her suddenly sucked-in cheeks tell she is about to pounce.
The woman continues her sales pitch with one finger pointing up, as if the gesture explains why she just licked a first-time customer on the top of the head. “You made my stepdaughter very happy. I will give you ￥25,000 for the next batch.”
Batch of what?
Queen Bee’s nudge is gentler than normal. “Look up.”
The ceiling, at first glance, appears to be filled with webs, making what’s left of Emi’s self-grown skin rise in ghost-white bumps. Activate Night Vision.
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“About time.”
The changes in color, though no more than different shades of green and grey in the night vision, make it apparent human hair, rather than webs, hangs from the rusting rafters.
Emi squints, her blue eyes reflected off the black of the merchant’s fully dilated pupil’s. She stole my teeth AND my hair?
Queen Bee announces from the speakers just behind Futakuchi’s head. “What the fuck? Something is eating her hair!”
The woman whips around and screams at the speaker. “My stepdaughter is not a thing! Show yourself demon!”
Queen Been hesitates, as if stopping herself, but her restraint soon breaks. “You show me yours, I’ll show you mine.”
Meanwhile, Emi, now the one facing the back of the woman’s head, recoils at the sight of a black hole pulling everything around it inside it as if there is a hair-clogged drain in the center of the woman’s skull. Taking the saw in both hands, Emi lifts the jagged blade to the hair styled in an inverted bun and squeezes the trigger—leaving behind an unhappy trail of stubble. The shaved skin separates into a horrific parting of the woman’s skull. Apparently, the thing is fully functioning, because the voice of a child cries out in a shrill voice as if it has just been stripped of its dignity. “She took my food!”
The woman starts squirming, as if a spider just dropped inside her shirt. “I know, baby. I’ll get you more.”
“Now!” The screech shakes Emi’s eyes. The glass of the jar on the counter trembles.
The stepmother’s hands shake worst of all as she climbs the wooden ladder leading to the rafters and pulls down a graying wig of wispy hair. Even this small amount of movement causes dust-colored strings to shed from the piece and fall like snow through the air. One lands on Emi’s lips.
She releases the saw from one hand with lightning speed to quickly pick at the end of the invasive hair before it can crawl any further into her mouth. After a few failed attempts, she pulls it free.
Queen Bee sounds disappointed through the speaker. “Quit spitting like that. You already look too much like a baby with your chubby cheeks.”
Are you my mother now? She holds the hair close to her eye as if inspecting its authenticity. Is it just me, or does this hair look familiar?
Queen Bee confirms aloud. “If you bothered pulling up the data fields, I so kindly provide for you, you would have found the hair belongs to Inmate 392688. Nadia. Status: Deceased.”
How did it get here?
Queen Bee pauses, as if needing a few beats to calm herself before responding to the dumb question. “It was stolen from Inmate 392688’s corpse.”
The woman placing the wig on her head glances at the number on Emi’s chest. She sounds tired, “I wondered where her uniform had gone when I found her left alone to rot in her nakedness.” Nadia’s hair falls in her face, looking like it was put on backwards. Then, the weak strands begin to pull back, seeming to slither their way into the child’s mouth within the shaved skull.
“At least it chews with its mouth closed.”
I inherited her debt; I must’ve inherited Nadia’s hair too. I should take it back.
“That’s not quite how inheritances work.”
Emi reaches up and takes the wig off the woman’s head. The mouth in the back holds on, until a mouthful rips free and sends Emi to the ground. A screech fills the room, causing both underfed women in the room to curl onto the ground in the fetal position and cover their ears.
How do I make it stop?
“I can turn off your hearing module.”
Do it!
“Do what?”
Queen Bee, power off my hearing!
“Power Off: Hearing.”
Emi stands, jumps up onto the counter to hold Nadia’s salt-and-peppered wig over the mouth of the screaming child. The sight of hairs stuck between the rotting teeth like floss left behind after use threatens to make Emi lose whatever the gray bile is Nygil pumped into her stomach while she was rejuvenating. She goes to cover her mouth with the hand not holding the saw to make sure nothing falls free.
She gags anyway, the gray hairs of the wig seeming to be drawn into her mouth like they’re magnetically charged. At least she managed to spot the glint of light in the skull’s mouth before accidentally gagging herself with the wig.
My teeth are in that things mouth! Tell her I’ll trade.
The child goes silent at the apparent loss of her scream’s power on the standing woman. When Futakuchi-onna finally pulls herself to her feet, her eyes are puffy. She looks to Emi with puppy eyes. “Please, kill me.”
When Queen Bee speaks, “Inmate 392689 proposes a trade,” Emi doesn’t hear that either.
The woman nods, resigned to entertaining the offer.
You didn’t turn on my ears.
Queen Bee, now in her head, “You didn’t ask.”
Obviously, I need them on now.
“I can update my settings to turn off your hearing when sound reaches a certain decibel.”
Yes.
“Settings Updated. Power On: Hearing.”
Futakuchi-onna starts to shuffle while the child grumbles for food at her back. “Well, what’s your offer? The child’s hunger grows.”
“Inmate 392689 proposes a trade: Wig of Inmate 392688 for the Blades of Inmate 392689.”
The child mumbles, the sound making the mother’s teeth grind. “I. Need. Food.”
Her mother grits her worn down teeth, ignoring the growl of her own unfed stomach to negotiate for the monster she feeds. “We don’t keep blades in stock.”
Be more precise.
“Want to take over smartass? Trade Proposal Updated: Wig of Inmate 392688 for the Fangs of Inmate 392689.”
The child makes a scene pretending to chew on hair she doesn’t have while everyone thinks.
The woman talks to it in fear. “Darling, what if we ask them for double?” Her stepdaughter’s silence must mean she is at worst indifferent to the idea because her mother counters Emi’s offer. “Eight fangs of any inmate…” She pauses.
The child grumbles. The woman winces and ups her asking price like it hurts. “Make it ten replacement fangs due to you calling me a ‘smartass’, and the hair of Inmate 392688, for the fangs of Inmate 392689.”
Queen Bee pretends to be in tears. “It makes me happy to see you finally stand up for herself.”
Are you complimenting her? I guess that makes me bad cop. Emi sticks the wig in her waistband where it hangs like a pom-pom and starts spinning the handsaw. They’re my teeth; I‘ll just kill you and take them from your mouth while you’re sleeping like you did to me.
The woman leans forward, as if struggling to hear…or trying to die.
“She can’t hear you.”
I am aware! Why aren’t you translating?
“Again, you never asked.”
Emi has had enough. Queen Bee tries to stop her when she detects the rising heart rate. “I wouldn’t do that—"
The blade cuts through the woman’s neck like a knife sliding through butter. Then, all at once, it hits an equal but opposite force where the woman’s spine should be. In the place of bone, a chrome tail, or body, runs from the child’s mouth. Sparks fly from the severed neck as the blade catches and grinds to a sudden halt that breaks Emi’s wrists and sends her screaming into the wall. Jars of illuminated teeth fall from the broken shelf and cover her in teeth and glowing fluid.
Emi smacks her lips in recognition. What is this liquid? This tastes like blood. When she spits, purple lights appear to shoot like stars from her mouth.
Behind the counter where Futakuchi-onna’s body returned to the ground, a loud pop is followed by the sound of separating flesh. Soon, a loud thud clanks to the floor. The stench of human-spilled guts immediately permeates the room. Even the wigs on the ceiling curl upward in horror at the increase in humidity. Slow at first but soon accelerating, the clinking sound of well-lubricated gears is accompanied by the sound of metal dragging over concrete.
When the child sticks its mouth out from behind the counter with its tongue slithering in the air like a remote-controlled antenna searching for a signal, the clattering teeth on the ground around Emi don’t go unnoticed. Somehow still able to speak, the screech the thing makes is about to become unbearable by the time Emi’s hearing finally shuts off.
Unfortunately, her eyes remain on. They see the chrome spinal cord covered in what could pass as embryonic fluid slithering across the ground. As the mouth at the front end opens wide in an endless screech that smells as if every meal the thing has ever eaten remains undigested inside it, the stolen fangs lodged crudely on the roof of its mouth vibrate with Emi’s reflection.
“Warning: Motion Detected. Fun fact: Rats typically live for several excruciatingly long minutes after being swallowed by a snake.”
What tactic should Emi take in getting her teeth back from Futakuchi-onna’s stepchild (the monster slithering towards her)?
