The nights of Eight-Hundred-Eight Cyber City were forever swallowed by a torrent of information.
The wind threading through the back alleys carried with it the stench of aged machine oil and the death-smell of scorched circuitry. Miyabi pressed forward, her straw sandals striking an unhurried rhythm, deeper into the abandoned district where neon light could not reach.
Prize chip tucked into her collar, she walked in search of lodging for the night ? and into her path rose the hollow drone of mechanical drive units.
"?? Unregistered unit confirmed. Select: purge, or initialize."
From the darkness emerged a unit of Log-Hunter droids from the Public Order Bureau. Five in total.
Unlike ordinary security models, these were combat-specialized, encased in heavy armor. Their retinal displays projected a constant stream of optimal solutions for "efficient elimination," and from their fingertips jutted high-voltage electromagnetic batons.
"...Again. A drain on one's interest."
Without breaking her stride, Miyabi slowly drew the massive yatate from her back.
The droids synchronized their communications in unison and spat a mechanical 5-7-5 from their speakers ? an AI-generated rhythm of "cursed verse," designed to sap the will to fight.
*"Noise ? detected. / Beautiful city ? dust dies. / Immediate purge."*
"...Words borrowed from another's mouth."
Miyabi's gaze sharpened, cold and unerring, piercing the dark.
She began to grind her ink. The quiet sound of it dominated the droids' mechanical hum and froze the surrounding air.
The droids leapt in unison, electromagnetic blades swinging down ? and in that very instant.
Miyabi's brush cleaved through empty air in a single arc.
"?? Autumn wind; a hole blown clean through? the iron husk."
GYARIIIIN!
The spray of ink that burst forth with the thunderclap was no mere liquid. It became a shockwave carrying Miyabi's very soul, and it shattered the logical circuits of the droids in a wholly physical sense.
The two at the front collapsed in a shower of sparks; the three that followed were driven into the ground as though crushed beneath the sheer weight of words.
Even the most advanced computational processors available could make nothing of Miyabi's "trembling" ? to them it registered only as an irresolvable bug.
Her verse was a virulent poison of language, burning the system itself from within.
"..."
Miyabi sheathed the yatate against her back without a glance, and turned to leave.
Behind her, the inert droids lay scattered like rubbish.
But one among them.
One droid ? its head half-destroyed, its right arm gone ? moved a fingertip, with a sharp and grinding click.
A unit that by any measure should have been beyond rebooting drove its trembling feet against the ground, and by sheer force hauled itself upright.
Grind. Grind.
A sound like a broken gear screaming against itself.
Through its fractured field of vision, the droid's sensor locked onto a single retreating back.
What Miyabi had severed was that droid's "chain of command."
And yet ? perhaps in doing so, she had accidentally kindled some nameless something within that empty shell of iron.
Miyabi did not turn around.
She was aware of the sound of iron straining behind her. Aware, too, that it was the wreckage of the thing she had just brought down.
"..."
No words were needed. *Do as you like* ? her retreating figure said it all.
Miyabi walked on without looking back.
The droid returned nothing in words; it only followed, with an awkward, lurching gait, tracing her shadow.
For every ten steps she took, the droid dragged its mud-caked feet and took ten steps after her.
It was an uncanny sight.
A haiku duelist sweeping forward in her modified kimono, all composed momentum. And behind her, a mass of iron on the verge of collapse, following with desperate fidelity ? like a loyal dog. Like a lost child.
Miyabi stopped, once.
Behind her, the droid lurched to a halt as well, nearly losing its balance.
She looked up at the sky. The garish light of neon had stained the clouds a bruised violet. In the wind mingled the smell of old oil ? and somewhere within it, the faint presence of a distant autumn.
Miyabi exhaled, and turned forward again.
She could feel the droid's sensor watching her, steady and unblinking.
The lights of the pleasure district ? the sleepless city at the heart of Eight-Hundred-Eight ? had come into view.
Miyabi glared at that light with displeasure and slipped away into the depths of an alley.
Her destination: the one place in this entire city where the scent of ink was permitted to exist ? *Ame-an.*
At the threshold, just before parting the noren, Miyabi turned once and looked at the droid trailing behind her.
The droid stopped at the entrance and stood still, staring steadily back.
Rain had begun to fall. Cold, electronic rain, tapping against a battered iron shoulder.
Miyabi took it in at the edge of her vision ? and promptly turned away.
She pushed through the noren without ceremony.
The droid gave a stiff, halting nod, and slid beneath the eaves to take shelter from the rain.
It was the night that an uninvited "companion" joined Miyabi's journey.
A wandering seeker. A wandering shadow of iron.
Miyabi's journey goes on.
Battle Haiker Miyabi.
The light that will not fade keeps following the back of that lone figure.