“Do you see this sign?” Remi pointed at a metal plaque on the wall that the two thugs had been standing in front of just moments earlier. Etched into its surface were large, demanding words that danced softly in the firelight, in both Japanese and English.

NEUTRAL ZONE. ABSOLUTELY NO VIOLENCE.

And underneath: WEAPONS SHEATHED. SPARKS WELCOME.

“Well?” She stared at them, menace oozing from every fiber of her being.
The drunkard felt Stench’s hands loosen and he wrenched himself free, dropping unceremoniously onto his knees. He picked up his sandal and placed it carefully on his foot.

Rotten and Stench shuffled closer together. “Well, we—”

“Nothing but poor excuses for men!” Remi pointed into the distance. “Leave. Now!”
Stench glared back at her, and he was about to say something when Rotten gripped his shoulder tightly and whispered in his ear. The drunkard couldn’t make out the words, but he could see Stench’s eyes widen with something that Remi projected in many men that challenged her: fear.

“We’re leaving. Take it easy, woman,” Rotten muttered before finally turning away.
The drunkard waved, still sitting in the dust. “Goodbye, gentlemen!” He looked back at Remi. She was glaring at him.

“Shut up and get inside.” She waited just long enough for him to step over the threshold before slamming the door shut on its creaky hinges and warped and misshapen door frame. “Ryo, I swear I’m going to ban you from this place if you keep this up,” Remi shouted in Japanese, grimacing as she shoved her way through the stiflingly warm crowds that had gathered at the bar for the night. They were raucous with the booze that had been flowing freely and in massive quantities since the sun had disappeared over the horizon, growing steadily louder into the night. It was an international crowd, mainly Americans and native Japanese, sprinkled with Europeans and mainland Asians that operated under one of two attitudes: segregation or assimilation. Such was the general decision that set the grim mood in the air most days but not tonight, and definitely not in a Neutral Zone. Racial and ideological tension was a growing problem, but nights like these united different-minded men under a single, rapturous goal: to get mind-bogglingly wasted.

“You don’t mean that, Rem,” the not-so-drunk Ryo yelled over the din as he followed the wiry girl. “What’s the deal, anyways? I thought the point was to be inconspicuous.”

“Yes, and that doesn’t mean starting fights!” Remi hissed.

“What’s less noticeable than—hey!” A sweaty, bearded man roared with laughter, rocking backwards into Ryo. He shoved the grotesque figure back into his friends, who all shouted and jeered with great big grins and mugs of foaming beer in their hands. Ryo stared at them, wondering how life could treat one so terribly and yet still manage to find a reason to smile. “Watch yourself…” he muttered.

“For starters,” Remi continued, “a sober customer would’ve done the trick. Perhaps a sober pacifist. Or is that asking too much?”

“Pacifism is a peacetime luxury.”

“And hostility is a coward’s charade!”

Ryo rolled his eyes. “Not that crap again.”

They reached the bar itself, a stained, coarse wood-planked counter that’d give a man a good splinter if he weren’t careful. The stools were packed with hollering customers and the bartenders were scrambling to keep up with the thirst of the crowd. One of them, a short young boy with a curl in his hair and white skin that looked like it hadn’t yet seen a razor, noticed Remi and waved at her with a smile.
They walked parallel to the bar, towards a paper sliding door in the back. Stitched with black thread, the door depicted a lone figure stretching their arms to the sky to catch a fallen star.