#ltcolonel-faraj

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Yamada Ichiro was as hesitant to leave the car as he was to originally climb into it. He had learned of the immense gap between the rich and the poor in America, had seen pictures comparing the shining cities of promise and fortune to the ramshackle tents and abodes of those cursed to reside on the ground. Before his departure, he had been reminded too many times of the disparity of the two halves and to prepare himself.  And so he did: he researched every aspect he could about San Francisco until his eyes were dry and his stomach at ease.

He had obviously miscalculated.

The event of seeing such effects of the war in person was more draining than he’d expected. So far, he’d been able to keep himself separate. Yamada was fortunate enough to keep his nose and hands clean of such things even back home. Though he was a part of the NJSDF, he had a desk job; he never really had to witness what his organization was fighting against or the effects of its accomplishments. Here, at SFB-1, he feared keeping that same separation would be infinitely more difficult.  Stepping out of the car made him think, foolishly, that he was resigning himself to this fate.

Yet, nothing would be accomplished otherwise. Hands tightening around the handle of his suitcase, he slid out, Torishima following in suit. Fukushima joined them from the other side. Yamada kept his eyes steadily on the calm and commanding woman before him (and if his fingers twitched anxiously when he first saw the Doberman, it was only a result of a tired mind and body).  Nasirah Faraj. Her formality was comforting, though her remark and implications about the pleasure house had his ears burning within seconds (and the wink didn’t help those matters a bit).

If Yamada had thought the outside of SFB-1 was gaudy (he’d had to contain a roll of the eyes at the numerous neon signs when they pulled up), it was nothing compared to the inside. They entered through the casino, where a man with a too-big smile was busy greeting actual patrons. Over their heads hung a glass chandelier that looked like it belonged in those books from the New Romantic Movement about life before the war. He made sure not to look over his shoulder at Fukushima, who probably felt right at home in the lively area. Yamada was much more comfortable around the broken machines upstairs.

He watched and listened closely as Faraj (Lt. Colonel Faraj, he remembered from previous files) took them through the security measures. The urge to look around at the mention of “maybe hundreds of cameras” was squelched only by the fear of seeming impolite on their first meeting. Yamada ignored his companions reactions to the hot pizza in what he could only assume was the living area (the eclectic range of items—grease-covered wrenches, magazines, newspapers, dog toys, wads of paper that looked like discarded schematics—gave it away).

Can't let you guys have all the fun without me.