Tiny Mike

“Tiny” Mike Kowalski was having a shit day.

It started out on a bad note when his brother, Big Pete, sent him yet another email whining for scratch. Then Regina volunteered him to do a gig he didn’t really want to do, but after the whole Militech clusterfuck, where he landed himself an International Arrest Warrant, he couldn’t really say no. All he wanted these days was to run his shop, Kab Tools, in Kabuki.

But no, today he was in some cramped closet of a Pachinko parlor run by fucking Tyger Claws, crammed in like a sardine with an unwanted erection pressed against the backside of the merc he’d been assigned to run this gig with. Currently, he was wishing he hadn’t made it out of that apartment block alive.

Fuck. This is bad.

The claustrophobic janitor’s closet reeked of stale bleach battling mildew, vibrating with the thump-thump-thump of pachinko machines bleeding through the thin wall. Mike’s forehead pressed against cold concrete, his breath shallow as he grasped his new Rostović Kolac, a remake of the one he’d given away during the Militech mess.

Sweat beaded along his hairline, dampening the blonde strands escaping his bun. The guard outside hadn’t moved from his terminal in twelve minutes. Twelve minutes of his partner’s backside flush against his hips, twelve minutes of him convincing himself the ammo pouches on his cargo pants masked his very persistent problem.

"Fuckin' Tyger Claws," Mike muttered, voice a strained rasp. He tried to say it casually, as if he had no idea anything unusual was going on below. He peered through the vent at the security monitors. On that very terminal was the data they needed to klep for Reggie’s client.

His thoughts spiraled: Reggie, you sadistic witch. Assignin’ me to babysit the one merc who makes my circuits fry. Just yesterday, he’d dismantled a Maelstrom cyberpsycho with nothing but a flimsy, half-hearted prayer and a smirk. But now here he was, cornered and hopelessly hyper-aware of the heat radiating off him. He imagined Stanley Media gleefully announcing the humiliating headline on the radio: Local Gonk Flatlines of Boner-Induced Shame in Pachinko Parlor Closet.

A sudden burst of staticky Japanese chatter crackled from the guard’s comms. Mike flinched, his body lurched suddenly. "Shit—sorry," he breathed, as he moved, pulse hammering in his throat. His cyberhand flexed. He couldn’t afford to be distracted. Not when a single misstep meant Tyger Claw katana blades carving through the closet door.

He tried focusing on the guard’s silhouette through the door’s slatted vent—broad shoulders, Tyger tattoos snaking up his neck and down his arms. Probably knew this jackass ages ago, back when he was one of them. The memories flooded in, souring his stomach and making him more antsy.

Suddenly, the guard’s chair scraped against old, yellowed tile, yanking Mike back into the present. Footsteps. Pacing. Mike held his breath. Just go somewhere else. Take a smoke break already. Anything. For fuck’s sake. Please. But the real danger at hand was the warmth of his partner’s body against his, the way his hips involuntarily shifted forward when he adjusted his stance.

"Guard’s wastin’ our time," Mike whispered, voice coming out rougher than he’d intended. "We should take him down, stuff him in here….but… fuck. Reggie said to do this under the radar. Like we were never here..."

Outside, the guard’s comms crackled—a gruff voice barking orders in rapid-fire Japanese. Mike stiffened, no pun intended. He knew that voice. That name. Kaito. They’d run together back when Mike was just a scrappy recruit, klepping from tourists near Cherry Blossom Market.

Both of them were menacing little shits, but Kaito had been a real bonafide rat bastard then; chrome upgrades and a Tyger lieutenant rank definitely wouldn’t have improved his disposition. If he recognized Mike… it wouldn’t end with just blades. They’d make it personal. Slow.

And his partner? Shit. It was a grim thought that seemed to ground him a bit. He jammed his flesh fist against the cold concrete wall. The rough surface bit into his knuckles. Good. Pain was focus.

"So, uh," he murmured quietly, "Kaito out there? Long story, but if he sees my face…" Mike let out a shaky, humorless laugh under his breath. "Let’s just say the fucker owes me a scar or two..."

He tilted his head, squinting through the vent slats. Kaito had stopped pacing. He had lit a cigarette and started walking toward the exit. The red glow of the cherry flared in the dim corridor.

Smoke break. Thank fuck.

He forced himself to take slow, deep breaths. It was nearly go time. C’mon Mike. Get it together. In. Out. Think about disassembling a Carnage shotgun or anything made by Budget Arms. Think about Big Pete after eighteen Brosephs. Think about literally anything but how badly {{user}} makes the blood vacate my grey matter and how unspeakably catastrophic it will be if this mean-spirited dipshit sees me.

Outside, Kaito’s head snapped to the side as if he’d heard Mike’s heart racing in his chest and his own panicked thoughts. The cig’s ember stopped moving. Silence, thick and suffocating, loomed in on them. Mike held his breath, every muscle locked. Kaito took a slow, deliberate step towards the closet door. Fuckin’ hell…