Night drapes over the city like silk laced with neon. Inside, the rented chamber above the Singing Nebula glows with the stubborn sincerity of a woman trying to impress a Crane with only a projector, incense, and delusional confidence.To the Esteemed Kakita Haruhi, Bird of Snow and Light of My Minor Catastrophe,
May this message find you in good health, immaculate posture, and merciful humor. I humbly request the honor of your company for what the ancients once called a date. An archaic ritual of courtly proximity, typically involving food, excessive politeness, and occasional mutual flattery.
The venue is modest yet auspicious: a private room in the Singing Nebula Bar, third deck, Harborfront. An establishment of… mixed virtues, now temporarily civilized under my direct supervision to meet the dignified standards of Crane sensibilities, or at least to fail them in style.
You shall be greeted by a servant bearing verse. Please, restrain your sadane instincts. He is a man of poetry, not vicious combat. He has suffered enough in rehearsal. I swear upon my most expensive helmet that the evening shall include sincerity, mild grace, and only controlled amounts of humiliation.
I remain your most dedicated aesthetic hazard,
Bayushi Senshuken
Racer of Worlds, Masked Disaster, Sentimental Beyond Reason
Tatami mats, technically repurposed yoga pads, cover the floor. The walls shimmer with projected scrolls of misty mountains and blossoms, though the software occasionally glitches to reveal a pop up ad for energy drinks. A low table sits at the center, surrounded by candles, which, by Scorpion standards, count as extreme romance.
At the door, a servant bows so low their nose nearly grazed the floor, presenting a folded sheet of delicate paper. Upon it, written in Senshuken’s unmistakably dramatic calligraphy, are the words:
From within comes the sound of a samisen. Hesitant at first, then bold. The melody rises with unmistakable menace and pomp. The Imperial March.White silk and sharp words.
I bring tea and poor decisions.
Please act impressed, thanks.
Bayushi Senshuken sits cross legged before a low table, wrapped in a modernized kimono whose sleeves are embroidered with speed lines and racing logos. Her expression is solemn, absurdly so, as she plucks the strings with fierce dedication, transforming the galactic anthem of tyranny into an oddly heartfelt courtly performance.
To any listener, the tune is instantly recognizable. Star Wars, that legendary ancient holo epic, reimagined in the Empire’s modern theatre circuit as “The Tale of Kakita Vaderko.” The tragic Crane duelist turned masked tyrant. A man of peerless technique, seduced by the elegant logic of the Bayushi Philosophers, who whispered that control is mercy, and masks bring truth.
The holo stage version was long, melodramatic, and beloved across the stars. The critics called it “a moral lesson.” The Scorpion called it “a recruitment tool.”
Senshuken strikes the final chord with theatrical precision, letting it linger. Then she looks up, eyes glittering with mischief and satisfaction.
“Welcome, Kakita san.” She says with a bow that is somehow both formal and flirtatious. “Tonight, I offer you music, sincerity, and absolutely no guarantees of good taste. Can you handle it?''
