Hold My Chicken

## Shō-Tōkyō shimmered beneath a fine December drizzle.

Christmas lights hung from the crooked trees lining the avenue, their reflections trembling across wet pavement. Above the narrow streets, tangled power cables sagged between weathered buildings. Flickering neon signs competed for attention, occasionally surrendering to the darkness before sputtering back to life.

It was a neighborhood that had inherited Tokyo's name, if not its former grandeur.

But tonight, beneath the makeshift Christmas decorations and the warm glow of shopfront windows, the old district was doing its best to look festive.

Tommy and Vega emerged from a Lawson convenience store, bundled in winter jackets, their hoods drawn tightly against the cold.

Each carried a warm bento. Tommy also carried a plastic bag containing several things they hadn't intended to buy.

Vega was singing.

Quietly, almost to herself.

_"Neon glow, coffee steam..."_

She slipped her free arm through his.

_"Fingers laced, cold sets deep..."_

Tommy smiled, his gaze lingering on the wet pavement as they walked without hurry.

"You're singing your own song again."

"Well, somebody's gotta sing it, baby."

She bumped her shoulder against his.

"Besides, you like it."

"I never said I didn't."

"Mmm-hmm. That's what I thought."

Her voice slipped effortlessly back into the melody.

_"Off-grid dream..."_

_"City sleeps..."_

It was _Heartbeat Against the Wall_, one of her contributions to the Hoshihara Christmas collection.

They walked beneath the amber glow of the streetlights, perfectly content with the cold, the rain, and each other's company.

Ahead, a small crowd had gathered beside a storefront in a shopping arcade.

A [[外人 | gaijin | foreigner]] street interviewer held a microphone toward a young Japanese man dressed in an elaborate black, ninja-inspired outfit. A cameraman recorded the exchange while several curious pedestrians watched from the sidewalk.

Tommy glanced at them as they approached.

"...so you like UK rap?" the interviewer asked.

The young man nodded enthusiastically.

"Yeah. UK rap is great."

"What about Japanese rappers?"

"Not really. I don't like Japanese rappers."

Tommy suppressed a chuckle.

_Seriously?_

Vega barely noticed. She was still singing.

_"Cut the noise, frequency fall..."_

The interviewer continued.

"And what about Black women? Do you like Black women?"

The young man shook his head.

"No. I don't like Black women."

Vega stopped singing.

Abruptly.

Tommy felt her arm go still against his.

He closed his eyes.

_Oh, for fuck's sake._

He knew that silence.

He knew it very well.

_Here we go._

"Baby..."

Vega slowly turned her head toward the interview.

Tommy gently tugged her arm.

"Babe, c'mon... it's not worth it. Let's go."

She didn't move.

"Vega."

She looked at the young man.

Then at the interviewer.

Then back at Tommy.

A small, almost pleasant smile appeared beneath her hood.

She raised the warm Lawson bento toward him.

**"Hold my chicken, babe. Give me a second."**

Tommy reluctantly accepted the container.

"Oh, man."

Vega stepped directly into the camera's frame.

She planted herself squarely before the young man and pulled back her hood.

"Excuse me," she said, looking him up and down. "I couldn't help but overhear. Let me make sure I'm getting this straight. You're out here in a cosplay, fanboying over UK rap—a genre built from the ground up by Black Caribbean immigrants, grime culture, and Black Brits—but when it comes to Black women, it's a hard _no_?"

The young man's earlier enthusiasm faded completely, like steam dissipating in a cold breeze. He blinked, then froze as though he'd suddenly fallen into a catatonic state.

Vega crossed her arms and leaned forward slightly, her voice remaining perfectly calm.

"You want the rhythm, you want the flow, and you want to be the big ambassador for the music, but you blatantly disrespect the very people who birthed it? Make it make sense." Her head bobbed gently from side to side as she spoke. "You can't consume our culture while acting disgusted by the women who look exactly like the mothers, sisters, and daughters of the artists you're hyping up."

Then she turned toward the interviewer.

"And you, out here setting up these bait questions for cheap clicks. Y'all are both wild, [[やばいな | yabai na | Ubelievable]]"

Silence.

For several seconds, nobody said anything.

The young man stood motionless, staring at Vega, his mouth slightly open, apparently searching for a response that simply refused to materialize.

Vega regarded him for another moment.

Then she smiled.

"Anyway. Merry Christmas, honey."

She pulled her hood back up and walked away.

Behind her, the interviewer raised his free hand to cover his mouth, his shoulders trembling. He was trying desperately not to laugh, and utterly failed.

A muffled snort escaped between his fingers. He doubled over, microphone dangling uselessly from his other hand, laughter bursting through his increasingly futile attempts to contain it.

One of the bystanders turned away, pressing a fist against his lips.

Another stared incredulously at the young man before dissolving into laughter himself.

"[[マジかよ | maji ka yo | Seriously?]]"

Even the cameraman was struggling. The image wobbled as he fought to keep the camera steady.

And there, in the middle of it all, stood the bewildered young man in his black ninja outfit, watching the woman who had just dismantled his entire argument stroll casually back toward her man.

Vega didn't look back.

Not once.

Tommy stood a few meters away, holding two increasingly lukewarm Lawson bentos, grinning like an idiot.

She approached him with a perfectly innocent expression.

"Hey, baby."

He shook his head.

"Look what you did!"

She glanced back briefly. The interviewer was asking some of the bystanders who had witnessed the unexpected confrontation for their comments. Apparently, he himself hadn't yet gotten over what had just transpired, as he was still in stitches.

"Oh, he'll be fine."

Vega retrieved her bento and linked her arm through his.

"Come on. Let's go before our food gets cold. I've heard enough foolishness for one night."

They walked away from the interview, leaving the young man and the thoroughly incapacitated interviewer behind.

Tommy managed perhaps twenty steps before he burst out laughing.

Vega glanced at him.

"What?"

"You know, that was freaking perfect what you did back there?"

She laughed.

"Glad you enjoyed the show, baby! You know I don't play that. If somebody's gonna disrespect the culture while wearing a Naruto headband from Temu, I HAVE to say something."

Tommy stopped walking.

"A Naruto headband from WHERE?"

"Temu, baby. Don't you tell me you ain't heard of no Temu before today."

He doubled over laughing.

"Oh, you're fucking terrible!"

"Uh-huh. And you love me."

"Unfortunately."

She elbowed him.

"Watch it, mister."

They continued walking beneath the Christmas lights, the winter wind tugging at their jackets.

"Now, for real," Vega said, lifting her bento. "Let's find somewhere warm to sit down and eat this chicken before the cold wind turns it into ice."

"So, you feeling better now?"

She flashed him a magnificent grin.

"Hell yeah, I'm feelin' a WHOLE lot better!"

"Good. What's next on our itinerary?"

Vega considered the question.

"Somewhere warm. Somewhere quiet. Just you and me."

"No ninjas?"

"No ninjas."

"No interviews?"

"Especially no interviews."

She leaned against him, humming softly.

_"Neon glow, coffee steam..."_

Tommy smiled.

_"Fingers laced, cold sets deep,"_ he answered.

Vega looked up at him.

"See? Told you that song was gonna get stuck in your head."

They disappeared into the glittering Shō-Tōkyō evening, her voice slipping back into the familiar melody.

_"Off-grid dream..."_

_"City sleeps..."_

And for the remainder of the evening, absolutely nobody asked Vega what she thought about Japanese rappers.

**THE END.**