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Tokyo – Tokyo Ghoul World
A month had passed since the CCG's disastrous collision with the Aogiri Tree in Ward 11. To distract the public from the heavy casualties, the Bureau had pivoted to propaganda, pushing Kael to the forefront as a "Hero of the CCG."
The strategy worked perfectly. Kael's aesthetic appeal, paired with a flamboyant promotional style, captivated the masses. However, Kael was far from satisfied.
Dammit, those PR hacks Photoshopped my jawline to be way too soft, Kael grumbled, looking at a billboard. I'm supposed to be a hardened combat engine, not a boy-band lead.
While the rest of the CCG toiled away in endless overti trying to track the vanished Aogiri Tree, Kael—now the face of the organization—was comparatively relaxed.
"What's this?" Mado Akira asked, looking at a pile of luxury bags on her desk.
"Freebies from the advertising agency," Kael replied, holding up a mirror to her face. Working overti had left her looking a bit haggard, her lovely face shadowed by dark circles. "You need a hardware refresh, Akira."
Akira rolled her eyes, but she quietly tucked the expensive skincare products into her drawer. Kael's value in funds and publicity had already far exceeded that of a standard First Class Investigator.
"Kael!" Akira tapped the desk, switching to work mode. "I've been analyzing the data. Since the Binge Eater vanished, a hidden force has been consolidating the Ghouls of Ward 20. I suspect this person has deep ties to Aogiri."
Kael secretly clicked his tongue. A woman's intuition is a dangerous sub-routine. "The higher-ups aren't taking my report seriously," Akira said, her voice sincere as she looked at him. "They've authorized to investigate, but I have no support. I want you to join ."
Kael hesitated. Investigating himself was the pinnacle of inefficiency.
"I just bought a whole box of 15D stockings," Akira added. "In every color."
The "Calculating Survivor's" ntal firewall collapsed instantly. "Count in."
Kiwi's recent days had been a "system error."
After the 'Kong' implant heist, she had taken her savings to the rural outskirts, dreaming of a pastoral, self-sufficient life. But the village chief—the sa man who sold her the land—had broken into her ho with a gang of bandits to take it all back.
Night City had taught her well; her traps made the thugs pay in blood, but she couldn't outrun a dozen n with her limited combat-chro. She fled back to the only place she knew: Night City.
Standing under a platform in the acid rain, the sll of chemicals felt strangely like a "Ho" directory.
"Hey babe, you open for business?" a piece of city trash asked, vulgarly gesturing to his crotch. "Got a second-hand Big Steel Cannon installed. You'll love it."
Kiwi's cyber-eyes flickered, scanning his information. "Your junk is about to blow," she said flatly.
"What?!"
BOOM.
The man's wails echoed through the street. The intense pain, fed directly into his nervous system without the insurance of a pain-editor, was a critical hit. Nearby pedestrians imdiately began filming and uploading the "dick-blowing" event to the Net.
The world's happiness is conserved, Kiwi mused. She had rely "accelerated" the inevitable failure of the man's illegal, technical-signature modification. Within ten minutes, Scavengers would decompose the body for parts.
Frustrated and broke, Kiwi tried to call Kael.
"Sorry, the number you have dialed is out of the service area..."
"FUCK!!"
She tried Lucy, getting the sa response. They were likely on a moon-trip. Just as she was contemplating a night in a dumpster, a luxury Rayfield Caliburn pulled up. The window rolled down to reveal an empty driver's seat.
"Good evening, Miss Kiwi. Welco back," Delamain's recognizable voice chirped.
"..."
"Miss Kiwi, are you crying? Forgive , I lack the physical manipulators to offer a tissue."
"Shut up, Del," Kiwi hissed. "My cyber-eyes don't have tear ducts. It's just the damn acid rain."
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