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It had been two weeks since Tadashi had been turned out onto the street. Two weeks since he had had a good meal and a pocketful of spare change. The Okira family obviously did not believe he was valuable to them. It wasn't his fault that he had tripped over the water meter and fallen on top of Master's daughter. Or that somehow her dress straps became loosened, and he had been caught standing over her while she lay dazed on the floor in her undergarments.

Two weeks since he was sheltered from the chain gangs that generated mayhem after curfew. Tadashi knew that if he were captured, he would probably be thrown into a pit and forced to make guns. Such was the way when you were a mechanic.

It started to rain. Tadashi's cardboard hut began to sway gently in the breeze. Tadashi poked his head out into the smoky twilight. The moon shone through the clouds. The roof developed a drip.

An old, loud Mustang pulled up to the alley entrance. Two men in trenchcoats exited the back seat and each one dragged out a briefcase. The screech of metal against tar could be heard loud and clear as the cases were thrown down the alley, towards the hut. The Mustang growled off.

Tadashi, ever curious, teetered over to the nearer case. It was cast of titanium, layered with gleaming chromium plating. There was a dent in one side where a lock could have been located. Tadashi was able to bash it open with a crowbar.

The case contained a low-power submachine gun. Whoever had trashed it clearly did not want it. With a handful of sand, the boy checked it for fingerprints. The weapon was totally clean. The second briefcase held a mobile communication post, complete with solar-powered videophone and antenna.

Tadashi dragged everything to his hut which by now was quivering under a leak the size of Niagara Falls, and was in danger of collapsing under a staggering several gallons of mossy, oil-stained gutter water. The briefcases were sealed, but Tadashi had only his wool blankets to cover him from "above assault." The boy drifted off while watching the crack in his roof tear wider with each passing minute. It would be a long night.