BlackTama - The Time Travel

Chapter 1 - Cooking Manual for a Collapsing World

Morning dragged itself over Edo like a tired blade, cold and dull, cutting across the ceramic rooftops with a pale light still too weak to warm the old wood of the houses. The sky retained the faded look of a recently ended rain, and the smell of damp earth drifted through the open doors of Gengai's workshop, mingling with dry soot, old oil, and the dust sleeping in the cracks.

Inside, piles of scrap fought for space with dismantled mechanical arms, boxes of screws, opened batteries, and inventions whose purpose had probably been forgotten even by their own creator. Everything seemed ready to fall.

Or awaken.

Gengai remained at the center of that chaos, an old jailer of his own inventions, his back hunched, shoulders stiff, beard disheveled, and face marked by deep wrinkles, carved as though someone had used a hammer instead of time.

— Ginnoji, take this outside. Keep whatever is still useful. The rest goes to the scrapyard.

Near the entrance, Gintoki stared at the wooden crate overflowing with crooked parts and broken wires. He had the lazy air of someone who had been dragged out of bed by some particularly cruel form of divine violence. He scratched his head, yawned, and cast an offended look at the old man.

— How cruel. All our money goes to the old witch because of last month's rent, and I still have to carry your junk?

Gengai let out a dry grunt.

— Complain less and carry more. If you drop something that still works, I'm charging you.

— That logic is something only a grumpy old man would come up with.

— And you're still standing there arguing with one. Move!

Gintoki grimaced, lifted the crate, and walked out dragging his feet. The floorboards creaked beneath the weight. Outside, the wind carried the distant clatter of a cart and the voice of a street vendor drifting across the narrow street.

Even the city seemed to be waking up reluctantly.

Inside the workshop, Shinpachi was kneeling in front of a pile of useless robot parts, separating what could still be salvaged from what was nothing more than a carcass. He did it with the seriousness of someone trying to prevent chaos from acquiring a definitive shape.

Sitting on an overturned crate, Kagura held two pieces resembling articulated arms and judged which one looked less useless.

— Gin-chan is a horrible man-aru.

Shinpachi didn't look up.

— You started the day picking on him again.

— Because he deserves it-aru. He spent all the rent money on pachinko, bought sweets just for himself, swore he would win it all back, and in the end left the two of us looking like idiots in front of the old lady-aru. Is that adult behavior? No. It's the exclusive behavior of a silver-haired parasite-aru.

A discreet smile escaped the corner of Shinpachi's lips.

— You say that as if he isn't working right now.

— Working? Carrying a few old boxes is nothing-aru. I want to see him stay here sorting rusty parts one by one like we are.

— Stop complaining, Kagura-chan. At least he came to help.

— He came because the old lady threatened to throw us out-aru. If it were up to him, he'd still be snoring on the futon, hugging our payment instead of the pillow.

Shinpachi glanced sideways at her.

— You're especially irritated today.

Kagura crossed her arms.