ANK – Red Cat Prologue - Whiskers

Fandom: Ai No Kusabi
Disclaimer: The characters in this story are not mine. This story is not for profit.
Rating: M
Warnings: Male/male affection, foul language
Characters: Iason, Riki, Guy, Raoul, Katze
Summary: How Iason finds Katze. How Riki meets Guy. How it all connects – a play with options, some gained, some lost.
Note: Disclaimer, rating, warnings valid for all chapters of this story.

Thanks to the Russian fans who inspired this story with their questions.

xxx

The slums of the city state of Amoi embrace the gleaming city of Tanagura, along with its blazing amusement district and business quarters. They ring the capital like a belt that has grown too tight. There is no fading of light-shimmering streets into pleasing dusk – the change is sudden, the drop into a black abyss, the hungry throat of a monster. The streetlights in Ceres have been broken a long time ago, electricity is rationed to peak hours, the reek of cheap oil generators lies heavy in the air. Running water is a luxury and street hydrants are serving as makeshift pumps. The canalisation is clogged up, rubbish dumps are not emptied, and the cracked tarmac streets are thick with filth and vermin. Yellow dust is everywhere, drifting in from the parched plains further out, suffocating, blinding, and disease is rife in a place where houses are caving in and every possible space has been built over with shacks and shanties. Even the air is dirty, soaked with the stink of poverty.

A small group of young men on heavy bikes zooms towards a small forecourt, the only one in sight, near one of the dirty clubs that dot Ceres streets – places of last resort, for those who cannot afford the pleasures of the Midas quarters, let alone the opulence of Apatia. The gang clusters up around the only pump that works. They make their engines roar and fill the place with exhaust fumes and the smell of burning rubber, before switching them off so they can refuel. They chat and argue and talk about the best grass and the best lay. A darkhaired youth shouts the others down, cracking dirty jokes while he passes the fuel nozzle around. They shuffle about, two of them drag their patched and battered machines onto their sidestands. The youth turns away and lights up, the others sputter and yell at him. He laughs, teeth gleaming white, eyes shining black in a dark face, shaded by wild black hair.

From the concrete-and-corrugated metal shack that doubles as a garage and cashier's kiosk steps a man, not much older than the bunch of bikers, but his lean, tall frame has already broadened and filled out. He wipes his oily hands on a rag, then against his greasy grey overall.

"Take that fag elsewhere," he says.

"Like where?" the youth challenges, blowing a stream of smoke towards him. Sizing him up provocatively – lean pale features, copper-brown hair tied back in a ratty ponytail, a trim body.

The others snigger, screw the caps back on their fuel barrels and haul their machines away from the pump.

Squaring his shoulders, the man steps between the bikes. His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, baring oil-smudged, sinewy underarms. Nobody shifts for him, he gets shoved and elbowed tentatively, but they let him through when he reaches into the unbuttoned front of his overall and they can see the butt of a handgun in a shoulderholster.

The youth folds his arms, cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth, his eyes hooded as he watches, a small smirk on his lips.

"Like," the man says, holding his gaze with sharp grey-blue eyes, "up your ass."

"Whoa!" the youth whoops, rolling his eyes. His mates laugh and whistle. "Look who's talking... who IS talking here?"

"Guy," the man says, anger heating his tone. "Now pay and piss off, or I'll blacklist you idiots."

The youth huffs. "Oh yeah? Man, that's hot shit, baby. I didn't realise you were on someone's payroll."

Guy's cheeks are reddening. "I'm not, and I'll keep it that way, bigmouth. Now get lost."

There is a small pause, shifting hands, groping for knives, steelknuckles, wifebeaters. The young men hold back, ready to beat Guy to a pulp but still just watching, pulling faces behind his back. The youth steps closer. Guy's fingers tighten around the gun but he doesn't pull it. His gaze darts to the youth's hands, scan his body, then meet his eyes again. The pause grows too long, too tense. The youth shifts, slackens into a hipshot posture, chin tilted up, eyes growing hazy, his smile languid as he lets his cigarette-equipped hand slide down his throat, chest and stomach, pausing over the clasp of his belt. He hooks his thumb into the waistband of his jeans. The top button, poking out above the clasp, is open.

"Wow," the youth says, his voice dropping to a husky drawl. "So you're all alone..."

Guy swallows. Tiny beads of sweat gather on his upper lip. He stretches out one hand, palm up, and jerks his head towards the street. "Pay," he grinds out. "And go."

"Okay." The cigarette drops.

Guy jumps. Hastily he stomps on the glowing butt. He is distracted, and the dark youth catches him so suddenly that he can't sway. It is a cloying, bitter, lingering kiss, flavoured with pot and beer, wet with tongue and hunger. The gun, Guy's knuckles, wedged hard between their chests. The young man's arms firm, his fingers strong as he claws into the fabric of Guy's clothes, gathering folds in the small of his back, tightening it across his front. Guy feels as if he should fight, hit him, shake him off. He doesn't. Stupefied, perhaps by the reek of weed that oozes from the youth's hair and skin. Or surprised by the strength of his grip. Or-

"I'll be back tonight," the youth laughs quietly into Guy's mouth when they run out of breath. "I'll fuck you stupid."

Guy yanks back, his face flushing deep red, his eyes blazing. His ponytail is mussed, a few strands fall into his distorted face. "You-"

"Riki," the youth smiles. He lets go of Guy's clothes and stretches out his hand. No glove. Bare, rough skin; cracked fingernails with black rims. "C'mon. How often have we filled up here? Do I really have to blow this shit up before you look at me?"

xxx

The twin moons are waning in the purplish sky over Amoi. Tanagura is as restless as ever, its glittering glamour broadly lined by the crimson glare of the pleasure quarters, and plunging into the darkness of the slums in the distance.

Behind a glass desk, large but almost lost in the spacious room, a tall man in the uniform of a high Elite offical leans back in his chair. His hair, long and smooth, frames a strong-boned face with perfect features and pale blue eyes under whiteblond brows. His hands, clad in white gloves, lie flat on the table.

"Raoul, my friend." His voice is deep and quiet, as if he was accustomed to be listened to. "Would you be able to provide me with a pedigree for each of our inventory items?"

By the glasswall that closes the room off against the city, another man turns to face him. The same perfection, his hair just as long, waves of faded gold, his eyes a clear green. He folds his arms. "Our records are seamless, including the files for our purchased merchandise and our patent files. You know this. So... yes, it would be possible, but why this question?"

"The latest batch we bought... What went wrong?"

"The shipment was flawed, so I had it sent back and witheld payment."

"Thorough. It was my order, was it not?"

Raoul's lips thin. "Yes. But Iason-"

"How about past batches?"

Concern and suspicion creep into the green gaze. "What is this about? The records are available of course, but I am supposed to provide a reason for drawing old files, and I will have to account for work time and for granting additional access privileges to the archive staff-"

"I'll do it myself." Iason smiles faintly into the small pause between them. It has weight and substance, and Iason doesn't try to dispel it.

"You want to trawl through thousands of records alone?"

"You might have asked whether I know what to look for."

Raoul inclines his head. "I apologise. But if you are trying to track an escaped-"

"What happens," Iason interrupts, his voice calm and cool - a deep, even current that seeped into Raoul and fills him until he can feel it, TOUCH it, in every fibre of his body, "If one of us breaks our Mother's laws?"

A bloom of pink slowly colours Raoul's pale skin. "It never happens."

"In theory. I'm merely curious."

Raoul shakes his head. His blond hair swishes languidly over the white wool of his office suit. "Why waste your time with it? It's unimportant. Elite don't break Jupiter's laws."

Iason rises and joins Raoul by the panorama window. "Beautiful, is it not?" he says, looking through Raoul's reflection at the city at their feet. Deep below, the streets are lined by countless lights, marking out the arteries of traffic like a fuzzy star that cuts through the flesh of Amoi with its rays.

Raoul glances at Iason's face in the dark glass. He doesn't answer.

Iason's hand touches the small of Raoul's back and stays there for the fraction of a moment before falling away, and Iason turns back to his desk. "You are right," he says over his shoulder. "But I like detail. Let me have the documentation of that flawed shipment; I will work through it immediately so that you won't suffer any delays in processing this matter."

xxx