"Hey, you…little punks…ha-ha…huhh."
Pistol in hand, Hayashi wandered in an aimless stagger down a deep blue alley of 99th Street's quietest block, flanked by mosaic-like spectrums of the most glorious, vivid graffiti the GG's had to offer. Each glance at all that visual noise sent echoes through Hayashi's frayed mind, so he kept his gaze deafeatedly downward at the dismal concrete ground, leaving his face obscured behind the high collar of his long, blue coat.
His thin, brittle legs began to shake and finally, the former captain realized how far he'd wandered. He had been so finished with life for so long that he'd avoided leaving his tiny flat in Chuo Street for the past five weeks. Now that he'd finally decided to take a little walk last morning, he realized that he was too finished with life to ever return home. There was nowhere for him to go. Not after the landslide of failure that had been his life. Still shaking, he finally made himself sit down against the metal wall of a warehouse as dark and empty as his soul. There was no point in even trying to move anymore, even trying to struggle. He let the back of his head smack against the unforgiving metal and gave in to the paint, letting his pale eyes wander up to the magnificently sprayed mural on the opposite wall. He could only see himself in that mural. So vile. So ugly. It deserved to disappear.
Hayashi looked down at his pistol, his one companion through the miserable past two years since the GGs had killed Rokkaku and taken over the city. All of the bullets had been wasted on briefly-seen, lively shadows and distant, happy shouts that could have easily been mere hallucinations. All of the bullets had been wasted but one. At least he'd cared enough to save one for himself. He had wanted so badly to empty this gun into the face of that leering, obnoxious D.J., or through the gut of one of his pawns. But he had saved it, knowing that another attempt at taking back the city would lead only to another failure.
He could take no more failures. No more.
Hayashi put the end of the pistol to his head and put his finger on the cold, smooth trigger.
"Hayashiin-san!"
From a purple telephone wire high above him, a dark phantom of a person leapt downward in a series of timed flips and turns, landing at one knee before Hayashi. The ex-captain flinched in surprise and then his face was warped with sudden insane hatred. The figure, a young man no older than the punks that Hayashi hated so, wore a giant pair of jet-black roller blades, sporting neon blue hair and black leather…well, everything, to go with it. A samurai sword with a deep blue handle hung across his back.
"Who the fuck are you?!" Hayashi snarled through clenched teeth, exposed by the curling of his lips as he pointed his pistol forward at the stranger before him.
"Me?" The boy asked. "I am Rokkaku."
"The fuck you are!" Hayashi's thin voice trembled before deepening gradually into something more powerful, but just as broken.
"I'm not lying to you, Hayashiin-san," the self-proclaimed Rokkaku assured. "I-am-Rokkaku. Rokkaku Tarou, son of Rokkaku Gouji. I am here to re-hire you as the captain of the Rokkaku Police. Working together, we can reestablish order in our city."
"Re-h…hahaha!" Hayashi shook his head. "I think I remember you after all, Tarou. Yes…Gouji's prodigy child. But being the son of Rokkaku won't solve this mess by itself. I'm through with trying to keep it contained. It only grows, no matter how great the efforts to stop it."
Thinking he had given the youngster a lesson in reality, Hayashi fell silent, expecting Tarou's face to lose its dangerously confident glow. What occurred instead was the last thing Hayashi had expected.
From behind his back, Tarou held up the severed head of D.J. Professor K., the master of mayhem.
"This, if I am correct, is the mug of the mouth behind my father's tragic death. I will take this man's place, gain the majority's devotion, and slowly coax them into turning on the rudies we both hate so dearly. Meanwhile, you, Hayashiin-san, will lead the Rokkaku police on a glourious campaign of redemption, providing the muscle, when needed, to drive out the "D.J.'s" lackeys. For redemption is always a glamorous thing in the eyes of the public. Do you agree to aid me in my plans?"
Through all of Tarou's speech, Hayashi couldn't rip his eyes from the sight of his so hated enemy's head. While Hayashi had been wallowing in a dark trough of self-pity and shame, Gouji's own son had risen to the occasion and took down one of the most seemingly untouchable figures in Tokyo.
"I'll help you," Hayashi promised. "But...leave some of the punks for me, won't you?"
The plot bunny attacked me twice in the span of a week. I'm juggling fanfics now, on top of an original story and piles of homework. Don't expect quick updates, so if you want to continue reading, following will help let you know when I've posted new chapters. Also, there may be some character deaths (no one too popular, of course,) just as a warning.
Enjoy and review! :)
-Hellie