Author's note: Yes, folks, it's another tournie. Because, you know, the several thousand that fanfiction.net has already just isn't enough, dangit!
Anyhoo, this chapter is mostly character and plot development (erm, isn't that what an actual story is, basically?), although for your reading pleasure I have thrown in a glimpse of the insanity that is to come in the form of a really, really traumatizing conversation between... ah, just read it and see for yourself.
First, a quick DISCLAIMER: I don't own YYH. Wish I did. All original characters in this chapter do belong to me, however. No touchie (Not as if anyone would want to...) unless I give you specific permission. Got it?
Oh, and a WARNING: Material in this fanfic will never, I repeat, NEVER go above what qualifies as a PG-13 subject. However, there MAY be dialogue that hints at—but will NOT go into detail about—mature topics including sexual intercourse, drug and alcohol use and abuse, mild cursing, and human anatomy and injuries. However, NOTHING WILL ACTUALLY HAPPEN IN THE STORY OR BE DESCRIBED IN DETAIL. If you feel uncomfortable reading character dialogue on any of the above topics, I suggest looking for a tournament that is rated PG or under.
Update: I've been having some problems with people putting their character info in reviews. This is a violation of fanfiction.net's policy ("using the reviews as message boards") and could get my story deleted. Please, please, please e-mail character information to me at cha0sbutterflyexcite.com. Thank you.
Akagawa Rosuto was short and thin and filled with a kind of restless, nervous energy. It showed in his watery black eyes, the way they darted from your face to the surroundings to your hands and back to your face again; it showed in the way his head twitched occasionally, a short sharp jerk to the side that could have been a signal and could have been just another nervous tic; it showed in the way he fidgeted his long bald tail, twisting it in his short-fingered hands. Kita despised him.
To keep from looking at him she examined her fingernails instead. They were the right length, stylish but not so long as to be awkward, and now that she'd stopped biting them the ragged edges had smoothed out. Although that cuticle was looking a bit ragged...
She realized that Rosuto was looking at her expectantly. Or rather, he had fallen silent and was glancing at her face more frequently than usual. She favored him with a contemptuous glance and went back to studying her nails.
"Well?"
Even the rat demon's voice was annoying: so nasal it was almost a whine. "So I'll help Asagorou with this if he pays me well for it. Half the profits, nothing less."
Kita splayed her light-blue fingers to examine them better, decided that they were the very image of perfection, and began to examine the other hand. "Furuzawa-san said ten percent and nothing more."
An odd look crept across his tortured, twitching features. "Twenty- five percent if you do me a... favor."
The nerve of him! She turned away, too disgusted even to face in his direction. "You presume far too much, Akagawa. I'm Furuzawa-san's secretary, not his slave."
"No, that's not what I meant," Rosuto protested, giving a nervous laugh. "Twenty percent of the profits, and I need someone... taken care of."
"Ah, you want us to do your dirty work?" She turned back, half- interested despite herself.
He gave his head a quick shake and twisted his tail in his hands so hard that his knuckles turned white. "No, not killed, just... looked after. My sister, Inari," he added, looking up at her pleadingly. "She's a good girl, really, I just don't have the time to deal with her. I'm sure she could be useful, you know... building things, stuff like that."
Kita folded her arms. A female Rosuto, and worse, someone she's have to associate with almost every day? But a living was a living, and she'd lose her job if this deal wasn't made. "Twelve percent and babysitting for the brat."
"Twenty."
"Fifteen."
"Done." He spat on his hand and held it out to shake. Disgusted, she turned away and pulled the hood of her cloak over her sea- green hair. "You know where to find us. Drop off the kid tomorrow—same time, same place." She walked away as swiftly as she could without running. "Her name is Inari," Rosuto repeated loudly as she turned the corner and exited the cramped, stinking alleyway.
From his perch on a crumbling wall opposite the entrance to the alley, a blue-haired drunk was delivering what may go down in history as possibly the oddest sex-ed lesson ever.
"So, you see, hic you see, when two young demons dressed in, hic, in identity-concealing cloaks go into, hic, into an alley, it usually means they're going, hic, they're going to..."
The student, a very young demon himself wearing jeans, a long-sleeved T-shirt, and an expression of horrified fascination, listened for a while before interjecting. "Or, or they could be two sleazy businessmen engaged in a deal that will eventually backfire and end up getting both of them killed or worse," he supplied.
The teacher shook his head with an expression of long-suffering patience and took another swig from the massive bottle he was holding in one fist. "No, no, tha's not it. When you're older and, hic, and wiser in the ways of the world, you'll realize, hic, you'll realize that ol' Chuu was right when he said that..."
And here she was.
Rosuto had debated for several minutes with the tall, blue-skinned demon, sternly warned her to behave herself, and made a hasty retreat. To be truthful, Inari hadn't suspected much more: her older brother had never really liked his confused, foolhardy little sister, and she felt much the same way about her dishonest and meticulously cautious sibling. Oh, they still looked out for each other, because even after two hundred years blood was thicker than water, but whenever one moved on the other was secretly glad to see their despised relative go. Inari put far more faith in the canvas bag, full of odds and ends and the fragments of her life, over her shoulder than she ever had in her brother.
This was the first time in the four hundred years of her life that he'd ever abandoned her, though. The small rat demon already didn't like what she could see of her new temporary guardian: a pale face the color of a glacial lake, made up so skillfully that it was difficult to tell that there was any makeup at all; a slender, perfectly-manicured hand that had not even offered to take her bag (she would have refused to give it up, but it was the thought that counted); green hair that evoked ice and frozen pools and the tender shoots of snowdrops in the snow, with silver streaks at the temples that looked too bright to be the result of aging. After a perfunctory inclination of the head in greeting, or perhaps in acknowledgement of the less glamorous demon's existence, she tugged the hood of her plain black cloak over her head (carefully, so as not to muss her hair) and strode away without a word.
Inari didn't have to go, of course. Nothing was forcing her to stay. Last night her brother had sat her down and had what, for them, would be considered a long talk. It went something like this: if Inari went with them and did as she was told, she would be fed, sheltered, and maybe even paid for several months. If she left at any time, that was her decision... but it should be clear that if she ran away from this one there would be no welcome for her in the household of Rosuto, ever again. Oh, and she was to keep her eyes and ears open and her mouth closed, and if Asagorou looked like he was balking about anything then she was to send a message to him in the most discreet way possible. If she failed to alert him to anything that might turn out to be important, well, no more generous brother to give her handouts whenever she came crawling back to his doorstep. Who Asagorou was, and what he was doing, and why he might balk about it, were questions that her dear brother had not seen fit to answer. Just stay alert, keep a low profile, report back to him every now and then. Oh, and try to act normal for once, OK?
The ice demon had longer legs than Inari, and was walking fast; the rat demon had to perform an undignified, scuffling run to catch up. At the sound of her labored breathing her silent companion deigned to look back at her, one perfect eyebrow raised beneath the hood.
Inari glared back, expecting her to say something, and nearly cried with frustration when the other swept her black cloak around her with a gesture that bordered on the melodramatic and swept off again.
After a while, she began to wonder whether estrangement from her brother was a small price to pay to get herself far, far away from this icy (both literally and figuratively) demon. Panting for breath and clutching a stitch in her side, she sped up until she was running next to her companion. "We've never been formally introduced," she attempted, forcing out the words as best she could between gasps for air, "What's you name?"
The demon tossed her head at that and laughed: not the light, faked laughter of a new acquaintance who wants to impress you, nor the sincere laughter of one friend with another, but the jeering, scornful laugh of someone who is most definitely amused at rather than with you. Inari waited patiently for the reply, narrowing her eyes to prevent the tears from spilling out.
"Hirayama Kita," the other said at last, without even bothering to look at her this time.
"Oh." Pause. "I'm Inari. Akagawa Inari."
Silence.
"My brother kept talking about something I was supposed to do for Asagorou, but he didn't tell be what."
More silence. Either Kita didn't take the hint, or she had chosen to ignore Inari.
"So, do you know what's going on...?"
"Furuzawa-san has decided to throw a martial arts tournament of his own, much in the style of the famous Dark Tournament. Your brother is... assisting us."
"Oh," Inari said quietly, a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach.
Much to her surprise, Kita volunteered a morsel of information. "The invitations still have to be sent and a stadium arranged. Akagawa-san is helping us with the location." She paused, and then admitted, "We still need a name for it. Something similar to the Dark Tournament, but not so obviously connected as to make the public believe that we are ripping it off."
"May I make a suggestion?"
"You wouldn't be the first."
"How about 'The Tournament of Insufficient Light'?"
To her further astonishment, Kita stopped and smiled at her—a real smile, as far as Inari could tell, without any malice or indifference. "You know, Inari, I think I like you," she said unexpectedly, "You might look as stupid as your brother, but I think that a little more cynicism like that is just what the company needs."
She walked off again, leaving the confused rat demon to trail behind her and wonder whether or not to appreciate the compliment.
After that pre-story Author's note, I bet you all are really afraid of the post-chapter rant. And you should be, for this is... dramatic music the Rant of... oh, forget it.
Anyways, if you want your character in my tournie of mediocrity, send anything you think I'll need—appearance, background info, personality, abilities/attacks, your name on fanfiction.com so I can mention you in an author's note, etc, etc—to cha0sbutterflyexcite.com (that's the number zero, not an 'O'... and if you sent the info in before July 8th, I didn't get it due to a typo in the address). Teams of four plus an optional fifth substitute, so feel free to send in as many characters as you want.
Ok.
I'm done ranting now.
Stop staring.
Please.