Thank you, Transmute Jun and Clouddancer, for beta reading!
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The Children of Galactor
Part 1:
She sped along the train track, struggling to gather her wits about her in the midst of a mission that had gone so horribly awry. She was the only Devil Star here who was still alive and she'd just received her final orders. She could see the Condor now, in the distance. He was waiting for her on the tracks, just like Onna Taicho had said.
In the midst of chaos and uncertainty, she had to make a decision and she had to make it now.
10 years ago:
The cobblestone street offered sanctuary from the sun. It was bordered by high stone walls, occasional ornate gates which offered the boy views of lawns and gardens, and shaded by stands of lemon and olive trees which cast their shadows over the walls even to where he stood. Further beyond were glimpses of grand, pale dwellings with porticos and high arched windows, capped with expanses of red clay tiles, glowing in the heat. On one side, somewhere beyond the houses, he thought, would be stretches of golden sand and then blue water. He was sure he could feel a cooler breeze wafting through the bars of one gate, though he couldn't see from where he stood, holding onto it with both hands as he peered between its wrought iron bars. It was so quiet, and there was no one in sight, anywhere. The boy might have been able to squeeze himself between the bars to find his way to the sea. Yet he hesitated, peering around nervously with the air of one who knows that he is not where he belongs and if seen, will be in trouble.
"Stay out of trouble till I get home tonight." That's what his mother told him every day when she left, before the sun was even up –that, and "If anything happens, go see Mrs. Catania." But just because an elderly widow was renting her attic to a young one, it didn't mean that this elderly widow had any real desire to deal with a kid. School had started again and these days, Mrs. Catania shouted for him in the morning when it was time for him to start walking there but that was about it. After school, he never went home; he would just start walking, wherever his feet seemed to want to go that day, exploring until the sun was getting low.
Many days, the urge to roam took hold of him even before he got to school. The teacher didn't seem to care if he showed up or not. As young as he was, he already knew that on BC Island there were people who mattered and people who did not, and that he was destined to be in the latter camp and beneath notice. Normally, his forays took him to the noisy, crowded market or the bustling waterfront docks of the town. Today had been different; a bunch of boys he vaguely recognized as infrequent schoolmates had spotted him in the market and had headed his way, menacingly. He'd managed to elude them –he knew all the convoluted back alleys- and had kept walking rapidly, away from the town. But now, on this quiet, shaded street, peering through this gate, he felt as if he'd discovered another world –the world of the people who really mattered.
"Who are you?" demanded an imperious voice from behind him, causing him to hastily let go of the gate and turn round. But the person that he faced was only a boy too. This boy was about the same age as him –probably eight or so- and also had light brown hair and blue eyes, but there the resemblance ended. This boy's hair was neatly trimmed; his shirt was pristine white and, like his khaki shorts, it showed evidence of having been pressed with an iron. His socks were as white as his shirt, and his shoes shone with polish. In a face no older than his, there was something unusual about this boy's eyes. They bore scant childish softness; rather, they were sharply angled, and intense.
"I… I'm Alan Russo."
The other boy continued to scrutinize him, not speaking. Alan looked down at his own shabby shirt and pants and scuffed shoes, feeling his face flush, knowing that he had to get out of here. The other boy seemed to be by himself, at least for the moment; now was his chance to make a run for it, for the second time that day.
But he glanced up briefly at the other boy's face, and what he saw was not a sneer or any expression of contempt or imminent hostility. The other boy was still studying Alan, and seemed merely curious. In fact, Alan might have even thought he looked envious, but that didn't make any sense…
Now the boy was holding out his right hand.
"I'm George Asakura, pleased to meet you."
Alan was flustered by this unfamiliar show of manners –indeed by this whole situation- but he composed himself sufficiently to be able to extend his own hand to shake George's.
"Do you live in the town?" asked George, almost eagerly.
"Uh, yeah." Alan was still disconcerted by this boy's gaze, even though it seemed pretty clear now that he wasn't in any trouble. Yet.
"That's cool," said George. "It's so boring here," he added, looking around him while restlessly scraping the sole of one shoe against the cobblestones.
Alan wasn't sure what to say to that.
"Is it far?"
"Is what far?"
"The town!" said George, impatiently, "Did you walk here?"
"Oh… yeah."
"Let's go there now then!" George's eyes were agleam with mischief.
"But… But won't you… Are you allowed?" Alan couldn't imagine an odder sight than this immaculate scion of privilege wandering around the docks or the market.
George glanced through the gate at the house beyond it, smirking.
"My Mom and Dad have some guests, and I guess they're a big deal. They told me to go play outside. If I go somewhere, they won't know." He started walking down the street.
Alan still hesitated. George looked back at him.
"Come on, let's go!"
So Alan went, trotting to catch up.
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"I'll show you where they throw the empty fruit crates. Sometimes I find an apple or something still inside one." They were in the market now, as he'd already given George a tour of the docks. George was standing right out in the open, surveying everything around him. Grown ups were staring at him. Alan didn't blame them; George just looked wrong here. They really needed to lay low for awhile.
"It's this way." He tugged at George's arm. But George was staring intently at something across the square –another boy, dressed much like Alan, who was sidling up to one of the fruit stalls. One of the boys he'd evaded earlier that morning, thought Alan.
"Is he trying to-" Before George could finish his question, the boy had grabbed an orange and had begun running.
But not fast enough. Another fruit vendor grabbed him, and gave him a clout to the head that made him cry out and drop the orange, before fleeing again.
"Let's get out of here," said Alan, but George's eyes were, once again, lit with mischief.
"That kid's no good. I bet I can do it and not get caught."
As it turned out, George could indeed. Alan found himself running faster than he ever had in his life to catch up with George, who'd turned down an alley a few blocks from the market and stopped, seemingly aware he was safely out of range of pursuit now. He was breathing hard but laughing gleefully between gasps, and holding three pears.
"I've never seen anyone get three!" gasped Alan. George, still laughing, tossed one to Alan.
"He got lucky," said a new voice, "And if you two know what's good for you, you'll hand them over to us."
It was the boy they'd observed before, and now he had two friends with him. They were all bigger than George and himself; they were also blocking the alley's entrance, and a quick glance reminded Alan that the other way was a dead end. Alan froze, still clutching his pear, and the boys advanced a step closer, smiling the smiles of those who know their prey is cornered and outnumbered.
"Hah! You want them?" yelled George. With perfect aim, he drilled a pear straight into the first boy's nose.
"Oww!" he cried, clutching his face.
Wham! The second pear hit another boy in the eye. But there was still a third boy.
George hastily looked to Alan, seeking back up.
And somehow, Alan was frozen no more –he flung his pear.
He only managed to strike the third boy on his chin, but it was enough. As he and George stood together, fists raised, the third boy turned and joined his companions who were staggering away, uttering incoherent threats of future revenge.
In the wake of their retreat, Alan could only stare in heady amazement. Never before had he stood his ground and fought back. But before, he had always been alone. George was merely walking over to where the boys had stood, stooping to reclaim the pears.
"I guess these are still okay to eat," he said, wiping them off on his shorts.
So they found a shady bit of street, with an overturned crate to sit on, and did just that.
"Hey Alan, let's start a gang," said George, between bites.
"A gang? Us?"
"Yeah, I heard my Dad tell another guy that that's how he got where he is –he started a gang. We can do it too."
"You… want me?" asked Alan cautiously. His parents had been very young, very in love and had barely had a penny between them when wanderlust brought them from far away to BC Island, but here his father had died even before Alan was born. Here on an island of large and deeply intertwined families that went back many generations, he and his mother were alone and Alan had always been an outsider.
"Well, yeah! I'm asking you, aren't I? You dummy!" said George, giving Alan a friendly punch in the shoulder.
For the first time that day, Alan laughed. Something about this George made him believe that anything could be possible.
"Okay!" He even went so far as to punch George's arm, lightly, in return.
"Cool!" said George, standing up and wiping his sticky hands on his shorts, "Now, we have to find a hideout and-"
"What does your Dad do now?" Alan couldn't imagine how starting a street gang could lead to a lifestyle like the Asakuras', but what did he know?
George shrugged. "Something with banks, I guess. I hear him talking about accounts and transfers a lot. I know he's important, though!"
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Alan peered outside the door, as it was about the right time. No sign of George, though. But as George was wont to complain bitterly, his mother did make him finish all his lessons before he was allowed to go outside. Maybe that had just taken longer than usual today. He paced around restlessly inside the dark space that was their hide out, pausing to hit the punching bag a few times. Okay, it was just a cast-off canvas laundry bag from the resort where his Mom worked in housekeeping, filled with sawdust, but it sufficed. He and George were proud of their hide out, which also featured a dart board (booty from a raid on a rival gang's hide out), a stash of food (pinched from the market), a couple of hammocks, and a stack of comic books and magazines (some stolen, some from his mother -left behind by guests at the resort).
He and George had discovered this seemingly-abandoned warehouse room on the outskirts of town some months ago, on that first day they'd established their gang. The "Condors" was their gang's official but little-used name. Alan had suggested "Harriers" that first day, thinking of those swift birds that he'd seen diving from the sky, but George had insisted that he'd seen a picture of a condor once in a book and that they looked more "bad-ass." They hadn't accomplished much in the way of recruiting though. In fact Alan hadn't even tried; as far as he was concerned, a staunchly loyal second –Alan himself- at his side was all that George needed, and George seemed to agree.
Well, not George, really; he'd decided that both their names sounded "wimpy." Alan was supposed to call him by his gang name, "Bad Boy Joe," and he himself was now just "Al," like the legendary Capone.
Alan punched the bag a few more times; he wanted to stay in practice. Since that first day, he'd been in a lot of fights with other boys and now he won most of them. No, he never had to run away and hide in the back alleys anymore. Granted, it was nearly always George who started the fights, but now Alan could dive into the fray after him, fists flying, without fear.
No one ever lasted long against George, with his innate martial prowess and his unshakeable confidence that all his endeavors would succeed.
Yes, all the town kids in their sphere acknowledged that George was a "Boss" in the making and now Alan garnered respect too, albeit largely by association.
Life was good.
Alan went over to the door to peer outside again. At last, this time he could see George approaching, peering around carefully to make sure no one was following him. His spotless white shirts and shiny shoes were a thing of the past now. He'd long since stolen a rusty colored t-shirt and a pair of blue jeans from some unlucky family's clothesline and had retrieved a pair of sneakers from a trash can, and he wore them like a uniform.
He knew where George lived, even if most of the kids they encountered in the streets of the town didn't, and he still couldn't quite believe that George's parents permitted him to run loose the way he did. In his own case, it made sense; his Mom was always at work or too tired to pay much attention to anything Alan was doing. He'd asked George about it once.
"My Mom doesn't like it," George had admitted, "But Dad tells her she can't 'coddle' me forever and one time he said 'Let him enjoy freedom while he still can,' and that shut her up."
"What did he mean?" Alan had asked, but George had just shrugged.
But now George was coming into the shack.
"Hi, Al."
"Hi, Joe."
And yet another day of fun and adventure began.
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Crouched low behind a prickly hedge, Alan couldn't see much. Beside him, George stood up enough to peer over it.
"Sweet!" he whispered, sounding awe-struck.
They were much further afield than usual today. Sure, they still enjoyed wreaking havoc in the town, but lately they were seeking newer thrills; in fact today they were in the hills above the town, covertly approaching the island's most exclusive Social Club. Alan had never actually seen it before, but George seemed to know his way around and he'd brought them past the tennis courts to the edge of a parking lot, shaded by trees and bordered by hedges.
Alan raised himself up to see what George was staring at and was a bit disappointed when it proved merely to be a car. But then, George was nuts about cars.
"That's a Bugatti Veyron," whispered George, eyes wide with excitement. "I saw one last year in the Luman Kingdom when I was there with my Dad, but I didn't know anybody here had one!"
"Nice," said Alan, looking around to make sure no one had spotted them. They needed to keep moving.
"Sixteen cylinders, a thousand horse power, top speed of 250 miles an hour…" George was whispering now.
"What do you want to do here?"
What George wanted to do, it turned out, was to crawl around more hedges until they were close to the board at the Clubhouse where the valets hung the parked cars' keys. Now that they were there, Alan realized what George was going to try to do.
"George, are you crazy?" he hissed. In its audacity, this went way, way beyond any of their previous schemes.
"I just want to look inside it, that's all -and don't call me George!"
He waited until the valets were busy elsewhere before he made his move, and soon the two of them were sitting inside the car. The sun was fading rapidly from the sky and the car's windows were tinted, so Alan hoped desperately that no one would notice what they were doing. He kept watch while George, in the driver's seat, cast a rapturous gaze over the car's interior.
But then he put the key in the ignition and turned it.
"What are you doing?"
"It's nothing, Al! I just need the power on to move my seat."
Even with the seat fully forward, George had to perch on its edge to reach his feet to the pedals and he could hardly see over the dash. He had one hand on the steering wheel now, and one on the shifter, pretending he was driving. Alan had to admit, George looked like he knew what he was doing. He wasn't about to admit, though, that this was the first car that he had ever been inside.
"Come on, Joe. We have to get out of here!"
"Al, I have to try it! I just have to! If anyone comes, we'll just get out and make a run for it!"
"Nooo!" But it was too late; George had turned the key a notch further and the Veyron's engine came to life with a deep growl. Alan could only stare at George in horrified admiration.
The new confidence he'd found, through their friendship, was still no match for George's; there truly was nothing he was afraid to do…
George was driving, and they were exiting the parking lot by a back road. They weren't going very fast but still –they were really doing this.
They'd reached the main road now, and George was turning the car onto it. Alan wasn't sure quite what George did next, with the pedals or the shifter, but the car leapt forward with a roar, flinging both boys against their seat backs. A couple seconds later, it halted with a smash and sent them flying forward. Alan hit the dashboard head first, and the world went dark.
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Men's voices… angry voices.
"It's just a couple of goddamned little street rats!"
The car's doors were opening. The engine stopped roaring. Still in a stupor, Alan felt someone grab the back of his shirt and yank him from the car. Something warm was trickling down his forehead. Blood? He was being dragged, and then flung face first onto the ground. A heavy foot came down hard on his back, knocking the air from his lungs and pinning him in place. He'd managed to turn his head to one side, even as he tried desperately to breathe and his heart raced, but no words would come from his throat. He could see George suffering the same fate. He too had been thrown to the ground by another man, and was being held there by a foot on the back of his neck. Beyond them, he could see the Veyron, its hood crumpled against the trunk of a large tree.
Oh no.
A car was coming down the road, casting the beams of its headlights upon them, but it only slowed as it neared them before speeding off even faster than before. No one was going to help them…
"This island is overdue for some pest control, wouldn't you say?" growled the voice above Alan.
"Oh yeah, they won't be missed," said the other man, glaring down at George. Without pause, he pulled out a gun and pointed it at George's head. From behind Alan's own head came a sound that Alan had seen enough crime shows on TV to recognize -a gun being cocked. The foot on his back crushed him even harder against the ground…
Nooooo! Panic and terror tore through his mind. He didn't want to die! He didn't want George to die! He was gasping, nearly sobbing, trying to get out a scream for mercy…
"My Dad is Giuseppe Asakura!" wailed George, as best he could with his face pressed in the dirt.
A new voice, sharp and clear, pierced the twilight.
"Wait! Get them up!"
Abruptly, the two men yanked Alan and George to their feet, keeping tight grips on the backs of their shirts. At last, Alan could breathe properly, though he still felt dazed and his head throbbed…
The voice belonged to a woman, a very tall and slender woman who was dressed in the kind of clothes that Alan had only ever seen in magazines or movies. She was blond, and wore a pillbox hat with a dark veil that obscured the upper part of her face from view but her visible mouth was shiny pink and somehow… predatory. Despite what she had just prevented, Alan felt a new rush of fear seize him.
But the woman ignored Alan completely and began walking closer to George and his captor. Out came a white hand, with long fingers capped by blood-red nails; she grabbed George's chin and pulled his face upward. Not even George could meet her gaze; he looked away, trembling.
"Yes," she said coldly, still staring at George, "This one really is his son." She released his chin, and George now could only look blankly down at his feet. As Alan continued to stare, her lips shaped a speculative smirk. "I must say, little Asakura, you've got a lot of spunk, trying to steal my car. I think you might prove very useful… in ten years perhaps." George raised his head then and looked straight at her. She nodded her head ever so slightly, but then she turned and walked away, back to the black limousine in the distance that awaited her. As she neared it, and the driver was coming around to open her door for her, she paused and glanced back.
"Of course, these boys still ought to be punished for what they've done."
She entered the limousine and disappeared from view as its door closed.
Alan's captor, still clutching the back of his shirt, spun Alan around to face him and raised a fist. Alan froze, even as he heard a cry of fear slip from his mouth.
"No!" yelled George thrashing and squirming in his captor's grip, "It was me! This was all my idea! Punish me twice, but not him!"
Whack! George tried, and failed, to suppress a cry of pain. The other man had yanked him around and backhanded him in the mouth. George's lip was split, and blood was running down his chin.
Whack!
"Ahhh!" He'd hit George again, and now blood ran from his nose too, but he also released him. George dropped to his knees, shaking, but glared at the man as he pulled his shirt up and tried to wipe the blood from his face. It was done.
"My friend," thought Alan, "He really is my friend. My only friend…" In that moment, Alan knew he would follow George anywhere, even to Hell itself. Alan's captor let go of his shirt and-
Pain exploded through Alan's body. He'd just been punched right in the stomach and brutally hard. He fell to the ground, gasping and retching, trying so hard not to sob, but he heard George's anguished cry of protest and the reply it received.
"This is BC Island, kid. Don't even try to be honorable here–that won't get you anywhere."
Together the two men stalked off into the looming darkness, heading back towards the Club and leaving the two boys behind, bleeding in the dirt. Alan was lying curled on his side and still trembling, but now George was at his side, sniffling and still wiping his red-smeared face with his shirt. It was some time before Alan was able to get up and endure the long walk back to the town, but George never left his side and kept whispering that he was sorry, over and over.
In the days that followed, the cuts and bruises healed and things gradually returned to normal as the terror of that evening faded in Alan's mind. Soon he and George were meeting every day at their hide out and getting into mischief again throughout the town, fighting, stealing, and even setting small fires. But in the weeks that followed, Alan slowly learned that something had changed –his friend. George's boisterous self-confidence could be subdued by moments of uncertainty now and anger was often visible, simmering, in the depths of his angular eyes, pulling his brows into a brooding frown.
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And one day, while he was sprawled in one of the hammocks at the hide out, waiting for George, he realized that it had been almost a year since they'd first met. What a year it had been… Alan had barely set foot in a classroom, but he sure felt like he'd received an education nevertheless. And he had a friend now –a real friend- and he would never have to be an outcast again. Nope, he was going to stick with George, and together, they were going to go places! Alan had never been off BC Island, but he was sure that George had some grand destiny awaiting him that he could share in. Daydreaming about the future kept him occupied for a while, but now he was going to the door and peering outside, and sighing impatiently.
Where the heck was George?
In the days that followed, he continued to go to the hideout every day, but still no George. But, he'd often mentioned trips he'd taken with his parents in the past. Maybe George was visiting some far, exotic country right now.
But now a week had passed. Alan had spent yet another day at the hide out, all alone, and now there was nothing to do but go home to the apartment. But his mother was there and she was even awake, though the TV was turned off. She was sitting on the small couch, knees pulled to her chest, and sipping tea, of all things. She never did that –was there nothing normal about this day?
Was she sick?
No, it turned out that she wasn't sick, but she was depressed about something.
"I don't know why I stay in this place," she was saying, more to herself than to him, "I only came here because your father wanted to, and now he's…" She lapsed into gloomy silence. Alan was poking around in the cupboard, looking for something to eat, when she started talking again.
"There was a family staying at the resort. They arrived last week and the next day, they wouldn't leave their villa. I kept coming around to check if they were out, so I could clean and change the sheets and towels, but they wouldn't even open the door. But later they were found dead –murdered- on the beach right out in front. The guy and his wife had been shot, and their son… I guess he wasn't quite dead -one of the waiters said that some doctor took him to the hospital. But ever since, everyone's acting like nothing happened! No one called the police that day, no one seems to care that people were killed! Goddamned BC Island! Everyone just mutters in little clusters, saying the guy must have pissed off the wrong person and got what was coming to him!"
Alan had been listening without really listening to his mother as she rambled on. After that terrible night, weeks ago, he knew full well what BC Island was really like. Mostly he was wondering what wild tales George would be telling him soon, about wherever he'd been all week…
"People keep whispering 'Asakura.' Ever heard of anyone with that name, Alan?"
He could never recall, later, how long he stood there, how long it took for him to grasp everything his mother was saying. He could remember, though, running frantically down the stairs as she called out after him, running all the way to the hospital.
George… He needed to know that his friend was okay!
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Even in the midst of his panic, Alan knew that no one was going to allow a kid like him into the hospital alone at this hour of the night. But sneaking into places he wasn't supposed to be in was one of his few talents. He had to dart into some closets and crouch under some sheet-draped gurneys, but he knew he could find George eventually.
A man with glasses and a moustache, wearing a doctor's white coat, had emerged from a patient's room and was talking to a nurse when Alan peered around the corner of a hallway. There was no one else in sight.
"I really thought he might make it, but then he took a sudden turn for the worse. Time of death was 10.45 PM, but there's no need to trouble another doctor at this late hour. Bring all the necessary paperwork to me; I'll handle everything." He had an accent –he wasn't from anywhere around here.
"That's kind of you. The name was Asakura, Doctor? I'll have someone bring you the admission file and the necessary forms," replied the nurse as she walked away.
Alan was finding it very hard to breathe, as if he'd been once again punched in the stomach, and his eyes were stinging with imminent tears but he had to know for certain; he had to emerge from behind the corner and run towards the doctor, calling out for his friend George. The doctor wouldn't let him into the room, and held onto him as Alan kicked and struggled, and cried…
"It's best if you don't see him now. Remember him as he was when you saw him last; that's the best way to remember someone."
The strange doctor somehow had a gentle voice and his grip on Alan's arms, though firm, wasn't unkind. Alan stopped thrashing. He didn't know what to do now or what he would ever do anymore. He was trembling, weeping, but the doctor kept his hands on Alan's shoulders and kept talking.
"Go home now. Go home to your family, but remember this: the heart of this island is rotten. There's an organization here, and not many know its true name but I'm going to tell it to you now. Its name is Galactor. Some day, they will come to you and demand that you serve them, as so many here do already. If and when that day comes, remember who killed George Asakura. Always remember that it was Galactor who killed your friend and make the right choice, even if it's the hardest choice."
It couldn't be true, it just couldn't… Not George!
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