Faith of Our Fathers

Though he had done so for the past two years, the youth still found it troublesome to eat with chopsticks. His fingers fumbled more than once as he tried to pick out of his bowl of rice. He hated it every time he had a hard time. It reminded him of when he had tried to feed himself two years ago…when he had first been presented with a bowl of rice and been commanded to eat. He was barely able to feed himself, as badly as he was shaking. He thought he'd starve to death after three days of being unable to pick up so much a single grain of rice and shove it into his mouth. But his 'guardian angel' had kept up with him…forced him to practice the calming techniques despite how hungry he was…until he managed the impossible. Though he was so afflicted with DTs that he shouldn't have been able to hold still for three seconds, he fed himself. It felt like he had learned to eat again for the first time.

The youth didn't look like much to most passers by in this part of St. Louis. The city was rather big now…one of the major cities that had been overlooked years ago during genocidal wars. New York, Los Angeles, Chicago, San Francisco, Boston…all of the old major metropolitan areas had been turned to ash and ruins. But St. Louis had fallen from its glory days back in the 1800's, and no one considered it much of a target. It was in the center of the country, making it the most safeguarded from bombardment. Because of that, it had survived the apocalypse, and had been settled and improved since. Even the old Gateway Arch still stood, and had three new skyways actually passing underneath it.

That said…St. Louis was still very much what it had been hundreds of years ago…a haven for criminals. Gangs and drug runners had fled to this place too, taking root when there was insufficient jobs for all of the refugees that had first flooded it. And though there was quite a bit of high society, crime and poverty were still the name of the game throughout much of it. Such was true for the grim alley he currently resided in, eating at a Japanese dive where an impoverished immigrant family struggled to pay their bills and pay protection money at the same time. Almost every small business in this bleak, polluted street paid protection…although they somehow still seemed to get robbed every week. Once upon a time, this had been a quaint little flea market that you could bring your kids to for a Sunday outing. Now it was filled with the dirtiest businesses, porn shops, bars, neon lights advertising gambling and girls, and every ugly, shady person you could think of. This wasn't a place anyone decent went…which was why no one liked the cops here. None of them were decent…they just came here to draw blood. And they'd do it if you looked at them wrong. It didn't exactly make them trustworthy or friendly, but it kept the gangs in line when they stopped by. After all…it wasn't illegal for a cop to kill you. And if you killed one of them, they could be just as menacing as a gang in seeking you out and ruining your family and your life.

The youth looked like a typical member of this underworld…"human vermin", as most preferred to call it. He supposed that's what they were. Vermin lived off of the carcasses of dead and dying things. After all, he didn't dress too fancy. He only wore light, loose white pants, a tight fitting brown tunic, and a loose jacket over that. Over the sleeves of his jacket, one could see he wore some sort of brown leather gauntlets. They looked hard, but were very mobile. They were a lot like his boots, which looked cumbersome but were actually very loose and hardly made a sound when stepped on. Other than that, he only had a belt around his waist that looked vaguely like an old karate black belt, and a pair of red studs in his ears. None of the clothes were new or especially nice looking, and someone dressed like this normally didn't hang around in this part of town unless they were up to something they weren't supposed to be. Most gang like of all was his hair. Long ago, he had bleached it permanently white. This was popular among gang crowds, and a tell tale sign forever of who he had been.

This dive of a restaurant had a bar-like seating in front of it, and here the youth sat alone as he picked at his food. He looked up and occasionally cast a glance to the hostess. It was a young girl. Perhaps she was entertaining some possibility of a new life. Perhaps she was daydreaming at all the passing crowds, looking at the occasional decent, honest person who passed by who had been successful. Maybe she was even entertaining some thought that some rich, handsome man would come by and mistake her for Japanese. Naturally, there were no Japanese running Japanese restaraunts anymore. She was Northern Chinese herself. Japan had been wiped off the face of the earth 80 years ago, and currently there were probably no more than a hundred worldwide. Those that were left were kept in government "zoos", treated like priceless animals within the country they resided, like Spotted Owls or Black-footed Ferrets. They weren't working at dives.

But if she looked pretty enough to be one, she might have a "prince charming" come and take her away from all of this. It was severely unlikely. She was nice, but this place was a bit short on luck. Oh well. A woman could dream.

It was important to keep dreaming, the youth knew.

He had stopped dreaming over a decade ago. That was when the eight-year-old orphan known as Chipp Zanuff had given up on ever waking up from the nightmare known as life. He had resigned himself to the fact that his life was totally worthless, that no one could ever believe he amounted to anything, and that he no longer cared who he had to hurt or step on to get what he needed to survive. That was the only thing that mattered now. He had to tear apart the rest of the predators in the world in order to earn his right to survive. There was no such thing as good or evil…just the strong and the weak. Those who were willing to do what they needed to in order to live, and those who believed in fantasies like religion or karma who would eventually fall victim to everyone else.

That was when he first started drug running. At the time, it was great. Until that time, he had lived as a homeless orphan. He had been a good kid…aside from the fact that he was poor and homeless. His mother had been a psychotic whore and a drunk, eventually drinking herself to death when he was four. He had been on the street ever since. He never bothered anyone. He asked 'please' whenever he begged for food or money. He even tried to carry groceries or wash windows for those who gave him anything. He shared his warm places to sleep with sicker orphans. He never picked on anyone smaller than him. And he dealt with being beaten, robbed, and generally treated like trash by every other bigger orphan in town.

Eventually…he grew tired of it. Whenever he offered a service, he was usually kicked, yelled at, and threatened with abusive police. Whenever he just wanted to sleep, the cops would come and drive him off with beatings…or worse. Whenever he tried to be nice to other kids, they ganged up and took advantage of him. And no matter how kind he tried to be…he was always stepped on in the end. He finally had enough of it. Until now, he had frowned on and hated the drug dealers who sent kids out to do their dirty work for them. But when he saw that they ate twice a day at fast food places…and that they had bigger gang members to defend them whenever bullies tried to steal their cash…he realized that this might be a better way of life.

And for years, it was that. He was defended from bullies and always had lots of cash on hand. He could afford to stay in halfway decent hotels and eat whatever he wanted. He was able to buy new clothes for himself and stick his nose at the police when he did work for a powerful enough gang. Sure, he had been shot at a few times, even stabbed once in a while by a few desperate junkies…but when he could pay cash for his medical bills, it was fine. He was good at what he did, and he continued to prosper. He had a good reputation in the criminal underworld, and he was known as dependable as time went on.

What people liked the best about him was the same thing that allowed him to make this a profit-earning business…he never took his own stuff. Oh, people had offered it to him plenty of times, but something of his old boy scout self kept him from doing it. That, and some common sense. He saw plenty of other drug runners taking their own stuff. Eventually they got sloppy as a result, winding up dead either from cops and junkies, or from their employers when they succumbed to their addictions and took their shipments themselves. Even those that didn't blew everything they made on keeping themselves high. Chipp wasn't that dumb. He stayed clean…and so he always had enough cash. He even put back quite a bit.

When he was sixteen, he decided to live the American dream and upgrade. He finished his last job for a client and went into the business himself. Things were even better then. It was a bit hard to start up, but soon he was trafficking big time business. He covered both borders north and south, and soon went across the ocean to places like Singapore and Cambodia. The stuff he brought back was the highest quality, if not the most messing up. He soon earned quite a reputation with not only small gangs, but the bigger ones like the Mafia.

Life was great then. He wondered why he hadn't started even younger. He was eighteen years old and nearly a millionaire. He had money, power, women… He started getting some celebrity clients. He had been invited to two dinners with Mafia bigwigs, and got even more connections for more business. Even when he started shipping some truly wild stuff…some of which was actually pretty bad even for a hard-core dealer…he didn't care. He was through with the phony morality crap. He was living the sweet life. Those he exploited should learn to do the same. He didn't care that he started employing eight year olds of his own, or that he had his own thugs to hold some default junkie still while he beat him…or even her…to death. He was getting high off of his new power, and he didn't want to ever go down.

Then there was hard times. The police got a morally righteous new chief, and for a year things were very bad. Cops cracked down on his operation, and he was forced to shut down a lot of his branches. He had to cut loose two separate warehouses in order to keep his whole business from collapsing. Money dried up fast, and soon he was back to living in half-decent hotels and eating fast-food hamburgers. Chipp got angry and bitter, not realizing that many other traffickers would love to be in his shoes. He might have been just eking out a living, but he didn't have any debts owed to shady people. He was free from that stress. He just had to wait this out until the cops laid low, and he could have bounced back.

But his conscience was coming back. He wasn't making any big bucks now. He was living just above the level of working poor. Memories of all of the people he had hurt…even killed…began to come back to him. Their ghosts haunted him, asking him if he had thought spilling their blood was worth the tiny salary he brought in. Despite thinking his soul was dead, he began to feel guilt and misery for what he had done. It was getting worse with each passing day. As money continued to fail to come in, he grew desperate to do anything…anything to make him feel it had been worth it…or at least make the ghosts go away…

That was the night he first took "Toxic Candy".

Suddenly, he was a little boy again, and at the top of the world. He wondered why he had reserves about this for so long. One little needle, and the world was his again. He felt bigger than anyone. That first time it was just a pick-me-up. He did a lot of business after that, and brought in enough money to actually eat at a real restaurant and sleep in a real hotel. He did so, feeling like his luck was changing.

But the next day, he started feeling depressed again. He did good business once more, and once again had enough to stay in better accommodations. Yet he began to think of something else. He had done so good just from one little taste. How about buying a few more? If he worked that hard and well after one dose, how about a couple to really put some money away? Before he knew it, he spent his extra cash on more Toxic Candy, settling for his average hotel for that night.

He did do good the next time…enough to buy some more Toxic Candy as well as stay in better locations. But things didn't stay good long. This latest dose didn't keep him as energized. So he bought more, once again slipping another rung on high society. It kept him going strong for a month…until again he started to slip. So he started to do more. He used to only take it once a day. Soon he was doing it twice a day. Around that time, some of his clients noticed that he was coming in looking overly giddy with red eyes. His more upstanding ones dropped him then, saying they weren't taking a chance on going with another trafficker who was a junkie himself. Chipp flipped them off and let it slide. He felt too good.

But more clients soon canceled…and the drugs continued to lose their effect. Within a year, he was up to four times a day. His new addiction plus the loss of business soon made him struggle to keep himself energized as well as stay even in medium range locals. Soon…he began to slip into dirtier ones. Crime bigwigs stopped inviting him over when he started to embarrass himself in front of them. Once he even soiled himself in front of a Mafia boss…and as a result half of his face was beaten in by a thug. He was dropped from that branch, and that was the first day of many he was called "----ing junkie".

Times got worse. Chipp began to realize what his drug use was costing him, but he couldn't stop. Every time he tried, he'd sleep for two days straight and yell at what employees he had left. He had to keep taking it, but when he did he became looser and crazier. He soon drove off his remaining employees, and barely had enough cash to fuel himself and his addiction. His business collapsed, and only by running drugs himself was he able to keep going. Even that soon fell out, and he had to buy his drugs secondhand from other dealers. He lost even more money then…and soon spent half of his nights on the street. He was getting dirtier and sloppier every day.

Then…the inevitable happened.

He didn't know how. He swore he had budgeted his money right this time. He knew where to get the drugs extra cheap…so that his employer wouldn't notice him shuttling away the difference to get himself an extra dose of Toxic Candy. Yet somehow…after that first hit…he was so high, and loving it so much, that he did more. Before he knew it, he woke up three days later on some strange bed…completely broke and without any of his employer's drugs.

Chipp was so terrified he threw up on himself, losing whatever food he had left in his stomach. He figured that he was small time…that the Mafia wouldn't bother with him. He was wrong. He didn't even need to go more than three blocks before three enforcers stopped him. After smacking him around until he was covered with blood staining his white hair, he found himself in a position he once ridiculed his fellow traffickers for. He was on his knees begging for time. After smashing the fingers of one of his hands, they gave him 24 hours.

Bleeding, dazed, and scared witless, Chipp went for the airport. He hadn't a penny on him, but he knew he had to get out of the country. But he was too out of it. He was off of his high, injured, and barely coherent. He ran into five cabbies, each of which refused to give him a ride. It wasn't just because he had no money…it was because these cabbies were owned by the Mafia. He might as well have put an ad in the paper advertising that he was trying to jump town.

Staggering, sore, friendless, hopeless, and feeling more vulnerable than he had since he was eight years old, Chipp dragged his body toward the airport. The ghosts of his victims laughed at him, until he was screaming at them to leave him alone. Tears mixed with blood all over his face as he realized he was finished. He had been wrong. There was such thing as retribution and karma. Now, all of his sins were coming back on his head. He collapsed several times…each time begging God for forgiveness and mercy for a few moments before getting up and dragging himself on.

He only made it within ten blocks of the airport before some twenty goons caught him. After putting a bag over his head, tying his arms behind him, and breaking two of his ribs, they dragged him into the nearest abandoned building. He had seen this before. He had done it to others before. They tied him to a chair and proceeded to start pistol whipping him, demanding their money. Chipp was too out of it. Blubbering, bleeding, barely able to think…he continued to cry out to God to give him one last chance.

At last the time came when they realized he would give them nothing. The only thing he was useful for now was an example. The gun was drawn. The barrel pointed between his eyes.

The shot never came.

Warm blood splashed into his face instead as the arm of his killer was severed at the elbow. The screams of agony he heard were like angelic harps as deliverance came for him. Some man…large…powerful…deadly…came forward and struck all twenty down in less than fifteen seconds. Some of them were already dead two seconds before they started yelling in pain. Chipp could see little through the blood and tears, but he saw a blade flash out again and again as the man darted in and out of shadows, until all of his oppressors lay dead on the floor.

Soon, there were none left alive but Chipp, still tied to the chair, and his guardian angel. The tall man kept his blade out, dripping the blood of its victims. He stood in front of the broken, little man seated in the chair in front of him, and for a long time stared at him and said nothing. He wouldn't say anything until Chipp got enough of his bearings to look up and into his eyes.

When he did…that man glared at him in such a way that even his fried brain could no longer look away.

Then he said something Chipp would never forget…that he still heard in his dreams.

"My name is Tsuyoshi, Chipp Zanuff…and I came here to kill you tonight. You sit here awash in your own self pity and blood…but you have spilled the blood of dozens of innocents and ruined the lives of countless innocent children. I've watched you ever since you were eight years old. I watched as you slipped deeper and deeper into sin and violence, losing what innocence you once possessed and becoming fouler and dirtier than these assassins who came to kill you. Time and time again I waited for you to repent, but each time you only did worse. I trailed you tonight to make sure you wouldn't escape…to make sure that you'd feel the full divine judgment for your crimes.

"You are alive right now because of what I heard you crying out. Somewhere within your black, wasted soul there is some dim light still flickering of who you once were. On seeing that it was about to go out, it cried out for one last chance to live…not for itself but for the chance to make something of the life that you destroyed so completely. It was then that I realized that there might yet be a chance to save one life you crushed: your own.

"If you truly want out of the darkness you've allowed yourself to fall into, then you will come with me. The road will not be easy, and I doubt you have the strength to follow it. Each day I will force you to put yourself into a flaming crucible and be ground into powder. If you ever whine…if you ever complain…if you ever show the slightest indication that you prefer this life to your new one…I will kill you without a second's hesitation. Yet if you want to be something more than what you have become, I will help you regain the soul that you sacrificed. Perhaps one day you can look at yourself in the mirror and be proud of what you see.

"Or I can let you go. I can let you flee as far as you can, and engage in whatever sin or cowardice you desire. I only wish you never to return to this city. Either way, you will be hunted for the rest of your life. You have a choice. Years ago, you chose the easy path over the right one. Once again…you get to choose between what is right and what is easy. Do you care only for yourself, Chipp Zanuff? Or do you care for what you do in this world?"

Somehow…Chipp wasn't frightened by the man's words. Something within them let him know that he did have some small spark left in him…one that had been untainted by his horrible life. That part wanted a chance to live. And for the first time in over ten years…his dark, self-interested half was defeated by the voice of his conscience. He accepted Tsuyoshi's deal…not out of self-preservation but out of a genuine desire to be a better person. And since that day…his dark half had not triumphed again.

That wasn't to say it wasn't as hard as had been promised. Chipp was still ravaged by his addiction, and it took a combination of strong discipline training and fear of death to get through it. Tsuyoshi had immediately begun teaching Chipp to discipline himself. No more nice clothes. No more drugs. No more fast food. He slept on a small mat in a simple room with no furniture, one candle light per evening, and a bowl of rice three times a day. It was because the youth had a desire to save himself as well as urging from Tsuyoshi that he managed to survive the first month. He spent hours on end sweating and trembling, struggling to calm himself and keep his mind in order. He punched the floor, bit down on wood, and threw fits…but slowly and surely he worked his way through the withdrawal phase. That month felt like ten years at least…but each new day was one small victory notch in his belt. Every day seemed to get worse and worse…and he felt his brain screaming for just one little dose of Toxic Candy again and again. Yet he smacked himself around, smashed into his own injuries, and did everything possible to clean himself out. Finally…he won. The symptoms leveled off, and he was free of his addiction.

After this, he grew to know Tsuyoshi better. The big man was rather old, but he still was powerful and agile. He was half Japanese…which had effectively made him nothing of value. Full-blooded ones were the ones whisked away to glass menageries in government buildings to become national treasures. Half bloods were "mutts". He had been free to live his own life…but mostly to study the Japanese art of ninjitsu. It was an old and deadly technique, one that had aspects of it implemented in physical combat by troops all around the world. However, the true technique was in the ability to quickly, silently, and effectively kill your opponents.

In the past, this skill was used for assassinations and illicit activities. A ninja was primarily skilled at bringing death, after all. Tsuyoshi, in his youth, had been exiled and left on the street due to being only half Japanese. He had desired to use the technique he had learned to make an easy way of life for himself. He had nearly taken Chipp's own path. Yet he had a habit of watching the police. At the time, there were some good ones on the street. There was one he particularly admired, despite his circumstances. He was a younger officer, fresh and full of ideals. He acted justly, but didn't treat the people as animals or thugs, but actually gave everyone the benefit of the doubt. He was fair and kind to everyone. Some took advantage of him for this, but he didn't care, and neither did Tsuyoshi. For the sake of those few slipping through the cracks, the officer was making the world a much better place.

Then one day he saw him mixed in with a bunch of older officers. They were gathered around a gang member who had killed a cop. They were slowly and ritualistically beating him to death. Tsuyoshi happened to remember this gang member. He was one that the young officer had let go the other day for not finding anything on him when he was busted. There had been a break in at a convenient store, and this gangster was definitely part of the group that had done it. But he had cut the gang member a break, figuring he deserved a second chance rather than getting a record due to probable cause. Now he had killed. The young officer attacked him like a savage, saying things to him that the older officers frequently said about everyone on the street. He was a changed man, having lost his innocence so that he could get revenge.

Tsuyoshi remembered that he had not felt so angry at the gangster for spurning the young officer's kindness as he was for the young officer losing himself that day. He was never a good cop again. The gangster had always been bad…but the young officer was once a good man. He realized it was far more horrible for a good man to lose his soul than for a bad one to betray a good one's trust. After that day, he vowed only to use his skill for things that would make the city better, never for anything criminal.

Chipp realized that Tsuyoshi was talking about him in that story, and that made him realize what a greater mistake he had made. Because of this, he devoted himself more to his savior. For months, he continued to train in ways of self-discipline and focus, learning to sharpen his mind and purify his life. He made money doing the most menial of tasks: street sweeping. Yet under the tutelage of his master, he became the best street sweeper in the city. He brushed every sidewalk completely clean of dust. He threw out all the trash. He got on hands and knees and scrubbed every stain. For all of his hard work, he received only the standard wage. Yet he received something better inside…the feeling that he could devote himself entirely and completely to whatever task he set his mind to. And though thugs would come by and urinate on the sidewalk, saying he missed a spot, or they would rough him up and sometimes take what money he had on him, he never fought back but bore it all with control and self-discipline. To his surprise, whenever an old lady or kid would come by and say how nice the sidewalk looked after he was done…Chipp actually felt big like he used to when he had money as a trafficker. By humbling himself so much, even the smallest praise meant that much more.

Once Tsuyoshi was certain that Chipp was ready, he began to teach him elementary ninjitsu. The youth was actually glad for the chance. Tsuyoshi had to be one of the last people to actually know this technique, and to pass it along to some "junkie", thinking he was skilled enough for it, was a great honor. There was a time when he would have wanted to learn just to rough up those who had oppressed him. But now…he didn't even want to learn it for the sake of defending himself while street sweeping. He wanted to be like Tsuyoshi one day…coming to the rescue of another unfortunate bum and changing his life as well.

Chipp took to the training quickly. Part of this might have been that he was classified as a class D magic, having lots of internal talent that he had never bothered developing. In no time at all, he had mastered the basics and graduated to the intermediates. He was learning things almost as quickly as Tsuyoshi could teach them to him. He even went to the next level on a few things before Tsuyoshi showed him. His savior was justly pleased. He seemed to be proud of the old criminal he had saved, seeing how he was reforming into such a new person. Yet despite his technique, Chipp didn't lose his humble side. He was mild-mannered and calm at his job. He let everyone do anything they wanted to him.

Yet soon he was good enough to the point where if he saw someone else being oppressed or bullied…he jumped in. He was good enough to kill people quickly now with little trouble, and every day he only got better at this. But he never killed. He simply dispatched. If he saw a bully stealing from an orphan, he gave the bigger one a bloody nose and a stern warning. If he saw a protection enforcer, he disabled him to be unconscious before handing him over to the police (knowing the police would beat him if he was conscious enough to feel it). He used his ever-increasing speed to trip culprits running with loot from stores, and after returning the goods roughed up the thief a bit before letting him go. He only grew better with time, using his experience with low-level hoods to further sharpen his skill. He soon got a new high…this time from thinking himself to be some sort of vigilante superhero cleaning up St. Louis one hood at a time.

As time passed, Tsuyoshi and Chipp became friends. Chipp venerated the old man for his skill and power. Tsuyoshi admired his apt student. Although there was always the master and apprentice distinction between them, they broke down many walls together. They talked pleasantly often. They ate meals together. They trained often just for fun. They had a simple life, but it was one both of them enjoyed now that neither was alone anymore.

Chipp picked up the last bit of rice and stuffed it in his mouth. After doing so, he pushed the bowl forward toward the girl for her to take it away. She nodded and removed the bowl, and then went about getting the pick-up order for the youth. As he did, Chipp turned and looked over to the side of the street.

There were some more drug runners there…laughing and thinking that the world was theirs. Chipp knew so much better now. This was only temporary. One day they'd be cringing and afraid just as he was. Yet he couldn't help thinking of what was in their coat pockets…or of that fast food they were carrying…

The youth cursed himself and turned away. He couldn't let temptation take any hold. He was free of his physical dependence on Toxic Candy, but his mind would yearn for it for the rest of his life. If he slipped and allowed himself to indulge in it again, he might never save himself this time around. He didn't even allow himself the luxury of fast food. He had always eaten it whenever he was on a Toxic Candy high, and doing so reminded him of once having the wealth to buy and consume it at will. His own salary was just enough to get bowls of rice from this dive. His old side told him to indulge a bit again…to use his newly acquired skills to get himself some real money…

But he forced it down. He'd never listen to that again. If he had to fight for his soul every day, then he would.

A paper bag holding Tsuyoshi's rice was passed to Chipp, and he answered with a nod. He put out the few world dollars the meal cost, and then took up the bag in one arm. His other arm remained stiff and at his side, as if he was bracing it somehow. But he didn't note this. He simply took up his sack, turned, and began to walk back.

He tried to think of other things. He only lived two blocks away with Tsuyoshi. He had mastered the last of the intermediate techniques. Now it was time to do the advanced ones. He was eager for that. The ability to make your opponent hit dummies…to pretend to be hit and throw a shot back at just the right moment…to be able to take the wings off a fly with a shuriken at two hundred yards… Of course, this wasn't without some melancholy thoughts as well. Once he had mastered these…he would no longer be a student. If Tsuyoshi acted like a normal sensei would, he would then dismiss him and tell him to strike out on his own. Then Chipp's life would once again be his own…and for the life of him he had no idea what to do with it. He had cleaned his spirit, but he didn't know what to do from there.

It took a few minutes, but Chipp arrived at the apartment complex. Old…grimy…dirty…boarded up…costing a mere 400 world dollars a month for rent… It was yet another exercise in humbleness. Yet Chipp loved the old place. It was the first place he had ever felt truly at home.

He went up the short staircase to the front door, ignored the obscene graffiti sprayed on it, and pushed the button to make it automatically slide open. Once there, he began to make his way toward the staircase. He and his master lived on the second floor. As he did so, he looked out around the hallway for Angie, the six year old who lived on the lower floor and often played around on the steps. He thought of giving her his fortune cookie. He made his own fate now.

However, she wasn't there. In fact, as he looked around a bit when hitting the stairs, he saw that no one was out. That was strange. Normally at this time of day, the landlord would be sweeping the floor and the kids would be playing on the steps. It wasn't night yet, but it was already dangerous to be out, so playing in here was the best bet. Yet he saw nothing. All the doors were shut…even Mrs. Higgins, who always kept her door open a crack to listen for gossip, and who usually said hi to him.

The second floor was little better. All the doors were closed here too. Yet that made no sense. The floor was weak here. He should have at least heard clamor from overhead from people walking around. Yet he heard nothing. The place was as quiet as a tomb. In fact…there was only one door open: his own.

While the front door had been of the sliding kind, the ones for each room were old fashion hinged and bolted ones. And this one was now cracked ajar. Chipp turned and began to make for it. Tsuyoshi didn't usually leave his door open… This was rather weird that he should when everyone else was closed…

He got a few steps closer…before he began to slow down.

He noticed that the door was different. It had always been battered and old, but now he noticed that there was a fresh dent across it…a big one that had splintered it. Something very hard had hit it from the outside. Behind it, in the crack, he could just see the chain hanging loosely from one screw. It had been broken off.

The food was dropped to the floor and forgotten. Chipp's eyes widened in fear. Immediately, he ran forward. He kept one arm stiff, but the other one balled into a fist. He was soon at the door, and he promptly broke it inward. It split off a moment later, not able to take the impact of two powerful blows. The youth looked inside in horror.

The place was a wreck. What few paintings Tsuyoshi had owned were torn and ripped down. The wallpaper was shredded, and a small table they had near the front door was thrown down and torn asunder. Up ahead, down the hallway, he just saw the wide open living room. It had nothing but mats, weapon racks, and uncovered windows. It had been the largest room in the apartment, and so it had been their training room. Now…he saw blood staining the walls and floors of it.

Chipp immediately ran in and rushed forward. His eyes darted to the sides as he did so, looking into his room and Tsuyoshi's as he came in. His room was untouched. Tsuyoshi's closet was open and his personal weapon rack was missing his sword. He continued to run forward until he saw the source of some of the blood. A thug…dirty and wielding a gun…lay dead on the ground, his throat cut open. He charged forward a bit more and broke into the main training room. There, lying around him in pools of blood, were three more dead goons. Each one had been dispatched quickly and powerfully. Their blood stained the walls, and their struggles had smashed up some racks and roughed up the mats.

Yet Chipp cared nothing for any of this…just for the body up ahead.

There lay Tsuyoshi…on his back in a pool of his own blood.

"Master!"

The youth wasted no time. He immediately ran forward, stepping on the dead bodies, and up to his mentor's side. He bent down next to him immediately, and quickly reached out and felt his face. It was still pink…but the flesh was cold. Eyes filling with desperation and fear, Chipp reached for his neck next.

No pulse.

The youth's eyes began to mist as he looked frantic. Hopeless as it was, he quickly began to implement the CPR training Tsuyoshi had taught him. He compressed the chest thirty times, and then methodically began to breathe into the man's mouth twice. The whole time, his body quivered with terror and desperation. He continued to do this after receiving no result the first time. He did so again after that…and again after that, each time growing more frantic and wild. Tears began to roll from his eyes, and he began to call out to the man…telling him to live and that he couldn't die. He pumped and pushed until he broke every rib in the man's chest. He breathed so hard that his lungs bulged. He kept thinking that he saw a twitch…that Tsuyoshi was coming out of it. That only made him try harder.

Fifteen minutes went by…before he finally slowed down in the midst of doing his latest chest compressions. As he did, he stared on at the cold face of the man…and accepted the truth. Slowly, he finished his compressions, all while still staring at the ninja. He had been too cold. The blood on the floors and walls was old. He had been lying here dead for at least ten minutes before he even came in. Since then…brain damage would have finished him off even if he had lived. It didn't matter how hard he tried or how much he wanted to now.

He was dead.

Chipp slowly sprawled his arms out over the dead man, his arms on either side. He looked down at his face, seeing how hard it looked even in death. His eyes had been shut, and his jaw was set. He was majestic even now. Swallowing…the youth bent his arms over him one more time, and this time pulled his body up and off of the ground. He pressed him against his breast, put his head down on top of his own, and began to cry again.

He couldn't believe it. It seemed impossible that he could actually be here…that this man could be lying dead in his arms. He had been unstoppable in life. No one could hold a candle to him. He was the deadliest person on Earth.

Tsuyoshi had given him his life back. He had been his first friend, his great teacher, and the only father he ever had. He saved him when everyone else thought he was human garbage. He had never known anyone kinder or nobler than him. He was all that Chipp had ever really had. And now…he was gone.

The youth wasn't sure how long he sobbed there…how long it felt as if his heart had been ripped from his chest and stomped on. Never before had he cared for another person so much. Until now, all of his misery had always been drowned in drugs and money. Yet now he felt true pain. There wasn't enough Toxic Candy on Earth to bring Tsuyoshi back from the dead. All in the money in the world meant nothing to him if he didn't have his mentor. He felt so vulnerable and alone…so miserable and broken… He hadn't cried this much for himself in his entire life. In a way…Tsuyoshi had taught him one final thing toward making him human again…how to love another more than yourself.

Yet even as he cried and sobbed…Chipp's eyes began to wander around the room. Tsuyoshi's hand still held his blade…the blade with which four people had been slain quite easily. Chipp looked to them…and recognized the type. He had dealings with people like this before. They were assassins for hire. Not that good…but effective in large numbers. But they hadn't been effective now. Tsuyoshi had cut each one of them down. Chipp didn't understand. Tsuyoshi could take anyone. How could any of these peons have managed to kill him? He didn't even see a wound on his chest…

Yet as Chipp held his master's body, he did feel something. His back was very damp in one spot, right over the heart area. When he reached up and felt, he noticed a wound there…a bullet wound. He had been shot in the back. But that made no sense. Chipp knew his master would never have given his back to an enemy. That was one of the first lessons he was taught. How could any of them possibly have gotten around them without dying?

Chipp looked up, as if somehow over and around him he would see the answer. As it turned out…he did.

The windows had no curtains. He and Tsuyoshi saved on electricity by letting natural light flood their homemade dojo. You could clearly see outside of them. But specifically…Chipp saw that one of the windows had been broken. The glass was shatterproof, and so he was easily able to deduce what had done it. A small bullet hole was in the center of one of the panes. Based on the angle, it had to have come from across the street on a rooftop. So that was how they had done it.

Tsuyoshi had made some enemies. Saving targets like Chipp had been noble, but not to who planned on killing them. Missing a hit meant that those who you tried to intimidate knew they could get away with some things. They wouldn't obey you unless they knew you could get them no matter what. Tsuyoshi had just been a wandering vigilante, but he had stopped quite a few hits in his time. As a result, both he and Chipp knew that several assassin syndicates had been contracted to terminate him. Yet he never worried. None of them ever tried to make a move against Tsuyoshi, likely because they knew that there was no way they could win. Tsuyoshi could fight a room full of assassins without breaking a sweat.

So this was how they got him. They couldn't beat him in a straight fight…so they had acted cowardly. They sent in some goons and let him go about killing them one by one. They had known the whole time that Tsuyoshi would kill them instantly. Likely…they did this on purpose. They sent them to their deaths, so that while he was busy killing them they could position a sniper across the street. He shot him in the back…because he knew he could never beat him in a straight fight.

Seeing this…seeing how a good man had died…and died at the hands of cowards…Chipp's sadness slowly began to fade. Anger began to replace it…rage. Tsuyoshi was worth a thousand of these gangsters…and had actually tried to make something out of this world. And they had killed him. That's what they did. Every time someone stood up to them…tried to break their control over this city…they simply had them killed. They thought so little of people. No doubt…they were probably gloating now over how they had killed the great Tsuyoshi, as if they had somehow bested him in skill when they had only won through their own treachery.

Tsuyoshi deserved better than this.

This city deserved better than this.

Chipp's tears dried up. His quivering lips locked into a sneer. Slowly, he placed his master back on the floor. But once he did so, he stopped being gentle. He turned rigid and hard. His reddish-brown eyes blazed, and both hands became fists. Sniffing one last time to dry up his sadness, Chipp stood up, turned, and coldly began to walk out of his apartment to pick up the trail before it grew faint.

"Good work."

In response to saying this, one of the six remaining assassins glared at the sniper, gritting his teeth in fury. "Good work?" He angrily snapped back. "You f'ing idiot! Four of my boys died going after that damn lunatic! All so we could keep him busy long enough for you to shoot him!"

The sniper didn't seem to be miffed much by the man, although he was yelling at him in a way that promised violence. He simply finished closing the case on his sniper rifle. It was balanced on a wooden crate at the moment, of which there were plenty inside the warehouse where he and his cohorts had picked to rendezvous after taking out the old man. It was dim and shady in here, being one of the older ones and likely for some foo-foo company that sold wine or something. They were the only ones who could afford wooden crates. Probably family owned.

At any rate, it was the warehouse which spooked him far more than that the old man he had just offed. He knew something about that guy. Years ago, he had been trying to go after a target. This was when he was just some enforcer, and hadn't trained in gunnery. Some stupid junkie that had tried to cut and run on the Mafia. He had roughed him up good, gave him twenty four hours to pay the money, then leaned back and waited for the next move. Sure enough, the twerp tried to jump town. He called a group on him and they dragged him into a warehouse like this one to finish him off. As luck would have it, the same old man he had popped tonight had broken in and killed every last assassin he sent. Hence he had a bit of a personal vendetta against this guy, and he was smart enough to not try to shoot him in the front.

"You're still getting paid the same, so now you've got to split it six ways instead of ten." The sniper answered as he pulled off his black ski-mask. "This guy was trouble. The notoriety you'll get for killing him will be more than worth what you lost."

"I ain't no crime kingpin!" The assassin bleated behind him. "I've got high quality employees! Not stupid disposable goons like these bigger gangs!"

The sniper merely snorted. "If they were so high quality, how come four of them are dead? Besides, I didn't hire you. Complain to whoever mailed us the checks if you want to bitch."

"You knew what this dipsh't could do to us! You didn't tell us a damn-"

The assassin cut himself off. The sniper smiled at that. Stupid loudmouth probably realized he wasn't getting anywhere yelling at him now. He should save his wind for whoever called the job. Too bad it seemed to take a second for this to sink in. Guy must have been dumber than he looked. Of course, complaining there probably wouldn't do any good either. He might even end up dead if the dude was high up enough and not wanting to deal with his bitching.

The sniper began to pull off his gloves as he turned around. "Now let's get out of here. Cops might still be in this neighborhood, bad as it is. And I'd rather-"

When he finished turning…the man froze.

All six of the remaining assassins were lying on the ground dead. A single new person stood in their midst. His eyes blazed in rage and his muscles were tight as iron. His face focused on the sniper with absolute hatred.

"…You killed Tsuyoshi."

The sniper narrowed his gaze for a moment in confusion. At first, he had been shocked on seeing the other assassins suddenly dead and on the ground. He hadn't heard a single noise, and not even a whisper of a struggle. Yet then he focused back on the youth standing in their midst. As he looked over him…he started to recognize things. The last time he saw this face, it was blubbering, bruised, bloody, and begging for life. Yet now…it was as hard as rock, and filled with murderous passion. But despite this, he recognized who it was.

"…You… You're that little junkie twerp that tried to bail town! You're the reason I lost those enforcers two years ago!"

The youth stared back…looking not very much like a junkie or a twerp at this point. Yet the sniper didn't wait for him to react. Sneering, he reached for his sidearm. He'd get both of these embarrassments in one night…

The youth moved so fast…that it wasn't until he saw his arm falling off of his severed shoulder and felt the warm blood splash in his face that he felt the pain.

Abruptly, the sniper's eyes widened. He turned back to the man right before he cried out in agony. A sound of splattering went out as blood poured from his severed shoulder and began to drop on the ground, drenching his severed limb that had landed a moment earlier. Somehow, in the blinding pain and anguish that now flooded his system, he saw what had happened. The old junkie had been wearing a coat and keeping one of his arms stiff until now. But he had dashed forward and bent his arm…and on doing so a long, razor-sharp blade mounted to his wrist sliced through his sleeve and was brought down on his shoulder.

The sniper continued to yell for a moment…but before he could even think of countering this somehow, the youth swung his blade out again. Soon after, his other arm joined the one already on the ground. The pain intensified as blood flew everywhere.

The sniper couldn't believe what he was seeing. Both of his arms were now on the ground. In the span of five seconds, he had lost half of his limbs. His mind was almost unable to grasp what had happened to him. Something in his brain didn't accept it. He was stunned in horror, frozen in his position…

Eventually, however, the junkie tired of this. As the sniper kept crying out, he lashed out with one foot and kicked his body squarely in the chest. Unable to balance himself with his arms, he was thrown back against the same crate he had his rifle on. It was useless now. He'd never fire a gun again. Once there, the youth advanced and kicked him again, bending him over it. Once that was done, he lunged forward, swung his blade around, and aimed the razor-sharp point at his throat. The sniper's pain was forgotten…or at least shut off mentally…as he stared at the weapon.

"Who sent you?" The youth snapped. "Talk! While you still have two legs!"

The sniper's old persona had melted away. The rough man he had once been, bold and intimidating, was gone. The junkie he once had made beg at his feet now had his life in his hands, and he suddenly felt very helpless and small. It was as if the world had been twisted around. He couldn't lie.

"I don't know!" He cried in fear. "They just sent me a check with a name on it!"

"If you're lying to me…"

"I swear it's the truth! I swear to God!"

"Swear to me!"

"Every organization in town wanted him out of the way! There's no way to tell which one put out the contract! He'd been cutting in on business too long!"

"Then I'll be cutting in on them! I'll tear this town apart until I find out who did it! And if I find out you lied to me I'll tear you apart with my bare hands!"

A fist lashed out…and the sniper's world turned to black.

Later, he'd discover the ambulance reached him just in time before he bled to death. His career was over as a hit man after that. He obtained good prostheses, and there was a chance that he could still fire off a gun. In fact, some organizations insisted that he take up sniping for them again.

But the man never could wield a gun again.

And every night for the rest of his life…he was haunted by the memory of all the people he had killed mercilessly over the years…with a white-haired ninja hovering over him and laughing all the while.

To be continued...

NEXT CHAPTER: The Good Doctor...