A/N: What a stupid chapter.
:Nobody's Culture Shock at Becoming Somebody:
-Tattooed Life-
Sakura was not a stranger to death, for sure. Years back, Sakura's mother had passed away sooner than anyone would have expected, and it was an event that changed her life. But the actual memory of the event was a tinted fuzz that Sakura could no longer attach any more feelings to, aside from a nostalgic melancholy.
In a way, while Sakura was not a stranger, she wasn't really familiar with death, either. When was the time she had ever keenly felt a sense of loss, from somebody she knew very personally. Death in the childhood was one thing, death that one meets at an age where one remembers was the other.
Shock was inevitable.
In a pavilion in a playground, Sakura had been sitting for several hours, her brain numb for the better part of the day. She had even missed out on her usual shift at her first job, simply because she had stopped thinking about it. So she sat, staring blankly, unnoticing of the afternoon chill, while Clow Reed's card remained clenched in her hand, which was stuffed in her coat pocket.
Clow was killed, like he himself had guessed he would be. He was dead somewhere, and Sakura didn't even know till it was too late, and she wasn't sure if she'd even see him as a body again. Her last memory of him would be as a web article on a news site.
But that wasn't the part that troubled her the most. In the back of her head, she realized, Clow had expected this to happen, and sooner or later, his other expectation of everybody in Tokyo coming after her might come true, too. It was a horrid surreal thought, that she was somehow thrust into all this something without even realizing the enormity of her situation.
She had images of shadowy faces, a whole shadowy mob within the crowds, unseen, following her since this morning.
Over what? An amateur artist's tarot card.
She couldn't understand any of it. It was all too unreal and ridiculous, and Sakura was very much convinced the whole thing was just a ridiculous farce. She was betting Clow was fine, even. After all, all she saw was the news article, not the man himself. It was probably some mistake.
Sakura sat in the pavilion, staring out at the entrance to the playground, waiting, hoping that Clow would arrive, and they could get back to their normal schedule.
Just a few more minutes. He'd be here before she even knew it, just you wait.
...
Please come, please come, please come, pleasecomepleasecomepleasecomepleasecome, oh god, don't be dead...
Closer in the heart of Tokyo, where the metropolis was dominated by company buildings and high rate hustle and bustle, was a set of offices used by the Hiiragizawa-kai syndicate as their headquarters for "public relations".It was a modest set of offices, a few floors up, the front entrance marked by a headboard logo at the front entrance that held their noticeable, but not blatant, family crest. (The symbol was that of a sun, partially framed by a crescent moon in an opposing color.)
While the Hiiragizawa "family" had existed in years previous, with an unexpected early retirement of the last head, the syndicate had decayed until it reached a point of quasi-suspended animation, existing only in a official sense.
A few years ago, the next in line Hiiragizawa patriarch returned from university in England, and reclaimed leadership of the group. With him, the Hiiragizawa-kai continued its modest existence in public, neither advertising nor hiding from the populace, for they liked to believe they were a valid pillar of society, albeit perhaps a dark one. Hiding in cellars and basements was the act of insecure, common thieves.
Of course, this was all Eriol's talk to Xiaolang. As far as he was concerned, despite what his friend (boss) said, working out of a refurbished office or working out of a secret lair behind a bar, like in bad spy fiction, didn't change he was still the one dumping very bloody garbage bags into the river, or beating a man's face into a pulp in a back alley to drive the point that he's a bit late on his payments...
Well, either him or his cousin.
Freshly dressed in a new set of blazer and shirt, Xiaolang exited the elevator, walked a short distance through the hall, and made his way into the working offices. It looked like any other, desks flush against one another, or against the wall, files and folders splashed all over the unused tables, computers lining some desks, phones strategically placed about.
All in all, it would have not been out of place, if it weren't for the sound of flesh and bone being pounded into a fine pulp coming from behind the door to the oyabun's private office.
Smack.
"What was that, huh! I don't think you sound nearly sorry enough!"
Smack. Smack.
"Did you really think we would overlook this! You should be thankful we're only doing this, 'cause you're too stupid to live!"
Xiaolang sighed. That was definitely the voice of his cousin. Crossing the room to the closed wood door, Xiaolang opened it to find the sight he sort of was expecting.
Blue-haired Hiiragizawa Eriol-oyabun, sitting behind his large desk, eyes closed placidly behind his glasses, wearing one of his usual expensive designer suits. Fingers steepled, he listened to the exchange at the foot of his desk like it were fine classical music being played on gramophone.
Lounging on a couch on the opposite end of the private office was Akizuki Nakuru, one of Eriol's two lieutenants. Leaning back, she had her hair brushed to one side of her neck, letting the brown locks spill over neck and shoulder, over her dress made out of wine red and black colors. Even with her relaxed position, she was watching the whole thing with much amusement.
There was another man Xiaolang didn't recognize. A fairly fat man, with a bit of a pudgy face to make sure the weight was distributed evenly across his body. He certainly wasn't dressed anything half as swank as any other occupant in the room. Whatever reason he was here, he was clearly trying to keep his stomach at the sight of the violence.
The victim dressed in expensive hipster clothing was lying on the ground, his hands tied behind his back, while his head was covered in a burlap sack, probably to keep the bloody mess from getting onto the floor.
Where this man was on the ground, Li Meilin was standing above him. It was hard to imagine someone like her was in the Hiiragizawa-kai. Her white denim jacket, short skirt and stockings made her look like a high school student during a weekend, but it was undeniably her sneaker firmly planted on the side of the fool's covered head, keeping him pinned where he was.
Eriol opened his eyes, and turned to the new presence, completely ignoring the fact that a "Ah, Xiaolang. So nice that you could make it."
"Hello, Hiiragizawa-oyabun." Xiaolang nodded with his head.
Eriol gestured to Meilin, who removed her foot from the beaten man's head, and pulled him up by the collar of his shirt so he was kneeling on his knees. Meilin pulled the sack up the man's head enough to expose what was left of the man's mouth. The hipster spat out a few bloody teeth, before whimpering pathetically. Eriol finally actually looked at him.
"Now, I'm sure we're both gentlemen. I know we've had a bit of trouble understanding each other, but I believe we've reached an accord. So, I believe you have something to say?"
"M...mpghelgh..."
"Hey, be courteous. Speak english." Meilin growled, acting.
"...sorry...?" Came the pleading whisper, barely able to talk with the state the man's mouth was in. Eriol decided he needed to twist the knife a little more.
"I'm sorry, you're going to have to speak up." Eriol spoke.
"S-sorry..."
"Sorry for what?"
"I-I'm... sorry for messing with your businesses..."
"I'm sure you feel sorry now, but please, you should rather be apologizing to Tamura-san. Think of all the trouble you and your friends put his restaurant through."
The bloody mouth was twisted in the direction of the fat man, Tamura, who grimaced a little, while listening to a blubbering apology, the beaten man swearing he'd "never do it again", and "he didn't know".
Eriol rubbed his hands, smiling guilely, "Well, then, it's nice to know we all have an agreement. Tamura-san, hopefully you won't have to be forced to sit through this display again, but remember, since you're under our protection, if you have any trouble, don't hesitate to call."
"Y-Yes, Hiiragizawa..." The fatty sweated a little.
"Very good. Well, I have some business to attend to with my associate," Eriol motioned to Xiaolang, "Meilin, I hate to continue being a bother, but could you dump the trash in a back alley? Akizuki, please escort Tamura-san outside."
The two women nodded. Meilin left first, dragging the limp, bloodied man across the ground, hand still wrapped around the back of his shirt.
"Hey, let's have lunch later!"
"Sure, Meilin." Xiaolang answered offhand, moving out of the way as she passed through with Eriol's trash.
"This way, Tamura-san. We'll be taking another elevator."
The fatty left, guided by Nakuru, who gave a quick, friendly wink to Xiaolang on her way out. He shrugged at that.
That left the two men.
"Who's the cow?" Xiaolang asked, shutting the door behind him, before moving to one of the couches.
"Funny you should say that. Tamura-san's first name is actually Inokichi. He comes off better as a pig, rather. He's the owner of the family restaurant on our west side area of operations."
"What was that about?"
"Well, you heard most of it already. Some amateurs thought they could start exacting their own "protection dues" from the establishments in our area. But they lacked the same finesse, so when they started getting overly violent, the owners complained to us."
"Do we know these punks?"
"It was Ryutodo's people again."
Xiaolang groaned loudly at the name.
"Ugh. Eriol, I keep telling you, you need to drop the hammer on those guys and get rid of them. He's too retarded to take a clue and quit, you know."
"I understand, Xiaolang. I wish I could, I really do. But there's some inter-family politics that makes it difficult..."
"Politics?" Xiaolang said with a raised eyebrow, clearly in doubt and clearly unfamiliar with the subject.
"The other families are still scrutinizing us since we're the new kids on the block, and especially because I'm young. Giving a great show of force on a comparatively small gang like Ryutodo's would only give the impression we're so weak we have to take him seriously. I hate to say it, but to keep the other families out of our place, we'll have to try and wait out Ryutodo until something or somebody else can deal with them for us."
"That's stupid," Xiaolang snorted, "If even we have to act like dealing with them is below our station, then what are the chances of anybody else doing that?"
"I don't know, but being able to stand with the other yakuza is the priority here. We just have to be patient a bit longer with that group. But that aside, we're here to deal with what happened earlier this morning."
"I already told you everything I know."
"Yes. Your little fight with that American..."
"Eriol, he was after that book, too. It wasn't some one off thing, either. He knew what he wanted, and he knew it was important enough to fight me over it, nearly to the death. What is it that's so important about it that someone else was also after it?"
Xiaolang was convinced oyabun knew something, but Eriol simply shrugged helplessly, "I only know as much as you do at this moment. The book's a piece of art that could be fetched for a high price. The Hiiragizawa-kai is always in need of more revenue. Perhaps your American friend was a crook who also had the same information and was willing to spend a little extra on firepower to get what he wants."
"Is a piece of art something worth killing over?"
"If its for money, then I can imagine."
"But even killing Clow Reed...?"
"...I don't know. But how in character do you think it would be for the American to kill Mr. Reed if he was being troublesome in handing it over, given what you've seen of him?"
"I don't know much about this man, but he did have an easy trigger finger. What are we going to do about it now, oyabun? Should we give up the book?"
"Actually, no. I'm sure whoever he was, he hasn't sold it yet. If we can find out more about him, we can get it back before it's too late. I already sent Tsukishiro over to the shop to find out what he can."
"Then why am I here?"
"Oh, to wait for the phone call."
"What."
"Hello, Mr. Colt. This is Geneva Bradley."
"And?"
"Mr. Lime said you wanted to be contacted first in the case of any new leads, since you want to spearhead this operation."
"He got something for me? Shoot."
"I've emailed a photo and address. Did you get it?"
"Checking... who's this?"
"Mr. Lime would like for you to extract the subject as soon as possible. It might be a lead to the missing portion of the objective."
"Ugh, I suppose you mean now-now. Masked Rider was about to come on."
"...Kamen Rider?"
"You got a fucking problem with what I watch?"
"Of course not, but there is going to be a car arriving in about half an hour with three men and some equipment. Use them as you see fit."
"Gah, fine. I'll call you back when I got it."
Xiaolang decided he would rather wait outside. He remembered there were reasons for why, while he was grateful to his friend for all the things he's done for him, it was also highly advisable not to socialize with him either.
Back on street level, with the grim and burnt cigarette stubs crushed underfoot, he loitered. If it was a waiting game from here on, the Hiiragizawa enforcer knew better ways to waste time, and the further he was from his boss-
"Heeeey, just the man I wanted to see...!"
The slippery voice sent a volt of rage down the back of his neck, and Xiaolang cursed his bad luck of running into him, of all times. With every ounce of his energy, he turned about slowly, though he didn't bother fixing any pleasant expression on his face.
"Ryutodo-san." Xiaolang noted the man's existence. Just looking at him was painful, the burly body, face encrusted with piercings and bleached blonde hair. He still wore gaudy suits that even Eriol or Nakuru wouldn't have been caught dead in. He at least had the decency to approach Xiaolang alone. Or maybe it was because he was too pathetic to even afford the flunkies.
"Please, man, please. It's Daigo. I think we know each other enough to no bother with that formality...!" Ryutodo Daigo smirked, sauntering up to the other man.
"Look, what is it that you want?" Xiaolang sighed heavily.
"Hey, I just wanted to talk. I heard about the trouble some of my boys started for you-"
Trouble you probably ordered yourself.
"-And I just wanted to say how sorry I am this whole thing started! Really! I taught those assholes of mine a few lessons in cordiality! I even made them cut off bits of their pinkie, just like how you guys do it!"
And there it was. Daigo freely admitted he wasn't even a loser yakuza, just a loser who was in love with the idea of being one.
"I'm thrilled to hear that." Xiaolang dryly replied. Daigo didn't seem to pick up on it, as he went on.
"I mean, really, I wish there was a better way to avoid this senseless fighting. You know the best way we could fix this, Xiaolang?"
You mean, aside from wiping every last one of you out?
"No, why don't you enlighten me, Ryutodo."
"Wouldn't it be best for everybody if you let me into the fold, man? I know Hiiragizawa could use a man like me, plus the manpower. You're one of Hiiragizawa-dono's close buddies right? Can't you put in a word for me? I'll make it worth both your time to let me in! Think of all the contacts I have!"
Xiaolang wasn't sure how much more pathetic this man could get, simpering and lying. His eyes looked to the side for a second, almost turning into a full revolution within their sockets, but he simply responded as plainly as he could.
"I would ask Hiiragizawa-oyabun, but I already know what he'd say, or rather do."
"What's that?"
"Laugh out loud."
Ryutodo's charming expression promptly fell into a deep scowl.
"Hey, fuck you, Xiaolang. Hiiragizawa needs someone like me."
"All he needs for you to do is go away. You're just glorifying yourself, but all your petty gang is, is just a collective pain in the ass for all of us."
"You'd like to think that, huh! Is that jealousy I smell off you, Xiaolang?"
"Excuse me?"
"You just don't like the fact that Hiiragizawa keeps me around because I'm useful!"
"Ryutodo, the only reason he hasn't wiped you out is because it'd make him look stupid in front of the other yakuza. That's all you are, an embarrassing stain that we try to hide under the rug, so piss off."
Ryutodo obviously was not used to being spoken like that very often, and his scowl turned into a wild explosion of rage, followed by posture of the rest of his body.
"Fuck you, you asshole!"
The commotion caused the street goers about them to turn in their direction, before starting to avert their gaze, while people made an effort to pass them by at a distance.
"What the hell do you know about being in the yakuza, you fucking chink piece of shit! You're not even Japanese!"
"Well, there is the whole thing about me actually being in one." Xiaolang glared back, his own rage beginning to bubble under his neck.
"Hah! What the hell does that mean to anyone!" Ryutodo sneered, "You're just a fucking chink, a handyman who works outside the group. I don't care what Hiiragizawa says to the others, if I were in, he wouldn't look at a fucking outsider like you twice. Hell, I bet the only reason you even get work is because of your whore cousin."
"Excuse me?"
"That's right! You're fucking cousin is hot is the only reason you're even in the Hiiragizawa-kai. I bet every night, your boss fucking finds her waiting on his bed, legs spread like the fucking-hglrruk!"
Xiaolang's hands found themselves around Ryutodo's collar, and balled themselves up in the fabric, cinching it tight around the street gang leader's neck. While he was still choking, Xiaolang swung him to the side, slamming him into a vending machine with a loud crunch. That caused all the bystanders to completely disperse away, for fear of getting caught up in a beatdown.
"Listen, Daigo," Xiaolang growled, "I don't care about what you say about me, but saying something like that behind Hiiragizawa-oyabun and my cousin's back is crossing lines you shouldn't be even thinking of. They're the only family I got left, and I won't for some two-bit piece of shit like you getting a word in like that. This is the last time I'll say it, as a member of the Hiiragizawa-kai. We don't want you, like you, or need you, except for you to stop messing with us. Eriol might too busy to deal with you, but I'm not! If we meet again, I'm sure there's going to be an accident...!"
Xiaolang slammed the man into the vending machine again for good measure, before letting Ryutodo crumple onto the ground, hacking and coughing. As he rubbed his neck, Daigo hoarsely shouted at Xiaolang's back as he marched off.
"Fuck you! I don't care what it takes! I'm gonna get in with Hiiragizawa, and when that happens, I'll kick you stupid chink ass out! You'll regret this, Xiaolang!"
Sakura's "second job" couldn't really be called that, even if she was being paid under the table. It was more than a job. Just being with Tomoyo gave her a confidante and friend, like no other. It seemed that in living in the big city as long as she did (or perhaps in spite of it), Tomoyo came to possess a worldly calmness that left her unable to be fazed by anything. Even if you were to tell her that the world was ending tomorrow, or that the new World War had arrived, all she would do was tilt her head, clasp her cheeks, give a polite gasp and say, "How terrible."
Some people would call it apathy, but at this point, having someone listen to Sakura without playing up the pity or the emotions was a godsend to her.
Daidouji Tomoyo lived in the upper half of an upscale high rise apartment, the type that just screamed the wealth of its occupants even from the outside. It was a sort of "present" from her mother when she decided to make it on her own.
Tomoyo's apartment was essentially one giant studio room, seemingly created to her own specifications. Aside from the bathroom that was located behind a door, one that was no less swank than the room outside, everything else, kitchen, tables, desks, chairs, were all stuffed and flush against the three walls of the flat, while the bed was on a raised platform that lined the back wall, which was really just a massive window that gave a beautiful panoramic view of Tokyo's skyline, which was rapidly approaching sunset.
As for the interior of the room, it was entirely dedicated to Tomoyo's dreams and fantasies.
That is to say, fashion design. The entire center of the room was a somewhat chaotic mess of self supporting clothes racks and mannequins that wore various prototypes of Tomoyo's wild imagination, all of this somehow organized on an internal logic that only their creator understood.
Perhaps Tomoyo wasn't apathetic. She simply just had her passion bottled up and used on the things she cared about.
One of them was Kinomoto Sakura, of course, her "muse". Since they met, once upon a time in a park, Sakura had served as Tomoyo's covert model, wearing her designs for study, and having designs made for her in mind.
Of course, Sakura got paid for her trouble, but it wasn't about the money. If Tomoyo just cared about having a human body to prance around in her clothes for her amusement, she would have just hired someone for it. Tomoyo needed Sakura to complete her designs.
It was a very odd friendship, for sure. Sometimes, Sakura thought to herself, she sure knows how to pick'em.
Tomoyo, regardless was someone she could trust. That's why she came to her.
Sakura sat on the floor, seated behind a low table that Tomoyo had set up closer to the bed when she arrived, needing to talk. She glumly looked down at The Hope that was flat atop the center of the table.
Just then, Tomoyo reappeared, wearing a plain dress, and carrying a tray with a steaming kettle and cups.
"Sorry for making you wait, Sakura-chan. I brought the tea."
"Thanks..."
"It's no problem!" Tomoyo smiled gently. As she put the tray down, she pushed the card aside, before picking it up to scrutinize it more carefully.
"This is the card Mr. Reed left with you?"
"Yes..."
"Hm..." Tomoyo flipped the card about a few more times, before shrugging, "It seems normal... what did you friend mean, saying it's so important...?"
"Tomoyo, what should I do? If Clow is right, then... people are going to chase me!"
"Sakura, why haven't you considered going to the police over this?"
"I don't know... I don't even know if they'd believe me. We kept our friendship pretty secret. Would the cops believe that someone like me was Clow's friend? Not only that, if I said I'm going to be chased by people I don't know, over a card that I saw Clow gave to me? They say that Clow died over a mugging..."
Tomoyo hummed, pouring tea, "You're right... it does sound unbelievable for most people..."
"Then what am I supposed to do? What if Clow's right, then...? People chasing after me, and I don't even know why..."
"You're not alone, though, Sakura."
Sakura stared at Tomoyo's pleasant smile.
"T-Tomoyo, I can't get you mixed up with this! This... it's my problem!" She stammered.
"Come, come. If it was your problem, then why bring it up with me? Did you think an artist would sit still while her muse tells me of her problems? How could I possibly continue my own work when dear Sakura-chan's given me artist's block, worrying about her?"
"This isn't something to joke about, Tomoyo..." Sakura almost growled, "My friend's dead."
"Well then, I suppose I shouldn't either. Sakura, the safest place to stay at right now is right here, at my place."
"How is it safe...?"
"Well, anybody in Tokyo should know my family name... at least because of my mother."
"I don't know."
"That's why you're so special and close to my heart, Sakura."
"Tomoyo..."
"Ah, sorry. I'm trying to say is, if your mystery people really are coming after you, they should at least know that barging into my home will actually be quite dangerous for them in the long run. That's why you should stay here for now, Sakura. Tomorrow, I can start using my name to ask around-"
"Tomoyo, I can't make you do all this for me...!"
"Really, Sakura, if we're being serious here, how much do you hope to uncover on your own?"
Sakura couldn't answer that.
"If your friend wasn't killed in a mugging, then we're in a murder mystery, and you'll certainly be in trouble then. The only way through this is to get to the bottom of it, and find out who killed Clow. Then we can definitely figure out what to do then. Understand?"
"You don't really mind me staying over for the night?"
"Of course not! You'll stay here until it's all over."
Sakura released a breath that made her realize how relieved she was, and she gave an exhausted, grateful smile, "Thank you, Tomoyo..."
"It's the least I can do for a friend, Sakura. But I'm certainly not going to stop there."
"Heh. Though, Tomoyo... I need to get my stuff from the Internet cafe I was staying at..."
"You can get that tomorrow. Right now, you need to sleep."
To those that knew it, it was only known as the Shop.
It was the wellspring of all information, from which only the courteous, polite and trustworthy customers were allowed to be scrutinized as to whether they were worthy of drinking of it or not. The Shop's owner was aptly called a "witch", for it seemed magical how there was nothing in Japan that she did not find out, and before anyone else.
For people who did not know, one of the biggest mysteries was where the Shop was. There had been many attempts in the past by weakling Yakuza and gangs, trying to make a name for themselves trying to find the fabled home of Japan's most famous underground informant and bend her to their will. Of course, this always ended with highly hilarious failure at their expense. For the most part, those who were not in the fold, and not stupid, decided the Shop was just some elaborate ploy, cooked up by someone in the past, for whatever conspiracy theory one likes.
It is very real, regardless. Just the only people who knew how to go there were the ones who already knew where it was.
It was not an elaborate underground base, not a fancy high rise apartment funded by the Shop's owner's money made in tattle-tailing, not an illegal underground train that berths in an abandoned Tokyo subway station, not in a military base, and certainly not hidden away on an island off the coast of Japan.
The Shop was simply a shop.
This was why, Tsukishiro Yukito, being a man who knew where the Shop was, and often did business on Hiiragizawa-oyabun's behalf in this matter, turned a corner in an obscure corner of Tokyo's neighborhood, and passed through the front doors of an obscure pawnshop with some name on a headboard that was simultaneously catchy yet empty.
Inside, Yukito pulled his coat off the almost mandatory Yakuza suit. Pacing past the glass encased displays of jewelry, clothing, and purse-wear, Eriol's 2nd lieutenant arrived at the counter. There, a girl several years younger sat, intently reading a tasteless gossip magazine. Large, fluffy, pigtails poured out of the sides of her head, while she wore a black apron over a black uniform.
"Hello, Kunogi-chan."
"Hello, Tsukishiro!" Kunogi Himawari smiled honestly and cheerfully, while closing her reading material shut, "How may I help you today?"
"Could I talk to your manager?"
"Ah... well, I'll see what I can do. One of us has to man the desk no matter what, you see."
"Aren't the others here?" Yukito asked, somewhat curious. Himawari shrugged.
"They are, but..."
A loud crash emanated past the curtains behind Kunogi's back, followed by sounds of a scuffle.
"Domeki, you asshole! I knew it! You were copying my homework, weren't you!"
"Hm..."
"Stop trying to ignore me and answer the question!"
"Even if I did, there wasn't much to copy."
"Y-You... bastard!"
Crash.
Himawari gestured to the noise behind her, giving a smug roll of her eyes.
Yukito shrugged, "That's not very convincing, coming from you, Kunogi."
"I suppose. I just wanted to share with someone how my day has been."
"I see... well, fight on, Kunogi, but I really have to see the manager." Yukito cheerfully resumed asking.
The girl turned around in her seat, craned her neck back towards the commotion in the back room, and called loudly.
"Watanukiiiii..."
The sound of battle stopped, and instantly, a skinny boy the same age as Himawari, dressed in the same uniform, slipped through the curtains, eyes positively glowing with joy behind those thick glasses of his.
"Yes, Himawariiii-chan?" Watanuki cooed.
"Mr. Tsukishiro wants to talk to the manager, but I have to man the desk. If you're free, could you take him to her?"
"Oh, I'm always free for anything you ask, Himawari!" Watanuki said, trying to blind the other with the glow of his awe, before stopping, when his expression stiffened, "But..."
"But?" Yukito asked.
"Well... I could take you to her, but she's been in a bad mood all day today. I don't know about you, but I've seen her when she gets nasty. We've already kicked out some other guys today, because she didn't want to do her job. You sure you want to see her?"
"I'm sure she wouldn't mind seeing me."
"Well... alright, it's your funeral." Watanuki shrugged, before turning to Himawari, "I'll see you later, Himawari-chan...!"
"Take care, Watanuki-san." The girl waved back with all the energy of a good friend.
Another boy's head stuck his way through the curtains, his unmoved gaze offsetting Himawari's cheer and Watanuki's passion, now turned into ire directed at the new face.
"Ah, Watanuki, when you're done showing Tsukishiro around, could you help me set back all the stuff you knocked over?"
"Shut up, Domeki! You're the one who knocked them over! I was just... stuck to you at the moment! Don't pin the mistake on me! Clean up your own mess! That'll teach you for copying my homework!"
"Kinda harsh, innit...?"
"Shut up!"
Yukito tried to move things along, "Um, Watanuki... if we could just..."
The heart of the Shop, where the real business of information vending took place, was actually on the second floor, where the owner and manager made her lair.
Yukito made his way up the narrow stairs, and waved his way into the musty, smoke filled room, Watanuki's voice calling behind him.
"Manager! Tsukishiro wants to see you. Just give a holler when you want me to drag his body out the back door!"
"Hmnngh..."
Yukito looked around. The lair was still pretty much as he last recalled it. The room had once been tastefully decorated in the frills and furniture that tried to convey an aura of Persia, with deep reds and warm colors, and the golds of mosaics and ivy-like wreathing.
Near all of it had been covered up, though. Though it had started with a simple shelf holding them all, over time, one thing led to another, and now all the floor and nearly every usable flat surface was now hosting piles upon piles of folders and portfolios. Most of it was stacked properly, but here and there, you could see a collapsed city of paper, spilling about. Flat against one wall was a wide screen television that had no support. Wires trailed from the back, while the whole thing was leaned back, and tilted on one corner, as the whole thing seemed to have just been tossed onto the stacks of paper one day.
The faint sounds of a news broadcast and talk show continued on, images flashing on the screen.
In front of Yukito was a large divan, back turned towards him, and faced towards the off-kilter television. From the top of it, smoke moved in trails upward to join their brethren in the cloud that stuck to the top of the ceiling. For an instant, Yukito saw the long, thin pipe rise over the top of of the lazy seat, before dipping down, whoever on the other side taking a quiet, deep breath from it.
"Ms. Ichihara...?" Yukito toyed with speaking, "Are you feeling well? I heard from Watanuki downstairs..."
"Don't bore me with gay banter, Tsukishiro. For your sake, I hope you're here for something worth my time." Svelte smoke breathed out and complained from the other side of the divan's back. A pipe rose from the top of the divan, and waved in a circle, illustrating the point, "Just an hour ago, there was some... man, asking me to check if the horse races were rigged by a rival group. Horse races! Why should I care about something like that. Nobody pays attention to the important things..."
"Like Clow Reed's death?"
"...Yes, something like that. That's an interesting case, and nobody will pay attention to it. Even the police assume it's just some mugging..."
"Well, if it will make you feel better, I came here because Hiiragizawa-oyabun wants to know more about it."
"Hm..."
The pipe lowered, and Ichihara Yuuko's (The only name she ever called herself by, though anyone with half a brain knew it was about as genuine as bullshit.) head rose to look at Yukito with her blood red eyes, set in pallid white skin that seem to have not seen the sun in years, through curtains of silky black hair that stretched downward past the back of her head in a river styx.
She regarded Yukito for several long seconds, before giving a derisive snort and falling back behind the divan, before her hand, holding a pipe waved him over.
"Come over in front of me. I don't want to raise my head to see you."
"A-Ah, very well." Yukito gave a helpless grin, before following her instructions, walking around the long couch and interposing himself between Yuuko and the pirated BS TBS.
Yuuko had one hand raised, while resting her head atop it, as she frowned heavily at Yukito. The pale arm jumped right out of the voluminous kimono she was wearing, which came in kaleidoscopic layers upon layers of diamond patterned reds, blacks, whites, and purples. He hoped his smile wouldn't inadvertently get him killed or something. Or humiliated across all of Tokyo's television networks.
Yuuko was having a hard time deciding whether or not to deal with him, kick him out, or humiliate him across all of Tokyo's television networks.
"Depending on how you phrase your question, I'm going to give you nothing for an answer, or I'll give you three, one true, one false, and one complimentary."
"A-Ah, thank you, Ms. Ichihara. I suppose all I can do is ask. We know that Clow Reed had an important package taken from him by some foreigner. We would like to know who would be behind this."
"Hm... what a dumb question. But I suppose it pays respect to the late Clow. Ah, no rest for the wicked, no peace for the dead. The good die young, evil lives long, and all's right in the world..."
"For better or for worse, I guess, Ms. Ichihara." Yukito unanswered.
Yuuko grumbled to herself as she pushed herself up to get off her velvet throne. Bare feet touched the rug, while she walked around her piles.
"Well, that's the easiest answer of all, considering all the kinds of circumstantial evidence I've collected in the past few hours... where was it..."
Yuuko pushed over one of her stacks, letting papers crash everywhere, while she pulled out a red, hardcover binder. Yukito fought the urge to inform Ichihara about the inherent threat in smoking in a room completely filled with paper and rugs.
"People don't simply rob one of the UN Party's imminent politicians for the money. People steal their suitcases. The Yakuza are all insular. They wouldn't hire foreigners to do their work, especially not after what the Washimine fiasco back in the 90s proved."
She turned to Yukito, handing the folder to him. "Therefore, the only one to hire foreigners are other foreigners, and there's only one group in Tokyo that's equipped enough to do such a thing. That's your genuine fact."
Yukito took a moment to open the binder, and found himself looking at a yearly shipping catalog of a company, its logo being a rudimentary coat of arms mock up.
"Queens Shipping? I've never heard of them."
"And the CEO of the company tries very hard to keep it that way." Yuuko answered, throwing herself heavily back into her seat, while taking another heavy breath from her pipe.
"So... they would be most likely the ones who have Mr. Reed's parcel?"
"Well, they have had something, since last night. Here's an interesting fact, rumor has it, whatever they have, they're going to sell it soon."
Yukito blinked. Yuuko's game of "three facts" was something familiar with most customers, being her favorite way to play vague. If he hadn't paid closer attention, he would have missed exactly what the truth was, given how nonchalantly she had stated it.
"You mean... these people, Queens Shipping, they have something, but they can't sell it? Something happened?"
Yuuko smirked, "How terrible. I told a lie that might have misled you. That's why I'm giving you a complimentary detail."
"What's that?"
"Earlier today, someone came in, asking about Clow, too. Did you know what that person asked?"
"What?"
"That person asked, "Did Alister Clow Reed have any friends he trusted?"."
Watari leaned over the counter. Night had fallen, and it was boring as hell. No one seemed to be coming in. Not even Sakura had passed by, though he wasn't sure where she went. She had almost religiously returned to CHAT! CHAT! CHAT! for to stay the nights since she first arrived, and her not appearing was unusual, and it worried the old man.
He would like to say he didn't care, but unusual things happening usually led to something bad. All Watari could do was loiter and read his newspaper. At the very least, Sakura hadn't cleaned out her locker behind his back, meaning she might still return.
So he waited.
The front doors slammed open and shut, and Watari turned his head for a second. All he got were four men descending the stairs, which mean they were certainly not related to Sakura in any way. He turned back to reading his paper.
"It's 20 dollars for admission, and you can stay as long as you like, though there's a charge for food and drink. If you're a group, I'm also offering group rates-"
Click.
That stopped Watari from talking any more. Looking up, he found the muzzle of a massive revolver pointed at his forehead. The weapon fit in the hand of a foreign man, who staring the old man down with his pitiless and pitless brown eyes, black hat sitting jaunt to one side of his head. The other three men moved past, one securing the doors, while another entered the cafe, apparently checking around.
Watari gulped, keeping what cool he could, when the reality that the floor behind him could turn pink at any moment.
"Sorry, jii-san, I ain't here for Counterstrike. I'm just waiting for someone."
"W-What... who... who do you want...?"
The man reached into one of his coat pockets, and pulled out a crumpled, printed image of Sakura, an image capture of her sitting, somewhere, unaware a photo had been taken of her. The photo was pushed into Watari's face.
"I was just asking around, and I heard she was staying here."
"S-She hasn't come back tonight." Watari stammered, struggling to explain. Colt snorted.
"Well, that sure sucks for you, huh. Because my friends and I are going to wait here till she does, got it?"
Colt pulled the hammer back on his revolver, and Watari felt a bead of sweat run down the back of his head, and down his neck.
Nobody's Culture Shock at Becoming Somebody: Tattooed Life
Next Feature:
Your Neck Clamped Between Ivory Fangs: Reservoir Dogs