Please see Disclaimer in Chapter 1
Title: A Cowboy's Work Is Never Done: C2 (A Fistful of Demon)
Author: JaganshiKenshin
Genre: Action/Adventure, Humor
Rating: K+/PG-13 for anime-style fight scenes
Summary: With a costume so tight he can barely move, Hiei gives chase.
A/N: Blahblahblah COWBOY... but what Hiei wasn't telling you is that the Western motif is big in Japan: a growth industry that includes dude ranching, line dancing clubs, target shooting events, and even bull riding. If I have character sketches they will be up on my LiveJournal (link on homepage). As always, thanks for reading this, and please review!
A Cowboy's Work Is Never Done (C2: A Fistful of Demon)
by
Kenshin
I'm not a cowboy, Hiei thought. Never was, never will be.
So what am I doing lighting out after this varmint?
He hit the metal door, banged it open, thundered up the concrete steps to the ground level parking lot. Then he paused, seeking his target.
Youkai, demons, whatever you call them, are not the fallen angels of Biblical history. Hiei had met one of the non-fallen variety-the great, black-winged entity he called The Stranger. There could be no mistaking one of those mighty beings for a mere youkai.
Youkai are in fact creatures of flesh and blood. Hiei himself could be hurt, killed, hampered by tight clothing.
No, perhaps 'monster' would be a better descriptive term. Yet Holy Water does work against them.
Whether monster or demon or varmint, there he was. Just about thirty feet ahead, wearing a tall black hat and a loose trench coat, running for the park like his life depended on it, which likely it did. He was even now disappearing into the trees.
"Hey, you," Hiei shouted, "let's see your Green Card!"
The perp didn't slow down.
Hiei knew he had a rep among youkai as a psycho killer who would cut you up soon as look at you. In reality-though he had once veered close to that description-he was now careful, quiet, diligent. So on a hot September day, Hiei gave chase.
This bastard could be completely innocent. Not every demon's up to no good.
But then, why's he running?
Within a few steps, Hiei realized that 'hot' was the word for his pursuit only in the sense that he was shipping sweat.
He didn't flick so much as labor, dart so much as strain. The cowboy boots felt like implements of torture, and were in no way designed for walking, much less running.
Costume doesn't fit any more than my life. Somehow I got myself caught up in the role of protector. Not a part I'd have chosen, but trouble does seem to follow me.
A glance around assured him no one was nearby. Maybe everyone in northern California took their three-hour lunches indoors. Gathering himself, Hiei launched into the nearest tree, and attempted to flick from branch to branch, but his muscles wouldn't coil and release as usual. The stupid costume acted as a ward, as mummy bandages, preventing freedom of movement.
He tried again, failed, then labored forward on foot, peering about for signs of perp or gawkers or autograph hounds.
Hiei had fallen into show biz almost by accident, but soon his one-take abilities commanded the equivalent of eight hundred dollars for a single hour's work, and kept him without a single moment to spare.
And in contact with far too many demanding lunatics.
These weeks here in California had been planned as something of a paid vacation at a five-star resort. At the Kidd Estate, Shay-san would not have to clean house or shop for groceries; as for the twins, Cecilia and Michael could scrub off some of that energy only six-year-olds could muster.
Though the fleeing demon had exhibited a bargain-basement degree of power, it would be a mistake to dismiss him as harmless. Brute force and low cunning always added up to danger.
So much for a cakewalk.
Aiming for a low branch of another tree, Hiei had to struggle to make the jump. Leaves rustled in protest. He felt less like the natural athlete he was and more like a tortoise pretending to be a monkey. His left inseam popped as he made a second jump. So did a pearl button from the middle of his shirt.
Rhinestone Beer: Works as hard as you do.
Hiei spotted no sign of the outlaw. But he could still sense its youki, manifesting as an ache in his left temple.
Flinging himself into the branches of an oak, simultaneously popping his right outseam, Hiei at last caught a glimpse of the varmint scrabbling across a road that backed up to the park.
He strove to follow before the perp got out of sight.
Clothes should fit, he thought, scrambling from tree to tree. Not falling-off loose, not straitjacket-tight. And not make you look like a fugitive from the Chippendale dancers. Which is why tight clothes are a bad idea. It's also a bad idea to leave your katana in the car.
The constricting collar was cutting off Hiei's oxygen supply. Breathable-French-spandex my ass. Flying-Shadow my ass.
Breathing was always a good thing. Wedging a forefinger between his neck and the collar, Hiei tugged, scattering two more pearl buttons to the grass below, but at least the collar opened, allowed him to draw breath. He was sweating buckets.
The fleeing youkai ran only as fast as an average human. Ordinarily, Hiei would have been on him in an eyeblink, but none of this scenario was ordinary. The creep had already crossed the road, vaulted a chain-link fence, and scuttled across a parking lot. As Hiei watched, he ducked into a white frame structure.
The structure stood on a crown of land in the middle of a fenced-off area almost as large as the park, and was far enough away that he might have ducked in the front and out the back for all Hiei could tell.
As Hiei labored onward, he drew close enough to read the sign tacked to the fencing:
Martelli and Sons Development Corp: Black Rock Greens.
A golf course. Wonderful.
Though much of the land had recently been bulldozed, a number of tall specimen trees had been left standing to give the clubhouse that old-school look. The pea-gravel walkways were bordered in fist-sized hunks of black rock, hence the name.
Lush rolls of turf had been laid around the structure. Potted bushes stood on rolling carts near the foundation. Looked like the project was nearing completion.
Near the eastern border of the fence, a lone trailer served as a business office. The parking lot was otherwise empty.
Hiei scrambled down the tree and proceeded on foot. He barely made it across the road and over the chain-link fence before going aerial again.
Overhanging the building was a towering Monterey pine. He slogged toward the tree, hauled himself up the trunk, then settled among its bright-green needles, catching his breath.
The clubhouse looked like the home of a Cape Cod shipping tycoon, but that was California for you.
No sign of the perp emerging from the back of the three-story structure, which was big. And not many places in the surrounding area for him to hide. Must still be inside.
From his perch among resin-scented branches, Hiei thought the club's gray roof offered an inviting target.
The air was still-apart from his wheezing. He opened the button on his faux-spandex pants and drew a breath. Good thing they fit like skin; he could hardly corral a varmint with pants sliding down around his ankles.
Wait, why was he even thinking in those terms?
He was not a cowboy. He did not feel comfortable among horses. He could drive any car or motorcycle ever built, but horses were self-willed.
Shayla Kidd had spent some time on a genuine ranch. She had ridden actual horses and lived to tell the tale. Maybe she should be the one up here in the Dale Evans suit.
Of course not. What am I thinking?
He considered his options.
Most likely, this was just some harmless youkai without a Green Card who wanted to break into film as a romantic lead.
Right. And Genghis Khan was a good listener.
The clubhouse exterior was finished. A flagstone walkway, bordered by that same black rock, led to the front door.
Judging from the amount of raw material lying under tarps-studs, duct work, pipes, drywall, lath-the interior was still partly unfinished.
Maybe this bastard's just a low-level bug who couldn't stand up to a power drill. But if not, the workers inside are in for a problem even duct tape can't handle.
Turn back or go in. Now.
In. Same way as the varmint.
Gathering his mummy-wrapped muscles, Hiei leapt from his tree onto the roof, just catching the edge with his fingertips, splitting an underarm seam and his other inseam.
Better. He could move a bit now.
He hauled himself along the gutters hand over hand, then let himself drop to the grass. He straightened, listening. Off to his right came the sharp trill of a northern flicker, but no telltale sounds from within the building.
Red-brown pavers for the front steps. Heavy door of golden oak with a brushed nickel handle. Nice entryway. Hi, my name is Black Rock. I'll be your doom today.
Hiei tried the door. The handle turned. He slipped inside.
The interior was dim and cool compared to the blazing hot day. It smelled of paint, grout and wood. Sweat began to dry, chilling his skin; he wiped his face with the back of a hand.
They had drywalled the first floor. A wide entry hall, tiled in terra-cotta and still sawdust-specked, led to a big room ahead whose double-wide doors suggested a ballroom or restaurant. Curving oak stairway to the left.
In the sawdust, Hiei saw booted footprints that could have belonged to a dozen perfectly innocent construction workers. Instinct bet on the varmint.
The prints led upstairs.
His mouth dry, he tried to swallow. This set-up was all too reminiscent of the classic Western duel, with the hero walking blindly into a trap set by the villain.
The night before, on learning he was to play a cowboy, Hiei had familiarized himself with the breed, not only reading about cowboys, but subjecting himself to a number of old black and white Westerns until they ran together like a fever dream. In the process he got a fine earful of scorn on fake riding and faker shooting from Shayla Kidd, who could do both.
Contrasting Hollywood's portrayal with the true West somewhat paralleled how youkai at large knew him, as opposed to how his friends and family did: reputation versus reality.
Cowboys had an honor code. So did he. In some places, both codes intersected.
Cowboys never took unfair advantage, even of an enemy. But if someone threatened Hiei's family, all bets were off.
He had nothing in the way of weapons, but clenched his fists. Just those should be enough.
Maybe.
Clothes still slightly hampering his movements, Hiei stole up the stairs. He strained to sense the location of the unknown youkai with its unknown powers.
At the top of the stairs he paused. To the right and left, a long hallway stretched, dotted with openings to indicate entryways to many individual rooms. But though the doorways had been framed out, the doors themselves had yet to be hung, creating a sense of endless cubbyholes in gray drywall.
Lone gunman, striding down a dusty, deserted street lined with hidden foes.
Dammit, I'm not a cowboy!
Hiei took his first step into the hall. A board creaked underfoot. Might as well have announced himself through a bullhorn.
But there was an answering squeak, far to his left.
Hiei edged toward the sound. At the end of the hall he slipped through an open door frame into a square room.
At dead center of the room was a massive pillar wired for power outlets. Two tall windows faced the rear of the grounds. Another door frame on the right wall marked an easy exit.
The pang of youki struck Hiei's temple before the flick of movement caught his eye.
Trying to conceal himself behind the pillar was a bulky figure in a trench coat, not much taller than Hiei.
Hiei stalked forward like a panther.
The varmint ducked out from behind the beam, and Hiei came on.
The varmint's black hat, and a black bandana worn as a mask, hid his features from view. But he spoke in a husky, curiously androgynous voice, which could have belonged to either man or woman, and uttered a single word: "Imiko."
Then the youkai fled through the door frame into the adjoining room.
Imiko: Abominable child. That was what the Kourime elder had called him.
Female isolationists in a floating glacial world, the Kourime shunned males. But his mother, Hina, had disobeyed that decree, and Hiei was born. Hina's rebellion became the ice maiden society's excuse for wrapping Hiei in wards like a mummy and pitching him overboard.
The fall alone should have killed him.
Gripped in memories, Hiei froze, his tight clothes pulling at him. The floor seemed to drop from beneath his feet, and he was falling, falling.
Imiko.
No one knew that name. No one!
Unless-
Was this the Kourime elder herself, come to the human world to wreak her vengeance upon him?
-30-
(To be continued: What is Hiei up against?)