Title: The Keeper's Watch (ch. 4)
Author: Amethyst Hunter
Rating: R (violence, adult content)
Warnings/Spoilers: See above.
Notes: I'm not quite sure where this one came from, but I like the idea so I'm going with it.
According to Wikipedia, per the language of roses, a purple rose is said to mean protection.
Also, the name Mathilda (sometimes spelled Matilda) is of Teutonic derivation, from words meaning "might, strength" and "battle" (alternatively, "strength in battle") – and as we all know, our darling Kuroudo has a fondness for such attributes..!
Yakuza in modern Japanese society are noted for their flashy wardrobe and greased hair, similar to 1950's American punks. One of their distinguishing marks is the lack of a complete pinky finger – when a lesser-ranked member displeases his boss in some way, the yakuza is given a knife and a piece of string (to stop the bleeding). The yakuza must then cut off the topmost joint of his pinky finger and present the stump to his boss as an apology for the offense; repeated offenses may result in the removal of whole fingers!
Disclaimer: GB and its loverly transporters sadly aren't mine.
Summary: Akabane has his hands full chasing after a battle prospect, and when a mysterious visitor appears on his doorstep, he's left to play sitter while trying to stay one step ahead of a deadly adversary.
--
Maguruma's truck was as solid and dependable as the man himself. The interior offered a surprisingly comfortable ride, even taking into account the rough routes that transport missions could sometimes bring. Of course, it helped that the truck's driver was among the best of the best. Gouzou Maguruma might be known as 'No-Brakes' but he hadn't gotten where he was by driving recklessly or making stupid mistakes. As late afternoon bled into early evening and civilization dissolved into wilderness, he and his passengers sped down the road towards Akabane's house, the adults having business foremost on their minds.
Mathilda – who had since grown accustomed to Maguruma, and now tolerated him with her usual indifference that she reserved for the world around her - had been safely buckled into the pull-down seat in the rear of the lorry, where Akabane usually rode when all of the Big Three – No-Brakes, Jackal, and Lady Poison – were contracted together. Her rose pot, comfortably surrounded by the various purchases Akabane had bought for her, was tucked into a corner where it would suffer no danger of tipping over. Mathilda herself sat as she always had since coming to stay with her self-proclaimed benefactor: silent, inscrutable, gaze fixed on the etherworld she kept communion with.
Akabane, who was sitting shotgun up front, would from time to time shift in his seat and flick a backwards gaze at her, checking to be sure that all was as it should be. He still wasn't certain what had motivated him to take in a stray; such generosity was alien to him. He preferred to keep himself to himself and allow others to take care of their own business. What they did was of no concern to him so long as it didn't interfere with his interests.
An old friend from past days would have said that he wasn't the only one who had been changed by their shared experience…
Akabane firmly brushed all reminders of Kanade Semimaru aside. No point in dwelling on things that couldn't be changed. He had been around too long now to have any room for guilt left. What he was doing for this girl was simple courtesy, nothing more. He was a practical, responsible adult, and even if he was a common murderer (although he would have argued that there was nothing common about his work) he was not inclined to attack someone who was incapable of fighting back.
Still, a nagging restlessness settled in his breast as he thought of the Wire Doll armies Makubex had once created to battle the IL team he'd been a part of. Himiko's reaction to his contributions during that fight continued to bother him, in ways he wasn't sure he wanted to dwell on. Akabane raised his head and caught Maguruma looking his way.
"It's probably just as well that Mathilda's staying with me. At least she'll receive proper attention. The police might mean well, but they're liable to forget to feed her or send her to sleep at a decent hour, given their caseload."
"Naturally, that makes you a sterling example of parental guidance," Maguruma said, not a trace of sarcasm or malice in his voice. He'd long ago accepted his sometime partner's eccentricities.
Nonetheless, Akabane frowned. "I'm not completely depraved," he said a shade sharper than he'd intended to. "I know what children require in order to thrive. That fool I spoke with acted as if I were about to literally throw the girl to wolves." He fell silent, gazing out the window as his own brooding expression shimmered in the glass with the truck's movement. "Do people really believe I'm monstrous enough to harm children?"
"Well, no one's ever seen Doctor Jackal around kids. You can't blame them for making the assumption."
"I suppose. I admit that particular pursuits of mine aren't popular with the mainstream." Akabane paused. "What do you think?"
Maguruma raised a brow. "You really want to know?"
"I wouldn't have asked you otherwise."
Maguruma's eyes flickered on the road for a few minutes. Then he looked back to Mathilda, turning partially around in his seat when they were stopped at a sign. He settled back into his original position and gave Akabane a neutral look as he shifted into gear again. "I think you'll do what you feel you have to do. No more, and no less."
Akabane's lips thinned. "That's a perfect sidestep of my question, Maguruma."
The big man shrugged. "I get paid to drive, not to philosophize."
"Coward," Akabane needled. "Do you think that if you say the wrong thing, I'll throw a tantrum and carve you up? I assure you, I have much thicker skin than that."
Maguruma calmly refused the bait. "We both know it doesn't matter what I say in the end. You'll do what you please. That's the way it's always been and that's the way it'll always be. No point in obsessing over that. One might as well wish for the power to control the weather."
"Comparing me to typhoons, now?"
"Well, you did name one of your combat moves 'Bloody Hurricane'…"
In spite of himself Akabane laughed at that, and Maguruma did too.
In the back, Mathilda expressed nothing, save for her silent blankness.
"You are correct," Akabane told his partner. "I will do what I want regardless of anyone's opinion, and what pleases me at present is to fulfill the obligation that I have accepted of my own accord. Neither you nor Mathilda need worry on that account."
"So long as you know what you're dealing with," Maguruma replied. "There are some things kids just don't understand."
"There are some things they shouldn't," Akabane answered softly, his mind taking him back to a place where the sky ran black with smoke, and the fields red with blood.
--
Dinner was an uncomplicated affair. Akabane was no four-star chef but he could cook enjoyable meals (partly thanks to Maguruma's wife, Suzume, who had taught him the secrets of spices), and the trio partook of stir-fried vegetables served over rice. Maguruma attempted to engage Mathilda in conversation, but she was content to ignore him, or so it seemed, as she ate her food steadily in unhurried bites. Undaunted, Maguruma kept talking at Akabane's encouragement, the latter having theorized that she was more observant than she appeared to be, and including her in their discussions was only the polite thing to do.
When dinner was done and the dishes cleared away and washed, Akabane took Mathilda into the spare bedroom to prepare her for an early bedtime, while Maguruma ran one last check over his truck to be sure that it was ready to go for the transport job. Akabane set Mathilda to washing her face, making use of the new toiletries he'd bought her, and went to fetch a small glass of milk.
He returned and found her standing quietly where he'd left her, skin scrubbed clean with the washcloth. "All done?" he asked, smiling, and knelt to give her the glass. "Drink this for me, please."
She slowly took the glass from him in both hands and obediently lifted it to her lips, sipping the contents until they were gone. She was left with a little 'mustache' on her upper lip, and Akabane gently cleaned this away with the damp cloth. He took the glass and set it on the sink counter. "Good girl. Do you need to use the lavatory at all?"
Mathilda didn't respond at first; then, a slight shake of her head: no.
"All right." Akabane paused, noting the tiny frown that had come over her cherubic face. He had the distinct impression that she was not pleased to realize that he would be going out. A part of him chastised himself for thinking such sentimental things; surely the child was not growing attached to him…
He remembered the way she'd stared after him in the department stores, checking to see whether he was still around. It was, he mused, not entirely impossible to imagine such, and as Maguruma had pointed out, in the absence of any real guardians, he was the next best thing…even if his credentials weren't exactly paternal material.
Akabane sighed. He knelt to be at eye level with her and took her little shoulders in his hands. "Mathilda-chan…I have to go to work now. But don't worry. I'll be back before you know it," he added reassuringly as he saw her eyes focus briefly, deliberately, on him, and again he had the curious notion that she was seeing him and not just shadows.
Impulsively, he reached up and stroked her cheek, smoothing the bangs away from her forehead. "I'm going to tuck you into bed, and I want you to be a good girl for me and go to sleep. When you wake up I promise I'll be back. All right?"
Mathilda's frown deepened for a second, and then eased into placid nothingness. Akabane took this to mean that she would comply, however disappointing she apparently found his leave-taking. Giving her another smile, he rose and escorted her to the spare bedroom, now her temporary lodging.
She crawled under the covers with his help, and he drew them around her for comfort. Seshat, who had followed Akabane into the room, surprised them both by jumping onto the bed by Mathilda's feet and assuming a sentry pose.
Akabane nodded his approval. "Watch over her," he told the feline, and as if to indicate agreement with this assignment Seshat blinked once, her tail curling around her paws as she settled herself.
"Do you like cats, Mathilda-chan? Very pleasant companions to have around, I must say. Seshat is friendly, once you get to know each other." Akabane took Mathilda's hand and, after offering it to the cat for a cursory sniff, lightly smoothed her palm over Seshat's side, letting the girl feel the soft fur. Seshat responded by rubbing her head against Mathilda's hand, uttering a muted purr to convey her pleasure with the attention.
Mathilda seemed to like that. She stretched her little fingers out towards the cat again, and was rewarded with an inquisitive tickle of whiskers. She began to pet Seshat, gently touching her the way that Akabane had shown how.
Akabane looked on with amusement at their interaction. If anyone could get the child to emerge from her cocoon, it would be Seshat. Animals were, perhaps, natural healers, renowned for their therapeutic talents.
Mathilda yawned then, and at his coaxing burrowed into the pillow. He noted the way that her eyelids drooped and figured the medicine must be starting to take effect. "Close your eyes, and dream pleasant dreams, and when you wake up I'll be home again," he told her kindly as he turned out the light. "Good night, Mathilda-chan."
He met Maguruma midway in the front hall as he was donning his trademark long black coat and hat.
"She's ready to go whenever you are."
"Good. All I need to do is lock up and we can leave."
"What about the girl?" Maguruma asked.
Akabane adjusted his hat. "Taken care of. She'll sleep through the night until I return."
Maguruma frowned slightly. "Is that safe?"
"As long as I don't miscalculate the dosage," Akabane replied evenly, an arching eyebrow daring him to comment further.
Maguruma didn't. He knew better than to press his comrade on testy subjects.
Knowing of the other's fondness for children, Akabane decided to take pity on him as they left the house. Pocketing his keys, he said, "Believe me, it was a last resort. I tried to find an appropriate sitter while we were out, but everyone I know has other commitments. We can't take her with and we can't let her have the run of my house unsupervised, so this was the best I could do. In any case, she's safer here than she would be if we were staying at my apartment in the city."
"That's true," Maguruma agreed as they climbed inside and settled themselves. He started the truck – the trailer part of it was not necessary on this trip, so he'd left it unhitched at home. "We can count on one hand the number of people who know about your place. Besides me, that is."
"And," Akabane continued, warming to the subject now that he knew he could count on the other man's reliability, "she'll be even safer with you, if I leave her in your care tomorrow when I have to go visit Janus…"
"She's only been with you one day and already you're hitting me up for babysitting duty?" Maguruma was amused.
"She's quite easy to care for," Akabane told him. "She has excellent manners and does as she's told, so I can't imagine she'd give you any problems. She might even speak to you, or to your children, if you let her play with them."
"I'll talk to Suzume," Maguruma said. "I don't think it'll be a problem, though. What's Janus want?"
Janus was the contact who had been feeding Akabane the information on the mysterious serial killer of transporters called the Middleman. She also occasionally recruited Doctor Jackal for jobs. Anyone who was anyone of importance in the underworld knew Janus, or at least was familiar with her reputation, but she was, like Akabane, choosy about the clients she did business with. Favored agents received first crack at choice jobs, and Doctor Jackal's name was number one on her list.
"What she always wants," Akabane shrugged. "My time. I had planned to keep our appointment today, but I called her to cancel on account of Mathilda and this job we're taking. She didn't sound terribly disappointed."
"I imagine she's a pro at concealing it, though," Maguruma said. "She pays well, but the money's not worth what it would probably cost if somebody crossed her the wrong way. At least that's the impression I got when she brought me in on a few jobs you and I did for her. Remember that weekend in Nagasaki over the summer? I'm not so old to be getting gray yet, but I swear, that one added more than a couple of white hairs!"
"We've spent several weekends in Nagasaki; one more makes little difference to me. Still, I can't say as I know Janus that well, but I'm inclined to agree with your assessment," Akabane answered. "But I suppose in her profession she has to be ruthless. She deals with quite a few rough types, I'm told."
"What's her business again?"
"Commodities and shipping, I think," Akabane said. "She's never said exactly, and I've never thought to ask."
"More like you were more interested in the buckets of blood she was promising you every time she rang your number," Maguruma chuckled.
"And your point is?" Akabane chuckled in return.
"Everybody's priorities are different," Maguruma said.
"True, that," Akabane agreed.
It was dark by the time they reached the pickup point, a garish club in the Ginza entertainment district that looked as though it had seen better days. Shiny suits and pomaded hairstyles rippled along with ordinary citizens in never-ending colors as yakuza prowled the nearby streets, marking their territories with belligerent mannerisms of typical masculinity. Though this wasn't a section known for extreme violence, it was still not a place to wander carelessly into. The gangsters that controlled their empires here were only slightly less forgiving of the locals than lost tourists.
Doctor Jackal's status among the agents of the underworld granted both Akabane and Maguruma a peculiar immunity, and when Akabane exited the truck to go collect the cargo he found that the throngs parted for him quite willingly, as though he were the instrument commanding the Biblical spread of the Red Sea, and he had no trouble entering the club to locate their client.
Inside he was greeted by a chaotic assault of noise and scent. The pachinko parlours upstairs were doing big business, and the crowds constantly shifted from there to the bar and the stage with the dancing girls and back again. He hated doing business inside such places, where his senses were forced to withstand the barrage for courtesy's sake. Akabane had perfected a mental shield to cope with it, however, and he allowed the vulgar displays to wash over his inner armor like water off a duck's back. He flicked his gaze in slow lengths across the crowds, dismissing the club staff – which consisted of scantily clad females and bulky bouncers – and its patrons – half of whom were yakuza, easily identifiable by their outrageous styles and occasionally missing pinky fingers - and looking for someone who would recognize his presence for what it was.
At length, a man began to weave his way through the club towards Akabane. Short and stocky, with a ponytail that looked like it was down a few quarts of grease, he rubbed his stubble-dotted chin with apparent anxiousness. He caught Akabane's eye, and by mutual agreement the two men headed for a back room near the bar.
Inside this room, the man was first to speak. "Jackal-sama. I'm so glad you could make it." By his roughened voice, Akabane recognized him as the same man who'd called him earlier today. "It should be an easy trip for you, with your success rate."
"I dislike easy," Akabane said coolly. "I'm rather hoping that there will be some challenge to it. I do so enjoy a stimulating experience, you see."
"There will be, there will be," the man gushed, remembering why he'd chosen this particular agent. "I just heard that my rival has his own couriers on their way here now. You have perfect timing."
"The cargo?" Akabane prompted, wanting to be out of this odious place as soon as possible. Coming home with the stench of stale cigarettes embedded in his clothing was the last thing he felt like doing. He couldn't care less about the client's personal worries.
"Ah, yes." The man went to a small cabinet file at the other side of the room. While he rummaged through its contents, Akabane idly watched the people through the double-sided mirror installed by the door.
A young yakuza was trying to win the attentions of one of the dancers; he posed for her benefit but she turned away from him when another man stepped in and shoved him aside. For a second it appeared as if a fight was imminent, but the first yakuza backed down when his rival produced a knife and brandished it meaningfully. Thus defeated, the first man slunk into the shadows where he could nurse his sorrows over a fresh mug of alcohol, and the rival and his girlfriend flounced off in triumph.
"Here you are." The man returned carrying a thin manila envelope. This he placed inside a briefcase, which had a lock on it, and he latched it securely before handing the case to Akabane. "This is to reach Iken-san before dawn. I truly appreciate your service, Jackal-sama."
Akabane smiled and cleared his throat delicately, a reminder to one who ought not to have to be reminded of a crucial component of such a transaction.
The man bowed, flashing a trembling smile as he remembered his cue. He opened a laptop that was sitting on the desk. "Where would you like your fee sent?"
Akabane detailed the pertinent specifics of an account, and the man obligingly carried out the transfer of funds. The money was moved in minutes, and at last Akabane was free to escape this bastion of depravity.
He did so with brisk but restrained grace – for one thing, it would have been rude to openly show his irritation. More importantly, one did not offer any hint of weakness in the company of one's potential enemies. Running indicated fear, and fear was a weakness he could not afford. Not when one was the infamous Doctor Jackal, himself feared across the lands.
"A most wretched place," Akabane complained to Maguruma when he rejoined the driver inside the truck. "I imagine if you were the smoking type, you could get high from the fumes alone without ever needing to actually light one of those horrid things!"
"Roll down the window if you want," Maguruma said, taking it in stride. "I can put the heat on my side – oh boy. Company," he said in a lower voice as movement in one of the mirrors drew his attention.
Akabane had already spotted the rival couriers slinking their way around the back of the vehicle. Four, possibly five men, likely all armed with blunt weapons. An exercise, to be sure, but hardly a worthwhile effort. Even so, appearances could be deceiving, and Akabane considered himself an optimist in that regard. Maybe he would get lucky and one of these ruffians would offer him a tempting battle.
"When I clear the truck, take off. Round the block and be prepared to hit the gas as soon as I've got footing," he told Maguruma, who nodded and kept his hand on the gearshift, one foot ready to tromp the pedal.
Akabane flung open the door and leapt from the top step as neatly as any cat. He noted with some disappointment the reactions his sudden appearance garnered; obviously his hopes weren't to be met this evening. Any cursory greetings were preempted by the roar of Maguruma's truck's engine, as the vehicle lurched into drive and growled its way clear of the space.
Two of the thugs started to give chase before realizing that they were no match for several tons of steel boring down the road; sadly, they were also no match for the man who had stayed behind. They fell, quiet like autumn leaves in their passing from the world, and Akabane turned his smile to the remaining three.
One of them he recognized as the gangster who'd been romancing the dancer inside the club. Akabane lowered his knives in invitation. "A word of advice, if I may. Cowardice is not appealing to women."
The young man's eyes hardened, the words having hit home. He pulled out a spiked mallet and swung it at Akabane's head – or where he thought Akabane's head would be, because the other had moved well ahead of time to avoid what might have been a fatal blow. Three swipes of the scalpel – one horizontal, one vertical, and one diagonal, all combined into a single flowing stroke – and the yakuza proved to be a failure in both love and war.
"Such a waste," Akabane sighed aloud. One of the many reasons he disdained emotion was the liability it presented in a fight. Anger not harnessed and corralled led to careless mistakes, the proof of which was ample in the scarlet letter's outline seeping onto the ground. The only people he'd ever known who were the exceptions to this rule were the Get Backers, and their puzzle was as intriguing as it was maddening.
Two gang members were left, and by mutual unspoken agreement they decided it was better to cut their losses and run. Unfortunately for them, Akabane believed it was better to just plain cut, and he did, the man nearest him managing to make it an entire two feet ahead before blood erupted from his savaged torso in a brilliant spray.
The last man finally accepted that he would have to fight his way to freedom if he wanted to see the coming dawn. He stopped, spun and hurled a handful of shurikens at his opponent, then barreled immediately after them for a surprise attack.
Akabane dodged the deadly stars with nary a rip in his clothing and stepped forward to catch his enemy off guard. The gangster halted just out of immediate reach; he drew an oddly-curved blade and glared at Akabane, making a motion with his hand: come on if you're going to.
This was more like it.
This was what he enjoyed most.
And what one enjoyed, one tended to be rather good at…
"How kind of you to accommodate me at last," Akabane told him, raising four shining points in answer. "A knife-user? I should like to see how your skill fares against mine."
They circled each other cautiously, each gauging the other's stance and measuring his chances of success. Akabane was already fairly certain he would dispatch this one with minimal effort, but first he wanted to see if the man's prowess was anything noteworthy. In his experience, most knife-fighters were poorly acquainted with their chosen weapon and handled it with little respect, or worse, sheer incompetence.
The knife is a close-range weapon: to use it, one must be willing to go face to face – quite literally, in some instances – with one's opponent. More than that, one must be willing to deal a strike sufficient enough for one's intent; usually, that intent is fatal, and for such to occur it is necessary to withstand the rush of heat from escaping blood, even organs – the loss of life itself. Any amateur can hack and slash with impunity. It takes a professional to orchestrate his wounds to a calculated effect and remove the emotional – the sights, the sounds, even the smells – to a place where they are merely byproducts of the finished artistry. Such is the work of a surgeon.
Such is the expertise of Doctor Jackal.
The gangster scored points for not making the first move straight away. He waited for his prey to come to him, as evidenced by the come-hither gesture he'd given Akabane. Akabane, however, didn't want the game to end too quickly, as he knew it would if he took up the offered gauntlet. Instead, he withdrew his scalpels and turned and sprinted down a nearby alley. A little rabbit hunt could be quite stimulating in its own right.
Footsteps behind him let him know that the other was taking the bait, and Akabane slowed his pace a little so as not to lose him too soon. A grotto rife with shadows was the perfect spot to test their mettle, and he headed for the semi-enclosure knowing that his 'hunter' would follow.
His heart was beating faster. His mind was on hyper-focus. He felt like he was walking on a thin beam stretched above an endless abyss. One move, be it right or wrong, could decide the entire game for or against him.
He felt like he was having fun.
The gangster didn't disappoint. He entered the trap cautiously, suspecting an ambush, and seemed surprised when nothing leapt at him immediately. He turned in all directions, straining to make out any movement that would indicate prey, and was quite startled when he stepped backwards and felt the pinprick of a knifepoint digging into the skin on the back of his neck.
"Alone at last. Now we can get down to business," Akabane pronounced with satisfaction.
The man whirled, cursing under his breath. Two blades hissed at Akabane's midsection, but he had already anticipated this sort of an attack. He parried the blows with his own knives and flicked a pair of shallow cuts across the sides of the other's exposed forearms.
"Sloppy. I hope that's not all you've got."
The man ignored the blood streaming down his arms in thin lines and bared his teeth at Akabane. "You bastard!"
"Sticks and stones," Akabane returned calmly, raising his scalpels again. "Shall we?"
This time his opponent chose to draw more shurikens. At closer range, Akabane had a more difficult time evading them, and one actually whizzed by the side of his neck near enough to scratch – but not break – the skin. He exhaled a pent-up breath, withholding the little quiver of tension that was beginning to coil pleasantly in his belly.
"Much better."
They went toe to toe with their blades again in a furious whirl of bodies. By now the gangster had realized that he was outclassed, and was seeking an opening through which to take down his enemy in a single strike. Akabane tempted him repeatedly but was careful not to allow that chance to manifest completely; he may have been a glutton for danger but he was no fool. Fools were weak, made inexcusable mistakes. Fools ended up dead. Doctor Jackal had not gotten where he was today by being so careless.
Vaguely he was aware of the idle rumble of Maguruma's truck somewhere in the vicinity. Akabane paid the noise little heed. Gouzou would wait for him whether it took thirty seconds or thirty minutes. And dawn was well ahead by several hours…the cargo didn't have to reach its intended recipient until then.
The thug was growing impatient from being strung along. He lashed out, his curved blade from earlier ripping a gash in the upper left sleeve of Akabane's coat.
That annoyed him. Akabane had long ago accepted the fact that his wardrobe was prone to suffering heavy casualties in his line of work, but that didn't mean that he also enjoyed having to repair or replace his clothing. The coat was a favorite and its style hard to come by; one of the reasons he kept the number of a highly skilled tailor in his cell log.
It was time to get serious. His opponent was letting his hostilities get the better of him and unless he managed to reign in that turbulence the fight would only degenerate into mindless violence. "It's nothing personal, I assure you," he told the man as he pulled all eight scalpels in his hands to the surface and swooped in, "but I do have a schedule to keep, and unfortunately you don't seem to want to participate in my little experiment. Pity. I would have liked to have seen the limits of your talent."
"You want talent, you psychotic asshole?" the other snarled. "Try this on for size!"
He sheathed the blade he'd been using and reached behind his back with both hands. Next thing Akabane knew he was fending off an advance of spinning blades arcing in waves towards him. He paused in his own attack to study the offensive, recognizing the distinct sickle-shape of a modified scimitar, and noting with appreciation the way the man's fingers flipped and spun the handles of his weapons to make the steel's lethal beauty shine as it ought. This was most welcome indeed.
He let the other back him into a corner, thinking that at last they could cast aside all pretenses and fully engage in the thrill. As Akabane lifted a bristling hand to begin the defense, the gangster suddenly pulled back his daggers, spun on his heels and raced for the alley's exit without a backwards glance.
It hadn't been a challenge, after all – merely a diversion.
Akabane felt insulted. All that flashy performance and nothing to show for it? Truly a disappointing evening. It looked like there was no help for it now. He extended a lone scalpel and chased the other down.
For a split-second the impulse fluttered over his mind; he could permit this one indulgence, let the other get away unscathed – to cut down this sapling might be too much of an imposition. The man had shown considerable skill, more so than the usual hooligans he encountered, and if allowed to further his training might develop into an impressive fighter in good time. And if fate were feeling particularly kind, she would grant the crossing of their paths once more down future roads…
Akabane dismissed the thought almost as quickly as it entered his head. Quarter was a luxury he could ill afford. The spared man would boast of his escape from the dreaded Jackal, and the underworld would set itself ablaze with wildfire rumors that he'd gone soft and was therefore an easy mark from that moment on. The strong always took down the weak; that was the way of nature and Akabane would easily admit to being a creature of habit. This was his calling, no less.
The would-be courier was fast, but no match for the doctor in peak form. A heartbeat of a J-slash later, Akabane's uncooperative opponent tripped and tumbled across the ground in a splash of color. He landed sprawled on one side, arms and legs akimbo in what surely must be an uncomfortable position, and lay gasping and twitching.
Akabane went to have a look at his handiwork and discovered that the scalpel had only brushed the heart instead of normally piercing it. He frowned. Perhaps his trajectory had been a bit off there. He knelt by the man's side, careful not to get any bloodstains on his clothes if he could help it, and gently adjusted the dying body's limbs into a more dignified repose.
"That was uncalled for," he said quietly. "Running away is for cowards and rodents, not grown men. You displayed admirable bravery back there; why you chose not to follow through on it is a mystery that, sadly, will pass from this world along with you. And here if you'd at least made an attempt to accommodate me we both might have learned something important from our chance encounter."
"Go…to…hell, Jac – " The gangster couldn't finish before gagging on a rising current of blood.
Akabane waited for it to stop dribbling down his chin before speaking again, in a kinder tone than the last, for the other's words were born solely of mortal fear. "I assure you, I have been there and back again, and no doubt I will someday arrive at those same gates for one last eternal dance." He paused. It was taking longer than usual for this one to shuffle off his physical coils. "I do thank you, however, for the brief pleasure you brought me tonight. In gratitude, I offer you this option: you may choose to continue as you are until the spasms cease naturally, or I can end your suffering quickly. The choice is yours."
The man's eyes darted wildly from Akabane to some unseen specter off to the side. He knew now, what was coming, that there was no avoiding it. He gargled on another rush of blood and began to shiver uncontrollably in the final stretches. "Please," he rasped on a fading whisper.
Akabane nodded. "Very well. Tilt your head back for me if you would, please."
The other blinked. Obligingly, he struggled to raise his head, turning his neck so that the vulnerable area was fully exposed. Akabane took careful hold of his head in one hand, ascertaining that the angle was correct, and then he placed his other hand by the back of the skull near the ear. He shoved a scalpel directly through the flesh underneath the bone, deep into the meat of the brain.
The man inhaled sharply, his body going rigid as he held the breath – and then the muscles relaxed and the air streamed out in a slow hiss, his eyes rolling upward and sagging to the side in a perfectly blank expression.
Akabane withdrew his knife and eased the dead man to the ground. So that the deceased might be looked upon with some honor by whoever eventually found him, he picked up one of the daggers the man had dropped and fit it into one of his hands in a battle pose. He reached over and closed the eyelids, holding his hand over the face for several minutes to fix them in a permanent slumber.
Not his best work, but a respectable shi no jundo nonetheless – this makeshift memorial was perhaps the one merciful facet of his ruthless persona: a purity only he was best qualified to deliver.
"A good evening to you, my friend. May you have ample opportunity to practice your knife-wielding skills in whatever afterlife finds you."
Akabane stood, dusting off his trousers and coat, and checked his gloves for stains. Finding none, he tipped his hat in farewell at the corpse. He turned and walked out of the alley to go meet Maguruma.
--
TBC