Part IV
Seiji's eye watered copiously as he carefully negotiated the treacherous twists and turns of the narrow mountain pass. Thankfully, the Honda guy was driving at a moderate pace, so he could keep up without too many difficulties. He suddenly realized that he had forgotten to ask the driver's name, let alone introduce himself. But the other car had looked familiar, and he thought he recognized the guy.
"Musta been at that battle with the R32," he mumbled to himself, although he couldn't honestly remember much from that night except Nakazato's look of utter defeat (which he had truly relished). "Wonder if they're friends? Wouldn't that be funny."
At that point he unconsciously switched from a running monologue to a mental ramble. Ah, but I don't think that preppy jerk would really hang out with Honda boy. Those preppy guys, like those damn Takahashi's, they're all the same. I don't care what Kyouichi says, they're nothing but a bunch of snobby bastards. Crap, my eye really hurts! Hmm, quarter-tank, I think I should fill up before I head home. Shit, I wonder how much cash I have…oh, but I guess I can use my bankcard. Hey, Civic boy's brake light is out. I better remember to tell him. Damn, but I'm hungry! I wonder if he'll offer me something to eat…
Just then, the red hatchback made a quick turn into an apartment complex parking lot, cutting his thoughts short.
Pulling into a visitor's space and exiting the car, he shuffled around to follow the Myougi driver into the apartment building.
"By the way, your left brake light's out," he informed as they walked up the flight of stairs.
"You're kidding! Like I needed another thing to pay for."
Seiji nodded in sympathy. Street racing was, after all, not a cheap sport.
At the top of the stairs, Seiji remembered that he still didn't know the other driver's name.
"Hey, I know it's a little late, but I'm Iwaki Seiji," he said, introducing himself.
The driver paused on the way to his front door and gave Seiji an odd look.
"Yeah, I know. I'm Shouji Shingo, don't you remember me?"
Seiji scratched his head in embarrassment.
"Uh, from the GT-R race, right?" he guessed.
Now Seiji was a pretty unobservant sort of guy, but even he couldn't miss the anger that flashed briefly in Shingo's eyes. What the hell's his problem?
"Yeah," responded the Honda driver in a terse monosyllable, then continued to his door without another word of acknowledgement.
Seiji felt awkward in the ensuing silence, but he decided that the best course of action would be to ignore it as if nothing had happened. After all, the self-professed king of the mountain was also the king of well-practiced oblivion.
Once inside, Shingo motioned to a door leading off the main room of the apartment.
"Bathroom's over there. Bandaids and stuff are in the bottom right hand drawer."
"Cool, thanks," he said with relief as he made a beeline for the bathroom.
Shingo rummaged through several of boxes of junk in search of his map book.
"I swear I packed it in here," he mumbled to himself as he dug through a box of old magazines and empty cd cases. Although he had been living in the apartment for several months, he still had not found the time (or the motivation) to unpack everything. Takeshi often chided him for his propensity for living out of boxes, referring to it as "the refugee lifestyle". He was, however, lazy as the day was long and didn't relish the idea of unpacking. During moments like these though, Takeshi had a point.
"Ah hell. Now what?" he sighed, giving up on finding the maps.
"What's wrong?" Seiji called from the bathroom, above the sound of running water.
Since the Mitsubishi driver had left the door ajar, he poked his head inside. Seiji was busily flushing his eye out with as much water as possible. Good thing he didn't have to pay for water.
"I can't find my map book."
"Oh! I have one in my car. It's got some maps of this area."
"You do," he stated, hardly able to keep the sardonic tone from seeping in. Now why hadn't the fool just looked at his map?
"Yeah. Here," said the oblivious Evo driver, reaching into his pocket and tossing keys at Shingo. "It's in the glovebox.
He caught the keys and peered at them with interest. Nice keychain, he thought, rolling his eyes at the cute little white plastic rabbit attached to the set of Mitsubishi keys.
Downstairs, Seiji's Lancer Evolution was parked discreetly in a visitor's space at the far end of the lot. Yet, to say the car itself was discreet would have been a ridiculous assertion, at best. With its formidable array of lights, scoops, and wings, Seiji's Evo IV was about as discreet as a bat to the head. As Shingo unlocked the car, he took a moment to appreciate its aggressive lines. Just because the Lancer wasn't his personal favorite didn't mean he couldn't appreciate it for what it was. Walking around to the rear of the car, he squatted, squinting in the dim light at the Evo's bumper.
"Paintjob my ass," he muttered when he didn't find any marks on the smooth glossy clearcoat. As he stood, his eyes traveled unbidden to the LanEvo's high-visibility spoiler. There, underneath the Thunders' sticker was the familiar black, white, and yellow Night Kids sticker. He heaved a bitter sigh. I guess that's life…you win some, you lose some. But then, because he couldn't quite leave it at that, and also because he was a rather spiteful little piss, he aimed a kick at the car's exhaust pipe. He felt the metal give a little, and grinned at the prospect of having bent it ever so slightly. Perhaps it would be enough to create a psi or two of backpressure. Positively brimming with righteous satisfaction, he returned to the task at hand, opening the door and rummaging through the glove compartment.
It only took him a second to find the thick book of maps, but he spent a few moments going through the glove box anyway, simply because aside from being spiteful, he was also really nosy. He pulled out several batteries, a mini-flashlight, a couple pens, and a fistful of small, odd-sized pieces of paper.
"Asahi garage: oil change. Tochigi Paint and Body, yikes!" he exclaimed. "No wonder he's such a paint nazi." He flipped through several more maintenance receipts before coming to the registration and insurance information. He shrugged and kept going. It wasn't terribly interesting: everyone had one, after all. He chuckled when he stumbled upon a couple of parking tickets, though. "Ha! Evo boy got ticketed!" He laughed.
Just then another car pulled into the parking lot, its headlights shining briefly into the cabin of the Evo IV. Reminded that he should be getting back upstairs, Shingo gathered up all the papers that he had pulled out.
As he shoved everything back into the glove compartment, he noticed that he had overlooked one object: in the bottom of the small storage space lay Seiji's infamous box cutter. Feelings of anger and shame mixed in his stomach around a hard knot of resentment, with queasy results. Yet again he wondered why he had bothered to extend any kindness to the Emperor driver at all.
A kind act is worth a thousand words my ass!
"It's not like I owe it to him. Shit, that sand wasn't even my fault," he groused. "And besides, that asshole started it. If he hadn't hit me, I wouldn't have had to hit back. It serves him right, the cocky prick," he grunted as he threw the rest of the junk into the box. "Oh hell. The sooner he leaves, the better."
Slamming the door shut, he stalked back up to the apartment with the maps in hand.
Seiji carelessly slapped a bandaid on his rather large cut. As long as it didn't bleed into his eyes, he honestly didn't care what it looked like. Blinking his eyes, he felt a residual soreness, but at least the stabbing pain was gone. He wandered out into the main room of the apartment, and snorted in disgust. Man, what a pig! Seiji wasn't the cleanest guy on earth, but even he wouldn't be able to stand living in such filth. Not that the apartment was actually /dirty, he supposed. Disorganized was a better word…downright messy was another. Not, of course, that he was usually given to mindlessly conjuring synonyms.
He was picking his way carefully between the various objects on the floor with the intent of sitting on the bed when he tripped on a large box. His hip glanced off the corner of the desk as he fell.
"Fuck!" he yelped in pain, clutching at his hip and writhing on the floor. "Ooooowww!"
When the pain faded and he finally got a grip on himself, he sat up and glared at the piles of crap rising like a miniature city all around him. Standing, he felt an irrational rage sizzle to the surface of his thoughts. He snarled, kicking the box that had foiled him. It skidded across the carpet then overturned, dumping its contents all over the floor. He smirked in satisfaction, pleased with his retribution. And then it occurred to him that Shouji was being rather hospitable, despite the fact that Seiji had, only a short time ago, attacked him as he was getting out of his vehicle. With a guilty sigh, he bent to pick up the spilled contents of the box.
The first thing that caught his eye was a small photo album. He grinned as he opened it to the first page, and found numerous pictures of Shouji with his Civic. At the bottom of the first picture, in the space designated for captions, the Myougi driver had scrawled the date in his messy handwriting. Examining the pictures more closely, Seiji noticed that the car looked as if it had just been driven off the lot…in fact, in one picture, he could have sworn they were still /on/ the dealership's premises. He chuckled all the more because he knew he had a few photos himself, of when he first bought his car.
The next page contained a few pictures of what looked like a drunken party. There were a lot of people, none of whom he recognized. They were all Night Kids, however, because the photo's caption read "Team Party". It was unclear as to what the party was for, but it was pretty obvious that everyone was more than a little sloshed. He outright laughed when he came across a picture of a very disheveled Nakazato standing on a table, his half-full mug of beer raised in a toast.
"Musta been some party," he whistled softly. "Can't imagine Kyou doin' that."
The next several pages sported photos of various guys with their various vehicles. He even saw a guy with a pink MR2.
"Ugh," he grunted in disgust as he flipped to the back of the album, to look at the most recent pictures.
Unfortunately, he was completely unprepared for what he saw next.
The last page revealed a naked Nakazato…draped over the hood of Shouji's Civic. That in itself was horrific enough, but what really made his eyes threaten to fall out of his head was the accompanying caption, "Race Queen of the Year!" written in the Civic driver's distinctive hand.
"Oh dear GOD!" he gasped. "What the…hell…" Seiji spluttered. For some reason, he couldn't tear himself away from the picture; it was like a proverbial train wreck. Then his brain conjured the image of a naked Kyouichi, mounted to his Evo IV like some kind of Mitsubishi hood ornament. "Aaaagggh!"
With an effort of will, he wrenched his eyes away from the photo just long enough to turn the page. Then, out of sordid curiosity, he began flipping backwards through the album, in search of more incriminating photos. But alas, he found none. When he finally hit the point at which he'd stopped earlier, he realized that the only two photos he had seen of Nakazato were the one of him at the party, and the other one.
Suddenly, an odd thought struck him. Why had he been invited to the apartment? Shouji had refused to explain…giving him the vague answer "I care." A shudder made its way from the base of his spine up to the end of his ponytail. What the hell does he want from me?
He heard footsteps in the hall outside and panicked, throwing everything into the box and leaping to his feet just as the door opened. The Civic driver walked in, and stared.