This is the real Chapter 10 'It's Not Easy'. No pranks this time.
Jamie Bennett was no fool when it came to stories. He was type of boy you find curled up with a book about beasts and dragons, only taking up that joyous expedition outdoors if to seek out the Bigfoots and Loch Ness Monsters. He knew the tales of the haunted and depraved as much as he knew tales of the Guardians and their feats.
Hence, when he heard tapping at the bedroom window after midnight, his first instinct after opening his eyes was to remember where the garlic was in the kitchen.
"Hey! Jamie, you awake?"
Oh, vampire bats didn't talk like that, did they? And they probably didn't know his name either.
There was a rap on the glass again, and the sharp hiss - "Jamie?"
Rubbing his eyes, the boy pushed himself off his bed. He sent a bleary gaze in the direction of his snoring sister, who was slumped under the covers of her own bed with Mr. Hops in her arms. Sophie could probably sleep through a marching band.
He slipped on his bedroom slippers before stumbling towards the window, trying to blink himself to consciousness. Pulling aside the curtains, he gawked in astonishment, "Flynn? How are you-"
From what the boy could see, the man was suspended midair outside his window like the protagonist of a spy flick. "Rope. Duh. Now, are you going to let me in?"
The boy undid the latch of the window, pushing aside the glass panel. With an inhale of relief, the man swung himself forward, stepping onto the ledge. Grabbing hold of the window frames, he pulled himself into the bedroom, landing onto the carpet as softly as a cat.
Jamie glanced down critically at the muddy footwear. "You're not supposed to wear shoes into the bedroom."
"Eh, too late for that now." Flynn made an unapologetic shrug as he undid the knots around his waist, then taking the remainder of the rope and coiling it up, dropping it in a neat pile on the floor.
"What are you doing here?" the boy asked, careful to keep his voice low. He didn't need to wake Sophie.
"Today's the day!" Flynn announced triumphantly.
"Sssssshh!" The boy placed a finger over his own lip, glancing hastily at his still-snoozing sister.
"Sorry." Under the pale moonlight, Jamie noted that Flynn turned crimson at his slip-up. In a much softer tone, he said the same words with equal merriment, "Today's the day! Or, tonight's the day." He pulled a face. "Well, you know what I mean."
Jamie's eyes went as large as saucers. "You're going? Now?"
"There's no better time. All the guys are dead drunk upstairs. By the time they notice, I'll be long gone."
"But-" he scanned Flynn. The man was only carrying a small satchel with him "-that's all you're bringing?"
"I've got the other important stuff stashed elsewhere. But for now, I'm here for the-," he made an exaggerated gesture, "-you know."
It took a while for Jamie to get it. "Oh! That." He cast one last look at Sophie, whose mouth was hanging open and saliva dripping down her chin. He grabbed the torchlight next to his bedside, the same that he used to check for monsters under the bed every night. "This way."
Under the cover of darkness, the two boys – I mean, boy and man – snuck down the corridor, past the master bedroom and the toilet and straight to the kitchen. Having noticed that the door for the former was open and its inhabitant not present, Flynn asked, "Where's Thia?"
"She went out," Jamie answered as they both approached the kitchen counter. He turned on his torchlight. "Not sure why, but she hasn't returned yet."
"Well, let's hope I'll be gone before she does." Flynn glanced over the empty kitchen, then the living room that held an unoccupied couch. "Where's the boy toy?"
The boy gave him a quizzical look as he pulled opened one of the cabinets. "What?"
"The white-haired pansy that Thia sent to me for coloring." Flynn took the torch from Jamie's hands, shining it into shelves for him. "What happened to him?"
"He left yesterday night. He and Tooth got into a fight," Jamie answered as he pulled out the box of corn flour, then another of brown sugar, stacking these on the floor. He scrunched his face up in thought. "What's a boy toy?"
Flynn just snorted in amusement. "Ask Thia. She'd explain it better."
Finally, Jamie brought out the box labelled 'Mother Goose's All-Purpose Flour'. Picking it up, he dropped it on the table. The cardboard lid had already ripped open, so all he needed to do was pull the bag of flour out onto the table. Of course, flour was a messy ingredient to handle, so he told Flynn, "Newspaper.
The man nodded, crossing over to the living room and grabbing the ink-stained pages from the coffee table. Returning to the kitchen-side, he laid the sheets over the kitchen table, making sure that the ends of each page intersected to catch any spillage. Jamie then dropped the box sideways over the newspaper, dragging out the bag of flour onto it.
"So, how much trouble did you guys get into, anyway?" Flynn asked in curiosity as he watched the boy open the flap of the flour bag. He still held the torchlight up, illuminating the table.
"She made us clean up everything everywhere. Even the mess that you made," grumbled Jamie as he stuck his hand into the flour. "You didn't need to splatter the chocolate sauce over the oven, you know. It was such a pain to scrub that off."
Flynn considered this, then shrugged an awkward - "Sorry?"
"What's more, she made me write out the apology that I was to say to you," the boy went on complaining as he dug through the white powdery substance. As predicted, some of the flour came spilling out onto the newspaper, while some of it decided to dance in the air as a merry puff of mist, before settling on the paper too. "I was supposed to rehearse it in front of her, but then she had a fight with Jack, and then he left, and then she left, so I wrote it for nothing."
"Ooooh, that's tough." The man winced sympathetically. "Sorry about that But she didn't work it out?"
It was only then Jamie let himself grin at the man. "Nope."
His nimble small fingers found the smooth plastic under the flour. Pinching his fingers together, Jamie pulled the desired object up to the surface of the powder. The rolls of hundred dollar bills, still safely wrapped in the Ziploc, fell into his flour-covered hands. He presented his loot to Flynn with pride. "She still has no idea."
Flynn grinned back as he took up the bag. "I have taught you well, my young apprentice."
He ruffled the boy's hair, making him beam even more brightly. The man then glanced down at the flour-stained plastic with disapproval. "'Think I'll need a new carrier though."
After they cleared up the spilled flour by wrapping it in newspaper and Flynn found a new bag to carry his plunder, Jamie led the man back to his bedroom, where the latter took up the rope and tied it around his waist again.
"Flynn?" the boy asked, as the man climbed back up the window ledge.
"Yep?" He pushed open the glass pane. Jamie watched as he peered downwards through the window, probably estimating how much he had to abseil down.
"Will you come back?"
Flynn hesitated, his shoulders drooping suddenly. Feeling that aghast that he had put his friend in an uncomfortable position, Jamie hastily added, "You don't need to if you don't want-"
He held up a hand towards the boy, causing him to break off. Every inch sincere, every inch regretful. "I'd really like to take you along with me, kid, but I can't. Not both of you, at least."
Jamie didn't need to follow Flynn's gaze to know that he was looking at the sleeping child embracing the plush bunny. His own face fell. "I know."
Flynn bit his lip as he swung the satchel over his hip, preparing to scale down the wall. Jamie thought that he might just leave right there and then, but then he asked the boy, "How are old are you again?"
"I'll be eleven next fall."
"I'll come back for you guys in six years then," Flynn promised. "That would give time for things to settle, and they'd have probably forgotten about me. That is, if you and Sophie still want to leave."
"Who wouldn't?" Jamie murmured sourly.
"Lots of things can happen in six years, kid. They might change your mind-"
"Not me, they won't," the boy answered firmly. The crack of a bullet and screeching of tires still echoed in the back of his mind. Sophie couldn't remember, but he would. "They can't change me."
Flynn shrugged. "Well, let me know then. Here." Letting one hand go from the rope, he lifted the cover of his satchel, retrieving an item. "Catch."
Jamie would confess that he did startle slightly when he found a book flying towards his face. Nevertheless, his hands came up in time to snatch it from the air before he earned a bruise on his nose.
"Look after this for me, won't you?" With that, Flynn stepped off the ledge, beginning his slippery descent down to the sidewalk of the building.
Jamie gave the book title a look over, before hastily darting to window. "Flynn!"
The one who had been called jerked his head towards the boy, both hands still clenched around the rope.
Jamie held the book out, pointing at the title. "I thought your name was Flynn Rider."
The man just let out a chuckle, giving him a two-fingered salute. "You'll get it someday."
Jamie waited for him to drop down to the pavement before he drew his window shut. Even then, he couldn't tear himself away. The boy continued to watch as the carefree gangster darted down the alley, glancing back and forth every now and then. Flynn moved swiftly and quietly between the buildings, heading out to the backstreet. It was almost like watching the beginning of an adventure film, where the hero would escape the oppressive prison before starting out on an incredible journey about self-discovery and purpose. Jamie knew he wouldn't mind watching a show like that.
But this wasn't a show.
Flynn hadn't even made it three steps onto the main road before a cry of his name was heard. Jamie watched in horror as the car headlights illuminated the man. He could see the rapid movements of Flynn's lips, cursing hard as he fled from the light, but gunfire and hollering followed him.
Jamie could see the large, muscular shadows passing the gap between buildings, guns in hand. He saw that behind the shadows followed a lithe figure, almost hilariously small in comparison, reaching out, pleading something in words he couldn't make out. When the figure turned, Jamie realized that it was Thia herself, and she was saying something, but he had a feeling that the thugs weren't listening.
When her head turned towards the alley, Jamie quickly stepped away from the window, drawing the curtains. She probably couldn't see him from this angle, but he didn't want to risk it anyway. There was no point getting Flynn into any more trouble than he was in now, anyway.
So Jamie hurried over to his bed, hopping in so quickly that he forgot to take off his slippers. He stashed the footwear under the bed, before diving under the covers. He couldn't help the hasty breaths he took as his head hit the pillows, nor could he help the tightening of his chest as he thought of the horrible things they would do to Flynn. Would they pass it off as a mistake? Unlikely. Would they cut off his fingers? Jamie shuddered, hugging the book – Flynn's book - tighter to himself. He really, really hoped not.
From the corner of his vision, he could not help noticing enviously how peaceful his younger sister had been throughout the whole debacle. It wasn't fair that he was all bothered about these problems while she slept away, blissfully unaware. But his parents had taught him well about the price of being the older sibling, so he could only sigh, resigned.
Jamie tucked the book under his pillow, so that Thia wouldn't find it should she come checking on the both of them later. He pressed his face against the fabric, squeezing his eyes, trying to pretend that he didn't hear the rough laughter seeping through the cracks of his window.
"-the government service won't help because her husband isn't a citizen and they don't have the official papers. The insurance company claims it isn't covered either." The interpreter waited patiently for the woman kneeling in the centre of the room to add more words. "She has a daughter. Just entered College a few months ago. She doesn't know about her father's condition yet. She fears that her daughter would quit studying to pay the bills."
The office of the Kumicho had strict working hours; seven in the morning till seven in the evening. Even then, the Kumicho's presence in the office was dependent on his own commitments and ability – not that Pitch was capable of being anything but the perfect leader for the organization. He had vision, intelligence and a menacing aura that left mighty men quivering in their shoes. People feared him, and because of that, they recognized his power. Surely, if such a fearsome man could be on your side, no one could stand against you.
Too often he had individuals come in the office, groveling for vengeance, or mercy, or both. There was always some boy who wanted a scholarship. Some girl who wanted her cheating boyfriend dead. Some company director who wanted to wipe out their rivals. Burgeshima was far too ridden in corruption and crime for them to achieve their goals via the straight and narrow, but taking it in their own hands was unfeasible. So they came to creator and controller of its disasters – him.
Obviously, it would be impossible for him to process all their requests, so he had a team of administrators familiar with his methods to handle the massive numbers. It freed up his time for lots of things, like going to the theatre, or mingling with his associates, or scaring some high-flying shareholder back in line. Once in a while though, he would actually attend to the sessions. The administrators still did most of the questioning and talking, but there was an unspoken rule about deferring the judgment to him. All the gentlemen and ladies, donning their respectable kimonos and yukatas, kneeled behind the long wooden tables, would turn their heads towards the skulking figure pacing about in the shadowy corner of the office, waiting for a 'yay' or 'nay'. Like a Shogun in the days of Tokugawa, a word from him instantly resulted in gracious gifts, or slow, torturous death.
For most part throughout the interview, Pitch had been standing of the back office window, idly gazing out. The shiro have some of the most magnificent views in the night till dawn, and he liked staring out at the sky over the still-sleeping city. He liked imagining the vastness of the universe in all its wondrous starry splendor crushed in the palms of his hands, with its broken shrapnel then swallowed in the darkness.
As fun as that was, it didn't mean that he wasn't listening. Just as one of the administrators was about to speak, he cut in, his voice no louder than a scratch in the stillness, yet the stillness waited in anticipation for him, "Why come to us?"
All heads had already been turned in his direction after the first syllable left his mouth. Fingers froze themselves over the keyboards, prepared to swing back into action should he elaborate. And elaborate, Pitch did.
"Why come to us, Mrs. Fa, when you can barely speak a word of Japanese, or even English?" He angled his head slightly towards the petitioner, his brows furrowed together. "Why not the Chinese Triads? Wouldn't you be more comfortable seeking help from – how should I put this-" he made show of pondering a suited phrase"– 'your own kind'?"
Even in translation, the underlying threat was evident. The Chinese woman hesitated as she heard the words, her back was straight yet her head held at a humble incline as she thought out her answer. The eyes in the office darted back to her, coolly assessing her body response long before the verbal one was produced. The pair of golden eyes, however, sought something else.
"The Triads consists of gangsters - greedy hooligans. They don't care about their fellow countrymen," the interpreter translated for the woman. "On the other hand, you, the great Kumicho, have been said to be a person of mercy. You have been known to show compassion to foreigners and local alike."
"Occasionally, I have my moments," Pitch admitted dryly, "but I'm hardly Santa Claus – I don't feed my enemies." The last word was spoken the softest, but yet the iron in it was evident.
This was conveyed to the woman, who swallowed visibly. Her answer spoken in a wobbly tone, one that Pitch could barely hear, and it was subsequently translated, "Our clan would forever be in your debt if you help us."
He didn't answer at once, for he was occupied in his own searching of the woman. He could almost smell the fear reeking of her – and why shouldn't she feel that way? She was in the very heart of Burgeshima's fanatically traditional crime syndicate, graced by the presence of its enigmatic leader, pleading for a cause when she had so little to offer in return. She was a foreigner, dragged into this strange country by her energetic daughter, still not yet accustomed to it ways. She was unused to the natives of this land, yet she did not trust those who born on the same soil as her – not while they carried themselves in such a disgusting manner. Behind all that, Pitch could sense desperation mixed her fear for her husband's illness. Clearly, he was the breadwinner and the only other English-speaking member of the small family.
All very pathetic fears, but genuine enough. He did so despise deceivers.
Turning to one of the associates – which really meant, someone who happened to associate with him and was way, way below his status - he said, "See what you can do for her."
The associate nodded, and the other administrators sprang to life, keying in the notes into their laptops while the interpreter passed the verdict to the woman. She let out a gasp of relief and blabbered her gratitude to him in her dialect, making to ecstatic bows in his direction. The interpreter diligently translated the babble, before Pitch grew tired of it and waved them away.
He made sure that Mrs. Fa was led from the room before he instructed another associate, "Do a thorough background check of their family to see if it's true – including the daughter. It would be very unfortunate for the Fa family if there's even the slightest connection between them and the Triads."
"At once, Kumicho-sama," the administrator said, folding up the laptop and taking his leave, bowing once after standing up and bowing again before leaving the office. Just as the door was about slide shut, a hand came up to stop it. Pitch, as well as the rest of the committee, turned their head towards it. It was his secretary – well, at least the one that handled his affairs within the Yakuza, not those of personal interests.
"Ter-terribly, sorry, sir," the sheepish woman began, addressing him. Pitch rolled his eyes. Despite her eagerness to work and the diligence in her manner, Bellwether was a stuttering, fumbling clutz of a forty year-old. The only reason why she held the rank that she did with the Yakuza was due to her impeccable academic record, and not to mention she used to be a government official. Such connections were handy from time-to-time. "B-but there's been, er, some d-development-"
"What is it?" he snapped, barely able to keep his teeth from grinding against each other.
"Well,-" the secretary gulped nervously, before saying, "-we've got a bit of a problem upstairs – a discipline problem – and they hope that you'd give an opinion."
Pitch let out a sigh. Well, the line-up for other petitions didn't sound that exciting and he did have a responsibility to handle such affairs. "Oh, very well, then."
He followed the secretary out of the office, down the lantern-lit corridors. Paper o-fudas were hung between the pieces of abstract art bought off the last auction. A whiff of clove could be tasted in the mild incense dancing in the air, matched with the striking of a bell near the windows. It was a strange atmosphere calm despite the scuttling accountants and administrators around him. They were sure to greet their Kumicho with a full bow, before hurrying off to their own duties, not taking a moment to savor the early morning. Of course, quiet reflection was a luxury that perhaps only the Nightmare King himself could afford, and even that was subjected to circumstances.
As the secretary scurried down the wooden boards, glancing back at her boss nervously every three seconds to make sure he was following, Pitch wondered what exactly she was afraid of. He could find out just by diving into her mind, but he didn't really enjoy invading the psyche of the timid. There was no excitement about finding the fears of a fearful person – that would be like giving a gamemaster cheat codes to his niche game.
So he preferred to go about the roundabout route - guessing. Was it his appearance in general that was frightening, or was that matter at hand about potentially upsetting? Did she fear that he would pick her by the collar and toss her out of the window in a fit of temper? Or sentence her to spend a year in the dungeons? All very valid concerns, he supposed, but that was when he was in a bad mood. At this time of the morning, he was just mildly irritated. He would probably just hold her at chokehold against the wall and possibly hit her with something– nothing too drastic.
He was led to one of the prayer rooms. It was their tradition to carry out matters of their brotherhood before a kamidana - a house shrine. Outsiders might consider their actions sacrilege for carrying such common matters in a sacred place, but in accordance to their Yakuza customs, it was to ensure that in all that they did they would stay accountable to the gods. He could hear the voices speaking through the wooden frame doors, some collected and steely, while others – or one in particular – heated and angry.
Bellwether was about to push the door open for him when he raised a hand towards her, commanding, "Wait."
The pause made no sense to the secretary, but one did not question the Nightmare King, and it was well that Bellwether did not distract him in his task. She was very close to have a porcelain vase slammed over her head.
In some unreachable, undetectable part of his mind, Pitch sensed heightened fear. He had grown familiar with the sensation, for especially in the middle of night where crime was at its peak in Burgeshima. But this sudden peak in fear this in early morning was more localized, much closer to home…
It was actually a storey up. And as an added bonus, there was inkling of cryophobia.
He made no effort to explain himself to the secretary, abruptly tearing himself away from the prayer room. His long black robe trailed behind as he swept down the hall, his stuttering secretary hopping after him in surprise. Of course, the middle-aged woman couldn't keep up, because within seconds he had dissolved himself into a pillar of sand, melded himself with the shadows on the walls. His slithery shade form then darted out of the window, scaling the wooden beams outside the shiro before spilling out into the window above. The shadows stretched themselves out onto the floorboards, making black splotches along the pillars and the wallpaper. The lanterns above shook along with the crooked paper shide hanging from the rafters as the black entity swiveled into them, around them, under them, towards its destination. Those who had been so unfortunate to have the darkness cross their way could only gasp in shock, hands grasping their own chests as if to keep their hearts from bursting out of their ribcages.
The dark sand eventually detached itself from the supports, curling into itself to reform their solid host, who took wary steps down the ice-laced walkway. There was conversation ahead – a mixture of pleas and demands. A familiar chill bit into his pale skin as Pitch headed towards the origin of the argument, noting with mild amusement that the ornaments along the corridor had all gained a layer of frosting. The words became clearer as he got neared the source:
"Please, Miss. Let us-"
"I appreciate the concern," the reserve and control in the voice was one he knew too well. "But any company at this point would only serve as a hindrance and frankly,-" a sharp inhale, a curious mix of frustration and concern "-all of you are in danger, so please leave me be."
"But according to protocol, M'am, we can't. It would be too dangerous-"
All tongues fell silent as his shadow, so absolutely devoid of light and hilariously large, fell over them. The aides, shivering in the snow-coated room, immediately placed their hands either by their sides or over their stomachs, bowing to him and greeting 'Kumicho-sama'. Elsa stood in the centre of the row, her face turning pale at the sight of him. The bow that he received from her was shaky and hesitant, and even when she straightened herself up, she turned her eyes from him, as if ashamed. Considering the entire room, from the paintings to the doors to the curtains, was all coated in ice, he could guess why.
"Alright, what's going on here?" Pitch snapped at the quivering party, then deciding to throw in a jibe. "Other than my daughter destroying the furniture again, I mean."
The plaintive expression he received from Elsa spoke volumes.
The five aides that surrounded their mistress glanced at one another, before one finally had the courage to step forward. "Kumicho-sama, sir, Ms. Black wants to leave the house unescorted. We do not find that wise."
"Well, it's hardly your place to decide what my daughter does or doesn't do," Pitch harshly rebuked to the aide, who winced at the grinding tone. "It's mine."
Each aide quickly took a humble, groveling step back. Pitch's barely paid heed to this, choosing to eye the blonde girl instead. She was dressed to leave, evidently, with her gloves drawn over both hands and a coat draped across her shoulders. It would seem by the hasty knots on her boots and the rumples on her blouse that she was in hurry too. "My question, though, is precisely where you would want to be this early in the morning, and at such urgency too."
"Well, Father,-" there was a rare note of iron in her tone – oh, wait, this was his lofty, self-righteous snob of a daughter. Such manners were sadly normal "-I would like, very much, to have some time to contemplate my life and my existence, without one of your lackeys following me wherever I go. So, if you would excuse me-" she brushed past him, walking steadily out of the room, frost carpeting her steps.
He stared after her, mouth falling open slightly. Elsa was not prone to tantrums. No, she was too much of a control-freak to let her emotions run wild. In a matter of fact, the only reason why he found this spat of temper alarming was that she hadn't lost hold her powers for the last five years – not extensively, at least. Hadn't they practiced enough?
"Hold a moment!" She made no signs of stopping, so he hurried after her. "You're just going to leave while spewing all -" Pitch gestured wildly at the frozen furniture "-that everywhere?"
He heard her sigh, slowing her steps. He watched her fold her gloved palms into fists, letting out a forceful exhale. On cue, the ice below her feet halted its advance, falling behind as she strode forward. "There. I have it under control. Now will you please leave me alone?"
"Sure," he answered, still following her nonetheless, "if you would take an escort."
There was a strain in her tone, as if she didn't wish to speak at all. "I don't need an escort, Father."
"This is Burgeshima, Elsa," he retorted, continue his pursuit of her down the stairs. "If you think I'm letting you go anywhere without an armed bodyguard-"
"I AM A KILLING-MACHINE, FATHER!"
It wasn't the shower of snow that surprised him, nor that spray of ice that slapped itself on the wallpaper, on the steps and on the palisade. It wasn't even the torrent of wind that knocked him against the wall. It was the fury – the pain in her eyes as she glared at him, breathing heavily.
In a second, it was gone. The wealth of emotions behind those corneas was hastily buried under eleven years' worth of practice, retreating to under the façade of reserve. He could tell that an apology was just on the tip of her tongue, for training in etiquette would tell her that a fervent apology was the least she could do.
But the words that came out were as cold and harsh. "If I am truly as much the monster you keep saying that I am, I shouldn't have any problems looking after myself." Her voice fell to barely a whisper, almost a plea. "Leave me alone, please."
Elsa didn't even look back as she climbed down the remainder of steps, flounced off in a jiffy. He was left gazing after her, wanting to call out to her, to persuade her to explain, but then he checked himself. It would not be becoming for the Nightmare King to chase after his petulant child like some doting father. No, he just simmered in steely rage, a scowl upon his ashen countenance as he watched her descend the flight of steps below his own through the hole of stairway.
"S-sir?"
His contemplations being interrupted was something that he felt incapable of tolerating right now, yet the manner at which he addressed the secretary, who was panting after what must have been a sprint to find him, was surprisingly mild - "Phrase what you want to say in five words or less, Bellwether, and I might not throw you down the stairwell."
The secretary shivering on the snowdrift of the stops gulped audibly. He could almost hear the gears turning in her head as she chose the words, "We need your help, sir?"
"Not the worst pick, I suppose," Pitch murmured after considering her response. Straightening himself back to his full height, he peered down at the shaking secretary. "Why don't you summarize what exactly you need me to decide?"
"Oh, well, you see, sir,-" Bellwether whipped out her phone, swiping the screen for her notes, "-one of the kumi-in was caught stealing. He robbed a foreigner – a visitor - of her motorcycle-"
"'Her'?" Pitch interrupted, musing over this. "Did he assault the girl? Or was it a woman?"
"A girl, sir. Around eighteen. He didn't assault her-"
"Then I don't see the problem." Pitch scrapped the ice under his heel with distaste, before taking a step forward, pulling a face as he noted the patterns splattered over the stair. It would take days to clear this up. Thank you, darling daughter.
"Well, the problem is that he wouldn't say why he stole the bike. We can't return it to the girl either, since he claims to have lost it." Bellwether hurried after him, stumbling down the steps. "He was also found to be possession ten thousand dollars in cash. He claims that it is of his own earnings, but has also refused to explain how he got it. Some of the other kumi-in believe that he stole it from them."
That much money in hard cash? Pitch pondered this. Likely theft then. Or acceptance of bribes could be the case. Both were considered offences under Yakuza law, if not done under instruction. "Who exactly is this fellow?"
"Flynn Rider, sir. You might not know him though. He's part of the South city division-"
"I know who he is," he cut in bitterly. Pitch hadn't been keeping track of this one for some time, simply because of busyness, but that didn't mean that he didn't remember.
He recalled too well how ten years ago his daughter had defended the life of her attacker - some boy on the street who had dared to point a gun at the daughter of the Nightmare King. Her eyes had been lit aflame then, and her voice had been raised at him too. It had been a freezing day for the entire shiro till he had finally given in to her demands. And what good had that been? From what he heard about this kumi-in, he was always stirring trouble, falling into fights with his brothers, defying his elders and stealing things he didn't need.
The things he put up with for that ungrateful, cryokinetic minx.
"Break his arm."
The secretary was stunned. "I beg your pardon, sir?"
Pitch grabbed the secretary by the shoulders, his golden eyes burning straight through her own through the glassy frames. Slowly for her to catch every word, he said, "Confiscate the money to pay back the girl he robbed, then break his arm." He let go of her, almost shoving her off her feet. "Perhaps a period of unemployment would let that disrespectful cretin realize how much he depends on the Yakuza. We're not a bloody country club, for crying out loud. It's time that our own stop taking us for granted."
"Right!" The secretary hastily typed her notes out in her phone. "Of course! Thank you so much, sir!" She bowed quickly at him, before hurrying away down the corridor.
Pitch watched her departure uninterestedly, then allowed himself to peer down the stairwell one last time. Elsa would have been long gone by now, and he had no doubt that she would be able to stop the bodyguards from following her while she was a walking fury of ice. She might claim that she despised her position as the Nightmare King's daughter, but she still milked the benefits for all they were worth. Hypocrite.
"Kumicho-sama! Sir!" A new voice called for him from the left hallway. He recognized the fellow to be from the media control department.
He groaned. Could he ever seethe in peace? Growling like a tiger awoken from its slumber - "What is it?"
"There's something on the headlines, sir," the fellow blurted out, his arms trembling as he gesticulated. "Something about Burgeshima."
"Well, why shouldn't there?" Pitch snapped crossly, glaring down the unfortunate underling. "I think my city's worth reporting about as much as any other."
"Yes, sir." The man swallowed before starting again, "But the news – it isn't from any of our stations."
Pitch eyed the administrator challengingly, a brow raised. "What do you mean?"
"The story broadcasted is about an occurrence that happened in Burgeshima, but it wasn't released by an associate station here, sir," the man explained, his anxiety heightening evident by the ascending squeak in his voice. "Moreover, sir, some of the senpai think that you might be interested in what it reports."
Pitch frowned, but he had to admit that he was intrigued. Ah, well, it wasn't as if he had anything better to do right now. "Show me."
It was just a little after dawn and Burgeshima was still in the gradual process of lifting itself off its bed covers. Some of the more hardworking had already set their wheels to the road and boots to the pavement. But for most part, the city had not fully awakened.
That was good for the white-haired boy, who had at this point of time decided to land himself in an empty alley that smelled vaguely like liquor and cigarettes. He didn't really pay these pungent smells mind, strolling forward to the main road, pressing his staff down on the ground in the tandem with his moving feet.
His blue hoodie was thrown back and his still-colored brown hair danced lightly in the wind. He might have appeared like a happy-go-lucky hobo hopping around with an over-sized walking stick if it wasn't for the frown on his face.
He didn't meet anyone on the way to his destination, even when he passed the subway exit, and for that he was glad. He was not in the mood for being chased down by crazy teenagers or judged by the conservative elders. He stopped himself before the glass door of the dental clinic. The shutters had been drawn up, but the sign on the door read as 'closed'. Indeed, this matched the opening hours etched on the door.
Nevertheless, Jack tried pushing the door, and found that it was unlocked. So he entered the clinic, closing the door behind him and heading to the reception. Files had been stacked neatly alongside each other on the table, and stationary had been fit in their holders, but there was an empty, rolling chair spinning where the spectacle-donning receptionist was to be.
Jack peered disconsolately at the reception desk at first, toying with his staff as he waited. In the background, he could hear the television in the waiting area buzzing the latest news – some kind of interview by the sound of it, "What do you think this means for Burgeshima?"
"I don't think this is just about Burgeshima anymore, Linda. The impact is going to beyond one city alone. Think about what it means to the Supers community at large. It started with Mr. Incredible and Frozone. They made a comeback, and expanded with new team-mates. I'll admit this could be great. Against weird creatures and strange villains, some Supers are needed. But then the tirade of teenage Supers had to come along. Oh, what can I say about them? They're amateurs. Rookies. Egoistical adolescents taking the whole cosplay notion too far. I can't stand it. Worse of all, some of them bare ill intentions. We all know that too well."
"The San Fransoyko Tragedy." Even though he wasn't looking at the screen, Jack could imagine the news anchor nodding his head slowly and regretfully. His eyes were downturned, not because he was staring at the empty desk anymore, but because he was thinking. He could have left yesterday night. He wanted to – fly away to the Himalayas, or the Artic, or Siberia - and let himself dwell on his own regrets and bitterness. Tooth's actions – they still stung, but they weren't entirely her fault. It did hurt, all the same, and he wanted to get away some empty, cold place where the freezing weather would numb his aches.
But then he remembered why he came back in the first place. He didn't want to run anymore.
"So is this particular reappearance a boon or bane? I can't say yet. There are too many questions. Was this a prank? Unlikely. Just a fluke of an incident? Possibly. Will the rest of The Guardians return after this? Who can say?"
Wait, did that television just say…
Jack was about to walk away from the reception desk, which was still unoccupied, to get a better view of the television, but then he felt a vice-like grip snap around his wrist, hanging him back. Before he could protest, he would himself tripping behind the dentist, who dragged them both into the X-ray room and slammed the door shut.
Recovering from the surprise, Jack cleared his throat, ready to recite the sort-of apology that he had prepared earlier this morning, "Look, Tooth, I know that I shouldn't acted so-"
And then she engulfed him in a tight hug.
Jack didn't move, undecided whether to feel miffed or relieved.
When she pulled back, he opened his mouth to speak again, which was a bad idea. It made the following smack across his jaw two-fold more painful.
"OW!" He covered the red mark on his face, gawking at her in
Tooth let out an unsympathetic sniff, putting her hands on her hips. "You're just lucky that Taka was called to hospital services today. He could have recognized you. I'm still worried that he might."
"Who's Taka-" and then the memory of the straight-laced receptionist with the large glasses resurfaced, along with the stoic name-tag. "Oh, 'T. Takaichiho'? He's also one of them?" Jack made a noise of disgust. "Just how many of your associates are working for Pitch?"
"Don't you swing this on me, young man!" Tooth jabbed a finger in his chest. "You're in so much trouble!"
"What did I do-"
But she cut him off before he could finish. "Look, when I thought you said you were leaving, you meant that you were leaving Burgeshima – which was pretty upsetting, but I understood that." Tooth sucked in a breath, then let it out, then went on, "What I didn't know you meant you were just leaving the house, and then you do something as stupid as that!" She shoved him hard on the shoulder, almost making him collide into the X-ray machine.
After he had absorbed all this, he gasped out, "What?"
"Well, congratulations!" she spat at him, her aggravation mounting by the second. "Now the whole Ameripan knows you're back in Burgeshima! I'm pretty sure he'll find out soon enough, if he doesn't know already." Behind the acid in her mutterings, there was underlying worry. "Well, at least your hair's still brown. Maybe they won't recognize you. But the staff – no, the staff." She snatched the crooked rod from him, which made him all the more puzzled. "We'll have to hide this. They'll know immediately if they see it. I think Jamie has probably guessed."
Bewildered - "What are you talking about?"
"Haven't you seen it? It's all over the Internet. Every newscaster is playing it – even the ones here." Seeing the question-marks all over his face, the creases over her brow straightened. "You don't know, do you?"
"I don't have a phone, computer or even a TV," he reminded her dryly. "What do you think?"
Tooth whipped out her phone from her work coat pocket, rapidly typing something into the screen. Jack waited by her side, feeling increasingly uneasy with whatever she had to show him.
"Your rescued victims probably thought they were doing you a favor. Of course, they don't know the half of it." She then pressed the device in his hand, hitting the play button.
Jack felt an unnerving chill run down his spine as he watched the hooded figure in the video jump around with the ice-laced staff, striking down the tattooed gangsters one by one, locking them in bindings of ice. When the video ended, it shrunk itself to a corner of the screen, giving him full view of the written commentary, submitted by some person called 'Anna Arendelle'.
'Jack Frost Returns!' the emblazoned title screamed at him.
He must have lost control over his masseter muscles, because his mouth was hanging open. This couldn't be right. But no matter the number of times he blinked, the articles and its attached video didn't disappear. This wasn't a dream.
"Jack, what are we going to do?"
If he had a more human physiology, Jack might have considered fainting.
Before the Meiji era, the spiritual beliefs most prominent in Ameripan had been a unique blend of Shintoism and Buddhism, and preservation of these had been considered integral to their way of life. An occasional missionary from Europe was tolerated, but for most part, the Western faiths and the ideologies that they carried with them were barred.
But as time went by and the Western powers began to pressurize the state with their superior weaponry and technological advances to open themselves for trade, and the merchant class began to challenge the feudal system. The Shogunate's will, and the Shogunate itself, crumbled. Thus broke open the flood gates of modernization and mass immigration. People of all walks of life poured into the empire of the rising sun, seeking opportunity and wealth, carrying with their culture, their customs and their faiths. It wasn't long before the spires of churches began to appear alongside those of the wooden eaves over the temples.
Though these establishments once were the centre of all respectable socialization, with the secularization of governance and sciences becoming the dominant body of knowledge, these grand old buildings had its congregations shrinking, especially in the big cities. This was no longer the era of superstition, but the era of progress. Homage to the deities were paid occasionally during the holidays or out of habit, but for most part, they took backseat to the more tangible struggles and needs of the world.
Sometimes though, there would be questions about the obscure – purposes, destiny, morality, identity – that a web search or a self-help book couldn't answer satisfactorily. The pondering individual might then take it upon himself to seek the solution elsewhere, and perhaps that place might be the earthly home of the supposedly divine, where the ancestors before him - or her - found their solace.
"Ms. Elsa? We're here."
It might be unremarkable to see a good Catholic burying her head a Bible on her way to church, but volume in Elsa's hands was no holy book, and in a matter of fact, might not be considered a book at all. Perhaps a better term for it would be a notepad. Or a diary. Or a stack of paper joined stitching on the binder. But let us not delve into the existentialistic concepts of what a book might be or not be, for Elsa certainly didn't care about those when she labelled the notepad, or diary, or stack of paper with stitching on the binder, as the 'Black Book'.
Hah! You might chuckle to yourself. An appropriate title, considering who her father was and all. But it was more than a clever play on words. The Black Book was a dark book indeed, filled with thirteen years' worth of guilt, anguish and frozen tears.
"Ms. Elsa?"
Her head jerked up, gasping at the interruption. Instinctively, she tipped the book towards herself, pressing the pages against her chest so that the driver could not see them.
"Oh, I did not mean to startle you, miss." Kai drew back himself, the hand on the wheel tightening its grip. Even with the glass shield between driver and passenger, she wasn't sure if he would have been protected by a burst of ice if she had released one.
She took a deep breath. Conceal. Don't feel.
"It's alright," she answered evenly. She glanced out of the window, feeling a tremendous wash of relief at the sight of the neo-gothic façade of the cathedral. "Just wait here for me."
No assistants were there to open the door or roll out a carpet, nor were there any gun-toting guards accompanying her. As far as she could see, there were cars darting around the road, but there's was no one on the walkway. She pushed open the door, sucking in a breath before laying down one foot onto the concrete.
No ice. That was encouraging.
She stepped out of the limousine, closing the door gently behind, still clutching the Black Book under her arm. She gazed up at the steps, the steps that she had climbed on for so many days over the years, in hopes that maybe someone like her too can find salvation.
Elsa ascended the uneven stones, her eyes downwards as she watched for a tell-tale gleam of ice to appear below her boot. Not even a pinch of snow appeared, but she didn't let up her task, not even realizing that she had gone up the full length of stairway till she bumped into the door of the church itself. She lurched back, hissing as she rubbed the fresh bruise on her head. The official hours of the church was seven to eight each day, so the door opened when she turned its knob, allowing her entrance into the hallowed halls.
She had hoped that she would be the earliest here, but by the bent figures at the side aisles and the lit candles, she knew that she wasn't. Elsa kept her head down, walking determinedly through the nave. She was in no mood to tolerate bowing or fleeing in her presence– she might just start a blizzard in the central altar. She hoped that if she moved swiftly enough, no one would recognize her. After all, these clothes were humbler than her usual flashy attire – surely no one would imagine the Nightmare King's daughter to dress so ordinarily.
"Ms. Black?" Oh, no.
She locked her head down, walking forward. Perhaps the person would imagine this to be a mistake.
"Elsa."
She then dared to lift her chin, turning towards the voice. A kind, genial face met hers. Her shoulders relaxed. "Father Pabbie. You got my call?"
The priest was garbed in black cassock nodded, then gazed upon her with concern. "You look troubled."
She could only nod in agreement.
"This way." He laid a steadying hand on her shoulder, gesturing her forward. "We will find a place away from listening ears."
Confessing was one of seven sacraments of the Catholic Church; a method for the faithful to admit their sins and obtain divine mercy. This was often done in the presence of priest, who couldn't grant the mercy himself but offered the more human forgiveness and reconciliation. Confidentiality was of utmost importance, for disclosing the wrongs of any kind was hard enough without some gossip-hungry sneak eavesdropping, so it was often done in a confession booth as per tradition or perhaps just an isolated room for the more modern. A grille screen could be set between the penitent and the priest, one the priest cannot see through, allowing the penitent to hide his identity if he so wished.
But Elsa hid little from Father Pabbie. Outside the staff of the shiro – which itself was only a tiny fraction of the entire Nightmare Yakuza - he was the only one who knew about her powers. She had sought his help as a child and now she sought his help as a woman. There had been torturing thoughts that he had managed to put to rest with his wise words, but as soon as those fled, there were plenty more to take their place.
Given how well they knew each other, the use of the grille and booth was unnecessary. After the priest had closed the door to the confession room, both had taken seats opposite one another. Elsa tried to calm herself, to lie to herself that she was safe. She glanced around the room, praying with all her might that her father hadn't bugged this place. She could only hope that he still had some respect for the sacred.
The confession started with her crossing herself and the priest reading a short verse from the scripture. Once that was done, he told her gently, "At your own time."
It was as if she was a frightened little hare that needed to coaxed carefully from her burrow. But perhaps she was. She was always in the habit of concealing, of hiding herself, even from herself, and confessing was always the opposite of that.
"I-I haven't been a good daughter," Elsa began shakily, twisting the fabric of her gloves together. Her tongue felt heavy, resistant to her attempts to speak. "I've tried to be patient. I've tried to honor him, like the fifth commandment says. But he-I-" she pursed her lips, glancing away.
Father Pabbie nodded encouragingly, but slowly, not wanting to pressure her.
She sighed. "We've never seen eye to eye on a lot of things. When I was seventeen, he wanted me to get the tattoos. I put my foot down on that. I told him that I didn't want any part of the Yakuza. He said okay, then he stabbed the tattooist, gave him lung puncture. Blood spurted everywhere. The old man suffocated to death."
The heel of her palm dug into the cover of the Black Book, trying not to remember that that particular incident was scratched on page thirty-five, row four.
"I know what you said - I can't change him. So I tried to change me. I've tried to make up for not being in the Yakuza, like he wants me to. I tried to be the good girl that I have to be. But I can't." There was a bitter downturn of her lip. "I can't stand how he just tramples over others. How he lords over everyone like a king. How he kills and spares at a whim." Though her skin was pale and cold, she could feel the blood boiling in her veins. "How can I honor someone like that?"
The temperature in the room plummeted abruptly, forcing Elsa to take a moment to steel herself. She noted how the priest subtly planted his feet to the ground. It had happened before - that he was required to leave the confession room while she calmed herself down, more for his own safety than her need for solitude. So he asked, cautious, "Do you need moment?"
She closed her eyes, reciting the stiff mantra over and over in her mind. Releasing a frosty exhale, she opened her eyes, shaking her head. "I can control it. I'm sorry."
So Father Pabbie reclined back in his chair, placing his hands together over his stomach, waiting for her to continue.
"He's not always bad," Elsa acknowledged reluctantly. "Usually, he's kind to me. It's not that he's completely irrational about his 'work' either. I understand why he does what he does the way he does – he has explained it to me more times than I've cared to hear it. It doesn't mean that I agree with it."
One gloved finger rubbed the spine of the Black Book, as if trying to scrub the darkness from the blackened binding.
"I know that despite that, I shouldn't hate him. I should be the better person. As his daughter, I shouldn't-" she couldn't help the slight scoff "-sin against him."
"What is it that you have done, then?" Father Pabbie questioned, his wizened countenance impassive.
There was self-mocking amusement as she spoke, "Well, just this morning, I yelled at him. In the past week, I contemplated killing him five times – nothing substantial-" she hastily added upon seeing the shock in the priest's eyes "-just a passing fancy. I don't think I could actually kill him. He is my father, after all - and it would start a full-fledged gang war."
"Anyway," Elsa went on naming her transgressions, "I've lied to him. Twice. I spoke to him disrespectfully. I cursed at him once, when he couldn't hear me. A-and I stole something." The last sentence was so softly that it was barely audible.
Despite being an old man, Father Pabbie's ears were still as sharp as a canine's. "What did you steal from him?"
"Oh, I didn't steal it from my father. No,-" she shook her head "-but if he knew what I stole - if he knew what I did - he would never forgive me."
"Then what was it that you stole?" the priest pressed her.
"He's the reason why Burgeshima's such a mess, so I just thought that I could make amends for his mistakes," she rambled on, not answering his question. Her eyes were still glued to the Black Book. "That I can make amends for my own."
Sensing that this was sensitive territory, Father Pabbie questioned gently, "Do you think that you have?"
"The first night I did it, I thought that I could," she answered quietly. "I really thought that maybe I could make this work. But yesterday night, I realized-" unintentionally, Elsa felt her eyes welling up with tears.
"Elsa?"
There they were again – the dark thoughts that gnawed her on the inside, plaguing her with bitterness and anguish. Before she could stop herself, she burst out, "What good asking God for forgiveness?"
The priest's eyes went wide at the sacrilegious outcry. "Elsa-"
"I know. I know. To err is human, to forgive is divine," she muttered, almost hatefully. "God might forgive you, but what if-" she hesitated, fighting the flow of words, but losing "-what if people can't forgive you?" There was a tear running down her cheek, its heat feeling like fire against her cool skin. She wiped it away. "What if you can't forgive yourself? Then what's the point?"
The priest sat silent as Elsa fought her own tears, gazing up determinedly, swallowing her sobs. She closed her eyes, taking in a deep breath, then letting it out.
She then looked straight towards the priest, stating quite simply, "I met my sister yesterday night. My birth sister."
S/N:
Some new Yakuza ranks if you're interested:
Kumi-in: 'Soldiers'. These are usually the bottom rank full-fledged members, and they can do anything from driving a truck to cleaning the floor. I'm not sure if hitman are under this category, so I'm still doing research. Flynn would probably fall under this category. Tooth, being educated and not a full-fledged member, would not.
Senpai: 'Elder' It's quite a broad term for seniors or superiors. Opposite of 'kohai', which is the junior.
Flynn and Jamie are such schemers. I regret nothing about them though. If you can't remember what exactly Jamie got scolded for, see Chapter 6.
For those who caught it the last chapter, the Fa family mentioned in Pitch's POV is from Disney's Mulan. This is more a cameo than anything, because I wanted to use a Chinese family, but if required, Mulan herself might pop in ...60+ chapters down the road.
Bellwether is from Zootopia. I just wanted a secretarial character who would cower under Pitch's gaze, so she seemed like the perfect person for it.
All my knowledge about Shintoism and Catholic confessionals is from the Internet. You have no idea how many sites I had to go through to find out how a confession works. Of course, I took liberties with some of the info, so some might be inaccurate. The stuff about Yakuza's carrying out their business before a shrine is made-up, and other stuff might be too. *waves Fiction pass*
I've wanted to write a confession scene even since I saw a clip of the one from Marvel's Daredevil, though the contents of this confession and that one are very different. What can I say? Elsa makes me think of Daredevil with all her daddy issues– just more regretful and conflicted. And Pabbie? C'mon, don't tell me that priesthood doesn't suit him. He supposed to be wise and stuff.
And as for the cliffhanger ending...Tada! Did you see that coming? Was I awesome enough to get you going 'Oooooh'? No, not the part about Elsa being Anna's birth sister (c'mon, that was so obvious.) You know, the other part.
…If you still don't know what I'm talking about, the next chappie should clear it. No frets.
Up Next: Confession Cont'd and the 'Frost' Phenomenon a.k.a how getting famous in Burgeshima is really inconvenient.
A/N: Hey y'all! How's it hanging?
So here's the real chapter. I can't regret my prank chapters - I do them once a year, after all.
Guest Reviews:
For Chapter 9:
JX101: Glad you liked it. I love this chapter a lot, actually, and Chapter 10 too. But yeah, you're scary.
Kobe: Hi! To be honest, Korobe (Rapunzel's town) is named after the city Kobe in Japan, not actually Kobe Bryant. Honest mistake, so don't fret 'bout that. You're actually the first person to mention knowing that the title of this is from a song, so congrats! The Captain America: Civil War is not really an Avengers' flick - it's really Cap. A vs Ironman. Which suits me fine (I love Cap. A! He's such a sweetheart). I do like Star Wars lots, but I'm not very knowledgeable fan of the universe, so I'm too scared to write anything about it. Your ideas are very interesting though, and I wish I did know more about Star Wars. I do think there are some ROTBTFD/ Star Wars AU lying around the fandom, so you can search up if you're interested.
Guest (Mar 29): Aww! Thanks! Glad you liked it.
Chapter 9 & Prank Chapter Reviews:
Archer: I'm glad you really liked this story! There is quite a lot of things happening (thus a lot of things I have to write) and much more to come. I did notice that all the things you mentioned, Rapunzel didn't turn up. Hmm, looks like I better brush up on her story archs. My grammar isn't perfect, but I'm glad you found it mostly acceptable. And to your question for the prank chapter, I answer: hehehehe.
Polar Panda: Thanks for your reviews! I'm glad that you like my 'wrighting' (is this like a quirk of yours? If so,okay.) There aren't many Superhero AUs that take on the full cast of the ROTBTFD, so it's my pleasure to do so (If you like this, try 'The Snow Queen' by Deadlyflames. More Elsa-centric, but still a fun, teenage swinging-around-saving-cats fic). I'm glad you like the story in all its dark grittiness. Sorry about dropping those articles - bad habit. I'm glad you found the April Fool's Chapter somewhat amusing. I think more people should really write such chapters - but *tragically downcast face* it's not easy... Well, thanks for reviewing!
Be back in like two or more weeks. I would love a review if you can drop one.
*proceeds to be crushed by giant review falling from the sky*
*groans while stuck under the rubble* *muffled voice* Well, not that way.
Review. Critique. Ask Questions.
