Well looky there. Arait got her Muse back, who is apparently named Tauntress since she couldn't write until it was for the purpose of making characters miserable. Also, Kateracks did a great job on Yata! And at last it didn't take two months! Enjoy (hehehe).
Music vaguely reminiscent of traditional shakuhachi hung lightly in the crisp frost of dawn. An electric rhythm overlayed it with a pulsating flow, awakening the sleepy day. Saru's crane, as it was inaccurately named, began its early crowing, a daily routine which had become the bane of anyone called out for a late night emergency. Even with the dampening powers of the Scepter 4 stables, the annex still received numerous complaints from neighbors about the volume of the screech.
The melody emanated from a sleepy dojo on the immense grounds of the fourth annex's property. The first rays of morning light melted the tiny crystals of ice clinging to the crusty, dormant grass, but in the shadow of the dojo's doorway, one could still see one's breath. All of these notions were equally imperative to acknowledge.
In the midst of this blend of gentle energy and abrupt disruptance of the morning peace was a young man, by all accounts typical. Aside from his permanently drowsy eyes, his appearance and stature were what one would expect of someone Japanese. Rather it was his choice of hobbies that set him apart as unique.
Wearing a standard issue practice dogi, the blue clansman moved in time with the beat. To the melody there was an unending flow that pulsated through his body, from his fingertips to the core of his torso, interrupted only by the stuttering boom-chick of a synthesized percussion preset.
The music moved in waves that seemed to control the man's body, at times dragging lethargically, at others jolting him rapidly. Even as his heartbeat pumped visibly only with help from the bass, however, it was he who brought the music around himself like an invisible energy ball that could be pushed and pulled between his hands.
In this manner Gotou embraced the day at least once a week, acknowledging the five senses in all cardinal directions. He touched the crisp air to the north and stretched to feel the sun's warmth from the east. He smelled the smoke from stoves which heated houses and the moisture of dew on a bamboo structure. All these he greeted so as to welcome the rebirth of life.
Then, suddenly the music halted with the tiny pop of a speaker being disconnected.
"What are you doing at this time of day?" A groggy voice inquired from inside the empty, practice room. "Some of us are sleeping here."
Gotou turned around to see a half-awake man whose brown hair was flat on one side and curling wildly on the other. He had thrown on brown corduroys and a sweater, with a wide V-neck collar to show the T-shirt underneath and his signature, mustard yellow piping. Around his neck was a scarf of a matching color with some Western Asian tribal print.
Behind him was a younger female, who appeared more alert, as well as more curious than frustrated. Following them was a fruit who called himself "Prince," an elegant lady whose ability boiled down to stealing reflections out of mirrors, and a set of twins that at times became only one person. This was the hodge-podge collection of strains that was currently being sheltered in the Scepter 4 dojo.
"Prince" had tried to name himself leader, ordering the others to bow before him, but the building was swamped with power dampening technology for the duration of their stay. After that, everyone had just naturally deferred to Kory. Having been there longest, he was equipped to help them adapt to the new environment. Plus, his personality suited the role (although the male of the twins would claim, "It's 'cause he's the oldest 'cept for that creepy 'Prince' guy").
Unfazed by all of them, Gotou answered frankly, "Chillstep Tai Chi."
The answer registered slowly in Kory's mind. Whether it was the interruption of his slumber, the fact that they were all sleeping barefoot in one room of a building with no heater in wintertime, or remnants of withdrawals still fogging his mind, he couldn't form a response before the runner chirped in.
"How do you do that float across the floor step?"
The clan's urgent care team had treated her ankle well so that she was back on her feet, bouncing around with nowhere to go. It seemed the excess energy might as well be put to good use learning a dance moves or two.
"Like this?" Gotou confirmed, demonstrating how by simply moving his feet from side to side, his whole body appeared to glide over the bamboo surface.
She tried to imitate his movements, sliding her heels back and forth, but she didn't move anywhere.
Kory rubbed his eyes. "As if that bird wasn't bad enough..."
The clansman ignored him and explained, "No it's one heel and one toe. Close them together, then apart again." He showed her again in slow motion, and she was able to produce a clumsy imitation. "Yes, like that. Then you can also stretch one leg out in the toe-to-heel fashion and drag the other, just barely touching it to the ground."
"I see," she acknowledged, practicing a couple more times. "And the spazzing robot thing?"
"That's advanced," Gotou protested, "first-"
The music restarted, its abrupt volume increase cutting once more through relative peace. Everyone turned to look at the speakers and saw the male twin holding the PDA and connecting cable, inescapably guilty. His sister slapped him from the back of his head, but he glided out of her reach with his tongue out. He had been observing carefully and decided he wanted to participate.
"Come on," he shouted above the music, but she looked away, glummering with her arms crossed, "it'll be fun! With your ballet and my spunk we could totally rock Chillstep!"
Even Kory, who was finally fully awake, let himself be carried away by the electronic buzz playing the underlying harmony and gave in to a few of his own hip-hop moves. He danced his way not-so-discretely over to the female nearest his own age. After spending a few days living in the same room as the flirt, she had learned not to take his advances too seriously and directed him over to the beginners' dance lesson being taught by a member of the most elite team of the Special Police Force.
"Only if you join me, Ojou-sama," he stipulated, bowing in invitation like a European man from hundreds of years ago.
She conceded with a sigh and took his hand as if they were about to enter a classic waltz, but the first move they began with looked quite a bit more like dislocating a shoulder.
"Prince," who had the habit of confusing ordinary words for terms indicating royalty - such was the case with his own name - mistook young lady for princess and ran forward to join them crying out, "Oujo-sama! You will be much more pleased with my elevated techniques than with those of this commoner!"
She had also grown accustomed to his blunt propositions.
The runner noticed the twin sister was the only one left not participating and dragged her unwillingly to the front of class. Before long, all were picking up on the strangely unique fusion of a jarring dance and the most fluid of martial arts.
Gotou taught the class without inhibition, ignoring even a slight skip of the track that should have caught the attention of his attuned senses. After all, it wasn't every day that someone showed interest in one of his hobbies.
"Push forward gently, feeling the resistance of the air. As it builds strength, fall back, sweep it around you, and then absorb that energy gradually from the east. It will pulse through your body in waves. Block the flow; let it through in spurts like a heartbeat: rise and fall, rise and fall. Then send it out the west, halting it at every joint."
His students really did their best to follow the instructions without truly grasping his interpretation of its spirituality. In the end, each of them had their own take on the choreography. The twins faded in and out of their separate entities in a thrilling Broadway production of a modern The Princess, The Pauper, and The Gender-nondescript-split-personality Combination. The only true woman of the group continued to fend off her two suitors by summoning reflections she had collected as silhouettes and shadows on the floor to dance in sync around her, with "Prince" pirouetting perpetually like her very own moon. Meanwhile, Kory mentally remixed the song arbitrarily just because at last he could.
Without noticing, a blue glow began to form on each of Gotou's movements, the imagined energy of Qi he had been manipulating actually presenting itself as his clan's aura. He could fling a ball of it aside, and it was quickly drawn back in. Doi learned to do the same. Only the runner maintained some pretense of normalcy; though, she also was dancing at double speed.
As soon as "Prince" completed his spinning, those before his face - in this case being Kory along with Gotou being caught in the crossfire - were forced to kneel to His Majesty.
An authoritative woman commanded from the stoop of the dojo, "Get on your feet, Gotou! What are you doing here, permitting this wild circus under your watch?"
Breaking free of the moment, the member of the Special Duty Corps dragged himself back to his feet and willed away the haze caused by consciousness interference abilities. Seeing what had taken place while his guard was down to teach his enjoyable dance technique, he submitted to Lieutenant Awashima's reproof. Behind her were two more clansmen, Enomoto who appeared to be tracking the source of a spike in Dresden signals with his tablet, and Kamo who had come for the purpose of crowd control should they find an unruly uprising. She gestured them forward, and the two rushed into the dojo to apprehend the loosed strains.
Perplexed, Gotou inquired, "But...were the dampeners not in place for this building?"
Awashima shared her reprimand with another officer whom they did not know had joined them along the way. "Doi! Did you not convey the message?" He responded with a bashful grin that revealed he had also been thoroughly distracted by the addictive form of dance.
She sighed to temper her frustration and explained, "There's been a power outage from an accident up the street. We have to manually re-establish ability free zones with individual devices. Doi was sent here with an arm band for each enabled person."
As Enomoto walked past his teammate, he muttered, "Cool dance, though."
The strains looked at one another as they were surrounded by the Blues. A feral quality entered each of their expressions, fueled by the short burst of exposure to their abilities. Every one of them was considering making a run for it. Even knowing that they had willingly turned themselves in didn't quench their need for unending access. They turned to Kory for approval.
His mind was running as fast the female strain literally could. The internet, devices, that online timer counting down to the deadline of when large sums of money would no longer be his. All of it called to him. It took his whole being - and a twitching face - to indicate calm to them with a hand gesture. As miserable as they all were, the alternative was far worse.
He winced as the metal band clasped around his wrist and the high drained out of him like a sieve.
They all had the same sensation: the loss of something precious with no other choice.
In the light of day, Sakuraya transformed back into the discounted shopping district just behind one of the most popular tourist squares in Tokyo. Bachelorettes and low-income mothers bought their necessities as if the nightlife did not even exist in their world. Traces of it could be found in obscure, shady corners, but the only fear that remained was of being pickpocketed. A girl only had to hold her belongings close to feel in relative security.
The abundance of good deals on all sorts of products made finding the three items on Fushimi's list an easy task. Hotaru observed closely as he had business cards printed, not with a name, occupation, or contact information. He placed his order for textured card stock of the finest available quality and had embossed upon them in a shimmering, cobalt blue two simple characters. "_" That was the beginning and end of the username he used on the forums, but she didn't understand why it had any significance to be alone on the card.
Not until after Fushimi bought the spray paint. At first, she presumed he would also choose a shade of blue there also, but Fushimi wasn't thinking about kings and clans on the same plane. Glaring disapprovingly at her incompetence, he snatched up a can of red paint. He walked out of the store with unexplained purpose, retracing that morning's steps to a quiet corner.
A store had been forced out of business for some unknown reason. The security door was permanently closed and covered with tags, large and small, simple scribbles of coded messages to extravagant word pictures. Fushimi understood most of it from experience. To him, graffiti was just another programming language. It was all syntax and variable replacement. Therefore, he had no qualms about adding his own handle to the mix.
To the upper left of Torou's oversized proclamation of turf, Fushimi sprayed a bold, blatant "≥_" to announce himself (the location indicating assumed superiority). He followed that by a big, red X through, "ト口ー ."
Hotaru didn't know what that meant, but it sure seemed like a bad omen.
She followed him around the area, under bridges, into run-down residences, at the back door of businesses and bars that wouldn't open until nightfall. He was following directions given him by the graffiti itself from one location to the next, hitting all boundaries of Ichiban's territory in the area where Torou was named manager with his own mark.
It was mid-afternoon by the time Hotaru's constant nagging finally persuaded him to take her to a restaurant. She ordered herself a healthy, balanced plate of stir fried vegetables with beef and Fushimi followed up with an order of orange chicken and white rice, sauce on the side. She looked reproachfully at his plate, taking his repetitive poor eating personally.
The same scene from the day before repeated itself. "Is that really all you're getting?"
He had been sipping a lukewarm, slightly sweetened, milk tea when she asked the question from across the table. The waiter - some teenager trying to work his way through high school - lingered in anticipation of a response.
"Are you still offering to pay?" Fushimi inquired with a tiny quirk at the corner of his lip. She shrugged like she didn't care one way or the other, so he added to their order, "Cream cheese wontons."
Her head fell off her palm where it rested and slammed into the table, causing a thump that disturbed nearby diners. "Won't you eat any vegetables?"
There was a momentary expression of distaste before Fushimi refused coldly, "Nope."
She attempted suggesting a variety of the more easily acceptable type: radishes, cabbage, sweet potatoes, carrots. To each possibility, he disagreed more adamantly and curtly than the time before until she finally gave up.
"What do you eat?" She questioned in frustration.
Fushimi looked down at his plate of chicken thinking it must be obvious what he did eat.
"How did you even make it to adulthood with that diet? If you don't eat something good for you, you'll get sick and die off before you ever find this Hayashi girl."
Unexpectedly, the answer she got expressed no interest in continuing the banter that had become their norm. "Would you just shut up?" The request was bland and wanting in heart. It almost felt like she had hit some nerve, again.
She leaned forward and tipped her head sideways to get a better view of his downcast face. His eyes were faraway, and the ball of chicken fell lifelessly from his chopsticks.
"She's really someone important to you, isn't she?"
'Hah?" Coming out of the haze, his response indicated confusion.
"Hayashi," she clarified.
"No, it's not that," he brushed her concern away and pushed his plate toward the center of the table. His appetite was gone.
"Tell me about her. All I can see about her is that she's a member of JUNGLE who infected your phone with their malware. That doesn't even begin to explain why you're so hell bent on finding her. Saving her?"
"It's none of your business," Fushimi denied, staring out the window at the people passing by.
"Of course it is! I've been shot at!"
"We were not in danger. I was aware of their intentions. In any case, we escaped."
"I don't imagine what we did today will improve our chances of getting out alive," Hotaru shot back.
It earned her a vaguely meaningful response. "It's going to get us in for the party tonight."
"The party?" She repeated. "Oh the exclusive dance competition your contact mentioned? He said that was only for VIPs. How is crossing out the name of a drug ring's 'human resource manager' all over town going to get us invited?"
He answered on an entirely different subject, "We'll have to do something about your appearance."
She should have been offended, but her excitement about the covert operation got the best of her. "Ooh, like disguises? Whenever people are looking for a quick disguise, they dye their hair, right? Let's do it."
"No," Fushimi refused bitterly, without a moment's consideration. It brought instantly to mind a day back in the old apartment.
Yata burst through the door proclaiming, "I got some hair dye! Bright red, just like Mikoto-san!"
Usually, Fushimi took care of Yata's haircuts and such, since he never had money to have it done professionally, and it wasn't like the style he wanted was anything more than a mess. Fushimi knew he wanted him to do the color job too. Having no intention to give his support to Yata's obsession with the man, Fushimi pretended he was too busy to even acknowledge the request.
Eventually, Yata gave up and colored his own hair. The result was red hair and stains all over his face. Thankfully, he had been able to find a solution online to clean his friend's skin, but it had still taken a few days.
Fushimi couldn't help but picture Hotaru with red splotches all over her face. That was the main reason for his refusal. As much as he was annoyed by her naturally wine-colored hair, it would be too obvious that they had changed it.
"I meant your clothes."
That brought the offense back to her tone, and she huffed, "What's wrong with my clothes?"
"You can't go to an exclusive dance party looking like a Mori Girl."*
"Oi!" She reached over the table to smack him for that insult, but he easily evaded her slow movements. "It's not...that bad..." Disheartened, she stared at her hands in her lap.
The closest Fushimi ever got to concern for her reaction was a soft, emotionless, "Pay the bill. Let's go." And somewhere in those heartless words was an offer to buy her some better outfit.
Two teens with pants hanging low got up from the bench they'd been slouching on and crossed to the other side of the street as a chestnut-haired skater approached their location. He was more preoccupied with figuring out how to unwrap the breakfast item he had bought than the wannabe hoodlums, but they were not going to take the chance. Word had spread throughout their neighborhood about the boy from Homra who was thrashing anybody who didn't give him the answer he was seeking…and even those who did if they pissed him off.
Yata entered a skatepark, not paying any mind to the shadiness of it but instead feeling a little relaxed by the sound of wheels grinding on concrete as he sat down with his back against a chainlink fence to eat. He had had a long night of working his way up the drug trade ladder, starting with a mule riding a bike who directed him to a buyer in an alley who revealed a seller on a certain street corner who eventually gave up the name of his handler. That guy was a bit more difficult to crack since he was a store owner who could disguise the trade as his own business, but when Yata began torching merchandise and scaring off customers, he had none-too-willingly and quite secretively shoved a paper with two names on it and harassed him out the door. The first name was of his supplier in Ichiban, a guy named Torou who handled most of the trade dealings; the second was of the area of town where he could usually be found.
That led Yata here where, after wasting a lot of time searching for breakfast that wasn't secretively laced with something to help him get his fix, he finally purchased okonomiyaki which he could fold over and eat on the go. His mind wandered over the information in his pocket and the weight of more than a simple scrap of paper that was carried therein. Torou was leader over the business in this division of the city which meant, although he wasn't a second-in-command or what could be considered a "friend" among mob bosses, he was still high in the chain of command and a trusted ally. If he wanted someone to disappear, all he would have to do was wave a hand and the offender would never be seen again. Yata wasn't afraid for himself, of course; he was the vanguard of Homra. But for someone weaker in the self-defense department, it could be a bigger problem.
The screeching sound of metal on metal made him look up from his partially-eaten pancake to watch a kid who was probably around 16 trying to successfully grind a rail. Well, the grinding didn't seem to be the trouble—it was his dismount that was a little sloppy; his confidence waivered as he met the ground, and he stumbled off the board. He regained his composure as quickly as possible and stepped back on like it was no big deal so he could move out of the way for his buddy.
Yata, though, could see the disappointment on his face. His foot had been toying with his own skateboard—repeatedly pressing on the back until the front popped up—but now he itched to step on and show the kid what he did wrong.
The next skater to come down the rail was barely a teenager. As he neared the end, it was seen plainly on his face that he doubted his skill, especially after watching his friend fail, and he lost his balance. The board went one way and he toppled the other, meeting the pavement with a heavy thud.
His buddy hurried to his side. "Whoa! You okay, dude?"
Crumpling the paper form his meal, Yata stood with the intent of giving instruction, but was distracted by a shiny black Sedan pulling to the curb behind the boys. He had a flashback to a similar vehicle he had been ordered to find alongside an irritating Green Clanswoman when Totsuka's girlfriend had been kidnapped. A well-dressed middle-aged man stepped out, glanced at his surroundings, then crossed the street to a jewelry store, and he felt this must be what he was looking for.
Energy surged through him and he kicked his board into motion, shooting forward until he could jump to the top of the stairs where the rail was mounted and then off the other side. The teens called after him in awe and even more so after he fluidly wove through the middle of others using a half-pipe and out the opposite gate of the park into the street. At the other curb, he kicked his board into his hand and jogged to the storefront, doing his best to appear nonchalant as he almost ripped the door off as he opened it.
"I'll be right with you," said a stout older man behind the counter. He mumbled a few more words to the man from the Sedan and then gave him a nod before shuffling around the display to assist Yata.
"Yes sir, what can I help you find?" he inquired cheerfully while nudging Yata so that he turned away from the man and toward a display case of rings that were way more expensive than anything he'd ever buy. "Let me guess, something for that special, young lady in your life?"
Yata recognized the distraction tactic right away and he glanced up at the shining storefront window to catch a glimpse of the reflection of the other man disappearing through a door to the back room. He debated briefly whether to just bust through after him or to play it cool and catch him on the way out. He decided on the latter. If this guy was Torou, he wanted that yakuza to take him to Sato, not get spooked and then vanish. In this area, which was a busy hub of dark dealings, there would be a lot of eyes to warn the leader of Ichiban if one of his stores suddenly exploded in flames.
Looking toward an electronics store across from this shop, he made up a lame excuse. "I, uh…I think I came to the wrong place."
The clerk nodded, looking a little put-off by his words, but also like he would be more upset if he didn't have a high-roller currently in the back of his shop cutting deals. "Of course, of course, happens all the time."
He ushered Yata out the door, bidding him a good day and an invitation to return if there was anything else he could help with. Yata decided against demanding the head of the yakuza member who had just walked in there and turned to the entrance across the way. Weird place—had the name of a bakery on the building, but there were some really nice headphones in the window, and at least this way he could legitimately look like he belonged there while he spied on his target.
That theory didn't last as long as he would have liked since there was only so much to look at before his repeat wandering appeared suspicious, but he did watch a couple more smartly-dressed men filter into the jewelry store before he exited and returned to the skate park. If he sat on the steps, he'd be hidden enough, but still able to watch and wait for an opportunity to make his move.
But minutes turned to an hour and Homra's vanguard was not really one for the 'stakeout now, action later' approach; he soon found himself fidgeting with his skateboard again. A few more minutes and fidgeting became movement until he found himself at the top of the stairs performing basic tricks to pass the time which caught the attention of the kids from before. After a little flattery, they provoked him into demonstrating the best way to grind a rail.
"You gotta decide how you're gonna lock on," he told the younger of the two. "It's a round rail so it's harder that if it had corners. You can either have both wheels on one side and keep your weight over there..." His board was in his hands now so the teens could clearly see what he was describing as he positioned it on the rail. "…or you can get on crooked with your tail locked on this side and your front on the other side of the trucks."
The boys nodded in understanding so Yata went to the top of the stairs and rode the rail twice so they could see both methods in action. The other two chatted about which way would work better for the younger and that was a perfect time for Yata to take a breather, for when he did, he saw an armored truck pull into the alley behind the jewelry store. That wasn't strange in the least for a jewelry store, of course, at least to a normal passerby on the street and maybe to him as well if he hadn't seen a few yakuza go in an hour ago. He was also pretty sure that a truck delivering stock would have some sort of logo on the side.
Now in a hurry, he rushed through the explanation of a dismount as he jumped on his board. "When you come off, keep your weight on the back and you won't crash and burn. Commit to it!" With that tip in place, he hastily exited the park once more.
Several men stood with guns at the ready while they supervised two more who were moving boxes. They went on alert at the sound of footsteps and then a long shadow was cast from the entrance of the alleyway.
"You know, Mikoto-san would never have allowed this kinda stuff so close to his territory," the cause of the shadow voiced.
A couple men visibly recoiled and others mumbled to each other anxiously, "Suoh, Mikoto…!"
One man in the forefront wielding a rifle, presumably the leader of the security squad, frowned at his comrades' concern and asserted firmly, "Suoh, Mikoto is dead. What business do you have throwing that name around in our district?"
The shadow stretched closer as the person casting it drew nearer. The gunmen stood in position to fire at the word. At least, that is, until the culprit was discovered.
"Well, I still have to protect the honor of Homra," the voice said in a smirking tone.
Then, the individual was revealed—all 5'4" of Yatagarasu. Most were still familiar with the vanguard's reputation or just the word going around about one of the Homra boys beating up gangsters, and thus, they still held their weapons at the ready with anxious faces. In contrast, the leader did not seem too easily intimidated, perhaps even a little amused at his bravado. The henchman directly behind him, however, was not the same way and as the Red Clansman continued to advance on them, he fired a hasty shot which did nothing to deter the boy as he merely had to flare his aura to render the bullet useless. Yata wasn't about to let himself get caught off guard, though, so he decided to take care of that problem first.
When that particular goon got Yata in his sights again, the vanguard leapt to the side, kicked off the armored body of the transport truck in a burst of red and came down on the guy's chest, tackling him to the ground and knocking his handgun up into the boy's waiting hands. To his right, another henchman took aim and Yata winged the pistol into his cranium before he got any bright ideas. While still planted firmly on the chest of the first lackey, the Red Clansman turned to face the leader who was gazing in disappointment at his fallen men.
Two more men emerged from the back of the jewelry store with rifles in their hands; Yata acknowledged their presence over his shoulder and announced in frustration, "Look, jerk-offs, I'm not after your cash-out right now. Where is Torou?"
The lead man replied, "I have no idea who you're talking about," though the smug quirk of one side of his lips suggested he knew very well who that was.
Yata glared and his fists began to burn, eager to remove the arrogance on that face. He clenched them to keep from lighting up just yet as he tried one more time with the warning, "Now you're really pissing me off." He stepped off the henchman at his feet and stalked closer to the leader. "I'm only gonna ask you one more time. Where is he?"
Yata had felt the first guy struggling to breath under his weight so he had moved out of the goodness of his heart, but he should have stayed put because the moron was stupid enough to try to grab him then. Yata whipped around to effectively deck the guy, but by then the other two had decided to join the effort, and so it was at that point that the vanguard allowed himself to burst into red.
Above the fray, a sharply dressed man stood on a fire escape to apartments located above the shops while he watched the events unfolding below. His frown met his dark eyes beneath messy bangs brushed forward in stark contrast to the short buzz cut underneath. He fished a cellphone from the inner pocket of his suit jacket and selected the first option on speed dial. Someone picked up after one ring.
"Boss, you know that Homra kid who's been causing all that trouble? …I'm looking at him right now."
There was a beat of silence and a single command before the click of the call ending.
"Bring him to me."
The man on the fire escape stepped inside the apartment he was closest to via the window and returned to his vantage point a moment later bearing a rifle with a thin barrel and a scope. Breathing a sigh at the incompetence of his fellow employees, he leaned his arm against the railing and propped the rifle on top of it. A moment later, he had the boy in the beanie within his crosshairs.
The other two guys had provided slightly more of a challenge as they were bigger in stature, but although small, Yata was by no means weak. He heaved the second of them over his shoulder and into the guy he had stomped in the chest earlier, thus ending the fight. He then retrieved his skateboard and lined up with the leader once more.
Just as he prepared to kick off, however, he suddenly felt a pain like a bee sting on his neck. His hand flew to the impact site and came back, not holding an insect, but a thin cylinder with a puff of feathers on one end and a fine needle which glinted in the setting sun on the other. His eyes widened in horror and then his vision became unsteady.
He stumbled off of his skateboard and tried with all his might to right himself, but only succeeded in swaying like a drunk. The man before him smirked and Yata did his best to send him a death glare, but he couldn't see very straight and his eyelids were growing heavier by the second. Behind that man, however, Yata saw another individual descending from a fire escape nearby, defining features obscured by a shadow created by the setting sun.
Yata assumed this was the one who had shot him, and he advanced on him—much more slowly than he ever would have liked. His limbs felt like he was pulling the armored truck with them until they could no longer take the effort, and he dropped to his knees followed shortly by an ungraceful meeting of the pavement with the side of his face.
Freshly shined dress shoes appeared in his fading vision followed by knees in tailored dress pants as the new arrival crouched before him. A strong hand gripped his head and lifted it up to look at them, though the Red Clansman had to squint into the sun shining over their styled hair and couldn't see any real features.
"Thanks for dropping in, kid," said a male's voice before his consciousness fled from him. "Saved me the trouble of coming to look for ya."
The clothing store selected for their purposes by a quick internet search was obviously a place neither government official belonged in. Its colors were so convulsively bold that it looked like confetti vomit. Fushimi had an instant migraine. Everything on the racks looked like it would only cover the bare necessities, possibly only a fraction.
Wigs in every possible shade lined one wall, purses and accessories were smashed onto shelves in the back. They were apparently holding a huge sale in preparation for Christmas so that sections that may have usually been at least mildly organized had become a complete catastrophe.
Hotaru wasn't any more thrilled by the prospects, hesitating behind her taller companion. She didn't even know where to begin when it came to current trends. Fushimi took one look at her panicked expression and stepped up with a sigh.
"What size are you anyways?"
She blushed and sputtered bashfully. "F-four."
He clicked his tongue at her pointless embarrassment and walked into the first aisle of clothing. "It's not like it matters," he muttered as he grabbed every article in her size and threw them all into a pile in her arms. Once he had collected them all, he commanded, "Go try them on."
The heap of fabric shuffled off as instructed, and Fushimi collapsed onto a nearby chair the shape of a shoe to await the results.
For a while, all was quiet. Only the sounds of hangars moving around and Jpop in the background filled the air, until an unsure voice called timidly, "Fushimi?"
He had nearly drifted to sleep when his name was called, so his reply was quite a drowsy hum.
"I don't even know what to look for." The statement came out sounding choked off like admitting so was incredibly difficult for her.
"Just try it all. We'll put aside whatever doesn't work."
Somehow taking the accidental mention of 'we' as an invitation to include him in the process, Hotaru came out in the first outfit. She looked super self conscious, tugging the hem of the short shorts further down in an attempt to make them longer. Her thin, porcelain legs were exposed clear down to the ankle where her fleece socks had bunched up. While she blushed at trying on such revealing clothes in front of a guy, he analyzed it purely on logistics.
"Not that shirt. It's the same thing you were just wearing."
Hotaru looked down at her torso, raising her arms in confusion. This was a flowing, lacy blouse; whereas, she had been wearing a knit sweater. He ushered her back into the changing room without another word, though. She tried several more shirts with the distressed jean shorts - from midriff baring halter tops to t-shirts with claw marks torn out of them - none of which met with approval.
She tried on a jumpsuit even shorter than the shorts with a front zipper that purposefully only came up to the bottom of the sternum which received the criticism, "Slutty Bōsōzoku."*
Then a doll-like dress met with, "Too Loli."
The skin-tight pants gave her "bird legs," and all the hip-hop looks gave her the appearance of a child. Halfway through the store, the only thing he hadn't turned his nose up at entirely was a sleeveless turtleneck with keyholes in the front and the back, but even that she had nothing to wear with.
Esteem completely deflated, she returned to the changing room yet again with another failed attempt. How could anyone even stand to be with a guy like that, who had something demeaning to say at every turn and no concept at all of how another person's feelings work? She wanted to cry. He had insulted every single aspect of her physique with an unchanging exasperation.
This was his idea in the first place, so why was she the one suffering? Then again, the selections had also been his choice. None of this clothes was anything she would choose to wear herself, which meant his cutting remarks weren't necessarily a personal assault. If she also acknowledged how mockable the articles of clothing were and thought of herself as trying them on just to be silly, what he said about them might not bother her so much.
She looked at her own body in the full length mirror on the back of the stall door, at the miniscule curves that hardly even required a bra or panties to conceal. At least part of what he said. The rest was far too close to true to be ignored.
"What's taking so long?" His taunting interrupted her thoughts. "Did you get lost inside a size small?"
She grit her teeth and threw on the fastest thing. Slamming the door open, she snapped at him, "Why don't you try on some of the crap in here, and we'll see what your legs look like in a mini skirt? Why am I the only one looking for a new wardrobe anyhow? You look like you came straight from a private, prep school in your designer blandness! What are you going to wear to the party?"
He had been yawning when she first burst out, but her outrage at least took the singsong out of his mocking when he calmly pointed out, "You're wearing it wrong."
"What did you say?" She demanded furiously.
To avoid the bother of repeating himself, Fushimi strode over to readjust the skirt line himself. Scandalized, Hotaru gasped in shock as he untied the sloppy bow she had made, and she backpedaled into the changing room. He followed, not dissuaded in the slightest, grabbed the waistband, and pulled down. Her hands flew to her chest.
"W-what are you doing?"
He flicked her collarbone where he had just removed what she had assumed was some sort of bizarre cowl neckline. "Those aren't sleeves," he explained, referring to the part of the dress that now squeezed her elbows to her sides. "Off."
At least he had closed the door behind them so no one else could witness the scene. The look on Fushimi's face clearly read, I hate this as much as you do, but the sentiment seemed to come from annoyance at perceived incompetence rather than an actual comprehension of the emotions behind her hyperventilation. He also looked like he was ready to rip the dress off her himself if she didn't act quickly.
She slipped her arms out the top, and what she had thought of as a neckline snapped neatly into place around her chest. The arm holes turned into coyly located slits down each side. Even the skirt lengthened itself to cover the top third of her thighs. Before she could thoroughly assess herself, Fushimi whirled her around by the shoulders, thrusting her into the wall. He grabbed the sashes she had tied around her waist and brought them up, around to the back of her neck where they were supposed to be fastened.
Then he directed her as gently as in a dance to see herself in the mirror. It was a blue, shimmering bodycon dress with a halter-styled top that magnified the bosom while equally covering it modestly. The uncovered sides were not too incredibly revealing either.
Fushimi expressed her opinion in far less descriptive words. "Not bad."
"I guess not," she agreed, examining her new look as it slowly registered in her mind that Fushimi had neither harmed her nor ever intended to. With all that skin exposed, though, "I'm going to be cold."
"We can fix that," Fushimi assured like it was no problem at all.
"And you?" She inquired of his reflection in the mirror.
He remembered her question she was referring to from a few minutes prior and answered accordingly, "Us 'bland, prep' guys only need something like this on one arm to get into a party."
She blushed as deeply as her burgundy hair from the unexpected compliment in such close quarters, even if the one saying it had an apathetic expression and the personality fitting for a Grumpy Cat meme.
Just after sunset, the two undercover agents stood in a line that originated at an elevator and ran all the way outside the building. The location was one of those high rise residences built atop a business, not at all unlike the design of Bar HOMRA or the loft he had one upon a time shared with a certain hothead. The only notable difference was in quality. HOMRA was mid-range; their studio apartment had been the run-down kind of place where homicides had happened previously; this place was the kind celebrities lived at, with an Italian designer as its store front and a helipad on the roof like they had only dreamed of as kids. The exterior walls were of gold plating and one directional glass rather than cinder blocks or chipped cement.
It was the kind of place that man's wife might have brought him to if she had ever admitted to his existence. He didn't feel out of place in the least surrounded by all the luxury. With his history that would be impossible. Frustration was the predominant source of negativity.
Neither did Hotaru look uncomfortable in the high-end environment. In the nearly nonexistent dress yes, but not the social level. They had managed to find a navy, mesh camisole that would keep her warm without ruining the tease the dress have at her sides. To that, they had added nylons of the same color and transparency with starbursts resembling the night sky and thigh-high platform boots. In turn, she had persisted in buying him a fedora from the women's accessory store because it "completed his snob look." He hated it because it reminds him of that technopathic hipster. Then again, he could definitely picture that guy at this party.
In any case, they belonged just fine in the line of people. Most of the others there were famous for something or other. There were rappers, the biggest athletes, upper level Yakuza, the descendents of billionaires, and a variety of other people of the same caliber that Fushimi didn't care to learn about.
In the midst of all that prowess, a select few were so VIP that the line was cut off just for their entrance, such as DJ Makidai or the featured dancers of the night. Those who waited, fought off the cold with gossip. Of the many whispered rumors in the air that night, there was one on everyone's lips: the threat against Ichiban's Sakuraya divisional leader. Fushimi smirked in a twisted sort of self satisfaction that word had spread so quickly.
The theories of who was behind the threat varied from person to person. Some were attributing it to a certain delinquent who had been taking out their underlings one-by-one in rather violent ways. (At that, Fushimi couldn't help but wonder if Misaki had somehow stumbled upon the same trail). Another, more informed person corrected that thought by pointing out whoever had been pummeling Ichiban's men hadn't been limiting himself to Torou's division. The two were potentially related, but certainly not the same person.
Eventually, the line progressed forward so that it was the blue clansmen's turn to be checked for entry. Aside from a select few instant access guests, everyone was expected to be on the invitation list. Fushimi and Hotaru weren't on the list, but they were prepared.
Unable to recognize them at first glance, the bouncer demanded curtly, "Name," like it was something he did way too much of.
Rather than answer, Fushimi extracted the wallet from his pocket, whipped out one of the business cards he had made that morning, and presented it to the man between his index and middle fingers. Already accustomed to the higher-than-thou attitude of many attendees at these events, the man took the card without much thought.
Only after seeing the sole logo embossment did his eyes widen with interest. "You're..." He looked from the card to the person who had provided it. The young man held a straight face, neither flaunting the identity nor denying the allegations. The bouncer finished his earlier comment neutrally, "gutsy."
He called over the two guards standing at the front door, and handed one of them the card with instructions to seek Torou's approval. Then, gesturing to the second, he requested politely of the potential guests, "Please wait here a moment."
That guard was overly talkative, while not necessarily being too eloquent. He tried to strike up a conversation with them while they waited so as to keep the customers happy.
"Shame to keep a lady like you from dancing." He mentioned to Hotaru with one of those friendly voices that was creepy.
"Uh...thanks," she replied, unsure of how to take the compliment. Suddenly she felt aware again of just how short the dress was.
Fushimi didn't really pay attention to the exchange of forced cordiality - finding his mind was becoming clouded with stray feelings he couldn't comprehend in anticipation of the coming encounter - until the topic of conversation changed to him.
"You remind me of someone," the guard awkwardly pointed out all of a sudden.
Even eyes pointed toward the marble, lobby floor, he glanced sideways at the bizarre man with a grumble. "Like you've seen me around some place?"
"No, no," the doorman corrected. "I see thousands of people doing this. It's more like...aha that lady whose face is on all those business magazines! Fu...Fu- something. Anyhow, used to see this guy named Niki quite a lot. Sometimes when he was drunk he'd say this business lady was his college sweetheart and throw darts at her pictures in those articles complaining how she'd let him down by becoming boring. If the two of them ever did get together, this is undoubtedly the face that would come from it."
Fushimi's expression never changed from the same shut-down stare he had adopted at the first mention of the people whose social status he had inherited. It was still quite clear that he loathed the connection, and feelings that strong on the matter suggested that the relation had not been imagined by the bouncer.
Hotaru wondered why he felt that way about his family. It wasn't like the idea of negativity towards parents was entirely foreign to her either. She was just curious. Had it been a determining factor in his unappealing personality? Was that the reason the randomest things could trigger a complete shutdown in his computer brain? There had to be more to the story than just a little drunk rambling.
She knew it wasn't the time to bring such things up.
The third doorman returned then and whispered Torou's response to hearing the news for only the main guy to hear. He acknowledged the message with a wave of the hand showing they should be let in.
Oh no Yata! This might not be good... And Fushimi's about to enter his father's world. Hope you liked this chapter, and look forward to the next one! :D
*Mori Girl is a clothing style typically of natural tones and baggy, shapeless clothes. Literally the forest style.
Bōsōzoku is something like pit crew uniforms.
Thank you "Prince" for making an appearance from Days of Blue- White Bean Stewed Tofu Panic!