"That's a wrap, everyone! Let's get this over to editing!"
Yamamoto Seiko removed her headphones and turned off the microphone. Several of the other voice actors followed suit shortly afterward. "Are we still recording, Director?"
Their director wasn't a handsome fellow, but Seiko admired him more for his creative mind and vision. An artistic genius was an artistic genius, even if he looked like somebody attempted to turn a tired sheepdog into a human being and stuffed him into a three-piece suit. "Don't worry, Seiko-chan. You're free! We're sending the audio over to editing before we give the official launch tonight in three hours. But, considering this was the 100th episode…"
To any radio drama production, that was a huge deal. Secret Scroll was the highest grossing drama the Land of Smoke had ever produced and they were the entertainment capital of the shinobi world. They had devoted listeners in the frigid Land of Snow all the way to the southernmost island in the Land of Water.
There were even rumors about animating the series so the same voice actors could stick to their characters and tap into television. Considering how much plastic surgery Muraki needed to fix his burns, perhaps that was for his best. Even after he dropped enough money with his trusted surgeons to potentially fund a coup—just as his character Lord Mikami did in Episode 72—he still didn't look quite right. These days, the wax statues in the celebrity museum looked more lifelike than he did.
Murahoshi Muraki's great and burning star imploded, leaving only a badly charred brown dwarf and an emotional black hole behind. By comparison, as his former fiancée, Seiko saw her own little star grow into a big one. Two years ago, she'd been a barely recognized pop idol who made most of her money from radio and commercial jingles. Now she was the most popular singer in the city.
Champagne sat in ice-filled buckets for the cast and staff to enjoy. The director popped the cork and poured for everyone. Usually, he was their boss. Today, he was their servant: showing appreciation for each and every master of the trade. "We've come so far! When I first pitched the idea of a historical drama about the founding days of shinobi villages to the Bureau of Entertainment, I didn't think our Beloved Mayor would sanction it. But he did! And now? For many people who have made the transition from radio to TV, they're only keeping the radio for us!"
Seiko thought that claim was a bit too bold to be true, but she smiled and gave the director a kiss on his beard-covered cheek anyway. "I take it our contract was renewed, then? We're doing another season?" Another champagne cork loudly popped. Confetti flew in the air and the crew applauded. "Well? Are we?"
"We are!" The director laughed loudly. "I'm also finalizing the details with a studio out in Fifth Ward to start animating the series by early winter, but imagine it for a moment! We'll get to see our characters rather than only hear them!"
Seiko took her first sip of the bubbling drink and grinned. Few things whet her palate quite like a fine imported wine! Sake was great, but it reminded her of cheaper, seedier days when men called her baby and sugar.
"There's much to celebrate, everyone! Have as much as you want here, but stay sober enough join me in the VIP room of the Golden Peach when it's time for the episode to air! Understood?"
"Sir, yes sir!" everyone cheered in unison.
…
Having cocktail hour in the studio was one thing. Renting out the VIP room of one of the Second Ward's trendiest nightclubs for the entire crew was another. It meant the director had big plans for the upcoming season.
The Golden Peach decorated everything in pale gold, chrysanthemum orange, and jade green against black marble. Outside, their neon sign of the rabbit goddess crouched forward to blow on the peach of wisdom. Once she did, gold spirals glittered before the brief animation started over.
Every time Seiko attended events like these, she felt gratitude in her heart. She started out as a waitress, so she went out of her way to tip generously and encourage them if this was an in-between job until their actual dreams came true. So many talented stars were drowned out and never given a chance to shine. It was all about who you knew, and who you could charm enough to get at least one foot in the door.
The Secret Scroll director took a chance by hiring unknown actors and actresses for his project. Only Muraki was famous when the show started. Now places as far away as the Land of Moors invited Seiko to sing for their Red Sun Festival and paid for the whole trip. She was Lady Yokubō now: the main heroine of the series.
Excitedly, the leggy blonde scooted next to an older actress who played Lady Nintai and wrapped both her arms around the older woman's right arm. "What a night! Am I right!?"
Just outside the nightclub, a quartet of filthy teenage boys and an even dirtier-looking girl in a halter dress sat on the steps. Each of them displayed with broken pride their busted and worn-out Kirigakure headbands. They were runaway genin from the Bloody Mist. Like stray dogs, they congregated as a pack in an attempt to intimidate those who recognized the insignia of the village they abandoned to come here. They had also scratched themselves raw in places with oozing sores on their heads, arms, backs, and necks.
"Ugh…" Seiko wrinkled her nose in disgust. "Even here? They're becoming more brazen about leaving the Sixth Ward." She could more easily sympathize with the struggling waitresses because they were at least working legitimate jobs. Their plans didn't involve panhandling and intimidating civilians.
The cast moved closer together. Mimi, the older actress, sighed. "I thought Trash Ninjas kept to the Hidden Smog…?"
"Unfortunately," Muraki growled, "not all of them do." He clacked along, using his cane to figure out where they were going. "It's here, right?"
"Yes, dear. This is the place." Sometime early last year, his eye transplants failed him. Although Seiko urged him to get a replacement, he refused to do so until fresh sharingan hit the market again. A stubborn ass like that could only be pitied so much.
"Hey! Fuck you!" the street girl hissed. She pulled out a rusty kunai and pointed it threateningly at Mimi. "They're slaughtering bloodlines left and right where we live! We're REFUGEES, you heartless pricks!"
"Do any of us look like we care?" Muraki quipped back. Eyes or no eyes, he still had his old Iwagakure instincts. He'd been one of their elite once. "Refugees, mutineers, deserters, legitimate transfers: it doesn't matter what you call it. Trash is still trash."
The club doors revolved, swinging open to accept the next group of visitors. The moment the group made it inside, Seiko wondered if the Golden Peach staff could call the police and escort those eyesores away.
"We apologize for the inconvenience outside," a handsome bartender in a mandarin-style jacket called out. Thousands of spirits from all across the shinobi world glittered and gleamed behind him from the golden light. "One of our attendants is on the phone with the Second Ward precinct right now. Those…people won't be there when you leave. You're safe here."
"Welcome, cast of Secret Scroll!" The hostesses wore traditional Land of Smoke garments: the tight, form-fitting silk brocade qipao that went down to the ankle but left nothing to the imagination with their daring high slits up the sides.
The Golden Peach staff brought more alcohol and a few of the fancier pub foods from the kitchen to their patrons. It was the full celebrity treatment: something not a single one of the cast originally thought they'd experience. Most got their start in commercials and stage plays. No one expected the show to become this popular, especially for a dying art like radio.
Although they could feel the base from the music downstairs, the walls of the Peach Pit were soundproofed. "Do you think we should pack up the leftover food when we're done and give it to the bums outside if they're still there?"
Seiko turned to see that the person who spoke up was Seiya: their seventeen-year-old male lead. Unlike some of the others, he came from a well-to-do family and wanted to give back to the community. He volunteered at a Sixth Ward soup kitchen on weekends and donated to a few other charities. He was everyone's darling.
Orange silk cushions covered benches stretching across all four walls of the VIP room. Seiya sank into the fabric and fluff. Most of him was hidden in there, making him appear tiny and innocent. He was innocent. Hopefulness sparkled in his big hazel eyes.
"You shouldn't do that," Muraki warned him. He held out a cigarette and thanked Mimi when she lit it for him. "They're former ninjas and all you have on you is a dull pocketknife. That won't scare them off when they decide to mug you or worse. Seiko? Did you catch where they're from?"
The blonde ran her fingertip around the edge of her cocktail. It sang, indicating the glass was made of pure cut crystal. "Kirigakure," she informed her ex. "Those were former Mist Ninjas." But she wasn't one herself. She trusted Muraki's judgment on who belonged to the more dangerous villages. A trash ninja was still a trash ninja, but–
Muraki hissed in a breath and frowned firmly at Seiya. "Do not give them food, Seiya. I'm warning you. That's the most violent village on the continent." Even the director seemed surprised by that. "They pair children off to kill their classmates before they even permit them to be genin. Every deadbeat heckling us outdoors had at least one kill count apiece before they even left their hometown."
"But basic human kindness–"
"Shinobi don't have that, Seiya! They're cold-blooded killing machines! And now they're out of work and glare at those of us who got a lucky break. You won't warm their hearts with charity. You'll only succeed in further invoking their wrath."
The director got up, turning on the radio and surrounding speakers. "IT'S ON THE AIR, EVERYONE! TIME TO LISTEN!"
…
'When are those assholes going to come back to the apartment and guard me?' Tadashī fidgeted in his chair, watching on the stove as the canned sausage and beans he poured into a frying pan began to smell more palatable and less like dog food. "Hungry?" he asked his guests.
"I don't even know what that is," Utaro grumbled, sticking a shrimp-flavored potato chip in his mouth. "I think we'll pass, but thanks for offering, Tadashī-san."
These weren't even the ninjas he paid for. What use did he have for a couple of runaways? Inago Utaro and Akane Chigusa were trash ninjas: the very sort that stole good, honest jobs from those who were born here–like him! Naturally, he despised them for this fact alone. A part of him even had to wonder if they'd be worth anything to that black market doctor on the eleventh floor.
But for now, he had to play nice. They were the only protection he had until Fugaku and the twins returned and found their missing sensei. 'And when you little shits come back, we're gonna have a chat about responsibility. Even if your sensei's dead, and I'm certain he is, we'll need an action plan.'
Utaro leaned on the Akane girl, letting a sweaty naked arm touch her equally naked arm. His breath turned a bit shaky, which made the girl chuckle before snuggling closer to give his cheek a kiss. The shaky breaths intensified and Tadashī rolled his eyes.
"Tadashī-san?" Chigusa batted her golden eyes coyly. "I can't help but notice you have a radio." Tadashī was one of the few men to own a functional radio inside the Smog Village. However, as was standard for every radio in the nation, it would default switch to the Smoke City News in the event of a state of emergency or high profile story. "It's almost time for Se–"
"Shit, girl. Not you too!" Tadashī groaned. "Ugh. Fine! If you want to tune in to that Secret Scroll crap, then be my guest." He'd just pour himself a stiff drink and take a swig every time someone swooned over fuckin' Lord Mikami.
…
"I shall never forget the first time my eyes met those of the Third Lord. Lord Mikami stared at me as though I were queen of the whole continent, even though it would take another twenty years for him to conquer it. Yet, in that moment, I believed. No other consort mattered to him. The only name he whispered that first night—and every night after—was mine: Yokubō. Yokubō.
"Although my beginnings were low, as the illegitimate daughter of rival clan heirs who were disinherited for their love, Lord Mikami filled every hole in my heart. I became his reason to live again. He became my reason to love again. Cruel as it was, it was fate.
"Which was why it pained me so to watch as he rekindled his old relationship with Lady Nintai and Lady Taikyū…" Beautiful music played: an erhu paired with a wavering flute and gentle drums. The heroine sighed with passion and longing. "I miss him so. I miss him so…"
"But your loneliness is little more than a drop of rain in an ocean of sorrow, Lady Yokubō." The music changes, indicating the theme piece for Shinrai: Seiya's character. "And if Lord Mikami can no longer look upon you with love and longing in his eyes, then maybe it is finally time to tell him the truth."
"About us?" Yokubō's voice wavered. "Shinrai, you're–"
"We're not so different, are we? You were the product of a romance between the Shinrin and Kasai clans," obvious stand-ins for Senju and Uchiha, considering the clan names. "I'm proof that one of Princess Kaguya's lineage fell from grace and sullied her perfect blood with a commoner."
"What is your point?"
"That commoner didn't remain a commoner, my lady." All listeners could hear the dread building in Shinrai's voice. "He served the Lord of Wind."
"No…"
"Worked up the ranks–"
"Shinrai, stop! I don't–"
"…and secured his position by seducing the most powerful woman in that noble clan. I'm that child, Yokubō. I'm proof that your love for Lord Mikami knows no bounds. To find me, his own son–"
…
…but the ending, just before Lord Mikami discovered that he sired a bastard during the campaign that first endeared him to the Lord of Wind, and that this bastard was Shinrai, the door cracked open.
"We apologize, most revered entertainers!" The waitress bowed her pink-haired head to show her respects, "There is a gentleman in the club who says he knows Muraki-sama. If he were just a fan, I'd tell him the party is closed, but he says he's your doctor."
'Shigeru?' Seiko winced. 'What is that ghoul doing here!?'
Back when she and Muraki were still dating, well before he proposed to her, Uzumaki Shigeru was one of the first friends he'd introduced her to…assuming a man could call his plastic surgeon a friend. Shigeru continued to help Muraki transform his face long after every legitimate doctor begged the man to stop.
He'd even performed Muraki's first sharingan transplant, though the eyes had been far from fresh during the procedure. Muraki had apparently killed a man in combat and kept the eyes preserved as part of his escape plan to Kemuri. In time, they started to decay.
Shigeru proposed hiring a young Uchiha a couple of years ago, just so Muraki could scrap him for parts. Healthy eyes, younger eyes…
Seiko remembered feeding that boy–Uchiha Fugaku, if she remembered his name correctly–meals rich in Vitamin A and beta-carotene and doing her best to come across as a nice hostess when, in truth, she knew what her fiancé had in store for him.
So she spoiled that boy while she could. She bought him nice outfits, took him to nice restaurants, and even spent one afternoon trying to convince him to join her for a fun outing at an amusement park. All of it was in the hopes of having it soften the blow before the inevitable happened and Muraki dragged the poor thing off to Shigeru's clinic to steal his eyes.
The problem was Fugaku got away before that could happen. One of the trash ninjas in the Hidden Smog helped him escape and left Muraki with burns that had taken well over a year of grafts and procedures with Shigeru to correct.
"Muraki?" the director asked. "Do we need to give you a moment alone with your physician?" They all knew.
Shigeru stepped in, shivering despite the fact it was balmy outside and the club was far from cold. His lab coat had blood stains and other bodily fluids spattered all over it. To the actors, all that gore looked too graphic to be acceptable anywhere other than a horror film. "My lab's been contaminated! I need to stay with you for a couple of days until everything dies down."
"Oh god. The smell." Mimi covered her nose and mouth with a handkerchief. "What did you cut open, Shigeru-san?"
"An Aburame." Mimi hadn't expected Shigeru to answer, and especially hadn't expected him to do so in such a nonchalant tone. "Look. It's only until my wife comes here to help out. She's off in Takigakure right now and–"
Muraki groaned, putting out his cigarette in a crystal ash tray. "Shigeru…you've taken care of me for all these years. I think I can set you up with a hotel room, but I'd rather not have you in my house."
The redhead bowed. "That's enough, honey. I promise."
…
"Why don't we continue the party at my house?" Seiko excitedly scooted closer to the director. There, happily placed on her hand, was a new engagement ring. She held her dainty hand out to contemplate the jewelry. Her fingers flexed outward, drawing attention also to her long bronze-painted nails.
Eventually, her time with Muraki came to a close. He was insufferable after the Uchiha Fugaku incident and wallowed in a sea of self-pity when he underwent reconstructive surgery after reconstructive surgery. That man deserved to spend time with a creep like Shigeru.
And she could tell from the way the redheaded doctor in the blood-stained coat smiled at her ex, he clearly saw great benefit from continuing that friendship. Shigeru made Seiko shiver. As tempting as it was to do as Muraki did and augment herself with a sharingan to improve her acting abilities, Seiko remained hesitant.
After seeing Shigeru and Muraki, she privately vowed to never partake in transplants. She would never deprive a lost youth of his eyes, his ears, his tongue, his whatever. Every stride she made, she'd owe it all to herself and not the lingering parts of an unfortunate victim.
"I can put on a roast," she told the director. "I could give us some real food to consider, and–Seiya? Sweetie, what are you doing?"
Even though they warned him not to do it, the boy asked the waitresses for a doggy bag and began scraping as many leftovers as he could into the bag. Sushi, lukewarm tempura vegetables, flash-fried squid tentacles: the works. "The right thing."
"Don't tell me you're feeding the trash ninjas! Muraki told you not to!"
"You know what, Seiko-san?" The boy frowned. "That is a very offensive term! Those people outside escaped one of the most dangerous villages on the continent. They risked everything to come here and fell on hard times. It's not their fault our economy's in bad shape and we can't support them."
Muraki slowly shook his head, reached for his cane, and sighed. "Dumbass," he grumbled. "When you stagger into the emergency room with a knife in your gut, don't say I didn't warn you. Shigeru? Let's place a few calls and get you set up for the next few days."
"Yaaaay! You're the best!" The Uzumaki followed along, giving the Golden Peach employees a few scares as they realized the blood on his coat wasn't fake.
One by one, Seiya observed as the other actors and actresses left. He was the last to leave, not wishing to be chastised again by his older colleagues. After one final sip of blackcurrant juice, he made his way downstairs. A waiter opened the door for him and wished him a good night. "Thanks! You too!"
Some of the mugginess from earlier had cleared up. For a hot summer night, it at least felt dry. Every drop of sweat Seiya excreted dried within seconds. A number of people were still out. A few waved at him because they recognized him as Ohzora Seiya: the mayor's son. He couldn't help but wonder what they'd think if they realized he was the voice of Shinrai.
After he ran this one errand, he'd take a trolley back to the Second Ward's south end. By Station 2C, it was only a one block walk to his apartment. Judging from the time flashing in white light on the giant clock, Seiya had ten minutes to kill before the next trolley arrived.
The runaways from Kirigakure relocated to a street corner two blocks west of the club. They hadn't gone far: just far enough to say they were about a hundred meters from the Golden Peach and therefore too far to justify calling the police. Although it was warm out, they'd chosen to burn trash in a can to keep the bugs away. It was prime mosquito season.
Seiya walked toward the homeless teenagers cautiously, remembering he still had his knife on hand in case things soured–but why would they? He was coming out with food! "Oh, good! You're still here! I have something for you."
All five glanced up at him with a gone, tired expression on their waif-like faces. They were gaunt, almost skeletal. One boy smiled, showing teeth as sharp and jagged as a shark's. A strong fishy smell came from the girl as she stretched her legs and moved away from the largest boy's lap. She took the bag and opened it. "It's food." She grinned. "Fresh?"
"We had a catered media release party and nobody wanted the leftovers. They were going to throw them out anyway, so I thought–"
"That's awfully nice of you." She put her hand on his shoulder, gesturing for him to sit at a nearby bench. "Are you waiting for your trolley ride, honey?" Seiya nodded his head. "We'll wait with you, alright? Make sure no one else bothers you…"
…
"I can't believe this nonsense got the green light for another season," Tadashī groaned during a commercial break. "Somebody makes a ridiculously overpowered female character, has her sleep with every man in the show, and thinks this is how she'll win back the most promiscuous man in literary history! Why people treat this show like a modern classic is beyond me! I'd rather hear fingernails on a chalkboard than hear that whiny bitch swoon on and on about Lord Mikami or hear that hammy ass say oh cruel fate for the thousandth goddamn time!"
Tadashī stuffed another tiny sausage in his mouth, gnawing on its rubbery exterior as though it were tough as jerky. "Would you kids believe me if I told you that I know the director? He used to live on this floor."
Chigusa's eyes went wide. "You're kidding!"
"Nope! There's a flat not too far from here that used to be his. He moved out as soon as the show got popular. Go figure another writer moved in the next day." Tadashī ate another sausage and shoveled some beans into his mouth. "Can't say I blame him for wanting to leave, either. If I could afford a nice place in Second or Fifth Ward, I'd leave too!"
Utaro smiled politely. "Your documentary is your ticket out of here, isn't it?"
"Of course it is! It's just a shame that my medium is nowhere near as popular as this stupid swill! My art showcases the horrors of reality: a reality so terrible that our black market permissive culture wants to pretend it's invisible! It's just a shame that trash like this can turn a profit when serious works like mine—"
Before he could say anything else, the radio kicked on and a very nervous commentator spoke up. "We thank you for listening to Secret Scroll tonight. Congratulations to the cast for 100 wonderful episodes, but…"
Chigusa leaned closer to the machine. Utaro's ears perked up.
"…the direction of the show will dramatically have to change in order to continue beyond this point. Thirty minutes ago, Ohzora Seiya, voice actor for the character Shinrai, was found in a Second Ward alley with multiple stab wounds in his stomach and a cut throat. Kemurigouken police from the Second Precinct suspect a mugging gone wrong, but the culprits are at large. Our Beloved Mayor, Ohzora Soichi-sama, had this to say…"
Chigusa was deathly pale and stared at Utaro in disbelief. "Isn't the Second Ward–"
"The safest part of the city," the Inago boy sighed, closing his eyes. "This is bad, Chigusa. We couldn't have picked a better time to leave." He reached out to hug the girl, stroking her back. She held on tightly, taking the news as though a dear friend had died. She had listened to this show since it first hit the airwaves.
"Please bear with me," the voice over the radio requested. Ohzora Soichi, mayor of Kemurigouken, had a voice that resonated. Utaro could hear it on other floors, quickly making note of who owned such a device.
The words even reverberated through the radio speakers inside Shigeru's abandoned lab. Even the corpses and Buyo's flies would hear this announcement.
"I normally have time to prepare my speeches, at least an hour or so. But just ten minutes ago, I received a call from one of our hospitals, informing me that my son is dead.
"It wasn't quick. The first blows were to his stomach and took several minutes to bleed out. In that time, his attacker repeatedly stabbed him in other places, just to make him suffer. The final…" He had to stop for a moment, muttering sorry, sorry at the microphone. "…the final blow came in the form of a serrated knife across his throat.
"Seiya was a son any father would have been proud to have. He spent his entire life bringing joy to others. He sang at weddings and birthdays. He spent his weekends cleaning garbage out of run-down neighborhoods and donated food and clothing regularly. We oftentimes have to remind our children to share. My wife and I…sorry…sorry…we had to constantly remind Seiya to keep some things to himself. He probably died trying to help somebody else."
Nobody in that apartment–no, the entire floor–dared to say a word.
"But we all know who really did this, don't we? It's our thousands, if not millions, of unlisted, undocumented poor: the vagrants and rogue ninjas who abandoned their old lives to come here. They've descended upon us honest, hardworking folk like locusts. And with my boy gone, nothing good and wholesome remains in this godforsaken place.
"We've let this slide for far too long, but the trash ninjas aren't our only problem. It's our permissive culture toward those who do business with the black markets. We've attracted the garbage with this.
"My predecessor opened our doors and offered amnesty to refugees and war deserters: giving them a promise of a new life and a chance to make something of themselves in our growing frontier. All we succeeded in doing was creating a haven for the very dregs of shinobi society!
"It has to end! The undocumented poor. The black market. The people who enable the black market by buying transferable bloodline limits to augment themselves–it must end.
"Just a few months ago, a brave man in the Sixth Ward proposed a tell-all documentary about our beautiful city's dark underbelly. I shot it down and told him that such a piece would reflect badly on our culture–that we were an inherently good city. I've…changed my mind about that. Shiri Tadashī…if you're listening to this broadcast…"
Tadashī dropped his plate, maw wide open. The other two stared at him, too stunned to fully comprehend what was happening.
"Finish the documentary, Tadashī. Finish it so we can put a stop to all this. For all the Seiyas out there, and for the love of any gods you might believe in, finish it."
