Chapter Fourteen: Tribute
Another wintry evening settled in, blanketing a quiet Tokyo neighborhood in darkness. Nestled between a row of apartments, a street-side ramen stand beckoned, a warm and inviting glow emanating from within it. The air was drunk with the savory aromas of pork and fish. They weighed the atmosphere down on a night when the chill otherwise made it feel thin. Broad squares of cloth hung from the stand's eave, the gaps between them revealing two cooks busily working behind the counter and a few patrons sitting at the bar in front.
A black sedan pulled up to park. Three men emerged, their designer clothes hidden under wool coats meant to ward off the cold. Wearing black, two of them acted as guards, flanking a man in tan who walked a step or two behind them. Together, they approached the ramen stand and dipped their heads under the cloth banners as they entered.
"Welcome! Welcome!" the young cook called out, his hands dancing between bubbling trays of tofu, mushrooms, and eggs as he prepared orders and manned the sizzling grill. "What can we get for you?"
"I'll take your pork cutlet special," the man in the tan coat replied.
"Have a seat then," he said, packing to-go bowls into a paper bag. "It'll just be a few minutes." Looking back over his shoulder, he shouted to the older cook, "Three more orders for eel and a shrimp wonton from the app, pops!"
"And a pork cutlet special."
"Don't worry, sir-," the young cook began, looking up for the first time. His face blanched when he saw the men and the spatula he held clattered onto the floor.
The men smiled.
"We already paid this week."
"You did," the man agreed.
The few customers sitting at the bar disappeared, leaving behind their payment and half-finished meals.
"Then what do you want?"
"A pork cutlet special," he replied menacingly.
A hand clasped the young cook on the shoulder. The older cook stood behind him. "Go make the man his order, Hiroshi."
The young cook looked back at him. "But, pops…"
He shook his head.
Muttering a curse under his breath, he retreated to the back of the stand, his hands clenched into fists.
"Forgive my son, Yoshiro-san," the older cook said with a bow to the man in the tan coat.
"Seems that business is great despite the terrible service," Yoshiro remarked with distaste and gestured for the cook to approach.
Warily, he slipped from behind the counter to join the men on the side of the bar.
Flipping the lid open and closed, Yoshiro toyed with a bottle of hot sauce he had discovered next to one of the abandoned bowls. "The age of the internet, I suppose. All these apps. Delivery services that let even a shitty ramen stand reach more customers than ever before."
The two guards closed in on the cook, each grabbing an arm in a vicelike grip.
"Pops!" the son shouted, a knife in hand.
"Stop, Hiroshi!" his father begged. Peeking out from behind the man's unbuttoned coat was a gun secured in a belt. "It's okay. We'll be okay. Just make his order."
"But…"
"Please."
From over the counter, Yoshiro glared, daring Hiroshi to confront him with the knife. Their eyes locked for a long moment, the sizzling and bubbling food filling the silence. And then something broke inside the son and he turned away. Setting the knife down, he started preparing the ramen bowl, angry tears spilling down his cheeks.
Yoshiro sneered, satisfied. His attention turned back to the father. "You've been lying to us," he accused dispassionately, flipping the bottle open and prying off the plastic cap that controlled the flow of the sauce. "The number of customers that come to your stand hasn't changed, but deliveries have been booming. And we haven't been getting our cut."
"I'm sorry. We'll pay."
"You will," he agreed.
Grabbing him by the hair, Yoshiro violently yanked his head back. When he gasped, he took the opportunity to pour the hot sauce into his mouth. The father choked and gagged as the fluid burned his throat, but the agonized screams didn't start until he poured the rest into his eyes.
"Don't!" Yoshiro ordered, pulling his gun on Hiroshi before he could round the counter.
He stopped, anger and anguish knotting inside him.
Using the gun, he gestured to the his hand.
A knife fell to the floor.
"Go get us our cut. And my pork cutlet special."
Half blind by tears, Hiroshi opened the register. A satchel flew at him from the other side of the counter, and he emptied the till into it.
When he was done, he returned to the back of the stand and finished prepping the noodles for the ramen bowl. He added the broth and the toppings. He listened to his father's sobs as he grilled the cutlets. And he packed it all into a paper bag.
Carrying the satchel and the takeout, he walked around to the bar and offered them to Yoshiro, his head bowed in surrender and shame.
Yoshiro inspected the contents of both. Then nodded, appeased for now.
The two men released the father, and he collapsed onto the ground. Mucous and tears pouring from his face, he started to retch.
"Let's go," Yoshiro said, disgusted. "Before I lose my appetite." He handed one of the men the satchel and takeout, and together, they left.
Once they were gone, Hiroshi rushed back into the stand and grabbed a pitcher of water. When he returned, he fell beside his father.
"Pops," he called out and tried to prop him up. "Pops, you have to look up. I need to flush out your eyes."
"Hiroshi," he murmured.
"Don't—"
Trembling, he reached for his son's face, feeling it slick with tears. "It's okay. Don't worry. We're okay."
Hiroshi pulled him close and began pouring the soothing water into his blinded eyes. "I know, pops. I know."
A gust of wind neither noticed blew through the stand and a bottle of hot sauce disappeared from the bar.
OOOOOOOOOO
The three men strolled back toward their car, straightening their clothes as they went.
"Any of you guys want that?" Yoshiro asked, nodding towards the paper bag. "I don't actually like—"
A hand snaked out and grabbed his shoulder, startling him. It was one of his guards. He stood anchored to the ground; his wide eyes focused up ahead. Lit only by the glow of the ramen stand, a figure in white stood on the roof of their sedan, his arms crossed.
"What the…?" Yoshiro muttered, and then shouted, "Get the hell off my car!"
The figure remained, the icy breeze tugging at the tails of his long coat and tunic.
"Okashira."
"Do you know who I am?!" Yoshiro yelled.
"Okashira!"
The hand on his shoulder shook him. Infuriated, he turned on his guard, "What?!"
"That's the guy that took out Kenta-san and his crew." Spying molten gold glaring through the eye holes of the mask, the man gulped. "It's some kind of demon. A monster."
Yoshiro scoffed. "No, that's just some cosplaying weirdo. A dead one at that." In one motion, he smoothly reached into his coat and retrieved his gun. Raising it up, he took aim, but only found the car waiting for him.
Then his vision filled with white haloed by long silver hair. The masked demon grabbed the gun in one hand and with an open palm, struck him hard in the chest. Yoshiro's breath exploded from him and pain radiated throughout his body. The agony combined with a surreal weightlessness as he flew back. Time slowed. Then the ground met him, and he tumbled.
"Okashira!" the guard shouted at the crumpled man as he bounced over the pavement.
"He's the least of your concern," a voice said ominously.
The guard spun towards the source. Through the snarling mask, the demon watched him. In his hand, he held the gun, ripped from Yoshiro's grasp when he had struck him. A crunch followed as he crushed the weapon to make a fist.
Expletives sputtered from the guard and he turned to flee. But before he could take his first step, the wad of composite plastic and metal flew at his head. It struck with a cruel thump, and he collapsed heavily onto the ground.
A motor roared to life, engine revving. Tires squealed as the black sedan peeled out, the acrid odor of burning rubber flooding the air.
The car raced down the street. Streetlamps strobed by, their flashes revealing the panicked guard inside. His knuckles gripped the steering wheel. His sweat beaded on his skin. And unintelligible prayers and curses bled together from his lips.
Ahead, the street reflected emptiness under the flood of the headlight beams. Then, made brilliant in the light, the demon appeared, waiting.
The sedan skidded, tires screaming.
And as it bore down on him, the demon kicked out. His foot crushed into the front end. With so much momentum, the car's back end rose up, and he leaned back as the mass of whining metal and tinkling glass somersaulted over him. Sparks flew as the car smashed onto its roof, screeching down the asphalt as it slid to a stop.
Inside the wrecked sedan, the guard hung upside-down from his seat, saved by his seatbelt and the deflating airbag. Coughs wracked his body, and he sucked in air stinking of raw metal and coolant.
Then the car lurched. Fresh sparks sprayed outside his shattered window. Another lurch came, smoother this time, and soon it was a steady drag back down the street toward the ramen stand.
OOOOOOOOOO
"Wake up, human."
Yoshiro stirred. Pain tightened in his chest with every breath until a coughing fit overcame him, sending excruciating spasms throughout his body. Writhing weakly, he squinted through the tears. He was on the ground, and as he looked to the side, he discovered his two guards on their backs beside him.
Through the haze of pain and confusion, something primal lurked in his mind. Something that inspired thoughts of the deep forest at twilight. When the shadows deepen. When you can see just far enough to know that you're not alone. The moment when you realize that you're the prey.
Burning gold orbs split by black knives watched him.
Above him, the demon towered, and in his hand, a bottle of hot sauce.
Yoshiro gasped.
OOOOOOOOOO
"I'm going to call the police," Hiroshi said, pulling out his phone. The neighborhood was quiet again. The yakuza fight, or whatever it was, seemed like it was over. Or at the very least, the screaming had stopped.
"Let's wait a little longer," his father said.
Together, they were hunkered down behind the counter, the closest shelter they could find when the shouting started. Expecting a turf skirmish, or gunshots even, the fight had instead been something else. Something protracted in its violence and filled with a supernatural dread.
Hiroshi leaned out, peering around the corner to the street beyond. Under a streetlamp he could make out the wreckage of a black car, but nothing further.
Then a shadow fell over him and a satchel dropped onto the floor.
Cursing, he scrambled back behind the counter.
The shadow disappeared.
"Wait!"
The demon stopped and turned his head to the side, spying back at the nervous young man who now held the satchel in his hand.
"Who are you?"
A long silence passed.
"A youkai," he replied.
Hiroshi blinked. "I don't understand."
"A guardian."
Still uncertain, he squeezed the satchel. "Why… Why did you bring this back?"
"I had intended to force that filth to return their stolen tribute personally, but I'm certain that their cowardice would have resulted in your harm after I departed."
"I don't—"
"It's yours, is it not?" the demon interrupted. "You already pay tribute to a ruler. A government. These bandits sought a tribute that wasn't theirs to claim nor was it freely given by you."
The bag was heavy in his hand. "This is more than what we gave."
"A penalty was exacted."
Hiroshi laughed and rubbed his forehead, trying to make sense of it.
The demon started to walk away.
"Wait!"
He paused again.
"Do you have a few minutes?"
OOOOOOOOOO
Thumping down the steps, Kagome headed downstairs to make her nightly cup of green tea. In the kitchen leaning against the counter, she discovered Sesshoumaru on his phone scrolling through an article on the Japanese response to the Industrial Revolution. Nearby sat a plump paper bag and briny pork broth wafted in the air.
"Is that ramen?" she asked. Pulling the bag close, she looked inside to find three to-go bowls stacked on top of each other. Half-eaten, another bowl sat beside him piled with slices of pork. "Is that just pork cutlet? No noodles?"
He nodded.
"It's not really ramen if there aren't any noodles."
He shrugged.
A thought occurred to her, and she paused, confused. "Where did you get ramen?"
"It was a tribute."
"A tribute?"
He nodded.
She opened her mouth, another question ready. But then she closed it and decided to just let it be.
His eyes still on his phone, he absently shook a bottle of hot sauce over his bowl and a few drops dribbled out onto some of the slices. Deftly, he picked them up with his chopsticks and began to eat.
"I didn't know we had hot sauce."
"I was curious," he replied. "It's acceptable."