Chapter Twenty-Six: Damage Control
With a ding, the elevator doors opened.
Wearing a white suit and gold aviators, Kurosawa strolled out of the elevator, adjusting his cuffs. In dark brown, Hyousuke followed him, his stride crisp. Together, they headed down the corridor, passing by now familiar forested murals on rice-paper walls. Ahead, a young woman in a fine kimono waited by a sliding door, its panels nearly hidden by the imagery. When they approached, she gave them a polite bow as she slid the door down its track. Without acknowledging in kind, the men entered.
A luxuriously big conference room awaited them inside. Overlooking the financial district, floor-to-ceiling windows ran the length of the room and at its center sat a massive table topped in black granite, the surface reflecting the sunlight like a pool of water. With his arms crossed, Ishida leaned against a window, his attention on the cutting-edge television mounted at the end of the room.
Swiftly, Hyousuke pulled out one of the chairs and Kurosawa sat down.
On the television, chaotic footage from a nightclub dance floor played. The shaky camera captured a white blur bouncing between dark-suited men with gunfire popping, a fire alarm blaring, and a racing music tempo tying it all together.
'That deejay won't have to worry about job security for some time,' Kurosawa thought, his finger tapping on the granite. He glanced back at Hyousuke. His normally composed lieutenant fidgeted, his eyes wild as he stared at the video.
On the screen, the blur launched a table at a group of men and for a moment, he was clearly visible. The video paused.
Ishida pushed off the window and walked over to the table. He tossed the television remote down, setting it spinning across the surface.
"This is a nightmare," he growled. "There's at least a dozen more videos spreading all over the damn internet. They're calling him the Demon of Namidabashi. The nightclub isn't even in the San'ya District. I'd like to find the asshole who came up with that name."
Kurosawa gazed at the screen. He'd already watched every video Ishida mentioned, finally beholding the man who had singlehandedly hamstrung his clan, forcing him to merge with the Shikai to survive. Raw kinetic power frozen in time, the demon floated in space, his clothing and hair flaring around him. But it was the mask that captivated him. The snarling canine visage and the molten gold eyes that smoldered behind it. The cold rage of vengeance. Like a reflection of himself.
"The cops arrested almost sixty people between the nightclub and the hotel," Ishida continued, "And our weaker brothers couldn't keep from spewing the Shikai name. Or from detailing every last aspect of the operation. We didn't even get a day before it was leaked to the press."
Kurosawa sat back in his chair, a smirk hinting at his lips.
"You're enjoying this, aren't you?"
"Not particularly."
Ishida scoffed. "Then you can wipe that smug look off your face, you bastard."
Hyousuke stepped forward.
Kurosawa held up a staying hand, his smirk remaining. "Disgusting business running a gaijin whorehouse. Your clan deserves to have its name dragged through the mud for that kind of shit."
"Escort services are a profitable business," Ishida corrected, giving him a cool look. "And fundamentally just as reputable as the protection rackets or gambling dens you run. Desperate people come to us looking for hope, and like any other part of life, they have to work off that debt."
"Except when they try to take a dive off a balcony."
"And you haven't had a debtor commit suicide?"
Kurosawa folded his hands against his stomach. "Never a fifteen-year-old girl. And never on camera."
Ishida laughed. "I'm sure we wouldn't have to scrape the surface too deep before we discovered a dead minor or two associated with Kuro-Sakura, so spare me."
He sighed. "Did you invite me here to trade insults or did you have something actually worth my time in mind?"
He shook his head and laughed to himself. "This asshole."
Kurosawa waited.
He nodded towards the television screen and the demon it displayed. "You're here because of him."
"The nerve that this clan has," he said with mock incredulity. "Here I am enjoying the karmic ecstasy of watching you all get reamed by the same guy that was used to justify stripping me of my birthright, and you expect me to… help you?" He spied back at Hyousuke. "Do you remember when he said that I didn't deserve to lead my clan because this demon was bleeding me out?"
"Yes, oya-jii. In the elevator."
He nodded. "That's right. In the elevator. Funny how things change."
"It's not what I want," Ishida said, scoffing. "It's what the oyabun wants."
"What the oyabun wants? You know that's interesting. Because to me, it seems like the oyabun and the demon have something in common. I don't know. Something about their eyes."
Ishida scowled.
Kurosawa's smirk broadened to a self-satisfied grin.
"You're so smart. So entitled," he said, his voice flat, "That you don't even think about how you make things worse for yourself."
"How am I doing that?"
"I'll concede that this little urban myth turned out to be a momentary setback for our business prospects in Tokyo. But he's still our enemy, which also makes him your enemy. And like this demon, our oyabun has power moves too. So, I have to ask you, do you want two supernatural enemies or just the one?"
His smile sobered into a scowl.
"Your clan is gone. Get over it and move on." Ishida said, shaking his head. "You're not an oyabun anymore. But you are a regional boss for the biggest yakuza clan in Japan. You wield more power and prestige now than you ever did as the father of some pathetic clan in the shittiest part of Tokyo."
"I don't care about being someone else's dog."
"Then get cut down. This isn't a matter of choice." He gestured to the television. "This used to be a small-time problem screwing up a few business deals here and there. But it's public now. And more than that, he's becoming a symbol. Remember what I said about our power diminishing the more people are willing to talk about us? Well, right now it's the opposite for him. We need to find a way to take care of him where he gets the heat and we stay in the shadows, got it?"
Kurosawa looked away.
The warm afternoon light filtered in through the windows.
"Fine," he ground out.
"Tell us what you know about the demon. Every detail."
OOOOOOOOOO
Scattered floodlights shone down on the shipping yard, burning away pockets of the black night to reveal stacks of colorful cargo containers. Three high, they were arranged in long rows, their hatches facing corridors cast in shadow. Down one corridor, flashlight beams panned over the containers and at the closest intersection, a delivery truck sat parked.
"Have you found it?" a man asked loudly. His light flitted from container-to-container, hovering briefly over identification numbers before moving on.
"Our guy says they scanned it into inventory this afternoon, Yoshiro-san," another man replied, the soft glow of his cellphone screen illuminating his chest and face. "We're in the right row, so it has to be here somewhere."
The whine of a motor buzzed, growing louder.
One-by-one, each of the flashlight beams tracked from the containers to the lit intersection at the far end of the corridor.
The buzz raced closer.
Yoshiro reached to his belt, retrieving his gun.
Gleaming bright red, a motorcycle appeared, skidding to a stop into the intersection. Its engine growling hungrily, it idled. And coolly, its helmeted rider turned to face them. Then he gave a few cheeky revs, spun a tight donut, and blasted from sight.
"What are you all waiting for?" Yoshiro barked. "Go get him! What happened to our lookouts?! Someone call them!"
"They're currently indisposed," a voice explained dryly behind him.
His mouth agape, he turned slowly to discover a figure in white towering over him. He didn't feel the punch. The gun clattered to the ground.
The men split, most turning back to defend their boss as the rest rushed in pursuit of the motorcyclist.
Twirling his crowbar once, the demon bounded towards them. Leaping off the side of a container, he twisted in the air, his tunic tails and mane spinning with him as he landed a hard kick. The man flew back, colliding with another behind him. Without losing momentum, the demon launched forward, striking the next man in the gut with a crowbar and finishing him with a punch to the jaw as he bowled over.
"It must be almost summertime, because you've gone sleeveless," a man joyfully chimed in behind him.
The demon glared back at him, but glowing eyes only encouraged Tora.
"I must admit that I do my best to get my arms looking good, but the definition you have…" He made a kiss sound, his hand blooming from his lips. "What pisses me off is that I know that you do nothing to get it. Youkai genes, or whatever. So jealous."
A gang of men barreled from around the corner past where the delivery truck waited. Tora turned on his heel to face them. Then both masked heroes pressed together as their respective opponents closed the distance to reach them.
"Are we fighting back-to-back? We're fighting back-to-back!" Tora yelled gleefully as he blocked a punch and countered with a blow to the stomach. He pulled his baton from its pouch. "This is so #%$#ing awesome! Just like the movies. Bucket list item checked off! This is the greatest thing ever!"
The demon sighed, unsure of half of what he said. "We were supposed to perform a flanking maneuver. Not be flanked by them."
"Yeah, but this is way cooler."
"Next time I will beat them with your motorcycle instead of a crowbar."
"You wouldn't dare hurt Akane!" he exclaimed as he struck a man in the face with his baton and followed it with a swift kick. "She carried you home that one time. You owe her."
He snorted, hooking a man around the neck with his crowbar and slamming him face first into the ground.
"Get ready! Now we lean into each other and switch sides."
"My side is almost done and yours is not."
"That's not the point."
His hand darting out, the demon grabbed a man by the throat and bounced him off one of the containers.
"C'mon," Tora pleaded.
He sighed again. "As you wish."
"Yes!"
Each taking a step back, they pressed against each other and spun. As they came to face the other side, they pushed off into their enemies. Using their crowbar and baton, they mowed through the remaining men, their movements fast and precise. Soon they were standing alone, bodies writhing in agony around their feet.
In the distance, a helicopter whipped.
"That was easy," Tora said, chuckling as he kicked their weapons away. "Your nightly patrols are way more fun than I expected."
Sesshoumaru gave him a flat look.
"What?"
Before he could reply, he caught a scent. There was somebody else nearby.
"Finish here. I will return."
"No problem," Tora said, as he took the gun apart.
In a single leap, Sesshoumaru alighted onto a container row and started running down its length, his footfalls silent. Several rows over he spied the glow of headlights. He sprang from row-to-row, dodging the grace of the floodlights as he closed in on the vehicle.
Landing softly on the final row, he peered down into the corridor, discovering a black sedan shining its lights onto the open hatch of a container. A man sorted through the contents of the shipment as another sat leisurely on the hood of the car.
"Are there any tablets in there, Hyousuke?" the man on the car asked, adjusting the white suit jacket he wore draped over his shoulders.
"No, oya-jii," the other replied as he leaned back, the headlights reflecting his bald pate. "Only fragrances."
"That's too bad," he said, frowning. "Any good stuff?"
"None that you prefer."
Then the lights flared white as the demon landed solidly between the two men. Rising to stand, he glanced between them, his attention lingering on the man in the container.
The man on the car began to clap. "Impressive."
His eyes snapped to him.
"It's rare to meet someone who's even taller in person than you expected," he said, sneering. "The name is Kurosawa Raiden. I've heard that it's polite to give your name right before you destroy a man."
Glass shattered, and the pungent odor of perfume flooded the air.
The demon looked back at the man in the container and found him trembling, his flop sweat mixing with the cloying stink that overwhelmed his nose.
"Don't mind Hyousuke," Kurosawa assured, "You messed him up pretty good at my gambling den a while back, and he hasn't been quite the same since. Of which by the way, I never got the chance to repay you for. Or the months that you spent disrupting my business interests. I lost my clan because of you, you demon piece of shit."
"Pity," he replied dryly.
"Things are about to change though."
"How's that?"
"I suppose you could call it public relations damage control. Not my idea. A little too deceptive and cowardly. I'd much prefer something more direct, like a violent exorcism. But then, I'll do anything to get back what's mine. And I'll sacrifice anyone along the way."
A dog whistle pierced the air. Two notes. The signal for a diversion. A distraction. Mystified, he didn't understand what it meant now. But what he knew for certain was that it came from Tora.
The helicopter grew louder.
Pivoting on his heel, the demon turned towards the fight scene he had just left and sprang onto the container row.
His aviators burning gold as they caught the oblique glow of the headlights, Kurosawa watched him go, smiling.
Sesshoumaru raced across the shipping yard, ignoring the revealing illumination of the floodlights as he ran. The stench of perfume clearing from his nose, he sensed the metallic tones of blood, the smell growing stronger as he approached.
Landing on a container stack overlooking the corridor, he looked down into it. An old feeling of wrongness born by every battlefield he'd fought on itched the back of his neck. And it told him what happened before his eyes did. The bodies of the men below were now simply that. Bodies.
The blinding glare of a searchlight fell upon him. Overhead, a helicopter hovered, its whipping blades deafening.
"This is the police," a voice crackled over its speaker. "Stay where you are and get down on the ground."