Author Note: Hey! Been a while I know - I moved house, which was an arseache and getting back online took just about forever. But now life is stable again, time to get this train a-rollin' again! Check out the warnings in the first chapter and keep them in mind; it's rated M for a reason folks. And let me know what you liked, hated, ect, by hitting the review button and letting me know on the way out!
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Mong is running late, but then again, he usually is. He blames it on his lifestyle, being awake all night and having to get his eight hours somewhere. It's partly true; his lifestyle is to blame, but not the late hours he keeps.
He woke at 2pm today, rolling over in bed for the mineral water he keeps beside the bed. By the time he can be bothered to move, it is gone three. He rolls over to the fridge, pulls out a beer, lights a joint. Breakfast of champions.
He takes care of food the way he usually does, plans to grab something on his way to the bar. By that time he will be ravenous, but he does not want to go out and get food, nor was there anything in his cramped apartment he could reasonably eat. Instead, he turns on the TV, smokes some more, drinks some more.
By the time the evening rolls around, he is nicely toasted. Shrugging on his battered leather trenchcoat, the one he wears all the time, he leaves the apartment.
His car is an old chevy, one that passes below the radar of most cops, if he is careful. He climbs inside, already several minutes late, content in the knowledge that he will soon be at the bar and hanging with his compadres. He turns on the radio, getting the top ten from when-the-fuck-ever. The first song reminds him of being a child and his now-dead elder sister getting ready for a night out. She would have been too young to go clubbing, not too young to go get drunk and find a good time. She used to sing them as she put on her make-up in the mirror, letting him watch on the understanding he didn't bug her too much, making him eagerly anticipate the day he too was old enough to go out with his friends and experience the mysterious but obviously awesome advantages of being a teenager.
He leaves it on.
Mong drives carefully, maybe too carefully. He does not want to get arrested, although he knows he will not be detained if he is – he may not look like a guy with connections, but he has them, yes indeed. But the whole thing would be a drag and he wants to get to the bar and hang out for a while.
He has big plans. They have no reason to pull a job tonight, in the money after the hit three nights ago. Instead, they will drink and party. After midnight everyone will drift off, and he may go with them, although he has been fucking the girl behind the bar and may slip her another one tonight. She has been wearing the bruises of a jealous husband of late, but he does not care as long as she can put out and told her that if it is such a big deal, her man can speak with him. Her man doesn't have the balls, big surprise, but can still take it out on her.
And why would he care? A fuck is a fuck is a fuck.
Only, he has to get there first.
Concentrating, Mong starts the car and drives in the direction of the club. It is dark and the lights barely penetrate the streets. On top of that, he becomes victim to a surge of paranoia. He gets them often and never ignores them. His friends say it is the drugs. He says it is a streak of healthy self-interest and always listens.
He decides to take the back streets to the club.
He eases along the alleys in the chevy, the music calming him. If it takes a little longer for him to get there, so what? They will still be waiting for him.
He guides the car into an alley which is darker than the others, thanks to a broken street light. But his own headlights put paid to that...
A bird lands on his hood.
He gives a squalk, putting on the brakes. The damn thing totally obscures his vision from the windscreen, making driving impossible.
He hits the brakes, thinking that the jolt will shake the bird loose. It doesn't.
The car comes to a stop, the bird still on the hood, seeming to glare at him.
This is fucking dumb, he tells himself, laying on the horn. That should scare the little shit away from the car.
The bird is unaffected by the sound, not even moving.
"Fuck," he mutters, slamming the car door open, not bothering to kill the engine. The damn bird stays sat on his hood, as if loud noises and movements don't startle birds, everyone knows noises startle birds, so why is it still there?
"Get out!" he snarls, swinging both arms at the bird. It hops out of his reach, flapping its wings and landing on the roof of the car.
Mong is getting seriously pissed off.
"Get off!"
He swings at the bird, unable to reach it from where he stands. It regards him, black eyes impassive.
Mong glares at the bird, wondering what he should do. Then he decides that it will fly away when he drives. He should get going.
"Fuck you."
He takes a step back toward the driver door, still open, the engine still running.
The crow flies, landing on the broken streetlight.
"Damn straight," he mutters.
Something else lands on the roof.
The roof of the car caves as something far heavier than a bird falls upon it. Mong let his mouth hinge open as the figure lands, feet hitting the roof and doing the initial damage, one hand resting on the roof a second later to cushion the impact further and brace against the shock. No doubt, that fucker was dead.
"Hey! Hey! What you doing?"
The figure has landed on two feet with a single hand on the roof. But the other hand is reaching behind its head, as if going for something on its back.
"That's my car, you shithead!"
He sees the figure before him and has no fear – he is the biggest, baddest muthafucker around these parts, why would he worry? Yet, as it straightens up, he feels a trickle of unease down his spine.
The figure stands, its perch atop the car meaning it is taller than he.
It is not tall though. It is wide, built. Although it is in shadow and the cars headlights are screwing with Mong's vision, he can feel its eyes boring into him as if he is a bug beneath a microscope.
It is freaking him out.
It straightens up and looks at him, a suggestion of teeth in the darkness indicating a grin on its face. Or a snarl. And then it pulls the hidden hand from behind its back.
A sword is in its grasp.
"Whoa, fuck." Mong is not dumb, knows when to back away. "I ain't up for this shit."
The figure regards him, seemingly curious.
And suddenly, Mong knows where he has seen that outline before. He knows why that stance seems familiar.
He knows.
He knows he is in deep shit.
"Look." He spreads his arms wide, a gesture of submission. "I didn't know. I just follow orders. You wouldn't hurt a guy for dong his job, right?"
The figures arm seems to blur and suddenly, a sword is growing out of Mong's hand.
He opens his mouth to scream. A hand swallows his voice before it can be aired.
A face is in his; green and angry, demanding answers.
"Talk."
Mong widens his eyes . He has seen that face, that expression before. But it isn't possible. It just isn't.
He has seen that face before, covered in blood. Those eyes, with the light robbed from them. Those features, slack and dead.
"Not talking?" The voice from the stranger is regretful. "Let me help you – I'll even choose the topic."
Mong's hand is fire, his stomach a knot of fear. He doesn't see what use talking will do or what the creature could want to know. If it has lived through that night, then surely it already knows...
And it was dead.
But maybe it hadn't been dead. It wasn't human, how did they know for sure that the signs of death they were used to applied to this creature?
No. It had been dead. Nothing could live through what had been done to it that night, no matter how alien it was.
The creature grabs him by the neck of his leather trench coat and slams him roughly back into the wall. "A night, one year ago. You remember me? My brothers?"
Mong nods and then finds he can't stop. His head has taken on a life of its own, bobbing up and down in desperation.
Another slam against the wall opens up a cut in the back of his scalp and stops his frantic nods. The creature grins at him. It is terrifying.
"And I was afraid you'd forgotten." The voice is softly mocking, the anger in it coated in sarcasm. "You weren't alone. I want their names and I want to know how to find them. Tonight."
Mong moans deep in his throat. "I can't man, they're my brothers – I can't give them up, they'll kill me..."
A whisper of a laugh. "They won't kill you. They won't get the chance."
Suddenly, Mong's submissiveness breaks. He is still afraid, but he is also righteously pissed off. Who is this freak to tell him what he will or will not do?
"Fuck you," he snarls. "I ain't telling you shit. They'll find you and kill your freak ass dead as shit all over again. Ain't nothing you can do to make me tell. Nothin." And he spits a wad of phlegm directly into the face of his captor.
From atop the broken streetlight, the bird cries out.
The creature doesn't make a move to wipe the mess from his face, but makes some soft sound. After a second, Mong recognises the sound as laughter.
"Nothing, huh?"
The headlights from the car are the only illumination in the alley, the weakening sounds Mong makes punctuated by the muted rumble of the car engine, the rustling of feathers and the hoarse caw of the crow.
It turned out there was something that could persuade Mong to tell what he knew after all.
&&&&&&&
The man in the mask is the first person to happen across the scene.
It is the car that attracts his attention, the engine running and the door wide open but no sign of anyone around, not even ducked into the shadows taking a leak or spending twenty bucks on some girl and trying not to mess the chevy's upholstery. Curious, he glances into the car, well aware this could be some kind of trap and any minute two or three big guys could try to jump him. But there is no movement and the alley feels devoid of life.
The inside of the car gives away nothing. There is no purse on the seat to suggest some poor woman was hijacked and ripped from the vehicle, in fact the interior suggests that some bachelor guy is the cars owner, empty beer bottles on the floor and an overflowing ashtray. The man in the mask reflects that this dude was lucky not to have been pulled over by the cops – or maybe he was, taken away in a squad car. But why would they leave the car open and the engine running?
There is something about this situation that he doesn't like at all.
Glancing around, he is grateful for the headlights. The streetlight doesn't work and the alley is a dark one. The night does not usually bother him but there is something creepy about this whole set up, something that unnerves him. He plans to check out the alley and if he finds nothing, he will leave. This is all wrong.
He sees the streak on the wall as he peers into the shadows, drying to maroon which in the inky darkness looks almost blue. But he has seen enough blood spread across any number of walls to be certain of what it is.
He checks again – he is sure no one is around, but finding this tonight of all nights has given him the creeps – and heads toward the stain. But before he does, he reaches behind him and grabs the first thing that comes to hand, a golf club. Its weight is reassuring, a protection against something he cannot see, adrenaline rushing through his veins. He is not exactly afraid, but his nerves are at breaking point and he does not know why.
There is a lot of blood, he realises, in smears and pools rather than drips, too much for some mere flesh wound. Uneasy, he glances around, wondering what happened to the unfortunate soul whose blood he was looking at...
...And realises that what he thought had been a pile of trash is actually the sad remains of a human being.
He frowns behind the mask, unable to see much of the man and quite sure he doesn't want to see any more. But if the man is still alive, then it is his duty to do what he can to save his life.
He gets closer, looks at the person and decides he is too late to do anything. The dude has wounds all over his body, clearly visible because he is wearing no coat. There is a neat hole in his throat too, one that the man in the mask thinks is familiar. He has seen wounds like that before, although he does not want to think of when right now.
The guy is dead, that is what is clear. And he has not died pleasantly.
The man in the mask is glad he did not touch anything. He is innocent in all this but he could do without the trouble that his fingerprints at the scene might bring. He has a cell phone, but chooses not to use it in case it can be traced. Instead, he heads out of the alley, remembering that he spied a telephone that seemed free of vandalism several blocks back.
Ninjas, he thinks, reflecting back on the shape of the wounds the corpse was riddled with. But of course, it simply isn't possible. The Foot clan would not have inflicted the abuse upon the unfortunate victim that the man in the mask had witnessed and they are the only ninjas in New York. At least, these days they are.
Unease crawls beneath his skin, bringing his flesh into goosebumps. Something is wrong about this whole thing and the only person he could maybe talk to about it was – well, probably not available right now.
Suddenly furious, he jams the golf club into the bag on his back and forces the thoughts of the past from his mind as he hurries to report his finding to the cops, wondering why it had to be tonight of all nights that this happened.