"Well, tell them to run them again!" Eames yelled in Japanese into the phone. "Yes, of course it does. Yes. Just make it work." He slammed the phone back on the hook as Souji walked in, file in one hand and his jacket in the other.
"The plates wrong again?" he asked Eames, setting the file on the sleek desk.
"Jesus fuck. Can I just get, like, ten more of you?"
Souji smiled. "You should be so lucky."
Eames bit back the smirk and the innuendo that wanted to bubble up out of him. He, unfortunately, had a reputation to uphold, one which flirting with his subordinates did nothing to maintain. He frowned at the phone instead and poured himself a drink from the decanter on his desk.
"Are you going home anytime tonight, sir?" Souji continued, unaware.
Eames glared at the drink. "Yeah, eventually." He could feel his jaw ache from where he'd been clenching it all day. He swirled the amber liquid in the glass in his hand, then threw it back in one gulp. He savored the burn as it slid down his throat and rolled his shoulders. He sensed movement in front of him and looked up to see Souji sliding his jacket on, eyeing him warily. "What?" he asked brusquely.
"Nothing, sir. I was just going to head home, Yumiko's waiting for me." He hesitated. "Just wanted to check and see if you needed anything before I go."
Eames was studying a paper and didn't look up. "No." He switched to another paper. When he looked up, Souji was still standing there. "Bloody hell, WHAT."
Souji looked embarrassed. "Look, I didn't want to bring it up but Yumiko will kill me if I don't at least ask...are you...seeing anyone?" he grimaced.
Eames stared at him. "What?" He wanted to laugh, wanted to throw his head back and let it roll out of him until he was exhausted, but instead he presented the unreachable and hateful persona he'd carefully cultivated. "Why does she want to know that?"
Souji, usually calm and unrufflable, was actually blushing, and talking very fast. "We're supposed to go to this thing tonight, we have tickets, and she has a friend who was...well, it doesn't matter. I was just supposed to ask if you wanted to come with us." He took a breath and seemed to settle a bit. "You look like you could use a break, sir."
Eames waved his hand dismissively, already turning back to the files on his desk. "I don't have time for that. Those plates were supposed to be done tomorrow so we could start printing next week. Now I'll have to figure something else out. What's in the file?"
Souji cleared his throat. "Quarterly report. I sent it to Lord Saito's office this morning, thought you might want a hard copy."
"I do, yeah." Eames huffed out a dry laugh. "We must be the only criminals on the planet that prepare and present a quarterly report."
"Absolutely untrue. There are a lot bigger criminals than us wearing far nicer suits in much bigger offices."
"A nicer suit than this?" he asked, gesturing to his bespoke black-on-black and raising an eyebrow. At Souji's smiled acknowledgment he continued, "Anyway, their jobs are technically legal."
"So is yours, technically. On paper, you're as straight as an arrow."
"That's because I made the paper."
Souji smiled widely. "Yes, but you're the one that failed to put "Kingpin" on your business cards, so if that's what you wanted, that's your own fault."
"All right, all right. Get out of here." As Souji turned for the door, Eames asked before he could think better of it, "Souji? Yumiko's friend...what's his name?"
"Ah...it's...um...her name, actually. Sir."
"Ah." And this was why he didn't talk to people.
"Sorry, sir. I didn't know."
Eames shook his head, corners of his mouth turned down. "Nothing to know. Go on, have fun. Spend some of the money you earn."
"Yes, sir." Souji closed the door behind him and Eames settled into his chair with the report. In the year since he'd taken over the business, he'd almost, but not quite, met Souji's prediction of doubling profits. Eames shook his head, biting his bottom lip. His imagination ran, looking for ways to possibly diversify and fill that gap. It niggled at him, that missing percentage. He made notes as the light behind him dimmed, and when his floor to ceiling windows no longer let in enough light to write by, he stood to turn on the lamp beside his desk. His legs ached as he stood, and he stretched for a moment.
Ever since he'd taken over, he and Souji had been a well-oiled machine. Well, Souji had been well oiled, he'd just been a machine. He'd worked nearly non-stop and he felt like a bull in a china shop at first. But in a classic case of "fake it 'til you make it", he'd managed to not bumble around in the china shop, and instead bulldozed straight through it. And then the one after that. Yes, things got smashed, and a few people too, but things also got done.
He could see gaps in his production line, as it were, but in order to fill them, he'd have to use Lord Saito's men, which would cost him. If it was going to cost him, he'd prefer it be in money and not in favors. Saito was a hard man to pay off otherwise. Eames found himself grasping the poker chip in his pocket, a nervous habit of running his thumb over the smooth edges when he was thinking. He forcefully withdrew his hand, and told himself he really should just get rid of the thing, he used it like a bloody dummy, reaching for it when he needed comfort. He had started to throw it away several times, but in the end, he just couldn't bear to part with the only thing in existence that came from before the beach. Eames was feeling restless, he needed to move, needed to get the blood flowing so he could think.
He crossed to the corner of the room and took off his black silk tie and laid it on the chair nearby. Then he slid off his black jacket and the black oxford underneath, carefully draping them over the arm. Expertly, he wrapped his hands and slid on the gloves he kept here and approached the heavy bag hanging in the corner of his office. He breathed deep, clearing his mind. Then the silence of the room was shattered as his glove smacked the bag, and he exploded in a whirlwind of lightning quick jabs. He concentrated on speed and movement, then shifted into hard, intense shoulder punches, power generating up from the floor through his feet and hips. It rippled out of him, waves of frustration, and he focused on beating down his formless sense of defeat. Left, jab, right, punch, left, ribs, bend knees, chin. He let it roll on, clouding his eyesight and taking over his hearing. Some days he couldn't shake the ever-present feeling of missing something (someone) and it would build and build until he felt like his head would split. He had hung the bag as a deterrent to punching his employees. He would lose track of time, picturing body shots and hearing bones break.
Finally, he stilled the bag and rested his head against it, trying to catch his breath and removing his gloves. Sweat dripped off him and he grabbed a towel from the en-suite bathroom but paused in front of the mirror. He frowned. Was his hair...shorter? He'd had a fleeting thought that morning about getting a haircut, but...he shook his head, hard, and sat down at the desk again, still breathing hard. He had better things to think about. He jotted thoughts down before he could lose them and when he was done, he sat back, poured himself three more fingers of scotch and re-read what he'd written. He scowled. He needed to meet with Saito. It was the last on a long list of things he didn't want to do, but if he planned on moving up in this business at all, the only way was through Saito. He wasn't getting any bigger slices of the pie without it, and he could put it off but eventually, it was inevitable. However, he was not about to show up with his hat in his hand, begging for scraps. He finished his scotch and re-dressed, quickly and efficiently. He thumbed through his contacts and made the call to set up the appointment. He would meet with Lord Saito tomorrow; there would be no begging. At least, not from him.
He headed to his small apartment, all clean lines and simplistic contemporary furniture. He hated it. But he was rarely here, and it suited the person he was supposed to be, so he left it and tried to ignore it. He changed out of his suit, brushed his teeth, and stood in the entrance to the bedroom. Then he wrapped his calloused hands around the chin-up bar that spanned the doorway and hauled himself up. He held it for a count of three, then he lowered himself, slowly. Again. One...two...three... Again. He lost himself in the rhythm, lost count of how many he'd completed, and stopped only when his arms were shaking too hard to continue. He dragged himself through the shower and collapsed on the bed, praying for sleep without dreams. No matter what he did, most nights his head swirled with half-remembered snatches of conversations with people he couldn't identify, forgotten seconds after he awoke in a panic, covered in sweat. He never got a chance to examine the dreams, try to recognize faces out of the fog or hear music in the static, they faded too quickly. He had a rule that if it happened twice in one night, he got up and went for a run, or did crunches, or got really, really drunk.
Eames lay on his too-big bed with his arm pressed over his eyes and calculated how many more years he could realistically expect to stay alive in this business. It seemed like a relatively small number but felt like a long, long time. If this is what he was like now, he shuddered to think what he'd be like then. He didn't know how much longer he could do this, though, how much longer he could be this person. He had an unshakable feeling that he was supposed to be someone else, an unnameable desire to do something, something constructive, to get his shit figured out. But he was already doing everything he could think of, and the futility of it all stretched before him, a yawning abyss of fruitlessness. He multiplied in his head to see how many more nights he'd be struggling through this exact. Same. Routine. and wanted to weep. And all in the name of making money for Lord Saito. Well, frankly, Saito could kiss his bloody arse. He didn't really want to sludge through all this for himself, let alone some old man who didn't give a damn if he lived or died. Something had to change.
The next morning, he dressed in his favorite suit, all beautifully tailored pieces in the same shade: black. He combed his beard, tucked his gun into his waistband, and steeled himself for what was to come. When the taxi reached Saito Tower, he reminded himself that this was a means to an end, nothing more. Then he entered the building. The receptionist pointed him toward the same boardroom he'd been in the only other time he'd been here, and Lord Saito was seated in the exact same place, looking nearly identical to the time he and Souji had made the biggest gamble of their lives. Every other risk he'd taken was small potatoes compared to the odds of that first meeting going well. It was a good thing he didn't know it at the time, or he'd never have gone.
Eames strode toward him, calmly and confidently, but not too confident. He didn't want to put Saito on the defensive right away. Better he thinks he had the upper hand, that Eames was another cowed peon. The body man standing unobtrusively in the corner met Eames halfway, patting him down quickly and relieving him of his gun. He quickly ejected the magazine, pocketed it and then handed the gun back to Eames. Eames raised his eyebrow at him, but accepted it with a nod and placed it in his waistband again. Saito waved the bodyguard away and, this time, gestured to the chair to his right. Eames sat, unbuttoning his jacket and crossing his legs.
"Lord Saito, thank you for agreeing to meet me."
"I can only assume that you're here because you've broken our agreement. Are you not doing your job correctly, Eames?"
Eames flashed a tight smile. "On the contrary. I'm here for the opposite reason."
"Ahhh, I see," he said slowly, leaning back in his chair. "You believe you're doing well and deserve recognition of that." Saito's eyes glittered menacingly. "How very...sanguine of you."
Eames looked at the man in front of him, with the talent he'd carefully honed over the years, gathering the tiniest details. Saito was not a man to fuck with, that much was obvious. He had built this empire from nothing but the blood of his enemies and the sweat of the men who worshiped him. But Eames could recognize regret when he saw it. It took one to know one.
"Lord Saito," he started slowly, "I have an offer, something I can do for you. It's quite a business venture, I'm sure you'll be interested in hearing it."
"Oh, do go on. I'd be delighted to indulge you." His tone said no such thing.
Eames stilled and looked Saito in the eye. The two men regarded each other calmly, then Eames mentally shrugged his shoulders. Fuck it. Thirty odd years of bad dreams stretched before him, 10,950 nights of waking up, bereft, alone, and unfulfilled and he decided he'd like to move it along. He said, "My proposal is this. I'm going to overtake your company and all the holdings you have in this town. Then I'm going to break it apart and sell it off, piece by piece until it resembles nothing like what you currently have. Then, once it's dismantled, I'll begin to put my own ventures in place of your old ones."
Lord Saito appeared reluctantly amused in the face of Eames's sincere statement. "Is that right?"
"Yes." Eames's voice was hard, unflinching, and Saito's hackles started to rise.
"Son, you have no idea what you're dealing with." His voice was low and quiet. "I suggest you stop right now while I'm still willing to retaliate only for your youthful ignorance."
"That won't be necessary," Eames said smoothly.
Saito paused, clearly thrown by the lack of fearful scurrying. "Eames, let me remind you that I have been in the particular game for years. In fact, I created this game. You will not win here."
"Well then, I suggest a change of rules," Eames cut in coldly.
Saito leaned forward, clearly done with this conversation. "I invented the rules, Mr. Eames."
"Well then, I suggest a change of players." With that, Eames drew the gun from his waistband and shot Saito between the eyes. "And don't call me that."
The bodyguard rushed back in the room barreling toward Eames and he rose smoothly from his chair. Left, right, gut, ribs, chin, crunch, crunch, drop. The bodyguard was a whimpering puddle on the floor and Eames had barely broken a sweat. He felt slightly disappointed. "You forgot the bullet in the chamber, you dumb shite." Then he pulled the bodyguard's own gun and shot him. He crossed to Lord Saito's body and pulled the pocket square from his suit, wiping his face and beard. Then he placed his (now) empty gun in his waistband, kept the safety off the other, and left. He paused by the reception desk, letting the woman there know that they'd need a cleanup in the boardroom and that he'd be upstairs if she needed him. She just nodded dumbly and watched him take the elevator to the penthouse, which the egotistical bastard didn't even have security on. Eames did a quick tour of the ornate and excessive rooms, then called the only person there was to call. A man whom he trusted reluctantly, believed absolutely, and valued more than anyone realized. His friend.
"Souji. No, I apologize for bothering you on your day off. I just wanted to let you know that you've been promoted. How does it feel to be at the top of the food chain?"