Transmission #8-1-5-8
South of The Wall, Tokyo Metropolitan Police Station, Interrogation Room #3
Local thug detained and brought in for questioning
47°9′S 126°43′W
It wasn't his fault, he kept thinking to himself.
And really this time it wasn't.
But fat chance these two assholes were going to give Kiba the benefit of the doubt. Fair enough, he hadn't been the most pleasant of company since their little joyride knocked him about a bit. Lucky them, Kiba huffs; their squad cars were about the only place they could get their licks into him without repercussions. Wasn't the first time, and Kiba sure-as-shit figured wouldn't be the last. Not as long as Detectives Tozawa and Fujiwara kept having a hard-on for him.
The interrogation room was a fluorescent lit-box of tensions, sweat, and lowered expectations. The metal table Kiba sat at reflected the harsh overhead light, pale beams bouncing off the half-empty Styrofoam cups and scattered case files and pictures. Kba didn't give a shit to look at any of them - like he kept saying, none of that shit was his fault. Yeah, the train station got blown to fuck. Yeah, a lot of people got hurt...He didn't like that, but he wasn't gonna give these two jackasses the satisfaction.
Instead, he slouched back in his seat, sprawled out his legs with his customary smirk, and said the thing that all cops loved to hate. "I want my lawyer."
"Lawyer, my ass. Fuck. You!" Tozawa says.
The younger detective smells of stale coffee, cigarette ash, and bad cologne. Tozawa had all the energy of a coiled spring, his twitching fingers making fists every time Kiba opened his mouth. The guy would love nothing more than to jack him up; Kiba almost wished he did. Anything was better than having to sit through an endless slur of insults pegged his way. About him, about the gang, about his father; fuck, Tozawa went down the entire list.
But didn't matter.
Kiba wasn't gonna talk, no matter what the security footage showed.
"Listen, you little fucking punk. We got CCTV cameras all over the goddamn ports, we know the Fangs are hauling something, and THIS fucking faggot was a part of the crew helping you out." Tozawa spits, pointing a bony finger at the picture of a bloated body.
Good job. Hurray. Whoopdeefuckingdoo.
Still, Kiba wants to tell them, there was nothing attaching him to this stupid idiot who fell off the fucking boat. Korean? So what he was Korean? Those sonsabitches pop up everywhere in the South, taking jobs and benefits hard working Japanese get denied with all the time. What's it to Kiba one poor loser gets dredged up from the drink; with it now all of a sudden it's getting tied to the him, the Fangs, to Ginza. Which - correct him if he be wrong - is being sold as a mechanical failure, wasn't it? A train engine malfunction? A flux capacitor on the fritz?
Oh no! Could the government be lying? Was what they were telling everyone on the news one big freakin' cover-up because they think the people too chicken-shit to handle the truth? Oh, this lack of faith is so disheartening. How can the free, unfettered, democratic Republic of Japan be so distrusting of those whom appointed them in their roles in the first place?
"You think this is some kind of damn joke?!"
"Bite me, Tozawa." Kiba snarls back. "I'm a dock worker - I work the docks; of course, you'd see me unloading shit on a boat. Big deal, it's my job!"
That had been Kiba's cover for the last two years now; a hard-working, nose-to-the-grind, smart-aleck harbor hand who keeps getting checks from the Bando Group. Not that anybody believes it - not him, not the cops, hell, Gato even said it himself he wouldn't hire Kiba to run a fucking oyster stand. But it didn't matter what any of them thought, because if there ain't no evidence, then there weren't no crime. And so far nothing suggested Kiba did anything but ride around on his motorcycle, and put things on boats.
That's all.
"Oh, please!" Tozawa slaps his hand against the table. "Spare us this working man crap. You haven't worked a single day in your fucking life, Inuzuka."
Kiba leans back in the metal chair, placing his feet upon the table. "You jerks snatch me up while I'm having lunch, minding my own business, bring me in, and start accusing me and showing me fucked up pictures of a dead body. That's gotta be what, sexual harassment or something, right? I'm pressing charges. And where the hell is my dog!"
"Sexual hara- Are you goddamn kidding, you stupid muthafucker!" Tozawa knocks Kiba's feet off the table, and snatches at his shirt. Being as hopped up as he was, the man was surprisingly strong; he lifts Kiba off the chair, before Fujiwara gets a hold of him.
"Tozawa, we got eyes in the room. Stop!" Fujiwara warns. The ex-IJA officer is able to snag a bit of his old strength and pull off his squirrelly partner. Right before Tozawa was about to jam his into Kiba's toothy grin. "Don't know what the hell you're smiling about, jackass. We ain't don't here. Not by a long shot."
"Well, that's unfortunate, because I very much am." Kiba says, clanging the handcuffs against the table in annoyance. "I. Want. My. Lawyer! There's nothing your no-name Zainichi's got to do with me, and I want nothing to do with you. So we got nothing to talk about."
"Maybe you don't, but I got plenty to say. So, please, make yourself comfortable while I settle in." Fujiwara tells him, leaning in close enough for Kiba to smell the bitter coffee on his breath. Before he takes off his jacket and sits in the chair oppsite Kiba. "Tozawa, water and some Pepto, please. Now."
Kiba rolls his eyes, when Tozawa leaves with a grunt. As he does, he looks up at the clock and sighs. It's already been an hour. Fucking hell, Kiba thinks. That fucking lawyer better be here soon. He called that asshole how long ago? Kiba had so much more important shit to do today, than have to sit down and listen to Fujiwara drone on about things he knew an iota about. No matter whatever the hell was put in their notes, Kiba was not the one who worked the water - that was Zabuza. So, Fujiwara talking to him was a waste of time. Because he wasn't gonna budge; the Alpha would geld him soon as he stepped foot on his kick-starter.
Plus, it was getting close to Akamaru's dinner time, and he wasn't going to have his buddy eat his meal in a Metro PD cage.
But for a little bit, Fujiwara makes no moves.
Instead, the man sits silent in his chair, still as a statue, save for the slow deliberate twirling of a wedding band about his finger. He sits like he's waiting for a goddman bus, waiting as the case files and all those pictures of burned corpses and whatever bits of evidence they decided to harass Kiba with lay strewn about the table between them. Fujiwara sits like he's not supposed to care, like it ain't his job to be anything but a wallflower watching the shit unfold. Like it's the last thing he wants or needs...
He, too, seems tired, to Kiba.
But not in the way Tozawa seemed strung out and willed himself to stand up through caffeine, nicotine, and however other much shit he'd been pumping into his body. No, Fujiwara wasn't like one "those" - the man thrived being on the beat, taking in those long nights along the port, scoping out Metro's winding alleys. Detective Aoki Fujiwara was one of the old breed. After his time in the army, the man found a purpose not many others like him could find. Cleaning up the vice in the city gave him energy, a direction, another enemy in the dregs of Metro's bloated underbelly.
No, Kiba didn't smell "tiredness" permeating off the man. Rather, he looked and seemed almost...disappointed. As he exhales, runs a hand through his salt-and-pepper buzz cut, looks over to Kiba like he's got something to say. Kind of how a person who didn't know any better would wanna stick their nose into other people's business.
And Kiba hated it.
"Swear to fuckin - you're kidding me with this silent treatment, right?" Kiba snaps, leaning forward in his seat. "Is this how you jerks wanna start the whole 'good cop, bad cop' routine? How many times have you pulled this stunt, and in the end it don't mean nothing. Not to me. Not you. Nobody. Yet, here we are - Again!"
"Hell you think this is, High and Low? Fujiwara says, voice flat. His wedding band makes another rotation around his finger, as he looks over towards the young "man"...Well, really, "kid". Calling Kiba a man is like saying a puppy is a bona fide killer. "There aren't any good cops when it comes to you, Kiba. Only bad ones. Despite my best efforts."
Kiba scoffs, leaning back in his chair and letting his eyes roll to the ceiling. "No shit," he mutters.
For a moment there was silence again, save for the faint hum of the air vent overheard. Fujiwara reaches for one of the photos scattered across the table, lifting it with eh same slow, deliberate care he seemed to do everything with. It ws the picture of the dead Chon dredged up from the harbor, and not makes Kiba's jaw clench once more despite himself. He didn't like looking at it, he didn't want to look at it. It wasn't his fault this piece of shit up and got himself offed, and just so happened to fall into the waterway leading to the river. Toza said he checked the bottom of the harbor and found nothing.
Nothing!
Fucking hell, Kiba curses, a sick feeling of something bubbling up inside. Anger, tiredness, crankiness, hunger - shit, could be any number of wants Kiba was unsure to describe. Either way, they all made him want to commit a little as Fujiwara makes him face at the photograph one more time.
"Your father," Fujiwara's voice is low, calm, and serious when Kiba finally relents and looks. "Would be disappointed if could see you like this."
Kiba grits his teeth and sits a little straighter; if he could, he'd reach out across the divide and rip out Fujiwara's throat out right here and now with his bare teeth. Let the old man choke on his damn sentiments and whatnots, feel that blood coursing through his fingers, give those bastards across the two-way looking in on them a damn show. "Real fucking low for a cop who acts like he's got principles." He growls. "Dragging his name in here? What's next? Gonna tell me he's watching me from the grave? Rich coming from the people who put him there in the first place."
Fujiwara sets the photo back down in the table, meeting Kiba's glare with that same, infuriating stare he ever seemed to carry. "Keijo, your pa, died for what he thought was right for this city and the people he cared about in it. I may not have agreed with the way things turned out. But sure as shit, I know he was made of better stuff than 'this'. 'This' isn't him, and it's not you." He gestures loosely to the mess before him, scraped and cobbled together through who knew how many hours of rifling through notes, and reports, and later nights they were used to since the Ginza attack.
"Spare me the lecture," Kiba says venomously. His eyes dart tot he door as if he could will his lawyer to show up faster. "You don't know shit about me, or my father. And if you did, you're an even bigger fool than I thought. Because he would've never let himself sit here and be talked down to by someone like you."
"But he'd get talked down to from a man like Gato, yeah?"
Kiba opens his mouth to retort, but nothing comes out. Instead, despite himself wanting to lay into this guy, he stays quiet. Because Gato was a careful SOB, and told each and every one of The Fangs to follow suit and cover their tracks. And, most importantly, stay out of the Zainichis way. Fine, Kiba didn't like the smell of them, nor did Akamaru. The Chon mostly shut themselves off and kept to themselves. Almost, all were military. Had to be; Gato's contact across the river in Tokyo Urban relayed they'd have a professional detail working with them. Which made sense considering all the ordinance going back and forth was military grade. Kalashnikov's, Simonov's, the dozen or so RPK's with enough ammo to sink a boat; M-37 mortar systems, Chechnyan RPG's with the shoulder straps, anti-tank mines, and even a fucking flamethrower. To go along with the accompaniment of men and women to operate them, too.
All carried themselves like they knew a damn about half of everything which was wrong with this city: the people are too uncouth, too rude, no structure, too rigid. Which made Kiba laugh because all of the one's he'd interacted with had the personality of a 2x4. And only solidified the hunch which had been circulating about between the boys for some time as they all worked side-by-side: Chibis.
In Japanese, term meant "short", "stunted"; typically how most southerners saw their brethren across The Wall. No food, no brains, all ignorance; with chips on their shoulders and guns in their hands. Most of the the Fangs chaffed at being being so close to those they'd seen as backstabbers and betrayers for years. Many of them even went as so far to voice out their disdain to Gato in person. If it bothered their little Napoleon he didn't show it - Gato kept his cool, navigated the uneasy waters as well as any other power broker in this city, and bade them all to keep eyes on the prize. "There are no friends or enemies when it comes to business deals. Only winners and losers. In this, we're all gonna be winners. Trust me."
Heh, trust?
Together the Fangs worked up a bond between each other bred over the years of living in Keijo's shadow. Tsume did what she had to to keep the reigns firmly in her hands, and Zabuza did as much to enforce the muscle that came with the crown. In those two, the gang trusted. The other chapters - headed by Lin-Lin, Kaido, Vinsmoke, Koga, etc - were kept in line because they trusted - or feared - the repercussions of working against the Fangs. But for Gato? Whatever trust he engendered simply came from him being an opportunist, preying on the power vacuum left behind by the Shijimi Yakuza when he took over. And the schemes he played, which more and more to Kiba felt like they were playing for something way out of their league, left a bitter taste in everyone's mouth.
Just as an example, little tears were shed when a good lot of those Chon bastards were offed on the raid during the night of the Ginza incident. Even if they were all complicit was complicit getting those bombs up into those trains. For Kiba and many others, in their eyes, the commies deserved it.
Fujiwara didn't press the pause, didn't gloat or lean into it. He just sat back, spinning that wedding band, like it was the only thing tethering him to the room. "You think Gato gives a damn about you?" Fujiwara continues, his tone maddeningly even. "About your dog, your bike, your pride? You're a tool to him. Just like that Zainichi was a tool. And when he's done with you, you'll end up just like him. Bloated, dead, and dumped in the harbor. That's what you're riding toward, kid. And it's a damn shame, because you're smart enough to know better."
"Nineteen." Kiba says clenching his fists, handcuffs biting into his wrists as he stares at the scratched surface of the table. "That's how many bullets were found in my dad's chest when they wheeled his body into the morgue, did the autopsy, then handed my mom a slip of paper. Nineteen. Don't know a lot about him, but that I do know. You say my dad died for this city? Yeah, he did. It killed him. Because this place, and the people like you in it, didn't give a shit about him then, and don't give a shit about us now. You pushed us away. Into Kita ward, Minato, Arakawa, Sanya. Treated us all like we were rejects meant to be forgotten. And then you wanna preach at me some 'high and lofty' ideals? Pfft, man..."
"Funny you mention autopsies, because coroner found some interesting stuff inside this guy when we took a look. Batrochotoxin. Know what that is? It's a poison. Shuts down nerve impulses in the body, paralyzes it, and is followed by cardiac arrest. But that ain't what's interesting..." Sighing, Fujiwara leans forward gathering the photos into a neat pile. "The amount of batrochotoxin found in this guy are only in people who've come in contact with something called a golden poison frog. In Colombia. You couldn't guess as to how our Korean "Yamado Taro" happened to come in contact with a South American amphibian, would ya?"
"Go to hell."
"I've already been," he says. "And I can tell you, Kiba - I've got a bad feeling thats whwre we're all gonna be heading."
Doubtless, the bastard probably had been to gell and back. A lot of the folks from Fujiwara's generation dealt with their own fair of shit, and either made it out to the other in peace or in pieces. Fujiwara was one of those who definitely left some of himself behind somewhere; Kiba recognized that sent like he had with some of the other fellas from the gang. The "gray muzzles" who'd hung around when his father was about. They smelt a bit like rotten eggs and bad intentions, like they all had some bad juju which needed warding off. Made for fun stories around the fire-pit, but Kiba was so desensitized at this point, Fujiwara's personal demons didn't impress him any.
When you see real demons every day, they tend to lose their luster.
Just then the door slams open. Kiba jumps in his chair and his nose immediately begins to itch as a strong sent of aftershave and pine needle cologne stings the nostrils. Fujiwara merely sits, stares, and snorts; Tozawa is back. With the water and a pink bottle of the Pepto-Bismal. But the detective was forced to the side by a fine-dressed gentleman in a terrible toupee. Gaspen Payne, the sleaziest scumbag lawyer Gato can fit into a black, pin-striped Itoku suit and Armani loafers, waltzes in like he owns the place. Going off the very, VERY gold Rolex on his wrist, Payne very well could.
"Kiba, baby, oh my Lord! What have they done to you? Handcuffs! Aw jeez, is that how you wanna do this, Fujiwara." Payne's Japanese is pretty passable. Still shit, but passable; one of the few Western lawyers still operating in the city since the Tokyo Trials, the little fool gyrated and maneuvered about the floor like a dreidel. Fujiwara and Chief Yamato had squared off against him plenty of times before in court.
And in every appearance he's shot them down when it came to Gato and the Bando Group.
"Listen to me, Kiba, they hurt you? Huh? They hurt you? Jesus, look at your wrists. You with the Pepto and the face, get these things off my client here. Now! Jesus HMS Christ, can't believe this. Or this!" Payne says, looking at the photos and files Fujiwara silently puts away. "Got such a hard-on for him you'll pin anything on him, huh?"
Detective Tozawa wants to say something stupid and witty, but Fujiwara wards him off against it; again, he nods over to the two-way and Tozawa immediately shuts up. The key jangle in his hands, and the cuffs come off Kiba as readily as they went on. Kiba doesn't smile, though; he's still too pissed at Fujiwara to feel any sort of satisfaction, even when Payne tells him they got Akamaru safe and sound. He even adds if Kiba wants, he can try and finagle a "violation of due process" against Fujiwara and Tozawa, and also a unlawful seizure of property, too.
Kiba follows close to Payne, the little man leading him by the elbow through the rugged hallways of the Precinct's inner-sanctum. The holding cells for petty idiots were somewhere here Kiba remembered. He'd spent a few times in their drunk tank enough to know where they are. Along with the line of desks and cubicles of countless officers clacking away on typewriters and computer keyboards. Though, majority of everyone stops soon as they see Kiba and Payne once more make the walk of shame out of here.
"Don't look at these idiots, Kiba baby. Don't even think about them. Keep your head up high - ain't nothing to be ashamed of here. Long as you don't say a word, ain't nothing, not a thing." Payne tells him.
"What the hell took you so long?" Kiba asks.
Fujiwara and Tozawa follow their footsteps close behind, mirroring them as they weave up through the stairs, down the hallways, bypassing the elevators because they never friggin worked in this building. Gaspen is droning on with excuses - traffic, the lights were all red, he got held up at his office before he could get down here. That shit didn't register to Kiba, but the last bit Payne says certainly does. Soon as they hit the Precinct's lobby, Kiba notices a line of fidgeting police.
For a second, he believes they're all for him. Until Tozawa stops, curses aloud, nearly reaches reach for his sidearm. Fujiwara doesn't react, save for downing the bottle of Pepto in one go.
Through the precinct's glass doors, the roaring of engines hit him first—a wall of sound that made the hairs on his neck stand up. Beyond the police line, the street was packed with motorcycles, gleaming chrome and polished steel stretching in both directions. The Fangs had arrived in full force, colors worn proudly, dogs barking and straining on their leashes. And at the center of it all, like a general before an army, stood his mother Tsume. Arms crossed, her sharp eyes locked onto the precinct doors.
Beside her, Zabuza loomed like a storm cloud. The man's pale, corded muscles rippled under his sleeveless jacket, his single visible eye unflinching as he stared down Chief of Police Yamato, who stood alone in the center of the steps. Yamato's presence was like an iron wall—unyielding and unshaken, even in the face of the overwhelming display of gang unity.
"Gato wanted me to build up a solid defense for you before I showed up here. Why I'm so late," Payne drawled, voice as oily as the slick shine on his cheap suit.
Kiba ignored him, his eyes fixed on the scene outside. The long line of bikes, the growling engines, and the subtle way Yamato shifted his focus, turning that infamous glare—the one that froze even the hardest criminals—to meet Kiba's gaze. For all Payne's smarm and legalese, there was nothing the lawyer could say to soften the weight of that stare.
Stepping out of the precinct, Kiba made his way through the crowd of cops and bikers alike, heading for his bike. The custom Indian head, with its sleek chrome tint and red flair, gleamed under the midday sun. Akamaru waited for him in the sidecar, tail wagging, whining with excitement. The big dog nuzzled his head into Kiba's hand, and for a moment, the tension eased.
But not for long.
Tsume strode over, steel-toed boots clicking against the pavement, her presence commanding as always. She handed Kiba his helmet without a word, a smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. Kiba wanted to explain, to tell her it wasn't his fault, that the cops were just reaching again because of a dead "helper" washed up in the harbor. But Tsume didn't look like she cared to hear it. She turned, instead barking orders to the assembled bikers.
"Get your gear together and mount up! Zabuza, you too," she commanded.
Zabuza didn't move. The towering man remained a fixture, his gaze locked on Yamato. More officers filed out of the precinct, flanking the chief. The growing police line mirrored the bikers, each side tense, ready for something to snap. Kiba caught sight of Detectives Tozawa and Fujiwara standing off to the side. Tozawa glared with open hostility, but it was Fujiwara who unsettled him. The older detective's disappointed stare followed him like a shadow, a silent judgment Kiba couldn't shake.
Pushing the thought away, Kiba pulled on his helmet and goggles. The machine roared to life with a satisfying growl as he kicked the lever, Akamaru barking alongside the engine's rumble. Tsume mounted her own chopper, and with a signal, the Fangs began peeling away, their bikes cutting through the street like a blade.
Even as they roared off, leaving the precinct and its grim-faced officers behind, Kiba felt the weight of Fujiwara's eyes. That look burned into the back of his mind, unshakable. He grit his teeth, forcing himself to focus on the road ahead.
He couldn't afford to think about it. Not now. Not ever.