January 4th, 2044
09:45 PM
Foundation Ward
Cornerstone District
CRACK!!!
The sound echoed off the walls of the linoleum bathroom like the crash of thunder. Underneath the flickering fluorescent lights, blood spattered onto the grimy green tile floor. The far wall was an old, peeling fresco that depicted a hellish scene. Horned oni bared curved fangs and brandished metal instruments as they danced among flames. The horde of illustrated demons looked out from their vantage, staring at the scene of genuine carnage playing out in front of them.
A beaten and bloody man crawled across the bathroom floor, aimlessly looking for something to hold onto. Blinded by a crimson mask and concussed beyond reason, his hands brushed against the edge of a filthy pink tub in the center of the room, and he instinctively took hold of it, trying to use it to pull himself up. The beaten man operated solely on a primal need to survive, but the chance to escape this situation with his life had long since passed.
Yakiyama watched as his victim crawled desperately across the floor. Yakiyama was short and lean, being barely above five feet, but his fury was something to behold. Both hands were thoroughly coated in red blood, and Yakiyama’s lips were pulled back in a horrifying rictus, revealing a mouthful of blackened teeth. Dressed only in a pair of black slacks, Yakiyama’s pale upper body was exposed, revealing the nanite sculpture fused to his skin.
An effigy of Tokyo’s skyline was inscribed on Yakiyama’s flesh, spreading across his body like a skin disease. Yakiyama had a head of short dark hair across the top of his scalp, but the sides and back of his skull had been completely shaved, creating space for the miniature metropolitan sculpture that had been worked into the skin on either side of his head. The laminate coating wasn’t simply the product of dyes, nor was it a flat illustration. Instead, the replicas of the thousand buildings on Yakiyama’s skin were hard, grey, smooth, and three-dimensional; feeling every bit like the concrete and steel they emulated. Not limited to the sides of Yakiyama’s head, clusters of cement buildings formed a solid sleeve up Yakiyama’s arms from wrists to shoulders, though both limbs were drenched in an additional layer of blood.
Leaning against the tub, struggling to get his uncooperative feet to obey, was a man with a head of messy dark hair that was stuck to his face with a mixture of sweat and blood. His face was a swollen mass of red and purple skin, and he coughed up a trail of blood and saliva which dribbled down onto his dirty white shirt. Unable to stand, the brutalized man tilted his head to look over his left shoulder at Yakiyama, revealing that his right eye was completely swollen shut, leaving him to peer pitifully at his attacker with his left.
“Why’d you do it, Namba?” Yakiyama’s voice was a low, ragged whisper, filled with the pain of betrayal. “What could anyone promise you to make you try and fuck me?”
Namba didn’t answer, and only coughed, filling the tiny room with the echoing sound of his ragged breathing. Yakiyama stared down at the broken man, his pity quickly being eclipsed by his ever-present anger. Brimstone burned at the back of Yakiyama throat, and his face contorted into a snarl. The rage inside him demanded an outlet, and Yakiyama reached out, digging his hand into Namba’s head of bloody hair and grabbing a handful. Yanking Namba’s head back, Yakiyama slammed his forehead into the side of the tub, creating a hollow clamor, and he continued bashing Namba’s skull against the hollow object, filling the room with the clamor of the vicious beating.
Blood spilled across the ugly, filthy pink surface and Namba went limb even as the beating continued, and Yakiyama realized that Namba was flirting with death. He didn’t care so much about that; not after Namba had screwed him, but Yakiyama’s rationale managed to make itself heard for a brief moment, reminding him that he wanted an admission of guilt. He pried his fingers from Namba’s skull and let the stunned man fall backward to collapse on the bathroom floor.
Namba lay on his back, staring emptily up at the ceiling, his face an unrecognizable mass of swollen flesh. His chest continued to rise and fall, the act itself the only evidence that Yakiyama’s victim was still alive, however imminent his death was. Yakiyama loomed over him, staring down at the dying man as he wrestled with his desire for violence, and his need for answers.
“All this shit was your idea, Namba,” Yakiyama caressed his knuckles, trying to restrain his anger. “Getting in bed with Kabuki? Hunting down some asshole from Tsukuyomi? I wouldn’t have gone in for that shit, Namba. Not without you whispering in my ear. You should have known this would come back to you when shit went south.
“Why’d you do it? Who put you up to this? Give me a name, Namba,” Yakiyama planted a foot on Namba’s sternum, and he pressed down on the man’s chest, causing the other man to release all the air from his lungs in a long, rasping wheeze. As the last of the air exited Namba’s lungs, Namba released a sputtering cough, but said nothing. Silence echoed for several seconds, as Yakiyama wondered whether the other man was too far gone to answer. The killer ground his teeth; the sting of betrayal compounded with the prospect of never learning the truth. Yakiyama relaxed the pressure on Namba’s chest, letting him take in one final breath, before stomping down on his ribs.
“Give me a name!” Yakiyama roared, sparks and embers pouring from between his teeth.
“Amon.”
The answer was quieter than a whisper, so softly spoken that Yakiyama barely heard it. The sound lingered in the air for a split second before it vanished forever, and Yakiyama wondered if it was nothing more than a hallucination. But the name made sense; and it was the name Yakiyama had expected and had even wanted to hear.
“Amon,” Yakiyama shook his head, his lips pressing together into a scowl before anger pulled them apart in violent snarl that revealed his blackened teeth again. “Amon!”
For a moment, Yakiyama imagined he saw Amon’s face staring up at him from the floor, his bright iridescent eyes shining and his lips contorted into handsome, mocking smile. Though the phantasm vanished, Yakiyama could already taste the brimstone burning at the back of his throat. A fiery light glowed through his cheeks, bathing the beaten and broken Namba in an orange glow.
Yakiyama stepped over Namba and sat down on the fallen man’s chest. He raised his hands, already painted red in Namba’s blood, and he began to pummel the other man’s face. Powered by rage and adrenaline, Yakiyama’s first blow shattered Namba’s skull; a death blow in every sense, but the beating didn’t stop. The following blows pulverized bone and reduced flesh, cartilage, and brain matter into a slurry. Blood sprayed across Yakiyama’s face, chest, and arms, coating him in a grizzly color. The assault only stopped when Namba’s head was entirely gone, reduced to a disgusting smear across the tile.
Yakiyama stood, panting out puffs of smoke, and he stared down at the bloodied carcass of Namba. The blood coating Yakiyama’s body seemed to burn against his skin, as though the dead man’s humors had been boiling hot, and the blood pumping through Yakiyama’s veins burned with a kindred heat. He looked down at his calloused hands, which weren’t strangers to murder or being coated in blood, and for a moment, the crimson coating made him feel dirty.
“Let him see it,” a voice spoke in the back of Yakiyama’s mind, dispelling any notion to clean himself. “I want to see the look on that fucker’s face when I walk in on him.”
The feeling of disgust turned to pride, and a desire to exhibit his propensity for violence, and Yakiyama turned away, leaving Namba’s corpse to bleed out on the floor. He wrapped his fingers around the slender aluminum door handle set into the metal door behind him, and he pushed it open, causing the door to squeal loudly on its hinges as he strode out the door. He stepped out pf the washroom and emerged into a small hallway which featured a number of identical doors on all sides of him. To his left, the hallway opened into small entry room with a pair of glass doors standing across from a desk.
The bathhouse was decorated with bright red carpets that emulated the color of fire, and the walls were an orange color that were constantly being bombarded with an array of alternating colored lights that made them look like dancing flames. The walls were decorated with pictures of young woman dressed in kinky fetish costumes, all of them sharing a “demonic” theme that amounted mostly to a pair of plastic horns and a bikini, and little else. The air that filtered out through the gaps in the doors felt hot and damp, and speakers near the ceiling played a low, bass soundtracks emphasized with the soft panting vocalizations of a woman’s voice.
At the end of the hall was a small square lobby, with a set of glass double-doors that served as the building’s primary entrance. Across from the doors was a waist-high counter, behind which was another set of lurid photos advertising specific girls. Stepping into the lobby, Yakiyama joined the three men waiting there. Two of them were familiar to Yakiyama; the first was the muscular, broad-shouldered Shōki with a head of bleached blonde hair shaved down nearly to the scalp, who stood in an ostentatious fur coat with his back to his boss. Paying next to zero attention to the situation at hand, Shōki’s eyes were drawn to a four-by-three poster placed on the right side of the wall which featured the business’ premier soapgirl, who was standing on her knees in a black bikini while directing a sultry look at the camera. At the bottom of the poster was a caption: “Hell’s Number One Sinner.”
Sitting on a chair to the left of the soapland’s double doors was a tall man, Sakai, who was rakishly thin and dressed in a dark brown suit with a black button-up shirt. The slim Sakai kept his shoulder length dark brown hair raked forward across his face, leaving only his left eye to peek out at the world around him. The man in the brown suit kept his one wary eye fixed on the third man waiting in the lobby, but Sakai glanced in Yakiyama’s direction when he stepped into the hall, but he said nothing.
“Oh, god,” said the third man, the first to see Yakiyama exit from the washroom. The third man was the owner of the establishment, and he was an older man with a slight paunch and a black toupee that didn’t quite match the salt and pepper hair at the sides of his head, and he clutched the labels of his baby-blue raincoat with a death grip. The manager stared wide-eyed at the bloody man walking out from the bath, and Yakiyama could tell he was struggling not to vomit all over himself.
“Is it over?” Sakai asked, turning his head slightly to look at Yakiyama, his features partially obscured by his cascading locks.
“Halfway,” Yakiyama hissed, his eyes looking towards the trembling man with the hairpiece.
“Hey, can you give me this girl’s number?” Sakai turned around and tapped the manager’s shoulder and jerked his thumb in the direction of the picture on the wall.
“What?” the manager’s face scrunched in disbelief at the question.
“Really?” Sakai scoffed, casting an accusing eye at Shōki from underneath his hair.
“Come on man,” Shōki shrugged his shoulders, knowing what was about to take place. “I’m not gonna have a chance to ask later.”
“Go bring the car around,” Yakiyama rasped the order, his eyes still on the soapland manager.
“Ah, man,” Sakai turned about immediately, disappointment written on his features as he pushed both glass doors wide open and strolled out into the rain. Sakai silently followed after, brushing his hand through his long, dark hair. Each time the door opened, the alarm ringed, and a blast of frigid air and the sound of rain momentarily filled the lobby before the doors swung shut, leaving a tense silence to fill the void.
“Look, whatever happened back there—,” the man in the toupee began to speak first, holding his hands out in front of him.
Yakiyama’s left hand shot out the moment he thought about it, striking the man in the gut with his fist, leaving a bloody smear. The manager crumpled, a wheeze escaping his mouth as he collapsed. Yakiyama watched impassively, thinking that the man should consider himself lucky that he pulled his punch. He could’ve killed the fat bastard with a single blow.
“There was another girl here, tonight. One you didn’t advertise,” Yakiyama whispered, crouching down to speak to the manager who was bent double, still clutching his stomach. “Who was she?”
“I don’t—,” the man gasped, looking up at Yakiyama with tears in his eyes, his face red with pain and fear. “I don’t know! I was paid to keep her here! I don’t know anything else about her! I didn’t ask questions! I-I—,”
“You just took the money,” Yakiyama finished, his voice a neutral hush.
“That’s how it works,” the other man seemed torn between explaining himself and pleading. “I just take what I’m given. I never wanted any trouble!”
“Who paid you to take her?” Yakiyama let his voice twist into a growl, and sparks flickered behind his teeth.
“Your people did,” the man protested, but when he met Yakiyama’s eyes, he realized he’d spoken wrong. “I mean, the man in the back,” the manager’s eyes strayed down the hall, towards the still open door that Yakiyama had come out of. “He brought her here this afternoon, and I was paid to just keep quiet about it.”
“And he handed her over to Nishijima?” Yakiyama already knew the answer to his question, but he always liked to hear the truth with his own two ears.
“I wasn’t given a name,” the soapland manager shook his head from side to side, sweating beading across his face. “I just got a phone call: I was told a man in a sharp dressed suit was going to come in tonight and ask for her. I was just supposed to let him take her. That’s all.”
“I believe you,” Yakiyama’s words seemed to bring the pleading man some relief, but that was something Yakiyama in no way intended. Yakiyama stood up, standing over the manager, who swallowed hard, and then reached up to adjust his toupee. Just as he seemed like he was about to stand up, Yakiyama kicked him across the face and the manager stumbled backward, falling into the desk behind him.
“You crossed me, tonight,” Yakiyama rasped, hardly even looking in the direction of the whimpering man who lay sprawled on his back. “Kabuki. Amon. Those pricks from Tsukuyomi: all of you’ve forgotten your place in all this city.”
“It wasn’t my idea!” the man crawled back up to his knees, finally realizing that his fate was sealed the moment Yakiyama walked through the doors. “I didn’t have any part in this! I only did what I was told!”
“A lesson needs to be learned,” Yakiyama went on, ignoring the man’s pleas. “An example needs to be made.”
“Please! Please!” the soapland manager crawled forward, taking hold of the sleeves of Yakiyama’s pant legs as he begged for his life. “I’ll give you the money!”
“Take it to hell with you!” Yakiyama’s voice rose into a vicious bark, and an orange glow blossomed in his chest, bathing the room in a fiery light. The soapland manager looked up, tears framing his face, and that was the last expression Yakiyama saw the crying man make. There was a surge of heat and a bright flash of light, and the man was dead.
Sitting on the floor in front of Yakiyama was a blackened and charred human effigy. The burning corpse’s head was bowed, and its hands were clasped together, as if in penitence. A bed of fire was wrapped around the burning corpse’s knees, which spread across the floor, running up the desk, beginning the process of setting the whole building on fire. Yakiyama didn’t stay to watch.
He shoved the doors open and stepped out as flames spread through the lobby. The rain fell down on Yakiyama’s head, matting down his dark hair before running down the nanite buildings that were fused to the sides of his skull. The rain quickly made the blood coating Yakiyama’s body run, much to his disappointment.
Lightning flashed in the sky, heralding the imminent thunder, and the sound of an engine grew louder as the storm continued its clamor. A car pulled forward, an SUV with a garish red smart-skin that featured roiling multicolored flames across the chassis. The fiery pattern continued on the rims of the wheels, made even more outlandish through the LEDs placed into the hub caps, which bathed the street in a barrage of colors. Powerful bass thumped in the night, making it seem as though the gaudy vehicle was trying to challenge both the growing fire and the rampaging storm overhead. As the machine pulled to a stop in front of the building, the driver side window rolled down so that Shōki could poke out his blond head.
“Hey boss,” the gangster looked at Yakiyama, standing in the rain as the blood washed off him. “You, uh, want a towel or something?”
“No,” Yakiyama didn’t waste a moment; stepping forward to pull open the back door.
“You know, you could stay outside for a few more seconds,” Shōki offered, but Yakiyama ignored him, and climbed into the backseat.
“It’s gonna stain,” Shōki complained in a small voice, turning to look over his left shoulder as Yakiyama sat down.
“It’s just a car, Shō,” Sakai reclined in the passenger seat, his arms folded over his chest.
“It’s a new car,” Shōki hissed, nervously.
“Drive,” the anger inside Yakiyama remained unsatisfied and razor sharp, and the fire inside demanded action.
“Alright, alright,” Shōki’s defeat was marked with a reluctant sigh, and he stared out the side window at the soapland. The glass doors revealed a curtain of flames that spread across the entire lobby, making it appear as though the building had been transformed into an entrance to hell itself. Nothing of the interior could be seen behind the dancing lights, and the inferno inside hungered to escape into the streets, held back only by the raging storm outside.
“We’re going to Temptation,” Yakiyama announced as Shōki put the car into drive.
“Temptation?” the driver looked over his shoulder at his boss. “Why?”
“I’ve got business at the Ivory Tower,” Yakiyama could see the color drain from Shōki’s face.
“What kind of business?” Shōki couldn’t help but ask, but Yakiyama didn’t answer. When his boss chose to remain silent, Shōki looked towards Sakai, who lay back in his seat, appearing to be asleep. With no recourse, Shōki swallowed, and turned to back to the wheel, nervously beginning the drive towards Sin Ward.
The trip was spent in silence; Yakiyama looked down at his hands, his digits still coated in blood, his knuckles throbbing with the percussion of the beating he gave to Namba. Sakai remained entirely still and as quiet as the grave, but Yakiyama knew better than to assume the quiet man was asleep. Shōki spent the drive wearing his anxiety openly, muttering to himself and shaking his head. None of the three men were truly worried about the murder scene and the fire they left behind; the police knew better than to stop their care. Instead, it was what awaited them at the end of the trip that gave Shōki cause for concern.
The city was a hive of activity at this time of night, and lights from the countless signs and banners shone through the windows of the car as it rolled down the street, fighting to move against the sluggish traffic. Yakiyama had no eye for the marvels outside the car, and he kept his thoughts entirely inward, thinking only of the end of the trip. Under Shōki’s anxious direction, the car forged its way through Sin Ward, heading north into Ambition, where the brightest lights and most magnificent of sights awaited.
Through the pouring rain, Shōki’s car pulled up beneath the Ivory Tower, the magnificent structure extending above them. The Ivory Tower had a white-enamel coating, making the exterior of the building so bright that it seemed to shine in the middle of the night. The outside of the building was designed to appear like a whirlwind frozen in place: the base of the building was wide, constructed of countless slender white walls that swirled together, flowing upward as they merged. The middle of the Ivory Tower was a slender spire that fanned outward again at the top, sending forth countless white shoots to mirror the lower half of the building. The building stood on a small landing, with a covered walkway leading into the tower.
Shōki rudely left his car parked halfway on the street, jamming the front end of the vehicle between a cherry-red corvette and jet-black limousine parked on the street, while leaving the rear sticking partially out into traffic. The appearance of the vehicle drew the eyes of the countless men and women on the street, and the cars behind Shōki began to honk, expressing their disapproval at his poor driving. Attitudes quickly changed when Yakiyama climbed out of the vehicle.
He stood in the rain, awash in the headlights of the street cars and the neon haze of Ambition’s buildings. The blood washed away from Yakiyama’s nude upper body, revealing a laminate sculpture of a city skyline that spread across his skin. The nanite artistry covered Yakiyama’s left arm, his stomach, and his back, coating him in dark grey facets that mirrored Tokyo’s architecture, and each tiny window on Yakiyama’s body shined in the light.
Wearing a memento of Tokyo across his own body the way a tiger proudly bore its stripes, Yakiyama mounted the steps, while the synthetic skin on his body projected a warning to all who laid eyes on him. The cars on the street ceased to honk their horns and began demurely diverting themselves around Shōki’s SUV while the other two men climbed out of the vehicle. Striding up the steps, Yakiyama stepped beneath the transparent passageway that shielded visitors from the rain and strode down the opulent red carpet.
A small group of stood off to Yakiyama’s right hand side; a man dressed in a suit and white coat, a woman in red on his right arm, and a woman in blue on his left. Though their hairstyles and dress were different, the two women had nearly identical faces. The twins braced themselves on the arms of their escort, looking to him for safety, but the man’s bloodless face told Yakiyama that he would rather run away than stand his ground. Yakiyama glared at the trio as he passed them by, but they held his interest for nothing more than a moment. When he looked away, he heard the sound of their feet shuffling on the carpet, retreating back towards the street.
Standing at the end of the carpet and supervising the doorway into the Ivory Tower was a man dressed in a black-on-black suit. Just like the first man, the doorman gaped at the approaching Yakiyama, but he made no move to impede Yakiyama’s progress, nor the progress of Sakai and Shōki as they followed. The sliding transparent doors opened at Yakiyama’s approach and he strode inside, his lieutenants at his heel. Over his shoulder, Yakiyama heard the sound of a muffled voice, which he quickly ascertained was the doorman radioing the arrival of the three men to the onsite security, but the sound was cut off by the doors sliding shut behind them.
“Well, ain’t this a change of scenery,” Shōki marveled, the sound vanishing into the open and spacious interior. The sound of a piano tinkled from distant, unseen speakers, and the buzz of conversation filled the air. From the entrance, the red carpet ran across white marble floors and split into three directions. The pathway on the right seemed to lead to some ground floor facilities, perhaps a pool, while the center path ran down a tall corridor with golden walls that was lined with elevators that guarded the ascent to the peak of the building. To the left, the sound of conversation could be heard the most strongly, along with the sound of clinking glasses.
“What’s the plan?” Sakai asked from behind the perpetual wall of hair that fell over his face.
“We get some attention,” Yakiyama headed to his left, his eyes on the bar.
When Yakiyama stepped into the entrance of the bar; in the middle of the night, at the prime hour for business, the bar was full. A sea of tables stretched out in front of Yakiyama, each and every one of them full by a living tapestry of men and women dressed in the finest clothes that money could buy. To the right was a bar, which had another two dozen patrons standing and sitting shoulder to shoulder along the countertop. The laughter, raised voices, hushed murmurs all melded together into a chaotic chorus that slowly began to fade away as the patrons became aware of the man standing in the entryway.
Dripping with water and blood, Yakiyama strode into the bar, sauntering among the tables. Conversation died and silence swooped in to dominate the room as the very out of place Yakiyama swaggered among the elite. He kept his head on a swivel, glaring at each and every table he passed. Every person, no matter how wealthy or self-assured, looked away. Yakiyama represented something that they could only buy, but never truly possessed: the power of violence, and the violence that his eyes promised was indiscriminate and barely restrained. The stench of fear from each table was thick and powerful, and the scent brought a smile to his face.
Intoxicated by the smell, Yakiyama spotted a heavyset man in a red suit and a thick pair of glasses staring at him. The large man quickly looked away, silently encouraging his grey-haired companions to do the same, but brief exchange encouraged Yakiyama to leap into action. Yakiyama stepped forward, and the intent of his approach was obvious, such that the big man in red and his retinue quickly climbed out of their seats before the approaching Yakiyama flipped the table, sending the glasses atop it clattering to the floor.
“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,” Sakai called out from the entryway to the bar, following Yakiyama inside. “We’re here to conduct a little business. Please be kind enough to stay out of our way.”
Despite his reassuring words, Sakai joined in with Yakiyama overturning tables, kicking the one nearest to him over, sending the stunned guests tumbling to the floor. Shōki broke away from the other two heading towards the bar. Sauntering through the crowd with his gaudy fur coat, Shōki grabbed one of the bar patrons by the shoulder and threw him to the ground, stealing his drink while scaring the bartender away from the countertop. A tall man in a white suit jacket who had been standing near the end of the bar, stepped away, his eyes on Yakiyama as he raised his wrist towards his mouth and spoke something into it.
The short figure looked up at the approaching bouncer, who seemed to have concluded that Yakiyama was the ringleader of the group, or at least, the most dangerous. The two men locked eyes as the bouncer approached with equal parts seriousness and confidence. The bouncer’s boldness made conventional sense, seeing that Yakiyama was nearly two feet shorter and lighter by some hundred pounds or more.
Yakiyama smiled to reveal his black teeth and tasted the brimstone at the back of his throat. The bouncer stopped five paces away from Yakiyama, his eyes widening in surprise. Perhaps he saw the glimmer of hellfire between Yakiyama’s teeth, or perhaps the bouncer realized that he wasn’t the predator in the room, but the prey. Whatever epiphany he had, the man in the white coat didn’t have the opportunity act on it.
Yakiyama opened his mouth, letting the flames roar from out of his throat. It was a short blast, not intended to kill or cause serious harm, but then, Yakiyama never cared much for restraint. The man screamed, though the sound was nearly swallowed by the rushing fire, and a human torch tumbled away, flailing and screaming as flames swallowed his upper body. More screams followed immediately.
The silence was broken and the invisible restraints that held the patrons in place were loosed. Men and women began to scramble away, colliding with one another as they desperately sought to flee the bar. Yakiyama let the herd of human cattle rush around him, while Sakai moved to the side to avoid being trampled, and Shōki remained at the bar, savoring his stolen drink while he appreciated the portrait of a blonde woman in a white dress. As the customers flooded together to get out, knocking tables over in a desperate scramble, another group appeared trying to get in.
As the last of the patrons fled from the bar, six men became visible standing in a line, forming a living barricade across the entrance. All of them were dressed in black-on-black suits, with leather gloves and dark sunglasses that obscured their eyes. They stood with solidarity, their hands folded at waist level, each one silent and motionless until the last of the guests had slipped by them.
Yakiyama paced like a tiger in a cage, walking back and forth across the fine carpet, kicking over any table that was close enough to earn his wrath. Sakai remained leaning casually against the wall to Yakiyama’s right, while Shōki sat at the bar, pointedly ignoring the half-a-dozen newcomers. Yakiyama glared at the six men, but said nothing, the only sound being the hiss of a fire extinguisher as one of the bartenders sprayed the burning bouncer, putting him out.
“You’re a little out of your depth, Yakiyama-san,” one of the men in black stepped forward, acting as their spokesman. He had a head of dark hair with a fringe that fell over the right side of his round, boyish face. The leader of the six was shorter than the rest of his comrades, but that still made him a head taller than Yakiyama.
“Amon,” Yakiyama ignored the younger man’s provocation, and didn’t even bother making eye contact when he addressed him, instead continuing to pace. “Call him down here.”
“Who the fuck do you think you are?” the young man in black spread his hands, a smile spreading across his face. “You think the boss will come downstairs just because some riffraff from Foundation comes asking? I think you’ve forgotten whose ground you’re standing on.”
Yakiyama’s eyes snapped up to look at the young man in black, and a fire kindled in his stomach. He stepped forward, directly challenging the other man, and the five men behind him. The man in black didn’t falter even for a second, continuing to stare down at Yakiyama with a smile deforming his round cheeks. Smoke billowed from between Yakiyama’s teeth, a hint at the flames kindling in his chest, but he didn’t let his anger loose.
The six men weren’t like the bouncer in the white coat; they weren’t a group of ordinary human beings hired to strongarm belligerent drunks. No, they were Human Calamities as much as Yakiyama was. More even than that, they were undoubtedly Towers, too, and attacking them first wasn’t a line he was going to cross.
“I’ve forgotten?” Yakiyama demanded the young man repeat his insult. “I’ve forgotten? I wear Nishi; you’re just another Kabuki conman. You work for me, asswipe. All of you do.”
“You think repping Nishi-Shinjuku makes you a high roller?” the Kabuki spokesman scoffed. “Not in this part of town. Here, you’re no one. We run things here, not you. It’s only because you’ve got the city on you that we haven’t beaten you half to death, but that’s as far as our camaraderie goes. Do yourself a favor and go back to your circle-jerk in the slums where you belong.”
“Go on,” Yakiyama inclined his head and raised a finger to his ear. “There’s supposed to be an ‘or else.’”
“Or else,” the Kabuki enforcer let out a small chuckle and leaned closer, ignoring the smoke being blown in his face. “The six of us are going to remind you who really owns this island.”
“That’s the best threat you’ve got?” Yakiyama stroked his chin, pinching his thin goatee between his fingers, pretending to judge the ultimatum. “I’m not impressed. But, you know, for all you Kabuki bitches like to talk tough, whenever trouble comes around, you run to Shinjuku. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve had to clean up after you people when you shit the bed. I suppose I should be grateful some of you have found some balls; now I can give you the ass beating I’ve always wanted.”
“You want to be the one who breaks the peace?” the young man spread his hands to emphasize his challenge. “You’re the guest; the first strike is yours. But if you lay a hand on me, the rest of Shinjuku is going to peel those buildings off your back. Think about that before you start a war you can’t win.”
“War?” Yakiyama repeated the word, his voice tinged with disbelief. Adrenaline flowed through him, and the fires burned inside Yakiyama’s chest, demanding a burnt offering to be made of those that wronged him. “You don’t know anything about war! But I’ll teach you! You and Amon!”
Of the nine men in the room, none of them moved. All of them were completely frozen, every muscle tensed for immediate action. All of them knew that violence was imminent, but not a single man wanted to accept the responsibility for beginning the melee. There was a soft chime, and Yakiyama clenched his hands into fists and had them raised halfway, instinctively reacting to the new noise as though it was a signal to begin the fighting. He wasn’t the only one.
Sakai had stepped away from the wall, producing a knife from his sleeve. Shōki stepped away from the bar, throwing aside his fur coat to reveal the skyscrapers molded on his chest. The six enforcers had likewise flinched, half of them had hands reaching into their coats for hidden weapons, while the rest likewise balled their fists and raised them for the fight that was about to happen.
The chime continued on for several seconds, as each member of the Towers stared down their counterparts, trying to discern the meaning of the sound. Then, one of the enforcers standing to their leader’s left withdrew his hand from his coat pocket. He moved slowly, and held his hands upward to reveal an Augur, which rung in his hand. When Yakiyama and his retinue recognized that the man wasn’t holding a weapon, the enforcer lowered it and answered the call with tap of his finger.
The remaining eight men remained silent and still, watching as the enforcer raised the Augur to his ear. The enforcer spoke very little, listening intently to the voice on the other end of the line with a severe face, his lips pressed tightly together. At a command the rest of the room couldn’t hear, the enforcer stepped forward and held the phone out, passing it to the spokesman over his shoulder. The prior conversation repeated itself, and the leader of the Kabuki enforcers said nothing, listening in obedient silence.
“Understood,” the leader of the Kabuki spoke one word, accepting a command with dutiful meekness. He held the Augur back over his shoulder, letting his comrade take his phone back, while fixing Yakiyama with a sober look. The smile on the man’s face was gone.
“Well?” Yakiyama prompted the man to share the contents of the call, taking the other man’s confident smile for his own.
“The boss wants to speak with you,” the spokesman admitted, struggling to restrain his frustration.
“It’s about time,” Yakiyama chuckled out a mouthful of smoke, taking relish in now having control of the confrontation.
“But just you,” the spokesman went, nodding in the direction of Shōki. “Your men will stay down here with us.”
“Fuck that!” Shōki thumped his chest, still high on adrenaline, but a side look from Yakiyama convinced him to back down.
“Take me to him. Let’s get this shit over with.”
The other enforcers traded looks, then looked at Shōki and Sakai, both of whom still seemed ready to fight. The spokesman looked towards his own men over his shoulder, then back at Yakiyama, then, after a moment of indecision, he turned about, his underlings stepping aside to let him pass. Yakiyama followed behind him, exiting the lounge and heading down the central gilded corridor. The escort in black strode down the hallway, ignoring the elevator doors to the left and right. At the end of the corridor, the man in black approached the final elevator and removed one of his gloves. He pressed his right index finger against the elevator button and held it there for a second and a half, and there was a soft chime.
The doors parted, revealing an elevator car with a red carpet, dark wooden walls, and rich golden patterns. The two men stepped inside, and the elevator doors closed, and the car surged into motion. There was no display inside the private car to reveal which floor it was on as it traveled up the tower, nor was there any information about their destination. Yakiyama had to imagine that was not simply an oversight, but the product of Amon’s exact specifications.
“Is all this what ten years of work has been leading to?” Yakiyama questioned himself in the silence. “A bunch of rich fucks hiding out in brothels? Is that what the Towers are?”
He hated it. Amon. The Ivory Tower. The Kabuki. He hated all of it.
When the elevator came to a stop, the escort stepped through first, and Yakiyama followed, the pair entering an opulent penthouse. The floors were thick white carpet, and the walls and doors were a bright polished oak. The far wall was a massive floor to ceiling window that looked out on the island, allowing flashes of lightning to radiate through the glass, filling room with brightness. A short hallway led from the elevator into the living room, with a variety of doors to the left and right. At the right end of the hallway was a set of wooden stairs that led up to another floor, though what lay above held no interest for Yakiyama. The hallway descended several steps before the penthouse spread out in front of the colossal window, with an ornate brown leather three-seater couch facing in Yakiyama’s direction. Sitting on the middle seat with a dark mahogany table between them was Amon.
Amon was beautiful. It was a strange though for Yakiyama to have, as “beautiful” wasn’t word he would ever use to describe another man, but he lacked another descriptor for the man sitting on the couch. Dressed in a red silk robe with fine gold embroidery, Amon sat with his right leg crossed over his left knee, his left hand in his lap while his right hand held a drink glass.
Amon had shoulder length violet hair that framed a cherubic face, whose features twisted into a handsome smile. There were three small platinum studs at either of Amon’s temples, each of them shaped like a diamond. Not merely decorative, the metal studs served to conceal ports in Amon’s skull which connected directly to his pair of ocular implants which enabled his irises to change color.
As far as Yakiyama knew, Amon had never told anyone the story behind the pair of artificial eyes he had, and the absence of an explanation led to countless stories being told about them. Though he’d heard countless stories about Amon losing his eyes to a rival or a jilted lover, and just as many theories about what purpose they served, Yakiyama didn’t believe a single word of them. Amon’s eyes served as nothing more than a distraction, and Yakiyama knew it. They exemplified how paper thin the other was.
“You can leave us,” Amon raised his glass, using it to gesture towards his lackey.
“Sir, I-,” the Kabuki gangster hesitated, and Amon silenced him with a look. It wasn’t anything approaching a threatening glance; Yakiyama wasn’t certain if Amon could look intimidating if he tried. However, whatever menace the expression was meant to convey, the underling was forced to bow to it. The dark-suited Kabuki gangster stood up straight, bowed, and the turned back towards the elevator.
“Take a seat,” Amon raised his left hand and gestured towards a seat on the opposite side of the table. “I’d offer you a drink, but you’ve tested my hospitality enough for one night.”
“I wouldn’t trust anything you put in a cup,” Yakiyama’s retort earned only a sarcastic scoff from Amon. Yakiyama sat down, though he remained hunched over, shoulders pointed towards the other man, his elbows on his knees. He wanted to project his anger and intensity, and the unspoken threat that he could spring out of his chair at any moment, but if Amon was the least bit intimidated, he didn’t show it.
“If you despise me so much, I can hardly imagine why you would call on me in the middle of the night,” Amon’s statement was an invitation to business, and Yakiyama didn’t hesitate to leap on it.
“Nishijima. Where is he?”
The question caused Amon to scoff again, and he raised the glass to his lips for a moment, his smile broadening.
“Gone,” Amon’s answer was simple and mocking in its banality. “Is that what you wanted to know? You might have settled for a phone call.”
“How the fuck did you let him get away?” Yakiyama’s words were a hoarse bark, accompanied by a mouthful of sparks that danced through the air. “I gave you over a hundred men; you have everything you needed to run that son of a bitch down.”
“He’s a Dealer from Tsukuyomi,” Amon gestured with his glass as he spoke, his words slow and well-enunciated as if he were speaking to a child. “We both knew that trying to run down Nishijima was a gamble, pun intended. Even a hundred men would have trouble turning this city upside down, and there are a thousand places for a man like that to hide. We took a risk and we came up short.”
“Then why does it seem like I’m the only one getting fucked here?”
“We’ve lost a day,” Amon’s voice was a soft, convincing purr and his eyes shifted to a luminescent red. “We both knew that this was a unique opportunity with a limited window. Business goes back to normal tomorrow. Really, considering what we could have gained, our investment was pitifully small.”
“You didn’t lose shit,” Yakiyama snarled in a low voice, his words almost lost in an animalistic bark. “I had to pull men from all across Foundation for the sake of your little hunt. I had to call in favors from every man I know to get the muscle you asked for. The ones that didn’t see Nishijima don’t get shit, while my boys who were lucky enough to cross his path are in the ICU. Each of those men followed your orders, Amon. They did ask you asked, and they got burned.”
“You knew the risks,” Amon gave a slight shake of his head, his eyes switching to a burnished orange as he took a sip of his drink. “And they were commensurate with the reward. Need I remind you that you stood to gain far more than I did? We agreed that we’d split the bounty on Nishijima, and you’d get his credentials to boot. A free one-time pass into Tsukuyomi is worth three times what we were being paid to pin Nishijima down.
“I could have fought harder, Yakiyama-san,” Amon laid a hand to his chest as he cast himself in the role of a victim. “Nishijima’s ID was the real prize in this equation, you know that, but when you asked for it, did I put up a fight? No. As a show of deference, I let you lay claim to it. We agreed to split the prize, you demanded the lion’s share, but by the end of the night, we both turned up empty-handed. How am I at fault for any of this?”
“Your friend in Tsukuyomi,” Yakiyama switched gears as he changed tactics, deciding to use what he’d learned to apply some pressure. “Who is he?”
“What does that have to do with anything?” Amon spread his hands, sounding annoyed.
“You knew a lot about what Nishijima was after,” Yakiyama sat back in his seat, glowering at Amon all the while. “More than you told me.”
“Of course I did,” Amon didn’t deny the accusation. “This was a job I was given, and I chose to bring you into it. Information was provided on a need-to-know basis; you know how this works. But if I held anything back, it was all for business.”
“Why did Nishijima leave Tsukuyomi?” Yakiyama challenged Amon immediately, knowing the answer to his question. “Any Dealer that ventures south knows that he’s going to have a target on his back. Every two-bit gangbanger wants into Tsukuyomi, and they’d gladly kill a man to do it. Nishijima must’ve had real good reason to come into town.”
“He was looking for women—,” Amon launched into the same justification he’s given the day before, but Yakiyama wasn’t about to let him continue.
“He was looking for one woman,” Yakiyama leaned forward again, jabbing an accusatory finger at Amon. “A girl that just so happened to work in one of the soaplands you owned halfway across town. Seems to me you could have saved us all a bunch of trouble by telling us what he was really looking for.”
“Does it matter?” Amon slipped away from the accusation with an irritated shrug. “Whether he was looking for a thousand women or just one, our job was to grab him. It doesn’t matter what he was after; what mattered was catching him.”
“If you’d told us about the girl, I could’ve had an army of guys waiting for Nishijima when he arrived,” Yakiyama countered, but Amon brushed it aside.
“A fantastic strategy that would only succeed in scaring Nishijima away,” Amon’s mockery was thick and plain. “Better to keep the girl hidden and jump Nishijima before he finds her.”
“But he did find her, Amon,” Yakiyama breathed out an accusatory whisper. “How did you let that happen?”
“Where did you hear this?” Yakiyama shouldn’t have known about Nishijima’s true objective; Amon must’ve have known that, but when Yakiyama brought up the girl, he tried to let it slide. Now, though, it was clear that Amon couldn’t ignore Yakiyama’s insider knowledge.
“Oh, you didn’t hear?” Yakiyama smiled, leaning so far forward that he was nearly hovering over the chair. “Nishijima got caught.”
“By whom?” Amon asked, his eyes changing to a bright white as they narrowed to slits.
“Some freelance muscle out of Central, apparently,” Yakiyama smiled wider, showing more of his blackened teeth. “Though I’d bet you already knew all about him. But what you didn’t know, Amon, is that the man who brought down Nishijima was spotted by one of my men.”
“Well, where is he, then?” Amon held up his glass, gesturing towards the hallway behind Yakiyama. “If you’ve got him, bring him in.”
“That’s the thing, Amon,” Yakiyama shook his finger at the other man, feeling certain he had his opponent in the bullseye. “As soon as I heard someone was badass enough to bring down Nishijima, I drove out to Foundation myself. But what did I find? Nothing. Nishijima was gone. The girl was gone. There was nothing there.”
“Sounds to me like you were lied to,” Amon took a discrete sip of his drink.
“That’s what I thought at first, too,” Yakiyama tasted the brimstone again, reliving the anger he felt an hour ago. “But when I heard that Nishijima was with a girl, it got me thinking. ‘Who’s the girl?’ ‘Where’d she come from?’
“So, I went looking. It wasn’t too far away, Amon, that soapland of yours. Do you know who I found there?” Yakiyama’s question went unanswered; Amon simply remained silently listening while peering over the rim of his glass. “One of my men, just sitting in one your businesses. The same business where you were hiding Nishijima’s girl. And not just one of my men, but Namba. The same stupid son of a bitch that convinced me to get in bed with you on this.”
“Coincidence,” Amon brushed aside the accusation, rolling his eyes and pressing his cup down onto his knee.
“That’s not what they said, Amon,” Yakiyama spoke in a soft, slow whisper, relishing the moment. “They flipped on you. They sold you out.”
Despite the accusation, Amon merely chuckled and inclined his head with an amused smile.
“Go on,” Amon prompted him, holding up his drink. “Tell me what they said.”
Yakiyama’s own smile faltered; Amon’s reaction wasn’t what he wanted or expected. He wanted to see Amon squirm under the pressure. He wanted to hear the other man make excuses, to try and bargain his way out of the grave he’d dug for himself. Instead, Amon remained unmoved.
All the more reason to turn up the pressure.
“None of this shit makes any sense, going off what you told me,” Yakiyama stood up and placed his foot against the mahogany table, sliding it forward to pin Amon’s foot against the couch. “If Nishijima was a Dealer, then only whatever Gambler he was attached to up in Tsukuyomi could have sent him into town, right?” Yakiyama observed, but Amon said nothing. “So, where did the girl come from, and where did she go? And who put the bounty on Nishijima, and how did you find out about it? All this shit begins and ends up in Tsukuyomi.
“Whatever shit is happening up there, you’re right in the middle of it,” Raising a bloody finger, Yakiyama gestured towards the northern wall, pointing accusingly towards the silver tower that stood near the base of the Gettō-san. “Someone in Tsukuyomi called on you to put out the bounty, but whatever they promised you wasn’t enough, was it? You’re playing both sides of this. You had the girl the whole time and you knew that Nishijima was looking for her but kept quiet. You had my boys out there, combing the streets to make Nishijima’s search harder, applying pressure to whoever was holding his leash, but he wouldn’t play ball, so you called in some trouble-shooting hotshot from Central as your ace. The end result?
“Nishijima gets laid out and you call his boss and give him an ultimatum,” Yakiyama fixed Amon with a fierce glare as he reached his conclusion. “Give me what I want, or you never see the girl or Nishijima again. And he did give in, didn’t he? As soon as you got what you wanted, you let Nishijima and the girl go and decided to lie to my fucking face about it. Nishijima didn’t get away, Amon; you let him go.”
“Namba told you all that, did he?” Amon raised his glass to his lips, calm as ever, and anger flashed in Yakiyama’s throat. He slapped the drinking glass out of Amon’s hand, sending the cup crashing to the floor where it exploded into a mess of shattered glass and alcohol.
“What the fuck were you promised, Amon!?” Yakiyama leaned closer, his nose nearly touching Amon’s. Smoke flowed from between his teeth and sparks flew from his nostrils. “Did he promise you a fortune? No, no, that wouldn’t be enough for you, would it? You demanded a seat at the high-roller’s table, didn’t you? You think you have what it takes to bet your life in Tsukuyomi?”
“You’re out of your mind,” Amon’s continued defiance pushed Yakiyama passed the boiling point. He reached down, taking hold of the table, and he flipped it to the left, sending the heavy piece of furniture tumbling end over end across the penthouse. With his right hand, Yakiyama took hold of Amon by the lapel of his robe and lifted him up off the coach, breathing a stream of smoke into his face.
“You cocksucking Kabuki prick!” Yakiyama hissed, sulfur, ash, and saliva running down his lips. “You think you can double cross the Shinjuku? You haven’t just fucked with me; you’ve fucked with the Towers! When Kazuya finds out what you’ve done, you and your whole fucking clown show are gonna be at the bottom of the Sanzu!”
“And what are you going to tell Kazuya, huh?” Amon’s eyes flashed red and an expression somewhere between a smile and a snarl appeared on his face. “You think that he’ll find your stage act impressive? What evidence do you have? What witnesses? I wonder if Namba’s in any state to speak.”
“You’re nothing but a two-bit conman,” Yakiyama’s growl was accompanied by a baleful light flashing in his throat as the fire demanded to be released. “You’re just an ordinary human trying to stand among giants. I can step on you any time I want.”
“Do it, then. When Kazuya finds out you laid hands on another captain, they’ll peel the architecture off you,” Amon slapped Yakiyama’s right shoulder, and dug his fingers into the laminate fused into his skin. “They’ll flay you, Ki-chan, long and slow. Then you’ll be the one who gets dumped in the Sanzu.”
Fire raged in Yakiyama’s throat, but he was forced to contain it. Kazuya wouldn’t accept Amon’s death; not tonight. Not like this. With supreme force of will, Yakiyama pried his fingers from the scarlet robe, releasing Amon from his grip. A triumphant smile appeared on Amon’s face, and Yakiyama was forced to stand down, filled with barely contained violence.
“You’ll pay for this,” Yakiyama spoke in a quiet whisper, his throat ravaged by the flames inside. He raised a finger to point up at Amon, but the other man slapped his hand away.
“We’ll see who pays whom,” Amon waved his hand over Yakiyama’s shoulder, gesturing back to the hallway. “Now, if we’re done? Get the fuck out of my building.”
It took everything in Yakiyama not to kill Amon on the spot. The con artist with his shining eyes had no real power; he was a just a man. He’d even sent away his own protection. Amon’s death stood within arm’s reach, and Yakiyama only had to act on his instincts to take the other man’s life.
But he didn’t.
Respect held him back. Not respect for Amon; respect for the Towers. Respect for Kazuya. There was a process for settling disputes, and while Amon’s disrespect could hardly be stomached, Yakiyama couldn’t let his wounded pride motivate him to insult the rest of the Towers by overstepping. Even so, his time would come.
Yakiyama let that thought cool his anger as he silently turned his back on Amon, imagining that the other man watched him depart like a whipped dog. He’d let Amon have his laughs, but there would come a time when Yakiyama would pay back every insult in excess. First, he would need to expose Amon’s duplicity to the rest of the Towers.
Namba was dead, and the soapland where Amon had handed the girl over to Nishijima was still burning. They were the first to taste Yakiyama’s wrath, a mere prelude to the suffering Amon was going to feel, but the deaths of those two men left Yakiyama without a lead. But there was still someone else he wanted to speak with. The man who let Nishijima go.
Soon, the World Will End 