I picked this project up from Jeremy Evans a while ago, and have let
it sit around collecting dust due to lack of ideas. Well, I'm gonna try to
pick it back up, and would appreciate ideas, input, etc.
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Yaukza. Triads. They're no better than any other sort of scum on the
face of the planet. They sell dope, they run numbers, they pimp girls,
everything other organized crime syndicates are famous for. People here just
pretend not to notice.
I've watched shit like this for years. I watched as they killed the
kid's mother. I watched as they torched her home, as they beat her along
with the others. I watched as her pop told her that it didn't happen, and
that it had all been an "unfortunate accident".
A couple years back, I got tired of watching.
That night, ten years ago, was my birth, my baptism by fire. I guess
you could call me the kid's release valve. By herself, she wouldn't have a
chance in hell of seeing justice done. That's why she has me.
I glance at the luminous face of the watch, one I filched from a
pusher a few weeks back. I'm sure he would have wanted me to have it. Twenty
minutes, more than enough time. I release the button, the face of the watch
going dark as I prepare to spring.
Time seems to stand still as I sail through the air, the people
below going about their business as I hang weightless in space. After an
eternity of seconds, my feet hit the rooftop across the way. I don't even
stop to breathe before sprinting to the next leap. It's time for the hunt to
begin.
=========================================
The moon rises in the infinte darkness above, a pale sliver in the
night sky. Some of the streetlamps are busted, what few left struggling to
hold the night at bay. This is one of the more destitute sections of the
city, one of the places you don't see or hear about. Urbanization wasn't all
it was cracked up to be, and everyone seems to deny it.
According to the "official" reports, Japan is just this side of
Eden. Unofficially, crime is as big a problem here as it is anywhere else.
There are junkies, pedophiles, and all sorts of other examples of human
trash. The streets may be reasonably clean, but the evil is still there
lurking beneath the surface.
I lovingly stroke the cold metal of the Benelli M39 pump-action
sawed-off I keep tucked away. This thing's a monster at close range, and I
intend to get very close. The leaf blades are strapped to my stomach beneath
the coat, with an entire arsenal of other blades and spare ammo for the
shotgun tucked away in the sleeves.
The upstairs lights are on, filtered through the filthy windows of
the dingy warehouse in front of me. The acrid stench hit me three blocks
off, and got worse the closer I came. The whole thing is so amateurish, it's
almost laughable. Almost.
Cloaked in the shadows behind the building, I spot the doorman
hanging around out back, cracking his knuckes as he glares at things he
can't see. He's tense, agitated, but still sober. If his bosses found him
using, they'd probably have him skinned alive.
He stops for a moment to light a cigarette, and I have to fight down
the urge to laugh. His night vision just got shot down the tubes from that
match. It'll take his eyes forever to readjust. Guess that's my cue.
The sound of his neck breaking fills my ears as his rigid body goes
limp in my arms. Even if he hadn't been blinded he wouldn't have had a
chance. I let him slip to the ground before I readjust the mask. The damn
thing itches from the sweat built up beneath it, but I have to wear it.
Wouldn't do to have anyone see my face, after all.
The door opens silently, darkness greeting my eyes as I step in.
Nobody's in the shadowed office, the muted noise from outside helping mask
my presence. They don't know I'm here, and that suits me fine. The longer I
can go without breaking out the Benelli, the better. I never liked running
gun battles, having survived my fair share of them.
I ready two throwing knives as the sound of footsteps begin to close
in. I melt into the shadows, holding the gleaming blades out of sight. If
they don't come in then I won't kill them. I don't waste my time on needless
battles.
The footfalls pass by, soon fading back into silence as I replace
the knives. Time's getting short, and I have to move. I dart out the door as
quickly as I dare, not wanting a sudden noise to give me away.
I can feel the blood surging through my veins, the bloodlust
carrying me forward as I advance. This must be what the tiger feels when
stalking its prey, the anticipation of the kill. I gotta admit, it's sort of
addicting. The kid might not like it, but that's the way it is.
I see them in the middle of the warehouse amongst piles of crates
from America, Germany, Britian, and elsewhere. Five men ragged clothing with
two more wearing expensive suits. Those two are the chief torpedoes, the
others merely grunts doing the backwork. I can take them out in one go,
before they even realize the danger.
I throw my arms outward. Each blade is tipped with a quick, and
lethal, poison, guranteed to put them down quick and hard. The thin knives
find their marks, embedding themselves into the soft flesh of the targets.
Within seconds, three of them is on the floor, either dead or quickly dying.
A couple more blades send the final two down before they can even thnk of
drawing their weapons.
After only a few steps into the light, I feel the eyes on my back.
Looks like I didn't get them all. The knife leaves my hand as I spin,
hitting the remaining man square in the throat. That oughtta.... oh, FUCK!
I dive behind a crate just as a bullet screams past my ear. Stupid,
didn't think that any others would be here. I'm running low on blades, but I
use another nonetheless as the final guard goes down.
I ste out from behnd my cover, every sense on high alert scanning
the silence for signs of anyone I missed as I approach the crates the now
dead men were standing over. Inside the wooden boxes are bags of a fine
white powder, hidden beneath boxes of imported toys and trinkets. Why didn't
the Harbor Patrol nail these bastards? They're being paid off. Of course. A
simple investigation would easily point out just whose bank accounts had
suddenly gotten a lot fatter in recent months.
I pillage their wallets, removing several hundred yen. Might as well
take something back with me. Afterward, I look around for something nice and
flammable. No sense letting anyone else get their hands on all that coke.
Besides, it's high time I left a calling card.
===========================================
The warehouse is burning quite well now, the harsh glare of the
leaping flames banishing the night for nearly a block. The fire trucks have
arrived, spraying jets of water in an attempt to extinguish the blaze before
other buildings are threatened.
I haven't bothered to count the spoils of this little war, I'll have
time for that later. Now, I just need to get some sleep. The kid's got a
test tomorrow, and she's gonna feel bad enough as it is.
The battle over, I turn and head for home. I'm confident in the
knowledge that, for me at least, crime pays.
=================================
Nobody ever comes down here anymore, one of the main reasons I chose
this place to hide my weapons. The old sewer tunnel had been abandoned since
the fifties, blocked off as the system had been steadily improved. Despite
its disuse, the smell still lingers in the air. I'll have to clean this
suit pretty soon.
I hang the bodysuit on the hook I screwed into the wall, just a
black shirt and jeans, really. I haven't been able to score any kevlar yet.
Next comes the coat and sash of leaf blades.
I take off the wrist gauntlet which houses my Sig and place it in
the inside pocket of the coat. I hide the shotgun next to the bangstick in
the corner of the abandoned tool closet. I haven't had the cause to use that
yet, and I hope I don't. I was lucky enough to find the punk who packed the
Sig, much less another with a shotgun. Finding ammunition for that monster
is next to impossible. I have to save it for when I REALLY need it.
I look up, and I see her face looking down at me. Her smiling gaze
is filled with love mixed with an iron resolve, but for a fleeting second,
it's almost as if there's something less pleasant there. I felt her eyes
staring into me, as if trying to tell me something...
I tear my eyes away, hardening my heart once more. We can be only
what we are, no more and no less. This is what I am, period. I don't care
what she thinks of me, but I do hope she doesn't condemn the kid. She isn't
doing all this, I am.
I close the door, locking it and checking the booby traps in the
area. I'd sooner destroy all this shit and start over than give someone a
link back to either of us. Wouldn't be the first time.
I start the trip back home, having spent more time that I wanted to
here. The kid hasn't studied for that test, but that's not my problem. If
she flunks, it's her fault, not mine.
=======================================
Well, you might be able to deduce who this is. Or maybe not. Either
way, I'd appreciate any and all comments and criticism. Flames will be met
with my fire extinguisher. ^_^
Knight Writer.