Fandom [ LOST DOGS ] — A Yakuza Story

Seiji was quick to snatch the paper, staring down at the phone number. Definitely an overseas number. He squinted at the name, attempting to string together Kenneth's words with the words on the sheet. How was it pronounced?

Ee-vaaan? Even? Vas -- Vas . . .

What the fuck was he reading. How the fuck did Kenneth pronounce this?

As the man struggled to understand the foreign words, Kenta forced himself to pick up his gaze off the floor. Fuck, what sort of yakuza was he? Shaking, trembling at the mere thought of stabbing a man again. A man who deserved it no less. What was he going to do now? When he had to stare down the barrel of a gun and shoot a man, would he buckle into pressure? How would that cold metal feel against his hands? Could his shoulders handle the recoil?

"Y-Yes we . . . I shoot --" he pried his hands apart, allowing one to rest on his own shoulder. "I shoot his shoulder and he lives, right?"

Kenta recalled seeing similar stunts in movies. A single shot to the leg or the arm was enough to handicap someone or put them out of commission until they fully healed. There several were ways to harm someone without killing them, yet this was the messiest option. Fuck, they were going to have to spend time cleaning all the blood and any evidence before the police could trace back the assault to them. Not like any of them would serve any time, with a quick flash of some bills the men would have no problem looking away.

It was stupid how money held so much power over people.

"Shit, he has a point," Seiji spoke up, practically leaping over Kenta. "Guns can be traced back to someone and that might lead them back to us. Don't need that sort of attention right now, this all needs to go according to Nishitani's plan," he shook his head. He walked towards the bar once more, hand in pocket as the bartender quickly approached.

"S-Sir, what are --"

"Using the phone, makin' a call, keep an eye on 'em," he gestured to his associates before disappearing to the backrooms.

"Should've never mentioned that gun shit," Kenta murmured to himself, reaching into his blazer. "He's not gonna let it down now," he sighed, pulling out another cigarette, and fumbling with the lighter repeatedly before the end was finally lit. The criminal took a rather long drag, allowing his shoulders to slouch and his fingers to finally calm. With heavy eyelids, he offered the cigarette to Kenneth, blowing some smoke his way.

"He's going to get you that number, don't worry," he assured. "Seiji is . . ." he sighed. "He's told me how it felt to shoot a gun,"

Adrenaline filled his veins from the near-deafening sound Kenta could only imagine. It was described it be similar to a car slamming on its brakes, yet louder. How it had enough power to shoot a single bullet through a person's body and tear through their skin, leaving behind a gaping hole.

"He said . . . it's loud and it burns you,"

A single bullet was all it took to have a man on his knees, begging for mercy.

"You shoot gun before, Kenneth? Do you like it?"

As Imai tried to parse the Latin alphabet, Kenneth kept his focus locked on Kenta, wincing subtly when their eyes met. The man looked like he'd just peered into hell. Still, he knew it was best to not bring it up. Not to avoid damage to his pride, but, well, because that's the last thing Ken would want in this situation too. It was impossible to ignore, though—his shaky voice and slipping pronunciation gave the foriegner pause as he tried to parse the words. At first, he nodded with enthusiasm as Kenta demonstrated a non-lethal target. However, his excitement was quickly snuffed by the realization that there was no way Kenta would be able to land that shot. Even on the meatiest man, the shoulder was so close to the chest and head that only more experienced marksmen ever went for it.

Kenta probably couldn't hit the broad side of a barn even if a human life wasn't on the line.

Before Ken could voice any further concerns, Imai barrelled past them, scrambling off into a back room—one normally reserved for employees no doubt—to make a phone call. And then they were alone again. Well, alone as they could be in a bar in the early afternoon hours. Ken felt his heart in his throat as he stared down at Kenta. Slouched and scared as he was, he was still so much larger than the redhead. It was taking everything in him to not focus too hard on that grip the yakuza had on his neck not even fifteen minutes ago. Damn, he really had to stop talking himself into situations like this. If he fucked this up, both he and Imai could break him like a twig.

Though, if those trembling hands told him anything, it was possible that Kenta wouldn't go through with it. He was a man of show, it seemed. Shame his act wasn't quite up to snuff with reality just yet.

The yakuza took out a cigarette from that speckled box and lit up—damn, how many did that make today? Well, the situation was high-stress enough to warrant it, Ken supposed. What was less understandable was the puff of smoke he blew in Ken's direction. He would have been far more than mildly annoyed had Kenta's next move not been to offer him the cigarette.

That gave him some pause. Was his own stress that noticable? He had gotten pretty good at suppressing those visceral reactions to his own memories—even the occasional hallucinations he suffered rarely put more than a momentary stutter on that humble front. Still, something must have slipped. Why else would this man he had only met the previous night be offering him a hit off of his own cigarette?

Well, it wasn't like he was going to turn him down. Rude or not, he needed something to lower his ever-riding heart rate. With a hint of caution, he took the cigarette between his fingers and took a drag, shutting his eyes as the nicotine momentarily took his mind off of the lack of opium in his system. Fuck, he needed this. As he let the smoke pour out of his lungs, he walked to Kenta's side of the table with a languid stride and sat down on the end of the bench, handing the cigarette back to his companion as his head hung back in relief.

His eyes trailed over after his hand, the bags seeming to turn those brown irises into gaping voids surrounded by a network of dead red trees. Confusion may as well have been permanently stitched into his brow at this point. With a bit of that choking calm in his lungs, Kenta's words were much easier to parse. However, those words still left him with questions. "Is... It is Seiji or Imai?" he asked. "I hear both... I call him which one? Do not want any anger..."

Then, that fear seemed to filter back into Kenta's eyes. He was talking about... Well, his idea of what a gunshot was like. It was accurate enough. Despite his time spent with mobsters, Ken had yet to take a bullet himself. Many of his cohorts weren't so lucky. And then, the question he had unfortunately seen coming: had he shot a gun before?

Well, yes. He wouldn't be much of a small town boy or an American criminal if he hadn't even fired a small handgun at least once. In fact, he was quite good with a handgun. He didn't like aiming them at people—typically only reserving that gesture for heat-of-the-moment incidents where his reservations against killing people were far lower—but he was damn good at hitting car tires. Still, he didn't want to regale Kenta in those tales. Despite those eyelids now falling heavy, the eyes behind them were still hazy with the past.

Kenneth scratched the scruff on his cheek, taking a breath through his teeth. He was going to have to navigate these memories with care.

"Have fire gun many time, yes," he said, putting his arm over the back of the booth as his drawl began to infest his Japanese. "Have fire hand gun, uh... Long gun too. Kill game. I live in small town when I was child. We fire gun to get meat and fur. Sometimes, fire gun for fun too."

He chuckled at the distant, hazy memory. Between the clouds that obscured a lot of his childhood memories, he remembered a time when one of his middle school friends taught him how to use his father's hunting rifle. It was a beaut of a gun—a Marlin 336 with a red-stained stock. It had been Ken's first experience with a gun of that caliber, and his tiny 10-year-old self wasn't quite equipped to handle the recoil that his 12-year-old friend hadn't the mind to warn him of. "A friend and I, we fire long gun to hit, ah..." he scratched his neck as he finally thought to take his dictionary back out, skimming through it to patch the holes in his stories. "... Bottle and can. For fun. Very young, very small, did not know how much gun, uh... Hit back." he chuckled, gesturing to his shoulder. "Dislocated bone, hurt like a bitch. Still hit bottle. Beginner luck, friend say to me."

Again, he swapped the Japanese vulgarity for English, trying to settle the air between them. As much as he still wasn't sure how much trust he could place in the nerve-wracked criminal, he also didn't want to face this world alone. Besides, maybe it was the hazy memories from the night before talking, but something still had him convinced that they were meant to be together. He could be as pissed as he wanted at the organization and the culture, but he couldn't deny his attachment to the man who had wedged himself in it. After all, he did owe the guy his life.

"You not need so much worry over hit back," he said, slapping a hand over his leather-cloaked bicep. "You are many more large than me. Strong. I show you later... You worry about where fire. Eh... Shoulder good think, yes. You not fire gun before... Point at legs. Very less easy to miss legs."

He gestured to Kenta's legs, hoping he would get the point, then promptly averted his eyes in order to hide his startled amazement. He hadn't noticed before, but this guy had some massive thighs. For all the punches he threw earlier, it may have only taken one good kick to end that fight against that pompadour kid. Goddamn, he really needed to notice these details before getting aggressive with people. Clearing his throat, he scratched his neck for a moment before finding it in him to meet eyes with Kenta again. "Ah... I apologize for... Anger words," he said, his tone dropping slightly. "Men go lost many time in Red ATL... We have to make men lost too... Do not want these thing for you, friend. We are okay?"

The memories were pushed back to focus on the apology that had slipped from his lips. He hadn't originally intended to apologize—not now, anyways. However, it was dawning on him that, if Ivan couldn't deliver the gun within a reasonable timeframe —or worse yet, not at all—he was fucked. This island nation was so much smaller than the states, and he had enough trouble outrunning one criminal organization on it. He might not be so lucky as to outrun a second.

Whether it was for Kenta or himself, he couldn't tell. He just didn't want to face death with any more regrets than he had to carry.

Dark eyes watched the foreigner move from his place, closing the gap between them. Lazily, his head fell back, watching the other smoke until it was passed back to him. Quickly, the stick found its way back between his lips, taking another puff, making sure this time the smoke didn't wander off into the other's face. It was rude to allow that to happen the first time.

"His name is Imai Seiji," he spoke. "I call him Seiji cause know many long time," he gestured to Kenneth and then to the bartender across from them. "Like him -- no know well, call him Imai it is ehh, family name," he explained in English, hoping it would sat in his head. "Cause high than both us, we say --" he cocked his head. "San? Know English no use them, but you have to. Respect and everything," he took another drag, shaking his head.

"Me no care really. Kojima, Kenta," he shrugged. "Difference same."

Of course, that rule didn't apply to anyone else, except maybe hostesses. But, they were known for giving out fake names anyway.

A small chuckle left the yakuza's lips, attempting to imagine a younger Kenneth. Would he be any shorter? Probably less scruffy, and didn't carry that look in his eye. Well, of course, he wouldn't carry the same look -- he hadn't been corrupted yet. "You shot at bottles for fun?" he asked, letting his arm rest along the back of the couch. "Americans are weird."

Although knowing very little of the culture, he understood they were heavy on guns, big meals, and extremely patriotic some even going as far as to die for their country. Willingly.

Was Kenneth like that? It didn't seem like it.

"Point at legs?" He asked, confused. "Wouldn't that leave them unable to walk?" he asked, more to himself. Though, that would be better than killing them, right? And it would incapacitate them long enough for him to finish his business. Though . . . his hand absent-mindedly clutched his maroon pants with a small hiss. "Shit, that would hurt -- like a bitch," he repeated the English vulgarity with another chuckle.

Maybe it was the cigarette, maybe it was Kenneth's company, but he was feeling . . . a bit better. Maybe it was just the revelation he could shoot someone in a place that would leave them out of the picture, but wouldn't kill them. However, he was still unnerved at the thought of cries and even the blaring sound of a bullet. Even through movie screens, the sound made him jump, how would he deal with it in reality?

"Seiji-san has shot gun before," he nodded. "Actually -- maybe few times before. He -- he . . ." he trailed off, unsure if he should be revealing private information on his superior; however, decided it would be a fair warning to Kenneth. If Kenta didn't already scare him, Seiji would.

"Before the yakuza, bro was tied up in some pretty bad illegal fighting." Finally, Kenta took another drag instead of allowing the cigarette to continue burning. "Don't know much about the place, he's only told me when drunk but," he shrugged, "It sounds scary. They would lock him in big big cage with another man and -- they fought to kill. Mostly with hands, but if fight had good money behind -- would get weapons. Any you can think. It is why he good with ahh,"

His hand spun, copying the movement of a butterfly knife.

"Don't know if he shot, but he shot other man, four time it took for man to go down,"

Through the man's drunk slurs, Kenta could picture it all. It seemed ripped out of an old martial arts movie. A man with his back against the wall, having no other option but to exploit the one thing he was good at. Who could blame him? If there was an audience, who was he to deny them a show? Through their several fights together, he pieced together Seiji's fighting style. It was a mix of different types of martial arts, mostly going for intense hits in specific weak points. Was that all cultivated inside that ring?

"I was the champion!" slurred the man, waving around his glass. "Ya should've seen me, one of the youngest winners in 'ere," he sighed, laying his body against the table. "Life was simple in 'ere. Go in, bust a guy's jaw couple times and ya move onto the next! Rinse and repeat," he laughed.

"Rinse and repeat?" responded Kenta. "How long were you in there for?"

"How long?" his fingers trailed along the rim of his glass. "Shit ah . . . A year prolly? Didn't keep track of days, but I won like -- 200 fights!" he laughed again. "All of 'em bended over cause of some kid with a knife I stole," he hiccuped. "Ah, it was a lawless land Kojima . . . You seen that movie The Sword of Doom?"

A nod.

"Fuck I was just like Ryunosuke,"

With a knife in one hand and an endless amount of bodies to take down, Seiji left himself a trail of bodies within that glimmering bloodied cage.

---

Noting the other's quick yet intense stare, he pulled his leg up, spreading them further. As he leaned forward, he held out the rest of the cigarette. "We are okay. I'm sorry for," he gestured to his own neck, "Grabbing you like that. Seiji-san always says never to let anyone walk over you so I lost my temper," he apologized as well. "Bad habit, still trying to learn." A bad habit that carried on from his adolescence and, unfortunately, hadn't been hammered out during prison. Kenta always wondered why he got into so many fights while within those concrete walls, yet never held back his tongue.

. . .

Kenta's hand didn't know where to go. On his shoulder? No, he could already feel Kenneth's shoulder tense at the touch. His hair? Too personal. His face? . . . No. Instead, the hand settled on the leather jacket, arching a brow as he looked at Ken with concern. "Do you really want to fight my boss? After what he already did?"

Wait.

Kenneth sat up slightly as the naming conventions we're explained, his eyes lighting up from realization. So, the guy's name was Imai Seiji—or Seiji Imai, going by the western order. Kenta called him Seiji due to being familiar with him. That kid earlier—so unfamiliar to Kenta that the yakuza didn't even recognize him—had called him Kojima...

Kenneth smirked, his brow softening in a gentle amusement. Apart from the coincidence at hand, it was touching to him that the man seemed to regard Kenneth so closely. He didn't have to be Kojima-san, or even -san at all. He was just Kenta. Back in Atlanta, that would have been fairly normal—he didn't seem older than the foreigner, after all. Here, though? In this context?

Even if the name of choice hardly mattered, if Kenneth had to use those suffixes for everyone except Kenta, that meant something.

A chuckle escaped him as the yakuza parroted his vulgarity back at him, his eyes momentarily trailing back down to his legs as he clutched the maroon fabric in sympathy for a wound yet to be inflicted. A small sigh escaped Ken—not just out of admiration, but out of curiosity. "Yes, will hurt anywhere you fire," he said, combing his bangs back. "But man will live. This is important thing."

Man, how did this guy end up in organized crime? To have reservations about murder was normal enough, most new bloods did. But to be afraid of inflicting any pain more severe than what his fists could do? That was strange. He was a nice man, too nice for this world. A twinge of worry echoed in the foreigner's mind: would Kenta judge him for being more stained than he was? After all, all of Kenneth's reservations about making people of all walks plead for their lives had been lost somewhere in the gaps in his memories. He could still hear the rev of the tree trimmer in that stuffy Florida warehouse if he thought about it for long enough.

Had he a choice in the matter, he might just take Kenta's place for the thrill.

Then, as if reading his mind, Kenta lit the air alight with the possibility of an outlet. Ken leaned in slightly as the yakuza regaled him with tales of Imai's victories in the ring, unable to shake the feeling that this was forbidden knowledge. So, Seiji had killed before. Go figure. Honestly, Ken would have been more surprised if the man didn't have blood on his hands. What startled him more was the existence of such a place. Sure, there were underground fight clubs in America, but he hadn't ever heard of death matches being held. The ones he had partaken in were just your standard "fight until your opponent is knocked out" fare. Fists were used—blunt weapons if they really wanted to make a show. Never blades, certainly not guns. What kind of shows were they running here? What did that river flow with?

Ken could hardly contain how much he wanted to drink from that murky water. The money would probably be helpful, too. It wasn't like a man like him could find honest work, anyways.

"Shit, his aim must be downright ass, then. It only really takes one bullet to drop a man, doesn't really matter how big he is," Ken chuckled to himself, keeping that remark in English for his own sake before switching back to Japanese. "Would not think he fire gun before. He look, eh... Excited. Very many excited. Long time, maybe? Ah... Maybe I do fights too. Need money, good at fights, you know."

Ken wasn't even sure if his apology would be accepted. To hear it reciprocated so sincerely—with concern no less—brought a light to his smile. He didn't even flinch this time when Kenta laid his hand on the cool black leather of his sleeve. Instead, his muscles slacked beneath the yakuza's touch. "Do not have choice, yes?" he said, tilting his head. "But yes, I do want this. I make promise, I keep promise... Do not know many of last night. I know he smile like the devil. Man like him... He want blood, he get blood. I give him more blood than he ever need to drink."

Well, that was dark. Ken cleared his throat with a nervous scratch of his neck, then picked his notebook back up. "Ah... You can read English letter some, yes? I am not good at read kanji yet, but... You find my hotel this morning," he said, opening his notebook and passing it to Kenta. It was opened to the first page, and there was a name written on the inside of the cover. "This is my name. My whole name. You still call me Kenneth, it is okay for me, but... Look."

Etched in pen on the bottom left corner of the inside of the cover was his full name:

Kenneth Kaminsky.

"It only take one?" he responded with an arched brow.

The way Seiji described it, the man needed four bullets just to stay on the floor. One through the shoulder only stunned him and even with another through the chest, he pounced toward Seiji. It was a surprise he didn't unload all six into the other criminal.

Then again, he wasn't there. Seiji very well could have been lying -- or remembered it incorrectly. Or, that man was inhuman.

Either way, he shrugged. "Unsure if possible. He says ah, you have be there for year,"

It was more like a prison sentence, one where one wrong slip would land you six feet under, not the infirmary.

"There are better way to get money in city. You like gambling?" he asked before chuckling at the thought. "Eh, take it back." How was Kenneth gonna do any gambling if the two could just barely hold a conversation? Most that ran those gambling rings were older men, men who didn't bother learning another language. Men who's Japanese made even Kenta's head hurt. No way Kenneth could survive something like that.

But, did he really want to encourage him to do the same as Seiji did? Although the details behind everything are still incredibly elusive, Kenta understood he didn't go in there willingly. No one did. Did he want to see his newfound friend behind those metal wires as well? After knowing how much it corrupted Seiji's mind?

"You sound very confident." Finally, a grin popped up on the man's face, giving the other's arm a gentle squeeze and shake. After the fight last night and the fight this morning, maybe Kenneth could handle himself? Then again, he had seen how skilled Nishitani's hands were with a knife. He could clearly recall seeing him turn an insubordinate's finger into sashimi without hesitation. Not to mention the pieces of flesh held together only by staples on the other's face -- Nishitani had already done enough damage.

"But -- no, you don't have a choice," he sighed a bit before the grin returned. "But, ya managed to hack him up while drunk. Think ya can do it again and win," he nodded. "Just ah -- don't kill the boss, okay? Then well, we'd . . ." he made a small gesture, pulling his gaze off the table.

"Just no kill boss, okay?"

That would lead to a manhunt Kenta could not save him from. Kenneth would be branded as . . . several things, and may drag him underneath simply by association. To bring in an outsider and then allow him to murder the patriarch -- that could very well be written off treason and have him killed!

If he was lucky.

If they were both unlucky, they would be sent to an unnamed black site in the middle of nowhere to repent.

Kenta quickly shook the thoughts from his head, taking a quick drag from the cigarette. Once the notebook was brought up, he cocked a brow, taking a long second to read the words. Earlier, he merely asked around for the hotel, matching the letters to the dull daytime billboards. It took him quite literally an hour to find where he was going in the small city of Sotenbori, and it reflected again. The only thing that helped him was the fact he said the name Kenneth so many times already, but the second word?

Kam? Like -- camera?

In.

Sky?

"Cam-in-sky?" he spoke before shaking his head. "That no look English," he chuckled to himself. "Said wrong, yes?" His pronunciation still wasn't the best, but he managed to scrap by this far. With the cigarette between his lips, the man reached inside his jacket, accidentally revealing a bit too much of his chest as he dug his hand around, looking for a pen. Once found, he took the notebook from the other man's hands, writing something down as well.

'小島 建太'

Kojima Kenta.

"Now you can read some kanji!" he handed it back over, tucking the pen back into his jacket. "Your name -- it mean something?"

"Do not think I can," he said, offering a nervous chuckle. "I am... Ah, you know. Not want to."

Kenneth wasn't sure if he should tell the whole truth. Sure, Kenta definitely wasn't fond of the concept of killing a man, but keeping his own murderer status vague tended to make people less likely to screw him over. He didn't need to know that he was trying desperately not to kill anyone, that murder would likely send the foreigner into a downward spiral from which he would never truly recover. All he needed to know was that he didn't want to kill Nishitani. That was enough information for now.

Despite Kenta's insecurity, Ken smiled at the attempt at pronouncing his last name. It was... Close. Definitely closer than he would have gotten by looking at the kanji for Kenta's name, despite the heavy accent. Hell, he even managed to determine that the name wasn't of English origin. That was something that even some English speakers had trouble parsing out. "Ah, you are right," he said, nodding and pointing to his surname. "Pronunciation is... You are almost there. More like cah-min-ski, but you are almost there. It is Russian name, not English."

It was the final homage to his grandmother that he could give. Really, she deserved so much more than for her last name to be used ad infinitum by the grandson who dug himself to hell, but what else could he give her at this point? He had made his mistakes, now he had to lie in them. Still, he found himself having to push those regrets away. No matter how much he wanted to return home, to be in those caring arms again with food on the table and a warm bed to feel safe in, he had gone too far to go back now. If he were to return, it would only bring danger and heartbreak to a place he wanted to keep sacred, and to a woman who he could never repay.

He tried reading the series of strokes that Kenta had on his notebook to distract his weary mind, and it certainly did the trick. He knew very few kanji, and these were as alien to him as his own name had been when he first saw it spelled in Cyrillic. With a curious tilt to his head, he traced the strokes with his finger, trying to remember the order in which Kenta had made them. Stroke order, that's something someone had chastised him for the last time he tried to write kanji. Sure, it was important in any alphabet to draw the characters properly, and stroke order was often key in that pursuit. However, most letters in the Latin and Cyrillic alphabets rarely took more than three strokes to produce. The amount of detail in some of these kanji made the American's head spin.

"Ko... Jima... Ken... Ta?"

He said each sound quietly, almost in a whisper, as he traced his finger from one kanji to the next. He had no idea if he was right or not, going purely by what he thought each symbol sounded like. It was kind of embarrassing, really—he felt like a child learning how to read all over again. Though, Kenta had been so patient with him that it eased his nerves enough for him to at least try.

Then, an odd question: did his name mean anything? Well, to him, personally, yes. His chosen and surnames both held a lot of personal weight. These names represented his independence, his refusal to allow the world around him to keep him under its thumb. The fact that he had these names meant that he had survived long enough to find safety, and that he had the courage to continue to step outside of it instead of just turtling in one spot for the rest of his life. What his name meant, to him, was a war cry against lady luck herself—a spiteful poem written for an unloving God.

But that probably wasn't the answer that Kenta was after.

"Eh... Girl in college say to me once, I think," he muttered, stroking his scruff as he shut his eyes and tried to think past that latent headache. "She say to me, Kenneth means... 'born from fire'... Heh. Did not know mean before. It works for me, yes?"

His eyes wandered over to where Seiji was making his phone call, his mind wandering to thoughts of knife fights and gunshots. If he was born from fire, then he was certainly having a hard time leaving the womb.

Cah-min-ski.

Caahh-min-ski.

It took Kenta a few moments to get the pronunciation down, having to open his mouth more to pronounce the light vowels. Although it was an unusual name around here, he heard name's similar to it. During the few times, Kenta was awake during class, he briefly remembered going over the Cold War and seeing several last names similar to Kenneth's. So, not only was he American but also had Russian roots.

Or was he born in Russia and moved to America?

Either way, Kenneth was a long way from home and completely out of his element. It was a miracle that he managed to stumble onto someone that knew passable Japanese and was willing to help him with connections to the yakuza now. Any sane person would immediately turn him away, not wanting to get themselves wrapped up in anything potentially life-threatening. Yet, he managed to cross paths with maybe one of the only friendly criminals out there. Then again, all Kenta really did was offer the man a drink and . . . Well, the rest was a slippery hazy drunken stressed mix slope he could barely remember. It felt as if these past few days had been nothing more than a smoke-filled haze as he attempted to situate himself within the organization.

It was far too late to pull out, now having himself and Seiji's lives on the line, but it was difficult. There was a hierarchy and Kenta hated where he fell. All the way at the bottom, even lower than Seiji and it would take years to pull himself out of the ground. This Lot situation may be his hope of getting higher -- if he wasn't murdered in the process. Any wrong move and he could get taken out by . . . anyone. Nishitani, the man he possibly had to kill in order to take Makoto, or any of the other members if he failed his job. Hell, maybe even that Tojo Clan Agent -- if he was real.

"Born from fire?"

He broke away from his thoughts, smiling a bit. "Yes, fitting I think." Although he knew very little of the man's past, if it was anything like the other men he knew, it was riddled with nothing more than tragedy and violence. "I like that," he nodded. "You choose yourself?" It seemed like a bit of an odd question, but he felt the need to ask. If Kenneth really was -- well, the word he couldn't remember -- then it meant he most likely wasn't born with the name 'Kenneth Kaminsky.'

Kenta then pulled the pen out once again. "Oh, oh, wait," he spoke, gently taking the notebook once again. "Here is another."

'今井 征爾'

Imai Seiji.

Speak of the devil, the older man finally returned.

"Shit, his name has so many damn strokes," he muttered to himself before feeling the looming presence. Slowly, Kenta pulled his head up, shooting the man a grin before the pen was taken from his hand.

"Your friend got lucky, someone does know this guy," he spoke, scribbling down the phone number on the notebook, tossing it back onto the couch between them. Seiji paused in his steps, giving them a stare before allowing his body to fall on the couch. "Pretty sure that's the right number, go give him a call," his hand dismissed the pair. "If he's awake at this hour," he joked with a chuckle, laying back on the couch.

"What do you mean?"

"Ya don't know? 12-hour difference 'tween here 'n' America,"

Kenta glanced over to the redhead, arching a brow. "You think he's awake at this hour?"

Shit, what did he just tell him?

Kenneth's eyes shot down to the table at the realization that he may have just given away a little too much about himself. He hadn't meant to tell Kenta that his name wasn't the one he was given, but he was honestly so caught up in the conversation that it didn't even cross his mind to keep that detail guarded. It was just way too easy to talk to Kenta, language barrier aside. There was something about that gentle tone, the way he seemed so genuinely attentive despite the foreigner not having anything to offer him in this moment beyond a quick pronunciation lesson, something about the man made it way too easy to just say things without thinking about them.

That was going to be dangerous if Ken couldn't keep it in check. Fortunately, Kenta seemed rather calm about it—to the point where he completely glossed over his own question and instead decided to launch into another kanji lesson, this time for Imai's full name. Ken tilted his head—in part in confusion at the sudden shift in topic and in part because of the amount of lines it took to craft that final kanji. Even Kenta seemed to be having trouble parsing it. How in God's name did they even think to fit so many details into one character? How would anyone remember that to the exact detail?

The foreigner slumped over slightly in despair, letting out a small noise of discontent as his brain failed to parse what each symbol would sound like. Reading was going to be a skill that would take him years to grasp in this language, and he was not looking forward to it.

That posture was quickly straightened by Imai's reappearance, his sudden presence almost launching Kenneth straight back into a fighting stance before he caught himself. Keeping his eyes on Kenta for a brief moment, he tried to adjust his mannerisms to the somewhat embarrassed calm that the yakuza wore. After all, it was better than looking like he was going to assault the guy. When his notebook was taken, there was a shimmer of hope in his eyes. Did that mean...?

Then, the notebook was tossed back between him and Kenta, a new number decorating the pages.

Despite the headache, despite the itching, despite the anxiety bubbling up in him, despite the fact that he was mentally and physically being held together by strings at this point, Ken snatched that notebook up like a kid who just opened a brand new Atari under a Christmas tree. This was it. This was his ticket out of the grave. He even let an excited giggle slip through his ear-to-ear grin, his eyes fixated on the paper for a moment before snapping up to Imai, his entire body trembling with the rush of new hope.

Even the sudden question about time zones from Kenta did very little to dissuade the redhead from his newfound source of glee. "Do think, yes... I think yes," he said with a nod, his pronunciation suffering from his head rush. He then shifted his gaze back to Imai, holding the notebook to his chest. "Thank you, thank you, thank you for this! Ah, Imai... San? Yes. You keep a man live today. Thank you."

Kenneth scrambled to his feet, clutching the notebook like the lifeline it was as he went to run out the door. Realizing his rush, he turned on his heel and waved back at the two yakuza at the table. "I come back soon! Thank you!"

With that, he bolted out the door, charging towards the nearest phone booth with reckless abandon and nearly knocking over some class-skipping teens in the process. It wasn't far—drunks at the bar had to have some way to call in a ride, after all. Sealing himself in the metal sanctuary, he dug into his pockets and pulled out an assortment of coins. Some were sticky, some weren't. That one was an American quarter—no good here. Haphazardly, he shoved most of the coins into the gummed-up coin slot, having to smack it a few times to jostle a few jammed coins loose. He wasn't sure what the international rate here, but if it was anything like long distance calls stateside, he'd be in for some hurt that he'd just have to worry about once the call was up.

He punched in the numbers and, for once in his life, found himself praying to the God he hated. "Please," he begged, shutting his eyes as he held the phone to his ear. "I know you don't like me, and I don't like you either, but he likes you. So please, for his sake, let him speak to me. You can hurt me for it later, but let him have this."

Ring...

Ring...

Ring...

...

His stateside comrade had barely gotten out a tired "hello" before Kenneth launched into a fit of manic laughter.

"Ivan, my friend, I have never been happier to hear your voice!" he trilled in Russian, tilting his head back in delight. "Things really went to shit, huh? They stranded my ass out here in Japan! Still living, though! How's the recitals going? I hope you've been doing better since the whole Miami thing..."

Kenneth chuckled, raking his hand through his hair as he caught himself mid-ramble. It was a shame he was on a timer with this call. Damn international charges would bleed him dry if he spoke for as long as he wanted. "Hey, I'm sorry to cut this short. I really want to catch up, but you know how payphones are. Gotta get to business," he said, trying to calm himself down. "Long and short of it is that I might be in a pinch with the families here—yakuza types in the Kanto and Kansai prefectures. I cut a deal with this real crazy bastard in charge of one of the families, but he wants guns. These guys aren't picky—they can't get arms easily here like we can stateside. In return, I can get you in contact with the man in my corner. Some real crazy fucks over here, I'm telling you. Could be a good prospect for you guys. Also, you'd be saving my ass, which, y'know, I'd like that! I'd take just continuing to survive at this point!"

Ring . . .

Ring . . .

Ring . . .

The default annoying ringtone of the NEC 9A filled the lonely New York corner apartment. Inside, the living room was filled with a dark red light shining in from the street sign across the street.

RING!


The man stirred on the couch, pulling his hand off the carpeted floor with a groan. "What time is it?" he muttered, glancing through the darkness. As much as he blinked, through his sleepy hazy, he couldn't figure out the time through the distant clock mounted on the wall. Blue eyes squinted, trying to make out the letters on the phone until it rang against the table again.

"I have to get rid of this phone," he spoke again, pulling it up to his ear. Before the man could even utter a simple greeting, he was met with a fury of comments in his native tongue. His eyes shot wide up, lurching his tired body forward, gripping the thin blanket. Was it possible? No, there was no way. That scratchy voice, that intense Russian mixed in with the Southern accent, that casual mention of his 'recitals.'

Could ghosts make phone calls?

No, no. It had to be Kenneth! A nervous laugh broke through the man's haze, forcing himself onto his feet. "Holy shit! You -- you are the last man I thought I would speak to today!" he said, shaking his head. "I really really thought you were -- well dead! We all lost contact with Red ATL, but I'm glad you were able to escape." Ivan couldn't help but smile. For the first time in weeks, he was granted a bit of peace of mind, knowing one of his few contacts was safe, albeit in another country.

So far away. An entire country, and ocean between them.

"Shit, you escaped Red ATL and then landed yourself back into the hands of another group?" he asked, sighing as he began to unbutton his dress shirt. "You have awful luck."

It seemed like a terrible amount of work at this hour, especially on a Tuesday. Everyone was still recuperating from jobs on the weekend, or no one simply wanted to work. Who had connections to Japan? He briefly met a man with connections to the Chinese mafia, but the yakuza? Ivan didn't know much about those operations, but he knew there was a distinct difference.

Hold on, what about that contact out in California? Although they merely worked on smuggling drugs up from Mexico, it was the closest state to Japan -- surely there was some sort of shipment out overseas. His hand messed with his curly dark hair, gazing out of the foggy window.

"I'll see what I can do. You're at a payphone, right? Wait there until I call you back."

Ivan quickly ended the call, picking himself off the couch with a huff. Shit, it was terrible for his back yet he continued to pass out on it. He stumbled through the living space, walking into the kitchen to pull out a hidden notebook behind a false panel in the cabinets. Kenneth called in one hell of a favor. Smuggling guns anywhere was a challenge, but to a country that strictly forbid them? This was pushing his limits.

Yet, 20 minutes later, the payphone in Japan rang.

"Alright!" he spoke, loudly, and clearly back in his native tongue. "You've got one chance tonight to get your hands on some guns. One hour from now there is going to be a small boat passing by on a river near Osaka. Are you by there? I assumed Red ATL sent you to some tourist place. Anyway, get there and wait along the river, and you need to look for a white boat with green lights hanging on the side. Stashed somewhere in that boat are handguns."

God, how Kenneth had missed this. All of this—having a friend to hear him, speaking in his favored tongue to a man who could understand him, feeling secure in his chances to survive another day without having to sell a piece of his soul, all of it. It was enough to make him slide his back down the clouded, filth-layered glass and metal of the payphone wall, the spikes on his shoulders making a quiet, yet high-pitched scratching noise as he dropped into a crouch. He couldn't remember the last time he felt euphoria like this that wasn't brought on by some sort of substance.

Speaking of substances, it was a shame the experience was somewhat hampered by the throbbing aching and itching under his skin. It was still early in the day, huh? Worried eyes trailed to his hand as it scratched at his shoulder—how was he going to fare once night rolled around?

Fortunately, Ivan was there to administer just a little more dopamine to distract his addled mind. It wasn't a yes, but it wasn't a no, so it was pretty much a yes. From his previous experiences working with the man, he knew he had a way with the web that connected the underworld together that made even the most experienced patriarchs wary. The Russian was like a spider, feeling out even the slightest motion and ensnaring all who could help him. Ken figured he wasn't originally intended to be a friend, but hey, a few extended conversations between weary men in the dead of night will tend to blur the lines between coworker and comrade.

"Alright, I'll be here," he said with a nod. "Thank you so much for this. I promise, I'll explain everything once you call back. It's been one hell of a week."

With that and a click, the line went dead. Kenneth sighed as he reached up to put the phone back on its hook, leaning back into the glass as it filtered a sickly yellow across his uncomfortably-warm skin. Encased in grime and glass, he took in the pseudo-solitude. Sure, there were a few people who cast glances at the strange foreigner crouched in a payphone, but they quickly moved on—whether due to loss of interest or a desire to stay out of whatever he was involved in, Ken didn't care to know. In his situation, he was alone. Even if they heard his muffled words, the chances of any passersby knowing Russian were slim to none.

There were eyes on him from all angles, but none of them could really see anything through the grime.

It was soothing at first, but as the minutes passed, Ken began to feel his heart race again—and for what? He had just received the best news of his entire month, spoken to a friend who he wasn't sure was even alive prior to that call. He should have been on top of the world. Yet, he could feel the glass walls threatening to eat him alive. With a groan, he got to his feet, staggering and holding his head as his vision greyed out and his blood rushed through his ears. Damn, was he really that fucked up? He supposed he hadn't eaten much of anything that day, and the injuries were probably draining his energy to heal, but still. He felt like shit.

Maybe it was the cramped space. Maybe he needed more nicotine. Well, phone booths were loud. If he stood outside, he'd still be able to the grinding ring when Ivan got back to him. Once he found his bearings, he stepped out of the booth, taking a deep breath of the cool winter air and frowning at the realization that he was sweating despite it. No rest for the wicked, huh? Digging in his pocket, he took out that distinct green and red dotted box and shuffled one of the sticks out. It wasn't until he had it between his teeth that he realized: his lighter was still with Kenta. Shit, maybe he could bum a light off of someone?

Probably not.

With a huff, he took his jacket off, then unhooked his bat from his belt loop and propped it against the booth as he tied the sleeves around his waist. Hopefully, he could find it in him to cool down with the weather. Picking his bat back up, he leaned against the booth, swinging the spiked hunk of metal back and forth as the unlit cigarette hung between his lips like a willow branch. Shit, he was grateful for the help, but it felt like it was taking hours. He was surprised that Kenta and Imai hadn't come to track him down.

Unfortunately, it looked like someone else had gone through that trouble for them.

Through half-lidded eyes, Ken spotted a man approaching him. He was... Flashy. Another yakuza member? Picking his eyelids back up, he straightened his back and brought his bat to his side. Sure enough, he could discern a black and gold pin on his lapel. This meant he wasn't Dojima, but Ken still couldn't discern the kanji enough gather any further information. Fortunately, the gel-slicked thug was a bit of a loose-lip.

"Oi, you --- foreigner who --- old man?"

Now, if only Ken could understand him.

Squinting and tilting his head, the redhead tried to parse the heavily-accented Japanese that was slung at him. Old man? What old man? He wasn't really keen on picking fights with the elderly—unless they gave him a reason, of course. "Ah, please talk slow, sir," he said, using the English honorific as the appropriate Japanese had been lost in the haze. "I do not speak a lot of Japanese, I do not-"

He was cut off by the man stepping closer—too close—and scoffing through smoke-stained teeth at the attempted conversation. Instinctively, Ken brought his bat back over his shoulder and adjusted his stance, leering up at the yakuza as he continued his rant. "What --- joke," he said cracking his knuckles. "Look, the old man --- everyone --- Imai --- believe him. But --- me --- believe that --- you kicked the old man's --- night, you've --- thing ---."

Well, that wasn't any more discernable, and now Ken's back was literally against the wall. In a panicked rush, he crouched down, launched himself off of the phone booth with one foot, and drove his head directly into the yakuza's gut. As he staggered back from the sudden assault, coughing and wheezing as he cursed the foreigner out, Ken slid into a fighting stance, baring his teeth. "Leave me alone!" he hissed, lowering his head in preparation for the criminal to not listen. "I do not want trouble, okay? I do not understand you! I am wait on call! Please, leave-"

"You little ---! That's --- I don't --- the old man likes you!" the yakuza snarled, slipping into a fighting stance of his own. "--- me --- a --- phone call—you want to ---!? ---, I'll make --- your --- good!"

Ken was certain that would have been a great one-liner had he understood it.

[ YAKUZA ]

The family man took the first swing, and Ken blocked it with his bat—a move that made his opponent yelp as one of the screws glued to the aluminum rod drove into his hand. Before he could even pull the metal from the flesh, Ken had ripped the bat away, driven a kick into his already-bruised gut, then taken a swing that the yakuza could only react to by shrinking back. Nails, screws, shards of glass, razor blades, whatever sharp objects the foreigner had stuck to that bat now stuck in the family man's shoulder. With a scream, he staggered away from the hit, dropping momentarily to his knee before scrambling back to his feet and clutching his now-tenderized shoulder.

Fabric ripped, blood spilled, fear and anger filled the air between them as Ken pulled back for another swing with nothing in his eyes but a wild fervor.

 The yakuza dodged this time, pulling through the pain to deliver a right hook that Ken couldn't move in time to keep from connecting to the side of his face—right on the damn stitches. It split the wound back open, forced his cig out of his mouth, and sent a wave of pain through his entire head. Ken jumped back and let out an animalistic snarl that startled his opponent, blood streaming down from the now-torn scab. It looked like he had just finished eating a man alive with the amount of blood that began to stain his teeth and lips.

As he hunched over and hooked the bat to his belt loop, he looked more animal than man.

Now barehanded, he charged towards the man and threw himself into a full-body tackle, the unexpected weight of the foreigner's muscle mass enough to bowl the taller man over. Once he was on the ground, it was over. Ken got up and, while the man was still in a daze, drew his bat again and began beating on the downed man ruthlessly. One across the ribs. Another to the shoulder. One to the back. One to the knees. Another to the knees. One more to the gut for good measure. He laid into him with hit after hit until he could hear a broken cry from those bloodied lips. Something about mercy, Ken could only assume.

In response, Ken laid down his arms, kicked the man onto his back, and knelt on his chest. Then, he pressed his thumbs into the man's throat, staring into his opponent's eyes as his pupils became pinpricks of malice and his reopened wound dribbled blood and drool into his eyes. The skin beneath his hands went from pale, to flushed, to purple...

And then, he let go.

With the yakuza coughing, whimpering, and completely defeated beneath the foriegner, Ken took the liberty of going through his pockets. Tucked within that flashy purple suit was a fair amount of yen, ah energy drink, a pack of smokes, a lighter, a few tissues, and a dirty msg.

Ken took half of the yen, the drink, the lighter, and the tissues. He also took his pin to identify once he got back to the bar. Great, another family to worry about. That's just what he needed today.

Ring...

Ring...

Ah, well, at least he killed some time. He picked his bat up off the ground and used it to help himself stand, driving the spike glued to the end into the concrete dangerously close to the yakuza's head. "Don't make me do that again," he hissed in Russian, spitting blood on the ground before locking himself back in the booth.

He cleared his throat and scooped the phone up, leaning back against the wall. As if he wasn't bloodied and aching, he cracked a grin across those cracked lips. "Hey, sorry it took me a minute! I got caught in an argument," he chuckled, looking through the murky glass as the yakuza writhed on the street. "He apologized, though. A lot. I think we're even. Anyways, gimmie the good news, friend!"

And good news it was indeed. Ken's eyes lit up as he propped the phone against his shoulder so he could whip out his notebook, scratching down every important detail as fast as his hand would allow. "Holy shit, holy shit... One hour... On the river... Small boat... White with green lights... Fuck, Ivan, I could kiss you!" he laughed, shoving the book and pen back into his pocket. "I'm in Sotenbori! The river runs straight through this place—I could walk to it right now!"

He sighed, sliding back down the glass wall and falling into a crouch—this time to recover rather than to bask in bliss. He wasn't too hurt from the fight, but beating the shit out of a man still took work. "Hey, I can't thank you enough for this," he said, his voice getting softer. "I know that was a tall order. I would have just used the supplies that Red gave me to buy my way out, but... Again, it's been a week."

Tilting his head back, he let that smile drop a little as his own blood continued to drip down his neck. "Right, an explanation. They sent me out here on a run to Serbia. Said something to the effect of this making me a free man—we know that was probably a lie," he said, shaking his head. "Anyways, they put me here in Japan for a layover, said they would wire me the money for a ticket out in a few days, then went dark. Guess they were trying to look less suspicious by using a longer route and making me out to be some sort of international tourist? I don't know. Point is, they stuck me out in Tokyo and didn't give me the money to get back out. Plus, I just know that if Red got taken down by the cops, then someone had to have snitched about the run I'm on. I can't risk using the stolen ID they gave me to get back into the states—it could raise some serious red flags if they're actually looking for me. I was gonna use the stuff they sent me with to barter with the yakuza in Kamurocho for a fake ID and protection so I could ride out the investigation here, but later on I come to find I helped the wrong guy out on the street—got stuck in the family infighting. I got chased out of the city. I don't think I'm getting my stuff back."

Another chuckle, this one a little more hopeless. He took one glove off and touched his torn cheek gingerly—at least the bleeding seemed to be slowing down. His hand then wandered to a spot up under his shirt, scratching at his side and revealing the slightest sliver of pale skin. "The guys here in Sotenbori seem a little friendlier, at least. Either that, or I got fool's luck for once in my life... Still gotta fight their boss again tonight before they'll really start protecting me, though. It was part of the deal—guy's a real sadist from what I can remember of last night, guess he wasn't satisfied with how the fight ended. Honestly, I'm kind of excited. Haven't fought this hard in a damn while."

He stared out the phone booth for a moment, squinting through the grime to see his previous opponent finally gain the strength to drag himself to an alley to recover. A smear of blood and a few tattered pieces of fabric were all he left behind. "Can't get brawls like these easily stateside, man. These guys are refined. It's not like they're just fighting for sport or as a backup—like I said, they can't get guns like we can in the states. The most I've seen someone use so far here is a dagger. A lot of these guys will just beat the shit out of you with a wooden sword, and the last guy who fought me here just used his fists. It's great. Maybe I should just become a full-time cage fighter once I get back... Well, to the states. I don't... Think going home is a good idea."

A sigh, a hand through messy sweat-slicked hair, and a regret allowed to surface.

"If there are any stragglers from Red who think I'm still alive, they might kill me for failing this run. There was a lot on the line. I don't want them coming after me or my family... Especially not my family."

After a pause, Ken finally allowed himself to laugh again, even if it was muted by the pain of his mistakes. "But hey, enough about me. What's going on upstate? I know you had to switch numbers—what was that about? Everything good with you and yours?"

Although the pair had officially only ever worked together three times, in those three times Ivan had picked up a few subtleties that separated Kenneth from everyone. They never met formally, too many internal politics and general anxieties of attracting unwarranted attention, unfortunately. While everyone took flights out and into Miami, the cleanup was dragged out to the point where sneaking any of those men out of the city was impossible. They were supposed to meet that night, a quick exchange while Ivan was in town, but he wouldn't allow himself to be caught anywhere near that mess.

However, on that day they spoke on the phone as well, and Kenneth mirrored the exact speech as he did now. Ragged quick thrown together words that forced the Slavic language to sound even rougher than it normally did. Not to mention the shakiness of the phone, how the cloth rustled together, and the hair scratched against the receiving end of the phone. He could only assume the other man was inside a phone booth, so he couldn't pace around. If he could, it would only make the anxiety even more apparent.

But was it anxiety?

Ivan had only heard rumor's the criminal's reputation, but seeing everything now together he could only make sense of the man -- he had to get some sort of rush from those violent encounters. Personally, his enjoyment for it all dissipated, seeing it now merely as a means to an end. Before, fighting was an outlet for the pent-up aggression inside of him, but he didn't have the privilege to let out his emotions, everything was now about survival. Kenneth knew that best, didn't he? While the Russian couldn't dig up much, he found a limited folder Red ATL had made on him. Again, it was limited as Kaminsky wasn't an official member more so someone they kept around because of an innumerous debt. What caused this debt? A question he could find no answer to. No one was keen on spreading private information to an organization they didn't trust, and the name Ivan Vasiliev did not carry as much weight in Atlanta, Georgia as it did in New York.

"It's always a lie," he spoke.

Their lives were caked in nothing more than lies, false promises, and endless amounts of riches. For the number of occupation hazards, the money made up for all of it. At least in Ivan's eyes. He didn't care if someone threatened to hit him across the head once a week as long as he had enough cash to buy his expensive white powder.

His hand drifted up to his curly dark hair, scratching at it as he thought. Red ATL went dark on all ends and Kenneth just happened to miss the whole thing by the skin of his teeth. Now, the younger man had no idea what happened to the organization, focusing too much on his own, however, caught wind that there had been a raid and a number of members had been arrested. However, that's all that was said. Everyone seemed to dance around the subject, not wanting to get involved in fear they too may be dragged along by Red's mistakes.

"I would not risk returning, too much heat and I do not think I give you protection here," he shook his head. "They may not look in New York, but many many states from here to Japan. Better to stay until you have a better plan."

Although Ivan wanted to give the man a bit of solace in his worries and assure him he would have a place to hide in New York, he couldn't guarantee that promise. It was unlikely the police would bang down on his door about any connections to an organization based in the South, but what if someone ratted him out? He sighed at the thought, gripping the phone as his body leaned on the kitchen counter. It was too risky and he needed to make sure he was safe on all fronts.

"If there are any stragglers I believe they may go into hiding, no look for you. At least, that is what I would do," he shrugged, "With police looking, your family -- they will be safe."

Hopefully.

Though, Ivan was surprised. Of course, everyone had a family. Even with his strange . . . situation, he still had one man -- a next of kin -- the police could call. Of course, Kenneth would have someone as well.

"Though that sounds -- very intense. Did you fight one of those men? Before I called? Do they just attack you on the street?"

Did Kenneth really piss those people off that much? He had been vague about it, "Got stuck in family infighting," he said, yet never elaborated.

"And this boss . . . Do not die fighting a pointless battle against a man who does not know your name." Slowly, tense fingers moved from the dark hair down his equally tense neck, attempting to rub out the forming knot. "If you win that win, use it as leverage. Get something from it all, okay? You need money, force him to give you money," he pushed before cracking his head.

"But me? Things have been a bit rough," he admitted, moving his fingers gently apart. "After the deal in Miami, the demand has skyrocketed. It is very good money, but it is difficult juggling everything at once. Everyone wants a piece, but a lot of these new men are," he shook his head. "They do not know what they're signing up for and end up dead within the month," he clicked his tongue.

"Not to mention these fucking assholes," his tongue dropped, reverting back to English as his tone grew irritated. "Number had to change because I had two detectives up my ass. Can you believe that?" he let out a dry laugh, rubbing the bridge of his hooked nose. "Could not pay them off so they snooped around my apartment, luckily they didn't find shit and kicked their asses out after. Sorry did not tell you, I -- thought you arrested, or maybe died. Though, this number, how did you get it?"

It was bittersweet hearing that rusty Russian scrape through the phone lines. Kenneth tried to focus more on the sweet as he swallowed back his panting breaths. It didn't work, despite how he tried to stifle them with force and laughter. As much as he fought to survive, he also couldn't deny how much enjoyment he got from a good fight. Even before he was well and truly corrupted, fighting merely to affirm his humanity, cracking the tooth of a familiar woman with a frying pan to defend his frail childhood self from any further harm, he could remember the exact moment that each adrenal high hit. It was that moment of visceral clarity that allowed him to remember so much of that patriarch—it seared those devil's eyes into his mind.

Ivan always seemed so much more sedated in comparison. Ken wasn't sure if he envied or pitied the fellow criminal. Maybe he wasn't so tied up in vice, but with that constant exasperation in the back of that roughened tongue, the Southerner had to wonder if he was really living.

It seemed his suspicions were correct: he was going to have to stick it out in Japan for a while. Though Ivan didn't seem to have an idea of just how much trouble Kenneth was in stateside, he knew that Red ATL had gone under hard enough to make even flying an associate—not even a full member—back to a state thirteen hours north of their base a maneuver too risky to consider. "Yeesh, that bad, huh?" he muttered, a nervous chuckle creeping through the soft-spoken Slavic as he scratched at his collarbone.

But at least his comrade provided some sweet relief to cloak that bitter truth again. They weren't going to go after his grandmother, Ivan was right. Why would they? Ken was just an associate. An associate with a huge, huge job and a fair shot at actually being locked in as a permanent member, but an associate nonetheless. Besides, only Ivan and that one straggler who tipped him off knew where he was now—or if he was even alive—and that straggler seemed too focused on fleeing the state to pull anything so sadistic. Right? Even if she wouldn't ever hear from her grandson again, at least she'd stay alive and live the rest of her elder years in peace, right?

He blinked away the springs threatening to well up in his eyes, digging his nails deeper into his tortured skin. No matter how saccharine the coating, he couldn't escape that putrid sting of reality.

At least there was still one topic that could always catch his wandering focus. "Oh, it's that obvious, huh?" he laughed, combing his bangs back as he tilted his head to the grime-covered glass sky above him. "Yeah, I don't know why this guy came after me. Something about an old man and... Hang on, how did he know... Nah, I had to have misheard that part," he shook his head, snapping himself out of a quiet rant to himself. "I can't understand a lot of Japanese yet. I think the guy spelled it out to me why he wanted to fight, but I wouldn't be able to read the letters, you get me? They are a lot bolder here, though. I've seen them harass club owners in broad daylight, shake down random civilians just trying to get to work. There's a lot of the subtle stuff too, but like I said, these guys like to fight. I'm alright, though. Took a good hit to the face, but that's about it."

At the advice regarding the upcoming fight with Nishitani, Ken could only force himself to half-listen. Of course, Ivan had good advice. He couldn't pretend otherwise. Yet, the mere thought of that fight caught his brain in a snare. Part of him was terrified of what he had gotten himself into. He had promised blood, and he knew there was no way he wasn't leaving without even more scars to his name—if he left the fight alive. All the same, it excited him. He had been the one to add the fight to the deal, and he still didn't see it as a mistake.

He pulled his hand away from his neck to look at the dried blood beneath his nails. Maybe it wasn't enough to claw his way out of hell anymore. Maybe he had to claw his way deeper into it and force respect from the devil. "Understood," he mused, laying his arm over his legs. "From the looks of this guy, though... If I give him a good enough show, I might not need to force anything. I'll let you know how it goes, yeah?"

And then, for once, he didn't have to worry about his own problems. He listened to Ivan curse and grumble, shutting his eyes for a bit as he tried to imagine the scene. He had no idea what the guy looked like, but a guy who got routinely confused for a ballet dancer definitely painted a certain image. Ken could imagine this lithe, dangerous man, hair a mess from the constant combing and pulling he could hear, pacing about a darkened city apartment at some ungodly hour, slowly being crushed by his own tar-stained success. Would the red against his skin be the traffic lights nearby or the blood of those he unwittingly—or wittingly—led to the grave?

What a life.

The mention of police made Ken sneer as if on instinct. Yeah, with his looks, he was often singled out quite a bit. Usually, it was questions about drugs. They couldn't seem to believe that his wild-eyed stare wasn't induced by anything but his own unaltered mind. He clearly remembered a time he was almost caught with a few pills on him by a particularly nosy cop, shuffling his legs in discomfort at the memory. Best not to recall too many details there. "Damn pigs, huh?" he laughed, shaking his head as he cast another glance out the glass. It would be deeply comedic if there were a cop there, but fortunately, he was still alone. "Glad you got out of that, though. Guys like you don't need to go behind bars... Your number, though! Yeah, someone here had you as a contact. I'm not sure who, though. I got it through a new associate of mine—a Mr. Seiji Imai. Scary looking son of a bitch, and I have no reason to believe it doesn't go deeper than looks, but he's been greatly helpful so far..."

His tone dropped a bit. It went from a chuckle to a croon. His mind was wandering again, but this time, to brighter places than it was used to. "Yeah, actually, I'm glad I wound up here," he said, laying his head against the phone. "Almost wound up dying last night, but this... This guy. I met this guy named Kenta at the bar... Pretty sure he's the only reason I'm calling you. Not just because of the the guns thing, but because... Man, I wasn't seeing a way out before, y'know? I can't understand anything here, every thug in Tokyo wants my head on a pike, I'm running out of money and supplies and just... This guy shows up. I'm not entirely sure what happened between us last night, but I'm pretty sure he saved my life."

He sighed, running his hand over the bandage on his chest and revelling in the dull ache. The warmth in the booth was beginning to feel comfortable again, like a blanket over his battered body. "I know, I know, he's still yakuza, I need to be watching out for any sign of an ulterior motive, but... Man. It's nice having one guy around who... Seems to care, y'know? Even if he's a bit of a prick about keeping that reputation up, y'know how family types are, he just..."

Catching himself, Ken felt the tips of his ears start burning again. He managed a laugh, running his hand over his bloodstained face. "Damn, I'm going on like a sorority girl over this. It's just... Man, I can't remember the last time someone genuinely apologized to me without me having to beat it out of 'em. This guy has no business being in the business..." he murmured, his voice trailing into worry as his moment of peace leaked away. "He... He shouldn't be here..."

He sat up a bit, digging his gloved nails into his chest as his heart rate began to pick up again. Why was he getting so worried about this? Sure, Kenta was a nice man, and of course Ken didn't want him to die, but dying young was something that happened so often in this layer of the underworld that it was pretty much accepted as inevitable. Usually, Ken could shut off his empathy. He could just accept death as something that happened and move on. So why was it that the thought of Kenta in an icebox made him feel sick to his stomach? Why was it suddenly so hard for him to cling to stability?

"I... I shouldn't be here either..."

Prison never frightened Ivan. A night in a detention center was nothing compared to having his freedom stripped, yet there was very little that could be used against him. The man was clean, cautious, and always covered his tracks. Of course, Kenneth knew none of these things, yet he equally knew nothing of the man over the phone. They were both shrouded in mystery, leaving each other guessing. What type of man was the southerner? Definitely not a kind man. In Ivan's mind, he had to be built to survive, no -- to fight. Although it seemed trouble constantly followed the other man, Ivan felt he constantly seeked it out as well. A sort of pleasure seeking thrill he got from caving people's skulls in, or ripping them apart with chainsaws, if those claims were accurate.

Men like that were common in this business. Not everyone was simply there for the money, some were there because it was the only profession they could knock a man's tooth out and not go to jail the next day. Or, they wanted something . . . worse and went to extreme measures. Measures no one deemed necessary, yet it garnered all those men a terrifying reputation. Why use a gun when an untraceable axe could easily hack up a body much worse? That was Kenneth's thought process at least.

"A Mr. Seiji Imai," he repeated, cocking a brow. "I have never heard that name before. But, he most likely contacted someone who my California associate. At least I would hope."

He would rather not have his name spread around an unknown foreign city; however, that seemed highly unlikely.

When the unnamed boss was brought up again, Ivan's theory was proved correct. It was a mere test of strength, a showmanship to see who could last on their feet longer more than Kenneth being backed into a corner. Although he had limited knowledge on the Japanese criminal organizations, he at the very least understood if they wanted someone gone it would only take a heartbeat. If they had no problem harassing people on the street -- without the use of guns -- he had no doubt they could eliminate anyone they wanted whenever they wanted.

Similar to his own organization, he supposed. Kill anyone under you ( as long as you could hide the evidence ), and you would be fine. Kill anyone above you, and you went directly down with them.

"He -- saved your life?" he asked, shifting his stance in the kitchen. What type of criminal saves another? There was no honor among thieves. This was not a children's game, if a man was fated to die, no one could intervene. Yet, that would mean they wouldn't be having this conversation right now. "I'll say. I've never heard of anyone saving someone else without wanting something in return. You sure he doesn't want to kill that boss for you so he can claim his chair?"

It was an option on the table. Ivan knew it all too well. Remove any obstacles in your way -- no matter the means -- and reap the benefits. "You know how this business works, there is always an ulterior motive."

A bold warning. "He may simply be a wolf in sheep's clothing, so I advise to only keep him around until you get out of the country. Even if you cannot return to America, return to Serbia. It may not be your home, but your odds of surviving there are higher," he rambled before suddenly pausing. He pressed the phone further against his ear, holding it tightly as his eyes ran across the room. "Kenneth?" he spoke slowly. "Are you alright?"

Maybe it was the adrenaline finally slowly down in his body, maybe it was the injuries slowly catching up to him. Had he seen a doctor at all in Japan? Most definitely not. Why did he get himself into potentially life threatening fights with no means of getting medical help? He clicked his tongue, "Your -- medicine," he let the word roll off his tongue. "Have you taken it?" he asked. "Were you able to -- travel with it?"

God, he hoped Kenneth was smart enough to understand his words. It was difficult to speak about these subjects over a potentially bugged phone, but he needed to know if his associate was in the beginning stages of withdrawal, or if he thinking about that man too hard. How curious how two different chemicals made the brain react in eerily similar ways. But, it couldn't be love -- was Kenneth that sort of man? If he was . . .

God, Kenneth hated this.

Of course Ivan knew about his addiction. Of fucking course he did. It was such a strong leash to hold, a titanium muzzle over his teeth to keep him from ever biting back. And damn, did it ever work during his time with Red ATL. The things he would do just to get that next bottle—hell, even just a loose pill or two in a baggie—would have made the devil ashamed. The mere fact that he had remained sober for this long outside of a tolerance break was nothing short of a testament to how hard he was willing to fight in order to see that next hit.

He knew Ivan was only bringing it up out of concern. It didn't piss him off any less to have his leash pulled.

"Goddammit, Ivan, I'm more than just the medicine, you know?" he spat, baring his teeth as he swallowed back his own racing heart. "I-I just... I don't know, man, I'm not made of stone! Maybe I just care about the guy who saved me, even if he might just be taking advantage of me. Maybe I can dream that he isn't taking advantage of me at all, and that the idea of that even happening is just some outlandish paranoid nightmare! I can't help it, alright!? I can't help feeling...!"

Then, it was himself who pulled his collar taut. The words hitched in his throat before he could blurt them out, and the hand that had absent-mindedly balled into a fist now raked through his hair as he slammed his head back into the phone booth glass. He could have sworn he heard a crack. He hoped it was his skull. What was he thinking? What was he about to confess to the one guy who was just about to save his ass? Ivan was a friend, but dammit, he was still a powerful mobster. He could just as easily condemn him to hell if he wanted to, and as much as Ken hoped that he wouldn't be the type to cast judgement over the Southerner's persuasion, he just couldn't take that chance so flagrantly.

As much as Ken tried to control his breaths, they ran deep and ragged on their own accord. There really was no hiding his agony, was there? Not even behind another agonizing truth.

"Okay... Okay, sorry, look," he murmured, rubbing his face as his head began to throb. "You got me, okay? I've been... I've been off my meds since last night. I'm trying to conserve since I... Don't really know if they prescribe this stuff here. It's got me feeling like shit, but... Look, can't we just... Can't I just pretend I'm still okay?"

A childish plea, and one he was sure that Ivan wouldn't abide, but one made in earnest all the same. Besides, Ivan really didn't need to know the whole truth behind his sobriety.

"I... I'll live," he said, wincing as another muscle ache forced him to shift positions. "I won't let myself do anything else... I... I appreciate the concern, though..."

Red ATL had informed the Russian of the other's . . . affliction, as a safety measure. If Kenneth got too out of hand he could simply rattle the plastic bottle in front of him and have him enthralled like a dog staring at a treat. It would get him to do nearly anything. Anything for a single pop of a pill. But, who was Ivan to judge? Every night he needed to sneak off into the bathroom and snort a line to keep functioning without ripping his own hair out. He could only imagine it was the same for Kenneth who immediate bit back at his comment.

It was only natural that a drug addict would hate being asked about their addiction. It truly was none of his concern, even if Ivan merely wanted to know if it was the beginning of withdrawal. With a scoff, he shook his head, "Yeah and those feelings are going to get your ass killed," he spat back. If Kenneth wanted to play that card, he would happily go along with the game. At the end of the day, they weren't friends only associates. Worked underneath the same profession, not even the same organization. This was all a giant favor for the only man that reminded him of his home and nothing more.

At the half assed apology, the man cocked a brow again, rolling his eyes. Only after realizing how harsh he had been, Kenneth decided to apologize. Ivan's hand moved back up to his curls again, detangling the strands as he pulled himself off the kitchen counter.

"Yeah, don't know either. You might find something on that boat, those guys are smugglers so who knows the stuff they have," he shrugged, finally getting a glimpse of the time. He sighed, rubbing his dreary eyes. "It's almost 3 in the morning here, I'm going to hang up now," he sighed once again. "If you're shaking too much, take a hot shower and if you want to claw your skin off take a cold shower. And, don't try and quit smoking." As he stared at black phone, he bit his lip, muttering a quiet, "Take care of yourself," before hanging up.

-----

Back inside the bar, the yakuza sat now across from each other, sharing a few cigarettes as they waited for the foreigner to return.

"So I guess he wasn't bluffing," Seiji muttered, allowing the stick to burn as he stared off.

"Are ya surprised?"

"Of course I am. Y'know how hard it is for any of us to get guns? And for what? Most of 'em end up sitting at the top of the fuckin' river," he scoffed, pulling his leg up. "Wonder if the police went searching down there how much crap they'd find. Ya ever think 'bout that? How much stuff gets dumped in there?"

"Course I do. I've seen lots of it. Remember watching a guy take a ring off a finger before chucking the rest of the hand in there," Kenta shook his head, taking another hit. "It's a mircale anyone actually gets any fish in there," he chuckled. "We should keep these guns though, who knows the next time we'll be able to get any."

"We? Who's we? You've never fired a gun 'fore Kenta, Yer gonna shoot ya damn fingers off!"

Appauled, the younger man sat up, giving him a glare. "The fuck does that mean? Think I can fire some shit? It took ya all damn six bullets to take a guy out, ya've got piss poor aim!"

Seiji stared at him, blinking as his hand came up, moving gently underneath the black band, tugging at the eyepatch. "I fuckin' wonder why."

"So, you can't shoot, let me do it then! Orrr," he snickered. "Do you want Kenneth to do it, eh?"

. . .

"I should just get someone else to get that bitch, something's going to go wrong here."

Quickly, the brunet shot up from his seat, "Wait, wait wait. C'mon Seiji-san, if ya never let me prove myself then how's anyone gonna respect me? I gotta just -- bite down and fuckin' do it-! A shot -- a shot in the leg that should be 'nough to take the girl and run,"

" . . . I still don't want you going alone," the one eyed man sighed, gesturing the other to sit back down. "Look yer still rusty, your punches aren't as fast and ya haven't been in a good fight in a while. Can't just let ya run into a fight with a weapon ya barely know how to use and expect everythin' to go perfect. Just listen to me and I'll send some men, alright? You need to get to know everyone else, anyway. Now, where's the guy?"

"The guy?"

Seiji gestured to the spot Kenneth was previous sitting at. "The guy -- your guy. It's been like half an hour 'lready, the fuck is he at?"

Keeping his head down, Kenneth endured the traces of well-deserved venom that flowed back through the line. Ivan did have a point. If he let his heart lead the way on this, he could very well set himself up for even more pain than he was already sure to endure. Kenta seemed genuine, seemed kind and caring. But what if he wasn't? What if he was just a better actor than Ken had him pinned for? It wouldn't be out of the question—organized crime was full of manipulation and treachery. It was what tended to trip the small-towner up the most—he was used to things being more straightforward, if not just passive-aggressive in that honey-coated "bless your heart" sort of way. Who's to say this just wasn't more of that manipulation? Who's to say Kenta and Imai weren't back at the bar talking about how to dispose of him once this was all said and done?

Despite Ivan's paranoia, despite the common sense of it all, his thoughts still drifted to how those hands shook and the haunted terror in those eyes, and he found himself questioning if this was even something to be questioned.

The sudden care instructions caused him to perk up, though. Why was Ivan doing this? He could very well just leave Ken to suffer—and would be right for doing so—but instead he seemed... Concerned. Deeply concerned. Those instructions didn't sound like they came from a book, either. "Claw your skin off", that hit too on the nose. Was Ivan also...?

A soft-spoken expression of worry, then the line went dead. It seemed he wouldn't be learning where that came from any time soon.

Ken heaved a sigh and hung the phone up, forcing his aching body upright and holding himself against the walls of the phone booth for a bit as his head spun. He was glad he had gloves on—God knows what this grime was made of? No time to worry about that. He was going to have to pull himself together and try to interact normally. Flinging the door to the phone booth open, he stumbled out and let the cold air take away the sweat that had beaded up on his skin. Rifling through the pocket of his jeans, he took out the stolen lighter and walked over to the cigarette that has been knocked on the ground. Fortunately, it hadn't landed in a puddle or had blood splattered on it. As far as Ken was concerned, that meant it was still good.

He lit up and took a long drag as he tried to get his bearings, arms falling slack by his sides as he let a plume out and glanced over at where his assailant once laid. It seemed as though he had gotten the strength to drag himself off. Good for him. The blood trail he had left spoke of the state he had been deservedly left in, but at least he wasn't dead. Placing the cigarette back between his lips, he began walking back towards the bar, then picked up the pace a bit as he realized just how long it has been. He still didn't have a clear idea of the time, but it felt like ages, and damn if his life wasn't on the clock right now. It didn't feel like an hour, but man, he didn't want to keep these guys waiting when they could so easily make him vanish.

Fortunately, the bar wasn't far, and after a few minutes, he made it to the front door. Taking one final drag from his cigarette, he let out a long exhale and crushed the useless butt under his spiked boot. With a rush of nicotine to the brain, it was a lot easier to ignore the creeping withdrawals. His muscles felt less tense, his hands didn't feel so restless, even his mind seemed to fall still for a moment.

Showtime.

With a casual flair and a smile that seemed completely unaware of the bruised and bloodied state of his face, he strolled into the bar, glancing across it and back at the table where Imai and Kenta seemed to be in an argument. Well, if they were brothers like Kenta had said—even oath brothers—that wouldn't be surprising. It would be equally unsurprising if this was a matter of superiority, but he had to bite that back. Walking past the few other patrons in the bar, he tried to ignore how quiet things fell around him, or how many eyes were in his back. Damn, that cigarette was looking like more of a genius play by the second.

"Good news, fellas!" he started—in very Southern English. Catching himself, he slipped into his seat and back into Japanese. "Ah, very sorry. Mean to say, have good news, friends! There is... Is" He pawed around at the jacket around his waist for a bit before pulling out the notebook and travellers dictionary, reading off of the notes from both. "Boat. Small boat, be on river some time this hour. It is white, green lights on side. Have what you need... One problem is not for us."

He folded his hands over his notes, his expression growing more focused as he tried to think of an approach for this topic—both in terms of language and in terms of criminal law. He wasn't object to beating the shit out of a few smugglers, but who knows what the yakuza's rules on that were? "It is possible we... Give money? Eh, I do not know the word for... Give money to get thing not for us. If they not take it, maybe problems. Will take problems if you not want to. Maybe have more useful item on boat than just gun too..."

Yeah, more useful items. Like a few pills tucked into a burlap sack. If he could just get a handful to pad out his supply, he might not have to worry about feeling like this for the rest of his stay. Though, that might have been an optimistic train of thought considering he didn't know how long this stay would be. Dropping the intense focus, he smiled back up at the pair, folding his battered arms on the table. "Know river is close. We take time, think if need, yes?"

Unfortunately, Seiji was right. It had been half an hour already and Kenneth was now here in sight. Did he really up and leave the city? It was a possibility, yet a stupid one. Did the redhead really believe he could escape their grasp? No matter what direction he ran in, someone was bound to find him. To the West was the ever-growing Omi Alliance with its eyes and ears everywhere and to the East the Tojo Clan with its array of assholes that wouldn't mind wiping Kenneth off the map. Unless he had a boat or someone that could fly him out of the island, he was a sitting duck. He wouldn't dare try something so bold as to escape.

Besides, they would find him. There was no way a foreigner with striking red hair and a thick southern American accent could go anywhere without making an imprint. It would leave a trail of clues that would lead them to any location he would think about hiding in.

However, the pair didn't need to go that far. Kenneth returned like a diligent dog to its owner, knowing without he would be lost in the filth-disguised city.

That thick accent rang through the bar once again, pulling Kenta's eyes away from the burning cigarette. It was quickly replaced by a broken Japanese, eliciting a small chuckle from the man. Urgently, he needed to teach the others the language. Not only how to properly pronounce their words, but understand more than a basic level. Both Seiji and his own were very choppy, clear-cut, and diverged from traditional spoken Japanese. Most people outside of Osaka called it "aggressive," yet it was nothing more than cutting to the chase. Why spend so much time stretching out every word and speaking formally to people -- especially ones he wasn't doing business with?

Was it the same for Kenneth in his home country? With limited knowledge, he was able to deduce from his limited viewing of overseas movies that Kenneth did not speak in a traditional manner either. Or, at the very least there were different accents just like there were in Japan. Did those also pertain to cities or more so regions? But America was huge! If Kenneth's accent was only one of several types, how did anyone understand each other? He shook off his thoughts, deciding to simply focus on the words and task at hand.

Fortunately, he was able to gather information from the overseas contact, meaning their job would be much simpler. Meaning Seiji didn't have to take Kenneth out back.

A puzzled look graced the man's features, attempting his best to make out the slurred vowels and butchered consonants.

What the fuck was he saying?

His eyes dragged over to Seiji who was listening intensely, staring at the floor as it all slowly formed in his mind. The man shook his head, knocking on the table in annoyance, "We need to fuckin' teach this guy some goddamn Japanese," Seiji spat, taking another hit of cigarette. "I have no idea what the hell he's even talking about. Some guys on a boat and giving them money? Are we buyin' guns 'ere or what?"

Kenta was attempting to decipher the words himself. It was so . . . strange. What was written in that book Kenneth held? Shoddy translations that didn't flow together, most likely his brain using the grammar rules for English that didn't translate. "I think he's talking about bribing them?" he guessed, arching a brow. "Y'know, payin' for something we can't have."

"That damn book doesn't have the word bribe in it?"

"Obviously not if he's gotta spell the whole fuckin' thing out," Kenta spat back, returning his attention to the shorter man. "So, you're saying we have to pay these men off so we can get these guns?" The words rolled off his tongue in an unusual manner, quickly going back on himself, searching for a more formal word. Something Kenneth would have read in the book instead of heard on the street.

Despite the butchering, it seemed like a decent plan. Scout out the river, await or find this white boat and sneak on board, possibly make a deal with what Kenta could only assume to be smugglers, and then sneak off with their weapons. It sounded clean on paper, but he knew better than to trust associates from unaffiliated groups. He couldn't help but wonder who those men were and how they got their hands on those guns, or any other illegal commodities they had stashed away. Or, why they were taking those items across the ocean to begin with -- other than make a profit. Did they belong to someone? Were they stolen? Could they be traced back?

His large hand moved into his dark locks, messing with the edges of his waves as he shook his head again. "How the hell are we s'posed to know this safe? For all we know these guys could be undercover cops baiting us in!" he tossed the orange bud into the ashtray. Although originally on board with Kenneth's plan, his overwhelming thoughts began to overtake him. Why did they need guns anyway?

. . .

Nishitani needed those guns. He was promised those guns. Even if Kenta could scrape by the mission without any weapons that wouldn't change the deal the foreigner and the Kijin's Patriarch made. Boldly, he declared his connections would bring in resources to the Kijin and there was no going back on that promise.

"That Vaaasili--" he started, however, blundered. "Your contact, you can trust him? Is all this truth? You are running from your old group, right? What's to say this isn't some trick?"

Kenneth really, really thought he was starting to get the hang of Japanese pronunciation. The absolute bewilderment that his spiel elicited from the two yakuza at the table slowly peeled that confidence back like a screwdriver under his toenail. When Imai finally slammed his fist into the table, the redhead found himself withdrawing somewhat into his own embarrassment, his shoulders slouching as he tried to hide the redness in his cheeks. Dammit, he was trying. The rules of Japanese were so different from English, the pronunciations difficult for him to wrap his Southern lips around. It didn't help him any that he couldn't read the language as it was meant to be written—the romanized approximations in the book could only do so much to convey where the stress was supposed to be placed in each syllable or if the vowel sounds we're hard or soft.

He couldn't pick up much of what was said between them, but he definitely heard Imai say "teach -- some -- Japanese", and though the minute details of that sentence were lost on him, he couldn't help but agree. This was just unpleasant for everyone involved at this point.

Fortunately, it was once again Kenta to the rescue. Ken couldn't help but frown at the lengths he went to just to make sure he could understand him, even if it was a very courteous gesture. He just wasn't keen on causing that much trouble for either of them—especially not the one who had shown him so much mercy thus far. Still, it worked. He could understand the words spoken to him for once, even if it was only just enough. "Yes, this is what I say," he said with a nod, scratching the back of his neck as he struggled to keep eye contact. "Not know who they deliver to, but... Have work with runners before. Was runner before. When travel long away, easy say 'lost some item'—does happen very many time when, uh... Go to new country. So... We... You say 'pay them off', yes? Very many possible they will agree to this."

He couldn't even tell if that made sense anymore. Closing his eyes for a moment, he tried to shake it off, picking up his bruised pride before listening to Kenta speak. Again, he couldn't understand the words through the thick accent, but the man was pulling at his hair again. Dammit, what was stressing him out about this? Well, besides the obvious. Their job was inherently a dangerous one—even if this was someone Ivan knew, Ken had no idea who these men were sworn to or where these guns were going. There were so many things that could go wrong, but which point exactly was Kenta worried about? Why couldn't he make it more clear? Why couldn't Ken communicate his reassurances with more clarity?

Dammit, words were no use here half the time. Still, it wasn't like he could reach over and–

...

Yeah, he really couldn't.

Still, Kenta was trying his best to communicate his hang-ups, and despite the blundering of Ivan's last name, he was able to understand the gist of it all. So, he was worried about this being some sort of set-up. Man, this guy was starting to sound like Ivan—always assuming the worst outcomes. Was this what organized crime did to people? Did it burrow these fears so deep in their heads that every statement required ten questions, even if there was only one option in the end? What were they going to do? Wait for the next smuggler's boat so they could properly vet it for the correct amount of criminality? Ken was sure his head would be ok the chopping block long before then.

He tilted his head, running his fingers through the pages of his notebook. He really wasn't built for this world. Neither of them were. "Ivan Vasiliev is a friend to me," he said, a flat assurance to his tone. "Is not member of Red ATL, has no... No reason chase me for them. We share... Country blood? Wait... Nationality. That is word. Yes."

Ken looked up at the two yakuza and scratched his head, trying to figure out how to explain this delicate aspect of American life to them. Surely, Kenta was familiar with... Preferential treatment, so to speak. With his darker skin and wavy hair, he stood out noticably from what Ken had observed to be a population consisting largely of pale-skinned people with straight hair. Not so different from the States, really. He figured the same rules applied: if you don't look like the status quo, you're bound to have problems. Yet, this wasn't a matter of physical appearance. Ken was only ever singled out for his auburn hair and, while in the throes of transition, his increasingly masculine appearance. Beyond that?

"Ivan and me... We have Russian blood," he said, trying to choose his words carefully. Who knows if Japan also had a red scare? "In America, this is bad thing. They say we are 'dirty reds'. America and Russia fight very many years, so Americans think we... Ah... Word..." he grumbled, tapping his head before giving up and just using English for a brief moment. Like Kenta, he tried to keep his words plain and clear, slowing his voice and biting back his accent. "Spies. They think we are spies for Russia."

It was why Red ATL was such a stable group prior to the raid. The Russian community in Atlanta was tight-knit as it was due to its small size and close proximity, but the vitriol from patriotic, conservative Southerners only bred more vitriol within the community—and caused the more criminal-minded to band together for a safe retaliation. Some of the older members of Red ATL even told Ken about how they were tried—some of them even doing time—for conspiracy against the United States government under the Communist Control Act. All because they spoke with the wrong accent in the wrong place at the wrong time.

"When we talk, business or no, it is in Russian," he returned to Japanese, shaking his head. "I only one who it is safe to talk about home. He is smart man, not... 'trick'? Not trick and kill me. Not kill home."

That was a bold claim. Surely, Ivan knew more Russians. Kenneth was just unaware of who those Russians might be, seeing as they were so far north. New York was a big state—or at least densely packed with a large immigrant population. Surely, Ivan had at least one other guy who he could speak so openly to in his mother tongue.

And yet, the more he thought about it, the more he found himself thinking about how rusty that tongue had become.

Nationality blood? So, there was a kinship between the men, something that went deeper than a mere banner. Apparently, this Vasiliev figure hadn't even been in Ken's organization, yet went out of his way to orchestrate this entire meeting. It was . . . odd. From what he heard of mainland organizations, no one carried that loyalty to anyone else. It was cutthroat, honorless . . . grotesque even. Men did whatever they wanted with no care for their brothers, victims, or civilians. At least within the Yakuza, there were laws keeping people in line and there was a clear structure. One did a job and passed the earnings up the ladder and once there was an opening, one moved up the ladder. Directly, it mirrored the structure of a normal corporation, something Kenta would have found himself working in if he simply kept his head down and continued with his education. Instead, he found himself plotting a theft against other thieves in hopes of obtaining illegal goods.

What a world he lived in.

So, they should trust this mystery man because Kenneth trusted him. This wouldn't be a trap because this mystery man shared the same nationality and wouldn't dare stab Kenneth in that back. And, of course, that man had nothing to gain from the redhead's death.

He sighed, reaching into his jacket to pull out the box of cigarettes. All this talk was starting to make his head spin. Russians, smugglers, bribery, and guns, all for the kidnapping of that girl. His fingers trailed over the buds, slowly pulling out one as he laid it between his lips. Not to mention the upcoming fight between Kenneth and Nishitani, which was still on the table. But, now he wondered if Kenneth was bold enough to bring such a powerful weapon against the Patriarch. It would be a tremendous advantage, however, it would no longer be a fight. No matter how strong Nishitani was rumored to be, there were very few men that could take a direct bullet and live.

The lighter flicked, illuminating the end as he took in a heavy breath.

"Kenta," Seiji pulled him from his gaze, rummaging through his own jacket. "How much are you putting in?" he asked, parting the wallet.

"Oh, right," he nodded, pulling out his own. How much would it be enough to pay off smugglers? How much would they upcharge weapons? More so in a country that outlawed any of said weapons except to those in power? The smoke slowly surrounded him as he counted through the bills, pulling around forty thousand yen. "Ya think this is enough?" he spoke to his brother who threw out his own bills onto the table.

"Well, we're both gonna get one, right? I think that should be good," he shrugged, swatting the now dense air. "If not -- well ya know what we'd do," he chuckled slightly glancing over to Kenneth. The eye darted back to the wavy-haired man then back to the foreigner. Catching on, Kenta finally adjusted his position. So engrossed in his own thoughts, he failed to notice the man's unkept behavior.

He couldn't help but scoff, leaning forward to grab a few napkins. Without a word, he reached over, gently wiping off the slowly drying blood. Although Kenta wanted to ask whose blood it was, a part of him already knew. "Do you walk around like this in America?" he asked, in English. "You can't look like that here. People -- get concerned fast. We do not need people regulared in our problems, okay?" lectured Kenta as his finger gently dabbed over the bruise. And, now they needed to pay Matsui another visit.

"Oh, hey, I'll get ice for that," Seiji spoke, getting up from his seat and disappearing behind the bar.

Yeah, Kenta definitely wasn't getting it. Either that, or he also had something against Russians. Considering that the two countries shared a maritime border, it was definitely possible that the cultures shared bad blood. Kenneth wouldn't know anything about that though—he was just some American dumbass with an average American's grasp on world history. Maybe it wasn't a good idea to be honest about this, maybe he should have lied. It wouldn't have been something uncommon to do. Maybe they never would have known.

Kenneth raked a hand through his hair, looking away as he paused to scratch the back of his neck. Whether they believed him or not, they were going to have to go along with it, right? Yeah, they were already pooling money, chattering on about something involving the guns—maybe planning on trying to bargain for more than one? They had to have known the stakes. It wasn't just his neck on the line—Kenta had allowed him to make that deal. They were lashed together by the thorny vines of the underworld, and any attempts at abandonment would be paid in blood.

For the foreseeable future, their fates were intertwined.

Feeling uncomfortable, he pulled out the stolen lighter, tracing the phoenix design on its metal face as he fumbled for his cigarettes. He wasn't usually such a heavy smoker, but he felt like he was going to fold if he didn't get a steady supply of nicotine in his veins. He had to keep his mind off of the lack of opium if he was going to survive the night, there was no other option. Besides, the damn air here was so thick with tension and distrust that he might have been able to burn it away.

He glanced up at the motion in his peripheral just in time for the napkins to get pressed to his cheek.

His hands froze for a moment, his eyes locked on Kenta's in startled surprise as the man who had just voiced such intense distrust now acted so tenderly towards him that it shocked loose a memory of the previous night. A hand on his bleeding cheek, pulling him in, preventing him from digging himself any deeper. Words he couldn't understand, but were spoken with such softness, such concern, that the tone set his heart at ease despite the lack of understanding. Those eyes... He couldn't remember the last time anyone had looked at him like that. It was a "don't give up", a "don't go", a "don't die, not like this", but without the need for any language.

And just like that night, he found himself leaning into that gentle hand, his vision blurred from staring into that muddled past.

"I'm... I am okay..." he mumbled, caught in a daze as the gravity of the situation seemed to slip completely by him. "Um... I am very sorry about... This," he gestured to his face, a nervous laugh slipping through. "There was man... Family man. Come to me when I wait on Ivan call again. He say... Many speak, I do not understand very many. Angry at me? Speak loud, angry, about, eh... Old man? He apologize, it is fine."

Breaking out of his stupor for a moment, he reached into the pocket of his leather pants, sitting up slightly and handing Kenta the pin he had poached off of his attacker, managing a half-smile as he tilted his head. "I can not read this. You know what family this?"

The pin was somewhat smeared—both with blood and with the grime from the phone booth that was on Kenneth's gloves. However, despite that, the gold-plated kanji read as clear as day:

Kijin.

Only when Kenta wiped away the blood did he realize the man most likely had no idea what he was saying. Or, everything was muddled together through his accent. His lecture was for nothing, yet as he stared back into Kenneth's dark eyes he realized there was no need for a scolding. His passion bled through his gaze and concerned pats, attempting to clean the man off without causing him any more discomfort. He was gentle like the doctor was last night, careful not to press down on the bruise or the still-fresh stitching. Despite the lack of disinfectant, the blood came off, having sat atop the man's skin for only a few moments. Once removed, Kenta's fingers absentmindedly raked through the red hair, pausing at the realization of what he had done. Shit.

His fingers stiffened, staring back at Kenneth with a slow blink before he simply pulled his hand back. Was that too far? Shit, he had scolded him not even moments ago, yet he found himself lost in the man's eyes and scruffy appearance. All of Kenneth was rough around the edges. His voice, regardless if it was speaking English or Japanese carried a distinct drawl. It was soothing despite the roughness -- comforting, really. Not to mention his appearance. Kenneth was by far the least put-together man he had ever met, yet he enjoyed that. For once, someone wasn't disguised in designer clothes, hoping to conceal any part of their true identity with flashy items. It was his true unfiltered self and Kenta greatly admired it.

Shit, he had known this man for two days now and he already found him quite appealing.

The gleam from the gold pin caught his eyes, forcing him to arch a brow.

"Oh, a lot talk like that," he spoke, now in English, hoping the other would understand him better. Kenta took the pin, wiping down the surface before holding it out to the other man.

"Spells Kijin," his finger trailed over the kanji, showing how to write the character. "Ah . . ." he pressed his lips together, rolling the pin between his fingers. "Shit, I don't remember what it means. But," he shrugged. "No important very."

"There are more, every group," Family, he meant to say. "Has own. Each say something new, and different color. I like ours," he nodded. "Oh -- eh, Tojo Clan? They're's mostly silver, so if you see grey no one of us," he explained, cringing at his own lack of control over the language. He didn't feel like himself in English, everything was so tangled up, so he could only hope Kenneth could underneath his cloudy tongue.

A weak laugh left the man's lips, "Talking with you very hard," he admitted. "No -- good words in English."

Kenta was so used to having girls wrapped around his finger with just a quick conversation, filling their ears with whatever they wanted to hear. However, that was mostly impossible with the foreigner. Though . . . he found himself not even needing to flood the other man with things like that. With Ken, it was mostly business save for a few intimate personal moments, so there was no need for ego-stroking. At the end of the day, Kenta didn't need to impress him; Kenneth was the one in hot waters and he was the one saving him.

" . . . Hope that can changing future," he nodded, pulling his gaze towards Kenneth with his grin.

It was silly to hope they would stay in contact in the future. Of course, Kenneth -- like any sane man -- would be on the first plane available out of Japan. He must be dying to return home or dying to return to a place where people could understand him. He couldn't help but swallow down a shaky breath. Was it selfish to want him to stay? This was the first friend he made after so many years in prison, why couldn't he enjoy his company without any looming threats?

Whoa, what?

With how unexpected the gesture was, it should have sent Kenneth into a state of fight-or-flight. It was extremely intimate, out of nowhere—Kenta could have just grabbed his head and slammed him into the table. And yet, the feeling of those fingernails raking through his hair shot a wave of pure euphoria down through his body, causing him to shudder involuntarily as his face flushed red. Shit, did that send the wrong message? What was the right message to send here? Kenta's hand definitely froze on his head after that—was that Ken's fault? He locked startled eyes with the yakuza, and he swore he could feel his heart beat in time with his own, if only for a moment. He couldn't recall a single time anyone had ever done that to him. A few of the gangsters and Red ATL boys ruffled his hair around playfully and used his head as an armrest—much to his disdain—and plenty of people had hit him on the head, but something this tender?

As that warm hand pulled out of the auburn mess on his head, Ken tried to communicate with his eyes what he could only dream of saying out loud: please, don't stop.

As Kenta began explaining the pin's origin, he tried to force himself back down to earth, breaking eye contact for a moment and scratching at his arm as the red tips on his ears began to fade. Shit, what was Ivan just telling him? Even if he wasn't convinced that Kenta had an ulterior motive, that didn't mean there weren't others. Not to mention just the general risk of acting like this in public—as if bribing smugglers and fighting a patriarch weren't going to be stacking enough odds against him! At this point, Ken definitely had to ask himself if he was trying to die.

The question could wait.

So, his attacker belonged to a group known as the Kijin. Ken tilted his head—he'd heard that name before. Yeah, he had caught a few conversations around town about them on his way back from Little Asia. Not enough to know the subject matter, but they must have been infamous around the city for some reason or another to have that much buzz about them. Maybe his actions the night before had caused them to be a bit more active? As much as he wanted to believe that he wouldn't have stirred up every family in Sotenbori by fighting one patriarch, it definitely wasn't a possibility he could write off just yet.

And then, to Ken's relief, Kenta provided him with a valuable piece of information: the chances of a gold pin belonging to the Tojo we're slim. That didn't make every gold pin safe, but it meant that none of the crests he had seen so far truly wanted him dead. It seemed that the fear of stirring up a rival organization outweighed the desire to put Ken six feet under.

Though, that point definitely wasn't communicated with grace. That accent tangled Kenta's English up just as much as normal, and Ken's Southern heart swelled with admiration at that absolute mess of a contraction. "They're's", huh? Man, it almost felt homely. He was used to speaking in short form—that was just the way of the South. Plenty of "y'aint"s, "y'all"s, "fella"s, and "aight"s had graced his tongue growing up, and it almost felt unnatural trying to stretch them out. Though, with Kenta already wincing at his own attempts at comprehending even the most standard of English phrases, he knew better than to hit him with any of those words—intentionally, anyways. If one slipped, well, that was just going to be how it was.

That weak laughter and shaky breath caught Ken off-guard, and he felt his heart being pulled back to attention. Shit, was Kenta really that upset over it? Well, the foreigner couldn't blame him, really. He knew more than anyone else in the room how awful it was to say so many words and know that there wasn't even a guaranteed chance of any of them being understood. He couldn't even read here—his language comprehension fell behind even a preschooler's by their standards. It was torturous living like this, every word feeling like a small humiliation.

Yet, that was the thing: Ken had to learn Japanese because he was drowning in it. He was adrift in an unfamiliar land, and he would either have to learn enough to communicate or perish.

As far as he knew, the only reason Kenta was even attempting English was to make his life just a little less painful. And damn, if that didn't warm his heart.

He couldn't help it—his hand found its way onto Kenta's shoulder despite his conscious mind, giving it a gentle squeeze as that warmth radiated through his smile. He might not have known Kenta for very long—barely even two days, give or take a few lapses in consciousness—but he was already beginning to see what kind of man he was. He was brash, prideful, willing to cave to anger to protect his image. He was a criminal in a flashy suit who wanted the world to know—to wholeheartedly believe—that he was a dangerous man with money and power beyond the common civvie's wildest dreams. But that was just the outer shell, wasn't it? It was a suit of armor that hid a man who playfully boxed the air, who made an effort to learn another language just so one man would feel less alone, who ran through the city with him hand in hand, who dealt mercy in spades, and whose hands were just at home in a gentle caress as they were bruising with flesh and bone.

Dammit, of course he'd find the one man worth staying for in a country thousands of miles away from his home where a whole prefecture wanted his head in a box. It was just his luck

"You are doing a good job, Kenta. I promise," he spoke briefly and slowly in English before returning back to Japanese. "Our, uh... Our words very different. Different sound, different letter, different... All different. I do understand... Many of your speak. The, uh... Way you do speak, it is different from any I hear in America, but... Not bad."

He broke eye contact for a moment to scratch the back of his head, letting out a nervous chuckle. Well, it was definitely his turn to stumble over an unfamiliar tongue. Still, it didn't feel so bad when Kenta was his only audience, and he was able to look back up at him after a minute. "Continue do your best. It is... It is only important thing to me," he said, nodding slightly to assert those mangled words. "Will be better later. Am happy not speak alone now."

Not bad? Happy not speak alone now?

A bashful smile threatened to form on Kenta's form, only stopped by his own hand coming to shield it. He didn't need anyone seeing his soft side, however, a soft red slowly dusted his tan skin. It was so simple -- a simple gesture, simple blunt words, yet he couldn't stop himself from grinning like a schoolboy. Instead of saying anything stupid, the man simply nodded, allowing himself to take another cigarette between his lips. That was his third one this afternoon and he was already starting to feel the calming nicotine run through his veins. The cigarette held back any words, but his free man couldn't help but move onto his shoulder, patting the other rough and damaged skin. Gently, his fingers ran across it, basking in the small gesture as he squeezed the hand. Kenta had entangled his fingers with so many before, yet this felt different. It felt genuine for a change, there was no white veil behind Kenneth's actions only a tight squeeze and reassuring words.

Although he wanted to bask at the moment, the older man had different plans. Returning, with no ice in hand, Seiji stared at the two with a small arched brow.

"Well if . . ." The man wanted to say something witty, yet merely shook his head. For once, he wouldn't entertain his brother's antics. "We need to go catch this boat 'fore we're stuck with nothin', and I was already promised a gun," he shook his head, patience already running thin as he walked out the door.

"We should not fall too behind," he quickly spoke, taking another deep drag of the cigarette before putting it out on the ashtray. What a waste. The smoke slowly left his chest, pulling himself off the couch as he adjusted his shirt, doing a few of the buttons. As much as he wanted to walk around as he usually did, the temperate always dropped around the river and the cool fresh air would lock up his joints, a hindrance he did not need in the face of a potential challenge.

Too little was known about these men for comfort. The yakuzas were both adamant about only doing business within the family and whoever Nishitani branded as safe to bargain with, so this was all a shot in the dark. Smugglers were common, and they regularly did business, but Kenta was always selling to these men, never buying. And, from his few experiences, he already wasn't the most intelligent. This could easily go two ways, the men are willing to let go of some of their supplies for the right price or . . . they would have to force them into meeting their demands. As long as he received those promised weapons, it seemed Seiji had no problem taking either route.

Kenta knew what the one-eyed man was capable of, and knew this small encounter wouldn't even be a detour in their long journey.

"What'd he say it was?" he asked, walking in front of the pair.

"A white boat with green lights,"

He nodded, marching down the steps as he continued along the river walk. A white boat with green lights, such a strange detail. The only other thing they needed was a flag-waving, "LOOK AT US!" To seal the deal. He scoffed slightly, as he watched the boat slowly come to a crawl.

The two men sat comfortably on deck, conversing to themselves as a third pulled the boat along the riverside. 'A pit stop?' Seiji thought to himself as his own pace slowed, arm held out to keep the other men behind him.

"Wait," he spoke, watching the smugglers talk amongst themselves, hoping to make out any details. The words were cloudy, slurred together as the wind howled through the walkway. However, as the man moved closer now bathed in a warm yellow, he noted the area they were in. Seiji's head turned back, gesturing to the brunte once again. "Kenta, ain't this that place Nakano 'lways talks 'bout? Fuckin' -- what's it called?"

"Dragon & Tiger? Ain't that just some Chinese place?"

"Exactly," he nodded, peering in closer. "Fuck're some smugglers stoppin' at some restaurant for?"

"Maybe they got hungry?"

Seiji pulled his head back, resisting the urge to smack the other man's shoulder as he glared daggers before immediately cocking his head. "Eh?" His body moved from behind the tree, quickly moving towards the boat. "They left!" he stifled down a laugh, quickly glancing around the river walk. Were those smugglers amateurs or so confident no one would steal any of their belongings? Poking his head around the boat, the man brought his hand up, whistling to the other two as he quickly got to work. With no peering eyes, who was to say he only had to take the guns? What if he took more? What sort of illegal goods did those men have stashed away? Quickly, Seiji ripped apart the plastic-wrapped bags, eyes widening at the shinning metal.

Definitely a lot more than guns . . .

In a perfect world, Kenneth would have been able to stay in that moment for as long as he wanted to. The warmth between them soothed him down to his core, and he could feel his heartbeat slowing to keep time with the one he felt through Kenta's hand. For that brief moment, he was even able to forget that his life was in danger during every waking moment. But, unfortunately, forgetting the fact didn't make it a lie, and Imai's low words of what Ken could only assume were disappointment snapped him back to reality. Startled by the older man's sudden reappearance, he snapped his hand back to his side, his hair standing on end as what once gently held Kenta's shoulder now firmly grasped the handle of a baseball bat.

Shit, how long had he been watching? He didn't even bring back the ice—was this a test of some sort? Did Ken fail? What would the correct answer have been? Probably not getting all tangled up with another man, he was sure of that. As Kenta put out his cigarette, Ken stood up, putting his jacket back on properly and taking a moment to take inventory of his pockets. Of course, he needed to make sure his things—and the things that weren't his—were both still there, but he also needed to do something to distract his now-shaking hands. Dammit, he couldn't keep putting himself in danger like this. He was already taking enough risks today as it was, he didn't need to make his odds even worse by not thinking before he felt.

"Yes," he murmured, his gaze locked on the floor. "Do not want to make anger with him."

Well, no more than he has already made.

They made their way down to the river in no time, having practically been on it already. Now that they were walking so close to it, though, Ken found himself wishing he could zip up his jacket. The wind whipped through the canal, slicing through the t-shirt underneath and forcing him to pull the leather tighter over his prickling skin. It drug up a memory long-forgotten—one where he had ran away from home and tried to follow the Kentucky River to a better life. He was so young then, so inexperienced, that he eventually ended up collapsing in the snow on the riverbank. He was fortunate for a hunter to find him, less fortunate to be brought back to the hell he had so desperately tried to claw his way out of.

Was this all so different? What really separated the man he was now from that kid writhing in the snow?

Well, the amount of firepower on the line was definitely one thing. Just as Ivan had promised, there it was: a white boat with green lights. Ken had to resist the urge to fire a smug smile off at Kenta—he knew this wasn't a trap. Whether they had to fight or haggle, it didn't matter. The boat was here as promised, and that fact alone would likely bring a fair bit of credit to his name. Of course, all of that credit was almost wiped out as he stopped himself just short of clotheslining himself on Imai's extended arm.

The boat was stopping? That was unexpected—Ivan had only said they'd be passing through. Was there something he didn't know about here? Peering out from behind the two larger men, Ken watched as the smugglers made anchor, calm as could be. Then, they—all three of them—got up and left the boat.

"Holy shit," he said with a scoff, speaking to himself in English for a change. "How dumb are these fellas? Shit, Ivan, your contacts really know how to pick 'em out there."

Ken wasn't exactly a veteran, but he knew there were a few unspoken rules to smuggling that couldn't be overlooked. The first one was not to indulge in your own shipment—a rule that Ken himself admittedly had to do all but chain himself to the wall to avoid breaking at times. The second rule was to never leave your inventory unattended. There were three men on that boat, and he suspected that there weren't any more who could fit in there if they had a full load. So why in the hell didn't they leave one guy behind as a watch? Why were they all leaving what was likely hundreds of thousands of dollars of inventory in a boat on an unfamiliar river in an unfamiliar part of an unfamiliar country? Maybe they were violating that first rule too.

At Imai's signal, Kenneth darted over, keeping low to the ground as he snuck aboard the boat. As much as he wanted to immediately go looking for the theoretical pill horde—his entire body feeling like it was protesting against the mere thought of doing anything but indulging in sweet sweet opium delight—he had to find those guns first. Biting back a muscle cramp in his leg, he slipped over to the opposite side of the cargo hold and began looking. Fortunately, for all of their blatant stupidity, these criminals at least had some organization to them. Ken quickly located a wooden crate filled with straw and handguns of various age and manufacture, and the sight of those hand cannons was enough to get a wild-eyed grin out of him. Not only was his life saved, but man, if these boys let him have one, they'd never question his utility ever again. He could shoot out a car tire from ten yards away under the hazy cover of a midnight street lamp. That would be enough to impress a few American gangsters, but what about Japanese criminals with little to no firearm experience?

Though, he wasn't about to make a move until these guys got theirs. He wasn't worried about Kenta, but damn did he want to avoid drawing any ire from Imai yet. "Hey, I find the things!" he trilled, gesturing for Kenta to come over. "Find one you like. Make sure fits good in hands. Will need find ammo too..." He trailed off. Imai definitely found something else of note—he looked like a kid unwrapping presents with that aura of sheer excitement about him.

Probably the closest to innocent that man would ever look.

"Imai, what you find there?" he asked, biting back the anxiety creeping into his veins as he stepped away from the gun crate to look for the ammo. God, part of him regretted asking that question. He really didn't want to know what would make a man like that get a look like that in his eye.

Just as expected, the crisp December air mixed in with the chilling Sotenbori river tore through Kenta's spine. His own hand replaced where Kenneth's once was, moving towards the boat, being the last to arrive. The boat was real, near painfully. He could see every detail of the metal water vehicle, all the dents on the side, the scraps -- most likely from escaping other boats or docks -- even the rinky green lights flickered between white and gold. Carefully, he stepped aboard, continuing to glance around as the waves underneath gently rocked the boat. It was safely secured to the metal fence, and he was sure the smugglers dropped an anchor, yet his stomach still turned. What if this was the plan? Have them be all nice and comfortable and then spring a surprise attack when they least expected it?

Dark eyes immediately shot over to Kenneth, folding his arms over his chest as another gust of wind hit the back of his neck. He wondered what the foreigner wanted to find, it had to be something more than guns as there wasn't the same sheen behind those eyes when he found the weapons. Reluctantly, Kenta pulled himself off the makeshift ramp, continuing further into the boats. Despite his anxieties, why should he be left out? It had been . . . weeks now since he lost that beautiful dagger -- he needed something to replace it.

With a few tugs, the nails popped off, revealing the insides of straw lined crate. Suddenly, his eyes widened at the sight. Underneath layers of protective gear -- mostly binding cloth and counterfeit clothing -- laid an array of knives, all with different handles and even blade colors. Kenta's first instinct took over, biting down his lip as he stared at the weapons, but, slowly, he reached down to pull one from the pile. Careful not to cut his already bruised fingers, the man picked up a red blade with a black handle, carefully examining it as . . .

"Kenta!" the man shouted for the third time, paying no mind to the nosy redhead. If it was up to him, Kenneth wouldn't have stepped near any of the crates but decided to allow it, for now. Instead, his attention was focused on pulling the mustached man from his thoughts. "If yer done dickin' 'round how 'bout you look at a real man's weapon?"

"What?" he simply responded, averting his gaze before dropping the knife onto the floor. His breath quickened, laughing slightly at the sight.

Cold silver stared back, reflecting everything around it as the green lights bathed the yakuza. With a moderately curved, long, single-edged blade, paired with a long grip to accommodate two hands, it was none other than a katana.

"Best Christmas present ya could ask for," a laugh left Seiji, watching his sworn-brother inch towards the blade. "Hey, hey, careful I might cut ya." Playfully, he swung the sword, inches from Kenta yet he remained unphased, too enthralled with the finding. "Y'know," he watched Kenta's hand hook around the grip, taking it without a single word. "Ya could've asked," he clicked his tongue, rolling his eyes as he finally glanced at Kenneth.

"He really likes those damn things, don't know why," he extended his voice, "It's not like he's ever used one." However, Seiji's words were met on false ears as Kenta continued to swing the weapon through the air.

Knives were associated with . . . dreadful memories, but swords? He had yet to see anyone wield such a weapon -- besides fake ones -- as set by the law. Japanese citizens have the right to own Japanese-made blades, however, they must be registered with the Nihon Token Kai and must be considered historically significant to be kept. A lot of unnecessary layers to have such a finely crafted weapon within his reach. Carefully, his palm lay flat against the metal with a soft hum . . . It was cold, unused, without a single scratch going along the polished metal. Part of the man couldn't help but wonder if it was authentic. Well, of course, it wasn't authentic the metal used in traditional katanas was already rare, so he doubted any modern-day swordsmith would be able to recreate a classic. Nevertheless, tingles ran across Kenta's body as both hands clutched the hilt, giggling to himself as the blade quickly came down on the wooden crate. Despite its debated authenticity, it easily sliced through the material; the corner of the crate now resting on the floor.

"Shit uh --" Imai's poor English once again returned, "You said -- gun, yes? Leave me, show me gun," he dismissed Kenta, hoping to rummage through a few more crates for their haul. With every intention to rob those men blind, there wasn't an ounce of guilt in the fighter's body. Waltzing through the deck, his eye then focused on the weapons at hand, quick to grab one of the hand canons, aiming it off into the distant skyline. With no bullets present, the gun merely clicked -- forcing Seiji to click his own tongue. Maybe it was best not to make too much noise anyway. Quickly, the gun was shoved inside his pants, the handle sticking out from his belt as he grabbed another for his sworn brother and . . . Should he give one to the foreigner? Already having experience under his belt, there was no need to train him to keep his footing steady, or even not to jump at the sudden sound, but what if he got too bold? What if the yakuzas were on the receiving end of that barrel? What if their bodies came crashing down into the river that night? For now, he had to shove down all his curiosities and instead, pointed at the magazine, "Find what go here."