Fandom [ LOST DOGS ] — A Yakuza Story

[simulationanomaly]

December 10th, 1988, Sotenbori

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The past day was already a haze. It came in flickers, piercing soundbytes, bangs and rattles. If Kenneth didn't have the bruises to prove it was real, he would have assumed that it was just a bad dream, or a hallucination brought on from a bad mix of hydrocodone, alcohol, and the memories of past encounters with organized crime. But here they were, here he was, and here went another glass of cheap whiskey down his throat at this podunk pool bar in a country he was completely unfamiliar with. He couldn't even read the words on the bottles, fumbling through double vision and unsteady hands to read his traveler's dictionary.

What did it matter? What did any of this matter? Whether or not he knew what he was drinking, it was getting the job done. Best enjoy it before those Dojima boys track him down again.

He leaned forward into the bar, resting his cheek on the smooth pages of his dictionary as a TV across the room threw distant words his way. He couldn't understand the anchor, but he already knew the news: there was a murder in Kamurocho the day before. Something about a debt collection gone awry. From what one of those thugs from the Dojima family had told him, it had something to do with a "Kiryu"—he guessed that was the stone-faced man he had helped out on the 6th. You throw a bottle at a pickpocket and help a guy get his wallet back and suddenly you're wrapped up in some big conspiracy involving a patch of dirt in the middle of a Tokyo cityscape. Ain't that a bitch.

It took him a few minutes and a lot of odd stares from other patrons to realize he had been saying a lot of this out loud—in English, thank God. No one understood him, just as he couldn't understand anyone else. He thought he could make out someone calling him a "crazy foreigner", but even if he wanted to peel himself off the bar right now to make sure he heard that right, he couldn't help but agree. Why fight the truth? He was crazy. Crazy for flying halfway across the world on a drug run, crazy for indebting himself to a syndicate in the first place, crazy for indebting himself to yet another syndicate when that fell through, and crazy for spending his last few days alive in a dive bar high on painkillers and drunk on... Well, drink. He still couldn't read the bottle.

The music that droned around him mixed with the clattering of pool cues only served to remind Ken of how alone he really was in this. Everyone else here seemed to have a friend—save for one drunk salaryman drooling on a table in the corner. He felt a kinship with the man, he wanted to call him a brother even though they hadn't said a word. He decided against it. They were wasted for completely different reasons. The crackling overhead speakers played to the salaryman a tune of a man foolish in neglecting his marriage, foolish for not loving what he had, for giving his life to a job that hated him. Ken heard none of that. The lyrics remained vague as every other spoken word. Yet, he was reminded of home. He didn't have many friends there either, but he had one member of his family who he loved dearly.

He teared up a bit, then immediately pawed at his face, the leather of his jacket sleeve doing very little to wipe the tears and a lot to knock his face mask out of place. Fumbling to fix it, he stared into his now-empty glass with spots swimming in his eyes. He hoped that his grandmother wasn't as heartbroken over this as he was. It would be unbearable to think of.

Vaguely, he heard the chime of the entry bell. Another lost soul coming in to drown their sorrows—he could tell because there wasn't any conversation that followed it. By now, he knew better than to look over his shoulder. He wasn't in the mood to fight a stranger for no reason again tonight. He just wanted to lay face-down on this bar until he became one with the wood. It then occurred to him that there was an open seat next to him, and he slid his head back down onto the bar in an attempt to begin assimilating with it. He could not handle conversation right now, much less in another language. Please, please let this person sit anywhere else.

 

[deadly king]

Why were convenience stores so bright? Every time he walked into one, every single color immediately jumped out at him. The colorful bags of chips, the different brands of soda and coffee, and even the different magazines that talked about this month's trending topic. It all made his head hurt as he slowly stumbled through the aisles. Actually, his head had been hurting for a while. Kenta just couldn't shake the feeling as he haphazardly attempted to pick something. Earlier that night he ate and he took a shower before that, so why was there a tight feeling in his chest? His eyes drifted along they landed behind the counter.

Shit, there went his five-year-long streak.

His slugging stance changed, bringing his shoulders up as he walked towards the counter. The girl's eyes widened a bit, cowering a bit behind the register, "H-How can I help you?" she spoke.

"Let me get a box of Seven Stars,"

The white gold-studded box called to him, even with the blaring chunk of warning labels printed right on the front. Nothing beat the feeling of menthol entering his lungs, and nothing could compare to it. Kenta could still vividly recall the weeks following his sentence when he was stuck inside that cell. He felt like bashing his head in because he couldn't get his fix. Every night he would roll around, practically clawing at his uniform because of how badly he missed the feeling. Now, he could get a box as if he was buying a bar of candy.

"That'll be ¥420 in t-total," the girl spoke, holding out the box.

"420?" he cocked a brow. "That can't be right, did prices go up?" he asked garnering only a weak shrug. He sighed, merely pulling out the yen and taking the box. Whatever. He could spare the cash. He could buy the box for thousands of yen if he wanted to. But, there was no need. There was quite literally nothing stopping him from buying a box other than a snobby clerk demanding an ID. Of course, Kenta was of age now.

He was . . . of age now.

No more stopping people in the streets, giving a lame excuse so they would buy him a box, and definitely no more bashing in vending machines to steal boxes at a time. Now he could just walk right in, flashing his little silver pin and people would give him what he wanted. Kenta began to wander the streets once again, now relieved of his headache. He couldn't help but let out a relieved sigh as he took a long hit, feeling water build up in his eyes. It was stupid to cry, but he desperately missed this feeling. He desperately missed so many things. These last two months had been about nothing but survival, but now, for a moment he could enjoy himself, and why not go all out?

He already finished what Seiji asked of him and he got to keep a hundred thousand yen, why not splurge a little? If he could buy a box of cigarettes with no complaints what about alcohol? What about going to a bar? Isn't it sad for a guy to go to a bar alone? he thought. Maybe he should pick up a chick? The idea was definitely tempting but . . . Shit, whenever he looked at a woman now he was just reminded of her. Those dark eyes and silky long black hair framed her face perfectly. Kenta immediately shook his head, spitting on the street as he continued to walk. He still had to find the goddamn bitch and had no progress other than college girls that fit the description but not the bill.

Fuck! Alright, time to enjoy one of those damn Sotenbori bars I've heard so much about! he thought, taking the final drag of the cigarette before tossing it out.

It took a bit of wandering around to find a place that didn't have some flashy billboard in front of it. He always knew those places were scams. When he was younger he definitely would've fallen into that trap -- wasted all his damn money on those girls that knew just the right words to say to him. But, now he knew those places were designed just for that! It's how they managed to rake in so much money to pay off all their debts. This place seemed nice though. With billiards and even a dart board he could vaguely make out in the back, he seemed at ease.

The yakuza flashed a grin to the man behind the counter, looking over the array of bottles, some more expensive than others. "Let's see . . . Bartender, what do you recommend?" he asked.

"I recommend our Yamazaki 12-year-old whisky, sir."

He couldn't help but chuckle, "Do I look cheap to you? Let me get the 18-year-old one instead," he spoke before glancing at the man beside him. His brow cocked again, looking to the bartender again who was now busy grabbing the alcohol. "What's wrong with my friend here?" he asked.

"I don't know, sir. He's been like that since he ordered his first drink. I tried speaking to him, but he doesn't know much Japanese," he gestured to the dictionary, practically glued underneath the stranger. Kenta nodded a bit, leaning forward against the bar, attempting to get a glimpse of his face. So some foreigner who probably got his heart broken he snickered to himself. "Well then, make it two glasses!"

Kenta's hand rested on the stranger's shoulder, giving him another smile. "My friend," he spoke, now in English. Although he had an obvious accent, he continued on. "You get a free drink! On me," he nodded. "Something wrong -- yes? Wh--? . . . Yes, whisky help feel better."

It was broken English, pieced together from few classes he attended at school, but he was trying.

 

[simulationanomaly]

Fuck.

Kenneth peeled one eye off of the bar, his eyebrow cocked at the sound of somewhat butchered—but altogether friendly—English. He still was in no mood for conversation, but if this guy was going out of his way to attempt English for the sake of getting the hardest-to-chat-with drinking buddy in the whole bar, then it felt pretty rude to decline. Hell, he was even buying him a drink—not that he needed any more that night but, well, he wasn't going to turn it down. From what little he could piece together, it was a decent drink too. He had vaguely heard the guy say the number "18". Was this random civilian about to buy a foreign stranger who hadn't said a word to him an 18-year drink?

That thought combined with the sound of the glass thumping on the counter was enough to drag part of him back out of his head, and he lifted himself off of the bar somewhat, his face only slightly stuck to his dictionary this time. That face mask was quickly finding multiple purposes, now that he thought about it. Maybe it would become a permanent feature. It felt weird on his face right now, though. Every hair of the sparse scruff underneath seemed to pierce the fabric like cactus spines. He was like a cactus, in a way. Poor little cactus boy.

Right, this stranger. He almost got sidetracked again.

His tired, bloodshot eyes finally made it to the face of the newcomer. And what a face it was—decorated with a mustache straight out of a back-alley video store and a scar that absolutely carried a story with it running from his cheek to his jaw. If that didn't get the alarm bells ringing, then that look in his eyes did. It was friendly, but there was a sliver of quiet amusement. He had seen it in the eyes of the Red ATL boys that scouted the campus he used to study at. This was a man who had screwed people out of their life savings and absolutely would do it again. Maybe a loan shark? A landlord? Hell, some doctors had that expression before handing over a prescription for another bottle of painkillers. Vampirism in its most boring form. So, who was this guy?

And then Ken's eyes caught silver.

He froze, words caught in his throat as he did his best to push through his own jelly bones and straighten his back. Crap, had they already found him? Maybe? He thought for sure this would be out of their territory, but he couldn't discern the details of that pin either. Shape, emblem, the pattern of enamel, he just couldn't make it out. One thing was for certain: he had a family, and the blood between them certainly wasn't their own. Ken struggled to find words to string together in Japanese, but he wasn't sure if he could convey his ideas in English. He fumbled through his dictionary to find he words he sought. The letters laughed at him, scurrying from one end of the page to another. Still, he managed to catch them.

"Thank you very much, sir," he said slowly, fighting through his accent and drunken slur to make an attempt at Japanese pronounciation. "This drink, it is needed."

He had debated voicing his suspicions, but doing that tended to spark fights that he wasn't in any position to be picking. He could go for a brawl right now, now that he gave it some consideration, but he didn't want to take that chance with the guy who had just ordered his drink. Full glasses hurt so much worse than empty ones when thrown at your head. "The days long," he said with a shake of his head. "I growing tired of... Family."

He added a few fumbled taps—aimed at a certain part of his lapel, but landing elsewhere on his chest before finally getting closer. His body swayed and he caught himself on the bar, staring into the grain. It seemed to swim, flowing like a river towards an unknown end. Dropping into an abyss, perhaps. It could only ever keep flowing down, yeah? He found himself lapsing back into English before he could cut off his tongue, rambling on about things best left unsaid. "I was chased out of Kamurocho," he admitted, tracing a vague route into the pages of his dictionary. "There was something happening—some nonsense about an empty lot and a guy... I knew his name a second ago, uh..."

The news was still going on about the murder and the implications of yakuza involvement. Ken was sure that they were naming names—he could pick that apart from pronounciation and intonation. He wasn't processing the language apart quickly enough to discern exact words. Still, he pointed at the screen haphazardly, the weight of his arm causing him to nearly slide off of his barstool. "These people, "he said, breaking back into Japanese for a moment. "Problems too many."

 

[deadly king]

Finally, he was able to get a good look at the other man's face. Well . . . what wasn't covered? A large majority was hidden behind a mask, sparking curiosity in Kenta. Maybe he had a scar similar to his own? He knew not everyone went around showing their's off loud and proud, but maybe there was something else. Maybe the guy was trying to grow a beard and it was all patchy? He silently chuckled to himself at the thought, looking back to the bar. A small hum left his lips, picking up the glass with the dark liquor. Just like it had been years since he smoked a cigarette, it had been years since he drank any alcohol. Even then, he could never afford a brand like this -- he was stuck with cheap cans he snuck from the fridge when his father wasn't looking.

Kenta's eyes fluttered closed, enjoying the burning feeling that went down his throat and to his chest. Suddenly, his whole body felt warm, it was a nice break from the freezing temperatures outside. He hummed again, placing the glass down before he drank half his glass in one fall swoop. Even if Kenta didn't have the tolerance, the whiskey went down smooth enough that he didn't choke or even reel away from the taste.

A laugh couldn't help but escape him. The man knew better than to make fun of foreigners that were trying their hardest but it was humorous to watch. What the stranger said was ripped straight out of a textbook, it was so stiff, so formal. Like a worker and their superior talking instead of two friends having a chat over some drinks.

"Yes, enjoy it," he nodded back in English.

This would be . . . a difficult conversation. With Kenta knowing basic English and the stranger knowing absolutely no Japanese, it was a wonder why he was here.

"Family problems?" he asked. But the man looked rather young, did he really . . .

Oh.

Kenta glanced down to his own silver pin, briefly reading the kanji. The bright metal clearly spelled out Kijin Clan. But that meant . . . He knew of the yakuza, yet was still willing to speak to Kenta? Normally, whenever he tried to speak to anyone they either buckled in fear or willingly followed his every word, however, this stranger was different. Kenta could chalk it up to the other being intoxicated, but it seemed he had a mess of his own.

"Very many problems, yes," he nodded. The Dojima Family, damn the whole Tojo Clan might be in deep shit now that the police are snooping around that Empty Lot. He briefly heard of the plans, mostly having to pick it up from loose sentences and codewords the lieutenants used. Of course, they wouldn't let some new meat learn about such a confidential plan, but they didn't do a very good job of hiding it.

"You involved in that?" he gestured back to the TV. "Empty lot, there you were?"

Shit that didn't sound right. He shook his head. Either way, this stranger couldn't have pulled off a stunt like that. It was clear this was an internal Tojo Clan problem, and foreigners weren't allowed -- well, anywhere. Kenta didn't know of a single group that allowed some outsider to waltz in and claim a position, it was unheard of. Maybe just an accomplice then?

"You very -- ahh," His words slurred. "Fucked if you involved,"

A bad joke but a joke nonetheless.

 

[simulationanomaly]

Kenneth caught a laugh before it could leave his throat, biting his finger through his mask at the attempt at English vulgarity. It was correct, absolutely. He was, indeed, fucked. But this guy had such a way of saying it that it just made the situation feel a little less tense. Maybe Ken was falling for his charms a little. Maybe he was, but he didn't care. Besides, the guy had just barely polished off his first glass and he was already slurring. Ken wasn't exactly sober either, but he felt a little more secure drinking in the company of such a lightweight.

He pulled down his mask for a bit picked up his glass, and tilted it towards Kenta in a "cheers" sort of motion. A crooked, painful grin found its way across his cracked lips. Damn this winter cold, and damn these politics. It was all killing him from the inside out faster than the whiskey ever could. "Is why I'm here, sir," he said, taking a drink. He was going to slam it down like the glass before it, but stopped himself. It was so much smoother than the last, the flavor more warm, smoky, and pleasant on the tongue. The little wonders that money could buy. He set it down and kept his hands wrapped around the cup, watching the amber ambrosia ripple and sway. "Came here on business. Problems happen, have to stay here now."

He swapped back to English with a quiet laugh, his pupils shrinking away from the memories behind his eyes. "I only have nine toes to give these bastards. I don't think that'll be enough to get them off my back."

Shaking his head, he drank down the rest and leaned back, looking between this thug and the TV. He was talking about this situation like he had no clue Ken was even involved. So, he wasn't out here to kill him. That didn't mean he couldn't stand to gain something from the intoxicated foreigner with strange insight into the local crime scene. Still, this did confirm a hope of his: this guy wasn't Dojima. He had successfully made it beyond their reach, and was now free to recoup before he would eventually have to run from the next not-so-friendly family came for what little he had left to offer.

"You are not with them, yes?" he asked, gesturing between the thug and the TV. "Different family? Dojima shits. Take all my... All my item. Said they... Pro-tec-ting?"

His Japanese was beginning to fail. Frustrated with his own brain, he pawed through his dictionary. Where was the phrase for "I'm being hunted by a criminal organization for very dubious reasons" located? "Anyways, anyways," he mumbled, this time in English. These words were beyond the scope of a normal traveller.

"Now the family think me involved with that guy," he said, gesturing to the TV again. He had to stop doing that, it was starting to get weird. "They take my item. They take my money. They try to, ah..."

He drug a finger across his throat with a hiss, having forgotten the word to use. The situation growing darker by the day, all he could do was ramble to a thug he knew might screw him over and drink the rest of this whiskey before it got too warm. It didn't taste strange, and he felt just as fucked up as he did when he entered the bar. So, maybe it wasn't drugged, at least. He didn't need that on top of the pills and drink. That might actually kill him. He laid back down on the bar, staring at the glass as though it was a monolith to his failure, empty and cold. Oh well. At least he wasn't dying alone now.

 

[deadly king]

When he tugged down his mask, Kenta's eyes couldn't help but try and pry it off. What was underneath it? From this angle, all he saw was dry, cracked lips and nothing else. It was anti-climactic, but just meant he would have to spend more time with him. Wait, would that be weird? Shit, he didn't care. This guy was just spewing out important information don't the Dojima family like it was nobody's business.

"You came here for business then got your ass stuck," he joked in Japanese. "You really are fucked," he laughed, fully. His shoulders shook slightly as he attempted not to fill the entire bar with his laugh. He rested his foot on the stool, letting his body lean on the wooden bar as he raised his glass. Although he didn't respond, his eyes said it all. Another swing down, leaving a portion of the glass empty. Shit, he shouldn't be drinking something so expensive so casually, he should savor but it felt so nice inside his body. Anything to beat the freezing December temperatures.

"Kill," he spoke slowly, allowing the word to roll off his tongue. "They want to kill you," he repeated, insinuating the Japanese word in the man's head.

Kenta couldn't help but sigh at the situation. Imagine getting stranded in a country with a language you didn't understand, and getting roped into some deep criminal shit. At first, he just felt pity for the guy now he felt genuine sorrow.

"Well," He cleared his throat, turning back to English. "You are not die," he patted the man's shoulder. "You say -- fuck those guys and live!" he nodded, shaking him slightly before taking another swing. Feeling the burning sensation again, he shook it off, fully turning to the man with his signature grin, again.

"Tell me what know about," his hand haphazardly gestured to the TV, too cloudy to speak of the situation. "The Lot and I help. Me -- me with . . ." Shit, this guy wouldn't know the proper names of anything. "Other Family. Better family."

Shit, it was getting harder to string words together in English now, was any of this making sense? He should take it easy on the alcohol until he got something useful out of the guy. "You help guy with --" his hands made a gesture, "The kill," he repeated the word in Japanese. "Why? You want something from him?"

 

[simulationanomaly]

Kenneth nearly sputtered on his own tongue, bolting back upright. Did he say that right, or was this stranger's intoxication just mixing with his lack of understanding the English language in the worst possible way? "What? God, no," he stammered out, grateful no one was really following this conversation. They were speaking in novice languages and slurring words like no one's business, of course this was a conversation no one could be bothered to perceive. Still, the implications were too great to let slide. "I didn't help kill anyone, jeez... I just helped one of those Dojima boys, I guess he made the kill later."

Shit, that was all English. Between the accent and the slur, there's no way he understood that. Let's try again. "I not kill anyone, you not understand," he said, in a lower voice this time. "I help a family man. They... They say he kill yesterday? Name, name, what was his name..."

He leaned on his elbow, tapping his forehead and muttering syllables incomprehensible to all but his own mind. In programming, if you miss even a single symbol in your text, your entire program might crash. Sometimes, when it did that, it spit out a string of letters, numbers, and symbols of all kinds. They called it "garbage text", and Ken could only assume that's what was coming out of his mouth right now. It made sense to him, anyways. What was the brain but one smaller, fleshier computer? He had worked with the metal ones once. They seemed far more agreeable than the ones made of meat.

He was getting sidetracked again.

What was that name? It wasn't a long one, that he remembered. It was three sounds. The first one was "ki". What were those other two? Ki... Di? No, that didn't sound right. Di, bi... Ri? Yeah, definitely ri. And that final sound...

Ken slammed his hand down in realization, his eyes lighting up with glee as he managed to remember a relatively simple name. "Kiryu! They say his name is Kiryu," he said with a grin. "I help him get his money back from. Ah... Pickpocket?" Another English interjection. He couldn't be bothered to find that word. "Interesting man. Very tall, one face. Look angry all time. I do no speak to him."

Odd, he was actually starting to feel like things were okay again. Even though he was only half-conscious at this point, he still felt the need to stay awake and continue this conversation, and it wasn't just out of obligation anymore. If that were it, he would have simply let himself pass out. Now, this thug was starting to look like a friend. A big, slimy, untrustable friend. But hey, beggars can't be choosers, and Ken was not above begging. "I not know much else," he said, shaking his head and gesturing over his shoulder with his thumb. "I run when they start trying to kill me. Keep run, find taxi, here now. You... You have right, you know? Not kill yet. Fuck them punks!"

He hadn't even noticed the manic warble creeping into his voice, or the fact that his nails were beginning to dig into the bar. This stranger was right. He was alive. He needed to be alive. "You, friend. What do I call you?"

 

[deadly king]

Although Kenta understood most of those words, all strung together he couldn't quite decipher it. Merely that he didn't kill anyone, right? Yeah, didn't was a contraction. Did not. So, the stranger Did Not partake in the murder only assisted with it? So, an accomplice?

Kenta leaned in a bit, closing the gap as he attempted to pick up the slurred Japanese. A lot of the pronunciation was bad, like school-boy level bad, but at least an effort was being made. He didn't know a lot of foreigners that took the time to carefully piece together words that didn't quite fit right together. However, it made the story a lot funnier than how it sounded on paper.

"So --" he completely ditched the English, attempting to piece the story himself. "You help this guy, Kiryu -- a guy in the Dojima Family -- to get money back from . . ." he hummed. "Pickpocket?" his brow arched, trailing his fingers on his mustache. Get money back from a pickpocket? Well, that wasn't uncommon. With the number of bills spilling out of people's pockets, it was only natural someone would follow being, trying to rake up the scraps. "Okay pickpocket. You don't speak to him, but since you helped and were . . . sort of there, you are an accomplice," he nodded, clearing his head of most confusion.

"I surprised you alive!" he spoke back in English. "No lot of people live from Yakuza," he patted his own chest, letting his hand fall over the pin. Unfortunately, it was true. Even if someone merely asked to borrow money, the yakuza had no problem sucking that person dry of everything they owned. It was an unwritten law in these parts: stay away from the yakuza.

Though Kenta couldn't say much, look at him! He heard that phrase repeated to him a million times by a million people in his life. You stay away from that man! was common from his father, even if Kenta insisted the man was just a mechanic. Turns out his father was right, that mechanic store was just a front to launder money. Don't go wandering in that part of the city was another common phrase, especially when he walked home from school. Nearly every nook and cranny of Sotenbori had some shady guy offering something to someone that definitely couldn't afford it, or some guy hassling someone else for money, or . . . Shit, well Kenta could stand here all day now and list the various things the Yakuza did to gain their money, but he reigned in his thoughts.

He chuckled slightly. "You, my friend," he raised his glass. "Call me Kenta!"

That's how it was in America, right? They didn't care about family names or anything just what you called yourself. "And you? Are you a uhh -- J-John?" he struggled slightly with the name but got it out. "I like name, it is from Bible," he nodded. Admittedly, Kenta was not Christian, he didn't really believe in anything (except maybe himself.) But, it was one of the most accessible books in the prison, and considering how long it was, it took him the full five years to read the damn thing. After spending so much time reading it, he was kind of glad he managed to actually pick something up.

 

[simulationanomaly]

Kenta. Oh man, that got Kenneth good. He was about to start laughing already, then absolutely broke down into a cackle fit once the guess at his own name was made. John, huh? Man, here he thought he was going to stick out like a sore thumb in the middle of a Japanese bar, but apparently he was just another John Doe. Go figure. He couldn't stop touching his face at this point—it was just an attempt to compose himself at first, but wow did his face feel weird tonight. He kept pawing at his mask. It had been pulled down for a minute now, and he knew he should probably fix that. He had the damn thing on for a reason, after all. All the same, he didn't care.

John, though. That was a riot. "No, no," he said wiping at his face in between fits of laughter. "Not John, no. My name's Kenneth. You can call me Ken, though."

He managed a straight face for a minute, then started snickering again. He patted his own chest. "Ken," and then his new friend's. "Ta!"

Man, this guy was built like a rock. It occurred to Ken that maybe he shouldn't just be casually touching a random guy with gang affiliations in a completely unfamiliar city, but it was all just too funny. He brought his hands back to the bar, swaying restlessly and smiling like the fool he was. His situation really was absurd. An American born to Russians stuck in Japan. He hadn't had time to properly appreciate how stupid the situation really was up until this point, but now that it was dawning on him, he couldn't help but feel a bit of a head rush. He was so completely and utterly fucked that, at this point, it really was better to just give in.

Still, something was holding him by his teeth.

"Kenta," he said rocking his empty glass back and forth on the table as he attempted more Japanese. "You give me good drink, good laugh. You are good friend tonight. I thank you."

But, he knew that this guy would be expecting something in return. People like him didn't just buy expensive whiskey for strangers and expect nothing in return. It was fun pretending that this was an honest man that he was talking to, but it was time to wake up. His smile was dampened a little by the realization. He didn't want to leave the cocoon of fantasy that he had spun just yet, but he had no choice. He began thumbing through his dictionary for more useful words, squinting past the black spots in his vision. "This 'empty lot,' it help you too, yes?" he said, tilting his head. "I do not understand what... Why they want dirt. It is strange to me, but if they want dirt, they want me kill. Not good. Too late to leave for me."

Ken clenched his free hand into a tight fist. He wasn't a wise man, but he knew at this point when he was too wrapped up in the underworld to escape it. If he didn't try to fight it like last time, if he just sought the right help, he might keep all of his body parts intact. "I help you, uh. Start tomorrow," he said, a moment of lucidity preventing him from promising anything immediate. "Tomorrow, yes. I want out, I cannot leave Japan before I take care of things. You have family, my family... We talk tomorrow. Too hard to word."

The somber tones seemed to slip away as quickly as he has invited them in, a wave of the hand enough to brush them aside. So what if his life was in shambles? He had a new chance basically fall into the seat next to him and buy him a drink. He wasn't about to pass up an opportunity like that.

 

[deadly king]

Once -- Kenneth started laughing, the yakuza soon followed after. He finally allowed himself to fully laugh, letting everything that built up in the night out. Like icing on the cake, it so happened they had similar names. A part of him wondered if Kenneth too had a surname that started with a 'K,' that would be the real icing on the cake. Just like the other man, Kenta was belt over the bar, laughing into his glass as he resisted the urge to down the rest of it.

"Shit, some twist of fate," he laughed before noticing the man's hand. Instinctively, his shoulders locked up. Shit, the alcohol in his system dulled his senses to the point where he didn't react until he felt the hand on his chest. It felt . . . Kind of nice. It had been so long since someone touched him in a non-aggressive way it felt -- unnatural. Slowly, he blinked, looking down then back up.

A giggle finally left his lips. It was much softer than his laugh, a lot more genuine than he let on.

"Of course," he nodded. "I am glad happy you now are," he slurred in English. That sure as hell didn't make any sense, but he was too far gone to try and salvage his speech. Maybe he should keep talking Japanese? As he stared at the man, his brow cocked, having to take a moment to realize what he was saying. Shit, what was he saying? Maybe the 18-year-old whiskey was a bad idea, especially considering how little alcohol he had under his belt.

"They want dirt because --"

Ah shit, what did Seiji say? Why did the Tojo Clan want that piece of dirt? Some plan -- it was important! Kenta shook his thoughts, now fully resting his body against the wooden bar as he stared at Kenneth. "They need sell the piece and,"

Now he was speaking straight gibberish.

His hand gestured to the bartender who rushed over. "Yes, sir?"

"Fuck, get me a glass of water," he spoke, rubbing his eyes. "Shit and the check too, I'm tappin' out," he weakly spoke before downing the rest of his glass. With the sudden rush of alcohol in his system, Kenta pulled himself back in, dark eyes wide. "Tomorrow!" his hand patted the other's shoulder again. "Tomorrow -- I find you and we speak about this. Okay? You want out? I can help but you help me with Lot. Boss needs to know too," he nodded, grumbling slightly as he forced his body to stand straight. "Bartender!" he accidentally shouted, "What time is it?"

The man behind the counter returned, placing two glasses of water along with the bill. "It is 11 P.M, sir."

Kenta gasped, grabbing the clear glass. Fuck, he wasn't supposed to be here for that long! Grab one drink, loosen up then leave and go talk to Nishitani! He quickly gulped down the water, wiping his mouth before quickly pulling out a few bills. "Next time, you pay," he joked, stuffing the rest back into his pocket.

 

[simulationanomaly]

Kenneth raised an eyebrow at Kenta's panic. That was a look he had seen before many times, including from himself in the mirror. That was the "oh fuck, I'm late" look. The thing is, there were different degrees to this look. Sometimes it was more of an unenthusiastic panic, like you knew you had to be there but you were probably just going to get a lecture at worst. It wasn't a life-or-death panic, just a startled "goddammit" sort of panic. That gasp, the hurried slamming down of water—Ken had no idea how this man didn't just hurl it back up all things considered—and the fact that he practically slapped those bills onto the counter, it all spoke to a deeper panic. This was one of those "oh fuck, I'm late" moments that would cost a man one of his appendages. Shit, he barely even bothered to say goodbye. How did those guys—the yakuza—do things here?

His suspicions were only further confirmed when Kenta got up to leave. He was scrambling so hard that he took out his own barstool, tripping over it in a spectacular display of flailing limbs and assorted curses before booking it to the door—and slamming directly into it. Right. It was a pull door. Ken was at least thankful that Kenta found out the hard way before he did. Honestly, it would have been hilarious on any other day. This was some Looney Tunes crap to behold, and it certainly got a chuckle out of some of the other patrons. Yet, Ken wasn't laughing. He felt a pit growing in his stomach, and it wasn't just from the substances he'd indulged on. Maybe this guy was just trying to take advantage of him, but in his addled state, all he could think of was that this was the only person who had offered him a genuine conversation since he landed here. As far as he was concerned, that made him an ally.

For now, anyways.

As Kenta threw himself out the door, Ken pulled out a small stack of his own—payment for the cheaper glass he had sucked down before his new friend had arrived—and laid it down on the bar before taking a quick swig of water himself. The cold at least helped send some blood back to his legs, and he gave them a few kicks before trying to stand. Trying being the key word—he nearly fell over as soon as he was upright. He had to scramble to catch himself on the bar, his breathing ragged as spots swam in his eyes. Man, this sucked. Being this wasted always sucked when you suddenly had to get serious again. He looked at the bartender for a moment as if expecting him to do something—anything—to make his legs work again. No dice. The man just looked on in pity, nothing he could do. Figures. Ken couldn't resent him for that. He just muttered out a "thank you sir"—in which language, he couldn't recall—and made his way quickly, yet clumsily, to the door.

As soon as he was outside—after a brief fight with the door brought on by him forgetting how to let go of a handle—he found himself assaulted on all sides by lights, colors, and noise. His stomach flipped, and he found himself reeling back into the wall next to the door. God, it was 11 at night, how was it brighter than when he went in the bar? The cold wasn't bothering him now, at least. He was too numb and warm for that.

He tried to look around for signs of Kenta's getaway, looking all around the block through squinted eyes and sweat-drenched skin. Maybe this was a mistake. He was in no shape to be playing hero like this.

But dammit, he just had to.

Thinking for a moment, he figured that people would be talking if they saw someone that blatantly yakuza in such a panicked rush, so he figured he would find out where he went through a quick pace and eavesdrop if nothing else. For now, he had to gather his things.

Slipping into a back alley, he used the walls to support himself as he looked for something specific. He knew he had left it out here somewhere, he just had to find it. Where did he leave it? With unsteady hands, he pushed open dumpster lids and rummaged through the piles of assorted crap left on the street. Then, finally, inside a garbage can, he found it: a dented metal bat with several chunks of metal glued to it to form makeshift spikes and pressure points. He had found it behind the batting center in Kamurocho, given it his own special modifications. It got him out of that city alive, and the cabbie who hauled him to Sotenbori was too afraid to ask about it, so it stayed with him. It was his security blanket in this hellscape. Sure, he had a switchblade in his inside pocket, but it was much harder to miss with a bat.

Oh, and he had to leave something here too. He took his mask all the way off and groaned as he pocketed it, wiping more cold sweat away from his face. He knew what was coming. It wasn't going to be pleasant, but all he could do was brace for it.

This was going to take a minute.

 

[deadly king]

To an outsider, Kenta looked just like a madman. With a flushed face from the alcohol and the constant stumbling, it was a miracle he managed to even get out of the bar. He briefly rubbed his leg and arm, huffing at the dull pain as he continued on. No point in stopping for pain that the cold was eventually going to numb. As he continued to march on, Kenta's pace slowed from a sprint to a few steps at a time. Shit, why was this city so bright? Was it always like this? When he was younger he stared at the city in utter awe, dazzled at the hundreds of clubs he always attempted to sneak into, or the ramen shops that always served him a hot bowl after he returned past his curfew. God, a big -- no, massive part of him missed those days. Where the only thing he had to worry about was making sure the door didn't click loud enough to wake up his father. Where he just had to make sure he was in his seat for the first period and then leave for the rest of the day. Where he was followed around by all his lackeys. Where he was top of the damn pyramid and he didn't have to go do anyone else's dirty work.

A huff left the man's lips as he shoved a drunk businessman out of the way.

"Hey! Watch where the hell you're going!" he shouted, tempted to chase after the man before crashing on the public bench.

Kenta didn't even give the man a single glance, simply pushing forward until he rammed his leg into a garbage can. The only thing stopping his body from flying forward was his other leg which stepped on a takeout bag. What shit luck. Instinctively, Kenta looked at his wrist before rolling his eyes. Fuck, right the last guy he paid a visit to didn't go down without a fight; quite literally took Kenta's good watch with him!

And, while he was distracted looking at his cracked watch, the criminal ran into another person. This one was evidently much younger, obvious by her high-pitched yell as he held onto her shoulders, desperate to hold onto his balance. "Sh-Shit," his head spun, having to force his eyes shut as he continued to tumble. "I can't be late if I wanna keep this job," he repeated in his head.

Kenta couldn't go back to living off whatever scraps his father decided to give him that day. He couldn't go back to shoving food into his pockets and running out the door, and he sure as hell couldn't go back to prison, as much as he got used to the routine. He sighed, eventually gaining back a piece of his consciousness. He couldn't be acting like a fool at HQ! He was a functioning member, coming in to give his share to the higher-ups just like everyone else. It just happened to be 10 minutes before all business was officially closed for the day and he wasn't even sure if Nishitani was still inside!

Learning from his previous mistake, his arm swung the door open, being hit by the strong sanitary scent in the air. The cleaning guys finally did the job they were paid to do and no one was here to mess it up but him. It was actually rather . . . odd, was HQ normally this empty at this hour? It made sense considering everyone was most likely out partying, but it felt like he wasn't supposed to be here . . .

Nonetheless, the yakuza couldn't afford to skip out on giving his dues. Carefully, he stepped up the stairs, clinging onto the metal railing for dear life. Was Nishitani trying to save on the damn light bill? He couldn't see anything! Save for the soft light that shined through the cracked door. Kenta's fingers slipped through the crack, tugging the door as he stuck his head in.

"Eh, boss?" he called out, "Mr. Nishitani?" he glanced around, allowing the rest of his body in. "Sorry if I'm -- late, sir. I got uh caught up -- w-with information on that Lot! Yes," he tried to put on his smile, but the alcohol lazied it. "Got information on the guy who did it too . . ."

 

[simulationanomaly]

Once Kenneth had recovered from his trash can prayer session, he drug himself from the alley, using his bat to support himself and spitting onto the ground before strapping his mask back to his face. Okay, his head was a little clearer now. He could do this. He could do anything. He straightened his jacket and began the trek across the city with unsteady footing, his head held higher than it had been all day and his eyes ablaze with a new purpose. With this improved clarity, he came to a realization: Kenta was just as fucked as he was, despite having less in his body. The lightweight that he was, he probably left a clear path of devastation behind him. Now that the lights weren't so blinding, he looked up and down the streets.

A knocked-over trash can with people walking past it in passive confusion. That was his first clue. He definitely would have noticed a trash can practically in the middle of the road on his way there. One older good Samaritan had stopped to gather the trash, muttering something under his breath that Ken just knew had to be some sort of tirade about kids not having any respect these days. Boy, he'd heard that one before. Whether it was deserved or not depended on the day.as he approached, the man glanced up, then snapped to attention when he saw the bat. Yeah, it did tend to have that effect on people, huh? Ken reached into his pocket to grab his dictionary and-

Shit. It was still on the bar. He didn't have time to get it back, he was just going to have to try his best.

"Excuse me, sir," he said, leaning on the bat in an attempt to seem nonchalant. "You see who, ah... Put down the trash? He is friend, important to find him."

The man raised an eyebrow, now unsure whether to be intimidated or bemused. On one hand, this wild-eyed foriegner covered in spikes and leather was questioning him about whoever came through here. On the other hand, he couldn't speak Japanese for shit, and his drunken slur only complicated matters. Still, Ken must have gotten his point across, because he did get a response. "What, that fella with the big ol' scar on his cheek?" He asked, receiving a confused nod in response. Ken hadn't understood a word of that. Still, the man was kind enough to point in the direction that he needed to go. "He went that'a'way. Careful following him, kid. He looked like bad news."

Yep, still couldn't process Japanese. Especially not this dialect, so casual and rammed together. In Kamurocho, things were a little easier because their dialect was so clear and formal. Out here, Ken was almost reminded of the small town he had been raised in for the better half of his childhood. Of course, the buildings were smaller and the lights not as bright, but the speech, the people behind the words all had the same vibe.

He couldn't help but resent it for that.

But he didn't voice that resentment. He simply bowed his head with a "thank you, sir" and continued down the road. Going faster now, he kept his bat on his shoulder, breaking into a sprint. Big mistake. The path ahead blurred like one of those cheesy sci-fi movies when the ships entered warp speed. Faces, lights, buildings, every piece of clutter in the street all blurred into one big tunnel of color. He couldn't see, and he couldn't stop. That quickly caught up to him as he tripped over a set of legs. An incredibly pissed off, equally drunk set of legs.

A bruised and boozed businessman drug himself to his feet, slurring something in Japanese about a man who had just hit him and this being the last straw—Ken had picked that phrase up from one of the subtitled movies he had watched. And now this guy was pushing his sleeves up. Cool, great. Ken needed a warmup. Instinctively, he slipped back into a defensive stance, the liquor keeping him loose on his feet and somehow making him a harder target for the other drunk to get a lock on. Well, that might have also been the double vision or the lights catching the spikes on his jacket. He wasn't about to look a gift horse in the mouth.

The "fight", if it could be called that, was over as soon as it began. The salaryman swung, missed as Ken weaved out of the way, then received a nasty sobering up as his bat made contact with his upper back, the shards of metal slicing clean through his shirt and into his skin. The force was also enough to bowl him over onto his face, and Ken even suffered a bit from the follow-through of the swing, spinning in circles a few times before regaining his footing. Keeping up batting practice after quitting the high school team seemed to be paying off. Well, he wasn't getting any info out of this guy—now face-down and whimpering into the asphalt—but he knew he must have been on the right track. He looked at his bat and clicked his tongue. Man, he lost one of his makeshift spikes in that guy's back. Oh well, he'd patch it up later.

The bat, that is—this guy could go to hell.

He resisted the urge to spit on the downed drunkard and kept on walking. At least now, he had a clear path to follow—just beyond the whimpering drunk was a stomped takeout bag and a series of staggered one-shoe footprints on the pavement. He kept his head down to follow these, and people seemed to clear a path around him. Shit. He hadn't meant to make a scene here. This always seemed to happen when he was out of his depth and drunk. Hell, his first week with Red ATL was mostly spent apologizing to the boss—and paying for those apologies in bruises and blood—when his dumbass behavior caused an operation to go tits-up. He was almost nostalgic for those days, even though they weren't that far away. This whole week had just been one of those disasters that'll age a man a year in less than a month.

As he made his way through what was now a crowd of stunned onlookers, he found a girl who just looked too overwhelmed to speak—and damn if his heart didn't break for her a bit. She looked like she had seen a little more than what just happened, and she kept her arms drawn close to her chest. He'd been there, he knew that fear. As he approached, she shrunk back, and he could see a few men out of the corner of his eyes preparing to jump in. Shit. This required some thinking. He stopped, kept one empty hand up, then pushed his jacket back and fumbled with the belt loop on his side—for an embarrassing amount of time, mind—before finally getting the pommel of his bat into the loop. With his weapon secured, he kept his other hand up, palm-out. Hopefully this worked as well on Japanese white knights as it did on American gun-owners. He took a deep breath, clearing his throat before speaking. "I am sorry for trouble, miss," he said, his voice low as he remained on the lookout for anyone trying to jump him. "I am looking for friend... Interesting man. Family man. Have many drinks. You see him? No hurt, no kill, promise."

She was still too scared to answer with her voice, but she was also in no state to deny an answer either. With a shaking hand, she pointed towards a nearby building. That had to be his HQ. He mentioned something about his boss before running out. Was he late for a report? Shit, no wonder he was in such a hurry. Ken bowed his head once more—with sincerity.

And nearly stumbled straight into the poor girl.

Catching himself on the back wall, he made a quick about-face and booked it towards the building before the now enraged group of men could catch up to him, his bat clattering along on the ground behind him as it was drug by his belt loop. He bolted straight towards the door—and straight into it. And now his nose was bleeding. Not that he could feel it, he was way too numbed up for that, but now he'd have to breathe from his mouth and there was blood all down the front of his shirt. Great. At least the wild stare over his shoulder in tandem with the bleeding startled the mob enough for him to make it inside with no other injuries.

So, this was a Japanese criminal HQ. It was mundane, surprisingly sterile and quiet—something that unnerved Ken to an unreasonable extent. It was almost midnight, of course it was cleaned and quiet. The only ones here to muck it up were Kenta, Kenneth, and maybe his boss if he was even in. Still, he smelled the bleach and could only remember the Red ATL boys loading a body handed to bits into a cooler for transport—and he was stuck with the bleach. It was just another warehouse, just another abandoned housing project—until it wasn't.

He shook his head. Now wasn't the time for going down memory lane.

The greasy footprints had trailed off a while back but there were still a few splatters of—grease? Dirt? They tracked across the room, leading upstairs. Just like in America, it seemed that the bosses loved their higher-floor offices here.

Speaking of, he thought he heard the beginnings of a "conversation" above him.

Fuck, he hoped he wasn't too late. With the way he had barrelled through the door, he knew it was no use trying to be stealthy on the approach. He just had to go in there and bust heads—balls out. Gritting his teeth, he took his bat in one hand and yanked it out of his belt loop, then used his other hand to drag himself up the stairwell, panting in ragged breaths through blurry eyes and blood in his throat. He would almost be enjoying this if the blood weren't his own and his friend wasn't in danger. It was dark, and he slipped multiple times as he made his way up the stairs, having to catch himself on the wall numerous times and nearly bashing his face on the metal handrail. He didn't care. He kept climbing, eyes fixed on what seemed like a piercing glow to him at the top of his ascent. That had to be where Kenta went. His friend was in there, probably about to lose a finger.

And it was starting to dawn on him that, if he hadn't detoured to have that conversation with Ken, this might never have happened.

With a determined growl, Ken booked it up the final flight of stairs and slammed shoulder-first into the door, flinging it open as he gripped his bat with both hands. He must have been a sight to behold—blood smeared across his face, eyes wild and bloodshot, clutching a bat that now had the slightest peppering of blood on it. And he could hardly even maintain his stance. Still, it had yet to occur to him that this was a bad idea. "Kenta?" he asked, too high on adrenaline and hydrocodone to remember his Japanese. "Fuck, are you alright? Are you hurt?"

What he had meant to do when he crashed through that door was be as intimidating as possible. He meant to look his boss dead in the eyes and say something kickass like in those bombastic American robot war movies he was so fond of. Really knock the fear of God into him—or at least make a solid attempt at it. Instead, the first words out of his big, dumb mouth were concern for the gangster he had just met.

He'd have time to address that later. He still wasn't leaving until Kenta was out of harm's way.

 

[deadly king]

"Kojima!" the boss finally pipped up, waltzing into the office through the side entrance. "Damn, this gotta be the latest you've ever shown your face 'round here. Was wonderin' if ya were gonna skip out on me," the man laughed, leaning back against the wooden desk.

"Course not!" he responded, reaching into the pocket of his suit, "Wouldn't even think about it . . ." he trailed off, counting the bills, handing Nishitani his share.

The man cocked a brow, holding his hand out as he stared at the pile. "Ah, gotta charge ya a late fee. I'm gonna be late for some plans 'cause I was stuck 'ere waitin' for you."

"Right," he nodded. "Sir." The criminal was swift to pull out another ten-thousand bill, handing it off with a slight grimace.

"Now!" Nishitani laughed, folding the pile and stuffing it into his suit. "What didja learn about the Lot? Better be somethin' useful!"

"Found out the name of the guy who did it. Some kid named Kiryu, part of the Dojima Family,"

"Well, we already knew he was part of Dojima's group!" he continued to laugh. "Guess ya haven't been filled in but," he gestured for Kenta to come closer. "There's some real internal shit goin' on in the Tojo Clan," he nodded. "They're gonna tear each other apart like animals trying to claim one 'em seats,"

Seats? Kenta's eyes were glued onto the carpeted floor, attempting to keep himself stable. Shit, he was really starting to regret going out drinking. For the first time, collections slipped his mind and he went out like he didn't have anything to do! Now it was all biting him in the ass. "So some kid murders a guy in a lot and . . ."

Wait what about Kenneth? Well - not Kenneth, but weren't those Dojima guys after him? This had to be much deeper than just a . . . Pickpocket. And, if there were top guys in the Family who wanted to tear each other apart for a seat, that meant something Really big was tied to everything.

"Well, if they chased a foreigner down to the point he had to skip town . . ." he muttered to himself causing Nishitani to snap, grabbing his attention.

"What're you mumblin' about? Tell me what I sent ya to find out!"

"It was actually two guys -- well a guy and a half. I met this American guy at a bar who was tied to the whole thing. He helped that Kiryu guy take out that civilian and they chased his ass until he got here," Now in the presence of his boss, Kenta couldn't afford to be acting like a fool. With his hands glued at his hips, swaying slightly, he continued to piece together information. "So that piece of dirt gotta be the most important thing in Kamu . . ro . . . cho . . ."

The Kamurocho Development Plan.

"Boss, that fucking Empty Lot is tied to that development plan!" his eyes widened.

Nishitani cocked his head. "How the hell do you know about that?"

With stiff shoulders, the man took a step back. "I -- overheard it,"

"Overheard it? From who?"

"Th-That's not the point! The point is, what if we make a move on the Lot? We could crumble that whole plot! Thousands of yen just down the --!"

With a swift punch, the man was able to shut up his inferior, watching his body spin until it was on the floor. "So, I ask you to dig up some information on the Tojo Clan and you go snooping around behind my back?" Nishitani spat. "That was confidential information for lieutenants only."

"B-But Boss," Kenta groaned, rolling his head as he attempted to pull himself off the floor. "Isn't this what you wanted? Inf--"

"Information on the Lot. Like who owns it? Who're the police after? Who's spearheadin' the investigation? Instead, ya went snooping around for information that doesn't concern ya," he shook his head. "And here I was startin' to like you,"

Before Kenta managed to fully get himself off the floor, the door swung wide open. It was . . .

"Kenneth?" he rose a brow, "What're you doin' here?" he asked, head still pounding as he swatted his hand. "Dammit, you can't be in here,"

Nishitani stared at the stranger, equally confused. "Kojima," he couldn't help but cackle slightly. "Were you plannin' some sorta ambush on me?

 

[simulationanomaly]

Oh, what the hell was he doing?

The thought was finally beginning to occur to Kenneth that this may have been a mistake, and he found himself tense despite the pills. He was already in way over his head, and in his drug-addled confusion, he mistook down for up when he started digging. He had just barged into a known yakuza den with a bat ready to fight their boss when just running here was enough of a fight to leave him bloody. Maybe there was a chance at fixing this. These guys were crooks, but they were organized. More likely to respond to negotiations, even ones in butchered words. He could exchange his life if he had to, but maybe he wouldn't have to do such drastic measures. Maybe they wouldn't even have to come to blows.

But then he looked at Kenta's face. Oh, there was some anger there. Clearly, he wasn't a fan of Kenneth's brand of help, going as far as to shoo him off like a disobedient stray. He didn't know what he was saying, but he got the vibe. Still, despite that unintelligible insistence, Ken stayed put. Kenta could deny the help he was being offered all he wanted—the fear in his voice and the fresh bruise on his face told Ken all he needed to know. He got Kenta into some serious shit by blabbing on about that empty lot business, now he was either going to pull him out or bring him down to hell right alongside him.

And then he made eye contact with the boss.

This man. Oh, fuck, something about this man. Dressed down in burgundy, it felt as though he wasn't even trying to hide the blood in his eyes. He had that same slime about him that Dojima had carried, but where Dojima squirreled it away between a tight-fit suit buttoned as far up as it could go, this man accepted it, adopted it. That cackle, that imperceptible look in his eyes—this was a man who had built himself from dirt and blood and wasn't afraid to add more to his might.

Ken wanted a piece of that ruinous clay.

He brought his bat down in front of Kenta, blocking him from the arena that formed as his wild eyes stayed fixed on the target of his animalistic violence. "You, boss-man," he growled, tightening his grip on the bat as he lurched one step forward. "What Kenta say to you, it is from me. That is my problem. I am... Uh... What is word..."

He took a minute, tapping on his forehead. He had watched a few Japanese crime dramas in the mornings before all of this went down, but that all seemed like such a distant haze, and the hangovers he tended to be suffering from during their airtime didn't exactly help his patchy memory. Still, he remembered vaguely a line from one episode—one where a newbie had screwed up under a senior thug's orders. The senior thug had to plead to his boss for mercy on the newbie. He ended up losing a finger, if Ken remembered right. Still, it worked, and the new guy lived another day. The words he said though, what were they? They were so formal, so stilted, and yet...

"I am... Taking responsibility for him."

It was almost caring. A shield of syllables to pass off to a friend before stepping bare into the fire. And, honestly, who was he kidding with the pretense? This was going to come to blows, whether he was in the state to handle it or not. He brought his bat up, slipping back into English as he stared down the length of it and into the boss's eyes. "If you want to fight anyone here, fight me," he said, narrowing his eyes. "Either you take me to hell, or we both go together."

With those words, he knew his path was set. He was numb, had nothing to lose besides the man on the floor next to him, and was feeling as invincible as they come. Whether he won or lost this, he was taking a piece of this man with him. He swore that to himself.

 

[deadly king]

Responsibility?

Nishitani's eyes widened, cocking his head as he stared at the pair.

"So this is the American you talked about, Kojima . . ." he spoke, leaning back on his desk. Immediately, his hand grabbed the nicely placed dagger, dragging his body up as he unsheathed the weapon.

"If you're offering, then let's go to hell together!" he responded, in English, making sure his words rang in the man's head. He swung the knife, gesturing to Kenta and then to the stranger. "What is it gonna be then? Ya gonna help him out and betray your family?"

Betray his family? Kenta shook his head, wrapping his arms around Kenneth's leg. "Kenneth -- Ken," he choked out. "Shit, do not fight. You cannot me. Me -- I cannot help if die!" he shook his head, grabbing the man's wrist, attempting to shake the bat out of it. "Come on I--"

"Let him fight, Kojima," the man took a few steps closer, chuckling slightly. "The guy wants to take responsibility so let him."

"Boss . . . I can explain! He's -- just -- really drunk!" he nodded. "I invited him to some whiskey and--!"

The lackey's words went in through one ear and right out the other. Nishitani's fingers raised, gesturing Ken to come in closer. "Ignore whatever he's talking about. Keep your eyes on me. You want to fight? Come then," he spoke in some pretty good English.

『 𝐇𝐎𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐄 𝐍𝐈𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐓𝐀𝐍𝐈 』​

"Here!" he chuckled, swinging his knife at the stranger. "Let me take the first swing!"

 

[simulationanomaly]

Before the fight started, Kenneth put a hand on Kenta's shoulder. It was firm, rough, but ultimately a show of care. A "stay back, let me handle this" without the words. Yeah, Kenta was in the right to be doing this. It was touching how much he cared after one night, and Ken didn't want to know if it was genuine or if it was because of the whiskey. Still, he wanted this. He had to have this. If he didn't take his share of the responsibility, at least try and allow this friendly face to live another day, he wouldn't be able to live with himself.

He didn't dare take his eyes off of his foe, though. He moved like a raised snake, and damn if his excitement wasn't contagious. He also spoke some pretty good English. Perfect. This would be useful for him later.

But for now, he didn't need any more words. He needed to move out of the way.

Now, Ken could have dodged in a few ways. He could have jumped back out of range, a classic despite the balance risks. He could have ducked down and gone for a headbut, being at just the right height for that. He could have even brought his bat up to protect himself, letting the knife catch on the shards stuck to it in order to go for a disarm. But, unfortunately, his mouth was running faster than his reflexes. He couldn't think of what to do.

And as he moved his head back to dodge the incoming slash, the tip of the knife caught on the corner of his mouth and ripped it open all the way to the middle of his cheek.

And what else could Ken have possibly done at that point except bite the blade?

Unable to feel the damage caused, Ken took the blade in his teeth and pulled down with all of his weight in an attempt to disarm his attacker, blood soaking through his mask in a steady trickle and onto the attacking hand. Keeping his eyes locked on the yakuza's, he pulled and growled with feral determination for a minute.

He wanted this man to know what he had just unleashed.

When that approach failed, Ken stood up into the force of the pull, bringing his bat along for the ride and swinging it blindly and with full force at his enemy. He couldn't help but think about how strange his face felt right now—it was like it was sliding right off. Damn. He knew that tolerance break in Tokyo was a bad idea. Not that it would stop him from beating the shit out of this guy, but what an annoyance.

 

[deadly king]

At Nishitani's swing, the lackey pulled himself away, crawling away from the pair. Shit, should he intervene? Would either of them listen? Once the boss couldn't into a fight, it was nearly impossible to stop him until his stamina drained, and Kenneth . . . well, with all the alcohol in his system Kenta was sure he wouldn't give in easily.

And with the first swing, his breath hitched, watching the blade cut through the man's mask and into his skin. Seeing the perfect opening, Nishitani ran the blade up, cutting along the skin until blood painted his hand red. However, what he wasn't expecting were the teeth that harshly gripped his dagger. He scoffed a bit, tempted to rip the damn thing straight up, pulling all of the stranger's teeth with it, but instead, had to block.

With his free arm up, it took the blunt force of the bat, causing a grunt to slip from the man. Fuck, that was definitely no ordinary bat. He rolled his shoulder, merely accepting the pain as he backed up from the man. With the amount of blood gushing from his face, he was sure the stranger wasn't going to last very long. He was probably running on raw adrenaline and whatever alcohol Kojima gave him.

As he backed up, Nishitani couldn't help but smirk slightly. It was commendable. Running on nothing but alcohol, with blood gushing out of your face and he still wanted to fight? The dagger bounced between his hands, pulling it back, and leaving the rest of his body open for attacks. "Ya like baseball? C'mon, try and hit me harder," he said.

 

[simulationanomaly]

Kenneth coughed through mouthfuls of blood, ripping his mask off of his face and throwing it to the ground as the crimson began to overtake his airways. Yeah, he still couldn't feel it, but he was starting to get the feeling that something has gone amiss here. Could that side of his mouth always open that wide? And why was there so much blood? He figured that the knife had something to do with it, but he wasn't putting two and two together. His heavy breaths caught on the now-torn skin and flesh, making a sickening sound like vultures in a frenzy. His face was painted red from his own mistakes. And yet, he drew his bat to his shoulders and managed a cocky smirk.

He heard that grunt loud and clear, and it gave him confidence that he didn't deserve to keep. His head wobbled from the strange feeling in his mouth, as well as from the painkillers threatening to pull him under. "If I didn't know better," he said, slurred through a gaping wound. "I'd think you were enjoying this."

But fine. This madman wanted another swing, Ken would give him another swing. He'd give him a swing to think about until the new year broke. He made one quick step forward, then staggered slightly to the right before regaining his footing, digging in, and taking a second swing using the momentum he had gained.

It was risky, but if it would connect with his ribs like Ken was intending it to, it might turn the tide of this battle at least enough for him to get in a knockout blow like he wanted to. Then, he'd be able to... Well, damn. He hadn't thought that far. Maybe make his mouth feel less weird, first things first.

Though, now that he was on the offensive, he was beginning to think that maybe he should have checked for that glimmer in the man's eye before doing anything rash.

 

[deadly king]

"Then you'd be right," he chuckled, watching the gap get closer and closer. A normal person would at least be in a defensive position, but Nishitani had no doubts about being able to take the hit. He sucked in a breath, bringing his arm down at the last moment to shield his ribs, however, the bat still crushed against his bones. The nails haphazardly stabbed into the bat now stabbed against his own skin, clinging to the burgundy suit as blood began to drip down his arm.

"Hey, hey, shit you're gonna ruin the jacket," he shook his head, bringing the knife back up. "How 'bout I wreck yours too?"

With a swift slash, his dagger slashed against Kenneth's torso, slicing through the leather and skin. Now they were both covered in blood, making Nishitani grin.

"I don't know 'bout you but I can keep going all night long,"

The man stepped back, finally unhooking his blazer from the bat, but not without leaving a tear in the fabric. He huffed slightly but pointed the tip at the stranger again. With just another blow, he could easily take him out and then move on to Kojima. Jeez, he thought he was better than that. If one was going to bring back up, at least make sure they can stand on their own two feet without swaying.

Instead of taking his time, Nishitani was quick to make a dash towards the other man, hoping his attack would connect. However, his target was forcefully shoved as his dagger nearly connected. It caught onto his subordinated's arm, slicing through it as the pair fell on the floor. He was forced to catch himself before being met with the same fate. His head whipped around, staring at Kenta with a cocked brow.

"Kojima, what the hell is your problem?"

His hand rubbed his now throbbing his head. Shit, he should've thought that out better. "S-Sir," he grumbled, rolling off of Kenneth's body. "There's no reason to kill him," he shook his head, "L-Look he can help us!" he pulled himself up to his feet.

"Help us?"

"Yeah! He -- he helped Kiryu take the guy out, right? So th-they've gotta be in the same situation," he spoke, having to bite down his nerves. Shit, he really didn't want to see the man he had a rather nice with die immediately after. "That means we can talk to him and get more information, but! We can only do that if Ken's alive,"

The yakuza's head swayed, debating on the offer in his head. "You really gotta knack for this sorta stuff, Kojima," he responded, gesturing to the foreigner. "But I ain't buyin' it." Nishitani whisleted to grab said foreinger's attention, slowly approaching the two. "Give me a reason to keep you alive."

 

[simulationanomaly]

Those next few moments came in a blur to Kenneth, clouded by intoxicants and adrenaline. His bat definitely connected, his follow-through stopped by a burgundy mass. Then a swipe of that knife and—shit okay, now he was starting to get what happened to his face. The leather helped—he kept the jacket for more than just looks—but this blade was something else. It cut through the leather at the height of its swing and Ken could feel the blood starting to pour already. Fuck, what was that thing made of? Adamantium? He couldn't help but give his opponent a look of admiration. This was certainly more interesting than most American brawls turned out to be—usually by now someone had a gun and the party was over. This guy wanted more blood.

And that's when he realized that he no longer had his bat. He had accidentally left it hooked onto and hanging off of this man's arm. Well, fuck. At least he'd leave some scars to be remembered by, that's for sure. As the madman drew closer, he crouched and put his arms up, bracing for yet another round of slices.

Then, he was on the floor. Huh, he didn't think this guy could hit that hard. Letting his guard down, he realized that he wasn't just on the floor—he was pinned to the floor. By Kenta. His entire body tensed. What was he doing? Why was he doing this? He couldn't move. He had to move, he had to escape.

Fortunately, before his panic could overtake him any further, Kenta decided to roll off and let him free. Ken quickly tried to sit up—tried. Maybe it was the blood loss, maybe it was the night finally catching up with him, but he could only manage to get to his knees—and only barely. It was almost like he was in prayer. On his knees, one shoulder touching the ground, the other arm still desperately trying to get him upright as his wounds slickened the floor beneath his hands. Those gloves could only do so much to gain traction in this environment. Still, he wanted to see this fight to the end. He'd deal with Kenta later.

But as his hearing faded back in, he could hear Kenta's voice. He was... Pleading? It came in pieces to him, but he did hear "he can help us" pretty clearly. Was this guy trying to make a case for him? After all of this, he still insisted on trying to save him? Why? There wasn't much he could offer, especially since the Dojima family had taken his inventory. He could fight like hell, but surely, so could a hundred more men. There were his contacts overseas, but the only one who could get him back in the game was Ivan, and Ken knew he had to relocate—something about infighting, he didn't know details and couldn't contact him to clarify. He could hardly even speak their language. What did he have, really?

But then, he heard that damn name again: Kiryu. Did Kenta still think that he directly helped that guy make a kill? Seriously, all he did was help the guy catch a pickpocket. He wasn't a killer, he just couldn't cross that line. He had gotten close. He had left people begging for death more than once. Still, even with a clear swing, a knife to their throat, hands wrapped around their airways, he could never bring himself to follow through. Something was holding him back, and not even he knew what it was at this point. This was survival. Kill or be killed. He wasn't sure how long he could keep abiding by some wishy-washy code of morals if it was going to keep landing him in situations like these.

And yet, here he was.

And now, this guy was asking what he had to offer in exchange for his life. Jeez, was the new hole in his face not enough? He couldn't help but laugh at the question, balling his free hand into a fist and using it to shove himself upright, staring up at the boss with a cocked head. At least the guy knew English, that would make things easier.

"Well, this is the second-worst job interview I've ever given," he joked, tapping on the ground in an attempt to gather his thoughts. "Let's see... Starting with the obvious, I am... Involved with the empty lot business, yes, but I have no stake in it. Even if I had the deed to that property in my hand, it would mean nothing to me because I was only supposed to be here as a layover. I'm honestly just fucking stuck here, man. I've got no interest in dealing with real estate politics, I was just stranded here by my former employers... Well, probably former. Atlanta police tore them a new one, but I'm sure there's stragglers like me still out there..."

Ken shook his head, waving his hand as if to shoo off the thoughts. He was having too many of those for this conversation. It felt like his brain was sloshing around up there with every motion. "Not important. My point is, I'm a no-risk associate. What am I going to do, run away? Take the lot? I can't leave this country, I can't do anything with real estate, and honestly, if getting more info on that lot for you would put the squeeze on those Dojima bastards, I'll crush a man's nuts to do it."

Vitriol was beginning to seep into his words. He hadn't realized it before, but his fear of the Dojima had turned into hatred with distance and time. He wasn't sure if it had spread to the entirety of the Tojo yet, but he knew he would give a lot just to watch that particular branch of it rot and die.

"Those bastards screwed me over. Make a deal with a man just to run him out of town—who the hell does that? Pit of snakes, the lot of 'em. You can keep the lot, you can keep their money, you can keep what they took from me if you have a use for it. I only want two things: to go home and burn that branch to ashes behind me."

Deep breaths. He had to think of a few more reasons. A life was worth more than hatred and indifference.

"That said... I have a few contacts overseas who might be of some use. Get my inventory back, I could hook you up with some fellas in Serbia who were willing to exchange it for some high-grade ammo. Armor-piercing. It's hard to get that stuff, even in America, but having it could turn a turf war into a one-sided bloodbath. The second one, I'm going to need to take some time to get back in contact with, but he has connections to the New York Mafia, and we've done some good business before. Red ATL might be down, but they have their shit together up north. Once I get back in contact with the guy, I'll be able to form a connection for you."

Ken scanned the boss's eyes for anything else that he might be looking for. They still had a latent fervor in them, even though the fight was over. He wanted more. Even if Ken could talk his way out of his situation, he couldn't sate bloodlust with anything other than blood. He knew how this guy must have been thinking—it was like they had the same thoughts.

This fight wasn't really over.

"And, as a personal favor," he said with a grin, pulling himself up a little further into one knee. "Look at me. I'm fucked up, I can't deny that. I can hardly stand, everything's hazy, keeping my eyes open is a bitch. And yet, here you are with a fucked up arm because I still got two hits off on you... You yakuza types, you give much better fights than American mobsters. Too many guns over there. Can't whack a bullet, y'know? You guys, though... You guys can kill a man and make him feel like he's truly alive all at once."

He finally pulled himself to his feet, staggering and slouched. God, there was blood everywhere. Still, if only barely, he held himself up to at least get closer to eye level with the boss. He needed to make sure he heard these words.

"You keep me alive, I'll show you what I can really do in a fight. Tomorrow night. I'll come sober as a Sunday preacher, and I won't leave until we're both bleeding buckets. Sound good?"

 

[deadly king]

As the boss crept forward, Kenta's body moved back. One forward, one backward until they were barely a few meters apart. Gingerly, his hands rested on his new comrade's back, attempting to ease the pain he could only imagine. With a gaping hole in his face and a few more hacks and slashes from Nishitani, it was a miracle Kenneth wasn't bent over wailing begging for his life. That's how it was for most new recruits. They got into their first fight and that was it, lights out and a few days to a back alley doctor that they couldn't rat anyone out to.

That's most likely where Kenneth was going to be sent off to, if he passed this interview, of course.

Now, if only he could understand it. The sentences were far too long and complex for Kenta to understand, however, Nishitani had no problem. If anything, he grew more interested as the stranger droned on.

A man with no connections to anyone, who had no loyalties only enemies, one that could potentially help them screw over the Dojima family. There was that gleam behind those hazy eyes, a gleam that was recognizable in anyone that attempted to join the Kijin Clan. Kojima had it, Imai had it, and all those that fought at the Bed of Styx had it. That indomitable spirit and passion to continue forth even when one's back was against the wall.

Not to mention the possible prospect of smuggling weapons into the country. Guns were the most invaluable asset a clan could get their hands on, and if this stranger kept his word and truly had those connections -- well, it truly would be a bloodbath.

"The New York Mafia, eh? You sure do have some deep connections. We haven't even managed to get that far," he nodded. "If you're being honest then I'll help ya get into contact. I could really use those guns . . ." he muttered the last part to himself, letting his fingers run along his injury. Blood began to flow freely, forming a stain on his suit before he yanked off the weapon. Now the injury was even visible, the nails having ripped apart the seams of both his blazer and button-up. Haphazardly, Nishitani swung it around allowing the decision to bounce around in his head.

For a near-dead man, the stranger was chalking up a rather good case. Then . . . the icing on the cake.

"Tomorrow night?" Kenta's voice rang through the room. "You crazy?" his hand rested on Kenneth's shoulder again, gently shaking him. "That's death wish!"

"Now now Kojima, you don't want to mess up your friend's offer here," the boss spoke briefly in Japanese, giggling at the offer. Shit, he could hardly contain himself at the thought. A completely sober fight that wouldn't end until they were both bleeding out on the floor, like two dogs that hungrily tore each other apart. His head rested back, humming as held back any urge to claw at himself.

"Fuck, if you're a man of your word then you have yourself a job," he nodded, bringing his bloody hand up to his mouth, lapping at the liquid. "For now," he gestured to the gaping hole. "Kojima, ya should take care of your man 'fore he ends up bleedin' out on the carpet."

The criminal immediately nodded, staring at Kenneth as his hand gently caressed the man's now scared face. As blood dripped onto his fingers, he frowned a bit. Who was open at this hour? Who wouldn't charge a fortune for this sort of repair? What could they even do? Leave Kenneth with a terrible stitching scar? "Ya did a number on him, boss," he muttered, closing his hand. "Ken, energy you've got left?"

 

[simulationanomaly]

As soon as his offer for a round two left his lips, Kenneth found himself being rattled—gently at least—by Kenta. That did a bit to drag him out of his blind bloodlust, but he still wasn't taking his eyes off the prize. He knew he had struck a chord. The boss seemed interested before, but in the way that a cat might bat a mouse back and forth before snapping its neck. It wasn't final. Now? This man was giggling like an excited sorority girl, practically prancing as his hands curled into claws that he could barely keep off of his body. There was no way he wasn't going to cave to a promise like that. And he did. Ken wasn't in the family, and he definitely wasn't in the clear, but he had slipped himself into his own pocket of the underworld. For the rest of the night, at least, he was out of harm's way.

He found himself grinning ear to ear as the boss took his offer, but now, his teeth were gritted. Whether it was the alcohol, the drugs, the adrenaline, or all three beginning to wear off, he was starting to feel those injuries and then some. With his newfound sobriety, he was also slowly beginning to process just how absolutely thoroughly he had fucked himself. This guy was just licking a blood slurry off of his hand, and Ken was supposed to fight him tomorrow night. With all of these injuries. Without his fix.

This wasn't the first time his big mouth had gotten him into trouble, though. The problem was, he still had a soul to sell the last time things got this bad. Now? Despite never making a kill, his hands were dripping with the tar of the underworld. He wasn't sure how much mercy the world still cared to give to a man like himself. Yet, through haze and pain, he managed to keep an eye on the man who nearly killed him. He carried himself like the devil—blood flowing, spinning his fallen enemy's weapon like a baton, self-destructive with lust. And that smile. That damn smile.

This was a bad idea, but it wasn't a mistake.

He was about to fire back some sort of retort, some sort of jabbing question about his own wounds and how he just fucked up his own jacket better than Ken ever could have intended.

And then, his attention was rather forcibly diverted.

Kenta was practically on top of him all over again, but this time, there were no restraints apart from a gentle hand on his ripped cheek. Wow. When was the last time a man—scratch that—anyone had held him like that? He was sure it was just a gesture of concern. After all, he was bleeding from practically every orifice on his face, barely able to keep his balance, and they had honestly been having such a good night together. Plus, he hadn't completely registered it at the time, but he swore that Kenta had just rested his hand on his back not a moment prior. That, and the shoulder grabbing—maybe he was just naturally affectionate? Still, Ken's mind went completely blank for a second, and he found himself leaning somewhat into Kenta's touch.

Unfortunately, the moment was over as soon as it came, and the questions that Kenta had asked left Ken scrambling for what little Japanese—or language in general—he could remember how to speak in. "Uh, what?" he started in English, then caught himself after a quick stammer before crashing back into Japanese. "Oh—um. I... I need some assistance. Yes. I will be okay. I promise you."

His tone slowly dropped as his strangled sentence continued, dipping from a startled formality into a soft, weary reassurance. God, he was really getting worked up over this brief amount of contact. How long had he been single for? Damn, he couldn't even remember.

He still had a bit of business, though. His eyes trailed back over to the boss, then the rest of his head followed. The pain in his head was growing unbearable, and he tried to wipe it away—only to end up smearing blood across his face. Well, that was just the cherry on top of this night, wasn't it?

"Ah, before I go," he said, now in English, holding his hand out. "I'm gonna need my bat... And a name. Gotta know who to thank for the scars later."

 

[deadly king]

"Of course," Nishitani spoke, using his good arm to reach down and grab the bat. "It's Homare Nishitani," he shook Kenneth's hand, smirking a bit as he returned the weapon. "Hope to see ya tomorrow," he turned his head back to his subordinate, dismissing the two. "Make sure he's alive for tomorrow."

"Yes, Mr. Nishitani," he nodded, assisting his now injured friend off the floor. Hopefully, Kenneth did live to see another day, though it was challenging to say. With all the blood he lost not only from the fight but with the injuries he sustained back in Kamurocho. It was worrisome and Kenta was careful to let his fingers rest on the man's body. It felt as if he applied any more pressure the brunet would shatter in his arms.

This struggle made it extremely difficult to get the man to the nearest clinic. Not to mention they had to take backroads, littered with even more Yakuza. Hopefully, word hadn't gotten out of any fighting. Hopefully, Nishitani would keep his lips sealed. If anyone found out of the fight, that Kenta allowed a foreigner to enter their headquarters and beat their boss . . . Shit, well he might as well ask to leave the family and throw himself into the Sotenbori river.

But, this wasn't the time to think about that. For now, the men allowed the pair to walk through the streets, only giving them strange glances before returning to their cigarettes. He couldn't help but sigh in relief, reading the small but bright green sign. Sweet Haven. A small clinic, safety tucked between two taller buildings and on top of an ice cream shop.

"C'mon, almost there," he spoke, having to lug his own body further up the steps. Although Kenta had no problem helping his poor bloody companion, all the walking and lugging around nearly exhausted the man. By the time they got to the clinic, he had no time to explain and merely sat Kenneth down on the woman's examination table.

"Kojima," she grumbled, keeping her eyes on her paper. "What have I told you about showing your face at this hour?"

"I know, I know," he sighed, gripping Kenneth's face, shaking it side to side, hoping the man was still awake. "But this is an emergency! Ya've gotta patch him up."

She rolled her eyes. "Fine. Show me the damage here."

The yakuza glanced back to him, hands hovering atop the injured body for a moment, sucking in a breath. Shit, wasn't this some sort of invasion of privacy? Of course, it was needed to continue with all the procedures but . . . Shit, his eyes couldn't help but wander over the man's body, causing him to cock a brow. A heavy amount of cuts on top of fresh bruises. Kenneth's whole body was nearly tainted with purple and red forcing him to frown.

"You are very . . ." he whispered. "Tenacious."

There weren't many men Kenta knew that could suffer not only a beating but a near gutting and still have the energy to breathe let alone walk.

 

[simulationanomaly]

Kenneth gripped the bat as though it was the only thing connecting him to consciousness—and maybe it was, in part. Though the walk to the clinic was a blurry haze punctuated by the occasional bout of hyperawareness regarding his own searing pain, he clung to both the bat and Kenta like they were the only things keeping him alive. Sometimes he would spare his new friend a glance and a smile, trying to ease his visible worry. Part of him wanted to attempt to walk on his own, but then pain would shoot through his body like a bolt of lightning and remind him of his current station in life. In his half-conscious haze, filled with pain and the sound of blood rushing through his ears, it felt like he was being hauled back out of hell.

Maybe he was.

And then they were inside again. Ken let a small groan of discomfort slip out—the cold Kansai air had almost made him forget how itchy he was now. It was always like this. The highs from those pills made him feel like he could rip open the heavens, but the lows just made him want to rip through his own skin. He was vaguely reminded of a childhood memory—hazy as it was, it made its way to the back of his mind. He couldn't remember what had left him there, but he had woken up in a field to the feeling of ants crawling all over him. He remembered laying there for a while, afraid to move since he knew they would start biting once he did. But, inevitably, he had to put himself through the fire.

He was eased back into reality by Kenta setting him down on the table, then ripped the rest of the way back into it when he grabbed his face. Ken stifled a yelp at the contact, dropping his bat and drawing his hand up to guard the wound as searing pain ripped through his head. This was way rougher than that gentle caress back at the office where—what did that guy say his name was? Homare Nishitani? Ken supposed it would just be Nishitani, then—they didn't seem to be on a first name basis yet. The last time he made the mistake of first-naming a member of the yakuza, he nearly got a bat to the skull.

Regardless of what his preferred name was, he really did a number on Ken. All signs had been pointing to that for a while now, but it was only now sinking in just how damaged he was. And if he wasn't aware enough, now they were taking off his jacket and shirt. He locked up—oh, there was that third fear response. He almost forgot that he had it, but this situation had given him an untimely reminder. Ken's body was decorated with many scars—the new slice being just another one to add to the collection—but two of them tended to draw questions. Those questions tended to be followed by disgust, then hatred, then violence that the battered criminal was in no state to defend himself from. He knew this had to be done—that wound was not going to stop bleeding on its own—but for all of his misfortunes, he now had to pray for a sliver of luck.

Kenta placed his hands over his bruised and torn body, and Ken kept his eyes firmly locked on the yakuza's, searching for any signs of treason. By some miracle, those eyes were still as gentle as when the night began. His hands, close as they were, didn't even graze Ken's now-burning skin. Instead, they hovered warily nearby. The way he was being treated by this man made him feel like a cracked porcelain vase that was a breeze away from becoming dust, and he would be indignant about it if he weren't feeling the same way.

And then, finally, words that he could understand. Kenta was... Calling him tenacious. Well, Ken supposed he had earned the title. The average Joe typically couldn't take a knife to the face and keep up a good fight. Still, it felt strange to have it acknowledged. He was used to being this strong simply out of obligation or survival. In order to be taken seriously, to reaffirm his own right to live, this was simply how he had to adapt. To call him tenacious felt like calling a weightlifter strong, or a runner fast. Of course they were. They had to be.

Still, he could feel the concern in every fiber of his friend's being. Those words said in a whisper, as though afraid to tempt fate by speaking them into existence, spoke more than they intended to Ken. Not wanting him to worry, he mustered the strength to put a hand on his arm, forcing a weary smile for his sake. "Would be kill if no, yes?" he attempted a joke, proper pronunciation proving even harder through gritted teeth. "Thank you very much for help. You are good friend. Very sorry for my problems."

Yeah, his problems. He wasn't sure yet—he would need to wait until morning for reality to fully sink in—but he had the sneaking suspicion that the consequences of smacking Nishitani with a bat were going to be the least of their concerns in the days to come. He was getting that same prickling feeling that he had felt when he first made contact with Red ATL.

They were in over their heads. He just didn't know yet how far from the surface they were sinking.