Heart of Darkness [Solo/Open]

[wasaki]

[[OOC: I had spoken to Orias about doing this awhile back. Mostly it’s because I’ve an overactive imagination and roleplaying or fanfictioning in this case, helps me sort out a few things after the day is over. To be fair I’m only going to be doing one or two posts a day. If any staff has an issue with it please pm me and I'll happily answer to any questions.]]

The streets buzzed with life. He wasn’t really sure where he’d taken the bus route to, but all around him the glitz and glamour of the rich and famous caught the oddly dulled sunlight on glossy surfaces. People doused in feathers and latex smushing together on a single sidewalk while casting furtive smiles at each other.

Like people with secrets, they shared moments of intimate connection. Even on the bus complete strangers looked at counterparts with a brief flicker of familiarity in their eye before averting their gaze in that way that humans do to avoid creating too much of a link with others of their kind. Only the bronze skinned foreigner seated in the darkest, dingiest seat remained completely impervious to the infection that plagued these people. He met no one’s gaze, his head only bobbing in time to the beats pumped angrily into his soul. Lyrics about glock’s and eagles filtered filth into his mind as blood pulsed at the rims of his emotion filled gaze—how long had he been running now?

I’m not running. he told himself weakly. Rap’s trance on him faded for a moment and the outside world dripped into his circle of awareness in unwelcome waves. A hiss from outside told him that the bus had just made a stop and without bothering to ask anyone where in the hell he was, Wasaki bolted to his feet and was out the door before anyone coughed at his abrupt departure. Of course assuming that they’d taken notice was quite possibly assuming far too much. The moment he stepped outside, the smog, taint, and grease covered him like it did everyone else.

Las Vegas, Nevada.

-FISSS! CLUMP!-

Just like that the bus was gone leaving the bewildered child only enough time to stare forlornly at his former sanctuary. Silence didn’t last long. Within seconds Wasaki found his essence completely swallowed into the big city din never to be found again beneath the layers of commerce, pleasure seeking, greed motivated antics of the gambling capital’s denizens. Sniffing at the strong scent stroking his olfactory senses he quickly dissolved into the mix allowing the tide of humanity to carry him past casinos, restaurants, streets, and signs that he had no idea what they said. All of this, he observed from his slowly simmering vantage point. The black venom on his tongue burning his innards with a readiness that implied if he didn’t cut loose soon he’d be eaten from the inside out. Cut loose in what way? Nothing came to mind at the moment and he wasn’t the sort that liked to wander too much.

Sweat made for a successful adhesive, bringing his skin and the light polyester jersey he rocked together in an almost utopia-like harmony. His jeans shorts protected him from the harsh sunlight beating down on his thighs, but from the knee down was entirely different story; an uncomfortable one at that. While contemplating things to pack next time he decided to scurry away from Shibusen unaided and unrequested by any officials he was tossed to the ground without warning, only managing to catch himself on his hands by sheer quickness of reflex. Gritting his teeth to stave of the river of curses baying freely splash into the airwaves he barely caught a flicker of gnarled shoe sole past the bangs which so proudly hung over his brow now. It was safe to say that another point of irritation was his hairdo now—it was so…general. Lackluster, unoriginal, hackneyed, uninspired, un…him.

Everything about his domesticated hairstyle irked him, but in that he found small joy. Anger was among the highest in his hierarchy of favorite sensations; it cleared the senses to do what he loved most. Fight.

“Hey!” he bellowed. Power striding through the crowd, he shoved and pushed with an authority that said he owned something important, something that people picked up on in the same way that children sniff out when mommy’s on the verge of reddening their bottoms if they asked one more question out of place. “Hey get back here!” The target of his screaming only half turned and gave him the most playful grin a body could give a complete stranger. Had not the situation been what it was Wasaki might have even called it inviting.

He would crush that…boy?

In his lust for petty revenge he hadn’t gleaned much other than those sparkling dusty brown eyes and the mirthful smirk riding on the lips of his assailant; he hadn’t exactly done a gender check in the sweeping seconds following his second call. Not that it mattered. Cracking his knuckles audibly his picked up the pace feeling relaxed in this harried mode. He was always in a state of malicious intent as thrill seeking wasn’t just about the adrenaline—he sought weightlessness of power after pummeling another human being into a mere sack of flesh that did what you wanted, when you wanted. People all looked the same once their faces were bashed into enough times, that was his philosophy. That was why he was smiling as he bullishly mowed down those unfortunate enough to get in his way.

Maybe today was going to be a good day.

[wasaki]

There was a certain flair that dark alleys possessed that almost gave them a life of their own. Some were bleak, some had a sinister aura about them while still others possessed the sort of ethereal miasma that made even the possibility of a bulbous headed friendly ghost greeting you with the most cordial of voices was not an oddity. The mortar and brick walls leading into blackness was…intriguing.

Cheshire cat like smiles beamed from the shadows as he entered in. The sound of his swaggering steps having their own unprecedented ripples as life suddenly stirred to a rush; few people in Vegas bothered coming to such a hostile environment. It was beneath housing humanity, but Wasaki didn’t mind the substandard conditions. Rats scurried from the already fading rays of light as he ventured forth. He didn’t have to wait long to find the prey he sought for. “Good. I thought I was going to have to chase you for at least another fifteen minutes.” he jested. His outline against the light of the day behind him was blotted out in amorphous night in front of him. The boy/girl’s lithe form leaning against one crumbling side of the crumbling lane was only noticeable thanks to the whitewash colored teeth glowing from their mouth.

“I didn’t think I was worth chasin’, stranger”

Wasaki’s grin widened as he balled up his fists. Music poured out in unsanitary waves from the headphones resting on his neck, yet there was a different beat that his body had already tuned itself to. All the perfunctory rituals to a fight had already been fulfilled. The hunt followed by witty banter—all that was left for the pair to dance the unchanging skip to the noise of walloped flesh and breaking bones. Here we go. Confidence eddying through like a cold glass of water through his body and his body leaned forward in anticipation when he became aware that his own shadow had company on the floor at his feet. He’d been duped and this had been a set up all along.

“We got us a real cowboy here,” the girl/boy said to the arrival while tossing his/her head saucily on the way of passing Wasaki. He felt ice-cold in his veins and damned proud of it too. Ten, a thousand, he didn’t give a horse’s patoot how many people showed up to help this effeminately masculine individual from the beating that was coming to them. “Oh yea? Well ain’t that cute boys?” asked a gruff voice thick with years of impoverished hunger and self loathing strife.

That unwavering confidence felt a little less supportive as five to six more shadows joined the first one on the ground next to his. He could no longer make out his own silhouette on the ground and he wasn’t about to turn around to see exactly how many thugs had come to have a party at his expense. Oddly he didn’t feel anything. Not anger, fear, or even curiosity about how things were going to turn out. He’d lost a fight before so there wasn’t any mystery there and fear had never been something he willingly embraced when dealing with the mundane so…that only left anger. Even that sensation had deserted him.

“He got any money, Tess?” spoke the alpha. It was obvious from the way that particular fellow’s shadow managed to distinguish itself from the others in an intangible way against the concrete floor. He should run. He knew it, yet his mind continued to disagree with the shame in his heart that he even entertained such a thought. I really hope this a gang of midgets, he thought as he slowly turned around to face the numerous adversaries that had come to make sport of him.

Lady Fortuna smothered him in her warm bosom. Not one of the combatants standing at the entrance of the alley were over the height of four feet; midgets. “Haha!” he howled triumphantly, “Ya gotta be kidding me. You? You guys wanna fight me? Ha!” Now he was back in his element.

Already dancing from tiptoe to tiptoe his malicious slavering likened him to a wild beast turned loose in a jungle amongst a population of deer—after the longest period of starvation that any animal could be put through. The only problem was…the prey weren’t quaking in fear as per the usual flow of things.

One stumpy fellow looked to another and quick perception brought his attention to the rather thick arms of his vertically challenged foes. “You…you touched in the head, kid?” asked Mr. Gruff, his voice raspier than sandpaper against an armadillo’s back. “We gon kill ya. Ya hear? Kill. Ya”

“Since when do I have to be afraid of toddlers?” he asked heroically, teeth twinkling as he annunciated each syllable. Showtime. With that clever little exchange, the deluded child lunged forward into a sprint and before the head midget could rustle up an actual answer he was already upon them with a foot planted firmly in the ground and the beginnings of a strong right hook aiming to crack the first skull that was unlucky to have a crash course meeting with his fist.

[wasaki]

Overwhelming silence mocked his miscalculation as the minute specter of a man, a bearded freak with the worst sort of snaggle-toothed grin happily gazed up at the messy haired Shibusen runaway from his low-gravity vantage point. His forceful punch had missed its mark—by several inches.

“Yar! Get ‘im boys!” cheered the fun size version of Hagrid the giant as he too, threw himself headlong into the exposed midsection of Wasaki effectively flooring the unprepared victim of the small time mugging group who had frequently been dubbed the ‘Short Stacks’. Struggle as he might, the leader of the three foot tall warriors straddled him perfectly with beady eyes that shone with the sort of hunger that made hyenas so dangerous to any animal that was remotely injured. The first waves of panic shattered the veneer of indignant defiance as Wasaki found his hands being stepped on by two others who stared down at him with equal hostility. Squirming under the eyes of so many he was reminded of the various water bugs indigenous to his homeland during the rainy season. A trivial thought really, but one he felt sympathy for in the face of a beat down like nothing he’d experienced before. “Not so tough now, huh? Too bad, I thought ya were a fighter. Been lookin’ for a good ole fashion corale!” hooted the apparent victor in the struggle.

Heat snaked its way from his chest before coiling around his neck until he felt suffocated with the anger that roared in untendered flames within his breast. “Bastard…” he growled through his teeth. Cords threaded their way down both forearms making for a spectacle for the rest of the gang of dwarves that watched the scene with assured side long glances and snickers at the futility of the prey’s anger. No way…they really are dwarves…in that case… Not the brightest tool in the carpenter’s repertoire, Wasaki rarely had moments of sheer brilliance and even fewer thanks to the fact that he’d just so happened to break a habit and indulge in reading some lore.

“Look! There’s a mine that hasn’t been touched by the hands of humans!” he shouted at the top of his lungs and looked back in the direction he’d come in the one way enter, one way leave alleyway. A bead of embarrassed sweat rolled down the side of his cheek since he couldn’t help the foolishness that he’d just tried; there was no way in hell that would work on these people. They hardened criminals, men and women bent on attaining power with the crudest methods imaginable. To think that they’d be duped by a simply white lie was unfathomable…

“Ooooh boy! Y’all see it?” yipped the leader,

“Been too long!”

“Git-git Oh-right~’

“Where she blows?!”

…and so on and so forth.

One by one the little people sounded off in excitement until Wasaki was hopeful that he might actually be able to break free on such a silly lie. It was almost too good to be true. “Omigod, you guys and goddamned dirt. He’s obviously playing you. In you’re in the middle of the casino capital of the world—there are no friggin’ mines here. God…” Tess snorted derisively from where she stood, a slim figure of boyishly handsome looks while managing to remain feminine all in one go. Perhaps a cavity check on that one might be in order to settle the matter—Wasaki wasn’t certain having the name Tess really marked her/him a boy or girl. Of course that was the least of his problems as suddenly a loud ringing followed by blinding pain radiated along his cheekbone and vibrated up through his cerebral cortex before flooding his nervous system with an indescribable array that was only tabulated as a single, wordless shriek to the heavens.

“YEEEEOOOOOOWWWWWWAAAAAA!”

Wanting to cradle his wounded face in one hand he tried to budge, but found himself stopped quite effectively by the half pints troopers and the boss was looking quite mean—and red in the face. Under his breath the trapped Wasaki cursed Tess for being so keen. It wasn’t fair that he had to contend with numbers and smarts when he possessed neither, “This gon be a long day for you sunny. Let’s just hope that you make it longer than most do. Usually round the twentieth punch or so people start pissing themselves, kukukuku”

Having nothing more than his contempt to keep him going, the fiery young thug raised on streets far more hostile, in his opinion, than those of Las Vegas, he spat in the face of his hairy chinned oppressor and struggled for all he was worth before being head butted with a rather unusually solid forehead. Dwarves, he had forgotten, had quite a unique skeletal structure whether they were medieval creatures of old or the modern gangsters sporting bandanas and sagging pants; the fat, shorty hadn’t been lying. This was going to be a long day for him.

Damn, Damn, DAMN!!

[wasaki]

When his eyes opened again, a cold midnight invasion had taken place in the sky. The fiery hues of midday heat and the churning, overactive clouds sweeping with sentinel purpose from east to west had ceased in the stead of chilled wisps of water vapor hardly fit to be called clouds. An enviable sort of relief churned up through the clouded mirror of his sensation, but Wasaki, always full of pride immediately rebuked the inborn instinct to be relieved at his own survival. To him, there had never been any doubt that he would weather the savage pummeling dealt out by the slightly Irish, slightly barbaric dwarven menace that he’d managed to run into on his first day on the streets of Vegas. He was Wasaki Tafari, the man would surpass all.

Vindicated temporarily from the bated waves of shame looming on the peripheral of his thoughts he sucked in a single breath before attempting to at least sit himself up in that dark, shrouded alley. Rather than oxygen fire filled his chest before slowly spreading in slow, agonizing waves into his arms, legs, head—even down to the roots of his hair follicles were singed by the inferno of hurt that stayed its course in racking his body. Had he the strength he would have screamed though given his current condition the only noise emitted from the soundless contortion of his seemingly screaming lips was a whimper.

Like a goddamned wounded puppy.

Back home, dingoes, more commonly known as ‘street wolves’ were usually on display in the most grotesque scenes imaginable. Most simply averted their eyes from the atrocities of poverty, but Wasaki was a thinker. He would stare long and hard, so long that people would sometimes pass a wary glance in his direction as they wondered if he was touched in the head. Nothing so meek as madness could take someone as awesome as him, no, he was burning the image of a dying dog into his mind so as never to forget the path that he was avoiding no matter where his walk to greatness took him. In its own right it was a dream.

Now that dream was over. “Guh…tch, shhhhhhhit!” he hissed in cross-eyed anguish. So deep in his own suffering was the foreigner that he hadn’t taken notice of braid-haired man with glasses coolly observing him from the entrance of the alley. A suave aura surrounded the man which was propagated by his finely pressed suit and the array of rings flashing brightly as they caught even the faintest strains of illumination in the cloak of night. How long had the man been there? He would answer long enough. Something had drawn him to the sight of a broken body left in the alleyway when it was obvious that the person was still alive; Vegas had not completely fallen to the underworld. There was no reason, no one should have helped.

Of course what did he care? He was a small-time yakuza boss simply looking for his next pitbull in an upcoming event. No mere wounded child, probably deserving of the beating he received, was going to keep his interests for long. That’s what he’d told himself at the lighting of the first cigarette. Four burnt out butts and a numbness in the lips later he realized that what had drawn him to the alley was not the abysmal showing of human callousness on the part of the city’s denizen’s nor even how wild the life could be in ‘Sin City’ rather he had been beckoned to by the unrefined resoluteness exhibited in his study. Yes…that was it.

“You’re going to die out here if you’re that weak you know…” commented the unnamed observer as his fifth butt fizzled out in the small deposit of burnt out ash and tar at his crocodile skinned shoes. “Why…it’s hard to imagine what a runt like you was even doing in an alleyway by yourself—isn’t your mother or father looking for you?”

It wasn’t an inquiry of concern, Rikimaru, as the man would soon be revealed as, was simply attempting to confirm his suspicions. A ridiculous notion had wormed its way into his thoughts and no matter how many rational thoughts he barricaded his thoughts with, the idea kept inking its way through to somehow present itself at the forefront of his thoughts. Jamming his hands in his pockets he let the shadows do their job, playing with complexion of his skin in order to create the image of a feral gang boss looking down on a child, but by the time he was looking directly down on Wasaki he could tell that there wasn’t a hint of fear in the lad. Boldly staring up at his adversary Wassaki felt something wild tighten around his heart and primitive power coursed through his veins as all thoughts of infirmities flew from mind, “Mom? Dad? Fuck you, Miss Daisy. I’m here cuz I wanna be here. No other reason.”

Maybe I’m not crazy after all… Rin thought as his smile offered the only response he could manage to the overt defiance of a young warrior’s spirit.

[wasaki]

The standoff hadn’t been worthy of much story telling afterwards. Thanks to his abundance of woes and hurts the little delinquent from the gnarly streets of Africa succumbed like a normal person should under the duress of his situation. Into the dredges of his subconscious he fell, tumbling into an abyss warped by childlike fantasy while tempered by the strife he’d witnessed in his journey from the unruly jungle to the cutthroat pavement. All for his ultimate goal…

…

Well that was what youth was for. To venture out into the world and find his own niche—not a niche of course because of his anarchist approach to all things authority, but perhaps simply find the right…beat. That sentiment sounded fitting while he lay lifelessly, barely aware of the shifting weight of his boy as he tossed and turned. The vault of his mind entertained him with a great many things. Sights that he hadn’t realized he’d seen, fears he refused to acknowledge and more abstract thoughts—some more discernible than others; nekkid women ran rampant in his unrestrained visions. Of course he thought he was dying so the decency of his shameless curiousity hardly mattered...at least that was the case until that theory was irrefutably negated by the fact that he awoke in a warm bed with a cover tossed lovingly over his lithe form. An aroma drew his attention the steaming cup, but the shuffling sound of cotton slippers on linoleum drew out from beneath the comforter faster than a rat skimping from the scene of a recent kitchen heist.

“No, no. You mustn’t get up yet,” said the dogged old woman who appeared unimpressively at the door. Garbed in soft off-whites she gave Wasaki a sort of crinkly smile as she approached him. Not the most threatening entry a body could find in Las Vegas—of course the cheap, barely functioning neon sign outside the window gave enough of the seedy inner city feeling that seemed bereft in this terrible senior home enactment. “Now let ole Greta finish tending to those boo-boos” the kindly maiden asked once at his side. He sniffed dismissively while making himself fully aware of the fact that his body was shrink wrapped in bandages where he’d sustained a considerable number of injuries—of course he wouldn’t let her know that he knew. Greta placed a bowl of still steaming water on the table next to the cup of warm, alluring something. From her pocket a cloth of equal pastel colored passivity was birthed and dipped into the liquid aqua before being waved in a shaky old person grip towards Wasaki.

“Don’t get so comfortable putting your hands on me!” Wasaki spat while slapping the friendly hand away room and putting space between himself and the old hag. Back against he mirror he exhibited none of the usual signs of gratitude that usually came with having ones injuries treated instead he returned Greta’s bewildered gawking with a dark, smoldering scowl that seemed to have been pressed into his facial tissue from the day he’d been conceived.

“I usually don’t make it a point to beat up the old and weak,” he commented with a mummy wrapped fist held up just enough to make his meaning clear, “Then again, never tried it. Might be fun.” That comment was followed by a wolfish grin the stank of ill intention, but the animosity in the room was quickly cut through by one man’s voice.

“Now, now. That’s no way to thank your saviors.”

To say it had been cut through might be misleading so rather it was transferred from one person to another as Rikimaru, the gangster from the street waltzed in with another carcinogenic stick hanging from his lips. Behind his bifocal lenses lay serene eyes, the sort of eyes a man had when he knew he was packing heat; what kind of gangster would he be if he wasn’t?

“You….”

“Yea, that’s right. I’m the guy from before. The man who saved your life.” the indiscriminate criminal leader goaded, again those eyes flashing with cool complacency, but there was a glimmer of lethality that suggested the entire too-refined-for violence routine was as cheap as the pastel colored brassier Greta was wearing—he wasn’t a very rich thug. Of course none of this was brought up in the following respone from Wasaki who’s lack of wit and general crippled sense of parley resulted in:

“Oh, no, I was gonna say I hope you aren’t naked under that robe…would be kinda weird…kinky, but weird.”

“….”

“….”

Well played, well played.

[wasaki]

Silence engulfed the room. The plaid colored bed covering in the combination kitchen-bedroom area grew vaster with in the uncomfortable quietness. Red pawed superciliously at the wrinkled cheeks of the Greta Pinkley, Rikichiki Rikimaru’s long time friend and assistant. Neither she nor the mobster himself had words to counter Wasaki’s…astute observation, but never being one to allow another control of any situation the underworld lordling casually drew inhaled the black tar-filled comfort of his smoke before allowing his eyes to roll open once again. Falling on the young stray with a more serious light.

“*Ahem*, as I was saying, the reason you were brought here…” Riki continued, power lavished gratuitously in each syllable, he was quite the orator in the right scenario. A feisty little kid that needed to be put in his place was hardly outside his field of expertise—he was the head of a powerful yakuza syndicate right here in Sin City.

“…and then there’s those weird little chocolates I’ve seen on commercials…” the guest interjected a little more of his authentic brand of detective like attention to detail.

“…because I think I’ve got a proposition that you and I could both benefit from—if you’re willing to listen…”

“…the bottle of lotion is what makes me really suspicious though. Just what did you intend on doing with that much lotion, an old hag, and walking around a hotel room half dressed?”

“Oh well…actually m’dear, the lotion is mine. A girl’s gotta get her amusement somewhere…” chimed Miss Pinkley leaving both Wasaki and Riki pale, open mouthed and glistening as if they’d just seen a wraith. “What? I’m a woman too!” she harrumphed indignantly before turning her back to the boys. Riki having been around the temperamental maid for a long time motioned for Wasaki to follow him into the connecting room in order to escape what was inexplicably going to be an awkward situation for all. “…you know, you two are just like every other m—hey! Wait!”

Alas, the outburst was a moment too late and before the spry nymphomaniac could throw herself kicking and screaming against the door Riki had locked it—with no small amount of relief on his face as he dropped right beside Wasaki; yet again the male gender had prospered over another feminine menace. “Look, I brought you here because you want to fight. I need someone to fight for me.” Riki said abruptly, gripping the frayed and filthy jersey collar of the startled lad, “It’s crazy, but I have a feeling that you’re not just some brat on the streets…you’re different. It’s in your eyes.”

Wasaki allowed what his strange new acquaintance said sink in for a moment before swatting the hand away from his clothing and scrambling to his feet. For the moment his expression was unreadable, but the over emphasized straightness of his back, the way in which his nostrils flared almost angrily, and the half open glaze all suggested that Riki’s words had reached him. Pleased with himself, the fuzzy pink robe wearing man rose to his feet and reached for the inner pocket of his… “Damn.”

On cue a familiar voice slid through the tiny chasms of the room door which barricaded Miss Pinkley from the other two, “♥Oh, Riki-chan♥” Greta called and the green laminated head of a case of ‘Kool’ cigarettes showed itself under the door. Wasaki did what he did best in such situations—nothing. It wasn’t his prerogative if this was some odd foreplay that the two usually indulged when he wasn’t around; he wasn’t sure he’d stick around much longer. Of course all thoughts of this particular recourse were tossed to the wayside as a transformation came over the usually overconfident Riki, he was more sallow in complexion and a crazed smile came over him. He’d seen this reaction before; Riki was addicted to smokes.

“Hey, hey, wait a minute. Don’t do anything—” Wasaki started, but the door was already flung open and in flew the old person missile that he knew would be coming.

“Think you can lock me away, eh?!”

“N-n-n-no, wait! I’m not with him!” Wasaki pleaded, but it was to no avail. Things thudded and crashed, wall adornments shorn from their welding as tables were sent splintering against all forms of objects. Needless to say the first night with Riki and the old hag were one of the most lively he’d ever experienced…but somehow it felt a little like home.

[wasaki]

Standing alone in the middle of the hardwood floor, Wasaki felt alone for miles. All around him the ratty gym sighed forlornly with old age, years of drinking of sorrowful rain had made its beams swollen and rotted. The ceiling which was held up by these beams was no better with its cat sized holes suggesting that there might have been ‘free-loading’ four legged tenets making rounds above their head. Of all the amenities the strange gym offered its tranquility was what qualified it for the title which it held and it was this reason that Wasaki held his peace as he stood erect in the middle of the grounds. It had been shut down some years ago though men with influence managed to make use of it when they were making their many illegitimate deals or simply needed a hideout while things were hot.

Being popular was not a good thing in the underworld.

“Alright then! Ya ready?!”

Opening his eyes slowly, the determined youth dressed in a tattered karate uniform with a dingy white belt coiling about his waste with the tenacity of a drunken snake. Taking in the source of the voice Wasaki immediately wished he was drunk as he shot an angry glare towards the somberly smoking Riki; he couldn’t protest the training methods, that had been one of the conditions of the deal he’d come to. Still, this is ridiculous. he thought as he only took in the spandex strapped Miss Greta Pinkley with sidelong glances. Weirder than anyone he’d ever met the gray haired darling was plump around the waist and her ‘fun bags’ had long since ceased being fun. In short, she was definitely not a woman he desired to see in tights—not even while he was training. “First lesson,” she dragged on while wearing one of her eye shutting smiles. There was always the question whether those wrinkles could really support the gratuitous amounts of skin modifies that the woman lavished applied each morning, but after the lotion incident Wasaki had decided it was best to simply avoid learning anymore about the eccentric senior than he had to.

“All you have to do is get past my umbrella.”

So that’s what that’s about… A devious smirk turned the dark skinned trainee into wolf in—well wolf’s skin. However handsome he’d come out to be, none of his manly charms lent themselves to wooing the opposite sex until their tongues rolled like useless slugs in their mouths; he’d seen it happen before and didn’t find it flattering. Cracking his knuckles audibly he gave a searching look to Riki who was shaking his head with a knowing smile that made him feel uneasy for a moment before the default disposition of blind self confidence had him feeling warm again. She was just an old hag and he was a fighter in his prime—no competition.

“Okay. One, two, th—”

“Think fast!”

Before the count was finished he was taking long strides towards the unprepared old woman. It helped that the wood wasn’t polished so slipping wasn’t really a hazard not to mention it had been a long time since he’d let his muscles stretch out. Guilt flickered into form within the myriad of emotions that splashed amorphously across his mind’s eyes, but as quickly as it had come it was sent packing. Hard wood groaned beneath each thunderous step and he was feeling like a giant. Skidding to a stop before shifting his body weight to the side he threw an undisciplined hook, wide and unsightly, completely amateur level, but he knew he made it look good.

Until he realized that he was on his back staring up at the lights. “Huh?”

The slow drum roll of a dangerous rhythm worked its way into his mind. Slow to rise, his chin felt as if it’d nearly been unhinged, but casting a wary look to see if perhaps Riki had hired some hands to ‘spice’ up the training yielded nothing. Only Miss Pinkly stood swinging that stupid polka dotted pink umbrella in a tight circle with only her finger; she hadn’t budged from the spot she’d first introduced herself. He must of have slipped. Probably hit his chin on the way down. How that made sense to him when he had come to on his back was beyond the conventional man’s comprehension, but Wasaki was serious now. His face tight with vengeance and his body had already worked it’s own beat to counter the primal thudding that had put a decent layer of sweat on his skin—he just had to get back into the mix. Flicking a nostril with his thumb he danced lightly on the balls of his feet, circling to Miss Pinkley’s backside, yet she still didn’t move.

It was pissing him off.

“You gonna fight or not?!” he spat.

His response was of the sternest sort. All he could make out before being sent sailing into the back wall were a few pink polka dots rushing to meet him as if he were their pinstriped cousin coming over for a holiday dinner; the embrace was most ground shaking. “Ugh…”

“Yep. He failed. Should’ve expected that from a street rat.” Riki chimed in from his corner of the room. He’d taken the time to make himself comfortable by laying out on his side so he could catch a good view of the whooping that had just been put on his prized stallion.

As if she too were expecting a defeat in such gross fashion Miss Pinkley nodded quietly offering only a lone, “Yea…” , before bouncing towards the girl’s lavatory.

Only Wasaki, from where he had been buried into the wall, was completely at a loss for what the two adults were talking about.

[wasaki]

Seiko “Quiet Tiger” Namikawa

What the hell…” Wasaki muttered suspiciously. His brows arched with the sort of disdain that could only be found in the impetuous youth of today.

The target with the misfortune of bearing the flagrant bitterness of the ‘prized pup’s’ tongue was extraordinarily mundane looking fellow. Horn rimmed glasses sat comfortably on the bridge of his nose as it had for years since that fateful, yet notably uneventful trip to the optometrist. As if taking great care not to ruin the already reserved sense of individualism that stocky, white collar man of clearly Japanese decent wore that tweed felt jacket like black spandex even as his pants toppled over the lip of his well worn leather shoes. Not to say he was drabby in appearance, but Mr. Mizaki certainly did not strike the tone of fear within Wasaki’s heart the way in which Rikichi had suggested the man might. Still quietly fuming over the whooping in which the old hag had put on him but two days ago he jeered at her where she stood pleasantly smiling back with an adoration that was more suited for a devout child than the latest delinquent obsession of her dearest Riki-chan.

Speaking of which the dark, tall, and handsome chain smoker whose own eyewear had more stylish tastes to it had slipped into the room unnoticed until the smell of ash had become so prominent that all eyes were drawn to the direction of its origin. Correction: Riki had gone unnoticed to only Wasaki. By now sweet, old Missus Pinkley had a sixth sense about when the underworld upstart would show up and Mizaki…well let’s just say there is very little in the world that escaped the notice of the supposed ‘last samurai’ of this era, “Alright, so this is Mister Namikawa.” Riki said as he bowed quiet respectfully towards the geeky stone still figure of a man. Wasaki’s frozen gaze narrowed until it was only a hairsbreadth short of outright hatred.

No one deferred to him like that. “Today what he’s going to sh—”

“We don’t have time to waste, let’s just cut the crap and lemme paint the walls with his blood.” Wasaki cut in hungrily. Anger and volatility smoldered in his eyes, but a certain hunger borne from excitement sent his heart aflutter—not that anyone could see it. Or perhaps Namikawa did see it or sense it for before Riki could angle a questioning glance the man’s way the jacket and the underlying pressed shirt had already been discarded on the floor. Forgotten on the dusty, brown boards of the low-budget dojo that Riki had rented out. Observing the instructor in silence a moment Riki nodded affirming something, but what that might have been completely escaped Wasaki whose focus was only the chiseled upper body of Seiko Namikawa’s physique. Startled for longer than he would dare to admit later he took in the deeply inlaid lines of muscles. Like works of a god, each muscle crafted to utter perfection before weaving itself in a rugged, natural, yet beautiful manner into the next. And that was just in one arm. Even more impressive was the back of this Spartan cut out of a man, but by now Wasaki had regained his usual charm, “Hooo, looks like the kaffka is a rat too.” he insulted cryptically. Sometimes he loved being a foreigner, it made first exchanges so interesting.

However curious the apparent professional was none of it showed on his face. He was a Zen master. The air around barely moved as his eyes remained shut for the moment and his lips opened only slightly to take in the bare minimum of the oxygen within the space around him. For a moment…Wasaki was envious of that sort of control, that sort of peace.

“Now then. My specialty is Kempo…um…first—would you like a massage?” Seiko asked genially. Not exactly the first words you expected to hear from someone who had been described as a demon in a worker drone’s form…but…it wasn’t often that someone readily offered you a massage without anything for the asking.

So……

“Ah…that feels great.” cooed the ebullient student. A large part of Japanese culture being restraint and control at all times, it’s sometimes lost how important the relaxation plays into the spirit of these strong willed people. Whatever the deal was, Wasaki was simply happy he’d accepted the foot massage, back, massage, and deep tissue massage which was all done with surprising skill and expertise. Hell, he remembered purring one or two times. Once that small matter was finished the pair was once again facing one another with Seiko looking down at his latest student with a blank expression, but there was a hint of addled excitement in his own eyes. At least it had a been a flicker before the man mastered himself once again, in the process removing all traces of his own desires from the sight of any onlookers.
“The first thing you should know about Kempo is that it’s really not an art itself. It’s nothing more than basic kicks and punches—strikes that you otherwise know already, but with more…power”

Here Wasaki leaned forward despite himself. The mention of the ‘p’ word always worked in gaining his attention. It was what he craved, what he would and must have. If it was addiction to lusting for it was a sin then he’d burn in hell for all eternity for even a taste of it, “The second thing are the two concepts of Kempo and it’s basic philosophy. Kempo is unarmed fighting with the mindset that you’re always fighting someone armed with a weapon and using lethal force. Do you know what that means?”

“Yea, means you betta get a weapon of your own” Wasaki answered blandly. His arms folded in a stalwart sign of just how unconvinced he was about this whole Kempo ideaology. Seiko smiled warmly as a parent might a child as he continued on, brushing aside the jabbing remarks instead indulging in the exhilaration of the moment to come. You see, he too was a junkie to this ravenous beast called power. In some ways he shamefully admitted that it consumed him. “Ha, no. What it means is that there is no restraint in this sort of fight. Followers of any Kempo school do not know what it means to spar. Every fight is a life-or-death struggle that you must overcome, however killing is not required.”

Taking a few steps back Namikawa motioned for Wasaki to remained where he stood. Carefully the martial artist measured out four paces before stopping and continuing his lesson, “Now with that belief there are two fundamental concepts…”

Before the words had even had time to settle amongst the dust the a breeze blew Wasaki’s hair back as he, himself took an involuntary step back from the kick that had thwacked the air several feet in front of him though still managing to impress its force upon him from a distance. “‘Sei’ is the form of attack. It is offense; it is controlled and measured out. It means ‘control’ and we came up with this word from the sound ‘zhi’ we make when striking.” Seiko said in a deadly serious tone. His leg remained unfurled at full length, a thing of beauty which struck awe into the eyes of someone such as Wasaki—somehow he knew he was inferior to this…whatever it was. “When initiating an attack, one must always remain in control lest you find your energies are wasted and fruitless because your will is not honed into fine point which you can strike with.” Seiko continued and for the first time Wasaki docilely nodded his head in agreement, eyes wide in stark mollification as the war god before him lowered his foot. One blow could easily had crushed his skull… This guy…he’s not normal at all. I guess I knew that though. Damn, that worm-head… he thought quietly, fear threatened to drag him into its maw until a felt a reassuring hand clap down on his shoulder.

“Now you try.” Seiko urged softly.

Calm and focused once again. Wasaki gathered what little of the movement he had seen in the kick into a single motion, held that in his mind, and took a breath before whipping his own leg with all his might into an invisible enemy. It felt weak. His blow held none of the power Seiko’s did and the room did not dance nervously when he kicked; he failed. “That wasn’t bad, I th—” Seiko started to say, but Wasaki had already walled any other distractions from his mind. Kicking furiously he kicked once more, then twice, pouring more of his soul into each strike.

“Zhi! Zhi! Zhi!”

Each small cry gave birth to the release of something that had been damned up in him. None of them touched Seiko’s earth moving roundhouse kick, but within himself Wasaki felt as if his spirit was sharpening. Not enough, still not enough. The thought plagued him even after night fell and he was the only one sweating in the middle of the humid gym floor, furiously kicking long after his muscles had grown raw from fatigue and general soreness. Veins bulged from beneath the plastered bangs of hair, yet he paid his body no mind as he pushed forth stubbornly hoping to match the feat of greatness which he had seen that day.

Seiko Namikawa was the real Mckoy.

[wasaki]

Another hellishly painful pinprick threatened to draw tears from his ducts, but being too proud to weep in front of women Wasaki smiled widely—too widely for comfort—as Greta Pinkley wheeled around to with a furrowed brow. Her expression wasn’t quite distraught, but it definitely had hints of worry or confusion. It dawned on him for perhaps the fifth time in as many seconds that allowing an eccentric old woman practice acupuncture on him for her very first try; that was of course excluding the old hag’s collection of beheaded teddy bears—a detail she claimed was normal given their conditions as inanimate objects.

Madness had far too many subtleties for Shibusen to keep up with.

“Oi, oi…” Wasaki interrupted his acu…punturist?—he might actually have to do that reading thing again to see if that’s what they were called. In any case while already steeped from face to approximately the knee with a pin cushion’s worth of acupuncture needles the young trainee was wary of moving too much for fear of making the frighteningly sharp pricks quiver more than they did with each breath. Each dauntingly tense breath. “…if you don’t know what you’re doing then don’t stick anymore of those things in me.”

As usual Miss Pinkley ignored him in the most irritatingly senile manner possible. Rather than calmly remaining unresponsive to his demand like every other person she simply began to hum to the tune of Lion King’s ‘Hakuna Matata’. Disney be damned for putting out those fuzzily cute felines and their carefree issues—not worrying was not an option in his situation! Wriggling his fingers in a last ditch effort to perhaps wiggle the protrusions from his flesh out, the sounds of old style shingles were heard and it was this, not Wasaki’s worried expression or his uncomfortable grunts each time she stabbed him, that turned the bulbous nosed improv therapist around completely. “Now, now dearie” she chided with such sweetness before patting his cheek. Heat burned at the back of his cornea and his thoughts were immediately of the last time he watched a television. ‘Superman’, a western hero with extraordinary gifts was in a position where he had no means to traverse the required space in the miniscule amount of time given to him. Cleverly the alien crusader had a handy trick under his sleeve: heat vision.

That image stayed with him throughout all his travels and it was what he was thinking about when Miss Pinkley flicked the node jutting out from his cheek making him his eye twitch involuntarily—which in turn pulled on his pinky finger, but he had no control over that either. “You were imagining burning me up with heat vision again, weren’t you?” the devious witch asked acidly, but Wasaki grimaced before offering up his most innocent smile.

“No way…I learned my less—Ack!”

“You’re not a very good liar” Greta said after casually flicking another needle, this time by his shoulderblade. The ‘Roadmap to the Human Infrastructure’ suggested that this would make the boy’s mouth numb for awhile—something she believed would no doubt make her work that much easier. Of course when she looked at Wasaki and his soul was drifting overhead, she immediately leaped to grab it thus knocking down the table which she had kept her infernal torture devices, err, medicinal equipment she would call them. Quite literally having been brought back from the maw of death Wasaki shivered in his stark nakedness—at least the nakedness that existed beyond the cloak of needles that rested peaceably in the wee inches of his epidermis. “Phew…that wasn’t so bad now was it?”

The human body being what it was, the bulb of saline perspiration, the lone droplet of escaping water that rolled down the pock mocked, ridged forehead of Miss Pinkley was not caustic of any temperature extremities. No, her cheeks were steeped with a flushed pink because she knew the lie as well as her patient did. At least her nerves were functioning properly enough for her to feel shame about; Wasaki’s eyes simply pleaded to her from where he lay. Two orbs filled with such suffering that a human with a soul would twinge uncomfortably staring fully into them.

“I think I’ll just go…bye!

Noooooooooooooooooooo! Wasaki cried in his mind. Rather his entire being unified in harmony to protest being deserted in such a state, but there was little else he could do on the matter except consign himself to caving in the demented grandma’s head the first chance he got. Preferably when she wasn’t able to quite easily kick his ass as she had the last time, his lower jaw still clicked whenever he opened it to eat or talk, I hate old people so much. SO DAMN MUCH. Overcome with black hatred for the elder generation of his species he lay motionless, staring up at the ceiling in half hearted attempts at the concentration exercises that Miss Namikawa had shown him. They were supposed to sync body and mind in order to further alleviate the dissonance that existed between the mind, body, and soul. Laying uncomfortably on the hard plastic cot of a bed he’d been placed on Wasaki thought on how he’d even gotten to this point, whether it was simply fate, but more importantly why didn’t he simply take off when he got the chance? Surely he didn’t trust Riki, Miss Pinkley, and despite his awe of Seiko Namikawa, he wasn’t sold on the man either.

He trusted no one here…yet he remained. Training when Riki scheduled for Namikawa to come in and work with him. For that matter he hadn’t even thought to question why he was being trained?

As was the case with him, his head began to ache when too much contemplation occurred and as prickly as he was already there was little point, in his mind, to agitate the situation further. Expelling a single calming breath into the air above him, he allowed peace to enter his mind like liquid. Cold to the touch at first he smarted defiantly in the first few minutes, but it wasn’t long before his arms and legs were jelly and were hardly even sending signals of hurt up his spine. Another trick Seiko had taught him. Not that he enjoyed taking someone else’s advice, but the man was smart and everything he taught seemed to have purpose. Wasaki was stronger than when he’d come, that much was for certain. The room wavered and blackened as he descended into the folds of REM sleep. Ever so peacefully he drifted.

A dying person would have been jealous of his tranquility.

[wasaki]

As the hulking silhouette stepped in through the doorway Wasaki looked up sorely from his morning stretches. He loathed how hastily he’d taken to Seiko’s training, but there had been results in the two months of arduous laboring and ferocious beat-downs in the name of becoming stronger. Not matter how demure a character Seiko Namikawa was, the fact remained that those fists might well have been incarnations of a vengeful god. The healing knots of flesh housed beneath Wasaki’s hair spoke to such a thing.

Of course the man that walked into the dusty dojo was not Seiko Namikawa and worse yet Rikimaru, the yakuza boss who had taken Wasaki off the streets of Las Vegas, was with him. The latter actually had a languid arm stretched over the shoulders of the shirtless…Asian? Wasaki was never good with identifying the origins of his instructors and that didn’t improve when the people under scrutiny seemed like weirdoes. Rather than addressing whatever half-baked scheme his landlord had cooked up this time the boy silently and determinedly tugged further on his hamstring until he felt the delightful strain that came with a successfully loosened muscle. Among the many things he’d learned a bit of, the functioning of his body and it’s natural flow were things that ‘warriors’ as Seiko liked to call them paid attention to on a daily basis. Not that Wasaki had any intention of adhering to such a worn-out ideology, but the title had it’s share of flair—a fact not lost upon the furtively relenting pupil. Peace was another bonus to stretching. The world was never so quiet or less bothersome as when you were simply in-tune with your body’s, paying ever close attention to the slightest pull here or the tension slipping out from that area. That in itself was…relaxing.

“Right. So Seiko had to return to the hosipital. In Japan. And for the time being I’ve hired a few people I know of around the US since bringing in Mister Namikawa was pretty expensive. That being said…yea, this is your trainer. Sanae Kikuta.”

So much for peace and quiet.

Exhaling slowly as he released his left leg Wasaki remained seated to buy extra time. A wave of fury was being battled in those moments, but it wasn’t long before the chocolate skinned lad had managed to fight down any impulses that wouldn’t serve his ultimate purpose. He hadn’t grown docile, simply reticent to expressing rash behavior without any forethought—courtesy of Namikawa’s ‘see it, then do it’ philosophy. Nevermind the whole thing being vexing at first, but it had proven well in bouts with the man…however much the end result was still the same at the end of the second-long brawls. Dust rose with him. Clinging to his tattered off-white uniform that consisted of a sleeveless top whose sleeve-ends looked as if they’d been shorn off with the dullest of blades. His pants weren’t much better and the only thing that seemed to retain any modicum of freshness of the obi, a sort of sash, which he wore with pride. Wasaki actually enjoyed the rather rough look, his muscles jutting out in hard lines as he spun easily on one foot. His body had slowly shed the useless fat in his days of malnutrition and merciless training regiments. Of course these were conditions imposed by himself; he firmly believed that if he could overcome a situation that no one else could or would then he would become stronger.

His voice was level and his expression flat as he locked eyes with Riki, “This guy doesn’t look like much. You sure he’s strong enough?” he asked bluntly. Riki flinched while Sanai, at least that’s what Wasaki remembered the man’s name being, smoldered in silent fury. However burned up he felt about the slight the large man offered a haughty smile before cracking his thumbs and interjecting where Riki thought to add a placating jest to ease the tension. “Me no lose to punk like you.” the man said with a confidence that seemed unfamiliar. In truth Sanae Kikuta was a very reclusive fellow lacking in confidence and ultimately lacking innate fighting skill, but what he lost in those categories he made up with shrewdness that caught most of the more physically gifted fighters he’d come across off guard.

The time for feigned pleasantries had ended. Soft thuds and a few small neatly formed circles of dust gave credence to where Wasaki’s feet had fallen; his strides had become so lithe that he hardly spent any time with his feet on the ground. For all intents and purposes he’d learned to ‘float like a butterfly’. Riki only had time to leap a step to the side before the evilly grinning Wasaki’s uppercutting fist smashed into Sanae’s chin with brutal force. A dull sound resonated through the rotted walls of the dojo as the force dispersed into the surrounding area. This guy’s nothing compared to Seiko… a sure Wasaki thought to himself. So sure he’d been of his instant victory that when his back slammed hard against the unpolished floor making him cough both from the grime as well as the force that he’d been taken down with, it took a few moments for him to realize that he had never actually made contact with Sanae. The entire strike had been an illusion.

Suddenly those brutish shoulders loomed over him and the slant eyed teacher examined his quarry not with the passively educative regard that a teach held for a student, but instead there was a animalistic savagery, a joy for having finally caught fresh that game that was within his level of ability to devour. Sparing only a second to let out a gasp Wasaki raised his arms up in a petty attempt to defend himself as meteors pelted him into a smear on the ground.

[wasaki]

“So now you hit man like dis! KA-CHAAA!!” Sanae shouted his demonstration as he mocked pounded Riki into the ground. Being a ground specialist was all well and good, but Wasaki was having trouble getting over how much…contact was involved in the ‘ground n’ pound’. Not to discredit the fighting style—he had been a victim of it’s dominance only a few days gone—but when one man was straddling on top of another…it was different for him.

“You pay attention?” the foreigner asked sharply, eyes gleaming with malicious intent in the event that Wasaki was daydreaming. Which he wasn’t. Maybe. “Yea, yea I’m listening. So this…half-guard and full-guard stuff are positions you use to hold your opponent down. Full is better than half and the key to both is control of the legs. Got it.” Wasaki muttered. Sighing he let his head drop between his legs as disbelief made him wonder how he’d managed to lose so completely after all his progress with Seiko. It was really pissing him off that everyone seemed to be his superior.

“Now you try.”

“I don’t wanna…”

“Grrrr….KA-CHAAA!!”

Another lump in Wasaki’s head and he was soon straddling Sanae as the man had been doing to Riki. Coincidentally the braid-haired thug was taking pictures with a cheap, one-use Polaroid camera…for logistical purpose, or so he claimed. Blackmail went by a good many names when you worked outside of the boundaries of the law. In one quick flurry of movement Wasaki was upended and tossed onto his back only to be covered up before he could managed to orient himself with what had taken place in the span of a second and some change; he’d lost the advantage to Sanae once again. “Keep you hips down and always squeeze leg—like so!” Another demonstration and another bruise would have to be nursed tonight. Wasaki clenched his teeth, more to bite off the stream of curses that hastened to his tongue than to keep from yelling out. Peering with death in his eyes he instinctively wrapped both hands around the thick neck of his superior, jerking it forward with all his might while bucking his hips upward. It was a maneuver that essentially created a see-saw effect. While the head is pulled down to the ground, the lower portion, the axis of the body is tossed into the air causing the person to go flopping helplessly onto their back unless they knew what they were doing.

Experience however, was a cruel mistress that sought to whip, shackle, and break Wasaki before letting him lay in bed with her.

The moment he drove with all his lower body strength upward, Sanae had already dismounted and scuttled, yes, scuttled so that he was positioned not on top of Wasaki, but behind him and his hands were now wrapped around the boy's exposed neck. Sensing danger, Wasaki was quick to press a single forearm in front of his throat before the noose was tightened and ultimately sealing his fate by way of ‘Rear Naked Choke Hold’. Spluttering in an effort just to keep his airway open, the boy’s eyes flitted from one direction to the next; measuring out any surfaces he could use to escape this trap. Behind him he felt Sanae’s chest rumble with mirth. This particular choke had little to do with actual physical ability instead focusing upon the anatomy of the human body; it was a death trap that evoked correctly could very easily put a thrashing bear to sleep as gently as a baby. “You do well,” Sanae gushed, “ but I still masta”

Damn him…with that dumb accent…tap out? Go to sleep? Dammit all…

Going for broke the desperate youth flung his legs up with a grunt, feeling as his body slipped down in the process, he then used the slight moment of surprise to drive home a hammering right knee into his captor’s face sending his body mass into a single point as Seiko had taught him. The strike had been barely enough to send the big brute flopping onto his back with his hands clenching his nose while Wasaki heaved hungrily for the moldy air of the dojo. Both lay panting on the ground after their brief exchange while Riki stirred from what had seemed a very peaceful nap—Wasaki made a mental note to box that coward’s ears in later on. “Ah, I should stopped you guys an hour ago. Hmmm. Sorry I guess. Time’s up. Time for Wasaki to get some sleep.”

Wasaki only stared incredulously. They had been going at it for an hour? Two days ago he hadn’t believed he could’ve lasted more than five minutes with Sanae Kikuta—especially when he was on the ground. M-man…I’m gettin’ better. a voice whispered to him as he dragged himself to his feet with nothing more than a weary glance in the direction of silently stewing Sanae. The man’s ego was hurt; he had been expecting Wasaki to tap out as early as five minutes too. As smug as he felt, exhaustion kept a tight rein on the number of actions that he performed, the bed his only objective.