Den-Den Town, Strutting Around, and Would You Look At These Losers
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He was stricken with the familiarity of a different sort of gokudo, the sort who sashayed in pink and flaunted superiority before his tattooed brethren, citing lines from Korean soaps in lieu of urgent business. Isamu, per usual, was endlessly amused as he found Tomoe, but also grateful for his company—there was nothing like a bit of well-organized ruckus to get him grasping at nostalgia again, and though he reveled in the bliss of the lights and the sounds and the spectacle as if they were a novelty, as if he could reach out and catch ticker tape like fallen sakura petals, he feared becoming forever trapped in this haze, to be blindsided by this youthful aura. From the kitsune, he knew vignettes of doubt sprouting amongst the clansmen; said loyalty could only hold up for so long 'til the memory started dwindling and indecision took hold. How they wouldn't hesitate to devise a new order if the opportunity permitted. Yet, he looked to the mikoshi for solace. He saw the men united by garment and cause, so relentless in their support and spirit. Such a sight, fundoshi excluded, made him swell with pride.
The godfather lay a hand on his adviser's shoulder, signaling an end to the submissive greeting. The same hand lightly whapped the saiko komon against the back of his head. Good-natured abuse, that was. "C'mon, kiddo, look around you. Can't have you miss what's right in front of us." All in jest, of course: His words, playfully phrased, brimmed with levity, rolled R's, and Kansai-ben; his expression, furrowed at the brow, turned wry. "Knew you wouldn't miss a chance to dress pretty for the boys. The get-up's good, very geisha of you. And speaking of boys..."
What did they have here? A victim of harem seduction, no doubt. Isamu forewent spoken introductions for a curious, stranger-on-the-subway glare and a cocked head, measuring up Tomoe's confidant like he would approach a red ogre with a spiked club. He sniffed, not too subtly, at the dampened scent that wafted from the lad. Drifting from era to era had granted him with many an acquaintance, most inhuman in nature, and after a moment's contemplation, tengu, long of nose and wet of feather, seemed like a reasonably educated guess. He knew these fellas. Carried chips on their shoulders and used 'em for weaponry, if the Terajima brood was anything to go by. The mere thought of them creased his lips into a smile, small fangs revealed, and his inviting look to the man relieved any tension surrounding them—or heightened it. To call the glint in his eye devilish was understating and offensive in its tiredness. Either way, he felt rather silly afterward.
"Pleasure, truly. We're the yakuza, and I see ya've met our pin-up girl," he said, tossing an arm round the adviser's shoulders, voice raised over the cacophony. "Like what we've done with the place?"
Delightful as this was, something was afoot. Prompted by the humming in his pocket, he fished out his smartphone, and after a spot of elderly struggling with the touch screen, he found an alarm—not to mention a message from a friend who, confined to the beaches of Hawaii, insulted him with the utmost sincerity—warning them of events to come. Indeed, the mikoshi's sudden vanishing would cause quite a panic were one not to notice its quickening pace as it appeared to break away from the festival troupes. The yakuza supporting it gave out one last chant before detouring from the common path, and the oyabun, though relieved that plans had not yet gone astray, did not take this as a sign to rest.
He faced the both of them, gestured curtly, and began to pursue the pheonix house: "You two—walk with me."
That shit was an order.
After a reprieve, they moved with haste, and with knowledge of the Alpha driving forward motion, they reigned upon Shirogane like lightning of Raijin. But this was a quiet storm: hidden from view, lowly poised, the juveniles went swiftly with high ardor, trotting in the shadows of their more experienced comrades, going, going, going still. It was remarkable—what had seemed to be a suicide mission had now shifted into a display of tact and espionage; Osaka didn't cry of their attendance, but turned a blind eye, rather, settled into oblivion of the task at hand. The Dogs were not enemies. They did not wage war against the dancing folk, and they did not initiate shouting contests with the performers. They were one amongst the denizens, to laugh and to weep beside them, to throw caution to the wind and drink their sorrows away.
But they were aware, and they ran. Unseen, they cut across the way of the shrine lawn, hugging its perimeter, hiding in the greenery. Although the stairway to the honden was a death trap, there was always a workaround. The mikoshi drew ever closer, and as it approached, the Beta would hear salvation from the earpiece: twenty soldiers, fifteen of which were kamikaze, were at her disposal, and one appeared before her to confirm the situation. It was Itoi, a commandeering kappa in human guise.
"From the Alpha!" he claimed, breathless, to Kaori and Hayato, bowing before them as he revealed a small amulet. Crafted from vile magic, it would resemble the pheonix-shaped piece that adorned the Queller's neck. "If she is to reach the sanctuary before us, we can still get to her. With enough persistence, the barrier will be drained." The dragon was dead, after all.
He resisted the urge to question the source of her wounds. The contrived scheme, he inferred, was taking its toll on their leader. Apprehensiveness kept him obedient, but he would surely bolt on instruction. Itoi added: "We had minor difficulty with grouping everyone. The rival factions are everywhere. Please forgive us, Beta."