Isamu's Story

---

Arashiyama District, Kyoto, January 8, Day of Osaka Fuku Ryu Matsuri
♫

This was to be a season of no deaths—quite a lofty goal, that, but it was foretold in Paradise; it was proclaimed. Thus the blue dragon, after a bout of drinking at the midnight hour with a gaggle of women giggling at his every misstep, died rather hilariously and fucked all the shit up.

The gods laughed 'til they cried. Then they ran around for a bit. This was no laughing matter, they realized. Their faces were a collective of hysterics, of dire reaction shots from daytime television.

Lanternfish found the blue dragon at the outskirts of the bamboo forest, his corpse milling about the banks of Ōi River like a classy beached whale. Rather, Lanternfish found Mr. Aoi in human form, all nine hundred and ninety nine years of fire-breathing wisdom and pallor mortis, and by the position the man lay in, he seemed ready for a lifelong catnap. No trace of injury tainted his features. He lay outstretched, hands firmly clasped together, face contented and oddly smug. Nothing too unconventional, mind. The lizard was prone to lounging in any place he saw fit, and those who encountered him were treated to a grand ol' time. He'd been a stylish soul with street savoir faire. And now he was gone.

But the little goldfish was not fazed at first, merely intrigued. You could even call it giddy. Who would initially assume the man to have passed anyhow? Lantern, gliding through the air on pure logic, had smiled—no, remained joyously blank-faced when the dragon came into view, and his scales glimmered, illuminating the wooded pathway. It danced a dance of the sea, a sort of ghetto jitterbug. Mr. Aoi always had such tales to tell, such threads to weave. Tonight would be no different, Lanternfish reasoned. Tonight would be good.

Tonight would not be good. The fish wailed, which is to say its expression remained indifferent as it shed a single tear. What would the community of myths say? Oh, they would be so terribly bemused. They had been secluded, it and Aoi, for so long, yet now would be the moment to venture down, way, way, down, guided by rail lines and pure intuition, to play the role of the messenger.

Roughly the size of a small child, Lanternfish nonetheless had the heart and will of daikaiju. If it had braved the span of oceans, if it had defied the terrible black colossi of the ocean, then it could make this trip.

It was time to venture. To the Demon Queller—to Osaka!

Osaka, Up and Down and All Around
♫

The bōryokudan came to town. Tides got a little stronger, the water a little warmer.

Osaka didn't acknowledge them at first, no sir. Best to shut the blinds to such villainy. Uncharacteristically quiet, the denizens rose with sheepish steps, jolted awake only by the thrum of the monorail. Architecture sang the blues; fresh watercolor facades had dulled overnight, made pale and rash and uncouth by the inhabitants that resided within. If the people would not speak beyond humble greetings, then the graffiti and the power line birds would speak for them. Even the sun itself appeared wrapped up in hesitance, yet the spirits knew better. Time was grey for just a moment. This would pass, they assured, like an awkward silence at a family supper.

Then pulsed the faraway beat of a taiko drum and, following it, an impromptu jam session on an untuned baby grand, a few found objects on the concrete and the high score medley on an arcade machine. Elsewhere, footfalls struck the ground to a perfect time signature. Who they are carried or where they were headed was not important for now. Go 'head, Speed Racer.

The bōryokudan came to town, and the city stirred in their wake as if summoned to liveliness, to draw anticipated breaths and to brew black coffee for the long haul. Dawn colored the highways like red carpets rolled out for exorbitant automobiles and the brutes at the wheels. Children and wives were hidden from their wrath, lest they be snatched up and left as prey. Strange to think that Osaka had hushed for an interval when polished loafers hit the pavement, then the people quickly let out a roar to fill that weakened space. They would challenge the violence groups, ninkyo dantai, or whatever they referred to themselves nowadays; they would yell as loudly as their slangified dialect would allow, and they would stomp and hoot and howl like the beasts they sought to best. Or they would remain collected, polite. "Mokkari-makka?" was the way, even if this meant one was asking if the other made any money, rather than something daft like inquiring for a name. What good was a name compared to the yen?

Seen to any wandering eye, the bōryokudan came to the Business Park. Reflections from the office windows caught the sheen of cufflinks. So many black suits, so many like minds. The skyscraper floors were stormed with hierarchy: from the bottom, lesser hands slaved away at banquet dishes to sate the men who idled above. They would talk for now, crack jokes and flash teeth until the superiors arrived. It was a nice prelude to madness.

Isamu, Sixth Chairman of the Terajima Clan, Father of the Damned and all-around swell fellow arrived with his queen of a wife, Makoto, on his arm. From the second the odd soldier took note of their presence in the lobby, the gathering tower was set a-flurry with submissiveness. Deep bows, lowered heads, and extended hands graced the pair, to which they replied with handshakes and hurried steps. "No more of that Godfather shit," they'd always say, but they would fall trap to the gestures every time. Multiple appearances did little to squander the novelty of seeing the two together: whereas she was regal in nature, slight and short-bobbed, with a killer set of eyebrows to boot, he seemed mismatched beside her, towering over her, so unlike the dapper beast of yesteryear in spite of his considered dress. The others would not see them bicker as they entered the elevator alone. In the old days, such occurrences had a fair chance of ending in heated, melodramatic acts of love, but a forceful slap on the wrist was all the oyabun received. As the doors slid open, the others, too, would not see him burst into a deep fit of laughter, or see a glimpse of an unwanted smile creasing upon her lips. When they strode across the length of the conference room, their expressions were grimly set.

To the left, twelve representatives of Kyubei-kai, a stoic amalgam of counselors, accountants, and enforcers, were poised upon their hands and knees before the exotic matriarch seated at the end. To the right, an equal amount of Terajima returned the favor. The Chairman and the Demon Queller acknowledged them all, and it was only when the trio of leaders were settled did the yakuza dare to be seated.

Make no mistake—no one wanted to be here. The Kyubei mother, the patriarch, and the ane-san appeared as enthusiastic as modern children at mass. But this bullshit, this hours-long truce needed to be endured. At least there would be rice cakes afterward.

"We need to neuter the Dogs," it was unanimously declared, and there would be much fist-slamming if these mobsters were not so quaint. "They smell."

From there, the lines were redrawn: Minami, the south, with Dotonbori district and others accounted for, would forever be swathed with the scent of Kyubei; Umeda, in the north, was firmly Terajima, with no exceptions. The eastern and western burbs were not as claimed, and they were ripe with opportunity for both parties. Whomever sought them was up in the air, but it was known that the Wild Dogs were rapidly infesting owned property. And that was no good.

So it went. Family rivalry would be thrown to the wayside for the welcoming of Fuku Ryu—temporarily, at least. A crash through the conference doors, however, sounded a different kind of animal after all had dispersed. One might have noted the swift flash of scales blazing down the hallway, yet only the oyabun and the Demon Queller would bear witness to the death of the Lanternfish, who, with its last words, delivered the fate of old Mr. Aoi.

Den-Den Town, Minami, Osaka Fuku Ryu Matsuri

That night, in the blustery cold, the parade would go for miles up the way, past the technicolor signs and the neon advertisements. Crowd records were shattered this year; by a general headcount, the number of attendees was dizzying, and the energy wafting through the air was infectious, electric. You could feel the spirits thrive. They had never been more jovial, prancing among the humans who so dearly wished to see them partake in the festival. Footfalls struck the ground to a perfect time signature. Who they carried or where they were headed remained known to the shadows. A horned being reared its head, took in the sights, ducked away to obscurity.

The Dogs, heeding the message of their Alpha, knew what they must do. To fail would result in a horrible fate, and anything other than success was not an option.

But, for now, all was good. All was calm. It would be mere moments before everything came alive.

[Missions have been posted! Make your famiry proud!]

Osaka, a Funky Town if you ask Him, at the Festival's Outskirts

Most prominent were the lights, in that they were the most numerous and most blinding. They dotted the surroundings like petrified fireflies, suspended and trapped in colorful and swinging lamps; big fireflies, overfed for the sole purpose of being meagerly more useful to a superior race. He would not be surprised if this was exactly so, as it was the way of the mortal. Make everything useful, everything will be useful but oneself. Allowing the reddened, filtered rays to trickle down their surfaces were the stalls with their prettily printed notices, the paper and plastic toys drooping from the awnings, the people tending to them, and the increasingly bustling visitors caught in webs of giddy intrigue. It was different from his lands of red clay and towering temples, from his river markets and species of fruits and smiles. He was occasionally greeted by faces whiter in complexion than he's used to, and teeth that did not fare as well in pureness of shade. Whether their demure blushes were painted on or merely hickies from the cold, he did not know. Sahen would make expressions in exchange each time, thinly, as if he had business of importance somewhere distractingly nearby, but not close enough in proximity that he had time to spare for the likes of you with the rice bead eyes.

Of course, he did have business, of a sort. His business was frivolous entertainment, to be seized and attained rather than encouragingly provided via beseeching, wrinkled hands or hollering little voices. Neither was he to be distracted by the ones that bristled his invisible feathers: the ones that walked with human silhouettes but glanced at him with jutting walrus fangs and gestured rudely with spindly multi-joints when they took note of his steady sideglance. Perhaps what most soured his mood was the fact that he did not care for falsely golden-haired girls chattering away on miniscule machinations while holding hands with their not-quite-husbands, who would in turn be preoccupied sparing a queer eye for another's female's "accidental" cleavage. Youth. Though he enjoyed the shedding of overhanging trees. That was a nice touch, he thought, wondering if someone very rich paid some monkeys to leap from branch to branch every other romantic moment. Once Sahen realized he was idling, however, he arose like a newly trampled patch of grass, fiddling with the collar of his blue happi (decorated with prancing and preening peacocks) and straightening his clownishly vast sleeves (littered with golden lettering at the very edges) as his ivory pipe sagged from lazy lips. He was situated at an arch--its crimson arms-for-columns was embraced by yellow and pink tinsel, and it was topped with what he considered to be a golden hat--well away from all the fun and games within, away from the exploding pigments staining a black sky. He dared to budge from his designated spot, just a little, but did not actually act on the urge. He would be consumed quickly by the ones he currently watched, the ones meandering right on by in their clopping wooden shoes, and this would not be good because he had a date.

---

Earlier in Osaka, but in particular, beside a Quivering Corpse.

Few things fazed the steel-eyed Makoto ane-san, and the sight of fleeing life was not one of them. A woman simply did not marry a man prone to whaling clubs and decimating nose bones without any sort of emotional preparation for the gore, the splatters and the unseemly crunching. This body she crinkled her kimono by, however, had no visible protrusions or weeping wounds. Perhaps that was the more disturbing than much of her dire encounters, outside the news the glittering little one had brought. Like impatiently drumming fingers, its left fin flicked and flickered one final, feeble time before it was still. Makoto could feel frowns pouring against the back of her neck as she reached out to touch its scales. "Your diligence would be rewarded, dear one," she said sweeping her hand over its bulbous and frightened eye. "Be well."

There was a pause before she faced her husband, let alone return to his extended elbow hoop, rising from her crouch as if smoothing out a paper airplane. Flowery words finished, the Demon Queller cleared her throat quietly--an assurance that nothing was too terribly amiss. Nothing beyond her control. Yet internally, where none would see but her frequent and yearly friends, concern dotted her forehead, and her teeth brushed and chewed numerous times against her lip. It was nothing short of distressing that the Fuku Ryu Dragon is no longer among them, unable to attend the festivities as he always did, and no immediate solution came to mind. It was not merely grief or mourning that clawed at her gut, but an Oyabun's wife was not to show weakness at any time.

Earlier in Osaka, Business Park, Beside a Still Corpse and a Good Wife
♪

Before divine words blessed the golden messenger, the Chairman looked into the eyes of the Lanternfish, and its fear was his fear, its pain enough to break his stance. Isamu distanced himself from Makoto for an interval, and they were no longer arm in arm.

Stop being such a husband, he thought, and swallow the growl that gnaws at your throat. Play the kid with his first kanabo and swing recklessly like a punk at the batting cages, throw them for a loop, kill 'em with kindness. He had a fervor about him during the gathering that altered the authoritative air of the room, had him laughing in the face of the oppressive clan or grimly determined with timed practice. Surprise was his weapon, the stoic, silver gaze with which he wielded it. Those more unacquainted with the oyabun would not deny his strange power, but they would be unwise to dismiss his antics as age gradually consumed him. The man was seldom less than a beast: Even the tight, immaculate finish of a Windsor knot—which, even after years of coupling, ane-san still had a hand in assisting with, lest the tie be carelessly tossed over his shoulder—was nothing more than a leash round the neck of the ogre in tailored clothing, and as absurd as this appeared, you'd call this a warning sign more than some depraved joke.

In the midst of this, she was duly trained in the corners of his eyes. More so than the Kyubei, than the quiet danger of the Iron Mistress, she was the cause of the crease in his brow. She would catch subtle glimpses, small shifts in his countenance. Such was the same when the Lanternfish arrived, only to promptly die at their feet. Disturbances, should they affect her, were promptly hushed. He had turned away, on edge in spite of cordial greetings and feigned smiles, facing the spotless windows to watch the world below. Ghosts of history lingered in those streets, not with a literal sense of grandeur, but in implied signals and in reminders of battles gone by, battles without honor or humanity or obvious victors when the world was painted red. Uncertainty masked his reflection; he could not imitate her composure. Yet, what was a moment of vulnerability every once in a while? Nothing, he reasoned, as long as only she bore witness, then it might as well have never happened at all.

"Aoi-san brought the best gifts," the oyabun murmured, not with remorse, but with humor reserved for casual conversation. He glanced skyward, as if trying to seek deities hidden among the clouds. "They're after me, omae. Dragon snuffs it and the kids are too damn eager. I'd call off the thing if I could, for your sake. "

Breaking away from her moment of silence, Makoto observed her husband with crinkled eyes. "Oh, you can be a worrywart," chided the mob wife from under steepled hands, though it was left unknown whether the words were meant for him or herself. Still, she had a smile strapped around her ears and short-lived laughs to spare, gathering Isamu's lined fingers in her own as she exhaled a contented hum. There were no more words to be offered, for none were necessary. They were one, after all, for the past thirty years.

How cynical of him. How old. Was he not the strutting fool from moments ago? He smiled as if to correct himself, facing her on a spun heel. A kiss planted upon her forehead—for that was rather spouse-like, and he loved her so—was his assurance to her that he would mope no longer. A party awaited, bloodshed be damned.

Den-Den Town, Fuku Ryu Matsuri, Finding and Believing
♪

The gods, to put it hiply, were trolling the attendants. Ten minutes past the predetermined time and no float had reared its head. Those most in tune with their spiritual core might have caught the celestial merriment traveling upon the wind. But this, like what occurred in the hills of Arashiyama, was abruptly put to an end. Divine mirth turned to tears, and as a light rain misted the earth, Osakans sneered in impatience. How dare the elements rain on their parade!

There were some, however, who would later note further complications brewing in the crowd, boisterous statements that would quickly become whispered rumours. Where was the dragon? Would he be absent, forgoing all tradition? They pleaded in silence. Over the lulled city, Aoi was not seen soaring above. He was not seen at all. But, ah—a sound, a sound, journeying down the road. This was not the dragon of good fortune, but a single, spotlit boy, a catalyst of controlled chaos. Ticker tape fluttered across the sky, swirling about the sleeves of his yukata. Suzu bells chimed in his grasp, and the mist nearly consumed him whole as he progressed. Such an eerie commencing of the events drew anxious inhales from the stiffened onlookers. From the back alleys, exotic hands stirred from prolonged slumber, peeking round shadowed corners to gander at what was allegedly amiss. At the very least, the yokai had rarely been so pleased; those humans had no idea.

Rain turned to dew, unease to curiosity. The child emerged from the mist, not as a boy, but as a dapper kitsune. He leapt twice, thrice into the air, a businessman one moment, a tanuki the next. Pokoponpon went his palms on his tum. Fancy that.

As with heart pulsations signaling new life, steady drum beats announced the birth of a damned good time. In straw shoes came the marchers who either looked bored out of their minds or stricter than men of the military, the overly-enthused flag-wavers, the ornately-dressed dancers who mostly did their best to avoid eye-contact with any slavering audience members (and it was these ones that received great and abrupt interest from a certain avain deva). The beats of taiko drums hastened the journey of the parade, bade their way to slice like a blunted knife through perplexed Westerners, grinning retired folk, and excitable highschool students. Looking up, it seemed to be children charioteering the swaying bodies along—children that were small of form but tenacious of temperament, children that were strangely dark and furry, pounding their short limbs on their glowing stomachs. One spied what seemed to be a cousin down below in the company of an old maiden, and he paused to wave a stumpy claw before being chastised harshly by a nearby older sister.

The floats were, as usual, nothing short of irregular. Last year's depiction of a samurai battle was painted over with ghostly onyxes and pale shades, and the actors hired to stand among the unmoving life-sized figurines were nothing short of menacing when they decided to make warcries and budge about without warning. Gargantuan koi fish were erected seamlessly interwoven, tangoing with grace rivaling even the best Spain has to offer. Someone among the mass of bodies claimed to see a honking trunk and gleaming ivory tusks.

Were you mad to have caught the fair women shifting into shamisen-playing toads? Of course not; it was merely another night in Den-Den Town, where the spirits reveled in the bizarre. And would you look at that—there came the mikoshi, the palanquin supported by bōryokudan, all hues of red and gold and phoenix flame. What a strange predicament in a street of stranger happenings: here were the Terajima, adorned in blue and quite literally wearing the sixth regime on their sleeves, treading the grounds of Kyubei with a kami hoisted upon their shoulders. Their chants would be engrained into the mind for weeks to come. In any other scenario, such a thing would be read as an act of defiance, but this would be the sole exception to an unwritten rule. The kami that dwelled inside the miniature house was not a kami at all, but Makoto in her fashioned fabrics, who, after her graceful display to the public, would rather not share the space with the three yakuza that flashed their tattoos and wore nothing but fundoshi. No offense to them, really.

Somewhere, a Shinto priest saw this and died immediately of a heart attack.

Isamu looked onward, always one step ahead, always fixed on the mikoshi. He was one with the crowd, a grinning idiot, and were it not for the suit he donned, his presence would not have been regarded. Weakness still had him in a vice, but less so; his men were near, after all, waiting in the wings. He was getting this right.

Miles ahead, Shirogane was more stronghold than shrine: It was not visually apparent, but ethereal forces shielded the honden, which was further protected by a gate twelve feet in height, and its sacredness had ensured that no mere mortal could enter. The interior was barren, vast, and lowly lit, devoid of needless materials. It awaited the return of the kami, who would bear the small phoenix carving as a ritual offering. Around and about, two dozen priests and priestesses patrolled the grounds, sharp and at the ready. It was a matter of time.

Mere Blocks Away at the Butterfly, 4th Floor, 425, Nestled in a Cocoon of Doubt
♪

He was better off dead.

Although the sound and the fury of the festival brigade carried enough volume to stir kaiju from the depths, the room was devoid of celebratory radiance, yet a lonely shade of red permeated the curtained windows and crept over the figure that wished to remain lost within the dimness. The smoke of a cigarette, held between trembling lips, fogged his lenses. Fresh bruises lined his neck where the teeth had claimed him once more, leaving hickies over hickies and coloring his otherwise colorless skin. He seemed ill; those eyes were awful things, trapped in a state of perpetual fear. Heater'd gone out again—that was nice. Wasn't as if he could get any colder. And they hadn't bothered to take caution this time, resulting in blood spilt haphazardly across the sheets. She would end him, certainly, in due time, but this waiting game would resume for now, played out with untrained fingers across untuned keys.

A crack in the door. No restraints. All it took was one foot in front of the other. But it was not so simple, as he reminded himself in countless instances before. The sooner she would track him down with startling haste, the sooner he would rather put a gun in his mouth.

"Nobo-chan!" came the voice, and he rose with limbs flailing. Always so jovial, that girl. Florescent streaks washed over him from where she stood, and each entrance of hers was a novelty for Sawada, who blinked sheepishly through the glare to watch the girl who was far too alluring to stand by his side. The sight of her, though tempting, made him flinch, and he felt his wounds—and his wallet—burn.

She fell into his embrace. Lilac shampoo invaded his nostrils. He could've swallowed his cigarette. "Nobo-chan, we can't leave. Not tonight."

Noboyuki instantly broke away, his expression wrought with childlike perplexity. As the words hovered over him, alarm took hold, and sheer panic stiffened him in place. "They're gonna find us, Kiyo. We had it all planned out! We had this—" he snatched the briefcase from the bed, yellowed nails digging into the pleather "—sorted out for them, and you want us to sit here and wait to be butchered?"

He was monologing. That was his thing. They had it so made, had such good times while it lasted, and they were going to bail on the first train and vanish forever, and why did one gamble have to turn into another, and where did it go wrong, and how, and why did it hurt so much, and why was dying by their hands so much worse than dying by hers, and it was his fault, it was his fault, it was his fault.

He was on the floor now, crouched in a corner with his back turned to her. His hands went ripping at his hair. The briefcase went unattended.

He felt her arms comforting him. Slim fingers chilled the bruises on his neck, and she repeated his name over and over and over, whispering after a while, "There's a plan—there's always a plan."

Noboyuki ceased trembling as he did was he was told, and his mantra was declared again and again. He felt himself shifting into a being greater than himself, wild, strong, unpredictable.

"I just go back past all those weird things again till I'm home—that's it. ...I just go back past all those weird things..."

"The dragon is dead," came the whisper from Nin's pursed lips. What did this mean? She searched the eyes of Fate, trying to find an answer, but everything was too mixed up. An amalgamation of colours and sounds. This wasn't right. It wasn't. She saw the death of the lanternfish at the feet of Makoto and quailed. "Bad omens. Bad, bad omens." She'd forgotten Sachio's presence; she forgot the festival, the progression, the brewing war. She didn't think about others. Instead, she worried, How will this affect me? Hurt and harm, or business and glee. Something bad was going to happen tonight.

---

As the confused Tengu racked his memory for their earlier memories, Tomoe examined his nails boredly. They needed to be repainted. Perhaps a lighter pink this time. At the question, Tomoe couldn't help but chuckle. "Am I forgotten so easily, Amori-san?" he asked, tipping up his mask to reveal his face. He let the lady comment slide; it was common that he was mistake for a woman, and it had the potential to be hilarious if he could see how long he could drag out the mistake. "You'll have to stick to bars so I don't have to rescue you from the opium den again, if it affects your memory so." Tomoe had only seen the tengu take a drag before he was threatening other den-goers and doing strange karate moves.

Tomoe looked out to the festival with a sigh. Children played merrily, old couples walked serenly, and young couples dipped into giggling shadows for a quick grope and kiss. Tomoe looked into the sky and thought of the night full of promise. But as he shifted his feet, he felt the weight of his sleeves and frowned. He had a duty tonight.

He slipped the mask back over his face to conceal his eyes as they searched through the crowd. "Have you any plans for the night? There is much here to do." But just as he finished his sentence, the oyabun broke through the crowds. Startled, Tomoe pulled off his mask and held it at his side. "Isamu-sama," he greeted with a deep bow at the waist. "The parade has begun?"

Ah... human food, the delicacy of mice. He had little fondness for it, but held no unusual hatred--merely, it was that the portions were not filling, and the taste unremarkable. Still, he was far from disappointed that his companion, in her gently fervent way, lead him to a stand of mortally enticing scents (though he saw fit to tease her about it just a little). "Whatever you like," he said with flippant merriment in response to her gestures, surprisingly astute toward her (very obvious) indications. A meal, the way he understood it, provided ample excuse to be with someone without the effort of conjuring conversation about the (very nice) weather, and so Sahen saw no reason to turn down the notion. He did not refrain from making suggestions should she further hesitate to speak or flap her arms about, and he was particularly adamant about paying for the ordeal. Sahen had been very excited to finally figure out the inner workings of modern money (and gold) conversion, you see, and was no less than eager to take advantage of it. What was the loss of a few yen in exchange for a woman's meek grin?

---

The sprinkle of rain had delighted him, weak though it was; but Sahen was a good enough in the guise of a man to know that it was very few women who appreciated getting their hair (and food) wet. Laughing aloud, he'd tugged Shirayuki under a vague excuse of a shelter, before that using his arm as a makeshift umbrella for her pretty head. "Namtha ginnaree," he mused to himself, eying the endless ceiling with skepticism. "I wonder if they see me." Of course, even if "they" did decide to track his wingprints and spot him in the impressive crowd, he knew their being the cause of rain would be unlikely. Though the herds of swan women were unforgivingly jealous creatures, they did not shed tears at the slightest provocation, and they did not desperately stalk him in order to seethingly watch him attain new consorts.
*Tears of Ginnaree

They merely gossiped with great vigor.

In place of the pipe was currently a shrimp kabob, barely eaten even after the parade had begun and jutting from his mouth like a bare leg from a dark alleyway. Had he not had the stick pinched between his fingers, it would have fallen to the ground and become a grand shame, as well as too "dirty" to continue eating according to most mortals; for Sahen, indeed, had his breath stolen when the finely dressed women passed, swirling like fine china on an auction stand. He caught himself smiling, stopping lest he be asked what it was he found so amusing, and reluctantly averted his eyes. "Mae nang, puak nee man kongja mai..." he began, before changing his mind and swapping his mother tongue for a more limited palette of vocabulary, "What is it you are celebrating, I wonder? Would you tell me this?" Yes, remained certain in believing that she merely chose not to speak, and remained only minutely puzzled by her choice in silence. Beautiful women always had good reasons for doing things, and he's never doubted this in all his years. "It cannot be a rain dance--could it? Even my people don't have such beseeching skill. Amazing...!"

What eventually caught the bird's abrupt attention, tearing his thoughts from beautiful eyes and demure demeanors, was not the shapeshifters--grandly entertaining and cute though the furballs were, he had sensed non-human presences long before they were made known. The parade was littered with unnatural blood: it was blood that may not have been red, blood that has survived more than mortal years, blood that chose to prowl in both the dark and broad daylight. Even the dear woman beside him had a droplet held close and pulsating in her arms, though it was entirely possible she'd merely been bitten--or eaten the meat of monsters--rather than being a descendent of oddities... But there was something old here. Sahen took a stray step, hunching down at the shoulders as his flickering pupils studied the scene laid bare before him, searching, searching for the spirit that had scraped a coarse fingernail through his memory.

The monkey had been exhausted absolutely, reduced to crossed legs, hands clapping in prayer, and a stomach so small one could squeeze his waist with one fist. The monkey was as dutiful and loyal as one could ever expect a mystic servant to be, wasting all his strength and resources on fruitless ventures. Garuda would have felt ashamed, should he be inclined to compare himself to the once energetic and spry thing: that careless thing bounding on tree tops, that powerful thing hurling great boulders at giants, that tenacious thing who loved his missing master so dearly.
"Hanuman," greeted the Garuda with transparent pity, "I suppose you won't be headed out anytime soon?"
The monkey said nothing.
"Hanuman," repeated the Garuda with disgusted pity, "have you ever thought that maybe it's time to give up?"
The monkey said nothing, though he scratched at his protruding ribs. Plucking off some nuisance of a flea, perhaps.
"I know you enough to judge you, foolish beast. I know of your hate for losing, but I know of your love for freedom. Embrace this...! It might really be as they're all whispering, that Lord Rama is no longer--"
"Never." Breathed the monkey, before flying into a devouring rage that would dot the minds of clairvoyants around the turning globe. For how can one forget such staring, with maddened, reddened eyes so filled with tormented sadness, such howling with a heart thoroughly absent from his chest?

It was in the little house that he felt it, and the object resembled the angel shrines he knew so well. Inside was the old presence, visibly shaking Sahen for a moment, for it was so akin to the one, lone soul he respected. It could not be him. It could not be him. Wavering, Sahen held his head, observing instead one of the demons that dwelled abnormally close to the angel shrine before letting it pass by. It was not a big demon, though it exuded the radiance of a dignified giant with its fine, bulky clothes.

Giants? Dignified...? Sahen soundlessly scoffed, supposing he truly was tired from past hauntings. It was all very curious, but surely none of his business. Surely the only familiar face in this foreign land would be that of his reflection. Sahen convinced himself of this through joining elbows with his lovely accompanying maiden; his twisting, snaking hand grasping her affectionately by the wrist. He was like a monstrously tall child that could not be torn from its nanny, nipping at her fingers with his own as naturally as one would reach for air when submerged in a lake. He smiled all the while.

She might have snorted softly (not terribly ladylike of her), and might have rolled her eyes at him, but in the end her good humor won the day. With a small shrug, she procured some shrimp and a daifuku, handing him the former with a nod of thanks for footing the bill. Admittedly, she hadn’t fought the suggestion overmuch; she wasn’t exactly as well-off as she’d been in her childhood, and medical school did tend to drain one’s resources, scholarship or not.

They ambled for a while after that, mostly in silence, which was kind of nice. It was hard to recall the last time she’d been to this particular festival. She had hazy memories of these colors and smells, and of course this general area had been her home for most of her life, but… hers had not been a duration particularly disposed to stopping and smelling the roses- or the assorted grilled goods, for that matter. There was, though, a vague inclination that if she looked skyward, she would see something that made her feel at ease: a great blue shape high above, watching over them all. Perhaps it was simply a childhood fantasy, that there was some powerful being out there who would deign to look benevolently upon the figures on the ground, and yet…

She felt the rain before it began to fall. Such was one of her many useless talents, a vaguely prescient feeling about the weather, at least if precipitation was at all involved. This was a good thing, without a doubt- she had never been averse to the rain. At first it was tiny droplets, the kind that would fall and only dampen with great time, but gradually they coalesced into something more substantial, and she relished in the rush of relief that such things always brought with them, tilting her head skyward and welcoming the feel of moisture. Gravity was not quite enough to pull them from her, and they fell slowly only when she relinquished them, to patter on the earth quietly. Another silly, symptomatic something, but scarcely noticeable or important.

They were cut off by something, and Shirayuki opened her eyes to see her companion’s arm hovering over her head, a makeshift shield against that which would do her no harm. Sweet, but wholly unnecessary. Nevertheless, she allowed herself to be guided beneath a canopy, where only the occasional drop found its way to the ground. He said something she did not understand, followed by a question that made only a bit more sense. Shirayuki did not know who “they” were, but it did not seem of too much importance from the way he said it.

She might have even asked, for no other reason than to be polite, but the parade began in earnest now, and she watched with something between reverence and amusement at the procession meandered, marched, and shuffled by. Like his, her eyes found the dancers almost immediately. Her reason was of course entirely different, and a trace of longing flitted its way across her face before she settled into looking a little bit wistful. She was never hard to read, and did not play at stoicism, having learned long ago that it was a game she would never win. Still, at the same time as it saddened her to remember what she had lost, she still appreciated the grace and poise of the art, and so it made her happy, too.

The shapeshifters were always entertaining. It was not so unusual for most youkai to be able to do such things, but she, having only half that strength, was not. Any alterations that she underwent were entirely involuntary, and usually associated with situations most unpleasant.

Diverting her thoughts from that unfortunate tangent, she tried to think of how best to answer his question. It was still too loud, though, what with the music and the crowd, and she rubbed her throat ineffectually. She had thought of pointing to the sky, but since he already wondered if it had something to do with the weather, that probably wouldn’t work. Pursing her lips, she looked around, at last raising her hand to point at the painted likeness of a dragon, borne by several marchers and some distance in front of the mikoshi. Technically, she was unsure that this was even the right answer, but it had always seemed so to her. She supposed he would understand how literal she was being, since he had seemed not at all surprised to see children turning into foxes or women into toads.

Looking at him, though, she noted his fascination with the mikoshi itself and wondered. There was something going on here that she did not understand, and she watched it trail past them. Shirayuki wasn’t sure if the reason for such intentness was wistfulness, confusion, or something else, but it seemed to be important. She only became further convinced of this when his arm twined around hers- that was, in her experience at least, a comfort-seeking gesture. Perhaps it was misplaced for her to project the attitudes of family members and children onto someone else, but nevertheless it was what she was inclined to do, and so she did it, lacing her fingers through his and nudging her shoulder into his arm with characteristic affectionate indulgence.

She tilted her head in the direction the mikoshi had gone, towards the Shirogane Shrine. If it was important to him, they would just have to go see.





Tsubasa blinked a couple times, not initially rising to the bait the weird lady presented. She removed that mask she was wearing, and he was struck again with the sort of vague familiarity you have for the clerks at some store you visit maybe once a week.

"You'll have to stick to bars so I don't have to rescue you from the opium den again, if it affects your memory so."

For a second, he was pretty sure she’d just made that shit up, but then it all clicked into place, and he narrowed his eyes. “Bastard had it coming,” he replied a little too quickly, flinching internally when he felt the heat on his face and very well-aware that he was turning that slightly-red color he took on rather frequently. The tengu huffed impatiently and decided now was not a good time to stick around and have the conversation. In fact, he was pretty sure never would be the best time for it.

He only sort of remembered exactly what had happened in the opium den. Some guy he was working for at the time had mentioned it in passing as a rather good place to find the shady kind of folks who would hire a guy like him to muscle around like an idiot, and since that was basically the only thing anyone would hire him for, he’d decided to pay a visit. Well. When in Rome… Opium hadn’t been anything like tobacco, really, and he had this feeling that he’d overdone it. He vaguely recalled some fool picking a fight with him, which his drug-laced self was only too happy to oblige, and then… not much else until he was dragged out by a person much smaller than himself. Since it was a lady (albeit a slightly off-looking one), he hadn’t really the heart to protest.

He’d woken alone, sober, and at his own address, apparently having let himself in, though how he found the place was still a mystery. Now it made considerably more sense. His old instinct for politeness warred relentlessly with the constructed one he’d made for being an asshat, and in the end neither of them really won. “Right.” One syllable, neither a thanks nor a disparaging remark. He didn’t even really manage to make it sound dismissive, though he tried valiantly.

The rain started to patter down, and Tsubasa frowned with mild distaste. He’d always hated having wet feathers. Not that he had feathers right now, mind, but it would probably still make his damn head into a sopping mess of uncomfortable damp. He was about to excuse himself to find yet more food and a better spot from which to watch the proceedings when the lady bowed to some old guy and asked if the parade had started.

Correction: this was not just some old guy. Tsubasa shifted his weight from one foot to the other, an unconscious action that prepared him better for any number of defensive maneuvers. It wasn’t that he thought he was about to be attacked, merely that it had struck him subconsciously to be wary. It was much the same feeling he’d had around the abbot, but that had been tempered by years of near-familial connection, and this was not. They walked with the same deliberate, regal stride, and there was some similar kind of too-much-knowledge in their faces. It made him distinctly uncomfortable, though he refused to allow himself to show it.

It also forced him to reevaluate the woman next to him. He glanced between the two, feeling quite like he was intruding upon something and should leave, but he sharply negated this internally. He’d been here first, dammit, and he wasn’t going to leave just because some guy in a suit showed up. If they wanted to have their little conversation here, that was fine with him, but he wasn’t going to pretend he wasn’t listening or anything like that.

Den-Den Town, Strutting Around, and Would You Look At These Losers
♫

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."

All of Nin’s focus, all of her musings and worries and fears, pinpointed on Sachio’s hand on her elbow. Her whole body jerked, mind snapped out of its reverie, and she scowled weakly. “The dragon,” she said shakily, trembling slightly. Trying to pull up some of her usual scorn, her tone sounded forced and thin. “The blue dragon! It is dead!” Her bony finger pointed accusingly at the dark, empty sky. There was no long, twisting tail in the sky, no wings blocking out the light of the moon. “He does not fly tonight; he is dead.” Her voice wavered, perhaps on the verge of tears. Aoi was an old friend of hers; they’d kept company through the long centuries, laughing at the futility of the human race. “This is bad luck. Bad omens,” she said warningly. The balance was off. Everyone noticed the absence of the dragon, and it turned the world onto its side. People were enjoying the festivities, but their eyes searched the sky.

Nin felt weak. She gripped the tanuki’s arm and her tired feet shuffled over to a bench. She planted herself there, face buried in her hands as she felt a migraine of the worst proportions beginning to crash over her mind like a wave. That had been the worst kind of vision; long, full of information, and emotionally painful.

But now she could only wonder. What had killed the Fuku Ryu?

---

A frown worked its way to Tomoe’s lips as his hair was mussed by Isamu’s good-natured hit. His hand froze on its ascent to smooth it down as Isamu commented on his state of dress. Embarrassed, he retorted, “At least I don’t look like I’ve gotten into a fight with a monsoon and lost.” He sniffed daintily, tucking his fox mask away in the folds of his kimono. “I always dress like this. It’s comfortable and it looks nice.” Geisha, his fox-tailed ass.

He watched, amused, as Isamu gave Tsubasa the Glare. It was almost famous in most circles as the most invasive stare that one could be given, even more unsettling than the leer of a pervert or the calculating gaze of a conman. Of all the people he’d met, no one remained calm under that first meeting of eyes. Besides Makoto, of course. But she was different. Even he himself had felt unnerved by this intense glare. However, he felt that Amori probably felt more weirded out by the stare than anything else; he seemed like one that didn’t frighten easily.

But as quickly as it had come, it was gone, replaced by a toothy grin that would make children wet themselves. He made himself imperceptibly taller so the oyabun wouldn’t have to reach so far down to wrap an arm around him. He blushed at the pin-up girl comment, but let it slide. It was an old joke between old friends, and it would never cease to embarrass him.

But then the oyabun’s demeanor seemed to change, and Tomoe stood a little straighter. He knew this look; it was time for business. Things were going to happen. There would be no time for stupid questions, for it was time to move. He sent Amori an apologetic glance, knowing that this wasn’t what the tengu had signed up for when he came to enjoy the festivities, and followed quickly after Isamu.

Old familiarity eased an ancient man’s hand onto a thin woman’s shoulder; camaraderie earned her the light rebuke. Hold there, pup, too much of this and you’ll go soft. Don’t forget me, I’m the man who holds you all in place with his fucking gravity, ponderous and inescapable. The spoken word was almost irrelevant, really.

Dominance stared him down, but the Tengu, brash and foolish as he was, just folded his arms into his sleeves and stared right back. Knowledge flared his nostrils, like an old hound dog on the scent, braying and bawling till his prey was up a tree and doomed to dinner. Tsubasa felt his vision sharpen in response, and knew his eyes had flashed, no longer so human. But then, Humanity was the recessive trait here, wasn’t it?

Tamping down on the tell, he considered the words, chewing over his answer as though it would weigh more in the space between than he did, standing in the rain. “It seems a little bit… kitsch.” He drawled by way of reply, scratching the back of his neck with idle concentration. His look moved askance, old jokes he didn’t understand ran over his answers to rhetorical questions, but he didn’t mind.

No, no, if the shit-eating grin that spread over his face was anything to go by, this was just damn perfect indeed. The air was changing, the mood was shifting, and he was catching on. The tingle of anticipation shot down his spine with all the force of a suicidal pigeon barreling headfirst into a shiny plexiglass window, and even less caution. Square-tipped fingers flexed, bringing vigor to rain-chilled limbs, and the world came alive before his eyes.

He couldn’t have been more happy to comply when that old hound barked his orders, never mind that he wasn’t in the habit of following without proper incentive anymore. The roaring in his blood, the electricity of anticipation that ran in the empathetic undercurrent of the crowd, that was incentive enough. A mottled tongue, half-transformed without his knowledge, darted out and over pointed teeth, and he answered the woman’s unspoken apology with a dark chuckle. Make no mistake, the former monk was no manslayer, but he’d be the first to catch the fight-instinct and run with it.

His thoughts were punctuated only by the measured clack, clack, clack of his unusual footwear against the pavement. He’d always been taught that no matter how fast and how hard you ran, fate would find you in the end.

Right now, in the miserable rain, beside two total strangers, and walking into a helluva lot of unknown, well… that felt quite a bit like fate.