---

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!]

Trying to stay as dignified as possible, Tomoe suppressed his shivers from the cold night air. Any passes made at him were answered with a frigid and rather frightening glare, and any stray touches led to bruised wrists. This wasn't the best night to mess with the cold kitsune.

His sleeves were heavy-laden with several throwing knives and daggers, and perhaps the odd sashimi knife. Each of his layered kimonos was lined with sharp metal, and Tomoe was ready to strike.

So many people, rushing about for this that or the other. Most people were getting ready for the parade; it was big talk even at his shop in Doyama-cho. Everyone was excited for the large festival, whatever it was for. And damn it all if Tomoe had to be there, too. The Queller was in town. Everyone had to be there. No risks could be taken. Though he'd much rather stay in his brothel, watching after his boys in the warmth of a heated building. It was no fun out here on the cold streets, even with his hoshi no tama warming his chest and crowds of sweaty people messing his clothes. Crowds were not Tomoe's favorite place to be, despite the sticky body-warmth.

So for now, he'd just stand and wait and watch. Those Wild Dogs don't stand a chance against an angry kitsune.

Somewhere, the cherry of a cigarette briefly flared in dingy darkness before being ashed, dropped and squashed under a leather boot. Unsteady feet tramp across a cheap linoleum floor, following a path beaten many times by many folks long before. The room these feet are in is empty, dark, save for a single bare lightbulb and a single steel folding chair, handcuffed to which is a single unfortunate man. The boots tramp across the corona of the bare bulb's light, a pale track of blood left behind as the body attached to the legs is carried slowly into the light. Skeletal is the best word to describe its build, dead its complexion, enraged its stance. It turns, pointed, scuffed boots now locked towards the figure stretched limp in the chair, occasionally moaning or whimpering or making sounds of protest. A hand shoots from the darkness; too-large knuckles on a too-large hand attached to a too-skinny arm. It catches the chair-bound figure square in the nose, followed shortly after by a hooked cross, then another jab to the face.

A voice issued from the darkness somewhere. "You gonna fuckin' talk or what?" The voice was replied to not with defiance but with more strained groaning. Another punch to the head. "Well?" Nothing. The body stepped fully into the light now, its corpse-like pallor fully exposed. Blonde hair was spiked wildly in defiance of the heavens, except for a long, raised ridge of scar tissue along the top left side of his head. Aviator shades were low on the bridge of his nose, revealing bloodshot eyes and thick bags beneath. Jaundiced skin about the neck was graced with faded and scarred tattoos of the Kyubei-kai, over which was a white silk shirt, stained with blood. His black pants and boots were likewise stained, his fists bruised and red. His mouth was screwed down in a grimace of rage, a fresh, unlit cigarette dangling from the right corner of his mouth. Despite this, he sounded almost jovial as he lowered one emaciated hand below the victim's jawline and lifted his head to look him in the eyes.

"Strong, silent type, eh? Well, lemme let you in on a little secret, sugartits," the man grunted, releasing the head and letting it loll off to one side. "I'mma tell you right now, I only get called in when there's a problem needs to be dealt with in a significantly magnificent fashion. And you Wild Dogs, well -" he shrugged - "'s pretty easy to see that Terajima an' Kyubei-kai ain't the fuckin' problem here." He turned around. "So whilst my bosses are working on that problem, I've gotta work on it, too. And if I can get rid of a few loose ends 'long the way, well then, fuck, I ain't gonna complain - makes me look fuckin' great to ground control." He chuckled. Then he turned, unleashed a spinning backfist on the man painful enough to knock teeth loose.

"So, I'mma ask you one more time, real nice like." He took control of the head by the chin again. One hand went to his middle-back, gripping something stuffed into the waist of his suit pants. "You know where Sawada Noboyuki is. I'm after him. You're gonna fuckin' tell me where that rat bastard is hiding, and then I'm going to kill you." He laughed once, softly, raised a match to his cigarette, lit it, took a few puffs, blew the smoke in the man's face. There was coughing. Good. "Trust me, might seem unfair to you, hondai, but I'm doin' you a tender mercy compared to what your bosses woulda done had I let you go. So talk. And make your words count, I ain't giving you too many." Before the last part of that sentence, he had drawn a Mauser from the waist of his pants and cradled it beneath the gangster's chin, pulling back the hammer for effect. It was a semi-automatic, but the man just liked the sound the hammer made. Clik-clik. Ready to go.

"Somewhere in this town, man, I really don't know exactly..." The voice trailed off for a second. The man with the gun squinted, stood up, took aim. The man in the chair looked up one time, eyes gleaming with tears despite being nearly swollen shut. "Who the hell are you?"

The man scowled even further. "Hojo Kaito." he said simply. "And I'm the motherfuckin' dog-catcher."

The pistol spoke once, then all was still.



Hojo stepped across the threshold of a warehouse several blocks from the procession and hotfooted it over to where the parade would be. Terajima-gumi would be there, and as much as he hated the old man and his pet Queller-bitch, Kaito was always a fan of a parade. Along the way, he stowed his Mauser back in his waistband and threw his black blazer on again. He continued frowning. Sawada could be anywhere in Osaka and yes, Kaito had grown up in the city, but there were many places to hide; many, many more than one man could know.

"Fuck me sideways, I've got my work cut out for me." Kaito sighed, fusing with the throng on the sidewalk, waiting for the procession, watching silently, one bloodshot pair of eyes amongst many.

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.

Callused fingers folded over the bowl of the pipe in parody of a lover’s embrace, lifting it from between two rows of slightly-oversharp teeth. A cloud of smoke swirled and eddied into the air after it, hanging there with stubbornness that lasted only a moment before it was carried away by a gust of winter wind. A girl somewhere to his left shrieked, her fancy parasol abducted by the deft fingers of the breeze. He could have sworn he heard it shout something on the way, but the sounds were too far beyond him for even his youkai ears to detect.

Tsubasa chuckled beneath his breath at the young woman’s put-out expression, an exaggerated pout chasing all loveliness from her face until she huffed and turned back to the gaggle of others she walked with, collectively voluminous enough to stop traffic in all the wrong ways. He’d never had to deal with crowds until he moved to this forsaken city, den of thieves, panoply of colors and veritable salad-bowl of sound. Folk bustled around here and there, but generally parted like water before the massive man, a river around the base of a still mountain. Or maybe a volcano, with how much he seemed to be smoking. Yes, that suited him just fine. Serene as you please, but with magma burning slowly in his veins where the blood should be.

From his vantage point six feet and some inches from the ground, he was easily a head taller than most in the crowd, and scanned the lot with affected disinterest, throwing a disdainful look onto his face for good measure. Inwardly, he was just about as excited as the little boy who tugged mercilessly at the hems of his mother’s yukata, urging her this way and that with the exuberance and needless fluttering of a sparrow. In all his years of life, he’d never once been to a festival, and the undercurrents of happiness that most of the participants bore seeped into his limbs, enlivening them and creating an unnatural buzz beneath his illusory skin.

But there was something else, and this was why Tsubasa had stopped his strolling and was now looking about- seemingly without anything more than generic distaste for the enthusiasm and tomfoolery of those about him. A clay bottle marked with the kanji for sake found its way to his mouth, and he tipped it back carelessly, causing a middle-aged housewife to shoot him a disapproving look as she passed, a nice compliment to the obvious envy on her husband’s visage. Joke was on them; the bottle contained nothing but simple water. The taste of smoke was cleansed from his tongue, and he tossed the empty vessel into a nearby receptacle, folding his hands into his distended sleeves. Yes, something ran even deeper than the happiness here, and it felt almost like… unease. It pricked the hairs on the back of his neck, and he cursed his useless empathy. It was like a thousand stinging ants, marching along his spine and taking a bite out of his nerves whenever they damn well felt like it. Hateful little bastards.

Mark his instinct, something was going to go down here. He didn’t know what, who, or when, which just annoyed him. Snorting and tossing his head slightly, he moved off into the crowd, ignoring it for the moment. Might as well enjoy the lights and glaring-bright colors while he still could. There had to be food around here somewhere, right?

---

Shirayuki stared at her reflection in the mirror for a long moment. This was something she was almost compelled to do every time she saw a reflective surface, but she had yet to decide what she felt about the image presented to her. Presently, her face was uncovered, her story written in white and pink lines across the canvas of her skin. She tilted her head to one side, an almost-curious gesture, and a too-long morass of curls fell over her shoulder. She blinked once, slowly, then pulled the elastic material up and over her mouth and nose, shoulders loosening in cast, and brushed at her fringe absently with thin fingers so that it obscured the majority of her forehead. Picking a piece of dust off the light-and-dark blue yukata, she sighed breathily and shrugged.

Descending the stairs, she sidestepped to avoid two seven-year-olds chasing each other up to the second floor, spotting her brother just entering the house. She smiled beneath the mask and signed a greeting, which he returned as well as he could with his singular arm. She hadn’t told him why she’d suddenly decided to go to the festival, but he’d volunteered to watch the young ones anyway, and for this she was grateful. Though in time his questions would cascade over her head faster than she could mime her answers to them, she for the moment was safe, since he saw this as ‘progress.’ It didn’t quite feel right to take advantage of that, but it was harmless enough.

Moving to a kitchen drawer with a lock, she pulled the key from her sleeve and opened it, tugging as the wood caught. Everything in this place was dreadfully old and only worked sometimes, but it was still worlds better than the big, empty mansion they’d once inhabited. Inside were several old-fashioned throwing knives, which she stowed carefully in her obi. The Minami area held many unfortunate reminiscences, and it would not do to go into any situation unprepared, no matter how innocuous it might seem. Daichi watched her wordlessly, then nodded solemnly, before catching himself and smiling instead. She appreciated the thought, and bade him farewell before stepping out into the cold, taking up a small satchel that sat near her door.

The walk was pleasant, if chill, and her spirits lifted. It had been such a long time since she’d actually done something purely for amusement, and when this realization had hit her during her conversation with the stranger (such as it was), she hadn’t had to think very hard about what to say to his offer. Sometimes, chance dealt you a strange hand, she knew that well enough. She also knew that such wild cards were only ever what you made of them, and so she took it as a sign, illogical as that may be, to take a break from the studying and the diligence for a while.

It wasn’t hard to find the place where the parade would be, festooned in gilt and glitter and color and light. It reminded her poignantly of her childhood, and for a moment, she was simply transfixed by the happenings around her, before she shook her head with a rueful smile and melded into the crowd, searching for someone who stood out rather more than she did. She passed a tall fellow with a raucous mane of hair and unusual footwear, but such oddities weren’t so unusual in places like this, so she scarcely paid him any heed. Time and guesswork placed her in the vicinity of a tinseled archway, and there was the curious stranger.

Shirayuki approached, dipping her head in greeting since he likely didn’t understand the elaborate system of gestures she used to convey meaning. She wasn’t even sure if he read proper Japanese, now that she came to think of it, and their earlier conversation had been a stumbling sort of affair that had nevertheless left her highly amused and rather enjoying herself. The young hanyou gestured towards the gate, asking if he was inclined to enter. She did feel bad for making him wait, and hoped it hadn’t been entirely too long. Without a good way to inquire, though, she’d have to risk being a little rude.

Amber lights were ablaze, and joyous laughter resounded. The familiar smell of fatty festival food was mixed with the equally familiar smell of immanent bloodshed. How does the quote go? It was the best of times, it was the worst of times. Right? Right. Crowds packed the streets of Osaka. They smiled and stuffed their faces with food while indulging in the apparent peace that this harmonious occasion brought. Now, I say 'apparent peace' because anyone with half an ear to the ground, and half a nostril up in the air knew that the smell of shit going down was thick in said air. Somewhere amid this clusterfuck of clueless souls he strolled. No, correction he skipped. He looked like a child coming home from a spree at the toy store, what with his hand full of three helpings of fried-eel on a stick, and that wide, innocent grin. You would never guess that this black waistcoat donned guy kept a severed Yuki-Onna head at his home.

Solo The Mad, that's what he was known as in Japan's 'Underworld', and his men had decided to come out and enjoy the festivities--since they could already see it from the windows of their downtown office. It had been a long day after all, the Kuzunoha brat had managed to close the books on several big deals. Despite it only being the eighth of January, Solo's business had reached its quota for the month already. Him and his boys, one wheelchair bound Kappa, Walker, and one cowardly Oni, Dan, had done good work, so a night off was a small thing.

He swallowed one serving of eel whole and chucked the stick to the concrete below. Solo made his way through the throng of folk. With all three of his greasy boons devoured he slid his hands into the pockets of his black pants and skipped along. He weaved in and out of pockets of people like the rabbit flag the Wild Dogs marched under. Which the Information Broker never quite 'got' by the way. Maybe, just maybe there was a story regarding the appearance of the gang's mon in that vast bank of information that resided in his dome. Something like the 'divine rabbit was a friend to the supreme dog of old' or whatever. But if there was such a tale, it would have been long since buried amid the piles, and piles of stuff Solo's medulla oblong-whatever held.

I think I left the iron on!

That Sahen guy is pretty cute huh? I heard he was a weirdo though!

Who cares! I like Hojo! Mmm, eight fingers!

Too much food...I'm gonna...Oh God...!

Information. Scraps, bits, just like the things he heard flowed to The Madman. They clung to that dome of his, kind of like the way dust clings to that new dust grabbing Swiffer broom your mom got the other day. The collection and detection of such useless things was something he couldn't turn off. Nor was it something he wanted to turn off. Solo was the type that wanted to know everything, and not just important stuff either like ancient civilizations. Nah, he wanted to know the little shit too, like your name, where you're from, what kind of shoes you got on...the list just goes.

"Ooof!" Thud!

A little boy smacked into Solo's leg. To a kid so small, even running into an untoned frame like his was like colliding with a brick wall. The boy's knees were scuffed. Solo noticed this and grimaced; scabs were an ugly thing to look at. "S-sorry mister...." The child managed to utter as he slowly picked himself up. The wine colored eyes of the broker could have been blue as ice, because the look he was giving the kid gave him chills in the worst way. Mister. He hated that one. Almost as much as Mugen.

Solo bit his lip. "Mister? Something is truly strange in the state of Denmark if such a..." He paused to observe the dingy jacket, and battered looking jeans the boy had on, "Unscrupulous youth does not know my name!" The man coolly paced back and forth. The boy just watched, shakin' in his lil' black boots, "Who am I? You ask?" No one asked, in case you were wondering, "I am Solo The Mad. Denizen of Osaka, Lord of Information, Wielder of The Ancient Black Book of Destruction!" Smirking, he paused to get eye level with the boy, "Do you see this scuff on my shoe?" Solo didn't even have to point to his white loafer--the boy was already looking. Looking at that unsightly, good awful, tiny, microscopic black stuff on this man's shoe. The scuff that he may, or may not have made.

"Normally, I would beat the hell out of someone who screwed with my kicks. However...tell me your shoe size, and where you get your haircut, and I just might look the other way. Do we have a deal?" Solo's thumb and index finger were cradling the boy's chin. If looks could kill, Young Kuzunoha wouldn't even be getting a tooth ache from the weak gaze of this boy that resembled a scared puppy. The kid nodded. His whole body was trembling.

"R-R-R-R-Rei's, a couple blocks from here...in o-o-one of the wards!"

"And the shoe size?" Solo's face jerked closer to the boy's which caused the poor brat to jump out his skin.

"Four!" He whined.

"Good. A fair exchange of valuable information. Now get outta here. The smell of your fear's fucking up my cologne." Suddenly all that was left of the kid was the split of the crowd he made in his flight from the red eyed man.

Like after a job well done he grinned and poked out his chest. Every bit of info counts.

"Now to have some fun! ~"

What was Hojo always saying?

“Well, fuck me sideways.”

Suited it's purpose fine. What a vulgar display of power; gathering like-enemies to this place. Empty greetings gurgled from the hollows of their throats in the means of bowed heads and cupped hands, though Raja was too preoccupied eyeing the fiendish representatives of Terajima from across the way. She made no conscious effort to be tough, or hard-boiled, or grim, or any of the things she's usually called. Though, the unruly set of Isamu's jawline seemed to thrum with a dull determination that bordered on disciplined grimness, controlled temperament by the subtle touches the Demon Queller offered. These were the seemingly innocent movements that goose-fleshed her forearms with renewed animosity. What would she give to wrap her tapered fingers around that neck? To squeeze until his eyelids could no longer bear the weight of covering those discerning eyes, rimmed sanguine; popping, bursting, ruining that ridiculous suit with it's grisly contents. The Matriarchal woman poised her palms downwards, indicating that the members of Kyubei-kai could seat themselves whenever they felt it was necessary. If they wished to remain upwards, than she allowed it. Small defiance’s still roared like wildfires within her breast. Folding her slender legs beneath her, tucked between the folds of exotic garments, Raja claimed reservation furthest from the Chairman and the Demon Queller. Her clawed fingertips drummed against her kneecaps.

Buckets of whiskey could not make this gathering pleasant. Backseated memories drug it's fingers across the back of Raja's neck, reminding her that it was not the Wild Dog's she wanted to neuter. Those words swirled, stuck in her throat, making nothing but lace fall from her mouth to her stomach and bubble into a resemblance of a countryside desert. These were niceties that were necessary until they swaggered out of the long hallways; faltering, always faltering like curtains giving away. Feigning cheap, hearty nods of approval, they'd believe every word the Matriarch spoke. They'd settle uncomfortably in the back of their minds, pulping into something acceptable, commendable, agreeable. She did not agree. She did not want to be breathing the same rotting, stinking air as the Terajima. The Wild Dog's were a tempered threat sidling at the brinks' of Kyubei territory: baring teeth, claws, and fists. Somehow, somewhere, they shared common goals. Everyone who wasn't them was an enemy.

Her fluttering eyes were only lightly closed, half-lidded. The indescribable chirp of the gathering coming to it's end broke the silence of the chamber. Her eyes immediately shattered open like broken panes, narrowing to harrowed, yellow-bellied slits. She got this habit of shoving her head into a firefight without giving a damn for the consequences and this, this was no different. Raja's sweeping skirts ruffled into a tight-circled flourish, fluffing feathers, jingling trinkets, as she abruptly stood, watching the Demon Queller and Isamu trail from the room like ghostly presences. There is nothing romantic about any of this. Sweeping organs squelching from your belly and shifting in ways they shouldn't, and what she long ago suspected – that there was nothing romantic or heroic about this lifestyle, that it would end in sudden, catastrophic violence – was always confirmed. However, Raja promised his swollen organs would spill first, across those unblemished, polished shoes of his, and she would weep like a broken record, repeating and stuttering.

Raja, Third Chairwoman of the Kyubei Clan, Iron Mistress and all around testy, moody, sonnuvabitch fled from the clans' meeting with thoughts of decay. She couldn't breathe. The solemn slaps of her sandals accompanied the business clops of expensive footwear, adjoined in marching unison. Her accountants, councilman and thugs trailed behind like colourful ribbons; an assortment of banner's with downcast eyes, tightened fists and flashing teeth. A spangled flash of scales glittered in the corners' of her slanted peripherals, but she only greeted this hasty assessment with an unmannerly snort. Imagine wanting something so very, very desperately that you would smash away all the walls locking out danger and begin the slow, trembling waltz into condemnation. Nothing else was important.

---

Red lanterns spiralled across wooden railings, with fanciful dragons, fishes, critters in gold ink climbing up the paper sides. Several food peddlers had erected stalls along the streets, carefully placed out of the parade's path, but still crowded by the swelling masses. Sticky rice dumplings in bamboo leaves – chicken and duck gleaming shiny brown, cooked so tender the skin was almost falling off – snow-white crab crackers that crackled in your mouth - steamed vegetables in spicy red bead sauce – golden corn-and-crab soup with white egg streamers – fish carefully served whole with its head towards the guest of honour – swollen chunks of candied ginger – grilled chicken dripping fat from wooden skewers – egg rolls and bean curd and lobster and crab and shark's fin. With each combined delicacy, it's wafting scent masked sweating bodies and sweet cigars. The Iron Mistress was swathed in heavy garments of beige-brown leather and shimmering with bright violent power, unmeasurable. She carried a world in her small bronzed hands and too many years in clouded yellow eyes. Spiralling tattoos covered the exposed flesh of her forearms, legs and midsection. A Matriarch had no shame; no proprieties against the undignified. No stuffy regulations to follow.

The loud baritone of drum beats thrummed like a death toll being counted off, rebounding off her ribcage and settling into the pits of her stomach. It was comfortable. By Japanese standards, the Iron Mistress looked like an odd duckling gumshoeing the sidelines. That isn't to say there's any genuine ethnic segregation amongst the festival goers, but there's clearly a minority and majority; mingling amongst themselves like real fucking comrades. The swollen crowd was a mass of tourists, locals and Natives alike. The streets were lit by large multicoloured paper lamps that were both hung and carried, swung and tucked between armpits. Pudgy-fingered children cooed and cawed from windowsills; all trying to reach the flickering light casting incandescent beams across their faces, whilst having their hands slapped away by impatient parents. She swayed lightly with the heavy steady beat, hammering like the hearts of every Japanese citizen: calling out to their blood like a war cry from far away. Those rhythms intertwined with the sounds of life emanating from it's people, and the boom of fireworks lighting up the sky were the lifeblood and spirit of Japan. Of the Yakuza. Of each clansmen.

With meticulously practised movements: Raja flapped a small leather pouch open, fished out an ornately designed Kiseru pipe from between her breasts and began packing it with yamabuki tobacco; tight as a whore's—you get the point. She let the smoke percolate in her lungs before exhaling in a controlled push of breath, revelling in the tobacco’s unusual flavour. This wasn't like smoking a cigarette, because it wasn't a daily occurrence. You had to soak up the experience itself. Her whispered words carried a lazy cloud that curled interestingly from her nose and lips, receding to skinny twists before disappearing among all the colourful streamers. She'd given direct, absolute, unambiguous orders to find Sawada Nobuyuki and rip his damned head from his shoulders; slowly. Remove a few fingers, crudely prune them from his feminine knuckles. Only upon witnessing pure, unadulterated horror flickering in the man's docile pupils would they offer repentance in the means of death: carving the Kyubei-kai symbol into his pasty forehead. The embers flickering from the pipes packing cup waned to a dull glow, capturing the Matriarch’s attention. Relighting the worn walnut pipe, Raja vaguely wondered whether or not Hojo had exhausted his informants—well, it was a stupid thought. Informants was a loosely misdirected, obtuse word for: people-I-beat-the-shit-out-of.

She chewed the pipe with renewed fascination. Parades' hardly existed in the harsh realities of Saudi Arabia; where entertainment, liveliness and joviality were seen as weaknesses. If there was any events planned, it was strictly forbidden to women. A harsh, caustic laugh bubbled from her lips, spewing fat plumes of smoke from her nostrils. It was strange how she dealt with each individual clansmen. Peculiar members—like Hojo Kaito—were often swayed by particular poisons, money, and mutual respect. She'd promised him two specific bottles coming from her private cells; two bottles which now sat cattycorner on the scuffed oak table of her chambers – rum, thick and sweetened with age, and whiskey, smooth and heady – opposing predilections, though neither find themselves lacking in attention. They'd been shipped from across the seas, from her homeland. Those tastes far outmatched the variety of rice liquors in Japan. If that wasn't enough, her stash of exotic hashish was a far better compensation for excellence. She needn't really worry about his loyalty, because Hojo's penchant for violence bellied her own. And with the others, the Iron Mistress worked less and less to impress. Her presence was terrifying.

Yellow-bellied eyes raked the surging crowd for familiar faces, until they halted abruptly on a tall, tattooed, beatnik snatching his fingers away from a child's quivering chin. Just the man she'd been looking for. Once you've attained a status as high as Oyabun, there wasn't much you didn't know. There wasn't many people you didn't know, either. Whether it be through harried rumours, shoddy encounters, or friendly faces you'd bought several shots of whatever-the-hell-that-was: Solo the Mad. Japan's information mill, churning useful scoops like wheat kernels, but offering it to anyone who was willing to pay his price. It was aggravating. Anyone who isn't us, is the enemy. She scoffed heartily at her cryptic thoughts and swaggered forward, swaying through the crowd much like a tigress who'd pinpointed her focus on a particularly tasty piece of meat. If anyone had seen her muscled shoulder bones rolling beneath her feathered half-shirt, it certainly wouldn't have surprised anyone. The Matriarch's clawed fingertips prodded Solo between his shoulder blades, pinching the fabric between her fingertips before she innocently settled her hand against her hip.

“Preying on children, now, Solo?” Her foreign voice undulated, falling softly into a crescendo of motherly tutting. She ponderously examined her free hand's curled fingers, turning them this way and that within the lamplight’s occasional beams. The Iron Mistress was not prone to asking others' for help, even if it proved logical. Though, trust was always an issue, Raja's strong belief that her clansmen could overcome all obstacles was genuine.

“Fun would be,” She began, rolling the words in her mouth as if they tasted strange. As prideful as a man asking for directions, the words chortled uncomfortably in her throat. She tapped her index finger against her chin, then added, begrudgingly, “helping me find Sawada Nobuyuki. We know he's around here somewhere. Hiding in the dark like a child.” Like all things, everyone had their own price. It was the way of men.

Tomoe was getting bored, and standing in one spot wasn’t making him any warmer. He decided to take a look around the festival and see what attractions caught his eye. He decided against candied apples; they’d make him hyper and on-edge. He’d be jumpier than a little kid on Halloween. And as excited as the goldfish-catching made him, he already had enough at the shop; they were swimming on almost every counter at the brothel from festivals past.

One stall selling little trinkets caught his eye, however. He peered around and stifled a chuckle at a plastic fox mask. Oh, the irony. He paid five hundred yen (way over priced; it was worth MAYBE one-fifty) and pulled the elastic strap over his styled hair. The red and white mask obscured his face, and he was sure that anyone who saw him would recognize who he was. He chuckled, actually enjoying himself a bit now. He moved on, enjoying the ambiance a little more. Kids nearly as tall as he were running around with sparklers, and he could hear a biwa being played in the distance. He was almost certain he could play better.

After a few moments of walking, he saw a familiar face. With a sly grin under his fox’s face, he walked up to the scary-looking tengu. “Hello, Amori-san. Enjoying the festivities, are we?” He glanced at the trash can where the sake-jar had been tossed, and wished jealously that he could drink a bit, as well.

---

Center of the Festival

Nin tossed away her empty cup with a hmph. She should have gotten more water. She was thirsty again, dang it! “Where is that little rascal? He needs to get me a new drink!” The silly tanuki had run off once more, and Nin could only guess where he’d gone this time.

She pulled a bite of takoyaki from a wooden stick and looked around. So many little kids! They were all getting underfoot, and dirtying up their kimonos and yukatas! How disrespectful. And the biwa player’s makeup was so badly done! Grumpgrumpgrump.

No matter how she tried to hide it, though, Nin was having a great time. The food was good, the stall owners were polite, and she could feel something shimmering in the air. No, not excitement… conflict. And goodness if that wasn’t excitement in its own.

One could swear the expression he then wore had a reminiscence of the cooing of pigeons. Pleasantly transfixed on the snow woman's approach, the sagging pipe slipped cleanly from his mouth (though he caught it deftly with his right hand, knocking it clear of ash on his other wrist and then tucking the object out of sight). Rather than taking the lead into the jungles of light or curiously facing the direction toward which she gestured; Sahen gingerly cupped her protruding fingers, leaning in to touch the very tip of his nose to her cheek and whispering little more than a quiet exhale: "You-are just too good to be true~ cannot take my eyes off of you."

He laughed then (which undoubtably murdered the notion of there being a marching band tromping through the masses to play accompanying instrumentals as he broke into proper accented song), in what some would suspect it was of a self-conscious sort. Who ever dared to utter Frankie Valli lyrics without a smudge of embarrassment tainting his soul? But mayhaps, mayhaps he was just happy to be where he was at that moment, and cared about little else. "You are prettier than every other maiden who has passed by these pillars, mae nang payaban," he informed her, in that suspiciously factual way one would think was meant to insult others more than to compliment the receiver. Though in truth, he did not consider the statement to be much of an exaggeration; appreciating her choice in modest garments, her subdued scent like that of a breeze, her fleet of eyelashes and pale lips. In the two weeks he'd spent in this region, he found this woman the most captivating. Possibly it was the mask, an accessory not so bad after all, reminding him of a great, oppressive sun and sand-skinned dancers; or just as possibly, it was her silence, which he had goofily presumed to be some sort of oath of chastity. He decided after admiring her a little longer, amid warm colors bathing the side of his face, to add in a contented murmur, "And... you honor me with your presence."

He brightened rather abruptly, glistening at the eyes and beaming at the mouth with a sincerity easily rivaling the Christian virgin. "Come! You will guide me, for I fear I would get us lost and hungry." Perhaps disturbingly, he did not once relinquish his grasp of her hand, but he was unaggressive, willing to let go should she deem his touch discomforting... though requesting even a little personal space would be too much to ask of the garuda, at the moment.

Center of the Festival

Soft swaying hips bumped, prodded, brushed with the bassoon beats. Landscapes of defined bone structures flashed brilliantly each time the lanterns cast it's fiery beams across the masses, illustrating sensual shadows across collar bones and craned necks. Beauty was subjective. But in these moments, Japan's beauty was elegant and refined; unmistakeably distinguished. They were all raw sunshine and intelligent brutality, honey and pink cheeks. Rosy hues painted across plump lips. Feverish fingers slapping across bare backs and teeth—flashing wildly—are frequently seen nipping across exposed flesh in the shadowy corners, across lavish parapets and pressed between the swollen crowd. But everywhere, there's lights hurled across tattooed figures roaring in the congested streets. It's in the careless way the muscles twitch and spasm with the effort of throwing yourself forward, ignorant of any dangers' revealing your connections pose.

Cheek wasn't a fool. Everyone was allowed to celebrate the festival in it's negligence, but the Tanuki had grown wearier with age and refused to glamourize the Kyubei-kai name by prancing in the streets without his clothes on. It wouldn't have been unusual, but there were far too many familiar faces to chance another mishap in the shoddy alleyways. His deft fingers traced circular patterns across the fruit peddlers' produce, slipping it into the folds of his sleeve without the man's beady-eyed notice. Holding the plump fruit between his thumb and forefinger, Cheek rolled it delicately back and forth while surveying the congregated roadway. The myriad of collective noise created something much louder, an incessant hum of simultaneous, unimportant conversations; making any conversation at all impossible to detect unless you were planted directly in front of said individual. As much as Cheek resented skulking through the crowds in search of a damned, doomed, forsaken man, there were certain things he understood. He wanted to live. He wanted to win. There was no other way. One had to play hard, or lose. And he was tired of losing.

That didn't mean that Cheek needed to scurry off in search of Sawada. No, no. The Tanuki had come in hopes of sharing a few glasses of Awamori with his favourite pastime companion. She was a lovely lady with a penchant for shaking sticks at disrespectful children. The kind of wizened woman who didn't want to wring her fingers around his slender neck—and strangle, strangle, strangle. Genuine friends were hard to come by when you were born a troublesome Tanuki whose traits were less than desirable. If it wasn't for his gifts in rubbing coin together to miraculously created more income, then Cheek would be rendered a useless grunt. Either way, the Ningyo found no fault in his pedigree. They rejoiced in their agreement that violence was a terrible, terrible thing for their health, but incredibly entertaining from afar. He crowed in delight when spotting her telltale scowl, frumpy stature and golden peepers'. The Tanuki weaved through the crowd with meticulous precision until the fruit rolled across his feet, being promptly replaced by two cups brimming with rice liquor balanced between his fingers.

A coy smile brightened his Raccoon-tattooed features, twisting mischievously. He offered his right hand, palm facing upwards, with his tapered fingers curling around the clay cup. Obviously pilfered from one of the stalls. If one could acquire something for free, then wasn't it his divine right to gain such things? He wanted everything. Everything there was. Everything there is, for the lowest cost. For the lowest usage of energy. Preferably while keeping all his limbs intact. “Ah, Nin-sama. Always a pleasure, ever beautiful.” To her, Cheek offered a salty plum wine lightly flavoured with oolong tea liquor. His own beverage was simpler, without unusual tastes. Western whiskey. He pressed his own cup against his lips, sipped it gingerly and followed her gaze with an inquiring raised eyebrow, still holding the beverage out if she so wished to accept it. “You can feel it, too. Something's bound to happen tonight. And fancy that, we've got front row seats.”

Ah, there he was. Cute little scamp. Nin gratefully accepted the proffered wine with a small smile at the compliment. "Oh, you dog. You know exactly what I like." Then she frowned, remembering her earlier anger. "Where were you, anyway? So rude, running off and leaving a little old lady on her own!" She sniffed haughtily, pretending to be upset. Honestly, though, she was glad this little tanuki thought her suitable for company. Not many people did.

At his comment about the atmosphere, Nin couldn't help but narrow her eyes. "Of course I can feel it. I can feel everything. This is just nagging in the forefront of my mind, screaming for attention. There will be blood," she said sagely, sipping her wine. She offered Sachio a bite of her takoyaki. "Hungry, little one? I'm going to find a sushi stand in a few minutes, provided the excitement doesn't start soon." And, as was usual in her conversations with the tanuki, she said, "And I don't understand why you have that silly marking on your face. It hides your beautiful cheekbones."

Contact. Perhaps she was silly not to have expected it, but all the same, the smooth motion with which her hand was grasped elicited enough surprise that the offending fingertips nearly lost all color, though they held onto their solidity by a thread of will. It was the same thread that Shirayuki’s inner self clasped onto when she realized that his face was in much greater proximity now than it had been the moment before, and she swallowed, throat suddenly dry and a doubtlessly unbecoming scarlet hue spreading over her face. She was unable to do much, and she definitely had not the wherewithal to move, but likewise she did not flinch in the slightest, the only betrayal of her feelings the nearly-comical widening of her eyes. The words were almost lost, so startled was she by the suddenness with which she was seized (though, she supposed, it was far too delicate to be truly construed so), but in the end they only confused her further. She glanced quickly this way and that, as if to confirm that the other people passing them were in fact ordinary enough, and not some form of grotesque monster that would lead him to say such things.

People had once willingly said such things to her, and she had accepted them as nothing more than her due. That had been years ago now, though, and as her embarrassment and shock faded, they gave way not to shame (as they might have were she inclined to think him making jests at her expense), but rather a particular kind of amusement. She found him so very strange, and this was perhaps just one more instance of it to cement the inclination with proof. She could not be insulted for the very same reason she could not consider it a true compliment: he had not the faintest idea what he was talking about. This was the whole point of walking around masked. So instead, she assumed the overwrought chivalry to be a jest of some kind, and a breathy chuckle passed into the air between them, shattering that most peculiar hold she could have sworn his presence had inflicted on her before.

For her, it was as if his last comment confirmed her suspicions, and she smiled broadly, stepping back a little and bowing deeply, as if to humbly acquiesce to his request. It doubtlessly looked amusing, the willow-branch of a woman still gently clasping one hand and bending at the waist with unnecessary flourish before the foreigner with twinkling eyes. Her own crinkled at the corners with the force of the invisible smile, and she winked, gently tugging him so that he might follow her without getting lost in the crowd. True, contact was not something she was much accustomed to any longer, but that did not make her at all averse to it.

She flowed through the crowd as though it were a river and she were a fish, born for nothing quite so much as navigating the treacherous streams of passerby and merrymaker. Shirayuki was trying to devise a way to ask him what he felt like eating or doing, as most people she encountered didn’t understand sign language. Though she would have used her reedy-soft voice if it would have made a difference, there were simply too many people and too much noise for her to make herself audible. Instead, she stopped in front of a row of food vendors before releasing his hand and about-facing, tilting her head to one side in the clearest pantomime of an inquiry she could affect without intricate gestures and an understanding conversationalist like her brother. The smells of tempura and takoyaki drifted towards them from the little grills installed in the bannered boxes of industry, each wrought with brighter colors and bolder slogans than the last.

---

The bushy, rebellious eyebrow ascended his forehead immediately upon the approach of the small person, though he did not cease eating the odango he'd purchased himself. Tsubasa found it entirely impossible to discern the person’s gender by virtue of the voice issuing from behind the plastic mask, and moreover, the fact that whomever they were clearly knew his name was disturbed him. The more he thought about it (and he was taking his sweet time, too, standing there like a dumb fish for the better part of ten seconds and chewing contemplatively, if with a hint of exaggerated arrogance), the more he was certain he knew the person from somewhere. He just couldn’t place it.

The former monk swallowed with an air of finality. “Do I know you, lady?” he asked, the question almost petulant. It probably would have been, were his lingering confusion not so evident in every word of it. Instead of the crass address that he had tried to make it, then, it sounded like a genuine inquiry, and he resisted the urge to smack himself for getting it wrong… again.

It was bothering him, though. He’d gone ahead and assumed the speaker was female, because in his experience, they didn’t make men that small, but there was something else, too. The vaguest inclination that he knew what the face underneath that mask looked like, and had had this particular internal debate with himself at some point in the not-so-distant past. For some reason, a peculiar, smoky scent was also called to mind, though no other associated impression leapt to the forefront of his boggled brain.

So, as he was convinced he ought to, he pretended that his confusion meant nothing to him, crossing his arms over his chest and staring around at the goings-on as though they held no particular interest to him, but then neither did the not-stranger. A sham, all of it: he was absolutely fascinated with the festival and all the people in it, the woman in front of him no less so than any of the rest and perhaps more. It was supposed to be rude to stare at women though, wasn’t it? Or did that very fact mean he should be doing so, as to appear more the lascivious drunkard sort?

Sometimes, all this pretending bamboozled the hell out of him.

It wasn't the fingertip that got his attention. Solo had felt the eyes on him several moments before she touched him. Like the tiger, that gingerly stalked her prey this woman's golden eyes were fixated on him--hard.

“Preying on children, now, Solo?” That foreign voice cooed.

When he turned around to properly address The Iron Mistress, the glint in those burgundy eyes of his suggested he would have loved for her to pounce on him. Raja Maia Mahasti was the type of woman that drove Solo The Mad...insane. She was the type of woman that could make you cry on the battlefield and in the bedroom. Not to mention she had a set of curves that embarrassed even the most dangerous race track. He didn't have much to to admire her...assets though, for the Oyabun of Kyubei-Kai had, judging by the look in her eye, come to do business with him.

"Fun would be,” Asking for the aid of an outsider was something Solo knew Raja hated. He gained some pleasure out of watching the powerful woman dig for her words, “helping me find Sawada Nobuyuki. We know he's around here somewhere. Hiding in the dark like a child.” Solo picked at the back of his ear, smiling. Everyone and everything made waves throughout Japan's underworld. The Families were no different, in fact, the waves they made were perhaps even larger than normal. Like throwing a boulder into a lake. Still subtle, transient, but if you looked closely, you might have caught something. There were rumors of the hunt for Nobuyuki. Solo paid the developments a passing glance. Nobuyuki's case was a subject of interest if only for that snake he kept around his neck. He didn't have an interest in interfering though. Thing like this unfolded better when you sat back and watched.

However...the Oyabun was here at his feet. Maybe he could use this situation to his advantage?

"Sawada Nobuyuki..." He rolled the name around on his tongue a few times as he checked the file cabinets of his dome for info. “Pasty bastard with the snake right? Hipster glasses, kind of sweaty? Must owe you all money, huh? I heard he was standing up to the gangs, only reason he hasn’t been snuffed out yet is because of the...you know.” Solo pointed at Raja’s jewel adorned neck, “O’ poisonous constrictor thou hast inflicted me with thy venom!” The business man waved one hand before him, like a maestro conducting an orchestra, “That snake. Word is, its no ordinary reptile. I’ve had some contacts try and get near him, and each one hasn’t made it back. I wouldn’t mind seeing him laid out...” Until now, the broker had maintained a suitable amount of distance between him and the Mistress. Now though, he inched ever closer towards the bronze skinned woman.

“So I’ll tell you what. I know him, I can take you and your boys to the last place my informants made contact with him. And I’ll even do it for a discounted price...” Solo’s words slithered from his mouth, to her ear. The snake on Nobuyuki’s neck couldn’t have done a better job of it itself. There was only hair’s distance between them now. He stood over her, admiring her body, peering into her eyes. Unlike many, The Iron Mistress fit his ideals of beauty to a T. Power, fear inducing power. The ability to change others and the world around oneself. And looks that captivated the eye. This was beauty. “I want to accompany you and your men on the hunt for him, and...” Solo’s hand was ready to reach out and brush against her neck--but he stopped himself, realizing what this woman might do to him if he made such a move, “You accompany me to my home after that is done.” The grin he had on showed all his teeth, he looked like a monster ready to bite into his meal, the way his canines gleamed in the lantern’s light.

“Do we have a deal...Miss Mahasti?”

There were several things he did not know about this woman. Her family life, where she resided before coming to Japan, history before succeeded the chairman hat, and most importantly...what lied beneath those cloths. Oh! How he relished the thought! The desire of the physical was not the only goal he had in getting this woman alone. Having an Oyabun in your personal quarters would have many advantages for a man such as himself. A powerful brain, ripe for picking.

And pick was what he intended to do.

"Way I see it, Solo-kun, 'less you plan on cookin' the oyabun a five-star dinner, showin' her a movie an' then maaaaybe offerin' up your immortal soul an' sweet candy ass as part of the deal, there ain't a way in hell she's gonna let you get yer nasty member in her skirts."

Kaito stepped out of an alley nearby, slouched as always, hands in pockets, looking nonplussed. If it weren't for the bloodstains on the cuffs of his shirt and pants he could have passed for any scruffy barfly on the street at the moment, but with those added into the equation, he looked just scruffy and angry enough to present a threat. If you knew his face and paired that with aforementioned stains, it wouldn't be unreasonable for the casual observer to shit their pants, or at least find a chill creeping down their spine. Without breaking stride, one hand went to his mid-back and wrapped around the grip of his Mauser, the other one hung at his side as he shoulder-checked Solo on the way to the side of the oyabun. Personally, Kaito wasn't above the thought of leveraging his boss into his bed either - that rack had been fuel enough for many a pleasant dream on a lonely night - but he knew his place at the moment was at his mistress's side, and it wasn't worth making enemies with an oyabun over a one-night stand.

He pulled the Mauser from the waist of his pants and held it loosely at his side, barely concealed from passers but visible enough to Solo and Raja, just in case the info broker needed some extra persuasion. He didn't bother with the hammer at the moment; mostly because he didn't need to apply any psychological force to the strange man (yet) but also because he had acknowledged that yes, the Mauser was, in fact, a semi-automatic, and therefore no, it was not required to pull the hammer every time.

"Well, boss," Kaito grunted, using his free hand to pull and light a cigarette from one of his pockets, "seeing as you gotta go to this ass-burglar here, I'm gonna go ahead and assume your search for information on this Noboyuki d-bag was about as fruitful as mine." He took a long drag from the cancer stick, then exhaled it through his nose. "Though I doubt even half as exciting and bloody." He looked pleadingly at Raja from behind his mirrored shades. "So," he said evenly, "do you wanna talk this out or should I start takin' fingers until he squeals?"

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?"

♪

"Way I see it, Solo-kun, 'less you plan on cookin' the oyabun a five-star dinner, showin' her a movie an' then maaaaybe offerin' up your immortal soul an' sweet candy ass as part of the deal, there ain't a way in hell she's gonna let you get yer nasty member in her skirts."

Solo didn't turn to address him. But the mere presence of the man made the hairs on the broker's back stand on end--he knew that voice. He knew this man.

"Hojo Kaito." He said it in a voice that was as excited as it was frustrated. Something about the 'Dog Cather's appearance made Solo's blood boil--hot. Hot like the beakers in chem class. Maybe it was because the file he had on Hojo and his exploits was chock full o' the brutal, bloody shit he gushed at. Maybe it was the gleam of the man's Mauser that excited him, probably placed into the open to divert Solo's advances on his superior.

"Well, boss, seeing as you gotta go to this ass-burglar here, I'm gonna go ahead and assume your search for information on this Noboyuki d-bag was about as fruitful as mine." The Dog Catcher was taking a long puff from a cigarette, "So," he said evenly, "do you wanna talk this out or should I start takin' fingers until he squeals?" Young Kuzunoha had to laugh at that one. It was one of those laughs that came from the belly. Oddly enough, Solo's laughed lacked any outward malice. Every time the punk would laugh, it sounded like a big kid. Maybe that was why his laughter was so creepy. The fit of laughter lasted for several long seconds before he abruptly stopped. More like froze. He was still hunched with the laughing ceased, as if there was one last giggle working its way up through his torso.

"Ah, I guess it can't be helped~" Just like that, calm and cool, he backed away from the Mistress. "You are a good gangster aren't you?" Solo said with mocking glee. "Fine then, I'll back off. For now. How dare I stand against the man with the Mauser?" He playfully grinned at Mr. Kaito, "However, the fact still remains that you need the information I am holding.” He had a habit of talking with his hands. Pacing between both Kyubei folk he was calm, collected. “Allow me to accompany you to catch Sawada...and...” Solo paused, “A simple meeting with the Oyabun. Believe it or not, I have actual business to discuss." He winked at Hojo.

At that moment, music filled the air. A surge ran through the crowd, everyone knew what was up.

The Parade.

"So. Do we have a deal?" Solo looked at the both of them, burgundy glimmering with desire both hidden, and visible.

Her magpie eyes narrowed to foreign slits, staggeringly steady despite the lingering annoyance goosepebbling her forearms. The woman's spine ran ramrod straight; fireworks sizzling across her fingertips, absently tapping, absently jabbing at the leather tassells hanging from her belted waist. Her skin was her own; her words belonged to her own lips; her thoughts flowed gloriously, without anyone's incessant queries. Weakness was permanent reliance. If she so chose to share anything, then they would be hers to distribute. Much better, she thought, to rule alone than to hide meekly behind a man; fierce, proud creatures did not cower. A green glow hung in across the swaying masses, the source belonging to a multitude of neon signs somewhere above them, where the point of light was pure and concise, but it spread in a diluted mist over the grey walls. Over Solo's cheekbones. Over the underside of her scarred palms—as if they were some awful breed of fucking Oriental zombies waddling out from a sheet bleary poison, swinging paper lanterns and mystery-meat kabobs from sweaty hands.

The Iron Mistress clutched the blazing pipe between poised fingertips, sidling it between her fingers and occasionally tipping it's heaping contents across the asphalt. The lack of her halfhearted musings around an ellipse-shaped, wooden cigarette struck unruly chords between them. This wasn't easy. Asking for any kind of help was difficult. It was unbearable. It was a suffocating pressure wrapping decrepit fingers around her throat, pressing fingernails, adamantly, into important arteries. This boundless, all-seeing man, Solo the Mad, was a last resort playing card hidden beneath the Arabic folds of her skirts; something only speculated when she was needlessly burning out her resources and exterminating rats, heedless of the results. He'd always been the one with the answers. With the resources. With the solutions. If you wanted an edge, then all you'd need to do is seek him out and offer him something desirable. Something that rectified his own problems or something that guaranteed his good health. His safety was important to all the players, evening out the board and tipping the scales as he saw fit with imperative information. It was insufferable. A fervid snarl anchors itself in the depths of her throat, an angry puff of breath waits at her full lips—but she does not pout. She does not.

Her eyelids ascended and caught Solo's bemused expression and questioning stare, holding it in place. Civility and neighbourly conversations were never the Iron Mistress' strongest suits. They weren't even in the same ballpark. Her cultivated words tasted sour in her mouth; surreal against all the usual dirty, vulgar, obscene phrases cocked, loaded, and ready. “Like a little bitch.” She added firmly, drawing out the sounds more comfortably. Those who'd dealt with Raja understood that her carefully chosen words often sloughed off into heaping piles of uncouth smut when she wearied of pussyfooting around the metaphorical shrubs of business. Her mother used to tell her that some people's weaknesses shun brightly, reflecting tenderness and passion. That wasn't true. It never was. Too weak, too delicate, and the world just chewed them up and spit them out. Raja refused to be seen that way, so feverishly, so resolutely, that she came off mannish and demanding.

Slender feet began tapping impatiently, awaiting the only answer she'd accept. Anything lesser than what she expected would result in harsh reprimands. She didn't need to physically hurt anyone to make their lives a living hell.

This isn't something the Iron Mistress can become accustomed to. It's not something she can carry on doing if she wants to salvage her dignity. Her pride. It's already wavering with the purposefully languid tone spurring from Solo's lips, twisted into a feline's pleased smile. This wasn't like dealing with greasy-haired thugs whose only understanding came from the violent kisses of her fists. Elegant, efficient moves—attack and dodge and duck and thrust and pause, fall back, and throwing thin smiles with a voiceless reply of her own. Dances dealing with charisma were met with grating teeth and white, tightened knuckles. Here she was, standing in front of a crazy, informative guy with a glint in his eyes and a devil-may-care shitfaced smile, without any leads. “Yes, yes. That piece of shit.” She quickly interjected, gesturing wildly with her hands. A man standing directly behind her was mercilessly swatted with the blazing end of her pipe, sprinkling flakes of ash across his shoulder and evoking a hoggish yelp. She ignored him. “It's not about the money anymore.” The Mistress' eyebrows furrowed, then raised enquiringly when Solo motioned towards her neck. Even though the Oyabun's were believed to know everything of their members, it wasn't always so. For a sleazy little bastard like Sawada Nobuyuki, Raja instilled a dull negligence—she didn't want to know you unless you were ambitious. Unless you wholeheartedly proved yourself, not worthy of her, exactly, but worthy of the clans mutual goals. And so, Sawada carried a poisonous snake around his neck to protect his skinny hide from having his throat slit? One that wasn't exactly what it seemed to be. How quaint.

She thought she felt in the short distance something like a cold tremor, hairs standing on edge, a coil tightening around her chest while she watched him. A familiar unease was quickly masked by a heaping handful of anger worming itself from the hollow pitch of her belly. Had his words pitched lower or was she just imagining things? The Iron Mistress resisted the insatiable urge to cringe away—it wasn't exactly Solo that repulsed her. Not at all. It was the comfortable distance being shortened considerably. However, doing so would've been beneath her, so she held her ground and crossed her arms loosely below her breasts. The wind slapped her bronzed cheeks with the scent of rusted metal and rotting take-out, intermingled with body odour and sickly-sweet perfumes. With an involuntary chatter of her drawn lips, grinding teeth and strained shoulders, Raja's clawed fingers sought the fabric of Solo's shirt and drew it's front tightly within her enclosed hand. She forcefully tugged the fabric downwards, meeting Solo's suggestion boldly. “Don't you think you'd be presuming too much?” She asked heatedly, straight through her teeth. “Ha! I've always hated businessmen, Solo.” Her expression morphed in a matter of seconds, into something much more sinister, accompanied by a vehement push across Solo's chest, successfully distancing herself a couple of inches away from his advances.

Men were insufferable. They were the devils on Earth on every inch of her god-forsaken skin.

Rekindling her haughty composure, the Iron Mistress' ears nearly perked upon hearing her clansman’s gritty voice. And right he was. Unless Solo the Mad was offering his very soul and priceless information (and only to her, always), and placed it on a silver platter at her feet, then she wouldn't even consider offering her bedchambers as sanction. Her sheets were restricted to her current, undeniable, fancies. If it wasn't a terrible crash of limbs, a tragic accident, an innocent lambs eyelashes fluttering across her collarbones, at a hundred miles per hour, or a drawn out, intentional meeting within the confines of a condemned building with cracking windows, then Raja was fine sating her own womanly urges. She surrounded herself with danger. That's all she needed. Kaito's slender figure swaggered past her, shouldering Solo a few paces backwards—and she grew more comfortable, more succinct to gnash her teeth if things weren't going her way. There's friendship. There's love. There's partners. There's hatred. And then there's them. A chain forged link by agonizing link with blood and sweat (but never tears) and flesh and bullets and unmentionable sources of intoxication, a chain that could never be broken. Adrenaline and harsh breathing in sync, running, matching her clansman's step-for-step, running all out and too strung out to laugh, but the laughter was there, crazy, maniacal, laughter in every step, in every drop of sweat, every glance sideways. He was there, as ever.

The Mauser reflected within the embers of her eyes, mystified by the paper lanterns' brilliant colours. It was still loosely hidden beneath the folds of Kaito's clothes, peering out like a familiar friend who only offered death and respectively enough: answers. Results. Everything she needed right now. Her lips curled back derisively, ensuing a disappointed sigh and a quick flick of her wrists. The brass trinkets jingled merrily. “No such luck, at least you had you're fun. These parades—” She added sourly, tapping the remnants of the tobacco across the pavement. Though she gave no indication, nor did she outright question him, Raja was surprised that Kaito hadn't found any leads. Usually, she counted on his grisly finesse to bring her opponents to their knees. Though, Sawada was the slimiest toad they'd dealt with for a long time. She straightened her shoulders, then pressed the wooden pipe against her lips, thoughtfully. “We're not animals here, right? I'd say we're quite fair. We give chances. And then, in Sawada's case, we hunt them down when they've proven that their just little fucking pricks. Now, let's try again. You come with us on this merry hunt, and we'll see. I keep my word.” Her buoyant tone, like everything, bespoke very different words. If one read between the lines, she warned to tread carefully.

“We're not animals here, right? I'd say we're quite fair. We give chances. And then, in Sawada's case, we hunt them down when they've proven that their just little fucking pricks. Now, let's try again. You come with us on this merry hunt, and we'll see. I keep my word.” Her buoyant tone, like everything, bespoke very different words. If one read between the lines, she warned to tread carefully. Solo the Mad seemed astutely bemused by the prospect of Kaito removing his respective limbs from his hands, tittering on the edge of a puppy's odd excitability. Brutality, in the mind's of such creatures, arrested a certain fascination. It was something—despite how goddamn pacifistic you claim you are—that lived in all them, hitching tents to stay until you've had enough. Grown too old, too weary. It was probably the only reason people like the Iron Mistress and Kaito had mutual understandings. Violence fucked them like cheap whores. Violence; what makes a man stronger and a woman bitter, angry, feverish. An undulating laugh rattled from Solo's lips, abruptly ceasing; like a falling man's cries being extinguished when his rag-dolled body squelched against the ground.

It seemed like Hojo Kaito—the Dog Catcher—had more fans then she'd wagered. Smiling coquettishly, the Iron Mistress flicked her fingers and arched an inquiring eyebrow at her fellow clansmen as if to silently question whether or not he'd been drunk and did something he regretted. As if he'd suddenly become inspired, written a book, and gathered a sweaty mass of admirers. As Raja studied Solo's outward gestures, she realized how much he reminded her of a fool in motley. His glee was confounding. But, he was right. There was information they needed to wring from Solo, whether it be by force or from an individual much more willing to ply his trades. If they chose to refuse, then they'd be dragging poor souls into alleyways all night. For one slimy bastard evading them. “As if it's something I could refuse,” She drawled lazily, nodding her head. “We have a deal.”

Let's get this bastard cooking.

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.

His foundation shook. His multitude of faces fell away like heavy, ugly curtains, pooling around his feet and remaining wholly ignored. While in Nin's company, the Tanuki needn't display any of his peacock personalities. Diplomacy and deception were reserved for enemies, acquaintances and halfhearted allies that kept him in one piece. Her companionship was comfortable. Cheek dipped his head amiably forward, sharing another saucy smile that excused his tardiness. It wasn't unusual for him to wander the streets, usually skulking homewards when he realized it'd been hours after he'd promised to meet her. He was sure she was used to it by now. His tapered fingers withdrew, feigning hurt at Nin's haughty berating. The mutual twinkles reflected in their eyes, glimmering with lantern lights and bobbing sparklers held poised in grubby fingers. “Little old lady?” He queried curiously, cupping his fingers across his eyes and stooping low, looking this way and that, before straightening to his full height to glimpse across the bustling crowd. “I don't see any old ladies here. Do you?” He laughed merrily, squeezing her shoulder. “I was lookin' for a safe vantage point, is all. Wouldn't want to get caught in any crossfires.”

A series of unconnected thoughts assailed him; swathed in incoherent sweeps. There was something happening within the shadows, hidden from sight. By his unsightly luck, Cheek was damned to become involved. He'd still try his best to linger on the sidelines. He often wondered whether this was what they lost themselves for, this saturated strip of distant summer sky. For all of these violent tendencies for backward loyalties. For brutality, for honour, for release. Nin's willow-tree eyes seemed lost in foreseen futures; clairvoyant abilities he could not possibly envy. If Cheek knew what would happen, would he take advantage of such things, or leave fate's steady hands to deal it's own justice? He did not know. Did she? “Blood, you say—that does not sound pleasant for the festivities.” He added wryly, crooning forward so that he could snatch a small bite from her takoyaki, forgoing the use of his fingers and instead, suavely steadying her crinkled hand with his own and pulling a piece off with his teeth. He chewed pensively, scratching the back of his head. “How you flatter me! Without these,” He motioned with a flourish, “I wouldn't be recognized for what I really am. Tanuki's have a fairly bad reputation. The say, it's best to keep us in line. Now, sushi would be delightful.”

The freckled skin across his cheekbones felt stretched thin, pulled across bones that truly did not belong to him. When had there been a time where they needn't use any disguises? He couldn't recall. Eventually, they all returned to the same places—mingling among humans, ducking their heads out of restrictive places and obeying regulations that kept from them certain things. His dark eyes closed. The lanterns warmth spread across the folds of his eyelids, burning a frightening orange hue behind closed curtains. His medicated, but always misbehaving, heart fought his unseen wars; cowering and beating in rhythmic, fever sick patterns. His eyes fluttered open and Cheek found himself staring at his companion, whose attentions were elsewhere. Her eyes were opened but she was not there with him. She was looking past him. Gently, Cheek's fingers found Nin's elbow and he quizzically frowned. “What dragon?” The question seemed a breathy whisper. Another smile found his lips. Entirely lost.

I cannot protect you.

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.

Kaito's grip on the Mauser was tight enough to turn his knuckles white and pop up every vein on his skeletal hand. He didn't like Solo very much; frankly the guy creeped him out half the time and almost threatened him the other half. Sometimes he considered kicking that kappa friend of his down the stairs just to piss him off or send him spiraling into depression so he wouldn't have to deal with the fuck every time he couldn't extort and/or torture the info he needed out of someone. The pleasure of shooting him here would be tantamount to sex with a willing virgin minus the unseemly stains afterwards, but regardless there was a job at hand, and Raja was better at putting up with these kinds of jerkoffs than Kaito could ever be. Besides, his mistress had already accepted the deal, and although they had a working agreement, Kaito honestly believed the psycho-bitch of an oyabun, beautiful and dedicated though she was, would nail his intestines to a lamp-post and make him start walking the instant he stepped out of line.

Kaito hated his intestines, but he liked living, and so he'd compromised and told himself not to fuck with Raja for now. Especially considering she was the one who signed his proverbial checks and kept him up in booze and other such vices.

"Alright, alright," Kaito said, shrugging, his face impassive. One hand descended to his other pocket, gripping his hidden Glock-22 as he moved the Mauser back to the waist of his pants. "If Raja says you have a deal, I've got no choice but to not kill your rat ass." The shatei lowered his sunglasses and scowled, his face going from neutral to imposingly terrifying in a split second. He took a few strides towards the info broker. "But if I catch you goin' outta line around the oyabun, this -" His hand was a blur; the Glock was at Solo's chin in a split second - "is going to be the last thing you ever feel in your miserable fuckin' life." He pulled the Glock away and stepped back. "'course," he added, "I'm sure that'd be a tender mercy compared t' whatever the Mistress'd cook up for ya."

He looked at his oyabun and then back at Solo. "Well, what're we waitin' for? Every second we stand here gawkin' like fools is another second that slippery fangfucker's puckered asshole is considering his next move; and if we keep waitin' who knows if he'll be where he's at once we start movin'?"