â˛âźâ˛âź JUNKO takayama âźâ˛âźâ˛
A single cobalt ray made way through the thin crack between heavy curtains, a flickering beacon of light in the night of the room. It followed a path over haphazardly removed boots, and a stretched out scarf, up to the sleeve of a woolen coat lying messily on the sheets, and it curved over the shape of a motionless body underneath the covers. The young yakuza woman lay still on her back, black eyes half-lidded and staring up at the peeling ceiling. Dark purple streaked her eyes having forgotten to wipe the coverage up hours before. She needed not to crane her head to the lucky cat clock hanging by her door. She always woke up at the same time. It was just a matter of when she got out.
She wishes she could stay. Junko would never say that aloud, nor acknowledge it personally, but the morning was quiet. It was predictable. Because there was nothing to predict. Nothing except that in about five minutes she would hear footsteps pace outside her door, which usually belong to her little Akecchi, headed to freshen up for school. The low rumbles of the water pipes would course through the wooden floors of their aging rowhouse. And she would probably spend too much time on her face to realize that she would be running late. This short 30 minute period on weekday mornings was probably the closest to the âordinaryâ life Junko had always fantasized of. A sudden pang of the previous dayâs events knocked on Junkoâs thoughts and then threw her back into the real world.
Momentary vertigo accompanied Junkoâs movements as she sat up in her bed, her eyes still glazed over with a film of contemplation and exhaustion. She sat hunched over, somewhat uncomfortable having remained in her clothes from last night as opposed to her nightwear. She clamped a cold hand to her forehead and pushed her hair back, remembering the brief moment of escape with Hani in that sultry cafĂŠ. She stood and walked over the scattered objects on her dusty floor to her own bathroom. Slovenly, she tossed her garments across the tiles and beared the showerâs ice cold water on her tepid body. A quick dry-off with a towel and a makeup remover rag later, she stood naked in front of her mirror, feeling the closest to pure a hitwoman could feel. In a stride she put on a dark blue crewneck and black tight jeans. Topping her armor was a fresh new mask-- nothing out of the ordinary that day. Just the run-of-the-mill black wing and nude lipstick, and generally liked what she saw. Before leaving her room, she picked up her purse and her .380 lying in her wardrobe.
As expected, the twenty-three-year-old finished her morning routine before her younger sister. High schoolers care too much, she supposed. Walking toward the stairs, she passed by her younger brotherâs room-- his door left ajar and the young bozo in question snoring naked on his floor. Of course. She quickened her stride and sure enough, downstairs her brotherâs latest victim was at the door, putting on her shoes for her escape. The girl was just a kid, probably even younger than Akecchi. She turned wide-eyed at the sheer coolness of the big sister, her movements hastening to get the hell out. Poor thing, probably had some traumatizing fight with her daddy or something. Thatâs how Seiji picked up most of his girls. Junko wouldâve taught him otherwise, âcept itâs kinda just how the way things are with the men in her family. All of them.
Junko stood silently, her presence as foreboding as her look. As if she had a band of men at her side. She looked down in contempt, watching the girl struggle with her excuses. âIâm Seijiâs friend,â he let me stay,â Iâve nowhere else to go.â Her face remained unchanging, her eyes black daggers. The girlâs excuses turned into insults, most likely just a plan B defense. Not that Junko cared. Scaring the kid off might save her from falling into their lifestyle. She didnât seem cut out for it, and this was the womanâs way of showing mercy.
Incoherent babbles were all that left the now sobbing kid when Junko decided to finally pull the plug. âGet the fuck out of my house.â Poor thing. She yelped before making her escape, her shirt still unbuttoned and hanging loosely from her purple and blue chest. Junko oughta strangle her brother for playing rough with children, but sheâs got work to do. A job, really. She greeted her motherâs shrine, small and simple on the countertop, then left for the casino.
The sullen lieutenant wasn't anti-social or anything. It was more like she didnât have a natural penchant for parties. Okay, no, wrong-- sheâs the goddamn outcast of outcasts. Her job requires her to show up only to smooth shit over if any of her little brothers got out of line. And even with the bigger missions, theyâre usually ran solo. Not to mention the extent of her connections were mostly acquaintanceships or brief clientele. So much surprise was met with her appearance at The Little Lady. The place wasnât nearly like her usual drinking spots, but if anything, it was refreshing. Then of course came the recognition of certain faces.
Shackles raised higher than they naturally had. Smoothly, she walked over to the bar, but changed her mind about the drink, feeling the need to distance herself from big boy Zaire, more for the sake of having nothing to say to him than an actual precaution, though that's important to not as well. A young scamp made his way, making Junko press onto the lady behind her. Slightly chuffed, she was granted the satisfaction of seeing the boy blunder-- on the baby Zaire nonetheless. She made her way to a table in the corner, facing away from the crowd. Alone, she wonders what was she even thinking? This wasnât where she belonged. Her portrait is that in front of a band of extortionists and fallen bodies. Business. This place wasnât her business. There were, god forbid, children in the area. Even amidst the most prolific individuals of the underworld, she didnât belong there.
Junoâs internal soliloquy was interrupted with the sound of broken glass, and a slew of profanities. She looked vacantly across the empty seat, tensing under the air. Of course a room with both the Bates and the Zaires would ultimately end up this way. Hand clutched over her revolver, she stayed hidden, listening to the exchange. She would only involve herself if necessary-- is what she told herself until she heard a familiar chime of a voice. The Japanese woman turned her head abruptly to the scene, eyes magnetized to her relatively delicate companion clinging onto the arm of the hunk of dynamite. She looked so small next to him.
The yakuza woman stood slowly from her seat, making brief eye contact with the eldest of her allies before returning her specs to the woman she had no control over. Only hope. When they left the scene, leaving a mess of overturn tables and broken glass, Junkoâs eyes stayed glued to the exit. Whatever was eating at Bel was beyond Junkoâs concern-- itâs the one whoâs tagged along sheâs worried about. What a party. For now, she couldnât think of how else to approach the situation besides glancing toward the Bates. Her eyes read only one thing, as did many others. Whatâs their next move?