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Hojo Kaito

Shatei of the Kyubei-Kai: "Fuck off, hound dog, this is my street."

0 · 546 views · located in Ingloriously Normal Japan, 20XX

a character in “Bad Hands”, as played by Cypher


The Eight-Fingered Bastard of Namba District
Intro 1: The Voice of the City | Tank!
Intro 2: | I'm a Man
Fight Theme 1: | El Dorado V
Leitmotif: | Power

Name: "The fuck're you askin' for?" Hojo Kaito. Although most people assume this is not his actual name - for good reason - Kaito swears by this being his real one. He has about eighteen others any day of the week though, so it's all relative, really.
Age: "Old enough to know what I'm doing, young enough to get all the bitches." 32 years to the day, although heavy substance abuse and an incredibly hard-knock life give him an appearance somewhere in his mid-to-late forties. And not the handsome kind of mid-to-late forties.
Faction: "Whoever pays my rent, sugartits, I'm really not that picky." Kyubei-kai. Really, if the money is good he'll throw his lot in with anyone. He would work for the Devil himself, so long as his money was green, as the expression goes.
Role: Shatei. He could be so much higher if he would just stop killing people when he wasn't asked to, but through some lucky breaks and a fierce competitive drive (and a complete and total lack of morals), someone who by all means should be nothing more than a simple street punk now leads a squad of wakashu. Granted, it has one of the highest casualty rates in all of the Kyubei-Kai, but... Details.

Complexion: "'s it really matter? My junk still works." Kaito throws his head back and cackles, his skinny chest heaving. Pale and rough, adorned with many tattoos. Years of hard living have left his face and body ravaged and fairly unattractive. The skin around his face seems to sag, his eyes are puffy and dark but always wide-open and alert, and his joints are scaly. He tans like a sheet of paper - that is to say, not at all. His forehead has so many lines on it that it looks like someone took a rake to it.
Body Type: Lanky and skinny, almost unhealthily so. His torso is short and barrel-like, with long, gorrila-esque arms and legs. He looks basically like an emaciated, hairless orangutan. His head is small and bean-shaped and planted on a long, almost impossibly skinny neck. His chicken-legs end in comically large size twelve feet.
Height and Weight: 6'4" and 114 lbs, solid. It seems like either he's naturally done growing or all of the stuff he's put into himself has stunted his growth (and we're not talking caffeine here, kiddies).
Distinguishing marks: "I got my share." He has a full-torso-and-back-and-arms tattoo in typical Yakuza fashion, although over time this has been marred by many knife-wounds, gunshot wounds and needle tracks. He has one massive scar across the right side of his head, starting at his eyebrow, tracking straight across the top of his scalp and terminating at the back of his head. This has interrupted the hairline and never healed properly, leaving one long raised ridge of skin along the side of his head. The hair never grew back there, either, and if you think Kaito would waste time with headgear or a toupe to cover it up, pffffft. Think again. Also, you think he's called "The Eight-Fingered Bastard" for no reason? He's missing the first two joints of both pinky fingers - no, they're not fully removed, but it's so much easier to say "The Eight-Fingered Bastard" than "The Eight-and-One-Third-Fingered Bastard".
Apparent Temperament: At a glance, Kaito is a bum. Legs bent, torso slouched, back bowed forward. He always has his hands in his pockets and his head angled slightly down, and he is usually leaning against something for support. His face is mostly impassive; although his brow is usually bent downward in a permanent scowl and; conversely, he is usually sneering cockily. Closer observation betrays his actual stance; he's always tensed and prepared for a fight, balancing right on the balls of his feet, weight placed firmly in the position that creates the most stability without sacrificing speed and mobility.
Hair and eyes: His hair is a messy dirty-blond, scraggly and wild. He keeps it cut fairly short and gelled upwards in wayward spikes, except for the scar on his head, which is always laid bare by his (terrible) styling skills. His eyes are a faded bluish-gray color, although you have to be very patient to ever see them and the sight isn't really worth it, considering that his eyes are always puffy and bloodshot. Mostly his mirrored aviator sunglasses are considered his eyes.
Facial features: "Pretty handsome, if I do say so myself." Ugly, ugly, ugly. Maybe one day, long ago, he could have been attractive. He has high cheekbones and a pointy, recessed chin accented by a long, pointy nose and large-ish ears. His eyes are puffy and bloodshot, his lips are cracked and chapped and his skin doesn't lay over so much as sag off of his skull. It is heavily lined and permanently marred with stubble, and his mouth is always screwed up in a sneer, clinging to the butt of a smoking cigarette or a toothpick when smokes aren't available - and they usually are.
Wardrobe: The only classy thing about Kaito is his choice of clothing. He has a wide variety of button-down dress shirts, most worn open to the third button over a bare chest beneath, with a single-breasted blazer thrown on over it. He rarely, if ever, wears short sleeves - presumably to cover up the tracks that literally everyone knows are there - and if he has to dress formally his only addition is a tie. Cheap cotton dress pants accompany the shirt and blazer, along with a half-laced pair of combat boots. Sometimes he wears a pair of fingerless gloves. He always has a chain around his neck, and aviator sunglasses are a must.

There is a reason Kaito is called "the Eight-Fingered BASTARD of Namba District". Kaito is the very definition of "XTREME UBER OMEGA ASSHOLE TO THE MAX". He cares little for rank or social status, making no distinction between women and men of class and status and the prostitute on the corner by his apartment; he treats everyone exactly the same. Now, if Kaito were an actual person with human qualities like empathy, sympathy and respect, this would be great. But there's that word "bastard" again. Kaito treats everyone like crap; his most common phrases are insults and threats, and if he complements you it's because (1) he's being sarcastic, or (2) you're a sexy woman and he wants to be inside you, and he feels like being a flirt about it. In place of a moral compass, he has drawn an arrow on a sheet of paper that points straight at whatever he wants at that moment without taking into account the karmic "good" way of doing it. When he wants something, he wants it badly, and now - and this is usually booze or hard narcotics - morphine, freebasing cocaine/heroin, taking any kinds of pills he can get his hands on or drinking exotic liquors. He is also incredibly ruthless towards anything in the way of his desires - he has an endless drive to do better than the next guy, and he's not above murdering, theft or anything else to get there. He also isn't afraid of personal harm, frequently wading into battles way above his league (and below it!) just so he can come out on top.

He's a very prideful beast as well, Kaito. Any insult, meant either in jest or seriously, is grounds for a hailstorm of derogatory insults at best, a physical beating or dismemberment at worst. His temper is on a hair trigger to complement this; within seconds he can go from ecstatic and boisterous to dangerously angry and reaching for the sharp object closest to him. Although he isn't afraid of fighting and getting hurt; however, he is distinctly afraid of death, and as soon as things start to go very wrong for him, he's not above throwing out a cheap shot or two and running for it. He's also not above throwing his wakashu into the fray in his stead, or using them as a "force multiplier". He's no proponent of the "fair play rule", and will always use a gun in a fistfight, a rocket launcher in a gunfight, and whatever youkai he has at his disposal in any other kind of fight. He makes extensive use of his informants, although he abuses them just as openly as any of his subordinates or superiors. As a result, he has no friends in the world, which isn't something he wants anyhow - he's out for power and money, not friends. Friends only get in the way - although that can be good for absorbing bullets or stab wounds, occasionally.
Speech: Has a Kyoto accent, but he speaks so quickly it's nearly obliterated. Swears a lot (mothers, shield your childrens' ears and eyes). Accents his speaking with frequent hand gestures. When he's angry, or annoyed, or sarcastic, he yells a lot, and loudly.
Pet Peeves: People who are really uptight, people who enjoy invading personal space, J-Rock fans, young people, old people, sober people, drunk people, rich people, poor people, cars with obnoxious paint jobs/decals, cheap beer, expensive wine, disappointing movies (not bad ones), bad acid fantasies, skinny jeans, emo hair, getting the wrong change, coffee that he burns his mouth on, anything related to Katy Perry, everything in Japan, everything on Earth, everything in the solar system, everything in the galaxy, everything in the universe, everything, everything, everything... And Blue Kool-Aid.
Favorite color: Red. Brown is another favorite because it's what red fades into.

Specialty: Kaito is a masterful dirty fighter; if fighting dirty were an artform, Kaito wouldn't be its Michelangelo or its Da Vinci, he would be its goddamn patron saint. Backstabbing, groin attacks, sand/dirt/dust/salt in the eyes, if you name it, he's probably used it. He loves using his surroundings to his advantage; any table leg is a bludgeon, any candle and tablecloth and alcohol is a firebomb, every empty bottle a shiv. He also enjoys misdirection; his loudmouthed, showboaty behavior is perfect for holding baddies' attention while either he or one of his heavies preps an attack behind his back. As mentioned before, he's all about superior escalation of conflict; a knife-fight gets a gun, a gunfight gets explosives.
Fighting Style: Fast, quick, clean and quiet. Usually from behind.
- Glass Cannon: Unleash Kaito on a fight, especially when nobody's looking, and it can be over in seconds. Kaito can even still deal some pretty decent damage. However, you let him take a hit and he goes down like whoa.
- Prideful SOB: Insult him and he's likely to get pissed off and come after you. This anger makes him reckless though; and leaves him more open to attack, like always.
- Distraction: Much of his fighting depends on misdirection; if you can get past the mouth and the swirling hands and feet and see what he's really up to, you can stop him fairly easily.
- Only Human: Exactly what it says on the tin. Kaito is, for all intents and purposes, human. He has no youkai in him whatsoever, which makes him considerably more fragile than any heavies (ex. oni, satori, etc.) in the party at the time.
- No Loyalties: If you hand him a wad of cash he'll be your best friend in the next throwdown, unless someone pays him more, or paid him more first. People who come to trust him can just as quickly find a knife in their back as they can in someone else's guts.
Preferred Weaponry: Guns and knives. Preferably butterfly knives, balisong, switchblades or anything with a thumb loop to perform tricks with.
Inventory: Amongst more mundane things (cigarettes, loose change/bills, receipts and such), he always carries a Glock 22 stuffed into the waistband of his pants at the middle of his back; although occasionally he carries a back holster for it. He has a sling holster that he occasionally wears with a C96 Pistol in it. As for melee equipment, he carries a bag of coarse-grit sand and a very sharp butterfly knife, along with several empty needles (depending on whether or not he's close to a trash can at the time).

Hobbies: Aside from shooting thugs and/or hard drugs, Kaito folds origami; although all he can do is cranes. It was an activity suggested as a calming exercise by a childhood anger management therapist; and although it rarely works, Kaito likes the little cranes and so held onto the skill. He's gotten to the point where, when he isn't shaking from withdrawals, he can make cranes that are tiny enough to sit on pinheads, an intricate and delicate procedure only a few people can say they can do. He also occasionally plays guitar in an on-again-off-again rock band called the Bad Hands (see what I did there?). He's not the greatest guitarist ever, but not too many people have the balls to say that to his face, and the guys that have said it usually don't have the balls to do anything that balls normally do anymore.
  • Rock 'n' Roll. He digs the fact that for once there's somewhere that his lifestyle is "acceptable", even if it's in a rock and roll song that maybe more than a little bit fictionalized, but oh well. Give the guy his fantasies. God knows what will happen if you don't.
  • Hard narcotics. Cocaine, heroin, amphetamines, Qaaludes, morphine, uppers, downers, screamers, laughers, red pills, blue pills, pain pills, happy pills, sad pills, sleeping pills, love potions, hate potions, cursed potions, if you can think of it, Hojo's probably on it and five other things that day. His body is such a lethal playground for chemical cocktails that many doctors who have looked him over in the past several years wonder how he not only manages to stay alive, but stay active in his line of business. "I did formaldehyde once," is his usual sarcastic response.
  • Alcohol. He has a fondness for releasing the Fairy in the Bottle, so to speak. Kaito has a strong affinity for the drink; particularly for scotch and gin, although he'll drink whatever's on hand. There's even an interesting story floating around about his having sampled distilled rocket fuel once, as a dare.
  • Women. Tall, short, skinny, fat, light, dark, Kaito isn't picky. He loves them and leaves them just as quick, and doesn't really care how he gets it.
  • David Bowie. Kaito is a not-so-secret Bowie fanboy. Most of his music is reissues of the Brit's old albums, he has a David Bowie poster above his bed and one of his sweaters has the Aladdin Sane lightning bolt across it. He occasionally requests people refer to him as "Major Tom", and when he's on a hit he refers to his employers as "ground control". If people make fun of him for it, they usually end up either dead or with a few years knocked off their life expectancy. One way to get on his good side is to bring him a piece of David Bowie memorabilia.
  • Ladyboys. That is, very effeminate men. They baffle and annoy him.
  • Weak beer.
  • Con-men. Not because it's dishonest, but because they managed to do better than him. The nerve of some people!
  • Pretty much everything and anything else in the world.
Fears: He has a very distinct and profound fear of death and dying, which also connects to a fear of hospitals. Oni don't scare him, but in a fight he's always much farther away from them - especially red oni - than anyone else is. He doesn't like seeing his own blood or generally being in pain. Quiet, dark rooms put him on edge and make him jumpy. Also the fear of not having a fix is always a motivating factor, primarily related to the first one.
Agenda: Quite simply, power. It's unknown what caused Kaito to suddenly develop a gigantic Napoleon complex, but one day he just up and decided that being a street thug wasn't enough for him, and so he proceeded to get on a warpath against his own poverty. He perceives "Poverty" as where-ever he is at the moment, which means that nothing is ever good enough, and he always wants more than what he has. If there's a chance for him to grow in status, he'll make a grab for it, regardless of the risk to himself and others.
Where they hail from: Namba District, Osaka prefecture.
Relations: He was an only child and his mother and father are dead and sentenced to life in prison, respectively. The boys he used to roll with are long since gone, as are many of his old enemies. Every relation he ever has usually ends extremely prematurely.
Notable Experiences: Dropped out of high school in the ninth grade due to legal issues and immediately went to the streets. He's been playing the crime game ever since. Other than that, you'd be lucky to get anything out of the guy. And no, he won't tell you where he got that scar.

So begins...

Hojo Kaito's Story

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#, as written by Cypher
Undisclosed Location, Somewhere in Osaka, 08 Jan 20XX

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.

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Character Portrait: Raja the Iron Mistress Character Portrait: Hojo Kaito Character Portrait: Solo The Mad
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#, as written by Cypher
Osaka, a dirty little pisspot filled with opportunity

"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?"

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Character Portrait: Raja the Iron Mistress Character Portrait: Hojo Kaito Character Portrait: Solo The Mad
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"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. β€œAllow me to accompany you to catch Sawada...and...” Solo paused, β€œA 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.

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Character Portrait: Raja the Iron Mistress Character Portrait: Hojo Kaito Character Portrait: Solo The Mad
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#, as written by Cypher
Osaka, where the sky just got a little brighter (despite the rain)

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'?"

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Raja the Iron Mistress Character Portrait: Hojo Kaito Character Portrait: Solo The Mad
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The deal had been made, and despite being held at gunpoint by 'The Dog Catcher' (which Solo half enjoyed, especially that threatening tone in his voice), it all went rather smoothly. Much better than he had anticipated. Somehow, Solo expected to have to force his hand, but it really had appeared that the Iron Mistress and her soldiers were in one hell of a bind.

That's why people came to him. That's why they all came to him. One way or another, anyone who wishes to get ahead in this country seeks him out. It was for this very reason that Solo The Mad simply adored his job. It was a position of power completely independent of those other spots. See, people like Raja before him, or Terajima's Isamu...they were only powerful so long as their gangs retain control. It was shaky, risky. Too...what was the word? It wasn't...stable. Now, the role of an information broker, a very good information broker, means that you stay relevant. Your power, your mark never fades. People will run to you when they seek an edge. The 'war' in Osaka is a perfect example of the permanence of the Broker. The gangs want to win? They come to him. One gang comes for help on an attack on one gang, then, he uses that same information on the coming attack as leverage with the next gang. It's a cycle that continues the bloodshed, and lines his pockets.

It was a damn beautiful thing.

"There is a tide in the affairs of men," Solo recited coldly. He pulled from his coat pocket his phone, with a few swipes of his finger along the screen a map of the city appeared. A blinking green blip marked an area just a few blocks away, "Your man is hiding out just down the way from here," He tapped the screen again, words appeared along the blip, "The Butterfly. Ah, i've been there. It's a love hotel. Ironic that he's hiding out there. That snake is the only action the worm's probably gotten." There was a wicked look on the broker's face. "I suggest we take a small team. The Butterfly isn't that large of a building, too big of a squad will alert him--and we'll have to get the jump on Noboyuki if we hope to avoid that thing." Solo wiggled his hat. There was a fire burning in his belly, and it wasn't all of that eel he downed earlier into the festival. He was excited.

"Shall we?"

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Raja the Iron Mistress Character Portrait: Hojo Kaito Character Portrait: Solo
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The Butterfly - The Coal In The Rough

The sketchy little love shack loomed before the trio. The rose colored lights flickered through the ratty looking curtains. A neon sign on the front depicting the building's name had just seen its final pink letter flicker out of existence. They stepped closer to the lair. Solo's ears twitched at the sound of passionate moans from within. He smirked wide.

"The primrose path indeed..." Slowly, he pushed open the door. As rosy light poured out, he turned to his 'comrades'. "Well, let's not keep the little shit waiting, yeah?"
The inside was even more disgusting than he anticipated. The air was laden with different odors. Smells of food, pleasure, and other less appealing bodily functions lingered in the halls. Solo guarded his nose by pinching it with his thumb and index. The trio approached the lobby. Behind a tattered desk, a wrinkled woman donned in a bright pink wig flipped the page in her book. Pop, pop, pop! The information broker cringed. He hated when people popped their gum.

"Excuse me..." The woman paused. Taking a corner of her page, she creased it to save her spot in the book. Solo watched her while she nudged it to the side, wanting to see the cover. He cringed; it was one of those trashy romance novels you could find in the grocery store. The ones with the live action picture on the front with the long haired man with the rippling chest. The cover was the only enjoyable part of those books for him. The woman lowered her glasses. With a pop of her gum, and a roll of the eyes, she reached under the counter, and pulled out a rusty bronze key.

"One bed right? It's the top floor, to yer left. Watch the second floor steps, they move."

Solo grimaced. He turned to the Iron Mistress.

"Why don't you take point?"

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Character Portrait: Hojo Kaito Character Portrait: Solo The Mad
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The Catcher and the Hound – Rough Days Are Rollin'

She'd seen her fair share of brothels, dingy little love shacks, and grossly overpriced prostitute stations. The smell of incense was thick and heavy in the air – to hide the musky smell of sweaty bodies, sickly odours and heavy-petting activities. Inside, a husky servant mutely offered takes their coats and hats, proffered hands sweeping outward, until nothing dropped into his fingers. Mutual stares of aggression sent him backtracking behind the wooden desk like a scuttling crab. A dozen screens displayed a variety of girls: blondes, redheads, brunettes, with skin of almost every hue. Some were nude; others had cheaply made oriental costumes. Most of them were alone, quietly, silently, obediently waiting. Some sat demurely; others display themselves in poses that made the Iron Mistress screw up her eyes in consternation. Breasts bared and thighs jiggling with slow, methodical movements.

β€œTweak some nipples and see what happens, boys – let's get in, get the fuck out, and enjoy ourselves. It's not every day I catch one of my own being naughty.”

The Iron Mistress nodded, gesturing idly, before stepping aside so that Solo could take the lead. Even she could admit that she wasn't familiar with this place – didn't know the ins or outs of the hallways or where, exactly, that little slime bag would be squatting. Invincible, untouchable. She felt an electrifying thrum pulsing down her forearms, thick as syrup in her veins. She was raw. She was explosive. She worked on gut instinct, winding together like well-oiled cogs: decisively cruel. As a child – it was what she lived for. Climbing trees and breaking bones, riding bikes into poles and grazing knees. She liked action, liked adrenaline rushes. The bubble-popping receptionist only curried her renewed aggression, callow and coarse. Her thoughtfully allocated steps brought her in front of the desk. Instead of resorting to passive conversation like Solo had, the Iron Mistress slapped the bronze key from the lady's manicured fingers and grabbed her chin, pulling forward, hard. The woman's eyes bulged hotly: half from surprise, half from the stripling fear that she'd be forced to carry out the command while her face was captive: β€œBest swallow that gum, tits.”

The wrinkled woman swallowed thickly. The Iron Mistress smiled, leaning across the chipped wooden desk, artfully decorated with pen scrapings and heart-encircled names, until she finally released her with a final cheek-pat. She snatched up the fallen key, pinching it between her fingertips as if she were dangling a bone in front of a dog. This was going to be a beautiful, sweaty, messy prize. She tipped her head forward, ushering them to fall in behind her. Graceful, as always. Even if she wasn't particularly known for her precautions, she didn't feel like throwing it all in the wind and getting caught with her panties down. Her steps, while calculatingly slow, seemed to avoid the creaking planks and possible rotting areas – and her blood, her blood sang the closer they came. It was in the twist of her lips. It was the way she unconsciously cradled the hilts of her throwing daggers, strapped disconcertingly across her upper thigh. There it was: his door. Was he waiting? Was he blubbering in the corner?

He would kneel.