Description

Reminder: Your character still has NPCs to run with and boss around, but you, the roleplayer, just won't get to make the NPC act and react.
Consider the NPCs part of the World, like objects and locations: something to investigate and interact with.

An NPC most likely won't beat your character in a fight. An NPC probably won't want a fight if they know your character.
NPC portions will be highlighted with a modest brown.
TREAT YOUR UNDERLING NPCs WELL! Or don't. But if you're smacking them around every other minute and yelling at them and hurting their feelings just to look badass, only a select few will not have their mood and loyalty affected. On the other hand, exceptionally nice bosses might get a minion so faithful to the point of sacrificing himself... or a minion who considers the boss a weak bastard, and thinks she could do a muuuch better job.
Remember! No mindless drones here. :) They'll be watching your behavior and forming opinions, just like people in real life.
You may request minor backstories with an underling, such as "Josh saved Mickey's life once." But if you start getting ridiculously detailed in your requests ("Josh saved Mickey and now they're in loooove and they once had sex but then Mickey's amnesia started acting up and so they have this sort of awkward thing going but one day the flames will be rekindled and"), uh. Go app a second character. >:|

T e r a j i m a - g u m i

Name: Terajima Makoto, the Demon Queller
Race: An arguably sassy woman nearing her golden years. Fifty-six if that is, for some reason, not enough information.

Appearance: Equipped with the poised chin of a sniffing feline and the table manners of a queen, Makoto-dono exudes majesty; dust tracked in by her significant other tucked away behind neatly laced fingers and unhurried beams. She's habitually sweeping her wrinkled forehead clean of dangling hair strands, modestly peering at unexpected flattery through peripheral visions and thoroughly contained lady-chuckles. Finely fashioned brows need not raise more than minutely to make a massive and universally understood point: If you don't stop that nonsense right now, mister, she's going to have to upgrade to the palms-fastened-firmly-over-the-hip-bones. And that means you are in deep shit. You do not want to be in deep shit. In her prime, no color was left undyed in her groomed, bobbed hair, and though such is not currently the case (the grays are coming in, and any unnatural hue just comes across as whorish), the choice of cut has not been tampered with. Just as age has coaxed her into more conservative decisions, her wardrobe is a matter of tasteful reds and blues, and she carries a parasol for every occasion.

Personality: She does not appreciate complaints when she is, with undoubtedly good intent, pointing out the (somehow) overlooked obvious, for she cannot comprehend how one can go about with their lives undesirable of fixing those irksome little things such as sagging pants and unkempt hair. Accusing her of nagging garners a split-second sneer and the eternal cold shoulder—the one known exception, of course, being the manbeast with foul hair, to whom she'd given her hand. A bit silly of her, she'll think, at times wondering if she ought to have taken the proposal literally and been done with it. She goes about life prudently, expertly. While you're flailing in the ocean of experience with your rubber duckie patterned arm floats, she's Michael fucking Phelps. She's the mom sitting on the living room couch who abruptly flicks on the light when you've come home two hours late. She's the mastermind swiveling around and stroking a cat the moment you enter her office. She's the woman who knows what you're doin' without having to look up from what she's doin'. You don't scare her. Do your worst, because she's fairly certain she's seen it done three times better at least twice.

Those who frequently walk with her, on the other hand, the ones walk by her side under cherry blossoms and the ones who lap at her feet, are treated an amicable familiarity, receiving unreserved praise and coyly whispered secrets: "Did you know that just three festivals ago, our Oyabun tripped on my dress the way out of the limo? I didn't know who should have been more embarrassed!"

Misc:

She generally tilts her head at jokes, even with quivering lip edges and a flash of perfect teeth.
She watches TV like a lion watches a dying, braying antelope; polish nails digging into her knees, ready to pounce on Bae Yong Joon in the middle of his heartwrenching confessions. That is, unless Isamu has the remote.
She's also very particular about the smell of things, often comparing them to taste. "You smell too sour today, dear. Did you not use my shampoo?"

W i l d D o g s

"Nee-san, you sure about this?"

Name: Hideyoshi Jigen
Race: Human.
Appearance: Outside his freshly dry-cleaned silk suits, he is the definition of unkept and scruffy. His hair is a tangled mess stretching as far as his shoulders, his knuckles are always mysteriously bruised or peeling, tattoos line his entire torso up to his neck, piercings adorn both ears, and he spits at the idea of anything less than a stubble. Also? Eyepatch. Yarrr pirate yakuza ahoy ahoy. But the good news is that he steers clear from intoxicants and hallucigens, so outside the numerous scars from yokai-related scuffles, he's pretty damned healthy. This is a man of eavy cheekbones and very very tired eyes--well, from what you can tell on the eyes thing.
And Tae says he has the swag of a soulja boy written on his features, but he doesn't, so don't believe her.
Personality: Confines his sarcasm to mumbling, because he's stingy about his jokes. Jigen hates sharing in general, being a perpetual opportunist out for his own benefit. All or nothing is this guy's philosophy, and you'll find no faster way to peeve him than to force him to leave a job half-done, a suitcase half-empty, a target half-alive. But this doesn't mean he likes working, oh no, he just likes results. This is a man who received the majority of his good grades by signing another kid's paper... and this goes for a pretty damned lot of his bad grades, as well. Point was, he got away with foul play. That and getting to shove someone's nose in the sand in the process, that's what matters, that's what fulfills him. Also looking badass when there's explosions in the background; that, fulfills him, too.
Still, he's pretty laid back, and a pretty damned decent designated driver to have around.
Misc:

Is he winking or blinking?!
He is a chronic finger snapper, snapping to music, snapping to searches of his memory bank, snapping to poetry, snapping for attention, snapping like a snapping turtle.
There's not a living thing he loves more than his purple Toyota Supra; which is precisely why he leaves it at home when he's called on to arrange getaways and deliver shipments. He's adamantly refused to take his baby out for a job ever since this hostage fucker tore up part of the back seat.
Big fan of Italian gangster movies--some (such as his parents) suspect it to be the reason he let himself get caught up in the yakuza in the first place. Robert De Niro is his hero. Hero Niro.
He also likes (playing) videogames (in his boxers and a muscle shirt), but GameFAQs is his best friend.
Bombs and knives are his brothas, while guns only cooperate with him at point blank. Depth perception, y'know.

S t r a y s

Name: Sawada Noboyuki, the Unlikely
Race: Quivering mass of emotional issues. Human, that is.
Appearance: Your obligatory loser of the tale, complete with wide-eyed visage and doofy facial hair. He is pale, not of the alluring type, but of days, weeks shielded from daylight. Large-framed prescription lenses earn him hip points. Pressed shirts, starched collars, wristwatches worth more than your life's savings—such belongings would indicate a man of status, and in Sawada's instance, this couldn't be further from the truth. Underneath the fine fabric is nothing of great importance. Shoulders slouch and feet scuffle. Look closely and evidence reveals itself, telling hints of a limited wardrobe, of clothes that have been worn far too repeatedly, and of hems that are dying of fashion fatigue. What distinguishes Noboyuki from the throaway souls is the exotic piece that adorns his neck or tucks beneath his lapels. Thought snake belts were stylish? Try wearing a reptile as a scarf.

But this accessory is very much alive and harbors, rumors be damned, talents of legend. The shapeshifting form speaks alluringly, probes the mind and rarely relents. It is a woman, so they say. Naturally the only way for him to be granted company of the opposite sex would be if said girl was a snake. Of course.

Personality: Denied his father's stature and masculinity, Noboyuki was left soggy, rotting scraps from the gene pool, the kind that even desperate science fish wouldn't nab for a meal. Inheritance took the piss out of him, picking up all the wrong traits for a laugh: Empathy laces his words, which pour out like tear-laden confessions, not so much endearing as they are irritating; the urge to gamble strikes at high noon and doesn't cease 'til the bills in his wallet are but a distant memory; his wills are weak, his morals ambiguous, and if it hadn't been for the power nestled in his pocket, he would have been prey ages ago. Here is a man who recently decided to do something with his life, standing up against the gangsters to mixed results and thousands in debt. Gotta start somewhere.

Misc:

He's a misfit of Korean descent, born from Seoul-based parents who would rather not acknowledge his existence.
Sawada would be a rather intelligent fellow if common sense wasn't so rare.

So begins...

Story Hands [NPC's]'s Story

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Setting

Ingloriously Normal Japan, 20XX

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#2012-02-06 04:36:21, as written by Tæfarós

The Bōryokudan Come for a Party and Stay for a Funeral

Call 'em bōryokudan—violence groups.

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!]

Setting

Ingloriously Normal Japan, 20XX

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#2012-02-07 07:32:50, as written by Wudgeous

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.

Setting

Ingloriously Normal Japan, 20XX

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#2012-02-21 02:06:17, as written by Tæfarós

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..."

Setting

Ingloriously Normal Japan, 20XX

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#2012-03-12 00:16:55, as written by Tæfarós

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

He was stricken with the familiarity of a different sort of gokudo, the sort who sashayed in pink and flaunted superiority before his tattooed brethren, citing lines from Korean soaps in lieu of urgent business. Isamu, per usual, was endlessly amused as he found Tomoe, but also grateful for his company—there was nothing like a bit of well-organized ruckus to get him grasping at nostalgia again, and though he reveled in the bliss of the lights and the sounds and the spectacle as if they were a novelty, as if he could reach out and catch ticker tape like fallen sakura petals, he feared becoming forever trapped in this haze, to be blindsided by this youthful aura. From the kitsune, he knew vignettes of doubt sprouting amongst the clansmen; said loyalty could only hold up for so long 'til the memory started dwindling and indecision took hold. How they wouldn't hesitate to devise a new order if the opportunity permitted. Yet, he looked to the mikoshi for solace. He saw the men united by garment and cause, so relentless in their support and spirit. Such a sight, fundoshi excluded, made him swell with pride.

The godfather lay a hand on his adviser's shoulder, signaling an end to the submissive greeting. The same hand lightly whapped the saiko komon against the back of his head. Good-natured abuse, that was. "C'mon, kiddo, look around you. Can't have you miss what's right in front of us." All in jest, of course: His words, playfully phrased, brimmed with levity, rolled R's, and Kansai-ben; his expression, furrowed at the brow, turned wry. "Knew you wouldn't miss a chance to dress pretty for the boys. The get-up's good, very geisha of you. And speaking of boys..."

What did they have here? A victim of harem seduction, no doubt. Isamu forewent spoken introductions for a curious, stranger-on-the-subway glare and a cocked head, measuring up Tomoe's confidant like he would approach a red ogre with a spiked club. He sniffed, not too subtly, at the dampened scent that wafted from the lad. Drifting from era to era had granted him with many an acquaintance, most inhuman in nature, and after a moment's contemplation, tengu, long of nose and wet of feather, seemed like a reasonably educated guess. He knew these fellas. Carried chips on their shoulders and used 'em for weaponry, if the Terajima brood was anything to go by. The mere thought of them creased his lips into a smile, small fangs revealed, and his inviting look to the man relieved any tension surrounding them—or heightened it. To call the glint in his eye devilish was understating and offensive in its tiredness. Either way, he felt rather silly afterward.

"Pleasure, truly. We're the yakuza, and I see ya've met our pin-up girl," he said, tossing an arm round the adviser's shoulders, voice raised over the cacophony. "Like what we've done with the place?"

Delightful as this was, something was afoot. Prompted by the humming in his pocket, he fished out his smartphone, and after a spot of elderly struggling with the touch screen, he found an alarm—not to mention a message from a friend who, confined to the beaches of Hawaii, insulted him with the utmost sincerity—warning them of events to come. Indeed, the mikoshi's sudden vanishing would cause quite a panic were one not to notice its quickening pace as it appeared to break away from the festival troupes. The yakuza supporting it gave out one last chant before detouring from the common path, and the oyabun, though relieved that plans had not yet gone astray, did not take this as a sign to rest.

He faced the both of them, gestured curtly, and began to pursue the pheonix house: "You two—walk with me."

That shit was an order.

After a reprieve, they moved with haste, and with knowledge of the Alpha driving forward motion, they reigned upon Shirogane like lightning of Raijin. But this was a quiet storm: hidden from view, lowly poised, the juveniles went swiftly with high ardor, trotting in the shadows of their more experienced comrades, going, going, going still. It was remarkable—what had seemed to be a suicide mission had now shifted into a display of tact and espionage; Osaka didn't cry of their attendance, but turned a blind eye, rather, settled into oblivion of the task at hand. The Dogs were not enemies. They did not wage war against the dancing folk, and they did not initiate shouting contests with the performers. They were one amongst the denizens, to laugh and to weep beside them, to throw caution to the wind and drink their sorrows away.

But they were aware, and they ran. Unseen, they cut across the way of the shrine lawn, hugging its perimeter, hiding in the greenery. Although the stairway to the honden was a death trap, there was always a workaround. The mikoshi drew ever closer, and as it approached, the Beta would hear salvation from the earpiece: twenty soldiers, fifteen of which were kamikaze, were at her disposal, and one appeared before her to confirm the situation. It was Itoi, a commandeering kappa in human guise.

"From the Alpha!" he claimed, breathless, to Kaori and Hayato, bowing before them as he revealed a small amulet. Crafted from vile magic, it would resemble the pheonix-shaped piece that adorned the Queller's neck. "If she is to reach the sanctuary before us, we can still get to her. With enough persistence, the barrier will be drained." The dragon was dead, after all.

He resisted the urge to question the source of her wounds. The contrived scheme, he inferred, was taking its toll on their leader. Apprehensiveness kept him obedient, but he would surely bolt on instruction. Itoi added: "We had minor difficulty with grouping everyone. The rival factions are everywhere. Please forgive us, Beta."

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Story Hands [NPC's]

0 · 427 views · located in Ingloriously Normal Japan, 20XX

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

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Story Hands [NPC's]'s Story

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