Reprisal
By katz
A low scraping sound filled the room as Tofu prepared the knife
for the coming battle, running the blade over and over again on the
whetstone. Satisfied with its sharpness, he turned it over looking for
cracks. He caught his reflection in the blade and it held him. How
quickly the past catches up with us, he thought. How quickly it
ages us. He put the whetstone away and began the next step of
preparation.
He reached into his belt and pulled out the vial. It was
filled with an oily substance the color of old paper. He removed the
stopper and pulled out a swab, dipping it into the vial and pulling it
out. A faint scent almost like pine oil wafted up from the poison as he
applied it to the blade with all the care and precision of his craft. It
was potent stuff, more than enough to kill an ordinary adult male, but it would
probably just slow Mousse down. That is, if he’s fully recovered from the
Red. If not, it could be that the long hunt will be over with a mere
scratch of the blade.
Tofu sheathed the knife and looked up at the old man seated across
from him. He was a professional, the old one. He retained his
silence and his composure the entire time, looking surprised only once when
Tofu came up from behind with the knife. Even now, the old man gazed
fixedly at him, his face an expressionless mask. There was no need for
words.
The phone rang once, twice before the old man picked it up.
He brought it up to his ear, listening for a moment before responding.
“Good even... Quite all right, sir… Very well,
sir.” He had barely put the phone down when Tofu was behind him, pressing
the point on the back of his neck that would render him unconscious. He
slumped forward, head hanging as though he had fallen asleep.
Tofu put on his coat and shouldered the duffel pack he had set on
the floor. He stepped out onto the balcony, lighting a cigarette and
taking one long drag before tossing it to the street below. It was show
time.
***
“You live at The Imperial?” Nabiki asked, genuinely impressed. The
Imperial was usually reserved for celebrities, business tycoons, or government
elite. “Not bad for a country bumpkin from China.”
Mousse shrugged. “They give me a good price.”
She raised her eyebrows. “Is that so?”
He shrugged again and smiled at her questioning look. “My adopted family
has many resources at its disposal. I like to use them. Shall we go
in?”
He offered his arm to her and she took it with a smile. He got over his
nervousness on the drive over, where she continued to tell him stories about
who she called ‘the Nerima Wrecking Crew,’ a very apt name from what he’d
seen. Nothing was going to happen, he had told himself over and over
again like a mantra. She was going to come up, they were going to talk
some more, and then she would go home. Nothing was going to happen.
Nothing at all. Oh, how his brothers and sisters would laugh if they
could see him.
“Excuse me,” Mousse said as they passed by the manager’s desk. He gently
removed his arm from hers.
“Is something wrong?” Nabiki asked.
“It’s nothing, just a security precaution,” he said as he walked to the desk
and rang the service bell. The manager, a slender, older woman with
graying hair, came out of the office door. She saw Mousse and bowed
formally.
“Good evening to you, Mr. Sun,” she said. “How may I help you?”
“Good evening, Mrs. Koto,” he answered. “I need to use the telephone.”
The manager nodded and reached under the counter, pulling up an elaborately
worked, silver-chased phone. She pushed something under the counter and
handed him the receiver. He nodded to thanks and held it to his
ear. On the second ring, Mori picked up.
“Good even.”
Mousse swore under his breath. An intruder. “Good even. How
are you feeling, Mori?” he asked.
“Quite all right, sir.” Inside, possibly armed.
“Could you draw a bath for me?”
“Very well sir.”
Mousse hung up. “Thank you, Mrs. Koto,” he said, pushing the phone across
the counter. “Could you call my limo back around?” The date would
have to be cut short.
“Mousse, what’s wrong?” asked Nabiki from behind him.
He turned around and sighed. She looked at him coolly under half-lidded
eyes, but he could sense the worry in her voice. She was already
suspicious. There was no point in lying to her.
“I’m afraid I have some business to take care of upstairs,” he said
apologetically. “You should probably go home.”
She didn’t budge. “Business. Right.”
“Nabiki, I’m serious, this is something I-”
“I think I have a pretty good idea what kind of business you’re talking about,”
she said in a tone that made him wince. If she was still fuzzy from the
alcohol, she wasn’t showing it. She stepped forward until she was so
close she had to tilt her head up to see his face. “And I know it’s
serious. But you don’t have to deal with it now.”
He looked down at her curiously. He supposed if his head didn’t feel like
a balloon he would have caught on immediately. “What do you mean?”
“Come with me,” she said. Her expression softened. “Whoever’s
upstairs can wait, just come to my place. It’s safe there, I promise.”
That last part sounded dangerously close to a plea. “Nabiki, I don’t have
a choice,” he answered gently. “I can’t-”
“You can’t let anyone stop you,” she finished for him coldly. She turned
away from him and crossed her arms.
“Nabiki, I-”
“I think I will go home,” she said, still cold. She turned
her head slightly. “Try not to get yourself killed.”
Mousse could only watch helplessly while she walked out the
door. He felt the sudden urge to call her back and tell her he would
wait, but common sense held him back. He had to rescue Mori and
Lucifer. And it’s better this way with her out of danger. He looked
to the side to see the hotel manager staring at him with stern disapproval all
over her face. He bit back the urge to sneer at her. Instead he
clenched his teeth and walked stiffly outside.
What the hell did she know? He thought to himself. This is my duty.
He had trouble deciding whom he was thinking about.
He found her outside, waiting for her ride home. She turned
to see him and her face tightened. She lifted her nose slightly in a way
that almost seemed snobbish and then turned back. He walked past her into
the street without even a glance. He didn’t acknowledge the limo coming
around the corner, or its blaring horn when it had to screech to a halt to
avoid him. He stared straight ahead until he came to the office building
directly across the hotel, a huge stretched cube made of glass, steel, and
cement placed on end.
The building was locked up for the night and empty, except for a
few security guards on each floor. One was happening to walk by doing his
rounds. He knocked on the glass to get the guard’s attention. He
came immediately and unlocked the door. Mousse walked through the open
door, pulling a ten thousand yen note and pressing it into the man’s hand as he
passed. The guard bowed his head and waited for Mousse to disappear in
the elevator before calling the other guards on his radio. Mr. Sun was on
business now and he would greatly appreciate his privacy.
***
Nabiki looked calm on the surface, but she seethed
underneath. That stupid…boy! How could he do that to me!? She
took a deep breath. There was no use getting angry over something she
couldn’t control. There was nothing she could have done to keep him from
dealing with his ‘business.’ In fact, it would be better if she simply
cut her losses here and just forgot about him. It was obvious he was
going to get himself killed someday, and she didn’t look good in a funeral
dress.
She was distracted from her broodings at the sight of a group of
security guards gathered at the door of the building across the street.
They talked for a while then left. What’s this all about? And
why did he go there instead of up? She frowned, her curiosity
piqued. She shook her head. Don’t even think about it.
The limo that chauffeured them pulled up in front of her.
The driver quickly got out and held the door open for her. She made to
get inside, but stopped for one last look at the building. The urge to go
in after him still tickled at the back of her mind. She let out her
breath in a huff. He’s just a stupid boy that I barely even
know. Why should I worry about him?
She angrily huffed again and stepped out of the limo just as the
chauffeur was closing it. “Wait here until I get back,” she said, and
left running as fast as she could in her high heels before he could
object. There was still time to catch up with the idiot and make him see
reason. She ended up tearing the pegs off her high heels halfway partly
in frustration at Mousse and partly at how they slowed her down. It
almost hurt ruining such a stylish and expensive pair of shoes. She made
a mental note to extort more money out of Kuno the next time she got a chance.
When she came to the entrance she wrapped one hand around the
handle and gave it an experimental tug. She was half surprised when the
door opened. The guard had apparently forgotten to lock up after
themselves. The lobby was dark and completely empty. She shivered
slightly. The only sound was the echo of her feet as she walked across
the floor. On the wall there was mounted a stone engraving of a mountain
with a sunset behind it. Below it was the name FLCL Co. Ltd..
She wondered what it was exactly that FLCL Co. Ltd. did.
Straight ahead were three elevators, one of which was being
used. She watched as the arrow registering the floor moved along the semicircle
to the right. It didn’t stop until it reached the very end. The
roof. She moved over to the next elevator and pressed the button.
She thought she had a pretty good idea what he wanted on the roof.
Assuming his room was facing the street, he should be able to get a good view
of it from the roof of this building. She amended her opinion of him as
the elevator door opened. He wasn’t stupid. He was just stubborn
and suicidal.
***
Mousse pressed himself to the side as the elevator door
opened. After a moment he came out, quickly and low to ground in almost a
crouch. A light attached to the side of the elevator shed cast an orange
glare across the roof. He came to the edge of the building and peered
over the side. The light was on in his room, a floor below him, but he
couldn’t make out anything beyond a blur. He cursed to himself and pulled
a pair of glasses out of his sleeve. He wished he had taken the time to
put on a pair of contacts. There were times when he couldn’t wait to get
corrective surgery done on his eyes. His sight was perhaps the closest
thing he had to a liability. He squinted as the world took on a sharper
cast and swore again at what he saw.
Mori was in one of the chairs, slumped over and head hanging over
his chest. Mori would never be caught sleeping on the job. Mousse
pulled out a pair of binoculars and trained them on Mori’s still form, fearing
the worst. He didn’t realize he was holding his breath until he let it
out in a relieved sigh. Mori was still alive, his chest and stomach
moving gently with each breath.
Mousse didn’t know what warned him. It could have been a
slight shift in the air. It could have been a sound so soft that it only
registered subconsciously. It could even have been the proverbial sixth
sense. He didn’t know what it was but all the warning bells went off his
head and he was twisting to the side, a flash of black filling his vision and a
searing line of pain in his side. He hooked the arm that had stabbed at
him in his own and placed his hand over the knife handle, turning it back on
its owner. The hand immediately dropped it and came up, binding the arm
that held it and coming around to lock it behind Mousse’s back. By this
time a revolver was already in Mousse’s free hand. He fired twice into
his assailant’s body and the man flew back.
Mousse stood, wincing at the pain in his side, and turned around
to get a better look at his assailant. The man was lucky to get so close
if nothing else, though it was puzzling why he didn’t use a gun instead of a
knife. A young one perhaps, wanting to make a name for himself by killing
his mark up close. Too bad his career was cut so tragically short.
But to Mousse’s surprise his assailant stood back less than a
dozen feet away, staring at him with hard, flat eyes behind a pair of
spectacles. It took him a moment to recognize that it was the man in the
photo Mori had showed him earlier. His mouth turned up into a cold smile.
Well, well. What do we have here? Mousse blinked and then his
mouth twisted with distaste. Even under the harsh orange glare he could
see the man’s torso and limbs bulged unnaturally under his black duster.
Body armor.
“Body armor is for pussies,
friend,” he said as casually as if he was discussing the weather. The
revolver disappeared with a flick of his wrist, to be replaced with a knife
whose curved blade was a full foot in length. He didn’t want to kill the
man, at least not before he was interrogated. He already had his
suspicions; it wouldn’t be the first time some government or other had acted
against his family and he wouldn’t put it past Cologne to have hired some
assassin to do her dirty work. But it never hurt to make absolutely sure.
He pulled at the collar of his shirt. It was suddenly very hot.
If the man was afraid he gave no sign. Mousse’s
respect for his would be killer went up a notch. Most people tended to
overreact when faced with their own demise. Mousse blinked as sweat began
to trickle into his eyes and pulled the strip of silk from his throat. It
felt as though the thin cloth was tightening, cutting off his breathing.
He drew in a deep breath and struggled to focus on the man in front of
him. He squinted as the man alternated between clarity and a dark stain
against an orange light.
“Bastard,” Mousse slurred as he fell back a step. The
floating sensation in his head made it hard to keep his balance. He
tightened his grip on the knife so he wouldn’t drop it. By this time he
knew the heat had nothing to do with the weather.
The stranger rushed forward, bringing his foot up in a sharp kick
that knocked the knife from Mousse’s hand. He spun, swinging his other
foot in a wide arc at Mousse’s head. But Mousse was already in a crouch
and leaped up as the leg passed overhead, catching it and lifting the stranger
off his feet before slamming him to the ground. His head hit the ground
with a sharp crack.
Mousse took advantage of the stranger’s disorientation by grabbing
at his duster and pulling himself up until he was eye to eye with him. He
forced his forearm under the man’s chin and pressed down. The man made a
choking sound as his breath was cut off. Another knife appeared in
Mousse’s other hand, shorter than the previous one, with a triangle shaped
blade tapering to a wicked point. Still, the man had some fight in
him. Hands came up either side of Mousse’s face, thumbs probing for his
eyes and a knee came up seeking his crotch.
Mousse shook his head free of the hands, losing his glasses in the
process, and at the same time moving his leg to intercept the knee. He
grit his teeth and pressed down harder, raising his knife for the killing blow
through the eye. Just as the knife was coming down, the man raised a hand
to block it, getting a long gash down his palm as he attempted to wrestle it
from Mousse’s grasp. The man cried out as Mousse ripped the knife away,
leaving a deeper cut in the obstructing hand and prepared to stab again.
The man’s other hand came up, not to block, but striking sharply with stiffened
fingers at Mousse’s neck. Pain ripped through Mousse’s body as the hand
hit a nerve. Spots danced in his already blurred vision. He felt
the knife drop from suddenly nerveless fingers as the man threw him off to the
side.
Mousse scrambled to his feet, but only got halfway up before the
man planted a running kick into his side. He flew back into the elevator
shed and fell in a heap. He sucked in deep, gasping breaths as he
forced himself up using the wall as support, blinking away the darkness that
threatened to overwhelm him. Deep in his brain, under the pain and the
poison, one clear thought kept repeating itself over and over again.
You are going to die.
He laughed, but it came out more as a choking cough. He
always knew he would die in some unnatural way, maybe burning out on the Red or
under the cold gaze of an Elder, but he never quite ever saw himself getting
iced by some hired gun. The very thought would have made him laugh a
short while ago. It wasn’t as amusing now that it was actually happening,
but it was still damn funny.
You are going to die.
He would have laughed again if the man weren’t
in front of him again, pressing a knife to his throat. So he grinned
instead at his eminent doom. However, a part of him simply would not
accept it. It screamed at him, almost drowning out the ‘You are going
to die.’ track that replayed over and over again in his head.
Do something! Use a weapon, a gun, a knife, a fucking spatula, anything!
No good. Can’t concentrate. Why would I use a spatula?
Then use a chi blast! This is not the time to be picky!
Don’t like using chi. Can’t concentrate anyway. Poison. Never
liked that band.
“What’s so funny?” the man asked softly, increasing the pressure behind the
blade. Something flickered in his eyes. It looked like fear.
His grin grew wider, exposing all his teeth. “You. Me. Us.”
The man frowned slightly. “You’re insane.”
“It’s the poison, buddy. You remember, the poison you put in
me? It’s messing with my chi.” His grin took on a more malicious
look. “If it wasn’t for the poison, I’d have had you screaming for your
mommy right about now.”
He never saw the man’s arm move, but he felt the elbow as it smashed into the
side of his face. He almost fell but quickly righted himself when he felt
the tip of the knife pressed under his chin. He kept grinning, exposing
blood-stained teeth. “How’s the hand?” he asked as though nothing had
happened, eyes flicking down to his captor’s wounded hand. “Getting
stiff? I cut you pretty deep. Better get that looked after pretty
soon now if you want to keep using it.”
The knife pressed harder, enough to draw a trickle of blood. “You are a
monster,” he said.
“Shit.” He laughed as best he could with a knife to his neck. “How
does the saying go? The pot calling the kettle black?” His bleary mind
was working at a frantic pace, but he wasn’t sure in what direction.
“It’s obvious you know what I am, but what are you?”
He could feel the man’s grip on the knife tighten. “I’m nothing like
you.”
“Yeah, I’m not a self-righteous prick.”
The man’s face tightened. “Big words for a little boy that’s
about to die.”
“You gonna ghost me now?” He sneered. “Come on then, ghost me you
li-“
The elevator door opened. The man was distracted for a split second and
Mousse saw his chance. He didn’t remember summoning the guns to his
hands, he didn’t think he could, but they were there and he was firing,
alternating between hands and feeling vaguely like some cut-rate cowboy out of
a spaghetti western. He couldn’t tell what kind of guns he was firing or
where the bullets were going but that didn’t keep him pulling the
triggers. At least some of the bullets must have found their mark, for
the man staggered back, half in escape and half from the bullets, until he ran
out of roof and disappeared over the edge.
Mousse stumbled after the man as quickly as he could, new guns appearing in his
hands to replace the spent ones. He peered over the edge, wanting to see
a black shape screaming towards the pavement but not expecting to. Ten
stories down, he caught a glimpse of black disappearing into an open
window.
“Mousse?” came a voice from behind him.
He whirled, guns raised, and then lowered them. “Nabiki?” he whispered,
and fell to one knee. Sweat rolled down his face and fell to the
ground. His breath came in gasps. Thirst clawed at the inside of
his throat. The darkness that he had managed to hold back during the
fight once again began to encroach on his vision and almost swallowed
him. He fought it back and forced himself to his feet. This small
victory over unconsciousness was short-lived however, as almost immediately he
felt himself begin to pitch forward.
***
Nabiki didn’t know what to expect when she stepped out of the elevator, but it
was definitely not the sight of Mousse with a gun in each hand, firing away at
a man until he fell off the roof. She didn’t remember speaking his name
but he turned suddenly, guns raised and trained on her. She took an
involuntary step back at the sight of guns pointed in her direction, but
lowered them when he saw her. She saw his mouth moving in what she
thought was her name and then he fell to one knee, head dropping to his
chest. He almost immediately came back to his feet, but began to
fall forward again. She ran without thinking and was there to catch
him. He was surprisingly light for his size.
She tried to lay him down on the ground but he would have none of it. He
pushed her away roughly and staggered under his own weight, but somehow kept
his feet. He took a deep, shuddering breath and stood there, eyes closed.
“You idiot!” Nabiki shouted, then took a deep breath herself. She
continued after finding much of her usual calm, though her hands trembled slightly.
She clenched them. “You could have been killed. Why couldn’t you
just listen to me?”
She supposed a more compassionate woman would have asked if he was alright, but
it was fairly obvious he didn’t want her help, even now. Looking at him
now, she couldn’t see what reason he could possibly find for coming up
here. He looked like he could barely stand, though the only visible
wounds she could find were an ugly bruise on the side of his face and some
blood trickling out of the corner of his mouth. He looked more ill than
hurt, like someone with a high fever. Sweat rolled down his pale face,
except for two spots of color high on his cheeks, and he shuddered
occasionally. When he opened his eyes he looked as though he could barely
focus them, but he somehow managed to see her.
“We have to leave. Now.”
“What are you-” she began, but it turned into a surprised gasp when he came
forward and literally swept her off her feet, one arm under her legs and the
other under her back. And then he turned and was running toward the edge
of the roof. She didn’t have time to struggle before they ran out of roof
and were suddenly sailing through the air. Her stomach dropped to her
feet and she screamed as they cleared the street below in a second that
stretched itself to forever. Then a sudden jarring sensation and
stillness. She didn’t remember squeezing her eyes shut, but she had to
force them open one at a time to see that she was on a very large
balcony. She put one leg down tentatively, as though to be sure the
ground was solid, and then the other.
Nabiki turned around, prepared to give him a slap and then a piece of her mind,
but thought better of it when she saw that he was barely able to keep his
balance. She only watched as he stepped unsteadily out of the crater of
ruined concrete his landing had created and walked into the room. She
followed him silently inside, where a gray-haired man she recognized as the man
Mousse talked to after the fight with Ranma was sitting on a chair, apparently
unconscious. A black kitten that was napping in the man’s lap awoke at
Mousse’s entrance and ran up to him. He picked it up and then lifted the
man off the chair and threw him over his shoulder.
He turned to her and held out the kitten in one hand. “Can you hold him
for me?”
She took the kitten away and held it close. She didn’t want to admit it
to herself, but the presence of the little bundle of fur did help calm
her. “What happened back there, Mousse?” she asked following him as he
walked to the door. She guessed this was his room. Under ordinary
circumstances she would have stopped to admire it, but the circumstances were
hardly ordinary.
“Someone’s after me,” he said as he poked his head out the door and checked
both sides before venturing out into the hall. He motioned for her to
follow him and she did so.
“Are you sick?” she asked as he pressed the button for the elevator. They
waited for the few tense moments it took for the elevator doors to open.
“Poison,” he answered as the elevator doors closed behind them and they were
going down. He set the man’s body down with a wince.
“Poison!” she exclaimed, alarmed.
“Don’t worry, it won’t kill me,” he replied calmly. “He cut me with a
poisoned knife.”
“You’re cut!” she exclaimed again. She looked him over. “Where?”
The elevator came to a stop before he could answer. A gun suddenly
appeared in his hand and the doors opened, revealing a cleaning maid pulling a
load of sheets behind her. She stopped short and froze when she saw the
gun. For a long moment no one moved as Mousse stared at the maid and the
maid stared at the gun. Then he lifted the old man under one arm and
tossed him on the laundry. He also took the cat from Nabiki and set it
beside the unconscious man.
“Watch over him until he wakes up,” he said. The maid only nodded mutely,
not taking her eyes from the gun as the elevator doors closed and they were
once again going down.
“Was that really necessary?” Nabiki asked after Mousse made the gun disappear.
“Yes,” he
answered, leaning against the wall with a sigh and closing his eyes.
The elevator shook slightly. Nabiki barely noticed it, and if she had she
would have dismissed it out of hand as just something old elevators do, but
Mousse had a different reaction. His eyes snapped open and he was moving,
hitting the emergency stop. The elevator jarred to a stop and Nabiki
stumbled into his back.
“What-” she began, but cut off when he grabbed her by the arm and pushed her
toward the door. He slammed his fist on the ‘open’ button. The
doors opened slowly and she saw that they were halfway past the opening onto
the floor.
“Out!” Mousse shouted, any sign that he was still weak from the poison
disappearing. The gun reappeared in his hand, which he now aimed at the
ceiling. Nabiki could now hear what sounded like movement above
them. “What are you waiting for, get out!”
Nabiki decided now was not the best time to argue and climbed through the door,
rolling the rest of the way out. She turned back to see the door already
closing on Mousse, feverish almost to the point of unconsciousness and still
aiming his gun at the ceiling. And on the roof, a black form crouched, a
gun also in hand. The man on the roof turned his head slowly to peer at
what crawled out and Nabiki’s breath caught as their eyes met. Dr. Tofu,
the lighthearted man who had been her family physician since as long as she
could remember now stared at her with cold, dead eyes. He was still
staring at her when the doors finally closed. The muffled roar of gunfire
soon filled the air, receding as the elevator descended.
Nabiki stood there for a moment longer in stark disbelief. For some
reason, she had never really believed what Ukyo had said about Dr. Tofu.
Now she could see why. The thought that someone she had once known changing
so radically was hard to accept, even in a place like Nerima.
Someone I thought I knew, she corrected herself mentally, as she
moved on to the next elevator and pressed the button. The urge to drop it
all and let Mousse look after himself came back, but she couldn’t bring herself
to leave him. At the same time, she knew there was nothing she could do;
she wasn’t about to get between two deadly gunmen hellbent on killing each
other. But what could she do? She was still debating with herself
as she stepped on the elevator.
It took only half a minute to turn the roof of the elevator into
so much bullet-riddled scrap. Mousse dodged, spun, and weaved around the
enclosed area, a pistol in each hand, firing while trying to avoid return fire
from above. It was apparent who had the advantage in firepower from the
start. An arsenal of spent guns and empty shells littered the floor of
the elevator, enough to outfit a platoon of regular soldiers; or one
practitioner of Hidden Weapons. His opponent however, knew nothing of the
secrets of Hidden Weapons and so had to make to without them. And make do
he did. In the pitch darkness (the lights had been the first victim of
their firefight) Mousse was certain that the man in black above him was dodging
and spinning and weaving just as he was and without the clumsiness of nerves
and muscles dulled by poison.
Mousse’s hands worked while he danced around the elevator, conjuring up guns,
emptying them, dropping them, and then conjuring up more. Even poisoned,
he felt cold, detached, and machine-like, just as he was taught when in such a
situation. Well, perhaps not exactly this kind of situation; no one had
ever tutored him in the fine intricacies of gunning in an elevator. But
no matter, because even through the haze of poison and battle rage, he knew he
had the advantage, he had the firepower, he had nerves of steel and balls of
pure fucking brass and no two-bit hack of a hitman was ever going to take him
down. And then he ran out.
Mousse couldn’t quite believe it when it happened. He dropped the
still-smoking shotgun and tried to summon another, but all he got was
air. When that didn’t work he tried to summon a knife.
Nothing. He tried to summon anything at all. He got a nice little
toaster oven. Stark disbelief settled in. Since escaping the
Amazons, he had never, ever, been unarmed, not once in all the time
since then. Eating, sleeping, studying, training, playing, showering, it
didn’t matter. He had a weapon with him at all times. It was just
the way things were, an immutable fact of nature, like gravity. And now
he had run out. He suddenly felt naked.
It was then he noticed that his assailant was no longer above him. His
ears rang with the sound of gunshots and he could faintly hear the wail of fire
alarms, but nothing from above him. He wasn’t foolish enough to believe
the man had died up there; he wouldn’t believe the man dead unless he put a
bullet in his head from half an inch away and sat by the corpse for a day or
two. He was definitely not an ordinary… whatever he was. Not a run
of the mill assassin, he was reasonably sure of that. If he didn’t know
better, he would swear that he was fighting with someone who had gone through
the Agoge. A disturbing thought, but one for another time; it
would be enough for now to get out alive.
He coughed. The room was choked with powder smoke. He
waded through the sea of empty guns and shells littering the floor, and thought
that perhaps his weapons dry spell was not so surprising; on the floor was what
was left of a year of hunting down the Elders, a fraction of what he had
started out with. He simply never bothered to restock, believing that one
room from the munitions depot would suffice.
I got a little carried away. Then wryly: But maybe I could chuck this toaster at him.
The elevator had stopped, at what floor he couldn’t tell. He
stumbled to the door and paused. It was possible that while he was going
through his trigger-happy orgy of shooting the hell out of the roof that the
man had slipped out of the elevator shaft and was waiting for him, just outside
that door, drum-fed automatic shotgun in hand, ready to check and mate him,
ending the game. Burning afterimages of gunfire pulsed in the darkness
before his eyes in splotches of green and orange as he pondered the outcome of
such a scenario. Deciding that it wouldn’t be in his favor, he jumped and
punched through the tattered ceiling, grasping for a handhold. The
elevator abruptly dropped a few inches, tearing him from his tenuous grip and
dropping him to the ground. He landed on his back on top of spent
shells. His dinner came up and he turned his head to puke off to the
side.
He stood, wiping his mouth.
“Piece of shit elevator,” he muttered, and jumped again. He got a
handhold and began tearing away chunks of elevator ceiling to create an opening
wide enough to slip through. He pulled himself up through the hole and
knelt on the roof, catching his breath as sweat rolled down his face. The
rest of what was in his stomach tried to force its way up but he swallowed it
down with a grimace. The elevator cable, once a single thick braid of
steel wires held taut through a pulley, were now two thick braids of steel
wires that severed where a very large caliber bullet had cut through it.
He pulled himself up with one
dangling cable and staggered against the wall, his legs suddenly buckling under
his own weight. Unconsciousness, as it had many times before in the past
week, tried to pull him down. He threw it off savagely and forced himself
to stand on his own power. He threw his head back, gulping in mouthfuls
of air and staring up to where the elevator cable faded in the distance.
Climb. Came the command, so he did, hand over hand pulling himself up, not
bothering to use his feet for purchase, until he could not see the elevator
below him. Pitch darkness surrounded him. Outside he could hear the
panicked voices and shuffling feet of hotel clients leaving the building.
He waited until the sounds on the floor had stopped and decided that he had
come up far enough to throw off pursuit, at least for a while. He climbed
up a few feet farther in order to make the leap to the door when it opened.
Mousse squinted his eyes at the
sudden flood of light. Standing in the corona of light was a tall figure
wearing a long, dark coat. He didn’t have to see to know who it
was. He twisted to the side and let go of the rope a split second before
a flat crack punched through the air. Pain seared its way across the side
of his face and he fell, tumbling through empty darkness.
***
Tofu looked over the edge where
his prey had fallen and listened. Faintly he could hear several thumps as
his prey hit the walls of the shaft, and one sickening thud as he hit the
elevator. Then came the groan of tearing metal. He looked up and
saw the cable flying past as the elevator it was attached to fell. He
stayed long enough to hear the faint crash as it hit the ground and then turned
leisurely toward the next elevator and pressed the button for the bottom
floor. He reached into his breast pocket, lit a cigarette and waited.
***
Voices. A lot of them,
against a background of sirens.
“Holy-. Look at this!
What the hell happened here?”
“Cripes, man! Look at those
guns!”
“Oh my dear! Is he alright?”
“Someone help him!”
“I don’t think we should move him
when he’s like that…”
“Somebody get the doctors here!”
“Is that a toaster oven?”
Darkness.
***
Voices again, two this time.
He was careful to keep his eyes closed and breathing regular.
“…ready to roll?”
“Not yet. Bunch of panicked
rich people blocking the way. Man, this guy reeks of something.”
“I know. It almost smells
like smoke. Is he burned?”
“Doesn’t look like it. In
spite of his injuries, he will definitely be alright.” Female.
“Think so? He doesn’t look
too hot.”
“It’s not as bad as it
looks. He’s hurt, but they’re mostly surface wounds and I stitched up the
only deep one. I’m more worried about the fact that he may have
contracted some sort of illness beforehand.”
“Good. So what about these
scars, Mai? Abuse?”
“Of the worst kind.” Mousse
felt a smooth finger run along the ribs on his bare flank. “I think
these, the older ones, were made with a hot blade.”
“Are you serious?”
The finger trailed to another
scar, one farther down that ran behind his back. “Well look at
them. They’re old, years old, but I’d swear that whatever made these
wounds cauterized instantly without burning the surrounding flesh. They’re
everywhere. And this nasty one around his neck. It looks like
someone tied a rope around his neck and tried to hang him with it.” The
paramedic’s voice lowered. “I don’t know for sure what did this, but I do
know he was a kid when whatever caused this” -the hand removed itself and he
had the impression of a sweeping gesture over his body- “happened to him.”
“That’s sick. That’s real
sick,” the other paramedic replied, sounding more shaken than disgusted.
“So what about the more recent ones?”
“Aside from bumps from the ride he
took recently, bruised face on the right side, uneven cuts (they look like
scratches) on his arms and under his right eye, a smoother cut along his side,
by a knife I think, I don’t know what along the left side of the face, and this
little hickey right along the side of his neck. I won’t insult your
intelligence by telling which ones took place five minutes ago.”
“That’s a hell of a bite.
What’s his hobby, wrestling tigers?”
“Not exactly. The bite mark
was from human teeth.”
There was silence for a few
moments. “You don’t think he’s one of them do you?”
“What?”
“You know. From that one
ward in the northeast. Nerima.”
“Come on, you don’t believe in
those stories do you? It’s probably just a rumor to drum up publicity for
a dojo.”
“I know, I know, but how do
explain how we found him?” The paramedic’s voice lowered
conspiratorially. “That elevator must have fallen at least five stories
and this kid gets nothing but a knocked head and a couple cuts and
bruises. And did you see all those guns? Where the hell does anyone
get so many guns?”
“Hey, you don’t know if he was in
that elevator when it fell and those were way too many guns for anyone to
carry.”
“It doesn’t matter. The fact
is that he’s involved with whatever happened here. We need to take him to
the police.”
“Oh stop it, Shiro. You’re
being paranoid.”
Mousse, after deciding that he was
not dead but that may soon change if he stayed any longer, sat up in his
gurney. He almost fell back as the blood rushed to his head. The
two paramedics gawped at him, the one called Shiro frozen in the act of
pointing a finger at him. He felt at the gauze taped to his cheek.
He was lucky. The bullet had only grazed him. He saw that he was
also naked save for his underwear and bandages wrapped around his torso, which
ached more than the rest of his body. His own clothes were piled
haphazardly in a corner of the ambulance. He reached for them, then
paused thoughtfully.
“Are you alright, buddy?” the one
called Shiro ventured. Mousse looked Shiro over. He looked about
the right height. Not as wide around the shoulders, but beggars and
choosers and all that.
“I’m fine,” Mousse replied amicably. And then he pounced.
Outside, people would see the ambulance rock slightly and hear what sounded
like a cry being muffled and then nothing. They shuffled a little farther
away from it, all somehow agreeing with each other that nothing happened.
Strange things were afoot this night, and though none believed they would
personally be affected, it would be better not to tempt fate.
***
It didn’t take long for Nabiki to be caught up in a flood of people in various
states of undress rushing to the exit. Nothing quite motivates people
more than the shrill wail of fire alarms, she thought, when a sweaty,
corpulent man bulled her over to the side. She glared after him, and then
looked away in disgust when she saw that he was wearing only briefs, which was
nearly concealed under rolls of doughy flesh. He did however leave a wide
swathe where he cleared away other people, and she was quick to follow in spite
of the unpleasant view ahead of her.
Twenty-some flights of stairs later she reached the bottom floor, out of breath
and with aching feet that she was sure were going to fall off at any
moment. The rush of people continued from the elevators and the
stairwells and lead outside. She didn’t even try to look for Mousse among
the crowd; she had the feeling he would let himself be known. But when
she got outside, there was nothing out of the ordinary from what was to be
expected when a tall building catches on fire. A mob staring up at the
hotel, looking for smoke, police pushing the mob back, trying to establish
order, firemen setting up hoses, reporters, and ambulances. She thought
that he would have been the center of attention in one way or another, perhaps
fighting Tofu or maybe tossing around hapless bystanders in his way. But
he wasn’t. So she searched the crowd, pushing past gawkers and standing
on her tiptoes looking for any hint that he might be going through the crowd
looking for her as well.
She started when a hand gently took her by the arm. “Looking for someone,
miss?”
She turned to face a very young paramedic with a bandage taped to the side of
his face and an ill fitting uniform. It only took her a moment to realize
it was Mousse disguised as a paramedic. He looked steady enough, more in
possession of his thoughts than he had on top of the roof, but his body looked
battered, his hair in disarray and a new wound on his face to add to the number
of livid scars standing out against pallid skin. Before she could say
anything however, he pressed one finger against his lips in a gesture of
silence and had her walk beside him. They walked at a brisk pace and she
couldn’t help but notice his gait was slightly uneven.
“Where are we going?” she asked quietly as they weaved through the crowd.
He scanned the crowd constantly. Several times he changed course,
sometimes pushing people aside roughly, but he never paused even for a
moment. Looking for Tofu, she thought, and a pang of confused
sorrow went through her.
“I don’t know,” he answered. A man he shoved aside came back at him,
cursing, but Mousse, without even looking, simply pushed him back again.
The push didn’t look any stronger than the last one but the man was sent flying
back and bowled over several other people. Nabiki stared. Even like
this, he was still formidable. “I didn’t reserve any safehouses.” A
fierce scowl passed over his face. “I can’t believe how stupid I
am. I should have known something like this was going to happen.”
Nabiki chose to remain silent while he vented. She saw that they were now
approaching the edge of the crowd. He must have seen the same, for he
fell silent as well. He pressed his index finger against his lips in the
universal gesture for quiet and approached a limousine. The young
chauffeur was watching the entire scene in front of his car with the same
wide-eyed curiosity as the rest of the crowd. So he didn’t see Mousse
until he was right upon him.
“Oh, hi,” he said, startled.
“Good
evening,” Mousse replied, and then grabbed the front of his shirt and lifted
until the man’s feet were dangling helplessly above the ground. “Will you
drive or do I make you drive?”
“I’ll drive!” he exclaimed.
Mousse turned to Nabiki. “Shall we go?”
She nodded wordlessly and followed him inside. “Drive,” Mousse
said. He waited until they were on the road before looking at her.
“Are you hurt?”
“No, I’m alright. What about you?” she replied. “You look
terrible.”
He chuckled humorlessly. “It’s not as bad as it looks, so I’ve been
told.” He took a deep breath and exhaled. He suddenly seemed to sag
in on himself and grow smaller. “I’m so tired,” he said in a barely
audible whisper. “I think I’m going to close my eyes for a while…”
“Mousse?” Nabiki shook him gently. He fell over on his side, his
breath coming in deep, even breaths.
“So where are we supposed to go?” the driver asked stiffly. He kept his
head rigidly facing the front and didn’t even look into the rearview mirror.
Nabiki sighed and watched the hotel become smaller as they pulled away.
She couldn’t simply dump him somewhere. Tofu would find him. There
was no helping it. “Nerima,” she said. “Take us to Nerima.”
To be continued…