Tokyo, Japan
Azabu district
Previous night....
The cobbled street was flanked by various upscale coffee shops, neatly trimmed bushes and trees and various embassies. Known as the Beverly Hills of Tokyo, celebrities, artists and diplomats called this area home. It was not uncommon to see vogue couples stroll leisurely hand in hand at stopping at local food vendors stationed on the curbs or taking romantic walks through lovely parks. Micro-breweries dotted the district, belly laughing could be heard even in the dead of night and behind closed glass doors. Chic apartment complexes rose high above over the strip, such elegance, glass reflecting the numerous lamp lights of Azabu. However, beneath this realm of prosperity, luxury and joy the true nature of the district lay. A place of greed, violence and cigar smoke.
The top floor of one of the apartments belonged to a single owner, Isamu Nakumura. Lavishly decorated and modeled after contemporary western fashion, the entire floor became a single primarily open spaced living quarters. What walls where present they presented various paintings and sculptures. The outer walls were composed of large ceiling high windows functioning as both entrance and exit to a wrap-around concrete balcony. Isamu, tonight was not alone. Once a year, the Oyabun; leaders, from the various Yakuza syndicates stationed in Tokyo gather together to discuss all matters of treaties or expansion. Called the Oyabun Ball by some. A strong honor code prohibited aggressive tactics but tensions were always high with the forever warring gangsters. Isamu hosted this gathering as three round tables were brought into the center of the massive apartment. Sitting on cushions, drinking warm sake and feasting on entrée dishes, the Oyabun sat as they laughed whole heartedly as young women carrying these dishes and liquors where groped and fondled by the yakuza bosses. Cigars lit and fists hammered on the tables as they demanded all manner of services from these girls. Shirts were unbuttoned and draped over the waists of the Oyabun, bearing their full body tattoos depicting samurai, koi, dragons, flowers and demons. The smoke rose to the ceiling and began to have a unpleasant lingering effect. Isamu ordered, shouting profanely at a woman stationed near the sliding glass.
"Open those f****** windows you dumb*** b****!" His voice was strong and gravely, years of smoking had given him throat cancer though he continued in his daily vice. Frightened and shaking she struggled to open the glass, her petite frame pulled on the bamboo handle with all her might. Isamu rose quickly, feeling dishonored in front of his peers, especially since they at all other times were his enemies. He approached her with a clenched fist, it wasn't the first time he had struck a defenseless women. He was impotent thus hating women, blaming them for his misfortunes. Yet, just as his bare feet strode up to her, the sliding door slid across the floor. Curtains bellowed from the strong wind outside and let in the cool night air. And something else, or rather someone who had been watching for some time from the balcony.
A black linear shadow shot through the folds of the satin curtain only to clutch the face of Isamu. The yakuza struggled, hands shot up and gripped the black vambrace, so large around was the armored forearm, the rather large man's opposing fingers did not touch. Isamu's eye muscles trembled, fear filled his cowardice heart as his speech was muffle by the palm of the shadowy figure. There was a dead silence in the room, the seated Oyabun dared not move even the women stood staring at the spectacle. Suddenly, a streamline ebon armored figure arose from behind the curtain from the dark of the night. The living shadow, donning his masterful kara, Tenjin. Displeased with what he had seen, he had come to show force but remain civil. Now, he would set an example. His masked face slightly illuminated by his scarlet eyes had vocalized a single word seemingly disembodied "Dishonorable." Just then, his hand outstretched and enveloping the face of Isamu engaged the kinetic piston in his arm releasing a wave of force through his hand. In an instant, Isamu's skull had become a fine red mist which spread through the air. Upon the floor was a red conical streak composed of droplets and bits of bone which made its way toward the three tables from Tenjin's position.
Then, the women began to scream. Plates and bottles shattering on the floor. Followed swiftly by Isamu's tattooed covered frame.
Amidst the chaos, hand dripping with blood, Tenjin walked smoothly over to a display of swords on a pedestal to his right. Lifting the cobalt blue scabbard of a wakizashi with the blood covered hand he then walked over to the tables and tossed the short sword onto the nearest one, letting the weapon ring loudly, enough for the screaming to stop as he commanded attention. His voice sounded once more "If I ever see such grandiose disrespect from those under me once again...then death is the least of your worries.Akirahas already approached you all with his demands. They still remain intact. However, I am not Akira. I have additional requirements for those who serve under my rule. Mainly, honor..something you have forgotten or perhaps more so never possessed. Allow me to introduce you to it." His hand instructed a boss to lift up the wakizashi with the mere pointing of the finger. As the man drew the shimmering blade Katsuro continued "Tomorrow, we shall take Tokyo...regardless of what stands before us. But tonight, I will take your left fingers..." It was commonplace for the yakuza to remove tips of fingers or severe one at the knuckle for various offenses, known as Yubitsume. However, this was a display of power on the part of the Kyoto Killing Machine.
Katsuro motioned for the women to leave, which they did with stallion speed only to be further greeted by the long dead and mangled bodies of the yakuza guards outside the door. Tenjin waved his hand in front of his face, his liquid mask receded to the shoulders, revealing his ashen features. The sword hesitantly went around the room, left hand spread wide upon the table of every member as they dismembered their own digits. Tears streaming though they knew full well if they murmured a sound, they would be killed. Slowly. Hovering over each individual as they preformed the act of honor, the Savage Shinobi watched with a bottle of sake draining into his stomach and a low demonic chuckle escaping his lips.
This act of hostility would travel throughout the underworld across the globe. News such as this travels fast, to be remembered by all criminal organizations known as "The Night of a Hundred Fingers". Though, a vicious and often times heartless combatant, Katsuro did not tolerate dishonor, however his demented mind constructed it. As well as a proper way to christen his attempt at becoming the Warlord of Tokyo Bay.
Log in to comment