An order of warrior monks once resided peacefully atop Mt. Saizuke. Its home was a small compound halfway up the mountain slope. The monks were a peaceful group even though their training was centered on combat as much as meditative skills. They were the “ Jigokuni Ochimuratachi “ which meant ‘The Lost’ because many were outcasts from the world they once called home. Home before the Awakening changed some of the peoples of the world forever.
Many members of this order were metahumans, for in Japan racism against the “corrupted bloods” was high. Only a dozen or so metahumans stayed at the Temple compound, the rest continued a journey to another land where they were less likely to be hunted and hated or at least that was their hope.
The sensei of the Temple was a wrinkly old man of great wisdom who called himself Kung Pow Chi Khan. The human sensei seemed to survive past his lifetime’s end by uncountable years. His ancient frame seemed withered and frail, but inside those skinny arms was strength to surpass a troll.
Chi Khan also instructed his gifted students the arts of magic and its history as it is known to him, and if you pay close attention he sounds as if he were the same as he is now at the turn of the millennia.
The Temple of the Dragon was well known in the surrounding territory for its help and charity towards the poor. Many an ailment from minor to life threatening was healed by a monk from the Temple.
Students of Chi Khan had also supplied local mages with talisman to aid in their lives. It was this act of charity that brought the initial problems to the Temple.
Coming into the countryside to turn the local farmers into slaves were the low level Yakuza scum. How surprised they were.
Instead of finding meek farmers who would become lapdogs they found mages armed with powerful foci and backed by spirits and monks from the Temple. The information made its way quickly up the ranks of the crime syndicate of Japan.
*of all the things to fade out as the old world became the Sixth World, groups like the Yakuza only seem to thrive*
Soon after, just under a week, a squad of Yakuza made their way into the mountains to seek out and talk to the leader of the mighty wizards of this land.
At the gates the leader, a warrior assassin of some rank, felt revulsion as his discrimination flared when he saw a dozen or so “ cursed blooded” metahumans working serenely beside humans. He quickly regained his composure and focused it into the cold rage of a ninja.
“You!” he said to an elven boy of ‘seventeen’ (roughly he guessed because damnable cursed bloods live forever it seems) who sat beside the torii arch entrance into the Temple grounds. “Bring me the master of this cesspool.”
They young boy remained as motionless as a stone except for a mountain breeze which stirred his white hair.
“Filthy mongrel dog…,” the ninja says as he reaches for his sword.
“Need of that there will not be. Meditating for three days Hoturi-san has sat. Continue to do so he must until rise the sun does. Begin again he must if he fails. Patience the art of Zen does teach, learn the lesson you should, Yakuza.” Came a old voice.
“I do not need lessons from a tottering old fool.” The assassin says and his small entourage laughs. “I seek the leader of this hovel.”
“Then found him you have yes. Chi Khan am I. Before yet you ask answer I will. The yakuza deal with will we not. Abhor crime we do.” The sensei says as he leans on his gnarled cane.
“I don’t believe you understand, old fool. The Yakuza does not ask.”
A large troll with curving horns reminiscent of a mature ram steps beneath the torii arch, “Acfully, I dun fink you understann,” and his words seem echoed by the booming of a great earthen elemental rises from the ground shaking off the loose dirt as it rises.
“Tomorrow we will return,” the Yakuza leader says as he and his comrades back cautiously away, “so that you may submit to us.”
“Be here as always we shall, ninja. Though the answer as it ever will be is no.”
-deep inside a space beyond reason Hoturi floats lotus style in a void. As though through much distance the voices of his sensei and others float towards him. He senses his master’s strength even at a depth of meditation he has never known.
The world and its chaos float as a single image, yet the image is the overlaid effect of an infinite amount of images. Yet in it all he perceives a similarity that is different yet the same for the all.
Yen and yang.
Hoturi relaxes his mind as he lets his inner peace guide him. The images overlap and change constantly in each instant. Hoturi sees hope and fear, life and death, victory and defeat, and an endless stream of conflicting opposites yet all undeniably linked. The images begin to fade and a simple white light glimmers in the distance.
Hoturi knows without knowing how that the speck of radiance brings the gift of enlightenment. The truth that is the one connection of all things.
“Hoturi-san, I need you,” echoes through the vast emptiness that is Hoturi’s relaxed spirit and mind. It is the voice of his sensei.
A hairsbreadth separates Hoturi’s outstretched fingertips from the enlightenment as he hears his sensei’s summons. There is no need to think.
The glimmer of truth recedes, the images return and fade into the distance, and Hoturi feels the presence of his mortal body once more encase his soul.
“I am here, master.”
The Temple roused as always to the tolling of a great gong. Many rose and went about their tasks as always, safe in the knowledge that there is balance in the world.
Hoturi sat on the balcony of his small room in the main temple, and watched the sky lighten then catch fire with the rising sun.
“Sorry I am Hoturi-sama,” came the familiar voice of the wrinkled master of the compound.
“It is no bother, master. We are all tools of Ka (fate), and where we are needed most we go.” The young elven monk says as he stands.
“Hai, yet I know your sacrifice was great. I felt the warmth enlightenment brought to your face with its closeness. That is a marker in the life of the monk that is not easily given up for any reason.”
“Thank you, master. But what is enlightenment if I do not fulfill my duties in my quest?”
“Sorry I still am. But need you I do, for feel I do that blood this day shall flow.”
“As do I, master, as do I.”
The thirteen mages that trained in the Temple of the Dragon met in their major study with their master Kung Pow Chi Khan.
“Sought violence never we have. Peace and healing sought we did. Today is different I feel. For to find peace violence we must do.” The old man went to the only locked chest in the Temple and waving his hand the magic at his command opened the chest.
Inside laid thirteen swords and assorted armors. Yet instead of the wooden bokken they used to practice in the yard these swords shone from highly polished steel. The armor was like what soldiers in the army might wear, all padded with Velcro and zippers.
“These you have trained to use but never put the steel of a weapon in your hand. Different today will be.”
Thirteen warriors sit inside the open air Zen garden of the Temple of the Dragon on the second floor of the main Temple building. The garden is bright and airy, yet silent except for a breeze that drifts down the mountainside bringing with it the crisp smell of snow.
Positioned in a lotus style each watches the world around them with their minds, each ones soul drifting about the spirit world with only a silvery thin strand connecting body and mind.
The many workers and mundane members of the Temple departed not long after lunch with orders not to return. Each understood yet many protested with tears in their eyes as they made their goodbyes to the warriors staying behind.
The sun had set nearly an hour ago and the shadow of night lay across the empty and dark Temple grounds.
“I see a few coming up the road, master. They don’t seem to be trying to hide.” One monk says.
The old wrinkled master sits meditating with sweat beading upon his brow. In the distance thunder rumbles.
“There are a dozen at least that just split up to the south, master.” A troll says.
Lightning suddenly lights the darkened garden as clouds begin to gather about the mountain. Rain falls in a light drizzle as lightning and thunder dance about the Temple.
“Go my faithful. May Ka serve you on this night and may Onnatangu keep you safe. The spirits will do all they can.”
Thirteen forms spring over the garden railing and out of the temple to fall with the rain to the ground below. Each moving out to meet the enemy on their own ground.
A large troll calls out into the night in a booming voice to match the thunder. The ground shakes as forms of rock shudder off dirt as elementals arise to do their masters bidding.
A gnome mage calls out to the heavens and rain collects into a monstrous form. Around the compound elementals and spirits roam, seeking Yakuza blood.
Hoturi seems to feel movement before he sees four men in the dark garments and face coverings of the Yakuza assassin class. The young monk stands beneath the torii arch as he watches them approach.
“Ha. The meditating mongrel wants to play samurai?” the ninja says and Hoturi recognizes the voice of the same man who had come the day before.
Rain runs in rivulets from Hoturi’s conical hat. “We have nothing to fear from Yakuza dogs.” He says calmly as he rests his hand on the hilt of his sword.
“Kill him,” the leader says to one of his henchmen.
Before the words fade into the howling wind Hoturi draws giving the ninja a lesson in iaijutsu. He moves in a blur as magic pounds through his veins. The bright blade of his sword cuts the air between raindrops.
In a heartbeat three Yakuza lay dead, and a bodiless head rolls down the rocky slope. Hoturi turns his head slightly as he re-sheaths his sword,
“Tell the Oni of Jigoku (hell) that it was a samurai named Hoturi that sent you.”
The ninja recoiled as lightning seemed to dance in the pale blue eyes of his killer. Hoturi watched as he released his grip of mana and a bolt of lightning flashed down from the sky.
A smoking corpse burned to the bone falls to the ground in the small crater that is now its grave. Hoturi turns and walks away.
As he moves to find more opponents he finds one of his fellows dead, a crossbow bolt protruding from his unprotected neck.
He looks up and sees a troll fell one ninja, then another with a heavy sweep that cuts both men in two. Yet the honorable troll falls as another assassin sneaks in from behind and buries his blade in the spine of his victim. Hoturi races across the distance and removes the head from his friend’s murderer and continues to move.
It seemed like hours of fighting have passed, but Hoturi is sure it has been only moments. Yet he continues to count his fallen comrades, and a great sorrow builds slowly inside the young elven warrior.
Soon the young Japanese monk finds himself surrounded. Six assassins managed to flank him and now circle him, yet the years of training at Chi Khan’s hand manages to somewhat keep them at bay.
“STOP!!!” a loud voice rings out. The rain fades into mist, the lightning flickers and dies, and the howling wind falls silent. It is Kung Pow Chi Khan who had spoken.
The small sensei strolls towards the fight ignoring the slinking forms of more Yakuza ninja that follow closely behind him. He walks hunched with a look Hoturi has never seen in his master’s eyes. Exhaustion.
“Yakuza. Have my last disciple you may not. To Ka he does belong.” Chi Khan commands.
Hoturi realizes that no other monk turned samurai stand on the muddy grounds of the temple. He sees the lifeless bodies of his oldest friends, his adoptive family. Yet honor to themselves and the Temple they brought in their final moments. For every samurai that lay fallen dozens of ninja went with him.
“With me your fight now is.” Khan says.
-go my faithful.- Khan’s mind says to his student.
-no, master- Hoturi responds.
The ground beneath Hoturi’s feet opens engulfing the white haired elf then closes over his head. The young Japanese samurai feels himself being carried by the very stone of the mountain to some place unknown.
Through his masters connection he feels it. In his mind he sees it. And in his heart something dies and hatred grows in its place.
The mountain lights up, bright enough that hundreds of miles away people stop and stare with wonder at the blazing green glimmer on the horizon.
The earth shudders and moans as it is struck by the immense fury and power that is the last act of Kung Pow Chi Khan, master and sensei of the Temple of the Dragon, outcast turned healer.
Immense mana fuels the explosion on the mountainside. A sphere of of pure destructive mana expands out, destroying even the stone of the mountain itself.
(Years later the semi spherical section of missing stone would be called the Dragon’s Maw in memory of the Temple and its lost master and students.)
The temple of the dragon is no more…………………………….
Hoturi awakens to the sound of dripping water and the ache of tired muscles. His soul cries at the loss of nearly everything he knew.
He opens his eyes to dim light. Light carried by veins of quartz that must reach from this subterranean hole to the world above. The world of magic around him moves and screams at the wound of the earth. Hoturi lays down his head and sleeps.
As he opens his eyes he sees the light of the quartz carries the soft mellow glow of the moon. Onnatengu must have risen as his wife Amaterasu, goddess of the sun, set to allow her husband, the god of the moon, his time of rule over the world.
Hoturi struggles to rise as his muscles still scream in protest against their use. Once sitting up Hoturi notices a neatly folded pile is a fresh change of clothes and dried meat and fruit.
“He knew…” he asks himself with wonder.
After he has eaten and changed he moves to find his way to the surface to face the Yakuza and his Ka.
<DATA CORRUPTED.....INCOMPLETE FILE 12MPS>
Blue eyes stare from a shadowed alley to the club across the street. The heavy smoke and fog make a few feet hard to see. Except when you view the spiritual half of the world.
A single strand of white hair hangs from the short brimmed BDU hat. Dark form fitting armor melds with the shadows.
Across the street at Kimodo’s, a local bar and hangout for low level crime
Syndicate members, loud music erupts into the night air as the door opens and a drunk human stumbles out with his arm around a girl.
-no. not him.-
Hours pass, yet the dark clad figure barely stirs. Slight shifting and the tightening and relaxing of muscles are enough to keep muscles from cramping.
-the less energy you waste, the stronger you are- he mentally recites his old lesson in patience.
The door of the Kimodo Club opens and a roguish Japanese man of middle years exits. He sticks a cigarette in his mouth and his sleeve slides up just enough to bare the tattooed kanji that represents soldier. He is Yakuza.
He lifts his lighter with his right hand, as his thumb presses against the flint wheel. Muscles tighten for a second, and then the lighter drops from his fingers to the ground.
The dark clad warrior flicks his sword in a shiburi technique to clean it of its blood. He quickly bundles the body into a square of black plastic and tossing him over his shoulder moves back to the darkened alley.
-damn. The blood…. - he thinks to himself as he stares across the street at the bright red puddle.
He pushes out with his mind slowly causing a ball of power of almost no size to catch the blood and destroy it.
-what strength you save, huh, sensei- the figure mutters to himself. In the darkness of the alley Hoturi searches the dead Yakuza’s body. Finding nothing more than a credstick and some other simple stuff he moves on.
Two days have passed since that night in the alley, and Hoturi smiles as he sits in the crook of a tree deep in a park forest. A contact had hacked the credstick for half its value. Even then Hoturi had a nice small amount of change.
Every night he hunts. He not always scores a hit, but it isn’t bad considering he’s on his own.
-just wish I had more. Something to show the public and implicate the oyabun and his generals.
Patience.
The young elven samurai continues his renegade operations, and within weeks the story of a blue-eyed ghost that hunts Yakuza begins to spring up. The hits come from nowhere, and most of the time there is no body or evidence of what happened.
Wage mages seem unable to find anything magically connected to the last know sighting of the missing individuals. Soon the Yakuza become wary and lock themselves away.
Bo Rukai, the son of a Yakuza general and maintains ties with the triad, steps outside of his penthouse door to leave the room service tray for the workers.
He turns and looks at the screens of his many security cameras as he shuts the door. He smiles at the screens, which literally show every inch of his home.
Two days later.
Authorities find the body of reputed crime leader with deep ties to the Chinese/Japanese crime syndicates, Bo Rukai dead in his own bathroom.
Forensic investigators, both mundane and magical, have come to inconclusive results as to if foul play were involved. The case is labeled as a heart attack and is closed.
The next day.
The body of Bo Rukai surprises Homtoi’s Funeral home during the embalming process, for their in house mortician finds the insides of the Yakuza crime boss to be charred to a crisp. The case was reopened.
A certified package arrives at the front desk of Sokoto Industries. The address label perplexes the desk clerk
To: the real boss from: blue eyes
Yakuza headquarters Temple of the Dragon
Yet the package slowly makes it way through dozens of security checks and into a dark wood paneled office.
Burning incense fills the room with the smell of jasmine as an average Japanese thug sits before a small shrine devoid of clothes except for his loincloth. Dark tattoos cover every inch of his body save his head and hands.
The young girl in a china doll-like dress sets the package down and departs. The Head of the Japanese Yakuza retrieves the box and opens it. Inside are a vial and a plastic bag with a few strands in it. A note on the inside of the bag reads:
- his last corrupt tear ad some hairs for verification. He died a symbolic death. On the crapper, where your life is headed-
“Find this blue eyed ghost,” he says to a dark clad ninja kneeling quietly in the corner.
“Hai,” responds the warrior.
The hunt ensues.
Locked away in a tanker box headed for Seattle Hoturi watches the disc he found in Bo Rukai’s home. On it are files about many of Rukai’s illegal deeds, including bank account numbers. With his few computer skills Hoturi cannot open many of the encrypted files. He hopes that in North America he will find someone he can trust to help him.
The problem is that everyone who he thinks to whom he can give the info to make it public would want it for different reason. Maybe a rival corporation to the Yakuza’s interests, but many corps would seek to use it as blackmail and would seek to neutralize the source so that copies did not arise.
Rival crime syndicates would do the same no doubt. Many a common matrix runner for hire would use the info to his own good, and might get them both killed in the process.
A complex web of politics, company policies, greed, and hatred that causes Hoturi’s simplistic view of the world seem naive’.
-this makes my head hurt-
Just another problem for our wandering warrior to fight against in his one-man war with the Yakuza.
On a day like any other Hoturi found himself surrounded by seven Yakuza henchmen who hurried him into a back room at a club called Matchsticks.
“I want that data, you mongrel,” a heavily tattooed Jap says. He is the only one without a gun. The rest of his henchmen have pulled Ingram Smartguns and are pointing them at the samurai.
Hoturi remains silent in his chair. The Yakuza leader continues to scream at the young elf, but Hoturi knows he won’t be hurt because everyone wants the information on the Japanese crime syndicate that he alone now possesses.
The doorknob jiggles and the room falls silent. Suddenly the door flies open and a hulking troll fills the door. Four of the six machine guns are slung to point at the intruder.
“Who are you?” the Yakuza leader screams.
“Ummmm. Who are you?” the troll asks. He seems slightly unconcerned by the steel jacketed death that is a simple muscle twitch away from flying at him…………….
Here the shadows dance and run,
So grab your knife or load your gun.
For here the shadows dance and play,
You have to fight for your next day.
Yet be careful of Death your friend,
For if you fail twill be your end.
<break for editing of intervention.......DATA CORRUPTED 5MPS>
The poor meat bag troll took the barrage of bullets straight in the chest as Hoturi speeds from the room in a blur, his lean muscles fueled by mana. Passing through the door the Japanese elf grabs what he thinks is a small child and runs down the hallway and out the front door of Matchsticks.
“M-y c-a-r…” the small body under Hoturi’s arm says, the speech sounding distorted to a mana fed elf.
In a world where everything seems to move at a snails pace, an illusion caused by a heightened sense and super increases to ones reflexes and mind, Hoturi sees the small person he carries point down the street to a black Streetride 215zx parked at the corner.
The small bundle watches as the elf carrying him changes direction at ninety degrees at a speed he could match rigged into his ride. The car and street corner seem to rush up to meet them, then the small gnome is put on the pavement as his elven carrier turns and speeds back towards Matchsticks double doors.
Seven Japanese men in business suits, the tailoring is all a cover for many tattoos, employed by the oldest crime syndicate in Asian history walk out the front doors amid a throng of running patrons. Six fully armed Yakuza carrying a seemingly massacred troll is a universal symbol to find somewhere else to be. The two men carrying the bleeding bag of meat that happened to be Hoturi’s saving grace pop the trunk of their limo and start to manhandle the troll into it.
From the double doors of Matchsticks comes a twelve-year-old kid in black fatigues and two pistols hung in holsters at his waist. Hoturi’s mind captures the moment in a freeze frame.
Four yakuza gunmen have stopped and are staring at Hoturi as he rushes to meet with them. Two japs load a bleeding troll body into the trunk of a limo. A young boy standing outside of the night club with the stance of a gunfighter from the ancient movies from before the world moving on and becoming the Sixth World.
The young black kid flicks his guns out of his holsters as an ork with a Hispanic stop sign reading “ALTO” steps out into the street near the Yakuza joyboys. Somewhere behind, the sound of a high-speed engine revving and a sliding of metal come into play. The freeze frame ends in an eruption of violence.
From the far street corner down the road dual carbines mounted beneath slide away covers in the gnome’s sports car scream out in a fury of bullets that zip past Hoturi on either side. The twin pistols of the dark childe ring out in double snaps of gunplay. The bull shouldered ork grins as he swings his stop sign like a deadly mockery of an ancient battle-axe. Exhaustion pounding in his mind, Hoturi summons up a spell.
The sustained fire from the Street Ride 215zx obliterates one yakuza. Another falls to the shoulder and stomach wound of the dark kid and a crushing blow from the alto sign that nearly cuts him in two. Hoturi snaps his fingers to release his spell.
Bright light flares on the astral plane, but in the material world it seems like a sphere of air expands at incredible speeds as a ball of pure mana explodes amongst Hoturi’s hated enemies. One of the remaining yakuza thug boys screams as his high tech Ingram Smartgun explodes from the damage to his ammunition, the explosion taking the hand with it. The other is thrown back from the blast, yet rises with small amounts of smoke rising from his body.
The two Japanese suits trying to load the troll carcass into the limo trunk turn to stare in confusion at the altercation that can only be described as destruction incarnate that has erupted next to them. A fatal mistake for the pair of them. They only hear a soft groan before the troll’s eyes snap open and he tears the first ones head from his shoulders. The second suit he grabs by the arm and pulls. The troll keeps pulling until the arm comes out of socket, then rips from his body. As the man screams blood rushes out of the gaping hole where his arm once was, the screams grow more and more muffled as the troll beats the Jap to death with his own arm.
The leader of the squad hops into the limo which speeds off into the city. The sound of Lone Star sirens racing in from the distance causes the remaining fighters at the scene to disperse.
Hoturi awakens on the backseat of a motorcycle on the side of a road near the edge of this section of city and another. He turns his head to see a large wagon truck behind him. As his eyes focus he reads ‘Doc Wagon’ on the trucks side. Through a small window he sees the troll who had stepped into his room at Matchsticks being fussed over by men in white coats. A few moments later the troll steps from the truck and heads back towards Hoturi.
“Ahhh, I thank you.” Hoturi says but gets waved off by the troll.
“No need, chummer. I hate yakuza more than I hate fleas.” He replies as he scratches at an armpit.
“Domo Origato.” The Japanese elf says and inclines his head.
“Um. If you say so, chummer. Anyways I’m heading to a friends crash house. I’m to tell you that you are invited to tag along if you want to.”
“I will accept your hospitality, for I owe you a great debt. My name is Hoturi Ono Hasaka.”
“I’m Rojak” the troll replies as he smiles. An expression that is scary in and of itself due to the large tusks jutting up from his lower jaw.
After a short ride Hoturi finds himself walking up the stairs of a run down building that had once been an office complex of some sorts. Yet now it was no more than a building for squatters to live in. Puffs of dust rose with each step they took. Rats ran down the side of the hallways almost oblivious to the humans that moved about. Not to mention the eternal smell of damp moldy wood.
Two floors up and at the back of the building Rojak knocks on a door. After a moment of silence a small camera whirrs as it spins to inspect them.
“Open the door, shorty. It’s just your local door to door salesmen.” Rojak chuckles, a sound like soft thunder rolling in from the horizon.
Another pause then a series of snaps, twisting of locks, and the rustle of bolts being slid back. The door cracks open in the hands of the young African child Hoturi had seen on the streets. The young boy looks at them for a moment the opens the door wide for the two newcomers to enter.
Everyone from the street firefight seemed present in the room. The ork with the ‘ALTO’ sign propped up in the corner. The small gnome Hoturi had grabbed on his dash for the street. The American elf that wore the common trappings of a mage. They all lounged about on rundown furniture that was still far better than what many in such buildings had. Five sets of eyes examine the oriental elf that stands by the door.
“My name is Hoturi.” He says to break the ice. “I thank all of you for your help today.”
“Aye, lad.” The gnome says as he hops down off the couch and struts towards a mini fridge. “How bout you help repay that favor by giv’n us ah han wit a jobe we’s gots goin?” the gnome asks with a heavy Scots accent.
“I would be honored. For I am new to this country, here some few two months, and I have no direction to my adrift life.”
“No worry, chummer.” Rojak says as he places one of his massive hands gently on the Oriental’s shoulder. “I’ll keep you alive. Hehe.”
Hoturi had never grown up around the hard streets of Seattle. He had never heard of a Mr. Johnson. Didn’t know the subtle maneuvers of employer and employee of the shadows. So he stood towards the back of the group as the entered Cenestro’s Bar and Grill.
Patrons in various layers of old clothing that had been ripped and sewn so many times that one could not pick out the original material or design if you knew what it was. Not to mention that many wore small masks that covered their mouth and nose in an attempt to reduce the amount of ever-present smog in the streets of Seattle’s more ruff districts.
Hoturi watches the room as a few of his new found companions talks to the pale skinned human with his personally tailored black suit and expensive mirrored sunglasses. This human is apparently a source of employment to those who know the streets so the oriental elf simply watches.
“You are to find Mr. Nicksolm.” The Mr. Johnson tells the small gnome who sits across the table from him. “My employer would like him alive, but his head is the only real target. His headware memory must be returned intact. Upon delivery you will be paid twenty thousand nuyen.”
“Aye lad, twenty thou isn’t that much for a group like ours. What if it isn’t just a find and return? Will we beh reimburst for our troubles?”
“Yes. But I will need evidence of any difficult issues you come across. Video will suffice.”
“Deal, laddie.” The gnome states in his island drawl as he shakes the other mans hand, having to stand in his seat and lean across the table.
“Ickarus Descending. That’s where we have to go Hoturi,” Joseph, the only other elf in this mismatched group, tells his Japanese counterpart.
“Very well. It means little to me.”
“We are looking for leads so that we can find this Mr. Nicksolm.”
“You are doing this for, how you say, a paycheck?”
“Yep, chummer. You got it. This is how us not so desirable for company employment get by.”
“Yet I have heard you mention that you work for Mitsuhama.”
“In a round about way, yes.”
“You Americans are too complicated.”
“You ain’t seen nothin yet, chummer.” Joseph says as the two step off the bus onto a busy downtown Seattle street.
A bright neon sign two stories above the streets flashes the image of a small winged figure in flight towards a neon yellow sun, then the same figure falling with his wings gone.
Hoturi had heard the story of the young man with wings of wax as a young child. He understood the concept of going to far even when you knew it was not safe. He hopes that tonight will not require such a risk.
Joseph leads the way across the street and down the block to the old gray brick building that supports the neon tribute to Ickarus. At the front door a massive troll who stands next to a red velvet rope suspended between to shiny brass poles stops them.
“Names?” the troll asks in the common guttural voice of his species.
“Joseph and Hoturi.”
The large gray skinned troll blinks twice as he stares at the two elves, “Names ain’t on the list. Get lost.”
“I know we are not on the list, chummer. We just need to find out if anyone here has seen a Mr. Nicksolm. We’ll be in and out, with no problems.” Joseph offers with a hopeless hope that it’ll work.
“Oh? Why didn’t you say so in the first place? Not on the list, get lost.” The troll states as he remains unmoving beside his velvet rope with his arms crossed against his chest.
“How bout a small donation to your sense of humanity?” Joseph asks as he casually twirls his credstick between his fingers.
“Donation?” the troll asks somewhat intrigued.
“Sure. How bout a thousand nuyen?”
“HA! I tossed a guy into the street in front of a delivery truck for offering me twenty. Lucky for him the truck stopped. You think your luck is that good, pointy?” the troll asks as he glares at the two elves.
“Well, I guess that goes to prove you can’t talk to animals,” Joseph says as he turns.
“You little daisy eating drek…” the troll bouncer says as he reaches for Joseph’s unprotected back.
THUD.
Joseph turns to see Hoturi standing upon the trolls back, one of the troll’s arms twisted up behind his back and held there by the thumb between Hoturi’s fingers.
“I hope that you are okay.” Hoturi says to the troll as the massive metahuman grunts in pain. “But you should not attack from behind, even if it is a foe, for in the path of cowardice lies no honor.”
“Lemme go.” The bouncer grunts. Hoturi obliges and steps just beyond the large man’s extended reach.
To Joseph, Hoturi seems like one of the great cats of the jungles from the trid screen. Always seeming at ease, but ready to strike and kill when necessary. His movements fluid, and even his stance as he stands still seems to shift and sway slightly. As if the Japanese elf is preparing himself for an attack from the very air itself.
“If you will accept my friend’s most generous donation and allow us only a few moments to peruse the interior of your establishment, and perhaps ask the how you say, barkeep? For any information I would be most grateful.”
“Sure thing, chummer.” The bouncer says rubbing his shoulder. “Go in the back though. I don’t feel like losing my job tonight.”
“Of course,” Hoturi replies bowing slightly. “Chummer,” he adds awkwardly at the end. The bouncer chuckles slightly to himself.
Passing through a back door and out from the kitchens the two elves find themselves in a nightclub with pulsing music, two dance floors alive with movers and shakers, and the majority of the people here are elven.
Hoturi’s eyes naturally scan the crowd for any of the telltale signs of Yakuza membership, but halfway through his eyes stop on a young Japanese girl in the middle of the dance floor surrounded by three jap boys.
“Lets go talk to the tender,” Joseph says turning to Hoturi only to discover his friend moving to the dance floor.
“I will meet you there momentarily,” the samurai says to his mage friend as he begins to weave his way through the packed crowd of the floor. Joseph rolls his eyes as he smiles.
Bright green eyes framed by dyed blue hair stare through the crowd with a bored look until they fall onto a lean figure with light gray skin that is almost white. The green eyes pick out the details of simple clothing that is well made with a style that no tailor in the UCAS could replicate. A simple leather thong holds a conical straw hat across the shoulders of a man that moves like a prowling cat.
Yoko Eino, a young Japanese girl, ignores the toadie sons of her father’s friends as her eyes remained locked on the elf that approaches her. Her breath catches slightly as she realizes his eyes are fixed on her, and he moves with a liquid grace through the crowd towards her.
Hoturi watches as the three Japanese boys all try to outdo one another with their odd jerky dance moves. Their brightly dyed hair and cybernetic elf ears are almost insulting to the samurai, but the girl is his target, not the boys.
He watches as she stares at him approaching. He smiles, a slight shifting of the corners of his mouth. A gesture intended for her alone.
Yoko is stunned. She stands perfectly still amidst a sea of dancing bodies as she watches the pale-blue eyed elf approach her. He stops before her, the slight smile on his lips causing her to blush.
Without thinking she reaches up and gently brushes the tip of his ear, “Real.” She mutters softly.
“Yoko, is he bothering you?” one of the lads asks, yet she ignores him.
“Come away from there, Yoko.” Another one says and reaches for her shoulder. The young human boy stops his hand an inch from the girl when Hoturi’s eyes snap from the young girls face to his. The coldness of the grave seems to seep from the elf’s eyes.
“Go find someone else to pester.” Yoko finds herself saying to the three boys.
“My name is Hoturi Sasuke,” he states as he bows, takes her hand in his own and brushes his lips then his forehead against it.
“Y-y-yoko.” She stammers. He grins.
“A sunrise amidst the sea of gloom.” Hoturi says gently. “Mayhap I could persuade you to honor me with your company?” and he gestures towards the tables towards the bar.
“Yes.” She says and moves to find an empty table.
They sit down at a small circular booth lit by a single tea-candle. The girl slides close to Hoturi as he slips into the booth. He smiles at her upturned face, as from the corner of his eye he watches his friend at the bar.
Joseph orders an elven wine from the barkeep, and when the human brings him his glass the elf leans on the bar,
“I’m looking for a chummer of mine that comes here. Name of Mr. Nicksolm. You happen to know him?”
“Aye, friend. I know him. I just can’t seem to place a face with a name though.” The human bartender says as he grins.
Joseph reaches into an inner pocket and pulls a crisp one hundred nuyen bill from his pocket. The human’s eyes widen at the sight of a clean paper bill, an unusual sight in the Sixth World’s era of technology.
“Oh now I seem to recall. Eric. Eric Nicksolm. A human that works for one of the big corps round here I think. A deck head I think. Always in here with the same crowd cept for a week ago. He came in with a few orcs. One of em had a big green afro. Lemme see if I can remember who they’d be….” And he taps his fingers as if in deep thought.
Joseph adds another crisp fifty nuyen bill to the other on the bar.
“Miss Glitter would be the one you’d want to talk to.” And he nods across the room to a booth in the back corner.
Joseph’s eyes drift to the table and see a human woman sitting with two males and another female. All are apparently human.
“She’s one of the corp types too. All are I think. Eric was a regular with her crowd. If anyone’d know anything I’d bet it be her.”
Joseph stares about the room until he locates his friend Hoturi at a table just beyond the one with the corp decker chick. He notices Hoturi glancing at him every few seconds as he seemingly makes idle conversation with the Japanese girl. Joseph gestures to the table with Miss Glitter and her compatriots and watches as Hoturi nods almost imperceptibly.
“I was wondering what a lovely girl like you would be doing by changing her body for the sake of looks?” Hoturi asks Yoko as his finger brushes a stray lock of dark blue hair from her face and behind her cosmetically pointed ears.
“To be something I could only dream of being. My father always seems to want to cram me into some premade design for his perfect little girl. I think his company has a set of blueprints and instructions on how executive’s children should look and behave. The Fuchi’s future is what they’d call it.” She says and laughs. Hoturi grins as his mind files away each tidbit of information.
“I must admit that I would not understand the life of a corporation and it’s peoples.”
“What about you, Hoturi. You dress like a wandering ronin from the trid movies my friends all watch. The full outfit complete with katana,” and she brushes her fingers against the exposed hilt of the samurai’s weapon. “Is it a gimmick to impress the girls?”
“Tis no gimmick, Yoko. I am a simple monk from the mountains of Japan. I am as you said though. A simple ronin loose in the world trying to understand the new age versus the simple life I used to lead.” Hoturi’s eyes watch Joseph move to a table that has four humans sitting at it from his peripheral vision.
Joseph approaches the table with his drink in hand at a casual pace, one that will ensure that he seems as nonaggressive as possible. At the edge of the table he stops and smiles at the group as they all stare up at him.
“Can I help you?” one of the human men asks. Joseph notices a Fuchi emblem tattooed onto his right hand.
“Actually I’d like to ask Ms. Glitter a few questions. I’ve been hired to find a Mr. Eric Nicksolm.” Joseph states as his eyes fall on a middle aged woman of impeccable beauty.
Gray eyes stare up past makeup aglow with small sparkles, the source of her name Joseph assumes. She smiles slightly at the elf, and Joseph notices that her earrings are the corporate symbol for Ares Inc.
“And who exactly is looking for this Mr. Nicksolm?”
“A friend and associate is all I know, ma’am. Word is he was in here a week ago with a couple of orcs.” The mage answers.
“Well. He hasn’t been around here for a week,” the decker girl answers.
A table away Hoturi’s sensitive ears pick up the conversation through the din of music and chatter.
“My dear Yoko. I have some business I have to attend to. But I would love to get a chance to see you again.” Hoturi states, and grins as she stammers out her personal commlink number. “Until later, beautiful.” He says and kisses her hand before he turns and heads towards Joseph.
“Is there anything else you can tell us?” Joseph asks as Hoturi steps up to his side.
“Nothing,” the lady says as her eyes drift to the new arrival.
“I am sorry to disturb you, Joseph. But if the man we seek was in here would he not have been recorded on security cameras?”
Joseph turns to his fellow mage with astonishment. For a man that just arrived from a world of nature without technology, Hoturi seemed capable to pick up on ideas faster than he’d been given credit for.
“Now that’s an idea, bucko.” Miss Glitter says. “Tell you what. I’ll dig up the security data and send it to you on one condition…”
“That we forget that five of the major corporation’s deckers all share a table and drinks at Ickarus Descending?” Hoturi finishes.
“You got it.”
“Not a problem Ms. Glitter. What are friends for after all?”
A few hours later the group of runners sit around the small gnomes upscale apartment and go over the information that they received via email from the female decker at Ickarus Descending. Hours of ideas and arguing finally bring the group to a somewhat unanimous decision on how to proceed. So in the early hours of the morning they head out to find their way into the ork underground to see what hides under yet unturned stones.
At a corner table in the pit bar named Alcove Hoturi stares about the room in awe. The Alcove is a ork and troll bar that seems no more than a barfight with a few drinking spectators. Through the swinging doors of the entrance an ork in a Lone Star security uniform walks in and across the room up to the bar. He orders a drink from the massive owner/operator named Trollcules and swigs half of it down as he turns to watch the fight.
“Hey you maggots. Keep it down or I’ll call the cops!” he shouts which brings a bout of laughter from the few others in the room not fighting it out in the middle of the bar. After downing the rest of his beverage the Lone Star officer rolls up his sleeves and lunges headfirst into the rumble laughing as he goes.
“Uh meh god.” A troll says as he looks at the table where the runners sit. “Two pointies, a gnome, and a human kid? What is this place now? A daycare?”
Hoturi watches as the ork named Alto puts his massive paw of a hand on the small cyber kid’s arm preventing him from pulling one of his twin pistols.
“Eh, they are friends of mine.” Alto states in a monotone, no nonsense kind of voice.
“Oh. So sorry govna.” Another troll laughs. “Hope we didn’t offend ya….” WHAM!! The troll drops as Alto’s stop sign slams across his head.
The large Mexican ork looks about the closest patrons waiting for another comment, yet none come as the troll laying unconscious on the floor twitches slightly.
“We gots to be getting a few of them armbands,” Alto mutters to his associates at the table.
“I’ll give it a go I guess,” Rojak says. “Can always beat a few pricks up and take em I guess.”
‘Sounds like a plan.” Alto says as he stands up and moves towards the fight.
A few muttered words and Hoturi’s form fades into invisibility as he follows Rojak from the corner booth. To the fringe of the fight they head, the ork and troll duo tossing unimportant contestants out of the way as they pick their targets that wear the upper arm band that marks them as members of the Ork Underground.
A solid blow from one of Rojak’s ham sized fists sends a smaller ork falling to the ground with blood running freely from his nose. Hoturi quickly moves in, dancing between other fighters, to quietly remove the ork’s armband.
In a matter of minutes Rojak and Alto have gather all but the last two bands that they need. The problem is that they must find one that will fit the massive upper arms of Rojak the troll. Hoturi finds the solution.
He picks up a tankard of foul ale and flings it at the largest troll in the room. This monster of a metahuman turns to see Rojak’s smiling face. The larger troll lowers his head and races at Rojak with his rams horns lowered for impact.
A few feet from his friend Hoturi sticks his foot out and trips the charging troll sending him sprawling into a loud uppercut from Rojak. The large troll falls to the ground with a thud and promptly begins snoring.
<FILE EDITED....UNAUTHORIZED USER...TRACED USER JACKPOINT #1-32A9B-9 USER ID: SEAPICK>
“Hey, chummer. It’s Tony. I wantchu to fahgettabout the yak heads in. You do a special favor for me and we’ll call it all even. It’s takin a lot of trust for me to ask you to do this.”
“What is the favor?” Hoturi asks the fat Mafia Capo.
“Name is Hizaku. Burake Hizaku. He’s a Yakuza that’s been a pain in my ass for a long time now. It might be a suicide run if you ain’t as good as you’d like to think.
“Where?”
“He owns and runs the Dragon Gardens downtown. It’s on 4th and Luvell.”
“Done.” Hoturi says and disconnects the call.
Hoturi and Joseph walk into Dragon Gardens restaurant and hotel for the movers and shakers of downtown. On one of Hoturi’s arms is Yoko, the young Japanese girl that Hoturi has taken a liking to as of late and three of her friends.
Inside the door a set of bouncers scans the party for weapons and the like then waves the group through.
“Party of six for Eino.” Hoturi says at the concierge desk.
“Of course.” He says making notes in his computer as he turns the party over to a waiter.
They are led to a large table near the stage against the side wall where a young boy sings in a heartbreaking voice the ancient songs of Hoturi’s japan homeland. Once seated Hoturi orders habusaki for the table and an assortment of sushi.
Twenty minutes, the voice of Rojak pipes through the earpiece microphone in Hoturi’s ear.
Copy. Hoturi responds into his subvocal mic.
“I would love to meet your Uncle Hizaku, Yoko. If no other reason than to congratulate him on his wonderful food.”
“Of course,” she says and hops up from her seat. She steps over to one of the many black suited individuals standing against the walls and stands up on her tiptoes to whisper into his ear.
The young hire guard motioned to another as Yoko waves at Hoturi and his entourage.
“Miko will take us down.”
“Down?” Joseph asked.
“Uncle has his offices in the basement. Something about how he doesn’t like heights.”
The basement? You got fifteen minutes till the truck arrives. Comes the voice of the twelve year old cyber kid.
The Japanese thug in the tailored black suit leads Joseph, Hoturi, Yoko, and the three other girls to a simple elevator that is guarded by a simple black velvet rope. Miko, the generic goon, pulls back the rope and allows everyone to enter before stepping in to replace the elevator guard to it’s original position. Inside he scans his palm and punches a fifteen digit code into the elevator panel before hitting the B button for the basement.
Lightheadedness engulfs Hoturi as the elevator drops like a rock. By his estimate the basement is far below the area for a normal basement. Finally the elevator stops as a bell dings announcing their arrival to the basement.
As the door opens the group stares down a long wood paneled hallway. Four individuals in replicant red samurai armor with a blue R on the chest stand in pairs on either side of the hallway. Renraku red samurai.
Holy drek the gnome replies across the groups commlink. Red Sammies are seriouos stuff.
Miko waves his hand as four red armored hands fly to sword hilts. The Reds return to their silent duty. Hoturi flips his vision to take in the astral world and sees by their auras that the samurai are far more machine than human.
The Yakuza goon Miko leads them down hallway after hallway as he twists and turns on some unseen pathway to his master. Finally he stops before a set of double doors that form a full circle. The door is carved with a dragon chasing a tiger surrounded by flowers and waterfalls. On each side of the door stand two Yakuza warriors, stripped to the waist to show off their many tattoos and battle scars.
The two guards open the door at a gesture from Miko and the party enters to find a mixed group of Chinese and Japanese men in expensive suits and matching fedoras watching an ancient Japanese man play shuffle board.
The ancient Yakuza mini boss stands with a shuffle board stick in his hand, a hand that sports the long fingernails of a respected Yakuza leader. His hair was long and white, thin enough to see bits of his scalp gleaming beneath. A long foomanchu mustache and goatee hang just about to his waist. As he looks up to see who has entered his domain the group sees that one eyes is a bright green that seems to bit lit by an internal fire, and the other eye is a milky white.
“My dear Yoko.” The old man says and extends his arms, and Yoko steps over to embrace the elderly man.
Target in sight Joseph says to the team through his subvocal mic.
“Uncle Hizoku. I’d like to introduce you to my friend Hoturi Sasuke.”
Hoturi bows, “Hizoku-sama. It is a pleasure to meet you. Yoko has spoken so highly of you. And after visiting your establishment above I wanted to congratulate you on your excellent food and ambiance.”
“Thank you, Hoturi” the ancient says as he inclines his head slightly. “We pay great sums of money to retain the best chefs in all of downtown.”
Ten minutes and counting. Comes the female voice of the newest team member. Get his old ass to the kitchen or we’re all frag’d.
“In my youth I spent much time in the kitchen of my family’s Doji. I was wondering if I might impose on you for a tour, for I would not dream of asking anyone except the master of such a mighty place for a chance to view the secrets behind such exquisite food.” Hoturi brown noses and the old man laughs.
“I appreciate your compliments, Hoturi-san. Perhaps I can take a few moments to show off my crown jewel, the Dragon Gardens. Especially to one who seems to have gained the enthusiastic interest of my dear Yoko.” He says as he beams at the girl.
Game on. Hoturi announces to his team.
As the elevator dings announcing their arrival on the main floor of the elitist restaurant hotel called the Dragon Gardens a small voice announces over the teams commlink that there is only four minutes until showtime.
As the ancient walks slowly from the elevator towards the kitchens he rambles on and on about the struggles he endured to open the business. How he worked his body to the quick to help build it with his own hands.
Hoturi realizes that there are three kitchens and not enough time to drudge through all three and pull it all off.
“Perhaps we could start our tour of the kitchens with the middle room, honorable Hizoku?”
“The middle room is only the prep. The left kitchen is entrees and the right kitchen is deserts and appetizers. The real kitchens should be more interesting to you my young friend.”
“But I have always believed that the true magic of the food is made in the very first steps of it’s preparation. But I would not dare to assume I would be allowed to view the deepest secrets of the culinary magic that must ensue behind those doors.” Hoturi counters.
“Ha. You have a silver tongue my young friend. I am no cook, so you would know better than I would. To the middle kitchens we go.”
One minute.
As they enter through the swinging doors into the food preparation section of the massive kitchens one of the cooks is standing at the bay door at the back banging on the rear door of the delivery truck.
“What is this?” Hizoku asks and begins to stride towards the back of the kitchen.
Seventy feet and closing Joseph reports to the team. Two major body guards. Mage possibility.
Copy. Comes the answer from five different voices.
“Open the door.” The cook yells at the truck as he sees the owner approaching.
“One second you loud mouthed fool,” a female voice screams from in the truck.”
Twenty feet. Hoturi reports.
“Open the door at once.” Hizoku says as he steps towards the cook.
Ten feet tops. Hoturi announces. CAME ON!!!!!
With the code given all the team moves into action.
The door of the delivery truck flies open revealing a human woman wearing tight black leather pants and an armored vest wielding two custom pistols. The twin customs ring out with burst fire. Three rounds from each gun reach out to touch one of the two bodyguards. All three rounds find their target and a spray of blood fills the kitchen as the yakuza thugs fall to the ground, followed by a group scream from the kitchen staff that begins to stampede for the dining room doors.
In the distance Hoturi hears the screeching of tires. The cybered childlike Enzo reports the movements of anyone important outside the building like a professional mercenary. The rigger gives his overwatch reports in short staccato statements. The driver of the hijacked delivery truck sits silently waiting for his cue to hit the gas.
Outside in the dining room kitchen staff and patrons of the restaurant run for the front doors as security personnel try to fight their way through the crowd to the kitchen. The crowd seems to surge back in on itself, and Miko looks up as he tries pushing past an elderly couple to see the reason.
On the street across from the Dragon Gardens Rojak had sat for the last hour in his stolen 1999 Oldsmobile Cutlass Supreme Special Edition pile of crap with the engine running and a brick on the seat next to him. When the GAME ON signal was given he calmly climbed out of the car setting the gears into neutral, put the brick on the gas pedal, then tossed the car into drive.
The Olds Cutlass leaped away from the curb with amazing power for an antique and raced across three lanes of traffic to the entrance. Before it reached the fourth and final lane a common commuter had driven down the street into the path of the raging Olds. The impact of the two vehicles caused the Olds to summersault ass over nose across the remaining distance to the restaurant.
The olds hit the side of the building at the juncture of the first floor restaurant and the second floor that was the start of the hotel. The impact had broken the car and ignited the fuel from the full gas tank causing a massive explosion that sent a fireball and large parts of the car tearing through the crowd and the body guards, and also setting nearly the entire first floor and the front of the building aflame.
Back in the kitchen the crash of the car and the jolt sent Yoko’s friends falling to the ground screaming. The girl in the back of the delivery truck smiled as she whipped out her flechette gun and fired a barrage right into the face of Mr Hizoku, mini boss of the Seattle Yakuza crime syndicate.
Yoko screamed as she saw her surrogate uncle die a painful death, then sobbed as she hung tightly to Hoturi. The girl in the tight leather wielding death in her hands grinned at Hoturi and winked. Hoturi couldn’t help but smile back.
Grabbing the body and dragging it into the back of the truck, the delivery vehicle sped away. From high up in the Holiday Inn hotel a seeming child leans out an open window staring through the high powered scope of his sniper rifle.
He sees the delivery truck pull away only to be followed by a black sedan. A small figure leans out of a window pulling a long green tube that he holds on his shoulder after him. RPG. Rocket propelled grenade.
A silent puff is all the sound as the rifle rings out sending an armor piercing bullet through the rocket launcher, the shoulder of the Yakuza bully boy, and into the cars gas tank setting off the second explosion of the afternoon.
The two cars that were behind the explosion swerve to avoid the flames but end up running head first into the cars parked all along the sides of the road. In the distance the sounds of sirens cry out and begin to come closer. Lone Star is only a block from the scene as five more Yakuza black sedans pull out to try and block in the delivery truck.
With the Yakuza in front of them and Lone Star security sliding to a halt behind them, the duo with the dead body in the back of the Sammy’s Salsa and Sushi Delivery truck are caught in a firefight between the cops and the crooks.
Two stuck in truck. The sniper announces.
Use your bikes then Joseph says over the din of fire and screams.
Tying the body to her back the team of nabbers hop on their motorcycles and burst through the door peeling off down a narrow alley and into the late afternoon sun as it beams down on the greater Seattle area.
Hoturi helps to lead Yoko and her friends to safety with the help of Joseph. They take the girls to the Holiday Inn so that they can be close to the damaged Dragon Gardens if word of Mr. Hizuko surfaces. Needless to say that by the end of the night Joseph had moved on to meet up with the team.
Hoturi on the other hand had stayed with the four girls since all four of their daddies worked together and were all out of the country on visits with their wives. Consoling four girls is a tough job, but the resolve of a samurai can keep them going for days after all others would fail.
<<access logon. user id: enzo. trace id: unknown.>
<"ello. Hoturi here. just want to add that sometimes a corp does something good for...how u say...u drekheads.> :evil
I am still wading through it, I'll try and get some constructive critique later tonight or so.
