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Fandom [ LOST DOGS ] — A Yakuza Story

A small chuckle mustered from the man. He wasn't in the laughing mood but could spare some relief for his friend. "Yes, very kill . . ." he sighed. The man continued to undress the other, undoing the rest of the buttons and revealing all the injuries to the back-alley doctor. Every injury.

Including the two nearly faded scars across Kenneth's chest.

It was . . . Were those? Did Nishitani give him those?

His eyes were glued onto the scars, attempting to piece together the puzzle. Was it possible that Kenneth was -- what was the word?

"Eh, Matsui," he called for the woman's attention, causing a groan.

"Give me a second," she said, slipping on her gloves as she continued to disinfect the tools. "Caught me at the worst time, I was startin' to close," she shook her head.

"No no -- eh, what's that word for uh . . ."

Shit, maybe he shouldn't out him. Matsui already had a better temper and if she found out about her patient potentially being -- whatever the word was -- it could result in bad news. "Nevermind," he spoke, turning his attention back to the injured man.

"Kenneth," he spoke, clearing his throat as he pulled out the matching pocket square. "Your chest -- are you alright?" he asked, gesturing to the scars and he gently pressed the square to the bloody face. Although sections of it were dry, he could still see small leaks from the split. It reminded him a bit of his own scar, and how he nearly passed out on his way to the infirmary just trying to get some bandages for the injury. At least maybe Ken would get a cool scar from it all?
 
Of course, that moment was just as fleeting as the last. Kenneth's hand slid off of Kenta's arm as he continued his attempts to help the injured foreigner. Yeah, Ken couldn't blame him for not being in the laughing mood. Most people wouldn't be laughing in his shoes. Still, his heart ached for his new friend, and he found himself breaking eye contact. He hadn't meant to cause so much worry.

Having his shirt removed was simultaneously a relief and a plunge into fear. Ken sucked in a breath as the fabric of his now-ruined button down ripped away from his wound, the blood already attempting to glue the fabric to his skin. Thoughts of potentially salvaging one of the only two good dress shirts that he had were quickly drowned out by feelings of dread as he tried not to draw attention to his chest—a pointless endeavor since it would be the target of the stitches he was about to receive.

Wait, would she put him under for that? Probably not.

He grimaced as he struggled to avoid looking at his own wounds. Not only would that draw very obvious attention to himself, but it would also reveal to him just how bad the new slice was. Maybe it was better not to know how much this was going to hurt.

He looked back up at Kenta for some sort of mercy and instead was met with a pang of horror. This man was absolutely fixated on Ken's chest, and he could tell it wasn't just because of the new hole in his body. Shit. He knew the scars were still barely a year old at this point, but were they still visible enough to draw that much attention? He kept his eyes firmly locked on the yakuza, his heart rate quickening as he desperately tried to think of a way out of this through the pain, itching, and incoming hangover. He wasn't seeing one. Maybe he could scramble for his jacket and pull his switchblade, but if Kenta also had a knife, he wasn't winning this one. Even if he could take Kenta out in this state, he definitely wouldn't be able to make it to the exit, and that would leave him open to an arrest—a fate that might just be worse than a thousand cuts. He gripped the table and braced for the worst, murmuring pleas for mercy to whatever had the heart to hear them.

There were a few words said between him and the nurse. On Kenta's end of the exchange, it sounded like the start of a question, but it quickly died off into what Ken could only assume was a "never mind." What was he going to ask about? Was he going to ask about...

It didn't matter. Suddenly, none of those fears mattered. All because that gentle hand was back on his face. Devoid of the earlier panicked roughness, he was now pressing a handkerchief to the few remaining leaks in Ken's facial wound. It stung, of course, and he couldn't help but flinch a little at the initial contact. But dammit, that gentle voice asking him if he was okay completely disarmed him. Again, he found himself completely giving in to Kenta's touch.

Part of him knew this was pathetic. Kenta was kind, but he was still yakuza. With that scar down his cheek and that glimmer he had seen in his eye at the bar, Ken didn't need a pin to tell him that his new friend was a dangerous one. He couldn't really say much, though. After all, he was technically still under Red ATL himself as an associate, and now he was in part at least affiliated with two opposing yakuza families. Still, he knew that he was Kenta's current lifeline. He still wasn't sure what entirely he had walked in in, but Nishitani absolutely looked ready to beat Kenta to death after whatever conversation they had prior to Ken's entrance. Now, he had wedged himself between that wrath. On the outside as he was, he knew that his position was one of a beneficiary, not a friend.

And yet, he leaned into that touch all the same.

"I am, now," he said, his voice growing soft despite his suspicions.

Then, he noticed something he was surprised that he had missed before. It was obscured by the dark fabric he wore, but now that Ken's vision was clearer, he could definitely see a line of red on Kenta's arm. There was a slice through the fabric, and a fresh wound now decorated the skin underneath. His eyes widened somewhat at the realization. Did he have that before Ken stepped in? Or, was it when he intervened that...?

"Kenta," he said, worry overtaking his voice as he reached for the wound. "Your arm—what he does to you? You are... Injury? Are you okay?"

He couldn't help it. Even if he was just being used for protection, for supplies, for money, for whatever the underworld could wring out of his broken body, he still couldn't stop the concern from pouring out of him. Maybe he could stay in this fantasy just a little longer.
 
Why was he caring for this man so much? Kenta knew no one anywhere in Sotenbori would share the same kindness, yet here he was passing it along. Did he learn nothing from his life? Helping people leads to nothing but getting stabbed in the back. Or, the face. He grimaced as their eyes locked, forcing himself to pull back as Matsui wheeled the makeshift cart closer. Even Matsui knew that basic principle. This wasn't a city filled with good samaritans that helped each other out of the goodness of their heart. At every turn someone asked for help and was willing to give something in return.

Matsui was willing to help repair Kenneth and leave him in a somewhat stable condition for forty-five thousand yen if Kenta was lucky.

Should he be doing the same to his friend? It wasn't like Kenneth had anywhere else to go. Kamurocho was a no-go unless he wanted his body filled with knives, surely he would get himself hunted by more of Nishitani's men if Kenta left his side. Tokyo was possible but the Tojo Clan's reach extended to nearly every part of the Kanto region. There was nowhere to go if he wanted to calmly wait out the storm.

Kenta sat himself down on the chairs, carefully watching the nurse at work. Even without a license, she was rather good. Probably why she charged so much. Any other back-alley doctor would live up to the name, handing over a mixed bottle of pills to patients and leaving them with a shabby patch job that led to them going to the hospital anyway. Still, she charged just like she was running a legitimate business.

"I am okay," he responded, clutching his own wound. He had been so concerned with Kenneth that he barely had time to register the blood that leaked from his own body. He couldn't help but sigh, slowly pulling his hand to look at the blood. Thankfully, it wasn't extremely deep, the knife had just barely grazed through his skin.

"That's going to cost you extra," the doctor spoke, sitting beside her patient. "And this is going to hurt," she muttered, pressing her gloved fingers to his bruised skin. Now, she could sit here for hours, painstakingly stitching closed the man's wounds, having to sit through his cries of agony and pleas for death, or she could staple the wound closed and wrap it with bandages.

She chose the latter.

With a few passes of disinfectant, she cleaned the dried blood and the wound, passing numbing gel on after. "Bite this," she spoke in English, shoving the man's shirt between his teeth. Although the gel would ease the pain, Kenneth would still be awake for the entire process. For every single staple that pressed against his skin and held it together.
 
It was predictable at this point, but Kenneth still frowned when Kenta pulled away. They must have been on the same wavelength right now, it was unavoidable. Both of them knew that this relationship—this so-called "friendship"—was built from mutual benefit, not actual kindness. No doubt, Kenta must have figured that Kenneth was some guy out here on vacation, an easy target for scammers. The kind of guy you could cheat out of a few hundred USD and not even set off any alarm bells until long after he'd flown home. More than likely, he wasn't expecting the newcomer to be such a source of trouble for him. And yet, despite all of that, Ken still couldn't shake the feeling that something genuine was there under all the tar. Kenta could play suave all he wanted with his words, buy as many fancy drinks as the bubble would allow him, laugh like there was no tomorrow at the broken words of a broken man. That wouldn't stop Ken from noticing the gentle kindness in his touch.

Still, the yakuza seemed so far away now. In his place was a rattling metal cart with one loose wheel. It looked to be made from a short metal wire rack with wheels haphazardly screwed in, but it got the job done. It was kind of comforting to Ken, really. This sort of stuff was everywhere back in the American South. Trucks would roll around with bumpers holding on by a thin layer of super glue and duct tape, the beds sealed off with a tarp and filled with water to make a pool. Redneck ingenuity, the students in Atlanta had called it. It was admirable as far as Ken was concerned. Who cared if it looked nice? He wasn't about to complain when he was about to get staples in his-

Oh, he was about to get staples in his chest.

Ken should have seen that coming, but it still came to him as a shock. That definitely confirmed that the slice was deep, if the constant bleeding weren't enough of an indicator. His eyes scanned the table for any anesthesia, any pills, anything to put a buffer between himself and the reality of the situation. Predictably enough, there wasn't much information he could gather from the bottles. Yep, still couldn't read a lot of kanji. But he figured that at least one of those tubes was probably numbing gel, and he wasn't seeing any pills. There also wasn't any sign of a morphine drip, though he couldn't say he would have trusted that from a back-alley doctor anyways. So, at best, he might be getting some topical anesthetic, and the rest he'd have to handle himself once he could hobble back to his hotel. He'd be sober by tomorrow night, he knew he would be. One pill the night before wouldn't kill the deal. God, was anyone else cold? This place must have had a draft or something.

As she cleaned the wound, he found himself more preoccupied with the discomfort that his comedown was bringing him. It was kind of fortunate that he had this big gaping wound in his chest, otherwise all of his squirming and small vocalizations of displeasure would have seemed out of place. It took every ounce of self-control in his body to keep from clawing at his arms in a futile effort to make the damn itching stop.

And then, English. He understood what she said perfectly, but he didn't really comprehend it until his own bloody shirt was in his mouth. Yep, she knew it, he knew it—this was about to suck even worse than it already did. He took in a sharp breath through torn flesh and fabric as she lined up the first staple, closing his eyes and bracing himself as best as he could.

The next series of sounds that came through that fabric could hardly qualify as human.

Trained as he had been to not show weakness, he wasn't wailing for the mercy of a god who never heard him. Despite the tears welling up in his squeezed-shut eyes from the stress and pain, he found himself growling rather than begging. The fabric in his mouth began to look less like it was protecting his teeth from their own bite force and more like it was preventing anything—or anyone—else from winding up between them. He held onto the examination table with a vice grip, every staple sending a new jolt of pain through his body. It was like watching a well-restrained animal getting patched up; a coyote bound and muzzled but still ready to snap.

Ken had to assume that she was quick about it. Neither of them really wanted to be here, after all. Still, it felt like hours passed between the first staple and the last, and he nearly collapsed backwards on the table once she finally finished up. He managed to keep himself propped up on his elbows, though. She still had to finish dressing the wound, and he was in no position to cause trouble. He opened his eyes and looked through a haze—now stress-induced rather than substance-induced—at the room in front of him. Even if his vision was clear, he wouldn't have parsed details. He wasn't in any state for it. Shaky breaths were drawn through what was now a sore throat. He knew damn well this wasn't the end. You couldn't use staples on a face, and she didn't seem back alley enough to try. There were definitely going to be stitches next, and those were going to hurt even worse.

Fine. Let it happen. Let it come. What, did they think he couldn't handle a bit of pain? This was going to be a fleeting moment in the series of pains and misfortunes that his life had brought him. If they thought any of this was going to keep him down, make him learn some sort of lesson, then they really weren't going to be happy to learn that he planned on keeping his word and going back for more.

He wasn't going to just be some sucker, some working dog. Wherever he could, he was going to bite.
 
Kenta tore his eyes away from the now blood-stained bed. The doctor tried her best to contain the mess, but it was difficult considering how much the man was squirming. It seemed the numbing cream did nothing more than shine the skin a bit. However, she couldn't do much more. Considering the hour, it was a miracle she was still even in this place. By now she was already on her way home so most of her supplies were already tucked away, and now she had two patients to care for.

She sighed slightly, cringing as blood gushed out, forcing her to press more gauze against the skin. As the blood stained the gauze, she quickly turned to grab more as the skin adjusted to the staples.

"Come back in a week to take them off," she spoke, peeling the bloody gloves off her fingers. Matsui stood from her rolling chair, and returned to her desk, rummaging through the several files and objects she had sprawled across it. "Kojima," she spoke, opening her drawer. "Shit where is . . ."

Her eyes slowly trailed up from the drawer, from the carton of cigarettes to the man. It seemed while she was hard at work, patching up the stranger, saving him from bleeding out, Kojima got himself comfortable. Her hand hovered atop the carton, allowing her eyes to linger for a moment. In their short time knowing each other, she had never seen him in such a vulnerable state. With blood slowly streaming from his arm, it didn't seem to bother him too much. A cigarette sat between his lips as his shirt now lay discarded at his side.

"Need a light?" he spoke, digging into his blazer, and pulling out a busted cheap plastic lighter. He stood from his seat, glancing down at Kenneth, forcing himself to continue forward. He needed to keep that man at arm's length. It was a fun night, it was an entertaining night, it was a . . . confusing night, but it needed to stop before things worsened. Kenneth took a blade to the face, permanently disfiguring it. What else could happen if this "friendship" continued? There was a good chance one of them could end up 6-feet-under.

"Here," he tossed the lighter over before he returned to Kenneth's side.

"No more blood," he said, gesturing to the other's face, "But, now is bad part," he shook his head. "Give her time to," he pointed to the stick between his lips before slowly letting his body fall on the chair. "Then the . . eh," What was the word? "Thing on chest on face."

Did that make sense? Well, for Kenneth's sake he hoped it did.
 
Kenneth vaguely registered the doctor's words—something something a week something something. Probably telling him when he could get those staples out. He tried to blink away the haze, but it wasn't leaving this time. What time was it? He grumbled something unintelligible and rubbed his eyes, trying to clear his vision. Now was not the time to be going blind. Even if he was technically out of danger, he wasn't out of the woods. He still had to make it back to his hotel after all of this, not to mention the absolute mess he had gotten himself into with three organized crime syndicates now. Honestly, he wasn't even trying to die this time, as much as it seemed that way.

While he was trying to clear his vision, he vaguely sensed someone approaching. Probably Kenta, judging by the scent of cigarette smoke. Ken took his hand away from his face and took a deep breath. Okay. He was going to have to just train himself to look past the kindness—rather, the outright mercy—that this man had given him and face him as they were. This wasn't a friend. This was an associate. As soon as he opened his eyes, he was going to-

... Ah.

He hadn't realized that Kenta had taken his shirt off. Of course he did, he had a wound in need of mending himself, but that didn't leave the foreigner any less blindsided. He wasn't surprised by the fact that he was well-built, that was just a given when living the brawler lifestyle. What startled Ken was how well-toned this guy was. Ken's own body wasn't flabby by any stretch, but it lacked the definition that Kenta had. Every muscle was on clear display, perfectly traceable even in this relaxed state. It was like the man had gone in with a hammer and chisel just to sculpt himself to perfection. In fact, sculpted marble would be a very apt description. He lacked any visible body hair—a stark contrast to the sparse field on Ken's own chest and stomach—and he hardly even had any scars to his name. The only ones Ken could spot were the one on his face and the soon-to-be one on his arm, still streaming red like a spilled inkwell. Apart from that, he could only see a bruise on his cheek, a bruise on his ribs, and a few small cuts peppered around his lower body. Passing clouds and leaves on an otherwise sunny day. With how gnarled up Ken's body was in comparison, all that concern from earlier was suddenly making a lot more sense.

Another thing that caught the foreigner by surprise was the lack of ink. He had been warned of the yakuza's affinity for large, complex tattoos that covered the back and arms—irezumi, he recalled—by his loaners the day before takeoff. They made sure to hammer it in pretty hard that he needed to keep his own full-back coyote covered at all times during his layover, lest local authorities mistake him for a criminal.

Well. Perhaps "mistake" wouldn't have been accurate.

Still, it brought a little amusement to the stapled man. Here he was, a complete stranger to this country and it's organized crime structure. Yet, with Kenta's only visible tattoo being a "13" on his wrist—prison ink, no doubt—Kenneth found himself more well-decorated than the one actually in a family. Well, maybe. He supposed he hadn't really seen the guy's back yet, so maybe his wasn't as far along. Tattoos of that size could take months to complete, and this guy looked at least somewhere in the ballpark of 20-25. Besides, if his back was anywhere near as toned as his front, then an artist might have trouble working through the peaks and valleys of all that back muscle. Honestly, if this is how the front looked...

Well, at least he wasn't cold anymore.

He caught himself after a minute and averted his gaze. This was wrong. The guy probably wasn't even interested in men, and even if he was, it was impolite to stare. But goddamn was he a sight for sore eyes. Despite his own volition, a hint of red tinted his ears. He hoped it would be lost in the bloodstains. Admittedly, he had been too enraptured to catch the better half of what Kenta was saying, but he seemed to be struggling a bit with a word. What was he trying to communicate? The thing on his chest, but on his face? Okay, he had to think on this one for a minute. Though his first reaction was indignation, he was injured enough to not act on it and actually give himself time to realize that, in this context, Kenta probably hadn't approached him mid-patch just to insult the state of his facial hair. Still, he found himself stroking the sparse scruff on his intact cheek. He was trying his best on it, really.

"Ah... Stitches?" he guessed, his voice a little quieter than before. "I hope you mean stitches... These-" he gestured to the metal lines now holding his skin together. "These are staples. You don't... She isn't going to staple my face, is she?"

The slightest hint of worry made its way into his voice. He had assumed that she wouldn't use staples on his face, but then again, he didn't know how she operated, really. Again, she wasn't so back alley that she was just stitching him with fishing line, handing him an assortment of opiates, and sending him on his way. But was she back alley enough to staple a face? Certainly not, right? These were medical staples, after all. If she was using those, then she couldn't possibly... Would she?

He found himself scratching at his arm. Partially because he was still unbelievably itchy, but also now out of nervous habit. He really, really needed to stop making such bold assumptions when he was so out of his element. If he kept on like this, he'd surely end up dead.

He couldn't do this. He couldn't run his mind in circles, he'd go insane. He needed a distraction. Time to scrounge up some more Japanese. "You, uh," he stammered, scrambling for a topic that wasn't related to medicine or crime. "You live in this city long time? It is like... Ah... Cannot remember word... 'Maze' in Kamurocho. Easy to lose. This city... Simpler. Hard to hide."

But, of course, it always looped back around to crime again.
 
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"No, no," he shook his head. "She is cheap but will do a good job."

Well, Matsui would do what she could at this hour and with limited supplies. Even with a quick glance around the office, it was obvious to anyone she had been closed for a while, most likely filling out a few reports and putting away files. A part of Kenta felt terrible for dragging her into this situation, but where else was he supposed to go, the hospital? And explain how his friend ended up with a gaping hole in his face and a cut running along his chest? Not to mention Kenneth most likely didn't have any proper ID save for maybe a passport.

He sighed, taking a hit of his cigarette, careful to catch the fallen ashes with his hand.

"She did good patch up on me," he turned, showing off a now faint bruise running along his ribs. "Got into fight and almost cracked rib," he explained, allowing his fingers to run over the spot. "Did cut with concrete though and she uh," he struggled again with the words, opting to merely make a gesture. "Fix," his hand spun just as a needle would, wrapping around a cloth until it was bound.

"If you keep coming back you're going to look like Frankenstein," Matsui finally chimed in.

Kenta tiredly waved off the comment, "Whatever, you're earnin' ya money," he retorted before glancing back to Kenneth's wounds. Although the job was slightly rushed, it was pretty clean. The staples were evened out, making sure to allow any movement will they continued to hold the skin together. He assumed stitches would be better, but it would only cause more pain to the man. Having to sit still while a needle moved painstakingly in and out of your skin, tugging on it all while being fully awake was a terrible fate. The mere thought caused Kenta to bite down on his cigarette, being able to imagine a similar pain. The same pain he felt when his skin was forcefully split open by a knife. An unnatural, horrifying, burning feeling as the body endured more pain than it was meant to.

It was a miracle that either of them were still alive.

"I've lived here my whole life," he nodded, "But Kamurocho is nice. It's bigger too," he continued, watching Matsui pull out a few more supplies. "That maze has so many places packed into every single corner. All the lights are kinda blindin',"

His eyes followed the woman, turning to face as she held out a gauze. Her hand hooked around his arm, tugging him closer as she passed a wipe across the wound. Thankfully, while she worked on the foreigner, the wound had managed to somewhat close. Instead of red gushing out at any pressure, it merely trickled out as cells rushed to the injury. "No stitches for you," she spoke, carefully disinfectant along the cut, forcing a hiss from the man's lips.

"Fuck, fuck -- warn me next time,"

"Shut up," she hissed back, cleaning off most of the blood before laying down the bandages and the pad atop the wound. "Now don't 'round gettin' yourself into more fights," she shook her head. "Don't you ever worry endin' up dead?"

Kenta paused, watching a few dark spots appear on the pad as he turned away. "If I did I wouldn't have chosen to become a yakuza," he merely chuckled before returning to his associate's side. "How the pain?" he asked, finally switching the language. "We get you ehh -- pills, tomorrow,"
 
Kenneth let out a small sigh of relief when Kenta cleared up that brief misunderstanding. He was, in fact, not getting face staples. That was already an improvement on his night. He sat up a little straighter, trying to get a better look at the doctor. Even after decades of progress in the States, it was still pretty uncommon to see a woman doing this sort of work. They were just "too emotional for that sort of work," according to most of the men in the field. Ken always knew it was bullshit, but now he had definitive proof. Not only was she doing a damn good job for a back alley doctor, but she seemingly gave absolutely zero fucks about the high stakes of this situation. A consumate professional wrapped in a shroud of cigarette smoke. He made a mental note to repay her for this later. How, he wasn't sure yet. But he wouldn't leave this country without making sure he had settled his debts.

He returned his gaze to Kenta as the man spoke—shit, he forgot to switch to English. Well, that was fine. He could follow along well enough to get the hint. Kenta had lived here for his entire life, huh? That explained how he was able to find his office so easily despite being drunk and panicked. Kenneth still found it hard to keep eye contact with him, though. This bastard really just had to be a work of art, huh? At least the doctor came by to save his life once more—this time in a more figurative sense by reaffirming Kenta's humanity. He had to stifle a laugh when the yakuza's wound was mended, the disinfectant being enough to elicit a hiss and a whined complaint from the brawler. It was endearing, really. Despite his stature and heavy focus on his looks, he was human nonetheless.

It was often incentivized in Ken's world to hide that humanity. Stifle your pain, bite your tongue, lace up your boots, and swallow back any indication of weakness until you choked on it. Anger was acceptable from men, gentle kindness from women. He found himself accepting a little of both into his life, though that kindness was quickly becoming a liability as well. Still, he didn't want to let it go. He didn't want to lose his humanity, even if he found himself hiding it more often than not these days. As flawed as this world was, he still wanted to be a part of it in his own ways.

Speaking of swallowing emotions, Ken had to put his entire being into not lighting up like a kid on Christmas morning when Kenta offered him pills. With his luck, he knew it would probably be aspirin at best. Still, the mere concept of it being anything more intense than that was enough to send his afflicted brain in circles. He wasn't sure how easy it would be to get ahold of them out here, but he figured it wouldn't have been nearly as easy as it was stateside. There was always a corrupt doctor there, willing to write prescriptions with a smile and a nod just to keep you coming back for more. So long as they got their money, they wouldn't say a word. He wasn't sure if they were stricter here or not, but he hadn't exactly planned on staying long enough to worry about that.

He cleared his throat a bit, trying to get his head on straight. His addiction was one weakness best left unspoken. Once people found out about it, they tended to use it as a muzzle. Can't really do much to the guy who determines whether or not you get your fix. "Ah, pain is... I will live," he said, unable to find a proper Japanese descriptor. Truly, the feeling was somewhere between a dull ache and a slow burn, but it was all muted by the goddamn itching. "I thank you—two of you—for all of help. It is late, this is... A lot. You could leave me to kill, you do not. Thank you very much for this."
 
Dark eyes trailed over the letters a hundred times. 'Starlight Hotel.'

Kenta was forced to translate the scraggly English letters, obviously written by a man ridden with immense pain. Although Matsui forced the man to swallow down painkillers on top of the numbing cream, it seemed too much for him to handle. He watched the needle weave, in and out, delicately pulling the skin closer and closer together. It was safe to say the healing process would take months, maybe half a year if he was unlucky. It stirred Kenta's heart, watching the man stir, clinging to the man as he desperately attempted to hold his sanity together.

All this because he walked into a meeting that didn't concern him . . .

He couldn't help but sigh, watching smoke leave his lips as he stared at the glass door. Should he continue to drag Kenneth into this mess? Why couldn't he just run away and hide? Pay some guy for a plane ride to the next country over? What type of baggage was he carrying around with him? Kenta knew asking too many questions was the fastest way to getting your face smashed in, and he didn't need a repeat of last night.

Fingers slowly trailed over the raised, pinkish skin, frowning as a few businessmen passed by.

"You saw that guy? Standin' 'round all sad? Hell's his deal?

"Probably waitin' for a girl. She was probably in there cheating on him," the man speculated with a distant laugh.

The Yakuza rolled his eyes at the gossip, spitting his cigarette out on the concrete. No point loitering around, if Kenneth weren't awake at this hour then he would pry his eyes apart. This was no time to be sleeping, especially with the extra job Nishitani tasked him with. On top of collections and regular work, he was still tasked with finding information on the Lot.

Dammit, that fucking Lot.

All night long he paced around his apartment, filling the air with smoke as he burned through his pack of Seven Stars. His sworn brother Seiji Imai, was the only thing anchoring him down, keeping his arms from falling off from how bad they were shaking. Normally, it was Kenta who had to reign in the man, but last night it was the opposite. The pair stayed up until the sun rose up from the East, bathing Sotenbori in its shining warmth until the clouds inevitably covered it. Up and down the streets they went, talking to call girls, taxi drivers, bartenders, and anyone that potentially had a connection to Kamurocho and its residents.

Luckily, they didn't even have to go that far. It was a stroke of luck as if a god answered Kojima's prayers. Now, he just had to inform his . . . other partner of the news.

Kenta marched through the hotel, clinging for dear life as the elevator shook the entire way up. "Fuck, hate this part of the city," he muttered to himself, glancing through the floor. Slowly, he walked through the hall, taking in the cracks all across the wall, along with the chipping paint and faded numbers on the door. What a magnificent hotel. His hand moved up to the door, gently knocking before knocking again, harder.

At ten in the morning, he expected the other man to be awake, but considering the number of pills Matsui instructed him to take, he was probably knocked on the couch. Where he left him. At the very least he managed to bring the foreigner home, it eased his mind a bit as he patiently waited.
 
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Kenneth had been awake for longer than even he expected to be after a night like that. He wasn't sure exactly when he woke up—the sun couldn't cut through the cracked concrete to grace his eyes. Still, he stood in the mold-slicked bathroom, stripped to just his blue-striped boxer shorts as he stared himself down in the half-shattered mirror, water dripping through his auburn hair and past his painfully-bloodshot eyes. He could see the clean side of his face fine at this angle, but the stitches spidered out into dozens across the mirror's cracks, mocking him with the permanence of his own mistakes. Yeah, he was back to feeling pain again. Hopefully, with the quarter-dose of hydrocodone he had knocked down with a cheap beer a few minutes ago, that wouldn't be a problem soon.

He strained to remember the previous night. There were some details that jumped out at him—he met a kind stranger at a bar, he was into some sketchy shit, Ken may have fought his boss? The events after that were unfortunately the clearest. A deal, a descent into pain, staples and stitches piercing burning skin. A hand in his. He didn't care to remember much of it on his own accord. Then, bam. Back into a pleasant haze after that doctor had given him a handful of pills. Whatever they were, they definitely cured his itch. He just hoped that he could make it into the night sober, otherwise he might actually be out of luck this time. A roach skittered across his fingers and he drew them and the rest of his body away from the countertop, leaning his head back with a sigh. Maybe if he just fell back on smoking, that would keep his itches and shakes at bay. Substituting one drug for another. What could go wrong?

Then, a knocking rang through the hotel room—quiet at first, then quickly growing impatient and loud. Ken sucked in a hiss, wincing as his stitches flexed inside his torn-up mouth. Either that was the guy from yesterday—he sincerely hoped that seeing his face would bring his name back to mind—or he had somehow managed to draw the ire of another family. At some point, he figured he'd just have to start cracking skulls preemptively. Grabbing a hand towel, he quickly toweled off his hair and rushed to throw on a t-shirt with a band logo painted on it—Dead Kennedys, to be specific. Damn, he hoped they would still be around by the time he made it back stateside. He wasn't going to have the chance to do that for a while. Hell, he barely even had the chance to wash up, opting to use hand soap and sink water to spot clean rather than risk the integrity of his fresh patchwork in the shower. He considered pants for a moment, but then the knocking grew louder. Well, either he'd meet a friend in his underwear or a foe. Either way, it didn't matter much. He still had a bat.

He rushed to the door, accidentally smacking his shin on the small table the hotel had graciously spruced the room up with and cursing wildly under his breath as he hobbled to his bat. It was propped up in the corner beside the door, still stained from the night before. Who did he hit? It didn't matter. It might have been more than one guy. Picking it up, he took a breath and drew it close to himself in a defensive position before opening the door, peeking under the chain lock to face-

Kenta. His name was Kenta.

A whirlwind of emotions hit him upon seeing that face again, now more bruised than when they first met. He was... Friendly. Yes. But there was an undercurrent about him. Now that Ken was sober, he knew for a fact that it was the possibility of an ulterior motive. Here he was, a family man, welcoming a foreigner who can hardly speak his language into his little neck of the underworld. Or, did Ken wedge himself in there? Fuck, he needed to go easy on the nightlife. He knew they were in some serious shit together, he needed to stay focused. Besides, even if he was just being used, he might still be able to score a ticket home out of it if he played his cards right.

Despite everything he told himself, he still felt a warmth invade his cheek. A memory recalled only by touch and the faintest smell of a cigarette.

"Kenta, friend. It is good to see you live," he said, mustering a groggy smile. Closing the door slightly, he let his bat fall limp by his side and fumbled with the chain lock until it opened. Damn thing had jammed a bit. Why was all the metal in this place so rusty? "Was just get... Clothes. Sincere apologies. Ah—come inside if you want. Do not, ah..." he tapped his head, swinging the door wide open for his friend. "Not know word. Last night very not know. All I know is I am fucked... And I think I fight your boss this night. So, yes. Fucked."

The vulgarity was in English. Somehow, he knew that Kenta would understand. He combed his still-damp hair back out of his face and went back to his suitcase—or, rather, duffel bag. It looked like a bomb had gone off in it, clothes haphazardly sticking out at random angles and a hairbrush with several missing bristles thrown on top. He sat down in front of it, brushing his hair and setting his bat by his side. His swinging arm now freed, he dug for a good pair of socks and one specific set of pants. He knew the damn things were in there somewhere. "Your arm is okay? Do not know you needing the, uh... Medicine rope."

Medicine rope. He winced at his own mistranslation—and the sharp pain from his face as his brush clipped the freshly-stitched wound. Normally, he would have looked to see if the proper term was in his dictionary first, but it was nowhere to be found. He probably left it at the bar. Well, hopefully it still got the point across. He was grateful he at least still had his book of notes to go by, the notebook now laying open on his disheveled futon next to a discarded beer can. Interspersed with English, Japanese, Russian, and the occasional doodle that may or may not have been related to the material at hand, it almost reminded him of his old college notes. His crappy handwriting had even remained the same through all of this, only slightly sloppier now due to stress and pain.

It would have been sweet had it not been so bitter.
 
"Double fucked," the man immediately responded, wasting no time lingering in the hallway. With his hands shoved in his pockets, he walked inside the hotel, nose crinkling at the sight. A dingy room, with outdated furniture littered the room. The bedsheets untouched by anyone, but hardwood floors stained with sparatic drops of blood. Obviously, Kenneth body was still recovering from the rushed patch job Matsui gave him, however, when Kenta came in he seemed . . . Fine.

The bloodshot eyes stared back at him, and he swore the man's upper lip twitched whenever he spoke, but he wasn't wreathing on the floor in pain.

"You have to fight Mr. Nishitani, and we've gotta go searching for someone. Don't even know the name yet," he shook his head, pacing around the hotel, once again. Unfortunately, now that Kenta had the freedom to merely exist in a space, he was taking up all of it.

"Me and my bro were talking last night 'bout the plan and he's already out talking to the boss, hopefully he rings me back soon," he sighed, making a beeline for the kitchen.

"My arm okay," he responded in English. "Matsui said no need for stitches, me believe. It okay," he nodded, giving his arm a swing as well. "Just hurt bit, need to stop hurt getting," he searched through the half kitchen, frowning. There was nothing. When his hand flipped open the plastic coffee maker, he was met with nothing but an ant crawling out. The mini fridge had nothing but stale air, and there wasn't even an ice maker at the end of the hall. His body swung around, frustrated at the lack of . . . anything! Absolutely no class, no hospitality, it didn't even seem hospitable.

If Kenneth said he wandered into an abandoned hotel and took up the first room, Kenta would believe him.

"Shit 'fore we do any of that we gotta get some breakfast," he spoke to himself, scratching on his mustache as he wandered back into the bedroom.

Oh.

His steps immediately paused, stumbling back a bit at the unexpected sight. He blinked, staring the other down man. Shit, he couldn't help but take in the few features that were now visible. Last night was filled with nothing but stupid drunk haziness, even while under the shinning light in Matsui's office, the alcohol severely dulled down his sight. Now with the sun's clarity, he could make out every defining detail on Kenneth's body. Even with the baggy shirt, purple covered the hairy arms. Most likely all bruises from Dojima's boys. They really did a number on him, it was a mircale Kenneth managed to escape, even if it was by the skin of his teeth.

The more he stared, the more his eyes moved along, wanting to remember every bite. It was only fair, right? Although the memory was hazy, Kenta remembered the burning feeling of alcohol pressing into his open wound. That was only possible if he had taken his shirt off, exposing his body to everyone inside the clinic. Now it was Kenneth's turn to be in that situation.

He wanted to rip his eyes away, not stand there like a slack-jawed idiot, but he was marveled. There were many wounds, some fully healed and some still in the process. It seemed there was a scar on every limb and he knew there was a story behind every single one. Kenta could only imagine the sort of life the foreigner lived before he found himself in Japan. Most likely committing the same crimes and living on the edge, just like him.

A part of the criminal wanted to gently reach out and . . .

"We," he cleared his throat, biting his lip. "Fuck, let us get breakfast," he forced out in English, brushing back dark strands to hide red ears. "I -- really want coffee."
 
Kenneth smiled to himself as Kenta paced around behind him, rambling a fair bit in Japanese—half of which he caught. Nishitani, right. Homare Nishitani. That was the bastard who nearly killed the both of them, the one he had promised to beat to a pulp later that night. If he had the sneaking suspicion that this was a bad idea before, he could now not only confirm it, but do so with enough certainty to get it notarized. He might not have remembered much in detail of that fight, but he had the scars to prove how badly he lost. He also remembered feeling... Happy? No, that wasn't the right emotion. Manic, that was a better descriptor. Something about that fight was different than any other one he had gotten himself into. Maybe it was the substances he'd taken, maybe it was the head rush that comes with being hunted for sport, maybe it was the near-death experience, but he couldn't wait to throw himself back into the fray.

First, he had to get warmed up. Traveling with Kenta would be a surefire way to find a good fight, he could tell. Speaking of, he was still pacing up a storm. As Ken finally found his pants—eyes rolling with a grumbled "come on" when he realized they were inside-out—he could still hear Kenta talking in a rushed, uneasy voice about finding a nameless person. It was even harder to understand than normal through the quick pace, the accent, and the slang—the hell was a kee-oh-die? He had heard the word a few times amongst the Dojima family, but its meaning remained anomalous to him as most words in this unfamiliar language. Fortunately, once he got around to answering his question, he did so in that broken English that brought back fuzzy memories of the night before, and Ken allowed himself to sigh in relief. His new friend was okay, at least. He had to cling to these small shreds of hope, it was all he had to go on.

"Good, good," he responded, flipping the pant legs right side out and shaking them a few times to ensure nothing had crawled inside. "Hurt is temporary. We will still live, I know this."

He hadn't noticed Kenta's abrupt silence, still focused on getting dressed. He had found a pair of clean socks, at least. He wasn't sure he had those left. Getting to his feet, he held the socks in his teeth and slid into the pants—leather ones. He vaguely remembered stealing them from some biker on a dare? Another hazy memory for the pile, but he had tailored them somewhat to fit his shorter stature. He would need something a little more heavy-duty for the night ahead—it was enough that his jacket had been slashed by his opponent the night before, he wasn't up for getting his legs carved up like a spiral-sliced ham. Speaking of the jacket, despite the damage, he was still going to wear it. Blood was fortunately easy to get off of leather, and the inner lining was already so bloodstained from previous encounters that he considered it a feature. Still, he'd need to fix that slash. Hopefully he could find some leatherworking supplies—affordable ones. Fuck, he needed to find a way to get money around here. Until then, he tossed the leather jacket back onto his body, pulling it tight around his back. The spikes on the shoulders grazed his neck, but he didn't seem to mind it. It hardly even registered. Boots and socks soon followed, laced tight over the leather.

Kenta's stammered voice brought him back out of his thoughts, and he looked over his shoulder at the crook. He was... Strangely vulnerable. At least, that's how Ken saw him in this light. He was nervous, his hands unsteady and trying to find something to keep them occupied—looks like a strand of hair was doing the trick for now. He was biting his lip, but his eyes were clearly averted, so it wasn't like he was trying to play suave. It almost looked like he was...

Nah, that couldn't have been it. Surely, it was just wishful thinking.

Still, Ken offered him a smile, and he couldn't help but feel himself getting wound up over the offer of breakfast. Damn, he could go for some of that. He felt like he hadn't eaten anything in a day. Come to think of it, his mouth had tasted a bit like bile when he woke up, but he was almost starting to see that as normal these days. He patted his pockets—a quick check for a wallet, cigs and lighter-

He froze. Was he feeling what he thought he was? Because if he was, he was about to feel really stupid. He reached into the inner pocket of his jacket and—sure as shit—pulled out a familiar black-and-red handle. Well, maybe he tried to use it and it was-

Snkt.

Ken stared for a moment at the extended switchblade in his hand, perfectly functional and completely stain-free. He had clearly gone up against a bladed opponent without even using his blade. He was about to beat himself up over this, but then he realized something: this meant that the boss had no idea he had a blade. Nishitani would come expecting to block punches, kicks, and a few swings from a bat. He would never expect a knife, let alone one with a quick deploy like this. Grinning at his newfound tactical advantage, he retracted the blade and slipped it back into his pocket before gathering his notebook and bat. Was he still going to be horribly outmatched? Probably, but now he had a shard of hope in his pocket.

Finally, he turned completely to face his new friend, hooking his bat on his belt loop with much less difficulty this time around. Yeah, he could do this. He was already feeling a lot less pain thanks to the quarter-dose he had taken, and though he knew that his state would degrade as the night went on, for now, he was feeling renewed. When he had walked into that bar the night before, he was already high before the first drink hit his lips. Yet, he remembered clearly the hopelessness, the absolute defeat in his heart. He went in there not even knowing if he should stay alive to greet tomorrow, or if he should just burn himself out over the week in a hailstorm of drugs and drinks just as he had planned until he finally ran out of luck. Now?

Ken looked into those nervous eyes and found a reason to live.

Walking over to Kenta, he gave him a rough pat on the back of his shoulder, using his other hand to slick down his damp hair a bit more. A fruitless effort—it would just frizz and fray throughout out the day as it always did. "Yeah, I could go for some food right about now," he said, tucking his hands back into his pockets as he switched back to Japanese. "I will follow. Still do not know my way here very good. Ah... Left book at bar, too. I learn from you speak, is okay?"
 
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With a forceful pry, the man's eyes finally averted. He couldn't keep staring, letting the tips of his shoes scuff as he nervously stood in front of the man. It was a bit pathetic, why did he allow Kenneth to affect him in such a way? It was strange, he didn't like it. The last time he allowed this feeling to overtake his body he ended up in a cell for five years of his life. When he was released, gone were the days of anxious waiting by the phone, instead, a small messenger announced when a call would be made.

Beep. Beep.

020 425.

That had to be Seiji. It seemed something went wrong, but . . . He had already promised Kenneth and himself breakfast. Shaking his head, Kenta clipped the beeper back along his belt, turning away from the room and towards the door.

"Can't be a very long one. We have a busy day," he spoke, opening the door, and nearly pulling it off its rusted shabby hinges. He scoffed at the sight, standing outside until his . . . accomplice finished getting ready.

And just as the Yakuza said, the breakfast was sure. As much as he wanted to sit down and have a full meal, especially now that he didn't have to rush and practically shove someone just to get food, he couldn't afford to waste time. As Seiji repeatedly said, time is money. Yet, that energy seemed to be nowhere as he the phone rang, and rang, and rang. Kenta sighed, banging his hand on the telephone booth glass. "This fuckin' guy," he grumbled, shoving another few yen into the slot.

He left Kenneth outside, saying it would only take a moment to contact his friend, yet he was stuck inside the booth for a good five minutes now, just trying to get in touch. Why did Seiji write to call him back and then not answer the phone? He had wasted a good 500 yen already on just flat rings. "Dammit I didn't even get to enjoy my coffee," he continued to complain, eventually slamming the public phone back into its slot, and sliding the door open.

"Sorry, my bro isn't answerin'," he bitterly spat, shaking his head. "I guess we did have time to --"

Ring. Ring. RING.

"Stand corrected," he huffed, spinning back into the booth, and picking up the phone. "Dammit, thought you got your head knocked in," he joked, shaking his head.

"Sorry, got caught up talkin' with one of the other guys," Seiji responded.

"So? What? What changed?"

"We ain't gotta go diggin' 'round no more, Mr. Nishitani coughed up the name. Said it was a reward for yesterday? You should fight him more often if he's gonna like that,"

"Hell no, I've already got 'nough cuts. Any more and I'm gonna go scaring off the ladies," he joked again, his tone lightning as he held the phone with his shoulder, eyes averting towards Kenneth. "Though, the American's got no problems throwing himself into a fight like that. He's actually gonna fight the boss again, hopefully, he'll give me another reward. Wait -- what is it?"

"The name of the owner. Makimura Makoto,"

"Makimura Makoto . . . Where's he at?"

"Haven't gotten that far yet, been stuck here at the office with bullshit. Thought you might get out there and start searching early in the mornin' 'fore that fight," Seiji laughed at the thought. "Shit, think I can get a front-row seat?"

"Ha ha," flatly the man responded.

. . . .

"I'll think about it. But, where should I start? Ever heard of someone by that name?"

"Hm . . . No. Try the most popular spots, ask around y'know, all the stuff we normally do when looking for people."

"Thanks," he sighed. "I'll keep you updated on what we find. Talk to you later." The phone hung once again as he slid open the door, taking in a deep breath. Damn phonebooths always reeked and were riddled with graffiti and stickers of rising musicians, and if one was lucky a cute girl's phone number. "Seems you didn't get that scar for nothing," Kenta gestured to the other's face, "That little fight got me the name of the guy I'm lookin' for. Thanks for that," he pulled himself from his annoyance and flashed the man a grin. "Maybe Mr. Nishitani will give you straight cash tonight."
 
Well, it certainly wasn't a southern breakfast. Kenneth had been adjusting to the smaller portion sizes in Japan well enough—it was rare he could afford the luxury of a full-sized breakfast back home anyway, and he would remain thankful for whatever food he was given. After a night like that, though, he couldn't help but long for some grits and bacon, sat piping hot in a pool of butter. He longed for a lot of his home, really. The woods you never had to drive too far to find, the scent of pine in the winter, the sound of a bubbling creek tucked away in a park, the bony, yet kind touch of his grandmother's hand on his shoulder, asking him if he was really as okay as he said. He never was. Not then, not now. So, perhaps it was a good thing the meal was so small. Homesickness and nervousness dug deeper than his appetite.

Still, he kept it buried. He ate what he was provided—in between bouts of furious note-taking, that is—and kept up the same pleasant demeanor that he had opened the door with that morning. Was it a little hampered by his internal turmoil and the discomfort of the stitches holding his smile together? Absolutely, but he wasn't about to show that. Because he wasn't at home. He was in unfamiliar territory surrounded by unfamiliar people who just kept staring at him, whispering, driving him closer to the brink with each passing glance. He knew he was going to have to get used to the stares. He tended to draw attention from folks, even back home. Yet, it felt different this time. He wasn't being looked at like a threat, but like a meal. They wanted to peel him apart and harvest all he had.

Fortunately, none of them were going to dare make a move on him while his pin-clad friend was around.

Ken tried to keep his attention as focused on Kenta as he could. Despite the yakuza's nervousness and overall untrustworthiness, he was still a friend in Kenneth's eyes. He saved him, brought him home, got him food—they we're close despite the odds. For now though, Ken was now stuck waiting, leaning against the grime-caked glass of of a phone booth while Kenta spoke to one of his family. Every so often, Ken found himself casting glances back at the thug—waving shyly at one point when they accidentally made eye contact—but his attention slowly drifted.

There. Off in the distance, he spotted another high schooler in a red letterman jacket. Those wouldn't have been entirely out of place if they were in America, but school uniforms in Japan tended to differ from what Ken had seen. They weren't so flashy. Plus, this was the third guy he had spotted circling their area, looking at them for just a little too long before ducking back out. He had even spotted one just outside the cafe window, though he didn't pay any mind before. Again, he tended to attract stares. But three teens, all wearing the same uniform, in the span of maybe fifteen minutes? Yeah, it wasn't entirely paranoia. They were being watched. Ken kept his hand on the pommel of his bat, though he wasn't sure if he would actually use it against a band of troublemaking teens. Really, they are least deserved to go home still able to play baseball once all was said and done. As Kenta stepped out of the booth—that trace of pride not eluding Ken's ears despite the language barrier—he watched as more letterman jackets began to appear. A smile pulled at his lips, though he didn't allow it to fully spread.

"We have small problems, friend," he said, tilting his head and rolling his shoulders as they slowly became surrounded by the punks. "You know these children? Do not... Not sure if angry them myself."

As if they heard him, two of the teens in the back stepped aside to make room for—well, Ken assumed he was their ringleader. He was dressed in a much longer red coat, katakana streaming like a waterfall down the front. A rather impressive pompadour sat atop his greasy head, and he walked with the sort of confidence that only youthful pride could provide. His sights were set straight on Kenta, and those sights weren't friendly—a cold glare and a metal pipe etched with hateful memories. Still, Kenneth couldn't perceive him as any more of a threat than a rooster. It could screech, chase, maybe even draw a bit of blood. A hard enough grab to the neck would do him in. They would survive whatever he brought to the table.

"Yo, Kojima!" the leader barked, pointing the metal pipe at his target. "I've been waiting five years for this, you son of a bitch! What, did you think that getting locked up for five years would make me forget what you did to my brother? Huh!?"

Kenneth raised an eyebrow. Kojima? Did this clown have the wrong man? Or was it a street name? He couldn't tell. Still, this was definitely a personal thing. Taking his hand off of his bat, he looked back up at Kenta, comfortable enough in his strength to take his eyes off of the looming gang. "We have no time for this, yes?" he said, finally letting that twisted smile slip. "Make it fast. Make it hurt."
 
"Children?" he cocked a brow, turning to the high schoolers.

His head immediately fell back, staring down the band of delinquents with a sneer. Shit, it was a bunch of wannabes.

Now that the tables were turned, clarity hit Kenta in the back of the head like a truck. Is that what he looked like? With heavy cloth suits that clung to their skin even in the summer heat. All of it is embroidered with certain kanji, mostly spelling out gang names or certain words. Kenta fondly remembered when he successfully embroidered kanji, only to realize it spelled out 'friend' instead of 'heavens,' a mistake that irked him to point that he ripped all the thread out. In his youth he deeply admired handmade fashion, taking care to always wear his coat atop even his uniform. However, these guys looked like they got their clothing straight off a movie set. Or maybe a second-hand store.

Kenta couldn't help but stifle a laugh as his eyes traced over the designs, however, it slipped through when he caught sight of the glorious pompadour. Who the hell was this guy?

"Sorry," he chuckled. "Have no idea who the hell you are," he gestured to the group. "You guys know if you're gonna sew your shit on permanently, ya gotta make it look right," he stepped closer, closing the gap significantly. "Your damn kanjis all backward. Ya mean 'murder' or 'musician' you idiot?"

Was he stooping so low as to insult a high school student?

Maybe.

"I didn't think I'd be fighting this early," he spoke, cracking his fists, and rolling his neck. "Ken, you can wait by booth," he spoke in English, "I will take handle these guys -- two seconds," he held up two fingers bringing his gaze back to the boy. "Look I've got no idea who the hell you are, but if you think you can around threatenin' people for the hell of it, you've got another thing comin'," he adjusted his position, bringing his fists up, spreading his legs as he took an offensive position. "Now, you sure you want to fight? You might have the wrong guy!"

Or maybe it was the right guy. Kenta sighed slightly, he needed to start keeping a list of all the men he fought through his long criminal career.

"I've put . . ." he made an effect to count the number in his head, yet shortly gave up. "A buncha guys, so who's to say it's your brother, y'know?"
 
Ken obliged Kenta's request, leaning back against the booth with a sinister smile. Folding his arms, he watched as Kenta's words only seemed to further fire up the rooster kid, head bobbing and arms flying out in some sort of "come at me" display. Teenage boys really were the same, huh? He could recall several kids in his high school—and even a few in his college—who acted just like this at the slightest provocation. Sure, Ken wasn't exactly a serene lake himself, but at least he knew better than to make a fool of himself like this. Oh well. A lesson learned the hard way would still be a lesson learned nonetheless. Still, despite his confidence in his new friend, he kept a wary eye on the rest of the gang, tightening the velcro on his gloves. He wasn't going to get in the way of a personal grudge match, but if the rest of them joined in...

As Ken watched for any signs of foul play, the kid took a few steps forward, tugging at his coat as though a pop of the collar would scare a yakuza. "Shut the hell up! What, do you think you're Mr. Perfect or something? Think you're hot shit because you're some rich old man's errand bitch?" he yelled, taking a practice swing with the pipe. "You'll see which one I mean when you're on the ground choking on your own teeth!"

The gang closed the area off in a ring, creating the perfect arena for what no doubt must have felt like this kid's big, triumphant fight. This guy really seemed to think he was the protagonist here. How cute. As he slipped into a rough, inexperienced battle stance, Ken stifled a laugh. This was going to be fun to watch. "But hey, I'm not made of stone," the kid sneered, cracking his neck. "Maybe you took a few whacks to the head while you were in the prison showers, so I'll forgive you not remembering the shit you pulled. My name is Taizo Yachiyo, brother of Hideki Yachiyo. And if you still can't remember by the time I'm done with you..."

Taizo pulled his pipe back over his shoulder, preparing to take a swing. His pupils dilated, his teeth were bared. A kitten ready to strike.

"I'll keep beating you until you can't remember your own last name!"

『 STREET PUNKS 』​

The kid took the first strike, charging recklessly forward before leaping to cover the rest of the distance and bringing the pipe down hard over Kenta's head. Well, he definitely wasn't kidding about beating the man senseless.
 
Yachiyo Taizo. Before the man couldn't even register the name, his hands shot up, covering his head from the metal pipe. He hissed at the feeling, bones rattling within his body at the intense slam. His knees buckled slightly under the weight, however, pushed the younger man off with a grunt.

"Shit, Yachiyo? Fuck," he shook his head at the burning feeling running up his arms. "I remember that guy now! Ah, your brother was that lame ass that thought he could beat me in a race then got pissed when I beat him twice!" Kenta laughed, recalling the distant memory. It seemed like something new happened every single week. If it wasn't another student wanting to fight him, it was Kenta getting himself into trouble in a number of ways.

Kenta was sure he once pulled the same stunt as Yachiyo, however, had the brains to at least run away before seriously getting injured. But, it seemed the younger man had no problem walking straight into the jaws of death.

"Hope your brother taught you something about me," his voice lowered, staring him down as he held his arms in a defensive position. Hard-headed as ever, Matsui's advice completely disappeared from the man's thoughts, overcome with sharp pain given to him by Yachiyo. He huffed, watching the other slowly walk back, mirroring his intense gaze. With a swift pounce, Kenta closed the gap, sending his fist flying into the student's face followed by another and then a punch to the stomach, hopefully knowing the air out of him.
 
Yachiyo had no idea humans could even move that fast. He thought speed like that was only possible in action-packed anime and movies. Yet, his misconceptions about the human limit didn't stop Kenta from literally punching straight through his defenses. Two blows to the head and one to the gut sent him reeling, and he found himself staggering backward gasping for air before he could even process that Kenta had retaliated. He reached behind himself with the lead pipe, using it as a cane to prop himself up as his legs tried to fail him. Still, there was a fire in his eyes that hadn't quite been snuffed out. Wiping the blood from his now-busted lip, he glared up at Kenta, straightening his stance despite the pain.

"He never got the chance."

With those hate-filled words, Yachiyo launched into another flurry of attacks, swinging the pipe in his hands with reckless abandon. Strike after strike aimed directly at Kenta's head and neck. They were wide, sloppy, hardly even accurate. Yet, each strike was filled with the fervor of a rabid dog, sense exchanged for strength.

Meanwhile, Ken couldn't help but notice the gang's shift in behavior. Some closed in, sure, but others fled. Perhaps it was a good thing that they had come to their senses, but Ken couldn't imagine that going over well with their boss. They were either going to get their asses kicked now or later. "Kind of a no-win situation, huh?" he mused, hovering one hand over his bat. "Let's see which loss they're willing to take."
 
The yakuza was sure that was all it would take to send the boy running with his tail between his legs, but miraculously he rose. With the iron pipe in one hand, wiping blood away with the other, Kenta was somewhat impressed. He was hellbent on cracking his skull open with that pipe, but Kenta wouldn't dare allow that. He couldn't.

Bringing his arms up once again to guard his head, Yachiyo wouldn't let up. He seemed more determined with swinging than accurately hitting his target, a major weakness. The pipe flew over Kenta's head, the pipe struck his shoulder, the pipe even grazed his face, yet rarely got near his skull.

Was this kid even worthy of getting a taste of the samurai?

Hrgh.

Maybe. The pipe slammed against his rib cage, causing a groan to slip through his lips. His hand dropped the defense, stepping back to widen the gap.

"Kenneth," he spoke, rubbing his now bruising ribs. "Make sure they remember this," he chuckled slightly before returning his gaze to Yachiyo. He watched the pipe graze against him once more, barely inches from his nose until his hand slammed against the pole, grip tightening around the rusted surface. The vibration rang along his hand as he attempted to pull it from the young man's grasp.

Kenta huffed as the tug of war was interrupted by a lackey, attempting to get a cheap shot at his leg. His hand brought the pipe down, allowing the stranger's foot to slam against it instead of his bone.

"You bring a whole gang just to take out one guy?"
 
Well then, batter up.

As Kenneth pushed himself off of the payphone glass and cracked his neck, Yachiyo finally slipped up and let the pipe slip from his fingers. The newly-forming bruises on his face and gut combined with the energy loss from slinging the pipe around had finally caught up to him, and Kenta was able to wrench the pipe from his grasp after minimal resistance. His eyes went wide from the sudden onslaught of reality, and he staggered back into a defensive stance as he was left unarmed. "Shit...!" he whispered, that earlier bravado now donning a few scuffs. He cleared his throat, trying to eliminate the possibility of a voice crack before speaking. "Oh you're one to talk, you're fucking yakuza! Like you wouldn't have called in the rest of your screw-up brothers for backup if I broke your damn jaw? C'mon guys, let's rip these freaks apart!"

Ken would have started swinging on Kenta's word alone. However, the sight of one of the gangsters taking a shot at his ankle was enough of an excuse. It wasn't personal now. It was a gang assault. And it would just be rude to leave a friend defenseless in a gang assault, yeah? He decided against using the bat though.

He wouldn't need it.

Ken pounced at the one who went in for the cheap shot, taking advantage of the fact that he had whiffed a kick to grab his extended leg and tackle him to the ground. In his stunned state, he didn't have time to react before Ken was on top of him, crouched over his chest and beating him mercilessly into the dirt. The gangster put his arms up to block his face after a few hits, yelping at the sudden onslaught from this diminutive foreigner. Still, he would have continued to beat on the now-bloodied gangster had he not caught a glimpse of another gangster winding back for a kick to the head.

Grabbing his downed target by the collar of his bloodied letterman jacket, he pulled him up just in time for the kick to connect with his shoulder instead. Ken grinned up at the second gangster—now yelling frantic apologies to his writhing teammate—before launching up at him and headbutting him in the jaw. The mild headache this would give him would be nothing compared to the sickening sound of a tooth cracking in half in the gangster's mouth—nor the blood-curdling shriek from his lips. These were the sounds that Ken lived for, the sounds he drew further and further through the addition of a gut punch that brought the teen to his knees, and the sound he would silence through several knee bashes to the face until finally, at last, his target slumped to the ground in a quivering heap.

Ken was a born and bred scrapper, and now they were learning that the hard way.

He looked over his shoulder at the other gangsters—those who had yet to come after them and the one who now laid on the city asphalt in his own blood—all staring in terror at the damage he had done. More fled the scene, but a few chose to go after Kenta instead, deciding to take their chances with the yakuza rather than Ken. Well, that wasn't going to fly. Ken charged one of the gangsters who tried to use a nearby traffic cone to beat Kenta over the head, unable to stop the swing but still intercepting it with his arms. He let out a growl from the contact the base of the cone made with his already-tenderized forearms, then shoved the gangster away to stand back-to-back with Kenta.

"I have your six, friend," he said, rolling his shoulders and hopping back and forth as he awaited the gang's next move. "Finish the child. I will do what I do best."

He wiped some blood from his face—this time it wasn't his—and stared down the small crowd with a crooked smile. The stitches hadn't failed, but the constant grinning from his head rush had caused a few drops of blood to trickle out. "Come on, fellas," he chuckled, switching to English as he assumed a boxing stance. "Who's feeling lucky today? Step on up!"
 
Kenta scoffed at the mere thought, shifting his stance once again. "If you managed to break my jaw you wouldn't be going home tonight," he shot back with a glare.

As much as the man wanted nothing more than to slam the pipe into the boy's body, he was still a boy. A boy with an ego that would be the death of him and friends that gladly followed them into hell. He knew he should be better, he knew the right thing to do was let the boy off with a proper scolding, but what he needed was a lesson. A lesson he wouldn't forget years from now. With his now bruised hands gripped along the pole, Kenta stared Yachiyo down. He watched the boy tremble, attempting to pull himself off the ground but with no energy left it was pointless.

The rest of the gang was preoccupied with Kenneth, evident by the continuous screams and groans they let out whenever the foreigner successfully landed a hit.

Normally, a crowd of people would gather around to watch fights go down, but there wasn't a single civilian in sight. Most likely terrified of the aftermath, the amount of unconscious bloody bodies that would be left behind. However, neither Kenneth nor himself initially this beating. Yachiyo and the others all brought this upon themselves and had to face the consequences like men.

"Do not tire yourself out," he simply said, giving the shorter man a nod and the rest a glare. The powerful glance was enough to scare off a few high schoolers, smart enough to realize this was not a fight they could win. They clutched their school bags and ran down the street, deciding they would never repeat their mistake.

"I wonder what they're teaching you guys know days," he spoke to the boy again. "Cause when I was your age, I at least knew to stay the fuck away from the yakuza," his arm raised the pipe, staring him down.

Kenta paused.

With one swift blow to the head, he could finish this fight. With one swift blow to the head, he could send the rest of the boys running. With one swift blow to the head, he could end Yachiyo.

The metal pipe fell to the floor, clacking against the concrete.

Instead, the high schooler was met with the heel of his designer shoes, immediately bruising the rest of his face. And Kenta struck him again, and again, and another on the leg, making sure to leave marks nearly everywhere.

"Now go home, boy! Dammit, if you can even get yourself there!"
 
Yachiyo put his arms over his head to guard himself from what he was sure would be the same fate his brother was met with, fear finally overtaking bravado as he braced for the worst. Instead, he was met with the heel of a loafer to the face. His defenses were immediately shattered, and he staggered backwards completely open to the next round of beatings. The blow to the leg brought him down to his knees, and he stared up at Kenta awaiting the hit that would make everything go black. However, to his shock, it never came.

He was tempted to turn this against the yakuza. The man had just dropped his pipe on the ground, and it laid in the space between them, tempting him with the possibility of the one swing that would finally bring this bastard down. All it would take would be one good hit, then he could finally see what it was like.

And then he locked eyes with Kenta once more as the yakuza barked orders at him to go home. What was with this guy? Did he have the right man? Because this definitely wasn't the same attitude that the man who beat his brother had. Still, he figured that one brush with death was enough for one day, and he found himself scrambling backwards to his feet, booking it back down the street from whence he came.

Not before shooting one final glare back at Kenta, though.

Meanwhile, Kenneth had been keeping himself occupied with the lackeys, showing far slimmer a degree of mercy. The few who had chosen to fight him quickly found themselves writhing in pain on the ground, and the scent of blood and bile filled the air around his blast radius. He had broken their noses, bruised their bones, left them with blood stinging their eyes and choking their airways. Yet, he still looked ready for more. He didn't want this fight to end, but those who weren't already on the ground whimpering or unconscious were now running in terror from the unrelenting onslaught.

He was still choking out one of the gangsters against the phone booth by the time Kenta had chased off Yachiyo, slamming him to the ground once he started going limp. Putting his head on a swivel, he looked for more fighters and found none except for Kenta. His back may have been turned to the foreigner, but Ken could still sense the determination radiating off of the man. Still, he was holding back. Had their positions been switched, Yachiyo would have simply been another body for the pile.

Ken couldn't help but grimace. How far down had he fallen that the literal yakuza was showing more mercy than himself?

Still, he painted that smile back on before Kenta could see his doubt, strolling up to his side and playfully punching his arm. "Damn good fight, friend," he chuckled, watching the long red coat of their assailant vanish into the distance. "Think he will come back? Many angry child..."
 
Dark eyes glued back onto the iron pipe, scoffing at the sight. It would've been easy to crush his body if he had been anyone else. Any other person would've succumbed to even one of Yachiyo's sloppy attacks but here he was, still standing. Albeit, his arms were trembling, burning as the pain slowly numbed. What was that boy thinking? Murdering someone out in the open street, as if it would have no drastic consequences.

Murdering within the yakuza was frowned upon, what did he expect to happen if he murdered Kenta? Things would be alright? That he wouldn't be hunted down from the shadows and his life wouldn't be made hell? That the brother he desperately attempted to seek revenge for would continue living?

His foot kicked the damn pole, turning around as he stared at the rest of the crowd. With a snarl he stared at them, hands shoved in his pockets.

"The hell's wrong with you guys? Get the fuck outta here!" he barked out orders, watching a few of them scramble in fear and runoff. A few more stayed, obviously held down by honor which caused Kenta to scoff again. Didn't they see the amount of damage one small foreigner could do? Bodies squirmed in the streets, clutching their injuries as they desperately attempted to crawl away.

"Wanna end up like him?" he gestured to the man on the floor, holding his leg.

"Y-You don't s-scare me!" another stuttered out.

With a swift step, Kenta came closer, pulling his fist back but faking out. However, it was enough to elicit a scream from the schoolboy, bringing his hands up to cover his face as his body crashed to the pavement.

"Goddamn kids, thinkin' they can take on the world," he shook his head, finally stepping away from the scene of the assault. A sigh left his lips as he rubbed his fingers, sliding the silver ring off as Kenneth joined his side. He glanced down at the other man, shaking his head.

"If he knows what's good, he won't," he spoke in English, dropping the ring in his pocket. Although Kenta came out virtually unscathed compared to the rest, he still had minor injuries. "You fought very well. A little too well," he joked a bit. "Eh -- before came here," he gestured to the city, however, meant the greater country. "What did you do? Do not get skills like that being ehh --" he shrugged. "Doing normal things,"
 
Kenneth watched as Kenta frightened off the few remaining gangsters, chuckling as his very presence proved enough to scare most of them and the mere threat of a continued assault was enough to send the stragglers scattering. In this light, it really was a sight to behold. Sure, he didn't seem to be nearly as enthusiastic about the fight, but he still held a commanding presence, hardly working up a sweat—though that may have had something to do with the fact that his button-down wasn't buttoned up, leaving bare skin exposed to the cold December air. Ken found himself staring just a little too long before snapping his eyes away. God, he really had to pull it together.

Besides, there were more important details to make note of. For instance, the marks the fight had left on his skin. No doubt his arms were injured from that pipe slam, but he was otherwise perfectly fine. Just a little worked up from the fight, same as Ken. He wasn't nearly as bloodied as Ken was, but it still smeared his knuckles and speckled his cheek. Mercy came at cost when dealing in any part of the underworld, and even the most merciful men would make sure their dues were paid. Thoughts of the upcoming night flickered through Ken's head. Would he be able to afford that cost?

He shook it off. There was only one way to find that out, and it wasn't going to be by worrying. As the last few gangsters finally gathered the energy to limp away, Ken tried to refocus and listen to Kenta's questions. He couldn't help but laugh a bit at the "you fought too well" comment—even if the sentiment came off as somewhat worrying. From what fuzzy memories he could recall, as well as the staples and stitches in his skin, Ken could deduce with a certain degree of certainty that Nishitani was a ruthless man himself. So, maybe he wasn't being too brutal for the yakuza, but was it really a good look to be upstaging his new friend like that? He'd already tarnished the guy's reputation a bit by barging in—though he seemed proud of him after getting off of that phone call. What exactly had he done?

He shook his head to clear his conscience. This was survival. It didn't matter how ruthless he was.

"I take money from family in Atlanta," he said, using his shirt to clean the blood off of his face. The fabric was black, anyways. "Red ATL. I can not give back, I do work for them to pay. Many, ah... Money get... Yes. Fight many men. I do not lose."

His tone took a sharp dive once he reached that last sentence. It wasn't entirely what he meant to convey—of course he took losses from time to time. Everyone eventually learned that there was a bigger fish. Still, he never allowed a loss. Even when he was outmatched, he always left his opponents with something to think about after he limped back home. Whether it was a deep slash, an amputated appendage, or even a chunk of flesh missing, if he was going down, he was taking a piece of his opponent with him. That was a promise.

"I also to fight men with... Uh..." he made a finger gun, pretending to fire a few rounds. "Did good work with one too. Law is stronger here, yes? I do not see them at all here... Very many in America. Not good to walk with nothing."

Right, he had to get in touch with Ivan. That was another part of the deal, he recalled. Whatever was going on surrounding that empty lot, if it was dire enough to drag a foreigner into the mix, then it had to be something serious enough to require firepower. Japanese firearm law seemed stricter—he hadn't seen a single man open-carrying even a handgun. He recalled one man who would patrol the campus with a shotgun at night. He could never figure out exactly what he was doing, but no one ever stopped him. That didn't seem to happen over here, so smuggling arms of that caliber may have been riskier than he originally thought.

He'd go back and time and punch his drunk self for that, but to be fair, he already got beat up pretty badly. Anything more would just be overkill.
 
Shaking fingers moved down his unbuttoned blazer, searching through pockets to find a plastic lighter. Even after taking numerous hits that would leave a normal person unconscious, Kenta felt the intense need to take a hit. He knew how horrid the smoke was for his lungs, but why shouldn't he indulge? As the cigarette was placed between his lips, the man allowed himself a moment to reel in from the encounter. The life of a yakuza was never easy, the constant threat of police and death was around every corner, but he didn't think he would have to continuously deal with threats from street thugs. The yakuza were at the top of the food chain, nearly every part of this city was affected by the Omi Alliance, yet that kid had the balls to strike one of their members, dragging along every other delinquent he could find.

As he took a long drag, Kenta's head rested back, slowly walking alongside his friend.

As shops began to open for the day, he dreaded knowing time waited for no one.

Nishitani didn't care if he got held up by a bunch of careless teenagers, he just wanted his reports. He wanted results.

"Oh, yes," he finally spoke, letting smoke leave his lips. "No gun allowed here since . . ." he thought for a moment before shrugging. "Don't actually know. Only know police only with them," he awkwardly responded in English, attempting to translate bits into the little of the language he knew.

"Me never actually shoot," he admitted, "Eh mostly," he brought his fists up, throwing his arms a bit as he walked, mimicking his previous moves. "Like more, really. Though --" he chuckled weakly. "I fight more when I younger," he gestured to the scene they were leaving behind. "When like Yachiyo," he shook his head.

"I would fight all the time, really hard headed," he finally switched back to Japanese, giving his tongue a rest. "Me and the old man behind the counter would fight over me breakin' the cigarette machine," he laughed at the distant memories, taking another drag. "Damn asshole . . ." he trailed off. If he returned back to that store, would that old man be waiting for him? To greet him with a "Kojima! Look how old you've gotten! Yer damn baby face's gone!" Or would he be met with a strange face they grabbed off the street to replace him?

Similar thoughts constantly ran through his mind. So many things changed in five years it gave him such a headache. Even the manga in the Shounen Jump were different, some cigarette brands changed their boxes, and shops he frequently bought from no longer existed. It was . . . depressing.

But, he forced his attention back to the man beside him, forcing a grin. "So, you working hard man," he switched back to English. "How long you with Red ATL? Many year, yes? Very hard to leave our life once in. Especially 'cause of all the money," he laughed. "Would not want anything else. Can buy anything!"
 
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