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Fandom [ LOST DOGS ] — A Yakuza Story

It took the yakuza a second to understand what was said. A string of broken words weaved together, making it difficult to know what Ken was saying, and mixed in with his morphine-laced voice the words were barely above a whisper. Gently cupping his face and holding him close, Kenta held the man's body close so as not to send it rushing back down against the futon.

"Seiji, think ya can heat up the soup?"

"Not like I have a choice," he said, grabbing the plastic container off the table. After giving the instructions a quick glance, he popped the bowl in the microwave as the other man got comfortable. Gently prying his arms off, the younger man got to his feet, towering over the ginger as he attempted to regain body movement. The morphine was starting to wear off . . . Dark eyes glanced over to the small pill bottle. Should he Kenneth one? It didn't seem like he was in immediate pain, but maybe he shouldn't let it get to that point. Lips pursed together, crouching back down as his hands rested against the foreigner's side, tenderly bringing him closer to the table. With his hand rested on Kenneth's shoulder -- as to keep him stable -- the steaming soup was set in front of them. It was a simple bowl of Miso soup, something hopefully easy on the operated man's stomach as he recuperated his strength.

"Did you have to destroy it in the microwave?" Kenta complained, fanning the hot liquid with a huff.

"And leave it half cold?" Seiji shook his head, planting himself across the two, giving them an odd glance. "I think the meds are gonna wear off soon, so he should probably go back to bed," gesturing to the soup bowl, "Let him finish that then y'know," he spoke, weakly shrugging as he undid the plastic packaging for the riceball, taking a swift bite out of it.
 
What was happening? Everything was so warm, so cozy, but so fluid all at once. And yet, a sadness lingered in Kenneth's mind. The source was becoming distant, forgotten in the haze, but the emotion remained and made him bury himself deeper in Kenta's arms, those dead eyes misty from an emotion with no home. Maybe, if he just stayed still, the soreness would go away. He might not even remember it was there if he just let himself drift.

Unfortunately, it wasn't meant to last, and Kenta got to his feet, leaving the redhead cold and alone. He whimpered out something so the effect of a "no, come back" as he tried to follow Kenta up, but his leg just wouldn't work. Even though he could bend it beneath him, putting weight on it just made it shake violently, causing him to fall back over. It was like his own body was rebelling against him, going on strike until it was allowed to heal. After a few attempts, he gave up, laying on his stomach and rolling up against Kenta's legs just to be close. His shoulder twitched and throbbed all the same, and he winced at the soreness that threatened to flare into pain as the stitches were pressed on.

Fortunately, his cold abandoment didn't last long, and Kenta crouched down to help him up. Why? Couldn't they just lay there forever? Wasn't that preferable anyway? A strange smell drifted through the air, and he recognized it as something he'd smelled before while wandering near the restaurants, but he couldn't quite place it. It definitely wasn't meatballs. Leaning into Kenta, he held onto his arm, wondering why he was thinking about meatballs in a place like this.

Then, he was at a table. Soup! It was soup, that's right. Though, it wasn't a soup he recognized. It was almost familiar—the broth reminded him of chicken stock in color and opacity, and there were green bits floating around that were definitely some sort of plant, but not a plant he could place. And what were those little white chunks? It looked like that fancy crumbled cheese he'd pass by at the grocery store, wondering briefly how it would taste before picking up a pack of those yellow slices that culture assured him was cheddar.

Well, maybe today was the day he'd find out.

With Kenta's hand keeping him somewhat steady, he tried to pick up the spoon. Tried. He still couldn't feel his fingers much. He kept fumbling, the clear plastic spoon slipping from his calloused fingertips. Again, again, and again. He began to regain another feeling entirely, one that quickly leaked into his eyes and drove his muscles to function again.

Anger.

In one swift motion, he snatched up the spoon and crushed the handle in his grip, splintering it. He didn't even feel the sharp plastic stab into his hand, sticking into the thick skin but not drawing blood as that determined death stare was once again replaced with a dopey smile. He got it. He got the spoon. He won. It was crushed at the middle in his hand, but he got it.

Victory and spoon in hand, he then went to get himself a scoop of his survival prize. With the plasticware gripped sideways in his hand, he proceeded to reach his fist towards the steaming hot liquid in front of him.
 
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Immediately, Kenta swooped in, clutching his wide hand firmly around the near-limp wrist. What the hell was Kenneth thinking? Confused eyes glanced toward Seiji who merely shrugged, continuing to eat his own late-night snack. Morphine was one hell of a painkiller; it caused the same man who successfully assaulted several members to dissolve into nothing more than a puddle of . . . cuteness. But, despite the mushy words, need for affection, and clinging to Kenta's arm, Kenneth was still aggressive at the end of the day. Similar to a guard down that needed three sleeping pills to simply stop barking at passersby. Should he be concerned? Was this something he needed to worry about? How, despite having shards of plastic stab into his skin, the redhead was determined to . . . punch the soup?

Having very little experience with anyone under the influence of heavy medication or drugs, Kenta was inclined to believe the words his sworn brother filled his head with. Apparently, this was normal behavior for those who filled their body with pills or any narcotics. They lost control of their body, and their mind, and did whatever they could to get their next fix. It was pretty scary, but didn't that behavior fit alcoholics as well? Japan has zero tolerance towards drug crime and there are severe penalties for all drug offenses leading to a big drinking scene and culture. It was normal to go out drinking after work -- almost encouraged in fact. It was strange not to go out after work with coworkers and one's boss; actually, it was considered quite rude to decline an offer. So, if one consistently received these offers, wouldn't that lead to them becoming reliant on the substance? Although Kamurocho was hailed for its intense nightlife, having several different clubs, bars, and karaoke spots, Sotenbori had its fair share of competition. It was normal to spot drunks stumbling down the streets or spending numerous hours at these bars. So, again, what made Kenneth different than all those men? Why did Seiji's cold piercing gaze strike through the man as if he was worse than any of the poor men they stole from? Kenneth proved himself a powerful ally on more than one occasion, did it matter if he was a victim to a powerful vice?

"Hey," he spoke, gently bringing the fist down to the wooden floor. "It is food," he continued in English, using his free hand to reach out for another plastic utensil. "Will not hurt you." The plastic spoon was dipped into the warm soup, catching a few pieces of small floating tofu and broth. "Eat, it is to help you," he nodded, holding out the sustenance for Kenneth.

On the other side, the one-eyed man couldn't help but laugh at the sight. God, a man so helpless he needed someone to feed him soup because he thought it was an enemy. What was happening inside his mind? What morphine-powered thoughts flooded the foreigner's mind? "You should've let him fight the damn thing," he said, continuing to laugh as he gestured the plastic bowl, "Really, dumbass would've learned how hot it was and not to fuck with it,"

Kenta rolled his eyes at the mocking tone. "Fuck off, will ya? He's delirious right now," he sighed. "Ain't that what you said? He'd be all sortsa loopy cause of the drugs?" he shook his head. "Would ya rather he's in pain and bitching our ears off? C'mon, the guy got stabbed three times give him a break,"

Taking another bite of the rice ball, Seiji dismissed the other's words. "Gotta deal with the consequences, that's how shit be." Leaning forward across the table, his elbow rested on the surface, snapping his fingers in front of Kenneth's half-lidded eyes. "Yo," he snapped again, "How feeling?" he asked, slurring together a few English words. "Did good, yeah," he gave a lazy, uninterested thumbs up. Turning to the loud-mouth yakuza, he smirked, "He might be stupid but he made me a fucktonna money."

"And you're gonna give him some, right?"

After a brief silence, Kenta asked again. "Right?"

"If he doesn't die in his sleep," the older man flatly responded earning him a groan.

"Stop being such a pessimist, he'll live. If he was destined to die he would've the first time he got stabbed. Besides, if he does that means ya gotta give back all the cash you made," he scoffed, serving the redhead another spoonful of soup.
 
Kenneth just sat there for a moment, eyes hazy and blinking slowly in complete and utter confusion. What did he do wrong? He couldn't figure it out for the life of him, despite the fact that the broken spoon was still held sideways in his hand, despite the fact that his flesh had come mere centimeters from being scorched by hot soup, he just couldn't figure out what he was doing wrong. He sat there for a minute with his arm in Kenta's firm grasp, staring at what he had done before it finally clicked. After that, all that was left was embarrassment. The stark reminder of just how much these drugs crippled him.

Seiji's remarks only brought him further into his own mortified lucidity, and he suddenly found it harder to make eye contact with the older gangster. He recognized that tone. He had heard it thousands of times before from criminals, law enforcement, anyone with a mouth, really. They all seemed to have the same thing to say about him when he was like this. He was a druggie, a user, no good pill popper, just another hopeless addict. A bit of anger still stirred beneath the embarrassment—he wasn't high on his own volition this time. Of course, he wouldn't have refused the morphine, but he wasn't asking for it either. It was just something that was done for his own health. Just to keep him sane. So what if that one dose of morphine would be followed up by at least two doses of Vicodin a day, so long as it kept some semblance of his humanity intact, wasn't that enough? Wasn't he just as worthy of being a person as the other warrior was? Hadn't he proven his worth?

He knew the answer—he never would. No one would ever understand the vice grip, the teeth around his neck. No one else could feel them. Sometimes, even he couldn't feel them.

He couldn't feel much of anything.

Leaning into Kenta, he gave in and accepted the care the yakuza offered him. The foriegner couldn't understand what was being said between the two brothers, but it at least sounded like the younger one was defending him. It felt like it. It felt as comforting and unfamiliar as the hot soup in his throat. A warm, soft sort of unknown. Maybe he'd be warier if he were sober, but for now, he simply allowed himself to relax and heal.

What was that noise?

After a few snaps, Ken's eyes finally tracked up to see Seiji staring into his soul with complete disregard. He was asking something, trying out that fractured English yet again. He was asking how the drugged-up American was feeling, but it didn't sound genuine. Maybe it was just the language difference, maybe it was the morphine, maybe it was the lingering sadness in his mind, but it didn't feel real. He didn't even bother putting on a smile as he mimicked the thumbs up, his arm still heavy in the cologne-laced air and falling back to his side shortly after the gesture was made.

He was trapped in his own mind, his own body working against him. Everything felt heavy and numb and all at once stiff and sore. He was coming down in all the wrong places.

At least he still had warm soup and a warmer heart to guard him.
 
A distinct metal click announced the presence of four men, the heels of their shoes clicking against the polished tile floors. It was a single file line down the short hallway, entering the spacious massage lounge. Typically furnished with medical beds and medical instruments, it appeared an earthquake shook the room; everything was now thrown across the floor alongside a distinctive red color.

“We interruptin’?” asked the fresh face yakuza. Compared to the two agitated men, he was nothing. Half the size of the massive tattooed man, but a bit heavier than . . . Immediately, he cocked a brow at the sight of the slim man. It was like looking in a broken mirror. With long picked-up hair and an eyepatch, the main distinction was the colored tattoos going along his shoulders and down his forearms — without them, the man shared an incredible likeness to his sworn brother. One of the strangest things he had seen.

Kenta knew who the massive man was — Wen Hai Lee — Seiji made sure he knew the man’s real name, not to be confused with the cover had been using thus far. What a good way to throw everyone off the girl’s trail, make everyone believe you’re the one they’re looking for while she got to live a civilian life. But, as he looked around, he noted the absence of Makimura Makoto.

“So,” Lee spoke, “You’re a trash punk after all. Called your little girlfriends to come help and everything.”

“You mental?” offended, the stranger retorted, “Ain’t these your ladies?”

“We catch you at a bad time?” Kenta interrupted, cocking his head. “You’re the owner here, Wen Hai Lee, yeah? Where’s Makimura Makoto?”

Alerted, the stranger’s muscles tensed, eye-widening, “Eh? You’re Lee?”

“What’re you talking about? I’m Makimura Makoto.”

It seemed to man was insistent on continuing the false charade. Shaking his head, “Really gonna feed me that shit? That might’ve gotten ya this far, but we ain’t buyin’ it.

Before any of the men could continue, the entrance door slammed followed by a soft voice. “Hey, boss. I got your cigarettes.” Enter the target they’ve been searching for. “Boss?” she called out, stopping in the hallway curiously.

Pushing back the tense criminals, Kenta brought his arm up, “Perfect timin’,” he grinned. “Welcome back, Makoto-chan,”

“Are you . . . a client, sir?” she nervously asked, clutching her walking stick.

Promptly, he gestured towards his comrades, “Grab her and let’s go!” Despite Kenta’s previously expressed dislike and disinterest in this type of work, how could he refuse? This was a direct command from the patriarch. Everyone was to shift their focus on finding the girl and until she was safe in their clutches, no one was able to embark on anything else. Knots threatened to form in the young man’s stomach, watching as his men’s hands aggressively wrapped around the poor girl’s body.

“Run! Makoto!” the massive man yelled out, attempting to sprint forward. However, as his body moved, a body shot through the air, breaking through the tough layers of skin and penetrating his body. Blood gushed out of the wound, splattering across the wound and staining his tattoos. Muscles tightly contracted, finger pressing on the trigger once again, unleashing another bullet through the air, this time piercing the edge of his thigh. The man was down on the polished floor, costing Kenta only his composure. Letting go of the tight air in his chest, he attempted to conceal his trembling hand and eyes.

Kenneth was right – firing a gun was . . . A rush of adrenaline shot through his veins, watching the man struggle underneath his feet. Despite being near double Kenta’s size, he was squirming on the floor, attempting to keep the precious liquid within his body. All it took was two bullets and he was near incapacitated.

“You,” he warned, having to swallow down a knot, “Stay put, big guy.” He gestured to the other men, “Go! Get her outta her!”

“Holy shit –” the stranger forced out in a haze of confusion, “The hell’s goin’ on here!?” As he attempted to step through the wall of yakuza, Kenta blocked his path with a cocked brow.

“Woah, slim. Where are you goin’?” he asked, still taken aback by the sheer similarity to Seiji. Did they know each other by chance? But, who was this guy? By his tattoos, it was apparent the man was high-ranking, but who did he belong to? Was he Omi? If he was, someone should have recognized him by now – or at the very least advised he was already at the scene.

“That girl – she really Makimura Makoto?”

“And? What of it?” he shook his head, “While we’re at it, who the fuck are you?”

“That girl’s MY mark. I’m not lettin’ you assholes steal her!”

Clicking his tongue, the weapon raised again, barrel facing down the stranger as his watch ticked down the time. One, two, thre —

Before his finger could lock around the trigger, an excruciating sharp pain overtook the yakuza’s hand. Fire crawled through his skin and nerves, blood gushing out onto the watch, covering the glass lid. Stumbling, the young man belted a scream, clutching his wrist as water threatened to form his eyes. His hand stiffened, afraid to move his fingers even an inch so as not to further fill his body with pain. Through the adrenaline and ringing in his ears, Kenta was unable to make out the conversation between the enemies but noted the fact Lee was nearly off the ground. A piercing metal needle visibly shot out of the tall man's firm hand, cutting clean through the skin, veins, and muscles.

Were two bullets not enough? Did he have some sort of fucking death wish? Taking the gun in the uninjured hand, without hesitation the yakuza fired another bullet straight into the man’s torso, completely incapacitating him. Watching Lee fall flat onto the floor, “I fuckin’ told you to goddamn stay put, asshole,” he choked through the pain.

“This is insane,” the stranger panicked, clutching his fists.

“Gettin’ rid of bodies is a pain in the ass,” he panted. “But screw it. Seiji’ll deal with it,” clicking his tongue again, “The both of ya ‘re gonna be floatin’ down the Sotenbori river tonight.” He gestured to the yakuza, “End him!”

[ SHIFTY-EYED MAN ]​

The immense burning pain in his hand would be enough to force any regular man to yield, but the criminal had no choice – he had to fight for his life. The stranger’s confusion faded, eye hardening as he brought his tense arms up, readying himself for a pummel of attacks.

A majority of the attacks were delivered by the other two yakuza, giving their all to take down the tattooed man; however, most of their attacks failed. As he switched between styles, it was difficult to keep up between striking a stiff wall and the fluidity of his movements. Fuck, who was this guy? How’d he learn all this shit?

Panting as more blood fell to the floor, he winced at the sound of his name.

“Kojima! Shoot this fucker!” the man called out, yelping as the tough fist slammed into his jaw.

Groaning, he took a step back as the one-eyed man sprinted towards him. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Dark eyes widened, bringing the gun back up, however, entirely missing the shot as he began to lose his grasp on reality. The production of adrenaline was slowly coming to a halt, being unable to keep up with the demand. Breathing heavily, he brought the grip up, slamming the magazine down against the man’s sharp cheekbones. It was enough to form him to stumble, but not enough for Kenta to crawl free. Recoiling from the sudden sharp attack, the stranger gritted his teeth grabbing one of the blue ottomans thrown around the room.

Slipping on his own blood, Kenta’s body slammed against the sharp corner, sending another pain across his bones. Rocking his head, dark eyes widened once again swallowing thickly as the furniture piece towered over him. “H-Hey! Wait, wait! Fuck, h-hold–!”

Bang.

The ottoman slammed down on the young yakuza’s body, weighing down heavily on his shoulders, waist, and knees. The next thing he knew, he was bleeding out on the floor. A fiery flame traveled across every inch of his body, triggering his limbs to jolt in pain. Fuck, where was Seiji when he needed him? Who thought it was a good idea to send him in virtually alone? Shit, who was he kidding? Even though that guy was as scrawny as they came he was able to disable three guys with no problem. At the very least, he walked out of the clinic with quite a few bruises on him . . . A heavy breath left his shaking bloody lips, making an attempt to free himself from the heavy furniture peace to no avail. Heavy lids slowly closed, a heavy head hit the floor, and heavy hands laid flat as the darkness enveloped him.
 
It had been a long time since either Kenneth or Seiji had heard from Kenta. Too long. The foriegner had been the first to get restless about it, pacing and growling in between turns at the pool table despite Seiji's insistence that this wasn't normal behavior. Not like the redhead could understand a damn word. It was beginning to get grating, having to constantly repeat the cobbled phrases like mantras—すみません, わかりません, もっとゆっくり下さい. His gloved hand tightened around the cue with a soft squeak as the knuckles below the black and grey leather went white. Goddamn, he just wanted to break the thing over the back of this smug bastard's head. Like his English was any better than Ken's Japanese, like he had any room to be this much of a bastard.

But he couldn't. He knew he couldn't. Not only did the one-eyed man actually have the room to be a bastard—his men lurking around every corner of the city proving that point well enough—but if those stitches split again the Southerner knew he'd get his ear chewed off even further by everyone who had been relying on him for his knowledge and fighting prowess. With one of those skills now sufficiently knocked down a peg from gaining more stitches than a Raggedy Ann doll, he had been told in no vague words that he was to take it easy for the next few weeks until he healed. No crazy shit. No breaking a pool cue over the back of a guy who he'd watched take down three men the night before. Besides, he'd done his part for now and gotten that gun into Kenta's hands. There shouldn't have been anything to worry about with such a relatively powerful weapon at his disposal. Just point, pull, and watch the bodies drop.

Yet, it had been way too long.

The drugs and the glass of whiskey did nothing to calm that dog in his heart. After a while, he completely lost interest in the billiards, simply pacing and muttering with his head swarmed with images of what could be. He didn't dare shut his wild eyes for long. What hid behind the thin curtains of his eyelids was far worse than any suspicious stare. It got to the point where Seiji finally had to cave to the claws raking at the door—and the reality that the foriegner had a point. It had been over an hour with nothing reported in. The chances of something having gone horribly wrong weren't exactly zero, especially not with Kenta at the helm.

So, they set out, the foriegner following close behind the yakuza as they wound through the neon-lit streets. Though it was a smaller place than Kamurocho, it still felt like Sotenbori was only inches away from eating the redhead alive. As much as he wanted to pick up the pace, he couldn't dare outpace his guide. Pace, however, soon became the least of their concerns. There were downed men all throughout the streets. Kijin men. The closer they drew to the clinic, the more men they found. Some claimed to have been called in as backup, others claimed they were just making their rounds when they saw and intercepted.

They all described the same man. Tall, slim, long black hair drawn into a ponytail, wearing a black suit and an eyepatch. A mirror image of their own superior with exact strength. He had Makoto with him.

That was all it took for their calm walk to turn into a sprint. If Kenta hadn't taken Makoto, then him and the rest of his group were probably in the same shape—if not worse from being at the beginning of the extended fight rather than the end. Not only that, but Lee was absent. That meant that the beaten yakuza in that clinic could have been in even worse shape. Injured, still locked in battle, maybe even...

As Seiji pointed out the building that held the massage clinic, Kenneth nipped at his heels in a dead sprint. The dull pain of his leg felt through the blanket of depressants wasn't nearly enough to slow him down as he wove through stairwells and doorways, catching his injured shoulder on one but remaining unflinching, locked on a singular thought: "Please be alive."

There was blood trailing away from the entrance to the clinic itself. Untouched. Someone had managed to make it out to get help.

One look inside the door revealed that it wasn't Kenta.

The room was destroyed. There were broken chairs, broken bodies, blood spattered and smeared around the walls and floor. One single acupuncture needle was stuck in the hospital bed. On the ground, beneath a broken blue ottoman, just next to a scuffed-up pistol, was the last thing Kenneth wanted to see.

Slamming past Seiji in his panic, he grabbed the furniture and tossed it off of Kenta as though it were just a kid's toy before kneeling down to check on him. Out cold, just like everyone else who had witnessed the fight—save for the owner of the mystery trail of blood leading down the hall. The redhead allowed himself to breathe a little as he began checking him over, looking for any mortal wounds and finding nothing of the sort. Everything was blunt force, save for a hole in his hand—and that didn't look like it came from a bullet. Still, a worried hand grazed over the downed man's bruised body. A broken rib definitely wasn't out of the question after an onslaught like that, but with the amount of muscle he had, hopefully it was just a bad bruise. Hopefully. "You're gonna be alright," he whispered, that soft, shaky Russian entirely for himself. "You're gonna make it."

As Seiji made his way over, Kenneth attempted to pull Kenta upright on his own. Hissing and gritting his teeth over the pain that shot through him despite his vice, he was dead set on supporting the taller man's weight singlehandedly. Fortunately, Seiji was there to help. As he looped his arm around his sworn brother's back to support him, Ken couldn't make out much of anything that he said apart from "Matsui", "heavy" and a string of insults—whether they were aimed at the yakuza or the brawler was unclear to those untrained ears. It didn't matter. That wasn't where Kenneth's thoughts were. They were with the labored breathing beside him, the warm blood dripping down his leather jacket, the heartbeat in his ears. He would make it. He had to. But the what ifs hung heavy as the criminal's body leaned against the leather-clad shoulder.

The walk to the clinic felt like it took ages. Between the winding, hidden route they had to take and the constant ducking into alleyways to avoid police patrols that the fight had lured out, Kenneth occasionally found himself checking Kenta's pulse or pressing into a bruise to try and garner a reaction. He didn't get much beyond a soft, unconscious groaning. An acknowledgement of the pain, but not a waking one. That beating heart held steady though, giving the foriegner some hope as they finally approached that neon sign.

For once, Ken was able to take it in as a conscious, sober man. For once, as they charged through the door, it wasn't him who was slated to be on the table.

And somehow, that made everything feel so much worse.
 
“You really need to start being careful,”

Snapping out of the faint haziness, the young man’s eyes rolled across the poorly lit room. It was difficult to identify anything besides the bed he was sitting on and the curtained window. The cool moonlight fell across the room, illuminating the young woman’s pale face.

“What?” he croaked out, blinking a few times.

“You don’t even remember?” she asked, bringing a bandage to his shoulder. “Did you fall on your head that bad?”

What was she talking about? Who was that? Why couldn’t he see anything? Grumbling to himself, Kenta’s hand rubbed against his eyes desperately hoping to clear his sight of the thick fog.

“Hold still,” she whispered, running her fingers again his trembling shoulder. Flinching on instinct, the young man quickly muttered an apology.

“I-I’m sorry,” he sputtered, reaching out to gently take the hand. The cold stiffness of her fingers, the long black hair that fell perfectly across her shoulders, the expensive sheets and comfortable mattress underneath his hands . . . Was that?

“Ritsuko!” he yelped out, eyes widening as her image bled through the fog.

“Yes, dear?”

Scooting across the bed, attempting to force space between himself and the young woman forced a wince from his bloody lips. Every inch of his body was on fire. Muscles ached and clamped, crimson fluid dripped down his forehead and back down to his eyes. Bang. His body crashed onto the wooden floor. Kenta’s chest heaved as he attempted to catch his breath, wiping the blood from his face.

“Why the fuck am I here?” panicked, gritting through his teeth the brunette forced his shaking damaged shoulders to pick himself up off the floor. Dark eyes scanned the environment, squinting as he attempted to pick out any details through the smudged darkness. The harder he searched the stranger things became. The glass panes on the window were decorated with iron bars. The curtains were damaged and tattered. The posters and photos that normally adorned the young woman’s walls were nowhere to be seen. Bruised fingers laid against the white walls as Kenta struggled to hold himself steady.

“What do you mean?” her voice shot through the room again. “You were running from the police and you came here.”

Running from the police? Why would he be running from the police? Didn’t they . . . catch him? Before his palm could slam against his forehead again, Ritsko gently took the bruised limb, tracing her painted fingernails against the tanned skin.

“What are you doing that for? You’re going to keep hurting yourself like that,” continuing to gently whisper, her perfectly painted lips came down to place a gentle kiss. “Please, come back to bed and I’ll take care of you,”

Hesitantly, Kenta’s fingertips traced along her cheeks. Ritsuko . . . Ritsuko his beloved – she wanted to take care of him and patch up his wounds. “You’d – do that?”

“Of course, anything for you.”

As the student sat once more on the bed, everything suddenly felt better. The darkness slowly enveloping them felt comforting, like the warm blanket he would cover himself as a child. He wrapped his arms around her slim waist, pulling her warmth in close, laying his head against her chest. Tracing her fingers along his dark hair, she chuckled. “I can’t bandage your head like this,”

“I can handle it. I’ve felt worse,” muttering a response, he closed his eyes. With her comforting body against his own, and her fingers in his hair Kenta was at liberty to fall asleep with his beloved in his arms once more. How badly he craved her warm touch, her beautiful smile, and her grand laugh that lit up his world. Too bad the blood pouring from his forehead ruined all of that. No matter how many times Ritsuko rubbed it away it always came back, running along her own hands.

And as the pair held one another, dark red filled the room engulfing both in disastrous serenity.

————–——

“When the hell is he gonna wake up?” the one-eyed yakuza barked out, visibly annoyed as his hands rested in his pockets. Throwing his head back, he pushed himself off the wall, waltzing towards his unconscious sworn brother. “He’s been out almost all fuckin’ night,”

“I told you, it's a process,” the doctor barked back. “The meds are gonna keep him out for a while, so I suggest you go and get some damn sleep,” she shook her head, finally grabbing her dark coat. “Like exactly what I’m gonna do,”

“You’re leavin’?” he asked, “Hell nah, wake him up now,”

Pausing in her step, the older woman took in an extremely needed deep breath. The entire night it was the man yapping at her, hovering over her shoulder as she examined Kenta. Every other night he sulked in the corner like a ghost, why was he suddenly so involved? Why did he suddenly care so much? “I can’t wake him up,” calmly she tried explaining. “The painkillers I gave him already kicked in and he’s not going to wake up until tomorrow. Besides, he’s not in a position to fight either way. He’s going to break his hand if he does, so I suggest giving him a break.” Pushing man the tall man, she stopped right before Ken. Matsui attempted to avoid speaking to him all night – a mixture of anxiety, fear, and general distrust. At least he was in walking condition – more like at least he was conscious. After everything that happened, Kenneth continued down this path. Why couldn’t he split after fighting Nishitani? That must have been one hell of a fight, one enough to satisfy that sadistic itch he was notorious for.

She gave Seiji a quick glance. The man was at Kenta’s side, watching over as his body stirred side to side. It must be one shitty dream. Pulling her gaze back to Kenneth, she clutched her coat and purse tightly, eyes on the tiled floor, hesitantly approaching.

“How are you doing?” she asked him in his native tongue. “Do you need more medicine? Is – everything . . . feeling fine?”
 
Kenneth knew better than to get in Matsui's way. Beyond just not having the authority to do so, whatever he would try would likely end in more problems than they started with. So, despite his desire to stay by Kenta's side, when Matsui told him to step back, he gave the unconscious man's arm one final squeeze before backing off and letting the professional do her job.

As the foriegner stepped back, the fog began to slide back over him. Adrenaline gave way to mild sedation and a subtle, crawling itch, drawing his hand up to his collarbone as if by a string. As the gloved fingers grazed over his skin, a subtle sticking, peeling sound caught his ear. Blinking the startled confusion back, he brought his hand back away from his neck and in front of his face. Blood. Not his own, not an enemy's, but Kenta's. It coated the leather palm and trickled into the velcro strap like a languid creek, the burning fluorescent lights above beating down and creating a subtle haze of iron and hide perceptible only to that trained nose.

With a shaky sigh and knitted brows, he took the batting gloves off and tucked them into his pocket. Dammit, who was that guy? Some monstrous force of nature with unknown motives, completely unrecognized by the thugs he had flattened. A third element. He wasn't supposed to be there. This wasn't supposed to happen. Now, not only was Kenta broken and bleeding on a hospital table, but that girl was now in the hands of a complete stranger with boundless strength and possibly hostile motives. She was in danger. That meant that all of their heads were back on the chopping block, especially...

Matsui's soft, hesitant voice broke Ken from his thoughts, snapping his bloodshot eyes away from the endless void of possibility and over to the skittish nurse. She was speaking in English—far more fluently than his yakuza counterparts. Tucking his hands into the pockets of his pants, he silently thanked the winds of chance that he remembered to wear his bandanna. He didn't need the nurse to see how his stitches were stretched into a grimace, to read the fear behind those bared teeth. "Uh. I am... It is good, I..."

No. It would be best not to try Japanese this time. He could hardly think in a coherent manner, speech in a foriegn language was out of the question for now. Besides, his confidence in his capabilities had been thoroughly shattered as he'd spent the day with Imai. The older brother was ruthless about the redhead's errant grammar and his god-forsaken drawl. Shaking his head, he began to start over—quieter now, in his own tongue.

"I'm alright," he sighed, finally bringing himself to meet tired eyes with Matsui. "Been through worse, honest... Just glad I'm still alive at this point."

A laugh escaped him. It was weak, drenched in the stress of his existence, but it was there. Beneath the mask, his lip twitched errantly under the strain of pulled stitches. "... Don't mind him. He's just a bit riled up 'cause everything went to hell tonight... I haven't been getting it any easier, believe me."
 
It was difficult to muster anything for the criminals in her office. For one, the man on her operating table was a constant nonstop client. What good was that huge bill if he never paid it off? She could never repay her debt with materials haphazardly discarded on whoever he brought in. Everything was below the table and they refused to have it any other way. Prescriptions were always written under pseudonyms, operations always had to be done after hours, and the general tense air around her office made it near impossible to keep a consistent flow of legitimate clients. All those years -- all to be swept under the table because of the men that constantly barged in. All this care is done without a proper thank you.

Matsui pushed past her lingering feelings of distrust and disdain for the quiet man. The burning luminescent lights put every harsh detail on display excluding the stitches across his mouth -- the most important part. How was he healing under there? Were the painkillers enough? Had he reponed it? It didn't seem likely -- at least not from the effort of carrying Kenta, but perhaps he had gotten into another fight? As she looked on Matsui's mind couldn't help but pry on. His dilated pupils, his skittish and thrown-together Japanese, how his hands continued to twitch as he spoke. She expected him to be glued at Kenta's side, as previous nights suggested, instead, Kenneth stood along one of the walls, as far away from Imai as he could.

It didn't take a mind reader to know what Imai was feeling. His tense shoulders and continuous smoking proved enough. It was rare to see the man lose his composure; however, as the doctor learned the first night they met the yakuza, he would not allow his brother to suffer.

"I believe you," she responded with a nod. "Next time I see you three I'm expecting to operate on Imai," a small joke that would have earned her a glare if the yakuza understood English. "Really, you guys have to be more careful, or --" she shook her head. Whatever, it ultimately wasn't any her busy and Matsui knew better than to go asking unnecessary questions. It was their business, their dealings, and their fights. All three of them could handle whatever this cruel world threw at them; if they couldn't they would all already be six feet under.

"Kojima will be alright, just tell him not to go punching any guys for a few days," she sighed. "The same goes for you. You might have carried him here from -- where you guys were, but you're still recovering as well."
 
Kenneth gave a quiet chuckle at the joke, scratching at his arm as if the leather would let him feel it. The mental relief definitely made up for the lack of physical relief. His shoulders visibly lost tension just knowing that there was someone in the room who could understand him without wanting him dead, and his breathing became slightly less shallow. Still, he couldn't help but cast glances back at Imai. He couldn't understand English—right? Right, of course not. The lack of an ability to communicate between them was the main stumbling block in Ken's attempts to make nice with the guy. Surely, if the guy had some sort of hidden English comprehension skills, he would have shown his hand by now. Still, the lingering fear of being perceived remained, even though the older brother clearly had more pressing matters on his mind. The man hadn't been without a cigarette in his mouth since they left the bar, and he showed no signs of slowing down. Now that Ken and Matsui were out of his crosshairs, they may as well have ceased to exist.

Ken couldn't help but soften his expression somewhat at the chastising. Despite Matsui's hesitance and caution—all well-justified—there was no anger in the foreigner's eyes. She was right. He knew she was. "I know, I know," Ken sighed, his restless hand finding its way into his pocket for a smoke of his own. "Only so many times a guy can get lucky before he winds up dead, I've heard the tune before. I'm flattered that you care about me, ma'am, I truly am. This ain't a path I can recover from, though. Afraid I'm in too deep to back out now..."

Wandering fingers finally found their way to the lighter he'd stolen, and he froze as he caught the shine of the gunmetal out of the corner of his eye. For a moment, he simply stared at it in his grip, a faint cold feeling permeating his glove. Had it really only been a day? It felt like an eternity already since he'd beaten that Kijin grunt to a bleeding, whimpering, groveling pulp. Only a day since he made the grunt's family into an assured ally. Only a day since he nearly bled to death in an alleyway. Again. Goddamn, he still ached. With the adrenaline and panic winding down, he could feel his healing wounds throbbing. Were it not for Matsui's expert patchwork, he would've probably ripped a stitch and been left to bleed by Imai. It wasn't like that skeleton of a man could even carry Kenta properly by himself, let alone him and Ken both.

His thumb traced the golden phoenix engraved in the metal. He really did owe more than he could ever repay at this point.

"Hey, doc? I don't think I've ever properly thanked you for the whole 'saving my life' business," he mused, flipping the lighter in his hand a few times. "I know you didn't really have to do that. Yeah, Kenta would've been pissed, but Nishitani had me dead to rights and... Well, ain't like Imai really cares for me much. Think he might slip you a bonus if you let me die next time."

A half-laugh for a half-joke. Ken knew better than to value his life too highly.

"Being serious though—thank you for keeping me alive. I can't pay you back near as much as I'd like right now. I mean, I don't suppose you were expecting the whole bill from me. I'm stuck in a country that ain't my own with no way home, of course I'm as poor as a church mouse. Still..."

Kenneth held out the lighter in an open palm, a genuine warmth in his nervous smile. If only it weren't hidden behind a mask. His stance had almost completely relaxed, the only tension remaining coming from the stress of the situation and the soreness of his wounds. Despite everything, he held no malice in that moment.

"I suppose I could at least give it a start."

With his gesture accepted, he gave Matsui a nod and walked away, allowing her to go home. He had other matters to attend to—or rather, just one. Imai had been keeping a close eye on Kenta, sure, but he was also keeping a clear amount of distance. He was tense, restless, biting down on the filter of the Golden Bat between his lips. Minutes ago, he was even praying. Yet, his hands remained firmly by his sides. It was understandable. Most men wouldn't dare spare any physical comfort for another man, especially not in public. The stakes were even higher for someone with a boss and underlings to maintain an image for. Organized crime had no mercy for displays of softness. However, standing back and staring at the younger man below him wasn't doing anything to help the distress he was clearly in. Even in his sedated, unconscious state, Kenta was tossing and turning somewhat, dripping sweat, his brow tense with some inner turmoil unknown to Kenneth. He could almost hear him trying to mutter something in his sleep, but even if he wasn't simply hearing things, he wouldn't have been able to tell what it was.

Taking one final glance up at Imai, Ken approached the bedside and took a closer look at the downed yakuza. He was definitely busted up badly. His hand was bandaged up tight, the hole beneath the gauze patched shut. Most of his body was badly bruised—down to the bone in some places, no doubt. And his face. God, this man could not avoid being hit in the face. It looked like he had been pistol whipped yet again, a fresh bruise decorating his cheekbone. If he was lucky, these were all the injuries he would have to suffer from this incident. If he was lucky.

With a frown spreading beneath the mask, Ken leaned in a little closer and began running his fingers through Kenta's hair, just as he could faintly remember him doing for him when it was his turn on the operating table. The stitch-laden man knew it wouldn't wake him up, but he hoped that, if nothing else, the warmth would soothe the pain of his dreams.
 
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Hazy street signs and lights led Kenta along the crowded Sotenbori streets. How long was he out for? With a wince, the yakuza's fingers grazed over his bruised face. It was impossible to even twitch without setting off an injured nerve. God, what else was going to happen? Punched, pistol whipped, ottoman smashed over his head, an acupuncture needle through his hand -- Kenta didn't know how much more of this he could take. Simply dragging his expensive shoes after the shorter man was becoming exhausting. Fuck, he needed a meal. Fuck, he needed a beer. Fuck, he needed a cigarette. Grumbling, heavy hands shuffled through his jacket, attempting to find that sweet release but was only met with a small pill bottle. Arching a brow, he peaked at the label with quick characters written down.

'Take two as needed. No more than six a day.'

Shoving them back into his blazer, he continued sifting for his cigarettes, cautious as not to run into anyone passing by. How did he even get here? After forcing a few fog-cleansing blinks the man realized the street he was on and the memories slowly flooded back in. They were headed toward the batting cages to relax. A strange way of relaxing in his eyes. All the sport did was remind him of his younger days and being forced to run laps around the baseball field. It had the potential of being fun, but ultimately it did nothing to soothe him. The metal bat did nothing but shoot unpleasant vibrations through his hands and that's if he managed to hit a ball. Not like the opponent was ever aiming for the bat anyway. Somehow someone always managed to screw the game up and chuck a ball directly at someone's head -- a painful one-way ticket to the nurse's office.

Pushing past the distant memories, Kenta gave up searching for his crushed-up box of cigarettes. They had most likely fallen out of his pocket either on the boat or during his encounter with the Tojo Clan agent. A sigh forced its way through his lips, jaw continuing to ache from the blunt force thrust down upon him. However, as Kenneth continued his way down the street Kenta was determined to keep up. This was just one fight -- he couldn't allow others to see him bothered by the attack. Kenneth had gone through far worse and was still up and kicking, he needed to do the same. If the foreigner wanted to have a taste of normalcy again, why should Kenta deny him that? Deny him a few moments of rest with no interruptions or looming threats of violence?

Entering the batting cages, a sudden cool air whooshed down his curly hair and shoulders. Shivering, he quickly went inside. At this hour, there were hardly any players. There were a few men on the end zones who had camped out at the spot. With soda cans thrown around the surrounding area and several missed baseballs at their feet, it was evident they would not be leaving any time soon. Curiously, there were a few teenagers on the other end loitering about. One was continuously hogging the machine, hitting the targets left and right which garnered him annoyed groans. Two of his presumed friends leaned against opposing walls, eventually throwing their bats on the floor reluctantly accepting it would be another hour before their turn. Although Kenta couldn't hear their conversation, it looked like they agreed to go to a vending machine while they waited. With two groups on opposing ends, the pair could take up any booth they wanted without fear of disturbing anyone -- or having too many eyes on them. Kenta's weak fingers hooked on the door handle, opening the glass and stepping inside casually.

Gesturing to a bat a previous guest left behind, the man spoke, "You can go first." Announcing in Japanese, he quickly shook his head, pointing to himself and then to Kenneth, "I watch, you play."
 
They needed this. Kenneth was absolutely sure of it. If they didn't get some sense of normalcy in this absolute hell spiral of a week, he was sure that they would go insane. Or, at least, the foreigner knew he would. Kenta would probably just curl into a ball and pass out with how exhausted he looked. It wasn't like he could be blamed for it either—without experiencing the high that his companions got from a fight, he was left with nothing but pain and a heavy head.

Still, anything was better than sitting around in a hotel room and waiting for Nishitani to send someone to kick his ass into gear. So, Kenneth took the initiative and drug his begrudging criminal companion out of his apartment, counter to Matsui's wishes. He figured that she would have to give him some credit at least—he wasn't planning on getting into a fight. He was just planning to take his new friend to the cages, get in a few swings, and pretend for a moment that their lives weren't in severe peril. If anyone asked, they could just be looking for information. No one would question that. Probably. As the two men silently made their way through the streets of Sotenbori, Ken allowed himself a moment to shut his eyes, letting intuition guide him for a moment. With the visual cues gone, he had to rely on his last glimpse of the world around him and whatever non-visual input he could determine as useful. Even with the overwhelming input of the city lights gone, he found himself able to find his way for a moment by the muffled sounds of street gossip, the smells of warm beef broth and exhaust fumes, and the warmth of the body by his side, tethering him in place.

After a few seconds, he opened his eyes to barely dodge an oncoming salaryman chatting with his boss, earning him a wary glare from the two businessmen. The itching flared up beneath the warmth of his painted leather sleeve again. It would be a while before he would be able to navigate this city without Kenta's guidance—let alone blind.

In time, they arrived at the batting center, the echoed clangs and cracks of metal and wood resonating deep within the redhead's heart even while still muffled by the concrete exterior. Those discordant sounds brought back memories buried beneath tar and blood. Softer memories. Memories of an old sandlot in the summer, the cool blast that rushed down his back upon entry mimicking the winds just prior to a storm. If they played hard enough, sprinted around those bases fast enough, they could outrun mother nature herself. They never had the money to adopt matching uniforms, and they had to share gear constantly, but it was never about making it to the big leagues. Well, except for the one kid who took it upon himself to coach the whole team. He was on the school feeder team the last Ken saw him. He wondered if he ever made it to the majors, or if those dreams were simply resigned to the abandoned ambitions of a kid who dreamed too hard and thought too little. Still, for everyone else, it was more about play for the same of the game. They weren't the best, but in that moment before they had to return home to a barren plate and a heart more barren than that, they were all-stars.

Kenta's voice broke the bruised-up punk from the haze of his past, drawing those bloodshot eyes up to the less-than-enthusiastic criminal. Oh, he was being allowed to hit first. It made sense—the cages were his idea, after all. Smiling beneath the bandanna, he nodded up at Kenta and began to look through the discarded bats. His own wouldn't do in this situation. He was looking to hit the ball, not maim it. Of course, it was always difficult to find a bat that suited his height. The pommel would always come up above his waist the first few times he checked the lengths. However, it didn't take long for him to find a nice metal bat that would do the trick for the intermediate cages.

He dug into his pocket for a few coins. Imai had given him a small cut of what was betted against him, which had been enough to net him a meal, a call with Ivan, and now this. A small chuckle escaped him as he slipped those coins into the box and activated the machine. His overseas acquaintance had become increasingly exasperated with his antics, but at least he kept picking up the phone. Speaking fluently with a friend was a treasured luxury now, even if that friend was occasionally a bitey one. Stepping up to the plate, Ken gave a few test swings before adopting a proper batting stance. Then, as the first ball shot down the cage, his eyes dilated and his mind went blank. Instinctively, he put his full power into the swing. Instinctively and completely forgetting his injury. He staggered midway through the swing, and the ball fouled off hard to the left. Right. His shoulder. With a pained hiss and a shaken grip, he was starting to see why Kenta was so reluctant to come here.

Still, stubborn as he was, he wasn't about to give up. He just had to adjust his approach. Taking a deep breath, he adjusted his grip and watched the next ball sail past—a curveball that went far outside the strike zone. It gave him time to think so he wouldn't have to think later. He would just have to pull that strength from elsewhere. It would be a less powerful swing maybe, but it wouldn't put strain on his stitches as much.

As the next ball sailed his way, he knocked it directly back at the machine. Had it been a pitcher, their head would have been in the line of fire.

Something about that thought spread those lips into a twitching grin. The pitcher morphed in his mind to a man throwing knives. Did it make sense to knock a knife like a ball? Maybe not. It was sheer fantasy that engulfed his mind once again in red, the warm summer days lost in a whirlwind of car exhaust and a flashlight shone down an alley. He began putting that power back in. The pain ripped through him, but it blended with the visions of knives and eyeshine. The balls were knocked consistently at high speeds, consistently level with the positions of those imaginary assailants. Heads, hearts, wherever the blunt force needed to be. They slammed into the back wall again and again and again. Would they have earned Ken any runs? Maybe if the fielders were intimidated. These were no grand slam hits. However, they were lethal ones.

By the time the machine ran out, Ken's arm was trembling. His shoulder was finally felt again, bruised and throbbing. The flesh twitched in its hatred, the soreness bringing the haze out of those eyes. He had to bite back the flurry of emotions that hit him—the shame, the fear, the bitter hate. Dammit. This was supposed to be a sacred place. Why was the old dirt soaked in blood? Why could leather never separate from iron? His arms hung loose from his side as his breathing ran heavy. Could he never separate the violence from the play?

His eyes trailed back to Kenta. That smile was pulled back into place. Maybe he couldn't separate it for himself. Maybe that pain was too strong. However...

"I am... from the rust," he attempted in Japanese, rubbing his shoulder. Rusty. He was going for rusty. "Ah, you try now? You know how? I maybe help if you want."
 
In the seemingly simple game of baseball, where a batter's task was to hit a ball and run, Kenneth's relentless determination and compassion shone through. Yet, as Kenta observed him swinging the bat with such force, he couldn't help but wonder if those balls were targets to Kenneth, objects meant to be obliterated. The intense impact felt as if the dark red stitches might burst off the ball, putting Kenta right in the line of fire. His throat tightened, and he instinctively stepped back, pressing himself against the wall for safety. Seiji had never swung that hard—what could be going on in Kenneth's mind? Was he envisioning Nishitani's head with every swing? Despite knowing that the shorter man was skilled with his weapon, seeing ordinary objects wielded with such violence sent shivers down Kenta's spine, reminiscent of the unnerving sight of a newcomer boldly using a kitchen knife to harm someone.

The relentless sound of balls hitting the large back wall created a whirlwind in his mind. The reverberations seemed to echo through his bones, leaving an imprint of each impact. Should he intervene? The air felt charged with tension, and he could almost taste the adrenaline. Clutching his hand, he took a deep breath, the scent of sweat and the grass of the field swirling around him. He decided to let Kenneth vent and get it out of his system. The machine would stop soon enough, but in the present moment, it seemed like an eternity. After all, Kenneth had already been through so much, nearly having killed a man on the boat and then carrying his unconscious body back to the clinic, draining his energy.

As the sounds subsided, Kenta raised his head, offering a grin to Kenneth. The lighting in the room softened, casting gentle shadows across the worn walls. The wording felt a bit clumsy—"from the rust." Did his joints hurt? It was an odd choice of words, but Kenta proceeded, asking, "Is your arm okay?" He gestured towards Kenneth's trembling muscles, the sweat glistening under the dim light, and cautiously placed his hand on them, feeling the warmth and tension. Gently stroking up and down, his fingers felt the subtle texture of Kenneth's skin, as if trying to ease the knots of stress.

Gradually, he unhooked the baseball bat from Kenneth's gloved hand, disarming him. The metal of the bat felt cool and slightly rough against his skin. Turning his attention back to the machine, Kenta mustered a short grin, trying to summon confidence amidst his own nervousness. His feet were spread unevenly apart, one foot slightly ahead of the other, resulting in an unbalanced stance that made him feel vulnerable. Clutching the bat, his fingers spread unevenly too, and his elbows appeared unsure of their position, leaving the bat awkwardly held away from his body. Regret crept in as he wished he hadn't skipped P.E. class to loiter around the nearby gas station.

He chuckled weakly and asked, "Is this right?" while inwardly hoping for some guidance in improving his stance.
 
Kenneth staggered back into Kenta somewhat as his arm was rubbed. With the aggression vented out, all that was left was the exhaustion of days' past. A quiet hum slipped from his lungs, and his grip on the bat loosened as Kenta's gentle hand ran down the shuddering muscles, making it easy for those larger fingers to unhook the rubberized grip from the leather gloves. He looked up at the yakuza in a daze, his pupils unfocused and dilated. Despite the constant dance of life or death they'd been in, between hazy highs and flickering lows, these few seconds held respite. "I'm fine," he murmured, the English slipping out thoughtlessly. "I'll be fine."

As Kenta stepped away, Ken broke from his trance, running his hand down his face and shaking his head as Kenta got into a batting stance. Fuck, he had to get ahold of himself. It wasn't like Kenta hadn't given him plenty of reasons to bare his trust, but the chainlink of the cages left them too exposed to the world, the cacophany of bickering from the schoolboys two cages down not going unheard. Kenta had his image to uphold, and Kenneth had his life to preserve. They couldn't be acting like this in public.

All at once, the rubbing didn't help. That high-end cologne had hooked into his skin, forcing his mind to wander.

His attention was grabbed by a quiet chuckle, almost innocent in its nervousness. Looking back over, he saw Kenta in possibly the stiffest batting pose he'd ever seen. His balance was all off, his hands gripped the bat too tightly and at awkward angles, his elbows angled better for resting on a bar than for holding a weapon. For a guy who could punch a man out like it was routine and talk an outsider out of certain death, his body language practically broadcast his lack of confidence over a loudspeaker. It drew a gentle smile from the southerner. That face really didn't belong here.

Turning completely to face Kenta, Ken idly scratched the scruff on his cheek with a quiet hum. Clearly, this stance wasn't right. Still, where was he supposed to start? Then, after a minute, it hit him: the bat. It was the perfect size for the redhead, but the yakuza had a foot of height on him. There was no way he'd be able to use it comfortably without experience, and even then, it would be far from ideal to use a bat that was way too short. "Eh... Give one minute," he said, holding up a finger as he stepped out of the cage.

Though he didn't have Kenta by his side to check the lengths of the bats, it was easy to find a match. He had been so close to the man for the past few days that he could remember approximately where his hip was in relation to his own body. It wouldn't be exact, but it would be a better fit than a bat meant for someone so much smaller. It didn't take long for him to find a good match, and he smiled as he ran his hand down the painted aluminum. Even with the dents and scuffs, it would still crack a ball—or skull—as good as anything.

No. Just a ball. That's all it needed to be used for right now.

Giving the bat a quick twirl, he hurried back over to Kenta and switched out the bat in his hands. That was one problem solved. Now there was just the issue of the stance. With a quiet hum, he tapped against his lips through the mask, trying to find the words that wouldn't translate. He didn't know how to say half of these body parts in Japanese. How was he going to tell Kenta that his feet needed to be closer together, or that his elbows needed to be lower, or that his arms needed to be closer to his body in general? Fuck, his whole forearm was practically in the strike zone. Did he want to get hit with the ball?

Well, he didn't seem to have a problem with being touched.

Taking a breath, Ken stepped closer and began carefully adjusting Kenta's stance, starting with his arms. Small hands put gentle pressure against the areas that needed to adjust, gently prompting small movements here and there. Tense muscles and locked bones shifted like warm clay beneath his fingers, moving each limb into the proper position, shifting that grip into something more stable. At first, the adjustments are done with a level of caution—constant glances given up at the yakuza to make sure no lines were being crossed. An "is this really okay" given without words.

With continued assurance came bolder behavior. The redhead moved to examine Kenta's stance from the side, gently pressing his hand against his back to coax a slight lean. Then there was the matter of his legs, staggered and uneven like he'd been shot and was trying to keep his balance. He could use his own feet to nudge Kenta's into position, but the stance was way too wide. One step would throw him off balance again. Ken had to step behind him to nudge his legs into a more stable position, press a hand to his thigh to guide it to—

That's when Ken felt the eyes burning into the top of his head.

With his focus shattered, he finally glanced back up for any sign of assurance. The stare he got was enough to make him pull away as though he'd just made eye contact with a rattlesnake, his face burning up. Yeah, he had clearly gone a little too far. "Sorry, sorry," he stammered out, the Japanese practically stumbling off of his tongue. "You, uh. Stand is good now. Yes. Yes. I, uh. You give try. I walk out."

With that, he fumbled a few more coins into the box and hurried out as the pitching machine wound up. It took a few tries to shut the gate to the cage, metal on metal ringing in his head and cutting into his anxieties. As he tried to shake off that interaction, he heard murmurs from the other side of the facility. Those teenagers on the other end of the room—had they seen that? What were they saying? It was too muddled to understand. Everything was too muddled to understand for a moment.

Despite everything, he tried to keep his focus on Kenta. Hopefully that stance would point him in the right direction. Otherwise, that racing heart would have been for nothing.
 
Kenta had been going through a whirlwind of emotions lately, and Kenneth's presence provided an unexpected source of comfort amidst the chaos of their recent escapades. As Kenneth staggered back into him, Kenta's instincts kicked in, and he found himself offering a soothing touch to the weary Southerner. The exhaustion of their past days hung heavily over both of them, but in this fleeting moment, the world seemed to fade away. He watched as Kenneth's grip on the bat loosened, and his eyes met the unfocused gaze of the man before him. The mix of languages didn't matter; the unspoken understanding between them transcended words. Kenta nodded as Kenneth reassured him, a small smile playing on his lips. "You'll be fine," he echoed, his voice low and soothing.

As Kenta moved into a batting stance, he couldn't help but feel a pang of self-consciousness. This was unfamiliar territory for him. He was used to being the one who had most of the answers, but now he found himself feeling strangely vulnerable, exposed in the cage, the cacophony of voices from nearby cages serving as a constant reminder of their surroundings.

Kenneth's gentle smile eased some of the tension within him. It was a reassuring sight, a reminder of the trust they had developed despite their differences. They couldn't afford to act recklessly, not here, not in the open. However, as Ken's rough hands began to adjust Kenta's stance, the sensation of his touch sent unexpected shivers down Kenta's spine. To casual observers, it appeared as if Kenneth was simply helping him correct his batting posture—a rational explanation. But for those who lingered a bit too long, they might notice the subtle smirk forming on Kenta's face, or just how much Ken seemed invested in their intimate moment.

However, their intimate moment was disrupted by the sensation of someone's gaze upon them. Kenta turned to see the curious eyes of onlookers, and soon his worries flared up. A teenager, whose eyes bore a mix of defiance and anger, sauntered into their space. The cacophony of voices from nearby cages, which had momentarily subsided during their intimate moment, now returned in full force, adding an additional layer of tension to the situation. Kenta's expression hardened, his eyes never leaving the teenager who had barged into their world. This was their second encounter, and Kenta knew it wasn't going to be a pleasant one. He hadn't expected to cross paths with Yachiyo again, especially not here and now. As the tension in the cage escalated, Kenta struggled to make sense of the situation. He couldn't immediately recall Yachiyo's face, but the emotions in those eyes were unmistakable.

Hadn't he told this kid to run back to his parents? Did he have any idea of what he was doing? Going around throwing his fists like it would resolve his issues. The yakuza couldn't help but shake his head as he pulled the bat down, scoffing slightly.

"Didn't you hear me before, kid? I told your ass to go back home," he dismissively spat at the sight.
 
"You think I give a rat's ass about what some two-bit yakuza's got to say to me?"

Kenneth's ears pricked up at the sound of conflict, pulled out of his own self-conscious spiral by the rough Kansai-ben of a returning adversary. The redhead's wild eyes sharpened into a bladed glare as he leaned into the chain link between himself and the ensuing fight. What was this kid doing? His bandaged, damaged body clearly didn't match the fight in his words. Clearly, if he wasn't able to deliver on that venom the last time he approached them, this time would be no different. There was nothing that long white coat could do to hide the bruises they'd given him. Not to mention his gang seemed smaller in number this time. Had some of them jumped ship? Maybe they had, maybe they just decided not to come to batting practice. Either way, he was even weaker than before. What made him think he would win this time?

That's when a smell pricked Kenneth's nose. Was it sweat? Cheap corner store beer? No. It was blood. His own blood. He reached under his shoulder pad and felt dampness beneath the leather, and a chill prickled the hair on his back as he realized those fingers would pull away red. He was injured too. So was Kenta. Not even two days ago, they had both been sprawled out on medical tables, veins overflowing with painkillers and bleary eyes facing oblivion. They weren't in any shape to be facing a fight like this.

As Taizo put his bat over his shoulder with a sly grin, Kenneth's eyes shot wider and he shot back into the batting cage, slipping into an attacking stance by Kenta's side, fingers squeaking together as the blood did little to lubricate his pleather-coated fists.

He could smell the blood too.

The young punk took a toothpick from between his teeth, cocking his head back as he flicked the chewed piece of wood to the floor. He hadn't been paying much attention to the foreigner during their previous encounter—not until he had seen his entire gang mauled by the strange man. It wasn't his first encounter with an American, but it was definitely his first encounter with one who seemed so at home in the bloodshed. Most tourists could be easily intimidated or tricked. This man seemed to be the first to live up to that bold, brash, all-American grit that he'd seen in Shonen Jump.

He wasn't the target, though. Taizo's sights were still firmly set on Kenta, and his entire gang was armed with bats now. This wouldn't end like the last time.

"Still got that guard dog with you?" he sneered, the gang beginning to encircle them. "How much does he owe you, huh? ¥100,000? ¥1,000,000? A blowjob and three hours in the red light district? Probably not that last thing. Looks like he would've already given it up if that was it."

Kenneth glanced between Kenta and Taizo. Despite his lack of understanding, he could tell that Taizo was referring to him. Something between the tone and the eyes on him. What was he saying? It was a question asked with unsure glances, not words.

Maybe it didn't matter. He hardened his glare and hunkered down as the teens closed in. This was going to hurt, but it wouldn't be any worse than the pain he'd already faced.

Taizo brought the bat down off of his shoulder and out in front of him, pointing it at Kenta just as he had pointed that metal pipe just days earlier. Despite the bruises on his face and the bandages around his body, his face was painted in a determined, enraged snarl. "Doesn't matter. I know you've both had the shit kicked out of you, and I'm not above kicking scum while it's down," he growled, his grip around the handle tightening. "The boys and I were talking, y'know. We've got bets going. I bet if I crack your head open hard enough, it'd look like sakura petals in a tree with this green floor."

He slipped into a fighting stance, twirling the bat as he brought it over his shoulders once more.

"Wanna prove me right, Kojima?"
 
Last edited:
Kenta's blood ran cold as Yachiyo Taizo's venomous words cut through the air. The echoes of their past encounter still lingered, and now it seemed fate had thrown them into another confrontation. The tension crackled, and Kenta couldn't ignore the foreboding sense that this time would be different. Kenta's eyes darted between the hostile faces as the gang encircled them. His battered body ached, still recovering from their recent trials. Kenneth, standing defiantly by his side, bore the signs of their shared ordeal. The scent of blood hung heavy in the air, a reminder of their vulnerability.

The yakuza watched as Yachiyo, armed with a bat, circled him with malicious intent. The threat hung heavy as Yachiyo reveled in the anticipation of violence. Kenta couldn't afford to underestimate him this time. The memories of their previous encounter flashed before his eyes. With a defiant glare, Kenta squared his shoulders, a silent determination etched on his face. He wouldn't back down. The promise of sakura petals and the menace in Taizo's eyes fueled a fire within Kenta. This would be a fight, not just for survival but to prove that resilience could triumph over relentless aggression.

In the cramped space of the batting cage, the stage was set for a clash between past and present, vengeance and survival.

In his tattered state, Kenta felt nothing but agitation at the thought of getting into another fight, but if that's what the delinquent insisted, who would he be to deny? Taking in a deep breath, he focused on the shorter teen, allowing him to yap on a bit longer, waiting for an opening. It only took a few moments for the delinquent to break focus, raising his arm to order one of his lackeys before Kenta bolted in, immediately closing the gap between them and striking his chest, knocking him off balance.

"Ya really think I'd roll over and let you try that?" he scoffed at the threat. Limbs trembled as they made contact with the other's body, a burning fiery pain running up his arm. Fuck. He shot out another punch straight to Yachiyo's jaw, followed by a sharp exhale hoping to kickstart the adrenaline in his body.
 
『 STREET PUNKS 』
​
A command was broken by a quick jab to Taizo's chest, forcing a choked grunt out of the already battered teen as he staggered back. Thinking quickly, he ducked his head in time to avoid the second punch to the face, not wanting to add to the bruises that already darkened his pale skin like war paint. It was a close dodge though, the fist brushing past his ear like the wind off a passing motorcycle. They may have been closer to equal footing now that the yakuza was injured, but he knew now that the power of his opponent was still in an entirely separate league. One wrong move and he could be in the same position as the last fight—flat on his back eating the heel of a shoe.

Squaring his feet, he gritted his teeth as he forced himself to remember why he was doing this. What he was fighting for. If no one else in his family was going to have the balls to avenge his brother, it would have to be him. There was no other path tho justice. No other way to make things right. With his nerves steeled, he swung the bat at Kenta's arm, aiming for the man's elbow. That oughta show him he meant business.

Meanwhile, Kenneth was adrift in a sea of red letterman jackets. Though he wanted to waste no time in taking Taizo down and ending the fight, all honor for the grudge thrown out in exchange for pure survival instinct, the rest of the gang had already managed to put distance between the redhead and his target. His blood rushed in his ears as pinprick pupils darted from target to target. He felt like an injured deer surrounded by wolves, blood leaking from the strained stitches and dampening his shirt below his jacket. However, he wasn't about to back down. Not yet. Not while he still had a pulse.

He didn't have his bat with him, and he knew he had to be cautious with where and when he drew his switchblade. However, he could see the bat that Kenta had discarded in favor of his fists. It was a little large, but if he could just grab it, he would at least be on more even ground with the sea of teens armed with them.

Taking a breath, he made a lunge for it, and was quickly struck down.

A bat brought down across his ribs knocked him off-course with a growl, and while he was still reeling from the pain, another boy took a swing at his head, which he barely managed to block. Then, he felt another bat crack over his shoulder and dropped to his knee with a snarl, shaking as the group converged closer. Laughing. Jeering. Taking swings at him while taunting him in a language he couldn't understand. All he could do was brace and guard his head as blow after blow was landed, further punishing his beaten body. Sounds and colors blurred together in a haze of pain. Everything felt red. Still, he had to push through. He had to think of something. Anything.

Ken glanced up. One of the boys was getting cocky, ordering the others to stand back while he took a swing. There was his shot.

He leapt up at the boy and headbutted him in the jaw, cracking his teeth together and nearly slicing his tongue in two. Ken wanted to follow up with more brutality. He wanted to punch this kid in the throat and slam his face into the ground until only gurgling came out. However, that wasn't an option. He had to regain his footing first. Rushing past the kid, he snatched the bat up off the ground and turned just in time to block a blow from the bloodied, indignant teen. The two exchanged swings for a minute before the foreigner finally landed a shot on the gangster's kneecap, finally dropping him as the combined pain became too much to bear.

Still, as Ken was about to land a finishing blow, another cheap shit to his ribs came from behind him, and he found himself roaring at the pain, the humiliation, the neverending torment of it all. He felt some part of him disengage. That conscious mind was losing its grip as the primal need to live sunk further and further in. He felt that last straw settle as the kid tried to grab his sleeve, his vision momentarily whiting out as a berserker's rage took over.

"Get the fuck away from me!"

With that command, he grabbed that kid by the throat, wrenched him away from his arm and, without thinking, harshly threw him towards Kenta and Taizo. The destination didn't matter. He just needed the threat gone. He just needed to live. He couldn't take this damage any longer. This was no longer enjoyable or even pleasant. This was survival.
 
Despite the delinquent bringing along his full entourage, all the teenagers turned their attention to Kenneth, allowing Kenta to sorely focus on Taizo. Now, nearly ripped to shreds that man's honor, compassion, and mercy began fading as the world continued to throw more and more punches. Letting out a heavy breath, his world began to close in, the walls of the batting cages blurring with the sky above, creating a giant blur. The only thing that stood apart was the young man and his piercing malevolence, and the -- !


demon-awakening-effect-slash-3.gif

[ YARD BIRD STYLE ]
​
Kenta's eyes shot wide open, bringing his arm immediately up to block the metal bat from bashing his bruised face in. Another heavy breath. An exhausted growl followed, taking the blunt force before swiping the weapon away, darting towards Taizo once more. The faster he could finish the fight, the faster he could send this kid back home with a brand new scar. A lesson not to come back. Kenta's fist locked up, not allowing the other to get a blink in before slamming it down into his torso, the force reverberating through Taizo's ribs. As the other staggered, he brought his knee in again, quickly shooting another strike down onto Taizo's leg, demanding an opening in his defense. Pummeling through, a few more dozen kicks were enough to disorient Taizo, allowing Kenta to finally catch his breath. With a heaving chest, he turned his gaze back to Kenneth, muscles burning as adrenaline zipped through his body.

Shit, he had been so distracted by the delinquent he failed to realize how badly his comrade was getting beat. But, the body flailing towards him served as a stark reminder of what Kenneth was capable of. The teenager grabbed at his damaged throat, choked sobs releasing as he wailed on the floor.

"Kenneth!" he blurted out, joining the redhead's side, arms gently grabbing the other. Using his own body, he stopped the other from collapsing onto the floor, grimacing at the sight. Time and time again, Kenneth was at the forefront of all the violence, consistently taking the brute force of this mission. It was a miracle he was still standing -- it was a miracle he still chose to stay at Kenta's side despite everything. There had to be other people -- better people that could offer protection to the foreigner. Gently placing his hand at Ken's side, careful not to place pressure on the ribs, he held him close. What a mess.

"We're gonna have to finish this," he spoke, "He's gonna keep chasin' us if we don't." Shaking his head, "I'm tired . . ." his voice, low and simple, glancing down to Kenneth. "I'm sorry your baseball got ruined -- we do it again 'nother time. How's that sound? For now, let's focus on gettin' outta here."
 
There was no way this was actually happening. As pain shot through Kenneth's sliced muscles, the world blurred and shook, his eyes glazing over as he tried desperately to stay up. He wasn't going down to a pack of goddamn high schoolers thousands of miles away from home in a country where he was little more than a stranger, a nuisance. He couldn't let that happen. He had to stay upright, he had to keep fighting. Between shuddered breaths through clenched teeth, he tried to keep track of which direction "upright" was. It kept shifting, shifting, shifting, lost in the noise, the screams.

Then, he blinked, and he was safe and warm again. Kenta was by his side. Those arms, capable of firing off punches that could bruise bones, handled his battered body like a delicate, broken doll. That voice, capable of spitting venom with no remorse, laid restrained and gentle at his ears. Why? He had done his part. He had proved his mettle. He had no more usefulness to the yakuza. Maybe as an outside brawler, maybe, but it wasn't like he'd ever be sworn in. Yet, here Kenta was, protecting him as he always did. Tending to wounds that shouldn't have mattered.

And he was concerned about the baseball, of all things. It was enough to get a smile from the southerner, at least.

"I am... I will be... Okay," he managed, trying to regain some sense of stability as he stumbled over his Japanese. "Do not worry about baseball. We finish this... We are alive. And... I still—"

His eyes wandered over Kenta's shoulder and the world snapped into slow-motion. The piercing shine of a metal bat flew towards the yakuza's head in a blur, brought down from overhead like the hammer of God. Only, God had nothing to do with this. There was no God here. Only the adolescent vitriol of one high school boy with a death wish. One high school boy who dared to threaten the one man who gave a fuck about the foriegner with the fading conscience.

Taizo was like a wild bird with puffed-up feathers and bravado to match. With one quick movement, Kenneth proved to be the trapper.

Before he could even think about what he was doing, he shot his hand out and caught the bat. His nerves didn't even have time to register the pain from the impact before his fingers curled around the metal and pulled Taizo down, his other hand snapping up to grab him by the neck. It all seemed automatic. Instinctual. Even Kenneth himself seemed stunned by the sudden burst of speed, holding Taizo by his neck for a few seconds before he managed to wrestle himself from the redhead's grip coughing and gasping for air.

Himself, not his bat. That still stayed firmly in Kenneth's hand.

Looking up at Kenta one more time to make sure he was okay, the foreigner finally found his footing, taking a deep breath as he brought his stance inward. If he couldn't win this fight by brute force, he'd turn himself into a bear trap instead. Memories of the fight with Nishitani flickered through his mind. He just had to wait for an opening. A weak spot. His sights hardened once more, clarity and maybe even hope igniting a fire behind his eyes.

"We finish this," he assured, gripping the bat with a thin smile. "Or we make them wish for the end."
 
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