Original Sin

[Grim Wolf]

(Naoko Raidon remembering from Into the Jaws of Hell)

It was Hayashida's angry yell that made him wake up--he'd had a long time to get his instincts in shape on that particular point. When Hayashida yelled, you got moving or you got hurt. He was on his feet and pulling his clothes on before the first gunshot went off.

Hayashida was a cruel man, but he was not, sad to say, stupid. He had made it clear to Raidon that they were in continual danger from elements who were just as likely to kill Raidon as they were to kill Hayashida, for the obscure reasons of the yakuza. Hayashida, in his typical imposing fashion, had simply told Raidon this information and suggested he find his own way out, as he would not be responsbile for the safety of a son who could be so easily caught. Raidon had been instructed to find a route out of the house long ago; he had done so, and had twice used it to evade Hayashida (far from being angry, his father had seemed impressed--another one of his oddities).

So Raidon had a way out--down the hall, out the window, across the roof, and slide down the long incline of the neighbor's shed into their backyard. He took a single step towards the window in question and then stopped, staring first at the distant pane of glass and then back towards the near-at-hand staircase.

All this happened in a matter of seconds--the yell, the gunshot, Raidon's indecision. When he made his creeping way downstairs, perhaps twenty seconds had passed. He hunched in the shadows and watched as two obscure shapes struggled. One he recognized immediately as his father; heavyset, cursing wildly, thick around the middle and the arms (like he'd been built from barrels and logs--that was the only way Raidon had ever been able to think of him). The other was much thinner.

He took another step. Then two. Then three.

As he look his last step and his foot found the tiled floor, Hayashida's outline gave a partifcularly violent heave. The thin shape grunted and something small flew through the air, clattered to the ground and slid two or three feet upon the tile. It came to rest in a pool of light spilling out from a window facing the street--the sleek, deadly form of a gun.

The pool of light in question was about six feet from where Raidon now stood.

There was some vague movements on the other side; Raidon paid them no attention. He took four slow, quiet steps, as though he were walking through a dream. From the corner of his eye he saw the slender figure knock his father back and turn, running towards where the gun had fallen; still in that same strange, trance-like state, Raidon bent over, wrapped his hands around the cold weight of the gun, and rose slowly to his full height, gun pointed in the direction of the oncoming figure.

He never fired; he merely contemplated the weight of the weapon in his hand, so much heavier than it appeared in movies and television shows. And the slender figure racing toward him froze, hesitated, started to dodge away in anticipation of an attack. He was perhaps three feet away, good black shoes shining in the orange pool of light, face still masked in darkness.

"Raidon-" came Hayashida's pained gasp.

The gun slipped from Raidon's numb fingers and clattered to the ground. Without exchanging a word with the boy the slender figure bent over and picked it up. The light spilled over his face as he paused to look up at Raidon; their eyes met, and held each other, transfixed. One half of the man's face was Japanese and handsome; the other was covered in an intricate tattoo.

The tattooed hitman got to his feet. Across the room, Hayashida stood immobile.

The hitman flipped the gun in his hand and caught it by the barrel before whipping it toward Raidon's head. The hard butt of the gun collided with the back of his skull; without a sound, Raidon slipped into oblivion.

He was thinking, as he went, of the pattern of the tattoo. Of blossoms and scales mingled in equal parts.

(Naoko Raidon awaking in Retribution)

[Grim Wolf]

Non-colored text in case of viewing troubles.

[+] Spoiler

It was Hayashida's angry yell that made him wake up--he'd had a long time to get his instincts in shape on that particular point. When Hayashida yelled, you got moving or you got hurt. He was on his feet and pulling his clothes on before the first gunshot went off.

Hayashida was a cruel man, but he was not, sad to say, stupid. He had made it clear to Raidon that they were in continual danger from elements who were just as likely to kill Raidon as they were to kill Hayashida, for the obscure reasons of the yakuza. Hayashida, in his typical imposing fashion, had simply told Raidon this information and suggested he find his own way out, as he would not be responsbile for the safety of a son who could be so easily caught. Raidon had been instructed to find a route out of the house long ago; he had done so, and had twice used it to evade Hayashida (far from being angry, his father had seemed impressed--another one of his oddities).

So Raidon had a way out--down the hall, out the window, across the roof, and slide down the long incline of the neighbor's shed into their backyard. He took a single step towards the window in question and then stopped, staring first at the distant pane of glass and then back towards the near-at-hand staircase.

All this happened in a matter of seconds--the yell, the gunshot, Raidon's indecision. When he made his creeping way downstairs, perhaps twenty seconds had passed. He hunched in the shadows and watched as two obscure shapes struggled. One he recognized immediately as his father; heavyset, cursing wildly, thick around the middle and the arms (like he'd been built from barrels and logs--that was the only way Raidon had ever been able to think of him). The other was much thinner.

He took another step. Then two. Then three.

As he look his last step and his foot found the tiled floor, Hayashida's outline gave a partifcularly violent heave. The thin shape grunted and something small flew through the air, clattered to the ground and slid two or three feet upon the tile. It came to rest in a pool of light spilling out from a window facing the street--the sleek, deadly form of a gun.

The pool of light in question was about six feet from where Raidon now stood.

There was some vague movements on the other side; Raidon paid them no attention. He took four slow, quiet steps, as though he were walking through a dream. From the corner of his eye he saw the slender figure knock his father back and turn, running towards where the gun had fallen; still in that same strange, trance-like state, Raidon bent over, wrapped his hands around the cold weight of the gun, and rose slowly to his full height, gun pointed in the direction of the oncoming figure.

He never fired; he merely contemplated the weight of the weapon in his hand, so much heavier than it appeared in movies and television shows. And the slender figure racing toward him froze, hesitated, started to dodge away in anticipation of an attack. He was perhaps three feet away, good black shoes shining in the orange pool of light, face still masked in darkness.

"Raidon-" came Hayashida's pained gasp.

The gun slipped from Raidon's numb fingers and clattered to the ground. Without exchanging a word with the boy the slender figure bent over and picked it up. The light spilled over his face as he paused to look up at Raidon; their eyes met, and held each other, transfixed. One half of the man's face was Japanese and handsome; the other was covered in an intricate tattoo.

The tattooed hitman got to his feet. Across the room, Hayashida stood immobile.

The hitman flipped the gun in his hand and caught it by the barrel before whipping it toward Raidon's head. The hard butt of the gun collided with the back of his skull; without a sound, Raidon slipped into oblivion.

He was thinking, as he went, of the pattern of the tattoo. Of blossoms and scales mingled in equal parts.