INCOMPLETE.
Who: Yamamoto Takeshi (kenspeck), Eko Hoshunin (temerate).
What: Oh, Yamamoto. Getting himself into trouble again.
Where: Somewhere around the city.
When: Backdated to a few days ago?
( Tell me, just how dangerous is second best? )
What: Oh, Yamamoto. Getting himself into trouble again.
Where: Somewhere around the city.
When: Backdated to a few days ago?
( Tell me, just how dangerous is second best? )
Comments 9
Of course Eko would suspect any human that had been so quick to volunteer as a sacrifice. This wasn't Tokyo, where beings of all breeds had fallen over themselves to offer their Karas-turned-crusader fealty, or where humans knelt and fawned and licked the boots of Eko Hoshunin, city magnate. Some of them knew what he was. Most only recognized that a man who puppeted both the municipal government and the Shinjuku yakuza was a dragon among wolves, and not worth provoking ( ... )
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Yamamoto's smile (wide, open, and as bright as everything else he did happened to be) didn't miss a beat, though, and those eyes were flicking down toward the approaching form the second he heard the strange, unfamiliar voice. He didn't stumble too much over Eko's appearance, didn't spend minutes analyzing every inch of him with a strange sort of wonder, because -- he'd been in the city long enough to see all different kinds of people, hadn't he? And, besides, staring was a habit his father had smacked out of him (and it had gone something like: a light swat to the back of the head, followed by a sharp "Takeshi! Stop staring!") when he was around the age of six or seven. Instead, he merely lifted one shoulder in a small shrug as he laughed, casting a quick glance down the obviously powerful man in front of him.
When Eko finally came to a stop, when he halted with a grace that wasn't human, that was slightly unnatural, Yamamoto pushed himself away from the stone of the fountain, ( ... )
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What he truly, truly needed was Wanyudo or Tsuchigumo standing by to clean up the mess if his control slipped, or to remind him by their silent presence that he must always set the example for his subordinates. A blood crazed Mikura was no better than a beast, no better than the hateful monsters Eko was determined his cadre would not become. He had not developed and then made the transformation from spirit flesh to cold iron to indulge in mindless cannibalistic frenzies.
Control. He gave no sign of struggle in expression or demeanor, now studying his sacrifice's face instead of jugular vein.
His partner's face. Eko was a traditionalist. If the others preferred to grind the bones of their prey between mechanical jaws, sucking the last particles from eviscerated corpses, that was their barbaric natures in play. Eko kept his skin along with his control, as befitting a Karas, and his victims always came willingly ( ... )
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"All right, haha. If that's what you want."
He leaned his weight back again, closer to the cool and mossy stone of the fountain, as Eko circled him with a predatory sort of ease that reminded Yamamoto a little of a starved lion. Held still, with that smile still stubbornly stuck in its place, and it didn't even occur to him that maybe this was a little dangerous, that maybe this just wasn't a game. Because he never thought things like that, right? And even if it were dangerous, that didn't mean it wasn't a game, either, considering... well, wasn't the game that the kid and Tsuna and the others liked to play just as dangerous, too?
But not everything was a game. Most of the shit in his life, most of the things that he typically became involved in -- none of them were games, and Yamamoto supposed that if he thought long and hard enough about it, he knew this, too. He had to have known. Had to have realized just a little, tiny fucking bit, because there wasn't any other way to explain some of ( ... )
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