Anarchy Syndrome
Title: Anarchy Syndrome
Author: Origami Setunai
Chapters: 1/??
Pairings: To be announced.
Bands: PSC
Warnings: Language, violence, male x male relationships.
Rating: R
Disclaimer: I own none of the bands or the members mentioned. This is a work of fiction, and nothing is portrayed as fact. For entertainment purposes only.
Comments: I'd been meaning to get back to chaptered fiction for a long while now. This idea was sparked some months ago, but I've only just now gotten around to writing it. The rating will change from time to time, depending on the chapter. I may even go so far as to employ a system where the readers can decide on the final outcome, but that's not definite yet.
Prologue
Tokyo, Japan.
3:43 A.M.
"Do you see them?"
The question was soft, spoken in indifferent tones. Hands drew up to the speaker's face then, features heavily shadowed by the segmented bricks of the alley. There was no sound other than the low frequency hum of the streetlight on the corner, flickering weak, diluted light onto the street. Every now and then, it would buzz alarmingly, the old and fracturing bulb rattling in the glass like the wheezing breath of an elderly relative in their sleep. Every five minutes or so, it would flicker out completely, leaving the pale white moths that flocked to the weak source of light to fumble about in the dark confusedly.
"No. I can't see shit."
A low chuckle then, as the first speaker reached into his pocket in an unhurried manner, fingers cautiously moving in his pocket by feel, until they closed over the smooth, angular box stored there. His grip tightened for a moment in visible relief. There was a pause then, as he turned with a muted grunt, twisting his body away from the entrance of the alley. The faint, insistent click of a lighter filled the lull, his hands falling away from his face with graceful ease as the end of the cigarette ignited with an umber glow.
"I told you to bring your glasses."
"Fuck that."
Ruki's head turned almost imperceptibly then as he glanced over his shoulder. He snorted softly, the tip of his tongue running along dry lips out of habit and a faint, wistful twinge.
"I thought you quit?"
Although he couldn't read the expression on the man's face, Ruki could have sworn the corners of the man's mouth quirked upwards in a self-satisfied smirk. The nail of a forefinger scraped roughly along the underside of the cigarette then, dismissing both graying ash and the younger man's question alike.
"I did."
With a snort, Ruki returned his attention to the streets. It had been nearly three hours since the pair had taken up their vigil, and the streets were just as unmoving and silent as the quickly drying patches of blood that lined the cuffs of their pants, flaking off in rust colored flakes to settle to the pavement, merging with the shadows, and forgotten. He shifted then, the sole of one boot sprawling outward with a jagged sound as it scuffed lightly over loosened pebbles.
The sound itself was invitation enough. A snarl of gunfire suddenly shattered the stillness of the pre-dawn hours, sparks flying from the chambers with the force of the discharge like molten orange and gold streamers. Bullets embedded themselves into the side of a car parked a few inches shy of the mouth of the alleyway. The metal buckled and folded with a muffled crunch, paint stripped away to leave perfect, clear rings of silver around the site of impact. A second round shattered the driver and passenger windows, leaving the pale shards to fall inward, catching the light for one clear, pristine moment of elegance as they fell to the ground with an almost melodic clatter.
"Never mind. I found them!"
The expression on Ruki's face was less a smile than some wickedly demented expression of grim satisfaction. He took a moment to slide back the clip of his own weapon, making careful note of the number of rounds loaded into the chamber before palming the clip back into place with a muted click. He rose from his crouch then, bringing his own gun to bear, finger curling around the trigger for a moment, the tip of his finger sliding into the worn groove with the comfortable ease of familiarity.
Then he pulled. Round after round fired in retaliation, sometimes deflected with a telltale metallic ping as a shot struck a sign or building front, only to ricochet wildly off target, quickly swallowed up by the murk of the late hour. But other times, a grim twitch of his lips would answer a strangled, agonized cry as his target was hit, bullet biting through flesh and burrowing through sinew and bone, causing guns to drop to the ground from suddenly lack grips as their owners snarled through clenched teeth and writhed in the throes of agony.
"I think--"
He cut himself off abruptly, head snapping back as a bullet embedded itself into the masonry just above his head, causing loose sealant to crumble down in a fine, grainy drizzle of cement.
"Uru--"
"Don't call me that."
Ruki hissed lowly, the barrel of his gun once more raising as he cautiously eased along the alley wall, the press of the bricks cold against his back. Another hail of gunfire sounded as his head came into view, and once again he jerked back. He was too slow this time, a fact made all the more obvious by the sudden searing pain that blossomed in his shoulder. He glanced down then, bearing witness to the slow spread of a crimson inching across the fabric of his shirt. His snarl was wordless, grip loosening on his weapon as he pressed a palm to his shoulder, grimacing as he did so. Small shards of shattered bone ground their jagged edges against each other at the touch, grating against both each other and muscle tissue unpleasantly.
Ruki dropped to one knee, fingers gone dark with his own blood as he clenched his jaw, breathing through his nose in short, ragged rhythms in an attempt to lessen his focus on the pain.
"Uruha, fuck!"
"...Tch."
With that single, dismissive sound, Uruha carelessly tossed the half-finished cigarette over his shoulder. It's flight through the air was brief as it exited the alley. It rolled to a stop a scant few inches from the tire of a car, the lit end fading from bright umber to a sullen, smoldering red that quickly grayed. For a second, nothing happened. Then, with an audible roar of heat and flames, a pale circle of blue, nearly transparent flame shot up from the ground where the cigarette had touched, flames jumping higher as they engulfed the car entirely. Startled yells punctured the night air, sounds of panic and confusion as shadowy figures ran back and forth on other side.
The cries quickly escalated to screams as the first car quickly set light to the next, and the one behind it, trapping at least four figures that Ruki could see in their devouring flames. Sporadic gunfire sprayed uselessly against the building front the pair crouched in the shadows of, the cloying smell of smoke doubling as a dampener of sound. The flames reached the gas tanks of each car at roughly the same time. The surge of heat and shattering glass was enough to cause Ruki to turn away, shielding his eyes with his good arm. The third and final car became airborne with the explosion, lifting a few feet off the ground before meeting the ground and flipping over, flames still licking over the blackened, ruined remains.
Once the glare had lessened, his arm lowered and he glared at Uruha over it. The man seemed completely unruffled, hitching one shoulder in a lazy shrug.
"You said you wanted flashy."
_________________________________
Tokyo, Japan
4:33 A.M
"Tell me again."
The words were soft, calm. Reita cautiously glanced up at him, searching his face for any trace of emotion that might register his displeasure. But the dark haired man's face was smooth, impassive. Emotionless. Reita repressed a shudder. His were the kind of eyes to take in everything dispassionately, and reflect nothing back in return. His lips parted, tongue darting out to moisten them as he searched for the right words.
"I said, tell me again!"
Aoi's face twisted then, all traces of his perceived calm gone as his palm descended soundly onto the wooden surface of the desk soundly with a ringing smack. Reita slowly brought his gaze to lock onto his own.
"Eight dead. Six wounded." He swallowed. "Three missing."
"Missing," Aoi sneered. "How does someone of your...competence...lose an entire band under your command?"
"With all due respect, sir. They ambushed us."
"They. They, who, exactly?"
Aoi's palms went flat on the desk as he leaned over, weight firmly centered on his hands as he eyed Reita critically. Reita did not so much as flinch, and Aoi couldn't help but nod inwardly in approval. For all his fumbles at times, Reita was a solid second. It was rare that the man was a disappointment--which was why he was taking this particular bit of news so gracelessly.
"We think...it was Ruki."
Aoi hissed, eyes narrowing dangerously. But just as suddenly, he drew back, calmly swinging himself up onto the desk and perching on the edge as his hands laced together in his lap primly.
"That shortass has pissed me off once too often. "
"...And Uruha, from what I could tell."
Reita rushed to finish, barely repressing a roll of his eyes. Sometimes, Aoi was too eager to interrupt to focus on petty vendettas rather than hear him out. It was an irritating habit that often made the bassist silently plot to slit his throat with his bass strings in his sleep.
"I'm tired of..."
Taking it up the ass from him? Reita suggested in his mind, hiding a smirk with his hand.
"Playing bitch to him. They could both stand to be...reeducated about respect."
He paused then, one hand lowering carelessly to a side drawer of the desk and drawing it open unhurriedly. For a moment, his slender fingers crept over the tops of several files, before eventually parting the tabs of one to slid out a plain, unmarked envelop. He slid it across the desktop towards Reita then, face impassive once more.
"Which is why you've been reassigned."
"I already have a target."
"And you've been reassigned, do I make myself clear?"
"Yes, sir."
Reita's head dipped slightly as he slid a finger under the flap of the envelop, breaking the seal and cautiously drawing out the paperwork that would contain details of his latest mark. Everything from his blood type down to his favorite color and place of residence. He paused, eyebrows lifting, then lowering, a scowl creeping across his features as he scanned the page in silence. After a moment, he slowly looked back up.
"There's not a problem, is there?"
Aoi demanded, fingers steepled.
"No, of course not."
"Good. Then you have nine weeks."
"Understood."
Reita dropped the paper carelessly on the desk along with the envelop as he turned on his heel stiffly and headed for the door. A light draft ruffled the crease in the paper flat again.
Target: Matsumoto, Takanori.
Prologue End.