Post by Remy Nakamura on Feb 22, 2021 9:19:15 GMT -6
The penthouse suite of the Hinomoto affords a three-hundred-sixty degree view of the City of Sin -- not that it’s much of a view these days. Neon signs that line the Strip flicker fitfully in the darkness. Distant fires rage all across the city. To the Southwest, I can just make out the ever-growing compound of the Bastard Warlord. A blanket of soot-colored snow lines the streets, while here and there, small bands of the disenfranchised roam, looking for food, or shelter, or some measure of mercy.
And here I am, living it up high above them all; a glass of champagne in my hand and a forced smile on my lips as the old man introduces me to the few remaining Yakuza bigshots in Vegas. We’re celebrating. I defeated L~7, but somehow I’m not really thrilled with the victory. It feels cheap. Hollow. On top of that, she won’t return my calls. She thinks I’m a creep.
Maybe I am. I sold my soul to the highest bidder. I make my living by violence. Not like before. This isn’t puroresu; there’s no honor in what we do. Every two weeks, I walk into this post-apocalyptic arena like fucking Mad Max, where the specators cry for blood, and I oblige.
All because I got a little greedy at the craps table.
All because my pride won’t let me quit.
The sick part? I don’t hate it as much as I should. I know it’s wrong, but the alternative is wandering the cold and the dark like the poor bastards down there, waiting to be picked off by something bigger, meaner, and hungrier than me. It all comes down to survival of the fittest, and Remy Nakamura is pretty damn fit.
So is my opponent this week. You know, for an old guy. He’s the only man in the tournament with a win over Corey Bull; but he rolled right over for Church just a couple weeks back. Is he inconsistent? Or is this part of some overall larger plan? I’ve been part of this Yakuza world too long; I’m already seeing conspiracies everywhere. Always somebody looking to knock you from your perch. I ain’t having it. As it turns out, I like it where I am.
I’m not sure what that says about me. At this point, I’m not sure I care. There’s a million bucks at stake, and that would set me up real nice here in Vegas. That kind of money, I could start making some moves of my own. This Yakuza shit won’t keep me protected forever, and I know Blackwater has it out for me. He’s patient. He can wait until I let my guard down.
Unless I strike first.
My mind wanders to the sword, resting contentedly in a brand-new saya, lacquered a shade darker than blood, and mounted on the wall in my quarters -- the honeymoon suite, just a couple of floors below. I can’t say the old man isn’t treating me well. An image leaps, unbidden, into my mind: the silver blade singing through the air, fast as a lightning bolt as it cleaves a dark figure in two.
“ -- wouldn’t you agree, Mr. Nakamura?”
A voice shakes me from the daydream. One of Shibata’s guests is gazing at me expectantly, and for an instant, I imagine it’s him my blade cut down. Distracted, I reply in English.
“Sorry, I didn’t quite catch that. What would I agree with?”
“These troubled times have been beneficial to our line of work, of course,” Shibata cuts in smoothly. “Though I don’t think Remy has much taste for the business.”
“No, he’s got a taste for something else!” Mako says with a grin, clapping me on the shoulder. “Like that hot little alien girl.”
“Mako…” warns Shibata, but the other men are laughing.
“Forget the girl,” I tell him. “My only concern is the tournament.”
Shibata’s lips twitch with the barest hint of an approving smile.
“Nevertheless, my boy, Tanaka is correct. You should look toward your future. This tournament won’t last forever. And you still have other work to do.”
“Can’t get water from a stone, Oyabun. With the lockdown in force, there’s no more money to collect. Unless you start issuing your own currency.”
It was meant to be an ironic statement, but Shibata’s face lights up with renewed admiration. Beside him, Tanaka eyes me in shrewd calculation. An indefinable something ripples through the room as all conversation halts; all eyes turn to me.
My distress must be obvious, because Mako breaks the tension with a short, sharp burst of laughter.
“Haha! Good one. Our own currency. Maybe we can even put your face on the Neo-Yen, huh?”
I roll with the pretense, grateful for the distraction.
“Why not? They don’t call me the Bayou Bishonen for nothing!”
Shibata rolls his eyes at our antics, but the rest of the party moves on with a scattering of indulgent chuckles. The conversation turns another direction, but I can tell the old man is still turning over the prospect of issuing his own scrip. Why do I have to open my big mouth?
I listen in with half an ear, my own thoughts turning back toward my upcoming match. I don’t know a lot about the man who calls himself Tuxedo Max, other than he’s some kind of local celebrity, struggling to keep his businesses from going completely under. He needs that purse as much as I do; maybe more. Failure for me just means I go on living this gangster lifestyle -- which I have to admit, does have its benefits. For him? It could be the end of everything.
So now I have to decide which is kinder: let him take a win he doesn’t really deserve -- or put the old dog down, once and for all?
These days, it doesn’t really pay to be kind. Not here, cut off from the rest of the world. Not with Corey Bull gobbling up territory like a starving wolf, unifying all the little gangs into his own personal army; not with Jabberwock Security running roughshod over the rest of the city, and us caught in the middle, just trying to make an honest living; and damn sure not with that psycho Blackwater running around, killing anybody that gets in his way without a scrap of discernment. No honor in the way he works.
I should -- No. I can’t let myself be distracted. He’s the alien’s problem this week. Maybe she’ll do us all a favor and send him into orbit. For me, right now, it’s all about Max.
Musashi said: “Know your enemy; know his sword.”
Sun Tzu advised to know your enemy as you know yourself.
Chances are, ol’ Max ain’t got ten thousand years of Eastern wisdom on his side. Fifty-plus years of street smarts, though… almost as good. He’s big, he can fight dirty. Nothing there sets him apart from the rest of the competition. What took him a lifetime to learn, I picked up in a matter of weeks when I first got to Tokyo. It’s an art I’ve mastered since I got myself stuck here in Vegas. That’s why I’m undefeated.
But Max? What’s left for him? He took down the Big Bad his second time out. All he sees when he looks at me is some punk kid from Japan; he’s already looking past me. He’s picturing himself two points richer and itching for the next fight. Not me. I know every match could be the end of my career; so I train accordingly. For me, everything beyond this next challenge is peripheral.
At least, until I hear the next words, a hushed, urgent whisper from one of Tanaka’s underlings: White Lotus.
Mako and I exchange a glance. He looks worried, and I can’t blame him. The White Lotus are infamous for their brutality, their cunning, and their utter ruthlessness. Vegas is at a tipping point, and the last thing we need is another hand ready to send it right over the edge.
“Gentlemen,” Shibata announces, in a tone more grave than usual, “this party is over.”
And here I am, living it up high above them all; a glass of champagne in my hand and a forced smile on my lips as the old man introduces me to the few remaining Yakuza bigshots in Vegas. We’re celebrating. I defeated L~7, but somehow I’m not really thrilled with the victory. It feels cheap. Hollow. On top of that, she won’t return my calls. She thinks I’m a creep.
Maybe I am. I sold my soul to the highest bidder. I make my living by violence. Not like before. This isn’t puroresu; there’s no honor in what we do. Every two weeks, I walk into this post-apocalyptic arena like fucking Mad Max, where the specators cry for blood, and I oblige.
All because I got a little greedy at the craps table.
All because my pride won’t let me quit.
The sick part? I don’t hate it as much as I should. I know it’s wrong, but the alternative is wandering the cold and the dark like the poor bastards down there, waiting to be picked off by something bigger, meaner, and hungrier than me. It all comes down to survival of the fittest, and Remy Nakamura is pretty damn fit.
So is my opponent this week. You know, for an old guy. He’s the only man in the tournament with a win over Corey Bull; but he rolled right over for Church just a couple weeks back. Is he inconsistent? Or is this part of some overall larger plan? I’ve been part of this Yakuza world too long; I’m already seeing conspiracies everywhere. Always somebody looking to knock you from your perch. I ain’t having it. As it turns out, I like it where I am.
I’m not sure what that says about me. At this point, I’m not sure I care. There’s a million bucks at stake, and that would set me up real nice here in Vegas. That kind of money, I could start making some moves of my own. This Yakuza shit won’t keep me protected forever, and I know Blackwater has it out for me. He’s patient. He can wait until I let my guard down.
Unless I strike first.
My mind wanders to the sword, resting contentedly in a brand-new saya, lacquered a shade darker than blood, and mounted on the wall in my quarters -- the honeymoon suite, just a couple of floors below. I can’t say the old man isn’t treating me well. An image leaps, unbidden, into my mind: the silver blade singing through the air, fast as a lightning bolt as it cleaves a dark figure in two.
“ -- wouldn’t you agree, Mr. Nakamura?”
A voice shakes me from the daydream. One of Shibata’s guests is gazing at me expectantly, and for an instant, I imagine it’s him my blade cut down. Distracted, I reply in English.
“Sorry, I didn’t quite catch that. What would I agree with?”
“These troubled times have been beneficial to our line of work, of course,” Shibata cuts in smoothly. “Though I don’t think Remy has much taste for the business.”
“No, he’s got a taste for something else!” Mako says with a grin, clapping me on the shoulder. “Like that hot little alien girl.”
“Mako…” warns Shibata, but the other men are laughing.
“Forget the girl,” I tell him. “My only concern is the tournament.”
Shibata’s lips twitch with the barest hint of an approving smile.
“Nevertheless, my boy, Tanaka is correct. You should look toward your future. This tournament won’t last forever. And you still have other work to do.”
“Can’t get water from a stone, Oyabun. With the lockdown in force, there’s no more money to collect. Unless you start issuing your own currency.”
It was meant to be an ironic statement, but Shibata’s face lights up with renewed admiration. Beside him, Tanaka eyes me in shrewd calculation. An indefinable something ripples through the room as all conversation halts; all eyes turn to me.
My distress must be obvious, because Mako breaks the tension with a short, sharp burst of laughter.
“Haha! Good one. Our own currency. Maybe we can even put your face on the Neo-Yen, huh?”
I roll with the pretense, grateful for the distraction.
“Why not? They don’t call me the Bayou Bishonen for nothing!”
Shibata rolls his eyes at our antics, but the rest of the party moves on with a scattering of indulgent chuckles. The conversation turns another direction, but I can tell the old man is still turning over the prospect of issuing his own scrip. Why do I have to open my big mouth?
I listen in with half an ear, my own thoughts turning back toward my upcoming match. I don’t know a lot about the man who calls himself Tuxedo Max, other than he’s some kind of local celebrity, struggling to keep his businesses from going completely under. He needs that purse as much as I do; maybe more. Failure for me just means I go on living this gangster lifestyle -- which I have to admit, does have its benefits. For him? It could be the end of everything.
So now I have to decide which is kinder: let him take a win he doesn’t really deserve -- or put the old dog down, once and for all?
These days, it doesn’t really pay to be kind. Not here, cut off from the rest of the world. Not with Corey Bull gobbling up territory like a starving wolf, unifying all the little gangs into his own personal army; not with Jabberwock Security running roughshod over the rest of the city, and us caught in the middle, just trying to make an honest living; and damn sure not with that psycho Blackwater running around, killing anybody that gets in his way without a scrap of discernment. No honor in the way he works.
I should -- No. I can’t let myself be distracted. He’s the alien’s problem this week. Maybe she’ll do us all a favor and send him into orbit. For me, right now, it’s all about Max.
Musashi said: “Know your enemy; know his sword.”
Sun Tzu advised to know your enemy as you know yourself.
Chances are, ol’ Max ain’t got ten thousand years of Eastern wisdom on his side. Fifty-plus years of street smarts, though… almost as good. He’s big, he can fight dirty. Nothing there sets him apart from the rest of the competition. What took him a lifetime to learn, I picked up in a matter of weeks when I first got to Tokyo. It’s an art I’ve mastered since I got myself stuck here in Vegas. That’s why I’m undefeated.
But Max? What’s left for him? He took down the Big Bad his second time out. All he sees when he looks at me is some punk kid from Japan; he’s already looking past me. He’s picturing himself two points richer and itching for the next fight. Not me. I know every match could be the end of my career; so I train accordingly. For me, everything beyond this next challenge is peripheral.
At least, until I hear the next words, a hushed, urgent whisper from one of Tanaka’s underlings: White Lotus.
Mako and I exchange a glance. He looks worried, and I can’t blame him. The White Lotus are infamous for their brutality, their cunning, and their utter ruthlessness. Vegas is at a tipping point, and the last thing we need is another hand ready to send it right over the edge.
“Gentlemen,” Shibata announces, in a tone more grave than usual, “this party is over.”