Rising Son

All in all, this isn’t the strangest thing the old man has asked me to do. Which… in itself, is saying a lot.

Then again, strange has been a hallmark of the last few weeks. Las Vegas on lockdown. Some psychotic marauder set himself up as a post-apocalyptic warrior-king in the West. Gangs fighting over the rest of the scraps. Half the cops trying to keep the peace, the rest trying to scratch out their own piece.

Then there’s me, Remy Nakamura -- a Gaijin halfbreed stuck right in the middle of a Yakuza stronghold. And the only reason I’m not being used for target practice, or worse, is because I can fight….

Las Vegas, NV

December 10, 2020

All eyes are on me as I shake the dice in my fist.

Flashing lights shine with a dazzling brilliance I haven’t seen since the last time I stepped into a ring.

The crowd around the table holds its collective breath. I’ve been on a winning streak for the last twenty minutes.

I can see the pit bosses circling. Someone shoves a stack of chips onto the “Don’t Pass” line.

In retrospect, I should have taken the hint. But I was up by thirty big ones and I wasn’t about to let a little thing like common sense put an end to my fun.

With a flick of my wrist, the dice are released. I feel, for an instant, like a sorcerer weaving order from the tangled, chaotic strings of the Universe. They tumble across emerald felt, bouncing off the far wall. One rolls to a stop: a six. If the other lands on five or one, I’ve got it made. I can cash in, make my way back home to New Orleans, and --

Fuck.

“Boxcars!” declares the dealer, to a sympathetic groan from the crowd.

I watch my chips disappear, raked in with lighting-fast precision. Whoever bet on my loss offers a consoling pat on the shoulder, but I barely notice as dread sets in.

I’m not exactly, technically, gambling with my own money; convinced that my fortunes were changing for the better after the first few wins, I had taken out a small loan from the House. And just now, four shady-looking Japanese men in identical tailored suits are converging on my position. If only I were back home in the French Quarter, I could lose these goons in seconds.

But here, on their territory? This may be it for this young Cajun boy.

As nonchalant as I can, I edge my way through the other gamblers. Nobody’s trying to distance, socially or otherwise, these days. Not since Executive Directive 51 was announced. On the one hand, I don’t want the plague -- but on the other, I’ll take my damn chances.

Chances which have rapidly dwindled to zero. These guys are pros, keeping a couple visible to distract me, while the rest get me boxed in.

“Mr. Shibata would like to speak to you… personally.”

They expect fear. They expect a protest, begging, and eventually acceptance. They might even expect me to try to run.

What they don’t expect is for me to grab the nearest enforcer and headbutt him right in the nose. While he’s distracted, the next one lunges at me -- I dodge and catch him with a waistlock, pure instinct. Up and over, right through a cheap aluminum table as I move to the next target. For a moment, it’s fun. I’m in the middle of a battle royal, and I’m cleaning house; elimination after elimination, until --

The butt of a gun is rammed right into the side of my head, and I drop to the peacock-blue carpet, dazed. Hands like iron seize my arms. It takes two of them to drag me away, and I’m satisfied to hear them complaining in a Shitamachi dialect about my being a burden. They haul my big half-Japanese ass to a private elevator, tucked away around a corner from the casino floor. I’m too out of it to be impressed as the doors whisper closed and the lift shoots straight up to the top, letting us out in a grand penthouse apartment full of elegant furnishings and extravagant art pieces.

At the sharp bark of an order from across the room, my escorts dump me unceremoniously on the marble floor and vanish. My head is swimming as I watch a pair of Italian loafers stalk toward me. I wait for the sound of a sword being drawn from a sheath, because it seems like the sort of thing to expect in this circumstance.

Instead, the toe of one shoe nudges me.

“Get up, Nakamura. Show some dignity.”

The command in his voice is strong, undeniable, so with reluctance, I drag myself off the floor, a little shaky as I stand. At my full height, I tower over the older man, but he’s the one with all the power here, and we both know it. He circles wide, inspecting me from every angle.

“Remy Nakamura,” he says, pronouncing each syllable in deep, measured tones. “A fine prize for my collection.”

“Collection?” I ask, reflexively speaking Japanese.

It occurs to me right about now that he knows me. Had me marked the minute I walked through the doors. As if reading my thoughts, the old man nods.

“Did you think I would extend that line of credit to just anyone? You’re a celebrity, my boy.”

“What do you want with a washed-up ex-wrestler?”

He chuckles, but there’s no mirth in it.

“At your age, Remy, you’re hardly washed-up. And it’s that particular set of skills that interests me most. Skills you demonstrated quite adequately downstairs.”

“Look, I didn’t mean to hurt your guys, I just --”

He lifts a hand to cut me off.

“Silence!”

I silence, real quick. Pleased, he gives me an avuncular smile.

“You owe me quite a lot of money, Mr. Nakamura. Money I won’t be able to collect with a citywide lockdown in effect. I am, however, willing to offer you an employment opportunity…”



So that’s how it went. My alternatives were somewhere between slim and none. And really, most of the time, it’s not that bad. Most people that owe the old man money, or favors, or whatever -- they’re eager to pay, and not just because I might rough them up a little. It’s a cultural thing, a matter of honor, ingrained bone-deep. Honor, and status. And right now, I’m one of the biggest status symbols Mr. Shibata has. Half the time, when I go to collect, they’re asking me for autographs. Talk about surreal.

But this… The Black Pyramid Wrestling Tournament.

On the one hand, that million-dollar cash prize would go a long way to paying off my debt. Maybe even get me out of Vegas.

On the other hand, this isn’t professional wrestling. This is… Mortal Kombat. Only without Scorpion or Sub-Zero.

I hope.

Looking at the guy who’s going to be standing across the ring from me in less than a week’s time, I’m not so sure. A legit mercenary. Ex-special forces for the UK, and those guys are pretty hardcore. Rumor has it he’s got some kinda ties to this Jabberwock Security. And that all adds up to trouble for Remy Nakamura.

But trouble?

Well, that’s where I thrive. I grew up in post-Katrina New Orleans, deep in the raw, seeping gashes that never quite healed; just outside the glitter and the glamour of Bourbon Street, where my mother worked two jobs just to keep a roof over our heads. I was a skinny nobody without a penny, except what I could lift from tourists during Mardi Gras. Half-feral, I roamed the city, dodging cops by day and Ninth Ward smackheads by night. Maybe to some hardened mercenary, that’s not war; but to me, every day was a battle to survive.

Maybe that’s what drew me to Japan. Maybe that’s why I threw everything I had into wrestling there. They mocked me. Called me a gaijin -- and worse. They didn’t like me, at first… but they damn sure learned to respect me.

And this Wednesday night, so will L.A. Blackwater.