Dealt a Bad Hand

Chapter 1: Oicho-Kabu

There's a smell that hangs in the air around the compound in which Chōjō Kaihō Sensen's faction is housed. It's a dated smell, akin to the musk of old books and the miasma of burnt incense that has seeped into every surface imaginable, maybe even into the people who've lingered about the place for too long. It's not a pleasant smell, Chisaki decides at a very young age. It's decrepit and unwelcoming, the essence of general displeasure looms the corridors along with its pungency, making him crinkle his nose upon first arrival to the estate each time Pops drags him along to visit.

It's visits like this that Chisaki cannot stand, and he oft wonders if there's any real reason to them aside from the usual garb of, "It's essential that you understand how these meetings go. You'll be heading the family business one day, after all." At the ripe, young age of thirteen, however, Chisaki bore little interest in the family name, the business Pops had been running, or even the proclaimed title of Oyabun; a title sought out among the factions to raise their honor above all others. Pops held the current position of Oyabun, the Yakuza head superintending the smaller houses umbrellaed beneath Shie Hassaikai— and he's made it abundantly clear to Chisaki that he has no intention of allowing their family's name to fall from the ranks, thus, "These meetings are crucial. Learn what you can while you can."

Begrudgingly, Chisaki would comply. His mien was stoic, even as a child, formal with lack of interest for folly that had his elder's associates fawning over him during faction visits. It was within Chōjō Kaihō Sensen's corridors that he quietly tailed Pops for the umpteenth time, perusing the art and décor as if he were visiting a museum, when he paused to take notice of a collection of long canvasses strewn about the walls. They were tall, taller than himself, and individually lit for the most advantageous viewing. Each canvas had a texture pinned neatly to it; the outline of a person, Chisaki surmised, though each outline was ornately covered in inked designs. Tattoos. They looked like tattoos, painted across bodies strewn over canvases. It was an odd display of the macabre that made Chisaki's skin crawl while his general disliking for Chōjō Kaihō Sensen's headquarters only grew, and only when he leaned closer to the paintings for a more detailed study did Pops' hand over his shoulder stir him from his disgusted intrigue. "Don't get too close," Pops warned quietly, "It's human leather."

*****

"I'm surprised, Shigaraki. You must have kept him hidden under wraps for a while now. He's about Kai's age, isn't he?"

Between Pops and Chōjō Kaihō Sensen's head, Sr. Shigaraki, was a smaller kid with a sickly pallor. His ashen hair was a mess of tendrils that fell into his face, and from between the strands, frenzied cardinal hues flittered about the room as if the boy were a rabid animal indoors for the first time.

"I'd say so. It'd be nice to have them get along," Sr. Shigaraki replied to Pops' inquiry with a feigned politeness that a lesser trained ear probably wouldn't have suspected. "Tomura, why don't you show Kai around?"

Those were the damning words of a rivalry fated to demise.

*****

The trek from Sr. Shigaraki's board room to Tomura's bedroom was a silent one. Chisaki wasn't entirely sure the kid could even speak, until they were both inside of a hellish dreamscape that was supposedly where Tomura slept. The floors were amassed with broken toys and gaming systems, the shelves lined with unlabeled jars of what appeared to be dirt— maybe ashes from God only knows what. There was a fluorescent bulb jutting from the ceiling fan overhead, one that illuminated the room in a pale white light that was entirely unsettling in tandem with the litter strewn about.