Death's Stain 死の染み

Chapter 6: Mortician Monarch

Emperor's Birthday, April 29th, 1976:
The dusk streets of Tokyo were decorated with vibrant banners and colorful decorations, the night sky filled with the buzz of excitement and fireworks as crowds gathered to celebrate the Emperor's Birthday. Festive music echoed through the city, mingling with the laughter and chatter of the Japanese residents. On the sidewalks, street vendors are line up who offer an array of traditional treats and souvenirs to the ones celebrating.

But in the shadows, past all the lights and joyful faces, a man as walking towards the festival with nothing but purpose and retributions. The man is wearing a dark-colored trench coat without it zipped up, wearing a red dress shirt underneath and a pair of flexible dress pants that includes pouches securely strapped onto his belt loops.

"Isamu, Isamu, Isamu..." he repeats to himself slowly in a low whisper. His grey eyes scan the premises, not trying to attract any attention to himself. His black medium-length slicked back hair flowing in the light breeze as he walks.

He then feels a hand on his shoulder, the guy looking over his shoulder at some drunk jock and rolls his eyes. "Get off," he says.

The drunky then laughs and wobbles a bit before speaking with his drunken and slurred tone of voice, "Be-Bet you... you think you're tough, pal? Well... I will tell you this, you... are a square. A grody mafia wannabe-" and before he can finish what he's saying in his drunken state, the man slams his elbow into the drunk jocks upper right abdomen, hitting him in the liver in a swift motion that you wouldn't be able to pick up in the blink of an eye.

The drunk guy spits out some saliva at the impact and immediately drops onto his knees, then onto his side as he begins to throw up in short bursts. The man takes a step forward, not even looking back.

As he continues to advance towards the festival, his earpiece hisses and a voice comes through the other side, speaking in a professional tone, "M.M., why did I get input that you hit the shit out of someone?"

The man shrugs, moving some hair away from his earpiece and replies in a hushed way so he draws no attention, "Drunkard interruption. I'm back to the mission now."

He is then about to take the earpiece out but the voice on the other side speaks again, "Okay, just be careful, Satoshi." Then he takes the earpiece out and crushes it in his hand, tossing the parts in a beer-bottle filled trash can off to the side as he walks.

"Be careful? Whatever. Clearly he doesn't know who I am, like come on now," he mumbles to himself with a tone full of pride and mild irritation.

Satoshi then makes it to the festival, stepping past the police barriers that keep back the cars from coming onto the street. He walks past dozens of people since the place is absolutely packed, making him blend in perfectly. His eyes dart around, inspecting every single nook and cranny.

Satoshi has been doing this for 16 years now, and he knows how to distinguish targets from normal civilians with almost scarily accurate precision—like a hawk hunting for its prey. That prey right now being a group of soon-to-be dead skilled wannabes who are apart of one of the top assassin organizations that rivals his own.

Though, right now, he can't seem to find any evidence of their presence. They shouldn't have a clue of his presence or how his appearance is, this is because how secrete Satoshi's personal life and identity is.

But then as soon as the trail feels like it's beginning to turn cold, his eye twitches in response to a disturbance he feels within the area. He senses the direction it's coming from and his head darts towards the his left side. Then whispering to himself, "Temporal disturbances again."

He walks towards the direction his head turned, now focusing on something instead of just someone. The temporal disturbances continue to feel like a tingling sensations deep within his skull, and the close her gets, the stronger it gets.