I am soooooo sorry. My computer crashed and died (If you look at my author notes I bet you never saw it coming, huh?) Stupid computer place took ages to fix it, and the public holiday didn't help. We'll just call this an unwilling hiatus and never speak of it again.
If you steal my story, I'll crash your computer.
Don't ask me how, I'll just do it okay?!
Chapter 23. Funny and Sweet
I like fruit baskets because it gives you the ability to mail someone a piece of fruit without appearing insane. Like, if someone just mailed you an apple you'd be like: 'huh? What the hell is this?' But if it's in a fruit basket you're like: 'this is nice!'
- Demetri Martin
Konomi had her chin tilted down and hands folded demurely before her. As she followed her guide, she peeked around through her eyelashes. Priceless art draped the walls: a script of delicate calligraphy, a kagura mask of a demonic face and an ukiyo-e painting of a coy red-lipped lady hiding behind a fan. They were all traditional pieces, all Japanese. There was not a single brushstroke of a foreign touch. There were hints of modern technology, of the urban world, melded into the building but it was a reluctant concession. In the heart of the largest yazuka clan, the past, and it's feudal ways, was revered and glorified.
Both Konomi and her guide stopped at a set of sliding wooden doors.
"Shinobu-sama will see you inside, little sister," the man stated coolly.
Konomi bowed deeply, and the door was opened and closed behind her. She glanced up only once for a quick survey of the room. Konomi shuffled forward, kneeled on the floor so that her back touched her heels, and bent her forehead to the floor, prostrating herself.
The kumicho, the head of Japan's largest crime syndicate, sat in a low chair. He was dressed as a businessman, gray suit and tie. He was well into his fifties, and had no remarkable features except for his piercing black eyes.
"Good evening, Konomi-san," Shinobu greeted.
"Good evening, Shinobu-sama."
The boss did not say she could straighten her back, so she stared at the grains of wood in the floorboards.
"You have been one of us for some months now. You have been doing good work," he said neutrally.
"I am honored you think so, Shinobu-sama," was Konomi's soft reply.
There was a moment of frost-bitten silence.
"I have bought your kind before," he said, "I have three of you now. Whatever I ask, where ever I decide you are needed, you have obeyed without question."
"Every man and woman in the clan is your loyal son and daughter, Shinobu-sama," she gently insisted, "It is only right."
A rustle, as the boss stood up and stepped closer so that Konomi's hair brushed his shoes.
"But none of my other sons and daughters were bought from foreigners," he spoke the word with distaste, "who swore that you would serve your master onto death. No other can do the things you can. Incredible, dangerous things. And you do it for those who aren't even your own kind. "
Konomi wasn't only sold by foreigners, she was one. She had hazel eyes and brown hair. She stuck out, as horrendously as a portrait of the Queen of England would if it hung in these Oriental halls. Konomi wasn't even her real name, it had been changed upon purchase. But even being a foreigner, a gaijin in the clan, was eclipsed by being inhuman.
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