The Sword of Darkness

10 Maverick

The fugitive sat in a plush chair. The shape of the chair was geometric with white fabric. The plainness of it matched the unembellished atmosphere of the perfectly square room. A thick mat lied on the wooden panel floors. Mirrors on each wall span the length of them, giving the feel of openness, almost infinite. Everything about it spoke formality, a dojo. The man however was not attired with the traditional robes of a samurai. Or fit for sparring.

 He flipped to the next page in the newspaper, eyes scanning the articles.

 He stood in stark contrast with the dojo. Today he donned a suit. The fabric almost black but with a tint of blue, the gold colored threading was almost visible if you looked close enough. Of course this seeming flaw was intentional giving the suit its own hypnotic prowess. Today he wore his bespoke suit.  Others in the gang might have scoffed at the idea of him wearing a different suit every day. But they were forced to respect him for what he did.

The man flipped through the pages of the newspaper. The silvery claw another oddity he carried with him. The headline of what he read was. ‘NEW YORK IN RUINS! MILITARY UNABLE TO DEFEND THE CITY. UNKNOWN HERO SAVES THE CITY.’  The headline sounded like it came from a comic book. Earth didn’t have heroes, at least heroes known with extraordinary, uncanny abilities.

“Hmmm.” He pondered over the recent startling news.  First North Carolina then Washington leading a trail to New York. It didn’t make sense though. Why cause all this chaos all of a sudden. He left the chaos from Ethereal to start new. Why summon-

 His moment of thought was interrupted by a man stepping into the dojo. The man wore a tank top. Tattoos of dragons, mountains and women cluttered both his arms. The man spat out Japanese. Then jumped frantically in short little bursts to give more emphasis. The man in the suit neatly folded his newspaper and stuffed it in the nook between the cushion and the chair itself.

He sighed lifting up his metal claw. The Japanese henchman silenced in appreciation.

“Shoku.” The well-polished man said. His voice calm despite the urgency the henchmen tried to display. “You know I don’t speak Spanish.” He paused rethinking what he said. It didn’t matter however for Shoku didn’t speak English.

“Or Chinese, no that’s not right either. “ Then it came to him despite living in Japan for five years.

“Japanese! Yes ok. So what’s the problem?” Shoku rambled a thousand miles an hour and returned back to his frantic bouncing and pointing. Sweat beginning to drip. The suited man held back from laughing but a small smile seeped through.

 Finally after several minutes of incoherent shouting he picked out one of the words that he did know. ‘Oyabun’ or boss.  He uncrossed his legs and stood up, ambling over to Shoku. He placed a hand, the normal hand on the henchmen’s shoulder and left him in the dojo.

It was good that the leader of the yakuza spoke English. The leader was an older man, skin tight in the forehead but around his eyes were wrinkles spreading away, he had jowly cheeks. He hunched over in his rocking chair, swaying back and forth. Otsu always loved the rocking chairs made in America. He specifically had his men get several from the U.S. He would not accept one without the made in America on the bottom. He tended to find the chairs made in japan dreadfully boring, lacking no originality. ‘Almost too modern’ as he would say. His wrinkles gave him the image of being austere as if they had shaped his personality but his actions toward the unfortunate proved otherwise, though his charity could have been a masquerade hiding his dark secrets. The underworld where he ruled, trafficking drugs, women, and whatever he could get his hands on. Otsu was a gentleman to the need and a malicious lord to everyone who got in his way.