March 2, 2004
The Office of Estelle Warren and Takatori Shuuichi
He would die for Kritiker. Every ounce of his mind was dedicated to
them. Every inch of his body. Every word uttered, thought made, action
completed was wholly, entirely, fully devoted to Kritiker and Estelle. The
phrase ‘Undying Loyalty’ didn’t even begin to scratch his dedication. He had
sworn his life for this organization, had sworn his strength to his boss. He
had joked, numerous times, that he wished to be killed if he got too old to
serve the Warrens.
He wasn’t joking anymore.
At least, he hadn’t before this mission.
“March 09, 2004.
Targets include: Aoi Chizuru, Murase Asuka, Kitaura Karen, Hibino Nanami of the
assassin group acknowledged as Schriet, formally operated by EssZet. If
feasible, the annihilation of Takatori Masafumi, a suspected affiliate of
EssZet faction is desired.”
The annihilation of Takatori Masafumi.
His nephew.
“Warren-san,” Persia leaned forward in his seat, studying the mission
statement he had been handed minutes before. “I think there’s a mistake here.”
Estelle leaned back in her chair, a pair of black-rimmed classes inching
down her nose as she peered over at him. Her hair was fitted tightly behind her
head; a wave of white curls bouncing against her pale neck.
“I wrote that up myself.” The sideways glance presented him with a
single green eye. As she turned in her seat, Persia was met with cerulean as
well. “I saw no mistakes in it.”
“It says that Masafumi is to be murdered.”
“No, it says ‘if feasible’.” She pushed away from her laptop, stretching
her legs out under her desk. “If he isn’t at his laboratory at the time of the
mission, he’ll be safe.”
“But, it’s almost definite he’ll be there.”
“I know.”
“I don’t understand though.” Persistent, he pushed the mission folder
towards her, pointing to his nephew’s name as though it personified the man.
“Is there any way that I can warn him?”
“That’s treason.”
“But…”
“Treason is dealt with by death, Persia.” She tilted her head to the
side, alleviating the pressure forming from the ridged chair she had been
sitting in all day. Soon, her knuckles cracked within her palm, and she faced
her computer. “Tödliche Künste is ranked fifth now, did you know that?”
“I’m not talking about them.” He practically screamed, jumping up
from his seat. “This indifference you have towards killing someone is
sickening.”
“Then leave.”
“You won’t let me walk out of this fucking building alive.” He
slammed his hand against the wooden table between them.
“Then stop complaining.”
He immediately paused, body at a diagonal to hers, and looked down his
nose at the mission statement.
“She could be playing both sides, Estelle.” He finally blurted
out. It took a lot, maybe too much, to harbor the anger rushing through his
mind. His vision blurred every few seconds, but he kept his voice at a
reasonable level. “You can’t trust anyone that’s been in contact with my
brother. Reiji corrupts everything he gets his hands on.”
“I trust her with my life.” Was Estelle’s simple yet profound statement.
She had stopped looking at him and, instead, typed leisurely on the keyboard.
She had to warrant a mission soon. The last thing she needed was to waste
energy on an argument she could easily win.
“The apple does not fall far away from the tree.”
“Sit down.”
“Estelle, you know you can’t trust her--”
Knock.
The door opened slowly at Estelle’s comment. Standing behind it, head
bowed, was the topic of such infuriated discussion. If they had looked hard
enough, both Estelle and Persia would have seen the tears brimming in Sofia’s
eyes. She had heard.
“Ohayo, Warren-san. Persia-san.” Her bow was deep and meaningful. “The
men from the computer company are here.”
Persia took it as an opportunity to sit then and, as two older men spoke
with Estelle about hack-proof software and firewalls, he watched Sofia silently
shut the door.
I trust her with my life.
He couldn’t help but laugh.
T ö d l i c h e K ü n s t e
March 3, 2004
Somewhere in Downtown Shibuya
Two screwdrivers. Copious shots of sake. And a Boston Gold.
Persia was thinking clearer than he had in years.
The last few hours had been uncommonly rough. Reiji had taken it upon
himself to pay his dear bother a visit. Along with the bottle of wine and talk
of chemical trade, had come a small, leather bound book. Apparently, Reiji had
free time on his hands and, fed up with paying the storage fee, had taken Sofia
out to her grandfather’s storeroom to root through the piles of junk the old
man had left his family.
Ironically, Sofia had been the one to find the diary of Takatori Jun.
Of course, Reiji had snatched it away before the girl had a chance to
snoop through it.
Persia had heard stories, glorious ones from Estelle, about his father.
The fact that his father had been mentioned respectfully in Kritiker’s history
was a glorious act bestowed on the Takatori family.
It almost hurt him that most of history had been false. But, Persia had
taken this path, had stayed loyal to only Kritiker, on the pretense that he was
following his father’s footprints. He felt cheated that his thinking, his
loyalty, and his heart, was in the wrong place.
His father had been a spy for Kritiker in his earlier years, true, but
had secretly switched sides once Hope Warren took a groom. Revenge, and
heartache, seemed to be the cause.
How can you love a Warren? Persia has snickered into his drink. Dad must have lost it.
It extended farther. His father’s plan had been written down, step by
step. Kill the Kritikerian boss. Kill himself. Kritiker will crumble. All will
be happy.
“Wonderful.” A snarl passed his lips. “Fucking magnificent. If
only I had known. I wouldn’t fucking be here.”
So what to do now? Risk telling Masafumi he was on the Most Wanted list?
Save his nephew from a death he didn’t deserve? Betray an organization that he
had sworn his life to? Betray a woman, his partner, whose intuition, many
hunches of which had proved true, had weeded out the lies of even the best? He
would be killed, murdered, executed. Estelle was bound to find humor in
this, he realized. She would send his own team, send Weiß themselves, to take
care of him. It was almost too funny to bear.
Almost.
How to fix an unfixable problem. How to break away from Kritiker, save
his nephew, save his own ass, and live the rest of his life without
having to watch his back. Perhaps he has a solution.
“You shouldn’t be here, old man.” A figure took a seat beside the Persia, his head hidden behind a canopy of blazing crimson hair. He immediately asked the bartender for a beer. “Why did you call me?”
“I’m having second thoughts.”
The man paused, beamed a grin that houses a row of lustrous white teeth,
and nodded.
“As well you should.” A cold beer slid into his fingers, already opened.
He took a long sip, wiped the foam off with the back of his hand, and rested
both elbows on the granite countertop. “You work for criminals, Schuuichi-kun.”
“Estelle wants my nephew dead.” Persia interrupted, letting the details
run off his lips easily. “I think my brother will be next.”
“I see.”
“Masafumi is your employee,” He raised his hand at the bartender.
Another Boston Gold. “Reiji is sympathetic to your cause. If either of
them dies, I won’t be the only one that loses something.”
“Then stop them.”
“I need your help.”
“Your father gave me my job.” The man glanced over at Persia and wound
his feet into the pegs of his stool. “So I owe your family a favor. Pick who
you want to save.”
Choose between nephew and brother? That was simple.
“Reiji.”
“All right.” The man nodded. “I’ll get you a bodyguard. I know of a
friend who will do it.”
“He’ll protect Reiji?”
“He will.” The shadow beside Persia stood, beer still half full, and
dished out a far amount of yen on the marble counter. He turned to leave, but
paused. The smirk, once again gleaming through the dull, smoke-filled bar, continued
to grow. “It’s nice to know you’re starting to see things my way for a change.”
March 11, 2004
Tokyo Union Church
The Funeral of Takatori Masafumi
How easy it would be to tell him. It would ruin it all, but how
wonderful would it feel to suddenly blurt out the truth?
Reiji, your daughter is part of Kritiker.
His face would be hysterical. Of course, Persia didn’t know if Reiji
would believe him at first. Maybe it would take a few minutes to soak in. Maybe
a few days. Maybe he would run a background check, see who her paycheck came
from every week, see where that apartment of hers really was, see whom her
friends really were. He would find out why she carried a gun around under her
boot leg, why she had undocumented millions in the bank. However it happened,
without a doubt, his face would be hysterical.
He stayed away from her, watching her out of the corner of his eyes. She
sat there, dressed up like a doll. Curls so tight around her head that they
hardly moved. Black dress, black veil, a dry tissue in folded, gloved hands.
Picturesque. As though she had nothing to do with it.
You pulled the trigger, didn’t you?
Fuck loyalty to Kritiker. What about devotion to one’s family? Where was
that in Sofia? Why hadn’t she fought back against the warrant for her own
brother’s death? She couldn’t care that much about Estelle.
Could she?
She was getting stronger, bolder. Persia knew he still outranked her,
but for how long? She was Estelle’s favorite. It couldn’t be anymore obvious.
She wasn’t even the oldest, yet she boasted the title of Leader. To make things
worse, there were three more whores underneath her. It was obvious they would
die for their leader.
It was sickening, really.
And Reiji. How could he sit next to her crying? Did he not know that the
origin of his pain was holding his arm, handing him the tissue, smiling
reassuringly at him?
The only thing that calmed him down was the presence of the bodyguard.
Persia hadn’t the slightest clue where his contact had found him. An American?
There were many in Shibuya during the tourist season, but never one of this
stature. The man almost appeared Japanese. Black hair, narrow eyes, pale skin.
He walked with dignity and prose. He moved perfectly; he said the perfect things,
and he behaved in the perfect way.
Hell, he even smelled perfect.
All that mattered right now was the realization that Reiji was safe.
That’s all that Persia cared about. His brother was in good hands.
I owe your family a favor. Pick who you want to save.
Good hands.
March 12, 2004
Playground
There was a shallow trough in the dirt where he had paced. The tips of
his black Armani heals were caked with mud and sand, and he could barely see
given the time of night. There was a light over him illuminating the quaint
playground behind the high-rise, but it would flicker constantly. His feet,
which he was arduously studying, would blink in and out of existence.
In and out.
In and out.
In and ou--
“Ah, Persia-san.” A figure slowly formed beyond the boarder of light.
The man’s hair was down, glasses off, his hands were stuffed deep within the
pockets of his trench coat. He approached not cautiously, but with an
egotistical, untouchable flair that awed Persia as much as it angered him.
Touching the warm metal of the swing set, the man sat on the nearest curved,
plastic seat, running both hands up the coated chains to his side. “I’m sorry
I’m late.”
“Why did you call me out here?”
“I need something.” He replied quickly. Persia stopped moving long
enough to watch a smile grow on his face. “And I figured you would be the one
to help me.”
“I don’t--”
“Of course, there’s something in it for you.”
“I’m listening.”
“Well,” The man shifted in the swing, planting his narrow feet flat on
the sandy ground. Leaning forward, he pressed his elbows against his knees. “My
Group has been killed, you know this.”
“That’s the way the game’s played.” Persia dug his hands into his
pocket, his back stiffening. There was a rude, paranoid glare on his face. He
wasn’t supposed to be here. At all. “Schriet was weak. Weak die.”
“Well, I need a Group.”
“Make one.”
“Why make one when you can trade one.” The light blinked, and the
man’s eyes beamed with color. “How about it?”
“Weiß are mine.” Persia threw out his hand, his voice raising. “They’re
loyalties lie in Kritiker. Not-- never EssZet.”
“Where do your loyalties lie, Persia-san?”
There was a pause.
“I want the rights to Weiß.” The man’s face was then shrouded in
darkness. When he spoke again, it sounded hollow against the wind. “In
exchange, I’ll give you my job.”
“I don’t think you understand, they won’t work for you.” Persia
started away from the sphere of light, checking over his shoulder every few
seconds. The man stay seated. In fact, he had straighten and started to sway
gently on the swing.
“I’m not asking anymore.”
Persia stopped. He hasn’t heard anything so chilling, so borderline
senile.
“Your brother’s bodyguard works through me.” There was the catch.
“Crawford will stop protecting Reiji if, say, I don’t get my way.”
“We had an arrangement!” Persia jerked his body around, his coat
twisting around his legs as he started back. His voice almost choked himself
within in throat. It was so laced with fury and resentment that words started
to jumble. “You gave me your word.”
“This is the way my game is played.” A paper was displayed.
Beside it, grasped between the man’s thumb and palm, was a ballpoint pen. “If
you sign on the line, I get Weiß, and you get my job.”
Persia didn’t budge.
“And immunity.”
“And Reiji?”
“Immunity as well.”
“Why don’t you want Tödliche Künste?” Persia touched the tip of the
paper with his fingers. The man nodded gently and pushed it into his waiting
hands. The pen was quickly uncapped, and handed over.
“They aren’t as good.”
“They’re getting there.”
“I don’t want woman working for me.” Another smile. “That’s how Kritiker
works, not EssZet.”
“So,” He paused for a long while, wondering how to form the words he
wished to speak next. “I get control of EssZet?”
“In Tokyo, yes. You’ll still have Weiß working for you,” The pen touched
the paper. “Just you’ll answer to EssZet instea--”
Ring.
The shrill cry echoed off the pavement. Persia, pen in hand, wavered, a
thin line scribbled where his signature should be. Quickly, he tucked the paper
under his arm and felt for his cell phone. With the second ring, he flipped
open the lid.
“Hai?”
“There’s been a break-in at Kritiker, Persia.” Estelle’s voice hummed
over the small receiver. “Where are you?”
“I’m…downtown.”
“I’ll come pick you up.” He could hear the whine of an engine in the
background. “Where exactly are you?”
“The bus terminal by the ramp.”
“I’ll be there in ten minutes. Be somewhere I can see you.”
Click.
“Do we have a deal?” Persia jerked forward, a steam of hot breath
hitting the back of his neck as he did. The man stood directly beside him,
looking through a brim of bright ginger hair into his dark eyes. “You have
somewhere to go. You should decide quickly.”
“It’s a deal.” Persia shifted his shoulder, releasing the paper from the
folds of his coat. With his hand as a hardened surface, he scrawled out his
loopy signature. “What do I write for ‘Recipient’?”
“Just write it out to Schuldig.”
March 16, 2004
Office of Estelle Warren and Takatori Shuuichi
There was nothing he could do.
It’s a shame, it really is. He contributed a lot to my company.
Wait, he could take up drinking. Serious drinking. Become an
alcoholic, Persia, just wait until your liver liquefies before giving up.
No one deserves to die like that.
What about painkillers? They had some good ones on the market these
days. They wouldn’t be that much if he asserted his authority. He could
probably get them from Hirofumi. He was a doctor after all…
He left behind such a gorgeous daughter. Where will she go now?
Even better, alcohol and narcotics. He’d invent some lethal
cocktail that would take everything away. The autopsy photos he had to endure,
the plans for a closed casket at his consent, Estelle’s smile. It would disappear.
At least he’s back with his wife. Oh, they did make such a nice couple.
He had tried, for hours on end, to find someone to blame for Reiji’s
death. Sofia had been at Takatori Inc. at the time of her father’s death, yes,
but she was wounded as well. Reiji could have wounded her fighting back for his
life…
But that didn’t make any sense. He would have never laid a hand on her
no matter what she was doing.
Right now, the stupid, little miscreant was now hobbling around in her
cast. The pity and praise for her had been overwhelming.
What will become of the family business? Will Hirofumi-san be able to
carry out what his renowned father wanted?
The bodyguard! That deceitful American. Why hadn’t he been there? Why
call yourself a bodyguard when you couldn’t save an overweight, sluggish, old
man? He should be fired, no, reprimanded, no, judged.
Crawford had committed the highest form of neglect. He could easily do
it again. So, kill the American now, get him out of the way. Persia couldn’t
hold back his laughter at the thought. There was no humor in it, just a deep,
filthy hatred..
Persia-san, if you sign on the line, I get Weiß, and you get my job.
Persia would fire the bastard. The second he got his new position in
EssZet, Crawford would be out on the streets, forced to wear plastic bags as
shoes and a trench coat made out of old newspapers. No more caviar or
champagne. No more Armani or Gucci. It would be rats, sewer water, and hobo
attire for the rest of his life.
Hobo attire…
Persia slammed his fist against his desk, throwing his head back in a
loud, billowing laugh. He would buy himself a camera, a fancy, swanky looking
one, and take picture after picture after picture of Down-And-Out Brad
Crawford. He’ll blow the pictures up, life-sized, and wallpaper his room, his
apartment, his bathroom, his everything with those pictures.
Oh, the hilarity was just too much for him. Persia started choking on his own tears. These thoughts just ticked him so much. So much so that he didn’t hear the three women walk into the office.
“Shuu-i-chi-chaaan.”
As he turned, he already felt arms slipping around his neck, a chin
resting on his shoulder. His face, spinning to meet hers, brushed up against a
feathered lock of scarlet hair. Hanae, her lipstick the same fiery shade as her
two-piece suit, smiled generously against his cheek. He looked past her at
Kyoko then past her to Estelle.
“You look pale, Shuuichi-chan.” The redhead, buxom, woman gently cooed. Her shapely hips slipped sideways as she rested her weight on one leg. A primped hand stroked the wooden curve of his chair as she leaned over his shoulder. “You seem tense, too.”
“It’s been a bad day, Hanae.” Persia retorted, smiling wearily at his assistant. He was comforted by the earthy scent of her perfume and was able to relax, if only for a second, amid the silky strands of her deeply crimson mane.
“Hopefully our presence has brightened your day.” Hanae said as she rested her elbows against the back of his chair. “Even though we were la--”
“We deeply apologize for being late, Persia-san.”
The redhead immediately perked at the presence of her partner. With a squeal, she pushed away from the chair and walked around the table, stopping right beside the stately, stern-faced Takaoka Kyoko. The dark haired woman was recovering from a low bow, both hands pressed against her legs in regret for their ill-timed visit.
“You two are actually early.” Persia couldn’t help but grin, however slight, to the two women standing before him. They had been his pillars for a long time, his strength, and vigor in what he did and how he did it. They were spoiled, as his children would be if he had any. They were overpaid, over-privileged, honored for more then they had accomplished.
And definitely not hated like Tödliche Künte was. Perhaps that’s why Persia adored them so. They were nothing like Estelle’s jaded, indolent, careless team.
“Well, now that we’re all here.” Estelle emerged from behind them, flipping open a beige manila folder as her slender fingers gently turned the pages within. Two papers landed on the oak desk. “Manx, Birmen, as you see, your mission is to gather information on one, Takatori Hirofumi. At present, he should already be at the funeral, so his residence will be empty.”
A map was handed to Kyoko, a
gesture that literally held no water. The woman knew the island of Honshu like
the back of her palm. Each finger was a separate island; each grove was a road,
a highway, an interstate.
“I need
proof that Hirofumi is discussing the possibility of continuing the work
Masafumi and Reiji started.” The mission statement, a thin, two page report
already residing on the table between them, was slide across the desk towards
Hanae. “I need to know who he’s talking to concerning the mass production and
marketing of biochemical and nuclear warfare.”
“Just who?” Kyoko slipped the statement away from Hanae’s hands, eyeing it herself. “That’s all you want?”
“Weiß will find out more when they return from their break.” Persia swiveled in his chair, tapping his fingers against the wooden surface. “If there are no further questions, you’re both excused.”
Kyoko, her teal eyes quickly scanning over the document, simply nodded
her head. She motioned at Hanae, who withdrew her arms back to her side and
started towards the door.
“See you in a bit, boss.” The redhead swiveled on her heals and gave
Persia a friendly, yet somewhat flirtatious wave before she left. Her partner
followed close behind, her gaze still buried in the paperwork the manila folder
held.
Persia slipped out then, disguising his exit as a sudden need to check
on a situation elsewhere. He hurried towards the stairwell, carefully checking
behind his back to see if he had been followed. Of course he hadn’t. There was
no reason to follow him at that point. He was under no suspicions. But the work
he was about to do called for such cautious measures, so he performed them two
more times. Checking behind him. Seeing nothing. Checking again. When the coast
was clear, as it had been since he left Estelle’s office, he took out his cell
phone and propped his back against an empty doorway. There, as he kept his
voice lowered, as he checked and rechecked the hallway on either side of him,
he repeated all that he had heard to the ginger-haired foreigner in the olive
green trench coat.
Kyoko. Hanae. Persia had signed their death certificates with that single call. It was the last time he saw either of them alive.
Afternoon
Outside Tokyo Union
Church
“Sofia-sama,
now that your father is gone, what will you do?”
Persia stood away from the crowd, hands deep within his pocket despite the heat. With midday also came a calming breeze, and it relaxed both his aching, exhausted body and impassioned demeanor. He gave up looking professional the moment he stepped out of the church. His coat was wide open; the top three buttons of his shirt were undone. The tales of his suit flapped gently behind him as he waited, and watched.
“I will help out whenever Hirofumi-oniisan needs me.”
He believed her. Honestly. Even though he had grown up skeptical of his only niece, when she spoke, he as well as the rest of the media listened. There was something about the way she presented herself, even when she was sick, even when she was drained from losing both her brother and her father, she drank strength from an endless, everlasting well. She was incapable of being outshined. Even though Hirofumi had been rewarded with front-page news articles, television interviews, and dinners with men far more brilliant then himself, the press wanted nothing of him. Their eyes were on the dark-skinned woman standing beside him. It wasn’t simply because of her beauty, though that did own up to a lot. There was something indescribable about her.
“But at the moment, my real wish is to get married.”
It was but moments after this that Persia saw his niece start falter from the pain and exhaustion. Through old, weary eyes he saw Crawford reach a hand around, lightly, slowly, hidden from the glare of the camera and attention of gossip-starved paparazzi. There was a whimsical movement in the hand. It traced Sofia’s outline, yet dared touch the fabric clinging to the bow of her back. Finally, when it reached her opposite hip, Persia witnessed something remarkable.
He pushed her.
Everything accumulated at once: the heat, the fatigue, the pain and sorrow and frustration. The girl, looking so fragile and weak, suddenly gave out. If it hadn’t been for Crawford, she would have fallen in a dead faint.
Crawford hurried past Persia at that moment, with Sofia tucked away underneath his coat. Persia didn’t move; he was fascinated by what he had just seen. By many accounts, he was not naïve. There were underhanded things that he had done in his lifetime to get what he wanted. But, never this bold. Never in front of so many people. His awe for Crawford skyrocketed for a brief stint that day. The hatred for the dark-haired, shifty eyed American disappeared for a moment.
He had pushed her, only to appear as her savior seconds later.
The frown that instinctively grew on Persia's face shook him back into reality. There was a hurt inside of him so strong that nothing could shake it. He hated Crawford. He had to remember that. Americans were stupid after all, too full of themselves, too sure.
When the limo finally left, his niece safely inside, Persia started to move. He walked straight up to Crawford, parked his body against the curb, and took a deep, labored, angry breath.
“What was that all about?”
“Just as I thought.” Crawford replied after a few moments. He angled his head towards the sun, squinting. When he turned back, a grin greeted him. “She’s weak.”
“You couldn’t tell that from just looking at her?”
“Better to be safe.” He ignored the cynical tone of Persia’s words. When he turned, he patted the older man hard on the shoulder, squeezing with a serious force. Entirely stoic, Persia remained tight-lipped. The cringe he felt stayed within his mind as the American started away. “Kritiker--”
“Where are you going?”
“Ah, to lay down.” He turned around as he swaggered away, walking with his back forward against the sun. “I’ll see you soon, Shuuichi.”
No suffix. No respect. Typical.
“You heard me, right?”
Persia didn’t answer. Instead, he simply waved a tired, uninviting hand at the younger man. When he did glance over, and only with the slightest ounce of curiosity, he saw a playful, boyish smirk on the American’s face.
“Schuldig could be right.” The playfulness continued. “Maybe Kritiker really could use you.”