Life's Pains

It was another usual day, another day in this pitiful illusion that the eldest son of an eldest son was fated to live through, if he ever wanted to keep that sliver of hope surrounding the family he'd once sought to built alive; Marcus Frostbrook sat himself up, yawned, tugged at his vest, looked to the clock, cursed his rusted bed-springs, cursed his lazy habits, idly ran a hand through his hair, and grasped three objects from a night-table, slipping on yesterday's jeans and tucking them into his pockets. Those three objects were a pen, a lighter, and a half-empty packet of cigarettes.

The man's black hair was dirty, and his wardrobe was small enough that he had to make do with what precious resources he had; the house - if it could be called that - was small, and he couldn't afford the luxuries that he'd tasted for almost twenty-six years... such as a washing machine, or a dish-washer. Crockery and cheap cutlery were washed by hands, Marcus rubbing his hands red raw, before he'd move down to one of Central's many laundromats and throw his clothes in, fumbling for change in order to slot into the machines.

For the past few days, a self-developed quote that sounded strangely like it originated from the mouth of a rock star had echoed throughout the caverns of his mind; 'When you've tasted excess, everything else tastes bland.' That quote defined Marcus. He'd lived the life, basked in the luxuries, even danced with devil and waited for the song to stop; and where was he now? A scummy council-funded apartment on the worst streets of Central. Highs and lows, eh?

Cretan in origin, Marcus had quickly found that despite his fluency in Amestrian, unless he could find a way to disguise his accent from the get-go of a conversation, thanks to, presumably, recent political events, people would take an immediate distaste towards him. Just another problem to add to the many melting pot of Marcus Frostbrook's issues; not only was he cut off from his family by one of the worst men he'd ever known, the illusion was so badly tainted with racism that he felt like a true alien to all.

Marcus had two escapes; writing, and his dabbling in alchemy. Unlike most, whilst the latter was often militarised and used for lethal purposes, this ex-author with a terrible secret simply flipped through charred notebooks purchased from flea markets and yard sales for peanuts in order to open up avenues he thought previously closed off; Marcus looked for non-lethal alchemy. By nature, he was committed to what was for most, a hobby, but his skill level seemed to be lacking. All he could do was... drain colour. And people were out there suffocating each other by snapping their fingers. Such a failure.

His writing, however, had taken a turn for the worse since his inspiration had been shot dead and left in a ditch as of the catastrophe of three years ago; and even then, if he managed to start himself back up and get a damn book contract, he wouldn't have a bank account to put it in. He had to stay off the grid... if he ever wanted a shot at-

A passing car snapped the trembling man out of his rapid-cycle chain of thoughts. Grasping the lighter, cigarette propped between his lips, and remembering the terms of his rent agreement, Marcus pushed the front door open, lit the 'cancer stick' sitting in his mouth, and sobbed to high hell.

Or at least, that's what he wanted to do.

Every day for months, Marcus had been trying to push himself, force himself into letting it all out. But, no... nothing happened. As much as he wanted to release the sorrows of the past three years, it stayed tightly locked and bottled up within him. He wanted to cry for his wife. His son. His career. His family. But instead, he just pushed himself further down this self-destructive spiral, causing the life of depression to simply hurt more and more, and when he finally hit the ditch, he remembered that if he killed himself, it'd only cause the death of his son, too.

Planting his face in his hands and puffing out smoke, rubbing the corner of his eyes with grimy knuckles, Marcus told himself, as he had for two years running now, to simply enjoy the little things. Yeah? Little things like what? Nicotine withdrawal? Income tax? What little alcohol he could get his hands on to escape this dire nightmare?

Pushing his back up against the stone walls either side of the entrance, Marcus collapsed, a tired wreck despite his many hours of slumber, simply wishing, hoping, thinking of a way to solve all his problems, relieve all his struggles... in one fell swoop.

But, no. Today was just going to be another day. Another shitty day in this low-class world, on the streets of a city he'd never wished to see.

The client had insisted they arrive the night before so as to 'enjoy' themselves before the hefty kill. Makoto Kiyoshino was personally charged with the task of making sure this murder took place successfully. If they failed, the fate of an entire nation would most likely be disrupted in pulses of negativity. The stock market was a flighty thing and Aerugo was suffering much because of Amestris' sudden change of government. It was an important job; a very important job. And it would be completed without flaw. The job took him and his select chosen squad to the country of Amestris itself where an Aerugese corporate official of Buck Bucks Banking was currently hiding out. While they couldn't sink him in Edo bay on the spot, they could murder him in cold blood and then bring his body back to be sunk in Edo Bay. The client was paying an arm and a leg as well as their airfare. It had actually been Mako's first time on an airplane since he was six (he didn't remember that). The ride was a big crazy and the jet lag intense, but him and the rest of the crew were wide awake by sundown and raring to party it up in a foreign country. Mako, however, had different feelings. For once, he poured over the scarce information provided by the client and tried to focus through the haze of too much alcohol and the throbbing beat of the base. All of his men were laid that night except him who had fallen asleep on...

Honey brown hair splayed over the edge of a building, tousling lightly in freezing wind. First one eye creaked open and then another, and then... "--DA FUCK!?" He was on top of a building bundled in comforters with papers scattered everywhere. And by everywhere, they were fucking everywhere. He face palmed violently until he realized that it hurt. His head was fucking screaming in pain. Half-dizzy he stumbled to his face, listing to one side before he made it to the door and fell down the steps. Shit. He needed to wake up. He glanced at his digital watch. Two hours. He had two fucking hours to wake up before they had to storm the guy's apartment complex. Who else was alive this morning? How many of his men hadn't been defeated in their clients dipshit move? He moaned and wandered aimlessly down the weird-smelling hallways until finding the fully stocked kitchen that still looked like a mess from last night. Fucking Amestrians knew how to party and how to coerce stoic, coldblooded murderers into drinking way too fucking much. Mako beat his fists into a nearby wall and then continued digging through a door to look for painkillers. He located a jar and sawed off the lid with a butcher knife. Then took four with five glasses of water. Okay, he was good. He'd have to piss like a race horse later, but he was good for now.

He just needed to find his shit, his men, and a cig. His shit, meaning weapons. Ohh yess did they have weapons. Makoto pranced down the hall this time like he was king, banging on every door that he passed until her reached the radio room of the suite hotel. He walked right up to the machine and then realized he had no fucking clue how to use that shit....so he kicked it and pressed buttons until it worked. "Eee," he began to make sure the sound was working and that the lazy sleeping bastards could hear him, and then yelled, "WAKE THE FUCK UP YOU PATHETIC SONUVABICHES!!!!" That oughta do the trick. And sure enough, fifteen minutes later, his men were pouring out like rumpled new papers and raiding the supply of painkillers like no tomorrow. Luckily, Mako was smart enough to pirate some in his pocket for later when they wore off. They congregated in the kitchen, discussed the battle plan and then loaded into two cars, eight of them total. One was still passed out in the bathroom. Makoto left him behind, telling their client that he was now his pet. Drink too much, anndddd you aren't worthy of being a fucking Yakuza.

They arrived at the shitty-looking run down apartment complex that looked more like a scene out of an old western film. How were these still even intact after the bombings? He rolled his chestnut eyes skyward and sauntered forward, motioning for them to move in. Reading the dulled apartment numbers as his boots clanked against the metal walkway, he stopped at one, squinting. He had read too many of those fucking numbers already he had nearly forgotten it. It was this one. The last number was crooked, but it was definitely this one. He kicked open the door without hesitation, listening pleasantly to the cracking of wood and moans of the hinge, now busted to hell. He went in first, smelling gasoline as it was sprayed behind his paved path by his men. Mako lit a match with his teeth and dropped it into the liquid, witnessing it catch flame throughout the entire apartment. The rest of the gas was dumped everywhere and then sat in the corned by gloved professionals that made it look like he had had a tank of gas sitting there this entire time. Another man turned on the stove and the flames immediately danced up the wall, flickering waves of light everywhere in odd shapes. Makoto yanked out a tranquiler gun, but froze. The man sitting at the front stone entrance, smoking a cigarette did not match the description well.

"...Hanya?" He cocked his head to the side and bent down to the guy that already looked dead. "Who the fuck are you?" A man over Mako's shoulder looked about ready to translate, while another looked confused and motioned for the rest of the crew to come further in since the whole back half of the apartment where they had come in was now completely up in flames. The smoke was becoming unbearable, but Makoto's head was clear. This was the wrong man. They had the fucking wrong place!!! He shot Villetta a wild look that said everything: Find the right apartment NOW.

Ville cursed. She held out her hand, and the first thing that touched her palm was a 9mm...which she dropped instantly. Everyone knew she didn't smoke, so the next thing was knife...Wrong again. "You're fucking lighter dumb shit." He winced and handed over his Zippo. Convenient for Villetta. All this gasoline was such an excessive thing. She walked trough the flames without issue, and then moved out into the hallway. She pulled the door, and fixed the number. It was the wrong place. Whoever the mark was, was smart enough to refix the number and adjust his own. She moved down the hallway to the correct door, and with a single finger knocked the door off it's hinges. As it flipped inward, the window was smashed out. She sighed"Oi, dumb shits. Down stairs he's getting away." She crossed the room and watched as he quickly scaled down the fire escape towards a car. A car could prove to be an annoyance. "Let's remove that obstacle shall we?"

Clink...tch tch tch fwoo

She passed her hand over the flame, and then pulled it away. A stream of fire pulled away from the lighter and gathered into her hand. Carefully, adjusting the vectors of the flame to burn the top layer of her skin, while she regenerated it at the same time. Painful? Quite. But the effect was amazing in contrast. She closed the lighter and took aim at the car. Drawing her arm slightly back, she pushed forward. Adjusting the vectors of her momentum into a forward force exerted on the actual flame, then adjusting the intensity and power of the flame to match the force was as simple as counting to ten for Villetta. The car was soon engulfed in flames and then...

BOOM!

The car exploded as the gas tank turned from fuel to explosive. Well that eliminated that problem. She closed her hand and smothered the flame. The inside of her palm blackened, and slowly healing. Burns took more time to regenerate than simple cuts or bruises. Her body had to remove the dead skin, and regenerate a new layer to replace it. Still quick for a human, but no where near instant like when she sprouts bones from her body.

"RUN FAST IDIOT GUY!" Her Amestrian was garbage, but she was learning. The language was uncouth to begin with. She would have preferred to learn Xingese than Amestrian. However, more profit came from Amestris than it did from Xing. She smirked. As he hit the ground, and began to run through the alley way. She could snipe him from here, but then there would be no fun to the chase. She moved out the window, and onto the fire escape. She leaned over the edge, and flipped over the railing. The fall was quick, cold air rushing across her face, as she flipped in the air and slammed into the ground. The way she hit the ground, seemed as if she stepped off a curb. Truly, a Demon. She walked after the man, laughing. Run run run. Wouldn't want you to die. Her small legs and child like body darkened in the alley, a truly frightening sight to behold by anyone.

Well, the thread said it is open for yakuza so I think a new manga chapter is in order. Nakajima Tomoe is not your ordinary girl, dressed in black and white, studying anatomy and a mangaka. However she is actually a yakuza and she when it comes to assassinations she is quite good and when it comes to marksmanship she is quite remarkable.

The yamaguchi-gumi - her old enemies - she is now serving. Her waka-sama was sent for amestris for an assassination mission that means that whatever they are doing, it is really important. The shateigashira was of course at waka-sama's side who went directly after the target with a handful of carefully chosen men. With two cars they went off.

Those are the guys who were going after the target however there is another team who had a different sort of mission. The mission is seal off the parameter, walk softly and carry a big gun. Simply, the second team ensures that no one interferes and will give their lives away to stop anyone from approaching the first team whose leader is the son of the kumicho.

The kyodai is the head of that team. Her team consists of three snipers who are positioned on chosen rooftops whose sights covers the whole area. And a relay agent, someone who is listening to the police radio frequencies and can send in false alarms if need be.

Everything was going fine. Two cars came in. Hell fire and pestilence found there way to the apartment (?) and began mission execution however something went haywire. The unholy mother went personally after the targets and there was an explosion.

Okay then, things will go bad from here on. Explosion means unwanted attention. Now, you know why the Kyodai wanted to accompany them to the convenient store.

And through the frequency...

What happened ?

Onee-san, A car exploded. The shateigashira is chasing the target. The target is within vicinity...your orders.

Don't shoot under any circumstances unless I give you an order, Focus on guarding the parameter. Relay agent hear the police traffic and tell me if they noticed anything.

Roger. they acknowledged her orders.

That were her orders. She didn't want any of her team members to intervene with the shateigashira in any way fearing that if they interfere with her hunt, she would throw a tantrum and her tantrums are quite deadly. Tomoe saw her before doing some unnatural things.

So what now ?

Tomoe herself is going after the target though she disliked to interfere with pestilence's operation. But she has to do that for two reasons. First, kill the target before he is able to get to the open. Him getting to the open means a lot of witnesses, a lot of witnesses means amestrian police forces quick deployment and things will go shit. Second, to protect her team members by dealing with the matter herself and that means dealing with the shateigashira if she went hostile for any reason.

She wore her kitsune mask, prepared her dual guns, equipped suppressors and went running fast to that alley's other end where the target is headed after receiving coordinates from her teammates. Let's hope pestilence get him first before Hagoromo gitsune does since tantrums are really unneeded.

Having lapsed into an almost catatonic state of deep thought, puffing gently on the cigarette, Marcus shuffled back and forth, swaying in the warmth... the smell of unfamiliar smoke drifted into his nostrils... wait... warmth? It was January? Just what the fuck was happening? This wasn't-

He reprocessed everything, all of the ambience he'd ignored in the past five, ten minutes? That smashing had been routine for him; the apartment complex was rickety, at the best of times. The voices, too; this was a popular gang hide-out. The only thing that stood out was... Aerugese. Normally those voices were grated Amestrian... at best.

The smell of smoke. Gasoline. He was quickly alerted; shit, that was too close for home. This was unusual. And not good. Never good. Shit, all his stuff-

A voice. Aerugese... but odd. Accented, perhaps a different dialect? "Who the fuck are you?" Marcus span on his heel, and cocked his head, staring across; the guy was Aerugese, sure... but that suit... he was... Yakuza, he guessed. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.

Marcus doubled-back, more concerned with one thing above all else; his possessions. His books. The precious little money he had stashed beneath his mattress. The smoke was thicker, clogging up the air and stinging his eyes, drifting down the hallway, wispy, thin tendrils of it snaking down to the end of the corridor and bursting through into the harsh Amestrian sunlight. "The guy whose fucking apartment you just set on fire!" He yapped back; Aerugese. Probably broken, accented, but he didn't care. Now wasn't the time; he had to go.

Sprinting in, ready to cross whatever lay in front of him, the heat slammed into the man's gaunt frame like a wall; he scanned for exits, escapes, but the men had been thorough; a pool of gasoline was spreading, peeling and bubbling paint, crackling atop wood and wallpaper indiscriminately. He could smell everything, every last one of the meagre amount of possessions he had in this shitty little world, burning away in an instant.

Tears would've stung his eyes but for two reasons. His code and the smoke. A bitterness hit him, a hatred; that man outside was responsible, but even in his moments of anger, Marcus was rational; in reality, this wasn't... his. It was funded for courtesy of the Central Council; and all that really lie inside were his possessions, and... shit!

His hands went to pat down his jeans; he felt his knees buckle, and he dropped, before, finally, fingertips seared with heat and stinging eyes settled upon it, the lid barely protruding out of the top of his pocket. A pen. No, not a pen; the pen. His notebook... well, the most important one, was still in his jeans, from what little he could recall of yesterday's exploits. Alchemy and notes... what precious little he would have to go from would be amalgamated with memory and he could perhaps draw back almost everything... but... still...

To see what little he had in this world torn away from him once more, every ounce of proof that he had ever existed in this world for the last three years... crackling away in a fire. The locket was strung around his neck, as always; the only thing he had to remember Maria by. Leon, too, save for the scribblings in the back of his book of the earlier attempts to contact the social security agency. He had the clothes on his back, his glasses, the locket, his pen, his book, a half-empty pack of smokes, his lighter, and his memory. And that was... it.

He felt the heat sting his eyes once more; beams and frames toppled to the ground, charred and flaming, causing floors, doors, everything, to splinter, buckle, and turn to smouldering wooden rubble amongst the inferno. Clouds of ash-laden smoke swatted his cheeks, but, somehow, Marcus Frostbrook, his very name denying the element which now destroyed his home, pulled himself up to his full height, turned, and left.

This emptiness was far too familiar. He had been torn apart once before. He could rebuild. He just needed to get Leon back. Everything had been taken from him in an instant; and that all-too-familiar sense of surreality was there again, lingering behind him like a bad smell.

But still... he had to find out... motives and curiosity killed the cat. And its wife. And took away its child. And everything it had to its name. He had been an empty shell, a husk of a man, for years; and whilst most would be devastated, crushed, with rationality and the facts in front of him... in reality... this was loss, but this was inevitable. Perhaps it would conjure up something, a moment of clarity, to light the way. Perhaps he had the man in the suit to thank. No, he almost definitely had the man in the suit to thank.

But for now...

"...why?" Trembling, quivering, on shaky ground he knew he shouldn't be standing on, Marcus emerged, spluttering, coughing, hacking, and taking refuge as he cooled his warm, tired, weak body, collapsing against a wall, face blackened by ash and destruction, touched, brushed by it, even just for an instant. He repeated the word again, totally spent. It's exhausting, having everything taken from you... "Why?" He stared up at the man in the suit, with the honey brown hair, and just hoped that he wouldn't respond with the barrel of his gun. He couldn't die. He had Leon to think about. He just hoped.

There was nothing left for him to do except hope.

"The guy whose fucking apartment you just set on fire!"

"Oh," Makoto replied without thinking. Wait, he already knew that. Opening his mouth to say 'tell me who the hell you really are!', he shut it when he saw the visage of misery melted into the man's eyes and thrown about in ashes that were the cause of Mako's own stupidity. Okay so, it was his fault and this guy wasn't the target, but whatever, mistakes happened, right? He blinked a few times, staring at the beautiful flames before stepping over the guy's body and then kicking down that door too. Wails of smoke escaped instantly, combed through by the stone frame as sunlight poured in. Whilst the man stood up and let his clothes become singed as if he were looking for something, digging hopefully through his pockets as everything he had ever cherished in his home was stripped from him. Whoops. The Yakuza Wakagaishira sighed audibly.

BOOOOM! ...Hanya? He whipped his head around to peer over to the other side of the building. Faint tinglings of fire wrapped around a red Mercedes Benz--now really red...and producing light. That didn't draw attention at all. Right about now, all the other residents in the complex were peeking out windows and slowly filtering outside to see what the fuss was about, only to let out gasps of horror instead. A Firetruck moaned in the distance. ...Already? He pinched the bridge of his nose and was done thinking. Ninety seconds later, he was positive Ville and Tomoe would handle the intended target. He had only to wait for the sound of the gunshot, plant the target's in the already burning apartment, reconfigure the broken address number, and no one would ever know. Except... Sun-penetrated brown eyes shifted warily to the man that collapsed against the wall, his face black, and stained with the treasures of burnt paper. "His name is Marcus Frostbrook," a man named Bunji said from behind the Waka, playing with his eyebrow piercing as he talked. Makoto found himself nodding as if the irony in the man's name was just another common occurrence. Frostbrook, eh? Nothing frosty about that shit, save for that children's cartoon when Frosty the snowman melted to death. What the fuck was a brook? He shrugged and waved Bunji off who gave a slick smile in response, already knowing what his Waka was about to do. The koi tattoo on Bunji's face flipped its tail as the smile vanished along with the man into the waiting car and a dozen guns of which Mako wasn't holding.

"Why?" He spun around, hair airing out the heat in the winter breeze. Why? Why the FUCK did it matter. It happened and is happening. Makoto scowled and bent down to the rumpled skin of a man, nearly growling.

"How does it feel? ...to lose everything?" He paused, letting the pain he knew would sink in. He knew...what it was like he was fucking called Hell Fires, of course he knew. To be able to use that word...one must know what hell is. Mako's look darkened to a degree of terror-inducing eyes, black as his pupils. But then...he smiled, a scary representation of what could be considered charity. The color returned to his irises almost immediately and he reached out a hand to help the guy up, ready to set him on fire if any aggression came after his next words... "But how would it feel...to gain back much more than you have ever had?"


[The color Mako speaks with is coral by the way ^_~]

"How does it feel? ...to lose everything?" How did it feel? It felt horrible. It felt... devastating. It made you go weak in the knees; your muscles spasmed, and you dropped to the floor. Your face hit cold earth, and all you wanted to do was curl up and die. Surprisingly enough, Marcus Frostbrook didn't feel that right now; he'd lost everything once before. Compared to that, this was nothing. A mild annoyance, at best. Just a bump in the road; and like all the others, Marcus would get back up on the horse, somehow, some way, shift out of his depressive, vicious cycle, if just for an hour or two, and set himself that goal again. The goal of finally seeing his son.

And here this guy was. Rubbing it in his face, asking him how it felt. The most malicious look he'd ever seen a man hold, bar Esparez back in La Ciliegia, moments before he lost it all. But... then... "But how would it feel...to gain back much more than you have ever had?" A light at the end of the tunnel. Was this possible? Was this really happening?

His eyes had changed colour. That wasn't... that couldn't be alchemy. Alchemy couldn't make changes, bodily modifications on a whim like that; even he knew that, with just the basics. Processing information, recalling age-old facts from an inevitably younger self lounging and flipping through books in the great London libraries... alka... alkahestry?

Much more than he'd ever had... hm. This guy had contacts, suppliers. He could probably pull strings, find out where Leon was. And, with the Yakuza - he presumed they were Yakuza, anyway - on his side... even Esparez would have a tough time being a roadblock. Yes... yes! Everything began to fit together. He could get his son back. This wasn't right. He was going to have to sacrifice everything; go against codes moral and religious alike. He would have to destroy his humanity in order to save his son. A small price to pay. It was the lesser of two evils; perhaps whatever supreme being lay beyond these mortal boundaries men had yet failed to cross would forgive him. His eyes flicked to the ceiling, and locked on a single ember, fluttering, floating away, drifting on the Amestrian winds. In an instant, it dissipated; extinguished by the simplest, softest of breezes.

It reminded him how elementary, how simple life was in the big picture. You could spend your entire life running from inevitabilities - death, love, hell, even taxes - but they'd find you. They'd catch up, one by one, and they'd all have their way with you until finally you'd completed your lap; and the reaper himself stood there at your door, grinning, holding that scythe, Charon the ferryman awaiting to take you into the next life, for better or worse.

He paled; images, self-created, flashed before his mind. Extortion, assault, robbery, murder... time would only tell. A perpetrator, now, not a victim. But... perhaps it was time to turn the tables. Yeah. He swallowed; colour flushed back into his deathly white pallor, and the man did his best to force the sombre expression from his face, trying to light his eyes up with just the faintest bit of enthusiasm, the lightest twinkle of colour. He had to seem ready. He couldn't slip up, not now, not ever. One mistake, and he was back to square one - for the third time. Marcus knew he wouldn't be able to take that much. He was being offered a new start on a silver platter; he'd be a fool not to take it.

The decision was already made.

A helping hand to get back on the horse... the odd alkahestrist bearing a suit, a gun, and honey-brown hair... had quickly flipped from foe to friend. Marcus swallowed a third time, gulping down air to force the smoke from his lungs, panting, huffing, the smoke and ash still having taken its toll on him, before nodding; at first, the bobs, the inclinations, they were weak, but before long, the man swatted down his attire, and the nodding became vigorous. "You're... you're right."

He wiped the ash from his face and brow with a single hand, and tried to force some more colour into it, for the last time; he stood to his feet, and thrust his hand forwards. Shivering, quaking, from the sheer gravity of it all, and the surreality... he didn't quite know whether this was a dream or a nightmare. But, either way, the jig was up. All he had now was a pen, some smokes, a lighter, the most basic of his notes, and yesterday's jeans; the rapidly-closing fire was warming his bare torso, but he was going to have to get a shirt sooner or later, and a coat, if he wanted to survive the harsh January winds. "I'm... in," He said, sighing, releasing all of the tension, all of that bated breath upon the air, as if he was cleansing himself, purging himself of the past, grasping a new, fresh, blank slate for himself. "Call me Marcus. Marcus Frostbrook."

He took a quick, nervous look from side to side, chuckling lightly and uneasily, already trying to do his best to seem as if he were ready to get back up on the horse and put this whole ugly event behind him. "Some people call me Marc, or whatever. I don't mind, really," Marcus smiled inside. It was good to be talking to someone, again. Someone who meant something. He furrowed his brow, though; he didn't want to come off as cocky, overconfident, rambling, or anything... this man was clearly dangerous. He just needed to get a little closer; and was perhaps putting too much of himself into it. "C-can we get out of here, before we start talking about..." He shot another look at his surroundings, gulping; his throat hurt, it was dry and stinging, much like his eyes. The warmth and smoke was starting to become thick and unbearable. "Well, anything..." He chuckled once more, short and abruptly, cutting himself off before he overstepped his conversational boundaries again.

"To a new start," He told himself, repeating the same phrase once more. Damning finality. Hopefully... hopefully, this would be the last time. "To a new start."

Sirens in the distance. Was more than just a firetruck, they responded in mass to situations like this. Police to lockdown the area, ambulance to help the people, and the firetruck...well that's self explanatory. Ville hated to cut this short, but he was almost reaching the end of the Alley. She slammed her foot into the ground, which cracked and waned as the ripple was sent forward. The effect simulated a localized earthquake. The man fell. She quickly sprinted down the alley and as he stood, he felt her hand on the back of his collar. As he was spun about and slammed into the wall, he would come to see Villetta in all her glory. Her angelic face, full female body and was apparently nude. Her clothes ripped under the pressure of her instant-aging process. Baffled he was, she cupped his face with her hands, and placed her lips upon his. Her buxom chest pressed up against his, she could feel his heart racing. As his hands crept up to touch her waist and arm, she exploded into a raging torrent of Bone spikes. His death was instant. As she pulled away, she broke off the newly formed skeleton death trap, and licked the blood clean from her lips.

Zephon Murakono, a newly appointed assistant quickly moved out of the now gathering Yakuza members. They looked at her in envy, lust, and fear. Zephon, however, knew the terms of his existence was simple. Keep her happy, and he lived a happy healthy life. Everyone knew Villetta cared little about the Yakuza members, but if you entered into her circle. You had an almost Divine protection. He ripped off his black cloak and held it out for Villetta to take, which she did. "Orders, Ma'am?" Orders? Wasn't it fucking obvious what needed to be done. They had over 30 men here, and to evacuate them without being hassled by a crowd and the cops they needed a distraction. "Gather the men that we have and get to MaKi, he'll provide the best route to get out of here."

"What about you, Ma'am?" She didn't like being asked questions, but she sensed the intent behind his words which made her relax a bit more than usual. "I'm going to make sure you guys get out of here. As it stands, I'm the only one best suited for causing a distraction and getting out of Amestris alive." Let's just hope the damn State Alchemists don't decide to tag along. She put on the black cloak which hung loosely off her body, the arms covering the entirety of her arms. As she grabbed the hood of the cloak, her face became a sheet of white bone as a Mask appeared. She appeared to be a Shinigami, all she was missing was...never mind. As soon as her hands cleared the mask and long, white bone erupted from her hand, and then a scythe blade formed at the top. "This should buy you guys plenty of time. Tell MaKi not to doddle though."

Zephon blinked stupidly, like hell he was going to say that. He rather be speared by Villetta than burned alive by Makoto...Anyway, he had to get busy. He moved the men from the street back into the Apartment to meet up with Makoto's group. Zephon would speak directly with Bunji, and have him relay the information. Safer that way. Meanwhile, Villetta stepped out into the crowd. The sight of her was one of confusion at first, but as soon as she began flipping cars with ease. Panic ensued. Perfect. She could see the lights in the distance, as they drew closer. She smiled. Well wasn't this a sight. A loud shot rang out, and Villetta felt the warmth of her own blood upon her body. She spun to see a cop, with his gun trained on her. At this point, she had set up her barrier. As he fired shot after shot, it bounced off her body. She pointed a bony finger at him, and it erupted toward him. She did this several times, not missing a single shot. He died. She was injured. She couldn't heal gun shots too well. This was bad, but she needed to keep up the visage of an Immortal, even though she was far from it. She began to cause a ruckus, until she could no longer sense her comrades Qi. As the rose red blood, spilled down her body, and left a trail on the ground.

Yeah, the man died and surely he died happily. However conditions changed. The assassin in black and white decided to return back to her own group and leave the shateigashira to her own devices since the target is already dead that means the assassination attempt is a success. To tell the truth the assassin didn't want to deal with someone who doesn't respect the yakuza. Indeed, the two are not alike. And the difference between them is the difference between heaven and earth.

The aerugese shall return to look after her own pack of aerugese. And to continue her mission of security and guarding. However they have bad news for her and there were a lot of them.

Onee-san, The police traffic went haywire. A cop has been killed.

Nanja ?

The shateigashira is going havoc..

Let her be, I wash my hands clean of this.

Indeed, they were here to burn someone's house as a cover for his ultimate death instead they burned a car to the point of explosion, killed the target in the open, attracted hefty sum of unwanted attention and increased the heat by killing a cop. Suicidal is not Tomoe's cup of tea, she didn't like the style of that rouenian.

So no she is not going to participate in this madness anymore for many reasons she is not into killing those not within her own set of objectives and she has an acquaintance that she didn't want his anger to be invoked. He is a man who is good in soul stealing and blowing up things with vengeance. So she is going to play it cool...

Relay..began to send in false alarms, this will buy us some time. Indeed, by both diverting their attention somewhere else by using pestilence as a white shield and lies. This will give them a lot of time to pack up and leave.

Onee-san...Six jeeps coming fully armed and loaded, southern entrance, Aerugese...they are a rival yakuza. Pretty obvious, yakuza members within the same organization knew each other. The yamaguchi-gumi members within central city are already here. That means whatever is coming is hostile.

It seems assassins went after the assassins.

How they know we are here ? Members are carefully chosen..

Probably a leak.

Doesn't matter. Kill them first. Ask questions later. Luckily I am near southern entrance...I give you permission to use it. Under normal circumstances, she would never give such permission but mission perimeters changed.

Awesome..

I live for this shit...

Time to use those babies.

Shoot the first, third and last jeep in your first salvo. Shoot the rest in your second. Now I shall go to show hospitality to our new arriving guests. I will begin cleaning up after the second salvo.

Understood...Onee-san.


The first jeep driver would see a woman standing in the middle of the street 500 meters ahead. With a smirk, he would press on increasing speed with the sole intent and purpose to hit her however he would notice something flying and coming at the 4x4 and it would too late for him to recognize that a Panzerfaust 3 projectile is soon to hit and explode. Yes, Hagoromo Gitsune didn't smuggle weapons into Amestris instead she bought them through the black markets from within..easier that way.

Eventually...

*Bam* *Bam* *Bam*

Then another...

*Bam* *Bam* *Bam*

Followed by...

*Pup* *Pup* *Pup*

Through smoke and flames. Injured, he saw a dark shadow. He turned around to run only to find his leg raped by .45 magnum bullet to fall on that spot that he will never leave shouting in pain, agony and blood. He heard the voice that of a derisively cute tone. She was not supposed to be here. How that can be ? She was not in the roster ?

Kyoya Kaname. I heard my name called. You are the one was left behind by Waka-sama. Aren't you ? No, no she knows. Why it is easy for men to betray ? Who is behind you ? speak...I can not tell, I can not tell. AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA. Another bullet pierced through my shoulder. I surrendered and spoke of them. She came close and with force she injected a glowing edged metal into my throat. It was too fast for me to see. I didn't feel too much pain after that object left me. With my own fabrics of life leaving me and wove the threads of a red oriental carpet. Indeed, my grave is really beautiful one.

The last thing I heard was my very faint bellow and her's death for the traitors.


Onee-san ?

All of them are dead. And you were right, it was a leak. The guy left by the waka wanted revenge so he allied himself with an anti yamaguchi-gumi yakuza. It seems I killed someone's joy. And when I return to Aerugo, I will make sure to kill Joy's father.

Onee-san, we need to get out of here, the cops will be here any minute.

Relay-agent prepare the truck. Snipers relocate and guard the escape route. I will go tell the waka and don't kill any threat just incapacitate. We don't want more heat than that we already have.

And so ended the conversations through the frequency. And so tomoe gozens's incarnation left and left behind her carnage and molten steel.



The flat was caught in flames. Gladly, she didn't remove her mask but before she can approach her Waka, she found Bunji relaying information to him. How cute, Death fights to keep a life. Oh, there was that 'ijin' standing there. Doesn't matter, she will convey her message.

Waka-sama, The situation became really complicated. We need to leave. Behind her mask to him she whispered.

"You're... you're right." Of course he was fucking right; he was Makoto Kiyoshino. When would he never not be right? WHEN?! Maybe when he was fucking dead, but even then he'd come back from the fucking grave to whisper 'told ya so...' all creepy like. The Yakuza of the future would blanch in fear of the tale of Mako's haunted grave. WAHAHAHAHAH-HA-HAHA! He whipped his head back around from his wonderful cameo and focused dully on the man that hadn't yet taken his damn hand-up. Okay, sit there in the piles of ashes and wait until the fire reaches you before you decide. --Fucking what? Makoto took a step back away from the hails of smoke and stared at the flexed muscles on his arm...it was starting to hurt, any goddamn day now. Instead, the Frostbrook guy looked like he had suddenly become a bobble head. One of those obscure ones people put on the dashboards of their cars. It was just annoying and fucking distracting. Mako's eyebrow twitched and the ash-laden hand finally sprung out to grip his. Yakuza to civilian, he lifted the guy to his feet in an instant. "I'm... in." Yeah, if ya weren't, I'd throw you over the railing, disinegrate your body, and have my lackeys pick up the ashes before they scattered too far. Nah, he wouldn't scare the guy his first day on the job. Not...yet. He cackled, a mischievous grin plastered over his face. "Call me Marcus. Marcus Frostbrook." Aight then. He reunited their hands and shook it briefly, letting go. Holding a guy's hand for too long reminded him of fucking LiLi. Inward shudder.

"You can call me Waka now and I'll call you whatever the fuck I want. How about Mars after that disease or whatever, sounds cool." Fuck, wait. That was definitely wrong or something. Mars...maybe that was a star or some shit. Whatever. He shrugged, coolly, already knowing that he was stupid. There was no point in anyone rubbing it in anymore. It was better to just nod. That was what everyone did when he made a mistake. If they didn't, well... other things tended to happen. Heh heh heh...

"C-can we get out of here, before we start talking about...Well, anything..." Makoto was about to slam his foot down and threaten his life, but instead decided that his suggestion wasn't necessarily a bad one. Although his lungs were accustomed to being blackened and healed again and again by Ville, they still felt itchy right now. Hm. It was rather...peculiar. Was standing in a burning building having a conversation maybe the cause? The physical genius shot Mars a backward glance and began walking forward, down the stairs and to where their cars were parked. The police had arrrivved~ Wonderful. Cursing under his breath, he glanced off in the distance. Ville was chasing their target now, a recovery team was planting the body, cutting off his fingernails, knocking out his teeth, and anything else they needed to do to make him completely unrecognizable. Mako wouldn't fucking know; wasn't his job. He knew enough to make a body unidentifiable, but in this case, they had to go through all the fun procedures. He got the go over the tiny radio plugged into his ear, which he then yanked out, threw to the pavement and stepped on. They were done.

"Congratulations, you are now burning to death. They won't be able to identify you aside from the fact that you are now missing and the register for your apartment that has your signature." Mako paused, his eyes nearly glowing from the splayed light of the now far off flames. "[color=coral]It seems you will be with us...for life." A callous smirk slithered across his lips, eyes narrowing in just the slightest way before he turned from his new recruit and towards the incoming footfall.

"Waka-sama, The situation became really complicated." No shit Spade. "We need to leave." Hah, that was funny. Mako dug out a cig and lit it up by snapping his fingers. Half of it was singed to all hell, since such a small flame was not worth the concentration. No matter, he was only going to smoke half any way. Blame Bunji. The guy wasn't around with his lighter and no one else was really there, he just had to fucking do it himself. Taking a puff akin to a smoke stack, he blew his exhale into the sky and pranced forward.

"Nah, let's rough 'em up a little." He stepped over the body of a dead police officer, cracking his knuckles and staring at the flipped over jeeps. Oh, already done. However, out were climbing the survivors, looking as if they were about to turn inside out with their fury. Mako huffed, focusing on them before closing his eyes and drawing a glorious pair of rouge circles on each of them. Inagawa-kai, rival gang, followed them to Central City, Amestris. Why, How? Well, to protect the guy that was now dead inside Mars' burning apartment, simply a leak. Heh, it was pretty funny. No one betrayed the Yamaguchi-gumi and had a minute to boast about it. It was clear by his blood spread everywhere that Tomoe had fun slitting his throat. Makoto frowned. Now that, wasn't funny. Fucking Kyoya Kaname. He cursed and snapped his fingers, watching the corpse light on fire while the injured remnants of Inagawa's crew exploded in an array of body parts. The sight made him sick so he turned away, motioning to the brunette beside him. "Get him a suit; he's coming with us. Name's Mars."

Bunji rolled up in their car, the sweepers skidding out to take care of the burning corpses and to make Kyoya...unrecognizable. Police were already flooding into the scene, combing through the burning building by dodging hoses. They were already spotted, but like Grim himself, they would vanish as if never being sighted. "Hey over there!" They were being pointed at, signaled to. Mako spit out his cig, watching as the rest of burned to nothing on the blacktop, then got in the car, yanking Mars and Tomoe with him. Bunji jacked the speed, nearly running over Ville before jamming the brakes. Mako flung open his own door and grabbed her, pulling her in and over him to the middle seat then settled back down as the automatic door closed itself while they were already hitting sixty. Feeble attempts to follow them were thwarted by expert maneuvering and snarky comments from the backseat.

Silently, Makoto reached into his pocket and threw a pack of Ville's blood type at her with a needle. "There, have fun." She was bleeding all over the fucking seat. JESUSCHRIST. It was obnoxious. So much damn bleeding and fighting. It was supposed to be simple: in, out. 'Course not; it was never simple. Damn fucking numbers. That corporation fuck had been smart, well, better luck next time, right? Oh wait! Ahahaha!


[Crim, I want to give you a random bit of advice I learned recently that I thought you might like to hear. When in first person, if the narrator is dying whilst narrating the story, then it doesn't make sense since they die, how can they tell the story of their own death? XD Isn't that interesting?]

So that ijin - foreigner - is joining the yakuza or rather was forced to since no one can deny Waka-sama. For those who may try to do such an atrocity of denial will be burned into nothingness and their grave will be the void. Indeed, Ashes to Ashes, dust to dust. However that non-Aerugese decided to join in and that was a wise decision. From the course of the conversation - bless the girl she is observant - she concluded that Waka-sama offered him a place within the yakuza. What did he see in him ? that is beyond her and she doesn't question his decisions.

"It seems you will be with us...for life." Indeed, those who betray the yakuza rests with the fish or with worms, depends on where you will be ditched. But those who respects the sakazuki needs not to worry. Hagoromo Gitsune waited for the retreat signal but the Waka decided otherwise. The hell fires decided to spread the word and preached for chaos.

When they were out there. The lady in black and white observed his technique in all it's glory. Very effective and very destructive, no one within their vicinity survived and certainly no one will if they are themselves are the bombs. With that, their business here is done. Indeed it is a good thing to leave before alchemists - the hands of destruction and in Amestris are with great renown - arrives. This is amestris after all and not Aerugo, best to tread carefully.

So the new ijin's code name is going to be Mars. She noted that to herself though she really doubts that there will be any kind of dealings from her part with the future Saiko-Komon. She found herself in the car of escape. As they grabbed the blond shateigashira a long the way. They will all disappear in no time and such indeed is the courtesy of the yakuza.

Tomoe opened her frequency and in low voice she spoke to her younger sisters and used the air that is the medium for such a wireless communications.

Leave without me. I got myself a wild ride. she heard some serious objections from the other side, they were supposed to hang on together and do some girly stuff. Honto ni gomen-ne, meet you back in Edo.

The frequency was shut for real this time with her looking through the closed enjoying the blurry colorful images in the rather very speedy car.

[Exit thread]

[Aki, I made some search over the net and found out that there a lot of people consider that first person narrating their death is considered some sort of Taboo since dead men can't tell tales, however in my search too I found that there are respectable authors made stories with dead narrators like stephen king's short story "Survivor Type" where the narrator eats himself for survival and really a big book "All Quiet on the Western Front", by Erich Maria Remarque. The soldier telling the story dies at the end even though we never know how. There are others as well but I mentioned the authors most people would know. Indeed, it is quite rare for narrators to die in the end of the story but not impossible. I do appreciate your advice, Aki *bows*]