Chapter Text
In the grand scheme of things, this world is plagued from the very beginning.
When the dawn of man evolved from its outdated ancestors, the hominids, we began the struggle for survival.
We weren't aiming for anything in particular, not even with the intent of leaving behind a legacy. Yet we had coitus. We produced offspring without giving them a proper teacher or proper instructions, a world where guidance was scant. Children were left to their own devices, relying on animal instinct to face the deluge of torment from their parents and grandparents and cousins and other estranged relatives—perhaps from the dinosaurs. When man started to learn how to walk, we learned how to flee from our problems. When man started to learn how to fight, we learned who our enemies were. Of course, we had to; there were dinosaurs and mega fauna capable of devouring multiple tribes of us in one gulp. We had little choice but to fight or face extinction. There was never a time for leisure, nor was there time for sympathy. Neanderthals fought against Neanderthals like, well, Neanderthals. If you weren't a part of the tribe, you were an invader, something that would stray our family, our kind, from the path to...no one knows.
Until the dawn of enlightenment. Or rather, the dawn of advanced thought. The will to innovate, to create, to make something for ourselves. A miniature sun capable of lighting the darkness while also warming our bodies and food. A blade able to cut through fur and muscle. A rock that moves in infinite motion, forever rotating until the end of the Earth. We were able to think and build, and as a result of that, we were recorded as an origin. An inspiration. We would paint and picture our journeys, chronicling our conquest of knowledge.
And for the first time, time was alongside us.
Our technology ventured into uncharted possibilities, lighting dark paths and strange pockets of void with thought, with theory, and soon with a name, a date, and a process. You could recognize a plant based on its features. You could resonate a song based on the sounds. You could learn a language from a native speaker. We were learning, taking information, and sharing our results, our creations, for the betterment of our people. Writing books, painting art, teaching at schools, chapels, churches, synagogues, homes. Preaching the words of God as devoted priests, confident that our ears were attuned to His voice. Heed the wisdom of the clergy, dear, for they stand as the light of knowledge. Erase any doubt, any heresy, any thought you might have. Follow the Great Being above, the eternal presence, the one who's been here for the longest. Writing books, painting art, telling stories, setting examples, punishing those who disobey the stigma. We demonstrated the wrongs before illustrating the rights. During that era, we were at peace underneath the barricades of God and religious absolutism. A grand time, such a grand time.
Until the walls come crashing down.
Until sin chained our people to hell.
Until free thinking returned.
Transcendentalism: When logic returns to the throne. The anarchists, the demons, roaming free and chanting about a wisdom achieved not by the hands of someone greater being, but of themselves. Plagued with the nonsensical, madmen—self-proclaimed scientists—spew their ludicrousness to lure the innocent minds of the next generation, cursing them with their twisted knowledge—insanity, hysteria, whatever they called it. Some chose to escape, flee the country, onward, away from the world as the people drove them out of their homes, compelled to leave their lives behind. Witches, recluses, hermits, hags, outcasts, atheistic anchorites, monsters living across the bend, lost to time, even under the eyes of God. To this day, many historians believe they were the happiest people in the world. And yet, humanity moved forward, walking over the graves of the past, and none heeded the harks of their mistakes.
We started to steal fire just as Prometheus did. We commercialized it for leafy greens. We aggrandize it to the masses to light our homes, warm our food. And destroy our homes. Giant cradles of fires capable of burning nations as Hell's anguished souls bellow their pleas with their aching, smoldering hands clinging to the living's flesh. In our quest for more leafy greens, we invite the emergence of chaos from these infernos, demons and their cradles. Prometheus' fire for humanity, for ourselves—since he's given us the gift of curiosity. One can only imagine the weight of emotion the Titan must bear, witnessing how his gift has transformed over time.
That was the year 1945, 575 years ago.
Twenty years ago, the world turned upside down.
Ten years ago, the boats heaved through the churning waves.
Five years ago, America sprawled back into madness.
And just one year ago, the president passed away: Kagaya Ubuyashiki, the beacon of hope, the light that warmed the hearts of many, and the father figure to many anguished people. A cancer invaded his body and controlled his life, halting him from granting a hopeful life to all. He fought for a freedom that was once dreamed of by little immigrant children in their piles of shredded cloth and cotton that they call a bed.
And now he's dead.
And of course, his wife couldn't take the mantle; she was only the first lady, a mere housewife, and the president's doctor, too busy to learn any politics during his time. No, of course not. His children can't continue his work either, they're too young to be president. Instead, the crown was handed over to a quintessential American, John Cobb, the poster child of Williamsburg, Virginia. With his slicked-back locks, radiant smile, and a physique sculpted like a Greek god within a suit so tailored it could double as a second skin, Cobb was everything you’d expect from a political savior. When he spoke, he spoke fluently, heavenly, almost perfectly, voicing the hopes and dreams of a nation, as if he had consumed grammar and punctuation books as a child. When he spoke, he brought hope, he brought value, he brought trust in his kind, his fellow men. He promised to cut tariffs on foreign goods and provide universal healthcare and improve the education system, and fulfill all those other wishes noted and sworn and pledged and vowed by previous presidents. And the people listen, smiling at each word that man elucidates, hanging on his every word, and grinning like children during storytime. To them, Cobb was their wealthy father, earning six figures per week, while Ubuyashiki was a senile grandfather who had already signed his will and was ready to kick the bucket. The best decision we ever made, said the public. Another horrible mistake, said the public.
The media is the absolute best: theatre, television shows, movies, songs, newspapers, cabarets, farces, pantomimes, burlesque, nightclubs, and even dubious muckrakers exposing the terrifying things companies do. The rumors spread like wildfire: Refugees have taken it upon themselves to dismantle Americana single-handedly! How they loiter around these streets and feed off the poor Americans' defeat. The roots, the American soil, we have to go back, we must! Dig and find Uncle Sam and Rosey the Riveter, revive them from the dead! Let us preach; the American Dream isn't dead. We can rebuild a new body with the remains of the past and the tight coffin it was stuffed in. We will erect a shiny new entity from the remains of yesteryear! The Republic which stands, the home of the brave, the land of the free, with its bombs bursting in the air and our red rockets glaring down. Smog taints the sky, making it so cloudy that it's perfect for seeing fireworks.
A sprawling megalopolis grows like a tumor from New York to San Diego—an unavoidable goliath—with endless towers and skyscrapers breaking the skyline, making Babel roll in his grave. Vintage cars upgraded and customized to flaunt and compare to their similar colleagues, boasting as they're smoking with choking exhaust fumes in a toxic confetti parade. Orwellian garbs clothed the men, women, and children of this country, tailored and bejeweled, stitched and bleached, stolen from our mothers' wardrobes and vanities to pay homage to the absurd. Bobbing on the shoreline are the remnants of the Old World: a small chapel from Spain, a nursery from Sicily, someone’s childhood home from Peru with their shoe box robbed of vouchers, coupons, job offers, layaway slips, and the jar of pennies they save up from working at the corner store, and the bids from the fight club. Sales, stocks, and bonds skyrocketed, making booze, pearl necklaces, designer watches, home radios, cable TVs, and 16-foot rugs more affordable while also being finer and more abundant. When we get involved, we drink to remove ourselves. When fiction seemed too real, we choked on blue pills. We hold grand parties and showcase awards obviously made of plastic, on pyrite shelves. As the world burns down, we stoke the flames with booze and dance around the fire, jeering like the Cherokee celebrating a fine harvest. “Encore!” They roar as the lights come up for a curtain call. “One more!” They stomp and pound, they scream and shout and cry.
In the grand scheme of things, this world is plagued from the very beginning, but we're so drunk, so blissfully intoxicated, we believe in the babble we spit out, mistake it for enlightenment. So poisoned our brains think it's dopamine, numbing the pain while raising our spirits, imbibing once more when the hangover kicks in. We will never be sober again.
The nearby amphitheater boomed with colossal sound as vibrant hues splattered across the audience. A kaleidoscopic circus filled with fire-breathers, acrobats, mimes, jesters, comedians, magicians, and their assistants who just happen to be their mistresses. A roller derby team, a lion tamer, an illusionist, a songstress. Dancers dressed in dandyism: high tops and narrow collars. White spats and lots of dollars. Spending every dime to create a wonderful time. The biggest cabaret stars rhymed and reasoned about the horror this world had transformed into. This Frankenstein, with sticky oil and avarice pumping through its veins as it breathes in the smog from the chimneys growing from its back, coughing up ash and tar from rickety bones browning from the pollution. Through its greasy eyes, it smiles with black teeth, gleaming at the sight of an exposed bone that shimmers like gold. It felt so rich, so powerful, so successful, but it huffs, belching out a puff from a cigar as it murmurs of wanting more. This gold, this ichor, it's not enough; we need more. It needs more.
Chernabog. The behemoth. The monster that rises from the very heart of the Earth. Its believers sing and spin its tale from the hall of the amphitheater. The maestro flicks and fidgets and fizzes his wand to cast a cacophonic polyphony. Brass and wood. Skins of leviathans resonate under the gentle strike of wooden mallets. Sweat beads from the musicians, making the glitter shaking off the flapper girls stick to their bodies. They play, and play, blowing with every last puff of wind. Orchestral chaos that pleases the crowd enough to scream and shout and dance along. “Encore!” They roar as the lights come up for a curtain call. “One more!” They stomp and pound as the world burns down.
They were the happiest people in the world.
Dry thunderstorms were common, though it's hard to differentiate whether acid rain would actually pour or if the factories were churning out too much smog. Not that many folks around here care about the weather; "Singin' in the Rain" returned as a household hit again, and the average rate of getting a fever increases with every downpour. Those strikes of blinding, hot light graffitiing the dark skyline makes all the stray cats scatter fright as pussies immediately head for the trenches. Sorry sights for the men cruising around town with their new cars, wanting—desperately trying—to catch a doll or two or three. They’d shelled out these cars with good money, courtesy of that Shinazugawa guy, some Japanese immigrant born and raised straight from Tokyo or something. Very few photos of him were taken in the past: newspapers, car magazines, and a mugshot from his juvie years. Even with those photos, the guy remained a mystery in the eyes of the public. No one's ever heard his voice; he's never been on television. Never once interviewed, always written on some paper or journal by crazed newshounds. And they always get it wrong.
He never participated in World War IV.
He wasn't an ex-Nazi.
His parents weren't spies for China.
He wasn't a spy for China.
And he certainly wasn't working for former Russian mafia boss Trusov Germanovich. Of course not! He made his money his own way. Sheer hard work and a vast knowledge of car mechanics.
Hidden behind a large dealership, the glare of a coupé caught the albino's attention with a lackey following behind. And while the footman opened the car door, Sanemi decided to drive. The poor—old—man scowled against the bright lights of the city, growling with the thunderstorm, exhausting smog from his nose since his cigar had been snuffed out. By his side, the footman held his head up with two fingers, staring outside the window. Neither man wanted to discuss what the hell happened recently, not until they got to the house. When the good Lord seemed to be pleased with the peace of the graves, the malice of Life plows through gardens, uprooting what was going to be a bountiful harvest. And frankly—if it really weren't for those fucking Russians—they would've celebrated. Sanemi squinted at the blinding headlights of traffic; as someone who's sensitive to light, it's hell to live in a sprawling city like this. Luckily, the cave that which his mansion was built is perfect for his condition. He hates this city. The noise, the lights, the people, by God were the people the worst. Prideful, boisterous Americans, living here for centuries in their suburban homes and towering skyscrapers, peering down at the lesser lifestyles of the immigrant. The purposely built shantytowns along the coast where Africans, Asians, Hispanics, and Jews can look upon the wreckage of the homes, mirroring the loneliness of the ocean. Surrounded by land, they would rather be engulfed by the sea because, at least, the ocean welcomes everyone.
Sanemi, of course, was one of those people who hated both options, believing death was not the answer and seeking a better life was. It wasn't exactly Gatsby Syndrome, for they weren't delusions of grandeur, but an instinct of survival, as when it floods, one must seek higher ground. An angel never came when his house was buried or when his mother was suffocating underneath a pile of rubble. The skyline was empty. God was done listening. And so was Sanemi. He made do with what he had while also caring for his infant siblings. He became a single parent before he became an adult, but the time difference wasn't long.
The child grew up too fast...
Hell...he never became a child in the first place...
"Shit!" The albino cursed. He pinched his nose at the light. A nice drink would relieve the migraine brewing in his head, right? Some scotch, or whiskey, whatever's left. The footman took a glance at his boss; he would drive if it weren't for how Mr. Shinazugawa was wired. Self-driven determination and probity, better known as stubbornness and aggression. The man always had to do things himself, making the colleague demoted to footman. And for the number of members recruited, this whole mishap would be solved with ease. He bit his cheek, anticipating the arrival of the manor.
The city lights started to dim a little, closing their wide, glossy eyes into tomorrow’s hangover. CO2 eaters started to sprout alongside the concrete, cracking fractures into the pavement. Echoes of thunder lower down to match the grumbles of the albino. Lord knows a storm brews once this man is inside. On the vantablack horizon lay the manor. The well-earned, rightfully deserved manor built by the hands of previous hard-working men like himself. Dark, broody, but not sullen; it holds a serious face beneath the layers of cigar ash dusting its structure. The body was wide, very spacious, and not quite tall, unlike its Babylonian counterparts. Academia; not a home for Baba Yaga to rest her gout upon, but forever haunted by the past, and an unbridled ghost. Sanemi and the footman headed—busted—through the doors of the estate as curses plow through a Cupid’s bow.
“Of all the fucking people…” A calloused palm covered half of the Don’s face.
“This was the fourth time in a row. One month and none of our shipments went through.”
”Didn’t we wipe those guys off that street?”
“Of course we did.”
”Then how. The fuck. Are they getting into our routes?” Gritted teeth seethed as bloodshot eyes stared back at the footman. The calm before the storm. “HUH?!”
”Spies! Scouts! Somebody who’s got into our system!” That poor footman blurted. Lord have mercy; he muttered a prayer. Sadly, the savior didn’t come; only the boss stepped a little too close.
“You’re telling me I have to check all my men? Again?” Purple never looked so menacing in the footman’s life before he took his role here. The first rule of working with Shinazugawa: purple means death. And the less you see of it, the more likely you’ll die. Veins started to burst from his neck, from his head. Steam rolls from flared nostrils. Lord have mercy on this footman.
“We are down 10 men: 8 were shot, 2 got away. We have 32 men left, and no shipments have been delivered. We are running on fumes right now, are you telling me I have to boot more people off?”
The footman swallowed. He wanted to look down like a guilty child, but any sign of weakness would only lead him to death. Sanemi bit his lip so hard that little specks of blood came out. God did he want to kill this idiot? This fucking idiot. Teeth started to bite his inner mouth; the thunder outside raged on, slowly coming close to the house. And yet, out of some heavenly intervention, the Don didn’t raise a hand. However, he did leave a sore wrist and a wrinkled shirt on the footman. Sanemi retreated upstairs. He needs a break, away from these idiots, away from it all. Unfortunately, the footman decides to hop along on his retreat.
The albino ponders, spiraling like the stairs he’s climbing up. The fourth time this year. 3 men were shot dead while trucking a whole shipment of drugs towards uptown, which was supposed to be less secure than the underbelly of downtown. Spies. Scouts. A middleman. Someone on the inside. And after all that shit that happened last time with the Arabics and their arms dealing. 67 men reduced to 43 after a crime war broke up, half of them, the traitors and the loyalists. At this rate, they were nothing more than an upstart crew hustling at the port side. The hell were they gonna do after that? Who’s left after this? He can’t lose. Not here. Not now.
A drink. He needed a drink. And a smoke. Blow off some steam, maybe.
A newfound energy bolts the albino upward into Hades. The reception room lay quiet and dormant; the silent sonnet of Charon’s whistle blows widowed veils inward. Glasses and bottles filled with ambrosia waited quietly at his command. To the Don, there was light in the darkness. Only the clicks of his heels echoed through the hollow chamber. For a few seconds, there was death and the silver glow of the moon peeking through the soot.
Until…
*Krrsh—DOOM!*
Rising from the cushioned coffin, decorated in oak black, a corpse quietly moans from his slumber. White flashes and the hint of burning wood; a cadaver awoken from his peaceful rest. Why must he awake at such a horrid time? He groans; a cold grip sends shivers down the ornate grave as two poisonous fangs bite into the plush cushion. Outside, the storm rages furiously, as if wanting to barge into the humble haunted home; flashes capture the shadows of the widows' veils while the funeral continues its quietism. Sanemi exhaled a breath; the temperature dropped just cold enough to see the boiling steam. A curse. A disease. Remnants of the Black Death. So bubonic it tastes delicious. His skin returns to its former pallor as he burns white hot. The life force drains from him, making him jolt with sensation. By God, it was the Devil himself.
“Is that you…babe?”
Sanemi’s cupid’s bow dried with the sudden cold. Smooth, gorgeous skin brings the soul back into the void. A white ribbon clings to the funeral wear of the corpse. One sapphire, the missing eye of Argus, pierces through the Don’s heart. Sanemi's fingers twitched; his magic was working on him. Imagine desiring to dip your hands in acid for the thrill of the pain. Drinking poison just for the high.
Obanai Iguro.
A vice.
A guilty pleasure.
And the one thing that's keeping the Don alive.
"Why are you late?" Thin eyebrows furrowed; his reptilian friend hissed impatiently. Sanemi ran a couple of fingers through his hair, feigning the enchantment of his concubine. The hardships washed over him harder than a hangover. So much for a drink and tease...Though he knew his lover would ask after hearing what's been going on lately. Obanai is as livid and ready to kill a man as Sanemi is, but would never without a proper reason.
"Held behind for a bit at the office. Phone call took longer than expected." The albino walked over to the lounging man, drink in hand. He would give him a glass, but he's unsure how much booze Obanai drank while he was gone. Stripped down to a black tank top, pinstripe shorts, and white garter socks, the ophidian merely observed him with both eyes open, the gold one shaking a little bit, having a troubled time focusing.
"It better not be because of—"
"Your drugs didn't make it."
A pause, and a sip of burning oil. A breathy growl, a hiss, was emitted from the smaller man's throat. The snake coiled against his neck, trying to calm him before he could do something rash. Almond eyes sent bullet holes into the dark oak walls; as if he would kill Sanemi with that look. A curse slipped out from a tight cloth face mask as nimble fingers grip the fine fabric of the couch. Sanemi really did not want to talk about this in front of him, but lying to the concubine never ends well. And wouldn't even last; Obanai has a habit of sneaking into other people's business, no matter how many locks they chain to their secrets.
"We have a leak."
"No shit, Sherlock."
"Oh don't come at me with that. You're the boss, fixing your own damn system."
"I thought you at least had any leads on who's fucking with us."
"Couldn't find anything. Not yet anyway."
"'Cause you were too busy drinking your ass off."
"I was not."
"Then what the fuck were you doing before?!"
"Boss." The footman peeked his dumb head through the doors like a timid child watching his parents fight. "We've got company."
The Don sees another grumble. The concubine pinches his nose. The footman babbles on. "They just showed up a few minutes ago, asking for your name. I tried to send them off—"
"Tried being the operative word." Obanai quietly snarked.
"They're waiting in the atrium right now."
Sanemi was getting a killer fucking headache, and he didn't even drink that much. Purple eyes glanced down at the ophidian, who merely shook his head slightly, sighing in defeat. More curses spat from that cupid's bow. Fat, calloused, gnarly fingers grab hold of a Cuban cigar and a lighter. That acrid stench masked only a bit of anger boiling inside the Don.
"Get out." It's better than killing him, he repeated.
Once the footman left, Obanai stood up and patted Sanemi on the chest.
"Found our killers. Hope they brought vodka this time."