Ryuugamine Mikado (Shark) (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
digitalemperor) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
streetwalkers2013-09-10 02:51 am
digitalemperor) wrote in streetwalkers2013-09-10 02:51 am
(no subject)
It'd been over a decade since the epidemic that wiped out a third of the earth's population, and the wars and political struggles that had risen in the following, chaotic years had down in for another half of what remained, if not more if one counted the death toll to disease and crime, the lack of modern medicine, the tainted environment and water in most urban areas and the general set back in civilization.
Mikado had been fifteen when it started. He was twenty-seven now. And like any of the survivors of the years between the end of the world and now... He was changed. One of the lucky ones to survive disease and war, right? Lucky... Survival came at a cost, and when the streets of Ikebukuro, once bustling with commerce and tourists, became a dead zone of gang warfare and violence, Mikado had been right in the middle of it. And powerless.
He'd learned just how powerless, painfully, and often. Until his hatred and anger had warped and tempered him into something cold and precise as a scalpel. He wasn't strong in the way the thugs and the fighters were, but amateurish inexperience could only last so long and Mikado was a fast learner. He rose to power on three things; his wits, his force of personality, and ruthlessness. Ambushing his enemies and using clever traps and guises to get him where brute strength couldn't, and using those connections that were drawn to his innate charisma to get him where only brute strength could. Even after disaster and damage, he had a certain ability to charm people with his personality, and those that followed him now were, by and large, either incredibly loyal or too useful to be rid of. In turn his mind and vision was too useful for even the less loyal followers to risk trying to be rid of, and so a balance was struck somewhere along the line. He'd lost the charming uncertainty and idealism but he'd gained a quiet, iron confidence that others were drawn to.
He had a game, a way to control the territory he'd wrested from lawlessness. Preventing fighting on the streets of the ruined city was impossible, but he could enforce it. Give it incentive. Only registered combatants would be suffered to be found fighting, and they could tear at each other as they wished, when they wished, wherever they wished. The incentive; tags given to everyone who registered, that could be ripped from a defeated opponent. They could be traded in for anything based on their number value. Better accommodations, whores, drugs, weapons, though guns were banned from the fights. The most skilled could, in theory, attempt for the specific poker hand of tags that would allow them to challenge the organization's mysterious and shadow'd leader, though none had ever reached that goal. In turn, anyone unregistered caught fighting would be summarily executed by the enforcers--unless the enforcers decided they were good looking enough to serve another purpose.
In that way, Ikebukuro stabilized a little. Non-combatants still feared the streets at night but thugs feared the enforcers more, and some semblance of life continuing grew a little, under the watchful laws of the lawless Dollars.
For Mikado this wasn't his end ambition but it was a start. But he hadn't expected, months ago, that one of the new combatants to register would have been Kida himself. The registration took place in the mansion the main members of Dollars called home, and with all registrations Mikado had been watching the newcomers put on their masks, his own in place before he revealed himself to meet them, explain the rules, and ask if they wanted to participate.
His heart had near stopped when he'd seen Kida. He almost hadn't recognized him, both their faces and voices had changed with age and trauma, and Mikado was sure Kida hadn't even had a remote moment of recognition when Mikado explained the purpose and perks of fighters. Mikado's own role in the world he'd created was the secretary to the shadowy and terrifying Dollar's boss, with none but the highest ranking aware that the quiet and no-nonsense, rather popular secretary-san was the shadowy Boss himself. That he dealt in everything from drugs to slavery and black market items, well, that was just a means of further acquiring power. Distasteful as it was, it was effective, and he left the more sadistic parts to those that most enjoyed it, usually.
But seeing Kida had shaken him, worried him in a way he wasn't aware he could still worry. Fighters died daily, defeat could mean anything from humiliation and rape to outright murder, anything was allowed in the laws of the game, but only within the game. A victor had complete freedom to deal with a loser as they saw fit, and after seeing Kida's face for the first time in years, Mikado had had his first nightmare in years; that same face dead and staring, lifeless and accusatory. For days afterwards he'd been grumpy and out of sorts, a state he couldn't afford to maintain.
Try as he might to put it from mind, he couldn't help but be drawn to Kida's progress in the fights. And Kida's presence brought with it other trouble. Members of a gang from a territory Mikado didn't control (not yet, but that was an eventual goal, they were strong enough to pose a problem for now though) had started showing up in Dollar's territory. They weren't registered fighters and they mostly respected the game's laws (those who didn't met bad ends, even rival gangs feared the consequences of violating Dollar's law) but they were still a concerning presence, trouble tracking Kida.
And Mikado was tracking them. He knew, after a few weeks of his underlings keeping tabs, that the gang was after Kida, and so he kept watch himself or through an underling.
So when Kida found himself being backed into a corner by the thugs of that group Mikado had been watching, Mikado happened to be there. If Mikado were an enforcer he'd have dealt with them ruthlessly, but he was only the Dollar's "secretary" and so he made a note of each face before he darted out of the shadow of one doorway, grabbed Kida's arm with a shouted "This way!" and ran.
No one knew the streets and back alleys like Mikado did, like he'd made a point to, and but still he kept them navigating the maze of abandoned and derelict buildings for twenty minutes to be safe, before coming to a stop in one mostly intact old apartment building, a little winded, letting go of Kida to glance cautiously out a broken window. The streets were empty, there wasn't a sound or feeling of anyone but the two of them.
Mikado had been fifteen when it started. He was twenty-seven now. And like any of the survivors of the years between the end of the world and now... He was changed. One of the lucky ones to survive disease and war, right? Lucky... Survival came at a cost, and when the streets of Ikebukuro, once bustling with commerce and tourists, became a dead zone of gang warfare and violence, Mikado had been right in the middle of it. And powerless.
He'd learned just how powerless, painfully, and often. Until his hatred and anger had warped and tempered him into something cold and precise as a scalpel. He wasn't strong in the way the thugs and the fighters were, but amateurish inexperience could only last so long and Mikado was a fast learner. He rose to power on three things; his wits, his force of personality, and ruthlessness. Ambushing his enemies and using clever traps and guises to get him where brute strength couldn't, and using those connections that were drawn to his innate charisma to get him where only brute strength could. Even after disaster and damage, he had a certain ability to charm people with his personality, and those that followed him now were, by and large, either incredibly loyal or too useful to be rid of. In turn his mind and vision was too useful for even the less loyal followers to risk trying to be rid of, and so a balance was struck somewhere along the line. He'd lost the charming uncertainty and idealism but he'd gained a quiet, iron confidence that others were drawn to.
He had a game, a way to control the territory he'd wrested from lawlessness. Preventing fighting on the streets of the ruined city was impossible, but he could enforce it. Give it incentive. Only registered combatants would be suffered to be found fighting, and they could tear at each other as they wished, when they wished, wherever they wished. The incentive; tags given to everyone who registered, that could be ripped from a defeated opponent. They could be traded in for anything based on their number value. Better accommodations, whores, drugs, weapons, though guns were banned from the fights. The most skilled could, in theory, attempt for the specific poker hand of tags that would allow them to challenge the organization's mysterious and shadow'd leader, though none had ever reached that goal. In turn, anyone unregistered caught fighting would be summarily executed by the enforcers--unless the enforcers decided they were good looking enough to serve another purpose.
In that way, Ikebukuro stabilized a little. Non-combatants still feared the streets at night but thugs feared the enforcers more, and some semblance of life continuing grew a little, under the watchful laws of the lawless Dollars.
For Mikado this wasn't his end ambition but it was a start. But he hadn't expected, months ago, that one of the new combatants to register would have been Kida himself. The registration took place in the mansion the main members of Dollars called home, and with all registrations Mikado had been watching the newcomers put on their masks, his own in place before he revealed himself to meet them, explain the rules, and ask if they wanted to participate.
His heart had near stopped when he'd seen Kida. He almost hadn't recognized him, both their faces and voices had changed with age and trauma, and Mikado was sure Kida hadn't even had a remote moment of recognition when Mikado explained the purpose and perks of fighters. Mikado's own role in the world he'd created was the secretary to the shadowy and terrifying Dollar's boss, with none but the highest ranking aware that the quiet and no-nonsense, rather popular secretary-san was the shadowy Boss himself. That he dealt in everything from drugs to slavery and black market items, well, that was just a means of further acquiring power. Distasteful as it was, it was effective, and he left the more sadistic parts to those that most enjoyed it, usually.
But seeing Kida had shaken him, worried him in a way he wasn't aware he could still worry. Fighters died daily, defeat could mean anything from humiliation and rape to outright murder, anything was allowed in the laws of the game, but only within the game. A victor had complete freedom to deal with a loser as they saw fit, and after seeing Kida's face for the first time in years, Mikado had had his first nightmare in years; that same face dead and staring, lifeless and accusatory. For days afterwards he'd been grumpy and out of sorts, a state he couldn't afford to maintain.
Try as he might to put it from mind, he couldn't help but be drawn to Kida's progress in the fights. And Kida's presence brought with it other trouble. Members of a gang from a territory Mikado didn't control (not yet, but that was an eventual goal, they were strong enough to pose a problem for now though) had started showing up in Dollar's territory. They weren't registered fighters and they mostly respected the game's laws (those who didn't met bad ends, even rival gangs feared the consequences of violating Dollar's law) but they were still a concerning presence, trouble tracking Kida.
And Mikado was tracking them. He knew, after a few weeks of his underlings keeping tabs, that the gang was after Kida, and so he kept watch himself or through an underling.
So when Kida found himself being backed into a corner by the thugs of that group Mikado had been watching, Mikado happened to be there. If Mikado were an enforcer he'd have dealt with them ruthlessly, but he was only the Dollar's "secretary" and so he made a note of each face before he darted out of the shadow of one doorway, grabbed Kida's arm with a shouted "This way!" and ran.
No one knew the streets and back alleys like Mikado did, like he'd made a point to, and but still he kept them navigating the maze of abandoned and derelict buildings for twenty minutes to be safe, before coming to a stop in one mostly intact old apartment building, a little winded, letting go of Kida to glance cautiously out a broken window. The streets were empty, there wasn't a sound or feeling of anyone but the two of them.
no subject
[He glances from Mikado to the door several times, contemplating going to get them. But there's almost no chance a nice, flashy jacket like his will be left sitting, even with some blood stains. It's been almost an hour. It's got to be gone. And there's no guarantee they're not still being looked for. It would be completely stupid to go back for them, but-- but knowing an episode is coming is almost worse than the experience itself. The anticipation is gut-wrenching, leaving him shaking even though he knows he's got another ten minutes or so before it hits.]
no subject
Don't go out. You'll get yourself killed. I know it's asking a lot but endure it.
If it helps, I've heard some pretty good news about the cure.
no subject
[He'd like to. Really, he would. But there's a very good reason he can't, and why he sets the bottle aside and instead gets up and starts dragging out the futons instead. Just keep busy, he tells himself. Get Mikado into a proper bed, and give himself one as an option.]
If they find us, someone's got to be able to move.
[He doesn't reply to the line about the cure. Pointedly. He's avoided talking about it since Mikado mentioned it, in fact.]
no subject
[Not that he'll stop Kida from preparing the futons, they're both going to need them for rest.]
[And he's not going to stop, not about the cure, even if Kida's ignoring him.]
The last results I heard were unexpectedly good. The treatment plan is amazing, and within a few months he should, at this rate, have a cure ready. Not a countermeasure, an actual cure.
no subject
...You're going to bed. If I take painkillers I'll be woozy for hours. Anyway, I've fought sick before.
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[Yeah we're having this conversation. Drugs are not helping Mikado's judgment calls on what and when to back down or shut up.]
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[He goes quiet again, until he has the futons out. Then he lets out a heavy breath, as he reaches for the blankets.]
Come lie down. Or do I need to carry you?
no subject
Agree. Agree to get he cure, when it's ready. So this won't be an issue again, so your life won't be counting down like a time bomb.
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Lie down, would you? You're too serious for being drugged up.
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Masaomi. I'm serious because it's serious. Agree to it.
no subject
[Looks away. He knows he's going to get chewed out for this, but... Well, that's why he's been avoiding the subject.]
No.
no subject
[Wow petulant. Not even chewing him out (yet) not surprised at all. Just. Sulky tired almost childish and haughty.]
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[Pulls his arm away and tucks him in. Roughly.]
Go to sleep.
no subject
Agree. It's stupid not to want a future. Weren't you just saying you regret running away?
So don't.
no subject
The past and the future aren't the same thing.
no subject
Yeah. They aren't. You can change one of them.
no subject
no subject
no subject
[His hands curl tight in the second blanket, til his knuckles turn white. It takes a lot just to keep his voice mostly steady -- that look of betrayal is back, the same as crossed his face when he first heard Mikado was looking for a cure.]
--and now it's actually working... It wasn't that big a deal for me, you know. I'd already gotten used to knowing I was going to die. I was looking forward to it. You didn't even talk to me before you decided to mess that up--
no subject
[He turns a little where he lays, looking at Kida, his face drawn and pale and his eyes a little unfocused, but there's still calm intensity in his voice.]
You can't just go off where I can't follow you, not again. Don't think I'm going to be okay with that, with letting you. We can deal with your guilt, and your dying, and your territory, until everything is solved enough that you stop wanting to die, that you can see some option in the future.
no subject
[It's not possible, he wants to say. What's broken is broken. The important people he's hurt can't be healed. There's too much lost that can't ever be regained, so the burden he's carrying can't ever be lifted. Asking him to keep living, knowing that, is just asking him to keep feeling the same pain, until he's learned to lie through even the worst of it.
It's cruel. But maybe that's fair. Maybe dying is a cheat. Maybe he deserves to suffer, as punishment. Maybe that's what Mikado's going for? The actual things he's saying just don't sink in -- because it's impossible. To stop wanting to die -- to want something like a future again -- that's just unimaginable to him in his current state of mind.]
...Ah, no... I get it. It's supposed to hurt, isn't it? I'm just supposed to stay by you so you can be sure--
[The sickness hits him right then, slamming him with a physical pain to match the emotional ache already in his chest. He doubles over, thankful for the second futon already lined up next to Mikado's to cushion his knees when he leans all his weight on them. He takes a heaving breath, trying to steady himself and look a little less pathetic as the fit pushes him the rest of the way back into tears.]
...If I hurt enough, will it... make up for everything? How long-- [a pause, to cry out at the second shock] How long do you wanna torture me before you let me go?