All of them died minutes after coming inside her. With the first two, serves them right, was all she thought. When her father died on top of her, she started getting worried.
The poisons of Demon City must have impregnated her body. She’d heard that professional femme fatales had been bioengineered to do just that. One gang had surgically implanted an injection device into the body of a beautiful woman and used her to assassinate an enemy godfather.
The symptoms suggested that the men who’d had their way with Mayumi had all died of heart seizures. The police detected nothing amiss. Her mother dismissed her concerns and blamed it on bad luck and mere coincidence.
Her lackadaisical attitude vanished when her father succumbed right before her eyes. “You are a poisonous offspring,” she’d said, with a demonic air of her own. “I didn’t believe it at first, but now—”
They were both half-crazy by now. Her mother was exploring ways to expand the bar and Mayumi’s young body figured into her plans. The man before her father had visited the second floor with her mother’s “permission,” knowing that Mayumi would be there alone.
He was the owner of a thriving local business. If that’s what a man believed it took to get ahead, Mayumi wasn’t going to waste any sleep worrying about the consequences, or debating the moral differences between life and death.
A strange sense of liberation filled her chest. She was choosing life. Kill her father and murder her mother—she’d happily bear that burden for the rest of her days if that was the only way she could take control of her own life.
Demon City was the place where she chose to plant her stake.
Bright beams of light flashed down the dark street from a bank of gleaming white globes. Confronted by the wall of light, Mayumi squeezed the brake lever. She pitched forward against the handlebars. The tires squealed against the asphalt.
As if in a slow-motion dream, the bike twisted sideways. Her blood ran cold. She was moments from death. Shifting her weight ever so slightly, releasing and applying the brake and throttle with unexpected precision, her right foot brushed the ground before the scooter righted itself.
“Not bad,” said a shadow behind the globe of light, the headlight of a 750 cc motorcycle.
Like they were just waiting for someone like her to come along. Mayumi knew at a glance that whatever they had in mind wasn’t in her best interests.
“Don’t move,” barked another voice, full of derision and confidence. “There’s no way you can get away, not on a pipsqueak of a scooter like that. We’ll give you five seconds at most.”
Mayumi wheeled the scooter around and pressed the starter button. She twisted the throttle, utterly calm, cool and collected. The little engine howled like a banshee. The scooter leapt away in a cloud of exhaust.
These men were one of at least fifty biker gangs in Shinjuku, who won their status carving up territories in the high-risk areas. But even among them, the ones who chose to go out at night could be counted on the fingers of one hand: Preying Mantises, Magnum Force, Bloodsucking Leeches, Vulcan Express, Tarantulas.
They were all so bad there was no telling which was the worst of the bunch. The members were between the ages of thirteen and eighteen. A bunch of overgrown kids, the ferocity of whose temper tantrums knew no moral constraints.
Mayumi had permitted herself a premature sigh of relief when she heard the thunderous roar of the engines behind her, followed by wild shouts. In five seconds they’d pulled alongside her.
Their black leather-clad hands reached out to seize her shoulders and grab at her breasts. Mayumi bent backwards away from the crushing, grabbing hands. Not so much foreplay as a prelude to drawing and quartering.
Gritting her teeth, she cranked the handlebars hard to the right, hoping to drive the bike on her right into the shutters of a fruit stand.
The man’s hand fell away as she wrestled to balance the bike. Another sensation rose up from her waist. The man on the left had his hand in her lap. She pounded on him with her right hand. He didn’t budge.
She glanced to the right. A young man wearing a black helmet, gloves and T-shirt. She could well imagine the vulgar glint in his eyes shining beneath the tinted visor. Those practiced fingers proved persistent, burrowing between her crotch and the seat.
Mayumi plunged into the shopping arcade on her left and grazed one of the pillars holding up the roof close enough to feel the painted steel brush against her cheek. At the last second, the hand slipped away.
The raw sensations surged from her nether regions. Hands pawed at breasts. A hot, wet fever brimmed in her eyes. But she raced on, unable to begin to imagine what fate awaited her at the end of the darkness.
Chapter Three
When he passed through the air at high speed, the darkness seemed to congeal and grow hard. There was pleasure in the darkness itself, an empathetic longing called forth from the memory of his genes. The blood thrummed against his eardrums.
This is our home, this eternally dense darkness. You will transfigure within it, evolve and become invincible. The demon realms will yield to you. We understand. I am your muscle and bone, your organs, your cells, your genes.
Anticipation, assent, acclamation made his heart soar, pushed the substances of his hemoglobin to their limits.
But like the roar of the raging tide, the jubilation crested and began to recede. He saw a faint light in the distance and knew what it was. It turned into dreams and nightmares suffused with a rose-tinted glory.
The bloody loathing and anger bathed his face, and yet he could not but see the beauty. Were any to deny it to his face, he would surely slaughter them on the spot.
For it was the comeliness of a young man’s face. Fear not, commanded that part of him lurking within. You will soon equal him, surpass him, and leave him far behind. Do not doubt the power of the darkness.
He understood that as well. He had tasted defeat once. His fighting skills would continue to improve apart from any effort on his part. Without a doubt, he would triumph over the beautiful young man in front of him.
But however his head and heart were convinced of victory, lurking deep down inside him, in the dark abyss, where even his consciousness did not dare to venture, the doubters murmured their discontent.
However his overweening conviction and self-confidence told him he would, pride goeth before a fall. For defeat had once stared him in the face.
No, he cried, his very existence cried. No, no, no.
The realization dawned on him that the voice drumming against his earlobes was his own. He sprang up, bathed in sweat.
The smell of the earth reached his senses first. Then the stillness permeating his flesh and bones. A long sigh escaped his lips. He was lying on the mound of dirt in the middle of the underground parking garage.
He cast his eyes down to the foot of the dirt mountain. Crouching there in the charcoal black until he called for him, forever if that was how long it took—
“Hyota,” he said.
The dark mass nodded. “You have slept a restless sleep.”
“The earth is beginning to fade. How goes our dwelling?” Gento Roran said in black tones.
“The ground is being excavated as we speak. We must take care to make sure that Aki-sama does not notice.”
“He will notice eventually,” Gento said, wrapping a coat around him. “He knows this place inside and out, a veritable prince of the city. We cannot allow him to deceive us forever. This mere earth is cold comfort. I require a fundamental sense of security.”
“You speak the truth. But I beg you to persevere for another few days.”
“Another few days could prove fatal. The Sanbo Group assassins have proved as incompetent as those from the Shiragi Syndicate.”
“Yes. Those killer cyborgs were said to be the best of the lot, but not compared to Aki-sama. One seems to have escaped with his life—or rather his brain—intact.”
“I’m sure you are pleased, Hyota. And no wonder. You’ve doted on hi
m since the day he was born.”
“I was only doing my duty. But I have not tipped the scales in any case.”
“I understand,” Gento said with a wry smile. “What of the assassins from Kurusu Real Estate?”
“They’re called the Munakata Brothers. But in all honesty, when it comes to the likes of them, perhaps—”
“Perhaps won’t do. It looks like I’m going to have to do the deciding myself.”
Gento climbed down from the mountain of dirt. “I’ll be going,” he said, setting off at a brisk clip that was all the more remarkable considering the fearful threads strung hither and yon, that had sliced and diced that fiendish snake.
“I shall accompany you.”
“That’s okay. Your responsibility is the restoration of my abode.”
Hyota bowed. Gento proceeded through the darkness. All around him flickered dots of red and green light, the eyes of the gremlins and goblins lurking just beyond the curtains of black. They peered suspiciously at the carefree Gento while clearing out of the way, creeping up bit by bit as the darkness closed in behind him.
The ceiling in front of him hung down at a crazy angle. An avalanche of debris spilled down from a giant fissure. In front of it was the wrecked door of what appeared to be an elevator. A gap had opened up between the twisted frame and the wall.
Gento melted into a space that the average person could not hope to fit even twisting and contorting his body. There wasn’t an elevator car in the shaft, only the rectangular abyss. Without a second thought, Gento stepped into what looked like a conduit straight down to hell.
He didn’t fall.
Gento Roran floated there above this pit of Hades. He reached toward the heavens with his right hand and silently glided upwards. High above his head appeared a spot of sunlight. Gento soared like an angel of death abandoning the night in search of the sun.
Ten minutes later, he was mingling among the pedestrian traffic on Hanazono Avenue headed towards the Koshu Highway.
The light unfolding in the dim gloom condensed into a single line. Without a sound, and with a breath of wind, the terrifying skills exhibited therein were known only to the person wielding them.
The results were less than satisfactory. A slight frown creased his lips. A slight shadow crossed his nonchalant face, as if normally disturbed by nothing more severe than a spring breeze.
With a casual swivel of his wrist, the line of light split the darkness and was drawn back to his hand as the black-clad figure reeled back his devil wires.
Setsura Aki sat on the edge of the bed and scowled. The upper half of a human body sat on the table ten feet in front of him, casting off a glossy light. It was a mannequin, in the slender shape of a woman.
Adding to the oddness of the scene was the big bowl sitting beneath the stand supporting her. The faint sunlight reflected off what appeared to be the watery surface of the mannequin. Looking closer, though, the details became clearer.
An oily liquid covered her from the head down to the breasts, dripping down into the bowl like melting snow off a roof.
“As I expected,” Setsura grumbled. “Won’t cut through it. I’ll have to go with a sharper wire, though any finer a gauge and I’ll end up slicing my own hands.” Setsura looked at the mannequin. “I’ll have to change the way it cuts.”
He flexed the back of his hand downward and flicked out his index finger. A thin beam of light sprang out. To ordinary eyes, the source of this flash of light would have remained a mystery.
The titanium-steel thread flew through the air and coiled around the right shoulder of the mannequin, stretched across the back to the left armpit, and wrapped three times around the ribcage beneath the breasts.
A terrible fate awaited the mannequin. Except—as Setsura tugged with his right hand, the feedback through the wire did not communicate a momentary tautness, but quickly unwound under the tension.
The oil coating the mannequin defending it against the genie’s wires was the same as that secreted by Hyota’s body. Setsura had it analyzed and synthesized at the Shinjuku Chemical Research and Development Laboratory.
“What the hell is this stuff?” said the head staff researcher, examining the sample Setsura presented to them. “It’s not animal fat. It contains none of the glycerin molecules found in all oils. It’s hardly even a liquid. How in the world did you discover such a substance?”
“I didn’t exactly discover it,” Setsura said airily. He couldn’t exactly explain that this was the one substance his devil wires couldn’t sever without getting put under the microscope himself.
Not knowing what it was didn’t stop them from synthesizing it. He borrowed a mannequin from a dress shop whose owner he knew and coated it with the stuff. He’d now spent the last three hours trying to penetrate it with his devil wires.
He was now zero for three thousand tries. He had to admit he was impressed. Hyota must have studied his technique and modified his physiology accordingly. It was time to lay all their cards on the table.
“I guess it was inevitable,” Setsura said, pulling a large suitcase out from under the bed. He placed it on the mattress, released the latch, and took out a small metal box, six inches by four inches by three inches deep.
He replaced the suitcase and sat down in the chair at the table. The box didn’t appear to have a lock. He placed his fingers on the smooth metal surface and with an almost imperceptible motion twisted them clockwise.
The lid slipped slightly to the right revealing a keyhole invisible to the naked eye, into which he inserted a strand of devil wire—though no one could have otherwise detected that that was what he was doing.
Then—he did nothing, nothing to the box or the lid.
The pinky of his right hand transformed into a living thing, into a thing of delicate beauty. The source soon became apparent, from the brilliant swarm oozing out of the narrow opening. Ensnared by the devil wires, the squirming movements were being made by the world’s prettiest bees.
Though each was no more than an eighth of an inch long, Setsura alone knew how deadly they could be.
With lifespans of three hundred years, and stingers that could penetrate alloy steel—made of the same compounds as Setsura’s devil wires—the constantly replenished toxins released could corrode even mechanical devices.
These “guard bees” protected this box that had been passed down through generations of the Aki clan.
With a nod of apology to the captives of his devil wires, Setsura removed the contents of the box: a pair of tweezers so fine the ends appeared to dissolve into the air; a grinding wheel about an inch in diameter attached to a motor the same size; and a magnifying loupe, the most practical-looking item in the bunch.
He screwed the loupe into his right eye, picked up the tweezers with his right hand, and engaged the tiny switch of the motor with his left pinky.
A faint low hum filled the room. Setsura brought the tips of the tweezers close to the grinding wheel, spinning so fast its contours dissolved into an opaque blur.
Behind the lens of the loupe, his normally lackadaisical black eyes shone with an unexpectedly earnest light. With the tips of the tweezers—practically invisible to the naked eye—he touched the even finer tip of the wire against the wheel, scattering a shower of small sparks into the air.
A burst of warmth in that dimly-lit world, though the coolly utilitarian purpose here was to sharpen the killing edge of these devilish wires and hone the sub-micron strands to a narrower width. All the better to kill with.
Several minutes later, Setsura raised his head. A knock came at the door. This was his safe house. Nobody should know he was here, let alone at home. Unperturbed, he placed the loupe on the table and leaving the sharpening equipment where it was, went to the door.
The knock came again, a signal of some sort. Setsura put his hand on the knob and opened the door. Standing there was a middle-aged woman wearing round, black-rim glasses.
“Excuse me,” she said and pushed back
Setsura and strode into the room with an unapologetic, overbearing manner.
She was wearing a bargain-basement white knit polo shirt and a long linen skirt. Her perm was peppered with dandruff. She was holding an equally cheap handbag in her right hand. Her presence in the genie’s dusky hideaway was profoundly surreal.
“Man, it’s hot,” she said, wiping her face with a rumpled handkerchief. She pulled over the chair and sat down. The springs groaned beneath her yard-wide ass. She stood five foot two and had a circumference at her bust and hips to match.
With an ill-tempered glance at Setsura, she said, “What a pain in the neck you are. Yesterday I broke two hundred ten pounds. Damn, I’m fagged.” In the neck of the woods she came from, that meant she was tired. “I gotta pack lunches for my kids. First thing in the morning and all—”
“Morning? What time is it?” Setsura asked, interrupting the chattering hippo next to him.
“Sakes alive! Can’t keep track of the time, neither? It’s ten after five.”
“Thanks.”
“Hey, you’re the one asking for favors, remember. You got anything cold to drink around here?”
“Sink’s back there.”
With an exasperated groan, the fat lady reached her fat hand into the handbag and took out a Sony ST2 digital projector. The ST1 model had been released the year before, delivering the same “look and feel” as an IMAX screen to home theater devotees. The ST2 reduced the size to that of a tablet computer.
“This was delivered by bike courier this morning. I already checked it for explosives and the like.” She wiped her forehead. When she sat down, every part of her body from her chin to her belly folded on top of itself like a melting swirl of soft ice cream.
She set the projector on the table. “Shit, I’m outta here. I swear, first time I’ve been in somebody’s place and nobody offered me even a cup of tea.”
She grunted and was about to move her fat ass toward the door when Setsura said, “So what of that job I gave you?”
Maohden Vol. 1 Page 13