Two Halves Whole

by Melissa Abigail

  “Self-sacrifice in honour of our duties is part of our culture. But look who I’m talking to about culture.” He rolled his eyes.

  “Don’t talk down to me! Duty to a mob boss? A coward that hides behind you? Is that one of the lies they taught you? This is not about culture—this is plain wrong!”

  “Haruna—”

  "Duty is about respect, but now you've lost all of mine!”

  “When have you ever respected anything about me? All you've ever cared about is what other people think!”

  “It's called ‘being human.’ Humans care about other people. But you're a murderer so I guess you don't know what being human is. Wish I knew that about you before I…” Haruna stopped short. She couldn’t say it. She didn’t want to.

  “Before you what?”

  Haruna noticed his deeply furrowed brows, his face somehow still handsome to her even when boiling hot with emotion. She'd never seen him this upset, but with that question he dared her to lay her heart bare again.

  She refused to give in.

  “Nothing,” Haruna said.

  “Before you fell for me. That's what you want to say, right?” Ryu's voice was hoarse. He closed in, arms rigid at his sides. “Then say it, Haruna—just say it!”

  He'd hollered the last part. And it was timely, perfectly synchronized with a great burst of thunder.

  So his cool was lost. Good. Why should she be the only one upset? She shouldn’t have to suffer through this horrible week alone. Haruna glowered, channelling the kind of icy glare she’d often been on the receiving end of from her grandmother and, just a month ago, Ryu himself.

  “Everyone was right about you. I wish I listened.”

  Haruna held her composure right up until the last line, but once the final word left her, she felt a crippling, brutal anguish rake at her insides. She couldn’t bear to look at him. She rounded sharply and sprinted onwards. There was a downpour, and her umbrella was tucked away, deep in her messenger bag. But Haruna didn’t care.

  Screw the umbrella.

  There is no greater crime than desire.

  There is no greater disaster than discontent.

  There is no greater misfortune than greed.

  – Tao Te-Ching, 46

  CHAPTER six

  the way towards peace

  You’d think you’d know when something smells bad;

  But if you’ve lived among sewage your whole life, bad smells are normal.

  Everything else seems to smell the same—

  even the purest, freshest breeze.

  «

  It’s nice to be right; to be so sure of something, to feel the sweet satisfaction of everything falling into place while fate unfolds exactly as you expect it. Except sometimes, this couldn’t be the furthest from the truth. Sometimes you wish you could be proven wrong. Just once.

  Ryu gazed absently at a fly stuck on the ceiling, waiting for the last coin to be counted. Friday night and Ryu didn’t know where else to go. He’d driven around town for an-hour-and-a-half, aimless, until the metre caught his eye. He knew if he continued on this way, he’d be fresh out of gas. It’s not like he could afford to fill a tank any time soon. He could have gone straight home, but even his so-called home didn’t feel comforting. So Ryu found himself here, at Long’s Restaurant, where Damon was trusted to lock up for the night. They were free to talk in private.

  Ryu jerked slightly, rattled by the sound of the cash register sliding shut. He whipped his head and saw Damon coming over to where he waited in the backroom.

  “A bit jumpy, are we?” Damon murmured with a half-smile.

  Ryu didn’t smile back.

  Damon pulled up a stool and slouched into it. Ryu remained hunched over in a fold-up chair, the same one he had sat in the time he’d gotten his leg bandaged up.

  “So you finally did it? You told her."

  "She hates me,” Ryu said. He didn’t look at Damon, only blankly ahead at nothing. “At this point, what’s left? Another year at the house plus six months at the Academy. My life is hell."

  "You have to think positive.”

  “What’s positive?”

  “There's still a chance. She rejected your lifestyle, not you as a person. "

  "Me as a person, my lifestyle… what's the difference?"

  "I guess you have to decide that for yourself. Bottom-line is, you made it this far and it proves how strong you are. So don't back out now. Forget the haters."

  "Haters? I share a room with a guy who nearly got me killed. The night you found me? That guy was supposed to be my getaway, but he bailed. On purpose. No one in the house respects me—absolutely no one has my back—"

  "I've got your back."

  "Yeah, sure—"

  "Ryu. Listen already.” Damon snatched Ryu by the shoulders. He eyed him seriously, his voice and tone deliberate and clear. “I have your back."

  Ryu narrowed his eyes, roughly shouldering him off. "Yeah, that's another thing. Why?"

  Damon gave a loud sigh, dropping his arms. He held his back straight but his expression became heavier, more sombre.

  “I had this friend. We were tight—close, like brothers. We used to be.” Damon's voice grew rough. “But one day he changed. He was into all kinds of over-the-top stuff. I didn’t want anything to do with him after that.”

  Ryu frowned, mirroring his seriousness. “What happened to him?”

  “Two years ago. A night in July, I think? He was at some house party with some of his buddies. They went out to the parking lot… some dude walked up out of nowhere… shots fired,” Damon's voice trembled. “Anyway, he didn’t make it. They say he died at the scene.”

  “So that’s why you helped me? Cause you couldn’t help him?”

  “I'd be lying if I said when I first saw you I didn't think of him. For a long time I wished I hadn’t stopped talking to him. I wished I had tried to be there for him so he didn’t think that life was worth it. For a long time, I blamed myself. But then I realised—I couldn’t have done anything. It was his choice.”

  “So what’s your point?”

  “I dunno? Am I making one?” Damon shrugged, but this made Ryu roll his eyes and groan.

  “Look, I’m real sorry about your friend, but you realise this is a completely different situation? Kids like that quit after a few months when they realise how pointless it is, how not like a movie it is… I’m not just some thug playing tough. I'm supposed to be a soldier for a syndicate. This is the only life I’ve ever known. I’m trapped.”

  Damon folded his arms.

  “If you wanted to get out, Ryu, you would have done it already."

  Ryu sneered. “You’re right. I could have slit my wrists, and this would have been over a long time ago. In fact, I should’ve gone ahead and done it before I became some loser pining over a girl.”

  “Having feelings is human. You shouldn’t mistake that for weakness.”

  Ryu tossed his head. “Oh, man—do you talk to her or something? She practically said the same thing.”

  Damon shook his head. He continued on in an annoying, too-calm tone. “Stop and think for a sec. You're addicted to things like cigarettes, always trying to escape but never escaping. Maybe the best move you can make is no move, or like… not the obvious one.”

  Ryu flailed his arms. "What in the hell does any of that even mean? Are you high?”

  Damon’s face maintained its staidness, as he explained, “It’s wu-wei. Acting without forced action. Living in harmony with nature. I've told you before. The universe has a way of balancing things out. If you think of weakness as strength and let what needs to happen, happen, it will.”

  "I have zero patience for your mystical universe crap today, Mr. Miyagi. Say something useful for once.” Ryu slid to his feet, fingers coiled into fists.

  "Funny you should say that. I was starting to feel like a stereotype. I don't know karate though. Doesn't that just make me the Token B
lack Friend?"

  "I think that makes you high."

  Damon sighed. “Look, I say this not to sound smart, but because it’s freaking obvious. Your job as a gangster is to do pretty bad things, so just stop.”

  "How?"

  "How can you not? Have you ever tried?"

  "So the boss orders me to do a job, and I'll just be like, 'nope.’ Are you kidding? What's next—run away? Fight the Syndicate? Or do I just sit back and take a bullet to the forehead? Fucking wu-wei, right?”

  “I'm not talking about the Syndicate, Ryu. I'm talking about life. There are things you want? Stop wanting it. All you've ever done is fight. Let go. Stop wanting. Stop fighting your dreams and let them happen. And you don't defeat all your enemies by doing it their way because you will lose, for sure. It's not much different from, you know, Zen or whatever, is it?"

  Zen, Ryu understood. How it applied to his situation, he did not—and had no patience left to find out.

  "So I’m supposed to somehow 'stop wanting' and 'stop fighting’? I thought of all people you'd actually get it, but jokes on me.” Ryu bounced off the chair and charged headlong for the front door. "Whatever, man. I've heard enough!"

  Half serious, half joking Damon called after him, "Ask and Jah will provide!"

  "SHUT UP!” Ryu hollered back as he fought with the locked door, then blazed into the cold outside.

  He exhaled through his mouth. He inhaled deeply through his nose. He exhaled again.

  "Zen." Not quite. Almost?

  Ryu could sense the shift in the atmosphere. Someone else was present. He opened his eyes to Katsuo smiling back at him with folded arms. Ryu didn’t know whether to show his surprise or not. It was rare that Katsuo smiled, and so openly, for no reason. Ryu uncrossed his legs and crawled to his knees to stand. He bent over in greeting, not lifting his head until Katsuo bowed back.

  “I see you’re keeping up with your meditations,” Katsuo said.

  “Just needed to clear my mind,” Ryu muttered.

  “Good. That’s good. Keep your mind sharp, even if your body is not where it needs to be. At least you’re focused on what’s important.”

  Ryu averted his gaze. What was important? He wasn’t too sure he and Katsuo had a mutual understanding of what that was. Katsuo inched towards him, brows knit.

  “How is your leg?” he asked.

  Ryu rolled up his pant leg to show the part of his thigh that was lightly bandaged. Carefully, Katsuo reached down to remove the covering, tilting his head to the side as he inspected the wound underneath.

  “It’s healed nicely,” he murmured. “It’s lucky you didn’t get an infection… a little deeper, a little to the right, you might have bled out from the artery.”

  Ryu recalled the day in question. Damon had bandaged it, but Ryu had taken the cab straight to the E.R. before returning home. Two-and-a-half hours, several antibiotics, and two Tylenols later, Ryu was back home getting scolded along with the rest. Since then, Ryu had abstained from any Syndicate activities too risky or physically demanding. It was not unusual for Katsuo to survey their recovery. But Katsuo’s rambling was odd… and annoying.

  “It’s not like I would’ve died or anything,” Ryu said, speaking under his breath.

  “Don’t be foolish," Katsuo snapped. "In that state, anything could have happened.” He lowered his eyes and reset the bandage. “It’s interesting. Your father… would have said the same thing.”

  Ryu quirked his brows. “My father would’ve?”

  “He feared nothing. I’m sure he thought he was immortal—a great man, but stubborn.” Katsuo looked back to meet Ryu’s eyes. “It’s why he was ronin after all.”

  As Katsuo returned to his feet, Ryu thought back. He'd heard the story before. Katsuo had mentioned it more than a few times. The way Katsuo went by Kitsune, Ryu’s father went by Akuma, the fire demon. And Akuma had been that way; possessing skill and technique so enviable he was either challenged or sought after, thought of as the meanest and toughest in the territory he ran along with other Yoshinza-kai. He’d grown up poor, an orphan just west of Osaka, always having to fend for himself. It made him strong. Strong, but a born-rebel like the term “ronin” inferred, a samurai without a master, a man who answered to no one. But he wasn't dumb. He was careful. Calculating. A demon in the flesh. Akuma kept the money flowing and got jobs done better than anyone, even a loanshark like Katsuo who earned his keep deceiving with bad loans or driving tenants off of their own land.

  To Ryu, the spirit of his father lived within him.

  It was why he was at Tengoku House in the first place. Ryu admired—no, idolized—his father. Or what he remembered of him. At the same time, his father had allowed himself to die at the hands of rivals. Ryu resented it. He wanted to be better than that.

  “Would he have been proud of me?” Ryu asked. He noticed Katsuo’s back muscles tense through his white t-shirt and he halfway turned, brows to his hairline.

  “Your father?”

  Ryu gave a tiny nod.

  “Of course I have no way of knowing the answer to that question.” Katsuo rotated to face Ryu head-on. “Regardless of what he would have thought, you have much to be proud of. As long as you remain loyal, you will be rewarded. The Syndicate is your family. Your duty is to the oyabun—understand?”

  Ryu bobbed his head. He’d heard that line before too. All the boys had. It was a part of the mantra they’d recited when they’d arrived—'til death do we part. Ryu even recalled the lowest days when Katsuo would remind them that society needed them. Back home, mobsters maintained order and doled out justice where the Law, the status quo, failed. In the face of disasters, earthquakes, and tsunamis like the one that had happened earlier that year, yakuza were heroes. So yakuza, like the Yoshinza-kai and fringe groups like the White Flower Syndicate, they were doing not what was right, but what was necessary: filling a void. Mainstream society just hadn’t realised it yet.

  “Why did you leave and come here?”

  Clyde had asked Katsuo this once.

  Katsuo hadn’t gone into specifics. His simple answer: “Because Father trusts me most.”

  Ryu didn’t know what to think. He wondered what the truth was.

  His whole life was about working for a higher purpose. He was given food and shelter. Matsumoto had given him a car and enrolled him in a top private school. Ryu had even been looked after by Matsumoto’s wife when he was orphaned as a child, and in that short time the kind woman cared for him like her own because she had none of her own. Ryu supposed he should be grateful. But Ryu didn't truly believe in the Syndicate or in Matsumoto. Ryu believed in justice—and this city needed justice. His justice. Why should he feel bad about rackets and hit jobs? Everyone was corrupt anyway.

  It was this kind of reasoning that made Haruna so frustrating. She only “cared about him” until she knew the truth. She was as Ryu thought she’d be. Closed-minded. And she knew nothing of honour and duty. Of loyalty. Surprise, surprise. Girls came and went, but Ryu could count on his Syndicate brothers, right? So what if they did “bad” things? So what?

  Well, Seth was right. That was what.

  What Ryu believed didn't matter anymore. No matter how much he thought it through, his mind couldn’t sway his feelings. Would he honestly have to choose between the Syndicate and the girl he was "crazy about”?

  Ryu looked up with a start as Katsuo coughed and turned for the staircase. “It’s late. Finish up and go to sleep.”

  Ryu gave a weak nod and watched as his guardian ascended along the staircase with tired stomps.

  Ryu awoke to the sound of silence and a blistering headache. All he could think about was how badly he craved a cigarette. Ignoring his urges, he slouched out of bed and stared at the clock. It was already midday. He'd overslept. Not a good thing, though it explained why it was so quiet. He craned to see the overhead bunk, noticing Tyler's bed had been made up.

  Guess he's trying to impress,
pretending to be responsible for a change.

  Ryu stumbled down the stairs for the kitchen, spying all the boys (with the exception of Tyler) piled around the television shouting obscenities, a sure sign that their entire squadron had just been annihilated in Call of Duty… that or the old Xbox was on the brink of overheating again. For Ryu's late breakfast, he was pleased that someone bothered to make something without burning it for a change. He scooped the hours-old remnants from a rice cooker and topped it off with strips of bacon, steamed mushrooms and vegetables left to sit and spoil on the counter. Food poisoning, inevitable, but effort be damned. With his bowl filled to the brim, Ryu found a spot on the couch. He studied the way his brothers sat hunched over on the wooden floor.

  "Aniki—ohayo," said Clyde, acknowledging Ryu’s presence after a ten-second delay.

  “That means ‘good morning,’ doesn’t it?” mumbled Dan, eyes on the screen.

  "If you can call 12 PM 'morning’," joked Albert, surrendering his controller to a growingly impatient Yuan.

  "Yeah-yeah," muttered Ryu between bites. "Where's Katsuo?"

  “Out," said Albert with a casual roll of his shoulders. "Left earlier this morning. Claudia and Tyler too. The usual business. "

  Ryu knew well enough. As an enforcer, Katsuo had to do whatever Matsumoto wanted him to do, whenever that was. Often that meant managing other White Flowers elsewhere, across town and beyond. The "older brothers." Claudia often did her own thing. And Tyler… well, who cares.

  "New game," Yuan declared, tossing his controller to the side, then crawling to retrieve another game from the pile. Ryu pursed his lip as Grand Theft Auto's opening sequence flashed across the screen. He came to the bottom of his bowl, digging into the last remaining wad of white sticky rice. He watched his brothers' faces shine, lit up from the screen's reflection… their mouths wide. Taking turns, two at a time disturbing the peace. Another guy pummelled over the head. Another car tearing through the streets of Los Santos, bowling over hapless randoms, shamelessly crossing the sidewalks and swerving between posts, side-swiping flaming cop cars. Game over. New game. New mission. Carl Johnson makes a deal with the Triads. And on the game went. Ryu couldn’t look away from the screen, but he didn't see much fun in any of it. He found more joy in shooting hoops or reading, even—but they loved this. Ryu thought he'd endure it… until Bradley's avatar whipped out an AK-47. Its echo tore through Ryu's eardrums. The visuals struck him like its bullets.