Shinobi
The First Gate - Concealed in Shadow
Takahashi Yoshi had a secret. Okay, to be honest, he had lots of secrets. But this was a secret he tried to keep even from himself. The infamous shadow wolf of the Takahashi clan was exhausted, splattered with blood and other best left unidentified substances, and sported several nasty wounds. Right now a hot shower and a soft bed were what he really needed. Instead he was lounging aimlessly in a tacky love hotel, trying to find excuses not to go home. Coming up with no better option, he decided to stop delaying the inevitable and gathered his belongings.
Home . . . it felt awkward on his tongue. Although his ancestral home in Chiba was where his loyalty lay, he found himself spending less and less time there. Although that bitch Rin has no problem tracking me down when she needs me, no matter where I hide. The bitch in question being the shuhan, or leader, of Kobayashi shuudan.
Still, it will be nice to go home again, he mused as he carefully pulled his usual clothes over too pale skin. He peered at his reflection with a grimace, just long enough to put in the colored contact he used to hide his right eye.
People would be amazed at how accurate some of these cheesy flicks are. Yoshi's gaze once again turned to the otherwise ridiculous movie on the television featuring black clad ninja performing amazing feats. Although I hardly fit the profile, it's awfully hard to fade into the night when you look like this.
The Takahashi clan had long been instrumental in maintaining the shuudan's preeminence in the shadowy underworld the shinobi clans were relegated to in this modern age. Espionage, sabotage, assassination; these were the clans' stock in trade, selling their skills to the highest bidder, be it greedy corporation, panicked individual or ruthless Yakuza kingpin. In return they eked out a marginal, secretive existence in their ancestral strongholds, melting unnoticed into the everyday hustle and bustle of the busy cities where they carried out their assignments.
Well, most of us blend in. Yoshi's eyes narrowed when he once again caught sight of his reflection. All the Takahashi were instantly recognizable by their striking snow white hair. His clan had even selectively bred for the trait, since it seemed to be linked to greater powers of ki manipulation. In Yoshi's case this genetic tinkering had been both a blessing and a curse. His clan had always appeared typically Japanese, except for the color of their hair. The last Takahashi, however, not only had white hair, his skin was the color of alabaster. His eyes were even more disconcerting, one a smokey grey, the other an eerie red. It had been his greatest curse, giving rise to the hated nickname metsuki no kagai, evil eye, that cursed him throughout his life.
The pressure of the shuudan's hatred and mistrust acted as a catalyst for the evolution of his ki reserves, intelligence and emotional control, allowing him to learn the most advanced techniques with ease. It was, therefore, no surprise that he pushed himself to begin active duty, becoming an elite assassin before reaching his teens.
That was a long, long time ago, no one says those things anymore . . . at least, not to my face.
The
face in question regarded him dispassionately from the mirror, and Yoshi took a moment to study it, hoping to find what others seemed to see when they looked at him. High cheekbones, long aquiline nose and plump lips under a messy fall of glittering white hair. His coldly handsome, slightly stern visage looked more like a portrait carved in glistening marble than a living breathing man.
That's one good thing about going home, he realized, mouth twisting into a rueful smirk. I can uncover my face and no one stares. After all, it was a secluded ninja stronghold, odd characteristics were more the norm than the exception. No one dared question the fearsome elite about his coloring, something he appreciated more and more as he aged.
He suddenly felt the weight of every one of his thirty-five years, and Yoshi idly wondered if perhaps it was time to put an end to the farce his life had become. Not yet, he decided after carefully considering it for a moment. I am shinobi, my duty is to my clan and my shuudan. My own desires are unimportant. When I am no longer needed, perhaps. Abandoning the pointless train of thought he turned back to his task, packing the last few personal items strewn around the room. After one last look, he switched off the television and departed, suddenly eager to return to what passed for normalcy in his life.
No one noticed as a pale figure passed silently overhead, running across the rooftops under the moonlight. Once safely outside the city proper, Yoshi stopped to appreciate the harvest moon hanging low in the sky. He made a series of hand motions to focus his ki, and a milling knot of wolves appeared in a puff of smoke. “Shall we run?” Yoshi broke into a smile when they began to bay their approval and gave into the urge to join them, letting out a fierce howl of his own before loping off in the direction of home, the pack spreading out to flank him.
* * *
Sasaki Makoto surveyed his afternoon's work with distaste. This captive had been disgustingly easy to break, happily revealing his company's secrets almost as soon as the interrogator began. I hate dealing with civilians, he decided, shaking his head at the mess. No challenge whatsoever. Of course, just a glimpse of the torture master was generally enough to make even a hardened warrior piss his pants. At a towering six foot four inches, the muscular nin was a mountain compared to the average Japanese. One look at the scars snaking their way across his impassive face and it became painfully clear that Kobayashi's head of covert operations was no stranger to the giving, or receiving, of pain and would not be dissuaded from his goal. Once that became obvious his captives were more than willing to blab whatever secrets they held in hopes of saving themselves. It was unfortunate that they never realized how their cooperation only made the punishment worse.
Weak, disgusting little worms, don't they know where their loyalties should lie? The scars Makoto wore so easily were a reminder of his own time in captivity. Unlike his 'guests' however, the stoic ninja had never breathed a word, even after several weeks of grueling torture. He had no idea why Iwagashi shuudan suddenly decided to release him, but he was grateful nevertheless. No one knew just how close he had been to breaking down and spilling everything he knew about his clan and its defenses.
His mind drifted back to his return home. The first few weeks were hazy, filled with painkillers and long, unpleasant medical treatments. After that what he remembered best were the shocked and disgusted looks on his former friends' faces when they laid eyes on him for the first time. “It's not so bad,” a few of them ventured, but the lie was easy to read.
It was then that he chose his current occupation, studying under masters of interrogation, psychoanalysis, and torture. He had dedicated his life to guaranteeing that no one from Kobayashi shuudan would ever go through what he had. Now, twenty years later, he was tired. The reason why he continued to do his duty day after day no longer seemed as clear, and he often found himself wondering why he bothered protecting the very people who rejected him.
Now is not the time for this. The torture master headed for his office to deal with the paperwork threatening to overtake his desk.
“Boss,” his aide ventured tentatively, “they caught a spy snooping around. He's prepped and waiting for you.”
“You know where I'll be.” Makoto shut his thoughts away and fixed his face into its usual slightly sadistic mask. He headed back the way he had come, hoping to finish with his new 'guest' quickly. Although I don't know why I'm in such a hurry, it's not like I have anything to go home to. With that thought reverberating in his head he opened the door to the interrogation room. He fixed the panicked man strapped into the chair with a sharp eye, sending him a smile showing way too many teeth for anyone's comfort.
“Let's get started, shall we?” he said by way of greeting, the smile never leaving his face. After a while he put his unsettled thoughts aside and relaxed into the familiar work, humming to himself even though it couldn't be heard over his victim's screams.
