Tenchi Muyo Fan Fiction ❯ Sanyasi ❯ Smooth Criminal ( Chapter 1 )

[ Y - Young Adult: Not suitable for readers under 16 ]

Disclaimer: Tenchi Muyo and its characters are property of AIC and
Pioneer. The proceeding story, though based on pre-existing characters, is
the property of the author and may not be reprinted without permission.
All original characters found herein are also the property of the author and
may not be used without permission. (Did that sound official? I hope so.)

Note to reader: There are several important points about this story that
must be addressed:
-I have abandoned my usual episodic style, meaning the sections all run
together.
-The story centers around Kiyone and Mihoshi only (just so I don't set
any Ayeka, Ryoko, etc. fans up for disappointment).
-The story takes place after "Project Pinnacle," in which Kiyone and
Mihoshi were transferred to Galaxy Police headquarters.
-This story is much more violent than anything I have ever written.
I guess that's everything. So, now that that's out of the way, enjoy the
story!

Smooth Criminal

Chapter 1: Crossfire

"Mihoshi, just finish your drink quick and let's get out of here,"
Kiyone insisted, her eyes shifting incessantly. "I can't understand why you
insisted on stopping in this dive."
"Because I was thirsty," Mihoshi said innocently, as she took a
long, leisurely sip of her daiquiri.
"Yeah, well, you wouldn't be thirsty," Kiyone reminded her, "if
you had packed sodas like I asked you to."
"Kiyone, don't worry so much," Mihoshi said. "We're on
vacation! Have a drink with me."
"Just hurry up so we can get out of here," Kiyone said in a harsh
whisper. "I feel like we're being watched."
Kiyone's instincts proved to be correct as, hidden behind dark
sunglasses, a pair of eyes watched her from the bar. The tinted eyewear
obscured the man's roving glances. He eyed the two girls in the booth
with concern. They stuck out like two roaches on a wedding cake. The
pink sweater on the blonde one contrasted sharply with the tobacco-stained
walls, and the blue-haired girl was glancing about fervently like a spooked
gazelle. The behavior of the two women was apparent from the moment
they stepped inside the bar, the blonde prattling on while the blue-haired
one kept glancing over her shoulder. It was quite obvious to him that the
blue-haired woman knew what kind of people inhabited a dank hole such
as the bar she found herself in, but the blonde was completely oblivious.
They were both out of place, and anyone else in the bar would notice just
as quickly as he did.
The man at the bar paused from his analysis to take a sip of the
drink that had been set before him by the bartender. He winced as the
fiery liquid slid down his throat, realizing that there had been a
miscommunication somewhere. He knocked on the table top to get the
bartender's attention. "What is this?" he asked the bartender coolly.
"You asked for a Long Island iced tea, right?" the bartender
queried. "Well, that's what I got you."
The patron smiled, despite his annoyance. He had run into this
before. "You misunderstood," he said. "When I asked you for an iced tea,
I meant tea. Brewed. From tea leaves. No lemon, no sugar, lots of ice.
Can you manage?"
The bartender wrinkled his brow at the eccentric order. From the
moment the man sat down at the stool, the bartender knew the pony-tailed
man in the stool before him was not a typical customer. Despite the
dimmed lights and hot, smoky haze, he had not removed his sunglasses,
his long black coat, or his black leather gloves. He sat bolt upright, his
hands folded neatly in front of him. He had barely moved a muscle since
he sat down more than twenty minutes ago. He had initially told the
bartender that he was waiting for someone, but he did not elaborate. The
patron with his black coat and even blacker hair was painting a curious,
albeit foggy, picture of his intent. "Sorry about the mix-up," the bartender
said apologetically. "We don't get many people in here who just want tea.
When you asked, I just assumed--"
"Forget it," the man cut him off as he reached into his pocket and
pulled out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. He lighted one and took a
drag. "Just get the tea."
"Right. Right away," the bartender said. He adjourned to a back
room, where he kept the proper beverage materials to fill his customer's
order. The man sighed shallowly, knowing the wait for his iced tea would
be long. He took two more puffs of his cigarette before setting it down in
a nearby ashtray.
Another couple of minutes later, a man entered the tavern and took
a seat one stool removed from him at the bar. He glanced down at his
watch; right on time. For the past twenty minutes people had been
entering the bar, one every five minutes, taking strategic positions around
him in the room. A red-haired man sat in a corner to his right, two booths
away from the pair of ladies. Another, sporting a goatee and narrow eyes,
sat at the end of the bar to his left. He glanced at the small mirrors he had
adhered to the inside-bottoms of the lenses of his aviator-style sunglasses,
and saw the third man, a skinny guy with wild brown hair, who had been
staring intently at the back of his ponytail for fifteen minutes. The man
next to him at the bar was the fourth to come in, and the group now
seemed to successfully have him surrounded on all sides.
He took another easy inhale of his cigarette and snuffed it out in
the tray. "Excuse me, sir," he said to the man next to him, "but would
you happen to have the correct time?"
As the man two stools down brought his arm up to check his
timepiece, the pony-tailed patron watched closely as his jacket stretched
just enough to reveal the rough outline of a pistol tucked in an inside
pocket. "It's about ten to three," the man responded.
"Thank you," he replied with a nod. His hunch that he had been
followed was right. It was only a matter of time before one of them made
their move. He would have to make one first.
The bartender emerged with a glass of golden liquid laden with ice
cubes. He set the glass before the patron. "Here's your tea," he
announced. "Sorry it took so long."
"Not a problem," the patron said. He reached into his pocket and
pulled out a fifty jurai note and quickly scrawled something across it with
a pen beneath the table. He handed the folded bill to the bartender.
"Here's a tip," he said flatly.
"Thank you, sir," the bartender beamed. He was about to pocket
the bill when he noticed something written across the face of the currency.
In large black letters was the phrase, "GET DOWN!!"
No sooner had he finished reading the message than the patron
leapt from his seat and plunged a dagger into the throat of the man who sat
next to him. In a tumultuous gargle of spit and blood he fell over lifeless
onto the bar, dark red blood spewing forth from the yawning hole in his
neck. At the harrowing spectacle, the bartender decided to take the advice
of the fifty jurai note.
Simultaneously, the other three men sitting around him snapped
from their chairs and drew pistols, which they began firing at the patron.
In a hypnotic motion, the patron responded by flaring his coat and reaching
behind him, his gloved hands emerging with a pair of pistols. In a
continuation of the fluid motion, he leapt headlong to his side and twisted
in midair, snapping off a series of quick shots at his assailants. Skinny and
Goatee went down heavily, blood spraying from the multitude of exit
wounds they incurred between their shoulder blades. The red-haired one,
whom the patron had propelled himself towards, was not able to aim at his
airborne target before he was reached by him and had his legs knocked out
from under him. As the redhead went down, the patron slid on his back
and shot twice, both bullets finding their mark in the center mass of his
target. Quite dead, the redhead finished his fall to the dirty tiled floor.
The bartender, who had deviated from his original plan to stay hidden and
peeked over the countertop, was astounded. In six seconds, he had four
corpses on his hands.
The patron barely had time to stand up before half a dozen men
filed into the bar with guns blazing. Two with machine guns tried to flank
him, while the other four ran straight at him with pistols firing. The patron
leapt backwards off his front foot, managing to empty his clips into the
fray. The two machine gunners fell dead before the patron knocked over a
table and took refuge behind it. He dropped his empty clips and popped
two fresh ones in, and immediately stood up to resume the fight, only to
find that, in the few brief seconds it took him to reload, the men were upon
him, their pistols pointed at his head. They quickly moved in and
surrounded him on four sides, their guns trained on his head.
As the pale smoke from the spent cartridges dissipated, another
man entered the bar. He sported a similar long coat, the only difference
being that it was dark gray in color. He stopped short of the patron and
smiled. He looked around the floor that was quickly becoming swelled
with pools of crimson. "Very good," he said. "Six men. I see you haven't
lost your edge."
"Either that, or good help is hard to find," the patron replied
bitingly.
The man in the gray coat laughed. "I suppose it always is," he
said, his aquamarine eyes regarding him icily. "That's why I have to kill
you, Merchant."
For a brief second, his eyes caught sight of the pair of women he
had seen earlier. He was relieved to see that they had taken refuge under
the table, and were largely out of sight. The blue-haired one seemed to be
taking stock of the situation, but the blonde looked as though she were
about to burst out crying. He hoped she could hold her tears and that they
both had the good sense to remain hidden. "You don't have to do
anything, Rook," the patron said.
"You may be right," Rook replied, "but I still have my loyalties.
It's quite a shame, too. I used to enjoy playing chess with you, Merchant.
But now, sadly, it's checkmate."
The patron's eyes shifted about underneath his eyewear. His
gloved hands, still tightly clutching his smoking weapons, began reaching
for the sky, as if to surrender. He carefully analyzed the position of the
gunmen, and mentally plotted them all out in relation to himself. He
would need to get the angles perfect. Suddenly, he pointed one gun over
his shoulder and the other straight ahead and pulled both triggers at once.
Both of his targets, the men directly behind him and in front of him, were
dead before they hit the ground, bullets passing through their respective
hearts. The other two men surrounding the patron shot at him, but hit
nothing as he relaxed his legs and fell to the floor. The two assailants got
caught in their own crossfire and lurched backwards as the hot lead ripped
through them. From his back on the floor, the patron finished the job,
whizzing a pair of bullets into each of their chests. They, too, fell dead
and bleeding.
The patron rolled to a crouch and stood up, only to find that he was
not the only one who had noticed the girls hiding under the table. The
man in the gray coat had wrenched the blonde from her hiding place and
stood behind her, a pistol pressed against her head. To the patron's great
surprise, however, the blue-haired one leapt up and pulled a gun of her
own out from underneath her sweater. "Let her go now!" she shouted.
The patron recognized the weapon the woman brandished.
[Goddammit!] he thought. [A cop. This I don't need.]
"Both of you had better put your guns down right now," Rook said
firmly. "It pains me to have to resort to such base tactics, but it appears
you have left me no choice, Merchant."
"Let her go," the patron said evenly. "She has nothing to do with
this."
"I'm afraid I just recruited her," Rook responded. "Now, put down
your guns!"
Despite the threat, the patron still had his gun poised at the pair.
He saw a possible shot, and decided to go with it, despite knowing the risk
involved. He took a deep breath and steadied his hand. "Let's thread the
needle," he said. His pistol bucked sharply in his hand as he squeezed the
trigger.
The bullet entered just above Mihoshi's armpit, and she screamed
in pain as the searing projectile passed through her shoulder. However,
the bullet had not yet run its course. It leapt from Mihoshi's body to
Rook's, and imbedded itself into his heart. Both of them collapsed to the
ground. Hurriedly, the patron rushed forward and shoved Mihoshi out of
the way, and snapped off two quick shots into Rook's chest, just to be
sure. Satisfied that Rook was dead, he wheeled around and holstered his
pistols to his back, and began walking to the bar. Suddenly, he heard a
familiar metallic click.
"Stop right there!" Kiyone shouted, after she pointed her sidearm at
the man in the black coat. "I am Detective First Class Kiyone of the
Galaxy Police, and I am placing you under arrest!"
The patron stopped at the bar and reached for the iced tea he had
left there earlier. He calmly took a sip. "Don't get in my way," he
growled.
Kiyone persisted, as her partner howled in pain beside her,
crumpled on the floor. "You are under arrest for murder," she shouted,
"and assaulting an officer. Put your guns down! NOW!"
Seeing no other option, he imperceptibly reached into an inner
pocket and grasped the derringer he kept within it. He carefully studied
the police officer in the mirrors adhered to the lenses of his sunglasses that
displayed all potential blind spots. He took a deep breath as he lined up
the gun from within his coat. "Let's thread the needle," he whispered. He
pulled the trigger and sent the bullet on its way. The bullet found its mark,
and wrenched Kiyone's blaster from her hands. As the GP-issue sidearm
clattered to the floor, the patron drew one of his pistols and pointed it at
Kiyone's head.
"I told you not to get in my way," he hissed.
Kiyone cursed herself for not filling her ankle-holster, and her
partner for leaving her blaster on board Yagami. With his pistol still
trained on her forehead, the patron walked over and picked up Kiyone's
blaster, stuffing it into one of his pockets. He then approached the pair.
"Sit down," he instructed Kiyone. She begrudgingly complied.
What he did next surprised her. He grabbed a handful of napkins
from a nearby table and knelt next to Mihoshi. He laid the napkins on the
wound in her shoulder, and moved her hand on top of them. "Press down
hard," he said softly. "It will slow the bleeding."
Mihoshi was still bawling, but knew enough about first aid to do
what she had been told. She continued to whimper with a mixture of pain
and fear.
"What's your name?" the patron asked.
"M-M-Mihoshi," she stuttered between sniffles.
As he looked into her teary blue eyes, he could feel an all-too-
familiar pain rise up from the pit of his stomach. He struggled to fight it
off. "Listen to me, Mihoshi," the man said, looking directly at her face.
"The bullet I shot you with went through nice and clean. There will be no
permanent damage, but you're bleeding quite a bit. I'll take you with me
and make sure you get it treated."
"No way!" Kiyone objected. "If anything, you're coming with us!
I placed you under arrest!"
"You're in no position to argue!" the man snapped. "In about ten
minutes, this place is going to be overrun with many people who have
many guns and not much patience. You might not want to trust me, but
you sure as hell can't trust them! Right now, I'm your only way out!"
Kiyone remained silent, resenting the fact that there was indeed
little that she could do. For the moment, she was at the mercy of the man
with the guns. He winced in pain as her blue eyes regarded him icily.
"Bartender!" he shouted.
The bartender poked his head up from behind the counter, his eyes
wide. "Get two small bags and fill them with ice. Pronto!" The bartender
scrambled to comply.
"Why... why are you helping me?" Mihoshi asked hesitantly.
"It's because of me that you're bleeding," he said matter-of-factly.
"The least I could do is make sure you're okay."
"The least you could have done is let me handle it in the first
place!" Kiyone said hotly. "I had my gun aimed at his head!"
"Trust me," the man said, "if you had shot him, you would be as
good as dead. The Zaibatsu is kind of fanatical about that."
"The... the... the Zaibatsu?" Kiyone stammered in horror.
"So, now you know who you're dealing with," the man said.
"You'll be much better off if you let me help you." He struggled to keep
himself together, the pain in his stomach becoming nearly unbearable. He
redoubled his efforts to focus as beads of sweat began to slide down his
face.
The bartender then raced over with the bags of ice. The patron
removed his belt. "Stay still," he said to Mihoshi. He placed an ice bag
over both her entrance and exit wounds, then cinched his belt securely
around them to keep them in place. He helped Mihoshi to her feet. "Try
not to move your arm too much," he instructed her. Mihoshi's eyes were
still misty from her ordeal.
"You two walk in front," the man instructed through teeth gritted
in pain, gesturing to Kiyone and Mihoshi. "We're going to the docking
bay. And no funny business; I'll shoot to wound."
"Hey, what about me?!" the bartender asked hysterically as the
three made their way to the door. "What's going to happen to me when
these guys show up?"
"Just tell them Merchant was here, and you'll be fine," the man
shouted over his shoulder, his hand clutching his tumultuously aching
stomach. As an afterthought, he added, "Oh, yeah, and make them any
drink that they ask for." With a flare of his coat, he was out the door.
The bartender wrung his hands nervously. He hoped nobody asked
for a Bloody Mary; he had run out of tomato juice.

Chapter 2: Tech-master Flash

Kiyone tightly clutched the hand on Mihoshi's uninjured arm as
she reluctantly led her to the docking bay, the barrel of a gun behind them.
"Don't worry, Mihoshi, I'll get you to a hospital," she assured her partner,
who continued to whimper in pain.
"No good," the man behind them said tersely. "The nearest
hospital is too far away. There could be complications from infection if
we chance it." Mihoshi's bawling began anew at the news.
"Well, then, what do you propose we do?" Kiyone asked angrily.
"Seems to me you didn't think this through all the way."
"Nothing I can't handle," the man replied. "I've got some medical
equipment on my ship; we'll get her taken care of."
"Oh, so you're a doctor, now?" Kiyone asked sarcastically.
"Not me, no," the man replied. He reached into a coat pocket and
pulled out what appeared to be a two-way radio. "Tech-master Flash,
please acknowledge with pseudonyms," he spoke into it.
After a brief crackle, a youthful voice came through. "Sanyasi, that
you?" the voice asked. "You took longer than I thought. I thought
something might have happened."
"Yeah, well, something did happen," the man replied. "We need to
get out of here pretty fast, so prep the ship to disembark. And get our
medical supplies ready."
"Why? You hurt?" the voice asked.
"Not me," the man informed him. "I'm afraid we'll be taking
some guests with us."
"I don't like the sound of that," the voice said.
"One more thing," the man added. "Check the registrations of the
ships docked here, and see if there's one from the Galaxy Police."
"Sure," the voice said. "One second." Over the radio, the ticking
of computer keys could be heard. After a few moments, the voice said,
"Yeah, there is one. It's a patrol ship called Yagami, registered to
Detectives First Class Kiyone Makibi and Mihoshi Kuramitsu."
"Alright," the man said slowly. "I need you to hack into the
docking system and release the clamps. We're taking that ship with us."
"We're gonna do what?!" the voice asked in a tone of outrage.
"You're gonna steal a GP cruiser? Are you insane?!"
"It's not stealing," the man said, "when the owners come along."
"You didn't..." the voice trailed off. "You're right, it's not
stealing. I believe what you're doing is called kidnapping!"
"Don't argue with me," the man said firmly. "Just take care of it,
okay?"
"If you insist," the voice said. "We'll be ready to go in about four
minutes."
"Make it three," the man said. "Time is critical."
"I'll see what I can do," the voice responded. "Tech-master Flash
out."
With a static click, the communication ended, and the radio
returned to its designated pocket in the man's long black coat. He
continued to herd the pair of officers down the corridor that led to the
docking bay.
Kiyone was becoming very impatient with her abductor. "Well, if
you're going to make us come with you," she growled, "at least tell me
who you are."
"It wouldn't make any difference," the man said. "But, if it makes
you feel better, call me Sanyasi." Before Kiyone could respond, they had
come to the door to the docking bay. It slid open easily before them, and
Sanyasi motioned them through with a wave of his pistol. "This way," he
directed them. "Dock C."
They reached the dock and boarded a dilapidated-looking ship that
was about half the size of Yagami. Kiyone couldn't help but feel that the
ship was familiar to her somehow. Through the bay windows, they saw on
the side of the craft the faded, barely legible word, "Certiorari." Sanyasi
followed closely as the two officers boarded the ship.
He led them to what appeared to be the control room. At the helm,
a figure sat in the center seat, busily ticking away at a console. He turned
around when he heard the three enter. Kiyone's eyebrows went up in
surprise as the figure revealed himself to be a boy who couldn't have
possibly been older than fifteen.
The boy's eyebrows went up as well, as he got an eyeful of the two
officers. "Holy shit, they're gorgeous!" he exclaimed. "I call dibs on the
blonde."
"Sorry, but fun-time will have to wait," Sanyasi reported. "She's
wounded. Gunshot wound to the shoulder. Patch her up before she bleeds
to death, would you?"
"Oh, so she's the one who got hurt," he replied thoughtfully. "No
problem! I'll have her good as new in no time. The ship's all set to take
off. I take it that these two ladies are the owners of said GP ship?"
"Yup," Sanyasi said plainly. "I'll fasten the tow clamps. You take
care of Mihoshi."
"Right away!" the young man said with a salute. He placed his
hand on the small of Mihoshi's back to guide her to the makeshift
infirmary. "Don't worry," he told her in a soothing voice, "you're going to
be just fine. So, your name is Mihoshi? That's a nice name; it really
rolls off the tongue. I must say, you're much prettier in person than on
your registration photo..." He prattled on as such until he was out of
earshot of Sanyasi and Kiyone.
"I find it hard to believe that that kid can help Mihoshi," Kiyone
said icily.
"You'd be surprised," Sanyasi said. "He's a Jack-of-all-trades."
"Did you kidnap him, too?" Kiyone asked evenly.
"Of course not," Sanyasi replied, not giving any indication whether
or not he was offended. He started up the ship and motored it around to
where Yagami was docked, using one hand to steer the ship, with the other
hand still holding a gun pointing at Kiyone's chest. He securely fastened
the tow clamps and increased engine output to back the ship from the
docking bay. Once the two ships were clear, they began a swift retreat
from the station, engines at maximum output to compensate for the heavy
ship in tow.
With an abstract course laid in, Sanyasi turned his full attention
back to Kiyone. "Now that we've all been properly introduced," he said
wryly, "let me show you to your quarters." He got up from his seat and led
Kiyone to a small eight-by-ten cell, complete with bars and a flat-board
bed.
Suddenly it flashed in Kiyone's mind why the ship seemed
familiar; it was a prison transport ship. It was a much older model than she
was used to seeing, but the design was definitely consistent. "How did you
manage to get a prison transport vessel?" she asked.
"I bought it surplus after the police departments phased out the
design," Sanyasi said. "I never intended it to be used for the purpose it
was originally intended for, but I'm thankful for it now that I have a place
to put you. Go ahead and make yourself as comfortable as you can. I'll be
back to check on you in a little while."
"You're just going to leave me in here?" Kiyone asked.
"Have to," Sanyasi replied. "I've got things to do. Don't worry,
you'll be fine in here. Just relax." He shut her within the small room and
locked it behind him. Kiyone sighed angrily as she watched Sanyasi
through the bars, walking nonchalantly down the hall. It appeared as
though she would have to resign herself to confinement for the moment.
However, it would not be long before she would attempt her escape.

"Try not to move so much," the young man said as he busily
attended to Mihoshi's wound.
"But it hurts!" Mihoshi howled.
"Of course it hurts; you've been shot," he said. "I'm working as
fast as I can. On the plus side, the wound looks fairly clean. No bone
fragments or major arteries punctured. Damn, that guy is a good shot! If
you want to get shot by anyone, you want to get shot by him, that's for
sure."
"But why did he shoot me in the first place?" Mihoshi asked. "I
never did anything to him."
"That tends not to matter with him," he answered. "But, you're not
dead, so he obviously doesn't have anything against you."
"This is the worst vacation ever!" she declared as she brought her
free hand up to her face.
"Hey, don't cry," he said gently. "Things could be a lot worse.
But right now you're in the hands of a very capable individual who is
doing his best to speed along your recovery. I'd say that's worth
something."
"So, are you a doctor, or something?" Mihoshi asked.
"I might as well be," he answered. "I've got everything but the
degree and the nametag. I've researched a lot of medical journals, and I've
had practice patching Sanyasi up. He's always got people shooting at him.
Speaking of which, what happened at the bar, anyway? As usual, I
couldn't get a straight answer out of him."
"It all happened so fast," Mihoshi related. "One minute everything
was fine, and the next minute everyone's shooting at each other and
Kiyone pulled me under the table. Then that guy grabbed me and I got
shot and the guy was dead but he shot him again anyway and he shot at
Kiyone and I don't know what's going on!" She started to tear up again.
The young man picked up a wad of gauze and gave it to Mihoshi,
who promptly blew her nose into it as she sniffled. "Everything's okay
now," he said in a soothing voice. "You're safe here. Sanyasi wouldn't
have brought you back if he didn't want you to stay safe."
Mihoshi breathed heavily as she collected herself. "Sanyasi is kind
of a funny name," she said.
"It's not his real name," the young man revealed. "He doesn't tell
anyone his real name."
"Why not?" Mihoshi asked.
"I'm not sure," he replied with a shake of his head. "As far as I
know, I'm the only one he's ever told it to. I guess that's because he trusts
me, maybe."
"Is Tap-dancer Flash your real name?" Mihoshi asked.
The young man laughed. "Actually, it's Tech-master Flash," he
corrected her, "and no, that's not my real name. You can call me Iggy."
"Iggy?" Mihoshi echoed. She thought it was an unusual name.
"Yep!" he said heartily. "Short for Ignatius Worthington
Gilbride."
"That's kind of a funny name, too," Mihoshi said, abandoning all
tact as per usual.
"Well, you're certainly not the first person to tell me that," Iggy
responded. He wrapped Mihoshi's shoulder with clean gauze. "There we
go, all set," he announced.
Mihoshi stood up and moved her arm, and yelped at the sharp pain
that coursed down it.
"Don't try to move it!" Iggy said desperately. "You have to give it
a chance to heal first. Hang on a second..." His eyes roved around the
room looking for something, until he galloped to a corner to pick up a shirt
off the floor. He tied the sleeves together, and looped it over Mihoshi's
head. He then gently maneuvered her arm into the makeshift sling. "Just
keep it immobilized for a while," he instructed. "It will stiffen up and start
to ache soon, but that should go away in a couple of days. I doused it
pretty well with disinfectant, so there shouldn't be any problems."
Suddenly they both turned to the doorway where Sanyasi was
poking his head into the room, his coal-black ponytail hanging over his
shoulder. "Have you taken care of her injury?" he asked, his heavy voice
monotone.
"Yeah, she's all set!" Iggy chirped. He then noticed the way
Sanyasi was hunched over a little. "You don't look so good," he observed.
"You okay?"
"I'll be fine," Sanyasi reported curtly. "Put her in one of the
cells next to the other girl, and make sure she can't get out. I'll figure out
what to do with them later."
"Roger!" Iggy said with a salute. With that, Sanyasi made his way
to his own room. He closed the door behind him and promptly collapsed
to the ground. The pain that had been steadily growing in his stomach had
become unbearable. He crawled to a small locker on the floor which he
opened and procured a small white bottle. He uncapped it and shook out a
pair of blue and white pills which he quickly swallowed without water.
He lay curled in the fetal position on the floor, sweating profusely and
clenching his teeth, waiting for the medication to take effect. After about a
minute, he felt the soothing relief begin to flow through his body. He sat
up slowly, and slid over to a small refrigerator in the corner. He withdrew
a bottle filled with iced tea, and took several swigs. He breathed heavily
as he leaned his back against the wall. He took a cigarette out of his pack
and lit it with the same hand, taking two long inhales.
Looking down at the bottle of pills that was still clutched tightly in
his hand, he said wearily, "Maybe I'll never get over this."

Chapter 3: A Few Steps Behind

The man in the gray long coat stood in the center of the bar,
looking around at the carnage, inwardly seething. "Eleven men," he
growled. "He killed eleven of my fucking men!"
"Just like the last time," the tall woman at his side said.
"Do not remind me, Opal," he said firmly looking into her good
eye. Her other eye was covered by a black eye patch.
"Perhaps we are not taking him seriously enough," Opal suggested.
"He has been my top priority for two years," the man replied icily.
"I've maintained the illusion that it's business as usual, but, underneath it
all, Merchant is the only thing I care about. And I will not rest until I hold
his still beating heart in my hands!"
"Sir, do you think we have the manpower to take him out?" Opal
asked with interest. "I mean, if eleven men couldn't do it, and with Rook
included, how much is it going to take?"
"It doesn't matter if it takes two or two hundred," the man said. "I
will not let him take down any more of my lieutenants!"
Suddenly the back room doors burst open, and two burly men
stepped through each holding one of the bartender's arms. He was
bleeding from his nose and a split lower lip, which were both swollen.
One of his eyes was red and puffy. The two men forcibly shoved him
away, leaving him to lean weakly on the table top for support.
The man in the gray coat regarded his two henchmen
emotionlessly. "What about it?" he asked.
"It was definitely Merchant," one of the men spoke up. "He says
he sat here for about twenty minutes, then started shooting the place up.
He left with a couple of cops."
"Cops?" the man asked.
"Yes, sir," his muscular subordinate confirmed. "Two women
Galaxy Police officers. He says he doesn't know anything else."
"Do you believe that?" he asked.
"Well, we worked him over pretty good," the other henchman said.
The man in the gray coat nodded. "Then I assume he has nothing
more to tell us," he said. "Thank you, gentlemen, that will be all. Opal, do
something about these bodies, please."
"Yes, sir," she said authoritatively as she wheeled around to obtain
assistance. The two large men followed her out the door. With a heavy
sigh the man in the gray coat sat down at the bar. The bartender was
transfixed on him with terror-stricken eyes, blood slowly leaking from his
right nostril.
The man flashed him an oily smile. "Don't worry," he said, "the
unpleasant part is over. I must apologize for the gruffness of my
associates, but I find that physical coercion is the only way to get a straight
answer out of people. Thank you for cooperating, by the way."
"You're with the Zaibatsu," the bartender said hesitantly.
The man regarded him with his pale gray eyes, so pale that they
almost appeared white, giving his face a very far-away appearance. "My
friend, I am the Zaibatsu," he declared. The bartender's eyes widened in
terror, which caused the man to laugh. "You look like I've got a gun to
your head, you know that?" he chuckled. "Whether or not you feel the
need to fear me is entirely dependent on you. And, right now, you're
hardly worth a bullet, so relax." He ran a hand through his icy blue hair.
"Man, I need a drink," he declared. "Would it be too much to ask for you
to get me a scotch on the rocks?"
Without speaking, the bartender quickly loaded a glass with ice and
filled it to the brim with scotch, and set it before the man with a shaking
hand. The man casually lifted the glass to his lips and took a sip. He
smacked his lips as he set the glass back down. "That's mighty good
scotch," he complemented. "I'd ask you to pour yourself a glass, but the
alcohol would just sting all those cuts in your mouth."
The bartender finally found the voice he was looking for. "So
you're him," he said distantly, as if watching a dream unfold. "The leader
of the Zaibatsu. You're Messiah."
The man glanced up from his glass. "I see my reputation precedes
me," he said with false pride. "And so my legend grows."
By then, men had begun filing in to transport the bodies. They
were unceremoniously zipped into black bags before being carted away,
one man grasping the feet, and the other holding the head. The bodies
began disappearing out the door one at a time.
"What are you doing out here?" the bartender asked with a
quavering voice. "I've got nothing you could possibly want."
"Not true," Messiah said coolly. "I would very much like you to
clarify something for me. You said that Merchant left here with a pair of
women. A pair of police officers, correct?"
"Yeah," the bartender verified.
"Could you, maybe, tell me a little more about that?" Messiah
asked, leaning a little closer.
The bartender nervously wiped his forehead. "I don't know much
about all this," he confessed. "The one girl whipped out a gun and started
yelling that she was a cop, and this guy, Merchant, just shot the gun right
out of her hand without looking. Damnedest thing I ever seen."
"What happened then?" Messiah asked, truly interested.
"Well, then he helped me put ice on the other one's shoulder, the
one he'd shot before," he replied. "After that, he told me to tell you that
he'd been here, and he took the girls with him."
"Is that all he said?" queried Messiah.
"Well," the bartender went on a bit hesitantly, "he also warned me
to make you any drink that you asked for..."
Messiah frowned. "He's mocking me," he grumbled to himself.
He then straightened up on his stool. "You wouldn't happen to know the
names of these officers, would you?" he asked to the bartender.
"Oh, damn, what was her name?" he asked to himself, his eyes
nervously roving for the invisible answer. "The blonde one. It started
with an 'M,' I think. Mo... Mi... Mihoshi! That's it!"
"Hmm," Messiah vocalized as he put a hand on his chin in thought.
"Interesting that he should force those two to come along. Especially after
shooting one of them. I wonder if he's trying to get on the bad side of the
GP?"
"Why are you after this guy?" the bartender asked suddenly.
"What did he do?"
Messiah looked at him icily. "That is none of your concern," he
said dismissively. "You leave Merchant to us, and you concentrate on
running your establishment. And serving more of this fine scotch." With
a final gulp he finished off the rust-colored liquid in his glass. He stood
from his seat. "Thank you for the drink," he said with a nod. He turned to
exit the room. "And thank you for the information. My men will finish
wiping the blood off your floor."
Upon exiting the bar, Messiah found Opal standing outside. "All
the bodies have been moved on board the ship," she reported.
"Good," Messiah said flatly. "I have something I need you to look
up for me. Find anything you can about a Galaxy Police detective named
Mihoshi. She's one of the two that Merchant took with him."
"He took two GPs with him?" Opal asked in surprise. "What for?"
"A menage, maybe?" Messiah said with a shrug. "Your guess is as
good as mine. But get the information for me; it may prove to be a solid
lead."
"Yes, sir," she said sharply as she quickened her pace to return to
the ship.
Upon entering the docking bay, Messiah was immediately
approached by one of his underlings. "The bodies have been secured," he
announced. "We're ready to depart."
"I'll be on board in a minute," Messiah said, not even looking him
in the eye.
"Yes, sir," the man said as he wheeled around and boarded the
ship.
Messiah took a deep breath. This was not the first time Merchant
had evaded him. It had happened more times than he had cared to
remember, in fact. Seven of his best men, and numerous enforcers had all
met their end at the hands of this one impossible man, who had seemingly
sold his soul to the devil. He clenched his fist angrily as he gazed at the
stars through the glass of the docking bay.
"Merchant, I will find you," he vowed through clenched teeth, "and
I will put an end to this sick game of yours once and for all..."