2012
Omi clan office
Osaka
3:47 PM
"What do you say, Mister Omi?" Shinji Omi – the blue-haired patriarch of the Omi clan – took a drag of his cigarette as the brown-haired foreigner finished speaking. "Do you accept?"
The yakuza boss let out a puff of smoke before shaking the stick above an ashtray.
"You've certainly made an enticing offer, Fixer." He remarked.
"You don't trust me?" The Fixer raised an eyebrow. "Despite the fact that we've graciously bent our rules for you?"
"The Omi clan is thankful to the High Table for the early warning against the Shimazu's attack," Shinji assured the man. "However…"
"To request a meeting and then offer a favor?" The kingpin continued. "Forgive me for finding this… dubious."
"You're refusing the High Table." The air felt heavier upon the Fixer's statement. "Is that what you're saying?"
"No." The Omi chairman shook his head. "I just want to know the full extent of what is to be expected if I were to accept."
"I see." A smile stretched across the brunette's lips. "In that case, if the Omi were to eliminate Azrael, the High Table would assist your clan in taking control of the Osaka Continental."
Shinji's eyes widened. How could he have-
"The High Table possesses knowledge of many things, Mister Omi." The agent's smile curled. "We reward those who maintain and keep the peace. Yoru Wick is an arsonist who needs to be shot before she can reduce everything we worked for to cinders."
"The favor I'm granting you is a gift." The Fixer interlaced his fingers and sat up. "Something to help you weather Azrael's assault."
"Pah!" The yakuza boss intoned. "She is just one woman. She will tire, she will slow, and she will be brought down."
"You're quite confident." The Fixer remarked.
"My preparations are thorough." Shinji cryptically replied. "She'll drown in bodies before she even catches sight of me."
"I see." The High Table liaison nodded. "I can only caution you not to repeat the same mistake so many others have made. The Ruska Roma has a penchant for creating monsters."
This time, the clan head remained silent. His lip involuntarily twitched, a tell he was sure the other man had caught.
"You still haven't given me an answer, Shinji." The Fixer stated after a couple of moments. "Are you accepting or rejecting our offer?"
"I accept the offer." The kingpin replied. "I want you to kill the Angel of Death before she enters Osaka."
"That is an interesting request." The brunette commented.
"Are you unable to do so?" Shinji questioned the agent.
"We will certainly attempt to fulfill such a demand." The clan head shifted in his seat, his expression slightly shifting at the way the foreigner worded his response.
"Don't worry too much." The Fixer continued. "We understand your reasons for requesting such a thing. After all, the outcome of a battle is decided before a single shot is ever fired."
"I believe that'll conclude our meeting." The High-Table liaison stood up. "Have a nice day, Shinji. Best of luck to you."
The agent casually strolled over to the door, unheeding of the low growl of the Omi chairman. He twisted the door handle, opened it, then calmly strolled out into an empty compound. The hinges let out a low moan as the door slowly shut.
*Tuck*
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A few days later
High-end restaurant's private room
Osaka
4:34 PM
In a private room housed within one of Osaka's high-end restaurants, three figures sat around a circular table. The air was thick, as though a weighted blanket was draped across every surface of the space.
Plates of wagyu steak, fugu, and fried calamari sat in front of them. Each dish had reached room temperature, untouched and long past the window in which they were supposed to be eaten.
Shinji impatiently tapped on the cloth-covered table. Not a word had been spoken since they ordered what they wanted from the menu. The mob boss grew weary at the fact that no one wanted to be the first to break the tension. He internally sighed. With nothing better to do, he looked at the two other people in the room.
Sitting to his right was Kenuichiro Yashida, the Silver Samurai. However, Shinji believes that's an inaccurate moniker. The Turtle fits him a lot better.
He's an old man with short silver hair and a bushy mustache. His scarred face is eternally locked in a stoic frown. Whether that's because his facial muscles had gotten stiffer due to age or he's just leaning really far into the warrior aesthetic, the Omi patriarch is unsure.
However, despite the Yashida clan head's apparent age, Shinji knew that underneath that gray kimono was a stout body that could easily break lesser men in half.
The older crime lord was an old-fashioned yakuza. He cemented his power base back when the Omi still controlled the Osaka Continental. Kenuichiro is cautious, choosing slow and quiet acquisition instead of bloody territorial disputes. Whenever territorial conflicts do flare up, the Yashida clan hunkers down and makes incursions into the areas they control too costly to bother with.
Had the High Table not deconsecrated the Osaka Continental when the Shimazu had control, Kenuichiro would've remained a small player in the Osaka Underworld.
Shinji then turned his gaze to the girl sitting to his left.
Hirabayashi Suzume – known more widely as Sparrow – the Ishii clan's first captain. Her short brown hair fell just barely reaching her chin in a shaggy bob cut. The girl's unblemished features are molded in tranquility, a gentler way to school her expressions in comparison to the Yashida patriarch.
Hirabayashi looked harmless upon first glance. She's the youngest person in the room – right around high-school age in fact – and her small stature doesn't inspire much confidence in her abilities. However, she was put in charge of the Ishii clan's holdings in Osaka for a reason.
The Ishii clan mainly operates in Tokyo. The current force in Osaka came to the city to hunt down the remnants of an enemy clan after a brutal gang war a couple of years ago. But instead of departing after completing their macabre work, Aoi Ishii – ever the opportunist – ordered her first captain to take over their fallen enemies' holdings and set up a branch of the clan there.
In stark contrast to the Yashida Clan's quiet and gradual expansion, the Ishii explosively gained territory with bursts of violence. Aggression was almost always answered with even more aggression. A street taken from them turns into ten they seize in retribution. In terms of martial might, the group has no equal in Osaka. The only thing holding them back is their lack of numbers.
The three of them were bitter rivals, but circumstances forced them to meet in person for the first time. Say what you will, but the threat of total annihilation fosters the spirit of cooperation like no other.
Another half a minute passed. The condensation underneath Shinji's plate had long since evaporated; no one had said a word.
The Omi patriarch reached into his pockets for his pack of cigarettes and a lighter. If the first meeting of this so-called Three Clans Alliance would consist of him sitting in silence, the crime lord might as well smoke.
"Omi-san," Hirabayashi called out, breaking the silence.
Shinji looked over at the brunette, only to see her pointing toward a no-smoking sign on the wall.
"Heh." He scoffed. "What are they going to do about it?"
"The workers? Probably nothing." The girl admitted. "But I don't like the smell of cigarettes. I would be very inclined to stop you if you were to go any further, Omi-san."
The blue-haired man glowered, sparking his lighter to dare the swordswoman to do something. Sparrow narrowed her gaze and rested a hand on one of the blades sheathed by her hip.
"Omi-dono, Suzume-san," Kenuichiro spoke up before the tense standoff could erupt into violence. "Posturing and threats are not what we came here for. We are all allies tonight."
The two turned their gaze to the scarred crime lord, then toward each other once more.
"Put it away, and we would have no problems, Omi-san." Hirabayashi was the first to acquiesce, lifting her hand from her sword to put it on the table. "The smell of smoke agitates me."
Shinji extinguished his lighter and returned the cigarette to its container.
"How about some drinks?" Kenuichiro suggested now that the air in the room wasn't two steps away from exploding. "I'm thinking a bottle of sake would be a nice way to start."
"I have no objections." The Omi chairman shook his head.
"I want some matcha." The Ishii captain followed soon after. "I'm not old enough to drink."
The old crime lord nodded before gesturing at one of the waiters to get her attention. A few minutes after relaying their order, he came back with their drinks in hand.
"The Shimazu girl is finally making her move." Kenuichiro started after a filled cup was set in front of him. "She declared war on us and sent out the Angel of Death as her opening move."
"After we exhaust ourselves dealing with Wick, she has free rein to deal with us as she pleases," Hirabayashi added. "That is, if she even needs to lift a finger at all."
"The Angel of Death is just one woman," Shinji stated after taking a sip of his drink.
"A woman with a proven track record of eliminating entire crime families." Sparrow retorted, almost incredulous at his blase attitude.
"And she can only do so because she caught them by surprise every single time." The Omi clan head responded. "We know she's coming."
"Assassins have a habit of evading notice right until they're about to land the killing blow," Kenuichiro interjected. "Even if we know the Angel of Death is coming, there is no way to pinpoint her exact location."
"Then what do you suppose we should do?" Shinji almost demanded, his heart stalled for a moment when he realized he had completely overlooked that aspect of the Angel of Death's abilities.
"How about hiring a tracker?" Hirabayashi suggested. "They're usually really good at sniffing out people who don't want to be found."
"That is a sound idea." The gray-haired yakuza boss acknowledged. "Although, what's stopping the Angel of Death from killing whoever we sent?"
"Nothing." The brunette replied. "That's why we would keep an open and active contract as long as Wick is in Osaka. If whoever we sent is killed, we'll just hire another."
"How could we guarantee that a tracker will take the job in the first place?" Shinji questioned. "They're not particularly brave."
"Then the reward must match the risk," Hirabayashi answered. "They are averse to risk, but they have a price just like anyone else who sells their services."
"How much are you thinking?" Kenuichiro inquired.
"Forty million yen should be good." The two men balked at the price.
"Forty million…" Shinji rolled the number across his tongue. "Who's financing it?"
"That is the billion-yen question, isn't it?" The girl remarked. "Who is paying for it?"
"This is your idea; you should be the one to pay for it." The Omi clan head responded.
"In that case, the tracker doesn't have to share information with either of you," Hirabayashi stated plainly. "After all, I'm the one paying them."
"That's…" The brunette casually took a sip of her matcha as Shinji struggled to come up with a response.
"Then we will split the costs amongst ourselves." Kenuichiro proposed. "A third of the contract from each of us."
"I find that agreeable," Hirabayashi affirmed, leaving the Omi head as the odd one out.
"I accept as well." Seeing no way out of the situation, he acquiesced.
"Great." The Ishii captain nodded. "Who should be hired?"
"Why are we discussing it?" Shinji turned toward the youngest member of the table. "Didn't you say the contract would be open and active?"
"Open and active so long as she's in Osaka," Hirabayashi repeated. "If we post the contract before the mission officially starts, our insider knowledge would be revealed. Forget dying to Wick at that point, Shimazu would have justification to call in aid from the other Continentals."
The Omi head chairman huffed and slumped back into his seat.
"I don't have anyone in mind," Kenuichiro admitted. "I never needed to hire them."
"And what about you, Omi-san?" Sparrow turned her attention to her fellow crime lord. "Got anyone in mind?"
"Bulldog," Shinji replied. "He's reliable and isn't averse to risky contracts like this."
"I think that Retriever would be the better option." Hirabayashi shook her head. "Her instincts are second to none. If there is anyone who can keep track of Wick, it's her. Bulldog is a bounty hunter first, tracker second. Retriever is the opposite."
"Retriever has a husband and kid." The Omi clan head scoffed. "That alone disqualifies her. She would never take the contract."
"You're refusing on conjecture." The Ishii captain retorted. "How would we know she will refuse if we never contact her in the first place?"
"Tsk." Shinji tsked, narrowing his brows at Hirabayashi's counter. "First of all…"
The two yakuza delved into a tense argument. Both stubbornly extolling their choice while deriding the other's. This wasn't just a matter of survival for the two anymore. No. This was a matter of pride, of supremacy. Hirabayashi had gotten approval for her idea, which put Shinji at a disadvantage in this negotiation. He needed his choice to move forward. The thought of anyone being above the head of the Omi clan – the largest yakuza clan in Osaka – grated him.
As for Kenuichiro, he said nothing as he sipped his sake. Their argument wasn't to convince the other why their choice was superior; it was to convince him. On that front, one crucial detail had swayed his decision long before the two devolved into mudslinging.
*Thack*
Kenuichiro slammed his empty cup onto the table, silencing the younger table occupants.
"While Omi-dono's candidate has merit, Ishii-san's choice fits better with what I'm about to propose." The old man asserted.
"Which is?" The Omi clan head beckoned.
"A bounty on Wick's head," Kenuichiro answered. "If Bulldog is as the two of you described, then he would die trying to claim it."
"A bounty…" Hirabayashi repeated ruminatively.
"This ensures she won't be fighting any of us fresh." The Silver Samurai clarified. "If she is half as capable as the Fixer paints her to be, then we need every edge, no matter how minor."
"How much are you thinking?" Sparrow inquired. "If I remember correctly, her father's was around three-point-two billion yen."
"A clean four billion," Kenuichiro replied. "A sum achievable if we pool all of our liquid assets together."
*Thuck*
"This is preposterous!!" Shinji smashed his fist onto the table, his face scrunched up in a leopard-like snarl. "You're demanding that I fund things I have no say in?!"
"There is no use being stingy now, Omi-dono." The old Yakuza boss responded. "Money is useless if you're not alive to spend it."
"Besides," Hirabayashi added. "We get trained assassins to throw at Wick without risking any of our personnel. If she dies to those who're after the bounty, we get to save our strength for Shimazu's attack."
Shinji backed down. There is no more use arguing when the two had clearly agreed to back each other's plan of action.
"In that case, let's talk business." Shinji began. "How exactly are we supposed to finance the bounty?"
Now that the negotiations had shifted to finance, the Omi head chairman began to gain ground. Although Hirabayashi and Kenuichiro both outclass him in pure partial might, they couldn't hope to compare to him in management. Shinji didn't spend decades expanding his reach all across Osaka just to be outdone by two people who never had to work a spreadsheet.
In the end, he walked out of that meeting satisfied, having clawed every benefit he could have out of the deal. With some careful maneuvering and meticulously placed questions, he's reaped more insight into their financials – a clan's lifeblood – than years of careful spying would've ever harvested.
Yes, the Angel of Death is just another obstacle he needed to overcome. After he eliminates the Shimazu's attack dog and grinds that upstart clan to dust once and for all, the Omi will regain its rightful place as the ruler of Osaka's dark underbelly.
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The next day
Rental apartment
Tokyo
6:43 AM
"WAHHHHHH!!!" A baby's cry shot through the quiet din of an apartment, violently jerking a couple awake.
"Hmmm…" A woman with short navy-blue hair opened her eyes, her upper body rising from the bed as the infant's wail bounced across the bedroom.
"Akiko, what time is it?" Her husband–a white-haired man – sluggishly reached for his glasses on the bedside table.
"6:43." She glanced at the alarm clock for a moment before tossing her portion of the blanket off herself. "A couple of minutes before our alarm."
"I'll go make us some coffee." Akiko nodded in agreement as she moved toward the crib. "It's almost time for us to wake up anyway."
"Shhh…" She gently cooed as she picked up her daughter. "It's okay, Akane-chan, mama's here. Mama's here."
The twenty-seven-year-old softly patted the baby on the back as her partner's footsteps got further and further away.
"Come on, let's get your diaper changed." Akiko made her way into the bathroom with the crying infant in hand.
She shut the door and locked it to give them privacy. A couple of minutes later, the woman walked out, having readied both herself and Akane for the day ahead.
"Osamu," Akiko called out to her husband as she came into the kitchen. "Can you get the formula?"
"Here." The cyan-eyed man took the bottle out of a bowl of warm water and set it on the counter.
"Thank you." She picked up the nursing cup after gently setting her baby into a high chair. The woman held the container to her baby's mouth as Osamu slipped past her to use the bathroom. Akane's tiny hands reached out, grasping the bottle's plastic top as she began to suckle.
Akiko left her daughter to drain the remainder of the formula and began to prepare food for her and her husband. She opened the fridge, only to be greeted by a half-carton of eggs, packaged bread, a half-empty container of miso paste, and saran-wrapped vegetables.
The navy-haired woman sighed and took out two eggs alongside a half-loaf of raisin bread, setting them down on the stone countertop before she reached into the cabinets for a cooking pot.
Once the metal container was filled with enough water to fill two bowls, she set it on the stove to boil.
Akane pulled the bottle from her lips with a pop and let out a satisfied burp while Akiko poured oil into a frying pan she lifted from a nearby hook. The infant babbled, demanding her mother's attention by banging the feeding cup on her chair's tray.
"Come on, Akane-chan." The woman softly pulled the container out of her daughter's hand. "You don't have to do that; mama's here."
"Need me to play with her?" She turned to Osamu, now wearing a white dress shirt with his bird's nest tamed.
Akiko nodded, quickly rushing over to crack two eggs into the sizzling-hot pan. Oil bubbled on contact, spitting hot droplets onto the stovetop. The woman paid it no mind. Instead, she grabbed a knife out of one of the drawers and started slicing raisin bread.
"We need to go shopping soon," Akiko remarked as she dragged the blade through the loaf. "Are you free this Sunday?"
"No, I'm covering for some of my seniors that day." Her husband shook her head. "Will Saturday work?"
"I planned to go out on Saturday." The woman responded while taking two plates out of the cupboard. "The weather is nice enough for a couple of errands."
"Hmm." Osamu hummed as his wife plated the bread slices. "I think I can run to the store after my shift today."
"The supermarket won't have anything good to sell that late." Akiko shook her head. "I can try to wrap up earlier tonight and buy some groceries."
"Sounds like a plan." The white-haired man remarked while his partner tended to the stove. "When do you think you'll be back?"
"Four, maybe five?" Oil sizzled once more as eggs were flipped. "I wouldn't be out later than six."
"That's later than usual," Osamu remarked.
"Yeah," Akiko tossed a dollop of miso paste into the now-boiling pot of water. "Managed to find a whole bunch of gigs last night."
"Do they seem… questionable?" The woman shook her head at the question.
"I asked around." She turned off the stove and transferred the cooked eggs onto the slices of bread. "Everyone says they're all legit."
"I see." The man nodded as his wife set down his plate in front of him. "I'll tell my parents you're coming later than usual."
"Buabah!" Akane thrust her hands out, making grabby motions at her father's breakfast.
"No, Akane-chan." Osamu gently patted his daughter as Akiko set down his bowl of miso soup. "This is not for you."
"Muaba!!" The infant protested, not understanding that she needed teeth to eat what her parents were eating.
"Here, Akane-chan." The woman scooped up a tiny portion of miso soup and blew on it until it was cool enough to drink. "Say ahhh."
Akane opened her mouth, and Akiko gently poured the broth into the baby's mouth.
"Bleh!" The infant stuck out her tongue when her brain fully processed the taste of the briny liquid.
"Haha, tastes very different from formula, doesn't it?" Osamu humorously remarked upon seeing his daughter's reaction. "This is grown-up food; you're not quite ready for that yet."
Breakfast passed without much incident after that. The couple continued preparing for the day ahead. Akiko finished getting dressed as her husband took care of the dishes.
She strolled out of the bedroom with her hair styled in a short stacked bob, her navy locks framing her gray eyes like a polaroid camera. A pale yellow scarf – its natural coloring bleached from years of sun exposure – was wrapped around her neck, resting atop her green army-style jacket similar to a flowering dandelion.
The woman hoisted an instrument case onto her right shoulder and entered the kitchen to find Osamu buttoning his police uniform as Akane sat in an infant car seat.
"Have a good day at work, honey." Akiko leaned in and kissed her husband on the cheek. "I'll see you tonight."
"I will." He smiled, giving her an appreciative nod as he put on his cap. "Bye, honey!"
The officer stepped out the door with the portable carrier in hand, closing the apartment door with a gentle noise.
*Thud*
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Building rooftop
Twenty minutes later
7:34 AM
Akiko stuck a comb pick into a reinforced padlock. The bolt released with a metallic clack, the lock hitting the ground with a metallic clack after she shimmied the instrument for a couple of seconds.
*Tuck* *Creeaaaakkkk*
The woman deposited the pick into her jacket pocket and pushed the door open. It groaned, the hinges rusted from years of disuse and exposure to the elements. Her eyes swept across the newly accessible area before she walked out and shut the door behind her.
The woman knelt near the eastern railing, removed the case slung over her right shoulder, and set it on the floor. She flicked the container's three clasps open, each unlatching with a metallic click.
But what's inside wasn't a musical instrument of any sort. No. Inside the felt linings was a disassembled rifle, a Remington 700 with a custom-fitted integral suppressor. A rifle was a tracker's signature, a tool of a trade that dealt in bodies and information.
She's married to a cop, and she's out here doing wet work and surveillance as her day job. There was humor to be found in the dichotomy. Her husband's job is to catch trespassers, arrest people who own illegal weapons, and throw killers behind bars. Yet, here Akiko is: free as a bird despite doing all three.
But for all the privileges being a tracker had brought her, the Tracker Guild is a tiny minnow compared to the leviathan that is the Continental in the grand scheme of things. Oh sure, the woman had access to the facilities the hotels offered, but the coins she earned barely covered travel and a couple of nights' stays.
Information? Weapons? The fancy bullet-proof suits? She can forget about those. Doors opened for assassins, but trackers had to climb through windows they broke with rocks they found on the sidewalk.
She inserted the fire control group of the rifle into the barrel assembly before dropping the barrel action into the gray fiberglass stock. Akiko turned the rifle around, slotting the trigger guard into the stock's underside and securing it all together with two long screws.
The woman slotted the bolt into the backside of the barrel action and pushed it forward. She racked the bolt several times, squeezing the trigger after each cycle to make sure the rifle functioned as intended. Upon finishing her checks, she screwed on the suppressor and started attaching the scope.
*Click* *Click*
The screws clamped onto the Picatinny rail with two clicks, securing the scope in place. Akiko looked through the magnifier, adjusting the 700's cheek pad so her eyes were level with the sight.
The tracker ran her rifle through one final round of checks before inserting the magazine, deploying the bipod, and laying on the ground. She popped open the rear scope cap but kept the front shut. It was something she learned from her time in Iraq: you're as good as dead if another sniper can see your scope glint. She'll only pop open the cap once she's certain of her target's position.
*Tuck* *Creeaaaakkkk*
Akiko didn't turn back at the noise. She shifted her body slightly, enough for her eye to watch whoever it was in the lens's reflection.
"May I help you?" They're not a security guard; there wasn't a speck of blue in the image. Instead – based on the sharp whites and sharp, angular voids— they're an assassin.
"You could." The hitwoman replied. "You're in my spot."
So they're after the same bounty. This complicates things.
"Last I checked, I was here first." The tracker retorted. "First come, first serve."
"I wasn't asking." The suit-wearing woman pulled out a pistol and leveled it at Akiko.
"Okay." The veteran sighed as she raised her hands in the air. "I'll go somewhere else."
"Leave the rifle." The assassin ordered.
"Come on." The bounty hunter turned around, taking in the details of her assailant as she feigned exasperation. "Really? It's expensive."
She's young, probably poor as well. Her suit looks like it's something bought off a coat hanger, and her pistol is an unmodified Glock 17. The hitwoman likely hadn't been with the Continental for long if she's using threats to muscle trackers off a vantage point.
"Leave it." The assassin ordered more forcefully. "Is the gun worth dying for?"
"No," Akiko shook her head. "I suppose not. It's yours then."
The tracker stood – her two hands held over her head to signify she's not a threat – and started walking. The hitwoman came out of the stairwell, her gun still trained on the veteran. Once they were on the opposite side of where they'd started, the assassin laid her handgun on the ground and started shouldering the rifle.
"A piece of advice, Missy," Akiko called out when she was at the rooftop door. "When you're shaking someone down, make sure they're completely disarmed."
Even though she couldn't see it, the tracker knew that the assassin's eyes widened into saucers at her words.
Akiko reached downwards, her hand brushing away the portion of her jacket's tail that hid her stowed revolver. At the same time, the hitwoman whirled around with the bounty hunter's Remington in hand and leveled it at its owner.
The veteran unholstered her revolver – a Taurus Raging Hunter chambered in 500 S&W – first and pointed it at the assassin's chest. However, she didn't shoot immediately. The hitwoman – on the other hand – didn't have the same reservations.
*Click*
She pulled the trigger on the suppressed rifle, but a metallic click sounded out in place of the whisper of a bullet. Akiko never chambered a round, and the assassin never checked.
The navy-haired woman gave her opponent enough time to realize her mistake before pulling the trigger.
*BANG*
The half-inch hunk of lead flew out of the revolver's five-inch barrel, piercing through the hitwoman's bulletproof suit with the same ease as punching through plywood. It erupted out the other side with a shower of blood. Several large cracks propagated at the place the bullet – malformed from punching through hard bone and two layers of armor – embedded itself into the concrete.
The assassin coughed, splattering cruor on the Remington before lifelessly flopping over.
Despite the disadvantages that come with being a tracker, Akiko will never work for the continental. Assassins are bound. Most sell themselves to crime families, becoming little more than attack dogs. They kill whoever their masters say to kill and go where they're ordered.
Even the "independent" assassins aren't free from shackles. They're still bound to the spoken and unspoken rules of the Continental. The Continental's system is designed from the ground up to shackle everyone who works for them. The thought of having to beg someone to let her leave makes the bounty hunter's lip curl in disgust.
Trackers aren't tied down to anyone but themselves. They're free. Free to choose their jobs, free to travel anywhere without restrictions, free to leave whenever they please. There is nothing that will make the former soldier give up that freedom.
Akiko raised her revolver and blew on it to clean the powder residue. She stashed it back in her holster with a quick spin. The tracker strolled over to the cooling body, picked up her rifle, and returned to her previous position.
'If my hunch was right…' The bounty hunter wiped off the specks of blood on the lens and cycled the bolt, chambering a round seconds before her target came into her line of sight. 'There he is.'
With practiced ease, she popped off the scope cap and adjusted her grip.
*Pew*
Blood spurted from the back of the man's head as he walked out of a coffee shop. He crumpled into a heap, much to the panic of the pedestrians around him.
With the bounty completed, Akiko quickly slung her rifle and its case over her shoulder. She needed to exfiltrate ASAP. The sound of her revolver firing had absolutely drawn attention. The tracker couldn't complete the rest of her bounties if she spent the rest of her day locked in a cell.
The veteran's face snapped toward the sound when hurried footsteps came from the stairwell. That was the only way in and out of the rooftop. She was trapped.
'Unless…' With zero time to think over the viability of her plan, she hopped the fence surrounding the rooftop and threw herself over the edge.
Akiko caught the rooftop corner by her fingertips. She pressed her foot against the concrete facade, stabilizing herself moments before a gust of high-altitude wind blew across the building.
The tracker shimmied across the rooftop as a frightened scream rang out. Some poor office worker had discovered the grisly result of the gunfight. It appears that the man came alone, which makes exfiltrating without notice a lot easier.
Akiko pulled herself up once her body was behind the rooftop entrance. The worker had pulled out their phone and dialed 119.
The tracker sighed. She reached into her jacket pocket and pulled out a bottle and a rag. The woman held her breath, uncapped the container, poured out some of the liquid onto the rag, and closed the bottle.
"-Yes! I'm at- MMPH!!" Akiko wrapped the soaked rag around the worker's mouth and nose. He struggled for a brief moment before the veteran punched him in his stomach.
His eyes rolled over, his entire body slackening once he inhaled the fumes. Akiko removed the rag and caught the worker's device midair before it could land on the concrete.
"Tracker ID: 06072710." She carefully laid the man's body beside the entrance. "The man is alive; I just used some chloroform. Put cleanup on my tab."
"Understood." The operator spoke after a couple of seconds. "Would that be all?"
"Can you also mark the bounty number 7531094 complete?" Akiko requested. "The bullet markings should match my rifle."
"I'll put your name down as one of the contract's claimants." The person on the line replied. "Anything else?"
"No, that would be all." The call died right as the woman gave her response. Akiko carefully placed the phone beside its unconscious owner and descended the rooftop entrance.
One down, four more to go.
[... .... .- -.. --- .-- / --- ..-. / .- -. / .. -.. --- .-.. ---... / .-.. . .- ...- .. -. --. / - .... . / .-.. .. ..-. . / -.-- --- ..- / -.- -. . .--]
Outside of a grocery store
Hours later
5:38 PM
*Tsshhkkk*
Akiko stepped out of the supermarket with bags of produce in hand. The automatic door hissed behind her as she walked into the street. The sun had almost completely disappeared below the horizon, but it wasn't quite late enough for the streetlamps to turn on.
The tracker walked to her apartment to drop off groceries before picking up her daughter at her in-laws' place. The streets weren't bustling, but they were still lively. Groups of suited salarymen and uniformed students populated the area, all heading home or going to spend time at their favored haunts.
If she looked a bit closer, she could spot an entirely different group of people. Those who work in darkness instead of daylight, invisible to those who don't know where to look.
Assassins clad in midnight-black suits, differentiated from the office workers by their posture and alertness. Other trackers wearing their distinctive long jackets that hid their tools. Prostitutes that – well, does she need to say?
Evenings are a curious time. People who would otherwise never see the head or tail of each other have the rare chance to interact. Oftentimes, they bounce off each other. A look here, maybe a word or two, gets exchanged.
But rarely, they click. Conversation sometimes starts to chug along. Connection blooms after several encounters. Where would that lead? That's a question only the people in question can answer.
Akiko smiled as her mind drifted to the past. She had met Osamu on an evening just like this. Things were simpler back then; at least, that's what she thought at the time. She'd just returned from Iraq, and her tracker career was just in its infancy. Osamu – on the other hand – had just graduated from the police academy.
Two rookies, both coming into a park to cool their heads. Neither had known who the other was at the time, but that didn't matter. They both needed someone to talk to. That was enough.
Akiko had arrived at her apartment before she knew it. Her muscle memory had carried her body up the stairs as she was reminiscing, stopping right in front of her family's flat.
The woman set her bags down and withdrew her house keys from her pants pocket. The small plush donkey keychain bounced around as she deactivated the door lock.
The tracker picked up her bags and stepped inside, closing the entrance with a light shove from her leg. She moved on into the kitchen, setting the groceries on the table before opening the fridge to store her haul.
*Ring ring ring*
Akiko's phone rang just as she set a large head of cabbage on a shelf. She quickly shut the magnetized door and accepted the call.
"Retriever here." The tracker never declines calls. Getting contacted means that someone is offering a contract with her specific skillset in mind. Those usually pay much better than the bounties she found on Continental Online.
"I'm reaching out to you on behalf of the Three Clans Alliance of Osaka." The woman on the other side stated. "We want to offer you a one-week tracking contract with a forty-million yen reward. Half of the payment will be provided upfront."
"Those are… very generous terms. Can I ask about the details?" Generous is underselling it. Typical tracker contracts only go for around four million.
'What could they be asking me to do?' The veteran thought. 'Go to hell and track down the devil?'
"You will go to Osaka on November first and provide the live location of the Angel of Death to the Three Clans Alliance." Akiko stilled, her grip on her device tightening.
'They are asking me to go to hell and track down the devil.' She bit the inside of her lip. 'Well, the Angel of Death is more like the Grim Reaper, but still.'
"How much time do I have to think this over?" Forty million yen is more than enough to finance the down payment on the house Osamu had been eyeing for the past few months. In fact, the upfront payment would be more than enough to cover that and moving fees.
"You have two minutes." The yakuza secretary – the woman must be one if she's speaking on behalf of this Three Clans Alliance – answered.
'Shit.' Akiko had to clench her teeth to stop herself from verbally swearing.
'Forty million yen is a life-changing sum.' The tracker began pacing. 'But am I willing to try my luck with the Angel of Death?"
The veteran looked around the apartment. It was small, just barely thirty square meters. It was meant to house a single person, but Osamu and her managed to barely make due. Living in the rental had always meant to be a temporary thing. A cramped space like this is no place to raise a growing girl.
Akiko couldn't rely on her in-laws forever either. Although her husband's parents loved having Akane over, she shouldn't be raised by her grandparents.
"You have thirty seconds left, Retriever." The voice on the other side of the line notified the navy-haired woman.
The tracker didn't mind killing; the reluctance to take lives was left in the sands of Iraq. However, that didn't mean that she wanted to continue working as a tracker for the rest of her life.
Every time she goes out to fulfill a contract, the woman runs the risk of dying. Had the assassin she killed earlier today been just a little bit more trigger-happy, she wouldn't have come home today at all.
Akiko couldn't keep taking risks like this. She has a family now: a husband that loves her and a little girl with hair the color of the sky. If she were to abandon them – even if it wasn't intentional – the former soldier would never forgive herself.
"Ten seconds, Retriever." Akiko barely acknowledged the words as her eyes locked onto a framed photograph.
Her wedding photo sat on the shelf, featuring her dressed in a flowing white dress and Osamu wearing a mismatched suit. All things considered, it should've been a disaster. The suit her husband rented had soup spilled on it moments before the photo was supposed to be taken. The officer had to borrow his father's shirt and jacket just to have something ready for the photographer.
Akiko smiled at the memory. It seemed that her decision had been made a long time ago; she just didn't realize it until now.
"I accept." The tracker spoke into her device as the woman on the other side counted to two.
"Great." The call ended promptly after that, leaving the veteran to stare at her phone.
'One final job.' She pursed her lips. 'Famous last words before disaster.'
[... .... .- -.. --- .-- / --- ..-. / .- -. / .. -.. --- .-.. ---... / .-.. . .- ...- .. -. --. / - .... . / .-.. .. ..-. . / -.-- --- ..- / -.- -. . .--]
Hours later
8:21 PM
*Clink*
The sound of a plate tapping against another as Osamu placed it in the plate dryer rang out in the kitchen. He hummed as he turned off the faucet, flicking the water off his arms before grabbing a dry towel.
"Osamu," The off-duty officer turned to look at his wife after placing the rag back on its rack. "We need to talk."
"What for?" He tilted his head.
"There's something I need to tell you." The man paused.
Osamu turned to the tracker. Her tone was chipped, and an edge of vulnerability showed in her expression. Akiko had a glacier's cool. She could walk into a gunfight and come out no worse for wear. If she's like this, then something is really, really wrong.
"What is it?" The man pulled out a chair and sat beside her at the table.
Akane looked at her parents with curiosity, her opal eyes taking in details her young mind couldn't process yet.
"I accepted a job," Akiko admitted. "I will be gone for a week starting in November."
"That long?" The white-haired man remarked. "It must be paying really well then."
"Yeah." The veteran nodded. "Forty million."
Osamu blinked. Did he hear that right?
"Forty million?" The off-duty policeman repeated in disbelief.
"Yeah." The tracker affirmed. "Forty million."
"Are you sure it's legit?" The man asked.
"They wired me half the money an hour after I accepted," Akiko replied. "I have twenty million yen in my bank account right now."
"That's…" Amazing? Suspicious? Absurd? The cop struggled to find the word to describe the situation.
"Yeah." His wife seemed to find his reaction amusing. "That was my reaction as well. I half-thought they were bluffing at first, but no. They have the money and kept their word."
"What are they making you do for that kind of payout?" A sinking feeling began to pool in Osamu's stomach.
"They want me to give them the live location of the Angel of Death when she's in Osaka." The tracker spoke like an inmate who's just been informed of their execution date.
"The Angel of Death?" The man tested the moniker on his tongue. "I think I've heard that from somewhere."
"Long story short, she's the one you hire if you want something gone." Akiko elucidated. "It doesn't matter if she's after a person, a gang, a yakuza clan, or a zaibatsu. You can be sure they will all be dead one way or another."
"They're asking you to track someone like that?" Osamu breathed out, the full weight of what his wife had agreed to now bearing down on him.
"Oh, it gets worse." In spite of the situation, the veteran still managed to find it humorous. "I would be interfering with her retirement mission."
It became quiet. So quiet that the cop swore he could hear a water droplet hit the sink.
"Akiko, honey." The man took a deep breath. "What the FUCK were you thinking?"
"I didn't know that at the time," Akiko responded. "I only found that out when I did some digging."
"That doesn't answer my question." He pressed on. "Why didn't you talk to me about this?"
"They only gave me two minutes to decide." The tracker replied. "I had to make a decision right then and there."
"You're being evasive." The tracker's lips twitched, as if her husband's words had actually cut her. "Why. Did you. Accept. The contract?!"
Another pause. This one felt heavier. It was like the air minutes before a storm arrives. Humid. Dense. Full of foreboding for something that's fast approaching.
"I did it for us." His wife's response didn't make him feel any better.
"Akiko, honey-" Osamu began, but he was cut off before he could speak another word.
"Don't start." Akiko shook her head. "I knew what I was getting into."
"Do you?!" His frustration boiled over, and he raised his voice. "Do you, Akiko?"
"Forty million yen isn't something I can leave on the table, Osamu." A shade of bitterness crawled into the veteran's voice. "That's enough money to cover the down payment and a decade's worth of mortgage fees!"
"That's not worth you risking your life over!!" Osamu shot back. "Nothing is!!"
"We can't raise Akane in this apartment!!" The woman retorted. "The two of us barely fit in here!!!"
"I CAN'T RAISE AKANE WITHOUT YOU!!" The cop thundered, shooting to his feet and slamming his palms on the table.
"WAHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!" A sudden cry stopped the argument in its tracks. The couple instantly turned to Akane and back at each other. They silently agreed that comforting their daughter was the more important thing right now.
Akiko pushed out her chair and moved toward the baby. She picked her daughter up and started rocking her back and forth.
"Shhh… It's okay, mama's here. Mama's here." The woman gently rocked Akane back and forth, whispering sweet nothings as Osamu searched for a pacifier.
By the time he returned, Akiko had managed to calm the infant enough for her to accept the pacifier with little resistance.
"We scared her." The tracker commented as her daughter's eyes – those bright opal orbs that shone with unshed tears – slowly shut.
"I scared her." Osamu corrected. "I shouldn't have raised my voice."
"Don't act like it's all your fault." The veteran continued rocking as Akane fell asleep. "I wasn't any better either."
Osamu leaned in and wrapped his wife in a hug. The woman stiffened at first, but eventually relaxed and leaned into it.
"I'm sorry." The officer leaned his head on his wife's shoulder. "I just… didn't want to lose you."
"I know." Akiko nodded. "But I couldn't let a chance like this slip through my fingers. Not when it solves everything."
"Promise me you'll come back." The tracker smiled sardonically at that.
"Of course I will." She replied. "They don't sell life insurance for people like me."
Osamu couldn't help but crack a small smile at the veteran's gallows humor. The veteran noticed – of course – but didn't comment on it.
He held Akiko for a long time, doing nothing but taking in her presence. Akane had long since fallen asleep, leaving the humming refrigerator the only source of noise in the room.
He held his wife close because she chose to hit with a hand of nineteen because she knew the dealer had a hand of twenty. Taking that one in twenty chance because she loses if she does nothing.
He held his wife close, because she is all but guaranteed to die. A lone ranger with tuberculosis standing against a man who's never missed a shot.
He held his wife close, because that is all he could do. Osamu is just a lowly police officer, unable to do anything but pray to whoever is listening.
Such is the tragedy of the common man trapped within the underworld's games. He, without influence, cannot decide when or how the die is rolled, only hope that it lands in his favor.
And this game, dear traveler, has a lot of dice that need to be rolled.