Red Finger: Movers and Shakers
- Red Finger: Movers and Shakers
- Red Finger Complex, Meeting Room
- The Temple of the Ancient Ones, Kyoto
- Red Finger Complex, Meeting Room
Red Finger Complex, Meeting Room
[Soundtrack: Meeting Room https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gDdD9SBx8Pw ]
It is a good day. An enemy lay cold and dead in the morgue, a well-loved face stares emptily through eyelids at a hospital ceiling, and the face of Agent Greenfield is all over the media involved in the killing. It will shake the heroes’ morale. The peoples’ faith in their heroes. The temple will grow.
Arrayed in front of the Red-Eyes Oni’s seat are a splayed arrangement of dossiers. Information on criminal elements of interest within the city, those who might be made into Fingers. And also those who might be cut off at the knuckles and thrown to the dogs.
Greenfinger, Night Parade
Picking up the file on Greenfinger, a member of the high-profile ‘supervillain’ group the Night Parade, Imamu frowns. “Drugs.” Drugs are a tool and trade of the careless. A man who conquers must understand that one day, he will rule the land he has conquered. To seed it with addiction, disability and poverty is a grave error- to salt the earth of your own future garden. One made by short-sighted men, with only the desire to destroy and to profit. They have no mind to build a nation.
Slavery is a much better tool and trade, with which to build foundations for a future in which they may no longer be needed. Not free from its own troubles, but preferable as a method of profiting from the necessary discord.
Imamu discards the Greenfinger dossier into a pile to his left- of those intended for slaying, now or in the future.
Red Finger Agent Assigned: Nakai Yume, callsign “Sparrow”
[Soundtrack: Assignments https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SxdxQL1z2Tw ]
A Japanese woman, and a Kyoto local. She has been a loyal member of Imamu’s congregation, and when he brought her into the private meetings among members deemed ready for indoctrination, she was ready putty for his words. Heroes slip up. People get hurt. There’s collateral damage. Yume’s son was among that collateral.
With love of neither the heroes nor the crime, she was ready for radical change. All she needed were the right promises.
Quirk: 「Crooked Hand」
Type: Transformation (Body Manipulation)
Description: Her fingers can grow and stretch to up to a meter long. For every five centimeters grown, they gain an additional joint.
“Agent Sparrow,” Imamu greets her, where she kneels in honor before him. Her kitsune mask is in her hand, pressed against the breast of her crisp black suit. The red edged lapel signifies her as an officer among his underground following, a leader in their grim work. Her blessing is nothing special, but she is trusted and local. She can blend in. “Your nephew is a member of the Greenfinger cartel’s distribution network in Kyoto,” he reviews, the woman’s not confirming that the boy still lives. “Good. Go to him in need of money, seek work from him. Integrate yourself into the cartel’s organization. Do not attempt to leak us information, it would risk unveiling your cover too soon.” He raises his head. “You will be informed when it is time to act.”
“As you will it, High Priest.”
Tatarimokke, Night Parade
The creature is as beautiful as his reputation claims. One blessed potently by a spirit. Yet that beauty disguises a hideous demon, with a reputation for preying upon those likewise blessed. Imamu can make no claims to sainthood- well, he could. Just not in the colloquial sense. And yet, skewed as they are, he has his standards.
Nearly a decade past, Tatarimokke had arranged a supply deal with some of Imamu’s earliest black market elements operating on the Japanese shores. Their business dealings had been thwarted by a hero that had since fallen into obscurity. There had been smaller dealings, since. But nothing as long-term and lucrative as the deal would have been, had the High Priest’s earliest fingers not been apprehended in the process. The bird has always made his appointments and payments on time.
In short, Tatarimokke is a mixed bag. Flapping the papers of the dossier in his hand, Imamu slides it into the center pile. Worth associating with for now, with an unclear future.
Red Finger Agents Assigned: Supervandal Mythopoesis; Olusola Afolabi, callsign “Hatch”
A mad artist to speak to a mad artist. Mythopoesis has, himself, taken an interest in fashion and accessorizing in his new role. A sense of flair and style that his past, underground persona had not cared for. And now, he has tasted the kill, a plan well-made and well-executed. The medium of his art has not changed, only expanded.
Now, Mythopoesis comes to Imamu dressed in a red suit with long coattails, shimmering with a glossy layer of what Imamu knows to be the artist’s blessed honey. White and black accents decorate the edges of the suit, and a new, red cap with a pair of white feathers sits upon his head. Tipping his hat, he takes a sweeping bow. “You called, boss?”
“I have,” turning in his seat, Imamu introduces a man standing at his side. “This is Hatch, a trusted officer. I would like you to accompany him on his new assignment.”
An old veteran of the Red Finger, Olusola’s dark, frizzy hair is turning grey with age. There are few Imamu would call friend, and Hatch is among them. In a time long past, he trained warrior slaves for the warlord’s conquests, but age’s creaking creep has led him to less martial pursuits. He has overseen smuggling operations into Japan for eight years now, having succeeded the last, failed operation. A trade in exotic animals, and exotic persons. Both materials Tatarimokke would often take interest in.
Quirk: 「Bone Dagger」
Type: Transformation (Natural Weapon/Body Enhancement)
Description: His arms and legs can turn into blades, made out of bone. He has an improved sense of balance.
“Pleased to meet you,” Hatch approaches Mythopoesis, exchanging a handshake.
“Likewise,” the grinning young man returns the gesture. “So, what’s the heist?”
Imamu chuckles. “No heist today. Instead, I have someone I would like you to become acquainted with. It is a matter of business, and of politick,” taking up the dossier, Imamu slides it across the table to his lieutenant’s side. Mythopoesis picks it up, flipping through details on the bird.
“I see, I see. Was wondering when I would get to take a look at his work,” breaking into a wide smile, Mythopoesis flops back into his chair, spinning it around with the force of his landing. “What do we want from him?”
“An amenable business relationship,” Imamu answers simply. “Hatch has a catalog of goods and services we are prepared to offer him, and some services we are interested in turn.” Cosmetic surgeries to help hide some of their agents’ pasts. Cosmetic surgeons are a rarity in Africa, and an asset that Imamu has short on hand. A tally in favor of the bird’s longevity… should he prove reliable. “You are going because you understand the point of view of an artist.”
“Every artist is a unique animal, boss,” flicking the brim of his hat up, Mythopoesis kicks back up from his seat. “Looks like you already arranged an appointment for us,” he mentions to his new cohort.
“We have done some business with his organization in the past,” Hatch confirms.
“Alright, then,” Mythopoesis faces Imamu. He and Hatch bow together.
“As you will it, High Priest.”
Kogane no Fukuro Clinic
On the surface, this stylish-looking clinic in central Kyoto is nothing special. Sleek, smooth curves blend the blockier aesthetic of the government buildings and offices with the traditional pagoda design favored by older Kyoto. Beneath the surface- not literally, mind, as it has no basement and the untoward business takes place on the upper floors- it is anything but innocent.
Clients with a special appointment enter through the back. Mytho is one such client. Stopping at the back door, he reaches up and raps against the metal surface. An eye slot opens, one of Tatarimokke’s private security glaring out. Drawing an appointment slip from his pocket, Mythopoesis slides it in through the slot. A few seconds later, the door opens, allowing he and Hatch into a rear stairwell. The stairs are spotlessly clean, and the railing is made out of fine wood with a polished finish. High end and fashionably designed, as would everything in the building be- particularly the floors under the control of its true owner. The security man points at a mat beside the door. “Shoes off inside. Do not dirty the carpet.”
Kicking off his black leather boots, Mythopoesis steps aside and waits for Hatch to do the same with his dress shoes. “Third floor waiting room. You will be called,” the guard affirms.
“Like the man says,” with a swing of his arm to usher Hatch up behind him, Mytho leads the way up the stairs.
The third-floor lobby sports posh, patterned carpet, matching the gorgeous- if a bit overstated- wallpaper. Magazines both commercial and illegal sit on a pair of coffee tables in front of two rows of chairs, occupied by an eclectic bunch. The rich and famous wearing masquerade masks to hide their identities, sitting alongside the eerie, hunched figures of criminal elements. Mythopoesis and Hatch, in their stylish suits and kitsune masks, land somewhere in the middle.
Resisting the urge to throw his feet up on the table, Mytho helps himself to a magazine detailing Tatarimokke’s new line of black market beauty products. It’s a dull hour of waiting as the number of bodies in the room dwindle down, until the prim woman behind the reception desk calls, “Appointment number 19.” Matches their ticket. Mytho stands up and turns it over once again at the desk. “Go on through.”
Mythopoesis struts through the door, the tails of his coat swaying behind him like tailfeathers showing off his plumage. The office is at once elegant and gaudy, overdecorated in the extreme, lacking all the nuanced sense of stylish understatement that some of Tatarimokke’s finest clothing designs can boast. Mytho can’t say he’s as fond of the owl’s decorative sense as his fashion sense.
Hatch shuts the door, and Mythopoesis takes his cue. Taking his mask and hat in one hand each, Mytho does a low, performative bow, sweeping them out to either side. “It is an honor to finally make your acquaintance, Tatarimokke. Your reputation precedes you, even across the sea.” Beside him, Hatch removes his mask in a more subdued manner and bows low, in a more traditionally Japanese gesture of respect.
Leaning back in his oversized, plush office chair, Tatarimokke takes the measure of his guests through unreadable avian eyes. A voice as viciously sharp as his beak inquires, “Who designed your suit, Mr. Poesis?”
Wearing a humbly confident smile, the man in question rests a hand upon his chest. “I made it myself.”
“Hra,” with a squawking sound serving the same general purpose as another man’s conversational ‘hm,’ Tatarimokke swirls one of his taloned fingers through the air. “I do not hate it. In need of a little more flair, perhaps. You could go places in this industry, Mr. Poesis.”
“I’m flattered,” and it’s true, his heart fluttering. However their aesthetic senses may differ, the recognition of another artist, another with mastery of vision and creation, is precious indeed. “I am an appreciator of your own designs.”
“Of course you are,” the owl waves one claw as if it were a foregone conclusion. “But I recognize the decorum of saying so. Now, what business brings you to me today? I am a busy man with many busy clients.”
Reaching into his suit jacket, Mythopoesis produces a neatly organized folder of documents, and a jar of pale pink liquid. Each he sets on Tatarimokke’s desk with gentle deference. Reaching out, the bird’s talons clutch the jar and raise it to his eye. “The venom of the nogualan viper,” Mythopoesis states reverently. A rare species of Quirked snakes native to southeast Africa, hunted nearly to extinction for their venom’s age-regressing properties, which they use to revert their prey to an immature and vulnerable state. In much smaller doses, it can be a font of eternal youth… until the side-effects start to occur, following chronic use. But for many, that is a small price to pay to turn back the clock.
Imamu holds control of one of the most successful habitat reservations for the little critters, which Mythopoesis had the joy of visiting during his time in Uganda. Lovely patterns. Shame Imamu refused to part with a few for boots.
“What a lovely gift,” Tatarimokke sets the jar back on his desk and flicks open the folder, containing the catalogues of goods the Red Finger can smuggle and provide. Examining it with a cursory glance, he asks, “What are the terms?”
“The Red-Eyes Oni would like a place as your exclusive supplier,” Mythopoesis proposes. “He has great trust in you as a business partner. Nothing but good things to say.” The idle flattery receives no response, and Tatarimokke flips the folder shut. Smile faltering for a moment, Mythopoesis worries he was too forward, or too hollow.
At last, after drawing out the uncomfortable silence, the owl speaks again, “Speak with Ms. Percutio at the reception and provide her this folder. Our last major supply deal ended in a pie-caked,” his voice dips an octave, growing harsher and squawking, “Clown-infested,” Tatarimokke’s eyes twitch and he slams a talon into the table, “Nightmare!” Sitting back and smoothing out his feathers, the artist regains his composure. “There will be a one-month trial, the temporary contract for which Ms. Percutio will draw up. Ensure your organization has ample secrecy and security for its deliveries this time. If you should fail to meet the standards of my expectations? Then there will be penalties,” Tatarimokke snaps his talons. “Dismissed.”
With another sweeping bow, Mythopoesis puts his mask and hat back on, making his way back out with Hatch in tow. Another half hour of waiting, as Hatch does the talking with Ms. Percutio about the business end of the arrangement. Leaning back against the wall, Mytho allows a little sliver of honey from the glaze providing sheen his suit to slip out and slither into the wall.
A tiny colony of sweet, sweet golden slime mold. It would fester on its own, a silent killer, should the owl’s jeweled seat ever need to collapse beneath him…
Karma, Night Parade
A founding member of the Night Parade, and its liaison to other criminal enterprises throughout Japan. The Red Finger’s agents have already been approached in the process of going about their business, and given an invitation to the Oni. She aims to deliver parley, and negotiate the terms of their mutual existence in the region of Kyoto. Imamu intends to make good on the meeting.
In truth, Imamu is a fan of her work. Many are the thefts she has managed against governments and dictators the world round, and come out with her head intact. A career one does not pursue without a great love of thrill- this is one who takes joy in her craft. It is an attractive quality,
The internationally renowned thief’s loyalty must be held in high regard to remain at her master’s side. Poaching her directly would be unwise, and harm any negotiations with the Night Parade. However, Imamu would rather remain on positive terms, and someday in the future when the Parade ends… perhaps the chameleon would serve a new master.
Imamu sets her dossier to his right. Potential recruits.
Red Finger Agents Assigned: Imamu Belmitope, the Red-Eyes Oni; Mochi Uranus, the Dark Weasel
Some matters require a personal appearance, for appearance’s sake. Clad in his robes and mask, the Red-Eyes Oni stands upon a terrace of the Sora Niwa Hotel in Kyoto, overlooking the lights of the city by night. Behind the Oni, his masked Weasel sits inside of the room. A trusted second, which only a fool would lack for a negotiation in the dark. The boy has been quiet. Not unusual for him, but Imamu senses a deeper discomfort. Any of his doubts now that he has tasted blood will need to be assuaged.
The fully petrified shape of one of the hotel housekeepers is tucked behind the room’s short sofa, her access card generously donated. A full petrification takes far longer to wear off. Her cause of death would be a blood clot in her leg- different enough from Floor’s mysterious demise not to raise suspicions through a repeat methodology.
Flipping over the railing in an acrobatic cartwheel, the thief strikes a sleek figure in her black bodysuit. “Enjoying the view?” Karma asks, in a chipper, casual tone.
“Kyoto is a beautiful city,” the Oni answers. She seems to have come alone, but appearances can be deceiving. Someone or something else lurks nearby, the thief’s own second, but the Oni’s eyes are not blessed with prescience or clairvoyance to answer what.
“The King was starting to get worried you were snubbing his invitation,” stalking around behind the Oni, Karma leans against the opposite railing, like a predator circling prey.
“When your invitation arrived, I was preoccupied with other business,” comes the calm reply, “Which is now concluded.”
A chameleon’s tail flicks back and forth in the open air beyond the balcony railing. “Business involving a hero that lost his head?”
“I did not cast the first stone,” the Oni answers, softly and gently. “I threw the last.”
Karma whistles, levity in her voice as she chuckles, “Intense. Really intense for a two-bit smuggler.”
“That my finger here is small does not imply my body is,” with a small, deep laugh of his own at the unintentional pun, the Oni adds, “We are from the sea. The sea is vast and cruel. Those who lack fidelity to her suffer her wiles.”
“Sure, sure, the last Japanese pirates,” drumming her fingers on the railing, Karma pushes off. Imamu cannot see her moving behind him, but from the pause he can sense her looking in on his companion. “The kid okay? He looks a little green for a pirate, might be seasick or something.”
“Every protégé must start somewhere.” Turning away from the sights of the city and the mountains beyond for the first time, the Oni fixes his eyes on the chameleon- or tries to. She deftly slips to the side, out of his sight line, before his eyes can rest on her. “Simply going inside to offer you a drink,” he excuses.
The two enter, and Imamu takes some liquor from the room’s bar, pouring the both of them a drink. Karma slinks in from the night air, passing by Mochi’s seat on the sofa and sizing him up. While he drinks behind his mask, Karma sniffs the sake and swirls it around. “Not going to wait for a poison taster?” she asks, playfully.
“There is a line of succession in place.” And his soul will return again, on the next turn of the wheel. Imamu holds this idea in hands as relaxed as those holding his liquor bowl, the easy faith of a true believer.
Shaken for only a second by his matter-of-fact answer, Karma takes a small sip. Nothing less predictable than a man so comfortable with dying. Her swagger returns easily, “Does that mean you’re finally ready to come to the table? King Midas is eager to RSVP all our guests and finalize the date.”
“I am,” the Oni replies. “The Dark Weasel will accompany me as my second,” he asserts.
“Green-gills?” casting a look over her shoulder, Karma visibly re-assesses whether he’s a threat, that this sea-gangster would trust his back to the boy in a den of vipers. “If you’re sure. Anyways, safety is assured by the King.”
“Even should the Reaper appear?”
Solemnly, Karma swirls her drink again. “Yes.”
“Hm.”
Silence comes. Karma sets down her drink and starts to walk towards the terrace. “If that’s all.”
In as level a voice as ever, the Red-Eyes Oni states, “It is rude to leave a drink unfinished.”
“Guess I’ll take it to go,” using her tail, Karma brings the bowl back to her hand. “Sorry big guy, busy schedule. Preoccupied with other business.” And that’s all, before she is gone. The eerie sense that something else is lurking nearby doesn’t disappear for another minute, as Imamu finishes his own drink.
“Come, Dark Weasel. Our business here is concluded.”
Tomi, Night Parade
“What a curious creature.” In Africa, dangerous beasts imbued with spirits of their own are not as rare as they are in other places in the world. It is, perhaps, a simple matter of other nations’ lack of proximity to the animals of their land.
Imamu’s war beasts are enhanced by the blessing of his beast master after they are tamed, as capturing and taming animals with powerful abilities is far more dangerous and difficult.
It is a shame, then, that this monument of animal intelligence has been poisoned by addiction and mired in the drug trade. Imamu does not have the patience to detox and tame a panther. He discards the dossier into the ‘kill’ pile.
Red Finger Agent Assigned: Ramirez, callsign “Frat Boy”
Large, if smaller than Agent Greenfield, Agent Ramirez enters the chambers and kneels before Imamu’s table. A broad-shouldered Central American man with a thick mustache, and an experienced mercenary who served Imamu well in the fight for Eastern African unification. Former cartel connections. Scrubbed name.
Quirk: 「Metabolic Overdrive」
Type: Emitter (Absorption)
Description: Can burn off poisons and drugs in the body to restore stamina.
Uniquely talented at undercover work, since he knows how to fake being under truth serums. “Agent Ramirez,” Imamu greets the hired gun, “It has come to my attention that several openings for new bouncers have opened up at a local club.”
Wearing a broad smile, Ramirez comments, “You know I love being paid for the same job twice.”
“I do,” returning the smile with a soft one of his own, Imamu motions for the other man to stand. “And I trust you to remember where your true loyalties lie.” Taking up the dossier on King Midas’ lapcat, Imamu tosses it across the table. Ramirez takes it up and opens it, scanning the document. The details of his mission are simple. When the time comes, either arrange a serendipitous adjustment to the feline’s doses or allow Red Finger agents ingress.
“Always. As you will it, High Priest.”
King Midas, Night Parade
A conqueror must not leave the leader of his enemy alive. Imamu sets the King’s portrait atop Tomi’s, marked for death- though not before he serves to weaken the heroes further, as his ambitions have driven him to do in the past. Ideally, Imamu would not have to do the deed himself… and could reap the followers below without any ill-will.
The Red-Eyes Oni will take his first steps into the greater eye at the ‘villain summit,’ with the Dark Weasel at his side. Imamu trusts Mochi’s blessing combined with his own, they can create enough chaos to manage an escape, should it prove necessary.
Kodoku, Nigawarai
The first of Imamu’s current persons of interest not directly tied to the Night Parade. Mercenary, assassin, poisoner, Kodoku of the Nigawarai clan is a woman of capable and fearsome reputation. A useful supplier for Imamu, whose own supply of smuggled poisons would draw too many more lines of evidence tracing back to Africa, too early. Greenfield’s
Yet, a clan of Japanese ninja will remain loyal to Japan. Of this Imamu, a patriot himself, is certain. He tosses her likeness upon the ‘kill’ pile, to be eliminated once his uses for her are exhausted.
Red Finger Agents Assigned: Kester Greenfield, callsign “Captain”; Shannon Wickham, callsign “Swirly”
The hulking shape of Imamu’s enforcer stands beside a woman far slighter than him. Hair dyed back, and eyes made up to look more Asian by the same makeover artist as Zyra’s disguise- Agent Wickham herself. Enough to make the former British agent look the part of a local.
Quirk: 「On a Swivel」
Type: Transformation (Body Modification)
Description: Can turn her head 360 degrees.
Agent Wickham’s country had burned her on an op, an expendable asset. So she had turned her services to contract killing and disguise work, of which Imamu made excellent use over the years. While her skill as a sniper pales in comparison to… no, Imamu would not pay his name compliment even in an idle thought. With a brief scowl on his face, he spits the taste of the name from his mouth.
Agent Wickham is skilled enough. Her sniper’s eye will not be necessary for her current assignment. “You will be providing security for Agent Wickham during the exchange, and assisting her in moving the goods,” the Oni instructs his enforcer, who nods his angular head. “And Agent Wickham, you know what to do with the gas once it’s been loaded onto the truck.”
Adjusting the cuff of her black suit, the woman dons her kitsune mask and collects the briefcase of money. Payment for goods rendered, to be delivered to the Nigawarai agent. “Happy to be of service. It will be nice to see Akka-chan and her cute little crawlies again.”
Behind his mask, Imamu raises a brow. “You are acquainted?”
“Oh, she has been around the block as many times as I have, our paths must have crossed at some point,” the Englishwoman tuts her tongue. “Do not worry. Our relationship is purely professional. It is as you will, High Priest.”
Condemned Warehouse, Sakyo Ward
Big old place. Always on the list for demolition, always happens to be pushed back another year for newer projects. “No coincidences,” Swirly says, beside Kester. “I expect this place is one of her regular exchanges in Kyoto. The Nigawarai have enough pull with the government to allow it to slip between the cracks.” The brit is seated beside him in the passenger seat of their squat little pickup truck. Kester barely fits inside. His scalp brushes the ceiling, leaving his mask lopsided with its ears unable to fit all the way up. His shoulder pressed up against the glass, giving him cramps. Leave it to these tiny Japanese people to make a truck barely large enough to fit a red-blooded American MAN.
Squeezing out of the vehicle like a clown car, Kester follows Swirly to the warehouse door. A chain and padlock bar entry. She just takes out a set of lockpicks and crouches down, treating the lock like a lady. While she works on it, Kester grabs one of his boulders, covered by a cloth on the back of the truck. One click later, Swirly sloughs the chains out of the loop and opens the creaking, rusty thing. No light in the warehouse. Kester flicks on a big flashlight lugged in his left hand, illuminating a huge swath of the building. Wide empty spaces, creaking catwalks with holes rusted in them, forgotten items stored under dusty tarps. At the center of the room is a woman, pale and slight, standing next to several palettes of gas canisters. A centipede is draped around her neck, big enough to be the size of one of Kester’s huge boulder-punching fists if it curled up. Spiders crawl through her hair, and a dopey looking snake hangs out of one of her kimono’s pockets, tongue flicking in and out with no thoughts in its head. The snake is kinda cute. The rest, Kester could do without.
“Kodoku-chan,” Swirly takes the lead, and Kester remains a formidable presence behind her. There are other shapes in the building, shadows on the sturdier catwalks lurking in the light cast by his big lantern. She brought security too. Nothing they didn’t expect. “Is that Haku’s little girl?”
The pale woman reaches up, an eerie half-open smile on her face, and strokes the antennae of her big centipede. “Granddaughter. It’s such a cruel thing, nature. That these cuties only live about a decade.”
Scoffing, Swirly holds the back of her fingers to the chin of her kitsune mask. “Has it been that long? Ohoho, it makes a girl feel old.”
Their bizarre conversation continues. “How are your paraponera clavate colony doing?” Kester wishes they could get this over with.
“Just thriving, thank you for asking darling! They make such a good setpiece for the interrogation room.” The two eerie women share a bad-natured laugh. “Well, we didn’t make a date just to catch up, did we?” Bringing the suitcase forward, Swirly sets it down and undoes the clasps, opening it to reveal the stacks of money inside. She stands and takes three steps back, allowing the bug-lover to inspect the payment.
“Hmhmhm, hmhm,” this Kodoku hums to herself, counting the money. “All there. Always a pleasure, Wick-chan.”
The woman leaves with her money, the shadows in the rafters disappearing with her. Carefully, Kester transports the palettes of toxic gas onto the back of the truck, nestling them among the boulders and covering them with a cloth covering like a gentle blanket.
Gnash, Snaggletooth Gang
One Gustave Gavail, an associate of the Red Finger in the realm of human trafficking, though the gang he leads branches into other criminal avenues. Imamu feels particular brotherhood with the crocodilian, whose visage marks him as favored by holy Sobek. Born destined for the waters of the Nile, Imamu would be overjoyed to bring the gangster’s entire family under his wing.
“Let us hope you are as open to cooperation as I am,” Imamu sets the dossier gently on the recruitment pile. “I would hate to see such a magnificent creature reduced to a drooling drone.”
Red Finger Agent Assigned: Zyra Mein, Zombie
“Don’t you agree?” turning his head, Imamu assesses the woman seated to his right hand at the table. Zyra is clad in a black evening dress, strings crisscrossing the split that runs up her leg. Taking the folder, she peruses the files on Gavail’s family, foreigners who began as dock workers in Osaka during the Chaos Era. Since then, Gnash and his small-time gang have painstakingly carved out a niche for themselves, but failed to breach into the ‘big leagues’.
“At least he is more refined than most of the dumb muscle on the market,” she remarks. “Every army needs its soldiers, and its generals.” Tracing her finger along a menu tucked into the folder, Zyra feels the embossed surface of the gold-filigreed lettering. “The restaurant he chose for our meeting has excellent reviews, and a large price tag.”
“Affordable,” Imamu replies simply. “You are comfortable going alone?”
“No one he can muster is a real threat to me,” the goddess raises her head proudly and closes the file. “It is as we will, High Priest.”
Dorago-rishi Restaurant
Sat beside the sparkling river, Zyra plucks a perfectly golden cut of unagi from her plate between a pair of chopsticks. She’s getting better with them. “My compliments to your tailor, Mr. Gavail,” she compliments, allowing it to linger in the air as she tastes the delicious bite of eel. The mutant crocodilian sits across from her, in an oversized seat the staff brought out for him. A well-fitted suit clings to his massive physique, a piled high plate in front of him. While the rich clientele fix the mutant with wary and spiteful looks, none make a fuss with the staff. He’s clearly a regular fixture of this place.
“I keep her on retainer for a reason,” in spite of his gruff appearance and the reptilian gravel in his voice, the gangster Gnash speaks fluently and elegantly. “I must return he compliment to your own tailor.” Smiling, Zyra runs a hand down the fabric of her dress. Mythopoesis’ new fashion stint has been a little German girl’s dream, working a private runway for him and for their colleagues in the Red Finger complex. All the new outfits she could ask for, free of charge.
“He is an artist of many mediums,” she comments genially.
“Such a shame the suits rarely last a year,” Gnash complains, plucking an entire fish and setting it in his jaws. So large is his gullet, Zyra barely has time to swing her head to the side inquisitively before he’s swallowed the thing, no fear at all for bones. “Every year a little larger, a little stronger,” he elaborates with a crocodile grin. “It is the square cube law I fear most.”
“We could do something about that, I’m sure,” holding her chopsticks and tapping them on her plate, Zyra moves from small talk into business.
The crocodile guffaws. “About the laws of physics?”
“Resources and brains are one thing, but reach is another,” she replies. “We have plenty of overseas contacts, and a growing library of Quirks at our disposal. In this fantastic world of ours’, a solution is never out of reach.”
“And what do I have to look forward to, then,” his mighty voice speaks lower, a gritty whisper. “A future as your brute, your pet?”
“A general, perhaps one day a governor,” Zyra clarifies. “A seat at the table. My…” she would not call him her employer, and colleague is too impersonal, yet nor are they family or lovers. Her chopsticks rest against another cut of eel, while Zyra finds the right word. “My contemporary values you highly. He believes you are destined for great things.”
“Honeyed words,” Gavail skeptically mutters. “We have never met. What does he know of me?”
“Only that something in him speaks well of something in you,” as cryptic an answer as the one Imamu had given her. “Would you consider speaking to him personally, before you make your decision?”
“He could not speak to me himself, now? He sent you instead. Why is that?”
Bristling a little at the implication that she is somehow secondary, Zyra frowns up at the reptilian. “He sent me because he was needed elsewhere, and only I who sit by his side was worthy of speaking to you on his behalf.” She sits a little taller, and draws an envelope out of her purse, sliding it across the table. “This is an invitation he would not trust to just anyone. Take it as a gesture of the faith he has in you. From one blessed being to another.”
The gangster’s face betrays that the talk of faith puts him off, but he takes the envelope and slides it into his suit pocket. “I will make no promises yet.” Inside, a pamphlet for the Temple’s upcoming sermon.
Mr. Therapist, Independent
Within the folder is a photograph of a smiling man, staring into space as if under the effects of narcotics. Mr. Therapist’s reputation precedes him, many gangs and crime families vying for his services, all while his followers cling to him like addicts. Addicts to their own ignorant bliss. The bliss holds no interest to Imamu, and so the man has thus far eluded his interest.
Opportunity, however, demands action. Red Finger agents living in a particularly quiet Kyoto suburb have reported a small, off-the-books clinic being run out of one of the homes there. People in and out at all hours of the night, medical equipment visible through the windows. A man fitting Mr. Therapist’s description had been seen inside, going about his business without a care.
Failing to acquire him would simply invite another to do so first. Imamu sets his file on the ‘recruit’ pile.
Red Finger Agents Assigned: Kenta Sanada, callsign “Puck”; Rhino Squad
When the squad of agents, led by their commander, arrive, Imamu has already laid a set of new uniforms on the table. “Come. Find the one marked with your unit number,” he instructs them. The uniforms laid out are unremarkable, blue-hued outfits with bulletproof vests. If they are to bring Mr. Therapist in, Imamu would rather the other villain groups in Kyoto not know that the Red Finger is in possession of him. An asset as contested as this is better kept under wraps.
The squad leader picks up one of the new uniforms, a frown on his face. Sanada, or ‘Puck,’ a delinquent high school student who was disowned by his family and forced to drop out to live on the street. Imamu’s temple silently took him in, off the books, and began to train him as an agent. A motivated attitude had earned him a rise through the ranks, but he is brash and proud. And very loathe to give up the markings upon his lapel that differentiate him from his peers.
Quirk: 「Silent Night」
Type: Emitter (Absorption)
Description: Nullifies vibrations in a medium-sized radius around himself, rendering the world totally silent. The effect is blocked by physical obstructions.
“So what’s with the new outfits, Holiness?” he asks, youthful vigor in his voice. He maintains just enough respect to avoid punishment.
“You are going to be bringing in a new person of interest,” Imamu instructs calmly, not acknowledging the wounded pride. “I would rather it not be known that he is in our possession.” Stated as fact, to reassure Sanada indirectly of Imamu’s confidence in him, whether real or manufactured. It should be a simple enough mission, one that will give the boy more experience. With Mochi embedded in Shiketsu, student patrols could be routed around the neighborhood.
“Are we doing this the easy way or the hard way?”
“If the former does not succeed, then take the latter.”
“As you will it, High Priest.”
A Quiet Suburb
Rows of compact houses are stacked neatly down the street. An out of the way residential area, the sort of place no one has much business going unless they live there. It’s somewhere comfortably average, really middle class. Could use a little more action.
Puck and his crew hop the low concrete walls between the tiny yards, moving through cover. There’ll be families here, people who might look out a window and see trouble, and definitely people who’ll call the cops. Cops might even be on the way already, if anybody else has been reporting the suspicious activity Imamu’s other agents picked out.
Painters’ masks with microphones inside cover the squad’s mouths, and earpieces sit wedged in place, allowing Puck to command his crew with minimal noise. “Back door,” he motions. They circle the building from the side, coming around to a sliding door. Suppressing his Quirk, Sanada reaches up and raps on the glass.
On the other side, a mild-mannered man wearing glasses is wiping down a plastic-covered recliner. There are boxes of equipment and belongings scattered around the nearly-bare room, looking like it’s already in the process of being packed up. The man looks up and out through the glass, smiling uncharacteristically for a man staring down a gang of armed thugs standing outside of his back door. He absently calls, ”It’s unlocked!”
Puck exchanges a look with the guy to his left, who reaches out and tries the door. So it is.
“What can I do for you?” hands folded in front of him, the dopey-faced quack doctor blinks blearily at Puck and the rest.
“We came with an offer,” tugging off the painter’s mask to hang around his neck, Puck motions for one of his boys to bring around a briefcase of money. “Our boss is looking to secure your exclusive services. This is just a whistle wetter.”
Not so much as a look at the briefcase, and the man turns away. “Oh. That’s very nice of them, but I was already invited to work with someone. I would be happy to provide you some services before I go.”
Somebody else beat them to the punch… not unexpected. Other groups would have their own information networks, deeper in Japan where this guy must’ve come down from. Puck crosses his arms. “We’ll pay more. Just let us know what the other guy’s rate is.”
“That would be very rude of me,” the man softly responds. “I would hate to hurt any feelings by cancelling on a client.” Puck’s eyebrow twitches. What’s this guy’s problem. “There’s no need to be upset,” the ‘therapist’ tries to defuse things with some raised hands. “We can all get along.”
“This guy’s too cooked in the head,” Puck growls, pulling up his mask. Through their earpieces, he commands the squad, as his aura of quiet begins to expand. “Grab him and his stuff. I’ll message Eel to bring the truck around.”
Sensing hostility, the quack adjusts his footing into a practiced-looking defensive stance. Puck scoffs. As if he stood a chance against all of them. Let him resist. Hard way’s more fun, anyways.
The Illustrious Illithid., Independent
One of the remaining independent operators in Kyoto, and one whose abilities Imamu covets dearly. Not only for the potential information gathering, but to ensure that the Red Finger’s secrets are not leaked once they begin to draw more attention. Flexing his gloved fingers around the dossier, the Oni stares into the mind-god’s eyes through the photograph.
It is placed upon the recruitment pile.
Red Finger Agent Assigned: Nia Okorie, callsign “Trickshot”
A face from back home, her hair done up in a bud on top of her head, approaches the table. One of Imamu’s scouts, originally from what was once the Congo. Nia Okorie. A survivor. A woman who has undergone much suffering, when she was captured by the enemy, and tortured. Many scars dot her dark flesh, and Imamu runs a hand over one as she draws near and wraps a hand around his shoulders.
Nia is also one of his favorite concubines.
Quirk: 「Paparazzi」
Type: Emitter (Clairvoyance/Memory Manipulation)
Description: She can take photographs with her eyes, printing them out of a slot in her lower abdomen.
“You need my iron mind for this mission,” she observes, sensing his intentions before he has need to voice them. “You know that mental fortitude is not always enough to evade the grasp of a mind-reader.”
“It is more than most have to offer,” Imamu cups her cheek. “And you are a shrewd negotiator.” Many of his lieutenants are already busy on tasks. Imamu would not trust any fool to speak to the Illithid on his behalf. Accepting the compliment, Nia leans down and meets his lips.
“As you will it, my High Priest.”
North Ukyo Ward Subway Station, Kyoto
A series of brightly covered miniature storefronts lines the wall of the subway station, peddling items of convenience or personally made wares for which the traders could not afford a more prominent shop. Travelers who come and go for work or for school are tempted by small purchases that will not delay their daily routine. Trickshot sits on a metal bench, one leg folded over the other, wearing simple plainclothes. She watches a hooded man speaking into an ATM nestled in the corner, next to a restroom with a perpetual Out of Order sign taped to the door.
Trickshot looks back down at her phone, playing an offline game of solitaire. It’s nearly half an hour before the hooded man leaves, and she stands up to take his place at the ATM. She punches a code into the number pad, then presses and holds down the ‘clear’ button. After ten seconds, the screen flickers and a Japanese girl in pigtails announces, “Please hold! A help operator will be with you shortly!” Then, repeats herself in poor English. The screen goes blank.
Patience on Trickshot’s part is rewarded with a grainy image of a face that resembles a squid melded into a human skull. “Not the face I have come to expect from that passcode,” the man on the other end comments. “Identify yourself.”
“Christmas is a romantic holiday, isn’t it?” Trickshot asks. The squid nods at the secondary passphrase confirming who she represents.
“What information do you seek?”
“We are here with an offer to join our organization,” Trickshot states plainly, keeping her thoughts pointed and purposeful to avoid letting too many stray fancies wander where the telepath- no doubt in range- could peek leisurely at them.
Lifting a teacup to his face on the other side of the monitor, the Illithid drinks a mysterious red slurry from it. “I am curious. What would you have to offer? Wealth? I have plenty enough to sate my needs and desires. Power? I value security and safety far more highly.” There is a light clink as he sets down his fine China. “With all that I am privy too, a declaration of allegiance would heap enemies upon my head.”
“There is one enemy that my master is most concerned with,” Trickshot looks around the subway, her voice steady. “The Reaper. And what the Reaper could do, if he reaped all of the secrets from your head.”
A pair of gangly, long-nailed hands steeple themselves in front of the squid-man’s tentacles. “A concern that has not escaped me. What security can your master offer that others could not?”
“Relative anonymity,” is the reply. “On the surface we remain small, beneath his notice. You know we are anything but. Until a plan can be made to deal with the demon, you would be safer with us. If we do our jobs right, no one will even know where you have gone.”
“And I suppose there would be a place for me in your master’s new world order.”
With a warm smile, Trickshot corrects, “There always was,” she folds her arms beneath her chest. “To stop the Reaper before he grows too powerful to stop, great minds will be needed. To govern the new territories, great divine minds such as yours’ will be needed.”
“Governance holds no interest to me.”
“A skilled delegator, then.”
The steepled hands lower, resting against the table’s surface just out of view. The tip of his long thumb nails remain within the camera’s frame, barely distinguished from the grainy fuzz of the monitor. “Whatever else your master may have in mind, a convention of individual villains for safety against the Reaper’s predation is a practical idea.” Trickshot expects the Illithid knew the nature of the meeting before she had ever arrived, and already been considering it. Imamu must have expected as much, as well. “Consider your foot in the door, and mine in yours’. We will see what leads from there.”
The Big Man, Independent
The latest of America’s exports to Japan, a colossal beast in the shape of a man. Images of him abound, easily accessible, for he is exceedingly poor at avoiding the spotlight in his petty robberies. Or he simply does not care. What drew Imamu’s attention to an otherwise unremarkable brute that would eventually tread on the wrong toes and be noticed by the big dogs and be put down, was the nature of those robberies. Short-sighted things. Daily comforts and luxuries taken in bulk, followed by long periods of lethargic nothing.
Potential, there, for an easily contented henchman. Imamu sets the small file atop his other marked recruits.
Red Finger Assigned Agent: Fatima Saab, callsign “White Woman”
The agent for the job is already waiting before the table, kneeling with her head bowed. Fatima’s long blond hair is tied back in a ponytail, ill-matched to her Middle Eastern ancestry. A convert from Imamu’s expeditions into the Islamic states, where her blessing was viewed as an ill-omened star.
Quirk: 「Whore of Babel」
Type: Transformation (Human Mimicry)
Description: She appears to be a white woman, with blond hair, an effect she can suppress actively to return to her natural appearance. She is capable of replicating the language skills of whatever she is looking at.
For dealing with a dimwitted-looking American, Fatima is the ideal candidate. “It is clear from reports that the asset has a temper,” Imamu cautions her. “If he does not seem amenable, leave him be. Do not attempt to impede him in any way, and comply if he demands you leave.”
“I understand. I am grateful for your concern for my safety,” the woman thanks him softly. ”It will be as you will it, High Priest.”
Happy Egg! Convenience Store
Following the trail of ‘Big Man’ is hardly a challenge. The small staff parking space beside the convenience mart is empty save for two fist-shaped craters, one of which contains the unconscious shape of some low-ranking hero who tried to answer the call of an ‘easy’ convenience store robbery. The front lights are off. Through the windows, however, White Woman can see a light in the rear of the store- most likely the manager’s office. Walking to the door, White Woman tries it and finds it unlocked. Whoever fled had no time for such trifling concerns as locking up behind them. The bells above the door jingle as she enters.
There is a thud and a terrible creaking. Not of the floor, but of the ceiling, as a hard-skulled head bumps it and continues pressing up, challenging its structural integrity. White Woman can see him already, the flank of his bulging muscles visible in the utility closet-sized manager’s office, where he had been hunched over the computer desk. A blank-eyed face lowers itself into the doorway. Black orbs like a beast’s look out at her, on a face lit eerily by a single half-obscured lightbulb.
“Who are you?” he asks. “Are you here to interrupt me?”
In her suit and kitsune mask, White Woman might, to some, appear to be a hero. She nips that in the bud immediately, “No. I have no interest in stopping whatever you are doing.” If there’s any surprise at someone speaking English back to him, the creature doesn’t show it.
“That what you want, it’s free. But the toilet paper is all mine.” It’s all the man says, in his vast, dull voice, before he turns away and fixes his eyes on an unseen screen. White Woman can hear video game sound effects start up from the speakers. He has, at least, some propriety for hygiene, she thinks to herself.
“I was looking for you, though,” she says. Apparently not enough to turn his head away from the game, but she sees his abnormally large ear wiggle a little like an animal’s. “My employer is interested in having your strength on his side. In return, he has many luxuries to offer. A warm bed, central heating, hot water, fine dining… a safe place to stay where no heroes will interrupt you.”
“When?”
“At your earliest convenience.”
“Can I bring the computer?”
“Certainly.”
“Lemme finish this level.” There is no urgent increase in the tapping of the keyboard, nor in the sounds from the speakers. The Big Man takes his sweet time.
X.T., Independent
“High Priest,” a group of headquarters attendants, in their shorter-sleeved uniforms, stand at the doors of the meeting chamber. Imamu waves them in with a raised hand, looking up from his dossiers. When he sees the packages they carry in, he grins eagerly.
“Ah! The mail has arrived. Very good.”
One of the attendants sets a smaller package in front of the Oni, while a larger crate is brought in by two others. Behind them, another pair drags a tied up and gagged figure across the stone floor. Unwilling to wait, Imamu takes an offered box-cutter and opens the first. Inside is a shogun’s helm, decorated and fitted to match the Oni’s mask. Along with the armored casing are a set of lenses that slot in over the eye-holes of the mask.
Slotting the new gadget into his helm, Imamu waves his hand towards the eastern wall. “Set the prisoner there.” The gagged man struggles and tries to cry out for help. A dealer who made the mistake of peddling his poison in a neighborhood replete with Imamu’s converts. Standing from his chair, Imamu waits for his attendants to move out of the way before testing out his toy. Raising a hand to the side of the helm, he adjusts a small switch just beneath his ear. The lenses shift, and it becomes more difficult to see, blurry and distorted. A cost, to be sure, but Imamu believes the offensive utility will prove worth it.
A flash of red lights up a wide swathe of the room in front of the Red-Eyes Oni, his thus-named eye rays expanded to cover a broader area. Quickly flicking the switch to clear his vision, Imamu observes the effects on his victim. A thin, fragile layer of stone skin across the front of his body and his eyes, cracking stiffly as he struggles to move and tries to wriggle away towards the stairs. In a very pleasing way, the cracks become vicious, if shallow cuts as the stone turns back to flesh. The drug dealer cries and screws his eyes shut. “Most excellent,” Imamu states in satisfaction.
Reaching up again, Imamu switches the helm the other way. The lenses zoom in like a set of binoculars, boggling his vision. Taking careful aim at the prisoner’s face, Imamu releases a thin, intensely focused red beam into the target’s forehead. Spikes of stone rapidly burrow through thin skin and then thick bone, before they begin to transform the brain. Signals are interrupted and scattered, and the man’s eyes roll back, seizing on the floor. “Oh yes. This I like,” the High Priest says again, to himself and those gathered to watch. Flickering the lens back to its wide mode, he fires a continues burst of petrifying light across that half of the room. To see just how long it takes to fully petrify a victim with the diffused rays.
… Quite a while, it turns out. Imamu is forced to blink and squeeze his dry eyes shut before the man’s petrified flesh has eaten even halfway through him. Lifting the lenses, Imamu reaches out to his side. “Eye drops,” he commands, and an attendant acquiesces with a readied bottle. Leaving the partially petrified man to slowly melt back into flesh, Imamu tends to his sore eyes and grabs a letter from the bottom of the helmet’s packaging. A response to his invitation of retained employment.
Blinking away the excess rejuvenating droplets, the High Priest regards the letter with his lips set in a firm line.
‘While you are welcome to continue lining my pockets, I have no interest in being a stooge adviser to the latest would-be dictator with an overripe hot air balloon for a head. Least of all one who spouts nonsense about aliens. I am not an alien god. I am a human being with a mutation quirk.
I digress. I refused King Midas and I’ll refuse you, and if the Reaper shows his face at my doorstep he can suckle my disintegration ray with his dirty fanged mouth, so don’t you worry about me and him. I can take care of myself.
Sincerely - Your friendly neighborhood death ray supplier, X.T.’
Silently, Imamu sets the letter back in the package and moves one dossier from the recruitment pile into the kill pile.
Rika Eichi, Independent
Hopefully the next shipment would be accompanied by better news. Imamu’s attendants crack open the crate with a crowbar, revealing his prizes. First among them is the imposing suit of armor. Built to integrate Imamu’s jinbaori for decorative flair, it would replace the Oni’s bodysuit underneath with something sturdier and more protective. He possesses more than enough strength to heft the heft of the steel and titanium shell, and the cloth weave inside would provide additional protection against higher caliber rounds.
Beside the armor, a towering weapon rests against the inside of the crate. An upgrade to Imamu’s sledgehammer, with an equally adjustable-length grip and a set off rocket boosters set to the head that could be used to puncture defenses with greater force. One of the hammer’s heads has been narrowed into a bulky spike, like a classical warhammer, to improve its penetration.
Taped to the chest of the armor is a letter. Imamu slices it open.
Another rejection. Not unexpected- these tinkers seem to prefer their self-sufficiency. But politely worded enough not to offend Imamu’s sensibilities. His relationship with Rika as a customer is more valuable than removing her as a supplier of his enemies, he decides.
That said, something to vent these frustrations on would be welcome. Taking the new weapon in hand, Imamu tests the weight. He looks behind him, where the bloody and whimpering prisoner is now all flesh and bone again, trying to drag himself towards the door. With a smile on his face, Imamu bounces the haft of the weapon in his hand, and turns on his heel.
The Temple of the Ancient Ones, Kyoto
[Soundtrack: Kwoolanism https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0JAs9urMU30 ]
Constructed in the western part of Kyoto, at the foot of the mountains, is the Kwoolani Temple. The exterior is constructed with a Japanese shrine in mind, paying homage and respect to the local culture. Or, as the protestors who sometimes blockade the road to the Temple claim, appropriating it. Their protests are an annoyance, but thus far the protestors have not been able to sway the city government to do anything to assuage them; Imamu’s lobby is stronger. And it would look very bad and very suspicious if the Red Finger were to start wiping out protestors. So Imamu leaves them be for now, quietly hoping they will try something more dire and call down the wrath of the authorities on their own heads.
Today is not one of the days they are out in force. Imamu makes his way between the anemic lines of sign-bearing malcontents, and up the stairs to his Temple. The interior is more to his liking. The rigid, vaulted designs of Egypt, including statues in the likeness of his divine mother Serket and the other gods- not all Egyptian. Kwoolanism takes and borrows from many theistic beliefs, finding that each contains a kernel of the deeper truth. The ceiling, domed like a mosque. The curtains and rugs, patterned with voodoo symbology.
Some members of the congregation are already in wait when Imamu enters, and begins preparing to speak to them in his lesson for today. He stands upon a stage at the back of the room, cushions upon the floor serving as the seats for his followers. Mochi Uranus is among them, seated in his wheelchair in the aisle. The boy raises his hand in a tentative wave when he meets Imamu’s eye, a gesture returned with a warm smile.
Shrugging off his coat, Imamu stands before the crowd gathering to their seats topless, adorned with golden scorpion-styled jewelry- not real gold, not since he became aware of King Midas’ existence. A long white garment hangs around his waist to just above his ankles, an attempt to emulate the garb of the deities of ancient Egypt.
Taking up a cage with two live chickens from behind the stage, Imamu sets it upon the altar. After putting on a set of rubber gloves, he takes one from the cage and dips it into a basin of electrified water in the center of the altar, sending its system into insensate shock. Laying it then upon the table, he uses a ritual knife to smoothly slice open the bird’s throat. Blood runs into indents in the altar’s surface, down to bowls from which it can be taken, prepared, and made into blood sausages. “A life gifted to us by the spirits,” Imamu announces to the crowd in his booming voice. “To feed and to warm.” The crowd repeats his words. “To feed and to warm.”
An attendant from off stage takes the chicken, and Imamu begins slaughtering another, repeating the process. Two attendants come afterwards, one taking the bowls of chicken blood. The animals would be prepared in another room, their parts used with as little waste as possible. Imamu is not personally aware of all of the uses, but he is assured that the resources are being put to good use. Primary among them, feeding the poor among his people.
Removing his gloves, Imamu steps around to the front of the altar, while two more attendants appear to wash out the blood from the indents and remove the now-empty chicken cage. A scan of the crowd recognizes a new face, the towering shape of Gnash knelt upon a cushion near the back of the room. So he had accepted the invitation after all…
“Before we begin in earnest,“ Imamu announces, “I would like to extent gratitude to the Miyata family for their assistance preparing this month’s Temple barbecue.” With a raise of his hand, Imamu invites the family in question to stand. A mother, a father, their son, and a new baby girl. Imamu nods his head to them in recognition, and the crowd echoes him with, “May their offspring know the spirits’ favor.”
“Today,” the High Priest begins, “I see new faces among our number. And so, we will share in the lesson of personal divinity.” Closing his eyes, Imamu leans his head back and lets the words of the spirits flow through him, practiced to automaticity. “From the sky, the spirits came. In the first world, the Earth was lifeless. And so they seeded it with life, in the hopes that one day that life would become like them. Enlightened with a spark of something more, a soul. That they would not be alone in the vast starry night.”
“For so long the seeds grew. For so long that many of the great spirits lost interest, and turned their eyes from young Earth. Many- but not all. The patient ones remained, until the seeds they planted hatched at last into humanity. Bright, starry-eyed humanity, who looked up into the sky and dreamed to traverse it. To grasp the stars,” he raises his hand and clenches it into a fist, “In their greedy monkey paws!”
Lowering the fist to his chest, Imamu paces up and down the stage. “But of course we were greedy. For all our bright minds we were still beasts. Animals. Possessed of intelligence, but not yet that peculiar spark. Soul. Soulless things. And the spirits looked down, and they pitied humanity, who soon would possess the intellect to recognize their own soullessness.”
“Then, in their divine compassion, the spirits came down to walk among us. And we knew them as gods.”
The sermon goes on, recounting reinterpretations of various mythologies from the perspective of the gods as living among humanity throughout its history. “Until…” reaching the crux of the lesson, “Serket,” for of course it would be his imagined ancestor who plays this protagonist role. Illustratively, Imamu stretches the scorpion tail from his lower back, raising it above his head, arms at his sides and palms up. “In her generosity brought them the answer. The answer to uplift humanity from its soulless hell.”
“The spirits broke themselves into tiny fragments of light. Seeds, again, to plant in fertile soil. And those fragments of light came to rest in us- in humanity. The spirits gifted us their souls. Generation by generation, growing and healing anew, carrying in them the memories of humanity that came before, woven into our very DNA. Such was their love for us that they made us immortal by their sacrifice. And such is our duty, to continue our lineages, and pass on new soul-sparks.”
After the sermon, Imamu steps down from the stage and makes his way to one of the side rooms. A small sitting room for meeting with guests. Catching the eye of Gavail in the crowd, Imamu invites him in with a gesture. There they sit, seated on cushions to either side of a low Japanese table, comically small compared to their combined size.
“An interesting philosophy you have,” the towering crocodile rasps. “It was not lost on me, that your eyes fell upon me when speaking of Sobek.” Reaching beneath the table, Imamu withdraws a crystal decanter of clear liquid and sets it upon the surface between them. “And this is?”
“Water from the Nile River,” Imamu replies. “Long have I carried this gift in the hopes of presenting it to the line blessed by Sobek.” A god some holds in alignment with chaos, and others with order. Imamu quietly hopes to find a brother in the latter.
The realization has begun to play across Gavail’s face that Imamu is not, in fact, a charlatan peddling falsehoods. A large, scaled hand takes up the decanter, admiring the way the light from the window glints through it. “Does it awaken anything in you?” Imamu prompts.
“It awakens the idea that you are not deceiving in your offer,” Sobek’s champion sets down the gift. “You truly intend to welcome me to your leadership. But…” his reptilian eyes remain fixed, unblinking as he carefully chooses his words. “You are the leader. And I would not be your equal.”
“A leader is as much servant as he is master,” Imamu responds easily, already well-used to this question. Gods are, after all, proud creatures. “One who organizes, who facilitates communication. That I lead does not mean that you are beneath me.”
“Fine,” the goliath crocodile resolves stoically. “Then what do you need of me?”
“To reform.”
Gnash’s face contorts. “What?”
Standing, Imamu goes to a cupboard to take out some tea and put it to heat. “Right now, the Hero Commission is desperate for good publicity. For more hands serving the side of order, against the ever-growing tide of chaos. With my diplomatic power, I could name you a member of our religion’s leadership- see your past crimes washed away. If you are willing, you could find religion and reform… become someone these people will look up to,” with his hand, Imamu indicates the door out to the congregation beyond. “Someone who can lead them. Not as a gangster, but as a king. A god. You could be loved.”
At the lack of response, Imamu turns and looks Gnash in the eye. "You were told I wish you to be my general. But not a general in the dark, chosen of Sobek. A general in the light."
There is silent contemplation from the crocodilian. As he debates internally the virtues of Imamu’s argument, there comes a knock at the door, and Gnash tenses up. Calmly, Imamu answers it.
On the other side of the door is a gruff-looking man. “May I speak with you, High Priest?”
Imamu looks back at Gnash. “I need time to think,” the gangster tells him plainly. Imamu nods, and steps out to speak with the new stranger.
To the side of the main hall, beneath a serpentine statue of Quetzalcouatl, Imamu shakes hands with the other man. He introduces himself as Inoue Ryuji- the Transport Hero, Rescue Ray. “I am pleased by your community outreach, and intrigued by your belief system,” the Hero voices in admiration. “I would like to discuss a possible partnership with my Troubled Youth Center, which will be reopening next week. It would be an excellent time to appear together at a press conference.”
“I would be most interested,” the High Priest smiles. Kwoolanism would receive not one, but two success stories soon.
Red Finger Complex, Meeting Room
[Soundtrack: Epilogue https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-PupDdj14Jo ]
“How are you finding your accommodations?”
Across the table from the Red-Eyes Oni, a tall, lithe man with tentacles sprouting from the underside of his chin plucks a perfectly cooked piece of calf’s brain from his plate. “As comfortable as my own, if less lonesome.” He hums aloud. “It remains to be seen whether that is a good thing or not.” Imamu waits patiently while the Illithid enjoys his meal, until his guest speaks again, “You wish to discuss countermeasures against the Reaper.”
“Among others,” Imamu nods his head. “King Midas will be holding his Summit soon. Who can say who all might attend… I would like to go in protected from mental influence. Or mind reading.”
“Protection of others’ minds is not something I have practiced,” the Illithid states. “I have theorized, of course. By creating psionic static with nonsense signals, I could interfere with other attempts to influence your brainwaves. There would be side-effects, however.”
“Such as?”
“Have you ever tried to have a conversation while someone is screaming in your ear?”
“I have not.”
“You may wish to practice, before the real thing.”
It is a consideration, at least. Imamu would sooner go in impaired and protected, than open and exposed. “As for dealing with the Reaper himself… the Hero Commission is mobilizing their new task force.”
The Illithid saws another chunk of brain with his knife, plucking it with a silver fork. “You think it will be successful?”
“No,” folding his arms, the Oni looks down at the modeled map of the city upon the table. “Not without assistance. And that is another area in which I would like your expertise. We cannot simply communicate with the… Heroes without exposing ourselves to misguided attempts to bring us to justice. Their image would not tolerate a ‘team-up’ with a villain organization, however much their picture stories may say otherwise.”
“You need me to detect when they are deploying, so that you can deploy support without their knowledge.”
“Just so.”
“Hmhmhm,” the squid-headed man chuckles. “Not a bad idea. It could even be fun. I have never had a ‘task force’ to deploy before…” he bows his head. “What is it you are used to hearing? Ah yes. As you will it, High Priest.”