Red Finger: The Summit, Part 2

[Soundtrack https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9z-perF-2u4 ]
Here he is. Standing beside a coiled stair, watching the crowd through a set of unremarkable, ordinary eyes. If the dark legend of the Desolator were true, surely there would be something in him to tell. Not a spark- no, there is no spark in an empty thing. A lack of a spark. Eyes reflecting no light, blank things, hollow things. But no. They are the eyes of a man like any other.

The legend must be false, then. The Desolator hides his blessing, making it beneath a blasphemous myth. Clever, in its way. It radiates untouchability that something so supposedly lesser could threaten the greatest among us.

The eyes fix on Imamu as he approaches, staring at the Oni’s mask as if trying to pierce through it. Perhaps he can. Perhaps supernatural eyesight is the true source of his deadly aim. Whatever the man’s eyes perceive within the Oni’s mask, the Desolator offers no greeting to it. And so the first words fall to Imamu: “According to the maître d’, you are the man who speaks on behalf of the Daiichi clan.” He means, of course, Karma. The Night Parade’s appointed go-between for the villain ‘community’.

“Whomever told you that that is mistaken,” the Desolater solemnly refutes. Enough pause is given for him to assess Imamu’s reaction to his apparent rebuff, but Imamu reads the test and folds his hands behind him. Non-threateningly, patiently. “I do not speak on behalf of the Daiichi,” comes the clarification, at last. “I only listen. Whether my employer deigns to respond is his business.”

“The ear of the Daiichi, then,” accepting the correction, the Red-Eyes Oni carries on without breaking stride. “The Red Finger is interested in a business relationship with the Daiichi. I believe that we share many principles.” Reaching slowly into his robes, the Oni presents a letter within an envelope, turning it over to the Desolator. “I would ask that you deliver these words to your employer. Within are details of how we may be contacted.” The times and locations of middle-men, agents to meet agents, the routes and handshakes navigated by wary men in the underworld.

The Desolator examines the letter. “As it is within my contract, I will need to examine this for harmful chemical agents before delivery. You understand?” Ah, yes. Things like anthrax. The caution is to be expected. If the Desolator chose to use the information within to target Red Finger agents, it would certainly be made clear that the demons stand together.

Imamu does not like to think of his agents as expendable- but risk is inherent in a war. “That is acceptable.” The confirmation received, the Desolator accepts the envelope and tucks it into his suit pocket.

“Then I believe our business is concluded,” the Desolator coolly declares an end to their conversation. As if it were a cue, his eyes drift over Imamu’s shoulder.

[Soundtrack https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_9TzXI0YjlQ ]

Shifting one foot, Imamu turns, finding himself face-to-face with the greatest demon of them all. The Reaper- vessel of Apep, the devourer of the horizon. The situation feels, in that moment, like a trap laid and sprung. How deep does the influence go, Imamu wonders, between Reaper and Desolator. “You don’t seem surprised to see me,” standing unnaturally still, cape barely fluttering, the Reaper watches Imamu impassively, scanning him. It felt that the Desolator’s eyes were peering beneath his mask, but now he knows these eyes peel away the layers. A clairvoyant blessing harvested from another, Imamu estimates. They are not common, but this predator would choose its meals intelligently.

“Our meeting was inevitable. I have felt your eyes upon me since your arrival,” Imamu answers. Though his guise has been peeled away, he still speaks in his deep Japanese accent. There is no reason to give away the secrets to all that were plundered by one.

“You are my enemy,” their positions on the stairs place the Desolator on one side, and the Reaper on the other, penning Imamu in. “I want to know why. Why target me?” the vessel asks, eyes narrowing but a fraction of an inch. It feels as though he has already found his answer, and seeks confirmation- or to learn how open his foe will be in this opposition. He seeks a formality. A declaration of war.

The whirring footsteps of the Dark Weasel’s arrival do little to ease the tension in Imamu’s limbs. His protégé stands at the bottom of the stair, looking up at them, words frozen to his tongue. No words are needed. Imamu only needs be certain that the boy will not freeze if his blessing is needed to open the way… It is not something of which he is certain. And that leaves Imamu nervous. He hates uncertainties.

“You are the enemy of humanity,” Imamu states plainly. Raising a hand, he frames it beneath the Desolator in the Reaper’s view. “Any who foolishly believe themselves to be your friends are only presenting their neck for the inevitable slaughter.” No verbal response is given to his provocation by the assassin.

“Noble,” the word is cold in the Reaper’s maw. “That’s how you see yourself. You think you’re protecting the world from me. Holy duty.”

“I am.”

“The world is not yours’,” warns Apep, moving Mochi out of the way with only a turn of the head and descending the stairs. The Desolator walks around Imamu, sidling past his bulk to follow. The foolish pet follows at the heel of the master he believes he has tamed. Earlier in the day, Imamu drew a likeness to a lost puppy, and a viper. Now he feels that the Reaper may be more like a cat. Serpent and feline in one, perhaps. Divine visions cross behind Imamu’s eyes, granting him glimpses of Apep’s true soul. Certainly, there is nothing human in the creature.

“We should choose our moment to leave carefully,” walking down the stairs to his protégé’s side, Imamu looks down at Mochi. The fearful eyes of a boy far out of his depth, behind that mask. It was perhaps too early to bring him here. Imamu knows better, now.

[Soundtrack https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=B7nKzCRL_oo ]

“I failed,” Mochi reports, looking pointedly towards the Singularity Society’s entourage. “I could not sway her against them, and now… I think she knows who I am. Both of them do.”

“Then you know where to speak to her,” changing gears, Imamu sets an encouraging hand on the boy’s shoulder, drawing his eyes back up. It is a conversation Imamu would rather not have here, but if it stills the boy’s frayed nerves, then it is important. He speaks in hushed tones. “They have loosened their grasp to allow her into that place. All it takes is the right people to unwind her fingers. Your friend, perhaps.” For the Society to lose their figurehead, their icon, would cripple them. She must be removed from them- from the Reaper’s influence, that her people mistakenly accept as salvation.

Eyes widening, Mochi plaintively asks, “What if she… tells him about… me?”

“You worry you will lose your friend, if he knows what you are.”

An uneasy nod.

“You will not,” squeezing the boy’s shoulder, Imamu offers words of comfort. “I have seen his eyes. They see with a clarity lacking in most, analyze all that he looks upon with great diligence. He will not judge his friend before he knows the whole truth. Take heart in that.”

The quivering fear in Mochi’s eyes diminishes, and they regain their sense of purpose, if not their edge. It will do for now.