Red Finger: The Summit, Part 1
[Soundtrack https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DnW95IHj_TI ]
Far from the many watchful eyes of the city, Imamu climbs the unkempt mountain trails. All around, nature. Thickets, and the sounds of animals. The mountain air is crisp. It is pleasant, and behind the fearsome visage of his mask the man smiles. With a machete he chops away branches hanging down into the path of the ancient walking trail, little more than scarce, winter-broken and rain-worn stepping stones peppering a trail of ground where the grass is shorter. Other footsteps precede them, and many branches are already broken.
Behind Imamu, Mochi’s mechanical legs whirr with each step. His arms are burly from wheeling himself from place to place, and his stamina is impressive. Even if the mechanisms do much of the work, his abdominal muscles needed to be retrained to hold his torso upright on the powered structure. The two of them progress alone. The Illithid had chosen to make his own way to the summit, to make less obvious their association.
When they emerge to the cliffside plateau upon which the temple looms, Imamu looks up at it in awe. Larger than the smaller Japanese temples in the city, this monastery is like a district unto itself, a campus for spiritual teachings long since left behind for the stark concrete of modernity. The pillars, lanterns and sloped rooftops are remarkably intact for their age. Perhaps Midas and his company had enacted repairs, when they claimed the place for their neutral ground.
Coiled around one of the pillars, head raised on watch, is Bogey. The many-armed, bag-headed creature looms from its perch, glowing yellow eyes shining through thin fabric, watching the approach of Oni and Weasel. There is a brazier set between the two pillars, filled with small, ornate golden coins. Imamu withdraws one from his robes and tosses it onto the pile. The overseeing gargoyle nods his head, and the two are allowed to pass unmolested. Just beyond, above the gates of the courtyard, stands a young man wearing a bear trap around his neck like an amulet. He operates a mechanism that causes the tall gates to open with a creak, but no screech. Recently oiled.
Through the elegantly carved wooden walls and their fading red paint, the Oni enters the courtyard. Other guests are already here, mingling in the open air, while others are inside beyond a pair of propped open doors to the great hall. Wooden tables have been set, both inside and out, providing places to sit and talk, and drink and eat. Food and drink flow freely, lubricating the rusted, ruined social gears of men and women who exist to defy the social norms. All laid out on buffet tables and serving trays, as if to say help yourself. That is the way of those present here. To take what they want.
[Soundtrack https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mBG5NoKiBp8 ]
It is a travesty. Smile gone from his face, Imamu watches these men and women of chaos defile a sacred place as their den of ambition, as though it were a place of business and not a place of worship. Is he doing the same? Perhaps. But his ultimate aim is to restore the sacred order that this place represents- and Imamu would never dare defile the Temple with the presence of the Oni and his work. All the better that the Oni is here, and not the High Priest. A shepherd walking amongst wolves. Imamu does not smile, but the Oni bears its vicious grin, an appearance at home amongst the beasts.
“We should pay our respects to the master of the house,” the Oni’s deep voice states in prim Japanese. The command draws his Weasel to heel like a loyal hound, and they march through the doors of the great hall. Predictably, the self-appointed King sits upon his gilded throne, a chair at the head of a table overlooking the hall. To one of the stairways they stiffly walk, ascending to the balcony of the false King.
Among the crowds below, Imamu notes for a moment the dark indigo of the Illithid’s skin, and he feels a presence brush his mind. The presence escalates into a humming static, white noise crawling through Imamu’s frontal lobe. Psychic interference, intended to protect the Oni’s mind- and his second’s- from prying.
“Such a menacing presence,” muffled through the static, Midas’ tone is jovial, even mocking. More jester than king. His head does not turn to address the Oni’s appearance at his table, but the chameleon attaché slinks from her place sitting on the arm of the king’s throne.
“Was worried you wouldn’t show,” Karma comments insincerely. She could not care less for one face among all the others. But she asks the real question, “What do you think of the King’s little shindig?” A test, probing. Seeing how freely the Oni would speak to Midas’ face, how genuine his answer would sound.
Arms resting at his sides, Imamu looks down at the whispering throng of conspirators. “I am a superstitious man,” the Oni answers plainly, “I worry we invite a curse upon our houses by defiling this place.”
Throwing back his head, Midas laughs. “A curse… that would be interesting. I’ve been cursed by a lot of people, but I don’t think any of them have ever stuck,” the man throws one leg over the other and swirls a dark liquid inside of a golden goblet, raising it to his lips. He smacks them afterwards, and ponders, “Don’t you think dressing up like a demon might curse you too?”
“What we know now as Halloween was once a Celtic festival,” the Oni states, the non-sequitur causing Midas to tilt his head and raise a brow. The rest of the table listens idly, Greenfinger’s disinterest clear in the tapping of his massive fingers, Tatarimokke’s opinion as unreadable as his face. Karma wears the same amused grin with which she overlooks all the foibles of these misfits and monsters. “It was believed that the veil between the realm of the living and Hell was thinnest at that time of year. So the people donned costumes, disguises to fool the wandering spirits and demons. To walk among them as if they, too, had crawled from those eclectic pits for the night’s revelries,” raising a hand, the Oni motions towards the floor below. “These days it seems the demons never sleep. So I don my robe and my mask, and walk among them. Not to invite a curse, but to evade one.”
The utter seriousness with which the story is delivered causes a giggling fit in the chameleon. She tips her head forward and covers her mouth with just the ends of her fingers. “I can’t say I expected that answer.”
“The underworld takes all sorts,” Midas answers simply, wearing a gaudy, gold-plated grin. “Well, you certainly answered my question, Red-Eyes. I think it will be interesting doing business with you.” He holds up a hand to Tatarimokke, “You have my blessing for the smuggling contract to go through.”
With a small utterance, Tatarimokke accepts the permission with all the grace of one who never believed he needed permission in the first place. Turning his head nearly full around, he fixes the Oni with an appraising look. “Mr. Poesis had a much better sense of fashion, but I suppose your theme is at least consistent. Oh, but the boy’s costume is awful,” the owl’s eyes settle on the Weasel at the Oni’s heel. “Completely bland. No flavor at all. You should commission me to make something better if you want any respect.”
Mochi lowers his head, avoiding Tatarimokke’s eye. Imamu frowns behind his mask. A show of weakness. Like a predator, Karma detects it. And like a shark in the water, she treads nearer to circle him. “The protégé. I remember him from the hotel. Still so green around the gills! Why would you bring him to a place like this?”
Shifting one foot to look back, the Oni fixes his second with a stern look. “Straighten up, boy.” At the command, Mochi raises his head. “And speak when spoken to.”
“I am honored you’re thinking of a design for me,” voice as steady as he can manage, the boy responds to Tatarimokke, meeting the night-raptor’s eerie eyes with difficulty.
“Hroo! I am not thinking of a design yet,” waving a taloned hand, Tatarimokke dismisses the idea. “I only know that what you have on right now is a travesty against style. Have me contacted with payment first, then I will start thinking about how to fix it. That is how business works, boy. Remember it.”
“Yes, sir.” Mochi stands stiffly, stock still.
“The boy must learn,” the Oni says plainly to Karma. “Else he will be too brittle when he must take his place.”
“And what place is that, I wonder?” creeping back towards her monarch, Karma peers at the Dark Weasel over her shoulder. “He the nepobaby of one of your lieutenants?”
“Nothing so complicated,” a vague answer given. In truth, there is nothing special about Mochi Uranus. His quirk is potent and subtle, but unremarkable. His face and demeanor are unremarkable. His accomplishments are unremarkable. But he was a lost soul, and Imamu brought him purpose. That makes him loyal and trustworthy. And that, on its own, has great value. “The next generation will take over once we are gone. They must be made ready.”
Karma laughs, once, shortly. “Right. The line of succession.”
Midas’ gaze swings down towards another figure in the crowd, a man in a simple suit, seated alone. A wry grin paints the king’s face. “Maybe, maybe. Some of us have no intention of growing old.”
Imamu and Mochi leave the King’s balcony, descending back to the floor among the commoners. It seems the deal with Tatarimokke will settle in nicely, so long as the heroes of Japan are kept away. Locating an empty table to serve as their base of operations, Imamu takes a seat. Mochi’s legs hydraulically hiss as he does the same. No sooner have they been seated, than heavy footsteps approach.
[Soundtrack https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_pS5soRsrKQ ]
The Plant-Whispering Gangster, Greenfinger, stands above the Oni’s shoulder. Arriving only when the broad shoulders of the demon warrior no longer measure a match to his own. The insecurity in the timing is not lost on Imamu. Greenfinger hates not being the most imposing thing in the room. “You will deal with the owl, but you ignore me completely?” the insult in the man’s voice betrays a pettiness that Imamu knows all to well, deep in his heart of hearts where he can see his own reflection. “There are ingredients and goods that I need to source. Why does a smuggler not want more business?” Disguising personal injury with excuses, to others and to himself.
There can only be one answer. “I do not deal in drugs.”
Greenfinger’s face contorts in anger, as if he were just slapped. “So what? You think you’re better than me? Too good to do business?”
“I do not deal in drugs,” Imamu repeats, in the same tone. Greenfinger’s neck pulses with veins of anger, and his fists clench. They would look massive beside anyone else. Imamu could catch those hands with his own, easily. “A man must have his principles.”
Deep breaths. The green-thumbed titan calms his pounding heart. “And for a man’s deal to go through, he needs to avoid problems,” colder, now more measured, a threat. “I never forget a slight, Oni.” Turning on his heel, the flesh obelisk marches back to his table.
Imamu smiles to himself, in spite of the promised problems. There is unrest within Midas’ house. Its pillars are divided against themselves, and by fueling the grudge between Greenfinger and Tatarimokke he might yet cause it to collapse.
Then, all breath within the room collectively flees. A cold chill falls over the shoulders of the collected criminals and monsters. Raising his head, the Oni sees that the man of the hour as arrived.
[Soundtrack https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rbuUP7fpfMw ]
Walking between two other beastly figures who fly the scene soon after on their own agendas, the Reaper exits a gaping hole torn in space. It seals behind him, like an old scar. Eyes like bright darkness, brilliant yet offering no light to the world beyond their lens. He is taller than Imamu expected. A small pang of irritation at the back of his head reminds him again that he and Greenfinger are not cut from such different cloth. Part of him had hoped to tower over Apep’s accursed avatar. That the vantage point would fill him with courage.
Imamu would never admit it, but he fears this one. To others we calls it recognition of a threat, but that is what fear is. The animal brain alerting him to danger. In dreams, in visions, Imamu has seen it. Warnings from Serket, his goddess, his soul. This serpent of night who will swallow the horizon and then the world. Existential threat. Steeling himself, Imamu reminds himself that this is his purpose. To safeguard the world from threats such as this.
Reaching over, the Oni places a hand on the Dark Weasel’s shoulder. The boy’s rapid, panicked breathing catches and then slows. Wordlessly, he removes his hand. He is not the only one in the room struck by fear. All eyes trace the apex predator that paces among them. The Reaper goes about his business casually, with no reverence for any other. Imamu tries not to watch too obviously as the King and the False Demon speak with the Reaper and follow him like lost puppies. No. Like they see him as a lost puppy. King Midas and the Desolator, foolishly taking a viper into their breast to warm it, not understanding that they too will be consumed come Apep’s awakening. There is no hand, no voice, no instrument in this world that can tame the night serpent’s hunger.
More irritating is that Imamu has need to speak to the Desolator, the False Demon who claims to be soulless. As a representative of the Daiichi Yakuza family, the Desolator is the Red Finger’s only means to amicably arrange diplomatic talks with the dragon clan. Dragons are territorial like that. One does not merely approach their lair uninvited. Not surprising that they would not send one of their own here, to the den of their rivals, stalked by their prodigal son and his golden wyrm.
And now, the False Demon follows on the coattails of the demon above all others. Patiently, impatiently, the Oni acquires a drink for himself, and waits for a moment when the two are separated.