Kurokawa Keisuke was strangling a telephone. At least, that’s what it
looked like to the peons who scurried through the outer office. Moments later,
the poor little piece of technology let out a pained clink as its
receiver was slammed into its base. Through
the slatted blinds of the inner office, his silhouette loomed eerily over the
desk. The peons used their eyes to conduct a silent debate about whether or not
the contents of the small room were about to be annihilated.
Am I angry? Keisuke asked himself. Am I happy? Disappointed,
maybe?
He knew the answer. It was the same as always. He didn’t feel anything
, and try as he might to muster up some emotion he remained empty and hollow. It
was okay, he guessed. Perhaps it was better this way, to be able to look at the
situation from all directions, not pushed along by feelings. He considered
trashing the office. True, he was not angry, but he enjoyed terrorizing his
inferiors. It was one of the reasons why he was so successful.
He sat down in the brown leather chair and lounged in the office as
though it was his own, which it wasn’t. He lit a cigarette, and decided to
contemplate the situation.
He’d been called off his upcoming campaign in the Otherlands. For
Keisuke, this news was not a welcome thing. How he loved the sweltering jungles,
the flies descending to the bodies he’d left in his wake. The tiny villages
always burned beautifully, glowing like dying stars at night. The battles that
lay ahead would prove to be difficult. In the far eastern region, a local junta
had laid claim to the gold that lay scattered in vast amounts through its tiny
country. The junta was wildly popular among the natives, and an uprising was
imminent. Quashing that pathetic little revolution would’ve bought Keisuke
some satisfaction, if not joy. And of course, with every new campaign came that
old possibility…
He turned his mind to the present situation. Now, rather than slaying
natives of a far-away land, he’d be chasing fugitives in his own. He hadn’t
HeadHunted in years, but apparently the cops were in need of a real pro. He
realized that he should probably be furious, but there were some odd bits in the
case that fascinated him.
The prime target was a man who’d been picked up by the authorities on
the charge of working outside a Clan. The situation had been complicated by a
total lack of census records for the man, despite the fact that he was
undoubtedly Diasminian. Could he be… I wonder. Keisuke mused over the
few possibilities regarding the man’s origins. If he was the Clanless…
The Angemal snickered to himself. That fat bastard at Central had picked the
worst possible HeadHunter.
Keisuke looked at the mugshots of Harata and grinned without mirth.
Perhaps his time had come. This could be it, that glorious opportunity
he’d been waiting his whole life for. He knew he’d never arrest this man.
This Harata, whoever he was and wherever he came from, was now marked for death.
The Angemal’s grin widened. To kill the Clanless One… If the Legend
was true, the premature death of the Clanless would bring destruction to the
world. Keisuke snickered again, unable to believe his luck. I can doom this
entire stinking planet. I can take down everyone.
Of course, if this man were the Clanless, and if the Legend were true,
then surely there’d be some kind of protection on the man in question. Killing
him would not likely be an easy thing. More likely, Keisuke himself would be
killed, thus fulfilling the only lasting goal in his otherwise empty life.
Those who claimed to know Keisuke argued privately over the origin of his
obsession with death. Most believed it came along sometime during his father’s
treason and subsequent execution. Others would say it sprung to life earlier,
upon witnessing the effect his older brother’s death had upon his family. Only
the Commander himself knew the exact moment the fatal desire had embedded itself
in his psyche. He’d never told a soul. In fact, he never spoke to anyone about
anything other than business. Nobody really knew him at all.
While Keisuke leaned back to ponder candidates for his pack of
HeadHunters, ultimately deciding that the call he’d received wasn’t so bad
after all, another phone was ringing on the other side of the massive city.
That’s Chieko’s train… Mr. Kawamoto shuddered in his
enormous leather armchair. My little girl is on that train.
The television was flashing a variety of views of the train in question,
now stopped in a rural province hours to the west. Mr. Kawamoto corrected
himself. She was on that train. For a bleak second, he blamed the
television, the phone, the train itself, for what had happened. He blamed
himself. Where was his girl? Was she frightened, or hurt? Why would anybody want
to take her in the first place?
The person who’d called from the police station had offered no
consolation. He’d said that the incident seemed random, the captors didn’t
appear to want money, and that one of them was “a difficult case”- whatever
that meant. Mr. Kawamoto was assured that an expert team of HeadHunters would be
tracking the men who’d taken both his daughter and another girl. However, the
officer informed him that no one was able to guarantee the safe return of the
young women. Damn sick Angemal, thought Mr. Kawamoto in disgust. The
bastards thrive on agony.
Thinking of the Angemal made him wonder how something like this
could happen. How could people get onto a train, hide out, and then steal other
people? Where were the guards?
Mr. Kawamoto wanted to do something, anything… but for now he remained
sunken into his favorite armchair, paralyzed by fear, anger, and remorse. Over
and over he asked his questions, finally resting on one- the most important, he
felt. Why did they take Chieko?
“This is an outrage! I demand the return of my child within 25
hours! Is that clear?”
“Senator, sir- I assure you that all measures are being taken to-“
“All measures,” Kat’s father sneered, “should have been taken to
protect my daughter before she was kidnapped. Isn’t that what you
people are paid for?”
Kat’s mother was seated on the edge of a couch, perfectly still, pale,
and upright. She watched her husband pacing the room, speaking into the phone.
“I want the names of the men who were, ahem, ‘guarding’ that train.
They will be held utterly responsible for this travesty- as will you if
you don’t return my daughter.”
The senator hung up the phone with a huff. How dare some hooligan
take his child? What if it came out that she’d essentially run away from home?
What would that do to his career? There would be questions about why she’d be
traveling without an escort. Kat’s father turned to his wife.
“How could she do this to us?” the cold woman murmured. “Why in the
world would she leave by herself, anyway?”
“When the press ask about it, we’ll stick close to that note she
left. You know, the stress of the accident and the loss of her friend and all.
We’ll say that we decided as a family that some time away was just what
she needed. You remember the name of that spa that was in the note?”
“Yes. It was La Lune… but what about the bodyguards? What can
we say about that?”
“She wanted privacy-“
“And let the media claim that we’d concede to that and put our child
in jeopardy?”
“She’s hardly a child anymore- wait, that’s it. She ducked the
guards. We insisted that she travel with them, but she longed so much for
solitude that she tricked them.”
“I guess that’ll do. Senator Takamiya’s son did the same last
fall.”
The two looked at each other then, and the senator seemed to remember
that they were discussing a person, one he’d lived with for 23 years, one
he’d helped to create.
“I do hope she’s all right.”
“You know how our life goes. She’ll be back here causing more
problems before you know it.”
Kat’s father looked at the woman he’d married, and felt himself fill
with loathing. It was not the first time, nor was it likely to be the last.
