Chapter Text
The vagrants were ready to tuck themselves to sleep in a back alley they called home. The nights were often rough, but somehow they managed through the heaviest of rainfalls and the most freezing of blizzards. As autumn began to replace the summer the nights grew colder and colder. But this time the it peculiarly became freezing cold in a matter of minutes.
Strange noises began to fill the space. The quiet whispers grew into groans, which turned into a cacophony of screams. Loud hiss pierced through the alley. It was cut shortly by a loud thud. The hiss turned ot a wounded mewl, and someones wailing.
The scared homeless jumped out of their makeshift sheds, abandoning their sole possessions. The ground began shaking. One of the men tripped and fell.
“Get up! Run away!”
The rest tried to call after him, but the noises were too loud for the call to reach the fallen man. The smoke that began congesting the space was not helping at all.
Suddenly a hand appeared out of the smoke. Vagrant was trembling on the ground unable to move. He was the last one to pray outside of the charity diner, but now he was asking every superior being for protection. A pale hand extended towards the vagrant, until a long, sharp black nail touched his forehead. The smoke disappeared at once.
A strange figure was kneeling before the man. He wanted to scream, but the noise died in his throat. Flames were bursting out from behind the creature’s back filling the place with a warm, purple glaze, allowing the vagrant to see “it” much better.
“It” was a rather young man, with small leather wings flapping from behind his back. A bright yellow streak stood out from his disorganised raven hair. His clothing, akin to a wizard's costume, was ripped in many places.
The strange man was looking directly into the homeless eyes. His sharp face was unnaturally pale with scratches on his cheeks. His purple eyes wide in shock. Heavily breathing, he asked the terrified man:
“Do you happen to know someone named Kaneshiro?”
The vagrant tried to scurry away but felt a sudden warmth just behind his back. The flames started licking the concrete, tuning their colours into dark purple at the contact. They were drawing a line that cut off the alley from the rest of the street. The strange man's eyes were glowing. The flames grew in height.
“I…swear… I know nothing…I know nothing…I don't want to have anything to do with him”
The magical man scrunched his forehead and scratched his chin as if he expected him to be someone else.
“I’m not asking whether you want to or not,” he explained calmly, leaning closer “Lead me to him.”
“No” The flames grew again this time causing the vagrant to flinch at their vicinity. This time he was not just uncomfortable, the fire was burning his cold malnourished fingers “But on second thought… I can be your guide, whatever you say creature”
“Name's Shu Yamino” he replied offended at the remark. The sorcerer waved his hand causing the flames to return behind his back. “Let's make haste, I have many questions for him”
* * *
Ike closed the door to the cafe,praising the end of the shift. His brilliant coworker managed to spill latte on one of the guests which made the boss even angrier than he already was. Last year he promised himself to never go back to this place. But as his situation changed so abruptly he had to resort to the least pleasant of methods.
He made his way down the street. A loud thud came from a couple blocks down. A chilling guest blew across his body. Ike shivered. He looked in the direction of the source, but finding neither smoke nor panic he turned away. Probably a small crash happened. Unless…
The only pleasant thing about his day was the cinema visit. Like every friday the local Senior club organised screenings of old movies from around the world. Not many people came there except for some elderly women and a fancy gentleman. It was one of the few places, Ike could enjoy his time in peace, trying to look for creative inspiration.
Despite being stuck behind a cafe counter, his primary job was writing. Creating unusual words and characters was his passion ever since he could remember. Moreover, his unusual condition allowed him to perceive more than a regular person. Why would he waste such an opportunity?
He started small, by writing short horror stories for a local newspaper. Feeling the boosted confidence he tried to write a proper novel. One with a hard cover and golden fonted title, just like the ones he used to read himself. However, after a month from the grand premiere he could only find his opus magnum in a basket with books for one dollar. He thought maybe his next book would do better, but it would find itself in a one plus one category this time only for one dollar fifty cent.
Sitting in front of his typewriter he purchased for a laughable amount of money at the garage sale was slowly becoming a painful reminder of his failure. The words that once used appear out of nowhere on the piece of paper to the rhythm of typing and moving the bar, reduced to a memory. Each paragraph, each sentence and even each word were nothing more than an obstacle. Storytelling that once used to flow like a river was now just a bag of words. Nothing clicked anymore. He should have listened to everyone and get a normal job. But what else would he do? Work in the cafe with a neurotic boss? He promised himself if his next book fails, he will quit writing for good.
However, two days ago he returned home to find his flat broken into. After checking for any missing valuables, he realised the only thing gone was the typewriter. Ike couldn't understand why the thief would much rather take the worthless block of metal instead of his TV or computer.
Ike had to bash himself for already thinking up a story about the machine being created by an ancient sorcerer and a strange mafia that looks for such objects. He had no time to dream. He needed to somehow deal with his main source of income being gone.
So now that he left the replacement money making spot he was wondering what the best approach would be. He has already called the police but his case was far from being treated seriously. He needed someone better.
He approached a crosswalk. Red light. Ike extended his hand to press the button on the pole only for his eyes to widen. As if a miracle from the skies above there was a small sticker right above the button.
“Mysta Rias the best private detective in town!”
***
Mysta was sitting in his chair, feet on desk. He couldn't remember how long was he staring at the ceiling above him. He has already counted the number of mouldy patches ten times arriving at the whooping number of one hundred and eight. Ten more than the last week. No wonder its stench grew stronger. Should no new case come, he will turn into mould himself.
He was bored. Extremely bored. He was the best private detective in town and yet nothing significant was being assigned to him. He wanted a case. The one with a suspicious murder, no suspect at first glance and a grandiose surprising reveal at the end. He wanted to be on the covers of newspapers. He wanted to be the detective everyone calls for help. But now he was there for hust the mundane problems.
Missing pets and cheating husbands were his only recent cases. The same scenarios each time. Tracking pets was tiresome and not once did he end up covered in mud. He was also growing tired of sitting in the bushes and taking pictures of old people mingling.
The phone rang. Mysta lunged to pick up the receiver, hitting his knees on the desk with a loud thud.
“Detective Mysta Rias, how can I help you?” He greeted in his thick accent
“Um, recently I have had my flat broken into and the only my typewriter was stolen”
Mysta's eyes lightened up. Theft of a piece of junk with only sentimental values instead of technological appliances? Was it a part of some great scheme? Maybe this disappearance was the breakthrough he has been witing for.
“Could you tell me more about it?” Mysta's eyes lit up.
“Blue, a bit rusty, I bought it second hand so I don't know much about it…also it doesn't have any name of producer”
“Must be custom made, does it have any other marks?”
“Yes, it's a rather peculiar one, a circle with two wings at each side”
Mysta sighed. Disappointment could have been heard even through the receiver. His hopes were crushed with only one sentence. He thanked the caller and exchanged some contact info before putting down the phone.
These bloody Kaneshiros. Their antics have gone too far. People notice when they lose their things. Especially if they are so unique. How does the mafia want to keep their activities secret if each one of their actions is just like the previous one.
Despite Mysta's scepticism, the few encounters with the heir of the mafia made him realise that some objects are more special than others. Some really did believe in sorcery and underground markets paid millions just to get a magic imbued spoon or refrigerator. He always wondered in what way were they better than the normal. Did the bread taste better from a magic oven?
Nevertheless, Mysta picked up the phone again and dialled the young Kaneshiro. The plan was simple, as this wasn't the first case like this. He will have to explain the situation and ask for a quiet return. As much as he wanted to stay away from contacts with criminals for his own sake, having good relationships with them was crucial for his career. This benefited both parties. He would return the missing objects gaining the fame while also allowing the mafia to remain undercover.
The call found no recipient. He tried again, with the same result. He needed to get done with this quickly. He put on the white coat and a cap with a dog like motif that he found as a piece of evidence on one of the crime scenes. It is time to meet the boss himself.
***
Today was the day Luca became the mafia boss. Ever since he could remember Luca would dream of that day. But now he wasn't feeling joyful at all. The coffin with the man he respected the most was being lowered into the hole in the ground right before his eyes.
This all happened too fast. He was on holiday. He was avoiding fights. His father was still too young.
The rest of his family and their business partners congregated on a big dinner in the memory of his father. His greatest friends who now became his greatest foes. In this business everyone wanted the throne to themselves. Condolences and shared memories were nothing more than a warning. Despite the gourmet beef and fresh fish Luca's plate remained empty through the entire party. He couldn't take it anymore.
Luca left the building and got into his black Porsche. The engine revved. The car made his way towards the highway. Speed limit were of no concern to him. He was driving towards no destination. Behind the window the tall skyscrapers turned into suburbian houses only to disappear among the sea of wheat. Its captivating allure put Luca deep in thought.
Being a son to the most powerful mafioso in town has set the expectations for him very high. He was preparing for this position for as long as he could remember. He studied languages, politics and business to benefit his role. However, he also spent countless ours training his strength and resilience. This lifestyle caused him to recite mediaeval french poems in between his shooting sessions. Luca focused on understanding the inner workings of the company. He was taught to notice its flaws and turn them into strengths. All of this to make him the best.
Becoming a boss was his dream. He would think of all his men bowing with respect as soon as he entered the room. Of all the lavish parties she would host. And of all the difficult missions he would organise to continue his father's work. His father built a kingdom, and he was going to turn it into an empire.
The sun was setting and Luca deemed it a perfect time to return. He turned at the closest exit. Familiar glass and concrete jungle embraced him soon enough. He was standing at a crossroads. The red light glared in front of him. He tapped at the wheel. Red light. He looked around only to find one man at the crossroad. Still red. Something clicked in him. He quickly changed the lanes and turned right, into the path to the cemetery.
He could easily find the grave he was looking for as it was lit with all the candles left by his family and their partners. White roses from his cousins, daffodils from the Addams company and a lonely red calla from their cleaner. This poor woman, loyal to the end.
As soon as he approached the grave he noticed a strange man kneeling in front of it. He was trailing his slender fingers on the letters. Remember all he could the man was none of his fathers friends or his relatives. He pulled up a gun from the shoulder holster. An enemy perchance? He tried to get closer. The comically magical outfit made the man look more like a jester, than a threat to the mafia. He was about to lower his gun, when a twig crunched beneath his foot.
The man slowly turned his head around. He scanned him from head to toe, his mouth agape. He locked his sad purple eyes with the new mafia boss.
“Who are you?” asked Luca, cocking the gun “And what do you want with my father?”
“Truly sorry for your loss” he replied getting up and shaking dust of his knees “I shall take my leave”
The man strolled past Luca, ignoring the weapon. Shocked, Luca was frozen in place. The man continued. Luca shot at the sky.
“Hey! I’m not finished with you!”
The man left the cemetery, ignoring the shots. With anger in his eyes Luca lunged forward, in a wild chase after the strange man.
***
The lights went up as the credits rolled at the end of the film. It was far from being a screenwriting masterpiece, yet Vox enjoyed the creative use of montage and lighting to showcase the main character’s slow descent into madness.
Vox has seen many films in his long and miserable life, but he still cherished discovering those hidden gems that have escaped him. Therefore as soon as he learned about a film club in the area he was the first one to join.
As much as it was mostly occupied by elderly women who baked biscuits for each meeting, one person caught his attention. A relatively young grey haired lad has been an avid participant of the club. He was present at each meeting, rarely speaking to the group. A mysterious one indeed.
He would come in just as the lights were being turned off. Just as the credits stopped rolling, he would quickly grab one of the muffins thanking the grandmas and leave without a trace. However, one specific thing caught Vox's attention. The mysterious man would often scribble in his notebook, creating very extensive notes each seance. Was he a journalist? Or maybe a film director? Nevertheless, Vox wasn't planing on letting this matter pass.
He turned his head to look at the man. The eyes behind his large glasses were fixed on the book below.
“Goodness gracious the acting was atrocious!” began Vox. The man jumped surprised at the sudden inquiry “Pardon, didn't mean to startle you.”
“It's okay, at least the cameraman was paid well enough to do his job properly” He mentioned with a wide kind smile on his face “I guess, we haven't been introduced.”
“Vox Akuma.”
“Ike Eveland” answered the grey haired man shaking the hand he extended. “I can see we share the taste in the films of the recent century”
Vox smirked at his response. He pointed at the notebook
“Oh I just wrote down intriguing concepts that caught my attention. They helped me come up with my own.” Ike clicked his mechanical pen.
“For your latte art?” Asked vox, leaving Ike with scrunched forehead. He quickly pointed at his turtleneck. “You are still wearing the pin”
“Oh it's a side gig.” he said quickly unpinning it and hiding it in the pocket of his checked black trousers. His face sulked “I am a novelist, on an indefinite hiatus.”
“I hope to soon read your book, what do you usually…”
But before he could finished one of the elders turned of the projector and stood in front of the screen. Her entrance was greeted with bravos from the other ladies.
“I saw this movie on its premiere. At the time I named it a masterpiece, and even after all those years I still consider it as one.” She began her speech with remained the same week to week.
“I dont believe you are interested in another repetition of this story” whispered Vox leaning towards Ike “Would you care for a drink?” Ike nodded happily. One more time he hears this story and he will explode.
Vox excused the lady, stood up and fixed the button on his white suit. He grabbed the japanese styles coat from the hanger and opened the door holding them for Ike to leave.