4. Do What You Came To Do

Wood splintered beneath Masato’s fist, the thick wooden table cracking as he crashed down upon the coward’s hiding spot. The sheer wrongness of the situation fuelled his rage, compounding it upon itself until it transcended toxicity. An impostor in their midst. An outsider, turning his brothers against him, using them as fodder, forcing him to strike down the men he’d grown up with. He shook Yosuke’s front teeth free from the back of his hand, letting the flesh close around the punctures he’d sustained. A man - barely more than a boy, like himself - that he’d known since childhood, that he’d gone to school with, snuck clandestine cigarettes in the courtyard with, now a burbling corpse behind him.

No time to grieve. No time to regret. Only the hunt mattered now. He’d deal with his conscience after he’d dealt with the intruder. He vaulted over the table, ready to tear into the bastard, letting his hands move without the need for conscious thought. The intruder’s vis whispered to him through the haze of combat, some part of him zeroing in on a pulse that shouldn’t have been audible over the general din. Bring him in alive. Even as he went for the throat, his fingers poised to choke, rather than snap - which would have been his standard modus operandi - his mind moved with its usual clockwork precision, getting the facts in order. Whoever this was, it wasn’t the oyabun. Hauling him back to Li could clear the Tachibana Group’s name and convince the vampire lord of his worth, assuming he could prove that this bastard was responsible for orchestrating the betrayal. Hard to do with no credible witnesses, but he’d cross that bridge when he came to it.

Unfortunately, he wouldn’t have the satisfaction of killing the intruder himself - the honor of exsanguinating a ‘guest’ was traditionally reserved for a high-ranking vampire in the lord’s service, following a lengthy period of interrogation. However, it was possible that he might win that privilege for Sakuya as her husband if he acquitted himself favorably enough tonight, potentially accelerating her rise through the ranks of Li’s retinue. All the more reason to haul him in quickly. His hand closed around bare skin as he landed in a crouch, and -

“Come for your old man, kid?” His voice was gravel spilled from a shaking fist. It didn’t have the same timbre, the same resonance that it had had when Masato had been a boy, but then he hadn’t heard the man talk much ever since the cancer got to his lungs. The rapid run of Masato’s thoughts fell to pieces as he got a good look at who he was throttling. “Seems I’m not done paying for my sins just yet.”

Masato’s father coughed fitfully, the weak hissing in his chest carrying perfectly to Masato’s ears despite everything. He loosed his grip, drawing back unconsciously. “Father… what are you talking about? How could you -”

“How? It’s easy, really. Just tell yourself you’re doing the right thing, Masato, and if anyone gets hurt along the way... well, fuck them, right? You can’t be blamed.” He waved a hand dismissively, letting it flop to the ground as if he hadn’t the strength to keep it up. “You were under orders.”

The old man went on, though his voice was little more than a wheezing whisper by this point. “You were so happy, and then I took it all away. Hurts, doesn’t it? How could someone you trusted so much do something like this?”

Dimly, Masato became aware of the gun trained directly between his eyes. It wasn’t right. The old man had been so sick for so long that he’d almost forgotten how intimidated he’d used to be by his own father. He’d nearly forgotten the strange species of fear, respect, and something vaguely like love that he’d used to associate with the man’s brusque manner. But the last time Masato had seen his father, he’d been one step away from death, a trembling husk hooked up to a morphine drip. It wasn’t him. It couldn’t be him. That hand, the hand which had cuffed him around the head, picked him up from the ground, which had raised him - roughly, but with love - from child to man… a hand he knew was nothing more than a withered claw curled around a call button at this point - it was too damn steady. Too healthy to be real.

Besides, his father would never have hesitated this long before pulling the trigger. Even if it were his own son in his sights. To waver, to let mercy stay your hand when you knew there was only one way forward - that would have earned him a beating, or worse, when he was growing up. Before the old man’s finger could tighten on the trigger, Masato slapped the gun aside. His hand flashed out to close around the man’s throat, all doubt forgotten for the moment. This was what piety meant to him. His father would have understood perfectly.

“I don’t know who you are, but if you were trying to mess with me by impersonating my father… well, you fucked up bad.” He let his grip grow tighter, giving some release to the rage within - but even in the throes of fury he retained control. He shook the bastard hard, flinging his head backwards like a ragdoll’s - but he didn’t snap his neck, much as he longed to. This wasn’t personal. It was duty. “He wouldn’t have played games with me. He would have done exactly as ordered - that was the first lesson he ever taught me. You know nothing of him, or me. You are not my father.”

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“No. Perhaps not.” The stranger sat up straight, all affectation of weakness cast aside. It had merely been a sham, after all. He held Masato’s gaze, his eyes suddenly flaring with such unnatural intensity that Masato flinched despite himself, his furious concentration breaking. “But I was someone’s, wasn’t I?”

Before Masato could react, the stranger’s hand fell over his. Reality seemed to shift at that touch, vertigo and deja vu warring in his mind as the world around him swam out of focus, making him lose his grip.

But then everything was clear again. His hand was sure as it had ever been, his aim true and straight. He couldn’t miss at this range, not at an exposed target like this. His finger tensed on the trigger as he met his mark’s eyes for the last time.

What the fuck was this?

“Do it, Ikeda.” The man lying in the shadowed alleyway didn’t seem afraid in the least as he stared up the barrel of the gun. He simply seemed resigned, like he’d finally received bad news he’d known was on the way. “Do what you came to do.”

Masato started. “...Mr Rosenfield?”

He knew this man. He remembered a friendly neighbour, a kind man whose presence had made it that much easier for Masato to adjust to the move away from the central Tachibana compound. In some ways, he’d been like a second father to Masato, considering all the time his actual father had spent away on business. He remembered days spent playing in Mr Rosenfield’s backyard with his daughter, Kris, wondering if this was what real families were like. Wondering if this was what was ‘normal’ looked like, and if so, whether he preferred it to whatever it was he had at home.

Until… until Mr Rosenfield had died.

Until now.

He tore his eyes away from the dying man, trying not to stare at the bullet wounds in his chest, soaking his shirt with blood. He looked down at himself, his hands, his suit. The wedding band, the cufflinks - the gun. He knew them well. They were his father’s.

“Believe me, this isn't personal, Leon. You were given the chance to deal, and you knew what would happen if you said no.” He felt his throat and mouth move of their own accord. Even the voice was spot on, an uncanny replication of his father's in his prime.

“The Syndicate gets what it wants, huh? Don't count on it.” Leon Rosenfield coughed, blood bubbling at the corners of his mouth. It hurt to listen to - yet he thought he heard laughter hidden somewhere in that sound. “You think little Masato will miss me? Kid's even closer to me than you, you know.”

“Don't bring my family into this.”

“Fine. Don't bring mine into it, either. I'm the one the bloodsuckers are after, right? Well, you got me. Mariko and Kris… they don't know anything about this. About me.” Leon gestured weakly at himself, closing his eyes. “That’s… that’s all I ask for. Go on. Pull the trigger, Ikeda.”

With the awful inevitability of dream-logic, Masato felt himself comply. He strained against the movement, trying to drop the gun, trying to aim elsewhere, trying to do anything but kill the man - but it was useless. As he watched Leon Rosenfield’s body jerk with the force of the shot and finally fall still, some part of him understood that all this had already happened. His father had killed this man years ago, had stood over him in this alley and shot him dead in cold blood. In the name of duty.

There was a subtle shift in atmosphere as the moment passed. He was in control again, but it didn’t matter. The deed was done. The man was dead. “This… this isn’t right.”

“It's not about what's right, Ikeda. It's about what's true.” Leon’s corpse spoke, its voice flat and dead. The cool condemnation in those words hurt worse than any wound could have. “What were you told? That I'd died in an accident? No. This was all part of the plan. Go on. Tell me how great your father was. Tell me how important your duty is. Was it more important than my life? My family?”

Leon’s body blurred, shifting into the shape of a woman. His wife, Mariko. Masato recognised her even through the mask of bruises she wore, dark purple and fresh red. Her neck hung at an awkward angle, her teeth broken in. She might have died with her husband’s secrets on her lips. Masato felt gooseflesh break out across his body. She’d been kind to him too. Had this happened after the funeral? When had they come for her?

Her ruined mouth moved fractionally, forcing out a painful croak. “Did they get what they wanted from us, Masato? Did they… is Kris safe?”

It wasn’t real. It couldn’t be real. But he couldn’t speak, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t find the courage to respond to a dead woman’s question. He didn’t have the right. He floundered, flailing for words that wouldn’t come.

Mariko turned over, as if shifting in her sleep, but as she moved she seemed to shrink, to fold in upon herself until - no.

Oh, no.

Kris Rosenfield lay still before him. Perfectly still. No breath. No pulse. She was still the girl he’d spent so many hours of his childhood with, the one he’d loved with the simple purity only a child could muster. Dead. She couldn’t be more than seven. She was still in her elementary school uniform, her randoseru cast off to one side and emptied out. What had they been looking for?

He reached out helplessly, hoping against hope to find some sign of life in her. He felt at her neck, trying to sense a pulse, but her flesh was stone cold. Kris was long gone. Something in him broke. He couldn’t even react as she turned to face him. Looking into her dead eyes, he could feel everything he’d thought he’d known about himself dying along with her. It was better that way. Better to let go like this than to go on, knowing that everything he’d ever been a part of had led to this moment.

He’d never asked for this. Perhaps now was the perfect time to just… let go.