Shirai Reizo | 白井 雷三 (![[info]](https://www.insanejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} some_other_dog) wrote in ![[info]](https://www.insanejournal.com/img/community.gif){kind=small} disappear_plot,@ 2010-08-05 18:16:00 |
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Noodle Alley is a familiar place to all but the most shut-in of Nanakamado students, and so is the cold lump of dread that settles into their stomach at the thought of Reizo Shirai.
Today, the normally bustling Noodle Alley toils under a washed out stretch of sky, the clients' usual vigor and mirth curtailed by the news of the most recent death and the gang and youth violence that has exploded in the area. Most of the diners wear strained smiles when they joke and laugh, but here and there the crowds are peppered with faces set in grim determination, shoulders hunched and posture tense as they soldier through their meals.
Worst amongst them are the ex-Nanakamado students who know just who’s responsible for the recent savagery and that once he is caught there will be no just penalty for him. The students, most of them paired off into two or threes, sometimes glance up at the passing group, curiosity and confusion breaking through into their miserable and gloomy stares before they turn back to their food.
The looks they get when they arrive at the mouth of the alley from the customers are severe enough to make up for sudden dearth of people. One or two even manage a weak, dispassionate warning to “get away from there” as the group disappears into the alley.
The alley itself is of no real importance. Bags of trash lean despondently against buildings, and the hard scrubbed ground itself is littered with cigarette butts and other miscellaneous bits of rubbish. Scraps of plastic skitter across the ground when the wind catches them, and a discarded snack bag crinkles and snaps against the tangle of sickly weeds it’s caught against.
Behind them the somber sounds of a fearful Noodle Alley peter away as they walk deeper into the alley, and before long die away completely, leaving them in a quiet only broken up by their own conversation and the gentle buzz of the city. The silence is heavy with disquiet when it settles in, full of the fear and tension felt by anyone who knows they are entering the bad part of the town, and it’s punctuated by the signs of struggle. A trashcan lays on its side, its meager contents half spilled out beside it, bent and dented. A switchblade, the blade glittering sharp and deadly even in the gloomy light of the alley lays not far from it, it’s tip red with fresh blood.
From up ahead a pained yell echoes and rebounds down the alley, and there’s a snap of wood breaking followed by several fresh shouts, ranging from angry to scared to hurt.
Worst amongst them are the ex-Nanakamado students who know just who’s responsible for the recent savagery and that once he is caught there will be no just penalty for him. The students, most of them paired off into two or threes, sometimes glance up at the passing group, curiosity and confusion breaking through into their miserable and gloomy stares before they turn back to their food.
The looks they get when they arrive at the mouth of the alley from the customers are severe enough to make up for sudden dearth of people. One or two even manage a weak, dispassionate warning to “get away from there” as the group disappears into the alley.
The alley itself is of no real importance. Bags of trash lean despondently against buildings, and the hard scrubbed ground itself is littered with cigarette butts and other miscellaneous bits of rubbish. Scraps of plastic skitter across the ground when the wind catches them, and a discarded snack bag crinkles and snaps against the tangle of sickly weeds it’s caught against.
Behind them the somber sounds of a fearful Noodle Alley peter away as they walk deeper into the alley, and before long die away completely, leaving them in a quiet only broken up by their own conversation and the gentle buzz of the city. The silence is heavy with disquiet when it settles in, full of the fear and tension felt by anyone who knows they are entering the bad part of the town, and it’s punctuated by the signs of struggle. A trashcan lays on its side, its meager contents half spilled out beside it, bent and dented. A switchblade, the blade glittering sharp and deadly even in the gloomy light of the alley lays not far from it, it’s tip red with fresh blood.
From up ahead a pained yell echoes and rebounds down the alley, and there’s a snap of wood breaking followed by several fresh shouts, ranging from angry to scared to hurt.