InsaneJournal

Something thrums through the streets of Iburi, something dark and sleek and dangerous.  A chorus of motors washes over the street like a tidal wave, drowning out anything that is not the thunderous roars of revving motorcycle engines.  They are fanned out in formation, taking up as much of the street as they can-- and why not?  It’s theirs.  The young toughs straddling the bikes are all dressed in grim black, all swaddled up in their precious leather jackets-- some are decorated with patches and all have their gang’s logo emblazoned proudly on the back-- with expressions as dark as their clothes.  It’s not a joyride, but a show of power and an intimidation tactic.

It is almost a wasted effort.  The gang that had crept into their territory is in shambles now;  Reizo is upset because Sojiro refused to let him tie the gang’s leader to the front of his bike and parade him around for the remnants of his pathetic gang to see.  Humiliation is one of his favorite hobbies, after all.  He is also jonesing hard for a cigarette, but smoking one while riding is so damned difficult:  it’s hard to keep speed and dig around in your pockets for your lighter and favorite brand of cancers ticks.  He has learned this the hard way, and stubbornly learned it again and again.  After nearly totaling his bike the last time it finally sunk in, so now he sits atop his bike, trying to keep the adrenaline high enough to stave the craving off.

The sun looms ponderously on the horizon, and they pick up speed, racing the tail end of daylight to their headquarters.  The dying rays of the sun heliograph off the chassis of their motorcycles as they blur through the streets, breaking file and their reckless speeds only to keep from becoming street pizza when they do find traffic;  they flank the cars they pass, boxing them in with some reaching out to bang on the trunks and hoods of them.  It’s a common harassment trick, and one that shows their moods are lifting as they get closer to base.

Base is a squat little one-story garage sitting at the corner of a nice, well-to-do neighborhood.  A high wood fence rings it entirely, taller than the neighboring building’s fences.  One wouldn’t expect to peek over it and find a junkyard behind, stray motorcycle and other miscellaneous parts clustered around in the building in mismanaged piles, but it’s there.  Of course, one wouldn’t really expect to find a gang like theirs anywhere near this neighborhood either.

The direct neighbors have gotten used to the noise, or come to accept that the police won’t touch the gang with a ten foot pole.  Fines for illegal mufflers and disturbing the peace are paltry compared to the money the gang makes from gambling and racketeering.  A good thing since their hobby is expensive, and the ties to the yakuza even more so.

The bikes are lined up in an orderly fashion and driven into the lot in twos, the maximum number of bikes that can fit breast-to-breast through the door in the fence.  The grim, dour mood fades and the toughs waste away the twilight of the evening laughing and joking and drinking.  Reizo refrains the latter, he cannot handle his alcohol well, but he doesn’t need it to smile and laugh easily around these people.  He considers them true peers.

A fleeting twinge of disappointment hits him when they all start to disperse and he realizes it’s time to leave his real world and stumble back into the civilian’s.  He finds himself branding people with that word more and more lately.  He also finds the corner of his mouth drawing up into a sneer whenever it flashes through his mind.

It’s completely dark by the time Reizo starts meandering on home, concentrated more on the cherry-red tip of his cigarette bobbing in front of his face than the worried looks the strays on the street gives him.  The feral, wild energy he carries himself with has been replaced with the disinterested swagger of a wolf whose hunt was wildly successful, but who isn’t so full that if you catch his eye he won’t go for your throat.