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| Scene Title | Two in the Chest, One in the Head |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | "Do we smell nothing as yet of the divine decomposition? Gods, too, decompose. God is dead. God remains dead. And we have killed him." ― Friedrich Nietzsche |
| Date | June 25, 2021 |
A black Lincoln towncar rolls to a stop in a pothole riddled alley amid a summer downpour.
For a while the car remains stationary in the alley, its headlights casting bright circles on the dead end brick wall ahead of it. But after a few moments, the rear passenger-side door opens. A dark-haired man steps out into the rain without an umbrella, carrying a paper-wrapped bundle under one arm. He turns to a metal door in the brick wall of the alley, and steps up to the stoop and knocks three times. The rain beads in his hair, rolls down the shoulders on his black jacket, and dapples dark spots on the bundle he carries.
The door opens just a crack, revealing a sliver of a man visible on the other side. "What d'you want?" The man on the other side of the door gruffly asks. To which the man in the dark coat holds out the paper-wrapped bundle as an offering.
"To give you what you have been searching for," he explains. The man behind the door narrows his eyes, looking at the bundle.
"Who are you?" He asks.
To which the stranger replies: "Kaito Nakamura."
Twenty-Nine Years Later
Clutch & Throttle Customs
Detroit, Michigan
June 25th
2021
6:12 pm
The sun is getting low in the sky, but summer days are so much longer.
Polished chrome reflects that sagging sun with blinding perfection. Three newly customized Harley Davidson motorcycled sit outside of the garage bay of a a brick-walled motorcycle shop. There's music spilling out from the open garage bay doors and a sign on the shop door that reads CLOSED. That doesn't stop someone from coming up off the street, however. Marcus Raith pauses by the three motorcycles, brushing a gloved hand over the silver-flecked black paint job and polished chrome fixtures. His eye narrows in memory of something, but a voice hollering from inside the garage pulls him out of the reverie.
"Hey! Sorry, we're closed!" Shouts a young man with engine grease smudged up his tattooed forearms. Marcus turns to regard him and flashes a smile that's more predatory than welcoming. Though the young mechanic doesn't have any way of knowing that.
"Are you Christopher?" Marcus asks with that pearly-white Good American Boy smile full of shark teeth. The mechanic looks surprised, letting down his guard a little.
"Uh, yeah. If this is about an order you can come back tomorrow." Christopher says, wiping his hands with a stained cloth. Marcus' smile becomes all lips and no teeth, a little polite no told by a smile. Marcus steps into the garage, looking around at the unfinished motorcycles being refurbished, then back to Christopher.
"Actually, I'm not here about a bike. Today anyway." Marcus says with wink. "Actually, I was wondering if your grandpa was around."
Christopher hesitates, again looking blindsided. "He's—sorry, are you a friend of his? Or—"
"We go way back." Marcus lies, looking around the shop again. "If he's here you can tell him Marcus is looking for him."
Christopher tucks the oiled rag into his back pocket, and Marcus waits to gauge Christopher's reaction. It isn't to step closer to Marcus, but pivot into the shop. "No, he's not here," Christopher lies to Marcus, but his posture belies the truth. It's the confirmation Marcus needs and he closes the distance to Christopher with a startling speed, striking him in the side of the head with an open fist. Chrostopher is laid out flat by the single blow, crumpling to the ground.
"Sorry," Marcus murmurs as he steps over the unconscious mechanic on the way to that door.
Twenty-Nine Years Earlier
Jittetsu Arms
Chinatown, Manhattan
New York City
May 17th
1992
Kaito Nakamura slowly strolls through the smith in the back room of Jittetsu Arms, an antique store nestled in the heart of Chinatown. Its owner, Mr. Claremont, stands by the back door, quietly opening a paper-wrapped package that was Kaito's key to entrance. Inside is a two foot long and eight inch wide matte black whetstone decorated with gold inlaid kanji. Claremont draws in a sharp breath, then looks up to Kaito in wide-eyed adulation. "Is this—"
"Yes." Kaito interrupts, looking at a decorative scroll depicting a crane rising from a river hanging from one wall. He turns to face Claremont, looking at the whetstone in his hands. "A 17th-century whetstone, one used by the swordsmith that forged the katana wielded by Takezo Kensei."
Claremont shakes his head, taking a few stumbling steps as he walks over to Kaito. "I don't—there's no way I could pay for this. Without even doing a full appraisal, I know it has to be worth at least two m—"
"I am not asking you for money, Mr. Claremont." Kaito says with an incline of his head to the side. Now Claremont seems even more confused. He makes an exasperated sound and looks back at the whetstone.
"This is—I'm not sure if I can just accept charity like—"
"Mr. Claremont," Kaito says with a shake of his head, "this is not charity either." Claremont stares, trying not to let his mouth hang open in confusion, but he's too distracted to do a good job of it. "In fourteen years my son is going to come to you, looking for a blacksmith that can repair an antique sword. You will assist him. That will be your repayment, with one other stipulation."
Claremont looks down at the whetstone, then back up to Kaito. "What?" Is Claremont not understanding the first thing asked of him, not a query for more context. But Kaito either doesn't realize or doesn't care.
Kaito narrows his eyes, delivering his next instructions with the utmost clarity: "That you never use the skills you possess for anyone else."
Twenty-Nine Years Later
Clutch & Throttle Customs
A wood door explodes off of its hinges and collides with a far wall, shattering a glass display case holding a number of racing trophies. Marcus Raith steps through the debris and onto the sundered door, turning to face the white-haired old man shielding himself from the wood shrapnel.
Claremont looks up with wide eyes when he sees Marcus, who offers that pearly-white shark's smile. When Claremont turns to run, Marcus closes his hand into a fist and traps the old blacksmith in a bubble of emerald light. The bubble catches half of a desk in its circumference and that inner half simply falls to the ground, sliced clean in half by the barrier's edge.
Claremont pounds against the inside of the forcefield, then turns to face Marcus as he approaches. "Who the fuck're you?" Claremont sputters, backing away from the forcefield.
"If I told you I worked for the government, would it change your tune?" Marcus wonders with a hint of sarcasm, tilting his head to the side. Claremont flares his nostrils and clenches his hands into fists. "I didn't think so, which is why we're here."
"Whatever it is you want you can take a flying fuck off the end of my d—"
"I'm not sure that would be a healthy sentence to finish, for your grandson's sake. You're looking mighty spry for a dead man too, I might add." Marcus notes with a feigned grimace. "But I'm not here to rob you, or honestly to hurt anyone, I just need you to do a favor for me." He says with brows rising slowly. Claremont swallows down bile rising up in the back of his throat, and notices Marcus is going for something inside of his coat. "I know you have a… special gift when it comes to metallurgy, Mr. Claremont. I was wondering if you could tell me what this is?"
From inside of his coat, Marcus produces the last third of a sword's blade, covered in rust. Claremont looks at the broken tip of the sword through the green-tinted forcefield, but even with that barrier he knows what it is he feels when he looks at the sword. The way his eyes widen tells Marcus all he needs to know.
"So it's the real deal." Marcus says, gently closing his fingers around the ruined end of the blade.
"Where did you get that?" Claremont asks, looking from the blade to Marcus with a shake of his head.
"Unimportant. What I need from you next is a point of confirmation…" Marcus says, tapping the flat of the broken sword blade against his forcefield. "I need you to make something for me."
Get fucked nearly rolls off Claremont's tongue, but he is reminded of his grandson. He swallows down that bile again, his fists trembling in impotent anger. "What?"
Marcus smiles, tapping the metal on the forcefield again.
"Bullets."