ironseed: loosely based on Idoru bt William Gibson written by rogan-x
ARRR: Advance, retreat, recover, renew. All the strategies commonly known to a Yakuza headhunter. In the business of collecting bounties, one could not afford to lose. Losing meant inadequacy, and among the headhunters, inadequacy would never be tolerated. On a regular basis, the weaker and less efficient headhunters were eliminated, thereby creating fierce competition to be the best, the fastest, the most ruthless.
It was the task of Torumitsu Mishima that changed the face of Japanese culture forever. This is the story of his ultimate victory over tradition.
It was late in the evening, with the sun hanging crimson over a jagged horizon. Torumitsu was sitting crosslegged on a tatami mat near the back door of his house. The quiet in the room was thick, accentuated by his deep breathing. Above him, the thick oak rafters creaked occasionally, as if to some hidden rythym. His serene features were obviously japanese, the almond eyes stretching across his face, the thin lips pursed in concentration. His jet black hair and equally dark jumpsuit hung upon his thin frame loosely.
A rustling noise outside the back door interrupted him, and he opened his eyes slowly almost languidly. His pupils were dilated to huge black orbs from the deep breathing. He listened intently, but the noise did not come again.
Merely the wind, he thought, trying to distract me again.
He rose from his position on the tatami in one fluid motion, legs uncrossing and back straightening. He slid noiselessly across the floor, toward another room full of blinking green light. Upon entering, he closed the door behind him and touched a sequence of numbers on a keypad near the handle. A swift blinking, and then a satisfying click as the heavy lock engaged.
He looked around himself, at all the monitors and computer hardware stacked neatly on homemade shelves. It looked and sounded as if he was in some high-tech womb, full of pulsating electronic life. His home, for over a decade now.
He sat in a comfortable bucket seat next to a desk of immeasurable value solid teak and stained jet black. He grasped a pair of gloves and slipped his rough hands into them.
The monitor directly in front of him instantly came to life, and displayed a vector-ball graphic of a human form. This avatar was wiry and fluid, just like Torumitsu. He moved his hands ever so gently, and the vector-ball representation walked forward, to a door. He turned his hand, and the door opened before his eyes.
A sense of position was very necessary in this world of high-resolution simulacrums. He knew that he was outside in relation to his home node, but still inside of the entire network. His avatar was now standing on a heavily lit, densely packed boulevard. The traffic passed at the speed of light, without sound. Torumitsu moved his gloved hands as if typing on a conventional keyboard.
Torumitsus avatar polymorphed into a sleek motorcycle form. He raced off down the boulevard of light, merging with the traffic. He was looking for something specific, and he would have to move quickly if he were to find it. He spoke to the omnidirectional microphone on the monitor.
Search pattern Wakazashi engage, in clipped tones of english.
The speakers near his head softly replied Search pattern Wakazashi defined. Searching...
He smiled to himself, as the light from the monitor grew brighter. He prefered this visualization to the newer full-imersion systems that most of his fellow headhunters used. The contrast was easier to pick out, and it was not as hard on the head. Torumitsu ws prone to headaches, and he avoided them at all costs.
The computer, in its soft neutral voice, told him that the search pattenr criteria could not be met until a missing item was input.
Define missing item, was all he said. He knew what it was, but wanted to be reminded. He relished in the hunt, and to him, this was like loosing the hounds.
Missing item defined as current location of subject Toranaga, John.
Locate subject, search index Tokyo, Genji district.
Subject located, current global position Tokyo, Genji district. Block fifteen, Room eight.
Trace communication line GD15/8 with live audio feed, he whispered. Anticipation of the subject actually remaining in one place for more than a day coursed through him.
Trace initiated. Current status, disconnected. Line status, tapped. Carrier name, TTel.
Repeat line status. A note of excitement edged into his otherwise placid voice.
Line status, tapped.
He leaned back in his bucket seat, restlessly. A new battle to be fought, but a shortlived one.
He adjusted his avatars destination to a nearby Tokyo Telecommunications node, and upon arrival, activated a masking program. He now appeared as a regular, nondescript avatar. For all intents and purposes, he was now a teenager just looking for a quick dollar.
The TTel node queried his identity, and then extended a line to him for communication.
Please state your business, said the operator.
I wish to check the status of a line in the Genji district, please.
Which block, and which room?
Block Fifteen, room eight please.
Please hold.
He blinked twice. Hold meant the operator was getting the node supervisor. He reacted instantly, uncoupling himself from the line and ditching his masking program. He sped away from the node until he was above it and able to see all the connections.
There were two packet lines, for raw data, and one direct line to the TTel office. He noticed the quick pulses going through the office line, and knew with certainty that the subjects line was being tapped by another headhunter. Such sloppy work, too. A worthy opponent would have left no traces in the TTel operators programming no callbacks or holds. But now, this other headhunter knew someone was on to the subjects location.
He sped off toward the virtual Genji District. Seconds after his arrival, his live feed from the subjects line rang once, and was picked up.
Konbanwa. Hai? A traditional japanese voice answered the line.
John, hes on to you. Youd better get out as soon as you can. An unidentifiable muted voice, probably being routed through an anonymizer.
Domu Okajawa-san. So desu ka...
I mean it, John. Move, or hell pounce! A hint of tension in the anonymous voice.
Nihiao, Okajawa-san.
The line was disconnected, without either party knowing that Torumitsu had heard the exchange. The line tracer was of his own ingenious design. It relied on the invisible neocellular transmission band. He could even, through line feedback, listen to the listeners.
His hands twitched excitedly, as he opened the layers of protection surrounding the subjects room. The instant he was past the primitive security, he had total control of the locks, windows, climate control, lights and any electronic system in the room. He smiled again to himself, knowing the hunt was about to end.
With a rudimentary and much practiced combination of voice commands and somatic commands, he locked the room down completely, killed the lights, and set the temperature plunging. This would allow his next move to have a rich and very desirable effect in the subject.
He spoke to the computer again.
Initiate anonymous line, destination HD6/6.
Line initiated. Dialling...
The line opened, and he spoke rapid japanese to the listener on the other end. When he was finished, he waited a moment for the terse reply.
Hai. Enroute, with ETA two minutes. The line shut off instantly.
Initiate full priviledge line, destination GD15/8.
Line initiated. Dialling...
When the subject picked up the phone, he ran the feedback loop which allowed him to hear what was being said by the person at the line-tap.
Konnichi-wa, John.
Konbanwa. I see I have been caught. How long do I have?
Approximately one minute, forty seconds.
On the line-tap, he heard a scrabbling and muffled grunts. That would be an electrocuted listener, killed by furious volts coursing into his head through earplugs. The team from HD6/6 was doing quite well.
I remember that in years gone by, we would respect our elders. Not send the dogs packing after them. The thick japanese accent shone through imperfect english.
These are new days, and perhaps in your next incarnation you will remember never to cross the Yakuza. Torumitsu was enjoying this dialogue, no matter how shortlived it was to be. It gave him a taste of victory before the final blow landed.
I remember the days when the Yakuza were benevolent and caring.
Those days are gone, old man. Goodbye. Torumitsu closed the line with a flick of his wrist.
He slipped his gloves from his rough hands and stood up. He walked back to the locked door, and checked the eye-panel. Sitting on his tatami mat was a young schoolgirl, with pigtails in her hair. She was sitting there, in a daze. Her eyes looked drugged, and her slouched back told of wearyness beyond those drugs. Torumitsu smiled, and unlocked his door... A predatory grin settling on his lips.
Now the real work begins.