Retribution: A StormCrow Story
Apr 15, 2020 1:29:15 GMT -5
Dave D-Flipz, Kira Izumi, and 2 more like this
Post by Tommy Kelly on Apr 15, 2020 1:29:15 GMT -5
Yokohama, Japan. Amidst the worst pandemic the world has ever seen, the usually busy town is now completely deserted. Streets howl as wind blows unperturbed, kicking up loose dust and trash as it sways along the vacant corridors. The glow of the fluorescent lights of nearby businesses hum and radiant a soft, colorful wave of light, bouncing off the slick, wet concrete. Rain, trickling down in its varied waves of slight downpour to monsoon, saturates the scene and creates a very neon-futurista image of the world. The year is 2020, but could easily pass for 2049.
Despite the government enforced lock down, some businesses stay afloat, keeping their doors open and their wares on offer. To Hell with the law they cry, as their regular means of income laughs in the face of the rules despite the quarantine. Amidst all the colorful and musical neon signs, one business stands within the shadows, a tiny noodle stand that has no place nor reason to be in the scene. Lit up and with shutters open for business, the elderly vendor at the front stands vigilante for customers despite the obvious lack of human presence in the narrow marketplace street before him. His stall is large enough for himself alone, plus his equipment which now boils and hisses, releasing a heavy plume of steam with each passing moment. Behind the man's stall is a small metal door, with just enough room to scrape open and allow access. This is where our night will begin.
Inside the doorway, the scene changes drastically. The small noodle stand distracts the mind and the eye from what could be concealed, and does a very successful job of that too. The room behind is a grotto, a very soothing, cozy looking operation. Rugs on the floor adorned with cushions and bean bags, sectioned apart via loose silk and tulle curtains. The room is busy, populated by many faces and bodies strewn around, some in jovial spirits while some are less potent states. The wares on offer in this back-alley business vary from a stiff drink to a hookah pipe, to psychedelics and grade-a offerings. Drunk, stoned, high or fully incapacitated, those are the only mindsets welcomed in this place.
At the end of the room sits a bar, fully kitted out to offer all the luxuries of a modern cocktail lounge, plus many other ‘offerings’. Some are sat upright on their stools, vigilant in discussing the current world situation or other unimportant topics, while others are slumped and close to being passed out. The bartender, a younger lady with some trauma in her eyes leans against the bar top, looking at her nails and waiting for her night to be over. And finally, amongst all of these scenes are characters we find the protagonist for this story… Tommy Kelly.
A man that has been dragged through the history books, broken and rebuilt only to break once more, now sits in a drug-den in Yokohama downing a dirty glass of whiskey, his eyes transfixed on a small screen replaying the local news in a language he doesn’t understand, surrounded by people he doesn’t care for and all with the risk of contracting a deadly respiratory virus. The lengths this man will go to for a glass of strong whiskey. He sips on his glass, savoring each tongue-ful before slowly draining the nectar into his throat. The folks beside him at the bar are short on conversation, and the atmosphere is as dreary as expected, so he takes as much enjoyment from his drink as he can manage. The only distraction to this moment of pure, uninterrupted bliss is his cellphone, vibrating on the counter. Call after call, it hums and rattles until the noise begins to bother the worn bartender. Tommy nods, apologetically and picks it up to check the screen. Yep, same thing as last time… another missed call from Bodhi. He unlocks the phone and looks at his messages, just to see if anything has changed;
Yeah, probably not the best message to leave her hanging on, but now is not the time for chit-chat. The phone buzzes again but before Tommy has a chance to silence it, the thing shuts itself down. Saved by the battery I guess. As soon as the phone dies, the severity of the situation hits home. Tommy has faced some harsh, heavy moments in his life but this one… this one is the culmination of everything he has lived for, lived through. This is the end of his saga, perhaps the end of his road. Or, the start of a new chapter. Only time can tell. Speaking of time, sit back and get comfy, this is going to be a looooong story…
THE LONG SIDE STORY
Seattle, circa the late 90’s, and things are much different than today. Punk is a state of mind, grunge is the only thing that matters, and pro-wrestling is at an all-time high. A young, wild kid from Ireland has been dragged across the globe to a new world, and now this opportunity has become his playground. Relocating from Ireland to America was tough enough for Tommy, only a teen at the time but Seattle wasn’t a bad place to end up. Plus an authentic Irish lad with a penchant for mischief didn’t so as bad as expected in America. Chicks loved the accent, dudes loved his wild demeanor and most importantly Tommy was closer than ever to his dream… to become a professional wrestler.
Skinny arms and pale skin aside, Tommy and his friend Elijah signed up for a local fed and started their careers in a hardcore-match filled debut- The Brotherhood of the Damned were hired! StormCrow and Synn, two Gothic brothers hellbent on wild matches and even wilder spots. Quickly they became a known brand, and their reputation helped them to climb the ranks of the business, moving up the ranks from indies to state promotions, and eventually into prime time with the Debug Inc. Wrestling Federation (DIWF). Things were great for the Brothers for a few years, until one night their partying antics got out of hand. Sadly, Tommy got arrested. And then another after party, with another arrest. Soon, the Brothers had a reputation for being as wild behind the scenes as they were in front of the cameras, letting the fame and wealth go to their head. It all culminated in a large bar fight in Oklahoma, where the brawl turned more vicious than before. A knife came out, Tommy defended himself, someone got very hurt, etcetera etcetera. Long story short, Tommy and Elijah got locked up but on very different charges. Elijah was a lot better of controlling himself, he only served about six months but Tommy… he went down for a hard twenty years.
The StormCrow was dead.
Manslaughter, in the first degree. Careers ended and life as he knew it over, Tommy had nothing left to do but settle into his new life, his 6 foot by 10 foot cage. His time inside was hard, his parents more or less disowned him, Elijah was banned from visiting him and his fans, his career, everything he wanted in wrestling slowly slipped away. He lost his interest in music quickly, and his reading privileges were even removed in time. Tommy was on the fast-route to losing everything, even his sanity. About 3 years into his sentence he was approached by a man in military garb, who walked right up to him in his cell.
“Tommy, I have a proposition for you,” he said. The man was of Asian descent but with an American accent, his military uniform had the surname ‘Katawa’ on it and his proposition was too good to be true. He was building a special wing of the US Army, calling them ‘War Dogs’. They would go into high-danger zones and do the jobs the Army cannot, the high-risk high-pressure roles. Much like a movie plot, the role was being offered to convicts with longer sentences, almost ignorantly deeming their lives less valuable. But, the payoff was exceptional. Exoneration from his sentencing, with full military retirement payments every two weeks, and a trip back to wherever he wanted. It was a ‘Get Out of Jail Free’ card, and Tommy didn’t need to hear any more details, he was in. These ‘War Dogs’ were no joke, the toughest most ruthless SOB’s alive in federal penitentiaries teaming up and going on extraction missions, espionage missions or even hostile territory campaigns. Tommy was losing his mind in prison, so he signed on the line and the deal was made. Six months of training later, Tommy was on a flight to the Middle-East.
The job was not what was to be expected however, not even close. Him and his team were sent on ‘Kill or Be Killed’ missions, whereby they infiltrated bases or compounds with a certain target in mind, and anyone left standing would be a threat. It was total chaos, total extermination. Their targets were given code names, like Mongrel, Half-Breed, Mutt, Jackal. Their missions were explained but the reasoning they were in those zones was never provided, their missions were performed in total secrecy. They did not even know what country they were in sometimes. They would not receive war medals, they would not be granted accolades upon their return. They were sent to the desert to die, and that was as obvious as the dust in their hair. ‘Kill or Be Killed’ became the norm very fast, as most of the unit alongside Tommy started to die along the way... Katawa led the unit on each mission, but stayed safely away only barking his commands down the earpiece. He muzzled the men with such disdain and hatred, calling them ‘hungry dogs’ and ‘mutts that need to be put down’. He snarled their code names as if they were poison in his mouth but he took a certain dislike for Tommy. He was good, and he wouldn’t die. He earned his nickname on that tour - The Jackal. Katawa was a certain kind of asshole, as was Tommy, and they clashed often. For what comes next, Katawa deserved a fate worse than death.
The ‘Dogs of War’ fought on, obeyed their masters but after a long and grueling tour of some unknown locations, they approached their final mission. One last target, a warehouse that was rumored to be housing a very important figurehead of the Al-Qaeda.
It was a set-up. No sooner had they approached the facility that it became blissfully aware to them all that this is where they would die. An empty facility on the city outskirts, no living life for miles, and the sound of a military bomber closing in on their location. ‘Kill or Be Killed’. As the bombs fell, Tommy was one of the first out of the facility but even then it wasn’t enough. The explosion tore the clothes from his back, covered his body in flames and burns, and left him face down in the sand, as good as dead. His last thoughts before things went black;
‘Katawa, you played us all’.
Lucky for Tommy, the wounds would heal, and the grace of a local farmhand would be enough to help him recover in the safety of their home. He was dead to the world, officially. His name now marked down as KIA on military records, his whole world gone. Tommy Kelly was officially dead, but even that wouldn’t stop him. Each prisoner had their past nicknames, and the Jackal was still biting. Katawa thought he had killed them all, cleaned the records, made sure the truth wouldn’t get back to him. This dog however, doesn’t know when to lay down and die.
BACK TO THE MAIN STORY
No sooner has his phone died, a couple of heavy-set men approach Tommy from behind, two goons obviously hired for this job. They don’t say much, nothing at all really. One simply puts his hand on Tommy’s right shoulder, enough to let him know they were there. Tommy looks up, the mirror behind the spirits on the bar is enough of a glance for Tommy to know what this means, and slowly finishes off his whiskey before standing up. He makes sure to toss a note onto the counter to cover his bill, and turns to join the men. Neither are much bigger than he is, their black suit jackets adding to their size but not enough to disarm him. Regardless, Tommy obliges them and exits the bar alongside them as they escort him through the narrow marketplace alley to a car park at the end. A black SUV is waiting, but the rest of the car park is vacant.
“Any chance we have time for a quick smoke break?” he mutters, trying to break the tense air with some comedic relief but to no avail. The rear door opens and he is tossed inside, before the two goons enter on either side of him wedging him in place. There is no passenger, only the driver who gets the vehicle moving, and the four men are on their way. After some time of driving through empty, abandoned streets of Japan, the nighttime lights being his only distraction from his pumping heart and anxiety-filled stomach, Tommy tries to remain as calm as can be. He knows what is in store, and expects the worst. Not long after the vehicle enters the crossing of the Yokohama Bay bridge it hits the brakes sharply, stopping completely on the bridge’s apex. Tommy is dragged out of the vehicle, and pulled forward towards a man standing on the side of the path. No vehicle, no other bodies. Just one man, standing alone, staring over the edge towards the icy cold waters below.
“So… you thought you could come to my town and I wouldn’t know it?” Katawa says, his voice ever as snidely and empty as Tommy remembered.
“Actually, I’ve been here for a while, had to start spreading the word the Jackal had arrived just to get your attention. You are not very good at keeping tabs on people it seems.”
Katawa doesn’t turn around, but keeps his back to Tommy. “I thought you were dead. I thought you were all dead”.
“Sorry to disappoint you old man, but I’m still here. Next time do a better-”, but his words are cut short by a hard fist to the abdomen from one of the goons. Dropping to his knees, the two men now follow up with a barrage of kicks and stomps onto the slightly intoxicated Tommy. “Hey watch the suit fools... it’s Armani.”
“How did you survive all this time? How did you survive your final mission? Who else knows you are alive?” Katawa turns to face Tommy as he barrages him with questions, a look of total concern, dread and anger all resting on his weathered face. The years have not been as good to Katawa, who is now an aged, suffering old man.
“Nobody knows, because nobody lived. You did what you wanted, and you killed them all… criminals and monsters burned alongside good men, wrongfully imprisoned or convicted men. And you killed them all, like dogs.”
“You were dogs! Each one of you, criminals and hoodlums, nothing but a stain on society. You served your country by doing the only thing you were good at… dying. Except you, you just don’t know when to stop, do you?”
“My country?! I wasn’t even born there pal! And by the looks of it neither were you! Two fools caught up in the military affairs of another nation!”
“The Jackal… always hungry for scraps, always cawing and trying to be loudest. Of all in the unit, I wanted to see you gone the most, but as my luck would have it you just wouldn’t die.”
The goons rough Tommy up a bit more, and drag him to Katawa at the edge of the bridge, holding his face up so that he is in direct eye-contact with Katawa.
“Unlucky you”, Tommy says, smiling through bloodied teeth.
“Tonight we fix what should have been done 20 years ago. Kare o nagemasu (toss him)”. Katawa motions for the men to drag Tommy towards the edge of the bridge, the small railing overlooking the water. But they don’t obey. “Chūmon shimashita (I gave you an order)”, but his raspy voice trails off. The two goons stare back, ignoring him.
“Satsugai ni tsuite wa nani mo iwanakatta (you didn’t mention anything about killing him)”, yells the driver. The two goons look back and forth between Katawa, a look of pure fury crossing the old man's lips.
“Watashi wa anata ni jūbun ni shiharaimashita, ima, kuso shigoto o shite kudasai! (I paid you enough, now do the fucking job!)” he shrieks, completely irritated they would disobey him. The goons drop Tommy, pass a quick comment and turn back towards the SUV.
“Jikai wa maebarai. Te o yogosu koto ga dekiru, yasui rōjin (Next time pay upfront. You can get your own hands dirty, cheap old man)” exclaims the driver, as the two henchmen climb back into the SUV and all the hired help slowly pulls away.
“Paid them to rough me up but forgot to negotiate a murder? Sounds about right Katawa, always half-assing things. They won’t listen to a ‘gaijin’, you are just like me.” Katawa, furious that his original plan has been foiled, quickly goes to plan B and pulls a gun on Tommy. Freezing him in place, Katawa revels in this brief power trip, feelings of old coming back across both men. But those feelings of old are not blissful for Tommy, who surges forward to knock the pistol from Katawa’s hands, not before a gunshot rings. A sharp ringing pain shoots from Tommy’s shoulder down his back, and he drops to one knee, grasping his shoulder. Blood, warm and oozing slowly from a fresh gunshot wound.
“I always despised you, Jackal. You are less than a dog, you are a rat! And now you will drown like a rat!”, Katawa spits his words into Tommy’s face as he drags him to the railing. He tries to toss Tommy over, but the years have not been so kind to Katawa as they have to Tommy who is a clear victor in the strength department. The two tussle and lockup, but after some exchanges and back and forth blows Tommy has Katawa on the railing, balancing on the small of his back. Tommy is leaning over, holding him by his shirt only.
“Dog, if you do this you will regret it. This will not be the end!”
“Is that so? You’ve already tried to kill me, twice now and yet I am still standing. Your paid goons have left, what else do you have left for me, old man? What other surprises? I have crawled my ass across the desert to survive, lived on the streets for years in a drunken haze thanks to the trauma you have caused me, lost my closest friends and family due to the nightmares you have inflicted upon me, and now I stand here holding your life in my hands. Tell me Katawa… why should you live?”
Tommy doesn’t budge, still looking into the eyes of Katawa, his grip on the shirt slowly loosening. His injured shoulder aches, and he clenches tighter. He leans forward to get a better grip, hesitating to do what he has dreamed of for many years, but Katawa makes that decision for him. As Tommy tries to adjust his grip, Katawa spits into the face of Tommy, and yells at him.
“Fuck you dog, you are nothing! You are a hound, a rabid animal, a filthy jackal!”
“No Katawa, the Jackal dies with you… I’m the StormCrow.”
And that is when Tommy let go.
The rain continues to pour, heavier as the night goes on. Some despise the rain, fearing or dreading it but for others they were born in it. Lived through storms, survived the harsh weathers of life itself. For some, the rain is all they know, all they live for, all they exist for. For some men, rain brings new beginnings, washing away the horrors and sins of the past. For some men, a storm is all they have ever wanted.
Despite the government enforced lock down, some businesses stay afloat, keeping their doors open and their wares on offer. To Hell with the law they cry, as their regular means of income laughs in the face of the rules despite the quarantine. Amidst all the colorful and musical neon signs, one business stands within the shadows, a tiny noodle stand that has no place nor reason to be in the scene. Lit up and with shutters open for business, the elderly vendor at the front stands vigilante for customers despite the obvious lack of human presence in the narrow marketplace street before him. His stall is large enough for himself alone, plus his equipment which now boils and hisses, releasing a heavy plume of steam with each passing moment. Behind the man's stall is a small metal door, with just enough room to scrape open and allow access. This is where our night will begin.
Inside the doorway, the scene changes drastically. The small noodle stand distracts the mind and the eye from what could be concealed, and does a very successful job of that too. The room behind is a grotto, a very soothing, cozy looking operation. Rugs on the floor adorned with cushions and bean bags, sectioned apart via loose silk and tulle curtains. The room is busy, populated by many faces and bodies strewn around, some in jovial spirits while some are less potent states. The wares on offer in this back-alley business vary from a stiff drink to a hookah pipe, to psychedelics and grade-a offerings. Drunk, stoned, high or fully incapacitated, those are the only mindsets welcomed in this place.
At the end of the room sits a bar, fully kitted out to offer all the luxuries of a modern cocktail lounge, plus many other ‘offerings’. Some are sat upright on their stools, vigilant in discussing the current world situation or other unimportant topics, while others are slumped and close to being passed out. The bartender, a younger lady with some trauma in her eyes leans against the bar top, looking at her nails and waiting for her night to be over. And finally, amongst all of these scenes are characters we find the protagonist for this story… Tommy Kelly.
A man that has been dragged through the history books, broken and rebuilt only to break once more, now sits in a drug-den in Yokohama downing a dirty glass of whiskey, his eyes transfixed on a small screen replaying the local news in a language he doesn’t understand, surrounded by people he doesn’t care for and all with the risk of contracting a deadly respiratory virus. The lengths this man will go to for a glass of strong whiskey. He sips on his glass, savoring each tongue-ful before slowly draining the nectar into his throat. The folks beside him at the bar are short on conversation, and the atmosphere is as dreary as expected, so he takes as much enjoyment from his drink as he can manage. The only distraction to this moment of pure, uninterrupted bliss is his cellphone, vibrating on the counter. Call after call, it hums and rattles until the noise begins to bother the worn bartender. Tommy nods, apologetically and picks it up to check the screen. Yep, same thing as last time… another missed call from Bodhi. He unlocks the phone and looks at his messages, just to see if anything has changed;
Yeah, probably not the best message to leave her hanging on, but now is not the time for chit-chat. The phone buzzes again but before Tommy has a chance to silence it, the thing shuts itself down. Saved by the battery I guess. As soon as the phone dies, the severity of the situation hits home. Tommy has faced some harsh, heavy moments in his life but this one… this one is the culmination of everything he has lived for, lived through. This is the end of his saga, perhaps the end of his road. Or, the start of a new chapter. Only time can tell. Speaking of time, sit back and get comfy, this is going to be a looooong story…
THE LONG SIDE STORY
Seattle, circa the late 90’s, and things are much different than today. Punk is a state of mind, grunge is the only thing that matters, and pro-wrestling is at an all-time high. A young, wild kid from Ireland has been dragged across the globe to a new world, and now this opportunity has become his playground. Relocating from Ireland to America was tough enough for Tommy, only a teen at the time but Seattle wasn’t a bad place to end up. Plus an authentic Irish lad with a penchant for mischief didn’t so as bad as expected in America. Chicks loved the accent, dudes loved his wild demeanor and most importantly Tommy was closer than ever to his dream… to become a professional wrestler.
Skinny arms and pale skin aside, Tommy and his friend Elijah signed up for a local fed and started their careers in a hardcore-match filled debut- The Brotherhood of the Damned were hired! StormCrow and Synn, two Gothic brothers hellbent on wild matches and even wilder spots. Quickly they became a known brand, and their reputation helped them to climb the ranks of the business, moving up the ranks from indies to state promotions, and eventually into prime time with the Debug Inc. Wrestling Federation (DIWF). Things were great for the Brothers for a few years, until one night their partying antics got out of hand. Sadly, Tommy got arrested. And then another after party, with another arrest. Soon, the Brothers had a reputation for being as wild behind the scenes as they were in front of the cameras, letting the fame and wealth go to their head. It all culminated in a large bar fight in Oklahoma, where the brawl turned more vicious than before. A knife came out, Tommy defended himself, someone got very hurt, etcetera etcetera. Long story short, Tommy and Elijah got locked up but on very different charges. Elijah was a lot better of controlling himself, he only served about six months but Tommy… he went down for a hard twenty years.
The StormCrow was dead.
Manslaughter, in the first degree. Careers ended and life as he knew it over, Tommy had nothing left to do but settle into his new life, his 6 foot by 10 foot cage. His time inside was hard, his parents more or less disowned him, Elijah was banned from visiting him and his fans, his career, everything he wanted in wrestling slowly slipped away. He lost his interest in music quickly, and his reading privileges were even removed in time. Tommy was on the fast-route to losing everything, even his sanity. About 3 years into his sentence he was approached by a man in military garb, who walked right up to him in his cell.
“Tommy, I have a proposition for you,” he said. The man was of Asian descent but with an American accent, his military uniform had the surname ‘Katawa’ on it and his proposition was too good to be true. He was building a special wing of the US Army, calling them ‘War Dogs’. They would go into high-danger zones and do the jobs the Army cannot, the high-risk high-pressure roles. Much like a movie plot, the role was being offered to convicts with longer sentences, almost ignorantly deeming their lives less valuable. But, the payoff was exceptional. Exoneration from his sentencing, with full military retirement payments every two weeks, and a trip back to wherever he wanted. It was a ‘Get Out of Jail Free’ card, and Tommy didn’t need to hear any more details, he was in. These ‘War Dogs’ were no joke, the toughest most ruthless SOB’s alive in federal penitentiaries teaming up and going on extraction missions, espionage missions or even hostile territory campaigns. Tommy was losing his mind in prison, so he signed on the line and the deal was made. Six months of training later, Tommy was on a flight to the Middle-East.
The job was not what was to be expected however, not even close. Him and his team were sent on ‘Kill or Be Killed’ missions, whereby they infiltrated bases or compounds with a certain target in mind, and anyone left standing would be a threat. It was total chaos, total extermination. Their targets were given code names, like Mongrel, Half-Breed, Mutt, Jackal. Their missions were explained but the reasoning they were in those zones was never provided, their missions were performed in total secrecy. They did not even know what country they were in sometimes. They would not receive war medals, they would not be granted accolades upon their return. They were sent to the desert to die, and that was as obvious as the dust in their hair. ‘Kill or Be Killed’ became the norm very fast, as most of the unit alongside Tommy started to die along the way... Katawa led the unit on each mission, but stayed safely away only barking his commands down the earpiece. He muzzled the men with such disdain and hatred, calling them ‘hungry dogs’ and ‘mutts that need to be put down’. He snarled their code names as if they were poison in his mouth but he took a certain dislike for Tommy. He was good, and he wouldn’t die. He earned his nickname on that tour - The Jackal. Katawa was a certain kind of asshole, as was Tommy, and they clashed often. For what comes next, Katawa deserved a fate worse than death.
The ‘Dogs of War’ fought on, obeyed their masters but after a long and grueling tour of some unknown locations, they approached their final mission. One last target, a warehouse that was rumored to be housing a very important figurehead of the Al-Qaeda.
It was a set-up. No sooner had they approached the facility that it became blissfully aware to them all that this is where they would die. An empty facility on the city outskirts, no living life for miles, and the sound of a military bomber closing in on their location. ‘Kill or Be Killed’. As the bombs fell, Tommy was one of the first out of the facility but even then it wasn’t enough. The explosion tore the clothes from his back, covered his body in flames and burns, and left him face down in the sand, as good as dead. His last thoughts before things went black;
‘Katawa, you played us all’.
Lucky for Tommy, the wounds would heal, and the grace of a local farmhand would be enough to help him recover in the safety of their home. He was dead to the world, officially. His name now marked down as KIA on military records, his whole world gone. Tommy Kelly was officially dead, but even that wouldn’t stop him. Each prisoner had their past nicknames, and the Jackal was still biting. Katawa thought he had killed them all, cleaned the records, made sure the truth wouldn’t get back to him. This dog however, doesn’t know when to lay down and die.
BACK TO THE MAIN STORY
No sooner has his phone died, a couple of heavy-set men approach Tommy from behind, two goons obviously hired for this job. They don’t say much, nothing at all really. One simply puts his hand on Tommy’s right shoulder, enough to let him know they were there. Tommy looks up, the mirror behind the spirits on the bar is enough of a glance for Tommy to know what this means, and slowly finishes off his whiskey before standing up. He makes sure to toss a note onto the counter to cover his bill, and turns to join the men. Neither are much bigger than he is, their black suit jackets adding to their size but not enough to disarm him. Regardless, Tommy obliges them and exits the bar alongside them as they escort him through the narrow marketplace alley to a car park at the end. A black SUV is waiting, but the rest of the car park is vacant.
“Any chance we have time for a quick smoke break?” he mutters, trying to break the tense air with some comedic relief but to no avail. The rear door opens and he is tossed inside, before the two goons enter on either side of him wedging him in place. There is no passenger, only the driver who gets the vehicle moving, and the four men are on their way. After some time of driving through empty, abandoned streets of Japan, the nighttime lights being his only distraction from his pumping heart and anxiety-filled stomach, Tommy tries to remain as calm as can be. He knows what is in store, and expects the worst. Not long after the vehicle enters the crossing of the Yokohama Bay bridge it hits the brakes sharply, stopping completely on the bridge’s apex. Tommy is dragged out of the vehicle, and pulled forward towards a man standing on the side of the path. No vehicle, no other bodies. Just one man, standing alone, staring over the edge towards the icy cold waters below.
“So… you thought you could come to my town and I wouldn’t know it?” Katawa says, his voice ever as snidely and empty as Tommy remembered.
“Actually, I’ve been here for a while, had to start spreading the word the Jackal had arrived just to get your attention. You are not very good at keeping tabs on people it seems.”
Katawa doesn’t turn around, but keeps his back to Tommy. “I thought you were dead. I thought you were all dead”.
“Sorry to disappoint you old man, but I’m still here. Next time do a better-”, but his words are cut short by a hard fist to the abdomen from one of the goons. Dropping to his knees, the two men now follow up with a barrage of kicks and stomps onto the slightly intoxicated Tommy. “Hey watch the suit fools... it’s Armani.”
“How did you survive all this time? How did you survive your final mission? Who else knows you are alive?” Katawa turns to face Tommy as he barrages him with questions, a look of total concern, dread and anger all resting on his weathered face. The years have not been as good to Katawa, who is now an aged, suffering old man.
“Nobody knows, because nobody lived. You did what you wanted, and you killed them all… criminals and monsters burned alongside good men, wrongfully imprisoned or convicted men. And you killed them all, like dogs.”
“You were dogs! Each one of you, criminals and hoodlums, nothing but a stain on society. You served your country by doing the only thing you were good at… dying. Except you, you just don’t know when to stop, do you?”
“My country?! I wasn’t even born there pal! And by the looks of it neither were you! Two fools caught up in the military affairs of another nation!”
“The Jackal… always hungry for scraps, always cawing and trying to be loudest. Of all in the unit, I wanted to see you gone the most, but as my luck would have it you just wouldn’t die.”
The goons rough Tommy up a bit more, and drag him to Katawa at the edge of the bridge, holding his face up so that he is in direct eye-contact with Katawa.
“Unlucky you”, Tommy says, smiling through bloodied teeth.
“Tonight we fix what should have been done 20 years ago. Kare o nagemasu (toss him)”. Katawa motions for the men to drag Tommy towards the edge of the bridge, the small railing overlooking the water. But they don’t obey. “Chūmon shimashita (I gave you an order)”, but his raspy voice trails off. The two goons stare back, ignoring him.
“Satsugai ni tsuite wa nani mo iwanakatta (you didn’t mention anything about killing him)”, yells the driver. The two goons look back and forth between Katawa, a look of pure fury crossing the old man's lips.
“Watashi wa anata ni jūbun ni shiharaimashita, ima, kuso shigoto o shite kudasai! (I paid you enough, now do the fucking job!)” he shrieks, completely irritated they would disobey him. The goons drop Tommy, pass a quick comment and turn back towards the SUV.
“Jikai wa maebarai. Te o yogosu koto ga dekiru, yasui rōjin (Next time pay upfront. You can get your own hands dirty, cheap old man)” exclaims the driver, as the two henchmen climb back into the SUV and all the hired help slowly pulls away.
“Paid them to rough me up but forgot to negotiate a murder? Sounds about right Katawa, always half-assing things. They won’t listen to a ‘gaijin’, you are just like me.” Katawa, furious that his original plan has been foiled, quickly goes to plan B and pulls a gun on Tommy. Freezing him in place, Katawa revels in this brief power trip, feelings of old coming back across both men. But those feelings of old are not blissful for Tommy, who surges forward to knock the pistol from Katawa’s hands, not before a gunshot rings. A sharp ringing pain shoots from Tommy’s shoulder down his back, and he drops to one knee, grasping his shoulder. Blood, warm and oozing slowly from a fresh gunshot wound.
“I always despised you, Jackal. You are less than a dog, you are a rat! And now you will drown like a rat!”, Katawa spits his words into Tommy’s face as he drags him to the railing. He tries to toss Tommy over, but the years have not been so kind to Katawa as they have to Tommy who is a clear victor in the strength department. The two tussle and lockup, but after some exchanges and back and forth blows Tommy has Katawa on the railing, balancing on the small of his back. Tommy is leaning over, holding him by his shirt only.
“Dog, if you do this you will regret it. This will not be the end!”
“Is that so? You’ve already tried to kill me, twice now and yet I am still standing. Your paid goons have left, what else do you have left for me, old man? What other surprises? I have crawled my ass across the desert to survive, lived on the streets for years in a drunken haze thanks to the trauma you have caused me, lost my closest friends and family due to the nightmares you have inflicted upon me, and now I stand here holding your life in my hands. Tell me Katawa… why should you live?”
Tommy doesn’t budge, still looking into the eyes of Katawa, his grip on the shirt slowly loosening. His injured shoulder aches, and he clenches tighter. He leans forward to get a better grip, hesitating to do what he has dreamed of for many years, but Katawa makes that decision for him. As Tommy tries to adjust his grip, Katawa spits into the face of Tommy, and yells at him.
“Fuck you dog, you are nothing! You are a hound, a rabid animal, a filthy jackal!”
“No Katawa, the Jackal dies with you… I’m the StormCrow.”
And that is when Tommy let go.
The rain continues to pour, heavier as the night goes on. Some despise the rain, fearing or dreading it but for others they were born in it. Lived through storms, survived the harsh weathers of life itself. For some, the rain is all they know, all they live for, all they exist for. For some men, rain brings new beginnings, washing away the horrors and sins of the past. For some men, a storm is all they have ever wanted.