Kanda was jarred awake when his car hit the ground, lowered from the crane on the back of the old truck, hand slapping at his side where his gun fit snug into its holster. Only when its familiar grip was against his palm did his heart stop racing and his adrenaline begin the dive back to normal levels. He scanned his surroundings, deduced that he was inside the shop, and breathed. Okay, so he had a freaky dream. He was under a lot of stress in an unfamiliar nation and he hadn’t gotten any sleep in the past thirty hours. He was allowed a freaky dream.
He raised his seat and almost reached for his jacket when he remembered what dwelled within it.
Then remembered how businesses tended to look down on gun toting angry guys and picked it up again. The little rat-monkey thing made that cranking noise again when he pulled it on and he thumped the pocket. “Shut up. And don’t ******** come out, the Moyashi will probably blow a gasket if I lose you.” He could still feel the sting of his hair getting pulled. Nobody pulled his hair. Not a damn person did that and lived.
“Talking t`yourself now boy?” The old man shut the truck door and walked around to unhitch his car. Kanda slamed his own door and scowled at him.
“Like a senile old fool is one to talk.”
“I may be old, but I ain’t senile, and I sure ain’t no fool.” He pat the hood of the tiny convertible and smiled. “You’ll see. We’ll get her shiny and new again.” It turned into a crooked smirk. “That is, if you can afford it.”
“Told you old man, all I want is it running.” He dug his hands in his pockets, felt the brush of warm fur against his knuckles and yanked them out again.
“Well see that’s our little issue. I have a thing for kei cars. People here, they don’t know squat s**t about economy, complain about gas prices but if you go electric well you’re just a god hate’n hippie an`a communist. Things like this, they make a guy feel conscious `bout his d**k here, and Americans care nothing more than `bout the size of their dicks. Always have, likely always will.”
“And I care why?”
“B`cause you look like a man unconcerned about what ******** think `bout your d**k, and I like your car. So I’ll give you a discount. You get it all done, body, guts, th`whole shebang, and I’ll do it for flat line parts and labor,”
“Awfully sweet of you, but I just want it running.”
He crossed those sun spotted twigs in front of his rail thin chest. “And there’s th`kicker. You don’t get th`whole shebang, I don’t do th`fixing.” He grinned just a little maliciously. “Good luck finding another who knows `bout Daihatsu, I’m sure th`shops lining OBT would be happy to try their hand at ******** it up.”
“******** you, it’s a car. It can’t be that different. There’s regulations and codes for a reason.”
“Boy, you don’t even got the steering wheel on th`right side.”
“The ******** does that got to do with anything.”
“Everything,” he waved as he turned from the garage towards the door to the shop. “I’ll just get th`boys while you’re thinking it over.” They both knew he already won.
Damnit, Kanda liked that car, he was used to that car. He didn’t want to have to get another car, but he didn’t see why he had to get all the ******** dents and body ******** fixed. They were fine. He kicked the section of the fender that was held on with a bungee cable hooked under the hood. The exposed headlight sat in a caved in hole like a bruised eye, the glass covering it long since busted, the grill warped and dented and the front license plate holder was missing. Florida didn’t require both license plates, so he hadn’t bothered with replacing it.
Okay, so it looked like his car had walked away the looser of a very bad fist fight. He jammed his hands in his pockets again, swore when he once again hit the rat. Stupid ******** thing.
“Alright, wait up you ********.” The old man paused in the doorway, smug little grin and raised eyebrow. “I’ll pay for the ******** she-whatever.” He poked a finger in the boney chest. “But this b***h better shine.”
“We’ll add paint to th`bill.” He opened the door. “Yo boys! Get your asses out here an-” He never finished, as hands vised around his neck and twisted.
The crack of a snapping spinal cord was a wet crunch in Kanda’s ears, and he watched an enormous mountain of muscle haul the old man up by that shattered neck and toss him to the side like a broken doll. He crumpled against the wall in a jumble of clanking fragile bones, lifeless.
Kanda was already five paces away, gun drawn and directed at the behemoth ducking under the doorway. “Freeze. Hold it right there.” He shouted, and the noise rang around the garage louder than a bullet. The man advance. “Police, stay where you are, put your hands in the air.”
A voice southern as sweat iced tea teased out, “Do you like sweet things?” then the man laughed, picking up a tire.
“Put your hands in the air.” Kanda repeated, when he was once again ignored, the large man advancing on him with a slow taunting stride, he fired. The shot punched into Skin with a hot, fierce pain, he chucked the tire and Kanda threw himself back behind a tool crate to dodge.
Contrary to what movies and television liked to show people, bullets weren’t a one kill attack unless you got them in a sweet fatal spot, they still hurt, still did endless amounts of muscle damage, but Skin shook it off. His family could heal him new; rebuilding damaged muscle was hardly a difficult procedure. Besides, the pain sharpened his instincts, his mind, his rage. He raised a trunk of an arm and gripped the handle of the garage door with a meaty fist, tugging it down to slam closed. Trapping them in the dark.
“Let’s have some fun.” He laughed.
Kanda had slithered and weaved around the tool kit and car parts, settled himself behind a half destroyed Chevrolet with his back to the sandblasted door when the light when out. The heartbeat that thundered in his ears pumped adrenaline into his veins like a singing fuel, he was running on fumes and the spike in his bloodstream like the spark of arousal was a welcome kick.
“Where in the dark is our black soldier friend.” The rumbling taunt sang through the gloom, Kanda would almost pinpoint its location. With a careful hand he tugged the spare cartridge of amo out of his boot and shoved it in the inside breast pocket of his coat where he could reach more easily. He wasn’t absolutely positive what he had in his standard issue would take down a man who could shrug off a sucking wound to the chest.
He closed his eyes, let his dim surroundings go still, and breathed. He had been jumpy earlier, raw adrenaline on an empty system did that, but now he was calm and professional. Now he had a job to do. Black soldier he said. So he knew of the Order, knew he was a part of it. Akuma, or Noah?
He opened his eyes to an adjusted focus, in light and in battle. His hand no longer trembled on the gun, and his mind no longer clutched at a mesh of instinct and muscle memory. Now it was all training and survival and doing the job.
He crept along on his haunches to the edge of the car, peered around. At such a low angle he couldn’t make out much, too many machines, parts, and containers in the way, but to stand up exposed him. Instead he tracked shadows, took notes on his surroundings. So many clustered and cluttered areas, nowhere really open. The big man would likely stick to the empty car slots, enough room for him to move around.
“Come out come out!” was the bellowed rage and a huge tool crate was flipped and crashing down on the hood of the car he hid behind, smashing the windshield into a spider web of glass. Kanda jolted, but didn’t move. Still and silent. Okay, so maybe he’d just throw things.
More objects were tossed, smashing and thundering. He knew the location now and could end it fairly quickly. Maybe.
He ducked around the Chevy and rolled into the open, gun pointed and fired into the gray and black and shadow.
And was hit by a tire.
He skidded back, breath choked in his lungs, pain a flash of lightning in if face and chest and gut. He rolled, came up on liquid legs and tried to duck back into the tight spaces between cars and tools and parts but the blearing shadows in his throbbing eyes made him stumble and ram noisily against a crate. His opponent was on him in an instant and hauled him up, tossing him out into the open once more.
His gun was lost, but not the fight. He spat the blood pooling in his mouth and wiped it from his nose, focusing his glare at the man who stepped up before him.
“Now that introductions are over.” He settled into a battle stance.
The man grinned and the image was grotesque and monstrous, not because he was a hideous man, but because the insanity and bloodlust that twisted his features made it that way. “You can call me Skin.” The man was across to him in three strides and the real fight began.
Skin was bigger, much bigger than Kanda, and that counted in a fight, but so did swiftness and skill, and for a while it looked like it was in Kanda’s favor, until a fist cracked into his cheek, nearly snapping his head off his shoulders with the force and ringing his ears with the sharp pierce of a siren. It left him dazed for just that instant needed to grip his collar and throw him once more to the ground.
“Morons, all of you.” He dug a toe into the Order member’s ribs and rolled him on his back. “You’re so busy chasing Cross you don't even realize what’s right in front of you, you could have us, but all the Order cares about is one little deserter.” Noah then. Kanda blinked, felt the heaviness of a boot settle on his sternum, the man was so huge simply settling his full weight would be enough to crush his chest, the unfriendly grin vanished, and slashed in its place was an ugly scowl “Since you didn’t get the last warning, I’ll just have to leave your corpse for them next. Stay away from Carbon.” He pulled his foot up to crush it down, and a shrill familiar crabbing sounded like an alarm. Timcanpy lunged down from somewhere in the shadows and clawed at Skin’s face, who howled in rage and grabbed it, flinging it into the mess of machinery.
‘Noah.’ It was all that echoed through Kanda’s mind and with a face swollen with blood and rage he reared up, hand fisted, and jammed it in the exposed groin above him.
Skin’s jaw gapped, face turning ashen and balance disrupted he toppled backwards. Kanda curled his legs to his chest, his hands up, palms to floor beside his head, and rolled body over head away, landing in a crouch to face his fallen enemy, who struggled to rise, shook his head, and threw up.
“Another body huh?” he snarled, getting the leverage of a running start he landed a kick into the ribs, forcing the man back down into his own vomit and feeling the give as ribs crunched beneath his boot. He wiped the heel of his hand against his cheek where pain still blossomed with every working of his jaw. It was likely cracked or broken, he hoped they wouldn’t have to wire his jaw shut again. “I only know one Order member dying in this city, care to guess who he was?” There was a nice looking iron rod broken from when Skin had tossed things about. He picked it up, walked around the man to his head, out of reach of those long arms and big hands.
“Heh, a screamer from what I heard.”
“Wrong answer.” He swung the shaft and caught him upside the head, blood splatter dotted the oil stained concrete. ‘We’ll try a different question.” He settled his weight on his heels, rolled his shoulders. “Who killed Daisya?”
“Ortho.” Skin grinned up with blood stained teeth. “The weed killer.” The metal rod slammed into him again, this time it lashed his knees three times and blood bloomed against the denim of his pants. The pain did nothing but fuel his rage.
“We can do this all day.” Kanda’s shoulder sang in agony, but he kept his stance casual and assured. “Not like I have anywhere to be, you killed my mechanic.” He slammed the pipe down in his gut this time. “So, let’s try again, Noah. Who killed my brother?”
“Ask the 14th.” Skin wheezed.
“Who?” Kanda crouched down.
“White Carbon.” And fueled by than name and his wrath he lunged up, grabbing the Asian man’s neck in his big hands.
Kanda put the rod in his eye.
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