Incarnation of Fire - Urban Fantasy - Page 2 - Writers Forum

MiloDaePesdan · 08-27-2006, 12:04 AM

Dyokai! Chapter Three begins.

-----

III

Out in the open plains, overrun with the fading glory of the setting sun, they stood a half-dozen in number, a formidable wall of judicial clout and power. The mere sight of their finery made them stand out above all the yokai, from the wide-brimmed straw hats that hid their faces to the white cloaks shrouding their bodies in mystery. Where their shadows descended all miscreants fled gibbering into the night, and twilight saw to it that the silhouettes they threw were long indeed. Such was the menace and fear they commanded against those who broke their treasured laws.

These were the Tourney Judges, and they were out for blood.

"Marcus Gearrs, protege of the daimyo Dawnson Ryusuke," pronounced the largest judge in a powerful, steely voice. Shingo lifted his head and flung back the cloak, revealing the proud blue-on-white colors of his order. His great shadow fell on Marcus, denying him the failing sunlight. "You are charged with high treason for attempting to assassinate Lord Ichida!"

A slithery voice--God knows to whom it belonged to--spoke up in turn. "How do you plead, Marcus Gearrs?"

The defendant nursed his bandaged temple and scowled at the towering judges. "Bullshit. It was not just an assassination attempt, so no dice. And that bloody hurt, Shingo. I think I might have a slight concussion."

"All the better! We will not take such murderous actions lightly!"

Marcus scowled. He felt like some maniacal squirrel with a big hammer was pounding away at his skull as if it were a stubborn nut. "What? Seems to me that blow to the head had a...murderous intention, didn't it?"

He made a face and blew a juicy raspberry. "Hypocrite."

They had Marcus beyond the camp's perimeter, seated in a lotus-fold before a bleached linen mat, right on the spot of his landing. The semi-circle they formed around him was both to contain and protect him, as the aggrieved oni lord had quite a following. A following that consisted of a majority of the camp--to say they disapproved of his actions was an understatement. The yokai had no qualms to tar and feather him right now, at this very moment. All they had to do was stampede from the camp's edge and roll over the judges.

Except these judges are a bunch of scary bastards. Gotta bluff it out.

"Hmm." Lizard-voice identified himself as the short one across Shingo, who stood to the extreme right and looked just about ready to blow his horns off. "Shingo, you may have to revise the charges. I believe it was not an assassination attempt per se. Even Ichida-sama admitted that in our interrogation, however reluctantly."

"Got that right," Marcus muttered. He felt his scalp among the mass of blond curls, then pulled his hand back. Blood. A shallow cut or something. Bastard.

"Then you are charged with attempted murder!" Shingo roared.

"That's more like it," the defendant muttered, ignoring the blood and propping himself on his hands.

"How do you plead!" Shingo thundered. "Guilty or not guilty?"

"Bullshit," was the mutter. "What do you think?"

Shingo crouched and pinned him with a glare of his beady black eyes. "If you don't stop muttering I'll turn you into mutton," he growled back, sotto voce. "Answer the question."

Marcus grinned, though it hurt his head to even move his cheek muscles. "This sheep has fangs. Ergo, this is not a sheep."

The oni snarled something incomprehensible. But before he could commit a violent act sure to take away his commission, a bamboo cane fell between him and Marcus. Another shadow had fallen on the accused, and there was no mistaking Lizard-voice's soft yet menacing tone.

"The little bakemono pleads guilty, Shingo. That much is obvious."

So, he'd graduated into a monster now. What was he before, the idiot foreigner? Marcus craned his head to peek under the judge's hat, just to see what the bugger looked like under all that muffling gear--

And froze. He didn't see what he saw just now, right? But the image from the quick glimpse refused to leave his head. Lizard-voice was none other than a kappa. Holy shit, he's one of those turtle guys, like in Pokemon!

The kappa lifted his hat and further proved Marcus' observation. Short, squat, his splotched skin an aquamarine shade, Lizard-voice also possessed the filmy eyes of an amphibian used to the presence of water. Built like a tank, the kappa's broad frame filled his kimono. Marcus half-expected twin barrels to poke out from behind his shoulders.

No, not Pokemon. Mutant Ninja Turtles. Michaelangelo, but without the mask.

"Kunio-san," Shingo began, "I--"

"This farce is meaningless when the solution has already been found. Please, honor me by leading the rest of the judges in informing the people--" he waved a thick, webbed hand at the restless gathering that awaited their judgement "--of our decision, and the possible consequences following the aftermath. In this way will we honor our word and keep the peace."

The big oni judge sighed, and looked a little less ready to snap Marcus in half. "Very well. But tell that--that bakemono if such a thing happens again, we will see the full measure of justice carried out!"

Marcus watched the judges leave with suspicion, unable to follow the track of events. Huh? He'd just cheated death? What just happened?

"It seems you haven't grasped the laws of the Summer Tourney." Kunio tapped his cane on Marcus' shoulder to catch his attention. "Dueling in the pavilion camp is not permitted. If you had fought Ichida-sama here, and succeeded in killing him, then we would've had no choice but to accept it as legal."

"Oh well. Guess that didn't work." He sprawled on the mat, arms cushioning his head, and watched the last of the sun sink below the horizon. Another day finished, another night ahead. Screw it.

Kunio knelt on the mat to save his kimono from acquiring grass stains. He too watched the fading patterns of a pink and violet sky shift into night's deep indigo. His voice became even more slippery. "Do you know why you were spared the death sentence? No matter the outcome, dueling is a high offence. The only punishment is death to both parties."

"Does it have anything to do with Shingo's brag about me becoming the next Guardian of this country?"

"Not just this country. This world," Kunio said, using his cane as a chin rest. "And yes, you are correct. You're lucky, Marcus Gearrs. If Dawnson-sama had not insisted to us before his death that you must go through the candidate trial, you would have died. You would never have heard of Seness either. A pity we have to respect his last wish."

"Three cheers and a beer for the old man," Marcus said, yawning. In the sudden, awkward silence he caught the kappa staring at him in what he thought was either disbelief or disgust. "Eh? What?"

"How can you have such blatant disrespect for the former daimyo?" Kunio shook in such a forceful way, his hat's brim threatened to saw off Marcus' forehead. "Calling him 'old man'? Do you truly hate him that much? Did he not teach you everything you know?"

"Hey, where did the hate thing come from?" He shot up into a sitting position and scrutinized the kappa in return. "Don't get me wrong, I respect the old man. And I don't hate him."

"But your actions--your words--"

"I wasn't brought up with manners, that's all," Marcus said, forcing cheer into his tone. "As for my actions, I'll be the judge of that. Okay, so it doesn't look like it, but I do things for a reason."

"Hmm." Contemplative quiet stretched between them. A chilly breeze swooped in from the plains and raised goosebumps on Marcus' skin. Crickets picked up their song, a droning creak that lulled his eyes. Night's fallen. Wonder how things are on Earth.

"Shingo had high hopes for you," Kunio said abruptly. "He hoped you'd make a decent Guardian, as you were raised to become a man by Dawnson-sama. It appears he was right to be disappointed. Do you not worry what others will think when you act this way?

"Ichida is the lesser evil between the two of you. His arrogance and high-handed cruelty will be a bane to the peasantry, but compared to you he is no monster. How a human can achieve thus, we do not know, but there it is. That is the picture we yokai receive."

"Bull. Shit. I don't give a rat's ass what people think about me," Marcus snarled, no longer able to hold back. He surprised the kappa by punching the ground, threatening to tear the expensive linen. The cynical side of him noted that even here, on this foreign otherworld, no one understood him. Well, isn't that the universal truth?

"Get your facts straight. Old man Dawnson did not raise me, and he did not teach me everything I know. I was up and kicking ass before I even met him, doing my own thing, living my life, and somehow you guys got fed the story I was his disciple since I wore diapers? Gimme a break! I'm no karate kid!"

"That was...the impression he left us from his words," Kunio said in a cautious voice.

"Huh, well, you got screwed for being so prejudiced," Marcus replied, boiling down. No one had seen him angry before, and he berated himself for losing even the slightest control. Being irritated and frustrated is okay. Anger, now, that emotion could unravel the greatest of works. He'd seen what a man could do in the deep throes of rage, and he hadn't liked what he saw.

"Nevertheless," the kappa said, letting his breath out in a long sigh, "this does not change anything. Marcus Gearrs. Due to your questionable actions, you will not participate in the tourney grounds. Instead, we have substituted two events."

Marcus held back a grin. The gamble had paid off. "And what are the two events?"

"The first is tomorrow at dawn. You and Lord Ichida will face each other in a race."

Racing! Now here was familiar territory. He sat up straighter. "Any rules I should know of?"

Kunio took out a fat manuscript from the depths of his kimono. He flipped through the pages rapidly, the rising dust cloud evident this particular book had not seen use in a long time. He stopped to lay a finger on a page. "'Participants of the Annual Summer Tourney Race must note the following: no hitting, no biting, no cheating, no minions, no allergens, no sticky lengths of thread, no impromptu road-blocks, no monkeys, no coconuts, no fowl play, no caltrops, no pay-tolls--"

He winded down from the top to the page bottom and snapped the book shut in a fresh cloud of dust. Kunio sneezed. "Apart from that, and following the marked path, there are no rules. You may ride any vehicle of choice to maximize your chances. That is all."

"And the second event?"

"A drinking match in the evening that lasts until dawn." Kunio looked at him sidelong, giving him the fish eye. "Drinking till either one dies of alcohol poisoning or gets knocked unconscious."

Marcus thought about that for a second. In his true oni form, Ichida could guzzle sake like a mean bull. His mass was an assurance his system could hold more before passing out--or going to the privy. On the other hand...

He rubbed his hands in devilish glee. "Oh good. My Russian and Irish ancestry's got a chance to show off at last."

The kappa's fishy eyes flew wide then narrowed. "Russian?"

"My mother was Russian and my father was Irish," Marcus explained. "Both are long gone now, but I've always had this funny feeling..."

"Funny feeling?" Kunio echoed.

"Yeah. Like I can keep drinking but I'll never get drunk. Old man Dawnson used to say I was like a bottomless pit. Though if you give it an hour I'll get hyper as shit, and I'd never been able to ignore the call of nature for so long."

"A great pity." The kappa smiled. Not a nice smile to go with his voice. "You will have to find someone to champion you. Ichida-sama will also do the same."

He rose, tugging on his cloak to ward off the cold, and somehow despite his short height, managed to loom over him like a leviathan. A puny leviathan, hobbling on a cane. Pathetic. "I hope you can find a champion in such a short space of time, Marcus Gearrs. Otherwise disqualification is just around the corner. Good night."

"And a bloody night to you, too." Bastard!

-----
(I'll post the 2nd half of Chapter III soon. How was this?)

Jailbait,
Milo

MiloDaePesdan · 08-29-2006, 10:21 AM

*whistles and twiddles thumbs* The 2nd half of the 3rd chapter.

-----

Torn canvas, broken posts, and crushed furniture were all that remained of his pavilion. Under cover of his trial, Ichida's supporters had sneaked over to raid the place for what loot they could find. When they found nothing but the usual effects in his spartan quarters, they smashed the pavilion to splinters. All it was good for now was a nice, tidy bonfire to warm his bones.

He'd never liked camping anyway.

Marcus salvaged what he could for firewood, tying them together with strips of canvas. Elsewhere, the yokai had lit their pavilions' interior with paper lanterns, partying the night away in careless abandon. Geometrical designs competed with the silhouettes of nature's symbols, and the colorful lanterns painted everything from butterflies to elephants against the canvas walls. If he bothered to listen, faint singing drifted from the tents, and a louder hubbub rose from the camp's center. But the subdued anger felt among them against a certain human lingered still, lurking beneath all that merrymaking.

One man against the world. Heh. What else was new?

He walked in the shadows between the pavilions, grunting when he stubbed a toe on whatever obstacle darkness had covered on this moonless night. He found shelter underneath a sycamore tree growing atop a grassy knoll well outside the camp. At least no one would try to attack him here, not with sake aplenty and women to bed.

"Damn. Getting chilly." It might be summer all year round in Seness, but cold fronts existed for a reason. If he stood around any longer like this, he just might turn blue, sprout a funny little cap on his head, and become all but indistinguishable from a smurf or a lemming. Make a fire. Easier said, easier done.

Marcus took out his pocketknife, squinted at the hilt, then tapped the bottom carefully. A tiny readout sprang to life.

"Power's low," he muttered to himself. These newfangled mono-molecular knives were so dependent on batteries to bind the edge to the blade; lifeless, they were sharp and pointy. Powered, and they cut through everything.

That idiot Ichida had no idea how lucky he was.

He pulled off a piece of firewood from the bundle he'd carried, placing his knife's tip against it. The problem with mono-knives is the electrical surge of power upon activation, a design bug the technicians had yet to fix. But Marcus found it damned handy for starting fires. A flick of a switch along the hilt, and a fat blue spark set the wood smoking.

After he'd burnt off a suitable clearing to lay down the smoldering wood, Marcus soon had a modest fire going. With a tree to lean against and a fire to warm his hands, what more could a man ask for?

Buster crept in from the shadows.

"Where did you hide?" Marcus asked, eyes fixed on the campfire.

"Among the tsukumogami," the dragon replied. He curled up before the fire, bronze scales turning a molten gold under its warmth and light. "They are my kind of yokai, after all. Living works of craftsmen."

"Ah. Sorry. I should've known." His stomach growled, but he ignored it. No chance in hell was he going to get food from the outdoor kitchens; if the cooks didn't turn him away, they would likely lace his food with poison in the hopes he doubled up and died. Oh, they'd sure like that, wouldn't they? Bastards!

Buster lifted his serpentine neck to address him, the flames alive in his sapphire eyes. "Why did you do it?"

"I was checking him out. I didn't have anything to go on but what people said about him, and secondhand information just isn't reliable." He shrugged, hands clasped behind his head, gazing up at the heavens. So many stars. How many twinkled in the same sky as Earth? Better to think of faraway constellations than dwell on his anger. "He's strong for a half-demon."

"For a half--look here, Marcus. That was a dangerous thing to do. Lord Ichida is hanki, a powerful demonic offspring, and even if he were born part human, that strength is not to be underestimated."

"Yeah, well, I'll have to settle Ichida's hash out there tomorrow." An impish sort of glee seized him. "In a race, would you believe it! A race--and I get to choose whatever vehicle I want to face him!"

Buster stared. "But what are you going to face him with? I know you have never ridden a horse before."

"Who said I'm going to ride a stinking horse?" An evil light shone in Marcus' eyes, and his blue pupils gleamed. "Can you do me a favor? I want you to bring Bahamut Lancer over to this side."

The dragon shot up on all fours. In a way, he resembled a cat told to go and take a bath. His tail lashed the ground in indignant, whip-like strokes. Tendrils of smoke shot from his nostrils. "Of all the cheek--I am not a beast of burden!"

"Pretty please? With a cherry on top?"

"It cannot be done. Therefore, I will not do it."

"Look," Marcus pleaded, "I'm sorry I tried to do in that bastard, but this is the only way I can beat him. I've got to have my bike, or this opening's no good and I might as well lose like I would've down there in that damned palisade."

"You..." Buster trailed off into a thoughtful pause. If Marcus were versed on the subtle expressions of dragons, he would've recognized the light of realization dawning on the tsukumogami's muzzle. In any case, Buster looked pissed. "There was another reason why you attacked him," he continued in a flat voice. "This was two-fold, was it not? You provoked this on purpose. You wanted this to happen."

Marcus nodded. No use denying it now. "Way I saw it, either I kill him and become the Guardian, or I bluff him into thinking that crossing me one-on-one's the stupidest thing he'd ever done in his life. It worked. He's scared, Buster, I almost did clean his clock, but it really should be the other way around. I'm scared of him.

"In the tourney ground, I'm spit in the furnace. He's too good. He won't kill me, he'll destroy me--so I thought if I could plan things so they came out like this, I would have a fighting chance. That's why I need Bahamut Lancer."

Buster settled down. He groomed a wing while giving Marcus' words a mental chewing over. Something in him whispered this was a foolish idea, laying down all his hope on a dragon he had met only hours ago. He steeled himself for rebuke. When was the last time he'd done this? Kindergarten, standing before strict Miss Nassie, right before he socked the recalcitrant that stole his lunch right on the mouth. Oh man. Embarrassing.

"You cannot return to Earth right now, you know," Buster said at last.

"Hmmf? What?" Marcus had expected the worst. But now--he took in a slow, deep breath, held it, and released it. "Yeah, I know. But can't you go and get it? Please, for my sake, can you get my bike for me?"

The dragon appeared to consider the suggestion, rubbing an itchy scale on his chin.

"Bahamut..." Buster said, musing over the name for a lengthy period. "Isn't that from a Bedouin folktale?"

"Guess so. In D&D they made him into a dragon. He's a fish."

"A good strong name," Buster replied. He gave a reluctant nod. "I forgive you your foolish choice of action. And I will bring you your bike. Wait here."

In the time it would take for Marcus to snap his fingers, Buster disappeared. No fancy light shows, no sudden blurring--a faint pop of air was all that marked his passing. Marcus didn't bother wondering how the dragon was going to get a hundred-and-twenty-kilogram beast machine into another world without getting pole-axed under the weight, but he'd learned long ago to leave certain things as they were, no questions asked.

A rustling in the grass, coupled by an odd swish-swish movement that rang a familiar bell froze him in his relaxed pose. Marcus raised a lazy hand and scratched the base of his nose, faking a cough since the weather permitted. His other hand slipped unseen over the hilt of his Bowie knife.

A basket, an umbrella, and a picnic mat came bounding towards the fire. They stopped just at the edge of the shadows, either too reluctant or shy to come any closer.

"Oh, its you guys." Marcus left his hand off the Bowie. "You got something you want to say or--"

The picnic mat rolled to a flat surface and spread its tartan yellow weave. The frilly white umbrella hopped onto it and leaned against thin air, while the basket flapped over and settled as the mat's centerfold. When Marcus made no move to approach them, the umbrella tilted in an obvious beckoning gesture.

Karakasa, he thought, and remembered the folklore Dawnson hammered into him as he sat down, a nonplussed expression on his face. That's the name for the old umbrella's kind of tsukumogami. Harmless spirits, but their malevolent cousins could shoot laser beams out of an eye...

The basket lifted a flap. Food popped up and collected in a tidy pile on the mat.

For a moment Marcus could only stare at the steaming dishes that teased his nose and watered his eyes. An even louder rumble from his stomach prompted him. Who cares if the basket made food appear like money does in a cash register? He was so hungry. Cha-ching!

Damn. How does one give thanks in Japanese for such a spread? He at least wanted to be thought of as polite. He kneeled down. "Itadakimasu!"

Marcus sniffed and poked the first tidbit he laid his hands on. Succulent squid-onna-stick, fried and rolled in batter. He took a bite of the dubious grub, ignoring the chopsticks, and his eyes opened wide in surprise. Tastes like some kinda sick chicken. Yummy.

The rest was normal yokai fare. A great big bowl of extra spicy ramen noodles, octopus cakes, and a jug of sake. He made the basket pop a second serving. A humongous bowl of shrimp noodles, a roasted crab, and a jug of sake. He asked for a third helping. A plate of curried rice, a broiled lobster, and a jug of sake.

Between the sake and the main course, Marcus had no idea how the seafood kept coming up. Was there an ocean inside that basket? After all, a marble had contained a world.

Hunger sated, he chewed on a toothpick and waited for Buster, tossing dead branches now and then at the fire to keep it alive. The low crackle and hiss of the flames, combined with the occasional hoot from nocturnal birds in a backdrop of relative quiet, brought a sense of endless tranquility Marcus had difficulty finding in the urban glamour of the big city. A man could get used to this. A nice fire, a mat to sit on so my ass won't get grass-stained, and a basket full of gastronomic delights. An endless supply of chocolate...

The toothpick dropped from his mouth at Buster's sudden reappearance. Behind the dragon, towed by invisible lines of force out of an unseen hole in reality's matrix, the silent companion that had served Marcus ever since he'd earned his license glistened in the firelight, as if born anew from the factory's womb.

The original chassis frame once belonged to the Suzuki GSX series, a thing of sleek beauty and speed. He'd found it trashed in a junkyard, battered, dented, the engine half-eaten by rust, and over a decade old. The first attempt to fix it up brought on a severe oil leakage. The second attempt ended in a catastrophe--the engine had the mechanical equivalent of a heart attack, sputtered like a damned potato, and died.

Only bloody reason why it caught my eye was it looked so much like Cloud's motorcycle from Advent Children...

Marcus had just gone through the motions of ripping the engine with a big, inhuman wrench and was just about to throw it far, far away when the redneck junk dealer intervened. No, no, don't throw that away--and the next thing Marcus knew, he was spending months over at the junkyard, trapped in the dealer's incessant schemes of 'beautification.' In short, the crazy redneck put together a new engine out of parts found throughout the yard, following the model's engine specifications. An insane task, but Marcus had long suspected there was a method to such madness...

Then he added an electronics core system for GPS and 'minor corrections.' He needn't concern himself overmuch on wiping out, because the computer was there to right his balance, just like an invisible, steadying hand.

Soon enough, the junk dealer's redheaded assistant got her hands on it. Her philosophy was comparable to an Abrams M-1 tank: overwhelming power combined with deadly accuracy and precision. 'Armor' was not the only thing she'd installed. The late model's absurd size and length, almost double of the other, older GSX allowed plenty of room to play in for a hare-brained tinker. 'Weapon emplacements' were the least of it.

Then she tossed all the safety interlocks out the garage door. The speedometer now read only two speeds: 'off' and 'flat out', with a respective angel and devil icon above both.

Rednecks and redheads. Highly volatile, stir carefully.

A rampant white dragon was stenciled on the gold-on-blue armor plating, tinged a pinkish sheen from the campfire. No longer just a bike of beauty and speed, Bahamut's streamlined chassis promised crushing brute force. The liquid flow of Arabian lettering, the namesake stenciled in jet-black paint across the body art, did little to soften the aura of professional menace, and it suited Marcus just fine. Forget mammoths, saber-toothed tigers, and dinosaurs--this here is a dragon incarnate!

Yet Bahamut Lancer was not the one to thank. Marcus bent over the dragon, a genuine smile of gratitude playing across his lips. His hand rose. Hesitated. What the hell. Marcus petted Buster, a little surprised by the warm feel of smooth, dry scales, but carefully. He'd cleaned enough fishes to know the way scales could scratch and bleed a man's hand off if handled the wrong way.

"Thanks. Arigato, Buster."

The dragon grumped, but he could see Buster was pleased with himself. "As long as the task is a thing which is not impossible, I will try my hardest to do it. I am your friend, am I not?"

"Yeah." When did that happen? Marcus could count the number of friends he had in one hand. The dragon, albeit a yokai, and a tsukumogami at that, brought the count to two hands. He could afford this friendship; Buster would be more useful in his line of work than a human. And it helps to have a companion on the same road. "Yeah, you're a friend."

And speaking of friendship--a thought struck him. Marcus froze inwardly while his hand continued to rub the dragon between the ears. The question lay not in whether he was going to do it, but how indignant he was going to become. Yet he was in need of a champion. Better to try than never have tried at all. Still, he approached the subject with caution. "Ah, um, Buster?"

"Yes?"

"I've got another favor to ask," Marcus mumbled. "Could you, uh, um, ah..."

"Get on it with it, man," Buster growled.

Marcus quickly told him about Kunio's plans and what the Tourney Judges had in store for him. As he went further into the story, the deeper the frown grew on Buster's muzzle. He finished in a hasty voice. "So I was wondering if you could champion me in the drinking competition."

Duck and cover! Fire in the hole!

He cringed. But when the expected uproar of flames and smoke failed to appear, Marcus dared a peek at Buster.

The dragon sat on his haunches. Wearing the most thunderstruck expression possible for a warm-blooded lizard. "Sake," he whispered, pronouncing the word like a holy tenet. "Sake..."

"So. You'll do it?"

Flames and smoke burst from the dragon. Marcus flattened and covered his head with his hands. "Of course I'll do it!" Buster roared, tail lashing as if he would sweep the stars from the heavens. "Sake! At last I shall taste nihonshu, shochu, awamori, the waters of the East! Long have I waited, long have I suffered--"

Oh great. An alcohol deprived dragon. God, what have I done?

-----
(Eh, I dunno, should I post chapter 4 or what?)

Jailbait,
Milo

MiloDaePesdan · 09-04-2006, 11:02 PM

Update: a snippet of Chapter 4.

-----

IV

The early morning mist muted the fire's dying embers. A pearly gray sky shot with the colors of false dawn blanketed the pavilion camp. A weak breeze teased the pennants, and the chirping birds, the lazy hum of bees, and the late song of crickets rode its gentle whisper.

Crack!

Marcus broke the seal of a Gatorade bottle, the sound loud enough to startle a family of quails into flight. He sat on the grass atop the knoll to wait for the sunrise, drink in one hand, granola bar on the other. Scattered around him were the assorted tools of his repair kit, while Bahamut Lancer rested in the sycamore's shade. If Buster hadn't brought the rest of his stuff along, Marcus would've been one can of fuel short and without his normal breakfast.

I've got to stop pulling all-nighters like this.

He yawned and rubbed the sleep out of his eyes, then wriggled into his black leather jacket. What a tiring night, all that sake had kept him awake the way coffee knocked him out cold. Now the effect was trickling off, and just when he needed it, too. His body responses were screwy; Marcus had severe cases of insomnia before, a sensation not unlike a thick, fuzzy towel wrapped around his head, but usually it didn't last this long. And how the hell can everyone be so happy this early in the morning?

The noise he had so far ignored filtered into his idyllic bubble. Half-hidden in the mist, toting an ill assortment of banners and signs, the yokai clustered at the edge of a dirt road outside the camp, visible by the bright garb of their silk clothing. Vendors strolled up and down the lines toting breakfast wares. Foodstands popped up everywhere. Other people took off for the outdoor kitchens, and the cornucopia of teasing scents was enough to make his mouth water all over again.

Heh. Just because something smells good doesn't mean it tastes nice.

On the other hand, he saw what the cooks were up to this morning, and the greedy, money-grubbing vendors looked pretty good in comparison. The ungodly hour must have gone into the cooks' brains. Gruel? Thick, bubbly gruel, with odd bits floating in that viscous, oily gook? Nuh-uh, he was not going to touch that, much less eat it!

Yech! I prefer the ripe stench of pickled vegetables to that!

Buster appeared from the mist just as he contorted his face in a grimace and shuddered. The dragon balked, paused, and returned the facial gesture by sticking out a forked tongue. He proceeded to roll his eyes in very undragon-like and undignified behavior.

"Hey, I didn't mean you," Marcus protested. "I was thinking about breakfast. Looked like something out of a bad sixties horror flick. The Blob Returns, if you know what I mean."

The dragon snorted a wordless reply and lay down on the earth beside him. He sat up all of a sudden and yanked a pointy screwdriver from underneath, glowered at the obscene object, at Marcus, then threw it away. Marcus thought he looked kind of weird, with his nose sticking out of the grass and puffing mushrooms of smoke like a pair of twin chimneys. An old man and his pipe...

"Will you listen to that mess." Marcus pulled a healthy swig of his drink. He took a ferocious bite of the granola bar, the motion akin to ripping somebody's head off. Geez, was he feeling jittery or what--it took all his control to keep his hands from shaking. One final hour of waiting to go, and mist or no mist, the race was on.

*snipped*

-----
(Comment so I can post more! *evil grin*)

Jailbait,
Milo

Ticra · 09-10-2006, 01:32 PM

very interesting. I like it so far.

(pathetic request: read my story titled 'turning back the wind' in the fiction forum. PLZ PLZ!! I really need some help with it. I am totally stuck.)

Vee · 10-28-2006, 09:38 PM

I skipped a bit then got to the awakening of the dragon and its conversation with the main character. From that moment I was hooked. I plan to come back and read in full later.

Vee · 11-01-2006, 03:48 AM

Quote:

Obvious fright written all over their faces, Marcus stopped his brows from rising when they dropped the illusion he hadn't even thought was there. Female kitsune and tanuki scurried away from Ichida.

I'd re-write those sentences. I had to read it several times before I understood it and it really interrupted the flow of the story. The brows really threw me off.

Danny77 · 01-29-2007, 08:39 PM

I read the first part. Liked it. Good description, for the most part flowed smoothly. Couple times you went off on a tangent and it got a tad confusing, but then again I was reading faster than normal, and I get confused easily in my old age, so who knows

MiloDaePesdan · 01-29-2007, 10:17 PM

Whoa. You actually read it?

Ticra, Vee, Danny--thanks. I've been toying with the idea to rewrite the ending, since it felt a bit weak.

Anyway--

-----

(Chp.4 snippet con't)

"Most of them are supporting Ichida," Buster noted.

"Keyword here is 'most.'" Marcus didn't have to look behind him to know he'd gotten his own gathering of stalwart followers. He hadn't the slightest idea why they stuck to him, cheered him, even gave him food when he was hungry. But it sure felt nice to know his back was covered. The mat was rolled up now, and it stood twisting this way and that as if it could pierce and see beyond the mist. The umbrella hovered over his head, glistening with drops of morning dew.

"Hey, uh, basket?" The object in question flew around to face him. Marcus waved the now empty bottle. "Think you can dispose of this? I really don't like to litter, and there's nowhere to put this but the tank bag--"

He found himself twirling empty fingers where a bottle's neck once hung.

"Okay. That was quick. Say, Buster, do these guys have names?" He wouldn't think of them as mere things anymore if they were like the dragon. A hundred years of patient service, then brought to life by the breath of a god...

Buster tilted his head as if listening to a voice only he could hear. "The basket's name is Kai. Kon is the picnic mat. And the umbrella you may call Ken."

"Kai, Kon, and Ken. Gotcha. Kai Kon Ken. You know," Marcus said, after a long contemplative pause, "its got that musical lilt. Almost like you can sing the names."

"I noticed," Buster replied in a dry voice. "Moment of truth. This is the first time in a long while anyone has inquired what our names were. You have earned respect and honor among the tsukumogami. Many of us are seen as little more than ornaments or servants. I do not blame them, for that is often our function."

Kai the basket lifted a flap. A poof of air later, a bowl of steaming rice porridge sat before Marcus. He eyeballed the chopsticks and sighed. Where was a spoon when you needed one? Still, he quickly got acquainted due to the sweet, tantalizing smell, and wolfed it down. "But servants don't like to be taken for granted, or thought of as dishrags."

"Your insight is correct. Perhaps it is this redeeming feature of yours that allows them to forgive you."

Marcus refused further grub with a disarming smile and a wave of his hands. Throwing up while wearing his helmet was one of the things he did not want to happen, and the crushing G-force that played merry hell with a racer's body would squeeze breakfast out of him like a winepress if he got carried away.

A light touch to his shoulder made him turn around. Kon the picnic mat fluted his loose body into a pointer and jabbed at an approaching shape wrapped in a cloak.

Shingo emerged like a behemoth out of myth, and klaxons blared in every corner of Marcus' head at the wide smirk on the judge's gorilla face. Something evil this way comes, he thought, and what were the chances it would fall on him?

"Ah, good morning, Buster-san! Marcus Gearrs. Good news." Even at the mention of his name, the Tourney Judge looked happy. Unnaturally, spitefully happy. Marcus didn't know whether to give in to irritation and pound the bugger into the grass or smile and nod like a puppet. "I bring news of a recent development for the coming event, sirrah. Changes that would do well to benefit you."

"And what fortuitous tide has washed this piece of flotsam on my shores?" Marcus stood, matching the oni grin for evil grin. Laying it on a little thick, was he?

A knot on Shingo's forehead twitched, but his smile remained unfazed. "Two observers are going to ensure the rules are followed. Buster-san, as one of Marcus Gearrs' party--" the accompanied sniff to his name questioned the dragon's wisdom in his choice of companions "--you are chosen to represent this person here."

"'This person here.' Right," Marcus said, at his most sarcastic. From idiot foreigner to monster to a third person non-entity, just how deep was this hell?

"Here, representing Lord Ichida's interests, is Buster-san's counterpart." Shingo gestured in an expansive fashion, waving at the mist around him. Marcus thought he didn't know where to put his hands. If he waved any faster he just might take off and fly. What a smug idiot.

"May I present Chidori Fujiwara."

Marcus felt his chest tighten of its own volition. A drop-dead stunner of a kitsune stepped out of the mist, contemptuous green eyes focused on him. Fur a fine reddish coat, five tail-tips fluffed a creamy white, a length of sable black ribbon tied around her slim neck, Chidori tilted her head just so to give him that superior touch-me-and-you'll-die-in-my-arms expression of all femme fatales. Cute fox ears.

What the--where are these perverted thoughts coming from? So ecchi! So wrong!

She faded back into the mist, and he caught his left hand rising to stop her. Marcus stared at the hand as if accusing it of guilty pleasures. When she reemerged, a curvaceous brunette in a pastel-pink kimono stood in her place. Yet one look into her eyes, those slitted, cats-green eyes, and he knew this Chidori was a shapeshifter. Must be a dastardly plot to distract the competition through feminine charm. Is it working?

The big idiot of an oni judge took it upon himself to introduce everyone to each other. "Fujiwara-san, this is Buster-san. And this is Marcus Gearrs. I believe you met him before?"

"Konichiwa," the dragon said in greeting.

"Meow," Marcus yowled, a little awed and breathless. Yup, it's working.

Chidori sniffed and turned up her nose. "Hai, Shingo-sama. I know this baka-mono. We met in Ichida-dono's pavilion--he interrupted our celebration."

"Woof?" He recalled nothing of the sort. The hostility coming out of her had the calming effect of making him step back and look at the situation. The Tourney Judge brought her here to pick a bone with him, to discomfit him before the race. A familiar game he'd played before, and one he was not going to participate in. Marcus relaxed and began picking up his tools. "You shouldn't rely on first impressions, lady. That's a bad habit."

The kitsune gave him the cold shoulder and turned away. "Hmph. I'll have you know that, although you almost murdered--" she snarled the last word "--Lord Ichida, you won't catch him off his guard this time. You are going to lose this race, human. Ezo is his mount."

Marcus grunted and carried his kit over to Bahamut Lancer. All the fine-tuning was done. Fuel might become a problem afterwards, but with sake aplenty--well, he had yet to try using rice wine as an alternative fuel source. Vodka had worked on it once. Thank God for bio-guzzling engines. No, I'm not going to play her game.

"You think you can defeat Lord Ichida with that?" Chidori spun around to attack, showing no sign of giving up her spiteful barrage. She glared at his retreating back. "Your mechanical contraption won't last even a second on the road! It will fall apart in the first minute, and it will never keep up with Lord Ichida!"

Her victim whistled a cheerful tune, all but ignoring her presence. Marcus hopped on and jammed on his bike's matching helmet. Now, where was that big red button? This had a big red button somewhere.

"Ichida-sama will run you to the ground till you're nothing but a red streak of mud. He will speed past you so quickly you'll be seeing triples, and--"

No, not a button. Marcus blinked rapidly. The HUD lit up at once, and his left eye's tiny implant projected lines and codes on the polarized screen. Status green and raring to go; been a while since he'd gone for a joyride. Another implant on his right served as a pointer, and he winked once over a certain command line.

Chidori's tirade was silenced altogether. Marcus grinned inside his helmet: directional hearing a la mode. Her ranting fell on deaf ears, and he resisted the temptation to thumb his nose at her. After lightening the polarization to a comfortable degree, he closed his eyes for a second to clear the projections, then inserted a key in the appropriate slot.

Bahamut Lancer awakened and purred. Marcus felt the familiar quiet welcome it always evoked in him warm his heart, and he returned the gesture with a loving pat. Now here was something that didn't complain. He zipped up his jacket and mock-saluted Shingo and Buster, waved at the trio of tsukumogami, and caught the edge of Chidori's angry voice.

"--rip your bones for toothpicks, and use your head for a chamberpot--"

Marcus gunned the engine and vaulted to the starting point. He left an indignant kitsune spluttering under a shower of torn earth and grass.

Danny77 · 02-08-2007, 08:44 PM

Quote: