hell(strom) incarnate

‘Lemme just say right now, this reeks of bullshit.’ 

Crow’s laughter can be heard over the earpiece—a rich sound filled with the kind of amusement only accessible to particular devil-may-care types. ‘If it smells like bullshit and does turn out to be bullshit, that just means more marks for us,’ was his response, a grin audible in his words. ‘And you know I’ll never say no to target practice.’ 

‘Is there anything you’d say no to?’ Dokko responds, and though he is right beside Ibis, who is currently taking point, his voice is much, much quieter. 

‘Don’t, Rook.’ Ibis could already hear the list formulating in Crow’s head. Were he given opportunity to, he would start prattling on for the fun of it, especially since his distance from both Ibis and Dokko as well as the meeting spot meant he was perfectly able to. 

‘Wasn’t gonna.’ This time, the mock offence disguised Crow’s usual brand of mirth, but it served as a shallow camouflage at best, and that was before his relationship with Ibis and Dokko were taken into consideration. 

Ibis scoffs, but there’s no malice in it; only fond exasperation. There’s no denying how one of the few things that was keeping her tethered from flying into a bullshit provoking rage was the company of her allies—that, and the reminder of how either way, they would get out of this situation with a win underneath their sleeve. 

Some would call it arrogance—others, naivety—but Ibis knew better, or survived long enough she lived better. There is such a difference, after all, between hubris and substantiated confidence; where acting coy about it would get no one nowhere, fast. And they simply didn’t have the time nor the desire to deal with that bullshit. The same way they did not have time to deal with bullshit, period.

Not to mention—Ibis had something up their sleeve.

As the trio lapse into silence, Ibis thinks about how she got here in the first place. 

---

 On a spectrum of one to weird, sitting across The Deathsmith themselves in a private tatami room at an upscale Japanese teppanyaki restaurant was definitely on the upper end of that scale. 

A few things had contributed to this rating—starting with the mask she’d been met with after entering the room, who simply waved at her to take a seat in lieu of a proper greeting. Of course, Ibis had to bite down a rude response, but a compromise was not a concession, which meant he didn’t bother hiding a sneer. Deathsmith—or more formally known as The Weaponsmith of the East—had enough of a reputation to avoid an immediate rude barb, but not much else. 

(If anyone were to ask whether or not Ibis was a little annoyed at this stupid petty bout of a power play, to get her to sit on the floor as if she weren’t going to heavily but not awkwardly plonk down, her response would only be noneyabusiness.) 

While the tea was poured and Deathsmith seemed committed to their role as a good host, luxuriously embroidered kimono and all, Ibis took a closer look at the mask obscuring her dining partner’s face. According to Dokko, they wore a variety of Noh masks in their public and less public appearances, and while they varied in exact type—the one today was a waka onna mask—all of them qualified for Ibis’ immediate quantifier of freaky ass.

If a better descriptor existed, Ibis did not want to hear of it. On stage in a traditional Japanese play, he would find it much more agreeable, but as a choice of everyday wear? You have to be some modicum of bonkers. At least. 

‘I’m pleased you’ve agreed to meet me today.’ The digital reverb in Deathsmith’s voice told Ibis that despite the aged look of the mask, it was modern enough to have a voice modulator. They kept their voice at an alto, a medium pitch which served as a pleasant neutral. 

‘Yeah, well, we’ll see if I feel the same way by the end of this.’

‘I’m sure you have questions as to the nature of your invitation,’ They continued, and a part of Ibis was disappointed they did not take the bait, but maybe it was for the best. ‘You see, I come to you with a… mutually beneficial proposition, so to speak. I’m sure you’ll be inclined to agree.’

Ibis levelled Deathsmith with a look that bored, gaze gleaming an electric green. ‘Go on.’ 

‘Have you heard of the Firestalkers?’ 

‘Nope.’  

‘You defeated one of their members in the latest national fighting tournament.’ 

‘Oh?’ A grin bares Ibis’ teeth, showing a hint of fang. ‘You’ll have to remind me who. I won against a lot of people.’

There’s a moment of silence, a staredown between eyes verdant, alive and the ones carved, painted into wood. ‘Forge,’ Deathsmith answers, finally. It was the least they’ve said by far. 

‘Ah.’ Ibis rubs her chin, looking thoughtful. It’s an act meant to be a mockery; at the expense of someone who wasn’t there. ‘He must not have put up much of a fight. That’ll be why I don’t remember him.’ 

‘Quite. Well, I unfortunately do not have the same privilege. Hence, the mutually beneficial proposition. You see, they are infringing upon my territory, and I would appreciate… some firm intervention. You certainly have the means to intimidate them. Or more, should it come down to it.’ 

 ‘Oh yeah? What’s in it for us?’ 

At the question, Deathsmith smoothly pulls out a fan from her sleeve, opening it in a single flourish of wrist movement. ‘I am the Deathsmith,’ they state, their tone bordering on a boast. Somehow, the carved eyes peeking above the fan covering half their mask seemed to glitter. ‘I’m certain we can come to some kind of arrangement.’

---

Soon, Ibis and Dokko neared the target location. Crow had already scouted ahead, using his vantage point from the rooftops in combination with a pair of binoculars.

‘Well, I can see about four of them, but the likelihood of there being more is pretty high.’

Ibis snorts. ‘Full offence?’

‘Mm?’ 

‘That’s shitty intel.’

Crow laughs, unaffected. ‘Look, I promise you it’s not on purpose. There are these huge… weird… colourful… things in the way.’

While their leader’s expression could only be described succinctly as what the fuck are you talking about, Dokko thoughtfully reiterated Crow’s description under their breath. To no one’s surprise, seconds later, he makes a small sound of realisation. ‘The warehouse we’re going to must store this year’s Mardi Gras floats.’

If they hadn’t known each other for as long as they did, Ibis would definitely be more shocked that Dokko guessed that from such sparse amounts of information. As it stands though, Dokko is, well, Dokko, and her response was more along the lines of well of course he would get it.

‘Kind of feels like a humiliating place to die.’ 

‘So we’re killing them now?’ Dokko’s words sound accusatory, but his tone is neutral.

‘Kind of feels like a humiliating place to die, hypothetically.’ Crow amends. 

By the time Ibis has made her way to the front of the warehouse, she’s abuzz with restless energy. Whether in preparation for a fight, or even just the knowledge that she was encountering a rival gang, the likelihood of a peaceful outcome seemed wishful thinking at best. People got nasty when their friends got hurt—Ibis knew this more than anyone. 

---

Much to Ibis’ surprise, there did turn out to be an attempt at pleasant (not really), civil (for a bunch of mobsters) conversation. It made for a near comical sight, to have a bunch of heavily tattooed, muscle bound ruffians almost chatting by gloriously—or garishly, depending on personal taste—colourful displays of various themes and motifs. 

She was strangely welcomed into the warehouse. 

Dokko had already gone around the back by the time The Firestalkers found her. Phoenix, the biggest of the bunch and with a style that matched his namesake to a degree that felt satirical in nature, gave Ibis a hearty slap on the back for defeating one of their best. It was all so hospitable that she ran a hand through her hair and closed it into a fist, dragging it down the strands before tossing blond flecked with red aside. Crow would know. 

‘You know what’s a shame, though?’

‘Yeah? What is?’

‘Coming here alone will be your last mis—’

BANG.

There’s always that moment of transcendence after first blood; a satisfying liberation of tension into action. Here, it lasts barely a heartbeat before there’s an explosion of action, an anguished war cry mixed with a yell of determination. 

Ibis barely had time to count the numbers—instead, they were just faster, socking one person in the face before spinning around to kick another. Each punch in particular was followed with a sickening crunch, golden glinting in the shitty warehouse lighting with each blow aided by Ibis’ winged brass knuckles. 

All the while, she darted around and on top of float after float after float, leaping off of a giant clown head; ducking behind a massive plant that had petals that looked like jewels; bludgeoning someone with a broken off shard of wood that looked like a bone. 

Honestly? Ibis would be lying if they said they weren’t having fun. Between the grunts and other noises of exertion, there was laughter; joyous, joyous laughter filled with the addicting rush she got whenever she was mid battle. Her usual leather jacket had been tossed safely to one side when she started to get warm; the fact that Ibis barely noticed herself doing so, in muscle memory so memorised it barely registered—

They felt alive. 

Around her, she could also hear sounds of Dokko and Crow fighting—Crow’s carefully placed shots tumbling enemies and never giving them a chance to find out they’d been doomed all along; Dokko’s foes crying out before it bled into a wet gurgle. More than the thrill of the fight, there was also an undeniable warmth of having loved ones that Ibis could depend on. 

And then… it was over. 

Silence settled like the weight of fallen snow, broken only by Ibis panting as she regained herself after another good fight. They could see that some considerable damage had been done to the floats around them, bright shades and designs marked by garish swaths of crimson. Bodies littered the floor in various states of bruised, bloodied, dead, but no one really took notice of them—corpses were signs of Just Another Wednesday. 

‘Check the perimeter.’ Ibis orders, and she hears roger and aye, aye before Dokko walks from out of her line of sight.

In the meantime, Ibis approaches Phoenix’s body. 

‘What a waste,’ she mutters, looking down at his pitiful remains and nudging his body with a foot. Crow’s shot had left a clean hole through the forehead. ‘You never even had a chance.’ 

As if in response to her words, a phone suddenly starts ringing. The sound is muffled, but still audible enough it had to be nearby—and when Ibis squats down to search through Phoenix’s pockets, she finds it within moments. 

‘Well?’

That voice with digital reverb could only be one person. Ibis didn’t even bother mustering up surprise—this truly had been one convoluted power play. One still just as petty. 

‘Nice try, shithead.’ 

A pause. Then, ‘King…’ Deathsmith responds. ‘How fortunate it is to hear from you.’ 

‘Yeah? That before or after I tell you I took care of all your men?’

‘...I have more. Many more.’

 ‘I look forward to taking them out too… Ema.’ 

This time, Ibis hears a gasp… before the phone immediately disconnects. 

They’re chuckling still when they stand up, phone carelessly discarded to the floor and smashed beneath a solid booted heel. Somehow, despite their threat, Ibis got the impression Deathsmith wouldn’t bother them in the future. And if they got the bright idea to…

Ibis grinned. She would be ready.