Target Acquired

Target Acquired

Mornings were never Tsubakura’s forte. If anything, they were the bane of the man’s existence. But that never exactly stopped him from arriving to his shop early each morning to begin on the sketches he had lined up for his clients. Half-dead, the monochromatic male groaned as he took a sip of his scalding hot coffee, brushing his hair back with his hand as he did so. 

This tattoo shop - better known as Ink Crane - was Tsubakura’s pride and joy, as with the Ufumi Group’s front. It wasn’t uncommon to see a few yakuza members entering and exiting from the back of the shop, thank the lord for soundproofed rooms, because there would be a whole lot of shouting in anguish if not for that. 

Just as he was about to pick up his pencil to begin his work, the front door slammed open, signaling for the half-asleep man’s eyes to trail over to whoever just entered. Needless to say, it was Fumikaido, a higher-up member of the Ufumi Group - which was one of the more powerful yakuza clans in Japan. Joy, what could he have in store for him today? Another task? Probably, that wouldn’t be too surprising at this point, seeing as the man was alone.

Slurping up the liquidated caffeine, Tsubakura’s gaze met with Fumikaido’s own. He lifted a brow in curiosity to the man’s arrival.

“It’s early, Fumi. What brings y’here when y’know I’m barely ev’n functionin’?”
He inquired, his tone sharp, yet his speech slurring a bit due to pulling another all-nighter for the second night in a row due to overthinking about projects, coffee was practically his lifeline at this point.

A deep chuckle reverberated from Fumikaido’s chest as he observed the sleep deprived tattoo artist. It was entertaining to see how the other male reacted to his sudden arrivals, but that was beside the point. Slipping out a file from inside of his suit, he sauntered over to the artist’s desk and slapped it down onto the flat surface, earning an annoyed glare from the Kyoto native.

“New target,” came the frigid reply. Fumikaido’s vocals were always cold as ice, not even an icepick could break through, the Arctic itself would be scared of such a tone.

“Ah, yeah, sure.”

Tsubakura grumbled, taking one more loud sip of his coffee, ultimately finishing it off. He then plucked the contents off the table, about to open what rests within, but was stopped by the older male’s hand and stern gaze.

“Open it in back.” 

Fumikaido growled lowly, of which earned a passive wave from Tsubakura, followed by a snarky grin.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever y’say, Fumi. Jus’ giv’me a minute t’do this.” 

Huffing in annoyance, Fumikaido trudged into the back of the parlor, opening up the door that was labeled “PRIVATE - DO NOT ENTER” before slamming it harshly once he entered. Tsubakura had successfully set off the higher-up, but that wouldn’t last for too long, or at least he hoped so.

As the hours passed, the tattoo artist finished off numerous works for his clientele, and Fumikaido eventually left after doing some work of his own, a call here, a mild threat there, just an average day. It was late into the night, nobody else was scheduled to arrive for an appointment, and the fact he stopped allowing walk-ins after six helped when he knew when to close up shop. His two other coworkers clocked out a few hours prior, so all that was left was for him to clean up and lock up the shop. That was until he remembered the manilla envelope that was labeled TOP SECRET that laid on the back counter of his cubicle. He almost forgot that he simply tossed it aside, seeing as nobody else was allowed into his small slice of the parlor besides himself and his client.

Plucking the envelope off of the counter when he finished cleaning up the room, Tsubakura strolled into the private back room and into the furthest corner of said room in order to enter his home away from home. It was time to open this sucker up and see what his next task was. Tsubakura’s previous task wasn’t all that difficult, the past target was far too open with their lives and made it easy to locate and pursue them.

Unclipping the prongs on the back, Tsubakura flipped open the flap and dumped the contents onto the table, sorting them out one by one. His heterochromatic orbs widened once he saw the person’s picture, but quickly returned back to their neutral state mere seconds later. This was an… interesting fellow to say the least. The profile picture he was given was of the target surrounded by figures of small magical anime girls and other busty anime girls, this caused a shiver to run down the artist’s spine just from the sheer creep factor alone. Apparently, the guy’s name was Ishihara and he was a complete waste of space.

With those tiny details out of the way, Tsubakura took his time reading through the entirety of the file. It was rather detailed, but he had grown used to picking out only the parts that were needed for him to complete his work with the least amount of stress. Sighing, the artist rubbed his temple, frowning deeply at the pile of papers in front of him.

“Absolutely disgustin’. Wha’ kinda otaku would t’ Ufumi group think’v loanin’ money ta?”

His words were like daggers as he spat them out indirectly, silently judging the group’s choice to loan out such an exorbitant amount of money to such trash. To what? Buy more of those so-called waifu figures? Tsubakura’s lip curled into a disgusted scowl as he continued to read onwards, muttering to himself here and again.

“Th’punk spent how much on anime figyas?”

“Dammit, Fumi, how could’ja do this ta me?”

“Why take tha loan if ya couldn’t pay it off?”

He continued to hiss at himself, cursing the man that gave him the file in the first place. But there was no use in arguing, he had a job to do, and a simple one at that. It said in the article that the man tended to spend majority of his time either at home or in Akihabara - the otaku capital of Japan. Another shiver went down his spine just imagining all the trash that would wander the streets there. Nasty.

But that was enough analyzing the documents for the artist. Instead, it was time to make his game plan. With that, it was his favorite part - deciding their fate. Sure, he was a hitman, but Tsubakura enjoyed deciding how long the target will suffer in pain, and zootoxins just so happen to be his go-to source of agony. Rubbing his chin, the man hummed to himself as he opened up the medical cabinet to reveal a plethora of tiny labeled bottles.

“What do I give little Ishihara?”
He cooed playfully, lifting an arm up to allow his finger to drag along the various labels, making a few mental notes to himself as he began to debate with what to use in his special recipe.

Cone snail? No, far too quick, this man needed to suffer for the millions of yen he had not paid back yet.

Centipede? Maybe, simple paralysis can always be fun, and won’t harm the organs inside. After all, the man needed to pay back the loan somehow.

Dart Frog? No, no, that’s far too slow, even for his liking. That would make the job take ages.

Box Jellyfish? If fifteen minutes is all he needed for a certain kill, then sure, that works, but he needs the man to be alive for delivery.

Grunting, Tsubakura grabbed the bottled with the label CENTIPEDE on it. This would work wonders for what he needed done. The final page of the document outlined what his task was : to find and incapacitate.

“You’ll do jus’fine fer this mission. Been ‘while since I got’ta use ya.” 

Tsubakura chuckled, opening the drawer in the desk in front of him to nab a bottle filled with a small amount of black ink, as with a small syringe to shove into the bottle of toxins. Pulling back the plunger, the artist extracted a fair amount of the clear liquid and squirted it into the black ink, plugging it up and swirling it carefully in order to mix the two substances together. 

Humming to himself as he worked on his creation, Tsubakura glanced up at the clock. Twelve already? Time sure does fly, maybe another all-nighter would be a bad idea, but he should inform the rest of his clueless employees that he wouldn’t be in for a week. As he set down the bottle of ink, he picked up his cellphone, texting his coworkers that he would not be in for a few days and that Yuki would be in charge until further notice. He then took screenshots of the conversation and forwarded them to Fumikaido, allowing him to know that he was already getting started on his new mission.

With that all said and done, Tsubakura packed up his goods and the file before exiting the building and locking up the shop so he could head home and sleep for once.

The following few days were monotonous, yet oddly creepy. Tsubakura felt like a stereotypical stalker as he creeped around Akihabara, snooping in and out through different shops in order to find his target. Though, after a couple of days he managed to find said target. Once Ishihara was pinpointed, the artist began to stealthily follow the man around, observing each and every little action he did, from a shifty look around here, to a mad dash there. He could tell the target was getting more and more paranoid as time went on. 

On the third day, Tsubakura decided it was time to make his move; to paralyze him to the core. It was late into the night, the streets were dying down on the weekday, leaving less witnesses than normal, which was always a good thing for a hitman. The less people - the better the result. With a slight of hand, the tattoo artist slipped out the tiny bottle of black ink, removing the cork that capped it off and placing a finger over the opening, causing the liquid to swirl to the top and onto his finger. He then took aim at Ishihara, then with a flick of his index finger, shot a couple of barely visible needles made of the ink into the man’s skin. 

There was no reaction initially, but after half an hour, the target began to slow down more and more until his body finally collapsed. Feigning fear, Tsubakura rushed to Ishihara’s side, shaking him, the false worry in his tone,

“Hey, are you okay, man? Can you get up?”

Eyes wide and struggling to breathe, Ishihara shakily grasped Tsubakura’s forearm, 

“I-I… I don’t k-know!” 

He was freaking out internally, Tsubakura could tell, he was in a life-or-death scenario, and nobody wanted to live through that. 

A devious smile formed on the tattooist’s features, great, it was all going according to plan. In mere minutes, Ishihara would be unable to move a muscle due to the centipede’s toxins. Simply wonderful. Fishing out his phone from his back pocket, Tsubakura whipped out his cellphone, calling up Fumikaido to tell him his job’s done. Within a couple of rings, a tired-sounding voice answered the phone,

“What do you want at eleven o’clock at night, Tsubakura?” 

“Jus’ wanted t’ let’cha know t’job’s finished, come ’n’ pick up t’body, y’old coot.”

“I’m not that old, but message me where you’re at and stay put.”

“Will do, will do.” 

With that final reply, Tsubakura hung up, swiftly sent the address he was at and sat down next to Ishihara, crossing his arms. He better get paid well for this, after all, it took three days to catch this anime freak, and he sure did smell bad. By far this was one of the nastier assignments he had. Usually it was a bunch of junkies, but for some reason these otakus seemed to be worse than any drug addict ever was when it came to hygiene.

The minutes seemed to drag on and on as Tsubakura waited on Fumikaido to arrive to the alleyway, of which the tattoo artist decided that he may as well light up a cigarette to pass the time. Inhaling the smoke deeply, Tsubakura slowly exhaled, allowing the smoke to dance in the chilly night air with a silent grunt. 

Eventually two pitch black cars rolled up beside the alleyway, coming to a halt slowly but surely. Within the next few moments, the door to one of the vehicles opened to reveal Fumikaido in all his tall suited up glory. His cold gaze locked onto Tsubakura immediately, then slowly glided down to the unconscious body, a smirk gracing his features but erased swiftly before anyone could notice it even come into existence.

Hands in his pockets, Fumikaido strolled on towards the tattoo artist, his suede shoes thumping on the ground lightly with each step as they echoed through the alley. Not saying a word, the male tapped the body to ensure Tsubakura completed his job correctly - not that he had any doubts about it, it was just a force of habit at this point due to others he had hired in the past. Adding a bit more force, the yakuza member rolled the body over, narrowing his eyes as he took note that Ishihara was still breathing.

“Perfect job as always, Tsubakura,” he complimented the artist, gaze still fixed on the debtor.

“‘Course it is. I neva’ let’cha down, Fumi.” 

A grunt was the response from the yakuza member as he continued to observe the man’s body, but soon changed his attention to Tsubakura once more.

“And what did you use this time? Can I be assured that he won’t be dead by the time I bring him back to the main house?” 

“O’course y’can. I jus’ used some’a that centipede zootoxin, y’know? Jus’ par’lyzes th’guy.”
“And his organs? Will they be damaged?”

“Nope. Centipede venom ain’t gon’ harm a thin’. ‘E’ll be out f’least a day.”

Tsubakura replied with a shake of his head, taking another drag from his cigarette as he finished up his statement, smirking at the higher up as he explained.

Nodding his head firmly, Fumikaido motioned with his arm at the second car for his crew to come closer. Two bodies exited the other expensive car and ran up to their boss, whom simply pointed to the unmoving body next to them.

“Shove him into the trunk of your car. Bring him to the main house, bring him to the interrogation room. Restrain his limbs when you get there, make sure he cannot move at all.” 

The male’s deep voice boomed the order out, his men following them as quickly as they could muster, one cringing from the smell of Ishihara, nearly gagging. The man smelled like he hadn’t showered in a week. It only took a few minutes to haul the overweight man into the trunk of the car. Once that was done, the two quickly sped off to the main house to complete their orders.

Meanwhile, the remaining two were still standing in the alleyway, but Fumikaido was the first to speak up.

“Come, I’ll bring you back to your place, Tsuba.”

With one final drag, Tsubakura dropped the butt of his cigarette onto the concrete, meeting Fumikaido’s gaze as he did so and sandwiching it into the street with the bottom of his shoe as he wiggled it back and forth on top of the cancer-creator. 

“Good, woulda ‘ad t’walk back. Don’wanna do that.”

He grinned lazily, the bags under his eyes seeming to grow the later it got, by now it was past midnight, almost one in the morning, he was exhausted. It had been such a long day. 

Fumikaido began to stroll back to his car, the artist hot on his tail, joining him inside the well furnished vehicle. The yakuza member then instructed the driver to take them to Tsubakura’s apartment. Due to the few amount of cars on the road at this time of night, the two arrived in record time, Tsubakura had barely begun to doze off before they made it to their destination. 

Hopping out of the slick black car, Tsubakura motioned for the man to follow him inside, of which Fumikaido obliged to doing, after all, speaking of payment was needed. As they made their way to his apartment, Tsubakura unlocked the bland-looking door and invited the yakuza member in.

“Tea?” Tsubakura inquired, more so out of courtesy, tossing his keys onto a small table he had beside the door as he slipped off his shoes, placing them next to the table that bore his home keys. 

Fumikaido shook his head, “No, too late for that. I’m just here to discuss your payment.”

“Got’cha. Well, ‘ake it quick. I’m tired, y’know.” 

“Of course, of course. Anyways, I can hand you a check or give you cash tomorrow, what do you want?” 

“Check. Don’ wan’cha comin’ in’ta my shop durin’ th’day.” 

Tsubakura grumbled, which earned a grunt of acknowledgement from the older male, whom pulled out a silver pen and checkbook. 

“Five-hundred-thousand yen will be your base payment, plus an additional one-hundred-thousand for completing the job faster than anticipated. So six-hundred-thousand yen in total.”

With a lazy thumbs up as he wandered into his kitchen to make himself some tea, Tsubakura hummed, too exhausted to even think of doing any math this late into the night, let alone attempt to barter with what he was going to earn. Six-hundred-thousand was a solid number for a simple hit, so he wasn’t complaining too much. The only thing he was complaining about was how pitiful the guy was, nobody should take a loan from the literal yakuza in order to buy anime figures or their “2-D waifus.” A shudder went down the artist’s spine as he cringed at the thought alone. Why would someone do such a thing to satisfy a craving for women who aren’t even real in the first place? 

“I’ll leave the check on the desk.”
Fumikaido stated as he filled out the check elegantly, yet quickly at the same time and left it where he said he would before exiting the apartment and leaving Tsubakura to his own devices for the rest of the night. That was one thing Fumikaido liked about working with the tattoo artist - he was rather simple to work with and rarely caused any trouble, plus he was extremely efficient with his work, almost never failing at it.