Where There's Smoke, There's Fire

"Oh hell," he breathed, every hair on the back of his neck abruptly spiking.

Putting on a burst of speed, he shot straight down the street, his jaw clenched hard enough to ache. Don't let me be too late. God, please, don't let me be too late.

A thin wisp trailed in the air, disappearing on the wind, and he screeched up to the house half-expecting to see flames pouring out the windows and a bloodied form slumped in the doorframe. But nothing except silence greeted him, the smell of smoke turning his stomach, but not a bit of it drifting off the building no matter where he looked as he jumped off the bike and ran in.

"Oji? Oji!" He burst into the living/dining room, the kitchen empty, the man's scent not strong enough to be close by as he panted for breath. Neither was Oba. "Dammit old man, where the hell—?"

"Roku-kun?"

Twisting around like a startled rabbit, he saw Oji peering in the front door, confused worry creasing his face.

He could have collapsed from relief then and there, but settled for letting his hands rest on his knees, a shuddering breath leaving his lungs as they abruptly loosened. And he took the sudden abundance of extra air to spit out in Gaelic, "God damn your soul to hell and the curse of Mary Malone and her nine blind bastard children chase you so far over the Waves of Damnation that the Lord himself can't find you with a telescope—"

"Roku-kun, what—? Are you well?" Oji approached him like a man eyeing a possibly rabid dog.

He hissed out another breath, and said succinctly, "Shite. I thought you'd be dead by the time I got here."

"What?"

"Have you seen anything?" He straightened, looking the horrified man in the eyes, hoping Shimizu had been bluffing. Maybe that smoke'd just been the stoves—a little cookfire on the beach. He had been running on heightened senses. "Anything suspicious? People hanging around the house? Somebody from outside the village?"

"What? No, I— there's been nothing. Nothing's happened since you left—"

"Onii-san!"

The tone of Aiko's call immediately caught his ears, and he found himself outside with Oji in an instant, her wide eyes turned to him as she pointed off towards the beach. "I— I can smell smoke. Is there a fire on the beach?"

He forgot how to breathe again. "The boatshed. Oh goddammit."

"Roku-kun!"

Oji's shout trailed after him as he took off, and he ignored it, dashing down the street and along the trail to the sand, hearing an engine roar off behind him somewhere faintly. More distant cries rang out as he burst around the small patch of wizened trees crowding the back of the sheds, a sinister crackle louder than all of them confirming his suspicions.

Maybe it's not too big. Maybe I can....

He ran onto the beach and slowed, the glow of it casting hellish shadows over the sand, a hungry roar licking at the roof, the boat already alight. Even as he watched it, his heart sinking into his sandals, a whooff popped in its depths and billowed out a wave of flames, forcing him to shield his face.

If it'd been bad before, now it reached to the sky, threatening to jump to the other shacks. Must've been the diesel generator that went, he thought as he coughed, squinting against the light. Damn. There was no saving this, only containing it, and the thought made him sick to his stomach.

Shimizu... you bastard.

As the rest of the village trickled down, organising into a firefighting crew, he joined in with a heavy wad twisting his stomach, stoking the embers of a fire all its own. Shimizu had known exactly what he was doing. He didn't need to kill them to destroy their lives.

He gritted his teeth. You'd better hope you're ready for a war, because you just declared one.

_________________

It took an eternity. By the time they got it all down to embers, pouring water and kicking sand over the blackened remains of the shed and the boat—the generator and refrigerator/freezer just husks of burnt-out metal—the sun's ghost and its entourage of stars wavered high in the sky. Its ethereal light bathed everything in an eerie glow, white ashes like snowflakes as they scattered over the beach.

He found himself standing next to Oji as the old man sank to his knees in front of the devastation, both of them streaked in soot. There wasn't anything he could really say. Not when the man's livelihood was in literal ashes in front of him.

"I'm ruined," the old man rasped. "I am ruined, Roku-kun. What... how can I...."

The wind whispered into his ears, filling in the silence, the sea's rushing lullaby doing nothing for the storm sloshing inside his chest and digging hot claws through his ribs. His hands curled into fists. "Shimizu did this. All over a damned trinket."

"I saw Taiki, Sangoro-san's son. He left on a motorbike. He must have—" the man's head bowed, his hand drawing down over his face. "Shimizu can do anything, through anyone. He will have me in debt for the rest of my life," he said to the sand. "My children... we will be his slaves— I'll have to sell everything—"

"Not happening." He took in a long, slow breath, meeting Oji's eyes as he looked up. "I didn't know you were so dramatic. You can borrow a boat, and you don't need the fancy refrigerator when you've got the fridge at home. You'll be fine. You're used to piling up debts."

"I don't think you understand, Roku-kun. Shimizu... he was warning us. He won't let me rest until I give him back the talisman, and how much more of this will I have to endure until I can? If I can?"

Lachlan smiled. It didn't reach his eyes. "I'll deal with that."

Oji stared at him. "What— Roku-kun, what are you planning?"

He stepped easily past him. "Don't worry about that."

"Wait." He heard the old man struggling to get to his feet. "Boy, you're shaking—you aren't in any condition for whatever this is you're thinking of. If you plan to burst in there and start trouble with Shimizu, you'll have trouble with all the yakuza. You might only make things worse."

He only waved a hand over his shoulder, slipping both in his pockets. The old man either didn't see the point in running after him, or couldn't. Either way, he didn't stop him.

Rolling his shoulders to shake out the odd mix of tension and jittery looseness that had taken up residence there, he slipped away from the dwindling crowd, no one else taking note of his departure. He didn't know where Aiko and Tobira had gone, but he wouldn't say goodbye.

He only took a quick detour to the space under the stairs, grabbing some extra ammunition to go with the guns slung over his shoulder and shoved through his belt. On his way out, a glowing jar on the dining room's low table caught his eye, and he paused. The old lady must've given the kids some glimmer before they left.

Well, it'd be useful.

Kicking the stand off the motorbike, he stoked her into a roar, the thunder of the engine vibrating through his tight grip on the handlebars and pounding in his veins. Shimizu, when I get my hands on your throat....

He leaned low, pushing the old girl for all the speed she had, and bared his teeth in a grin. If they sharpened a centimetre or two, only the moon bore witness.

The evening market had closed hours ago when he rolled into town, and no one stirred at the growl of the engine rumbling ahead of him down the streets until he reached the bars that had stayed open. Heads glanced over hunched shoulders as he passed by, the lady behind one counter going stiff at the sight of the rifle's barrel poking just above his shoulder.

He ignored them, parking the bike on the street outside the establishment where gamblers still played chou-han on a tatami mat under an electric lantern, moths flickering in the light. A dozen drunk and hostile eyes followed him as he strode under the eaves sheltering the bar, conversation dropping to a murmur. He only offered a smile that chilled the space a few degrees and a casual wave as he brushed through the screen leading inside.

No one stopped him.

Now.... Where are you. A sickly-sweet smell drifted through the room, sake and smoked joints with a tinge of sweaty body-odour thrown into the mix, his eyes flitting over the group arrayed around the indoor, dingy side of the bar. One or two sitting at the counter watched a TV mounted in the corner. A couple smokers sat at the back, one dreamy-faced man whispering into the ear of a woman on his lap. And it looked like there was a Nihonjin card game going on in the middle at the only well-lit table in the room, a familiar ugly face sneering as he jabbed his elbow into the side of the teenager sitting awkwardly next to him.

Taiki. So Oji had been right.

None of them saw him standing there in the shadowed entrance. He casually kicked his sandals off to join the neat little rows against the wall, just for politeness' sake, and slipped the rifle off his shoulder.

Sparkling in his sights, Shimizu's raised sake glass abruptly shattered mid-cheer.

"Now that's the most satisfying thing I've seen all day. Wish I had a camera." Strolling forwards, he committed the shocked fear on Shimizu's face to memory, instead. "Warms a man's heart better than a bonfire."

Shimizu's face twisted as soon as his stare landed on Lachlan, caught in a strange place somewhere between wide-eyed and apoplectic. "Who— what— you—"

"'Fraid you missed the bonfire on the beach, though," he continued over the spluttering yakuza, ejecting the empty case with a rattling ping and slinging the gun back over his shoulder, hooking his thumbs on his belt. "Real shame. Thought you would've wanted to watch the show."

Instead of wrestling his tongue into something coherent, Shimizu yanked out a pistol of his own and fired it at him in the wildest barrage of shots he'd ever seen. Maybe it was the glowing eyes that set him off. He'd be terrified too if he was a coward and the idiot gaijin he'd never given a thought came in with a gun and candles for eyes.

Whatever the case, the pin-drop silence of the rest of the room shattered with it, chairs crashing to the floor, shouts ringing as they scattered out of the line of fire. He didn't bother. Even with the incredible inaccuracy on display, missing a man standing only a few metres away would've been quite the feat.

Still, by the time the cylinder emptied, the hammer clicking frantically, only two had hit, and Shimizu stood there panting, the sheen of sweat on his face glinting under the light. Seemed awfully confused at how Lachlan remained standing, too.

A shaky, sneering smile curled the yakuza's lip. "You're— you're a fool, gaijin. I'll shoot you until you're dead, you foreign pig."

Lachlan idly examined the hole in his shirt, right through the chest. That'd be a nasty one. "Two out of eight, and only one was a decent hit. Who taught you how to shoot?"

"What? I—" Shimizu gestured choppily with his gun, his face struggling. The others had started taking out weapons, too, sensing something off. "You— I hit you!"

"So you did." He smiled, all teeth.

And let the beast out.