The First Rule of Fight Club

 With all the Samurai training going on, he'd almost forgotten the shadow of a little yakuza mystery poking at the back of his mind.

That changed when a certain assignment appeared on the betting table, and thanks to winning a previous yakuza-adjacent mission, they got a leg up on the competition.

"Yakuza infiltration, eh?" He allowed a bit of tooth into his smile as he flapped the file gently, leaning back against Ariake's car. "This should be fun."

Ariake took it from him without permission, flicking through it with a frown. "I know this club."

"Why am I not surprised," Eden sighed from his lonely lamp-post further away.

"Know it how?" Lachlan raised an eyebrow, Drake leaning further forward on the car's roof in the corner of his eye. "You're secretly a part of the yakuza?"

"It's not like that," the lad snapped, throwing a glare at all of them. "I've been there with Goudon-san. My father has affiliates tied to it."

Both eyebrows nearly disappeared into his hairline. "Your father secretly has connections with the yakuza?"

"No, that's not—" Ariake slapped it down on his knee, pushing a hand into his face. "I can just get in because Dad knows a few people there. He doesn't go there unless they invite him."

"Hm, sounds like we've got an easy ticket in, then. That's convenient."

Ariake blink-frowned into the distance as if he'd just realised that himself, pushing a knuckle into the base of his nose. "I've never seen any sign of yakuza or an illegal fighting ring there, though."

"Well, that's what we're supposed to be finding out." Lachlan winked, taking the file back. "Which also means we're going to need something important."

The two Nihonjin eyed him warily, only Drake bringing up the all-important question. "What?"

He snapped a finger-gun at him, grinning. "Disguises."

_________________

Eden instantly shot that down. Not because disguising themselves was a bad idea—honestly, with the way they looked, only Ariake didn't stand out—but because the method Lachlan had in mind wasn't good enough for him.

Admittedly, trying to use makeup for skintone-altering techniques when they didn't have the foggiest what they were doing probably would've ended badly. As would the hair-dye, or any attempt to make Drake stand out less.

And so that's how he found himself having a glamour-over.

"How the hell did you manage that?" He squinted at the visage of a tall but very Nihonjin Drake, complete with yakuza tattoos and hair tied back in a bun the man had done himself.

"A lot of practice." Eden's face practically dared him to make any smart comment as he was herded into the chair Drake just vacated.

He took the dare. "So that's how you keep your hair white. Not bleach, glimmer. Never would've guessed."

"Shut up, gaijin."

He laughed as he let himself be pushed onto the chair. Wonder if he uses it for the eyes too. "Your hidden talents are saving my arse. Do you see me complaining?"

Ariake squinted at them from where he leaned against the wall of the room they'd borrowed. "How are we doing this? You said you plan to enter as a fighter, didn't you?"

"That's right, me and Drake," he confirmed as Eden stood in front of him and dipped his hand in a jar of glimmer, intensely-staring whatever he planned to do to Lachlan into being. "We haven't got time to build up names, so we'll have to be amateurs using your connections to get in. Without your knowledge."

"As if I'd be friends with yakuza," Ariake snorted. "They know my family's SC. This cover is paper-thin."

He lifted an eyebrow. "And I've been wearing gloves this entire time. How do you know I don't have tattoos under here?"

The attention of everyone in the room instantly fell on him. "Do you?"

He smiled. "No."

A silence he couldn't quite read passed around the trio, Drake finally speaking up. "They fight shirtless, right?"

Apparently they'd been curious for a while now. His smile turned wry. "Don't be too hasty now, girls."

He probably deserved the pane of glimmer that nearly slapped him out of the chair.

"Just take them off, gaijin," Eden said icily. "Your jokes can wait."

"Yes, your highness." Wincing, he rubbed at the side of his face, a strangely rubbery layer between his skin and the leather. "Just don't faint on me."

In the almost-summer heat, he had to admit it was nice to finally take his light jacket off, the long-sleeved shirt following it. He steadily ignored the sudden stiffness everyone displayed in the corner of his eyes at the scarring his gloves couldn't cover, twisting in raised patches up his left arm and discolouring his right. At least nobody gasped when he casually unstrapped and removed the leather.

Dropping them onto the little pile, he planted both bare hands on his knees and raised his eyebrows at his frozen audience. "Not sure how hard it'll be to cover these up with tattoos, but I'm sure if you could manage Drake's ugly mug, you can do something with this."

The silence was starting to get a little concerning, especially on Ariake's end, as that could be nausea on his face. He'd never made anyone cry or throw up before, but there was a first time for everything.

"Okay," Drake broke in, sending the others an oddly expectant look, "you owe me."

Wait a minute.

Ariake's expression twisted, and the lad swore vehemently while Eden's frozen stare thawed into an impressive scowl, even for him. "Skin condition doesn't count!"

"It's closer than tattoos or stylistic choice." Drake smiled like the cat who got the cream. "So I win."

Ariake spluttered, and the startled laugh finally broke free of Lachlan's throat. "You bet on this?" He levelled a bare finger at a not-so-innocently grinning Drake. "You bastard, you triple-crossed me."

The big lad shrugged. "I just let you think what you wanted to."

Lachlan shook his head and stood up, cracking his knuckles. "I thought you'd learned your lesson last time, but it seems I was wrong."

"Wait—"

"Stop your foolishness, I need to—" Eden's snap was too late to stop him pouncing and wrangling the kid into a headlock.

Never let it be said his knuckles couldn't do a number on a perfect hairdo.

_________________

"Well well, this brings back memories," Lachlan muttered to himself, throwing a casual glance around the edges of the ring, only a pair of loose pants, an impressive set of tattoos, and fake face to his name. "Ossary never was this fancy, though."

On the highest floor of a rich Nihonjin club, in sight so plain Ariake'd nearly had kittens, beautiful women in kimono-dresses—perhaps deliberately open just a bit more than modesty usually allowed—and suited men mingled with yakuza in expensive leather jackets. Chains and jewellery all glittered in the late afternoon sunlight streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows that opened onto a balcony, glinting off the wine glasses of rich patrons sitting at dining tables.

Dinner and a show, with him currently scheduled as the main event in not just a fight, but a glimmer artist face-off in a match nowhere near officially-regulated. Complete with full glimmer troughs on either side of the ring, despite the many washing lines they'd busted recently.

Someone had to be covering for this.

But that wasn't his problem. He gazed up as a cheer ran through the crowd, a man with a snake tattoo biting up under his chin staring unblinking at him from the king's castle above the stage. Somehow, I'm not surprised you're here.

The slip of a girl who stepped up to face him wearing only a cropped shirt and loose pants, though, he was surprised to see.

Train station cat-girl?

"Glimmer artist versus obake! Light-spinner and Fang-fury!"

Her narrowed eyes widened, just slightly, as her cape misted into place, and he fought the urge to laugh at the sheer twisted irony of it all. Instead he gave her a little smile.

And leapt for the glimmer trough.