Gothic Sunset
by Christopher Huff

Gothic Sunset

By

Christopher A. Huff

Since the first cities, alleys have played a part in the shadows of history. They gave criminals a place to call their own. The seeds of dissidents that thrived in the darkness overthrew governments. The black market was born inside some dark alley forgotten by history. Acts of lust, violence, and sinful pride grew like a wildfire in these back streets of civilization. Even with the computerized safety of the 21^st century, alleys were a place for the anonymous to hide, conduct business, or kill. In Tokyo, a city where the ancient and modern worlds collide into a seamless mass, a maze of alleys existed still unnamed and unmapped.

It always seemed to be raining within this maze. Precipitation fell from the sky or from the condensed moisture exhaled by the climate control systems of the massive skyscrapers that formed the boundaries of the darkness. Everything was always wet.

Inside the twist of these alleys, a rare act had just occurred. Amidst the crime, espionage, and struggle for survival, an act of both love and hate was born.

Her raven-feather hair slid down to her small waist except for the shoulder length bangs she constantly struggled with to keep tucked behind her ears. Falling from the corner of a sad violet eye, three tears of black chrome shimmered under the electric neon of the city. A real tear fell from the other.

Her painted face froze except the slight tremble of her lips. Hers was a world of darkness, and the costume she wore was part of that darkness. She dressed all in black and her make-up mirrored her outfit. Metallic black eyeshadow and a shade of lipstick called Nightmare matched the leather of her spike-encrusted motorcycle jacket and polished combat boots. A black-steel knife dangled from her numb fingers.

The crimson of spilled blood was the only color that marred the perfect blackness Blood graffitied the blade, her pants, the leather, her face, and her tears. Another tear slipped down her cheek and fell from her face. It mingled with the rain before it landed on a lifeless form.

***

Victor Black was not his real name. In his business, they bought and sold names like new cars. He had bought many names during his covert-operations career. Only a few people alive remembered his real name. His mother, still living in Paris, was the only one who still called him by his given name, but mothers could be like that.

Victor sat naked in his dark apartment, smoking a cigarette. His long hair, still damp from showering, shimmered blue-black in the last rays of the setting sun. The fading sunlight flowed into the room through the wall-sized picture window. His eyes followed the exhaled smoke spiraling through the light. His breath was the only sound.

The apartment seemed like frozen chaos. Clothes, electronic equipment, and swords mingled with technical manuals, science-fiction novels, toys, throwing stars, lock-picks, and a large stuffed-animal squirrel. Victor knew the method to this madness. While he knew where everything was, a stranger would find it difficult to find anything of value among the junk. While visitors rarely came around, Victor could find a weapon within arms-reach anywhere in his home to deal with any of the less-welcome ones.

Moving silently from the futon to the wall-sized window, Victor looked down on the Tokyo cityscape. The lights of the traffic moved like blood though the miles of arteries and veins that kept the city alive. Watching the city from 94 stories up gave Victor a surreal, cartoon-like impression of Tokyo. He knew that was an illusion. Victor had seen the real Tokyo. He had been to the Imperial Palace, the Ginza, and Zen gardens. He had also been to the docks, the slums and the alleys. Victor knew both sides of Tokyo, and truly loved his adopted home. Mount Fuji seemed to glow with its own ancient light as it lorded over the modern world. The mountain seemed alone despite the surrounding city. Victor smiled at the kindred spirit and wiped away a single tear. I know how you feel my friend

Suddenly, something moved behind him. A shadow slipped from the bedroom, hovering low to the ground. It crept up behind Victor. Victor did not notice until too late.

The shadow sprang into the air. Victor felt the sharp needle-like hooks dig into his shoulder. He hissed out the pain and turned to glare at his attacker. A pair of golden eyes seemed to float in the darkness above his shoulder. A meow shattered the silence.

"You know I hate it when you do that," Victor chastised the small black cat while his hand reached up to scratch its chin. A loud purr filled the room. "But at least you don't ask if I'm sleeping with anyone."

His mother had just called a few hours ago. Victor chaffed under her scrutiny. Each of her questions ripped open another old wound. When are you going to write another book? Why don't you move back to Paris? Is there anyone special?

Victor said good-bye on that note and disconnected the telephone. His writing career and the Parisian life he left behind were only vague aches, but the last one struck deep. Matters of the heart were always Victor's downfall. He had taken a long shower to wash away the vision of the woman that burned to the front of his memories. It did not work.

Unhooking the cat from his shoulder, Victor set the cat down and lit a stick of incense. Folding his legs into the lotus position, he let his conscious mind slip away. Soon the sound of deep meditative breathing filtered through the room. Victor had been exploring the depths of his mental power since he was a small boy in Paris. At age seven, he had watched an American show called In Search Of. An episode about lucid dreams and controlling them led Victor to introspective exploration. Soon he had discovered mediation and begun a teenage fascination with the occult. Victor's quest for knowledge quickly went beyond cheap paperbacks about witchcraft to collegiate texts on parapsychology and psychic phenomena. The royalties from his two novels financed a trip to the American desert to study shamanism. Victor had learned a lot about magic and psychic abilities, but it still bothered him when he just knew things

This extra talent kept Victor alive in a field with an extreme attrition rate. He trained constantly in the arts necessary for his profession. He had mastered dozens of weapons and fighting styles, stealth and tracking skills, electronics and computer programming, and many other skills necessary for a 21^st century ninja. Victor studied philosophy, psychology, religion, and business. Victor constantly kept up on the latest advances in science and technology as well as politics and the news. However, it was his secret knowledge that saved him from what he could not prepare for. Suddenly knowing that a gunman awaited him around the bend, or the new password that unlocked a safe that was not in the intelligence reports gave him the edge he needed to thrive in his cutthroat world.

It was not easy listening to that little voice over the gunfire and explosions. It had taken years for him to dismiss the idea that it was just dumb luck or his imagination. Learning to trust that little voice became the most difficult task for the ninja to master. Sometimes it seemed like nothing was there. Other times it felt like the hands of a god guided him.

Just like now, when he suddenly knew she was back in Tokyo.

"Time to go," Victor said to himself as he rose and began to dress. Only vaguely aware of what he was doing, he let the invisible hands guide him to Club Ku.

***

Laser beams crisscrossed in the darkness. Colored lights pulsed to the rhythm of the music. The band on stage thrashed about while playing their chrome instruments. People of all kinds gyrated on and around the multilevel dance floor. Women dressed in seductive clothing and the men who pursued them crammed in around the long bar shouting orders for expensive drinks at the bartenders. Couples mated in the shadowed corners. Bouncers silently eyed the crowd for trouble. Cigarette smoke, a hundred different perfumes, and stale beer littered the air.

Drew draped herself across the booth. Club Ku had a good-sized crowd for a Tuesday night. She could easily watch the men watching her from their position at the rear of the bar. She tucked her long bangs behind her ears to reveal deep violet eyes and three tattooed tears that ran from the right one. Drew arched her back and adjusted her cleavage. She was hunting tonight and the low-cut lace blouse provided ample bait, However, none of the available specimens appeared to be worthwhile prey.

She sighed to herself and shook her head in disgust. Drew pushed a stray lock of hair back behind her ear. While Drew found herself needing some company, she had more than enough discipline to wait for a worthy companion. Drew believed that if more women practiced such discipline, and proper birth-control methods, the world would not have population problems it does today. It had been months since her last liaison. She could wait longer still before she would even consider lowering her extremely high standards.

She had to be very selective of the men she used. Drew looked for a man who could provide her with quality companionship, but also someone to whom she would not become attached. Drew could not afford any lasting relationships in her line of work. Falling in love was an option she could not afford. It was a tricky situation--trying to find someone halfway between an asshole and a god.

Tonight, it seemed, most of the crowd landed on the lower half of that scale. The only men brave enough to approach her fell as close to the bottom of the scale as possible without being a rapist. These were the arrogant predators who populated every club from Tokyo to Paris. She flatly ignored them and had the well-tipped bouncers escort those who did not get the hint out of the club. Many more watched her from the bar, the tables, or the dance floor. These waited for her to move closer before making their moves. Drew laughed at the thought. None of these will do.

The ideal man came unbidden to her mind. The thought disgusted her. How could she be so hung-up on an ex-lover she had not seen in a year? He may not even be in Tokyo anymore. After what happened at Double-Cross Court, Drew doubted the man was still in the business; She hoped he was far away from here. He cared too much to be in the business.

A shadow of movement near the entrance caught Drew's eye. She turned hopefully to see who had entered, but her long bangs chose that moment to attack her vision. Drew thrust the unruly hair back behind her ears, but she was too late. Whoever it was had already become just another anonymous part of the crowd.

Another drink came for her. Drew decided to accept this one. One thing she appreciated about being a sexy woman who dressed in tight leather and lace. You never had to pay for a drink; Drew rarely had to order. In those rare cases when she found herself thirsty with no drink available, all she had to do was allow her violet eyes to lock with a wannabe. With a coy smile and a twirl of her slim finger through her dark hair, a nice, cool beverage would soon arrive. Of course, Drew would probably have to barter some conversation for that one. Should the buyer try to get a little too up-close and personal, a subtle gesture to the curved, black blade strapped to her slim waist and a subtle flash of light from her cybernetic eye were enough scare off all but the dumbest predators.

Drew took a sip of the Tequila Sunrise. She felt someone looking at her. Her eyes were immediately drawn across the room. It was not her imagination. She could actually feel him watching her. Dressed in black from head to toe, he lit a cigarette and absently slipped the lighter into the pocket of the heavy, leather trench coat that added a material strength to his shadowy form. The laser light trapped by the smoke from his cigarette lit Victor with a pale blue aura. The light shimmered off his black silk suit like lightning reflected by storm clouds.

Not him! Please not him!

Drew watched him take a hit from the cigarette. The cherry flared brightly giving an amber glow to his green eyes and tan face. Smoke seeped from his nose and billowed out over his mustache and goatee. Her eyes locked with his.

That damn psychic bastard! I haven't been in Tokyo for 48 hours, and he found me.

She heard him whisper hello. Drew shook her head. She had to imagine it. There was no way she could have heard him whisper across the crowded club. She looked away and tried to ignore him. Yet, she could still feel him there, watching her with that cocky smile. She hated that smile. She hated the way it made her weak inside. She hated the way he got inside her and made her want him…made her love him.

"Damn you, Victor," Drew whispered as she crossed the dance floor, going to him. He waited there with that smile, leaning against the bar.

"Damn you," she whispered under the breath of his kiss.

***

Victor and Drew went to his apartment and made love with abandonment. He let go of his loneliness and she forgot her rules about love. For an infinite moment, they only existed to each other. It ended with a long, mournful kiss. When it finished, Drew tried to avoid meeting his eyes while she dressed. She failed.

Their eyes locked in an invisible struggle. His fiery green eyes, searching for answers, stabbed forward, and were countered by deep pools of violet hardened into shields. They tried to protect the soul within against an intruder that was not an enemy. The full moon gave its blue light to the still bedroom, but it could not illuminate any of the questions left behind by their last kiss.

Victor needed to know if this was the end. Could he stop feeling this way? Something had changed, but was it the change he needed? Looking into her eyes, Victor tried to get inside. He knew that the eyes were the windows to the soul. Victor knew that if he could reach through and touch her spirit he would know his answer. Was this the end? His soul screamed, Can I stop being alone?

She fought so hard against him. Drew knew that he could get inside her. In the short time they had known each other, Victor seemed to know her thoughts and feelings better than she did. She could feel him trying now. She could feel the touch of his spirit against hers. He was looking for answers he needed to know. Answers she needed to hide. Drew knew that those answers would destroy one of them, but she was afraid to find out which one.

So Drew ran, still hiding behind the shields of violet eyes.

And Victor chased her, desperate for the answers he needed.

***

Victor caught up to her in an alley near the infamous Double-Cross Court. He grabbed her arm and spun Drew around. Real tears had mixed with the drizzle that fell. The three, black tears tattooed under her right eye seemed to burn under the city lights.

"Please, don't leave again."

"I can't do this," Drew whispered. "I don't want this."

"Please."

A hand reached out for him.

***

Through a labyrinth of these unnamed back streets was an ancient courtyard. Once a beautiful garden of a samurai's family, it now bore the unofficial name of Double-Cross Court. Hidden in the shadows of surrounding skyscrapers, only illegal acts blossomed here. Many gangs and Yakuza clans met here to do business. The deals they made rarely went sour, but betrayals occurred often enough to give the abandoned garden its name.

Two groups entered the garden from opposite ends. A light rain began to fall. The opposing criminal groups were different in many aspects. Most notably, their clothing marked them as different parts of the criminal underworld. From the south entrance came a ragtag group dressed in chains and leather jackets. Opposite them, the other group wore tailored business suits and dark sunglasses. While not dressed like alley dwellers, none of them seemed to worry about ruining their expensive Italian shoes.

While one from each group approached the middle ground of the courtyard, the rest spread out along their respective sides, each ready to deal with the other side's double cross. While clothing marked them as different breeds, their scanning eyes and careful movements showed that both groups were experienced and professional.

Gurin straightened his tie casually as he walked slowly toward his counterpart. Removing his sunglasses and wiped the rain from the lenses before sliding them into his breast pocket. Gurin was only a middleman in the Totomi clan, but quickly rising in the ranks. He knew they were testing him when they gave him the assignment. The Oyaban (clan leader) surely knew about Gurin's hate for this biker gang and was testing his loyalty to the clan. Gurin grew up on the south end of Tokyo and had not been friendly with many of the bikers who cruised the neighborhoods. One gang in particular called themselves the Eastwind.

The young Japanese criminal beamed with pride when the Oyaban asked him to oversee this transaction. However, when his master informed him of whom they were dealing with, he almost refused. Such a refusal would have cost the young man much honor, not only with his Oyaban, but also with the entire clan. The Oyaban's test was simple. Are you Totomi? Or are you still some second-rate punk from the south side? Gurin could not refuse. He was Totomi.

When David Tori took control of the Eastwind, they were nothing. The ragtag group of bikers, punks, and anarchists gave no thought to anything above petty theft or robbery. David changed that. He turned the gang into a legend. Everyone feared and respected the Eastwind throughout the neighborhoods they roamed. Taking control of the mostly Japanese bikers had not been easy for the blue eyed Eurasian. David had fought for every ounce of respect, and now the bikers would kill or die on his word. Then he unleashed his hellions on the city to fight for the respect they deserved within the shadows.

Nevertheless, David had taken the Eastwind as far as it could go independently. Nobody got too big in Tokyo without having to deal with the Yakuza. It was the unwritten law. Deal with the clans, or the clans will deal with you. So, when the Totomi approached the Eastwind and asked them to steal some prototype microchips from a small research and design firm located on the edge of the south side, David readily accepted.

David bowed low to show respect for Gurin. The Yakuza man returned the gesture with only a curt nod.

Offering a steel brief case, David spoke in perfect Japanese, "The Eastwind has succeeded. We hope the Oyaban will be pleased."

Gurin longed to snap the half-breed's neck. Why the Oyaban wanted to form an alliance with this scum was beyond him. Yet he was only a soldier and had to obey the master's will. Biting back the insults that flooded his mind, Gurin took the case from David. His thumbprint opened the lock, and Gurin inspected the merchandise. Everything appeared correct. The microchips would have to be taken to a lab for final verification, but Gurin doubted that these lowlifes would have the technology to produce a fake. He also doubted that even these baka (idiots) would dare attempt to cross the Totomi. Even dogs were not that dumb.

"You have done well, Tori-san," Gurin said the required words in a dull monotone. "Here is your reward." Good doggy.

Before David could take the case with the money a flash of lightning blinded everyone in the courtyard. Even the Yakuza security men, with their expensive cybernetic eyes, could not see for a few seconds. When everyone could see again, two new figures stood with the leaders in the center of the court.

The female stood with a wide, aggressive stance. Her lithe body was sheathed in black, skin-tight leather. Long black hair shined in the rain. Three black tears slipped out from underneath the opaque, wrap-a-round shades protecting her eyes. Hanging comfortably in her hands was a kusari-gama. She began to twirl the chain end of the sickle-and-chain weapon. The weighted chain looped through the air in a casual, almost bored, manner.

The man dressed in a shinobi-zumai, the traditional black garb of the ninja. Split-toe tabi covered his feet and a mask with a single slit for the eyes hid his face. Round, green eyes stared banefully at the criminals. A black trench coat hid most of his 6-foot tall frame. At his side, a finely crafted katana rested in his hand.

"Konban-wa, Gurin," the woman said almost too casually. "Enzo-san sends his respects."

Gurin frowned, "Konban-wa, Drew-san. It is a pleasure to see you again, but we are conducting business right now."

"I can see that," Drew said with a coy smile, "That's why Enzo sent me and Victor."

Gurin looked at the black garbed Victor and almost charged to attack. David started to back slowly away from them all. There was an intense rivalry between Gurin and a gaijin called Victor. It had started over a woman. A woman named Drew. Unless this was a completely different Drew and Victor, David decided that being within close proximity of the three was very unhealthy.

With his eyes locked on the masked swordsman, Gurin said, "I suggest that you take your American ninja-wannabe and leave here now. Because of what we had, Drew-san, I will let you and this gaijin pass unharmed."

Victor smiled underneath his mask but said nothing.

"Actually," Drew replied. "I was thinking along those same lines. The R&D firm your biker trash stole those chips from paid Big Enzo a lot of yen in protection money. He was not happy when learned that the Totomi had hired the Eastwind to steal their prize project. He sent us to retrieve the chips and convey his displeasure to the parties involved. However, in light of our history, I will allow you to surrender the chips, peacefully. And the Eastwind's fee. It will be a token of apology. Then you can all leave without losing anything else."

Except my honor, Gurin thought. "You know it cannot be that way, Drew-san."

Suddenly knives, chains, and nunchuku appeared from underneath jackets or out of waistbands. Neither the Yakuza nor the bikers wanted to give up the prizes they had earned to a woman and an American dressed like a ninja. Twelve against two seemed like good odds to everyone.

There were no guns among them. The Tokyo Police's security sensors could detect, identify, and locate the use of any firearm. Even the slight cough of a .22 with a silencer would bring SWAT units down on the offender within seconds. Japan did not enjoy America's love of guns. They executed anyone possessing a firearm in Japan without a permit on the spot. And unless you were a cop or government agent, you were not getting a permit.

Victor did not mind the absence of firearms. He preferred the sword. Victor actual found it ultimately ironic that the advancements in technology had brought with it a renaissance of swordplay and martial arts. In Tokyo, the fighting had again become a test of martial skill and not spray-and-pray violence. That suited Victor just fine.

Drew's kusari-gama came to life in her hands and struck out at the retreating David. The chain wrapped around his throat and yanked him off his feet. The razor-sharp sickle slit his throat as the chain struck out in another direction to meet an onrushing Yakuza soldier.

Victor sliced though two Yakuza that got between him and Gurin. Gurin ripped off his shirt and jacket to reveal the elaborate tattooing that covered his chest and back. He wielded a pair of long tanto knives.

Their blades clashed in a shower of sparks. Gurin tried to slip his second knife past Victor's defense, but the katana seemed to bounce off one blade to the other and then strike at Gurin. The Yakuza man was hard pressed to hold his ground against the swordsman. Every time Gurin went for an opening, Victor's katana would suddenly be there to parry. Victor moved as if he knew what Gurin was thinking.

Victor was beyond thought now. Years of training and experience took over and he fought by instinct. His mind was clear, allowing the part of his psyche that saw the unseen to guide his hands. He forced Gurin back with a front kick and stabbed behind him, killing an approaching biker. His katana spiraled around him and returned to parry Gurin's next attack.

Then he saw it. An image leapt into his mind that almost made him freeze with horror. Gurin came in, but this time Victor was distracted. By the time he forced Gurin back, Victor's tunic was sliced open and the cut across his chest began to bleed.

Victor wasted no more time with the Yakuza. He had to change the image before the future he saw took place. With a roar, Victor stomped down on Gurin's knee. The joint bent backward and the Yakuza screamed in pain as he fell. Victor thrust the sword through Gurin's chest and winked at the dying man, "By the way, I'm French, you baka!"

From out of his leather sleeve came two shuriken. The four-pointed throwing stars were sharpened by lasers and finely balanced for extreme accuracy. He spun and saw Drew, just as she had been in his vision. Victor had no more time. He threw the pair of shuriken at her.

Drew saw the attack and started to duck, despite her dismay. Victor could only watch in horror as the vision changed. He had released the second star a moment too late. It flew low. The first star spun passed her and struck the hidden bowman the instant before he pulled the trigger on his crossbow. The quarrel shot through the air where Drew's head had been a second before.

Tears began to form in Victor's eyes as he watched the second star, as if in some perverse slow-motion replay, shatter the right lens of Drew's shades. Drew screamed in pain as she grabbed for her eye.

***

Victor cried. His instincts had led him to hurt the woman he loved. He did not remember what happened next. The battle in Double-cross Court happened over a year ago. Now he was dying in an alley not far from it.

He cried again, his blood on Drew's knife, "I'm sorry. I loved you." 

He heard her answer, and then he died. 

"I am sorry I loved you."