Don't Fuc with Hiroyui

Author's Note:

This story is a noir, futuristic, Tokyo crime romp involving gender change. You've been warned.

BQNK (BL Quick)

*

Lying down alone,

My thoughts are fixed on you--so deeply

That I have forgot again

The tangles of my long black hair.

In yearning for the hand that stroked it clear.

Izumi Shikibu

Real things in the darkness seem no realer than dreams.

Marasaki Shakibu, The Tale of Genji

*

DROPPING IN

-Hank, we need you to come back the office.

-I'm kind of busy right now.

Hank accented the word busy through his embed with a kick to Ling's back.

Ling fell to the ground and pretended to sob penitently. A dim blue light flickered in the heavy steam of his restaurant. The kitchen was a mess -- empty oil drums, stacks of round bamboo dumpling steamers, musty towels with grease stains, and a dirty fryer simmering on full blast. Three roast ducks and a few other questionable hunks of meat hung from the cabinets.

Hank took inventory of his surroundings; he was paid to notice things. "Are you still serving cat dumplings, Ling?"

"T-t-that is just a horrible rumor!"

"You mean to tell me this isn't cat?" Hank walked by a slab of meat pushing it with the barrel of his pistol. It swung from its hook behind him as he passed.

Ling looked up under his long hair and grinned. "Why would I serve cat...when I can serve raccoon?"

Hank held a smile in. "You won't serve so much as a rat unless you pay what you owe us."

"Oh, I'd never serve rat...it's too stringy."

Hank liked him -- he had to admit it. Ling was a greasy little snake, but he liked him. Hank was dialing back his usual threatening shtick: No punches to the face. No throwing Ling into the kitchen supplies. No holding his face over the fryer.

-Hank...we need you back at the office.

-I'm in the middle of something, Maizey!

Hank paced the kitchen, tapping oil cans out of the way with his Italian leather shoes. "Ling -- you wanted to be protected from the Three Oceans Gang. You called on Boss Hiroyuki. He agreed to protect you. But if you don't pay him, you don't get protection. Instead, he sends me to remind you what it's like not to have protection. I'm the next step. The friendly reminder."

"Oh it is so friendly..." Ling rolled his eyes.

Hank kicked Ling in his side and he doubled over in a whimper.

"I'm a lot fucking nicer than the entire Three Oceans Gang breathing down your neck, I'll tell you that much!" A voice in Hank's embed interrupted.

-Hank, it's about Boss...

-Wait...what about Boss?

-Hank, we need you to come back to the office.

-Can you tell me what this is ab--

-Just come back to the office. Please, Hank. Hurry.

Hank's embed went silent.

Something was wrong. Hank heard it in Maizey's voice.

Ling looked up from the floor. Hank shoved his gun in his face. "For fuck's sake, keep cowering, Ling! I need to check my embed." Ling dropped and went back to bowing frantically on the floor.

"I'm cowering! I'm cowering!"

Hank's embed, implanted in the back of his neck just beneath his hairline, hummed. He hurriedly ran a quick inquiry of the latest news in the implant. No stories appeared in his mind. There was no mention of the Hiroyuki crime syndicate or of Boss in the past 24 hours; the last hit was from last Thursday:

Hiroyuki Crime Syndicate Denies Responsibility for Congressman's Disappearance.

Hank thought through ten additional searches and all of them came up blank.

Call Boss he thought. A pause. The embed dialed, then ringed. He listened in his mind -- waiting -- six rings, no answer, his call went to voicemail. He hung up before leaving a message.

Something was very wrong.

Hank kept his gun pointed at Ling's head as he walked backwards towards the rear exit of the kitchen, gradually becoming a dark blue silhouette in all the steam. "Ling. You have two weeks. Two weeks to get your account in order. I'd suggest you do so."

"Sure thing, friend. I will have the money. I think the raccoon is going to be hit. Heh Heh! No more problems, friend! "

"There better not be. I will be back."

Hank pocketed his pistol and rushed out into the LED-flicker, neon scuzz of the city.

Ling looked up from the floor of his empty kitchen. "Oh, the contrary, Hank. You're never coming back."

Maizey's voice rung fresh in Hank's head. "We need you to come back to the office."

"We."

Hank had heard these words only one other time. It was when Boss Hiroyuki's father, Father Hiroyuki, was killed.

THE DEATH OF FATHER HIROYUKI AND THE RETRIBUTION

He had been shot in the neck by an operative from the Yao Lu Family and bled out. Hank remembered getting the call and returning to the office. He could still see the body hunched over the glass of bourbon, cigar still smoldering. Father had managed to fire a shot off before falling dead. The operative was huddled in the corner, bleeding from his leg. He would have been better off with a bullet in his heart: Boss's vengeance on him that night was slow and monstrous, portent of the pain that would befall the Yao Lu Family in the weeks to follow.

Later that evening, Boss called in Chinese take-out to the Yao Lu hideout. He knew where they were hiding. Roast duck, chicken feet, radish cakes, tang yuan and other dishes, along with a white take-out box printed with red Chinese characters containing the operatives eyeballs and a note swearing complete retribution for the death of his father. Boss Hiroyuki wouldn't sleep until all the rats were dead.

In four short days, with bullets, car bombs, and terror, Boss and his gang cut Yao Lu's ranks in half. Every club, brothel, gee den, and hideout tied to Yao Lu was left smoldering like his dead father's cigar. Two weeks after Father's death, the remaining members of the Yao Lu Family left Honshu for China. In under a month the cull had become legend in the underground circles of Tokyo and Hank had earned his place as right-hand man of Boss Hiroyuki. A fragile peace fell over organized crime in the years to follow; a peace that hung on one simple idea: You do not fuck with Hiroyuki.

NOCTURNE

-Call a car. Hank Tanaka. To Oshiro Towers. Pickup location one block east from current address.

He walked east, his path lit in the technicolor glow of tea shops, gee dens, and brothels. A car would be waiting for him.

It was a long ride back to Oshiro. Hank poured some whiskey and leaned back as the car navigated the maddening sea of technology and humanity that is Tokyo.

-Chopin Nocturne E Flat Op. 9 No. 2.

The stereo clicked on. Soothing piano filled the car. Hank sipped his whiskey, closed his eyes, and tried to relax. The car sped through the city, around mecha-rickshaws and past the splendid, Azuchi-era facade of the Electric Geisha Club. Inside, the Fantastic Tentacle & Slime Show was already underway -- a favorite of cut-throat businessmen and hex-heads alike. They stood outside in various states of drunk and revelry, chain smoking and bantering about deals and hexes past. Another maddening Friday night. Hank consulted his embed. His flight to Český Krumlov left in five hours.

-Flight status: On time. Would you like to check in?

-Yes.

-How many bags?

-One carry on.

-Confirmed. Thank you for flying with ContrAir.

Another sip of whiskey. He breathed in.

-Show me Eliska.

A deluge of pristine memories with Eliska flooded into his mind. He chose one. A picnic on a hillside in Slovakia. They were alone on a grassy hill in the hill country. She took off her shirt and rummaged in the picnic basket. Her nipples grew hard in the cool mountain air as she handed him a sandwich.

Hank watched in his mind as Chopin played on. He sighed. He desperately needed this vacation.

SOMETHING'S WRONG

Sir, you have arrived at your destination.

Hank had dozed off. Eliska was flying a kite, her large breasts bouncing as she ran across the hillside. Hank cut the memory off and collected his thoughts. His eyes were tired. He stepped out onto the windy street. Katsu, the doorman was there to greet him.

"Just in time, boss! Something's going on upstairs." Hank brushed passed him through the door. Katsu followed behind across the marble floor and beneath the golden chandelier that stretched above them in the form of oak branches. "Everyone goes up, and they are sent away just as quickly. Meetings canceled. So many deliveries..." The elevator door opened and Hank stepped in.

"Katsu, hold a car for me outside. I shouldn't be more than ten minutes."

"Yes, sir." Katsu was deflated.

The door began to close. "And, Katsu! Roll me a cigarette. I need it."

The doors slammed shut and the elevator shot skyward. Forty floors traversed in moments before a breakneck stop and the doors opened.

"HANK!" Maizey rushed over from her desk in the lobby. A stack of elegantly wrapped boxes lay next to her chair on a metal office cart. Across the room three operatives in leather chairs looked up from a game of chess.

"Get over here, Hank!" Maizey clutched his hand and pulled him down the hallway. She was a bubbly half-Japanese half-Scottish woman, with red hair, a plump ass, and an addictive laugh. She had been Boss Hiroyuki's secretary from the very beginning, just as trusted as Hank; she was a rare beacon of light in the harsh underbelly of the crime world -- but this evening she wasn't her usual bubbly self. She burst into the women's bathroom, dragging Hank in with her. She broke her grasp on his hand, rushed to look under the stalls, then, contented no one was listening, bounded back to Hank.

"Something's wrong."

"You don't say..." Hank noticed the women's bathroom was much nicer than the men's.

"Boss isn't seeing anyone. He's been locked in there since last night. He turns everyone away. His office is in lockdown. His embed was off until this afternoon and now whenever I message him he just asks for you...and then there's all the packages-"

"Maizey. Slow down. Breathe."

"I'm sorry, Hank. I'm breathing!" She breathed in and out demonstratively. "It's just...not normal. He usually takes lunch. Has guests. We have tea in the afternoon on his balcony. But no! Not a fucking peep, all day! And then there's the cupcakes..."

"Cupcakes?"

"He ordered cupcakes. And petit fours. Among other things."

"Petit fours?"

"Little French cakes..."

"But he doesn't eat sweets."

Maizey whispered loudly "I. Know."

Something was wrong.

"Look, Hank. We're going to go back in that lobby. Tanaka, Honsu, Jo are in there playing chess, lingering. They know something is up. I need you to act nonchalant."

Hank huffed.

"Oh, I'm sorry, I know you always do. I'm going to embed Boss that you're here and he better let you in or I'll bust through that security door myself."

"I'm sure you will." They walked back to the lobby.

"Another box arrived," said Honsu. "I put it with all the others. It looks like it's from-"

"Shhhhh," said Maizey as she plopped down in her chair. Hank rested his arm over the edge of her desk. Maizey embedded Hiroyuki, adding Hank to the feed.

-Boss: Hank is here.

Silence. Hank examined the packages on the cart. They were wrapped in silver, pink, and golden wrapping paper, all in various patterns of stripes, paisleys, and polka dots. From their appearance, Hank gathered they were from some of the finest clothing stores in Tokyo. A small mountain of boxes from Mendelssohn's, a well-renowned bakery, sat on top of the stack. Hank looked back at Maizey. Her head was in her hands.

A mechanical boom interrupted the quiet of the lobby. Behind the ornate, hand-carved door next to Maizey's desk, a metal security door unlatched and opened. Their embeds buzzed.

-Let him in. Have him bring my packages.

Maizey pumped a fist in the air in a silent dance. Nonchalant. Hank walked toward the door.

"HANK! The boxes!" Maizey gestured to the cart with a nervous smile.

Fuck. The boxes.

Hank walked back and pulled the cart unceremoniously. Tanaka, Honsu, Jo watched on suspiciously. Maizey pulled the brass latch of the wooden door; it creaked open.

"Good luck, Hank." Maizey whispered as he pushed the cart through the door.

THRESHOLD

Once Hank was through the metal security door fell hard behind him. Boss Hiroyuki had engaged it again. Hank shrugged to himself and turned to face The Corridor.

The Corridor acted as a sitting-area of sorts on the way to Boss Hiroyuki's office. The Corridor was a long, spacious affair with a high ceiling, in the neoclassical style, dotted occasionally with granite statues in various states of undress. It was lined with red upholstered mahogany chairs, a few brown leather couches, rattan end tables topped with Tiffany lamps. In the center of the hall to the left stood an antique French marble fireplace in the Louis XV style. Directly across from it, Boss's beloved ancient Athenian vase was presented prominently on a 17th-century Italian wooden credenza he won in a card game. Some European king or nobleman had owned it. Hank forgot which one, and, in his personal opinion, when it came to furnishings this room couldn't make up its fucking mind. He pushed the cart slowly over the long Turkish carpet that stretched from the lobby to Boss's door.

He stood at Boss's door. He dropped a hand down to the pistol on his side, assuring himself it was still there.

What time is it?

9:23pm.

Hank breathed in: He could handle this. He could make his flight.

Hank grabbed the latch and pulled, and opened the door slowly. He peaked inside. The door caught on something. It was Boss's shoes -- his suit, tie, and shirt laid next to them in a clump on the floor. Hank pulled his revolver. He kicked the door and rolled into Boss's office, pointing his gun and surveying the room.

The lights were off. The telewall was on, flickering a flurry of multicolor through the shadows and over the contours of the furniture adorning the office. The familiar smell and smoke of Hiroyuki's favorite cigars suspended heavy in the room. Hank's eyes darted to Boss's desk: an empty whiskey glass, open cigar box, vase of flowers: No one there. He pivoted right. Boss's private bathroom: door open, candle burning, toilet seat down: Empty

He turned to face the telewall. There, sitting on the leather couch, facing away from him, sat the profile of a woman. A tangle of long, silken black hair fell gingerly from her head and down the back of the couch. Her arm was slung over the cushion. Tele light flickered over it. He could tell from her skin she was young -- college-aged he guessed. Her thin fingers held a Cuban cigar, which she tapped with a manicured nail. Ashes fell on the floor.

"Don't fucking move!" Hank pointed his gun at her head.

"Do I look like I'm moving?" she chirped.

"Where is Boss Hiroyuki? Tell me now, bitch, or I blow your head through the telewall."

The image sat motionless, except for the smoke rising from the cigar. "Hank. Put the gun away..."

"I'm giving you three seconds..."

"Taichung, 2042. Taiwan Pony." said the woman on the couch.

Hank's heart dropped. He staggered back at the words. It was their code...for moments like this -- except those moments had never been as fucked up as this. Hank's eyes watered in the telelight and swirling cigar smoke. No, it couldn't be. "B-Boss?"

Her head turned, silhouetted by the brightness of the television. She brought the cigar to her lips and took a drag. Then breathed out. "Yes."

Hank was shaking; the pistol became heavy in his hands. "H-How?"

"The gardenias."

Hank turned to the vase of flowers on the desk. He stumbled in their direction, releasing his gun to slide over the surface of the desk before catching his weight with both hands. He leaned over the vase of gardenias. Their bouquet filled his nostrils. They blossoms were white and full, except for one, which was blown out in the center, black, as if it had been stuffed with gunpowder and set alight.

"I'm not even sure how they knew I was a sucker for the scent of gardenias. I black-listed that from my embed long ago."

"The flowers did this?"

"Virus. Nano. Self-replicating I think -- like that genotrans shit they peddle at the underground tweak clubs ('Come to tonight's cowgirl show--three girls, twenty four nipples.') but much stronger. Luckily, Tonku-san updated my security last week. I was able to terminate it, but not before..."

Hank turned. She was standing next to the couch. Naked. A blanket of silken black hair falling behind her to just below her waist, tickling her tight bottom. Her short figure was surrounded by the frantic images of the telewall behind her. Hanks eyes were adjusting to her face in the dark. Milky skin. Bangs in her face, her eyes covered in their shadow. He could make out the dark-red of her lips. The faint pink light of the city poured through the shades of the office casting illuminated lines over her body below her neck. Hank took in her shape, reading between the lines. Smoke snaked upwards from the cigar at her side, curling around her perky breasts. Even in the darkness he could make out her round olive nipples riding high and hard on the round contours.

Hank's gaze continued down her curves, following the hourglass. She was skinny, but her thighs were thick--perfect Japanese legs. He realized he was staring and felt ashamed. She took a step forward, falling on a dainty foot. Hank noticed her toe-nails were painted cherry red. This perplexed him. Boss didn't keep nail polish in his office. No women, except for Maizey, ever graced his office door. How did they get painted?

"Hold on now. Stay where you are..." Hank reached clumsily for his gun.

"Tsk, Hank. 2042!" the girl enunciated '2042' as if he were twelve and couldn't understand Japanese. She took another step forward. She brought the cigar to her lips for another drag. It was bigger than she was. Her lips opened wide to wrap around it. Her cheeks sucked in a drag. Hank turned away, he felt indecent. She pulled the cigar from her lips and blew a ring of smoke into the air above her. It fluttered, expanded, faded away.

"Who did this to you?"

"Who do you think? These have Yao-Lu written all over them." She grabbed her breasts. "Sit down Hank."

The girl--no, Boss--strolled to the wooden chest across the room. Hank followed her with his eyes. She set the cigar down gingerly on the chest, opened a cabinet, and pulled out a glass. She grabbed the bottle. Her tiny hand barely fit around it. She stood pigeon-toed, legs apart as she poured. Her ass was plump yet tight and he could make out a familiar outline between her legs, an outline Hank had savored in every woman he had bedded. One thing was certain--the nanos had taken Boss's dick. She bent over to retrieve ice cubes out of the drawer below. Yes, he was definitely sure of it. Her pussy glistening in the tele light--lips swollen and wet. Hank looked away embarrassed and conflicted. She plopped a few ice cubes into the glass, tucked the whiskey bottle under her right arm, retrieved her cigar with her other hand, and turned, walking slowly towards the desk. The neck of the whiskey bottle pushed her breast into the other forming a crevice of cleavage between them. Her hips swayed. She set the whiskey glass down in front of Hank, then twisted her hand back to grab the whiskey bottle from the crook of her arm. After filling her glass on the table, set the bottle down, looked into Hank's eyes and lifted the glass. Her eyes were arresting. Dark brown, almond shape, long eyelashes. Her face was young. Beautiful. It shone with a peculiar innocence.

"To retribution." she said, biting her lower lip. Coming from a skinny, short, naked Japanese girl--however hot she might be--this was less than encouraging. They tapped glasses. Hanks hand was shaking. He took a sip of whiskey, keeping his eyes on hers.