2AN~ Getting back into the Godzilla fandom, I managed to find a few really interesting people. One of which requested a fic along these lines, so here it is. I'm actually liking my ideas so far.
The red-light district always had a very distinct smell. It was the kind of thing that everyone tried to pretend didn't exist, but anyone who was unfamiliar with the area noticed it immediately. It would hit them like a ton of bricks directly into their nose and the initial cringe they'd give matched that of the scenario of the simile coming true. It went away quickly as most who came to the red-light district were there for a very compelling reason, but that didn't make the odor any less real.
It was a strange concoction of alcohol, nicotine, exhaust fumes, and body oder and he tried not to sigh too deeply as he exited the cab. His massive, spry form steadied itself on the curb where groups of the area's regulars tended to gather and quickly ducked into an alley between a bar and a small 'boutique'. The smell only got worse as he progressed passed dumpsters and bums on his way to the back-door of a hotel on main street. Considering the area, the hotel did very well. He knew, however, that it was by no effort of the owner who was as lazy as he was money hungry. The man had seemed almost business savvy when he took out a loan from a certain tycoon, presenting himself rather respectfully and intelligently, as one was told; however, his facade fell apart when he failed to pay-back the money he owed -in spite of having it, no less- and that was where the offer was going to expire.
Shrouded in a grey hoodie under a black leather jacket, he ducked behind the hinges of the metal door and knocked decisively six times. He retracted his hand and stood still as a stone and equally as silent before the door creaked open and another set of knocks rang out. The tenseness of his body relaxed slightly as he circled around the door and nodded to the chef who'd opened it as he walked in through the kitchen. There was a determination to his long stride as heavy boots thumped angerly through the restaurant and out into the lobby. Few were there at that time of night aside from the occasional disorderly drunk couple or business traveler. None of them paid him any mind and that meant well on them. He couldn't have any loose ends.
He made it to the elevator and managed to have the entire glass box to himself for the time being. He pressed the button for the twentieth floor. The owner of the hotel was staying in the suite for the night with the intentions of going to a convention in the morning at the Kyoto International Conference Center. It was more of an advertising venture than anything; not that it mattered anymore. As the elevator came to a stop at the eleventh floor, he rolled his eyes. A young women stepped into the elevator, looking to be in her early twenties and rather far along in a pregnancy. She was humorously draped in a dress of fiery colors that drew the eye in an unpleasant way. He didn't like it, but what did he know about fashion?
The woman smiled at him apprehensively and stood at the far end of the elevator after pressing the button for the lobby. The machine continued its acent to the twentieth floor and she showed a slight crack of dismay under the cheery mask she tried to wear. Perhaps with enough rest, she might have actually been good at hiding her emotions, but the girl looked exhausted. She glanced at him and tried another smile. "Anata wa dono reberudesu ka?" She was asking what floor he was going to.
"Hatachi," he answered in a gravel-stricken voice. She seemed to shudder slightly when he spoke and turned to look through the glass back of the elevator that over-saw the Tokyo skyline.
"Nante kawairashidesu," she exclaimed. She was calling the sight pretty. He only nodded as the doors to the elevator opened, stepping off and leaving the women to her sight-seeing. There was only one door on that floor at the end of a long hallway. It was a silver-like color with modern, sleek, steel handles. From his pocket, he pulled out a key and pushed silently into the room.
When he closed the door behind him, the room fell into near pitch darkness if not for the large windows in the sitting area. The night-lights of the city illuminated the white sofas, dark, wooden floors and reflected off of the glass coffee table. Before taking another step, he removed his boots. The less sound, the better. The man stalked through the living area and towards a door to the left of it. This door was unlocked and opened without hardly a sound. This room was also lit by a large window to the far right of an occupied bed set in the center of the room. The white sheets were bunched around a lump within. His massive form lumbered over to the bed, hands balled into tight fists with knuckles still bruised from his previous venture and eyes staring daggers of intent into the man in the covers. As he reached the bedside, back towards the window, he flicked on the bedside lamp. The bright, white light flashed harshly into the face of the man- thirty-year-old Takao Danno. He was a thin man with sharp features that accentuated a rather attractive face. If the intruder had his way, however, that would change.
Takao startled awake and almost instantly tried to fling himself from the bed to escape the stranger in his suite. This effort was in vain as the other man grabbed his right ankle and dragged him across the floor slam him against the window, the glass shaking from the impact of only half his strength. An incredible vice gripped Takao's throat as he stared into the pits of burning magma that were his attackers eyes. Their brown coloration looking almost red in the shine of the city lights. His face screamed western if not for his eyes and darker skin tone. The jaw was sharp and chin strong and broad. His teeth appeared incredibly white as he bore them in a snarl.
"Anata wa takusan no okane o karite imasu," came the growl of a voice. 'You owe a lot of money.'
The response was quivering like the flesh in the intruder's hands. "Dare ga watashi ni karite imasu ka?" 'Who do I owe?'
The intruder pulled back and slammed the man into the window again, this time causing the pane to crack in a threat to give way. "Yuu Arakawa!"
"Migi! Migi! Watashi wa okane ga aru! Watashi wa kuro shite imasu." 'Right. Right. I have the money. I have been struggling.'
The intruder snorted and slowly tightened his grip on Takao. His hand constricted until the man was gasping wet, choking breaths. No emotion crossed the intruder's face as that of the other became red and desperite, clawing at the arm that held him in place. "Wareware wa shitte iru. Watashitachiha nagaiai shira rete imashita." 'We know. We have known for a long time.' He drew Takao near to him, so close that his breath blew the sweat-drenched hairs that hung over his face. "Sore wa mohaya juyode wa arimasen." 'That does not matter anymore.'
Before Takao could attempt to utter a rebuttle, the intruder lunged forward, slamming the back of the man into the damaged window with all his force. The glass gave way as he released his grip and allowed Takao means to scream as he fell back towards street-level. The intruder didn't even watch. He turned on his heels and walked back towards the main room. He put his shoes back on and entered the elevator when it arrived. The decent towards the lobby was slow and silent, not a single floor stopped at before his destination. The lobby was still quiet, but the streets outside were buzzing with all the life of the red-light district gathered into one place. He ignored it. He walked back towards the kitchen, through it, and the door was closed behind him by the same chef.
He stopped in the alley and pulled a cellular phone from his coat-pocket. He sent the single word 'kanryo' to an unlisted number, made sure it arrived, then crushed the phone under his boot. The remains were scattered in a pile of food and other trash before he continued on his way around the back of the establishments. Then, there was a buzz in his other pocket. From it, he pulled another, phone. Across the lock-screen flashed a message. 'When are you coming home?'
The words always struck him in a way that no others could. He stayed out late and far from home often and that fact hurt, especially when his son reminded him almost every day. The boy didn't hate him for it, knowing that the work was for him, but there was a level of animosity towards the subject that hinged in his voice when they spoke. He was pulled from his thoughts as another message-from a different number- flashed on screen.
"Gojira, it's Hoshi. Junior told me you were out of town. Why is he home alone?"
THAT struck him worse.
