Title: Blood Tide

Author: Rubious

Rating: R

Warnings: Death, violence, angst

Archive: This story is archived at Fanfiction.net under "Rubious"and at my home page. (URL info in bio.)

Disclaimer: "Get Backers" © Aoki and Ayamine. This story is a work of fanfiction and is for entertainment purposes only.

//thoughts//

* * * *

Anger surged through the young woman as the image of the red convertible seared her memory, only to further stoke her fury. The sporty car was a symbol of the wealthy playboy she had seen driving around the city earlier that day with a beautiful curly-haired redhead laughing beside him in the front seat, flaunting his riches. His joie de vivre and carefree air stirred a need within her to strike out because she could not bear the thoughts of anyone else enjoying life instead of sharing the purgatory she had condemned herself to.

Taking the last swill from the bottle of imported beer, the backwash dribbled down her chin as she hurled the bottle against the wall of the vacant building, shattering it and spraying shards of glass on the pavement. The twenty-year-old college student craved more alcohol. //Fuck. After I heist the dude's car, I'll cruise by the liquor store to get some brewskis and get wasted. Too bad my buddy can't be here to join me. Some fucker killed her down on spring break, gunning her down in cold blood.//

The crazed woman stumbled down the alley behind the flower shop and climbed into the 1967 Mustang convertible. Though the crowd she hung out with occasionally "borrowed" cars from strangers, they didn't consider their temporary use as stealing. She had never hotwired a car before, but she had paid close attention to pick up the basics. Somehow she muddled through and managed to start the ignition. Before driving off, she rifled through the glove box and found the vehicle's registration, which was registered to Weiss, no initial given.

With a triumphant grin, she sneered, "Well, Mr. Weiss, I'm taking your car for a spin," and with tires squealing, the sports car sped down the alley.

* * * *

Hevn strode into the Honky Tonk with an urgent assignment for the Get Backers that she had received a half-hour earlier from someone in her far-ranging network. Entering the nearly deserted pub, she saw Paul, the proprietor, standing behind the bar reading the newspaper as usual "Where's Ban and Ginji?" she asked. "I have a job for them."

Paul lowered his paper to gaze at the buxom intermediary. "Ban mentioned something about getting an assignment at the beach. They left this morning." His eyes were fixated on the woman's cleavage as she sighed in frustration upon hearing the news.

"Well, then I have to go to Plan B," Hevn declared, a light irritated tone tinged her voice. Pulling out her cellular phone, she dialed a number and spoke in a hushed tone, "Yes, I'll need him too. Something needs to be transported."

A short time later, a burly man with scruffy hair and a white headband parked a semi outside of the bar. Honking the horn to signal their arrival, Mr. No-Brake turned to the occupant in the front seat beside him and remarked, "They need us to find a stolen car?"

"It's a classic. 1967 Mustang convertibles in prime condition are rare commodities," the man replied smoothly.

"True. I remember racing against those in my youth. They blew away my Thunderbird. Never had a chance to drive one though," the truck driver remarked, fondly recalling memories of racing souped-up muscle cars through the streets of Tokyo.

Their conversation stopped abruptly as Hevn approached the cab. "Akabane, Mr. No-Brake," she greeted them in a friendly voice. "I'm glad you could come so quickly." The driver nodded in acknowledgement. "The car's present location is here," the blonde explained, pointing to a spot circled on the map she handed to the trucker. "I'll be in touch if the GPS indicates the car is moving. One more thing, the client wants the thief taken care of."

"Understood," Akabane wryly smiled as he tipped his broad-brimmed hat in salute as the semi drove off.

Inside the Honky Tonk, Hevn sat in a booth, intently watching the handheld GPS display. She looked up upon hearing Paul approach with a steaming mug of coffee. "Freshly made," he remarked, placing the coffee before her.

"Thank you."

"As much as Ban grouses about their lack of work, he's gonna go ballistic when he learns that they missed out on an important assignment while they were at the beach," Paul commented as he sat down in the booth across from the woman.

"We just won't tell them. It'll be our little secret," she said conspiratorially. Her golden eyes twinkled with mischief.

* * * *

The car thief lay slumped in the back seat of the convertible, which was parked by a deserted warehouse near the harbor, guzzling from a fifth of tequila, her legs hanging over the edge of the car door. Crumpled aluminum beer cans were scattered haphazardly outside on the ground, tossed aside as she had drained their contents. Her eyes were closed as she contemplated the situation while the only sounds she heard were the occasional cries of a seagull as it searched for morsels of food and the low rumbling from a tugboat's engines as it nudged a vessel to its moorings in the harbor.

//Shit. I'm bored. And the booze isn't helping any. There's nothing like a drunken stupor to brainstorm ideas. It was so cool heckling those pathetic losers at Open Mike night at the comedy club. Hell, I have more talent in my big toe than them. I'm really glad that one bitch ran off the stage crying. She was almost as bad as the Detroit Tigers.//[1]

As she tried to sit up, a wave of nausea overcame her, sending rivulets of vomit all over the Mustang's interior and her clothes. She lunged for the car's door and fell headfirst onto the concrete. Dripping spittle from her mouth, the binge drinker managed to prop herself up against the rear fender, her head lolling from side to side. She pondered if gouging out her eyes, pouring lighter fluid into the empty sockets, and setting them afire would have been more fun than puking her guts out.

A security guard, a man of Hindu descent, witnessed the drunken display as he locked the door to the parking lot security station. "What a fucktard," he remarked disdainfully on his way to his car. He mused that people like that must have better things to do with their lives.

Having parked a short distance away, Akabane approached the unsuspecting target with the silent grace of a panther stalking its prey in the jungle night. He looked forward to missions like this in which he could indulge his passion for killing. //It would have been more exciting if Ginji-kun had been involved. But our paths didn't cross today.// His eyes glimmered at the prospects of encountering Amano Ginji another day.

Three blades manifested from his gloved hand as he swooped down on the female thief at an eye-blurring rate of speed. With keen alacrity, he slashed the victim with the scalpels, leaving his trademark, a crimson "J", engraved on her chest. Blood spurted from the torso like a comet racing through space.

The thief felt a swift puncture in her chest from Akabane's incision and her eyes fluttered open to see a rapidly descending darkness. The last thought that crossed her mind was that her death had been just like her life, boring.

Dr Jackal waved to the trucker to bring the semi over in order to load the recovered Mustang into the trailer. Mr. No-Brake jump-started the convertible and drove it up a ramp that extended down from the trailer. For a brief moment, he imagined himself behind the wheel of the sports car, speeding down a winding round with the wind ruffling his hair and the radio blasting.

"Magaruma-san," Akabane's voice called out, ending the trucker's reverie. "We have one more job to do," the debonair killer said, indicating the corpse.

Mr. No-brake nodded and returned with some ropes and gloves from the semi. He found a broken block of concrete from a parking lot barrier nearby and tied the block to the feet of the dead body. Dragging the corpse to the water's edge, he hefted it and tossed the weighted body into the harbor with a thudding splash. A small crimson stream spread across the water's surface, its pattern reminding Akabane of a surreal painting he had seen in a Tokyo museum. The watery art would soon be dissipated by the outgoing tide. Chuckling, he wondered if he could create masterpieces using blood on a canvas instead of paint.

With a satisfied expression, he glanced at his companion and the two men headed back to the semi. Within an hour, they had returned to the Honky Tonk as night fell. Hevn directed the trucker to deliver the convertible to another location and told him that his compensation would be deposited in his bank account the next day. With a loud blast from its horn, the truck departed to transport the car back to its rightful owner.

Dr Jackal entered the pub to confer with Hevn and Paul. "It's disappointing that Ban-kun and Ginji-kun were at the beach. I look forward to seeing them again," the stylish man stated in a suave yet menacing tone. Waving farewell, he strolled out of the Honky Tonk and into the Shinjuku night.

The End

Author's Notes

[1] In 2003, the Detroit Tigers are on course to be the worst team in baseball history as they threaten to eclipse the infamy of the 1962 New York, who lost 120 games.

[2] Dedication to Enigma. Acting on behalf of the Llama Legions, Akabane dispatches excitement-seeking morons who proclaim themselves literary critics.