Tokyo
At 2,080 feet the Tokyo Skytree is the tallest structure in Tokyo, and Japan by default. From where I'm squatting atop of it, the entire city is spread out before me. 13.6 million people in the city, three times that amount if you include the metro area. To think, she started out as two fishing huts in the twelfth century. I remember seeing her devastated by firebombs 80 years ago. Every night American bombers flew overhead and rained down destruction. Hundreds of thousands died in the fires and entire parts of the city were erased from the map. Considering what happened to my other children during the war, Tokyo got off light. It makes me a proud father to see how much she’s recovered in the decades since. I know she’s proud..
You see, the city speaks to me. I don't mean in that poetic license way that singer-songwriters wail about, I mean literally. Tokyo is speaking to me right now. A building two blocks away says it has rusted rebar in its foundation. A nightclub in Roppongi whispers out warning Yakuza gangsters are there to torch the place. The subway train at Shimbashi Station is proud to announce that it has arrived a full five seconds ahead of schedule. The train at Mitsukoshimae Station accuses the train at Shimbashi of being a show-off.
Before I could intervene in the squabbling, the hair on the back of my neck started to prickle. Halfway across the city, lamp posts and mailboxes were calling for help. I leapt from the top of the tower and fell through the air at speeds approaching terminal velocity.
The ground was rapidly approaching when I held my hand out. The street split open in a portal just as I hit the road. A half of a second later, I popped out into the street at the other end of town and fell into a warzone. Tokyo Metropolitan Police were in the middle of a shootout with men firing semi-automatic weapons from behind the safety of a minivan. The city hissed that the men fighting were interlopers.
“避難する!” one of the police officers shouted at me in Japanese.
I ignored his order to evacuate and instead leapt into the air. I caught the top of a lampost in my hands and swung my body upwards. My bare feet found purchase on the top of the post and looked down at the scene below.
Four men in suits wearing balaclavas and firing AK47’s took turns blasting off suppressing fire to keep the police in tactical gear at bay.
~They stole from me, Lord Hawksmoor,~ an old and distinguished voice whispered into my ear, patrician in both its tone and disdain.
~They destroyed my vault, tied up my patrons, and robbed me. 2 billion Yen.~The voice belonged to the Shoko Chukin Bank, one of the country’s oldest and most prestigious financial institutions. I know very little about money – never needed it – but I know a big number when I hear it.
I waved my hand and opened up another portal. I leapt through it and came out of the portal feet first behind the group of bank robbers. I drove one of the gunmen into the back of the van with my feet before flipping to the top of the van to face the other three. A hail of bullets ripped into me, knocking me back off the van and down into the street with a dull thud.
I wasn’t dead. God’s can die, but not from gunfire. Doesn’t mean we can’t feel pain. And getting tagged with fifteen or so rounds of automatic gunfire was indeed painful. No blood was drawn, but there was plenty of bruising and coughing. While I lay on the street and tried to catch my breath, I heard it.
SHICK
Shouts from the bank robbers in a language that was definitely not Japanese, followed by gunfire. There was the sharp snicker-snack of a blade striking bone and ripping through flesh. A cry of pain from one of the men and I stood up and saw her.
Behind her was one of the gunmen on his knees, a bloody stump where his left hand had once been. The two remaining robbers aimed for her, but she moved like lightning. In an instant, both men were on the ground with severed hands.
“Who the hell are you?” I asked.
She remained silent as she sheathed her swords and walked up to one of the bleeding, moaning men. He said something that I recognized as German, but it was mumbled. She withdrew her blade again and put it to the bleeding man’s throat. The two exchanged words in German, but I was distracted. My eyes went to one of the severed hands. The cut had been surgical and smooth. I crouched down to examine the hand. It had been severed just below the wrist. Wrapped around the wrist was a tattoo, one that led to the palm and showed the green and black of a hissing cobra.
For the first time in over a millenia, I felt uneasy. I recognized that symbol, what it stood for, and who was behind it. Cold sweat began to form on my back and slowly roll down. That snake, brought me back to Egypt, a blood red solar eclipse, plagues of locust, and the end of the world...
“Katana, at ease,” a voice barked from behind me. I stood and turned.
An American man wearing a suit and tie stood with an unlit cigarette dancing at the corner of his mouth. Flanking him on both sides were the police. Tokyo's finest and enough weapons to retake the Philippines were locked on to me. The American looked at me and raised an eyebrow.
“Hmmm, pretty underwhelming,” he said. A small smile danced on his lips as he spoke. “I would figure the God of Cities would strike a more intimidating figure. Mr. Hawksmoor, my name is Sarge Steel. Can I interest you in a little chat?”