[h1][img]http://i1383.photobucket.com/albums/ah281/Q-C0ntinuum/BlessedWraith%20Weaver%20-%20Copy_zps7aq7ebmi.jpg[/img] BlessedWrath (Weaver)[/h1]
[h2]Masaru[/h2]
Masaru reflected on his choices as he traced his path down one of the dirtier side-streets of the city. He could hear Sensei's voice as he placed each foot.

[i]"You are weak, student! Your mind is distant! Pay attention!"[/i]

Then came the bamboo across the soles of his feet. He always remembered to pay attention, whether Sensei admitted it or not. That was the intent of the lesson. The world may never acknowledge your efforts, but as long as you do...that is something no one can take from you. Masaru deliberately placed each foot with that memory in full bloom, and he chanced a half-smile.

He was passing into rough territory. The last report of Sam's and Christian's whereabouts placed them somewhere in the abandoned warehouse districts, and that was well-known ganger territory. He knew the going would be tough. Yet, this was not unexpected. Masaru knew that no adverse condition would befall an Innocent at random. There had to be a cause. In fact, the entire universe was an infinite clockwork of interconnected causes and effects. That Sam and Christian were abducted were no surprise to him. It was only who had taken them that perplexed him.

"The fuck [i]you[/i] want, Chink?" a man demanded of him. Masaru did not bother taking in the stereotypical layout of his meager encampment. He already saw a thousand ends to the battle, at least half of which involved burning the man's face with his own barrel. Instead, he shrugged and played stupid.

"Jus' a try too to get-a-by," he offered meekly, in his most exaggerated Chinese accent. He cast a forlorn glance at the barrel, which was admittedly the only source of heat in the local area. The African-American man scowled, but took a step back to allow him room.

"Wha's y'name?" he demanded of his would-be immigrant guest.

"My name-a Lee," Masaru expertly lied. "They say I get work making clothes. I get here...I no get work. I get...something else."

Masaru cast his eyes down; the surest sign of submission. Coupled with rampant stereotyping of Chinese culture, the man who shared his barrel simply assumed it was out of dishonor.

"Lemme guess. You finally get here, an' they won' give you shit. They shove you in the back of a warehouse an' expec' you t'
start pumpin' out miracles."

Masaru simply nodded. The man looked around, then shifted closer to Masaru.

"What if I told you there was another way of gettin' work?"

Masaru made his eyes brighter. Submission was key. He wanted this man to trust him implicitly.

"You get me work?"

"Sheeeeeeeet, man, I can get you work to-night."

Just show me where, Masaru thought. Let me get within ten meters of that labor ring, and I'll find them both.

"Place is just off the docks, corner of East and Shepherd. Tell 'em you're 'lookin' for honest work'. They'll get y'set up."

Masaru wore his most legitimate gratitude as he bowed to the black man. "Thank'a'you, aaahmerrricaaan."

The slave trade was booming in New York. A missing girl, no headlines, and no police actions? He was in precisely the right place. The cops would find Jimmy Hoffa before ever finding the missing Charlies. But Masaru had a chance...