[CENTER][sup][h1][b][INDENT][color=black] S H I M A D A[/color] [color=F8EF00]S H I M A D A[/color][/INDENT] [/b][/h1][/sup][/CENTER] [CENTER][sup][h1][b][INDENT][color=black]Obligation[/color] [color=F8EF00]Obligation[/color][/INDENT] [/b][/h1][/sup][/CENTER] [CENTER] [img]https://cdnb.artstation.com/p/assets/images/images/033/072/787/4k/marthe-jonkers-japantown4.jpg?1608308423[/img] [/CENTER] [I]There are such things as duty and obligation[/I] Her duty had been to the Clan, to the Corporation. Her obligation was to the murdered ghosts of her family. -------------------------------------------------------------- “You’ve outdone yourself, Marshall.” The grin of approval dripped with grim promise, not for the initial target of the expression, but for the bounty provided on the evening, yet another in the long run of endless evenings in Night City. “What can I say? Militech looks after allies and employees alike.” The grin was met with a rather more respectful nod. Around the pair bright lights shone and music blared, a sensory overload designed to entice and overwhelm. The Bodukkan Centre was the most prestigious performing arts centre on the West Coast, but those currently present weren’t so interested in the world famous Kabuki performances as they were simply revelling in one of the most exclusive settings in Night City. The Kabuki performers were so committed to their art that each had undergone cosmetic and cybernetic work to allow them to appear as their time honoured roles at all times, the great princes, princesses and demons of Japanese mythology. People paid a fortune to watch them before. They paid more for their private attention. Until recently such a boon was something only the Kansaki family could bestow, usually for the sort of price which dealt in favours rather than eddies. The unspoken bond between the Kansaki Clan and Arasaka had been so widely known that it would be inaccurate to refer to it as secret, a bond that had been shattered both by the extermination of the Clan’s members and dealings in Night City and the collapse of much of Arasaka’s waning influence. Now the Bodukkan had changed from exclusive to simply ludicrously expensive. The multi-tiered lobby and its various bars had been converted into a riotous display of colour and sound, for the limited time of the evening becoming the most desired night club in a city renowned for its many nightly escapes. Banners of silk descended from the ceiling through the central stairwell, performers turning and spinning across them in displays of grace and athleticism. While impressive, they were not performers from the centre itself, they were here to revel alongside the few outsiders permitted to join the end of show party. Each of the Kabuki were a work of art, graceful slender bodies in a crescendo of augmented colour, each securing yet further funding for their performance with the press of their forms against those willing to spend the eddies to be here. “Never in doubt, but it’s always nice to see what you have to offer when you’re trying to impress.” Henry Renham had been a dedicated member of Yorinobu’s faction within Arasaka. He’d not cared much for the principles of the man, he’d simply been in it to make the most money in the least time. He’d certainly achieved that, helping to orchestrate the violence which had consumed the company, before jumping ship and avoiding the economic downturn most of ‘Saka were feeling right now. Militech needed someone to help orchestrate their takeover of the excess weight Arasaka was being forced to shed, to know what was dead weight and what was worth seizing. Renham was one of those men, vultures picking at the bones of a slaughtered whale. For the moment, he sat with a rather more long term employee of the company, Curt Tyfield, nominally Militech’s Night City Head of Onboarding. In reality, he was their bribe guy, and he was doing a good job of it. The pair sat in a booth beside one of the circle bars, watching the party like sharks over a shoal. The sparkling wine they shared carried a value above the city’s median salary and they barely took a sip. Through the cascade of noise, colour and motion, Renham’s eyes finally honed in on something of interest. Slowly climbing the circular stairway blazed a note of red and gold among the sea of cooler colours. The woman was dressed as Amaterasu, the goddess of the Sun and most sacred role among the Kabuki. As with many of the performers the outfit was a blend of their traditional costumes and clubwear. This woman’s lent towards the former, a fan of gold extending from her collar portrayed the rising sun, the long sweeping gown she wore alike to the ceremonial version of the outfit save for a few details, the most noteworthy of which for the man watching her being the plunging face of the dress, a display of decolletage that spoke far more of Night City then it did traditional Japan. “Plump for a dancer.” The voice of the other man in the booth pulled Renham from his leering, shrugging only slightly in recognition. It was true enough, the rigorous Kabbuki performances forged slim athletic builds, what Renham could see of the woman’s form could certainly be considered athletic, but not alike with the petite forms around her. “Probably self conscious then, perfect.” His grin returned, pushing to a sneer as he stood, adjusting his cufflinks as he did so. “See you on the other side.” “Happy fucking.” —------------------------------- They had danced for longer than he had liked, the teasing obscuring silk of her gown rustling against him as they moved together. That had thrilled him though, the hunt was almost more important than the prize to him, and she seemed to have sussed that out soon enough. He’d have commended her intelligence had he no intention of becoming a long term supporter of the Kabukki. Clearly she was looking to secure her position in the troupe, a wealthy backer might be enough to fend off any criticism she might receive for having the ‘wrong physique.’ He’d happily take advantage and forget about her the next morning. All that teasing ended how he knew it would, however, with a slamming door as she pulled him into the rest room, delicate hands dancing across his form as she spurred him onwards. She thudded back against the sink, hopping herself up to sit on the shelf of marble as her legs wrapped around him. The feel of her thighs was taught and firm, giving further clues as to the physique she concealed within the flowing gowns of silk, already his head lowering to where her gown resolutely failed to conceal the curves of her form. She murmured something to him as his ear passed the plump press of her lips. He anticipated some sweet nothing in her mother tongue, he knew some Japanese after all, but the word was unfamiliar and her frowned, mumbling for her to repeat herself, like he cared what she had to say, as he continued his descent. “Shin Kanzaki.” “What?” “My father’s name.” Realisation didn’t dawn through the lust obscured mind of the man even as her legs tightened further, he remained dumbfounded as he felt something sharp dig around the shard port beside his ear. Confusion had barely turned to concern before his vision blurred and his world became pain. Shimada twisted with her legs, sending them crashing to the ground. With the pull of a strap at her back the gown fell away from her, revealing the bodyglove beneath. Black with red accents, pulled down at the front to be invisible despite the gown she had worn. It was Arasaka made, the synthweave suit providing great connectivity between her, her implants, and weapons. In this case, with the shard-spike in her hands currently plunged into the writhing male’s skull, pulling every Militech code from him with little care for preserving the mind it was ripped from. Between the convulses of his form he swore at her, calling her a thousand names she had no doubt heard before, mixed in were of course a deluge of threats, about the mistake she was making, how he was going to end her, how Militech were about to burn this place to the ground. She didn’t need to explain to him, but she did anyway. His dear friend Curt was likely already dead. Militech was not welcome in Japantown, it had been their error to ever think otherwise. It would be months before Militech even knew they were dead. The centre hadn’t been funded by Arasaka for years without them having access to some of the best dataclones in the business. Everything they were was being copied and faked, just like what was happening to him now. With a delicate touch, she eased the contact of the spike with his skull, allowing him just enough consciousness to behold her features smiling down above him from behind the mask of makeup, the vengeful smile of a Sun goddess. “When the howling ghosts pull apart your soul, know that Shin’s daughter did her duty.” He didn’t manage another word, the chime in her ear denoting that the access codes had been successfully copied, with a push of augmented force, her palm drove the dataspike through the port and into his skull. It broke the instrument, but it also drove a short circuiting metal implement into the man’s brain. She wasn’t sure if it was the shock or the blow killing him, but when she left him, writing in dying spasms tangled in the silk of what had been her gown, she didn’t much care. Duty and Obligation. The Kabbuki had an obligation to her from the long years of her family’s support. She had a duty to protect them in turn, as the last of her family upon the continent. By the time Militech knew two of their own had perished, a fake data trail would lead back to a mugging not far from here. It was pretty impressive what you could do these days, with modified braindances. She zipped up the front of her suit as she moved, sending an electrified shiver through her as the neural interface registered the greater connection, no longer interrupted by the span of bare cleavage. With a blink-command, a hood extended from the back of the body glove, concealing her features, as she pushed through a fire escape, out onto the exposed runways which allowed emergency descent from the higher levels of the performance centre. It had been raining, the metal gril of the walkway slick with the industrially tainted precipitation falling on the city. Her dexterity could account for it, but it didn’t have to, the texture of her bodyglove modifying on contact with the slick surface as she took hold of the rail, before swinging down to the next level, and the next. It was unnecessarily showy, but the kill had been easy and she needed some activity to burn away the feeling of an hour spent with the man’s hands on her. Her father’s killer. Her victim. With only a slight splash she landed in an alleyway, avoiding anything too foul smelling as a landing site, before carrying on, pressing a finger to her ear piece to begin a call. “Wakako, this is Shimada, you can pass on to this ‘Eddie’ that I have the codes. The trail is cold for now, but the longer we wait it’s going to get hot pretty fast.” A voicemail, but she had no doubt the elderly woman would act on it. Normally a fixer wouldn’t pass on work to another fixer, but the Tyger Claws were another group with a duty to Kanzaki, and an obligation to her. The second call she made picked up on the second ring. “Hey Shim, how was the show?” The cheery voice of her housemate, Kelly, picked up. “Oh, not bad, not quite as good as I expected though.” “Shame, I knew you were looking forward to that for a while.” “Oh well, I’m going to pick up dinner on the way home, want something? I’m feeling something greasy and terribly American.”