-By Virtue of Reflection

Music twinkled into the far corners of the night, shop lights gained an other worldly halo as excessive moisture in the air soft supplanted a bit of divinity in the mortal realm. The ghostly echoes of chimes, the soft pervasive warble of the flute's and the sudden bright chords of the samisen's strings. A young voice began to sing a wordless tune, a high lilting sound that bathed the room in local color. A few folk resting at tables gathered gathered at the establishment to watch the show and partake in food and drink. Towards the middle of the men of more serious color gathered to talk of sophisticated matters; of business and politics.

Winding through passed the kitchen there was the strips of near translucent fabric garnished with the lotus emblem upon its silken surface. Here a small room, brightly lit with a plethora of candles and paper lanterns was a single chair of plush red, a shocking contrast to the white walled room's austere fueng shui. Here a thin, yet physical frame sat backwards upon the chair, the face absent from view capped by a head full of dark, unruly hair leaned against the headrest, as a cheek was pressed strongly against it. Around him hovered an aging man, who's features resembled the map of some mountainous region; all milky crags and fissures, age worn dried up river beds. The lower portion of the elder's face was concealed by an attached garment, and an apron graced his bare chest. His exposed skin was covered with a wide and colorful array of tattoos depicting heroic figures, graceful serpents, terrifying oni and a number of various figures. The thin athletic body nearby bent over the chair was similarly inked. In the elder's hand's a row of thin needles were worked between his fingers while he hovered over a small table, covered with additional needles and small pots of ink. His voice, cracked and aged created a mantra for the other to follow.

Many moons ago, it was customary for those on the edge of society to ink their clan's traditions onto their skin to preserve the histories, so that the generations that follow would know of their roots. This was done all across our lands when my great, great grandfather was just a boy. Many generations has my family done this inking. There is a Tao to our arts. It is more than simply poking the body with ink. One must have pride as an artist...and the humility of a man, in contact with the divine.

As he spoke, he worked the needles now into the back of the figure before him. Meanwhile on the chair, knuckles sporting the kanji 8-9-3 etched into the grooved surface, gripped the upholstery suddenly as the needles slipped in. Elsewhere, the drums suddenly kicked in, as the music in the room beyond was taken in new directions. To this rhythm the elder continued,

The process of the inking was time consuming, and became a part of the ritual. Some pieces would result in more than a hundred hours of accumulated time, but would symbolize generations of a clan's history. This was their way of preserving the past....

This continued for some time. It was after the elder with his back to the transparent curtain, felt its rustle that his topic and rhythm changed. His deft hands stopped their intricate artistry as his rustic voice croaked out at the body below him. Some unknown presence must have lurked nearby for only now did this setting seem any other way than what appeared to be a youth getting his body inked in a matter or rebellion and receiving a history lesson from a veteran tattooist. Now though at a glance, this scene was far too out of place when placed against the backdrop of the venue, a Entertainment & Restaurant known for its live music and dancing. To add the additional mysterious back room, with aged ink-workers and hard looking young men, now by virtue of reflection, would truth be revealed.

"What is it they want of me, Tayuem-Dono?"

They want you to join, dear boy. They want you to join.

The Rain. There was something magical, and mystical about a place that is always raining. The vibrant quality of all the lights, the constant sound of falling water. There's also something miserable about a place constantly drenched in a downpour. A figure stood from a rooftop, gazing out at the hectic city around him. Below he could see the traffic as the many denizens made their way too and fro. A youthful face watched all of this, framed by the hood of the rain coat he wore. Rivulets of water ran down the creases of everything, along his face down in the winkles of his clothing. He was constantly bombarded by water. His face up till now had been intent, yet serene as he looked on, however just then, it became pinched and active as his lips curled into a teeth clenching snarl.

Toe-less boots suddenly shifted and there came a flash of motion as bronze colored clothing suddenly sprang into movement. He leaped off his tall perch and sailed out into the air, revealing an impressive and extremely fatal expanse of space between himself and the ground far, far below. His body sailed like a senbon outward and an outstretched hand caught an extended railing. He swung. Boots hit mortar and quickly rebounded off again. he was a bronze and black blur of motion, constantly swinging, diving and rolling through the concrete obstacle course laid out before him. The rain made things dangerous, so dangerous and every potential surface threatened failure. But he kept his forward momentum and leaped on, like some large urban primate, swinging through a city if metal, mortar and re-bar.

He reflected, Shinobi...., the elders words echoed back to him, We want you to join dear boy. To join., these thoughts raced through his head as he wondered at the gears turning around him. What could they be up to? Why did they need him? His feet hit gravel and he slid quite harshly to a roof's edge, peering over it to the gap beyond. To himself, to the rain, and to the world beyond, he uttered the following stanza:

"Oh what a day! What evil looks I had from old and young---
The Albatross about my neck was hung..."

As he gazed out across the expanse of his city, drowned in a constant torrential downpour, he became aware of rumbling, and it wasn't thunder. The ground vibrated every softly beneath his feet as something somewhere shuddered and shook the ground. Moments passed as eyes furrowed together in surprise at this mild curiosity. As rain continued to flow down the folds of his raincoat, the continuous soft patter of droplets innumerable created a constant drum of noise.

For several moments this continued and then......FLASH!

Something caught the corner of his eye, drawing his attention instantly to where a sudden burst of orange fire and light glittered off the glass of window panes some distance away. Almost immediately after followed the roar of a deafening concussion as the sound of the explosion caught up through the downpour. Smoke erupted and rose like angry serpents towards the cloud covered sky. As the light from the flash carried and cast shadows across his features, he reached up and pulled the hood back, letting the rain drench his face. He was vaguely aware that somewhere in the back of his mind, the incident occurred near where his partner lived. And he leaped, sailing out once more into the impressive abyss, his new found direction, carrying him in the direction of the disturbance.

"Down in the dark, feeble and weak
With the garbage dank and reek
Such truths we are blind, and must seek
Down into the gutter...the kingdom...of the meek."

Picked up Here -