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Chapter Eight
Scars
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“Sir, please move.”
It didn’t do any good. Not even grabbing him and shaking him produced any reaction, his mind far too absorbed in its new favorite pastime of wallowing in guilt. Eventually two of the disgruntled nurses were able to drag him away from the window and seat him on a bench just opposite of it, and over the course of nearly five minutes he finally subconsciously recognized he was sitting in a hospital hallway, staring at a blank wall.
But his eyes still saw Tone.
The agonized screams, the thrashing figure of his friend paying no heed to the flames licking across his body, focusing entirely on his inability to remove the powerful mask he once freely wore, so fused to his skin had it become.
And now, lying in a hospital bed in critical condition, his head encased in an oxygen tent, with no one allowed inside, all Ren could do was stare at him through the glass pane embedded in the door, even as the wall his eyes now stared into threatened to bring him out of his depressed reverie.
But he couldn’t allow that to happen. This was all his fault somehow — he just had to find the proof for it. Wild dead, Race dead, Tone about to die, and-
“You.” The commanding voice from his left finally drew the last traces of Tone’s condition from his mind, although much against his wishes. “You will listen without speaking. After that, you will reply.”
He was a powerful figure, despite being only six-foot-four, he felt like a giant. His gaunt limbs began in wide shoulders and ended in muscular hands, and his well-defined facial features were absolutely covered in tattoos, almost resembling some horrid demonic mask of their own, with long horns in the design running across his scalp and temples. There was barely anywhere on his whole head that lacked tattooing of some kind.
“You are Ren Fukushi.” The giant commanded, as if Ren now had to be himself for the rest of his life. “I am Oisim Makuei. Now we know each other. Now we understand.”
The peculiarity of his word choice finally drew Ren’s tired eyes toward the character, not visibly intimidated by his presence nor his stature. “What do you want…?”
“Their lives.” A large hand rested on Ren’s shoulder, the perpetual scowl remained viscerally present on Oisim’s face, waiting for the only unharmed member of the Renegade Masks’s tired mind to figure out what exactly he said. Adrenaline rushing into his system, Ren swiped the hand off his shoulder, jumping diagonally off the bench and landing in a ready stance, reaching into his open jacket for his mask.
It wasn’t there.
“You are looking for this.” Oisim turned his hand upwards, revealing the wolf mask. “I do not intend to keep it from you. Know that I could have worn it myself.” It was casually tossed into the air, with Ren cradling it in his hands as it fell towards him. “Ren Fukushi. I want the lives of your friends. Possibly more than any of them. Possibly more than you.”
“…What do you mean?” Ren’s eyes finally lifted from off the mask and onto the hard face of his visitor.
“We discuss.” The large figure turned with a beckoning gesture, and only after walking nearly the entire length of the hall turned around to see if he would follow. Ren felt the bandages around his head, as if a little pressure and gauze would undo a concussion. Could he really afford to simply walk away from Tone and place his life into the hands of this brutish stranger?
I don’t seem to have much of a choice. He jogged over, joining Oisim in the elevator as they descended below. The slow descent was completely silent, leaving Ren to hyperfocus on what exactly he might say next.
“Your leader had vision.” The giant spoke, his words as friendly and heartfelt as a block of ice with a knife inside. “He knew exactly where to strike the evil of this nation to make it bleed. Had he continued to live, he would have driven organized crime out of Japan forever.”
Stepping through a large metal door held open for him by a suited individual with thick sunglasses, he gestured for Ren to follow. “The wicked ones found the Demon mask somehow — they planned to use the power of the eyes to make a pact; to command him to do their will. Be prepared for what you are about to see.”
Ren turned towards the glass and nearly cried out in… Fear? Anguish? The word to describe his reaction seemed impossible to find. There, in the center of the room, Race lay on an operating table, practically smothered in medical cloths, the only part of her body even remotely discernible aside from her face was her exposed stomach, and this was impossible for Ren to properly see, but what did meet his eyes was a metal ring, flayed outwards at the top, attached to the ceiling by numerous mechanical arms, with all sorts of complex pneumatic devices running from it down to the cavity being operated on by seven or eight surgeons, all contributing in one fashion or another.
“She will live.” Oisim grunted, his hands folded in front of him, his knuckles nearly touching the glass. “She lost her stomach and her entire intestinal tract. This system will only do so much. She will need to unfold it every time she eats.”
“This does nothing.” His brows shot downwards until his eyes were encased in shadow. Ren had thrown a vicious punch at the glass out of frustration, but the massive hand of his unsociable host had swung out and caught the fist before it could make contact. “You will only harm yourself.”
“Do you have any idea how tempting that option is right now?” Ren growled, his body unsure whether to start generating tears or more adrenaline. “I could’ve prevented this, I could’ve… The entire team is either dead or on death’s row. Wild is gone. I could’ve done something…”
Ren’s eyes went wide for a moment, possibly due to his lack of experience suddenly being ten feet in the air and possibly due to the massive muscular hand now holding him by the throat. A look much more dangerous than any Ren had thrown around was present for a moment, but he was lowered just a second after, the large hands of Oisim straightening Ren’s collar for him and dusting off his shoulders.
“You did not kill them.” The giant spoke calmly, his eyebrows flattening as neutrally as could be managed with his facial structure, as he put way more effort into Ren’s collar than he himself had ever done in his entire life. “But you cannot leave it at that. There is a gaping wound in this city, Ren Fukushi, and we must cleanse it.”
“Or else the same monsters that did this will do it again.” One hand rested on Ren’s shoulder, the weight alone pushing his joint down, while the other swung towards the glass. “This power will go unchecked. Thousands would die. Japan would descend into chaos.”
“I have arranged a position for you at my legal operation.” Oisim strode past Ren, his hands calmly folding behind his back. “All records of you and your allies having ever been here will be eliminated in approximately sixteen hours. There is a safehouse your masks can reside at. It has the very best in medical technology hidden there. The rest of my resources are at your disposal.”
“Why… Why do you care?” Ren turned towards him, feeling his suddenly not sloppily thrown-together collar. “Why do you want a vigilante group running around if you’re still partaking in illegal activities?”
“What would you have sacrificed to save your Wild?” The cold voice replied.
Ren didn’t answer.
“Then,” Oisim rotated his head back, one domineering eyeball looking viciously out of its socket at the weary Renegade. “Do not ask me my price to avenge him.”
Ren still didn’t answer, glancing towards the bottom of the doorframe as Oisim left. After several minutes of silence, he slowly removed Rook from his pocket, wordlessly angling him towards the glass.
The silence would still be ringing for many months after.
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