Welcome to Tokyo, Japan. January, 1991. The world has entered the technology era, portable phones, home computers, internet, video games. Japan quickly became the epicenter of the latest and greatest. Companies and factories flourished. Where money was, people followed. And while many rose to live a comfortable, happy, and delightful life from this new found money... Others did not. You see, money has this effect on people that can't be outdone. People will do anything for it. And when it starts slipping into the wrong hands, it's impossible to stop. Benethe the day time laborers and the double-shift workers, a seedy underbelly of syndicates exists. Narctics, black market, organized crime, money laundering, you name it and it's been growing as fast as the upper world economy. While many do it just to stay alive, there's those who make it their posh lifestyle. Either way, there's only one question. What would you do if the money was good enough?
JAN 29 2021: Welcome!! ƎLEMENT has been open for two weeks now and we're so happy to see such a bright beginning! If you're new feel free to drop into the discord and say hi before joining.
[attr="class","seiichipost-lyrics"] show me your colors
[attr="class","seiichipost-body"]Hysteria was a pain in the ass.
Seiichi was no stranger to night clubs. Most of his business was conducted in them, and while every club in Japan had their own gimmick, they all boiled down to the same throngs of drunks and junkies, the same overpriced bars, the same ear-blasting music. He’d arrived a little earlier on his own, not bothering to come with an escort as the knowledge of his inventory alone was like blood in a pool of sharks. In minutes, he found himself circled.
One shmuck—Ryo if he could recall, though the guy kept calling himself Petrol for some reason—keeps slapping him on the shoulder, cackling about some inane thing his fellow clubmate had done five minutes ago, all while parroting questions about discounts and LSD tablets. That’s when Seiichi gets up, cutting off the laughter from their group of two-faced hyenas, and decides to get a drink.
He’s heading towards the bar when his body collides with someone else, and he’s graced with a sudden shower of water and ice cubes. He blinks away the water, finding his face, some of his dyed hair, and most of the front of his band shirt now soaked. He bristles immediately, having already had his patience tested, and turns to the culprit.
The klutz is some strange fellow with a face caked in makeup and neon blue hairs. The stranger bumbles, their words cut by the background music and sounding oddly as if they were accusing him for the spill.
His hand by his side flexes its fingers, before clenching tightly into a fist.
His glare does a 180, as if a switch is flipped, expression melting into something amiable. “Not much of a Bauhaus fan, hm?” He chuckles, pulling at his soaked collar. The white fabric of the shirt and its monochrome print has suctioned itself to his chest. He feels like tossing this guy over the bar.
“Can you take me somewhere I can change?” he asks. His voice is clear over the music, sure of itself and as casual as an old friend, but the look in his eyes is cork board pin-sharp. His aura is off. He expects an answer.
[attr="class","seiichipost-lyrics"] show me your colors
[attr="class","seiichipost-body"]For a moment, there’s nothing but the patter of rain against concrete. Their mouth trembles from the cold he can ignore, but there isn’t an ounce of fight at his demand; they part their lips and accept it even from a stranger’s fingers. Unlike his earlier smiles, his mouth doesn’t stretch, but his contentment is apparent in the crinkles under his eyes and the slightest upturn of lip.
Something warm curls inside him. It feels an awful lot like endearment, the feeling you get when you meet something so exceptionally helpless, but there’s a territorial instinct woven between the cracks. He resolves, then, that even if this one were involved in a rival gang or working for someone else, he would take them regardless.
“You’re a docile one,” He hums, pressing the pill onto their tongue. His hand returns to cushioning his chin, the other still holding the plastic bag. He waits for them to swallow while silently tapping the covered pills with one finger, thinking, observing.
His other hand raises the bag. “You want more, don’t you?” It takes Vicodin nearly an hour to settle in, half that on an empty stomach, and that’s not taking into consideration a higher tolerance. That little 10mg pill modifies how the body reacts to pain, granting considerable relief and the high sensation so many crave.
Assuming it’s enough.
His sneakers scratch against the ground. He stands casually, abruptly, with the bag dangling like a pendulum in his hand. While he could spend the rest of the day there, squatting with an addict and hand-feeding them opioids in an alleyway under the rain, he’d gotten bored of the scenery and was starting to miss his home and his wider array of tools.
His eyes rove over them once more, head tilted down to stare from the elevation. “I can give you more. The pills, a warm bed, money... safety. In exchange, you work for me.” He doesn’t elaborate; the job is simple, they should know what it entails, but his tone near the end is final. It is the sound of a gavel hitting sound block. Seiichi, who was raised alone and ritually monopolized his guardian’s attention for 20 years, did not fucking share.
He tilts his head to the side, ever so slightly. Hair sticks around his face, rainwater dribbling down the tresses in little streams. “What do you say?”
[attr="class","seiichipost-lyrics"] show me your colors
[attr="class","seiichipost-body"]Ka-tsu-ki. He rolls that name around, rolls it as his fingers do to the pill in his grasp. It’s a nice name. He muses, finding the contrast between the meaning of the name and the person it’s for rather funny. Their parents must have had high hopes for them.
There’s a slight raise of his brows at the sight of their smile. Had hearing his name pleased them? Offering first names off the bat is atypical by Japanese etiquette; he’s too impatient for the conventions, and this stranger is clever to follow suit. Without a surname, it will be hard to track their family.
The light is snuffed as they move on to answer his other question, and he feels a bout of genuine pity. Not for the condition they suffer—although it did sound excruciating, and in combination with their psoriasis, arthritis, and their general state of disrepair, it was truly a wonder how they could stand to be conscious, let alone sober—but for the tedium the questioning brought them. The look on his face is almost sympathetic: he understood that gnawing boredom, connected to the desire for catharsis through insobriety.
“Plenty,” he admits. “I still have questions. But I'm not that cruel.” His voice is gentle. They’ve been very good so far; they’ve answered all his questions perfectly. As obedient and clever as a teacher’s pet. He feels inclined to give them a reward.
Obedience is commendable and it comes in many forms. Answering questions is easy. His hand itches to test—to pull that obedience taut and see where it snaps. But you don’t throw a fresh mouse into the most complex maze. You observe, you take note, and you up the difficulty one step at a time.
His hand moves towards Katsuki, stopping with the pill tightly pinched between its fingers, right up to their lips. “Open your mouth.” He watches, curious to see if they’ll follow the order or rebuke it.
Admittedly, he’s also curious to see their reaction to the drug. One surely wouldn't be enough. How many? How much would it take for the euphoria to turn into nauseating sedation?
[attr="class","seiichipost-lyrics"] show me your colors
[attr="class","seiichipost-body"]They confirm recognizing the drug in his hand but he’s not waiting for words—he’s waiting for a bite. First is the softening of their features, the relaxing of their body in Pavlovian response to the bag, then comes the lean. They move ever so slightly forwards as if tugged by a line. Catch of the day.
For as brief as their encounter has been, he’s gathered some decent initial data. It’s confirmed their family is alive, but not estranged in the way he’d assumed. From the guilt laced in their fidgeting and their vehement defense, they still held that family close, but they’d been motivated to keep them at a distance—even without the details, it’s clear why.
Inwardly, Seiichi huffs. A little inconvenient, but not a dealbreaker. He can work with this. He can use this.
Then there’s their intelligence. He’s worked with too many mindless, desperate junkies. There’s something to be said by how surprised and pleased he is that their first reaction hadn’t been to try ripping the bag out of his hands. He’s too strong for that to work, but logic rarely drives those attempts.
This one, however. They talk in a way that doesn’t kill his senses. They think, despite the state of them and their fixation. His interest is clear when they mention ‘tip of the iceberg’, and he doesn’t move nor flinch as they draw closer, as their stare digs deeper into his. It makes him wish they'd just open their mouth. Such curiosity. Or was it wariness?
He smiles wide as they ask who he is. “Call me Seiichi,” he says, not Ziggurat or Sakugawa; Seiichi is the name he gives to people he intends to know—to keep. “And I’m sure you’re smart enough to guess what I do, considering I just whipped out a bag of Vicodin like fucking Houdini.” He laughs.
They cut right to the chase. He respects that. “So you know how this goes,” he says amiably, but the grin on his face takes on a new sharpness. His eyes continue to laugh. “Then you should also know that you don’t have much to offer.” Not a yen to them from the looks of their humble abode. He doubts they have connection or gang intel he’d need either, but he’ll confirm it soon.
There’s the sound of ripping. His nails shred a tiny hole in the bag. He raises a single little pill pinched between his index and middle finger, like a peace sign. “Let’s start with a name. And considering this is genuine Vicodin—” not the counterfeit shit they feed to idiots “—tell me what else ails you.”
[attr="class","seiichipost-lyrics"] show me your colors
[attr="class","seiichipost-body"]His answers come without any resistance. The sheep speaks with mechanical indifference, clearly having been asked to death about it, and he finds he doesn’t mind. While some fight can be entertaining at times, he’s filling out the handy little checklist in his head and he welcomes the effort that’s saved from not having to wrangle them out of this stranger’s throat.
Psoriasis. He feels like he’s heard of it before, from the trembling lips of one of his countless clients from around the world. Persistent conditions like these make it easy for people to fall into the pit that funds his business. They beg for relief every day of their lives, and this stranger is no different—perhaps even a shining example. It would be needless cruelty and an insult to his art to leave them here.
They demonstrate their creaking movements, and it is like watching a marionette. He can never empathize. This pain is beyond his scope, but that is part of why it intrigues him so deeply. He cannot feel it, only observe, and wonder. He wonders if this person is just as hollow as a marionette. Would he have to tie strings on them?
He welcomes their scrutiny with the same, unyielding smile. He knows he’s a strange fellow. They look as if they want to peek inside his head. If he could crack his skull open and show them, he would, just to see if they’d agree with his thoughts.
“I am. You aren’t without choices either, you know,” he hums. He finds he likes listening to them, however defeatist every word out of their mouth is. They’re funny. “You could’ve chosen to hide under a bridge, or in a sewer, but instead, you’re here too.”
Their conversation continues, and he ticks off another box on his list. Their family is alive, but gone. Curious, since they seem intelligent, clearly educated, and however severe the condition is, surely no parent would abandon their child just for that reason alone. Then again, people could be cruel. “So they left you. I wonder why.”
Their next statement makes him rather happy. It brushes his curiosity. “Adventures, you say? Now that sounds wonderful.” He loves adventures. He goes on them every day, whether it’s out and about or in the creative chaos of his lab.
“Well, my dear sheep, I can tell you where you are. You are… in the presence of a good Samaritan.” The statement is accompanied by a goofy smile. He rocks back on his haunches, one hand reaching into his pockets.
“I’m sure you’re in a lot of pain. Perhaps this will help.” He raises a clear little bag, scarcely enough to hold anything but the pills currently rattling inside it. The rain droplets drool over the plastic, but you can still see the shape of the pills, their white shells, and the tiny, tiny lettering spelling ‘Vicodin’ over their surface. “Do you know what this is?” He asks, shaking the little bag.
[attr="class","seiichipost-lyrics"] show me your colors
[attr="class","seiichipost-body"]His words do the trick. The stranger raises their head and he finally gets a good look at them. Their overbleached hair frames eyes bloodshot from crying, the skin of their face as ghost pale as the rest of their spindly body—the parts that aren’t marred with rashes and blood, that is. They look the picture of pitiful itself. They look like they’d struggle to knock at death’s door.
The seed of his fascination cracks its shell and begins to take root.
He’s delighted by how they respond. Their voice creaks like the floorboards of a broken home, but they speak rather eloquently—at least compared to the street urchins he’s used to dealing with—how nice. “Does it? What is your condition? Does it hurt when it's touched?” He doesn’t bar the questions as they come. The best part about meeting someone new is that anything they do, anything they say, is worth noting. You can’t begin a puzzle without pieces, after all.
The sheep’s question is laced with blatant contempt. They don’t know each other well enough for him to assume it’s personal, so it must be against the world as a whole, and it solidifies his theory on who they are: the most miserable person on earth.
He finds it strangely pleasing, as if fate had chosen to let them meet so he could witness their juxtaposition. His false purple eyes are lidded, his smile wide and encompassing. A drop of rain falls down his cheek and trails over his lip, down his chin. “I could. I have a nice house, warm blankets, and I’ve had a fulfilling day—I could do that. I can do anything I want.”
He watches the chattering of their teeth, their breath so ragged he can hear it over the light roar of the rain. His own breathing, by contrast, is slow and warm, the mellow feeling in his chest still burning bright from an earlier hit. Nothing feels urgent. There is only patient intrigue.
“How about you? Shouldn’t you be home? I doubt your family would be too pleased with you taking a public bath in the streets.” He chuckles lightly. Anyone who looks like this—he’d be surprised if they’re still in contact with their family. Most of the people he met on the streets aren't or can’t, including him.
[attr="class","seiichipost-lyrics"] show me your colors
[attr="class","seiichipost-body"]A man’s figure cuts through the curtain of rain. The drops pelt him relentlessly, sinking into his clothes, sticking his hair to his scalp, and kissing his skin with sheer cold.
He walks with a spring to his step, kicking the puddles and smashing their mirrors with his even strides. He’s soaked and alone, yet he looks like the happiest motherfucker on this planet. And why shouldn’t he be crowned thus? Why should he be denied the honor, when his senses are blessed with petrichor, when every direction expands so generously, and excessively, for him and him alone?
Life’s worries are rolling off his skin as smoothly as the rain. His hands are in his pockets, fiddling, twitching, as restless as the brain bouncing inside his head. Their fingertips rub against precious cargo wrapped in neat little packages and plastic needles. Excess. The day had offered him a job and he’d done it and then some. What else does it have to offer him?
He finds himself having wandered into a cute little park. Not much around in terms of people, even the juveniles of his trade aren’t around to loiter and ensnare some poor little high schooler or salary shmuck. The people have fled off to their little shelters, like barnyard animals.
If he keeps walking forwards, he’ll find home. If he snoops around, he might find those ‘friends’ of his.
Instead, he finds a lost sheep. He’s standing at the mouth of an alley, one so small and squeezed so tight it seems the city itself is baring down on it. The rain still slips through, and it pours, bathing the shivering stranger as they press against the wall, as if that could save them, or perhaps as if they could disappear into it.
His eyes trail down to the discolored skin, its harsh reds and flaking hard to miss even in the shade and rain. The stranger rakes their fingers over it again and again. They are sobbing.
He steps forward, shoes scratching against wet concrete, and gets down to sit on his haunches in front of them. He rests his chin on his hand, watching as if this were as captivating as a television show, waiting for them to notice. When he finally decides to speak, he does so in a deep, lazy drawl: “You know, even if you peel off all your skin, it’s not going to grow back stronger, little sheep.”
cw: physical assault, mentions of drug use and addiction
[break]
[attr="class","mimTitle"]ABOUT
[break]
A strange bastard with permanent raccoon eyes and a talent for cooking. He has made a name for himself as a dedicated supplier for The Tsumaru, whipping up massive batches of cheap product and causing havoc in the black market. Rumors even say he’s experimenting to aid the family in competing against The Ajiwau. Because of his laundry list of enemies, he’s quite private, refusing to share his techniques and supplying under the alias ZIGGURAT – or just RAT, depending on how much you want him dead. [break][break]
Though you wouldn’t figure him to be vicious competition at first glance. Seiichi is generally an easygoing, chummy sort who’s quick to sling his arm over your shoulder and invite you to try whatever wack shit he’s got prepared. But it’s best to be careful when entertaining him; he loves you, yes, but whatever he loves, he tends to meddle with – sometimes to the breaking point. He can be so single-minded with his interests that he forgets (or chooses to ignore) the consequences of his actions. He also has a tendency to be volatile, becoming engrossed in subjects to the point of lunacy before petering out and losing interest entirely, or having random bouts of aggression. Depends on what he's on.[break][break]
[attr="class","mimTitle"]HISTORY
[break]
It took a grand total of five seconds for Seiichi’s father to disown him. One look was all it took for him to know Seiichi couldn’t be his son, not unless he intended to enrage his entire bloodline. He resembled her too much, with his blue eyes and blonde hair; the same as those of the woman he had spent his business trip in Vegas with – the woman who was most definitely not his wife. Seiichi’s mother had agreed, unable and unwilling to raise a child on her own, and with this mutual contract they had the baby shipped off to Los Angeles, where the black sheep of the Sakugawa family lived.[break][break]
Sakugawa Jiro, better known as 'Uncle Frankie' was a Sakugawa in only the vaguest terms. His ties to the family were cut after his arrest for drug possession and subsequent loss of tenure as a chemistry professor, though even before that he’d never fit their mold. He was a natural goofball, a charming man who always sought to experience new things; the Sakugawa business acumen wasn’t in him, and he’d moved across the globe in an effort to escape the pressure with minimal success. Until he set his life on fire, that is. [break][break]
Imagine his surprise when, after years of absolute silence from the family, his perfect brother had appeared on his doorstep, demanding he take his bastard son. Their relatives would believe he’d have a child with some American woman. They wouldn’t care, not if it’s him. Bewildered, but ultimately sympathetic for the kid, Uncle Frankie accepted Seiichi as his own. [break][break]
Despite never meeting his parents and growing up in poverty, Seiichi was a happy child. He was loved dearly by Uncle Frankie and their neighbors. He spent his childhood running around with the other kids, exploring the old apartment building, playing in parking lots, and daydreaming in school. His teachers could see his intelligence. They said he was unparalleled in topics that interested him but refused to apply himself anywhere else. Uncle Frankie never bothered him for it; he never wanted the kid to feel pressured to be anything, like he had when he’d been young. [break][break]
The trouble only really started when Seiichi entered high school. Money was getting tight. Minimum wage jobs were all his uncle could get after his reputation had been soiled, and it was barely enough for their daily necessities. He offered to start working part-time to cover school expenses, but Uncle Frankie always dismissed him, insisting he’d cover it. He always did, and Seiichi often wondered how he managed. [break][break]
His answer came in the dead of night as strangers pounded on their door, demanding payment that was long overdue. When Uncle Frankie tried to bargain with them for more time, they beat him to the ground in his own home, leaving a shaken Seiichi to tend to his wounds. The next day, while his uncle still lay unconscious and recovering, Seiichi went to his friends for help. They needed money, and fast. [break][break]
He’d only been selling at first. A runner for local suppliers, selling mostly weed with random orders for prescription pills, molly, LSD, and shrooms. It was faster than his uncle’s income, but still wasn’t enough to dent their debt. He dealt in increasingly strange hours, until his uncle’s suspicion reached its peak and he was confronted. [break][break]
When the truth came out, Uncle Frankie was distraught. He’d wanted to spare Seiichi from a life like his, but even his honest efforts hadn’t saved them – and wouldn’t. The debt would only grow bigger the longer they dawdled. And he couldn’t leave Seiichi to put himself in danger and shoulder the burden, nor could he earn the money they needed in his state.[break][break]
At the tender age of 14, Seiichi was taught how to make heroin in a family friend’s basement. He was only an assistant, aiding his uncle at times he couldn’t continue the process. The jump from selling to cooking had been drastic – regretful – and his uncle did his best to minimize his exposure but Seiichi took to the job with ease. He found it interesting. He became upsettingly good at it. And their products came out good in turn. [break][break]
It wasn’t long before they’d built a business out of it. For the first time, they weren’t struggling. Seiichi dropped from school to focus in the lab, a choice that his uncle couldn’t persuade him out of (and guiltily enough, wasn’t entirely against). Despite how engrossed he was in this work, he never tried their products to the point of inhibition, and his involvement was a well-guarded secret. By all accounts, the teenager was doing fine – better, even. [break][break]
But they only got a few years in before they caught wind of police preparing to crack down on their operation. They packed up quickly and left Los Angeles, fleeing down the spout of America and beginning a long series of trips. With their newfound riches, no place was out of their scope – Uncle Frankie was able to realize his dream and had them travel the world. [break][break]
At age 20, Seiichi and Uncle Frankie had settled down in Monte Carlo for a time. Meth was the name of the game: they planned to sell just enough to replenish their funds and continue down the road. By this point Uncle Frankie had built for them a network of connections in international trade routes, utilizing his charm and their quality products to gain favor with various distributors. It had ensured them safety and supply in many places, including Monaco. [break][break]
Of course, Uncle Frankie had always remained prudent in these deals. One could never fully trust a criminal, most especially those at the top – but it was ironically this caution that had let a mole through the cracks. The mole had wanted their secrets, and once they got their hands on it, there wasn't a reason for them to be around anymore.[break][break]
Seiichi had never been swarmed in a raid. Had been fortunate enough to never witness it in person, for his uncle had always ensured they fled the scene long before the police arrived. He felt it then, the blinding red and blue lights; the ear-piercing demands; the feeling of his heart threatening to burst from his chest as he was held down; his uncle be slammed into the floor just like that night back then, his blood splattering and staining the carpet –[break][break]
That should’ve been the end. The end of his life, his future, but it wasn’t. He doesn’t know how. All he knows is that when he woke up, he wasn’t in jail – wasn’t in Monaco at all. He’d been smuggled out by old friends who’d been paid exorbitantly to aid him. Likely with everything he and his uncle had left. [break][break]
His uncle had sent him to Japan, evidently thinking it was the safest place for him while the fires died out – Seiichi isn’t sure. The guy had gone missing. The men who smuggled him there could only say they had to be separated, something about keeping the cops off Seiichi’s trail. Ironically, despite his biological family being a mere train station away, Seiichi had no one. They hadn’t helped him when he was born, and they wouldn’t help him now. [break][break]
He fell back into the world of drug trade like the arms of an old friend. First as a small-timer, using cheap materials and the shittiest lab he’d ever cooked with. Then as he earned more, he began to upgrade, increasing the quality of his goods. Really, the challenge of it was having to take over being the face – Uncle Frankie usually took care of dealings and finding distributors, but he eventually picked that up too. [break][break]
It’s been a good few years since he was recruited into The Tsumaru and began supplying for them. In exchange for protection and a constant supply of resources, Seiichi had agreed to make them his primary distributors. They take care of where his products go, leaving him a fair cut, as well as having the ability to request specific orders that Seiichi is all too happy to carry out. His moody temperament makes him a bit of a handful, but he’s been good to them. [break][break]
He has to be good to them. This trade allows him to garner more cash than he ever could as a freeman, but he needs more if he intends on tracking his uncle—or god forbid, his corpse—and bringing him home where he belongs.[break][break]
[attr="class","mimTitle"]DETAILS
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[attr="class","mimDeets"]
[attr="class","mimDeets1"]height 6'2"
[attr="class","mimDeets1"]weight 175lbs
[attr="class","mimDeets1"]build standard, surprisingly not a string bean since he does exercise.
[attr="class","mimDeets1"]hair color naturally a light blonde, easy to dye and is regularly dyed purple.
[attr="class","mimDeets1"]eye color blue, often wears purple contacts (especially with a fresh dye job).
[attr="class","mimDeets1"]distinguishing marks raccoon eyebags, needle scars over his arms and random old burn scars
[attr="class","mimDeets1"]likes experimenting, fires and explosions, gardening, toxic plants, getting reactions out of people, traveling, photographs, shōchū
[attr="class","mimDeets1"]dislikes bureaucracy, sobriety, people who try to steal from him, people who mistreat plants, suits, creative restriction
[attr="class","mimDeets1"]objectives to profit excessively, bring his uncle back, master his craft, and never be bored.
