Oh no, the script's shit too. Never mind.
Damien_Bonaparte's forum posts
@zauberin: I am trying to decide whether this helped or made it that much worse.
Yakuza Outpost;
Outside Sapporo.
<Contrary to popular romantization, any fight that lasts longer than five seconds is hell.>
The storm roars loudly around the lush hills of Japanese countryside, sprawling around a vast area but moving throught sluggishly due to absence of a consistent wind current. It rolled in from the sea and quickly swallowed the scavenging operation whole which forced all boats back into port. Indeed, the criminal compound was unnaturally quiet.
<I prefer the one second kind, where I'm the only one who even knows there is a fight.>
From the outside the perimeter appeared untouched. The gate remained closed and it's keepers appeared to be sitting still in a poorly illuminated adjacent cabin. Until one of them fell from his seat. Too much sake, perhaps.
Over the hills, lightning strikes thrice. Once the resulting light reveals a neat little hole in the perimeter fence. Twice it shines more into the cabin, bringing out a much gorier scene. And finally, the last strike casts a light over the main warehouse. The doors are somehow open wide in this treacherous weather, letting sloped rainfall inside.
First part of the building is the mess hall and it seems fine, save the burst lighting inside. It's sharp remains are scattered everywhere. On the floor, the benches. The kitchen, however, seems to have suffered a worse fate. For there is a man, or rather his body, with his head rammed through the door of a microwave. Which was then subsequently turned on.
Two more henchmen are in the doorway. One nailed to the wall through his mouth with a fork and the other slouched just next to him with a badly burned face. And continuing on, the corridor becomes more and more crowded. Next three victims basically burned to death, suggesting whatever was used against the last man went explosive. The blackened label of local spray-on cooking oil can be seen on the ground. Some bodies are without entire extremities by virtue of exact cuts, others pierced either by bullet or by blade.
Lightning strikes again and in a bathroom along the corridor, the door is open. The natural phenomenon revealing two men: one with a hole in his head sitting on the throne with a handgun in his limp hands while one of his colleagues, riddled with bullets, has bled out in his crotch.
By the end of the corridor there is just a crimson pile of faceless, maimed corpses.
One last gunshot rings out from beyond.
On the other side of the door of feta cheese-like consistency is the actual warehouse where they kept all their resources. Brought in or scavenged. But the gun racks are almost empty, the arsenal littered around cadavers inside the large room. Some racks are turned over, having squashed certain henchmen like giant dominoes with the weight of retrieved antiques.
Finally, at the end of the room stands a man painted as red as blood. Reasonably so. His breathing sporadic from the thrill, his eyes wide and unblinking. In one hand an unexpectedly halved katana, it's other half left long ago in the mayhem and in the other a smoking gun. The Son of Death struggles to contain his biorhythm for a second before conclusively dropping both weapons in favor of something... greater.
Laid before him bare in a chest of old and soaked sakura wood.
Sapporo;
Two Days Ago.
<Here, gaijin dog.>, one of the made men throws some coin into the open hands of a seemingly common beggar. <Go buy yourself a ticket out of town.>, he nonchalantly departs into the city with his infantile clique.
All laughing like hyenas.
They laugh to hide their fear. Having seen the animosity projected from the cold eyes hiding beneath the beggar's dirty, unkempt hair. A storm was brewing.
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