Chapter Text
cover art by me
It was a chill morning, both by its weather and by its lack of activity. April days were often like that – not a lot of people got tattooed during spring, Jigen had noticed. That made it a perfect time to study, practice, take care of administrative work, and more importantly, relax. Right now, Jigen had his feet kicked up on the counter, and was flipping through a magazine full of photos of burly, nearly naked men. Most were inked from head to toes, so it counted as work, really.
Jigen smiled. It was nice, to just sit around with nothing to do. Not so long ago, he’d have scoffed at the idea. He only looked like a laid-back lazybones; but in his old line of work, it was impossible to ever truly relax. When things were too calm, it always meant shit was about to hit the fan. Not anymore, though.
Some kind of warped nostalgia twinged inside Jigen’s chest. As of tomorrow, it would be exactly one year since he’d last touched his gun.
He almost missed the group stopping in front of his shop. The jingle of the door chime made him raise his head. There were five men, all dressed in dark suits, with surly faces. The small, paranoia-ridden part of his brain started whirring frantically, while the rest remained blissfully unbothered.
Tax collectors? He was up to date. Door-to-door salesmen? Too many of them. Salarymen looking to get inked? Unlikely. Yakuza? Goemon said they didn’t come to this neighbourhood, right?
The two Japanese men stepped aside, revealing their Caucasian colleagues.
Jigen’s heart stopped beating.
A smirk split their leader’s familiar face.
“Told ya it was him,” one of the goons declared, disdain dripping from his words. “I’d recognize that cockroach anywhere.”
The tattooist’s heart started racing, as if making up for lost time. This couldn’t be happening. Not now, not here. He was supposed to be safe!
“So you’re not dead after all, you backstabbing bastard,” the leader groaned. “You know, that actually makes me very happy. Now I can put that bullet in your brain myself.”
Jigen clenched his jaw. Every muscle in his body was as tense as a bowstring, ready to bolt the fuck out of here at a second’s notice.
“How?” he muttered through gritted teeth.
“How did we find you?” The man laughed. “I guess the universe wanted us to. We’re here on business. We were just lucky enough to stumble upon your shop.” He looked around with disdain. “How quaint. Pretending to be an honest man. Do you sleep well at night?”
Jigen took a slow breath. Behind the men, a movement had caught his eye – a silhouette on the sidewalk outside, coming toward the shop, a Styrofoam cup in each hand. A viscous terror crawled up Jigen’s throat at the sight. The silhouette stopped in front of the glass door, at the exact moment the gang leader pulled out a gun.
Goemon made eye contact with Jigen.
Leave, the tattooist thought as loud as he could, just leave, for the love of God get away from here!
The thought dissolved when a rough hand grabbed his chin, forcing him to look up.
“Eyes here!” the man barked.
Outside, Goemon’s eyes went wide, and he turned around. In a second he was gone. Good, Jigen thought, barely registering the pressure crushing his jaw. He forced himself to grin.
“I sleep perfectly well, thank you very much,” he groaned. “S’much easier without your ugly mug breathing down my neck.”
That earned him a vicious blow across the face. The force of it sent him stumbling toward the counter. He gripped the side of it to recover his balance, and started frantically feeling around under it for his-
Gun.
Dismantled, locked in a chest, in his bedroom, upstairs.
Fuck.
Instead, his fingers closed on the handle of a spare tattoo gun. A shiver ran through the room when he pulled it out. His quick draw and his aim hadn’t waned a bit, Jigen noticed bitterly. What a waste.
The mobster boss at least gave him the satisfaction of stumbling back. A short-lived satisfaction, as every other person in the room pulled out their weapon. A forgotten part of Jigen’s brain started automatically cataloguing the brands and models.
“What d’you think you’re gonna do with that?” the boss mocked.
Die fighting, Jigen thought.
“A commercial gesture for long-time friends,” he retorted and shoved the tendrils of hopelessness back down his throat. “Free tattoo, on the house. I hear the eyeball is a popular spot these days.”
Anger distorted the gangster’s face, and he raised his weapon.
“Why, you little-”
Whatever “little” thing Jigen was never reached his ears. Every head turned away from him, as a shattering sound filled the shop.
It was almost whimsical. Shards of broken glass were catching the morning light, and chiming softly as they fell. In the empty space were the door used to be, stood the local florist, bathed in golden light and shimmering glass, an unsheathed katana in his hand, and a hurricane in his eyes.
What the fuck.
“This man is under my protection,” Goemon declared with a voice like a death-knell. “Leave now, and no harm will be done to you.”
The gangsters scoffed, but Jigen noticed the two Japanese men tensing, and very slowly moving toward the exit.
“And who the fuck are you?” the boss asked.
“My name,” he replied, “is Goemon Ishikawa the Thirteenth.”
“Well, Ishikawa, prepare to meet the other twelve.”
Jigen opened his mouth to shout a warning, then all Hell broke loose.
No one could survive three simultaneous gunshots at this range. But Goemon didn’t seem to care about what people could or couldn’t do. He had moved with confounding speed, and the bullets that should have killed him embedded themselves into a wall. Jigen had seen Goemon fight before, or so he’d thought. His prowess in the dojo was laughable compared to the inhuman ease with which he danced through the room, his sword coming down in silvery arcs and striking like divine vengeance. The last thing Jigen saw before he slid down behind the counter, was a bullet falling to the ground, slashed in two.
That was impossible. This wasn’t happening. He was dead, and this was the afterlife. And for some reason, it was filled with sexy samurais.
It seemed to him like centuries had passed, when the cacophony finally died down. In contrast, his heartbeat could probably be heard from three blocks away.
“Jigen?”
It was Goemon’s voice. His heartbeat slowed down, imperceptibly.
There was the sound of footsteps, and Goemon appeared, towering over Jigen. His kimono was torn in a few places, a couple of dark stains spotted the fabric, and the remnants of righteous fury darkened his face. His expression melted into worry when he saw the tattooist cowered in his corner, brandishing the tattoo gun like it could ward off demons. He dropped his sword on the ground and knelt in front of his friend.
Very delicately, he cupped Jigen’s face with his hand, and tilted his chin up. Jigen was pretty sure his heart stopped beating right there and then.
“Are you hurt?” Goemon asked, his voiced strained under the effort of keeping his anger at bay. “Did they do anything to you?”
Jigen only had the strength to shake his head no. He didn’t even know. His nerves were wrecked, and he was pretty sure he could lose half of his blood and not even notice. The pounding of his heart in his ears was shattering any coherent thought trying to form.
“Can you stand?” came Goemon’s voice, suddenly very far away.
His heart was going to break through his ribs. He tried to take a breath, but it caught in his throat, making him choke. Everything was slipping. He was slipping. Breathe. Breathe, dammit!
“…Daisuke. Daisuke!”
His brain finally decided to open the dams of adrenaline, and he suddenly sprung up like a jack-in-a-box, making Goemon stumble back. His whole body was shaking, but it barely registered. He staggered out of behind the counter, and froze.
The shop was wrecked.
Several shelves had been torn off the walls, and an entire chunk of the cabinet was on the ground. Bits of paper, sketches and magazine pages littered every surface. There were bullet holes in the walls.
And on the floor laid the abandoned remains of three handguns, neatly cut in half by… something. A katana couldn’t cut metal like that. It was impossible.
A hand touched his shoulder, making him jump violently. He spun around to find Goemon, holding Jigen’s hat. His face was eaten by worry, making an eerie dissonance with the fear and confusion Jigen was suddenly feeling toward him.
“I am very sorry,” the florist said. “I shall pay for the repairs.”
He handed him the battered fedora. The tattooist stared at it hesitantly.
“You…”
He took a wide look around the shop.
“I…”
His eyes came back to Goemon, and he seemed to come to a decision.
“Fuck,” he concluded.
Before his friend could react, he grabbed the hat, screwed it back on his head, and stormed out.
Shit. Shit shit shit shit shit-
He was fucked. Everything was fucked. He needed to leave. He needed to hide, to find somewhere safe, to disappear.
He needed his gun.
He climbed the stairs up to his apartment in an instant, stormed into his bedroom, and slammed the door behind him.
Under his bed was a wooden box, locked and covered in dust. Jigen tore out the nightstand’s last drawer, felt around for the false bottom, and pulled out a small metal key. It turned smoothly in the keyhole, and the lock opened with a faint click.
His hands shaking, Jigen removed the lid.
Inside, as pristine as the day when he’d put them there, lay the pieces of a Smith & Wesson M19 Combat Magnum.
His breathing slowed down to a breeze. After a second’s hesitation, his hand closed on the frame. The empty skeleton of the gun felt heavier than it should. One after the other, he pulled the parts out of the box, and slotted them together. He didn’t even have to think about it. It was like riding a bike; once you’d learned, you never forgot. Before he even realised, there was a revolver loaded with six .357 Magnum bullets resting in his hand. His fingers closed around the grip, and a wave of confidence came over him. It was like putting the last piece back into the puzzle of his being. Why had he ever let it go?
The door made a clicking sound, and before he knew it, Jigen had the muzzle of his gun aimed right between Goemon’s eyes.
Ah, yes. That was why.
To his credit (and Jigen’s great surprise), the florist didn’t falter. He simply raised his open hands in front of his chest. His sheathed katana was tucked under his belt.
“I am sorry, I should have knocked.”
“Why are you still here?” Jigen asked before he could stop himself. He lowered his gun, but didn’t set it down.
“To help you.”
“I don’t need your help.”
“You are not feeling well,” Goemon insisted.
“I’m fine.” The hand holding his gun started shaking again. Jigen gripped his wrist, forcing it to still. “Just get out.”
Goemon shook his head, and took a step into the room. On reflex, Jigen raised his gun again.
“GET OUT!” he roared.
The florist stared at him for a few seconds, looking horribly torn. Then he lowered his head, walked out, and closed the door.
Jigen dropped the gun on the floor.
He stayed still for several minutes, panting, his eyes trained on the door. Then his body snapped tense. With shaking hands, he pulled his phone out of his pocket. It took several tries to unlock it, then he went straight to his frequent contacts, and clicked on the first one. It picked up after just two tones.
“They found me,” Jigen said.
Silence.
“I’m on my way,” Lupin replied.