Prologue (1): The hunted.
We've been tracking the lime man for a week since he saw me stalking the slut in shiganshina. Progress has been irksome: he's read the (xxx) files, so evasion must be easy on his part. Still, after standing in the New York down pour for nearly an hour, I coudln't help but smile when I saw him. He was older than I remembered. His face wracked with worry lines: skin sunken, drenched and disheveled. He was clad in his classic yellow overcoat, clinging to his dripping skin. The storm bellows above. Clicking, I call my husband over to me and we persue our target through the snaking streets of New York. The yellow coat enters an hotel and we book a venue in the building opposite the lime mans. I wipe the rain from my mask and place it on the desk.
The storm hammers on the roof above me and bed creaks below. I stare into my husbands cold cornea and find little solace. His eyes are dead as a dolls, maybe I went a little far using the shock therapy? At times like this: I wish I was more like my sister. The futor of my husbands fried flesh fills my nose. Even here, naked beside me, he seems more dead than I do; Perhaps this is my punishment, for using the HF.A.E.D in a selfish capacity. When I put it in the pocket of the lime man, I only meant it for tracking. Whatever the cost: I'll have it back soon enough. We're so close. It's only a matter of time. I wonder what my daughters doing: if my watch is correct, she'll be waking up to go to school any second now. I should probably call her, warn her to stay away from the Sanguine Sakura, after all: that's what a good mother would do. I know she's like me and yet, Hikari still seems latent in her laminated eyes. Maybe she'll be the one to break the cycle?
Prologue (2): The hunter.
I light a cigar as I step onto the street. I know damn well I shouldn't smoke the feckin things, but (and I'll be honest here) I don't really give a crap. Some'd call it bad health; I call it slow suicide. Ever since the court case of 83 I've imagined it, my neck in a noose, strung up in some hotel room. Maybe tonight, probably not. I'm too much of a pansy to be bothered with that stuff. I keep the rope (just in case) in a baggie though. My lime overcoat, wreathed in rain water, protects me from the weather. I stride through the swarm of citizens. The crook of my nose is dripping wet. Thunder grumbles as I swim upstream, going the opposite way to what seems like every bloody yank in the city. The streets of tokyo ain't like this at all let me tell you, specially when its raining. Finally I see the hotel where I'll be hiding tonight. I step through from the fray of the crowd into the entrance hall and take my room ticket. Upstairs, I unpack, placing my notebooks carefully onto the table. My lime raincoat seams to have something circular stuck into the seams, but I just ignore it.
I wonder what my daughters doing, probably still up from a night on that computer of hers. I don't mind. Her brother has much worse addictions than a screen. Maybe me too, perhaps the peril is exciting for me. Anyway, my daughter knows what she's doing I tell you: smartest girl I've ever known. 'cept her mam. I glance at my baggie sadly. She's going to put a top to all this, this repeating loop of events. I swear she'll be the one to break the cycle.
I slump at the end of my bed, trying to ignore the two twinkling eyes staring at me from the building ajacent.
In our great nation: the Junkoi women have always been a cultural myth. Other countries called them a variety of vocabulary: Skin-walkers, Baba Ya'ga, Sahira. This, almost ethereal, race of women where first popularized in the late 1700's in children's folk tales.
These bed time stories told of old Junkoi women taking the crippled youth of the nation to the steps of some sort of heaven. The children would then ascend the steps. While climbing, the children would remark at the biting cold and try to turn back around. But: with a heavy hand, and perhaps a heavier heart, the Junkoi hags would take the children in their gelid grip and drive them forwards like farm animals. Guided by the guise of an adult: the children would continue their climb. Only when they arrived at the summit of the steps would their true fate be revealed. There, sitting on a seat constructed of corpses, sheltered by robes sewn of skin: Mazoku sits on his throne. The legends describe him as an ominous figure; Multiple moving masks making up his eye-rape of a face. Once atop the steps, the children's skin would be stripped away for Mazoku to maul. That is to say, their flesh would be divided from their chakra. Once their soul had been stolen most victims would simply accept their fate. But the punishment would not end there.
Once their physical forms had been eaten away, the child's soul (soul is not a scientific term, but it is what the legends called it) would be consumed by the Junkoi. The exact process of indigestion is unclear to be sure: most stories claim that the old women 'planted' the chakra in the dirt and consumed the flower that sprouted from the soil. Other tales tell a much more morbid method of manducation. Whatever the case, the Junkoi women would be sustained by the life force of the youth. One thing that always stood out to me as a child, however, was the odd detail that these women had three (3) x-chromosones. How could our ancestors possibly know that?
Not entirely sure what this is supposed to be about, what with the three prologues. The second one was the most interesting by far. Although the skin dude seems pretty cool too
Of course, in our great nation, the phrase Junkoi has been more recently used to refer to our 'master race'. The Germans have their 'Aryans', the British have their 'upper class' and the great nation of Japan boasts the Junkoi.
(A little distant noise comes from the tape)
I know as well as any other citizen that if the allies emerge victorious from this carnage that it will not be the Germans who are treated unjustly. It will be us. The Americans and German populace are deeply interconnected, many American bloodlines stem from our allies nation, the Germans will be treated as people. I doubt when the British take our shores that they will even have the dignity to treat us as humans. The may flower (Britain's biggest battle ship) took an outer island only last week. They will rape our women, they will enslave our children and they will destroy our culture. Everything from the bed time stories we where told as children to the games we played as teens: our art, our music, gone in the blink of an eye and the click of a rifle stock. I have seen what the white man has done to the black: I have seen their human zoos, I have seen their slave plantations. And to them, what is the difference between a Japanese citizen and an African one? I am terrified of the truth of the matter. We cannot allow the same fate to fall on the land of the rising sun; To defeat these devils we must remove our halos. We must, in essence, abandon what little humanity we have left.
Which is why we're continuing the research into the Junkoi project.
The first few triple (xxx) test subjects where nothing but balls of flesh: defiled by down syndrome and barely sentient. However, the latest model shows progress: I only hope...
I only hope we're not too late. With the British at our borders and the French slowly advancing on the arse end of the island, I need to increase production rates.
(distant noise from the tape increases)
As I sit, trying desperatly to drown myself in dreams, I remeber how all this shit started. I was so naive back then, before I met the latius for the first time. I thought I was some hot shot journalist. I was a junkie, my cocaine my cases, my lines layering the newspaper articles. I'd never expected anything as big as the bloody bathroom incident to hit our little seaside town: I spent my days reporting on the political climate or, if it was an exciting week, an event or festival. That changed when the police found the crimson innards of a school lavatory. No bodies, no finger prints, no witnesses: Only that sanguine splattered stall. That didn't change the fact that a girl was missing. But it wasn't just the way the blood bathed the walls, it was the artistic integrity which supposed killer had constructed his crime scene. Thousands of symbols wreathed the walls. Hearts and cluttered confessions, damask declarations of love. "I want to slice open your skin and slide into your warm body," still fucking haunts me to this day. At the time, however, this was the best thing that could've happened to me; I was at a dead end journalist job and this case could catapult me up with the greats. I started investigating, speaking to students as they swarmed out of school, trying to find a motive, a reason for this bloodshed. Revenge maybe? Nothing came up, it was only on the first day of school after all, people where only just starting to get to know each other. To add on to this, the police seemed wary in their investigation: to paraphrase, they where doing fuck all. Which is when I saw him, the boy named Hana, walking out of the front entrance: I thought I'd found my murderer. He was the only one who'd known the missing girl prior to the disappearance, they where childhood friends or some shit. I thought he was my suspect, I wanted him to be my killer. The thing is, I shouldn't've been looking at Hana. I should have been looking 10 feet behind him, because slowly walking behind the Hana was a girl with two twinkling eyes.