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King of Swords, Reversed: cruelty, weakness, ruthlessness
“Cry Havoc, and let slip the dogs of war.” - William Shakespeare
Last whistle rang out thirty minutes ago but the noise level in the stadium hasn’t gone down one decibel. Even from the insulated box, Ichirou hears the screaming of surprised and shocked fans. A sea of orange and black clash in the stands as people argue over their teams. In the back of his throat, he feels like scoffing. All this antagonism, written in twisted scowls and tense shoulders, overflowing and bleeding down against the shiny plexiglass walls. Ichirou never had much patience for this insipid little game that played at being brutal. He didn’t have the time to waste on practices and team rivalries. Not when the main branch called on him from his youth, not when the weight of an empire rested on his shoulders.
The silence of disappointed Ravens rings loud, but no louder than the begging of his brother.
“Didn’t I do well, my Lord? The Ravens played so well. It’s just those Foxes took what was mine and we could have won. We could have made the main branch proud.”
A scoff is dangerously close to escaping his lips but Ichirou remains unmoved, staring out into the emptying Exy stadium. Orange and black blend. None of these people are worth looking at for long. The spoiled child, a discarded and worthless brother with little tact, continues to needle and whine about his lost possessions in the background. Ichirou is half-tempted to ask Tetsuji to discipline him. He wonders: what look would come across his face when the cane is raised against him? Would he finally see that his blood bleeds red just as easy as everyone else’s? It would be easy. One flick of his finger and Riko would lay cowering on the ground. A malicious glee almost rises in him that he quickly smothers. Ichirou can’t ruin his meticulous plan; Riko could whine until his throat gave out. He wouldn’t be speaking for very long after this.
Rather he focuses on his reflection looking sharply back at him: refined, polished, composed. No hint of a scowl or smile lays on his face; he is impassive, unbothered by the teary pleas of Riko. Riko tries to curl around himself through his bulky Exy gear when he catches Ichirou’s eye in the reflection of the glass. The guards lining the walls remain still and unbothered. The lounge is neat, orderly, peaceful even. Nothing like the crowds of people dripping with chaos and disorder and disrespect. The success of the Ravens is all because of the main branch; they owe it all to the man staring down at them. But instead they yearn and call Riko, Riko, Riko.
When Ichirou first summoned him off the court, Ichirou watched the Ravens part for Riko like he was a god. Parting for Riko, the king with an injured arm cradled close to his chest and a tilting crown. Tetsuji, following close behind, cane gripped tightly in his fist. Idly, he wondered why his father invested so much in the Ravens. He watched them without their leaders, a vicious hive-mind angrily and mindlessly hissing. Ichirou traced the flash of orange ushered off, the numbers 10 and 3 staring mockingly back up at him; the way the Ravens disappeared into a sea of black; the way Riko and Tetsuji straightened when they walked through the doors and saw Ichirou standing there.
The silence of memory is broken by another quiet plea. “Please, my Lord, hear me out.”
Ichirou doesn’t bother to turn around when he replies. “Your insolence has cost the main branch greatly. You were a child playing a man’s game.”
Riko makes a choked sound in the back of his throat. Tetsuji shifts anxiously from his seat on the couch. It’s one of the nervous tells he never managed to get rid of no matter his fondness for discipline. Ichirou almost considers taking pity on his uncle; he surely knows where this is leading if his downcast eyes are any indication.
“Then again…” Ichirou starts, “this is also your fault, Uncle.”
In the glass, he watches with a faint sense of amusement as Tetsuji’s head snaps up in attention. He grips his cane tighter before opening his mouth. Tetsuji sets his shoulders straighter. Riko watches with rapt attention, a kind of dull hope blooming in his eyes. It won’t save him.
“I beg your pardon, my Lord. You are right that I was responsible for Riko’s actions. He was under my care and guidance and because of my ignorance, it has led to this slight against the family.”
Ichirou turns around and laces his fingers together. Behind him, the stadium has emptied significantly. Only a few celebrating fans linger around with the hopes of sneaking pictures with their idols - with their Exy kings and queens. It’s disgustingly banal.
“The main branch lost one of their top enforcers. We lost vital access to resources and markets that are otherwise irreplaceable. Our credibility is in danger. All because of a reckless child with too long of a leash.”
Riko flinches at his harsh tone, expression melting into blank misery. Tetsuji resumes his demure position staring at the polished floor.
“I apologize, my Lord.”
“You know how far apologies go. Even apologizing for his birth will not be enough this time.”
Satisfaction lingers on his tongue at the way Riko shrinks further into himself. They are not brothers but merely blood - blood which doesn’t hold much weight in the game Ichirou plays. He concerns himself with his duty to the main branch and to their businesses. It just won’t do to have rabid animals biting at his heels as he attempts to rebuild the Moriyama’s empire. Ichirou tires of liabilities; he will wipe out all that remain before he truly gets started.
A knock sounds on the door followed by cautious footsteps. When Ichirou looks up, Nathaniel Wesninski lingers nervously. Riko makes another muffled choked noise in the back of his throat. The door shuts with a resolute click. Ichirou watches them all go tense and his fingers tingle in anticipation.
The Wesninski boy with no life to live standing in front of him. The boy who begged for his life and others in a calculated attempt to stay something . Ichirou doesn’t feel sorry or sympathetic for the boy; he’s a weapon that could have pierced clean through the skin of his enemies. But now the blade pointed straight at the Moriyamas. That simply wouldn’t do - even if Ichirou could have his throat quietly slit in the middle of the night. So he settled. The “Perfect Court”, as Riko called it, was nothing more than the flashiest and most lucrative business deals. Those boys were just bodies with a market value and a bank account. They made money and nothing else because they had no worth. They only mattered when they meant something as an investment.
But, as Ichirou considers the auburn youth standing there, maybe he could muster some feelings of gratitude. It led to this after all. Ichirou would never have gotten this opportunity to cleanse the family of its impurities if not for this boy. Wesninski with his dangerous tongue lured Riko from his security, made him play his hand and showcase his foolishness. Ichirou wouldn’t be thankful for the death of the Butcher nor what it cost. But he could be quietly grateful that his reign would be unblemished from further embarrassments in the form of younger brothers.
With a quirk of his fingers, one of the guards leaves the gun in Ichirou’s waiting palm. Tetsuji determinedly stares at the floor, knuckles straining against the handle of his cane. Wesninski shifts for a moment as Ichirou walks forward. He wants to laugh; if he wanted to kill the boy, he wouldn’t do in such a vulgar way. Especially not after they just won this year’s championships against the best national team. Ichirou wants to sneer. The Moriyama’s can’t afford such bad press at the moment.
Wesninski’s shoulders loosen as Ichirou stops in front of Riko. His pitiful brother notices the barrel of the gun too late. A clear shot echoes around the lounge before a guard steps forward. Riko’s body slumps against the couch, and as the guard folds the gun into Riko’s still palm, contentment hits Ichirou. The tattooed 1 on his dead brother’s cheek shines in the lighting. With amusement, Ichirou thinks about how the tattoo is truly symbolic: Riko was the first one to die. He won’t be the last.
“Consider it done.” Turning back to the glass, Ichirou watches Wesninski nod shakedly before retreating. Ichirou motions again and another guard escorts Tetsuji away. He could picture the headlines about the disgraced King of Exy, the fallen son of the Moriyama’s and how they would paint such a family tragedy. Ichirou would even pose for a solemn photo, dutiful in his grief. The thought of such spectacle wasted on such a failure brings the beginnings of a smile to his face. Once it’s just him and the cooling body of Riko, he feels the beginnings of a laugh. The gunshot continues to echo off the walls. It would have sounded so much better accompanied by the screams of Riko’s fans.