清 水 Shimizu the Wooden Nameplate Bearing The
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清 水 Shimizu The wooden nameplate bearing the engraved surname of the resident clan hung on the right half of the thick timber frame serving as the entry gate to the abode beyond. The text was positioned vertically, and the sign itself was divided between the bright, almost blinding light of the morning sky and the shadows imposed by whatever objects before it, at any distance, blocked the rays at their current angle. The line separating light from dark was diagonal, starting in the bottom right corner of the first kanji and ending past the upper left corner of the second. The air surrounding the sign, the gate, and even the residence was quiet, the occasional rustle of the wind serving as the sole sound. Too quiet for a regular morning, yet oddly appropriate, based on the clan’s geographical relevance. Inside the Shimizu’s main household was a room. A large room with 36 permanent tatami mats arranged auspiciously in conformation to the mandatory six mat lengths by six mat lengths dimension. A coffered ceiling of unpainted laminate wood hung over the tatami arrangement, while off-white fusuma1 bearing illustrations of cherry trees half-bare of their blossoms in the lower corners walled the mats in, thus completing the enclosure. In addition, the rice paper panels above the rear fusuma, blank in their natural state, were adorned with calligraphy, dictating a four-kanji idiom. 金剛不壊 Sturdy and Indestructible Below the words of vague encouragement was a low-sitting wooden desk, the only piece of furniture within the room. Sitting at the desk was its primary occupant, an older man with dark brown hair that started to fade to grey from the temples downward, and a mustache and goatee that were all grey by comparison. His eyes were brown, his facial structure was broad, and befitting a quinquagenarian such as himself, his body was far from thin, too defined to be considered overweight, and yet not nearly defined enough to truly represent stockiness. He was dressed in the standard formal robes of the country, consisting of a dark blue kimono jacket with a crest on either shoulder, a similarly colored underjacket, a white sash, grey hakama, and white socks. He kneeled at the desk, using a brush-tip pen to fill out one of several sheets from a short stack of paperwork to his right. An even smaller stack of finished documents sat to his left on the cedar desktop, no longer his concern. This man was the leader of the Shimizu clan, and the mostly empty room in which he spent this morning was his office. However, like all things, the morning peace was interrupted. In the case of the Shimizu’s leader, his morning documentation was interrupted by the swift opening of one of the fusuma on the far, barren end of the office. Standing in the doorway, calmly in contrast to the speed with which he pushed the screen aside, was the leader of the Shimizu’s attack forces. He was dressed in his usual mauve jacket with thin yellow stripes on the sleeves, this time fully unzipped, a dark red jersey and blue nylon windpants with a white stripe running down either leg. “Excuse me, sir,” he announced. “Do you have a moment?” 1 Fusuma are rectangular patterns that can be used as an alternate to sliding doors in Japanese houses. The scratching of Shimizu’s pen tip against his current sheet of paperwork came to a grinding halt at the sound of his subordinate’s voice. He closed his eyes for a moment, processing what the other man had to say. At that moment’s end, he responded, opening his eyes near the finish. “I do, Komori. What is it you want?” “Sir!” Komori shouted post-haste as he straightened his posture and stood at attention. “We came to inform you that there are intruders present within our territorial borders.” (The “we” he used was not of the royal variety. Coming in after Komori, appearing from the shadows to his left and stopping at the temporary doorway into the boss’s office, was his companion, the unhinged swordsman yakuza. He also dressed in his usual jacket, a white formal affair that hung open, with a black sweater and dark blue tech fleece pants underneath. His sword was sheathed, but removed from the hip where he typically wore it. He carried it behind him, hands resting on the handle and scabbard, near- equal distances from either end, and the midpoint against his neck. He seemed more relaxed than he had in previous instances, but he wasn’t at peace. In fact, he seemed rather annoyed, his glare piercing right through the lenses of his shades as his frown seemed to gradually widen as time went on.) (“Intruders, you say?” Shimizu continued. “Yes, sir.”) (MUSIC: “shadow ~” by Blanco Billions) “Five minutes ago, Kigane and I witnessed two men approach Yoyogi from the northern boundary and go through the main entrance. They appeared to be alone, and acted like their visit was an intentional one.” “I see,” Shimizu mused as he set down his pen. “What was their affiliation?” “We couldn’t tell, sir.” “Hmm…” A groan escaped through his closed lips as he pushed his palms against the tatami floor, rising from his seat. “And were they armed?” “Uhh…” Komori nervously looked off to the side, his anxiety flowing from the frown he attempted to keep cool and composed, but to no luck. “Well, one was carrying a duffel bag with him, but we couldn’t tell what was inside.” At the end, his frown broke, entering an embarrassed grin oozing even more anxiety than before, complete with a brief awkward chuckle. His companion, meanwhile, stood still in his arriving position for as long as he could, twitching in an attempt to hold back his energy. The secondhand embarrassment of Komori’s vague response to the boss’s question got to him, prompting him to lower his head and growl through gritted teeth, each word from his partner’s lips pushing him ever further to the point where he couldn’t keep quiet any more. And once Komori let out that two-syllable laugh, that apex was reached. “Augh, what does it even matter!?” He stepped forward with his exclamation, his right hand gripping the wrapped handle of his sword and moving it off of his shoulders, thrusting it down. The swing caught Komori off-guard, making him yelp as he scuttled off to the side, back to the edge of the cast-aside fusuma, to avoid the wrath of the sheathed blade. “They’re intruders, right? Let’s just go out and kill ‘em!” He placed his left hand on the end of the scabbard and pulled it back a few inches, exposing the base of his blade, to show he was serious. “Let’s not be hasty, Kigane.” “Tch!” Kigane scoffed in frustration, his manic grin fading with a blink of his sunglass-covered eyes into a scowl smaller but just as intense as the one he entered with. With a click, he re-sheathed what little of his sword he exposed for the boss. Fully on his feet, Shimizu turned and left his desk behind, heading to the right with his hands behind his back. “There is truth in that we, the Shimizu clan, built our reputation on victory over those who oppose our ideals and actions. But even so…” He stopped, grabbed the edge of the fusuma before him, and pushed it aside, exposing his office to the enclosed veranda circling around its perimeter. “We do not slaughter indiscriminately.” “Rrrr…” Kigane growled under his breath, tucking his sword by his side and wearing it the proper way once more. Komori glanced at him as his companion exemplified reluctant restraint, and then faced forward as he carefully stepped into the tatami-laid office with his sneakers on. “For all you know, those men could be here to do business.” Shimizu exited his office and onto the veranda, traveling past the extra mats that took up half of its width and onto the newly polished wooden floorboards, numbering seven planks across. He traveled from the space on the floorboards past the open exit fusuma, and towards the corner of the outer hall, where the knee-high railings on either path met, as did the akarishoji2 shutters serving as walls, the rectangles on each panel flooding the room in a soft, perpetually white light3. “After all, partnership and recruitment are important to the longevity of our strength.” He stopped near the corner and turned slightly to the left, looking out the window at an angled position. “And sometimes, to achieve those necessary connections, our future allies must trespass.” Just then, he reached over and flipped a switch on one of the pillars cutting through some of the shutters. The white light filtered through the akarishoji intensified for a brief moment before fading completely, the individual panels becoming transparent and then merging into larger panels that were fourteen small panels in height and four in width each, just like the individual shoji they were inspired by. The walls were not akarishoji at all. They were glass, looking out over the clustered neighborhood below as Shimizu’s reflective expression was mirrored within. “Even I will admit that our town of Yoyogi is a mess. But that very mess is the fruit of my ancestors, having persisted for over fifty years.” 2 Akarishoji is another way of referring to shoji, the sliding shutters of translucent white paper that serve as doors in traditional Japanese homes.