The Red Finger Introduction

Lights whistle past as a subway train zooms by the indent in the wall tunnel. Strobing illumination lights up a maned oni mask, its wearer obscured by a black bodysuit and fine, silken red and black floral haori. After the train is gone, darkness settles again into the tunnel. Flexing his shoulders, Red Eyes reaches back and presses a section of the wall. Barely audible, the wall slides open behind him. In the absolute darkness, the hulking oni-masked man steps inside. And like an airlock it closes behind him, before a second gate opens ahead and lets glaring electrical lighting reach his eyes.

It would not do for the trappings of the Temple to be associated with this place if it were ever found, but that has not stopped Imamu from ensuring it is finely adorned. Colorful tapestries hang from the walls, woven in red, white and yellow. Soldiers in nondescript black suits and wearing kitsune masks stand behind fortifications, guarding the entrance. The local trappings help to guide suspicion away from the true hands behind this mask, while the likenesses invoke local spirits to their holy cause. Red Eyes nods his head to the soldiers as he passes.

Tunnels draped as lavishly as the halls of a brothel lead to the private chambers of the righteous chosen who work in the shadows until the promised dawn. The walls and ceiling are shaped strangely: impressionist murals allowed to run wild, giving it a dreamlike quality. All courtesy of one of the founding members of the Red Finger, dedicated to reshaping Japan into something more aesthetic. The seat of a new holy world order.

Withdrawing a small electronic device from his pocket, Red Eyes clicks it, summoning those present to the meeting chambers. At the end of the hall, it breaches around a set of stairs that lead up and down, then splits in a T towards the residences and facilities of the mundane servants of their cause. Behind the stairway, another hallway leads to the amenities for their blessed number.

Red Eyes ascends to the level above.

Their meeting room features an arched ceiling, an optical illusion that shifts and ripples while walking beneath it. At the back of the meeting table- the size is adjusted as needed- is a final towering tapestry. White silk thread, with a red image of a curled, severed finger. The blood that trails from the stump pools below, painted by the fingertip into the shape of Japan.

Red Eyes takes his seat at the table, currently rather small- even humorously so- for the full size of the room, shaped like interlocked triangles at the whim of their personal architect. He also happens to be the first member of the Red Finger Syndicate to arrive to the meeting’s call.

Mythopoesis steps up the stairs. As someone who is best suited to anonymity, he lacks any fancy costume or mask. Instead, he’s currently wearing a comfortable housecoat, rusty brown hair still wet from a shower, with a towel resting across his shoulders. “Ah!” reaching up to the sky, he stretches and falls into one of the chairs, spinning around on its axis. “This is the life, boss. My appreciation of plumbing has been so, so expanded.”

Reaching up, Red Eyes takes off his mask and sets it on the table. He runs a hand through his own coarse, bushy black hair. “I am pleased,” he responds in a heavily accented voice. “Too many of the blessed live a meagre existence unbefitting their place. Know that your value is seen here, Mythopoesis,” he pronounces the name carefully and deliberately, an expression of his respect. More than due to a god of the arts and creation. Without his aid, many of their grand-scale ventures would be impossible. Not least of which, the reconstruction that will come after the holy war.

Next to arrive is an equally important member of the pantheon. Zyra Mein, in attire as ill-fitting and casual as always. A woman instrumental in the collapse of opposing faction states during the war for eastern Africa. She would do her work, and the Followers of the Ancient Ones would go in her wake, restoring order. Welcomed as saviors and heroes, as was appropriate. Formerly, the peoples of Europe called the unremembered villain who’d caused them troubles Braindrain, but she has taken to the new moniker the African people have given her: Zombie. All in secret, of course. It would not do to reveal her true power to the non-believers until the Ancients’ power was secured.

As she takes her seat, Imamu asks conversationally, “Was the masseuse as skilled as his reputation claimed?”

“He was good enough,” raising her head to peer down the table from beneath her woolen hat, she folds her arms across her chest. “Those in Africa knew how to treat a goddess. You could tell this one is still adjusting to his new life, with his shaky hands.” Naturally, the facility’s in-house masseuse Imamu hired could not leave after seeing their lair. So, he would become a permanent fixture.

“It will take him time to adjust,” the high priest’s baritone is deep and soothing. “Be patient and gentle with him. He is only mortal, and it is natural for him to fear before he understands.” Shrugging her shoulders, Zyra lets out a puff of air and leans on her fist.

Another large and imposing man trucks up the stairs, his heavy steel-toed boots audible well before his appearance. With a body shaped like a stack of bricks and a jaw the size and shape of an upside down Great White’s snout, Agent Greenfield heaves himself into one of the chairs. “ALRIGHT. WHO’S EATING DIRT TODAY?” Slamming a fist into the table, he expresses himself with great fervor.

“I will soon have use for your talents,” Imamu assures him. “Is the firing range suitable for your needs?”

“NEED IT BIGGER. ALREADY EMBEDDED THREE BOULDERS IN THE FAR WALL!”

“I’ll see what I can do. I think there’s one subway line in the way, but if we got it shut down,” Mythopoesis interlocks his fingers and cracks them forwards. He gives a meaningful look to their leader. “That fit into our plans.”

Pressing a switch on the table, Imamu flips a series of panels in the top that reveal a map of the city. “Damage to that subway line will cause increased foot traffic past the temple, allowing for us to spread the word and provide solutions. It was only a question of when,” he answers his eager saboteurs. “Agent Greenfield, if you see to the collapse, I will have relief aid ready to assist those hurt. It will improve the temple’s image.”

“HELL YEAH!”

In the wake of the bombastic shout, the last member of their current roster creaks up the stairs. A boy from the local population, crippled in the chaos that was erupting even before Imamu’s arrival- though with perhaps a little nudge or two from his foreign investments, above and below the societal surface. Now, Mochi Uranus owes a great deal to the Temple, for granting him renewed purpose.

Sourced from black-market technologies, a set of servos are hidden under the leggings of his black body suit, restoring his ability to walk. The process of installing and removing them when he must go between his identities above and below is a painful one, but Zyra’s blessing has proven to be an excellent form of anesthesia. Stoically, the young man makes his way to his seat and whirrs his knees down.

“How are you adjusting, Dark Weasel?”

“The stiffness is improving.”

“Excellent,” Imamu nods his head sagely. “Now that we are all here,” he holds his hand out to the map once more. “The Deceptive Hero, Conman. He possesses knowledge dangerous to our cause,” Imamu explains. “Tomorrow, he will be attending a book signing across the street from another book signing by the Kinetic Hero, Impakt. I have caused delays so that their events take place on the same day. Their followers are both noted to be most disruptive,“ the man smiles, leaning back in his chair. “Which will provide ample distraction for an assassination.”

“We can expect the Standstill Hero, Floor, to be there as Impakt’s sidekick,” the Weasel speaks up, drumming his fingers on the table. “He could cause problems for getting in and out quickly.”

“CRUSH HIM FIRST!” with his usual vigor, Kester calls out.

Curling his mouth in disdain, Dark Weasel explains, “It’s not that simple. Impakt will be right there, and all your boulders will accomplish is super-charging him. We need a subtler approach.” The curl mutates into a wily smile, one born of curdling envy and spite. “I’ll be key to this operation. If I may, Oni-senpai?” At a nod from their leader, Mochi reaches out and points at the models. “There will be food stands and trucks taking advantage of the event. I will cause Floor to be ill after he eats, forcing him to go somewhere more private. Having a pro hero vomit at a live event is awful press,” his grin is wicked. “Once he’s alone, the Red Eyes Oni will strike. And Mythopoesis will be nearby looking like a civilian. If Floor manages to stick Oni-senpai to the floor, Myth just has to dissolve the material under his feet and they’ll be free to move on.”

“Smart. I can handle it,” Mythopoesis taps his chin.

“Your job, Agent Greenfield, will be eliminating Conman,” Imamu adds, feeding a manic smirk that struggles against the weight of the brute’s massive jawline. “A simple boulder thrown through the back wall of the building will destroy him. Zombie will assist you in disabling security, with a modest application of her blessing.” Stopping just before the madness would still inhibit their attention and ability to form and recall memories.

Setting the mask back on his face, the Red Eyes Oni stands. He holds up his hands and speaks, voice modulated slightly and accent disguised by his mask and some amateur acting to sound like a deeply booming Japanese man, “Now. We prepare.”

Edit

Pub: 31 Dec 2024 01:47 UTC

Edit: 31 Dec 2024 01:54 UTC

Views: 147