Hanged Man Reversed:  Preoccupation with the self or with selfish concerns.  A cross to bear.  Punishment. 

"Grow up."

----------------
 

One step.

Don't fool yourself. One step is all it takes.

One simple step in a hail of bullets.  Or does that sound cliché?  You Can Change The World if You Try.  Momma, I'm gonna grow up to be Pre-si-dent! 'Cause anyone can.  Isn't that's how it's supposed to be? Didn't you pro-mise?  I can do it.  I can take that one little step out of normal and be somebody.  If I want to.   In that one dire hideous perfect situation where it'll all be up to me I'll be the one who takes the reign, steps up to the plate, and calls himself hero or badass warrior in the ludicrous magical situation of the week (with merchandising tie-ins and a movie optioned by the studio).  And oh how I hope it comes to me.  Make me special, circumstance.  Push me from the nest.

Kaoru Saga, like most people, told the world that he didn't believe that.  Shouted it from the rooftops in his wire Gucci frames and a suit tailor-made by a little old man on 5th and Kashizuka that he wore in spite of sleeves that were (contrary to the common perception of custom tailoring) two inches too long.  Just because suits born of little old men on trendy streets cost alot more than those made by little old men in sweatshops made of thread from the other end of the factory in Delhi.  And if time is money, image is compound interest.

What Kaoru Saga told the world and what he believed were too entirely different things. this too was not unprecedented in the annals of history.  It is very unlikely that every President of the United States has in fact believed in God. And it is also very unlikely that the Emperor of Japan thought himself on every day, in every way, and especially when and if he was laid up with the common cold. 

To understand the hotshot (and yes, that is meant in a sexually symbolic way) prosecutor one must first grasp the enormous pressure to be Cynical. One step is useless.  We're all part of the great corporate machine.  And he didn't mention the fine print he used along with the rest - didn't need to - because the gaggle of lawyers that were his world all recognized that hidden "except for me" clause.  Kept it in their back pockets like the timeworn picture of an infant grandchild, complete with the seemingly irrepressible urge to seek out 'subtle' ways to introduce it as an oblique topic of conversation.  Since you can't step out from the pack of those marching ahead at your side without taking the initiative, now can you?  One step ahead is all it takes, and one step is all that can be done to keep pace.  Pity the ambitious, then. 

Miki Asai, who was walking beside him, knew exactly how he felt.

One step out of the car and they'd be ready to meet with their Taiwanese contacts.  Her Chinese was frankly horrible, but Kaoru's was perfect.  He was perfect at alot of things - like cross-examination and working the room and hosting the world's best cocktail party.  It figured.   The man was a child of the eighties if ever there was one trapped in this goddamn recession.  All glitter and junk bonds and flash.

She knew for a fact that her partner owned a pair of leopard-print boxers. 

And yes, partner was to be meant in a sexually symbolic way as well. Not that he'd ever told her he loved her, but Saga wasn't that kind of guy.  That and they were both likely to get themselves fired for what exactly had gone on in rather expensive hotel provided by a grateful Japanese government.  Damn.  The two other civil servants traveling with them - not dressed in suits, and therefore not of the Elite little ratpack Kaoru loved to run with - weren't that blind.  He had to stop taking risks.  They were going to get caught some day.. she just knew it.  And then it would either be his career or housewifery for her (Kaoru?  Married?  Yeah, right).  No more pulling into parking lots in foreign countries in expensive rented red convertibles that combed the wind through her short auburn hair.  None of that.

And as much as it almost disgusted her, she really wanted the best for him. 

So Kaoru really, really had to stop winking at her like that (Or was he winking past her?  Kaoru always seemed to be looking right over her shoulder - at some future, some demon that only he could see and took the presence of her horizon as a granted).  One day he'd go one step too far. 

----------

It took just one step to get out of the car, his just-polished shoes hitting the asphalt with a grace likely the bastard child of confidence rather than any sort of legitimate trait.  Sad, really.  It would never inherit, now would it?

On the one hand, I could be in New York with Sakaino.  But that would raise uncomfortable questions about my English language functionality.  And we must look fluent, mustn't we?  Goddamit.. why the fuck did I forget those Berlitz tapes at home? 

Taiwan is good.

When the lawyer opened the door for Miki he felt her blush a bit, and he smiled.  No, smirked. She was cute when she was disconcerted, and he knew that chivalry always put her off a bit.  Especially from him.  Saga supposed he should be offended by that, but really...

Heh.  And Miki is here.

So I'll lead with he soft sell, right?  Everyone likes money.  This informant will like money too.  And then I'll have those opium fuckers on their knees. Hah! 

Well, it wasn't like he loved her, right?  Right.  Saga was a playah, no doubt about it.  Premium grade-a hot-shit on wheels.   She knew it.  The guy driving the car knew it.  The guys back at theri Tokyo office knew it - and the women there knew it better.  And, most importantly, Kaoru Saga knew it.  Knew it very well.  Knew it like he knew how to freaking breathe.   It put the extra little strut in to that one step that made it special.  Made it his. 

Should I put Kurozawa on it?  Probably.  Jesus... where the hell is my cellphone?  I know I brought my pager.  Didn't I bring my pager?  Fuck Saga, this is not the time to get yourself all jittery.  You have a fucking contact to make. 

The papers in his briefcase were written in a hand that was top of the class (gods her hands seemed cold now...).  His Rolex, a a graduation gift, shone proudly in the eastern sun (why was she not smiling back?).  And the prosecutor's hair, neatly trimmed, was ruffled from a gelled placidity by an errant gust of wind. While his mind - one very active piece of work -  strolled past Miki Asai to gambol with a thousand different angles and their ballerina spins. Jump, two, three... dodge, two, three.... weave, two, three... aaaaaaaaaand promotion!  Work the angle.  Know the score.  Get those contacts ready for a quick draw.  Taiwan was his big chance.  The place where he was going to make his name mean something beyond the pleasant naturalistics of kanji. 

Wasn't she going to get up?

 This meeting is important, dammit!  Just like a woman. 

That was when the screaming started. 

-----

John Woo makes movies where people shoot people.  To pretty pretty music. Often for Nostalgia Effect.  Or Coolness Factor. Or some inexplicable blend of the two that nets the man millions.  Kaoru Saga heartily would have approved of that, had caring been fashionable or attention been necessary.  And that, of course, is the point of it all. 

In those movies where people shoot people to pretty music, time slows down at the behest of a bullet.  All is not what it is.  All is what it needs to be.  Enrapture!  Delight!  Fascinate!  Or at least make for a pretty picture, like the very best vintage of propaganda.  And this, needless to say, was not one of those particular hails of bullets.  Because Special Prosecutor Saga was at heart twisted sort of idealist, and for his fated (as most idealists are fated, even those who pretend to be Cynics) descent into realism that simply would not do. Fate, when it hands curveballs, is usually kind enough to make them into Learning Experiences.  Which is why one would call it fate, instead of circumstance, which is in the minds of the collective generally a lesser god. 

So make him special, circumstance, seven years before the fated hour. 

The bullets, not a hail but a sunshower, dripped leisurely through the metal skin of their car and blasted inexperience to rubble.   And when she died, it was not gracefully pierced by acupuncture strikes lashing out at his afflicted eyes.  Not with a bang or a whimper but a crunch, and the sickening thug of a body limp to the pavement.  Just one step out.

Draw from him the intrinsic factor of heroes and demons and legends all the same. 

And the rings formed out from the whites of his eyes.  Surrounding the prosecutor in a halo that would summon exile.  Calling forth the mask that encapsulated human potential.  Not just anyone can be special.  But some people can.  As some can draw Odysseus - bloody mouthed and sword drawn - from the funerals in their hearts. 

Make him successful and young an rich an beautiful.  Make him like the cover of a glossy magazine. Single him out for exile, now.  Make his dreams come true.

Oh, but that wasn't the type?  Picky, picky. 

And he lay, clinically shocked and unofficially shaking, in the rubble of a 1993 BMW that intertwined with several shot-up bodies and a host of severed limbs. 

Of course, he did feel guilty. 

But he learned his lesson, didn't he?  Because that's the point of stories like this.  People learning their lesson.  Don't try to be special.  Be careful what you wish for.  Watch out for symbolism from stage left.

Isn't it?

Well, isn't it? 

---------
 

"Hey Baofu, the A/C at shotgun all good?" 

I wonder if Miki would have liked this little jaunt? Probably not.  She was always wanting to go by the book, and it took her dying to make me realize how fucking useless it was. 

"Hello?"

Heh.  Those bastards are gonna pay. For you, Miki.  I'll even give the rest of 'em the old fuck off for you.  They don't get it anyways. 

"Hellooooo Boafu. Earth to B-A-O-F-U...."

Where to start... should probably get on the Net again.  Damn, I'm good.  What teh fuck is Serizawa going on about now?  Whatever.  Should probably buy Miki some flowers for the grave and all, but that's sentimental bullshit.  Fuck.  Did I buy cigarretes at the Tadashi?  I am NOT scamming one off Katsuya again. I know he keeps tabs, the anal-retentive bastard. And he won't just bloody tell me I owe him either. 

"You know what?  Fuck you, Baofu!  I don't need to put up with this shit.  A REAL man would look at me while I was talking to him.  You've got alot of nerve, buddy.  And... why am I even talking to you?!  We have better things to do, right Ma-ya?"

Shiiiiiiiiiiiit. At least I've still got my bourbon.  What the fuck am I doing with these idiot suburbanites mired in their bullshit corporate culture? Can't they leave me the hell alone? They've gotta know that compared to them I'm different.  I'm...
 
 

-------

Note:  I, at least, have learned several things from this fic.  The first being that Baofu is freaking impossible to POV.  The second that I've been getting waaaaay too caught up in D. Eggers funtastic first novel (which I'll take the liberty of blaming the style shift in the second half on, because.. umm.. I can).  And the third being that I really should start writing character studies with at least a hint of coherent plot.  Crap.