38. Akira

CHAPTER 38

Akira

T hey didn't make it to the police station.

Twenty minutes into the journey, with nothing but the faint hum of the driverless electric vehicle to punctuate the smoky silence, the lead officer called the car to an abrupt stop.

Akira glanced warily out of the window, unsurprised to find they were in one of the more rundown sectors of Level E. There were no pedestrian paths, and the edges of the road were strewn with detritus: clumps of discarded industrial plastic and warped metal that no one had bothered to clean up. Huge, blocky buildings stretched into the darkness; grey, windowless, and towering from the ground to the roof four storeys above. They'd been built without style and for the sole purpose of fitting in as much space within their real estate as possible.

A warehouse district, then, soulless and barren, and with none of the vibrant nightlife that surrounded House Epsilon.

"Dear me," the moustached officer drawled, leaning back in his seat and clicking his tongue. "I've only just realised that we clear forgot to read this upstanding gentleman his rights. I guess we have no choice but to let him go."

He smirked at Akira, who stared back impassively. Shrugging, the man depressed a button in the console. It was marked with the usual symbol for a door release, although this one was protected with a fingerprint scanner to restrict access.

When the car door swung obligingly open, Akira was hauled out by his shirt collar before he had a chance to leave of his own accord. His shoe snagged on the lip of the door and he stumbled, falling onto the hazardous ground. He managed to twist onto his back in time to save his face from the cracked concrete, but felt the scrape of something sharp against his bound hands and the sudden blossoming warmth that indicated he was bleeding.

"I suppose whores are used to lying in filth, huh?"

The lead officer looked exceedingly pleased with himself as he clambered rather more gracefully from the car than Akira had, and glanced down in disdain at him on the ground. Kicking away the mess of scrap metal and twisted plastic that he found himself lying in, Akira rolled up onto his knees and gave no reply.

The cop seemed disappointed that he'd managed to right himself so effortlessly. Akira almost laughed. Handcuffs presented no challenge, and if the man really wanted to see him struggle, he'd need to engage in more creative inconvenience. Chained hand to feet with barbed hooks that tugged on his skin if he moved in the wrong direction: that was one of Akira's favourite predicaments to both inflict and endure. Or hogtied with a toy or two to keep him distracted – that vibrating plug Kyle had forced into him had certainly tested his ability to concentrate.

He wished he had it in him now as a reminder of Kyle and his ability to make Akira feel so happy and cared for. Something to banish the sense of unease creeping over him as he was pulled to his feet in the darkness.

"What an unsavoury place to be, Mr. Miyasaki," the cop declared with more of that sickening false cheer. "It's fortunate these two fine citizens are here to ensure you get home safely. I'd hate for anything to happen to you because of our little mix up with those rights of yours."

One of the other police officers gave a small, hopeful smile as if trying to convince herself of the bullshit.

Yet the two men who had appeared from the shadows and now took hold of Akira bore no such reservations. They wore no uniform or gang markings, and didn't bother to even address the three police officers before turning to leave, holding tightly onto his arms and marching him away between them.

Akira turned his head to see the police car rapidly fade into the darkness, pale headlights and all, and his breath sounded unnaturally loud in the eerie silence that followed. It was as if they were the only people left in the city: him, and his two unspeaking companions, who didn't ease up on the relenting pace until they reached an empty service elevator a few desolate blocks from where he'd been handed over. One reached out to press the top control on the panel: a wide button entitled ‘surface' around which multiple cautionary notices were plastered.

The elevator was slow and creaky, but neither annoyance seemed to faze Akira's captors.

He tested their conviction by tugging half-heartedly against their hold, but they merely tightened their already painful grip and continued to stare at the closed elevator doors in front of them. Trained well, it seemed, and Akira had already concluded that trying to bargain for his release wasn't worth the breath. He may not have been under arrest any longer, but whoever had set this up – and the list of suspects could be quickly whittled down to one – had the Xerxian police on their side. If he escaped this, they'd simply pick him up again.

He rested his mind on the fact that Kyle was safe, at least for now.

The hurt look on the other man's face as Akira had sent him away had done more than sting, but it had been necessary. There hadn't been time to properly explain it all, not without Kyle and his sweet, oblivious self offering to stay while the House went through its impending police raid.

He also knew that putting Kyle and Theta in a room together wasn't the best idea – the two men detested each other and everything they stood for – but Akira trusted that House Theta was the safest place for Kyle to be. Benedict Mackenroth might have been testing the protections and capability of Master Epsilon in return for the insult he'd afforded him, but he wouldn't dare act against someone as senior as Master Theta.

Not unprovoked.

The Coterie would declare war on the mayor's office within the hour if that occurred, and as much power as the surface denizens held, nothing could deny the sheer numbers of the Lowers nor the influence the Coterie – through its connections with every industry association and major business owner – had over them. Upper Xerxians enjoyed their privilege by maintaining the status quo, not by pissing off those they trod on badly enough to start a war.

The lift creaked up past Level C, and then B.

After what felt like nearly five minutes of travel, the doors eventually shuddered open to the pre-dawn surface.

Akira breathed deep to savour the fresh air and looked up, watching the glitter of the stars above his head. The sparkly little fuckers were sworn on every day by Lower Xerxians, but how many of them had ever seen the things?

A man stood alone in a patch of moonlight, evidently waiting for them. He was on his runepad, idly thumbing the screen, and the glow of the display lit up the strong jawline of a familiar face.

Mayor Mackenroth watched impatiently as his men dragged Akira over to him, going so far as to tap his shoe on the concrete in an irritable rhythm. The man had no tolerance for delay, just as he didn't respond well to refusals or objections. In his world, efficiency was dealt by getting what he wanted, when he wanted, and Akira felt a grim pleasure at being able to deny the most powerful player in Xerxes. Even if it had culminated in him being hauled before the man in the middle of the night and shoved down to his knees so roughly that he tasted blood when he hit the ground.

Epsilon adjusted his bound hands so the cuffs weren't digging into his spine, and swallowed around his bitten tongue.

"It's about fucking time," said Benedict Mackenroth from where he loomed over him.

"If you wanted to see me," Akira told him curtly, "you could have called."

He knew why he hadn't. The mayor wouldn't want to use any communication that was traceable or recordable for the discussion they were about to have, even when he could have used a deflector to shield his identity. Paranoia, perhaps, but it had kept him in his sham-elected power for years. And coming down to House Epsilon in person for a second time would show weakness to those who were bothering to look for it.

"The man I want to see," responded Mackenroth contemptuously, drawing back and clasping his hands in front of him, "is the one who insulted my brother. The one who lied and slandered him. The one you're protecting, Miyasaki."

Mackenroth had known Akira – had used his services – before he became Master Epsilon, so it wasn't a surprise that he knew his name. But it still sent a trickle of unease down his spine to hear him toss it out into the night air so casually.

"I've heard Randall has acquired himself some bodyguards. Good ones."

The irritated tone made Akira smile. The rumour was what he'd told Sinead to feed the mayor when he'd transferred the second million credits to the gang leader. It was also what he'd sent back with one of the two lone mercenaries Mackenroth had seemingly hired in addition to the Carrion – and which Akira, still hovering around Kyle's old apartment at the time, had firmly discouraged.

The other mercenary wouldn't be saying anything to anyone, but that was his fault for failing to surrender when Akira had held a knife to his carotid artery.

"Do you know how many men Randall has around him?" Mackenroth asked. "Are there any times when he's alone?"

Akira was silent.

He felt one of the men who had their hands on his shoulders shift his weight, as if expecting an order to make Akira talk.

"It is no matter," said Mackenroth instead, soundly oddly unconcerned. "You will deliver Randall to me yourself."

Something had been bothering Akira, and it itched its way back to the surface of his mind now. He'd found it strange that the police hadn't even looked for Kyle when they'd arrived at House Epsilon: they'd marched straight to Akira's office and then back out again with him in cuffs. They might have asked down at the front desk and been told he wasn't in, but what did bodyguards matter when the mayor had shown he was willing to use Xerxes' police force as his own personal army?

And it was when the older man's thin lips stretched into a cruel smile that Akira truly understood what was happening.

This was about him .

Miles Mackenroth may have wanted Kyle, but his brother Benedict did not, other than as something he was forcing Akira to give up. It was all a power play.

"I see you understand me," the mayor murmured, and stars damn him, he was correct. It was shameful to admit but their minds worked in remarkably similar ways: the instinct towards manipulation, to identifying and using a person's weakness against them to suit their own needs. Even if Akira tried to do it only for the good of those he cared about, did that make him any better than Benedict Mackenroth indulging his brother's tantrums?

"Do you remember the parties we enjoyed back when we were young and stupid?" the other man asked, throwing his head back with a laugh. He spoke with a fondness in his voice which belied a camaraderie they'd never shared, as though they'd attended such events on equal footing. As if Mackenroth hadn't been the host for most of them, basking in the adoration and attention that his wealth and family name brought him, and Akira had been anything other than the hired entertainment. There certainly hadn't been any enjoyment on his end, just the earning of enough credits to make the hours something to be steadfastly endured.

"I've been the victim of a certain nostalgia lately," Mackenroth continued, eyeing Akira with a lazy smile. "I'm thinking of putting on another event, for old time's sake. Some live music, an excellent chef, that sort of thing."

As if guests at his parties cared about that sort of thing when they were as high as kites and bouncing around between the booze, the drugs, and the hookers.

"You're welcome to attend, Miyasaki, of course. You'll be my guest of honour. No funny stuff this time though, hmm? You'll keep your clothes on?"

He laughed again, and Akira felt a surge of visceral hatred towards the man. If he hadn't been restrained, he'd have certainly struck him, and he allowed himself the brief fantasy of imagining himself doing just that. Of relishing the sound and sensation of cartilage crunching beneath his knuckles, of watching the blood pour from Benedict Mackenroth's nose.

"Bring your best from House Epsilon," the mayor added. "Your men will be paid well for their time, and I'll see to it that the other guests take care when using their services. You'll have nothing to worry about."

Akira, as Master of House Epsilon, did not entertain proposals for work outside of the House.

It was too dangerous for his men and the police wouldn't help them if they found themselves in trouble, not when corruption ran so openly through the institution's veins. The law wouldn't assist either, having been drafted in favour of Upper Xerxes citizens, the city's primary taxpayers, at every turn. While kidnapping and sexual slavery were indeed unlawful, little was done when it happened.

It was one reason why, despite having worked many of them himself, he refused to let his staff take off-site appointments. Akira had twice found himself in a locked room after a client had decided that paying by the hour was more trouble than keeping him for themselves, and it had only been some smooth talking – and on the latter occasion, a fist sunk into some of the softer parts of the body – that had allowed his escape.

No, he wouldn't have any of his staff endure the terror of wondering if tonight was the night you wouldn't be returning home. It might dent his profits, it might earn him some snide remarks from the other Masters, but Akira was keeping all of his men within the safety of the House.

"And...if amid the enjoyment of the night – the free-flowing liquor, the generous tips, the subtle pleasures of the flesh – one of your men does not find their way home," continued Mackenroth, "it could be assumed that he had found something or someone to his tastes, and you would not be concerned if he failed to return to his old place of employment."

Akira's lip curled. " No ."

"Epsilon," Mackenroth cajoled as though he was speaking to a recalcitrant child. "You know how this goes. All you have to do is let it unfold."

It truly would be that easy. Akira could feed Kyle any line to get him there – that the Mackenroths had backed off, that they were attending the party as a show of good faith in negotiating peace – and the trusting fool wouldn't blink twice. Master Epsilon and his men would end the night far richer, perhaps the kind of wealth that could change his staff's lives…and all it would cost was Kyle's.

Akira couldn't stand to look at the stars anymore. They mocked him with their twinkling optimism, either uncaring or oblivious to the horrifying implications being made by the man standing before him.

He stared at the ground instead, at his knees and the shiny black shoes of the mayor as they shifted impatiently on the concrete.

"Look at me when I'm talking to you," the man snapped and then kicked him without waiting for a response. Akira bore the blow to his leg stoically, but raised his head.

Mackenroth reached out and slid cold, searching fingers beneath the collar of his shirt. Akira's dog tags were tugged out and inspected, and then allowed to drop back against his waistcoated chest with a light rattle of metal.

"Xerxes' most expensive fucktoy," Mackenroth murmured down at him, dismissive in both tone and expression. "The credits required to get you to spread your legs don't give you the value you seem to think you have, boy."

He was undoing his belt with his other hand; a familiar, careless gesture. Akira watched with unseeing eyes as the mayor unzipped his trousers and pulled himself free of his clothes.

"No credits for you now," Mackenroth sneered at him. He efficiently pumped himself to hardness and smeared the swollen cockhead against Akira's lips. "Just a reminder of your place."

Oh, Akira knew his place well. He'd been repeatedly reminded of what he was by his mother – worthless, useless, ugly – and then by all the men whose lust and credits had kept him alive when she finally succumbed to the heroin she loved more than him.

Dirty whore. Asian trash. Filthy slut.

Words could hurt – words could kill – but they'd lost their sting for Akira a long time ago.

The other men tightened their hold on his shoulders to keep him on his knees as their boss worked.

It wasn't the first time Mackenroth had shoved his dick into his mouth, but it was the first time he hadn't paid for it. Akira bore it silently, unresisting, and let his mind wander to the bite of the handcuffs around his wrists, to the dancing light of the stars above his head, to the faint buzz of the window-cleaning robots as they methodically worked their way up and down the outside of the darkened skyscrapers around them.

To Kyle and the way he laughed; carefree, readily, finding joy in a world that was so scarce of it.

It must have made for an absurd sight for any Upper out for a night-time stroll: two men holding a third down while the fourth fucked his face quickly and quietly... transactionally , not expecting anything of Akira but the friction and heat of his mouth. He didn't gag when Mackenroth lightly groaned and thrust himself so deep that coarse hair filled Akira's nose, nor when a flood of warmth cascaded so far down his throat that he couldn't stop it if he'd tried. Yet the older man still clamped his hand over Akira's mouth the moment he pulled his softening cock free, eyes alight with malice, and didn't ease up until he felt him swallow.

They regarded each other in silence for a long moment, sizing the other up.

"Friday night, Miyasaki," Mackenroth said eventually. He fixed his clothes and then turned and walked away in clear dismissal. Moonlight shimmered in his hair and on the shine of his shoes.

The other men hauled Akira to his feet and dragged him back to the waiting service elevator. Yet instead of throwing him in alone as he'd expected, they stepped in as well, clearly intending to escort him back down to Level E.

Akira closed his eyes. It seemed the mayor planned to leave him with a parting gift.

Ears straining for movement, he sensed immediately when one of the men moved in to deliver the beating he was due. Instead of pulling back as they might have anticipated, Akira surged forward and smashed his forehead down onto the man's nose. The resulting howl of pained surprise filled the echoing space, bouncing from the dented metal walls of the elevator, and Akira blinked back his own pain with grim satisfaction.

The other man grunted. He grabbed a fistful of Akira's silk waistcoat and tried to shove him face first into the wall, which would have rendered him helpless if his hands had still been bound behind his back.

But Akira hadn't been idle. While the others had been distracted by the show upstairs, he'd been quietly picking the lock on the handcuffs with the jagged piece of metal he'd collected when he'd pretended to fall from the police car. It had hardly been the perfect tool for the job – too wide on one edge, and too narrow on the other – but he'd made it work, and the men were paying for their carelessness now.

He pushed off from the wall, hooking his foot behind the other man's ankle and sweeping his leg out from beneath him. Yet his opponent was not unskilled, and although he landed heavily he grabbed hold of Akira's knee and dragged him down to the floor with him.

They didn't speak as they sparred. Didn't trade insults or toss threats, like what always happened in the vids. Breath wasn't for wasting on such trivial things when everything hinged on seizing any advantage you could get.

Akira rolled back up onto his feet, driving the blade of his hand towards the soft part of the man's neck only to be blocked at the last second. There was a tense moment when his companion threw himself into the fray and Akira momentarily faced two opponents – trained mercenaries being significantly more of a threat than the half-dozen Carrions that had ambushed Kyle – but the second man was half-blind with pain and easy to dodge while Akira took down the first with a chokehold, and it was less than a minute later that both men lay unconscious on the floor.

Akira slowly straightened as the lift continued to rattle its way downwards, wiping blood from his lip. It had done nothing to erase the bitter salty taste in his mouth, and with the way his heart was thumping in his ears, he was almost disappointed there was no one left to hit.

Stars.

There was enough recorded history in Xerxes' databases for him to know that sex had been wielded as a weapon for thousands of years: for fear, for humiliation, for control. And Akira had endured far, far worse than what Mackenroth had pulled on him back there.

But at least he'd been compensated for those worse things by credits, so they had served a purpose.

Did he really have the right to be angry now, after it was all over, when he hadn't cared at the time?

Yes , Akira decided, as hot fury washed over him and blurred the edges of his vision with its intensity.

Fuck him. Benedict Mackenroth had known exactly what he was taking from Akira. He'd even made the comment about not paying him, aware that would get under his skin and make the whole encounter feel more vile.

The elevator rumbled to a halt and began the laborious process of opening its creaking, rusted doors. No one was waiting for him on the other side, and the dark rows of warehouses held no suspicious shadows or noises.

The Master of House Epsilon adjusted his shirt cuffs with an impatient flick of his wrists and then stepped out into the night, the stale, recirculated air of Level E filling his lungs once more.