The spectators had been streaming in all evening. It was six o’clock and the stands were full. Eager and expectant eyes focused on the playing field at the base of the bowl-shaped coliseum.
The vast majority had the look of made men, menacing figures in gaudy suits of black and white, radiating an aura of inquisitiveness and a thirst for blood.
Three thousand pairs of eyes were trained on the circular plot of ground. Several yards beneath that, a man in black walked along the reinforced concrete corridor of the subterranean cell blocks.
Now and then, an athlete or manager or official passed by with a what the hell glance. It would disappear as they caught a glimpse of his true beauty and they would cast hasty backwards looks at his disappearing figure.
That this was Gento Roran went without saying—except the question of what he was doing there.
He once again peeked into the locker room. It’d been empty a short time ago. A malevolent vibe struck his cheeks like a brisk gale. It was absorbed without dispersing, as if perplexed by the beauty it encountered there.
The vibe died away. The bodies radiating it had taken note of Gento’s true power. These were the top dogs as well. The room held five men. They were sitting on the steel benches bolted to the bare concrete walls. That was the only thing they had in common.
Judged by outward appearances they were quite different. One was ten feet tall, while another rose no higher than Gento’s waist. An ordinary-looking man sat next to an old geezer with a long, white beard that reached the floor.
Even without the lockers against the wall opposite, an atmosphere of competitive athletics permeated the locker room, though suffused with a slightly insane gloom and doom that set it apart from the pain and glory that filled the typical sporting arena.
“What’dya want?” asked a small man with long hair sitting on the bench at the back facing Gento. The rest had averted their gaze at the first glance.
“Nothing for now.”
Gento stepped into the room and closed the door behind him. Perhaps these strange athletes weren’t comfortable with somebody who maintained such a cool attitude in their presence, for the rest of them looked at the floor, their feet, and into empty air.
“If you got no reason, then what are you doing here?” said the small man, tying the laces of his high-topped sneakers.
Nobody moved, not even Gento. The air rippled without any forewarning.
Gento’s right cheek trembled.
“Ouch,” somebody moaned, like the small man, the old man, the big man, and the other two had blurted out at the same time, like a disturbance in the sense of place and distance arose among them.
Gento touched his right cheek. He gazed at the red staining his fingertips. The color of his blood alone he shared with normal people.
“Smells nice, that.”
There was no doubt about the speaker this time, the tall, thin man on the bench facing the old man. Arms and fingers like bones covered with flesh-colored paper jutted from the sleeves of his faded cotton suit. He looked more like a living skeleton. His breath was like air being let out of a crypt.
He slowly turned his head, and it almost seemed that the sound of a creaking hinge should accompany the motion. Gento caught a small flash of light, the two dots of red that were the man’s eyes.
“We should get together, just the two of us,” he said, as if simply moving his tongue took effort. With the silent scraping of rusty metal, his neck returned to its original position.
Gento turned his attention to the dark hulk beside him. The steel bench sagged beneath his weight. The upper half of his body was more a square block. The width of his shoulders, the girth of his chest, the thickness of his upper arms were the same, and half of that must be solid bone.
Get hit by a large truck and the truck would bounce off him.
His hands were the size of a catcher’s mitt. Compared to the build of the emaciated man, he would be close to ten feet tall. The sheer density of his mass seemed to warp the space around him.
The big man’s eyes were closed. Without the slightest qualm, Gento leaned closer and peered at his face. He had to look up. Sitting down, the man’s head towered above Gento.
A human being that was hardly human. If he went on a rampage, King Kong would have a hard time stopping him.
“Quite a piece of work,” Gento said almost affectionately. “You’ve got a body that looks ready for use. Though what’s in your mind is another matter.”
For the first time, the small man and the old man and the thin man stirred with actual emotion and raised their heads. The big man didn’t move, his eyes like a sleeping stone statue. What did he mean by use?
Gento turned to the side, to the bench right next to him and the last man sitting there. He appeared completely out of place. He was the same height and build as the thin man, but with meat on his bones. His features were ordinary and warm blooded. Even his dark blue jacket and faded blue slacks fit him. He was the only man there who could possibly be described as “normal.”
Gento never got around to addressing him. The big man rose up behind his back and covered his face. Still sitting on the bench, he reached out and without a hint of warning, without disturbing a molecule of air, engulfed Gento’s head with his hand. There could be no doubt about the fate that awaited him.
From within the huge clenched fist came the cracking of bones. Everybody else was already looking somewhere else.
“Enough.”
This voice brought a halt to the inevitable conclusion. The ordinary-looking man spoke like a good-natured old man warning a misbehaving grandson. A chagrined smile rose to his lips.
The big man’s eyes turned toward him. “Stop it,” he admonished him again, though in tones more appropriate for telling a small child to come here this minute.
The big man responded with unexpected meekness. Gento’s head appeared like he was setting a bowling ball down on a pedestal.
“My assumptions were not mistaken. We’ll meet again after the competition.”
By means of answer, the ordinary man pointed to the door. Gento left. The corridor was dark and deserted. He climbed the stairs to the upper level and the grandstands. The sultry atmosphere veiled the stars above. The strange air of expectation stung Gento’s skin.
This was the Shinjuku Coliseum. Though it sat only three thousand, it was the place where any meet that mattered was held. That night, the marquee event featured Demon City’s annual hair-raising Death Match.
The men Gento had just visited were none other than the contestants.