Clause 16 - Drunken Abduction
Jun. 4th, 2009 07:34 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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xp_logsWhen Lawson doesn't show up for dinner as promised, Shiro goes to find him, but discovers a horrifying surprise instead.
It may have been rude to start drinking before the guest arrived, but it was also rude for the guest to be forty minutes late. Sitting alone at the bar, the vessel of sake before him almost empty, Shiro looked like any stressed-out salaryman drinking his troubles away. He drained the wine from the small cup and reached for the vessel to refill it, before thinking better of it and setting the cup down. The last time he got drunk in a bad mood, he had one of the best nights of his life followed by one of the worst mornings. And Minato Ward was not the place for that. (Maybe Shinjuku, but that was too far away.) Shiro ran a hand through his hair and called the hotel on his mobile one last time, but there was still no answer from Lawson's room. With a disappointed sigh, he paid the bartender and left.
He probably just should have returned to his own hotel and write off Lawson as a loss, but it just wasn't right that the man who had thrown himself into the dangerous situation that morning wouldn't keep his word. Maybe he'd been recognized as one of the heroes and accosted. Or worse. A dozen bad scenarios played themselves out in Shiro's drunken mind. He should go see Lawson directly and find out what was wrong with him. Flying there was out of the question, though, as he wobbled even one foot off the ground. He landed with a stumble and hailed a cab instead.
It was a bit of a drive to Lawson's hotel, and he took the time to center himself so the bellmen wouldn't see him as a criminal and call the police. He paid the driver when they arrived and soberly walked in, straight past the front desk to the elevators and up to Lawson's floor. He knocked on the door and, unsurprisingly, didn't receive an answer. Maybe he'd left. Maybe he was suspicious of Xavier's and Shiro, and returned home. Maybe Shiro should ask the front desk if he'd checked out.
On the other hand, melting the door handle was much easier. He wrenched the deformed bar out of its socket and pushed open the door.
The room was a mess. An angry, drug-fueled rock star must have gone through. The sheets were ripped, the television set smashed, the furniture overturned and broken. Worst of all, blood spattered the whole room. The white sheets looked like a Pollock painting. Shiro stepped in softly, immediately knocked back into sobriety, and carefully inspected the scene. Lawson's clothes and suitcase were still there, so he hadn't left of his own accord. He poked the sheet, and his finger came up red. Whatever had happened, happened recently. Shiro pulled out his mobile and began to dial the mansion, but his phone fell out of his hand when he saw what was behind the bed.
The imprint of a hand, made in what was obviously blood, decorated the wall.
The X-Men couldn't arrive fast enough. Lawson would be dead by the time they could cross the Pacific. That left Harada, but Shiro had little faith in his cousin's good will.
One more alternative came to him, though he was loathe to admit it. He couldn't pass up the fortune that they were in Tokyo, too, and he couldn't deny that they were willing and able to help. This concerned them as much as it concerned him.
He picked up his phone and bit back a sigh as he sent the SMS to Amanda.
It may have been rude to start drinking before the guest arrived, but it was also rude for the guest to be forty minutes late. Sitting alone at the bar, the vessel of sake before him almost empty, Shiro looked like any stressed-out salaryman drinking his troubles away. He drained the wine from the small cup and reached for the vessel to refill it, before thinking better of it and setting the cup down. The last time he got drunk in a bad mood, he had one of the best nights of his life followed by one of the worst mornings. And Minato Ward was not the place for that. (Maybe Shinjuku, but that was too far away.) Shiro ran a hand through his hair and called the hotel on his mobile one last time, but there was still no answer from Lawson's room. With a disappointed sigh, he paid the bartender and left.
He probably just should have returned to his own hotel and write off Lawson as a loss, but it just wasn't right that the man who had thrown himself into the dangerous situation that morning wouldn't keep his word. Maybe he'd been recognized as one of the heroes and accosted. Or worse. A dozen bad scenarios played themselves out in Shiro's drunken mind. He should go see Lawson directly and find out what was wrong with him. Flying there was out of the question, though, as he wobbled even one foot off the ground. He landed with a stumble and hailed a cab instead.
It was a bit of a drive to Lawson's hotel, and he took the time to center himself so the bellmen wouldn't see him as a criminal and call the police. He paid the driver when they arrived and soberly walked in, straight past the front desk to the elevators and up to Lawson's floor. He knocked on the door and, unsurprisingly, didn't receive an answer. Maybe he'd left. Maybe he was suspicious of Xavier's and Shiro, and returned home. Maybe Shiro should ask the front desk if he'd checked out.
On the other hand, melting the door handle was much easier. He wrenched the deformed bar out of its socket and pushed open the door.
The room was a mess. An angry, drug-fueled rock star must have gone through. The sheets were ripped, the television set smashed, the furniture overturned and broken. Worst of all, blood spattered the whole room. The white sheets looked like a Pollock painting. Shiro stepped in softly, immediately knocked back into sobriety, and carefully inspected the scene. Lawson's clothes and suitcase were still there, so he hadn't left of his own accord. He poked the sheet, and his finger came up red. Whatever had happened, happened recently. Shiro pulled out his mobile and began to dial the mansion, but his phone fell out of his hand when he saw what was behind the bed.
The imprint of a hand, made in what was obviously blood, decorated the wall.
The X-Men couldn't arrive fast enough. Lawson would be dead by the time they could cross the Pacific. That left Harada, but Shiro had little faith in his cousin's good will.
One more alternative came to him, though he was loathe to admit it. He couldn't pass up the fortune that they were in Tokyo, too, and he couldn't deny that they were willing and able to help. This concerned them as much as it concerned him.
He picked up his phone and bit back a sigh as he sent the SMS to Amanda.
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