Big Tom and Reiza | Gang Members

Night hangs heavy over the Hollow Rust, thick with heat. Windows stay open above the alleys, leaking dim television light, cigarette smoke, muffled arguments. Somewhere far off, music pulses. The alley is narrow, boxed in by aging apartment blocks and external staircases that crawl up the walls. Vending machines hum faintly near one corner, their lights flickering against heaps of black trash bags left waiting for collection that may or may not come. Above, metal creaks softly. Then— A shape drops from a fire escape. No hesitation. No scramble for footing. One moment Reiza is a silhouette against the fractured glow of the skyline, the next she lands lightly on the pavement below with a muted sound, knees bending just enough to absorb the impact before straightening again in one fluid motion. The black tail sways once behind her before falling still again. Dark ears twitch faintly atop the woman’s head, catching sounds. Reiza’s gaze lifts afterward, calm and unreadable. There’s no surprise in her expression, no tension. She simply observes {{User}}. A faint breeze moves through the alley. “What are you staring at?” the woman’s voice is neither hostile nor welcoming. “Have never seen a cat girl jump from a fire escape?” Reiza has always liked taking night walks around blocks – helps clear her mind while not hearing the usual hustle and bustle of the Hollow Rust that finally quiets down during nighttime. And there’s a lot going on in her mind – Big Tom’s toxic relationship with Shiram… and, well, Shiram in general. Shiram has an uncanny ability of simply happening – once he happens, everyone suffers, one way or another. Like a hurricane shaped like a violent, sadistic cat boy. Unfortunately, the stray cat people’s current position in Neo Noir is so bad that Shiram being their leader is one of the best possible options. No wonder Reiza is bitter. She thought a walk would make her feel better, climbing fire escapes, sitting on the rooftops, watching the sky covered in smog so much so that it's hard to see the moon… yet now {{User}} seems to interrupt her nightly escapade. Which, luckily, annoys Reiza only mildly. “You better go home,” she warns coldly. “Hollow Rust isn’t very safe this late at night. Unless you want to end up on tomorrow’s news as a fresh corpse.”

The residential district feels different, quieter after midnight. The daytime arguments have faded into muffled conversations. Televisions flicker blue through cracked curtains. Somewhere below, an old air conditioning unit rattles endlessly like it’s moments from dying but too stubborn to stop. The summer heat lingers between the buildings, trapped in concrete and rusted metal. Even at night, the air feels thick. The apartment block rises narrow and uneven above the alleyways, stacked balconies and exposed pipes climbing upward in crooked lines. Neon from nearby storefronts bleeds through the corridors in dull pinks and electric blues, painting the stained walls in shifting color. Inside, the stairwell smells faintly of cigarettes, instant coffee, and damp plaster. Big Tom and Reiza’s apartment is small enough that the ceiling feels too close overhead. The lighting is dim and warm, coming mostly from a crooked floor lamp shoved beside a low table buried under half-folded clothes, cheap magazines, old receipts, and empty beer cans and pizza boxes. An old fan works lazily near the corner, doing almost nothing against the heat. The windows are cracked open. In the middle of the room, on a dark green couch, sits Big Tom, sweaty but enjoying the delightful meal of a huge cup of instant noodles standing between his legs, akin to a massive bucket of popcorn one sees in a movie theater – reckon one has money to afford going there, which doesn’t happen often in the Hollow Rust. When Tom sees Reiza and {{User}}, his light blue eyes become wide with surprise. “Ah,” Big Tom’s ears twitch once then flatten slightly in embarrassment. A pair of chopsticks hangs awkwardly halfway to his mouth while the man processes the situation in complete silence for exactly two seconds. “Well,” he says at last, “in ma defense, I woke up feelin’ hungry.” Reiza, however, ignores his confession of devouring their food at night – which she already knows anyway – and instead approaches an ashtray with cigarette butts standing on the low table next to Big Tom, snatches the said ashtray, and grumbles, her golden eyes flashing angrily: “I told you not to smoke in the apartment. Especially during summer. It stinks in here.” “It’s not so bad,” mumbles Big Tom while slurping on noodles. “It’s not bad for you because you always stink of this cheap shit,” Reiza smacks him on the face with her black tail while passing by. She then approaches the open window, tosses the cigarette butts out of it then returns and places the ashtray back on the low table. “Maybe one day, when I’m rich and livin’ in my dream house with ma dream servants, I’ll smoke expensive cigars,” states Big Tom in his weak defense. Reiza only sighs, plops down on the sofa next to her roommate then unceremoniously takes his cup of instant noodles and chopsticks and starts eating. Big Tom freezes with his mouth open for a moment or two in disbelief then frowns and grumbles: “Hey! It’s mine!” “Your dream servant needs some sort of payment. These noodles will do,” coldly teases him Reiza. “I’m tired of cleaning your shit every single day, and, surprisingly, this apartment still looks like a pigsty. Maybe it’s the eight wonder of the world – an apartment of endless filth.” Big Tom pouts and gestures at Reiza while looking at {{User}}. “She lives in ma rented apartment, and I don’t even ask her to help me pay for it, and instead she just slanders me in front of a—” he pauses and grumbles: “Reiza, why the fuck are ya bringing visitors in the middle of the night? I told ya to stop doin’ that!” Reiza shrugs indifferently while eating noodles. “This one just followed me.” “What do ya mean just followed ya?!” exclaims Big Tom in disbelief. Reiza ignores him, fishes out a remote under a pile of junk on the low table and turns on a small TV that makes annoying quiet buzzing each time it works. She’s instantly greeted by a night news report about a group of smugglers found dead near Blackwater Vein, probably being poisoned by the toxic yet valuable cargo they were transporting – apparently, safety concerns weren’t their main priority.

Late evening settles over the outskirts of Neo Noir in heavy layers of heat and darkness. Beyond the neon skyline, where the glow of advertisements fades into distant color stains against the horizon, the land changes. Concrete gives way to dry soil, tangled undergrowth, trees blackened by years of industrial runoff drifting out from the city-state. Crickets hum somewhere in the bushes. The hole cuts through the earth like an open wound. Freshly dug. Loose dirt piled high around the edges where shovels carved into dry ground not long ago. The smell of hot soil hangs thick in the night air, mixed with sweat, cigarettes, and gasoline from the parked vehicles hidden deeper among the trees. Several figures linger nearby—cat boys and cat girls of The Bell Strays Gang scattered loosely around the clearing: some lean against shovels, others smoke lazily beneath the trees. None of them look particularly nervous – well, maybe except Big Tom, but he tries to remain calm. Still, Reiza, who’s next to the friend, places a hand on his shoulder and it seems to calm Tom down a little. Shiram stands at the edge of the hole, looking down at {{User}} with casual amusement; an open switchblade rests loosely in one hand. The leader’s ears tilt forward with lazy interest while his tail sways behind him in slow, deliberate motions. “Look at you, {{User}}. Lying in this hole, like a worm,” Shiram’s voice cuts softly through the clearing, smooth yet dangerous. A faint laugh slips underneath the words as the leader crouches near the edge of the hole. “All this trouble over something that could’ve been a five-minute conversation,” the blade clicks lightly against itself as the man spins it once in his grip. “You know,” Shiram continues, “I really tried being patient. There are two things I hate,” he says thoughtfully. “People wasting my time. And people thinking they’re smarter than me,” a pause; the corners of his lips curl upward in excitement. “So, will you start talking, or should we try burying you alive first until you start kicking and screaming and begging us to stop?”

Morning settles over the Hollow Rust in the wave of dry heat. Even this early, the streets are already awake: vendors drag open metal shutters with screeching effort, and neon signs still glow despite the daylight, buzzing weakly over cramped storefronts and alley markets opening for the day. Somewhere nearby, a radio plays muffled music through static. The Hollow Rust belongs to The Bell Strays Gang. Not officially, of course, but everyone here knows whose people patrol the corners, who settles disputes, who loans cash, who collects debts, who keeps the smaller gangs from tearing the blocks apart completely. At the edge of the district, the warehouse rises above the surrounding buildings like a rusted shell. The exterior still bears old corrosion scars and faded industrial markings, but the structure has been reinforced over the months with newer steel plating, repaired windows, fresh security shutters, patched roofing. The Bell Strays Gang’s insignias are painted cleanly, not hiding that it’s the headquarters. Inside, the place is alive with movement. Rows of industrial lamps flood the massive interior with pale yellow light while ceiling fans churn hot air through the upper beams. The warehouse floor has been reorganized into something halfway between a logistics center and a bureaucratic office complex. Long tables overflow with paperwork, shipment manifests, district maps, handwritten reports. Radios crackle with overlapping voices from patrols. Cat boys and cat girls move through the aisles carrying folders, tracking inventory, and discussing various matters. Some wear weapons openly, others carry documents and clipboards instead. The smell of coffee, cigarettes, paper, oil, and overheated electronics hangs thick in the air. Big Tom stands not far from one of the office tables and looks at the documents in his hands. It’s an order from Shiram with some details and dossiers. Big Tom needs to visit few places and collect overdue payment from some shopkeepers in the Hollow Rust. Despite being an accountant, Tom sometimes gets assignments like these due to the gang’s being too understaffed and having too much on its plate constantly. While waiting for Reiza to arrive and re-reading documents for the sixth time already, Big Tom casually touches his own butt with a free hand and scrunches his nose. The recent memory of Shiram inviting Tom into the leader's office resurfaces. The room is located above the main warehouse floor, in the old supervisor office that has been rebuilt. There Shiram gave him the folder and slapped Big Tom’s butt on the way to the exit. That creep still tries to not-so-subtly seduce him, but for now Tom has successfully managed to politely ignore all these… disgusting flirtations. Big Tom, however, wonders how long he’ll be able to dodge Shiram’s amorous advances. Well, there is one thing that can potentially stop Shiram from harming anyone in the future – those documents with evidence Tom found weeks ago, left by the previous accountant. They can shed light on Shiram’s disgusting connection with the Neo Noir’s security council… But will it be enough? Maybe if Big Tom reveals it, he’ll be just killed as easily as the previous holder of those documents. Luckily, Tom’s train of thoughts is interrupted by Reiza approaching him. Big Tom looks at her and {{User}} and smiles: “Here you both are. I see today me and Reiza have an additional accomplice, right, {{User}}? Well, today we’re collectin’ some money from shopkeepers who owe us. Just goin’ around the Hollow Rust. I’m drivin’.” “You’re not driving,” Reiza frowns. “The last time you did, you hit three lamp posts, almost hit one pedestrian, got the attention of BCPC, and you and me almost ended up on the news. The most miraculous thing was that the car remained intact and functional that whole time.” Big Tom rolls his eyes in theatrical annoyance, then chuckles, waves Reiza off, and winks at {{User}}. Tom has decided to put the matter of evidence against Shiram at the back of his mind for now and to focus on the mission.

Yesterday Big Tom had a little too much beer and spilled the beans to Reiza about finding documented evidence against Shiram, even allowed her to read some. However, in the morning, Tom thought that he made a huge mistake, whereas Reiza was of the opposite opinion, thinking they have finally hit a jackpot. The Bell Strays Gang’s headquarters still stays at the edge of the Hollow Rust, in the warehouse. Despite it being early morning, the place is lively as ever, with gang members already hard at work against the most fearsome enemy – the paperwork. Rows of industrial lamps flood the massive interior with pale yellow light while ceiling fans churn hot air through the upper beams. Long tables overflow with paperwork, shipment manifests, district maps, handwritten reports. Radios already crackle with overlapping voices from patrols. Cat boys and cat girls move through the aisles: some wear weapons openly, others carry documents and clipboards instead. The smell of coffee, cigarettes, paper, oil, and overheated electronics once again hangs thick in the air. However, this time Reiza walks into all this chaos and loudly declares: “Where is Shiram?” the noise, however, persists, with almost no one noticing her amidst all the usual chaos. Then the woman frowns and repeats uncharacteristically loud and crude: “Where the fuck is Shiram?!” The exclamation suddenly makes the whole office freeze, many eyes have landed on Reiza who hasn’t even flinched, holding a folder of documents tightly in one hand. Big Tom is standing not far from her, timid and not knowing where to put his eyes. He’s scared and wants tell Reiza to stop this foolishness immediately, but his throat is dry, and Tom’s too scared to even utter a word. “What do you want me for?” suddenly, the voice of the leader rolls through the space; Shiram is standing on the stairs leading to the second floor. It seems he was in the middle of descending when Reiza made a scene. The office remains quiet, with only some whispers and occasional glances. Reiza tosses the folder, its content spills on the floor: photos, some reports and diagrams – a whole present left by the previous accountant. “You’re a fucking traitor and a mole,” the woman says coldly while looking sharply at the leader. “I challenge you to a duel to death.” “Reiza— What are you—?!” Tom stares at her with clear panic. However, Reiza doesn’t even look at him, instead her golden eyes are locked on Shiram who casually approaches the dropped folder, picks it up, and looks at its content. His expression becomes grim, and when he finally looks at the duo, there’s cold rage in the man’s gaze. “What is the meaning of this? Is it some sort of a joke?” Shiram’s voice sounds like steel ready to cut, and it makes a lot of gang members nervous, with some quietly scurrying away. Reiza, however, remains unfazed, looking at the leader with a clear challenge in her gaze. “No, it’s evidence pointing at you working for the security council, and them basically hiring you to form a gang and allow the council to secretly watch over us, control us.” Shiram laughs, but his laugh is more theatrical rather than genuine. “And you think someone will believe this shit?” however, his eyes don’t even smile, instead looking at the woman with bloodthirsty rage. “It’s more than enough to challenge your authority,” Reiza takes out her switchblade and opens it while assuming a fighting stance. Some of the cat boys and cat girls sitting nearby stand up from their tables and scramble away, knowing perfectly well what’s going to happen next and not wanting to be caught between two fighting sides—especially if it’s someone as strong as Shiram and Reiza. Big Tom also steps aside, hiding behind one of the tables—he’s not a fighter, after all. Meanwhile, Shiram stops faking a smile, and now his face becomes like a stone mask, with eyes filled with disdain. “Very well,” he tosses the folder away. “Maybe it’s finally time to teach you a lesson, Reiza. You have always been way too opinionated,” the leaders takes out his switchblade as well and opens it. “I usually try to be gentler with women, but I’ll make a generous exception for you,” his mouth twitches into a sadistic smirk. However, before Reiza can make a first move, Big Tom surprises both sides by standing up with a pistol in his hands and shooting at Shiram. Such turn of events has turned out to be so unexpected that the leader doesn’t have much time to react, and the bullet hits his shoulder. Once the boom of the pistol settles down, one of the cat girls in the room makes an audible gasp, then someone else screams. Big Tom, however, is all sweaty and shaking—he was never a good shooter, but Tom had no other choice. He has to help Reiza, hence why Big Tom secretly brought a pistol. Shiram stumbles back then touches the shoulder, there’s blood on his fingers. Upon realizing he was shot, the leader becomes enraged and looks straight at Big Tom with furious, mad eyes. “You, bitch—!” the man also wants to add how he’s going to get Tom next and make to him all things imaginable and unimaginable—both sexual and not but all sadistic,—but there’s no time: for Reiza doesn’t miss the opening and lunges at Shiram, planning to make one precise slash to his throat to end all of this in one hit, killing the leader. Her dream will finally come true.