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The day Riko Moriyama died the Edgar Allen Ravens lost their first match. They were angry and disappointed. Weren’t they supposed to be the best of the best— that’s what they were promised.
The day Riko Moriyama died the Foxes won something no one thought they could. They jumped up and down, exited to finally win something, finally be seen for the fractured, but strong team they were.
The day Riko Moriyama died was the day Kevin Day became a Queen in the eyes of the public, not just number two— but the strongest piece on the board, and the one worth the most points.
The day Riko Moriyama died, was the day Neil Josten was sure his future was set in stone as he watched Ichirou shoot his brother in the head with a handgun… endlessly tender even with the violence he brought.
And Neil Josten was smiling.
The day Riko Moriyama’s death was brought to the news, Kevin Day broke down. He sobbed even though he knew Riko deserved none of his tears— unsure if he was crying from loss or relief.
The day Riko Moriyama’s death was brought to the news, word spread that it was a suicide, but none of the Foxes believed it for a second. They knew the Moriyama’s were cutting their losses, and Riko had become a liability long before anything actually happened.
The day Riko Moriyama’s death was brought to the news, the fans went wild. Some blamed the Foxes, some defended them with vigor, and far quicker than it should it became less about Riko and more about who could hurt the other team’s fans the most.
And no matter how much he wished he could, Neil Josten didn’t feel bad.
Neil Josten didn’t feel bad about calling Riko a liability.
Neil Josten didn’t feel bad about badmouthing him in front of Ichirou, even though he knew it was his words that had led to Riko’s death.
Neil Josten just smiled, and didn’t stop smiling until long after everyone had gone to bed, mouth unwilling to cooperate. Maybe he’d been more fucked up than he thought by the way he’d been brought up. There was no way he had all his Exy racquets in a row after all that, but he’d never really had the time to dwell on it.
Once the Butcher’s son, always the Butcher’s son.
And if staring at the dead body of his rival and tormentor on the floor made him smile? Well, like Ichirou said no matter what name he used, he’d always be a Wesninski, no matter how much it made him want to throw up.
And Wesninski’s didn’t flinch away from a little gore.