Chapter Text
“I hijacked a plane,” Kuroo confesses. There isn’t a note of regret in his voice.
“You...what?” Bokuto asks dumbly.
“Armed with only a lighter, dude.”
And that’s the honest truth, but everything starts, of course, not with that.
Serious guys from Date hop on his tail in the Hague and then finally step on his heels in Melbourne. Tell him two years ago that these blockheads would chase him to the very south of Australia, and Kuroo would’ve laughed. In two days of running back and forth across St Kilda he doesn’t see a single kangaroo, but gets to know a bunch of Indians and a family of Sri-Lankan immigrants, hiding from Kamasaki and Obara amongst drying laundry on a balcony. It almost ends well: idiot Futakuchi, of course, shoots through the bottle of soda in Kuroo’s backpack, but in the end it doesn’t get in the way of him sitting on a Vietnam Airlines plane straight to Hanoi. A simple and ingenious plan that culminates in crossing the border on the northwest of the Vietnamese capital into China, and from there— wherever, be it Beijing or a Shaolin monastery.
Like all overly simple and not quite ingenious enough plans, this also goes straight to hell immediately.
When Kuroo, luxuriously seated in economy class and pressing his knees into the back of the seat in front of him, is about to ask the flight attendants about lunch, he sees Fukiage. Fucking Fukiage.
Slightly after that Date’s jack-of-all-trades catches him in the bathroom stall: he sticks a foot in the opening before Kuroo can close the door, walks in and genuinely suggests Kuroo fly to the destination.
“Well well, Kuroo Tetsurou. In six hours of flight our guys have just enough time to prepare for your arrival and hands-off-you-bastard ...”
That’s the last thing he has time to say before Kuroo knocks him out by smashing his head against the rim of the toilet.
Two men locked in a single bathroom stall are a reason for any kind of suspicions. Kuroo washes his face, steps over the puddle of blood starting to leak onto the plastic, twists the lock a third closed and walks out, slamming the door hard— passengers in the nearest seats wince uncomfortably. He tugs on the handle. Locked.
Ahead of him an incontrovertible fact takes shape: in Hanoi, people are expecting him. Doesn’t matter if it’s the people from Date or mercenaries they hired— Kuroo doesn’t really care if they want to kill him from pure hatred or for a love of money.
Kuroo can almost hear the sounds of Hanoi collapsing, and the odds of him walking out of this jam beautiful and intact going down with it. Not just this jam— if it goes like this, he won’t even crawl out of the airport.
The flight attendant is wheeling her miraculous cart down the aisle— it looks like during Fukiage’s blitz-questioning he did in fact miss lunch— and Kuroo, sitting back down, unobtrusively asks for a cognac.
Cognac should improve the situation, but it doesn’t, and the nonstop flight path to Hanoi still looks like an unfiltered pain in the ass. He has about ten minutes before people start breaking into the bathroom and, feeling the seconds tick past, Kuroo desperately wants a smoke. Too bad he doesn’t smoke.
When the glass is half empty, he stands it on the tray table. A Boeing of three hundred plus people isn’t a taxi. Passenger planes don’t have parachutes, and if they did, the pressure change would still knock Kuroo into pieces— and wait, stop, the Indian Ocean’s underneath too.
He had to throw his weapons out before security to go through the metal detector as quickly and painlessly as possible. Kuroo doesn’t usually get attached to objects, although it did kind of suck to get rid of his sick pair of glocks, but not even they would have helped with entering an aeroport full of dumbasses from Date. Now the only weapon Kuroo has is a novelty lighter shaped like a Stetchkin automatic with a scratched-in engraving reading “Dear T. from K, cover your ass.” With the help of this lighter he could destroy maybe a couple of cigarettes, and the guys from Date are totally aware of what a real fire machine looks like. With this stupid thing the only thing he could control would be a plane full of civilians.
A plane.
Full of civilians.
Did he just think of that?
Damn, he did just think of that.
The lighter in his inside pocket presses into his ribs when Kuroo turns towards the window to hide the terroristic gleam in his eyes from the plump Australian woman sitting next to him. All of Kuroo Tetsurou’s simple and ingenious plans usually fall apart at the speed of a Formula-1 racer. And this plan is so complicated and so stupid, he’s almost speechless.
Kuroo grips his lighter and stands slowly, like he’s giving himself a chance to reconsider, or a a meteorite to crash into the plane, or a catastrophe to happen, but nothing does. Only the Australian next to him, tan, wrinkles smoothed out by excess fat, is watching him with a scared-suspicious expression.
“Breathe,” Kuroo tells her in English. “You have nothing to worry about.”
And knocks back the rest of his cognac.
The stewardess walking by turns around. Her blue hat almost flies off her head and her gaze turns expectant. That’s how they watch drunk passengers about to get rowdy. She looks at Kuroo getting up from his seat, and it’s great timing because he salutes her with his glass.
“Lady, take me to the head flight attendant, I must complain about this disgusting slop.”
After that, nothing goes okay.
***
“I should’ve killed you right in the bathroom,” Fukiage spits.
“What, mutually?” Kuroo supposes, banging Fukiage’s head against the door three times. Right on his fresh wound. Beating this guy against hard surfaces is becoming a welcome tradition.
“I’m watching you!” Kuroo yells over his shoulder to the pilots cowering in their chairs. “Don’t think about doing anything! And you,” back to Fukiage, “don’t even think about stealing my gun, bastard! This thing shoots, dude, seriously, it really does!”
The thing does shoot.
In thirty two years of life Kuroo’s learned one rule: the guy in charge is the guy who can shoot you through the head. Since the moment he, armed with a plastic lighter shaped like a Stetchkin automatic, disarms the captain of the crew and takes his normal Walther, half an hour passes. The balance of power shifts, so guess who’s the coolest dude here now.
(Hint №1: not the captain.)
(Hint №2: not Fukiage.)
(Hint №3: see cool hairstyle.)
Kuroo can only guess, but most likely, what happened was: regaining consciousness in the bathroom, Fukiage didn’t see him calmly awaiting his fate in seat C18 and went down the same path— if a bit more bloody and less cute— as in, stopped the head flight attendant, threatened her into putting in the code to the pilot’s cabin, and then...
Kuroo has a normal Walther with mid-caliber cartridges. The coolest guy in the room is the one who can shoot you through the head.
The shot turns out blind, blood leaks in an even stream from the hole in his forehead, Kuroo pins the body to the wall, trying not to stain his shoes, and tells the pilots without turning around:
“I know what you were up to over there. I saw everything.”
He didn’t see anything. But he assumes. And adds, seeing the concerned profile of the older pilot and the no less concerned back of the crew captain, “We’re not flying to Ho Chi Minh.”
The walls hum evenly. Behind the wide window over the control panel is a utopian landscape of white clouds. The second pilot covers his mouth with his hand, trying to get out of his seat, but Kuroo forcefully shoves his shoulder, stopping him. “You’re not going anywhere, vom out the window.”
Just open the window at 800 kilometers per hour and...
The last thing he wants in addition to the corpse in the corner is the smell of vomit in here. Although, Kuroo doesn’t intend to leave the room himself, or let anyone out: the last time the door opened, Fukiage broke in, almost strangled him with his bare hands, almost shot him with the Walther, and to top it all off the pilots probably managed to tattle about where the sudden hijacker ordered their plane redirected. Kuroo didn’t see anything, but he would’ve done it a thousand times if he was in their place. “You heard me? We’re not flying to Ho Chi Minh. Bangkok?” He suggests an alternative.
He has to change the destination. Ideally to somewhere that’s not the biggest city, somewhere on the continent. Ideally, something like Port Moresby in Guinea. There’s such a level of criminality there that every day more people die in stabbings than babies are born in their dirty hospitals. Kuroo’s actually not sure if they have an aeroport over there. Or hospitals.
“Pnom Penh?” Also his suggestion.
The second pilot is apparently fighting another wave of nausea. The gentlemen are concernedly silent. God, so he killed a guy in front of them, who hasn’t experienced that? Kuroo’s getting a little peeved, but doesn’t show it and just smirks cheerfully. “Palembang?”
Really, Bangkok and Pnom Penh do look like “not the biggest cities,” and Palembang in Sumatra isn’t even “not the biggest city somewhere on the content,” separated from the continent by the strait of Malacca. But Kuroo’s willing to forego the continent in favor of some big island, if he doesn’t run out of familiar city names first.
“Guys, who’s in charge here, me or you? Why do I have to do everything for y’all?”
Kuroo puts his sweaty palm on the back of one of the chairs and leans against the other with the fist squeezing the gun. He rolls his eyes.
“We can land in Danang,” the second pilot suggests in a thin voice, swallowing loudly.
“Vietnam?” Kuroo asks, pursing his lips. No, thank you, Vietnam— be it Hanoi or Ho Chi Minh— has a tendency of fucking him over. “Not worth it. Other options?”
“Maktan, in the Philippines.”
The Philippines go entirely against his plan of “getting lost either on the continent or on a big island.” Possible, but not desirable. Pros: he’s only been there once, when he was about nineteen, and back then people around him hadn’t yet developed the habit of shooting Kuroo on sight.
Kuroo shakes his head doubtfully. When he realizes the pilots are still afraid to look at him, says out loud, “Kind of a meh idea.”
“Mandalay. Although...” the second pilot looks at some indicators on the panel in front of him. “No, we won’t make it.”
Good. Guys from Shinzen have firmly established themselves in Mandalay anyway. And after the incident in ‘07 they shoot at everyone vaguely resembling Kuroo and only later check if it was even him. No one really loses anything if they can’t make it there. Except the bounty hunters Shinzen promised nine million kyats for Kuroo’s head.
“Where can we make it?” Kuroo asks briskly, glancing at the control panel.
If he wasn’t a homegrown terrorist in this situation, Kuroo would ask what the hell all these glowing buttons were for. This is his first time in the pilot’s cabin of a real Boeing.
The captain of the crew, older than the assistant and not as sweaty from fear, is looking at Kuroo with an expression reading “think before you hijack a plane.” And then gamely says “The closest landing site would be Indonesia.”
On one hand, Indonesia’s a great idea. Somewhere near its capital Bokuto with his guys are doing the dirty work of another creaky moneybags for some outlandish sum. Shirofuku— Bokuto’s assistant and ex, a little girl with a big shotgun— will definitely scratch Kuroo’s face off the minute she sees him, but scars are attractive on men, right? And while that crew pulls you into their troubles, they’ll definitely protect you from your own.
“So what are your ideas for Indonesia?” Kuroo still isn’t sure that he’s actually ready to go for that and what he’s asking out loud.
On one hand, Indonesia’s a great idea, because Bokuto’s there. On the other hand, Indonesia’s, well, Indonesia.
“Medan?” The commander suggests in a wooden voice, sweat shining off his forehead.
“Too far to the west.”
Alas.
“Pekanbaru?” the second pilot chimes in.
“Great, but like, shit, where even is that?”
The pilots fall silent, either judging him or considering.
After half a minute of silence Kuroo hears:
“The most optimal choice is Jakarta.”
“Jakarta?” Kuroo echoes weakly.
“Jakarta.”
That is a very, very bad idea. Really, it’s the worst idea of all the ideas proposed, even counting Mandalay. Kuroo rubs the bridge of his nose with his free hand. And then, with a weaker voice than a plane hijacker should have, says, “But I can’t go to Jakarta!”
The commander irritably, and Kuroo would’ve understood in any other situation, turns around and demands, “Why?!” In his eyes Kuroo reads, “God, I’m so sick of you.”
“Hey, don’t look at me like that.” Kuroo smirks desperately. “How long until we land there? An hour? Okay, does your phone connection thing work? I need to make a call.”
“Bo, it’s me,” Kuroo starts. The conversation’s in their usual English. Kuroo’s always refused to resurrect the Japanese in his memory.
“So it’s you?” Bokuto asks, out of breath and agitated. In the background Kuroo hears a crack, shriek, and unhappy shout.
“No, it’s not me,” Kuroo immediately retorts, sensing a trap and another unknown situation where he might be to blame.
Bokuto starts getting angry. “Bro, is it you or not you?”
“Well, whatever you’ve got over there isn’t me. I’m here.”
And the reason Kuroo has always deeply valued and will always value Bokuto is because of—
“Oh, then cool.”
—that.
“So then what’s happening, guy?”
“Let’s pretend for a second, hypothetically, that in an hour I’ll be in the airport in Jakarta...”
“Bro,” Bokuto interrupts, and Kuroo can practically see him grimacing. “Bro, you can’t go to Jakarta.”
Kuroo can barely keep himself from sighing sorrowfully and at length. It’d be nice if they discussed something he doesn’t already know, yeah?
“Tell me about that in more detail,” he grumbles, because who in this part of Asia doesn’t know that Kuroo can’t go to Jakarta? Although, judging by the looks the second officer is giving him, he has no choice anymore. And now let’s say that out loud and destroy any possibility of turning back. “I have no choice.”
“Where even are you right now?”
“One sec.” Kuroo bends down between the pilot’s chairs and whispers, “Guys, where are we right now?”
“Flying over Yamdena,” swallows the second pilot and stares at the gun Kuroo’s still holding against his seat.
Kuroo mulls this over for a few seconds.
“Yamdena, you know what that is?”
“No fucking clue.”
“Well, I’m like ten kilometers above that shit.”
“What’re you doing there? And are you like, in a plane?”
Kuroo understands if he just lays it all out, he won’t be understood. And there’s yelling in the background— is that Yaku? Where the fuck did he come from? But in the end he decides to say it.
“I hijacked a plane,” he confesses. There isn’t a note of regret in his voice.
“You...what?” Bokuto asks dumbly.
“Armed with only a lighter, dude.”
“Okay, bro...” starts Bokuto in a “this is not even remotely okay” voice. “Right, then, so, you hijacked a plane” — “He did what ?!” is heard in the background — “and in an hour you’re going to land in Jakarta” — “He’s going to land where ?!” — “on that same hijacked plane?”
“You were always the smart one.” Kuroo cheers.
“And you need someone to meet you there and pull you out of the clutches of all of our local cops combined?”
“If not the national army.” Kuroo glares at the pilots. “Anyway, in an hour. Aeroport, tons of police, shootout, possibly acquiring a few more firearms. Sound good?”
“And we’re with you? Fantastic!”
And, turning off the phone, Kuroo understands that this is also not at all good and not at all fantastic.
In a paltry sixty more minutes they’ll end up in the city where he hasn’t been in three years, happily wouldn’t show up for twenty more, and where every last dog knows him.
Moreover, every last dog there wants to kill him.
***
“Remember this day! The day you almost caught Kuroo Tetsurou!” In the next moment Kuroo doesn’t hit anyone and dives back behind the chassis of the plane.
“Get in the car!” Yaku shoots at the guards like they’re targets on a board, then hides behind the black bulletproof minivan. Someone ask him why he’s even here.
Not that Kuroo’s against it. Kuroo’s definitely for. He won’t look a gift horse in the mouth, but “plus one” to a party turns into “bring everyone you know and those you don’t know, meet them and bring them too.” It’s like a whole team for rescuing Captain Kuroo Tetsurou from the paws of the British naval officers.
“Can you hurry up, moron?”
And that’s Shirofuku, the aforementioned little girl with a big gun, sitting about twenty meters down the airstrip and hiding behind a bright orange tech support automobile.
The minivan carrying the rescue team is directly between them. It’s a comfortable cover for Yaku, reloading unhappily. Kuroo has nothing to reload; the Walther had ten cartridges in its magazine and he’s already used them all.
Kai is steadily watching him through the back window of the minivan. In his face Kuroo can read “Young man, you should be ashamed of yourself.” He’s not even blinking, the bastard. For the time being Kuroo prefers to ignore Kai’s displeasure, especially because he has some distractions. Bokuto, his bleached-white head visible above the crowd, breaks the thin rows of the local guard with a ground attack. Meanwhile Yaku, shooting the police officers, aims like the winner of a zombie-apocalypse simulator game.
And it all would’ve looked like a scene from a cool action flick if not for the “What’s wrong with your hair, dumbass?” Shirofuku casually throws at Kuroo without even looking at him. She reloads her gun. “You look even worse than before.”
And she climbs out of the shelter, emptying half a magazine into a dude trying to attack Bokuto from behind. There’s a guy with a good guardian angel.
“Can we not discuss this now?” Kuroo yells at her, trying to out-shout the gunshots and other people’s cursing.
“When did a cat die on your head?” Shirofuku refuses to let up.
“Kuroo, get in now or I’ll shoot you myself!” Yaku opens the door of the minivan on his side and darts in.
Team “rescue Captain Kuroo Tetsurou from the paws of the British naval officers”?
Team “drive Captain Kuroo Tetsurou to suicide,” more like.
Yaku hides in the car and when that goes in reverse it looks like a very good opportunity. Kuroo covers his head with his arms, curls into a ball and runs as fast as his legs can carry him until he flies into the second row of seats in the minivan. Inside he stretches across the seats face up, with only his legs sticking out of the open door. The whole time bullets slam into the window over his head.
“Tora, go!” Yaku commands, and the automobile starts abruptly. Kuroo almost falls off the seat onto the dirty rubbered rugs, but Shirofuku shoves him down from above, bending his knees in another direction. “Grab Bokuto and let’s get out of here.”
Tyrant, dictator, despot. First the minivan, then Poland, then the world.
Looks like Yamamoto’s running over someone.
“God, up close that dead pelt looks even worse.” Shirofuku, trying to catch her breath, smiles triumphantly, sliding down the seat.
Kuroo is an adult, but he’s not going to protest.
“Hey, it draws attention away from my face,” Kuroo does not protest. “When you’re on the run, that’s important, got it, woman?”
Kuroo unsuccessfully tries to yank his legs out from under her. What did they feed this lady the whole year since their last encounter in Budapest? Yaku on the third row is busy with his small-hearted loathing, next to him is Kai and some other dude. They’re silent, and Kuroo is thankful for that. He needs a minute to look at the ceiling and catch his breath. Of course, he won’t calm down until Bokuto’s in the car and Shirofuku gets off his legs.
She loudly closes the door, without getting up, and the door slides into place with a dull clap. Bokuto lands on the front seat and Kuroo finally removes his limbs from Shirofuku’s presence.
“Let’s go, go, go! Drive!” Bokuto slaps his knees, tugs Yamamoto’s elbow, twists around fussily and turns back around. “Damn, cool! We got ‘em!”
“Man, stop moving, you’re in the way,” Yamamoto barks impressively and steps on the gas so sharply Kuroo almost slams his face into the seat in front of him. That’s when he decides to sit.
“Yaku, damn, switch places with Kai, I can’t see shit because of his head,” Yamamoto requests, and then jerks left. Kuroo flies headfirst into the seatbelt attachment.
Shirofuku falls on top of him, the rest of the backseat passengers stack themselves into a sandwich, and Bokuto grabs Yamamoto’s elbow again. “Fucking hell dude, calm down!”
Yamamoto clearly doesn’t like this. Yamamoto’s never had the control of an anger management self-help book author. In extreme situations he instantly loses his temper. And if weaving around small planes and service vehicles in a hail of bullets isn’t an extreme situation, then Kuroo doesn’t know anything about extreme situations.
“Kai, sit in Yaku’s place, I said,” Yamamoto demands, and thanks to that, Kuroo gets to gleefully watch how Kai and Yaku switch places while trying to avoid the human centipede. “There might be a chase.”
“God, noooooo.” Shirofuku sounds exactly like a wife whose husband again, for the hundredth time, turned on baseball instead of the Kardashians.
The car shakes hard when they scrape against the curb, roll along the chain-link fencing they crushed when they entered, and finally get to the turf covering. The road leading into the city is about a hundred meters away and if it weren’t for Yamamoto’s words, it’d be a reason to relax.
“Fucking hell, Kuroo!” Yaku’s irritation is fairly justified, but Kuroo would like to contest his surname’s place at the end of that exclamation.
It’s more like “fucking hell, guards,” or “fucking hell, cops,” or “fucking hell, police cars,” but Kuroo has nothing to do with it, really.
The siren sounds as soon as Yamamoto furiously spins out onto the road.
“Tora, can you shake them?”
“What else am I gonna do?” Yamamoto grumbles under his breath.
Bokuto, who seems only delighted by the possibility of a chase, thumps him in the shoulder with a fist. “You got this, I believe in you!”
“I’ll have this if you stop waving your arms around!” The other snaps. “And yeah, Kai, bend down, or switch places, damn.”
“Oh my God, shove off!” Yaku hollers at him. “Kai, lower your head.”
“Yaku-san, maybe it’d be better if you switched places? You’re short, so Yamamoto-san would see better.” Kuroo actually turns around because of this, doubting whether or not he heard correctly.
Jesus, he — whoever this kid might be — actually said that. He really did say that! Made a dig at Yaku’s height in his very presence! An inspiring suicidal tendency awakens in that third body in the back seat — an unfamiliar young man about twenty years old at most, in a long cassock with a crooked collar. Kuroo didn’t see him at the airport, which means he must’ve spent the whole shootout in the car.
Yaku meanwhile is reaching for the dude’s throat, but Kai’s in the way, so he yells “Let me crawl through and strangle this kid!”
“Fucking incredible,” Kuroo cackles, turning around completely so as not to miss a single gesture from the actors in this play. “I didn’t come here in vain.”
“If you didn’t come here,” Yaku starts, crawling over a bent-over Kai and judging by the hissing noise accidentally elbowing him in the ribs. “Sorry, accident. Lev, stop kicking me! Anyway, if you didn’t...”
“You’re trying to hit me, why shouldn’t I defend myself?”
“Lev, shut up.”
What kind of a name is that— “Lev?” Bokuto kneels on the seat and, putting his hands on the seat back, laughs. Shirofuku covers her eyes with her hand, Yamamoto growls with rage, and when Kai is finally moved to the side, they can see the twinkly lights of several police cars.
“Lev, stop struggling, Kuroo, moron, stop laughing...” And here, glancing at Kuroo, Yaku’s expression suddenly changes.
He stares disbelievingly, and then ironically raises his eyebrows, loosening his grip on the silver-haired kid’s neck. The kid uses the moment to move as far from Yaku as possible and press his face to the window.
“What’s that?” The now-calm Yaku asks, raising one brow.
“Where?” asks Kuroo, raising an eyebrow in response.
“On your head,” Yaku responds.
God, not again. It seems like by the end of his first day here, if they’re not all in jail, Kuroo’s going to get a forehead tattoo reading something like “leave me alone, it’s my hair.”
“My hairstyle,” Kuroo replies, as though he’s talking to a child.
The yellow circle in the sky is the sun, Yamamoto just cut someone off, and on Kuroo’s head is an entirely normal looking hairstyle.
“Is that a helicopter?” the gangly kid with the weird name asks suddenly.
“It’s my hairstyle,” Kuroo repeats.
“No seriously, it’s a helicopter,” and the dude points at something in the sky, almost flattening his nose against the glass in the process.
For a few seconds silence reigns in the car, and that’s when it’s clear that outside the car it’s not silent at all. Not because of the road rumbling under their wheels, or the police sirens, or the indignant honking of drivers they cut off, although all of this contributes to the melodic cacophony of the chase. Somewhere above them huge blades whirr, and something is being said through a loudspeaker.
“It really is a helicopter!” Bokuto exclaims, delighted.
Kuroo winks at him. “All for you, Bo.”
“Tetsurou, this is serious,” Kai says, preachy, squinting into the sky through the rear window.
Like he doesn’t know that.
All the jokes serve to cover a single simple truth: they’re in deep shit.
***
The first car they switch out after mere minutes: Yamamoto brakes somewhere at the start of the southern regions, they fly out onto the street and run, shooting at the idling cop cars. Somewhere above them the helicopter rumbles, but Kuroo doesn’t even raise his head because he understands: they’re in the trenches, now.
While he runs after everyone else, memories pop up in his head one after the other. Yaku’s thought of everything, as usual, and they weave through a narrow alley in a single-file line to their second ride. The film strip in Kuroo’s head keeps sparking from the familiar sensations and voices.
A shootout in a small cinema; drunken musical nights at the Queen Elizabeth; the corpse of a white girl on the railroad tracks; the dark silhouette of the Catholic cross against the sunset-pink sky; a knife fight in Jalan Jaksa and the wet shlooping sound of the blade pulling out of his skin; street vendors in straw hats and the clatter of plastic bracelets for six thousand rupiahs; curry rice in Kota Tua; a tan prostitute with soft hands and wide linen pants; church vehicles with expensive leather seats; the cacophony of a traffic jam in the narrow streets of Old Town; throat-burning Indian food in Big G’s eatery; an open cigarette packet and the clear crackling package of cocaine on the altar below a statue of Christ; Kai, absentmindedly throwing a bullet casing up and down in one hand; a cluttered apartment in the southernmost corner of Thamrin, with the biggest bath Kuroo had ever owned; the Church; the Church again.
Yamamoto steps on the gas almost before Kuroo even manages to slam the trunk shut.
A Toyota Prado is obviously smaller than a minivan, but it has a bigger trunk than most hatchbacks, into which two huge adult men can tightly squeeze themselves. As a result Kuroo and Bokuto find themselves separated from the rest of the interior by the back seats.
“We need to get to Prepedan,” Yaku orders. He crashes onto the shotgun seat. “Right, Bokuto?”
Bokuto jerks his head up, stares uncomprehendingly for a few seconds, and then nods. He shifts the massive spare tire to fit his ass more comfortably, like he’s floating in a pool— just missing a cocktail in one hand. “Yeah, Konoha’s supposed to leave a car there. Where there’s an intersection with the exit to the park. In a big warehouse of building materials.”
"You don't have a more specific address?" Yaku inquires in such a mean voice that Kuroo, throwing dirty rags into the far corner of the trunk, wants to throw one of the rags into Yaku's head for daring to talk to baby Bo (over 180 cm tall with a 50 cm bicep circumference) in such a voice.
“On that street half the buildings look like warehouses,” Yamamoto humphs, driving out onto the highway.
“Hey, I thought of everything, I have a google maps screenshot!” Bokuto scrunches his bushy eyebrows together and pulls his phone out of his pocket, passing it to the front. “Yukie, pass this forward, please.”
For a few seconds, Kuroo doubts they’ll really be able to break away. Police cars, now without sirens, are hot on their heels coming off another access road, but then half of them turn in the direction of the city limits, and the helicopter making noise somewhere to the right of them instead heads towards the center.
Shirofuku passes the phone with the map to Yaku, who looks at it and nods. “We’re changing cars and heading to the Church.”
Damn.
“I think the old man would really love to speak with you, Kuroo.”
Damn!
“He’s coming back tomorrow morning,” Kai informs them softly, with the expression of a man who walked into a death-row inmate’s cell to tell him “not today.”
If the brave guys led by Futakuchi showed up in Jakarta, Kuroo would need all the help he can get, and just Bokuto won’t cut it. Getting his friends/minions/nannies to help with firepower obviously won’t work anymore, which means his only hope is the Church, which means— there’s no more hope.
“Coming back from where?” Kuroo asks.
“None of your business,” Yaku snaps. “Pray he doesn’t execute you.”
“Or at least doesn’t recognize you,” Bokuto snickers.
“First of all, praying is your business, O Holy Father, second. Bokuto,” Kuroo turns around and glares at him sternly. “I have a normal hairstyle.”
The road to Prepedan is going to be a long one.
***
For about twenty minutes they drive in relative quiet, save for Shirofuku crinkling a wrapper from something, Yaku and Kai discussing matters in a whisper, and the blond kid periodically asking stupid questions, yanking Yaku’s sleeve. Yamamoto turns on the radio.
“... and now for more news. The wedding of Gunther Perkasa, the son of representative Hema Pertiwi, will take place in the family residence on Situpattengang Lake. More than five hundred people were invited to the celebration, all participants may..”
“Hey, what?” Yamamoto asks, when everyone starts looking at him through the rear window. “Don’t look at me like that. I can’t drive in silence!”
Prepedan Street is concentrated Jakarta. Kuroo doesn’t feel a wave of nostalgia (this city isn’t a place you can miss) but looking at the rusty siding of small houses, the painted over once-white fences, the graffiti covering up other graffiti, the mopeds lining the curbs, and a feeling of familiarity washes over Kuroo, even if he’s never been to this part of Prepedan. All of Jakarta looks exactly like this: like an anthill constructed from trash found under your feet.
“Tora, stop, we’re going there.” Yaku pokes the right edge of the front window.
Kuroo stands up again. Their destination point is distinguished by a high slate roof and shiny corrugated metal walls.
From this car they get out without haste and calmly change seats. Kai even has time to shake hands with one of the workers who jumps down from the stacked bricks.
“This is the most pathetic car I’ve ever seen in my life,” Yamamoto mutters under his breath.
Kuroo extends his legs forward, sitting on the edge of the open trunk and stretching his neck. The most pathetic car in Yamamoto’s life is another minivan— this time peeling, with a dirty blue color peeking through ochre paint, with stickers from a tourist firm and a dent where the left headlight should be. Bokuto, rocking back and forth on his heels, shrugs his shoulders and lowers the corners of his mouth. Kuroo agrees: Yamamoto has not seen pathetic cars.
Kai is laughing at something with the man in the jumpsuit, shakes his hand again, says, “Time to go,” and goes towards the car.
While they’re getting seated, Kuroo tells Shirofuku “ladies first,” like a gentleman. As revenge for that, she stomps on his feet when she crawls into the vehicle.
There’s about a half hour’s drive to the Church, which stands on the south-east side of the city. Outside, twilight is starting, cops are nowhere to be seen, nothing seems to be foreboding anything terrible. But when the minivan stops at a traffic light, Yaku says, “Now, Kuroo, we need to discuss a few things.”
This time, Yaku’s sitting in the back row with Kai and Bokuto, and the long kid’s in the front seat.
“Now?” Kuroo echoes dumbly, sensing a trap.
“Now that no one’s chasing after us for sure,” Yaku repeats.
And then there’s a click and Kuroo notices that almost all of the rods in the car are pointing at him.
“Hey,” Kuroo says indignantly. “Really, this? Instead of hugs? Guys!”
Yaku demonstratively flicks the safety off of his beretta. More specifically, both berettas, in both hands.
“Go around on 7,” he tells Yamamoto, furrowing his light brows. Yamamoto doesn’t even turn to look at Kuroo, and Kuroo now has a gaping wound, a hole in his very heart and soul. Soon he’ll have a hole in his hipbone if Shirofuku doesn’t move the barrel of her gun away from Kuroo’s side.
Kuroo decides that staring an agitated Yaku intently in the eyes is the same as signing up for suicide, so he looks to the left and urgently tries to change the subject.
“By the way, what even is this?” He points at the gangly one. The gangly one has to fold himself up to avoid breaking the glove compartment but even he — can you imagine! — is aiming a gun at Kuroo. “And why is it aiming at me?”
“Oh, that’s Haiba Lev,” Bokuto inserts cheerfully, bending over the backseat. The only person not poking Kuroo with a weapon. “L-E-V. The one you so determinedly ignored. He’s a new choir boy.” Kuroo jerks from the memories of that position. “In the Church. Dang, can you imagine, he’s over 190 cm tall!”
“Nice to meet you,” Lev says politely. To be honest, Kuroo could’ve guessed himself that Lev is new: his cassock is pitch black, not faded, practically crunching when he moves. “And... I’m just following Yaku-san?”
“And if Yaku-san jumps off a bridge, you’ll jump too?” Kuroo snorts skeptically. Just imagine, if everyone copied Yaku, he, Kuroo, would not have lived till twenty years old. “You couldn’t find yourself a better role model to imitate?”
And instantly shuts up because usually, when Yaku lowers his eyebrows another millimeter more, the next morning a corpse turns up somewhere nearby. And Kuroo doesn’t want to be that corpse. But he can’t shut up for very long. “Guys, come on, we were getting along fine. I’m hurt.”
“We were also hurt,” Yamamoto grumbles from behind the wheel, “when you absconded with the whole revenue from the party in Shanghai.”
“Deeply hurt,” Yaku confirms.
“Kuroo-san stole the whole payoff from a deal?” Lev pokes his long nose in from the front seat, shyly sticking his gun out from behind the headrest.
It would’ve been cute if Kuroo liked when people pointed long, thin, inorganic objects at him.
“Kuroo-san stiffed us on the payoff from a deal,” Yamamoto corrects, and pulls a steep U-turn. “He dumped his own!”
“Chill, this isn’t GTA,” Yaku barks. “And you, Lev, put the gun away and sit quietly, got it?”
“But Yaku-sa...”
“Lev!”
Using the internal strife to his advantage, Kuroo questioningly, almost imploringly, looks at the only sane person in this clown car. “Kai, can you at least tell them!”
“When you return the ten thousand dollars, sure,” Kai agrees kindly. Kuroo feels backed into a corner. These sons of bitches. And he came to them with a pure heart!
“What about mercy and forgiveness?” he asks.
“What if I write a check?” Again, more insistently.
And then he relents. “Fine, fine. So what do I have to do so the old bishop doesn’t end me?”
As if that were the only problem. Half of Jakarta sleeps and dreams of ruining Kuroo’s lovely face.
“Should’ve thought of that earlier,” Yaku snaps.
What a drag. Who even thinks about consequences?
Trying to weasel out of these unhappy prospects, Kuroo shifts in his seat and finally comes up with a way to intelligently change the subject. Especially because this question really has been bothering him for the better part of an hour. “Not that I’m against it, I support all your decisions. Your life, your reckless choices. But uh, by the way— why are you all together? ”
Yaku tsks. Evidently, the fact that Kuroo and the heavens bless the Church’s union with Bokuto and company doesn’t mean that Yaku himself blesses it.
“Don’t change the subject, got it? Just think about your problems with the bishop.”
And then after a pause reluctantly drawls, “You mean you haven’t heard what’s happening in this city?”
“Dude.” Yaku’s face demands he stop calling Yaku that while he’s holding Kuroo at gunpoint. “I haven’t been here in three years, and wouldn’t have been here a lot longer, if some fuckers from Date didn’t cut off my escape path, and the brave pilots Frank and Michael didn’t betray our friendship. How should I know what bullshit y’all are suffering from here this time?”
“Date?” Shirofuku asks, opening one eye. The barrel of her Mauser is still staring directly at Kuroo and bringing him a palpable discomfort. “You got all of Date after you? ... Oh.”
Kuroo would’ve answered her, but it’s hard to say a lot to a person holding a cannon level with your genitals. Shirofuku’s always been a smart girl, the bitch. So he switches to Bokuto, who’s asking, “Wait, bro, what about Date?”
Bokuto puts his arms on the back of the seat right behind Kuroo’s head. With that behind him, Kuroo feels somewhat calmer.
“Aone.”
Kuroo says this word half-glancing at Bokuto. He is possibly the only person not just in this car, but in all of criminal Jakarta, who doesn’t want to shoot Kuroo.
And Bokuto’s face lights up with understanding. He even wants to say something, probably something encouraging and hopeful (Kuroo doesn’t doubt his friend) but then Yaku gets into the discussion. “Are you stupid? How did you even manage to get Aone on your tail?”
“Let’s talk about it in the confession booth, O Holy Father,” Kuroo jokes, nervously laughing and making a scary face. Because it’s a long story. And Kuroo quickly returns to the previous topic.
“So what’s with this friendship and tolerance party? The last time we all saw each other, Shirofuku promised to shoot you through the head. And now, look, you’re all sitting in one car, closer than the court-ordered minimum...”
“Ha, ha, very funny,” Shirofuku says tonelessly, opening a lollipop with her teeth and spitting the package bits onto the floor. “It’ll be funnier when I shoot your dick off.”
Kuroo isn’t sure that’s going to be funny. Of course, she won’t shoot him, that’s as clear as two times two. But he’s still uncomfortable with the gun poking him in the place he, according to popular belief, thinks from.
“Let’s not go to extremes,” Kuroo begs in a weak voice. Like he’s ever going to even sit next to her again. “How about y’all lower your rods and we discuss why everyone here is so mean.”
“I think it’s obvious.” Yaku moves the barrel in an arc, nodding at Kuroo, clearly assuming something impartial.
“No.” Kuroo doesn’t want to bring the topic back to himself, because that’s fraught. “You are for some terrible reason working together. You have, what, a temporary alliance? Bo, you and your guys have only been here for a week and a half, right?”
“Have you heard about Ukai?” Yaku doesn’t let Bokuto answer.
And really, that is a very, very unexpected question.
“Senior? You kidding?” Kuroo smirks, trying to adjust to such a jarring subject change. “Who hasn’t? He’s a criminal celebrity. The Michael Jackson of money forgery!” Kuroo turns around. “Why? Did he suddenly pop back into existence in Jakarta?”
Kuroo has a thousand theories, and that’s the most probable one, since Yaku’s suddenly remembering the counterfeit money legend. Stories about Ukai have been going around the underworld for more than a decade. Having a Wikipedia page made about you proves someone’s popular, Kuroo thinks. Especially if the page starts with the word “genius.”
The only problem is that no one’s heard anything about Ukai in many years. “Mysteriously vanished,” and all that. There were a lot of rumors: people suspected he’s been stuck under a false name in some third-world jail, or that Interpol finally got their hands on him. Gossip too. It’d be awesome if he’d resurfaced. Hopefully not face-down in Ciliwung. Kuroo doesn’t print money, but he’d gladly take an autograph.
“Well, he was in town,” Yaku says, hiding the gun, for which Kuroo is extremely grateful.
“Was?” The know-it-all look disappears from Kuroo’s face. “Ukai? Are you serious? When’s the fan meet and greet? Is the dress code casual or do I need Yamamoto to run out for a tux?”
“Was, but we don’t know where he is now,” says Kai, crushing Kuroo’s hopes and dreams.
Life is a lot more pleasant when nobody’s aiming at you, except. “Shirofuku, hide the weapon, you can shoot me when we get out of the car. So what’s with Ukai?”
“We don’t know where he is now,” Kai repeats. “No one knows, even though we searched the whole city. The point is, before he disappeared, he released a set of perfect dollar printing stereoplates onto the underworld market.”
Kuroo winces skeptically. He doesn’t believe that someone could make perfect dollar stereotypes, not even a genius like Ukai. Or else there’d be a bunch of...
“Are they American dollars?”
“Yeah.”
Americans poking about. But he hasn’t noticed a single capitalistic face yet. And still Kuroo doesn’t get it. “Okay, so, Ukai’s in Jakarta, made the plates, dumped them on the market. How’s this related to the fact that you’re all BFFs now?”
There’s a pause. Kai makes an exaggeratedly carefree expression, like’s got nothing to do with it. Yaku frowns— evidently there’s something mixed in there that really pisses him off. In the end Bokuto’s the one who speaks. Starting, as usual, from a distance, scratching his shaggy head. “Remember I said we needed to hand over who knows what in a scary suitcase?”
“We” meaning Bokuto’s small but multipurpose team of employees. A brave quarted, armed with a sharp intellect (Konoha Akinori, age thirty three), unrealistic strength (Bokuto, thirty four, and Shirofuku, always a little over twenty), and something else— Kuroo’s not sure what the new girl’s specialty is as they just hired her about a month ago.
Kuroo digs around in his memory, which spits out, “Bro, bro, we’re going to Serangan, handing over some shit and picking up two mill for it. Need to say hi to anyone in Jakarta?... Wow, okay, stop yelling.”
And also, “Dude, this suitcase is soooooo weird, there’s an electronic lock, and a normal one, and a passcode, and like, what do you think is inside? Pieces from Noah’s Ark? Elvis Presley’s comb? It’s probably the Holy Grail! Or like...”
“Oh, the Aztec gold?” Kuroo nods like he knows what he’s talking about. “Yeah, I remember.”
Yaku casts a suspicious glance on both of them. “Aztec gold?”
“Or a crystal dildo.” Kuroo shrugs. “We never decided. So what was with the suitcase?”
Bokuto scratches his head again, and starts looking around the interior, embarrassed. “Well, we made the deal, got our pay in gemstones, were going to leave the next day, and then...”
“Then we got robbed,” Shirofuku finishes, showing off her ability to deliver hard truths.
Kuroo freezes, hand halfway to scratching his nose, and then looks at Bokuto, who’s angrily pursing his lips, and then at Shirofuku, who’s peacefully opening the window to throw out her lollipop stick.
“Who dared?” Kuroo is genuinely surprised.
Incredible. Who could’ve thought of robbing Bokuto? It’s fucking Bokuto Koutarou! Wanted by the governments of fifty-eight countries!
“Cartel,” Yamamoto answers.
“The Sunrise Cartel? ” Kuroo repeats, and slowly whispers, “The motherfucking Sun-Rise Car-tel?”
Ideally Kuroo would rather never hear that name while residing in Jakarta, but here he is, damn it, discussing the Sunrise Cartel.
And before anyone can answer him, he can’t take it anymore and asks, “So old man Washijou’s still alive, I guess?” Mournful nods instead of words. “There was dust falling off him before I even left. What about the others? Ushijima? Or whats-his-face...”
“Ushijima is also better than ever,” Yaku responds sourly. “And Tendou, in case you were wondering.”
“Fuck, Washijou’s alive, his favorite henchmen are alive, what a day this has been,” Kuroo mutters under his breath, wiping some sweat off his forehead. The shirt he wore out of the airport, covered by a bulletproof vest, is soaked through. “Ugh, guys, let’s close the windows and turn the A.C. on.”
“Great idea, but it doesn’t work,” Yamamoto grumbles. “I found out while everyone was aiming at you.”
Turns out a lot of interesting discoveries are made in the world while Kuroo is being aimed at. Considering he's spent a third of his time since age 15 convincing people not to shoot him, all of life is just passing him by.
“Okay, okay, don’t grumble.” Kuroo waves him off and whistles, getting everyone’s attention. “Yo, choir boy, open the window wider, I’m not getting the breeze. Okay, let’s continue.” He turns back, all business now. “Bo, how’d you even manage to let the Cartel rob you? Since when did they steal from freelancers passing through? Or did you cross their path?”
“We didn’t cross anything.” Bokuto crosses his arms and gazes mournfully out the window. “It wasn’t even your... Ushijima and Tendou.”
“By description.” Shirofuku nods, scratching the back of her head with her gun. “No one even knows who this guy was. Apparently someone just wanted to prove himself.”
Kuroo shakes his head. “Damn, Bo, you managed to blow it on some rando?! No like, I get Tendou, that fucker’s always been sneaky, and Ushijima I’m scared to breathe the same air with. But some nobody?”
“Leave me alone.” Bokuto humphs and turns away from Kuroo, showing off his repeatedly broken nose, and sadly murmurs, “We weren’t ready.”
“Okay okay, sure, you weren’t ready, they got the drop on you,” Kuroo waves his hands in a conciliatory gesture. If Bokuto sours now it’ll suck more for Kuroo than anyone else. “But what about these guys?” Kuroo nods towards Kai and Yaku. “Console you in time?”
“And now we’re back to the stereoplates,” Yaku announces without ceremony. Remind Kuroo not to entrust his wedding or funeral to Yaku: he’d ruin all the most important episodes of Kuroo’s life. “Their estimated value ranges from ten and a half to thirteen million.”
“Dollars?” Kuroo whistles. For that cash he could pay all the Date guys to chase each other.
Yaku shakes his head and Kuroo frowns. “Rupiahs? Yen?”
“Euro.”
“Holy shit...” Kuroo widens his eyes. He’s in shock. “And what... Wait, Bo, your gang’s also in on the hunt for these sacred stone tablets of the Old Testament? To ease your financial burden?... Are y’all struggling that much?”
“Not really.” Kai shakes his head and wants to say something else, but Bokuto interrupts.
“Well, we decided to combine forces. The Church is interested in these— how’d you call them, that was cool— yeah, sacred tablets. We want the money, yeah, thirteen million, bro!” Kuroo can’t even argue with that. “But originally it was more like...not that... and we got together like an hour and a half ago...”
With every word Kuroo’s eyebrows inch higher and higher. His understanding of the present state of events, unfortunately, does not increase proportionally.
The fuck was even happening in this city while he was busy hijacking a plane?
Yaku pulls a bent pack of Marlboros out of the pocket of his cassock and lowers his window. “He’s not gonna get it,” Yaku comments, pulling a cigarette out with his teeth. “You have to hear it from the very beginning.”
“Oh yeah, because y’all are intellectuals here.” Kuroo makes a face at him. “Wait no, hold on, what bag of money? I thought we knew the price. Your perfect sacred tablets,” (“Stereoplates,” Yaku grumbles) “Did they sell already?”
Everyone hesitates again, and Kuroo gets the feeling the uncomfortable silence is hiding another story.
“Well, yeah.” Kai finally nods. “They sold. A few times.”
“A few, meaning a fuckton,” Yamamoto adds. “And were stolen just as many times. They went from hand to hand more often than ten rupiahs at the market.”
“Come on, a fuckton?” Yaku pauses to light his cigarette and inhale. “Only twice. Because Daishou sold them...”
At that name Kuroo’s almost bursting from curiosity, because those kinds of interactions are never a coincidence.
“Daishou?” Kuroo interrupts. “What? How’s he involved? Is it his fault? It’s definitely his fault, I guarantee it.” Kuroo gestures wildly. “Everything ever is always Daishou’s fault. I have no idea what kind of shit’s going down here but Daishou totally started it.”
Yaku freezes with his cigarette next to his mouth and stares at Kuroo judgementally. Then takes a drag and says, “Could you try not jumping to conclusions with no information at least once?”
“Guys, I may not know anything, but I do know that everything is...” Kuroo continues anyway, powerless to stop.
“Right, you don’t know anything. So shut up and listen.” Yaku cuts him off. “And you always say it’s Daishou’s fault.”
“So what?” Kuroo protests. “Have I ever been wrong?”
“How about the last eight times?” Kai jumps in.
Yamamoto adds, “Or the time you convinced the bishop to arrange a raid on his apartment because of a shootout in the Arab quarter, but it turned out—”
“That wasn’t my mistake!” Kuroo protests. “It—”
With a click, Yaku aims the gun at him again. Only thing left to do is to shut up. Shirofuku is giggling. And when Yaku questioningly raises an eyebrow, Kuroo mimics locking his lips and throwing the key out the window.
“The last time Daishou,” Yaku starts slowly, “sold the stereoplates to a young Japanese gang and got their money. But the plates stayed on the market, because Terushima planned to sell them...”
“Terushima? That painted parrot in the crocodile-skin shoes?” Kuroo asks.
But Yaku either doesn’t have the strength to rein in Kuroo, or he correctly understands that while you can keep Kuroo’s criminal activity in check, his personality is another matter.
“Yeah, that Terushima.” He nods. “In that crocodile skin.”
It’s been three years and that loser’s still wearing his tasteless shoes. And then Kuroo realizes, “Hold it! How can Terushima sell the plates if Daishou’s already sold them?”
“Terushima didn’t sell them,” Kai clarifies patiently. Shirofuku giggles again.
“Yaku just said Terushima shoved them on someone.”
“He wanted to, but didn’t.”
“How could he want to, if Daishou already sold them?”
“Well, he stole them from Daishou’s buyers.”
Huh, Kuroo might’ve been a bit too hasty with his conclusions after all.
“Technically,” Kai says, “Daishou stole them twice: before and after the Japan—”
“You’re mocking me,” Kuroo exclaims.
Shirofuku’s laughing openly now.
“Shit, bro.” Bokuto slaps him on the shoulder. “Seriously, we got confused with all this bullshit too. Forget about it. The finale’s the important bit.”
“And what’s the finale?” Kuroo inquires suspiciously, trying to make some kind of sense of this chaotic information.
Bokuto holds a dramatic pause, at which Yaku rolls his eyes, and then answers, “The fact that someone stole the sacred tablets out from under the noses of both us, and the Cartel.”
“It’s Daishou.” Kuroo reacts automatically.
“You just landed.” Kai smiles condescendingly, but Kuroo sees how he’s tensed for some reason. “What gave you that idea?”
In response Kuroo looks at them like they’re children. “The most important law of the jungle: check Daishou first. I’ve been telling y’all this my whole life.”
Yaku, Kai, Bokuto and Shirofuku all exchange a glance, like they’re playing a game Kuroo doesn’t know anything about. And when it starts to get on Kuroo’s nerves, Yaku slowly says, “Well, in reality, Terushima did say he was the most likely suspect... But that doesn’t prove anything, and I don’t want to hear anything about how he’s definitely to blame simply because he almost bit your nose off when we were fifteen!”
“Ear, not nose,” Kuroo corrects him, “and we were sixteen. And when did you talk to Terushima? Actually, to be honest, I didn’t understand anything.”
“Because this isn’t a five minute conversation. The only thing you need to know now is that all of Jakarta’s on the hunt for the plates of this fucking legendary money forger, which he released like a time bomb. The bishop will tell you the rest.”