Traffic, part III-IV

[petronia]

Or, that Viewfinder fic I keep mentioning. Against marej's best advice I'm posting these chapters before writing the rest, mostly because I'm not certain when I'm going to be writing the rest. *ducks* IS IT MY FAULT I HAVE LIKE FOUR FANDOM WRITING PROJECTS DUE IN THE MONTH AND A HALF BEFORE I GO ON VACATION.

(Okay it is my fault. But.)

I recopied the first two parts from the naljwrimo2006 post so, uh, you won't have to load that monster again. XD;



Traffic


Liu Fei Long, age 28
Chairman, LTG Holdings Co. Ltd., Hong Kong S.A.R.

Sam Leung was both greying and balding. Fei Long currently had an excellent view of the progress of these twin conditions. The top of the kneeling man's head shone under the lamplight, surrounded by a ring of hair like scraggly winter brush.

"Really, Uncle Leung," he said, "get up."

Leung did not move. Fei Long nodded at one of his lieutenants, who approached the older man and tapped him on the shoulder, not ungently, before attempting to lift him by the elbow. Leung allowed himself to be maneuvred into a chair, stiff as an arthritic. His normally sallow complexion had lost a further shade of health.

Fei Long adjusted the angle of his teacup lid. The tiny clink of china against china was readily audible: the room was still, but for breathing.

"I can't begin to contemplate what you were thinking," he said. "You're of an age to sit back and relax, surely? Let your nephews tend to the day-to-day affairs, go to the horse races, lose a few hands of baccarat in Macau..."

Silence.

"Was the money worth it?"

Leung whispered something under his breath. Fei Long waited. Eventually Leung repeated himself, in a louder voice that still trembled.

"Forgive me..."

There was movement in the periphery of Fei Long's vision. One or two of his directors were taking a lively interest in the floor near their feet; the rest remained stony-faced. He sighed.

"Outsourcing, Uncle Leung. The mainlanders and the Burmese manufacture, we put up the funds. The cutting houses supply only the local market: the less merchandise transships Hong Kong the better. I can't think of anyone who should understand the principle better than you. And yet here you are, setting up a factory in the New Territories.

"Did you honestly assume you would escape notice simply because you were moving product overseas? Ten thousand units followed by... what? Did you consider what the Japanese had in mind? Who takes responsibility if your deal triggers a war between the Yokohama organizations and their backers? Do I inform our Tokyo contacts that this was part of our business plan, we simply didn't feel the need to consult them on their home turf?"

Leung looked as if he were about to faint. Fei Long took a sip of tea. After a few seconds he added, gazing into his cup, "It is not only a question of fiscal liability. It is a question of trust."

Leung fell forward out of his chair, onto hands and knees. The movement was comical; no one laughed or tried to help him up.

"Forgive me," he babbled. "It was a mistake. The profit margin – I thought—"

Fei Long watched him in silence, absently running a finger over the edge of his cup. Eventually Leung ran out of stuttered excuses. He made a movement toward Fei Long's chair, a desperate, groping gesture. A fleeting expression of distaste crossed Fei Long's face, and he moved his foot away from Leung's reaching hand. Leung froze.

"You are relieved of your responsibilities toward the organisation," said Fei Long, slowly. "The management of your clubs will pass to Leung Kar-Sing, and the rest of the Leung group's assets will be redistributed accordingly. In view of your long service to the Liu family there will be no further punishment." He gazed down into Leung's face for a long moment – the man did not look relieved, far from it – then turned to the soldiers standing at attention behind him. "Please escort Mr. Leung from the premises."

When the door closed there was a muted but general exhalation of relief, and a certain amount of shifting in seats and wiping of faces. A couple of Leung's close cohorts looked green at the gills. He noted them as instances of a public lesson learnt; there was no evidence anyone but Leung was set to benefit from the deal.

Instead he said to the room at large, "When a man is found to be at fault, he should always be given a second chance to prove himself. What do you think of this principle?"

"Someone who betrays once will do so again at his convenience," said Wong Jian, a weapons trader. "And in Leung's case - for what?"

"Not mere shortsighted greed, if that's what you mean," said Fatty Mok from his favorite position near the lacquered screen. "He has ambition for those boys of his, whether or not they have any of their own. Why, Kar-Sing or Jonny could well rule Mongkok nightlife at the tender age of twenty-five—"

Someone gave a derisive snort.

"—If all they lack are the funds to buy out the opposition," Mok finished with a gleeful flourish, and leant back in his chair. "Blood runs thicker than gold, my friends. Nepotism will be the death of us all."

"Enough," said Fei Long, meeting Mok's eyes across the room. "The meeting is over."

Leavetaking took place with the usual amount of ceremony. Mok lingered, polishing his spectacles with a soft cloth and fussing with the case. He was known as a fixer, a Baishe associate of long standing – one of the aides who had the elder Liu's ear before his death – and among the first to support Fei Long in the power struggle that ensued, though no one had ever caught him favoring one candidate over another beforehand.

When the rest of the directors had left the room Fei Long set his tea cup down and nodded to Tao, seated on a stool in the corner. The boy immediately approached and removed the tray. After the door had closed behind him Fei Long said, "Do you believe Kar-Sing was the impetus behind this deal?"

"I believe Kar-Sing to have more wit than to make a play from his position," said Mok. "He has his eye on the long haul. And he'll keep Jonny and the others in check." Fei Long nodded.

"I want it kept quiet," he said. "Give it a month."

"Natural and unrelated, I assure you," said Mok. "What is Sam Leung without his clubs and his hostesses? I doubt his heart will take the strain." He hauled his corpulence out of his chair. "What of the deal itself, in the meantime? Does the white snake ride the trade wind while it's fair?"

Fei Long remained silent for a few moments, thinking. Mok waited. Finally Fei Long said, "Get me the factory manager. I'd like to see what convinced Leung to take the plunge."



Winston Tse Hsu-Ping, age 25
Ph.D. candidate (medicinal chemistry), Hong Kong University of Science and Technology, Hong Kong S.A.R.

The door buzzed open. Winston swung his feet off the table and sat up, setting down his notes.

The men who entered were not ones he expected. He recognized the one with the slicked-back hair as a frequent background hoverer during Leung's visits – more secretary than bodyguard, he thought. Another was obviously muscle. The third had narrow eyes in a narrow, tanned face. The face looked bored, the eyes did not.

"What is it?" he said, addressing Slick-Hair. "I have a schedule to follow." The man found a source of inspiration in the periodic table pinned to the wall. It was the third man who answered:

"We're taking you to see someone."

"Mr. Leung?"

"Mr. Leung is no longer in charge of this operation. Bring samples of the merchandise."

Winston stared at him for a second, then stood up, went to the grey cabinet, and unlocked it. One of the shelves held three beakers, each half filled with pills. He took two from each beaker, placing each pair in a two-by-two-inch zip-locked plastic bag.

"Fine," he said. "Let's go."

***

He expected an excursion to a warehousing facility (the worst case scenario being a construction site sand pit), but an hour later he found himself being ushered down a tastefully-lit corridor on the first basement parking level of a Hong Kong Island skyscraper.

It was not an office building. The corridor was set with ornately framed, floor-to-ceiling mirrors in which he caught glimpses of himself half-hidden between two taller, dark-suited men (Slick-Hair had disappeared in the interim), and punctuated with elevator doors. Each elevator - Winston estimated - serviced one or two suites per floor only, isolating the inhabitants from each other insofar as it was possible.

He counted ten elevators. It was a long corridor.

The eleventh and last elevator featured a card reader. The narrow-eyed man retrieved a magnetic key card from his breast pocket and swiped it before punching the single available floor button (P5).

The ride did not take a long time, but it made Winston feel queasy.

Two burly men sat around a card table in the foyer. They wore dark suits and had wires hanging out of their ears. They looked up when the elevator doors opened.

"We're expected," said Narrow-Eyes. One of the men said something into his mouthpiece and nodded. The other one got up and patted Winston down with the efficiency of an afterhours club bouncer.

"What are these?" he asked.

"Samples," said Winston.

"He was told to bring them," said Narrow-Eyes.

The first man unlocked and pulled open a folding metal gate with a clatter. At the same time the door behind it was opened, from the inside.

"Please come in," said the boy. He was perhaps ten or twelve, dressed in old-fashioned embroidered silks, with a fresh-faced look Winston found jarring. "Master Fei is expecting you."

***

Winston wasn't expecting Master Fei.

He knew the name Liu Fei Long but not much more (excessive knowledge or the appearance thereof was generally not construed in his interest). He imagined someone like Sam Leung; a little younger and less greasy, perhaps, a little more obviously intelligent. He didn't think—

Had there ever been a Canto-pop star turned matinée idol more unbelievable in the role of Triad leader?

Even a female Canto-pop star?

Liu Fei Long looked him up and down, a flicker of perfect, almond-shaped dark eyes. Something about his gaze made Winston feel small and awkward and exposed. A pinky mouse, he thought – lovingly defrosted and dropped into a garter snake's aquarium. He kept his face still, but his hands curled into fists at his sides.

Liu must have noticed. He smiled slightly; the effect was stunning.

"So you're Tse Hsu-Ping," he said. "You've caused a fair amount of excitement. Do you have the samples?"

Winston took the zip bags out of his pocket. Narrow-Eyes appeared by his side, took the samples and carried them over to Liu, laying them in a row on the ornately carved teak side table beside Liu's chair. It was a distance of less than three meters.

"Tell me," said Liu. "What do these do?"

Winston took a breath. "The blue tablet with a diamond imprint contains 35mg caffeine, 40mg methamphetamine—"

Leung would have told him to answer the fucking question: what does it do, not what did you put in it. Liu allowed him to recite his entire list. Halfway through the enumeration of the third formula he opened the sample bag in question, shook out one of the pills and held it up to the light.

"The blue diamond," he said when Winston was done, "keeps the user in an alert and hyper-focussed state for a period of several hours, with comparatively negligeable side effects. The yellow butterfly is an euphoric relaxant. And this one—" he rolled it between thumb and forefinger. "There is a liquid form of this that can be administered intravenously. It has... interesting effects."

"It can also be inhaled," said Winston. "It was difficult to fixate for oral dosage."

"Indeed," said Liu, glancing up at him. It was an amused look. "Do you assess all your creditors in this fashion?"

He understood. Of course. "I feel more comfortable if I know whom I'm working for."

"If they're aware enough to appreciate your worth, you mean."

Winston was silent.

"Since I now hold your debt I've looked into the repayment schedule you previously were on with Sam Leung," said Liu. He leant forward in his chair, loops of dark hair shifting over his shoulder. "I applaud your sense of filial piety."

Winston laughed sharply. It sounded bitter even to himself. "Filial piety has nothing to do with it. I would have let you take the store and the flat if that would've been the end of it, but unfortunately I know how to add. You would have come after me anyway."

"The generic you, I hope," said Liu. "And, of course, with your father dead and the family business gone it would have been extremely difficult to finance your further education. But you made Leung see an investment with a sure expectation of return. No, not entirely a shortsighted fool."

The tone of voice made it clear. Remember to whom you speak.

Winston reminded himself to breathe. "What do you mean to do with me?" he asked finally.

"Very little that has not already been done," said Liu. "You will produce the next shipment as stipulated by Leung, but you will do it for me. I've raised your theoretical salary to slightly above the industry norm. As for your own ongoing arrangement—" he smiled that slight smile again. "Understand that your abilities are keenly appreciated."

***

Leung demanded "samples" on a frequent basis and always kept them. Liu returned them to Winston at the conclusion of the interview. Later that evening he dumped the contents of each bag back into its respective beaker, taking care not to touch.

Then he got down to work.



Yip Hong-Yueh, age 19
Dock worker, Hong Kong S.A.R.

Ah Yueh arrived at the diner that was their agreed-upon meeting place to find Old Lam already ensconced in his usual booth, and a man he had never seen before occupying the seat opposite. He was rangy and narrow-featured, his hunched form all but buried in a bulky black leather jacket. At Ah Yueh's approach he lifted his head, pinning the younger man with an assessing stare. Ah Yueh stayed on his feet, warily.

"The others are outside," he said to Lam.

"His name is Shan," Lam said by way of introduction. "He's a cousin of Flower Mo, whom you know. He'll be working with us tonight."

Shan held his gaze for a moment longer, and at length smiled. He looked more Thai than Hokka, Ah Yueh thought, and disliked him immediately.

***

Ah Yueh knew as much about the job as any of Lam's jobs involving heavy lifting, which is to say next to nothing. Lam rarely mentioned names, and the Baishe were a wide umbrella - large enough that factions trod on each others' toes on a regular basis and had to appeal to yet a third group for arbitration. But Ah Yueh fancied his instinct to be true, and something about Shan made his knife hand itch. He didn't seem like the kind of man to be doing legwork for Lam. He was too quiet, and he moved like the shadow of a shadow.

Nevertheless the assignment went off smoothly, or at least at first. The pickup contact was a short, bespectacled fellow with the air of a beleaguered rabbit, not much older than Ah Yueh himself. Ah Yueh fancied he looked at Shan oddly, but he didn't say anything; just showed them the goods and took himself off. The behaviour did nothing to overcome Ah Yueh's reservations.

In the end he put his boys on lookout – Carlie at the perimeter and Little in the driver's seat – while he loaded the truck with Lam and Shan, and again when they were unloading and stacking the crates in the designated container. He wanted to keep an eye on the man.

He said as much to Lam when Shan got a call on his cellphone and went around the corner of the warehouse in order to take it.

"You're not getting paid tonight to ask questions," said Lam.

"I got my brothers to watch out for," said Ah Yueh. "How do you know we can trust him? Have you worked with him before? Who else is vouching for him besides Flower?"

"He's not a spy," said Lam. "Believe me on that one." But he gave Ah Yueh a strange look, as if he were about to say something but thought better of it.

Something there, Ah Yueh thought, but he'd worked with Old Lam for six months counting and there was no budging the man when he chose to clam up. "I'm going to go check on Carlie," he said instead.

"—Not going to get to the factory let alone us," he could hear Shan saying as he approached that side of the warehouse, quietly so as not to give away his presence. "I don't need backup, I need him to be called off, and for that we have to go above his head."

A pause. "Yes, I understand." Another pause, and Ah Yueh stopped short at the corner, listening hard.

"I'll call back in fifteen minutes," said Shan abruptly, turned the corner, and snapped his cellphone closed. "Need me for something?"

"Going to check on Carlie," Ah Yueh said, scowling.

"Tell him to come in closer to where we are," said Shan. "I'd like us to keep in sight of each other."

Ah Yueh brushed past him without answering.

***

Carlie wasn't where he expected him to be. "Hey," Ah Yueh hissed, glancing around. "Where—"

He stepped over something white. It was Carlie's running shoe.

He spun at the same time as something slammed into the back of his skull, hard, and the world went black.

***

"—Knew it was Mok behind it all. Fucking fat son of a bitch playing his little games."

Ah Yueh came to with his face against a cool surface that seemed to be spinning. His head throbbed like white strobes going off behind his eyes. It took some effort to lift his eyelids; when he did he had to fight the urge to roll over and vomit.

Instinct said moving was not such a good idea.

Yard lights pooled illumination like spotlights on a concrete stage. Ah Yueh was lying some feet away, in the shadows, his view half blocked by a crate dolly. He tried to count: eight men? Ten? They were unfamiliar, armed with steel pipes and bats. He couldn't see his brothers.

The light fell full on Old Lam's bloody and swollen face as he strained forward in the restraining grip of two men, still struggling despite the punch-drunk loll of his head. It fell on Shan as he stood with his back against a wall of containers, hands well in sight at his sides. It fell on Jonny Leung's handsome, vicious features as he stepped forward from the circle of his soldiers, smiling. One hand gripped the shoulder of the factory manager from earlier on, propelling him alongside. The man still looked like a rabbit: a scared, angry rabbit.

Shit, thought Ah Yueh. Shit.

"You think the Leung are going to bend over and take it and say thank you?" said Jonny. "You think that? This is our money, our deal, our drugs. We're taking back what's ours. Mok fucked with us and now he's going to regret it. Tell him I'm coming after him next." His mouth twisted. "That's if you can still talk after I'm through with you."

Shan didn't move; only his eyes flickered. "You're full of shit, Jonny," he said. "It fucking astonishes me."

Jonny hit him, a punch that slammed him backward into the container. The rabbity factory manager, released, stumbled back two steps and sat down suddenly on the ground, as if his legs had given out under him.

Shan pulled himself to his feet, slowly. He spat and drew a hand across his mouth, still bracing himself against the container with the other arm.

"You know who sentenced your uncle," he said. "It was Liu Fei Long himself."

"Mok was pulling the strings," said Jonny. "Mok is the one who profited. I know it. The proof is that his right-hand man is here."

Shan laughed. The sound was nearly a cough. "Watch what you say," he said, and there was something chilling in his voice. "Old fat Mok Ho-Kung, pulling the strings of the Liu? I didn't think you were such a fool."

A muscle in Jonny's jaw twitched.

"I'll tell you why I'm here," said Shan. "I'm here because the man I follow can't afford to see this deal go wrong. I'd like you to think about that for a second, Jonny. Tell me if you figure out why your uncle went down."

"The deal is ours."

"No. You had a deal. This deal is something else. Your deal is over because it interfered with something that's bigger than you, or your uncle, or Mok. This deal is the start of a fucking war. You know, don't you, how Liu Fei Long feels about Tokyo? Or you might not, but I'd be willing to believe Leung Kar-Sing does. Does your big brother know about tonight, Jonny?"

"Don't try to—"

"Tell me, Jonny. Where is Kar-Sing now?"

Silence. Several of the men glanced doubtfully at each other. Jonny saw; his lips peeled back against his teeth, and he lifted a hand to strike.

A cellphone rang, the trill painfully loud. Jonny froze.

No one moved. The phone rang again.

Slowly, Jonny dropped his hand. He reached into his breast pocket, retrieved the phone, flipped it open and held it to his ear.

"It's me," he said. "Brother? Where are—"

He stopped short.

No one so much as breathed. The dock was hushed to the point that even Ah Yueh could hear the shouted invective emanating from the earpiece as bursts of static noise, words and sentences indistinguishable. Jonny grew noticeably paler with each passing second, shoulders stiffening against the verbal onslaught as if it were a high wind.

"I understand," he said finally, into a pause, and hung up. For a second or so he simply looked around, as if wondering who these people were and how he and they had arrived there. His soldiers shifted and looked uncomfortable.

One of them eventually said, "Boss—"

Jonny punched Shan again, in the stomach this time. As the other man doubled over he brought his hand down in a smart chop at the base of his neck. Shan crumpled to the concrete. Jonny kicked him several times in the ribs for good measure, then spun on his heel and stalked toward the exit.

"We're moving out," he snarled. "Leave those two. We're out of here."

The soldiers complied quickly, dropping Lam to the ground next to the factory manager, who had not budged in the interim. They disappeared into the darkness. Engines fired in the distance; that sound, too, died away.

Seconds passed. The factory manager got unsteadily to his feet.

"To hell with this," he said. "The start of a war? You're all crazy."

It broke the silence; scattered groans answered. Shan struggled to a seating position and turned his head in Ah Yueh's general direction.

"Hey," he said. "You still alive?"

In response Ah Yueh pulled himself upright, using the dolly as leverage. Behind him something shifted, then made a gagging noise. He turned his head and saw Carlie lifting himself on his elbows.

"Sunnuvabitch," he said. "Sunnuvabitch."

"Someone hit you over the head," Ah Yueh said. Carlie groaned.



Shiozawa Yukihiro, age 35
Secretary, Shunsan Construction Y.K., Yokohama

The mirrored window scrolled down silently to reveal Harunoyama's face. "Get in," he said, jerking his head at Shiozawa, then turned away and continued barking into a portable phone. "...Not setting one foot outside the door without my permission! Do you think I'm a fool? If you so much as... Don't you dare take that tone with me! Misato!"

After a moment's hesitation Shiozawa circled the rear end of the Celsior and slid into the back passenger seat, beside his company president. The driver was pulling away from the curb before he'd completely secured the door.

The interior of the Celsior was another world from the humidity and bustle of the external city: dim, air-conditioned, quiet but for engine hum and Harunoyama's raised voice. It was a roomy car, but the bulk of its regular occupant rendered the rear seat cramped. Shiozawa wedged himself next to the door, laid the palms of his hands flat against his knees and waited. He was used to waiting.

Harunoyama's rant cut off in mid-syllable. He stared at the portable handset for a second before slamming it down in its dock with a curse.

"Kids," he said. "You have kids, Shiozawa?"

"No, sir."

"Good man. You don't know how lucky you are. My son's a little dipshit good for nothing but guzzling beer and wrecking cars, and my daughter opens her legs to the first passer-by who takes her fancy." Harunoyama pulled a handkerchief from his breast pocket and mopped at his face. "I don't know what I'm doing this for."

Shiozawa said nothing. Harunoyama leant forward and tapped at the smoked plexiglass dividing them from the driver.

"Take us onto the highway," he said into the intercom. "Keep driving until I tell you to stop." The driver complied silently. Harunoyama sank back into the leather upholstery with a sigh.

"I have this car swept for bugs twice a week," he said. "Can't talk at home, can't talk in the office. My phone lines are tapped and I'll bet the shop it's those Miura fuckers. We can't trust anyone, Shiozawa. Not until this is over."

This, too, was old news. Shiozawa continued to wait.

Harunoyama reached into the side door compartment, retrieved a fat manila folder and dumped it in Shiozawa's lap. "Cost me a fortune," he said. "Look at that. Look at that and tell me what you think."

Shiozawa opened the folder. Surveillance transcripts formed the bulk of its contents; he scanned a few pages rapidly, then turned to the attached photographs. He flipped over one, then a second, then a third, checking names off a mental list.

It was not the record of a social event. Money had changed hands.

He turned the fourth photograph over and paused. The lurker – a cameraman of indubitably professional credentials – had caught his subject from the front, as the man lingered behind the others to light a cigarette. Dark suit, swept-back hair, sculptural profile. The grain was fine for the blow-up of a zoom shot, and Shiozawa had a sense (illusory, he qualified to himself a second later) that the man was gazing directly at the lens.

No. Through the lens, at him.

The eyes were feral. He may even have been smiling; it was difficult to tell.

"You know who that is?" said Harunoyama. He barely marked a pause before adding, "Asami Ryuuichi. The fucking king of fucking Shinjuku."

Shiozawa looked up quickly.

"Oh yes," said Harunoyama in response to the unspoken question. "The Miura ran, those shits. They handed it all over – routes, turf, themselves on a fucking platter with an apple in their mouths. We're in it with the Chinese to the end now." He slammed his hand down on the seat beside him. "Fuck! I could do with a drink."

Shiozawa took his glasses off and polished them against the cuff of his shirt, to give himself time to think.

"If the Chinese are committed," he said finally, "if we had any kind of material assurance—"

Harunoyama snorted. "That's the least of my problems," he said. "They always liked the colour of money but now they're falling over themselves to do business. Shit went down on their end, too, you mark my words. The last guy I talked to wasn't Leung."

"Sir, you mean—"

"Their orders are coming from the top now. The big laoban himself." Harunoyama fished cigarettes from his breast pocket, propped one in the corner of his mouth and spoke around it. "Even sent a man over with directives for their soldiers. Name of Shan. You'll meet him tomorrow night when the container comes in."

There was a pause. Harunoyama lit his cigarette, sucked on it as if it were an oxygen line, and exhaled blue smoke.

"I want you to watch this Shan," he said finally. "Keep him in check. Do you understand?"

"I understand."

"Good." Harunoyama tapped away ash. "He has 48 hours to get his people together. Then we move against the Miura. I want them uprooted from head honcho down to the last runner so Asami fucking Ryuuichi doesn't know who to sign a contract with. This city is ours and anyone who wants to do business does it our way. They try to fuck with me, they get what's coming to them."

He took another drag from his cigarette. Shiozawa was silent.

You were the one who began this, he wanted to say. Greed began this. Now you're like a cat calling in terriers to help you catch rats. Do you still think you'll be on top by the time this is done?

None of it passed his lips. "Then, sir," he said, "I'll get off here."

Outside the car the air was oppressive, promising rain. Shiozawa loosened his tie as he strode down the street, then with an abrupt gesture undid it altogether and pulled it off. He unfastened his top collar button, rolled back his cuffs.

The glasses were last to go.

Two blocks away he caught the first bus that passed. Ten minutes later it left him in front of a ramen restaurant by and large indistinguishable from any of the other cheap eateries that lined the street. Shiozawa slipped into the cramped interior, nodded at the owner in passing and ducked around a bamboo curtain.

A steep flight of stairs led down to washrooms and a pay phone. Shiozawa lifted the receiver, dropped in his coins and dialed a number from memory. He leant back against the wall and waited: two rings, three rings, then a clatter as the other side picked up.

"Speaking."

The voice was cool, like water. Shiozawa closed his eyes.

"Asami-san," he said, "it's time."

Comments

[troisroyaumes]

It's been a while since I read Viewfinder, but I absolutely love mafia stories, and this is excellent. ^_^

[petronia.livejournal.com]

Glad you like it! My next two stories will also be about the mafia. ^_^;v I have a suspicion I'm better at writing mafia/underworld/noir than anything else and should just admit it.

[marej.livejournal.com]

stop you blaming stuff on me, you 'orrible person! ahhh the things i must resort to the threats! the coaxing! the whinging! get more of traffic.

translation: SO MUCH LOVE, SABINA! SO MUCH!

[petronia.livejournal.com]

But it is worth it in the end no? XD

♥

[elfiepike.livejournal.com]

oh man, i hope you write more of this. the language especially is excellent; i love all the titles for people and the pauses and tonality. viewfinder fic! good viewfinder fic! ♥

[petronia.livejournal.com]

Thanks! ^^ I definitely plan on finishing it, just not immediately.

[one-if-by-land.livejournal.com]

sabina, this is so good, it'd be a tragedy not to finish. :0 how long do you think traffic will span?

[petronia.livejournal.com]

Oh, there are only three more parts. ^^; The last two will probably be somewhat longer, though, so this is about halfway through and the total should come out under 10,000 words.

I did a huge amount of research and planning for this, but it was so long ago that now I'm like, "Hey, it has a coherent plot! How did this happen?" *g*

[sesame-seed.livejournal.com]

♥ ♥ ♥

You stole all the eloquence!

[petronia.livejournal.com]

*hearts you back wordlessly XD*

[pere-chan.livejournal.com]

Wow.

Would it be sacrilege to say I'd read your manga before I read Ayano-sensei's?

This was the best thing about catching up with the flist. Great stuff.

[imbrilim.livejournal.com]

I'm a lurking reader, and I really love your fics. I took a part of your Part IV ("The fucking king of fucking Shinjuku") and put it into my fic, if I may? I've credited the line, but just wanted to tell you that. :) If you want me to reword or take it out, I will. Thanks!

(and Traffic's one of the smartest Viewfinder fics I've read in a while :D)

[petronia.livejournal.com]

Go ahead, it's not a problem. ^^ I was about to ask you where the fic was but I see you've posted it on the comm. XD

[imbrilim.livejournal.com]

thank you! Also, I was wondering if Baishe is an organization you came up with, or is part of canon? Since I do plan on writing about Feilong's organization and the name's really brilliant already. Hahaha to be honest, my fic was pretty much inspired by the Traffic series. ^_^;;

I'm very sorry for intruding. ^^;;;;;

[petronia.livejournal.com]

It's canon. It's even got a twisty triangular snake symbol. ^^;