// RUNAWAYS

[Matachi]

The Magic City.

Miami.

He was out on the sun deck of the state of the art yacht as it sailed across the waves just off the port. His black hair combed through his short black hair, his droopy eyes watched the seas stir before him. Picking at his nails, it was a rather uneventful day for the young Japanese boy.

His name was Kirigi, named after his father, the first Kirigi, assassin of the assassination organization known only as the Hand. He was trained by his father to take up the mantle of Kirigi when he was old enough, skilled enough, when there was no other Kirigi, he was to take up the mantle. The importance of the name Kirigi in and of itself is a tremendous burden, it's said that during the age of swordsmen, while a samurai's only fear was ninja, a ninja's only fear was Kirigi.

The difference between Kirigi and his father? He was born. He lived, and the Hand's first mistake was never killing and resurrecting him to be a faithful servant. He noticed the error in their ways, he noticed that the Hand was villainous in nature, and he noticed that they thought because he was born to such a life, he wouldn't know better. He called them fools, for a man that grows up with monsters can differentiate monsters from his own. The reason the Hand failed to keep him was because he, unlike the others, failed to fall to their teachings, sink into that pit and become a monster like the rest.

So, now here he was. Halfway around the world from Japan, seeking to escape that life. Essentially running away, yet still, he carried that accursed name; Kirigi.

"We need to dock...we're running out of food." A voice called from behind Kirigi, causing the teen to glance over his shoulder.

[Solo]

One person's treasure city was trash to another person.

Miami, to John, had become the nest for those who deemed themselves of the Latin community. John had no intention, nor would he ever, of joining such a community. Being born to an affluent, white family had turned him into the Ishmael of Miami. Of course, this was his own dramatic exaggeration that he said he lived by.

John waited outside the port for his father to return from a spontaneous urge to go on a fishing trip. His short, brown hair barely moved as the breeze proved itself to be as alive as the city was known. A cigarette was shoved between two chapped lips, but the youth did not breathe in the smoke which was toxin to the body. Instead, he exhaled his remaining bit of air before he pulled the cigarette away from his lips to inhale. His cell phone had four missed calls. All of them were from his father who had attempted to tell him that he was extending the trip for another week.

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