11This is my first chapter of Lady Luck. I just edited it big time (I can't believe how many careless mistakes were in here) and am now happier with it. Even if you already read it, I would like you to reread it as it's a lot easier to read now. But admittedly, that's just my selfishness talking.
And I promise, I have always tried to keep the characters as un-OOC as possible (but again, not a lot to go off on) and to try to avoid Mary-Sues. I do ask you to give my OCs a chance though, as I won't reveal every trait (good and/or bad) all at once. It simply isn't good writing, and my style is on slow buildup side.
This is an OC story and there will admittedly be a lot of OC's. Can't be helped. Writing this type of story with not a lot to go off on in terms of history or the people that surround him, I have to make up what kind of people would surround Match. So yes, you'll see a good deal of the Yakuza politics Match is involved in and has to deal with later on in later chapters.
Disclaimer: Toriko is not mine. Obviously. OC's are though.
Chapter 1
Food Luck.
It is what defines the Gourmet Age.
But what is luck really?
Is it happiness?
Is it fortune?
Is it love?
Or is it a creature all of its own?
Its own creature separate from all the things people associate with luck?
And most importantly…
What kind of person must you be…
What must you do?
To attain the greatest of luck?
"Nee-sama!"
"Just a minute!"
Huffing softly to herself in exasperation, a dark-haired woman quickly finished dicing an onion—yes, just a regular old onion—before deftly picking up the board and tilting it into the nearby pot. Running her knife along the board to scrap the stubborn stray pieces into the boiling water, she grunted as she set the board down and wipe the blade with a rag. Kissing the hilt lightly, the woman murmured her thanks to the knife before slipping it into a sheath strapped to her upper thigh. By the time the stew would be done, it would be dinnertime and she would already be back and ready to dish it out.
With a practiced motion, scarred fingers selected a paring knife from a holster on her upper left arm as she walked over to a bare looking cupboard. Opening the badly tilting door, she stuck the paring knife into the edge of the backboard and levied the fake back off. Pulling a cloth covered basket out of the hidden compartment, the woman tucked the basket under her bare arms before placing the wooden board back in place. Thanking the small blade in a similar manner she had with the other knife and checking everything over one last time, she made sure the Fire Marimos were properly secured inside the stove and put a lid on the stewpot. Usually, the lady didn't like keeping things burning when she wasn't in the kitchen. Hated it, in fact. It was just one of those things that simply wasn't done as a chef.
But she wasn't a chef, she reminded herself. Not anymore.
Besides, the delivery had to be made. The harvesting of the vegetables had taken longer than usual, therefore the late cooking. If she wanted to make deadlines, she had to compromise. She'd built her little kitchen to be hard to burn anyways. One can only burn dirt and slabs of concrete debris so much after all.
Hurrying out, the woman briskly greeted the young man with shaggy brown hair who had called out to her earlier. He himself was fitted out in a tuxedo and wore a pair of dark sunglasses. If that wasn't conspicuous enough, his stiff, attentive stance was enough to tell even the most casual of observers that he was here on serious business with a woman who (despite living in a hut) was in conclusion, no regular woman.
Reluctantly, she allowed him to help her put on a heavy, black duster she usually kept hanging on a hook on the back of the door she just came out of. Shifting the wide-brimmed basket to her other arm, she locked the door and checked the one heavily barred window nearby.
"Okay, let's go," she announced busily as she ran a hand through her hair. Upon closer inspection, her hair was black with a natural sheen of some dark, dark shade of purple. Yet, red streaks were prominent, twisting in and out in an almost uneven mess. The dark maroon was not as obvious as it once been, but it was clear that this woman had once had her hair dyed in a rush. "Shin, you realize you needn't escort me every week during my deliveries. It's understandable if I had a bigger haul, but I wouldn't be able to get so much in a week's time."
Shin simply shrugged, following slightly behind her passively in comparison to her brisk, almost aggressive walk. "Tell that to Vice-Boss then. These are his orders, Nee-sama."
'Nee-sama' snorted again before grunting, "I will. His subordinates must have better things to do than escort a single woman from one corner of the city to another. For all his being a Vice-Boss, he doesn't seem to being distributing his underlings in an efficient manner." A quiet cough caused a cool glare to be thrown in Shin's direction. "What's so funny? You think I won't tell him so to his face?"
"No, I know you will, Nee-sama. Just as you do every week," The young yakuza member remarked innocently. Cheeky brat that he was. Pointedly avoiding the deadpan, narrowed eyes, he continued, "With all due respect, Vice-Boss is only worried about you. With what you're ferrying and your willingness to work with us, you are a precious ally and asset. Vice-Boss just wants to make sure nothing happens if he can help it."
"I can take care of myself," was the responding huff. "I made due fine in this city before I was bought into the Gourmet Yakuza's attentions. I will not have my capabilities questioned."
"Of course, Nee-sama," he allowed agreeably. But his focus had shifted to a passing individual. Although the oily man gave them a wide berth, that did not stop him from eyeing the female skin not covered by the worn duster. Since she only wore a tube top, scandalously short denim shorts, and a pair of ankle tall boots, it gave lecher a good eyeful of her bare legs, stomach, neck, and breasts. At times like these, Shin really wished that 'Nee-sama' would dress a bit more conservatively, if only so he wouldn't have to deal with his impulsive desires to kick out a pervert's teeth as often. A slight shift in the lecher's direction on Shin's part revealed the outline of a gun against his jacket, and just like that, the man disappeared. "But none of us mind escorting you. I'm happy when it's my turn to walk you to HQ and back, so please don't be too hard on Vice-Boss."
All he got in reply was a rather cranky sounding 'hmph', but it was enough to make him smile.
Nerg City was not the most livable of places.
Certainly, it didn't hold the same merit or the same level of danger as designated danger zones within the Human World. Of course, it would seem like nothing compared to anyplace in the Gourmet World and its extreme weather patterns and beasts. But it still wasn't the most livable of places. In Nerg City, the criminal capital, anyone or anything that lived there lived it while being involved in crime. If you didn't, you starved and perished away to dust. The Gourmet Yakuza tried, but they had their own problems.
Or at least, that was it for the most part until a mysterious woman appeared one day in the rotting corpse that was Nerg city. Despite her appearance, she was a chef who insisted she was a cook. Designating a little area as hers, she set up a single, one-roomed hut that consisted entirely of a kitchen. What little clothes she had and the tools she scavenged were all worn, and only her blades and eyes shone with a commanding steel. The ingredients she used were nothing special, quite literally. This woman grew her own vegetables, all which were so ordinary that were abnormal. At the peak of the Gourmet Age, it was strange to see someone use plain onions and carrots and celery. It certainly kept people from stealing said vegetables. There was simply no worth in such plain vegetables, if at this time they could be considered vegetables at all. Who would want a regular, stunted onion when they could have an Onion Banana, a Motor Onion, or the variety of more delicious veggies? It just wasn't worth stealing when so many other options were avaliable.
But this did not matter to the starving, said group consisting mostly of children. Children and their families who were perishing in the dust because they didn't involve themselves in crime. Couldn't, because what criminal organization would take on a lot of starving urchins?
And it was these urchins that she took up feeding. Her time and days seemed to be spent whipping up the next meal of the day to dish out to the ragged line that would appear at her lone window twice a day, every day, weeklong. Although said hungry group thought the lady scary and intimidating, giving no quarter and offering no outright comfort, she never turned them away and never ignored them. When they got in trouble or scared, they could seek shelter with her and her blade-like gaze would be cast at whomever they were having trouble with. She could not give them all the nutrition they needed, but she made sure they got two square meals a day when they came around her hut.
For the kids and abandoned families, the scary lady made Nerg City just a little more livable and made them feel a little more stable.
Of course, with the attention of the city orphans also brought the attention of the Gourmet Yakuza. And it wasn't long before the mysterious lady and the criminal organization of the Gourmet World met.
Said mysterious lady whistled in appreciation at the large, intimidating structure that was the Gourmet Yakuza Main House. Here was some of the biggest names in crime, and it showed in the plain, but solid, and LARGE entrance. It was thanks to the power, prestige, and reputation of said Yakuza that allowed her to leave her hut-for-a-home so casually. There was very few who were willing to mess with something stamped with the insignia of the group, marking it as part of their territory. More than once did she find herself tracing the mark on her door, not quite believing that she somehow found herself under the protection of criminals.
Not that it was unappreciated.
Upon seeing them, watchmen in tuxedoes and shades similar to Shin's immediately opened the gate to allow the pair in without them having to break their stride. It was only after they passed two more gates and more groups of men in black did they reach the heart of the complex. There, they were met by a heavily scarred man with a shock of blonde hair. In opposition to the black ensemble worn by the surrounding men, he wore a very clean cut white suit over a high-collared purple shirt. But what truly separated him from the crowd weren't the clothes, but the air of easy confidence he seemed to exude.
It was in front of this man that they stopped in front of. And the woman was the first to speak.
"Match."
"Kira."
The woman, Kira, acknowledged the greeting, "How's Boss Ryuu?"
"Healthy as ever," Match replied casually with a nod. "Boss had to leave for some business this morning. Sends his regards."
"I will thank him when he returns," she replied graciously.
The corner of Match's lips lifted as he held out a bent arm, "Well, shall we?"
Kira took the offered arm in a delicate, almost dainty, gesture. "Let's."
Shin watched as they both disappeared into the main house. Then he could finally let the smile crack out across his face. His mental evil cackling was interrupted by call from Louie to take a look at the newly delivered ice guns. Successfully distracted, he hurried along in the most dignified manner he could, as befitting a member of the Gourmet Yakuza. Never mind that he was giddy, because of course he wasn't giddy. Members of the Gourmet Yakuza didn't do giddy. Not at the new ice guns, the trip, nor the fact that it always made him just a bit excited when he saw Vice-Boss and Nee-sama acting intimate (however much they denied it).
Nope. Not at all.
He did, however, wonder how Vice-Boss was going to tell Kira about their trip.
"Mmm. Is that Cinnamomile Tea I smell?"
"Yep. Fresh stock today too. Never had it before myself, but hey. We eat, we learn."
"I think you'll like, Match. It's one of nature's simpler masterpieces. Smell that. Isn't the Cinnamomile leaves' scent of apple and cinnamon simply divine? Isn't it a timeless, aromatic combination?"
Match chuckled as he allowed the tea's aroma to waft and fill him before taking a sip. It was a delicious, whimsical, yet comforting flavor. As had become a little tradition between them since these little meetings begun, Match and Kira sat across from each other at a low table, steaming teacups placed before each of them. The basket Kira had bought in with her had already been taken away so that the contents could be properly disposed of. She would have the basket back by the time she would leave. For now, they conversed with the air of two old, old, familiar friends. One could hardly believe that they'd only known each other for a year and a half. And even then, they'd met only a handful of times.
Match himself could remember meeting her for the first time in precise detail, mostly because simply how bizarre she seemed to him. From what he had gathered before that first meeting, the woman had set up a soup kitchen of all things. In NERG. An idea Match himself had contemplated many times given a chance, but not even the Gourmet Yakuza had the time, money, or manpower to set up a system going. And besides the Gourmet Yakuza, precious few others cared for the starving children in the Criminal Capital. To hear someone—a lone woman all by her lonesome of all people—set up and maintain even a small kitchen all by herself with no backing of a group or organization…
Preposterous.
Meeting her in person was even stranger. Back then, her hair was nearly entirely maroon; though even by then, her roots had already been starting to show. Honestly rather plain, she had a rather out of place honest face and a suntanned complex. The three things that threw him off was her snapping, round eyes, her audacious authority, and the sheer amount of tattoos she had. A cat tattoo that faintly reminded him of a leopard wrapped around her shoulders, back and torso with its tail wrapping around one leg. Her legs seemed to simply swarm with a myriad of inked rats, lizards, and mice and two bats were drawn under one shoulder without interfering with the inked cat. These tattoos paired with the overly-familiar way she handled her kitchen knives honestly made a rather intimidating picture.
It also helped Match understand why other criminals hadn't already run the soup kitchen into the ground.
The resulting growth she was able to coax from the ground was also something rather miraculous. It was also proof that she made due and was entirely self-supportive and independent.
But even the independent could use some help.
"By the way, the Troublesome Trio say hi. Apparently, they actually got past the First Wall this time before getting caught. They won't say where, but I think they got through right over where the break station."
Match chuckled at that. Said three orphaned rascals (who reminded Match vaguely of Shin, Ram, and Louie at a younger age) had made a game of trying to break into the Yakuza Compound after getting more comfortable with Match. Whenever they found a way in, Match made sure to patch up that security breach. It was helpful, making him feel better about their security in the case of actual trouble. "I'll have it looked into then."
Kira nodded and laughed under her breath before switching subjects. "Meanwhile," cue a quirked eyebrow. "Must I be escorted from my home and back every time I make these trips? There must be something else you can put your men to work on."
An old argument that they never and probably never will settle.
She was surprisingly accepting of the help the Yakuza offered, but still only accepted little bits and pieces of their charity. Their first meeting—bless his Food Luck he had stumbled at that moment or the introductions wouldn't have gone nearly as well with a knife through his throat—had left him with the impression that she was rather prideful. He was wrong, but Kira would be the first to admit that she was essentially running a threadbare charity, all the while warning him to expect nothing back from her. Charity was acceptable as long as it was for her "clients". But she would not become a lackey for the Yakuza.
Things had gotten easier over time, more relaxed. It took only a bit of seeing how much the members of the Gourmet Yakuza truly cared about the kids of Nerg for Kira to be more willing to accept a bit more of their goodwill as well as the friendship of many members of the Yakuza. And things had progressed from there, with Match still essentially the main ambassador between the Yakuza and the soup Kitchen dubbed the Kitchen.
"Match, is something bothering you? You seem to be drifting off an awful lot of late."
"Hmmm. Sorry. A lot's been going on lately, that's all."
Now, they were able to sit and drink tea and converse like this civilly, fondly as friends. She looked at him with open concern in her eyes, those dark eyes no longer as guarded and suspicious of him as they once were. Most of the maroon had faded from her hair. Only the ends of her swept-back shoulder length locks still hinted at another color beyond the naturally dark hair that had an undertone of purple. He now knew that the cat tattoo that stood out starkly against her skin was an Ashera cat and that the ink on her skin help hid many scars that decorated her skin. Match had laughed with her as she sheepishly admitted the scar that ran parallel over one eyebrow was from her getting cocky with a paring knife and a rather funny incident involving a saucepan, an excitable friend, fire, lemons, and several mushrooms. They now met once every two weeks to converse as well as for her to drop off items Kira had…confiscated from drug dealers she found preying upon her ever growing list of "clients". It was something she had always done, but now she bought those narcotics to Match to dispose of.
It wasn't much, but it was a sign how much she trusted them now; trusted Match. It warmed his heart to know that she trusted them to take care of the poison that threatened her carefully guarded flock. He was also aware of how much he now tended to confide in her. Nothing really about the affairs of the family as much as his personal thoughts and feelings about decisions and happenings. Still, it was more than he had told anyone else. He was the Vice-Boss of the Gourmet Yakuza after all; family came first and personal affairs second.
Well. In his defense, she was a good listener, knew how to keep her mouth shut, and gave pretty damn good advice.
She was his friend, a friend to his subordinates, and a friend to the kids of Nerg who he treasured.
Which is why telling her about his upcoming trip was a bit difficult.
"Things have been pretty slow lately. So I thought I'd take this chance to go on a trip. Thinking about bring back something for the kids."
"Any ingredient in particular?"
Kira had presented that question curiously, part of the natural flow of their conversation. She couldn't say she like that brief hesitation that resulted from it. Her eyes narrowed slightly as she took in the man sitting across from her. Said man was taking a large draught of his tea, finishing it.
"Have you heard of the Century Soup?" Match asked.
The tattooed woman perked up at that. "The phantom soup that's said to only appears once every century. I believe that it would be a soup that consists mainly of ingredients the ancient gourmets would be to get their hands on, ingredients that no longer exist."
Match made a low noise in ingredient. "I'm heading over to Bar Heavy Lodge with Shin, Louie, and Ram in two days. Apparently, someone knows the location of the Soup, and is putting out the beacon. Some wealthy guy who's paying a hefty sum to whoever successfully retrieves the soup, I think. We're gonna see if we can get to that Soup before anybody else and bring some back for the kids."
"Match…" Kira murmured, a combination of touched, empathetic, and horrified that didn't show on her face other than the slight widening of her eyes. "To call that many bishokuyas together…that would mean that the ingredients probably in a designated danger zone."
"I know."
Kira shot up onto her knees at this point. "You can't!" she hissed, her eyes narrowed back into dark slits. "Match, it's only been 13 months! Barely over a year and even less since you made a full recovery!"
"I'm alive in the end though," he shrugged, setting his cup done with a click.
"You vexing man! One does not simply face a rampaging Heavenly King, survive, and then go gallivanting off to an environment that will most probably kill you after only 13 months!" her voice was tight and rose a pitch at the end, but her volume remained steady. "Politely speaking, are you out of your mind or just looking for a creative way to die?"
"Neither," Match barely suppressed an eye roll. The Vice-Boss of the Gourmet Yakuza is a dignified figure. He does not roll his eyes at overly tattooed sarcastic women. No matter how aggravating they are. "This isn't the first time we've gone to get something nice for the kids. What's the big fuss?"
A raised eyebrow answered that all the ingredients of late had been mostly from special shipments and secret deals. Not all of them legal. And none of them were particularly life-threatening in the way designated danger zones tended to be. "Do you even know who this informant is?"
Match didn't repress the slight wince this time around, "No."
The woman had been poking and implying that their information network really wasn't what it should be for a while now. He had assured her otherwise, but the recent result of a supposedly simple search was proving in favor of Kira's opinions. Match let his eyelids slide close as he exhaled through his nose. When he opened his eyes again, his facial features softened to see the woman across from him with an actually visible worried expression on her face. Given, it was only a small frown and the slight upturn of her brows, but it was more than what she usually showed so it was saying something.
"Look," Match sighed, his voice may have been a touch more gentle. Maybe. "We'll only be gone for a few days. A week at most. Our information network says the informant is very wealthy, so they'll probably transport us there too."
Kira almost visually seemed to chew on this for a bit, letting a gearing silence fall and rest between them before finally sighing. "Fine. It's not like I have a say anyways. I'll tell the kids you've gone on an adventure then, and to expect something special when you get back."
Match nodded, content. "Thanks."
"Just…" a pregnant pause. He couldn't help but watch with an edge of amusement as she seemed to struggle with what she wanted to say. This unsure side showed rarely so he was going to enjoy it while he could. In the end, she just sighed in what felt to be a combination of exhaustion, frustration, and exasperation before resting her forehead in one hand. "Call in Louie, Shin, and Ram later would you? I'm going back to the Kitchen to dish out tonight's dinner, and I'll back afterwards to make a late dinner for you four, you hear?!"
His lips quirked up at the not-question, and Match's smirked grew at her glare. "What? You're making us a well-wishing, good luck meal before we go?"
"Something like that," she grumbled before draining the rest of her tea.
Kira stared at the Gourmet ingredients that she had set before herself. She hadn't let herself touch any ingredients like these for a long time now. Besides narcotics and drugs, she had stuck with painfully "ordinary" ingredients, And that was something seeing as Nerg circulated all kinds of ingredients, even the ones not ordinarily on the open market. Instead of plain milk from a stringy cow outside of Nerg, she was using milk from Milk Fruits. Instead of chicken breasts from feathery farm chickens; she was using chicken breasts from a Breaded Chicken, with skin so thick and crispy when cooked it was like it was already breaded. Even for breading (to make it a crunchy instead of a crispy skin), instead of normal peanuts she was using…
Her eyes flickered to the small matchboxes that sat innocently above the chopping board.
She was using those.
The only ingredients she had brought with her when she had fled and exiled herself to Nerg.
The kitchen was empty, the chefs having already retired, so she had her privacy and no one to peer curiously at her unusual nervousness. Heart pounding, she picked up one box and flipped open the lid to peer at the contents. And just like that, the tension slid out of her body like water off oilskin. Touching the small treasures inside, warmth and love filled body and she let it. When she was finally able to take her eyes off the little spheres in the box, she was able to look at the rest of her ingredients in a loving light.
Because those little treasure reminded her and stirred those embers in her heart just barely kept lit by the mundane ingredients she had constricted herself to. Those ordinary ingredients with their tired, sad, and too-soft voices. She didn't want to admit it, even to herself, but their lack of voice had been wearing on her for a long time now.
But these ingredients…Kira ran her fingers over the large hunk of meat, one knife already in hand as a content look settle on her face. She loved all food. Even those narcotics that she herself would never eat or feed to anyone else and those ordinary ingredients. She loved those little herbs she had to nourish and coax from the ground with an almost frightening degree of persistance. Loved the milk and beef that came from the cow to the point it sometimes hurt.
But her heart would always be reserved for these kinds of ingredients. Gourmet ingredients that had the power to truly create and make memories and to bring people together. These ingredients she would always cherish the most in her most secret of hearts.
The ingredients that surrounded the woman seemed to almost glitter and shine, as if basking and responding to the dark-haired cook's attentions and love.
Feeling more empowered and relieved than she had in a long time, Kira set to work.
Match was simply watching and smirking in amusement as Ram, Louie and Shin joked around, now more relaxed as they were technically as off duty as they'd ever get. It was in the middle of Ram's retelling of how Janis (another member of the Gourmet Yakuza) had flinched a number of jeweled rings from a fat old lady as an orphan that Kira bought in four trays. As soon as she entered, the mouthwatering smell simply filled every corner of the room. Match would be hard-pressed to admit it, but in that moment, you could have knocked him over with a feather. The other also fell silent, and all eyes were laser-focused on the trays balanced on arms of the tattooed cook.
Match distantly noted how he'd always thought it was strange that Kira's arms and hands were bare of tattoos. Just bare and clean and tan with their fair share of raised scars.
What was placed before them looked just as mouthwatering as it smelled.
"Honeanut-crusted Breaded Chicken breasts," she announced as she put down the last place in front of Louie, "With Two-Ended Veggie Stalks. I used one side cucumber and one side asparagus. The accompany sauce is a combination of mustard from a Mustard Flower, Tenpaclove, and various other spices. Enjoy."
The first bite was….heavenly. The second bite was just as good. And the third—he looked at his happily-exclaiming subordinates and the crinkling lines that had appeared in the corners of Kira's eyes—was even better.
"How is it it?"
Match….Match gave her a small, genuine smile. Not that slight smirk, but the same quirk of the lips and a softer look in his eyes.
"It's delicious. Thank you."
It was a small grin. But the way that small, brief, childishly open smile lit up her entire face would stick in Match's mind for a long time.
It was only after she was safe in the privacy of her locked Kitchen that Kira let herself go.
After closing and locking the door, having bid Ram goodbye and watching him disappear into the night, she leaned back against the sturdy door before letting herself slide down onto the ground.
Having come to the Criminal-Producing Factory of the world, she hadn't expected to be happy. Happy like this at least. It was one thing to feel happy about making others happy and comfortable. It's another to find other people that make you happy and comfortable. Though watching her—when they becomes hers?—boys so thoroughly enjoy her cooking was gratifying in a way she couldn't while feeding the orphaned starving kids. It was just two different situations.
And to be able to cook like that again…
Sighing she rested her forehead on her bent knees.
It was only a one-time thing. It was okay. They didn't know after all. And as long as they didn't know, things would work out fine. It would be better than fine.
They would come back safely. And she would have her walks and listen to the jokes and funny stories from Ram, Louie, and Shin. And drink tea with Match. And have their quiet conversations and share in their small jokes and continue their endless argument of "Kira-doesn't-need-to-be-escorted."
Yes.
She would just have to be patient.
Food Luck.
It is what defines the Gourmet Age.
But what is luck really?
Is it happiness?
Is it fortune?
Is it love?
Or is it a creature all of its own?
Its own creature separate from all the things people associate with luck?
And most importantly…
What kind of person must you be…
What must you do?
To attain the greatest of luck?
My luck killed people.
If I'm not careful, my luck will kill more people.
I am called Kira.
I love food.
I hate my luck.
And somehow
I now find that I really care about these boys in the Gourmet Yakuza.
So please.
If nothing else.
Let this stupid luck of mine make sure they come back safe.