Lo-fi Lounge

[madimpossibledreamer]

started watching live action Cowboy Bebop and I am l i v i n g for the cast.  i'm willing to forgive a lot of mistakes for the feeling that they're trying.  and then realized that takayuki yagami shares character types with 90% of jackie chan characters and spike spiegel at which point this happened.
Part that took the longest just thinking about: hmm should I put yagami in a suit or his usual outfit

Main Points:
Judgment|Judge Eyes/Cowboy Bebop
Chapter Summary: Yagami attempts to be the voice of reason.
Word Count: 715
Rating: Teen

        “Come on, is that any way to treat a paying customer?” Yagami crushes the cigarette under his heel, best innocent impression on full display.  He’s pulled his headphones down to around his neck, to give the impression he’s a polite young man listening to the employee.
        It’s a damn lie.  He hasn’t been innocent (or polite, for that matter) since his parents died.  But hey, he’s pretty convincing when he puts his mind to it.  He’d even swapped into the nice suit he barely wears, just to reinforce the impression.  Sometimes a little discomfort is worth it, and he’s already swallowing his pride.  Might as well go all-out.
        “You’re not a customer.  You’ve been banned.”  The angry bluster is starting to peel away, leaving the stark fear behind.  Funny, given that he’s not going to raise a hand (or foot) against the man.  “I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”
        “You know, I did the math.”  You’d think this was a casino, from the way they’re protecting the jackpot so carefully.  “I actually earn you money, when I bother to show up.”
        “Yagami-san, please,” the barker whimpers and pulls Takayuki away from the storefront.  The bounty hunter lets himself be led away for a minute, and the relief is clear on the man’s face, up until a point when he just plants his feet and refuses to take another step.  It’s hilarious to watch the man’s relief turn to despair, which isn’t very nice, but then, he’s not a particularly nice man.  Not all the time, anyway.  Or, well, it’s more like he has his asshole moments.
        See, it’s probably best for the company that they have this conversation a little ways away.  Inside the office would be ideal, but the guy would never agree.
        “Every time I show up, I make a killing, yeah, but so do you.”  He continues casually, like there’s been no change of location at all.  “Sure, some people just treat it like the game you advertise it as, but you don’t make your money from that kind of audience.  Nah, you get your money from the whales.  The kind of people who drop big money trying to make it bigger.  But those get wary fast, stop biting, because they’re worried it’s rigged.  And yeah, of course it’s rigged.  House wins.  But they don’t need to know that.”
        He ignores the urgent tugging on his suit, remaining entirely unmoved.  He doesn’t even let the guy pull his hands out of his pockets.  “You need me,” he continues, softly persuasive.  “You need legends, people who win legendary amounts, people who show it’s possible to make it out with a fortune.  There’s got to be a winner for every lottery, after all.  Otherwise, you get slim pickings—the ones who don’t need it and the ones whose desperation drives them to terrible places.  I paid attention last time, to the influx of customers, to how much they spent, and they don’t just suddenly dry out when I leave, either.”
        He’s said his piece, so he just stops and waits for the response.
        “I…um.  I’ll have to speak to my manager,” the man squeaks and finally, finally lets go.
        Tak nods in the direction of Paradise VR.  “I’ll be here,” he says, threat and promise all in one, watching the man swallow as he does.  He saunters back, following the guy maybe a little too close (hey, he does like intimidation maybe a tad too much), and parks at the exact same spot he’d planted himself before, lighting up again and pulling the headphones back up.  The first cig had been kind of a waste, but if all goes well, he can buy a new pack soon enough, and the effect was exactly what he’d been going for in the first place. 

        He has enough time to finish the cigarette and a few songs before a lady, a manager by the looks of her outfit, comes out to fetch him.  “All right, but don’t expect any special treatment.”  In other words, they’re not going to rig it in his favor or give him free food or anything.
        He smirks, cracking his knuckles.  Time to live up to the well-earned title of ‘smug bastard’.  “That’s all right.  I don’t need any help.”