Black Lagoon - Shaitane Badi
Original work and illustrations by Hiroe Rei
Written by Urobuchi Gen
All right, here we go again. Hello, Revy. It's been a while.
Urobuchi's style is a bit different from Narita's. I dunno if I'll be able to get it across quite right, but I'll try my best. I have no idea if that's the correct romanization of Arabic. It's supposed to mean "devil's wind." Any pointers in regards to that would be welcome.
I might be splitting the actual chapters into portions because they're long (I'd wager around 15k to 20k words apiece) and I don't wanna leave you guys with periods where there's nothing to read. Well, long periods. Longer than usual. Eheheh. We'll see.
Without spoiling too much about the story, the book's kinda divided into three separate storylines with varying degrees of seriousness. I think that together they kinda manage to touch on everything that Black Lagoon has to offer, from the bleak and serious (dare I say grimdark?) parts to the the more humorous off-the-wall bits.
I liked it well enough. I guess it's up to me to help you enjoy it too.
Oh, and the second color spread of Roanapur is supposed to look crinkled like that.
Color Pages, Dramatis Personae, and Prologue
Chapter 3 (1/2)
Chapter 3 (2/2)
Chapter 5, Epilogue, and Afterword
Rock (Okajima Rokuro) was just a normal Japanese businessman, but through a series of unlikely events, he found himself part of the "Lagoon Company," a group of transporters who do a little pirating on the side. Together with Dutch, Revy, and Benny, he sails the seas of Asia aboard the modified torpedo boat "Black Lagoon."
Their base, the lawless city of Roanapur, is just barely balanced on the brink of outright war, controlled and occupied by criminal organizations from across the globe. At the head of the pack are Balalaika of Russia and Chang of Hong Kong.
Our story finds Roanapur just a little while before Rock, with Revy in tow, is due to head back to his old home of Japan.
It is a tale about soldiers who once fought united under a cause in a land of sandy winds, the strictly personal reunion of a captain and her one-time subordinate...
Full name Okajima Rokuro. Originally a businessman working for a trade company, but after being kidnapped by the Lagoon Company, changed jobs and became a transporter in name only. Actually more like a pirate.
The Lagoon's gunslinger. Nicknamed "Two Hand." Possesses a hair-trigger temper.
The Lagoon Company's boss, always calm and collected.
The Lagoon's tech wiz.
Female boss of the Russian mafia, Hotel Moscow's Thai branch.
Boss of the Triad's Thai branch.
Sniper with a military background. A severe heroin junkie, but with a rifle in his hands he becomes the stuff of legend.
Also known as U.C.J. Manager of the murder blog Deadly Biz and also a gunman.
Self-proclaimed descendant of the admiral and pirate Henry Morgan. A swordswoman who wields a priceless blade passed down from the 17th century.
The Man in the Black Facemask
One who comes from the shadows; he has no name fit to reveal. Skilled in the wonders of the Orient.
Chinese bodyguard employed by Chang. Nicknamed "Yes Lady."
Driver employed by Chang. A druggie, but his driving skills are top notch.
Auditor currently staying at the Thai branch of Hotel Moscow. Formerly KGB.
Sand the color of bone. The last glimpse of a corpse, dry as paper, worn away by the winds.
Flesh burns beneath the blazing sun and parches into nothingness in the face of sandpaper gales. The bones left behind break apart like dust and pile atop one another... again, and again, until they cover the earth.
All that can be seen is death. A land of corpses. The sky a radioactive cobalt blue.
A bird of death spreads its rotating wings of metal and cries out, bathed in fiery sunlight. Napalm rain falls in a torrent. Sight melts away like a movie played on burning film.
The sound of gunfire comes close, then fades away, like the tide. And as the waves take away seaweed, so do the guns take away the living, breaking them apart and dragging them into the sand.
Yes... We die like the sand, our bodies jumbled haphazardly amidst billions of grains of it, carried away to disappear amidst the dunes.
We kill heedlessly, recklessly, like one would plow forward into the sand, and when we die we are scattered like so many handfuls of grit. Our comrades, our enemies, both disappear into the desert, death taking them impartially and senselessly.
I can only laugh. Burying my head into the blackened sand, feeling the grains grasped in my hands flow through my fingers, knowing this is the truth, that this is all... I surrender, and laugh.
And even though it is all just part of my long dead past, the sound of the wind refuses to leave my ears. I can still feel the black sand at my fingertips.
Huddled in the darkness, I listen to the wind.
There is the smell of the sea breeze, sticky and heavy and moist. But the sound that echoes in my ears is the cry of the bone-dry death wind, still swirling across that blazing desert.