[Fireminer]

Two men. One table. Bottles and cans and cups that left no doubt about their intoxicating contents. And a colorful assortment of slurs, jeers, swears, curses, and slangs spoken in so disoriented voices that an outsider might very well thought he had been listening to Hebrew.
“‘re you sure we should let that guy stay with de boy, boss? I know a waco when I see ‘im.” Said the underling to his leader. Something must had been bothering him a lot, for his fingers nervously fidgeting under the table.
The boss, a man with no less than three scars and two missing fingers on his hands, answered after he had finished the cheap bourbon in one gulp – this was the first time alcohol tasted so bitter to him:
“He pays us. Ad…” The empty bottle landed unceremoniously on the sofa across the room. “…U’re right. Guy IS a waco. Better not to disturb ‘im.”’
Despite what he said, his face all seemed guilty when he mentioned their “contract” – the boy. They had been paid in advance to kidnap a kid on his way home from school, under the observation of “the waco” who hired them. At first, they thought it was such a clean and simple job, but, after witnessing their… eccentric client, they now feared much for the boy.
After all, these men prized themselves as “proud and honest laborers” that went into the business for a righteous vengeance against the cruel world.
The drinking continued. The smaller one of the two, the underling, sipped his beer while from time to time, wandering his eyes the closed door to the next room. And the other guy, the boss, having his drink and cursing almost everything in return and crushing the empty cans with his bare hands.
The wild mix of beer and alcohol induced the men into a state of the most terrible of lethargies. Cans after cans, they became more and more drunken until the more the boss slurred in a smoldering rage:
“Wat hell iz happening now? Kidnapping a child? Taking ordr from a freaking foreign-er? W-What ‘re e now?” He tried to open another can, but his hands were so shaken that beer spilled all over onto his shirt.
His drink partner grumbled something like “Damn it all!” and then spoke in a, suprising enough, sober and somewhat sarcastic tone:
“Can’t help iz, boss. We’re short on cash. My wife threatened to kick me out of her house if I don’t pay for that brat’s school… And u’ve dozen colectors following you lately, ye?”
“Uh huh. I’d willinly lost an arm to ‘scape those damn dogs!”
“U’d need more han an arm to them… Probably a kidney of you’s. Or the liver.”
“Ugh… Shut ‘he fuck up, trap! ”
---
In the next room…
Ichika’s eyes snapped open the moment the blindfold was took away. However, long period in the dark had made the boy temporary blind, so he tried to reach out and feel with his hands. He, however, couldn’t swung his arms forward.
An obnoxious smell forced its way into his nostrils: The sourest sweet, the cheapest deodorant, the foulest cigarette, and a stench which took a while for Ichika to remember its meaning: blood.
It took a while for the child to realize that he was being held captive in a tiny, window-less room, with a small fluorescence lamp as the only available light source.
Where is him, What is he doing here, and questions of so overloaded his young mind. Fear gripped his heart, making it painful to even to breath. By instinct, Ichika opened his mouth to call for his sister.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you, boy.” His neck met with the cold steel of a knife. Its owner, his captor, said in a deep, baritone voice. Ichika began to struggle violently, but the binds around his arms and legs were so constricted that the boy fell and rolled on the floor.
The man forcefully grabbed the little boy by his collar and returned him to his previous position, which was, sitting with arms behind his back and legs folded into a kneeling position. It felt like an electric current had just ran from his foot, up the spine, and directly into the brain.
“Do you under stand English?” Ichika squirmed, but he did not answer. “Do-you-understand-English?”
He didn’t like it one bit when the man looked directly into his eyes. It terrified him, the glimpse of madness within those irises of the man. And so, fear made the boy nodded. In the dim light, these slits on his mask seemed to be glowing.
“Good. If you keep quiet and be a nice boy, then you will meet your sister again in no time. If you don’t, then… I don’t reward naughty children.” To further emphasize his question, he slightly ran the jagged edge of the combat knife on Ichika’s throat.
After a minute without further response from the boy, his captor went back to his seat right by the door. He then casually picked up one of the magazines from the rack and flicked through its contents, humming an obsolence tune that resembled a nightingale’s.
And for Ichika, he had stopped squirming while his mind began to roll again. He then remembered one of the TV show that told children how to act when they are kidnapped: It was better for him to stay still and wait for rescue instead of provoking the kidnappers. He began studying the surrounding with his ears, trying to listen to whatever sign may help him to escape later.
Broken bottles, dirty clothes, empty take-out cartons littered the floor, but it looked like that they had just been swept into the sides for a clean corner for the man to sit. Then there were only the empty table, the chair that the man occupied, and a table lamp – beside those, the room lacked any decorative touch... That was, if you didn’t count smears of red on the wall.
In contrast to the unkempt surrounding, the man stood with his theatrical outfit stood out like a cactus growing on mold. The crying man mask, the velvet jacket and checkered pants, the pot hat, the golden pocket watch hanging on a golden chain, and the polished pair of oxford. Nevertheless, he was not a clown, as the Hi-Power on the two sides of his hip would gladly remind you.
Here, Ichika had no idea where, or more exactly which floors he was in. The boy took a guessed, correctly, that he was in some kind of apartment. So maybe he could run down and call for help?
That is if he can get past the guard.
“You have eyes just like your sister’s.” Commented the man without tearing his eyes away from the magazine. “Defiance. Utterly so…
“A coyote. Freedom or death...”
“Boy, a friendly advice: Be strong, or one day you’re going to get killed because of those eyes.”
--
“Hey, boss, don’t u think it’s too quiet. Better I chez what’s goin’ on?”
The underling groggingly woke up from his dreamless slumber on the table. Somehow, during sleeping, ants by the dozens had crawled upon the sleeves of his coat, which was stained with whiskey.
“Why bother? With that much cash ze payed us, the boy must be ery valuable. Ze wouldn’t dare to do anything… And it iz dawn now. Ze deal ends today. We get our cuts, and zhen get the ell out of this shithole.
Through the dirty glass and ragged curtains, several rays of light passed through and shone upon the faces of the criminal: Their unshaved beards, after an all-night boozing, growled like thorns on the cleft chins. Puffed and beat red were their lips, because of drinking and because they unconsciously bit themselves with jagged tooth. The man squirmed their eyes like shrews to the slightest of light.
“U go close that curtain.” – “Zes, boss.” The underling staggered to the window, but the moment he grabbed onto the rag, the window was shattered and glass flew all over the place.
“What ze…” Before he could react, a hand went straight for his throat, dragged him out the window. The underling was then thrown head first from the sixth floor of the apartment building.
What he saw last was a person wearing all-black, visibly armed with blades. What he said last was a terrified scream that end in half a second.
But it was still better than his boss – the thug died with a throwing knife plunged in his throat. The blood trickled down on his arm and dripped into the loosely-held revolver still in its holster.
--
“It’s time to wake up, boy. Your sister’s here.”
Less than a second after the man finished the sentence were the door blown into splinters. In the hazy smoke of the explosion stood an imposing figure, sword in hand stopped at the chin of the man.
What stopped the katana? The two pistols: one aimed at the attacker at point-blank range, and the other for Ichika who was immobilized on the ground.
“Tch-d. Have you got no courtesy? To think how many times I’ve tried to teach ettiques to your violent mind.” Said the man, pompously. His hat had been blown away by the explosion, revealing a well-cut hair, dotted with some grey strands.
“…”
In contrast with the masked figure’s laid-back posture, the woman was as tense as a bowstring, with every fiber of her being on edge. The katana rested on the neck of the kidnapper. Just a little more force to behead the man. She too concealed her face like the man, however, one might had guessed an expression of utmost hatred behind that black scarf.
“Ummm! Ummm!”
Ichika recognized his sister immediately. That stance, one of those that Chifuyu-nee never taught his brother and only showed to her kendo master, always in a fierce spar. What the young woman was wearing was a form-fitting body suit, seemed to have been made with synthetic materials, and had a belt which holds several knives and the scabbard of the sword in her hand.
That sword vibrated a little as its owner’s eyes met with her little brother’s. Never had before Ichika felt that much fear toward his own sister.
“Chifuyu Orimura. My most talented protégé. The sharpest sword on the rack.” Blood dripped down on the edge of the blade, making droplets on the tip. “Be careful with your emotion, will you. That said…”
“Why don’t you show your face to your brother over there? That boy’s braver than you think. I’m sure that he can take the truth of her sister well enough.”
“… I have no need to reveal myself to a death man. This will be fast.”
“Indeed it will. While I’d love nothing more than to have a chat, but duty calling!” Fingers tight on the triggers, he squeezed…
“Ichika. Close your eyes…”
*BANG!*

The prologue for my story. Any objection?

Originally Posted by Tempest35

Not so much disrespect their motive, as in respect their willingness to fight for their cause. One can disrespect/downgrade anyone's motive for anything. Motives are subjective to whichever side of the fence you're on, but one's resolve is neither right or wrong - it just is.

1. resoluteness, firmness, firmness of purpose, resolve, resolution, trait
usage: the trait of being resolute; "his resoluteness carried him through the battle"; "it was his unshakeable resolution to finish the work"

Then again, what we really see in the video is the denying of one's delusion - hardly anything worth debate.