Somewhere…
Sunlight danced through the leaves as a soft wind stirred the sighing trees. The trees surrounded a small clearing, their limbs arching high overhead creating a cathedral in the forest. Sitting in the center of the clearing was a great wolf; his fur was white as fresh snowfall on a winter morning, and his eyes a glacial blue. He sat patiently, unmoving before a large stone archway that held an iridescent glowing light. The gate stood centered in the remnants of a wall, a ruin of a lost time. Bookcases lined the wall to the left and right of the gate, each one filled with dusty old tomes and scrolls. The titles on their spines were written in dozens of strange languages. If one were to simply reach out and pull one off the self and begin reading, they would never be able to stop, not until the end of time.
The clearing was only a few yards wide, and it ended in a babbling brook, its waters beginning at the corner of one edge of the wall and wrapping around to the other, creating an oval of grass. Across the brook, the forest continued into eternity. A path of stepping stones reached across the brook, leading to a small, well-worn path that wove through the trees. If anyone took so much as one step inside, they would be forever lost.
Snow Dog, a great spirit from another realm, was waiting.
A minuscule movement from between the trees caught his well-trained eye. Soon a lone figure could be seen walking down the path and crossing the stepping stones. It was The Author. He wore leather combat boots, and a green multicam combat uniform. A patrol cap covered his head so that only the freshly shaven sides were visible; and his face was clean-shaven as well. When his hazel eyes met those of the wolf, a smile graced his features. It was a small smile, no more than the upturning of the left corner of his mouth.
”Welcome back, friend.” The wolf spoke, his voice cold and hard like the frozen tundra. ”I wasn’t expecting you so soon.”
”Neither was I; but, there was a change of plan.” Where he had gone, he had anticipated a lengthy absence from his Library Arcanum. ”I was sent for specialized training and reassigned. I should be able to come here as much as I wish. Well, within reason, of course.” The Authors duties would always take priority over his favorite pastime.
”Of course. So… who will it be this time?”
The Author approached his old wooden desk near the corner of the glade and took a seat in his well-worn leather armchair. On the desk lay a quill and an ancient leather-bound tome. Flipping the book open to a blank page, he picked up the quill.
”You know what they say…” He said, dipping the tip of the quill into the inkwell and touching pen to paper. ”Iron sharpens iron…”
The clearing was only a few yards wide, and it ended in a babbling brook, its waters beginning at the corner of one edge of the wall and wrapping around to the other, creating an oval of grass. Across the brook, the forest continued into eternity. A path of stepping stones reached across the brook, leading to a small, well-worn path that wove through the trees. If anyone took so much as one step inside, they would be forever lost.
Snow Dog, a great spirit from another realm, was waiting.
A minuscule movement from between the trees caught his well-trained eye. Soon a lone figure could be seen walking down the path and crossing the stepping stones. It was The Author. He wore leather combat boots, and a green multicam combat uniform. A patrol cap covered his head so that only the freshly shaven sides were visible; and his face was clean-shaven as well. When his hazel eyes met those of the wolf, a smile graced his features. It was a small smile, no more than the upturning of the left corner of his mouth.
”Welcome back, friend.” The wolf spoke, his voice cold and hard like the frozen tundra. ”I wasn’t expecting you so soon.”
”Neither was I; but, there was a change of plan.” Where he had gone, he had anticipated a lengthy absence from his Library Arcanum. ”I was sent for specialized training and reassigned. I should be able to come here as much as I wish. Well, within reason, of course.” The Authors duties would always take priority over his favorite pastime.
”Of course. So… who will it be this time?”
The Author approached his old wooden desk near the corner of the glade and took a seat in his well-worn leather armchair. On the desk lay a quill and an ancient leather-bound tome. Flipping the book open to a blank page, he picked up the quill.
”You know what they say…” He said, dipping the tip of the quill into the inkwell and touching pen to paper. ”Iron sharpens iron…”
“Hey! Get back here!” The angry words bounced off the grimy walls of the side streets of Kumogakures Cronopolis and fell on deaf ears. No one in the semi-busy street was going to take the time out of their day to help anyone else when they were too busy trying to help themselves; and the person at whom the words were aimed certainly wasn’t going to listen.
“Stop! Thief!” Nope. That wasn’t going to happen. The boy kept running; his dirty, worn out tennis shoes slapping the cracked wet pavement as he ran. He turned a corner down a back alley, splashing through the puddles from the on-again-off-again rain that had started falling as soon as autumn hit the village. The overcast sky and a nip in the air foretold that Lightning Country’s snowy season was fast approaching. The boy was bundled against the cold as best he could, though that wasn’t saying much. A pair of ripped and faded blue jeans and an old grey hoodie two sizes too big was all that separated his skin from the cool fall air.
The ill-gotten object that had caused so much fuss was held tightly in his arms. A large, brown paper bag filled with stale, week-old bread. ’What’s the big deal? They were going to throw it out tonight anyway! I just wanted to get to it before the rats did!’ He thought to himself, weaving between buildings, through back alleys, and down side streets. Soon the sound of the shouts had faded into the distance, and he felt safe enough to slow down to a walk. Panting heavily, he made his way home. His hood, pulled up to ward off the chill and hide his identity, flopped back off his head as a particularly fierce gust of wind caught it. He was actually relieved to have the hood off. He had begun building up a lot of heat during his escape, and the cold wind ruffling his messy brown hair was a welcome way to cool down.
He finally reached home. The junkyard took up a couple of blocks near the edge of the warehouse district, and was enclosed by a ten-foot tall wooden fence. Rather than head towards the main entrance, the boy circled around to the side farthest from the small grimy office and decrepit house that sat near the main gate. If he wanted to keep any of his ill-gotten goods, he’d have to make sure his uncle didn’t know about them.
The rear fence of the junkyard butted up against the back of a furniture warehouse, with only a couple of feet of clearance between them. The boy entered the small gap and made his way towards the center. He peeked through a hole in the fence to check for signs of his uncle or the numerous junkyard mongrels he kept and, as the coast was clear, shifted the secret loose fence panel to the side and scrapped his way in; careful to replace the board and secure it with a piece of brick once inside.
His secret entrance put him next to his… well… I guess the best word to describe it would be “shack.” The small structure was no bigger than a shed, and only barely taller than the boys modest 4’10”. Assembled from old, rusty aluminum siding; it was either a testament to the boys ingenuity or dumb luck that the fabrication held together at all. The roof only slanted to the front; and, due to a lucky find in the junk piles, had a gutter running along its edge that emptied into an old steel barrel (another lucky find). A chimney made of old furnace piping and capped with a dented metal funnel projected at a wonky angle from the back, left-hand corner of the structure. The shanty had only one door made of more aluminum siding bolted to a wooden frame. The only thing he had to actually buy for the build was the door handle, though not for a lack of them in the junkyard; they all just lacked keys and working locks.
He quickly unlocked the door and went inside, locking the door behind him. The darkness was absolute until the click of a butane lighter shattered the silence and was flicked into life. He made his way over to the small, open-faced stove from which the chimney sprang and tossed a few twigs onto the barely-glowing embers. A small fire was soon born, and stoked into a hearty little flame with the addition of larger sticks and bits of scrap wood. The dancing firelight illuminated the small space, revealing a ramshackle decorum. The walls were lined with old bits of rugs and floor mats for insulation, as was the floor. The only piece of furniture was a small, two-seater couch in front of the stove covered with raggedy, threadbare blankets and a random assortment of old throw-pillows. A small pile of dented and dinged cookware sat on the floor next to the stove, though they rarely ever saw much use. Beneath the couch was an old plastic container that contained the boys motley assortment of clothes.
He plopped down on the couch with a sigh and opened the bag of stolen bread. ’Jackpot!’ It wasn’t just a couple of old rolls (though there were several of those); the bag also contained a whole loaf of bread and several small, round loaves with cheese and herbs sprinkled on top. The boy pulled out one of the cheese rolls and took a ravenous bite. The bread was tough and stale, but the herbs and cheese still retained their flavor. The boy quickly devoured the delicious sustenance, and moved on to the plain loaf of bread. It wasn’t long until a single cheese roll was all that was left of the days plunder. The boy tucked it back into the bag and rolled up the excess paper around the treasure before storing it in an old metal chest he had hidden beneath the floorboards. The chest contained a couple cans of baked beans, a small plastic baggy of rice, a glass bottle of Kumo-Cola (he was saving that for a special occasion), and now the cheese roll.
’I’ll have that roll for breakfast. Got to keep up my strength for my first day at the Academy.’ Replacing the loose floorboard and covering it with the rug to keep it hidden, he reached between the couch and the wall and produced an old wine bottle; popping off the cork, he guzzled down the water the repurposed bottle contained. Thanks to the rain-catching system he built into his shelter and Kumo’s high rate of precipitation, he was never more than a few minutes of boiling and cooling away from potable water. Kicking off his shoes and stripping down to his boxers, he laid down on the couch and wrapped himself in some tattered blankets, burying his head into a pillow and falling instantly to sleep.
He was jerked from slumber by a pounding on his door. The fire had died down to glowing coals by now, so it must’ve been several hours later. The pounding on his door was erratic, and the shouted speech slurred, which could only mean one thing. ’Uncle Shishiro… crap!’
”Takeo! Open up thish damned door… you worthlesh li’l brat!”
Knowing the only way to avoid his fragile little shack from being hammered into the ground, the boy peeled himself out of his blankets and complied. As soon as the door opened, a massive meaty fist reached in and grabbed him by the hair, dragging his nearly naked form out into the cold night air. Before he could react, he was lifted off his feet by his hair and held up in front of his uncles face. It was a big face; round and fat and covered with a messy, unkempt black beard. Everything about Uncle Shishiro was big. The man stood a good two feet taller than his nephew, and was probably well more than three times the boys weight. Though that wasn’t saying much; the boys ribs were easily visible through his skin.
”Cho the baker shaid shome li’l punk shtole a bunch o’ bread from him thish afternoon. Ya wouldn’t know anything about that, would ya?” His breath stank of liquor, and half a burning cigar hung from his fat, spittle covered lips.
”No! I didn’t do anything! Put me down!” The boy was clutching onto his uncles arm, trying to relieve some of the weight that was pulling on his hair.
”Ya filthy li’l liar!” The man turned and flung the boy through the air. Takeo tumbled as he hit the ground, well versed in being treated like a rag doll. He was smeared with mud from his fall, but had only received a couple of scratches from the odd bit of metal or pebble on the ground. He’d done his best to clear as much debris away from his home as he could in anticipation of this all-too-oftenly repeated incident.
”I’m not lying, you psycho! I only eat what you give me, I swear!”
”Fufufu… good; ‘cause you know what happensh when ya lie ta me?” The man grabbed the boys upper right arm with one hand and pulled the cigar from his lips with a drunk, lopsided grin.
”I’m not lyi--!”
”Maybe you need a reminder, whelp!” Takeo screamed as his uncle pressed the red-hot end of the cigar into the skin above his shoulder; but, no matter how hard he flailed, he couldn’t pull away from his uncles vice-like grip. After a few seconds of futile resistance, his uncle removed the cigar and threw Takeo to the ground. ”There… That oughta learn ya. Now clean yershelf up and go ta bed. Yer goin’ ta that Academy in the mornin’, and ya better not shcrew up! The only reason ya get outa workin’ around here ish because o’ that stipend they give ya every week. Yer gonna give me half; and, in exchange, I’ll let you keep livin’ here, and buy yer own damn food. Ya got that?”
”Yes, sir…” Takeo growled back at him, his eyes glaring hotter than the burning in his shoulder.
”Oh-ho! Whatsh thish now? Ya think yer man enough to take me?” After a few seconds of stony silence, Takeo averted his gaze. ”Thatsh what I thought. Yer a scrawny, pathetic li’l weakling; and ya always will be. But whenever yer feeling froggy, go ahead and leap. I’m jusht beggin’ fer a reason ta kill ya.” That said, the big, fat drunkard stumbled back towards the house, leaving Takeo alone in the dark.
The boy stood shakily and stumbled over to the water barrel, blinded by tears of rage and humiliation. Filling a bucket with the unfiltered water, he took a rag and scrubbed off as much of the mud as he could find, dabbing gently around the burn on his shoulder. It was just one more scar to add to his collection. When he was finished he stumbled back into his shack and collapsed on the couch. As he cried himself to sleep, only one though filled his mind; ’I’ll kill you some day, you son-of-a-bitch…’
The next day was a blur. Orientation had been a swirling mass of paperwork and touring the Academy grounds. Takeo tried to absorb as much information as he could, but it was all a little overwhelming. When the mornings activities finally finished, he was officially registered as a student at the Academy. Arms laden with books, scrolls, and paperwork, Takeo made his way over to the training grounds for a little peace and quiet. The other classes had been canceled for the orientation of the new students, so he didn’t figure anyone would be around.
At least todays weather turned out better than yesterdays. The afternoon sky was a brilliant clear blue with only the occasional white, fluffy cloud passing by. The sun was even giving off some warmth, though not enough for Takeo to want to take off his hoodie.
Finding a wooden picnic table, he set his books down and sat on the bench to catch his breath from the days activities. While he sat there, he pulled out his class schedule and examined it, ignoring the hunger pangs that racked his stomach.
{MFT: 2568 WC}
Tomo approached the table and sat beside the kid, giving the boy as much room as possible. The effeminate male held out the wrapped food. 