The Other Warrior

by puuZ

At the edge of the Solar System lives a planet forgotten by the rest of the world. It dwells in secret, hidden by magic and human ignorance. Those who know of it sacrifice their power to keep it away from fully returning to the Solar System, still harbo

The Other Warrior
Part One

I open my eyes and come back from the realm of dreams. Just like that. For a while I just lay there and stare ahead, even though it's too dark to make out any of the shapes around me. I figure it's still around midnight. Though it's unusually quiet. The neighborhood we live in--which my parents describe as being "filled with bums who don't shut up"--is never quiet. There's always something happening. Some one beating their wife, daughter, sister, girlfriend. It's an interesting setting, never boring. That must be one of my favorite things about living in Tokyo. Besides, with the fortune of living on these streets, I don't even have to walk ten meters from home without being approached by a dealer.

That comes in handy, you see, as I started tampering with drugs a few years back and found out I loved the stuff. It gives you a damn fine rush without asking for anything in return. It's like being born again, especially if you're generous with the amount you take, while not taking enough for an overdose. I've tried it several times. Kind of hard to do when you're low on income, though. Maybe I ought to get a job, but don't the employers do some sort of "testing" to make sure none of the employers are crackheads? I'm not interested enough to find out.

Besides, I can't get caught. Hell, my parents would have a fucking heart attack. "Ooh, our little girl tokes. How did that happen?" And Dad would glare at Mom in the hostile way of his, saying in an accusing tone, "It's your fault. You should have paid more attention to our child." Mom would reply with, "Yes, Jo, our child. Where the hell were you that you were unable to give her the time she needs," and comb her fingers through her hair. She has long hair.

That paints a hilarious picture in my mind and I give a sickly guffaw, and it's then I realize that my breath is coming in short pants. What the hell's going on? My lungs churn, and I feel my eyes stinging with unshed tears result of a reflex to the nausea I feel. I imagine the vomit coming up my throat, cutting off my breathing as I suffocate to death. That's a shitty thought, and I try to wipe it from my mind, but to no prevail.

Gasping, I shook my arms out to hold on to something, but they meet up with thin air. I'm not in my bed, I'm not in my room. Where am I? I try to steady my breath, but end up wincing as I'm taken over by a coughing fit. Oh shit, oh shit.

My heart's thumping and my body's going cold. Am I dying? That thought doesn't scare me as much as it should and I give an involuntary shudder. My eyes close and everything's gone black. I feel like this happened before, but my brain won't register any memory. It's shut down.

I can feel the bile coming up my throat, choking me until I can't breathe. I start gagging and it tastes horrible. I can't breathe, can't move anymore. My body's been taken over. Everything is black still, but somehow it's different, more silent and deadly.

Then it's gone distant, the gagging, the vomit, the nasty shock. I can't feel anything and the numbing is even more disturbing than the bile. My body's frozen, I can't move my arms or kick my legs. My breathing's still rapid but I can't seem to put out the effort to grasp as much air as I need.

My brain is freezing, or rotting, I can't tell which. With each passing moment, I seem to know and remember less and less. I don't even try to fight it. I don't care to, anyway.

It's just then that I can feel a stilling and everything fading out of my surroundings.

"Linn, get up!"

I hate that name. And roll over with a grunt. What's with all the fucking yelling? I feel worn out, and need something to bring me back. An acid trip would do nicely. Any stimulant, really. I'm contemplating my supply when my door opens and Mom comes in. She looks tired and old this morning. She shouldn't because she's only thirty-six, which is still young, in some terms.

My head's resting on my arm and is partly covered by my pillow so she can't see that I'm awake. I eye her as she comes over to my window and opens the curtain to let the sunlight in. I almost cry out in protest as I'm being touched by the hot light, but stop myself because I'm suppose to be asleep. And I can't get up yet, am too tired and still buzzed from the ultimate high of last night.

I lie still and hear Mom rustle through my stuff. I can't move because she'll know I'm wide awake. She senses those kinds of things. Maternal instinct and all that shit.

I listen to the sounds, trying to interpret what's she handling. There's nothing bad she can find because my stash isn't in my room. (That'd be a pretty lousy and predictable thing to do.) There's a clicking of plastic and I--it's my CDs. That fucking bitch! What the hell is she doing, looking through my disks?

My parents never accepted the music I listen to. They'd rather see me dancing to the likes of pop music than headbanging to Black Sabbath. They're not keen on me getting taught the real way the world functions. However, fortunately, it's been nothing more than a few nudges in that direction. It's not their shit anyway.

Wanting to see what Mom's doing, I give a loud moan and turn over. My face is yet again covered by the pillow. Mom turns around, startled, her eyes dancing over me in panic. Afraid of something I'd see her doing? I realize with no surprise, I don't care about what she's doing. There's no excitment at all. How boring.

Mom's afraid of me catching her in the act, or something. She moves over from my table and toward my bed. Set on waking me up, no doubt. I'm still not ready to get up, though. I feel like utter dog shit.

I give a sleepy sigh and move my hand over the pillow, uncovering my face. Another fake (and quite covincing, might I add) grunt and I open my open my eyes. "Hey, Mom."

I sound like I haven't spoken in a very, very long time. Groggy. On second thought, I feel like throwing up and my head is throbbing painfully. Have I drunk anything last night? I can't remember. Maybe I shouldn't get so hammered next time. Especially on school nights.

Mom's got a surprised look on her face. Usually it takes a lot more than just a shout of my name for me to get up. Mom and Dad think it's because I like to sleep in and naturally I play along because that's a better way to think about it than my doing drugs and being too worn out to care about anything the next day.

"Is it time to get up?" I say, plastering a confused expression. Did Dad put her up to snooping around?

Mom looks at the door and back at me. "Yes. It is." I have to surpress lifting a brow. Why is she so fidgety today?

Possibly because there was another fight? I roll my eyes. That'd be a good guess. Dad's an asshole when it comes to Mom. He's always saying shit to and about her. I don't trip over myself defending her because I've no interest in their relationship--she did make her choice--but whenever I see him calling her names, I grip the nearest object to keep from punching him.

And I can punch him. I'm practically the same height as him and--due to the fact that he's pretty skinny--we're same in weight. We sometimes roll around, playfully wrestling to see who could beat who. I've won about the same number of times as he did, so, if I do decide to kick some ass, I know I stand a chance.

"Come on, get up," says Mom, sitting down on my bed. She looks tearful, about to start crying any given second. I don't want to witness that. I hate tears and emotional break-down type of situations. Maybe that makes me a horrible person, not to be there for your own mother in her time of need. I run that over in my head a couple of times and reach a conclusion: I don't care.

I shift my weight onto my arm and move into a sitting position. The pain that shoots through my head and up my brain is unbearable. I bring up my free arm to hold it. Wow, how ironic is it that something so good would have such painful after-effects. I think I've thought that every time I wake up after heavy indulging, and it hasn't stopped me yet. Maybe I could even go on toking for the rest of my life and never be found out. I could come up with some clever way of dodging any medical exams shoved my way. I could threaten to beat up a nerd at school if he doesn't think of up of some cool way.

But he'll probably tell. Everyone's got a problem with being quiet. Probably the reason why I'm not buddy-buddy with anyone. Or could be because I hate their guts. Shit-eaters.

When I look up at Mom, she has a worried look on her face, though she doesn't ask what's wrong. I've already taken care of it when I said it was a couple of headaches, "nothing big." This, of course, like I hoped it would, made her fret over me until we went for a scheduled appointment at some doctor--Dr. Fenshoi, or something like that.

I wasn't paying much attention to what he was saying. Instead staring intently at the poster of the anatomy of the male body. Cock, and everything. What if a kid came in and asked what the "the thing between the legs" was? I can just picture the funny-looking doctor stuttering a shocked reply. What a dumbass.

"-under the present circumstances, I think it'd be wise for you to try sleeping pills-"

"What?" I shot out of my chair, staring incredulously at the the doctor. "What," I breathed more quietly. Was he kidding?

"Oh, nothing strong. Just a little help to make sure you get your night's sleep. Studies show that those teenagers-" he drones on, making me take up interest yet again in the muscled naked figure. Female curiosity? Maybe. Defining boredom? Yes.

Do airports have special gudgets to stack down Mary Jane? They probably do. Even a shit-hole like Tokyo. A first world country, my ass. With Tokyo being capital, how fucked is the rest of Japan? I don't want to find out. The way I see it is, I'll suffer here until I'm eighteen, then get enough money to head off to some island where the drugs and booze are free. My type of land of the free.

"-so I'll fill out this prescription. You can go to the pharmacy downstairs-"

I come back from musing about my future plans to hear the dear doctor say that much. With that, Mom and I filed out and left.

Those sleeping pills turned out to be sent by some fucking god who loves to toke as well, and after I mix them up with some other substance, it's the real heaven on earth, none of this "love" bullshit everyone's running around saying.

"Linn?" Mom asks, staring at me in a weird way. What does she want? Oh, right. School. Must get up. Go get an "education." Dad's always talking about that. "An education?" I want to say. "What the fuck for? So I'll become slave of society, thinking I'm fulfilling my life by having a job?" Sometimes I think Dad's retarded that way, thinking rationally. Well, none of that fuckage for me.

"Yeah, ma, I'm getting up." Surprisingly, Mom takes my word for it and leaves the room, shutting the door behind her. Good, privacy. Oh, I need a smoke. Anything will do at this point. Should probably head out for school early this morning, stop at an alley, take a moment to fill myself with nicotine. Buying cigarettes is no difficult task. Just head for some bozo with a cheap stand, give him a couple of yen and he'll ask no questions. How's Tokyo doing now, Mr. Shintaro Ishihara?

The only thing that requires at least half a brain is making sure you don't stink. At any point, smelling like anything else will do. At the beginning of the year, some guy was caught smoking in the bathroom, with the window open to let out the smoke stink. The asshole didn't realize that the school janitor was outside, clipping the grass, and smelled what the kid was doing. He had been sent home with a month-long suspension. Just showed how well being a moron pays off.

I have to get up. I don't know what time is it, my alarm clock broke a week ago. I still can't find the time--or spare money, for that matter--to buy a new one. And the parents can't very keen on giving me money, saying I've got to learn to manage my own. Assholes.

The headache is a bit better now, not as intense. But it'll return if I don't have a smoke soon. Fucking addiction.

I kick off the covers, not particularly caring that they've fallen on the floor. Standing up, I make a sharp inhale as the pain comes back. I ignore it and walk on, making for the bathroom. Cold water should do the trick. I step over the threshold and almost run over to the sink. The cold solid is freezing but I grab on to it. I need to wake up, get the brain working again. Turning the handle for the cold water, I hold out my hand to a cold shock.

That feels good. I kind of gasp. My hand's going numb. I withdraw it after a while. I'm wide awake now, ready to start off my day with nice smoke. Nothing more exciting than the "almost getting caught" situation now and then.

"Linn!" I hear Mom calling from downstairs. The water's now off. I should hurry up but I feel like throwing up. Somehow I manage to take a shower, wash my face and brush my teeth in a couple minutes' time. At least I think so.

I hurry to my closet, not feeling any remains of the painful rousing. Having chosen at random something to wear--which usually ends up being a T-shirt and a pair of pants--that I put on while going down the stairs, I catch a glimpse of myself in a mirror, looking different than right after I woke up. Less messy and red-eyed.

I almost run into the kitchen. Dad's already sitting at the table in his usual spot, reading a newspaper. "Good morning," he says without looking up. I reply right away because if I don't he always goes into a long lecture about being polite. Why listen to bullshit if you can get off scot-free?

Mom comes hurrying through the door and Dad finally looks up. It's then I notice they're dressed up nicer than usual. "You ready to go?" Another appointment, I knew it.

"Who's gonna look after the shop?" I ask cautiously. Anyone but me will do. My parents own this restaurant that serves all different kinds of food, a good thing in Tokyo, really. I mean, how much rice can you eat before you never want to see the shit again? But we call it a shop. Don't know why, actually. Just one of those things.

"Fujio will." Dad's best friend. They get along pretty OK, Fujio always opening with, "Jo, my man," whenever they see each other. That gets on Dad's nerves and, even though he told Fujio several times to quit saying that, he still meets up with that expression whenever possible. It's actually pretty funny to see Dad be this uncomfortable, since usually everyone does as he says. And even though he and Fujio are best friends, Dad never misses an opportunity to shit all over him. I suppose it's sort of like backstabbing. Fujio deserves it, being the annoying shit-faced idiot that he is. Kinda gets to you after a while.

But he works at the shop so I can't really do or say anything to him, Dad insists.

"Oh," I say, relieved. I look at my breakfast and feel sick--rice. There's probably nothing nastier than this shit. How can people keep on eating it? Fuckers.

"Hana, you pack some food. I expect we're going to be there for some time, and we'll get hungry." There's one main thing most people don't know about my parents, and it's that they're complete cheapskates.

"I already did, Jo. Some sushi and water." Mom pets her bag as if we have X-Ray vision to see through it. Dad nods and goes back to reading his newspaper. I go back at staring at my rice, not able to muster a bit of appetite. I should eat something, though, don't want to smoke on empty stomach and get sick half-way through the day. Anything else, though. I'd rather suffer through an ache than touch this.

I feel Dad's eyes on me. He's deadset against my not eating this "healthy and nutritious food." Usually, when I'm too pissed off by other things, we have a fight, which ends up with neither of us speaking to each other for a couple of days. That's my favourite part, actually.

I can sense Mom freezing, too, not wanting to get yelled at for interrupting his oncoming lecture. I feel bored. These people are boring. I stand up, only to be asked, "Where are you going? Eat your rice."

I push my chair farther away, looking down on him. "No." I have that defiant air about me as I turn to leave.

Dad's face is turning red, like when he's angry. "Eat your Goddamn rice." His breathing is labored, voice gritty. Anger. I enjoy seeing him like this, especially if I'm the cause. Fucking bastard.

"No, I don't think I will," I say calmly. Let him have a heart attack, if you're real, God. Yeah, fucking real. I turn around and whirl to the living room, shouldering my backpack. I didn't even open it. I make sure it's on before heading out the front door. Dad's not running after me. He'll rant when I come back.

I push open the front door and step outside.

The morning's warm. Sun's already out. Pedestrians are already walking in a hurry. Everyone looks normal and friendly, but it's day-time. I see a couple of teenagers, dressed in school uniforms. I laugh silently, gleefully. I begin walking, turning left and wait for the light to turn. All kinds of smells fill the air: fish, kitchen aroma, car air pollution. They're all intertwining that it's almost hard to tell which is which.

The light turns and I go across. Not to school, though, but to an alley that's pretty much hidden if you look from a sidewalk. Boards are pilled high that I almost passed it myself, but I still managed to drop in one night after getting completely hammered. I woke up sometime during midnight to find myself in a soggy and dirty shelter. Been coming here ever since.

I pull off my backpack, throw it in and wedge through the piles of boards, barely able to pass. How I got here when I was out of my complete fucking mind, I don't know. Once inside, there's minimum light to see by so I blindly make a grab for the zipper, missing a couple of times, until opening it and going through what was in it.

My hands come into contact with a box and I pull it out. I'm shaking with relief, can't stand the craving anymore. Prying the lid off, my hands go reaching for a joint and I'm already holding a lighter. Heaven, here I come.

And the magic happens, right after I take the first puff. Definitely nothing better than this. Nothing. I greedily take as much as I can, and before I know it, it's gone. This is fucking awesome. I better pack up. Get to school but I don't feel like moving. Don't feel like doing anything at all but lie here.

I decide not to move. Too dizzy. I close my eyes and drift off. I'm not lying in an alley any more, I'm in a different place where I can do anything. I'm in control here. My word is law. That's the most pleasant thought I ever had. But it's over as I come back to the coldness of the cracked asphalt. Someone's talking loud, I can hear them over the barrier. Argument. Yelling. Why can't people learn to shut the fuck up and give me some peace to enjoy my high?

I must've had enough strength, because I was on my feet and walking toward the pile in seconds, backpack on my back. Whoever was shouting was still there. Probably some gangsters, caught out in the morning, nowhere to go but a dark alley. Fuck. I probably shouldn't go out, in case they aren't harmless dealers. Never take chances when you're fucking with your life, I've learned when I came face-to-face with some motherfuckers. They weren't very keen on me and threatened to do some disemboweling. I've managed to run away. They had too much to smoke to even make an effort of chasing me.

But that was an advantage I'm not likely to come by again. There's usually someone babysitting in case of unexpected trouble. With Wanted posters all over the streets asking for them, they can't be stupid enough to get caught off guard and be locked up because they were too up on coke to do jack.

Cops sometimes patrol the streets after dark, disguised to look like dealers. They usually go in groups of three or four, since getting attacked--even if you're a dealer--is common. Those hard addicts do anything to get their hands on some drugs. Pretty hopeless, they are.

I'm not like them. Really.

I wait for a couple of minutes, pressed against the barely standing wall. The yelling grows more distant until it's almost gone. Cautiously, I edge towards the opening to take a peek at what's going on. Could they have heard me somehow? Decided they could spare a moment on an easy prey? My eyes look around, right and left. No, they're gone.

Hulling my backpack out first, I pass through the same way I entered. Shit. I'm probably late. Delay is bad.

My head's still kind of buzzing. It'll pass. My baggage feels sort of heavy, even though there's practicually nothing in it. I head toward the sunlight and the sound of action on the streets. The alley's dark crumbled cement almost makes me trip, but I gather my balance and refrain from falling down. Better get on, don't want to go to the office to talk to the principal. Gee, there's fun I'd like to miss out on.

Turning the corner, I get pushed back by a group of students. "Watch where you're going, ya' fucks," I yell, gripping the corner. They walk like a bunch of elephants. Gee, eat less, would'ja?

"Sorry," a couple of them mumbles. Great, I was almost run over by a bunch of pussies. I know I won't be able to function properly if I don't push one of them, so I do. Out of the sake of keeping my sanity intact. I shove the nearest guy into the rest of them, satisfied at the collective groan.

I come to an interesting conclusion: none of them will defend themselves. And no one's paying attention to us. I raise my left leg and bring as hard as I can can into the now vulnerable gut of my previous victim. There's a soft cry. I get the feeling that he's used to the treatment. A lackey for some mega-jock? Or a nerd always in the wrong place? Never mind. I kick again. The rest are standing there, not doing anything. Waiting for me to deliver another blow. I do. Another groan.

"Hey, what are you doing?"

I'm caught off-guard, momentarily swaying my attention from the beating the little maggot.

I see a tall man standing a few feet from me, a young girl with dyed hair standing at his side. Doesn't this fool know that you don't approach a fight? Unless you're looking to get stabbed, that is.

"What the hell do you want?" I growl out. This moron interrupted my fun, not a good thing to do when you're not prepared to fight. And this chump-change looks too tall and skinny and awkward to be able to move properly, much less do any serious damage to me. The girl at his side has a disgusted expression on her face. Miss Sheltered World seen too much for easy sleep now?

"I don't think that you kicking that kid shows him much respect." The guy's voice has a tone of femininity. Another transgender?

The guy looks like he comes from a rich family, dressed in the seemingly costly way that he is. New blue jeans and a blue shirt. I'm not interested in fashion so I don't know about the brands. I don't pay much attention to the girl.

"And so if it doesn't?" He wants a fight? Fine.

"Well, I don't figure it makes him feel any good, huh?" The guy's Western? Show me a couple of buck teeth, fella'.

"I dun reckon it does, pardner," I say, smilling inwardly.

The man shoots forward, not pleased with me. "Are you mocking me?"

The girl with the wild hair is at his side right away, hugging his arm to her chest. "Haruka, let's go." Haruka? A girl's name? What the hell kind of parents would do that to their child? Or mybe it's just enforced for future punishment. Or maybe he gets some sick pleasure of being called that? Come to think of it, that girl does look a bit young for the boar.

The stunned group just looks from me to the man to the girl and back again. They don't even have enough balls to run.

"Haruka" turns to the girl. They seem to look at each other with some hidden meaning. They fucking, or something? He doesn't seem ready to give into the girl's demands.

"Fine," the man mutters so quietly I barely hear it. What can I say? The bitch has her clutches in him. He redirects his attention to me, a scowl on his face. "But if I see you around here, doing any sort of damage to anyone, it will be a different story." He turns around with the girl's arm on his back and starts walking away. The audience stands dumbly, not knowing what to do now that their hero is leaving.

I don't feel any triumphant at all. That jail bait has tampered with my fun time. She's going to have to pay. I add, "It'll be a different story because, what? You'll beat me with your girlfriend?"

The march stops and they just stand there. I ready myself in case he changes his mind. The girl whispers something in his ear, standing on her tip-toes to reach it. A little fuck-fest in an alley? They resume walking.

I hate her.

Little bitch, interrupting when I so needed a good fight. I stare at their retreating forms, becoming aware that the group of kids are attempting to creep away. Let them, I urge myself. Find someone else.

Dispiritly I adjust my back pack and start walking to school. I hope I see him again. I'd love to greet him with a metal pine.

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AUTHOR'S NOTES:

I am aware that as of right now, this doesn't look like much of a future tale. But I am working on changing that in the next chapter. The idea of Linn and The Other Warrior came out of thin air, it seems. Mainly I was tired of seeing only people who could be superheroes starring as new characters in AR stories. Therefore I has the idea of writing this, making Linn far from hero material and yet close enough for a possible change of heart and realization of other points-of-view.