Takeru wiped the blood dripping down his chin with a ripped up knuckle. He could feel the sheer amount of cuts and bruises that littered his body with a dull, distant sense of knowing. One of the delinquents he had fought had pulled a pocket knife on him and a painful gash on his bicep protested against his movements. An expansive sea of unconscious thugs surrounded him, baseball bats and brass knuckles and knives scattered at his feet.
He licked his split lips, wincing at the sting of pain that immediately followed. "Fuck," he cursed under his breath, idly examining the rest of his wounds. His wrist felt broken. It probably was. "Damn, that hurts..."
He bent his fingers experimentally and felt the rough skin tear at the knuckles. Yeah, everything hurt pretty badly. There was a constant shooting pain in his legs that threatened to send him to his knees at any moment. Thinking back on it, one of those thugs hit him with a hard swing of that steel baseball bat. Now that the adrenaline was gone, all of his wounds and aches were catching up to him.
His clothes were ripped. Must have been those damn brass knuckles. Or maybe knives that had barely nicked his skin. His jacket was barely on him now; the material was hardly clinging to his frame. Whatever. He'd just have to get another one. This wasn't the first time he had had to replace clothes after a fight; and besides, it was getting small anyways.
"You..."
Oh. One of the thugs had regained consciousness and dragged himself over, grabbing at Takeru's ankles with shaky fingers. Takeru wanted to kick the delinquent in the face, hopefully knock a few teeth out, and be on his way. Instead, he glared down at the other teen, masking the pain that gripped his entire being with every movement he made.
The anger died from the thug's throat and confusion took its place. "What... what are you...?"
With blood dripping down his face and countless open cuts adorning his skin, Takeru figured he looked scary. If he had been asked who he was, he would say Homura Takeru. He would describe himself as a thug, or a delinquent, or, in the most rudimentary way, a fighter. What he was...? He had no immediate answer for a question like that, a question that framed him as something that was not normal, not human.
But thinking back on those six months of torture, he had a bleak realization. His life had been stolen from him when he was six years old. He wasn't normal. He had had to fight for survival - because it was a dog eat dog world out there. There was no fun and games. He had to fight. He had to survive.
Takeru had a sudden remembrance of the sea of unconscious bodies around him and felt a fire, hot and indomitable, burn in his chest. These delinquents had opposed him because they had wanted to show him who the top dogs were. They had wanted to beat him into submission and turn him into some no-name lackey. They had wanted him to lose.
He kicked the thug's teeth in and watched him collapse, unconscious once again.
Old habits die hard.
Takeru had half a heart to marvel the sky of the setting sun, but the goddamn house shingles were digging irritatingly into his back. He still had his ripped up sweatshirt to protect his bare skin, but he was forced to stay where he was for probably another hour. Whenever his grandparents thought his "time out" should be over.
He breathed a sigh, absently clenching and unclenching his fists to see if they could still bend. He loved his grandparents - they had taken him in and cared for him after his parents died - but they were still very traditional and orthodox in their methods. They had told him to stay out in the backyard against the back wall of the house until they deemed his repentance over and came to get him. He could have easily objected and stormed up to his room, but he respected his grandparents enough to obey them.
He picked dirt and dried blood from under his fingernails to busy himself. Were these fights even worth it? He was winning most of them of course, but was there any point to them? He moved his hand to inspect his nails and his wrist - the probably-broken one - twisted the wrong way and sent pain coursing up his arm. He bit back a scream and felt his teeth dig into his already-vulnerable lips, blood beginning to bubble up and trickle down his chin. Tears stung at his eyes but he blinked them away.
Right. There was a reason his grandparents had chosen this as his punishment. It wasn't just to remind him how detrimental and pointless his fights were; it was also to crush his pride and remind him that this wasn't "the real him" and that he still needed to find "who he was supposed to be," as his grandparents had claimed.
Takeru gathered some saliva and spat into the grass by his feet. This wasn't him? Had his grandparents expected a scholar, a goody-two-shoes after what he had to live through?
What a load of bullcrap.
His body was unsteady. His shoulders were shaking and his legs trembled with every step. His hands were cold and he was sure he must have been sick. His stomach clawed at him and - when was the last time he had eaten?
Wrapping his arms around himself to keep himself warm, he noticed something on his wrist. A Duel Disk...? Why did he have that on? He hadn't dueled since-
Takeru's amethyst eyes widened and seemed to take in his surroundings for the first time. He was wearing a blue zip-up jacket with yellow edges and bluejeans and beat-up red sneakers and - no no no not this again.
A graveyard surrounded him and the eerie aura seemed to lick his bare skin. Ghosts dotted the horizon and the full moon gazed down at him mockingly. His body shook against his consent and tears rolled down his face even before the monster appeared.
A black set of horns lurked ominously behind the rows of tombstones. Both slow as death and faster than a blink of an eye, a demonic face rose with the body of Hell itself, ghostly purple claws hovering before him menacingly. Shadows leaked from its form, onto the dirt, and began to sneak towards Takeru with the speed of water bursting from a broken dam.
He tried to run away, but decayed hands jutted from the earth and grabbed at his ankles before he could make a break for it. He collapsed to his knees into a sad, small ball as he tried to curl into himself. He couldn't turn back and see the monster approaching.
Dark, demonic claws ripped at him and he cried out in pain, in fear, in hopes of salvation - please somebody save me -
Takeru woke up, sweat drenching his back and fresh tears in his eyes, and lay in his bed. He was still paralyzed in fear, ten years later.
"There," Kiku smiled, proud of her handiwork in wrapping up Takeru's broken wrist, "if you leave it like that, it should heal just fine."
"Thanks, Kiku." Takeru let himself smile back, despite the feeling of his lips splitting apart at the gesture. He didn't know what he did to deserve Kiku. For being the delinquent he was, constantly getting into fights and needing to be patched up, he wondered why Kiku still tolerated him after all these years. They had met in kindergarten, before the Incident, and they were still friends.
He eyed his skin, noticing the numerous band-aids and gauze that covered all of his cuts and gashes. His bruises were still evident, especially the ones on his face and neck, but he could just wear long, baggy clothing to cover the rest of his body. He didn't want to acknowledge the visible dent in the bones around his shins.
The obvious solution to avoiding these wounds was to not fight in the first place. Takeru hadn't gone to school regularly in a couple of years now and even that answer was plain to see. His grandparents wouldn't have to punish him; Kiku wouldn't have to take time out of her day to bandage him up like he was some self-destructive animal. He wouldn't be limping around with a leg injury and maybe his wardrobe would last longer than a few weeks.
The other answer lay before him also. The more fights he got into, the tougher his opponents would get. Maybe there would be multiple, or maybe there would be a single guy that could rough him up so that he would never see tomorrow.
If he died, he wouldn't be burdening his grandparents or Kiku. Those were the only three people that cared for him in the world and they would get over it. Maybe he would get lucky one of these days and his body would finally give out on him.
Kiku shook his shoulder lightly, enough to break him from his thoughts. "You have that look," she stated simply, as if she had dealt with him in this state before. Takeru, somewhere in his mind, realized that she definitely had.
"I know," he conceded, because she was right. Even if he didn't want to live for himself, he would live for his grandparents and Kiku. "I know."
Takeru stared at the crinkled paper in his hands. His hands were shaking - the paper was shaking. He kept rereading the words sprawled on it but it just wouldn't make sense in his brain, no matter how many times his amethyst eyes rolled over the paper.
If you want to see your bitch alive, you'd better show up at the old boat ramp at seven tonight. Alone.
It had to be Kiku. She was the only person his age that still hung out with him and considered him a friend. She was being held hostage by someone that wanted to get to him. He cursed himself, especially because Kiku was being dragged into something that didn't involve her at all. Whoever had her was just using her as a ransom.
He crumpled the paper in his (shaking) hands and shoved it into one of his pockets. His hand brushed against something cold and he had a distant remembrance of how resourceful he could be, no matter how scrappy he felt most of the time.
He brought his gaze up to the sky. The sun was sure to be setting soon, so he would have to estimate that seven o'clock wasn't too far from whenever now was. Besides, the walk to the boat ramp would take fifteen or twenty minutes, depending on how long his bruised, aching legs could go without giving out on him.
Swallowing past the lump in his throat, he resolved himself. He had to save Kiku. He would take out whichever asshole had her and make sure they would never even so much as look Kiku's way if they wanted to see the light of day again.
He stumbled on the sidewalk, a sharp pain shooting up near his right knee. He caught himself by leaning his hand against the side of a building and - oh god that was his broken wrist and fuck that hurts - bit back a yell, continuing to drag himself along the path.
Takeru chewed the inside of his lip in a brief moment of anxiety. What if he couldn't save Kiku? He was in no position to fight, not with the amount of injuries he still retained from his last brawl. And it wasn't like he had been blessed with a silver tongue to talk his way out of the situation. He had a last resort plan in mind, but he refused to think on it.
Seeing as the sun had nearly set by the time he reached the pier, the walk took closer to twenty minutes. Yeah, he was definitely in no shape to fight. The person who took Kiku would have known that too, so Takeru had the bleak realization that he was probably screwed. Unless Kiku had a plan of her own, he had a feeling this wasn't going to go well.
Pushing past the pain, Takeru straightened his shoulders, shoved his hands into his pockets, steadied his gait, and walked towards the two figures near the end of the ramp with the most intimidating glare he could muster.
Kiku lit up with hope at seeing him, and Takeru narrowed his eyes in disgust at the ropes messily tied around her wrists and ankles. What kind of person would kidnap a defenseless girl to use as a hostage on someone like him? He was a sixteen year old thug. Why would somebody drag Kiku into this?
"Good. You actually came," the figure besides Kiku said. The guy was probably a year or so older than Takeru, and if Takeru had ever seen the guy before, he certainly didn't remember him. The teen had dark brown hair, brown eyes, a sharp nose, and yeah, Takeru's never seen this guy before and his generic face did nothing to help.
"Who are you again?" Takeru asked coolly, raising his chin slightly so he could look down at the teen. He'd start with intimidation. Maybe he wouldn't have to get his hands dirty at all.
The brunette grabbed Kiku's braid and tugged in warning, earning a cry from the girl. "Don't fucking try me," he seethed, dark eyes narrowing at Takeru. "I'm the one asking the questions."
Takeru glanced down at Kiku, who seemed to be in pain but masking it behind a brave facade. He didn't want to think about what the guy must have had to do to get her tied up and brought to the pier. All he could do was play this smartly and get Kiku and himself out of there unharmed. He just had to stay calm and not lose his temper.
Takeru clicked his tongue but held his scowl. "Alright. What do you want from me." It might have been a question, but his deadpan did nothing to convey it. He could pretend he didn't care about Kiku's well being and maybe the guy would just let her go - no, that wouldn't work. He came here on the knowledge that Kiku was being held hostage here. Well... there went his plan.
The teen scowled back at Takeru. "You beat up my younger brother the other day." He tightened his grip on Kiku's hair and his words became angrier and angrier. "I'm going to teach you why you shouldn't mess with me or my brother!"
Takeru, praying to whichever god would still listen to him, hoped that he could talk him and Kiku out of this. However, his tongue got ahead of him and decided to be snarky instead of think things through. "You'll have to be more specific; I beat up an entire horde of delinquents the other day. Did he look as stupid as you?"
The older brother gritted his teeth and Takeru could see the veins bulging in his forehead. Yeah, probably not his smartest idea to provoke the guy when Kiku was still his hostage. The brunette pressed his foot to Kiku's back before promptly pulling her hair backwards towards himself. She cried out in pain and Takeru knew she was doing her best to hold back tears.
Cut the crap, Takeru, he chided himself. This was serious. He felt around with his right hand in his pocket, pushing past the crumpled up ransom note and feeling a sense of dread when his fingers wrapped around what he was looking for. He swallowed past the lump in his throat and began a slow walk towards the teen.
"Look, just let her go. She has nothing to do with this." Takeru gave an attempt at a sympathetic expression, but it probably looked completely forced and beyond fake. "Please."
The thug lowered his foot from Kiku's back but kept a tight grip on her braid. "And why should I listen to you? You kicked my brother's teeth in."
Distantly, Takeru remembered the kid. The one that had crawled to his feet and asked "what are you" like Takeru had been some inhumane monster. He bit back a grimace. He definitely hurt that boy much more than what was necessary, but Takeru had been half-caught in a memory and ended up taking it out on the delinquent.
"I'm sorry about your brother, but he was caught up with the wrong crowd. Maybe he'll stop hanging around with those thugs and become a better person." Takeru let his tongue do the talking. After all, his impulsive thoughts were what he usually said anyway. If he thought on his words for too long, he would realize that what he was saying was a projection of himself onto this guy's kid brother.
"Don't you fucking start blaming this on my brother," the brunette growled, dragging Kiku back with enough force to rip her hair from her head. Takeru staggered a step forward, closer to Kiku and the teen, and his grip tightened around the object in his pocket.
He had no more remorse for the guy after that.
In a flash, Takeru had his pocket knife out and pressed to the guy's throat. A thin line of blood began to trickle from the blade's edge, but the brother was too paralyzed with fear to move.
"Get your fucking hands off of her or I'll slit your throat right here and now." For once in his life, words did not fail Takeru. Despite the pain of his wounds protesting against him, he pushed past it all. There was a fire burning deep in his heart and he harnessed his anger to keep his voice from faltering and his hands from shaking. He had to be strong, for Kiku.
With a tense moment between them, the brunette let go of Kiku. Takeru, after a long glare at the teen, made quick work of Kiku's bindings with the pocket knife. Once the ropes lay at her feet, she jumped up and hugged Takeru. She still looked shaken up, but he could see the gratitude to him roll off her in waves. After renouncing the knife to his pocket, he took her hand in his to offer some comfort.
He turned back to the teen, who was on his knees with a trembling hand on the bleeding cut on his neck. A passing feeling of pity rolled over Takeru, but he brushed it off almost immediately. "If I so much as see you near Kiku," he narrowed his eyes and tightened his grip on Kiku's hand, seeking strength from the contact. "I'll be sure to cut deep enough to kill."
Takeru turned around, leaving the brother on his knees, and hoped that Kiku couldn't feel how badly his hand was shaking. He faced her with a look of faked confidence and gave her a weak smile.
"Come on, Kiku," he said warmly, "I'd better get you home."
Leaning his head below the faucet, Takeru twisted the knob. His hair pressed down into his scalp, water trickling down his face and to the grass. It was therapeutic, in a way, but even the chill of the water did nothing to snap him from the unstable state he was in.
His hands were still trembling. Takeru felt like he could fall apart at any moment. No, scratch that. He definitely would fall apart at any moment.
Despite his tough demeanor and his external affect, he only wanted to rough up delinquents now and then. He had gotten into countless fights, giving out beatings and taking beatings like it was two sides of the same coin, but it was just fighting to fight. He never truly had the intention to kill.
In that moment of rage, he had had a knife to that guy's throat. Of course, the guy was going to hurt Kiku (more than he already had) and Takeru hadn't thought it through. Takeru never thought things through, but ensuring that Kiku was safe was an instinct - one that he hadn't realized until he already had a knife to the guy's throat. He had every intention to kill the guy then and there.
Takeru leaned back and straightened his posture. He twisted the knob tight and the water slowly came to a stop. He ran his fingers through his hair with his good hand, slicking his white and red locks back. He had a small sense of something push at his memory, as if something was wrong. He frowned but grabbed a towel nevertheless and draped it over his head. He was too tired to try drying it.
He stalked into the house, answering his grandparent's questions on his whereabouts his minimal grunts and hums. He just wanted to lay down and sleep off his worries. And his physical aches. His everything, actually.
Once he got to his room, he all but slammed the door behind him. He had the sudden realization that he hadn't eaten since the early afternoon, but he ignored the pangs of hunger with the decision to lay down and hopefully get some sleep. It was progressively getting harder to walk, his left wrist was burning under the skin, and simple motions were taxing his body the longer he stayed up.
With some difficulty, Takeru was able to get onto his bed and elected to lay on his back. He stared at the ceiling, as if it would provide him the relief he was looking for, but his eyes began to sting after about a minute. The towel was slightly uncomfortable under his head, but he found no motivation to move it out of the way. A minor nuisance was nothing.
Nothing compared to the Incident.
Despite staring at the ceiling, Takeru saw other images playing across his eyes. Tears blurring his vision of an empty food tray, the You Lose screen of a dark headset; Blank, gray walls. Dark, scary monsters rising from beyond tombstones and striking him with the hands of the devil. Ghosts and demons chasing him like he was their ticket back to the realm of living.
Takeru blinked, refocusing on reality. That was ten years ago. It was over; he was free.
He slowly became re-aware of his bruises and cuts and gashes. Some twisted, sick part of himself was glad his parents were dead. They would never have approved of who he had become; they wouldn't have been able to cope. Maybe they were rolling over in their graves now at the sight of him.
Their perfect son - now a drop-out, a thug, an almost-murderer.
They were definitely rolling over in their graves.
Takeru shut his eyes and breathed a sigh. He had no plans for the future. He had no interest in education, he had no hobbies. He couldn't beat the shit out of people for a living. Well, maybe he could, if he found the right people - he shooed away the thought.
It wasn't like he was stuck in the past, caught in the time of the Incident. No, it felt more like he was stuck in the present. He lived day by day on the sheer thrill of what opponent he'd be facing that day, hoping that today would be the day he could finally give up. He had no future. There was nothing left for him, so what did he have to live for?
He could perfectly picture Kiku - with that adorably cute attempt at looking stern - scolding him for thinking such dark things. Of course, Kiku wasn't with him right now, so there was no stopping him if he were to do something.
Huh. Wouldn't that be an easy way out. Takeru opened his eyes and frowned to himself. Maybe... Maybe he could find something to live for. For himself, for once. There had to be a purpose for him - he just had to find it.
Takeru had the sudden urge to get up and search through his room for something. It was a small, persistent prodding at his brain, something that encouraged him to pick himself up and make something out of himself. He could change. He could change.
He tried to push himself up but he fell weakly back onto his bed. His entire body still hurt like hell. Okay, maybe he could change tomorrow.
It was four-why-the-hell-am-I-up o'clock in the morning, and Takeru squinted at his alarm clock like it was glaring at him with the intensity of the sun. (Somewhere in the back of his hazy mind, he realized he probably needed glasses.) It was pitch black outside and he couldn't fathom why he had woken up so early. Was it because he hadn't eaten in god knows how long? Yeah, that sounded plausible enough.
There was a muffled sound coming from his closet. Yep, perfectly normal for waking up at four in the morning. Probably the ghost of his parents coming to haunt him and scold him for his life choices. Or maybe the grim reaper was here for his life.
The sound came again, still hardly audible, but it was definitely a voice. There was a voice... in his closet? That didn't make sense. Maybe he was still asleep. Or maybe he was hallucinating. Either seemed plausible.
"Ta - ker - u..."
Did the voice in his closet just say his name? Yeah, this was definitely a nightmare. Hm. His surroundings looked and felt impeccably real for being a nightmare. Something about the revelation irked him.
"Take ... ru..." There it was again. Huh. Usually by now, the monster or ghost or whatever it was would jump out of the closet and attack him and then he would wake up. Maybe his brain was too tired to conjure up some scary creature to terrify him with.
Takeru blinked at the alarm clock, which was obviously changing and obviously real. Fuck.
With whatever willpower he had, he slid out of bed, put his feet on the floor, and grabbed his pillow like it was his lifeline. He would smack the shit out of whatever was in there and hoped it would die as quickly as possible. His thoughts were still hazy and he just wanted to get back to sleep.
He took careful, quiet steps towards his closet. He held the pillow by his shoulder, ready to swing. Whatever he saw, he would have to knock out immediately. A monster was doable. Maybe. A ghost would just phase through the pillow. He hoped it wasn't a ghost.
Swallowing past the lump in his throat, he took in a shuddering breath. Monsters couldn't talk. Ghosts couldn't talk either. Neither were real. This was stupid. Why was he up again?
"Takeru..."
Oh god. Oh fuck. There was definitely someone in his closet. Maybe smothering them with the pillow and suffocating them was a better game plan.
Mustering what little courage he had left, he reached with his left hand and attempted to slide the door open and - shit shit shit that was the one with the broken wrist why did he keep doing that - pushed through the pain, slaming the closet open with a crack when the door hit the border.
He was halfway through the swing when he realized that there was no one there.
Yeah, he was definitely losing it. He was sleep-deprived and hearing voices. He should just head to bed and try to salvage another few hours.
"Takeru."
Takeru shut his eyes and took in a heavy breath. As much as he wanted to walk away and ignore it as a sleep-deprived hallucination, his curiosity got the best of him. He peeked an eye open and saw nothing.
Right. He was hearing things. He nodded to himself deliriously. Yeah, back to bed.
"Homura Takeru!" The voice came from below, near his feet. He looked down immediately, the sound scaring him.
His Duel Disk, the one he shoved into his closet ten years ago, had flared to life. The screen had black, yellow, and red lines projected onto it, resembling an eye. ... It was definitely an eye; it just blinked at him.
Takeru threw his pillow at it, ignoring the muffled cries that came after.
His Duel Disk was talking. It knew his name. His Duel Disk was talking.
With a trembling hand, Takeru tentatively pulled the pillow back to himself. The Duel Disk sat there, non-threateningly, with its eye staring at him in... something. How was Takeru supposed to distinguish the emotion of a digital eye at such an ungodly hour of the morning when he was half-awake?
"Please do not do that again," a digitalized voice urged from the Disk, "I just want to talk."
"Who - what are you? And why do you want to talk to me?" Takeru felt stupid, now sitting cross-legged on his bedroom floor in front of his talking Duel Disk. Whatever. He could think about that tomorrow.
The eye closed, as if in thought. "I am an Ignis, an AI created based on the data from your dueling ten years ago," it stated plainly, "and I need your help."
There were many questions swimming around in Takeru's head and panic clammored in his chest at the mention of the Incident, but he settled on something basic first. "Do you have a name?"
"Of course I do!" The eye vanished from the screen and a small, black creature with red markings rose from the Disk. Takeru's eyes widened but his protest was cut off by the AI. "My name is Flame, the fire Ignis. Written as 'indomitable soul dream,' pronounced Flame."
Wait a minute. Something from that seemed off. "'Flame' is 'fire' in English, right?" Yeah, that seemed right. The realization hit him. "... You just forced it into kanji."
The Ignis visibly deflated. It crossed its arms and turned away from him. Was it ignoring him now?
"Hey, don't be that way." Takeru wondered why he was still talking to this thing that he was only half convinced was real. Any moment now, he could wake up in bed and wonder why he was so childish in his dream and try and decode the randomness of some computer program talking to him. "Didn't you need something from me?"
Flame turned back to him, lightening up. It acted like the last interaction didn't happen. "I need your help in finding the destroyer of my homeland, Cyberse World."
Takeru didn't want to question any of that. Realistically, he had no clue what the AI was talking about. "... What can I do? I don't know what any of that is and I just met you."
Flame looked up to him brightly as if the answer was obvious. "You could duel."
Without being conscious of it, Takeru tensed up. He swore he wouldn't duel again. Not after the Incident. After using dueling as a means to survive, he never wanted to play Duel Monsters ever again. It wasn't a game anymore. It was a weapon; one that was pointed at him as a child. And even if he did duel, he wouldn't be any good at it. It had been ten years since he last picked up his Disk.
The Ignis seemed to notice that he - it was definitely supposed to be a he - had struck a wrong chord. "I'll be there to help you. You are my partner."
Something clicked in Takeru's head. This was the chance to reinvent himself. He could confront his past, push forward through the present, and change his future. Opportunity had knocked on his front door and he would be foolish to ignore it. He sure hoped this wasn't a dream or a hallucination.
"... Alright, Flame," he smiled, feeling a fire combust into life in his chest. He had found a purpose. "I'll help you."
This was his reincarnation.