11/3/08 (OMG, the day before election day) EDIT: So I finally got around to editting this. It now hit me that I need to make a first impression, and constantly swapping present and past tense is actually turning off people. So, now I fixed it and it will be more fluid than it was on the first try.
Sturm und Drang
by Zen Monk
It was a pulse.
The roar of the audience became the white noise behind the steady rhythmic footwork of the two fighting. Despite the screeching of easily aroused girls, in spirit and in body, despite the clamor of the boys in opposing sides wishing for the annihilation of the other's chosen fighter, and despite the hollers of their coaches getting caught up in the moment and urging for their boy to pummel the other, all they could hear was the grievous panting of their breaths. Inhale. Exhale. Rivets of sweat from the peaks of their heads rolling down over their faces, into their eyes, and collecting in the curves of their necks. The dripping fluids damp their headgear around the temples, moistening the waistbands of their shorts, and made the inside material of their gloves stick to their clenched hands.
Only the two duking it out in the ring could feel the affects of their velocity. The rest were merely placing themselves in their shoes by wanting to beat a common enemy. Rivals. All swarming together in that heart-breaking pulse.
It only takes an outsider of all this to make a careful, objective view. She does not partake in the frenzy of modern maenads of both sexes wanting to see things torn limb from limb, even though they do not think it that way (but those are when such feelings are born). School spirit held no place in those wanting to lord them all. Secretly, covertly. It was always the people who work in the shadows inside the dark places within the dark hours that held the strings over a population's fate and the protection of an individual's mortality.
Instead of placing herself in the shoes of her school's top boxer, she placed herself outside of the ring, up front and center so she can see his technique and character. Unlike everyone who paid more attention on the fists colliding against their rival's torso and face, she saw the recoil of the boxer's arms, the steadiness of his gaze no matter where his neck turned or when he had to sidestep or duck. She focused on his mouth and the shape of his lips, tightened in a thin line which didn't curl into a sneer or grimaced into a jeer like the rival did. She heard the whistle of his jabs and the solid thumping of connected fist to torso; she felt his grunts when he was struck and chewed the inside of her mouth when his stomach caved in as he doubled over.
She was an outsider who knew nothing of sports, at least, the kind that looks like one must do everything to survive aside from bending the rules. What she knew was that there was always an action and a reaction. If there was a thrust, you must parry; and when there was an opening, you must stab for the point. But this, this was a fight when both fighters are hit but the game doesn't end over from a single strike. A math when even the audience participated as they screamed in jubilation or flinched in surprise. She witnessed all this, the feelings of the audience and the personalities of the boxers, with cold eyes and a calculating mind that could think of at least three things at the same time.
But even she was swept up in a pulse of her own.
It was in the moment when he happened to glance in her direction. The boxer ducked underneath punch, and as he recoiled for a counterstrike, his head turned in her direction and she saw his eyes. Dark, tumultuous, and grey as thunderclouds between the rolling of thunder and when lightening struck. All this energy contained in the concentrated body of this boy, that through this brief glimpse of his heart, she found her own pumping madly.
Everyone went mad when it was all over. Home team and rival school alike roared in exultation at the finishing of the bout. The rival was knocked flat on his back and the reigning champ stood, his arms dropped and slightly bent in readiness should his opponent continue to rise. The countdown finished, and he heaved a deep sigh. He went back to his corner, plucked off his headgear and rested his head against the post, his coach giving laudations and his teammates stopping the hoards of fans screaming their appreciations at the boxer. He gave no attention to them as he slipped between the ropes and headed for the locker room. The last she'd seen of him after that match was his straight back, still slightly damp from sweat, and the slight bumps of his spine near the back of his neck.
She left the ring still not quite understanding the young man she had seen, nor the study of the sweet science, but she did understand the feelings of the audience, even if it was only a glimpse of it. They saw it through the boxer's actions and the reactions he made the rival carry out; she saw it all through his eyes, the potential of him as a man as much as the potential of him as a persona-user just as the Chairman said he would have. She felt it through his dignity of his straight back and from the electric tingle that spread from her fingers, to the back of her neck and making the hairs rise in attendance, down her spine to the tips of her toes.
She felt the energy he expelled in the atmosphere, having never experienced it before, and knew, impulsively, that she wanted his strength in her own hidden battles in a hidden world, behind dark shadows during dark hours, all for the fragility of an individual's heart and mind.
She sat on the bench until everyone had gone, left with their excited conversations until they become echoes against the walls. Then she stood up. She walked tediously through scattered litter, breathing deeply but couldn't get herself to calm down, just barely containing the urge to move unnecessarily. She tightened her arms wrapped around herself, keeping herself together, and walked through the double doors from the arena. Her heels clacked against cold floors and compared the rhythmic steps to the heightened heartbeat in her ears.
Everything had changed after that match between two young men in a fight between the extents of their limits. She would no longer be alone in the cold, and he will be given a purpose for his right to live.
In my defense, I was thinking a lot of T. S. Eliot and de Chirico while I was writing this. Hopefully everything above didn't go above your heads. So this is my second attempt at fiction writing, and this time it will be the epic-ness of how the three original SEES came about and the shaky feelings of being in control, losing control, and the swirling mass of emotions that person can take. The title Sturm und Drang means "Storm and Stress" in German, as well as other similar meanings, and I want to use that as a theme for each of the persona-users. I mean, Akihiko and Mitsuru uses lightening and ice respectively, and those elements are in "storms" (ha ha), and Shinjiro is, to me, the swelling of basic human emotions. To humanize it all, I guess.
Well, this is my take, and I hope this preface is tantalizing to the readers. Expect more from me soon!