You have a feeling that it's going to be a long day.
You're just a simple bus driver in the midst of winding your way throughout the crowded streets of Japan. It's not an easy job: there's always pedestrians to look out for, people trying to haggle their way into a free ride, and troublemaking passengers who like to cause fights. It's not an ideal job, but you have to do it. The threat of poverty and homelessness keeps you behind the wheel.
Days pass, faces blur, and sometimes you have the distinct notion that you're gaining weight as you ferry people into their forever moving lives. Resentment continually settles at the pit of your stomach while jealousy burns your throat and hardens your eyes. A job is a job; you try to reason with yourself. However, the hours are long and not even the strangest of passengers can jilt you out of the constant reminder that you're nothing more than a lowly cog at the bottom of a complex machine.
For instance, that gentleman who has finally entered the bus.
The first detail that ingrains itself into your mind—to be later discarded unless there is a change—is that he's quite tall. He's not dashingly handsome—but you can picture women swooning in his wake. There's the feeling of an age long gone as he strides up the steps, deposits the necessary fare, glances in your direction, and heads towards the back of the bus. He reminds you of the stories your grandfather used to tell you—the ones with honorable samurai and masters. The man is stoic; long hair untangled but free flowing in bland elastic. Blue dominates his form: a simple color, but one you admire because of its simplistic elegance, but sturdiness. As you face the road again and close the doors once again, you find that you can't tell this man's profession.
You don't usually think about people's professions, only for those who happen to capture your attention. It's a game that you sometimes play, but you never know if you're correct in your observations.
It's just as well.
You don't have the patience to find out.
Perhaps a businessman, you muse. No, you think. Stoic and resilient he may seem, but a cubicle is a cage and would inhibit his freedom. Maybe a teacher? Lawyer?
Professions drift in and out of your mind's periphery like the blurring sights of the wandering pedestrians on the edges of the road. Soon, you focus on your thankless task. The thoughts of tall, noble men fade to the back of your mind.
A quarter of an hour passes, and you finally stop for another group of passengers. There's nothing off or out of the ordinary about them. They're teenagers, but not rebellious. They're young, but the air is quiet around them as they enter the bus. They don't crackle with energy or bother any of the other passengers as they head inside.
There's a faint haze of concern, but you swiftly stamp that emotion down. It's not your problem. There's nothing really wrong. The kids were probably having a rough day from the way their eyes are downcast, clothes hastily put on and mismatched, skin pale and sallow.
Off day indeed.
You shake off these observations because they mean nothing in the long run and begin to close the door. The doors shudder and you're about to hit the gas pedal when suddenly—
"Yo!" A sharp demand.
You're startled, but you steel your nerves as you glance out towards the doors and find that there's a ratty looking flip flop hanging in the middle of the open door as if it were part of the décor. For a moment, you're stunned, but as the dark skinned man outside begins to rap his knuckles against the glass, you shake yourself.
Disgruntled and annoyed, you dismiss the notion that it was kind of cool that he managed to throw a sandal into the bus to stop you from leaving. Lazily, you watch him saunter—dance? slouch? trudge?—his way inside. You can't find a correct term to define him, because, simply put, he's indefinable.
Perhaps it's in his features, the clothing he wears (dark red hoodie and faded jeans), or his sudden entrance, but there's something excitable and dangerous dancing in his aura. It's as if he was a feral tiger who deigned to treat this bus with his presence. At once, you feel…proud? But at the same, there's also the feeling that he's a troublemaker. Not worth the trouble of servicing him. However, you take it all in stride.
He's cloaked in a fiery red and you can't help but wonder who he is. A vagrant? A thief? Or just another normal Japanese citizen? (Although, his dark skin and obnoxiously curly hair says otherwise. He looks foreign, you think). Like before, there's something…more about this man and it shows.
Thoughts about this man plague you for the next three stops.
Yet, as you usually do, you move on as the sun rises higher in the sky. More and more people mill about and you had to pay extra attention to those who don't understand that the road wasn't theirs. Children play about in the street, teenagers (quite unlike those from earlier) frolic with their partners, and the elderly wander about, lost in the fray. You want to yell and scream at these inconsiderate people, but your life is so dull and bland that you secretly welcome these small incidences.
One such incidence had you almost running over a small girl. She's petite and slight, but there's a foolish grin that radiates innocence and a zeal for life. Instantly, you feel a stab of pity of her. When reality comes knocking at her door, it will be a rude awakening. So when she hops up the steps and into the bus with sweaty strands of dark brown hair plastered on her cheeks and an apologetic smile, you can't help but sigh and let her on. She babbles a good morning—even when it's afternoon—and she sprinkles her greetings with apologies.
It's cute, you think as her pink form stumbles past and into one of the empty seats.
Although, you spot some sort of suspicious lump hidden underneath her pink sweater. It's suspicious, but you shake it off.
You start up the bus again, the engine rumbling into life.
The bright sun overhead slowly darkens slightly. High noon blends into the early hours of afternoon. People walk in, leave, etc. etc. Nothing out of the ordinary happens except for a few runaway cars, a police chase in one of the main streets, but nothing that directly affects you.
And then, there's this guy.
If the red clothed man from earlier had made an interesting entrance and you were shocked, you were completely terrified when this strange person practically leaped through the doors, paid the fare, and stalked towards one of the open seats within three seconds. You were a bit bewildered, but you shake that thought away. You barely caught a glimpse of the passenger, but you distinctly saw a flash of fear and malice. It's a strange expression, but then again, you see that expression on passengers who were running late for something.
Still, there's something inherently wrong about that passenger's look of fear, but there's nothing you can do about that. Like clockwork, you close the doors. The stranger with the terrified face fades quickly from your mind.
As you drive, there's a small mumble of conversation—angry and rising. You're not unused to this. Sometimes, passengers just like to rile each other up for no good reason. Sometimes you had to mediate, but fights usually simmered down to sulks and muttered contrite comments. However, something heavy fills the air, like dense fog after a late rain.
It's unsettling.
If you were observant only a few minutes before, you're extra aware of your breathing; your knuckles are turning white from tension. The cool air that conveniently fans you does nothing to relax your mind or cure your sudden sweating problem.
Suddenly, shouting.
"STOP THE BUS!"
You brake at the sharp demand. You're grateful that you're not in a busy street, but the drivers of passing cars give you strange looks. Behind you, there's a metallic, but awfully familiar sound of a gun getting cocked. You're not personally acquainted with the sound, but a shiver of apprehension runs down your spine.
A bus hijacking.
This wasn't supposed to happen to you.
This was supposed to happen to people in the movies, but never you.
There are cries and whimpers at the back of the bus that catch your attention. It kills you a little inside that you can't do anything because this is your bus. They paid to be under your supervision, but you utterly failed them. Guilt eats at you as it swallows down remnants of resentment and malice. You would never wish this situation on anyone.
Hesitantly, you look behind you to—offer encouragement? tackle the perpetrator?—do something, but you're faced with a barrel of a gun and the quaking form of the gunman. Ah, you think to yourself in mild awe. He had two guns: one aimed at you and one for the rest of the passengers. However, there's a small, if a bit miniscule, advantage you have in this situation. Although the gun is faced towards you, he isn't. He's focused on the rest of the passengers.
Sweat runs down his nose, you notice that his eyes have a wild sort of look in them. Thrill of the kill? Lust for blood? You wonder, but then you think, no. Of course not. He's sweating bullets and breathing like he's run a marathon.
He's acting on his emotions.
He's afraid.
This wasn't planned at all.
Quickly, a plan forms in your mind. If he's so focused on the passengers, then you could jump him or at least wrestle the gun away from his grasp. You look at the passengers. Perhaps one of them can see the plan that you have. Out of all the passengers, you find that three are looking at you.
Red.
Blue.
Pink.
Huh, long trip? They haven't left, but you can tell that none of them are pleased with the turn of events. Red curls his lip at you in what looks like to be a challenging glare. Blue looks at you stoically, probably trying to ascertain your future movements. Pink, on the other hand, is actually giving the situation an appropriate amount of fear. Oddly enough, the two men of opposing colors act like this was just another day for them.
Whatever the case, you locked eyes with all three of them. Hopefully, they catch onto your line of thinking. If they don't act quickly enough while you're distracting the gunman…actually, you don't like to think about that unpleasant outcome.
You ready your nerves, gently slide out of the seat, and—
"It ain't loaded."
The man drawled like he had a few cans of beer and a blunt. His eyes are hooded and playful, but his muscles are taut. You spot a knuckled fist within the man's red hooded sweatshirt.
The gunman shrieks in spite of himself and aims both guns at the man in red. Despite the fact that both weapons are quite deadly and bearing down on him, the guy relaxes even more into the cushioned seats. There might have been a slight smirk on his face, but it must have been the poor lighting.
"Shut up! Get on the floor before I shoot!"
Red shrugs before he gracefully—like a panther—gets up from his chair and heads towards the floor. The gunman minutely relaxes, but—
Wham.
Before you had time to even process it, Red had disarmed the gunman.
Boom.
Before you had time to blink, Blue gracefully rose from his seat, knocked down the gunman, and disarmed him as well. The gunman lay on the floor, presumably knocked out.
You were about to congratulate the duo, but then both of them turned towards each other, a look of superiority and condescension in both of their eyes. Suddenly, the situation is once again drenched in ice cold, smoldering tension.
"Sloppy," Blue murmured as he twirled the gun in his pianist like fingers. He leveled Red a glare, animosity darkening his eyes. "It was a fool's errand and you might have died…not that anyone would have cared. Pity."
The two begin to circle around each other. Their predatory stances remind you of those cheesy Western films and you resist the urge to roll your eyes. The situation is too precarious to even think of handling things lightly.
"Oi," Red retorted. Like Blue, he fingered the gun like one would do with a pencil or some other non-lethal object. "At least I did somethin'. You was just sittin' there like a duck."
"The gunman wouldn't have shot at anybody."
"Says who?"
"Says psychology." Blue though for a second before shrugging his deceptively thin shoulders. "Although, I doubt that you had enough intelligence to realize that these guns are actually loaded."
And then all hell broke loose.
You don't know why these two men seem to hate each other on sight. You can practically taste the testosterone as they fly at each other, fists swinging and faces stuck in an animalistic snarl. For some odd reason, they dropped the guns on the floor. You were about to grab the firearms, but someone beat you to it.
Pink grasped both guns with a disgusted air. She happened to glance at you before tucking the guns into her pink jacket. The situation is so ridiculous and fraught with such danger that you no longer have the urge to bat an eye. You simply nod, tell another passenger to call for police, and you make sure that the gunman is somewhat alive.
He is.
You drag him out of your bus, much to the horror and bemusement of any onlookers. Behind you, there are yells and a tennis match of taunts and retorts. The fight has intensified and you frivolously think of what damages you're piling up since those two are going at each other like seasoned warriors.
You don't have the energy to deal with the heroes of this sudden bus hijacking.
"Wasn't that amazing?"
Pink had a look of contemplation (and perhaps awe and admiration?) on her face, as if thinking that these men weren't behaving like complete idiots. She fingered her jacket, the bulges of the firearms poking through the thin cloth alongside the other lump that you noticed earlier. Idly, you wonder if you should relieve the girl of the weapons since police sirens were heard in the distance—and probably ask her what she had inside the sweater earlier. You were about to ask, but you ask another question instead.
"The fact that my bus got hijacked and that innocent people could have gotten hurt?" You didn't mean to be too sarcastic, but that day's events had taken a toll on your sanity. It wasn't rational to act this way, you know, but did she have to act so chipper?
She blanched at your tone, her face blushing with discomfort.
"Well, no," she admitted. "But! But, did you see how those two guys pretty much jumped him? They're awesome fighters!"
You chanced to look at the bus; the interior quaked because of the men's roughhousing.
"Uh-huh," you affirmed dismissively. "Bunch of lunatics. They're completely insane." Seriously, a fight after an attempted hijacking? "They are simply the type of people who would do anything to resolve a fight."
The police sirens seemed much closer now.
The girl's eyes widened, as if suddenly coming to a conclusion. Without warning, she ran for the bus like a bat out of hell. You were about to follow, to say something, but a gentle hand gripped your elbow. You turned in resignation.
The authorities had arrived.
"You were the bus driver in charge?"
You nodded your head.
Behind you, the bus seemed to be somewhat quiet. The sound of fisticuffs had faded and now, it seemed eerily peaceful—at least, compared to the beehive mentality the police drivers seemed to employ once they arrived on the scene. They milled about with comforting smiles and handcuffs ready to chain up the crazed gunman.
It seemed like a relatively happy ending.
"Good. Unfortunately, you're going to have answer some questions concerning—"
Hell exploded the second time that afternoon.
Maybe you were too shell shocked.
Maybe you just didn't care anymore.
Maybe you knew that something bad was going to happen the second those three had come aboard.
Whatever the reason, you robotically followed the officer's movements as he yelled for you and the rest of the populace to hunker for cover.
The bus had exploded.
It wasn't a grand explosion, but it was big enough that children were screaming, onlookers quickly pulled out their cell phones to record the proceedings, and the police officers were worried that this must have been a terrorist attack. In your peripheral vision, you saw a group of three practically fly down the street.
Blue.
Red.
Pink.
Two warriors and a mysterious little girl.
What were the odds?
"Are you all right? Did you see something?" The police officer looks at you in concern. He probably thinks that you are shocked and probably suffering from some form of trauma. You can't blame him. It sounds so absurd to say that you think that the saviors of the day (Red and Blue) were currently running with a young girl (Pink) who you think may have blown up the bus. Nonetheless, you manage a shaky smile before you turn away from the wreckage.
It's been a long day.