Admiral Sengoku–with all due respect, Rocinante is the clumsiest recruit ever to join the ranks. I don't know what you see in the boy, but there has been no success in his training. It's unlikely he will ever become a full-fledged Marine at this rate…
Sengoku wearily massaged his temples with the tips of his fingers as he recalled the rather terse conversation. The officer he'd charged with training young Rocinante had finally reached his limit of frustration, and had just departed from delivering the brusque message. It was now up to the marine Admiral to decide how to respond.
Six years ago, he'd found Rocinante wandering the streets, covered in blood and sobbing. The boy had been so traumatized as to render him unspeaking beyond the occasional cry for his parents; the blood that stained his clothes wasn't his own. For several days after Sengoku had found him and taken him in, the boy had remained silent. Communication had been a frustrating game of yes-or-no questions.
"How old are you?"
The boy held up his left hand, all fingers outspread. Then, he lifted his right, extending three fingers. Eight in total.
"Do you have any parents?"
He shook his head.
"Siblings? Brothers, sisters?"
The boy's amber eyes widened, bright with tears. Sengoku sensed that he had crossed an unspoken boundary, and hastened to divert the conversation.
"Alright, then. You have a name, I assume?"
A nod. The Admiral spread his hands.
"I don't suppose you'd care to tell me what it is?" he chuckled, reaching towards his desk for a pen and paper.
"Here." he said. "How about you just write it down?"
The boy accepted the pen and paper, and for several seconds, the only sound was the scratching of the metal tip. Then, he held it up; it read "Rocinante Donquixote" in large, childish capitals.
He recognized the surname; the child was the son of a tenryubito, a Celestial Dragon. How had he ended up so far from home? Given the condition he found the boy in, the circumstances must have been disastrous.
Not much had changed in the years since Sengoku had taken Rocinante under his wing. The boy was still quiet and shy, preferring to listen rather than give his own thoughts; also, he was incurably clumsy, a character trait which had not been obvious at first. Knocking over his water glass once or twice was normal. Causing absolute destruction of government property, purely by accident, was another (but that was a long story). Rocinante had also refused to tell the Admiral any more about his past–not outright, but Sengoku noticed the signs and eventually stopped asking. The boy had an older brother who was still living, that much he knew.
It had originally been the elder man's intention to train Rocinante into a fine, upstanding marine along with all the other boys and girls his age. But after realizing his heritage, which could cause some political and social issues later on, Sengoku decided to bypass the usual first years as a zatsuyou and have him trained privately at the Marine HQ.
Rocinante struggled, to say the least. Not that he wasn't strong; at fifteen, he was already over six feet and still climbing, with toned arms and legs from hours of grueling exercise. But he seemed to be cursed with two left feet, constantly tripping, falling over, unintentionally injuring the instructors, setting things on fire (even Sengoku wasn't sure how he managed to do that)…the list went on. When he did speak, most of what came out of his mouth were apologies.
With a soft bleat, the Admiral's goat rubbed her horns affectionately against his hand, jerking him out of his reminiscence. He absentmindedly scratched the stubby hair behind her ears, still focused on the problem that was his adopted son. It was clearly time for a change in tactics. The boy had potential, he was certain–it was just a matter of uncovering it.
His thoughts were disturbed by a commotion in the hall; striding over to the door of his office, Sengoku opened it and peered out. He chuckled at the sight: a girl, a new recruit judging by her uniform, was held arm-in-arm by two other low-ranking Marines who were desperately trying to take her somewhere, dodging flailing limbs and snapping teeth.
"Now, now, what's going on?" he asked, stepping out in front of the group. The two subordinates froze at his appearance, dropped their hold on the girl and snapped into the Marine salute with a hearty,
"Admiral Sengoku, SIR!"
The girl stood up also, jerking her right arm stiffly into position. Her hair was a deep shade of scarlet, pulled into a ponytail that was mussed and loose from her struggle. With a narrow, pointed nose, curved eyebrows and deep-set blue eyes, she had a look of constant mischievousness.
"Who's this?" Sengoku asked. The two Marines, which he now identified as privates, opened their mouths to reply, but the girl beat them to it.
"M'name's Bellemere, sir."
"And you have business with these two gentlemen?"
"More specifically with Vice Admiral Garp, sir. The recruit was disruptive on the training field, sir." One private explained.
"She attacked a fellow recruit and called him all sorts of names which are not repeatable in present company, sir." The other added. Bellemere glared at them, lips pursed.
"That bad, I see." The touch of sarcasm in the Admiral's voice went unnoticed.
"Yes, sir, and we were just on our way to deliver her to Vice Admiral Garp so he could administer the appropriate punishment."
"That's all well and good, private, but why to Admiral Garp? There are plenty of lower-ranking officers who have the authority."
"Vice Admiral Garp transferred Miss Bellemere to HQ under his custody, and requested that, should any problem arise, we report straight to him."
"Begging your pardon, Admiral Sengoku sir, but I don't think I did anything wrong." Bellemere cut in.
"Is that so?"
The girl nodded, tipping her chin upward ever so slightly. "One of the recruits said girls can't fight worth a dang, so I taught him otherwise."
"How badly was he injured?" he asked, struggling to maintain his stern demeanor.
"Two black eyes, a swollen lip, and a broken nose." The private listed.
The Admiral mused on this for a moment, gesturing for the trio to stand at ease. Then, he cleared his throat and began:
"You realize, Miss Bellemere, that this offense cannot go unpunished. Since Vice Admiral Garp is currently absent, I shall take the responsibility of prescribing the appropriate consequences."
Bellemere's eyes widened, but otherwise she gave no outward signs of fear.
"There's a certain recruit in need of a sparring partner. He is, I think more of your caliber than this other unfortunate young man. As penance for your misdeeds, you shall train extra hours with him every night until I or Admiral Garp declare otherwise, starting today. Report to the sparring grounds after sunset. Dismissed." He waved his hand; the two privates moved to pull Bellemere away, but she shrugged off their grip and strode stiffly down the hall without their assistance.
xxxxx
Rocinante walked through the muggy night air, absentminded wrapping his knuckles with strips of cloth in preparation for the coming event. The news of a 'sparring partner' was mildly unsettling; Sengoku-san had been purposely obtuse with the details, which meant there was an ulterior motive. He'd been told multiple times over his years of training that he was all but 'hopeless', and was skeptical that a partner would help much–
Crash! He misstepped, twisted his foot, and smacked down hard onto the concrete pavement leading up to the training grounds. Spitting gravel out of his mouth, Rocinante quickly ran his tongue over his teeth: all there. Good. He'd lost more than one of his baby teeth prematurely that way, and wasn't eager to repeat it now and go around with a permanent gap-toothed smile.
He felt a warm trickle dripping down his neck; swiping at it with the back of his hand, he found an oozing cut across his chin from the fall. With a muttered curse, he resumed his pace towards the training grounds, watching carefully where he placed his feet.
The building where all the Marine rookies practiced hand-to-hand combat and swordsmanship was narrow and flat-topped, with thin sliding doors and no windows. As Rocinante approached, he could faintly hear the thuds of fists and feet against a punching bag, accompanied by high-pitched yells of effort. Palms sweaty with apprehension, he pushed open the screen and stepped inside. At first glance, the hall appeared empty. Then, in the far corner, he noticed a short, limber figure pounding into one of the hanging sandbags. With a start, he realized that the person was a girl–and not only that, but a girl hardly older than he was.
She ceased her furious attacks and placed one hand on her hip, breathing heavily; she'd seen him.
"Hey. Are you my partner?" Her voice echoed across the room.
"Yes, I think so. Hello–" He stumbled out of the shadows, shoe catching on the tough carpet; he staggered forward several paces, collapsing onto his hands and knees. Her laugh rang in his ears.
"This'll be easier than I thought." she said, still chuckling. Striding over, she extended a calloused hand. Rocinante accepted it and pulled himself to his feet where he stood, towering over her.
"I'm Bellemere. Who're you?"
"Rocinante." he replied, automatically. She quirked her lips and looked him over.
"Nah, too long." she decided. "I'll just call you Stretch, okay?"
The way she said it made it sound like there wasn't much of an option.
"Only when we're alone." he conceded, kicking off his sandals and crouching into a fighting stance. Bellemere grinned widely, eyebrows lifting.
"Right to business, then." she said, raising her fists.