In a room in a shop there stood a boy. Not a nasty, disgusting, foul room, filled with moldy breads and dripping grease, nor yet a stiff, spurious, empty room with nothing in it to order or to eat: it was a butcher store, and that meant, simply, meat. Ergo meat, as it hung by loin, bone, and gaping carcass flaunted its impressionable allure over the boy.
In his pockets lay three zeni. They were all he had. With a quick jerk of the knee, followed by a supplanted heel, he moved from the door to the register. So hastily had he done so that the butcher could hardly have looked up before the boy reached him.
The man was a commoner. He had tattered, shabby lines of grey running down his face like many little streams flowing out of an overbearing river. That was not to say his work was as crude as he. Actually, as the boy watched, the man's hands moved with deft precision over the flank steak he was currently cutting. It all looked juicy sweet.
"What'll ya have?" said the butcher, with his eyes lowered.
"However much this gets me," replied the boy. He showed the man his three prized zeni in his outstretched palm.
"That all ya got?"
"Yeah, how much does it get me?"
The man paused, wiping his knife on his belly, "For that much, nothin'. I ain't gonna give away my meat, boy," he scratched his chin, "I've seenya 'n here afore, kid. Always begging, never have the money… nothin's changing. Yar not gittin' anything from me; no sir. Try next door. They'll have the slop for ya." He laughed and continued cutting.
"Come on…" pleaded the boy.
"Nah! I'm closin' up shop anyhow. Damned Red Ribbon Army…"
"What are you talking about?" asked the boy.
The man spat (far, far away from his work station) "Red Ribbon Army. Ya heard? They're comin' to town. Gonna set up shop for some 'portant mission. Ha! If I stay open, they'll clear me out for sure. Bunch of looters and swine if ya ask me!"
"Hey, if you're closing up, you can give me some of that food before you go. I'm starving!" insisted the boy.
"No way. Ya pay, or ya go away," said the man, brandishing his knife, "That's my motto. And I'm sticking to it. Git out!"
The compelling argument of a knife in his face convinced the boy to leave. Upon returning outside, he noticed what he had not noticed before. In his prior rashness, the boy had not seen nor heard nor smelt the prevailing business of his fellow townies. Now he saw them and they were wretched. Not as he could dare to be – the boy was dirty and plain from years of hopeless misfortune on his ancestor's part. But these people, they stood around him as the possessions of their clerisy dictated. As he could guess, they had thrown themselves into the wind, so to speak, into exodus from the crucible of Red Ribbon Army. It was only natural they looked so unfit for their journey.
Of course, the boy knew of the Red Ribbon Army. Everyone knew of the Red Ribbon Army. At best, they could be described as vaguely lawful vigilantes. At worst, they were a relentless terror. Their power and scope, by mass and money, was second to none. Not even the King's Guard could stand up to them. They were ruthless and unsparing in their quests (whatever they may be, the boy knew of not), never stopping until completed. Coming to Orange Star City, of all places, was unexpected. It was thoroughly frightening.
Notwithstanding the grim news, the boy plodded forward into the crowd in an attempt to get back home. As he did so, a particularly jubilant man in a bright green sweater came running to him. This contrast from the lines of men and women, solemnly fleeing, was quite exceptional. And when he reached the boy, the smile on his face rose threefold.
"Here you are, my good sir!" he said in a manner that could be likened to a party balloon exploding.
This greeting was met with a flurry of papers thrown into the boy's face, causing the poor boy to topple over. Seeing his work to be fulfilled, the jubilant man skipped away, readying another handful of papers for another unsuspecting traveler. The boy swore under his breath as he tried to stand back up. It was times like these that made him remember why he usually used the back-streets instead of going out into crowds. Tearing the papers off of him, he saw them to be mostly advertisements or banners (many proclaiming as to why the boy would, indeed, be going straight to Hell). O mercy, he had none.
The boy balled up several papers and threw the bunch at the skipping man ahead of him. Accurate as it was, the ball only managed to reach the nape of the man's neck. Yet so surprised to this insidious attack was he that the man turned backward, over the curb, tripped over his feet and fell down; his hands outstretched up in the air, along with a confetti of his recently handled papers. An exaggerated cry befell the street, like the long drawn out howl of a baby T-rex, as the man became acutely aware of his twisted ankle. Greatly, this clamour yielded the perfect moment for the boy to stand up and sneak away from this hypocrite opportunist.
Around a brick wall went the boy, tarrying over nothing and nothing at all. More flyers, more pamphlets, more posters fell from his hair and clothes as he ran. As to how there got to be so many on him, he could scarcely tell. Once he was out of sight, he stopped himself to get the rest of them out.
The boy sat down, thinking over what he had learned today. People in this city were annoying, that was for sure. Also, the Red Ribbon Army was coming; he had no plan for them at all. There was panoptic chaos in the streets. The butcher shop, more beloved and delightfully savory than anything else he knew was closing up. In fact, he was sure most of the shops would close up. He would be out of food.
Verily, the boy was a street urchin. A ragged, unkempt hooligan, who lived off of soup kitchens and the paltry donations of a few feel-gooders in high society. He was not overtly salubrious. The "slop" as the butcher had described it was not bad, he thought. He could live on it forever. That wasn't to say he did not prefer snooping in the dumpsters behind the butcher shop for a few tasty morsels. But now it was all, all gone. He couldn't stay like this now!
The boy pulled yet another unwanted paper off his hair. Before he could toss it away, however, he noticed the writing on it. Now it is important that I tell you what exactly the boy saw. For he paid no notice to the title, the description, or the promises spoken of in dull red print. He did not so much as see the picture of a sword splayed across the background. No, this boy saw only one thing: "Meals Provided". To say it took more than that for him to go there, to say he had nobler intentions of self-betterment is just false. There is no mystery or twist of fate in the start of this boy's adventure. He was simply hungry.
Yarely did the boy happen upon the gate of his destination. It was laid bare, which gave him chance to creep in. Inside the capacious space was a host of children. Many were his age, and some were older teenagers. There were a few that looked younger, around ten or eleven, but the boy was unsure. Nevertheless, no one noticed him as he entered.
The address on the poster had led outside the city. Specifically, this place was situated three miles down a dirt path from the west entrance. As he walked down the road, the boy had glimpsed at, on each side, a collection of grape and olive orchards. The illusion of wealth that emanated from these trees gave him considerable hope. He reckoned, as reckoners often do, his meals provided would be as bountiful as they would be sumptuous.
Here he was waiting in the back, when a stout woman entered at the front. Her large figure was enshrouded in many long robes. She greeted herself as Kumo quickly, and then barked at the congregation to get in a line. They did so. Then, the woman brought in helpers, sycophantic little creatures who went from child to child, asking and scribbling down each name. The boy was near the end of the line, so he got a good sight of how things went before they reached him. When they did, they tugged his shirt with ravenous appeal. Embarrassed to say it too loudly, he made a point to speak his name to them and only them.
"Yajirobe." he said, in half a breath.
Now Kumo, line leader, began their procession anon. Purposefully vague in her intention (Yajirobe did not blame himself for not reading the handout), she took them through the courtyard, past the fountain and walls of factitious flowers, into a room. The room was not a room at all for there was no roof and the floor was all grass. Once everybody was inside, the doors were shut; Kumo stood before them. Examining the new room, the children, who had been so properly quiet earlier, moved about anxiously.
"I'm not going to pretend this'll be easy. If any of you want to leave right now, leave. The Daimyo and I won't have patience for weakness and most of you will fail anyway. Since we don't know how many of you are worthy just yet, we will weed out the weak."
"Does that mean we need to be expert gardeners?" a boy to the immediate right of Yajirobe yelled out.
No one laughed.
Kumo gave no help the stillness as she stared at the boy with unbending focus, "No. It means all of you are going to mimic me." Kumo lay her arms out in a half-slump in front of her torso. She placed her left leg in front of the right and squatted slightly. Once in position, she waited until every child assumed the position. When they had done so satisfactorily (and those needing correction were corrected), Kumo stood back up.
"Hold that position until I return. Anyone who breaks it must leave at once." she said, swiftly, before turning around and walking out.
Yajirobe was not conscious of the purpose of this test. He had not bothered to read about where he was. Regardless, he found the stance barely strenuous, if but for the promise of good food. His motivation was not shared by many others.
Their disquiet rose steadily for five minutes. By the sixth, nearly everyone was trembling. And by the eighth, they began, at last, dropping. At first it was two, and then three, and then fifteen and twenty-five. Astounded by their failing of this simple test, Yajirobe could only think to himself there would be more food for him.
Yajirobe perceived, in sudden thought, the boy who had made the joke beforehand. He was a small, scrawny boy with dirty blonde hair. And he just so happened to be next to Yajirobe.
"Hi!"
Yajirobe ignored him.
"Hey, hi!" he said, trying again.
"I'm Brian! Your name is Yajirobe, right?" he laughed.
How did he know that? Yajirobe had been very quiet when he told the helpers.
"Well, I heard you tell the servants that," he said, "That is your name, right?"
There was no going back now, unfortunately. This Brian must have exceptional hearing. It was no use hiding from him anymore. Yajirobe nodded, answering the question.
Identity confessed.
Identity confirmed.
Yajirobe spoke, "So what?"
"So…" began Brian, "You look like you're gonna go through to the next round. I thought I should say hi."
Yajirobe grunted something fierce. It was enough to make Brian back off, giving him peace again. Not so lucky were others; up ahead, several more boys faltered. There were now thirteen left. Brian celebrated this time by talking to another boy to his right.
Unsought, but unavoidable, Yajirobe learned this boy's name too; Harotu. He and Brian discussed how they had trained for this… how they had prepared for this. To that, Yajirobe thought about where could he be? They had each put hours, days, weeks into coming here. He had not. The only exercise Yajirobe partook in was when he'd look for food out on the street. He'd spend a few hours standing around or dumpster diving or stealthily stealing steaks; the street had made it necessity. Otherwise, he was content to being lazy.
Trying to ignore them fully, Yajirobe looked to his left, and spied a statue. It was of a melancholy man, tall, with long dark hair. He wore robes like Kumo, but they were more ornate, with little strings of gold lining the borders. He had a sword on his side as well. He reminded Yajirobe of some paracosmic super hero - one of those guys at the centre of a good fairy tale. It briefly made Yajirobe think back to when he had last read one, but he could not remember when that was.
The test now becoming decidedly prolix and with growling rising in his stomach, Yajirobe stayed his shaking arms. The back of his neck was soaked with sweat, while his knees grinded together in the utmost pain. Comparing his plight to that of Brian and the others… well, they were talking rambunctiously, as if this was nothing. Any semblance of Yajirobe's composure was now lost. He would have none of it. None of it at all!
"Shut up!" he shouted at Brian. "Just shut up until she comes back."
Brian gave no reply; he need not to. For Kumo was already on fast approach before them, her figure swept into their sights like a beckoning wind on high noon.
"You are done," she said, coldly. She observed the thirteen boys with a long nose and a haughty stare. She was much, much taller than Yajirobe, and larger too. Yet her presence gave him no clear symbolic meaning to the power of her authority. She clapped her hands together, "Now for the real test."
"Another test? You can't be serious!" said the boy Yajirobe knew to be Harotu.
"Be quiet. Backtalk again and you will be thrown out of the Academy," she said, "The Daimyo has requested all who remain after the preliminary would take part in a brief reconnaissance expedition. As I speak, the Red Ribbon Army is marching into Orange Star City. Your job is to intercept them and steal the hat of the Commander General. Bring it back to me, and the Daimyo will agree to train you as his newest Samurai students."
Either too scared to speak for fear of being thrown out, or too dumbfounded by the monumental task set in front of them, nobody responded.
Kumo jump-started the conversation, "Get going. Do not make us wait all night."
"I'm not doing it."
"We're going to be killed."
"I'm not attacking a bunch of armed men…"
Seven boys stood staunch and opposed.
Yajirobe had, as the others talked and decided, listened. His eyes remained locked on the statue of the great warrior. Kumo had said they would be trained as samurai. This man, this statue before him was a samurai. Then, he became instinctive, realizing his desirous tendencies were misplaced. As they were, a ominous variance formed in his mind. He wanted to be that man standing there, not some street rat begging for food in the gutters. If he could be like this man, actually making something of himself, what more could he want? He had always been pitied, but never respected. Yajirobe thought, yes, he wanted to be like that statue. He wanted to have people look up to him. He wanted to have some presence outside of the slums.
He glanced back at the host. Seven had left, abandoning the proposition, grimacing at their failure. There was him and Brian and Harotu. There were three other students whose lives and names will never be delved into because they cannot possibly be important. They would be his only company on the treacherous errand. He would stay with them, to whatever end. He looked back to Kumo and the others. Though he dare not speak it, he promised to himself to have that hat by night's end. Yajirobe had, at this crucial point, made a goal for himself for the first time in his life.
General Blue was in a good mood. His army was in their best uniforms. The cyaneous sky above, riddled with pockets of white was shining down favorable. It was warm out, in the best of ways; not too hot, not too cold. The atmosphere was perfect for his entrance. He could imagine it now: walking into the city, the sun beaming brightly down on him and his men, the vast crowds of peoples adorning the streets, cheering him on; their hope and faith in him being absolute, chanting his name... he grinned. Luck was on his side that Blue could have this day his way.
"Dark! Prepare my capsule. I think it's time we moved in. I don't want our client to wait too long for us."
"Uh, which capsule, General?"
"Imbecile!" Blue screeched, "Don't tell me you forgot my change of clothes!"
"Oh, no General, I have it right here." said Dark, clumsily fumbling for it in his jacket. "Here it is sir. Still sealed and fresh."
Blue snatched up the capsule out of the dimwitted Captain's hand. His mission was a merc operation, meaning that he was conscripted by a third party to fulfill a task. The price was sizable; the despotic Supreme Commander Red, leader over the Red Ribbon Army, had OK'd the operation solely because of the revenue it would generate. Their client was obviously wealthy, Blue knew. That was his half reason in dressing so well. He would show the client, even the city, that the Red Ribbon Army must be respected, admired, as well as feared.
He popped open the capsule, and changed quickly into a dark, decorated uniform. His vainglorious visage was second to none on this earth. It would be welcomed by all. So with a quick stance, followed by a raised hand, General Blue signaled his men into formation; thereupon, Blue marched the grievous army into Orange Star City.