Firewall

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Chapter 01: When we start to dream…

He woke with a shiver and a silent intake of breath as the dirt encrusted ceiling of the hotel came into existence before him, the deep forest canopy behind his eyes vanishing as his breathing evened out. Gradually, all traces of the jungle faded from memory as he shifted under the thin blankets, eyes falling upon the stack of crumpled bills on the pillow next to him. His bag was in the corner, untouched, as were his clothes.

Pushing himself into a sitting position despite the ache in his limbs, he pressed a shaky hand to his forehead and breathed in and out deeply as the sun rose over the city skyline. There was a distinct chill in the air brushing over his bare back, but the heating system near the windows was quiet. As the murmurs in his head ceased to exist, he too, was quiet.

As he gathered his composure, he reached over and began to count the bills left behind on the pillow next to him. Not that he was worried of being cheated of his pay. That man last night was a regular customer, but counting things - money, tiles, buildings, anything - always managed to calm his unsteady hands and thoughts.

With this he wouldn't have to steal for a while, which was never a bad thing. Having a routine attracted unwanted attention, attention he could never afford to dismiss. His body still quivered in remembrance of the close call he had had with the authorities six months ago.

It had been both exhilarating and terrifying as he ran for his very life, outwitting an unseen enemy until he could fade back into the monotony of the city streets.

A sudden streak of fury raced through his blood, igniting the dormant anger he kept stored deep within him where no one could see it. His hands clenched shut over the wad of cash and over the stained sheets as he glared out the window, at the tranquil city skyline slowly waking in the dawn's burning light.

"Tsih dnma ctuynor," he muttered as he urged his stiff muscles to move, reaching for his discarded clothes. There were things he had to do today, with winter drawing near, last night's payment not nearly enough for him to survive the entire few months without resorting to theft.

Although, he supposed what he was setting out to do now was a crime all the same. It was just impossible to satisfy civilized life, now wasn't it? If he didn't steal, he had to broker information, drugs, or whatever was in demand, and if that wasn't enough he resorted to this, but in society's eyes all three were crimes.

He couldn't help a grin from escaping. No matter what he was damned, so he might as well make the best of it. Whatever it took to live, even if it meant tarnishing his pride and his ideals.

On his way out he grabbed his bag and shoved the cash in his wallet. The ache in his body was fading as he walked, covering up his neck with a loose scarf to hide the proof of what had taken place last night. He didn't plan on returning to the hotel, so he handed the keys over to the clerk and drew his hood over his head, ducking out into the crowd outside.

The urge to flitch something from a passerby's pocket or purse was almost irresistible. The wealthy were the most careless and it was at times so easy to slip away with a wallet or two without even bumping into the person. But it was bad to attract too much attention, to draw the authorities close during a time when he couldn't avoid the hotels and inns.

So he pushed on instead, head lowered against the wind, and headed off to the rendezvous point to retrieve the goods. No one would ask questions there, not about his speech nor his heritage. It was a job he preferred, no matter the risks involved. All he needed was the solid weight of a knife at his side.

So his line of thought went, day after day, until that evening came.

His only regret was that he had only managed to stab one man in the thigh before he fell into the blissful sleep of unconsciousness, where the dreams could not pursue him.

"You should get a dog, Saotome, it'll do you some good to have a companion. Or maybe a cat, though you seem like a dog person to me. When I'm on the computer Michi always sits on the keyboard and blocks the screen."

He always hated this bad habit of his. He wasn't nervous or excited, simply bored to tears standing behind the same counter every day of the week for five hours straight. Eventually nothing that came out of his mouth was substantial in any way, much to the consternation of poor Saotome, who had to listen to him rant about the benefits of adopting a dog or cat.

"Ah, shut up already," his friend grumbled as he awkwardly scratched the back of his head, probably resisting the urge to smack Satoru out of his rant. He flashed his friend a weak smile and laughed nervously as a sort of apology, although he was hardly worried that his friend would actually hit him or otherwise reprimand him,

Satoru knew Saotome, after all. They had known each other for what seemed like forever, stretching back as far as they could remember. Unlike some of their friends, they stayed close instead of moving to different universities. Even now it sometimes seemed as if nothing except for their bodies had changed. They could laugh like they used to, joke like they used to, and nothing really ever changed.

The two were permanent fixtures of their neighborhood, something that never changed no matter how many years elapsed. It was like the old owner of the bakery across the street or the lady who fed the birds in the park every day. No one remembered when such people became such a normal sight in everyone else's everyday lives.

Even Satoru couldn't remember the day that they had met. The memories were hazy, half fabricated from his mother's side of the story and half from what Saotome told him had transpired. They were more like quarreling siblings, rather than friends, his mother had told him. They were always at each other's throats, playful, but prone to petty fights and arguments.

They were still like that, even today. It was Saotome who bothered him at work, who called and kept him up all night during exam week like a teenage girl gossiping to her friend. It was Saotome who barged in the house when he was taking a shower, who didn't mind holding a conversation right outside the bathroom door when he was still inside. None of his other friends did any of that.

"Sorry, sorry," Satoru said with an apologetic smile, shifting his weight from one aching foot to the other. He was nearly at the end of his shift, the sun sinking below the horizon steadily, streaks of golden red slipping through the cracks between buildings and the wide display windows lining the wall.

In the storefront small dogs barked incessantly, a few lingering customers crouched before the pens and cages with smiles and grins as they wagged a few fingers at the energetic pups. Satoru glanced over at the scene with a silent sigh gone unnoticed by all except for his friend, who he turned to when he had made sure that no one wanted to purchase one. Not that anyone ever did, really.

Saotome was fiddling with a small container of dog treats on display, muttering something about the taste.

"If you're not here to buy anything then just get out," Satoru muttered, exhaling an insufferable huff as he leaned an elbow on the counter. There was hardly anyone around to hear his complaint; even the manager went home already.

"Hey, what about me? Am I such an unwelcome presence?" Saotome chimed, dropping the small metal container with a sharp clank that made Satoru wince as he reached to replace the object in his rightful place. For a manger who didn't care much about what his employees did during their shifts or who they invited over, he was awfully uptight about aesthetics and such.

"Yes, so please be as kind as to get out," Satoru intoned with a flippant wave of his hand. The last of the customers were leaving without having purchased anything, so it was about time to close up shop. As he slipped out from behind the counter he called over his shoulder, "unless you want to clean litter boxes and dog cases, I suggest you leave."

"What's with you lately, Satoru?"

He could hear the frown in Saotome's voice but knew that his friend wouldn't follow him no matter what his true intentions were for coming here. Saotome didn't much like animals - and never really had, even after Satoru took this job at the local pet store and even though he visited to annoy him at work. He claimed that it was a result of some traumatic experience in the past, but Satoru could recall no such thing.

Satoru zoned out as his friend was leaving. He grabbed the cleaning supplies, mechanically fulfilling his duties like a respectable employee, nearly ignoring Saotome's previous words. Doing this made the time pass by much quicker, and then he could be on his way home after a long day of classes and work.

When he woke, it wasn't on his bed with the awkward incline of the ceiling just above him, the plaster probably sporting indents where he'd slammed his head into it as a teenager. It wasn't to the sharp glow of the computer monitors, either, although there was a screen before him and it did shine in the deep darkness of wherever he was now.

The refrigerator was running out of food and she didn't quite feel like traveling all the way to the supermarket to restock. She didn't feel like much of anything, really, just tired and weary. It would be nice to sit in bed all day and stop worrying about things like bills and food and calls from the principal or the police station. She didn't even have the energy to see if her son and daughter climbed out of bed or if they were skipping school again.

Last night had been a nightmare yet again. This was the third time in a single month that her son had been taken down to the police station, and they had argued and screamed at each other the whole way back home. And once they were there, her daughter stormed out of the house and didn't return. Who knew what she was up to. She hadn't come home yet.

Yuri groaned into the silent bedroom, eyeing the alarm clock with a half closed eye. Her shift at the post office started in a half hour. Thanks to her boss, she had been able to take a few days off this month, but she had to show up today. And after that she had to go work her part time job at the liquor store, and then go home and work a bit from home. The papers were piling up again.

It was amazing anything got done around this house, really, and that it didn't look like a war zone half the time. It was just a bit messy, a bit dusty. Everything looked worn, old, as if bought from the leftovers in the warehouse ten years ago. Even the photos hanging on the walls were dusty, grey, and aged. She'd taken a few of them down, but her son kept on putting certain ones back up.

She wondered if he was still hanging around his room, playing video games, or if he had left before she woke up to cut class with his friends. He was prone to both activities. Really, she would rather he just stay home and play on the computer if he had to skip class at all. The last thing she needed was another call from the school telling her about his next escapade that she could do nothing about.

Sometimes she couldn't help but feel utterly lost. Masao hadn't called since he moved to Kyoto. Her other two kids were hardly ever home, but then again, she wasn't exactly around either. Everything was falling apart piece by piece. Her doctor said she had high blood pressure and had to decrease her levels of stress.

As if she could do that. If only life was so simple.

Well, might as well get the day started. The quicker she got through all of it the quicker night and sleep would come. Not that it was much different at night even with the kids gone and the house empty and quiet. The framed photos on the walls still stared at her, accusingly, even in her dreams.

All along he knew, no matter what his adopted parents tried to tell him, that he never belonged in this country or in this house with its grand and elaborate rooms and furniture, the likes of which he could never even imagine before he came here. Sometimes he still thought that he was dreaming and that he would wake up soon with the taste of sand in his mouth and the scent of gunpowder in the air.

His "mother" embraced him and said that he belonged with them, his "father" ruffled the unruly hair on his head and told him that he was their son. If he closed his eyes and ignored their reflections in the mirror and the words coming out of their mouths, maybe he could actually come to believe it as well. If all he had left was the warmth of their skin on his, maybe he could allow himself a true smile or two.

It was impossible for him, though, and that was what they could never understand. He didn't know how they could be so brilliantly blessed and blind at the same time. Did they not see the same image that he saw whenever he looked into the mirror? The kids at school pointed it out all the time.

He was different. The moment they heard his name they knew he was different, a foreign exchange student, they liked to whisper with secretive giggles. Ashikaga was now his surname, but he had refused to give up his first name. It the last piece of home that he had and he clung to it fiercely, no matter the sneers he got for it.

Even if no one knew his name, he was still different. Every time he looked in the mirror or saw his reflection on a building he ducked his head and tried to hide from the world. His skin, the shape of his eyes and cheeks, even the dark mop of brown hair on his head was completely different from this country's people. He looked like a foreign exchange student, except he wasn't, and people still whispered even if they didn't stare.

It was his classmates, mostly, and the real foreign exchange students there rather than the strangers he passed on the streets. It was the exchange students who whispered about his tanned skin and his name, fearful whispers that he wished had no basis in reality. He wanted to scream that they were wrong and that he had done none of those things, but he couldn't.

"A terrorist," they called him like it was a disease. At first he had no clue what the word was, so he kept it to himself and mulled over the scorn in their voices and asked his adopted parents what it meant. And they were horrified when he told them, hugged him tight and didn't let go even when his "father" called the school in anger.

At that time he couldn't say much, let alone in Japanese, but how could he ever explain it to his adopted parents? He kept quiet from then on, but inside he was screaming.

School was mundane and difficult and oftentimes he simply gave up entirely. He could barely read his native language, let alone Japanese, and those eight months of lessons before he attended school barely helped him understand even the basics. Most of that time had been spent battling invisible nightmares and visiting a handful of doctors suited to treating people like him.

Many days he found himself wandering through the city aimlessly, thoughts as empty as the sky. He thought of home and the people he left behind, ignoring the tremble in his hands and the images flickering through his vision involuntarily. He said the trembling was from the cold, his blank vision from his empty mind, but knew that he was fooling no one, not even himself.

At times he would whisper small songs to himself that his adopted parents couldn't understand. The songs helped him sleep, function, and live when all he wanted was to curl up into a ball and die. Sometimes even he didn't know what he was singing, the words lost to time on the tip of his tongue.

Somehow, he knew that these idle days would not last. Something would interrupt them, come crashing down and tear the earth apart. No matter how many times anyone told him that it was over, done, and the chaotic days of his past would never return, he could not believe them. It was possible that he did not even deserve this quiet, mundane life that at times seemed like a blessing and a curse.

The world passed through his eyes like the colors of a kaleidoscope. Everyone contained within it was a distorted figure of their true selves - or maybe that twisted version of them was their true self. He didn't know, couldn't tell, who was the enemy and who was an ally or if there even was an enemy at all.

Sometimes his hand would twitch and his eyes would glaze over and the horizon would be splashed red and gold. His "mother" would hand him a few pills and steady his hands, his "father" holding his shoulders tightly so that he would't run for the cover of a closet or the safety of a kitchen knife. And then slowly he would return to the present, exhausted even if it was still only eight in the morning.

When those people came for him the first thing his mind screamed was enemy but his limbs locked up and would not move. He screamed, maybe only on the inside, and knew that he was dying even though he couldn't feel it. His limbs grew weak and helpless and for the first time in years he didn't have the strength to fight back. Cold metal pressed against his head and he coughed as the chemicals drifted down into his lungs.

And he thought that maybe, just maybe, he deserved it. He shut his eyes tight, expecting to wake up in the dust and dirt filled land of his dreams.

Sorry about the awkward line of dots in the "enter your username here" section. Fanfiction won't allow me to type a continuous line. Also, the bunch of mumble jumble in the first section's narrative is meant to represent him speaking a language other than Japanese. You'll find out what that language is later, and it's one I don't know, so I won't even try to use a translator. The boy from the very last section, as well, will have some of his speech written in a similar manner.

The letters are just put into the wrong order, so if you're good at that stuff or feel like it, you can decipher it. Or you can just go along with it to give a more "realistic" effect. Whichever.

Also, I'd like to know how this format is, if I should switch between characters' perspectives throughout the chapter or isolate each chapter to have only one character's POV.