(Note - Still more to come, and explanations will follow. Sorry for the
update waits, but here are three new chapters. Others coming soon. And yes,
there WILL be more Gui Zhang :P especially later on in the story.)
===
"Look at how small we really are," said the old man, his scarf fluttering in the wind that skimmed delicately across the sea. Ryo tilted his head back, following the gaze of the ruffled, unshaven face towards the sky. Columns of white clouds rose like airborne mountains before a background of wintery, brilliant blue. Above the buildings of Yokosuka harbour, a striking vision of heavenly beauty contrasted with the dirt and the grime that lay below Ryo's feet, the mud that had rubbed onto his jeans, stuck to his knees. The wind shifted.
"Now that, you will never scrape with tower blocks."
The man lay, motionless, on his back, his stare fixed upon the skies. A reverence filled his eyes, followed presently by brief, discrete tears. A harbour forklift passed hurriedly by in the distance, separated from view by the cold, solid metal fence that bordered the small, isolated area of wasteland that Ryo and his companion now inhabited. Before them; the sea.
The white noise of the waves was subdued; it's rhythmic pulse hypnotising. The waves, rippling and shimmering, sparkled playfully in the sunlight, painting a reflective portrait of the sky above. A vast, eternal blue. The truck's throaty roar fading with distance, Ryo cast his eyes back down upon the old man. The vagrant's hair, wispy and white, floated like feathers above his head, brushing softly against the dirt. His forehead, highlighted with the afternoon sun's stark rays, shone with perspiration. The wrinkles upon his leathery skin coarsened with a sentimental smile, the slow-burning edges of senility evident in even the man's smallest gestures. The wind whistled underneath the suffocating, impersonal metal fence that ran behind them, and Ryo thought to himself that this was no place for a man to die.
"What you see up there, young man, is majesty."
Biting his lip in hesitation and compressed anger, Ryo pondered on calling for help. Hands placed neatly upon his stomach, bloodstains seeping through the faded fabric of his jacket, the homeless old harbour resident looked at peace with his final destination. A small, unopened drink carton and single tuna sandwich wrapped tightly in polystyrene lay beside him like treasured possessions; possessions that had, after all, been considered important enough for the man to hold onto whilst running for his life. Smiling eyes glanced up at Ryo.
"You're wondering why I'm here."
Ryo nodded. He had heard the commotion.
The old man smiled, the creases around his lips deepening with the movement, and Ryo received no answer. Eyes widening, Ryo grabbed the old man's upper arms and mumbled to himself inaudibly, then glanced feverishly from side to side. The situation was all too familiar. In anguish, Ryo cursed silently at his own persecution. Shouting for help in desperate helplessness, his throat burning like a petrol fire and his voice gravely, Ryo's angry cry pierced the air until his very lungs threatened to collapse. Perhaps the Mad Angels, long fled from the scene, would catch upon a wintery breeze the malevolence that resounded from the yell.
There was only calm, twilight silence to answer the fading end of Ryo's echo.
===
Respect your enemy.
"Respect for the enemy, whether mutual or unreturned, is of the highest priority. Without respect, your enemy has the advantage."
Iwao's command, carefully etched into Ryo's disciplined moral guidelines, was continuous. Growled repeatedly, the words persisted like a vigorous wind navigating the caverns of Ryo's mind. His father's face, existent now only in photographs and memories, moved its lips, slowly, and as if in perpetual motion.
In dreams lie emancipation.
The last hallucinogenic images faded from the canvas of imagination and Ryo found himself huddled and cold. Bitterly cold. He was awake, yet how he had managed to fall asleep at all troubled him. His clock alarm, droning loudly, fired Ryo's irritation at it's shattering of his father's voice, and earned it an extremely misjudged smack. A split second passed between the clumsy impact of the clenched fist and the sharp, crashing breaking of glass.
Lying perfectly still, Ryo focused his eyes on the ceiling and listened earnestly to the silence, broken only by the rain tapping lightly against the window. The stillness in his home was palpable. Ine-San could not be heard cooking in the kitchen, and Fuku-San would never, one day of his life, rise early enough to get to school on time. Looking remorsefully down at his broken clock, a stiff groan sounded, and a moment passed before Ryo realised that the voice responsible had in fact been his own.
Running a hand slowly through his dried hairgel, and sitting up on the creaking bed, Ryo began to dress for another long day at the harbour with no intention of driving a forklift.
Embracing the misty morning air that hung over the Hazuki family garden, Ryo traversed the frosty ground towards the large wooden gate, and passing through it, was careful not to slam it behind him. He made his way towards Yamanose. The respect for his enemies was left behind.
===
"Look at how small we really are," said the old man, his scarf fluttering in the wind that skimmed delicately across the sea. Ryo tilted his head back, following the gaze of the ruffled, unshaven face towards the sky. Columns of white clouds rose like airborne mountains before a background of wintery, brilliant blue. Above the buildings of Yokosuka harbour, a striking vision of heavenly beauty contrasted with the dirt and the grime that lay below Ryo's feet, the mud that had rubbed onto his jeans, stuck to his knees. The wind shifted.
"Now that, you will never scrape with tower blocks."
The man lay, motionless, on his back, his stare fixed upon the skies. A reverence filled his eyes, followed presently by brief, discrete tears. A harbour forklift passed hurriedly by in the distance, separated from view by the cold, solid metal fence that bordered the small, isolated area of wasteland that Ryo and his companion now inhabited. Before them; the sea.
The white noise of the waves was subdued; it's rhythmic pulse hypnotising. The waves, rippling and shimmering, sparkled playfully in the sunlight, painting a reflective portrait of the sky above. A vast, eternal blue. The truck's throaty roar fading with distance, Ryo cast his eyes back down upon the old man. The vagrant's hair, wispy and white, floated like feathers above his head, brushing softly against the dirt. His forehead, highlighted with the afternoon sun's stark rays, shone with perspiration. The wrinkles upon his leathery skin coarsened with a sentimental smile, the slow-burning edges of senility evident in even the man's smallest gestures. The wind whistled underneath the suffocating, impersonal metal fence that ran behind them, and Ryo thought to himself that this was no place for a man to die.
"What you see up there, young man, is majesty."
Biting his lip in hesitation and compressed anger, Ryo pondered on calling for help. Hands placed neatly upon his stomach, bloodstains seeping through the faded fabric of his jacket, the homeless old harbour resident looked at peace with his final destination. A small, unopened drink carton and single tuna sandwich wrapped tightly in polystyrene lay beside him like treasured possessions; possessions that had, after all, been considered important enough for the man to hold onto whilst running for his life. Smiling eyes glanced up at Ryo.
"You're wondering why I'm here."
Ryo nodded. He had heard the commotion.
The old man smiled, the creases around his lips deepening with the movement, and Ryo received no answer. Eyes widening, Ryo grabbed the old man's upper arms and mumbled to himself inaudibly, then glanced feverishly from side to side. The situation was all too familiar. In anguish, Ryo cursed silently at his own persecution. Shouting for help in desperate helplessness, his throat burning like a petrol fire and his voice gravely, Ryo's angry cry pierced the air until his very lungs threatened to collapse. Perhaps the Mad Angels, long fled from the scene, would catch upon a wintery breeze the malevolence that resounded from the yell.
There was only calm, twilight silence to answer the fading end of Ryo's echo.
===
Respect your enemy.
"Respect for the enemy, whether mutual or unreturned, is of the highest priority. Without respect, your enemy has the advantage."
Iwao's command, carefully etched into Ryo's disciplined moral guidelines, was continuous. Growled repeatedly, the words persisted like a vigorous wind navigating the caverns of Ryo's mind. His father's face, existent now only in photographs and memories, moved its lips, slowly, and as if in perpetual motion.
In dreams lie emancipation.
The last hallucinogenic images faded from the canvas of imagination and Ryo found himself huddled and cold. Bitterly cold. He was awake, yet how he had managed to fall asleep at all troubled him. His clock alarm, droning loudly, fired Ryo's irritation at it's shattering of his father's voice, and earned it an extremely misjudged smack. A split second passed between the clumsy impact of the clenched fist and the sharp, crashing breaking of glass.
Lying perfectly still, Ryo focused his eyes on the ceiling and listened earnestly to the silence, broken only by the rain tapping lightly against the window. The stillness in his home was palpable. Ine-San could not be heard cooking in the kitchen, and Fuku-San would never, one day of his life, rise early enough to get to school on time. Looking remorsefully down at his broken clock, a stiff groan sounded, and a moment passed before Ryo realised that the voice responsible had in fact been his own.
Running a hand slowly through his dried hairgel, and sitting up on the creaking bed, Ryo began to dress for another long day at the harbour with no intention of driving a forklift.
Embracing the misty morning air that hung over the Hazuki family garden, Ryo traversed the frosty ground towards the large wooden gate, and passing through it, was careful not to slam it behind him. He made his way towards Yamanose. The respect for his enemies was left behind.