Disclaimer: I don't own Okami.

Chapter One

The new kid came practically bouncing through the doors of Kamiki Senior High School. Several people in the hallway turned at the unexpected sound of the doors crashing open – school hadn't even started yet, and up until then the halls had still been quiet with typical Monday morning sluggishness – but that wasn't why they kept staring.

The boy wore the same standardized gakuran uniform as all the other male students: same black suit, with the stylized gold buttons adorning the stiff-collared jacket. The uniform was much too big for its wearer, so the scrunched-up pant legs and overhanging sleeves made him look smaller than he was, and the fact that he wore the oversized jacket slung casually open over his white shirt did not help his diminutive appearance.

That alone would have set him apart from the other boys with their neatly buttoned, well-fitted suits, but it didn't end there. Instead of the usual black shoes or perhaps an unassuming pair of plain tennis shoes, the new kid's canvas sneakers looked as if they had been through several dozen paintball matches and come out much the worse for wear. The splotches of paint that stained them apparently came in every color of the palette except white. The belt that barely seemed to hold up his suit pants was a bright green. And although his book satchel was black like everyone else's, it was covered with so many keychains that you could hardly tell.

Most noticeably, in a blatant violation of school policy he wore a reversed baseball cap over his black hair (which was also a bit too long for school policy). The hat was green with a few red spots as if someone had dripped paint on it by accident, and a black rim.

All in all, he was probably the most colorful student to set foot in Kamiki Senior High since… well, ever.

No one could remember having seen the kid before – and they were pretty sure they would remember if they had – so when he proceeded to strut confidently down the hallway like he owned the place, no one was quite sure what to make of it.

"Hey there!" he winked at some of the girls standing by their lockers as he went by, and a few of them giggled shyly, although most simply continued to stare. The boys, meanwhile, didn't look too pleased with the newcomer's attitude.

"Can anyone point me to the big man's office?" the kid asked. He spoke rapidly, but not because he was nervous; fast talking seemed natural for him. "Ya know, the principle?" he added when no one replied.

At this clarification someone hesitantly pointed toward a door at the other end of the hall. "Thanks, sweetie!" he flashed a charming grin at the girl before bouncing off energetically in the direction she had indicated. As he left a few loose papers slipped out of the end of his satchel, fluttering unnoticed to the floor.

Sakuya-sensei watched the unusual student until he left the hallway, which didn't take long at the rate he was going. This time she only flinched slightly at the unnecessarily loud sound of the door slamming. Her eyes then fell toward one of the papers he had dropped, which had landed near her feet. Her full lips curved into a frown as she picked up the drawing, glad that the . . . suggestive sketch was unfinished, and she immediately began to try and snatch up the others before any of the boys got hold of them. With a deep sigh she shook her head, not thrilled with how the day was starting off. It was going to be a long year.

Little did she know just how long . . .

"What's the problem, babe?"

About two and a half hours after the first bell, Sakuya-sensei already could not believe the level of irritation – who was she kidding, of anger – rising in her solely because of one student. She considered herself an exceptionally patient woman, a good teacher capable of remaining calm in almost any situation for the sake of her young charges. Too bad she had finally come across the exception. It was almost as unbelievable as the level of absolute cheekiness this new student, this Issun Boshi, could reach. The teacher felt her face redden at his latest comment, delivered in that same annoying, too-fast singsong voice as everything else that came out of his mouth–

With some effort she cut off her train of thought, composing herself to reply. "Mr. Boshi," she forced out smoothly, "I am aware that you are new here and clearly unfamiliar with our practices, but from now on, you should address me – and your other teachers – as sensei." She had never thought she would have to explain that to a high school student. "As for 'the problem' . . ." she continued, trailing off as she leaned over to look more closely at the painting on the student's desk.

This month they were studying traditional Japanese art techniques, so today the art students were practicing landscape ink painting. At least, most of the students were practicing landscape ink painting. Issun was currently doodling very cartoonish-looking animals all over his sheet of rice paper. A rabbit, a mouse, and a cat trailed around the borders of the page, waiting for a fourth figure to take shape at the top, a white dog with its mouth hanging open in a silly grin. With only the front half of its body drawn, the dog looked like it was jumping out of the paper.

With Sakuya-sensei hovering over his shoulder, Issun couldn't resist a smirk at the teacher's prudish concern over his every action. It wasn't as if he were doing anything bad. He was sketching animals, for the gods' sakes. But Issun knew this teacher's type all too well. Show the least little sign of slacking off and you might as well paint "FAILURE" across your forehead in neon letters. It was annoying to say the least, but for some reason it just made Issun feel more mischievous than usual.

"Aw, don't get your panties in a twist!" he finally said, and was pleased to hear several students draw in sharp breaths of surprise at his display of nerve. "I got your landscape painting right here." He gestured vaguely toward the middle of his table, where indeed a finished ink painting had been partially obscured under some spare sheets of blank rice paper. With her mouth pursed in as thin a line as her very full lips could manage, Sakuya-sensei slowly reached across the table and pulled aside the blank sheets of paper very delicately, as if they were a trap waiting to snare her. The painting, now fully unveiled, was quite well done, the teacher had to admit to herself. Even though it had been made in half the time the other students were taking.

"Good enough for ya, lady?" Issun said deliberately. He really couldn't help it – Sakuya-sensei had the most incredible range of angry expressions, and this was when he was only being mildly annoying. Her cheeks blossomed with the soft yet intense pink of sakura blooms that spread all the way to the graceful arch of her neck; her lips red as cherries drew together in a pout, and the fine lines of her eyebrows swooped down dramatically as she narrowed her eyes. Then her gaze turned onto him and he actually felt a moment of alarm when he saw the darkness in her expression.

But his fear was forgotten an instant later when a sound reached his ears from the other side of the room that he absolutely could not ignore.

It was the sound of art – someone else's art – being praised.

"Uwaa – It's so . . . so beautiful!"

"Senpai's art is always amazing!"

"Senpai is the greatest!"

Something in Issun snapped and he practically vaulted out of his seat, leaving Sakuya-sensei standing over an empty chair with her mouth hanging open in mid-retort. Issun didn't even notice, completely torn between his curiosity and his mild indignation that these naive small-town kids were so impressed with some other student's work. Sure, the kid might have some talent, but he or she was no doubt untrained and wouldn't really know the first thing about fine art, especially in this backwater place. These people had never met someone of Issun's caliber before. Oh well – they would learn what real quality looked like soon enough. He would make sure of it.

He reached the table around which several admirers were standing and blocking his view, but they nervously made room for him to look once they realized he was there. Issun leaned casually forward, trying to look as nonchalant as possible, and his eyes fell over the painting that was draped across the table like a tapestry . . .

No . . . It was more like a window into the most incredible panoramic view he had ever seen. An inkscape of mountains, waterfalls, trees, and rocks cascaded down the page, with here and there a tiny village picked out in masterfully simple brushstrokes that somehow captured all the quiet bustle and spirit of a rural town nestled among the foothills of the mountains. Just outside one of the villages, a Shinto shrine gate depicted in miniature waited to capture the first light of the rising sun. Each form flowed seamlessly into the next, as if the brush had never left the paper, creating the impression that the natural features of the landscape were in motion. Still-wet ink glittered with a vibrancy that seemed like it could not have come from the artificial light of the classroom alone. The painting . . . felt alive.

Issun became aware that his jaw had dropped. He closed it hoping that no one had noticed, and finally managed to tear his eyes away from the ink landscape. Almost as soon as he did so, his jaw dropped again, but once again his mind was too far gone to register it.

She was sitting quietly on the side of the table opposite him – the artist of the painting, he knew automatically. For a moment all he saw was a shock of brilliant white hair that fell down her shoulders like a veil of silk. He had never seen such a color before; even the ancient monk at the temple where he used to go for the New Year's blessing, the oldest person Issun had ever met, did not have such pure, snow-bright hair as this girl had. Returning his stare, she brushed a stray lock of shining white silk behind her ear, revealing a slim face with a slightly tapered chin and dark eyes that sparkled with something like amusement. There were curious red markings around her eyes and on her forehead, and Issun wondered if it was some strange local cosmetic fashion.

He stared, and she stared, and for the first time in his life, Issun found himself with nothing to say.

But the moment was not to last long. A half-strangled gasp cut through the silence of the room, and then: "Boshi!"

Oh snap. Sakuya-sensei must have found his other painting underneath all the scrap papers.

Issun whirled around, and at that very moment the bell miraculously rang. He skidded across the room, a green and black blur, slowing just long enough to grab his satchel from the floor by his table and shout a quick, "Catch ya tomorrow, lady!" at his teacher as he bounced out the door into the safety of the hallway.

Sakuya-sensei seemed to have taken root beside the table. She was clutching an extremely detailed drawing of herself, with extremely detailed curves and wearing a ridiculously skimpy outfit that would have gotten her fired the instant she stepped anywhere near school property, even if she wasn't quite as voluptuous as the picture indicated. A beautiful line of calligraphy declared the title of the piece to be "The Valley of Sakuya's Chest." The teacher wasn't moving, except for the occasional faint tremor of the hand holding the drawing. Everyone else filed out of the classroom as quietly as possible.

About fifteen seconds after the last student had gone, the words, "You little bug!" followed them out like the shriek of a vengeful spirit.

As soon as Issun burst into the hallway, he made sure to move out of view from the classroom door and then he slowed down to wait. He didn't really think about what he was doing; not that that was anything new. All he knew was that, whatever the reason, he could not just walk away from what he had just seen; something inside him would not allow it.

Finally she came out of the classroom, the flash of her white hair alerting him before he ever saw her face, and he maneuvered to fall into step beside her. Suddenly finding himself nervous, he stammered a bit as she glanced up at him with big dark eyes emphasized by those bright red markings.

"H-hey there," he said, silently cursing himself for the stutter, "the name's Issun and since I'm new here and all I was wonderin' if I could hang out with you for a bit 'til I learn my way around?" For the first time he was aware of how fast the words were spilling from his mouth, and he wondered why he was so self-aware all of a sudden; but as usual, he didn't waste much thought on it.

She smiled and the spark lit in her eyes again as she nodded. Issun felt himself grin in response. "Sweet! Always help out a fellow artist, right? Oh yeah, that painting you did – that was pretty good! I mean I kinda rushed mine so I could work on, um, other stuff . . . Hey, what class do ya have next? I dunno what I have – my schedule's in here somewhere –" He leafed through his satchel as a steady stream of words continued to pour out of him. "Okay now where'd it go? Hope I didn't drop it back there! Sheesh, that Sakuya lady's a real mother hen, ain't she? Always hangin' right over people like a freakin' tree to make sure we're 'on task,' and with a bust like that in your face I don't see how anybody ever gets anything done anyways. Is it too much to ask for a little personal space these days or what?"

As he was ranting, the white-haired girl just kept walking quietly beside him with that amused expression on her face. For some weird reason, that look gave Issun the impression that she knew more about him than he was telling her (which was practically nothing so far). . . . But that was impossible. He shrugged off the tiny nagging voice of worry in the back of his mind and tried to refocus on what he was saying. But before he could, they were interrupted.

The music of an expertly played flute was drifting into the hallway from a half-opened door which Issun and the girl were coming up next to. The lilting tune was mesmerizing, like the hollow chime of water splashing from a bamboo fountain. Issun hadn't been paying it any attention until with a last, high-pitched flurry of notes the music ended, followed by the sound of applause.

"Merci, merci beaucoup, my friends! Waka, the shining light of our great Music Department, has played yet another flawless performance today! But now, I fear it is time to –"

The voice cut off mid-sentence as the speaker came out into the hallway while still half-turned to look at the people in the room behind him, which caused him to walk straight into Issun who had just come up beside the door.

"Oomph!" Thrown off-balance by the unexpected collision, Issun barely managed to avoid hitting the girl on his other side by swerving awkwardly around her, finally tripping over his own shoe and stumbling across the floor. At last his momentum wore off and he was able to regain his balance on the other side of the corridor, although his dignity would take a little longer to recover; he could hear snickers from some of the other kids nearby.

"What the heck was that?" He sent a glare in the direction of whatever oaf had just crashed into him, and saw a tall, trim-figured youth with his long blond hair pulled back into a ponytail, wearing a peach-colored kimono jacket over his school uniform and carrying a flute.

The stranger completely ignored him and turned to the white-haired girl. "Ah, ma chérie, I hope you did not come to any harm on my account! Allow me to see you safely on your way . . ."

Issun felt a knot of anger coil in his stomach. The guy couldn't even apologize to him! "All right, hold it right there, you freak!" he shouted, stomping back over and attempting unsuccessfully to shove his way between the girl and the blond weirdo. "I don't know who you think you are, but I was already walking with . . . uh . . . her . . ." His voice drifted into a mutter as he came to an awkward realization, which unfortunately the other kid figured out at the same time.

"Heh heh," the boy sneered. "You don't even know her name, do you? Well, I can see that you're new here . . . New kid, meet Ammy, artiste extraordinaire. And you've probably already heard of me, the famous Waka, musician, master of the arts, trained in Paris by my illustrious grandmother from an early age. Oh, how the maîtres begged them not to send me back here and rob their music halls of such outstanding talent!" His hands flourished dramatically while he spoke, as if demonstrating the greatness of the talent they held.

"But that is in the past . . . Now tell me, ma chérie," he turned to Ammy again, "who is this little bug who follows you so closely today?"

Ammy merely lifted her eyebrows, as if knowing that she wouldn't have to answer. Right on cue, Issun, experiencing a fresh surge of anger, exploded.

"Hey! Who're you calling a 'bug,' you creep? My name is Issun! Issun! Not 'little bug,' got it? You'd better, 'cuz if I hear you call me that again I'll make sure you regret the day you were born! I'm the wandering artist Issun and someday you will all be bowing before my great brush!" Issun felt a renewed sense of determination as he spoke, and he saw Ammy's grin grow wider, which surprised him a little. She looks . . . impressed?

"Ah, your friend has quite the temper, does he not?" Waka said to Ammy with a smirk. Then, suddenly, a more serious air came over him, and he looked straight at Issun with an almost dangerous gleam in his eyes.

"By the way, my little friend, did you know that I can see the future? Oui . . . Here is a prophecy for you: I foresee that the needle in the haystack will not stay hidden from the serpent forever. And now, I am afraid that I must be off or I will be late for class. Au revoir, baby!" he directed his last words to Ammy, and looked for a moment like he wanted to say something more, but perhaps Issun's glare deterred him.

As Waka took off down the hallway, leaving a stunned Issun behind, a group of students poured out from the music room after him, all wearing the same peach-colored kimono jacket. "Wait up, Captain Waka!" they called, scurrying to catch up with their leader, who of course did not wait for them.

For a few moments Issun felt pinned to the spot, the words of Waka's so-called prophecy ringing in his ears. The needle in the haystack . . . A little chill went down his spine before he shook himself out of it. What could that half-baked prophet possibly know? He pushed away the memory of the little cloth-tied bundle, forcing himself to concentrate on the present. Watching the last of Waka's followers run down the hallway, he was struck by the ridiculousness of it all.

"Does everyone in this school look like they fell from the moon or what?" he asked no one in particular. Just then, another girl he had not seen before passed by him serenely going in the opposite direction, with blond hair that seemed to shine like spun gold, and wearing a headband with a set of bright green rabbit ears that might have been carved from bamboo.

". . . Okay, that was just weird," he muttered as she vanished around a corner. He felt a tug at one of his hands, and looked over to find Ammy pulling his hand as she started to walk down the hallway as well, reminding him that they were almost certainly late for class.

Definitely late for class, he amended as the bell struck down any hope of making it on time.

"Aw, crud." The white-haired girl looked back at him curiously. "Look, I'm sorry I made ya late, okay? It's that flute-playing creep's fault, if he hadn't run into me this never woulda happened! I bet that idiot would walk into the broad side of a barn 'cuz he couldn't see past his own ego . . ."

Suddenly Ammy stopped and gave a short laugh – a loud, sharp, devil-may-care laugh that was almost closer to a yelp. The sound of it was so unexpected to Issun, coming from this strange, pure-seeming creature, that he could only stare at her for a moment.

"You think it's funny?" he asked, tilting his head in surprise. Ammy stared back at him, her face unreadable . . . Then she shot him a huge mischievous wink, and without any other warning, took off running down the hallway, leaving Issun standing there bewildered. But he quickly recovered.

"Hey – wait for me!" He raced after her at top speed, throwing caution to the winds, and their laughter echoed all around them and disrupted every classroom they ran past.

The sun was beginning to sink behind the mountains, throwing long shadows over Kamiki Village even though the sky was still light. School had ended a couple of hours ago, to Issun's relief – although his day had gone by much faster once he started hanging around Ammy. In fact, he suspected that associating with her was the only way he had managed to avoid detention after arriving in one of his classes almost fifteen minutes late – since, from his loud entrance and barely suppressed chuckling, it had been more than obvious that his tardiness was intentional.

He was currently wandering along the side of a little-used road on the outskirts of town, munching a rice ball filled with pickled plum that he had bought from a convenience store. His pocket jangled with a few 500- and 100-yen coins, and he frowned down at it: he was beginning to run low on cash.

Of course, he would acquire more once he ran out, the same way he had for much of the past two years since leaving his home. . . . He didn't like to think of himself as a thief, and he acquired funds honestly whenever possible. He had brought some money with him when he first set out, long since depleted, and occasionally he earned small sums by selling artwork or doing odd jobs, but it just wasn't enough to live on, especially since he never stayed in one place for more than a few months.

And, he admitted with more than a little pride, he was quite skilled at picking pockets. No one had ever actually caught him – yet – although there had been one close call in Tokyo . . . And he never stole from innocents. No, all of his targets to date had had more than their share of shady dealings, which allowed Issun to appease his conscience somewhat. It also meant that he might be in for more than his fair share of trouble if he ever were to be caught.

He paled just a little bit with that thought.

At any rate, he had a hunch that "appeasing his conscience" was going to be a lot more difficult in quiet little Kamiki than it had been in Nagano or Tokyo or the other big cities. Issun sighed and took a big swig from his water bottle to wash down the rice ball, hoping that it would satisfy his stomach for a while.

The shadows deepened and the hazy sky turned the soft gold of autumn gingko leaves as the evening wore on, and Issun finally made his way back toward the abandoned bus stop where he had left his few belongings that morning. It was at the foot of a tall mountain, and not too far from the shelter a wide dirt path meandered up the mountain and disappeared into the trees.

The shelter consisted of a bench that was surrounded by walls on three sides with a little roof overhead. On the back wall, an old timetable still displayed the former bus route in fading characters.

Issun knelt down in a corner behind the bench, where a loose advertisement poster hanging off the wall helped to obscure the pack he had left there. Looking inside, he found all his belongings – mostly clothes and some art supplies – untouched. Satisfied, he deposited his school satchel beside the pack and went back outside, this time walking toward the trees at the foot of the mountain.

He made his way over to a particular tree with a leafy shrub growing around its base. He hesitated for just a moment before he began to brush away a pile of loose leaves and dirt from under the shrub. Just a little ways down, his hand encountered silk. He gripped the object carefully, then pulled it out of the brush in a shower of leaves.

A glow of pride lit in Issun's chest as he held it up in the fading light. The object was a katana, its slender blade carefully wrapped in cloth. The silk-braided hilt fit Issun's grip perfectly, almost like it had been made for him, and the sword was balanced so well that he hardly noticed its weight. Best of all in Issun's opinion, at the end of the pommel someone had attached a bundle of fine bristles, exactly like a paintbrush. The tips of the white hairs were even stained black with ink.

He had never seen anything like this wonderful sword before, but already in the short time he had had it, the sword felt like it had become an important part of him – something he could never lose. Denkomaru, they had called it. Issun whispered the name aloud, swinging the katana a few times just to marvel at how well it suited him.

It was definitely a weapon – the incredible keenness of the blade attested to that. And yet, Issun didn't really think of it as a weapon, not primarily at least. To him, Denkomaru was a work of art, a beautiful piece of craftsmanship; and it was a tool of art, much like his high-quality calligraphy brushes.

He slipped the cloth bindings off of the blade and raised it in the air, and despite the growing twilight, the mirror-like steel gathered in what little light still seeped through the trees until the blade shone with a golden radiance, tinged with forest green. Issun grinned appreciatively at the shining sword. He slashed it through the air, and the movement seemed to paint a streak of light before it faded from his sight. With several deft, rapid strokes, Issun wrote his name in midair, and the brightly glowing character was imprinted into his vision for several moments against the dark forest backdrop.

The sword was so light and slender, it was like wielding a needle . . .

The needle in the haystack will not stay hidden from the serpent forever.

This time, Issun could not fight off a twinge of dread as he recalled the words of Waka's supposed prophecy. Surely that idiot couldn't possibly know what he was talking about, and yet . . . it was too close for comfort. Issun had often thought of the katana as a being like a needle; for some reason the image just seemed to fit so well.

But it was the mention of the "serpent" that set his heart pounding. The memory flashed in his mind again: a tall, intimidating figure dressed in black, an expensive pair of sunglasses concealing his eyes – but even so, Issun could feel the man's gaze, feel the cold malice it contained. This was the one Issun had . . . rescued Denkomaru from, right before leaving Tokyo.

The one they called "the Snake."

Issun lowered the sword and carefully rewrapped the blade, before replacing it underneath the shrub once more. He sat down beside it, leaning against the trunk of the tree. Overhead, a few stars could now be seen in the breaks through the foliage of the trees. Ever since he had left home, the stars had been the only constant throughout Issun's journey, and he loved to watch them whenever he could.

Since leaving Tokyo, however, the peace and comfort they brought him was tainted by the knowledge that those same stars hovered above the gang from Tokyo as well. Of course, as long as they continued to search for him in the big cities, they wouldn't really see the stars . . . But it could only be a matter of time before they realized his tactic. He had come to this Nowheresville, not even marked on most maps, hoping it was obscure enough to hide him for awhile; but he couldn't stay there forever, he knew. A few months, a semester at the very most, before he would have to move on again.

It was one thing to wander on a personal journey, to search for one's destiny in the wider world; it was another thing entirely to live on the run, having no choice but to keep moving, and always looking fearfully over one's shoulder. Issun honestly didn't know how long he could keep this up, even if he did manage to avoid being caught.

But there was only one person he could think of to ask for help, and he absolutely refused to go there. His grandfather would only see him as even more of a failure than before. No, Issun would do this alone. Somehow.

Thoughts swirled through his head in a restless tangle as the night settled in, but eventually he became tired enough to drift into a troubled sleep, the stars winking at him overhead, gleaming coldly in his dreams like the reflection off a pair of black sunglasses . . .

His eyes still fogged with sleep were distantly aware that it was growing lighter. The faint sound of steady drumbeats reached his ears, even as his tired brain protested these gradual signs of waking. But he wasn't truly awake – not yet. Only a slight, hazy awareness, little more than sleepwalking. His eyes fluttered half-open.

Through the dream-haze and the early morning light, uncomfortably bright after the darkness of full night, he saw a distant figure approaching. But the figure did not come near his tree. Instead, it reached the beginning of the dirt path several yards away from him and turned to follow it up the mountain. Without knowing why – without any conscious thought at all – he rose slowly to his feet and moved to follow.

The sound of drumbeats became louder, more insistent. He stumbled along slowly, but the other figure was moving very slowly as well, so he had no problem following. When he got just a little closer he saw that it was a girl dressed in the white and red outfit of a shrine maiden, with her hair pulled back and tied in a red ribbon.

The path grew steeper as it meandered upward, then the great stone gateway that marked the shrine entrance came into view. The drumbeats were coming from inside one of several wooden structures beyond the gateway. He paused some distance from the entrance and watched as the shrine maiden continued her ascent.

She passed through the stone gateway and went to the nearby water basin, where she ladled water over her hands in a cleansing ritual. Then she moved directly toward the main structure across from the shrine entrance, the place where the shrine's main kami spirit was housed. He heard the shrine maiden ring the bell to summon the spirit, then she clapped her hands twice, slowly and deliberately, following the usual practice – except, some part of his mind vaguely noted, that she did not bow to the spirit . . .

As she stood before the wooden structure, the sun began to peek out over the horizon, setting the world aflame with its fiery glow; and in this harsh light, the shrine maiden's very distinctive white hair seemed to flare with an answering light.

A short while later, he found himself turning back down the trail and finally slid down against his tree trunk again, his dreams now dominated by the image of the rising sun. When he at last came fully awake, it was doubtful whether Issun would remember anything at all from his early morning trek . . .

XXXXX

XXXXX

A/N: I swear Issun isn't on drugs. He's just having a surreal it's-way-too-early-to-be-awake moment. Not a morning person. D:

Happy birthday Eeveebeth Fejvu! *throws confetti* Actually it's not quite her birthday yet, but since she will be lounging on a beach somewhere in a few days, I decided to post this a little early. Issun is her favorite character (unless he has been replaced by Death the Kid, that is) and Waka is her least-favorite character, so this story will reflect that to some extent. (Personally, I like Waka, although I don't ship him with Ammy.)

Since this is a birthday fic for EF, I wrote this chapter in a bit of a hurry and I think it turned out a little more… scattered than I had intended. I'm really sorry if it seems confusing, but things should get clearer as the story progresses. There will only be a few chapters (3-4, maybe).

When I went to Japan last fall, the first thing I ate was a box of rice balls from the train station. The first rice ball that I bit into turned out to be filled with pickled plum, but I didn't know what it was at the time. All I knew was that this weird jelly stuff tasted terrible. So why is Issun eating it? I dunno, he probably loves the stuff.

#1 lesson learned in Japan: Japanese students are easily scandalized. (Just not always by the same things Americans are…)

Aaaand thanks for reading.