Title: Fade 1/3
Author: Miru
Rating: PG-13
Warning: No spoilers, largely speculative
Tokyo summers are typically hot and muggy, especially further down south, and today is no exception. Cicadas wail their monotone songs, and Saki can feel beads of sweat roll down the back of her neck as he waits for the train to roll to a halt. "This is the last stop," the electronic voice drones. Around her, the hustle and bustle of people makes her nervous -- not enough time has passed yet since the Game for her night fears and constant terrors to completely fade away -- but it doesn't matter. "This is the last stop, all passengers, please unboard the car," comes the voice again, as the train door opens with a woosh of pressurized air escaping.
Immediately, the throngs of people rush out of the train and onto the platform, heading for the exit, or looking for people who'll meet them. A few people hang back, waiting for the flow of the crowd to die down a bit. Saki is one of the waiting crowd. Watching a little old lady toddle across the car and onto the crowded platform, she sighs, going over the orders in her head.
Take the train south, Shinjo had told her. Get on the red line, ride to the very last stop. Get off, and he'll be waiting at the station. Look for a tall man with a guitar case and a red bandanna.
A guitar case?
Yes, to carry his weapon. A sniper. He'll be your mentor.
Why do I need a mentor?
If you want to fight, you'll need training. Don't worry, he's a trustworthy man. Only a few years older than you.
The rattle of some businessman dragging a luggage trunk off the car and onto the platform jolts her out of her thoughts -- car's almost empty now. Good. A moment of hesitation, then she hefts the backpack on her shoulder and steps out onto the platform -- it's mostly empty, too. Only a few people milling around, some happy reunited couples hugging, one old woman embracing her young child. Then, in the far corner -- him.
He seems to notice her at the same moment, and gets up from the wooden platform bench he was sitting on, picking up a large guitar case -- black lacquer, it gleams dully in the summer sun. Red bandanna around his neck, a narrow strip of color bright against clothes in muted tones and military greens. And tall. Certainly tall.
She comes up to his chin, maybe, and when she's standing before him, he looks at her carefully -- he looks wary, tired, eyes narrowed behind bangs -- "Sakurai?" A quiet question that Saki answers with a nod.
"Follow me."
Without waiting for an answer, he turns around and heads straight for the stairwell leading out the platform, walking at a determined clip -- and Saki follows behind him, turning around to take in the quiet dregs of the train station for a moment, before starting down the stairs.
It's a bit like stepping away from a home she no longer has.
--
The roads are quiet, as is the car -- a dusty, muggy, summer quiet that stifles sound -- Saki sits up ramrod straight in the passenger seat, eyes trained outside the window and taking in the scenery. Roads have started to deteriorate from asphalt to unpaved dirt, lined with long grass and smatterings of trees. They're heading towards the outskirts of the city, with fewer people, fewer buildings, fewer dangers of being discovered.
A rock in the road sends the car bouncing up, and Saki winces -- Kazama doesn't.
Kazama. That's his name. She only knows because she'd been told beforehand -- he hasn't said a word since leaving the platform, starting the car, loading their meager luggage and waiting for her to sit down in utter silence.
One of those silent types, Saki notes. She doesn't like him. (Those were the types that were most dangerous back in the game. Cold, heartless, and bloody. One of them almost killed her. She instinctively dislikes this silent stranger.)
She's tired, exhausted, and would love to sleep -- but doesn't.
Not when trapped with someone she doesn't trust.
The car buckles a few more times, turning onto a dusty side road -- Saki grits her teeth to keep from biting her tongue -- and the car lets out a tired sort of wheeze when it pulls into a back alley between two lines of short, squatting buildings. Why are they stopping here?
Before she can ask, Kazama's already cut off the engine and opened the door, stepping out onto the asphalt road -- looking at her. Wants her to get off, too, apparently, so Saki opens the door grudgingly and follows behind him as he weaves around the corner and enters the back door of a building. Holding the door open for her.
She deliberately waits an arms-length away, until he turns around, letting the door close, and enters the building -- only then, she follows behind him. The door lets out a tiny metal jingle when she opens it and walks in, and she's flanked on either side by shelves of boxes, labeled with crude marker handwriting -- "pots and pans," "model T35," "calculators," "alloy screws."
-- a hardware store?
"Welcome!"
She whirls around instantly when a voice speaks up cheerfully -- not Kazama's. Some other man. Someone older, standing at the front counter, surrounded by more boxes -- and he's smiling, giving her a small wave. "Hello! You're the new trainee that Shinjo sent over, aren't you? Sakurai Saki-san. I already heard."
"Yes."
"You don't need to be so wary of me. Don't worry, I'm Shinjo's friend. Imakire. Heard of me, by any chance?"
"...no."
"Ah well, that's okay. I'm the weapons provider for a lot of the groups around here. Dawn of Sajia? You'll hear more of me eventually."
"I see."
So that's what all these boxes are.
There's the dull clump of boots from around a row of shelves, and Kazama emerges from out of the jungle of boxes, hefting a rifle and several smaller boxes in varying sizes.
"Oh, M24? Good choice. I think that's the lightest model we have. Got the right ammo?"
A quiet nod, and Kazama turns to hand Saki the rifle. She holds it awkwardly -- it's an odd feeling, to be carrying a gun again so soon. A jangle of metal as the various boxes are placed on the counter -- probably ammunition, and Imakire laughs, waiting as Kazama fishes a handful of bills out of his pocket. "Hey, Sakurai-san."
"Yes?"
"Don't worry." Don't worry? About what? "Kazama-kun might look scary but he's a nice guy. He'll protect you."
From what?
"-- ah. Okay. Thanks."
Answering with a nervous sort of nod, she turns away -- then realizes that Kazama has already brushed past her and made for the door, slipping the boxes of bullets in his pocket.
"Good luck!" comes the cheerful call, and Saki answers with another nod before following Kazama.
Imakire -- a weapons provider. Too friendly. She can't help but be wary of him too -- then catches herself. No. She can't let the aftereffects of the Game get to her like this. She'd won. Fight the system. Don't let it turn you against everyone.
It seems to have grown even hotter when she steps out onto the street and heads back for the car, sliding into the passenger seat and clicking the seatbelt in place. The car rumbles to a start, and she once against stares out the window. Just three days. Just three days, her game lasted -- two months and she still can't shake it off.
Rebellion really isn't as easy as they all say.
--
If the dusty heat of the road is stifling, then the heat of the forest is suffocating on a completely different level. The rustling of the leaves, the shifting patterns of light through the tops of the trees, the gusts of hot wind. Saki can feel the butt of the rifle against her shoulder, the trigger heavy against her finger. And the wailing of the cicadas is loud -- almost loud enough to drown out the quiet orders that Kazama gives from beside her.
"Don't lean too heavily into the shot." A slow breath out, and Saki loosens her hold on the pistol grip. "Focus only on the target, don't let anything distract you." The flickering mesh of sunlight is more distracting than she thought. "Breath out just before you shoot. Don't blink. Go."
The recoil of the gun isn't as bad as what she had back during the game, but it still jars her arm and send a heavy pain down her arm. The top edge of the target explodes into fragments of paper, and the gunshot's still ringing in her ears.
"Too high. Stiffen your muscles to keep your arms from flinching before the shot." Reaching over, he rearranges her hands on the gun, lanky fingers rough and calloused against hers, leather half-gloves brushing against the barrel. "Use your forearms to absorb the recoil."
Leaning back, he points to another target, higher up in the tree -- circular, made of a nondescript pale gray paper -- moving ever so slightly in the summer breeze. Shaped vaguely like a human -- just enough to be jarring.
"Do these targets have to look like people?"
And she can't help but ask.
For a long moment, she gets no answer, just a heavy silence. Then,
"Shoot."
(Because maybe that's all there is to war.)
This time, she's closer to center, and she can see Kazama give a slight nod.
"Reload."
Getting up off her stomach and sitting up, she cranks open the magazine release, fumbling for the box of ammunition. It's heavy, heavier than she expected -- everything to do with the gun is, all heavier than she remembered back in the game. Fighting when your life isn't in immediate danger is a completely different experience. It takes a moment for her to jam the magazine in place, make sure it's all ready to go -- Kazama watches, kneeling next to her with his back to a tree.
"Next." Farther away. Stuck in between the branches of a bush. Rolling back on her stomach, Saki aims, and she feels the blood rushing in her ears when she breathes out and holds it that way, peering through the scope and bracing her arms for the shot.
Just another target to blow away.
--
Just before nightfall, Kazama has her pack up the rifle -- he gathers up the spare shells, kicks dirt over the scraps of paper targets and then leads the way to an old abandoned cabin hidden in the midst of the forest. Dusty, dark -- but furnished, with working water and a kitchen.
"Training facility," is the explanation given when Saki looks at him questioningly. He doesn't elaborate, so she makes do with that answer. "Take the bedroom," he mumbles.
She doesn't want to -- rooms are always closed off, and more dangerous, and she instinctively dislikes being stuck inside with someone she doesn't trust outside the door -- but she listens for now. Starts unpacking her belongings into some semblance of a living arrangement.
Shinjo had said she'd be training for at least a month.
A month stuck like this. She's almost starting to regret her decision to train to be a fighter -- but 'almost' doesn't mean she 'does' want to turn back. Outside the room, she hears the click of a door shutting -- the rush of water. Movements that don't concern her as long as they don't directly affect her.
A few minutes later, a knock on her door, and she opens it to find Kazama there, hair wet and looking tired. "Eat something, then rest. Be up at nine." Then he turns away without waiting for an answer.
She can't help but dislike him, dislike his silence.
By the time she finishes unpacking and decides to take a shower, her uneasiness be damned, there are noises coming from the tiny kitchen near the back of the cabin. And the entire time in the shower, she feels uneasy -- stuck in a cabin with a man she can't trust, with a person she knows has killed before. It takes an effort to push these fears aside -- she stands in the flow of steaming water for as long as she can stand, hearing the sounds from outside the bathroom dying down. It's silent when she's drying her hair, and she finds out why when she steps out.
Kazama is lying on the couch, back towards her. Asleep, probably.
Rubbing a towel against her hair, she skirts the couch and makes her way to the kitchen -- maybe there'll be something to eat -- and finds a sandwich on the counter, lying there innocently. She ignores it, and instead finds some convenience-store onigiri in a cupboard.
It's a meager dinner, but it should do.
She sleeps uneasily, and the silence outside the room makes her nervous more than anything else.
--
A quiet tap-tap on her door wakes her the next morning, and she's up immediately, looking out the window where dim slats of early-morning sunlight are leaking into the room. It doesn't take long for her to throw on light clothes and tie her hair back, then grab her rifle and step out -- Kazama's already waiting by the door to the cabin, guitar case over his shoulder.
He takes a cursory glance at her, then turns and steps outside. Saki follows shortly after, eyeing his guitar case.
Probably holding rifle parts, she guesses.
And she was right -- they trek for a while, past where the car is parked just behind the cabin and into a grove of trees near a stream. He stops in the middle of a small clearing without warning, the kneels down to open the guitar case, revealing a disassembled rifle and stand. She recognizes some of the parts -- the scope, the barrel, the various clumsy bits of metal -- and watches as he puts it all together with flawless movements. This goes there, this goes there -- click, kachunk, rifle finished.
As if just noticing that she's been watching, he looks up, then points into the distance. It takes a moment of squinting for Saki to spot the target nestled in the bushes, a fair distance away, just a typical round bulls-eye this time.
He must have set up a lot of targets beforehand.
Without asking, Saki gets down on her stomach, aims, fires -- peers through the scope as the top edge of the target explodes. She looks up at him, but only gets a vague look and a nod in the direction of the target.
Shoot again.
She gets in four more rounds, hitting the target twice and missing twice, then stops when Kazama places a hand on the barrel of her rifle, stalling her, then gesturing for her watch him as he crouches down and aims, his own rifle gleaming dully in the murky forest light.
"Pull the trigger with the ball of your finger. Wrap the sling around your arm." He fires a single round that shatters the center of the target, leaving a jagged hole. "Keep the gun still."
She follows the advice, and this time, she hits a little closer to center.
And she doesn't get much sign of approval -- she's not expecting any -- but she does give a small, self-satisfied nod. If she's going to be a fighter and a killer, she'd rather be a good one. Kazama lays a hand on the barrel of her rifle, then points to a new target in a different direction, nodding to her.
Of course, she knows perfectly well what to do.
--
In roughly a week, she can hit the target at five-hundred meters nine times out of ten, and through careful observation of the way Kazama neatly disassembles and reassembles his rifle, she gets a loose grasp of the workings of her rifle. She finds a cleaning manual for her rifle and supplies in front of her room door one night, when she returns after her shower, and she learns to make good use of them.
On Sunday, there's no knocking at her door even as the sun nears its peak, and when she steps out of her room, she finds the place empty. The car gone. A short note on the table -- "Rest for today."
So she spends a long time in the shower that morning, standing in the stream of near-scalding water and watching the steam build up and fog over the tiny mirror. It would be nice to take a bath, but wishful thinking never helps. She eventually returns to her room, drying her hair, and sits in the square of sunlight pooling on the floor, looking up out the window.
There are probably summer festivals going on in Tokyo. She used to go to those with her classmates -- and she'd usually win bunches of goldfish, give them to her friends who weren't so good with the little paper nets. They'd usually die eventually, but until then, they were cute and swam happily around their little balloons of water.
The thought almost makes her nostalgic.
She must have fallen asleep some time, because when she next opens her eyes, it's growing darker outside, and there are soft noises coming from outside the door. Something from the kitchen area. And she ignores them, instead disassembling her rifle and cleaning it meticulously, following the manual down to every last detail.
Eventually, the noises die down, and she steps out to find Kazama sleeping on the couch, arm hanging off the side and head canted back towards the ceiling.
He almost doesn't look threatening.
A growl from her stomach -- damn, she hasn't eaten much yet. She still gives the sofa a wide berth as she makes her way to the kitchen. And finds a covered plate on the table. Probably leftover scraps. Still, she lifts the cover, mostly out of curiosity, and finds a full helping of rice and vegetables.
It looks well-prepared.
Left for her?
Probably. She still almost places the cover back and leaves it, except for the fact that she's hungry, and she doesn't want to make a fuss with utensils and wake Kazama. It puts her uneasiness to rest, even just a little, when he's asleep.
It's still warm, and she gets through about half of it before feeling oddly sick and putting it away.
--
It's amazing how quickly anyone can adapt to anything, and after two weeks, the daily training is almost like habit, almost like something that she's been doing for a long, long time.
By the start of the third week, he shows her how to shoot without lying down, demonstrates without words how to wrap the sling around her shoulder and keep the rifle butt tucked under her arm to keep it steady while she aims, then pull the trigger in a quick instant with lungs emptied so that the shot is accurate as possible.
It's a lot harder than shooting prone, but she's good enough at it, at this skill that helped her survive in the woods for three days, killing people from afar.
Once, he points at a bird sitting on a branch maybe three hundred meters away, and nods when she gives him a questioning glance.
A live target.
She takes her time, aims carefully while he watches, and breathes out. Pulls the trigger.
She misses.
The bird flits away the moment the bullet ricochets off the tree trunk it's sitting on, and she curses quietly, getting up as the flutter of feathers dies down. Dammit. Three weeks of practice, and it hadn't been enough. Dammit.
But when she looks over, Kazama only shakes his head, says something quietly that she almost misses it. Maybe "it's okay."
She still spends that Sunday searching out birds, and doesn't return to the cabin until she snipes down one unfortunate magpie, and has buried the body under a fat bush. By the time she comes back, Kazama has returned from what she knows is his weekly trip to replenish supplies -- food, water, ammunition -- and has collapsed on the sofa.
The evening's quiet, and Saki spends some time trekking outside in the woods until the buzz of mosquitoes becomes unbearable, then retreats back to her room and her rifle, but doesn't disassemble it, just sits on her desk with it lying across her lap, and looks out the window at the pale moon.
It's a strange feeling, to feel lonely and crowded at the same time.
Maybe, she figures, it's the way the forest surrounds the cabin, and envelopes her in silence all day. The way no matter what she says or does, she hardly gets any response -- but that presence of another person won't disappear.
It's hard to shake off this feeling, and it lingers around her, winding about her shoulders and throwing off her aim. When Kazama points at another bird during another training session, she breathes hard and aims for the longest time, but still misses -- and this time, she doesn't get any response say a shake of the head.