Chapter 1 – Summer Camp (kinda)
AN: This dialogue is translated in English from the original Italian for your convenience~
"America."
"Huh?" Robert Garcia looked up at his father in confusion. He never talked at the dinner table. Each meal in the Garcia household consisted of about forty-five minutes of the two sitting at opposite ends of the long table, poking at their food and not making eye contact, let alone speaking. It had always been that way, ever since Mother had been hospitalised.
"I said, America," Alberto Garcia intoned. "That is the solution to your problems, Robert. America."
"I wasn't aware I had any problems, Father." It was true – at least in Robert's eyes. He was a straight A student, reasonably athletic and certainly not stuck-up or spoilt like some of his rich peers. If he could be faulted for laziness, it was only because he was so good at everything he did and barely had to apply effort at all. But apparently ol' Berto felt differently.
"You are not well-rounded, boy. You are lacking something critical." Alberto breathed through his nose, his moustache twitching slightly.
"Critical?"
"Do not repeat what I have said if you have nothing intelligent to add, boy. You will listen." Alberto's sternness had increased in recent months, Robert noticed. The smiling face of Garcia Corporation was gone, replaced by a wooden-hearted businessman. "You are undisciplined and untrained, lacking in moral fiber and needing of a firm, steady hand to guide you on the right path. That is where America comes in."
"Isn't America the land of freedom though? Doesn't sound like the best place for a steady hand-"
"DO NOT BE SMART WITH ME!" Alberto stood up, hands on the table. "You are going to America tomorrow, flying to Southtown via New York on the earliest flight. You need a special education."
"But it's summer!" Robert exclaimed.
"Best time for it, won't interfere with your schooling. I have an old friend who will take you in for the summer, don't worry. Have your bags packed within two hours, and make sure you bring your school books too – keep up your pattern of study." With that, Alberto turned on his heel and left the room, leaving his stricken son alone with two plates of barely eaten spaghetti and meatballs.
"I'm not going!" Robert shouted to his father's disappearing form.
"Yes you are!" came the reply.
Yes I am, thought Robert sourly as the plane took off. It would be a long flight. Rome to New York to Southtown, leaving behind Italy's shores not for the first time, but definitely for the longest time in his life. He sighed, relaxing in his first-class seat. It wouldn't be so bad, he tried to assure himself, staying with some rich friend of Father's. Just a change of scenery. Plus, American girls. That was always a bonus. His wallet was full and his personal stocks were raking in enough money for more than enough refills. This would be fun.
"Martini?" asked a petite and beautiful stewardess from beside him.
Robert flashed his most winning smile. "Don't mind if I do." After landing in the US the drinking age would be 21, and Robert wanted to enjoy himself before going dry for three months. "Make that two. One for me, one for you."
Robert winked, and the stewardess blushed. Oh yes. It was going to be fun.
AN: Translation is no longer required, as English is spoken from hereon out. Mostly. Luckily Robert is fluent. There's no way this author is writing broken English for any great length of time.
New York was just a quick hour at the airport waiting for the connecting flight. Robert didn't care – he'd seen it all before. He'd never been to Southtown though. He'd heard that it was a dry dustbowl of a town, out in the desert, and a fairly unpleasant place. However, he was going for education, so presumably he'd be inside surrounded by books and air conditioning rather than outside in the heat. Not too bad, not at all.
Stepping out of Southtown Domestic Airport and into the American summer heat was like walking into a solid wall. It was far from the balmy days of Mediterranean Italy, less subtle warmth and more blazing sun. Robert looked around for the limousine – he was assuming there would be one – and was surprised not to find one. The parking lot was busy, but nobody of Father's persuasion was about that Robert could see. Father said Sakazaki was the name. That means Japanese. Look for Japanese people…
Suddenly Robert caught sight of a large man waving a sign that read "Garcia." He didn't appear to be Japanese, rich-looking, or the kind of man who Father would associate himself with, but Robert was careful not to judge books by their covers. His skin was dark, he wore a bushy beard and unkempt hair, and he was dressed in some kind of martial arts outfit, complete with black belt.
Tentatively, Robert approached him. He was standing in front of a beaten pick-up truck, definitely not a limo. Odd. "A-are you Mister-" he paused, remembering how formal the rich Japanese could be, and started again. "Are you Sakazaki-san?"
The man laughed, a deep belly rumble. "No, no. Old Takuma can't be here. I'm Marco Rodriguez, Takuma's disciple."
Disciple? Takuma? What kind of businessman is this guy? Shrugging, Robert got into the truck. Rodriguez didn't open the door for him. This was odd. Something was not quite right, and it was nagging the Garcia heir.
As they pulled out of the park and set out down the street, Robert glimpsed the city center with its penthouses and skyscrapers. It seemed though, that they weren't going that way, instead making their way downtown. Little Esaka, the district that they ended up in was called, but it was far away from the modern, techy, hip Esaka in Japan. Little Esaka was dirty, old-style and definitely not rich. Rodriguez waved to people in the street, and some waved back. Others bared teeth, some showed knives. The American girls which Robert was so looking forward to were nowhere to be seen. He sighed, wondering what kind of mess he had stumbled into. Obviously Father had made some kind of mistake, or maybe his secretary. Called the wrong Sakazaki, or something like that.
"Alrighty! This is the place!" Rodriguez had stopped the car in front of a run-down old building with Japanese characters on the windows and above the door. Nobody was to be seen inside, and Robert didn't know enough written Japanese to translate the writings. Rodriguez noticed his puzzlement. "Sakazaki's Kyokugen Dojo," he translated. "Kyokugen means Extreme Utmost Limit Way of the Empty Hand. Bit of a mouthful, that. This is your home for a bit, Robert. Takuma told me everything-"
"Wait, so you mean there wasn't a mistake? I actually am staying here?"
"Yep," the South American smiled. "Now hop on out, I got more errands to run." Rodriguez barely waited for Robert to exit the vehicle before departing in a cloud of smoke, leaving the Italian alone in front of the old dojo, with more bags to carry than he'd ever lifted before.
"Well," he said out loud, though nobody was around except an old woman shuffling along on the other side of the street. "This is unexpected, but I'm sure it'll all get sorted out. I'll just call father and – what's that?"
Through the window, Robert thought he saw some form of movement, but it was hard to tell. The place was dark, dingy and cobwebbed, he could tell that much, and hardly fit for human habitation. Nervously, worriedly, Robert pushed on the door, only to find that it was unlocked. An open door in a neighborhood like this? The owner had to be mad – that, or scary enough to ward off villains with the mere breath of his name. Robert didn't know which he'd prefer.
"Hello?" Robert asked to the air as he crossed the threshold. "Anyone home?" It was definitely a dojo. Punching bags were strung up and there were mats on the floor. Nobody was training though – the room had only one other inhabitant besides the spiders. And it wasn't a person. It was a bowl of noodles, sitting on the floor in between where the concrete floor ended and the mats began.
Robert squatted down to regard the misplaced bowl of noodles and watery soup, dropping his multiple bags on the floor. There was a note beside it, unmoving in the still air. It read:
TAKE OFF YOUR SHOES AND EAT. T.
Robert sat down, and removed his Armani loafers, already covered in dust. Then he picked up the bowl. The noodles looked at him. He looked at the noodles. There aren't that many of them, he thought. I can do this. Even though it's not spaghetti. Robert took the chopsticks that were found beside the bowl, and began to eat.
Immediately, the taste hit him, or rather the lack of taste. It was soba, a bland food by most accounts, but this had to be the blandest thing that Robert had ever eaten. It was a floury and tasteless mess of stringy noodles, and they were a lot more dense than they looked. Robert's refined stomach felt sick at the mere thought of making it through this… whatever it was.
But he continued on, pushing himself to fit more and more of the noodles in his mouth. He chewed, he swallowed. Chew, swallow, chew. It really was a workout for the mouth. As he finished his soba in silence and solitude, Robert couldn't help feeling that somebody was watching, waiting.
Robert looked down at his bowl. There was only a single noodle left. Slowly but surely, he lifted it to his mouth, glanced fearfully around the room, and ate it.
Suddenly there was a rush of air, and the lights all came on. Wha- Robert stood up and looked around him, but there was nobody to be seen. Then who turned on the lights? The answer was to be found in the form of a rather short, stout Japanese man who had appeared behind Robert's back unannounced and without making a sound.
"Hmph! This is what Alberto sends me? A stripling lad who can barely even finish off a bowl of soba? You! You're nothing but a rich little princeling." The man spoke in perfect English, prodding at Robert's arms, chest, abdominal region. "Bah! Not bad I suppose. Needs work. Hrmmm."
The strange man stepped back and looked at Robert from a distance, like a sculptor appraising a not-quite-finished model. "HIYAAA!" The stranger punched hard and fast, aiming for Robert's head. Robert ducked without thinking – this was probably a test to see if he was courageous or whatever, but he didn't want to ruin his finely shaped nose just to impress a backwards old man in a karate dojo.
Surprisingly, the man smiled. "Good. You pass the first test. Kyokugen is a deadly martial art, and can only be practiced by those whose mind is focused on self-defense. You are already halfway there." The man bowed. "My name is Takuma Sakazaki, however from here on you will address me as Sensei, no matter how well your father knows me. NOW BOW BACK, DAMMIT!"
Robert did so, making sure to go down as low as possible, and then returned to his standing position. "Wait," he said. "Since when am I practicing karate?"
"Since just now. It's your special education. And not just that – you'll learn cooking, cleaning, construction, Japanese, and most importantly how to get along with people." Takuma began to stride towards the double door at the end of the dojo, presumably leading to wherever he lived.
"I have friends!"
"Not real ones," Takuma sighed softly. "Come along with me. I'll show you your room."
For the second time today, Robert noticed that nobody was carrying his bags for him. Sighing, he hefted the big objects and began to follow his new master.
How's that for a first chapter? Please leave your comments, questions, criticism, etc. in the reviews section.
This is my first fic in at least a year, but I feel as if my writing has improved since then. I hope you enjoy the adventures.
Next time…
- Robert meets his bunkmate.
- The "American Girls" finally show up
- More hot Robert on soba action