Chapter 3: Vault
It's never anyone's duty to heal the world. In fact, that's just the sort of thing incurable hypocrites try to do when they perfectly know that no amount of caring, alms-giving and speeches can impeach what the fuck is wrong in this world. And no matter how great an aim it is, it will go on remaining as it is; just a set goal dangling inches or maybe light years away from what one may consider as a result. That's what Mitsui always tells me. So now, as the three of us reduce Mr. Tanaka and his companion to a bloody pulp, something takes on a definite shape; yeah, we can't help the world and cure it of its injuries. But we're not even trying, not even by a bit. I mean, what the hell for anyway? We're simply doing what can be done and leaving what can't be undone. After all, what can be broken is most probably already broken, in the same sense that those who can be abused probably allow it in the first place.
After this, this bastard isn't gonna stop spreading its stains with his black enterprise. All the same, it sure feels damn good glimpsing snatches of his unrecognizably disfigured face in-between blows. Although it seems to us that the exterior walls have human breaths, we all know they're never gonna talk anyway. We are just a group of impertinent nobodies doing what we think is worth doing. No witnesses, no names, no faces.
"That should do it." I say. And some prominent satisfaction surges up my chest as I kick Mr. Tanaka's minion over, to make sure he's still breathing. Apparently, he's very much alive and in no danger of death. Somehow, I'm slightly disappointed.
"I guess so. Shall we proceed to my place? Someone's gonna turn up soon." Mitsui proposes, rubbing his bloody knuckles.
From a little distance from where we are, Miyagi is panting heavily, currently detained in a prolonged period of shock. I don't think he's even hearing us talk.
"Those are some smooth moves you've got there. I'm pretty good, but I'm not that good." Mitsui tells him.
Miyagi looks up at him, looking as though he was seeing something alarming. He turns his eyes over his hands and stares at them for the longest time. "What the fuck have I done?"
"Nothing to be remorseful about; you just about cut half the life out of a 45-year old pervert." I assure him.
"Come off it. Let's go, you two."
We clear out the place and leave the two for stray cats to find.
Mitsui's place is empty. Once our breaths are in due order, Mitsui guides the sophomore to a seat before heading to the refrigerator.
"You look funny." He tells Miyagi as he hands him a can of Coke.
The sophomore takes a sip. He rests his back against the backrest, looking as though he has never known the relief of sitting down and taking a drink after a grueling activity until now. Finally, his voice comes to be heard,
"Don't ever ask me to do something like that again." He warns through tight, shaky lips.
Mitsui and I exchange fascinated glances.
"Not used to the harsh life, I suppose." I observe.
"What you do is not merely harassment. You harm wrong-doers not to teach them a lesson but for the hell of it. To top it off, you think it's fun—"
"—well, it kinda is—"
"—do you realize what can happen to you once you get unmasked? In the name of which you wage war on, aren't you scared? Do you even care at all? Do you—"
"—correction please: to us."
Miyagi's head sinks despondently. First and foremost, he knows he wasn't forced into this but he's in it nonetheless. And if something can be undone, it sure is not going to be what he has just participated in. Out of all this, the last thing he would want to be labeled as is 'coward'.
"I—I just thought we should be a little careful….next time."
Truly, the extent pubescent boys would go through to prove they're no wimps can cover the whole lengths of heaven and hell, if it's even measurable to start with. There evidently is a split between what he feels and what he has just said. And then, looking as though he so grudges yielding ground, he smiles and gives himself away. And so does Mitsui.
"That sure felt good—beating a devil up." Miyagi admits.
…
In these next few days, if you were a witness to what manner of strangeness their relationship has plunged into, you could easily give meaning to the glances the two are exchanging down the school corridors. Expressive of confidential intimacy, maybe something else too, the meanings behind their gazes are hard to miss. It's as if some form of hostile mutuality has united them in a sudden bond of closeness. It is a wonder how a connection such as that could be forged from something that's initially only of an impersonal depth. You may say what we now hold is too superficial, too abruptly established rather than gradually developed, or unconsciously wrought, to be the forerunner of some deep bond. But, as you know, young hearts have always been recklessly passionate.
Would it matter later how we started?
We now confine ourselves in a sphere beyond the world's judgment, and in it we trim down the world's excesses and refill its deficiencies to suit our preferences. It is now that we name this very vessel which holds us together. We're standing in a circle and are facing each other as if from the different ends of one plane, as if now is the time for which our bodies and souls have been tediously prepared. 'Vault', is the name we have agreed upon, nothing as fancy as them big-shots; just easy to pronounce and remember.
And they will remember us well, mark my words.
…
Mitsui produces a size-one combat knife from his pocket and fiddles with it.
"I'll have to make sure neither of you shall forget this night." He paces up and down his room as I browse through his bookshelf. On the other hand, Miyagi is currently too absorbed by the contents of Mitsui's desktop to lend him an ear.
"How?" I ask.
He does not answer. Instead, he grabs the hilt of his knife and buries its tip in his palm. Droplets of blood start to gush through the slit. Immediately he subdues the weak flow by balling his fist. His footsteps die away and do not recommence until he makes for the bed and sits beside me.
"Take your shirt off." He says as I gaze impassively at him. I can't quite spell what purpose his request may serve, not yet.
Miyagi withdraws his face from the monitor and stares at us, as though seeking assistance for some task he can't perform. He may have been asking if he has just missed anything super. All this time, I'm staring calculatingly at Mitsui.
"This will sting a bit." He continues. The sight of his handsome knife dissuades any of my actions from issuing forth. I'm not scared of blood but this weapon of incision is too inviting a sight to be associated with something painful. Due to that, I'm rather more inclined to express curiosity on what it can offer me.
I know what he has in mind. Even so, I'm no genius in initiation rites. On top of that, this almost oppressive feeling of going up first into something partially unknown is sending nervous signals through every bit of me.
"What's going on?" Miyagi asks.
"You watch."
I take my shirt off and as soon as it lands on the bed Mitsui cranes closer to me, knife in hand. Dexterously, he applies the sharp edge on the skin of my chest, where my heart beats. A raw, pricking sensation courses its way from where the knife touches me. Slowly, his hands begin working on carving the letter 'V' with the adeptness of a professional. It was fairly endurable. Indeed, the cuts won't leave a serious scar but it will leave a scar, definitely, a mark which, I wish, will never fade. Only many years later will I come to realize the importance of this scar to me.
"Cool." Miyagi says, "Do I get one too?"
"Would you like to?"
"O—of course."
Mitsui hands me the knife. "Do it on him. He'll do it on me."
This is how Vault comes to be. Its birth did not require blood spill, and neither did certain loyalty and dedication proclamations were made to award us membership. Nor did it heap on us a number of responsibilities and restrictions to keep its name solid. Just like its leader, it keeps its demands and intricacies to a minimum. Mitsui never acts apart from his inherent beliefs unless there's a prime reason for the contrary.
New worlds break loose in us. These shaped scars that now bask on our chests are more than just a letter, more than a permanent tattoo. Should one care to ask, it's the reason for future sacrifices and is the recipient of everything we will be working painfully for.
Vault is the name; remember it well.
TBC
