Disclaimer: Still Applies

Chapter 3

Also, at age twenty-three, he rather tried to take the hint. But he was told:

"Sorry, mate," the young captain in the blue coat said, loading up the barrel full of guns. "I can't take you with me. No room in the ship."

"Listen, I sold my quota. But these people don't like to shoot each other like civilized…persons. They prefer stabbing. As a matter of fact, they love stabbing. No reasoning with them."

"...You don't understand the language, do you?"

"Now, wait. I do. The general idea of it. But not matter what the language, it just isn't possible. I've held up my part of my responsibilities here, I promise. I'm ready to move on to happier days. I miss England, you see. I'll stand in the corner, I don't care."

"I've heard how you handle your duties. Adam Monroe, isn't it?"

"Yes, it is. I am too. Uh, you know me though? How are you familiar with me?"

The captain smirked, putting aside his barrel and studying him.

"And here I am, without an inkling to who you are," Adam continued.

"What would you pay me? If I were able to let you on?"

His heart, dear god…he saw himself out of his body. He was dirty, he was starving, and he was damn, damn tired of being alone. He was tired of adventure, of women who would disappear during the night, and standing out. Oh, how he had wanted to stand out once…now it was driving him mad.

"I, I have this," he said, sheepishly, and felt like he was betraying someone close to him. Someone who had stood by his side for ages. Adam took the statue with a heavy, numb heart (already drowning and withering by the great adventure, a young death) and gave it to the captain.

"Thank you kindly. She's a beauty, isn't she?"

"I have what's left of my things a few miles away. I can go and get my bag before you can blink. I-."

"-I won't let you set foot on my ship because you are a deserter. You are filth. You've been blacklisted, friend. You've stolen from high-ranking personages from various countries, making national relationships very strained. You've once tried to incite mutiny against your standing captain. Do I really have to go on?"

"…I like a joke as much as the next man, but that's not funny," Adam said, his heart sinking.

"You're right. It's not very funny at all, is it."

"I can explain. I got confused when I was tra-."

"A thousand deserters try to get back on ships daily," the man said and that's when Adam noticed the old (fashioned now) gun behind him. "They have all sorts of tall tales. Some good. Some not-so-good. You think you'll be telling me anything new, then?"

He could have sworn the man had heard his heart beating. He licked his lips and forced out a strangled 'Not much of a storyteller.'

"Thought so."

"But I'll tell you like it is. I'm desperate, here. Have some pity for a fellow Englishman, for god's sake."

"That captain who tried to mutiny against? He's my older brother."

"…Oh."

Adam looked at the statue. The man grinned somewhat toothlessly.

"Now, run along with you while you still can."

He went.


Again and again, at age twenty-three, each day was a horror.

Because this place was a horror.

Sitting out in the middle of a field with nowhere to go—as still as death—Adam looked around at the dark outline of the trees and the impossible quiet. They had mentioned demons, and if there were any things like that left, they'd surely be here in the trees.

He had spent the weeks wandering around from village to village, scavenging fields and attracting stares that he figured would end up emphasized with instant death. For his time there, he had stayed near the coast, staying where those like him were. Now, however, since he had built up an unexpected reputation, that seemed like suicide.

He had tried to keep the humor of the situation in his head. Lots of fresh air here. Better for his health in the long run.

But all there was about, the feeling in the air, was strangeness and coldness, and Adam figured that he had truly wrecked things this time around. He had managed not to cry for the hour or in front of the man who had basically sentenced him to death.

They had behaved in such a way: like he was the worst failure of a man that they had ever seen. It wasn't as if he had done anything that a million other men hadn't done before. He was every bit as good as they were, better even.

At first: sure, it was funny as hell. A bunch of rogue, wandering, infamous sailors, a bunch of backstabbers and thieves, thought he was a bad person.

Then…a bunch of backstabbers and thieves thought he was a bad person.

He felt the warmth behind his eyes, and cursed, laying on his back and wondering when he'd die: of starvation, of loneliness, and of shame. The old matron was laughing in his head. The old, poor idiot of a bastard was laughing with his gin.

He looked at the great East and feel in hate with the world and that stupid old man on the stoop. Oh, god, if he had a knife and that bastard was within reach…

Now, he, shamefully, abandoned the pretense of being 'quite fine, actually'. He covered his face in his hands and began to shake. He didn't even know he was crying until he heard the weak noises he was making, gasping and cringing noises. It wasn't as if he had anything to lose. He had given up the statue like a cringing worm, for nothing. His last promise of that piece of heaven, that promise of magic in a hopelessly ugly world.

People everywhere were just that, people. Nothing different, nothing new. They were all universal bastards. He was by far worse.

He was a coward. He was weak. He was an idiot. He had no place in the world to go, like the old captain had said. No place would have him. His own parents had probably known. He could never help. He could never do better. He never made a damn difference.

Fuck, he would have killed for a drink.

Adam did not keep track of how long he was collapsed in a rice field, but he noticed a presence, the sense of someone, and looking up, he noticed a woman standing in the field, with a paper lamp in her delicate hands.

She was beautiful, and he hated it. She had dark-hair, wrapped up in a long ponytail behind her that fanned out like silk. It was as if she were made of darkness and light together, stepping out of a cocoon of pure, pure silk. She was…formed like poetry, but there was something most definitely not delicate about her. She was small framed and curious as hell. Another tourist for his misery.

He wanted to inform her that it was in bad faith to watch a man sob but couldn't find the energy. Instead, he glared and looked as menacing as possible.

She spoke and it was absolute gibberish, in the tone of a concerned question. Oh, it made him feel ridiculous.

"I don't understand, you twit," he informed her, coldly, motioning to his ears. "Just go away. Go on and get out of my face." He waved her away with wild, flailing motions with his arms, and thought that should make things pretty damn clear. It was possible that she thought he was mad.

He covered his face with his hands and hoped he would have some dignity left, to cry in the mud in peace if he so pleased.

Something rustled to his left and he peeked through his hands.

Then he jumped to his feet! She had stolen his pack! He had been sitting right by it, and she stole it!

"HEY!" he yelled out, in a slightly choked voice from his earlier hysterics. "Hey, that's mine. That wasn't for sell! NO. SELL!"

She kept walking, her hair swishing from side to side and his pack over her slim arm.

"Um…" Adam was at a loss. He may be a worm but he wasn't a woman-terrorizing worm. "You…can have it, I don't even want…NO. No, I'm going to follow you until you drop it. Can't ignore me forever, love."

And so he did. He followed the infernal woman, nearly falling in the holes of the fields, holes that she dodged with skill and familiarity

He briefly chanced a show of insanity, of yelling and flailing about, running up behind her, still a ways a way, but oh, intimidating. Insane with rage. She threw a rock at him in return, striking his knee.

He yelped and retreated, only to return to the trail, glowering.

They reached a small house in a village that he had not frequented. Nervously, he watched the shadows between the buildings, expecting to be caught and beaten. Not stocks this time…perhaps boiled in hot water till death. She had been sent as a siren, and he had fallen for it.

They entered the small door, pushing aside the material, and Adam was met with the heart-stopping sight of an older man sharpening a blade. His throat narrowed and he simply stood in the doorway, still as a rabbit.

The girl simply spoke casually and pointed to him. He got the impression she was relating a tale of bringing a dog home off the street. The father looked at him briefly then shrugged, continuing with his work.

The girl met his eyes and motioned to a small table with mats. There was a soup bowl there, and she motioned to it, impatiently.

He looked to the bowl, to her, back to the bowl again.

"Poison, for me? You shouldn't have, little bit."

She shrugged, seemingly reading his expression. He caught a shadow of a smile on her pretty, china-skinned face and he realized his own face was still tear-streaked and his eyes were probably beet-red.

He quickly sat down to hide his face. Then noticed.

"The soup has no meat…dear. I could boil water, too, if I wanted."

She bent to take the bowl away. "Now, now! I didn't say I didn't want boiled water, did I?"

Adam ended up having three bowls of soup. He fell asleep on the floor, and that was his first, rather inglorious, introduction to the woman who should have let him wander the earth without ever having to bear the pain of knowing her.


At age twenty-four, he declared:

"Now, this is the universal human language, this is."

He took another swig of sake. He was beginning to finally settle into his new life here. In a way, he was a bit of a celebrity. The language had become manageable, and he hadn't moved on from the small village, yet.

He was the local story-teller, believe the irony or not. He told stories from the books he had read, about the fire-breathers, the sword-fighting, and the treasure-hunting. Children would gather around him, but not just the kiddies. The adults were in awe of him, gasping when he acted out his own stories.

He changed his name to something more intimidating, something with more of a poetic kick.

Takezo Kensei had a ring to it. Yes, plain, old Adam 'Turncoat' Monroe was becoming a thing of legends.

Only not to one person. A certain girl.

Yaeko was the name of that girl. Perhaps it had something to do with the fact that she had seen him cry like a baby. Maybe it was something else, but he was relatively sure about this fact.

So it was very frustrating not to be able to tell his stories around her quaint parallel to a tavern.

He'd drop in every once and awhile, to keep her on her feet.

"Hello, my lady," Adam said, watching the men in the place with distrust. "I realized I hadn't seen you in a day."

"How lucky for me that you remembered," Yaeko answered. No smile for him. He shifted back and forth nervously.

"Ah, yes. I just happened to be in the neighborhood."

"Oh, I heard your stories from halfway across the village. Unless there's some other braggart in our midst that I'm unaware of."

Adam frowned. "No, just me and myself. Though I wouldn't say…braggart. Such a word doesn't suit you."

She left him standing there in the middle of the place, and he was forced to follow. It seemed that was always the way.

"Okay, why are you mad at me today? Because I'm breathing? Well, I'm sorry, I'll try to stop."

"I've heard stories as a child. I'm an adult now. It lost its appeal long ago."

"Then don't listen. Simple. Anyway, since you're upset with me today, how can I make it up to you?"

Yaeko looked amused, staring at him longer than was necessary. God, she made him nervous. All she had to do was tell about their meeting, how he came to be here, and the whole thing, his life here, would go up in smoke. He wondered why she hadn't.

"…You can do something for me, Kensei-sama. There's a field out there where the men of this village work day and night. You could work there, and I'd feel more kindly towards you. You live among us. You should do something to give back, no?"

"…I have an adverse relationship with work."

She sighed and was about to turn away from him.

"All right, all right. I'll do it tonight. You'll come with me."

"Excuse me?" Yaeko gasped. He looked at her in confusion.

"Well, you don't seem to believe a word I say. I'd think you'd need to see my suffering with your own eyes."

"…Very well," she bit out, defiant to some imagined insult. The woman was slightly cracked. He didn't know if he hated it or liked it. Instead, he reached out and captured her small hand in a handshake to seal the deal.

"All right, then. Meet you out there. Bring a drink or two, right."