IMPORTANT!
I would like to thank you for reading and reviewing! It really makes my day, and so far, you've all been so kind.
I'd also like to point out a certain detail that the kind Acabaya pointed out to me:
I write Kamui as a very bloodthirsty character who seeks stronger characters to kill. At the same time, he is also a little out of character because he has been seen to show rare kindness (if you can call it that) in sparing women and children because the former can produce strong offspring and the latter can grow up to be more powerful than before. I found this to be very intriguing, a little problematic, but quite engaging at the same time.
I've been thinking, as I was before and after Acabaya sent me a very nice review.
While I do write about Zenshi, I also write a little about other characters, sometimes adopting briefly their points of view. As such, I do characterize and shape Kamui a little bit, suggesting that he may retain love for his family. In class, my English teacher (who is also a philosophy teacher) was talking of basic Freudian psychology concepts, in addition to the philosophy of human nature (and existentialism, and other things). What I'm trying to do here may not accurately reflect those studies and ideas, but I hope to embody a few of them.
My ideas: I want Kamui to illustrate internal conflict between his Yato blood and himself, just as Kagura has done on a greater scale. Kamui, however, is more confused and lost, if you may. His fears (if they can be called fears?) are deep and secretive, things he loathes to reveal in any form. As a result, he naturally succumbs to a few psychological defense mechanisms (this is based off my very brief, vague learning of a few Freudian concepts): he has moral anxiety, as well as other types (neurotic and reality, though that last one may be the least in proportion to the rest).
Kamui's reasoning for sparing women and children, in my own ideas, stems from kindness that he wishes to hide. He is reminded painfully of his family, of his mother and younger sister, but is in denial. He represses those thoughts and replaces them with an excuse of sorts. He demonstrates "rationalization," a defense mechanism that involves explaining some kind of behavior with a seemingly logical reason. He protects himself by saying that it is so women can bear more children, who will eventually become strong (potential opponents).
As a result, Kamui is fierce but unstable. He counteracts self-doubt with an overarching demeanor of strength, blood lust, and violence.
But, in my own head and my own world, I believe he still loves. So there's my idea!
Please tell me what you think, why you think it, and feel free to share any other comments you'd like to add! Hope it made sense!
Thanks for your time! ONTO THE STORYYYY.
Disclaimer: I don't own Gintama, but my ideas are freee to floowwwwwwww.
Eyes of Wolves
- 10 -
.: Friday, THREE DAYS AGO :.
The slightest noise jarred him from his light sleeps, never allowing him to fall past a certain stratum of slumber. Yoshiwara, by nature, was most lively at night, and when dusk fell over the opened City of the Night, Zenshi gravitated towards the small, paned window at the far end of the room. The lights of the city glowed a festive orange, as if every night was a night for lanterns the color of dragon's fire. They reminded him of old festivals he'd gone to as a child, where an elaborate umbrella dance was accompanied by fire breathers and playful performers.
Children played in the streets, relishing the last rays of sunlight before night fell and, in a few hours, their parents called them in for bedtime. Zenshi watched a group of school kids kicking a slightly deflated soccer ball back and forth across the street. The ball wove from child to child, stuttering on the occasional pothole and rolling into some old man's shop.
A few minutes of watching satiated his interest in this little, glowing world, and he sent his gaze towards Hosen's old palace. Vibrant and thrumming with the night life, yet desolate and from an angle, almost filled with melancholy, it stood to the north. Lonely.
Zenshi became acutely aware of his setting, of the sounds below and the slight breeze that tickled by when he opened the window. The shift in the air of his temporary room, the slightest scent of wind and leaves, rain and the hint of smoke, alerted him to a second presence. He did not turn.
He heard the soft clatter of plates as she gently set his dinner down at the doorway, and then the woman with the hair made of straw spun into gold retreated downstairs, the rustle of her maple-leaf kimono fading gently into the hall.
.: MARCH, ONE MONTH AGO :.
To be a Yato is to be a creature saturated with the blood of a killer. But it does not, however, dictate that the heart that pumps the blood must be empty.
As he is clinging to the side of another 7th Division ship, single-handedly blowing up all of their attack artillery, Zenshi wonders what kind of heart he has. He wears a dark ski mask and a brown robe. After tossing his shiny black boots in an abandoned warehouse, tucking his fine uniform somewhere out of the way, Zenshi had raided the clotheslines for the dullest clothes he could find in this rainbow nation. His umbrella, too, remains intact and hidden away, out of mind and sight.
No one shall know his identity.
He counts three cannons left on this ship, and because he is a creature of studious habits, he knows exactly how to disable and destroy them. Being a lieutenant presents more of a challenge than just having a pretty face and a voice easy on the ears. He has studied blueprints of Harusame ships, memorized their weak points, essentially in order to defend them. Now, he must attack.
Two, one, and then no cannons remain.
He only has one ship left, and that is the main craft. Their head battleship is a monstrous thing, emblazoned proudly with the Harusame insignia and armed with countless manned firing squads. He has but a small handgun and a few knives he picked up earlier. While he the majority of the destroying part is fairly simple in essence — he merely has to crush the smaller cannons and machine guns within close range — Zenshi cannot obliterate the major artillery forces with his hands alone.
And so, he proceeds inside the ship, leaving a blazing third deck full of snapped snipers and demolished cannons. Within the lengthy halls, he stalks from starboard to aft, where one major energy source is located. This one will power the ship's main electricity board, as well as the large-scale beam cannon located below the bridge, if only temporarily.
But, given that he's already done the most damage to the outside, the alarms are going off and there are men ready for combat.
He shoots none but one, who pins his body to the ground and has him in a choke hold, forcing the gun from his hand. Zenshi twirls the knife from his belt and jerks backward as hard as he can, feeling the blade dig into supple flesh. The man howls but doesn't let go of Zenshi. A few of the wounded are crawling back to their feet.
Suddenly, the blinding white lights that line the ship's halls flicker ominously — the constant buzz and hum of a powerful generator groans to a halt.
The lights go out.
.: APRIL, PRESENT :.
Upon Hinowa's request, Zenshi was obliged to take a casual stroll around Yoshiwara with Tsukuyo. Both, unsure of what exactly to do, simply meandered around the city as the lights began to turn on one by one.
"Have ya been to Earth before?" she inquired, between puffs of smoke.
"A few times," he replied.
"On business?"
He nodded.
"Shady business," she deduced bluntly, observing his dissatisfied expression. He nodded again. "Dirty work," she suggested. "Dirty deals."
"The filthiest," he agreed, appearing almost desolate. With Zenshi's expressions came a measure of neutrality, of blankness. He almost never fully expressed any one emotion on his face; only a hint was able to convey itself on his stiff, pale complexion. Zenshi had almost inwardly praised Kamui for his lack of apprehension when Zenshi had turned and produced a complete grin — and one consumed by blood, at that.
Tsukuyo, however, was learning quickly to interpret his small gestures and quirks. She noticed most of all that the path of his eyes told much of whatever story was being told. When his line of sight dropped from Hosen's old place to the ground, and then slowly rose to a shop's half-broken sign, she recognized a forlorn contemplation of sorts. She left him alone.
Only when the silence grew a bit thick did he bring himself to meet her gaze.
"I've been thinking," Tsukuyo started. "No one ever asked ya about family."
He pulled back his shoulders and squared them, looking tall but resigned. Uncomfortable, but not unwilling.
"My mother used to be a seamstress, a famous one with a grandiose shop."
Tsukuyo made a noise of acknowledgement, waiting for him to continue.
"My father is a politician," he finished simply, as if that was enough to construe definition of his home life.
"Politician? What type?"
"The rich and powerful type," he replied dryly. "The charming and witty and omnipotent type."
"Charmin' and witty," echoed Tsukuyo. "Sounds familiar."
But her attempt at cajoling a smile from him failed — she saw, by the sink of his shoulders and the stiffen of his step that he was all but pleased.
She wondered, briefly, if it was hurt or offense taken up in his deep azure eyes.
.: MARCH, ONE MONTH AGO :.
The darkness disorients them, and Zenshi scrambles to his feet, slamming his right shoulder into the wall unintentionally. He kneels quickly, swipes for his gun, feeling cautiously. When he picks it up, he simply starts running in the opposite direction. He knows the generator is off because the humming hiccups and cuts off with a deafening crash from one deck below. Now is the time to take out the four secondary beam cannons, run on the backup generators.
He has, to state a maximum, about two minutes before the emergency power system boots itself into place and lights up the entire ship again. Placed around the gravity core, an intricate multilayered system of backup generators lines the ship's lowest deck at center, so that attacks and malfunctions would have countless safety nets.
A screeching, ear-splitting grate of metal against metal throws him off balance. Luckily, the pursuers behind him also stumble ungracefully. Zenshi knows, solely by instinct, that something outrageous has just occurred.
Someone has taken out the gravity core.
.: APRIL, PRESENT :.
"He is the political negotiator for many, many solar systems. He's the official diplomat of the Yato tribe, but prides himself as a lawyer of foreign royalty."
"That sounds amazin'."
"He is everything but."
.: MARCH, ONE MONTH AGO :.
The ship, stationary on the planet, does not suffer any major side effects — as in, people don't begin to float arbitrarily across the hallways — but the entire spacecraft rocks violently to the right. Two Yato are thrown heavily against the glass window, and the third pursuer accidentally fires his umbrella's gun.
Zenshi ducks and scuttles along the slanted floor, scrabbling as the ship continues to tip starboard.
"Run port, run port!" someone shouts frantically. It is the fretful announcer man, a young officer a year or so less than Zenshi's age, who makes the ship's morning, evening, and general crew announcements. His nasally, quivering voice is easily made out among the alarmed shouts and confusion.
Zenshi runs.
"Don't let him escape!" comes the cry, and Yato are closing in on him everywhere. It's difficult to see, and the setting sun outside fails to light up this side of the ship. He is so, so close: there are four beams, one of which should be the next left ahead of him.
Someone grabs his collar.
Zenshi slams the gun's barrel to the man's forehead, furious that he was not able to detect such an apparent presence behind him. The hood of his makeshift guise is thrown back, but he is befuddled because he stares directly into another hooded man's face.
"You take the two starboard, and I'll take the two port. Cut all of the green wires." A pair of heavy duty shears are pressed into his slackened arms. "Hey, bud, are ya listening?"
A firm, calloused hand lands on his shoulder, throwing him into shocking clarity.
The man tilts his head, just so that the waning bit of meager light can reveal his face.
"I've taken out the gravity core, but it's programmed to reset in fifteen to twenty minutes. Can you do it?"
"The question is," Zenshi repeats, in deadly calm, "can you?"
The question is pointless.
He is, after all, talking to the man who has become his mentor, his guide, his secondary father.
Abuto smiles, claps him firmly on the back, and takes off to cannons three and four.
in retrospect, that little essay before this chapter was probably longer than the chapter itself.
But once again, thanks for considering and reading!
Also, a thank you for the kind guest who keeps logging on to see my story.
AND one more thanks to Acabaya - I have thought in great depth, and I really appreciate the review! Here is, by the way, more ABUTO THE GREAT!
*** AND I even pulled out my workbooks for reference, so thereeee! ***