Today started like any other day.
The overbearing sun beat down relentlessly on the living beings beneath it. The great big ball of light high above the sky didn't mean to cause any distress, as the heat was a byproduct of its own existence. Without the sun, most life as we know it would've gone extinct a long time ago. With the sun, we're able to live happy, fulfilling lives...well, most of us bear through day to day tasks. In return for the sun's life giving heat, we learn to deal with it.
Dealing with it comes with being a farmer in Tosa.
You don't get to experience pleasures like air conditioning, refreshing water, or even sitting down for hours on end. Especially me, someone who hasn't experienced a single luxury for years. Twelve years to be exact. Ever since the day I lost my father to an accident, I took the responsibility of the family legacy on my shoulders. Maintaining the farming business he worked hard to get off the ground and spread the practice of Rindoukan karate to the world. So far, it has had its fair share of ups and downs. Way more downs than ups, regardless I have been able to keep myself afloat with the customers I haven't lost and dedicate all of my other time to martial arts.
But sometimes I can't help, but to ask myself...
Will I be doing this forever?
"And here's three pounds of apples. Thanks for your business." Makoto handed over the knapsack full of apples over to the elder gentleman. "No problem, sonny. You've got the best tasting apples out of anyone in the market. Shame more people haven't caught onto that." The old man took a bite with what teeth he had left, "I know! Perhaps if you smiled more..."
"How many times do I have to tell ya? I'm a girl." Makoto hissed. The old man adjusted his glasses, "OH! So you are! Please excuse me, I tend to be forgetful in my old age. Toodles."
Makoto laid her back against the stand, "Well there goes my third customer in five hours. Business keeps on booming." Out of everyone at the farmer's market Makoto was the most famous with her participation in the Street Fighter Tournament series. However, Makoto's lack of a high placement in such a well regarded fighting tournament meant nothing to a huge chunk of the population. With those citing that her placement was nothing to write home about.
...But it was the experience of a lifetime...
Blood trickled down the side of Makoto's face. Sharp breaths drew in and out of her mouth. She could barely make out the image of her opponent from across the ring. A blurred image that wobbled through her swollen eyes. "I'm not...finished!" Makoto charged forward using the remaining energy in her being on one single punch. The rest after that was a complete blur, but the result had been an obvious one. She lost.
In the end Makoto had fallen flat unconscious, halfway across the ring.
"MAKOTO! MAKOTO! MAKOTO! MAKOTO!"
I could still hear the crowd calling out to me.
"Yoohoo. Hello? Anybody home?"
...That's not what they said...
"Hey. Hey! You alright?"
Makoto returned to Planet Earth to see a fresh face in front of her. It wasn't a beaten down middle aged person or the leathery face of an elder, but it was the face of someone Makoto's own age. "Hey. What's up?" The girl perked up, "Some old guy told me to check out your stand. Said you had tasty produce."
Old man Mashima. Always got my back.
"What ya lookin' for?" asked Makoto, attempting to maintain the smile Mashima advised her on, "I've got the best fruit from all around Japan just right here."
The girl began dragging her eyes over the selection, "Good question." she muttered, placing a finger on her chin. Makoto's eyes were magnetized to the girl's long pony tail that goes above her head and dangles all the way down to her thigh. Makoto made note of the girl's jeans tattered around the knees, the many accessories around her bookbag and waist.
Nobody around here dresses like that. The girl must be new to the area, possibly just come in from an urban area like Tokyo.
Then there was the girl's exposed arms and shoulders, aside from muscular definition, Makoto spotted the barely visible scars along them, "You fight?"
"Fight? Me? No. I just like to keep myself in shape." A quick answer. One good enough to satisfy Makoto's curiosity. For now.
The girl continued looking over the apples, blueberries, peaches, and other fruits in stock. "Do you have any durians? They're my favorite!"
Makoto scratched the back of her head, "Actually, I'm sold out. The next harvest is in a couple weeks. Come back then and I'll have some fresh fruit for ya."
The girl hiked up her backpack, "Sounds like a deal. See ya then!"
Hours later, the liveliness of the farmer's market had died down. Loud thumping of wooden panels sealing the windows echoed around the area as vendors closed up shop for the day. Makoto gathered the remaining unsold produce into a bucket which would be used for dinner over the next few days.
Orange sunlight bathed the steep dirt forest path Makoto trekked. Opposite to the usual noise of the farmer's market, Makoto arrived home to dead silence. Just like the way it's been for years. Makoto threw down her satchel and set the bucket of produce in the kitchen. She changed from her farmer attire into a loose-fitting, patched up gi. Something far more comfortable.
Makoto's father, Masaru, imagined that his son, Genji, would grow into a worthy successor of the Rindo-kan style and inherit the dojo after his passing. His time, unfortunately, came well before anyone imagined soon after he had been humbled by a mysterious man in South America. Makoto's family and the residents of Tosa comforted him on his return after he had shared the details of his defeat. Regardless of everyone doing their best to raise his spirits it was clear that Masaru was a changed man.
Makoto remembered the last time she saw him. It was at night on the porch leading out onto the forest. Makoto walked in on him leaving for his usual weeklong trip into the forest for training.
"I want you to have this." His tone sounded somber and broken, but his face showed the opposite. Masaru unraveled the yellow headband from his balding head, folded it properly with care, and gently placed it in Makoto's hands. "Promise that you will carry on the Rindo-Kan legacy." Makoto only nodded her head.
Masaru smiled.
He didn't return.
Several search parties were sent out into the forest with very little direction or indication of his whereabouts. Makoto had remained hopeful, "He probably just decided to stay out there longer." Or "He's just working really hard on a new technique he discovered. You'll see!"
That wasn't the case. One member of the search party gently described to Makoto is that an incident took his life.
"I'm so sorry." Old Man Mashima, back then just Mashima, told Makoto and Genji with tears welling in his eyes.
Genji, made the decision to quit martial arts that day to prioritize his studies. Whereas her brother had left the fighting behind, Makoto had felt it was her mission, fulfilling the wishes of her father to pick up the pieces and restore Rindo-kan karate to its former glory. Makoto took the gi her brother was no longer using and asked her grandfather, Riku, to train her. The request was quickly accepted with a strong hug and shed tears.
Over the years it's become worn, dingy, and home to a musty smell that couldn't be washed out. There are areas along the fabric that have been noticeably patched up from battle damage, giving the whole outfit an odd color inconsistency of white and off-white. None of that mattered to Makoto. She continued to wear the gi around to tournaments and dojo challenges with pride.
The rickety dojo door slid away by the minuscule force from Makoto's hand. The musky stench of sun-warming wood hit her with a sense of nostalgia. It reminded her of the days when there was less of a struggle to stay afloat.
Makoto stood beside the wooden dummy affixed to the floor and began to warm up. Stretches; arms, legs, waist, neck, and knee highs. Running and jumping in place until she felt blood pumping from her heart. Once Makoto had felt satisfied with her warmup she looked eyes with the dummy. A thick wooden log standing upright with strong branches sticking from its side.
With one long exhale from her nose, Makoto began her training regime.
Loud 'CRACK's and 'THWACK's echoed through the wooden structure as Makoto unleashed her fury on the dense piece of wood. She aims to make each blow more devastating than the last over longer durations. Yesterday, she managed to go for forty five minutes. Today, she wanted fifty out of herself at the very least.
And those fifty minutes passed by with Makoto's exhausting ever limb on her body. Scraps of skin and droplets of blood stained the wooden training dummy. The bandaging around Makoto's calloused knuckles had worn down into tatters.
Makoto leaned on the doorframe as she turned the dojo lights off. She kept thoughts of acknowledging that she had gone too far at bay. Tomorrow she needs to go harder than today.
No excuses.
"Dinner Time."
One of Makoto's few luxuries in life were a nice warm bowl of vegetable soup, a cup of green tea, and a view of the night sky to die for. She leaned her sore back against the post of the porch. This was one of the reasons why she could never leave Tosa. It never really changed. Tosa had always been a quiet isolated spot from any sort of trouble.
Except for that new customer she happened to meet today.
"Perhaps things are gonna start changing after all."
Makoto scoffed.
"As if."