Season 2, Chapter 1: Homecoming

"Hikigaya. What do you want?"

I looked down at the floor for a split second, to gather myself.

Raising my head back up, I stared the man in front of me in the eye, and threw my right hand at him.

The all-too-familiar feeling of fist on flesh graced me, as my weight went forward, and I felt him topple backwards, over his desk, and on to the floor.

Have you ever seen an artist's desk? It's kind of full. It's got all kinds of things on it. Paper of various kinds, pencils, rulers, compasses and stencils, pens, brushes, paints, reference books, humanoid models and sometimes more.

All of that went flying. I regretted it: I valued these tools greatly. But I absolutely, one hundred percent did not regret hitting the guy.

It was the sort of punch that leaves everyone in the vicinity silent, shocked, staring, not quite believing what they've just seen.

My knuckles stung a bit, but it was nothing compared to the satisfaction I was feeling.

Around me, five other guys my age were looking on with a mix of horror, disbelief, and (I like to believe) a bit of happiness as the older, middle-aged man I'd knocked down staggered to his feet.

Maybe it was the sheer unexpectedness of it, but he couldn't even properly gather the words to say to me. His mouth opened and closed, trying, and failing, to form sentences.

Ah, but I'm getting a little ahead of myself, right?

You've probably got no clue where I am, or what's going on. Let's rewind a little bit, and give this some context.

Ahem.

My name is Hikigaya Hachiman. When you last saw me, I'd graduated high school. Around that time, I'd sent some of my work to a mangaka, who'd agreed to take me on as an assistant, as long as I went to college.

That was five years ago, by the way.

So. Knowing me, I'm guessing you expected big things from me, right?

Well, here's what really happened.

The good news first: I did graduate college. I got my degree in Literature from Chiba U in four years. That was the relatively smooth-sailing part.

The rough parts were, well, pretty much everything else.

About two years into my apprenticeship, I sent out submissions to publishers. Original work, you know? I had no plans of remaining an assistant all my life. Don't get me wrong: I learnt a lot. Things it would have taken me much longer to learn otherwise, and some things which I probably couldn't have learned without being a professional working under an experienced pro. The quality of my art went up, and I learnt a little bit about writing too.

My submission was accepted by a local magazine in Chiba, and I got a deal for a limited-run series. Essentially, a small, self-contained arc, which was great, because I'm not a fan of dragging a story on forever. Anyway, it was a load of fun. I studied in the mornings in college, came back home and worked out, then drew and worked on my manga. The limited-run lasted three months. I was already used to maintaining a weekly release schedule, so this wasn't too difficult for me.

I won't lie and say I got really popular or anything though.

If the reader has ever tried to be good at anything, they know: there are tons of people in the world who are good at any given activity. In Japan, no surprise, there are tons of good young mangaka, and tons of good new manga. Getting noticed is difficult. I don't think my work was bad by a long shot, but I never expected it to get really famous. For one thing, I didn't use the shounen stylization that's really popular these days. Don't get me wrong: My Hero Academia is good. But I'm more of a One Punch Man guy. The thing is, I'm no Yusuke Murata, and I'm no ONE either. But I did my best.

Reader numbers were okay for a series published locally, and I occasionally received fan mail, which felt amazing.

In so many ways, that was one of the best times of my life. I got paid for it too.

And then, my work got noticed by folks in Tokyo. Big deal, right? This was my break! The guy who had noticed was a pretty famous mangaka, who happens to be the creator of a very popular currently-running series. He wanted me to come on as an assistant.

Needless to say, I was overjoyed. Opportunities like this just don't happen every day. People send out tens of applications and submissions and still don't get accepted. To be offered an assistant job was a once-in-a-blue-moon thing. This was it. It was my big chance.

So I packed up, and went over to Tokyo.

Ah, this is where you're probably going to say: "But Hikigaya, what about your girlfriend Yui?"

And I'll say: "I'm getting to that in a bit."

And then you'll say: "And your other girlfriend Yukino?"

And I'll say: "I'm getting to that too."

But back to the story: I packed up and went over to Tokyo. I had a little bit of money saved up from my limited series run, and the assistant job paid decently. With some searching, I was able to find an apartment I could rent, somewhere not far from the studio where I was supposed to work.

The night before my first day, I almost couldn't sleep.

I was excited.

It was going to be my first time working on a series that was, well, already pretty famous, to put it mildly. I had no idea what my job would be. I didn't think I'd actually be drawing the main characters. More likely, I thought it would be dealing with backgrounds, or maybe crowd characters at most.

I woke up the next morning, and went over to work, fully intending to take whatever job I was given, and do my best at it. I'd show what I could do, and earn my way up to the top.

Yeah, here's the thing: you might have the best intentions. Just know that there are a lot of people waiting to piss on them.

Working at that studio was, in a word, hell.

I was one of six assistants. We were all in our twenties. Our work varied from drawing and inking backgrounds to toning the pages, doing effects and lettering, to gathering references for props, to drawing crowd characters.

The manga itself was unique in that it was one of the series that had issues twenty to thirty pages long, despite having a weekly-release schedule.

As I soon discovered, this was achieved by working us to the bone.

Eighteen hour work days were pretty frequent. Often, there was simply no time to go home, so we'd crash somewhere in the studio. And by somewhere, I mean on the floor in the living room. We weren't allowed in the bedrooms or guest rooms, and we weren't even given couches or futons.

Getting my nose scraped on the grindstone I could accept, as long as I knew it served a purpose.

Was I learning things? Getting better?

The short answer to that was a no.

All six of us were artists who had fundamentals. We knew how to draw characters, how to draw props and backgrounds, we could ink, tone and letter. All of us had had our individual work published in some or the other local magazine.

At first, I thought this was simply proof that one needed to be good to get a chance like this.

As I soon found out, the real reason was different.

To put it simply, we'd been hired because we already knew how to do the job. We wouldn't need to be taught anything to work on this manga, because we already knew how to make manga.

The artstyle of the series we were working on didn't have any elements we couldn't reproduce.

Credit where it's due: we didn't do any of the writing. That was all done by the credited mangaka himself. He also did the key sketches of the main cast.

Everything else though?

That was all us.

Did it bother me that I was using my skills to raise someone else's reputation and that I'd never be credited for it?

That I wasn't learning as much as I could?

Yes, but I could get over these things.

I was still learning, because of the ridiculous standards we had to maintain.

And I could deal with the work hours because I believed this was what it took to be a pro.

Most of us were also in college by the way.

I was still studying at Chiba U under a distance-education program. So you best believe I was busting my ass.

Heck, I even managed to get my degree under those conditions.

After two and a half years of working in that studio though, the straw that pissed me the fuck off was placed on my back.

It was a particularly big chapter we'd just finished working on. Thirty five pages, and the conclusion of a major arc no less. We did everything for that chapter, down to the inks and tones on the main cast of characters. We'd spent nights awake for that. I'd gone without sleep two days in a row myself.

So when we were done, I wasn't expecting any thanks.

But I knew the schedule, and I knew our magazine went on break after the issue, so we had the week off.

Imagine then, how I felt, as that guy walked into the studio, holding the manuscript we'd painstakingly completed.

"What is this?" he asked.

"A manuscript," I replied.

"It's a pile of shit," he said.

For the next two hours, he proceeded to chew us out.

I won't get into details on what exactly he said, but I will say this: our work was more than up to industry standards.

The part which really ticked me off was when he casually Googled a panel by a certain legendary artist, and said that was the level at which we should be.

There's something particularly annoying about a guy with weaker fundamentals than yours telling you about the level you should be at, while paying you less than a tenth of what the subject of that example earns.

It was infuriating, but we kept our cool. We were used to it after all.

No, the straw I was talking about came after that.

He proceeded to tear the manuscript right in front of us.

"You have one week. Use the backup, do it all over again, properly this time."

So saying, he left, going into his private studio in the building.

As for the six of us, we looked at each other.

We were at the end of our wits and our patience.

But this was all we had.

We already knew how hard this industry was supposed to be. Meaning, we'd resigned ourselves to this abuse. To taking it, in the hopes that this asshole would maybe put in a good word for us, so that we would get our own long-running series deal. At which point, we'd be the ones in that position, taking out our frustration on our juniors.

Something about it ticked me off.

It wasn't just the fact that my hard work had just been thrown aside, treated like it didn't matter.

It was the fact that my art, and art in general, something precious to me, was being turned into this.

They were tainting it.

And it really ticked me off.

I was standing in the corridor, breathing heavily.

Calm down, I told myself. If I make it through this, then I can do something good.

Like what?

My own series. Something that'll make a lot of people happy. Something that'll make me happy.

Will it though? Will it really?

I looked around at the other guys, and I realized, none of them were even having this conversation in their heads. Because they'd already made their choice. They didn't have a way out of this.

Will you ever truly be happy? Knowing that this is the price?

I looked at the guys.

We weren't really friends.

Just colleagues. Co-workers.

Co-workers.

I laughed bitterly.

Just when did life become so fucking sterilized?

Fucking sanitized, cookie-cutter, safe bullshit terms to sugar-coat the truth, to the point that it becomes a lie.

Co-workers. Fucking co-workers. How the fuck does that cover it?

We sweat and bled for that series. We worked, we suffered together. Let me tell you, we were the only six people on the planet who knew how hard we'd worked.

As I looked at the others, I felt a sense of disgust creeping over me.

Not over the fact that they were taking this abuse. That they were willing to make that sacrifice.

But over the fact that I could do nothing to stop it.

Nothing to provide an alternative.

Just how far have I fallen?

My dream was to be a mangaka. I'd worked towards it for years.

"Tch. Talk about digging a grave for yourself."

"Hikigaya?"

I looked up, my gaze meeting nothing but the stupid grey ceiling of the studio.

How long had it been since I'd simply looked up at the Heavens?

There is a God. I must confess, this is what I believe.

And to be true to Him is to do what I know in my heart to be right.

How long had it been since I'd even thought about that?

For me, to look up to the Heavens is to see a certain person.

And to see him is to remember what he said to me.

Was I living up to those words?

I looked once more at the faces of the guys I had worked with, and my decision was already made.

"It was a good run," I said.

"Hikigaya, what are you on about?"

"He's lost it. He's talking to himself again."

"Nah," I said, walking forward. "I just remembered myself, that's all."

[Green Day- Homecoming]

As I walked towards the private studio room, I rolled up my sleeves. I'd lost a lot of the muscle mass I used to have. Infrequent workouts, lack of sleep and bad diet does that to you.

Instead of knocking, I opened the door and walked in.

The guy looked up from his table at me.

"Hikigaya. What do you want?"

I took a deep breath.

Then, I threw a right cross. You never really lose your punch. If you know how to throw it properly, it stays with you.

And let me tell you, that punch landed clean.

The guy staggered to his feet, but he was out. His brain was somewhere else.

Immediately, I felt better.

As if something toxic had left my body.

I was standing a little straighter, and felt a pleasant weight between my legs.

"Hmm. I think I regained my spine and balls."

"H-Hikigaya…" (glazed voice) "Y-you sonofabi-"

Gut punch.

"Oh shut up. Learn some proportions and anatomy. Your drawings suck."

Leg sweep into trip throw. He lands on his back, but he'll be OK. I didn't throw him too hard.

Probably.

I breathed a sigh of immense relief.

It had been five years, but I felt like myself again.

"H-Hikigaya, you little shit. You're done! You'll never have a job in a manga company agai-"

"You're gonna fire me? Too bad! I quit!"

I turned and began to leave, but decided to stop.

"Oh yeah, also, don't go to the cops. You probably don't want it getting out that you're basically running a slave establishment here."

So anyway, that's the story of how my career as a mangaka came to an end.

I packed up the next day and left for Chiba.

Didn't really have any idea what I was going to say to my folks when I got home.

Certainly didn't have any idea what I was going to do with my life either.

About the time I was boarding the train back home, I realized I was twenty-three and dangerously close to burning out.

Something curious about life though, is that somehow, the right person seems to show up at the right time. And so, as I got on the train and took my seat, I heard a familiar voice next to me.

"Hikigaya!?"

I looked up, and saw a face I didn't think I'd ever see again.

"Hiratsuka Sensei?"