Disclaimer: We don't own Witch Hunter Robin. Or Amon. But if we did...
A/N: Hmmm...this sounds disturbingly like a social studies project. Oh well. Die.
Now it's my turn to say somethin'. Uhhhh... yeah.
Loser.
Heyyyy!!
*grins* It's probably about time we started the fic...
*chuckles maniacally* Yeeeaaahhhh...
Sakaki's Childhood....As A Juvenile Delinquent
A young boy with a set face ran down a dark twisting alleyway, spray pain can in his left hand. His dark blond hair, long enough to fall into his eyes, ruffled in the wind as his worn-out sneakers pounded upon the cracked asphault.
This was Haruto Sakaki, nine-year-old alumnus of juvenile court and spray paint artist extraordinaire. His latest masterpiece was positioned on a brick faced building about two blocks behind. If you asked Haruto, it was an inspired work about depression and anger and the need to speak out. If you asked the owner of the builing however, it was vandalism.
Which was why he was running. As the boy turned a worn corner, the faint sound of sirens reached his ears. It was part of the pattern. He knew eventually he'd be hearing the ranting shouts of the angry landlord, the pounding of his feet as he ran from the site, the cheers and hollers of his friends who ran in the other direction. And now the sirens. The pattern was complete.
Haruto dreaded the next part of the cycle. A fork in the road. Getting caught by the police...or returning home. It was impossible to guess which was worse.
But, at least he would be able to get away from home. So, turning, he headed toward his own personal hell, where he knew his father lay in wait. And if he wasn't there, everyone else would be hurt later, when the 5 foot six inch tall patron returned. Not a parent...more an unwilling and abusive guardian. Someone to be feared.
The boy couldn't stand much more of this. No way to get help, no way to help his siblings, no way to contact anyone. No matter how much he thought about it, there was no way to get out of this mess, so he told himself to just stop thinking about it.
And there it was. The center of his satanic life, this miserable little hovel in the middle of the slums, the place that he, unfortunately, called home. As usual, the door was still not fixed, and the windows were still patched up with water-stained and out-dated school projects. He stopped, leaning forward as he caught his breath, and reveled at the fact that he had survived this hellhole for as long as he had. His left hand, stained from the scarlet spraypaint, hovered an inch from the rusty old doorknob. Three more steps and he was back.
"Oof!" His startled groan was due to a low-flying object that connected with his middle, shrieking, "Ha-nii-chan! You're back!"
"Yeah, Makoto, I'm back." The little boy beamed up at him, missing teeth showing gaping holes, then scampered off to join the other scrappy children in the small communal area of this decrepit apartment.
"Hmmmm...not here yet. Maybe I still have time to think of something...," the nine-year-old walked into the run-down kitchen, trying to find something edible for his seven younger siblings. "Jeez...talk about one busy man...the night life can't be all that amusing...whore...."
Arms full of half-empty cereal and cracker boxes, he moved into the tiny living room where his siblings were tossing a rather deflated soccer ball to eachother. As he passed the peeling corners of the formica countertops, an envelope met his eyes.
Unlike the crisp white folds of ignored and unpaid bills, this was a faint yellowy color, with small pink and blue and gold threads marbled within the grain. "It's from Rika..." It had been a long time since his older sister had written. "At least she managed to see the bullshit that was to come..."
Slipping into the living room, he placed the boxes on the floor, saying loudly, "Share equally! It's all we've got for a while." Then he stepped back into the kitchen and grabbed the envelope eagerly.
Breaking the seal, he flipped the letter open and read.
"Dearest Haruto,
"I certainly hope that bastard hasn't reduced you to a blubbering mass yet. The guy didn't have that much power over you last time I was there, and I doubt he's taken the time to improve.
"Now, darling brother, I have very good news for you." Haruto groaned. When his sister had good news, it meant brimstone and doom for anyone involved. "I have gotten into law school. Can you believe it?" 'Frankly, Rika...no.' "That school was terrible, but I'm lucky it was easy to graduate. Since I got high test scores, it wasn't hard to get accepted to Nabutoshi Law School. Hopefully, I'll do well enough to become an intern, and then a successful attorney.
"And know what else? I've met a guy. He's in the last year already. He was really friendly, though apparently his childhood was "a living hell with a topography not unlike a swamp". I didn't think that sort existed, apart from you. But anyway, he's helping me with my studies. Maybe I'll graduate sooner, thanks to him.
"I might be able to get you all out of there sooner. Nagira has--"
The door slammed and a few of the kids shrieked. Haruto's father was home. Stuffing the letter into his back pocket, the boy looked around the room. There. His spray paint was still on the bandylegged kitchen table, and there was no time to hide it. 'Shit,' was his only thought as the deranged man known as his only guardian stalked into the room. 'But maybe he won't notice it.'
No luck. Almost inevitably, the ruddy-faced man's eyes landed on the aluminum canister sitting upright on the table. His gaze narrowed, and his hate-filled eyes shot to his son. "Haruto..."
A/N: Well, who would have thought Sakaki the brave, easygoing STN-J officer was a juvenile delinquent with a single abusive parent and eight siblings? Us. Duh. That's why we're writing this.
Yeah. Why else would we write it? Ummm...