Proximity Chapter 2: Rag, a claymore fanfic

2. Rag

This was supposed to go up on Wednesday. But school is taking its toll on my editing.

"You know what they will do to you."

The look in Clare's eyes was absolute: she did not even accept my proposition. Or my concern. Or my worry. Or advice. She simply acted like she had not heard a single word spoken for her well-being.

"Clare? Do you understand?"

"Do I look like someone who cares?"

Those words she polished with the finest edge of brash carelessness: her trademark spark of straightforward confidence.

"But –"

She began to walk away, the thin scowl on her face unchanged.

"Clare, you're not listening to me –"

"You want me to tell the instructors that I'm unwell, and skip training?" her voice lost slipped into mild frustration – I could tell – hardening into a demand, almost as if she was being forced into a position she despised. "You want me to play dead?"

"Yes."

Her back facing me, she remained silent, staring at the exit to our quarters.

"It's only one training day, Clare. It's not like you'll lose anything from it." I said, laying my words into the realm of her rigid consideration.

"Clare?"

"I'm going, Elena."

Why are you always so stubborn?

And my mouth followed in response: "Clare –"

"Stop."

She already had her hand on her wooden practice sword. She faced me, the decision settled, her look as determined as a suicide. That was the last word, I knew – anything more and she would just walk out of our quarters without another word. I clenched my right fist – Clare, you stubborn idiot – then released it, as Clare tossed me my practice sword.

With it came her flailing hand, a lingering touch of reassurance, messily ruffling my hair. Behind the motion of her hand brushing through my fringe, she wore a sub-confident smile, faintly lighting up her face.

But she did not follow up with encouraging words, just more defiance:

"I care not what they do to me."

The training academy at the City of Staff is a factory: here the Organization trains young girls (fused with monsters' flesh) to become future warriors, silver-eyed killing machines, for the good of the human race. Whenever we imagine the brutal regimen of our training, surely one the graduated seniors, on their return visits or off-tour duties, will always tell us that nothing is more brutal than liberating a town from yoma, our eternal enemies, the monsters we will be drilled to fight till we lose control of ourselves. They tell us, too, of the present threat of succumbing to our beastly nature by accident, claiming the big, dark world beyond the Academy is sinister, malevolent, hopeless – reading off a growing list of more carefully worded adjectives meant for maximum shock effect.

Often I want to disagree.

The academy in Staff, though, is full of contradictions. Nothing is more valuable and important than human blood, our instructors insist, so protect all humans. Yet humans would cast a stone, or mutter a prayer against evil, if a warrior stepped to close. Sisters should look out for each other, the director of the academy, a short shadow of a man named Rubel, says. Yet within the walls we beat, kick, spit, and fight each other for that illustrious chance to be deployed.

And then, despite being literally immortal, ageless, forever youthful, the elder sisters adhere to this pointless ritual passed down from generation after generation of unknown seniors, playing with us under the excuse that no one is excused from ritual.

For the entire afternoon, we trained in wistful silence among the floor of battling pairs, all trainees spread out in the open verandah facing the spur-green training grounds. Sparring grimly with Clare, within our circle of ducks, swordplay and strikes, we seemed to hide our reservations with the repetitive clacking of our fake wooden swords. Whenever Clare saw my strokes faltering, she would push at me even harder.

"Stop holding back," she urged me.

That was Clare just being Clare: religiously critical; harsh but dutiful, and sometimes, obviously showing off, perhaps sending an overt signal to all our seniors who, from all sides, seemed to be flashing occasional, scheming glances our direction.

When I dared to slacken under the swift, incessant force of her blows, she would grunt in frustration – a rebuke I have tried many times not to take personally, since I have never attained (or even dreamt of attaining) her level of skill. And when I started panting – the instance when Clare instinctively knew I was approaching the limits of my endurance – she would ruthlessly draw me out and end the sparring with a killer move.

Dancing around my weakening arm, then briefly lashed her sword in, just missing the bridge of my nose – deliberately. The automatic, reflex action of my dazed recoil signals that the fight is over. Her weathered, splinter-coated wooden blade spears out at me, in case I actually decide to resume the fight. She could have hit me if she wanted to, but she never does.

The fight over, Clare bends double, exhaling in one deep, heavy breath. I am compelled to follow: we stare each other, our arms hooked at our knees, as I feel the strain gently easing away from my muscles. Clare upturned eyes blink their approval.

"Enough for today!"

Dropping her sword at the command, she turned to me, nodding: her own gesture of wordless praise between the two of us. Brushing a cloud of hair from her face, she scrubbed the circles of perspiration with the sleeve of her training gear, while I collected our swords. In the background, that same voice from before gave a second order to assemble and we, the group of trainees, promptly clustered in formation.

"Still too slow." And from the clatter of our feet at attention, the leeching voice of Rubel, the overseer of our training programme, floated across to us.

Beneath his shades, I was certain he was examining us, his observations supplying the half-lopsided smile he stubbornly wore, Clare-like, on his face. When he seemed satisfied with his inspection, he strode away, signaling for us to dismiss.

"I almost forgot." We all paused as his leathery smooth voice carried over. "Congratulations to one particular trainee on her auspicious day."

He tipped his hat – surely, maliciously – to Clare, a motion of damnable intent hidden behind his faux praise.

No – we were so close –

At once, Alina, the most senior of the trainees, snickered. In between the unmoved pack of trainees more concerned with returning back to their quarters than extending their well-wishes to Clare, Alina signaled to several seniors – or was I imagining things. I found myself absently scraping splinters of Clare's practice sword, the empty tips of my fingers bristling with a solemn discomfort.

No, assembly of seniors was real as a stray splinter stuck in between my fingernails: from my right-hand vision, Alina was already advancing, her group five-strong. She was fast.

"Clare, if you run now –"

Clare brushed my warning aside; with a clear scowl straining her face, she cautioned me not to speak anymore.

Once Rubel's presence left the room, it took just moments for Alina and her gang to surround us – Clare, you fool – and as they closed in, the remaining trainees, eager to watch but not wanting to participate, began to abandon the show.

None gave us a second look. With a knuckle-crackling mob of five of the most senior trainees (and Alina due to receive her rank in a few weeks' time), I did not feel surprised. Two girls moved over to flank Clare, who had her hands curled into awkward little fists.

"You're not going to run?" Serene asked.

"She does lives up to her reputation as a freak," Joan added.

"Enough talking," Alina's voice overruled her two closest comrades. "Let me deal with her."

She stepped forward, right in front of Clare; in the process, her hands slipped her short hair into a taut ponytail. She was serious; the last time I had seen Alina's hair so neatly bound, she had sparred with a ranked warrior in a bloody challenge – and won.

Alina jabbed her finger patiently on Clare's forehead, but she did not flinch, her head still tilted with a semi-hardened defiance. I could tell Clare was wringing every bit of self-control into submission in holding back to prevent an all-out fist fight.

"Not that running would help you anyway," Alina said.

"What – what should we do to her?" Joan asked, in mock uncertainty. Through her acting, I could make out the mischievous glint in her eyes.

"Strip her," someone requested.

"Shave off her hair."

"I want to see if she can actually last a minute with me in a fist fight," Serene said. I saw her flex her biceps, massaging them. She may have looked lean, but whenever she moved, it clear a lot of muscles were involved.

In the moment of repose, the antithesis of a traumatic event, I flung my eyes wildly for a chance to escape: Alina, squaring her shoulders; Joan, excited, eagerly waiting for orders in her leader's shadow, cast by the gradient of the afternoon sun; Serene, her arms crossed at her chest, displaying her arm strength, her face alight with ill intent; and the two seniors I had never bothered about till now, anticipating the show and the ways they could help. And waiting on the periphery of punishment just for being her friend, I found hands sweating, discoloured with blood from the coarse swords.

But Clare did not even blink at their threats – that self restraint of hers which I always admired was in full, fierce display.

"We're wasting time," said Alina. "Get the other one out of the way."

Someone's hands fastened themselves on my arm, forcefully, sneakily – curses – I exerted an opposing force – and the practice swords dropped out of my arms – and they folded backwards under strong hands – Serene's hands –

Clare rushed for my assailant: "You touch Elena –"

And Alina mashed her fist right into Clare's face.

"Clare!"

"Quiet!"

I nudged Serene hard with the sharp tip of my elbow, pleased to hear her grunt. For an instance my arms regained their freedom. I turned to deal my assailant a blow – but all I met was Joan's raised knee – and then I tumbled – only to be hoisted back to my feet by Serene again.

Pathetic.

And Serene confirmed it: "You weakling."

Alina caught hold of Clare by her hair, hauled her to her feet, then pressed one foot down on her right arm. She cupped her chin with two imposing fingers. She seemed particularly glad that her surprise punch had drawn blood.

"Listen," Alina spoke. "Not even freaks are exempted participation in the yearly tradition. You should be happy we've gone to such great lengths to celebrate this day with you."

Serene, holding my arms curled behind my spine, barked with laughter.

Alina leaned in closer: so close that Clare flinched this time.

"My friends want to strip, shave and pummel you," Alina said, her teeth protruding like a wild dog. "But I can do one better. I want to see if whatever's fused inside of you is really that strong. I want to see if you can regenerate a limb."

I struggled, hearing the threat – stop, stop – Clare fight her! – but Serene forced a hand down on my fingers, choking away my encouragement.

"The pills, Alina," someone said.

"Give them to me then!" she ordered. "Hold her!"

Joan stepped forward. Her elbow coming down on Clare's neck, Alina collected a fistful of dark brown pills, (I pulled against my assailant again) and with her free hand flung a fist into Clare's jaw from an angle –

"Clare!" I yelled.

"Shut it!"

"A present from our instructors," Alina hissed. She struck her arm into Clare's face again, then paraded the pills in her palm before her smarting eyes. "They were only too eager to provide us with gifts when they heard you would be the recipient."

Serene's knee – no – jabbed into my spine, and I crumpled to the ground, straining to reach Clare.

Joan's horrible forced cheer came across to me: "You'll be the first in the academy to taste the pills the instructors always tells us about, Clare!"

"And this is in case you use your monster's side. Open up wide!" went Alina's sweet sing-song voice. And I watched as Clare thrashed – but Alina's probing, sinister hands forced the pills down Clare's mouth. "Swallow them!"

"Witch's blood!" I cursed. "You attack in numbers like rats –"

Then Alina took the liberty of keeping me quiet: all I felt were her knuckles sweeping across my forehead.

"The loyal sidekick awakens!"

They had brought us out into the training grounds: the stench of untended grass, the unhindered air burned my eyes into recognition. In the nauseating grogginess of recovery I could see the dark, luminous smudges of trees in the open, and the scarring friction of uncut grass under my chin. As I attempted to prop myself up with my arms, a force – a foot – came down on my head, forcing me back into the mushy earth. Again my arms were wrestled, entwined behind me.

Then Serene's voice: "Relax. Watch the show."

Evening had diminished the effect of the streaming afternoon sun coming over from the walls, the glow of sunlight, instead, turning a concentrated shade of luminous orange. In a pale halo of light – like a sick performance – I saw Joan, holding Clare down with her entire bodyweight. Joan was giggling, her hands stroking Clare's shaking neck, every other moment peering low to taunt Clare, as if she was telling her a perverse joke.

I was glad Clare was struggling, and not giving her captor an easy time.

And Clare's face had not lost a single shade of her insolence.

From the shadows, emerged Alina – at once I focused on the instrument in her hands – a full, actual Claymore, its suggested sharpness flashing at the audience behind me, who gave their awed expressions of approval.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" she called out to her spectators. She made a sweeping motion with the Claymore. "A weapon not for weaklings." She directed the blade in my direction.

"Or freaks." And she turned it now towards Clare.

Alina posed again with the Claymore, swinging it deftly like it was a normal practice sword. With her free hand, she fished out one of Clare's arms out from her spread-eagled frame, and stretched out on the grass.

All the host of heaven!

And my mouth moved in automatic protest: "Alina! You're not going to DO THAT! You're not –"

The force on the back of my head pressed my open tongue into a mouthful of grass.

"Good! Keep that one shut!" went someone.

Alina grinned. She held up the Claymore, edging it gingerly over Clare's restrained head, as if she was about to consecrate her with that hideous weapon.

"Clare, trainee, loser and freak of the academy," Alina declared, her proud voice inflated with its fake authority. "I hereby – hereby – I hereby pronounce you my pathetic junior, and deem it meet to exercise a senior's tradition on you today!"

"Hear! Hear!" went Serene.

Watching the wide arc of Alina's Claymore, she arched it back, into the air, and then – its sharp tip pointed down – forced it onto Clare's arm –

I squashed my eyes shut – Clare! –

I've never heard her scream like that before.

Clare! Fight it!

When I next saw Clare, her face was crumpled in pain, her teeth showing, her eyes stiffly wide open, her neck straight and baring all its muscles – and she let out another yell as Alina pulled the Claymore loose, flinging earth and blood and chunks of meat into the air. Right beside her face, Joan grinned sheepishly, her grotesque playacting in full swing as she gave Clare a peck on the cheek.

"She has yet to faint," Alina commented. "Impressive for a girl now with three fingers left."

"Maybe she will when she has none on that hand?" ventured Joan, in her mocking, childish gait.

"And a proposition by another senior."

And Alina brought the blade down again.

I blinked into the grass, letting the blades and the spikes of withered stalks sear my eyes. I fought back the wet, smothering sensation threatening to swath my eyes – there were better things to do –

Hang on Clare!

When Clare had ceased her screaming, the training grounds turned absolutely still. My ears could pick up a dull, anguished moaning.

Forgive me Clare! Forgive me forgive me forgive me

"Let that weakling try."

The force on the back of my head dissipated, followed by the grip on my overstretched arms. I blinked again – wait – but I was now on my feet – Serene was dragging me with her – and she fastened a grip, spider-like, on the back of my head as she brought me before Alina.

"Crush her head if she tries anything funny, Serene."

Alina was smiling – a Rubel-intense kind of smile. Her hand moved to my face – I cringed – and she pat my cheek like she would a captured, cornered animal.

"Curse you," I mouthed.

"No you won't." She was forcing herself to smile, and any moment I was expecting her to swing the blade at me. But she did not assault me.

"Take the sword."

She forced the blade into my hand. With her hand guiding, she wrapped her palm around the hilt: she was controlling me! She was using me! She was –

"Slice off that arm, Elena."

At my feet lay shredded bits of dull pinkish strips – a coat of sparkling crimson so rich I imagined the grass itself had reddened into a puddle – and a face: Clare's grim, disbelieving, anxious face.

"Leave her out of this!" She managed to say, before Joan thrust a fist into her right cheek.

Clare, you idiot – all you could think about was your own safety!

"Come on, Elena. It's your turn to show Clare your appreciation!" went Joan, her sickening full-face smile making me tremble.

"You would not disobey your seniors, would you," accompanied Serene's heavy, intimate voice.

"Slice her arm off," Alina repeated. "Or I'll be compelled to take yours."

My hand was moving on its own accord, the pull of a greater strength leading it as if it were held by many strings. And Clare's bloody stump of her hand, twitching, moving like a worm in the grass –

"Do it!"

"DO IT NOW!"

Then the Claymore, with my arm buckling under its weight, started to fall. I heard Alina screech, right into my ear – "do it now!" – but the blade swung too far out of my control. I felt the pull of Alina's hand-strength coming in to correct me. Yet it grazed across the grass at Clare's head, but I twisted my wrist – I pulled it high – right at the last moment – and then, and then –

And then Joan was clutching the right side of her face like it had been burned.

Freed, Clare rushed at me – Clare! – and my vision of her reverberated, swelled, as a headache flooded into the back of my head.

"You coward!" Clare shouted. "Face me like a warrior!"

Something hit my legs; they burned, and I folded into the grass, the green blades filling my senses again. Legs, like trees, swarmed around. Many people were crying out, in anger, in alarm. But Clare's voice stood out the most clear of all:

"Elena, run!"

The forced, emotional release of yoki helped me to recover my senses. At once, I could feel my heartbeat flare. But I had not crossed my limits; I moved my palms together, relived no claws or scales were evident.

Instead, Clare was just trying to use her yoki, a powerful amount, to heal her damaged hand.

I pulled myself into a sitting position. The training grounds were empty, quiet, and dark with the heaviness and subtle cricket echo-call of the late evening. Fragments of light from adjacent windows, mingled with faint moonlight allowed me to pick out the Claymore – a sore silver marker in the open field – sunk into the ground like a memorial to mark where I knew were deep streaks of red in the grass.

Clare's flow of undiluted, restrained yoki ended, and she turned to me. Through the darkness, I could see her bleeding, swollen right eye and her training attire ripped across the abdomen. The yoki suppressants had worked: her right hand was still a fingerless mould of blackened flesh. In comparison, beyond dirt on my attire and an exploding, sore head, I was unscathed.

Clare must have seen it too. Her face tossed into shadow as she turned to face me, she gave me a small, approving smile.

"What did they do?" I could only remember Alina, Joan's marred face, and the imagined crushing blow of Serene's executing hand.

"They knocked you out, so I decided to get revenge for you."

"You fool! You should've just ran."

"And thanks for passing out when I needed you most. The two of us could've taken the five of them easily."

I wanted to smile, but I remained overwhelmed by her defiance.

"Your fingers?" I asked.

She held up her right hand; all I could see was dark stubs of flesh and dried blood. But her plain, half-smiling face told me she was in no pain.

I decided not to ask where Alina or the others were, or whether Clare had fought them off single-handed with nothing more than an eye injury. That would be a story for tomorrow. Evidence of some struggle – shredded fabric and what appeared to be a single tooth just beside me – littered the grounds. But the pain in my head continued to exert its influence; I did not want to think about anything else.

I clutched absently into the air, only to have Clare assist me in gently laying my head on the grass. From the dark shadows of the training ground, my vision swung upwards into survey the night sky, burdened from end to end with glistening stars.

Lying there, free from injury, pain confined to my head, I felt compelled to speak:

"I'm sorry, Clare."

"What for?"

"That your day turned out like this."

Clare's face – bloodied, bruised, wearing a thinly-concealed grin – swam over mine, a surreal foreground the stars beyond.

"Elena, I knew my family, so I've never known when I was born."

I saw Clare smile intensify: she must have seen the surprise on my face.

"I don't even know how old I am."

She disappeared from my sight. Then a soft noise of something falling to the grass. Acting on instinct, I found myself alert, nervous and my head flipped in the direction of the noise – only to see Clare resting down on the grass beside me, facing the other direction, our faces sudden neighbours.

I observed her as she glanced silently over the training grounds, all the while framing her actions against my disbelief.

She could have just said something – but she stayed silent.

Clare, you fool.

Her face turned to face the sky. A lock of her hair fell onto my cheek – we were that close – and stretched out her wounded hand to the cloudless sky above like a salute. The mute, unresponsive clutter of stars and clouds did not give any acknowledgment. It was Clare and me, and this open swell of dark greenery, and this crumbling academy, in the urban soul of Staff. It felt as if there was nobody else left the world but two battered trainees callously admiring the heavens.

I could hear her breathing, the faint unnerving stench of dried blood and her soft, thoughtful whisper as she said to no one in particular:

"But that was a good fight."

I continued to watch Clare, but eventually followed her aimless stare into skywards, her right arm crowned with blood directing my eyes at too many stars, the warmth from her shoulders seeping into mine where our bodies made fleeting contact.

Still, this day is yours, Clare –

For now, at least, I had no intention of moving.

Edit: This Claymore story helped me win a title at the OneManga forums in July 2008. I modeled it after some of my experiences on what other people like to surprise you with on your birthday.