…It was an old building, and it had character: the peeling chalky yellow paint, the water damage on the bathroom ceiling, the English Ivy clinging desperately to the old brick wall. It was just another roof over my head, but I’ll still miss it. I always miss things like that. The stupid little stuff that made the place just tends to stick.
It would seem that change is constant for me, no matter were I go. In all honesty, I hate it, but beggars can’t be choosers after all. I have tried to outrun my problems in the past, but that never really works out. I always lose in the end. I thought that this would be over by now, after everything I’d done and everything I’ve seen.
I thought wrong.
I’m running again, from another person who’s screwed me over. I can never make things personal, for a variety of reasons, but the main one being my constant change of location. I guess it comes with my mercenary lifestyle. A Sword for hire, you show up, you do your thing, and when the cash stops coming you move on. But I do make things personal, and I tend to pick the wrong kind of person to trust.
You’d think I’d learn by now.
Hell, I though I’d learned by now.
But I’m out for a shitload of hard earned coin, and really pissed off. So I Haven’t learned.
AT ALL.
So I guess it’s off to another new town, right? It’s what I always do. But then again, that hasn’t turned out so well.
There’s this place called Death City. It’s in Nevada. Looks like my kind of town: really dark and gloomy, a pile of various identical-looking buildings with white walls and red roofs in the middle of the desert. Anyways, call it fate, but somehow I would up here, hopefully to stay for a while.
Probably.
Maybe.
See, I was walking along the long, winding, cobbled streets, looking for a place to crash for the night, and with lots of stairs, and nooks and crannies there are plenty of options, but I decided on sleeping on this stack of newspapers. And, I couldn’t sleep, like, at all. So I start rooting through my makeshift bed for something to read. Lo and behold, I find this poster for this school, called DWMA. Sound familiar? That’s because it’s the legendary Death Weapon Meister Academy, it’s were they train freaking Death Scythes!! And just my luck, right at the top of the 'pile' of buildings is the DWMA.
So that’s my plan in a nutshell: Enroll and Concur. I guess when I found Death City things sort of clicked. This isn’t anywhere near the life I once had, but I’m not going to repeat my mistakes again. The whole Sword for Hire thing brings shame to my family name; I wanted out eventually, when I had enough coin to live comfortably…
But now I just want out….
“…Sooo… yeah, that’s pretty much it…”
I look up at Lord Death, waiting for his response,
“Well kiddo, that’s quite the story you got there.” He says at last, “Emiko, was it?”
“Yessir!”
“And, you want to join the academy?”
“Yeah. I mean, I need something productive to do, other than… you know”
“Well…” He seemed hesitant, “ The whole Sword for hire thing does sound a little troublesome…. What do your Parents think of all this?”
“They’re gone, sir.” I reply, blinking back a painful memory. They were gone all right, not just my parents though, my little sister too. That’s not something I want to think about right now, but it still creeps into my brain.
Now, just a side note: If you ever catch me talking like an old-timer, don’t flip out, I do that. I came from a good, strong, Samurai Family. My mother, who was as elegant as a Geisha, often talked like that. Even though they’re gone, I still see bits of them in me. I can go from rebellious Emiko-Yojimbo: Sword for Hire, and next moment I’m Emiko-Bushi: The last of the Nitta Samurai.
“I’m sorry to hear that, kiddo.”, Is all he can say. Of course, I mean, what else can he say? He’s so used to death, it’s literally his name.
I look down for a moment, and work up the courage to speak. “But, in answer to your question,” I tell him ,“I have brought dishonor to my family name, so, I need to cleanse it.” Whoop, there it is. Told ya. Old-timer speak. Can’t be helped.
He nodded “You believe that if they were still alive you would displease them.”
“No, If they were still alive, I would be a Onna-bugeisha by now,” I shake my head “… wait…. no, I should be one now too regardless, and in straying from the path, therefor I have shamed my family.”
He nods, understanding “Ah, I understand now. You come from a Samurai family. I was scared for a moment that you’d be like another student at DWMA… he’s…. no, Never mind that… “
“Um… ok…” I took a small step back
“Don’t be afraid though… All our students are wonderful! Some may be a little… Different, but they are good people.”
I’m not so sure what he’s hinting at, but I let it drop, I have a feeling that I’ll find out soon enough.
“Anyways, you’ll need a weapon if you’re to complete your schooling.”
“Oh, but I already have a weapon!” I smile, patting my Katana at my side
“Not that kind of weapon,” Lord death Chuckled, “You need you use a weapon student at the academy.”
“Oh…”
You Orokana! I curse my stupidity. Nervously I twist a lock of my Vermillion hair, thinking of how I should have died it blonde. Would hade suited my brains better.
“Don’t worry, ‘ Lord Death soothes, “you’ll find one soon enough. We have a few more new students joining us this year, so you can partner up with one of them.”
“Ok.” I smile. I’m about to leave the Death room when I think of something, “Oh and one more thing, Lord Death…”
“Yes?”
“About the school dormitory, is there any rooms available? I mean, sure, that stack of newspapers is fine and all…. But…”
He Chuckled, “That wont be necessary, Emiko, we have a room for you.”
“Really?” I breathe a sigh of relief, “That’s good to hear. Do I owe ya much? I’ve got some cash on me, but not a lot, I’m guessing I can find an honest job somewhere around here.”
“You don’t owe the school anything, Emiko, most student’s have their own place so the dormitory is practically vacant. Pick any room you like.“
I bow in appreciation, “Thank you, Lord Death”
And then I leave. An ordinary enough statement, but the second I left the death room, I entered a new life.
Crap. That sounded a little over-dramatic, but it’s true.
Wait, am I even allowed to talk to myself while I narrate my own story?
Well, the rules can stick it. I’m doing it anyway.
