Clean Your Clock

Tashiro was minding his own business when someone from the crowd called out to him.

"Why did you do that?"  A man said.

The question was so bizarre that Tashiro had to pause and turn around,

"Huh?"

"You should have left well alone; now we are going to be worse off."

The Boxer, in his new body, looked around at the mounds of household waste piled high, like a runaway landfill had hit the town from all angles.

"Worse off?" He said, nodding sarcastically. "You live in TRASH."

"We were happy with the arrangement." A dirty-faced woman said, rocking a baby.  "It meant we were left alone."

"Happy, really?"

"Really."

"Yeah, well tell your face! You're about two weeks from coughing up a lung, then who is gonna look after your kid?"

"I take offence at that!"

"So what? You're a grown-up, deal with it! Don't expect others to babysit your feelings!"

"She has a point," An old man said. "It would have been better for us, if you had..." He paused, realising what he was going to say next.

Tashiro took off the Vagabond's round spectacles, breathed on the lens and rubbed them with the edge of his dirty, tatty Kimono. 

"Go on," He said patiently.

"It-it would have been better for us, had you died in the fight."

Urgh, these people. Not even bothering to hide their self-centredness.

"It might surprise you all to learn..."Tashiro said. "I was dead." He checked the cleanliness of the glasses while waiting for a response. There was a murmur of disbelief in the crowd. The big man had clearly done a number on this poor fellow.

"S-sorry, what?"

"You heard. I died and came back. Obviously." Tashiro said, dancing on the balls of his feet and shadow-boxing. "Think of it as an upgrade, oh right...um...how do I put it? I'm a lot better in every way. Except in the looks department, can't do anything about that."

The crowd looked at each other, trying to get a bead on whatever this crazy man was hinting at. 

"Well, you do seem a little more active." A shy woman said. "The Knotweed we know...or knew... was meek and never had any friends or talked to anyone. He never left his hut except to drink at the bar. Alone."

Tashiro closed his eyes and placed a fist over his heart. A Hikikomori in every sense. Big respect, you old hermit. RIP. Already done with this crowd of whining peasants, he continued on his way. 

"Wait!" Someone else called out. "It doesn't change the fact we're now going to be targeted from both sides." 

Tashiro merely cocked his head with a look of disinterest. 

"Ehh? Why is that my problem?"

"It will affect us all. That man was a noble; he will take his revenge."

"Y'all so fond of sacrifice, pick a name." The Vagabond said, waving a hand. Then stopped. "What do you mean 'both' sides?"

Tashiro was suddenly hit with a pang inside his head. A memory had surfaced, but not one of his own. It seemed there was a residual presence of the previous occupant in his body.  

It felt like he was watching a cutscene, with yellow, white and red shapes flickering over the memory. Does this guy remember in 8mm? WTF.

I'm in a hut, but it's night. Already, the village is on fire, and I can hear the screams. A child cries nearby. 'He's afraid', Knotweed tells himself. I want to help, but I'm hiding. I can wait it out, in the safety, in the dark. The child is screaming louder now.  He's right outside. Incoming horse hooves thunder, I can feel them shaking the hut. The Child holds its breath, fear has silenced him. Shit shit shit! Knotweed rips open the door and drags the kid inside just as the Raiders charge past on horseback. I take the child under the trapdoor. Covering his mouth. Waiting. Hoping. Praying.

Looking around, he saw the tell-tale signs of a recent bandit raid. The deep scars of a blade cutting through buildings. Blackened ruins resembling a bad tooth, some with a thin ribbon of smoke trailing in the soft breeze. Finally, the blood. Arterial spray splashed over walls, the splatter shaped like red feathers.

"I appear to have lost my memory. Please remind me who attacked this village."

The oldest of the bunch (ie a quest-giver type) stepped forward.

"Every three to four months, the raiders come from the forest and carve through everything and everyone. They never stop, they just rush through, setting fires to properties and people. If they're unlucky, usually they just cut everyone down in an instant. No one is spared, no man, woman or child."

"Why?" 

"Why else? For sport? Control? Assert dominance? It is a blood lust fueled by pure anger and a love for violence. No one knows the reason, only the outcome."

Tashiro folded his arms and shook his head. 

Just what I need. An army of Edgelords.

"What do you want from me?" He asked.

An old woman piped up: "Go to the noble and apologise. Say you're sorry. Promise to make it up to him. Even if it means..." She stopped talking, already feeling shameful.

"Ehhh? That's your answer? More abuse? More exploitation?"

Tashiro bristled, knowing full well these folks treated his survival like an inconvenience. Now, they expect him to become a piñata for some tubby incel.

It didn't help that a group of villagers he recognised were giving him the side-eye after previously cheering for his death during the battle. He could only smile back and nod.

Their response was a round of 'Tch's'  or spitting on the ground.

Worth it. Tashiro thought, scanning the line of helpless, pitiable faces. What do they want? You're telling me there's not one person who is going to man up and try to fight back? Oh, who am I kidding? Look at them. They can barely fight hunger pangs. 

He was still royally pissed off. 

Channelling every Otome villainess, he placed a hand on his hip and pointed with the fan-shaped metal, while tilting his head at a haughty angle. 

"Listen up you feeble band of ingrates. I stood up to an oppressive force, something you dirt munchers couldn't even dream of. So by all means, stand and stare gormlessly while someone else is being attacked, but don't complain when no one comes to  your aid, because we all know you live in a mindset of defeat!" 

Someone from the back nervously spoke up:

"But what can we do?"

"SILENCE!" Tashiro roared, clearly revelling in this new role. "It doesn't take a superior intellect such as mine to discern that Invaders rely on three things: A weak leader, an indifferent police force and a passive community. You can't do anything about the first two, but you can stand up for yourselves. The way I see it, you fools have two choices: Get in their faces or prepare to live on your knees, because there is no way your new masters will let you up! Get mean, get bloody and stop being pushed around. Viking Minds lead to Viking RULE!" 

He pumped a fist high above his head. 

And only him.

 No one cheered or raised their fists.  All he got was confused silence and a picture of tumbleweed pinwheeling on the breeze.

Well...this is awkward.

"What the hell is a Viking?" A female voice said from behind. Tashiro turned around and saw a young woman in an apron, with her black hair tied up in a high ponytail, looking at him with arms folded. "All that big talk has to lead somewhere."

Shiiiit,  Tashiro thought I got too deep into my Nordland Sagas.

"It's a warrior tribe from Europe." He said. "And I never said I had the answers." He watched the crowd murmur and disperse back to their routine lives. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I seem to remember a tea room being around here."

The woman chuckled. "Really? You intend to serve yourself?"

"If it's that kind of place."

"It will never be that kind of place."

"You're an expert all of a sudden?"

The woman stopped briefly and smirked, thumbing to the entrance of a small Chashitsu.

"Help yourself." She said.

The interior of the tea room was basic, with wooden walls and a wide table in the centre, big enough to accommodate eight on each side. The place was almost empty apart from a few sleepy types barely able to keep upright.

Tashiro stopped.  Everything felt familiar, a little too much so. 

Spreading a hand, he moved it around like a Geiger counter, sensing a memory return. After a few seconds, it stopped at a cushion at the back, next to a crate and away from the main table.

"My regular spot." He said, taking his regular place, taking comfort in the familiar, even though it was his first time. 

"As always," The woman said, taking her place near the urn. "It seems your memory is still intact after the big fight."

"You saw that?" 

"I heard a commotion and then people left, when the Noble gave his speech about what would happen if we didn't comply with his demands. Then you got up. Something I did not expect."

"Yumi Naro." Tashiro muttered. "Why do I know that name?"

The woman smiled. 

"I guess there is hope for you yet." She said. Unfortunately, at that point, Tashiro started to tap at thin air; literally, tap-tap-tap at nothing, like a mime testing a microphone. "Spoke too soon."

Come on, come on. He thought Where's the status screen?  He began to 'pinch' the air, as if he were zooming in on an invisible map.

 Yumi Naro drank the tea. 

"It's gonna be a long day."

Tashiro suddenly had a thought.

"Do I live here?"

"In the Tea room? No! No one lives in the Tea house."

"Where do I live?"

"Nowhere, you move from place to place. Offering cheap medicines. Effective medicines, so it seems."

"Really?"

"Yeah, you're a popular guy." Yumi said, placing a tea down in front of him. "You keep hidden and on the move because the medicines are not licensed."

"I sound like some kind of shaman." Tashiro said, looking out past the ruined garden, toward the pale-green sky, where a Giant moon seemed a little too close for comfort. "And what the hell is up with that moon? Why is it tail-gating the world? And why is the sky Pistachio coloured?"

"I don't know what tail-gating is, but the founders of this place used to live on another Planet.  They were forced to leave after harbouring the mother of our village, who brought them to  Pancea in exile. Apparently, it shares a lot of commonalities with the other place."

"Earth."

"What is?"

"The origin of your ancestors, I'm assuming. Judging by the clothes and buildings, I would say your founders existed around the Sengoku period." 

"And you're from this Earth?"

"Give me a day, and I will educate you on all things."

"Good to know, but at this moment,  you have run out of time. They're right outside."

"Who is? Wait, what?"

A group of eight angry-looking thugs burst into the Tea Room, brandishing weapons, one of whom pointed to Tashiro and immediately stalked over, raising his Machete. Tashiro jumped to his feet and grabbed the wrist of the would-be assailant.

"Gentlemen." Yumi said in a low voice, "I would appreciate it if you could take your fight outside."

Everyone went still and looked at the woman. Out of respect, they took the battle to the ruined garden.

Wasting no time, Tashiro ducked and weaved from chops and slashes, managing to avoid getting skewered by the Pitchfork.

Luckily, the grip was loose and he quickly grabbed the pitchfork, using the handle to smash against the Thug’s jaw. The man flipped backwards onto the crab-grass. Tashiro then went for the Heavy-set guy, who had no centre of gravity and was easily toppled with a ‘Mountain Storm’ Judo technique, finding himself bent back over a stone bird table. Another guy was taken down with a Guillotine choke hold on the deck.

Three more fell, he grabbed a Nunchaku and booting the guy in the stomach. He gave a German suplex to an assailant with two daggers, who seemed more surprised than outraged. One more went down with a punch to the throat. Then the two remaining blade carriers: one with a katana, the other with a Machete. 

Thankfully, the two attackers relied more on emotion than skill and were quickly taken out, using their own force against them. Exhausted, Tashiro bent over, leaning against his knees.

Yumi fanned herself while observing the heap of groaning bodies.
“I think it is fair to say, you are not who you claim.” She said. “Knotweed would have begged for his life and still lost a hand. This…this is first-rate Ninja stuff. So I ask, who the hell are you?”

“What if I told you I died and was reborn into the body of a middle-aged vagabond?” Tashiro said, wiping his forehead.

Yumi shot him a sly look and smiled.

“I would say, reincarnations start with a life at the beginning, not nearing its end.” She said and shrugged. “You’re certainly worth keeping an eye on, though.”

“Speaking of which, who were these people?”

“No one special, I have seen them gamble around town. Cock fights, bare knuckle brawls and the like. I assume they just bet on the big man to take you down, as a joke. So when you got up, they lost any future winnings. The sure thing became a busted flush. Nice ‘Mountain Storm’, by the way.”

“You know Judo?”

“No, you yelled out the attack move while you were doing it.”

Tashiro looked away, his face pale with embarrassment.

Gah! I totally became a Chuuni during the fight! 

“Anyway,” Yumi said. “You might want to disappear, some of these guys are connected to Criminal gangs. You'll be hunted from now on, if you stayed in the village.”

Tashiro sighed and started walking away. “Sorry about the mess. I'll find some way to pay you back.”

"Waiting for a vagabond to clear his debt like trying to catch smoke with your hands." Yumi smiled. "We both know which one is more productive."

***

Far from the slums, the huge Forest stretched for miles in every direction.

For close to five hours, Tashiro could feel every branch, every rock, and every sucking mud path that led him deeper. Despite this, he kept the direction random, never using the obvious road or following the river (which would be too obvious for pursuers). Every half hour, he changed direction, plotting another trail and losing himself deliberately while rationing the pocket of Saketoba for sustenance.

Eventually, he came to a small, dilapidated cabin in the woods.

A Chashitsu?

It was rundown as all hell; the conical thatched roof resembled mangy fur, not to mention the smaller eaves looked like hackles of a bird.

The pale planks of dark wood were weather-beaten, yet still had enough strength to keep the place upright. Nothing about the place looked safe or remotely inviting.

Tashiro didn’t care. It had a roof. Somewhere to sleep without getting rained on.

Spurred on by fleeting reserves of energy, he entered the front, checking to see if there were any occupants or wild animals.

Satisfied he was alone, Tashiro crept onto creaky floorboards and unkempt Tatami mats, with its old bamboo coming apart like frayed rope.

Lying face down in the smallest room, he let his body drift to sleep for a well-earned break.

It didn’t last long, however.

Sometime during the night, a faint padding woke him up, but he remained still, not quite believing what he was seeing, as his face was pressed against the floor.

It was a pair of dirty little feet pointed at him.

Feet belonging to that of a child.