Training Arc

The interior of Fukako’s house was deathly quiet. It was just Chouji, Morty, and Shimada. Of the three only one was dressed for the occasion: Shimada in his ever-crisp, shale gray suit. Other than his skin, every part of his ensemble including his scythe looked like it walked out of a black-and-white photograph. Chouji and Morty were in their pajamas. Morty felt as vulnerable as an unearthed worm, but Chouji kept a cool head. He had escaped the hospital wearing less.

Scanning his surroundings, Chouji imagined the possible scenarios that could transpire. How would he escape in those scenarios? Where are the exits and what are the proper strategies to reach them? His gamer brain was abuzz with possibilities. He learned from playing Go that whoever makes the first move declares themself the loser. Same with chess, romance, lots of things really. Being the first to let up proves to be a horrible loss in tempo. Yet with how Shimada was postured, it seemed he understood that too. Chouji’s brow furrowed. This guy was good…

Morty wildly swung his scythe.

Chouji blinked. When had he grabbed his weapon? He kept forgetting how deadly Morty could be.

But it didn’t matter. Morty was striking from a position of laying down, which Shimada deflected with clockwork precision.

“Easy there, champ,” Shimada said. His voice betrayed no hint of bloodlust or violence. All the more terrifying. That must be how good he was at hiding it. Then he turned to Chouji and pointed the pole end of the scythe at him.

“And you. You’re thinking yourself down the wrong alley, stop that.”

Chouji scooted back.

“Reapers can read minds?” he asked.

“No, you dolt. You have a terrible poker face.” Shimada brought his scythe back to his side mechanically. “Calm down, wouldja? It’s one in the goddamn morning.”

Morty stood up, doing his best to look threatening in his pajamas. Even with a giant scythe, it wasn’t working. His shaking hands and anxious face weren’t doing him any favors.

“W-We’re not going to fall for one of your ploys so easily!” he said.

Shimada’s eyebrow twitched.

“Good grief, there is no ploy. And you better watch your tone with your senpai.”

Chouji also stood up, posing his arms with hands flat and blade-like in some sort of martial-arts adjacent position. It would have been more effective if he actually knew any martial arts. But he didn’t want Morty to be alone.

“No ploy? I find that hard to believe. For what other reason would you be here besides Reaping my soul?”

Try as they might, neither Chouji nor Morty were intimidating Shimada. This battle-hardy old fool had seen too much, and a couple whippersnappers weren’t going to get in his way. But what was his way?

Shimada scratched his cheek. “None. I was just in the area.”

The excuse was so shoddy it almost made Morty laugh.

“And you just so happened to visit the house of a high school girl?” Chouji asked.

Despite the darkness, Shimada’s eyes lasered in on Chouji. There was no physical difference in his irises or sclera or anything, yet those eyes were instantly filled with fury. It felt like being under the careful gaze of a hungry lion. Chouji had to remind himself once more, he was in the presence of gods of Death.

“I just so happened to visit the house of my sister,” Shimada said.

The words took a moment to register. Morty dropped his scythe. If it weren’t an ethereal out-of-game object that only took proper physical form at its owner’s discretion, it would have sliced into the floor.

“Y-Y-Y-You’re…” Morty said.

“…Fukako’s brother?!” Chouji said.

“Wow,” Shimada said. “I’m absolutely floored by your smarts. Shame that Hell doesn’t have a problem-sleuthing department, they’d really like your whole puzzle-solving power-couple schtick.”

Morty’s face lit up like the fourth of July (which is an American holiday that involves illegal amounts of fireworks.)

“We-We-We’re n-not—!” he stammered. The corner of Shimada’s mouth twitched slightly, the closest thing to a grin Morty had ever seen from his senpai.

“I kid, I kid.”

Chouji had no reaction because he didn’t hear a word of that interaction. He instead spent that time peering deeply into Shimada’s face. Now that he knew what he was looking for, it was obvious. Same nose, same brow shape, same chin. Shimada wasn’t lying.

“But you’re so old,” Chouji said. Now it was his turn to blush as the other two looked at him.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to say that out loud.”

Shimada straightened his tie, ignoring Morty’s surprised giggles and Chouji’s mortal embarassment.

“I’ve always been mature for my age. ‘Sides, having a bigwig corporate job stressed me out to the point of grey hairs, balding, a heart-attack all before 25.”

“W-Wait, so you’re—”

“Only 22 years old.”

“HOLY SHIT!” Morty yelled, earning him a “Shhh!” from both other parties.

“So you are not going to reap me?” Chouji said. “I’m simply double-checking.”

“Nuh-uh. You’re a pal of Fukako’s, and it’s clear how much she appreciates you being ‘round. I’m not gonna be the asshole who takes that small bit of happiness away from her.”

Like a quicktime event, opportunity flashed before Chouji’s eyes. This was his in.

“But other Reapers will be! They are gunning after me, you know. Are you really going to let them hurt your sister like that?”

Shimada’s eyes narrowed. “What are you playing at, little man?”

“I’m simply suggesting that you help us. We could use as much allyship as we can get our hands on.”

“Help you how?” he asked.

“Well, you could…” It must have been the late hour or the stress of being found out by another Reaper, but Chouji just couldn’t think of any responses. He glanced as urgently and covertly as he could at Morty, who shrugged. 

“You don’t have a plan, do ya?” Shimada shook his head with a wistful smile. “You poor things. Well don’t worry. I do have something in mind…”

~⚔~

I emerged at the top of the steps, Peter in tow. After I spoke the truth, Gina had no more lies she could spin. She just sat there in silence, staring off blankly. And I had nothing more to say to her. I didn’t know the exact reason she had stuck to my side for so long, but I couldn’t trust somehow who doesn’t trust me. I couldn’t take a risk like that with my brother’s life on the line.

Soon we were back in the royal hall. The king sat upon his throne, tending to his women like a farmer tends to his crops: dutifully, thoroughly, emotionlessly. He saw me and sat up with a grin on his face, because he already knew his answer.

“Well?” he asked anyway.

With my heart still mourning the closest thing I had to a friend in this world, I said, “I’ll train under you.”