The Shadow of Ossary

"...Those behind the attack have been tracked down...."

Must've been raining outside. The telly screen kept flickering, cutting in and out.

"...The group in Kaijan that claimed responsibility, self-proclaimed Kings of the Corners—"

Lachlan snorted to himself from the other end of the bed, half-watching the light playing across the dark stone-blocks of the wall as he fiddled with the bandages on his arms, rewrapping around angry, raw marks. The KoCs, eh? He smirked under the messy fringe in his eyes. Good word to describe them.

"—Joint effort between Wilind and Nihon are making good progress—"

Funny that he had a telly in his room, though. When'd he gotten that? Couldn't remember.

"It's your turn, Mactíre-beag."

He looked up as a silhouette loomed in the light of the doorway, giving the bandages one last tug. Been years since he'd used those, too. Hadn't it? Clearly he needed them, though. "Aye sir."

Trailing obediently after him down endless tunnels with flickering lights, he glanced into rooms, others lying back on their mattresses and staring up at the ceiling with empty eyes. Years and years spent here, and where would they be in five, or ten? Same place, same patch of ceiling.

He remembered those feelings well.

"You think they'll really root out the Kocs?" He asked the massive back in front of him. "I want to get in. I look old enough to sign up with the army, don't I?"

Wait I am old enough, aren't I? Huh, maybe that was why they kept rejecting him. Still sixteen. Hadn't managed to grow up anywhere in there.

"Short skinny pup like you?" A glowing eye with tiny glasses perched on a severe nose looked down at him, teeth glinting in a sneer. Flames of hell. "Doubt it. Now stay quiet and stay in your place."

He stuffed his bandaged hands in his pockets, his left tingling uncomfortably. Last match had been hell on it. Didn't want to go through that again this soon. It'd only been a day.

Lowering his shoulders and doing his best to make himself seem as submissive as possible—screw all of this power-play crud, he thought as he hissed in a silent breath—he tried asking, "It's just the wolf pit, yeah?"

The man in the uniform rumbled. "What do you think you're here for, lad? Tea parties? You're a faoladh, not some mingy light artist from Kyo."

You say that like I wanted to be here, he didn't say out loud on pain of being disrespectful and all that shite that'd get him jumped on.

A hand still dug into his shoulder, warningly close to his neck, and he stiffened as the man growled. "The pain makes you fight better, in any case. Now get out there."

The grip tossed him forward, and he stumbled into blurred lights and impressions of people shouting from outside the ring, resignation already curling up in his gut to die there. Turning, he caught a glimpse of another shadow approaching slowly from the opposite passage, glimmering bars closing off the way behind it.

Pain didn't make him fight better. He settled uselessly into a fighting stance he'd been taught a lifetime ago, lifting skinny arms swathed in white strips, about as useless as sticks against a bear. Pain just clouded his judgement.

Well, to hell with this. I'll win without it. He narrowed his eyes against the spike of fear that fluttered deep in his chest as the man big as a bear and already wearing his yuurei in a ghostly cape stalked towards him. Keeping his distance, his bare feet scuffed against the sand, cheers turning to jeers and catcalls, too bright and distracting.

The bear took a swipe with a snarling roar and he leapt back, switching to his wolf form, the crowd erupting in a sea of noise. Hated that sound. Darting under the lumbering lunge, he leapt up to sink his teeth in just under the arm—

His— human teeth? His eyes met glowing white, and a force like a train smashed into him.

All the air and all the focus slammed out of him in a jolting cough, nothing left to wheeze out when he cracked back into the wall. It crunched.

Broken, everything broken. Oh god. He couldn't move, slumping into a curled ball gasping raggedly for breath at the bottom of a deep well, cheers and insults melting in a ringing mass that didn't make any sense. Didn't hurt as much as it should've. Was he paralysed?

I can't... I can't.... He hissed out between his teeth, his vision swimming on the obake looming in a sideways world, playing it up to the crowd and taking his time to stalk over so he could finish him off. B-bloody hell—

His hands dug against his sides to clutch shaking fistfuls of his shirt, and a curse slipped between his chattering teeth.

No choice.

He clenched his eyes shut and called on the power of his yuurei, letting it snarl through his veins and erupt from his skin in a tingling fog.

That tingle instantly seized his entire skinny frame in searing agony, the scream of the crowd crushing into the scream in his head, a raw burning in his throat and blinding in his charred hands—

His eyes snapped open to the burning Core of the world itself scorching straight through his retinas and sizzling every nerve down to the molecule.

It was the sharp breath that brought him back to a dark room, a little loud in his ears. Quiet. Why was it so quiet? All he could hear was the thud of his heartbeat, no distant waves, wind, or snoring. Where the hell— am I?

Took him a minute to place that he'd woken up.

Groaning, he pushed himself up and ran his hands over his face, massaging his thumbs at the locked-tight tension in his jaw. What a damn nightmare. His arm still throbbed, too. Must've tried to actually pull his yuurei and got about two seconds into burning away the gash he'd picked up from that thief before it woke him up.

He huffed a quiet laugh into the darkness, sandpaper throbbing behind his eyelids. Least I never managed a match that bad. Unfair too— that dream logic was rigged to hell and back.

And good luck with getting back to sleep anytime soon. With a sigh, he stumbled his way out of bed—not a futon, a real bed that felt just a bit wrong after all this time—and stretched his way out to the team's common room, picking up a simple cup of water on his way down to where the waning light of the sun's ghost streamed through the windows.

The air bit through his light shirt and pants as he stepped out into the garden he'd seen earlier, but at least it wasn't frosty. He picked his way over a pebbled path to friendlier stepping-stones, finding himself a nice bench under the cherry trees and flopping down with a long sigh no one was around to hear, resting his elbows on the back.

Craning his head back, he watched the flowers stir in a faint, chilly breeze, a couple petals shedding and drifting down in the shrunken light floating high above, pinpricks of stars twinkling between the branches. He took a sip of water, rolling it around his mouth. Nice place.

A faint rustle caught his ear, and he tilted his head over to see someone else up and about, too. The other gaijin in his team, actually. Tall man with long hair he kept loose except for the braid tying it out of his face.

Lachlan hummed and casually dipped his hands behind the backrest, half-squinting at him as he approached. The name escaped his half-awake brain. "Tell me you're not Eden. That's the other guy, isn't it? White hair, high and mighty attitude."

The other blinked, eyeing him. "No, I'm—" he paused, and tilted his head slightly as if considering something "—I'm Doresu Sukaato."

He raised an eyebrow at the perfectly casual tone and straight face. "Dress Skirt's a bit of a funny name, but I think you're already doing better than Eddy, so, congratulations. I go by Shirt Pants sometimes, myself."

That earned him a smile. His mysterious companion—it had been something with a "d" sound—moved to lean back against the trunk of a cherry tree opposite him, still watching but with a more curious air as Lachlan idly rolled the base of his cup on the lip of the bench's back. "Why are you out here?"

He tilted his head nonchalantly. "Could ask the same about you."

Dress Skirt shrugged, folding his arms. "I heard noise in the common room. I was curious."

His Nihonjin seemed a little stiff. Could just be the way he talked. "Sorry to wake you then. Quick question, do you understand Angaelic or Nihonjin better?"

"I know Angaelic." The man nodded, switching languages, the slight crease between his eyebrows easing. And then he hesitated. "That's what you asked, right?"

Interesting, he had an almost southern Rhinan twang, like he came from Tersacadia and not Shangzu, despite his looks. "Near enough. They've probably got you stuck in a language course too, then."

For just a moment the other squinted at him. "...Yeah. Where do you come from, again?"

He blew a lock of hair out of his face with an exasperated sigh. "Oh come on, is everyone and the farmer's dog going to bring this up? You can't have never heard the accent before. I know Aerend's more common around the place, but the Islans spread around a fair bit, too."

"I wasn't saying anything, just curious. You speak Nihonjin just like a native."

"Tell that to the president," he grumbled, flicking his sleeve down over his hand and taking a drink from his cup. "Apparently I don't know enough kanji for him."

Doresu shrugged. "At least it'll be easy for you."

"Well, if you want, I can help you out a bit. Had to learn it myself, after all."

The other tilted his head, studying him. "...Sure. Thanks."

He waved it off with a flick of his fingers. For a moment they went silent, just the breeze ruffling the trees. The tiredness behind his eyes was starting to catch up with him, and he let his lids slip closed for a bit, listening to the night sounds.

"You just couldn't sleep?"

He cracked an eye open, watching Doresu watch him. "I'll be the first to admit I'm not the best sleeper," he admitted, dragging himself more upright and canting his head lazily with a shrug, adding in a mutter to himself, "Didn't expect Ossary to be the one shoving in tonight, though. Probably should've."

It was just like back then, after all. Bunch of formshifters vying for top spot, snapping each other into place like the animals they could turn into. They always did hate someone refusing to play by their little "pack" rules, like college but among wolves, funnily enough.

God, how he'd hated that place.

The other cocked his head. "I don't either. Not really."

Lachlan lifted his cup in an ironic cheer. "Might have to make a club, then."

"Maybe." Doresu smiled, and then frowned at his arm as the loose sleeve slipped down before he could catch it. "Why is your arm wrapped up?"

"Hm?" He lowered it mostly back behind the bench. At least he hadn't caught the scars. Probably the wrong angle to see the worst of it on his right. "Oh, just got a little scratched up on the way here. Sliced it open."

It was a little hard to tell in the dark, but he felt like Doresu looked him over. "Can't you just use your shadow? Heal it?"

"My yuurei?" He shrugged. "I could, but it'd hurt like hell. Doesn't take that long to heal by itself, anyway."

"Huh, I never really noticed," the other said half under his breath.

"Some people rip off bandaids, I let them wash off." Flicking the corner of his mouth up, he pointed a finger at him around his cup. "Unlike most obake, I'm no masochist, take that how you like."

"Are you... insulting me?"

He didn't sound insulted in the least— more amused than anything. Lachlan smiled, shifting off the bench and levering himself to his feet again, hands hidden in his sleeves. "Anyway, I'd best get back to it. Big day tomorrow. Nice talking with you, Doresu Sukaato."

Doresu's quietly amused snort followed him back across the garden.

___________________

As it turned out, actual Samurai training didn't begin until mid-morning.

About four hours after they woke up.

Could be worse, he reflected as he and his little team that mostly hated him lined up with the others in the hangar by their... he kept wanting to call them egg-pods or something. Cores. That was it: cores. At least everyone had been too focused on the morning physical session to start stoking rivalries and marking out their little territories.

Doresu—Drake, that'd been what Kyubi-sama called him, but he was fond of the nickname now—had even groggily answered his casual "morning". Now if he could just get the others to work with him, that'd be fantastic.

He stifled a yawn as the kami talked, Ariake's face stuck in a permanent scowl on his left, Drake barely more awake than he'd been when they lined up on the track outside on his right, and King Edward probably ignoring the lot of them.

"—And that should cover all our bases. You won't need it, but your suits have a special monitor that tracks mana fluctuation, and if you do hear an alert, you'll pull your throttles back to zero immediately."

Like a magical Geiger counter. Reassuring thought. He tugged at the snug collar of his not-flight-suit. At least these things come with their own gloves.

"Now remember, the Samurai is essentially just like any other projection, just more intimately connected to your spirit. Imagine it doing something just like you would with a glimmer construction, and it should do so." With that, she clapped her hands. "Alright! Into your cores!"

A few moments later, wondering vaguely if Doresu was managing to keep his even longer hair from getting caught in the helmet's seal, he settled into the one marked "sixteen" in kanji—hadn't noticed that yesterday, but it helped him pick out which one was his—and took the grips with a deep breath. They'd locked the throttles to level three out of ten, this time. Training wheels to prevent overload, whatever that entailed.

S'pose I have to take this nice and easy. Bracing himself, he squeezed the handles, little grip safeties clicking under his hands, though he had to double check on his left to make sure he'd gotten it. And he shifted them forwards, both stiffly clacking into position on the first notch and locking there when he eased his grip. Simple. Just like gears, really.

This time he was ready when the Core-En released into the cockpit. Closing his eyes, gritting his teeth through the disorientation of his soul splitting in half, he pictured himself rising from a kneel as the armour coalesced around the core.

The vague, dreamlike feeling of actually rising from his knees threw him off a bit, but with a little mental distance he let the construct keep its own balance, Kyubi now reaching just a bit over his knee. She grinned up at them all, someone stumbling off to his left but managing not to fall on his or her face this time.

"Good, that's much better than your first try! You're all improving already." The way she looked and sounded felt strangely blurry, like a dream. Hadn't noticed that so much last time, blindsided by the whole thing like he'd been. "Now, in formation, march out of the hangar into the arena."

They did so, Lachlan neatly taking the lead with his trio of ducklings next to Hirano's number one, or just plain ichi in kanji. Oji would think his own being called juu-roku was hilarious. Shame he hadn't gotten plain old roku, but it still fit.

The bright sun greeted them as they strode out into a slight pit about the size of three hurling pitches, mostly stumble-free, and took up their respective ends, his with Hirano's on the north end, the other two down on the south side.

"Good. Now, whenever you're ready, manifest whatever weapon you like and take a swing!"

Hold on, take a swing? Thought it was just manoeuvres and practice projecting a sword or— A flash caught his eye, and he turned.

To see Hirano manifest a sword and instantly move to slice his head off.