He Didn't Have A Name.
He didn’t have a name.
He was never taught he had one.
The biting cold of these slums was all he knew.
Curled in on himself, he sat on stolen matting.
Teeth chattering and arms clinging hoping to squeeze out more warmth.
The hunger was unbearable too.
Yet in this hour, someone walked along this alley.
Slicked-back hair.
Tinted round glasses.
A suit that looked too good for a place like this.
No one ever wore clothes like that.
…
They looked right at him.
“What’s someone like you doing out late in the cold?”
A voice coarse as sandpaper, exuding utter grit.
He could catch a glimpse of their face, tan skin, stubble and numerous small scars.
“... No where else to go.”
He said back.
…
Staring blankly, the man broke a smile.
“H’well ain’t that just sad.”
He had not a care as it seemed, a hardened heart of the streets.
“You’re some sort of senior syndicate member, aren’t you?”
“Pft- What’s it to ya? You one of those armchair critics?”
…
Was he really going to ask that?
Was he that desperate?
“...Come on boy, say-”
“Let me join you!”
…
The man paused, a subtle lean forwards…
—He wheezed, holding his sides.
A loud bark of laughter.
He ran out of breath.
“Yer’ just shrimp meat! What makes you think you’ve got what it takes, boy?”
“... Better than how I’m living now.”
The man put his hand on the boy’s shoulder.
“Don’tcha think getting in means you live rent free yah? Gotta pull your own.”
They wore a toothy grin, gazing through him.
“I can try.”
Another wheeze.
“That’s the spirit. Now pick yourself up and hit the road.”
He rose to his feet, the shivering hadn’t stopped.
“C’mon, the path to greatness ain’t a cakewalk now.”
The man turned away, starting to walk.
They didn’t look back, not a glance.
Stumbling forward, he followed that path.
His feet numb and legs weak.
The man put his hands in his pockets, effortlessly striding.
He was too far behind.
That very future was walking out of his grasp.
“I… I can’t, please, slow down!”
But the man ignored him.
…
He had to be faster, it was the only way.
He slipped.
“AAGHHK-”
Grazes on his bare knees, blood diluted from the puddles of past rainfall.
But.
He got up.
And ran.
Every movement was sloppy, pain made running hard.
And the fear of falling again harder.
But he was still just short of fully catching up.
A sharp turn.
Onto a different alley.
He couldn’t lose him, yes, he couldn’t afford to.
…
Another turn.
Was this on purpose!?
Was he trying to lose him?
No, he wouldn’t let him, he-
…
“Still following me?”
The boy panted, holding onto the side of an alley wall.
“I… Had to.”
“H’well that’s some dedication… You realise I had no intent on you joining right?”
…
“W-what-!?”
The man laughed again.
“Letting a kid join a crime syndicate… Tsk- You want to join badly huh?”
Anger.
Shattered expectations.
The boy’s eyes lingered on his bleeding knees.
“... Yes. I want nothing more.”
…
“Yer’ kiddin’... Right?”
“... I have nowhere else...”
“Yer’ rather gloom for a kid.”
“Please, just…. Let me join.”
…
The man snorted a laugh, clapping his hands like this was comedy gold.
“Pft- Ya know what. Sure kiddo, it’s your death wish.”
His breath was shaky, about to fall under his own weight.
But the man only smiled.
He had never seen such a wide smile in these slums.
…
Steel met steel.
The sounds of metallic clashing ringing throughout.
A dialogue, rather than a dance.
The boy’s swings were imprecise, yet deliberate.
Each served a point in his mind, but were sloppy with execution.
Weave.
The partner pivots and deflects.
With just half gauntlets, they cleared the space.
Wham!
Gloved knuckles drove a punch into the boy’s side.
He stumbled back, falling down onto his hands.
“There’s levels to this, Freshie.”
That was Kurso.
A trainer for those that were deemed ‘weaker’ within the syndicate.
“Are you actually going to teach me anything..?”
“Learning is pain, fighting is all skill. I learnt by getting my teeth kicked in till I stopped losing.”
Kurso stood above him, arms crossed.
Was this the trainer he needed?
Was he even a good trainer?
The boy stood up, raising his voice.
“Could you at least point out what I’m doing wrong!?”
Kurso wore a tired stare, he sighed.
“Scrub, my job ain’t about making things easier. It’s to have you rise to it.”
That…
Wasn’t the response he was looking for, at all.
If anything it made him quite upset, mad even.
He wanted to improve so why was he not being told how he could?
“Alright then..! Let’s go again then!”
Kurso looked him over, a subtle smile.
“That’s the spirit.”
…
Three rounds.
That’s how many they fought.
And how many he lost.
He couldn’t understand why.
Now laid back on a busted couch.
Dusty and torn.
Both him and the couch.
“Yo… You got fried.”
A new voice showed itself.
Barely containing a snicker.
“So what? Kurso has more experience…”
“Excusesss, excuses…”
He turned his head, actually looking at the voice.
It was someone not much shorter than himself.
What stood out most was their white hair.
But he wouldn’t take this.
“It’s the truth! How am I supposed to compete with that?”
“Just wiiiin. It’s easy!”
They made it sound like he was the grueling one to listen to.
Everything about this person just grinded his gears.
Another word and he felt he might just go off on them.
“Stop entertaining it. Let them talk to the wall.”
And there he was, Kurso.
“It’s funny though.”
Kurso shot the unfamiliar person a glare.
They couldn’t help but grin back.
“Kira…“
…
“Freshie.”
But quickly, Kurso’s attention turned to him.
“Arthur wants you and the other new gens to see him.”
Arthur, that was someone he saw before.
Not that he ever spoke to them.
“The leader right?”
“Barely leads, just started the syndicate.”
That was reassuring…
“Just come.”
And like that, he was dragged off by a still sore arm.
Kira’s laugh drilling itself into his head.
Thud.
He was dropped, no longer being pulled by his arm.
“Head inside.”
Kurso stared blankly at a yellow stained glass door.
Standing up, he himself did the same.
Before Kurso turned away from it to walk off.
“It’s intended that you head in. Not wait, staring.”
Those were his parting words.
