Sporadic, spontaneous sparks of thought

If Hiruma had too much pride - ES21 fanfic

Mon, 17 Mar 2008 08:34:19 GMT

Because I am slightly obsessed with hirumamo at the moment I wanted to do a bit of a 'fic - this is like my second attempt at this >_<
Alternative title - What if Mamori hadn't been the manager?
Disclaimer: I dont own these characters or eyeshield 21, if I did then these two would be all over each other by now...:D

Contains spoilers if you havent read beyond the first few chapters and Hiruma's bad language
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If Hiruma had too much pride

‘Fucking filthy locker room…you’d think that with this game being the one before the ’bowl, it’d look and fucking smell more presentable…’

Hiruma Youichi was in trouble, and not the kind of trouble like the mundane shit he had to deal with everyday: the monkey’s loud yelling; the obnoxious ‘ha, haa, haa’s; the fucking fatty’s soft moments; the old man’s attitude; the incoherent grunts from the fucking hedgehog; the rare rebellious punter determined to escape from the control of his little black book…Surprisingly though, the main cause of most of his grief, Anezaki Mamori, or ‘the fucking creampuff,’ hadn’t said a word.

She had been disconcertingly quiet recently. Normally, she’d be shouting at him from her front row seat in the stands but it had been radio silence ever since she’d discovered Eyeshield 21’s true identity after the Poseidon game. Now, Hiruma wasn’t a religious man but God only knew how the Devilbats had managed to keep it a secret from her for that long. In his more contemplative moments Hiruma had half-admitted to himself that he’d kept her in the dark because he liked having the upper hand on her for once - she was a ‘perfect darling’ for sure but a radiant angel can bear its fangs when it needs to…sating itself on a celestial bed and preying on garbage…

Wait…was that a Hamlet quote? What the hell?

He was missing the fucking point.

It wasn’t the time to get caught up in a mental debate about the fucking creampuff, nor start quoting Shakespeare to add some spice to his already violent path to the changing rooms.

Hiruma had just escaped out of the medic’s hut, kicking his all his fucking stuff along the way - his helmet was scratched and dented again and that meant more money to be extorted from the principal….

Fan-fucking-tastic....not that he didn’t enjoy it mind you, but the pain in his arm was making him want to puke today and yesterday’s food all over the blurry floor.

To hell with using his right hand for now. He didn’t even have the energy to maintain his ear-to ear grin, instead, face contorted in a tense and thinly-veiled mask of pain, Hiruma furiously entered the changing rooms, groping clumsily on the top of his locker with his left hand for the taping he always used to bind his arms and calves.

‘Fuuuucckk…’

Standing was like trying to hold up the weight of the world - he didn’t envy Atlas at that point, but then again, Atlas didn’t just get tackled by that fucking giant…actually, Hiruma wouldn’t have minded swapping places for a few minutes. Even with a broken arm, Hiruma figured that Atlas could probably take down that Gao - and according what he just heard from the commentator, would probably be doing a better job than the fucking fatty…what a piece of work is man! The paragon of animals and the quintessence of the fucking dust he was scuffing around on the floor.

His mind was wavering again.

‘Fuck…eyes front, fucking demon,’ he muttered and with his back pressed hard against the locker, he began the laborious process of bandaging his arms, or at least he tried to.

He moved his right arm a millimetre and pain shot up the entire length of his limb and creased up the side of his face. Pausing, (he’d barely begun) he leant his head back against the locker and forced the rising bile back down his throat. Since when did he get this fucking weak? Another part of his mind cackled: when have you ever been that fucking strong?

Thunk.

The shocks to his skull were helping - just slightly. He may not be that powerful physically, but mentally he could ride anything out. So he had thought.

Hiruma squinted into the sickly yellow fluorescent lights that bathed his environment in an uncomfortable, nauseating hue.
Eyes closed was definitely the way to go.
In the middle of psyching himself up for the flood of pain that was going to come when the time came to move his arm, Hiruma’s mind started wandering again.

How did it end up like this?

He was Deimon’s control tower; the blonde satan child with the little black book; mind as sharp as a razor; blackjack king; the quarterback and leader of the Devilbats…he was always careful, careful, planned, precise…in the middle of all his calculations, where had he slipped up?

He heard a roar from the crowd outside - fuck, the brats were slipping…Sena would only go so far as quarterback - if only he could throw as well as he ran! The fucking Anezaki must be having a fit…

Hiruma snorted in his mind: fucking Anezaki…that was funny…to fuck, or not to fuck…not that it was much of a question - she was one hell of a looker - hell, it was hard to say no when she’d insisted on becoming the manager to watch over Sena but Hiruma would be thrice damned before he’d let some disciplinary committee, straight A, creampuff scoffer run his team - his team!

When they’d found Dokurobu in America, Hiruma had felt a wave of relief, finally realising he wouldn’t have to take the strain of being both captain and manager anymore.

No such luck.

When it came down to it, Dokurobu was a fucking drunk. It was lucky that there was a Macdonald’s every five metres in America; the old git was a shit cook as well as a useless manager. Hiruma snorted - the team had actually gained weight from that diet despite all the exercise they were doing.

So Hiruma had set his pointed teeth and hiked his burden higher on his back. He stayed up later, doing the paperwork and the videotapes - his slaves didn’t have a fucking clue about what he wanted out of the film. It was lucky that he could just blackmail all the teachers to give him ‘A’s - not that he ever needed to study anyway.

Hiruma knew he had a fucking good team; they were all filled with energy and drive to get to the the 'bowl and it was his fucking duty - no, honour, to take them the whole fucking way…

If he could get his fucking arm to move.

Now Hiruma is one who has a high tolerance to pain…he’s had his fair share of cuts and bruises and internal bleeding and lacerations from his stint of being quarterback. But concussion is one thing and getting tackled by Gao is another. Of course, he could have blackmailed a nurse to tape his arms for him - or even one of the fucking doctors.

But Hiruma is also one who has a very high sense of pride. If he can’t do it then no other fuckwit will; he can only rely on himself.
‘Maybe that’s where I slipped up…’
In a way, learning to work with other people in a team has been good for him. But he’ll still refuse to show weakness; no expression, gesture, comment that hasn’t been deliberated beforehand nor uncontrolled.

The perfect act.

Only, this visage was starting to shatter - had shattered the moment the first jab of pain had reached his neurons.
‘Where’s a fucking manager when you need one??’ Hiruma spat curses from between his gritted teeth, eyes squeezed almost tight enough to block out the yellow light. He could have had a manager - Anezaki had offered herself but no - him and his fucking pride had turned her down. But now was not the time to reminisce: he had to get a fucking move on with his fucking arm.

He could only rely on himself.

HIruma grabbed the tape in his teeth and started wrapping it around his left arm…
‘SHIIIT! Motherfucking fuckwit taping!!’ It was going all over the place, no support, no help, no control, no help, they were going to lose the fucking game just because he couldn’t get his fucking act together and figure out how to bind his fucking left arm with fucking tape and god knows how he was going to do his fucking right arm if it was fucking hurting this mu-

‘Hiruma.’

He froze at the sound of that voice…No, he thought angrily, you are not going to have a fucking breakdown in front of Anezaki Mamori. He almost flinched when she put her cool hands on his back, ‘Let me do it.’

It wasn’t a question and he wasn’t in a position to argue but he did make a point of looking at the floor while she attended to him.
‘You do realise that the nurse almost had a seizure when she discovered you gone, right?’ Her eyes flicked to his face; he looked
at the floor. ‘By all means you shouldn’t even be standing at the moment.’

Hiruma snorted; Mamori smiled, ‘I knew you’d try get back to the game even if your leg was broken; you’re very stubborn like that…’ she secured the rest of the tape and gestured to his right arm. ‘I’m concerned about that one though. ‘From what I saw, it looked like he got you good.’

‘No shit, Sherlock.’ His voice is edgy and jars against the air…shit, he didn’t mean it to come out that way, but then again, whenever they happened to speak to each other it was usually to trade insults so he had no idea how to speak civilly with her - or anyone else for that matter.

Mamori ignored the tone, ‘I’d normally protest against you getting up and back on to the field but you wouldn’t listen anyway…you want something to bite on? This is going to hurt,’ she grasps his right arm lightly and begins to bind it.

Yes it hurts; it fucking hurts but for some reason, less so than when he was alone…Hiruma gave a low hiss of protest. Mamori glanced at him, ‘I'm sorry, but you're lucky I know first aid; Sena was always getting into trouble as a kid.’ Hiruma rolled his slanted eyes - fantastic, he was now Sena's substitue...
Once Mamori finished, she got up and started collecting his gear together with a puzzled expression on her face. ‘Now you’re going to have to tell me how this all works…’ She held his pads as if they were some foreign creature.

Hiruma stood up suddenly, ‘Why are you here?’ he looked straight at her.

Was that a blush? ‘Because I knew no one else would dare - you don’t want…wouldn’t let anyone…else…’

‘What made you think I’d let you of all people? I already turned you down for the manager job, fucking creampuff.’

‘And we can see how well that’s turned out for you.’

Hiruma’s ears burned, he’d expect a comment like that from the fucking old man but didn’t think she’d be capable...He scowled, ‘We’re doing just fucking fine, fucking - ’

‘You’re looking thin these days, Hiruma.’

He stopped mid-sentence again; it wasn’t untrue. Yes, perhaps he’d lost weight but when you’re running around after a bunch of fucking kids and trying to manage a football team, taking care of yourself is the least of your worries. He reverted to safer territory: ‘You didn’t answer my question: what made you think I’d let you help me?’

She met his gaze straight on this time; the pit of his stomach flamed, ‘What made you think you’d be able to refuse - given the blow you just received?’

He lurched over her, features marked harshly in the yellow light, ‘Kekeke, fucking Anezaki, you should be afraid of me even with my broken arm…’

She blanched slightly but stood her ground, ‘Should I? No matter what you do, say, act, you’re still only human after all. Furiously and idiotically proud, yes, but still just a run-of-the-mill stubborn ass.’

Hiruma stopped again for a second; she continued, ‘Aren’t you?’ She was smiling slightly.

Hiruma lowered his hackles and flashed her that grin of his, ‘What do you think?’

She blushes again - she does blush very prettily and helps to suit him during their stalemate as he dictates what goes where. He's surprised at how careful she is - taking extra care not to jolt his arm as she draws it through the sleeve; checking that she isn't hurting him by casting furtive glances at his placid face. Hiruma's mind cackles again, she should be undressing him, not putting on his fucking clothes. He does, however, tuck in his own pants; he doesn’t want her hands getting that close... not yet anyway. She did seem slightly disappointed though and he is instantly amused - what’s this? Is she a pervert creampuff scoffer then? The whole process takes 7 minutes, 45 seconds and at the end of it all, Mamori stands near the entry to the field with his helmet in her hands hugged close to her chest.

‘You’re going to have to put it on for me, fucking creampuff,’

She glares at him slightly and hesitates, ‘Hiruma…’

He gives her a skeptical look, ‘Hn.’

‘Even if you’re not 100% at the moment, I still believe you guys can win this - you’ve got more than just a good throw, Hiruma. I’ve seen the way you manipulate people; football’s part physical part psychological warfare isn’t it? Also, everyone wants this victory, you want it, Sena wants it…I want it too…’ her eyes are flashing with something that looks like bloodlust.He knew they could make it - would make it, but hearing it from someone like her; someone he barely knew; who complained about Sena, watched every game from the sidelines, occasionally dropped by with snacks for the team… he could force his fucking arm to move.

He should have made her fucking manager at the beginning.

She stood there in front of him, eyes aflame, legs strong, lips slightly parted and breath fogging the surface of his helmet. Hiruma realised that even though she’d always been in the distance, during any break he got he’d never stopped looking for her. It was as if he’d subconsciously acknowledged that he needed her silently supportive presence but could never, ever admit it out loud.

What a fucking ego.

‘Mamori…’ she looked shocked, ‘when this is over, you and…and I…have things to say to one another…’

It sounded the absolute epitome of ridiculousness to his ears but Mamori met his eyes with a steady gaze, ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘we do.’ He would have kissed her then and there, and, if he had, she would have responded. But this one time acknowledged, like so many other times unacknowledged before, was the wrong time and at the wrong place.

‘Put my helmet on, Anezaki; I’ve got a fucking game to finish.’

END

Hikaru No Go

Sun, 16 Mar 2008 06:35:45 GMT

I recently stumbled across the manga Hikaru No Go the other day.
When I first read the summary I was like '...riiiight, a manga about Japanese chess....how delightful.'

But, after getting into a few chapters, it really was.

It's all about the coming of age of a boy called Shindo who originally has no interest whatsoever in the game of Igo, or Go - much like the prespective reader.
However, through his interactions with the Go- fanatic spirit, Sai, that attaches himself to the boy and other go-pro wannabes, Shindo becomes enveloped in the Go universe as he tries to prove his own worth and ability in the game without being oveshadowed by the umbrella of Sai's go-genius.

The story is about the loss of childhood, the need to grow up and fit in to society. You will triumph and suffer, laugh and cry with all the characters as they develop and get further into the world of Go and also, the world of adulthood.

Yes, there are a lot of go-games, a lot of go-boards and a truckload of go-stones but despite the fact the manga is all about Go, it's a down to earth, magnetic story that really grows on you.

I found a review of Hikaru No Go on this website that I believe, really encapsulates what the whole story was about - it does contain spoilers however so read it at your own risk: http://www.spcnet.tv/reviews/review.php?rID=517

so yeah, the series kinda prompted me to write my own fanfiction based around the time after Sai's internet game versus Akira Touya's father. MAJOR spoilers if you haven't read that far or beyond it yet.

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Transition

Sai realised he’d disappeared the moment Shindo’s outline had faded to white and the room that they’d both shared for two years diffused away. Strangely enough, he felt no panic, no anger, no pain.

He didn’t feel too bad actually!

He accepted that he’d finally crossed the barriers in between the ‘between worlds.’ It had been time, he thought, but even so, it had still been a rather abrupt disappearance even if he had been subconsciously acknowledging it ever since Shindo’s strength had become more apparent. Sai wasn’t jealous anymore - in this transit phase between absolute death and passing on, you suddenly understood things a lot clearer. If during life you viewed everything through a thin veil, then, in death the veil fades and comprehension dawns - like finding a critical area on the Go- board that will save your life and end the opponent’s. The Eureka moment, only the understanding happens gently and without the jolt to the body.

Playing Go had been a long journey for Sai, but, as Shukaku had once existed for him to practice and hone his skill, so Sai must have existed for Shindo to enable the child to grow and meet his potential. It had happened so suddenly - the boy had changed from a loudmouth brat, completely ignorant of the customs and traditions of Go to a man who was passionate about the game, the people and the history. Although there was still room for Shindo to grow, Sai’s own personal tutoring of the child had become obsolete as Shindo continually sought out harder challenges, others’ advice and began to develop of his own accord.

Neither master nor pupil, Sai thought, would ever get to complete mastery of the game.

But, then again, would anyone?

Humans are full of such imperfections that becoming the perfect anything is seemingly impossible. There is always room for improvement, even if you have been playing Go for 1,000 years.

The moment Shindo had identified the potential turning point in the game against Akira’s father, Sai had realised his time was up. At that crucial point in time, Shindo had demonstrated instantaneous independance and showed that he was able to mature by himself. It had made Sai ecstatic beyond words, but, with that strange fluctuation of parallel emotions, it had also made him unbearably sad.

He and Shindo had a relationship that transcended mere friendship. It was part friendship, parentage, tutelage, teamwork, love, patience and trust. Trust more than anything: that they were both walking along the same path and could depend on each other to pull each other forwards. Now, Shindo had more people he could rely on for that - the prodigy Akira...Isumi, Waya and the others. They were the group that Touya-sensei and the other top pros were living for - to pass on their own teachings, their characteristics of playing, their hard earned knowledge to the next generation; to make learning the techniques that much simpler - to make the learning process as easier and almost as natural as breathing air.

The learning process would never end - should never end, Sai thought, but, he added afterwards, now that his own journey was over, he was going to miss watching over Shindo’s growth nonetheless.

There was a sudden feeling of a string being plucked and the echo reverberating silently, Sai looked around in mild interest - when had he ever felt so at peace?

Then, he saw him. Sai smiled; Shindo looked elated to see him and was rambling about things that were happening back in his world, about things that, once upon a time, Sai would have been listening to with childlike intensity.

But Sai was finally dead and such matters seemed nice enough yes, but nonetheless they were the affairs of the living. He found himself unable to speak but then again, he didn’t need to say anything. He had completed his role in the passing on of knowledge and had tutored Shindo the best of his capabilities. Shindo had even started to think like him and thus Sai would be remembered in the Go that he had taught to Shindo and in the Go that Shindo would play.

There was an inviting light over his right shoulder and Sai gazed at it in solemn appreciation - he was to go there, that was the final process wasn’t it? Shindo looked panicked.
He would see him again eventually, Sai thought, but before that, Shindo would pass on his own skill - Sai’s skill - to yet another generation.

Sai smiled at the child - almost a man now - and held out his fan. Shindo’s expression, although pained, was also one of understanding: the light has been lit, and this torch passed on.

As the fan left his fingertips, Sai smiled for one last time. Now it’s your turn, Shindo.

I am this; you are that?

Mon, 28 Jan 2008 13:10:41 GMT

Ever noticed theres no simple answer to anything in life? There's a rule in physics that states the most simple answer is the correct one but when does it ever really apply to the complicated dynamics of human interactions?

Humans are hardly the most predictable creatures in the universe; we are more unpredictable due to our fluctuations in emotions. The term 'emotions,' i think, is very vague and overused. This one word describes the thousands of ranges of feelings and thoughts that every human being is subject to and must follow in some form or another.

I suppose that because humans generally follow their emotions they can be somewhat predictable - we think we have free will and yet, the brain will always make us make the choice that we think is right, or benefits us in some way.
You rarely ever get a decision that is purely altruistic - even when you do, the person is probably thinking in some small part of them 'I hope someone notices that i did good here and thinks well of me for it.' Once again, hoping they benefit themselves.

Of course, this is a very pessimistic and sweeping statement.

Some people wonder how others can kill mercilessly; they believe themselves to be above this primal and brutal instinct.
But can you honestly say you wouldn't kill someone to save your friend?
Or wonder if you had to kill someone innocent to save your children?
Can you honestly think that you wouldn't do it in a second?
The problem with this objective point of view ('There's no way i will ever/would ever/could ever....') is that the person is excusing themselves from the rest of the human race. What excludes them from the range of emotions that is present in everyone?

Shylock the Jew said in The Merchant of Venice : 'If you cut us, do we not bleed? If you wrong us, should we not revenge?'
All people are the same, reguardless of culture. It just depends on the circumstances and chances that present themselves and which particular situation people find themselves in.

Culture conditions:

A mother can love; a murderer can love; a monk can be jealous; an adulterer can be remorseful; a child can hate; a child can kill.

It just depends on circumstance.