Before This Ends

Chapter 1

Our little tale begins on a balmy afternoon of 199-, on a quiet little side street overshadowed somewhere in the middle by the most picturesque, frothing trellis. The forest green leaves bristled against a sky glazed an intense blue, and the sun made the air as humid as one could expect in the whereabouts of this region.

Mitsui Hisashi trod down the middle of the yellow lines curving across the grey bitumen. Feeling the heat, he swiped at his forehead, sending droplets of perspiration sparkling into the air; the other hand swung a gym bag in cadence with his loping step. It held a soaked basketball jersey within, but the white school shirt he wore now was already sticking to his body. Who knew what he was thinking on a sultry afternoon such as this, sauntering down that quiet road; he didn't even notice the appearance of another, more numerous party upon the rise.

Without any apparent prompt, Mitsui suddenly looked up from the ground, whereupon perceiving the cluster of figures arrayed menacingly in his way, slowly came to a stop. His carriage straightened, and he lifted his chin. Mitsui recognised the uniforms of the others, consisting of heavy navy blue trousers and black shoes. The leader had an unlit cigarette dangling from his lip, and his paws thrust deep into his trouser pockets. He had a most ravishing quiff, oiled to mirrored perfection, and knife-sharp side-burns that were prohibited by school rules to become full mutton-chops.

"Mitsui Hisashi," the tall rake next to the leader spoke. His was a voice that far exceeded that measly physique. It swelled and rolled across the distance to where the accused stood motionless. "Did we not ask you nicely to be at our gakuen at noon? Have you forgotten our unfinished business?

"You did. And I received your message," Mitsui replied. He did not think it appropriate to remind them of the condition that the messengers had stumbled back to them, courtesy of one of his team mates, who had a low tolerance of loud-mouthed brutes despite being one himself. Although he had not had a part in their punishment, Mitsui knew they would give him no quarter on his for this slight on their reputation, prowess, and pride. "But I had basketball training. I could not be all the way across town at the same time."

A cigarette was tossed to the tall rake, and the belching laugh of the leader mixed with the air. He swaggered forward with his band of devils, sauntering – the more to draw out the victory and vengeance he knew was assured against this insolent fool.

"Basketball training!" His voice was the same ravaged tone of his mirth, roughened by smoking and rising bloodlust. It didn't carry very well, but burred the attentions of everyone present. "Boys, Mitsui Hisashi, the greatest delinquent among the academies of the district, has gone back to such a useless pastime as aiming balls into a net. The leader of a gang, who would grind out any impertinence with his own fists, has run away from this 'bad path,' back to the game that has abandoned him. Groveling for it to take him back, as if our type hadn't done it before with open arms, so readily. Is this how you repay your brothers, Mitsui-san, answering hospitality with ungratefulness, allegiance with contempt?"

At this, the leader's eyes grew watery, and his countenance a parody of pitiful grief. "You've forgotten our goodwill, Mitsui, and you're looking very much worse for it. See, boys! His haircut is truly pathetic."

Everyone nodded, remembering the lustrous dark curtains that used to swing from his head with envy. Most of them had fathers that would beat them should they have deigned to pursue this outward 'rebelliousness,' and served to strengthen Mitsui's black reputation.

Mitsui bridled at the other's maternal, clucking airs. He pronounced no affiliation with this band, apart from an offense that one of his group had committed in their territory, long ago. And the leader, this pompous boy of seventeen, maybe eighteen, had the gall to speak to him as if his very existence, and the safe conveyance of his whole being throughout the ages, was owed to this 'lifestyle' that they all conformed to –

Mitsui snorted. They were good-for-nothings, only looking to stir up some amusement for themselves by picking upon the first 'celebrity' they ever had ties with. If they couldn't have the same attention that basketball had brought the Shohoku team, and by extension Mitsui, they would bring him back down and extinguish this irksome reminder of their dismal, empty lives.

He knew this, because he recognised his past self in their arrogant stance and glowering intimidation. Mitsui tried in vain to stifle the rising distaste in his chest.

"Hey. Hey," He called at the tall rake. The fellow threw over a baleful glare. "I can see your boss likes to act. You should form a drama club. You three can be the ugly sisters" – Mitsui pointed at the triplet of stocky, soundless boys on the left – "that one can be the queen with the withering beauty, you with your moustache can be the groom she is having a fling with, and your boss can be the fat, drunk king." Mitsui looked back at the tall rake. "Of course, have you figured out that the king has made you his jester?"

The king raised his fists and roared, but was cut off by a sudden fit of coughing. The others of his court hung back uncertainly as he slapped his knees, trying to regain his breath. Mitsui remained in the exact same spot, about half a classroom's length away from them, battling the urge to smile, lest they should take a sudden dislike to his teeth in the ensuing storm. It hadn't been wise to rile them up so, but he couldn't resist, and he would have his fun if he was going to suffer either way.

The king raised truly moistened eyes to him now. "You will pay, Mitsui. We will finish this business right now, and you will not be walking away. Let's see your shooting skills save y..."

The focus of the other party shifted visibly, and the words dried in the leader's mouth. Mitsui became aware of a soft tapping of footsteps. It stopped abreast of him, and there was a thud of a bag that was not his dropping to the ground.

"Hooligans," he heard a female voice say.

Mitsui was forced to look obliquely at the new entrant, and could not, given all the time of the world, think of anything to say.