Chapter Text
A sort of cynical 'coming-of-age' story.
Lung is my favorite Worm character. So much to him in so few scenes, himself often flanderized and brutalized, often worfed and often overhyped in so many stories over so many years that one can forget that Lung is more than the Feudal-Lord-LARPing yakuza wannabee level one boss we mostly see him portrayed as.
He was young once. He had hopes and dreams and desires and a mother who loved him.
There are so many 'what ifs' and 'could've been's' for so many Worm characters, but my favorite question to pose is this?
What if he joined the inaugural Wards' team after Kyushu, to be groomed for a leading role in the Protectorate?
What if Lung became a hero, and how long would that satisfy him?
My questions above, answered in this story.
But I'd be curious to see everyone here's initial thoughts beforehand.
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'Fall down seven times, stand up eight.'
March 2nd, 1997
The class bell chimed. The classroom's pupils straightened in their seats and began collecting their things, placing them inside their bags almost synergistically as one collective whole, moving in sync, this routine battered into them starting from the days they could first walk and talk.
Kenta had come to it all late, as he had with most other things.
Kenta did not rise from his chair. He stared furious daggers into his teacher's back instead, who was erasing an equation he did not understand off of his chalkboard. Some of his classmates giggled and tittered, pointing at him and covering their mouths to smother the sound of their mocking laughter, others turning away to indulge in their own meaningless friendships and ambient conversations.
His teacher turned back to look at him, and he sighed despondently when he noticed Kenta's glare. Some students hushed up when his teacher turned that glare on them, the boys and girls who had teased him.
"It is lunch now." His teacher said. "You should go and eat."
Kenta remainder where he was, stubborn, as they all left. He didn't move in reaction to his words and his face didn't change.
Mr. Nakamura tried again, when the room became empty but for the two of them. "You failed your last test."
As if he didn't already know.
Mr. Nakamura groaned, signing despondently as he trundled towards his desk and slouched in his chair, giving Kenta a glare of his own as he cradled his head in his palm, pondering.
"I know not what to do with you."
He said nothing.
"You neglect your lessons, you mingle with delinquents and outsiders, you swear, you drink, and do it all before you've popped your first cherry."
Kenta blinked in shock at the language, the lack of tact. "What else am I supposed to do?"
"Study." Mr. Nakamura said flatly.
"I could for all hours of the night every day for the next month, and it would make no difference. The rest are so far ahead already, they see private tutors and take extra lessons in school. Most who tried harder than me from their very first day will still fail. I have no chance, so I will not bother wasting the effort."
Mr. Takamura's lips thinned, but Kenta noticed that he did not openly disagree. "And Daiichi-kun?"
"He accepts me."
"For now." His teacher said testily. "For now, whilst he still has use of you. But the Yakuza? Who are you trying to fool? They will not accept a half-breed."
"I must try."
Mr. Takamura rose up out of his seat, an accusatory dinger levied. "Aha~ You must prove yourself to that bottom feeder, even if the effort is fruitless. But your knowledge of history, of algebra, of science and literature can all be thrown to the wayside, since failure is inevitable, is it not?"
Mr. Takamura chortled in the face of his disbelief and brimming anger. "They are not the same!"
He chortled again. "They are. Just so. But you favor one over the other because it seems to be working out for you better. I disagree, as I'm sure your mother would."
His desk fell to the floor as Kenta surged upward, snarling. "Leave her out of this."
Mr. Takamura sighed sadly once more, leaning forward to eye him, fingers drumming patterns atop his desk. After a moment of deliberation, he waved Kenta forward and retrieved something from under it, a box.
Kenta made his way there, towered over the diminutive man as he lifted a cover off of the box, revealing dozens of squares carved into it in a grid formation. He retrieved two small bags of stones from a drawer, one set black, one white, and handed him the white set.
"This game is called Go. Play."
Kenta frowned. "I do not know the rules."
Mr. Takamura smiled. "Play."
"I don't know how."
"Play."
Kenta growled deeply, retrieving a white stone and placing it on a random spot on the board.
Mr. Takamura's smile widened. He took a black stone and placed it on the board, upon a spot far far away.
Kenta placed another.
His teacher, another.
Kenta's movements were random, his stones isolated. He had no idea what he was doing, was fumbling in the dark, ignorant of the rules and conventions and norms.
Like with school. With his 'friends', with his mother in public.
He mocks me, Kenta thought. He placed another stone.
His teacher, another.
The pattern forming on the board was wildly geometric, almost nonsensical, blacks surrounding whites in meaningless patterns and swirls.
Kenta kept playing, even as his stomach sank further and further with each turn, as if he was swallowing each of those stones instead of tossing them on the board, unable to shake the feeling he was doing something wrong.
After almost ten minutes of playing, his teacher abruptly leaned back in his chair and moved his hands away from the Go grid and his stones. "I am bored. The game is over."
Kenta froze mid-move. "What?"
"The score in a game of Go is judged by the amount of 'captured' territory and stones, if White or Black covers more of the board, if White or Black surrounds more of the other color. I won this game two minutes ago."
Kenta looked back at the board. Though Black and White were equal in number, The Black had surrounded and smothered the White in many places.
"Had I been playing fair, I would have taken your surrounded pieces off the board. I was not."
Kenta swept a hand over the desk, knocking the board, the pieces, and a large stack of papers to the floor with a roar. "Why would you-"
Mr. Takamura slammed his palm upon his desk hard enough to shock Kenta out of his wrathful reverie. "In Go, it is expected of you to surrender when you know you are beaten. It is how most games end. There is no shame in it. You would not looked down upon for doing so. Accepting your fate and moving on with grace, this is not unheard of. If one takes lessons on the piano, and realizes it is not for him? There is no shame in surrendering there. But life?" He hissed. "One can never give up on life. Never. Even in the face of annihilation, in the face of death, all of humanity pushes on. You and I shall both die someday. That too is inevitable, you young fool. So why haven't we both killed ourselves yet?"
Kenta did not have an answer for him. Mr. Takamura rolled his eyes.
"You are so morose, cynical and despondent, and you are not even fourteen! You know nothing about life, its challenges, its beauties, so for the life of me, I cannot understand why you would be so keen on pissing it away. Men and women a hundred times worse off than you have made it farther than they could have ever hoped, and they did not do it by feeling sorry for themselves."
Kenta turned away. "I do not see the point."
"You wouldn't. So many boys and girls your age already have their lives planned out for them, but you're unique. You get to have a fresh perspective, boy, coming from another country and speaking another language. You get to decide your path for yourself."
"How?" Kenta demanded.
"Through hard work. Determination. Yes, even studying." His teacher laughed when he saw Kenta wilt slightly at that last word. "Your mother wants the best for you, stubborn child, as do I. Just try, if not for me, then her. "
He frowned, lips pursed in thought. Every dream he had, every vague idea, of being like his father, of being in the yakuza, of being a salaryman or even a thug on the streetsseemed too far away, impossible, just because he had a different face, wider eyes, longer legs, and a Chinese mother.
The lunch bell chimed again, signaling that it was over. Kenta shuffled over to his bag and grabbed his things, slinging it over his shoulder.
"Remember, Kenta." Mr. Takamura said. "Even the smallest carp can become a dragon, so long as he makes it over the dragon gate."
Kenta walked away from him, to his next class, trying and failing to ignore and discount his words all the while.
When it was over and school was out, he waited by the gate instead of heading home right away to his mother. After half an hour or more of sitting around, Daiichi finally showed up on his bike, parking it by the gate.
"Kenta-sama! My little brother!" Daiichi exclaimed, marching towards him to ruffle his hair and pull him into a one-armed embrace. Seventeen he was, the oldest of their little game, long, blonde, and obviously dyed locks shorn close to his chin, which bore a ragged scar that a stray dog had given him after one too many taunts and slung stones.
Kenta let himself be pulled into the embrace, though he was already prodding Daiichi's chin with the top of his head. In less than a year, Kenta bet he would be taller than the man. At seventeen himself, by a much higher margin.
"I wouldn't have missed it." And that was the truth. Even for his mother, even for Mr. Takamura. There were no lessons here, no challenges, no arguments or glares or mocking looks.
Just acceptance. For who he was, how he looked, and what he could do.
"Good, good, eh?" Daiichi slapped his shoulder with each 'good', words somewhat slurred by the toothpick he kept rolling on his tongue.
When it wasn't a toothpick, it was a cigarette. Kenta had asked to try one of Daiichi's once, but he'd said no.
"How was school?" Daiichi asked, sniffling strangely as he wiped at his nostrils.
Kenta stared at him.
Daiichi cackled, slapping his shoulder for the third time. "I know, right? I remember that old fuck. Talked too much. He try and con you into that game of Go?"
Kenta looked away. Daiichi cupped his chin and tilted his head back up to laugh in his face and pinch his cheek. "Hey, ain't no shame in it! He got me too. But he doesn't get it. People like you and me? We ain't ever gonna make it playing by their rules. We gotta take what's ours, by any means necessary, you feel me? No one's gonna be handing out scholarships and job offers to the two of us, to any of us."
It was the truth, Kenta knew. He would never be Japanese. Never be human, to them.
But with Daiichi, he wasn't Japanese or Chinese, fat or skinny, weak or strong.
He was just Kenta, like Ren was just Ren or Arata was just Arata.
All of them misfits, vagabonds and fools, united under his banner, hoping he would lead them to glory.
"I've got something tonight. But it's gonna need you. It's why I asked you to wait here for me yesterday."
"Me?" Kenta echoed.
"Yeah, you." Daiichi put both his hands on Kenta's shoulders and squeezed tight. "Listen well and listen good. My cousin tipped me off about it, There's gonna be a deal going down at the restaurant he owns. The third floor, drugs and money. There's only two guys, both Chinese, and a Gaijin gonna be showing up. Do you feel me?"
"You'll need me for the Chinese."
Daiichi squeezed him tighter. "Thatta boy. I'll need you to translate, and I'm bringing the rest of the boys as backup. But you're key, yeah? If they've hidden the shit, If they're calling backup or lying to us, I'm gonna need you to translate."
His heart was racing. "I can do that." Kenta found himself saying.
Daiichi pulled back, eyes feverish with delight and excitement, pupils dilated by who even knew what else. "Good, good. This is what's gonna put us on the map. People are gonna know our names when we offload the drugs and split that money. Powerful people. When they come knocking at my door, it's your name I'm gonna mention first as my number two."
Kenta imagined that. Himself at Daiichii's side as they knelt before their new bosses whilst undergoing their Yubitsume.
"Me?" He asked. "Not Ren?"
Daiichi scoffed, sniffling again. He rubbed his nose once more, looking irritated at the mention of the name. "Of course you, not that fat tub of shit. He's good for his power and nothing else, you feel me? You've got the brains, brawn, and size."
He imagined that newfound power he would wield, himself second only to Daiichi and his bosses.
That freedom, what little it was, was something he desired more than mere words could describe.
"Okay." Kenta said. "I'm in."
Daichii cheered. "Fuck yeah! Listen, the deal's at eight and it's only four right now. You and me, we'll head back to my place, my dad ain't home, and we'll sort through his shit. He's got a gun somewhere, I know he does. We go find that, round up the boys, do our thing, and then go celebrate at Tsugumi afterward.
"Tsugumi?!" He whispered in shock.
"We'll be able to afford it!" Daiichi chuckled. "I'm telling you, this is only the start of it. You, me, Arata and Takeo and Hisota and even fat-fuck Ren, we're gonna make it. The opportunity, our opportunity, is here."
He held out a hand for Kenta to shake, his smile infectious.
"We just gotta go for it."
Kenta reached out and shook that hand.
"So we will."
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I intend on becoming a word printing machine for all my current stories, including this one.
Yes, all of my stories, even ones that haven't been updated in a while. You all know the one.
Anyway, this is going to be decently long and extremely Lung-centric, but there will be some focus given to people like Miss Militia, Mouse Protector, some lesser-known heroes, and of course, The Hero himself.
It's my excuse to try my hand at exploring the relatively 'early' days of the PRT, heroes, and Wards, with equal focus on bombastic fight scenes and very quiet, calm, and deliberate moments of contemplation and conversation.
Comment eagerly. Reading out your guy's thoughts and ideas and jokes makes my day, keeps the thread going, and helps with the story.