Spring Upon the Solstice

XXI - The Declaration of Your Soul

{ Jhiro Fukiyama }

Beads of sweat sting as they drip through my eyelashes, while my starving lungs heave with dry air. Every blood vessel in my body feels ready to burst as my arms sway aimlessly back and forth. Even my feet begin to melt into the pavement as I round the curve for the twentieth time in the last hour.

"Come on!" A voice shouts at me, somewhere from the sidelines, as the next hurdle blasts into view and I force my tired body over it. "You got it!"

This is not what I signed up for. At all.

Torture, I can understand. Studying and memorization? Makes sense for all the buttons inside the cockpit of an Akuma. But running laps around a track? What the hell am I gonna need all that for when I'm sitting in a forty-meter titan capable of plowing Godzilla into the dirt?

"Keep going, Jhiro!"

That's Anamire's voice. She must be over on the bleacher side, where the other voice comes from. For somebody as soft and mild-mannered as her, she has a ridiculous amount of stamina, and twice the resolve to push through this hellish training.

"Final lap!" There's the guy's voice again. "Almost there!"

Come on come on come on come on. Come on!

"Yes! Get 'em, Fukiyama!"

I channel all the strength left to me by my ancestors, reaching far back past the war and the wars before, from the Kamakura to the Meiji era, all into one last burst of energy. The twenty meter mark disappears into the distance, then ten, and five, four, three, two. . .

And I stumble across the finish line, collapsing into a heap on the pale concrete.

"Jhiro!"

Anamire rushes out onto the field; her footfalls pound against my eardrums—or is that just my own heartbeat? When I finally roll over, her face fills my vision first.

Now, fair disclaimer. I would address the randomness of this next observation to my exhaustion and my exhaustion alone. That being said, over the last couple of weeks together, I've come to appreciate the simple serenity in Anamire. She has a certain beauty about her that only shows itself up close, close to the point where you can notice the flecks of cinnamon in her dark brown irises. I find it strange how such a detail stands out, because especially among the Yomiborn, those genetic quirks aren't entirely uncommon.

"Nice work," the other guy squats down next to her. He plays with the blades of his dirty blonde hair, arranging them until they part neatly down the middle. "Good finish, soldier."

"Thanks, Captain," I say, squeezing my eyes shut as the ceiling lights catch me at a bad angle.

"Captain?"

"Captain Ikari," I correct myself. "Please, can I just rest for a few minutes?"

"A Harbinger isn't going to wait for you," he sighs. "If you really want to win these battles, you have to give it your all! Rain or shine, you stand up and fight! Because that, soldier," he points at the sky, "is how a true gentleman would reach victory!"

"Yes, yes, Captain, I get it."

"I can't hear you," he grins. "Say it like you mean it."

"Yes, Captain Ikari, I understand."

"No, no," Ikari shakes his head, "that won't do at all. I don't want you rattling off the same boring salute every captain would force on you. I want to hear the declaration of your soul! Shout it at the top of your lungs, like you're roaring off the side of Mount Everest. Scream it like you're defying the world! Let me hear the revolution in your heart!"