Blue
Jeans Samurai
#1
– The Denim-Clad Swordsman! Life in the Slums!
デニム張り剣士！スラムでの生活！
Laughing
and singing, the child threw his hands up gleefully as his father
held him up above his head, spinning around with whimsical abandon.
It was getting close to sunset, and the two were just about to settle
in for supper, but of course, a few more minutes of playtime didn't
hurt. No one could blame a father for having fun with his son.
“WHEEEEEEEE!!”
the boy squealed, “Faster, Daddy! Faster!” His father obeyed,
loving the sound of his 5-year-old son's laughter. This was their
favorite game together; they had no name for it, and they had no
particular time or place for it. It just happened sometimes, and
they loved it. The young boy often wished moments like those with
his father would last forever.
“Dinner,
my loves!” came Mother's voice from the kitchen, “No more
horseplay, now!”
Both
Father and his son groaned in disappointment, and slowly, the
spinning game came to an end. “Well, Mother knows best, my son,”
said Father over heaving breaths, “Come on, then. Supper, then
bath, then bed, okay?”
“Okay,
Daddy,” the boy replied easily as he walked beside his tall, strong
father.
“Tomorrow
morning,” said Father, turning to his son with a suddenly stern
countenance, “We start bright and early on your training. Remember
to bring your sword.”
“The
sword you made for me, Daddy?” the young boy asked.
“Yes,
son,” Father replied easily.
“Daddy?”
the boy asked, not quite as easily as his father, “Why do I have to
train with my sword?”
Father
looked at his son with that same sternness, but mixed it with calm
patience. “We want you to learn the way we learned,” he said,
“Your mother and I are master sword-wielders, and you must carry on
our traditions. Besides, you know this is a dangerous place, my son.
We have to learn to defend ourselves if our family is to survive out
here.”
“I
know all that, Daddy,” the boy admitted, “But why? Why is it
dangerous out here? Who are we defending ourselves from? And why
can't we just move away?”
These
were all difficult questions for Father to answer, but parental
obligation forced him to do so. “Well, my boy,” he began
carefully, “we can't move away because there's nowhere for us to go
that would be any different. Besides, even if there was, the Pistols
keep us where we are. The Pistols are wicked men who carry guns, the
most powerful and dangerous weapons of all. They bear down on us and
hurt us very badly with their guns, sometimes even kill people with
them, and we must make ourselves stronger in order to fight them.”
The
boy only barely remembered what a gun looked like, and had only a
vague idea of what it was supposed to do. “But Daddy,” the boy
questioned further, “Why don't we have guns?”
Father
seemed to know this question was coming, and sighed deeply, eyes
closed as he responded, “They won't allow us to have them. The
Pistols make sure of that. We use our swordsmanship because its all
we know and all we have . . . . . and all we are.” He slowly
rubbed the sheath of his own sword, which dangled from the waist of
his vivid blue denim jeans.
Mother
stepped into the doorway leading into their tiny shack, the lights
from the blinking streetlamps reflecting in her golden hair. “Come
on, my dears,” she said to them, gently remonstrating them, “Don't
let your food get cold, now.” She smiled as she spoke, her slender
appearance and feminine body language belying her warrior lineage.
Father
grinned as he surveyed his attractive wife, “Yes, my love. Come on,
son. Food keeps you healthy and strong, and your Mother's food is the
healthiest and strongest of all!”
The
boy grinned, “Coming, Daddy!” He followed his warm, loving
parents into the shack, not a care in the world as long as he knew
they were there for him.
They
wouldn't always be there.
*
* * * *
“By
special FIRENIGHT decree! In accordance with Amendment 7! Paragraph
1: All Pistol officers are authorized to search for any and all
manner of weaponry in Designated Destitution Zones! Paragraph 2: All
Pistol officers are authorized to confiscate any and all manner of
weaponry found in Designated Destitution Zones! Paragraph 3: All
Pistol officers are authorized to use deadly force upon any who defy
the decree! Repeat, by special FIRENIGHT decree! In accordance with
Amendment 7 . . .”
This
mantra went on over the loudspeaker several times as the
Pistols—black leather-clad stormtroopers—goosestepped through the
streets of the Designated Destitution Zones (or DDZs, but either was
just a polite term for 'the slums'). The streets were cracked and
infested with weeds, and the filthy, crumbling brick facades of each
building blended into a background of dingy, pitiable poverty. The
doors of most of these buildings were intact, but not strong enough
to take a kicking from one of the Pistols, and in the streets,
windows and doorways, people cowered and awaited the judgment of
FIRENIGHT's adjudication army.
Each
Pistol guard had two six-round pistols strapped to his belt, and each
was fairly quick to use them if the reason arose. It hardly ever
did, but being in the employ of the most powerful political
organization in the history of the world, the Pistols saw no reason
why they couldn't make a reason arise . . . . .
“We
have authorization, old man!” one Pistol officer bellowed in the
face of a harmless septuagenarian, his hand grasping the collar of
the senior's shirt, “We mean to remove the weapons from your home,
and we will do so by force if we have to!”
“B-but,”
the old man wheezed, far too weak to put up any kind of a fight, “But
I . . . . have . . . no w-weapons . . . please . . . . you mustn't .
. .”
But
the Pistol wasn't listening. He had ordered three of his fellow
officers to storm into the old man's home and tear the place apart.
This was commonplace for the Pistol officers during their weekly
raids of the DDZs. They would find the weakest, most helpless people
and trespass into their domiciles, threaten their families with
bodily harm (sometimes inflicting it anyway), and ransack the place
with the most extreme fervor, often finding nothing. Then again, in
spite of the fact that the FIRENIGHT Constitution of World Order was
very specific in its definition of a “weapon” (Amendment 4: “In
accordance with FIRENIGHT regime law, a 'weapon' is hereby classified
as any firearm-based projectile device capable of inflicting
long-term bodily harm, grievous injury, or death”), the Pistols
were very lax in their own definitions, and seemed to leave their
interpretation of a 'weapon' to their own discretion.
“Sir!”
one of the Pistols came back, carrying what looked like a simple
kitchen knife, “I found this during our sweep of the premises!”
“Hmm!”
their commanding officer grinned wickedly, “Why, that looks like it
could inflict some serious bodily harm, old man. Not keeping weapons
in your home, are you?”
“What?
No . . . . it's just . . . f-for c-cutting food—”
“Because
if you were, it would be logical to assume you have far more than
just this. And that would imply that you are stockpiling weapons,
wouldn't it?”
“No!
I wouldn't . . . I would never—”
“And
if you are, one could only guess that your reason for stockpiling
weapons would be to defy our government and try to overthrow our
beloved Grand Commander, isn't that right?”
“WHAT?!
Th-that's . . . mad! How could . . . why would . . .”
“And
I believe it clearly states in Amendment 8 of our fine Constitution
that any such act is to be considered treason, for which the
punishment is swift and terrible execution!”
The
Pistols around him all nodded and agreed wholeheartedly, and the old
man finally gave up resisting. The Pistols seemed dead-set on using
this poor man as an example of what happens to those who betray their
government, and the leader of the squad seemed to confirm it by
throwing the helpless old man down onto his knees, pulling his small
but efficient firearm, and aiming it right between the man's eyes . .
. .
“BRING
IT ON, BITCHES! BRING IN ON!” called a voice from a high
window in a nearby building. The Pistol squad was distracted by the
call, and two seconds after they took their eyes off the old man, one
of the Pistols cried out in pain and dropped dead instantly. An
arrow had flown from the vicinity of the voice and struck the trooper
directly in the neck—even as the soldier lay dead on the sidewalk,
blood leaked from the wound and stained the gravel underneath him.
The
Pistol squad leader growled up at the spot in the building from where
the arrow and the voice had come. Another Pistol was struck with an
arrow (striking him directly in the forehead, killing him instantly)
before the squad leader began barking orders, “There, men! Fourth
floor! Amendment 7, Paragraph C, men! Attack!” The remaining group
pressed on, losing another one to an arrow in the chest in the
process.
The
last three members of the squad were stopped at the entrance of the
old building by another squad, who were beating two men into
submission. One was older, and the other was a teenager, but both
looked somewhat alike, as if the older man was the younger man's
father. Just inside the doorway of the building, a frightened woman
stood there, watching and screaming as two sobbing children fearfully
clutched the hem of her worn, grungy dress.
“What's
this?!” the squad leader of the attacked squad confronted the two
men's attackers, “Why is it taking you so long? There's a
malefactor on the fourth floor showing resistance! We must stop him!”
“These
malefactors are giving us too much trouble!” the leader of the
second squad responded roughly, “The father and oldest son gave us
resistance when we ordered a strip search of the woman and children!
We have reason to believe they're hiding something!”
“Really?”
the first squad leader replied, interested despite his irritation,
“Well, take the easy route, men! They're obviously hiding a hidden
cache of weapons in their home, and that constitutes as an act of
treason! Therefore, they must all be executed!”
The
squad leader who spoke directed his two remaining men to aim their
guns at the two battered and bruised men on the ground, while the
squad of five who had attacked them aimed theirs at the woman in the
doorway and her two other children. Hammers cocked, and the order
was about to be given, until . . .
“Of
course. Execute an innocent woman and her helpless children.
FIRENIGHT isn't above anything anymore, is it?”
The
would-be executioners stopped at the sound of a new voice; it was
deep, commanding and defiant, as if its very existence was a spit in
the face of the FIRENIGHT regime. The combined eight-man squad
turned in every direction, until at last, they pinpointed the owner
of the voice. Stepping out from the dark alley beside the building
they attempted to storm, the squad saw a young man, in his
mid-twenties, with short, dark-brown hair, a slim frame that
supported impressive musculature, and a fierce expression in his cold
gray eyes. He wore nothing but a pair of vivid blue denim jeans, and
dangling from the waist of those jeans was a long black sheath, from
the high end of which a nine-inch handle extended.
The
two squad commanders approached this new contender haughtily. “So,
another who defies Amendment 7!” said one of them, “And carries a
weapon to signify it, no less!”
“You
must be a very foolish young man!” the other commander continued,
“Only those who be so brazen toward the Pistol officers of
FIRENIGHT would be fools!”
The
young jeans-clad man continued to glare at the two Pistol commanders.
“And only those who would pick a fight with defenseless people who
can't hope to win are cowards! I would expect no less from the
blustering heathens who call themselves the rulers of the world!”
The
two commanders were momentarily struck dumb by the young man's
impudence. “Y-you . . .” stuttered the first squad leader, “.
. . . you . . . you dare to smear the name of the great republic that
keeps order?!”
“Order!?!”
the young man spat back, “You oppress the weak simply because you
have all the firepower! You bully the innocent to keep them in
poverty and filth! You slaughter innocent people out of insecurity
and paranoia! This military dictatorship you serve is nothing but a
large, spoiled child, and to continue to pacify it is a shame and a
blight on the world!”
“Enough!”
the second squad leader barked, pulling his weapon, “No one
disrespects FIRENIGHT without regret! And you will die regretting
your words!” At the same time, all eight Pistols on the combined
squad drew their weapons and readied to fire. The first shot rang
clear through the air, and the smell of gunpowder choked the air.
Missed.
With
moves that befitted a hunting cheetah on the plains of Africa, the
denim-wearing man charged, gripping the handle of his sheath and
pulling with a mighty SHHHHHHINNNNNNNG! On the drawn handle
was a thirty inch blade, sharpened down to the quick and gleaming in
the afternoon sun. The Pistol who'd fired that single shot went
white with preternatural fear, then grunted as the single upward
slash cut him from the left side of his belly, up the torso, through
the right pectoral, and ended on the right collarbone. His leather
armor was split up in the direction of the wound, uselessly leaking
blood like a crack in a dam. The look of uncanny fear frozen on his
face forever, the Pistol dropped his namesake weapon, fell onto his
knees, then dropped onto his back, his blood already staining the
street underneath him in a wide, sinister pool.
The
other Pistols reacted quickly, but not quickly enough.
The
jeans-wearing swordsman stole behind one Pistol just as the squad
commander that ordered the attack on the family gave the command to
fire. Twelve more shots rang out, and eight of them struck the
concrete ineffectively; the other four struck the swordsman's human
shield, tearing into his head and chest and killing him instantly.
When the foolish Pistols stopped firing, the swordsman struck again,
slashing the gun out of another Pistol's hand and running him through
the chest. His blade pierced the leather on the chest and out
through the back, collecting a heavy amount of blood as it came back
out. Before the shots fired off again, the jeans-clad swordsman made
another uppercut motion at one Pistol and a downward slash at
another, bringing both men down the same way the first had gone.
Ducking the shots that had been fired, the swordsman slashed the
thigh of another Pistol and the arms of another, bringing both to
their knees in one stroke and making them drop their weapons. Before
the Pistol with the slashed leg could retrieve his weapon, the
swordsman's blade stabbed him through the head, taking blood and
scant traces of gray matter with it as the metal came back out. When
the sword came back, the Pistol with bleeding arms reached painfully
for his own fallen weapon, only for him to receive a deep gash from
the sword that ran from the middle of the chest, up his neck and
through the left side of his face, slicing his eyeball in two. Both
men dropped instantly.
This
left one Pistol, the leader of the squad attacked by arrows earlier.
He
still aimed his firearm at the ferocious swordsman, but his eyes were
dinner-plate-wide, his face was blanched and sweating, and the hands
gripping the handle of his piece were shaking, throwing off his aim.
The swordsman stepped forward, the Pistol stepped backward. The
swordsman took a longer step forward, the Pistol backed up in
gripping fright, tripping over the barely-conscious body of the young
man his squad had almost executed earlier. Still holding his gun as
it jumped unnaturally around with his hands, he scraped his butt and
legs against the gravel and backed up against the side of the
building. Despite his unrepentant fear, the Pistol pulled the
trigger and fired; the shot missed the swordsman by half a foot. He
shot again, and the bullet sailed past, closer but still a hopeless
miss. Finally, the gun was pointed at its target for one lucky
split-second, and the Pistol fired, sure he'd kill the frighteningly
skilled swordsman.
The
swordsman whipped his blade through the air just as the trigger was
pulled, and the bullet ricocheted off the side of the blade with an
ear-piercing PWANG!!
The
Pistol gasped a sound that morphed quickly into a helpless squeal,
and the crotch of his armor suddenly darkened with moisture. Still
holding the gun in aiming position, his hands were now shaking far
too much to even fire it, much less aim properly. The Pistol's fear
had strangled every other possible sound from him, save for the
tremulous question, “Wh-wh-who are you . . . . ?”
The
young sword-slinger didn't answer at first, but a short pause later,
his look of fury twisted fluidly as he spoke, “You don't need to
know who I am.” He then performed another upward slash, this time
on the Pistol's gun; the two metals struck each other with a quick
CLINK sound, and the gun was knocked up in the air, taking the
Pistol's hands with it. Then, with a powerful spinning slash, the
swordsman swept his blade horizontally across the Pistol's upraised
wrists, severing both hands from the man's body at the same time.
Three objects—the Pistol's weapon and his two hands—fell from the
air, the former with a clatter against the concrete, the latter two
with a small, sickening PLOP from each.
The
Pistol screamed in a high-pitched, pain-strangled voice and squeezed
the bleeding, handless stumps of his wrists under his armpits. The
Pistol gasped and sputtered for breath and stared at the bloody tip
of the sword now pointed directly between his eyes. The swordsman's
voice was a low, vengeful growl: “Go back and tell them what
I am.”
The
Pistol's expression of terror was chalky-white and beaded with sweat.
Struggling to stand on his feet, still moaning in pain and bleeding
copiously, the Pistol squad leader stumbled away, whimpering louder
and more pathetically with each quick, clumsy step he took.
After
another short, silent pause, there was movement from the ground, and
the swordsman turned to see the children from inside the building
helping their father and brother to their feet. The two men were
bruised and woozy, but otherwise looked as though they would live.
Slowly,
possibly in fear of her own life, the woman who could only be the
man's wife and the children's mother stepped toward the denim-wearing
swordsman. Nervously, she wrung the apron she wore over her dress as
she spoke up in a subdued voice, “I . . . I don't know who you are,
stranger, but . . . . . you were so courageous. You saved my husband
and children. We were surely doomed until you arrived. Thank . . . .
thank you so much . . .”
The
rest of her family had approached by this time, the father leaning on
the shoulder of his young daughter and the oldest boy leaning on the
shoulder of his younger brother. “Thank you, mister,” the girl
spoke timidly, her voice as subdued as her mother's, but her face
clearly displaying shyness, “You saved us from the mean
Pistol-Men.”
“Yeah!”
the youngest boy fist-pumped the air, “You were cosmic, Mr. Sword
Guy! You totally clipped those guys!”
The
father's voice was weak and raspy, but still intelligible, “We are
forever in your debt, sir. My family and I have been harassed by
Pistols for weeks. If there's anything we can do to repay your
kindness . . .”
The
swordsman glanced between the wife and the husband once or twice,
then stared at his bloody sword for a few seconds before his request
was made, “Does anyone have a cloth?”
The
strange plainness of the request set the whole family into a brief
silence, until, not eagerly, the wife stepped forward, untying the
waist of her apron and slipping it off her slender, petite body.
“Here,” she almost whispered as she extended the apron out to
him, “You may keep it if you wish . . . .”
The
swordsman nodded and gently took the apron. The wife and children
jumped back a nervous half-step as the jeans-clad swordsman spun his
sword expertly in his hand. Wrapping the apron tightly around the
base of the blade, he slid the white cloth up the metal, wiping the
blood off and staining the formerly-pristine cleanliness. Folding
the bloodstain into the cloth, the swordsman repeated the process,
completely wiping the scarlet liquid from his weapon. The family
jumped again as he spun his sword again, touching the blade's base to
the top of the sheath, sliding it all the way along the length of the
blade, then slipping the tip into the sheath until the sword was
completely sheathed.
By
now, the old man bullied by the squad leader who'd had his hands
severed was a part of the group as well. “Son,” he offered, his
voice even weaker than the father of the family, “That was the
finest combat I think I've ever seen in my long life. You are truly a
Godsend to us all.”
As
he stuffed the stained apron into his front pocket, the swordsman's
next words were surprisingly brusque, “Take their weapons and get
indoors. All of you.”
All
in attendance seemed stunned by this command. “But,” the oldest
son of the family spoke up, notably stronger in tone than his father,
“Sir, if we take those, we are in violation of Amendment 6. The one
you released will surely be back with reinforcements—”
“Exactly,”
the swordsman interrupted, “and that means you need to be prepared.
Besides, they'll be after me, not you. Take their guns and spare
bullets. If you need more ammunition, come to my shop on Mercury
Drive any time before curfew.”
There
was yet another short pause of silence, when the wife of the family
suddenly threw her arms around the swordsman and hugged him. “Thank
you,” she said again, the quiet in her voice now the result of
sincere tenderness, “You've given us another chance. We may never
be able to repay you.” In the middle of their embrace, she reached
up and kissed him on the cheek, completing her gesture of kind
gratitude.
Slowly,
the swordsman hugged her back, not necessarily meaning to, but
feeling compelled to by sweet memories deep inside. She reminds
me so much of Mom . . . . .
Quickly,
the daughter and youngest son followed suit, and they both hugged
their savior. “Thank you, mister,” the girl imitated her mother
by repeating her graciousness.
“Mr.
Sword Guy is totally nebular!” the young boy yelled out as he
squeezed the swordsman close, “You gotta teach me how to do that
stuff!”
The
swordsman's words and movements were swift and deliberate, “Hurry!
They'll be along any minute. Take their guns and get inside.”
The
eldest son, appearing to be the strongest and most capable, dug
amongst the bodies of the Pistols, took their weapons and ammo, and
distributed them to his family members (his young brother was only
too glad to assist him). He took an extra moment to hand two guns
and a few rolls of bullets to the family's elderly neighbor.
The
old man was bound for his own domicile with his defensive weaponry
when he suddenly turned around for one last question, “Oh, by the
way, boy! What was your name? None of us can thank you properly
without it!” The family, returning to their own building, stayed
to listen, as well.
The
swordsman was silent for a while as he stood staunchly still on the
street, waiting for the Pistols to reappear. Answering simply, his
voice was as simple and laconic as it had been, “Just call me Blue
Jeans.”
The
little girl giggled softly, but imitated her mother again when she
saw her give a graceful curtsy. “You are always welcome in our
home, Blue Jeans,” the mother spoke with timid, yet strong surety.
With
that, the whole family retreated into their building with their
weapons of self-protection. The boy cheered loudly as they ascended
the stairs, “Blue Jeans Samurai! Whoo-hoo! Blue Jeans Samurai! Whoo-hoo!”
The
old man smiled and slowly walked back to his own home, “Good luck,
Blue Jeans. Take care of yourself, son.”
The
young swordsman, Blue Jeans, nodded with a smile as the old man
stepped back indoors. He then departed from the scene when he heard
the approach of more goosestepping troops of FIRENIGHT, ready to
avenge their fallen brethren.
*
* * * *
Platinum
Street was the main vein in Blue Jeans' area of the slums (given the
codename DDZ-110-117-3889 by the government, nicknamed Luster Park by
the locals). Nine more squads had arrived to defeat and detain the
person (or persons) responsible for the effortless slaughter of
government-sanctioned Pistol troops, and the entire fifty-man team
was scouring Platinum Drive, where the party (or parties) in question
had last been seen.
He
wasn't there.
Blue
Jeans had lost the small army and slipped under the streets, care of
a hidden passage in a manhole cover on Platinum Street. He had found
his passageway, slipped his sword into a small sliver of space on top
and turned, as if opening a large door with a large key. The bolts
around the edges of the manhole cover would retract, loosening the
cover and allowing Blue Jeans to disappear beneath the streets.
Sticking his sword back into the 'lock' and turning it back into
place, the manhole cover was just another ordinary street eyesore,
and Blue Jeans was in the clear. Meanwhile, FIRENIGHT would know
exactly who he was and what he did, and for the next week, hordes of
FIRENIGHT Pistols would be posting witness sketches of him all over
the city, offering a hefty reward—200,000,000 cards (FIRENIGHT's
global currency), a FIRENIGHT government-sanctioned standard-issue
flamethrower, and a set of six .44 caliber revolvers, all complete
with ammunition—in exchange for his capture, dead or alive.
Blue
Jeans didn't know a single soul who would go for that.
As
he trekked through the sewers, navigating his way to his home, Blue
Jeans was sure of this fact. There was not a single soul in the
slums, or any slum in the world, who would be desperate enough to
help the government they despised and turn in the man who was acting
as their modern-day Robin Hood. FIRENIGHT had done far too much in
destroying the trust of the weak and downtrodden, and it was well
beyond the shadow of a doubt that no one would incarcerate their hero
for such a bounty, no matter how much they needed it.
Mapping
his progress in his mind, Blue Jeans saw that he had turned off from
Tungsten Avenue and onto Mercury Drive, a far cry away from where the
Pistols were searching. A few more steps, and he was directly
underneath another faux sewer cover. Enacting the same process in
reverse, Blue Jeans 'unlocked' the manhole cover with his sword,
pushed gently up on it, and pulled himself up and out onto the
street. The streetlights were just coming on, and the noise
throughout the neighborhood was dying down; this suggested the
Pistols were giving up on their search for their assailant, and were
beginning their night patrol for those caught outside after curfew.
This was confirmed by the loudspeaker voice booming all over the
neighborhood: “The time is now 7:00! Those found outside their
homes will be arrested for violating curfew! Repeat, the time is now
7:00! Those found outside their homes will be arrested for violating
curfew!”
Blue
Jeans located his own building, one of many wrecked, rotting brick
hovels that dotted the desolate street, and opened a side door that
led inside. The inside was much different, however; so much so, it
would have been almost impossible to believe that it looked so
impoverished from the outside. The floors were spotless, the
furniture was pristine, and the only evidence of internal damage was
a series of deep slashes in the wooden paneling of an empty room in
the back (what his father had always called 'the training room'). In
the kitchen, dishes were clean and in their proper cabinets, enough
food to feed a family for a month was stocked up, and there were a
decent number of functioning appliances for cooking (all of them
hand-built by Blue Jeans). The plumbing in the kitchen and bathroom
also worked, in spite of the worldwide shutdown of all sewer systems
(to which Blue Jeans owed his quick escape today). The electricity
ran without a hitch, the gas worked like clockwork, and both were
being siphoned regularly from the uptown companies that supplied them
to the rich, weapon-holding citizens.
Blue
Jeans checked the store in the front of the building; all swords,
knives, axes, clubs, spears, bows, arrows and other home-constructed
weaponry rested undisturbed inside their wooden crates and cases. He
then reached down to the floor and pulled up a loose floorboard,
under which lie another case full of weapons. Here, there were
nothing but bullets and explosives suited for projectile weapons of
any size, shape and purpose. No robberies of any kind today, as was
the norm; when his parents ran the store, there were no robberies,
and even now, only a few incidents involving gutsy kids with no
common sense or planning were the most the shop would suffer (aside
from a Pistol raid, and the shop was always kept closed and locked
during that time).
Satisfied
that nothing was amiss, Blue Jeans left his inventory and made his
way to the training room in the back of the house. The room had
plenty of space for Blue Jeans to practice his sword techniques and
agile movements. Aside from the slash marks in the walls and floor,
the place was clean and well-kept, and was completely bare except for
two objects that rested on the floor against the far wall. One was a
long black sheath, similar to Blue Jeans' own, and the other was a
white apron, similar to the one given to him earlier that day.
Both
were stained with the blood of Blue Jeans' parents.
As
Blue Jeans unsheathed his sword and prepared for training, he
remembered the sheath his father carried the night of their murder.
Just before dinner, they had played their favorite spinning game, and
they had stopped to dine just before bedtime. As he swung his sword
through the air with one powerful arm, he remembered the apron his
mother wore, a delicate blossom of cloth on her willowy body. She
had worn it that very night as she prepared dinner for her husband
and young son. Neither of them would know that that night, these two
items would respectively be doused in their dying blood.
Blue
Jeans trained in the ways of the sword for them. It was not just to
protect himself. It was not just to follow in their footsteps. It
was not even to to help others, even though he knew it must be done.
He wanted revenge, he would not rest until the man who killed them
was brought to a similar end: bloody, violent and merciless.
--------------------------------------------------------*
* * * *--------------------------------------------------------
"Another Pistol raid!
A higher-ranked Pistol officer, a general, is disgusted with the performance of his men. Deciding to take matters into his own hands, he makes his way to Luster Park to enact his vengeance on Blue Jeans—by holding an entire neighborhood hostage!
Blue Jeans can't take on this general and his men alone, but he might stand a chance with some help from a young archer with a bad attutide . . .
NEXT TIME! Blue Jeans Samurai #2:
The
Unerring Archer! An Unlikely Alliance!
的確アーチャー！まずない同盟！
Don't miss it!"
