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[Translation] Prelude of the Stray Cat Princess | The End of the Days of Innocence | Part 1/3
[Content Notes]
[Disclaimer]
Scrapped Princess | Prelude of the Stray Cat Princess | The End of the Days of Innocence | Part 1/3
In that moment when the sun wavers on the horizon, swaying over the boundary between day and night . . . a girl opened her sky blue eyes.
". . . Unyuu . . ."
With this enigmatic utterance, she roused herself from sleep.
Unlike her elder brother and sister--both of whom gave every appearance of low blood pressure--she had always woken up naturally. She went to bed early, and in sharp contrast to her slender frame, she overflowed with vitality and was always looking for action. Whether for this reason or not, despite eating fairly substantial meals, she never got fat, and she remained short in stature. As for her chest and hips . . . Well, they were about what you'd expect.
Be that as it may . . . unless one had some particular business to attend, it was still too early to be waking up.
But the girl sprang up out of bed to shake off her sleepiness. She went straight to her sister's hand-me-down dressing table and plopped herself in front of it.
Reflected in the mirror was the face of a lovely young girl.
She was in her mid-teens. Her pretty face and figure carried an air of grace and refinement. As long as she kept quiet and still, anyone--be it a man or a woman--would, upon seeing her, be gripped by an impulse to grab her and hug her close . . . She possessed just that sort of kittenish charm.
But then, upon more careful observation, one would get the impression that her expression and bearing contradicted her appearance . . . One could also perceive a latent aura of shrewdness and audacity, much like that of an alley cat.
Which isn't to say that one or the other was her true nature. Indeed, all people are possessed of contradictory attributes, and in this girl, that truth was particularly striking.
"Umyuu . . ."
Yawning, she briefly ran a comb through her long blonde hair and began to plait it.
Seeing the adept yet careful way in which she worked, anyone would probably smile and think, Ah, just like a girl. But then she proceeded to exchange her nightclothes for distinctly unglamorous, light brown farmer's clothes.
Nevertheless, she seemed quite satisfied with them herself, as she nodded at the mirror and got to her feet.
"All right."
Muttering like an old man, she slapped both hands to her face, as though to rally herself. And then, for whatever reason, she flopped down on the floor and suddenly started doing some kind of stretches.
However, her movements lacked the smoothness of habit, showing instead the sluggishness of one who had learned merely by watching others. Stretching her arms, stretching her legs, twisting her body, stretching her frame as far as it would go . . .
"Owowowowow . . ."
She seized her leg and groaned.
. . . Apparently, it had cramped.
Even doing unaccustomed stretching exercises, one's body will most likely warm up eventually, should one keep at it for a while. Her cheeks slightly flushed, the girl came to a rest.
". . . Whew."
She quirked up the corner of her lips, almost as though they too had gotten a cramp.
It seemed she had meant to smile grimly to herself.
"Desert Eagle1 . . . today, for sure, you'd better be ready."
So saying, the girl--the Casull family's youngest daughter, Pacifica Casull2--left her room behind.
In the west of the kingdom of Leinwand . . . in the westernmost frontier of that monarchy, which itself lay in the west of the continent of Dustvin, was a provincial city called Manurhin3.
Its fortified walls; the mansion that acted as the very heart of the city and housed the feudal lord, who had by appointment come from the royal capital itself; and its division of administrative offices--all of these allowed it to bear the title of a city . . . but if one were to speak plainly, it was a backwater town.
Looking at the maps of surrounding areas and other similar documents, one would find that such records were terribly vague and perfunctory. Officially, people placed the blame on the feudal lord, Count Franchi, criticizing his lack of effort to progress his surveying program . . . but the truth of the matter is, when it comes to the deep mountains and forests and the like, vast tracts of land can be haphazardly recorded without causing any trouble at all.
Anything you would expect to find anywhere could of course be found here, and those things that other cities lacked, they were lacking here as well. If you were to ask an actual resident of Manurhin, "What sort of town is this?" they would probably have trouble finding a reply.
If pressed for an answer, they might say the town's defining characteristics were that Count Franchi's magnanimous governance gave them a standard of living that far surpassed those of a typical borderland, and that self-styled adventurers looking to strike it rich in the vast unexplored regions surrounding the town (in short, groups of charlatans and rogues) would often stop by.
Now, then.
On the edge of Manurhin's commercial district.
There stood a shop that had "General Arms Dealer -- Casull's" carved onto its signboard in rude, slapdash writing. These carelessly scribbled letters seemed not to have been carved by a chisel but simply gouged out by some other edged tool . . . perhaps a dagger or something similar. However you looked at it, this was not professional work.
A shop's signboard is its face, which means it is quite easy to divine the shopkeeper's character from a sign such as this.
This two-story brick building had a strong impression of unusual sincerity and vigor, and was altogether lacking in pretense . . . and in a town like Manurhin, which was dominated by one-story wooden buildings, it stood out considerably. In a country town where the price of land was not even worth considering, people who would go to the trouble of building a two-story house were rare.
Of course, the shop did not comprise the entire building. It also served as a warehouse, as well as a home for the shopkeeper, Yuuma Casull, and his three children. Behind the store lay a fairly large yard, in which a garden and a small pond could be seen. Apparently Yuuma Casull's creed was "Be as self-reliant as possible," and accordingly, there were vegetables growing in the garden, edible fish being raised in the pond, and as many as twenty chickens left out to pasture.
At any rate.
"Hn . . ."
. . . It was early morning.
The sun was just beginning to peek its face out from behind the horizon, and the light that flowed from it was pale, as though it were still half-asleep.
A young man looked around the shop while ruminatively scratching his head. It seemed that he had just woken up. His black eyes were bleary and unfocused with drowsiness, and his long black hair, which resembled that of a woman's, was tied back by a thin strip of cloth. Together, they somehow gave him a vaguely disheveled appearance.
Looking more closely, he had a handsome face with a well-shaped nose . . . but perhaps it was his black eyes, which were narrowed as though by a constant sullenness that was not limited to the time just after he awoke, and his demeanor, which was reminiscent of an old man, that gave him a strangely worn-out look. He had just turned twenty the previous month, but more than the impulsiveness and high-spirits of youth, his jaded aura (whether for better or for worse) suited him quite well.
Perhaps he was a man of the world.
Adjusting the collar of his loose, blue nightclothes, the young man walked around the dimly lit shop.
"Pacifica . . . hey . . ."
The signboard may have advertised general arms, but in reality the shelves were stocked with everything from hunting gear and carpentry tools to sundries and, on top of all that, vegetables--perhaps the surplus from the family's self-sufficient homestead.
Above the shelves hung a message board that adventurers apparently used to exchange news and information. "Urgent Recruit! Seeking traveling companions," "Up-to-date information on the Palme Ruins," "Treasure map for sale"--the scraps of paper pinned to the board bore a variety of messages, ranging from the earnest to the suspect.
It may have been from open-mindedness or a complete lack of constancy . . . Whatever the reason, they dealt without prejudice in everything they possibly could deal in, an attitude that was clearly reflected in their store.
But then, every last one of the displayed vegetables was wilted, and the most recent message on the bulletin board was dated more than ten days ago. Most of all, though, it was the stagnant air of the shop that told that the Casulls had done no business in the past few days.
That probably was not the worst of it.
"Pacifica . . ."
The young man--the Casull family's eldest son, Shannon Casull--called his little sister's name, and his tone made it clear that he thought she was being a pain.
It probably wasn't for that reason, but he received no reply.
Alone in the silent shop, Shannon sighed. Then, as though he had just remembered something, he checked inside the cabinets, under the reckoning table, anywhere that could provide a hiding place. Next, he went through the cargo boxes and shipping bags that were piled at the very back of the shop, opening them one by one and checking through their contents.
"Hmm . . ."
Rather than looking for his little sister, he gave the appearance of looking for some rare animal that had escaped from its pen.
". . . Not here, huh?" Shannon muttered to himself as he opened and shut drawers at random.
". . . I don't think there's any way she'd be in a drawer."
He glanced back over his shoulder toward the voice that floated down through the air. A young woman clad in light pink nightclothes was coming down the stairs at the back of the shop.
"I wonder if she's out in the yard."
This figure--who bore an extraordinary resemblance to Shannon in both features and build, but whose demeanor clearly differed from his--was his elder twin sister, Raquel.
Perhaps the best way to describe her is as a little girl grown tall.
There may have been the differences of countenance and stature that are typical between men and women, but she looked just like Shannon . . . She looked just like Shannon, and yet, simply by looking at her, one could perceive the air of an inexplicable and pervasively infectious good cheer.
Between the cat design on her chest and her nightcap with its fluffy white ball on top, her appearance would cause one to question whether she truly was twenty years old or not . . . and the fact that this created no sense of unease whatsoever was a mystery among mysteries. "It's just mirroring what's in her head, right?" . . . is how Shannon would put it.
Her facial features were similarly relaxed and easy, much like a cat basking in the sun, and in her case, this wasn't particularly linked to her having just awakened--she remained this way around the clock.
"In the yard? This early?"
"These days . . . she's been on a losing streak, so . . ."
"Oh . . . You mean she's been fighting with Desert Eagle?"
They stifled simultaneous yawns during this exchange. The difficulty both had getting up in the morning just went to show that they were twins.
"Guess she still hasn't learned . . . Well, anyway, I'll go get her."
"Take care . . ."
Raquel waved her hand like a slowly swaying frond of seaweed, and Shannon headed out to the backyard.
To live, one must fight.
All living things are able to partake of life only by treating others as food. There are no exceptions. There are only doubts as to whether that sort of life can truly be called living.
Self-seeking disputes that go beyond what is essential are indeed futile, but blindly avoiding all battles is the logic of a fool who sees only one side of things. He who does not fight shall not eat. The act of living is already a battle in and of itself.
And so . . .
Armed with the philosophy that she inherited from her father, Pacifica now . . . on that single plot of land that comprised their backyard, she devoted herself body and soul to confronting her enemy.
By habit, she spread her feet to ensure stability and curled her slender body in slightly, assuming an oblique stance with one leg bent in front and the other extended behind4. Both hands--held ready to act at a moment's notice, whether in attack or defense--were at chest height. Her appearance perfectly resembled that of a cat about to spring on its prey.
Her physical condition was flawless.
And then.
. . . Not one wisp of cloud darkens my heart!
Chanting this to herself as though clenching a fist in her heart, Pacifica fixed her blue eyes firmly on her enemy. They were mutual enemies, equally matched in ability, so if either were to show the slightest hesitation, the only thing left to that one would be defeat. That much was a forgone conclusion.
As though sensing the burning in her soul, her enemy of course made no sign of any careless movement. But those eyes--which seemed hollow at first glance while concealing that quiet determination we call "bloodlust"--glared fixedly at Pacifica.
The fight had already reached a . . . No. Rather, it had been a stalemate from the very beginning.
. . . The victor will be decided in an instant.
That's what Pacifica thought. It had always been so.
. . . The first to move will be the one to lose.
Even though the cold air pricked her skin, Pacifica was aware of a drop of sweat sliding down her cheek as she thought that. Generally, Pacifica was the one to lose patience and spring into action, at which point her opponent would defend and counter5, and she'd receive a staggering blow. The enemy had exhaustive knowledge of her attacks. A careless attack would be sheer folly. After tasting the bitterness of seven consecutive defeats, Pacifica had also learned the strategy of waiting.
Even so . . .
Between her enemy, whose body had been forged by living outdoors, and Pacifica herself, who spent her nights sleeping snugly in a bed . . . it went without saying who would be at a disadvantage should it turn into a battle of attrition.
"Unu . . ." she groaned.
Though it was a gentle breeze, the winter wind that stroked her cheek stole away the warmth of her body. It could not go on like this. If there was the slightest opening . . .
At that moment.
"Heeey. Pacificaaa."
Her older brother's sleepy voice resounded.
It shattered the measureless tension.
"Hoaaaaaaaaaa!!"
"Keeeeeeeeeeh!!"
A battle cry like the rending of silk blended with a sharp, strange voice.
It was her secret technique, "Genocide Hurricane Special the Second" (what about it had anything to do with genocide, or hurricanes, or specials, or seconds was a mystery, even to its inventor) versus the enemy's piercing jump kick. The skills they had both drawn out in the intention of ending things in a single, killing blow burst forth.
And the result . . .
Having exchanged positions in an instant, Pacifica and her enemy stood back-to-back in perfect repose, still in their battle stances.
For a moment, even time seemed to be holding its breath and watching closely.
"Unyuu . . ."
And the result . . .
Thunk.
. . . the one to fall was Pacifica.
Chagrined, she seized the grass beneath her hand and squirmed on the ground. Her enemy's sharp blow had branded her cheek with the vivid, crimson mark of the defeated.
"I--I lost . . ."
"Nice effort."
The one who said this was her elder brother, who had walked up to stand right beside her without her even noticing. Pacifica stared daggers up at his weary face.
"You put up a good fight," Shannon said, his tone suggesting that it made little difference to him either way.
Pacifica shouted back, "A failure needs no consolation!"
"Hey, I'm just impressed, that's all." Aside from the writhing Pacifica, Shannon also looked over at the enemy who had defeated her, comparing the one to the other. "You're pretty much the only one who'd get sucked into a fight to the death with a chicken, all over just one omelette."
Her enemy--Desert Eagle, one of the Casull household's free-range chickens--raised her voice in a jeering "keh keh keh." If you're wondering why they would give such a name to a mere hen . . . seeing the brutality in her eyes and the dreadfulness (which would put any bird of prey to shame) that emanated from every pore of her body, probably anyone would understand their reasoning.
Well, if the precious eggs they lay come under threat of being snatched away every single day, even chickens will go berserk, I suppose.
Incidentally, this "Desert Eagle" had a reputation in their neighborhood as a demon bird who could turn the tables even on hungry stray cats and dogs that came rushing in for the attack, and beat them within an inch of their lives.
"If you want to eat an omelette that bad, you should just use some other chicken's eggs."
"But her eggs, they're delicious! I mean, like, even eating just one is enough to imbue you with strength and fortitude--they're that delicious!" cried Pacifica, brimming over with tears of vexation.
". . . Well, that's her eggs all right, but . . ."
Gazing at Desert Eagle--who had strode with a regal air back to her eggs and begun warming them once more--Shannon sighed.
"I'm definitely not gonna lose tomorrow!"
Pacifica clenched her fist and pledged her oath to the winter sky.
"I know, I know. Tomorrow. For today, just admit defeat and give me a hand over here." Shannon said listlessly, stooping to help his little sister up. "It's gonna be a lot of work . . . The funeral preparations, I mean."
---
[Next] [Previous]
Notes:
1) The Desert Eagle is a large-framed gas-operated semi-automatic pistol designed by Magnum Research in the U.S. and by IMI in Israel. Back
2) The .454 Casull is a type of firearm cartridge. Back
3) Manurhin is a French manufacturer of firearms that was bought out by Manufacture d'Armes de tir Chapuis in 1998. Back
4) The text has hanmi (半身), or "half-facing position." This is a ready stance used in aikidou, karate, kendou, etc. Back
5) The text has go no sen (後の先), or "delayed initiative," a defense method in which one neutralizes an opponent's attack before launching a counterattack. Back
[Disclaimer]
Scrapped Princess | Prelude of the Stray Cat Princess | The End of the Days of Innocence | Part 1/3
In that moment when the sun wavers on the horizon, swaying over the boundary between day and night . . . a girl opened her sky blue eyes.
". . . Unyuu . . ."
With this enigmatic utterance, she roused herself from sleep.
Unlike her elder brother and sister--both of whom gave every appearance of low blood pressure--she had always woken up naturally. She went to bed early, and in sharp contrast to her slender frame, she overflowed with vitality and was always looking for action. Whether for this reason or not, despite eating fairly substantial meals, she never got fat, and she remained short in stature. As for her chest and hips . . . Well, they were about what you'd expect.
Be that as it may . . . unless one had some particular business to attend, it was still too early to be waking up.
But the girl sprang up out of bed to shake off her sleepiness. She went straight to her sister's hand-me-down dressing table and plopped herself in front of it.
Reflected in the mirror was the face of a lovely young girl.
She was in her mid-teens. Her pretty face and figure carried an air of grace and refinement. As long as she kept quiet and still, anyone--be it a man or a woman--would, upon seeing her, be gripped by an impulse to grab her and hug her close . . . She possessed just that sort of kittenish charm.
But then, upon more careful observation, one would get the impression that her expression and bearing contradicted her appearance . . . One could also perceive a latent aura of shrewdness and audacity, much like that of an alley cat.
Which isn't to say that one or the other was her true nature. Indeed, all people are possessed of contradictory attributes, and in this girl, that truth was particularly striking.
"Umyuu . . ."
Yawning, she briefly ran a comb through her long blonde hair and began to plait it.
Seeing the adept yet careful way in which she worked, anyone would probably smile and think, Ah, just like a girl. But then she proceeded to exchange her nightclothes for distinctly unglamorous, light brown farmer's clothes.
Nevertheless, she seemed quite satisfied with them herself, as she nodded at the mirror and got to her feet.
"All right."
Muttering like an old man, she slapped both hands to her face, as though to rally herself. And then, for whatever reason, she flopped down on the floor and suddenly started doing some kind of stretches.
However, her movements lacked the smoothness of habit, showing instead the sluggishness of one who had learned merely by watching others. Stretching her arms, stretching her legs, twisting her body, stretching her frame as far as it would go . . .
"Owowowowow . . ."
She seized her leg and groaned.
. . . Apparently, it had cramped.
Even doing unaccustomed stretching exercises, one's body will most likely warm up eventually, should one keep at it for a while. Her cheeks slightly flushed, the girl came to a rest.
". . . Whew."
She quirked up the corner of her lips, almost as though they too had gotten a cramp.
It seemed she had meant to smile grimly to herself.
"Desert Eagle1 . . . today, for sure, you'd better be ready."
So saying, the girl--the Casull family's youngest daughter, Pacifica Casull2--left her room behind.
In the west of the kingdom of Leinwand . . . in the westernmost frontier of that monarchy, which itself lay in the west of the continent of Dustvin, was a provincial city called Manurhin3.
Its fortified walls; the mansion that acted as the very heart of the city and housed the feudal lord, who had by appointment come from the royal capital itself; and its division of administrative offices--all of these allowed it to bear the title of a city . . . but if one were to speak plainly, it was a backwater town.
Looking at the maps of surrounding areas and other similar documents, one would find that such records were terribly vague and perfunctory. Officially, people placed the blame on the feudal lord, Count Franchi, criticizing his lack of effort to progress his surveying program . . . but the truth of the matter is, when it comes to the deep mountains and forests and the like, vast tracts of land can be haphazardly recorded without causing any trouble at all.
Anything you would expect to find anywhere could of course be found here, and those things that other cities lacked, they were lacking here as well. If you were to ask an actual resident of Manurhin, "What sort of town is this?" they would probably have trouble finding a reply.
If pressed for an answer, they might say the town's defining characteristics were that Count Franchi's magnanimous governance gave them a standard of living that far surpassed those of a typical borderland, and that self-styled adventurers looking to strike it rich in the vast unexplored regions surrounding the town (in short, groups of charlatans and rogues) would often stop by.
Now, then.
On the edge of Manurhin's commercial district.
There stood a shop that had "General Arms Dealer -- Casull's" carved onto its signboard in rude, slapdash writing. These carelessly scribbled letters seemed not to have been carved by a chisel but simply gouged out by some other edged tool . . . perhaps a dagger or something similar. However you looked at it, this was not professional work.
A shop's signboard is its face, which means it is quite easy to divine the shopkeeper's character from a sign such as this.
This two-story brick building had a strong impression of unusual sincerity and vigor, and was altogether lacking in pretense . . . and in a town like Manurhin, which was dominated by one-story wooden buildings, it stood out considerably. In a country town where the price of land was not even worth considering, people who would go to the trouble of building a two-story house were rare.
Of course, the shop did not comprise the entire building. It also served as a warehouse, as well as a home for the shopkeeper, Yuuma Casull, and his three children. Behind the store lay a fairly large yard, in which a garden and a small pond could be seen. Apparently Yuuma Casull's creed was "Be as self-reliant as possible," and accordingly, there were vegetables growing in the garden, edible fish being raised in the pond, and as many as twenty chickens left out to pasture.
At any rate.
"Hn . . ."
. . . It was early morning.
The sun was just beginning to peek its face out from behind the horizon, and the light that flowed from it was pale, as though it were still half-asleep.
A young man looked around the shop while ruminatively scratching his head. It seemed that he had just woken up. His black eyes were bleary and unfocused with drowsiness, and his long black hair, which resembled that of a woman's, was tied back by a thin strip of cloth. Together, they somehow gave him a vaguely disheveled appearance.
Looking more closely, he had a handsome face with a well-shaped nose . . . but perhaps it was his black eyes, which were narrowed as though by a constant sullenness that was not limited to the time just after he awoke, and his demeanor, which was reminiscent of an old man, that gave him a strangely worn-out look. He had just turned twenty the previous month, but more than the impulsiveness and high-spirits of youth, his jaded aura (whether for better or for worse) suited him quite well.
Perhaps he was a man of the world.
Adjusting the collar of his loose, blue nightclothes, the young man walked around the dimly lit shop.
"Pacifica . . . hey . . ."
The signboard may have advertised general arms, but in reality the shelves were stocked with everything from hunting gear and carpentry tools to sundries and, on top of all that, vegetables--perhaps the surplus from the family's self-sufficient homestead.
Above the shelves hung a message board that adventurers apparently used to exchange news and information. "Urgent Recruit! Seeking traveling companions," "Up-to-date information on the Palme Ruins," "Treasure map for sale"--the scraps of paper pinned to the board bore a variety of messages, ranging from the earnest to the suspect.
It may have been from open-mindedness or a complete lack of constancy . . . Whatever the reason, they dealt without prejudice in everything they possibly could deal in, an attitude that was clearly reflected in their store.
But then, every last one of the displayed vegetables was wilted, and the most recent message on the bulletin board was dated more than ten days ago. Most of all, though, it was the stagnant air of the shop that told that the Casulls had done no business in the past few days.
That probably was not the worst of it.
"Pacifica . . ."
The young man--the Casull family's eldest son, Shannon Casull--called his little sister's name, and his tone made it clear that he thought she was being a pain.
It probably wasn't for that reason, but he received no reply.
Alone in the silent shop, Shannon sighed. Then, as though he had just remembered something, he checked inside the cabinets, under the reckoning table, anywhere that could provide a hiding place. Next, he went through the cargo boxes and shipping bags that were piled at the very back of the shop, opening them one by one and checking through their contents.
"Hmm . . ."
Rather than looking for his little sister, he gave the appearance of looking for some rare animal that had escaped from its pen.
". . . Not here, huh?" Shannon muttered to himself as he opened and shut drawers at random.
". . . I don't think there's any way she'd be in a drawer."
He glanced back over his shoulder toward the voice that floated down through the air. A young woman clad in light pink nightclothes was coming down the stairs at the back of the shop.
"I wonder if she's out in the yard."
This figure--who bore an extraordinary resemblance to Shannon in both features and build, but whose demeanor clearly differed from his--was his elder twin sister, Raquel.
Perhaps the best way to describe her is as a little girl grown tall.
There may have been the differences of countenance and stature that are typical between men and women, but she looked just like Shannon . . . She looked just like Shannon, and yet, simply by looking at her, one could perceive the air of an inexplicable and pervasively infectious good cheer.
Between the cat design on her chest and her nightcap with its fluffy white ball on top, her appearance would cause one to question whether she truly was twenty years old or not . . . and the fact that this created no sense of unease whatsoever was a mystery among mysteries. "It's just mirroring what's in her head, right?" . . . is how Shannon would put it.
Her facial features were similarly relaxed and easy, much like a cat basking in the sun, and in her case, this wasn't particularly linked to her having just awakened--she remained this way around the clock.
"In the yard? This early?"
"These days . . . she's been on a losing streak, so . . ."
"Oh . . . You mean she's been fighting with Desert Eagle?"
They stifled simultaneous yawns during this exchange. The difficulty both had getting up in the morning just went to show that they were twins.
"Guess she still hasn't learned . . . Well, anyway, I'll go get her."
"Take care . . ."
Raquel waved her hand like a slowly swaying frond of seaweed, and Shannon headed out to the backyard.
To live, one must fight.
All living things are able to partake of life only by treating others as food. There are no exceptions. There are only doubts as to whether that sort of life can truly be called living.
Self-seeking disputes that go beyond what is essential are indeed futile, but blindly avoiding all battles is the logic of a fool who sees only one side of things. He who does not fight shall not eat. The act of living is already a battle in and of itself.
And so . . .
Armed with the philosophy that she inherited from her father, Pacifica now . . . on that single plot of land that comprised their backyard, she devoted herself body and soul to confronting her enemy.
By habit, she spread her feet to ensure stability and curled her slender body in slightly, assuming an oblique stance with one leg bent in front and the other extended behind4. Both hands--held ready to act at a moment's notice, whether in attack or defense--were at chest height. Her appearance perfectly resembled that of a cat about to spring on its prey.
Her physical condition was flawless.
And then.
. . . Not one wisp of cloud darkens my heart!
Chanting this to herself as though clenching a fist in her heart, Pacifica fixed her blue eyes firmly on her enemy. They were mutual enemies, equally matched in ability, so if either were to show the slightest hesitation, the only thing left to that one would be defeat. That much was a forgone conclusion.
As though sensing the burning in her soul, her enemy of course made no sign of any careless movement. But those eyes--which seemed hollow at first glance while concealing that quiet determination we call "bloodlust"--glared fixedly at Pacifica.
The fight had already reached a . . . No. Rather, it had been a stalemate from the very beginning.
. . . The victor will be decided in an instant.
That's what Pacifica thought. It had always been so.
. . . The first to move will be the one to lose.
Even though the cold air pricked her skin, Pacifica was aware of a drop of sweat sliding down her cheek as she thought that. Generally, Pacifica was the one to lose patience and spring into action, at which point her opponent would defend and counter5, and she'd receive a staggering blow. The enemy had exhaustive knowledge of her attacks. A careless attack would be sheer folly. After tasting the bitterness of seven consecutive defeats, Pacifica had also learned the strategy of waiting.
Even so . . .
Between her enemy, whose body had been forged by living outdoors, and Pacifica herself, who spent her nights sleeping snugly in a bed . . . it went without saying who would be at a disadvantage should it turn into a battle of attrition.
"Unu . . ." she groaned.
Though it was a gentle breeze, the winter wind that stroked her cheek stole away the warmth of her body. It could not go on like this. If there was the slightest opening . . .
At that moment.
"Heeey. Pacificaaa."
Her older brother's sleepy voice resounded.
It shattered the measureless tension.
"Hoaaaaaaaaaa!!"
"Keeeeeeeeeeh!!"
A battle cry like the rending of silk blended with a sharp, strange voice.
It was her secret technique, "Genocide Hurricane Special the Second" (what about it had anything to do with genocide, or hurricanes, or specials, or seconds was a mystery, even to its inventor) versus the enemy's piercing jump kick. The skills they had both drawn out in the intention of ending things in a single, killing blow burst forth.
And the result . . .
Having exchanged positions in an instant, Pacifica and her enemy stood back-to-back in perfect repose, still in their battle stances.
For a moment, even time seemed to be holding its breath and watching closely.
"Unyuu . . ."
And the result . . .
Thunk.
. . . the one to fall was Pacifica.
Chagrined, she seized the grass beneath her hand and squirmed on the ground. Her enemy's sharp blow had branded her cheek with the vivid, crimson mark of the defeated.
"I--I lost . . ."
"Nice effort."
The one who said this was her elder brother, who had walked up to stand right beside her without her even noticing. Pacifica stared daggers up at his weary face.
"You put up a good fight," Shannon said, his tone suggesting that it made little difference to him either way.
Pacifica shouted back, "A failure needs no consolation!"
"Hey, I'm just impressed, that's all." Aside from the writhing Pacifica, Shannon also looked over at the enemy who had defeated her, comparing the one to the other. "You're pretty much the only one who'd get sucked into a fight to the death with a chicken, all over just one omelette."
Her enemy--Desert Eagle, one of the Casull household's free-range chickens--raised her voice in a jeering "keh keh keh." If you're wondering why they would give such a name to a mere hen . . . seeing the brutality in her eyes and the dreadfulness (which would put any bird of prey to shame) that emanated from every pore of her body, probably anyone would understand their reasoning.
Well, if the precious eggs they lay come under threat of being snatched away every single day, even chickens will go berserk, I suppose.
Incidentally, this "Desert Eagle" had a reputation in their neighborhood as a demon bird who could turn the tables even on hungry stray cats and dogs that came rushing in for the attack, and beat them within an inch of their lives.
"If you want to eat an omelette that bad, you should just use some other chicken's eggs."
"But her eggs, they're delicious! I mean, like, even eating just one is enough to imbue you with strength and fortitude--they're that delicious!" cried Pacifica, brimming over with tears of vexation.
". . . Well, that's her eggs all right, but . . ."
Gazing at Desert Eagle--who had strode with a regal air back to her eggs and begun warming them once more--Shannon sighed.
"I'm definitely not gonna lose tomorrow!"
Pacifica clenched her fist and pledged her oath to the winter sky.
"I know, I know. Tomorrow. For today, just admit defeat and give me a hand over here." Shannon said listlessly, stooping to help his little sister up. "It's gonna be a lot of work . . . The funeral preparations, I mean."
---
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Notes:
1) The Desert Eagle is a large-framed gas-operated semi-automatic pistol designed by Magnum Research in the U.S. and by IMI in Israel. Back
2) The .454 Casull is a type of firearm cartridge. Back
3) Manurhin is a French manufacturer of firearms that was bought out by Manufacture d'Armes de tir Chapuis in 1998. Back
4) The text has hanmi (半身), or "half-facing position." This is a ready stance used in aikidou, karate, kendou, etc. Back
5) The text has go no sen (後の先), or "delayed initiative," a defense method in which one neutralizes an opponent's attack before launching a counterattack. Back