first fic

Gray Mist
    by Fuzzy Wuzzy Karu


Disclaimer:  The Prince of Tennis is copyrighted to Takeshi Konomi.  (Hey, I didn’t notice that he and Momoshiro have the same name until just now!)


    Ryoma Echizen leaned back in his seat and tried to catch a few winks, despite the bumping of the bus and the argument that was escalating in volume between his seatmate and the person in front of them.

    “That’s exactly the way it went!” Takeshi Momoshiro stubbornly insisted, his hands waving around as if to emphasize his point…and in the process, smacking Ryoma in the forehead and knocking his cap off.

    “Itaisu.”  Ryoma gave his teammate a good few seconds glare before bending down to pick his cap back up.

    “Oh, sorry,” Momoshiro apologized, quickly dismissing the incident with another (and less disastrous) gesture of his hands, “but this mamushi says that--!  Hey, I wasn’t done with you yet!”

    Kaoru Kaidoh had turned back to face the front, giving a little hiss.  “Talking to you is just wasting air.”  He turned back around to face them again, though, when Momoshiro gave his bandana a small jerk.

    An entirely new and considerably louder argument started, forcing Ryoma to give up his nap.  Instead, he looked out at the passing scenery.  There wasn’t much to see; everything was all plants and rocks.  This wasn’t the lush greenery of a forest or majestic rocks of a mountain; these plants and rocks had a desolate and almost colorless look about them, as if they had been abandoned even by Mother Nature herself.

    What a waste of time.  Ryoma scooted over a little more towards the window as Momoshiro nearly took his eye out with another emphatic gesture.  It was supposed to have been a great opportunity for training, not just in tennis, but good health and sports in general; the place they had finally gotten to after two days on a bus, however, had turned out not to exist.  Perhaps it had existed at one point, but some fire had charred it so finely that the wind had scattered the ashes and blanketed the area with this grayish screen.  The boy was surprised with himself; he usually didn’t have romantic thoughts such as this.  It must be the surroundings.  It’s not a blanket, but a mist that permeates the body and forces you to think the way you want it to.  Ryoma tore his gaze from the window and closed his eyes again, blocking out the sight.  There’s something wrong with this place.

    He began to feel a little guilty (and just a teeny tiny bit fearful) about not having his little good-luck charm with him and then berated himself for that thought.  It’s not as if things like that work.  Oishi had insisted that they all get some kind of matching charms to keep them safe from injuries during matches and also to unify them as a team.  As if the jerseys weren’t enough.  Ryoma was sure he saw the red strings tied around everyone’s necks aside from his own; from each string hung a small, jade triangle “imbued with the power of protection” as Fuji had said with a smile.  No one believed it of course, but it was fun to “pretend,” so to speak.  It’s not my fault Karupin found it almost as fascinating as his cat toys.  The cat had found it immensely entertaining to try and catch the little green triangle on its red string while his owner moved it about on the floor, so Ryoma had left it for his cousin, Nanako, to entertain Karupin with while he was away.

    Syuichiro Oishi was leaning over in his seat across the aisle, trying to placate both Momoshiro and Kaidoh while his own seatmate, Eiji Kikumaru was egging them both on.  The team captain, Kunimitsu Tezuka had been staring contemplatively out the window and continued to stare as he announced, “Twenty laps when we get back-- Momoshiro, Kaidoh.”  The verbal abuses instantly stopped.

    Syusuke Fuji looked past Tezuka at the scenery slowly going by.  “Rather bleak,” he commented.

    Tezuka said nothing, but Sadaharu Inui frowned.  “It was strange; I couldn’t find any data on this place at all.”

    “Must be very exclusive then,” Takashi Kawamura laughed nervously.

    Coach Sumire Ryuzaki’s nerves were stretched tight as a harp string.  I should have done some more research myself.  Of course one couldn’t just blindly accept any invitation that came in the mail.  This one was so…official-looking, though.  Glossy pages, testimonials; who had the kind of money to produce something such as that as a joke?  At least, she hoped it was just a joke; if not, there was something horribly wrong with the whole situation.  At any rate, the bus driver seemed to know what he was doing.  “What do you know about this place?” she asked him.

    When there was no answer for a few moments, Coach Ryuzaki wondered if she should repeat herself or yell at him, when the bus suddenly stopped.  “Out of gas?” she questioned, but she knew the answer and dreaded it.

    The driver now turned to face them.  His face was expressionless, lacking in whatever qualities that seemed to make everyone else’s features on the bus human, animated.  Ryoma thought of the gray mist, pouring into people’s bodies.  This is what it does to them.

    A gun was now in the driver’s hand, although he pointed it at no one in particular; he didn’t need to.  Even if the group wasn’t too frightened to overtake the man, it seemed more of them were closing in on them from outside--four men; five if the bus driver was included.  Each held silver pistols; any fight the tennis players put up would only result in death.

    No words needed to be said; cash and other valuables, including tennis equipment, were readily given over to the men.  When Kikumaru produced only a single bill from his pocket, he was given a long, although blank, stare.  “Waaghh, I’m sorry!  That’s all my parents--,” Kikumaru stopped his babbling as Oishi put on hand on his shoulder and shook his head.  The robber moved on.

    It was a little amusing to think later on that what happened afterwards was all just due to one of the men having bad aim.  A shot was fired; just a warning for everyone to keep their heads down and no one to follow the men as they made their way back to wherever they had come from or perhaps to someplace completely new.  “Ten minutes; no one move,” the bus driver had said, right before one of his companions pulled the trigger and they were off the bus and out of sight.

    No dared to look up or even move the slightest before those ten minutes were up.  Momoshiro wished he had worn a watch so he could count the minutes until he could break the unnatural silence that had settled on the bus.  Of course, had he worn one, it would have been taken from him anyway.  He started to count the number of lines the weaving left on his shoe laces; he was up to forty-seven, having lost count more than twelve times before losing count of how many times he had lost count, before Coach Ryuzaki announced, “I think it’s safe now; more than ten minutes, probably.”

    The bus exploded with chatter from the nine tennis players; people trying to laugh it off, people trying to comfort each other, people lamenting over what they had lost, everyone trying to do all of that at once.  Momoshiro made a sound that almost passed for a chuckle.  “Wow, we’ll have quite an exciting story for Inoue-san, won’t we?”  He turned to Ryoma, expecting a reply.

    The thirteen-year-old had his eyes closed and his head leaned back in his seat.  “Hey, Echizen, now’s not the time to…”  Momoshiro trailed off when he saw what he could have sworn was pain in the boy’s face, except it was so subtle, one really had to know him to know that expression.  “Echizen?”  Momoshiro’s eyes traveled from Ryoma’s face down to his abdomen (or something; he wasn’t all too sure about the non-obvious body parts), where a hand had been placed there, blood running in rivulets between the fingers.

    His mind became a sudden blank.  No, that wasn’t it.  It became all of a sudden…too crowded.  Should he yell at the boy, berate him for not saying something sooner?  Elicit some sort of reaction, something, anything, even just a bland, “Mada mada dane.”  Should he alert the others?  Of course he should!  Who first?  Oishi’s uncle is a doctor, maybe he knows what do next.  What did Oishi’s uncle being a doctor have to do with Oishi himself?  It’s not like he was his uncle’s apprentice or anything.  Tezuka-buchou!  He was calm in any situation; that must be good for something like this.  Inui has data on practically everything; he would know what to do next.  Ryuzaki-sensei is an adult; she must know!  Didn’t Fuji’s sister have magical powers or something?  Fuji must have learned something from her.  Wait, they were all here.  He could tell them all at the same time.  How stupid.  Yet, Momoshiro couldn’t make his mouth move, couldn’t get his throat to form sounds of any kind.

    Ryoma opened his eyes and saw his seatmate staring at him, his face confused, still unable to untangle his thoughts and make a coherent statement of any kind.  Ryoma wasn’t sure what do himself; he’d never been shot before.  Unlike Momoshiro, however, he didn’t have a jumble of thoughts running through his head; in fact, he was strangely calm, only one thought running through his head at a time.  “It’s cold, Momo-sempai.”

    Momoshiro found his voice, although comprehensive communication was still a bit out of reach.  “Echizen, Echizen!”  He wasn’t sure if he was calling out to his wounded friend or to others for help, but for now, it was enough just to be heard.

    It seemed to Momoshiro that everyone’s instinct was to do something useful, unlike himself, who had just sat there, silently babbling to himself.

    Kawamura and Tezuka had gently picked their youngest teammate up and lowered him to the floor, pillowing his head with a backpack.  Tezuka radiated calmness, possibly the only thing that kept the students from outright panic.

    “Cloths, bandages, something to stop the bleeding,” Oishi muttered, scrabbling around looking for a first aid kit and fabric to use as bandages since it was quite obvious that whatever would be found in the first aid kit would be insufficient.  Kaidoh handed him some bandannas.

    Inui had carefully pulled Ryoma’s hand away from the wound and was inspecting the bleeding.  “Abdomen,” Momoshiro heard him speaking softly to himself.  Oh, so I was right.  Good for me.  “State of shock; chance of survival without immediate medical attention…”  Momoshiro tried not to listen, but it seemed that Inui had decided to keep the end of that sentence to himself.

    “Everything will be all right, Ochibi,” Kikumaru was saying; his lips curved in a smile, but his eyes were filled with worry and horror.  “Remember when you cut open your eyelid?  I mean, that was your eyelid!  Much more delicate; probably hurt more, too.”

    “Doesn’t hurt,” Ryoma replied quietly, his features calm, more calm than during some of his more passionate matches.  “Just cold.”

    Oh yeah, he had said that before.  Did I just ignore him then?  Momoshiro slipped off his jacket and laid it on top of his friend.

    Coach Ryuzaki and Fuji had come back from inspecting around outside.  “The tires were all punctured,” the teacher noted.  “Probably to keep us from following.”

    “We’ll have to walk,” Fuji said softly.  His expression was as calm as Tezuka’s, but his eyes showed fear for the life of his teammate.  “As far as I can see, there aren’t any buildings or anything nearby.  We might be walking a long time; we should take Echizen with us.”

    Tezuka nodded.  “We’re not even sure if we could get back to this spot once we left it,” the team captain remarked.

    Ryoma struggled and protested a bit when he realized that he was going to be carried (and in Kawamura’s arms).  “Echizen, just be still and let us help you,” Tezuka commanded.  “Or it’s eighty laps when we get back.”  When we get back.  If we get back.  If Echizen gets back.  Momoshiro wondered if the captain was as scared as he was; he wondered if Ryoma was; he wondered if any of them were.

    The younger boy stopped his movements, but managed a grumpy, “Che,” as he was lifted up.  Momoshiro saw his jacket slipping and reached out to fix it.  When his hand came away from its job, there was blood on it.  Echizen’s blood.  Momoshiro shivered.  Thanks to Oishi and Kaidoh’s makeshift bandages, however, the blood wasn’t soaking through the thin jacket and wasn’t a constant visual reminder of what hung in the balance.

    No one could measure how long they were walking since all of their watches were now in the possession of five strange men.  It felt like hours, but in truth, Coach Ryuzaki guessed it to be fifty minutes at the most.  She and Fuji walked in front, keeping their eyes peeled for anything that could help:  a building, a person, a tree house, anything.  Tezuka and Oishi walked behind them all, in case anything was missed or anything went wrong.  Every ten minutes or so, Kawamura and Kaidoh switched off on their burden, never without a grunt or some other small, vocalized objection from said burden.  Inui was keeping track of where they had come from, just in case.  Kikumaru kept up a steady string of chatter with (or rather at) Ryoma, always requiring some kind of reply and not letting up on his, “Ochibi, you listening?  Ochibi?” until he got a grunt or a snort in response.  Momoshiro realized this might just be his sempai’s way of making sure their little teammate hadn’t died on them rather than for keeping Ryoma’s mind off his pain.  Indeed, what pain?  The kid had said there wasn’t any.  Inui’s words about shock echoed in Momoshiro’s mind.

    Momoshiro made sure the jacket was always tucked securely around his friend.  It was such as small thing to do, compared to everyone else, but it was all he could concentrate on.  Keep him warm.

    Finally, they saw something.  A white building with the words “Hospital” printed over the door.  The first building they had come to and it was a hospital!  It was a miracle of some sort.  Coach Ryuzaki approached the receptionist.  “Where’s the emergency room?  This boy has a bullet in him; probably has had one for over an hour!”

    The receptionist glanced disinterestedly in Ryoma’s direction before turning her mild expression on Coach Ryuzaki.  “Money upfront,” she said.  Being met by silence, she turned her attention back to her paperwork.

    Coach Ryuzaki recovered enough to splutter out an, “Excuse me?”

    The receptionist sighed; impatience was evident in the tapping of her fingers against the counter.  “We must be paid before any work can be done,” she explained, stressing each word as if speaking to a child.

    The coach stared back in disbelief at the woman behind the counter.  “A child’s life is in danger and all you care about is money?” she asked incredulously.

    The receptionist shrugged.  “It’s not as if we can help everyone in the world anyway.  Not enough doctors, not enough medicine—think of it as a selection process, with money as the selection tool.  If that child dies off, then there’s more for everyone else.”  Her bored expression changed to one of thoughtfulness.  “For example, a natural diamond would be hard to come by, so people set high prices for one.  If everyone could afford one, then there wouldn’t be enough diamonds to go around.  However, by keeping the price so that only very few are able to buy one, a balance is reached.”

    Coach Ryuzaki slammed a fist down on the counter.  “Human life can’t be compared to jewelry!” she exploded.

    The receptionist now looked her square in the eye.  “In the end, the diamond means more to me than that boy’s life.  It will buy food for my family, shelter for my family; it will keep me alive.  Just keeping that boy alive will not help me to survive in the world.”

    Coach Ryuzaki willed herself to calm down; getting into a philosophical debate would only take up more precious time.  “Look, we were robbed of all our cash and valuables on our way here, which, incidentally, led to the boy getting shot.”

    The receptionist inclined her head in what almost seemed a sympathetic gesture.  “It’s a dangerous place out there,” she remarked.  “But there are—“

    “How about this?”  Tezuka had come forward, a jade triangle in his hand.  As the woman reached out to inspect it, everyone else removed their own “lucky charms” to a small pile on the counter; no one had thought to give it to their robbers before.

    The receptionist frowned as she took in the measly pile.  “These jade scraps aren’t even enough for the anesthesia.”  She looked up at them now with a slightly bemused expression.  “That’s assuming that you would care for him to have that.”

    Momoshiro shuddered.  He saw the teacher’s eyes flare up with anger, but before she could do anything they would all regret later, the receptionist started speaking again, completely ignoring everyone’s horrified looks,  “As I was saying, there are phones over there; you can wire some money over or something.  The phone bill will be credited to you, of course.”  This time there was a sweet smile on her face.  A true businesswoman, this one was.  “You can leave the boy across the seats here.”

    Momoshiro chose to stay behind with Ryoma while the others made their phone calls, attempting to pillow the boy’s head with some magazines.  There was a clock here, but since he hadn’t known what time it was before they had been robbed anyway, he wasn’t able to gauge how long his friend had been in this condition.

    “Hey, are you poor?” the injured boy asked out of the blue.  Momoshiro stared at him.  Was he starting to lose his memory now?  They hadn’t dropped him on his head or anything before, had they?

    Ryoma saw the look his sempai was giving him.  “Not you, Momo-sempai.”

    The receptionist looked up.  “Huh?”

    “Are you poor?” the boy repeated, slightly louder than before, although his voice was lower than it normally was and it also sounded strained.  Momoshiro noticed the deep breaths his friend took before each word and the slight shadow of pain that formed on his face along with each word.

    Momoshiro put a hand on his teammate’s shoulder.  “Echizen, just rest.  You can bother her later.”

    The receptionist’s response was barely audible.  “It’s really none of your business.”

    There was silence after that while Ryoma gathered his thoughts.  The colorless surroundings, a hospital run on greed, robbers who didn’t think twice about taking from junior high school students and an (almost) old woman, and a receptionist who would trade his life for a diamond.  That gray mist…I know what it is…  This time when his eyes blinked shut, they felt too heavy to open again.  He felt Momoshiro shaking him a bit, and yelling loudly.  At least, he assumed it was loudly; all the noise around him had been getting harder and harder to hear and by now, everything had become a sort of dull humming.  He felt himself being carried, but this time, he didn’t care; he wanted to finish his thought before the unconsciousness that he knew was coming could overtake him.  That mist is…  He vaguely noted that his clothes were being snipped away and wondered about Momoshiro’s jacket.  Poverty.  The realization came right before the anesthetic mask was lowered.

--------------

    Ryoma awoke to what sounded like shuffling papers.  Karupin hasn’t shredded anything since he was a kitten.  He opened his eyes to see what damage his cat was causing, but immediately closed them again when he saw how bright everything was.

    “Hey, Ochibi just moved!”  Kikumaru dropped the deck of cards he had been about to deal and dashed over to Ryoma’s bedside.

    The younger boy opened his eyes more slowly this time.  Ah, it’s a different cat causing trouble.  He almost smiled.

    “Eiji, calm down.”  Oishi came up behind his doubles partner, his face radiating relief and worry at the same time.  “Echizen, how do you feel?  Do you need anything?”

    Ryoma managed a shrug.  “I’m okay, I guess.”

    Oishi looked doubtful, but he wasn’t about to aggravate his recovering teammate by arguing with him.  “Ryuzaki-sensei’s filling out some paperwork.  The others are getting something to eat.”

    “Except for Fuji,” Kikumari corrected.  “He wanted to get something for Ochibi in the gift shop."

    Ryoma briefly wondered what kind of gift the tensai would pick out and fervently hoped that it wasn’t a cactus.

    “Oh, and Momo.”  Kikumaru jerked his thumb to the corner of the room, where Momoshiro had been napping, slumped over in a chair, until the noise of the small commotion had awakened him.  The acrobatics player turned his full attention back to his youngest teammate.  “Are you hungry?  I’ll go tell the others to get you something, nya!”  Kikumaru practically bounced out of the room.

    Oishi watched him go, and then with a sudden cry of, “Eiji, wait!  That’s the wrong way!” chased after him.

    Momoshiro stood awkwardly next to Ryoma’s bed.  There were so many things he wanted to do right at the moment:  scold his friend for not telling them immediately, apologize for not noticing sooner, apologize for not being able to do anything even after he had noticed, tell him how worried he had been…

    “How come you’re not eating?”

    Momoshiro blinked.  Out of all the things he had been expecting the bedridden boy to say, that wasn’t it.  “What?”

    “Eating.  You’re not.  Why?”

    The older boy shrugged that same careless shrug that Ryoma had used with Oishi just moments ago.  “Not hungry.”

    Ryoma raised an eyebrow.  “Hmmm, that’s very unlike you.  Maybe you should be the one in this hospital bed instead; you’re obviously not feeling well.”

    Momoshiro exploded.  “Don’t joke around, Echizen!  You could have died!  What if we hadn’t found this place or what if we hadn’t been able to get the money wired over or what if—“

    “Thank you.”

    It was so unexpected, so sudden, and said in such a small voice, that the second year forgot his tirade.

    Ryoma had been staring at the blanket when he said it, but now he looked up at his sempai.  “For the jacket,” he said, a little louder this time.

    Momoshiro had regained his composure by now and was even smirking a little.  “Yeah, well, you’re washing the blood out, of course.”

    “Mada mada dane.”

    As the rest of the Seigaku tennis team regulars approached their youngest member’s room, they heard two loud voices arguing over who owed what to whom.

End.


Author’s Notes:  If you’ve ever watched Kindred Spirit, then you’ll probably recognize that it’s based on the episode where what's-her-name dies (I know her name in Chinese, like how to say it, but not the pin yin and certainly not how to write it in plain old Chinese, sorry^^;;)..

This was my first fanfiction and while I’m proud that I finished it, I’m not proud that in order for the plot to unfold, I made Ryuzaki do something as stupid as taking a group of junior high school kids out to who knows where without finding out more information.  At least I’m good with the mechanics of writing, if not the creativity of it>_<

I’ll get better, I promise!  Probably…I hope…I mean, I can’t get worse, right?