### -> [[Camp]] When I was only a mere child, they had enlisted me in martial arts classes. I don't know who the they was. I don't even know why I was enlisted. All that mattered, to the Sensei and I, at least, was my performance. I was expected to outdo myself each day, or get whipped on the wrist. One or the other. Take a fall? That's a whipping. Not hit them? That, too, was a whipping. Not following an honorable code? That was a paddlin'. Then a whipping, also. The scars still persist to this day. I even started wearing a green neckerchief around my right wrist, just to save some dignity. I was told by Sensei that, when I wasn't being punished, I was actually doing extremely well compared to others. I think he noticed that I was starting lose my passion for the craft, though. Hard to stay emotionally driven when you're physically driven by a desire not to get hurt. You game-ify it in your head. "Student!", he called out to me. My name was Era, but we each only knew each other by title, for anonymity's sake. "My teaching methods are unorthodox, we both know that. But I noticed you've stopped smiling. Smiling is not a requirement for combat, but I feel inclined to ask if you're alright?" It was odd of him to do anything but instruct and hurt. "I'm just following orders, Sensei. I guess you, too, went through this? You would then know my pain." "Pain is a natural part of teaching, Student. Hm... Have you ever tried a real blade?" I had not. At the time, I was only instructed to use whatever was lying around - usually a plank of wood, or a stick of bamboo. A blade was entirely new to me, though I felt I could still wield one. I accepted without pause. What he brought out was not a knife or a katana like I had thought, but a *sword*, medieval in architecture. Sensei instructed me. "You are to hold the blade in one hand and one hand only. That green scarf you have should help you remember. The scars underneath will force you to remember." I steadied it in my hand, as I would a knife. Unmoving, unyielding. "Good.", replied Sensei. He brought out one of his training dummies - the kind with just the torso and the head that always bobbled in a way I particularly liked. It was stained red in some spots, though. "Remember your training, Student. I want you to use your weapon and decapitate this replica. Don't worry, I don't want it anyways. I'd give it to you if you weren't worthy of using a sword." I held myself firm. Typical ready stance, feet planted firmly behind me, my weapon drawn back, my other arm keeping me balanced but still out of the way, I closed my eyes... I didn't feel my arm move in the air. I didn't feel the sword making contact with the body. I didn't feel the wool puff out and around, onto the floor and onto myself and into my lungs. I did feel meat. I looked at my creation. The head had come clean off the dummy and onto the floor. My cut had revealed the insides, not the typical factory makes that I was used to, but inside was flesh, bone, blood, curdling and pouring out, the pus desperately trying to fix what wasn't there, the blood rushing down the torso as if running away from a crime scene. I didn't feel remorse. "Sensei, were all of them filled with a dead guy?" "No, just this one.", he coughed. "Did he do anything?" He took out a pen and paper. "Would it matter?" I thought. I mean, in the end, it wouldn't matter, he was already dead, even before I decided to play executioner, and it's not like I was worried about the stench either. "No, it would not. You asked me to attack, and I did. Is that enough?" "It is. I think you're ready for a real scenario." That night, I was slipped a [[Pamphlet]] under my windowsill. It detailed a fugitive convict - apparently having skipped the borders of Synth City to sneak someone out from there against curfew. Current whereabouts were in the desert nearby, I was told he was worth more dead than alive. My green hair always had me as a standout, so I donned the only hat I could find, an unused Fedora. I donned my clothes - typical Onigiri, colored all black, and left my abode, but not before encountering the same blade I had used to draw 0th blood. It was poised haphazardly on the front porch, with a note - "Burn the folder". I took the picture, but otherwise left the folder in the fireplace. Unlit. I ran out into the night, faster than I feel I had ever ran before. Step after step, my body felt like it had always been ready for whatever was going on. I took a last look at the picture... some red head guy with antenna sticking out of his head. Typical synth nonsense, I thought to myself. I scoured the desert for what felt like days, but the night still wavered on. Water was plentiful, the sand is just in the way of the fountains. It's really easy to lose track of time and space, but I had plenty of both. Eventually I heard a noise coming from across the distance. A faint speck of red. I wasted no time in dashing over, little by little, hiding behind the rolling hills of the landscape as needed. The target had grown tired, I thought, and decided to set up camp. I waited until he was all cozy and rested, hearing a case of sleep apnea that would make even my Sensei's skin crawl. I snuck over there, quiet as air, and lifted the blade to his throat. I wanted to pierce it, to give him a painless death, to get my first blood, but I thought back to what Sensei said. "Would it matter?" It's been ringing in my head over and over. Maybe I should check if it *would* matter. "Ahem.", I said loudly. The target awoke with a jolt. "Do not move.", I instructed. He begged with me, pleaded not to harm him, not to harm his children, and to leave him alone. "What is your name?" In between gasps for life, beats of the heart, he muttered out a soft "T...tako... Takoyaki." Perfect, I had the right guy. "Why did you cross the border illegally?" He started back on his train of incessant whines again. "You will answer my questions!", I retaliated. With a precision strike, I cut his wrist - his left one, on the top, enough for it to start pouring. His other hand moved to bandage it, which I allowed - the cut would serve as a reminder, as it does for me. "Now, again. Why did you cross the border illegally? You know the curfew of Synth City, sir." "Th-that's the thing! I'm not from there! They don't allow my kind there! Honest!" "Are you not Synth?" "Yes- well, no! No, I'm Cyber, you see, they don't allow-" "Right. The recent law change. No mixtures allowed. Doesn't that mean you're in more trouble?" I pushed my blade slightly closer to his chin. "I-I can explain, if you'd just let me-" "I think that's enough." "You're insane if you think you're-!" I readied myself again, and struck at his head, but I didn't wince nor close my eyes. I wanted to see my first kill. It was interesting, seeing the life drain from someone's eyes, as they slowly, slowly, start to rot into a corpse. Their flames burning bright, just before they extinguish. No, Sensei. I don't think it matters what they did. That's not for me to decide. ``` --[ALERT!]-- Analysis of Act 4 has concluded. Total documents: 21 Reminder: RED links must be traversed via manual URL replacement. Each previous page in Act 4 has exactly 1 RED link. Return here when all have been read to your satisfaction. ``` (End of [[Act]] 4.)