The First Brother

The First Brother

The Story of Ichiro

Prologue

Present

I once watched a debate, where two men were arguing the origin of morality, and the origin of evil.  The overall topic of the debate itself was the existence or nonexistence of God, but it was that moral argument that fascinated me the most.  I found it so amusing that the pro-God debater had the sheer audacity to declare that morality in human kind could only come from a God, or a creator.  What a laughable claim.  One of the most unfixed concepts in the human psyche is what is “moral”.  It is the greyest of the grey, the easiest to manipulate.  I know it well; throughout my entire life I have seen nothing but its manipulation at the hands of Man.

Or perhaps, at the hands of one man; one unknowable entity, who some would probably go so far as to call the son of Satan.  And yet I know full well to others he is a saint.  But to me, he is just a man, a man I pledged to give my life for, and take whatever life he told me to.   I have been in his service since I was ten years old.  I’m twenty five now, and to date, of all his hired guns, I’m the only one to have never taken a life, the only one to have never been given such an order.  I don’t know why he has never passed it to me, and for all my gratitude that he has kept my hands so clean of blood directly, I shudder as I sometimes find myself envious of the others, those he sends to battle for him.

His name is Maxim Ursulayavich Degtyarev, the king of the underworld.  I don’t know why he has us, the Chosen Ten, ten boys he hand-raised himself.  He picked us all on our tenth birthday, all of us equal age.  We were born to perform this role for him.  We are his Chosen Ten, and we kill and die for him.  Of them all, I was the first to be chosen.  There are only three of us left now.  And of all of them, I am the one still closest to his side, as close to a son as I think he could possibly have, or care to have.

I’m sorry; I just realized I’ve misrepresented myself a little.  I have taken lives, but thus far only the lives of my fellow Brothers Ten.  Jealousy is rampant within us.  Of the seven of us who’ve died, I’ve killed five.  And all of those five, I killed in self defense when they tried to kill me first.  The last one I killed was five years ago, and that was the last of us to have died.  Now that there are only three of us, our respective levels of importance are higher, and our sense of jealousy is much less.  He can at least divide us up more and keep us busy enough that we’re no longer at each other’s throats.

I think that was his intention all along, in his attempt to create his own Praetorian Guard.  He’s never punished us for our crimes against each other, nor praised us for it.  He has always accepted it as fact and moved on.  He has never tried to replace us either.  We exist but to serve him faithfully.  With me as his purest and most loyal body guard. 

And yet, I don’t know why he chose any of us, perhaps as a precautionary measure against his old age.  He himself has killed far more people than any of us put together.  He rose to power by his own hand and a bizarre mixture of compassion and brutality.  And that is why I serve him.  We are all free to leave if we wish, yet we do not.  Not out of fear of reprisal, but because we worship him.  We envy his favor, we long for his approval.  He is as a king of ancient times, a dealer of death and judgment to his enemies and a giver of joy and blessings upon his faithful.  He operates on a code, an ethic the rest of us can only aspire to.  He does not aspire to a greater good.  He understands humanity as being no more than mere animals, and he has taken great pains to place himself at the top of the food chain.  We are bonded to him, to serve him until old age finally claims his life, or ours are claimed in our duty.  That is our code as the Remaining Three, to Maxim Ursulayavich Degtyarev.

My name is Itano Ichiro, and I am his body guard.  I cook his every meal.  I sleep in a cot in his room.  I never leave his side, even when he’s enjoying his fancies.  I know as much about running his organization as he does.  The only time I am ever to leave his side is when I go shopping, the only stain on my soul.  Not shopping as you would normally think it.  I don’t shop for groceries or appliances, I shop for people.  I, who know him better than anyone else in the world, am in charge of fulfilling his fantasies.  Maybe that’s why he’s never had me kill and murder, he only wants one stain on my soul.

So why am I now taking the time to tell you the story of my life with this man?  Because I, who am closer than a son to him, have decided to betray him, after the order I could not follow.  I know the other two of my brothers will be sent after me, but it’s not them I worry about.  They will come after me with blind ambition, and will make their mistakes and I will exploit them.  I am afraid for when my master comes after me himself, with his burning eyes of revenge…

My name is Itano Ichiro, the bodyguard to Maxim Ursulayavich Degtyarev, the first chosen of the Chosen Ten, and I am about to die…

Chapter 1

January 21, 1996

Itano Ichiro – Age 10

He shivers in the cold January morning, despite the heater in the room blasting.  He had awoken that morning to his mother’s warm smile, excitement etched into every line of her prematurely aged face.  It was his tenth birthday, and he was in for a wonderful surprise.  One that would last him the rest of his life.  The greatest gift a mother could give.  His mind had been racing all that morning as his mother dressed him in his best clothes, what could it possibly be?  Are we going to the zoo? He wondered to himself as they waited in line for the bus.  They hadn’t been there in a very long time, and he wanted so badly to see the cute little Tanukis again.

However, they didn’t go to the zoo.  He glanced sideways, looking to either side.  He was right in the middle; there were twelve other boys on either side of him.  Some were staring straight ahead and rigid, like living planks of wood.  Others were fidgeting and nervous.  No one looked happy to be here.  He certainly wasn’t.  Instead of the zoo, his mother took him to a large office building, so high he could barely see the top.  It had to have been a really important building, because the bus stopped right in front of it, and almost everyone who got off the bus there went inside.

They were taken into the building by a man who seemed to be expecting them.  They went up in an elevator to only the twenty fifth floor out of the thirty listed on the elevator.  This made him a little disappointed, he’d been hoping whoever he was going to see would be important enough to be on the top floor, so he could see out of one of the windows, but only five down would probably be a pretty cool view too.

There were no windows on the twenty-fifth floor, however.  Which was strange, because looking up at the building he was very sure he’d seen windows on every floor all the way up.  They were led down a hallway where the man leading them stopped at a big double door, and opened it.  He was told to go into the room, but his mother had to stay outside.  She urged him on, smiling and reassuring, and he looked around, noticing lots of other mothers around the room too.  There were twenty four of them, but he didn’t recognize any of them.

He finally went inside, where he saw the other boys all lined up, all considerably better dressed than he was, even in his finest clothing.  He thought back on the ladies outside the room, and noted that they were all better dressed than his mother too.  Some had been crying, and of them some looked sad but others hopeful.  Others looked stern or joyful and were chatting merrily.  He returned his attention to the boys now, as he was ushered into the line with them, into the open space right in the middle that was the only one left, and all the rest of the boys seemed to not want.

No one was talking.  He wanted to ask the boys next to him why they were here, but if no one else was talking, that was probably a good sign that he shouldn’t say anything either.  There were two men in the room, one at either end, both dressed in very nice suits.  His felt his stomach lurch a little as he saw both of them had guns hidden in their suits too.  What was his mother thinking?  What was going on?  What kind of birthday present was this?

All the boys jumped when the door finally opened again, and a man entered.  He entered alone, smiling jovially and shaking hands with the two men in the room before turning his attention on the boys.  This was obviously someone important, he told himself as the man surveyed them.  However, he wasn’t armed.  At least not like the other two were, maybe he was and was more discrete about it?

He shivered again as the man started to walk the line of boys.  The whole time, he watched the man curiously.  He didn’t look like the sort of person you’d expect to be a boss like this.  He was really young; well, young for grown-ups.  He didn’t look much older than his mom; in fact he looked younger than the other two men in the room.  He would have guessed his age at being around thirty, like his mom.

He also noted the man definitely wasn’t from around here.  Everyone else he’d seen in the building had been Japanese like him, but this man wasn’t, he was white.  Instead of making him more nervous, as it seemed to be doing to the other boys, who seemed to shrink when the man got nearer to them, he made him even more curious.  Who was this strange foreign man, who seemed to speak fluent Japanese with the guards with guns and walk around as if he owned the place?  If he owned the place, surely they’d be on the top floor, right?

He started putting it together in his head as the man walked past, though noticing that the man stopped a bit longer in front of him, looking back at him curiously.  The man’s eyes were a very deep blue, making the black part look even more black than usual.  The man continued past him and he kept putting things together in his head.  Tall, plain building, secret looking men with guns; this was obviously a dangerous man to need bodyguards like this.  He wondered if he was a mobster, though he doubted any mob here in Japan would allow a white man to run it, or allow a non-Japanese mob to start working here.

The man reached the end of the line, and stopped, his eyes scanning over them again.  Every other boy was still staring straight ahead, looking nervous, but he just couldn’t take his eyes off the man.  The man looked straight back at him again and pointed.  One of the men walked over swiftly, and took him by the arm, and just as swiftly took him out the other door, opposite the one he’d been brought in through.  What did this mean?  Was he being rejected for whatever was going on?  He couldn’t be; if he was they would have taken him back out to where his mother was.

He was taken down another hallway into another room, a very different room.  This room looked very expensive, and frighteningly clean.  Not like home at all.  There was a counter in the room, which was covered in juices and sodas and sweets and other things his mother never let him have at home.  He shivered again, now more nervous than he had been in the room.  He looked at the counter and looked at the man with the gun who had led him in here, but to his surprise, the man simply smiled and nodded.  Not behavior he’d expect from a man with a gun.

He watched the man turn and leave the room.  He walked over to the counter, taking one pastry and a soda.  He took a bite, and his eyes went wide.  He’d never tasted anything so good in his life.  The dough was soft and fluffy, the fruit filling on the inside was real and tart and juicy, the frosting on top smooth and creamy, all mixing together as he chewed.  He closed his eyes as he finished chewing and swallowing.

He looked back over his shoulder as the door opened again and the other man entered with another boy.  He recognized him as being one of the ‘board standers’, one of the kids who stood super straight and dignified.  The boy looked at him curiously, calculating.  He set his drink down on a table nearby, careful to put it on a coaster and walked over to the other boy, extending his hand.

“Hi, I’m Itano Ichiro, who’re you?”

The boy looked at his extended hand then back up at Ichiro before finally shaking.

“I’m Kenji, Fukusawa Kenji.” Kenji looked over at the counter too and back at Ichiro’s hand where the pastry was still held. “Can we have any of those?”

Ichiro nodded, and the new boy immediately went over, picking a pastry and soda too.  Ichiro looked at the counter again, noticing that between him and Kenji, there were eight more pieces of pastries and sodas left.  Another boy came in, and he and Kenji introduced themselves to him too.

“I’m Watanabe Saburo,” he said in introduction, looking more relaxed than Kenji had been, and muttered. “This is not how I imagined spending my tenth birthday.”

Ichiro blinked and looked at Kenji who had a similar surprised expression.

“It’s my tenth birthday too,” said Kenji, and Ichiro nodded.

“Mine too.”

“Do either of you know why we’re here?” Asked Saburo.

Both Ichiro and Kenji shook their heads.

“My mom wouldn’t tell me anything about what this is all about.” Ichiro said honestly.  Kenji nodded in agreement.  They all turned as the door opened for a fourth time, and yet another boy was brought in.  This boy’s name turned out to be Maeda Takao, who actually didn’t take any of the pastries or drinks, looking far too nervous to eat.  Little by little more boys came in.  Sasaki Takayuki, another one of the stiff standers, Takahashi Yoshio, Yoshida Yuudai, Ito Hideki, Kawano Daichi, and finally Fujiwara Atsushi were all present, as were the two men with guns who didn’t leave this time.

Ichiro looked around at the other boys.  Nine other boys, he should have known from the number of pastries and sodas.  Enough for nine boys to each have one drink and one pastry.  He was glad now he hadn’t been greedy, though like Takao, Yuudai and Daichi also refused to eat, looking just as sick themselves.  Finally, the white man came back in, and all the boys turned as one to look at him.  He smiled at them, looking far less austere and domineering than before.  He raised his arms out to his sides, smiling down at them broadly and spoke, again in very good Japanese, “My Ten Brothers, my Chosen Ten, I’ve found you at last.”

Ichiro and the other boys looked at each other nervously, curiously, not sure what to make of this.  Ichiro finally stepped forward.

“Sir, what do you mean?  Why are we here?”  Behind him the other boys murmured in agreement.

The man merely smiled and crouched down, so he was almost on a level with Ichiro.

“Ah, I knew you’d be the first one to speak, Ichiro,” the man said with a soft chuckle.  Ichiro felt surprised, that a man like this knew his name.  The man rose to his full height again.

“My name is Maxim Ursulayavich Degtyarev.  Degtyarev is my last, or family name, I’m not from here, so we say my given name first, okay?” He told them, his voice somehow commanding even though he smiled.  None of the boys spoke, just staring at the man with rapt attention.  “As Ichiro here asked, I’m sure you’re all wondering why you’re here.  Well, I called you my Chosen Ten.  You’re my ten boys who one day I’m going to call upon to perform a marvelous service for me.  But first, you will spend the next five years in intensive training.”

At this, the boys all looked at each other again.  ‘Training’?  Training for what?  When were they going to go to school with this training?  The man called Maxim continued.

“Yes, training, I’m going to teach you how to fight, how to be stronger than anyone else on the planet except each other.”

“You mean like assassins?” Asked Takayuki, these words somehow making him look hungry, and excited.

The man looked at Takayuki thoughtfully, before responding.  “Yes, something like that.”

Ichiro felt his heart jump into his throat, which made him glad his mouth was shut because otherwise it would have fallen out.  Assassins, they were going to be trained to be assassins?

“But, isn’t killing people wrong?” he asked, blurting it out without thinking.  In the corner of his eye he could see Kenji and Saburo nodding in agreement.  The man didn’t look upset at this question, in fact his expression didn’t change at all, as if he expected them to ask it, actually, he looked glad they’d asked.

“Yes, it is, in the situations where it is wrong.”

The boys all looked at each other again.  What does he mean by that? Was the unspoken question between them all.

The man called Maxim chuckled and went on.  “You see, I’m not picking you all to become murderers.  I don’t condone murder.  But there are those in this world whose lives are clearly forfeit, and my goal is to teach you all how to remove those people.  I want you to wipe their stain off the face of the earth.”

“But isn’t that what people like the police are for?” Kenji asked, again getting a murmur of agreement.

“Yes and no.” Maxim responded.

Maxim then reached into his pocket, pulling out a coin.  He held it up, and the boys all leaned in to look at it.

“Can you all see this coin?”

All the boys nodded.  Maxim turned the coin so it showed them the other side.

“There are two sides, to every coin,” he said in a sullen voice. “One side has equal value as the other, but they are different.  The same is true of right and wrong, isn’t it?”

“How do you mean, sir?” Asked Saburo, looking puzzled.  Maxim smiled and looked at Ichiro.

“Ichiro, can you think of the answer to that question?”

Ichiro thought, wrinkling his nose as he looked at the coin.  Two sides of one coin, but both have the same value, neither is greater than the other, but both are different.

“You mean… that… right and wrong… are the same, but different?”

Maxim smiled and nodded, but then took out another coin.

“Behold another coin.  It’s identical to this first coin, isn’t it?”

Most of the boys nodded, but Ichiro studied it closer.  There was a long cut in the face side of the coin.

“No, that one is different; it has a cut that the other coin doesn’t.”

Maxim grinned even more broadly at him and nodded, pointing.

“Precisely!  Ichiro, your coin is similar, but different to, say, Yoshio’s for example.  The value is the same, but details are different.  The same is true of people’s values of right and wrong, isn’t it?  What you value, Ichiro is slightly different from what Yoshio would value.”

“But it should all be the same shouldn’t it?” Asked Hideki, curiously.

“It should be,” said Maxim, “but it isn’t.  Not by a long shot.  We will operate outside of the law.  We will learn to identify those who commit the ultimate transgressions against us and humanity.  That will be your function as the Chosen Ten.”

“When will we start?” Asked Takayuki, still looking greedy.

“Immediately.” Responded Maxim.  “The training will at least.  You have five years of it ahead of you before I will finally begin to call upon you to do these services for me.  In that time, you will live here, in this building.  Your mothers all knew what was involved with bringing you here.  They are all part of my organization, they all work for me.  They all had you with the specific purpose of raising you to be eligible to be among the Chosen Ten.  You will not see them again for another five years.  And that being said, I’m just doubtful you will ever see them again.”

A wave of protests rippled through the boys at these words.  Ichiro couldn’t speak however.  He couldn’t move.  He was never going to see his mother again?  How was this a birthday present?  He woke up expecting presents and a trip to the zoo, not this, not this.  Maxim spoke over them all and his voice was stern now, aggressive, domineering, and the boys fell silent at once.

“Haven’t I just told you?  You were bred specifically to perform this task.  Whatever love your mothers gave you was their natural obligation as human animals.  You are being given a job.  You will live here in the lap of luxury.  You will be given skills no one else in the world has.  You will travel the world.  You will never go hungry again.  You will never want for anything again.  Your mothers as well will never want for anything again in their payment for providing you.”

Ichiro still couldn’t breathe.  He could barely take in what the man was saying.  He wanted to run right now, he wanted to run out this door and down the hall through the other room to his mother.  He knew she’d still be there, how could she not be?  How could she just leave him to this?  How could she?

Ichiro jumped as a hand settled on his shoulder.  He looked up to see Maxim looking down at him, sympathy in his face.

“I know this is hard on you, on all of you.  I never expected any of you to leap at this opportunity.  However, you still have no choice in this matter.  For the next five years, you will never leave this building.  You will train and study here.  You will learn how to fight as one, and you will learn how to fight each other.  You cannot quit, you must keep going.  And you will be rewarded beyond your wildest dreams.”

Maxim took his hand off Ichiro’s shoulder and strode back to the door.  Five women entered and he exited past them without a glance back.  The women came and each selected two of the boys.  One took Ichiro and Kenji, leading them out and further down the hall.  Ichiro studied the woman as they walked.  On closer inspection he could see that she wasn’t really a woman, just an older girl, late teens, a high-schooler.  She wore a uniform like one too.  A black blazer with a green plaid skirt and navy knee high socks and brown loafers.  All of the five girls were wearing them.  The girls all had their hair cut in the same manner too, very short, but not boyish short.

The girl stopped in front of another door, and turned to face them.  Ichiro finally took in the rest of her appearance.  Her eyes were soft, and subdued, and her skin was very fair, as though she never got out in the sun very much.  He wondered if she had to stay living in this building too like they were going to have to.

She bowed deeply to them, so deeply it made Ichiro uncomfortable, as she was so much older than him.

“I’m Sashihara Ishiko, I will be your concierge for this year.” She opened the door and beckoned the two boys to enter.  Kenji and Ichiro looked at each other.  ‘Concierge?’  Ichiro didn’t need a concierge; he knew how to clean up after himself, his mother – he stopped at that thought.  Mother, the thought pained him too much right now.

Ichiro entered, followed by Kenji.  There were two beds, two real raised beds in the room.  There was another door beyond to what Ichiro guessed was a bathroom, and two wardrobes.  He opened one, and gasped audibly in shock.  Inside was not just clothes like he’d expected, but two swords.  The girl, Ishiko, didn’t look surprised at his shock.  She merely bowed.

“They are ceremonial swords, Ichiro-kun, they are locked in their now, but upon your graduation, they will be yours to use as you wish.”

Kenji quickly opened his wardrobe, revealing two swords as well.  Somehow in this moment, in spite of it all, Ichiro was starting to get used to this idea.

Chapter 2

Present

                That was the story of my arrival at the seat of the HSU Corporation, the legitimate front to Maxim’s worldwide criminal front.  For that first year, training was far from what we thought it’d be.  Despite the ominous words of us being trained to be ‘assassins’, instead of learning martial arts and weapons, we actually spent it learning everything there was to know about the HSU corporation, and about Maxim’s rise to power.  We were also taught much military and political history as well. Everything was aimed at brainwashing us into being his guards, into being his followers and protectors.  And he did it well.

              The most important lessons we were learning, however, were languages.  And there were three languages in particular: English, Chinese, and Italian.  I often wondered at the time why Russian was not a language we were learning as well, seeing as Maxim himself was Russian.  However, we never did learn it.  It was only after graduation, when I became tasked with his “shopping” missions did I learn why he wasn’t teaching us Russian.  It was completely intentional that he wasn’t, he wanted a form of communication for himself that we couldn’t understand.

            Our primary language in the HSU Corporation was to be English, however.  All lessons were given in it, except for Italian and Chinese, and we were immersed in it.  By the time I graduated from Maxim’s lessons, I was better at it than I had ever been at my native tongue of Japanese.  Maxim called this our international passport.  With a mastery of English, we could go anywhere.  Italian and Chinese we were being taught with the end goal of enabling us to deal with Chinese triads and the Italian mafia families, which Maxim was still in stiff competition with.  As he was himself Russian, or at least Russian enough, Maxim had very little quarrel with the Russian mobs, and the two operated within their own mutually agreed upon spheres of influence.

            As for life itself as the headquarters of the HSU Corporation, every morning at 5am we were awoken by our concierges, in our case by loyal Ishiko.  She turned out to be about as old as we’d thought she was.  She was eighteen, just about to graduate high school, Maxim’s own personal high school in fact.  She saw to our every need, despite being eight years older than us.  We didn’t know why she did it, but didn’t complain.  Between serving us, and sleeping we were sure, she did her own studies, Maxim apparently having hired some of the best instructors in the world to teach the girls in fields such as law and politics, with the end goal of using them to spread his influence further in the world.

Despite her youthful appearance, Ishiko was sort of like a mother to Kenji and I.  She tended us when we were hurt or sick; she made sure our clothes were all clean and neatly folded and ready for us.  She made sure we were always awake on time and, despite being called a concierge, would scold us for any lapse in protocol, like forgetting to brush our teeth or the like.

In the end, it became very clear that the concierges were far more in charge than we were.  For instance, we could make requests, but we could not give them orders.  We learned this when Yoshio got in considerable trouble with Maxim when he tried to order his concierge to do his homework for him.  He received a double punishment for this.  For trying to get out of work, Maxim made him wash every window in the entire building, top to bottom.  For trying to take advantage of his concierge, Maxim made him run around the building’s gymnasium one hundred times with an eighteen kilogram pack on his back.  None of us made that mistake afterwards.

After Ishiko woke us, we were made to brush our teeth, to shower, and to go down to the cafeteria to eat on the 22^nd floor.  We were fed the healthiest food available produced by gourmet chefs.  After breakfast, came studies on the 23^rd floor, where we were taught how to fight, the theory behind rule of power, and warfare in general.  We were also taught science, rigorously.  We were taught how we humans were merely animals, no different from a dog or cat.  Every living thing was on the same level, we humans were no better. 

            Then would follow lunch, where again we were fed very well prepared but very good for you food by our chefs.  We would then be taken up to the gymnasium, on the twenty fourth floor.  This was the closest to training we got at that time.  We would run, and do gymnastics from 1pm to 4pm.  Maxim always took part in this with us.  He trained us to work together, to help each other in the runs to keep together.  Physically we were to work together; it was in the classrooms that we were to be competitive, striving to outdo one another.

After the training came showers and laundry.  We still did laundry ourselves, despite having “concierges”, we were taught self-sufficiency.  This wasn’t hard for most of us, as apparently it had been our mothers’ directives to train us to be self sufficient too.  At 5pm we ate again, after which came more lessons.  This was when we were taught about the history of the HSU Corporation and Maxim’s own personal history.  We did this until 8pm, when we were returned to our rooms to get cleaned up before bed.

            What became apparent very early on was Maxim was not subtle about picking favorites.  Of them, Kenji and I were at the top of the list.  Maxim didn’t show this by giving us preferential treatment however; he showed it by working us harder than any of the others.  He pushed us harder, took the most interest in our studies, and punished us more readily.  The end result was the rest of the Chosen grew jealous of us for earning such attention, while for that first year Kenji and I grew envious of the others for their lack of it. 

            All that first year it was a constant internal war between us over top grades in the studies.  We all wanted Maxim’s favor, but none more so than Takayuki.  He grew to the point that his competitiveness spilled over into the other activities.  For a boy who had once been so nervous about what we were to do he couldn’t eat a pastry, he now thrived on competition.  He resented being the fifth picked by Maxim, and longed to show that he should have been first, instead of me.  Takayuki started with not helping others during our exercises.  Maxim punished him often for this, and somehow in the end we started to think Takayuki enjoyed this attention just as much as he would have enjoyed praise.  He longed to stand out, to be noticed by Maxim.

            In our studies of Maxim, we learned that he was not all that different from us in his youth.  He grew up a ‘profit child’ as well, as he referred to himself and us.  He was Bulgarian by birth, though with a Russian father.  His mother had gone around getting Soviet Army officers drunk with the design to lay with them with the goal of having a child with one of them to force him to marry.  Her ploy worked, and soon Maxim was born to a mother who didn’t actually want him, and a father who didn’t want the son or the marriage.  She wanted the better life being married to the officer would provide, the officer was trying not to be blackmailed.

            Maxim barely knew his father.  When Maxim was eight, his father committed suicide right in front of him, made him watch in fact as he shot himself in the head.  He told Maxim he had committed atrocities in the Second World War, and that was what he had been awarded his Hero of the Soviet Union for.  He then told Maxim to become powerful, and to do good in the world.  And finally, he told him he was going to demonstrate just how fragile life was.  And without another word he put his pistol to his temple and pulled the trigger.

Now left alone with a mother who didn’t love him, Maxim soon ran away from home.  From the same age as we were at that time, he was living on the streets, stealing food and living on scraps.  He got into fights often, where despite not always being the biggest kid, his determination to fight and win meant soon he had his own gang.  By fourteen, he’d snuck out of Bulgaria and into Greece.  From there, he made his way to Italy, where at the age of fifteen he both got involved in organized crime, and committed his first murder.

            I remember seeing the shock on all my classmates’ faces, which I’m sure mirrored my own when he told us how he’d first killed someone.  A bartender who refused to pay Maxim’s gang the requested protection money.  Maxim, at only age fifteen, was the trigger man. Someone no one would suspect of carrying a gun into the bar on a quiet Saturday afternoon.  He shot the man twice in the chest from across the counter, and then had to lean over and shoot him again in the head as he lay on the ground, probably already dead.

            Maxim told us this story for multiple lessons.  The first was the fragility of human life.  The second was a right death, and a wrong death.  In that instance, he knew he’d committed a wrongful death.  The people they should be putting upon should not be the regular people.  Fear was a useful weapon, but it was being misapplied in Maxim’s opinion.  You didn’t want the public against you; you wanted them on your side.  It wasn’t a question of right and wrong in a moral sense, it was right and wrong in politics.  Killing a man over a few liras was not good politics.  Plain and simple.

            Maxim left that gang, and became part of underground movements instead.  They waged near warfare with police and military forces.  They fought so much that he finally came up against his old gang.  Now seventeen, Maxim fought with tremendous ferocity.  He killed his old gang leader, and took command of that group, where he created the name HSU.  HSU is an acronym for Hero of the Soviet Union, a tribute to his father.  He dealt his justice with his father’s old Tokarev pistol from the Second World War.  While not very accurate, Maxim focused his tactics on athletic skill to get himself close enough to his target that accuracy was not as important.

He didn’t want to be a simple mafia boss, even though being only seventeen at the time; he was far from a normal mafia boss.  He didn’t want to sit in plush luxury and grow fat letting others fight for him.  He wanted to be a leader.  He wanted to be a modern Achilles or Odysseus or Ajax.  He wanted his men to look upon him with reverence and fear.  That was where real power lay.  He focused the HSU mob on continuing to work against the state, under the banner of helping the poor.  He tried to model himself after a modern Robin Hood, stealing from the bloated state and especially the Vatican to give to the poor, downtrodden masses.  And he did so.

Through this, he earned himself truly dedicated followers.  And it was where he learned to use idealism to his advantage.  His men weren’t just afraid of him, they loved him now.  He gave them a purpose as well as a living.  It was the same thing he was doing to us at the time, though we were too young to recognize it.  Even after we got older and could see what he was doing, he had already set that hook.  By the end of year five, we wouldn’t just jump in front of a bullet for him; we would take our own lives if he ordered it.

By the time he was twenty one, he’d grown tired of Italy.  He wanted to branch out.  He set his sights on Japan.  From what he’d heard, there was plenty of organized crime business there, but there was another factor: his infatuation with Japanese women.  He’d first seen one when he was nineteen, and immediately fell in love with her ‘exotic beauty’.  He followed her and kidnapped her that very night.  It was the same night he learned about his love of bondage.

He became obsessed with its practice and the artistry of it, even if he realized he didn’t like doing it on unwilling participants.  He became a frequenter of brothels after that, where for a price women would indulge his fantasy.  This launched him into his other obsession, finding a woman who would trust him enough to do it not just for a fee, but would also enjoy the trust and the sensations and the artistry as much as him.  And it was that which brought him here, to Japan.  To a land of much more free sexual acceptance, where he could be open about his fancies without fear of being ostracized.  So when he was twenty-one, he took HSU to Japan. 

The result was immediate gang warfare.  Being an outsider, Maxim immediately drew literal fire from the Yakuzas, who didn’t want this foreigner moving in on their territory.  It was here where Maxim’s tactical prowess at gang warfare also excelled.  He made a declaration.  There were eight rival gang leaders moving against him.  He vowed he would personally kill the heads of all eight, using one bullet each from his father’s pistol.

The declaration alone sent shockwaves through the ranks of Yakuza.  Bosses didn’t kill other bosses, it was unheard of.  Yet Maxim did so.  One by one, he struck them all down, leaving, as he put it, a river of blood in his wake.  As he ticked them off his roster one by one, the bosses of the rival Yakuza clans became more paranoid.  Their operations ceased to function as reliably as before.  They never left their protective enclaves anymore.  Yet Maxim had his ways.  He practiced the same principles that had won him such favor back in Italy.  He practiced a Robin Hood style, his targets being corporations and the Yakuzas, who he was able to successfully paint as leeches off the good of society.

HSU were heroes, freedom fighters, saviors.  Through this, he won himself spies in the enemy camps.  He learned when the bosses were going to move, set up ambushes and full on assaults.  He would work his way through the fray until finally, he closed in on his target enough for his promised one fatal shot.  Or he would learn of weaknesses in the enemies’ defenses and attack those points in force, again working his way to his target and eliminating him. After winning his gang war, fulfilling his oath to strike down the head of each house with only one bullet from his father’s pistol Maxim promptly returned to his policy of Robin Hood type gallantry, with corporations and the government becoming the enemy once again.

However, unlike in Italy where he absorbed the defeated rival mobs, Maxim let them stand as they were.  In fact, he “rebuilt” them, to use his phrasing.  He allowed them to keep operating, and gave them money to adopt his style of operations, and get back on their feet and avoid further gang warfare over power struggles.  He said he learned the lesson from studying how things were handled following the Second World War, where the Allied powers, primarily the United States, rebuilt much of Europe and Japan after the war.  He decided he would rather stand supported with allies, than stand alone with bitter enemies everywhere.

He put also put money into the downtrodden areas of his regime, claiming to be the hero against the money grubbing corporations everyone despised, with no one in the general public ever suspecting that he was also building himself a true corporate empire as well.  The HSU Corporation came into being, specializing in international shipping.  He would ship anything for anyone, and made huge profits doing so.  He shipped for companies, he shipped for governments, and he shipped for criminals.  His aim was to make himself indispensible to these agencies, to get them in his debt.

And he succeeded.  Before long, Maxim became powerful enough between his corporate and criminal powers he was able to tell his clients what they could and couldn’t ship.  What businesses they could and couldn’t do.  And if they tried to run something Maxim didn’t approve of through another carrier, Maxim’s networks of spies were ready to inform him, and he was ready to inform the proper authorities.  He had won for himself real power, by at once keeping himself visible, and yet invisible to the general public.

And so, we come to the day Maxim realized his plan of creating his Chosen Ten.  Ten boys picked from around Japan to be his extended sword.  We spent our first year learning all of those lessons, until our second year, when we graduated to what Takayuki had been so looking forward to.  Learning how to fight.

Chapter 3

October 17, 1997

Itano Ichiro – Age 11

                Ichiro ducked as Takayuki’s wooden kendo sword slashed over his head.  By now, ten months into their second year, they were well beyond wearing pads for sparring.  Ichiro jumped forward, a head on attack at Takayuki, catching him in the gut with his left shoulder instead of using his sword.  Takayuki fell backwards, but rolled up to his feet facing Ichiro again, brandishing his sword, but looking obviously winded and in pain.  Though only just under two years older, the past year and ten months had wrought a considerable change on all the boys.  They were all taller, and their bodies were lean and taut.

            For a year they had spent three hours a day in physical training, all aerobic workouts.  Running and gymnastics primarily.  And now for almost another year, they had spent it fighting each other.  They could all read each other’s movements fairly well, though somehow Ichiro always had some sort of upper hand with Takayuki that wasn’t there when he fought the others.  Ichiro leveled his sword at Takayuki, as he heard Maxim call from across the mat.

            “Good hit Ichiro, phenomenal hit.  Finish him, boy!” He crowed enthusiastically.  Takayuki glowered at Ichiro, his face full of hatred as he lunged, almost as if it’d been him that Maxim had been egging on.  Ichiro watched Takayuki coming in, side stepped and slashed back with his own sword, and catching Takayuki in the very same spot he’d caught him in with his shoulder, toppling the other boy.  Without hesitation, Ichiro spun and cracked the sword down across Takayuki’s shoulders.  Takayuki dropped his sword, rolling on the mat in obvious pain.

            Ichiro returned to attention and bowed to the sprawled figure of Takayuki, turning around to applause from his classmates, or at least the remaining ones.  Yoshio and Hideki were both already down in the hospital floor, having fought each other so hard they had both lost teeth and Hideki had a broken finger.  Maxim strode over to Ichiro as Takayuki’s concierge helped him up and over off the mat, taking him towards the hospital floor elevator too.

            “That is all for today’s sparring boys.  Return to your rooms and resume your studying.  Report to dinner at five as usual.” Maxim ordered, the boys all nodding to him.

            “Yes, Maxim-Sensei” they answered and turned to return to the locker rooms to change.  As Ichiro went to turn, he felt Maxim’s strong hand on his shoulder.

            “You know why you can beat him so easily when none of the others can, don’t you?” Maxim asked Ichiro, smiling a smile full of pride.  Ichiro shook his head.

            “No, Sensei.”

            “It is because he hates you.”

            “Hates me?  But how would that give me an advantage?” Ichiro asked, perplexed

            “Yes, he hates you with every fiber of his being.  He longs to bring you down, to outshine you.  Why would that mean you can keep beating him, though he should have learned your tactics just as well as everyone else by now?”

            Ichiro thought for a moment.

            “He isn’t thinking when he attacks me; he’s going with his gut.”

            “Precisely!  He lets emotion rule him when he faces you.  Prepare yourself for that always, but do not get overconfident because of it.  One day, he will try and kill you.  If you keep that in mind, you will defeat him when he does.”

            “He’ll try and kill me?” Ichiro asked, shocked.

            “Yes, he’ll try and kill you.” Maxim said matter-of-factly.  And without another word, Maxim turned and strode away from Ichiro, stretching his arms wide and cracking his shoulders and neck before leaving Ichiro alone to his thoughts.

That Night

            Later that night, Ichiro lay in bed, contemplating what Maxim had told him.  Somehow over the last nearly two years, he’d never thought about anyone trying to kill him, let alone even the thought of killing anyone else, though he knew that’s what he was being trained to do.

            He rolled over yet another time, giving off a groan.

            “Okay, seriously, what’s bothering you so bad?” Came Kenji’s concerned though also slightly irritated voice from the other bed.  They were still in the same room, with the same wardrobes with the same mysterious swords bolted into the backs.  The only changes had occurred in the boys themselves and in their concierge.  Ishiko had left at the end of the first year, as her term of contract ended.  She was replaced by Mayu, who was a bit shorter, and a bit younger, closer to the boys in age.  While Ishiko had been eighteen, Mayu was only just turned seventeen.  She dressed the same way as the other girls, as it was their uniform, and kept her hair at the same uniform length that Ishiko and the other girls kept theirs.  Mayu was just as dedicated as Ishiko had been, but was less experienced.  Though as the boys were better at handling themselves now, this wasn’t that big a deal. 

            “Just something Sensei said today, after the sparring.” Ichiro replied, not really wanting to talk about it.

            “About Takayuki?” Asked Kenji, sagely.

            “Yes, how did you know?” Ichiro asked, perplexed.

            “Everyone knows,” Kenji replied casually.

            “Oh…” said Ichiro, feeling a bit dim for not noticing.

            “It’s easier to see it from the outside.” Kenji went on.  “We’re all waiting for him to make his move, he’s dangerous.”

            “We’re being trained to be assassins, of course he’s dangerous.” Ichiro replied grumbling.

            “I don’t think we are being trained to be assassins.” Said Kenji, thoughtfully.

            “Then, what?” Asked Ichiro. 

            “I don’t know maybe bodyguards I think would be a better term for it.  We’re never really being taught how to attack; we’re being taught how to fight attackers, aren’t we?”

            “That’s a good point,” Ichiro replied, nodding.  “Why didn’t he say that from day one though?”

            Ichiro could hear the sheets rustle as Kenji shrugged.  They both sighed at the same time, staring up at the ceiling.

            “I miss stars.” Kenji said morosely.

            “I know I do too.” Ichiro replied.  They had this same conversation at least one night a week. 

            “I miss the sun too; the tanning beds are just not the same.”

            “No, they’re not.” Replied Ichiro, nodding.  As they were not permitted to leave the building, they never saw stars or even the sun.  Maxim had tanning beds brought in for them to get proper light, but Kenji was right, it just wasn’t the same.  He reverted back to the old topic.

            “So why does he hate me?” Ichiro asked.

            “Probably because Maxim-Sensei favors you so much.  You were the first one he picked.  He pushes you the hardest.  You’re obviously the favorite.” Kenji said matter-of-factly.

            “Oh,” said Ichiro, discomposed.  “I’m sorry; do you resent me like that too?”

            “No,” Kenji replied indifferently. “Maxim Sensei favors me almost as much as he favors you, I’m sure the others resent me too.”

            Ichiro nodded, looking back up at the ceiling.

            “Kenji?” He said quietly.

            “Yeah?”

            “I know this is weird in this situation but, are we best friends?”

            Kenji didn’t reply right away, obviously thinking about what Ichiro had said and thinking about his answer.

            “As close as we can be to best friends I think.” He finally responded.

            “I think if we’re Maxim sensei’s favorites, we need to stick together to keep the rest from ganging up on us.”

Again Kenji didn’t reply right away. “Yes, I think you’re right, we’re stronger together than we are alone.  Sensei would call us Allies, instead of friends though.”

            “Sometimes I think a friend is more important than an ally.”

            “Friends can still betray you, and their betrayals tend to take you more by surprise and cut deeper than those by allies.”

            “Yes,” Ichiro said.  “But perhaps the fear of that can keep friends closer together, than suspicious of each other.”

            There was again silence as Kenji thought about what he’d said.

            “Yeah,” he finally replied, nodding.  “I think you’re right.”

He heard Kenji shift, rolling over to look at him across the space between the bed.  “Best friends?” He asked.

            “Best friends,” Ichiro answered, and for the first time in almost two years, he smiled.

The Next Day

            Ichiro dodged again as Takayuki swung.  The rough leather covered edge of the wooden sword’s tip nicked his cheek, scraping the skin.  Ichiro winced and dodged as Takayuki yelled taking another swing.  It seemed Takayuki had finally learned his lesson after yesterday, his attacks were still just as deliberate, but he was changing things up, he wasn’t charging in like he always did, he was keeping his distance now.  Ichiro regained his footing just in time to block another blow.  The attacks were more rapid, Takayuki was trying to wear him down.  He was determined to win this time.

            Ichiro spun and swung his kendo low, trying to catch Takayuki on the shin.  He seemed to have anticipated that for he dodged and thrust at Ichiro’s chest, just barely missing him.  Ichiro rolled over backwards and back up to his feet, putting some distance between Takayuki.  Or at least attempting to, Takayuki was almost immediately on him, swinging down.  Ichiro blocked with his sword, before Takayuki kicked it away Ichiro covered his face with his arms as Takayuki swung his sword down again, rage and triumph in his eyes.

            The blow didn’t come.  Instead Ichiro heard a crack of a sword on another sword and looked up to see Kenji had run in and blocked the attack and was now fighting off Takayuki, who was falling back, his eyes wide in surprise.  There was a whistle and immediately Maxim was on the mat with them, pulling Kenji off.  His face looked furious.

            “These sparring tournaments are one on one.  You are not permitted to interfere with an ongoing fight, what were you thinking?!” He bellowed at Kenji, who dropped to his knees, his knuckles on the ground and his head bowed in a gesture of supplication.

            “Ichiro is my best friend Maxim-Sensei.  He and I are only as strong as we are together.”

            Maxim stopped completely, staring down at Kenji.  Ichiro looked from Kenji to Maxim, completely shocked.  He hadn’t thought Kenji had taken him that seriously last night.  But apparently he had.  Kenji went on.

            “Ichiro and I discussed it last night.  We made an alliance.  No, stronger than an alliance.  We’re friends.  Best friends.” Kenji said; his face still as grim and determined.  Maxim continued to stare in disbelief at the boy, before finally he threw his head back and started laughing.

            “Good!” Maxim said loudly and excited.  “Very good!  A brilliant move between you two!  At first I thought you had let emotions take hold of you Kenji, but this was planned and calculated between you?  I’m so proud of you two!” Maxim exclaimed.  Ichiro shook his head a little, as if there was a fly buzzing in his ear.  As Maxim continued to dole out praise on Kenji and him for their tactical advantages in this, he looked over at Takayuki, who was looking right back at him.  The look was no longer just dislike, or even hatred.  There wasn’t a word in any language for the look that Takayuki was giving him right now.  And finally, Ichiro really understood.  Everyone was right; Takayuki would try and kill him.  How soon, he didn’t know.  But it would happen.

That Night

            Ichiro groaned painfully as he lowered himself onto bed.  The sparring that day had been brutal, between Takayuki finally getting the upper hand on him and Maxim’s pushing him even harder afterwards as punishment for not heeding his warnings about Takayuki, and he was completely exhausted.  Ichiro covered his face with his pillow, replaying it over and over again.  How had he beaten me today?

            Takayuki had kept coming at him, but kept swinging as he came.  I kept expecting his blind rushes, and he didn’t do that this time.  Takayuki had learned, and I lagged behind.  He felt ashamed, the others looked up to him, and he let them down.  Kenji had even had to interfere, and get scolded by Maxim too.  He wondered if Kenji would be angry at him, but he hadn’t come back to the room yet.  When the door opened, he didn’t take off the pillow, too ashamed of himself.

            “Life is much easier to live when you don’t have it stuffed in a pillow.”

            Ichiro snapped the pillow off his face and looked across at Kenji’s bed, where instead of Kenji; Maxim sat, smiling at him sympathetically.

            “Sensei!” Ichiro exclaimed, almost leaping out of bed and bowing to Maxim, but Maxim put up a hand to stay him.

            “Rest, boy, rest.  You took a beating today, didn’t you?”

            Ichiro lowered his head, gritting his teeth.

            “Yes, Sensei.” He responded.

            Maxim nodded, and leaned forward, patting him on the shoulder.

            “It looks like Takayuki learned how to fight you at last.”

            “Yes, Sensei.”

            “Are you going to let him take advantage of you like that again?”

            “No, Sensei.”

            “How did he beat you?”

            Ichiro looked up at Maxim.  His look wasn’t scolding or upset, more inquisitive.  It was the kind of question where Maxim already knew the answer, but he wanted Ichiro to figure it out for himself, rather than hand the answer to him.  It was time for another lesson.  Class was never over here.

            “He kept the attacks going, wearing me down instead of going for the one knockout blow like usual.” Ichiro answered honestly.  Maxim nodded.

            “Exactly.  Your new task, or ‘homework’ if you will, is to find out how to counter that tactic.  You have to keep at the top Ichiro.  I don’t want you getting soft now that you and Kenji have formed a team.  While you are stronger together, you, yourself, are only as strong as you are alone.  Kenji won’t always be there.”

            Maxim smiled and stood, turning and moving towards the door.  Ichiro sat up.

            “Sensei?”

            Maxim turned looking at him.  “Yes, Ichiro?”

            Ichiro swallowed a little. “I didn’t ask Kenji to step into the ring for me today, or ever.”

            Maxim smiled and nodded.  “I know you didn’t, Ichiro.  I know you’d never ask someone else to fight your battle for you.  Fortunately for you, I was smart enough to pair you with the one person I knew would actually have your back should you get into trouble.  Sleep now, Ichiro, Kenji will be in soon.”

            Without another word, Maxim turned and left the room.  Ichiro lay back on the bed, putting his pillow under his head again.  Sensei knew that he and Kenji would become friends.  That must have been why Sensei thought Kenji had acted without thinking today.  And why he had turned out to be so happy when Kenji explained the truth.  Ichiro rolled over as Kenji came in.

            “I’m sorry I got you yelled at.” Ichiro said immediately as Kenji closed the door.  In his manner, Kenji didn’t answer right away, but sat on the bed and started undressing.

            “It’s alright; we got praised in the end.”  His voice was sincere in his good mood, and Ichiro looked at him.  “Did Maxim-Sensei talk to you?” he asked.

            Ichiro nodded. “He said we shouldn’t get soft now that we’re watching each other’s backs.”

            Kenji nodded. “He told me the same.”

            “You think Takayuki will mellow out now he knows it’s not just one of us?” Ichiro asked, concerned.

            Kenji paused a moment, considering, before sliding under the covers and settling into the bed. “I don’t know.  If anything, I think it’ll make him more dangerous.  He’ll try and do something when no one’s looking now.”

            “Good point,” said Ichiro.  Despite this foreboding fact, he smiled.  He had people looking out for him.  Kenji had his back, and he had Kenji’s.  Things could only go up from here.

Chapter 4

Present Day

                And so began my real competition with Takayuki.  I never let my guard down around him again like I did that day.  The remaining months of that year passed without any further incident, and never again did Kenji have to step in, though perhaps the threat of it was part of what kept Takayuki held back.  In fact, Takayuki and I rarely sparred again after that.  It must have been the final straw for him.

            This was a bit of a troubling fact for me.  While Maxim had given me the “homework” of coming up with a new strategy to defeat him, if he wouldn’t face me anymore, how could I?  I set myself instead to studying his every move in fights, seeing how he adapted.  In the process, I couldn’t help but notice how his rage had adapted itself as well.

            He couldn’t even stand to look at me, which suited me just fine.  The less I had to deal with him, the better.  With the beginning of the next year came a new set of training, and a new concierge.  This one was named Atsuko, and like Ichiko and Mayu, she always wore the same thing day after day, and always wore her hair in the same manner.  Kenji and I couldn’t help but notice that she was closer to use in age yet again.  We had just turned twelve, and she was sixteen.  Going at this rate, we figured by the time we were fourteen, our concierges would be fourteen as well.

            The third year’s training didn’t help me with my Takayuki issues either.  We moved from swords, to firearms: pistols, specifically.  Maxim put us on them early, specifically because they were harder to handle.  They were heavy for us to hold straight out and fire, and the recoil was powerful.  He started us on nine-millimeter pistols, Berettas.  They were full sized, and didn’t fit our just turned thirteen year old hands very well.

After a couple of months, he moved us up to .45 caliber pistols, and we spent days on end for two months doing nothing but practicing shooting them.  We weren’t taught standing on a line; aiming and firing with it like people normally do in target practice.  No, we were put through obstacle courses.  All of our pistols were equipped with suppressers.  It was now that we understood we were meant to one day be assassins.  Maxim wanted us trained in how to use suppressed pistols, so he started us off on those.

            He would set up the track one way, until we knew it by the back of our hands.  Then he would set it up another way.  Week after week that happened, until by the end of that year, Maxim could set up the course any random way he wished, and we would never miss, even with the big and bulky .45 pistols.  I personally preferred the small nine millimeters.  I could aim and shoot faster with them, and they were just as accurate.  I got to the point I could hit every target in the head with one shot, no matter where it popped out at me from.  I reveled in using it; I worshipped my little nine millimeter.  I woke up every day with no more thought in my head than to get to the firing range and put it back to use.

            It was in this, I realized how I would probably be able to beat Takayuki should he come after me.  I never said this to anyone, to Maxim or to Kenji, but I knew that at least if Takayuki came at me with a sword, from any distance, with my pistol, I could kill him.  Even if he came at me with a pistol, his impatience would be his downfall.  Watching him go through the course, he was too impulsive.  He reacted too much to the pop up targets, instead of anticipating them.  I knew I could kill him again; I had gained yet another advantage.  I knew it couldn’t be an act, however much he hated me; Takayuki wouldn’t risk Maxim’s favor so much as to feign being worse than the rest of us.  He preferred the quicker swords, I could tell, he would prefer finally getting his hands on our beautiful katanas, which were still denied to us,  which could be drawn and slashed with in a single motion.  No, I preferred the pistol.

It was a weird, transitional time for me.  I started to fantasize about killing Takayuki.  I replayed scenarios over and over again in my head, him coming at me, drawing his sword, as I dodged backwards, drawing my pistol.  It disturbed me, yet there was nothing I could do about the thoughts.  I had never really thought about killing anyone before.  I’d never really thought about death until I went to live there.  I didn’t fantasize about it in a glorified sense.  I got no pleasure out of it, it was simply survival.  I didn’t want to die; I valued my life more than I valued his.  And I knew he was the sort of person who wouldn’t stop until one of us was dead.

I wanted to prepare myself at all times for the moment he finally struck.  It was the lesson I was learning from my time in the pistol courses.  Think ahead, plan for what might be coming, anticipate it and have a plan in place already.  But be adaptable, always be prepared.  Though I preferred the pistol, I knew from then on that I would always have the short sword in the wardrobe with me at all times as well.

I could see even then how Maxim was starting to mold me, to turn me into something I hadn’t been before.  In his world of politics and dehumanization and warfare and death, I was beginning to change.  I felt myself becoming the bodyguard I would become, and the assassin I might be, should he have ever called on me to perform such a service.  Even then, I was somehow secure in my thoughts that if he did, it would be someone who deserved it.  It would be a mobster who was running protection rackets, or a gun runner giving weapons to a nation that was tyrannizing its people.  What an idealistic fool I was back then.

            The other transition was how, after three years, I hardly ever thought of my mother anymore either.  I even had trouble remembering what her face looked like.  Though I hadn’t seen it by the time, looking back it was sort of life we were living in Neverland.  Nothing ever changed, except what our lessons were, and who our concierges were apparently.  And after a while, you just forgot everything else that came before. 

            The concierges continued to bother me.  Not them personally, but their whole situation.  We didn’t need them, so why did we have them in the first place?  I know by the time we were twelve, most of us definitely didn’t mind them, because Maxim seemed to go out of his way to select very attractive girls to serve us.  Indeed, Atsushi one time took the concierge idea a little too far and tried to order his concierge to show him what ‘fellatio’ was.  His reward from her was a snide rejection.  His reward from Maxim, who she immediately reported this to, was cleaning the floor of the cafeteria with a hand brush every day for a week after every meal.  In kindness to him, we all made extra sure to eat as clean as possible, and none of us ever made a move on our concierges again.

We wondered if it was just Maxim’s way of having a joke at all of our expenses, or just more of a test.  At that age we were all just getting to the beginning stages of puberty, and starting to notice women.  We wondered if he put them there as intentional distractions, or to sort of immunize us to being around attractive girls from a young age.  Though that to me didn’t explain why they kept getting closer to us in age as we got older.  Eventually I did find that out, but it wasn’t until we were fourteen, and our concierges were also fourteen. 

In the meantime, Maxim continued to show Kenji and me favor over the others.  And finally, more than just Takayuki were starting to seem jealous.  Takao and Hideki in particular were getting competitive, and after a while stopped eating with Kenji and me, preferring to eat with Takayuki.  Yuudai, Yoshio, Daichi, Saburo and Atsushi however continued to tolerate us.

True to our alliance, Kenji and I were friendly with the others, but tried not to trust any of them too much.  Between the two of us we plotted it out.  Takao and Hideki had gone over with the more aggressive and dangerous Takayuki.  Based on their demeanors, we figured that none of the others were that likely to attempt anything, though personally I felt the distinct possibility that Daichi may one day.  He seemed just as ambitious, though hated Takayuki as much as the rest of us.  If he did something, it would likely be of his own volition, nothing to do with Takayuki.  It was unlikely, but it was still something I always kept in mind.  This more rogue element within him made him just as dangerous as Takayuki, even if Takayuki was the more pressing threat.

It was then that I stopped referring to us as the Brothers Ten.  To me from then on, we were merely the Chosen Ten.  We were chosen, but we were certainly not brothers, though as Kenji often reminded me during our discussions on the subject, among royalty and politicians, fratricide was incredibly common.  Looking back on it, I sometimes wonder if all our lessons on it during our first year were part of where Takayuki started getting his ideas.  Brothers killing each other to gain favor with their father.  Little did I know at the time, just how much of that was about to start after we graduated and finally had free reign in the outside world.

Chapter 5

January 21, 1999

Itano Ichiro – Age 13

                The boys stood in a line, board straight now, the only movement the subtle rise and fall of their shoulders as they breathed heavily after the morning’s workout.  The tall figure of Maxim Degtyarev moved along the line, his blue eyes surveying them all imperiously.  His eyes did a slight bit of jumping around as he did this, moving up and down to account for the boys’ more varied heights now.

            “My Chosen Ten, my Brothers Ten, you have successfully survived three continuous years of weapons training, physical conditioning, and study akin to someone going through boot camp and university all those years at the same time.  There are many grown men could not do what you have done.”

            He paced the line of boys again as he spoke.

            “You should all be incredibly proud of yourselves.  You are in peak physical form; you can handle weaponry that people thrice your age would quail at using.  You are all truly incredible.”

            Ichiro’s eyes followed Maxim as he moved, ever watchful.  Maxim always seemed to notice this, but indulged Ichiro’s insistence on not following the protocols.  He kept as close to them as possible, standing in the same pose, but his eyes always had to wander.  He had to see everything, he had to keep watchful.

            “This year begins your fourth year of training.  Now that you are bigger and stronger, I am moving you up to these.” Said Maxim, and he strode over to a crate on the floor, pulling out an automatic weapon.  From his studies, Ichiro recognized it as a Heckler & Koch MP7A1 machine pistol.  As the pistols had been, this too was fitted with a suppressor on the barrel.

            Maxim walked back towards them, handling the weapon as though it were an infant.

            “This will be your primary weapon.  It contains phenomenal firepower in a very small package.  It has standard twenty round magazines and my weapon-smiths have fitted each with an integrated suppressor, making it far quieter than one with only a screw on suppressor.  It is easy to aim and fire and you will grow to love it as you have swords and pistols.  You will learn to deal death with this weapon, and your enemies will fear you.  They will dread the bark of this weapon.  It is concealable; with only the twenty round magazines you can hide it in a coat unnoticeably.  There are also thirty and forty round magazines available for it which you will also be able to carry with you.  It has a telescoping butt stock and a folding front handle.  The sight rails allow for the attachment of almost any sight you want.”

            Maxim paused looking at the boys, grinning before continuing.  “The extra special part about this weapon is the ammunition.  It fires a 4.6mm bullet which is small and fast enough to punch through almost any body armor on the planet at close range.  However, while that is a blessing, it can also be a curse.  These small bullets do not have a lot of stopping power, especially compared to the .45 caliber bullets in your USPs you’ve been using, or even the nine millimeters.  You will need to learn even more skill at shot placement with this than you did with the pistols, though as this weapon is more controllable than the pistols, that won’t be as difficult to learn.”

            Ichiro looked at the weapon with some envy.  He had read about the weapon extensively, and had thought for some time it would be a wonderful weapon for a body guard or an assassin.  It turned out Maxim had thought so as well.  This gave him the double dose of pleasure at getting the chance to use something he had longed to get his hands on, as well as the thrill that he had thought of something Maxim had thought of too.

            “You will be trained on them in a similar manner to how you trained with the pistols.  You will run courses, featuring targets at varying locations and distances.  You will also be trained on the varying ways of firing.  You will learn how to run the course using it both as a pistol and as a submachine gun.  You will become as adept at using it with only one hand as you will be with using it with two.  The difference this year as opposed to last year is this year you will continue to train with the pistol.  I can’t have you focusing so much on only one form for fighting that you forget the old tactics.  We will do two weeks on the MP7s, then one week on the pistols.  Two on, one off, repeating.”

            Maxim smiled down at them, the rapt attention on the face of each boy.  Ichiro in particular felt his mouth water.  He longed to just hold the weapon, to see how it aimed, if it was really as good as advertised.

            “Ichiro, you seem particularly focused today.” Maxim said, sounding amused.

            “Yes Maxim-Sensei.” Ichiro responded.  “I am very anxious to get to know this weapon.”

            Maxim chuckled nodding. “Yes, I thought you might be.”

            Maxim turned from Ichiro and addressed the rest of the group. “You see how Ichiro speaks of this weapon?  He doesn’t say “get accustomed to” or “to use” this weapon, he wants to ‘get to know it.’  Already he speaks of it like a person, a colleague.  That is how you must think of it.  This weapon is your ultimate ally, all weapons are.  Treat it well and it will reward you.  Know its habits and it will never disappoint you.”

            The boys all nodded at this.  It was more or less the same speech Maxim had given them last year when they’d started on the pistols.  Though none of them minded, it was probably a lesson they would need pounded into their heads about every weapon.  Know this like the back of your hand.  Your whole life for the next year will be using this weapon.

            Ichiro felt himself almost trembling with anticipation.  He no longer questioned himself on these emotions; they had become normal for him finally.  He was becoming cold, he was becoming calculating.  He was falling in love with his new forced profession.  He was starting to want to know how these weapons performed on living things.  And it was only his thirteenth birthday.

July 14, 1999

The pig’s carcass jumped slightly as the three thin, fast bullets slammed into it one right after the other, each just slightly higher than the last in an almost perfectly straight line.  Ichiro darted past the carcass and pressed himself against the wall just outside the frame of the door to the next room.  There were usually two targets in this room, but he wasn’t going to put it past Maxim to stick in three, or just one.  He peered around the door, one target there, but that didn’t mean there wouldn’t be more ready to pop out.  He spun into the room, sending another three round burst into the hanging pig target, pivoting rapidly and sending another three into the next pig that came swinging in from the doorway to the next room.

Maxim had moved them up from paper targets to pig carcasses.  He told them this was for several reasons.  Firstly, he wanted them to see what their bullets would do to tissues similar to human tissues.  Secondly, the rounds they were firing now at the distances they were shooting from could penetrate almost any body armor on the planet.  Firing them through the pig bodies slowed them down sufficiently that the bullets would stop in the backstops that lined the shooting course.

Ichiro stepped further into the room.  They were not timed on how quickly they completed the course; they were graded on shot placement and how quickly they dealt with threats as they came at them.  Ichiro quivered as he heard the sound of the pulley letting go above his head and spun, drawing his combat knife from his hip sheath and slashing across the body of the pig as it dropped from the ceiling behind him, following it up with an almost point blank single shot from the MP7.

He ignored the applause from his fellow Chosen as he darted into the corridor, double taping two pigs that dropped from the ceiling again.  In one fluid motion he hit the magazine release and let the magazine fall to the floor as he brought the spare magazine up, sliding it into the grip and continuing on.  He’d counted his rounds out perfectly, making sure he still had one shot left in the chamber before his magazine change, saving him the extra time having to work the action to chamber another round.

Ichiro reached the next room, repeating much the same process as the last.  He put three-round bursts into all three of the targets, including one that was mostly hidden behind a wooden plank, the 4.6mm rounds of his MP7 easily penetrating the wood into the pig body.  With relief he exited the room, flexing his right shoulder from having fired the machine pistol so often that morning.  He felt Maxim clap him gingerly on his much less tender left shoulder.

Ichiro nodded his thanks for Maxim’s praise and went to the arms cabinet, unloading his MP7 getting out the bore snake to run down and clean out the barrel before putting it away.  He wasn’t required to, but he did anyway.  He wanted his MP7 to be in pristine condition at all times.  Out of his reverence for it, he wanted to make sure it would never leave his side again, and above all would never fail to accomplish what he wanted it to do.  This was more than how he preferred the pistols.  He was starting to realize he was maybe becoming a little obsessed.  Maybe that’s what he liked about the weapons though.  They could never abandon him.  They could never betray him.  They had no feelings, no ambitions; they just did what you made them do.  They were an extension of Ichiro himself, and he liked it.

After cleaning, he returned in time to see Kenji finish up his run through the course.  They were having an easier time adapting to using the MP7 as a carbine with the extended stock and the forward grip than they had done adapting to the pistols, but from tomorrow it would be a very different story.  Tomorrow they were going to convert to using it as a pistol itself.  The method they were going to have to use for the rest of the year.  At least it was going to be proceeded by a week of using regular pistols.  They’d be more accustomed to the proper stance, even if not that accustomed to the extra heft of the bigger weapon.  He decided he’d use the .45 for the next week.  It was heavier than the 9mm Beretta, and kicked harder, so it would probably be a better substitute for the MP7 when they finally got around to using it that way.

Kenji sat beside him having put his own MP7 away.

“I think my shoulder’s only now getting used to firing those things so much.” He said, in perfect English.  By now they were all fluent after three and a half straight years of its use.  Ichiro nodded.

“Yeah, about time really.  As much as I love this weapon, I was getting a little sick of the bruises.” Ichiro replied, rubbing his own shoulder.  He didn’t want to admit that it was still hurting his.  Kenji was outgrowing him, already a good inch and a half taller, and wider in the shoulders and chest.  Even if they’d all been similar size when they’d been chosen, they were now spreading out rather noticeably.  Daichi was the tallest of them all, having rocketed in height over the past year.  In an odd ironic twist, the closest to Ichiro in both figure and height was Takayuki.

Takayuki was still doing his best to pretend Ichiro didn’t exist, which suited Ichiro just fine.  Ichiro however, continued to watch Takayuki, doing his best to take in all of his habits and mannerisms, watching so he would be able to tell when Takayuki was about to make a deliberate move, so he’d be able to spot an ambush on his part when Takayuki finally attacked.  Then Ichiro would be ready.  He would strike just as he struck that pig body that dropped behind him.  One quick knife slash across the chest or neck, and a bullet to the head.  Then it would be settled.  Then he would never have to worry about Takayuki again.

That Night

            Ichiro groaned as he lowered himself onto his bed.  Kenji was still in the library, wanting to study a bit more and enjoy the solitude.  Ichiro on the other hand, felt he could barely move.  That afternoon, Maxim had started them on sparring and hand to hand fighting.  Maxim told them he had been saving this for their next year, they were all progressing so well on the MP7s that he decided to start them on it early.  And fittingly, he’d paired Ichiro up with Takayuki.

His entire body was bruised and battered, though with a soft smile, he reminded himself, so is Takayuki’s.  He and Takayuki had faced off three times.  Each time, the boys’ mutual distaste for each other meant that by the end of the match it was little more than a brawl.  As with the swords, Ichiro was surprised to see that though the closer proximity of this type of fighting, Ichiro again seemed to have a slight advantage over Takayuki.  He wouldn’t make the same mistake again, and count on it to continue that way.  He would always continue to study Takayuki, in order to remain ahead of him.

There was a knock at the door, the soft knock of Nozomi’s.  She was their new concierge for this year, and now, it was more than the concierge’s role that interested Ichiro.  It was Nozomi’s leg’s, and her soft smile and gentle nature.  Ichiro leapt off the bed quickly, and hastily opened the door.  She was taller than him, but from their lessons he had learned how girls matured faster than boys, and as she was still two years older than him, he wasn’t surprised by this.  Though he was a little intimidated.

“Hi Nozomi.” He said, lamely.

Nozomi smiled and gave him the usual deep bow.  Ichiro couldn’t help but notice the other stark contrast to Atsuko and Mayu and Ishiko in Nozomi.  Her hair was longer.  Not excessively longer, it came down to just past her chin.  Something in this made Ichiro slightly suspicious.  Nothing here ever happened without reason.  There was intent behind Nozomi, and in fact all the girl’s hair being longer this year.  But whatever it was, Ichiro didn’t know it yet, but he was sure he would find out in due time.

“Hello Master Ichiro, just here to take down your laundry for you.” Nozomi said finishing her bow.  Ichiro bowed back.

“Oh, it’s fine, don’t worry about it, Kenji and I took it down already.” Ichiro said, unable to keep a bit of boasting out of his voice.

“Oh,” Nozomi responded, and the look on her face gave Ichiro an odd feeling.  She looked almost disappointed, and somehow it gave him an odd, hollow feeling.  He somehow found himself feeling bad for having done her a favor.  During their nightly talks, both Kenji and Ichiro agreed that Nozomi was indeed very attractive, and it somehow gave both of them the desire to do things for her, instead of the other way around.

Nozomi bowed to him again.  “Well if there’s nothing else Master Ichiro, I’ll let you rest.”

She started to turn, when Ichiro was grasped with a sudden urge.  He didn’t want her to go.

“No!” he said quickly, feeling himself blush.  “It’s, it’s okay, you don’t have to go.  If, if you don’t mind I actually have a question…” he finished, trailing off a little, embarrassed at his outburst.

Nozomi looked at him, a look of being caught off guard on her face but she nodded.

“Anything that Master Ichiro needs.” She said, looking at him waiting.

Ichiro looked around a little, feeling his face getting warmer.  Nozomi looked at him, a little expectant.

“Are… are you okay?” she asked, concerned.

“No, yes!” he stammered in response.  “It’s just,” he looked into the room again and saw the two chairs.  “Would you like to have a seat?” he asked trying to sound generous.

Nozomi looked at him still, her expression change a little from curiosity and concern, to suspicion.

“Okay…” she said, her voice trailing off, her face still suspicious.  Ichiro was kicking himself inside; he knew what she was thinking.  No doubt she knew all about what Atsushi had tried to do to his concierge, and was probably thinking that Ichiro was about to try something similar.

“Nothing bad!” he blurted out, making her stop and give him that odd curious expression, still a strong hint of suspicion around her eyes and tight mouth.

“No, nothing bad,” he said, pressing on. “I just, have some questions about you and your sort of, well fellow concierges that I’ve been curious about, for a while now…” he went on, finding it hard to meet her eyes, which somehow felt accusatory now.

“You mean about why we’re here?” she asked.

Ichiro felt his stomach unclench a little and he looked up at her again, nodding.

“Yes, exactly.” He went on; glad she’d figured him out.  Nozomi smiled now, which made his stomach unclench the rest of the way as she nodded and walked over and sat.

“Well, what do you want to know?” She asked him in return as he sat too.

“Well,” Ichiro replied, pausing and considering his words. “You’re our fourth concierge now; there were three before you, Ishiko, Mayu, and Atsuko.”

Nozomi nodded.  “Yes, we get rotated into assisting Mister Degtyarev year by year, at varying levels of importance.

Ichiro nodded, though this didn’t remove his curiosities.  In fact it made more.

“Well, what I’m curious about right now is how come every year, the age gap between us, I mean between my classmates and I gets closer?” He asked.  Nozomi looked confused again.

“How do you mean?” She asked.

“Well, my first year, Ishiko was eighteen.  The next year, Mayu was seventeen.  Last year, Atsuko was sixteen.  Now this year, you’re fifteen.”

Nozomi shrugged.  “It must just be the way the rotation played out.” She said simply.

Ichiro shook his head, rubbing his chin with his hand and staring at the wall past her in concentration.  No, it can’t be that simple.  Sensei is doing this on purpose.  I want to know what it is.  He looked at her again.

“What did you do last year?” He asked.

“Last year we were learning how speak in public.” She answered him simply.

“‘Speak in public’?” Ichiro asked, surprised.

“Make speeches and such.” She explained casually.

“Oh,” Ichiro nodded thinking.  “Did you ever see any of the other girls in the other years?” he asked.

Nozomi looked curious again and shook her head.

“No, we were on our own.”

“How did you wear your hair?” He asked, wanting to confirm another suspicion.

Nozomi looked surprised again.

“Really short,” she responded.

“Like not much longer than mine short?” he continued to ask.

Nozomi nodded and Ichiro clapped his hands together.  This was a clue, he knew it.

“That’s a change.” He said bluntly.

Nozomi nodded. “Well, yes, a new year, new rules-”

“No, no” Ichiro cut her off, waving a hand.  “No I mean the years before you, Ishiko, Atsuko and Mayu all had really short hair like you had last year.  But you don’t.  Why?”

Nozomi furrowed her brow a little, her eyebrows drawing close together as she considered this.

“Really?” she asked, surprised.

“Yes, really, it’s been bugging me all year.” Ichiro responded.  He was feeling better, even if he hadn’t found the answer just yet to his suspicions; he had at least proved to his satisfaction that it was something to be suspicious about.  Maxim was up to something, he knew it now.  Was it another lesson?  Ichiro was sure of it.  He just had to figure out what.

“Sorry, I really can’t tell you why that is.” Nozomi said, shrugging.  “I wish I could, since you seem so interested.”

“I am,” Ichiro went on.  “Maxim-Sensei doesn’t do anything without a damn good reason.  I just want to know what…” he trailed off again as he kept thinking.

Nozomi shifted a little in her chair uncomfortably.  “Well, if there’s nothing else then Master Ichiro…” she said, rising a little.  He kicked himself a little inside again, realizing it was him that had made her uncomfortable.

“No, sorry,” he said getting up quickly and gesturing to the door.  She nodded and rose the rest of the way, walking towards the door.  As Ichiro sat back down on the edge of his bed, he winced in pain as he bumped an already bruised elbow on the bedpost.

“Oh, Nozomi?” he called after her.  She stuck her head back in the door way having already turned to go down the hall.

“Yes Master Ichiro?”

Ichiro raised his arm so his sleeve fell down, revealing the bruises running up it.  “Could you please get me a couple of bags of ice… please?”

Chapter 6

Present Day

            Even though I pestered her for the rest of the year about it, I never did get any more answers from Nozomi.  I tried not to be annoying about it, but my curiosity continued to gnaw at me.  Unfortunately, Kenji did not share my curiosity.  His interest in Nozomi lay solely in what it would feel like to kiss her.  This usually left me torn between irritability that my friend wasn’t interested in helping me uncover the truth: “We’ll find out eventually if Maxim-Sensei’s really up to something or not”, and amusement: “I wonder what it’d feel like to just run my fingers through her hair, just once…”

            I fully admit I had the same feelings, but I don’t think they were quite as strong as Kenji’s.  And in any case, my curiosity at the truth tempered whatever other feelings I may have had.  So I don’t misrepresent myself again, while I was suspicious, it wasn’t a bad kind of suspicion.  I didn’t think he was up to anything that would hurt us; it was merely the growing competitiveness in me.  I wanted to know what Maxim was up to before anyone else did, I wanted to be as smart as him, to be able to show Maxim that I really was worthy of all the faith he kept placing in me year after year.  Being able to figure out his plan before he revealed it to us I was sure would be the ultimate way of proving that.  As it transpired, I was unsuccessful in that goal, though it was only my youthfulness that kept me from seeing the grander scheme of that plan, though in the end it was something that would be perfectly obvious to anyone else. 

            Aside from that, the year progressed much as others had.  Takayuki and I continued to pummel each other in sparring, and things were slower than I’d expected progressing to using the MP7 as a pistol type weapon.  Its balance with the extended barrel/suppressor was completely off compared to the smaller nine millimeter and .45 pistols we’d been using.  I actually took to extending the stock a little bit to counter balance the suppressor, which worked though it made the weapon harder to maneuver.  I saw then Maxim’s real reason in teaching us to be good with it in that way.  Don’t use it like this, ever.  It’s clumsy and five months training won’t fix that.  This is only an absolutely last resort method of firing this weapon.

            Of course, this only continued to raise my suspicions about the concierges.  It proved to me again, nothing in this world happened without a conscious decision on Maxim’s part.  And by the end of the year, I was starting to put the pieces together.  All the previous years, the girls had worn nearly boy short hair.  And we didn’t seem to notice them as much.  Now, it was longer, and suddenly it seemed to separate them from us.  Aside from their attire, I’ll be perfectly honest in saying that until that point, I almost thought of them as ‘one of the boys’ so to speak.

            However, even if I was getting a handle at the time on what was going on, it still left big questions unanswered.  Why was he waiting until now to do it?  In our experience, Maxim tended to throw us into the deep end with everything; shouldn’t the girls have been more, well, girlish, from the start?  I felt I was so close to the answer then, I just needed one more piece of evidence.  There was just one more piece to the puzzle I just wasn’t seeing at the time. 

            As that year ended, our final year began.  None of us knew what to expect that year.  We’d been through hand to hand combat with both kendo swords and our own hands and fists.  We’d learned to use pistols and machine pistols with deadly accuracy.  What could be next?  We all speculated wildly, the most common speculation was that it was going to be sniper rifles now.  I on the other hand, figured that it was going to be a ‘tying it all together year’, and sure enough, I wasn’t disappointed in my assessment.

Every day, from seven in the morning to eleven we spent an hour each on the swords, the pistols, the MP7s, and hand to hand.  Then came lunch, which was followed by another four hours of the same ritual.  Then came dinner, again followed by four hours of the same four fighting styles.  During the last six months, we were literally required to put it all together.  We were sent into the maze armed with pistols, the swords, and the MP7s.  At fifteen, all of us were of considerably taller height, and much stronger, and so it wasn’t that big a burden.  Maxim set up the course with varying targets, paper targets for pistols, thin wooden boards and punching bags covered in flour for hand to hand hits, pig carcasses for the MP7s, and thin dowels to hit with the swords.

All in all, it was an absolutely exhausting year.  But with it again came a new concierge, and finally, a long awaited answer to a nagging suspicion.