Battle Royale (9 page)

The thought led to an idea, though. Shuya turned to her and asked, "But you're not afraid of me?"

"What?"

"Didn't you wonder whether I'd try to kill you?"

Under the moonlight, he couldn't see well, but Noriko's eyes seemed to widen a little. "You would never do something so horrible."

Shuya thought a little more. Then he said, "But you can't know what someone's thinking. You said yourself."

"No," Noriko shook her head. "I just know that you would never do that."

Shuya looked at her face directly. He probably looked dazed. "You can…tell?"

"Yes…I can. I…" She hesitated, but then continued, "I've been watching you for so long now." She might have delivered these words more stiffly in a normal situation, or at least one that was a little more romantic.

That was how Shuya recalled the anonymous love letter he'd received written on light blue stationary.

Someone had put it inside his desk one day in April. This wasn't the first love letter the former star shortstop and current self-proclaimed (sometimes by others as well) rock and roll star of Shiroiwa Junior High had received, but it made enough of an impression on Shuya for him to hold onto it. There was a poetic quality to the letter that touched him.

It read, "Even if it's a lie, even if it's a dream, please turn to me. Your smile on a certain day isn't a lie, it's not a dream. But having it turn to me might be my lie, my dream. But the day you call my name, it won't be a lie, it won't be a dream." And then, "It's never been a lie, it's never been a dream that I love you."

Was Noriko the one who sent that letter? He remembered observing how the writing resembled hers, and how the poetic style seemed similar too....So then…

Shuya thought of asking her about the letter, but decided not to. This wasn't the right time. Besides, he had no right to bring it up. After all he was so hung up over another girl, Kazumi Shintani, who would never, to take the phrase from that love letter, "turn to him," other girls and that love letter were of little concern to him in comparison. The most important thing now for him was to protect "the girl Yoshitoki Kuninobu adored," not to find out "who had a crush on him."

Then he recalled the bashful look Yoshitoki gave him when they had that talk. "Hey Shuya, I got a crush on someone."

Noriko asked him, "What about you, Shuya? Aren't you afraid of me? No, wait, why then did you help me?"

"Well…" Shuya thought of telling her about Yoshitoki. Come on, my best friend had a crush on you. So if I'm going to help anyone, it's got to be you, no matter what. I mean, really, come on.

He decided against this too. They were better off discussing this later, hopefully when they could take the time to, assuming that is, there would be any time later.

"You were injured. I couldn't just leave you alone. And besides, I trust you. I'll be damned if I didn't trust someone cute as you."

Noriko broke into a slight grin. Shuya did his best to return the smile. They were in a horrible situation, but he felt slight relief in forming a smile.

Shuya said, "In any case, we're lucky. At least we're together."

Noriko nodded. "Yes."

But…what were they supposed to do now?

Shuya began packing his bag. If they were going to rest in order to come up with a strategy, they needed to find a place that offered visibility. Again, they had no idea what the others were up to. At the very least they had to be extremely cautious. That was what it meant to be realistic in the face of horrific circumstances.

He kept the map, compass, and flashlight by his side. This was the world's worst orienteering game.

"Can you still walk?"

"I'm all right."

"Then let's move on a little more. We have to find a place to rest."

38 students remaining

11

Mitsuru Numai (Male Student No. 17) proceeded cautiously between the grove and the narrow moonlit beach that was approximately ten meters wide. He was carrying his issued day pack and his own bag on his shoulder. He held a small automatic pistol in his right hand. (It was a Walther PPK 9mm. Compared to the other weapons that had been issued in this game, this one ranked high. Along with most of the guns used in this program, this mass-produced model was imported cheaply from Third World countries that had remained neutral towards both the nations of the Republic of Greater East Asia and the American Empire and its allies.) Mitsuru was familiar with a model-gun version of the pistol, so he didn't need the accompanying manual. He even knew there was no need to cock the pistol before pulling the trigger. It came with a cartridge of ammunition which he'd since loaded into the gun.

The gun in his hand made him feel somewhat secure, but he held something even more important in his left hand, the supplied compass. It was the same cheap tin model Shuya had, but it did the job. Forty minutes prior to his departure from the classroom, his great leader, Kazuo Kiriyama (Male Student No.

6) had passed him this note: "If we're really on an island, then I'll be waiting at the southern tip."

Of course…everyone was an enemy in this game. That was the fundamental rule. But the bond in the

"Kiriyama Family" was absolute. It didn't matter that they were labeled thugs. They were thick as thieves.

Furthermore, the bond between Mitsuru Numai and Kazuo Kiriyama was special. Because…in a way it was Mitsuru who made Kazuo Kiriyama into what he was now. If there was one thing he knew, that the other more square students like Shuya Nanahara didn't, it was the fact that as far as Mitsuru knew, Kazuo Kiriyama, at least until junior high, was no "delinquent."

Mitsuru's memory of his first encounter with Kazuo Kiriyama was so vivid it remained unforgettable.

Mitsuru had been a bully ever since elementary school. But he was never needlessly cruel. Brought up in a generic family, he wasn't particularly bright, nor did he display any other gifts. Fighting was the best way he could prove himself. "Strength" was the only standard he had, and he never fell short of it.

So it was only inevitable, on his first day in junior high, he'd do his best to discourage any competitors coming from other elementary schools in his district. Of course, judging from the strength of kids he'd encountered in the local hang-outs, he knew the kids from the other elementary schools hardly presented a threat. Not everyone might have heard of him, though. There should be only one king— that was the best way to maintain order. Of course he wouldn't have thought to put it this way, but he knew this was what was going on.

As expected, there were two or three competitors. It all happened after the entrance ceremony and class introduction, after school, when he was in the process of taking care of the last one.

In the deserted hall by the art classroom, Mitsuru grabbed the kid by the lapels and shoved him against the wall. The kid was already bruised above the eye. His eyes were brimming with tears. It was a cinch.

It'd only taken two punches.

"Got it? So you don't mess around with me."

The kid nodded his head frantically. He was probably just begging to be released, but Mitsuru wanted verbal confirmation.

"I'm asking you! Did you get that!?"

He thrust the kid's body up with his left arm. "Answer me. Am I the baddest guy in his school? Am I?"

Mitsuru became irritated because his opponent wasn't responding. He lifted him up higher, when he suddenly felt
those
eyes on him.

He let go of the kid and turned around. The kid fell to the floor and scrambled away, but there was no way Mitsuru could go after him now anyway.

He was surrounded by four guys much taller than him. The badges on their worn out collars indicated they were third-year students. You could immediately tell what they were. They were just like him.

"Hey, kid," the pimply faced one who had a creepy grin said. "You shouldn't pick on the weak."

Another one with orange-tinted hair down to his shoulders pursed his abnormally thick lips and continued, "You've been naughty." His "faggoty" voice made the four of them crack up, laughing,

"HEEEE," as if they were all insane.

"We'll have to teach you a lesson." "Yes, we must."

Then they screeched again, "Hee hee!"

Mitsuru tried a surprise kick at the pimply faced one in front of him, but he was immediately tripped by the one on his left.

As soon as he fell back, the pimply one kicked him in the face, knocking out his front teeth. The back of his head pounded against the wall that he'd been busy using on his classmate. He felt dizzy. Something hot oozed down the back of his head. Mitsuru tried to get up on all fours, but then the one on his right kicked him in the stomach. Mitsuru groaned and puked. One of them said, "What a fucking mess."

Damn, he thought. Bastards…fucking cowards…I could take on any of them if it was just one on one....

But there was nothing he could do now. After all, he'd been the one who deliberately chose a deserted place to intimidate his classmate. There wasn't a chance a teacher would appear.

They pressed his right wrist against the floor. One of them carefully pried Mitsuru's index finger back and tucked it under his leather shoe. For the first time in his life Mitsuru experienced real fear.

No…this can't be.

It was. The sole of the shoe came down as Mitsuru's finger made a horrible cracking sound. Mitsuru shrieked. He'd never been in such pain. They kept laughing, "Hee hee hee!"

Mitsuru thought. These bastards…they're insane…they're not at all like me…they're crazy…

They were preparing his middle finger.

"S-stop…"

Without an ounce of pride left, Mitsuru begged for mercy, but they ignored his pleas. The same cracking noise came. Mitsuru's middle finger was
ruined
now. Mitsuru screamed again.

"Let's have one more then."

That's when it happened.

The door to the art classroom suddenly slid open.

"Can you guys keep it down?" The voice was quiet, though.

For a moment Mitsuru wondered if it was a teacher. But a teacher would have intervened a lot sooner, and besides, a request to keep it down would have been strange.

With his back still pressed to the floor Mitsuru glanced over at the door.

He wasn't too big, but he was incredibly good looking. He was holding a paint brush.

He'd seen him at the class introduction. He was one of Mitsuru's classmates. His family seemed to have recently moved here. No one knew who he was, but since he was quiet and appeared obedient Mitsuru didn't pay much attention to him. Given how his looks were so refined, he probably came from a nice family. Someone like him would do his best to avoid fights, so he was nothing to worry about.

But what was he doing in the art classroom? Probably painting, but wasn't that a little strange on the first day of school?

The pimply guy went up to the boy. "Who the fuck are you?" He stood in front of the boy. "Who the fuck are you? First year? What the fuck are you doing here? Huh? What was that you said?"

He knocked the paint brush out of the boy's hand, and the dark blue paint from the brush splattered against the floor.

The boy slowly looked up at the pimply guy.

The rest needed little explanation. The small boy beat up the four third-year students. (They were all lying on the floor, completely paralyzed.)

The boy approached Mitsuru. After looking him over he only said, "You should have your hand examined at a hospital." Then he went back inside the classroom.

Mitsuru gazed at the four bodies lying on the floor. He was completely stunned by something so completely unprecedented. He felt in awe of the boy, like a rookie boxer doomed to mediocrity upon suddenly encountering a world champion. Mitsuru saw genius.

From that point on Mitsuru served that boy—Kazuo Kiriyama. He had no need to acknowledge it.

Kazuo Kiriyama had beaten up four guys at once when Mitsuru could have only taken them on one on one. There should only be one king, and those who weren't should serve under him. He reached this conclusion a long time ago. The idea probably came from his favorite boys' manga magazine.

Kazuo Kiriyama was a
mystery
.

When Mitsuru asked how he managed to learn how to fight so viciously, he'd only respond, "I just learned." Kazuo would only ignore any further attempts to find out more. Mitsuru would then try to coax more out of him by suggesting he must have had a reputation in elementary school, but Kazuo only denied it. Then maybe he'd been a champion in karate or something? Kazuo denied this too. Another odd point, Mitsuru learned later, was the fact that Kazuo had broken into the art classroom to paint the day they met. When Mitsuru asked why he did that, Kazuo only replied, "I just felt like it." This was how Kazuo's strange persona contributed to Mitsuru's attraction to him. (Furthermore, the quality of the painting depicting a view from the classroom of the empty courtyard far exceeded the first-year junior high level, but Mitsuru never got to see this painting, because Kazuo had tossed it into the trash after completing it.)

Mitsuru showed Kazuo around. The small town, including the cafe where his friends hung out, the place he stashed stolen goods, the shady dealer who provided illegal goods. Mitsuru's talents were in fighting, but he did his best to show him every place. he knew. Kazuo always appeared calm. He came along maybe out of curiosity. Eventually he took on upper class students besides the ones he'd beaten up, bullies from other schools, or sometimes high school students.

Without exception Kazuo had them instantly writhing on the ground. Mitsuru was crazy about Kazuo. It was perhaps no different from the joy a trainer feels in training a champion boxer.

Kazuo wasn't only strong, though. He was extremely smart. Quite simply, he excelled at everything.

When they broke into the liquor store's warehouse, it was Kazuo who came up with the brilliant plan.

Kazuo saved Mitsuru from numerous jams he got himself into. (Since he got involved with Kazuo, he never got arrested by the police.) Furthermore, his father was supposedly the president of a leading corporation in the prefecture—no, the entire region of Chugoku and Shikoku. He was fearless. Mitsuru believed some people were destined for greatness. He thought, this guy is going to be someone so extraordinary 1 can't even imagine what he'll become.