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“…t was written by Rudyard Kipling, an english author which first intent was to write about a march of british soldiers towards the south of the African peninsula during the Second Boer War.”
At first, it just sounded boring.
Like the umpteenth lesson or history, nothing out of ordinary, nothing he would really listen to… He would probably forget about it all as soon as the bell rang.
“—what I found extremely interesting is how this poem, 26 years later, would be used to train young soldiers mentally and psychological- Isagi, are you with us?”
The boy was drawn out of his own daydreaming; green, fake grass who pierced in the first stratus of flesh, a worn out ball and his own pointy football shoes whom he treated better than anything he owned.
“Uh, y-yes… Forgive me Sensei, I’m listening.”
The older man didn’t sounded too convinced, looking at the teen for a couple of seconds through his slightly foggy classes, and the other, completely unaware of the situation just looked back, slightly confused. And just like nothing ever happened, he went back staring out of his window, dreaming about a field, green plastic grass and polished cleats.
“We have a recording of it, please listen carefully because it will come in the next english test.”
Oh, maybe it wasn’t history… A collective sigh and then all and twenty the students immediately reached for their own pencils and pens, ready to write down whatever they could understand. The blue haired student did too, holding his mechanical pencil, an empty paper in front of him.
The teacher touched the upper part of an old sony stereo, its small door opening revealing a vacant space which was soon filled with a CD, on top something scribbled in messy latin letters before pushing the start button.
Static, and then what sounded to be a… Man? Or was it a woman? It wasn’t clear. At first, he said something about… war, maybe? Distress and soldiers? God, why do they have to learn about such old stuff?
… slog? … … … Africa
Foot foot x2 … … Africa?
Boots boots boots … up and down again
… no … fischarge in da war
Seven six eleven five nine a twenty mail—
Mail? He thought, furrowing his eyebrows as he realized he may have written something wrong and lost track of the poem.
Whatever, he’d just ask a friend a later. Maybe Tada had taken notes. Isagi sighed and buried his face in his arms, listening at least.
“Four—eleven—seventeen—thirty-two the day before!
Boots—boots—boots—boots—movin' up and down again!
There's no discharge in the war!
Don't—don't—don't—don't—look at what's in front of you.
Boots—boots—boots—boots—movin' up an' down again!
Men—men—men—men—men go mad with watchin' em,
An' there's no discharge in the war—war—war—war—“
“Damn it.” The teacher hissed, punching lightly the old sony stereo who kept repeating always the same word:
War.
War.
War.
WAR.
After losing their chance in the National High School Football Qualifiers against the Matsukaze High School with a score 0-1, Isagi Yoichi realized he had never felt so bad before. If only he had listened to his guts, if only he had scored… If he only he had done better!
“AHHHHH!” Yoichi screamed, as tears rolled down his eyes. He felt so… frustrated! Why?! Why he passed?! Why couldn’t that motherfucker stay in his place?!
Fuck the teamwork, fuck the ‘we’re a family’ speech, fuck his stupid teammates and… and…!
“Shit…” Yoichi sobbed as he dried off his tears with the back of his hand. He had lost. He had lost everything.
But he couldn’t give up… No… No not now.
In his mind, in the deeper parts of his head, played an old poem.
There’s no discharge in the war.
A watery smile played on his lips, his eyes still watery and his lips red. “Yeah… Right…” And with that thought, he got on top of his bike, ready to go home.
“Welcome back, Yocchan!” His mother said warmly as he took off his shoes at the genkan, mumbling a ‘Hi mom’.
As he made his way to the living room, his father grumbled something about the match and of course, he couldn’t tell a lie.
“We lost.” But it didn’t fazed them, of course, they barely knew anything about soccer, let alone a tiny insignificant high school qualification in one of the worst countries in the world of football.
“Oh, that’s a shame… Thank goodness I made kotatsu.” His mother chimed in and placed a bowl of steamy rice and pork cutlet.
“You should’ve done this before the match… Maybe we wouldn’t have lost.”
“Oh my baby, I’m so sorry~.” As an apology, his mother gave him a kiss on the head.
… damn it, how could someone get angry at that woman?
“Ah, I almost forgot, this is for you Yocchan.” And she placed near the bowl, a letter.
Milk white, clean, perfectly fine and with the addressee written in black ink by machine.
Isagi Yoichi.
He swore he could almost feel a bitter taste in his mouth, a shiver down his spine.
“…you are formally invited to participate as a member of the Blue Lock Project.”
His stomach churned, tight and twisted, but not from fear. No, this was something else. A thrill. A pull deep in his bones. The same way his blood thrummed before a match—before a goal was within reach.
There’s no discharge in the war.
The thought flickered through his mind like a whisper, barely there. He didn’t question it.
That night, he couldn’t sleep. His eyes were open wide, he could feel his own heart beating, pounding like a drum against his ribcage, his blood rushing up and down to be pumped in his body full of oxygen, his lungs throbbing carrying tons of nitrogen and other substances.
He realized his body moved to a rhythm, rate of two beatings per second. Rhythmic, constant and continuous motion. Again, and again, and again…
Lub, Dub, Lub, Dub, Lub, Dub, Lub, Dub, Lub, Dub, Lub, Dub, Lub, Dub, Lub, Dub, Lub, Dub, Lub, Dub, Lub, Dub, Lub, Dub, Lub, Dub, Lub, Dub, Lub, Dub, Lub, Dub, Lub, Dub, Lub, Dub, Lub, Dub, Lub, Dub, Lub, Dub, Lub, Dub, Lub, Dub, Lub, Dub, Lub, Dub, Lub, Dub, Lub, Dub, Lub, Dub, Lub, Dub, Lub, Dub, Lub, Dub, Lub, Dub, Lub, Dub, Lub, Dub, Lub, Dub, Lub, Dub, Lub, Dub, Lub, Dub, Lub, Dub, Lub, Dub, Lub, Dub, Lub, Dub, Lub, Dub, Lub, Dub, Lub, Dub, Lub, Dub, Lub, Dub, Lub, Dub, Lub, Dub, Lub, Dub, Lub, Dub, Lub, Dub, Lub, Dub, Lub, Dub, Lub, Dub, Lub, Dub, Lub, Dub, Lub, Dub, Lub, Dub, Lub, Dub,
Boots, Boots, Boots, Boots, Boots, Boots, Boots, Boots, Boots, Boots, Boots, Boots, Boots, Boots, Boots, Boots, Boots, Boots, Boots, Boots, Boots, Boots, Boots, Boots, Boots, Boots, Boots, Boots, Boots, Boots, Boots, Boots, Boots, Boots, Boots, Boots, Boots, Boots, Boots, Boots, Boots, Boots, Boots, Boots, Boots, Boots, Boots, Boots, Boots, Boots, Boots, Boots, Boots, Boots, Boots, Boots, Boots, Boots, Boots, Boots, Boots, Boots, Boots, Boots, Boots—
Isagi’s eyes widened as he immediately sat straight, clenching his chest and take a deep breath, ragged, discordant and confused. Why?
His blue pearls darted towards his desk, where a neat, well written version of the poem was written in both Hiragana and Romanji, printed by his english teacher to prepare them for the test. Hah, he thought, too bad he won’t be there to do it.
Even so… His unease grow. He didn’t knew why, but he rose, walking slowly towards his desk. The small lamp was lit on, the characters burned his eyes;
Don't—
don't—don't—look
at what's
in front of you.
Boots
boots
boots
boots
movin' up an' down
again
Men
men
men
men,
men go mad with watching
‘em
An' there's no
discharge in the
war!
Yoichi hissed and covered his eyes, looking away before suddenly tripping in his shirt whom he had removed before, feeling suddenly too hot and fell on the ground, hitting his back on the floor which made him hiss in pain and let out a low groan of pain.
“Ffff—“ he suddenly remembered what his mother said about bad words and groaned as he sat, his arm resting on the bed and made a grimace as he patted his own wounded, lower back. “—fffork…”
Well, luck wasn’t on his side today, it was clear.
“Damn it..” The boy hissed and forced himself to stand before throwing himself on the bed once more, this time with his belly first. Even when his eyes were closed, he could still see those damn words, as if burned under his eyelids, tattooed permanently in his brain, he tried to shut them down by burying his face in the pillow, but they followed.
Boots—boots—boots—boots—moving up and down again.
His heartbeat matched the rhythm.
Lub-dub, lub-dub, lub-dub…
…Men go mad with watching ‘em.
Ego Jinpachi’s speech had… done something to him. It really made something in his brain snap, a light turned off, an engine had been broken. Without, thinking, he began to run.
No, he wouldn’t let the others steal his opportunity of becoming the best in the world.
“No fucking way!” He shout as he ran, his words buried under thousand of stomps and screaming. He was the first to cross the line between his old life and whatever awaited for him on the other side of this madness.
… If only he knew.
Isagi Yoichi truly had no idea what would happen after accepting the invitation, if only he could go back, he would’ve.
There was going to be only one, only one of them at
the end, out of 300 people… What he couldn’t have predicted though, was how much madness waited ahead and how much will of power these other 299 had.
It all started after eliminating Kira, that buffoon had always got on his nerves, if the old Isagi was still there he’d probably say that in truth, he didn’t hated Kira at all.
But the old him was dead.
First match, second match, third…
Boots—boots—boots—boots—moving up and down again.
It followed him. In his steps. In his breath. In the clatter of cleats against turf. Each step. Each meal. Each bead of sweat running down his skin— were filled with the same feeling of unease for the lack of accomplishment.
Not fast enough.
Not strong enough.
Not ruthless enough.
He wasn’t enough. So he would do it again.
Seven.
six.
eleven.
Fail.
Again, Tomorrow.
five.
nine.
and twenty miles today.
Tomorrow?
Four.
eleven, again.
seventeen.
thirty-two, the day before—
Boots—boots—boots—boots—moving up and down again.
“There’s no discharge in the war.”
Three hundred.
Two hundred fifty.
One hundred eighty the day before.
Again, again, again and again.
He will get on top.
Sweat, work, blood, tears, spit.
Cries, deep breaths, sobs.
Fail. Again, tomorrow.
If he let the others get on top of him, he’ll die.
One hundred forty.
One hundred.
Boots—boots—boots—boots—boots—boots.
Moving up and down again.
Isagi shifted his eyes left and right, he didn’t realized he was spiraling.
“Oh… God…” He muttered, his eyes wide in horror as his fingers brushed against his face. “Keep… me… from… going lunatic…” He mocked a laugh, grabbing his skin and tearing it apart, trailing his nails down his cheeks and to his jaw, down his throat peeling his flesh like a mature fruit, pushing past the muscles and reaching for his vocal cords, tearing them apart, spine— where was the spine?
His eyes rolled back in his head as his mouth wrenched open, a silent scream swelling in his throat, crying sweat and sweating blood. Hands— too big, too cold —dug inside, fingers brushing past muscle, past flesh, reaching—
reaching—
“Where… is the spine, Isagi?”
A voice, unfamiliar, echoed in his skull. His vision blurred. His body wasn’t his own anymore. A snap, a sharp pull—
bones, bones, bones—
coming out from his mouth, each cervical vertebra was absolutely devastating, tearing him apart, one by one.
He woke up gasping, again.
“NO!”
“OH LORD, PLEASE!”
“DON’T!”
“STOP!”
Screaming, begging, cries and then—
A loud crack.
A gurgling sound.
Then came the silence.
He had done it again.
Rin had took the easiest way to get rid of rivals…
Too much screaming, he couldn’t sleep.
Hiori stood there, unwavering, gripping a makeshift knife in his hands, his eyes cold as he stared straight into Isagi’s soul. He sighed deeply.
He dragged himself out of bed.
Plick.
Plick plick.
Nanase’s blood dripped onto the floor. His nose bled freely and he was huddled in the corner, eyes wide, his hands shaking in fear after miraculously surviving another slaughter.
Or so he thought.
“If—your—eyes—drop…” Isagi’s voice was calm, almost tender as he stepped closer. “They will get atop of you…”
The brunette’s hand reached out, fingers threading through Nanase’s hair, before his knee collided with the boy’s temple. He got on top of his back, pushing his head hard enough to make him arch as Hiori walked towards them.
With a brutal swing of the broken toothbrush, the razor-sharp edge buried itself into Nanase’s Adam’s apple. A gurgle, wet and choked, filled the silence.
Blood pooled, spreading like ink over white tile. Isagi stared down in horror, hands trembling, chest heaving.
Boots—boots—boots—boots—
Moving up and down again.
He swallowed thickly, but the taste of iron coated his tongue.
Hiori stood over him, shadowed, silent.
The poem echoed in the walls from the speakers of the building, each word more desperate than the last, screaming, loud and heavy with fear.
They were in his skull.
They took over the sanity of whoever remained in that butchery.
People feed off of corpses.
They ate their eyes first.
“Don't—don't—don't—don't—look at what's in front of you!
Boots—boots—boots—boots—moving up an' down again!”
Try! Try! Try! Try! Try! Try! Try! Try! Try! Try! Try-
TO THINK OF SOMETHING DIFFERENT!
“Boots… Boots… Boots…” Said the cyan haired boy, sliding to the brunette’s gorge as he stared down the life slowly flowing down the boy he was slitting the throat of.
“Moving…” Yoichi whispered, eyes brimming with tears as the weight of his actions crashed down on him as his guilt fell onto the still-warm, bloodied corpse beneath him in droplets. “…up and down again…” somewhat alive.
Hiori watched him, silent, the only sound the dripping of blood, his eyes void as the knife fell off the floor and then his knees. His lips soon met the slit throat, looking at Isagi as if he dared back down now.
The poem, louder now, filled the space between them, almost suffocating.
“Boots… boots…” murmured Isagi, his voice breaking as his body trembled, not having enough strength to watch his partner feed off the dead body of who was once a friend. His eyes stared right in front, holding tightly the hair as he waited for his own turn.
Men—men—men—men—men go mad with watching ’em—
THERE’S NO DISCHARGE IN THE WAR!