Juzo

It was a most wretched metamorphosis, a change so large. An upheaval of identity that changed nothing at all was perhaps the most deathly of all. I had spent an eternity by that name and with absolutely nothing to show for it. That's how things are, I guess. Rigid. Status quo. Perhaps Mike Judge was on to something. The more things change, the more they are likely to stay exactly the same. Just because my name is Juzo doesn't mean that's who I want to be, but the more I thought about it the less likely it seemed that a change of name would mean much anything at all. Or mean much of anything. At all.

"Deker."

I lifted my head from the pillow and l looked at him.

"Yes?"

"Are you alright?"

I was used to this sort of thing being code. Words are deceptive. Volatile semantics and double meanings that all cling to the same strategy. I want to know about you, but you shall not approach me. Most are bogged down with the clear, tangible notion that they are damaged irreversibly, and damn anyone besides Hubbard who intends to liberate them from their gravity-weighted thetans. Even I am guilty of this, and I think it may be slightly prejudiced to assume it is because of my cursed Nighlok half.

But he was never like that. It was never code.

"I'm fine. Why?"

"You don't seem like it," Enkidu said. "You don't talk much, anymore."

Not that we ever had to. Usually.

"I'm just thinking, that's all. You have nothing to worry about, alright?"

"I love you."

"I love you too."

I've never been adequate at slumber. I'm not sure if it's because of the Nighlok in me consistently trying to philosophize the nature of existence in its constant attempt to adapt the Art of War for preschoolers, or if it's simply because sleep and I don't get along. But it's hard for me to sleep. I've always tried different things to little effect, and most recently I've forced various schedules upon myself as an attempt to beat sleep into submission. But it's been quite the worthy opponent. Were Enkidu still here, it might bother him. Barely.

"And you, Deker? Do you bore of evil?" Asked Serrator.

"When it suits me," replied the slow firebird.

I didn't understand the point of most of our conversations. The next question would be:

"And how goes the pursuit of purity?"

And I could only say:

"Goes."

He wanted something, though Ishinomori knows what THAT was. I was just unsure of what that was. My importance to the greater cosmos was fairly debatable, though if you were pro against con you tended to be on the losing side. Words bother me. Infinite in their repertoire and specific in their intent, but always malleable and subject to the exact context of the predicament. It's what bothers me about Serrator. Speaking in infinite, unlockable eternity codes that eschew the Konami patent in favor of completely indecipherable mooger Esperanto (a phrasing that would put me in hot water, but Dayu knew better than anyone that I was open to running game on a mooger girl. Even if, despite my heart being in the right place, making it to the goal was beyond my comfort zone). It's a cultural thing. Just because Nighlok runs through me doesn't mean that's what I am. I don't understand the culture, nor have I understood my place in it or the expectations therein. I knew the hatred for it, and I rather coldly deduced the logic that came with hating a dirty, filthy mooger like I was.

"My grand schemes must be put on hold, Deker."

No surprise there.

"But don't let that discourage you. I don't expect the tides to turn just yet, and I don't think you're in the proper position to eliminate the Red Ranger. But it will come in time. Enjoy yourself now. Read a good book. Perhaps indulge some exotic cuisine? You look a little skinny."

Oh fuck off.

"But I'll worry about that later, as I know you have bigger, better things on your mind."

They've yet to leave.

Sharpening Uramasa was often a solitary endeavor. Sometimes indulged with like minded warriors, but more often than not it never felt properly unless I was honing the blade and my aptitude with such on my own. I liked it, though. A sharper edge was always beyond my reach, but then again if it were easy to obtain there'd be little point in doing it. And it didn't need to be perfect. Just enough.

I drew the blade from the stone one last time and gave a slash to extinguish the camp fire.

In my solitude I often thought about technique. I had few mentors in the art, relying only on morsels of wisdom I had scavenged in the night like a hungry Org. The Wise Man once said that precision often only came with humility. Respecting what had come before, and fighting with it with your own hand. To take on the tradition of your elders and guide it safely to the next generation. A seemingly impersonal way to battle, a way to let history command you. But many of the most formidable warriors and worthiest opponents made it their philosophy. Perhaps it was wise to take the Wise Man for his word.

"Juzo."

I turned and gazed upon the worthiest opponent I could ask for.

"Red Ranger."

Uramasa hungered, and I wasn't one to deny.

I dropped my trusty sword and fell to my knees. The Red Ranger looked at me, as if inspecting me. As brutalized as my Nighlok shell was, it was a sculpture compared to the pathetic looking human form that came to being in a baptism of purple flame. I felt the back end of a Spin Sword lift my head by the chin, the Red Ranger looking at me through his peculiar kanji visor.

"This is worthy for you, Juzo?"

I winced.

"You demanded an opponent worthy enough for your skills." The Red Ranger devolved as I did, to the lean Takeru. "Yet you could not stand before me. You are not worthy."

The sword disappeared and, without support, I fell onto my face. Footsteps crushed and parted blades of grass with a complete apathy toward my state of being. I coughed and stayed where I was. Little point in moving, at least for now. There was nothing that would have deemed me worth approaching. I was as good as dead, or perhaps a little worse than it.

I felt a sharp of bone flick my cheek and I turned my head, witnessing Uramasa after a silent disintegration that left its pieces scattered along the forest floor. I waited a fortnight before letting myself stand, starving. Before tending to my hunger, I did the most appropriate thing and picked Uramasa up piece by piece.