Katawa Shoujo Forums

Sometimes, I still hear the sound. The sound. Everytime I do, I can't sleep for days.
"My name is Mr. Bruce. You will call me Teacher. I am going to make this abundantly clear right from the outset. I am not a nice person. I absolutely realise that the school encourages you to seek out teachers you like and admire, thereby perhaps forming a bond with them. Fortunately for us both, I will not be one. I am here to educate you. History likes me, and it likes you, as long as you give it a chance, so that's where we'll start,"
My first words to the class 3-2, from my chair, and I am afraid that to say they were delivered delicately would be a lie. Not that I'd care if I lied to them; my integrity drained away a few years back. My voice is cold, almost exasperated, and firmly in the 'I need some fucking coffee' category . Still, it's early morning and my back is still beginning to ache up a fury, so I settle alittle more into my seat, my chin stubble brushing harshly against the front of my woolly jumper as I give my arse a few minutes to settle. For a time, the class is silent, but it soon starts to simmer with chatter. Best to shut that down quickly.

"I do not recall giving you permission to speak!"

Every syllable raises the volume a little, until the last is essentially a shout. Crescendo! The big finish! I do not chuckle, but I do inside.
"...but if you're so excitable, we'll start the lesson."
Instantly, I stretch my right arm and point to the laziest looking student, a tall chap (bright hair, thin face, very stereotypicall Asian except for the piercing in his right ear and the cleft chin) and no obvious disability.
"You. Explain to me exactly who Cicero was."
It's not a question, it's a command, and the lad springs to attention and the panic sets in. We both know he probably has no idea. As I wait, my right hand comes up and begins to tap impatiently at my glass eye, sending a resounding clinking noise through the classroom. It gets to ten clinks before the lad owns up to his ignorance.
"I don't know, teacher."
"No, you don't, so please waken yourself for my lesson as I summon the mental constitution to rise."

Oh chairs. If I could shake the hand of one man, it would be the man who invented chairs. But now I had to leave my humble haven and actually do my job.
It takes a while, but I do get up; the pain is not a spike but a single dull throb, from shoulder to ankle on my left side as I straighten. A pen appears on my sleeve as I quickly write 'The Roman Republic' on the board; Japanese is hard for me to speak, at times, but I always found writing it a pleasure. The Latin Alphabet is full of bold strokes and powerful holds, almost like every letter is a structure. The Japanese letters are fluent, almost polite, rather more airy - this is a good thing.

I am left handed, but I scribe with my right, as any prolonged action pushes through my pain medication and abruptly ruins my day. Turning back to the class, I offer up a simple enough question.

"Name three important people to the Roman Republic, I'll rank them in order of their effect, you must figure out why."
Hands shoot up, but I quickly scan the room for someone who lacks that ability but seems enthusiastic. A young girl (dark hair, brown eyes, abit chubby but not overly so, definitely from a large family) having trouble with her prosthesis seems to be quite eager, and I point straight at her.
"Third row, fifth seat."
"Julius Caesar, teacher!"
I nod, my expression not changing a little, and immediately place him somewhere near the top of the board. This time, I take one of the hands, this time a blonde lad (small, shrewish eyes, powerful nose, so some European heritage, odd socks, so disorganised, glasses, but thin lensed - small sight defect) in a wheelchair.
"First row, fourth seat,"
"Octavius, teacher!"
"A reward of some kind if you can tell me his name upon joining the Julii."
"What's the reward?"
"No idea. I'll let you hold my glass eye, or something."
A chorus of disgust is heard, but I shrug it off; can't take it out, thing has to be sterile. Like my brother, heheheh.
"Gaius Julius Caesar."
"Five points!" I announce, before turning and writing 'Gaius Julius Caesar Augustus' directly above 'Julius Caesar'.
"Aaaaand you." Dark haired girl, about five foot nine, athletic, short spikes, high brow and immaculate posture suggests well-to-do family - no obvious disability.
"...Marc Anthony."
"Pupil, if I could write that slime's name at the bottom of the board, I would. But unfortunately he held some significance, and I haven't been able to lean down in three decades, so we shall settle for the middle." My hand clearly writes the name about half way up the board, and I leave it there.
Now, the lecture. The sweeping display of historical knowledge that wows every one of them!
I thump my fist beside Marc Anthony's name.
"Idiotic and short-sighted, but charming."
Julius Caesar's.
"Smart and charming, but also short-sighted."
A firm thump next to Augustus.
"Smart, charming, perceptive and, most importantly of all, quiet."


I turn to face the class, setting the pen down as I take up my cane and begin to walk down the left side of the class. Motion is painful to me, but the swift rhythm of each neurone firing off it's payload of loving agony actually comforts me. Let's me know I'm still breathing; still thinking.
"The first Emperor of Rome was not LOUD!" I bellow the last word right in the ear of a dozing student, before continuing on. "He was a quiet, softspoken man who established the downfall of the Republic piece by piece over several decades. Born the 23rd of September 63 BC, he was a master of guise and image. He never, officially, became Roman Emperor, though historians cite his rise to the Office as anywhere from the Battle of Actium, in 31 BC, to his acceptance of the titles 'Princeps' and 'Augustus' in January 27 BC - Miss, am I boring you?"
My gaze was upon a small, armless girl at the back of the class - red hair, boy's uniform, short cut, green eyes, possible gender identity issues. If she'd been sleeping throughout the lesson then, doubtless, my scarred visage would wake her up.
"What?...Oh, no. Well, yes. You are."

"Charming honesty. You have earned a thousand words on Gaius Marius - if you give me a thousand words on Augustus, I shall request five thousand upon Cincinnatus, so memorise that name," I walk past her, doubtless she's cringing, but I'm not one for caring.
"Why do you need a cane?" The same voice, suddenly, and I'm turning before the last word exits her mouth. For I am prepared for this. My tone is calm, my expression free of the traumatic pain I'd once croaked these words with, and only annoyance creeps in.
"An Irishman blew me up. Any more ruthlessly probing questions, or can I move on? No? Oh, good."

“Teacher Bruce?”


I snort awake. It's lunch, and I am a master at sleeping anywhere, anytime, any place. Naps, dozes, or day-long snooze fests, I am a black belt at the slovenly art of dossing off.
Turning my head sluggishly, I am confronted square with a young man, looking a tad embarassed, with blonde-brown hair. Depressed, judging by the shadows under his eyes, and recently recovered from a hospitalisation; I can smell it on him, and the atrophy in his calves and arms is obvious. Hell, that gives me a little sympathy with him. When I got out, my left side was tiny, underweight, compared to my right. That's what happens when you spend nine months in a bed, I suppose. C'est la vie. The sympathy is quickly erased by a glance at the clock – I still have twenty minutes of sack time. Oh, thanks kid!

“Name?” I demand, scratching my aching back – I straightened up alittle too fast. My jacket sits atop my desk in a heap, elegantly conditioned to act as my pillow. Names don't mean anything to me, I just want to know so I can invent something to punish him for. Yes, I shouldn't be making a depressed boy even worse, but noone said anything about therapy, and he woke me up.
“Hisao Nakai. Teacher Hakamori said you could help me with my history.”
Here lies the deficit in having both a PhD in History and a frankness about it – people bother you. My grunt is apparently ascent enough for him to tentatively enter, and I give my head a scratch, rolling my neck.
“Who's this Hakamori person?” I grumble, stretching my hand out for the work he holds in his pasty hands. Attractive, young, no callouses on the skin between forefinger and thumb on either hand – not a regular self pleasurer. Lucky bastard – at that age, I had braces, blackheads and weighed about three grapes. Girls thought me, and I quote, 'ugly as a train grill'.
“The other history teacher.”
I barely even register his reply as I casually look over his essay. Bad handwriting – if I was born Japanese, I'd relish every second I got to scribe – but a decent prose. Why they were learning about the Aztecs at this age was beyond me; Flowers Wars and systematic Spanish Subjugation usually takes me about a week to explain to anyone with more than two brain cells.
“Tell your teacher the Englishman suggests the Warring States period for study, would be far more relevant, and more interesting beyond the initial thrill of ripping hearts out of chests. Sit down.” The lad does so, with timid precision, and I give him another quick once over. He doesn't like me – micro expressions of mild curiosity mix with those of a little fear and irritation. Not that I ever learned about micro expressions; just read a few books, and I'm arrogant enough to integrate them into my daily life. Hehe.


“Do you like me, Nakai?” This is to throw him off guard, so I can deliver my analysis without his walls up – you know the ones 'He's just being mean, I don't really need to do this', all that juvenile bollocks.
To his credit, moderate surprise lasts only a few seconds, before he gulps and shrugs.
“I haven't met you before, Teacher. I wouldn't know.”
“What if I told you I'd been a career criminal for twenty years. What if I told you I was a murderer, several times over. Would you dislike me?”
More surprise.
“Well....Yes, teacher, I probably would. It would depend on a lot of things, I mean, you might have done it to survive, or to protect someone you loved. You're only human.”
“Exactly. So why do you seem to think the sun shines out of Hernan Cortez's no doubt flabby backside?” I hold up the essay, and he goes alittle red. Good! “No, I'm asking you to prove it. You just assume he's a fantastic fighter, a rousing rhetorician and a magnificent mariner, and hold the evidence above my nose, just beyond reach,” My tone is mocking, almost disgusted, to make my words actually hit home. It changes with my next words “But you are quite clearly intelligent; your knowledge of Hernan Cortez's past life suggests you're very well read. What's your disability?”

I am curious. So I catch him off guard, sticking the question at the end. It works. Doubtless thinks I'm weird.

“I...I...have a heart defect. Arrhythmia...Teacher, I'm not sure it's polite to ask,”
Ah, a stand. The young lad has some spine!
“Why? You know mine; why can't I know your's? Is that fair?”
“Well, it's just not nice to ask, teacher...Some people might be offended.”
“My dear boy, that is their problem and not mine. But you are absolutely correct – some are offended.”
“Well...I guess. You're like Rin, teacher. She asks that sort of stuff right away.”
“Who's Rin?”
“Short red hair, artist, boy's uniform, green ey-”
“No arms?”
Ironically, he himself goes alittle red, before nodding.
“If you see her, tell her I expect those one thousand words on Gaius Marius to be precise and well done. Not just a copy of a goddamn wikipedia page.” It is a grumble, very much an old man's grumble, and I don't care.
“...Teacher, how is she supposed to type?”
“I'm sure she'll find away. No, wait, you help her. Your assignment from Teacher Bruce is to aid Rin in completing her own assignment. Now go away, I need a crap like nobody's business, and I have to lock the room.”
Without further ado, I lean my weight gently forwards onto the desk, then push up with my right arm and leg. After I overcome gravity initial embrace, my left side helps out, timed to help, but not so much as to cause pain, and I rise to my full height. Practice makes perfect, and I can usually do this without pain medications; it still burns like buggery, but I can do it. Fortunately, my percocet keeps me at it without screaming to the heavens, no doubt dramatically.

Nakai is still there.

“Alright, alright, I'll bite, what's the question?” My gravel-like voice demands, as I grasp my cane.
“What's wrong with you, sir?”

I don't know why that particular phrase flicks my rage switch.

“NOTHING is WRONG with me, you insolent little shit!”
I shout. Fuck, I shouldn't be shouting. Really, really shouldn't. Might give the poor lad a heart attack. But I do, and my expression seethes with anger, with rage, and I feel like I'm about to beat him to death. I have issues with terminology; always will.
Probably the first time in a while I've exploded, though...
Yet I do it upon a smart kid with a heart condition. Hell, even at fifty three years of age, I'm still an idiot. An angry, crotchety, sensitive old idiot.

Poor kid goes red, then mutters an apology, then pegs it, exactly as any sane person would. Guilt shoots through me, briefly, but I shake it off.

Very interesting character

Small nitpick:
3-2 is Lilly's class; Rin and Emi are in 3-4 iirc

"Would you like to talk in English? I know this is your first day."
"Shut up, you worthless little man, and let me be on my merry way."
Evening checkup with a male nurse. Oh why couldn't they have someone attractive. I accept that the Liz Taylors of the world don't pounce upon me, but atleast a Meryl Streep! Such is life.
The man frowns, and I feel guilty - very, very briefly. Then I remember that these checkups are a part of my employment contract; I am forced to be here; and it all drains away. Buttoning my shirt, I note the micro-expression of surprise, then a rather more obvious one of anger (I was meant to see that), before he just sighs. A cheeky smile creases across his face, and I plainly note what's coming.
"Yes, Mr. Bruce. May I atleast ask your first name? Har-"
"I swear to almighty God, if the next syllable emanating from your balmed lips is 'ry', I will beat you to death with my cane."
This is in English. Nothing quite like my native tongue for threatening someone. It's sharp, it's brutal, and my native Birmingham accent gives it a certain power, a certain crudeness, which I once hated, and now love; like a University Student rediscovering his favourite teddy bear. Of course, to a Japanese man, I sound hilarious, and his eyes light up with amusement before they go to the natural response of shock - not fear, I'm no threat him. It all makes my weathered left hand come up to my eyes and rub at them. Muscles pull and strain, protesting, and I realise my pain medication could wear off any minute.
"...It's Michael, you should know that from my file," I state, in Japanese "Michael Bruce. Do not refer to me as 'Mike' or 'Michael' infront of the kids. In return, I'll try not to insult you or threaten you."
A firm nod.
"May I call you 'Michael', away from the children?"
"No."
"Why?"
"Because I told you not to. What part of this are you not getting?" This man annoys me. Reminds me of people who have long ago given up and moved along to a patient who won't snap, and bite, and harass. Such defensive gestures are deliberate; I do not like nurses, with the exception of one. This will never change. It's prejudiced, and mostly unjustified, but the first one I had thought I was scum. And I'm too old to change. So I try to get them to stop pretending they're my friend.
Still, he pokes and prods my left side, testing the twisted flesh, asking me to raise my arm, my leg, testing the nerve below my patella. Standard, basic. Way too indepth for a first day, but it's pretty much required for someone my age, with my injuries.
My mouth spits out the standard responses which, even in another language, so bland and banal. Or, in layman's terms, fucking dreary.


No, mate, I'm fine.
Same old.
A few twinges here and there.
Nope, no itching.
I can still remember the first time I entered a hospital. Must have been ten, and my good old Uncle had dashed his brains out against the pavement. Nothing drunk or sadistic, just bloody stupid. Also the first time I pulled abit of gallows humour.
“I guess he hit rock bottom,” My ten-year-old self muttered, at his bedside. I wish I could go back to the days when Nurses and Doctors were phantasmal beasts and deities, toying and testing with relatives and friends – distant and celestial, instead of all too close and all too human.

“You're obviously quite used to this.” The man notes, scribbling on his chart. He's smiling, and it's obvious he finds my attitude hilarious.
Wow, you fucking well think? Not like it happened thirty one years ago or anything, and I've had medical exams every fortnight, without fail, since then! My, I may never have the same life after this shocking revelation, Doc!
But my memory gives me a firm kick in the chest, coincidentally. I give my chin a scratch as I ask, my voice suddenly far more timid.
“...Doc. Nakai kid. He alright?”
Fucker's been waiting for me to ask; I can tell. His expression goes flat, one of mild scolding, and I deserve it to my very core, but I don't take off anyone I'm afraid.
“Oh, don't give me that look. Just tell me how he is.”
In life, I've found that people can be harsh, cruel, unkind, bitter, and sadistic just so long as no one comments on it and they get a pay slip at the end of the month. When I became a teacher, I was rigidly determined to avoid this mentality – and it's at moments like this that I realise I'm getting closer and closer to it.
“He's shaken up, very much so, but he'll be fine...Would you like to talk about what caused it?”
“No. Just send the Nakai kid to see me whenever he strays across your path.”
You're probably asking 'why does he want to meet him? ' - Well, I may not be nice, but I'm not a complete bastard. Way I see it, shouting at a kid who's chest could detonate at any stressful moment equals tutoring him, atleast for a few hours. Karma; I gave up Christianity for Zen Buddhism about twenty-nine years back. Y'know, when I realised the war I'd lost my mobility in-... You don't want to hear my political views.
A sigh from the Nurse. A nod. Exasperation and acceptance.
“Alright, Mr. Bruce, we're done. You may go.”
Cane in hand, I stroll out, slowly, because I'm waiting for the question; but he doesn't ask it. Either knows, or has some tact. See, I like people who don't force me to inform them of my past, and how I became what I am, because...it's all too serious. Reminds me of someone I'd much rather forget. When I leave, I give him a nod of appreciation.

I was a soldier once. I was tall, and proud, and young, and intact. Healthy. Hurts to be reminded of it.

The drive to my house is short, quiet and easy. Getting into the car takes all of five seconds; getting out, not so much. Mary looks out at me from the top window, and I hurry up, as I know she'll make some joke about it all.
A few seconds later, I'm slipping through the front door.
“Oi! Left-legger! Get in 'ere and chop these carrots before I come get ye'!”
Mary is very, very Irish. In every possible way. Her red hair is beginning to patch with grey, her eyes are beginning to develop bags, her slim figure is starting to fill out. Yet, as I enter the large kitchen, I'm reminded that she is still the most beautiful woman on earth, and always will be. She's peeling spuds, and some carrots lie waiting to be chopped beside her. With a few steps, I move up, to kiss her on the cheek; she turns to meet my lips, and I get to the chopping.
“Did William call?” William Bruce is six feet four inches tall, with sandy blonde hair, powerful arms and legs from a long time in the Fire Service, and the sort of touch around the house that I have forever lacked. At twenty nine, he's our eldest, and the one who has moved with us to Japan; he lives on the other side of town, and he is abit racist, albeit quiet about it. My fault; when he was growing up I was very much Mel Gibson rather than Mother Theresa, and he's got some foolish notions into his head. Still, he's a fine young man, with a certain heart that comes straight from Mary.
“He'll be visiting tomorrow, to help me with some things that your lazy arse can be bothere' to finish up for me...” Mary retorts, still a smile on her face.
“Rob?”
Robert Bruce is five foot eleven inches, and sports a full head of red hair that blazes in the sunlight. At twenty four, he is our third, and the shortest; naturally, he's also the most violent. Professional Bodyguard, living in Hackney, London; drives around looking mean and tough, but generally just the looking and not the proving. Beneath it all, he's probably the coldest one of us – his exterior is a good representation of his exterior. But his honesty, reliability and genuine willingness to roll up his sleeves and get to work inspire me.
“Rob is doing fine; he's taking a plane down late next week, as his client 'as a few relatives down 'ere, so we'll see him then.”
Good. I like Rob. Makes a billion times better chicken casserole than Mary every did.

My lips crease around the next sentence. It takes a great deal of courage for me to ask; not for Mary, but for myself. Terror inhabits me like a parasite in anticipation of what the answer could hold.”
“Any words on Hugh?”
Hugh Bruce is an Intelligence Officer in Her Majesty's British Army.
And he is missing.
Do I really need to say anything else? Do I need to tell you that I lie awake at night, imagining my boy in the same shitty situation I was in? Do I need to read you the last letter he sent us? Or perhaps the recall the last phonecall? Because I can remember every syllable, every inflection. Every little tweak of language that is uniquely and permanently my boy.
Mary drops what she's doing to throw her arms around me.
“No, not yet. Soon.”
Yeah, I hope so. I don't move to cuddle her, though I do slip my arm around her waist and pull her alittle tighter. I love my wife. My wife, I know, loves me. Right now, I feel the urge to weep, to cry, to rebel, but most of all, to joke. Because Mary might start thinking the way I am; that mayhap our boy is dead in a ditch, somewhere, or being tortured. Yet, I can handle that. I know I can. Mary? Not so muchh. So a change of subject is due.
“Alright, get back to cooking so I can gag down whatever vomit you force onto my plate,” My lips mutter, and she giggles against my neck.
“Well, you are what you eat...” She responds, and it's my turn to chuckle. Oh, back and forth, back and forth. This is what happens when two snide fuckers love each other.
“Here's hoping I don't turn into you then. Couldn't bear that!” A smirk the width of the English Channel is dancing across my scarred face. Our tones are playful, our expressions happy, our embrace tight
“Oh, innuendo! There might just be a few brain cells between those ears after all, though I'd put my money on hell freezing over!”
Touché, my love, touché! The duel ends the moment those thoughts run through my skull, so I chuckle and beam at her.
“I love you.”
“I know, you Buddhist bastard, now get back to those carrots before I take a knife to your's.” She scolds, raising her eyebrow. Here's the thing; Mary is smarter than me. Don't tell her I said that, but she is. She's smarter, kinder, more honest, and generally a better person. Every day I realise that, I love her abit more.
We sit down to dinner, and I end up dozing off on the couch. Unsurprisingly, we have separate bedrooms, and she tends to give me rather unsubtle signs when she requires service that should not be committed to script. Being fair, you'd probably be sick. We're old and wrinkly, you see!


*******
P.s. Thank you to Mirage for the correction, I'll be sure to insert something suitably witty about Mike making a mistake.

Delightful. I can't wait to see more interaction with the others.
More Rin perhaps? She seems to at least be partially interested in him.
I can't even imagine Shizune getting wind of him.

Bruce needs to meet Jigoro, maybe a parent teacher conference or smth, that would be an awesome confrontation.
It will either go really well, or near violent.

I remember catching Hisao Nakai beside a mural, not quite done, about two days before the festival. I remember, because he was staring at that painting like it might reveal something to him, like it might give him some kind of miraculous epiphany to cure his woes. Heh. Part of me wanted to tap him on the shoulder and give him a lecture about life, but screw him, it was his job to figure the truth out by himself. That's about half the fun of it, anyway.
Nonetheless, I go to stand beside him, and silently wait for him to notice me. The mural distracts my gaze inbetween the two events, and I quickly form an opinion; I am not a fucking art critic. Give me a dashing vista of the White Cliffs of Dover instead of this abstract malarkey - doubtless someone refined with a pipe in their mouth and a plug up their arse could tell me how wonderfully modern it was. Until then, it took my gaze only a few seconds to become bored with it, as the Nakai boy turns his head and gives a startled jump. That nearly makes me chuckle.
"...Hello, Mr. Bruce."
I jab my cane towards the mural. I am curious, if I'm honest, about how this lad expresses himself, how he thinks, how he formed his opinions.
"What do you think?" I inquire, keeping both my tone and my expression entirely neutral, which is alot harder than you think. He purses his lips a little, and looks back at the painting, ala typical teenage behavior.
"It's bad luck to comment on an unfinished work," The young man retorts, perhaps with a hint of reproach in his tone.
"How fortunate I have no plans to. What. Do. You. Think?" My voice has become a little sterner, a little fiercer, abit more manly. This kid may not like me, this kid may find me terrifying, this kid might be just waiting for me to explode, but I refuse, in life, to drop something merely because it is difficult. My gaze is focused, if nothing else.
“...It's abstract...It's as if someone has taken snapshots of a hundred different little glimpses of life and welded them together...” He replies, and the pauses and tone, that of developing thought, make me shake my head.
“How poetic.” I sneer, rotating my skull side to side. I've no time for metaphors, or art. “Pick up your goddamn bag and follow me; you're missing science. Mutou agreed; bugger's probably glad to be rid of you.” Nakai's good at science, apparently, so he could stand to miss a lesson here and there. He was new, I'd ascertained, and probably required a few...Oh, fuck it, I'll be honest. I've been a father for nigh on thirty years. I need someone to mentor, somewhere, and I reckon that this poor kid had earned it. I'm not exactly the nicest guy, but I like to think of myself as well-versed in this whole 'father figure' crap.

We start out silent, so I wait until we get to the school doors before sucking up my pride, my onerous pride, and doing the right thing....Still, I can't help but mumble it.
“Sorry about snapping, lad.”
Sonouvabitch. He heard me, I know he heard me, but he still makes me repeat it.
“Pardon, Teacher?”
“I apologise for shouting at you, boy.” The last word is terse and strict, and I mean to have it. Bastard heard me, I know he did...Then again, he's on my left side. My ear was burned away, a long time ago, so that still gives me trouble. So I sigh, and turn to face him.
“You really aren't very lucky with me, are you?”
Nakai shakes his head, an expression of surprise flashing, followed by timidity.
“Stay to my right, avoid my cane, we'll get along fine. So, have you helped Miss Tezuka out with her homework?” - Yes, I do my research too. On students I punish, doubly so.
As he passes around, swiftly, to my other side, the boy responds with more confidence, more strength. Not much, I mean, he still sounds like a drowned sewer rat given the power of speech, but still.
“Yes, we worked on it last night. She thinks he's boring.”
“She's an artistic girl researching a dead foreigner who reformed a foreign military thousands of years ago. Of course she thinks it's boring. That was the point. Maybe she won't sleep in my f- damn lessons again.” It is an effort to stop myself from swearing, often made harder when the hole on the left side of my skull begins to itch, as it did now. “My question is what did you think? Like history?”
“No, I don't.”
Brave! But he hangs his head, averts my gaze, avoids confrontation. Mayhap I should do the same, how he likes talking to a spineless bat.
“Boy, where I'm from, it is considered the peak of vulgarity to give an opinion and not a reason.” My voice growls. As he looks up, I find myself noticing that he avoids my left side with his eyes....

Ah.

It all makes sense now. Most boys will get over a shouting if you treat them half-respectfully for a few minutes, teenagers are fickle like that, but a combination of disgust, horror and terror, well... (Addendum: horror and terror are subtly different; horror is revulsion at a sight, terror is fear of what that sight might hold). It's strange, I find myself ignoring 99% of it these days. Back when I first went out in public, without thick coats and bandages, school children would stare, some would scream. The flesh on my left is blackened, charred, scorched; I look like half a barbecue!
“Look at me, boy.”
He does, and I turn my burned face so that all he can see is what Pte. Dareth Blakeney could see as I lay screaming on a road in Northern Ireland.
My voice is gentle. My left eye, just barely lidded, is not harsh, but firm.
“What you are feeling is not wrong. What you are thinking is nothing to be guilty off. I accept your curiosity and your revulsion at the sight of my injuries. I will not respond in any manner that is antisocial or aggressive because of your staring.”
He holds my gaze. I remember when I did this to a student, eleven year old boy...and he simply asked if he could touch it. Hurt like hell, but the lad never stared again.
Nakai, however, looks it over carefully. He examines the bits and pieces of red, suppurating flesh that mesh together the plates of black. It's strange, certain terminology flares me up. The idea that I am somehow defficient, or incorrect, or flawed; that pricks my arrogance...Yet, the stares do not. Because few people talk to you, but they all stare.

“Are you scared of me, boy?”
Nakai shakes his head. Suddenly, he knows that looking me in the eye won't bring down my wrath. That is a very good step.
“...Well, as long as I keep my mouth shut, I'm not.” The lad quips. I grin back, not chuckling, but acknowledging it.
“Alright, alright, I get you. Don't say I'm wrong, in any way, and don't insult my family or imply there's something strange about any of them. Steer clear of that, we'll be like Morse and Lewis in no time.
“Morse and who, Sir?”
My eyes go cold.
“Add 'don't question my pop culture references' to that list. If you want to keep that heart, anyway.” I go limping off, managing to conceal a look of unbridled mirth on my face. Oh, how it pays to be old! Oh, how it pays to have ENDLESS replays of Inspector Morse on ITV at NHS Hospitals.
I only just resist the urge to murmur “There's b'in a merder” under my breath as I catch a flash of red hair, short, sleeves flying.
“Miss Tezuka!” I bellow, and the lass stops, turning non-chalantly towards me. Her gaze is serene, as if to disturb her is to break the surface of a perfectly still pond; outrageous and foul. A girl of strange mannerisms, I can tell. A girl who better have a bloody essay if she doesn't want to become intimately acquainted with Cincinnatus.
“I believe you have something for me.”
She shrugs, and drops her bag from her shoulder, tilting her head and body to let it drop to the floor. Her feet move expertly, but Nakai's eyes are somewhere else entirely, for which I give him a stern flick on the ear.
“Be subtle”. I mouth, as a piece of paper is produced and presented, rather acrobatically, to me. I take it, and thank the Heavens that this girl washes her feet thoroughly.
“Good, Miss Tezuka. What will you not be doing in my lessons?”
“Asking you ruthlessly probing questions. Like, why did the Irishman blow you up?” She replies, seemingly far more interested in rezipping her back than anything I have to say.
I go scarlet, for a second, not out of embarassment, but exasperation.
“You will not be falling asleep in my lessons again. Ever. Now go away.”
The lass gives me a rather cock-eyed look before disappearing, yet my eyes are already focused on the essay. Good diction, excellent knowledge, fine pro-...
My face goes white and emotionless.
I hand the paper to Nakai.
“Well done, Mister Nakai. An excellent piece. Five thousand words on Cincinnatus should illuminate you as to the value of doing your own work.” I state, neutrally, before limping off. A huff of shock, and maybe rebellion, greets my words.

Hahaha! I love my job!

I continue to like this.
Excellent pacing; I haven't been bored for a second yet.

This is exuberantly entertaining! Do continue writing these.

Enjoying this a lot: Bruce is exactly the kind of asshole I love reading about.

One small nitpick: Rin's last name is "Tezuka," as in the manga artist.

Thank you, themocaw, I edited that out just now.

Oh, I thought that was just Mr. Bruce mangling the name...

Marvelous, His motivations are believable and his mannerisms are a real treat. How Hisao seems to be on Rin's path makes it more interesting .I thought at first when you described the man that Hanako would be the interest eventually, but I am actually glad you didn't take the easy way out. After all I can't really imagine Rin being easy to write. Also loving the whole history bit, it's my favorite subject as well.
I cant wait to see more!











There is more, right?

I limp into my classroom; I have a free morning session. Why is beyond me. My personal belief is that the Nurse thought I was a late riser and didn't want to inflict a cranky me upon anyone. He is wrong. Last time I woke up after six, I still masturbated regularly. Ah, those were the days!
“What was that mural for, anyway? Some kind of festival?” I quiz Nakai, over my shoulder, as I settle myself into my chair. It has wheels, which recommend it to me immensely.
“Yes, Mister Bruce. It's about celebrating the school; they apparently like to really make a big deal, Sir, fireworks and everything.” The kid works it through in real time, something he'll work on if he doesn't want a few reprimands.
“Don't call me Sir, I work for a living.”
We share a glance and Nakai flashes with recognition.
“Full Metal Jacket, Mister Bruce?”
“Getting better, Nakai, getting bet-” My eyes see the form of a young girl pass by, a cane in her hand.
No.
Just no. Couldn't be. Not fucking possible. My eyes follow the form of a tall, regal blonde girl as she glides past the doorway. I know that nose. I know those cheekbones.
“Boy, go bring that girl here. Now!” I command, a hint of my old Lieutenant (pronounced 'LEFT-TENANT', you yankee philistines) in my tone.
“Who, Lily?...Alright...”
It is not possible. But I know the genetic markers of my family.
A few seconds later, 'Lily' and Nakai stand before me, after my decision to painfully turn my chair to face the door. The lass is tall, regal, powerful in stance, shining in demeanour. Very much an English Rose, though her forehead and the shape of her chin hint a Japanese father.
“Miss, I am Michael Bruce, a teacher at this school. Might I ask your full name?” For once, my tone is desperately trying to be both polite and delicate. My heart is beating, faster than usual, to the point that the blood pumping down my left side begins to pain me.
“It's Lily Satou, Teacher. Have I done something wrong?”
No. Bugger. Fuck. Damn you, Elizabeth. Damn you to hell. Damn you for dumping me in the shit and then making me think every blonde girl is your granddaughter. Damn you for everything, and hell to you. Damn your daughter for marrying a man called with a Japanese name. Sati? Saki? But not Satou. I don't think so, anyway.
Within a second, my face falls in disappointment, causing Nakai to blink in surprise.
“No, nothing. You may go.” I grumble, giving my glass eye a quiet tap. She does not, however, move away.
“Mister Bruce? I believe you're teaching 3-2 next lesson, for history? I've been looking for you.”
Haha! I know that glazed over look, that cane - she's blind. I'm used to joking with blind guys, shared a ward with a few back in the day.
“Perhaps poking around might be a better way to put it, Miss Satou.” My face is grinning, and Nakai gives me an almost scolding look, but I've been told off by far worse than him. The blonde lass seems used to it, though, with a weary smile. “Either way, I taught 3-2 yesterday, the class with Miss Tezuka in.”
Both children adopt puzzled expressions, unsure of correcting me. Yes, they were correcting me. I made a mistake.
.”...I mean, 3-4.”
Lucky guess. The two sigh, and the tense expression evaporates from their faces. I hate being wrong, really bloody hate it, and correcting me sets me off on one. So I made a choice to stop the kids from making me look like an arse, and thereby getting an earful. We're both happy.
“What about it, Miss Satou?”
“I'd just like to tell you that you really shouldn't use anything visual; the class is primarily made up of those with sight defects.”
I know. I've been briefed. I've taught blind children about a thousand times. This is one of the reasons I was hired; I am a history teacher who can quite happily teach people who are deaf or who are blind. Did you really expect someone who was disabled not to specialise in teaching kids with a similar situation to himself?
Still, I don't snap. Blind kids get my instant affection, though they rarely know it. Not staring at my marks, often finding out only when someone mentions it. Even then, they don't ask to touch my scars. It has no effect on them. While I can quite easily handle it all, not being required to deal with the looks endears me to them.
“I am aware, Miss Satou. I have printed a sheet of basic notes in Braille, and my lesson will primarily be auditory in nature.” Another reason why I like blind classes; I get to sit down and just talk. I like the sound of my own voice, you see. “Is there anything else?” Calm, low, but firm. That's my 'I have better things to do' tone. She shakes her head, respectfully says her goodbye, and lingers on Nakai, smiling at him. He smiles back. They share a moment commemorated in many sonnets and plays, but I can see she has no instant attraction to him. No fairytale romance for you, boy.



After she leaves, I nod Hisao to a desk at the front of the class. This Tanabata thing has got me thinking; what is this lad doing? He needs to participate, get out there, to get used to the school and adapt to it. Without that, how is he going to come to terms with it all.
“Alright, at these festivals, do they have fireworks, costumes, what?”
“Well, they do have fireworks. It's sort of like a fair, with stalls and games, that sort of stuff. Some girls dress in formal yukata.”
“Pah. Sounds noisy and jovial. Very much a young man's festival. Give me all that Victorian Culture of Shame anyday. Shame is quiet.” Such an old man's rant, and I give a quiet chuckle afterwards to show that I'm kidding, atleast alittle. The idea of loud fireworks and screaming, laughing children does not excite me, because I know Mary will drag me out. And live explosions? Flashes of lights? Come on, you can google PTSD, put two and two together. But, I'm far better than I was. As long as Mary's with me, I'll be dandy.
“...That's a very dreary thing to say, Mister Bruce. And abit cruel, with all that shame. It's drearily cruel.” Nakai pipes up, giving his eyebrow a quiet scratch. Kid is abit dense to my signals.
“Your combination of adjectives amazes and astounds, Nakai. I'm not looking forward to it, sarcasm aside. But you lads and lasses can have your fun, while us old farts will-”
“Farts, Teacher? You intend to fart at the festival?”
Fucker's making a joke! I can see it in his eyes, in his posture, but he is being totally deadpan about it. That sonuvabitch! At this rate, I may actually start to like him!
A hand goes to my stomach, and my own brand of fake-laughter barks out; it's noiseless, very breathy, and it's mostly my face doing the work – eyes bunched up, big grin. A few seconds of fake-laughter, and I then look Nakai straight in the eye.
“How amusing. While us elders-which-you-should-respect sit around and enjoy the view. I believe both my sons will be in town, and you can meet them.” William and Robert will enjoy it; Rob will have some local lass hanging on his every word, Will has a high chance of getting arrested for saying something stupid...Hugh, if he were here, would find some ugly, pimpled, insecure young librarian and basically make her feel like the most beautiful girl in the world.
My mood darkens with that though.
“You have sons, Mister Bruce?” Nakai's expression had gone from mirth, to offence (Teens don't like being shown up by adults when it comes to fake-laughter) and to curiosity.
“Boy, let's get the insensitive questions out of the way.”
Japanese and British Culture is quite different. England has a very open attitude towards sex and the dirty secrets therein -if- you look at the working classes, from which I hail. I mean, go down Colchester Town Center at midnight, on a Saturday, you'll find more nudity than a bad porn film. Japan, I've found, tends to be abit more prudish, far more dignified, far more respectful about it all, with notable exceptions. My open attitude towards it shocks some, and Nakai gives a firm scratch of his head as his face goes red.
“Nevermind, Teacher, no need. I'll assume they're...'natural' and leave it at that.”
“Nah, only Hugh and Robert are. William we adopted.” Holy fuck, did we. After three years of foster-care. There's nothing so humbling as weeping beside a five year old, both of you having had nightmares, horrible recollections of past events. Y'know, besides shitting yourself in public.
“Oh. Well, anyway, I've only got my mother and my father...They don't visit much.” A flash of slight sadness; alright, not slight. It's obvious he's sad; his voice goes low, his eyes drop.
I feel a spark of anger. Parental abandonment irks me to hell and back.
“And why not?” Edge in my tone, best take that out. “I'm curious.” I explain, if only to convey abit more gentility to my voice.
“...They...They have work, and they live a long way away. It's no big deal. I'm fine.”
I shrug, and accept his answer. Can't click my heels and make it all better, and I've no right to intervene in his personal life. Beyond, y'know, making sure he doesn't get a reputation as a pervert. Only thing I can do is change the subject.
“Are you doing anything to help with the Festival?” Decent enough topic, and I am interested.
Clearly glad of something else to consider, he perks up abit.
“No. Some girls did invite me to join the School Council, but....”
Oh, I can guess.
“They're a tad strange, So what? Do it. It'll be good for you.”
It very well might not be, but if this chap isn't going to take risks, I'm going to bloody well make him.
I check the clock; only ten minutes gone by.
“Gah, to hell with it. I'll go over Cincinnatus with you. Good way to kill an hour.”
I'm, for once, not sure about his expression. Somewhere between a frown, interest, and relief. Too much personal stuff, too many orders. Being talked at is relaxing, and I'm more than willing to get him talking again in a few minutes.
“An important thing to note is that what History calls Heroes are often heavily flawed. William Wilberforce despised the poor. Gandhi expressed support for the Nazis. Cincinnatus, however, had good reasons for hating plebs...”

Author's Note: Big thanks to everyone for your comments, corrections and reading. A tip; make absolutely sure you don't put 'touch' instead of 'teach'. It's creepy, and you could lose alot of readers, while making your old guy sound like Lolita's protagonist.

Very good chapter.
Only, I think that instead of "abit" you intended to refer to "a bit"...