like that…and what do you mean, ‘Mister’?”
“Uh…just that he was an alum of Higa and his friends’ high school…,” the boy mumbled again, growing quieter as the sentence went on.
The boy in the middle asked, “Higa… Oh, one of the people who joined while I was away from the group? But when you say ‘alum,’ does that mean he’s over twenty now?”
“Yeah…I think he’s right about there.”
“Hmm.”
The boy went silent for a while. Eventually he craned his head, cracking his neck, and hopped down off the drum canister.
“Well, it’s fine. Whatever happened in the organization while I was gone was your decision, and I’m not gonna fuss over it.”
“…’Kay.”
“I just want you to be careful. If the older folks bring in even older people, and it eventually reached the point that so-and-so from the so-and-so syndicate comes knocking on the door…that’s when this whole thing is finished.”
The boy’s smile was more wry and self-mocking than one who was simply lecturing his fellows would wear. The gathering of youths were all the type to despise that sort of patronization, but they heard him out without a single complaint.
“We’re kids. No matter how many of us there are, we can’t overcome real adults. We’re not smart enough about the world. They’ll use us to their ends, and then it’s over.”
He paused for a breath and glanced sideways balefully, murmuring, “The same way that Izaya Orihara used me.”
“That wasn’t your fault, Shogun…”
“C’mon, how many times do I have to tell you?” he said exasperatedly, correcting their theatrical title for him. “I’m not your shogun, I’m Masaomi Kida.”
And the boy thought about his past.
The inescapable past that had created the Masaomi Kida of today.
The Yellow Scarves.
When did the color gang based around a
Romance of the Three Kingdoms
motif get started? Even Masaomi couldn’t remember.
There was no real necessity behind the creation of the gang.
Even the choice of yellow for the gang’s color was based on nothing more than a TV show that was popular at the time. That’s all that Masaomi recalled of the decision, and even after this much time, he had almost no sentiment or attachment to the color at all.
Because the manga Masaomi was into at the time was based in the
Three Kingdoms
setting and they knew the color would be yellow, it was inevitable that the name of the gang ended up being Yellow Scarves.
That was the extent of the rationale behind the name and color.
The only important question was why they got together.
But even that genesis was nothing more than a fragment of memory from Masaomi’s distant past.
Masaomi was still in elementary school when he left his hometown and came to Ikebukuro.
It was a massive culture shock to move to such a wildly different place from the familiar countryside he knew.
He had to tell someone about this—so he chose to boast about the big city to his old friend, Mikado Ryuugamine.
It wasn’t because he was particularly close with Mikado, but just because he was the only one who had Internet access at his house. Back in the early days of the Internet, chat partners were a valuable commodity. Masaomi regaled him with tales of the things that happened in Ikebukuro.
His friend showed no lack of curiosity over the adventurous stories of Tokyo. Mikado was the perfect audience for Masaomi.
When Masaomi reached middle school and his innate feistiness grew more pronounced, he would brag to Mikado about the fights he’d seen and participated in during his urban stay.
“Just don’t overdo it,”
Mikado would warn, but his eyes sparkled infascination at Masaomi’s exploits, and he still demanded to hear all about them.
Eventually, Masaomi found his way deeper and deeper.
Deeper into the heart of Ikebukuro.
Even deeper.
When he first started talking about his fights, there was no feeling of guilt. He believed that they were all fights someone else
“Uh…just that he was an alum of Higa and his friends’ high school…,” the boy mumbled again, growing quieter as the sentence went on.
The boy in the middle asked, “Higa… Oh, one of the people who joined while I was away from the group? But when you say ‘alum,’ does that mean he’s over twenty now?”
“Yeah…I think he’s right about there.”
“Hmm.”
The boy went silent for a while. Eventually he craned his head, cracking his neck, and hopped down off the drum canister.
“Well, it’s fine. Whatever happened in the organization while I was gone was your decision, and I’m not gonna fuss over it.”
“…’Kay.”
“I just want you to be careful. If the older folks bring in even older people, and it eventually reached the point that so-and-so from the so-and-so syndicate comes knocking on the door…that’s when this whole thing is finished.”
The boy’s smile was more wry and self-mocking than one who was simply lecturing his fellows would wear. The gathering of youths were all the type to despise that sort of patronization, but they heard him out without a single complaint.
“We’re kids. No matter how many of us there are, we can’t overcome real adults. We’re not smart enough about the world. They’ll use us to their ends, and then it’s over.”
He paused for a breath and glanced sideways balefully, murmuring, “The same way that Izaya Orihara used me.”
“That wasn’t your fault, Shogun…”
“C’mon, how many times do I have to tell you?” he said exasperatedly, correcting their theatrical title for him. “I’m not your shogun, I’m Masaomi Kida.”
And the boy thought about his past.
The inescapable past that had created the Masaomi Kida of today.
The Yellow Scarves.
When did the color gang based around a
Romance of the Three Kingdoms
motif get started? Even Masaomi couldn’t remember.
There was no real necessity behind the creation of the gang.
Even the choice of yellow for the gang’s color was based on nothing more than a TV show that was popular at the time. That’s all that Masaomi recalled of the decision, and even after this much time, he had almost no sentiment or attachment to the color at all.
Because the manga Masaomi was into at the time was based in the
Three Kingdoms
setting and they knew the color would be yellow, it was inevitable that the name of the gang ended up being Yellow Scarves.
That was the extent of the rationale behind the name and color.
The only important question was why they got together.
But even that genesis was nothing more than a fragment of memory from Masaomi’s distant past.
Masaomi was still in elementary school when he left his hometown and came to Ikebukuro.
It was a massive culture shock to move to such a wildly different place from the familiar countryside he knew.
He had to tell someone about this—so he chose to boast about the big city to his old friend, Mikado Ryuugamine.
It wasn’t because he was particularly close with Mikado, but just because he was the only one who had Internet access at his house. Back in the early days of the Internet, chat partners were a valuable commodity. Masaomi regaled him with tales of the things that happened in Ikebukuro.
His friend showed no lack of curiosity over the adventurous stories of Tokyo. Mikado was the perfect audience for Masaomi.
When Masaomi reached middle school and his innate feistiness grew more pronounced, he would brag to Mikado about the fights he’d seen and participated in during his urban stay.
“Just don’t overdo it,”
Mikado would warn, but his eyes sparkled infascination at Masaomi’s exploits, and he still demanded to hear all about them.
Eventually, Masaomi found his way deeper and deeper.
Deeper into the heart of Ikebukuro.
Even deeper.
When he first started talking about his fights, there was no feeling of guilt. He believed that they were all fights someone else
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