[takeda sadako]

KILLING YOUR IDOLS IS A CHORE

When Naoya showed up at ten, Sadako was already dressed and ready to go. The sharp, disciplined bob she’d maintained for so many years was growing long and shaggy, short layers growing out into an uneven cascade of thin, soft black locks that needed to be tied up to keep out of her face. She looked softer somehow, less severe, like all of her edges had been sanded down. "You’re gonna puke by the time we’re done and you’re gonna like it,” she told Naoya when she opened the door. Sanded down, but not erased. "Lap around the whole village, five-minute mile pace. Warm up and let’s go.” It would take an hour when all was said and done. Sadako set a harsh pace, but she slowed for breaks when it seemed like Naoya might keel over, and while he might have been sick by the end it certainly wouldn’t kill him. She wouldn’t be satisfied until her chest was burning and she was gasping for air, and by the time they made it back to the Takeda compound she was desperate for a gallon of water. But their training wasn’t done yet. "I wanna show you the thing I mentioned,” she said. In the kitchen, spacious but cozy, she poured them both two massive glasses of water. Sweat and rain plastered her hair to her face and the back of her neck; she'd shucked her jacket and shoes as soon as they'd made it inside, trying to cool down as much as she could as she caught her breath. "Takeda shit, yanno. It’s crazy with hand-to-hand but it works pretty fuckin’ good with weapons too, so I can show you some kenjutsu shit I’ve been working on.”

Gima Naoya -- 288

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