Kamina Dies

[wingborne]

Summary: A story of Kamina before he grew great.



The sky was the bluest blue he had ever seen.

Jiishi Village didn’t have blue. Any blue they had were all seen by candlelight, which cast a shadow on everything, making it a not-blue. But the sky! The sky was the most beautiful plain he had ever seen. It stretched beyond his fingers—stretched further and further—into infinity—into eternity—

Into the heavens.

He couldn’t remember his father. A distant shadow, he thought, and a cape. That was his father. He remembered the sky burning brightly blue, uncaught by the ceiling of the village, and he remembered his father’s strong back. Even as he grew older, he tried to stuff inspirational sayings into his father’s mouth. Manliness, he thought, his father would say something about manliness. That was the relationship between fathers and sons. But eventually he gave up, because he could only hear a low rumble of his father’s voice, and then see the blinding blue skies that could have made him weep in his world of darkness.

“I’m going to break these walls,” he told the other children loudly, pointing to the ceiling, “with my own will!”

He waited for them to say something, these grungy children who were only a few years older and younger than him. They stared at him with peering eyes, already growing dimmer by the bad candlelight, and standing in their shallow grooves of the holes they began.

“That’s stupid,” someone muttered, and they all returned to digging their holes.



It was his fifth time in prison, and it was still a little scary for him, because he was young. Everybody said that he told lies, but he knew it! There was a sky up there, and he wanted to show everybody. But, as he sat edgily on the bench of the prison, that wasn’t enough. There was something more.

The prison door creaked open, and he flinched as the light flooded the room. The village chief—younger, but still big and fat—stood at the doorway, scratching at his chins as he gazed into the room. His eyes, slowly, as if they hadn’t seen him in the beginning, set upon Kamina, still sitting at the edge of the bench, his hands tied up with the coarse rope.

The village chief smiled.

“What do you want, you bastard?” Kamina spat.

“A talk,” the village chief said. And a crooked smile was awkwardly placed on his face, as if someone had thrown it on there without realizing where to put it. He sat at the other end of the bench, enough to make it creak and Kamina to clutch at the wall to avoid slipping. There was something bad about that, Kamina thought.

“You know.” He said it like a slimy bastard would. Like the shit of the mole-pigs, mixed with urine. Kamina gritted his teeth. “I was like you once.”

Liar. This fat bastard could never have been anything like him.

“I used to have dreams,” the village chief said, not kindly, but not in a menacing way. There seemed to be something honest in those lies, so Kamina listened. But he was scared out of his wits. The hair at the nape of his neck rose. He wanted to crawl under the bench.

“Yes, even about escaping this village. There’s some neighborhood villages, I thought, and I could find some freedom there.” The village chief rested his fat sausage fingers on his belly. “I wanted the same things you did, too.”

“Liar!” Now the burning word couldn’t be kept any longer, and Kamina spat it out.

The chief only chuckled, and Kamina trembled. “But,” the chief said, stretching the pause for eternity, enough so he could look over Kamina in his fat bastard smug way, up and down, before continuing, “I soon realized that it could never be.”

“You were never like me!”

“I was exactly like you.”

What? This liar. This stupid liar. This fat man—this outrageously fat man—this man who gave up all hope—wasn’t this the same man who said—who said—

“Then why are you telling me it’s impossible?” Kamina shouted. “There’s a sky up there!” He clumsily jerked his tied hands upwards. “Why are you telling me it’s impossible instead?!”

“Because the sky is a lie.”

Kamina sat trembling, dumbfounded. “But—but why don’t you believe me,” he said, but his voice grew meeker. “Why don’t you believe me, you bastard--!”

And the chief smashed his face with a fist.

The chief’s rough nails caught on his ear, and he howled in pain as he crumpled to the floor, his entire jaw throbbing strongly until he could feel his heartbeat in the pain. He covered his face and he braced himself for the next blow. His face was a little damp, and not from the blood.

“Heh. So you’d give up with just that.” The chief slowly got up—fat bastard, fat bastard, fat bastard—and grabbed him roughly by the chin. He was yanked up, and he gasped for breath, flailing with his tied hands. His face hurt—his throat hurt—and the bastard’s breath stank, it reeked, he tried to push him away.

“Crying over such a little thing,” the chief said, in a voice almost mistakable for a coo. And Kamina found himself being slammed against the corner as the chief closed the door again, the unmistakable jangle of keys ringing in his ears.

He was scared.

He didn’t want to do this anymore.

He didn’t want.

He.

He was crying.

It was the first moment, curled up at the bottom of the prison, that he realized that he couldn’t reach the sky. He was young, maybe not even twelve years, but it was hard to tell because all he could do was scratch out the years on the walls that eventually broke down anyway. But he felt that inside of him, it wasn’t enough to do anything.

He tried not to cry, but his cheek hurt. His father—what would his father say—but all he saw was the flowing cape and the bright blue sky.

“Oi. Oi, Kamina.”

He froze, not letting his face be seen. Even back then, he knew that he couldn’t let others see him as scared. “What are you doing here, you bastard?”

“I’m hungry.”

“You can’t eat me.”

“But I don’t want to be around the dining place. That kid, Simon, he got the steak again.”

“Simon?” It was the first time Kamina had heard the name. He sat in the corner quietly.

“Always digs the best holes. Man, I’m huuuuungry.”

Kamina stopped listening.

Simon.

That sounded like a name that could contain burning spirit. Maybe—Maybe he didn’t have to do this alone. Maybe he could find someone else to come with him. But he could never convince somebody with his kind of face. Especially not if he cried like this. Screw the village chief. Screw him! He wasn’t going to give up that dream! Because he knew it was true, that blinding blue sky, and it was above the ceiling.

The next day, he pounded out his sunglasses. Orange, he thought, like sunsets. Something that could reflect the light, brighter than a thousand suns. And the shape should be something that would hurt anybody who tried to punch his glasses off, and sharp enough to pierce the ceiling.

That was a good word.

Pierce.



Even after the earthquake was over, Kamina still quaked. He still hadn’t learned the art of hiding his fear, so when he got up, he thought, dizzily, that his pants may be wet. Something certainly stank of shit, and it followed him as he staggered around the village.

All around, people were crawling from their holes. He had to swallow a few times. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. Why were they trapped here? What was the chief’s bullshit about staying there forever? This was the land of the horizontal people, and sometimes, he felt like he was the only vertical one. It wasn’t until blood trickled down his face did he realize he was bleeding.

What would his father say, he thought.

There was a hand sticking from the rubble.

It was disturbing, and he couldn’t look away. It was a dirty hand, blood already pooling around it. Crusted dirt under the nails said it was one of them. There was a lone figure standing in front of this make-shift tomb, both the cause of death and the encasement afterwards. Kamina swallowed. It was a kid—hell, he was a kid, too, but not that kind of kid—and he looked familiar. Shinon. Shimon. Simon. Yeah, that kid, the one with the steaks and the ragged clothes. The one who was good at digging, and the one the girls always teased.

Simon was trembling.

The village chief approached him from the other side, but he himself was in a shaken state. “Just get away from there,” he told Simon, sweat dripping from his fat ugly face. Kamina pushed up his glasses, watching as Simon threw the chief a desperate look. He didn’t need another kid. Simon needed an adult—no. Simon needed a real man.

Kamina took a breath.

“Oi,” he said, and he roughly took Simon by the chest and pulled him back. “Be careful. The ground’s still a little shaky.”

Simon looked up at him. The kid had damn big eyes, and Kamina suddenly felt that he had to become better. Become bigger. Even if he couldn’t break the walls, he had to pretend for this kid’s sake.

“Who are you?” Simon asked in a small voice. “I haven’t . . . I haven’t seen you around before.” He was still obviously shaken up about the death of those under the rubble, so Kamina pulled his glasses even higher.

“Who am I?” he repeated. No, that wasn’t enough. The fears that always flew in his mind that would make his legs shake and arms tremble all began to meld together into a sky. “Who the hell do you think I am?”

“I don’t know,” Simon said emptily. Kamina felt slightly relieved. Simon hadn’t seen through his act yet, even with those boastful words.

“My name’s Kamina. You better remember it.” He straightened his glasses again. “I’m going to protect you from now on.”

This attracted Simon’s attention. “You . . . ?”

The one the girls teased, huh. Kamina placed his hand on Simon’s head and looked at him downwards. He wouldn’t bend down, he thought. One day, Simon would grow as tall as him, and then he could look him in the eye. How could he keep this promise, though? From the earthquakes and the fear, the teasing and the entrapment?

“We’re going to pierce the ceiling,” Kamina said loudly. “And get us all out of here.” Pesky questions slowly faded as he looked into Simon’s trusting eyes. He could do this. No. No, he couldn’t do this, he thought. But Simon could. And all he needed to do was act for a little bit, until he believed it for himself.

“Pierce . . . the ceiling?” Simon looked upwards. “With what?”

He wanted to wave away that question. He was already caught up in the act, and he could recite his lines like any good player. But something about Simon’s look made him want to answer it. He needed to have Simon believe.

“You’re the best digger around here, right?”

“But that’s down.” Simon glanced upwards almost shyly. “Not up.”

“Then we’ll use your drill,” he said loudly, “to go up.”

“. . . Can I really believe in you?” Simon looked away. “That’s just a dream. My parents . . . “ So that was the hand. Kamina clutched at Simon a little closer, so he wouldn’t have to view the gruesome sight again. As he expected, the village chief had already cleared away, and the murmurs of the frightened were only beginning in the silent cavern.

“Believe in me,” he said. That was a lie. There was nothing to believe in. What if one day, Simon found out how scared he really was? What if one day his sunglasses were shattered and he himself—no, he couldn’t think so far. No, it was Simon. “Believe in me who believes in you!” he said, even louder.

And Simon looked up at him, and began to timidly, hesitantly, yearningly believe.

And Kamina thought he was the best damn actor in the world.



Kamina tattooed armor on his skin. Only then did he feel truly equipped wherever he went, glasses on his nose, tattoos the color of a dull sky on his skin. He swaggered around because Simon was around, and he yelled because Simon was always there. He began to organize a group, because it was a project, and projects needed groups.

“The Brigade,” he said.

“Ka-Kamina,” Simon said painfully.

“The Gurren Brigade,” he chose spontaneously. “Our symbol will be our manly burning spirit!”

“Kamina—“

“Call me aniki.”

“But—“

“We’re going to pierce the ceiling with our drill!”

Simon sighed and scratched the back of his shyly. “But you’re in prison again, Kamina.” Indeed he was, sitting with his hands cuffed, and stomach grumbling softly. But he was no longer afraid of this place. But acting was acting, and he had given up the dream years ago, in the very same prison, crying about a mere punch. No, it was on Simon’s shoulders to bring the light.

“Real men aren’t worried about that,” he said instead.

“If you say so . . . “ Simon sighed again. “I’m going to dig some more.”

“Some more? But the shift’s already over.”

“Well . . . “ Simon shyly murmured something else. Kamina regarded him. Always digging—no, always piercing the ground with his drill. Always doing something. And look at himself, sitting in a prison cage, an actor trying to pull the main hero into the storyline. He was disgusted. And yet, overjoyed.

“You’ve got greatness in you,” Kamina said loudly. “To go even further.”

“Further?” Simon blinked. “What’s further than the ceiling?”

“The sky!”

“The . . . sky?” Simon looked unnerved. “Are we piercing the sky . . . ?”

Kamina’s sky. The blue. He had always been caught by the very same blue. But now, he was going to fix that, and tear down all the limits, because this boy didn’t give up, no matter what.

“The heavens!”

“The heavens?”

“You’re going to pierce the heavens,” Kamina said loudly, “with your drill!”




Then the Ganmen came crashing into the village, dragging the sky with it.

Then Simon’s necklace turned on that strange head, and it was powerful.

Then all his lies started to become truths.

Then he died.



Then he kissed her, long and hard and deep, maybe not his first, but certainly his last.

Then there was an attack.

Then he died.



Then he felt Heaven and Hell, and knew he was dead.

Then Simon was in trouble.

Then he was dead, but he came back, with enough fighting spirit burning in his gut that he would risk everything to protect him, even if he was dead, and blood dripped down his face, and he knew he was dead more than anything, like the skull he had seen that was his father, and he knew that he had to tell Simon something, anything (Don’t believe in the me that believes in you) and the actor finally turned real (Don’t believe in the you that believes in me) and that was enough (Believe in yourself!) and he had torn down that sky he had always aimed for and here, here was something better, so much better, and he finally collapsed against the seat of the Ganmen and thought about nothing and everything at once, he had done it, he had pierced it, he had pierced something, something that only he could do, the rest was up to Simon, a smile resting on his face as he thought his very last thought.

Pierce the heavens with your drill, Simon.








Then he died.