Sur.vi.val.

In his dreams, he sees his mother.

His mother, proud and sharp. His mother, beaten and hungry. His mother, so virtuous and so loving and so honorable and so-

dead.

Honor, she'd told him. Honesty, virtue. Take from those who take, leave the poor alone. Never forget who you are, never forget where you're from. Protect your soul from tainting, always, no matter what happens to your body, no matter the void in your stomach and your bleeding feet and-

death.

Honor didn't save her. Dororo learns early, honor doesn't save anyone.

---

In his dreams, he sees Mio.

Mio, bright and kind and so good. Mio, tenacious and sturdy and oh so brave.

Mio, with her clothes ripped open, with her skin ripped open; Mio, Mio and her silence, Mio and violence.

Sometimes, he's the witness. The grass grow around him like a prison, prevent all escape, force him to watch. Powerless. Powerless. Again and again powerless weak weak a child who can't even protect what little he has.

Sometimes, he is Mio- Dororo knows hands, knows pain. It's easy. Easy. To imagine. For his dreams to fill the blanks. Pinned and stabbed and hit and hurt, hands so tight around his wrists it bruises, cruel laughter at his ears because they know they know they know there is nothing he can do. And they take, they take so much- down to his pride and his soul and his-

all.

(Sometimes, sometimes, and that is the worst- he's one of the samurai.

And he's the one touching. He's the one taking. Blade and fists and twisted joy, the violence overlapping, crude and disjointed but always, always, focusing on Mio.

And it's so good. And it's so right. And he takes pleasure in this, in the fire, in the pain, in being powerful powerful powerful, in taking not because he wants, but because he can-

and Dororo is screaming, behind those eyes, inside those hands, that touch and take and hurt- he's screaming because this is bad wrong stop stop- because who does that? What kind of sick, deranged person- human- creature- strives off the suffering of others?)

Dororo wakes up hot and sticky and gross, guilt heavy in his throat.

---

In his dream, he sees Hyakkimaru.

Hyakkimaru, strong and tall. Hyakkimaru, curious and caring, if in unusual ways.

Hyakkimaru, whose only human attribute is his face.

Dororo has seen monsters and has seen humanity- has seen Bandai and her slit eyes, has seen samurai and their swords.

Hyakkimaru is something else entirely. Hyakkimaru is instinct and impulse.

A beast, the old priest had said. A bear, perhaps. Placid, if you leave it alone- but oh, should you corner him-

He hears it, in his dreams. That scream, that howl, that roar- that rage made sound.

In his dreams, the images flicker at each flick of blood- teeth then tusks, claws then swords. The flesh and the bones split open all the same; here he is, the god of carnage. Here he is, the god of revenge.

And what of the human? That young man who told him his name? And what of the human?

The fake eyes never quite look at him. No soul reside in them.

---

In his dreams, he sees himself.

Dororo at four, at eight, at fourteen. They stare back from the pond. He's staring back from the pond. Which one is he? Which one is he?

The fourteen-years old child in hims whispers. Can't we rest? Can't we stop? Can't we rely on someone, anyone, for once?

The four-years old adult in him answers. We can't trust anyone. We need to press on. There is no other choice for us.

---

And every mornings, Dororo gets up, unspeakable horrors still printed behind his eyelids, flinch and sweat still fresh under his skin.

The birds chirp. The wind blow. The sun shines, uncaring, ignorant of the bitter poison on his tongue.

Next to him, Hyakkimaru sits. Always.

And every morning, Dororo breathes in- feels the air filling his lungs, fills his chest rising. Feels the ground under his fingers, the heat on his skin. Remembers, a very simple fact.

Fuck you. You haven't killed me yet.

And every mornings, Dororo lives.

He still has people to prove wrong.

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