One Week: The Walking Death Little Brother Wellness Campaign

Day 1

A nice Monday morning, his request for a swap of patrol radius luckily accepted.

Okaze-- no longer an agent of the Matsukaza Agency-- had in that spirit made sure to don civilian attire.

And kept his distance within the delightful lawn of the apartment complex where the children could play or the teenagers make out or do their homework.

The perfect point to spot the subject of this log. Shibuya-- surname as of yet unknown-- throwing a single, frosty goodbye to the villainous Walking Death inside.

In the black and white spring semester uniform for a reputable public school costing a pretty penny. He snapped a quick photo from behind his newspaper.

All the news the same sequence of dull, dull, dull and boorish nothing news.

Shibuya was kept well at his peripheral, who it looked was eating a sorry breakfast of a single bagel. Some manner of box cumbering his hands to open the latch.

And then he startled upwards, the teenager with no warning changing course.

Okaze dove under cover of the comic pages, the Sports section unfortunately lost. The sheer tragedy that was.

He knew full well who had just crushed and mutilated the page underfoot, it was undeniable. Nevertheless he kept his cover.

Kept a steady hand and began to hum, lazily licking his finger to turn the page.

But Shibuya wasn't having it.

Forcing Okaze's attention when he shockingly ripped the whole thing in half.

And on his upturned expression a glare so cold and repulsed even his unassuming, unremarkable cobalt eyes looked to flicker some manner of malicious gleam. Something resembling red.

Okaze was shamed to record, Shibuya's simple, elegant cruelty struck him speechless. Made all manner of grim possibilities-- many bloody-- pass under his eyelids.

With no manner of acknowledgement, no manner of emotion at all he simply grumbled and strode past.

Then-- Shibuya had been spied on before? Tailed before. Then he should have been on file.

Yet observing the careless gait and slouch of his retreating back such a thing seems beneath his notice, an anomaly for someone his age unless...

Unless those who'd stumbled upon Shibuya No Name-- were well and truly dead.

Okaze couldn't stop shaking even as he kept quickly tear-filled eyes on the Room 4155 he'd been held captive in not three days ago.

Day 2

Okaze had foregone any means of concealing his face. He did amend his civilian guise to include a truly ridiculous sports hat, sporting the large and boisterous likeness of a sneering Obake mascot.

Concealing a unnaturally violet color and black length.

7:25.

Shibuya should, well, a student wishing to be on time should come out now.

Unless his brother owned a car? Surely nothing legal.

And perhaps that's why its a non-sequiter. Stalker or no.

Mr. Takeda had not killed him yet.

7:40.

Goodness where was he?

There'd been no disturbance of the residence. The walls could very well be sound proofed. A nefariously clever idea, and all too likely of the devastating Death that walked the city.

So that if Shibuya ever did cry for help-- then again he couldn't quite imagine-- Okaze smiled, feeling the expression wooden on his face, Shibuya would scream abuse and all manner of insult right back.

Of that he could be assured.

He meditated on the comforting idea.

For all of two seconds.

Shibuya!

The ghastly behaved boy had thrown a book at him this time but it didn't matter he was safe and by the looks unharmed. Otherwise he wouldn't so brazenly wear his usual short sleeved school issue clothes.

Once again an icy glare was the only sign Shibuya hadn't perhaps mistaken the strange bench dweller as some hobo or a trash can.

Okaze made a mental note to record the lettuce stuck just below his lip. And fingers coated in some honey brown condiment.

Before inspecting the item having clubbed his head by its sharp corner and now lay at his feet.

A white hardback book, with Shibuya's school's emblem and the title: School Honor Code and Conduct.

Flipping through the pages Okaze set his eyes to eagle vision, finding just a flash.

Code.

Anagrams or a veiled message from himself or the villain!

If it was it was no good code. Hardly usable as he'd circled all of Section Five, security protocols and repercussions in red.

Ohhh, he had circled all the punishments and repercussions in red.

Including, so helpfully lined by smugly smiling chestnut chibi, that school security was armed and permitted to use their tasers should student or staff endanger the property or student body, and the interventions for cases of stalking.

Day 3

Okaze was ready.

Well and ready for whatever Shibuya had planned to make him go away(?)

Force him to talk and spill(?)

That part wasn't as clear.

If he so loathed his presence that much he was certain it would be easy to point Takeda at him and so like the rabid animal he is the Death would comply.

Stiff and legs tucked, hands at his lap he mustered his most neutral expression.

From here he could tell how Shibuya's lip curled.

Alright, there was perhaps no intentional maltreatment or abuse to report in the home. That said, surely his needs as a dependent not-yet-of-age child should have been the responsibility of a friend or a family member, ideally someone paid and non-villainous.

The proof was in the pudding this was not exactly the most stable of, pudding.

Literal pudding.

In a custom crystal dessert plate.

His gaze was no less cold however not as-- revolted?

Okaze smiled.

Graciously taking the offered breakfast.

Too late did he consider either Shibuya had been asked or forced to poison the hero popping in everyday.

Day 4

Yesterday's ill form shall not be repeated.

Okaze swore it up and down.

He swore it from his bathroom mirror to the offending apartment lawn, that became quite the nice rest stop every morning. Until two when he was forced to move on if he wanted to hand in accurate safety and crime witness reports.

This time too, he decided to move position.

Apparently Thursdays and weekends Takeda presented for some job as a contract debugging and cybersecurity expert.

Rather than his normal perch in the sun near the exit, he kept to the shade and shadowed under the balcony of the building's two wings.

Shibuya, unabashedly, made a valiant ruckus.

Forcing out his brother who was done up in respectable work clothes, trying to get a word in only to be silenced efficaciously.

Okaze supposed, in a fondness so unexpectedly grown, this was the Shibuya in top form.

Now that still wasn't great. At fifteen, he'd hazard a guess it should be the older rushing the younger out for work on time.

And why go back inside?

By his watch-- a very good and dandy watch-- it was time for his school to start too.

Okaze remained, for just a few minutes, all senses turned to dog and primed for the archived scent of sweating leather and peppermint breath mint or the scuffing of pristine shoes.

Shibuya, Shibuya he quickly realized then and there never smelled the same any given day.

Because he smelled of whatever meal the brothers had that morning and the lunch the school served.

Just when he came out to the light, did Shibuya find the empty bench.

Though it would be the polite thing to do, Okaze realizes this would be important. He must see what the boy would do now.

His otherwise unaffected mood turned sour and mullishly grim.

Flinging his leftovers in an undignified heap.

The flier in his other hand he glared holes at before tossing in the can.

Okaze set to rectify this immediately, barely catching an angry Shibuya.

Who again, glared at Okaze's smile and the hand so they could formally meet.

At this point it was only decorum.

Else how could or what would he do but eat such a nicely made, heavenly tasting bok choi curry broth.

Day 5

So, coworkers had been asking questions.

His supervisor was getting testy.

That was an unexpected result since as evaluated everything was up to par.

All his paperwork and his patrol duty fulfilled with excellent evaluation across the board.

His supervisor recommended speaking to the designers and support team about some manner of sack or pocket to store food if that was what was needed. Or to the counselor if stress was eating away at his evening hours.

And his vacation days had been untouched for the two years he had formally begun work.

On yet another record, an incident report about a violet haired school boy:

"Did only the mandated time of psychotherapy despite the school and prosecution offering to pay at whatever plan decided upon by family and teachers."

Okaze diverted, only stopping briefly at the brothers' apartment, sticking the notice on the door of neighborhood watch hours. Including his work number to call in emergencies.

This time he perched in the air, eyes manifesting "Scan," on passerby and the coming traffic from intersection.

9:15.

Shibuya would be in just his first class.

Far as he'd known he attended and didn't make a habit of skipping.

"It's five, school is out, and I have no social life."

If he did skip there'd certainly be no place he was interested in going.

Which meant he would just meander before inevitably returning to his home.

12:55

His stomach growled.

The day had somehow been rougher than usual.

Seemed every goon and Henchmen United mob had decided to go out and paint the streets red that day.

And much of the town's underworld was tied with a single entity of bad guy.

So, this was his move.

And was that a threat?

Well if it was...

Then it was imperative that Shibuya be in the good mood and go anywhere else but the sight of imminent butt kicking for once.

Or he could throw some thousand yen at his face. He wondered what it said that the gremlin seemed the type.

Hungry as he was Okaze refused to let the train of thought pass him by, not while he had it.

And then the beam nearly clubbed him.

There was an adult man with horns and a lumbering build, lumbering, toward Okaze who had frantically leap away from the blow.

Oh and look at that behind him.

Seemed people did pick up the little brother on occasion. Who clapped at the goon, in a sardonic manner before sitting right there on the ground with his phone turned sideways.

By what the hero managed to see before squirreling out of there was that, possibly, he did what he liked around the house with his brother's full approval.

And bankrolled by bounty money turned into that night's meticulously planned cake.

Day 6

Saturday

After yesterday where there'd sure enough been a delightfully tart strawberry lemonade cake Okaze had really followed out of a growing inquiry.

Could he so trouble Shibuya and commission a birthday cake for his own mother.

Once he was sure the question would come: did his mother happen to be humiliatingly short or lanky and horse-like, oh and also be made up?

Safe to say it, Shibuya had been late to cram school that day.

And the older brother was in a charitable mood. If charitable meant laughing his buttocks off.

Day 7

It hadn't exactly struck him until now. Not from the beginning of this entire endeavor that had been systematically and maliciously proven for a farce, Shibuya truly had nowhere else to go.

What else could the answer be, when he sat here, beside Okaze and silently offered a bite of some sweet bread from a neighbor.

He'd seen how Shibuya that night had dismissed the woman in his usual sarcastic and disdainful ways.

That went so hatefully ignored. Or so Shibuya would insist upon that nosy old woman.

She was thirty try again.

Okaze didn't dare ask for how long he'd while away his time here. His very important time.

Each time he thought to ask he quickly shut his obtuse, obscene mouth.

He stayed well past his patrol that day, waiting with him until big brother got home.

Just when the idea had come, much too late, would Shibuya perhaps enjoy seeing his agency or a dance club.

He had only just opened his mouth, when Shibuya pulled Okaze by his high collar so he could see what he did.

Takeda frantic in his sultry, humid leather running for home.

Pulling him down to submission as he steamrolled by. His poor abused neck.