When it gets late at night, and I can't get to sleep, my father comes 
and talks to me.  That's why I do this.  My father tells me his story, 
over and again.  He wants me to learn from it.  And so, I've never told 
my story.  Not yet.  Instead, I tell his.  You see, of all the people in 
the whole of the world, I am the only one who has not lived my father's 
life.
	But I've already gotten ahead of myself.  This is another story.  My 
father's story, through a man who had the same life.  It's a long story.  
I'll try to keep it interesting.
				A Cold Sweat Production
					"Career Day"
			Tenchi Muyo is copyright AIC and Pioneer.
		Original situation by Hiroki Hayashi and Masaki Kajishima, not to 
mention Naoko Hasegawa
	"James."
	The boy shifted his weight onto his feet, lifting his skinny frame off 
of the bench.  His back cracked as his stood.  He looked down to see the 
brown, greasy toe caps of his shoes.  There was a flash of memory, of 
the smell of new rubber, the crackling of bills.  The caps had been 
white once.
	I watched him shuffle down the hall, back bent, head bowed.  He wasn't 
two hundred, six feet tall.  He was skinny, not too tall.  He shaved his 
head often.  Tiny scars dotted his scalp in a roadmap of old pain.  
Pimples dotted the whole of his head.  From his forehead to his 
shoulders, there were hundred of tiny volcanoes.
	This was the last time our paths would intersect.  This is a good 
thing.  His story is long and heroic.  Mine ends with faulty equipment.  
That's okay.  I'm him, he's me.  You know?  And we both know each 
other's stories by heart.  So this is the least I can do.  
	The principal's office was crusted over in a brown scum from years of 
cigarette smoke.  The only natural light came from a Liliputian window 
behind the principal's head.  The sun would come in, shrouding the man's 
head in a glow of yellow.
	The boy stood in the doorway, one hand on the frame.  
	The principal turned to him.  "James.  Sit."
	James let go of the doorframe and shuffled to the rusted folding chair 
in front of the principal's desk.  He fell into the seat, eyes fixed on 
the floor.
	"James.  I hate this bullshit."
	"Yes, sir."
	"You ain't a bad kid, James. "
	"Thank you, sir."
	"You don't deserve any of this.  But there ain't no more shots.  You've 
got seven strikes.  Big mothers.  You're supposed to get two."  The 
principal's hand came to rest on a pile of bright red papers.  James' 
eyes darted to the gold band on the ring finger of the hand.
	"James, words like self-defesne don't mean shit to those people.  All 
that dried up old bitch knows is that her little baby's got fifteen 
stitches."
	"Fifteen?"
	"Got him real good with that tray."
	"And?"
	"She was on the Board.  They dug up your records.  You're out.  
Expelled."
	Pressure was beginning to build in the boy, in his eyes, in his chest, 
in his gut.
	"World don't care about guys like us."
	"No, sir."  The pressure grew, greater, greater.  "Sir?"  The boy 
gritted his teeth and sucked in his wind.  "I'm so goddam sor-"  The 
pressure broke.  Tears began to flow from his clenched eyes.  He bent 
over at the waist, sobbing.  His ribs ached with each anguished wail.  
He felt a massive hand clamp onto his shoulder.  A few drops landed on 
his caps.
	"Let it out, son.  Let it out."
	After an eternity of tears, the boy's world began to find focus.  The 
principal rolled a small cigar in his hand.  "You remember the first 
time you came down here?  That shit with the stereos?"
	"Yes, sir."
	"Here, light up."  The cigar landed in the boy's lap.  "Let's say 
good-bye like we said hello.  With class."
	The boy dug a kitchen match out of his jeans pocket and lit the cigar.  
He closed his eyes as he let the cinnamon smoke cool on his tongue.
	"You're still clean?"
	"Yes, sir."
	"Always knew you'd beat that shit."
	"James?  Your mother home?"
	James shook his head.
	"Still with that asshole Mexican."
	James nodded.
	"You don't have a job."
	"I sweep up at the gun and pawn."
	"A real job.  You don't wanna work a grill the rest of your life, do 
you?"
	"No, sir."
	"I'll get you in touch with a friend of mine."
	"What kind of work?"
	"More a miracle than a job."  The principal's thick fingers stabbed at 
the keypad of his phone.  "You'll love it."
	James stepped out of the school into the indifferent gray of the early 
afternoon.
Author's Notes:
  The Tenchi elements will come in at a later point in the first 
chapter.
The whole pupose of this happy little tale is sort of a "How the other 
half lives."  A look at the provinces of the Juraian empire, at the 
worlds with bad traffic and gunpowder weapons.  A look at the 
underground.  Interspersed, as a contrast, will be the spiral-trotting 
Masaki clan.  
What's it about?  Basically it's all summed up in killing your father.  
It's about fear, disappointment, hope, joy, death, what might come 
after, and posterity.  It's about a scared boy changing his clothes.
Lotta baggage for so little story, eh?  I fear it'll be slow going.  The 
first chapter will be up and running by late next week.
If anyone has C&C on this little setup, by all means make yourself 
known.  Flames will be replied with by .357
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